Friday, May 19, 2006

Go Bishops!

I'm off to the Buckeye State for the weekend, due to my questionable decision to attend my five-year college reunion. I've got about 5-6 hours of driving time ahead of me, so ...awesome.

You know, last week this whole thing spurred in me some irrational need to lose five pounds before this weekend arrived. Whenever I do that, what happens? That's right, I think about food constantly (and how I shouldn't be eating it, except I immediately forget this part) and end up gaining five pounds. The lesson here is, Never Try.

Anyway, so far it doesn't look like I'll actually be attending any reunion activities, unless my friend Kristy and I decide to crash the dinner on Saturday night (which neither of us registered for). But we're staying with my old roommate and meeting up with a bunch of other folks at the ol' watering hole, plus my friends from the House should be easy to find, since I'll actually be staying in Columbus, not Delaware.

By the way, in case you forgot (though I know you didn't!), 10.5: Apocalypse begins this Sunday. If you need to catch the first installment ([crosses fingers] c'mon trilogy!), it's airing on Saturday. Or you could just borrow my dvd.

I'll leave you for the weekend with this guy. Don't laugh, he'll kick your ass. Unless you happen to be on, like, a sports field somewhere.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

5 Continents...10 Countries...

And More Than 59 Thousand Miles!

Despite my TiVo's best efforts to deny me the Amazing Race this season, I managed to wake up from my nap in time to catch the season finale yesterday. I won't spoil the ending, since I know at least one person reading this is waiting to watch Hour 2 (the hour my tivo didn't eat) at my house later. Suffice it to say, my reaction wasn't nearly as passionate as last year's, but this season didn't feature former Survivor winners who must be beaten at all costs either.

Rescuing the Strawberry Dreams

In my first attempt to save the berries from that waterlogged nightmare that is fruit rot, I laid down some sand around the plants. The hope is that the water will still get to the plants (unlike with the plastic sheeting I was going to use at first), but the top level of the sand will dry quicker than the soil, so the berries won't sit in pools of mud for days at a time. Other ideas are appreciated.


Sometimes the perfect storm of projects at work, personal and/or professional drama, and plain ol' writer's block converge in such a way that I am left staring at a blank screen days and days after I intended to finish writing something. Finally, with the help of last night's basketball game and a slow morning, I submitted my Katzen review for DCist today, and I'm really glad I waited until after I turned it in to read the Post's review of the show. Kennicott does a great job of covering the show in general, but also broaching some issues I either didn't have the space to discuss or felt weren't necessarily relevant to the DCist type of review. I especially liked this line, "Parallel to the art of engagement has been a politics of disengagement..." Word.

Pawn to Knight Four

Speaking of professional drama (which was this week's pick), there is some effing DRA. MA. up in here this week. Obviously, I can't get too detailed with the ins and outs, but here's the sitch: My original placement at this firm was to assist a paralegal with his overflow. Job was going smoothly until he disappeared off the face of the earth for a month. We (meaning me, his boss, and all the attorneys whose cases he worked on) only knew that he wasn't dead or in the hospital, and that he was avoiding everyone and not returning any calls. The result of this easily could have been my termination. See, if he's not around to give me work...get it? Luckily one of the attorneys started calling me directly - they're in an active litigation, so life becomes difficult when the managing paralegal takes off with no notice or explanation.

To put it simply, the haze is clearing and the assembled puzzle pieces seem to indicate that this douchebag of a guy orchestrated the whole thing (including hiring me and slowly pushing most of this caseload onto me over the past few months) because he wanted off the case, but logistically, that just wasn't going to happen. Of course, everyone, including me, is much better off, since my relationship with the attorneys is much better than his and, despite being a temp, I'm now the managing paralegal on the case (which is, in fact, insanely massive). I like the work and the attorneys all trust me, while recognizing that I don't plan on (and advising me not to commit career suicide by) becoming a permanent paralegal here. The drama escalated this week because he's back after a month-long disappearing act. I haven't seen him yet, but we did have a terse email exchange wherein he assumed we were still friends, and I firmly told him his friendship, much like my dependence on him for my livelihood, no longer existed around here.

Ah, if only I could give you more of the salacious details, but I think my censoring filter is catching the rest.

Amazing races, berry murder, political activism, burning bridges, and total, utter professional suicide. What more could you want in a blog post?

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Strawberry Dreams


Ready to move


Strawberry Horror

Try again later.

Berry bonanza

Monday, May 15, 2006

Brian, I don't think I like what you're implying...

My 3:45pm voicemail:

Hi Heather, my name is Brian Jerkoff. I'm a graduate of Hoity-Toity Law School and practitioner for ten years. I'm also a legal recruiter and saw that you recently passed the California Bar Exam, so either you're, heh, uh, mentally incompetent, or you plan on relocating back to California. If you do plan on moving back, call me at 123-555-1234 and I can help you find a placement out here.

I don't want my Corona unless it's served in a bucket with ice.

Friday night, after some beers with the Staffwise crew at a heinous bar downtown and a quick stop by the Irvine opening, I grabbed Chai and Paul and went to Hirshhorn After Hours to see the new Lambie installation, Sugimoto's photos on their last weekend, and, apparently, party like a college student. I've never been to one of these events before and was surprised at the casual atmosphere - and long, long, long lines for beer. Line, I mean, singular, that stretched around the entire atrium of the museum. The 90% under 30 crowd duly queued-up for coronas, yuengling, and white wine while listening to a much-too-quiet dj.

Upon arriving we immediately ran into Adrian and my shoe broke. I'm not sure if there was a connection. So I walked around like a gimp all night, in a sad attempt to keep my (adorable! irreplaceable!) shoe from flying off my foot. The beer line was The Place To Be, as I also ran into a couple other friends, including a girl who I met on my study abroad in Chile, and one of Paul's friends, who I've only met one other time even though we went to law school together (um, unlike Chai, with whom I went to law school and only met when we both started blogging for the bar), and found out she's also a blogger, but she's "not religious about it," which apparently has nothing to do with Jesus, like Chai and I both misunderstood. (Side Note for Chai: We have bad memories - this comment thread is where we met. Good times.)

I also met a friend of Chai's, who I ran into again on Saturday night when she told us this story about the beer line: Cutting was a rampant problem. When she and her friends had crept up close to the front, she saw this elderly couple walk up and try to sneak in right in front of them. She was not about to let these octogenarians cheat her out of beer for another two minutes, so she pulled out her defensive moves and laid down the block. The shuffling escalated into a minor tussle when the gentlemen yelled, "She started it!" Much later in the evening, while this girl and her friends were drinking at a table, the bluehairs came over and the gentleman, pointedly looking at her, gestured to his companion and said, "I'd like to introduce you to Olga Hirshhorn," and walked off. Oops. So, "She started it," was not an immature, snide comment to my friend, but that she, Mrs. Hirshhorn, started the museum they were standing in, and she wanted to cut in line for a goddamn beer. Heh. Though one has to ask why Olga Hirshhorn had to wait in any line at all, much less be reduced to cutting. (Update: Chai's interweb skills have deduced the old man was probably this guy.)

After some drinking and gossiping, we headed inside to check out the vertigo-inducing Lambie exhibit - and get our pictures taken! Some photographer in a tux was enthralled with me, Chai, and Adrian staring up at a hanging, glittery, giant set of eyelashes, and took about six or seven pictures of us, until I got super uncomfortable and walked out of the frame as slyly as I could without looking like L-Lo fleeing the paparazzi (with my broken shoe, heh). Maybe he just liked Adrian's flood watchers. If anyone sees those photos somewhere, let me know. We stayed until we got chased out of the Sugimoto exhibit - literally - by an overzealous and egomaniacal security guard, much like this re-enactment:

Escape from the Hirshhorn
(omg, Power Point! I may have inadvertently uploaded this to our client's shared database at work...let's all hope that's not the case. And it's true, Chai and I are the exact same shade of pasty tan.)

This was followed by a fairly awesome encounter with a Metropolitan Police Officer on 13th Street after a left-turn-on-red incident (after passing by Alero and provoking the comment in the title by Adrian, as a nod to my post about Cinco de Mayo douchebaggery). As the officer approached the car he stopped and stood silently at the driver's side rear window, content to watch us giggle uncontrollably like teenagers who'd just hit up the bong, until Adrian finally noticed him and handed over his license and registration. During the twenty minutes the cop spent checking his Virgina tags, three murders were committed down the street.

Eventually we made it to the Black Cat, only to watch a group of shaggy-haired girls in shapeless cotton skirts and Chucks with no socks line dance to George Michael. I wish I was kidding. Or drunker. Fun was still had, and I was happy to successfully continue my mission to integrate my 100 separate groups of friends into one large crew, thus creating my very own Real World were I can observe lots of hot summer drama and incestuous romantic relationships.

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