Welcome to The OC, Bitch.

My sister, in what may be her most awesome act of sisterly love to date (kidding), bought me this, supposedly because she never bought me a birthday present back in February and needed to finish using an Amazon gift card that she had for a while.

It's fucking awesome. All 92 episodes. Remastered. Commentaries. Retrospectives. Deleted scenes. Music compilations. Totally cheesy and awesome packaging.

This definitely beats the motion I won today on the excitement scale.

Also, unrelated, this makes me sad. And mad. And, fuck, really mad.

What also makes me mad? The fact that a bug just landed in my glass of wine. Serves me right for trying to save money on my Con Ed bill by opening the window and giving the A/C a break.

This might be why I'm probably going to die alone.

It's 7pm on a Saturday evening. I'm exhausted. I have ice packs on my shins, a bandage on my blistered baby toe, a glass of water on one side and a glass of wine on the other, delivery menus at my disposal, and I'm watching Ghost on HBO2. I'm wearing loungy capris and a tank top that has been washed so many times it's practically tissue paper, and having worn a suit for the past five days straight, the thought of changing into something more appropriate in which to leave my apartment makes me want to stick a needle in my eye.

I'm not a total loser though. I went to an improv show at the Upright Citizens Brigade last night, which was so freaking hilariously awesome my stomach hurt today from the laughing.

Hee. God, Whoopi is the shit in this movie. I love it.

Newsbreak.

Has everyone heard about this case?

I hope this doesn't out me in any way, but considering I've already said I went to law school in Boston, and Boston has numerous law schools, I'm gonna admit that I worked for Mr. Entwistle's attorney while I was in law school. He is a formidable man. I remember a trial I second sat with him, my first real trial experience, and what did he drill into me more than any other legal concept?

The prosecution has the burden of proof and production of evidence in a criminal case.

If you've read/scene any of the coverage of the verdict, you'll see he's stuck to this concept. I mean, it's obviously correct, and he is an excellent attorney, but it just shows that, boy, they had NO CASE.

And what does this semi-criminal defense lawyer say? Good riddance, Mr. Entwistle.

Really, VH1? Really?

I freely admit that I have spent, well, more than one weekend afternoon over the past few years watching VH1's "I love the 80s", "I love the 80s 3D!!!", and "I love the 90s." (I skipped "I love the 70s" because, um, I wasn't born yet.) They are fantastic time suckers. Current bar studiers, take note.

I thought we were done for a while. At least until 2010, when there would be another 10 year block to deal with. But no, as I realized tonight while channel surfing, the bright minded execs over at VH1 have apparently decided that we couldn't wait that long, and so they have given us..."I love the New Millennium." 2000-2007.

Am I watching it? Duh.

The Olympics are coming!

Full disclosure: I LOVE the Olympics. The drama, the pain, the triumph, the heartbreak, the excitement. All of it. I can't wait.

The Olympic trials for Gymnastics were on this weekend (finishing right now), and I am SO HAPPY that the girls look - dare I say it - healthy! Muscular as all hell, obviously very low body fat, but not stick thin little twigs circa 1992 Bela Karolyi-style gymnasts with constant expressions of terror and hatred for what they were doing. Old Bela's now an NBC sports contributor. Ew. But at least he can't dominate the girls anymore. I quit gymnastics at age 8 (and took up skating) when my sadist coaches tried to make me do a back handspring on the high beam before I could really do it on the low beam. And then at some point, shortly after I stopped skating competitively, I read this (it's pretty accurate), and my hatred for Bela was solidified.

But anyway. Olympics! Yes!

Reason # 5,097,286 why I'm a dork.

I love love love love the AFI movie lists. I literally look forward to them all year (there seems to be one every June).

Makes me happy.

Dear Dad,

When I called you on Father's Day, I thought I was being a nice person. A good daughter. Even though I had called my stepfather first. You didn't need to know that. I asked you how the baby was doing, how you and his mother were doing, and you sounded tired but genuinely happy. And for what it's worth, that made me happy.

You asked me to come visit you all sometime, and while it would be a doable overnight trip or a very long one day trip, and frankly is not something high on my list of things I want to do, I said I would think about it and left the door open.

You asked about me and my life, and I had nothing to say considering things are pretty much the same as the last time I saw and spoke to you. I work, I run, I try to relax with my friends and by myself. You asked whether I had made plans to see that old family friend who I hadn't seen since I was 12 and who is now a 29 year old investment banker. I didn't tell you that I went out with him on Thursday night and basically wanted to kill myself for a three hour period of time. Let's just say it wasn't a love match. Yes, I may be 27, but I'm nowhere near over the hill and I don't need you to set me up anymore.

I'm not sure why, but I blurted out something like "Why haven't you told Mom about the baby?" Which really meant, why have you cut her out since you got remarried? You had a relatively civil divorce, you definitely spoke over the years since, you would always forward your flight information to the three of us if anything ever happened, and now you pretend like she doesn't exist. You said it's because NW (new wife) doesn't feel comfortable about "the situation." You mean the situation where you were married for 23 years and had and raised two daughters? That situation? Sorry, but if you ever expect me, or my sister, to have a relationship with NW or our brother, let me tell you something. You both had better get the fuck over it.

Because if I have to choose, it's not going to be you. I've never been very traditional, so it won't pain me (very much) to not have you walk me down the aisle.

So thanks. Thanks for making me basically hang up on you when you put NW on the phone when I was still talking to you about "the situation." Thanks for the future therapy bills I will eventually incur but continue to put off. Thanks for loving me so much that you won't speak to my other parent anymore.

Thanks. And Happy Father's Day.

Tim Russert: 1950-2008

This man was pretty much my idol. A lawyer, the best journalist around, and, from all accounts, a hell of a great guy.

I'm pretty sure he'll be watching from above on election night this year, giddy as a kid and wishing he could be on the air.

If Tom Brokaw breaks down again, I may lose it.

Three Glasses of Pino Grigio Later

I hate Murray Hill. HATE. I'm never going there again. In fact, I may never leave the Upper West Side again. Ugh. I need to take a shower.

I really don't want to go to work tomorrow. And I have a lot of work to do.

Scratch what's above. I want to pick up and go to Montana, live and work on a horse ranch, and fall in love with Robert Redford. Ok, a younger Robert Redford.

Thoughts.

1. It feels like August in NYC. In June. I'm not ok with it.
2. I've spent the past two hours preparing for an oral argument that I will definitely lose. I hate having to advocate what are essentially stupid arguments.
3. A friend of mine got a ticket and summons at reunion for...wait for it...smoking pot in the dorms. I was asleep at the time, and while I wouldn't have been there anyway, I'm sad I missed the ensuing hilarity.
4. The woman ahead of me at the dry cleaner's today yelled at the cute elderly owner because the cover for her dog bed was not ready yet. First of all, anyone who brings a dog bed cover to the cleaners is an idiot for not buying one that can be machine washed. Second, despite my love for all things canine, they do not actually need a dog bed, contrary to this woman's assertion that Fido "needs somewhere to sleep!" What a bitch. The woman, not...oh whatever.
5. Celebrities need to stop naming their children after intangible desirous traits.
6. A male friend-but-really-more-an-acquaintance of mine, who less than one month ago told me that he was way too immature to get married any time soon, and who I found out this past weekend has been cheating on his longtime girlfriend with another friend of mine up until last summer, proposed to said girlfriend yesterday, and she said yes. Strike 8 million for monogamy and positive role models on love.
7. I still want to see Indiana Jones, Sex and the City, The Strangers, and now also want to see The Happening. One of those has to happen this weekend.

College. Reunion. Weekend.

Leaving after work today. 5 years. I feel old. Three days of debauchery to come, although I am in marathon mode already, so not too much for me. I'll take incriminating pictures of everyone else though. Cuz that's what I do.

Maybe when I get back I'll have something to post that's actually worth reading.

It's Over.

Thank the lord.

Can you imagine the hard on Wolf Blitzer is gonna have on election night? It's only the end of the primaries and the guy is in rare form.

Also, "Simply the Best" by Tina Turner as your campaign song when you DIDN'T WIN is, well, arrogant as all hell.

LOST

I...um...wow.

I need to watch it again.

Dear Netflix,

I totally appreciate the recommendations based on my past rental history, but I think you need to retool the way your choose these items. For example, just because I rented various seasons of One Tree Hill and The OC over the past year does not mean that I want to watch "After School Specials: 1976-1977" any time soon. Come on now.

Love and kisses,

Harmless Error

I'm not superstitious. But this is ridiculous.

This morning, when I was running in Riverside Park, moving to the music and enjoying the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, I stopped short because of something in my path.

A crow. Just sitting there. Chilling. Not picking around or eating. Sitting. In my path. Usually birds/squirrels/small children move out of the way when a person/bike/bigger animal or child comes whizzing by. Nope. Not this bird. He eyed me for a minute, turned around 360 degrees, and flew off, his black feathers gleaming in the sunshine. I began moving again. And suddenly I was cold.

I may have to do work tomorrow.

But I don't have to go to work tomorrow. And that makes all the difference.*

I've been a bad blogger this week. Family drama is uninteresting to anyone else, and nothing else has really held my attention lately. I almost went to see Indiana Jones today and would post a (probably tepid) review, but both the 7 and 8 pm shows were sold out and we didn't feel like waiting or seeing anything else. So we went to the nearest bar and flirted with sailors instead. Quite unfortunately, there was no dancing to Al Green. Honestly, I don't think these boys (and I do mean boys) would know who Al Green is.

Sigh.

Update: 12:35 am. Why am I unable to turn off The Silence of the Lambs on TNT and go to bed? Fuck. OOH! Catherine Martin, a/k/a the Senator's daughter who gets kidnapped by Buffalo Bill a/k/a Brooke Smith, is Dr. Erica Hahn on Grey's! Talk about learning something new every day. I want to join the FBI. Will they pay back my loans?




*In all honesty, Memorial Day is the one "yay it's a Monday holiday" for which I actually try to think of the purpose and meaning behind the day off. We all should. But I'm still glad I don't have to dress up and go to the office.

I'm 27.

And, for the first time in my life, I'm a big sister.

My father, age 67, and his 37 year old second wife, had a baby boy last night. I know this doesn't sound like anything out of the ordinary for those of us with screwed up families. But here's the kicker.

No one knew a baby was on the way.

Granted, we don't talk much. But these are the sorts of things you're supposed to, I dunno, TELL YOUR CHILDREN, right?

I think my sister is cracking up. She's been going through a very hard time at work, and this morning when I called her and told her that we have a baby brother, she laughed for about ten minutes, and then stopped abruptly and immediately said, "wait, you always wanted a brother, right?"

Yes, I did. WHEN I WAS TEN.

I know a birth is a wonderful wondrous miraculous amazing thing. I know that. But this is my fucked up family we're talking about. Anyone who knows me and us, and I've talked to many of them today, has had the same reaction: You're fucking kidding me/what the hell was he thinking/Are you high?

I realize I may see the kid and fall in love with him, but that doesn't change how I feel right now. Unbelievable.

Something big is coming.

Stay tuned.

Westlaw + Wine = Shenanigans

All I can say is it's a good thing my firm has a flat fee Westlaw account. Because when I type "bad ass" instead of "bad acts", hilarity ensues. No joke.

Hopefully no one will be checking my research trail history.

I don't know that many people.

So when someone adds me as a "friend" on Facebook, I'm able to identify that person right away as a remnant from the cornucopia of my life 99% of the time. But today I got an email that, let's call him "Mike", had added me as a friend on Facebook, and, as you know, I need to confirm that we know each other. I have no idea who this person is. Do people do this now? Has Facebook crossed over into the realm of networking with people you don't even know? Because the only reason I liked it to begin with was in order to keep track of and keep up with people I otherwise would never see again.

So I investigated a bit, and it turns out we went to high school together, and in fact have three mutual Facebook friends. However, I definitely don't remember him. And my high school was not big. I've never rejected a Facebook friend request, but there's a first time for everything I guess.

What do I do? I'm not saying I have to be close buddies with everyone I'm Facebook friends with. But I think I should at least remember, you know, speaking to the person.