Um...ew.

I'm reading a defense medical expert's report on a plaintiff in a personal injury case - normally, the doctors will give you a quick run-down of the plaintiff's weight, height and general physical appearance ("appropriately dressed," "appropriate reactions to social advances" and that kind of thing) before getting down the nitty-gritty of Babinski-reflex responses and range of motion. It's pretty boring, since they all generally say the same thing - "Plaintiff weighs 150 pounds, stands 5'5" tall and was appropriately dressed.")

Except this guy. This guy feels it is essential to note (on a neck-injury claim, mind you) that the plaintiff was both well-dressed and had remembered to shave her toes this morning. (Literally. He actually wrote "the subject's toes were appropriately shaven." Is there such a thing as "inappropriately shaven"?) Creepy!

It's the Simple Things


My parents got divorced ten years ago (yes, I know, how highly unoriginal to open with that. But bear with me). Although everyone I knew expected me to be devastated, I was perfectly happy -- they'd been having awful knock-down, drag-out fights (complete with flying crockery, ruined shirts and, once, notably, a gas tank filled with sugar), and I'd been telling my mother for years that she needed to just divorce my father and end the drama of trying to deal with his, um, afflictions (long story short: the man believes that what's his is his and what's yours is his. Attractive as that may be in a soap opera, it doesn't work too well in real life.)

And so I *was* genuinely happy when I got the phone call from my mom, days before Parents' Weekend my first year of college, saying that my dad wouldn't be coming up because they were getting a divorce. Finally, we would have a weekend that wasn't full of the tension between my parents that meant they'd just have a fight or were just about have one. Finally, we could have a Christmas morning that didn't end in tears because my mother got angry that my father spent three thousand dollars on a necklace when the mortgage people had been calling all week threatening foreclosure. Finally, I would never have to go to sleep worrying I'd be woken up by the sound of screaming at 2 a.m. It was such a relief, and I told anyone who would listen that the divorce was the best thing that had happened in a long time. It was much better for my parents, and for me and my sister, to finally have the door closed on all that messiness. Now we could get on with our real lives. Besides, everyone and their dog gets divorced now, it's no big deal. It would be nice to be able to relax in my own house again, and I'd still see my dad all the time. Nothing was really going to change. I'm happier this way, truly. And that's been my party line ever since, with lots of conviction to back it up.

But I was sitting at lunch today, and one of my partners was telling a story about how, now that his daughter is home from school for the summer, she and his wife have taken to watching a bunch of the primetime soaps together, accompanied by cocktails. Even though he neither watches the show nor drinks the cocktails, every night they'll call him out of his home office to come make them their drinks, as he's quite the home bartender. Listening to him wryly describe the scene (them, lounging on the couch, him, the hardworking lawyer taking a break to play bartender) with obvious pride and pleasure in his family, I got a random flash of memory, from when I was small, of watching movies with my mom about My Little Pony or some such nonsense, and having my dad make us popcorn in the kitchen before going back to his home office to work. He would always put on way too much butter, which made my mom yell, but which I loved. He'd bring up the popcorn, kiss us both on the tops of our heads, and go back to his desk. I hadn't thought about that in, maybe ever -- didn't even know I remembered that -- but there it was -- this memory of feeling really safe, and happy, and in exactly the place I should be. And I really missed that feeling. The simple luxury of having your dad, at home, just living life with you. I bet it's something his daughter never thinks about, doesn't have to - he's just there, always - no special planning or coordinating required - simply present, for anything, even just to drive her crazy with nerdy puns. And as much as I truly am glad my parents are no longer screaming at each other, I'm overwhelmed at the moment with missing the simple luxury of having a dad I never had to schedule into my life because he just was in my life.

When "Better" is SO Much Worse

Can someone please explain to me why people think widescreen TVs are oh-so-super-fabulous and just the last word in "I'm cooler than you"-ness? they're AWFUL. Every actor looks bizarrely bloated, and it's harder to read the text on the screen because it's all stretched-out and a hereto-fore normally sized taxicab looks like the Cab That Ate New York City, and so I spend the whole time trying to re-size everything in my head and totally miss what's happening in the show/movie I'm PAYING TO WATCH. And yet, my good friend's obnoxious, smacked-ass of an unjustly self-aggrandizing husband spent the entire time I was (very uncomfortably) visiting twittering about how "RAD" his new widescreen panel was and how it's "MAD" expensive and only those people earning "MAD" bonuses could possibly afford them, so I shouldn't feel bad I don't have one... um. thanks, but I really don't feel bad. not one bit.
But should I?

Cheap & Chic?

So, in continuing the trend in which I am always the last person to learn about the "hot new thing," (and thus, ironically, the one trend at whose forefront I appear) - I just found out there's this magical place called Steve & Barry's where they sell fabulously cheap (like, nothing over $10) clothes that are, allegedly, NOT going to shred off your body in the first five seconds of ownership -- HELLO. Why did I not know about this sooner? And, in the perfect happy accident, I'm headed to NYC this weekend and can experience the mecca for myself! I mean, what better place to find cute going-out clothes whose price doesn't make you feel guilty about the fact that, at the end of the first night you wear them, they're irretrievably reeking of cigarette smoke, covered in spilled liquor and usually torn in some place or other? Yay!

And also, what better way to celebrate the fact that this is apparently my 200th post, according to Typepad? (Let's ignore the fact that it took me three years to get here and instead just applaud the fact that I arrived at all, k?)

Psychosis*

These are the capsule summaries of the ridiculous number of conversations I had today with a more junior associate, in trying to decide whether I should shuffle off a last-minute hearing onto him, or whether I should go myself:

Yes, sure, no problem, I'll go.
Oh, but wait -- no.
I think maybe not. I mean, it's far.  And easy. Good experience for you.
So, yeah, you take it.

(an hour later)
Nevermind, I'll take it back. I should.
But then again...
Well, what if....?
I mean, maybe I should. Yeah, I will.
No, it's fine, really, I'LL DO IT. GOD. stop doubting me!
...

(five minutes later)
Um. You know what? You're gonna go.

****

I think they might just revoke this woman's prerogative. And honestly, I don't know as how I could really disagree with them....

*Which reminds me: does anyone else remember how, in the trippy last six episodes of "Felicity," they kept insisting that Felicity's "I'm from the future" craziness was "psychosis"? Was that not just the oddest thing ever? I mean, I skipped a fair amount of psych classes, but I'm fairly certain that someone's entire diagnosis is not just "psychosis." And yes, I know that Felicity ended like five years ago, BUT THAT'S JUST HOW MUCH IT BOTHERED ME. shut up.

Saturday Gripes

(Because, I mean, if I have to be in the office on a beautiful Saturday, I'm damn well going to bitch about it!)

A. It's a beautiful day, on which I should be sitting on various porches drinking various alcoholic beverages, but instead am in the office, because I had a SHITTY SHITTY week, in which I drove all over creation, taking depositions of everybody in the whole world about everything under the sun (seriously. I had a garden-variety personal injury case, a bizarre neighbor dispute, a products-liability claim, and a construction case. It was like smashing one semester of torts and contracts into one week. OUCH.), who irritated the crap out of me in every possible way, and now I have a hundred and fifty-two deposition summaries to write. The only fun thing about that is getting to describe the people I depose. It's kind of a thing I pride myself on, what with this whole delusion that I'm a "writer." Plus, it greatly amuses my partners to get summaries that describe the husband/wife plaintiffs as "Jack Sprat and his wife." Once they figure out who the hell Jack Sprat actually is.

B. If one more not-terribly-attractive, only-vaguely-interesting guy drops one more random, awkward, totally forced reference to his "girlfriend" into the middle of an INTERVIEW, for chrissake, I'm going to punch him. I'M NOT INTERESTED IN YOU, stupid, I'm just faking it because I'm stuck here talking to you for at least the next five minutes so at least you don't feel bad about being rushed out the door after ten minutes because I've already decided you're too moronic to hire. Seriously, what is this? I've never been accused of being anything even close to a maneater (It took me practically a month to work up the nerve to even squeak "hi" to the last boy I had a crush on!), so I do not understand in the slightest why these people think they need to inform me of their "taken" status.  Then again, to be fair, perhaps it's not that they think I'm hitting on them, perhaps they're just so amazed that they actually have convinced some poor girl to put up with their boring asses that they have to talk about it every five seconds. Either way - I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT. This is an interview about YOU. for a JOB. not a date. Playing up the fact that you're a hopelessly co-dependent person who can't go ten minutes without babbling about your extra-appendage of a girlfriend is just going to convince me that you're too immature to hire.

C. I just took my car to get washed for the third time in five days because it is ONCE AGAIN covered in an inch of pollen and bird droppings. Dude, I get it. It's spring. NOW GET IT OFF MY CAR.

Tiring Hiring

It's that time again (well, okay, fine, it's about three months PAST that time, but I was slow this year) -- the time for the annual (or sometimes semi-annual) hiring of the law clerks -- the time most likely to drive me to drink. Honestly, it's about my least favorite thing to do -- it not only requires that I talk for, like, twenty minutes straight, but also that I find things to talk about while not accidentally biting my tongue, stuttering, saying anything inappropriate,and otherwise maintaining a professional appearance - plus, there are all those writing samples to read, transcripts to review, resumes to frantically scan two seconds before the interview so I have something to ask them about - EXHAUSTING.

But worst of all is the hiring decisions themselves. I mean, yes, sitting there with yet another over-eager law student with the fresh-out-of-the-box-with-the-pins-still-in button-down shirt and his dad's blazer (not that I"m knocking that, since I wore my mom's skirt suit from about 1987 to my first interview!) is not my favorite way to spent a perfectly good morning. But trying to figure out the right combination of physical presence, verbal ability, writing ability and law school bona fides is practically impossible. And that's where I'm stuck right now. I've gone through about fifty applications, and of those, interviewed the top fifteen. Of those, I kept the five that were standouts (which did not include the one poor kid who could not for the life of him recall the name of one single class he was taking this semester. Not a good sign, really.)

Unfortunately, I can only hire three. Two of the candidates were perfect - good grades, fantastic writing samples and good personalities - so they're already in. But I still have three people for the last spot, so two have to go, and I cannot for the life of me decide who. It's impossible. On the one hand, we have the kid with an excellent writing sample of exactly the length we requested but who, in person, didn't have the greatest people skills, was sort of repellent in appearance and appeared a little shifty-eyed - he seemed more likely to sell you a used car with a rolled-back odometer than to safeguard your interests. On the other hand, we have the very tall, very attractive guy who was sort of verbally awkward and robotic in that way that just-out-of-the-gawky-stage high school boys are before they figure out that they're actually cute and girls are interested in them (and become cocky asses, generally) - his writing sample was good, but shorter than we wanted, his grades are good but the awkward thing is likely to drive people up the wall -- he kept sort of just looking at me for awhile when I asked him a question, and then gave short, monosyllabic answers -- except when I asked about his outside interests and then he got all chatty. Finally, there was the guy with a very professional appearance, fabulous people skills, clearly likely to make everyone love him - but whose writing sample was just adequate, although his grades were excellent. The job is mostly writing, obviously, but with quite a bit of partner-contact and some client contact, so both the people skills and the writing skills count. HOW TO DECIDE? Do you go so-so on both counts, or fantastic on one and hope they learn the other? If the latter, which one is someone most likely to learn? gaaaaaaahhhh......

A Perfect Storm

Seriously, the universe is TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING. I just came across this article - which basically says, GET MARRIED NOW OR YOU WILL DIE ALONE AND MISERABLE. Could I perhaps borrow someone's gun for just a second? Thanks...

Stick-A-Poker-In-Your-Eye Hilarious

Remember when Irksome and I broke up last summer, and I told you out there on the interwebs* about how he said he felt he had to because he just lacked the ability to be in a relationship and, lest I not believe what so many have used as a convenient excuse, then spent many exhausting hours convincing me of this fact, in detail, with pictures and a PowerPoint presentation or two? Well, either he's a shoo-in to Yale Drama, or he's done the fastest turnaround in the West, because he GOT MARRIED a few weeks ago. As in, less than six months after we broke up. And, obviously, not to me. And, as far as I know, not to anyone he'd ever dated before me. Also, the manner in which he chose to get married was one which he knew guaranteed I'd find out about it the second it happened. Really, isn't that just the funniest thing you ever heard? HYSTERICAL.

I did not know I was capable of this much disgust. I'm not even particularly sad, more just HOW DARE YOU lie to me so convincingly and then marry some trollop (who, reportedly is plain as a stick, and this is not even from people who have any knowledge that their description is going back to me) six months later? See, this is why the decision NOT to be friends with him after we broke up was the best one I ever made (except. then I wouldn't have this irritating question in the back of my mind about whether he got her pregnant or not - I could just ask. But then I'd have to punch him in the head when he gave me the answer. Regardless of what it is. And then there'd be all sorts of drama over how that's "assault" and, you know, "criminal," and that would be bad. So really, yes - best decision ever made.)


*Oops. I just checked my archives and realized that, shockingly, that was the one intimate personal detail I *hadn't* shared on this site. The short version of the story was that there was a very brief breakup in May, which I did write about, that lasted for about three days - the actual breakup wasn't until September, and apparently was just too exhausting to even think about writing about. Suffice to say, it was not fun.

You Know What I Hate? (In Which I Bitch)

1. Westlaw KeyCite flags - specifically, the fact that sometimes they appear to be assigned by untrained monkeys by the "point and drool" method -- A "BUT SEE" CITE IS NOT A NEGATIVE CITING REFERENCE, YOU MORONS! I wouldn't care so much, except that sometimes certain judges, clearly the offspring of these untrained monkeys, ALSO don't read the cases and try to tell me the case I'm relying on was "overruled," on the strength of the fact that Westlaw has stuck a stupid yellow flag next to it EVEN THOUGH THE NEGATIVE REFERENCE IS IN ANOTHER JURISDICTION. I love my job, but sometimes, I swear, I want to run away and join the circus.

2. The fact that you can be totally stressed out for several days at a stretch trying to do a particular thing the very best you can, and then discover at the end that NOPE, your best was wrong.

3. This morning's discovery that, due to three months of not working out AT ALL (hell, of moving more than two muscles at a time for fear of angering The Brain), I look ridiculous in all my clothes -- seriously, I'm fairly certain that children just point and laugh when I go outside.

4. That, last night as I was reading through the archives of one of my new favorite sites (which I can't link to for fear of someone figuring out who the person three clauses down is, otherwise known as the "slippery slope towards non-anonymity) , enjoying all the fantastic writing and hilariousness, and feeling all happy and tra-la about my discovery, I scrolled down and CAME UPON THE FACE OF MY MORTAL ENEMY IN HIGH SCHOOL, accompanied by a story about how the blogger had met said enemy on a trip and thought she was just the cat's pajamas. At which I felt my face start to melt off in fury. This girl was, like, the devil -- whilst playing the part of best friend in our  quartet, she slept with one of our boyfriends, stole another's job, and generally backstabbed and doublecrossed like a soap opera diva -- all while looking sweet as pie. Thankfully, once we all went to college, she sort of dropped off the map, having apparently found new "friends" to torture. AND THEN I HAD TO SEE HER FACE COME INTO MY APARTMENT LAST NIGHT - THE HORROR. <shudder>. I think I might need counseling for it -- and also for being a drama queen. but whatever, it was like watching Sesame Street and all of a sudden having Leatherface pop up in the middle.

5. THE WORLD.

(In case you could not tell, I am a touch cranky this morning. I would say I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but my bed only has one side -- perhaps I just woke up on the wrong side OF MY LIFE.)