Wetting your pants for celebrity status

Because I desperately - desperately - needed another thing to distract me from my brilliant legal studies, tomorrow I begin participating in National Blog Posting Month.

That's right. Starting tomorrow I will post EVERY SINGLE DAY for the month of November.

I know. It's exciting. Try not to pee in your pants.

That would be embarrassing.

But it would give me something interesting to blog about. So...let me know if you do.

Deep Breath - It's a Long One

My dear friend T is very interested in reproductive justice and is involved in the reproductive justice group at school. A few weeks ago, she helped in hosting a panel about sex education. I watched videos of people who specialize in abstinence-only education doing their thing, and I participated in a sample lesson-plan for abstinence-only education. It involves a piece of tape that represents a girl being applied to the arm of a boy (which represents a sexual relationship connection). When he pulls the tape off, it’s not quite as sticky anymore now that his skin/hair debris is on it. The lesson, of course, is that every time you have sex with a different person, your ability to create an intimate bond is lessened. I have so many issues with this lesson that I don’t even know where to start. So I’m not going to. I’m just putting it out there as a jumping off point.

So this was all on my mind when I had brunch with my dear friend C the other day. I told her about the lesson. Turns out she’s got a client right now who teaches the sex ed classes at his Unitarian church. He’s about 65 years old, and she says they’ve been having these wonderful conversations about what he’s teaching and how he’s teaching it. Of course it’s comprehensive – he is a Unitarian, after all. And C has a new interest in it now. Because she has a daughter. Her daughter is only one, but it’s got C thinking about the future and about what she’ll teach her and how she’ll teach it.

We started talking about our own sex education – not at school, necessarily, but in our homes, from our parents. C’s education was the opposite of abstinence-only. Her mom’s basic message was “F*cking feels good. Enjoy it.” You might think that it’s refreshing in its honesty, but C felt like something was missing. She didn’t grow up with a lot of the hang-ups about sex that many people do, but she also didn’t get any messages about the intimacy that you can experience, about making good choices, about how sex is emotional and that sometimes there are emotional consequences. She wants her daughter to get those messages.

And we talked about my sex education. I don’t remember much from school. And I don’t remember very many specific conversations, but I do remember that my parents were pretty open and that I felt like I could talk to them about anything.

I wasn’t without my hang-ups. I grew up in a very religious community in the South – I went to Wednesday evening teen groups at the local Baptist church. I’m not sure who could survive that without hang-ups. One day I’m going to give my long-time high-school / college boyfriend a giant trophy for being such a trooper for the 5 years that we dated. Pretty much every time we took a new step forward in our physical relationship – the first time he went up my shirt, the first time he saw my boob, the first time….well, you get what I’m saying – I would end up crying and telling him that we could never do that again. Of course, a few days or weeks down the road, there we would be again, and I would feel a bit more comfortable with whatever it was we were doing. And there wouldn’t be anymore crying until the next thing.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think a high-school boy is owed anything or should get a medal for sticking with his girl when she doesn’t want to take the next step. It’s more that he was great through all of it, and it wasn’t like he was pressuring me or anything. I was going willingly – I would just have second thoughts afterwards. And then, I think, make him feel really bad about it. And it really wasn’t his fault. At all.

When we were 19, I decided that I was ready. To take the big step. And here’s the really important part. Here’s what I think is a testament to how great my parents were in this respect. I asked my mom to come into my bedroom, and I told her that I was ready to have sex and that I wanted to go on the pill. She didn’t jump up and down or anything. In fact, she had to take a really deep breath. But then she talked to me about it. About making sure that I was safe. And when I asked her questions about what it would feel like or whether it would hurt, she talked to me about that too. She talked to me about her first time and things that I could do to make sure that it was a good experience for me.

And it was. It was with someone who I cared about and who cared about me. Who was careful with me. I was ecstatic, and there was no crying afterwards.

Obviously that relationship ended. And I’ve had other relationships. And other sex. (And I definitely haven’t lost my ability to bond.) I’m a relationship sex person. It’s just who I am and how it works and feels right for me.

But the point is that I had the space and the permission to figure that out about myself. My parents never demonized sex, but they also never pretended like it didn’t have the power to be something really special. And I love that I got both of those messages. Because I think that’s where you get the ability to make the choice that feels right for you.

My children might be ready to sit me down for that conversation when they’re fifteen or sixteen or maybe even earlier. I don’t know. But I hope that I will have created an atmosphere where they feel like they can. And I will take a really deep breath…

WOOOOO-HOOOOO!!!!!!

PHILLIES!!!!! WOOOO-HOOO!!!

The babe's crying.
Philadelphia is happy.

What would Sandra Day think?

Because I am an incredibly blessed and lucky person, I have an appointment set up to meet Justice O'Connor next week and have her take me on a tour of the Supreme Court. The babe is coming along.

Though I haven't broadcast this information widely, those friends that know are super jealous.

In fact, two of my dear friends have offered to engage in romantic relationships with me in exchange for an invitation to join me in meeting O'Connor.

J said to me today, "I'll be your girlfriend too. I won't have sex with you because, well, I don't do that. But I'll cuddle. I'm good at cuddling. I'll let you touch my boob."

That's right. She offered a boob grab in exchange for meeting Justice O'Connor.

Unfortunately for J, I'm deeply devoted to the babe and keep all of my boob grabbing for her.

But, being the kind and giving person that I am, I wanted to put this information out there for any of you hoping to hook up with a lady. Supreme Court Justices are the way to go. Pick a Supreme Court Justice and set up a meeting! That lady will be offering all sorts of things in exchange for the opportunity to tag along.

Government = Ridiculous

I just wrote this in my government contracts notes:

"DLA got DPA from GSA to do ADP."

And it's not just blabbery. That actually means something.

One win away

A special post today - for the babe.

I just read an article on ESPN. I have never in my life read an article on ESPN. In fact, I think I've only ever been on the page to look up something once for the babe. And just now I read a whole article - I even read the second page. This is a big deal.

This morning when I grabbed the Washington Post Express as I headed into the metro station, I turned to the sports section. The sports section has previously been known as the section-that-i-skip-over-to-get-to-the-other-sections section. And yet today, I turned to it. And then I got all cranky and crotchety because there was nothing about the World Series. I railed against the paper in my head. "What the eff? What is going on here? Oooh, the Redskins. Big deal. The Phillies are one win away!" This is a big deal.

Off the top of my head, I can name at least seven players and tell you which positions they play. I could tell you right now how the Phillies scored all of their runs last night. This is a big deal.

You could judge me for being a fair-weather fan, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. It's not like I didn't like the Phillies before because they were losing or something. I just didn't pay much attention to sports in general. I watched with the babe sometimes, and we went to some games together. I always enjoyed it, but I just wasn't invested.

I'm invested now. I sit on the edge of my seat while we watch the games; I gasp and cheer and high five. I care. I'm looking forward to watching the game tonight. That's really not true. I'm anxiously awaiting the game tonight.

I want to cheer for the Phillies and rejoice with all of those fans, like the babe, who have loved them all along, who have cheered for them and believed in them, who get angry when people suggest that their presence here in this World Series is all just luck or a fluke. Who knew that they had it in them.

I want them to win. Tonight.

And yet...

I will be so sad to say goodbye to baseball until next season. I feel like I made a new friend, and I'm going to miss him.

Thank You for Bein' a Friend

Betty White still delivers.

I'm going to go watch some Golden Girls re-runs now.

I Am a Real American

Inspired by jen, who I sort of want to be when I grow up.

I sat in my feminist legal theory class yesterday and watched a presentation on critical race feminism. The presenters showed a portion of the video A Girl Like Me. At one point during the video, the creator performs the famous Brown v. Board of Education doll test with young black children. I watched as a young girl chose the black doll in front of her when asked which doll was the bad doll and chose the white doll when asked which doll was the nice doll. She wasn't confused about why. When the interviewer asked, she said, "Cause this one's black...cause this one's white." And then the interviewer asked her which one she looked like. You can see it on her face. She starts to reach for the white doll. She wants desperately to pick up the white doll. But she knows the truth. She picks up the black doll.

I cried.

It's enough to make you want you to cover your head and quit - that over 60 years after the original tests, these kids are still getting that same message.

But we talked about it. We, a room of racially-diverse people, sat and discussed what it means to be black or white or African or Jamaican or female or male in this country. We agreed and we disagreed.

It doesn't fix it, I know. But I think that, for me, it's part of what it means to be A Real American.

It means acknowledging the state of things. It means acknowledging that there are still little black girls in America who think that being black is bad. It means taking that information in and crying about it and breathing it into all of your cells so that you know that when you breath back out into the world, you're breathing out something better.

It means accepting that the history of America is not only one of hope and promise and resourcefulness and freedom, but also one of fear and discrimination and pain and untruths. Not so that we can flog ourselves. But so that we can see it and learn from it and make the conscious choice to do better, to be better.

It means learning to embrace gray. To see the story from the other side, and to see all the myriad of stories that occur in between.

It means embracing your own story, the parts that make you proud and the parts that make you ashamed. It means sitting with the knowledge that you are part of what this country is and that you are part of what it will become.

It means acknowledging what an amazing gift it is to call this place our home and these people our people - this flawed home and these flawed people - and to get to play our own role in its growth.

It means believing that nothing real is perfect.

Starting the day off right

I had to park my bike on the other side of the street last night when I got home. For some reason, there were three bikes already on my side of the street - where there are usually none. At any rate, I parked it and locked it up and went inside.

This morning, I came out with all my stuff and started to unlock it and get it all set up to head to my internship. I was doing this all in front of a building that is having construction work done. Construction men were coming in and out, laying drop-cloths, and doing other construction-prep type things.

Anyway, I get my bookbag netted down to my bike and unlock everything and roll up my pant leg, and something seems not right. Ah! No helmet. I see people everyday who ride without helmets. However, since I prefer my brains inside my skull, I propped up my bike and rushed inside to get my helmet. I walked out of my apartment, helmet in hand, and when I was about 15 steps from my bike, it crashed to the ground. With my bookbag on it. With my laptop in my bookbag.

All of the construction men - about 5 of them - stood and stared at it. I don't know whether any of them had anything to do with it falling over. I'm not suggesting that they did. But nonetheless, they just stood there staring at it. So I ran over and started trying to lift it up, which was a bit difficult since it was all off-balance because of the bookbag strapped to the back of it. The men continued to just stand there, and then they started to laugh. As I struggled to get the bike back to standing, they laughed. And as I struggled to keep it standing while I readjusted my bookbag and made sure that everything was secure, they stood there and watched me.

WHAT THE EFF? Who are these people? Is it so much to help somebody out? And not laugh at them?

And let me just say that I have met some really nice construction workers in my day. Once two years ago, my car was stuck in the snow, and a group of about 7 guys came over and lifted it off of the snow and pushed me into the street. Lifted it. Like actually picked up my car. I didn't ask them. They just came over because they saw that I was struggling. Clearly not the same construction workers.

These guys. I don't even know what to say about these guys.

Pema, are you out there?

Why is compassion so hard?

Let me clarify - why is compassion for myself so hard? Why is it that I'm filled with understanding and compassion for everyone around me, but as soon as I act in a way that feels less than my best, I can't stop beating myself up over it.

Let me clarify again - When I don't do good schoolwork, when I don't give good interviews, when I answer stupidly in class - I'm bothered by these things, but that's not what I'm talking about.

What I'm talking about is when I am rude or selfish or needy or lacking in understanding, when I'm not the kind of person that I want to be.

I used to have a therapist who asked me why I thought I was so special that I got to be perfect. It's a good question.

My therapist now says that the compassion I have for others now is nothing compared to what it could be if I learned to have more compassion for myself.

So I guess all I'm saying is that I'm trying to keep on with this journey - this journey of becoming vehemently imperfect and wildly compassionate.

It's that time of year again

Yes, it is.

Runny nose season.

The season of balled up used tissues in the pockets of all of your coats and jackets and pants. The season of snot residue on the ends of your sleeves because the balled up tissue in your pocket was so snotty as to have basically disintegrated, making it no longer useful for nose-blowing or snot-wiping. The season of knowing that every time you shake someone's hand, there's a little snot-swapping festival occurring. The season of constant fear that at any moment, there may be a tiny droplet of runny snot gleaming on the inside of your nose making the person that you're speaking to incredibly uncomfortable.

Ah, what a special time.

This year, runny nose season has taken on a new and delightful meaning for me. Why? Because I am now a bike rider. Yes, I now experience the pleasure of making frantic calculations as I ride next to as*hole car drivers - if I take my left hand off of the handle right now to wipe the snot from my nose, will I veer and hit the curb or hit the car that is driving ever closer to me? If I take my left hand off of the handle right now, is this car close enough to me that I could shoot a snot rocket onto their window? God, I wish I knew how to blow a snot rocket.

Because I actually do not like to have snot incessantly running down my face, and because I am fearful of wrecking my bike as I try to wipe snot and/or blow my nose (which I have attempted), I have come up with a couple of ideas. 1. Crochet a tiny nose stocking with an elastic cord that goes around my head. It will cover my nose, keep it from getting too cold, and catch any wayward snot. 2. Roll up tissue paper and stick it into my nostrils to soak up any snot while I ride. Of course, I'll have to buy throat lozenges to address the sore throat that I'll have from breathing with my mouth open in the cold. 3. Wear a stick-on mustache while I ride so that all of the snot will get caught in it. This has the added benefit of entertaining passer-by who will try to figure out whether I am a boy or a girl. Of course, I hate all passer-by when I am on my bike, so I'm not sure that I want to entertain them.

Snot. Good times.

Wishing

It's cold out. It happened all of a sudden. Sort of snuck up on me, but it looks like it's hear to stay.

That smell in the air and the crunching of the leaves has got me thinking about where I'd like to be this evening.

In a cabin like this:

Sipping a warm cup of apple cider, curled up with the babe on a couch in front of a fire like this:

With a dog by my side like this:

Or maybe like this:

with no plans for tomorrow except to wake up and sit on a porch that overlooks a lake like this:

Mmmm....maybe another Saturday night....

Oh Happy Day

I GOT AN OFFER!

It's a firm that I like, and they have a lot of gay people, and they do a lot of pro bono. It's just good all around.

Although thank goodness the attorney extended the offer before this part of the conversation occurred:

The Attorney: Everyone was very impressed with you.
Me: (Gushing) Oh, I loved everyone I met with.......Well, I didn't LOVE them. I mean, that would be weird. Ha ha.....Um, I really enjoyed meeting everyone.
The Attorney: (silently pondering whether this was a good choice)

Aha! They're stuck with me! :)

In other news:

The Phillies are in the World Series! The Babe is soooooo happy!

B and P had their interview in Ecuador, and they were approved. There was a minor paperwork glitch, so some things are going to have to be sent back and forth, but within about a week, they should be heading to the US!

My List

For a while now, I've had a sort of running list in my head of things I'd like to do in my life before I...well, you know...move on to...whatever comes after this life. I believe we're calling this a Bucket List nowadays.

I've been thinking lately about how lucky I am to even feel like thinking about those things is an option for me. There are so many people who just have to put one foot in front of the other, day in and day out, who don't have time to ponder on what the future may hold, and certainly not to keep a wish list. Although I guess I would love to think that even those whose lives seem without hope may hold at least some tiny little pebble of hope or wish for something.

So, I'm posting my list here in honor of anyone who doesn't have a list - for whatever reason. Feel free to share your list in the comments. I'd love to see.

In no particular order:

Make a quilt. (A real one, not this rag quilt I've been working on for a thousand years)
Become a parent.
Learn to play the guitar.
Write a book and get it published.
Learn Spanish.
Sing on stage with a band.
Develop a better relationship with my dad.
Finish a triathlon.
Travel, travel, travel. All over.
Roadtrip across the country in an RV.
See the northern lights.
Live somewhere truly beautiful.
Renovate a house. Or at least a room.
Learn to really relax and enjoy life.
Learn to play the harmonica.
Perform on stage before a packed house.
Go scuba diving.
Stay in a disgustingly luxurious resort.
Get married - legally.
Do something truly great (I'm hoping I'll know this when I see it).
Find a faith community that feels right for me.
Learn to ski (snow - although I guess water could be fun too).

So much to look forward to! I know there are more, but I can't think of them right now. And that looks like enough to keep me busy for quite a while. :)

Callbacks and Ecuador

Sometimes my posts on here make me feel like I'm bipolar.

Happy post. Sad post. Funny post. Depressed post.

Maybe that's just the nature of law school.

I feel worn out today - tired and like maybe I could cry at any moment for no reason. (Note to self - writing "I could cry at any moment for no reason" makes it worse. Don't do that again.)

I had my 4th callback with BigLaw today. So that's all the callbacks. 2 rejections already. The 3rd one is still out there, but my chances are pretty small considering the number of slots they still have open and the number of offers still in the balance. The interviews today seemed to go fine, but now I'm jaded and disgruntled, so who knows? Everyone's at the end of their callback schedules, so they've already made lots of offers.

I feel like I need to shake myself and say, "hey, snap out of it!" I'll let you know how that goes.

In other news:

My dear friend B and her husband P (an Ecuadorian citizen) are meeting with the US consulate tomorrow in Ecuador, and hopefully that will go well and they'll be able to enter the US soon together! And never have to be apart again. Send good thoughts that way!

It's Electrifying!

Note to reader: In order to entice my sister (who is living in Paris) to read my blog a bit more, I have translated the following post into French with freetranslation.com. And then, just for fun, I translated it back into English. The two follow the original post. Enjoy! Hat tip, Skepchick.

I have a lamp over my desk that has one of those switches that is on the cord. The little switch looks like this:

Lately when I turn the lamp on, the switch has been making some noise. It sounds a bit like this – zzsht. Zzzssht. Zssht. And the light flickers, but if I tap it a bit, the light turns on and stays on. Sweet.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking maybe I shouldn’t turn the light on anymore. Or I should get a new power cord. Or something equally smart and proactive.

Interesting.

You must have forgotten that I am in law school.

By that statement, I obviously mean that law school is so bad that getting electrocuted by my lamp doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.

I know – that’s a bit much. Anyway….

I turned on the lamp this morning and it did it’s standard zzsht zzsht business, and I leaned down to tap it, and… woh! Fire! Fire! Smoke and fire and sparks coming from the light switch! Holy crap. What to do?! What to do?!

Thank god it occurred to me to unplug it even though I had only been out of bed for about 45 seconds. Unplug and beat with a towel! I saved the day! Hmm…Okay, lesson learned.

The French:

J'ai une lampe sur mon bureau qui a un de ces commutateurs qui est sur la corde. Le petit commutateur a l'air de ceci :

Dernièrement quand j'allume la lampe, le commutateur a fait quelque bruit. Il semble un morceau comme ceci – zzsht. Zzzssht. Zssht. Et la lumière scintille, mais si je le tape un morceau, la lumière allume et reste sur. Doux.

Approuver, je sais que vous pensez. Vous pensez peut-être que je ne dois pas allumer la lumière plus. Ou je dois obtenir un nouveau cordon d'alimentation. Ou quelque chose également intelligent et dynamique.

Intéresser.

Vous devez avoir oublié que je suis dans l'école de loi.

Par cette déclaration, je signifie évidemment que cette école de loi est si mauvaise qu'obtenant électrocuté par ma lampe ne semble pas comme ça grand d'une affaire.

Je sais – cela est un morceau beaucoup de. De toute façon….

J'ai allumé la lampe ce matin et il a fait c'est les affaires de zzsht de zzsht standard, et je me suis penché en bas le taper, et… woh ! Feu ! Feu ! La fumée et le feu et les étincelles venant du commutateur léger ! Foutaise sainte. Quel faire-t-il ? ! Quel faire-t-il ? !

Remercier dieu il m'est arrivé le débrancher bien que j'avais été sans lit seulement pour environ de 45 seconde. Débrancher et battre avec une serviette ! J'ai épargné le jour ! Hmm…approuve, la leçon a appris.





And the English from the French:

I have a lamp on my office that has an of these switches that is on the rope. The small switch seems of this:

Recently when I light the lamp, the switch did some noise. It seems a piece as this – zzsht. Zzzssht. Zssht. And the light sparkles, but if I type it a piece, the light lights and remains on. Soft.

Approve, I know that you think. You think maybe that I must not light the light more. Or I must obtain a new cord of nutrition. Or equally intelligent and dynamic something.

Interest.

You must have forgotten that I am in the law school.

By this declaration, I mean evidently that this law school is so bad that obtaining electrocuted by my lamp does not seem as that big of a matter.

I know – that is a piece a lot of. In any case….

I lit the lamp this morning and it did this is the matters of zzsht of standard zzsht, and I leaned myself down below to type it, and… woh! Fire! Fire! The smoke and the fire and the sparks coming from the light switch! Holy bullshit. Which do it? ! Which do it? !

Thank god it arrived me it to disconnect although I had been without reads only for about of 45 seconds. Disconnect and beat with a briefcase! I saved the day! Hmm…approuve, the lesson learned.

On Days that are Crappy

There are days I feel like my path has gone terribly awry. And there are days I think that paths don't go awry, that they just...go. In whatever direction that is. And that we are just wherever we are and we go on from there.

But today is not one of the latter days. It's the former.

I try to remember that the other days exist - in the hopes that they'll temper my fear and panic and unrest.

But it's a pretty serious effort. And I'm not sure it's working that well.

Who are these people who sort of bop through law school?
I know I'm not one of them.

Surprise Surprise!

I walked into the bathroom, walked to my usual stall (there are three – mine’s the one furthest left), and sat down for a standard pee. There was one other person in the bathroom – in the stall furthest right. One stall between us.

So I start to pee and Surpoot!

That’s right – a surprise poot. Completely unexpected. Poot! Just like that. Not a fart – just a poot – kind of like the sound of a bee bee gun, maybe?

Of course, I clench up reflexively in the Holy-God-I’ve-Made-a-Sound-In-A-Public-Restroom-Other-Than-My-Urine-Hitting-the-Toilet-Bowl-Water kind of way. The stream of pee stops.

And then from the other stall: “Hey, I heard that! You – in the far stall – I heard that poot!...... Why are you trying to be so quiet?....... I can hear you breathing!”




Okay, so obviously that didn’t happen.

There was no noise from the other stall. But I knew she was thinking it.

My eyes began to water from holding back the pee. My legs quivered from the hovering.

The bathroom was silent.

What to do now? Pee and risk another poot? Hold it in and hope that she’ll leave? Wipe and zip up and leave and come back later?


Okay, the second two really aren’t options. I’m going to break. Do you know how hard it is to be in a bathroom and NOT pee?




Dear Reader, believe me when I say that I had no choice.

So I peed. And pooted. Poot. Poot. Poot….poot….poot.

And then I wiped so fast, flushed, and tore out of the stall. I wanted to run straight for the door, but I couldn’t have her thinking that I was a DIRTY public bathroom pooter.

So I forced myself to wash my hands. And just as I was grabbing a paper towel, she flushed the toilet. Aaagh!

I ran – yes, a sad The-Person-Who-Heard-Me-Poot-In-A-Public-Restroom-Is-Going-To-Come-Out-Of-The-Stall-And-See-My-Face kind of run-shuffle out of the bathroom.

But she doesn’t know who I am, and I don’t know who she is. And, because of this, I will hopefully be able to use that restroom again and not have to resort to keeping a pee can under my desk.



Hat tip to Petunia Face. Ah, the irony. I had just read her post.

The Big Questions, Part II

I said I would do some research, and research I did.

Last night, I told the Babe that I had tried it out and that, to my dismay, it worked. The pants stayed up, and I could walk. She wasn't surprised and immediately hopped up to try it with her own pants. The following conversation ensued as we both walked around with our pants under our butts:


Me: But there's still the question of where stuff is. See, if I dated a guy, I would just come home and tell him to wear his pants down low and I'd check things out to see where it is.

the Babe: I think different guys have their junk positioned differently, you know?

Me: Yeah, I guess. I guess if the pants are here (pointing to where my pants are), the junk could be in between your legs.

the Babe: Or, I think the pants could be up here (she pulls them up just a teensy bit higher). I think they might be resting them on their junk.

Me: No. No! Seriously? They're resting them on their junk? That can't be comfortable.

the Babe: (knods seriously) I think they are.

Me: Or else they've got it between their legs.

the Babe: Yeah, I mean they're either pulled up higher and they're resting it on the junk or they're down lower, and the junk's just hangin' out there.

Me: Wow. Yeah....I guess you're right...yeah....




Ah, lesbians discussing the junk.



And as a special treat, per saisai's request

I think I'm going to leave this style for the boys.

The Big Questions

I’m sitting on the metro today reading for class, and this guy gets up and walks towards the doors of the train. I’m guessing he’s somewhere between 18 and 25 years old. He reaches up with both hands, grabs the bar running across the top of the train and starts doing pull-ups, sort of vigorous pull-ups too. He does about 5. Then he drops down and beats his chest a la Tarzan.

Okay, kind of creepy.

Then he makes his fingers into guns and starts kind of shooting all around him. He’s not making any noise really, just silently mouthing pow pow pow. (It could be that he’s just dealing with some pent-up aggression over the girl who is listening to heavy metal on her ipod so loudly that I’m getting a headache from it, which would be warranted.) At any rate, this is all happening over the course of about a minute and a half.

The doors open, and he walks off the train.

Um, weird.

But he’s off the train now, and while I’m still concerned that I may snap and attack the ipod girl, I no longer fear for my own life from the pull-up boy, which leaves me to ponder on important things.

Like pull-up boy’s pants.

This is not a picture of his actual butt, of course – but this is what was happening.

Frankly, I have to say that I’m kind of shocked that this is still in fashion. I thought it would be over in 1992 or something, but clearly I was wrong.

My concern today is not with the aesthetics, though. I’m talking about physics. And biology.

Hips and butts hold up pants. That’s what they do. It’s what they’re good for. Okay, they’re good for some other things, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking pants.

So, when this guy’s pants are below his hips and his butt, what is holding them up? I truly do not know. He had on a belt, so you could say that the belt is holding them up, but it’s tightened around his thighs. So, if it’s tight enough to hold up his pants, how does he walk? I saw him walking, so I know that he can.

And then here’s the big question – what about his, um…stuff? From what I could tell, it’s probably being smashed by his belt. That can’t be comfortable.
In the interest of full disclosure, I’m not all that experienced with the male anatomy, but I do know generally where everything is, and it was under this dude’s belt.

So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go home tonight and put on a pair of baggy pants and sinch them with a belt right underneath my butt. And try to walk and see what happens. I know – this doesn’t solve the question of what’s getting smashed, but come on, there’s only so much I can do. I’ll report back with my findings.

The Best Laid Plans

9:32 pm - Call the babe to say goodnight, the plan being to go to bed early after a stressful, emotionally traumatic day and get up rejuvenated around 6:00 to do a bit of yoga and spend an hour finishing evidence reading before heading to the internship.

9:52 pm - Hang up with the babe, turn out the light, and snuggle under covers.

10:18 pm - Readjust my position in the bed for about the 30th time. Begin slowly saying a relaxing mantra in my head.

10:22 pm - Decide that I will get up and read if I'm still awake at 10:30.

10:26 pm - Get out of bed and get evidence book. Figure that I might as well be useful. Besides, it was putting me to sleep earlier.

11:04 pm - Curse my damned brain for not cooperating. Curse my evidence book for not putting me to sleep. Just curse in general. Sigh heavily in dejected manner.

11:05 pm - Harumph off the bed and put on my slippers. Shuffle into kitchen and pour glass of soymilk. Spread cheese on piece of bread. Sit down at computer. Confirm no new emails/chats/comments since last time I checked. Start reading blogs. Eat and read.

11:45 pm - Wonder how it is possible that I'm not falling asleep at the computer. Curse my damned brain.

12:05 pm - Back in bed. Trying to think relaxing thoughts. Trying not to think non-relaxing thoughts like "HOLY GOD, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ASLEEP 2 HOURS AGO, AND NOW YOU'RE NOT GOING TO GET ENOUGH SLEEP AND YOU'RE GOING TO BE TIRED FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!"

12:18 pm - Curse my damned brain.

6:00 am - Curse my damned alarm clock. Yoga. Hmm... Ha.

...and the law won

How many ways can I say that I'm really not into school right now?

Law school sucks.
I'm done.
Boo for law school.
Done. Done. DOOOOOONE.
Meh.
Law school is a poopyhead.
Ptttpbh.
Law school can kiss my arse.

Some questions about the vice-presidential debate

Can you give a shout out in a vice presidential debate? Is that allowed?

Why is it so hard to pronounce the word nuclear? NEW - KLEE - ER - is that so hard?

What is the appeal in constantly smiling like a snarky reporter?

When did the republicans gain the corner on being on the side of the American people?

Since when is fighting in a war the only way you can fight for the American people? Might some civil rights activists (fighters) be a little annoyed by this characterization?

Just Around the Corner

My new voter registration card came in the mail today. I'm not a first time voter - this will be my third time voting in a presidential election. But I got all goose-bumpy when I opened it. I think this is the first time that I'm really excited about voting.

If you haven't registered, get to it!

In the words of Sarah Silverman, "You can literally register to vote while you're pooping. If you have a laptop."

Not there yet

I'm replacing the post that was just here. I realized I'm not quite there yet on this blog - a bit too vulnerable for me.

I'll just say I'm tired and worn out.

Law School 1, (In)Sanity Gal 0

The Night Off

The prostitution presentation is behind me, and it went quite well - if I do say so myself. The class seemed interested, and people were actually looking up from their laptops. Hurrah! If we hadn't had so much to say, there might've even been more extensive discussion. Woops. Seriously, though - there is A LOT to say about prostitution.

I felt really good about the information that T and I were presenting, about us being able to inform people about a really serious problem in this country. And I felt like people were taking it in. It was interesting to feel the energy in the room change after we showed a video clip or introduced a statistic or read a story. I think there's a lot of misinformation or lack of information about the commercial sex industry in this country.

Although I do always have a little bit of a hard time when I opine on the plight of minorities - like poor women of color in the sex trade. I hear this little voice in the back of my head, "What is this privileged white girl doing talking about the problems for people of color like she knows something about it?" I had an ex who used to tell me that white people should never try to talk about the problems facing black people because they really didn't get it, and they just ended up adding to the problem. The voice plagues me sometimes. Anyway...

I've got tons to do now - write a research paper on some aspect of prostitution in place of an exam, come up with a note topic for my journal, do a preemption check, catch up on all the reading I haven't done for this week, start a direct write campaign since no one wants to hire me, and clean my apartment.

But tonight...I'm giving myself the night off. T and I went for a beer to celebrate afterwards. We talked johns and pimps and women's desire to satisfy men. Good times. And now I'm home - I've circled all the things I like but can't afford in a catalogue, I've eaten some yummy chocolate babka from the Babe's family, and now I'm blogging and watching Law & Order.

Tomorrow I begin again.