PaperWatch 2007: Day 4: By the Numbers

The casualties and costs are racking up.

Cokes consumed: 10

Episodes of What Not To Wear watched: 5

Footnotes: 62

Pages written: 12 in Times New Roman 12, 14 in Courier New 11

Probable number of hours before I switch to Courier New: 12

Number of times I wanted to vomit watching Dave and Deena make love amongst the bovines this evening on What About Brian (Why, WHY DO I KEEP WATCHING THIS SHOW?): 2.6 (it was a very short scene)

Number of times I laughed out loud when ABC aired a commercial for KY Intrigue right after cow love scene: 1 (Deena, Holsteins do not ring your bell? No?)

Number of times I have considered dropping out of law school to become an artisanal cheesemaker: OK, 0, but I am seriously considering this as a post-law/retirement career. Cheese rocks!

p.s. I think I deleted someone’s comment from yesterday’s post in some overzealous comment spam deleting — sorry!!

Lost Weekend

So, -R- double-dog dared her readers to post a picture of themselves at high school prom. Lucky you, here are two!

First, the close-up (I’m on left). I wore bangs for eighty bazillion years because I have a serious fivehead. I have now embraced my fivehead, so much so that occasionally I will attempt to transform a sweet little summer BBQ into a head-measuring contest.

Now, the whole shebang. Can you believe that is actually a Cynthia Rowley dress? I have NO IDEA how I managed to procure a CR dress in Redding — in this pic we are at one of the nicest restaurants (at that point) in town, which is AT THE AIRPORT. And primarily decorated with SILK PLANTS. Also, I think our meal came out to $12 each. Sweet bejeebus.

Sadly, digging out these prom photos has been one of the most exciting things I’ve done this weekend. I’ve mainly been writing a paper (spousal signature requirements in community property states under the ECOA is so! exciting!). And cursing my dish disposal, which quit on me. And getting dish detergent in my eye and having to flush it out for 15 minutes. Do you know how LONG 15 minutes is when you have your face under the sink? A LONG FUCKING TIME, THAT’S HOW LONG.

At least one good thing did happen. Dumplings: Part Deux. Steamed Seafood Dumplings (pretty good, a little fishy), and Martha’s pork dumplings (we steamed, not boiled — SO GOOD).

In other news, I appear to have lost the will to shop (!). I kind of (really) hate my wardrobe right now and have gone shopping SIX TIMES recently and have been unable to purchase anything. Has this ever happened to you? I think I might be dead. Part of it is that I’m sick of buying all my clothes from Target and Forever 21 (hate you, student budget), but I’m not ready to fork out the required moolah for more. The other part is that I think I might be getting tired of conjuring up excitement about hot! new! trends in fashion. (that’s it, I am dead). I am not mod, I am not a flapper. And I can’t muster up the energy to try to be. Wouldn’t it be sad if leggings were my last hurrah at trendiness? Ok, writing this has made me sad. Mainly because I see my future: What Not To Wear protagonist. Which, btw, is the only other thing I have done this weekend. Watch DVR’d WNTW when I can take the paper no longer.

How did this entry get so pathetic? I am so looking forward to later this week, when The Boy and I head off to Camping: Part Deux.

Just for You, My Little Dumplings: A Judgment Free Edition

Dude, I always knew I was one of those people who had difficulty rubbing my stomach and patting my head at the same time. I can’t even watch TV while I’m doing dishes, even when it’s a DVR’d episode of What About Brian, which takes approximately 1.38 brain cells to absorb. Still, one cantankerously grimy pan and I’m rewinding to find out what’s going on with Deena’s cute! trendy! new cupcake shop or Nicole’s (gasp) judgmental mommy & me group. I swear to sushi, it is the YUPPIEST SHOW EVER.

Anyway, I discovered this evening in flamenco class that apparently one of my legs can’t be doing something different than the other or I spontaneously combust in a flailing mass of extremities and poor rhythm. Sheesh. I am going to have to check out my moves next time I’m doing some, you know, normal dancing, to see if this is always the case. What if I’ve been disco-ing one leg at a time my whole life and I had no idea? The mind reels.

Nonetheless, I am totally loving flamenco now! There is something super freeing about being the one who sucks the most! The uber-suckiest! Then you just learn what you can, when you can, and if you’re the ass who still can’t figure out how to move your arms in the opposite direction of your feet (which, as the instructor kindly pointed out, IS WHAT YOU DO WHEN YOU’RE WALKING), who cares?! There is no judgment visited upon the truly awful. The instructor is just glad you’re still forking out $12 every Wednesday night to look like a complete nincompoop! Yay for capitalism!

Speaking of non-judgment, can I tell you that I have had Just About Enough of people saying, “Oh, you’re becoming a LI-YAR (snicker, snicker),” when I tell them I’m in law school? I do not begrudge my apartment maintenance man his cologne (Aspen? Old Spice?) choices, but it is OK for him to knock my vocational path?

In the spirit of judgement freeity and lovinglyness, though, I am going to let that go because, woohoo! Grumpy apartment man has fixed my sink, which means I can cook and make lots of dirty dishes, which means I can try my hand at DUMPLINGS a second time, yay!

Above are pics of the first attempt – steamed broccoli rabe dumplings (ok, broccolini, Ralph’s sucks sometimes) and steamed shrimp dumplings. Both were yummy, and shrimp were UNBELIEVABLY easy!

Skirting the Truth

Today in Sex Discrimination, we were talking about issues re: women in the legal field, including skirt suits v. pant suits at interviews. I got a little bit up on my high horse during the discussion, unfortunately, because I’ve always been of the opinion that a employer who needs to see my gams before hiring me is one I don’t want to work for.

We talked about how those who make the choice to wear the skirt suit often do so out of fear, risk avoidance. We’re not sure if employers care if we wear our femininity, but why take the chance?

Of course, there’s a risk in not wearing the pant suit — the chance to know it’s the kind of firm who will hire you anyway (or that won’t).

I felt a little bad afterward — it’s easy to practice my viewpoint in California, where the legal profession’s dress codes are relaxed. We all have to make tough choices about how we present ourselves, both professionally and personally. Who am I to judge? I remember a distinct feeling of relief when I had enough work experience that I didn’t have to list my college internship at NOW on my resume any more.

Dating is another area where you have to consider what to share and when — e.g., when is the appropriate time to admit I’ve got 2 cats? Whom I ask for advice on which shoes look best with those jeans? That I’m a FUTURE LAWYER (see how they run)?

Usually I follow an “out with it” policy — any man that can’t love my cats, I can’t love. I won’t take the risk of not finding that out quickly. Even so, I hedge. I save the real scary stuff — e.g., I like to embroider tea towels and sometimes greet Fred & Ethel with, “Mama’s home!” — ’til date #87 or so. It’s a safer bet.

Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag

Today The Boy and I had to spend all day at his apartment waiting for UPS to get off its collective brown ass and deliver him a laptop bag. This was extra vexing because today was the day we had planned to go get a bamboo steamer so we could try to recreate The Best Dumplings Ever. NOTHING comes between me and my pork burps, man, NOTHING!

This also meant I missed flamenco with Gloria this evening. Which is risky, very risky, my friends. I cannot flamenco. It took everything in me to return for week #2. Actually, I never would have gone back at all if I hadn’t opened my big mouth. Right afterwards, on some kind of golpe-fueled, post-CRYING BECAUSE OF FLAMENCO CLASS high, I made the mistake of saying (out loud): “You know what. That sucked. But I usually quit at anything I suck at. I’m going to stick this out!” You try turning yellow without looking like a big ole douche after that. I’m just hoping my sense of moral obligation hasn’t worn off next week.

In any case, 7 hours after scheduled delivery, his laptop case arrived and we high-tailed it back to my place to see whether Fred & Ethel had survived a full 14 hours without food (they had, but they have not left our sides since we got back). We’re driving along and The Boy says, “You know what I love? I love that we haven’t even gotten to your place yet and already my bag has some cat hair on it.”

You know what I love? That his bag has cat hair on it already and he just thinks it’s funny.

WWMTTMTD?

One of the things I miss most about having some disposable income is seeing a therapist. Now, when faced with a big decision, I have to play the game, “What Would My Therapist Tell Me To Do?” Usually with my friends and family as arbiters, which THEY LOVE, LET ME TELL YOU.

Actually, my therapist never told me to do anything. But she knew how to ask the right questions to help me figure out what I wanted to do, what was best for me. In fact, by the time I made it around to our weekly appointment, often I’d already figured it out — I just got the thumbs up and usually some AMAZING advice on how best to proceed to leave the fewest hurt feelings/bodies in my wake.

So I guess what I really miss is the cooling off period. And I find as I age (like a fine wine, foo’!), the more important the cooling off period becomes because, blech, the stakes for my decisions are much higher.

Lately, I’ve been trying to reinstitute the cooling off period, but it goes against my intense desire for resolution, so it’s a battle. Still, I think my old therapist would be proud.

Maybe. We’ll see in September, when I can afford to pay her to listen to my angst again and my friends and family will be free of participating in WWMTTMTD? Just as long as her response to what I’ve been up to isn’t “WTF?”, I’ll be happy.

I Think I’m Turning Japanese, I Really Think So*

Photo credit to Chotda, courtesy of Creative Commons

Oh, web Sudoku
I can’t even pronounce you
Yet I can’t quit you

For reals, yo. Perhaps it’s because my alternative is to study for the Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam, which is so interminably boring I’d be willing to watch Married with Children or pick nits out of the hair of any lice-infested second-graders you’d like to send my way.

Any other procrastination suggestions? I go to bed and all I see are floating grids of numbers accompanied by the taunt, “Bottom 34%. 76% of people are faster than you.”

*OK, so Sudoku isn’t even Japanese. Actually, this makes the three hours I spent playing it today — NOT playing an an ancient Asian art form but instead “NumberPlace,” invented by Howard Garns — even more depressing.

Pillow Talk

[SCENE: The Boy and me in bed, heading toward the land of Nod after a quiet Thursday night of (apparently too much) TV.]

The Boy [rolls over toward me]: Nausea.

Me: What?

The Boy: Nausea. That’s what was missing.

Me: …

The Boy: From the Pepto Bismol commercial. [singing] Nausea, heart burn, indigestion…

Me: [singing along] Upset stomach, diarrhea.

[END SCENE]

Almost makes you wish you had a stomach ache — or at least wish that advertisers were banned from making catchy jingles about bodily ailments. If you too would like to have the PeptoMax theme stuck in your head for 24 hours, check it out.