100 Pushups!

Ok, I am trying this again.  Given the number of things I've accomplished this year, (also my flagging commitment to accomplishing things) I thought this the ideal project to re-invigorate myself.  For one thing, lugging around pounds of law books doesn't have the same effect as tossing around countless boxes of books, and consequently my arms are re-flabbing themselves.  And for another, this is a relatively small time suck.  Just three times a week.  Join me won't you!  Here's the website...

http://hundredpushups.com/

On a hilarious note, as testament to my non-existent sense of commitment to a challenge; when I was searching for the push-up website I came across a website called 100 layer cake, which was actually a wedding blog.  But not to be un-distracted I searched for the World's Largest Cake, which may or may not have been the birthday cake made for Las Vegas' 100th birthday, there's some debate on the subject.

Also, I found this picture of a giant pumpkin pie.

Summer at Last

A terrifically beautiful, sunny day.  70, glorious degress.  I told myself, that if I got through 2 days worth of reading I would let myself go outside for a run.  And then I thought, you idiot!  Get out and enjoy the sun right this minute!  So I did.  I packed up my Torts book and a towel and jaunted down to the park for a sunny, 2-hour, study session.  Fantastic.

How Would Jesus Drive?

Last week I was reminded why I am happy to not drive.  While house sitting for Carrie and Trish, I was granted car privileges.  What a luxury!  To be able to hop in the car and jet off to the store, or my house to check on my own cats.  I will also admit to some fast food drive-thru.  But above all, having wheels meant driving out to Lake Forest Park for a lunch date at Third Place Books. Seven miles may seem a short jaunt, but on the bus it can take upwards of an hour and a half. 

So, off to see Wendy I went.  Except, just minutes from the house I realized I had forgotten the little something I had for her.  I was first in line at a rather busy intersection, and I decided loop around by turning right.  But the light was red.  And among other things, I wasn't sure that I could turn right on red;  I couldn't see completely clearly, and since it's not my car, I'm a little hesitant to involve it in accidents; and I am very conscious of blocking crosswalks given my penchant for pedestrianism (new word, just invented it). 

So I sat and waited.  I had the windows rolled down, the music blasting.  I was enjoying the breeze and the timid sunshine, and the freedom to go and do as I chose. 

Imagine one of those blissful moments when all you have to look forward to is a delicious lunch and the company of a good friend... also maybe a compulsive book purchase. Can you picture it?  Okay, now imagine you hear a weird noise, like shouting.  You glance around, but see nothing amiss.  Then you turn down the music and realize it is shouting.  Pretty pissed off shouting, and it's coming from right behind you.  There's a man leaning out of his car window, screaming.  And turns out he's screaming at you.

Now, I'm not sure you get the picture when I say screaming.  This man seriously wanted to murder me.  Because, in essence, I was stopped at a red light, and he was stopped behind me.  I would not have been surprised if he had had a heart attack from the fit he was throwing.  And it was a fit.  Like when a preschooler has had too much sugar and not enough sleep, and just melts down because they can't reach the light switch (Autumn would call this the sneaky, hate spiral).  There was nothing rational about the incident.  Nothing that connected the sheer vehemence of his rage with the one minute he had to sit there waiting.

One minute.  That's all it was.  Maybe less.  I was mortified, because it wasn't as if we were the only people on the road.  And more than a little worried, because how rational can a man be who reacts so disproportionately?

There were so many things I wanted to do.  Starting with screaming back at him; childish.  Staying put when the light changed; but there was the fear he would just ram the car.  Part of me wanted to walk calmly back to his open window and advise him that the doctrine of turning right on red is simply a suggestion, not an obligation.  And, that embryonic lawyer in me wanted to stomp back there, get him to punch me, and then sue the asshole for battery.

But, I did none of those things.  I just drove off, out of sorts, and thinking; I can't imagine getting that worked up over something so small.  Over nothing essentially.  I thought I'm so glad I'm not like that, and what a trial it must be to be him.  I'm not sure if that's compassion or self-importance.  At any rate, just a few thoughts for the next time you unload some road rage.  Maybe you're pissed at some girl that's just out enjoying life, and you being an asshole is going to ruin her day.

Won't You be My Neighbor?

I have new neighbors.  I don't like them.  Here is a comprehensive list of why I don't like them (in no particular order)

• They smoke: Okay, whatever, kill yourself, do what you want.  Except when doing what you want means your second-hand smoke wafts into other peoples' basement apartments, which let's face it, don't have a lot of ventilation to begin with.
• They are philosophical:  Which, judging from the weed smell permeating the building (when not enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke); and the snippets of conversation I have been blessed to hear ("I mean, people should be terrified of other people, but they shouldn't be cowards...d'ya know what I mean?"); I'm guessing they're just high.
• They have a dog:  Now, don't let anyone tell you I'm anti-dog.  Sure dogs are needy and smelly and dirty and dumb; but I love dogs.  Okay...maybe call me pro-cat.  But when your dog runs around the building, leash-less; peering into every ground-level window (which happen to be the basement apartment windows); thus scarring the shit out of any feline inhabitants of said basement apartment.  Then yes, maybe I am a bit anti-dog.
• They're artists:  I'm not certain what exactly is their medium of choice, but I can say with somewhat certainty, that they consider themselves to be woodcutters.  Hence, the terrifying Yoda-like statue, carved from a tree stump that graced the driveway earlier this week

I can't wait for the next building potluck!

Hairdo Joy

Behold.  The magical wonderment of the Mohawk Mullet.  

No, it's not a mythical being.  It lives and breathes.  

Like a wild unicorn prancing on the meadows of Atlantis.

This is just an artist's rendering of the magic witnessed by Carrie, 

Trish, and myself.  We saw it at our favorite Mexican Eatery, 

ironically named...El Chupacabra.

Getting Schooled

I'm still not adjusted, but I will venture to say that I am adjusting.  Of my five classes, I have two favorites, one that baffles my mind, and two that I find aggravating... though I'm on the lookout for improvement.  But even the trying classes feel like a blessing.  At least I have emotions about them, whereas the first week, it was all I could do to bring the right books to class, let alone form any sort of corresponding opinion.

I'm surprised to find myself enjoying Torts and Civil Procedure.  The subject matter in itself is engaging but it's also the professors who make it so interesting.  I'll even go so far as to say, my Civil Procedure Professor makes due process seem pretty damn sexy.  Who could have imagined I would get so wrapped up in the ideas of proper notice and equal representation.  Each day in these classes leads me to believe I made the right choice.  Every time I sit down to study their giant books, I find myself giddy at the concepts I am able to tug out of the endless paragraphs, and how easily I am  comprehending them.

But if Tuesdays and Thursdays in Torts and Civ. Pro. (that's cool law school talk) are my haven, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are a barren wasteland.  A wasteland filled with mind-boggling Contracts theories and vocabulary; a Professor/Overlord demanding I sign up for a twitter account; and 50 minutes trapped in a class where it turns out, I don't know anything about writing...at least not the kind of writing they want me to know about.  It's quite the set down.  But as I said before, at least I am functioning enough in these classes to realize I loathe them.  Strange to take comfort in that.

Tasmanian Lament

I'm not sure that you are allowed to lament the death of a Tasmanian Devil if you are the asshole that injected it with face cancer.

This article talks all about Cedric, a famed Tasmanian Devil that may have been immune to a facial cancer that is wiping out the species.  Sad, right?  Didn't know Tasmanian Devil's suffered from a contagious face cancer transmitted through their bites, did you? 

Turns out he wasn't immune to face cancer after all...oops!  Too bad, they didn't figure that out before injecting him with the disease.  But really, how are you gonna know if any of them are immune until you inject every last one of them.  Seems like good science to me.  RIGHT?! 

Where exactly is the logic behind injecting an at-risk animal with the disease that is putting it at risk.  And now you're sad that he's dead...BOO-EFFING-HOO!  What did you think was gonna happen, you morons?!?  Here's a tip, why don't you turn your astute minds to pandas next, save us all a lot of grief.

Rant, complete.