Post-break

Had a pretty restful break, holed up for about half the time in Camp Bella, and out and about in the spookily warm weather the rest of the time. It's like New York knows, and it's telling me: "Come here, my sweet. Be one of us," kind of like when I visited Our Nation's Capital in the spring of my senior year of college and the weather was warm and the trees beginning to bud and something whispered, "This is the place."

It's not always advisable to listen to the voices in your head, but for better or worse, I ended up living five years in DC because of that whisper. I learned how to live and love in that town, and it holds a special place in my heart.

But there was always a part of me that wondered about New York. The other choice. I didn't move there right after school, and I didn't move there in 1998, when I had an offer with Vault Reports. It seemed too busy, too dirty, too fast-paced, just too much. It wasn't the right time.

So it is the right time now?

There are all the logical reasons: the concentration of good friends (some of whom are even staying for the long haul); the proximity to the career shrink here at Crimson College; the ease of moving to an eastern seaboard city rather than across an ocean or a continent; the wealth of opportunities in other fields so that when I do exit the law, I won't have to deal with a physical move as well as a career one; the comfort of going to a city I'm familiar with and yet still new to.

These are all good reasons, compelling ones. But I could probably pull a list together with good, compelling reasons for each of the other three cities I could fly to next fall. Why New York, then? I don't know, honestly. But there's something about having had such a good time the past few times I've been there this year, that seems to me like a whisper. A faint whisper. A sign.

Gobble gobble

Well, the turkeys had nothing to fear from me today -- not a morsel of their flesh passed my lips this Thanksgiving. Today was one of the more unconventional Thanksgivings I've had; I read for class most of the day, talked to bigbro for a bit, then went out to meet Empress Ro (he's not just a queen, honey, he's an empress!) in the Village for drinks.

It was quite a sad Thanksgiving, actually, by which I mean it was not sad a whit. Rather, it was peaceful, productive, and in the end, hilarious because BOTH the places Ro and I had planned on going to were closed or not to be found (including, unfortunately, the cute little place I had my going away drinks at this past summer), and after wandering around for a while, we wound up at apparently the only place in Soho open on Thanksgiving night, trading smart-ass remarks with the waitress, who urged us to get dessert and treat ourselves, since "it's Thanksgiving!" to which Empress Ro snapped, "We're models, honey! We can't eat crab cakes!"

So I had my roast beets with goat cheese and my sushi rice and white chocolate martini, and Ro had his Sauvignon Blanc and pizza ("with too much cheese on it" he complained to the waitress), and we gave thanks for being alive and being in New York with each other.

For New York is where I am, luxuriating in this pre-war UWS condo with wireless, cable, plush Oriental rugs, full fridge, and sinfully comfortable bed. Camp Bella is wonderful, and I am really truly frickin' grateful to be here by myself, going out and meeting one or two friends a day and working on schoolwork the rest of the time. I have loads to do and not enough time to do it, but it was such the right decision to come down here for the weekend. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Camp Bella!

And how/why am I here? Well, I had a firm fly me down, to be honest. But it wasn't a sleazy move on my part, I swear. Last week and weekend, I had a few discussions in which I realized I really hadn't liked being at the Passive Aggressive But Really Prestigious Firm (PABRPF) in New York. I had not really enjoyed the social events, not really connected with anyone in the summer class, not met anyone particularly interesting. The firm was perfectly pleasant, collegial, respectful and all the other things it's rumored to be, but I just felt dead inside when I was there or interacting with anyone there.

But the time I spent in New York over the summer was still wonderful, because I love my friends who live here, and reveled in seeing them. Really reveled. I wallowed in their friendship, soaking up their good humor and kindness and interest in my life. The parts of me that felt so dead at school healed a little bit while I was here.

So how to enjoy that support but avoid the PABRPF? Well, I had worked for a British firm in Hong Kong and London with an office in New York, so I asked if I could come down and talk to some folks about working in the New York office. And they were pretty open to that. So I made the reservations on Tuesday afternoon at clinical, went to bankruptcy class, went out for dinner with Joiner and got shit-faced at a bar afterwards, packed my shit up, slept for 3.5 hours, and flew out of Crimson City about 15 hours after finalizing my plans to go to New York.

I talked to some employment law types at the Magic Circle firm's New York office, hoping that it would be more along the lines of the employment law that I like, but no -- pensions and benefits is what they do, and mighty boring it sounds. But then I talked to a senior associate in International Capital Markets, and... okay, remember all my foolishness about signs and whatnot? Um, yeah. I had the best interview EVER. It wasn't even an interview. It was, like, a career counseling session. A few choice slices of the Most Fruitful Interview Ever:

- Wait. Back up. You're thinking of going to a Main Street type firm in Seattle? hk, that's like the other side of the Grand Canyon. You'd be leading a totally different life there, with totally different clients. Those Main Street type of firms tend to have clients who don't know about the law except that they want to avoid any trouble with the law. That's very different from what you'll find here (Magic Circle Firm) and at [PABRPF]. People who have your type of resume, people like us who have double Ivy degrees, they tend to gravitate toward this side of the Grand Canyon, where the clients know about the law, are comfortable in a regulatory environment, who want to make the law work for them. It's less real life, but it's more intellectually challenging. Both types of law, both types of firms are valid choices, but they are very, very different. And that's the first choice you have to make.

- Second, you need to decide whether you want to do the international thing. And if you do, you should go to Hong Kong. That's where you'll be able to shape your career the way you want. It's wide open there, and they're doing amazing work. Now, whether you want to spend some time in New York first before you go and how long you want to do that, is up to you. And doing the expat thing can be something you just don't know about until you try it. So consider if you can live with knowing that you gave the chance up. And if you think you'd always wonder about what it would have been like, then do it. Try it out. You can always come back.

- And third, do you want to really start your career, or do you just want to dabble in it for two years and quit? Because hk, frankly, if you hadn't had those seven years of work experience between college and law school, if you were just double Ivy, I would have canceled this interview. I just couldn't have done another one -- those kids all go to places like [PABRPF]. It's safer. They're not ready to start their careers, to commit to being lawyers. And they leave after two years.

"Wow," I think I said.

"I'm going to lay odds."

"Um, okay."

"Well, first tell me what you think about everything we've talked about."

"Well. It's been really clarifying. I think you summed up all the issues really succinctly. In fact, this has been one of the most useful conversations I've ever had about my career."

"Huh. Okay, I have no idea what you're going to do. Typically, people with resumes like yours are mature, they know what they want, they're ambitious, and they don't want to spend time in a place where they'll be marking time waiting to do interesting work. They're ready to start doing what they want to do, and they're ready to shape their own careers. And you can do that here. We're still growing our practice in New York. There's no set idea of what a first year can do versus a second year."

"Well," I said, "what if I'm mature -- relatively speaking -- and ambitious, but I'm unfocused? What if I don't know what I want to do?"

"Well, then -- I'm really glad they don't bug offices here, because if you're not sure what you want to do, then... you should probably go to [PABRPF]."

I considered this. "But then, would you even want me to come here?"

"Of course! I would say that you are not a good short-term bet. You're high risk." He didn't elaborate further. But then: "So now I am going to lay odds. I'd say... 70% chance you go to [PABRPF]. 20% chance you go to Hong Kong. And 10% chance you come here."

"Oh! Okay. Interesting."

The "interview" lasted an hour -- 40 minutes beyond our alloted time. It was the best interview of my life, and the most helpful career advice about my legal career I'd gotten so far, and I made sure to tell him that as we walked to meet my next interviewer. "In the top three" conversations about my career in general, I assured him, thinking of my session with the career shrink two weeks ago and my conversation with "Jack" right after that session.

"Only the top three?" he complained.

"Well, the top three of general conversations about career," I explained. "The top conversation about law, for sure."

"What were the other conversations about?"

"Oh, about options other than law," I said lightly.

"Oh." He considered that. "You know, you should give it a try. Really give law a try. And you can't do that if you don't -- if you are thinking about --"

"If you don't commit yourself," I finished his thought.

"Right."

My next interviewer, a young woman about my age who started work 6 weeks ago, came to pick me up, and I shook hands with the wise senior associate and said goodbye.

I was pretty frazzled by then, having only slept a couple hours, but as I talked to her, I remembered how all the Magic Circle people I had met during the summer and interviews had had some kind of international experience or had worked or had some other career before law, and how much I liked that. And ... god, maybe I've made some sort of choice? It's too frightening to think about.

After the interviews, I headed up to Camp Bella and conked out on the couch for a couple hours before waking and going to see Fearless T 20 blocks south. She showed me her office, where she is now seeing patients as part of her own private practice (I'm so proud of her, I could burst!), and we then settled into coffee at Cafe Lalo (best known for its role in You've Got Mail, apparently). And then I came home to dinner with One-Armed Maggie, and another clarifying conversation about careers. And -- damn it, New York! Even with the grim, rainy, windy, blustery weather, it seems like such a warm, giving town to me this week, thanks to the people here.

And so hk gives thanks to the powers that be, the friends she is blessed with, the family she loves, the options that multiply like Tribbles, the luxury of choice (even as it operates as a curse), and her life. As angsty as she makes it, it's one to be thankful for.

I find myself unexpectedly and happily in New York for Thanksgiving and the weekend, for reasons I will go into tomorrow, when I'm not half asleep already. My generous and last-minute hosts are departing for One-Armed Maggie's hometown tomorrow, leaving me blissfully in charge of Camp Bella, their beautiful pre-war condo on the Upper West Side, with all the amenities I could ever hope for.

To be away from law school, in comfortable near-luxury surroundings, in a city where I'll see dear friends every day -- this is a situation for which I give heartfelt thanks.

And signs and signs

Two stories today.

I. The Return of the Coat

This morning I dragged myself out of bed at 8:30 am, having gone to sleep at 2 am, which followed having gotten drunk at the Destroyer's apartment until midnight. I blearily made my way over to the school shrink's office, where I had a very unproductive intro session. Usually the first shrink session after a long while (and it has been a while -- I don't think I've seen her since 1L year) is extremely cathartic. You just dump the anguish from your mind into the therapist's notebook, and it's lovely.

But this morning wasn't so good. I think she was missing the point of what I was saying, offering suggestions rather than just listening. Whatever. Anyway, I had about 15 minutes before class after the session, so I went over to a computer cluster in the tunnels, as it was pouring rain, and checked my email. A few minutes before class, I went to the bathroom a few steps away, leaving my corporations book, cup of coffee, and my raincoat by the computer.

I came out of the bathroom and my raincoat was gone.

Now, the raincoat is a run-of-the-mill beige trench. The only possible reason someone might want it is the pattern inside -- it looks like a Burberry plaid. And since I know now (because I just looked it up) that a woman's Burberry trench will run you a cool grand, I can see why someone might have taken the opportunity to scoop up a ridiculously overpriced raincoat. It was pouring rain outside.

Of course, my raincoat is NOT a Burberry. It's a deeply, deeply knocked-off version that I got in Seoul three years ago for about $35. It's sort of water...resistant. Not waterproof. It's too long in length and I've been meaning to get it hemmed forever, not to mention the sleeves, which are also too long, and dammit, it was a freakin' cheapo knockoff. AND it was raining! What kind of person steals someone else's raincoat when it's pouring outside?

On top of the gloomy and ineffective therapy session, and the 10th day of rain in a row, the theft of my raincoat was pretty depressing, and I trudged to class defeatedly. While the professor lectured, I thought about how I'd admired that trench on Maiko, my good friend in Korea, and how she'd taken me back to the place where she'd purchased it, and persuaded me to buy it, and said with a sweet smile: "I'll think of you walking around the Crimson Law campus next year with that trench on." And I felt pretty freakin' sad about it.

Corporations is two hours long, and in the middle we take a break. So like a woman obsessed, I decide to go back to the scene of the crime... where I find my coat neatly draped over the swivel chair in front of the computer I had been using that morning.

I like to think that some label whore came along, scooped up the jacket, discovered it was NOT Burberry, and -- kindly! -- instead of dumping it in the trash, replaced it where she'd found it. Which -- like, fuck you, label whore! But also -- well, uh, thanks, label whore.

What was this a sign of? I lost something valuable (a trench, a direction in life that didn't involve law) that I didn't know I valued. But by the grace of some label whore, I got it back. Maybe I'll get that other thing back too.

(Okay, it's a stretch. Shoot me.)

II. Rejection

I got a message from the recruiter from the federal agency I interviewed with last month saying that she'd like to discuss the hiring situation. It turned out that all 10 of their summer interns had chosen to come back -- plus someone who had clerked for a year and whom they hadn't expected to come back. So -- 110% rate of return! Damn impressive, and I told the recruiter so.

The recruiter was awfully nice, and sounded genuinely regretful that she couldn't offer me a position. We exchanged pleasantries for a minute or two and then hung up.

So it's just the firms now.

Sign: So it's just the firms now.

III. The Yeah-I-Lied-It's-Actually-Three-Stories Story

I generally think of my negotiations seminar as annoying. But tonight three people from the NYPD Hostage Negotiator Unit put on an AMAZING, KICK-ASS demonstration. They altered their usual hostage situation, acting out a scenario where a Crimson professor starts acting very hostile toward a student with whom he had an affair whom he believes has betrayed their affair to the school newspaper.

First, a couple students tried their hand at negotiating with the "professor," with the class acting as coaches. Then one of the actual hostage negotiators played the negotiator, and it was fucking awesome. Of course, it's a role-play, and there's a script, but the way the female negotiator controlled the situation, empathized with the professor and got him to trust her was nothing short of brilliant.

I had dinner with one of the LLMs after the class, who is a judge in Singapore and mediates in her courtroom, and told her how much more interesting this was than when the former president of Paraguay came and talked to us about his negotiation with the president of Peru about a volatile border dispute. Yes, the NYPD demo was much more dramatic, but the substance of the negotiation was also much more compelling to me.

The LLM nodded, and summed up my interests: "So you don't want to negotiate commercial deals or political treaties. You're interested in the human element. You'd be a great community mediator!"

Which is true. I don't want to broker big deals that get featured on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. I don't want to advise leaders of countries on how to end a conflict. The first would bore and terrify me, the second would overwhelm and terrify me.

But oh, the struggles and travails of regular life -- that's what's interesting. Who hasn't thought about cheating on significant other? Who hasn't felt shame? Who hasn't felt rage?

The beautiful thing? So often the key is just making the person feel like they've been heard. The NYPD hostage negotiator tonight used a mix of authority, understanding and patience to bring the hostage taker out of the room. And all the while, she was pressed up against the door, listening intently, listening, listening.

Well. I'm not about to become a hostage negotiator. For one, you need 12 years of experience as a cop before you can even apply to become one. But ... food for thought.

The Doomed Souffle
(bigbro distastefulness level: mild to moderate discomfort expected)

You know how Addison and Callie on Grey's Anatomy last week had that nice moment of commiserating about sleeping with McSteamy, calling it a "hail storm of self-loathing and misery"?

Yeah.

I didn't sleep with the Destroyer or anything close to it, but I was feeling low and down, and so I called him to get a drink. He was about to cook something, so suggested I come over. So I did, drank copious (for me) amounts of beer, and did silly things like lie on one end of the sofa while he took the other end, jump on his bed, and eventually (by invitation!) lie on his much-boasted-about super soft said bed.

Oh, and I also helped him make a goat cheese souffle which turned out terribly.

But that's what this whole thing is: a doomed souffle! It should be light and fluffy and magically delicious, and right before my eyes, it deflated down to half an inch of salty, disgusting mealyness.

Translation: I know I called the Destroyer because I wanted a little boost to my ego, a little sop to my desire to be desired, a nod to my need for validation. And instead of walking away cheered by the interaction, I walked away confused as to what the Destroyer wants from me, what I want from him, and why I ever thought he would be a good person to call while blue. He's a Destroyer! He can't help it, but he engenders jealousy and self-loathing, because while everything he does says, "I like you! I want you!" (see: taking and drinking my beer, changing clothes twice in the bedroom while I'm in the living room, telling me that he's not seeing that girl anymore, inviting me to try out the bed while he's lying on it), he always backs away from actually saying anything that might be perceived as interest. And then you feel really stupid for thinking that there's anything there.

The Destroyer: the ignition to the engine of shame.

Meaning: I deleted him (again) from my phone and call log, and gave the number to Joiner for safekeeping. It's just too dangerous.

In other perplexing news, I got an email from KB, whom I saw in Seoul in July, and I am confused. This is part of what he writes:

Keep thinking back that I wish you had stayed that night we met up in Seoul. I feel bad because I didn't encourage it but I felt it would be like semi cheating on my other 'aquantence'. End of the day we lost touch (read: she slowly started ignoring my calls and texts).

Anyway sorry for not offering you a bed that night. Next time I promise.

So, he's not such a great speller. But notice the content of the excerpt! What happened that night is that he mentioned he'd wound up sleeping with one of his friends and that they were sort of maybe seeing each other. We had a great time together that night, and I was tempted to stay over, especially when he said, "You can stay here if you don't want to get on the subway this late." When I hesitated, weighing the options, he added, "I promise nothing will happen." But I didn't think it wise, so I went home.

So what's the deal about not offering a bed that night? He totally did. And I said no. So... ?

God. It's just too exhausting. I've got to go to bed. My own, lumpy, not-soft-at-all, solitary, and totally not-confused bed.

P.S. A souffle? Really?

And the signs continue

Who knew that I was so superstitious? Well, okay, I did. It's not that I believe that God, if God exists, is personally watching over me and sending me divine text messages or anything ("U still at l.skul? U shd get out. LOL, G."). And I'm rather dismissive of Joiner's need to knock on wood after dangerous statements like "You won't get hit by a bus tomorrow," or her daily horoscope readings. If things happen that seem more than coincidental, it doesn't mean that they aren't coincidence, but ... what if they aren't? What if the universe really is sending you a message?

Of course, the rational man's explanation for why everything starts looking like a personal message is that when you've got something on your mind, you start seeing it everywhere. So maybe that's why, when I went to the library yesterday to grumpily check out a book for my reading group that I didn't really want to read, and with a sigh of resignation started to read it, I nearly dropped the book, because it seemed like the author was talking right to me.

Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart .... This above all -- ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: must I write? .... And if this should be should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple "I must," then build your life according to this necessity.

Perhaps you learned readers have read Letters to a Young Poet? I hadn't, and it's never even been on my radar, but last night I couldn't tear my eyes away from those 10 letters that German writer Rainer Maria Rilke wrote to a young admirer in 1903-1904. Some of the stuff was a little wacky, but there were, like, hidden messages in there to me, I swear. (And to every lost soul out there.) (i.e., 75% of the law school population.)

...be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves .... Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

Working on it, Rainer. Working on it.

And in other non-law-related news? Helen Mirren is a goddess. I've been reading about the last episode of her series Prime Suspect and how she's all that and a bag of chips, but I just spent an extra 30 minutes on the treadmill in order to watch the show. She's really that good.

And in other, other non-law-related news, except it's about a law school friend, Mathgirl -- my law school friend Mathgirl, whom I met our first year and didn't see at all our second year and now see five times a week because of bankruptcy class, just gave me four pairs of pants and a pair of clogs she doesn't wear, that all fit perfectly, that probably are worth at least $300 (the clogs alone are $115 in a store). I have no shame. I will take clothes from anyone. And I love it.

Okay, I'm going to stop being a cheap-o, non-sequitur-loving, sign-seeing crazy lady now.

Okay. I'm Listening

I met this morning with the director of the career services office at the undergrad Crimson College, after almost a year of urging and gentle reminders from the Neener, who's been going to see "the career shrink" with good effect for some time.

I need to buy Nina a really nice dinner.

Bill started off by asking about how I knew Nina, and then dove into the problem. He asked what I didn't like about law school, and when he saw I was having trouble answering that, he said, "Okay, let me rephrase that -- what do you like about law school?"

I told him I thought that learning about how society worked, about social injustice and inequities was really valuable for me. I told him I liked mediation. He asked if I was an "educator," and I told him I liked counseling and advising one-on-one. He asked why I'd gone to law school, and it was a relief after so many lies in so many interviews to say, "I took the path of least resistance. I never thought I was committing to going to law school by taking the LSAT, or by applying to law schools. And then I had the letter of acceptance to Crimson, and I -- even though I knew it was wrong -- I just... couldn't turn it down."

After about 30 minutes, he started talking. And the things he said -- he validated thoughts that I had had about being in law school in a way that didn't villainize anyone or anything, but broke it down so rationally and perfectly, I thought I might cry.

"Everything I've heard you say makes me think that the only thing you're getting out of law school is anxiety and stress," Bill said. "You aren't the kind of person who feels rewarded by the activities that you do in law school. You aren't the person who is energized by answering questions thrown out by the teacher in front of the class, showing what you know in front of everyone else. And what you're doing, what you have been doing for the past two and a half years is giving, giving, giving all your energy -- and getting nothing back. Law school doesn't have anything to give to you, because you're in the wrong system for you.

"I can see that you are a remarkable woman." (Here, I laughed deprecatingly.) "No, I can. You give a sense of professionalism, you have a solid sense of yourself. You're an excellent listener, and maybe that's why you have been able to move through different cultures and different cities easily, because people sense that you respect them. You observe and you listen, and you respect everyone.

"What I see over and over is that the students here and at your alma mater are good at a large number of things. I could sit here and talk for seven weeks about different jobs you could do, and for most of them, you'd say, 'Yeah, I could see myself doing that,' because you can. You could do those jobs, and you would get them, because you would sell yourself, and the employers would believe your sell job.

"But that's why that's the wrong approach. It's not about you fitting yourself into job X or Y. It's about you figuring out who you really are."

We talked some more about this and that, including how Crimson Law School really needs to finesse their admissions process so that a large number of its graduates don't come back seeking Bill's advice after a year of working in a firm. And then he gave me a list of eight questions to answer about myself before we met again.

I left Bill's office feeling hopeful. Bill was realistic and optimistic, and I felt like I had just gotten an advocate and guide in one.

I had talked with Bill so long that I had missed the beginning of my corporations class, which is about the sixth class in a row that I've missed. Despite this questionable attendance, or perhaps because of it, I dawdled, getting breakfast at the Science Center on the way to the classroom.

I had just finished my eggwich and was sitting staring off into the distance, thinking about the conversation I had just had, when a voice from my left said, "Hello."

I turned to face a dark-haired and stocky young man in a striped polo shirt, with I-Pod earpieces in his ears and stubble on his cheeks. I wasn't even sure he was talking to me, but I said hello back.

The voice turned out to belong to a freshman math major, who is taking an extremely difficult math class, wants to become a physics professor, and has mild Asperger's syndrome and ADHD (all gleaned from our ensuing conversation of 15 minutes). He didn't really exhibit many of the usual difficulties with social behavior and awareness that are characteristic of Asperger's; I told him so, and he said that the meds he took for ADHD helped with the Asperger's too. (I wonder, though, if I didn't notice his oddities because I often ask inappropriate questions myself.)

He talked about how hard his math class was, how people who take that class have gone on to be superstars in the math world, how he knew he wanted to be a physics professor from age 11, how people with Asperger's syndrome are often very gifted in math and science, how he was so busy with doing the homework for his math class that he didn't even have time to date this girl he'd asked out (I told him he should build in time in his schedule to go out on dates), how he'd gotten drunk at a party last weekend and pole-danced (along with a number of other male students, apparently), how he was such a Jew because he was at Crimson and in the math major, how it was obvious that OJ Simpson was guilty, and ... a number of other things.

For some reason, I sat there listening, even though I might normally have excused myself from the onslaught of personal information from a stranger.

"What are you doing here? Are you waiting for a class?" he asked.

"I'm, uh, waiting for ... the motivation to go to class."

"Which class?"

"It's at the law school," I said, gesturing vaguely in that direction.

"You're a law student?" he said. I nodded, and he was off again -- his father was a lawyer, a bankruptcy lawyer, until he got really bored with it and at age 40, he quit and became a turnaround management specialist (which I learned about in bankruptcy!).

"Why don't you want to go to class? Do you not like it? If you don't like the law, why did you go to law school?"

"Oh," I said, thinking how odd it was to be having this conversation twice in the same morning, "it was the path of least resistance."

"Well, it's not too late to switch and do something else. You could transfer to another grad school. What year are you in?"

"Third year."

"Oh." He considered this. "If you were in your first year, I'd say you could transfer or something, but since it's your last year, you could stick it out and just do something else when you graduate."

"Yeah, I'm working on it," I murmured.

"You should do something you like. Otherwise you'll end up like all those other lawyers who live in the suburbs and are dead inside. That's what the suburbs are, right? Like my dad was pretty unhappy as a lawyer, but now he likes his job."

"I'll think about it," I said, amused and slightly spooked by the conversation, but also strangely touched by the frosh's advice. "Well, I guess I should go to class now."

"Yeah, I've got class in 10 minutes too." He paused. "You know, we never even told each other our names."

"I'm hk."

"I'm Jack."

"Jack," I repeated. "It was nice talking to you."

"Yeah, it was interesting. You know, we probably won't ever see each other again."

"Huh," I said, taken aback. "Well, I see the Asperger's coming out," I laughed.

"No, but it's true," he insisted. "We probably won't meet again."

"Not unless I skip class again and hang out in the Science Center," I agreed, with a smile. "But that's kind of sad," I said. "Well, my name is hk, and you can look me up at the law school."

"Okay. Good luck with finding something you want to do."

"Thanks. Take care of yourself."

And I walked away.

Over the summer, one of my officemates said to me -- while resting his hand on my shoulder and looking at me with devout, shiny, slightly crazy eyes -- "hk, God has a plan for you. Don't forget." I told someone about that later, and how I wished it were true, and if it were true, how I wished God would speak up a little louder, because I couldn't hear the plan, and I was pretty confused about what it was.

Well, if God exists, and if He has a plan for me and every other being in the universe, He may not have spelled it out this morning, but He did drop a couple pretty heavy anvils on my head. A chance meeting with a kid who repeated the same advice that Bill gave me just half an hour earlier? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'll never see "Jack" again either. But I hear ya, man. I hear ya loud and clear.

Britney and the U.S. DTMFA*

I know some people have bristled at the sight of Britney's filing for divorce occupying prime news space on CNN and other reputable news sites on the first day of lightness and joy in this country since 2000. Apparently, they think this is further proof that this country is going to pot, that Americans don't care about anything but bubble gum pop culture, that media outlets are pandering to the lowest denominator.

But these Glum Guses and Moaning Myrtles are missing the point! Of COURSE K-Fed got kicked to the curb the same day that Democrats took the House (and, we hope, the Senate). Of COURSE Britney said, "K-Fizzle, you are TOXIC and I am DONE" the same day that Dems swept governors' races across the country (with the notable exception of the Terminator -- Cali! I am so ashamed of you! Go to your room and THINK about what you've done!).

And why? Because Brit IS America, dude. I present the proof:

1. Brit got married to K-Fed in 2004 (the year of the last election -- not a coincidence!) the way that America got married (or re-married, but that's debatable -- see "2000, presidential election of") to an intellectually challenged tall white guy with a penchant for boozing and partying.
2. The world groaned, 'cause really -- K-Fed? He of the raggedy cut-off pants and questionable hygiene? Similarly, the world groaned with the election of GWB in Nov. 2004, 'cause really -- GWB? Didn't America know better by then? He of the draft avoidance and the college Cs? This is who we wanted to represent us in the world?
3. K-Fed starts spending Brit's money. LOTS of Brit's money. On questionable items, like a $300,000 watch. Similarly, GWB spends money like crazy on questionable items such as the war in Iraq.
4. Brit gets pissed and depressed. Rumors fly that she cuts off K-Fed's allowance, etc. Similarly, America registers its disapproval of GWB through ratings lower than any other president since Nixon.
5. K-Fed attempts to distract Brit with another baby. GWB tries to distract America with the war on terror.
6. 2006 - Brit BRINGS it. She dumps the mofo, comes out smiling and svelte, and generally exudes the following: "You smirking, no-talent, worthless schmuck. You have taken your last Las Vegas trip on my dime. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE." Similarly, America brushed itself off and said, "You know what? I don't really see what you've done for me, GWB. I thought you were a good guy. I know, I know, a little light in the smarts area, but basically a good guy. But every country in the world hates us, we never found any WMD, we're embroiled in a war we can't extricate ourselves from, you've racked up the deficit again -- you! a Republican! -- I can't bring my mascara on board with me any more, and you know what? I'm DONE. Get you and yours OUT OF MY HOUSE."

Boo yah!

Brit and America: basically sweet, dumb as a brick, and fighting back. Congrats, you two. The world thanks you both.

* Dump the M'F**er Already (TM, Dan Savage)

Rested and raging

Rested? Well, sure, why not? If you skipped class three days last week and watched ABC shows online in your dark room while playing hooky, AND did absolutely no work at clinical five days last week, you might feel rested too. Even though you did read bankruptcy from 4:30 pm to 1:30 am last night. (No joke. It was sad. But Dunkin' Donuts coffee is an amazing stimulant!) The running yesterday and today helped too. Exercise is KEY.

One Armed Maggie was in town this weekend on a business trip, staying at Def and Stave's house, and so we all had brunch this morning, which was pretty awesome. See, I do get out and enjoy life sometimes.

This afternoon, though, I was almost unreasonably incensed by someone in Student Org #1. She was supposed to get something done by Oct. 15, and because I knew she had forgotten about this task, I had reminded her to do it on Oct. 3. I'd put it out of my mind, when today this person emailed a couple of us to ask how to finish the task.

Dear lord: why do I have to deal with sub-humans?

So I pretty nicely say, you could do it this way for these people who are supposed to receive the product, but for the others, you might have to track them down at a meeting later. In the spring, to avoid having to track down those people, you may want to consider doing this by the middle of the month, which is what we did last year. I think that also helps other people learn names. Thanks. [paraphrased so as not to be too detailed]

And the little snot writes back, thanks, hk. Sorry for the delay! Neither my co-director nor I remembered that our org did this until we were told about it on Oct. 14!

Oooh, you cannot imagine my rage. I wrote to my co-leader, "I want to hurt someone right now. I sent them an effin' email about this task on Oct. 3. It takes about one hour to do it. I effin' HATE it when people don't do what they're supposed to do AND make up a lame excuse for it. HATE."

God. It's not enough that the idiot forgot to do something we told her to do last year, when we were passing on the duties of her position. No. She has to wait two weeks after the last day it would even have much use to ASK US HOW TO DO IT. And then out and out LIE about not knowing until the day before it was supposed to get done.

My blood boils just at the thought of it. My co-leader wrote back to me, "Wow, I think that is the most irate I have ever seen you." Yeah, it probably is. But I really can't stand it when people lie to cover their asses -- when they're not responsible enough to get something done, and not adult enough to take responsbility for it when it doesn't get done.

I think this partly is why I hate Crimson Law School so much. All the students and faculty are "smart," okay? They test really, really well; they are fantastically articulate and intellectual; they can be passionate and driven. But some of them? They lack -- I can't decide if it's maturity or common sense. Certainly this person lacks both. And it's not just a function of age -- she's frickin' 25 years old! It's more a function of having been in school your whole life, excelling and being petted, not having to deal with the consequences of fucking up because you've never really fucked up in a situation that mattered to anyone else. The interns I went out with on Friday night, who go to a local law school? They would have had the common sense and decency to realize their mistake and apologize. And they would have done better the next time. They would not have made up a weak-ass excuse composed in a passive-aggressive "why are you picking on me?" tone.

Now. Here's the kicker. This person is also the person that Mr. Destroyer told me he was dating -- he also called her a "moron," because she had no idea about what life was like. I can't help but wonder, a little sadly, if I'm more enraged than I would normally be about her behavior because Mr. Destroyer told me they went out on a few dates.

Hm. On second thought -- no. I'm just angry on principle. I believe that if you fuck up, you own up to it. You say you're sorry and you pledge to do better the next time -- not just in words, but in intent. The fact that she lacks common sense, maturity, and a sense of responsibility just makes me think less of Mr. Destroyer. Seriously, dude. How did you go from dating the She-Destroyer, who is, yes, fucked up in the head, admittedly, but is also forthright, articulate, passionate, beautiful, intellectual, and responsible, to this snot-nosed kid?

Whew. Rage, dude. Inner rage.

Status

In my negotiations seminar on emotions this week, we talked about status as one of the core concerns to be aware of in negotiations, and did some stupid exercises. That class has turned out to be rather disappointing -- I would have been better off reading the book. But at least it's different.

Anyway, I was out tonight in two different and very highly status-conscious situations. First, I went out for drinks with two interns at the clinical placement I'm at this term, plus another law student from their school. They're from a local law school, and the Crimson-bomb danced around the table where we were having drinks for a while, all threatening to blow up and stuff. Always difficult dealing with that "Oh, you go THERE" kind of comment, and the initial "should I be, like bowing to you and stuff?" knee-jerk reaction people have.

I'm afraid I compound it sometimes, like when one guy mentioned he went to college in Ithaca and I automatically assumed his almer mater was Cornell. Nope - turns out there's an Ithaca College too. And you know what? The guy is going to go work at the same law firm in Crimson City that a number of third years at Crimson Law School are going to, so really, if it ends at the same place, does it matter how you got there? And yet, it does. It always does.

Second, I went out to a choral concert with Mr. Destroyer -- the first time I've seen him since that apparently disastrous first meeting this term, when I told him I was tired of being summoned to his events at the last minute and being ignored when I suggested other times to meet, and since the ensuing drama-laden email chain.

The first half hour was rough. He had told me he was going to come to the happy hour with my coworkers, but didn't, and so I assumed he wanted to just meet at the concert, but he wasn't clear about wanting to meet before then, so it was all a terrible phone conversation and a half, and he showed up really hungry and out of sorts and was acting like a big, big pain. We were walking along in the freezing cold weather barely talking, with less than an hour left before the concert, and I thought despairingly, "Why did I even try to be friends with the Destroyer? Why?"

Awkward!

But then we found a place to eat, and I said, "Okay, you're not going to be happy in the concert unless you eat, so let's sit down and eat and not worry about being on time." He said, "This is awkward, huh?" and I said, "Yeah, well, it's been a while since we've seen each other, so maybe we can consider this our adjustment period or transition time or something." And then, over some food, we started talking more normally, and he put his arm around me, and we ended up not going to the concert at all, and totally wound up going back to his place and -- what can I say? Hypno-toad.

Bwah hah hah! Gotcha! No, that did not happen, nor will that ever happen, because -- look, the man is delightful, he just is. He's charming, he creates the sense that you're the only person in the world, he's disarmingly open and intimate, and he's got that Satanic sex appeal. (If you watch Grey's Anatomy, it's the McDreamy effect, with lighter colored hair and less of it.) But he is also untrustable. Like, he hangs out with a recently married female friend in his apartment alone, drinking wine together and whatnot, and scoffs at naysayers as prudish. He sits a little too close for someone not pursuing you. He calls the girl he's dating* "a moron" because while "she does quite well for herself," she "doesn't have any clue about life."

A little about this girl -- and bear with me, because while it may seem that I'm harping on this point because I'm jealous or something, I have a point to make. The She-Destroyer told me about "the girl [Mr. Destroyer] was dating," mostly to the effect that he was dating someone who looked like me. Tonight, Mr. Destroyer asked me if I knew a Ms. Moron. I replied that I did, and then listened in equal parts horror and amusement when I learned why he was asking about her. I happen to know her somewhat well, since we both work in Student Org #1 together. To be honest, I understand why he calls her a moron, because she is kind of scatterbrained and lacking in common sense and flighty, and my first thought upon learning that he was dating her was, "Wow, your standards are LOW." But hey, we can't all be beautiful, brainy, impassioned academics like the She-Destroyer. After the She-Destroyer, any girl is going to seem less interesting, less articulate and less beautiful. Still. If you were dating someone, wouldn't you be thrilled to know that he's talking trash about you to another girl? This is why Mr. Destroyer is awful. And not to be trusted. Because what does he say about me to other people?

Anyway. He had some choice comments tonight, like:

- "Boy, just when I think you have moments of depth, you prove me completely wrong." (When I called him on it, saying he was insulting, he defensively said that it was so ridiculous it was obvious he was joking.)
- "I'm smiling because you make me happy."
- "Even earlier in the evening, when it was awkward, I felt comfortable with that. I always feel comfortable around you."
- "I always have this image of you as dispassionate." (Later, when I ask in exasperation how I'm supposed to be more passionate if I'm not: "I don't know, be with someone you hate but are attracted to?")
- "So, are you dating anyone? I asked you that earlier, but you ignored that. Or maybe you didn't hear me." (Actually, he'd followed that question with another one when he asked it initially, so I had answered the second and not the first.)
- "The only part of me that's warm is the part of my leg rubbing against your ass." (Bwah hah hah! This is a real quote, but lemme put it in context -- I demanded a ride home on the handlebar of his bike, and he was complaining that no, the exercise wasn't warming him up at all.)

So, like, fuckwittage, right? And yet, I am the moth drawn to the flame that will consume me. I admit, I commit a bit of fuckwittage back, but I am a mere acolyte compared to the master. It's like he was born to play mind games.

What was the point of all this? Oh yes. Status. I can never be sure where I am with the Destroyer, because we always seem to be jockeying for the higher position. We appear to be forthright, when we're really hiding everything. Actually, that's not true -- I appear to be forthright, when I'm hiding everything. For him, I don't know that there is anything beyond what he says.

We both agreed that it was fun tonight. But will we -- no, will I do anything more about the Destroyer? Will I initiate contact? Will I try to keep in touch more, get together and do things more often? Hm. See: flame, drawn to.

Damn. Already 1:30 am? Too much time spent dissecting Destroyer-dom (because it's fascinating). I'm done (for tonight, at least, but tomorrow I'll have a long conversation with Joiner about all details of the evening).

In lieu of a real post

I present... a morning glory:



Although, now that I'm here...

I haven't heard from Seattle firm or govt agency yet. I was sitting at dinner on Tuesday, with half a pumpkin ale already down the hatch, when Resident Evil* suggested I flip a coin to decide which job to take. "Flip a coin and say that you're going to stick to whatever it comes down as. Then check with yourself if you want to flip it again." (And that worked so well in Vietnam.)

"I kind of hope I don't get the jobs, so that I won't have to decide," I told her. She cocked her head and said, "Well, that's kind of a sign too, don't you think?" Resident Evils are smart.

I've been skipping class -- skipped bankruptcy yesterday and corporations today -- and have been enjoying the time off, albeit in a depressed sort of way. Instead of going to bankruptcy yesterday, I sat in bed in a darkened room with the shades drawn and watched episodes of Lost on abc.com. Damn you, ABC, and your addictive television shows that I must watch online! Someone from maintenance came by to fix my heater in the middle of the third episode, and I was all, "Um, excuse the darkness and the smell of the ramen in the room, please. I'm just indulging my depressive side. Yes, I am depressed. Because law school sucks, okay? Don't judge me, dammit!"

This morning, I lay in bed and thought about getting up for an hour before actually doing so, then put on one article of gym clothing at a time over the space of another hour before actually getting on the entire ensemble and heading out to the treadmill in the basement. God. Why do I have zero energy these days?

Of course, I have excess energy NOW, at 11 pm, because I had a cup of coffee at 3:30 with my supervisor from last year's clinical, for whom I am basically spying on the inner workings of the state agency he has to bring cases in front of. I actually felt a little bad about this. But hey, I was pretty up front with the agency folks in my clinical proposal that I thought of this as an exercise in how to improve the agency. And my supervisor is just so nice and lovely. Mm. It's true. I have inappropriate thoughts about him. (Shoot. Did I write that out loud?)

Anyway. He strongly encouraged me to take his course in the spring, "because [I] would have such a unique perspective," and that he'd be willing to let me have any clinical placement I wanted. So, you know, I probably will end up taking it, because when was the last time any teacher here expressed any interest in my career development? The Turtle remains the only person at law school who has made me feel like I could actually be a lawyer.

And last in the news for today, I became the ham**, and I am going to Vietnam in December with the Ringleted One.

* Resident Evil = the Resident Advisor on the first floor of my dorm
** Be the Ham! = See, you have a plate of ham and eggs. And the chicken, she's just donated the eggs -- she hasn't really committed. But the pig? The pig is committed, my friend. The pig is there. The pig isn't going away.(Thanks, Grey's Anatomy, for that disturbing metaphor tonight. Hey, as long it's all free range, it's cool by me.)

The Kindness of Strangers

Just a line to say "hey." I was away interviewing last week. Blah. Good to see friends and family, good to eat Ben's Chili Bowl and paella, bad to have to answer SIX times, "So... why Seattle?"

When I was taking the cab home from the airport on Sunday, exhausted in body and spirit, the cab driver asked in an Eastern European accent, "Do you go to the law school?" I said yes, inwardly groaning at the thought of having to converse with a stranger while so tired. "I'm sorry to hear that," he joked. And I agreed, "So am I."

That put a damper on his efforts at conversation (as did my monosyllabic responses), and most of the remainder of the cab ride was in silence. But at the end of the ride, when I was getting ready to hand him the money, he looked at me and asked, "Are you all right, miss? You don't seem so good."

Shocked out of my low energy, but strangely touched, I smiled wearily and said, "No, I'm fine, really. I'm just tired." He took the money I gave him, and said, "It's all going to be all right. You're going to be just fine." I thanked him, and he left. But I did feel pretty warm and fuzzy on the inside.