Blue Tired

Yesterday was a red tired kind of day. I was fatigued, yes, but with the sense that I'd accomplished some good things and done what I needed to do and gotten out there and been part of some decent conversations and been productive. The fatigue had a cheerful aspect to it, like it had been worth it.

Tonight, though, is blue tired. (I just realized that this color scheme is also the one used to identify political leanings, but that is totally not the case here. But in case it brings up that imagery, you can call it "deep-rose tired" and "ashy-leaden-sky tired".) I spent half of my time at clinical today surfing the web and answering policy questions about my student org from Board members. I got comments back on my "journal" for the negotiations seminar and was told that the experience I wrote about, which was pretty near to the heart for me, wasn't "on point." (To further add insult to injury, the writer of the comment was a 3L younger than me who, I gotta believe, can't really know jack shit about negotiation.)

I went for a run, which made me feel a little better, as did watching the last half hour of Showgirls, which is so deliciously campy and stupid you gotta love it. And I skipped going to the firm function tonight -- even the thought of free Kir Royales and champagne cocktails couldn't motivate me to walk over to the fancy venue. It was good I skipped the event, but then I got a call from Ms. Destroyer inviting me to drinks for her birthday of all things, and I vacillated between going to observe the Destroyers interact and getting more fodder for the memoir or at least essay I will eventually have to write about them and their saga and drama, and feeling like I couldn't bear to go outside and face people, much less Ms. Destroyer, who usually makes me feel like the dullest person alive. I surfed the web past the time I could really show up to her function, and then vacillated about calling her, finally did, felt utterly dumb while speaking to her, for no apparent reason, and got off the phone as quickly as I could.

And now I have just wasted your brain cells and time on this earth by relating all this, when really the biggest problem is that I haven't had any time to recharge from last year or the summer (I went from a final on a Friday to my summer job on a Monday, and then from my summer job on a Friday to school on Wednesday), and the solution is clear -- several days of reading trashy novels, watching great TV, eating lots of green tea ice cream and pho, and having nothing to do with the toxicity of law school.

A bit off the self-pity route: I do think I have either alienated or gotten fed up with everyone at law school that I used to think of as sorta friends. I used to kind of like the Destroyers -- being their friend was sort of an ego boost, and they're really intriguing, if nothing else. But over the summer the bloom fell off the rose with Ms. Destroyer when she said she'd come to my farewell event and never explained or apologized for not showing. And Mr. Destroyer, besides his inexplicable hypno-toad-like sexual appeal, has nothing to offer by way of generosity or even reciprocity or courtesy to me, a supposed friend. Friend is a friend no more because even to look at him is to shudder in revulsion and annoyance. I can't stand to be around my old hallmates, Prom Queen and her court jester G, because over an hour with Prom Queen and I can't take her complete and utter self-centeredness, and her court jester G is so completely enslaved to her that he can't do anything without her. These days I get annoyed with even Joiner, the most empathetic person I know here, because of her timidness and neuroticisms.

I need to get out of here.

Three weeks and 2 days til Fly-Out Week.

Tired

For real, people. It's gotten so that the days that I only have two classes and maybe a clinical are like my weekends, and my weekends are like school days. 'Cause this is how my schedule works out:

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: Clinical from 9:30-1:30, class from 3-4:20
Thursday: Class from 10:20-12:20, class from 4:45-6:45
Friday: Class from 10:20-12:20, clinical from 2-5 pm

Now this probably doesn't sound like a lot. But every other Monday? Reading group from 5-7 pm. Every Wednesday morning? 2-3 page paper due. Every Saturday for 7 hours? Bankruptcy reading. Every Sunday afternoon? Bankruptcy study group (for which -- thank the sweet lord, because I would not understand that class without my study partners).

On top of that, my student org is in the middle of recruiting and is about to go into training the new members, so that I had an event three nights last week and two nights this week, and am about to embark on four hours per training day where I have to coach and train.

And let's not forget about on-campus interviewing. Thank heavens to Betsy that I only have five interviews this time around, because too many more of these 13-hour days and I think I may just curl up into a little ball and refuse to get up unless tempted by a bowl of pho, a carton of green tea ice cream, and a serial killer novel. Because today was like this:

9:30-1:00 Clinical
1:00-1:45 Rush home, stuff face with leftover pizza, get into monkey suit, get to interview
2:00-2:30 Interview with govt agency 1 (very nice folks -- liked 'em)
2:30-2:55 Get out of monkey suit, change into regular clothes, go to class
3:00-4:20 Bankruptcy
4:30-5:15 Go home, research and answer question from Training Directors about student org, change into monkey suit again, go to interview 2
5:20-5:40 Interview with govt agency 2 (sucked -- man had dead fishy eyes and totally tried to test my cool by challenging the premise of my writing sample. You suck, man with dead fishy eyes!)
5:45-6:25 Further answer Training Director questions about student org, head over to student org interview location
6:30-8:30 Interview student applicants, give feedback to recruiting director
8:45-10:00 Write journal for my touchy-feely negotiations seminar
10:00-10:10 Consider whether to go to the firm dinner, walk part way there, mentally and psychically give it the finger, and go back the way I came
10:15 Home

Ugh. Yes, in a sick way I love being so productive, but I am so very tired.

Also, I love being an interviewer. It's a sickness.

I keep reminding myself that in four weeks, it's Fly-Out Week, when all the 2Ls go for interviews in their various cities, and maybe I'll have an interview to fly to, but maybe I won't, and then I can just rest. Or catch up on corporations reading, which I've done exactly 10 pages of (out of say, 250 or so).

Interviewing this year, by the way, feels different -- as promised, the balance of power has shifted, so that I really am an applicant rather than the prom queen picking out a date. The first govt agency I interviewed with today said that they probably had one or two 3L slots. When I said that wasn't very many, they said they usually took students who summered with them (like the firms!), and didn't interview many 3Ls either. And the second govt agency, which I hear isn't taking anyone this year anyway, really kind of put me on the spot. Oh well. I can't really take many of these interviews any more anyway. During that second one, the dude was all, "...each section has its own personality and each one that I've worked in was blah blah blah. Blah blah blah BLAH blah blah. So blah blah blah. Blah. Blah?" Seriously. I saw the lips move, but I heard nothing. I so totally should have walked out of there.

Also, the worst I can do is accept one of the ridiculously overpaid job offers I have in my pocket. La la la! Phooey on you, dead fish-eyed man!

Speaking of which, I received the terms and conditions of work in both the Hong Kong and London offices, and wouldn't you know it, the Hong Kong office, which has a reputation for being stingy within the firm, did not list the actual amount of the cost of living allowance. Like, I know I'm going to get a COLA, dude! I need to know HOW MUCH, so I can compare it with how much I'd be getting in New York and London (where they did specify a number). I mean, really. In what other field do companies expect offerees to accept without laying out the numbers? It's so wrong, and it's so maddening.

And now, it is midnight and a half. And now, it is time for hk to drift away on Ambien dreams.

Busy

After moping around and being bored and depressed for the first week and a half, I found myself running around frantically trying to juggle classes, an internship, extracurriculars, and maybe, just maybe, my LIFE in a big ole spazzed out frenzy the last couple days. I mean, I was in class or meetings from 10:20 in the morning until 10 pm on Thursday. Is that normal?

Well, no. I am totally being Winey McWhiny. But 3L year is not going to be the languorous year of lore for me. Here's how it breaks down:

Classes:

- corporations, with a thin, squeaky-voiced prof who draws from Harry Potter, Dashiell Hammett, sports and movies for his examples of inherent agency power, apparent authority and express implied authority (LOVE it) (the prof's examples, not corporations)
- bankruptcy with a super socratic, kind of bitchy prof (yet despite the fear of being called upon, the time just flies by in that class)
- a one-credit reading group called "Personal Values and Professional Character" in which we practiced meditating for 10 minutes our first meeting
- a two-credit touchy-feely negotiation seminar on emotions in negotiations

Comment on classes: This is a case of too much of a good thing, the good thing being my stunning skills of persuasion with the Registrar's office. You see, I was on the waitlist for the corporations class and the negotiation seminar. Was I EVER on the waitlist -- #60 or so in corps, where the cap was 100 students; #12 in the seminar waitlist, were the cap was 15. I went to the corps prof -- he said he went by the registrar's waitlist. I went to the registrar, and the nice lady there said -- email the Registrar, he's the only one who can help you.

I was in a bit of mood that day, because this is what I wrote:

Dear [Registrar],

[Nice Lady] said I should contact you about my scheduling issue, as you are the only one who can help me (shades of Obi Wan Kenobi?).

I'm a 3L, and I realized over the summer that I liked securities work (a real shock to me, as I didn't know what securities were in May). Alas, both sec reg classes strongly recommend corporations, and as a headstrong young 2L, I neglected to take corporations. In the spring, I had signed up for a spring corporations class, but that won't help with the sec reg class in the winter.

You can see where this is heading. I went to [Squeaky Voiced Professor's] class this morning, which is heavily oversubscribed, in part because he explains things so beautifully and simply, without assuming you know anything about corporations. I am on the waitlist, but it's pretty dire (I tried getting on the waitlist earlier, but as I was signed up for [Pinko Commie Liberal Prof's] class in the spring, the system wouldn't let me, until I finally decided to drop my place in that class). Might there be any leniency or flexibility, because I'm a stupid 3L who didn't take corporations when I should have? The other two corporations classes this term meet during my admin class.

Thank you for reading through this, and for any help you might be able to give. I'm sorry for the bother in this busy time.

As I heard from Nice Lady later, the Registrar read this and told her, "I haven't laughed for three days, but I laughed when I read that email." And you know what? I got in the class.

(I wrote the Registrar back: "Thank you so much for helping me fulfill my securities
regulation work dreams.")

You gotta figure that the folks over at the Registrar's office must be sick of solemn young law students with an overinflated sense of their importance. That's my theory, anyway, in how I got into the class.

So that was good thing #1. But what tipped the balance over was the negotiation seminar. I went to the first class and liked it, but 45 people showed up for 15 spots. So I thought I had no chance. But I emailed the prof to express my interest. I went to the Registrar's office again, where the Nice Lady told me to come and see her again when she had more information. I went to see the prof, who said he had just capped the class at 22, so no dice. I cried on the inside a bit, but convinced myself that I was better off without the class, since I didn't want to be overloaded with credits and I could just read his damn book anyway. But -- what the hell, I went to see Nice Lady one more time, to tell her that I didn't need to be in the class, and guess what she said? "You're in." I expressed various forms of disbelief, gratitude, etc., and she said, "Well, I guess I negotiated for you to get into the class! I said you were the only one who came to see me every day about this seminar, and -- well, that's all you need to know. You're in!"

Dang! Either my personal negotiation skills are honed to a razor sharp edge, or the Registrar's office is in LURVE with me.

I guess it could be both.

But because the Registrar's office lurves me and wants all things to be mine, I am now the proud owner of 14 credits this term, because I also have a 3-credit clinical at the state anti-discrimination agency.

And I am co-leading Student Org #1.

And I am planning to do research for Employment Discrim Visiting Prof.

And I am interviewing this fall again (for some federal agencies and three NW firms).

And I had been planning to, like, have a life and stuff.

Yeah... so, um, who needs sleep, really?

Remembering

I was in DC five years ago, working for a publishing company. I remember my then-boyfriend dropping me off at work, where I noted some people watching the television on my way to my office, where I got my usual first-thing-in-the-morning tasks out of the way.

I didn't even realize that this was an event that would define America and begin a new era until 10:30 or so. And then it sank in. I called my brother in California, who hadn't heard yet because he was just getting ready to go to work. I called my aunt and uncle in Seattle, who were up and watching the buildings burn on their television. I tried calling my boyfriend, who was in the army, but couldn't get hold of him. It would be hours before he called me, with the frightening message that he couldn't tell me what he would be doing, or whether it was dangerous. I think he said he loved me and I said it back -- we can't NOT have said that to each other on that day -- but I don't remember. I just remember my heart skipping a beat when he said he couldn't say what he'd be doing.

Later, it turned out he hadn't been assigned to do anything particularly dangerous (at least, that's what he told me). But he knew guys who had been killed at the Pentagon. He knew guys who had been assigned to look for bodies at the Pentagon.

I remember walking home and a complete stranger asking me if I'd heard about bombs in front of the Capitol. The eerie quiet. And the next day, the incongruous tanks in the streets of downtown DC.

Day to day, there isn't that much of a difference in my own life now as compared to before 9/11/01. But I can't watch the new movies out about 9/11, no matter how tasteful or how much they are meant to honor the dead and the heroes that day. I still can't see the video of the towers coming down without the sensation of something clenching in my chest. What's that Emily Dickinson poem? The one about the snake in the grass? It ends: "But never met this fellow, Attended or alone, Without a tighter breathing, And zero at the bone."

I'm bringing cranky back

I canNOT get Justin Timberlake's song out of my head. It is impossibly annoying. Even if the boy has brought sexy back. Britney, do you watch that video and weep into your Cheetos? I bet you do.

What else is annoying: not being able to get the classes you want.

What is even more annoying than that: not being informed whether you can get into the classes or not, sending your entire schedule into a tailspin into Fall Schedule hell.

On a side note: I think fall is not a kind time for me. In the fall of my first year, I had a hyperventilatory episode in the library and had to walk around for an hour in the cold, cold Crimson night to calm down. In the fall of my second year, I had a crappy legal history class and I flubbed the final of a beloved employment class. And this fall, I am cranky to the max, short on sleep, and unable to finalize my schedule, which means I haven't done any reading, which means -- whatever, law school. You suck.

In contrast, my spring semesters have been pretty good -- my first year, I took the most interesting and important class in my law school experience (Famous Minority Professor's class); last year I had a great clinical supervisor and a ridiculously fun history class; and whatever happens this spring, I get to graduate, dammit, so that's gotta be good.

Of course, there are times when school isn't annoying. For instance, it's 3 in the afternoon now, and I'm sitting on a wooden bench under a tree, soaking up the sunshine and getting my cranky out on the computer.

I got some very good advice from fabulous Ro in London. (Ro, by the way, on a panel of expert judges consisting of three flaming queens, has decided I should start my legal career in New York, since that's where I'll find a rich husband.) It was in regard to boys, and it is beautifully to the point: "Just say yes." Which made me laugh my damn head off last weekend, and still does today.

But sometimes, you need to just say no. You need to say no, I'm not going to think about the money I'm hemoraging, because money's pouring into my bank account. No, I'm not going to get riled up about how much money I pay this school to come here, because if I do, I'll get annoyed about how I can't get the classes I want, and it's not important enough to get stressed out over. No, I'm not going to sit there and be quiet while my co-leader for Student Org #1 plans stuff that involves representing Student Org #1 and doesn't tell me about it. No, I'm not going to go out again, because I need to just lie on my bed and read trashy magazines and eat green tea ice cream. No, I'm not going to beat myself over the head about telling something to someone that I shouldn't have, because cat's out of the bag, and the person who should be annoyed with me totally isn't. No, no, no.

And so beginneth my third and final year here.

Last day

Well, the weekend turned out to be beautiful weather, for the most part, so I’m a bit sad I didn’t have my weekend in the country to recharge for the coming year, but I had such a wonderful time with Ro on Saturday and again tonight that there’s no question I made the right choice to stay in town.

Yesterday, I woke up relatively early, considering the night I’d had on Saturday, and seeing that it was breezy and sunny out, headed right to Paddington station to catch one to Henley-on-Thames, a river town and the start to another 9-mile walk. The walk went through a shallow valley, where I saw – as promised by the guidebook – red kites, which have made a comeback in England.

I got desperately lost, of course, but this time because the book was badly out of date and didn’t describe the many stiles I had to clamber over or provide a proper description of the return path. I know this because after I tromped about nervously through fields for about half an hour not knowing if I was going the right direction, I decided to head toward a road, where I was hailed by a fellow who was part of a group using the same damn book, following the same damn walk, and desperately lost, like me. We compared notes, flagged down a walker who serendipitously appeared, and got oriented, but not before I heard the news that the latter part of the walk was even worse than the first half, and decided not to go that route.

Inevitably, I got lost again, and was standing around disconsolately and anxiously when a black and white terrier came bounding around a corner ferociously, doing her best impression of ferocity, followed by a little pup of the same color, who didn’t know she was supposed to be offended and vicious when I started tickling her tummy. The owners arrived a moment later, apologetic, and I said, “No, no, I’m lost and I was really glad to see your dog come barking, actually.” The couple was from Henley (“wouldn’t live anywhere else, not with these kinds of walks around”) and had just come from the annual fete at Grey’s Court, the old manor house I’d just looked at too. “The dogs have been cooped up in the house all day, poor things,” the woman explained, which was why they came home and immediately set out on a walk with Rosie and Bella (the pup).

The couple walked with me to a point in the fields where they set me back on my path, and headed the other way with the dogs, leaving me musing about the kindness of strangers, and the luck of the directionless and misguided.

I was supposed to have dinner with Ro on my return to London after the walk, but I foolishly missed my train by 2 seconds and had to wait for the 8 pm. (No, it was really idiotic – I’d misread the train schedule, thought I had until 7:17 pm, walked into the station at 7:04 and 45 seconds, stopped to look at the schedule, and then stared as the train doors suddenly closed and it moved out of the station.) I muttered curses for a while, then went for a walk along the Thames, a peaceful, slow-moving river in those parts with houses built a few feet from the water’s edge. Fish and watery plants waved through the clear water. It was a nice half an hour.

Today, I went to the office to clean out my desk, said goodbye to a couple folks, and then went out to shop. For real. To actually buy something. I spent an hour trying on a couple dresses at a shop where I’d already picked out a dress to think about on Saturday, and finally bought one: a nice black and white sleeveless garden partyish number that’s just slinky AND modest enough.

And tonight I met up with Ro again, for dinner in Piccadilly. He’s so lovely, in all senses of the word: beautiful, funny, gentle, smart. And fierce. It was the perfect way to end my time here in London. I can’t wait to see him in New York.

And so it comes to an end. It’s 11 pm and I haven’t started packing, and I have a cab for 5 am, for a 8 am flight. Sigh. I arrive an hour before registration opens. Think I can make it? Double sigh. Why do I do this to myse-- yeah, yeah.

Philosophizing about London and the summer and the firms is going to have to wait until the plane flight. If I’m not sleeping during it.

Until I'm back on that side of the pond -- signing off from London.

Late nights

There are not-so-late nights that make you sick, and late nights that bring you laugh after joyous laugh. Last night was the former, and tonight was the latter. And a six-foot-three-inch Indian queen made all the difference.

Yes! Ro’s back. And more beautiful and fierce than I could ever have imagined.

I met Ro in DC back in the day, when we were both futzing around with jobs, honorary Jews, and looking for boyfriends. He was 6 feet and three inches of skinny, black-clothed, chain-smoking, body dysmorphic, feather-boa-waving, gentle, depressed, potty-mouthed fabulousness – a nicer, more sensitive version of the gay man friend every girl should be so lucky to have.

He moved to London from DC in 2000, and has lived here ever since, surviving layoffs, a boyfriend who beat and cheated on him, two muggings, financial desperation so bad that he ended up in the hospital exhibiting symptoms of a heart attack, and innumerable stupid homophobic comments.

I haven’t seen Ro for six years, haven’t spoken to him for two, and you know what I saw tonight? As Beyonce and girls sang, a survivor. Clad in black and white John Paul Gaultier newsprint pants tucked into black leather knee high boots and a muscle shirt hidden under a chic black jacket, he strode up to me outside the restaurant with a “Oh. My. God. You whore!” and picked me up as we hugged tight. And then we started an evening through London the way only a confident gay man can know London – first dinner at a nice Italian restaurant; then a walk down Bond Street commenting on all the store windows; then a drink at Claridges Hotel bar, where he kept pushing me to stroll around looking for hot men; then a drink at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel bar, where Beyonce stayed two weeks ago, where you have to pay a $10 surcharge on drinks if you aren’t at the hotel, and where a frantically lively and posh hetero meat market thrives; and then a drink at Balans, where a lively gay scene happens (though the real show was outside tonight, where two men and two girls dropped trou, for some inexplicable reason – perhaps the fact that they’d been drinking for 7 hours or so).

A note on the Mandarin Oriental: hotel bars are hotel bars, but I didn’t really believe Ro’s characterization of the MO as a sure thing until we got there and I saw: 1. A man totally feeling up a woman’s boob across the bar, while they sucked face (and these were, like, 30-year-olds!); 2. An older man trying to hit on Ro; and 3. Intense attention from the wedding party group behind us, especially from some dude with whom I had the following conversation:

“You’re from New York!” (Ro had set me up as a New Yorker visiting town, while he was “Alex” living in London.) “So what are you doing here?”

“Working. I leave on Tuesday.”

… (truncated for amusement’s sake)

“People don’t really love you for you. They fall in love with who they think you are, and then they forgive you for being who you really are. And then they love you.”

I thought about that for a second. “If you’re lucky.” I thought about it for another second. “That’s deep!” I said, fairly serious.

….“I’m a very happy man.”

“Oh, really? Why’s that?”

“I’m a brown, Muslim, 28 and living in London. And I don’t get any flack about who I am here. People judge me for me.”

“That’s nice.” (I mean, what ARE you supposed to say to that?)

“My friend here, I must say, is very well endowed.”

WHAT? “Um, that’s great!”

“And I’m hung like a donkey.”

Double WHAT?? “Um, congratulations.”

“I’m just kidding.” A beat. “No, I’m not.” Beat. “Yes, I am.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” I said straightfaced, “because now I’m not interested any more.”

…. “Oh, no, he’s won.”

“Who’s that?”

“See the guy and the girl over there?”

“So, what, were you trying to talk her up?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, maybe you could try again!”

“Yeah, I will. Look, I hope I haven’t ruined your impression of London.”

Hee! You know, at home I complain about guys not being straightforward enough, and here I complain about guys being vulgar. It’s true. You can’t win.

In his outfit and striking size, Ro attracted a lot of attention, especially when he took off his jacket and exposed beautifully toned arms. Look, boy was skinny when I knew him, and a chain smoker and drinker. Now he swims 3 miles a day, has cut down on the smoking and drinking dramatically, and looks amazing. But not all the attention was positive. When, about 3 am, we were looking for a cab home, three straight men looked at him and one of them said loudly, “WHAT are you WEARING?” The old Ro might have shrunk away from him, or yelled a curse over his shoulder while striding away. This Ro barely broke stride and just walked right up to the obnoxious guy, got in his face and said, “Clothes, you ass,” before walking away again to the whoa’s of the guy and his mates.

SA-WEET! That was seriously impressive shit. I wanted to cheer.

It’s impressive and inspiring to see a friend who has come into his own. Especially one who has kept the sweet, gentle nature he had before.

God, it’s 4:38 am. I had a fantastic night; I’m so glad I didn’t go away this weekend, especially as the weather was very fickle today. I hope I can get up early enough to go for a walk tomorrow, but I only got five hours of sleep last night. (Stupid Pimms cocktails. Stupid attorneys doing obscene impressions of Sesame Street characters – again with the vulgarity! It’s fine if you know me, but if you just met me a couple hours ago and you’re a partner? Inappropriate. Stupid hk for drinking too much on an empty stomach and getting dry heaves at midnight.)

In sum (and I cheat here a bit by summing up things I didn’t even write about): Friday night goodbyes are all fun and games until the vomitous feelings start – true, all except the part about the fun and games; Saturday morning impromptu rides in a bottega owner’s Maserati are vroomy and sexy (yup, rode in one, thanks to my mentor and her boyfriend, who live over an Italian bottega); Saturday shopping is annoying and unfruitful; a $200 Saturday night with an old friend, painting the town red = priceless.

God, I’m so incoherent right now. I'm going to sleep, like, in 10 seconds.

August 31, 2006
Next to last day of work!

Last night I was very dumb and, after writing the blog entry, read a serial killer novel until 3 am, at which time I attempted to go to sleep but was so convinced that the creaks of my floor boards were the sounds of a mad murderer coming to get me that I couldn’t fall asleep until 3:30. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Oh serial killer novels! Why must I love you so much, when you give me nothing but sleepless nights?

“WhatEV,” says the novel, because I certainly took it easy this morning. Seriously, I am so done with work this summer. I rolled in at 10:15 am (official work day starts at 9:30), totally forgot about something an associate asked me to do if I had time, and sat around doing the following:

- figuring out my classes and what to shop next week (fortunately, there aren’t that many classes I’m interested in, so not much to decide there)
- emailing the housing office and requesting a move (I was put in a suite of two men and me, and I just really can’t deal with sharing a bathroom with two men all year), which fortunately they granted
- asking our travel department about getting on an earlier flight next Tuesday, as I miscalculated my arrival and will arrive in Crimson City two hours after registration closes. (There is one – it leaves at 7:55 am rather than 11:50 am – but it gets into Crimson City at 3 pm, which leaves me one hour to get my luggage, get a cab to go the 30 minutes to the law school, heave my stuff out of the cab, and run to the registrar’s office; I’m thinking I may as well just sleep in that day.)
- writing the clinical programs office and The Turtle, my supervisor from last semester’s employment discrimination clinical, to arrange an internship at the State Commission Against Discrimination this fall. I’m totally going to have the Year O’ Employment Discrimination, what with an internship there this fall and then doing a research project with The Turtle as part of his employment civil rights workshop in the spring.

In the afternoon, I listened to an audiotape of a talk given by two securities lawyers about recent cases involving a Securities Exchange Commission rule that says the CEO and CFO of companies filing quarterly and annual reports with the SEC must sign off on the veracity of the financial statements in those reports. (Hey, did your eyes glaze over when you read that? So did mine!) (But actually, it was sort of interesting.) (Dear lord, am I going to be a securities lawyer?) (I think that’s a possibility.) (How … um, lawyerish.) I was about to summarize it when I got an urgent email for help from an associate I’ve been working closely with: would I please incorporate comments from the investment bank into a document with our comments on it AWAP?

Well, while I was doing that (essentially copying the bank’s comments onto our copy of the document) (yes, this does have a point, just a sec), I got a phone call from the tax partner I did a research assignment for two weeks ago, and he gave me feedback on my work and asked if I had any questions. While I give major props for the feedback call, I was trying to get those comments in, and during the feedback call, got a phone call from the associate asking where the document was.

All this leading up to the part where I’m in the associate’s office asking her about two comments I don’t understand, and the partner on the deal storms in, asks where the comments are, stares incredulously and irately at her (the associate), and then bitches her out for not having her priorities in order and not letting him (the partner) know that she has another deal blowing up: “We got these comments at 3 and it’s 7:30 now! They’ve already sent us a follow-up email, and we need to keep on top of this, or tell them why we’re not. If you can’t do it, I need to know!”

Then the partner, in a way that shows how clearly pissed he still is, looks at the comments I’ve been having trouble with, sorts them out, explaining them to me in an exaggeratedly patient tone, and then tries to play nicey nice by saying, “God, I’m really in a bad mood today, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” The associate, with astonishing sanguineness, asked, “Why?” and the partner replied, “I don’t know. Because no one loves me.” Barf. Stop trying to be all cute when you’ve just blown a gasket at someone YOU have loaded work onto and who is trying to address two different deals at once.

But I couldn’t resist asking, “Do you have a dog?” and amidst a too-loud laugh, following with, “Because your dog probably loves you.”

What I should have said was, “Stop yelling and keep your panties on, fool! Who freakin’ cares if we have it out in 2 hours or 4?” And then gotten fired. Which would be good, because I definitely don’t care if we get it out in 2 or 4.

I felt bad about taking so long with the comments, though, for the associate’s sake, and so stayed around to help her with stuff and “keep [her] sane” (in her words), until 8:30 pm, when she suggested we walk through the city to Victoria Station, where she could go to her boyfriend’s house and I could catch the tube to my apartment. And so the night of the yelling turned into a nice 45-minute walk past St. Paul’s, Fleet Street, Parliament and Big Ben, Westminster, a statue of Abe Lincoln (my main man!), for some reason, and finally into the tube stop and back home.

And now, I am finally going to go to sleep before midnight, for the first time in weeks, and so I’ll sum up: laziness at the office doesn’t mean I’m not accomplishing anything; employment discrimination – all year, all the time; the joy of getting things that I want is quite...joyous; partners who yell and then act cute suck the big time; and London is so, SO pretty.