pseudostoops

There’s a woman in one of my classes who has the weirdest class attendance habits. Usually people either (a) go to class or (b) don’t go to class. Law students vary as to what level of (b) they are comfortable with, but by the time you’re a 3L you’re pretty much recovered from the panic of 1L and the thought of missing a class every now and again is not really a big deal. People do (b) a lot.
But there is a girl in one of my classes who has invented an option (c). Option (c) appears to be “come to class, set up your laptop and book, sit for the first two minutes, then have a fake sneezing fit, leave the classroom, and return about 2 minutes before the end of the class period.”

Which, fine, you can do maybe, what, once? But she has done it for two solid weeks of classes. Who does she think she’s fooling, exactly? And more importantly, why bother?

I am going to the superbowl.

In Miami.

To see the Bears play.

I absolutely cannot believe my good luck.

Super Bowl Shuffle 07 here I come!  Woohoo!

Would it be rude to hand one of these to a classmate who just truly refuses to shut up?

It would be, wouldn’t it.

Damn.

Because seriously, some people really aren’t catching the subtle clues of classmates’ yawns, whispering, and annoyed stares anymore.

So, time for the big “reveal”- where I tell you which one of last week’s strange food facts is actually a lie.

1. I can’t eat peaches unless they’ve been peeled, and can’t eat green beans unless they’ve been well-cooked. It’s the fuzz. It gives me the shivers.
This is true. In fact, even thinking about eating a peach or a raw green bean gives me the shivers. I have goose bumps right now. Moving on.

2. I have never been able to drink tequila shots since an ill-fated birthday party in college involving body shots, a mini-skirt, and a party called “Exotic Erotic.” In fact, just typing about it makes my head spin a little. Margaritas are still okay, though, thank goodness.
Falsity false false. I can shoot tequilla like a champ. If you can consider someone who gets drunk after 1.5 beers a champ at any kind of drinking activity. Which I can.

3. For snacks I sometimes stick a few mini marshmellows and a handful of Rice Krispies in a bowl and nuke it for a few seconds. Voila- instant Rice Krispie Treat. I have also been known to do this with mini-marshmellows, chocolate, and graham crackers for instant s’mores. [hangs head in shame.]
This trick will make you famous with any child you happen to babysit. I’m just saying.

4. I refuse to eat fennel, anise, or anything else that tastes of licorice. Ick ick ick.
This is a great way to screen out recipes from your cooking magazines, because those stupid Gourmet people seem sort of obsessed with fennel.

5. If I had to rank my preference for cheeses based on the animal source of the milk, it would go in this order: sheep, goat, cow. Mmm. Sheep.
All you sheep haters out there who assumed this one was the lie? You have no idea what you are missing.

Before John, I dated Rocco for several years. We were Very Serious, I was In Love, and I was nineteen when we started dating. (Just as all of Rocco’s previous 4 girlfriends had been nineteen when they started dating. And no, he was not some sort of cryogenically frozen perma-nineteen-year-old. He just liked girls that age. Twenty-seven year old me sort of wishes she could go back and wave a GIGANTIC red flag in nineteen year old me’s face, but our science does not yet permit time travel. Sigh.)

Anyway, because we were Very Serious and I was In Love, we took trips together to meet each other’s parents. My parents are not very good with this (for the first several months after John and I got engaged, my mother would call every couple weeks and say “your father and I wanted to invite you- just you- to dinner to discuss some things about the wedding,” and it took a tearful breakdown on my part for it to occur to my mother that not inviting the man I was marrying to conversations about planning the wedding was probably a touch overcontrolling.) Rocco’s parents, on the other hand, are lovely people who were great to me- welcoming, friendly, full of funny heartwarming stories about Rocco as a nerdy flute-playing kid. They even let us sleep in the same bed. At their house! And we weren’t married! Scandal!

The thing I remember most, however, was when we went out to dinner the first time I met Rocco’s dad. He was in San Francisco for a business meeting and we took him to an Indonesian restaurant we thought was very edgy, and like a sport he tried every spicy fish-sauce laced thing we threw at him. Then, halfway through the meal, he started talking about how he met Rocco’s mother:

Rocco’s Dad: Well, I remember we went up to the lake house, and we were courting, and I really wanted to impress your mother, and so I decided we should go swimming.”

Pseudo: that sounds fun!

Rocco: snicker

Pseudo: what?

Rocco: just wait.

Rocco’s Dad: so I take this flying leap off the pier into the water, and in those days we wore tight bathing suits, none of these boxer short styles. And the water was so cold that it took my breath away, and my testicles shriveled up and crawled all the way inside my body, and all I could think about was how much I hoped your mother wouldn’t notice and think I was less of a man.

Pseudo (to self): did the father of the man with whom I am Very Serious and In Love just talk about his testicles? Um, maybe if I stuff seventeen bites worth of curry noodles into my mouth I can mask the agony I feel right now.)

All this by way of long backstory to illustrate my discomfort with discussing sexual things with men over sixty.

So you can imagine my anguish when my octogenarian, very distinguished, well-respected seminar professor yesterday said, with some glee, “did you know that in Second Life, you can buy genitals for your avatar? And you can go to adults-only islands to have sex with other avatars?

But it wasn’t until he said “and THEN! There are these characters called furries…” that I tuned out and didn’t reengage with the conversation for the rest of the seminar. Because frankly, a lowered class participation grade is sometimes worth it for the sake of self-preservation.

Inspired by the lovely Blonde Justice, I present to you the online version of that classic theater game: Truth or Lie?

Below I’ve listed five things about me. One is false. Guess which one isn’t real in the comments. If you do the same on your blog, I’ll come over and guess on yours, too. Because I’m weird, I’ve given them all a theme: food and drink. Yum.

1. I can’t eat peaches unless they’ve been peeled, and can’t eat green beans unless they’ve been well-cooked. It’s the fuzz. It gives me the shivers.

2. I have never been able to drink tequila shots since an ill-fated birthday party in college involving body shots, a mini-skirt, and a party called “Exotic Erotic.” In fact, just typing about it makes my head spin a little. Margaritas are still okay, though, thank goodness.

3. For snacks I sometimes stick a few mini marshmellows and a handful of Rice Krispies in a bowl and nuke it for a few seconds. Voila- instant Rice Krispie Treat. I have also been known to do this with mini-marshmellows, chocolate, and graham crackers for instant s’mores. [hangs head in shame.]

4. I refuse to eat fennel, anise, or anything else that tastes of licorice. Ick ick ick.

5. If I had to rank my preference for cheeses based on the animal source of the milk, it would go in this order: sheep, goat, cow. Mmm. Sheep.

I once was having dinner with a Federal Judge and someone said that she must hear a lot of remarkable things in her line of work, and asked if anything surprised her anymore.  She said she is constantly amazed at the kind of things that people would say in public- riding in a taxi on the cell phone, talking to a friend at a restaurant, gossiping with a girlfriend during a smoke break- without any apparent concern for who might overhear what they’re saying.  She said she had heard revelations of illicit affairs,  the details of major business details, and even sensitive attorney-client information through these overheard snippets of conversation.  Then she admonished all of us to never talk on the phone on the bus because people are always listening- especially lawyers.

This dinner was fairly early in my law school career, when I was still filled with near-constant feelings of “ohcrapwhathaveIdonethisisnotforme,” and it was one of the first times I felt like maybe I would be an okay lawyer after all- because OH MY GOD do I do this.  I am unable to ignore the conversations of people around me.  John and I have been known to sit nearly silent on a date in a nice restaurant because we are both listening so intently to the trainwreck conversation going on next to us.  Like the guy last week who was talking to his date about having a very high I.Q. but not needing to prove it to anybody so he doesn’t mind working in retail sales (sure! don’t need to prove it to anybody!  that’s why you’re talking about it on a date!)  Or the two guys a few months ago who were old friends catching up, talking about their wives, when one of them remarked “I mean, I know she makes as much money than me and her career is important and shit, but when she tells me over the weekend that on Tuesday she’s going to have to work late so I’m going to have to pick the kid up from daycare, I’m like ‘Jesus, that’s supposed to be YOUR job, YOU pick up the fucking kid from daycare- I’m working here!’” (awesome.  I’m so sorry you were off the market when I was dating.  We could have had some beautiful times together.)

It’s a disease, this listening in.  I went to a coffee shop on campus yesterday to try to get some reading done before class (note:  4th Amendment?  What a mess!) and happened to sit at a table next to two freshmen.  One was a girl taking precalculus and one was a boy who had apparently been assigned to be her tutor.  There were several heaping servings of awkward, with the girl being pretty normal and asking for help on the precalculus problems she would face on a quiz this week, and the boy saying things like “well, it’s been about 5 years since I took precalculus, but I’m pretty much a math prodigy so I can pick it up again remarkably quickly,” (ah, good, I’d be disappointed if her tutor was anything less than a prodigy,) and “wow! You went to high school abroad?  Two points for you!” (What the hell? We’re on a points system now?  When did that happen?)  He was really the most awkward kid I’ve ever seen in real life.

Then he said “Yeah, I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to be a math major or a philosophy major- but either way, the goal is the same- because I’m headed straight to law school.”

Sigh.  Of course you are.

NOTE TO BOYS: you are likely not going to enjoy this post. You’ve been warned. No “blech, gross” comments, please.

CityMama had a nice post recently on using one’s calendar to reflect on the year just past. This made me think several things:

1. Where the heck is last year’s calendar, anyway?

2. Did I leave that gift certificate I bought at the auction last year in the pocket of last year’s calendar?

3. I did. Shit. I lost the gift certificate I overpaid for at last year’s auction. Awesome.

4. I am such a crappy calendar keeper.

Then Stefania got to this part:

Slashes slice across days as they are used up, lines with arrows at the end go across any days we have visitors or go out of town. Hearts adorn family birthdays and anniversaries. Inconspicuous dots mark the days when it’s “red tent time.”

(Emphasis added.)  This made me think the following:

1. My mother always told me to do that.

2. Come to think of it, so did one of my roommates.

3. I don’t do that, and my mom is usually right about things.  Crap.  I am a bad menstruator.  (Yeah, I said “menstruator.”  Deal.)

4. Why the hell would I do that?  (Let’s assume for the sake of this question that we’re not currently using the rhythm method)

It’s this last question with which I need help.  I somehow now am managing to feel guilty about not doing something whose purpose I don’t even understand.  Do you do this?  Should I?  And please, someone tell me why I should do this.  Because I’m concerned I’m screwing up my womanhood or something.

This morning, Mason and I went for coffee and a roll at a little bakery I like.  Standing directly in front of the door of the bakery was a man with a small cup.  

As Mason and I went in, he asked us for money.  “Maybe on the way out,” I said, reflexively.  Typically, when someone asks me for money as I’m entering a store, I keep the coins I get in change from my transaction in my hand and give them to the person on the way out.  I wasn’t getting any food or coffee today, though (I had a bagel right before at home- long story) so when I walked out, I didn’t have any change in my pocket. 

“Spare a little change?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said. 

“You said ‘maybe on the way out’” he replied.  Aggressively, not friendlily.

“I said ‘maybe’” I retorted.

And then I felt like an utter piece of crap, because seriously, who gets testy with a homeless person?  Yes, I was annoyed when he gave me a hard time for not giving him anything, because I’m not actually obligated to give anyone money who is asking for it on the street.  But I did say “maybe on the way out,” because that’s what I typically do, and then I didn’t give him any money, and I got sarcastic with him about it, which is just lame. 

It is also, apparently, very very bad karma.  Mason and I were at the bakery at the start of a day of soliciting money on behalf of a non-profit we work for that has a charity auction coming up at the end of the month.  For five hours, we pounded the pavement of the hip shopping districts around the city, passing out pamphlets and donation forms, begging for donations.   

We told every store owner, regardless of location, that we “live in the neighborhood” (because, really Chicago, though it is often described as a “city of neighborhoods,” is actually more like a bunch of areas sewn together into one large neighborhood tapestry so it’s not really lying so much as imagining a better, more tapestry-like city) and telling them also that “most of our classmates live in the neighborhood, (see “tapestry explanation,” supra,) and that it would be “excellent advertising” for them to donate to the auction (that part is true, and I know because I am one of the people responsible for making the damned “thank you to Local Business X for their generous donation of Y” placards.)  And after five hours and thirty-five pamphlets and four neighborhoods with four parking meters plugged with four quarters scrounged from some really unappealing places beneath the seats of my car we got…..two donations. 

Two.  Ouch. 

My favorite was the owner of the asian candy and food store who, when I said (honestly, actually) that a lot of people at school seem really obsessed with those funny jelly candy things with lychee in them and might get all excited about a gift basket of those said, in the most incredulous voice I’ve ever heard in real life “I’m not going to give you anything for free” as if I was trying to dupe her.  Or maybe the proprietor of  the “male hair salon” in Boystown who could barely contain his confusion as to why two straight girls were asking him for help.  Or the bouncer at the bar who was looking nervously around us to make sure that no one cool passing on the street was noticing him talking to such losers as us. 

Yes, it was an awesome way to spend a Saturday.

How about you internets?  Anyone want to donate anything to an auction?  It’s for a really good cause and I will personally send you a very glamorous tax deduction form for your troubple PLUS you’ll get free publicity…..

…because I am a liar. I actually realized I didn’t want to quit blogging, I was just uninspired and feeling in the mood to do something dramatic at New Year’s. What I DID want to do, however, was leave Blogger, which has been driving me nuts ever since it sort-of-merged-without-much-explanation with Google. Ugh. Buggy and annoying. (For those of us who write with pseudonyms, but also have non-pseudonymous Google accounts, it would do this fun thing where every once in a while it would recognize “real” you as opposed to “blogger” you and then post your posts or comments under your real name instead of your blogger name which caused me great consternation. Not that I’m all that special and anonymous, but come ON.)

What really convinced me to come back, though, was this little tidbit from our plane flight home from L.A. on New Year’s Day: sitting in front of me was an unaccompanied minor, maybe 10 or 11 years old. As we are about to land, she wriggles around in her chair, then stretches and reaches her arm way up above her and flicks something behind her from off her fingernail. It lands in my lap. It is a BOOGER. She flicked a BOOGER onto me! I’m all for stealthy booger removal generally, and that whole stretch-yawn-flick move was pretty stealthy, but when you’re on a PLANE, and there is someone sitting BEHIND YOU, you DO NOT FLICK YOUR BOOGERS BACKWARDS ONTO THEIR LAPS, YOUNG LADY! And I realized that without a blog I would have no where to express my righteous indignation and my small rant on “kids today and how they have no manners.”

And so I joined wordpress. Archives might make their way over here at some point. Hope any old readers find their way over, and forgive me for being that worst of blogging cliches: she who tries to make a dramatic exit, and fails.

The end.