Give me a break...

There's been a small amount of hub-bub in the blogosphere lately about last week's NYT article chronicling the shift of law firms to something more lifestyle-oriented. This movement is underlined by the many 'perks' firms now provide.

Some of the so-called perks include:
On-site tailoring service
Blackberrys
Late-night car service from the office
Concierge-like services
Pay & Bonus increases
Parties with chi-chi food
Wine-tasting
Guaranteeing the first 100k of a real estate loan
In-house psychologists and counseling services
Dinner delivered from fine restaurants to the office
Emergency nanny services

My question is this: Since when are devices that enable me to spend even more time at the office considered perks?

Late nights at my desk with tuna tartare do not sound appealing to me in the slightest. Nor do I think that free milkshakes are going to make me feel better about missing my kid's t-ball game. Perhaps BigLaw is a little confused as to the meaning of "lifestyle." I suppose if my purpose is to look important and impressive on a superficial level to others then their definition might fit. If my purpose is to be able to see my dog, friends, and family, then not so much. I've got a bright idea. Why don't they offer less shiny crap, lower pay, and fewer billable hours? I'd be more than happy to take a job at half the starting rate of most large firms along with two-thirds the number of billable hours. That is a lifestyle-oriented perk in my book.

The more state law I read...

...the more I think I'd like to live in California. They've got some nice state laws - no specific examples right now.

No really, leave...now

So there are three entities. There is Bartender-Boy, the superhero who gains his strength from standing behind the bar. He is worldly, smart, cool, and interesting. He is the quiet observer with the super-human ability to understand each patron from watching their actions. In Ana’s imagination he knows everything, including her drink order. Though powerful, he is benevolent and kind.

Then, there is Bartender-Boy’s alter ego: Geeky boy with glasses. He is quiet and shy, devoted to his poodle, Tinkerbell.

Then, there is the actual bartender of Ana’s author, sometimes nice, sometimes a douche-bag, and always socially awkward.

Ana’s author will go to her beloved PG bar, and see her bartender. After a few glasses of wine, she is convinced that he is, in fact, Bartender-Boy. There must be something more to him! Sometimes she speaks with him and is disappointed. Other times, she just sends bizarre text messages after she heads home. The next day, she will wake embarrassed and disillusioned (and yes, somewhat guilty for toying with a guy who has no clue).

This is why Ana’s author now only goes to PG on Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays. Why? Because BB/GBWG/actual Bartender works on Tuesday – Friday.

Ana’s author and Alex’s inspiration have a standing date at PG on Tuesday eves, but tonight when Alex’s I. called to confirm, Ana’s author said, “Eh, I’d kind of like to avoid you-know-who,” and so Alex’s I. suggested that we just go that night, a Monday!

“Eureka!” Ana’s author said.

Several hours later as Ana’s author and Alex’s Inspiration were walking out of the bar, she turned to him and said, “You know what I hate about that bar? It’s such a great bar that the freakin’ staff goes there on their nights off!”

Alex’s Inspiration giggled.

“I’m not kidding! He has four days a week! I should be able to drink in peace without seeing his red-haired, lanky presence on the other nights. I’ve stopped going to the dog park! I’ve stopped talking to him! I want him to go away! Seriously! Saturday’s - Monday’s are MY NIGHTS! He makes me feel like I’m a nut-case because I projected a personality on him that wasn’t there! He reminds me of my instability! And yet, despite all that, every time I see him, I swear that he MUST be THE Bartender-Boy-slash-Geeky-Bespectacled-Boy-with-Poodle! And what the heck was he trying to pull tonight with a leather biker jacket AND the glasses? What are his eyes irritated or something? The guy thinks I’m in love with him and he doesn’t even know. I almost walked up to him tonight to say it was my night, and he needed to get lost! I hate myself! I hate him!”

“You know what you should do?” Alex asked.

“Huh?” I answered.

“You should get a job there.”

"I don't see how..." I started.

"OH, the drama, though," Alex answered, "and then you'd have just as much claim."

On another note, Cute-Pigtailed-Girl is the bestest bartender ever. I was cold, and she made me a hot toddy.

The Po-Ho post...meaning post-holiday because Ana is a lover of all things Po

To all of you who wrote posts on Thanksgiving outlining what you were thankful for, thanks for making me feel like a schmuck for not doing one. I am thankful for the people who remind me that I am a narcissistic-navel-gazing schmo.

T-day was very low-key in the Ana household. Though we had invitations elsewhere, Martha and I decided to stay home and chill out. She ate some kibble, I consumed a boca burger, and we spent the day alternating between Crimlaw readings, watching Miracle on 34th Street, and catching the national dog show. Martha’s favorite was the Standard Poodle. (Perhaps she misses her friend. Tinkerbell recently got spayed and hasn’t been around lately.) I liked almost all of them – the terriers, the working breeds, the non-sporters. Dogs are just awesome.

Studying is coming along slowly, but surely. Today I feel like I should switch over to another subject, but I’m on a roll with Crimlaw so I can’t decide. I’m a little overwhelmed by the amount of material I have to review. Crimlaw was the only class I didn’t read for this semester. The particular prof that teaches it always picks books that are somewhat confusing to read, but seem to make sense after you’ve sat through the lecture and taken notes. I’ve got the overview and now I’m trying to go through and catch all the details.

I figure the nice thing about Crimlaw is, if all else fails, you can just do a 4th-5th-6th-14th-EP-SDP-PDP-analysis since Conlaw is the underlying basis. And the great thing about Conlaw is, it’s complete BS. There are so many wonderful, magical words of ambiguous meaning in Conlaw like ‘liberty,’ ‘due process,’ ‘fundamental fairness,’ ‘natural law,’ ‘justice,’ 'expectations of privacy,' 'governmental interest,' etc. And the ‘balancing test,’ what a flippin’ joke. I’m pretty sure the balancing test is shorthand for ‘this is how we justify things going the way we want them to without actually backing it up.’ What about the 'rational relationship' test? Smoking crack gives me energy and focus. Therefore I should smoke crack while I study. I love Con Law.

And who doesn't love reading the Thomas opinions? He always writes a separate concurring or dissenting opinion to say, "I agree/disagree, but I don't see where it says this in the Constitution." Aw, Clarence. It's there. You just need a little imagination. (How else could a 200+ year document still be applicable today?) You need to be an artist to understand. So, as long as you exercise some creativity, you can fairly effectively argue both sides of anything. Isn’t it funny that the arguments that would get you laughed out of a courthouse are the same arguments that get you a good grade on law school exams (or become famous opinions of SCOTUS)? The right to travel allows me to take advantage of welfare benefits in California? Awesome! Come to think of it, I should have taken more ConLaw-related classes in law school. BS is one of the few areas in which I am truly gifted.

Happy studying and good luck, my friends.

They should have a dog show for Mutts...

Martha and I are watching the national dog show, and we're sad that they're isn't a category for cute dogs of unknown origins.

Wine-Time-Girl calls Martha the Rorschach blot of Doggies.

Here's a listing of breeds people have seen upon meeting Martha:
Boston Terrier
Boxer
Jack Russell
Shar Pei (my vet!)
Mexican Hairless (also, my vet!)
Whippet
Pit Bull
Pug
Blue Heeler
Australian Shepherd
Chihuahua


Martha would like to show everyone her new purple-rainbow leash.

I don't even know who this guy is...

Take the Candidate Calculator Test to find your guy (or gal). I'm not sure if it's accurate, but the results were intriguing.

Your Top Match
Former Alaska Senator Mike Gravel (D) 87.76% match

Your Other Top Matches

Ohio Representative Dennis Kucinich (D) - 83.67%
Texas Representative Ron Paul (R) - 61.22%
Illinois Senator Barack Obama (D) - 50.00%

Middle of the Pack

Connecticut Senator Christopher Dodd (D) - 46.94%
New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson (D) - 46.94%
Former North Carolina Senator John Edwards (D) - 45.92%
New York Senator Hillary Clinton (D) - 42.86%
Delaware Senator Joseph Biden (D) - 41.84%
Kansas Senator Sam Brownback (R) - 40.82%
Arizona Senator John McCain (R) - 40.82%
Businessman John Cox (R) - 36.73%
Former New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani (R) - 29.59%
Former Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee (R) - 29.59%

Bottom of the Barrel

California Representative Duncan Hunter (R) - 28.57%
Former Tennessee Senator Fred Thompson (R) - 28.57%
Colorado Representative Tom Tancredo (R) - 24.49%
Former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney (R) - 20.41%

Hat tip to Fiat Lux

Turkey on the brain...

Exceedingly proud of myself for getting to class early tonight, I stopped in the parking lot to wonder why my book bag was so light.

I forgot to bring my book!

I am retarded. Someone help me.

Asking for reader advice...

I really like the thinness of the J*Crew tissue tees. However, I draw the line at paying $32 for a tee shirt from J*Crew. Does anyone have suggestions on something similar and less over-priced?

The Best Date Ever...sort of

Wine-Time-Girl: So how was the opera?
Ana: Omigosh, it was so fun! FGB picked me up, PICKED ME UP, and then drove me to the theater. We talked non-stop during the intermission and then went for a late-night dinner afterwards at a cute small Italian restaurant. After that, he took me home and we sat out on my patio talking until 1 am. He was so good with Martha, and when he left, he gave me a little hug like the perfect gentleman. [Sigh]
WTG: [Silence]
Ana: Aren’t you proud of me? I had a positive episode with a guy!
WTG: Honey, you do realize that if you’re ever going to have some semblance of a love life, you’ll need to repeat that experience with a heterosexual, right?
Ana: Baby steps, WTG, baby steps.

Allow me to introduce you to this blog's newest character, FGB, my Fairy God Brother.

Saved by a cheesecake...

Every so often (ok, who am I kidding) at least ten times a day I stop myself and wonder if I am pursuing the right path. I question where I am and what I’m doing and whether or not I’m doing the right thing. I worry about finding a job in the coming months and whether I should stay at the one I’m at now. I worry about practicing law and hating it while at the same time I worry about taking a non-legal job right out of school without the option of returning to a legal environment. I worry about having a job that pays less than the one I left and I worry whether or not I will be able to afford the rent on my house once I have to pay back student loans. I wonder if I will ever be able to buy a house in the neighborhood where I live (my seemingly one goal in life) and I question whether I will ever find my soul mate as my romantic life has taken a sharp downturn since law school began. I worry about finding my happiness and I worry about how much pain that will cause my family and friends who may have different goals or different hopes for me. For the last two and half years, I’ve happily known exactly where my life was and what I would be doing, but the end of law school is coming and now everything is a big black unknown and I don’t know what path I want to forge.

Tonight I sat on the couch thinking all of these things when my phone rang. I didn’t get up to get it because at the time the effort seemed too great. Twenty minutes later when I had hypothesized every hideous option imaginable I walked over to the phone and listened to the voicemail with a smile. The message was from a guy I know only through random meetings and chance conversations at the PG bar. We don’t know each other well, but sometimes talk about life, work, childhood, writing or beer. Not long ago he mentioned that he enjoyed making cheesecake for his friends and tonight he called to let me know that tomorrow he planned to bring one of his cheesecakes to PG and had designated a piece for me.

For some reason the phone call put everything into perspective for me. People always say that one should pursue their passion and I’ve often wondered what exactly my passion is. I have a feeling my career will always be in flux as long as I am balancing the need for financial stability with personally rewarding pursuits. Perhaps one day I will take the big risk and walk a road without stopping to look behind me. In the meantime, people I hardly know are making me cheesecake. I must be doing something right with my life.

To think a t-shirt could make me feel this bad about myself...

[Read the comments after you're done. -AA]

I have a confession to make. This weekend I purchased three t-shirts from threadless.com. The idea behind threadless is cool. They make t-shirts, the designs of which are submitted by the public and then voted on by the readers. In some ways, threadless is democracy at its finest. In other ways, threadless capitalizes on the pseudo-hipster movement, making an industry of what was the plight of a generation. Stop laughing, I’m being serious.

You see, it was not Gen Y or the Millennials or the MTV generation or whatever name most of my readers prefer to call it that started the hipsters (or more appropriately, the hipster precursor). It was the people of Gen X. I know it doesn’t seem like that long ago, but let me remind you of what it was like for those of us who lived it…

First of all, our formative years were during the 70’s. Our parents dressed us up in colorful ensembles and sat around campfires singing songs off the Peter, Paul, and Mommy album. Sesame Street taught us to be nice to everyone and the Electric Company told us that learning was hip. (That was all we had as far as children’s programming besides Saturday morning cartoons and Schoolhouse Rocks.) We didn’t have CD players, much less tape recorders, and our parents thought that play constituted: being outside, playing dress-up, drawing, or otherwise using our imaginations. Life was bright and cheery even as are parents were trying hard to find jobs/new careers after ten years in the military due to the Vietnam “conflict.” War was bad, peace was good, and love was all around us.

Then came the 80’s. Suddenly our once happy-go-lucky parents had buying power and were using it. They also had a ton of financial obligations and were quite devoted to their job and staying employed. Mommy and daddy weren’t so happy anymore. Some mommies went to work to support the lifestyle. Other mommies went to work to maintain the lifestyle they had before our daddies dumped them. A few mommies stayed with our daddies and got berated for not working. (They had a degree! Women's lib! What type of example were they setting for their kids? PS - I thought my mom was awesome.) The social life revolved around one-upping your neighbor down the street. We learned terms like Mercedes, country club, and stock market. To make matters worse, our parents started enrolling us in god-awful extra-curricular activities like team sports.

“You have to learn how to play this game, Ana,” my mother yelled to me one day as I cowered behind a tennis racket in attempts to avoid neon yellow balls shooting violently out of a machine. “It’s a club sport. You’ll need it for networking later in life.”

“Why can’t I network at the library?” I shouted back.

My much younger sister later earned a state ranking in tennis. Personally, I could never learn how to get the damn ball over the net.

[Special note to Alex: Yes, I know that tennis is not a team sport.]

My generation, slightly bewildered, started college. Liberal Arts was dead. If we wanted a job, we needed to graduate in either Business or Engineering. You want to take a Philosophy class? Are you crazy? Your entire transcript needed to consist of technical, hands-on skills that would translate directly to the workplace. When college ended you had two options:

You could either find a corporate job where you wore a suit and were a sell-out.

OR

You could work an hourly fast food-type job, barely afford your rent, and live off of ramen noodles.

Oh, and another thing…there weren’t any *good* jobs for my generation. The baby boomers were hitting their stride and openings were few and far between. That ‘corporate job’ started in the mail room or as a secretary (after someone made a phone call or pulled strings for you). You reported to someone twenty years your senior who constantly beat up on you verbally and told you that your degree didn’t count for baloney. What good was a college degree when you didn’t know jack about the working world? Starting salaries were around $28k and included health insurance. That was the big perk, health insurance! You let someone deride you on a daily basis so that you could afford to treat pneumonia or strep throat, or whatever impending doom was certain to happen if you didn’t have health insurance.

Generation X was not allowed to return to their parents houses after college. People didn’t view it as economically responsible back then. No, the theory was they helped you get the degree, now you needed to get a job, and if that job was flipping burgers then so be it, you needed to learn to stand on your own two feet.

Get a job, get a job, get a job! Life sucks! Suck it up!

Oh, and grad school? Grad school was a blight on your resume. There was only one reason people went to grad school: they couldn’t find a job after undergrad. Employers shifted in their seats at the sight of such an underachiever.

Then the internet came and screwed over all of us.

Irony was a reality for my generation. It wasn’t supposed to be funny.

So a handful of us dropped out.

My brother was the first person I remember taking this path. After an unhappy year as a business major he made an unheard of move and transferred to the Fine Arts department. I mean, why not, there weren’t any jobs anyway. After graduation, he packed up all of his stuff and moved to Colorado to become a professional ski bum and paint on the side. The entire neighborhood was aghast. My brother worked a few nights a week as a bartender and spent his free time on the slopes. Occasionally, he worked the local theater for fun and one night as he and I sat in the projection room, throwing back beers during a midnight showing of Blazing Saddles I thought, “You know. This life isn’t so bad.”

I was in my fourth year of college and a Finance major. I got the degree and ran, randomly ending up in Seattle. (This was before my parents lived there.) As a mall employee I couldn’t afford much, so I ended up in a run-down turn of the century building near downtown. The apartment was not particularly unsafe. It was located near Key Arena, and the surrounding area was pretty middle class (at the time – now it’s insane), but no one wanted to live in the building because it was a dump. As a result, the main tenants were white kids between the ages of 18-23: a few run-aways, a couple of drug users, some club kids from the grunge scene, me, and the old homeless guy we hid in the boiler room when it was cold outside. We spent our evenings on the roof smoking cigarettes (among other things) and drinking cheap beer out of cans. Inevitably, we’d all stand on the ledge, run across it like heathens, staring three stories down to Mercer Street, wondering if that would be the night one of us fell…or jumped. Weinhard’s was the PBR of the northwest at the time. We didn’t drink it because it was cool. We drank it because you could get a case for $7 - and that was about all we could afford. Blackberry Wheat, that was my favorite. They don’t make it anymore. Miller bought out Weinhard’s about ten years ago. Too much competition I guess.

In some ways my life was exciting. It was definitely unlike anything anyone from home was experiencing. It felt gritty. Every so often, those of us who were over twenty would slip through the back doors of clubs on Capitol Hill or in Pioneer Square. We’d buy one drink and nurse it until someone bought us another. The cutest girl would work the crowd, looking for a clueless suit from the newly trendy area of Belltown. As soon as the drink was in our hands, we’d pass it off to one of our friends and then start all over again. I worked at a ghetto mall about thirty minutes outside of Seattle. During my twelve hour shifts I tried to motivate adolescent employees, dissuade shoplifters (there were tons), and keep my mouth shut when some unintelligent parent yelled at me because they were pissed off about something. I don’t know how many gave me the speech about being some dumb uneducated loser who worked at the mall.

Though my friends were interesting, they became draining after awhile. None of them went to college, which didn’t bother me, but it did bother me that few had any intellectual curiosity. They worked, drank beer, saw shows, smoked pot, had sex, then rinsed and repeated. If they drew or painted or wrote or performed, I never saw it. My best friend was a girl who’d grown up in Montana, run-away to New York at eighteen to become an au pair, eventually landing in Seattle working odd jobs. Her boyfriend was the quintessential bad boy. He broke into places and she bailed him out of jail. He used too many drugs and she gave him money to buy them. Tons of tattoos and warrants for just about everything. As the naïve suburban girl I was fascinated right up until the day I discovered that the boyfriend was using my car as a place to hide his coke.

Tired and disillusioned, I returned to Austin and took a secretarial job that I received through a friend’s recommendation (but only six months after working essentially for free at a newspaper). Somewhat changed by the Seattle experience, I moved to a neighborhood that was historically African-American and poor, but had of late experienced a revitalization from the gay community. As my apartment complex regularly got robbed, I moved into a second story unit and cursed the heat during the summer months. I befriended the receptionist at my work, a girl who moved to Austin from DC on a whim and bounced from temp job to temp job for a few years before finally deciding that she too needed health insurance. Initially, we didn’t get along, but our fate was decided when she purchased a house in a really bad part of town for the grand total of $53,000. I was the only person in the office who would come to see it.

Susan, that was her name, was a painter and regularly painted everything in her house. I’d walk through the door to find a new design on her kitchen cabinets every few weeks. She built a screened in porch on her back patio and we spent most late afternoons on the deck smoking cigarettes, drinking red wine and discussing life. Susan never finished college, but she was from a similar background and had a fierce amount of intelligence and wit. She was always making strange things out of odds and ends. Once she threw a dinner party, but didn’t have enough tables so she removed the doors from their hinges and set them on blocks. I have very fond memories of our friendship; it was one of the first real and honest friendships that I had. She also fed me on a regular basis.

Over time, something changed in my Austin neighborhood. The rent went up a $100 a month, the homos moved out, and a new breed moved in. They were a young twenties set, the girl next door a receptionist and graduate of Berkeley, the guy downstairs a drop out from GWU, the gal across the hall a former Enron employee now working for a non-profit. By then, I’d moved on from my secretarial job. Susan had made a career of her creativity at an ad agency. I wondered, “Where were these people six years ago?”

At the same time, there was something different about them. Though I’d longed for a more educated crowd they disturbed me. They were living the “less-traveled” life, but at the same time, they weren’t actually struggling. They chose to live this type of lifestyle and were in some cases subsidized by their parents. This was just a fun young phase for them, one more educational experience. They differed from my friends in Seattle because they had options, had intelligence, had potential futures. It was a distorted reality, a reality that seemed a sad imitation of the one I’d known. Yet, ironically, they were just like me. A few years earlier, I’d been them, but my surroundings had been so much different. Still, it was fake. These kids had no idea what it was like to be young and teetering on the edge. They weren’t desperate to survive. One night, out at a dive club, I sat and watched one of them wearing a trucker hat, high on E, twirling glow sticks. For some reason, that was the moment I decided to move out of the complex. This little dude was trying to recreate a rave, something he’d never seen, in a bar. What the hell? A glow stick? Are you kidding me? People didn't even drink at the early raves. Drugs were not the point. That's not what they were about, yet drugs were all this guy'd taken from it. A few months later, I made the decision to attend law school.

That last group was what eventually would come to be known as hipster. Yet, that wasn’t how the hipsters started. Those kids never never knew what it was like to have your car broken into and every possession stolen (on a semi-regular basis). They weren’t the first to reclaim rundown parts of downtowns at risk to their personal safety. They thought irony was…funny and that their lifestyle came with a dress code. Poverty, joblessness, and thrift was chic to them. They don’t understand and they never will. They’re all happy and ‘artistic’ and stuff. And yet, I felt responsible, as if I'd helped paved the way. A year or so after I left, the Hipster Handbook was published and there among the listing of places to live was my old Austin neighborhood. Barf.

Today, Ana’s brother is film editor in LA co-habitating with a web designer. Susan married an art director, popped out a baby, and moved to the West Coast (after selling her house at a $100k profit). Ana is a schmuck who attends law school, uses the Alanis definition of irony, and just bought $50 worth of funny-ironic t-shirts on threadless.com. Sell-out, indeed.

And that old run-down apartment building in Seattle? It's been remodeled and is a freakin' bed and breakfast now. If you click on the Rooms link, you can see my old apartment. It's the second picture and was featured a few years ago in the New York Times. A corner room on the top floor, it's now a romance suite. How ironic. (Here's the story chronicling the disaster. My favorite line from the article, "Instead of a '25-year-old (coffee) barista moving in, it may be a 25-year-old who works downtown for one of the banks,' says Carnes." )

[Ana raises her middle finger in protest, disgust, defeat, and irony.]

Not what I needed to see...

Useless Dicta took a quiz on "What you should be when you grow up." She's happy because the quiz told her she should be a politician, which is kinda like a lawyer, and so for this evening at least she feels good about the choices she's made in her life. I clicked on the link expecting a long drawn-out questionnaire, but instead there was just one question, "Pick the square that appeals to you most." So I did. And once again I'm wondering how I will parlay my "skills" into some type of sustainable legal career...or any career for that matter. [Ana wanders off to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.]

You Should Be an Artist

You are incredibly creative, spontaneous, and unique. No one can guess what you're going to do next, but it's usually something amazing. You can't deal with routine, rules, or structure. You're easily bored. As long as you are able to innovate and break the rules, you are extremely successful. You do best when you: - Can work by yourself - Can express your personality in your work You would also be a good journalist or actor.

What Should You Be When You Grow Up?

I wish I had something to write, but my brain is fried. You see, I was supposed to have Girls’ Night with Devon and WTG tonight. We were going to have dinner, drinks at PG, and then return to my house for bottles of wine and endless viewing of old S&TC videos. Alas, both had rough days and we put off the glorious meeting until tomorrow. This occurred after I a) showered, b) was sure to pay attention when I shaved my legs, c) applied frizz-ease to my hair, d) put self-tanner on my legs, and e) painted my toenails. I even wore a skirt today and trust me, I rarely do any of those things so obviously I was pretty excited about cruising the bar with the gals.

Instead, when plans fell through my cute skirt, smooth tan legs, and non-frizzed hair spent five hours in front of the computer editing journal submissions. Yep, five hours of making love to my BlueBook and trying to correct passive voice entries. (And I love the passive voice so it was extra painful.) Tomorrow I will do about six more hours of journal work before I make an article for my school newspaper appear out of thin air. After that, I will either pass out from exhaustion or end up dancing on the bar.

Have a good weekend.

Things that Remind you of Con Law Arguments...

The House on Wednesday approved the first federal ban on job discrimination against gays, lesbians and bisexuals. ... The measure would make it illegal for employers to make decisions about hiring, firing, promoting or paying an employee based on sexual orientation. It would exempt churches and the military. ... After the 235-184 vote, supporters are expecting a tough fight in the narrowly divided Senate, ... A veto from President Bush is expected if the proposal does pass the Senate.

As soon as I read this all of those EP/SDP arguments from Con Law flooded back - which is funny since I never quite fully understood EP and SDP. For some reason I was shocked when I read that Bush was expected to veto - I know, I'm clueless - but what bothers me even more is that we live in a world where we would need a law like this in the first place.

Sigh. I'm glad I live in my little sheltered ghetto where stuff like discrimination would be (semi)shocking to see. (Occasionally people do visit the 'hood from other areas.) In my neighborhood, serving the GLBT community is good for your bottom line. In fact, a business couldn't survive in this part of town if it didn't.

Speaking of, it might be time for a GLBTQ character to appear in these pages...

Full article here.

The NYT has a longer article as of 11/8.

When it rains it pours...

“It’s just not there,” I told Wine-Time-Girl.

“Well, maybe you should give it another try,” she said. “he was drunk after all.”

Wine-Time and I sat at a bar near other-university having our weekly glass of wine. We’d spent five minutes glossing over all the things that we needed to be doing – writing papers, finding jobs, journal assignments – before jumping into my love life, her love life, and the inevitable question of whether or not God actually existed and in what form.

“It doesn’t matter. I just don’t like him like that.”

“Tell me why.”

I sighed and then began my argument. I felt like a jerk. Listing off the reasons why you’re not interested in a specific guy, especially one who you think is a nice guy, makes you feel like an ungrateful snit.

“You’re rationalizing,” WTG said when I was finished.

“Of course I am! You just asked me to do so!”

“Hey, I’m not necessarily going to bat for this guy,” she continued. “I’m just saying if you look at your recent history, you’ve got a large asshole camp growing. And Artsy-Boy clearly is not an asshole, so I hope this isn’t self-sabotage on your part.”

My phone rang and I saw that Artsy-Boy was calling.

“Answer it!” WTG yelled at me as my face scrunched.

I spoke to Artsy-Boy for a few moments (he invited me to PG , again), then returned to the conversation.

“Ok, so now in addition to different religions, different backgrounds, different educational levels, different cultures, and oh yeah, ‘kind of made me feel molested,’ we can add potential alcoholic to the list,” I said.

“You could say the same things about Bartender-Boy and Boy with Dog.”

“No way. BB is more uh, observant and Boy with Dog is highly educated. Now you’re rationalizing. Plus, both have dogs; that gets extra points.”

“BUT BB and Boy with Dog – BOTH ASSHOLES! And the only reason you were ever even remotely interested in BB was because of his odd behavior. I remember way back when he gave you his number the first time, and AGAIN the second time, you were unequivocal regarding your lack of interest. You don’t even like him now, you just enjoy the entertainment he provides.”

“You’ve got me there,” I said drifting off in thought.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Oh sorry. I was just remembering both of those guys.”

Wine-Time-Girl refrained from reaching across the table and slapping me. Once our two glasses were up, we headed our separate directions, she to dinner with WTGBF, and I, home to my computer. I was type, type, typing away late into the night when my phone gave the text alarm.

“Great,” I thought as I grabbed the phone, “here come the drunk texts of ‘why didn’t you come out tonight?’”

Not going out tonight? Weak!

Exactly as I expected. I sighed and began to close the phone when, wait a minute…the text was not from Artsy-Boy. It was from Boy-Toy!

I met Boy-Toy during my 2L year. I dubbed him Boy-Toy because he was slightly younger than me…and had a pretty wicked body. He lived in another city, but was in Big City for a bike race. We hit it off, and kept up for awhile through IM’s and text messages. Several months after that, he came back to town for a weekend, and we agreed to meet up at a law school event at a local bar. However, by the time he got to the bar, I’d long forgotten our plans because I’d become enthralled in a conversation with another boy, a boy named Boy with Dog. After getting past a touch-and-go evening with an interested boy on both sides of me, I hung out with Boy-Toy over the next few days. I showed him my neighborhood and all its fun cafes and coffee shops. He taught me how to play backgammon and was amazed when a quirky little writer girl beat a guy with a perfect math score on the SAT and GRE three times in a row.

At the end of a nice weekend, he walked me to my front door, but I evaded the kiss. Boy-Toy lived in a city far away. For the next few months, Boy-Toy sent me cute text messages any time he’d been out for a few beers, but by then Boy with Dog and I were busy hopping in our little hand basket to hell. A few months ago, I heard through the grapevine that Boy-Toy had found a job in Big City as well as an apartment five blocks from mine. A few weeks later I ran into him at PG. He was cuter than I remembered, maybe because he was a tad older, or more likely, because he was bespectacled. He also had a girlfriend.

“Did you mean to send this to me?” I texted back.

Yeah, I did. It’s been awhile since I heard from you.

Aww. How did you know I was home?

You’re a law student.

This was true, yet the reason that I was home on a Thursday was because as I law student I tended to go out on Sundays and Tuesdays. And Wednesdays. I was tired.

We should meet up sometime.

Yeah, it’s been awhile since I kicked your butt at backgammon.

Fighting words. We’ll catch up soon though.

Hmmm, late night texts from Boy-Toy. This could be promising. Maybe Boy-Toy was just what I needed right now.

Tidbits before Class...

Things that are Stupid - Bartenders receive health violations for handling food (ie lemon/limes) with *gasp* their bare hands.

Things that are Cool - Portland and their Bicycles.

Things that are Strange - Living in Glass Houses...literally.

Let's start a campaign...

Does anyone else feel that after watching sixteen billion boring seasons of the Bachelor the producers should stop putting the 'contestants' up in the lap of luxury and instead put everyone in crappy conditions where they have to do things like hard manual labor?

It would change things up and might actually achieve better results for the people involved. I mean, even I could fall for a guy while getting the heck pampered out of me. Then again, when considering the guys who have been the bachelor, maybe that's why the producers do provide so many happy distractions. How DO they find these meatheads?

No way!

The Law Bitches have retired, apparently due to someone's lacking sense of humor. This is a sad, sad day as TNCILS was one of the few 3L blogs that still actively posted funny stuff related to law school. Best of luck to you guys, and let your fanbase know if you revive under another name.

Even Ana thinks she's crazy...

Artsy-Boy called, and again he suggested a meeting at PG. I wandered over knowing BB would be present, yet safely confined behind the bar. Once inside, I headed straight for the courtyard, without passing go, without collecting $200, and without even getting a drink. Oops. I don’t remember what AB was wearing as my observation skills were already diminished that evening. When AB phoned I was in the midst of writing, which I always do with a glass of wine at my side. I told him I’d meet him once the impulse wore out. It never did. Instead after drinking nearly 2/3 of a bottle of wine I realized I could no longer write anything remotely decent.

I should note my best writing occurs when I am perfectly sober. However, sometimes a glass of wine helps to get me in the groove. Unfortunately one glass quickly becomes five. Little Ana is quite the slave to routine. The desk, the laptop, the glass of wine, they’re all so comforting while anything new, even when beneficial, is terrifying. There was a least some sense of familiarity in the evening. I was in my bar, drinking beer with people I knew. Still, it wasn’t as if I was with good friends, and PG, though comforting in many ways, comes with disconcert of knowing that somewhere in a dark corner, a tall, lanky boy may be watching my every move.

Artsy-Boy got up to get me a drink, and as he left I spied the arms of his friend, Cautious-Boy. I met Cautious-Boy the first night Artsy-Boy called me. He sat at the table with us for awhile saying little. When I questioned him on his silence, he feigned fatigue, but in reality I knew he was observing the scene, forming opinions on me, my intelligence, my kindness, and my interaction with Artsy-Boy.

“I’m rested today,” said Cautious-Boy.

“Oh really? Then you can tell me the story behind those,” I said pointing to his limbs.

On Sunday, CB had worn long sleeves, but tonight his t-shirt revealed no less than five tattoos. I have long been fascinated by tattoos. I think they’re beautiful, and I’m always amazed that people can commit to having them over a lifetime when I sometimes change my underpants twice a day for aesthetic purposes. Let’s not even bother delving into the awe I feel for people who so openly display an expression unaccepted by the bulk of society. Of course, I doubt that this is what most people are thinking when they get a tattoo. I would guess much of the time the action has more to do with youth, impulsivity, and a lack of hindsight.

For the last year or so I’ve struggled with the concept of getting a starburst-like imprint on my side near the rib cage, but ultimately balked because, well, I’m supposed to be a professional law chick here in the coming months. (Plus, it would hurt like all heck to get a tattoo over a bony area.) I do have one tattoo, but it’s so hidden that only those who know me intimately have seen it. It is an apt expression of Ana that causes outbursts of laughter at inopportune moments. One guy a few years ago was so enthralled with my inked statement that he forgot the context and could not return to the moment. Turning on the lights for a better look he laughed, “That is the best tattoo I have ever seen. It’s so you. So you!” Sometimes I wonder if the location of my tattoo was not in some way subconsciously chosen for the purpose of distraction.

Cautious-Boy gave me a quick overview of his tattoos, and AB returned with my drink. Over time more people joined the table and it dawned on me that I was speaking with Artsy-Boys’ friends more than him. I occasionally looked over to see him smile, but offer no words. I wondered if I was tired or more likely, if he already appeared boring to me. I felt as if I’d been able to peg his personality fairly quickly. He seemed like a nice guy, possibly to a fault, who wandered through life with few goals, but prided himself on his ability to ‘keep going’ and ‘keep moving.’ He had never been able to concentrate on one thing long enough to get a degree in it, and currently took classes in painting, his latest fascination being oils. I imagine that any romantic involvement with AB would lack a much needed push and pull. Instead, there would just be me pushing until Artsy-Boy fell over a cliff, and as he plunged to his emotional doom, I would cover my mouth in horror and call out after, “Omigosh, I’m so sorry! REALLY! But geez, you could have pushed back, so it’s not entirely my fault!”

Because of the wine, I planned to have no more than one drink, but each time I excused myself to the restroom, I returned to find a full glass at my chair. The action mildly infuriated me. No one asked if I wanted another drink. I’d stare at the full glass and sigh. It would be rude for me to leave after someone just bought me another, and yet remaining at the table made me feel trapped. I’d slowly work the glass to half-way, an acceptable point at which to say my goodbyes, only to turn around and have my efforts thwarted. Again, the glass would be full.

Owing to the wine, I spoke very openly and without any filter, my snarky retorts inciting laughter and replies of, “You aren’t afraid to speak your mind, are you Ana?” For some reason these comments make me want to vomit. I do not consider myself so outspoken, independent or assertive. This is the thought that crosses my mind until I look over at another table and see a girl twirling her hair in her fingers or otherwise complimenting her date on how brilliant he is for never drinking antifreeze. As usual, it’s all relative.

Eventually the crowd thinned out as did the conversation, and I found myself alone with Artsy-Boy.

“I need to head home,” I told him.

As we approached the bar to close out his tab, Artsy-Boy began to rub my shoulders. I cringed, but he was oblivious. My dislike of touch is something that has plagued me quite literally since birth. There is no catastrophic experience from childhood that follows me through life. Rather, I was just born this way. I know this because of the stories from my mother. You see, my mother was the first person whose touch I could not stand. As a newborn she’d lift me from my crib only to notice my body to go stiff, paralyzed. Occasionally she used to threaten me when I refused to hug her.

“There’s something wrong with you, Ana. If you don’t hug me, I’ll take you to a shrink…and only crazy people go to shrinks.”

Worse yet, this problem does not extend to every member of the human race. I can like someone, but not want to touch them, and despise another person as I yearn for their physical proximity. After years of effort, I can now hug all of my family members without discomfort, but my father is the only person for whom it ever occurred naturally.

With AB’s hand still on my neck I stared at my shoes as Bartender-Boy brought the credit slip. AB offered to walk me home and I declined, but he persisted. During the discussion I noticed he was teetering.

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“I’m fine,” he replied as he stumbled and fumbled with his phone.

Drunk, oblivious and wanting to walk me home. This did not bode well. He took my hand in his, and I quickly pulled it away, only to watch in disbelief when he took it again. I could already feel my mind disconnecting from my body. By the time we made it to my house, my consciousness was fully in the ether, quietly looking down on Artsy-Boy and my physical being from a safe vantage point as if it were watching a movie.

Moments after walking through the front door, AB grabbed me and kissed me. My body shrank away, but AB seemed undaunted and pulled me towards him again. Meanwhile, my consciousness had tired of the situation and played with the dog in the kitchen. We figured we give Body a fighting chance. Whenever Consciousness joined in on these experiences, she had a tendency to ramble out loud and incoherently. I mean, we liked hanging out with the guy, maybe we should give it a try. Consciousness and I laughed as we watched Body flailing in helplessness. Although Body could speak, she was unable to *think* of anything to say. In pity, we rejoined Body just in time for the second kiss and the image of another man flashed in our head. Yep, we were going to have to agree with Body on this one. AB was a no-go.

“I have to go to sleep,” I repeated over and over. “You need to go home.”

Artsy-Boy, still fumbling, managed to call himself a cab, and it was only once we were outside waiting on the patio that he realized my horror.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“What? I’m fine.” I insisted.

“Ana, you’re in a fetal position.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. So crouched was I that my eyes were hidden behind my legs and I mumbled to AB through my knees. Normally I would have been angered. I would have been spewing vitriol about the attempts to get me drunk and accost me in my own house under the guise of safely walking me home. However, I don’t think AB had concocted any type of plan. I think he bought drinks because he was trying to be nice. I think he tried to kiss me because he thought I was attractive on some level. And I think he didn’t notice how bothered I was because, well, he was just dumb and unobservant. In truth, I felt bad for him.

My theory was proven when the cab came, and he grabbed me once again. AB’s touch was not threatening. The embrace reminded me of the early hugs from my mother. There was such a desperation for affection that the touch was physically draining, as if another body could somehow make that person whole. That’s the thing about the touching. It’s no so much an unwanted touching as it is an unwanted conversation. There are some things about people that you just don’t want to know. It’s bad enough to sense from across a room that someone is hurt, frightened, sad, unloved, or physically ill. It’s ten times worse when someone touches you and you have to feel it with them. I held still for one last time and then Artsy-Boy finally left the premises.

That night not even the dog was allowed in my bed.

It's always hardest on the kids...

The other day, I was leaving the dog park and had Martha on her leash. As we were making our exit, Tinkerbell suddenly appeared and bounded toward us.

“MARTHA! I haven’t seen you in so long! Let’s play!”

Martha looked at me with that, “Can I, owner? Can I?”

“No, Martha. We were just leaving.”

Tinkerbell followed us to edge of the park.

“BYE, MARTHA! LET’S PLAY SOON, OKAY?”

A few days later Martha and I were out on a walk, and again we came across BB and Tinkerbell.

“Owner! It’s BB and Tinkerbell! Let’s go say HI!”

“What are you talking about, Martha? We don’t know any Tinkerbell and BB.”

Martha began to whimper and I dragged her by the leash until they were out of sight.

“Owner, Tinkerbell is my FRIEND, and I like BB. He gives me TREATS!”

“You’re delusional, Martha,” I told her. “We’ve never met those two.”

Then today, Martha and I were out for a walk when she spied BB and Tinkerbell playing fetch behind the gated tennis courts.

“Martha, go to the bathroom,” I told her, but she was in protest.

She absolutely refused.

Tinkerbell saw Martha and stopped dead in her tracks.

“MARTHA, GO” I said.

“TINKERBELL, COME,” said BB.

Martha maintained her position as Tinkerbell stared motionless through the chain-link fence with a red rubber ball in her mouth.

“Martha!”

“Tinkerbell!”

“Martha!”

“Tinkerbell!”

Suddenly, Martha lost it and exploded in a fit of barking.

“SCREW YOU STUPID OWNERS! I WANT TO PLAY WITH MY FRIEND TINKERBELL!”

She could not be calmed no matter how hard I tried.

I called over the fence to BB, “Should we let them play?”

“I think so,” he replied.

The girls bounded off together in joy to the far side of the court, barking and jumping and loving all over each other. I sat off in the corner and only spoke to BB to say, “Tinkerbell’s haircut is pretty adorable.”

Tinkerbell recently got a little trim and now has a poofball on the end of her tail. It sounds completely ridiculous and overly poodle-like, but she looks super precious with her little fluff and snazzy red collar.

Watching the girls BB turned to me and said, “They’re just so cute, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, they are,” I agreed.

“Will Martha play fetch?” BB asked.

“Oh yeah, she loves it.”

BB threw the ball for the girls, and they had a keen time. Even after Tinkerbell became bored BB continued to throw for Martha until she too was tuckered out. In gratitude, I gave BB a tip. Months after meeting, Martha was still jumping all over BB whenever she saw him, and he always responded with a gentle knee…which did nothing.

“You know, Martha won’t jump on you if you tell her ‘no’ or ‘off.’”

“Really?”

I nodded. Thus my juvenile enjoyment of watching my dog harass BB ended as I grudgingly accepted the need to behave like a grown up.

So it goes…

Who wants a pastry?

My prof is discussing USERRA leave. Unfortunately, every time he says the term I hear 'Sara Lee.'

Some people look for meaning in all aspects of their lives. I just seek food.