Listen Up!

I am a horrible eavesdropper. I like to blame this on being, “curious about the world,” rather than, “unable to mind my own business.” That seems like a legitimate distinction right? I was an anthro major after all — I just haven’t been able to shake my ethnographer’s yoke, right?

Anyway, I saw this ad this evening for the Listen Up V3, your personal amplifier. And the mind reeled. I mean, wasn’t this your dream in junior high, to know exactly what the evil girls across the lunchroom were saying about you? (probably nothing. you weren’t even a blip on their sparkly-lipped radar, sadly.) And omniscence is yours for the bargain price of $14.99!

Yeah. I didn’t buy it. The temptation would be too great. Some powers are best left unhad.

In other news, two of the spam comments I deleted this evening were “13 year-old penis length” and “injured penis vein.” I am just happy that these subjects are completely foreign to me. Much like Theories of International Law, about which I will be writing a 30-page paper starting on Monday.

Expiry Dates

Why do Americans call it an expiration date, while the Brits call it an expiry date? I like expiry much better — there are entirely too many ation endings on words, in my opinion.

Perhaps I believe this because I have spent the last few weeks writing 50 pages of poorly-constructed legal analysis chock-full of ation words: representation, discrimination, condemnation, investigation, relation. Wouldn’t they all look better ending in a y? Investigy, condemny. Why yes, they would, Jen, I’m so glad you asked! Of course, my papers would be shorter then, every character counts, so perhaps I should be happy we are a nation of ation-ers. Nation! Ation! Ha. Eek.

In any case, paper-writing begets rotting celery and asparagus in my refrigerator and shopping limited to quick runs for Lean Cuisine pizzas and Cokes. I haven’t had time to even do that lately, so today I confronted a bevy of past-their-prime foods. Which I ate. Defiantly.

You see, most of me believes that expiration dates are a conspiracy by the FDA and corporate fat cats to make us buy more. Apparently some guy and his mother (she posts a comment, too cute) agree with me — although they limit their theory to condiments. Wusses.

My conspiracy theory for a long time extended to vacuum bags. I really believed that at any moment, Eureka would discontinue MMs just so I would have to buy a new vacuum. So I’d just empty out the bags and reinsert them. It took some serious ribbing/use of logic from Laurie — “Jen, they have been making MMs since like 1912. Vacuums are supposed to last forever. There is no corporate plot here.” — to get me to break down and buy some new bags. Of course, now I have my Dyson, which doesn’t need no stinkin’ bags.

Also, I think this is the first time I have typed the phrase, “corporate fat cats,” and now all I can picture is Fred & Ethel in suits. In suits without pants. Cats don’t need no stinkin’ pants to look dapper, man.

The point of these incoherent ramblings is that my expiry date as a law student is scarily close. Yesterday was my last day of classes. EVER. In 16 days I will be donning a cap and gown and sweating profusely in an uncomfortable chair for several hours, waiting to hear my name called so that I know it’s officially over. And I can’t wait! For graduy.

Double R Diner*

Embarrassment #1: I have been spelling embarrasment with one “R” for like, EVER. Why are there two Rs? It only needs one, right? Right? Why do you hate me, dictionary? Isn’t it enough that I can pronounce neither sudoku nor aspartame correctly?

#2, 8, 467, etc.:

When I’m stressed out, I become a total clutz. Well, “become” is perhaps inaccurate. I will just say that my clutziness is amplified.

The clutziness set in a few days ago — yesterday I managed to drop a $5.99 CFL lightbulb on the floor while switching an old wattage-sucker out.

Luckily, today, I went shoe and Target shopping with Laurie — but first we stopped by to get our free CFL lightbulbs at Home Depot, yay! I remember thinking to myself as we got our envirobulbs, “woohoo, Even Steven!”

Oh, you little fool. Your optimism is so cute! Quaint even!

In DSW, I managed to knock one bag and then one pair of shoes off the shelves. In Target, a makeup bag. When I got home, apparently my clumsiness had infected my felines because Fred managed to knock a leftover, half-full beer bottle onto the kitchen floor. And while cleaning it up, I stepped right into a piece of last night’s broken lightbulb, which meant I left a nice, bloody trail into the bathroom.

Awesome!

And tonight, I supped with Brie, one of my best high school friends, at Jar, which, um, CRAB DEVILED EGGS. Impossibly good. And p.s., Sarah Paulson was there, whom, oddly enough, I saw this summer at Falcon. Also, p.s., how come I know the correct usage of whom and who and yet I can’t spell embaRRassed? The irony. The Iliad. The Odyssey.

Anyway, before I headed out, I had given myself an anti-clutz pep talk, like, Jen, WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT SPILL ANYTHING.

Yeah.

I made it through the entire amazing meal without knocking anything over. I did accidentally ask the waiter how he was doing twice, which was weird, and I believe I blushed and was kind of brusque when I placed my order, “the oxtail,” to mask my embaRRassment. But that is par for the course, people.

Then the bill came. And with it, my dignity left. In reaching for the bill, I managed to spill my entire glass of water all over the table.

And my pants.

And my shirt.

And the banquette.

And the floor.

Sweet bejeebus, how can one little water glass transform you into a wet t-shirt contest participant, AND harken you back to second grade when you peed your pants and the school nurse took pity on you and drove you home (totally against school rules) to get a fresh pair because you refused to wear The Dregs of the Pant Universe available in the lost-and-found? (p.s., LYLAS, SWAK, have a bitchin’ summer, school nurse!)

By the embaRRassment-doubling power of stress-fueled clutziness, that’s how.

+++
*Big nerdy props if you know the pop culture reference this refers to.

My Lovely Lady Lumps

This title has absolutely nothing to do with this entry — because my life is so incredibly boring right now that the only other title I could come up with was “Meh!” The exclamation point represents the false enthusiasm I occasionally try to conjure up when talking to friends and family. Can’t have them thinking I’m having second thoughts about going to law school THREE WEEKS from graduating! That would be INSANE, right? Oops!

Meh(!)

OK, I am not really having second thoughts. I just really don’t want to write two more papers and take my Evidence exam.

Anyway, here are the only remotely interesting things that have happened to me since I last posted:

1. I went to dinner at Le Petit Bistro, moules frites are awesome. Also, I have decided I am done with ketchup. Fini! Mayonnaise seulement, s’il-vous-plait!

2. I snagged a graduation dress for $35. Someone returned a Proenza Schouler dress in my size to my local Target, I couldn’t believe it. This makes up for the ridiculously expensive jeans I just purchased. Which means, yes! My will to shop has returned.

3. Had a nice brunch with Ursula, who has apparently foresaken blogging, and her husband Mike and The Boy. For some reason our conversation kept coming back to television we subject our men to. Ursula’s vice: too much entertainment television. Mine: House Hunters and Restaurant Makeover. Also, can I tell you how completely depressing it is to watch people buying first homes for under $500,000? I love California, but DAMN, is it expensive.

4. OK, The Boy demands I mention our purchase of the Greatest Shopping Bags Ever. He feels a deep connection with the universe, apparently, in having these insanely popular amongst all peoples of the world bags. I am down with this — apparently, we all need to feel connected to the world or else gunning 33 people down won’t seem impossible.

5. I’ve decided on a location for my bar trip — which, if you, you lucky bastard, are not a law student and don’t know any (we’re kind of jerks), is the trip we law students take between taking the bar and starting our jobs. South America, specifically Brazil, Argentina and Uraguay. If you’ve got any suggestions as to specific places to go, lemme know!

That’s all, it’s boring, but you love my lady lumps anyway, right? Cuz if not, what else, what else I’m gon’ do with all this junk? All that junk inside this trunk?

Lights at the End…

31 days til graduation, and I’m starting to see some lights:

1. An oven light.

Slowly but surely, my complex is removing all my reasons for moving, providing first a new dishwasher, then giving me the green light on painting, and now a new oven. WITH AN OVEN LIGHT. I am loving it so hard.

Of course, in order to procure said oven, my original one had to die. 2.5 hours into the 5 hours of cooking required for the $30 sweet-and-sour brisket I was making for My First Passover. Oy.

2. Campfire light.

The Boy and I headed to Big Sur for some lovely camping after I finished seminar paper #1. We couldn’t find any paper for our fire, but my 1995 U.S. atlas worked like gangbusters! Adios, Tennessee through Canada and Mexico!

3. A fire under my feet.

Our Rand-McNally fueled pyre set my shoe on fire. For real! I tried like hell to capture the smoldering on film, but Miller Lite is a powerful tonic, my friends, and this is the best you’ll get.

3. The light of love.

There is The Boy of course, and I think I made the official conversion to Lover of Cooking when I purchased my first expensive pot as a tax refund reward to self last week. I read Not Martha’s review of Dutch Ovens, and when I couldn’t find the Chefmate she mentioned, I splurged on the Mario Batali Dutch Oven in Pesto at Crate & Barrel. I tried to carry that monster the 2 miles home but wimped out when my pit stains became visible at about 1.75 and had The Boy come pick me up. In any case, it’s just awesome to have a pot that has an even bottom surface so that I don’t have to tilt the pan to ensure even browning.

Anyway, I have been cooking a ton over the last week for Passover — bread-product-, soy- and corn-syrup-free cooking. And somehow, I only have one recipe to share that ROCKED my world, to my absolute surprise: Cauliflower-Leek Kugel. Cauliflower? Who knew?

Of course, there are still some dark clouds on the horizon: two more papers to write, oh, I don’t know, THE BAR EXAM, and the fact that The Boy’s job is in San Francisco and mine is here in LA, which Sucks Beyond Belief.*

But at least there are some lights along the way, right? Right?

Aw, fuck it, it sucks.

*Long-distance lovin’, that’s what we’re planning on, in case you wondered.

p.s. AGAIN, I deleted your comments in deleting spam. I have to figure out a better system, but that comes after finals.

Grading on the Curve

Last night, The Boy headed to Quentin Tarantino’s Grindhouse Film Festival, while I was stuck here writing the same freaking paper. I have gone to a few of the films with him, mainly kung fu. And DUDE, can I tell you, the ladies of 70s horrible, campy horror and kung fu films? They have NO BOOBS. By which I mean, they have boobs MY SIZE. How is it that today’s film stars not only have to wear 2.5 lbs, but 1.5 of those lbs have to be BOOBS?

In any case, all this has me realizing (perhaps it is the paper and the F I foresee talking), that the bra sizing system in the US is THE BEST FREAKING EVER. It is like THE REVERSE GRADING SYSTEM. I am always guaranteed at least an above average grade in Tits 101! Which perhaps, I will admit, is not good for you ladies who have to actually wear a bra, but I have been writing a paper in my pajamas for seven days, interrupted only by two (awesome) days of camping during which I did not shower; any quantifiable evidence that I might be something other than a frumpy warthog is manna from heaven. Just be happy for me and my B+/A-s.