Wisdom Teeth Part 1

Zach gets his wisdom teeth yanked out tomorrow. I'm considerably more nervous than he is, which considering that no one is going to be yanking anything out of my head, really is ridiculous.

Mostly I'm terrified of being the sole person in charge of the well being of another human being. Where if something bad happens, its all my fault. I'm so very much not a nurturer. This is why we don't have kids - well my crippling fear, selfishness, and lack of funds. I also hate the unknown. And I really don't know what to expect. I'm also not sure how we're going to get home, what with having no car and me not totally understanding cabs. We actually have to venture out of the district into suburb land, which should be exciting.

I've been running around all anxious like for most of the week. Just a note - the internet is stupid and generic and unhelpful. Gee, he should eat soft food and might be a little loopy? How insightful. We have the fridge stocked with the makings for several smoothies as well as copious amounts of applesauce, yogurt and gelato. I'm still convinced he's going to starve to death under my neglectful care. He totally would too. Have I mentioned that Zach can be a bit of a martyr? If something is wrong, he'll just kind of sit there and look pathetic, but never actually say anything. Which means I'm going to be in hyper "do you need anything? No really. Just ask. Ask man, ask!"mode.

Tomorrow is going to be super fun. And yes, I should be eliciting more sympathy towards the person actually having surgery - but if he wants sympathy from the internet, he can write his own blog.

Help! I'm trapped in an elevator and I can't get out

I'm not sure how it happened, but I now spend all of my time listening to elevator music. Well, not counting the time I spend listening to Lady Gaga, which is an admittedly odd contrast. It's bad people. It all started with enjoying that Jon Schmidt Viva la Vida/Love story mashup. Next thing I know I have a Jon Schmidt station on Pandora that's playing every waking non-class hour.  Some of it is nice respectable piano music - not terribly amazing, but not the musical equivalent of Thomas Kinkaid or anything horrendous like that. On the other hand, a few days ago I heard a piece where the piano was accompanying the sound of surf and seagulls. And I almost liked it.

Yesterday I was just disgusted with myself  and decided I was going to listen to some real music with powercords and suggestive lyrics. I really enjoyed it for the first 20 minutes or so, and then I just got tired from all of the effort I had to extend. Paying attention to the lyrics, interplay between the instruments, key changes and what not was just to much for me.

I ultimately compromised with xylophone versions of Queen songs designed for infants whose parents refuse to let go of their hipper ways. Saddly, it did make me feel better. Apparently I'm turning into a grandma who's afraid of loud noises and upsettingly carnal guitar riffs. I want you all to promise me that if I start sounding like my Mom* and railing about how most pop/rock music is evil and did you know that AC/DC stands for anti-Christ devil child (Mom wasn't that up to date on the evil bands), that you'll strap me in a chair with quality music blasting until I come to my senses (preferably in a non-clockwork orange sort of a way). Thanks in advance.



*Mom, I love you dearly, and you did introduce me to the greatness of the Beatles as a child, for which I'll always be grateful. But that AC/DC thing is ridiculous.

Financial Facts

Fact 1: Using Mint.com can greatly aid one in creating a budget, tracking spending and otherwise taking steps towards fiscal responsibility and adulthood.

Fact 2: Changing the budget settings every time you go over budget - supposedly because the old budgeted amount "wasn't realistic, but really because the big red numbers make me feel bad - defeats most of the benefits of having a budget to begin with.

(I wish I was one of those bloggers who can be wonderfuly real, even when its a little less than pretty, but I can't quite shake free the urge to paint a perfect picture of my life. So I'm compromising in parentheses. In reality we're fairly frugal - we live off of about $22,000 a year + the little we have in savings ((granted that 20gs is all student loan money, so I'm not sure how fiscally wonderful that figure is)) - which given that rent on the shoebox is about $14,000 a year and DC is an expensive city is reasonably impressive. Using Mint has been a nice way to get a better handle on what we spend on what and try to reduce our student debt load, but given how low our non-rent budget is, there is only so much to do. I'm trying to be better, I really am. But I like clothes, going out occasionally, decorating the shoebox so its less shoeboxy and what not. I don't want to be in hideous debt forever, and I'm really grateful that its all debt from student loans, not credit cards, but its so hard to remember the future in the now. And I'm not above tweaking the numbers when its unavoidable so I can feel a little better about it all. It's cheating, but some days metaphorically sticking my fingers in my ears and going "lalalala" is oh so necessary)

The passive-aggressive candle

In general Zach and I have a wonderful, open marriage full of communication and angels singing dulcet praises of our love. One major exception to this is the passive-aggresive candle.

We have a little silver toned rack that sits over our toilet. It's not the fanciest thing, but it's a nice way of getting some extra storage space for various hygiene related doodads. And one candle. One maddening candle.

Every single time I walk into the bathroom I can immediately tell if Zach has been in there recently. Every time he comes in he moves the candle from where it belongs. I think the candle is much better suited to the second shelf, where it can sit in a nice neat little wood tray where its supported and corralled. For some reason, Zach thinks the candle should precariously balance on the top shelf, where it sits on this little flimsy wire rack that I just know it is going to come crashing down from. So every time I go into the bathroom, that candle is the first thing I see, and I am compelled to fix it before attending to other business.

We've never actually mentioned the candle to each other. When its out of sight we like to just pretend that it doesn't exist, silently mocking us as it shuffles about. Really, it's just not a big enough deal to actually talk about. I'll fight over things that actually matter, but I'm not wasting a perfectly good evening over a candle. It's just our little, silent battle. I think we're both convinced that if we just keep doing this, the other person will eventually wear down and adjust to our superior candle arranging skills.

Zach, if you're reading this I just want you to know that I will go to my grave moving that candle. I'm not backing down, so give it up buddy. That candle is mine.

TV Addiction

After a long day of law school, sometimes it just feels oh so good to curl up and veg in front of a screen. And thanks to Netflix on demand, my advanced piracy skills, and my geekish urge to buy giant DVD box sets, I have a bit of a tendency to find a half way decent or at least trashily entertainingly show and devote huge swaths of time to watching every last second of it.

So far I have wasted far too many hours of my life watching every episode ever of :

30 Rock

Angel

Battlestar Gallactica

Better Off Ted

Big Bang Theory

Bones

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Burn Notice

Castle

Community
Dexter

Dead Like Me

Dollhouse

Firefly

Gilmore Girls

Glee

Gossip Girl

Heroes

How I Met Your Mother

Mad Men

Merlin

Modern Family

Parks and Recreation

Pushing Daisies

Sanctuary

Sex and the City

Stargate

Stargate - Atlantis

The Office

True Blood

United States of Tara

Veronica Mars

For those of you at home, that's a total of approximately 31 series. Not counting any series that I've seen significant amounts of, but not quite all. And it's entirely possible that I've forgotten one or two. Granted, some of these are still on the air and only on their first or second season, but it's still an overly huge amount.

This may explain why I barely understand what an easement is, or what rule of 11 of civil procedure actually means, but I can easily explain various complex love triangles and vampire mythologies with ease.

Oh, and as to the point of this post - I'm running out of new shows to binge on. Any suggestions?

Facebook is impeding my stalking

I'm probably way behind the times, but facebook recently redid their privacy settings. I am not thrilled. Not because I'm concerned that the new standards will make me more vulnerable, quite the opposite in fact. You see, there are a few people on facebook that I like to see whats going on with them, but I don't know them well enough to friend without seeming creepy (yes I do appreciate the irony). Some of them are people I kind of know, or spouses of people I know, or just people that I've found fun to peek in on from time to time. I don't wander over everyday, but when I'm bored or curious or something, its nice to have a few stalwarts that usually have something worth looking at (or making fun of). And now I find myself blocked from that simple joy.

Of course, given that these are hightened privacy standards, I suppose that is kind of the point. At least I still have my blogs, well at least the ones that haven't gone private yet. Really, what is the world coming to when people will no longer air the intimate details of their lives for the amusement of strangers?

The Annual Hair Massacre

About once a year I start to get bored and dissatisfied with my hair. It's not so much that I think its bad, its just dull and ordinary. I just itch to do something different. Inevitably I do something stupid. Different, sure, but stupid none the less.

4 years ago I convinced myself to go to the Beauty School on Provo and get my hair cut in a chin length, flipped out do. I then learned that soccer mom chic and my chipmunk cheeks are not the best combo.

3 years ago I had learned my lesson about drastic cuts and decided now was the time to experiment with color.  I headed off to the discount mall salon with visions of auburn. I came back with dark blue-black Morticia Adams hair. After a long weekend with patient roommates, a bottle of dye stripper and a box of grocery store dye and my hair managed to go down to a somewhat less horrible shade of really dark burgundy brown.

2 years ago I was in bride head mode, which had some other insanity inducing side effects, but gratefully left my hair alone. So alone that I neglected to get it cut at all, and ended up with some gnarly split ends. Given the alternatives, I probably made the right choice.

Last year I hacked off a good six inches of perfectly good hair in an act of sensless insanity by myself in my bathroom. I've mostly recovered, but I still cringe when I spot the scissors that did the deed.

It's that time of year again. According to the schedule, at any momeny now I'm bound to decide that now is the time to give bangs a try or see if blonde could possibly suit me. So far I've managed to retrain myself, but the urge is getting stronger, and I'm not sure how much longer I can last. I just hope this year I can learn from the past, find a decent stylist and avoid a massacre. I have visions of lovely long layers and maybe even finding a better way to deal with my natural curls/waves then flat ironing them into submission. Here's hoping, and if anyone out there has amazing suggestions, I am more than willing to let the blame fall onto your shoulders.

You don't need designer cookware for oatmeal

I spent a good portion of yesterday over at Williams and Sonoma's website looking at all the really beautiful and really expensive cookware. In my head, someday in the somewhat far off future I would put together a perfect kitchen (white cabinets, dark hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, and fresh kelly green accents) where I would magically cook beautiful, gourmet delights. I had grand dreams of gleaming stainless steel All-clad pots and pans, bright and colorful Le Crueset dutch ovens,and a host of other goodies.

Then dinnertime hit and Zach and I looked at each other, looked at our disaster zone of a kitchen and could not come up with the will power required to do so much as boil water for pasta. We had oatmeal. Not just oatmeal, microwavable, instant oatmeal. Things aren't looking up today. We really should be eating dinner now, or at least cooking it, or at the absolute rock bottom have some idea what to make. I wonder if Zach would go for oatmeal again.

Clearly we are the type of people for whom a $200 pan would be a sound investment, sure to take our gourmet stylings to a whole new level.

Handy Hints for Apartment Living

I whine and complain about my apartment far too frequently. It fully deserves most of the abuse thrown its way, but in fairness, it's not really all that bad.


I've started to grow fond of some of the studios little quirks. Like the old lady who screams "Shut the f!@& up!" whenever anyone makes the tiniest tinyest little noise. Seriously, I've put down a box with a little too much force and gotten screamed at. At first it was annoying, but now I just kind of chuckle at her oversensitive, profanity ridden ways. I actually get a little concerned when I don't hear her after something really loud happens.

However, some inconveniences just can't rise to the level of "cute little quirks" no matter how Pollyannaish I try to be. The people who smoke in their apartments, thus polluting the hallway with smoke, which then leaks into my apartment is one of them. Sure, we can always open a window and air the place out when the air is so polluted that its hard to breath, but that's not entirely pleasant when winter rolls around. It hurts my Oregon environmentalist soul to have the heater on and leaking its dead dinosaur fueled product out into the wild.


I have a feeling that smoke oozing in is a fairly common problem in many apartments. solution. Just pick up some weather stripping and stick it onto your door jam, like so. When you close the door it makes a nice, tight seal which keeps almost all of the smoke in the hallway where it does not belong to begin with. 


Notice the beige fuzzy thing  peaking through the crack. That's our bed. I wasn't kidding when I complained about the small studio thing. But at least its now a smoke free studio.



And that's my Martha Stewart, cigarette related, homemaking tip of the day. You're welcome.

Ninja moves

So, I recently clicked the little button in blog settings to allow my blog to show up on search engines. Given that the blog url is incredibly non-anonymous, my name isn't exactly common, and there are several pictures of me on the very top of the page, it seemed silly to think that not allowing my blog to show up on Google searches was actually protecting my privacy. You can't exactly protect what isn't there. 

I didn't really give it any thought or expect a dramatic or even noticeable increase in blog traffic. However, I am now pleased to announce the first random Google search that brought complete strangers to my little blog. The phrase? "Why yes I do occasionally break out into ninja moves"

People, if I'd known I could expect such awesomeness, I would have made the change far earlier.

The price of a good nap

Zach really, really wants us to live in a foreign country someday. Really, really, really. Whenever it comes up, I generally give him one of my oh so expressive  looks and wryly comment that of course he does, he already speaks 5 languages, and if we moved anywhere, it would be because he had some sort of employment. Meanwhile I would get to wander about a strange country, trying to communicate with strangers in a sad version of charades. I suppose I could try to learn another language, but a wasted 3 years of high school french has left be a bit skeptical of my abilities. Zach is freakishly gifted at languages, and does not understand how anyone could take that many language classes and still know nothing. Occasionally he'll ask me a question about a french word and then looks at me in amazement when I irritably remind him how little french is actually in my head. As a special bonus, I would also get to try to convince employers that the stupid American with the foreign law degree really would be an asset and is well worth hiring and giving money to so that she can pay her student loans.

Recently Zach has begun to introduce an argument that could actually sway me. Apparently in many countries, it is customary to take a decent sized break in the afternoon to come home and unwind for a bit. In other words, they have a guaranteed nap time. And if we happened to live there, so would we.

Naps are a compelling incentive. I love my naps. Love them. It's a little harder to do in a studio when the bed is within 15ft of everything (including a less than cat like Zach), but even so I relish the times I can shut the blinds, put on some Schubert and sink into a pile of blankets and drift away from it all. The added advantage of being able to stretch out across the whole bed just makes it all the better.* I'll do almost anything for a good nap. I've put off studying, cleaning and even shopping in favor of a little extra sleep. I've taken naps in public places - yes I was one of those annoying people who would sleep in the halls at BYU. I've certainly taken naps in class, although those weren't exactly planned. So when Zach promises me nap time if I agree to move, I have to take that seriously.

It sounds to good to be true, but I think I've been willing to risk important things like grades and pride in favor of possible naps in the past and I've never regretted it. I think a move to a foreign country would be a price I'd be willing to pay for a guaranteed nap time. If he can figure out a way to get us someplace foreign, exotic and most importantly with a nap time, I think I just might be willing to go with him. Probably.

*Zach claims that I take up the whole bed regardless of whether or not he's in it. I find this a ridiculous accusation. I've seen him nap. He doesn't spread out at all. He sleeps like a straight wooden plank, he doesn't need any extra room. I on the other hand need the ability to stretch out and move around when I sleep. And yes, I suppose I do technically take up the space that is required by my needs, which is somewhat larger than the space plank man needs. But I do not sleep diagonally across the bed at night, so clearly I do adjust myself based upon his presence. It's not my fault he needs so little bed space.

He's just still a bit bitter about our honeymoon, when we slept on a king sized bed, and I would cuddle up with him, he would scoot over to get some space, and I would scoot right back up against him. By the time morning came he was hanging off the edge of the bed, with me wedged up tightly against him. The man clearly cannot accept that I, like nature, abhor a vacuum. Or romantically wanted to be close to him. Something like that.

The Art of Smart Cooking

Tonight Zach and I stretched out in front of my laptop and enjoyed Julie/Julia while feasting on a roast rosemary lemon chicken, warm pugliese bread and a lovely tossed salad. It was a wonderful meal, a wonderful movie and wonderful night of enjoying each other. I felt wonderfully cozy, french and Juliaesque.


Granted, the chicken came from a whole foods rotisserie, the bread came from my freezer and originally from Costco. Even the salad came from a bag. It's like my father always taught me - why work hard when you can work smart? I think he meant that in a slightly more responsible way, the type of thing where you clean a little bit everyday and never have to deal with a big, hard mess. However, he never specified, so I'm comfortable taking it as an endorsement of yummy, utterly easy food. I'm sure the Julie/a would be horribly ashamed of me. Oh well.

Class Voice

Every time I head back to classes after an extended break, I'm freaked out the first couple times I open my mouth. I hear words coming out, and I know that they're mine, but I don't recognize the sound of my own voice.

Class me does not sound like home me. Frankly, when I speak in class it sounds like I've been smoking since I was five. It's deep, throaty, raspy and a little scary. Its the kind of voice you expect coming out of a hardened lady of the night whose glory days have long since expired or someone name Brunhilda wielding a riding crop and a sporting a severe bun.

Home voice isn't exactly a sweet and bubbly soprano, but it's noticeably higher pitched and smoother sounding. It sounds like a normal voice - its the way my voice sounds in my head. Which is why class voice is a little upsetting until I get reacquainted with it. It doesn't feel like me.

For the life of me,  I'm not sure why I sound so different in the two contexts. I certainly don't do it intentionally. I can't decide if subconsciously I'm trying to be taken more seriously and I associate that with a deep voice, or if its just that I'm a little nervous speaking in class or something.Or perhaps home voice is the fake result of trying to change myself into someone more lilting and feminine. Or maybe I'm just sitting differently or something in each scenario. Either way I hate the idea that in someway I feel the need to change something as basic as my voice based on where I am.

It's not a huge deal, but I don't like the idea of having such different aspects of myself manifesting physically. Like everyone else, I am a slightly different person in different scenerios. It's just how the world works. But the older I get, the more I like the idea of just being me (whoever that is) wherever I am. the different voices makes me feel like one of them is fake, inauthentic, trying to hard. I just want to be.

It's like a game!

You know how when you were a little kid, the grownups would try to trick you into thinking that chores were actually fun by trying to disguise it as a game? Like pretending that the toy chest was a crocodile, and you were feeding it toys to keep it from getting too hungry and eating you.

Even as a kid that always seemed a little fishy. I'd still go with it, because either way I have to pick up my stuff, so you may as well go with crocodiles.

I'm trying to use that same make it a game! strategy in my wills, trusts and estates class. Because my oh my is that class dull. I don't particularly care about the subject, it deals with enough property that I keep have traumatic flashbacks to last year's class that shall not be named and the monotone, memorized lectures don't really help. However, the memorized lectures do create one spot of sunshine. Throughout the years the script she uses and repeats word for word has been largely transcribed, and sent about to help fellow students. I feel that these scripts may be the key key to my sanity and survival in this class. Every now and again I bemoan my poor study habits and pretend that if I would have actually studied in undergrad I could be in Harvard right now, but I love that most of the other law students here are genuinely sweet and helpful. I already had the scripts from a friend, but I just mentioned taking this class to a person I just met, and she offered to send me the scripts. Law students may universally be a little obsessive, obnoxious and type A (myself included) but I'm just glad I managed to spend 3 years with helpful, non-back stabey people who channel that obsessiveness into awesome class savers.

Anyways, I'm trying really hard to somehow use the scripts to make my own little puzzle game. Something where I get a secret thrill from trying to race against the professor and piece together the lecture from the two scripts in the nick of time before she actually says the words. Not exactly the next game craze to sweep the nation, but it's all I have to cling too. I'm actually not really sure if it helps me learn the material any better. Actually, I think I spend more time copying and pasting, feeling smug about secretly knowing the answer to every question and other wise playing with the scripts than actually learning the material. But I did not spend the entire class period roaming the internet, so the way I see it this is a step in the right direction.

New Semester Glow

Ahem. Not to brag*, but at this moment our apartment  has: clean floors, all the dishes are clean and in the cupboards - which means our sink is empty and shiny, the bathroom (even the floor!) is clean - complete with organized shelves, the bed is actually made, the laundry is clean, dried, and has managed to make its way off of the drying rack and into the closet, the fridge and cupboard are fully stocked, and there is even a minimal amount of clutter. There are even little flowers in a vase being all centerpiecey and good smelling. It's like Martha Stewart did a show on poor college students with minimal style living in an overpriced studio in here. It's all kinds of awesome.

I'd like to say that this is just because we are such dedicated, hard working people, but I know its just a touch of new semester magic. It's a wonderful time when in a fit of blind optimism and drive we just naturally start doing things. I just sort of spontaneosuly cleaned the bathroom today. No 30 minute pep talk required to get off of the couch and be usefull, no procrastination, it just sort of happened. I may have even hummed a jaunty tune while doing it. People, I was even wearing pearl earrings. It was sort of wierd.

New semester magic means having just enough inertia that productivity just sort of flows out our fingertips. Its amazing how hard it is to do something when there is nothing you have to do. We were home all last week. We did nothing. We barely even put forth the effort necessary to eat, let alone clean. A shiny new semester not only gives us a reason to get out of bed and a nice little push into activity, but it also gives us the time to do it. I can see the inevitable stress that will come from mountains of readings, reaserch and job hunting on the horizon - but for now everything is calm and sunny.

I know its all going to go to hell in 1-3 weeks, but I'm going to focus on the now, ok? Good.


*Because heaven knows that blogs should never ever be used for bragging, navel-gazing or self-promotion of any kind

Classes. Again.

So after almost a month and a half of no classes (3 weeks break, 2.5 weeks finals/reading days) I had to actually get out of bed, and go sit in a class room. I know, I know, the horror of it all.

My first class of the day doesn't start until 11am, which in and of itself would be enough for me to be favorably disposed. The class itself was decent enough to officially go into my plus column. Being a final free class on sex-based discrimination* with a decent focus on somewhat goofy class participation - which can admittedly be a little annoying on  the days you want to just sit back and let a lecture wash over you, but all in all can help make class "fun" should make for an almost pleasant semester. I don't expect major revelations from this class, but I should learn some good stuff and maybe even walk away with a decent grade.

I was already feeling good after the morning, when WCL reached out and gave me a big, fat kiss. First, free food lining the hallway outside of class. Decent free food too, actual turkey wraps, salad, cookies and the like - not a stale pizza in sight. I followed the magic food, and came into a room filled by a booming voice. I had some time to kill, and a lecture seemed like a decent place to spend it - plus the food was being monitored and I didn't want to be yelled at for stealing food meant for the lecture recipients. Best choice ever.

I could only stay for an hour, but I spent that hour listening to a symposium on "Lawyers Fiddle while the Constitution Burns" One hour of colorful rhetoric on the "psychology of imperialism, “congressional impotence (and flaccidness, why use one penis word when you can use two?) and the demise of freedom and democracy as we know it. Complete with arm waving, finger shaking and obligatory references to the fall of Rome. I do love me some political fire and brimstone. I was also fond of the ripping of the "theology" of economics, as indicated by a University of Chicago Law professor starting class by writing justice on the board and informing students that that was the last time that word should be used in class. And being in DC, no lecture is complete without namedropping and mentions to the speakers stint at the White House. And that was the conservative guy. There was also a healthy bit of the more mellow Ralph Nader. I love that at my school I can just follow food and find Ralph Nader.

                                                                                                        

But as soon as it began the magic of the moment was gone, and I found myself whisked away to Wills, Trusts, and Estates, where I found myself frantically transcribing the words of a mad woman operating under the delusion that her class is "easy". I really hate professors who think their class is easy. Sure, you do anything for 50 years and it seems easy. Normally I expect this crap from law school, but it had been so nice to me this morning, that I just wasn’t prepared with my best mental ninja skills** Oh law school, I don't think I'm quite ready to let you yank around my tender heart like that so soon after break. Unfortunately, I don't think it really cares.

*Because I apparently want to use my $180,000 degree to go into the oh so profitable field of feminism?

** My mental ninja skills consist primarily of the ability to stay awake in dull situations, type quickly while simultaneously checking facebook, tease out the important bits of info from an entirely monotone lecture and avoid eye contact when professors scan the room for "volunteers"