Tips on Choosing a Law School #1: Location

…if you’re looking for a future life that includes more than law.

This is the first in a three part series:
#2 School Specifics
#3 Finances and Career

I know that when it comes to choosing a law school a lot of people will do this:
Look at their LSAT score, look at their GPA, and then consult the U.S. News rankings. They then apply to the highest ranked schools that seem to fit their scores, sometimes adjusting themselves up or down a few slots based on their writing skills, life experience, and other incidentals.

To me, this seems like very little research for something that potentially impacts the rest of your life.

So, just for you dear readers, here is Ana's advice on choosing a law school. After writing for hours I realized the post was pretty long so I'm breaking it up into three parts: Location, School Specifics, and Finances/Career Opportunities.

Picking a location - what are you looking for? Law school may be a mere three years, but I knew I wanted to live in an ‘urban center’ for the duration. From there I chose about six cities that fit my criteria of large population, strong cultural arts, and diversity of industry. Figure out what you want in a city and go from there.

Diversity of industry is important. Don't live in a city whose economy lives and dies according to one industry. For example, Austin, TX is a great town with a lot to offer, BUT it only has two main industries: state government and technology. If you want to live in Austin, you basically need to be willing to take a lower salary in government OR have some type of hard science undergrad that will allow you to get hired in tech-related law. And techies are pretty hard-nosed about that background. They think a liberal arts grad just won’t get it – and who knows, they may be right. Plus, the tech economy is grossly cyclical. Take it from someone who lived in Austin through the tech boom/bust/boom and watched highly-educated engineers get laid off and rehired on a regular basis.

Look for a city where you would be willing to live after you graduate OR conversely, a school whose major job recruiters are from a city where you would be comfortable. Here’s the deal, unless you go to a top 15 school, your diploma is probably going to carry much more weight within a 500 mile radius of where you went to school. The closer you stay to your school, the better your prospect of finding a job. Sure, you can go to another state just to try it out and gain a new experience, but you'll have two things going against you when you come back. You'll have a much harder time trying to find a job in State 1 with a State 2 diploma, and you'll miss out on job networking during your three years of being away. If you go to school near the city where you want to live, you can make professional contacts as well as get to know fellow students, the bulk of whom will remain near the law school throughout their careers.

Ranking doesn't guarantee employment everywhere. During the application process I visited a school in a different state. The school was about twenty slots above Big City U and offered me a decent-sized scholarship. On my trip I met a student there who had wanted to go to Big City U, hadn't gotten accepted, and now was trying to find a job in Big City. He was doing the job-searching all on his own and kept running into employers who questioned his motives in going away. He had ties in my state, but not in Big City and couldn't get an interview there. He found a job (a BigLaw one, actually) - just not in Big City (where he wanted to be). Be careful of schools that fall in slots 15-50. They're great degrees to have in some areas and marginal in others.

Big City v. Small City. Don't limit your job hunt to fall recruiting. There are a lot of nice things about living in a quaint college town. However, one of the reasons that I chose Big City was because of the potential to find a paid part-time job during the school year. Thus, even if I didn’t make it into the Top X% of my class during my first year, I would still be able to gain experience and make some money if I missed out on the big fall recruiting season. Also, when you live ten minutes from where you want to work, it's no big deal to schedule an interview at any time of year - even if it's last minute and during exams. Some people at my school have been super resourceful and were able to work in a variety of environments - court, private-large-transactional, private-small-litigation. Others have found their full-time jobs through working at the same place for two years.

Cost of Living. I was somewhat of a non-traditional student when I came back to school, and I was used to a certain lifestyle. I knew I’d have to cut back, and I knew that despite that, I’d still have to take out loans. I looked for a city that would allow for the least painful transition. I played with salary and cost of living calculators online and checked out rental prices for different cities on Craigslist. Where I live now has a lower cost of living than any other city where I've previously lived. For the same price of the one bedroom apartments I had in my former cities, I am now living closer to the downtown-area in a free-standing house. It rocks – and greatly contributes to my quality of life.

Scope out your competition. LA and NYC are big cities with lots of job potential. However, if you go to NYC you'll be competing with grads from Columbia, NYU, Cornell, Harvard, and Penn for employment. In LA you've got UCLA, USC, Berkeley, and Stanford. That’s a lot of people who could have a leg-up on you before you even get through the door for an interview if you don't attend one of those schools. Keep in mind what types of law schools are nearby and how they may impact your future employment.

Ok, so there's some things to think about - tomorrow - school specifics.

Thanks for the shout out from:
Law School Expert
Accepted.com

Living in the wrong era...

You Belong in 1963

You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too.

What Year Do You Belong In?

And she kind of looks like me, no?

Hat tip to Law School Mama.

Career Trek: The Next Generation...

Someone has finally written an article discussing issues I wrote about on the blog a few months ago. I hope that link works. If not, try this one.

It's about Gen Y entering the workplace...and how we dig quality of life, flexible work schedules, lax dress codes, and the ability to make a difference with what we do. Not surprisingly it mentions that baby boomers perceive these qualities as European lazy. No mention of how a lot of Gen Y looks at the BB's and sometimes sees a group that is a) greedy and money-oriented, b) more concerned with appearance than productivity, c) has difficulty turning on a computer, d) puts career advancement ahead of friends and family, and e) doesn't have the time-management skills to complete a day's work in eight hours. If the BB's really think our lazy generation isn't producing, I suggest they just take a peek at the EU GDP our past accomplishments.

And stupid BigLaw, they just keep raising their salaries thinking the problem is money. Listen BigLaw, we don't want more money; we want more time to have a life outside of work. And shame on all the law students who help feed the frenzy by attending schools that charge over 35k a year in tuition and then get stuck with a pile of debt because you wanted to go to a 'good school.' Yes, I understand that in these times it seems like there are two options: the prospect of a high-paying sweatshop job or no job at all, but still, there are some outstanding alternatives out there that charge a low tuition and still have decent prospects due to either their location and/or reputation - *cough*TexasBYUPittFloridaUGAHastingsWisconsinUHoustonWilliam&Mary WashingtonTemple*cough*. Yes, those are all state schools (and cost is based on in-state tuition), but surely you have residency in one of them. Plus, several are located in LARGE cities with lots of jobs - so you can work during school and avoid the summer associate frenzy or gasp, do both!

I know what you're thinking - "Ana, none of those schools are in NewYorkLosAngelesChicagoDCBoston," and this is true. However, many of those cities have become so expensive to live in that they've essentially pushed out a lot of the creative types and independent businesses that made them so interesting and unique in the first place. How many Starbucks are there in NYC? In the meantime, cities like Philly, Atlanta, Nashville, and Houston still have an urban-feel along with an educated, intelligent, and culturally diverse population minus the crazy, high cost of living. Plus, I hate to break this to you, but even if you do end up in NYC or LA, odds are that when you decide to settle down/buy property you're going to end up in the suburbs anyway. Just sayin'.

Thanks to Paris Roomie for the heads-up on the article.

Poor Baby!

One of my friends came over tonight. She is also one of Martha's faves. Before the friend left, I put Martha in her crate because the dog was getting a little rambunctious.

After the friend left, I let Martha out of the crate and she made a beeline for the living room and ran straight to the chair where my friend had sat. When Martha realized the friend wasn't there she ran down the stairs, pawed at the door and began to cry. I took Martha outside and she hopped into the patio chair where the friend had smoked a cigarette.

"She went home, Martha," I said. "She's gone."

Martha, unperturbed, searched the entire property, but then finally came back to me. I let her inside; she ran into her crate and refuses to come out.

"Don't worry, Martha. She'll come back."

Martha looks like someone just killed her mother. I feel so bad for her.

Speaking of employment...

In the last week two friends have called me about potential jobs. This is awesome. I can't tell you how much it means to me to have the support of my peers. Your faith in my ability really helps to build my confidence. Now, if someone would be willing to refer me to a legal job as opposed to a writing job, that would be really cool.* My preference is for a place with flexible hours, no dress code, and that allows me to bring my dog to work. Thanks.


*I'm fudging a little here. I did get a legal-related referral last week as well. *cough*thanksWTG*cough*

What are you people trying to do to me?

So, I was just finishing up my make-up and getting ready for an evening out (and the possible collection of blog material) when I offhandedly (is that a word?) decided to check the stats for this blog.

"Hmm," I thought, "That's weird. I've got a lot of hits for a Friday."

Uh, yeah. The culprit?

The American Bar Association

Nice. Great. I didn't realize I had any enemies who would submit my blog to the ABA. ...and I had a great post about alcoholism that I was going to write, too. Plus, horror of horrors, my blog is the most popular student blog and second most popular blog overall today. I'm feeling a little ill.

I know I shouldn't be so paranoid. The bulk of the blog is fiction. Potential employers will understand, right? They'll get it that there's more to a person than surfing Westlaw all day, right? Law firms aren't composed of a bunch of uptight, over-educated, socially-awkward, risk averse, non-artsy types, right? Surely, that's just a stereotype. I mean, I'm in law school. Then again, I'm not a lawyer yet so maybe there's some kind of big explosion that occurs for people like me in the third year of school or first year of practice.

The good news is, my posts haven't been too hot lately so the odds are that people will visit for a week or so, but never come back. Plus, I always have Plan B: flee to France after law school in an effort to avoid paying off my student loans. I think it could work. I mean, I'd miss my family and everything, but the abundance of great wine and cheese would probably make up for that.

Geez, it's like I'm thirteen and my parents just found my diary or something.

That being said, welcome ABA'ers. We hope you enjoy your stay.

-Ana

The Emperor's New Dog Food...

When Martha came home, I really wanted her adjustment to be as seamless as possible. As such, I was careful to inquire as to when and what she ate.

“We feed them Cheapo,” the guy at the shelter told me.

In preparation for Martha’s homecoming, I made my way to the large PET store COnglomerate and grabbed the first employee in sight. I knew nothing about dogs. I had my own pre-made list of items, but surely there was something I was missing. We went aisle by aisle, row by row.

When we got to the food section I told him, “Oh yeah, I need Cheapo.”

“No, no, no,” said the employee, “You don’t want that dog food. It’s not very good quality. You want RipOff dog food that costs twice as much. It’s better for your dog’s digestion, she’ll have less gas, and her coat will be so much shinier. You really shouldn’t feed her Cheapo. It has corn and by-products and yada, yada, yada.”

“OH Really?” I replied.

I didn’t want to feed Martha crap. At the same time, she was about to be separated from her brother, placed in a new environment, and have her uterus ripped from her body. I bought the Cheapo and told myself that once M adjusted we’d switch her over to the good stuff. Around three weeks later, I did.

On the first night, Martha threw up the RipOff. I’d mixed in some Cheapo, but no Cheapo kibble appeared in the mess. Martha's tummy just rejected the pricey stuff. It was the first time she’d gotten sick since being home. I figured she might just have a sensitive stomach and need time to adjust. Besides, I bought the twenty-pound bag.

About three days later, her hair started falling out. Summer shedding, I told myself.

A few days after that, extensive scratching. Must be all the fleas.

As Martha neared the end of the bag she was still shedding like mad and puking every few days. She burped like crazy and her breath was horrible. Her coat never became shiny, but it did get greasy – as if her skin were over-producing oils. To add insult to injury, she started having accidents in the middle of the night.

You think it might be the food?

A week or so ago, I sat down to compare the ingredient lists of RipOff and Cheapo. RipOff’s potential allergens were lamb, soy products, wheat, and sunflower oil. Cheapo had corn and wheat. I went to giant pet store and stressed some more. Should I get the RipOff brand for sensitive stomachs? Perhaps the brand with the salmon-based food for dogs with allergies? What if Martha’s tummy didn’t do well with these either? What if she did worse?

After thirty minutes of contemplation I headed towards the check-out with a bag of Wheat-free, Soy-free, Corn-free, sunflower-free Vegan brand of dog food that costs three times as much as Cheapo. As I was about to set the bag down on the counter I stopped myself.

Wait a second. What was I doing? I knew a brand of dog food that wouldn’t make her sick. Cheapo!

I went back to the dog food aisle, and sat there for another five minutes. I grabbed the expensive salmon food and put it back, grabbed a non-RipOff brand and put it back. Finally, I picked up the Cheapo. I walked to the checkout with my head hung low – attempting to avoid the judgmental glances of various pet owners. All the while I told myself, “Ana, why are you being such a guilt-ridden douchebag? This food IS good for your dog.”

The proof is in the pudding.

Two weeks have gone by:
No puking
No itching
No hair loss

And stupid me, I’m still trying to figure out a way to hide the bag of Cheapo so that my friends won’t think I’m a bad dog owner.



"I loves me some Cheapo."

Yesterday afternoon my friend Eff called me to say that he and his Missus had made too much food and to drag my happy self over to their house. Martha and I obliged, filling our tummies with all kinds of goodness - tilapia, potatoes, tomatoes, veggie casserole, ribs, and rum cake. Such a host was Eff that none left empty handed. Eff gave each guest a CD filled with international music. He titled the creation Earth and each disc features a different rotation. I got North and South America.



Today, I'm up early and feeling refreshed, but Martha is tuckered out. Usually she's bouncing off the walls in the morning, but right now she's rolled up in a ball and hiding in her crate. Whenever I walk past and try to coax her out she's like, "I'm sleeping; leave me alone."

Good Morning Readers...

Hey readers. Sorry for the lack of posting lately – I’ve somewhat crawled under a rock and been reevaluating my life (read: I might have taken one addiction, nicotine, and traded it in for another: alcohol, exercise, food, navel-gazing – take your pick). I seem to be exiting the fog and coming to terms with my reality (read: one can only engage in self-pity parties when one has nothing else to do. Currently, school is on the horizon and I need to turn my attention back to studies, reading, and finding a job.)

Anyhoo, the regular Ana posts shall return shortly…for anyone who’s still interested.

And best of luck to everyone who’s taking the bar this week.

Also, congratulations to the ten zillion people who got engaged, married, pregnant and/or gave birth this summer. I’m next.

Oh look, I’ve already returned to my joking manner.

[Ana imagines herself as a celebrity and gives a little wave.]

Down, down, down....

I was having fun… Then. Then, talking to a couple at a party at Eff’s house, I find out that someone I dated last year is married. The guy?

Well, here’s what I wrote about him last year…

My date was educated, social, and decent looking. However, the bulk of his conversation seemed to revolve around the fact that he was the only person in his family as yet unmarried and that two of his siblings were expecting. Since my date was providing little entertainment, I decided to create my own. Every time my date said words like marriage, commitment, pregnancy, or spouse, I took a sip of my margarita. When I realized that I wouldn’t be able to drive if I continued the game, I told my date I was heading home.

Yep, that’s him…and he’s married now…less than 18 months later.

And me?

Me, I’m still searching, not even in a legitimate relationship. The night of that date I ran to a bar and in a drunken stupor engaged in my first one night stand. Well, it would have been a one night stand had we not continued to meet up for sex and conversation for the next six months. I have no idea what happened to the second guy, nor do I care at this point in my life.

But I wonder. I wonder why it is that no one is good enough for me. Not good enough for marriage or commitment, but good enough for even a basic relationship. What am I waiting for? What does it take to hold my gaze, my interest? Does he exist? Is it even a possibility?

Many happy returns to those of you who have found happiness or made the concession in favor of other things. I envy you...on days like today.

But for the record, I do not regret ditching the date...even as I sit here, alone. I'm not saying I'm better than the coupled set. I'm just saying that my other half hasn't appeared yet.

Just FYI, there's no ginger in gingerbread pigs...

The other day Alex and I were cruising around town in search of a (1) new, (2) good, (3) cheap lunch.

We settled on a long-time Mexican establishment near my house (descriptively named El Mexicano*), but were unpleasantly surprised when we opened our menus. Not a single entrée was under $10.

“How bad would it be for us to get up and leave after they’ve already brought us chips?” I asked Alex.

Thank goodness for a la carte.

“Just one taco de pescado?” the server asked.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“And to drink?”

“Water…thanks so much,” I said staring down at the table.

And from Alex, “I’ll have ONE sopes, please.”

I waited for our server to say, "Does this place look like a taco cart?" but instead, he just sighed. And before you think us super-cheapo, we did get an order of queso as well. The presence of queso, a processed cheese concoction, is typically a prerequisite for my approval of a restaurant location when Alex and I go hunting. I am a queso connoisseur – if it is possible to be a gourmet in relation to a regional food product on par with Philadelphia’s scrapple.

“How is it?” queried Alex.

I touched my tongue to the roof of my mouth several times in order to properly evaluate the taste.

“Half of the plates in this joint cost 12 bucks, and yet, they appear to use a powdered cheese,” I proclaimed.

“Well, what can you do?” Alex asked.

“Keep complaining for the duration of the meal, of course,” I replied.

Alex and I managed to escape over-priced El Mexicano for under $12. (I will say, the food was decent and the a la carte menu extensive. Add to that a pretty decent happy hour on Mondays-Wednesdays and there’s the possibility that I’ll return – just not for queso.)

“Coffee?” Alex asked when we were finished.

“Not here,” I said with disdain. “Hey, we’ve never been to the little panaderia near my house. There?”

The panaderia is a hole in the wall I scarcely noticed while walking Martha one day. The décor, if you can call it that, is simple, white walls, linoleum tile. There’s a small seating area to the right of the cases and the bakery can’t take up much more than 400 square feet. To the side of the cash register sits a warming plate with a coffee pot that looks as if it’s been sitting there for days.

I immediately made a beeline for the glass cases filled with Mexican pastries.

“I want that,” I said, pointing to a bolillo. (Don’t snicker.)

“Ana, that’s a torta roll,” Alex responded.

“I know!” I said, “It’s like a piece of French bread the size of my head!”

“Go for the fritter,” said Alex.

Mr. Diaz, the owner, must have come by ten times to see what Alex and I wanted, but we could not make up our minds.

Eventually I settled on a concha roll.



“And you?” Mr. Diaz asked Alex.

“I’d like –

“GET THE PIGGIE, ALEX!”

In the case was a brown pig-shaped cookie called a Marranito. I’d asked Mr. Diaz if it was gingerbread and he’d said yes.



“Well, I think I’ll –

“GET THE PIGGIE, ALEX!”

“Alex,” said Mr. Diaz, “might I suggest the Marranito?”

"One piggy, please," said Alex.

"Oh yea, that works out well. I wanted to try the piggie," I said as Mr. Diaz wrapped up our baked goods.

My concha literally melted in my mouth and I skipped the whole way home. Really. For real. I skipped. Alex’s piggy was a little strange.

“It tastes like molasses and licorice,” I said.

“Yeah,” retorted Alex, “it definitely needs more ginger.”

“I guess I made a better choice than you, huh?” I said.

Alex looked at me bug-eyed as I scrunched my nose and grinned.

As it turns out, Marranitos do not actually contain ginger – but for some reason, they are referred to in the U.S. as gingerbread pigs. Go figure.

*As usual, all Big City location names have been changed.

Are you sneaking in to read me?

-which according to the site is due to my egregious use of: crap, pain, drugs, and bitches. What do you think I need for NC-17? And who'd like to bet that the little search engine missed my order of a 'go f- yourself on the rocks?'

I really think that after this post Cella should give it a whirl.

Hat tip to Weef! (And somehow she got a G - though I'm pretty sure there were a few pregnancy and birth related posts that managed to raise my eyebrows.)

Okay, I started running my links and got miffed because no one, I mean no one, seemed to share my R rating. Finally - Law with Grace, you are NC-17. I'm jealous.

Thanks for the Trust...

Last week I received my final paycheck from my summer associate position. The amount pleasantly surprised me, and I filled out a deposit slip and left the check on my kitchen counter for later. That night as I lay in bed I thought, “Wait a sec. I think they overpaid me.”

So, the next day I pop out of bed, pull the check, run some numbers, and sure enough, I’m right. Not exactly shocking, I know.

On Monday I called the office accountant to report the problem. At first she didn’t believe me and ran the numbers herself. Then she responded with, “You’re lucky you told me about this because you would have messed yourself up with the IRS otherwise.”

Really? I may have to pay more in taxes, but it’s the office that reports my earnings. Wouldn’t they get in trouble if they messed it up? Oh, and how about a ‘thanks for catching my mistake’ or a ‘gee, that’s really nice of you to let us know. We would have never caught that’? I could have just walked away with a couple extra hundred dollars – money that makes a big difference to me and is fairly negligible to you guys.

“Okay,” she said, “Here’s what we’ll do. You need to write void across the face of the check and mail it back to me. In the meantime, I’m going to cut you another check for the correct amount and put it in the mail. They'll cross paths and arrive in their respective places on the same day.”

I wrote VOID across the check, but didn’t mail it. I used up the last of my stamps writing thank you notes, and I wasn’t in the mood to go plunk down $8 for a book of stamps when it was the office’s error. Plus, why did I have to mail it back? Why couldn’t I just rip it up? I mean really, do they think that I would report an error just so that I could potentially cash an extra check? Why go with the safe few hundred bucks when you can get twice the amount? Honey, anyone who chooses to enter the profession of law is not that kind of gambler.

I also held onto the check because I wanted to see if the accountant really did mail the check. Would she trust the kid who was honest enough to point out a problem that most people wouldn't even have noticed? A week has passed. No check.

So to recap:
I spot paycheck discrepancy that will cost me a few hundred bucks.
I promptly report said discrepancy.
I contacted the error-maker directly, even though I do not know her, nor did I work in her office.
I do not receive even a simple thank you for my behavior.
Despite all of this, the accountant does not consider me trustworthy enough to send a new check without receiving the old one.
Now, not only have I forgone the few hundred bucks, but several weeks have gone by and I have not been paid for the actual work that I did.

This is not exactly positive reinforcement, ya know?

It’s okay. I’m bitchy...uh, and a little defensive. I’ll give her another week. Then I’ll email the managing partner to say that the accountant messed up my check, overpaid me, and has not cut me a new check since I reported the problem, and could he possibly look into it?

Martha has not yet figured out the sound of rain. I know this because she will beg and beg to go outside. Then, as soon as I open the door, she makes this face and is like, "Ha-ha! Just kidding! Fooled you! Let's go back inside NOW!"


A minute ago she was doing her "I want to go outside dance" and I picked her up and held her to the window. She looked and you could see her face go, "Oh really? Crap."

Friends, they really love you for who you are…

On July 4th I met up with Wine-Time Girl for dinner. As it was the day of our national independence, we eschewed wine (because a lot of what I drink is French) and instead opted for margaritas. What? Mexico is really close to the U.S. – at least from where WTG and I sat. Plus, beer is German. Vodka Is Russian. Whiskey is Irish. Did you want us to drink a Coke or something?

Anyhow, at some point in the evening, Wine-Time looked over at me and said, “Chin up, Ana. Some day a guy is going to see past your abrasive personality and recognize you for all of the amazing qualities you have.”

I fell out of my chair laughing.

"What?" she said. "You are abrasive."

“Perhaps I should instead work on my abrasiveness?” I said.

“No,” she said. “Then you wouldn't be you. The abrasiveness is one of the things I love about you.”

That's right. I'm caustic to the point of being lovable. All you single men out there can bite me. And I say that with the deepest affection...or affectation, one of the two.

Everybody's Doing it...

Build your own avatar at Simpson's Movie Site

I apologize to the people who subscribe to some kind of service that notifies them when I have written a post. This is because I often write posts late at night and then wake up the next morning thinking, "What exactly did I write?"

So I put the post on hold until I can come back and look at it again. SO the service says I have written a post when I have sorta kinda actually not.

Today is my last day of work. Even though it's the last day, I still don't want to go. I can't get myself to get out of bed. The dog is bopping me with her nose - a not so subtle indication that she wants to go outside. Mumble, mumble, mumble. I wonder how late I'll get there. I know today is going to be one of those days where no one is there and there's probably even less to do. Seriously, I'm supposed to be there in twenty minutes or so and I haven't even brushed my teeth yet. You'd think I could make a solid showing for my last day. Ok, ok, ok - I can procrastinate no longer. My toothbrush calls.

Life is always so entertaining...

[Ana says, "please scroll down. click play on Youtube for background music. It's that kind of post. Thanks."]

Last weekend I was at a bar. Big surprise, right? Actually, I wasn’t being sarcastic. Typically, I drink at home alone. It’s cheaper, and the company is better. BUT – sometimes you need to make appearances, so the other night I was out with a group of peeps, and through some odd turn of events, I ended up giving my number to a guy, a bartender to be exact. And, to add insult to injury, as we tried to schedule a meeting he said, “You’re a 9-to-5er, right?”

I understand that for the vast majority of the population a 9-5 job is a perk, but not so in Ana’s world. The sting of bartender’s words made Ana wonder if she should just break down and seek out a shrink for anti-depressants. Just go for the Soma – no, not the muscle relaxant, the literary inspiration.

Maybe I was reaching the point in my life where it was bad to give a bartender your number? Maybe I should go for another lawyer? Investment banker? Any other dude in a suit, the thought of which makes Ana cringe? No, I decide. I haven’t been on a date since Boy and his Dog. Boy who disappeared without notice. Boy who left me wondering what I did wrong. Boy, Boy, Boy. It’s time for me to jump back into the ring.

…these dots equate to the elapse of time...okay?...

Today I am sitting in my office. (We may jump back and forth between past and present tense in this post. It’s all past/passed, but I’m tired and not especially interested in proofreading right now. If you’re terribly bothered by this, I suggest you become a better writer than me and start your own damn blog. Kisses.)

Ok, starting again…in my office. I have lunch with a client planned – several days/weeks/whatever standing. I’m supposed to give my impression of the plaintiff at the deposition. You know? Can they win despite the fact that they have no leg to stand on? Sympathetic? Sweet? Basically, will a jury say ‘to heck with this law stuff’ and give her tons of $ regardless? So, I have to go, right?

And partner – not the doting one, but the one my age – sends out an email with the lunch location.

The restaurant registers with me, but I cast the thought off, my imagination is wild and unrealistic.

Partner, Associate, and I arrive at restaurant around 11:30 am. I look around and see nothing suspicious.

“Ha-ha,” I tell myself. “You are dramatic, hallucinatory, and silly.”

I head for the bathroom.

When I return, the server approaches, “What can I get you to drink?”

CRAP!

No really, “OH CRAP!!!”

I know the voice, but I turn my head anyway in order to see the face. There is Boy sans Dog.

I gotta be honest with you, it hurt. It hurt, bad. Here’s the guy who suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth, who wouldn’t return my desperate phone calls, for months, and now he’s freakin’ asking me if I’d prefer Diet Coke to Ice Tea.

“How are you?” I ask as I feel the pain well up inside me.

“Not too bad, and yourself?” he asks.

“Ice tea,” I answer, and a go fuck yourself on the rocks.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to know why. But I’m with the office crowd so I smile sweetly and Boy walks away.

“Gosh, Ana,” says Partner. “You know everyone in this part of town.”

He turns to the other associate and says, “Did I tell you about the time I took Ana to a bar over here?....”

I lift my fork and notice that I am shaking. If the situation is serious, I’m as cool as a cucumber. If it’s ridiculous, I can’t even process my thoughts. I hate this. I want to leave. Now. I just want to go.

Ana, this is minor. Stop. Stop worrying.

Hell. I am in Hell.

The client finally arrives. I attempt to make conversation while concentrating solidly on the salt and pepper shaker in front of me. I will not look up. I will not look to see what Boy is doing. I do not care. I want to go home. I love salt and pepper…and the ground….and the table-cloth on the table…anything that prevents my glance from noticing the servers.

At some point, the client, who sits next to me, asks about one of the sandwiches.

“I dunno,” I say. “Chunk tuna? Isn’t that the stuff out of the can?”

Boy runs over, “All of our tuna is fresh!”

I instantly feel like a schmuck. Does Boy think I’m trying to degrade his restaurant? I’m just going off of personal experience here. That stuff out of the can? It always says ‘chunk.’ Forgive me, I’m an imbecile in the tuna realm…but dude, really? Don’t you think you could possibly stand far enough away to where you can’t overhear my conversation? Um, personal space and stuff, ya know?

I’m so nervous with the situation that I have a death grip on the ice tea. I sip and sip and sip and sip, as if I think there’s something more lethal in the concoction than lemon.

The tea does me no good. Not only do I need to get up to go to the bathroom sixteen times, but Boy is rushing to refill my glass every five minutes.

OMG, this is not my life!

TWO MONTHS!!!! TWO MONTHS you can’t acknowledge my existence, but now you can’t let me go five minutes without a tea refill? And for crying out loud, didn’t anyone ever tell you about the ‘don’t refill until the customer can add another packet of sweetener rule?’ Seriously, now I think you’re just messing with me.

“Ana, what do you want?” says Boy.

Huh, what? I’ve been so intent on studying the salt and pepper shaker that I don’t realize that it’s my turn to order. I glance at Boy. He’s better looking than I remember him. Damn if my life doesn’t just suck.

In contrast, I have rolled out of bed that morning, and am wearing the glow that comes with being a chain-smoker who hasn't had a cigarette in fourteen days. It’s been awhile since I’ve showered, and the only thing I have going for me is the fact that my ass looks great in the particular skirt I’m wearing. Unfortunately, I’m sitting on it, and so it does me no good. Sunova.

Throughout lunch I feel as if I am in an awkward position. In our situation, Boy chose to stop talking to me. So, do I respect this position and speak to him as little as possible? OR will he think I’m a huge conceited bitch if I ignore him? I decide to continue my fascination with the salt and pepper shakers.

When the food finally came, I chose to pick at my salad – partly because my appetite was lost and partly because I was uncertain as to whether my dish had been tampered with.

In the meantime, this song is floating through my head….



I couldn’t tell if Boy was enjoying things or sympathetic to my situation. To be quite honest, I just wanted to leave.

Near the end of the meal, he approached me and asked about my summer. Part of me wanted to rip his throat out as the other part of me began to lose myself in his warm brown eyes. I asked of his plans. He was leaving in a few days for travel…in South/Central America. I didn’t ask after Dog, though I wanted to. A few more questions and boy took the stance of, “Hey, I was just trying to be polite and ask what your summer was like. Don’t poke into my personal life.”

“Sorry,” I wanted to say. “I’m unsure of what the protocol is after someone ignores you for several months and then starts asking personal questions. Forgive me. Clearly I am the one out of line in this situation.”

On the ride home the attorney asked, “That boy was really nice. How do you know him?”

…short time elapse…

“Ana, are you lying down in the back seat?”

“Maybe.”

“Ana?”

“I briefly dated him?” (Date being a loosely-used term.)

“Oh, well he seemed really polite. Maybe he’s moved on and found another girl.”

“Thanks, I love you too. While we’re at it, let’s call my mom and see what she thinks of me.”

This story would be tragic…if not for the bottle of wine that came later. No pain, my friends. No pain.

Oh, and that whole intro on the bartender? What was the point? Never question giving your number to a bartender. Why? Because the odds are low that you'll run into him at a flippin' lunch meeting, that's why.