Sedimentary, igneous, and metaphorical

I live a sedimentary lifestyle. Right, I know it's sedentary, but I never get to use that word. I took geology in college for some reason, I suppose because I thought it would be an easier class than say, chemistry, which I completely struggled with in high school. But studying rocks? Ok, here's a rock, and there's one - how hard is that? Even studying birds sounds more difficult, I mean those things move around like crazy. As it turned out, studying rocks is really effing hard.

It was the first science class from which I ever really learned something: how an area's climate is determined, how temperature and water vapor create clouds and rain, why the Grand Canyon looks like layer cake and how fossils are formed. Every assignment I read (of the ones I read), I remember thinking, gosh that's super cool. Even stuff like metamorphic rocks, because did you know that extreme pressure can transform one rock to a totally different rock?

What a wonderful metaphor to have at my disposal. I'll just sit at my desk today, my mind racing to keep up with all the crap I have to get done, with all of the demands of this job, the stress of trying to perform and keep performing, with the anxiety that any moment a partner will swing by and say, "where the hell is that research I asked for?" or "why in gods name did you fail to define the acronym 'IR&D' in this memo?"; all the time wondering how long it will take for my metamorphosis into the kind of rock that actually gives a shit.

Last night.

Last night we drank a whole bottle of Makers Mark 46 in advance of a Flogging Molly (aka, Who Cares There's A Bar) concert, and in doing so discovered a delicious new drink. It's Makers, blood orange juice, and a splash of cognac. I call it Kentucky Sailor Sauce. I don't know why - isn't Kentucky landlocked? We drank a lot of bourbon that night, I have a headache. Leave me alone.

Best Sandwich Ever

Black Forest bacon, heirloom tomato, avocado and baby field greens on whole wheat toast. BLT&A? Nope, got it: BLAT-wich.

Ow

Last week I woke up with ridiculous killer eye-popping pain in my jaw.  I rode it out like an idiot until it was unbearable, and my cheeks were swollen up to Cabbage Patch Kid-like proportion.  Then I finally went to a dentist, and found out I have TMJ disorder.  Sometimes, people, the fact of diagnosis can be worse than the disease itself.

Because TMJ is not a genetic or viral condition - it's brought on by stress.  That means that I worry about sh*t so much that it is actually affecting my health.  AND I let it get worse by not seeing a doctor about it, so that I was on a fast route to grinding my teeth into little nubs, because I was too damn busy.  AND the muscle relaxers they gave me make me a friggin' zombie all day, even if I take them the night before, so now I can't even FIX the problem, because I have to WORK MORE.  What the HELL, life?

AND I can't eat crunchy or chewy foods.  What kinds of food are those, you ask?  Only the BEST kinds!  Popcorn, bagels, baguettes, pizza, gummy bears, steak tacos - basically all my major food groups.  So now I'm hungry, swollen, in pain, unmedicated, inflamed, stressed, and busy.  Killing it!



Haha Google image search TMJ = 80's mullet model.



For all you lovers out there...

I loved you first: but afterwards your love

    Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song

As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.

    Which owes the other most? my love was long,

    And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;

I loved and guessed at you, you construed me

And loved me for what might or might not be –

    Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.

For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’

    With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,

         For one is both and both are one in love:

Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’

         Both have the strength and both the length thereof,

Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

--  Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894

Valentine's Day is for Schmucks (like me)

What a ridiculously fabricated lie of a holiday. That I LOVE! But probably only because I'm in a relationship, and because I just got these at my office:

Suck it, office ladies! See how desired and coveted I am! Someone loves me and has proven it with shrubbery!

How truly amazing it is that one's attitude can change so extremely and violently with just a little shift in circumstance. Witness!

Me five years ago: "Valentine's Day can kiss my a**. What a crock! Do people still srsly buy in to that Hallmark-induced red-splattered kitch fest? It's truly for the vapid and self-obsessed - those trying to prove to the world how their relationship is super *perfect* when really they will go home tonight and NOT have sex, having mutually consumed three bottles of wine, and one of champagne because they can't stand to be alone together *cuz it's a special night,* lying in their icy beds like beached manatees saying ohhh I'm just so tired me too, happy v-day sweetiemuffin! NO THANKS."

Me today: "Yayy I got flowers! Prettyyyyy! I love my fiance lalalalaa. Now we have a whole day mandating appreciation for eachother, which is great, cause now I don't have to worry about the other 364! Superrr convenient. Thanks, Hallmark!"

What is my point? Who cares - I'm getting lucky tonight! (or am I?) Just kidding.  A fancy Italian dinner, a dirty martini, an obligation because of sent flowers, another obligation because of the awesome massage certificate I got him - I mean, do the math people.  Cue Manilow.

Memories...

Yesterday I took a three hour nap and ate my weight in beef tenderloin with blue cheese-mushroom sauce.  Visiting my mother is dangerous to my health.  I love her, but she keeps Cheetos in the house and somehow maintains the willpower to leave them alone until I visit.  Mean.

I spent the day on her couch recovering from Saturday night's birthday bash for a friend at Bowl-O-Rama, while Oscar slept upstairs until 3:15pm (winner), having taken a bagel sandwich to the face and four Advil.  After bowling we had gone out downtown Annapolis to McGarvey's, where we actually first met.  It was wonderfully surreal to sit in the same chair (wearing a similarly low cut dress), drinking and engaging in merriment with Oscar just as I had four and a half years ago on the night of our first encounter, with very minor variations.  I suppose both of our brains have swelled, mine from law school and his from medical school, so our heads were distinctly huger.  His sweaters are nicer, and his jeans are more expensive.  I am definitely paler, since now I spend most of my time under florescent lights looking like this guy.

Other things are different - there is a newly introduced desperation and mania in our nights out, knowing that the time spent as FREEDOM is transient and woefully short, that in between conversations we will return, unconsciously, to the acknowledgment of a crushing workweek hanging just overhead, and that we hear in the pause between Journey songs an urgent and petulent voice of Responsibility over and over again.  There is now, interspersed with the boozy merriment, a sort of distracted, repetitive look thrown toward a certain future, where awaits regret, exhaustion, and fuzzy-headed attempt at effort.  Which, of course, is where I am right now, eating an eight dollar sandwich in front of my computer in my office with the door closed, wishing I could fast forward to the next cloud break of a weekend, and do it all over again.  Fun life.

Public Service Announcement

Number one reason I am finally admitting that I need glasses, and probably should get contacts: I have no peripheral vision.

I have been holding out for the past three years, thinking I could get away as a mere recreational glasses user. Hey, I'm not getting old, maybe I'm just really trendy! Hornrimmed glasses are so hot right now. It's not like I am an actual nerd, spending 12 hours a day staring into a computer screen doing legal research. It's nerd-chic, right guys?!

No. My need is very real, and I'm coming clean. I was sent a very clear signal tonight that, probably, there is a great evolutional need for the sense of vision, beyond just making sure your food isn't rotten, or watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

The signal was received loud and clear, in a moment of "eureka!" that struck me as many of these moments do: in pursuit of Mexican food. I happened into my neighborhood Chipotle (or Chippies, for those of us who frequent), ravenous, after a rigorous workday of, again, staring at administrative regulations for 12 hours, (admittedly pausing occasionally to *quickly* glance at kitten videos). It was seven thirty, I had just endured one and a half face-punching hours in traffic, and I'll be crystal clear that I was not on the top of my game. But those football sized burritos sang to me from the darkness.

So I'm in line, pondering my burrito future (so many glorious options, and why god why did they have to start putting the calorie amounts up there) and I have that glazed over, moon-faced, starved-since-three expression. I am halfway through the sacred burrito-selection assembly line of wonder when I become aware of another human on my right. But remember, I have no peripherals. So shadowy man-like entity with no face approacheth, and it could be my brother or Jack the Ripper for all my beady, bespectacled rodent eyes can tell. Unfortunately, it was neither. After ordering the largest burrito possible with all the fixin's I go to my right pocket for my moolah and realize that I have been standing next to That Guy I Went To That Dated Party With In College And Probably Made Out With But Promptly Avoided Him For The Last Two Years Of College Out Of Embarrassment And Since Have Forgotten His Name Because Who Keeps Track Of That Shit What Am I Supposed To Keep A List Of All Potentially Awkward Encounters Now?

I meet his eyes and he morphed into a full human. It's too late. He probably saw me when he walked in and witnessed the whole hugely grotesque burrito ordering sequence (extra sour cream, what the HELL is wrong with me??) thinking I was ignoring him. Because I have no peripherals with my effing glasses on, I had no heads up whatsoever, no extra four seconds to magically conjure up a name-face recognition, no time at all to permit the kind of adrenalin-induced flight autoresponse I normally go with. Just straight up mortified panic. I don't know his name. It's already weird. Getting weirder by the second. If I keep staring, he will know I recognize him. He probably has a clue already from my deer eyed, sweat beading dumb head.

I turn my head. Mutely, I hand my card to the cashier and collect my garbage bag full of burrito. Thank god I did not have the peripherals to witness his expression as I power-walked out of that place like a housewife with that swishy, ass-wiggling contained sprint like a little fat kid trying to be first in line at the snow cone stand at the pool but the lifeguard just yelled at him for running. That was me, running away from my weird awkward past. Wow, I've come a long way.

Yay for lists!

I've been thinking a lot lately about relationships.  Obviously, I can't deny the Debbie-Downer-ness of my previous post, and neither can I defend it.  The reality is that I get overwhelmed and dramatic, perhaps to a degree one might term "batshit crazy," when I should be grateful, excited and what - exhuberant?  I'm getting married for Pete's sake! 

When in a relationship, it's really easy to get lost in your own head, to the point that you forget someone else is living right beside you.  We are selfish creatures.  We walk out of our house and forget that the other lives an entire life apart - like that tree-in-the-forest riddle.  If we aren't there, who's to say it makes a sound?  The perception of our world is necessarily and absolutely one dimensional, and has been our whole lives, so of course it's difficult to accommodate another person schlepping alongside.  It is against our nature to conjure substantial and constant empathy for someone else, especially when they live with you, you see them every day, and they do the most annoying things. 

Here's the kicker:  these things we call relationships are not immortal.  They're more like plants.  One day, you forget to give it water and it's droopy, sad, and gray.  I know; I've killed a lot of plants.  I killed a cactus.

So this morning I got mad that Oscar wouldn't walk the dog, even though I got up an hour before him and would be at the mercy of suicide-stage traffic, and I was super bitchy.  I felt really crap-tastic about it, and about life in general.  Realizing that attitude to be counterproductive, because I just kept feeling crappier, I got into work and decided to write down a list of his best attributes that are included in the reasons for which I will love him until I breathe my last breath.

1.  He's handsome.
2.  He's kind.
3.  He's tall.
4.  He's bright.
5.  He's caring.
6.  He's funny, and makes me laugh all the time.
7.  He has great hair.
8.  He's the most intelligent person I know.
9.  He's ambitious, and sets high standards for himself.
10.  He has beautiful eyes.
11.  He tastes like truffle when I kiss him.
12.  He wears cologne just because he knows I like it.
13.  He is warm.
14.  He holds me tight.
15.  He is eager to please me.
16.  He likes dirty vodka martinis.
17.  His favorite movie is Tombstone, which is adorable.
18.  He listens.
19.  He is reasonable and logical.
20.  He holds my hand.
21.  He does the dishes because he knows I hate it.

Trust me, I could go on... but just engaging in the exercise of writing this list brings to the forefront of my mind all of the fantastic, superlative, one-in-a-million pieces of this guy, and I feel calm, grateful, and infinitely stupid for even getting mad this morning.  I should send him this.

Sorrow, thy name is love

Anticipation has got to be the worst state of human existence.  Particularly when, as now, the event to occur has such potentially devastating implications for the future.  What future?  My future, my almost-husband's, and ours together.  That's three, not two.  That has been the most illuminating realization borne of this process:  by welding our lives together, we have created an entirely new being in "us."  "Us" is a thing on its own; "us" exists as a new reality.  "Us" can thrive or perish.  

I became aware of "us" in the context of likely the biggest and most important decision of our (future) marriage, aside from the obvious decision to get married.  We are making the rank list of ENT programs, in order of preference, that will be submitted and eventually determine where we will live for the next 5 years of our lives.  For those of you unfamiliar with the idiotic process, after medical school, one does not simply get a job offer.  That would not be special enough.  Instead, you apply to all of the programs you'd like to attend, they may or may not offer you an interview (for which you must pay airfare, hotel, transportation, etc.), and then you make a list from 1 to however many interviews you get, in order of preference.  The programs in turn rank you, alongside all of the other candidates to whom they gave interviews, and you both submit the list to a computer database.  The computer database organizes your list, their list, the list of every medical student in the country, the list of every medical program in the country, and produces a mathematical algorithm.  On March 16, 2012, every medical student in the country will sit in the auditorium of their respective schools, and hear their name called in front of their peers and family.  They will walk onstage and receive an envelope containing the name of the program with whom they have "matched."  Cue happy face/sad face/celebration/suicide.  Bam.  For five years.  As soon as you open that envelope, you have entered into a binding 1-year minimum contract with that particular program.  

I am in the uncomfortable position of side-liner.  My future is tied to his, and to that damn rank list.  I get a say, of course, but ultimately, his professional career is at stake.  He wants to rank #1 a program in California.  I want to rank #1 a program in New York City.  The reasons for why we have our choices are many, and all are valid and important.  Individually, the validity of each reason is rendered irrelevant by the fact that we ultimately disagree.  I feel fucking sick just saying it.  

Where is there room for compromise?  How do we compromise?  And what are the consequences for the "us"?  Either way, one of us is disappointed, embittered, saddened.  One of us feels trampled, betrayed, alienated.  The other feels guilty, selfish, tyrannical.  Technically, one will win, but in any case, the "us" loses, its future tragically threatened.  I've been so blindsided by the reality of how fucking precarious the existence and longevity of "us" truly is.  I'm so naive for believing that we were different, that our love was stronger than average and would be sufficient to overcome such obstacles.  But it is so easily broken!  I can see how it happens without consideration.  I can see the seed of resentment planted, the initial hope and effort eventually strangled by the reality of disappointment.  I can see the blame, the bitter accusation, the dashed dreams and pain of resignation.  I really can understand how people can get there, and for the first time I see in us the potential.  

How to decide on a course of action?  Shall I be honest?  I assert my choice, I steamroll him, and I get what I want; but I lose a part of his trust.  The seed is planted and resentment grows.  He won't ever forget how I took away his dream of success, his chance at a top tier program;  how I put myself before him, and my needs before his.   He blames me whenever thinks of what he gave up, silently and subconsciously cursing my selfish resolution.  Shall I bend to his choice?  I leave my family, move to the suburbs, give up my dream (which used to be our dream) of living in New York, and I go with him.  I am alone constantly while he happily pursues his choice.  I become desperate to make it work, but whenever I feel sad, lonely, or uncomfortable, my subconscious reaction is to curse him.  I become depressed.  I don't want him to see it, don't want to disturb his happiness, but I keep sinking, knowing he can't pull me back up, because it's not enough, we can't change it now, we're stuck in a cycle of blame and hurt.  

In either circumstance, the "us" suffers.  No matter who wins, we lose in the end.  Neither of us can change how we feel, and neither can we prevent the future from coming.  I choke up when I talk to him about it.  He probably thinks I'm crying because I want my way.  But in truth I am so scared of losing him, and so scared that the breakdown of  "us"  is inevitable.  Impressing upon me for the first time is the reality of how hard our marriage will be, and how stupid I am for thinking I understood that before.  Can two people, each having a strong will of their own, ambition, and desires, ever truly compromise?  And what does that word even mean?  Does a successful relationship require one person who compromises, and the other inflexible?  I truly hate ending with questions, but I can do nothing but anticipate...

So not right.

A friend of mine brought cupcakes into work today.  "Yay!" is the phrase that one would normally be associated with such an event, but here's the caveat:  these were no ordinary cupcakes.  DISCLAIMER:  to those of you with an abnormally sensitive gag-reflex, read on at your own peril, and that of your computer.

Buffalo.  Chicken.  Cupcakes.  With blue cheese icing.

Vom.

Now, I am a woman who loves her food, but come on America!  Have we not subjected our populace to a towering-enough risk of diabetes/obesity/can't-fit-in-my-chair syndrome that our repertoire needs such a foul creation?  It's basically sugar, corn flower, Buffalo sauce, blue cheese icing made from confectioner's sugar, and as an added flourish, a baby chicken wing stuck right on top, I suppose meant as a comforting assurance that it technically qualifies as food.  In fact, it is a cleverly-disguised baby-step towards cardiac arrythmia.

I had a similar experience while traveling in Texas recently, where I noticed the disturbing trend in that region that desires to sneak in as many additives to render the food as caloric as humanly possible - why eat salsa, when you can MIX IN A STICK OF CREAM CHEESE?  Why have waffles, when you can EAT A WAFFLE SANDWICH WITH BACON, EGGS AND CHEESE?  A steak is far too healthy, let's FILL IT WITH CHEDDAR!  I know, it's seems the perfect commentary to set up the inevitable punchline "Hey, y'all, everything's bigger in Texas!  Dang-gum-it!"  But isn't it really just sad?  It's hot there, aren't you uncomfortable?  Doesn't it suck to breath heavy, sweat, feel exhausted all the time?  Are the chocolate-dipped fried Twinkies worth it?  The proclivity for extreme eating is made more troubling by the lifestyle down there - unless you're living in downtown Austin, you're not walking anywhere.  In Texas, if you don't have a car, the "FUCK YOU" is palpable.  There are very few sidewalks, no public transportation to speak of, and everything is so sprreeeaadddd ouuuuuttt.  Texans are driving drunk.  That is just a fact.  Or maybe they've replaced drinking with eating ribs.

 

I'm not deliberately singling you out, Texas.  That's just been my experience.  I mean, I haven't been to Mississippi, but I assume it's the same deal.  The thing is that the vast majority of people I know, boys and girls included, are concerned about their weight, and are constantly dieting.  I also have my own struggles, and I didn't grow up eating freaking blue cheese icing or The Baconator or fried Butterfingers.  I really just think, that can't taste good!  It's too much!  It's like seeing one of those pornstars with HUUUUGE boobs and HUUUUGE lips and BLOOONDE hair - I have a very negative physical reaction to over-doing it.  Now, maybe that's a personal problem.  But those cupcakes look evil enough to kill.

Ryan Reynolds is not a leading man

I am so sick of new movies that perpetuate the myth that Ryan Reynolds is a leading man.  He is a snarky sidekick providing a wealth of comic relief in such action movies as X-Men:  Wolverine Edition starring Hugh Jackman's Mutton Chops and That Shoot'Em-Up Movie Where Jeremy Piven Is A Magician And Common Is There Too.  Post-Van Wilder, however, his lead roles have left something to be desired.  I get a really uncomfortable feeling when I see him onscreen not dropping a snide little snark-bomb.  I just think, who does this guy think he is being serious/romantic/sweaty?  It's like a Pavlovian dog at a hand-bell concert - where's my kibble, Ryan?  You can't just show in a movie, after snarking your way into Hollywood, and expect me to be cool with your new persona.  I need to be eased into such a radically different cinematic experience.  While you were trapped in a box for two and half hours, my little trained brain kept waiting for "Real original, guys!  What, were they out of shark tanks at the Cliche-Ways-To-Kill-People store?"  Just kidding, of course I didn't see that movie.  I have a strict policy against situational action movies - those kind of scenario-inspired totally unrealistic watered-down pseudo-thrillers written by some dude, on his bong-scented couch, like GOT IT, what if there's this like this normal guy, just livin' his life, and ends up in a telephone booth/on a ledge/kidnapped by a security guard/mortally dependent on a cellphone. 

I don't mean to be bitchy.  You are an actor, and you probably have more skillz than I realize, but you were unfortunately pigeonholed into a character from whom you may never escape.  Additionally, I consider you lacking in qualities I expect in a leading man.  The formula is pretty rigid.

1)  People need to want to make out with a leading man.  Desperately.  Generally speaking, the best leading men have had luscious, kissable lips, preferably paired with a strong jaw so as to prominently display the clenching required of leading men during emotionally or physically taxing scenes.

TMJ is a serious disease.

2)  Leading men must possess a measure of unpredictability, danger, and energy that seems at times out of control.  Ryan, you are too nice.  I could easily picture you sitting in my living room, munching on some popcorn, offering to take my mom to the airport tomorrow 'cause it's no problem.  I don't slightly fear you, and therefore, how can I be attracted you in an action-movie setting?

This guy could punch anyone in the face, at any time, and not even care.  "Charisma."

3)  Maybe this is a personal issue, but Ryan just has that "gym body."  Like, clearly he didn't acquire those muscles just by livin' his bad ass life.  Everything is puffy and shiny and hairless and symmetrical.  It's just so unnatural. 

 A leading man, by contrast, should not care about his appearance enough to go to the gym like a proud peacock - he requires his muscular physique for the demanding tasks he must accomplish within the 2.5 hour allotment (rescue wife, round-house kick, run from explosions, barely dodge gunfire).

 "What's that?  I look good?  THERE'S NO TIME!"

It's not just Ryan.  Jake Gyllenhall, Orlando Bloom, Shia LeBoeuf, Zac Efron, Ryan Phillipe, Seann William Scott, and ol' Tobey "Babyface" Maguire - I never bought, and will never buy, any of these guys as leading men.  Of course, bad-ass-ness always changes that.  Leo DiCaprio could have disappeared into teen-heartthrob obscurity, but he helped himself out by looking kind of f*cked up all the time.  Robert Downey Jr. got into drugs, as did Colin Farrell - it's sad, but that does add the danger factor.  Not that I encourage it, I'm just using it as an example.  Everyone loves a comeback, that's all I'm saying.  Robert Pattinson might just save himself by keeping up the brooding, slightly-nauseous crazy-eyed public persona he's been cultivating.  There's hope for you, yet, Reynolds. 

Flo Rida

I am feeling the spirit of Florida today, likely because I'm there right now. Yes, dear ether, I touched ground yesterday afternoon in the land of sun, sea, oranges and grandma. I am officially on vacation. Unfortunately mother nature did not receive my notice, and the weather was kind of shitty. Therefore, I am channeling tropicana by accessorizing with this hair flower (see below), with all the intent and purpose of an Indian rain dance, hopefully communicating to the weather demons my prayer for sunshine.

It's Oscar's birthday today. Old man river is 31 grand years of age. Why is it that the older he gets, the more attractive he gets, and the older I get, the older I get. I can see it now, the mid 30s power shift, where he morphs into Clarke Gable and I slowly become Roseanne. Thanks again, nature.

Gratuitous glamour shots of my dog.

Ok, since we're all getting to know each other a little better (and by we, I mean faceless internet pseudo-people composed primarily of ether, and by each other, I mean me, an egomaniac patently assuming that ether-people will find her interesting), I am going to really open up, super-intimately, and show off my favorite furry creature in life. (Hint: it's not the mouse who keeps shitting under my kitchen sink, although she does at times exhibit rat-like qualities). It's my dog! Her name is Lucy, please begin swooning.

Her cruel masters maliciously tied hilarious Christmas ribbons to her for their own disgusting viewing pleasure.  Don't worry folks, she barely noticed, as you can tell by the laser-guided ultra-focused stare she is giving her favorite ball right now, as if she is trying to telecommunicate it into motion herself just to chase it.

"I am still young, and only slightly convinced that you are not raising me for food right now."

For those of you unlucky enough to not have a dog, I suggest you immediately save your settings on World of Warcraft, shut your computer, slip your atrophied limbs out of your bathrobe/pajama combo, go out into the sunlight (careful, it can be bright, you might want to grab some shades), go to the nearest animal rescue center and pick out the fluffiest, wiggliest one you can find.  Pet ownership is the best thing ever.  It will save your soul.

Hilarious autocorrect!

This is either a sacred Pennsylvania Dutch tradition involving mobile floats in the shape of giant udders, or a descriptively cruel reference to the beaches of Ocean City, Maryland the weekend after the State Fair. Either way, I don't know why it's usage is more prevalent than Gatorade.  AutoFAIL!  Bahahaha

Debbie-Downer moment.

I spoke today with a friend/colleague who had recently attended a funeral of a close family member.  He related to me a moment that struck him at the time, even through the cloud of his grief, as noteworthy.  After the service, he found himself in the awkward position of forcing smalltalk with one of the owners of the funeral parlor. 

Friend:  "So... business is... good?"
Mortician:  "Well... it depends on how many people die in a given week, I suppose."
Friend:  "Rrrriiight."

He went on to say that a mortician was the one job he would never do, that it would be too emotionally taxing, too depressing, and just an all-around downer of an employ.  I admit, the job involves what could be fairly termed buzz-kills:  the ever-present reminder of one's mortality, the daily acknowledgement of the inevitability of death, and constant exposure to communal grief.  Not to mention those spooky dead bodies .

Not to bum him out further, I had a thought that there were obvious comparisons to be drawn among the profession of mortician and our own (that is, lawyer).  Morticians provide services to people in times when they are in need - in circumstances when people are at their most vulnerable.  A person dies, a family becomes overwhelmed with grief, and calls in a mortician to work out the logistics of a service and a burial.  Lawyers do the same - we only show up when you're losing your house, fighting over money, divorcing... lawyers, too, darkly make a living off of the misfortunes of others (to be fair, some folks had it coming).  It's kind of easy to make the argument that morticians are even able to see a better side of humanity.  Families are grieving loved ones, reuniting with scattered relatives, and showing up to honor the person recently passed.  A mortician may see that a person was loved, valued, and will be missed.  He sees the strength of a widow as she carries on without her great love.  He sees relatives embracing in condolence, regardless of whatever complicated entanglements of emotion might be present in those relationships.  He hears the sentimentalized life stories of the departed, of their legacy in the world they left behind.  The tone of such events is acceptance, resignation, sorrow for the loss.

Attorneys, on the other hand, serve people who are pissed off, broken, angry, desperate, and sometimes just fucking mean.  Our clients want to fight and scramble, kick and bite, and our job is to show them the acceptable way to do so - the legal way to be the winner.  And at least for me, the stakes are not easily romanticized - these people are fighting over money.  Or property.  Or just the right to rub it in the other guy's face.  It's the kind of school-yard petty bullshit that our profession tends to encourage.  We see the worst side of humanity.  The dick side. 


So, my fantastically kind, insightful words to my grieving friend likely had the unintended effect of further depressing him.  (Nailed it!)  At least we don't have to see spooky dead bodies?  Right, pal?

I took all of these pictures with my iPhone. Yup.

A rainbow in DC.  It was almost a double rainbow, in which case I would have had the opportunity to take a hilarious video and become tragically famous.

Baltimore, from a plane.

My pup.

From Brooklyn, with a view of Manhattan. 

An old movie theater in Charleston, SC.

A junky old building in DC.

A pirate ship.

Old world charm and palms, in Charleston.

Technically, Oscar took this one.  But I'm the one that looks good, so it's in.

Quote Games Challenge

Recently took a trip down memory lane (i.e., navigated to the very oldest emails in my Gmail account) and found a little gem of a game started by my sister, like five years ago.  Hilarity ensues. 

Katie:
The first rule of Quote games is you cannot talk about Quote games. The second rule of Quote games is that YOU CANNOT TALK ABOUT QUOTE GAMES.
Just kidding, I just thought that was funny. But seriously, I just thought of a brilliant game of identifying quotes. I will email  you a challenge quote and you must identify it, and reply with the movie that it is from and a new challenge for me. Here are the rules I could think of:
1. Challenge quotes cannot be found by using the internet, nor can you find the answer to a challenge by using the internet.
2. You may not use other people as a reference, except for one phone-a-friend option per challenge. It must be clearly stated in the email that you have used said option.
3. You may challenge a challenge if you think that it is misquoted. In which case, the challenger must find the quote on the internet and include a reference.
  a. If the challenger quoted correctly to begin with, she sends two new challenges, and the challenge-ee has two days to answer said challenge, or she accepts defeat.
  b. If the challenger misquoted, she admits it and the challenge-ee sends the challenger two quotes that must be correctly identified in two days, or she accepts defeat.
4. All quotes must be from MOVIES that the challenger knows that the challenge-ee has seen.
5. If the challenge-ee is stumped, she can send a second quote option within the first two days. In which case, the challenger must send a second quote from the same movie to help the challenge-ee.
6. If the challenger incorrectly identifies the movie OR cannot answer the challenger within a week, the challenger is the winner.

My first challenge: Buzz's girlfriend! Woof!

Me:
I accept your challenge! GREAT IDEA!
Ok, here is my answer to your hilariously easy first challenge
Home Alone

That gives me one point. I also suggest that one extra point be given if a more hilarious quote from the same movie is included in the response. My answer to this is, "And remember! we're the WET BANDITS! thats WET! W- um E- uhhhh T" "Shut up Marv!"

Ok and here is your challenge
"Those rules arent real."
"They were real that day I wore a vest!"
"Because that vest was disgusting!"
"YOU CANT SIT WITH US"

Katie:
Score to date:
Kerry:2
Katie: 2 (after this email)
Mean Girls hahahaha this one made me laugh
More hilarious: "whatever, Im getting cheesefries."
Your challenge:
What if I lose this power?

Me:
Took you long enough!
The answer to your challenge is:

SURF NINJAS!
more hilarious: "If shes wearing a veil, dude better bail" "Yeah! If shes covering her face...shes...probably not...very...attractive"
Score to date:
Kerry: 4
Katie: 2

Your challenge:
"Hey everyone! Come see how good I look!"

Me, later:
Where's your answer sister? What you got? You got nothin!

Katie:
Okay, I admit it. I need a second quote to get the movie.
Its not over yet homes!

Me:
Haha good lord i thought this was a gimme!
ok heres another one for you
"I hear their periods attract bears!"
"You hear that? Bears! Now you're putting the whole studio in danger!"

Katie:
Oh holy hell I can't believe I didnt get it. ANCHORMAN
So, I think that if you had to ask for a second quote you forgo your right to get an extra point, so that puts the score at:
Kerry: 4
Katie: 3
damn you!
Okay, my challenge:
Touches hand to tree and shows to friend. "Can't you feel its pain?"

Me:
Lady PLEASE!
Ferngully

And for my bonus quote--
"Are you sure?"
"I'm positive."
"Only fools are positive."
"Are you sure?
"I'm positive. OH! I fell for it! I can't believe it!"

And now here is your challenge.
"That ain't no etch-a-sketch. This is one doodle that can't be undid, homeskillet." "Your eggo is preggo."

Katie:
Okay obviously it is Juno and here is my bonus quote
"he is the cheese to my macaroni."
and the challenge: "If you're gonna spew, spew in this."

Me:
What is Waynes World! The first one!
Bonus quote "Extreme close up! WHOAHHHHH!"

"If I know Mary as well as I think we do, she'll invite us right in for tea and scrumpets!"



At this point my sister promptly forgets about the game entirely, and it is nearly lost to the annals of history.  Haha, annals. 

But it is clear that I emerged victorious.  Cue trumpets and fanfare, victory-dance in the endzone.

That's bleak.

Dear Diary,

Today I spent 7 hours reviewing documents on my computer, the vast majority of which (for ease of use) are in Chinese. For another three hours I was in a meeting that was only supposed to last one. I spent one of those hours mainlining three diet cokes and pinching my leg to stay awake so as not to look like a class A buffoon in front of the four partners upon whose asses I must lay sweet, tender kisses so that I can justify the three weeks of vacation I am taking this month, one week of which I have already spent blissfully eating the biggest platters of chimichangas you have ever seen while visiting my fiance's fam in Texas. Yee haw. And now I am crash dieting away those extra queso folds away before I sausage myself into last season's bikini for two glorious weeks of lounging beachside in beautiful Boca Raton, margarita in hand, eyeballing up the hot slice of man meat at my side named Oscar (no, not a Meyer frank, my darling partner in crime and betrothed love). So yah, thats what's up.  Yay life.  (I say that without the slightest tinge of mirth).

I just stumbled upon a note I wrote maybe nine months ago, when I first started this job.  It struck me as super bleak, and all the more so because I still identify with the sentiment.  Perhaps it can be properly characterized as a moment of "confounded loss of self-identity."  It has gotten better, and easier, because of the positive feedback I have received, and the accomplishments that I can write down on paper and point to.  But the reality of myself operating the world is still oddly novel to me, and I constantly reflect on how I am perceived by others...

An excerpt:

     "I won't lie to myself, saying that I never thought today would come, and yet I sit here on this commuter train with regret and confusion. I am a fraud, I truly felt that tonight, and though I expected this moment to arrive, I am thoroughly affected and offput. I convinced myself that this was within my capacity, that I could belong if only I tried hard enough, wanted it badly enough -- as if a square peg was ever made to fit into a round hole.  I thought that this was an adventure made to test my metal, because who am I really?  If I don't know, and they don't know, why couldn't I be one of them?  There are of course differences in interests, in experience, and in levels of seriousness, but I believed it was as easy as fooling them.  And perhaps I succeeded for a short while, in that interview where I sat politely and in awe, portending my skill and parading in farce; during these first weeks as I waltz the halls in suits and heels and high-buttoned collared shirts, relishing in the interest I must have sparked in these lawyers as they tried to comprehend such a contradiction:  a woman, bright and young and carefully put together, desiring only to sit in an office for twelve hours researching arcane regulations and bone dry legislation.  What a novelty!  But the weeks have progressed and I cannot, because my limited vocabulary and further limited grasp are being tested and I cannot fake this.  This cannot be dressed up in a pencil skirt and horn-rimmed glasses and defined as talent, because it is not.  And perhaps I was never really given a chance, because they saw this from the beginning, and my farce was obvious to them but they were obligated nonetheless. Of course, they did. Their highly trained eyes could not be misdirected by a crisp white blouse and heeled loafers. How many young lawyers they have seen, grounded and weighted by their conviction in this practice!  I must have seemed so naive, for all my attempts at sincerity! Of course I have been given no work, they never intended to give work to a mere office installation!
     And I know this. I knew this. I knew that being taken seriously was not going to happen on the first day, or the first week. I thought I could earn it, by performing outstandingly on my first assignment or project or what have you.  I did not expect to be humored and forgotten.  I thought at least I would be given an opportunity to fail before being written off. And yet, the new work comes in, and I am not given that opportunity.

     Where do I go from here? Walk back into that office tomorrow again and for the rest of the year, the rest of my life until swine becomes swan and I suddenly am one of them? I wake up in 20 years and I am lead bitch attorney, with no life and no humor, and the "me" disappears forever? And who could I be now if I just allowed myself to BE?  If I stopped trying to become others' expectations and tried instead to be the "me" I am so concerned to lose?"

These insecurities plague me constantly.  I wonder if it ever goes away...

Let's get one thing straight.

Here is a list of the most boring words in the English language.  I decided to begin my blog this way in resolute oath that none of the proceeding will ever again reappear on this site.  In other words, these sum up what exactly this blog is NOT about.  The anti-theme.


Procedure
Compiling data
Regulatory
Submission
Document review
Practitioner
Intervening
Declaration
Standardization
Municipal
Rationale
Agency
Supplementary
Inadequate record
Procurement
Document-intensive
Formalize
Accountability
Delegate
Production
Litigation
Administrative
Propriety
Deficiency
Solicitation
Authorization
Debriefing
Indeterminate
Discretion
Countenance
Prudence
Proposal
Methodology
Reasonable
Aggregate
Logistical
Iteration
Contemplated
Calculate
Integrate
Conjunction
Technical
Redacted
Issuance
Selection
Mode
Systematic
Assignment
Signatory
Criterion
Subsequent
Improper
Contemporaneous
Corrective
Management
Process
Accordance
Panel
Rule
Furnish
Scant
Merits
Damper
Generality
Analytical framework
Federal
Responsibility
Utilization
Perpetuity
Certifiable
Pleadi
Archival
Depose
Retention
Disciplinary
Structuring
Judicial
Remedial
Accounting practice
Standardization
Contract vehicle
Linkage
Administer
Compliance
Institutional
Insurable
Financial
Capitalization rates
Operations management