Bohemia is Dead

It’s days like today where the whole notion of being a lawyer sounds about as appealing as having Britney Spears for a mother (unless you value having your childhood playmates refer to your mum as "Trucker.") The day was an exercise in inefficiency - spending all day on a plane to get to a five minute court hearing that opposing counsel didn't even bother to phone into, much less show up. These are the days when you wish for (a) a Star Trek-like transporter, (b) a doppelganger with an interest in the mindless minutia of everyday working life, or (c) the balls (proverbial, of course) to call it quits and live the bohemian lifestyle of your dreams.

The good thing about dreams is that they rarely involve the matter of money (really – when was the last time you paid for something in your dreams?) Then again, there’s reality. In reality, I make far more per year as a purveyor of uncontested court hearings and conference calls than I probably ever could as a writer (my particular bohemian dream). Let’s face it…less-than-gripping novels at $1.99 per download ain’t going to fund my new membership at the fancy, mosaic-tiled, gay boy-laden downtown gym/hair salon/smoothie parlor, a membership I’m forced to pay out of the memory of my cheap, but ghetto gym in Phoenix where the “straight” men who sang George Michael at the top of their lungs while wearing pink muscle shirts would come show me their hernia scars without provocation. A monthly blood sacrifice would be worth avoiding that fate.

Don’t get me wrong…being a so-called litigator (the worst misnomer in the legal world) hasn’t been all bad. I did have that one shining moment where I got to write a brief about a novel issue of attorney-client privilege law. It is those moments, seated behind a large flat-screen computer monitor with a caffeinated beverage in one hand, combing through Westlaw for case law to support my well-articulated position (well, at least I think so), in which I am insanely happy. Sick, I know, but I am a bookish geek at heart, despite my penchant for smack talk on the softball field. But then again, that case settled, so I’ll probably never get a ruling on my brief. Such is the life of a lawyer – clients tease you with the promise of a good fight and then they wuss out and settle for the nearest million. Babies.

But until I can use my smooth-talking litigator ways to get me a book deal, a sugar mama, or a wealthy benefactor with a liking for smart alecky Amazon women from Arizona, I must remain the conference call bitch and enjoy my unmolested time at the gym. In the whirlpool tub. With the mosaic tile.

The Least Surprising News of the Day

I think Lance Bass' family might be the only ones shocked to hear that he's finally come out of the closet. More surprising is that he's not dating one of the New Kids on the Block (or, Old Adult Firmly Entrenched in the Suburbs, as is more appropriate these days).

Caught Between Aphorisms

"It's wrong to speak ill of the dead."

"If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all."

So, basically, it's wrong to talk trash about anyone at any time after fertilization throughout the entirety of civilization. Methinks that Miss Manners left out some most important verbiage:

"It's wrong to speak ill of the dead [at their funeral. Anytime thereafter is open season on the not-so-dearly departed.]"

"If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all [unless you're in the company of those who can appreciate a good bitchfest. Sharing is caring.]"

Much better.

Sidewalk Interlopers

Summer in D.C. is a special kind of hell. Not only is one prone to the joys of rashes one can’t scratch in public and mosquitoes thanks to the ultra-humid 90 to 100 degree weather, but one must suffer the ultimate minions of evil – tourists. They come in trains, planes, and chartered buses to boost our economy, take pictures of themselves riding underground public transport for the first time (look at me on the Metro, ma – it’s so very urban!), and to get in every D.C. denizen’s way. Normally, the average D.C. gal can avoid Interloper touristus normalis (a pack animal identified by its possession of a disinterested-looking mate, 1.5 children, the .5 of which is always crying, and a camera firmly attached to one eyeball) through a combination of defensive weaving and offensive backpack wearing.

Yesterday, however, my tourist-avoiding game plan was foiled at the hands of the Women of Faith “Contagious Joy” conference at the Verizon center - a convention evidently, for those who believe in Disney (or at least, the value of wearing Disney characters prominently on one’s body) and the joys of not working out. After crossing F street (which was blocked off due to the sheer amount of holy roller buses), I was awash in a pack of pastel fat rolls with bags advertising Curves as far as the eye could see. I briefly contemplated the merits of screaming at the top of my lungs, “Lesbian coming through. Make way or succumb to the gay plague!” but the last shred of humility I possess intervened. On the bright side of life, I’m now thoroughly humility-free should the Promise Keepers decide on D.C. as their winter conference site.

2006 Booby Award - Zidane

So, we learn that Zidane infamously drove his Mr. Clean-orb into Materrazi's chest in the World Cup final because he insulted Zidane's mother and sister repeatedly. Yeah, because making an ass of yourself in front of millions of people worldwide really protected the sanctity of your mother and sister's good name. Sticking around to actually help your team score a goal might have done more than putting your noggin' into Materrazi's boobs. Repeat after me - "sticks and stones..."

Wolfitis - It's Not Just For Circus Freaks Anymore

Okay, well, it’s been a while since I’ve updated you all. I know, I know...I promised you the moon and the stars and to update you all once a month. Whaddya gonna do? Spank me? (Please.) I am finally in possession of two typing hands, though my daily cartwheeling is still on hold. The second cast came off last Friday. My priorities after the case coming off were the same priorities that most American males feel toward their automobiles: (1) wash; (2) rinse; (3) wax. Little known fact - wearing a cast can cause temporary hypertrichosis (aka “wolfitis), which is the presence of excessive (and dark) body hair where the cast was located. Not quite Teen Wolf, but hey, I have always been proud of being relatively free of body hair despite having 23 chromosomes from a bearskin rug. Wolfitis met Nair wax strips and the wax strips won. The skin, however, lost.

Now with all that extra hair out of the way, I am free to concentrate on rehabilitating “Chicken Little” (as my left arm is now less-than-affectionately called) to do such big and butch things as doing circles with my left wrist and attempting to hold up a wall (which usually requires a 90 degree bend in the wrist, but alas, I can do it with a mere 20 degree bend!). On the positive side of life, my scar no longer looks like Dr. Frankenstein attached a dead hand to my body. On the negative side, it now looks like I tried to commit suicide and chickened out halfway through. I can’t decide which is the better first impression.

In other news, its’s a mere 16 days before Scooter and I leave on our European vacation (but who’s counting?). Let me tell you - I need this vacation badly. Work is starting to get to me...in the past week, I have bitten off the head of both a paralegal and an investigator (you were thinking live chickens, weren’t you?). Now granted, both of them deserved a little nibbling from a land shark, but still, I think the French Riviera will do wonders for my chi, my karma, my superego, all of it. An entire month without a shred of work, the annoyance of constant conference calls (or any calls for that matter), or, well, Americans for that matter. Bring it on, baby. I am so ready for it, I may cave and become one of those expatriates who gives up her day job, starts writing about the passion of French wine, and frequents naked beaches. It could happen.