Moving (virtual) house...

OK. I've finally made a decision. I'm sticking with the other site, and won't be posting here anymore -- all you millions of readers may now find me here. (Ignore post there about the move here -- this post pre-empts all previous announcements of final decision-making.)

Moving (virtual) house...

OK. I've finally made a decision. I'm sticking with the other site, and won't be posting here anymore -- all you millions of readers may now find me here. (Ignore post there about this move here -- this post pre-empts all previous announcements of final decision-making.)

Why Can't I Get on the Sleep Train?

From the minute my alarm goes off in the morning (a shockingly early, to my student-life-accustomed self, 7:30am), I start dreaming about getting to bed that night. As I blearily stumble through my shower, trying not to put the toothpaste in my hair and the facewash in my mouth, I think about how good it will feel to sink back into my down comforter later. Sitting at my desk, trying to make sense of 50-page long cases about policy muckety-dreck but invariably rereading the same page eight times, I comfort my exhausated eyes with the not-too-distant reward of getting home and getting to bed early. Somehow, though, whenever I get home, things snowball and I never end up getting to bed before midnight, thereby continuing the cycle of exhaustion.
BUT! Tonight, I finally got to bed early (I had to forgo my usual "Alias" addiction, but figured it was worth it this once). 9:45, to be exact, since I have to be up at 6am tomorrow for a long drive to an arbitration (not too exciting, I basically just have to be a placeholder for Senior Partner who has better things to do than go to an arb that nearly doesn't affect our client in the slightest). I was all excited, fluffing my pillows, setting my TV to exactly the right volume for sleeping, settling into my cozy down comforter/mattress combo, and snuggling into my favorite get-to-sleep position.
It's 11:45. I'm sitting in the home office, writing. Clearly, I have angered the God of Nod. It has been decreed that I am now and ever shall be caught in the cycle of exhaustion. A mere mortal like myself cannot hope to thwart what has been forordained by the gods. Hope for sleep is futile.
Damnit. What are the chances that Senior Partner also believes in the God of Nod and therefore will not be angry when my failure to get to bed at a decent hour causes me to wake up somewhere around noon? Is it possible to phone in an arbitration whilst simultaneously getting one's eight hours? Are judges as understanding as professors when you accidentally sleep through their little "chats"?
Stupid graduation.

*Phoowarg*

Sometimes, when you're really into someone, you can look at them from a distance and actually *feel* what it would be like to touch them, and your lips tingle with that imaginary kiss, and your body burns from the (metaphysical?) contact with the muscles whose shape you just know, even though you've never touched them in the real world... Sometimes, it's even better than the real thing, especially when you know the real thing would never exist in the every day world - and really, you don't want it to exist there. Sometimes, it makes you all shiny inside like it did really happen, and the shininess is even better than it would be if it had happened, because nothing scary and adult had to change.

Along with the name comes the game...

AHHHHH! I'm experiencing a moment of pure frustration, as I struggle with my first box of client-submitted documents that I'm supposed to sort, remove duplicative paper, and enumerate in a pretty list to be turned over in discovery. Again, something law school doesn't even vaguely think about training you for (yes, the participle is dangling. deal. I'm cranky.). See, this is the part of the job for which I was completely NOT prepared. I'm the happiest fish in the ocean when I get a complicated and heretofore-unaddressed policy issue to write up for an appellate brief -- I've even gotten glowing reviews of my research and writing abilities that seem to have been directly responsible for this unanticipated new associate thing ("unanticipated" in that the Firm hasn't actually been looking to hire a new associate).
However, this? THIS? The client turned over what must be the entire contents of a filing cabinet it's had since the dawn of time -- teeny tiny bits of paper with smudged pencil markings I can't begin to read, let alone assign to a category of discoverable material, what looks like one of those punchcards from when a computer needed its own floor of the building, notes as to employees' salaries on the same sheet as musings on what to buy what seems to be a wife/girlfriend/mistress for some occasion ("frederick's? blender?" what else could it be?)... it's ridiculous. It's not clear what information actually pertains to the litigation and what's just the result of an avoidance of regular spring-cleaning. It's not clear whether a document that looks exactly the same as another document but has a tiny handwritten note on the bottom about when it was sent is actually a copy or is in fact a "different" document. And, of course, Assigning Partner is out of the office all this week, and he wants a nice, tidy, enumerated package of this waiting on his desk when he gets back. I tried asking his secretary, who's a total sweetheart, but she didn't really know what he wanted done.
Ugh. How come no one ever TELLS you that this is part of being a litigator? I mean, yes, perhaps an astute person would have assumed that it is, but apparently I was less than astute. Hmph. So wildly grouchy at the moment. I'm going to go outside and jump up and down until I get calmer. Also, perhaps focusing very intently on the lovely dream I had last night... I don't talk about dreams much, and I'm not going to do it in this post cause it's way too long, but just to give you an idea - it was one of those "in your wildest hopes and dreams" kind of dream. in a way that put a big grin on my face when I woke up. yum.

From the Office of...

ME! I have an office! It's all thrilling! It's a little odd, since I'm taking over the office of a former associate with whom I was friendly, and it feels weird to move "her" stuff around, as if I'm questioning her judgment or something. It took me an hour to get up the courage to jettison the nasty, short computer desk with the "lid" that held documents which insisted on slamming down on my fingers every time I tried to pull out the keyboard. (That was a terrible description, wasn't it? You have no idea what this heinous instrument of torture looks like, I'm sure. That's okay, it's so horrible it doesn't even deserve a good description. so there.) I also inherited her computer, and going through all the files and settings feels strangely intimate and wrong -- even though I knew this woman fairly well, the view of her I'm getting from her computer is so different that I'm having a hard time reconciling the two. weird.
But the computer's the easy part, at least I know what to do with that once I've got it set up. The hard parts are the other things I inherited, which include a Dictaphone and a secretary. I'm just completely bemused by the dictaphone; it seems like a wild waste of time. I mean, I talk fast and all, but I type even faster, plus I know that I sound like more of an idiot when I talk than when I write. Where is the benefit of this talky machine in this modern age? And the secretary's a huge problem. Right now, she's just sitting outside my office (and when I say "outside," I mean *right* outside... like two feet away ... if I wanted to, I could stand in my doorway and do that annoying thing where you tap someone on their left shoulder but then appear at their right. I hate that.) playing solitaire. The odd thing is, it's not like they hired her just for me, she was a "floater" secretary before today. So, theoretically, she should have some kind of work to do from other attorneys, right? Apparently not. Having been a secretary for a couple weeks during a high school vacation, I know how boring it is when you have nothing to do and your boss isn't helpful, so I want to come up with something, but what do you ask a secretary to do? I answered phones and filed things when I did it, but I'm really picky about other people touching my files and my phone doesn't work yet.

Oh. I'm starting to see the point of the dictaphone. If I dictated something, then the secretary would have something to type. Fascinating, how it's all circular like that...

Can I Get a "Woo-Hoo"?

I'm employed, as a real-actual-honest-to-goodness-with-an-office-and-everything associate! If your ceilings are shaking right now, you must have the misfortune of being one of our downstairs neighbors -- if so, please bear with the jumping up and down thing, you'd do it too if you'd been looking for a job for nearly seven months and finally got one! I'm mainly excited for three reasons: 1) Legitimacy! This is a big one, since I just went through a harrowing episode where I worked with an associate from another firm on a brief and he was so condescending and rude when he found out I wasn't actually an associate, 2) a much-improved paycheck, which means I can finally afford to get my mechanic to bribe my car out of hating me, or better yet, get a whole new car altogether, and, the big one 3) INSURANCE! (this is how I know I'm really really old, in case the MTV trauma wasn't a big enough sign) Yes, I'm thrilled that I'll finally be able to get new glasses for the first time since college, get those wisdom teeth out, and not always be afraid that some silly thing will land me in the hospital with mega-bills that I can't pay and then I'd lose my license to practice and then I'd cry. But overall, the biggest joy factor is that I'm actually a lawyer now. I've wanted to be a lawyer since I was six. Seriously, that year I asked my parents for a copy of some lawyer's career guide (I was a geek as a child. possible still as an adult. anyway.) and knew that that was what I wanted to do. And I've done it. It's just the best feeling!
And now, in celebration, I'm dashing out to indulge in a usually forbidden, but oh-so-magically-delicious Chantico (for a better tribute to their chocolately amazingness, go here -- a really fun blog I adore all the more for the Legally Blonde reference!). And then coming back to the office to finish something. BUT! Then I get to head on up to NYC for a weekend of sillyness and yummy dinners with one of my best friend, and then I have Monday off to sit and think of many ways to spend my new paycheck. Happy happy happy day! I hope you all have wonderful weekends!

The Trade-off for Traditional Anonymity

When I first thought about writing my own blog, one of the first things I was pretty sure of was that it was going to be anonymous. I struggled with this a little bit at first, not wanting to be someone who lived her "real" life in a way that meant she had to hide her true thoughts, but then I realized that at this embryonic stage of my career, I didn't want to add another worry to the happy list titled "Why They Loved My Resume... As Wallpaper" wherein employers who might otherwise consider me would decide not to because they were concerned about the blog.
However, I didn't want this blog experience to be overly sanitized, so I've decided the trade-off for not publicly posting my identity would be a refusal to delete anything from these pages, even mean comments, or change my posts after I've posted them. Therefore, even though I'm a little ashamed of how shallow and sanctimonious, in turns, I sound in the last two posts, I won't delete them. I figure, if I'm not comfortable sharing my name yet, the least I can do is share my thought processes and personality facets freely... Just promise, though, that you won't judge me on the strength of one post alone (even if it's a positive judgment) -- I've got about eight personalities that collided to make this one girl, and I know some of them aren't so lovely, but we're all works in progress, aren't we?

American Dreaming

I think "My Super Sweet 16" is the saddest, most poignant show on television. For those of you who have remained un-hypnotized by MTV (oh dear. I just realized, this is now my third post about that particular channel in recent memory. I don't work for them, I swear. My roommate adores all things MTV, VH1, BET, etc., and since it's her TV, I get a fair amount of "youth culture" filtering into my consciousness.), this show follows wildly privileged nearly-16-year-olds as they plan the perfect half-million-dollar birthday party. I know, that doesn't exactly sound like the recipe for empathy or sadness. The sadness, though, is there -- it comes from the interaction of these usually spoiled-beyond-repair, shallow, whiny, overly groomed 15-year-olds who look and act 30, with their parents. Obviously, the parents aren't to be entirely pitied, since they clearly had some responsibility for raising children that think the way to make friends is to "buy them" (true quote). But the main thing that strikes me during the parent interviews is that there's usually an honest desire on the part of the parent to give his child everything the parent never had during his childhood, which is a truly commendable and positive desire. Most parents, and all good parents, want their children to have an even better experience in childhood and adulthood than they themselves had. The part that makes these parents such pathos-inspiring (I think I just used that wrong -- any critics?) figures is that they think they've done the job if they provide the consumer items they craved growing up. And they give in to their children's every ridiculous designer-created whim as if they must because they have to "support their children." (another true quote). They think they're giving the American dream to their children. And the really, really pathetic thing -- they have. The American dream of spiritual, intellectual and entreprenurial freedom and independence that inspired our grandparents has died, the "entreprenurial" part took steroids, and now the American dream of the millenium is to have money, money, money in the most conspicious way possible however you have to get it, even on credit. It's so so so sad. And it makes me never want to procreate for fear that I'll somehow succumb to that crazed dream for my own children.

No, actually, it *is* you

jeesch. you know how, when you really really like someone, he's always not interested/already attached/gay/moving to a place they don't have phone next week? oh, that's just me? Well. It happens. *All* the time. The flip side of that is, of course, guys I could never imagine dating for whatever reason (incarcerated/no sense of humor/confuses "hello" with "please, please, please try to get my clothes off with an assortment of inane pick-up lines") pop up all over the place and refuse to go away. Now, I have much sympathy for these guys -- having been the "crusher" more than the "crushee" for a good part of my dating career -- so I try to be as nice as possible in letting them know that, no, we won't be running off to Gretna Green any time soon. Usually, I try to mix honesty with kindness and say something like "I don't think we'd be a good fit romantically," or "I'm not interested in dating for a while and it wouldn't be fair to lead you on," etc. And usually, it works out pretty well, and has led to some decent friendships. However. I recently have had the misfortune of getting mixed up with Teflon Guy. All my usual evasion tactics just don't work. I tried "I don't want to date right now." TG: "That's OK, someday you will." Me: "Well, I don't think we'd be a good fit romantically." TG: "Hey, I'll grow on ya! That's what my other girlfriends said." Me: "Well, we live really far away from each other, so I don't think that would work." (inwardly gritting my teeth and making the obvious "fungus" reference) TG: "That's what email's for, silly!" Fine. I gave him my email, figuring I could take longer and longer to reply to each email and eventually I'd just ease the connection out of existence.
That was two weeks ago. He sent one email the first day. One the next. And the next. And the next. I finally answered. Immediate response. And he just. kept. writing. and writing. and won't go away. Now, I don't want to be mean. He's a perfectly nice guy, he's just completely non-stimulating to me (Remove mind from gutter! Intellectually speaking, of course. OK, fine, I'm also not attracted to him.) Being raised on multiple readings of "Tiffany's Table Manners" and the like, I'm loath to simply write an email saying: "I'm not interested. I will never become interested. Please don't write to me anymore." I'd hate to get an email like that. But, then again, I'd hate to keep thinking that there's hope with a crush-object when secretly, he's taking rage management classes to deal with my onslaught of unwanted attention. Ahhh... the joy of singlehood...

What Not to Wear

One of the most difficult adjustments to make in transitioning from a law student to a real, live lawyer is the wardrobe adjustment. (Hah! you thought I was going to talk about something that's like, important and intellectual, like learning how to talk to clients or keeping abreast of developments in your practice area. Silly misguided reader! Today is 100% Fluff day, in honor of my breakfast this morning -- Fluff on toast with a cupcake for breakfast-dessert -- yum! My dentist loves me.)

In my scant six months of trying to pass myself off as a professional, I have made quite a few wrong turns in the wardrobe department, especially considering that the Firm is definitely NOT in a metropolitan area, its partners are all men (and we all know they never have dressing issues in the workplace, because life is unfair!), and I'm the only person under the age of menopause, or whatever is the male equivalent. First, influenced by too many viewings of "Ally McBeal" in college, I started out with the tiny-skirt-high-heels-and-lacy-thing-under-suit-jacket. The reaction at work that day once again underlined the fact that legal shows on TV bear no, nada, nyet, resemblance to real-life lawyerin'. OK. So, how about a more khakis-and-polo-shirt casual look, since the secretaries seem to be able to get away with wearing sweatsuits to work? A client asked if I was visiting my mommy at work that day. Damn. However, I was comfortable and no one confused me with the local hooker, at least. So I thought a minor tweaking might just make it perfect -- khakis or nice pants with an oxford-cloth button-down shirt. Note to girls with any kind of chest-age going on: while the button-down oxford may make you look mature and responsible while you're standing in front of the store's dressing room mirror, it is NOT YOUR FRIEND when you sit down at work. Buttons gap. If ignored, buttons may then choose to separate themselves from their friends, the button-holes. If the ignoring persists, a senior partner innocently wandering into your "office" may have a near-heart attack and be unable to speak to you for three days. Nix the button downs. Now what? Well, I heard a rumor that silk fabrics are less given to the random-button-popping moments, especially when conveniently bought in a size larger than you usually wear. Phew. Issue settled. Silky button-down and dress pants. Perfect. Grown-up, with a certain elan given by the silk. I've worn this combo to work nearly every day since, varying only with a skirt or cardigan over the shirt when necessary. No more wardrobe problems. Except for today. Today, I discovered, on the way to work (of course), the shirt I had wrestled from the back of my closet to wear, upon realizing that I had run out of my usual favorites because my dry cleaner is evil and won't give them back, was in fact my mother's. From Gap. From 1995. When they had shoulder pads. and the wing-y collars. AWE-some.

There's no winning the wardrobe wars.

A Singleton's Version of a happy Valentine's Day...

is finding out that you actually *are* good at your job (or that your hiring partner is just desparate, but either way...), by getting an offer to continue that good work, except this time with an actual office to yourself, the title "associate" on your not-yet-existing business cards, court appearances, and actual money that will, for the first time, raise you from the "starving student" to the "nearly-full associate" peg on the economic ladder. eek!! I'm all excited. For many reasons, not the least of which is that I can finally move out of my (very kind) friend's house, where I've been quasi-squatting since August -- it's also a validation that my work is good, that, even though I feel completely lost about half the time and have no idea whether my briefs and memos make sense, experience people trust me to be a representative of them, that maybe I shouldn't have been a street-sweeper instead. This now replaces the birthday on which I found out I made law review as my best legal-career moment. (Please, just remind me of this in two weeks, when I haven't left the office for three days -- but hey, at least it'll be MY office! "My office." such pretty words. I wonder if I can paint. and get new furniture. and lamps. and maybe a disco ball... too much? what's too much, really?)
I love everyone and everything today. Happy Valentine's to all, and to all much chocolate!

Jeans Day: The Great Equalizer

If it was Jeans Day every day at the Firm, I guarantee my daily rate of inane-babbling-out-of-fear would decline by at least three percentage points -- it's hard to be intimidated by even the most forbidding Grand Poo-Ba Yale-smartie Senior Partner when he's wearing a faded pair of Levi's finest. I think the jeans even have a subconscious effect on partners' attitudes, too -- there's an unbending, an increased willingness to find the funny side of the sometimes crazy cases we get, a decreased awareness of who ranks where on the totem pole. I love it -- particularly as the start to a roommate-free, baking-and-brand-new-book-filled weekend. All hail Jeans Day!

Depositions: Better than MadLibs

What's the one thing that makes me not regret the nearly six-figure student debt, the hours spent "spading" pretentious articles that refer to obscure reports on the Third Reich available only in the original Swahili, the hunched back from carrying umpty-hundred page casebooks for three years? Is it the glamour, the paparazzi's adoration, the free clothes from my dear friends Oscar and Donna? Oh, no, wait -- sorry, got confused with a recent viewing of "Cribs" (apparently, couldn't keep myself away from that MTV even after it rejected my ancient self.) Anyway! The single best thing about being a lawyer is getting to read piles of depositions transcripts -- seriously. It's my favorite thing. (This suprised me, but I've recently started conducting depositions, and while I find it really amusing that I'm the one wearing the suit, asking the questions and being called "ma'am," there's too much to think about in the process of conducting a deposition to actually relish the true hilarity that can ensue when you have the time to really absorb the answers in a removed setting). The best depositions are the ones where we're questioning an actual party in the case -- usually, they're so full of righteous anger, they just cannot *wait* to jump right into the horrors inflicted on them by the person suing them/being sued by them. They jump on questions, get testy with the lawyers, and usually, in the midst of their indignation, manage to make the English language, and pure common sense, perform contortions the likes of which are rarely seen outside the Cirque du Soleil. For instance, in one case, a woman was describing the floor plan of her house, which was the subject of her distress, and got so twisted up by her own excitement she came up with the following description (not transcribed perfectly, but this is the general idea):

Q: Is there a staircase in your house?
A: No.
Q: So your house is only one
level?
A: Yes.
Q: Can you please tell me what rooms you have in your
house?
A: A kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, a bedroom, another bedroom, a
bathroom.
Q: Are the bathrooms at opposite ends of the house?
A: No. One's
downstairs, one's upstairs, but they're above each other.
Q: Up what
stairs?
A: To the second floor.
Q: So your house in fact has two
levels?
A: No. It's one level.

Dear god. To this day, I have no idea what this woman was trying to say. Not sure if she did either.

Methuselah

In case the student-loan payment coupon booklets (is it just me, or is it really annoying they call it a "coupon booklet"? Coupons *save* you money, dodo, they don't demand payment of outrageous sums of money in order to avoid the complete dismemberment of your financial identity!), the three diplomas (high school, college, law school -- funnily enough, the high school one's the prettiest, and cost me nothing. There's a deeper thought there somewhere from which, I'm sure, the MasterCard people could make a lovely commercial...), the 9-5 or 8-6 or whathaveyou days all FIVE weekdays, the wearing of suits for occasions other than Easter and funerals, and that "Esq." after my name didn't clue me in that I'm a "grownup" now, MTV saw fit to remind me last night (focus, people -- you can make the snide comments about what was I doing watching MTV, anyway, later) -- watching one of their asinine yet scarily addictive reality-teen-TV shows, I saw one girl point out a bar-dancing chick to her friend, saying "God, I can't believe she's doing that, she's like... TWENTY-FIVE." As if, at the ancient, decrepit age of 25, you had no business shakin' your groove thang at all, as if you should be shut up in a library wearing your fuzzy gray bathrobe, drinking your Metamucil and counting your wrinkles. And it hit me -- I'm not young anymore. I mean, sure, in comparison to the entire staff of the Firm, I am, but in general -- not young. I have reached an age, to my complete shock, that the "pretty young things" refer to as "old." A quick search of MTV's website revealed that, yes, I am in fact too old to participate in the casting calls for any of their shows. I. am. old. The youth of America have ejected me from their ranks. I went to bed a sadder, wiser, more sober me. I didn't even put on my favorite cupcake pajamas, because they're probably too "young" for me.
As I started my car to go to work this morning, the old version of "Forever Young" came blasting out of my speakers. There was no music on the way to work today.
Anyone know any good retirement homes?

From Zero to...Potential

Hmm... yesterday morning, I spent a good hour contemplating my general failure level, feeling like law school was pointless, college was pointless, hell, getting up in the morning was pointless, because I was never going to find a job and I would be a law clerk for ever and ever and ever, world without end, amen. Yesterday afternoon, completely unexpectedly, Senior-est Partner asked me what I would think of being an associate at the Firm (of course, with the understanding that I could still look for other jobs in the city of my choice, where it's well-known I'm desparate to move since a single girl has a rough time of making a social life in my neck of the highly-suburban woods).
Yesterday evening, I got an invitation to interview for a judicial clerkship I've been pursuing forEVER -- interesting work, and the ability to live in the Greatest City on Earth.
This morning, on a call to an associate at a good in-state firm, I was told that I should submit my resume to them, as they'd heard nothing but good things about me (hmm, I guess my mother's cold-call campaign wasn't just an idle threat...) and they have some openings... Only problem: (Other than spending my theoretical, not-even-offered-yet, salaries on a car that was built sometime AFTER the fall of the Soviet Union) I'm suddenly having a very sad reaction to the thought of leaving the Firm. This is utterly ridiculous, as I do not like my suburban reality and have been aching to get out of it since about two minutes after I moved here. Perversity, thy name is... me.