The Kind of Malaise Only the Genius Possess and the Insane Lament

So it's the second week of classes and I'm now in the position to fully assess my prospective semester. I'm torn, because I love (most of) my classes but I hate my schedule.

I have all five of my classes on Tuesday and Thursday, with three one-hour breaks during the day. Makes me feel like a 1L all over again; all I'm missing is the deer-in-headlights expression on my face and the rolly bag. I have no classes on Wednesday and one on Friday, so that's the upside of things. I tried to rearrange my schedule after the first day of classes, convinced I wasn't stupid enough to schedule five classes for myself in one day. But I quickly discovered that was the only way to schedule my classes. So, on Tuesdays and Thursdays I'll just enjoy my flashback to 1L year, sans rolly bag.

Schedule aside, my classes are mostly enjoyable. The only stand-out exception to that is Secured Transactions, aka Law School Class From Hell. Let's establish one thing first: I'm only taking this class because it's on the Bar and I don't trust BarBri to teach it to me sufficiently. It's taught by my favorite professor at the law school, which ameliorates the pain somewhat, but he called on me the whole hour the first day of class. Awesome. On top of that, this class is a combination of hardcore contracts and finance - my own personal nightmare. I'd rather be boiled in hot oil, I think.

Am I a Heathen?

I am really, truly and officially a 3L, y'all! I just got out of my first class, Law in the Gospels. I registered for it on the recommendation of several of my friends who said that attendance was more or less optional (a good quality to have in an 8:30 a.m. class). However, after attending the first class, I think it's a class I'll actually want to go to. The professor is a charming and nervous little Scottish man who is a preeminent scholar of law in the Gospels. He invites lively discussion and has interesting views on the Bible. I have always wanted to take a scholarly class on the Bible, and I think this is going to be really good.

Apparently, if you are a student at Harvard Divinity School (and I know y'all are reading this), you can take six classes on televangelism and zero on law in the Gospels. I mean, because everyone needs to know about Ernest Ainsley and his bad toupee and Jim Bakker's Guide to Embezzlement.

Things in the Lawbrary haven't changed much. The 1L's still think they own the place and are loud and chattery. It's still hard to get a good seat by the picture window. The carpet is still ugly.

I'm going out tonight with Jay to celebrate the first day of classes by drowning myself in fine wine at Aromas and trying to forget that the Beef will be at the Dave Matthews concert while I'm still going to be in Little A-Town. That's ok, I'm get to see the Goo Goo Dolls and Counting Crows in a couple weeks.

Ok, I'm off to order a Bible on Amazon.com using my ridiculously abused free 2-Day shipping trial. Apparently the Oxford Press has a Bible that is annotated and scholarly, not preachy and obscure. Just my speed.

It's Almost That Time of Year Again

It's officially almost football season. Yes, my beloved team kicks off against some crappy, non-conference opponent who they are certain to whip soundly a mere THREE WEEKS from today. I'm so excited, I can already smell the barbeque and Brunswick Stew!

To commemorate, a Southern Baptism:


I mean, could anything be cuter? The Terrorists, of course, would beg to differ:


They are certainly little attention whores.

Conspiracy Theory #42

Every semester, I cringe when I see my textbook bill. It's just ridiculous. Some Asshole a long time ago discovered that students could be trapped into paying exorbitant prices for textbooks, despite being the most broke-ass people on earth (well, except for the starving Ethernopians).

This system worked well and good until the Rise of the Internet threatened to foil the Textbook Asshole's brilliant scheme. Thanks to Al Gore and the joys of the World Wide Web, I got my Secured Transactions book for $12.50 off Amazon.com Marketplace. Another one of my classes has no book at all. Yep, that's right: No. Book. Eat it, Textbook Asshole.

However, a third professor decided to change textbooks this year, thwarting my plan to purchase a used copy from a recent graduate desperate to recover the money she flushed down the toilet paying for BarBri. My final two classes are both taught by new professors, which forecloses the possibility of getting used books for those classes as well. And because the law school took its sweet time releasing the book list, I couldn't get those books off Marketplace, either.

Thankfully, I have a free trial to Amazon's Prime Membership dealie, which gets me free 2-day air shipping on all orders. I will probably get my free trial suspended due to abuse of the 2-day shipping privilege. I am almost certainly single-handedly responsible for the recent spike in jet fuel prices, BP be damned.

Although I've been taking an active role in depleting our fossil fuel sources so that I can get my books on time, at least I don't have to pay sales tax on Internet purchases. For some reason entirely unbeknownst to me, this Great State charges sales tax on textbooks (personally, I think the legislatures of this Great State got together with the Textbook Asshole to develop this little racket).

I might have to challenge that as cruel and unusual punishment. As if buying books isn't bad enough, we have to pay an average of $7 a book in sales tax. That's more than a large pizza and pitcher of beer costs on Tuesday nights! Just think of all the pizza and beer money being wasted away on ridiculous textbook sales tax. It's really a tragedy, especially since I'm now a 3L with no Wednesday classes and can actually go out for pizza and beer on Tuesdays.

New York, New York!

I know this is a little late, but better late than never, right? The Beef and I had a great trip to NYC July 21-24. I got to visit my best friend from college, C-Nota, who has since moved to Princeton, New Jersey. I forgive her for moving there, even though Princeton is our alma mater's hockey nemesis.

I am already in the process of making plans for this to be moved into my future house. Right next to the Money Room.

Don't mess with me and my Crazy Eye! I'll cut a bitch!

My new phalanx of body guards. They'll cut a bitch, too.

I want to meet Emily and shake her hand. Good job, my friend.

... but can he cook?

South Street Seaport, complete with crazy-electric-violin-playing-guy.

I'll post more pictures later when I have time. Right now I have to get ready to go back to Little A-Town. Classes start on Tuesday and Sunday is the Beef's birthday. Don't tell him, but I have yet to get him a birthday present. I do have something in mind, which is at least a start.

I somehow thought I would be making wads of money this summer, but after paying for bills all summer for an apartment I wasn't even living in, gas for my hellacious commute, $17.10 each week at Starbucks (yes, I calculated it), takeout when I worked until 11 (which was too often), and the trip to NYC, I am not left with nearly as much as I thought I would be. Oh well, I'm sure my good friends at Wells Fargo will be happy to oblige.

A New Record.

We got the stupid brief filed last night. Unfortunately, the Federal Court exclusively uses an e-file system, which makes the deadline midnight on the due date rather than when the courthouse physically closes at 4:45 p.m.

I left work at around 12:25 this morning and got home just after 1:00. I caught a few hours of sleep and got up at 7:30 to come back to work. As I was drinking coffee with my dad this morning at 8:15, he said, "I thought you were going in late this morning."

"I am," I said.

No Regrets.

I've been obsessing lately about making career choices. I don't want to realize in ten years that I have sacrificed important moments with my friends and loved ones for my job. The job will be there tomorrow. My friends and family may not be. There may not be another holiday dinner with the Group. There may not be another chance to visit an elderly relative - I learned that the hard, painful way when my grandfather passed away. Aside from unbelievable grief, regret was the most overwhelming feeling I had (which probably fueled my grief to some extent).

The Office had an outing last week to see "The Devil Wears Prada." While I enjoyed the movie and thought it was funny, parts of it hit a nerve with me. I don't want to be the girl that no one can count on anymore because she's a workaholic. I already feel I've let down so many people this summer. So many times I've had to postpone my weekend trips to visit the Beef in Little A-Town. So many dinners I've had to bail on with my dad. This summer, I have been That Girl.

On Monday, I put my foot down and put myself and my friends ahead of my job. My best friend from high school, K, graduated from college, and I promised I'd be there. I told the Boss I had to leave at noon to be at an important event for a friend. We have a major brief due this week, but I left work in time to get to the graduation. It felt so good to be there for K on such a big occasion. For one day, I was no longer That Girl. For one day, my friends trusted me. For one day, I had no regrets.

Welcome to My World.

This morning I saw a vanity plate that said, "DEAXBRT," whatever that means.

However, upon first glance, I thought it said, "DAUBERT." I lose.

Classes start soon, and I am excited to get back up to Athens, where there will be lots of football, beer, lazy Saturdays and 3L apathy.

I bought my first Fall textbook today: Secured Transactions, $12, Amazon Marketplace. Eat that, eFollett.

I'll post pictures from my New York City trip soon. It would be just a little too obvious to do it here at work, unfortunately.

I Confess, You Came Because of Me.

The last few days have been absolutely delightful. I mean, who doesn't like putting in half a week's worth of hours in two days? Monday I worked until almost 9 o'clock because a very demanding client had to know rightthissecond whether he could fire an employee covered under the ADA for performance-related issues.

Aside from the underlying legal issue, my real question was, "Who the hell fires someone at 7 o'clock on a Monday night?" That's just asking for an office shooting, I say. There are even studies showing that firing someone on Friday greatly decreases the chances of retaliation on the part of the ex-employee.

But, there's nothing like half-off bottles of wine at Osteria 832 on a Tuesday night to erase the week's troubles. This might become a tradition.

Objection Overruled.

Update: I got an A in Schadenfreude!

My first unqualified A at PDSEU! And in a 4-credit class, to boot!

I guess this means that I will really know what they're saying when I watch over-dramatized courtroom scenes in Law & Order. Or my personal favorite, Boston Legal.

Quarter-Life Crisis

Perhaps it comes as a surprise that I am seriously considering not practicing law, and instead pursuing my masters degree after I get my J.D. To those who know me, however, you know that it's been a long time coming.

I have been talking to my friends and hearing about their awesome summers at big firms, and I must admit that I am a bit jealous. They get assignments to do, but they also get taken to lunch everyday and they get to use the firm's box seats at Turner Field. They get to interact with so many different people on a daily basis.

I know that I could have landed one of those jobs if I'd either 1) stayed at my First Law School and interviewed there, or 2) made my transfer decision earlier so that I would have been able to participate in Early Interview Week at PDSEU. Instead, my indecisiveness bit me in the ass and I missed out on all the cherry jobs.

Instead, I am working for a solo practitioner where I have real deadlines and work on real cases. While that may sound well and good, it actually puts me under immense pressure that I don't feel like I am prepared for. I'm not a lawyer. I'm a law student.

After being lulled into a sense of contentment at my current job, I decided not to go to the firm that had offered me a job for the second half of the summer. Mostly because I don't have to be at the office at 7:30 a.m. here and can occasionally bring T.Min. to work with me. I mailed them a letter declining their offer, which was probably not good, considering I'd previously accepted. Then, things took a turn here and suddenly felt trapped, thinking that I'd sent that letter just a few days too early. Timing - it always sucks.

If anything, this summer has been educational in showing me the reality of practicing law. Perhaps that's better than working at a big firm in some respects, beceause I get to see the shitty parts of it in addition to the good parts of it so that I can make an informed decision about my career choice. I have more or less decided that while I definitely have the ability to be a lawyer, and a good one at that, I don't necessarily want to.

For so long I had thought that the law was my calling. And I don't hate the law, or even law school for that matter. I love both. It's the practice of law and the reality that goes along with it that have so far left a sour taste in my mouth.

In light of all of that, I have been seriously pursuing the idea of going to graduate school after I finish law school. I want to get my masters in a program where I can get strong methodology training so that I can go into research consulting. I loved doing research when I was in college, and I even wrote a thesis that was not required. I enjoyed constructing surveys and measuring and calculating and analyzing. There is something inherently academic in it that is lacking in the practice of law.

I've gotten in touch with my college advisor, who is now teaching at a big state university in Tornado Alley. She has a wealth of information about graduate admissions and procedures and even volunteered to chat on the phone, given the complexity and number of questions I posed to her. Most importantly, she didn't think that I'm being silly or flighty. I appreciate the fact that she takes me seriously and doesn't think I'm absurd for wasting three years of time and tuition on law school.

So that's where I am at this point. I will graduate from law school. I will take the bar and pass the bar and be sworn in at the Capitol. But I will also take the GRE and apply to graduate school and see where I get accepted and go from there. And ultimately, this all may lead to an entirely new adventure for me, one that I welcome.

Lesson #57

No matter how much confidence you may have in your abilities, do not attempt to complete school work from Spring semester after you have already started your summer clerkship.

This is doubly true when you have a 30-page paper due the same week as a reply brief in federal court. Choosing between an F and malpractice is simply not a feasible option. Staying up until the wee hours of the morning when you have to work in a couple of hours, however, is an option. The only option, it appears.

But What if I WANT to Bite the Hand That Feeds Me?

I should be billing hours to a client in Texas, land of the tiny ex-boyfriend, but instead I'm blogging. Excellent. I'm going to make a fabulous lawyer.

Today is my second day at my first summer job. I'm currently working in my boss' living room instead of my normal office space. That's because Financial Lady is here. FL is a cross between Paula Deen and Hitler and comes in on Tuesdays to do bookkeeping and other accounting, non-lawyer type things. She is very Southern and also very territorial and abrupt. I think I overheard her bitching about something on her -- now MY -- desk being out of order.

The Boss was gone when FL got here, and FL immediately flew into a tizzy because HER STUFF wasn't in HER BOX like it usually is. Or something. I called and left The Boss a voicemail. I offered to call The Boss' legal assistant (who is down in the Americus office) to see if she knew precisely what was going on. This is the response I got from FL: "SHE won't know where it is! SHE'S in AMERICUS!" Whoa there, FL. See if I ever offer to be helpful again. Especially considering it's not my job to be the secretary. That's what Secretary is here for.

But, sure enough, FL came in after trying to call Legal Assistant and told me she'd gotten some weird automated message. Not only am I not the secretary, I am also not the phone expert. The Ex-MLB Phone Guy lives behind The Boss' house. Go talk to him. Or, in the alternative, learn how to correctly dial a long-distance telephone number. I messaged Legal Assistant and she called the office to talk to FL rather than explain to FL how to call her. Maybe while she was at it she explained the joys of modern technology to FL.

I can't really cross FL because she is the one who cuts the paychecks, after all. I think that next Tuesday I'll encase her office supplies in Jell-O, a la "The Office." Or maybe I'll just rearrange everything on MY desk Monday night before she commandeers it again.

I received some questions from people who are thinking about going to law school. I'll post my answers sometime when I get a chance, after I've finished the two (yes, TWO) papers I have left to finish for this semester.

When I Do It, I Do It In Style.

So, instead of writing papers, I'm blogging. Because as far as I'm concerned, my Con Law II exam yesterday marked the end of my semester (or so I'm telling myself). What's a couple of papers? I mean, it can't be that hard to write 50 pages in 2 weeks. Right? Right??

One of my nails came off yesterday during my Con Law II exam. Do y'all know how hard it is to type 70 words a minute about equal protection and the 14th Amendment enforcement powers with a missing nail, people? Do you? I will certainly blame my poor performance on the exam on this unfortunate cosmotological failure. I refuse to go out in public until my friends down at Happy Express Super Nail on Prince can squeeze me in for a quick fix.

T. Min. lost a tooth this morning, which distressed me a lot. The vet school couldn't get him in until Monday, by which time I'll be busy law clerkin' it up down in the ATL, which means I have to find a vet down there to look at him. I don't trust the shady fuckers I have taken him to down there before. At least not where T. Min.'s dental health is concerned, and especially when they have to put him out to check him out and clean his teeth (he's feisty like his mom).

In any case, T. Min. told me that he's looking foward to spending the summer in Atlanta. He's already packed his bags and is more than ready to go.

I asked T. Max. if he would like to spend the summer with his dad. He seemed pretty excited about staying with the Beef and doing guy things. Maybe he is trying to tell me something.


So I'm going to keep on not writing by going over to Ann Taylor Loft to buy me some lawyer-ish clothes. After all, I'm gonna be a real law clerk this summer, y'all!

An Open Letter to My Evidence Professor:

It has been well over 24 hours since I took your final - which, by the way, would be more appropriately termed "mental rape" - and I am still dumbfounded and speechless.

All I can muster is: Just what, exactly, was that?

Was that a cruel attempt at humor? Were you silently laughing as you watched us panic, eyes wide with terror as we scribbled and bubbled and typed with white knuckles? I'm pretty sure you were.

I just want to give you adequate warning you before you read my trainwreck of an essay: Be prepared to read something that appears to have been composed by an alcoholic who is on a vodka binge instead of at an AA meeting. While I did not, in fact, have vodka in my free WestLaw water bottle, I did leave your exam at noon and promptly embark on a three-martini lunch in a vain attempt to erase the trauma of the previous three hours from my memory.

Unlike some of my classmates, I was fortunate enough to get something down for each part of the exam, even if it was only an incomprehensible sentence fragment with no punctuation and a random exclamation appended to the end.

This class should not have been called Evidence. No, it should have been called Schadenfreude.

Thank you,

Law School Transplant.

There's a Lesson in This Somewhere.

Further proof that I am a walking calamity:


I'm sure you want to know how this happened. It was all part of a grand scheme by Marley the Dog to hasten my demise. Everytime I go to the Beef's, Marley the Dog greets me at the door. Well, more like barks ferociously and tries to push me out the door by pushing my butt with his nose. He also sniffs me way too much, like I am a tasty morsel and would be just that much tastier with a dash of salt.

Anyway, this particular incident came about when we were walking in the yard. Marley the Dog was on his tie-out, and sneakily made a loop around my ankle. Then he waited for the right moment so he could catch me unawares, and made a break for it. His goal, I am certain, was to drag me around the yard and then eat me. Unfortunately for him, all he managed to do was yank me to the ground and give me a very painful rope burn.

Thanks to Marley the Dog, I will be sporting sandals for the next several days, because the tie-out happened to catch me right at my shoe line.

I have been trying to concoct an alternate (and more interesting) version of the story. Right now, the best one seems to be that a band of carneys strung me up by my ankle and beat me with a sockful of quarters. That's much more exciting, don't you think? Of course there's also the version where I was trying to escape Indiana Jones' romantic pursuits when he snagged me with his whip and dragged me back, kicking and screaming.

The Terrorists tried to send me packing on a guilt trip today by staring forlornly out the window while I was being very industrious and working on my Evidence outline.


A prize to the person who comes up with the best caption for this photo. I mean it!

Mmmmm.... Shiiiiiny.

The stress of finals and my run of bad luck has been getting to me. So, no better way to beat the end-of-semester blues than to engage in a little retail therapy.


There is no way I am going to pay $85 for a set of speaker mounts, so I just have to wait to set it all up until I can get to Lowe's and spend $5 on the stuff to make my own. Here's hoping my grandfather passed on at least an iota of his handiness.

I found this neat little dog cabana at Target, so I picked one up for the Terrorists. T. Max. is skeptical; he thinks it's just an oversized frisbee.


Au contraire, T. Max. Behold: El Cabana de los Terroristos. T. Min. is checking out the new digs, while simultaneously imagining that it's actually set up on the beach somewhere. It's okay to dream, T. Min.


That's about all for now. Funny how depleting my bank account is just soooo theraputic. Now I really have to finish my Evidence outline.

Why Does It Always Rain on Me?

Needless to say, the last couple of weeks have been a big disappointment. First came the news that I was waitlisted for the Oxford semester abroad. I came to terms with it and mostly decided that I didn't want to live in the dorms again and take classes with the same 20 people all the time, anyways. Defiant indifference is always a good defense mechanism, right?

I turned myself towards other pursuits. Like taking a class in the Jounalism School on mass communication law. After jumping through endless hoops and navigating through a jungle of red tape with patience and a smile, my petition was summarily rejected. Now, pray tell, why would an arguably relevant class like mass comm law be denied, when I know for a fact that others have had such absurdities as Spanish Film classes approved. Spanish Film classes?

I resigned myself to taking media law in the law school, and applied to TA an undergraduate business law class for next year. After being one of four people (out of ten applicants) interviewed for two positions, I found out tonight that - lo and behold - I didn't get the job. Big fucking surprise, the way my luck has been going lately.

Which got me to thinking about karma. I mean, I must have done something disastrously horrible to warrant such a string of shitty luck. Did I unwittingly knock an old lady over in the middle of the street? Should I have given that homeless guy my leftovers instead of taking them home to eat later? Was it really that bad to bind and gag the annoying 1L who wouldn't shut up in the reading room?

Terrorist Minimus lets me know that he doesn't much care:

In other news, today I discovered that the tips of T. Min.'s ears touch when he yawns. Fascinating.

Terrorist Maximus appears to be comiserating with me, but I think he's just dejected about not getting to go to the P-A-R-K today.

So much for expecting sympathy from the animals who push me out of bed, steal the best spot on the couch, pee on the bathroom rug and insist on watching Animal Planet when I really want to watch Sex and the City reruns, even though I've seen every episode at least twice.

I'm going to bed now. At least nothing bad can happen to me there.

Is Radio Dead?

The creators of the Music Genome Project have introduced Pandora, a free (with registration) Internet music database that allows users to enter a favorite artist. Pandora then creates a playlist of music that it thinks the user will like, based on his or her preferences. Users then have the opportunity to rate the songs that Pandora chooses, allowing it to further tailor playlists to users' tastes.

I entered "John Mayer" and Pandora created a playlist of great music, including Paul Simon's "Father and Daughter" and Better Than Ezra's "Rosealia." Pretty nifty.

Check it out and let me know what you think. Thanks to Marc for the heads up on it!

He's All Growed Up.

My dad and my little brother flew out to Colorado Springs the other day for my brother's orientation at the United States Air Force Academy, where he'll be a cadet in the Class of 2010 this fall. Don't get me wrong, I'm immensely proud of my brother and all of his accomplishments, and it's been kind of neat watching him grow up from a pesky little brat into a mature and charismatic young adult.

I am, however, terrified. Although he is guaranteed to be in school for four years (meaning, they won't pull him out of school to go overseas), I'm so scared for my little brother. And I'm afraid to see the person who comes home for Thanksgiving; I am afraid they are going to break his beautiful and unique spirit, and turn him into a narrow-minded and obedient yes-man. I am afraid that his college experience will be one that narrows his horizons, rather than broadens them. And I am afraid that he was forced to choose his career at much too young of an age.

He called me the other day to get my street address. Then he told me he'd designated me his beneficiary for his death benefits. Talk about a sobering moment: An 18-year-old forced to ponder his mortality in a very real and concrete way.

I just hope that he is happy with his decision and that the AFA proves to be all he'd hoped it to be.

On the plus side, there is excellent skiing an hour away and his local host family has already said we're welcome to stay with them. I told him to plan on hitting the slopes with me for a couple of days during the beginning of his Christmas leave. At least he picked a school in a location that I'd definitely visit. If he'd chosen, say, Iowa, he'd be shit outta luck, and so would I.