Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Heart of stone

I submit that it is impossible to watch Terminator 2 without crying a little at the end.


Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Little Buddy

One of the things I will miss most about living in Utah will be the opportunity to be someone's big sister.

No, I'm not talking about Echo, Charlie and Alpha.  Those three haven't let me big-sister them for years.  I'm talking about Diego.

Sure, Diego is technically older and quite a bit taller than I am, and he would beat me any day of the week playing "Never Have I Ever" (indicating that his life experience far exceeds my own), but Diego indulges my need to mother hen.  How are you feeling?  Are they being nice to you at work?  Who are you dating? I don't like the sound of that one.  Enjoying bar class?  Saving money?

And in return, Diego big brothers me back--you're going to do fine in Phoenix; I'm not sure that guy is treating you nicely enough; no, you don't look fat.  (Even though he's fibbing on that one, it's still nice to hear.  Scales don't lie, bitches.)

Of course these co-dependent conversations can still take place over Facebook, text, phone, email and IM (bless you, 21st Century, bless you), but it's not the same as chatting over the wall of the changing room at Express.

Without Diego--and all my friends like him--the cycle of neediness will go unfed.  Maybe that will make me a more mature adult, but I'm not entirely sure it will make me a happier one.

PS: Ryan claims that no one in the 80s bought "My Buddy."  According to him, girls all wanted "Kid Sister," and boys wouldn't play with dolls.  When I told him I had a "My Buddy," he says he's fairly certain that was the only one sold in the United States.  So if you, like me, gentle readers, had a My Buddy, please let me know, so I can shove it in Ryan's face.  :)

Sunday, December 27, 2009


I just own way, way, way too much stuff.

I'm cleaning out my room at my parents' for the final time and trying to pack up for Phoenix.  I'd forgotten about most of the stuff I own.  It's a bit like being on an archeological dig.

Hey jeans from high school - ahh, I see that sophomore and junior pants are embarrassingly high-waisted, while senior pants are embarrassing low-riding.   Good to see you again, I hope your time in the drawer has been treating you well.

Hi, AP English papers.  Why did I ever think I would need to refer to you someday?  In the trash you go.

Sheet music!  Wow, if only I were still musical ...

Guh, bar study books ... shove you back under the bed ...

I have three bottles of Febreeze in my room.  Three.  No one needs that much Febreeze.  Let's not even get started on all the half-used bottles of lotion and perfume.  Bleh, I'll just put it all in a box and hope that Echo wants some of it ...

Welcome to the D.I. pile, earrings, shoes, blankets, throw pillows, old Halloween costumes, knick knacks, stuffed animals, CDs, Babysitters Club books, ... MY LITTLE PONIES?!?!?!

Ummm ...

I think it's for the best that you guys come to Phoenix with me.

Just in case.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Left or right?

I shop online for furniture a lot these days.

I really want brightly colored furniture, and I don't really care if none of it matches.  Crimson love seat, green curtains, orange sectional couch?  I think that sounds fun, not like (a) six-year-olds decorated my apartment or (b) a Skittles bag exploded in my living room.  (Both criticisms which have been leveled at my decor choices.)

But here's a question: when it says "left chaise" or "right chaise," does that mean from the perspective of looking at the sectional head on, or the perspective of sitting on the sectional?

Left or right?

(Also, picture this in orange leather.  Sweet, right?)

Friday, December 25, 2009

Christmas - a time of violence and geekiness

Last night commenced our family's annual Yuletide tradition of movie marathoning.  First, It's A Wonderful Life.  Then Inglourious Basterds.  Now we're on to Death Race, after which we will go see Avatar.  Come home, watch Star Trek on Blu Ray and finish it all up with some Simpsons on DVD.

Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

I am about to vomit down your back

Appropriate response when someone gets engaged: I am so happy for you.

Inappropriate response: FINALLY.

No matter how long someone has dated before getting engaged -- three months, three years, three decades -- it is NOT okay to assert your opinion that this should have come about earlier than now.  If they've dated awhile, it's simply because the natural progression of their relationship took that long, and if they're engaged at this point, they probably ENJOYED their time dating.  So why do you feel the need to assert your opinion that things could have moved along more quickly?

And if they haven't dated awhile, believe me, you look like an even bigger moron.  Case in point: the sweet spirit down at BYU who apparently thinks a courtship of seven months is unnecessarily extensive.

This is why I hate facebook.  I see a friend is engaged, I want to write something nice on her wall.  Instead I become infuriated by comments of a non-mutual friend who I cannot yell at via facebook wall because that would violate facebook etiquette.

(No, I am not engaged.  I realize this post may cause some confusion.  I'm still the same delightful old spinsty (thanks TAMN) that I always have been, and most likely always will be.  :)   But if Mr. Right ever does come along, he better be armed with an even bigger diamond than the one pictured above.  I'm not picky, I just want some acknowledgment that I'm a grown up, and grown ups wear at least 1 carat.  (No offense to anyone out there who proposed with or accepted a ring smaller than 1 carat.  Console yourself with the fact that you won't die alone, and that someday you can upgrade.))

Random sidenote of the day: My friends Hannah and Brett have been pondering the wed-or-not-to-wed question lately, and Hannah has expressed some reservations about an engagement ring.  Namely, she doesn't want to contribute to unethical diamond mining practices, but she does want a big-ass diamond ring.  (I mean, who doesn't?  Big fat liar pantses, that's who.)  

So after debating this issue, my friend Kate asked her husband Ryan if her ring was blood-diamond free. He said, "No.  I got yours with extra blood."

That's true love right there.


Does anyone know how to set up alerts so I am aware when people comment on my little blogarino?  I feel if people are nice enough to put in their two cents, I should acknowledge these comments in some way, but about half the time I don't notice the comments until days later.

:( for me.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Apartment hunting

Flew down to Phoenix for the weekend to look for a place to live.  It has been an adventure.  I've made a few mistakes (buying the rental car insurance I knew I didn't need, but was too scared not to get; forgetting the camera sync cord so I could email pictures of various apartments to my friends; booking the "Expedia Recommends!" hotel which apparently features neither free parking -- $19 a night -- or free internet -- $13 for 24 hours), but all in all, I think I will have a home in three weeks.

For anyone who is interested, here are my current prospects, complete with pros and cons.

First apartment complex: Super close to work, exposed cement walls and 10 foot ceilings, very quiet complex, good management.  Includes cheapest option.  Only real downfall?  The floor plans I liked best were essentially studios, with the bedroom separated from the rest of the place by one half wall and nor door, so when (not if, bitches) people come to visit me, it's basically like they're going to be sleeping in my room.  Weird?  I don't know.

Second apartment complex: Bleh.  Bleh bleh bleh bleh bleh.  I did not care for it.

Third apartment complex: Very torn.  Not too far from my work, but much closer to fun Phoenix things.  More expensive than the first complex.  My favorite floor plans included (1) a two bedroom (place for visitors!) with hardwood floors and a gas fireplace and (2) a two bedroom plus loft with spiral staircase.  But the bedroom layouts were weird ... like, not square at all.   I don't care from rhombus rooms.

Spiral staircase ... how I lust after thee ...
(While I forgot my camera cord, my dad's real estate agent friend emailed me a few pictures, so there you go.)

Fourth apartment complex: Really liked.  Further from my work than the first place, but not by much.  Huge bathroom with a tub and a shower.  (Why separate?  In case you want to soak and then shower, I guess.)  About the same size as the first apartments, but the bedroom is fully enclosed, so visitors would have the living room to themselves.  Gas fireplace.  (Ok, I know that fireplaces are not exactly a necessity in Phoenix, but I love fire.)  But more expensive than the first place, and I'm not really sure what the deal with the management is.  Not actually convinced they have management.

Fifth apartment complex: I think drug dealers lived there.  But really, a trip to Phoenix isn't complete without a trip to a crime-riddled area.

My super-sensible pops thinks it's a no-brainer--the first place is closest to work and cheapest.

But ... fireplaces ...  :(

I'm going to sleep on it.  In the meantime, if the interwebs have any thoughts, feel free to share.

Friday, December 18, 2009

"Have a blessed day"

Boys and girls, there are just some things you don't put on your voicemail.  Especially if you have been applying for jobs, and should foreeably anticipate potential employers calling you to schedule interviews.

Even if those potential employers include Deseret Book. 

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Feeling wrathful

Why can't everyone be good at their job?  Is it too much to ask that one display minimal levels of competence if one is paid for minimal levels of competence? 

That's all for now.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Going out with a bang (or a whimper)

Me, yesterday at work, trying to put a movie on hold at Blockbuster:

Dialing.  I am thinking, Please answer fast, please answer fast. 

Dang it, someone's walking toward my desk.  Answer slow, answer slow!

"Blockbuster, how may I help you?"

Crap. Time to haul A for the snack machines area ...

"Yes, I would" -- CRAP, there's someone here!  Turn around turn around, walk back toward desk -- "like to know if you all can put movies on hold?"

"Of course, which movie would you like?"

Oh balls -- standing an equal distance from my boss's open door and the guy who's getting a candy bar in the snack area ... "Um ..."

Two second analysis process (thank you, law school):

1. There appears to be no way out of this situation, short of running into the ladies' while still on the phone ...

2. Not going to do that.

3. How much do I want to rent this movie?

4. Very much.

5. Oh balls.

I glance down both ends of the hall, and whisper, "The Hangover."

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

What it's like in my head

Friend: This might be a weird question ...

Me: What?

Friend: Don't get offended ...

Me: I don't get offended.

Friend: If you were a stripper, what would your signature song be?

Me (externally): I don't know, I've never really thought about it.

Me (internally): Cowboy Casanova.  No, She Wolf.  No, I Like The Way You Move.  No, no, Rock You Like A Hurricane!  Yes, definitely Rock You Like A Hurricane.

Tear it up

I got some good advice yesterday from someone who shall remain nameless (because someone else who shall remain nameless already gave me crap for name-dropping that someone in an earlier blog post.) 

The advice was simple: "Tear it up in Phoenix."

I don't think this person thought twice about telling me to attack Phoenix instead of letting Phoenix passively happent to me (which, whether I knew it or not, was how I have been treating the idea over the last few weeks).  To him, the advice was obvious.  Be cheerful, be positive, be aggressive, and make the most out of your opportunities.

To me, it was kind of a surprising wake up call.

There are much, much worse things than having to move to a new city for a new job.  In fact, most people (myself of six months ago included) would be excited.  But I've been so busy moping about the friends, family, and familiar surroundings that I will miss, I have lost enthusiasm for what should be a great adventure.

So here's to tearing it up in Phoenix.  There will doubtlessly be other, more solemn posts in the near future about the people and places of Salt Lake City I will dearly miss down in the Grand Canyon State, but hopefully always tempered with the realization that Phoenix will be (fingers crossed) equally awesome.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

The therapeutic value of television

8:30 pm - feeling kind of blue

9:00 pm - feeling pretty chipper, thanks to How I Met Your Mother

The rudest show on television

I love me some Gossip Girl--but I have to say, the fact that every character answers their frikking cell phone even if* they're about to tell someone something "very important" got old in the first season.

Do these people not understand how to silence a phone?

* Actually, make that ESPECIALLY IF.

Friday, December 11, 2009

The bane of my existence: Responsible friends

Does anyone else have a problem with thinking of a really fun, really awesome idea, and then ... it dies because you can't convince anyone else of its inherent awesomeness? 

I really wanted to go on a sweet vacation before I started work in January.  It was perfect timing.  Unfortunately, none of my friends were similarly inclined.  Theoretically I could do Hawaii alone (wouldn't want to, but could), but India?  Croatia?  Brazil?  Alone? 

Lame.  And the murder potential is high.  (And when I say "murder," I mean "accidental death due to my own stupidity," but murder sounds scarier.) 

So, the super awesome vacation was post-poned for one year, in hopes that in the next twelve months my friends and/or family will get it together and want to come along.

And if they don't, then they can all suck it.  Because one way or another, this time next year, my passport will have been used at least a single time.  Maybe I'll need to hire some friends (already did it before when I joined a sorority - zing!), but it will happen. 

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Damn it feels good to be a gangster

Why my family rocks your family's socks off:

1. When I'm sick, my dad will bring me a 32 ounce of Diet Coke from the gas station at 10 in the morning.

2. When we're at Smith's buying candy (yes, we grocery shop just for candy), Pops successfully convinces a cashier into giving us Tab for 4/$14 instead of 4/$16.

3. We then proceed to buy all of Smith's cases of Tab.  And when I say "all," I mean all.

4. At Chevron where we go for Diet Coke (because fountain Diet Coke and canned Tab are two entirely different, but still awesome, drinks), my Dad reminds me that if there's anything he wants to teach me in this life, it's that you should always sip down your Diet Coke and then refill to the lid before paying.

The relationship between temperature & gastrointestines

If you live in my neck of the woods, you know that it is effing cold today.

And I woke up feeling kinda vomity.

The two are not a happy combo.  Lie in bed under all my covers, or sit on the cold, cold linoleum in my bathroom?

I chose the bed, and am now taking a big chance by surfing the web on my laptop.  Because if there's anything that will ruin a laptop, I'm pretty sure vom is it.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Soy un perdedor

There's this thing I do.  I don't want to say what it is, since (despite my facebook account and blog) I don't like to share too much personal information on the internet.  (Funny anecdotes and political rants?  Sure.  Those are fair game.)  So let's just call it "chewing gum." 

Most people chew gum at some point in their lives.  Chewing gum can be a very rewarding activity.  It can lead to greater long-term happiness or temporary enjoyment.  It can also lead to a lot of misery and confusion.  It can be a waste of time or it can be the very best thing you could be doing with your time.  And hopefully, at some point your gum chewing results in a situation where you don't have to or want to chew gum anymore.  Perhaps you've moved on to flossing or teeth bleaching in an effort to improve your overall dental hygiene. 

When people aren't chewing gum, they're usually wishing they were chewing gum.  And sometimes, even when you're chewing gum, you're thinking about how great it would be if you could just stop chewing gum already, or at least start chewing a different piece. 

I'm not the greatest gum chewer out there.  In fact, I've pretty much sucked at chewing gum my whole life.  I don't really like doing it, but have put in a valiant effort (in my opinion) to give it a solid chance. 

But on some rare occassions, I have found myself enjoying the gum chewing experience.  In the back of my mind, of course, there is a little voice saying Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!  But I generally ignore it, because I get caught up in the moment.  Because everyone else is doing it.  Because it seems like maybe this time it will be different.  And for a little while I think, Hey, maybe I can keep this going.

But I can't.  Because I'm just not cut out for it. 

The thing is, the fact that I'm not a gum chewer is nobody's fault.  But the fact that I repeatedly give it a shot, knowing that it's not my bag?  Slap on the wrist for me.

The idea that everyone should be chewing gum, that everyone likes chewing gum, that chewing gum is for everybody-- not true.  It's not for everyone, and it's certainly not for me. 

So friends -- if you notice me enaging in any gum chewing (or other impolite, improper, or icky behavior) in the future, please.  For the love. 

Remind me that it's ok to not chew gum.

Monday, December 7, 2009

I don't want to talk about it! I just want you all to read about it online!

You know how sometimes people put something vague and concerning as their status update?  It sounds like they don't want to talk ... but why would they have ever put something up on their facebook if they didn't want people to ask?

I guess it's just silent venting.

Imaginary Facebook status update: I'm currently a mixture of sad/amused and amused/amused.  Sure wish I head a better head on these here shoulders, but I guess God wanted me for a silly creature.  

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Tri Delts Do Wendover

On the trip to Wendover:

Diego: Are all your guys' songs about what big whores and drunks you are?

Me: No.  Some of them are about how much better we are than everyone else.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Question for people with "good taste"

Is "Always Kiss Me Goodnight" the new "All Because Two People Fell In Love"?

I find it 50% less irritating, but 120% more creepy.  Partly because I can't tell whether it should go over a child's bed (less weird) or an adult's bed (shudder). 

And for everyone out there who wants to criticize me for having hang ups regarding adult sexuality,* I would just like to say, a man would never, ever applique the wall above his bed "Always kiss me goodnight" as a cute reminder to his wife.  It would always, always, always be the wife pulling these shenanigans.  At which point my Oedipal Complex Alert Alarms start going at full blast, because did I mention it seems like it's more appropriate (though still tacky) in a child's room? 

Hence the shudder.

* (For your future reference, I have only the normal American hang ups regarding adult sexuality, namely, I don't like having any sort of serious discussion about sex, but am totally happy to make a joke about it.  Which is why if my future husband wanted to applique "Let's Bang" over our marital bed, I would be more than willing to let him. 

Until we had kids, that is.  At that point we would paint over the vinyl lettering and start passing normal American hang ups regarding adult sexuality on to the next generation.) 

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Does it make me a bad person if ...

... I immediately discard any apartment ad that includes a picture of a children's playground?

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Some people should be spayed and neutered

A slow afternoon at work resulted in a lot of web-surfing (while I hunt down those ne'er do wells who pirate copyrighted material).


For the love.

No matter how big a hippie you are.

Or how much you love unrefined flour.

Or organic food.

Or nature.

Or home births.

Or innocence.

Or glitter.

Or breastfeeding.

Or all the other halmarks of neo-neo-conservatism. 

Do not


Put naked pictures of your kids online. 




I cannot believe that after eleven seasons of Law and Order: SVU we even need to be having this discussion. 

We’ve gone too far!

I love it when old people complain about all the things that are wrong with nowadays. Bad manners. Punk music. Reality TV. Lack of respect for compass technology.

So while I may be only twenty-five, I would like to jump on the complainin’ band wagon. Item Number One on my Why Society Has Gone To Hell List: the towel warmer.

Seriously? You hop out of a warm shower into a steamy, also warm bathroom, and you’re so cold you need your towel to be artificially heated for you before you’re willing to dry off? Are you going to be sled dog racing later or something?

What enrages me most about this pseudo-appliance is that whenever I see a PSA from some celebrity cautioning against wasteful behavior and encouraging energy-efficient lifestyles, they almost always mention the two most idiotic suggestions ever:

1. Turn lights off when you leave the room.

2. Turn water off when you brush your teeth.

I’m sorry, but I have been aware that you ought to do those things since I was four, and was old enough to reach a light switch and brush my own teeth unsupervised. It’s called not being an idiot. Please, please, please, PSA announcer—stop pretending that climate change can be averted IF ONLY SALLY WOULD TURN OFF THE LIGHTS.

What I would really like to be addressed is the fact that you don’t need an electric towel warmer to keep you warm for the five minutes it takes to dry off and get dressed every day. Not only do you look like a total idiot for owning such an item, but you’re killing mother earth.

Yes, you with the towel warmer. You were the one who did it.

As a caveat: It is completely possible that the real reason I hate towel warmers is that the Craziest Roommate Ever (she of the Great Roommate Fire Incident of 2008 fame) thought that letting me use her towel warmer excused the fact that she owned two cats where she had previously said there would be no pets in the apartment. (I am not opposed to cats as animals. I just don’t want to live in the same home as them.)

Not comparable, missy. Not comparable at all.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Phoenix and I are not friends


 Looking for a place to live in Phoenix while still living in Salt Lake is a tricky task.

First problem: I can’t decide whether I ought to rent or buy.

Pros of renting: Someone else will continue to take care of my problems. I can remain financially untethered. More disposable income due to not forking over a down payment. If I hate my neighbors, I will not need to make any effort to see the positives in them. If they hate me, I will not need to make any effort to win them over.

Pros of buying: It’s the grown-up thing to do.

Cons of renting: My dad’s voice in my head, constantly reminding me that I am throwing money away.

Cons of buying: I don’t think I have it in me to decorate and maintain a home adequately. Also, I’m in a condo stage of life (emotionally, financially, socially) and the concept of HOAs really annoys me.

Winner: Renting

Second problem: Phoenix is a land of great contrast. Phoenix has air conditioned major league baseball fields, and awesome restaurants, and great outdoor activities, and Neiman Marcus. It is also the kidnapping capital of America.

So the dilemma is thus: If I do rent, all the places that I feel are within my price-range appear pretty beat up and ghetto. All the places I would love, love, love to live in are out of my price-range.

Why is this an issue? You would think that would be a no-brainer. Suck it up and live in the icky apartment with 80s tile and fake panel wood in the sketchy neighborhood. That’s what people do when they’re starting out in life, after all.

But that’s not really the answer, because Snobby Me knows that she can’t kill a cockroach, and will immediately book a flight home to live with Mommy and Daddy as soon as she sees her first scorpion. Snobby Me knows that, all protestations to the contrary, she is really freaked out by the fact that there was a shooting at the grocery store I frequented the last time I lived in Phoenix. Snobby Me remembers the Great Roommate Fire of 2008 debacle all too well. Snobby Me knows that Phoenix has a high crime rate, and Snobby Me also knows that I never really took any of those self-defense courses seriously.

And Snobby Me really, really wants garage parking. And floor-to-ceiling windows. And a view of pretty mountains, or pretty desert, or at least a pretty mall—not chain link fences. And Snobby Me wants hardwood floors. And a gym. And a washer and dryer. And a DISHWASHER, damn it. We went for three years hand-washing dishes in law school, and those days are OVER! And Snobby Me wants a second bedroom, or at least a den. And no, that will not be to facilitate roommates. That will be to facilitate our desire to have more than 600 square feet of living space. Ahhhh, the freedom of a thousand square feet …

Snobby Me really thinks that this is really not too much to ask for.

But Financially Responsible Me wants me to remember the value of provident living, and paying off student loans as fast as possible, and saving for retirement, and giving to charity. Financially Responsible Me choked on her own gum when she saw that sweet, sweet high rise apartment for $1600 a month before utilities. Financially Responsible Me is even bribing Snobby Me with the fact that my long-postponed vacation to India will be much more justifiable if we sacrifice now.

Snobby Me finds this argument very persuasive, but ultimately not conclusive.

So Financially Responsible Me and Snobby Me are duking it out in my head. Walk in closets and gated communities, or the peace of mind knowing that my 401K is maturing nicely? Granite countertops now, bitchin’ vacations later? Live with the guilt of knowing that my monthly rent could feed a starving family in the third world, or live with the fear of having my throat slit at night? (OK you two, that last one was a bit dramatic. Tone it down, please.)

This is a problem that may have no answer, much like a circle has no beginning or end.

But unfortunately, with or without an answer, I’m moving in six weeks.


Sunday, November 29, 2009

Max Hall hates me and thinks I'm classless

First question:

If every BYU fan in the world claims to know someone who has had beer thrown on them during a game, why don't I know a single person who knows a single person who has ever done that?  Or even a single person who has SEEN it done?  Could I please get some documented evidence of a U fan EVER throwing beer at a BYU fan?  C'mon people, in the era of camera phones, if it's ever really happened, the moment has been digitally captured.

Second question:

Does this mean we can officially retire that old BYU line that they're the classy ones?  Because that was old BEFORE the BYU quarterback claimed our entire school -- sociology department, student newspaper, LDS Institute building, law school, med school, juggling club -- was classless.

And one comment:

If you want to know how classy is done, Mr. Hall, maybe you should go look up what Eric Weddle said about your team and your players after he had just LOST in 2007.

Friday, November 27, 2009


Someday ...

I will learn how to maintain appropriate personal boundaries.


Thursday, November 26, 2009


When I think about gratitude and perspective and all that, I can usually only think of one thing -- and since this is the day when we all list the things we're grateful for, I figured I'd rather just plagiarize that:

"Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got.  Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth.  I have been in ballparks for seventeen years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans.

Look at these grand men.  Which of you wouldn't consider it the highlight of his career just to associate them for even one day?  Sure, I'm lucky.  Who wouldn't consider it an honor to have known Jacob Ruppert?  Also, the builder of baseball's greatest empire, Ed Barrow?  To have spent six years with that wonderful little fellow, Miller Huggins?  Then to have spent the next nine years with that outstanding leader, that smart student of psychology, the best manager in baseball today, Joe McCarthy?  Sure, I'm lucky.

When the New York Giants, a team you would give your right arm to beat, and vice versa, sends you a gift--that's something.  When everybody down to the groundskeepers and those boys in white coats remember you with trophies--that's something.  When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles with her own daughter--that's something.  When you have a father and a mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body--it's a blessing.  Wen you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you dreamed existed--that's the finest I know.

So I close in saying that I may have had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for."

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Outta my way, I got here late!

Every year, my procrastination gets worse.

In elementary school, I waited until the night before the science fair to put my poster board together.

In high school, I waited until May to start studying for AP tests.

In college, I was writing my paper on genetic drift literally minutes before it was due.

And when it came time to apply for law school, I was frantically signing forms, running down reference letters and stapling my personal statement at the last minute and had to run my the packet to the law school before 5:00 pm because it was too late to even mail.

Let's not even talk about law school itself.

But the problem with all this is, I procrastinate even things I like to do.  I haven't returned my newest Netflix DVDs, even though I want to know how things turn out between Ted and Robin on How I Met Your Mother.  I haven't worked on cleaning my room like I wanted to, or packing up any of my stuff (T-minus seven weeks to move), or working on my secret novel the paper I want to submit for publication, or gone Christmas shopping pre-Black Friday crowds, or anything.

Instead, I'm sitting around watching Daily Show re-runs and considering going to get a pedicure.  Which, in a way, would still be like an accomplishment.  Because at least I will have left my house.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

This never happened*

It's been a dream of mine (since I got into Mad Men** two summers ago) to sneak off for a three hour lunch break and watch a movie.

Today, I achieved that dream.

Granted, the movie was 2012, but the whole act of workplace indifference was still badass.

* Name the episode for a free Diet Coke.

** Yes, I know that Mad Men is one of the stereotypical things that white people like (thanks, Stuff White People, but in case you all haven't noticed...I'm pretty white.  And that blog is pretty dead-on.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

ReAL Salt Lake

Really?  Them?

Reason Number 72 Not To Have Kids: They Might Murder Me

 I don't really like kids.  Really, really do not care for them.*

I mean, I want to have my own, since fortunately biological imperative will win out over mere distaste, but that doesn't change the fact that kids are kinda gross.  Kinda demanding.  Kinda irritating.

Kinda terrifying.

I mean, seriously.  You're a big, fat liar if you don't find the concept of a small child a little concerning.  Big eyes.  Tiny hands.  Tiny teeth.  Stealthy movements.  Ability to hide in weird places.  Unexplainable emotional responses - creepy laughter, creepy solemnity, creepy silence.  I submit that any child's expression can become bone-chilling given the right lighting.   See picture left.

I'm not exaggerating, nor am I alone in this -- the whole idea of children-as-symbolic-death-of-adults concept has spawned a gazillion horror movies.

The Good Son.

The Orphanage.

The Bad Seed.

The Children of the Corn.


The Ring.

Rosemary's Baby.

The Exorcist.

Let The Right One In.

And what about movies where children are not the main attraction, but feature in predominantly creeptastic ways?

Blue dress girls from The Shining.

Little boy and his raspy-voiced finger from The Shining.

Chanting kids in Nightmare on Elm Street.

Tween zombie from beginning of The Dawn of the Dead.

Meowing boy in The Grudge.

Banjo boy from Deliverance.

Murderous toddler in Pet Sematary.

I mean, I'm not saying I won't ever spawn one or two, I'm just saying I won't be inclined to let them have friends.  Also, if you are a friend of mine with a child, I'm sure your child is lovely and non-homicidal, and I will be delighted to remark pleasantly on the cute bow and/or baby sneakers she or he is wearing.

I just don't want to ever be left alone in a room with it.

Safety first.

(*Genuine fear, or a desire to avoid babysitting for the rest of my natural life?  You decide.)

Saturday, November 21, 2009


Scene: On TRAX

Friend (whispering to her other friend): I know it's not the most appropriate show, what with all the bad parts and everything, but I really love "Glee."

Me (internally): There are bad parts in "Glee"?

Friday, November 20, 2009

Bad Mormon

Sometimes Mormons ask themselves, "What makes a good Mormon?"  Today I just wanted to know, "What makes someone recognizable as a Mormon?"

I have been told on at least a dozen occassions, "I had no idea you were Mormon!" 

I went to lunch with Jack yesterday.  (Doesn't it seem like all my stories begin with lunch?)  We were chatting about who-knows-what and then Jack casually mentioned, "Lanie didn't know you were Mormon."  Yes, someone I've known for two years thought I wasn't Mormon.  Not just that, but she was specifically under the impression that my family was Mormon, I was raised Mormon, but I wasn't Mormon any more. 

That seems like a high level of detail on the Not Mormon Front

Jack asked if that hurt my feelings, and I said no.  The thing is, I've gotten this for years, from both Mormons and non-Mormons, friends and strangers.  But even though I'm used to it, I'd like to know what vibe it is about me that leads people to this conclusion.  I have a few theories, but I'm not sure any of them really explain it.

The Swears
My excessive cursing didn't really flare up until age 22, and I've been attempting to tone it down in recent years (if only in acknowledgement of the fact that professional adults don't use words like "douchebag").  I did get the "You're Mormon?!?!?!?!" look of shock before 22, however.

So it can't be just the swears.

The Slutty Clothes
Again, only somewhat indicative.  The number of times I have truly skanked it up remains relatively small (a Tri Delt formal or two, perhaps a Halloween or New Years party in years past), but I do have a tendency to occassionally wear shirts that, um, perhaps could lead one to an incorrect assumption about my religious practices.  (I defend this one as not my fault, however.  I've talked about my wardrobe malfunction problems, correct?  Perfectly appropriate shirts will just suddenly betray me, those jerks.)

The Lack of Babies
I have begun to notice that when I attend traditional Mormon gatherings, I do lack certain accessories.  Specifically, a nattily dressed toddler.  (I kind of want to start renting my cousin Abbie's, because hers are appropriately darling.)  Of course, motherhood doesn't necessarily equate to Mormonhood, even in Utah.  But a baby wearing a designer headband comes pretty close.

The real problem is that if it's lack of progeny that gives me my Not A Mormon Vibe, (A) Why the hell have I prompted these "You're Mormon?" questions since HIGH SCHOOL?  What is wrong with you people? and (B) There's really not a lot to be done about that.*

The Gay Friends
Here's the thing -- lots of Mormons have gay friends. But I also know that other people would deny this fact. (You know, mostly dicks.) (Sorry, No-Swearing-Resolution.) Since I have recently noticed that my Gay Male Friends now outnumber my Straight Male Friends, perhaps this is it?

Of course, there's really nothing to be done about this one.  I love all my gay boyfriends, and straight man friends are kind of like endangered animals -- their numbers dwindle due to jobs and girlfriends/wives, and once their population has been decimated, more can be hard to come by.  So that ratio probably won't balance anytime soon.  

The Sarcasm
My friend Sally once told me that she will never be able to fit in with our fellow Mo-Mos because her spirit isn't sweet enough.  The same goes for me.  The thing is, like Sally, I have no desire to conform my sense of humor to Ward Sense of Humor.  No, I will not laugh at that terribly lame joke you just told in Sacrament Meeting.  I will begrudgingly fulfill my callings, but I will never gush over the many wonderful opportunities texting girls every month about their visiting teaching affords me.  Raising my hand during the Good News Minute will NEVER HAPPEN.

But the thing is, the fact that I glare my way through church can't be why people don't view me as LDS, because well duh, if they were in church to witness the glaring, they'd know, right?  And for people who witness my finer moments of bitchery outside the wardhouse ... well, actually, this one might be the answer. 

If it is, however, I think I'm just going to live with it.  After all, I like being a bitch. It's who I am. And, as the Sunday School song rightly points out, Jesus still loves me, yes He does.

Any thoughts, e-friends?  If you had to pick one thing about me that says, "Not Mormon," what would it be?  (And if you can think of it, do you think it's chanageable?)

* (PS: Don't worry though, if I haven't trapped some man into marrying me by my 30th birthday, and my backup fiance is unavailable, I'm going to implement the Angelina Jolie lifeplan by adopting some beautiful multicultural kids and stealing some other chick's husband. 

Now guess if I'm joking.)

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The sads

I've been in a bit of a funk lately.  (Trying to get out of it, so don't worry.)  But I realized something today, as I sought some solace in the form of cookies, caramel and chocolate (with a side of Diet Coke.)  When I was in junior high and high school, the vending machines always provided us hyper little teenagers with the freshest licorice, chewiest gummies, fluffiest Three Musketeers imaginable.

But every workplace I've ever been in has vending machines which provide stale, melted, chocolate-so-old-it's-turning-white fare. 

Being a grown up is the worst.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

On nights like this ...

I wish I drank.

The Utes lost.  (I would be comforted by the fact that TCU is the cat's pajamas, and we put up a more respectable fight than BYU did, if not for the unhappy truth that we had a dozen penalties and multiple fumbles.  Sigh.)

I wore snow-inappropriate footwear.  (Status: feet still basically frozen.)

My brother Alpha is acting like he's on his period.  (Hey, I can make misogynistic comments, I'm a girl.)

Basically that's it.

But the first one alone had me looking longingly at the margaritas at Kate and Ryan's.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Having a collegiate moment

At the Salt Lake Roasting Co., enjoying a cookie and steamed milk while I work on a fellowship project leftover from my law school days. 

Surrounded by hipsters and one guy who kinda looks like Emmanuel of homeless-dudes-who-kidnap-teenage-girls-fame.  One particularly granola looking couple appears to be on a blind date.  One girl who looks like she hasn't slept in awhile is struggling with calculus and flirting with her study-buddy.  (The flirting appears to be going well.)  There are peacoats and scarves EVERYWHERE.

Had no idea how much I missed the pseudo-life that students lead.  Sigh.

The bitter barn

Last night I went to my sorority's Founder's Day, which is a celebration commemorating the founding of a greek-letter organization. (In my case, Tri Delta.)

As some of you may know, my sorority was shut down my senior year in college, right as I was graduating. There are about a million and one reasons to be furious about the action Tri Delta Nationals took regarding our chapter, none of which I particularly want to recount now.

What was frustrating to me -- and what will most likely be frustrating forever -- is the fact that some of my fellow Delta Delta Delta alums want to forgive and forget about that whole house-shutting-down thing.

Um ... no. Not going to happen. That's awesome if you can do that, but I can't.

And I don't want to talk about it.  And I don't want to hear about how you re-discovered the true spirit of sisterhood and the power of forgiveness.

Look, I know I joined Tri Delt for the sisterhood, not just the physical house. But I joined to be part of something lasting, not something that ended when I graduated from college. I want to go back and help with Rush. I want to send flowers on Bid Day. I want to donate money during Philanthropy week. I want to show up for Initiation if I'm in town. So don't lecture me about why I really joined -- I know why I joined, and it's not just so I can be an alum of a house that doesn't even exist at my alma mater anymore.

The fact that I will never, ever give another red cent to Tri Delta Nationals? Never going to change. The fact that I will never, ever think of "Nationals" the same way I think of my local chapter, or people from other local chapters? Nope, not that either.

So yeah, invite me to alum events. I want to maintain friendships, I want to keep raising money for children's cancer hospitals. I want to persue the (extremely unlikely) possibility of our house re-opening.

But don't try to make me leave the bitter barn. That's where I live now.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Child's play

I went to lunch with Sally again today. 

She got an assignment last night at 6.  She worked at the office until 8:30, blowing off her boyfriend (cue Sally shrieking, "He is NOT my boyfriend!"), going home for dinner, and then continuing on the work until midnight.  Then she got up early and went in to the office again, finishing up the research and writing it up.

She was clearly stressed, as this issue was (1) complicated and (2) meant something, in the sense that her research and writing was going to be used by someone, and therefore affect some client, as opposed to all the assignments we did as summer associates, where our work meant little-to-nothing to no one and nobody. 

Finally she calmed down long enough to take a bite of her sandwich.  "How is work going for you today?"

I thought for a second.  "Well, I had to go to Michael's to buy a gift basket and some rafia."


"And then later I'm going to go around and get the office Christmas cards signed by everyone."

Cue Sally glaring at me. 

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

11/11/09: Veterans' Day

As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.

- John F. Kennedy

Monday, November 9, 2009

My new greatest fear

Went to lunch with my friend Sally today.  She told me a story she'd recently been told about a lawyer who CRIED at a mediation.  In front of the mediator.  In front of the client.  In front of opposing counsel.  In front of all the angels in heaven. 

When Sally expressed her disbelief at such an event, the attorneys around her shrugged.

"Oh, Sal," they said.  "It happens.  I'd be surprised if you didn't cry in a mediation someday, too."

Uh ...


Sally and I were stunned.  Is that a common thing?  Lawyers ... crying?  Why did no one mention this in law school?  Why haven't we been practicing watching Sofie's Choice dry-eyed for the last three years, if that's the case?

I swear on all that is holy: If I ever cry during a mediation, negotiation, deposition, court hearing, trial, or other legal proceeding, I will promptly excuse myself and quit being a lawyer IMMEDIATELY. 

If there's no crying in baseball, there sure as hell should be no crying in the practice of law. 

Sunday, November 8, 2009


Echo, upon reading the previous post: I don't think you look like Joan Cusack.  I think you look like Michelle Trachtenberg.

Which led to us googling pictures of Michelle Trachtenberg in an effort to confirm or dispel.

Echo: You know, she's not very cute.

Thanks, sis.

Celebrity Look-Alikes

My friend Sally gets told that she looks like Cameron Diaz.

My sister Echo has been told she looks like Megan Fox.

I dated a guy whose sister was always told she looked like Sandra Bullock.

In fact, it was immediately after announcing that YET ANOTHER guy had complimented her Sandra Bullock-like looks, she frowned at me, and said, "You know who you look like?"

Me: (internally) Don't say it ...

Her: Joan Cusack!

Yes, for some reason, friends and strangers alike have found it necessary to compare me to Joan Cusack--the middle aged actress of "playing Kate Hudson's older sister in Raising Helen" fame.


In fact, today I was at lunch with Diego and Nelson after a church-extravaganza (Mormonism! Unitarianism!) and the manager of Noodles and Co. interrupted us to ask me if anyone had compared me to John Cusack's baby sister.

I'm not saying Joan Cusack isn't talented.  I'm not saying she isn't likeable.  (She totally is, on both scores.)  I'm not even saying she isn't cute, in her own way.  I'm just saying, if I had to be compared to someone, I'd prefer a little wild exaggeration.  (Kate Winslet!  I could easily be the wacked out Kate Winslet in Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.)  Or at least someone my own age.  (Trudy from Mad Men!  OK, I'm clearly not as polished, but if you take off your glasses so your vision gets blurry ...)

(I will say that, sensing I was in a bad mood, Diego promptly reminded me that people compare him to Dame Judi Dench.

That helps.

A little.)

Friday, November 6, 2009


You know how you read classic Greek literature, and you feel like screaming, "No, no!  Can't you see that's your dramatic flaw!!?!?!?  Why can't you stop doing that?" 

That's like me and getting bangs.  Every time I think my hair is getting boring, I think, "Oooooh, bangs will be a nice change!"  And then for the first few days after the haircut, I think, "Oooh, these are fun!" 

And then inevitably, I remember that I like the first week of bangs, but I lack the fortitude to (1) get them trimmed on a regular basis or (2) do them in the morning, and therefore I should not have bangs.

People, it takes a loooooooong time to grow them out to manageable levels.  Believe me--girls with fat faces (I believe the term fashion magazines use is "round") should not be seen mid-bang-grow-out.  It's tragic.   

Anyway, have a hair appointment to cut myself some bangs this afternoon, wish me luck!

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

New To-Do List

So remember when I was going to read all the books listed in Beowulf on the Beach?  Guh.  That project is still going, but there's a reason why those books were ALREADY the books I've struggled to read.  Madame Bovary?  More like Madame BORE-vary. 

(Yeah, that's the level my humor is at today.)

So I decided a new list would be in order, and for some reason thought A-Z would be the way to go, even though finding a book starting with "X" is basically impossible.  A list of books that are good, but hopefully not blow-your-brains-out-before-finishing-good.  A list of books that I haven't yet read, want to read, and yes, have occassionally faked having read in the past.

Suggestions are gladly welcomed. 

Any thoughts on the following?

A – All The King's Men

B – The Book Thief

C – The Corrections (Was also considering Cold Mountain ... hopefully eventually I'll get to both, but one has to make the list!  It's an arbitrary rule I've come up with!)

D – David Copperfield (Or Dreaming In Hindi?  I feel like I can't go wrong with Oprah, and David Copperfield is already on the Beowulf on the Beach list ... though that will mean finishing Madame Bovary...)

E – Empire Falls (Or Even Cowgirls Get the Blues?  I feel like The Corrections AND Empire Falls might be a bit much, considering C and E are so close together.)

F – The Fountainhead (Even though Ayn Rand is basically a Nazi who admired serial killers and fittingly died alone ... yes, I feel the need to read The Fountainhead.  Even if I know I will probably just hate it.)

G – A Game of Thrones (Thanks Eric!)

H – Howl’s Moving Castle

I – Into Thin Air

J – The Joy Luck Club

K – K (For realsies.  It's about Kafka, who I love, but I worry that K might be where I get bogged down on my goal ... so new K nominations would be appreciated.)

L – The Little Prince

M – The Maze Runner

N – Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist

O – The Old Man and the Sea

P – Pillars of the Earth

Q – The Quick and the Dead

R – The Road

S – The Shack (or Snow Falling on Cedars?)

T – Team of Rivals

U – The Unbearable Lightness of Being

V – V for Vendetta

W – The World According to Garp

X – ***

Y – Yiddish Policeman’s Union (I've only read half of this, so it can still make the list.  And to everyone saying, "R, you've always said you always finish books -- except for It -- have you been lying?"  I say, "No, but I was in the middle of YPU last summer during the Great Roommate Fire Incident of 2008, so I was too distracted by looming homelessness to finish.") 

Z – Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Monday, November 2, 2009

Can't we just send them some maps???

Last week in church, my cousin gave a lesson on the Martin-Willey handcart companies. For those who don’t know, the Martin and Willey handcart companies were two groups in a series of handcart pioneers. They started the journey too late in the year and were only in Wyoming when winter came. Starvation, hypothermia, exhaustion -- in old-timey clothes and shoes which are a far cry from waterproof, fur-lined boots and Goretex coats.

When word reached Salt Lake that the companies were lost out on the plains, Brigham Young called for a massive rescue effort. On October 7, the first rescue party left Salt Lake City with 16 wagonloads of food and supplies. More rescue parties followed. Even with a rescue effort, more than 210 of the 980 handcart pioneers died along the way. Many of the survivors had to have limbs, fingers and toes amputated due to the frostbite.

In Mormon culture, the story of the Martin and Willey handcart companies is nothing short of legendary. Kids are told about the bravery of the rescuers their whole lives, particularly the story of the young men who carried the pioneers across the icy Sweetwater River. A slightly lesser-known aspect to the story, but no less important, is that after the emigrants finally made it to Salt Lake, those who had already settled in the valley took them in and cared for them for months.

This was no minor act of charity. This was about hundreds of people who had ALREADY risked their lives crossing the plains once doing it again, under the worst possible conditions. This was about people who were already just barely eking out an existence opening their homes to strangers.

You know what none of those rescuers said?

They got themselves into this mess, and now they have to live with the consequences.

I worked hard to get across the plains, and helping them will be giving them a free ride.

And my personal fave: If we go rescue them, they'll never learn to cross the plains themselves.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

And another thing

Bless you, day lights saving time.

Bless you.

The silver lining

If you're going to get sick, get sick on a Sunday.  You can throw on some sweats, wrap yourself in blankets, preempt your dad's lazyboy, and watch the '49ers game while your family gets ready for church.  So sweet ...

(Halloween deets forthcoming.)

Friday, October 30, 2009

That's a scary thought ...

Um ...

When do I have to start paying back my student loans?  Anybody?

Thursday, October 29, 2009

"I'd vote for Brock O'Bottle if I could"

I went to Hagerman's for lunch today with my friend Kate,* and with two days until Halloween, naturally the topic of costumes came up.

Currently, my plan is to don a Strawberry Shortcake costume and recapture my 80s childhood.  Kate and her hubster Ryan are thinking of being a dead girl wrapped in Saran Wrap and a friendly Miami serial killer.  (Kate, Ryan and I are slightly obsessed with Dexter.)  My friend Amy is going as Rainbow Brite.  Her boyriend Jim is going as Sparkly Twilight Vampire.  My sis Echo is being a pirate.  My bro Charlie is working on a Megan Fox costume.  (Because really, doesn't Megan Fox already kinda look like a tranny?)  My friend Chris (you know, with all the care I go to in trying to change names, I really need to remember to start changing Chris's) "Diego" is going to be a Phaorah mummy.  My friend Abe is going to be Jon Gosselin.  (Or, at least, I'm planning to bully him into being Jon Gosselin.) 

Anyway, Kate started telling me about how her co-worker's kids were trying to decide what to be for Halloween.  (Kate's co-worker's kids have had some golden Halloween costumes in the past, including ... wait for it ... VAMPIRE MONKEY.) 

Anyway, Kate's c.w.'s nine-year-old kid is apparently a budding little Republican, thanks to his birther Grandma, and wanted to go as a "tattered American."  Yeah.  Dress in rags, with a hobo stick (I believe the technical term is "bindle"), and carry around a brick that has "THANKS OBAMA!" spray painted on it.  When his dad told him that "Tattered American" was not a school-appropriate costume (if only to avoid the ridicule of other kids), the nine-year-old said he didn't want  to be anything at school and would go trick-or-treating as a Tattered American.  So while other kids are dressed up as zombies and witches and football players, this third grader will be wearing jeans and a button down: a silent, bitter protest of liberal American politics. 

Kate and I had a good laugh over that one. 

Ahh, kids.  So dumb. 

This, of course, led to another wonderful story -- a different c.w. kid, this one a six-year-old girl, who had a bawling breakdown on election day because HER grandma had told her Barack Obama was a "baby killer," and OH MOM, OH DAD, WHY IS A BABY KILLER PRESIDENT?!?!?!?!?!

Fun fact about this anecdote: Thanks to loving Granny, this kid's parents then had the enjoyable task of explaining to a six-year-old that, no, President Obama doesn't kill babies, people who kill people don't get to be president (unless the killing occured in wartime or an appropriately scheduled duel), but there's this medical procedure called an "abortion" that ...

(I kinda wonder if that led to another breakdown of sorts.  OH MOM, OH DAD, WHY DIDN'T YOU EVER TELL ME YOU COULD HAVE ABORTED ME?!?!?!?!?!)

Seriously people (*cough crazy grandmas cough*), I get that you want your kids to be politically informed, but some topics may be a bit much for certain age groups.  Which is why when Kate's nephew cheerfully announced, "I'd vote for Brock O'Bottle if I could!" at a family dinner a few months ago, everyone smiled and nodded and thought, "That's adorable, our kid's an idiot." 

Appropriate response.

* Names changed

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

I lack self-discipline

When I applied to take the Arizona bar exam, I waited until the last minute, nearly had a heart attack twice, and paid an obscene late fee.

No, I didn't learn any lessons now that it's come time to apply for the Utah bar exam.

Let's see if it all comes in by Monday at 5:00pm ...

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Yeah, I'm 25

Paranormal Activity.

Totally terrifying. 

I was pretty scared while I was watching it.

I was way scareder when I had to go home and go to bed.

Suddenly my parents' house started making way more noise than I ever remember it making in the first eighteen years of my life.

Only slightly ashamed of the fact that around one in the morning, I snuck into my thirteen-year-old brother Alpha's room so he could protect me from the ghosties. 

(Alpha was not pleased.) 

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Tequila (or maybe just life) makes her clothes fall off

I have previously alluded to my inability to perform simple tasks like remaining fully clothed while standing around.  Since I'm not a tease (when it comes to blogging), I am giving you my best Wardrobe Malfunctions: 2002-2009 edition.

May 2002:
I was sitting in my bishop's office for my high school graduation interview.  It's just a friendly chat (Where are you going to college?  Are you excited?  Make sure you sign up for Institute first thing, and don't be a stranger at your home ward!), but at some point the top two buttons of my shirt came undone, leaving me and black lace bra just chilling there.

Yup, I flashed my bishop.

September 2006:
I was getting out of a friend's van in high heels and a knit skirt after church.  My heel caught my hem, I kinda stumbled, and the next thing I knew I was standing in Douglas Street in my underpants.

I believe an elderly couple was in the car behind us.

September 2007:
Fall firm crawl.  I've already spilled a Diet Coke on the carpet in the conference room at Van Cott.  At Ray Quinney, my top two buttons (different shirt) once again betrayed me mid-conversation with an attorney.  Shocking I didn't get a job in Salt Lake, right?

October 2009:
Sitting at work at the Deseret Book.  Have no idea when it happened.  Around two o'clock I glance down and notice (yup) my buttons have come undone.  I've just been chilling at a high traffic area of the corporate office, pulling a JLo.

Buttons are my mortal enemy.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Homeless ... homeless ... like the Christ-child was*

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a strong affinity for the homeless. Today I left work a bit early (I've come down with a run-of-the-mill cold, but since the good old DB has busted out hand sanitizer on every floor and is sending semi-regular emails on the importance of guarding against H1N1, I started feeling like a guilty little plague rat, and packed up my stuff just to be on the safe side). As I was crossing South Temple, I ran into an elderly homeless woman in a kid's pink coat. She made direct eye contact with me and mumbled something. I had a couple extra bucks on me, but I wanted to be sure what she was saying. (After all, maybe she only wanted directions.) So I leaned closer. "Pardon me?" I said politely.

More unintelligble whisper/mumbling.

I frowned. "Pardon me?" I repeated.

All the sudden Mumbler scowled and screamed, "Don't you know not to STUTTER?!?!" in my face.

Big pause, then me trying not to laugh. I nodded and smiled like an idiot and went on my way.

Anyway, I feel like this is as good a time as any to give you a rundown of my fave homeless people stories.

(I will not repeat the Noodles and Co. guy story, but if you want to hear that one:

1. Pinky

The U law library is a public facility, which means it's open to everyone -- including the address-challenged.  Homeless shelters in Salt Lake are usually closed during the day, which means during hot summer months and cold winter ones, homeless people have to find a place to stay cool or stay warm.  Libraries are a gold mine for them.

For the most part, the homeless people and the law students have a friendlyish relationship.  We stayed out of their way, they stayed out of ours.  Occasionally one would corner you and start asking for help with legal problems.  (Big no-no for law students, as the administration would remind us every year - you have to be a real lawyer to dispense legal advice, or supervised by one.)  (By the way, if that ever happens to you, loyal readers, recommend they go to Homeless Court - yes, it's a thing - or the free clinic under the overpass on Sunday mornings.  The Salvation Army gives out breakfast, and supervised law students give out as much help as they can.)

But sometimes the homeless people and the law students have a tense relationship (to put it mildly).  When I was 2L, one of the more infamous homeless people was nicknamed Pinky.  Pinky was a transvestite male-to-female who dressed all in pink--pink miniskirts, pink tank tops, pink sunglasses with pink lenses, pink plastic bracelets, pink socks, pink cardigans, pink size-14 stilletos.  Pinky also liked to sit on the couches and watch porn on his/her laptop.

No one I know got close enough to investigate whether it was gay, straight or tranny porn ... but the subject was debated quite a bit.

I don't know what happened to Pinky.  Maybe he/she found a new place to hang out, because he/she stopped coming around so much by my 3L year.  But I did see him/her riding a bike one time around Salt Lake, and then had to frantically glance away lest Pinky's skirt-on-bike ensemble reveal whether he/she was pre- or post-op.

2. The Giggler

Another of our law library homeless friends was The Giggler.  Everyone got along with The Giggler, because she was very nice, and quite obviously mentally ill.  (Best guess?  Non-violent paranoid schizophrenic - but this is based solely on years of watching Law and Order: SVU.  I'm fairly certain one or two people tried to investigate whether she could or should be committed to a mental hospital, but that's sort of a hard thing to work out with non-violent homeless folks).  The Giggler, well, giggled a lot, and wore blankets over her head, and insisted that people were out to get her, including Britney Spears.  She discovered codes on the internet and newspapers, and was trying to crack them.  She wore fuzzy slippers in the winter, and would always express such surprise when snow would soak through them and get her feet cold.  On more than one occasion she would hand you a laminated sheet of gibberish, tell you it was a "mathematical formula" and ask you to proof read it.  All in all, she was a pretty nice lady, but she had a tendency to pester.

The only time I ever saw anyone lose their temper with The Giggler was during finals week, which is when law students lose their tempers with everyone.  (It was a crim pro study group, I believe, and finally my friend Amy** snapped at her to leave us alone after being asked to proof read the formula AGAIN.)  But The Giggler was pretty cool, and never seemed to get angry back.

3.  The "Why" Guy: Technically Not A Homeless Story

Now, this one didn't happen to me ... it happened to my good friend Lacey.  Lacey works at the _________________ (a public interest firm that shall remain nameless), and part of her job is to head up to the mental institution on a regular basis and make sure the crazies are doing OK.

As a disclaimer: Lacey is a good person.  Lacey uses her law degree to do public interest work.  Lacey opposes the new proposed Salt Lake City ordinance that would outlaw panhandling.  Lacey did not call them "crazies;" I did.

Last week Lacey made her trip and gave her speech ... "If any of you have any concerns ... our email address is ... you have the right to be treated fairly ... does anyone have any questions?"

One guy raised his hands.  Lacey smiles and calls on him.   He stands up, breathing heavily, and yells, "Why ... are you such ... a SLUT?"

Lacey's smile gets a little less genuine, and she tries to move onto the next question.  But the guy repeats his question: "Why ... are you such ... a SLUT?"  At this point, some of the other patients start nodding, as if they are also wondering why Lacey is such a slut.  Lacey loses all control of the meeting, and frantically tries to make her polite exit.

(I don't know this next part for sure, but part of me pictures the doctors and nurses standing in the back of the room, laughing and of being absolutely no help.)  

* My friend Ryan used to sing that randomly when we'd be studying in the law library. Nope, he wasn't actually religious. But Ryan is a good singer, so it got in my head, and now mentally I'm belting that out every time I see a homeless person.  Fortunately, I don't know any other words, and I have no intention of learning them.

** Not her name.

*** Like that pic?  I used that on my sister Echo's housewarming party invites when she finally closed on her condo and stopped couch-surfing the greater Salt Lake area.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

I bid you many fond memories of evenings with Netflix

A friend of a friend once pestered me to set him up with somebody.  Since I know about a bazillion brilliant, beautiful single girls, I happily started rattling off a list of Amelia's, Becca's and Chloe's virtues.

At one point in my description of Sally's razor sharp sense of humor, infectious laugh and fantastic blonde hair, he interrupted me.  "She goes to law school with you?"


"I don't really want a girl that's busy."

I stared at him, and suddenly my mental list of brilliant, beautiful girls evaporated as I imagined all of them collectively raising their eyebrows at THAT statement.

Well, today on Facebook I found out that friend-of-a-friend is engaged.  I know, I know, a thousand hearts broke at the thought of that stud off the market, but 'tis too true.  So please, loyal readers, join me in wishing friend-of-a-friend and his not-busy-bride-to-be an exceptionally satisfying life full of blissful staycations.

Monday, October 19, 2009

While watching Grey's Anatomy* ...

Many verses in the Bible are arranged in chiamus.  Chiasm is the art of arranging words in a mirror-like or parallel way.  Think ABCDCBA.  The central idea (in this case "D") is usually the important thought, and all the others are arranged to emphasize it.   A quick google search revealed the following example:

 "Seek me and live;                      a
     but do not seek Bethel,                 b
       and do not enter into Gilgal            c
         or cross over to Beer-sheba;          *
       Gilgal will surely go into exile,        C
     and Bethel shall come to nought." B
   Seek the LORD and live,               A

While watching Grey's Anatomy, it occurred to me that the show's writers may be big (albeit crappy) Bible scholars.

Does anyone notice how everyone on that show repeats themselves, as if inane dialogue times two will become meaningful?

Meredith GreyYou're the guy who used to pour my cereal in the morning. That's it. It's all I remember about you. You're not my father, you're just the guy who used to pour my cereal. And, if you die it probably won't change my life that much. But, it will change hers. If you die, it will break her. And, I'm not gonna let you do that. I don't know what it's like to have a father, but I do know what it's like to have a sister. And, it's good. And, if we can get through this, then the door will be open for us to get to know each other. The door is open.

Owen HuntNo, it's my fault. It was my call, and it was the wrong call. I was wrong and I should have known better.  I should have... I should have taught better. You see one in a million and you want to believe. I was wrong to do the surgery, I was wrong to put you on this case. You weren't ready. You weren't ready to be here. 

Izzie StevensI'm wishing for a brain tumor. I'm wishing all the time for a giant tumor that would just press down on my brain and make me hallucinate George. So that I could talk to him again, so I could laugh with him again. I miss him so much. I miss him all the time, and I just want to feel better. Even for a minute you know, I just wantto be a person who isn't wishing for a brain tumor. Just for one minute. And, I can't drink because of the cancer meds, I don't do drugs, I can't even work right now. I don't have any distractions. I'm sad, and I miss George. So please, please, come inside and help me feel better.

Calliope Torres: You can't pray away the gay.  You can't pray away the gay!  (Mr. Torres says something.)  You can't pray away the gay!

(Yeah, she said that last one THREE TIMES in a row with no variation.)

OK, so it's not exactly Biblical poetry (that may be the point) but damn, it is repetitive.  So any takers on whether or not that is intentional?

*Yes, on occasion, I find myself watching Grey's Anatomy.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

While watching Vampire Diaries ...

Text from Echo: Vampire urim and thummim?  So lame.

Text from Me: More like vampire liahona, don't you think?

Text from Echo: Don't like this new direction.  Vicky BUGS.

Text from Me: Maybe the vampire hunters will get her with their magical pocket watch.