Upstairs Relaxing evening, although probably not a hugely productive one in the greater scheme of things. I just burned 4 hours updating my "all about moi" page for the judges to look at. One or two of the judges have looked at it -- I can tell from the SiteMeter reports. Come on, judges. See how wonderful I am? See, see? All this and I dance too. I typed in my old theatre resume. Man, that sure took me back. All those shows, and roles, and the crew jobs I worked, and the time they made me Master Electrician and I didn't even know one end of a fresnel from the other and ended up shorting out two very very expensive lights. Lamps. Where did that future go? Maybe all this belongs downstairs . . . |
Downstairs I'm definitely in a down phase. The clerkship search is dragging on. I had a ding-letter yesterday from a judge here in SoFlo. That's fine, I guess, because I didn't want to stay in SoFlo. But it's the first post-interview ding. And the interviews are awfully hard to come by. So I feel like I wasted that shot somehow. It was a nice letter. "I think all of you would be wonderful clerks, and this is the hardest letter that I write" and so forth. And at least it did not pretend to be anything other than a form letter. I appreciated that. B and I were studying by the pool this afternoon (GOOD sunshine) and I couldn't remember what nunc pro tunc meant. "B, do you remember what nunc pro tunc means?" "Um. No. I'm only a 1-L, remember?" "Eh, okay. I'll look it up later." I went back to my case and figured it out from the context. "Oh. It means retroactive. Damn. I should have remembered that." B put down his book and looked over at me quite firmly. "Yg, you have to stop being so hard on yourself." "Hungh?" "You're beating yourself up over not remembering a term that you maybe saw once, a year ago." "But I did see it. I remember seeing it. I just didn't remember what it meant. And I looked it up then, so I should have remembered it." "Yg, you've got to stop that. Out of a hundred lawyers, how many would know what it meant?" "Well, any lawyer worth her salt would go look it up. Which is what I was planning to do." Poor B. Seven years of this, and now he's still stuck with it. I feel bad for him, I really do. He's so patient and good and kind. But at least I know now that I can make it without him. I can hold my own door shut now. I'd get some treatment for this, or little pink pills, if it was not for the damned Bar Committee. I can just feel them hanging over my future, interrogation-style, ready to deny me a license on the off chance that I'm batshit nuts. So far, nobody's officially said that I'm batshit nuts. Besides, I'm only batshit nuts about half the time. The rest of the time I'm very smart. While entering my resume, I found the scripts I'd written for the VCI project when I was seventeen. Three of those suckers, two about teen depression / teen suicide, and one about teen drinking. They sure were easy to write. We took the show on the road. Got an award for it. Made the grant sponsor very happy. Funny thing, with all those social workers hovering around, nobody thought to ask, "Er, Yg . . . we happened to notice that you just wrote a very sincere 20-minute script for the group to perform, about teen depression and suicide. How'd you come up with all that?" How'd I come up with all that? Oh, beats me. I must just be a very bright imaginative overachiever. /emote /grumble. Damned social workers. |
And In My Lady's Chamber Yesterday study partner M and I were sitting in class, before class had started, and she pulled up an email that had gone by, saying "Hey, ladies, we can get 'scrips for birth control filled at the U's pharmacy for only $12 a month!" "I don't know what your deal is, but just thought you might want to see that," said M. "It's a very good deal." I leaned over and peered at her screen. "Um. Well, yeah. But if I had birth control, I might start having sex again. And that would just distract me." Then I look up and see the prof leaning over the podium laughing. Gods, I hope he didn't hear that. We were sitting pretty far away and not speaking too loudly. But still. No word from D. Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of his mother's death. I am thinking of him 'specially hard. Outside the confines of my little pash for him, that is. And I really do need to get my ass OVER that little pash, because this thing is not going to be going anywhere, a) fast, or b) soon. I have my flaws but I do not fuck around with another woman's man. Once I am aware of that fact. (You're still so on my shit list for that, D.) Sleep tight, fellow celibate souls. And p.s. screwing B does not count. |