pseudostoops

I’ve been sort of skittish about writing too much about Law Firm recently, because of what happened at a meeting a few weeks ago. Someone from the summer committee was saying something about “if you have a problem, you can always find a member of the summer committee, because we’d really like to know if you’re unhappy so we can make it right.” And then another member of the summer committee said “or we could just read it on your blog,” and my heart dropped to my feet right there in the middle of the meeting while I tried to play it all cool and laugh with all the other non-blogging people while in my head my internal monologue was racing along: “he’s kidding, right? he must be kidding. What if he’s not kidding? My blog is anonymous, there’s no way they’d have found it, right? What if they did, I’m only sort of thinly veiled! Have I said anything bad? Is blogging a reason not to give someone a job offer? Oh my god I’m not going to get a job offer! John and I are going to have to give up the apartment!”

So I overreact sometimes. But I realize that it’s not that big a deal to mention law firm every once in a while, because (a) I really like the people at my law firm, and don’t really have any bad things to say other than the normal stuff about adjusting to a new kind of job (note to law firm, if you’re reading this: I love you crazy guys! Love!) and (b) the following is too good not to share, anonymity be damned:

We are going on a Segway tour. As a firm. All together. On little rolly machines with dorky helmets. I might die, partially from embarassment, but mostly because I am the world’s least coordinated person, and if there’s a way to fall off a Segway in front of a group of your potential future employers, I will find it.

John, who is reasonably good-spirited and generally doesn’t make fun of easy targets, makes an exception for Segway tours. He particularly loves summer in Chicago because it presents him with more opportunities to mock the Segway tour participants in all their slow-paced, locomote-by-leaning glory. I haven’t told him yet. I’m a little afraid I may not live this down for the rest of my life.

Because I fancy myself your go-to source on all things business casual, allow me to give you a bit of advice:

That linen blouse you saw at H&M? The one you thought would look cute and cool and crisp and very summer office appropriate? Don’t do it! All linen is not created equal, and linen blouses that cost $14.99 will, by the end of the day, make you look like a discarded Kleenex.

You’ve been warned.

1. I wear flip flops. After a long day of working in business casual shoes, my feet want to flop freely, if you will. (I actually sort of love the business casual shoes part of business casual dress code, because allows me to buy fun high heels and not have John bitch and moan that they make me too tall and make him look short by comparison because, hey! He doesn’t work with me!) But flip flops are for amateurs at places like this. Girls who make the scene wear high heels in colors like red patent leather. They also get into clubs after dinner that choose to forbid entry to me becuase of my inappropriately clad feet. That’s right, folks! The law firm went to the club and I GOT SENT HOME FOR INAPPROPRIATE DRESS. Hot.

2. I left my mirror and razor blade at home. Okay, so I have seen my fair share of drug use in my day, having hung with a stoner crowd at college in California and having worked in a mountain resort in Colorado where drugs were just part of the package, but I have never officially seen the classic, cliche, woman hovered over a counter in the bathroom doing lines thing until last night. I all of a sudden have a searing insight into why these red-patent-leather-pump-clad women are stick skinny.

3. I will not shoot Patron Silver. Period. I will sip it, because it is that good. Call me a snob if you must, but there you have it.

Words that actually left my mouth this morning in the park:

“We do not eat other dogs’ poop in this family, young man!”

As if this was a totally reasonable thing to say to a dog.

So yeah, Oscar’s back.

DISCLAIMER: Before I launch into today’s diatribe, I wish to establish, from the outset, that I know that eating disorders are serious, and are an actual illness, not something to be mocked or dismissed. I also know that there are plenty of people in the world with incredibly frustrating, debilitating gastric disorders that wreak havoc on their systems every day. I know this because my sister is one of them and has been chronically ill for seven years. So I am not trying to make light of serious things, okay?

That said, where has all the politeness gone?

Several weeks ago I talked to a friend from law school about doing something for Chicago’s Independence Eve (motto: “why have fireworks on the 4th of July like everyone else? We do it on the 3rd because in Chicago we like to BUCK CONVENTION!”) I had thought it wasn’t going to come together but then it did and all of a sudden there were 12 people coming over to my house for dinner. 12!

So I got my 4th of July grill on, making the traditional burgers, veggie dogs, corn on the cob, veggie baked beans, and pasta salad with baby spinach, tomatoes, and feta (okay, so that one isn’t on the menu at Grammie’s in Kansas, but I took some urban liberties with the tradition). I plunked some Cat Stevens on the stereo and waited for the guests to arrive.

When my friends arrived, they brought with them a girl I’ll call “annoying girl” (AG.) AG works at the same law firm as my friends. She talks. A lot. A lot of the talking somehow makes reference to her being fat. I start to get suspicious, because girlfriend is TINY. Then it’s time to eat, and everyone goes through the line, taking corn and beans and burgers (side note: I have approximately 14 extra ears of corn and 7 pounds of pasta salad left over if anyone wants to come to dinner at our place tonight.) AG, however, does not go through the line, and instead shaves the tiniest sliver of cheese I have ever seen off the block of cheddar I’d set out for the burger eaters, digs into her handbag, and brings out a ziplock bag full of RAW BROCCOLI, which she proceeds to dump onto her plate and bring to the table with everyone else. Then, she goes BACK INTO THE HANDBAG and brings out a four-pack of screw top chardonnay, describes it as “bone dry and totally unsugared!” in sort of this gross chipper way, and proceeds to chow down.

Now listen. If you want to bring your own broccoli to a party instead of eating the food that’s being served, I feel sorry for you, but that’s fine. My sister, for example, keeps one of those energy bars in her handbag in case she can’t eat whatever people are serving, which seems totally reasonable,(and also a little more subtle than broccoli, but whatever). But don’t you think that it would be courteous to alert the host to whatever it is that’s compelling you to do that? I don’t mean she should have given me the whole lowdown on her Atkins fetish or sucrose allergy or whatever it was at work here, because I respect people’s privacy. But it seems like if I was in her place, I’d have at least given the host a little “heads up, I’ve got some pretty severe dietary restrictions so I brought some of my own food because I didn’t want you to have to make anything special on my account.” Right? Is this asking too much?

Because let me tell you, there is no better way to get a group of 12 people to play “guess my eating issue!” behind your back than eating a plate of broccoli for dinner without so much as a word of explanation.

I’m halfway through the law firm portion of my summer (t-minus three weeks until New York!) and I had my “midsummer review” on Friday. It didn’t even occur to me to be nervous about it until afterwards one of my friends said, in sort of a hushed tone, “how was it?”

It was fine. They like my work fine, like me fine, things are “on track.” “On track” seems good, I guess, though it seems unlikely that I’ll ever take an offer from them. Not because I don’t like the people (I do! Much more than I expected! Some of them even appear to have senses of humor! Who knew?) but because I am more convinced than ever that I’d prefer working in public interest. The imbroglio just got his Montana public defender job (I am VERY JEALOUS of all people who get to do what they love and live in Montana!) and though I probably won’t be going pd job next year, I find it reassuring when I hear of someone else who took the risk and passed up the easy jobs to wait for the right public interest job and it works out for them and they get the job they want. It seems like everything will be okay with job-finding when I hear stories like that, even though it would be so much easier to just take a firm offer and a firm salary and never really have to sweat it.

In this vein of trying to find the right job and the right thing, I have a question for you, internets. I’m toying with a couple of different options for fall term internships. I planned to continue working with the clinic, and will hopefully get to represent client or clienette in court, which will be awesome. But two other opportunities have come up, and I can’t decide what to do. One is to intern at the state appellate defender’s office, working with the death penalty team, which would be cool and unlike anything I’ve done before and thus very good for gathering information on the different kinds of criminal defense work out there. The other is to work as an intern in the public housing public interest firm I worked with last summer, where I’m seriously considering applying for a fellowship when I graduate. I’d get more time with my potential future coworkers, and could get a better sense of the kind of work I’d be doing if I went to work there full time. I cannot do all three of these things. I have to make some choices.

SO, my choices are:

a) work in the clinic only and maybe have a little free time once in a while to give myself a pedicure or, you know, sleep
b) work in the clinic and the state appellate defender’s office and help work on death penalty appeals
c) work in the clinic and the public housing law firm and further develop my understanding of one of the city’s lowest-functioning bureaucracies (the housing authority, not the firm!)
d) some other arrangement I haven’t though of

I really want to know what you think, because I’m thinking myself in circles on this one. Please vote in comments. Merci.