i know, cry me a river.

am i really so busy that i can't spare a few moments for a blog? or that i can't be bothered to unzip my suitcase from last weekend's quick trip to michigan for a wine festival? or to do the four loads of laundry piled up by the washing machine? or put the iron or this morning's paper away? or drop off those shoes from zappo's we need to ship back at the nearest fedex store?

to be fair, i can't exactly skip those obligatory margarita-laden, four-hour happy hours - wherein i further charm people and convince them that i really should get an offer to come back after law school - to clean my apartment. or buy groceries. i mean, i have to get face time, right? and drink margaritas? and stumble out of the cab nearly drunk to make b dinner because it's past ten and he's just left work?

i've been stewing over a debriefing blog, where i plan to detail all the things i've learned over my summer vacation. but i can tell you one thing i've definitely already learned: i am definitely going to need to hire a cleaning service. for real.

an open letter to nascar

dear nascar,

let's be honest right out of the gate. i don't care for you. and even though rk will perhaps scowl at me for a few days after this revelation, i'm being honest. i don't like you. and b really doesn't like you.

but, i could. really. if you changed. and i have a few suggestions, a few ways i think you could broaden your appeal past the drunken southern white trash crowd.* b might reconsider. that is saying something.

let's make this a real sport.

option 1:
you know how nascar fans are always drunk? (yes, s, of course they're always drunk. they're watching cars drive around in circles for hundreds. of. miles. they'd have to be drunk. or, probably, they'd pull out that concealed weapon the 2nd amendment allegedly gives them the right to and blow their brains out.) well, if the fans are always drunk, maybe the drivers should follow their lead. if the drivers were legally drunk (and for variety, we could just apply the DUI level for the state in which the race is taking place), then i would totally watch. because we all know that driving drunk is not easy. don't act all shocked like you've never done it. we've all done it. and it's a feat. if these guys were drunk, hurling their white trash souped up cars in a circle at 180mph, i would watch. and i would be impressed.

option 2:
let's shorten the race to about 50 miles and give each driver a nice joint before they jump behind the wheel. first of all, the drivers would feel like it was 800 miles, minimum. and that shit would be hilarious. extra points if they broadcast the radio conversations between the drivers and the pit crew: "duuuude. i feel like my head weighs 50 pounds and i've been driving in this car for two weeks. and i can't find the doritos." ooh, the pit stops would include gas, tire changes, and snacks. and drive thrus? taco bell, white castle, you should really look into this. it would be awesome.

i'm just sayin. you've already really won over the south. why don't you work on us yuppie yankees? expand. although, you might have to ditch the protestant minister that says grace before each race. i find that offensive, and even if the drivers were drunk and/or high (and/or? oh, option 3 perhaps???) i'd have a hard time getting over the prayer. what's more, i assume that you'd rather add alcohol or drugs to your races than, oh i don't know, minorities or women.



*yes. i said it. so what! this is my blog. i'll engage in broad generalizations if i damn well please. rk is the obvious exception. frankly, i'm still perplexed over her nascar affection. she's an enigma. truly.

the bizarro world that has become my life

tonight, my "professor" - after watching a video for the first 45 minutes of class - gave us cookies.

what a strange juxtaposition. by day, faux lawyer extraordinaire. going to court to watch oral arguments, being told to "pencil in" the prep for that eight circuit argument next month, hearing the word perfect to describe my work by a partner a half dozen times. by night, a first grader.

i'm not complaining. i'm just wishing i could've gotten a cold glass of milk and a mat to take a nap on.

(and no, i won't be gone all summer ... but i won't blog from work (not, uh, that i ever blogged from work) and also, as i mentioned before, i don't want to bore you all with my temporarily awesome life.)

and i feel fine

as i exited my office building onto k street friday evening after my first week as a fake lawyer, the draft of my first project sitting on my desk waiting for me to proofread her tuesday morning, i decided to shuffle my ipod and see what insight my little friend had. i got r.e.m.'s it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine). i nearly stopped in my tracks. it really is, isn't it? oh, ipod.

the bad news: i've been trying to craft a post about how incredibly awesome my life has been for the past six days, and is going to be through the end of july, but it turns out i'm only funny when i'm jaded. when i'm happy and excited and completely satisfied, i come off as a conceited ass. and you don't want to read that, trust me. because there's a fine line between cleverly describing this new world i've entered and bragging about it ... and right now i think i'm coming down on the wrong side of that line.

the good news: when this little bubble bursts (temporarily) and i have to return for my third year of law school, i'll be bitter and even more annoyed that usual.

bear with me, friends. i'll try not to make you sick over the summer if you try to stick it out until bitter s returns in the fall.

metro monday: better late than never OR fake lawyer and ventriloquism

did i even ride the train this morning? is it still monday? i have this vague recollection of being in the shower contemplating the fucked up dreams i had last night (including one where i was clinging to a giant stone column in the middle of the ocean, huge waves crashing on me but somehow still hanging on, for example. also my dad was there talking to me. i think he was in a raft. and i think he may have thought i was my nephew. wtf?), freaking out over my collar not lying quite right under my suit, then i was sitting in the park across from my (gulp) office waiting to go in so i wouldn't be too early, and then i was on my 4th cup of coffee, talking about cabbies in dc v. ny and the importance of not putting off your billing.

and then i sat in my office staring at my desk for 20 minutes. i really wanted to stare out the window ... my window ... but that just would have been weird.

but b, he had a perfect metro monday ... one way more interesting than reading my scattered reminiscing about the weirdness of my first day as a fake lawyer. but as i'm a bit exhausted and b isn't much into the blogging, i'll just relay his telling of it.

b: so i got on the train this morning, and there was this woman just standing in the doorway with a wheelchair.
s: you mean, sitting in a wheel chair.
b: no. standing.
s: was there anyone in the chair?
b: no.
s: so she's?
b: standing behind an empty wheelchair.
s: ah.
b: right, so first of all, if i had an empty wheelchair on the metro during rush hour, i'd at least take a seat.
s: you mean, move it out of the way or ..
b: no, i mean in the wheelchair. i mean, jesus, it's an empty seat, right?
s: [smiling as i picture b, suitclad, sitting in an empty wheelchair, legs casually crossed, reading the metro express, in a crammed rush hour train.]
b: i almost asked her, is anyone sitting there? i mean, we were crammed in there like sardines. i could've used the seat.
s: that would have been something, dude. seriously.
b: but that's not the weird part. then she started doing ventriloquism.
s: ventriloquism? did she have a puppet?
b: no.
s: oh.
b: it was fucked up. she was definitely crazy, and i felt kinda sorry for her. but it was hilarious.
s: ventriloquism?
b: yeah. all i could think was, dude i wish s were here.
s: and that you wanted to sit in the wheelchair.
b: and that.

metro monday: the mystery of the ghost train

i'm a showoff. you see, b doesn't have very good vision, but refuses to go to an eye doctor and get glasses. i, however, have great vision. and whenever possible, i like to read something really far away to remind him that he can't bloody see and for the love of god will he please get some glasses.

for example, the metro signs. i like to tell him how long we have to wait for a car of what length as soon as it is in sight in the morning - knowing full well that he won't be able to read it until we're less than twenty feet from the sign. it's my little passive aggressive wife thing, and i'm sure he doesn't notice and it's getting me no closer to having a wildly hot husband who also wears glasses. (i like glasses.) nonetheless.

this morning was no different. as we scooted past the lost retired tourists and the sign came into the sight just before we stepped on the escalator, i chirped, ooh! an eight car train! in three minutes! perfect!

we hustled down to the front of the platform, b pointed out the schmoe wearing a black shirt and brown shoes. you could blog about that guy! what the hell is he wearing? (god i love this man.) a train came and went in the other direction, and suddenly b said, hey, i thought you said the train was in three minutes. i looked over to the sign and imagine my surprise. it said our train was boarding. curious, seeing as how there was no train and all. so the invisible train came and went, the platform quickly filling, and we waited for the next train. that train also arrived, boarded and left (according to the sign) with no actual train. the only logical explanation was that, of course, somehow time and space had intersected, and the metro was invisible, full of ghosts. a ghost train. obviously.

but the third time was a charm. as we got on the train, i couldn't help but wonder if we'd be transported to the great beyond instead of foggy bottom. and things seemed normal, until i made a face at bob about the big old man behind me who kept bumping into me with his gut. then, after he looked at the fellow, his eyes got really big. he leaned in as close as possible and whispered in my ear, oh my god! it's hemingway! and i couldn't get a good look - all i could see was the book in his huge hands. what's he reading? i mouthed to b. i can't tell, he mouthed back, and then grinned. but i've always wondered.

ok, maybe it wasn't hemingway. maybe. but, i don't know. maybe he missed the ghost trains and hopped on ours instead.

i am a watermelon.

a few weekends ago, when b was in detroit and i was here studying for exams (was that really only a few weeks ago?), b called as i was sitting down for a little dinner.

above all the laughter in the background he said, if i was a fruit or a vegetable, what would i be? my grandma thinks you're an artichoke. as it turns out, our brother-in-law has revealed he likes to think of us as fruits or vegetables. that's weird, right?

i am a watermelon.
a watermelon has stripes, and i love stripes.
a watermelon is sweet, as am i ...
but a watermelon is also sometimes hard to enjoy, with those seeds.
also, have you ever tried traveling with a watermelon? it's miserable. traveling with me is also generally miserable.
finally, a watermelon is a lot fun when you make a hole in top of it and fill it with vodka. (that one was my dad, which i find slightly disturbing. i mean, it's true, but he's never seen that side of me. do i come across as someone who's just way more fun when they're liquored up? wait, is that a bad thing? now i'm confused.)


my mom is a strawberry.
i have never met anyone that didn't love strawberries.



b is an onion.
everything good has onions.
i don't know what i'd do without onions.
onions work well in any situation.
they are versitile and i love them.
but occassionally make you cry for no reason. (damn you, elizabeth from arlington!)


lukitza's mom is garlic.
when garlic is in something, you always know.
and i love garlic, but raw it can be a bit overpowering. (which i sometimes really enjoy.)
but once the garlic warms up, it mellows out. and then it's lovely.




rk is a pineapple.
pineapples are somewhat exotic.
they're also delicious once you get past the somewhat intimidating shell.
with all those leaves on top, they're a little flashy.
they're great in tropical drinks.
and they thrive in tropical climates.


dag is a bunch of grapes.
wine.
sometimes grapes are, on rare occasion, unexpectedly sour - but usually just delightful.
grapes come in different colors, much like her hair.
grapes can be friends with lots of different fruits.
also, grapes were cool in the 80s.

let's develop a working definition of "breaking news"

dear nbc4:

for some reason, you are my default local news source. it just happened, i just fell into this relationship with you. i wish i could switch to leon harris at abc 7 (sidebar: why the hell did leon harris leave cnn to do local news? anybody? doesn't that seem strange?), but it just doesn't stick. i guess this is a long-term thing, so let's talk about how i want to change you.

here are some examples you can use to help train the employees that decide when to use the du-du-dom-dom-dom breaking news percussion beat. i suggest flashcards. or a powerpoint presentation.

a child being hit by a car in a maryland suburb? not breaking news.
a child hit by a dick cheney's motorcade? breaking news.

a townhouse on fire in woodbridge? not breaking news.
a townhouse on fire and karl rove is stuck inside with a male prostitute? breaking news.

a home invasion in georgetown? not breaking news.
a home invasion at the white house? breaking news.

a school board member turns himself in after a warrant was issued for his arrest? not breaking news.
a school board member executes a citizen's arrest on condoleeza rice? breaking news.

small plane crashes on the eastern shore? not breaking news.
small plane crashes on the eastern shore into a weekend house, trapping karl rove and a male prostitute inside? breaking news.

6 men arrested for plotting to attack soldiers at a base in new jersey? now, that is breaking news. why were you going with developing story? you're a mystery to me, nbc4.

this last one makes me think that you realize that you've been crying wolf with this generous breaking news categorization, and that maybe you're trying to change. i hope you do want to change. for me. because i deserve it. but you need some practice. let's work together. call me.

well played, elizabeth from arlington. well played.

usually i'd never write about something quite so personal... but i'm positive i can lean on you, dear readers, to help me come to terms with the reality that my marriage might be in serious trouble.

really, it's all that little witch's fault. elizabeth - her real name! i'm not even giving this woman an initial - maybe you weren't trying to send my marriage into a tailspin when you sent my husband a message on myspace asking him out. but, really, what did you expect? the two of you obviously have so much in common. you think he's hot. he thinks he's hot. he is hot. it's like something out of a movie. this is how all great romances begin. also, you both live in arlington and are approximately the same age. i mean, come on! it's like it was written in the stars, wife be damned.

i realize now that the past six years of building trust and commitment to one another was completely misguided. and also that my frequent compliments (that was really thoughtful, that color is perfect with your features, et cetera) were totally out of line. if only i'd stuck to you're hot, let's make out ... maybe this awful tragedy could have been avoided.

sigh.

well, elizabeth, if i do lose him to you, i hope you take good care of him. i hope you learn from my mistakes, and your success, and never let your relationship get to a point where you form a deep and trusting bond. i'd say stick with superficial compliments and propositions.

but i'd keep an eye on his myspace. i think he's hot, too. and i know where to find him. you never know when i might try and swoop back in with some of your brilliant tactics.

metro monday: i wear my sunglasses at night

monday feels good for the first time in a while, my friends. i'm done with exams, my parents just left after a long-overdue visit, one filled with only a minimum amount of irritation. (it's a little like background radiation with me and my dad - i'll always have to deal with some small amount of annoyance.)

but not everyone was feeling so great this morning. dude sitting next to the window was being all corey hart, wearing his sunglasses ... well, not at night, but in the dark. and at first it was just funny. i thought he was trying to be slick at 8:40 on a monday morning. and he was just a standard dc Suit - it's not like he was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket or torn levis.

turns out it wasn't about looking slick, because just before i exited, as the train pulled into foggy bottom, i glanced over at him again and saw him keeled over, head between his knees, slighly groaning. i whispered to b as i slid past him, you might want to move to another part of the train. i think that guy's gonna blow.

i love it when i can leave b laughing in the morning.