Merry Christmas!

my parents have finally got it figured out

How do you get your children and grandchildren to come visit you more often?

Get a puppy!

Here is my parents' new black lab puppy ... all at once now, everybody say "awwwww."

fun stuff

Went on a 9 pm grocery store run to satisfy the cats' craving for canned vs. dry food. And pick up something I can eat for breakfast in the morning too; I'm not a complete slave to the cats. Really. Anyway, I came back home, got in just fine, but as I was locking the deadbolt on the door from the inside - (btw, can I just say right now how much I hate deadbolts that have to use a key from the inside as well as the outside in order to open? what if you're in a hurry to get out and can't find your keys? you're screwed, huh?) - the fucking key broke off in the fucking lock. My only fucking house key. Fuck.

On the bright side, this is one of those times when I'm reminded of one of the perks of renting instead of owning (a conversation I've had many times over the past years, btw, pro-con/rent-own): my landlord lives in my neighborhood, and I called him up and then ran over to his house to pick up an extra key. Of course, since both of the doors to my house have deadbolt locks that were locked at the time and that you have to have a key to open, even from the inside, and since I was inside at the time, and since my only house key that I had on me had just broken off in one of the locks, I couldn't unlock a door to get out. So I had to open a window and fucking climb out of it, like some sketchy burglar chick who just robbed a house and is trying to make a getaway. I'm sure that looked lovely to any neighbors who might have happened to catch that action. (Although I didn't see anyone, so hopefully no one saw me. Yeah, I like to use that same philosophy my 5 year old nephew uses: if I can't see you, you can't see me.)

Oh, and btw, there's also another perk to renting: the landlord is going to deal with getting a locksmith over tomorrow to deal with the still broken-off key in the problematic deadbolt lock. So that's something I don't have to deal with myself, at least.

Of course, I have learned one lesson in all of this: I really should work on my whole procrastination thing. Because I used to have an extra key to my house, only I lost it a couple years ago, and ever since I have been meaning to not only get an extra key made again to hide somewhere in case of an I'm-outside-I-need-to-get-in-don't-have-keys emergency, but also get an extra key made to keep inside the house somewhere, preferably close to one (or maybe both, shoot) of the doors, in case of an I'm-inside-I-need-to-get-out-can't-find-keys emergency. Yeah, that's been on my "to do" list, in like the top 10 things on the list, for about 2 years now. So totally going to actually do it now, though.

Yee-haw, what a fun night.

I'll have some penis with my morning coffee and paper, please.

I love this story - This morning's edition of a Toronto paper "accidentally" included a picture of a guy's penis hanging out. When people realized what was showing in the picture and word spread, the paper fixed the picture on their online site ... but allllll those papers that went out this morning have it.

Imagine being this guy and seeing this picture, and realizing that your penis is in the paper for all your friends and family, everyone you cross paths with on a daily basis, everyone in Toronto basically, to see? Yikes.

When I heard about this, btw, I thought, well surely it's not that noticeable, if the people who picked the photo for the paper, and the people who edited and proofread and printed the paper and everything, all missed it. The paper had already photoshopped the online edition to cover their mistake, so to speak, so I thought I'd missed the chance to see it for myself. But then I found a link to the photo on gawker, where I first saw the story, and whoa ... that's a penis to be proud of.

Thanksgiving

So, I mentioned before that there was going to be a hot single man up in the mountains with me as I spent the Thanksgiving holiday with my sister and brother in law and their two kids; a friend of theirs who is going through a divorce, who I met about a month and a half ago and was looking forward to getting to know better over our holiday weekend in the mountain cabin. Turns out I got to know him better than I expected, but on an entirely different level than I was plotting in my fantasies.

I was woken up at 6:30 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning by my sister, who told me she was about to rush her husband down the mountain into the nearest city to a hospital, due to severe abdominal pains that had gone on for hours by that point. I got on up, got the kids fed and dressed when they woke up, broke the news to their friend when he woke up, and then, hours later, got the news from my sister that my brother in law was going to have some major surgery later that afternoon. What a Thanksgiving for them, huh?

My brother in law is doing okay at this point, btw, but he is still in the hospital at this point, as I write this. Recovering from the surgery. Should be home by the weekend.

My sister spent all her time, including her nights, at the hospital with him, helping look out for him and just being with him. Which left me and the hot man friend of theirs alone in the mountain cabin with the kids on Thanksgiving day - three kids: my niece and nephew, and his son, who is my nephew's age. All alone. Well, until my mom came up there to help out with things, that is.

It was a pretty strange holiday weekend, dealing with my brother in law's illness and all the consequences. But the friend hung in there the entire weekend, and I ended up spending a lot more time talking to him than I'd ever thought I would as a result. And in the end it came down to this: I am so so soooo crushing on this guy.

He is adorable. Hot, and adorable at the same time. Easygoing and cool and friendly, a willing to take charge yet also willing to go along with whatever everyone else wants to do kind of guy. Tall, strong. Hot. Tall. Strong. Did I mention hot and tall and strong? Yeah. And sweet as could be with those kids. I never thought the sight of a big strong hot man rocking a little five year old boy to sleep at night then carrying him to bed and tucking him in would make me hot, but man did that very scene have me wanting to jump his bones. (I wonder if something like that, seeing a man nurturing a child like that, makes a woman's inner workings get all revved up, like in a cave-woman "he makes good father, have him fertilize your eggs" sort of way?)

Anyway. Life is getting somewhat back to normal now, now that I'm back home and everything. And nothing physically happened between me and the hot man friend, and I have no idea if I'll ever see him again or not. But I sure do hope I will. Because that man, that incredible awesome unbelievable man, got my internal engines, that had been cooled off for a very long time now, all hot and revved up again. Such that I'm entirely too aware of my body and all the little sensations you feel when you're first really attracted to a person and start fantasizing about getting it on with him.

So here's hoping that this Thanksgiving holiday works out well for all of us ... that my brother in law will be even better than new soon, once he's up and going again, and that I maybe possibly perhaps laid some good foundation myself to get my own life up and going and better than ever again. Soon, if I'm lucky.

That shrimp scampi was so good, I hardly care that I caught the stove on fire.

It should've been straight out of a comedy.

I was making shrimp scampi tonight for dinner. I had made a hot toddy first, to sip on while I cooked; bourbon and lemon and sugar and cloves and hot water stirred with a cinnamon stick, oh my. Anyway, I had two eyes going on the stove; one with the melted butter and sauteed onion and garlic and various spices, and the other with a pot of water on its way to a boil for the angel hair pasta. And I started to smell something not right.

Then I realized there was smoke pouring up from the burner on which I was trying to boil the pot of water, and from the burner next to it that I wasn't even using. This was me:

Uh-oh, what's that?

That much smoke doesn't seem good.

Maybe something little just spilled on the burner before I started cooking. It'll burn itself off, whatever it is. Where's my drink?

Ahhh, this hot toddy is yummy.

Sniff sniff, hmm, wait, is something actually burning? The onions, maybe? Man, this hot toddy is good.

Wow, that's a LOT of smoke. Ummmm ....

Oh, wait, .... are those FLAMES licking up around that pot of boiling water?

OH HOLY FUCK, THOSE ARE FLAMES! What do I DO?

Move everything off the stove, quick! Fire coming up out of the burner! Oh shit! Should I pour water on it? No, no, for some reason it seems like I've heard you're not supposed to do that with a stove fire. Fire extinguisher? No, surely not, right? Dish towel! Dish towel! In movies and tv shows when you see someone who's a terrible cook trying to use a stove and end up setting it on fire, don't they always slap at the flame with a dish towel? Where's my fucking dish towel?

And so a dish towel saved my life.

Ok, yeah, that's overly dramatic; I don't think there was any real danger with the stove-top fire tonight. But it really did freak me out; that has never happened to me before, ever, and fuck did it have me jumping around like crazy when it happened. But truly, snapping the dish towel at the flames coming up out of the burner really did do the trick; that put out the flames quickly. Good to know, huh?

Oh, and by the way, right after I got the flames out? This was me:

WHERE THE FUCK IS MY DRINK??????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


(Btw, I had to start the scampi over ... thank goodness I hadn't gotten to the shrimp part yet, so they were still in the refrigerator, uncooked ... but man, it really did turn out well. I love shrimp scampi.)

Why

My boss is retiring next spring. I've known this for a while now. I've known that when she leaves our office, she will be vacating a job position that will be filled; a position comes along with much more supervisory responsibility, much more responsibility in general, but also more salary. A big step up from my position, in other words.

I've known this, but I've tried not to think about it too much. Because I'm not looking forward to her leaving. (I'm beginning to think that maybe I'm not the kind of person who takes well to change ... hmmm ... am I just now realizing this?)

First of all, and this is big: I'm going to miss her. Sure I'll still keep in touch with her, make an effort to get together with her socially from time to time. But I'm going to miss her being in the office every day. She's one of the only work friends that I have - maybe the only one, actually - due to the fact that she's the only other cool person who works in my office. (By other, I mean other than myself, obviously. Because I am so super cool.) What I really mean is, she and I get one another, and often no one else gets either of us, and usually neither of us gets why no one else gets us. It usually makes us laugh and shake our heads in perplexity (is perplexity a word? yeah, I've been drinking) and wonder why other people don't find such dark humor in everyday life as we do, why other people create drama and tension and anxiety where none should exist, why other people don't seem to be able to think logically at times, and why other people don't just drink more in general.(Seriously, drinking makes life better.)

So there's that, firstly.

Secondly, it's the big conundrum: do I apply for her job once she officially leaves? Do I want that job? And even if I do, will I get that job? What will it be like if I apply for it and don't get it, and then have to work for someone who I perhaps don't think is qualified enough for it, perhaps someone I don't even like in general, knowing that I've been specifically shot down for the bump up in position? What will it be like if I do get it, knowing the particular aspects of her job that I'm always glad I don't have to deal with, and knowing that I'll then have to deal with them myself, basically welcoming a ton of extra stress into my daily life? Will applying for that particular position in my office cut off any chances to make other life changes in the next year or so, or mean that I'm basically acknowledging that I'm not about to make any big life changes any time soon, as in a total change of job (to something else entirely) and/or change of city, changes I've been dreaming of taking for years, and will that be depressing? And finally, how can I not apply, frankly; how could I just continue in my present job and not even make an attempt for her position when it opens up, when for the past five years I've been reporting directly to her and am more familiar with most aspects of her job than anyone else in our office; won't it be expected, not just by others but also by myself if I have to admit it, for me to at least try for it, ask for it?

So those are the thoughts and questions that have been swirling around in the back of my mind for a while now. And for the past week or so, my boss has been trying to find a day that's convenient for the two of us to go out to lunch together, to discuss our case load and project how our trial calendars are going to look next year (already starting to fill up) and figure out how best to handle the transition that will occur when she leaves next spring, no matter who it is who replaces her. She doesn't get to make the decision as to who replaces her, of course; that's up to the big boss man. But she's planning to have a big sit down with the big boss man sometime soon, to go over these very issues with him, only she wants to talk to me about them first.

And I know, I just know, that when we have this conversation, which she wants to have outside of the office, the question is going to be posed by her to me: am I going to apply for her job? And the issue will be discussed: what recommendation, if any, will she make to the big boss man? And what insights, if any, does she have into my chances of getting that job if I were to apply, and what guesses does she have, if any, as to who would be likely to get the job if the big boss man doesn't give it to me?

And I'm just not ready to have that conversation yet. Or, you know, ever. So I've been putting off the lunch, and putting off the lunch, and putting off the lunch. Always with a perfectly valid, work-related excuse; after all, I have had many briefs due recently, have filed an appellate brief and a couple memoranda of law and responded to discovery requests all in several different cases and all right up on the filing deadline, and all within the past two weeks. So yeah, sure, I've been busy, too busy for lunch.

But I've also been too far up denial's asshole for too long about this job issue. And next Tuesday I'm going to have to start to really face it, because next Tuesday I'm having The Lunch, and of course with that, The Talk. And while The Lunch and The Talk aren't bad things - after all, this is my awesomely cool boss I'll be discussing all this stuff that I need to discuss anyway with - it still means that, basically, it's The Time to face The Shit. For Reals.

And the final question that still lingers in the back of my mind, longer than all the other lingering questions, and for which I have no answer: why is it, really, that I don't want to deal with any of this shit?

"you don't look that old" - compliment or dig?

I'm not unused to being carded when buying alcohol. It doesn't happen all the time, but it happens often enough that I generally feel pretty happy that I don't yet look like someone who doesn't even need to be carded anymore. (Btw, use of double-or-more-negatives in one sentence is directly proportional to amount of alcohol consumed at time of writing. So I've realized.)

Tonight, after doing a little after-work shopping at the mall, I stopped at a convenience store to gas up the car, and bought a six pack while I was there. The cashier didn't ask for my id, but she did ask my birthdate, to enter into her register for the alcohol purchase. When I told her the year, she said to me, "you don't look that old."

At first that made me smile, and I thanked her. But as I was walkng out of the store to my car, I thought to myself, "wait, does that mean that I SHOULD look old now?" And then, "wait, AM I old now?"

Fuck. Yeah, I guess I am old now. I didn't mind reaching my thirties, I really didn't. I think being in your thirties is probably one of the best times in life, as far as your age and where you are in life and shit. But I don't think that, in considering that, I ever really projected myself getting beyond the age of 35. Your thirties are cool, I thought ... as long as you're 35 or younger.

My year of birth is 1974. I am 35. And on my next birthday, holy fuck, I'll be 36.

I'm probably being arbitrary and illogical in prescribing some kind of difference here, between one year and the next, but I can't help it; I feel a bit like Charlotte from Sex and the City, when she suddenly has a problem with her birthday once she hits 36. She doesn't want to go beyond 35. Especially since she was single and not really where she saw herself being at 35 ... she didn' want to acknowledge that next year when it came.

I think the cashier tonight was being nice, giving a compliment I think, when she said "you don't look that old." But I've also thought that before, when I've been carded or whatever, and have heard similar comments; I've thought, "thanks :)" (yes, with the smiley face). Because I thought "oh, they think I look young." But tonight, after having that initial thought, I followed it up with "oh, wait ... does that mean they're surprised I don't look .... old?" Which is a sucky thought, because that means I actually am old.

Or at least I must be thinking of myself as old ... since my current reaction to that statement is apparently to pout.

P.S. It's now more than an hour after the writing of the above post, and I feel like adding: It's fun to go shopping. Actually, maybe more than the shopping part, it's fun to come home after shopping and go through all the new stuff you bought. Especially when all the new stuff is girly stuff, like makeup and shoes and shit. I'm drinking and playing with my new makeup and figuring out what outfit I'm going to wear to work tomorrow that will show off my new shoes, and I make no apologies whatsoever for being so girly and liking it.

Would it violate the professional rules of conduct to punch opposing counsel in the face?

That's what I so wanted to do in court this morning. Punch opposing asshole lawyer in his stupid asshole face.

I had to sit there in court and listen to asshole drone on for more than an hour in his argument in response to my motion to dismiss, during which he personally attacked my integrity about 20 times or so. Called me out by name as having misrepresented facts to a tribunal, having twisted the facts to suit my own purposes, having practiced deception, all to get a favorable ruling; and then expressed thanks that the tribunal saw through my attempted deceit, thanks that the tribunal didn't buy the totally twisted misrepresentations of fact that I was trying to sell it. All that from an asshole law firm that I already, in this very same case, had to take issue with themselves for having misrepresented my own words to counsel - - in an affidavit that one of their lawyers drafted, signed, and filed, claiming I had made statements to him that I had not made, putting words in my mouth that I never uttered and that were contradictory to what it was I actually had said to him.

So having once suffered asshole lawyer's untruthfulness in attributing comments to me in affidavit form that I never made, I then had to sit through a motion hearing and listen to asshole accuse me of being the deceptive one, of purposefully misrepresenting the legal issues and claims and twisting the facts.

And while lawyering, litigating in particular, often does involve making arguments in which the lawyers take the facts that are given and try to make those facts fit the legal argument they want to make, trying to put a spin on the facts that is, to suit the purposes of your legal argument, this really went way too far; because he was accusing me of misrepresenting the actual facts, on purpose, of trying to mislead a legal tribunal. And it fucking pissed me off.

I explained all this in a very professional and calm way when it was my turn to respond in court this morning, and I got my own points across and pointed out documents that showed that I had not in fact misrepresented anything, and let the court and opposing counsel know that I did not appreciate being accused of having practiced that kind of deception. But dammit, I didn't want to be calm and professional. I wanted to kick that fuckhead in the balls call him every damn name in the book for trying to make me look like such a lying little weasel in front of the court. I wanted to kick him in the teeth for being such a whiney little baby. I wanted to rip his tongue out so I wouldn't ever have to listen to his whiney little voice ever again. I still want to do all that and more.

Instead, I went out after work with my co-counsel, who were in court today and who joined me in bashing that asshole over drinks, for all the shit he pulled in court today. We bashed and laughed and drank and toasted each other for winning our case today. And that was pretty fun, but now I'm back at home, and dammit, I'm still pissed. Really fucking pissed, at that guy.

Goddamn, I hate lawyers. And Goddamn, I hate that my job involves this kind of shit at times that puts me in such a fucking bad mood, hate that I have to put up with such assholes, fucking hate hate hate it.

Take this job and shove it. And give me one I like instead.

Man, I am so sick of my job. Disillusioned. Frustrated. Annoyed. Bored. All of the above.

It's not always been the best job, but in the past I did enjoy it much more than I do now. I'm sure my change in feeling is partly due to just being in the same job for a certain amount of time; you'd have to have an insanely perfect job (emphasis on insane) not to get somewhat sick of doing the same thing year after year after year. But more than that, in truth, I believe that the circumstances of my job have changed so drastically in the past year and a half that it truly is no longer the same job that it was when I first started with it. (All in frustrating ways, obviously. Were I to begin to list them, I could write for 20 minutes nonstop at least.)

Tonight I came home and wanted so badly to forget about work, to leave it all behind; to not think about the hearing I have tomorrow morning, or the meeting I have tomorrow afternoon that I'm dreading, or the many upcoming deadlines, or the many more small questions and emails, etc., that have come in in the past weeks that have required thoughtful answers and that I've just not had time to respond to, to the disappointment of people I wish I weren't disappointing.

So tonight I took out my paints, and my brushes, and a canvas that I had not touched for months. And I painted. And I finally relaxed, and became interested again, and went to a place where I actually enjoyed what I was doing in the moment. I mean, I totally forgot about everything else for a while, and it was like all I had to do in life was just paint my little painting, which by the way is looking really good, in my opinion.

And given that difference in mood, caused by the difference in activity, I've gotta wonder ... can I just quit my job and paint for a living? Please? Pretty pretty please? With a cherry on top?

Seriously, how does one manage to find something to do to make a living and pay the bills that doesn't annoy the shit out of one but rather, hopefully, maybe, gives one pleasure? Is that possible? If so, someone please explain it to me, so I can hop on board that train. Because I'm fucking fed up. (Until I pick up a paint brush, when amazingly enough I chill out so much that I don't even say words like "fuck." Unless I'm thinking about how much I'd like to fuck that friend of my sister's who is spending Thanksgiving with us up in the mountains next month. Oh yeah.)

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly

The Good: I had a fun weekend, went out of town for a football game, lots of good food and good drink and good company; met a friend of my sister and brother in law's, one who's going through a divorce right now, and man was he cute, and so funny and laid back and friendly; was invited by my sister to spend a long Thanksgiving weekend in the mountains with her and her brood; after I accepted the invitation, found out, holy shit, the good looking man friend is spending Thanksgiving weekend in the mountains with us. Holy Hannah, I can't wait for Thanksgiving.

The Bad: Klutz that I am, I totally fell while stepping out of a subarban Saturday night, landed wrong on my right foot, which is either sprained or perhaps has a small broken bone; either way it hurts like hell to walk on it; I'm an idiot, and in pain.

The Ugly: That would be my foot, which is swollen and sort of purplish in the spot that hurts the most. Great.

Thank God the good outweighs the bad and the ugly today ... did I mention I can't fucking wait for Thanksgiving? Cozy mountain house and hot man, here I come ...

What's that, you ask? How am I?

Yes, it's been a long long looooong time since I posted anything, but that's mostly because I felt I had nothing to post. Or maybe it's that I wasn't in the mood to post. Um, ever, for months. But, today I am, so here goes.

I just came back from an oral argument in appellate court, and I'm feeling energized. I did good, man. Yessir. Those justices tried to trip me up a few times, but I held my own and made my arguments until I saw them nod their heads in recognition of a good answer (even if not necessarily a correct answer. But it's not a test, it's an argument, and they at least got my argument.)

And best of all, better than pleasing my boss and my clients with my argument, my crush was in attendance. He wasn't arguing a case, he was just interested in the outcome of my particular case, and came to watch. And gave me a big smile right after I finished, from across the courtroom, then later made his way over to me to praise me on a good argument. And his smile is just so big and sincere, and makes him look just a tad bit goofy when it's that big and earnest, that it made my day. I know it's nowhere near what my reaction to him is, but his reaction to me always makes me feel like he just genuinely likes me, as a person, and there's not much better than that.

So good day, so far. Except, oh yeah, last night I fell in my fucking kitchen in a puddle of fucking water I didn't see from a fucking pipe that's fucking leaking, and I hurt my fucking back ... so having made it through my biggest task of the day, that oral argument I'd been preparing for the past week, I've taken the rest of the day off to chillax at home. Yes it's not even noon yet, but damn straight there's a big ol' glass of chardonnay, and a heating pad and comfy sofa, tv and paperback novel, all calling my name right now ... yes indeed, it's a good day.

I must be drunk

It's 2 am and I just posted this video on my facebook page:



Can't wait til tomorrow, when I'll undoubtedly get the "how could you put that on your facebook page, take it off!" emails from my mom and sister and who knows what other family members. Sorry folks, I was just drunk, I'll tell them.

... Sigh. I just couldn't do it to my poor mom. Took it down from Facebook, which she checks religiously. Oh well, still cracks me up ...

I hate to stereotype, but ...

I suspect this weatherman might be gay:

Sometimes it's reassuring to realize there are people out there a whole lot crazier than yourself.

Yesterday I received a letter from someone wanting me to represent him. He wasn't asking me to sue anyone for him, just wanted me to "advocate" for him. Because he has "irrefutable proof" that the United States Supreme Court is part of a vast conspiracy to enslave white people in nursing homes. And it's all the fault of "The Jews and The Blacks." Oh, and btw, "Feminism is a misnomer" because it was really propogated by "Jewish women who are all Violent and mostly Lesbians." I don't know how Feminism and Violent Jewish Lesbians fit into the nursing home enslavement conspiracy sanctioned by the Supreme Court to enslave white people, but it was quite an interesting read.

I threw the letter away. (Not before reading it out loud to a number of people and making fun of it, of course.) But it sort of made my day. I can't do anything to "advocate" for you, mister crazy, but you did surprise the hell out of me and make me laugh hard. So thank you for that, mister crazy.

Does he have 4 balls too?

This raises (ahem) so many questions in my head (ahem).

(In case you don't feel like clicking the link, it comes (ahem) down to this: Man with two penises has one surgically removed at girlfriend's request. Man says "When we first started going out she was amazed but in the end she thought it was a bit creepy.")

I wonder: Were they both functional? Were they both the same size? How close together were they? If one gets hard, does the other get hard too? Did he pee out of both? When giving him head, did she have to try to take both in her mouth at the same time, or risk having one poke her in the throat or in the eye while sucking on the other one? Did he "amaze" her by being able to fuck her in the vagina with one while simultaneously fucking her in the ass with the other?

(If the answer to that last question was yes, btw, I wouldn't be so inclined to make him get rid of one of them, despite the overall creepiness factor.)

It's brag on yourself night here at chez Sadie...

And so I'm going to paste a quote here from an email I received today from an attorney I recently worked with from another firm, another city, in an unusual (for me) case that recently resolved. And okay, I'll admit first that he was actually responding to a thank-you letter I'd written him first for his help in this matter, so this is sort of mutual admiration society here. But anyway, here's the quote, which was towards the end of the email:

"You are a smart, classy lady and [shit, fuck, forgot to edit at first, "name of firm"] is extremely fortunate to have an attorney of your caliber in its employ. I hope the people you report to realize what an asset you are to [the firm]. If I can ever be of assistance to you in your career (please try to avoid laughing hysterically here) please let me know."

And the really funny thing is, that I totally laughed out loud, a hearty [ed: ahem, hardy, what can I say, I misspell terribly when I've been drinking] chuckle, when I read "(please try to avoid laughing hysterically here)".* Doubt I would have laughed at all had he not written that part in parentheses; but it so went with his character overall, having gotten to know him a bit (and laughed and joked with him a lot) during this particular case. So that's, what, irony? No, not irony, that's not it. What is it? What's the word to describe that? That I wouldn't have laughed but for the fact that he said that, which made me laugh, which I'm sure was his purpose in telling me not to laugh. To get me to laugh, I mean.

Anyway. Funny man. Given my dreamland track record, I won't be surprised if he takes up a starring role in a future sex dream. Kinda hoping he does, actually. (Are you listening, subconscious?)

* Ok, because of my dorky nature, I (1) corrected myself from saying a "hearty chuckle" to saying a "hardy chuckle," and then (2) because I still had doubts, actually googled the phrase both ways, thinking it would verify the "hardy", but found that it's more often used as "hearty" when describing a laugh. So, umm, ... shit, this is probably a very good sign of just how drunk I am at the moment while writing this, didn't think I was drunk at all, just a little buzzed, but when I start doing shit like this it's usually a sign of more than just a little buzz ... anyway, what do you think? Is it a "hearty chuckle" or a "hardy chuckle?" Because while I may not have given a rat's ass (one of my dad's favorite expressions) one way or the other earlier today, this all of a sudden seems like a question that must be answered, and answered tonight. ... And oh, looka here, my wine glass is empty ... howaboutthat ... must go refill then. Later.

Excuse me, I've caught a bad case of diarrhea - in my mouth.

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The Breaking Point

I've had way more caffeine in the past 24 (no, wait, 21) hours than I usually do. Especially in the evening and nighttime hours. And I am way, way, way awake.

And now I'm at the breaking point. It's 3:30 am, and I've had no sleep. I'm still feeling jacked up in fact. I could probably fall asleep in about half an hour, if I laid down right now and tried ... but it might take longer than that, and at any rate, if I fell asleep at this point I would either totally oversleep my alarm or wake to the alarm but feel like shit all day long.

But yet if I stay awake for the rest of the night, I'll most definitely feel like shit at some point during the coming day anyway.

So what to do? It's gonna suck either way. But right now is the crucial moment, where a decision must be made.

Hmm. I'll tell you tomorrow. (Um,I mean, in a few hours.)

contact

Unfortunately, I think that writing about my crush in a couple recent posts was a mistake. I say that because I had a meeting with that crush in my office on Friday, along with a couple other people, and every single time he made eye contact with me, all I could think was, "he knows I'm into him."

Totally paranoid thought process there. "I've been writing about how I like him, therefore it's become obvious, and he (and maybe everyone else in that meeting) knows I like him." Stupid and ridiculous, but there you go.

Of course, the biggest moment where I felt that was when he shook my hand. He's big on handshaking. I'm only into handshaking when I'm meeting people in a business setting for the first or second or so time; after that I'm not so into the handshaking, I figure we've met, we know each other, a hello should be enough. But that's just me. (Of course, as I write this, I am thinking to myself about all sorts of situations where I would probably have a natural inclination to shake hands with someone, outside of a first or second meeting in a business situation, so yeah, so much for that. Whatever.)

Anyway, my point is, I shook my crush's hand. And though I've shaken his hand many many times before, this was the first time where I felt my own heat in the handshake - a blush probably - and where I felt like my eye contact with him during the shake was giving away the fact that I'm attracted to him. And the first time where during the actual hand to hand contact, I was thinking to myself, "we're touching."

And never before have I been around him and thought to myself that I was giving off any kinds of thoughts or vibes of being attracted to him, even though I am, and have been. It's just that talking about it, even on an anonymous blog, and having my boss make that passing comment recently about how she thinks he likes me (I think she was reading it the other way around maybe and just putting it out there, but I'm probably being paranoid again), made me start to feel for the first time while around him that I was actually giving off total vibes that I'm attracted to him. Even though I probably (hopefully) wasn't.

I think it's guilt.

Interesting

This afternoon I had a phone conversation with an attorney from another firm about a current case. It just happened to be this attorney I have a secret, strictly fantasy-driven crush on. Perfectly harmless, since he's married, and since there's no flirtation or anything even remotely close to flirtation, and I've not told anyone about my crush. (Except, well, anyone who's read my anonymous post about it here.)

Well as I was leaving work this afternoon, I was walking and talking with my boss/friend, and I was telling her about my conversation with that attorney, since we were talking about something new and unusual that's going on with this particular case.

And I made a comment about how he's a funny guy, he'd made a humorous comment that made me laugh. And my boss/friend said, "I think he likes you."

I was struck dumb, it was such an out of the blue comment for her to make; and especially given my own secret fantasies about him. I was thinking to myself, "shit, can she tell that I like him? Is that what that comment was about? Am I actually that transparent, even though I thought I was totally and successfully concealing this little crush?" Because while I think he likes me in general as a person, I certainly don't think he likes me THAT way. The way I secretly like him, that is.

After realizing an awkward silence had just passed, after that comment by her, I finally managed to say "he's a nice guy." And then changed the subject. And thought to myself, "if only." And, not only "if only that were true," but also "if only that were true and he were single."

At any rate, it was interesting. That she said that. Huh.

cocktails with the lady lawyers

Tonight I went out for a couple drinks after work with a few female attorneys I know through work. A couple drinks turned into many. And a few female attorneys turned into a pretty huge table full.

I stayed later than I thought I would partly because of a tremendous downpour, a thunderstorm that seemed to last forever and partly flooded the streets. But I'm glad I did; I had a good time.

The funny thing is, the three other women closest to my age left after the first hour, before the rainstorm began. And so I found myself spending a couple hours with a table full of women my mom's age, getting pretty damn buzzed.

Although that's not actually the funny part I guess. The funny part, to me, is that the group of women, all of that age, that I ended up spending the most time with and getting toasted with, are a group of female lawyers who are really close friends with one another, (and who are, with the exception of one, still single, once the three younger, married, women my age had left), while not "out," are generally known (or suspected, I guess, since they're not out), to be lesbians. The kind that were probably always good at p.e. in high school, and who fanatically follow womens' basketball. If that makes sense without being offensively stereotypical (which I don't meant to be. I'm guessing about the p.e. part, but I know the basketball part is true. Not that that necessarily means anything. But shit, it probably does).

And by the end of the evening, I was totally being attempted to be (ahem, bad grammar, but I'm a bit drunk) recruited into the group. They tried to get me to stay later; I didn't. They made me promise to come back out with them again; I did. They said they needed new blood. I hope they just meant for cocktail hour. But since I am the age I am, and am single, never married, no boyfriend, well shit, who knows what they think of me. I just might give off that hopefully unoffensive stereotpye vibe myself, given my circumstances.

At any rate, by the end of my fifth cocktail, after having really had a good time with them all, with one woman in particular nudging me a lot and practically begging me to promise to come out with them again, well, I'm kind of thinking back on my night and hoping I didn't unintentionally lead anyone on.

And shit, how's that for an evening out?

I'm off to bed. (Although actually, no I'm not, I'm probably going to drink more, to tell the truth, and paint. And since my current project is a female nude, given this post and my circumstances, shit, I probably would wonder about my own sexuality, if I didn't know myself as well as I do and know my crave of cock.)

(And p.s. - fuck, I think I'm drunk - , I frankly wouldn't mind at all being gay, because dammit I think I could score pussy a hell of a lot easier than I can score cock. Which means I'd probably be getting laid a lot more often than I am. Which I would love. Except I want cock, not pussy. Dammit.)

oh, and one more glorious note on the breast cancer scare doctor appointment of this morning,

when I arrived at the doctor's office, there were 3 people present: one woman by herself, and another woman sitting next to a man, presumably her husband, holding his hand. And I totally recognized the man. A client.

Me: Oh, hi.
Him: Hi. How are you?
Me: Well, hehe, (looking around and gesturing), not great.
Him: At least it's a day out of the office, right?
His wife, looking at me and smiling sympathetically: I think we'd rather be in the office.
Me: I know I would.

She gets called back first. She tells him there's a place back there where he can wait, so he follows.

I get called back. I'm directed to the changing room, where I'm supposed to change out of my top and into a smock top that is totally open in front, secured by only a snap. And oh boy oh boy, that interior waiting area for spouses and friends is right outside the dressing room. And there's my client.

So I go into the dressing room, get half undressed, pull on the smock. Look at myself in the mirror and see how it totally hangs open. Know I have to open the door now and walk to the ultrasound room. Know my male client is fucking sitting right there in a chair, in that tiny little area, facing the door to the dressing room.

Pull the smock as closed as I can, open the door, and share the most possibly embarrassing chagrined expression with my older male client, as I walk out braless underneath a thin smock and try to keep from flashing him.

Oy. Not looking forward to the next time I have to defend him in a deposition or meet with him to discuss a legal issue. Somehow I think the memory of me braless in a smock that's held together by a single snap in front confronting him in the breast center interior waiting room is going to make me feel somewhat less professional and secure next time I have to act as his lawyer.

btw,

while I was in the doctor's office this morning, lying on the table, naked from the waist up, waiting on the doctor to come in and the ultrasound to begin, the nurse and technician both stepped out for a moment, leaving me all alone. While alone, I curiously glanced all around the ultrasound room, checking out all the equipment that I'd been too anxious to even think about checking out last time. And I noticed that on the little stand next to my bed and next to the ultrasound machine, there was a stack of cloths and tissues, on top of which lay a little square package, labeled "trojan."

That's right, there was a condom on top of the stack of linens and tissues and such next to the ultrasound machine. And if you read my earlier post, you'd remember that I described having a breast ultrasound as having someone lube up a dildo with warm gel and then rub the head of it all over your boob. But I didn't think last time to actually look too closely at that wand thingy that the doctor was rubbing all over my breast, and dammit even today after seeing the trojan condom sitting right there while I was waiting and made a mental note to myself to pay attention when the doctor came in as to how that condom would be used during the procedure, I STILL forgot to actually pay attention once we got going. I was busy talking to the nurse and worrying and shit, and didn't notice whether he (the doctor), as I now suspect, rolled that condom over the wand thingy that he used to rub over my boob to do the ultrasound. I mean I guess that maybe it makes some kind of sense that that's what they would use to keep those ultrasound wands hygienic? I mean, those wands are sort of dildo-esque, and thinking of how many women they're used on, they are also sort of slutty-esque, so I guess a trojan would be appropriate in those circumstances.

It's a question, at any rate, that I meant to clear up during my appointment, and am now so totally disappointed in myself that I forgot to ask.

loving my second opinion:

no cancer - woohoo!

and no needle today - woohoo!

just a follow up in 6 weeks to make sure the second opinion is the right one.

woohoo!

My poor boob

My poor boob. It has been poked and prodded to death this past week. And not in the good, fun way.

It started with a shower. Soaping up my breasts, I noticed a lump in one that had definitely not been there before. A big, hard lump, the kind that had me breaking out into a sudden cold sweat.

From there, it went to my gynecologist's office, with my doctor pressing and prodding, prodding and pressing. Feeling me up more than I've been felt up in the past eight months, other than by myself. (God, that's depressing.)

After that, I had a mammogram and an ultrasound. Mammogram: squish, squeeze, smash, mash, mush. Ouch. Ultrasound: like someone lubed up a dildo with warm gel and then rubbed the head all over my breast. Not that bad, actually.

Then the biopsy. Oh holy mother of God, no. Just, no: no, no, no. That fucking sucked. Small needles pricking and numbing, cutting, big needle going in deep, pressure pressure pressure, loud clicks as the needle machine thingy pulls tissue out. Eyes sqeezed closed tight, queasiness, lightheadedness, on the brink of passing out, oh holy fuck please don't let me ever have to do that again.

At home to rest, ice pack on my boob, 20 minute intervals on and off all day long. Bandaids and bandages. And bruising, bruising, bruising. Soft alabaster skin now an ugly purple and yellow.

Anxiety while awaiting the follow up phone call with the test results.

Brrrring, brrrring, brrrring:
Nurse: "Negative"
Me: "Woo-hoo!"
Nurse: "But ..."
Me: "Oh no, not a but ..."
Nurse: "Recommend a second biopsy."
Me: "Hahahahaha [that's insane laughter, mind you], nooooooo, hahahahaha, nooooo.... no no no no no no no......"
Nurse: "Sorry, yes."

Sunday night, at home, drinking wine. Eleven hours to needle time. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

My poor boob.

So I haven't been very dedicated to my new hobby, painting, in the past couple months. I've had the same unfinished project sitting around for a while now. But I'm finally focusing on it again, and getting closer to finishing it.

I'm too lazy right now to link to older posts with pictures of earlier versions of this painting, (I'd promised myself to take and post pictures along the way so I could remember what it looked like all along the way), but here's my latest version - still needs more work, the pears in particular and some more detailing, to outline the fruit and all, but I don't know; I'm kinda a little bit happy with how it's looking, what do ya think? And be kind, it's only my second real painting project ever.



2:20 a.m. update - - - sleepless night. decided to keep painting. decided i'm done with the painting. because i'm ready to be done with the painting. so here it is:



Next week i start my new art class ... ready for a new project!

WHAT A GIRL WANTS, WHAT A GIRL NEEDS ...

whatever makes me happy ...

And this girl has been stressed out and working too hard and lonely as hell, and needs something new to play with. So tonight I bought myself this new toy - the beautiful g-spot butterfly:



Somehow it feels a little retro. Maybe it's the bulky remote control. But it's new and different for me, and it makes this girl happy.

But what I REALLY want to know is this: do you think I can get away with wearing this underneath my suit in court? Hmm....

Crushing

I have a little crush on an attorney at another firm in town. I've worked with him on cases from time to time, sometimes alongside him and sometimes against him. I think he's only a few years older than I am. He's not the most attractive man I've ever met, although he is nice looking, but somehow it's his personality that has grown on me over the past few years that makes him more and more attractive to me.

Unfortunately for me, he's married. So this crush is just something for me, something that sometimes helps fuel my fantasies when I'm lying in bed alone at night. And he is oblivious to this crush, and I wouldn't want it any other way. I don't act any differently around him than I do around anyone else I work with in a similar capacity.

But I have realized recently that I do take pleasure in doing small favors for him. Work-related favors. It's a small community of lawyers I work with in my particular area, so we all pretty much know each other fairly well. And because of that, and because we as often work on one another's side as we do against one another, we as a group are pretty collegial towards one another. So any of the small favors he's asked of me, I would also do for any other lawyer I know. But I've recently noticed than when he's the one asking the favor, I jump to it almost immediately, rather than putting it off until later in the day or week, and I also actually get pleasure out of it. I'm happy to help him.

It's a perfectly harmless little crush. But it is interesting, to me, how a little crush like that can affect one's behavior towards another person, even in the smallest of ways.

Of course, as harmless as it is, I do sometimes wonder (and wish I could find out) what he would think if he knew that whenever I sit across from him in a deposition, I play out fantasies of the two of us together in my head; that I sometimes get aroused simply by looking at his hands as he's working, imagining how those long, strong-looking fingers would feel delving deep inside me ... I think it would make him blush. I know it would make me blush if he knew.

Fuck Me Hard.

It is 2:20 in the afternoon, and I am sitting in my office, at work, and I JUST NOW realized that I am wearing TWO TOTALLY DIFFERENT SHOES today:



Holy fucking shit. This means that not only did I PUT ON two different shoes this morning at home without realizing it, I have WORN and WALKED AROUND IN two different shoes in an OFFICE BUILDING for the past SIX HOURS without even realizing it.

Fuck you too, Monday.

Interesting.

Last year I wrote a post about a conversation I'd had with an attorney from another firm who tried to persuade me into running for (or at least thinking about running for) a judicial position that had recently opened up on the bench of the particular court before which he and I mostly appear as part of our practice. I remember thinking at the time how strange it felt to have someone come to me with that idea, how out of the blue it was since I've never ever considered such a thing myself, and how odd and funny it also seemed at the time because another attorney I know at a different firm had made a remark to me not long before that day, suggesting the same thing. I really truly have never thought to myself that I would make a good judge, or that it would be something that I would want to do; and I actually seriously don't think I could get elected, at least at this point in my life, even if I wanted to. But it was strangely fascinating to hear two different people I know and sometimes work on cases with, from two different law firms, suggest it to me on their own like that. I mean it was a crazy idea in itself; but to have two different people suggest it like that? Funny.

Well today I experienced deja vu, all over again. Because right now there is another vacancy on that same court, and this morning another attorney, from another law firm, said to me, "you should run." It took me aback. Again. I think he was serious. I've known this attorney longest of all, actually; I first met him when I first started out practicing law, when he had just made partner at his firm. And in the past five years, I've had more and more occasion to work with him, on multiple-party cases. And his comment this morning took me completely by surprise.

I honestly still have no intention of running. I don't know if I'd want to; and I actually doubt I could win a seat on that bench if I tried. But I can't help but feel wonder and, to be perfectly honest, kind of touched, that now a third person has out of the blue made this suggestion to me. A third attorney, at a third law firm, that I have occasion to work with, sometimes as co-counsel and sometimes as opposing counsel.

I don't know what it is I've done to manage to fool them all into apparently thinking so well of me professionally. But shit baby, I hope I can keep it up.

Wondering why,

on Mother's Day, when you go to the grocery store, the person who checks you out wishes you a Happy Mother's Day?

That happened to me twice: once today, and once yesterday. Two different grocery stores. I don't know if they were saying that to everyone, or just to women, but it seemed to be something they'd been told to say to people when checking their groceries.

What I wanted to say in return each time was, "I'm NOT a mother." What I said instead each time was, "thank you."

Eh.

I have a huge issue with this Jon and Kate Plus 8 thing, and I must vent.

WTF is up with Kate's hair?

It's hideous. Short hairstyles can be cute, but hers, with the long sideswept bangs in front and the super-short cropped spikes in back, makes her look like a lesbian who is torn between being lipstick and being butch.

And that is all I have to say on the subject.

Ah, trial work. Gotta love it. (Or hate it.)

Nothing like talking to your star witness for the very first time the night before his deposition is taken by the lawyer on the other side. I'm really feeling prepared these days, yessirree.

Also, nothing like talking to your star witness for the very first time the night before his deposition is taken by the lawyer on the other side, at 8 o'clock at night, when the witness finally returns your earlier call and catches you at home, and you've been sitting back reading a cheezy romance novel and drinking wine for a good hour.

I hope I sounded professional. I think I did.

Update on the devil child

The other day I wrote a post about how my five year old nephew can be really sweet sometimes. That was based on something super sweet he said Friday night at suppertime.

Then Saturday morning came, and he woke up hungry, and asked my sister, his mom, for oatmeal. And when 5 minutes later she hadn't brought it to him yet, he shouted out at her "MOM. Do. Your. Job." And when she said "WHAT did you just say to me?!?!" he said, in a slightly softer voice but laden with sarcasm, "Mom PLEASE do your job."

And then during the course of the day on Saturday, he proceeded to have about ten holy tantrums, shouting and crying himself red in the face over the most mundane things, carrying on loud enough to wake the dead. Or bust an eardrum. Definitely enough to make the rest of us drink heavily at any rate.

And then Sunday came, and I took him to a small neighborhood park with a pond and lots of ducks, ducks that are used to people being around them and not bothering them and waddle all over the place being cute and quiet, and my nephew ran through them all, chasing them, tormenting them, flapping his arms and shouting "RRRRAAAAAOOOOOWWWWWRRRRR!!!!! RRRRRAAAAOOOOOOWWWWRRRRR!!!!!! RRRRRAAAAOOOOOOWWWWWWRRRR!!!!!!", making all the poor ducks run away. And when everyone else in the park gave us dirty looks and I fussed at him and told him to stop scaring the ducks, he said in the most reasonable little voice, "but it's fun."

Yeah, maybe I don't really want kids one day after all.

fucking fuck fuck. fuck.

I have been in the worst mood for the past week. At first I thought it was just the cold I caught the week before, that I was still trying to shake off last week, that had me worn down and cranky. But now it's another Monday, and I'm in a foul mood. I didn't sleep well at all last night, tossed and turned for hours, at times turned on the light and read a book, hoping it would make me sleepy.

I was stressing out the whole time though, thinking about all the shit I have to do at work this week, how shitty and stressful and crazy it's going to be trying to squeeze in all the stuff there is to do with my busy schedule for the week. I finally fell asleep for a few (way too few) hours, and woke up cranky and frustrated. I don't feel like going to work today; I don't want to do all the stuff I have to do.

And I was re-living the dream that I had, the one I woke up out of this morning, that also put me in a foul mood. It was a dream about unsuccessful sex. I mean really, really bad, unsuccessful sex. It was not good, and it left me frustrated as hell.

And it hit me after I fully woke up: I need sex. I am sexually frustrated. And all the normal shitty things about day to day life that are piling up on me and stressing me out, I would be so much in a better frame of mind to deal with, if only I were getting laid these days.

Yep, I think this has become a problem. I need a good fucking, on a regular basis, to blow the cobwebs out my head and ramp up my seratonin levels and leave me walking around with that glow on my face and that feeling between my legs of being constantly reminded and aware of the fact that I've been fucked. I think it would greatly improve my work performance too. I must get laid, for the sake of my work product if not my sanity.

caution: sentimental post ahead

My nephew is five years old. And he is a holy terror. I mean it, he is. He's cute as can be, and believe me, he knows it and works it; but he is so hard to handle. (now.) (great, I have a Black Crowes song going on in my head now that will probably stick all morning.) I think it's the redhead in him; he has reddish brown hair, kinda like, hmm, an aunt of his I know. And that's just a sign of the devil. Right?

Anyway. The thing is, he really is a sweetheart at his core. Sure, that's not always apparent, what with his generally eardrum-splittingly loud, obnoxious, sly and surprisingly calculating for a five-year-old, belligerent nature, which I assume is a product of having testosterone in his body because I grew up with girls and seriously we just weren't ever that loud or bad or crazy, but in the middle of all that personality beats a sweet little heart, that at the most random times, can express a genuine love and thoughtfulness for others.

For example, last night's dinner blessing. Now normally my family doesn't say a blessing before dinner, except for I guess Thanksgiving and other occasional holidays and large family gatherings where, because of our upbringings, we'd feel like cads if we didn't offer one up, but blessings are apparently big with kids. They learn them in school, which to me seems like some kind of violation of the separation of church and state, but then again they go to a private school, so I guess that law doesn't apply to them. At any rate, my niece and nephew like to take turns saying a blessing before meals. The short and rhime-y kind. (Blessings, not meals.) And last night my five-year-old nephew shouted and hollered in all his belligerency that it was HIS TURN to say the blessing. So he did.

What he said was: "Thank you, God, for this good food, and for this happy day, make sure Brian is safe and sound, in Jesus' name we pray." Which is based on a blessing he learned in school, but which he changed a little bit for when he says it at home sometimes, on his own, without any prompting from anyone else, to include the part about Brian. Which my sister told me surprised her when he first did it, because it came from out of nowhere except his little brain.

What makes it sweet is, Brian is our really cool, nice, funny, awesome cousin, who right now is stationed in Afghanistan. He made it through his Iraq rotations just fine in the past, and we were all kind of thinking that he was maybe done with that, that he wouldn't have to go back, especially since we've got a new president who is scaling back our presence in Iraq and looking to end our (stupid-ass) mission there. But then he got new word, and now he is over in Afghanistan. Hopefully he'll be back by the end of this year, but I don't know for sure.

Well of course everyone in my family loves Brian and thinks about him and talks about him from time to time, with everything he's doing. And since my niece and nephew know and adore him, my sister explained to them when he had to go away again recently for such an extended period of time. I don't know how exactly she explained it to them, I know she said it very simply and kept it short. (I imagine it included the phrase "fighting for his country," but that's just me, picturing such a conversation in my head.) But I don't think anyone expected the kids to really think about or retain that particular knowledge, or expected that it would change in any way anything that they do or think.

But for whatever reason, maybe just because he loves his cousin, but somehow also I think because he picked up on the fact that we all have him in our thoughts, my little nephew incorporated thoughts of keeping safe and sound our cousin Brian, stationed in Afghanistan, into his prayers and blessings, all on his own, to the surprise of everyone else. Somehow a sentiment like that come from a child in such a way, all simple and sweet and easy and pure, holds so much more emotion than anything we could say as adults. And it makes this cynical old aunt go "awwwwwwww."

Oh Bea, you great lady you!

Ok, I LOVE the Golden Girls, and I love Bea Arthur. I mostly love her because of the Golden Girls, but really, that lady was something all-around.

I posted a video of her from a GG episode on my Facebook page, in honor of her passing. But there was another video I really liked, but didn't think my relatives, who have access to my Facebook page, would appreciate me loving so much, but you people will understand, I think. So here it is: this kinda makes me wish I'd been able to hang out with her in real life, I think it woulda been awesome. (And it kinda makes me want to buy this book by Pamela Anderson, and since I can't believe I just said that I kinda want to buy a book by Pamela Anderson, that's really saying something.)

Roast of Pamela Anderson
Bea Arthur Uncensored
comedycentral.com
Joke of the Day Stand-Up Comedy Free Online Games

the lawyer at work

This past week I've had that rare spring, warm-weather cold. I blame it on my sister's kids, whom I played with and stayed with this past weekend. They were healthy as horses, but I hear those demon kids can be carriers of evil germs while appearing perfectly normal. At any rate, I've been sick off my ass this past week, worst cold-type-thing I can remember having in years, and have missed a bunch of work because of it.


Today I'm feeling a lot better. The sunshine helps, I think. I like to get my vitamin D naturally. And I think it's baked what's left of my horrible cold out of my body, except for this horrible lingering cough. But I figure, more direct sunshine topped off with massive amounts of alcohol will cure that cough in no time.

Which brings me to my point: holy shit, I have an appellate brief due Wednesday. I've already gotten one extension on this brief. Thought I'd have it in the bag by now, but damn, it's snuck up on me.

I brought all my stuff home with me that I need to work on it, last time I was in the office. (I think that was Wednesday mid-day? Can't quite remember. I've been in a medicinal coma most of the week.) So really, I need to get to work on that brief, this weekend.

It's, what, Saturday? Mid-afternoon? I think. I've been lounging outside with the cats, soaking up that natural vitamin D (it's fucking 90 degrees here today, woohoo!), drinking ice-cold pinot grigio (hey, it helps soothe the cough), and listening to the Buena Vista Social Club album, and I'm feeling kinda good and laid-back and warm and buzzed.

Only now I think I really do need to start working on that appellate brief. If I have any chance of making my Wednesday filing deadline. I've filled in lots of the basic facts and obvious law citations already, but I have yet to get to that creative part, where I try to craft the argument. It's better that I'm the respondent, but still; this one has some tricky issues in it, and it's going to require creative thought to respond to them.

And considering that, maybe it's not such a bad thing that I'm totally buzzed right now ... let the creative juices flow! Let's write a brief this sunny Saturday late afternoon! Somebody, turn up the Bob Marley and pour me another drink, I'm ready to write.

I don't know which disturbs me more:

That my mom is on Facebook, or that my mom just sent me an email over Facebook that started out with "Bummer!" (in response to me telling her I have a bad cold.)

update: Ok, my mom's first Facebook status update ever says, "why am I getting all these ads for anti-aging products? Is my web cam on?" I knew I got my goofy sense of humor from her.

YES! NO! YES! NO!

YES!

That's what I said out loud this morning when I realized that the time for asshat to file any further appeal had passed and I had not received a copy of an appeal from him.

NO!

That's what I said out loud a little later this morning when the mail came and in it was a copy of a petition for further appeal that asshat filed the day before yesterday.

YES!

And that's what I said out loud when I checked the envelope his petition came in and saw that, despite his claim that he served me by mail on the 15th and despite the postage meter stamp on the envelope that says the 15th, his mailing was postmarked by the actual post office on the 16th. Specifically, the post office's stamp says "THU 16 APR 2009 PM." So not even morning on the 16th, but afternoon on the 16th. Meaning, too late, asshat. TOO. DAMN. LATE.

NO!

And finally, that's what I said when I checked the rules in preparation of drafting a motion to dismiss, and discovered that this particular motion doesn't require that he serve it on the same day as he filed it. Of course he should have anyway, but I can't get him kicked out of court for not doing it. Dammit; there went my bright happy mood. Oh well.

No need to be so alarmed

Yesterday afternoon a new email notification box popped up on my screen while I was sitting at my desk writing a brief. The sender was someone in management of the office building where I work, and it went out to everyone in the building. (Several hundred people, I'd guess.) The subject was "car alarm." And somehow I knew, without having any basis whatsoever, just a gut feeling, but I knew that the email was referring to my car.

The email described a car parked in the back parking lot, and said that the car alarm was going off. And sure enough, the car it described, license plate number included, was mine.

Annoyed and embarrassed, I trudged down to the back door of the office building and then crossed through the sea of cars out back towards the area of the parking lot where I always park. Which would be the actual back corner of the back parking lot, since I'm always arriving a minute or two or ten late, and the lot is always filled up by that point. I was grateful at least to notice that I couldn't hear a car alarm going off anywhere. It must have shut itself off finally, I thought. Keys in hand, I glanced from car to car once I got to that particular corner of the lot, searching out my car. I always park in that same area, but not always in the same exact spot, you see. So I'm looking, and I'm looking, and ... I'm not seeing my car. Anywhere.

I thought for sure my eyes were just fooling me at first. But no; my car wasn't there. Suddenly a bad feeling shot through my whole system. Goosebumps raised on my arms. And I thought to myself: "OH. HOLY. CRAP. MY CAR IS GONE. THAT'S WHY THE ALARM WAS GOING OFF; SOMEBODY WAS ACTUALLY BREAKING INTO MY CAR. AND HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, THEY FUCKING STOLE IT!!!!!!!!!!!"

My next thoughts were very quick and jumbled together and random. I couldn't sort them all out for you, but it went something like this: "i can't believe someone stole my fucking car. what do i do now? maybe it's not stolen. no, shit, it is, it's not here anywhere! wait, do i see it going down the street? nope. ok, should i call the cops? why didn't the fucking person who reported the fucking alarm going off say someone was fucking breaking into it? maybe they didn't notice. that bitch who sent the email could've stopped this though! or not. why the fuck didn't someone yell stop? there are people out here. hey, people, where'd my car go? maybe i should ask someone if they saw someone driving off in my car. or maybe i should go inside and call 911. shit, what the fuck am i going to do without a car? oh shit, this fucking sucks man!!"

That's pretty much how my train of thought went. The most important point here being, I stood around in that parking lot for at least a little while, looking around like an idiot, with huge disbelieving eyes, long enough to think about all that shit and to try to figure out what to do next.

And then it hit me: "Oh, oh wait ... wait just a second ... did I park back here this morning? Ummmmmm .... hold on .... ohhhhhh, yeah, that's right, I was running late, and I was in a bad mood, and I noticed that a couple of those spots near the building's entrance that are reserved for people who carpool together were empty, and I pulled into one of those. Well, shit, I guess that means my car's probably not stolen."

So I made my way back towards the part of the parking lot with all the "carpool" signs, (part of the office's effort to encourage people to ride in to work together to save gas and make less pollution for the environment and all that shit), and there was my car. Safe and sound.

I figured someone must have accidentally bumped into it real hard and set off the alarm. Probably what I get for parking in the carpool spot when I'm not in a carpool, I thought. Karma.

This morning I was tempted once again to pull into one of those carpool spots that I could tell was empty when I got to work. But, thinking about my lesson in karma from yesterday, I headed on back to the back corner of the parking lot, and parked in my usual place.

This afternoon, I got another email from the office manager, going out to the whole building. Once again, it said car alarm. Once again, it described my car. Then it said "Your car alarm is going off. Again." Motherfucker.

back to eharmonot

Well I'm finally really, really, REALLY ready to date again. Actively seeking, I mean. And since I seem to have trouble meeting new people in everyday life, and since eharmony did bring me the hometown guy, who was great even though it wasn't meant to be in the long run, I figured I'd give eharmony another shot.

So far I haven't had a ton of matches, and none that have stood out as someone who might be a really good potential match. But at least today I did get my first "wtf?" match.

Because seriously, when you put your profile out there on a dating service and under occupation you say "online poker player," I have to say, "what the fuck?"

Here's hoping I get more matches with people who make their living some way other than sitting at home in their pj's gambling online all day long.

UPDATE: Ok, I just got my second wtf match. Dudes out there: no girl is going to want to follow up with you when your first impression is a photo of yourself lounging on your side on a couch swirling a glass of wine. Maybe if I knew you and you were doing that as a joke, I'd think it was funny; but not knowing you, well shit, maybe you're not joking. I'm not going to try to find out.

Second update: Man, it's the night of the duds. Or who knows, maybe it's just me; maybe I'm just in a weird mood tonight. Because none of these things are sitting well with me. Including the guy who under "occupation" says "it's pretty much a full time job just being me." What the fuck does that mean? I don't think I care to find out.

And the award for best boyfriend goes to:

As an excuse for failing a drug test, I don't buy it, but DAMMMMMMN this guy must REALLY love eating pussy. I'm a little jealous of the cokehead girlfriend.

suck on that, asshat!

I won my appeal. Woohoo!

Well shit, I'm starting to feel like a professional artist!

Since I just decided to take up painting as my new hobby just this year, I had to buy a whole bunch of art supplies all at once. I couldn't get everything I wanted right away, because that shit starts to add up - - paints are expensive, and so are brushes, nevermind the other extra things there are out there - - so I'd been making do with an old backpack to tote my supplies back and forth to class. And while I did get an easel for home, it was a cheap one, and it's a big one that stands on the floor; so big that actually my small pear painting couldn't sit in the middle of the easel, b/c it would fall backwards through the hole. I had it propped up against just one of the legs of the tripod whenever I was working on it. Which was all fine, no problem.

But for my birthday, my boss and my paralegal went in together and gave me a fantastic gift: an art supply box, with adjustable trays and compartments to hold a bunch of different stuff, and a table-top easel, which is also adjustable for small and large canvases. Both are made of beech wood, and both are nice. And both gifts took me completely by surprise; I had actually wanted both of those things, because I'd seen other people in my art class with variations of those things that I coveted, but I had not mentioned either one to either my boss or my paralegal. They just guessed at what they thought might make a good but returnable if I already had it gift relevant to my new hobby, and they couldn't have picked two better items, as far as I'm concerned.

I feel like a kid with a new toy on her birthday. I've already organized all my paints and shit in my new wooden box, and set up my tabletop easel too. Now I can REALLY pretend to be an artist!!!!

This is the stock I come from.

One of my mom's cousins told a story this weekend about herself, her dog, and the electric fence surrounding her property.

There's a cat in her neighborhood that has realized that her dog can't leave the yard. So the cat stalks up and down the boundary of their property, antagonizing the dog. The dog barks at it constantly but can't cross the electric fence to go after it.

Well one day last week, the cat must have done something really outrageous to piss off the dog. Because the dog did cross the electric fence. But once it was on the other side, it didn't want to cross the fence to come back home. Understandably, of course.

The dog-owning cousin, once she realized this, went out to get the dog and bring it back home. When she got to the dog, she took its collar off, the one that reacts to the electric fence, so that the dog could run freely back into its own yard. Which it immediately and happily did.

Having done her duty, the cousin then went back home herself.

Carrying the electric dog collar in her hand.

Yeah. Just because you took it off the dog doesn't mean it stops working.

When she hit the electric fence, she said, she threw that goddamn collar as far as she could throw. But not before she got the shock of her life.

And as hard as I laughed when she told that story, all I could think was, "that's totally something that I would do too." My family: we come from smart stock.

This is just ... so wrong.

In so many ways.



Male anchor back in the studio: "Have we ever done what to a big bear?"

Offending delicate sensibilities in the workplace (Or, Pumping pink cum from the rubber penis in the office kitchen)

Our office has generic-looking soap dispensers in the restrooms and in the kitchen. Every once in a while, I've noticed that the woman who works here who cleans our area of the office gets lazy about refilling the soap dispenser. Rather than taking the empty soap thing out of the dispenser and replacing it with a new soap refill, she'll just plop the soap refill down next the sink for people to use.

And what an unfortunate-looking soap refill it is. It's basically a bag of pink soap, with a rubber tube jutting out of the bottom of it. When put in the dispenser, I think that the rubber tube fits up against the little lever that you press when you want it to dispense soap. The pink bag and the rubber tube are completely hidden from view when it's in the dispenser.

When it's just sitting out next to the sink though, not in the dispenser, there's no nondescript little lever or button to push to get soap to come out. Instead, you have to squeeze the rubber tube to get the soap to come out. It's kind of like having to squeeze a really tiny little penis that shoots pink stuff into your palm.

Seriously, every time I've ever seen that little refill sitting all by itself next to a sink, I've thought that it looks like a tiny little penis. And every time I've had to sqeeze that rubber tube to get the soap, I've had sexual (though gross) thoughts.

I've often wondered if other people in the office also can't help thinking unfortunate thoughts and feeling kind of dirty (how's that for irony) whenever they have to wash their hands and that's the only soap available. I've never heard anybody else make a comment about it. Out loud, anyway.

But today, when I went into the kitchen and saw another refill sitting on the edge of the sink, I saw that someone had made a comment about it. Actually, someone had left a comment on it. I don't know if they did this as a joke, recognizing what everybody probably thinks anyway and leaving a note to give people a laugh, (in which case, well done), or if they were seriously offended and did this to try to get the cleaning lady to stop just leaving refills by the sink instead of replacing them inside the actual dispensers (in which case, way to be tactful). Either way, I thought it was pretty funny. Funny enough to take a picture of with my cell phone.

Here's the picture:



The sticky note says, "This is disgusting!"

And I have to agree. Seriously, should I really have to pump a rubber penis until it spews pink gunk just to be able to wash my hands at work?

p.s. My boss just asked me if I was the one who left the note. Apparently it looks like something I'd do.

Unimpressed

I have to say, the cats don't seem all that thrilled about the latest version:

Friday Night

I cut out of work a little early today, to catch a 4:30 movie. I saw "I love you, man." It was pretty funny ... I'd kinda hoped it would be a bit better than it was, but still, it was entertaining.

Watching Bruce Springsteen perform on the Daily Show right now. I love Bruce. I don't know what it is about his music, his voice, his lyrics, shit maybe it's just his harmonica ... whatever it is, it resonates with me. Makes me feel.

Bought a salmon filet earlier that I was planning on cooking for dinner tonight, but right now I'm so into the crab dip and crackers and chardonnay that I got at the same time I bought the salmon, that I'm starting to think I'm going to stick with snacking on the crab dip and crackers for dinner tonight, save the salmon for tomorrow night.

I'm still trying to figure out what I need to do to my painting. I've been playing with the fruit, I could probably keep playing with the fruit forever; but I still can't figure out what to do with the background. I decided the mirror thing felt like it made the whole canvas too busy, and it just wasn't right, so I painted over it. I still feel like it needs something else on the top half of the canvas though; I just can't figure out quite what. I'm thinking I might end up not putting anything back there at all, but if I can think of something small enough, just to add a little extra something, then maybe ... who knows. Anyway, here's the latest:

You've come a long way, baby.

It feels like I've come full circle in my legal career today, in a way.

For the first time today, I presented oral argument on appeal from a big case I tried a couple years ago to the Court where I clerked my first year out of law school. Back then I was a brand new lawyer, fresh out of law school, learning my way, clerking for the chief judge of the appellate court, reading appellate briefs daily, listening with respect to more seasoned lawyers present oral argument, and helping to draft court opinions. Today, I was one of those more seasoned lawyers presenting the oral argument. It felt good.

Especially since I KILLED IT. YEAH!!!!!!!

I argued before a panel of 3 appellate judges. One of the three was a judge on that bench back when I clerked there all those years ago. After oral arguments in this court, the judges always shake the hands of the lawyers who presented the argument. When this particular judge shook my hand today, she smiled and winked at me. That was cool, too.

Oh, and by the way, did I mention that I KILLED IT in court today? Yeah I did. WOOHOO!!!! I've come a long way, baby.

LOL break

There's a website I check daily with (usually) funny pictures of (mostly) cats with captions, called lolcats. The site's actually called I can has cheezburger. Anyway, I checked it out tonight while on a break from work, and I saw this picture that I particularly like and want to share.

When I first saw this picture I laughed. Then I thought to myself, "God, this could happen to me one day. Let's hope I don't hit this stage..."

Latest version

I think the mirror is definitely growing on me. Only my question now is, does this mean I have to paint a reflection in the mirror now? B/c I don't think I could do that. And I think if I tried I'd end up with something really weird-looking. So I'm kind of hoping I can get away with calling that a mirror w/o doing anything else to it. But does it look like a mirror in a frame? Or does it just look like a blueish-gray square outlined in yellowish/goldish-brown back there?

Anyway, that's where I am now. Guess I'll try to finish up the fruit this week, then see how it looks then.

The subconscious at work

I'm reading a legal brief written by a real asshole of a lawyer, and doing some legal research for my own brief in response. As I work, I can't help but think about what a slimy little jerkwad this guy is.

I've been making myself notes on a sticky pad as I go, sticking them to cases that I print and tagging pages of his brief with notes here and there. Mostly my sticky notes say things like "expert testimony," "due process," "no prejudicial error," things like that. But one of my sticky notes says "Aargh ... what a sneaky little weasel. Slimeball."

I wrote that sticky note about an hour or so ago, when I was feeling particularly perturbed by one of the arguments that this guy made in his brief, and a case that he cited, and the implication that he was clearly trying to make by the way he said what he said. Taking a dig at me and my client that was really, completely unnecessary - that's essentially what he was doing.

Then I looked back down at my sticky note just now, and noticed that I had drawn a little doodle around the word "Slimeball" - it looks like I started to draw a box around it and then ended up going with more of a circle thing. I think the reason I probably ended up making a circle-thing after starting off making a box-thing around the word was b/c the S was too big to fit in the box, so I just tried to loop it on in there. But the funny thing is, I just noticed that it actually looks kind of like I drew a dick around the word "Slimeball."



The subconscious at work, I guess. He really is a little prick.

The painting, continued...

Well, I didn't like the extra piece of fruit I added. So I took it off. But I still thought it could use something else. So since I took off the extra piece of fruit in the bottom corner, I decided to add something to the wall in the background. A mirror. And once I did that, I thought the cobalt blue rim on the tray was too much, so I painted over that as well. Not sure what I'm going to do with it from here. This may all be a mistake too. Hmmm. We'll see.

More of the painting in progress

I decided to add another piece of fruit to my painting since my last post. Not sure if that was a good idea or not. And I've got a lot of bright colors going on right now; I'm not really crazy about them, but that'll change as I keep working on it. Although I do kind of like the cobalt blue on the rim I added to the serving dish. But it still feels kind of ... off, somehow. Like something's either missing or not right. In the general layout, I mean. Maybe I shouldn't have painted my table on the diagonal, maybe that's what's throwing me; or maybe I should've put the whole tray of fruit more in the middle ... it looks like it's about to fall off the bottom of the canvas. Hmmm. Well, I guess I'll keep playing with it for a while; maybe once I get the colors looking more the way I want them, get the fruit looking "fatter," as my teacher said my pears looked, then I'll start digging it. Right now I'm kind of ho-hum. But still having fun, which is the whole point really.