I Have a Window

And it closes by 10 o'clock.

This is why I sometimes hate people in their twenties. At least the people I know. They are incapable of making plans ahead of time.

Let's do something on Saturday!
Yeah, let's go here.
No, let's go here.
Calls, texts, and emails abound during the day. Here? Nah. Here? Maybe. What time? Time?? Hello??
I hear nothing between the hours of 6 and 10. Because apparently everyone has fallen off the face of the planet. Including me, because I fell asleep. On my couch. On a Saturday afternoon.

And then, a few minutes ago, I get the word that people are meeting somewhere at 10:45, and I should get myself off the couch and into real clothes and into a cab and get over there.

And you know what? NO. It would have happened at 8. Maybe even at 9. But no more. I can't do it. I CAN'T DO IT. And don't tell me to come on! and rally! and I can sleep in tomorrow. I can also sleep in tonight. Yee. And haw.

Double Sigh.

ooh. ahh. oww.

I've been in a workout rut lately. So I decided to do a body sculpting class at the gym today, figuring I would break the rut and get my money's worth considering the cost of my membership is ridiculous and it includes all the classes.

And now, thanks to the Nazi instructor, I can't move.

Unfortunately, the massage therapy offered at the gym is not included in my membership. Figures.

I'm hoping what I heard last night was fireworks and not gun shots.

I've never been a huge fan of the 4th of July. It's hot (although this year isn't bad), I once got scarily close to some fireworks as a kid, and as someone who has never eaten a bite of red meat in her entire life, bbqs don't do much for me. Oh, and of course I obviously hate America*.

However, the fact that I got to sleep until 10:30 on a WEDNESDAY is flat out awesome. Never will I disparage a day off.



*Kidding. Kind of.

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Update: 10:50pm

Well, I attempted to be patriotic and watch the fireworks from my friend's apartment building rooftop overlooking the East River. But it wasn't just raining. It was pouring. So we lasted all of 20 minutes before deciding the better view was actually from our respective couches. Oh well.

Now the oh-so-brilliant drunkards outside my building are having their own fun with fireworks. I'll give them another 15 minutes (because I'm such a fun loving gal) before I start to wish that they blow up a body part or two in the midst of their celebrations.

How to Lose a Girl in Ten Steps

1. Catch her in a weak moment at a bar when she's feeling generous with her phone number.
2. Cancel on her twice, each time the day of the planned drinks.
3. Never actually call her on the phone, since communicating by text message is obviously so much clearer and less ambiguous.
4. Be shorter than her. (Sorry. I just can't deal.)
5. Show up 20 minutes late when you finally do make a plan for drinks that sticks.
6. Wear some kind of weird gold bracelet that's definitely not a watch.
7. Regale her with some nonsense about how you can read her mind.
8. Grab her hand in feign attempt to mentally obtain her "answers."
9. Say you Tivo Meet the Press in an attempt to impress her, but then have no idea who Doris Kerns Goodwin or even Mary Matalin is.
10. Make repeated vague references to future get-togethers, even after she doesn't respond to your first vague reference.

Sigh. My dear, you know who you are out there - why aren't you here?

In less self-involved prose, I'd say it's pretty much a sure thing that Scooter Libby is in fact having the Best Week Ever. Sonofabitch.

Dear Subway Preachers,

You seem to be multiplying. Have you figured out a way to clone yourselves? Clearly you would never engage in the old fashioned method of sex. Now, occasionally I find you amusing. But lately, you've all taken to doing God's work during the morning commute.

Let me tell you something. THAT is sacred time. We may be all squished together like sardines, body parts unavoidably (or, avoidably, in the case of certain men) touching, but the silence of the morning commute is an unspoken code that you have broken. And we're getting really pissed. We can hear you shouting fire and brimstone over our ipods. When the first words out of my mouth in the morning are "Jesus Christ", and believe me, they're not spoken in the way you would hope for, you've crossed the line. Subway rage has been pretty rare in the past, but I'm quite certain it can and will happen again. To one of you. So shut the fuck up.

Love,
New York City Transit commuters

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Do these crazy fucks only exist in New York? In an age where I honestly worry about getting blown up on the subway, and am all for the checking of bags and don't give a fuck whether it violates the 4th Amendment or not, can't we just prohibit all religion-based speak in these enclosed underground and sometimes under water areas?

Pick one subject. And say "fuck you."

All of these bar review postings have brought last summer's anxiety, which I had hoped was dead and buried, to the surface. So, to make those of you who are suffering through it feel a little better (superior, even), here's my low point:

I'm in the kitchen of my apartment in Boston, where many a day and night was spent fretting over the bar exam. I'm making Annie's mac and cheese. Because I barely cooked during those few months. It's a Saturday night, somewhere around July 15th. Crunch time. I'm staring into the boiling water, letting the steam rise up into my pores like some makeshift facial treatment to erase the dark circles and worry lines. My two roommates are in the living room doing practice questions. They get into a discussion about the rule against perpetuities. I didn't understand it first year. I didn't understand it during Barbri. I didn't understand it when anyone explained it to me. I just. didn't. get it. But the worst part was that I was taking NY and MA. And NY, bastard state that it is, not only reserves the right to test people on the RAP, but also the rule against suspension, some bastard cousin of the RAP. I literally have no idea what it even refers to anymore. Anyway, the roomies are chatting about the RAP, and about how they hope they get an essay question on it because they both actually understand it.

And that was it. The swirling boiling water started to get fuzzy, and the tears came. I couldn't stop them. What the hell was I doing? How was I ever going to pass two bar exams when I didn't understand one of the most important concepts in property law? Who was I kidding?

My roommates tried and failed to calm me down. I poured the boiling water down the drain, rifled through the medicine cabinet, and took one very large sleeping pill from a stock I had left over from a very long flight. I figured they would come in handy from time to time.

The ensuing 12 hour blackness helped. My advice? Get your sleep.

And of course, not once, on either state exam or the MBE, from what I remember, did RAP or its bastard cousin make an appearance.

In other news, I'm slightly in love with Jeremy Piven in Entourage. Who ever said being "laid back" was a highly attractive quality? (Actually, I suppose the above diatribe pretty much establishes my lack of laid back-ness.)

Will my law license transfer to Canada?

Because, seriously, I'm done with this country. I know I sound elitist and snooty, but really, it's only because 41% OF THE POPULATION STILL BELIEVES THAT SADDAM HUSSEIN WAS DIRECTLY INVOLVED IN 9/11.

Breathe. In. Out.

Today, Christie Todd Whitman, former governor of that great state west of the Hudson, testified at a congressional hearing (read: lied) about the federal government's claims shortly after 9/11 that the air was safe to breathe.

Let's not forget that a current presidential wannabe who is basing his entire campaign on one day also lied. Because they wanted to reopen the stock market as soon as possible. Because in response to the worst terrorist attack in the nation's history, George Bush's response was not "do some volunteer work" or "spend more time with your family." It was "go shopping."

Those of us who were there that day, who saw firsthand the absolute insanity up close, and who continued to breathe that air for weeks and months, are sick of the spin, the lies, the half-truths, and the shameful silence.

(This may read pretty incoherently. I don't really have a point. I'm just mad.)

Boys, indeed.

Does anyone else think that these men are sad and pathetic?

(Terrifying thought: am I going to end up a hypocrite at one of these parties when I'm 38 and single and desperate?)

Hump Day Musings

1. Note to self: the next time you find yourself at the gym for a post-work run and realize you forgot to pack socks, take the extra ten minutes to go to the drug store and buy some, even if you're already half undressed in the locker room. The alternative is painful. I may show up at tomorrow's deposition in flip flops and bandages.

2. I ended up sitting next to Danny from the Real World New Orleans on the subway today. I stared unabashedly against my better judgment, and upon exiting the train car, softly said, "yours was the last good season." And I got a big old smile...

3. I'm a sucker for these AFI's 100 Years 100 Movies lists. Always good for updating and adding to your Netflix cues.

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Update: Liveblogging the AFI list:

To Kill A Mockingbird is number 25? Oh I don't think so.
I really need to watch ET and The Sound Of Music over and over again. Like right now.
There are a hell of a lot of Vietnam movies that I've never seen.
Chinatown is overrated.
Would the world be any different if I had never been born?
Marlon Brando is scary.
We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?
I used to have nightmares about the Death Star.
And the flying monkeys.
I was 12 when Schindler's List was released, and vividly remember going to see it with my parents, and my mom broke down and had to leave the theater. I didn't know then that I had relatives who were part of the story.
Scarlet O'Hara is a whiny little bitch.
Could Ingrid Bergman's skin have really been that flawless? Casablanca was way before air brushing, right?
I repeat, Marlon Brando is scary.
If I'm gonna call myself a connoisseur, I suppose I should see Citizen Kane.

Sourpuss

It was almost funny. Almost.

I wanted a bowl of cereal when I got home from work. Just a little snack because I didn't feel like cooking dinner yet but was too hungry to wait. So I took out the half gallon of milk that I bought a few days ago. The sell-by date was tomorrow. But as soon as I opened it up, the stench hit me. Ok, fine, I poured it down the drain.

Then I went to the corner market to buy another carton. $2.50 and 5 minutes later, I poured the milk into a full bowl of Cinnamon Life, took a bite, and almost vomited. Sour. Again. The expiration date said June 26th.

Muttering, I marched back to the little market, plunked the just-bought but bad milk on the counter, and stated my claim. The owner, after smelling it and making a face, simply shrugged a "eh, it happens" and gave me a replacement carton.

Now, in hindsight, I shouldn't have left the store without opening the third carton up and smelling it, but of course I did not.

And then it happened again. This time I was not so nice to the little old man with the health hazard dairy products. I was starving, grossed out, annoyed, and had to throw out two bowls of cereal.

Turns out his entire batch of skim milk was bad. So he gave me my money back, a free half gallon of 1%, and a couple bite size snickers for my trouble.

But still. Blech.

The Best Complement I've Ever Received

Despite the fact that he admitted it came from a 90210 episode:

"How many other girls can I enjoy looking at and also look up to?"

It's 11am and I just rolled out of bed all the way to the couch...

Does anyone love the movie Keeping the Faith as much as I do? No, I don't think so.

*Love it*

"But your honor, she's been attending meetings for three weeks"...or, How to Think on Your Feet.

In my short time as a practicing attorney, one of the most important things I have learned is the following:

Clients lie.

Plaintiff, defendant, injured, criminal, law-breaker, scapegoat, harasser, or harassee. If you need a lawyer, you've likely told a fib or two.

Today's example of the lying client resulted in my being blindsided in court. The judge was not happy. I was not happy. The DA seemed quite happy.

So yes, clients lie. The problem is, probation reports and drug tests don't.

In the fake and therefore more fun world of television, due to the crappiness that is the summer schedule (whatever happened to good old fashioned repeats? I hate reality tv), I've been recording old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Practice, which are on at 7 and 8am respectively on F/X. I forgot how awesome they both are. Now I just need LA Law and Thirtysomething and I'll be a happy camper.

Dear David Chase,

Fuck you too.

Love,

Loyal viewers of The Sopranos

Hey loud annoying guy, do you really have to order the lobster?

And, you, drunk girl, we REALLY don't need another bottle of wine.

This happened last night. And I hadn't even met the damn birthday person before. I was annoyed. Again. It's not that I'm cheap (well, no more than necessary). I gladly buy presents for people I love. But being forced to plunk down $60 for someone I don't even know when all I ate was a tiny piece of chicken, about two pieces of lettuce, and one glass of wine makes me absolutely crazy. Honestly, I think the friend I was with should have offered to pay for me, considering I was only there to support her because she has a stupid crush on the birthday boy, who I don't think is good for her anyway (but that's neither here nor there).

I guess I do sound cheap. But that's what happens when you grow up with parents who spit out the phrase "We can't afford that" or "That's too expensive" 20 times a day. Arrgh.

So what is MTV's target demographic these days?

After watching about ten minutes of the 2007 MTV Movie Awards, I realize I am about 87 years old. I was never a big MTV person, but this crap is unbelievable. Also, movie spoofs are only funny when celebrities appear in them. These "home-made" you-tube snippets are not funny.

So I flipped the channel to Inside the Actor's Studio with James Gandolfini, who had this gem to pass on: "When you're young, you're pissed off, and you don't really know why." Thanks, Jim. I guess we know how how you got your anger out all these years.

I'm going to a birthday party today on Long Island for some random guy who my friend has a big crush on. What better way to spend a Saturday than as a wingman?

Going running.

Shut up, AJ

I'm an episode behind in the Sopranos countdown, but that's pretty much all I have to say.

(Two TV posts in two days? I guess I'm sick of bitching about work. For now.)

Let's hug it out, bitch.

Somehow, I've missed Entourage all this time. People have been telling me I'd love it, so I 'flixed it, and I DO love it. Yay.

The flooding problem stemmed from Mr. and Mrs. Asshole upstairs who "forgot" to turn off the water after taking a shower. Um, stoned much? Also, since when does water come through light fixtures? I'm still a little scared.

And this is my life.

I had a nice relaxing day.

And then, as I was getting ready for bed a mere half hour ago, MY CEILING BEGAN LEAKING HEAVILY. Thankfully (if there is such a thing), it's in the hallway and the front of the bathroom and not in the bedroom or living room. But jesus fucking christ. I called the 24 hour building management hotline, but it seems as if this doesn't qualify as an emergency.

It's 98% stopped now. I don't know if it's the rain or some fucktard upstairs who flooded their tub or something. In any case, my ceiling needs to be fixed. If not now, tomorrow, at which point I will be washing a bunch of nasty towels and disinfecting some pots that are now on the floor.

It's gonna be a great fucking Monday.

She must be a tiger in bed.

Mary Matalin is amazing. Not only is she sporting the hair style of a 20 year old, but the insanity spewing out of her mouth is crazier than ever, and the amount of eye-rolling towards her husband definitely speaks to the idea that James Carville looks like a skeleton lately because she's withholding food until he says something nice about George Bush. Even Tim Russert gave James a look of "Damn, that's rough, man."

One of Mary's gems:

"There is great affection for Bush amongst the people who are going to make the decision in this primary... the people who are in this myopic mindset should read [some new book*]. If we looked at contemporary public opinion we would be a slave-holding British colony today and we'd probably be speaking German and the rule would be totalitarian."

Huh?

James Carville spoke at my college graduation in 2003. His basic message was "You should prepare yourself for failure in life because when it happens most people aren't ready for it." Yeah, not so much "inspiring" as "shit, I need a drink." But, being the cynic that I am, I appreciated his unblinking wisdom about our future.

But now, I'm thinking, that speech was probably written after some deep thinking about the state of his marriage. How can two people who disagree with each other's fundamental beliefs spend their lives together? James must have realized this, and he implored our young souls to think hard before making the same mistake. Thanks, dude.

*The book Mary so lovingly recommended to us ill-informed Americans is presidential historian Michael Beschloss's Presidential Courage: Brave Leaders and How they Changed America 1789-1989.

As the Amazon reviewer notes, "Beschloss outlines how several occupants of the Oval Office—including Jackson, Lincoln, Roosevelt, FDR, Truman, Kennedy and Reagan—combined courage with wisdom to change the future of the country, notwithstanding the slings and arrows they earned...None of the author's heroes were saints, but rather flawed men sustained by friends, families, conviction and religious faith. With contenders for 2008 already lining up, this well-timed book might, the author hopes, persuade some to take the kinds of "wise political risks that Presidents once did." Perhaps. But knowledgeable readers should look elsewhere for genuine historical insight. The author's broad brushstrokes necessarily restrict him to painting nuanced individuals and complex times in only basic primary colors."

No wonder Mary Matalin wants people to read this schlock. Who wants genuine historical insight when you can paint nuance and complexity with the colors of fingerpaint? Oh right, George Bush Republicans.