Flashback: 1991-1992

Hello dear readers!

I am sitting at my parents’ laptop at the kitchen table, looking out at their gorgeous, lush and tranquil backyard. They had a new deck put in recently, and they put a lot of energy into maintaining the lawn and the various plants and flowers: ferns, rhodedhendrons (sp?), succulents, etc. It’s beautiful and so serene. The past day 1/2 has been a bit drizzly and overcast, but I haven’t minded one bit. It always takes me a little while to shed off the stress and fast-paced impatience of L.A. (i.e. when everyone here drives 30 mph down the main streets and there is only one lane in each direction so you just have to wait), but then I slip back into this pace of life, and realizing that the most urgent place I have to be is dinner (at 5 pm, ha!) is incredible.

The other thing that inevitably happens when I come up here is that I feel like I have entered a time capsule, and suddenly it is 1997 and I am in high school. I always feel, during my trip, like I have to keep in touch with my BF or at least someone from my present “real” life so that I feel anchored to who I am now. Then again, there is something important about remembering who the teenage version of myself was, what she cared about, what she dreamed about, what she wanted to be when she became the grown-up version of me.

Deciding, then, to embrace this peculiar form of time travel (I should have mentioned that I have been reading The Time Travelers Wife, which inspired this thinking), I decided to go to the giant cardboard box in my childhood bedroom and dig out the multitude of journals I kept from elementary school all the way through high school.

So, what did Little Miss Law care about in 1991? (6th grade).

Two things: 1) BOYS — namely, why was no one asking me out? 2) My friends, and making sure everyone was getting along.

Those of you who know the grownup Little Miss Law know that these obsessions have not changed 100% since ’91.

I decided to share some of these entries with my dear readers verbatim. Because seriously, I can’t make this stuff up.

Nov. 9, 1991: Dear Diary, Oh my. S.L., the guy M. has liked since July, told her stepbrother-to-be that he “sort of” has a girlfriend. She is SOOOOOO sad. I don’t know what to say to her. She was depressed yesterday, so I sang her a line from a song by Michael Bolton that goes, “You may think your world is over, but at a chance, remember this: Nothin; heals a broken heart like time, love and tenderness.” Oh yeah…I got my bangs permed again!!

NOTE: Apparently my current not-so-secret love for adult contemporary music started at a young age!

Dec 9, 1991: We switched seats in class and I sit behind A. We’re starting a new unit on (gag me) puberty. P.S. I got a cool clock radio with cassette recorder for Hanukah last night!

March 10, 1992: L. told me that today she told T.H. that I have a big crush on him and M. and L. both say that M. nodded when L. said, “Isn’t that right, M?” Aah! It’s not true! Guess what! I’m soooooo dumb! B. told me one day that I should shave my arms and I finally did today. And my mom, like, freaked out! “What?!” she cried. “You didn’t shave your arms did you!?” “Yes, why?” I asked. She explained how stubbly my arms could get. OH WELL!

Mar. 18, 1992: J.C. is nice, but he admits that he changes girlfriends as much as he changes shirts. Here are the ones I know of, in order: Shannon somebody, Pam, Brandi, Marniece (school slut), Erica M, Erica B, Shannon again, and now Tabitha. Huh!

April 9, 1992: I really want a boyfriend now. I mean, Carson’s had 4 girlfriends, Bayla’s had 3 boyfriends that I know of (she claims she has had more), Ilona has had 12 boyfriends, J.C’s has about 20 (ha) and claims he has 5 right now. Even M.’s had a boy ask her out, and has another boy who has a crush on her. (But she doesn’t know who.) Carmen knows but she’s sworn to secrecy.

April 26, 1992: M. & Greg went to the movies yesterday (on a DATE!) But Greg invited Derek, and M. says that Greg paid more attention to Derek than to her. Oh well. They went to see “White Men Can’t Jump.” My mom won’t even let me double-date till high school. She won’t let me date one-on-one until I’m 16. I really think that’s UNFAIR!! I can’t have a boy-girl party till 8th grade!! EEK!!!!!!

April 27, 1992: Things are kinda awkward between Greg & M. now. I guess after you’ve gone out with someone who you’re not formally “going with,” you both wonder where it’ll go from there.

*** Wow, how insightful of 12-year-old Little Miss Law!! If I had even imagined how complicated relationships could be, I might have thanked my mom for trying to spare me from it, at least until after puberty!

That’s all for now. Thanks for joining me on this trip down memory lane. More later on my actual trip!

Leavin’ on a Jet Plane

Hurrah!  I have survived this rollercoaster week (Note: the settlement fell through again, but we got an extension on our motion, so hopefully the settlement will REALLY happen in the meantime) and in a couple of short hours I will be heading down to LAX to fly far, far away!!  (Ok, just a state away.  But that’s far enough, for now.)

I am looking forward to a fabulous weekend of seeing my family and maybe some of my high school friends, eating, sleeping, and all around slothfulness.  I swear, every time I go up there, I go to bed at 10 pm, wake up late, and then take an afternoon nap on the couch.  There is some kind of sedative in the water, I think (it definitely can’t be that I’m lazy!  Who, moi?).   And of course, I will make some time for shopping.  The lack of sales tax is dangerous, I racked up quite the bill at White House, Black Market last time. 

More tales of my travels to come….

Hump Day Tribulations

Subtitle: Don’t Call me Ma’am; Litigation Gives me a Heart Attack; and Thoughts On Feeling Like a Guilty Sellout While Eating Rubber Chicken.

I am feeling particularly bloggy tonight.  Prepare yourselves, dear readers!

First things first.  I hate, hate, hate being called “ma’am.”  I can’t think of a single thing that makes me feel older or more frumpy.  I don’t care that it’s a polite cultural way to address a woman whose name you don’t know.  I don’t care if I’m wearing a skirt suit and heels and carrying a giant mom-purse that looks more like luggage than a purse (says my BF) and am clearly ordering takeout from the mall at 8 pm to take back to the office.  I don’t care that you are 10 years my junior and are probably dubbed “Pizza face” by your classmates.  JUST DON’T CALL ME MA’AM!!!

Whew, that felt good to get off my chest.

Today I rolled into work feeling incredibly calm.  Yesterday I found out that the biggest case I was working on miraculously settled, which meant that the motion we were scrambling to finish by Monday would be moot, and I would not have to travel to see Mom & Dad this weekend with laptop in tow. 

Then….my fellow associate on the case sends me an e-mail from our co-counsel in New York, stating that our client is insistent on one provision, and if he doesn’t get it, all bets are off.  My fellow associate comments, “Hmmm.”  Is the case not settled after all?  This doesn’t bode well.

I get back from an incredibly long lunch in honor of the same associate (see more on the lunch, below) and am settling in when I receive another email from New York co-counsel:

2:23 PST: “Not settled.  So send motion.”

ACK!!!!  Not settled?  So the dance of glee I did yesterday and the several triumphant emails I had sent out to my friends and family were all for nothing??  I immediately start plugging away again on the motion, my heart beating mile a minute, imagining that I’ll have to cancel my trip.

Two hours after causing my initial panic, and only in response to an email from me, another email:

4:16 PST: “LittleMissLaw, hold off absent some insanity we are settled”

Well, Mr. New York is nothing if not concise.  I don’t know whether I want to send him an e-hug for the good news, or an e-strangle for keeping me so out of the loop this week, and even to this moment, giving me no details about the settlement.  If I hadn’t emailed him, he may never have told me and I would have toiled all night!!!!  I opt for the friendly, (but with a sarcastic subtext), “Whew!  Thanks for the update.”

Finally, my long lunch today.  It was downtown at the Biltmore, put on by the ACLU Foundation, and my co-worker was one of several lawyers being honored for his pro bono work.  As always, it was an inspiring lunch.  The ACLU, and their pro bono lawyers, handle everything from asylum cases (in fact, the African asylee that my co-worker helped was there and sat at our table, smiling broadly the whole time) to sexual orientation discrimination, from free speech to open government issues. 

This is my 2nd or 3rd time attending this particular lunch, and in addition to the meal being identical every time (as every organization’s lunches are — rubber chicken and veggies), every time I have the same sensation that I have strayed far from the path I imagined for myself when I was in law school.  I always pictured myself working at a non profit organization.  But then I wonder, just because I used to want that, and that’s not what I’m doing, does that mean that what I’m doing is wrong?  There are times when my job feels unfulfilling, but on the whole I have learned a ton over the past two years about how to be an effective lawyer, and I have a long way to go.  Is there something wrong with wanting to get that training in private practice?  The ACLU does amazing work, but it is hard to come by organizations that do such interesting, large scale impact litigation.  If I stay at a firm, am I a hopeless sell-out?  (this is known as a rhetorical question, people).

Over the next few days, stay tuned for tales from my trip to see the fam!

Things I Don’t Want to Hear About While Eating

1)  The Zone Diet.

2) The “Paleo Diet.”

3) The Atkins Diet.

4) The South Beach Diet.

5)  Jenny Craig.

6)  The “French Women Don’t Get Fat” Diet.

I think you get the picture.

I love my co-workers, but it seems that lately, every other person in my office is on some diet or another.  And really, what better thing to talk about, while I am buttering my roll and heaping my plate full of pasta, than your newest diet?  What better way to kick off my weekend than to talk about your caloric intake as I drink my 1000-calorie margarita at Friday happy hour?

On a fundamental level, I do understand it.  My job is nothing if not incredibly sedentary.  My main exercise of the day consists of walking back and forth to the bathroom.  Also, my entire workday essentially revolves around food.  Lunch is served in the attorney dining room at 12:30 sharp, and by that time, my stomach has usually started growling audibly.  So I consume a huge lunch, and if that is unsatisfying, I will then gravitate toward the desserts.  This is not to mention that every other day, it is someone’s birthday celebration, which always includes cake/bagels/donuts, and the like.  And one of the assistants who sits near me has a perfect glass cookie jar that she painstakingly fills every day with an assortment of packaged cookies: Oreos, ginger snaps, etc.  So I am never without plenty of food.

Still, some of these diets are truly preposterous.  My favorite (and by “favorite,” I mean the one that I find most ridiculous) is the Paleo Diet.  Now, it’s not that I dispute the potential merits of this diet. It is somewhat more reasonable than, say, Atkins (which I was turned off to completely after seeing a very chubby guy in my law school section eating a tupperware full of bacon-wrapped hot dogs. Just wrong). But the best part of it is that, not only are you supposed to eat the foods that the hunter-gatherers ate, you are supposed to only eat them with your hands.  How awesome is that? 

The real problem I have with all this diet craziness is that most diets seem impossible to stick to for any length of time.  Case in point:  my boss is on the afore-mentioned Paleo Diet, but makes a point to mention that he will break the diet for special occasions, about once a week.  A few weeks ago, we had a party at a local restaurant to kick off the summer and welcome all the summer associates.  Boss is seated next to me, and we are chatting for a while about various things.  Then, someone mentions that chocolate cake has been ordered, and Boss’ ears perk up.  For the next 15 minutes, he raptly watches the door, waiting for the chocolate cake to emerge.  The moment the cake comes into view, he all but lunges for the waiter and grabs a plate.  I kid you not, had there been women and children in Boss’ way, he would have taken them out, all in the name of that little (ok, actually it was HUGE) slice of chocolate heaven.

You know what I say?  Diet, schmiet.

A weekend in the life of LittleMissLaw

 NOTE: I wrote this last night, intending to come back to it later in the evening and add to it before I published it.  I didn’t, but here it is, a bit belated.

I am sitting at my computer, looking out my window at the palm trees in silhouette against the darkening sky, a warm summer evening breeze blowing through the window, and thinking to myself: I am so lucky! 

This was a good weekend, notwithstanding the fact that I worked almost all day yesterday.   Last night I went to a fun and swanky new restaurant called Murano with my fun and fabulous girlfriends from law school.  We felt very Sex & the City.  This afternoon Knittikins and I indulged in pedicures and some clothes shopping, then tonight my Sunday night dinner ladies and I had our weekly dinner and ice cream ritual.  All in all, it was some great girl time. 

The highlight of my weekend, though, was my morning hike today up in Topanga Canyon with a big group of my co-workers.  The hike happens every summer, leaving from a partner’s house in Topanga and returning to his house afterward for lunch and swimming.   It was so nice to be outdoors on a beautiful summer day, getting some exercise and bonding with my co-workers.  Sometimes I become disillusioned with L.A. and fantasize about where else I could live, but this weekend was a perfect reminder of why I love this city as much as I do.

On another note, one of my co-workers brought his dog on the hike.  Now, as my faithful readers already know, I am a cat person, but this dog was an adorable, perfectly behaved English Shepherd.  I wanted to take him home with me!  Of course, my apartment and I can barely handle Noodles, much less a large 60 lb dog.  So that will just have to wait until I have a house with a yard (someday….)  Speaking of Noodles, we have successfully (thanks, I believe, to the spray bottle), re-established our loving relationship.  I’m very happy that I didn’t make a rash decision about him.

On a final note, kudos to me for not being the least out of shape person in my office.  I am a notorious non-exerciser (bad I know), but I seemed to make it through the hike with little to no panting, while some of my co-workers appeared to be on the verge of collapse.  I do want to start doing more hikes though.  I hate the gym and hiking is just so pleasant.  Can anyone recommend some pretty day hikes in L.A.?

But my mom thinks I’m cool!

Since I am going out tonight (yay Friday), I thought I would take a minute out from my workday to write a quick blog for all of my faithful readers out there (hi, Mom and Dad).   Shhh….don’t tell my boss.

As it turns out, my parents are indeed the biggest fans of my blog to date!  Mom says that it “reminds [her] of both Calista Flockhart’s attorney character (AllyMcBeal–but for the record, LittleMissLaw does NOT wear miniskirts to the office) and the cartoon character Cathy.”  I actually take this as a great compliment because I know that what Mom is trying to say is that I’m funny.  Right?  (Or I am a neurotic, cartoonish attorney.)  Dad says “It is great that you have an outlet for your wit, wisdom (and weirdness.)”  Again, this is a huge compliment…it’s OK if he calls me weird because I owe my incredibly corny, punny sense of humor to my dad (much to Mom’s chagrin).  On that note, let me tell you my dad’s favorite joke from when I was a child:

Dad:  “So I was walking down the street today and I saw a mattababy walking towards me.”

LittleMissLaw: “What’s a mattababy?”

Dad:  “Nothing, whatsa matta with you?”

That explains a lot, doesn’t it?

Anyway, it comes as no great surprise that my parents are chairs of the LittleMissLaw Fan Club, since these are the same people who told me I was pretty even when I was 10 years old, 5’7″, all gangly legs and arms, with huge plastic framed glasses and braces.  Very sweet, but only slightly damaging to their credibility.

I know you guys are reading this.  I love you.

Stay tuned for more tidbits this weekend.  On Sunday I am going on an early morning hike with 30 people from my firm, and I get to drive the hiring partner all the way up to the hiking location in Topanga Canyon.  If this doesn’t create at least one good blog post, I will be sorely disappointed.

Encounters of the Cat Lady Kind

I really didn’t intend this blog to be so focused on cats or cat owners, but today I had a crazy cat lady run-in, and given my last two posts I thought I would be remiss if I didn’t complete the cat blog trilogy.

Allow me to start at the beginning.  I had a dentist appointment this morning in Burbank, which was just as fun as it sounds.  But I got two positive things from the experience (besides fresh, clean teeth). 

First positive thing is a tangent — while in the waiting room, I read a hilarious (month old, but still) essay in Time Magazine.  As someone who is following the presidential campaigning AND someone who is still relatively addicted to Myspace (way more than I should be for someone who is well out of college), I actually laughed out loud in the waiting room.  http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1627004,00.html

And of course, the second positive thing is my crazy cat lady encounter…none other than my dental hygenist.  I have been seeing this dentist for a while, but have never seen this particular hygenist.  To give you a mental image — she comes to collect me from the waiting room, and her posture is a bit hunched, as though she might decide to fold in on herself at any moment.  She wears nondescript clothes that are saggy in all the wrong places; I can’t tell how big she is or how old she is.  She is probably late 40-ish and wears glasses and a messy, unwashed ponytail.  She leaves me sitting in the plastic covered reclining chair, and so I sit and contemplate the photographs on the wall.  Two are photos of her rock-climbing at “Suicide Rock” in Idyllwild (she regaled me with stories about her outdoor adventures, but I’ll spare you.) 

Then, there is the cat photograph.  It is no less than a pile of Siamese cats.  Ok, there are only three of them, but they are sprawled out on each other so that it is hard to tell where one cat’s head separates from the other cat’s tail.  (Maybe they are Siamese triplets?)*

“Are those your cats?”  I ask politely when she returns to the room.  I tell her about Noodles, and that I have thought about getting Noodles a cat friend so he won’t be lonely, but that I think my place is too small for 2 cats.  She asks how big my place is and I say 900 square feet.  She exclaims, “Wow, that is way bigger than my place!”  Then she continues, “but because I live by myself…” 

I have a sudden flash forward to myself in 20 years, living in a tiny apartment in Burbank with my three cats.  (Please, God, NO.) 

This is definitely a woman who dresses her cats up in little sweaters, takes pictures and sends them out as greeting cards.

Then Cat Lady does something that is my pet peeve, even though I know everyone who does it is well-intentioned, and I’m sure that I do it to others.  When she finds out that I am a lawyer, she exclaims, “Oh, my ex was a lawyer!”  She tells me that he is now working as an expert witness and getting paid $500 an hour.  (This reminds me, as I learned on my big construction defect case, that experts have the best gig around.  Note to self: become an expert in something.)

Then, better yet, she shares with me a tidbit of her legal wisdom: “If I were an expert,” she confides, “I would just look up everything on Google.”

I am definitely going to hire Cat Lady next time I need an expert.  Look out, other side’s expert, with your fancy graduate degree and your 30 years of experience in the field of real estate/medicine/film production!  You are no match for a woman who can LOOK THINGS UP ON THE INTERNET!

On a final note, Noodles and I have been getting along swimmingly since I introduced the spray bottle into our relationship.  I have only had to use it twice, because now the mere sight of it (much like the vacuum cleaner) causes Noodles to run and cower in the corner. 

With that I conclude my cat trilogy.  Stay tuned for non-feline items in the coming days.

*NOTE:  I realize that the “Siamese triplets” joke was really, really cheezy.  That’s just my sense of humor.  Don’t worry, it’ll grow on you.

See, I could be worse.

Yesterday I enlightened you all about my current love-hate relationship with my sometimes-snuggly, sometimes-cruel furball, Noodles. 

What I didn’t share is that my friends are prone to teasing me about my alleged “crazy cat lady” tendencies.  Okay, so I did toy with the idea of buying a pet stroller!  But it was only because Noodles didn’t like to be walked on a leash that his previous owners passed on to me!  Sheesh.  C’mon, people.

As it turns out, however, when it comes to crazy cat ladies, I am a mere amateur at best.  My friend JV forwarded me this ad that was posted on her friend’s company’s internal classifieds site (which is accessed by every branch of the company in several cities):

“In Sunday’s newspaper, there are coupons for Meow Mix.  If you are not going to use them, I would very much appreciate your sending them to me (location 3272).  Thank you. — Cheryl and Mittens, Calvin, James, Garfunkle, Sissy, Phoebe, Zoe, Cashmere, Snickers and Java (aka Miss Bean).”

So you see, I could be much worse.  I only have one cat, not several; I am not posting ads for cat food coupons; I do not sign cards or emails, “Love, LittleMissLaw and Noodles”; and (thinking of more “crazy cat lady” stereotypes) I have never once dressed Noodles up in a little sweater and taken his picture. 

(I admit though that if Knittikins were to knit Noodles something, I’d be happy to indulge her.)

Still, if my mission were to become a crazy cat lady, I would have a long way to go yet.

Now please excuse Noodles and me.  It is past our bedtime.

Who are you calling a crazy cat lady?

Over the past few days, I have come to realize that my most dramatic and intense relationship is with my cat.

I’m not much for drama, but throw in a vicious, unprovoked attack to any relationship and I think you’re liable to stir the pot a bit.

Noodles (the only “person” who I will post a picture of and call by his real name in this blog, since he is unconcerned with anonymity) came into my life over a year ago.  My ex and I adopted him, I got cat custody by default (he now lives with his brother who is allergic), and so for the past eight months, it  has just been me and Noodles.

The scene:  Friday morning, 7:00 a.m., my apartment.  I scramble around, frantically trying to look presentable for my third court appearance of the week.  Too late, I discover that one half or the other of each nice suit I own has vanished into the Black Hole of Laundry.  I have to make a choice between the very rumpled suit pants or the slightly rumpled suit skirt and slightly unshaven legs.  I choose the skirt.

As I grab my purse and keys and make my way to the door, I see Noodles crouched in a suspicious position, his legs tucked under him in such a way that he can spring into action at any second.  Typical male that he is, he eyes my bare legs hungrily.  He then emits the telltale growl/meow that signals an imminent attack.  He launches toward my leg, teeth and claws extended.  I scream “NO, NOODLES!” and crouch down to scold him.  As I squat not-so-daintily before him, yelling bloody murder in my attempt to discipline him (Lord only knows what my neighbors must think goes on in my apartment) he suddenly lunges and sinks one perfectly pointed tooth through my shirt into my stomach.  I scream again and fling him off of me.  A website I looked at once said that when a cat attacks, you should simulate being a wounded cat.  I sit on my knees on the floor (I thought the skirt was rumpled before this altercation) and proceed to make loud mewling noises.  Noodles looks only mildly alarmed, but I manage to get to my feet and escape out the door before he pounces again.

I drive to court, fuming.  This is the last straw!  I can’t live like this anymore!  When I arrive at work after making my perfunctory court appearance (“thank you, Your Honor”) I decide it’s time to find Noodles a new home.  I found him on Craig’s List, and by golly, back on Craig’s List he’ll go!  So I draft an innocuous ad with the above picture attached, carefully omitting any mention of attacks.   I get five responses that day.  “He’s adorable!” one exclaims.  (If you only knew.)  Another says “Does he shed?  Is he good with kids and other pets?”  (Profusely, and no.)  My guilt gets the better of me and I don’t respond to the ads.  First, I would feel awful passing along a devious monster to an unsuspecting adopter. 

Also, I am at least Noodles’ fourth owner, and I am really attached to the furry beast.  It dawns on me that I am in the textbook abusive relationship.  Every time after Noodles attacks, he comes back, sweet as the day is long, nuzzles against my feet (he has a bit of a fetish) and purrs until I can’t help but forgive him.

So for now, Noodles stays put.  I have my spray bottle waiting for his next attack….

To Blog or Not to Blog, Part II

An update to the debate.  Yesterday, my boyfriend asked me how the blog was going.  (Remember, he already told me he would not be reading it.)  We then got into part II of the discussion of why he wouldn’t read the blog.  He said, much like my friend T., that he doesn’t feel the need to read what I share with everyone on the Internet.  In his view, if it’s really important, then I will/should be discussing it with him anyway.  I tried to explain that, at least at its best, the blog would be for me equally about the process of writing and expressing myself as about the actual content of the blog.

Finally he said, “I can tell this is important to you and you clearly want me to read it, so send me the link.”

I replied that by explaining myself, it hadn’t been in an effort to persuade him to read the blog.

He answered, “I know.  You want me to want to read the blog.”

Don’t you hate it when someone hits the nail right on the head about you?  Of course, it’s fantastic that he can read me so well, but it also makes me feel a little too exposed to be so transparent!  I’m not even sure if I want him to read the blog.  There is something sort of pleasant about having it be mine, like savoring a hard candy that I roll around in my mouth and tuck away in my cheek as a sweet secret.  (I may be plagiarizing a novel I read once with that analogy, but I don’t recall which novel.)  But part of me does think that he should be naturally curious about the blog.

Perhaps in an effort to pretend that he was wrong, I still haven’t sent him the link.  Also, part of me is afraid that he’ll read it and think it’s silly or trite, or feel like he has to say something nice about the blog, which is completely beside the point.