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.