Areas of My Expertise

Law Fruits.

2006-07-17T23:09:00.000-04:00

I'm writing this post from my blackberry (so forgive any typos, capitalization errors, or delusions of grandeur). Blackberries are very controversial little gadgets. On the one hand, you have virtually unlimited access to your office and personal email accounts, internet, and voice mail. On the other, your office and personal email accounts, internet, and voice mail have virtually unlimited access to you. People call them leashes, or worse, crackberries.

I admit, a lot of people take Blackberries too far. Gyms in New York have divided off "wireless free zones," and for good reason. In the last week, I've been out to lunches on more than a few occasions where attorneys, who are being paid to have lunch with me, their recruit, have punctuated each course by reviewing their inboxes and actually sending and responding to emails between bites. Even worse, a friend of mine today (another summer associate) told me that she had started to experience thumb cramps, a well known precursor to Blackberry-induced claims for worker's comp, after working for her firm for less than two months. And even yours truly found herself whipping out my own little crackberry this weekend at an Indie Rock festival, much to the chagrin and derision of all the little hipster indie rockers and hangers-on around me. (I still maintain it was acceptable to do so, as I was just looking up the band schedule.)

Anyhow, the whole situation got me thinking. About law firm culture, and about fruits. If Blackberries turn into crackberries, just because attorneys don't have the will power to email in moderation, imagine what life will be like when they combine name other addictive status symbols after fruits! Methamphetangerines. Marijuananas. Blowberries.

My theory, as demonstrated by the Blackberry phenomenon, is that naming things after fruits makes lawyers incapable of resisting them - to the point where they are incapable of sleeping, observing basic social graces, or functioning generally without succumbing to their call. It's only a matter of time before we have fruit-inspired names for practice areas. Mangos and Aquisitions. Trusts and Dates. Bankruptcitruses. And, my personal favorite, the Applelate Law/Supreme Corn Practice.

And it'll work, too. Because lord knows that a good fruit name for their practice group is the closest thing any of these attorneys will get to a job that fulfills them in any way.

10 points to the first person to email me with the racial-slur-inspired term Jeremy invented to describe someone who was half-Japanese, half-Jewish.

2006-07-17T22:33:00.000-04:00

My friend Jeremy got the short end of the Holocaust stick. Half-Japanese and half-Jewish, Jeremy lost a good portion of his extended family a full generation before he was even born. But genocide/atom bombs aside, Jeremy was still well-connected to his heritage.

The summer after our freshman year Jeremy and I shared an apartment in D.C. Since we'd both lived in the dorms, this was really the first opportunity any of us had to fend for ourselves in the kitchen - so it quickly became a habit of the Harvard kids in the area to convene in each other's apartments to cook and share dinner.

One night a mutual friend was inspired to come over to prepare for us seared salmon with apples and creme fraiche. And by seared I mean raw. And by raw I mean non-sushi grade, raw salmon.

New to the whole fish thing in general, but still experienced to know that there's a difference between shashimi and fish sticks, I was a little nervous when my entree came out. I asked the mutual friend to cook mine a little more.

Jeremy would have nothing of it. "My people have been eating raw salmon for thousands of years!" And with that, he grabbed his spoon, picked up the yet-to-be-seared raw salmon (still in the styrofoam tray), scooped up about a third of the meat, and popped it into his mouth.

"Now that's a nice piece of fish."

Stories of my life, part I: The Lamar Alexander Story

2006-07-15T00:24:00.000-04:00

I tell a lot of stories. As a kid, I moved around a lot, so I'd often find myself in groups of people I didn't know. The only way I could relate to them, I found, was to discuss things that had happened to me in the past - funny or interesting things that were somehow related to something that we were currently experiencing together. It was nice - it helped people get to know me, and, even more importantly, it let me be the center of attention for a few moments. Which is really, you know, my single motivating goal for virtually every waking moment of my life.

Anyway, it's occured to me recently that I have a set of stories that I like to tell and re-tell over and over again. I reached this realization mostly because between recruiting for jobs and dealing with a new school, I've spent most of the last year around people I didn't know very well - and as a result I've sort of slipped into my old get to know you habits. At the same time, however, it's occured to me that as time passes I remember some stories better than others - and it's a pretty frequent occurence that I'll be around my college friends and be reminded of crazy adventures I hadn't thought about in years. So, in the interest of preserving these memories, letting you all get to know me a little better, and allowing myself to be the center of attention, I present to you a series of stories of my life.

Tonight's story takes us back to my sophomore year. Adam, my best friend, and I were working at the Institute of Politics one night when a particularly crowd-worthy speaker came to address the ARCO Forum. (What's funny is that I can't even remember who it was.) Anyway, it was a big deal speaker, and we were kind of a big deal at the IOP. Unfortunately, we were late to the event, and all the good seats had been taken by the time we decided to show up. Using our cache and the resulting access it granted us to the innards of the Kennedy School, we decided to just grab some chairs from outside someone's office and make our own seats in the audience.

As we were walking through the empty halls to find our seats, we passed by the office of then former-governor Lamar Alexander, who was hanging out at the IOP for a semester to prepare for his bid to replace Fred Thompson as the TN Senator. As we walked by, I recalled to Adam an interaction I'd had with Mr. Alexander a few days before.

"He told me I could come by his office anytime I wanted to talk about Tennessee politics," I said.

"Sounds pretty cool," said Adam.

"But then I realized, I don't care about Tennessee politics!"

"Yeah!" Adam chimed in, "Screw you, Lamar!" Mid-sentence, Adam turned, and about the time he reached the second syllable of "Lam-ar," he looked up to find himself face to face with, you guessed it, Mr. Alexander.

"Hello," he said. And we were off.

Jacket and Tie Not Required

2006-07-14T23:14:00.000-04:00

New job this week - so far, so good. But among all the attributes of the new place that I like, by far its best quality is...the business casual dress policy. I know, it's pretty amazing that just one single pair of khakis could have such a significant improvement on the quality of my life, and really sort of sad, but here we are.

Apparently, the trend towards biz-cas in New York really got started after the investment bankers dropped the suit, and the law firms followed. The only problem with this arrangement is that while bankers and counsel are now in khakis and polos, New York's finer dining establishments still expect a more traditional attire. The result is that while most people dress up to go to work, I dress up to go to lunch when I go to work. It's kind of absurd, but mostly awesome.

Other observations based on my short time in the big city:
(1) I love walking to work. It makes me so unbelievably happy. We're talking quantities of happy here that are comparable only to the levels of soul-crushing depression formerly caused to me by having to commute on the subway. Some people think that living right where you work is depressing, since you never really leave work. These people apparently don't mind the stench of 150 bodies vying for the same space in a 200 square foot tube for 55 minutes every morning.
(2) NYC is more convenient than DC. On may way to work at DC, I had to transfer trains to get to an ATM, make a special trip to find a Starbucks, order groceries off the internet, and walk past two homeless shelters. In the ten blocks between my apt and my office in NYC, I pass three Banks of Americas, 3 Starbucks, about 100 restaurants, and 3 grocery stores (not counting no fewer than 5 outdoor fruit and veggie stands). And an Anne Taylor, Banana Republic, Bebe, and Gap. And no hobos. (Which is such a relief - if there's one thing I don't need right now, it's rebound hobo sex.)
(3) New York is one of the few cities where being single is the norm. Sort of scarily so, in fact. My first day here I saw two people holding copies of the "Dummie's Guides to Divorce." Frankly, when it comes to divorce, I'm glad to remain a dummie. But, really, I feel the same way about marriage, so who am I to complain.
(4) Too many of my friends live in Brooklyn. Seriously, you're not 40 and you're not still living at home. You owe yourself a bed in Manhattan. I say this as a girl who has been in New York for approximately 15 minutes, and a resident of tiny rural towns throughout the South for about 15 years. Brooklyn is BFE.
(5) Both foie gras and Tasti D-Lite are disgusting. Albeit for entirely different reasons, both taste like crap.

All in all, I'm happy to report that I couldn't be happier. Here's hoping that the actual working at the firm doesn't muck things up too badly.

Week in Review

2006-07-04T22:45:00.000-04:00

Sorry to be MIA the last week. I'll make it up to you later. For now, here's a potpurri of updates:

(1) Saw Superman Returns. I thought it was great, despite me not having any idea where he was supposed to be returning from (as I've never seen any of the original Supermen flicks). Little known fact: the same scorewriter composed the themes to Superman Returns, Indiana Jones, and Star Wars. Try humming them all in a row. It's impossible.

(2) Saw Devil Wears Prada. It was entertaining, but also infuriating. The movie's theme, in a nutshell, is that women can't be successful both at work and at home, so they should really just give up and stay at home. What's even worse is that they had a throw-away line where Anne Hathaway's character said something along the lines of "No one would criticize the devil lady if she were a man - they'd just focus on how successful she was." From there, they proceed to emphasize over and over that you can't have a career and a personal life if you're a chick. (Or effeminate male.) Also? Her job was not that bad. Having to answer the phone during dinner is not the end of the world. Finally - Is Anna Hathaway ever going to do a movie where she doesn't start out with ratty hair and end up with sleek hair? We get it. You look better with a straightening iron. Now fucking try acting.

(3) Saw Jason Alexander host the fireworks in DC. Quite possibly the funniest thing I've seen on TV this year? The moment where Jason sings a neaveau spiritual about "freedom" with the help of a group of about 15 fifth-to-eighth graders. It was hilarious. None of them matched. No uniforms, no color scheme. It looked like Jason had walked up to a softball field and recruited the infield. All in all, it was a great show. Nothing like a whiny sniveling superficial neurotic self-centered cheap hardhearted stupid New Yorker to symbolize everything I love about America.

Do you take...this woman?

2006-06-27T21:12:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I get lonely. Despite all my big talk, I don't have a boyfriend - homeless, homely, or otherwise. No one to cuddle. No one to improve. No one to mooch off of or clean up after. I think the problem is that I hate most people I meet, and my standards are even higher for people who want to do me. Another issue is that as much as I hate people, I hate dating more. Really, I don't even want a boyfriend. What I want is a husband. But without having to date him first.

It makes sense to me. Boyfriends are afraid of commitment. Husbands, on the other hand, seem to support it - at least on paper. Boyfriends live in shitty bachelor pads. Husbands live in houses that I get to decorate, but they have to pay for. Boyfriends break hearts. Husbands fix sinks. It seems like a no-brainer.

The problem is I've found that guys don't marry girls if they don't, for instance, know their last names. The way I see it, though, what does it matter what my last name is? I'm just going to give it up when I take yours anyway. So, when I say to you, Evan Thompson, "Hi, my name is Sarah," don't ask me, "Well, do you have a last name?" Just think, "Sarah. Sarah Thompson. Right." Sort of has a nice ring to it, eh? Specifically, a gold ring. White gold. With diamonds.

And an inscription on the inner band: "To the girl I just met, who tricked me into marrying her. You're more fun than the bar scene. I think." Only in Latin. It sounds a little pushy in English.

Dang! We're in a tight spot!

2006-06-26T19:38:00.001-04:00

This morning the DC metro flooded. About half the lines were closed. Not mine. DCMTA knew better, I guess.

My neighbors were another story: the station outside my apt was, in my opinion, excessively crowded. Although CNN had reporting all morning that the beltway was closed due to a mudslide, no one thought it worthwhile to clue in the locals to the heavy delays on the train, so everyone was out in full force. The result was that you'd walk past the bus stop, past the taxi stands, and trek down into the metro, business as usual, only to approach the platform and discover about 200 people crowding the gap. (On a busy morning, there's more like 10-20.) By the time you figured out that trains were running at every 10-15 min rather than every 1-2, it was too late for you to turn back. You were already part of the jam.

Suffice it to say that when the trains showed up, not everyone could fit. Really, only about 15 could make it on at our stop, as the train was already packed to the gills with commuters, bags, umbrellas, and hyperventilating claustrophobics. I didn't think I'd make it, and at first I didn't. But after the initial push, the train paused at the station, doors open, for about 3-4 minutes. I couldn't stand it - it was now or never. I crowded on.

I deflected the natural chagrin of my new, very intimate, commuter friends with a comment about how someone in the middle of our car had left a seat open. Instantly, I was accepted - I was a compatriot, equally inconvenienced and annoyed by all the idiots around us who were really just fooling themselves if they thought they were going to make it on this train. Somehow they forgot that only moments before, I, too, had been one of those idiots elbowing my way into their personal space. I made friends with a Pakistani man to my right. He congratulated me on my success. I smiled back, happy to have an ally.

The woman next to me was a middle aged blonde named Renee. I knew she was called Renee because she hung a name tag around her neck on a faded lanyard. She worked for the Peace Corps. She had probably been shot at, dehydrated, forced to fight off malaria and subsist off of grubs and rice staples for weeks on end - surviving only out of sheer force of will and her commitment to making the world a better place. On the train, however, she looked like she had met her match. Dejected, wilting, she shrunk further into the corner with every passing stop, complaining to a woman next to hear wearing a hijab that though she didn't have back problems, her back was hurting her now. Once I tripped and nearly crushed her when the train operator hit the accelerator a little too enthusiastically. I smiled, happy to give her a reason to sigh dejectedly.

Immediately in front of me was a clean cut intern with dark jellied hair and a tan, either new to law school or fresh from college. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, and as the train lurched the curve of his ass kept bumping up into my abdomen. I had to turn my face to the left (and alternately look up to the ceiling or down to her nametag to avoid staring directly at Renee), and brace my neck to resist the centrifugal force of the train's careening path through the tube - doing my best to keep my lips, my face, and my cheeks from rubbing up against his momentarily immaculate starched collar. I couldn't deny the sexual tension that developed between my midriff and his backside, but I didn't want him to get dumped on false pretences when he got home later that night.

Eventually the overflow of people reduced to trickle as we approached the heart of the city and progressively larger groups of commuters began to peal away at their respective destinations. The rain continued for most of the day; when it didn't rain, the air stayed dirty and wet.

I took the subway back home at the end of the day. This time I got a seat, but nothing to write about.

Just Like I Did With Old Yellar

2006-06-25T21:24:00.000-04:00

So, I went over to Jimmy's "house" this weekend, and we had a long conversation about the benefits of supply side economics that, I have to say, really got me thinking. In the end, though, like most liberals who briefly flirt with conservatism only to come running back to the left, I just couldn't take the smell. I broke up with him in a note written on the back of a discarded Dunkin Donuts wrapper that I found on the ground under a pile of used syringes. It was sort of passive of me, I admit. He can't read, after all.

Anyway, the good new is that as I was walking home, I stopped a bar for a post-break up pick-me-up and ended up picking up a new guy. He's great. A little short for me, though. He stands about mid-waist on me, so I guess heels are out. And his nose is sortof - big. Not that that's usually a problem for me (I'm Catholic, but I've had as much Jew in me as Kesher Israel), but this schnoz is worse than usual - it's big and black and wet, too. Ok, I'll just come out and say it. I'm dating Brian Griffin.

Apart from being a "cartoon character" and a "dog," he's everything I've ever wanted in a man. He's well-read, hates children, liberal, witty, and above all: house trained. (Which is more than I can say for the last guy I dated!) (Although I suppose it's hard to be house trained if you don't have a house.) All in all, I'd say he's a keeper.

Plus, if things turn out badly, I can always put him to sleep.

Spare change? Spare heart.

2006-06-23T00:02:00.000-04:00

Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know that, from time to time, I've written about myself as though I were a homeless person. I'm writing now to tell you that those posts were not strictly truthful. I am not homeless. But, my boyfriend is.

My boyfriend, Jimmy, lives around the corner from Union Station. Well, in the gutter on the corner next to Union Station. I still remember the first time we met. I was carrying my $4.48 grande no whip sugar free vanilla fat free mocha latte from Starbucks; he was on his belly reaching into the sewer to recover a partially-smoked Malboro cigarette. I tripped over him as I descended from the curb, and I noticed him when I realized I had actually caused him quite a bit of pain. Thinking I could pay him off and avoid having to cream him later in small claims, I reached into my pocket for a couple of quarters or a nickel or something, enough to shut him up without cutting into my bi-hourly diet coke rations. But then, something happened. Our eyes met. (Well, my eyes met the one eye of his that wasn't swollen shut from me kicking him in the face with my Manolos.) The rest, as they say, is history.

Dating a homeless man isn't all glamour and tin can deposits, mind you. Like any couple, we have our problems. I, for instance, sleep on an air mattress, so I've found it a little awkward to bring men home with me. Jimmy, however, sleeps on a pile of dirt next to the dumpster at the Capital Grille. He thinks I'm sort of a prude; really, I'm just holding out for him to get a shelter or at least a park bench or something before I stay the night. It's silly I know - but what girlfriend doesn't complain about her beau's bachelor pad? Also, I admit: the gangrene sort of weirds me out. But Jimmy says it's an investment (or at least, that's what I think he said - he has a tendency to jabber on incoherently - it's adorable!): apparently losing just one minor limb can increase his earnings by about 25% annually, with potential for future salary increases if he ever gets enough capital to invest in some of those sunglasses that make people think you're blind. What can I say? I'm attracted to men with ambition.

All in all, as much as I care about Jimmy, I have to admit that I no longer see us having much of a future together. I found out yesterday that he's a Republican.

They should really just pay us in press releases.

2006-06-20T21:06:00.000-04:00

I came to law school to do two things: find a husband, and change the world. Since I'm not dating anyone at the moment, and I'm kind of a pill, as of late I've been focusing most of my efforts on the latter goal. You know, the world changing.

Like most law students who have never had to work for their money, I'm a firm believer that I should never do anything unless it has the capacity to change the world. And I mean anything. Like this morning, for instance, I had to choose between eating some very delicious cranberry and walnut cereal with soy milk, or cooking myself some free-range eggs and applewood smoked bacon. It was an easy choice for a dedicated world-changer. What does that wheat plant or soy bean care if I eat it? Answer: Not a lot. All it has to do is sit around and photosynthesize and it's right back where it started, no world-changing involved. Or, at least, those plants don't care nearly as much as the chicken fetus or the gormet hog whose life I ended prematurely in order to sate my early morning craving (nah, it was really just a slight preference) for protein. I rocked those bitches' WORLDS.

But more importantly, I'm committed to changing the world with my job. Isn't everybody? I mean, I don't really get how cleaning toilets leads to a better life for all of mankind, but I really can't explain why all those janitor people would be willing to do it otherwise. Those toilets are stinky.

All I know is, when I'm a lawyer, I'm going to change the world, billable hour by billable hour. No, paying my parents back for my education will not be enough. No, making more money annually than the cumulative total lifetime salary ever made by everyone in the history of my family tree will not satisfy me. No, getting the best training available in the legal industry and actually learning how to be a lawyer will not stop me. I want more. When I walk in the door Monday mornings, I want streamers and world renown and feelings of almost sexual bliss. I want men to want me. I want women to fear me. I want my name in the papers, and adorers fawning at my feet. Instead of me sending out my taxes to the government, every April I want the government to send me a thank you note and a celebratory fruit basket. I want it all, baby. I want to make history, and then make history for making history, and then re-write history to make all my rivals look like jerks. Because history, and world changing, is for the winners, my friend. And winners don't work just to provide for their families, or to satisfy their obligations, or to support their lifestyles, or to advance their careers, or to contribute to a market economy, or to accumulate worldly possessions, or to advance the Protestant work ethic.

No, no, no. Winners work to change the world. And for fame. Actually, just fame.

One House, Two House, Cape House, Country House.

2006-06-19T00:19:00.000-04:00

No one appreciates how difficult it is to own four houses. I mean, like, every time I talk about the ups and downs of juggling my Cabo beach bungalow with our little cottage on the Cape, it's like my friends think I'm speaking Chinese or something. They just don't understand.

Like the other day, I was sleeping in my bedroom in my New York country house, and it hit me. My bed in my New York country house is my favorite bed, of all of my beds, in all of my houses. I mean, it's not brain science or anything. My New York house is the only house that we've decided to spend the $700/pop to get the Tempur-Pedic mattresses put in, whereas in all the others we just have the regular Serta Perfect sleeper + feather bed + 300 threadcount mattress pad. But, still. I feel like preferring one bed over the other is like picking a favorite. And you shouldn't pick favorites with your houses: you should love them all the same.

Also, it's impossible to keep track of my necessities. I mean, I do the best I can. I leave my good ski pants in our ski house up in Park City. That's easy. But you can really use a good North Face fleece in a lot of places. Should I leave it in Park City, or should I keep it in Martha's Vinyard? The shore can get really chilly at night; plus, I have already have my waterproof EMS ski jacket for the slopes, so the fleece is sort of superfluous, even though it's generally colder in Utah. Ugh. It's just an impossible situation.

I guess I should make the best of it. I mean, I have this one friend whose family only has the one house in Long Island and a time share in Fire Island. I guess it's easy for him to keep track of where he stores his sheep-skin lined slippers from L.L. Bean, but at what price? I'll tell you: the price of renting out some shithole bed and breakfast every time you want to spend a week skiing (~$10,000, in Park City, and that's IF you can get a reservation). I don't mean to be cheap about accomodations, but it just doesn't make economical sense to me to not just buy the whole house. I really don't get what these one- or two-housers are thinking. Do you just never go on vacation? It just seems like a waste of money to spend $20,000 for two weeks when you could just spend $10M and have it for the rest of your life.

I guess some people just think money grows on trees.

For the birds.

2006-06-18T22:40:00.000-04:00

The other day I was walking to work, and as I looked down at the sidewalk to stare at my feet (my usual posture), I noticed a tiny female sparrow hopping along beside me.

-"Hey, SEA," she chirped. "I see you're wearing a suit. You're not seriously going to work today, are you?"
-"Why shouldn't I be? They pay me well, they treat me like royalty, and they're going to teach me how to be a really good lawyer. What's not to love?" I blinked back, bewildered.
-"Well, for one, that skirt is obviously too tight on you. Working at a firm doesn't seem to fit you much better. Also, it's beautiful outside. Look at that sky! Do you honestly prefer staring at a computer screen all day? A computer screen of death?"
-[Stunned, I stopped in my tracks. I stood, for a moment, in silence.]
-"Come, fly with me. All you have to do is turn left at the intersection instead of right. Be an artist. Read novels. Live at home. Stay a child at heart. You already act like a four year old most of the time anyway."

I looked at her, she stared back at me, and she walked along next to me for a good ten paces before she flew off, exacerbated. I took the next right.

Pray for us non-sinners now.

2006-06-18T22:23:00.000-04:00

Some people think it's slutty to be on birth control when you're not in a relationship. I think it's the only way to really protect gainst immaculate conception.

Seriously, the threat is real. It happened one time to a girl I know.

How a New York Summer Associate got drunk, got naked, and still got a job: An update to the Clara V. story.

2006-06-15T23:45:00.000-04:00

By now, anyone who’s spent any time on the law firm interview circuit in the last year has heard the story of Clara V., UVA ’06, and her infamous 2L summer. The long and short of the controversy is that at some point during the summer of 2005, Ms. V. is alleged to have been in attendance at a typical summer event hosted by her typical New York law firm. The event, as you might recall, was a bar night on a pier of the Hudson River. The story, of course, is that Ms. V. got drunk, got half-naked, and then – to the shock and horror of everyone around her – jumped into the river.

Like the 1L at Michigan who CC’d his entire first-year section and the law school dean in a ranting email upbraiding his professor for turning in final grades a few days past deadline, Ms. V.'s ignominy spread throughout the inboxes of law students and young associates all across the country. The popularity of her story was partly due to its sheer gossip value, but its real appeal was its inspirational value for aspiring summer associates everywhere. If Ms. V. could teach us anything, it was that a soft offer is still an offer. You, too, could drink like a fish until you literally had to be fished out of a river by the U.S. Coast Guard, and still talk your way into another job in another city the following year. And you didn’t even have to go to Harvard to do it.

As is usually the case with all really juicy gossip, however, there is more to the story of drunken Clara and the river that made her famous. After conducting a very thorough journalistic investigation (i.e., Googling her name), your humble reporter has discovered that while Ms. V. has certainly spent a more than typical amount of time swimming in the Hudson River, not all of it has been to her chagrin. On the contrary, the alumni report of the Colorado College Department of Neuroscience (her alma mater) celebrates her for it. As it turns out, within only a few weeks of her infamous night swimming on the pier, Ms. V. won second place in the women's 20-29 age group in the 2005 “Race for the River,” a 2.4 mile swim in, you guessed it, the Hudson to raise funds for river clean-up and preservation.

In the end, however, there is still much that we can learn from our hero, Ms. V. As law students, it turns out that the sheer magnitude of our egos is sufficient to inspire us to do things that, for “the normals,” could only possibly be explained in terms of a potent combination of tequila and very poor judgment. So, for this, we thank you, Ms. V. The field of legal egology will be forever in your debt for this important contribution.

Eds: Although we included Clara's full name in the original version of this post, out of courtesy we've abbreviated her title to Clara V. To readers who may not approve of the edit, or who may find it disingenuous since we still link to her alma mater's site, we offer the following prayer: may all your faults and embarrassments remain not easily Google-able.

No Pepsi Contracts for Inner Beauty.

2006-06-12T23:14:00.000-04:00

I realized something today. Something disturbing. I was standing on line at the supermarket, next to my cart full of all the fresh vegetables and vitamins I planned to fill my body with, idly glancing at the racks of junk news I was doing my best not to fill my head with. News about who Nick Lachay is dating and who has the best boobs in Hollywood and what jeans look good on what types of butts and all the other great divisive issues of our times, and all of a sudden it came to me.

Britney Spears is hotter than me.

I wanted to die.

He-Man Woman Hater

2006-06-05T23:07:00.000-04:00

We had a women's lunch at the firm today. You know the type: everyone sitting around, wearing skirts, having boobs, with the obligatory preggo chick sitting in the corner talking about how great it is to balance brief-writing with your 35-lb swollen uterus. It was murder, and not in the way that abortion is murder. This murder actually made me to stop and think. The conclusion I reached was simple, but powerful: I hate women.

Some of you might be thinking, but SEA, you are a woman. How can you hate your own kind? Try sitting down to a lunch that consists of a trio of salads, and tell me you think any differently. A trio of motherfucking salads. They might as well followed up with a pint of Ben and Jerries served on Cathy-printed placemats sponsored in part by Lifetime.

It's not fashionable to hate women in this day and age. Hating women has gotten me in trouble from time to time. I know for a fact, for instance, that I've lost at least one job offer because of it. The scene went a little something like this:

Lady interviewer: Oh, so you went to Chicago? Who were your favorite professors?
Me: Well, there was [male professor #1], and [male professor #2]. Both very funny, and personable, I really learned a lot from them, and...
Lady interviewer: So. (Interrupting.) You prefer male professors.
Me (aside): Wuuuuhhhhhh????
Me (outloud): Ummn, well. Uhh...Yeah, sort of. [Editor's note: I have a policy of being 100% honest in interviews. It's just my policy. I never said it was a good policy.] I mean, I just get along with guys better in general. I mean, I basically have no female friends, you know? And women professors, like my [civ pro] professor [who, I shit you not, I referenced by name] can come across as sort of, you know, timid sometimes. [What am I saying! Fuck!] I mean, it's like they feel like they don't belong there or something, [Double fuck!] and they don't really know what they're doing. [Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!] I mean, I just like good teachers, people who draw you in. And, most professors who are like that are male. But...I guess I've had some good female professors, too.
Lady interviewer: Oh yeah? Like who?
Me: Uhhh... My [crim law] professor.
Lady interviewer: What was her name?
Me: I can't remember.
Lady interviewer: Right. So, what can I tell you about the firm?

Anyway. The women's luncheon wasn't as bad as it could have been, I suppose. I mean, no one menstruated all over the tablecloth or anything, nobody made me bake , and I didn't literally have to experience childbirth right there on the table in front of everybody. But still. It couldn't have been any girlier if they'd held it inside a giant vagina that was decorated with ponies. Although the food probably wouldn't have been much better.

*Hitler, after all, was a vegetarian.

2006-06-04T23:32:00.000-04:00

I caught myself having a long conversation tonight about a mutual friend. It was 23 minutes of detailed, biting, and intensely mean-spirited analysis of the friend's personality attributes. Not just his flaws, mind you, but his attributes in general. I mocked the things about him that he probably liked the most about himself. In fact, I probably mocked those bits the most. In the end, I concluded two things: my friend is a loser, and I am a bitch. But I wondered: am I also a bad person? I'll try to answer that question with a story.

This weekend I was waiting for a train at the subway and a man walked up to me and my friend. He started going into some story about how he had some $3 metro card that he couldn't use, and he needed us to trade him $1.75 in cash for it, and how he'd talked to like 4 or 5 other people and they'd all blown him off. What did I do? Blew him off. "Sorry," I said through pursed lips. "Don't have any cash." And this wasn't the first time that I'd done something like this. One time in Boston a lady came up to my mother and I and then launched into a detailed story about how she had been robbed, and she was stranded, and she needed a specific amount of money to take the commuter rail, and how she had no one to call and so we had to help her. "Sorry," I said. "No cash."

My personal rule of thumb is that I don't open my wallet for anyone who approaches me on the street. I know that sounds harsh - but it actually goes double for people who approach me with very detailed reasons for why they need my help. "I just got a call from my wife and she's in the hospital, but I took her car to work this morning so I don't have my cellphone, but then I got in an accident and now the car doesn't work, and I really need cab fare, and I live around the corner and I could FedEx you a check tomorrow, if you please just give me money now." Frankly, I don't buy it. For the lady in the subway, why not call the police and have them let you use their phone to call your friends? For the dude on the street, do you really think I'm giving you my cash AND my home address? For the man in the subway, if you really have a subway card worth three dollars, surely a Metro employee will lend you a hand to get you where you need to go. The way I see it, there's never any reason in the world that a normal person needs to get cash from another normal person off the street. (Unless, maybe, they're in a foreign country and they don't know how to call the police after they've been mugged of every cent (riyal, pound, etc.) to their name.) (And in that case I probably couldn't understand what they were asking me to do in the first place. El walleto? I have no idea what that means.)

My theory is that in cases like these, involving people who claim to be normal people who aren't beggers or con artists, but just need money now because they're in a crisis, the more detailed your story is, the more likely it is to be fake. And every time I've met a person in such a crisis, they've been fucking James Joyce. So, my new rule, a corollary to the wallet thing, is that unless I can see you bleeding, I'm not helping you. And even then, the most I'll do is plug your wounds and call for help. The wallet will remain firmly in tow.

So my question is this: Does this make me a bad person, or a smart person? I don't look at the homeless with disdain. I always say thank you to the guy at CVS who opens the door for me. I smile at the guy asking me for change outside of the liquor store opposite North Hall. I say good morning to the lady giving out newspapers at the subway. I always say "thanks - and have a nice day!" to the random passers-by (homeless or not, male or not) who tell me in various iterations that I'm beautiful or that they'd like to have sex with me. Granted, I never give them change or buy them booze or take their newspapers or date them, but I'm nice about it. But I wonder, can you be nice and still be a bad person?* I'm just not sure. I hope not, or at least, I hope I'm both nice and not bad.

Actually, I take that back. It's more than possible to be nice and a bad person. Bad, as in, a bad quality person. A person who won't say anything mean about another person, who won't say anything interesting at all, really, in the interest of being nice or being polite. A person, who in other words, sucks the personality and the soul out of you with every breath they steal from their more interesting and worthwhile co-inhabitors of the earth.

So yeah, if that's the standard, call me a baddie. I may be going to hell, but at least I won't be sucking the personality out of everyone around me on my way down.

It's a Girl! A letter from Angelina Jolie.

2006-06-03T16:32:00.000-04:00

But first a word from your author. Hi, guys. Long time, no post. I had a birthday this week, and I decided to pull a George Washington. You know, take a few days off, lose all my teeth, stop lying, own some slaves. It was a good time. As always, however, the low point of the whole affair was the actual singing of the "Happy Birthday" song. It was mortifying. Not because I'm embarassed to admit it was my birthday, but because it's just a terrible terrible song. I swear to god, it's the most depressing piece of music ever written or performed in the history of mankind. It's like a funeral march. And in a way, it is. A funeral march.

Anyway, while I was out, I got a letter in the mail from my dear friend Angelina. Or Angie, as I call her. It was, as you might have guessed, a birth announcement. Thought I'd post it here for everyone to enjoy.

Greetingssss, my darlingsssss:

First, let me apologize for the impersonal mass email. I would have called you all individually, but as you know, I can only squeeze so many spoken words out of my bulbous and overly sexified slug-lips at a time. It's one of the many prices you have to pay to live life as the world's most attractive half-woman, half-praying mantisssss. But as I've learned from my many tours with the UN, better mass emails than mass graves.

Anyway, as I'm sure you and every other human soul on this beautiful planet of ours already know, I gave birth to my first biological child this past week. (My lawyers advised me that if I kept outsourcing my birthing needs to foreign workers, I would eventually face some tax problems.) After an uneventful Caesarean section, little baby Shiloh was liberated from my womb (unlike the Congoese from the steely grip of poverty) at about 2 pm last Saturday. And though she's only been with us for a week, she already feels like part of the family. Sibling rivalry, for instance, has definitely set in. I've already caught her several times trying to "out-refugee" her brother and sister, Malcom and Zahara. You know the bit: refusing vaccinations, playing "how many flies can you fit on your face," distended belly contests. For a 7 day old, I have to admit, she's holding her own. Brad and I couldn't be happier.

We're also quite relieved to announce that despite all the attention from the world press, no one has yet figured out that I am, in reality, an alien. Brad thought that announcing we were having the baby in Namibia (which, as you all know, is really the 4th moon of Saturn) would be giving away too much, but then I reminded him that if we just told people it was some country in Africa, no one would ever be the wiser. Throw in the services of a nice Nigerian fellow (who's been emailing me lately) to appear in public as the "president of Namibia," and bingo! You've invented yourself a country.

Anyway, I should probably get back to nursing. (Yes, I know that it's a risk to use my $10 million tits to nurse, but I figure I've been milking my Goodwill Ambassador position for so long, it's only fair to return the favor.) Thanks, as always, to all of you for all of your love and support. Except for you, Jen. No one's buying this "I'm so happy and in love that I haven't even noticed that my husband's been procreating with another woman" act. I had a fucking human being growing inside of my 24-inch belly for FUCKING NINE MONTHS. I know that your view was probably blocked by Vince Vaughn's pasty balloon ass lying on top of you for the last few weeks you've been "not dating," but for Pete's sake, you're not blind. (Although, after looking at that ass, it would explain a lot if you were.) Anyway, I'm off to bone your man.

Eternally,
Angie.

A Hole in Awesome.

2006-05-28T19:13:00.000-04:00

This afternoon, for the first time in my life, I went golfing. “For the first time” as in for the first time to ever pick up any sort of club that didn’t have “Putt-Putt” written on the side. I have to admit, I was a bit nervous going in. Granted, with a cute little tennis skirt and a pink LPGA visor, I totally looked the part. But, I worried, would the Elle Woods school of golfing be enough? According to my much, much older and eh, somewhat wiser friends, learning how to golf is hard. (Not hard like getting into Harvard, but still difficult.) And attempting to learn to golf without at least going to a driving range first is “a guaranteed disaster.” In other words, according to all experts, I was definitely going to crash and burn.

Welly, welly, well, you nay-sayers, I hope you like eating crow. Because if “disaster” is the standard for a newcomer, then I’m fucking Tiger Woods. (Don’t worry, white boys, I'm not literally fucking him. I’ll still come back to you. At last half the time. (I think his mom is Asian.)) It was a Par 3 course, and I was consistently hitting 4’s and 5’s. All in all, it was a great day – and I was relieved to find I had a playable level of talent for the game. Relieved because if I didn’t, then this was it for me with golf, forever.

Now, I know a moratorium on a lifetime of playing golf based on one afternoon of golfing for the first time may seem a little extreme, but bear with me. The thing is, as a rule, I don’t typically bother doing things I’m not naturally really good at. I’m not a work hard and eventually master a skill kind of girl. And the reason for that is simple: there just are so many things that I have a natural aptitude for, it just doesn’t make any sense to waste time trying to do something I’m not automatically above-averagely good at. Think about it: why would anyone want to look like a doofus starting from scratch when they were already so amazingly awesome at so many other things from the get go?

Consider the facts. The following is a list of things that I’ve found myself to be really good at without trying: writing, studying, remembering, taking tests, getting into Ivy schools, winning scholarships, interviewing for jobs, blow drying my hair, directing plays, painting, skiing, horseback riding, poker, singing, not getting cancer, laughing at jerks, telling dirty jokes, alluding to funny movie lines, public speaking, email, fucking, not dying, and softball (when I was a kid).

Things I am not good at, and never will be: soccer, running, bowling, getting mad, playing instruments, dancing, manipulating, politicking, not eating, and softball (as an adult).

Things I am moderately okay at, and would consider learning how to do better: volleyball, acting, handjobs, and (now) golf.

Notice how there are more things in the first category (can do well, naturally) than the second (can’t do at all), and by far the fewest in the last (things I’m not naturally good at, but am good enough that it might be worth learning to do well). It’s really quite the little reverse pyramid. (That’s another thing I’m good at: visualizing abstract concepts graphically.)

Anyway, this isn’t to say that I never do things I’m not good at. I run several times a week, and occasionally I will get pissed off. I just never do any of those things well, and I’ve accepted that I never will. The good news is, there’s more than enough things that I do do well to keep me occupied, and lucky for me, many of them are very lucratively overpaid.

And honestly? In the choice between writing really good legal briefs coming in fresh off the street, and having to practice a lot to learn how to give a good handjob…I think I got the better end of the bargain.

Anyone disagree? Yeah. Didn't think so.

If you are what you eat, then I am A LOT OF THINGS.

2006-05-27T10:34:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I posted some of my initial thoughts on the eating habits of summer associates. The tone was a little irreverent, comparing SA’s to foie gras’d gooses and opining about the possibility of consuming raw penguins, but it was mostly supportive of the wining and dining recruiting practices of the summer law firm job. Frankly, I feel I owe you all an apology. My tone was misleading. So, I’d like to take this opportunity to emphasize that I only have one word for the summer associate’s ritual of the midday meal: absolutely disgusting. And by one word, I mean two. Specifically, an adjective and a qualifier.

In the week that I’ve been at the firm, I’ve learned there are a lot of topics that are off-limits at work. You can’t talk about law (it would make you look like a nerd, and it’s probably illegal under confidentiality rules); you can’t talk about politics (no small feat in a DC firm); you can’t talk about religion (don’t want to look too crazy before you get your offer); you can’t talk about movies (no one’s seen any) or books (no one’s read any) or going to the gym (no one has time); and you certainly can’t make any jokes that are actually funny (because it makes you look like a “racist”). What does this leave you with? (1) The weather – whether it’s going to rain, when it’s going to start to get really hot, how it compares to weather where you’re from, (2) How great the firm is – with the associates using a tone of voice usually reserved for “The More You Know” commercials, and the summers nodding smilingly back at them, and finally (3) Food.

Food, I’ve found, is the topic of choice. Mostly because there’s only so much to be said about the humidity, so you can get through weather quickly, and because summers really have nothing to contribute to the “how great the firm is” conversation (besides “yeah, but will you hire me to work at it?”). Food is great because it incorporates the two main attributes of the other two conversations: (1) it’s universally accessible, and (2) it emphasizes how successful and awesome working at the firm can make you. Where most kids your age are eating tuna salad and mayo from a can, you get to savor seared sushi-grade ahi served with a side of crème fraiche – sitting at tables right next to the Bush Twins, Justice Scalia, and the Commissioner of the NBA (true stories).

So how do you go from eating all the best food at all the best restaurants to being totally and revoltingly disgusting? Well, first you go for two hours in the middle of the day, then you order a full dinner feast (bread, appetizer, salad, entrée, desert, drink, coffee), and finally, you do it every day for 14 weeks. Also, you talk about what you’re doing the whole time you’re doing it – before you go, when you get to the restaurant, as you’re eating your meal, while walking back to the office, and then again whenever anyone is looking for restaurant recommendations, which is all day every day.

It changes you. You start to see Beautiful Mind-esque patterns in menus: there’s always some sort of undercooked fish, exotically flavored oils, complicated words for simple things (pommes frites for fries, aioli for mayo). You start to invent games to play with yourself using ubiquitous ingredients (e.g., “find the fennel’). And soon you realize that even though you’ve been a pretty good conversationalist for most of your life, you can no longer find the energy to contribute anything to your fifth “what’s good here?” conversation of the week. So, instead you find yourself sitting in silence, shoveling food into your mouth or nervously sipping your hibiscus infused lemonade (which you requested to be mixed with half seltzer water, just to prove that you weren’t mute), and hoping against hope that someone will say something about the Simpsons or American Idol or the Da Vinci Code controversy or something, anything, that lets you imagine that you are not some soul-dead drone sitting in a fancy restaurant turning your liver into pate, and are actually some measure of the interesting person you were before you showed up to work at this firm.

But by that point, it’s time to start reading the dessert menu. I hear the citrus flan is pretty tasty.

If you are what you eat, then I am a citizen of the world.

2006-05-26T21:05:00.000-04:00

Fennel seeds. Vanilla oil. Truffle oil. Aioli. Crab cakes. Cheesecakes. Reductions. Fruit-infused herbal iced teas. Trios of sorbets. Unnecessarily detailed descriptions of daily specials, using words like "heat," "prepared," "selected," "we have today," and weirdo sorts of fish. Black napkins.

In France, the traditional method for preparing foie gras (which actually dates back to 400 BC Egypt) involves force-feeding a goose until its liver swells to three times its normal size. (I know this because since I started my job, I've been been brushing my teeth each morning with various flavors of foie gras. I recommend the mint.) The idea is that the more fat in the liver, the more delicious in the pate.

After less than a month on the job, it's safe to say that my internal organs must be pretty tasty. We've had pan-Asian, pan-Latin American, pan-French countryside, and even some weirdo pan-Gulf of Mexican seafood fushion. At this point, I'm really just a few servings of penguin shashimi and coconut-flavored U.N. rice staples short of completing my summer 2006 gluttony world tour.

Some people have to join the Navy to see the world. All I did was sign up for OCI, and I got to eat it.

The New Rules of Feminism, Or How I learned to Stop Worrying and Fuck My Friend's Dude.

2006-05-25T22:38:00.000-04:00

I enjoy a lot of things in life. I enjoy a good limeade (not too sweet), a homemade picnic on a breezy summer afternoon, sunless tanners that don't make you look too orange, and last but not least, fucking guys my friends are in love with.

There's really nothing quite like it. You're out with friends, probably drinking. You catch the eye of your pending conquest across the room - you recognize him immediately even though you've only met him once or twice before. But in fact, you feel like you've known him forever - and in a way, you have, after the hours and hours you've spent listening to your friend pour over the details of his eyes, his laugh, and whether she could possibly have a chance with him. You smile to yourself, press your lips into a pout, flash your eyes, and breathe the hint of a come hither gleam into your glass as you begin to suck on the last of your ice cubes. He is, immediately, intrigued. And how could he not be? You are, in that moment, unrejectable: either he's interested in you and you win, or he's not and it doesn't matter because you were NEVER interested in him to begin with. Because you would never to that to your dear friend [insert name].

You don't even like him. I mean, he's probably okay looking, at worst fairly conventional, but that's irrelevant. Simply knowing that you caught him, and that your friend couldn't, would be enough to get you off even if you didn't end up letting him follow you home and riding him all night. But, of course, that doesn't stop you from actually sealing the deal. And it doesn't stop you from doing the same thing with another guy, to another girl, the next week, and the next, and the next.

The crown jewel of the whole operation, however, is not the conquest, or the feelings of validation, or the straight-up boning. It's the feeling of domination that comes from knowing that your friend, the girl who really loves your fuck of the night, can't do a thing about it, because you are living proof that she never had a chance with him anyway. And though internally she may hate your guts with every red blood cell in her body, on the outside she can only wish you well. Because, after all, you're her friend, and you ended up with a great guy.

She just hopes you're happy.

Nothing says "good job!" like a firm open palm slap on the behind.

2006-05-23T20:06:00.000-04:00

Today at the firm we got to watch a video about sexual harassment. It was very informative. According to the video, asking for sex in exchange for advancing someone's career is bad, and making broad over-generalizations about a gender is worse. I'm pretty sure that just giving sex out for free is still okay, though. At least, I hope so, because my career basically depends on it.

The thing about sexual harassment is, I thrive on it. As do most female law students, really. For instance, there's a girl at Harvard who has become well-known for posting pictures of herself online wearing only lingerie, or bikinis, or less, and SHE'S never gotten under a B-! When you think about it, it makes total sense: when everyone at law school is crazy smart, and knowing the black letter law is a given for everyone in all your classes, you have to come up with creative ways to distinguish yourself from your peers. Law professors call it "having that special something that sets you apart." I call it "having boobs."

But sexual harassment isn't all good all the time. It has its drawbacks, particularly for women. Consider the case of my friend, "Laura":
LauraonAIM: ill tell you what, i would LOVE a little more sexual harassment
LauraonAIM: don't just undress me with your eyes, for crying out loud
LauraonAIM: only one of us gets anything out of that

Laura's point is well-made. In the last generation, women have made great strides into the field of sexual harassment. I think we all remember that Coca-Cola ad with the secretaries and the dirty guy without his shirt on. Those working girls were truly the reverse-Rosa Parks of the female sexual harassment movement: they refused to look at anything but the back of that dude's bus. And don't forget all those hot middle school teachers sleeping with their 15 year old students. Or, as I like to call them, the Freedom Riders. But, despite these notable achievements, there is still much work to be done. I look forward to the day when little girls and little boys can freely exchange unwanted touching and sexual attention. When a tug on the testicles is as common as a grope of the breast. When feminists don't burn bras, they let them slide seductively off their shoulders and onto their office floor. And, dare I say it? When my subordinate's promotion depends on my personal penetration.

For it is only then that will we be truly free.

The First Day on the Job: A Note From My Secretary

2006-05-22T21:27:00.000-04:00

The last batch of the new summer associates arrived today. As a group, they were pretty standard fare: dark suits, white skin, a vague sense of entitlement oddly coupled with crippling self-doubt. The girls and I managed to get a pretty good view of the new crew when a couple of younger associates took them on a tour around the office, parading them through the hallways like a covey of bewildered and bored looking baby ducklings. As they passed by, I took a moment from proofreading my partner's brief (i.e., translating it into English) and gossiping about Elliott Yamin to try and get a game of "screw, marry, or kill" going with the other secretaries - but let's just say that with this bunch, it was a losing game. Ooof. I think one of them might be related to Humpty Dumpty.

The thing is, when you're a successful legal secretary in a top-100 law firm like I am, it's always really awkward to have to meet the summer associate you've been assigned to work with. It's one of those rare moments in life when two professionals can encounter each other, have them both assume that the other professional is a complete idiot who is totally below their station in life, and have them both be entirely confident in their assumptions.

So, most of the time, I choose not to introduce myself at all. The way I see it, if they're big and smart and fancy enough to get into a top-tier law school, they're big and smart and fancy enough to find my desk and initiate a normal human interaction with me.

I am, without fail, always disappointed.

The worst part of reviewing these two items? Admitting I watched them.

2006-05-18T15:36:00.000-04:00

During my post-finals, pre-internship, visit to my parents' house, I've had a lot of downtime. I've filled it going for walks, playing with the dog, buying suits, and of course, watching a lot of TV. In that time, I have learned a very important thing. It’s not just that I hate bad entertainment. It infuriates me.

Case 1: The New Adventures of Old Christine.

I should have known better. The premise of the show is that Christine 1, the main character of the show, is a divorced mother of one whose ex-husband has just started dating a younger woman, also named Christine. So, you have Christine 1 and Christine 2, old Christine and Christine new. I should have known better. But I was seduced by three things: (1) Julia Louis Dreyfus on Seinfeld, who is one of my inspirations in life. More so than Madeline Albright, Eleanor Roosevelt, Sarah Silverman, and Superman combined. (2) Julia Louis Dreyfus on Arrested Development, playing a fake blind woman. Because blind people are funny. And (3) Julia Louis Dreyfus NOT on Watching Ellie. Critics assured me that in “Old Christine” Julia had reformed since her days playing a weird ex-lounge singer/tv voice actress or some nonsense whose weekly 30 minute shows were supposed to depict 30 real-time minutes of her character’s life. 30 minutes of a voice over actress’s life. It was 24 meets horseshit.

Old Christine is aptly named. It’s made from the same goo they use to crap out new episodes of Two and a Half Men each week. Things I hate about this show: (1) Every character except Julia’s is just designed to spout out script to give Julia something to react to. You literally never see another actor reacting to a bit of dialogue. It’s just Julia’s face the whole time. (2) The guy who plays Julia’s brother does a really bad Napoleon Dynamite meets Joey Tribbiani impression. If I wanted to see someone do an out-of-place Napoleon Dynamite impression, I’d go see Jon Heder in The Benchwarmers. Or Just Like Heaven. (3) They make Julia look all cute all the time by dressing her up like a 19 year old. Julia made her mark wearing suits shaped like cardboard boxes on Seinfeld, and I’ll be dead in the cold cold ground before I recognize her natural hips!

There is, however, one redeeming plot point to the show. Julia’s character is addicted to cough medicine. I get a real kick out of that for some reason. Put a little ‘tussin on it.

Case 2: The Laws of Attraction.

This movie made no pretence of not being an awful, soul-crushing chick flick, so out of fairness and a sense of the humane I can’t really bash it too much. That being said, I’m going to skip the plot summary beyond saying that it’s about two divorce lawyers who fall in love, because any detail more than that will make me ill. Things I hate about this movie: (1) Pierce Brosnan. The best thing he’s done in years is reacting publicly to getting dumped by James Bond. (2) Julianne Moore. Didn’t she get nominated for an Oscar? The extent of her character development is over-emphasizing her diction when she’s making a legal argument. (3) Making the pretty girl a huge nerd. In otherwise normal conversation, Moore cites legal precedent and admits, unprovoked, to watching the weather channel. All in the first 10 minutes of the movie. And (4) The rest of the plot. Divorce lawyers find love and get married. Sigh. This movie is so superficially bad it’s hard to write a biting review. Nothing I could possibly say about the movie would be as insulting to its makers as what is said in the movie itself.

As for redeeming points, Parker Posey plays a minor role. She alone (and, indirectly, her roles in Waiting for Guffman, House of Yes, and Hal Hartley’s Amateur) is the only reason I finished the movie. Frankly, Parker? You owe me.

10 interesting things about me.

2006-05-17T14:02:00.000-04:00

10. I was born in a Holiday Inn. I mean hospital.

9. At the age of 8, I adopted a chicken and then spent weeks teaching it to fly. It taught me persistance, grace in defeat, and that my brother is a jerk.

8. I was the youngest co-pilot in American Airlines's history. When I was 4, the pilot let me take the wheel for 5 full minutes. He would have let me land it, too, but my dad wanted us to go back to our seats.

7. Sometimes I like to steal jokes from the Office and pretend that I made them up myself. (See Thing 8.) Also, the Rules of Attraction. (See Thing 10.) There aren't many of those in the latter.

6. I once took a class called the American Presidency. At one point during lecture, the professor made a joke: "Well, none of you in this room have never been president, so..." The class laughed, but at that moment I was actually sitting next to the former president of Ecuador.

5. I firmly believe that taking up knitting is the homeopathic alternative to having your vagina surgically removed.

4. My hobbies include fencing, knife throwing, street luge, and lying.

3. I lost my virginity in a dare. And by dare, I mean drunken haze.

2. I've always wanted to have someone name a baby after me, which is a problem if you write an anonymous fictional blog.

1. I am, in reality, Batman.

The end.

One of my favorite stories.

2006-05-17T01:07:00.000-04:00

Scene: University of Michigan Law School, morning. Students are milling around Hutchison Hall before classes start. Student group members are hawking various activities at the student group table outside HH101. The Black Law Student Association is promoting its date auction. The Women's Law Student Association is selling baked goods to raise money for its charity of the month.

Teri: Does anyone else find it funny that WLSA is having a bake sale the same day that BLSA is auctioning off people for sale?

-fin-

Fact and Fiction

2006-05-16T00:28:00.000-04:00

I have this week off, so I decided to fly home to spend a little time with my family and my dog in the interim before I start work. En route to home, I got stuck in a layover in Charlotte, NC, so I stopped at the airport bookstore to see if I could find a copy of "Opal Mehta." Since they didn't have one, I decided to get "A Million Little Pieces" instead.

Just picking it up, I felt like a badass. I felt like a rebel. Sure, I was saying with my intended reading selection, I know he's been vilified by god (Oprah) and country and lovers of the literature genre classification system worldwide, but I was fucking buying his book anyway. Without even cracking the first page, I knew I supported him, his story, his embellishments, and most of all I supported him making Oprah and her stay-at-home army of millions feel like fools for getting "duped" - and look like fools for getting pissed about it. Fuck them, I thought, and I strode up to the cash register, credit card in hand and smirk on my face. Fuck them right in their mid-afternoon programming ears.

I handed over my banned literature of choice. Proudly.

The cashier gave me a look. "People are still reading that?" she asked.

Okay. She had a point. I was sort of getting on the bandwagon a little late, but I was still getting on at the right time - after the smoking gun, after Oprah's power trip, and after the press turned reading a fucking paperback into a moral statement (without, noteably, applying the same standard to their coverage of the Bush Whitehouse). But yes, fuck you too, cashier, I was still going to read it.

"Well, you're still selling it," I replied.

I spent the rest of that day and the day after that soaking in the book. It was really, really good. Not just good for being written by a former addict. But seriously good, and really well written, and incredibly honest and insightful.

Yeah, that's right. It was one of the most honest books I've ever read. And honestly? It makes it better that parts of it were made up. Over and over again, Frey repeats the line "I am an Addict and I am an Alcholic and I am a Criminal." His entire book was based on his shortcomings, on his flaws, on his tendency to take the easy way out - and on his inability to face himself for what he had become as a result of all that. His story was his flaws. And though it was inspirational that he overcame a lot of them in the course of the book's narrative, he never made himself out to be the hero that Oprah originally tried to turn him into. If anything, he showed himself over and over again throughout the book to be exactly what he turned out to be in this scandal: a classic tragic hero, crippled by his own shortcomings at the moment he was closest to achieving his most salient personal victory.

If I were James Frey, I would be proud of my book, and I'd be proud of what it meant to people. But most of all I'd be proud of myself. And I hope that he is. And I hope that Oprah rots for making his life in recovery even one degree more difficult than it already was.

Even if he lied and it really wasn't that bad.

Al Gore Opens SNL

2006-05-14T12:43:00.000-04:00

Sigh. If only this were real. But I can settle with it being hilarious.

Dunzo

2006-05-12T16:23:00.000-04:00

Becoming a 3L (officially) is a lot like having your 29th birthday. Sure, it's better than the next milestone on the horizon (i.e., having to work for the man), but it's still not really that great.

This House Is Not a Home

2006-05-12T14:42:00.000-04:00

A number of people have emailed me expressing doubts about my last post about being homeless at Harvard. You go to HLS, they questioned, couldn’t you at least get a job at a high-powered law firm for a summer and spend the money on a room in Gropius?

Well, first, I’d like to point out that not all HLS students go into the private sector. I, for one, am committed to the public interest, which is why I’m on LIPP (the Low Income Protection Plan) – and why I’m living in a REFRIGERATOR box, and not in some everyday cardboard number or common city dumpster. Also – Gropius? Please. I thought the whole point of getting a home was to move in somewhere nicer than where you’d be living if you were still out on the streets. If I wanted to get syphilis from sleeping in a pile of my own filth every night, I’d just go back to shacking up in the Sheppard Street sewer drain, thank you very much.

Furthermore, for those of you who’ve taken Secured Transactions or the like, I’d like to remind you of a little something I learned in my Bankruptcy class. It’s called being “judgment proof,” as in, if you don’t have any assets for anyone to take from you, there’s basically nothing the law can do to you. It’s the one thing that princes and paupers have in common: the law can’t touch you.

Now, if only I could invent something that would make me “schizophrenia proof.”

Living in the Square.

2006-05-11T16:22:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make. I am actually homeless. Not hopeless, as you might infer from my completely ineffectual attempts to learn Corporate Law before my exam tomorrow. But homeless as in I do not have a home. Officially, I live in the Porter Square T Stop.

Some of you might be thinking, “But wait, I just visited your bedroom in Hastings Hall last weekend – and we screwed passionately for three hours on your extra-long twin mattress, underneath pictures of yourself and your friends and a banner proclaiming ‘This Room Is [SEA]'s Bedroom.'’’ Lies. It was all lies. It’s time to come clean. Or at least, as clean as some rainwater and an oily rag I found on the street can get me.

I am, in reality, a small town girl whose life went awry when my crack-addicted mother moved to the North East and took up with a cheap trick named Jim - forever dooming herself and my family to a life in the gutter. Or so we thought. As it turns out, the gutter is a great place to study for the LSATs – you’re miserable, you’re starving, you’re aimless, you face the threat of gangrene on an hourly basis. In short, I was ready for law school.

My life as a homeless person has improved a great deal since enrolling at Harvard. The shame of begging for spare change and half-eaten leftovers doesn’t sting so badly when I’m wearing my HLS sweatshirt (which I pilfered from the clothes donation bin at the Hark). In fact, wearing the shirt has been surprisingly good for business. I think people think I’m being ironic. Which they appreciate, because most homeless people are just depressing. And the clerks at CVS have gotten much better about not giving me funny looks when I go in to buy my Listerine each night before the shakes set in. Seriously, the Harvard name – even if it’s written on a ratty t-shirt – is like a golden ticket out of delirium tremensville.

Imagine what my diploma will get me! The shopkeeps at Dunkin Donuts already give me week-old munchkins if a promise not to use their bathroom during rush hours. I bet once I’m a grad, I might even get a bearclaw!

Anyway, I should probably get back to work. These fiduciary duties aren’t going to learn themselves. Plus, the wheel on my shopping cart has been acting up. I don’t know about you, but lugging 6 bags of cans to the recycling depot by hand is NOT my idea of fun.

Does it count as plagiarism...

2006-05-10T23:58:00.000-04:00

...if you just requote yourself? Here's hoping not, because I just managed to dig up about 4-5 posts that I wrote for this blog before I deleted it and started over last November or so. Because they're still funny/interesting to me now, I decided to repost them here.

I just hope to god I cited them correctly.

2006-05-10T23:56:00.001-04:00

But does he wear a funny hat?

Posted on: Tue, Apr 19 2005 6:48 PM

They elected a new pope today. What a relief. It's been almost two full weeks since I've been able to make a good "Is the pope Catholic?" joke.

On the bright side, "Is the dead pope Catholic?," did help to tide me over.

2006-05-10T23:51:00.000-04:00

My friend, Dred.

Posted on: Tue, Mar 29 2005 1:50 AM

So I have a legal question, and if anyone can answer it I'll be glad to sign over my diploma to you because I've been obsessing about it, and I can't figure it out.

You know the Dred Scott case? Dred Scott v. Sanford, seminal constitutional law case that held that black people were property and not citizens. Holding aside, the case was crazy because Dred was Dred Scott's first name--which is weird because case names only usually cite the parties' last names.

So why did they include his first name?

And why was he named Dred?

2006-05-10T23:48:00.001-04:00

Me So Hungee

Posted on: Fri, Apr 1 2005 12:16 AM

Terri Schiavo died today after going nearly two weeks without food/water.

The real story, however, is that Ms. Schiavo went into a coma 15 years ago after her brain turned to mush because of complications arising from a potassium deficiency. The punchline? The potassium deficiency was the result of severe anorexia/bulimia.

And we needed 25 state/federal courts to tell us she didn't want a feeding tube?

....

Too soon?

New material?

2006-05-10T16:13:00.000-04:00

I've been making the "I'm going to light you on fire" joke a lot recently. It's probably time to mix things up.

Maybe I could start making "I'm going to lock you in a bubble full of water for a week, feed you through a tube, cause you liver damage, lose a world record, and pretend it's magic" jokes instead.

Can anyone explain to me...

2006-05-10T15:36:00.000-04:00

...Why we get mad at James Frye for making stuff up, and at Kaavya Viswanathan for not making stuff up?

Widen-her? I barely know her!

2006-05-10T14:15:00.000-04:00

[Scene: Lamont Library, afternoon, crowded, mid-finals preparation time.]

[A bookish young man sitting at a study carrol starts to gather his books.]

[A beautiful woman in a stunning white spring coat approaches.]

Woman: Are you leaving? [Flips long brown hair.]

Boy: What?

Woman: [Flips hair again.] Are you leaving? [Gestures to the study carrol.]

Boy: [Huge sleepy grin, like he's known her forever, which he clearly hasn't.] [Pause.] [Smiles again.] Oh. Yeah. Thanks. Bye. [Exit right, still grinning.]

-fin-

A sad post.

2006-05-10T14:10:00.000-04:00

From Slate's daily news summary:

A suicide bomb went off at a market in the northern Iraqi city of Tal Afar, killing about 20, mostly women and children. The WP says the bomber "attracted a crowd by hawking flour at half-price from a pickup truck."

________________________

Can you imagine getting tricked into dying with discounted flour? Discounted flour sold out of a pickup truck?

I guess I shouldn't be talking. I once lost an uncle buying bait out of a Chevy (dysentery).

A Correspondence

2006-05-09T20:04:00.000-04:00

My dearest Georgie,

I know it's been a long time since we last talked. Things were said that shouldn't have been. I know I'm not proud of that last "America is the Great Satan" comment or 7. But, baby, we've just been through too much together to throw it all away on something as silly as me not believing in the Holocaust. Sure, I'm a de facto dictator with a penchant for illegal nuclear arms, and you're a "democratically elected" son of a bitch who loves Jesus...but, you know what they say: opposites attract. Let's not make this a nuclear war. Come back to me, baby. I can change. You know I can change for you.

Love?
President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

-----------------

Dear Moody Djibouti,

This is a hard letter for me to write. And not just because the secretary lady went home an hour ago and I usually do these things on the dicta-majingy. This is hard-heart-wise. And not heartwise like Big Time's boo-boo on his ticker. Feelings heart-wise. Because, Moody, you broke my heart. You broke it square in two. I've loved a lot of men in my life - Jesus, my daddy, Saddam Allah (heheheheheh! just kidding on that last one!). But I'll never be able to love anyone ever again in the way I loved you. And you know what they say: If you love someone, you've got to set them free. And by set them free, of course I mean invade their country and set up a puppet regime. Expect my boys on Tuesday.

Don't ever call me again.

-G

New Theory

2006-05-08T17:04:00.000-04:00

There is no such thing as a "really good" orange.

They should call it the Brutus Salad.

2006-05-08T16:56:00.000-04:00

Dear Cambridge Commons,

Your caesar salad sucks. How do you fuck up a caesar salad? All you do is (1) chop some lettuce, (2) toss in some dressing, and (3) whip out some croutons. And part (3) is optional!

In conclusion, not only do your caesar salads suck, but you suck, too. I hate you, Cambridge Commons. I hate you like I hate people who are different from me.

Sincerely,
SEA

Two Things

2006-04-29T18:28:00.000-04:00

(1) Ever since they switched servers, thesuperficial.com hasn't been accessible on Harvard's network. It's driving me fucking nuts - I've been 5 days now without snarky self-and-other-deprecating celebrity gossip. If somebody doesn't do something soon, I may actually have to crack a textbook.

(2) On a lark, I got free tix to see "Wicked" tonight in Boston. The last time I went to an artistic performance like this was seeing "Faust" at the Detroit Metropolitan Opera. To get there, we had to drive around potholes, past about 500 fried chicken fast food restaurants, and through 45 minutes worth of construction detors. Tonight, I'll just be hopping on the red line. Conclusion? Boston : Detroit :: rock : scissors.

2 Chuck Norris Jokes.

2006-04-28T21:19:00.000-04:00

Chuck Norris doesn't get tested for AIDS.
AIDS gets tested for Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris's mom tried to abort him when he was a fetus - but when the doctor stuck the forceps in, Chuck Norris overpowered him with his still-developing, yet incredibly manly fetus arms and instead aborted the doctor.

I had a dream...

2006-02-07T10:38:00.000-05:00

...last night, that I was at a carnival where Pam Anderson, Paris Hilton, and Britney Spears all tried to talk to me. Like, literally, I had a dream.

Highlights:

Pam Anderson didn't say anything, but she was wearing the dress I'd seen her in on Go Fug Yourself.
All Paris Hilton did was turn to me as I was running by (in a sweat suit and leather loafers, for some reason) and say "Hi!" before turning away to giggle with Nicole Richie. I remember thinking to myself, she's just doing it for the cameras. Why the cameras would want to see Paris Hilton saying hello to me, I don't know. (And, no, her nipple wasn't showing, although I'm assuming that my reading this story yesterday is why she ended up in the dream.)
The Britney Spears part was by far the most significant scene in the dream. I had been sitting on a picnic blanket with some people eating pancakes (which, in real life, I wanted to have for breakfast the other day, but they weren't serving - I guess I didn't really know how badly I wanted pancakes until they showed up in the dream, I mean, I thought that the omlette I had instead was fine, but I guess I was still existentially disappointed or whatever). Britney comes up to me (and she looks like 15 year old Britney, so not fugly trailor trash but not quite sexy starlet yet either) and says to me, like she's really trying to force herself to have a conversation with a fan, "Looks like you're pretty good with blankets." For some reason, this offends me. I think I thought she thought she was too cool to have a real conversation, so she just looked around, focused on the nearest item she could identify (i.e., my picnic blanket), and tried to turn it into a conversation that was vaguely complimentary. Suffice it to say, I didn't buy it. So, nastily, I retort (and I remember the tone absolutely being one of a slam-dunk comeback), "Actually, my friends and I were just eating pancakes."

Nice try, Britney.

Later on in the dream, I switched from Carnival to some Oscar party in a restaurant with Sarah Jessica Parker and, I think, Kirsten Dunst. I remember being pissed because I was in a fancy dress (that was a little too tight), and they were dressed kind of casually, you know, for celebrating the Oscars. Bitches. Also, I had a silver ring on that could get me into the VIP room, but for some reason I couldn't find the actual room, and Sarah and Kirsten also couldn't (or wouldn't) tell me where it was. So, I just kep ordering drinks until the imaginary bartender cut me off.

In conclusion, I need to spend less time reading blogs about famous people and more time doing...anything else, really. Eat that, Kirsten.

Live Blogging: The Tivo'd State of the Union Edition.

2006-02-02T15:35:00.000-05:00

Granted, I'm a few days late, but thanks to the magic of Tivo I'll now share with you my play-by-play analysis of the SOTU. (Which, it should be noted, is a departure from my usual practice in watching the SOTU; namely, playing the State of the Union Drinking Game. But since it's only 3 in the afternoon, and as you'll see it turns into a pretty serious drinking game, I'm just going to play it virtually with you guys. I think you'll catch onto the rules as we go along.)

3:37 pm: Fast-fwded through the hand-shaking and clapping as Bush entered the room. Still managed to catch a glimpse of ole' Alito and the USSC gang. Looking good, as always, in their black mu-mus.

3:38 pm: Bush begins by talking about Corretta Scott King. I like it - way to deflect the traditional opening, "The State of the Union is _____," which might have been a little problematic this year. I'd been wondering how he was going to handle this. The State of the Union is perilous? Sharply divided? Irreparably corrupted? "Corretta Scott King lived an great life" definitely has more of a ring to it than "Holy shit I pissed off the entire Muslim world, and now they have bombs, and we have no money." Good for you, Bushie! (My question is, if Corretta waited a couple more hours before heading up to that deluxe apartment in the sky, who would he have honored in her place? Gerald Ford's pneumonic lungs? The world may never know.)

Side note 1: To show the crowd's reaction to the Scott plug, ABC news decided to focus on not one, but two black audience members. Everyone loves to see a little black on black mourning.
Side note 2: 2 minutes into the speech, and we're already talking about heaven. Let's hear it for God mention Number 1!

3:45 pm: I like how no one claps for "It has been my honor to serve with you."

3:46 pm: Ahhh, here we go. "The State of the Union is STRONG! And together we will make it STRONGER!" Love it! Although not as gracefully evasive as the Corretta King introduction (I guess I spoke a little too soon on that), it's a nice not-so-subtle jab at the Democrats that still manages to deflect the issue of what the state of the union really is. After all, if you'll notice, Bush waits to brings up the actual state of the union until immediately after he admonishes people who disagree along party lines for letting their debates over policy "turn into anger." (Whatever that means.) In other words, the state of the union is strong, but it would be a lot stronger if the freaking Democrats would just quit getting so freaking pissed off about me wiretapping them, me killing 2245 of their sons, me abandoning thousands of refugees in New Orleans during the hurricane and never going back for them in the aftermath, etc... For real, Democrats - debate all you want, but let's not get angry about Bush destroying everything America stands for. We at the Bush administration are above that. (Just like we're above the law.)

4:00 p.m.: First 9/11 reference. Everybody drink!

4:01 p.m.: "Democracies replace resentment with hope." Yeah, the Iraqis don't seem to resent us at all. Wait, does murderous rage and disappointment count as resentment?

4:02 p.m.: I'm totally digging this fast-fwding through the applause. Makes the whole experience more palatable. My strategy: Watch the Speaker of the House. When he stops clapping, press play.

4:03 p.m.: "Allowing the violent to inherit the earth." God again! Everybody drink!

4:03 p.m.: "We love our freedom, and we will fight to keep it." Hold on a sec - terrorists are trying to take away our freedom? I thought terrorists HATED freedom! The only one I can see who's taking any freedoms away from me is Bush. (And just for tonight, the Capital police.)

4:06 p.m.: "If we leave these vicious attackers alone, they will not leave us alone. They would simply move the battlefields to our shores." I'm pretty sure being able to bean a US soldier in Baghdad isn't discouraging anyone in al Qaida from trying to get us over here.

4:08 p.m.: "We will never surrender to evil." Everybody drink!! (See why this is such a fun game?)

4:10 p.m.: I'm seeing a whole hell of a lot of Bush's tongue while he's giving this speech. Way more than I'm comfortable with. [I've got over an hour left on this thing. I'm going to try to space these out a little more. God, all these Senators are ugly.]

4:19 p.m.: I have a real pet peeve about presidents referring to "politicians in D.C." YOU are a POLITICIAN in D.C.! Give me a fucking break.

4:20 p.m.: "Hindsight alone is not wisdom, and second-guessing is not a strategy." He has a point. But, hindsight means you didn't see it coming - and I'm pretty sure everyone who voted against the war or knew about the false intelligence it was based on did see all this coming. What's the world for that? Ahh, yes - foresight. Not wisdom per se, but it sure beats blindly falling ass-backwards into quagmires. Also, I would guess that if you're going to make fun of someone for not having a strategy you, the maker of the fun, should have some sort of strategy of your own that you can boast about. Still waiting...

4:25 p.m.: Bush acknowledges the family of the late Staff Sgt Dan Clay, everybody cheers. Drink for referring to an average American who just happens to be sitting in the audience!!

4:29 p.m.: Reference to Iran's nook-u-lar ambitions! Everybody drink!! (Beginning to be thankful I chose the "virtual drinking game" route here. I think my degree of wastedness here might have rivaled the "Access of Evil" speech. Good times.)

4:34 p.m.: Call to reauthorize the PATRIOT Act - Republicans stand and clap, Democrats stand mute. Everybody drinks! [I think I just saw Makuleh Culkin in the audience.]

4:35 p.m.: Ohhhh, wiretapping. That was a strong little diatribe there,and it's basically spot-on. One noteable omission, however: in exercising the power granted to the presidency by the constitution and by statute, and in having that power approved by federal courts and whatnot, in the past every president has done one little thing differently than President Bush is doing now. They did it legally. It's not hard to get a warrant on these things. We have a secret court all set up and ready to go for it. So, harangue all you want about the benefits of your "terrorist surveillance prgram," but it's never going to convince me that you shouldn't write up the memo and spend the 20 minutes it takes to get a freaking warrant.

4:42 p.m.: Do you guys ever get a kick out of President Bush talking about the evils of isolationism? It's like Ozzie Ozbourne telling kids not to use drugs. Sure, he may not do it now, but it certainly wasn't his choice.

4:45 p.m.: We need to "compete with confidence." Nice one. That whole blaming the bad economy on people's confidences really did the trick for Carter. Second time's the charm? Bush says he's only cutting programs that are performing poorly or don't have to do with a policy priority. I guess he's right. Student loans and healthcare for poor kids is pretty far down on my list, too.

4:49 p.m.: I just saw Harold Ford sitting next to Joe Lieberman. Who let him out of the House boxes?? You know what they say: if you sit next to the person with the job you want, odds are he'll have to get up to use the bathroom eventually.

4:52 p.m.: "Congress did not act on my proposal last year to save Social Security..." and the Democrats interrupt with clapping. Cracks me up. Good job, Demos (esp. after the crack at Clinton right before - one of Bush I's two favorite people, my ass). Most uproarious applause of the night. Love it.

Alright, I give up. I'm only an hour into the speech, and I want to die. If I can summon up the courage in the next few days, I'll try to watch the rest. Next time, though, I'm drinking for real. If there's one thing I've learned about America today, it's that this SOTU shit is terrible dry.

Top 5 Reasons Why I'm Done With Dorms.

2006-02-01T21:25:00.000-05:00

In the tradition of Paul Simon's 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover, the following is a tribute list of the top 5 "greatest hits" reasons why I won't be living in the law school dorms again next year (or for that matter, in any dorm, ever again):

5. Living in dorms is supposed to be a good way to meet people. Little did I know that the dorm I would get lottoed into, however, would be a converted Howard Johnsons's Hotel. You know how when you stay at a hotel, you never see the other guests? Turns out the same thing's true when the hotel's a dorm. The only girl I've gotten to know here does something called a "vegetable challenge" for fun. (Although, in all other respects, she is a total sweetheart, so I can't be too hard on her and her love of vegetables.)

4. Despite my dorm's humble origins as a cheap motel, it's surprisingly all-too-easy to hear your co-occupants mid-orgasm. From across the hall. Over and over again. I need a boyfriend.

3. There's a rule against soaking your dishes in the common kitchen. Result? I do my dishes in the same sink I use to brush me teeth. Short of dating Kevin Federline or giving handjobs for crack (same difference), it's quite possibly the most disgusting habit in the world.

2. My room measures 9.5'x11'. Enough said.

1. Someone stole my can of Pam Cooking Spray from the common kitchen. Two questions: (1) Who steals Pam Cooking Spray? (2) Once they steal it, what are they using it for outside of the common kitchen?

Make new friends, keep the old, or, in our case, just hate everyone all the time.

2006-01-03T21:38:00.000-05:00

An email from a friend, describing another friend we both know from HLS:

"you know your girl, [jennifer]? the girl that [we got drinks with]? i can't stand her at all. it might even border on hate. she's the worst, [SEA].

she spoke for half of our [law and economics] class. my new name for her is professor [jennifer]. she clearly thinks she's brighter than everyone else. i just checked my schedule to make sure i don't have any classes with her next semester. if i did, i was fully prepared to drop any or all classes that she might have been in. thank god almighty that i dont have any classes with her after this."

Suffice it to say we didn't come here for the people.

The only time that line has ever made any sense.

2006-01-02T23:11:00.000-05:00

At dinner tonight a group of us were complaining about how airlines are starting to charge for everything - headphones, in-flight snacks, and most recently even sodas (on American Airlines, for a dollar/pop). What's next, we wondered, 50 cents for those awful fake-buttery pretzels they replaced peanuts with? No way, we reasoned. If anything, they'd give us extra pretzels for free - and then charge double for the drinks.

And they'd get away with it, too, we concluded. Because THESE PRETZELS ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY!

They Call Me Ms. Personality...Because I have a J.D.: Law School Recruiting, Part I - The On-Campus Interview

2005-12-28T12:13:00.000-05:00

The law school recruitment process is a well-oiled machine. Each fall, (literally) thousands of employers descend onto campus and take up temporary lodging in the Charles and/or Inn at Harvard Hotels. The bigger firms get multiple suites: between 1-6 bedrooms where the interviews actually take place (awkwardly, at the foot of the interviewer's bed), a room for bags, and room/suite used for "hospitality" receptions (i.e., free food, logo-encrested toys, and forced conversation).

2Ls fresh out of their first summer law job arrive on campus in the fall and make bids (up to 30) for the law firms of their choice. Generally speaking, they have no idea what each firm does, whether they're any good at it, and whether they (the student) would like to have anything to do with that type of work. So, the students research - reading online profiles, firm websites, vault reports; meeting with career advisors and headhunters; gossiping with recruiters from other firms; and generally relying on the only slightly better informed advice of their elders (the oh-so-wise 3L's, who have between 6-14 more weeks of wining and dining to inform their opinions on which firms are which). After the bids go in, a lottery is run, and preliminary 20 minute interviews are matched up between student preference and firm interview slot availability. Each student gets assigned between 15-25. Then, the real craziness begins.

Over the next three weeks, students periodically show up to class in suits and sneakers, leaving 5, 10, 30 minutes early (or arriving in equal time allotments late), rushing to and from the two major hotels where interviews take place (while trying to keep track of which hotel you're supposed to be at what time; as each is a 7-10 minute walk away from campus and each other), desperately clutching their leather bound folders (which ostensibly contain shorthand notes reminding the student which firm they're interviewing with - but more typically are used to give yourself something to do with your hands during the interview), and (for the women) trying not to lose a heel in the cobblestoned 500-yard dash between school/home and the interview spot.

Having arrived successfully to the right hotel with all shoe components in tact, the student walks to the elevator, finds the room associated with their firm, greets the 3-4 other students they've seen interviewing at all the same firms they've been seeing all week before, pauses in the hospitality suite (ignores all the "hospitality"), and then goes to wait outside her indiviudal interview room. She generally has between 15 and negative 3 minutes to burn until her interview time.

On cue, the line of dark-suited law students in the hallway note on their watches that the interview time has arrived, knock on the door of their duly-assigned rooms, and then, in unison, take a step back to await a response. (Prompting non-lawschool-recruiting-associated hotel guests to inquire whether the FBI is doing some sort of investigation on their floor.) The previous interview ends a few minutes later; the door opens; the new interviewee greets the prior interviewee; shakes the hand of the interviewer, and then proceeds inside the room.

The next 20 minutes are a blur: the law student tries to articulate her strengths and/or explain away her weaknesses while still allowing time for the interviewer to talk long enough to make them feel as important as they think they are. (Time increases with interviewer seniority.) In the end, however, the 20 minute conversation is really just a big dog and pony show designed to cover the fact that all the interviewer wants to know is the interviewee's GPA - which he will discover for the first time when the interviewee inevitably turns over a copy of her transcript at the end of her 20 minute slot. (Employers aren't allowed to see transcripts before the preliminary interview: the idea is that the school doesn't want employers to "screen out" accomplished but ill-graded candidates before they see them. The result is that they get screened out after getting seen.)

Within the next few hours (or up to two weeks, for the really snooty firms), successful interviewees will get a phone call inviting them to either (1) fly out to the firm's home office for a call-back interview or (2) attend an expenses-paid dinner that night at a swanky Boston restaurant (with the call-back call to come fashionably later). Unsucessful interviewees will wait for days, weeks, or indeterminately (I still haven't heard back from a dude who interviewed me on Oct 12, 2005) for a letter informing them that despite all their impressive credentials and the near certainty they will someday be appointed to the Supreme Court, the firm regrettably cannot offer them a subsequent interview. These letters are called "dings," as in what it sounds like when someone spits on you. And you're made of metal.

To be continued.

The final 4 hours of the fall semester.

2005-12-21T12:25:00.000-05:00

all i need is a conclusion. yes, i am writing a 5 paragraph essay, straight out of 7th grade. and the only thing that stands between me and being halfway done with law school is this fucking concluding paragraph. anyone have an inspirational quote from mark twain or martin luther king i could throw in at the end? those things were golden before i hit puberty. i imagine they'll still work now. getting boobs doesn't change what makes a dynamite paper.

sincerely,
"the yellow dart."

(See also: here.)

In a Flash!

2005-12-18T13:09:00.000-05:00

My favorite part of studying for law school exams, by far, is Law IN A FLASH! flashcards. Basically, Law IN A FLASH! flashcards are these tiny commerically produced index cards that you can buy for $25/box with about 300 cards that teach you all the black letter law of various legal subjects - I've used them for Property, Constitutional Law, and today, Evidence, and have gotten my best grades in each as a direct result.

The secret to the success of Law IN A FLASH! flashcards is that for each rule they'll give you these hypothetical examples to illustrate what the rule means and how you can remember it. For instance, they'll have Snow White refusing to rent an apartment to the 7 dwarfs, and this will teach you that the Fair Housing Act says you have no right dicriminate against midgets (or cripples, or Indians) in your rental decisions. It's great.

Recently, however, the cards seem to have gotten a little more controversial. So far today, for example, my Evidence cards have make references to:
(1) Romeo raping Juliet (Rule 412: character evidence in sexual assault cases)
(2) OJ Simpson killing Nicole and his hypothetical 3rd wife Pauline (Rule 404: character evidence used to show identity/M.O.)
(3) Osama bin Laden stabbing Yasser Arafat because he thought Yasser was going to blow him up with a suicide bomb. (Rule 404: Character evidence used to show self-defense.)
(4) Some dude stringing a string between the towers of the World Trade Center, and whether a tower guard saw him. (Rule 401: Relevance of negative evidence.) (Even more disturbing considering example (3) shows they knew who Osama bin Laden was when they wrote the card.)

It's insane. I've already been offended like 5 times this morning. But, I have to admit, it's also very memorable. And edgy. To be frank, I kinda dig it. My only complaint is, however, that it's not fair that my name, personally, is not mentioned in the cards. I mean, if I could link Rule 405 to a story about my own death, I would totally clean up on any exam question about admissible types of character evidence. And when you're graded on a curve, it's really not fair that some people get stories about their own death and other people don't. I can only imagine how easy it must be for Yasser Arafat to remember Rule 404. If he weren't already dead, he would totally kick my ass on the exam. And that's just not fair.

But aside from that, YAAAAAY FLASHCARDS!

The Secret Life of Not Walter Mitty

2005-12-15T23:39:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when it's cold I'll bundle up in more layers than are really necessary to keep up with the weather (down coat, wool scarf, hoodie sweatshirt, hoodie jacket, pants, warm socks, gloves, sunglasses) so that I can pretend I'm a celebrity trying not to be recognized by the paparazzi.

By any other name, totally not as sweet. (For me, anyway.)

2005-12-11T18:32:00.000-05:00

Whenever someone I know has a baby, I'm always disappointed when they don't name it after me. Even when it's a boy. Especially when it's a girl.

Ingrates.

The last 5 min: a true story.

2005-12-11T18:25:00.000-05:00

In another shocking development in the war between me and my likes-to-have-very-loud-sex neighbor, 5 minutes ago I heard my neighbor doing the nasty - so (obviously) I looked out my peephole and tried to listen at my door. (If they're going to be that loud, they deserve to be shamed - if passively.) Anyhow, I don't hear anything more, so I step away from the door for a minute, then decide to take out my trash. In the 2 minutes between their orgasm and my gathering of the trash, my neighbor has opened his door and placed in the hallway outside of his room two items: a small doormat sized rug and an industrial vacuum cleaner.

Test

2005-11-13T10:23:00.000-05:00

Test