Falling Off the Turnip Truck

Well, yesterday was my last final. Which means I'm officially 83.3% done with law school and can relax for a couple of weeks before heading into the home stretch.

After my brain was thoroughly and completely raped for three straight hours yesterday morning, I headed wearily back to my car in the parking deck. For some reason, the book buy-back people had a booth set up. Since I didn't want to lug my now-useless Natural Resources textbook an entire flight of stairs up to my car, I thought I'd see if it was worth it to sell it.

Me: Hi. I just want to see what your buy-back price is for this. I am not making a definite offer to sell it to you, I just want to see what you think it's worth.

[I didn't want to have this kid screaming promissory estoppel at me when I refused to relinquish the book for pennies.]

Textbook Buy-back Asshole: That one is eleven dollars.
Me: Eleven dollars?? Are you serious? It cost a hundred and eleven dollars brand new.
TBA: Yes. Eleven dollars.
Me: I was born at night, but I wasn't born last night.
TBA: It's eleven dollars. Do you want to sell it?
Me, indignant: No! I'd rather carry it the rest of the way to my car than sell my dignity for eleven freakin' dollars!

Jebus. They must think people are really desperate to get rid of their books, because I know I can sell it on Amazon for at least fifty, if not more.

Good job, textbook assholes. Just one more way to fuck students in the ass and somehow have them thank you for it.

Dear Classmates,

To those of you who put up away messages such as, "WOW! I am SO GLAD I'm done with finals!" or "Done! Off to drink myself retarded and then pass out in the gutter!" or "YAY! I am done with finals so I can finally take a shower and catch up on everything I've TiVo'd!": Fuck you.

I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to hear how joyous you are to be able to emerge from the lawbrary for the first time in two weeks.

As luck would have it (and, coincidentally, as luck would have it every damn semester), I had a final on the very first day of finals, and I have one on the very last day of finals.

So, until I am finally done and can share in the celebration, kindly keep it to yourselves.

Love,
LST

A Letter to Pete Carroll

Dear Pete (I hope it's okay if I call you Pete),

I just wanted to let you know that I thoroughly enjoyed watching your over-ranked, overrated, spoiled brat Trojans get beat by the unranked UCLA Bruins this evening. Although it does not take much at this point to distract me from studying for Secured Transactions, I consciously disregarded my academic duties in order to watch you lose. It gave vastly more pleasure than would a workable knowledge of Article 9.

Pete, you have to admit it's been coming for a long time. The commentators have been whispering about it for some time. After so many near misses (despite a very poor strength of schedule), it was inevitable.

The fact that your team is vastly overrated is not the only reason that I hate y'all. You and your team have consistently shown not only a massive sense of entitlement, but also a shocking lack of class. Annoyingly overrated Matt Leinart, who is, notably, currently whiling away his days as a mediocre pro QB for the Arizona Cardinals, refused to give kudos to Vince Young after the Longhorns topped the Trojans in the National Championship last year. Even worse, he went so far as to suggest that he was the one deserving accolades.

Fast forward to today, Petey. In the last few minutes of the game, when it was clear you were going to lose, one of your players started hitting the UCLA ball carrier in a desperate and shameful move that should have been clearly called a personal foul. And after your stunning loss to UCLA, Coach Dorrell had to come all the way over to your sideline to shake your hand. He appeared gracious and humble. You looked disgruntled. Way to be good sportsmen.

Come play in the SEC, ACC or any other conference that doesn't have a bunch of pussies in it, and your team might actually be revealed for what it is. Until then, I hope you wake up tomorrow with the taste of defeat still in your mouth.

Lots of love,

LST

Priceless.

Bar Application Fee: $300

Cashier's Check Fee: $8

Motor Vehicle Report: $7

Fingerprinting at the Police Station: $12

Floppy Disks: $3.41

Express Mail Postage: $14.40

Having my Bar Application finally done: FUCKING PRICELESS.

Shameless Plug: Buy My Stuff!

Instead of learning UCC Article 9, I've been busy setting up shop over at Etsy this evening:











Check out my little Etsy shop. If you want to order Christmas presents, payment has to be received AND clear by December 15th in order to ship by the USPS holiday shipping deadlines.

C'mon, you know you want to.

Giving Thanks

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

In the spirit of the holiday, here is a non-exhaustive list of things I am thankful for:

• My family, even though some of them drive me batshit crazy
• The Beef
• The Boston Terrorists
• My friends, even though most of them think I have died
• Not having to join the real world yet
• Afternoon naps (with the Terrorists, of course)
• $1 draft specials
  
• College football
• Grande nonfat two-raw-sugar lattes
  
• A well-stocked bar
• A month-long break at Christmas
  

And here is a list of things that I do not currently have, but would be thankful for if I had them:

• A lot of money (or even sort of a lot of money)
  
• A plan for my life
• My sanity
• A fundamental understanding of UCC Article 9
  
• The ability to fall asleep at night, undrugged
• A house with a fenced-in yard for the Terrorists
• Job offer(s) that don't suck
  
• Completed outlines for all my classes
• A good radar detector
• Freak repellent
  

I Mean Really... What Gives?

The freak magnetism continues. I made a quick trip to the grocery store to get a couple of last minute things for Thanksgiving. On my way down an aisle, a guy, probably in his late 30's or 40's, starts talking to me.

Freaky Guy: Hey, I think I recognize you from somewhere. Did you go to W High School?
Me, obviously confused: No. I went to L High School.
Freaky Guy: That was going to be my next guess. Wasn't there some article about you in the paper where you got arrested for beating another kid up for stealing your lunch?

[I shit you not. This is what he said. You can understand my utter speechlessness at this point.]

Me, wondering what kind of Bizarro world I've landed in: Ummm...
Freaky Guy: Just kidding, just kidding!

[Who the fuck says shit like this when they are "just kidding" WITH A TOTAL STRANGER?]

Freaky Guy: So you're at Local State University now, right?

[Do I have a stalker? If I do, he is the worst stalker I've ever seen. Which might actually be a relief. I mean, if you're going to have a stalker, it's best if he's a shitty one who will end up peeping through someone else's window 70 miles away because he sucks at doing his stalker research.]

Me: No, I'm at PDSEU Law School.

[Internal Monologue: Dammit, dammit, dammit! I should know better than to leave this conversation open-ended like that.]

Freaky Guy: Oh, well if you do immigration I can get you a ton of work when you finish.
Me: I'm not. But one of my friends is.

[Internal Monologue: Shit, there I go again, not cutting the conversation off when I had a perfectly good chance.]

Freaky Guy: Well, here, why don't you give her my number. [He finds a piece of paper.] I work with the daycare workers around here. Do you have a pen?

[A couple of points here. First, why are you giving me your number? I don't want it! Second, what does it mean to "work with" the daycare workers? Are they mild-mannered child care providers by day, hookers by night?]

Me, lying my ass off while sounding apologetically sincere: No, I'm sorry, I don't have a pen.
Freaky Guy: Well, I'm sure I'll see you up front at the checkout, I'll give it to you before I leave.
Me, happy to see the light at the end of this tunnel: Okay!

At this point, I hustled away, grabbed the first thing that remotely looked like what I came to the store for, and made a beeline for the self-checkout. As I was sprinting through the automatic doors, I looked behind me to make sure Freaky Guy didn't see my frantic and somewhat awkward escape.

Upon further reflection, I'm fairly sure that I could have avoided most of the situation had I: (a) told him I had just been released from a mental institution and was living in a halfway house; (b) screamed "RAPE!"; or (c) pretended not to speak English (or Spanish).

When am I going to learn? Apparently, not soon enough.

Overheard #1

Law Student #1: When is Thanksgiving? Is it Thursday?
Law Student #2: I think so. At least that's what everyone keeps saying.

Do I even need to comment on this?

What Did I Do Wrong?

I've ranted about Texas before. And here I go again. Apologies in advance to C or any other native Texans who may be reading this. I kid because I love.

If my mock trial team is (un)lucky enough to place well enough at the regional competition, we will be traveling to Texas to for the National Trial Competition finals. Houston, no less - the land of no zoning ordinances.

I have been fortunate enough to avoid Texas for 23 years; I was hoping to avoid it for at least a few more.

The whole Texas attitude just weirds me out, the way that Texans are so SUPER DUPER PROUD of their Texas heritage and think of themselves as Texans first and Americans second. A friend of mine even told me when she was in elementary school in Texas, they had to pledge allegiance to the Texas flag.

On two separate occasions, two different Germans disparaged the German province of Bavaria by referring to it as "the Texas of Germany." Seems that the Lone Star State has acquired an international reputation.

Not four hours after I received news of my impending doom trip to Texas, I saw an SUV with a Texas plate on it. And if that wasn't enough, it had a Texas flag sticker in the window. And if a person was dull enough not to realize the driver was, in fact, from Texas, it had a bumper sticker that read, "I'm from Texas. What country are you from?"

The audible thumping that was heard afterwards was my head repeatedly banging against my steering wheel.

Wish me luck. You can probably find me at the pawn shop buying a gun or at Tractor Supply Company buying a ginormous hat.

I Halfway Retract My Previous Statements

So yesterday, my heretofore shitty, unranked football team upset the number 5 team in the nation in a rivalry game everyone expected us to lose. Our highly-touted but slightly disappointing freshman QB came out of the woodwork and threw no interceptions (compared to 8 in the previous 3 games) and completed 14 of 20 passes.

My only question is, Where the hell have y'all been all season?

In some ways it makes me more angry about our dismal season. It would be one thing to say that the team didn't have the talent, which places a natural ceiling on our ability to win. But they clearly have the talent; they showed that yesterday. Which means that in the ridiculous losses we've suffered, they have lacked the dedication, drive and focus necessary to bring home the win. And that is what disappoints me most.

Dazed and Confused

After much procrastination, I finally decided to go to the police station to get fingerprinted for my bar application.

I arrived around 1:30, only to be told that a) the officer who takes fingerprints is out to lunch, and b) they don't take credit or debit cards. So off I went to get cash and kill some time browsing K-Mart (let me tell you, this is exciting stuff).

I came back at 2:30, paid my fee and sat down to fill out my fingerprint cards. There was one other person, a middle-aged woman, in the waiting room, and apparently she heard the clerk and me talking about the bar application process.

Freaky Lady, talking to the clerk: I have to go to Wal-Mart. They have distilled water for $0.64 a gallon!

Clerk: What?

Freaky Lady: Distilled water! $0.64 a gallon at Wal-Mart!

Clerk, still puzzled: Oh.

Freaky Lady, to me: What kind of law are you going to practice?

Me: I don't know. I might not even practice law, but I'm taking the bar anyway.

[You'd think this might end the conversation, but it didn't, because I'm a freak magnet.]

Freaky Lady: You should help children. We need more lawyers to stand up for the children and protect children.

[Ummm... what?]

Me, figuring out the obscure coding system provided by the bar examiners: Mm hmm.

Freaky Lady: I got divorced and he got mad and got custody to get back at me. I tried to tell the court all of these things but they wouldn't let me get it in. They wouldn't let me get in what the child psychiatrist said. They need lawyers who only represent the child.

[What is it about me that compels people to tell me their entire life stories? Does this woman not have a mental filter that says, "By the way, it's kind of weird to start talking to complete strangers about very personal matters"?]

Me, wanting badly to end this: They do. It's called CASA, Court-Appointed Special Advocates.

Freaky Lady: There was one, but the judge ignored him. I tried to tell the court so many things but they wouldn't listen and so they gave custody to the abuser. Even though the child psychiatrist recommended only supervised visitation. And I had to hire an attorney from Atlanta to help me because all of the attorneys here are too afraid to stand up to Judge S and point out that he is biased. Judge S just ignored everything and gave custody to the abuser.

[The law student in me REALLY wants to point out her faulty reasoning in asserting that there are not enough lawyers to "stand up for the children."]

Me: Well, it sounds like the problem is not the attorneys, then, but the judge.

Freaky Lady: Judge S just got re-elected. D would have been so much better I think.

Me: I know.

Freaky Lady: So now the child is being abused and [something about a car and blah blah blah blah].

Me, looking for any statement to definitively end this exchange: The law school has a family violence clinic that helps people seek protective orders and the like. It's not very expensive. You should check it out if you feel like you need that kind of help.

Freaky Lady: Good luck with the bar! I've heard it's hard!

Me: Our law school has a 90-something percent pass rate for first-time takers.

Freaky Lady: Wow, that's outstanding!

Me: No. Our state bar is just not very discriminating in its attorneys' competence.

About that time, an officer came to take Freaky Lady's report for someone who had written her a bad check. Which was awesome, because I was about to go postal. And I don't want any incidents on my bar application that require explanation. That would look fantastic on my record: "I kicked a woman's ass and got booked on assault because she annoyed the piss out of me telling me her sob story while I was waiting to get fingerprinted. Do you want my mugshot to go along with my fingerprints, then?" Awesome.

It's not that I don't have sympathy for people in bad situations, because I do. In this case, though, I was dubious about her claims of "abuse" and I'm fairly certain that if the judicial system here was rampantly corrupt, I'd know about it since I have several friends working for local judges, prosecutors and lawyers. And the kid is probably better off with her dad than with her whacked-out, socially inappropriate mother, in any case.

Last time I checked, there was no sign on my forehead saying, "PLEASE RELEASE YOUR INNER FREAK. I AM A FREAK MAGNET." So what gives?

Flying Freak Show

When I fly alone, I am a freak magnet. Undoubtedly, the weirdest, smelliest and/or most annoying person on any given aircraft will be assigned to sit next to me.

And I can see them coming. As the plane fills, I watch people file past me looking for their seats. All normal, tired, impatient travelers. Then I'll spot the freak. And inevitably, he or she will happily plop down next to me and subject me to his or her freakiness for the next 2 - 4 hours.

Case-in-point #1: The Snuggler

I was flying up to Rochester a few years ago to visit some friends and do some work for a former professor. Once I got to Rochester, I had a 2 hour drive ahead of me. My flight, originally scheduled to leave at 10, was delayed until midnight. So that meant that I would reach my ultimate destination at 4 a.m., at the earliest.

I get on the plane, find my seat, and lean against the window, trying to sleep. My seat mate, a rather large man, clumsily hauls his crap into the seat and plops down next to me. He then proceeds to remove a very large Mexican blanket from his bag. How it fit in there, I will never know.

Freak #1: You scared?
Me, visibly annoyed: No. I'm just tired, and I just want to get to Rochester.
Freak #1: Oh.
[Long Pause]
Freak #1: Want some covers?
Me: NO.

During the flight I put on my headphones and managed to sleep a bit. I woke up when we were descending. It was raining and I knew we were going to have bumpy landing.

Freak #1, leaning over me, peering out the window: Is that LIGHTNING?
Me: No. It's the light on the end of the wing reflecting back into the window.
Freak #1: Oh.

Case-in-point #2: The Drunkard

I used to fly standby on Delta pretty often, which meant I was issued the very last tickets on the plane and always ended up in the shit seats. This was no exception.

I got my seat, and thought I might be lucky enough to have a seat to myself for this particular flight. No dice.

About four seconds before the cabin door closed, Freak #2 comes rolling down the aisle of the plane, headed right towards me. He was dressed in a basketball jersey and shorts, and his hair was all greasy and nasty. I was seriously convinced he had rolled out of bed and onto the plane.

The guy sits down next to me, and while his appearance was slightly disconcerting, I didn't think anything of it. Until I realized he smelled like a distillery, that is.

Freak #2 apparently worked on an offshore oil rig somewhere down in the Gulf of Mexico, and on his few days off, had flown to visit some friends and drank the entire time. Which I could have figured out even if he hadn't told me.

I essentially spent the entire flight facing the window because this dude smelled so bad. Alcohol was seeping out of his pores, and it's quite likely he'd tried to cure his hangover that morning by continuing to drink.

Let me tell you, it's fun times flying for two hours with your nose pressed against a tiny airplane window.

In any case, there are plenty more freak stories I have stored away. I'll try to think of more and post them later.

Everything I Need to Know I Learned from John Grisham

Hold the phones. I'm sitting in Media Law and the ditzy, hapless victim of the professor's Socratic questioning cited as a basis of her reasoning John Grisham's A Time to Kill. Except she didn't even really know the name of the book; she just referred to it as "some John Grisham book" (and I only figured out which book it was because of her brief and oblique description of the plot).

Let me repeat this so you can fully absorb it: A law student just cited John Grisham to establish a legal principle.

Perhaps she is the same person who referenced the television show "ER" in Health Care Law a few weeks ago as the basis for her beliefs about how hospital emergency rooms operate.

What world am I living in? Someone help me out here. Maybe if I write "Because 'Law & Order' told me so," on the bar exam, they'll accept the answer and I'll pass. Or perhaps if I start throwing out legal non sequiturs in everyday conversation, people will think I'm smart and important.

Good grief.

(Boston) Terrorists One Step Closer to World Domination

On Saturday, the Terrorists and I, Steph from the Terrorist message board and Daisy, Mer and my furry niece and nephew, along with my dad and Triple D, participated in Walk 4 PAWS, a fundraiser for a local organization that provides low-cost spays and neuters for animals in the local area.

Too bad they don't spay and neuter fratties and sorostitutes.

Here are some photographic highlights:


T. Min. says, "Get the camera out of my face and kindly fuck off."


Terrorists ready to roll:


T. Max and his new girlfriend, Daisy. Too bad T. Max no longer has his man-bits:


Triple D, fascinated by something shiny, no doubt:


Triple D checking out his shrunekn doppelganger:


Don't mind us. We're just taking over your neighborhood:


Marching towards world domination. Be very afraid:


Special Note: Thanks to my dad's friend Jim for the awesome pictures!

Oops! She Did It Again!

A California judge dismissed Britney Spears' defamation lawsuit against a weekly celebrity rag because rumors that Britney and K.Fed made a sex tape are not defamatory as a matter of law.

The judge told Britney that she had "put her modern sexuality squarely, and profitably, before the public eye."

In other words, Britney, you're a highly paid hooker. Which therefore makes you libel-proof when people talk about how you get down and dirty under the sheets. Or in front of a video camera.

I thought most celebrities had learned a lesson after the Pam-and-Tommy fiasco, but apparently Britney has surprised us yet again with her stunning idiocy. Well played, Britney, well played.

My Football Team (Still) Sucks

%*#(@#(@(#!!!!

We lost. Again. That makes us 3-4 in our conference. Granted, it's a tough conference, but last year we finished the regular season with two losses and proceeded to steamroll over our opponents in the conference championship to secure a BCS bowl game.

At least my undergrad alma mater won today, beating the mighty Dartmouth Big Green, 28-25. Despite the fact that watching them play football is what I would envision Special Olympics football to be.

We are unlikely to secure any bowl game this year, and if by some miracle we do, it will be some crap ass bowl like the Cereal Bowl or the Toilet Bowl.

And the value of my degree will plummet forthwith. Because everyone knows that in the South, your football team's success factors proportionately into your law school's USNWR ranking. Obvs.

NPH Wouldn't Do That!

Well, ladies (and apparently gentlemen, too)... after much speculation, it turns out, Doogie Howser, M.D. is, in fact, gay.

It undoubtedly breaks many twenty-something women's hearts, as they swooned over Doogie as little girls.

I mean, who can resist a 16-year-old doctor who keeps a journal on a computer that still runs MS-DOS?

Yeah, me either.

Bar None

Yesterday the Director of Student Affairs arranged for the Director of a Very Important Group That Lets Me Into the Bar but Not Without a Lot of Hassle to pay a visit to the law school and very clearly and concisely explain how the character and fitness portion of the bar application involves an airing of all our dirty laundry and a raping of our personal histories, but only after we pay an exorbitant sum of money for this privilege, of course.

I am quite glad they had this meeting. Otherwise I wouldn't be aware of the fact that I have to order 2 fingerprint cards from the Bar (why an index card won't do, I don't know), order a copy of my driving record from the DMV, order a copy of my credit report, tally up all of my outstanding student loans (and try to refrain from crying in the process), contact five references to let them know the Bar will be badgering them for information (and bribe them to keep quiet), and try to remember every place I have ever lived and every employer I have ever worked for. Oh, and I have to write a big, fat check go to the bank to get a big, fat money order to send along with it. After I get the whole thing notarized, of course.

Because I have nothing better to do between now and December 6th. The very thought of having to do all this makes me want to a) drink heavily, b) cry and c) reconsider my choice of profession.

And I don't really have a whole lot to hide. I'm just glad I've never been married, divorced, arrested, bankrupt, caught having sex with an animal, found drunk in a ditch, institutionalized, fired from a job or deported. Thank God for small favors, right?

Hooray for Small Victories

You know you've made it in the blogging world when someone else links to your blog.

Lo and behold, E. Spat has linked me. Thanks, E. Spat!

I Am a Walking Calamity, Part II

Remember how I said a while back that I am a walking calamity? Well, not wanting to let anyone down, I struck again last night.

Whilst using a big butcher knife from the dollar store, I managed to hack a pretty deep gash in my fingertip and into my fingernail. In the midst of all my panicking and squawking and flailing, I managed to fling blood all over the dining room and the guest bathroom as well. After I calmed down and stopped paintng the walls red, my first thought was, "Knives from the dollar store aren't supposed to cut people!" Guess it showed me.

Had I gone to the hospital, the doctors would have probably obliged and put a stitch or two in my finger, for the bargain price of my emergency room co-pay of $75. But this whole incident happened after midnight, and so sitting in the ER waiting room at College Town Regional Medical Center with all the alcohol-poisoned freshmen was not my idea of a fun Saturday night. I also have a weird thing about wanting to be stitched up by plastic surgeons because I harbor some sort of delusion that it would make me scar less severely. And I seriously doubt CTRMC has a plastic surgeon on duty at midnight on a Saturday.

Since I managed to get the bleeding to stop and ghetto-rigged a gauze bandage, I figured I could wait until Monday when I could go to the student health center on campus for free. Ha, insurance schminsurance.

Early this morning, I headed to CVS for better bandaging supplies. I was right proud of the job I did closing and taping and gauzing my finger up. "LST," I thought to myself, "Other than the fact that you almost puked at the sight of your own finger laid open and then thought that holding it under running water would somehow stop the bleeding, medical school may actually have been your calling."

Unfortunately, my fantastic intentions for catching up on my Media Law outline this weekend were stymied, as my typing skills have slowed to the speed of molasses. Though somehow I still managed to blog. Hm.

Jingle Jog!

So, I am signed up for my first. 5K. ever. This is both exciting and frightening, seeing as how I am the girl who runs a mile and a half and wants to die afterwards.

The run is December 23rd, which gives me almost exactly two months to improve both my time and my endurance. I'm not a naturally talented runner, so it will be a challenge for me. My dad and brother are also running with me. My brother, the AFA Beast, will probably finish in under 25 minutes. My dad and I will eat his dust and finish 15 minutes later.

I ran 2 miles on the track yesterday, so I'm feeling pretty good about my prospects of finishing without having to stop or walk along the way.

It will also help me shed some of the extra pounds I've been carrying so that I can get back to my pre-law school self. It's all a part of bringing out the alter ego.

Wish me luck, y'all!

Weekend Woes

So it's Friday, classes are done for the week and I'm left with the weekly dilemma of what to do with myself for the next two and a half days.

Our football team is in the shitter having lost the last two games, so I'm not even sure I'll make the trip to the stadium to view another humiliating performance tomorrow. For the first time in five years we are unranked in the BCS and our in-state rivals are actually ranked this year. I'm not sure how this works. The school harps about having increased its "academic rigor," whatever that means, but still spends tons of money supporting idiot scholarship athletes who can barely construct a sentence (I'm guessing they bring down the average SAT score of the undergraduate population by about 157 points) in hopes that we'll be competitive in our conference.

We don't ask a whole lot of these kids. Learn to tie your shoe during your four six years here. Try to master remedial college math. And for fuck's sake, win some damn football games. Granted, we are in what is arguably the most competitive conference in the NCAA, but there is no excuse for the "best defense in the nation" giving up 51 points for a loss at home one week and then losing to a 14-point underdog on Homecoming the next. I propose threatening to make the football players pick real majors if they don't start winning. Maybe that will motivate them.

I should also probably start outlining my classes this weekend. It makes me feel so productive, and before I know it, finals will be here. But then there's that little voice in my head that keeps saying, "You're a 3L. Why the hell would you even consider outlining before the end of classes?" Because I'm a Type-A control freak is why. And outlining might prove to be more satisfying than watching another train wreck football game.

Having ignored my side project for a good week now, that deserves some attention, too. I haven't so much as touched it recently, which is not good with my commercial debut looming on November 9th. I haven't named my company nor have I launched my website yet. And my inventory is not where it needs to be. Which is less than awesome.

While I would love to get out of town and away from drunk fratties for a weekend, I think I will just have to stick it out here this weekend and be productive. I do get to look forward to dicking around all next weekend though, which will keep me going.

My Alter Ego

All schitzophrenia jokes aside, I often feel like I am two people: The person I used to be, and the person I became when I started law school.

Before law school I was confident and motivated. I had passion and direction. I was spontaneous and creative. I was well-rested, happy and in control of my life.

Once I got to law school I became a drone. I gave up my hobbies and passions for lack of time and still never get enough rest. I'm like a walking zombie most of the time. Law school has also made me insecure, paranoid and unmotivated. I don't know what I am doing after graduation but a heavy layer of apathy has slowly settled in over me. I used to be interesting and passionate but now I am boring and indifferent. I've become a product of the law school machine that shapes and molds scores of identical little worker-attorneys. I have paid $80,000 to memorize knowledge that provides good cocktail party trivia fodder.

But I don't want to be just an indistinguishable bore. Lately I've been trying to break out of my law school paradigm and pursue things that make me happy rather than pursuing mere means to ends.

I've taken up hiking again, and when I'm trudging through the woods in the crisp fall weather, wonder why in the world I gave it up in the first place. I'm starting a business that combines my entrepreneurial spirit with my creativity and desire to provide people with some of life's little luxuries. I may begin doing some business consulting work on the side, developing protocols and job descriptions and - most importantly - being in control of myself and my work. I'm applying to graduate school, exploring different programs and job prospects outside the legal world. For the first time in three years, I can see beyond the tiny confines of the law school microcosm that I'd allowed myself to be sucked into.

Though insignificant as they may seem, I see these little bits of my alter ego shining through my dull and boring law school persona. I am beginning to see life beyond the law, and it is something that I embrace more and more each day. And best of all, I'm excited to see what my future has in store for my alter ego - the real me.

Mingling with the Commoners

I have found a little nook in the main library cafe that is, surprisingly, quieter than the lawbrary and has a nice view of the quad. It amazes me that the undergrads seem to have at least a modicum more decorum than the self-absorbed law students.

However, out of the corner of my eye I keep catching the girl at the table next to me glaring at me. I'm not quite certain what I did to invite such an evil look, but I'll hazzard a guess that maybe she is jealous that, unlike her, I have the self-control not to stuff my face with a sandwich, chips and a coke at 9:30 in the morning.

It is sort of like being a fish out of water here, and despite the fact that I look about 16, the tell-tale stacks of brown and blue books next to me announce that I'm a law student. Which doesn't really affect me one way or the other.

The undergrads, however, try to be sneaky and pass themselves off for law students while they casually read on the benches outside the building. One look gives them away instantly. Not only do their books have colorful pictures and cute diagrams in them, but nary a one of them looks scared enough to be a 1L, tired enough to be a 2L or jaded enough to be a 3L. Fortunately for them, they are not quite stupid enough to try to sneak into the law school to study.

The law school is sort of like an elite little club that we protect fiercely from outside intrusion. We feel entitled, not only because we pay three times as much tuition, but also because we've paid our dues. We finished our undergrads, suffered through the LSAT and made it to law school. So if you want to sit next to the pretty picture window in the lawbrary and lounge on the benches next to the prettiest quad on campus and enjoy the perks of wireless internet in every room, then run the gauntlet and pay your dues. Until then, I'll sell you a pass to the hot tub we have on the roof.

Please Go Away, Terrell Owens.

The buzz in the news today is that our favorite NFL player attention whore tried -- and failed -- to overdose on pain killers. Perhaps he felt he couldn't garner enough press looking pathetic and riding his bike on the sidelines during practice. Maybe he thought that if Parcells refused to play him for missing practice -- how dare a coach refuse to play someone who misses practice!? -- then he'd just show him. I can't dumb myself down enough to get into Terrell Owens' vacuous skull and figure out what is (not) going on in there.

I am just sad that Terrell Owens wasn't more successful. Hopefully this little incident killed his sperm so he can't procreate and produce more insipid, egomaniacal asshats. Just go away, Terrell.

The Newsworthiness of Leafy Green Vegetables

I have never been a big fan of spinach. Except for the fact that it screwed up my mathematical calculations as to the number of possible combinations of sauce, pasta and meatballs when I went to Olive Garden last weekend for Never Ending Pasta Bowl (aka Stuff Myself With Salad and Bread and Pasta and Bread and Salad and Have to be Rolled Out the Door), I was sort of happy that they had taken Spinach Alfredo off the list of sauce offerings.

No more spinach, yay. I was happy to end my thoughts on the matter there. But as CNN kept covering the issue as the main story on CNN.com because there is nothing more newsworthy going on, I got to thinking, "How the hell does e. coli get into spinach to begin with?" And as you know, thinking is a dangerous thing.

Lets run through the possibilities here. First, it has been suggested that the irrigation water was contaminated. Okay, I can buy that. Second, perhaps the fertilizer used in the fields somehow introduced the angry little bacteria into the spinach fields. After all, it is cow poop. Fine, I can deal with that too.

But then I had an epiphany - There are no Porta Potties in the spinach fields. And certainly you can understand the logical inference there. EW.

Please, CNN - Save me. Give me something better to think about so I don't have to conjecture about what migrant farm workers do in the spinach fields.

Sadly, I will never be able to look at spinach artichoke dip the same way ever again.

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.

The First Step is Getting Off the Couch...

I've decided that this summer will be a good opportunity for me to start a workout routine and try to get into better shape. I'm tired of trying to hide underneath my clothes, and I'm tired of feeling fidgety and self-conscious when I go out in public. I want to wear cute clothes without having to worry if my ass looks big. I don't want to have to worry that people are staring at me. In my mind, everyone I pass looks at me and thinks of me as "a fat girl." Size-wise, I'm still in single digits, (you didn't think that I'd divulge my actual weight, did you?), but I no longer have any confidence in myself.

Bottom line, law school students-to-be: Law school makes you fat.

Yup. You take classes in one building, so you never have to walk across campus. You're eligible for a sweet parking deck pass, being a grad student and all, so you never have to walk to the bus stop or to campus. You spend all your time studying and none of your time working out. On top of all that, the enormous stress causes your body to produce extra cortisol, which packs on weight. Not to mention the fact that your diet is the victim of convenience rather than health considerations.

So, I've developed a game plan for myself. After finals are over, I'm going to start the Couch to 5K program. Amber over at My Aim is True has already started, so I'm anxious to see how she progresses. In the meantime, I'm taking the Terrorists over to the Greenway as often as possible for some brisk, pleasant walks along the river.

Before my days as a sedentary law student, I was relatively active. I played soccer and was in a national champion marching band program which, all band camp jokes aside, was a pretty rigorous physical activity. In college I hiked the hills in Ithaca and played on the women's rubgy team. In short, I think I can do this.

The Beef thinks that I am underestimating how easy it will be to work my way up to running a 5K, but with all the wear and tear I've put on my knee, I want to take it slowly. Hopefully, by fall, I'll be running some 5K fun runs, like the Athens Run For the Dogs.

I'll tr to keep my progress updated here. (Eventually I'll move all my stuff to TypePad so that I can compartmentalize my life.) Anyone else up for joining me?

Yup, I checked, it's still there.

MPRE results came out the other day, and I am proud to say that I am sufficiently ethical to practice in any jurisdiction. Clearly, the answer to any question asking, "Your friend, Lawyer Alpha, is sleeping with his client. What should you do?" is "Throw your buddy under the bus by ratting him out. Then go snort a line of nose candy that you purchased with a client's retainer fee in the bathroom." That's just how we lawyers-to-be roll.

Yesterday, I was supposed to take my final exam in the 6-week, 1-credit Medical Malpractice class I took this semester. It is an entertaining way to spend two hours a week (if you have to be in class) and, more importantly, is notoriously easy. The exam is entirely taken from handouts that are passed out each week.

I blew off Evidence to study at Jittery Joe's all day. I seem to focus much better with no Internet access and an IV hookup of coffee, go figure. I took all the handouts and put the information into an outline, hoping that I'd learn it through typing and organizing it. It worked, sort of.

Well, we showed up to the exam and one of the professors (a local trial attorney) had sent one of his associates to give the exam. (Sidenote: This is totally cool, and when I am a partner, I will absolutely send my associates to do my dirty work for me on a regular basis. The more ridiculous, the better. "Go walk my dog on your lunch break. And don't forget to pick up the poop. No, not with your hands, with a bag. But if you're not smart enough to figure that out, maybe I should make you use your hands.") Here's roughly how it went down:

Round 1: About 30 exams get passed out. There are at least 85 people in the class. Associate panics and runs to the library to make more copies. Lauren and I inconsiderately chatter about the bridesmaid who dropped out of her wedding while 30 people take the exam.

Round 2: Associate returns with more exams. About 30. Clearly not enough. Lauren and I just want to get this over with, but the exam-taking gods were not smiling upon us and we, of course, didn't get an exam. Associate panics, calls the remaining 25 people into the hall. He says he's going to run downtown to the copy shop where they actually have fast copiers, and he'll be back. He probably only knows where the slow copiers are because that's more time to bill to clients. Lauren and I walk to her apartment downtown to grab a snack. On the way back, we see Associate pacing back and forth outside the copy shop like a pissed off tiger.

Round 3: We get back to the classroom just as Associate gets back with the exams. We heard whispers about two makeup test dates. Associate is handing out exams. We bolt, our test-taking moment having passed for the day.

And so we'll try it again on Thursday. Hopefully I will still be able to remember everything I need to about expert witnesses and tort reform and filing affidavits.

I really felt bad for Associate. He clearly got thrown into a terrible situation, and tried very hard to remain cool under pressure. I personally think that his boss was testing him to see how well he could perform when put in a situation like that. Sadistic, yes. But better to learn the importance of attention to detail while proctoring a slacker law school class rather than in court.

Now Everyone Needs to Use Their INDOOR Voices

When, dare I ask, has it EVER been appropriate to have a full conversation at a normal volume in a library? I will venture to guess that the answer to that question is "never." It seems pretty clear to me that even the Greeks and Romans revered the quiet sanctuary of their libraries and reserved their need to chatter for their homes, the piazza, the Forum, the Acropolis, or whatever.

Nonetheless, no fewer than half a dozen 1Ls have decided to have a group conversation right next to me in the reading room. Mindless 1L chatter about Property, about grades, about opening day of baseball season. Of course, with lots of irrelevant legal jargon and unfunny law puns thrown in for good measure: "So-and-so adversely possessed my favorite Widespread Panic t-shirt." Can you picture my eyes rolling?

To make matters worse, the most annoying one has a giant sticker on his computer: "[Name of Impressive Private Southeastern University]." Why people feel the need to parade these things around is beyond me. Do I walk around with "I went to [Name of My Ivy League Alma Mater]" tattooed on my forehead? No. On my backpack? No. And certainly not on my computer. I even hesitate to wear t-shirts with my undergrad plastered on them simply because that kind of grandstanding just seems downright unnecessary to me. Besides, it's a clean slate once you get to law school.

Perhaps when he's put in his place by his spring finals, and ends up waiting tables at The Grill all summer, he'll peel that sticker off and eat it. I can only hope.

All My Exes Live in Texas.

I am not so great at this blog thing yet. It seems like so much effort to sit down and focus in order to write something witty and inspiring on a daily basis. Hopefully I'll get better with this.

Anyway, I found out some troubling news just now. Through my super-awesome-yet-borderline-disturbing Internet sleuthing skills, I discovered that my ex (Teeny) and his mannish, Sopranos-extra fiancee might be moving to Texas in the very near future. What makes this troubling is that UT-Austin is on the Beef's short list of graduate schools, and so there is a very real possibility that I might have to don a ten-gallon hat and a six-shooter when I go to court.

I know that Texas is a big state (too big, almost), but the thought of being in the same state with Teeny is just unsettling. We have not been in the same state for 5 years or so, and the fact that our debacle of a relationship ended disastrously clearly doesn't make me anxious to jump back into mutual statehood with the ex, regardless of how big or small that particular state may be. Really, the only thing worse than having to live in Texas would be having to live in Texas while my ex lives there too.

Although, it would be far worse if the state in question was Rhode Island. At least Rhode Island has the whole fresh seafood thing going for it, not to mention a conspicuous lack of ten-gallon hats and six-shooters.

Hello, Human...

So, this is my first adventure in blog-land, aside from my foray into LJ.

I know that the world needs another law school blogger just like it needs Iran to have nuclear weapons. But, here's hoping that perhaps I can add a unique perspective to the law school blog-sphere by sharing my transfer experiences. JCA covered the basics of the transfer process in Sua Sponte, and I am eternally grateful to her. Even though she's no longer actively blogging, her archives contains tons of great information about transferring. Thus, I won't try to reinvent the wheel and will rather refer potential transferrees to her blog.

Feel free to share your comments and ask questions, and I'll try my best to answer them!