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Friday, December 31, 2010

It's all relative

The way I see it, if a homeless old guy yells a string of profanities at you that roughly mean "pretty," it's still a compliment.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

This is probably why I don't have kids

Whenever I hear a parent explain how it's their responsibility to protect their children from media influences, I think, "Good for you.  I can't wait to watch zombie movies with mine."

A scared kid is a prepared kid.

Monday, December 27, 2010

Breakup songs to live by

Every time I hear You Oughta Know, I imagine that Alanis Morisette crawling under her covers to hide whenever she hears it circa 2010.

First of all, it's about Dave Coulier.  UNCLE JOEY.

Second, it's just way too angry.  Way, way too angry.

Look, we've all been there.  Breakups suck.  There's no underplaying it.  But if you want to move on, obsessing about the Dave Couliers of life won't help.  Please refer back to point one if you need more clarification on this issue.

Compare the angry-psycho-chick lyrics of You Oughta Know with the following:
  • You wait a couple months then you gonna see, you'll never find nobody better than me.  (Kanye West)
  • It's just too bad you've already had the best days of your life.  (Kellie Pickler)
  • I hate to break it to you, babe, but I'm not drowning.  There's no one here to save.  (Sara Bareilles)
  • Guess what?  I'm having more fun, and now that we're done, I'm gonna show you tonight I'm alright, I'm just fine, and you're a tool, so so what.  I'm a rockstar.  (Pink)
  • No, you can't always get what you want.  But if you try sometimes, you might just find you get what you need.    (Rolling Stones)
  • I'm gone to find someone to live for in this world.  There's no light at the end of the tunnel tonight, just a bridge that I gotta burn.  (Kelly Clarkson)
  • I used to be love drunk, but now I'm hungover.  I loved you forever, but now it's over.  (Boys Like Girls) 
  • If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.  (Beyonce)
  • Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father, run for your children, for your sisters and your brothers.  Leave all your love and your longing behind, you can't carry it with you if you want to survive.  The dog days are over, the dog days are gone. (Florence and the Machine)
Really, there's no need to make someone think you're about to punch them in the nutsack or ovaries.  You might be sad, or angry, or bitter, but put down the copy of Jagged Little Pill.  It's not helping anything.

And finally, stay away from the facebook status update altogether.  You might find something empowering about the words Stronger than yesterday, now it's nothing but my way, my loneliness ain't killing me no more ... but the rest of us are making like Alanis and looking away in embarrassment.  Stop talking about the high road.  There is no high road if you're on the internet.

Just trying to be helpful.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Seriously, McLaughlin Group?

I love Sunday news programs, but there is literally nothing that enrages me more than people who take Sarah Palin seriously as a politician.

Forget every other thing about her that is ridiculous and mockable (I know it's hard).

The woman DID NOT even finish ONE TERM as Alaska's governor.

Game over.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

My friends and family: Cute as hell

I will never be her Sex and the City friend. 

- Karen, lawyer friend
emailing with me about a colleague who is objectively annoying 
and who addresses people as, "Hey lady!"
 

Glummy to me is like the doldrums from Phantom Tolbooth.  Sticky, and a nondescript color, going nowhere.  Pretty sure I made it up.  Anyway, I hope the glummies are getting less and less.

- Sandy, commiserating about bad news


Daggett County is the hub of multi-million dollar companies from what I hear -- it's the new Delaware.

- Sally, law school friend, mocking another lawyer's website,
which basically listed every county and major city in Utah



I knew I felt a little light coming upstairs.  Where are my pants?
- Pops  

You remember Alpha, don't you?  And he brought a lesbian with him.

- Auntie, introducing my brothers at a Christmas party
because Charlie is growing his hair out in an effort to look like Val Kilmer in Heat.
Right now, it's about a John Denver.




Merry Christmas, one and all.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Dirty little secret

Isn't it kind of the cliche that every lawyer really wants to be a writer?

I've wanted to be a writer ever since I was a kid.  I wrote my first book when I was in junior high and gave it to my mom for her birthday.  (She told me it sucked, in not so many words.)  I won a Reflections contest in 9th grade with a short story.  I hacked away at a never-ending novel through high school.  (A grim vampire-historical-psychodrama ... such a disaster.  And to think I thought of it pre-Twilight.)

Freshman year in college and another short story had my professor convinced I could be published ... and that I needed to seek help for an eating disorder.  (He took a lot of things in that class too seriously.)

The funny thing is, even with his encouragement, I never submitted that story anywhere.  I have no idea why.

(That's a lie, and I'll get back to it later.)

Another novel in college, and this one I actually let people read.  All of them claimed they thought it was funny, and I'm pretty sure most of them were telling the truth.  I also wrote a bunch of opinion columns for The Daily Utah Chronicle which were subsequently eaten by an InternetLand Monster.  (It happens.)

Off to law school then, even though I still knew I wanted to be a writer, even though my Pops told me that even he (the Eterna-Pragmatist) thought I could be a writer.

And guess what?  I really liked law school, even if the primary reason I went (after "I want to help people," of course) was so that I wouldn't have to be poor when I inevitably attempted the whole getting-published-thang.

During law school, I prepared myself for the onslaught of getting rejected repeatedly by signing up for more OCIs than any person in their right mind ought to.  (Actually, that was because my dad's lawyer buddy told me to -- and I quote -- "Apply for everything!  It doesn't matter!")  Forty-one first interviews later, I had two callbacks and two offers.  If that gives you any idea of how good a first impression I can make.

However, law school is not conducive to starting new writing projects and seeing them through.  I was able to edit down college-novel to a reasonable level.  (Sorry, people who had to read it when it was still 130,000 words long.  But how impressed are you that it's now 84,000?)  But mostly I started a bunch of things that remain unfinished on my loyal MacBook Pro.  I also wrote a bunch of papers and edited two textbooks, and rationalized that this was the same thing as working on my own writing.

After law school, the economy imploded and my lawyer-job was deferred until January.  My friend Paul (I'm starting to lose track of some of these pseudonyms, fyi) got me a gig working as a marketing assistant at the Deseret Book after the bar exam that fall.  (Paul also once gave a copy of my novel to one of the readers at Deseret Book -- not to consider for publication, but just to get some objective feedback.  She liked it ... though obviously the plethora of swears made it non-DB material.  Still, I like that someone who wasn't my friend and who does this for a living also thought it was funny.)  I did some research on how one goes about trying to get published.

Note that in 2002, someone was willing to help me with this process in person, and in 2009, I'm still relying on Internet to help me procrastinate the day of my ultimate rejection.  (See, I told you I'd get back to explaining my lies.)

So I moved to Fake Austin, and actually started giving it a shot.  Writing more.  Querying agents.  The whole shebang.

The funny thing is, I tend not to tell many people all this.  But then, TODITDRR (hopefully I don't have too many more opportunity to use this new abbreviation), a funny thing happened.

Two other lawyers cheerfully admitted that they also have partially finished novels on their laptops.  So apparently it's not the weird secret I thought it was.

A few days after that, my friend Rodrigo (multi-talented a-hole that he is ... but he knows I love him) got some good news from an agent.  He and I agreed to do a book swap -- the first time I've done such a thing with a Lawyer Friend.  (Not that this is a particularly big deal, it's just that we tend to be judgier than other friends.)

And then out of the many, many rejections came one request for a partial manuscript.  (Don't get too excited, it was almost six weeks ago and I've heard nothing since, so I'm guessing that's a no.)  But still, one ray of hope is sometimes all it takes to realize, Well, maybe this isn't such a disaster after all.

In case you're wondering, this blog isn't going to turn into some sort of chronicle of my adventures of publishing land rejection.  Nope, it's still the adventures of Lawyer Girl, Bad Mormon Girl, Social Anxiety Girl, Ranty McRanterton Girl, etc.

But I was just thinking, Hey.  Some people have entire websites dedicated to their potentially pathetic dreams.   

I ought to have at least one post.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Genetic heritage

I spent a lot of time over this break just hanging out with my family in Kaysville, watching movies and not doing any lawyer-work (hurray!).

Since I've been gone in Fake Texas, my parents have redecorated our house a bit.  Mostly changing the bedroom I used to share with Echo, putting in a new sectional couch and TV in our basement ... but the most interesting change is definitely the addition of various lamps or pictures that my grandparents had owned.  It's nice to be in the house I grew up in, with little additions from the house I grew up next door to.  

One of those additions is a baby stroller that my Grandma used to keep upstairs in a little nook.  My cousins and I used to play house up there, pushing the antique baby stroller around with a porcelain doll inside. 

My dad and I were reminscing about the stroller the other day--except neither one of us could remember the word "stroller." 

I came thisclose to convincing myself and him that the appropriate term was "baby basket."

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Why I hate Sex and the City*

(Super Christmassy topic, right?)

There is a common misperception out there that Sex and the City is some sort of amazing feminist achievement.  We've all heard the various arguments--that it depicted female sexuality in a more honest way.  The characters didn't allow men to rule their lives.  The most important relationships were the friendships between the four women.

Blah blah blah.

OK, here's the thing.  I have watched and laughed at Sex and the City.  Who doesn't love a few thousand puns crammed into a single 22-minute episode?

But if you wish to disagree with my assessment, please fill out this simple quiz.

What are the characters' jobs?

Carrie: ___________________
Miranda: _________________
Charlotte: _________________
Samantha: ________________





Let's assume you got it all right.  (Writer, Lawyer ... art-something followed by unpaid volunteer ... and PR person.)  You realize those are the vaguest descriptions of jobs possible, right?

Writer - of bad puns and columns that always end with, "And I couldn't help but wonder."  And who lived in a fantastic apartment and owned couture and piles of Jimmy Choos.   Financial problems?  What financial problems!  Those were resolved in a single episode, thanks to one friend giving her a diamond ring and an ex-boyfriend writing out a fat check.  Because that happens.

Lawyer - at a firm.  Of some kind.  Doing some kind of law.  With books.

Art Gallery Person - was she a buyer?  A manager?  An agent?  A broker?  WHAT?

PR Person - this really is the catch-all pop culture job.  Does anyone really know what someone in PR does?  Or in any case, what someone in TVLand PR does?  I sure don't.

I'm not saying that a woman's career should be her most defining characteristic, but if the entire conceit of your show is that these are four successful, financially independent women just living their lives ... shouldn't we have some sense of how they are successful?  How they are financially independent?

Instead, we are dropped into their lives in medias res, with no reference to how these women became successful, why they are currently successful, and how they are remaining successful in the future.  Nope, we just know that they each do "something" (or ultimately marry someone) that entitles them to spend money without any consequences, because that's what makes the show fun.

Which brings us back to this "feminist achievement" nonsense.  Look.  Sex and the City is mindless, escapist nonsense, and that's fine.  I can usually get behind that.

But when you go further and claim that Sex and the City is intellectual or cutting-edge?  That is just patently ridiculous.






* OK, brief edit.  I just wanted to say I was going to title this post "Sex and the City sucks [inappropriate euphemism]" but I refrained.  Not from using an inappropriate euphemism, because I love those.  I was seriously going to write "[inappropriate euphemism]" and at the last minute thought, "Now, that might be just a tiny bit ridiculous."  


I just wanted you guys to know that I do sometimes show restraint ... but unfortunately it's usually related to whether I think things will be actually funny, or just funny to me.  

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

I give you my solemn Internetland promise

I will never disable the comments on my blog.

I know I only get like 2 per post, but still.

What is the point of blabbing into this nothingness if you don't want people to blab back?

Monday, December 20, 2010

So what's your childhood trauma?

I think sometimes you can really only conceptualize the weirdness of your own childhood when you've been out of high school a few years.  If you think about it when you're still a teenager, you just get angsty and whiny and who likes that?

TODITDRR (I've decided to abbreviate "The other day in the doc review room" from now on) we were discussing creepy movies we watched as kids.  I am convinced that while the cartoons of our generation completely own the anime crap kids watch now.  (When Alpha was about five, I took him to see Pokemon: The Movie! only to realize about ten minutes in that Pokemon is apparently about cock-fighting and slavery.)

However ... the movies?  In that regard I will give the win to this current kiddie generation.  When I think about the movies I watched as a kid, I am certain that my parents just aimlessly wandered into Cosmos Video (rent local, folks) and grabbed whatever was sitting on the CHILDREN shelf.

For example?  When I was a first grader, all I wanted for my birthday party was The Little Mermaid, which had come out to rent a few weeks before.  Unfortunately, my dad was in charge of getting the movie, and completely underestimating Little Mermaid-mania, went down to Cosmos the afternoon of my party to find all copies checked out.

He came back with a live-action version instead.  Where the mermaid dies at the end.

Yup, I was that kid.

I also watched Scruffy, where I learned about euthanasia for the first time.  The Last Unicorn, which to this day I am convinced is the kindergarten version of Requiem for a Dream.  

And I know that whiny bitches people complain a lot about environmental messages to kids in movies like Happy Feet and Wall-E, but seriously, I chalk up all my adult tree-huggy feelings to Samson and Sally.

If you haven't seen it, Samson and Sally is about a little sperm whale whose mother is killed by whalers.  Soon after, his home is destroyed by polluters, and Samson's whole pod has to swim under an oil slick without coming up for air.  Several whales are unable to do this, go up to early and get their blowholes clogged.  The other whales are forced to continue on whilst they choke to death and sink to the bottom of the ocean.

THEN (no, it's not over) Samson decides that he needs to seek out the legendary Moby Dick, who for some reason is all drunk and existential when Samson finds him.  (There may have been sharks, too, but I've blocked the rest from memory.)  Samson ultimately accepts the futility of his existence, and the movie ends.

But honestly, I don't blame my parents.  Who expects all that when you're looking at this?:

I'm pretty sure the drawings of the musical sea-creatures is a straight-up rip-off Little Mermaid, too.  I don't remember a single song number in that damn movie.  

Not the healthiest attitude, I know

I'm going to have a few goals come January 1, 2011.  

But instead of working on them now, I figure a couple more weeks of bad habits won't kill me.

Meh.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Question for the peanut gallery

If you could punch one celebrity in the face, who would it be and why?*

I'm leaning toward John Mayer, because I think he might cry.  Several of the Teen Dads on 16 and Pregnant are tempting choices, but they aren't really celebrities.

I also kind of want to punch Mr. Schuester from Glee in the face - it's a combination of finding him really annoying, and figuring it's the closest I'll ever get get to his abs.

I haven't come to any hard conclusions just yet ... I'll let you all know when I do.





* If you're wondering what the dealio with the random questions is ... I spend a lot of time at work looking through documents and shooting the shit with my fellow dungeon dwellers.  We like to debate, and now I'm sharing the debates with you.

I'd buy your love

If you had a million dollars, what would you do with it?






(PS - That is for sure the second-best Barenaked Ladies song, the first of course being their version of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen with Sarah McLaughlin.) 

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Bad karma, coming my way ...

Fun fact: I am very prone to nausea.  Car rides, plane rides, a specific type of violence in movies (nope, not going to elaborate on what kind), carnival rides that go in a circle, heights ... basically, lots of things leave me feeling ill.

Another fun fact? Feeling vomity does not improve my math skills.

So when the craziest of all New York cabbies deposited me at La Guardia, I barely avoided throwing up all over my cute new book bag, shoved some money in his direction, stumbled out of the car ... and then, after I hauled my stuff through security, my brain caught up and I realized only I tipped my driver about 4%.  

Balls.

Monday, December 13, 2010

For reals, Jean-Pierre?

So I'm not one to use my blog to brag about my fabulous vacations (that's what Facebook is for), I must make a brief mention of my current adventures in the Big Apple.

New York is beautiful (albeit super smelly) and my Christmas spirit is officially off-the-charts. 

But while I never thought I'd agree with Dwight Shrute about something, there are far too many people on this planet.  We do need a new plague.

Also?  This place is hella confusing.  I'm staying with friends in the East Village, and I got turned around after getting off the subway tonight.  (DC Metro OWNS New York Subway, fyi.)  So I sought out a member of the fine NYPD and asked him which way was east.

I didn't ask for real directions.  I didn't ask where a particular landmark was.

I just needed to know which way was EAST.

And this fine gentleman DIDN'T KNOW. 

W.

T.

F.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

So close, yet so far ...

Does anyone else hear the opening notes of Under Pressure on the radio, and then get disappointed when it turns out it isn't Ice Ice Baby?

And I say this as someone who likes David Bowie and Queen.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Conclusively awful Christmas songs

  • Wonderful Christmastime, Paul McCartney

  • Happy Christmas (War Is Over), John Lennon and Yoko Ono

(You, like me, may have made the mistake of thinking this song is called "So This Is Christmas."  In any event, it's the creepy Christmas song with the creepy Christmas children's choir.)

  • Last Christmas, Wham (and anyone who ever covered Wham - looking at you, Taylor Swift)

  • Christmas Shoes, Newsong



Did I miss any?

Monday, December 6, 2010

Dilem

Christmas is coming, and my billable hours are nearly reached.  (Woot!)  As soon as I hit that sweet 1950, I am done working.  I don't care if the world is getting ready to explode and the only thing that could stop it would be me filing an injunction against Terraforma Explosificus.  STAYING HOME.*  Sorry, fellow Earth-dwellers.

But here's my problem.  Let's say I finish all my work this week, which I intend to.  I am out next Monday and Tuesday to go to New York to visit various homies.  I have an application for attorneys fees to finish Wednesday, Thursday, Friday (which I may actually be able to cram in this week), but then I am done for 2010. 

Do I fly home that Friday (or Saturday, or Sunday, depending on how much time I just want to spend wallowing in my apartment, drinking Diet Coke and wearing fuzzy socks) ... or do I wait, and then drive home via Las Vegas to catch the Utes versus Boise matchup in the Maaco Bowl on December 22? 

So torn. 




* I know some lawyers get what is known as a "bonus" for going above and beyond.  But the likelihood of me getting a bonus is low, the potential bonus would be relatively small, and therefore either way, I just don't care that much.  YAY FOR MORE VACATION!

Sunday, December 5, 2010

I don't like admitting this, but ...

... I think Battlestar Galactica may be too complicated for me to follow.  I'm watching the very first episode, and I already have no frakking idea what is going on.

Other than the fact that the f-word apparently evolves in the future.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Here comes Santa Claus

Hey blog readers!  In honor of the holiday season, I have three things for you: (1) A story, (2) A request, and (3) A suggestion.*

1. A story

Christmas kind of enrages me.  Sad confession: When I was 15, I had a total meltdown at Christmas.  If you ask Echo, Charlie or Alpha, this is because my parents had bought me a drumset that summer with the reminder that this would be my Christmas present, and then they stuck to it.  (Pretty sure I got pajamas, and that was it.) 

If you ask me, it was PARTLY because of the drumset fiasco, but MOSTLY because at 15, I had for the first time both the money and the inclination to get my family and friends thoughtful gifts.  Watching my younger siblings tear open their presents from me, glance at them, and toss them aside in favor of opening more presents really set me off.  (Even though, to his credit, Alpha was 3, and I probably should have guessed that even though he loved the Teletubby Collection I gave him -- all four dolls! -- he was still just 3.  But hell, I was 15, and pretty self-absorbed.  I guess I wanted him to send me a fingerpainted thank you card or something.)

But ever since that Christmas, a lot of the wonder of gift giving has kind of worn off.  This is due, in no small part, to the fact that giving people presents now feels like a job.  Sorority gift exchange!  ($50 limit, gift cards accepted.)  GUH. 

And this is nothing compared to my family.  A few weeks before Thanksgiving every year, Echo, Charlie and Alpha send me lists of stuff they want, and demand the same from me.  Every year, I try to resist, and tell them to just buy me anything and I'll like it.  Every year, their first-rate pestering abilities wear me down.

So about a week ago, I begrudgingly sent Charlie a list of some pretty wide-ranging stuff - movies, books, CDs, articles of clothing, accessories, games.  I figured, the more stuff he had to choose from, the more likely it was that I would be at least semi-surprised.  I told him to share the list with Echo and Alpha, and PLEASE, let it be a surprise from here on out.

One hour later, he texted me back:

What color socks?

Seriously, Charlie?  YOU CAN'T PICK OUT SOCKS BY YOURSELF?

Ahem. 

(See why I melted down on Drumset Christmas?)

2. A request

So at work we're doing a Sub for Santa Extravaganza.  I say Extravaganza because when a law firm plans it, it's bound to get Out Of Control.  Perhaps more on that later, perhaps not.

Anyway, one of my girls is 10 and wants a "bike or talking doll."  I feel like these things are different enough that what she really means is "bike AND talking doll," but felt guilty writing it. 

Here's the request, for readers out there with daughters/younger sisters/students/nieces of this age: What the hell talking doll do I get her?  The bike is easy, it has ages right on the box.  I have read that Mittens Fluff N Stuff is the Tickle Me Elmo of this year, but doesn't she seem a bit young for a 10 year old?  Or is 10 young, and my sense of childhood age is skewed from reading Harry Potter?  Plus, she doesn't talk. 



There are all those baby dolls that talk, but they look cheap and seem like they're for younger kids.  I refuse to get her a talking Bratz, because it offends my feminist sensibilities.  (Honestly, what does a talking Bratz have to say for herself?  "I can't wait for my welfare to come in!" and "My STD panel came back negative!")  And a talking Jessie or Woody from Toy Story seems way too specific.  If a kid wanted a talking Buzz Lightyear, wouldn't she have just said so?

Is there some awesome talking doll out there that I don't know about?  Please help, I'm at a loss.

3. A suggestion

Every year to get in the holiday spirit, I read What Child Is This? by Caroline B. Cooney.  (Yup, the lady who wrote The Face on the Milk Carton.)  Is it cheesy and manipulative?  Absolutely.  Also adorable and heart-warming.  Get on your library waiting lists now, people!  (Or just buy it, since it's like $6, and you will love it for years to come.)








* You: Hey Blogwriter, those aren't really things for us.  Number two is definitely a thing for you.

Me: Shut it.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Awkward sex

In honor of the recent Thanksgiving Break, where I spent the vast majority of my time sitting around, drinking Tab (you're missing out if you don't know why that is awesome) and watching movies with my family, I have decided to bring you my personal top ten list of Most Awkward Sex Scenes in Film.*

(PS, I know the title of this blog post is sheer numbers bait.  Judge away.)

10. Righteous Kill

Aside from the fact that both Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino spend the movie trying to pretend they were 15-20 years younger (seriously, isn't there a retirement age in the NYPD?), this film also features Robert DeNiro fulfilling the rape fantasies of a much younger female psychiatrist.

That's the picture of mental health.

9. Risky Business

The sex montage included positions on a staircase.  A STAIRCASE.  And no one even threw down a yoga mat first.

8. A History of Violence

Not only was there a staircase sex scene (complete with shot of resultant bruising - seriously, YOGA MATS, people) but a scene where the wife dresses up like a cheerleader for her husband since they never got to have sex in high school.  

Can I mention I watched this with my dad?

7. Munich

Just a thought - if you can't stop thinking about murdered Olympic athletes and all the international crimes you committed to avenge them, maybe you should go make yourself some herbal tea.

6. [I'm saving this spot for Breaking Dawn: Part 1.  I've just got a feeling about it.]

5. Brokeback Mountain

It's not just the fact that Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger are basically beating the crap out of each other before they start making out.  It's mostly the fact that Heath Ledger hocks a loogie into his palm before they move from making out into more scandalous territory.

From Diego: "Seriously, so gross.  And not to be tmi, but that was not going to cut it."

From Rick: "I was living in New York when it came out, and all my friends were gushing about how realistic it was--'Of course that's how it would have to be, for them to finally be together!  It would be passionate and angry!'  I was like, 'Um, no.  That would have forced both characters back in the closet back in the closet for at least three years.'"

4. Avatar

I'm not sure which is worse.

A. Ponytails.

B.  The fact that Pocahontas-Stands-With-A-Fist-Crysta's parents can smell her de-virginized status the next day.

I might be leaning toward A.

3. Atonement

I try to refrain from broad generalizations (no, I don't), but whenever people start blathering about how Americans are so uptight when it comes to sexuality, I just want to point to this movie as Exhibit A of why they are wrong.

Scene: Two hot British people are going at it against a bookcase in a library.  Girl's creepy younger sister walks in on them, says, "Cecilia!" like the shocked ghost of a 90-year-old Victorian lady.  (If you saw it, you know exactly what I mean.)

What an American would do: Jump apart.  Guy scampers off.  Girl, faced with the prospect of forever traumatizing her younger sibling, takes the tyke aside and explains that sometimes grown ups do stuff, nothing scary about it, no biggie, but she needs to forget what she saw and never speak of it again.

What a Briton would do (and did, in the movie): Sloooooowly disengage.  It's like the little girl is a T-Rex and they figure if they move gradually enough, she won't see them.  Straighten clothes.  Snootily toss heads.  Go back to dinner.  Pretend nothing happened, but skip the crucial step of impressing on the little girl that NOTHING HAPPENED.

Sorry kids, but the real reason for all the tragic misunderstandings in Atonement is a lack of sisterly candor.


This is not normal behavior after a pre-teen catches you doing the nasty.

2. Enemy At The Gates

It really doesn't get any worse than dirty Soviet soldiers getting horizontal in a sewer, surrounded by other sleeping dirty Soviet soldiers, pausing only briefly when somebody walks by.  

Really.  They kept going after that.   

1. Watchmen

You know what I'm talking about -- the three minute sex scene set to Hallelujah (great song, uncomfortable usage) that included thigh-high hooker boots.  It's like a thousand horny nerds got together and decided how this scene should be shot.  I loved reading Watchmen, and I still like the movie, but seriously.  The spaceship shooting flames at the ... uh ... crucial moment?  

Keep in mind that this movie also prominently featured a giant blue glowing shlong, so the fact that this scene prompted the most giggles from the audience really says something.







* I would like to thank Diego, Sandy, Rick, Anna, Julie and that weird guy who kept suggesting Short Bus (gross, no) for helping me to refine this list during Diego's birthday party. 

For the record, nothing that was actually gag-inducing was considered because (a) I probably haven't seen them and (b) this list is about awkwardness, not grossness.  If I go to a mainstream film and then am confronted with an unrealistic, bizarre, overly long or overly detailed love scene, that's awkward.  If I go rent some smut and some smut happens, that's just a given.  For similar reasons, comedies were not included, because if awkwardness is the point (ahem, people who kept suggesting Bruno and Superbad and MacGruber) then it's not really awkward, is it?

Ponder that, my Zen friends.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Why I love BYU fans

Driving home after the game yesterday, Kate's husband Ryan turned on sports radio so we could listen to a few recaps.  For the most part, all the analysis came down to whether Utah would be able to hack it in the Pac-12 next year based on tonight's performance (irrelevant) and BYU fans complaining about a questionable call (typical).*

But my very favorite debate was who was truly the better team - Utah or BYU?

Utah with its 10-2 record and a (admittedly close) win over BYU ... or BYU, with a 6-6 record, and a loss to Utah. 

So tough to figure out.

As the debate raged on about physicality, statitistics, aggressiveness, attitude, whose team was trending up versus down, and who just "looked better" on the field, I began to wish there were a way to determine which of two teams was superior to the other.

Perhaps there should be a way to assess the skill level, leadership, ingenuity, toughness and cohesiveness of two different groups of athletes.  Maybe we could assign points to different actions, and give a certain amount of time (just throwing it out there - four fifteen minute quarters maybe) to see who achieves the most points.

Seems fair to me.








* Before you get all outraged and send me links to the instant-replay, I just want to say this: Sports are not scientific.  Let's assume the call was wrong.  Guess what?  Mistakes get made, teams win and lose over bad luck, and it all evens out in the end.  Cough cough Washington State?  Yeah.  So please, keep my blog a NO BITCHING ZONE.

(Except for my bitching.)

(OK, you can bitch.  But minimal pro-BYU bitching, please.  There's already too much of that in the world.)

And as for the possibility the call was right?  Look.  The calls are made on the field.  If they are challenged, there has to be incontrovertable evidence that the call was wrong or the call stands.  The call was challenged, and there was not sufficient evidence to overturn it.  If you want to live in a world of activist referees, fine, but personally, I want to live in a world where our judges call it like they see it, and restrain  themselves based on the parameters they are given.  Liberal hippies.

Finally, there is also the luck factor.  Yes, a punt-interception-touchdown drive is a bit of a fluke.  But to that I just want to say, in general, the classics had it right: Fortes fortuna adiuvat.  Suck it, monkeys.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Yankee Doodle Sighting Number 2

He's back!

Different sports coat - black velvet this time.  Different riding boots - black leather.  Different riding pants -black again.  His vest was black-and-silver and the tie MATCHED.

I know Thanksgiving is on Thursday, but this really might be the high point of my week.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

At least I'm not a giant bug

A few days ago at work, my co-worker Sam and I were down in the doc review room, as usual.

I remarked that I have been feeling a bit existential lately.

And Sam said, "Do you ever read Dinosaur Comics?"

And I said yes.

And Sam said, "I read one the other day that said, 'This is the youngest you will ever be, for the rest of your life.'"

Friday, November 19, 2010

Uh, you're welcome






(If you've already seen it, I know I'm late to the party.  Doesn't change the fact that this is a stunning piece of art, though.)

Do you know why Dr. House is special?

Because he's good at reading people.

And other people are not good at reading people.

Which makes Dr. House even more special.

And people who try to be Dr. House even more lame. 

This is why whenever I see the trailer for Love and Other Drugs (which I feel would be more appropriately titled, "Pretty People With Emotional Problems"), I am reminded that there is nothing more annoying that someone attempting psychoanalysis.

Yup, if you call a girl by the wrong name repeatedly, she will totally put out.  If you are obviously phony, but bring a woman flowers, you will be rewarded with improved financial dealings.  And if you tell a guy that you're psychologically damaged, he will mature and stop being a bad person, and then fall in love with you.

Because everyone is dumber than you, and they will all fall for second-rate psychological tricks.

I hope living by these theories works out for everyone.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Dear professionalism brownie,

Thank you for being chocolately and delicious, and getting me through a five-hour lecture on being a good lawyer, complete with hypotheticals about soliciting clients (not applicable to me), contingency fees (not applicable to me), communicating effectively with clients (not applicable to me), being cordial with opposing counsel (not applicable to me), taking the high road when confronted with dirty tricks (not applicable to me) and maintaining a respectful decorum toward the court (also, not applicable to me).

Sure am glad we were separated into specialized "breakout groups" and I got to attend the course with other first-year associates in medium-to-large-sized law firms and talk about how to deal with dissociating partners (shockingly, not applicable to me).

Because at least that room had the brownies.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Dressing fail

Yesterday I was pretty stoked about my outfit.  Usually I shuffle into work wearing my loosest pants, flattest shoes, most casual-but-still-kinda-business shirt, and my hair full of dry shampoo product.  Basically, exactly what you'd expect from someone so lazy that she regularly arrives at work ten minutes after rolled out of bed.  (Yay for a 3 minute commute!)

But yesterday, I put on a dark gray pencil skirt, white ruffled tuxedo blouse that buttoned to the neck, the fire engine red cardigan I bought this weekend (Yay for spending your way to happiness!) and my yellow and brown bootie sandals.

But every time I went to the bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, I kept thinking something was wrong.

Around my fourth trip to the restroom (I drink a lot of Diet Coke at work), I figured out what it was.

Keep scrolling ...


















Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Another thing (or five) I don't get

So the puppy crusade is back up and running.  (For those of you who don't already know, here's some background: Part One, Part Two.)  (And for those of you too lazy to click on links, like moi, here's the short version: I wanted to get a puppy.  I wanted to get a rescue organization puppy.  I have been deemed unacceptable by several rescue organizations.  Between that and other life-defeating events, I have put the puppy search on indefinite hold.)

Anyway, one of the organizations I applied with months ago has now called me.  (Ohhh, so I'm not incapable of love now, am I?)  They have recently rescued a few dogs from a puppy mill in the midwest, and two of the dogs were knocked up.  Would I mind filling out another application?

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  When you try to pretend that getting a dog is the equivalent of getting a kid, it makes people not like you.  I could go get a puppy tomorrow if I wanted, but I want to be a "good person" and get one that needs a home.  That does not make it okay for you to ask if you can come to a home investigation to determine whether I'm cooking meth in my bathtub.

(Ahem.  I totally filled out the application, and I totally agreed to the home inspection if I were deemed an appropriate potential puppy-mom.  What can I say, I'm a conformist.)

Also?  Two things that will completely negate my claims of wanting to be a "good person."  I want a puppy.  I don't want a full grown dog.  I have no real reason for this preference other than puppies are cute, and I don't want to fix another person's mistake.  (Why is a four-year-old dog now in need of a home?  I'm going to assume that the dog was poorly trained or poorly treated by its previous owners, and I am going to back away from that situation slowly.  Don't care if that makes me a bad person.)

Yes, I know puppies are more work than an already potty-trained dog.  Do not care.  Being a lawyer is harder than working at Target, but you don't see me putting on a red smock every day.

Secondly, I don't want to pay a lot for a rescue dog.  I know this is arbitrary, and once again I do not care.  But the fact that you want to charge me $650 for a puppy that had to be rescued from some awful puppy mill?  Are you serious?  I could get a non-inbred dog for that kind of dough.  I would be perfectly happy to reimburse your cost of housing and feeding the dog, pay for any vet bills that were incurred, and I'd even give a donation to your organization so you can continue the good work you are doing.  But if you want people to give you donations, and preferably continue giving on a biannual basis, you need to not be the kind of jerks who charge $650 for a homeless puppy.

(For the record, if I am selected to take one of the puppies home, I will likely pay without complaint.  See conformist, above.)

But as I was on the phone with the Puppy Person, she asked me about my schedule, and I told her that I work a lot.  "But I can adjust," I said, and explained how said adjustment would occur.  (More coming home for lunch, more working at my apartment, more hiring a dog walker.)  "Obviously, I don't do that right now.  But I'd change my schedule if I got the dog."

"Oh, you'll change your schedule, all right," Puppy Person laughed in that condescending-obnoxious way people have when they talk about how hard it is to care for a small creature, be it dog or baby.

I smiled (even though she obviously couldn't see me, I feel like people can hear the smile in your voice, but rarely the phoniness behind it) and said, "Yes, well, I imagine."

Yes, if I had a dog or a kid or a GigaPet, my life would change.  For example, now I'm free.  My apartment is clean and full of sharp edges and no poop and very little beeping.  If I had a dog or child or electronic version of either, I imagine I might cover some sockets and sleep less and gain a disturbing level of comfort with poop.

But guess what?  I AM NOT GOING TO DO ANY OF THAT YET.  I have met people who prepare for their future babies (and presumably, people like Puppy Person, who expect me to already have a box full of chew toys somewhere even though I don't have a pet) and I will never cease to be disturbed by it.  Shocking, I know, but most of these pre-baby preparers revealed their proclivities at church.

Case one: A girl who said it was important to prepare for motherhood no matter what stage of life we are in, including the "not-going-to-be-a-mom-within-the-next-five-years-guaranteed"* stage of life.  Multi-vitamins, I guess.

Case two: A Relief Society** president who asked if there were girls who would volunteer to babysit for moms in the family ward that meets in our church house.  Even though I dislike most children*** (don't care, judge away) I was fully prepared to sign that volunteer sheet.  Until the R.S. Pres added, "For those of you who want an opportunity to put your mothering skills to use.  It pays $7 an hour."

Bitch, please.  I will watch kids for the good of humanity, but not for minimum wage.  And if you ever say "mothering skills" to a roomful of single, childless women again, I'm going to go get my ovaries removed in protest.

Anywho.

Cross your fingers that the home inspection goes well, will ya?



* Oh, so you think that's not a guarantee?  Well, it's pretty dang close.  Forget about dating and engagement periods; someone as emotionally retarded as me will need 3 years minimum prior to any reproduction to make sure a marriage sticks.  Also see aversion to poop, above, and strong preference for child-free vacations (not previously mentioned).

** Relief Society is a church meeting, kind of like Sunday School, for adult women in the Mormon church.  It's supposed to be service-oriented, and usually is.  There are also cutesy fonts and centerpieces and the kind of passive-aggressiveness that only a religious organization can foster.  In short, a bit of a mixed bag.

*** DUH, I plan to like mine, assuming I ever spawn/adopt.  Jeez, you people are so quick to judge.  (In case you can't hear the smile through my typing, it's there, and completely sincere.)

Monday, November 15, 2010

Question for the peanut gallery

Does it say more about the state of television programming today, or my own obsessive one-track-brain behavior, that given the opportunity to catch up on precious TV time this weekend, I just re-watched The Walking Dead again?




(Yes ... "re-watched" and "again" were both necessary for accuracy in that sentence.)



Feel free to vote in my imaginary poll:

A. The Walking Dead is the bomb.com!  What else would you watch?  And even if you could think of something, why stray from the things you love?  Order that same salad at Cafe Rio AGAIN!

B.  It might be time to branch out.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Thanksgiving Movie

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, and I have always regretted not having a movie for it.* 

Today, all that changed.



(Some cannibalism included.)




* A movie on Thanksgiving is not the same as a Thanksgiving-movie.  Hence, the time the whole extended family gathered 'round the television to watch Mel Gibson lose his shit Revolution-style was merely a movie-on-Thanksgiving.  

Other things I should have been

1. Hair stylist

2. Pastry chef

3. Taxi driver

4. EMT

5. Massage therapist

6. PhD student (I could have been that one forevvvvvvver)

7. Painter.  Not like an artist, but someone who goes in and paints someone's walls.

8. Dental hygienist

9. Landscaper

10. Proofreader

11. Typist

12. Sample maker

13. Flight attendant

14. Glass blower

15. Vet tech





I still like being a lawyer, but sometimes it's nice to think about what I'm going to do for my second career.  When I turn 30.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

And I can't be the only one ...

I get some serious ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!s on my gaydar whenever I hear a guy start gushing about Jimmer Fredette.

Perhaps unrelated, perhaps not, I also get ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!s on my pompousdar whenever someone starts talking about "Jack Kennedy."  As if they were close, personal friends.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The streak

Things have been going kind of meh for me the last month, between problems with work, family, friends, terrible losses to TCU, personal whatnot and arbitrary rent increases.  

But today, I got three pieces of good news all in a row.  I'm thinking that instead of worrying about jinxing it, I'm going to brag like hell in hopes of making it last even longer.  There will be many exclamation points.  Go team good news!  

New work assignments!  

Etsy deliveries!  

Netflix!  INSTANT STREAMING!

Happy non-rejecty email referencing potential personal and professional development!*





* Yeah, that I'm still afraid of jinxing.  Keepin' it vague.  Not nearly as confident as all the !'s would imply.


Monday, November 8, 2010

Don't buy all the hotdogs, Liz

Like most people, I hate unfairness.

Today I found out that my rent will be increasing a minimum of $60 a month (with a new 12 month lease) or $95 a month (with a new six month lease).  This is justified by the fact that my apartment "should" (in someone's mind) be rented for $1100 a month, so I am still getting a discount.  

The thing is, there is no way there is enough demand for apartments in my building to justify $1100 a month.  There's barely enough to justify what I currently pay, which I know is probably too much, but I love living within walking distance of my firm.  My building isn't full, and it seems like everywhere I go there are "For Rent" signs.  

This rent increase is predicated on one thing, and one thing only: people hate moving.  

For example, I finally have everything in my apartment exactly the way I like it.  My TV, my books, my desk, my bed, my couches, my decorations.  It took me ten damn months to get this place in order.  Plus, if I move, I will also probably have to hire movers* over Christmas, since my lease ends at the beginning of January. 

But I really ... really ... hate the idea of paying more rent on an already-overpriced apartment.   

So, I figure I could cancel my cable and continue living here.

Or move on principle, to an apartment that will almost certainly be cheaper.  

Or, out of spite, buy a condo and stop throwing rent away.  (Spoiler alert: I do not want the responsibility of home ownership, and am not entirely convinced that real estate is a good investment.  This scenario is therefore extremely unlikely.)

Any thoughts you all have on this matter will be appreciated.  I have until the end of the week (classy, apartment managers) to decide.    




* My dad suggested, once again, that I call the Elders' Quorum President and ask for church help if I decide to move.  Unfortunately, since I haven't been assigned a home teacher in going on eleven months, that seems like a dead end even before I begin.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

In which I lecture all of you, though none of you likely deserve it

Today's game was not a fun experience.

And I know it sucks to watch good players make bad mistakes.

But while everyone needs to be able to express their frustration with a bad play (brief yelling, groaning, the occasional Gob Bluth "Come on!"), if you plan to boo your own team, just get the hell out of the stadium.



Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Who knew? I miss working at Deseret Book

I was back in Utah for a few days to be sworn in as a proud member of the Utah Bar Association.  (Yeah, basically, when I was a junior highschooler, imagining myself published and totally wealthy by 26, what I really meant was LAWYER WITH DUAL ADMISSION.) 

I love "Austin" in the Fall.  85 degrees and blue skies.  Palm trees inside, autumn-scented Bath and Body Works candles inside. (Uh, yeah, autumn has a scent.  And it comes in Bath and Body Works candles  Can't believe you didn't know that.)

But being back home - even wearing my orange coat from last fall - made me very nostalgic for when my life was broke and awesome.

I worked in a super laid back office.  Everybody was chill, even if most of them were BYU fans.  (And one of them sang at me once.  Scratch that.  Several times.)  I always finished work by 5 pm, and never felt compelled to take anything home.  I made just enough money to justify eating overly expensive sandwiches and soup every day at lunch.  (Miss you, Hagermans.)  Several of my law school homies worked just around the corner.  The boy I was dating lived within walking distance of my office.  Going to a Ute game didn't involve packing and airports.

I have very mixed feelings about living in Austin.  I love most of the people I work with, even if only a few of them are chill.  I almost never finish work by 5 pm, and I always feel like I have to do something at home.  I make more money, but I pay more taxes, and there are no fun places to walk to lunch, so mostly I drink a can of V8 (which I hate) and a can of Slim Fast (which I hate more).  I do not feel that this routine has resulted in a smaller ass size, and now I resent the case of Slim Fast I bought at Costco.  (But at least I'm prepared for the zombie apocalypse.)

I love my apartment, but I don't love my ward.  (Sorry, ward.  It's not me, it's you.)  I love sleeping with my windows open in November, I hate that there's no snow.  

Being a lawyer is not at all what I thought it would be like.  And I was expecting it to not meet my expectations. 

I'm going back again in a few days for the TCU Blackout game and to hang out with my friends and family this weekend.  (Please don't rob my awesome apartment.)  I hope I'm less nostalgic, I hope I have some magic epiphany about what I need to do to get my life in order.  I hope we kick the hell out of TCU, and I have at least three excuses to put on a scarf. 

If any two of those things happens -- particularly the beating TCU part -- I will be completely content.  For at least another week. 

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Learn from my mistakes

When you volunteer to do things with crazy people, and you tell them you don't want your personal cell phone number given out to strangers all over the state, OF COURSE they will go ahead and give out your cell phone number.

And then blame it on some other crazy person. 

Monday, November 1, 2010

Come on, Gift Horse, open up ...: Addendum

I realized, thanks to a comment by Hula Buns and an email from the Mormon Child Bride, that I failed to fully explain the rest of my prom dress story.

First, I did get the dress back, and it is residing safely in my closet back at my parents' house.  I'm not sure why I'm saving it -- maybe someday I'll get really crafty and one-dress-a-day-it into a cute little cocktail number.  Maybe I'll try to force it on my daughter when she's of prom-going age.  (Hi, Lola!)

Second, the hideous t-shirt sleeves were not permanent.  It was a bolero, or little jacket, that was off-white and did not match the dress.  And unlike most hideous boleros which sport cap sleeves, this one had 3-Hanes-to-a-ziploc-bag length sleeves.  Ugh.

Now, given that the addition was not permanent, you might be wondering, "Well jeez, what's the big deal?"  Which brings me to my third, and really most insulting, point.

When the dress was returned, it was returned with the offensive bolero -- a not-so-subtle hint that perhaps I should think about covering my smutty little shoulders in the future.

Come on, Gift Horse, open up ...

Sometimes, you live to regret any nice thing you ever offer to do for anyone.

Right now, I am thinking of a pro bono project that I took on at work.  (Patience, saved drafts file ...)  But I'm also thinking of an incident that happened my freshman year of college.

I was off living in the dorms at the Blessed U, and my sister Echo was getting ready for prom.  She had a friend in her group who needed a dress.

Here's a weird thing about me - I am very "what's mine is yours" 95% of the time.  You want the shirt off my back?  Take it.  (But seriously, give me time to do some crunches before I have to walk home in my almost-altogether.)

Contrast this with Echo, who is 95% of the time "keep your filthy mitts off my stuff."  In fact, the vast majority of our fights growing up involved the fact that (A) we shared a room, (B) I was always willing to share with Echo, but she never wanted anything of mine, and (C) Echo was never willing to share with me, but I was always more impressed with her shirts than I was with my own.  (Now that we're grown ups, and live in different states, Echo is much more willing to lend out, and also much more impressed with my stuff acquisition abilities.  Ah, maturity.) 

But on this one occassion, because Echo's friend needed a dress, she finally wanted something of mine.  (Cue the Mr. Burns finger-tapping.) 

I went to my junior prom in what is probably the Top Three of Greatest Dresses I've Ever Worn.  (Top spot still reserved for Fantastic Boob Dress Tri Delt Formal Spring 2005.  I hope that's the dress I'm wearing in heaven.)  (Hey Tri Delts out there, do any of you have a picture of that dress?  I need proof of hotness for when I'm old.) 

Ahem.  Back to the prom dress. 

Unlike FBDTDFS05, the prom dress was super wholesome.  Think the dress on the left, cream and gold brocade, floor-length.  Yes, technically sleeveless, but a high boat neck and not particularly form-fitting.  I bought it because it made me feel like a seventeen-year-old Jackie Kennedy.

And Echo's friend had seen the Jackie O Prom Dress in my closet while Echo was trying on her slightly-less-wholesome-Scarlett-O'Hara-at-seventeen dress.  (Man, we had good taste in dresses.)

So Echo called me and asked if it would be okay if her friend wore my prom dress to their dance.

I'll be honest - I briefly hesitated.  At nineteen, that prom dress was the most expensive thing I'd ever bought, and yes, I knew it was unlikely I'd ever wear it again (although I did recycle it for one more Tri Delt formal), I was squeamish.  So Echo piled it on, explaining how her friend's parents couldn't afford to buy her a dress (I was less impressed there, since both Echo and I had to pay for our own prom dresses, but whatever), and please, please, please be a good Christian, okay?

So I relented and said of course her friend could wear my awesome dress to prom. 

Fast forward three weeks, when all the little Davis Darts get their dance picture packets delivered to 8th period.  I was home from college that weekend, and so I was there to see Echo's prom pictures. 

"Oh Echo, you look so prett ... what the hell did that girl do to my dress?"

Sitting on the far left of the photo was Echo's friend.

Wearing the awesome dress.

And some damn t-shirt.

"Oh ..." Echo said awkwardly.  "Um, her parents wouldn't let her wear a sleeveless dress.  So her mom made that for it."

Cue the slow burn.  "Why didn't she just give it back then?" I said through gritted teeth. 

Echo rolled her eyes.  "What does it even matter?"

"It matters because that dress is perfection, these people were too cheap to buy their kid her own dress, and they're judging me for owning a sleeveless dress by putting that hideous THING over it, and I was just trying to be a good CHRISTIAN, damn it!" I yelled.

"Dude, chill out," Echo replied calmly.  "Just be glad our parents never burkafied you for Prom."

Wiser words were never spoken.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Just brings out the folksy in me

I don't know what it is about sub par horror movies, but they really bring out my twang.  "Get up, son!  Them zombies are fixing to butter your grits!"

And I don't even know what that means.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Yup, this is how it is


Once upon a time, I hated it when lawyers would tell me I shouldn't be a lawyer.

But now that I am one ...

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Some days are very special days

So, one of my bigger regrets in life is that I have not made this blog anonymous enough.  I mean, yeah, I post under a nickname a grand total of TWO people have ever used to address me in real life.  And I claim I live with Austin when I clearly don't.  (I know, some of you are shocked, right?)

But figuring out who I am and where I work is probably pretty damn easy for a dedicated little stalker.  I didn't grasp the "anonymity" thing for at least a few months of blogging.  I've made the mistake of linking this to my facebook profile a time or two.  And yeah, I've mentioned the law school I graduated from about a gazillion times.

All this adds up to the fact that when I have weeks like the last three, I can't regale you all with my work stories.  And seriously, there is nothing I would love more than to tell InternetLand about right now than ________________________ (censored to ensure my sound financial future).

However, I give you my solemn oath that when I quit/am fired, I will bust out all the big guns.  (Read: Saved Drafts.)  And you will love it.  No exaggeration.  

Until then, I would prefer to keep this job that causes me so much grief and consternation, so my lips are zipped.




And now a brief tangent.

If it is my job to make sure that my home teachers* meet me, contact me, and come see me, is it now my clients' jobs to make sure that I pursue their legal representation?





And another tangent.

To all of you who have been putting up with my bitchy self over these last few weeks, God bless and keep you.  From the kindly amusing (claims from Pedro to have found a fortune cookie fortune reading, "Your friend Ru will soon be happy again") to the gut-bustingly hilarious (one extremely versatile word: gooberdouche) and everything in between, your encouragement and friendship has meant the world to me, both in real life and internet forms.  So who says that technology is de-humanizing?  Hugs and kisses and polaroid pictures all around!



(And I officially promise to never be such a cheesy blogger again.)





* In the Mormon church, congregants are assigned to visit each other once a month to foster brotherly love and ensure that everyone is getting their recommended dose of Christian charity.  Home teachers are the guys who come and visit you, visiting teachers are the ladies who come to visit you.  When you're a grown up Mo-Mo with a spouse and kids and all that jazz, this means going to lunch or having a BBQ where the funness level will range from "Not at all" and "Holy cow, I love this person."  

When you're a single LDS gal or guy, this means a lot of awkward encounters and blocked cell phone numbers.  

Monday, October 25, 2010

The worst

Ugh, Netflix, you suck.

What is the point of having all this snazzy technology if you won't stream Legion direct to my TV?  (The description is so intriguing ... "In the wake of an apocalypse of major proportions ...")

Stop retrieving and start ... ugh, I can't think of an appropriate verb starting with re-.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

A terrifying lesson for us all.

Yesterday I learned that tarantulas can walk on water.



And that's its leisurely pace.  Apparently they can "swim" even faster than they run.

Last night I went to see Paranormal Activity 2, and it was delightfully creepy.

But the thing that scared me most about going to bed afterward was the thought of spiders that are equally dexterous on sea as on land.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Raise the roof

Basically, I kick ass.

Yeah, that's a crane in that picture.  Putting a roof on a house.



While my personal contribution was to merely install the hurricane clips (because hurricanes are so common in "Austin") and caulk (I love saying "caulk," for all the immature reasons you might imagine) the baseboards, I feel like I earned my Amish Merit Badge today.


Oh yeah, I also helped build a wall.  It was totally a load-bearing wall.*



*(No it wasn't, I'm just trying to talk big.)

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Sweatshirt love

Hey Ute fans, if you happen to have an excuse to be in Salt Lake City tomorrow, it's Fan Appreciation Day at the Bookstore, which means 25% off U of U gear.

The last time I was in SLC, I picked up a zip hoodie that feels like I'm being hugged when I put it on.  Sooooo soft.  Sooooo fuzzy.


I know I kinda sound like one of those blogger girls who waxes poetic about lacy underskirts and knitted pinkie warmers (and secretly hopes for some tasty corporate sponsorship to come her way), but for shizzle.  (And I never say "for shizzle" lightly.)

Sometimes you just need your wardrobe to take care of you.  I basically plan to live in this zip hoodie all weekend.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Angry girl music ... but maybe not THAT angry

Am I the only one who hears Carrie Underwood's "Undo It" and thinks, "I wonder if this time instead of saying 'I wanna uha-uh-uh-uhu-undo it!' she'll say, 'I wanna ah-ah-ahaha-aha-abortion!"

Seriously, that may be kinda dark, but that's exactly what it sounds like to me.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Hold the phone

Um, how did I just barely realize that Courtney McCallister from Jack and Bobby (now instantly streaming on Netflix, wahoo) is Megan The Secretary on Mad Men?

I'll be honest, I like her a little more.  Not as much as Dr. Faye, or even Allison.  But totally more than that dippy Midge.

Aspiring to Banana Republic

You know those people who can find a "darling"* sweater or dress or pillow for $6 somewhere?

I am not one of those people.

I walk into a store, any store, and suddenly the shelves and racks are exploding with merchandise I can't begin to fathom sorting.  I don't want to bother finding something that fits, much less something that's cute, much less something that's cute and inexpensive.  I may love H&M, etc. but it does not love me.

And you know those people who feel okay buying a hoodie -- a HOODIE -- for $79.99 because it came from J.Crew or something?

I am not one of those people, either.  If something costs more than $50, it better (a) be wearable to work AND church or (b) be wearable every single day (ie, jeans ... or possibly the Holy Grail of bras, but I haven't found one yet).

In law school, my friend Julie and I used to talk about how we wished we could be the kind of people who would feel comfortable buying something at Banana Republic without feeling guilty ... but that's where we'd always stop.  I want to reach the level of financial stability where I can buy a nice dress or pair of work pants, or even a glittery headband (we all have to go nuts now and again), but still have the good sense to run screaming from the idea of buying a $40 candle (Anthropologie) or $400 dress (Barneys, Saks).

The really sad thing is, now that I'm semi-Banana-Republic-secure, I'm trying to be fiscally conservative and junk. 

You really can't win. 



* I'm trying to get over my hatred of the word "darling."  I now officially hate it less than people who find $6 dresses.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

What the WHAT?

Are you SERIOUS, Don?

I know I should know better, but ...

I love Halloween.   In the big lead up to the old 3-1, I tend to have a few scary movie marathons.

This year, however, these movie marathons are taking place mostly by myself, in my apartment.

I called Diego today in an effort to get out of my previously-mentioned funk.  "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Watching The Ring," I replied, my eyes glued to the screen as Naomi Watts confronts the suicidal horsebreeder who is about to electrocute himself in a bathtub.  (Sorry ... uh, spoiler alert?  At what point do you have to warn people about upcoming plot points in a movie that's nearly 10 years old?)

"Uh ... are you sure that's a good idea?" Diego said hesitantly.

"Why?"

"I don't know.  Watching scary movies alone in an apartment?  When you're depressed?"

I shrugged.  "Well, it's just The Ring.  Not Sophie's Choice."

"Are you going to go see Paranormal Activity 2 this week?"

"Heck yes."

"Remember how you had to sneak into your thirteen-year-old brother's room after watching the first one?  Who is going to convince you there isn't a demon ghostie in your apartment when you live alone?"

Another shrug.  "I don't know, I live across the street from a Catholic church.  I could just run over there where it's safe."

"I think maybe you should go rent Hocus Pocus."



To do this week:*

1. Give blood

2. Volunteer at the Habitat for Humanity build site

3. Work on my pro bono cases




* There's this theory that when you feel crappy about yourself, you can get over it by helping others.  I am not sure that is true.  I cleaned the Ronald McDonald House last weekend, and I can tell you, I was still depressed, and stinky.

I'll let you know how it goes this week.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Oh law students ... what will you think of next?

This one is the funniest, in my opinion:


But if you watch this one, you might catch a tiny glimpse of your friendly blogger girl ....

Friday, October 15, 2010

Who likes a sad girl on the internet?

Answer: No one.

Sorry for the lack of posts lately ... things have been rough lately for me at work/at home/in my head, take your pick.  And when I am all focused on my problemos, I struggle to come up with amusing stories for my blog.  (Or, at least, appropriate amusing stories.  I mean, lots of things still happen to me on a daily basis that I find funny, but sometimes that's not a funny-ha-ha, and I don't want to bring the party down.)

Anywho, since I don't want to get out of my blogging habit while I'm Mayor of Mopetown, I decided to post some fun videos.

When I was a 3L, I helped our SBA officers to make some video advertisements for Barrister's Ball, which is kind of like a law school prom.  Here's the first one ... pretty sure I've got a creative credit on this one.

Enjoy.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Color me shocked

So the TV show about the Supreme Court Justice who steps down from the bench and starts his own law firm to effect MORE change than he could in public service was just canceled?

Is true artistry dead in America?

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Quarterlife Crisis

Anyone have any recommendations on activities, hobbies, vacations a person could perform/take up/go on if they're in a big, pathetic rut?  All suggestions, big and small, will be considered.  

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

The Man In The Mirror

Scene: Work.  Doc Review Room.  Pandora playing in the background.

Lawyer: I'm so sad I'll never get to see Michael Jackson in concert.  Unless ... do you think Michael Jackson is in heaven?

Me: For sure!  (Awkward pause.)  Unless he molested those kids.  Then probably not.

Monday, October 4, 2010

The greatest text I have ever received

2:05 am.

Some morning in the not-so-distant past.

There is a little birdie in my garage and he wont fly and hes breathing hard.  I want to save him but im drunk.  :(

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Even more annoying than "There Is Sunshine In My Soul"*

I hate when you're in church, the teacher asks everyone to turn to a particular scripture reference ... and half a dozen people (or more) pull out their iPhones.

...

Now, I could leave it at that.  Those of you lucky enough to own an iPhone, but lame enough to have put a scripture app on it, would just think, "She's jealous her Blackberry has such a teeny screen."  The rest of you would nod, because you too have been playing Connect Four: Douchebag Edition in Sunday School.

But you all know how I love to belabor a point.

First of all, do you know how obnoxious it is for the teacher to have to look around and see a bunch of people staring at their phones?  Oh, but I suspect you do, which is why you pulled out the phone in the first place.  So you could smugly think, "I'm not really texting.  I'm getting my edification-on."  Or, when you are texting, "Everyone is so judgmental, just assuming that I'm texting when I could very well be looking at scriptures." (The fact that you are, indeed, texting is irrelevant to this analysis.)

Second -- and this may apply mostly to the singles ward hell to which I have belonged for eight long years, but still -- are you seriously going to advertise the fact that you can't afford your own place at the age of 29, have instead shoved five or six other people into a house in order to only pay $200 a month in rent ... but still have a Droid?  Not that there's anything wrong with materialism -- I love materialism, as you probably have surmised -- but folks.

Let's at least maintain a thin facade of anti-materialism at church, shall we?




* Fact: This is the world's most annoying hymn. 

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Again!?!?!?

Someday -- hopefully tomorrow, actually -- I will manage to stay awake through an entire session of General Conference.

But jeez, their voices are just so soothing ... and I'm thinking, "I can close my eyes and still listen."  Then BOOM!  Closing song.

Off to the grocery store to buy a sixer of Red Bull.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

I am equally Jewish and Mormon, but way more Quaker with a pinch of Baha'i

I took a religion test tonight.  Answer twenty questions about your personal beliefs and how important they are to you, and Internet will tell you which religion you are (or ought to be).

In case you were wondering, I am:

100% Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestant
84% Liberal Quaker
82% Unitarian Universalism
75% Baha'i
72% Orthodox Quaker
70% TIE: Mahayana Buddhism and Theravada Buddhism
66% TIE: Reform Judiasm and Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (LDS)

Also fun?  The fact that I am more Scientologist (51%) than Roman Catholic (42%).  Really would not have guessed that one.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Adventures with underpants

There's a Shel Silverstein poem called Outside or Underneath? and I loved it as a kid.

Bob bought a hundred-dollar suit
But couldn't afford any underwear.
Says he, "If your outside looks real good
No one will know what's under there."

Jack bought some hundred-dollar shorts
But wore a suit with rips and tears.
Says he, "It won't matter what people see
As long as I know what's under there."

Tom bought a flute and a box of crayons,
Some bread and cheese and a golden pear.
And as for his suit or his underwear
He doesn't think about them much....or care.

But with all due respect to Mr. Silverstein and anti-materialists everywhere, I must say, I love underwear.  And this weekend, when I went to go find some cute Ute gear at the Gateway Victoria's Secret, they were having a 7 panties for $25 sale.  Random fact of the day: I totally don't care that I already have underpants coming out my ears.  When Victoria's Secret has this sale, I will buy seven more pairs of underoos.  It's like a universal law.

Unfortunately, this trip to VS was already not going as planned.  The sweet Ute shirt I wanted was sold out.  This left me with a dilemma.  I must go to the Homecoming Game wearing University of Utah colors, but I was not loving my remaining options.  (The first, a cute red shirt that came only in XL sizes, the second, an appropiately sized but slightly less cute gray shirt with UTAH written in red felt letters.  Why oh why did I wait until two hours before kickoff during Homecoming Week to buy my first Utah shirt of the season?) 

I decided to console myself by getting more underpants.  (Anyone out there shocked that I'm an emotional shopper?)  But as I glanced over the selection, I found myself annoyed.  Victoria's Secret usually has super comfy, slightly sassy underpants in a variety of shapes, materials, colors and patterns. 

Who needs purple herringbone bikini bottoms with a lace trim, you ask?

Who doesn't?  I reply.

Yet this display of underpants was decidedly less darling than I was used to.  No turquoise plaid.  No fluorescent yellow lace.  No little pink ribbon bows.  No slightly scandalous messages written across the bottom. 

What do we have instead?  Rhinestones on underpants.  Are you kidding me, Victoria's Secret people?  Ribbons are one thing, tacky metallic bulky ugliness is another.  No, that's not visible panty line you are seeing through my slacks, that's just my bedazzled underpant accoutrement.  Classy, right? 

I half-heartedly went through the motions of trying to find an additonal week's supply of undies while avoiding being touched by the jackals who were already pawing through drawers of unmentionables. 

And that's when things got weird.

First, an Asian mother and daughter were apparently intent on touching EVERY SINGLE PAIR OF UNDERPANTS IN THE STORE.  Stroking the material.  Tugging the material.  Another-descriptive-word-that-I-don't-want-to-use-in-context-with-underpants the material.

Look, I know we're all going to go home and wash the undies before wearing the undies for this very purpose, but could you please, please avoid rubbing someone else's (future) underpants?  You're kind of ruining the illusion that somehow my underwear magically appears in my drawers, laundry fresh and fabric softened, untouched by any human hands but my own.  And because they weren't speaking English, I didn't feel good about glaring at them.  Instead, I tried to move to another side of the display, but there I bumped into a scene far more uncomfortable. 

A middle aged husband with his wife.  Picking out underpants.

Here's the deal, gentlemen.  Victoria's Secret--and basically any lingerie section of any store ANYWHERE--is a place for ladies.  I remember dragging Diego into a Victoria's Secret once when I wanted to get some new perfume.  He later said he felt like he was obligated to give an apologetic, "Don't worry, I'm gay" to every female customer in the store. 

So there I was, in the Gateway Victoria's Secret, trying to avoid making eye contact with the middle-aged dude debating rhinestone thongs with his wife.  (I refer you to my concerns about VPL above, and move to end all further debate.)  And as I moved around the table ... BOOM, another guy with his girlfriend, picking out underpants.

And this one did not avoid eye contact.

He looked at me.

He looked at the underpants I was holding.

And then he looked back at me -- thereby breaking what is, I submit, the greatest social law of all time: Never, under any circumstances, let someone think you are visualizing their underpants.  At this point I was forced to relinquish the underpants I was holding, because obviously I don't want a stranger to know anything about my underwear.  (Aside from all you folks, of course, but really, what do you know other than I don't want fake diamond studs in my delicate laundry loads?) 

Everywhere I turned, there was something to weird me out.  The Undie Touchers.  Creepy Pro-Rhinestone Dude.  Eye Contact Dude.  Ladies who didn't understand that the No Bumping Into Strangers Rule goes for double when you're dealing with underwear.  And the Victoria's Secret Sales Girls, popping in with a cheery, "You finding everything okay?"

It's underpants, girls, not shopping for a car.  What do you think someone is going to say, "I'm looking for the comfort of a boyshort with the versatility of lace thong, without sacrificing wearability.  What can you show me in a seamless satin?"  Unlikely.

Ultimately, I grabbed seven random pairs of underpants and the gray Ute shirt, immediately regretted all my life choices, and kind of wished I just had some crayons and a pear. 

Oh childhood, how I miss you.
 
 
 
 
 
 
(A porn post followed up by an underpants post?  Yes, I'm on a roll this week.)

Thursday, September 23, 2010

And then some pornography happened

Back when I was a Tri Delt, I used to go into the Blockbuster on 400 South and peruse the horror section.  I would inevitably pause in front of a cinematic masterpiece called Delta Delta Die!, consider, and then move on to a different selection.  It just never seemed like the right time...though I knew the time would one day come.

On my last day as an undergrad at the Blessed U, however, I decided I was ready for what was sure to be a rite of passage.  After finishing up work at The Daily Utah Chronicle, my friend Lucy (Chi Omega) and I ran over to Blockbuster.  Thankfully, the copy was still there, though I'm sure that someone came in right after us and was sorely disappointed someone else had it.

We grabbed some soup at Cafe Rio for our sick friend Pauly (no greek affiliation, though at one point, he lived in Tri Delt and later married a Chi O, which I think makes him our unofficial sorority sister) and headed to his house to celebrate the end of my collegiate experience with Diet Cokes and popcorn.

Pauly, Lucy and I settled into the theater-style seating that Pauly and his roommate had created with couches propped up on cinderblocks.  After a few episodes of Campus Ladies that Pauly had DVR'd, we popped in the main event.

As the opening credits were rolling, one of us--I can't remember who--noticed that the music was perhaps a bit ... bow-chicka-wowy?

And then someone else pointed out that the characters seemed to all be wearing an awful lot of pleather. 

And no one could act.  Not like Freddie Prinze Jr. "can't act," or even Lauren Conrad in The Hills "can't act," but "an eighth grade drama geek would be doing better" levels of ineptitude.  Some of them seemed to be reading cue cards.

But even after a flashback that involved some full-frontal male doodle, we remained convinced that Delta Delta Die! -- which I had seen on the shelves of Blockbuster for at least two years -- could not be porn.

OK, maybe it was made by a pornographer who was trying to break into the B-grade movie scene, and he just had all the costumes from his porno days left over.

And it's expensive to buy new music.

Or hire different actors and actresses.

And plots are complicated.

So as the movie continued (it's about sorority girls who murder fraternity boys, bake them into pies and sell them back to other fraternity boys for philanthropy week, in case you were wondering) we began playing a little game called "This couldn't possibly be porn because."  

This couldn't possibly be porn because the case says it's 83 minutes long.

This couldn't possibly be porn because no one asked for our ID when we rented it.

This couldn't possibly be porn because some of these people are just way too ugly to make their living in porn.

This couldn't possibly be porn because there's a musical number in it.

This couldn't possibly be porn because no one's having sex.  They're just having a lot of naked conversations. 

And this continued until Pauly's roommate walked into the room, watched for a few seconds, and asked, "So ... why are you guys watching a porn?"

To which we all just laughed even harder, and finally, mercifully, turned off the TV.







(The funny part is, that wasn't the last time I accidentally watched soft core porn with Pauly.  The second time, though, at least our excuse was that we thought the movie was French.  You know how those Europeans are.)

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

You're a mean one, Mr. Shue

I always find Glee funny, but I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to continue watching it.

Rachel is annoying.  Finn is idiotic.  Like, straight up, might be in a borderline IQ range.  And their teacher is morally reprehensible.

Really, Mr. Shuester?  You realized it was mean to be mean ... only after people were mean to you?  Don't people usually develop an independent moral sense around, I don't know, age six?

I love most of the minor characters in Glee -- this show really should be about Emma, the principal, Santana, Brittany, Quinn, Puck and Sue.

I would have once added Kurt and Artie to this list, but the two of them lack so much self-awareness that I cringe whenever they're on screen.  If a straight boy had pulled Kurt's "Let's be roommates, future step-sibling, and hopefully hook up in the process!" shenanigans on a straight girl, we would all be appalled and recognized it as harassment.  Had a straight girl done it to a straight boy, we would have called her a psycho and suggested her parents send her to a therapist before she develops into a full-blown nympho.  And yet when a gay kid does it to his straight male friend, we're supposed to be sympathetic?  I'm sorry, but until that episode Kurt struck me as far too kind and wise to not realize how upset Finn would be at this development.

And while Artie wanting to dance is tragically sweet, wanting to be on the football team is eye-rollingly unrealistic.  I wanted to shake him.  And, like nympho girl in my hypothetical above, send him straight to a therapist.  PS?  Tina didn't dump you because Mike Chang is a jock.  She dumped you because you ignored her all summer.  OK, and also because Mike Chang is a jock.  (Did you guys see those abs?)

It's a sad day when the commercials featuring Sue Sylvester are funnier than the television show featuring Sue Sylvester.

And though it is a tangent, I must express my annoyance at a bunch of kids in Ohio singing "Empire State of Mind."  As my friend Pedro once said, how lame is it that kids all over the country hear a song about New York and think, "This is my song, bitches"?