I like to refer to October 1 through January 1 as the "Holiday Corridor." My house is decorated for Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas, with no breaks in between. It's a solid three months of excitement -- scary movie marathons, baking, Christmas parties galore.
Lately I have been thinking about that, and about the Danish concept of "hygge" that has been floating around the Internet these days. Hygge means, roughly, "coziness," but also ... a state of mind of coziness? Danes, you crazy. (I get to say that because I'm Danish descent.) (No, I know that's not really how it works.)
I'm a firm believer that people should buy themselves grocery store flowers on the regular, because a vase of flowers in your home can really lift your mood. And that's part of what everyone is getting at, as we all run around and try to hyggify our homes. Fireplaces! Cuddly pets! Gratuitous scarves! Scented candles as far as the eye can see!
You take the idea of the grocery store flowers and amplify it = cozy/lovely/snuggly to the max.
I may have mentioned before that January through March is my busiest season at work. Some years it is not too bad at all, some years it borders on unmanageable.
But this year, I am making a conscious decision to sort of hyggify my busy season--create a "Coziness Corridor," if you will. After all, October-November-December are extremely busy months too, and yet I always find time for friends and football and all the other goodness of fall.
Why not January-February-March?
So here are my goals for Cozy Corridor:
On the shallow side of things:
1. New manicure every three weeks. I think you type happier with cute fingertips.
2. Mid-March: buy a new dress for spring, put it away until the snow melts.
For my health:
1. Continue to hit the gym at least twice a week.
2. Go skiing every other week.
3. Limit soda consumption to no more than one a day.
4. Pack lunches to work.
5. Go rock climbing once a month.
For my brain:
1. Read one book a week
2. Write 1,000 new words a week.
(Confession time: I love my new work-in-progress, but it does not love me. I've been stalled out at about 35,000 words for over two months, and instead of moving forward I keep redrafting what I've got. It's not exactly wasted time, but it isn't forward momentum. So I'm adding this relatively modest goal so I can make some forward progress and maintain my creative outlet. Gentleman Caller has put an alert on his calendar so he can remember to ask me how that's going every Saturday at 4:00 pm.)
Home goals:
1. Clean for one hour every Saturday.
2. Buy new flowers every other week.
3. Cook an interesting dinner and bake a fun dessert every Sunday night.
Fancy goals:
1. Date night every Friday night.
2. Really awesome Valentines Plan! (TBD)
I am generally prone to wanting to zone out after a busy day of work--just mentally pass out in front of my TV. And while I don't think there's anything wrong with that now and then, I don't want to only do that for the next three months.
So check back in on Sunday, I'll report on the book, the new words, and the lemon tart baking.
Showing posts with label Lawyerin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lawyerin. Show all posts
Monday, January 18, 2016
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Oh boy
Well, things have been ... strange ... in Ru Land the last little while. Here's a rundown:
1. New neighbor drama. I shan't bore you with the details, but in essence, my neighbors threatened to sue me, I told them to go ahead (because their "case" is terrible-to-non-existent), I immediately regretted my decision (despite their terrible case), but Diego is still in full support. He hopes they do sue us, and when we win he wants to make a banner for the roof that says, COME AT US, NEIGHBORS!
2. Hannah moved out of the house and in with S'Wally. It's a sad day for me, Diego, and Spence, but a happy day for Hannah. (Well, a little sad for Hannah, too. There really aren't any better roommates than me and Diego. Sorry, S'Wally.)
Speaking of Hannah, last week was (in her words), the week of shy, mild-mannered girls politely sticking up for themselves. (See my exchange above with the neighbors.) (What? You didn't realize that real me was shy and mild-mannered? I apologize for having misled you.)
Hannah works in [censored to ensure Hannah's future employment] and has one client above all others who makes her life M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E. She and that client were scheduled for a review, and the client told Hannah how disappointing her performance had been, how Hannah was rude and disrespectful toward her, and how no one appreciated her enough.
Hannah (GO HANNAH!) replied, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Client, and I will work on it. But to be honest, I also feel the same way. You are very short and condescending to me, and overly demanding of my time, and I don't appreciate it. But I do appreciate all the other wonderful things you do."
Client refused to look at Hannah for the rest of the meeting.
3. New writing drama.
Oh friends. There's a reason why everything is so very secret in writing land. It's because when things suddenly change in a direction that is surprising and frankly disappointing, you don't have to tell that many people about the new circumstances.
So I've slunk off to my little corner for a week of self-pity, followed by a new project beginning this week, hence the blog silence.
What have you all been up to? Spill, spill!
1. New neighbor drama. I shan't bore you with the details, but in essence, my neighbors threatened to sue me, I told them to go ahead (because their "case" is terrible-to-non-existent), I immediately regretted my decision (despite their terrible case), but Diego is still in full support. He hopes they do sue us, and when we win he wants to make a banner for the roof that says, COME AT US, NEIGHBORS!
2. Hannah moved out of the house and in with S'Wally. It's a sad day for me, Diego, and Spence, but a happy day for Hannah. (Well, a little sad for Hannah, too. There really aren't any better roommates than me and Diego. Sorry, S'Wally.)
Speaking of Hannah, last week was (in her words), the week of shy, mild-mannered girls politely sticking up for themselves. (See my exchange above with the neighbors.) (What? You didn't realize that real me was shy and mild-mannered? I apologize for having misled you.)
Hannah works in [censored to ensure Hannah's future employment] and has one client above all others who makes her life M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E. She and that client were scheduled for a review, and the client told Hannah how disappointing her performance had been, how Hannah was rude and disrespectful toward her, and how no one appreciated her enough.
Hannah (GO HANNAH!) replied, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Client, and I will work on it. But to be honest, I also feel the same way. You are very short and condescending to me, and overly demanding of my time, and I don't appreciate it. But I do appreciate all the other wonderful things you do."
Client refused to look at Hannah for the rest of the meeting.
3. New writing drama.
Oh friends. There's a reason why everything is so very secret in writing land. It's because when things suddenly change in a direction that is surprising and frankly disappointing, you don't have to tell that many people about the new circumstances.
So I've slunk off to my little corner for a week of self-pity, followed by a new project beginning this week, hence the blog silence.
What have you all been up to? Spill, spill!
Friday, July 26, 2013
Gotta be honest, you're not charring my tree*
Little known fact to the rest of the western world: Utah celebrates "Pioneer Day," the anniversary of Mormon settlers arriving in the Salt Lake Valley, on the 24th of July.
Which means this last week, I had a day off in the middle of the week. Which kind of made Tuesday feel like a Friday and yesterday feel like a Monday--all in all, not a great combination.
I thought I would accomplish a lot this week. But alas, aside from baking a pie, nothing on my to-do-list got now-done'd.
Sometimes I feel like it's a good thing when you don't get anything done. I have long subscribed to the day-dreamer school of thought. Basically, when I find my mind wandering, I let it wander. When I finally arrive back on topic, I'm usually a lot more focused. (I'm sure there is some pop psychology out there somewhere to back this up, but I'm too lazy to google it.)
So when I'm lawyerin, and feel the urge to search the web or stare out my window, I do. And more often than not, within about fifteen minutes, I realize what it was that I needed to figure out.
This method works less well when it comes to writing--though there is still some value to it.
But this week, my lack of progress on any front didn't feel so much like a mental cleanser as it did like a roofie circle. (NAME THE REFERENCE!)*
Oh well. Onward and upward, right? Time to find the moment where the drop hits the pond!*
* Hint: it's all the same reference.
Which means this last week, I had a day off in the middle of the week. Which kind of made Tuesday feel like a Friday and yesterday feel like a Monday--all in all, not a great combination.
I thought I would accomplish a lot this week. But alas, aside from baking a pie, nothing on my to-do-list got now-done'd.
Sometimes I feel like it's a good thing when you don't get anything done. I have long subscribed to the day-dreamer school of thought. Basically, when I find my mind wandering, I let it wander. When I finally arrive back on topic, I'm usually a lot more focused. (I'm sure there is some pop psychology out there somewhere to back this up, but I'm too lazy to google it.)
So when I'm lawyerin, and feel the urge to search the web or stare out my window, I do. And more often than not, within about fifteen minutes, I realize what it was that I needed to figure out.
This method works less well when it comes to writing--though there is still some value to it.
But this week, my lack of progress on any front didn't feel so much like a mental cleanser as it did like a roofie circle. (NAME THE REFERENCE!)*
Oh well. Onward and upward, right? Time to find the moment where the drop hits the pond!*
* Hint: it's all the same reference.
Friday, April 12, 2013
K is for existentialism (see what I did there?)
No friends, K is actually for Kafka and K, one of his more famous characters.
In high school, we had to read The Metamorphosis for AP English, and then the Cliff Notes version of The Trial. (Literally. We sometimes just read summaries of famous works, in the event they might become handy on the test. This has allowed me to pretend I've read way more classic works of literature than I actually have. Shhh, don't tell.)
The trial is about a man named Josef K., who goes by K almost the entire story. He is inexplicably arrested but not charged with a crime. He's subjected to a tribunal of some kind (I like to think of it as an arraignment), but no one tells him anything about what he has supposedly done. He's then released to his own recognizance (that part I'm interpreted liberally) and told to await further instructions. The story continues on like this for some time.
Now, the story isn't really just about the law or a trial (it's about life and how we can all sometimes feel like cogs in the greater machinery of modern society), but on some level it actually is about a trial. Kafka was a trained lawyer and it's hard to argue that (various levels of AP English analysis aside) he wasn't also delivering a very literal message with The Trial.
After AP English, I kind of forgot about The Trial, though the images of The Metamorphosis can be hard to erase. But then, during my first year of law school, I signed up for a class called "Storytelling and the Law." (Supposedly, it was about the narrative forms lawyers employ to effectively connect with and represent our clients. I would still like to take that class, because the class my peers and I actually took involved a lot of introspective essays entitled "Who am I?", watching documentaries about the communication styles of domesticated animals, and bringing poems lyrics to class to interpret them. Due to my resistance to sharing feelings, my grade was ... not good. But at least now I know what Spencer wants when he goes into puppy play pose!)
But one thing that actually stuck with me from "Storytelling and the Law"was my professor's belief that the law is inherently a violent construction. That there is no "right" or "wrong," and people who engage with the law (litigants, defendants, victims) inevitably end up worse off than they were to begin with. As such, a lawyer's primary function is to minimize the additional damage that the justice system is about to inflict.
I don't particularly agree with that vision of the law. In fact, sometimes I think it's the clients themselves who are making the law so violent, with lawyers, mediators, commissioners, and judges all shielding themselves from the shrapnel. But my vehement disagreement has softened somewhat since law school. The justice system can be a scary thing, even when (and sometimes especially when) you're a lawyer.
But much like Kafka himself (who had a tendency not to finish projects), I'm not entirely sure where I am going with all this, other than to ask -- what do you all think? About the law, about existentialism, or even about Cliff Notes?
In high school, we had to read The Metamorphosis for AP English, and then the Cliff Notes version of The Trial. (Literally. We sometimes just read summaries of famous works, in the event they might become handy on the test. This has allowed me to pretend I've read way more classic works of literature than I actually have. Shhh, don't tell.)
The trial is about a man named Josef K., who goes by K almost the entire story. He is inexplicably arrested but not charged with a crime. He's subjected to a tribunal of some kind (I like to think of it as an arraignment), but no one tells him anything about what he has supposedly done. He's then released to his own recognizance (that part I'm interpreted liberally) and told to await further instructions. The story continues on like this for some time.
Now, the story isn't really just about the law or a trial (it's about life and how we can all sometimes feel like cogs in the greater machinery of modern society), but on some level it actually is about a trial. Kafka was a trained lawyer and it's hard to argue that (various levels of AP English analysis aside) he wasn't also delivering a very literal message with The Trial.
After AP English, I kind of forgot about The Trial, though the images of The Metamorphosis can be hard to erase. But then, during my first year of law school, I signed up for a class called "Storytelling and the Law." (Supposedly, it was about the narrative forms lawyers employ to effectively connect with and represent our clients. I would still like to take that class, because the class my peers and I actually took involved a lot of introspective essays entitled "Who am I?", watching documentaries about the communication styles of domesticated animals, and bringing poems lyrics to class to interpret them. Due to my resistance to sharing feelings, my grade was ... not good. But at least now I know what Spencer wants when he goes into puppy play pose!)
But one thing that actually stuck with me from "Storytelling and the Law"was my professor's belief that the law is inherently a violent construction. That there is no "right" or "wrong," and people who engage with the law (litigants, defendants, victims) inevitably end up worse off than they were to begin with. As such, a lawyer's primary function is to minimize the additional damage that the justice system is about to inflict.
I don't particularly agree with that vision of the law. In fact, sometimes I think it's the clients themselves who are making the law so violent, with lawyers, mediators, commissioners, and judges all shielding themselves from the shrapnel. But my vehement disagreement has softened somewhat since law school. The justice system can be a scary thing, even when (and sometimes especially when) you're a lawyer.
But much like Kafka himself (who had a tendency not to finish projects), I'm not entirely sure where I am going with all this, other than to ask -- what do you all think? About the law, about existentialism, or even about Cliff Notes?
Monday, March 25, 2013
A little friendly advice from your neighborhood Lawyer Girl
Are you in a contentious marriage?
Do you sometimes feel groggy for no reason? Suffer from blackouts? Do you sometimes experience a hangover after just one or two cocktails?
FYI, your spouse is probably drugging you.
You might think I'm exaggerating, but after 6 months of having his own family law practice, Diego has now had multiple clients whose spouses drugged them for various reasons. MULTIPLE.
The longer I am a lawyer, the more times I hear about something that I would think would be a once-in-a-lifetime-bizarro occurrence, and then come to realize later that, actually, it is a thing.
Do you sometimes feel groggy for no reason? Suffer from blackouts? Do you sometimes experience a hangover after just one or two cocktails?
FYI, your spouse is probably drugging you.
You might think I'm exaggerating, but after 6 months of having his own family law practice, Diego has now had multiple clients whose spouses drugged them for various reasons. MULTIPLE.
The longer I am a lawyer, the more times I hear about something that I would think would be a once-in-a-lifetime-bizarro occurrence, and then come to realize later that, actually, it is a thing.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Oh friends
I am so fried. Can you tell? I feel like everyone in my real life is giving me a side-eye at the moment, so it wouldn't surprise me at all if this lack-of-togetherness is coming through the Internets as well.
What's going on in you lives? Anything exciting? What are you reading, watching, listening to?
What's going on in you lives? Anything exciting? What are you reading, watching, listening to?
Thursday, February 21, 2013
bone crushing disappointment
For the last two weeks, I have woken up on a Thursday and thought, "It's Friday!"
I know that's upsetting for everyone, but believe me when I say--it's extra upsetting for me during this time of year.
I know that's upsetting for everyone, but believe me when I say--it's extra upsetting for me during this time of year.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
thoughts on a third winter
Have you missed me?
I suppose that's irrelevant, because I've missed me.
Prepare for some serious word vomit. I'm going to do my best to just get it all out there without deleting anything but serious misspellings and Tourettes-like swears.
This is my busy season at work, and while the last two have been somewhat doable, this one has just been an unmitigated nightmare. Last night I left work early (after only 10.5 hours!), got a chicken sandwich, fries, and milkshake from Smashburger (which is delicious, but crazy expensive), ate it all while watching an episode of Hoarders and fell promptly asleep at 8:35pm. So yeah. MARDI GRAS! I know how to party.
I made a goal of giving up Diet Coke for Lent -- I've semi-participated in Lent ever since college when a Tri Delta sis encouraged everyone to tag along for Ash Wednesday. Is it disrespectful to glom on to some other religion's tradition? Maybe. But since then, Lent and I have been like ... well, I was going to say like this, but really, we've been more like casual acquaintances who were actually pretty mad at each other in 2009 when Lent meant we ate fish tacos for every lunch and dinner while on spring break.
(I was reminiscing about that Lent with Diego the other day, and he seemed surprised that the reason for all the fish tacos was because of our friend Andrea's commitment to giving up dairy and meat for Lent. "I just thought we were on a big fish taco kick that week." NO ONE IS ON A FISH TACO KICK THAT LASTS FIVE DAYS, DIEGO.)
Anyway. I find Lent to be good opportunity to try to reflect on the bigger things in life for forty days. "Oh, you want some of that thing you vowed to refrain from? Better pause to consider the atonement of our Lord."*
In that sense, I think it's best to give up something you truly love for Lent (like me and Diet Coke -- I plan to get a domestic partnership with Diet Coke someday), because that way, you're ALWAYS a mental hop, skip, and a jump away from the Bigger Picture.
At the same time, this probably isn't the best choice I've ever made. I mean, me? During my busy season? Without the thing I love the most? Danger Will Robinson, indeed.
This morning, as I woke up again before the buttcrack of dawn, I paused to consider all the things I could be doing with my life instead of lawyerin.
I could run a doggie daycare. I imagine they make quite good money. I would need to find a lot that's properly zoned (thanks, law school!) in the downtown area, because let's be real -- only guilty professionals utilize a doggie daycare. A big yard in the 'burbs might be the "best" location for such an establishment, but no ad exec is going to drive out to BFE to deposit precious Mister Doodlepuff at an acre-sized dog daycare before their 8:00 AM conference call. Please. It would have to be downtown so they could drop him off on the fly. But assuming I could get 15-20 people who consistently would drop off their dogs, at $10 a dog per day, that's ... pretty close to worth it, once you figure in taxes and the cost of rent of my properly zoned business establishment. But maybe I'd convince people to pay in cash so I could engage in some questionable tax practices.
I suppose the only downside to federal prison would be that they wouldn't let Spence come with me. And they probably don't have unlimited Diet Coke. Which, unlike the 40 days of Lent, I figure a few years without Diet Coke would probably lose its religious impact. Every time I wanted a Diet Coke, I'd probably think, "Should have paid my taxes." Which is also a good thought, so not a total waste.
I could work at a Starbucks. Have I ever mentioned that was my if I can't hack it in law school plan? Starbucks gives every employee who works at least 35 hours a week health insurance. (Or, at least this was the case in 2006). I was going to move to Hawaii, find a crappy apartment that probably cost about $1500 a week to rent, work at Starbucks, learn to surf, and get a really great tan (with a really pale face, since I am far more scared of wrinkles than skin cancer BECAUSE I AM SHALLOW.)
Other than doggie daycare and Starbucks, I actually don't have any other backup plans, so lawyerin better work out. And speaking of, I realized today that all my suits are pretty wrinkly, and my dress shirts as well. I am either going to have to find a husband who knows how to iron, or convince Diego to do my ironing for me and never move out of my house.
So. These are my thoughts this Ash Wednesday. Please share yours.
* And if you're a smug whatever-religion person thinking, "I don't need a petty reminder of my religious commitment as I am always thinking about the Bigger Picture" -- well, jolly good for you! I hope you get canonized soon.
I suppose that's irrelevant, because I've missed me.
Prepare for some serious word vomit. I'm going to do my best to just get it all out there without deleting anything but serious misspellings and Tourettes-like swears.
This is my busy season at work, and while the last two have been somewhat doable, this one has just been an unmitigated nightmare. Last night I left work early (after only 10.5 hours!), got a chicken sandwich, fries, and milkshake from Smashburger (which is delicious, but crazy expensive), ate it all while watching an episode of Hoarders and fell promptly asleep at 8:35pm. So yeah. MARDI GRAS! I know how to party.
I made a goal of giving up Diet Coke for Lent -- I've semi-participated in Lent ever since college when a Tri Delta sis encouraged everyone to tag along for Ash Wednesday. Is it disrespectful to glom on to some other religion's tradition? Maybe. But since then, Lent and I have been like ... well, I was going to say like this, but really, we've been more like casual acquaintances who were actually pretty mad at each other in 2009 when Lent meant we ate fish tacos for every lunch and dinner while on spring break.
(I was reminiscing about that Lent with Diego the other day, and he seemed surprised that the reason for all the fish tacos was because of our friend Andrea's commitment to giving up dairy and meat for Lent. "I just thought we were on a big fish taco kick that week." NO ONE IS ON A FISH TACO KICK THAT LASTS FIVE DAYS, DIEGO.)
Anyway. I find Lent to be good opportunity to try to reflect on the bigger things in life for forty days. "Oh, you want some of that thing you vowed to refrain from? Better pause to consider the atonement of our Lord."*
In that sense, I think it's best to give up something you truly love for Lent (like me and Diet Coke -- I plan to get a domestic partnership with Diet Coke someday), because that way, you're ALWAYS a mental hop, skip, and a jump away from the Bigger Picture.
At the same time, this probably isn't the best choice I've ever made. I mean, me? During my busy season? Without the thing I love the most? Danger Will Robinson, indeed.
This morning, as I woke up again before the buttcrack of dawn, I paused to consider all the things I could be doing with my life instead of lawyerin.
I could run a doggie daycare. I imagine they make quite good money. I would need to find a lot that's properly zoned (thanks, law school!) in the downtown area, because let's be real -- only guilty professionals utilize a doggie daycare. A big yard in the 'burbs might be the "best" location for such an establishment, but no ad exec is going to drive out to BFE to deposit precious Mister Doodlepuff at an acre-sized dog daycare before their 8:00 AM conference call. Please. It would have to be downtown so they could drop him off on the fly. But assuming I could get 15-20 people who consistently would drop off their dogs, at $10 a dog per day, that's ... pretty close to worth it, once you figure in taxes and the cost of rent of my properly zoned business establishment. But maybe I'd convince people to pay in cash so I could engage in some questionable tax practices.
I suppose the only downside to federal prison would be that they wouldn't let Spence come with me. And they probably don't have unlimited Diet Coke. Which, unlike the 40 days of Lent, I figure a few years without Diet Coke would probably lose its religious impact. Every time I wanted a Diet Coke, I'd probably think, "Should have paid my taxes." Which is also a good thought, so not a total waste.
I could work at a Starbucks. Have I ever mentioned that was my if I can't hack it in law school plan? Starbucks gives every employee who works at least 35 hours a week health insurance. (Or, at least this was the case in 2006). I was going to move to Hawaii, find a crappy apartment that probably cost about $1500 a week to rent, work at Starbucks, learn to surf, and get a really great tan (with a really pale face, since I am far more scared of wrinkles than skin cancer BECAUSE I AM SHALLOW.)
Other than doggie daycare and Starbucks, I actually don't have any other backup plans, so lawyerin better work out. And speaking of, I realized today that all my suits are pretty wrinkly, and my dress shirts as well. I am either going to have to find a husband who knows how to iron, or convince Diego to do my ironing for me and never move out of my house.
So. These are my thoughts this Ash Wednesday. Please share yours.
* And if you're a smug whatever-religion person thinking, "I don't need a petty reminder of my religious commitment as I am always thinking about the Bigger Picture" -- well, jolly good for you! I hope you get canonized soon.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
checkin in
So I have been a terrible blogger lately. Not just a terrible blogger, but a terrible writer.
Terrible beta reader.
Terrible house-keeper.
So-so dog owner.
Still a good friend.
And a bang up lawyer. (See a pattern?)
January, February, and March are the busiest months at my work. I have a lot of fun work-related tales, actually, but none of them are blog appropriate.
With--yikes!--five days left in January, I have a few mini goals.
1. Finish beta reading Project F
2. Finish beta reading Projects D & K
3. Finish an essay for a friend's project
4. Finish my application packets for two local publishers (yay!)
And then take a writing break until March 31st.
Terrible beta reader.
Terrible house-keeper.
So-so dog owner.
Still a good friend.
And a bang up lawyer. (See a pattern?)
January, February, and March are the busiest months at my work. I have a lot of fun work-related tales, actually, but none of them are blog appropriate.
With--yikes!--five days left in January, I have a few mini goals.
1. Finish beta reading Project F
2. Finish beta reading Projects D & K
3. Finish an essay for a friend's project
4. Finish my application packets for two local publishers (yay!)
And then take a writing break until March 31st.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Tales from Starbucks
There is easily a foot of snow outside my house, and it hasn't stopped coming down. As far as I can tell, the last time a plow took on my street was last night at 7 pm. Poor Yaris has no shot of making it out of the driveway, much less all the way to work. So I took my trusty lappy up to the local Starbucks, ordered a scone, and did as much work as a lawyer girl can on an unsecure Internet connection.
Things are rough out there, folks. Last night Diego worked late and ended up staying at a friend's house because he couldn't come home. When he finally pulled onto our street this morning, there was nowhere to park but the middle of the road if he didn't want to get stuck.
Diego and I broke out our trusty shovels to clear a spot. Spence supervised.
Normally, Spence is never off-leash in our neighborhood. Not because it's a particularly busy neighborhood--it isn't--but because he can't be trusted. Spencer would befriend an armed robber if he broke in, forget about a car. But with so much snow, and so few drivers, I figured a few minutes of frolicking in the snow couldn't hurt.
Until a taxi slowly made its way up our street.
I looked around for Spence in a panic. I couldn't see him anywhere. So I leaped in front of the taxi, which was probably traveling at about four miles an hour. "Stop stop stop!" I yelled. The startled driver reduced his snail's pace to a slow, snow-crunching halt.
I glanced around, and there sat Spence, sitting in the taxi's path, looking up at me expectantly. I snatched him up and smiled apologetically at the taxi driver--who was now stuck in the snow.
I walked back to where Diego was still shoveling. "You know Spence was totally standing by me until you ran in front of the taxi, right?" he said softly, so the taxi driver wouldn't overhear.
Uh ....
Finally the taxi driver was able to get going again and he pulled even with us. He rolled down his window, but his face was friendly. "Don't worry, I saw your car!" he yelled. "I wouldn't have hit it!"
Diego and I glanced at each other. Given that Diego's car is pitch-black and parked in the middle of the road, I don't think a legally blind driver would have missed it. But rather that pointing that out, we both smiled as widely as we could and waved back. "Ok, awesome! Thanks so much!"
All I can say is, where is Mr. Plow when you need him?
(Name that television show.)
Friday, December 14, 2012
Why the law is (usually) better than X
(This blog post brought to you by simmering annoyance.)
I read a study once where researchers asked students applying to medical school and students applying to law school what appealed to them most about their respective choices. (Aside from "wanting to help people" -- mostly true -- and "buckets of money" -- DING DING DING!)
The future doctors replied, "It's the mystery."
The lawyers-to-be said, "It's the certainty."
In essence, the pre-meds thought that their future would be filled with researching symptoms and cures, testing hypothesis and eliminating failed propositions. Discovery! Curiosity! Cue the Dr. House music!
And on the flip side, the baby lawyers thought that they would be flipping through one of their many fine, leather-bound books and crying, "Aha! The legislature outlawed that in 1918! Case dismissed!"
Sadly, as it turns out, the opposite is true. (May explain why there are so many unhappy doctors and lawyers out there. Math skills aside, maybe they all should have swapped jobs?)
Doctors spend most of their time conclusively determining what is wrong with the person. The true medical mysteries are rare.
Lawyers, on the other hand, spend most of their time wading through the gray -- the area where truth is elusive, interpretations are many, and certainty is nowhere to be found. The slam dunk case? Just as rare as a medical mystery. When you have a slam dunk, you don't really even need a lawyer. You need a sheriff (if you're in the right) or a priest (if you're not.)
One of the great things about working in the law is grappling with complex ideas that may not have an answer. And when you're surrounded by bright, capable colleagues (as many of us are lucky to be), it's enough to make a lot of us nerd-types frankly giddy. LOOK AT ALL THE POSSIBLE OUTCOMES!
I think it is this particular legal background that makes it so frustrating for me to hear the words, "If you really understood."
If I really understood? Lawyers don't say that to each other. (Well, the good ones don't. The bad ones toss it around like there's no tomorrow. "Have a good day!" "You don't understand this!" "Oh, you're filing sanctions against me over this frivolous motion?" "You're honor, I'm really quite sorry." -- the natural progression of the terrible lawyer. Repeat until disbarment.)
Lawyers come to the table with a common denominator -- we all understand this. Understanding is rarely the problem. The problem is that I want it to mean A, Eduardo wants it to mean B, the other side will push for K, and who knows what the judge will think. If we do M, will that endanger the conclusion on P? What do we risk it we don't ask for M? Can we never ask for M again? And is it possible that U is the answer, and do we just hope that no one brings that up?
Oh, what was the answer? There is no answer! There are only probabilities about the future, based on what has happened in the past, and hoping that an appellate court does (or doesn't) concur.
It's like science fiction, it really is.
So what someone really means when they say the words, "You don't understand ... if you only understood ... people who really get this ..." is "Here is my A. I know you wanted B, but rather than debate you on the merits of B, I will simply undermine your position by implying you don't belong at the table."
And unless the subject actually is math, where (as long as you're not in crazy advanced math, which we won't even talk about) there is an answer and you can be conclusively wrong, that really isn't a way to approach a debate. Not in politics, not in theology, not even in house cleaning.
Now, a lot of people prefer to avoid this conundrum by resorting to the "I feels." (Thanks, Oprah.) Fine, you don't agree with my position, and you want to undermine it by claiming I don't have the intellectual capacity or background to deserve to have it. So what are we left with?
"Based on my personal experiences with A, I feel B is best."
Don't get me wrong, sometimes that is the way to go. If you have no ground left to stand on, jump aboard the USSR Emotion and take your battle to sea.
But man, if I don't feel that people resort to this option before they should. The answer to, "Well, you don't understand" is not, "Well, I feel." It is, "Of course I understand, Janie. You know I understand. I just draw a different conclusion than you do."
And unless Janie is Mother Russia, you keep that fight on the land.
I read a study once where researchers asked students applying to medical school and students applying to law school what appealed to them most about their respective choices. (Aside from "wanting to help people" -- mostly true -- and "buckets of money" -- DING DING DING!)
The future doctors replied, "It's the mystery."
The lawyers-to-be said, "It's the certainty."
In essence, the pre-meds thought that their future would be filled with researching symptoms and cures, testing hypothesis and eliminating failed propositions. Discovery! Curiosity! Cue the Dr. House music!
And on the flip side, the baby lawyers thought that they would be flipping through one of their many fine, leather-bound books and crying, "Aha! The legislature outlawed that in 1918! Case dismissed!"
Sadly, as it turns out, the opposite is true. (May explain why there are so many unhappy doctors and lawyers out there. Math skills aside, maybe they all should have swapped jobs?)
Doctors spend most of their time conclusively determining what is wrong with the person. The true medical mysteries are rare.
Lawyers, on the other hand, spend most of their time wading through the gray -- the area where truth is elusive, interpretations are many, and certainty is nowhere to be found. The slam dunk case? Just as rare as a medical mystery. When you have a slam dunk, you don't really even need a lawyer. You need a sheriff (if you're in the right) or a priest (if you're not.)
One of the great things about working in the law is grappling with complex ideas that may not have an answer. And when you're surrounded by bright, capable colleagues (as many of us are lucky to be), it's enough to make a lot of us nerd-types frankly giddy. LOOK AT ALL THE POSSIBLE OUTCOMES!
I think it is this particular legal background that makes it so frustrating for me to hear the words, "If you really understood."
If I really understood? Lawyers don't say that to each other. (Well, the good ones don't. The bad ones toss it around like there's no tomorrow. "Have a good day!" "You don't understand this!" "Oh, you're filing sanctions against me over this frivolous motion?" "You're honor, I'm really quite sorry." -- the natural progression of the terrible lawyer. Repeat until disbarment.)
Lawyers come to the table with a common denominator -- we all understand this. Understanding is rarely the problem. The problem is that I want it to mean A, Eduardo wants it to mean B, the other side will push for K, and who knows what the judge will think. If we do M, will that endanger the conclusion on P? What do we risk it we don't ask for M? Can we never ask for M again? And is it possible that U is the answer, and do we just hope that no one brings that up?
Oh, what was the answer? There is no answer! There are only probabilities about the future, based on what has happened in the past, and hoping that an appellate court does (or doesn't) concur.
It's like science fiction, it really is.
So what someone really means when they say the words, "You don't understand ... if you only understood ... people who really get this ..." is "Here is my A. I know you wanted B, but rather than debate you on the merits of B, I will simply undermine your position by implying you don't belong at the table."
And unless the subject actually is math, where (as long as you're not in crazy advanced math, which we won't even talk about) there is an answer and you can be conclusively wrong, that really isn't a way to approach a debate. Not in politics, not in theology, not even in house cleaning.
Now, a lot of people prefer to avoid this conundrum by resorting to the "I feels." (Thanks, Oprah.) Fine, you don't agree with my position, and you want to undermine it by claiming I don't have the intellectual capacity or background to deserve to have it. So what are we left with?
"Based on my personal experiences with A, I feel B is best."
Don't get me wrong, sometimes that is the way to go. If you have no ground left to stand on, jump aboard the USSR Emotion and take your battle to sea.
But man, if I don't feel that people resort to this option before they should. The answer to, "Well, you don't understand" is not, "Well, I feel." It is, "Of course I understand, Janie. You know I understand. I just draw a different conclusion than you do."
And unless Janie is Mother Russia, you keep that fight on the land.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Irrevocable Power of Attorney
Diego and I have an idea for a television show. It's got a little My Fair Wedding with David Tutera flavor, mixed with everything you want to scream at your TV whenever you find yourself watching MTV.
Here's the premise: People on reality TV shows agree to let me and Diego run their lives for 90 days. They can't disagree with any of our decisions made on their behalf.
For example, Janelle from Teen Mom 2. Sorry Jenelle, you signed up for Irrevocable Power of Attorney, so now you're dumping Kieffer, back in college, in counseling with your mom, and taking daily drug tests.
Don't like it? Shouldn't have signed on to the show if you didn't want someone to fix all your problems and make your life a million times better.
Here's the premise: People on reality TV shows agree to let me and Diego run their lives for 90 days. They can't disagree with any of our decisions made on their behalf.
For example, Janelle from Teen Mom 2. Sorry Jenelle, you signed up for Irrevocable Power of Attorney, so now you're dumping Kieffer, back in college, in counseling with your mom, and taking daily drug tests.
Don't like it? Shouldn't have signed on to the show if you didn't want someone to fix all your problems and make your life a million times better.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Picture day: blast from the past
(Well, I don't know what happened here, but since no one but me can see that picture, this is just a blank spot for now. Half-hugs and air-kisses!)
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Two posts in a week? Crazy!
Yes friends, it's true.
Busy season at my work is nearly over, which means a return to our regularly scheduled program.
But since it's not quite over, this isn't much of a post. Really more of a list of things I've learned during my semi-break:
1. Blogging is a good outlet for me. If I had blogged about Rush Limbaugh, I probably wouldn't have had to rant about him to all my friends for the last four days.
2. Despite my Mormon roots, there is just something about public prayer that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Not the prayer itself, mind you, just the act of standing around and listening to it. I feel like Will Farrell in Talladega Nights -- I don't know what I should be doing with my hands.
And between us chickens, I've heard a lot of public prayer in the last month and a half.
3. I plan to do a little more with 28 than I did with 27. When I turned 26, I was depressed. When I turned 27, I was more depressed. In fact, I spent probably the first six months of 27 wishing I was still 26 ... and now that I'm 28, 27 seems mighty young.
In an effort to not be right back where I'm sitting a year from now, I'm going to try to enjoy 28 from the get-go.
4. Internet dating. Still awful.
What's new with you friends?
Busy season at my work is nearly over, which means a return to our regularly scheduled program.
But since it's not quite over, this isn't much of a post. Really more of a list of things I've learned during my semi-break:
1. Blogging is a good outlet for me. If I had blogged about Rush Limbaugh, I probably wouldn't have had to rant about him to all my friends for the last four days.
2. Despite my Mormon roots, there is just something about public prayer that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Not the prayer itself, mind you, just the act of standing around and listening to it. I feel like Will Farrell in Talladega Nights -- I don't know what I should be doing with my hands.
And between us chickens, I've heard a lot of public prayer in the last month and a half.
3. I plan to do a little more with 28 than I did with 27. When I turned 26, I was depressed. When I turned 27, I was more depressed. In fact, I spent probably the first six months of 27 wishing I was still 26 ... and now that I'm 28, 27 seems mighty young.
In an effort to not be right back where I'm sitting a year from now, I'm going to try to enjoy 28 from the get-go.
4. Internet dating. Still awful.
What's new with you friends?
Thursday, February 2, 2012
rage
I try not to talk about legally things in my social media accounts, I have to say this:
Dishonest lawyers should rot in hell for giving the rest of us a bad name.
Lying and then claiming you did it in the "interest of your client" is not an acceptable ethics workaround. Either you're a lying sack or you aren't.
Let's try this in cross examination terms since you don't have a great concept of honesty in the abstract:
Isn't it true you said X?
Isn't it also true you then did Y?
Cased closed. And may the record also reflect that opposing counsel is both the Mayor and Acting Deputy City Manager of Bitchville.
(I'm so glad I don't have to actually "litigate" in the traditional sense at my current job -- it would wreak havoc on my already-bordering-on-sailor vocabulary.)
Dishonest lawyers should rot in hell for giving the rest of us a bad name.
Lying and then claiming you did it in the "interest of your client" is not an acceptable ethics workaround. Either you're a lying sack or you aren't.
Let's try this in cross examination terms since you don't have a great concept of honesty in the abstract:
Isn't it true you said X?
Isn't it also true you then did Y?
Cased closed. And may the record also reflect that opposing counsel is both the Mayor and Acting Deputy City Manager of Bitchville.
(I'm so glad I don't have to actually "litigate" in the traditional sense at my current job -- it would wreak havoc on my already-bordering-on-sailor vocabulary.)
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Well, shucks
Oscar Sparrow nominated me for a Kreativ Blogger Award, ain't that sweet? As part of that award, I have to tell you 10 things you probably don't know about me. I'm also supposed to pick 10 people to give it to, but when I get overwhelmed with work, I get overwhelmed with decisions, which means the thought of picking 10 of the many fantastic blogs I read, follow, and/or stalk to highlight gives me a headache. AWARDS FOR EVERYONE!
1. I want to visit India. The trick is apparently finding a travel buddy. Everyone wants to go to Paris, no one wants to go to Mumbai.
2. I really hate texting. A subset of that hatred is the "hey" text -- when someone tries to initiate a conversation with the word "hey" and sometimes nothing else. But even more than that? I hate the "hey [adjective or sometimes noun]" text.
In the last two weeks, a guy has tried to initiate conversation with me by texting the following:
"Hey cutie!"
"Hey hot stuff!"
"Hey cutie"
"Hey cutie"
"Hey gorgeous!"
And last night when I logged on to Facebook, an IM that said, "Hey sexy."
Just ... gross.
Fortunately for this kid, I do believe there's a lid for every pot out there, so all he has to do is find a girl who is easily flattered and enjoys really tiny conversations.
3. Despite sharing a few horror date stories, I mostly prefer to keep to myself about my various romantic misadventures. While the goal is to find a guy who fits into my group of friends and family, I don't especially want to have to talk to them about him.
4. I am terrible at setting people up, but the one exception is after someone moves to a different state. Then suddenly I realize that he/she is perfect for her/him, and why can't I ever figure that out while people live in the same area code?
5. I hate mushrooms and barely tolerate tomatoes. My parents predicted my entire life that I would grow out of these hatreds -- nope. But I did grow out of my hatred of hummus, so that's something.
6. I am afflicted with what my family lovingly calls "Lassie Complex," ie SOMEONE-FELL-DOWN-A-WELL???-CAN-I-HELP?-CAN-I-HELP? complex.
So you know, when I say I went to law school because I wanted to "help people," it's true. I pathologically want to help people.
I'm considering seeing a therapist about it.
7. Despite being Mormon, it really bugs me when Mormons-in-their-Mormon-capacity show up at my door, unannounced. This has nothing to do with being Mormon per se, and everything to do with having a Mormon purpose.
Random Mormon coming for a friendly (previously announced) visit? Fine.
Mormon coming over (usually unannounced) to get all Mormon up in my grill? Less than appreciated.
And for the record, I do apply the same standard to myself. So when I am assigned to bring someone (usually a stranger) cookies for church because their hair got over-processed at the salon, I drop those cookies with a nice note on the porch and run like a bandit.
8. I would totally go on The Bachelor for the vacations. And if the producers asked me to cry my eyes out in the reject limo in exchange for a free trip to Costa Rica, I would whip out my Vicks Vapo Rub and blubber like a champ.
I have no shame when it comes to vacations.
9. I want a pocket pig. In fact, I would pay an obscene amount of money for a pocket pig, and am considering fencing my backyard for the sole purpose of buying one this summer.
10. I hate lists so bad that this post was delayed three days because I couldn't think of a Number 10.
1. I want to visit India. The trick is apparently finding a travel buddy. Everyone wants to go to Paris, no one wants to go to Mumbai.
2. I really hate texting. A subset of that hatred is the "hey" text -- when someone tries to initiate a conversation with the word "hey" and sometimes nothing else. But even more than that? I hate the "hey [adjective or sometimes noun]" text.
In the last two weeks, a guy has tried to initiate conversation with me by texting the following:
"Hey cutie!"
"Hey hot stuff!"
"Hey cutie"
"Hey cutie"
"Hey gorgeous!"
And last night when I logged on to Facebook, an IM that said, "Hey sexy."
Just ... gross.
Fortunately for this kid, I do believe there's a lid for every pot out there, so all he has to do is find a girl who is easily flattered and enjoys really tiny conversations.
3. Despite sharing a few horror date stories, I mostly prefer to keep to myself about my various romantic misadventures. While the goal is to find a guy who fits into my group of friends and family, I don't especially want to have to talk to them about him.
4. I am terrible at setting people up, but the one exception is after someone moves to a different state. Then suddenly I realize that he/she is perfect for her/him, and why can't I ever figure that out while people live in the same area code?
5. I hate mushrooms and barely tolerate tomatoes. My parents predicted my entire life that I would grow out of these hatreds -- nope. But I did grow out of my hatred of hummus, so that's something.
6. I am afflicted with what my family lovingly calls "Lassie Complex," ie SOMEONE-FELL-DOWN-A-WELL???-CAN-I-HELP?-CAN-I-HELP? complex.
So you know, when I say I went to law school because I wanted to "help people," it's true. I pathologically want to help people.
I'm considering seeing a therapist about it.
7. Despite being Mormon, it really bugs me when Mormons-in-their-Mormon-capacity show up at my door, unannounced. This has nothing to do with being Mormon per se, and everything to do with having a Mormon purpose.
Random Mormon coming for a friendly (previously announced) visit? Fine.
Mormon coming over (usually unannounced) to get all Mormon up in my grill? Less than appreciated.
And for the record, I do apply the same standard to myself. So when I am assigned to bring someone (usually a stranger) cookies for church because their hair got over-processed at the salon, I drop those cookies with a nice note on the porch and run like a bandit.
8. I would totally go on The Bachelor for the vacations. And if the producers asked me to cry my eyes out in the reject limo in exchange for a free trip to Costa Rica, I would whip out my Vicks Vapo Rub and blubber like a champ.
I have no shame when it comes to vacations.
9. I want a pocket pig. In fact, I would pay an obscene amount of money for a pocket pig, and am considering fencing my backyard for the sole purpose of buying one this summer.
 |
| POCKET PIG! |
Friday, January 20, 2012
It's the final countdown
So friends, the time has come.
I don't talk about my real lawyerin job on here much -- hopefully ever, really. But here's a tidbit of truth for you all: my busy season starts next week.
Normally, I'd consider the possibility that I should probably spend less time engaging in my other projects -- writing, reading, attempting to train for that long-delayed half marathon, teaching my dog to play dead, engaging in some seriously whimsical baking -- but I actually kind of feel like 2012 is my year.
So instead of gently tapping the breaks over the coming months, we're going to be going full steam ahead.
By the end of my busy season (circa April 1st), I will have:
So that's it, friends. My new quarterly goals.
To celebrate with me, go download the new Fictionist CD on iTunes while it's a measly $4.99. I know I'm seriously late to this party (literally dozens of people have recommended them to me over the last year or so), but I finally jumped on the bandwagon this week.
And guess what? They are as awesome as I was led to believe. So go forth and enjoy.
I don't talk about my real lawyerin job on here much -- hopefully ever, really. But here's a tidbit of truth for you all: my busy season starts next week.
Normally, I'd consider the possibility that I should probably spend less time engaging in my other projects -- writing, reading, attempting to train for that long-delayed half marathon, teaching my dog to play dead, engaging in some seriously whimsical baking -- but I actually kind of feel like 2012 is my year.
So instead of gently tapping the breaks over the coming months, we're going to be going full steam ahead.
By the end of my busy season (circa April 1st), I will have:
- Written 20,000 words in my New Project.
- Taught Spence to play dead. Or to come when called. Whichever is easier and/or more useful.
- Posted three pictures of ADORABLE baked goods on this here site.
- Gone running twice a week, every week. (Indoors counts, because my sojourn in Fake Austin seriously impacted my born-and-bred Utah internal thermostat. I am currently freezing whenever I step foot outdoors and there's the slightest nip in the air.)
So that's it, friends. My new quarterly goals.
To celebrate with me, go download the new Fictionist CD on iTunes while it's a measly $4.99. I know I'm seriously late to this party (literally dozens of people have recommended them to me over the last year or so), but I finally jumped on the bandwagon this week.
And guess what? They are as awesome as I was led to believe. So go forth and enjoy.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Well, I'll prepare for this to be misinterpreted
I hate the word "Mom."
There's something about it that grosses me out. Maybe it's the long O sound combined with that nasally M. Maybe it's that it's so short -- I find "bob" pretty vile, too. It might even be the way it looks written -- "mom" just looks so abrupt and judgy, like something in German. Nein.
I hate the way people say it. Either whiny or sycophantically or smugly or condescendingly. There's pretty much no way to say the word "Mom" that doesn't disgust me, unless you are actually addressing or referring to your own mother.
"Oh hey Mom, just wanted to call and check in." A-OK.
"I can't wait to be a Mom!" Shudder.
"I made the reservation for us and Mom." Acceptable.
"But Moooooooom." Gag.
"Mom said it was the second left after the light." Informative.
"I have the best job ever, I'm a Mom." Kill me now.
But doubly bad? "Awww, he's so happy now that Mom's here!" Said to me. At the vet's. About Spencer.
(I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Spence and I do not have a parent-child relationship. We have a 10-4, good buddy relationship.)
I hate attorneys who can't be bothered to learn peoples' names. Henceforth Mom will do her best to to create a positive atmosphere for the kids and not refer negatively to Dad in front of them. Dad will do his best to maintain appropriate boundaries and discipline and drop kids off at Mom's on time. It's so smarmy and familiar, yet so obvious that you can't be bothered to shuffle through your papers and find out whether it was Kim or Karen, Bill or Brandon. (Ahh, screw it, just write "Mom" and "Dad.") Seriously, "petitioner" and "respondent" would be better.
And I hate that you can't tell people that you hate the word "Mom" without people staring at you like you've just kicked a kitten.
Oh look, that girl hates moms. Let's shun her. Or better yet, send her a copy of emotionally manipulative books like "Love You Forever." Yes, that's an excellent idea. Weep, cold girl on the internet, weep!
Anyone else there have an irrational dislike an otherwise positive-to-neutral meaning word? Anyone hate "puppy," for instance? (You monster!)
There's something about it that grosses me out. Maybe it's the long O sound combined with that nasally M. Maybe it's that it's so short -- I find "bob" pretty vile, too. It might even be the way it looks written -- "mom" just looks so abrupt and judgy, like something in German. Nein.
I hate the way people say it. Either whiny or sycophantically or smugly or condescendingly. There's pretty much no way to say the word "Mom" that doesn't disgust me, unless you are actually addressing or referring to your own mother.
"Oh hey Mom, just wanted to call and check in." A-OK.
"I can't wait to be a Mom!" Shudder.
"I made the reservation for us and Mom." Acceptable.
"But Moooooooom." Gag.
"Mom said it was the second left after the light." Informative.
"I have the best job ever, I'm a Mom." Kill me now.
But doubly bad? "Awww, he's so happy now that Mom's here!" Said to me. At the vet's. About Spencer.
(I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Spence and I do not have a parent-child relationship. We have a 10-4, good buddy relationship.)
I hate attorneys who can't be bothered to learn peoples' names. Henceforth Mom will do her best to to create a positive atmosphere for the kids and not refer negatively to Dad in front of them. Dad will do his best to maintain appropriate boundaries and discipline and drop kids off at Mom's on time. It's so smarmy and familiar, yet so obvious that you can't be bothered to shuffle through your papers and find out whether it was Kim or Karen, Bill or Brandon. (Ahh, screw it, just write "Mom" and "Dad.") Seriously, "petitioner" and "respondent" would be better.
And I hate that you can't tell people that you hate the word "Mom" without people staring at you like you've just kicked a kitten.
Oh look, that girl hates moms. Let's shun her. Or better yet, send her a copy of emotionally manipulative books like "Love You Forever." Yes, that's an excellent idea. Weep, cold girl on the internet, weep!
Anyone else there have an irrational dislike an otherwise positive-to-neutral meaning word? Anyone hate "puppy," for instance? (You monster!)
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
My new most embarrassing moment story
Subhead: Settle in for a long haul, friendos.
Today at work, we had our office Christmas party. About a week ago, a coworker popped into my office to let me know that at this office we give gifts to -- and I quote -- "members of our team." The gifts didn't have to be elaborate, he explained, just something little, like a bottle of Martinelli's with a bow. Since he knew it was my first year at the office, he just wanted to give me the heads up.
My team consists of another attorney, an analyst, and a secretary. But I supposed I should probably also get something for my trainer and the other two people he is training.
Add with me, people. That's 6.
So I asked my crafty sister Echo to make 10 presents, on the off-chance I was under-estimating. She made some cute little Oreo Pops, which is basically an Oreo on a sucker stick, dipped in white and milk chocolate, then rolled in crushed peppermint pieces. Darling, no?
I set off to work this morning with some cellophane-wrapped gifties, feeling mighty satisfied with myself.
And when I flipped on the light in my office, I found that I had already received five presents from people who weren't on my list.
Sidenote: You might be wondering why, at this point, I didn't run to the store to buy more presents. The short answer is that I have a client I have been trying to talk to all summer long about his case.
I periodically call or email him to see if it's a good time. It never is.
Who decided to email me the morning of the Christmas party and say he'd "pop in sometime today to talk"?
You guessed it.
So for roughly twenty minutes, I sat and panicked in my office. More gifts arrived.
Every person who brought me a homemade jar of jam, banana bread, and gift box from Bath and Body Works received a bag of Oreo Pops.
And my anxiety ratcheted up-up-up, because how the hell am I supposed to multiply a finite number of Oreo Pops?
That's when I remembered Echo's original plan.
"Why don't you just get people a package of Twizzlers and write 'Twiz the Season' on a sticker?"
Though it seemed cheesy to me at the time, I seized on Echo's idea and proceeded to text and IM every person I could think of who might be able to run to All-A-Dollar and buy 10 packages of Twizzlers and Christmas package stickers.
Finally I got in contact with Charlie, who agreed to head to All-A-Dollar after a meeting with his graduation counselor. The only problem was that put his arrival at my workplace around 2pm.
Sidenote: Why is that a problem, you ask? Well, because the Christmas party was scheduled for noon, with everyone leaving the office afterward as a gift from our boss.
Why is that not a problem? Well, because I could just sneak the Twizzlers into offices and pretend that they arrived in the morning, like all the other, more thoughtful gifts had.
Genius.
So I sat in my office, trying to work, trying to ignore the growing pile of presents on my desk, and waiting for the Mystery Client.
Finally it was time for the Christmas party, and I trudged off to a sumptuous feast, all the while trying to avoid eye contact with the coworkers who had bestowed me with homemade fudge, only to be rewarded with a big, fat nada.
And then, in the middle of a musical number -- seriously, my coworker's children came and SANG -- Charlie texted me.
"Done early. Where do you want me to deliver this stuff?"
Now, the most important of my little plan was that no one realize (a) I came grossly underprepared to show my love for my coworkers the day of the Christmas party and (b) some people got Oreo Pops, and some people got cheap bags of Twizzlers.
So I texted Charlie back, "Leave the bag on the curb, I will come out and get it when I can get out of this party."
Sidenote: Why didn't I just stand up, walk out, and meet Charlie outside?
Answer: You try walking out of your boss's recitation of "Tilly's Christmas" by Louisa May Alcott.
And because I know Charlie, and I know he's never met a plan that he didn't think he could improve somehow, I texted him again. "Seriously. Leave them on the curb."
***
At this point, it's incumbent to switch to Charlie's point of view. For fairness' sake.
Charlie arrived at my place of employ and stared at the curb nervously. Do I really leave this bag on the curb? he wondered. I mean, I know my sister who has worked here for a year told me to, but this is a [big secret, people] GOVERNMENT BUILDING.
According to Charlie, there were three squad cars of cops chilling in the parking lot. And he just couldn't take the chance.
***
Here's where we switch back to my point of view, and I argue that "three squad cars" was most likely one pudgy member of Highway Patrol, and that even if dropping a plastic bag is suspicious, IT WAS A PLASTIC BAG OF FULL OF TWIZZLERS. What's more, my government building doesn't even have metal detectors, because in New Denver, packing heat is strongly encouraged.
In short, I can say with total confidence that had Charlie dropped a bag of Twizzlers on the curb, not one damn thing would have happened.
But Charlie felt like he couldn't take that chance. So he popped into the building and left the bag with the front desk secretary. Who proceeded to come into the Christmas party and deliver them to me.
In the middle of a musical number.
In front of LITERALLY every single person I work with.
Who could all see that I had clearly forgotten to plan appropriately for gift giving.
And that I bought their presents at ALL A DOLLAR, as the plastic bag was so proudly emblazoned.
After the luncheon was (mercifully) over, I skulked off to my office to slap Santa stickers onto bags of Twizzlers, shove them into mail slots (since there was no point in being sneaky anymore), and make my escape before I had to talk to anyone.
To make things even more amazing? As I was leaving, I saw that the other attorney who started with me last January gave everyone CDs.
C-freaking-Ds.
And as I drove back to home my home, roughly twenty minutes after my escape, the Mystery Client (remember him?) called. He had not received my email that I was leaving for the day at 2pm. He was in my office. And he wanted to meet.
Sidenote: You would think that my most embarrassing story would now be over. You would think that, and you would be wrong.
As I wallowed on the couch tonight, nursing a giant Diet Coke and holding a snuggly Spencer on my lap, Hannah came home and I proceeded to tell the tale.
"Wait," she said as I explained what Charlie had bought at All-A-Dollar, "why Twizzlers?"
"So I could write, 'Twiz the Season' on the sticker," I explained.
"Oh. So did you do that?"
Awkward pause.
No, my friends, I did not. In the midst of my anxiety and frustration, I forgot to write the cheesy line that was the whole point of getting Twizzlers to begin with. I put the sticker on the Twizzlers, stuffed them into boxes, and ran for my life.
So tonight, all over the greater New Denver Valley area, my coworkers are looking at the presents they received from their colleagues and wondering, "Why the eff did that girl give me Twizzlers with a Santa sticker?"
And now my humiliation is complete.
Today at work, we had our office Christmas party. About a week ago, a coworker popped into my office to let me know that at this office we give gifts to -- and I quote -- "members of our team." The gifts didn't have to be elaborate, he explained, just something little, like a bottle of Martinelli's with a bow. Since he knew it was my first year at the office, he just wanted to give me the heads up.
My team consists of another attorney, an analyst, and a secretary. But I supposed I should probably also get something for my trainer and the other two people he is training.
Add with me, people. That's 6.
So I asked my crafty sister Echo to make 10 presents, on the off-chance I was under-estimating. She made some cute little Oreo Pops, which is basically an Oreo on a sucker stick, dipped in white and milk chocolate, then rolled in crushed peppermint pieces. Darling, no?
I set off to work this morning with some cellophane-wrapped gifties, feeling mighty satisfied with myself.
And when I flipped on the light in my office, I found that I had already received five presents from people who weren't on my list.
Sidenote: You might be wondering why, at this point, I didn't run to the store to buy more presents. The short answer is that I have a client I have been trying to talk to all summer long about his case.
I periodically call or email him to see if it's a good time. It never is.
Who decided to email me the morning of the Christmas party and say he'd "pop in sometime today to talk"?
You guessed it.
So for roughly twenty minutes, I sat and panicked in my office. More gifts arrived.
Every person who brought me a homemade jar of jam, banana bread, and gift box from Bath and Body Works received a bag of Oreo Pops.
And my anxiety ratcheted up-up-up, because how the hell am I supposed to multiply a finite number of Oreo Pops?
That's when I remembered Echo's original plan.
"Why don't you just get people a package of Twizzlers and write 'Twiz the Season' on a sticker?"
Though it seemed cheesy to me at the time, I seized on Echo's idea and proceeded to text and IM every person I could think of who might be able to run to All-A-Dollar and buy 10 packages of Twizzlers and Christmas package stickers.
Finally I got in contact with Charlie, who agreed to head to All-A-Dollar after a meeting with his graduation counselor. The only problem was that put his arrival at my workplace around 2pm.
Sidenote: Why is that a problem, you ask? Well, because the Christmas party was scheduled for noon, with everyone leaving the office afterward as a gift from our boss.
Why is that not a problem? Well, because I could just sneak the Twizzlers into offices and pretend that they arrived in the morning, like all the other, more thoughtful gifts had.
Genius.
So I sat in my office, trying to work, trying to ignore the growing pile of presents on my desk, and waiting for the Mystery Client.
 |
| This is how things looked BEFORE NOON. I didn't even have the heart to take a picture of the final haul. |
Finally it was time for the Christmas party, and I trudged off to a sumptuous feast, all the while trying to avoid eye contact with the coworkers who had bestowed me with homemade fudge, only to be rewarded with a big, fat nada.
And then, in the middle of a musical number -- seriously, my coworker's children came and SANG -- Charlie texted me.
"Done early. Where do you want me to deliver this stuff?"
Now, the most important of my little plan was that no one realize (a) I came grossly underprepared to show my love for my coworkers the day of the Christmas party and (b) some people got Oreo Pops, and some people got cheap bags of Twizzlers.
So I texted Charlie back, "Leave the bag on the curb, I will come out and get it when I can get out of this party."
Sidenote: Why didn't I just stand up, walk out, and meet Charlie outside?
Answer: You try walking out of your boss's recitation of "Tilly's Christmas" by Louisa May Alcott.
And because I know Charlie, and I know he's never met a plan that he didn't think he could improve somehow, I texted him again. "Seriously. Leave them on the curb."
***
At this point, it's incumbent to switch to Charlie's point of view. For fairness' sake.
Charlie arrived at my place of employ and stared at the curb nervously. Do I really leave this bag on the curb? he wondered. I mean, I know my sister who has worked here for a year told me to, but this is a [big secret, people] GOVERNMENT BUILDING.
According to Charlie, there were three squad cars of cops chilling in the parking lot. And he just couldn't take the chance.
***
Here's where we switch back to my point of view, and I argue that "three squad cars" was most likely one pudgy member of Highway Patrol, and that even if dropping a plastic bag is suspicious, IT WAS A PLASTIC BAG OF FULL OF TWIZZLERS. What's more, my government building doesn't even have metal detectors, because in New Denver, packing heat is strongly encouraged.
In short, I can say with total confidence that had Charlie dropped a bag of Twizzlers on the curb, not one damn thing would have happened.
But Charlie felt like he couldn't take that chance. So he popped into the building and left the bag with the front desk secretary. Who proceeded to come into the Christmas party and deliver them to me.
In the middle of a musical number.
In front of LITERALLY every single person I work with.
Who could all see that I had clearly forgotten to plan appropriately for gift giving.
And that I bought their presents at ALL A DOLLAR, as the plastic bag was so proudly emblazoned.
After the luncheon was (mercifully) over, I skulked off to my office to slap Santa stickers onto bags of Twizzlers, shove them into mail slots (since there was no point in being sneaky anymore), and make my escape before I had to talk to anyone.
To make things even more amazing? As I was leaving, I saw that the other attorney who started with me last January gave everyone CDs.
C-freaking-Ds.
And as I drove back to home my home, roughly twenty minutes after my escape, the Mystery Client (remember him?) called. He had not received my email that I was leaving for the day at 2pm. He was in my office. And he wanted to meet.
Sidenote: You would think that my most embarrassing story would now be over. You would think that, and you would be wrong.
As I wallowed on the couch tonight, nursing a giant Diet Coke and holding a snuggly Spencer on my lap, Hannah came home and I proceeded to tell the tale.
"Wait," she said as I explained what Charlie had bought at All-A-Dollar, "why Twizzlers?"
"So I could write, 'Twiz the Season' on the sticker," I explained.
"Oh. So did you do that?"
Awkward pause.
No, my friends, I did not. In the midst of my anxiety and frustration, I forgot to write the cheesy line that was the whole point of getting Twizzlers to begin with. I put the sticker on the Twizzlers, stuffed them into boxes, and ran for my life.
So tonight, all over the greater New Denver Valley area, my coworkers are looking at the presents they received from their colleagues and wondering, "Why the eff did that girl give me Twizzlers with a Santa sticker?"
And now my humiliation is complete.
For the record (hee)
Yes, people -- lawyers go to law school.
I'll say it again, in case someone googles it: lawyers go to law school.
So it's not necessary to ever ask a lawyer, "Oh, so did you go to grad school for that?" The answer is yes, and that grad school was called "law school."
Dentists never get this, I suspect.
I'll say it again, in case someone googles it: lawyers go to law school.
So it's not necessary to ever ask a lawyer, "Oh, so did you go to grad school for that?" The answer is yes, and that grad school was called "law school."
Dentists never get this, I suspect.
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