I Came, I Saw, I Judged

Today I went to Montgomery to judge the state-wide oratory civic competition. As you may remember, I judged the local one in November, and did such a good job that they invited me to judge state.

What fun! I got to meet a lot of attorneys, and other cool people. I got to pick around hotel food. YUM! I got to get lost in a maze of one-way streets. I'm sure that if you're from Montgomery, it's easy to navigate. If you're me, and it's the only the third time you've been there, well, not so much. Not even Mandy (my GPS) could help me get into the parking deck. My cool (hah!) head prevailed, and I figured it out though.

The kids all did such good jobs. I could see a real difference in the teams in terms of their practice, study, and training, but overall I was really impressed with their work. They should all be proud of themselves for even trying - at that age (high school seniors) I would have been way too nervous to even speak out loud.

There was one team that was so uber-prepared that it was scary. I asked a question about the right to appeal as compared to protection of individual rights, and the kids blew me out of the water. Not only did the answer make enough sense that I finally understood the question, but they cited Miranda as an example. (Be nice, or I'll include the citation and a link, and no-one wants that.)

On the way home, my main goal was to pull to the side of 65N and get a picture of my favorite billboard in Alabama, the "Go To Church Or The Devil Will Get You" sign, complete with an outline of Satan holding a pitchfork. I love love love that sign; it makes me laugh every time I see it. So of course I was changing lanes when it snuck up on me and I missed it.

I will try harder for you folks next time.

I'll (rarely) (ever) tell

One of my biggest issues with living with my mother is that she gets to know a lot about my life. More than I wanted her to know. She's told me about her thoughts about my date, about my reconnecting with friends, and about my boy.

Speaking of which - I've kept his secrets. I would never tell anyone about what he tells me. These thoughts, memories, whatevers, belong to him. I'm grateful that he wants to tell me. It's really a privilege to know more about someone I love.

Saturday night I told him one of my more recent, yet one of the closest, secrets that I have. Since then, he's teased me about it. Once, or (okay maybe) twice, he's brought it up. Tonight felt like the last straw. Once he teased me about it again, I said, "Hey! I've never said anything about the secret you told me!" He agreed. Then he pondered why I've never teased him about his.

This is why. This, this, THIS is why: Using information you have on me as a weapon against me is NEVER OK. Never. It hurts me in ways that I can't really explain. Taking myself, and using it against me? Damn, that really hurts.

I thought he knew that.

Apartment Hunting

On Monday, Momma and I went looking at apartments for her. I'm kinda jealous, if only because newer apartments have so much better layouts. What we saw was what my place should look like.

Still - (and btw, it snowed!) the first place was pretty good. Open floor plan, washer and dryer in suite, step-in shower. A reasonable price; under $700. The down side? Probably not one that Momma noticed too much, but I saw one of those damn inchworms on the floor. Once you've seen one, you have to know that there will thousands more. If you don't believe me, let me extend the invitation to come over and see the bloodstains in my place.

The next place didn't have a step-in shower, but the ladies who helped us called all over to find us apartment complexes that did. How nice was that? Momma can't have a tub/shower combination until she's completely healed, so that was cool.

The next place we visited is brand-fucking-new. Like, it was finished in November. The decorated show place was gorgeous. If they were offering the apartment furnished, I'm fairly certain Momma would have been sold. Hell, as would I have been! But without the furnishings, and even with the 5% educator discount, it was more than she wanted.

So we'll see. And we'll see how long it takes me to move as well. Did I mention the inchworms? UGH.

Ooh! Post #400!

And it's inauguration day! But honestly, folks, I have to wonder...

There are so many people who are excited for this day, not because we're finally getting rid of a bad President, but because we're inaugurating a black man. Maybe I'm not thinking as y'all do, but I have to say, it's not a big deal that a black man is President.

I just don't care about his color. In fact, I find that the least relevant part of our new President. I wonder more about his hopes and dreams for our country. Of course, he's told us a lot during his speeches and interviews. Still, what we say and what we do are very different animals.

I guess what I'm thinking is this - I'm so grateful to have a change in the White House. I've got my fingers crossed for this new President. He's walking into an unbelieveable mess, much of which he'll have to try to fix, and he'll be blamed for a large part of this if his plans don't work.

Ugh - I've said it, and said it, and said it - I don't care about color, gender, or anything else. I want a qualified President. My God, people, we might finally have one. Let's just give him time to figure this out. Let's not expect that the economy will be great tomorrow. Let's just remember that there are cycles in life, in the economy, in our responses to the changes in civil rights.

Let's not put his pedestal up too high. He's only human, after all.

Note To Self

Do not be a smartass when filing out a pdf form. When you click into any blank area that needs to be filled out, the smartass comment shows up as an option. And who knows? The recepient may be able to see your comment as well, lessening your chances for the job you want.

Note To Self

When I've got the heat turned down to 60 because I just found out that I have gas and not electric heat and my utility bill is almost three times what it was two months ago, and when I've got potatoes in a 400-degree oven for both the food and the heat, and when I remove said potatoes because they're done, and when I stand over the oven so I can feel my fingers for the first time in three days, and when the cat comes over to see what I'm doing, and when I pick him up and say stupid things to him like, "Now you can thaw your paws,", remember that I'll be standing there for a very long time.

As it turns out, the cat prefers to be warm.

For The Fellas

Because I love you guys, I'm going to relate a story that's more of a cautionary tale. Because I don't have her permission to use her name, I'm going to write this as if it happened between the boy and me. However, this is an absolutely true story, and following in the boy's footsteps carry dire consequences.

The place: SuperTarget
The players: Christine, the boy, 2 small children (ack! It hurts just to type that last part.)

Christine: [eying the Godlike desserts near the deli] "Omigod, that triple chocolate insta-death and/or cellulite-creating moist tasty cake looks fantastic!"

The Boy: "Are you sure you should have that? You haven't worked out in a while."

Christine: "Fuck you." [smacks the boy upside the head. Storms off. Hold for a beat of 1...2... and returns]

Christine: "You know, I've never called you fat. Your parents, your aunt - they're the ones who called you fat. Not me. Never me."

The Boy: "But you haven't been working out! It's true! I wasn't saying anything not true..." [voice fading at the end of the sentence]

If you're a girl reading this, you already know what's going to happen. If you're a guy, let me just lay this out for you - you are not getting laid for a while. Quite a while. Why, you might ask? I didn't do anything, I was just telling the truth, you may be thinking to yourself.

Here's why - in girl terms, them's fighting words. You had to know that even saying anything was a bad idea. You've surely dated enough to know that women will ask you, "Does this make me look fat?" You've had that conversation with your guy friends about how crazy women are, and how impossible it is to answer that question.

Also, guys, trying to repair the damage by pointing out the accuracy of your comment only makes it worse. You're already in trouble, and now you're trying to score 'right' points? Ain't gonna happen.

What the boy did wrong here was not apologize immediately, tell me how gorgeous I am, and thank me for giving him 2 small children.

Read and learn, guys. Your very sex life may depend upon it.

Note To Self

This is the beginning of an ongoing feature of mine, aptly titled, "Note To Self". On Twitter, you'll often see it as a Pro Tip, assuming that I'm not rabidly tweeting as I used to rabidly blog. So, here's the first one:

Note to self: Remember that your sense of humor very rarely translates over the internet. This means that the occasional use of an emoticon, no matter how distasteful you find it, may be needed. It also means that your tone of voice is a much stronger indicator of your meaning and mood than your belief that everyone 'gets' you.

Looking For Work

Today I'm spending quality time with Martindale, which is a lawyer directory. I'm trying to find all the firms here which have practice areas in which I'm interested. After about an hour and a half, I have come up with eight - count 'em, eight firms where I plan to send resumes tomorrow.

Only eight? I know, I can't believe it either. This is a pretty decently-sized metro area. There's just under 400,000 people who call it home. It amazes me that the legal community is so small, and that there are so few actual law firms. It seems that just about everyone else is a solo practitioner. This does appeal to me, quite a bit. I'd love to go into business for myself. The problem is that there's a fairly significant amount of cash required upfront. I don't have any money to get started. Hell, to get business cards printed, I'm going to have to ask for money. And won't it look bad to have a business card without a business address? I certainly don't want to list my home address on a card that will be handed out around town.

So I feel so stuck. Of course I'll make the calls tomorrow, get the names of the hiring managers, fine-tune my cover letters, and pray for the best. Maybe I'll get lucky and get a few interviews. I certainly hope so.

But if I'm on my own, well, I suppose I just jump in as best I can. Sink or swim. Whatever trite phrase fits.

I'm still having trouble answering the question, "What kind of law do you want to practice?" Well, it's a pretty simple answer. I want to practice immigration and tax law, and I have a long-term goal of having a practice that's dedicated to women's issues. But right now, to be honest, the answer to the question is, "Whatever kind of law will pay me."

I never thought it'd be THIS hard. And with this economy...

Deep Thoughts

Lately I've felt as if I don't have a lot to say. I haven't been able to wrap my head around a single idea and flesh it out into a posting. (Why would that stop me, you ask? It's not like I follow a single thought all the way through to its conclusion very often.)

So it seems that it's not that I don't have anything to say, it's that everything I'm thinking is coming from a very deep place in me, a place where only my closest friends get to access. And I figured, well, what the hell, I'll just tell all y'all about it as well.

I am growing more and more scared about my trip to Seattle. I've been working like mad to get myself into better shape with limited results. It's entirely possible that I've taken my diet restrictions so far that I'm going into a starvation mode. All I know for sure is that I'm not going to look as good as I wanted to look. Well, scratch that, I was never going to look as good as I wanted to look. So I've been adjusting my expectations by tempering them with some reality. But even with that, I'm not going to look like I want. Which will make me self-conscious around my boy. Which will affect how he sees me.

So what to do? Postpone? I really don't want to, but I want him to find me physically appealing, and I know what he likes. Don't judge him about this; I don't. There are perfectly lovely people in the world, many of whom I love, but do not find physically attractive.

Honestly, I just don't want to have some weird conversation with him about my weight. I'm just trying to keep myself motivated to continue to work out and watch what I eat. It's annoying, and more than a little frustrating, that I lost a fairly substantial amount of weight in six months, and now, three months later, I'm still struggling over ten pounds.

I've Got Pot

My boy waited a bit before sending me my Christmas present. In the weeks before Christmas, we talked about the things we were interested in, and why. In one late conversation, I told him that I wanted a pot in which I could cook pasta. Around Thanksgiving, Wade was here, and made some especially delicious manicotti for me and Momma. A few days later, I told him that I wanted a pot big enough to cook all of the pasta shells at once.

If you know me at all, you know I don't cook. Well, not well. I can make a few things, but I don't particularly enjoy cooking. The last time I made manicotti was when I was in law school, and I made it particularly for a friend who saved my legal life.

So after I told my boy that I wanted a decent pot to cook pasta, I realized what a fool I was. I called him back, to ask him if he bought me a pot. He told me that he had not. Oh, readers, I was so relieved.

Today I got my belated Christmas package. It turns out that it was belated because he used the same box in which I sent his porron. That's absolutely fine; I know how hard it is to find a reasonable shippable box.

This is what I received:



At first, I was a bit disappointed. Did he not know that I'm not a culinary girl? If only because he's a culinary boy.

I called Wade, to tell her. She, bless her heart, did some research.

As it turns out, I should never feel badly about this gift. It wasn't the gift I wanted, but it will absolutely be the gift I want to use. Also, he invested a lot into this gift.

It's the first piece of culinary equipment that's ever been mine. All of my others were from my grandmother.

And, folks, it's the present that I want him to show me how to use.

The Apartment Of Doom

This is the posting where I bitch about my apartment. If you're not in the mood to listen to me rant, move along now. If you can hang on and indulge me, thank you...but consider yourself warned.

I have this large apartment because it was less expensive than the one- and two-bedroom versions. A single gal really doesn't need three bedrooms and two bathrooms. But there was something I was to learn - I don't actually live alone! (And this has nothing to do with Momma.)

I live with at least two nasty, crawly, crunchy, bleedy (seriously - they bleed) inchworms who enter each day, probably three spiders a week, and a couple of those weird water bugs that show up, unannounced and uninvited, in my sinks and bathtub.

I have called maintenance more than once. I have begged, cajoled, joked around, and requested napalm to help me with these creatures with death wishes, to no avail.

So, any suggestions? Because to be honest, people, living with worms makes me feel like a corpse already, just waiting to be eaten.