Tuesday, May 16, 2006

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.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

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!

Thursday, May 04, 2006

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.