Be careful what you ask....

Me:  "So, I applied for this job, and you emailed me back that I was unqualified even though I applied for a similar job last month and you said I was one of the most qualified candidates.  Is there some kind of a mistake?"

Nameless Faceless Government Bureaucrat:  "Oh yes, my apologies.  There was a mistake.  I have gone back and reviewed both applications and regret to inform you that you are actually unqualified for both jobs."

Me:  **crickets**

Some advice from someone entirely unqualified to give it.

It's kind of weird.  I stopped taking a really active role in this blog a couple of years ago mainly because I'm not sure how to transition a blog about law school into a blog about being a mom and an attorney who doesn't practice and doesn't want to talk about her job and get canned and have to beg on the street...but, I digress.  Anyway, people apparently still google phrases like "law school sucks" and "fuck law school" and "grades don't matter"...and they find my blog.  Weird, I know.  And then, they write me emails asking for advice on how to survive 1L, or getting bad grades (NOOOOOOO...NOT A B-), or not getting a great internship...DOUBLE WEIRD!

I can't believe anyone would ever ask me for advice, about anything.  I've been married three times, my baby eats dirt and worms on a regular basis and spends the better part of her day trying to gnaw through the propane line to the fireplace, and my husband honestly can't believe I've made it this far in life without setting myself on fire or running myself over with a car.  So...yeah.

But, just in case...here's my advice.

It doesn't matter.  I mean, it does matter - but only when it does.  Which is when you're in law school.  People who graduate with BOTTOM 90% GRADES (WHAT???) get jobs every single day.  Good jobs.  If they didn't, then 90% of people who graduate from law school would never get a job and no one would ever take the LSAT again, right?

If you get a B-, no one will kill a kitten, or set an angel on fire, or force you to listen to Justin Bieber on endless replay (unless that's actually something you like, in which case, why are you here?).  I know that because, hey, I got quite a few B-'s.  There, I said it.  I'm in the bottom 90%.

People, the ubiquitous "they," would look askance at my seeming nonchalance over my slightly less than stellar grades.  The thing is, I was bothered.  It's just that I was bothered that anyone thought a grade in a class that had no bearing on my future had anything to with my worth as a person.  I mean, you have to jump through the hoops, and depending on your school, the hoops may be more or less difficult to navigate.  I took Algebra in high school, I respected the fact that it was part of the curriculum, I did my best, I didn't do that great, and I found a way to make a life for myself without Algebra.  The end.

But, ask yourself, does a B- in Corporations matter?  Obviously not, unless you want to be some kind of business attorney, or it's on the bar.  Otherwise...whatever.  And, frankly, if you're into business law, you probably won't get a B- in Corporations anyway.

So.  Relax.  Take a deep breath.  Get a good night's sleep.  Drink a beer...or two...or three.  Take a walk, enjoy time with your friends, study in the way that makes the most sense to you, and remember that approximately three minutes after you graduate, none of it will really matter. Not really.  Being on law review certainly has merit, as does getting fabulous grades, but let's face it...there's the top 10% and the bottom 90%, and so most of us are destined to be at the bottom (BOTTOM 90%...again, WHAT??).

Stand out in the subject that resonates with you.  Find a topic or class that captivates you.  Focus on staying balanced. 

And, really, seriously...have a beer.

It's, like, whoa.

I'm still taking a writing class.  It's still not that satisfying.  First off, I'm not sure I want to write "fiction" per se.  Secondly, I know I don't want to be the next Agatha Christie or Ayn Rand, or...well, Jane Austen.  Or, whatever.  The point being, if I'm in a room with five people who all belong to Jane Austen book clubs, I'm in a room with five too many people (at least).  I am going to finish the last two weeks.  I am getting some good tips on organizing my writing and things like that, but the other people kind of freak me out.  Not one of them is going to write a book that I ever want to read.  Before you judge, let me just say...yes, I can tell just by looking. 

A sketchy character

For my writing class I'm supposed to be developing a character sketch.  The instructor has us filling out this form - sort of like an "interview" of our character, if they were actually a real person.  I'm trying to decide if the difficulty I'm having with this assignment means I should stick to some kind of non-fiction writing.

First of all - I cannot predict what my own friends and family think, or what their "motivations" are, and I am with them 5,000+ hours EVERY SINGLE DAY. What does my character like to eat?  I don't know - ask him! (or her!).

Secondly - Why does my "character", let's call him "Bob" have to have "motivation"?  What if his "motivation" is just the overuse of quote marks?  What if he's lazy?  What if smokes a lot of weed and his motivation involves finding some Doritos because damnitiknowtheyareheresomewhere?

Third - It seems very...I don't know...inorganic (unorganic?) to come up with this character and assign poor Bob a "look" and a "personality" and "other character-y stuff".  Maybe Bob would like to come to me.  What if Bob is shy?  What if Bob likes girls that are a little more subdued?  Well, if that's the case - he's going to hate me anyway, so I might as well make him stupid and take away his Doritos.  How does that feel Bob? 

Anyway, I'm home sick (AGAIN!) due to the fact that I live in baby-germ-warfare-ville, and needless to say, I'm not working on my character, or his motivation, or my own motivation.

Maybe I'll just write a book about my own life, which has lots of "characters", none of whom I understand in the least, but at least they do funny shit.  Or start doing stand-up.  Everyone says I should do stand-up.  I bet you have to find motivation for that too.  Someone please tell me there's a career that does not involve motivation.  

In sickness and greater sickness

I'm home sick today.  I actually feel a lot better now, but I'm still home because...well...who wants to go to work for just a couple of hours after a day of being sick?  No one, that's who.  Plus, it's raining really hard.  I know it does that here, like, all the time...but I'm ready to see the sun again.  My soul is gloomy.

Things have been very crazy here.  Business trips for both of us, and increasingly mobile baby, stuff with friends and family, etc.  We're working on getting our life (lives?) to be the way we want it (them?) to be...being married is a challenge, as is being a parent, and is being an employee.  As I'm sure you know.  When you add it all up, well, I never was good at the new math.

I'm looking forward to the writing class I'm starting next week.  Something to put my mind into, something to hopefully stir some creativity and help me to work through all the stuff that's going on in my life these day.  I feel like I went to bed and life was fairly simple and I suddenly woke up in the middle of one of those haybale mazes, wrapped in tangled up twine and covered in rubiks cube's.

Do these pants make my asteroid look big?

So, while The Boy is out of town, I've been watching all manner of trash TV.  Right this minute I'm watching Ruby.  Ruby is not on my regular list of trashy reality shows...I am just too busy watching 16 and Pregnant.  Frankly.

So, anyway.  Ruby.  Apparently Ruby is a virgin.  I don't know how old she is, but she's gotta be older than me.  And he "ex" boyfriend is on the show - and there's some kind of weird vibe where he sort of sets off my gaydar, but also he makes a lot of googly eyes at Ruby and talks about getting her to give him some nookie.

But, what I really wanted to discuss is...she doesn't cuss...she substitutes.

Her "butt" is her "bertha".  Her "ass" is her "astronaut".  "Hell" is "helicopter".  I can't even remember the rest.  The whole thing was just so weird.  Not because she doesn't cuss, and not because she's a virgin...but...because she's just so weird and Southern about the whole thing.

There's something about her that really makes me uncomfortable.  I think it's because I have lived so long with the feelings of inadequacy that being overweight can bring, and with the shame that comes with being with guys who only want to be with you in the middle of the night when their friends can't see. 

I don't know.  It's causing me to think.  She's very annoying, but I think there's a universal truth there somewhere about being a woman, and overweight, and ashamed...and still wanting to be sexually desired, whether you can admit it or not.  And, if you can admit it, and you find someone to fill the role, can you ever believe they mean it?  Maybe that's the thing...I cringe for her because I cringe for my past self...I want to scream at the TV "there's no way this is real!  RUN!  he's going to point and laugh and make fun of you and you have to GET. OUT. NOW."

Hmmmm.  Something to ponder.

I am woman, hear me whimper

So, I talked to The Boy, and it's decided...I'm signing up for my very first ever creative writing class.  He's going to hang with Baby Spatula (I don't believe in "babysitting" your own kids), and give me some time to do this thing that I think really calls to me.  So, yay!

Meanwhile, I've been thinking a lot about the balance of life.  Like...we only get so much time, and there are ALL these things you want to fit into that timeline.  Career, school, baby(ies?), partnership with spouse, fulfilling personal activities, friendships, time to actually enjoy it and watch it and participate in it.  What a battle!  Anyway, no finished thoughts on that, but it seems like things just get thornier every day. 

Na-ee-na-na-ja...It's not that hard.

Lately I'm having a crisis of faith.  Not in the religious sense, but in the sense of my own faith in myself.  Faith in my abilities.  Faith in my personality, my people-skills, my aura...if you will.  It's weird.  I've worried about my looks, my body, my style, my hair, my raggedy nails, even my recent inability to force myself to wear lipgloss because I'm just too damn tired.  But, usually I don't worry about whether I'm likeable.  And now I do. 

My therapist says that I basically always act like everything is OK, so people assume that I am, even when I need support.  She also says that it is therefore my fault when people don't realize I need more support, that I have feelings that can be hurt, that I want their love and acceptance.  It's kind of weird, because...don't we all want love and acceptance.  Do people really think that there are other people who DON'T want that? 

I'm working on being more mindfully needy.  I made that term up just now.  Aren't I clever?

Textual criticisms on the ending of Mark.

Title of a paper I wrote Freshman year of college.  Swear to God.  I had a theory that professors would give you a better grade if the title sounded like you knew what you were talking about (even when you very clearly did not).  I took this Religion class because I thought it would be easy, but it turned out to be pretty interesting.  It was taught by a Rabbi.  I don't miss religion in my life per se - but I do miss church.  I kind of liked the community, the commonality, the conformity (there, I said it!).  When I was little, I loved to get dressed up (the pink-and-purple dress, when I spun around it would fly out and show my cotton underwear with tiny colorful flowers), and head to church.  There was always a children's service where I could run down the aisle, exit out the side door, and then go to a small room and learn fun songs and make art projects with cotton balls as Jesus' beard. 


Jesus on construction paper with popsicle sticks and glitter.  Oh yeah.  Somehow, I think he'd be impressed.

You might not know what "bee bo" means - or maybe you've forgotten...

It's just the tiny hippo way of saying....HOLY GOD ALMIGHTY I read a lot of stupid kids books.  Seriously. The Hippos love balloons, they love belly-buttons, and they especially love going berzerk.  FYI.

In other news - Baby Spatula is doing great.  She's so awesome and is getting really close to crawling.  It's pretty hilarious to watch her get up on her hands and knees and just rock SOHARD back and forth - trying to just figure out what comes next.  I can't wait, but I'm also terrified.

Motherhood is so much fun, and believe me when I tell you that I never, ever, ever thought I would utter (or write) those words.  I love it.  I want to have a hundred more babies right now.  The only problem is that I would have to be pregnant to have them, and being pregnant pretty much sucked the hugest bag of ass ever. So, there's that.

I'm thinking of taking a creative writing class this year. 

And, finally...I have recently heard that many people hate me when they first meet me.  The good news is, I found this out in the most awkward way possible by a whole bunch of people I really like and respect.  I always think of myself as being pretty confident, but I've been reading Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goleman, and I think I might be one of those people that denies their feelings while pretending everything is OK.  So, in case you're wondering...my feelings are STILL hurt.  It's been months and I can't stop thinking about people hating me and making a bad first impression and all the detailed explanations that were given for why I am "over the top". 

The Boy is going out of town for a couple of weeks, so I guess I better go suffer through the gourmet meal he's making and the wine he brought me... :)  At least I know someone likes me.

Havana Daydreaming

Holy crap - Blogger is as bad as Facebook at changing their format so much I can't keep track of what the hell is going on.  C'mon people...I count on my fingers.  I can't possibly adapt to all these changes.

In other news...babies are hard.  I mean, don't get me wrong.  Our little kiddo is so ridiculously cute.  She makes a puppy holding a kitten on top of a cupcake surrounded by baby seals look like a crime scene photo.  No joke.  She's that cute.  But...the screaming.  Oh god.  Plus, she's really gotten the hang of pure manipulation.  SCREAMS SCREAMS SCREAMY SCREAMING - run to her room to check on her and she takes the binky out and SWEAR TO GOD smiles at us. SMILES.  Sigh.  I guess I can't complain.  Manipulation like that has to be genetic.

I want to go on vacation.  The Boy gets to travel a little bit for work, and almost always to fun places.  I don't really travel much, but when I do...hoo boy.  It's pretty bleak.  I sort of want to go back to Texas for a long weekend.  Just me and The Boy.  Baby Spatula can stay with grandma while her dad and I eat our way through the Lone Star State.  Well, eat and drink.  Don't forget the sweet, sweet drinking.  The whole time I was pregnant, all I wanted was a breakfast taco from Taco Cabana.  I would seriously sit in my office and look up plane fares to see if I could get an awesome deal that would allow me to fly all the way to Texas to buy a $2.00 breakfast taco.  Because being pregnant totally makes you rational.

All that being said...I wish I hadn't waited so long to have a baby.  I wish I had time to have ten more (and money...sigh).  Being educated and having a good job and doing my time in the Air Force...all great, but I'm not sure if I'm getting that promise of "having it all".  I have it all, but at the expense of enjoying it all. I have it all, but I can't appreciate any single piece of it for any length of time because I'm too tired, busy and stretched so incredibly thin that I look like that piece of skin you pull off your back after a really terrible sunburn.  Brittle.  I'm trying to learn to slow down.  To appreciate.  To balance.  To truly spend the time on what's important.  To spend less time on activities that subtract and more time on those that add. 

It's hard.  More wine.  More sex.  More cuddles with The Boy and Baby Spatula.  More sitting on the floor, laughing and watch Baby Spatula flip over, pull out the binky, and grin her cute face off. 

Less email.  Less Blackberry.  Less driving around.  Less scarfing down my food to get back to work/laundry/dishes/doing/going/having.

More breathing.

Ode to Snoring

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
You snore so loud
You're lucky I don't strangle you.

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
When I hear you snore
I want to put a pillow over your nose and mouth.

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
If I have to sleep on the couch again tonight
I'm going to pretend to be asleep next time the baby cries. Boo!

Sigh. Poor Boy. He just got home from a business trip and he's SO TIRED. He's snoring like a bulldog in the other room and I feel bad because I know he's probably not even getting good sleep. On the other hand, neither will I. So, mostly I feel sorry for myself. Because I'm selfish like that. Also, he went to bed at 8 so I had to tape Supernanny. How pathetic is it that Supernanny and 42 glasses of wine constitutes my big Friday plans?

If he ever reads this, I just want him to know that even though he snores like a rusty chainsaw in a cage fight with a pack of rabid bulldogs on meth, I still love him dearly.

Thirty Freaking Five

So, my birthday was Monday. I turned 35. THIRTY FIVE. What the hell? I just had my first baby! I just got married (well...this time for real)! How can I possibly be...middle-aged??

On a more serious note, so sad about Haiti. I hope everyone is taking advantage of the opportunity to donate to Red Cross (or the charity of your choice) via text.

Go Team Conan!

Is that all random enough for you? Would you like a goat with your soup? Can I get you a bottle to enhance your exersaucer experience? Rice cereal anyone?

The boy is out of town. I'm very tired. Obviously.

Oooh...shiny.

So, they have this new thing on Blogger where you can print up all your posts into a book and...you know...hold them and touch them. I think I might do it. Then I could get rid of this website and move on with my life. Right? Hmmmm...anyway. I've been very busy wife-ing and mommy-ing and employee-ing. And drinkie-ing. I'll say this about having MS - I had to go back on my meds relatively quickly after giving birth, which means no breastfeeding, which means...yay wine!

Wow. An entire paragraph and I said absolutely nothing. Blogging is cool.

Bejewelled Blitz is the reason for the season.

Or whatever. I'm not sure how many people still come here to read my random musings, but I think I owe it to you to let you know that Bejewelled Blitz is the new heroin black. While I was on maternity leave I got really into Facebook, which is weird, because I never used to much care for it. I guess complete and utter social isolation combined with mind-numbing baby crying all day will do that to you.

So...now I spend all my free time stalking down friending people who wouldn't speak to me in high school and playing a game so addictive that I will need inpatient treatment and probably patches AND gum to get off it.

Have kids! It's great for your mind!

When did my life turn awesome?

My husband pointed out yesterday, as I was sniffing the baby's butt through her clothes to see if she had pooped, that no one really ever talks about the dignity in parenting. And, it's true. I do things now that would have been unthinkable a few years ago. I hold out my hand to catch puke before it hits the floor. I sniff butts. I wipe snot off a tiny nose and then directly onto my jeans. I wear sweatshirts with baby barf on them all day because...well...why bother changing?

So, yeah, the dignity.

And, the weirdest thing is, I love this kid so much that sometimes I think my heart is going to leap out of my chest. She's so funny and amazing. Her personality is so...her. She's not like me or my husband, but she's exactly like herself, and it's awesome. She laughs at all my jokes and cries when she's hungry (which I totally get), and she loves to watch Iron Chef America (just like us! Don't interrupt my stories Mommy!!).

Anyway, I have no idea where this is going. Nowhere probably. I'm drinking wine on an empty stomach, which is, frankly, part of the reason I have a baby in the first place.

More another day.

Where do I even start?

So, I totally did have a baby! Go me! Little Baby Spatula is now about 10 weeks old and she's totally rad in every possible way. I'm still on maternity leave, which I'm spending watching NCIS marathons on USA Network and eating cookies. And playing with the baby...because, duh...brain development is obviously more important that what's going on with DiNozzo and Ziva. But, seriously, WTF?

We do have a website for the baby. If you still read this blog, and I know who you are, and you'd like the address to the baby website, just drop me a line. Or, it's on my Facebook page, if you are into that kind of thing.

I'm still not sure what I'll do with this blog. I REALLY miss writing, even stupid one-liners about whatever the idiots are doing in the news on any given day. But, I mean...Favorable Dicta? I don't even practice. Starting something new seems sort of prohibitive though. I don't know.

DAMNIT!

I just accidentally posted to the wrong blog. If you got a copy through a newsfeed, with pictures, please just delete them - huge mistake - those were meant for the grandparent blog that we are keeping up on a different site. I'm such a dummy.

Still pregnant after all these years.

Yeah - I'm huge, it's in the upper 80's here, and we have no air conditioning.

I am hoping to go into labor at any moment, but so far, the baby really seems happy and content in there - no plans to leave. So, we wait.

My mom is doing awesome in her recovery and is able to have conversations with me on the phone about the baby and is excited that we will bring the baby down to see Grandma and Grandpa about 6 weeks after she's born...whenever that is.

Sigh. I think they make the last couple of weeks of pregnancy so miserable just so that you actually start to look forward to labor. At least the hospital has air conditioning.

Weird

I am on modified bed rest, so basically two or three days a week, I'm home from work. Sometimes I actually rest, but normally I end up doing all kinds of stuff (chores, baby preparation stuff, doctors appointments, etc). Today I was pre-ordering birth announcement envelopes (my, what a gripping life I do lead!), and watching some old documentary on women over 40 who give birth (probably about 10 years old). And, what to my wondering eye does appear??? My very own obstetrician!!! Very, very, very weird.

Anyway, does being on a documentary on TLC mean she's famous??? My baby will be delivered by someone who's famous!

For those of you keeping score, 2.5 weeks and counting. YIKES!

And, for everyone, thanks for the kind thoughts and prayers for my mom. She continues to recover in inpatient rehab and is doing very well considering the severity of her initial brain injury. We love her and she is doing great!