This pretty much sums it up.

Having received some criticism from those who have heard the Jewish nose story about a million and one times (we go to a lot of cocktail parties), I am reverting back to my old rant.  Credit goes to Amanda for finding this article.

I can say this certainly got my blood pressure up this morning...  A Case of Supply v. Demand

The comments to this article are what especially got me all fired up.  The general public hates us.  I guess I always knew that, but the outright disdain and "they deserve it" attitude of the comments really make me angry.

Plenty of professions require its clients to pay by the hour...  accountants, psychologists, babysitters, architects, and massage therapists (to name a few and exclude some obvious, less-appropriate professions).  What is it about the legal profession that makes people think the services offered are any less valuable than those of a psychologist? 

What baffles me is that those comment-leavers fail to recognize that the billable hour price reflects the perpetuating problem.  People take out a TON of debt to go to law school.  They graduate from law school and pass the bar and must pay back that debt... and they charge in six minute increments!  Certainly, there are those multi-million dollar lawyers who charge exorbitant rates and rake it in... but in most cases those lawyers have years and years of experience, extensive knowledge in a lucrative niche, and a little bit of luck.  That is not the majority of the profession.  This article (and the public outcry) is about brand new lawyers with a mountain of debt and no jobs.  We're not talking about the lawyers who have been practicing for 25 years and have 6 cars and a house on each coast.  Every profession has those people: doctors, veterinarians, computer programmers... you name it.  There will always be those who hit it big.  Who get are in the right place and right time and work their butts off.  The majority of the legal profession makes a salary commensurate not only with experience, but also with the amount of debt they had to incur to even become lawyers.

At a base level, if my billable rate were any lower, I wouldn't be of any value to my firm and I would be moving into the guest room at my parents' house.  The gall of these people to tell me that I deserved to graduate law school with over $200,000 in debt, in a market saturated with lawyers, just because of the bad rap lawyers have gotten over the years makes me very, very angry.

the nose knows.

I was baptized and confirmed Lutheran, made the switch to the more modern Presbyterian, and have only recently gone back to church, at an institution so modern that I don't think it has an official affiliation other than just "Christian."  Anyway, all of this to provide you with a little background for this story.

I have a large nose.  My mother has a large nose.  My father has a large nose.  My sister has a large nose.  I'll save you any more insight into our family tree by summarizing that pretty much everyone genetically-related to me has a large nose.  Despite our last name, which literally translates from German to English as "mouth" (you really wanted me to say "nose," didn't you?), I am often mistaken as being Jewish.  And by "often," I mean that a vast majority of those who meet me for the first time assumes I'm Jewish.  My good Jewish friends regularly refer to me as "Mundtstein."

Sinead "Nose"

This picture was taken in Vail, the day after I was adamantly told how much I resemble Sinead O'Connor.  Thanks to Google Images, I've had the opportunity to over-analyze that... and I don't agree.  I'm not sure if Sinead O'Connor is Jewish (with a last name like O'Connor, I'd doubt it, but you never know), but I would bet that people assume she is... it's that nose!

Anyway, a particularly favorite "Jewish nose" story of mine, one which I use often at cocktail parties, occurred during my senior year of college:

I had just gotten home from a year abroad in Madrid, and naturally, I was broke.  Broker than broke.  As in, didn't even have enough money to play the lottery, broke.  A friend suggested I move in with a bunch of his friends in their run-down college house to the tune of $300/month.  Sold.  So after a couple weeks of living with a bunch of guys I had never met before (Note: In retrospect, I got really lucky that these guys were absolutely AWESOME, and perhaps I should have been a little more cautious before unpacking my boxes in some random house of men, but I digress), it was one of the guys' birthday.  The birthday boy had invited a bunch of people to a favorite campus bar to celebrate.  On our walk there (following a couple warm-up beverages), he started telling me about this girl from his communications class, "Katie," who said she would be attending the festivities.  By the time we got to the bar, I knew everything he knew about this girl, which was enough to know he liked her.  A lot.  She was already there by the time we got to the bar (a very good sign for my new roommate), and he pointed her out to me.

"See, there she is.  Over there, talking to that guy at the end of the bar," he told me, suddenly shy.  I told him to go over and talk to her.  After all, it was his birthday, and she was obviously there to see him.  He responded that he would rather wait until she was done talking to the other guy.

"C'mon, I'll be your wingman," I told him, grabbing his elbow and marching him over to Katie and the guy.  Within three minutes, I had the guy on the opposite end of the bar.  After he bought me a drink, I told him how I had just gotten home from being abroad and was studying to take the LSAT.  I told him how I was planning to go to law school immediately after undergrad and how I wanted to practice international corporate law.

"Oh, great.  Well where in DC did you do your internship?"  He asked.

"Um, I didn't do an internship in DC," I started to reply, but before I could repeat that I had just gotten home from being abroad, he interrupted with, "Oh, ok.  Well where in New York then did you do an internship?"

Clearly confused, I responded, "No, I didn't do an internship in New York either..."  He was shocked.

"Oh come on.  A nice Jewish girl like you, with a nose like THAT, and you can't get an internship on the east coast?!?"

...And that was the beginning of years of religious/ethnic mis-identification.

Shalom.

Tyler Durden:  I see all this potential, and I see squandering ... An entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. 

Fight Club is a phenomenal movie.  The truth of Tyler Durden's words (he has one of those names that you have to use both his first and last name.  Simply "Tyler" wouldn't do him justice, and "Durden" or worse, "Mr. Durden" just sounds weird), is something our generation knows, or at least is learning, first hand.  We were brought up to believe that if we worked hard, we could be millionaires.  I, for one, can admit that I have an entitlement problem.  I've worked hard, and now I want a million dollars.  Not only do I want a million dollars, but I think I deserve a million dollars.  And chances are, I'm not alone.  I have no doubt that my parents' generation, or my grandparents' generation, would say one of two things (depending on which generation member we're talking about) to me:  (1) You CAN have a million dollars, you just have to be patient, or (2) You know, money isn't everything.  I don't like either of those responses, as correct as each of them might be.

I often feel like Varuca.  Her name is Latin for "wart."  Esch.  Point made, Roald Dahl.

...and give me back my black t-shirt!

A Boston College Law 3L wrote a (serious) letter to the dean of the law school asking for his money back on his legal education.  Read his letter.  It's impressive.  It's concise.  It's ballsy, and it's true.

My commentary?  I feel like he and Ben Folds should team up on this one.  More power to this guy.  My friends know how often I threaten to "write a letter," and they also know how often I actually do it (not often).  This guy actually did it, and I love him for it.  Now is he going to get his money back?  Absolutely not.  Did he probably know that when he wrote the letter?  Oh for sure (we're a cynical, yet realistic lot).  What's more important here, in my opinion, is that people are speaking up.  Lawyers are telling law schools that they can take their over-priced educations and shove it.  Lawyers are turning their noses up at the theory that "learning to think like a lawyer" is somehow worth $200,000.  The frustrating disconnect, however, remains.  Lawyers only understand that the practice of law isn't worth the fortune spent to get there AFTER they've paid that fortune, passed the bar and, like yesterday's video clip, realized that they would never argue in front of the Supreme Court or that the closest they would come to "helping people" is by moving money around for wealthy corporations in order for them to avoid certain tax pitfalls.

I believe there needs to be some sort of entrance interview before law students are actually loaned the $200K to go to law school.  Much like "job shadowing" in high school, I think wanna-be lawyers need to spend one month showing up to a firm and watching what most lawyers do all day.  If, after that, you want to take out 200 G's to be that person someday, have at it (but you're an idiot).  There's something to be said for informed decision making, and the reality of the situation is that, for most lawyers, the practice of law is not glamorous.  For the vast majority, it won't result in a fortune overnight (or even after 20 years) because it turns out that you have to pay all that money back (with interest... not cheap interest either) when you graduate.

The irony here is that this guy is better off going back to teaching, where he'll be paid by the state.  He will be required to pay a percentage of his salary, and after ten years, as a result of his public service, his loans will be forgiven.  So in the end, he took a three-year, extremely expensive detour in life.  But hey, "he learned to think like a lawyer."  Which he can pull out at cocktail parties and use to impress his class full of 12 year-olds.

Are you going to Harvard? Do you have a time machine?

A huge thank you to Leah for sending this my way.

I had this conversation before and during law school, and somehow, I always thought I would be different. We all thought we were going to be different. That somehow we'll work harder than everyone else, or we'll be one of the two lucky people who actually lands the six figure, big firm job right out of law school (and LOVES the billable hour requirement) and pays off all her debt in five years, then becomes partner at the firm within seven years, buys a BMW and/or Mercedes to get to and from her gorgeous, penthouse loft downtown to the office, who works for a couple more years at a job she adores before buying a house in the mountains where she tele-works Fridays and Mondays, all the while helping people who can't help themselves and investing big fat paychecks to not only pay for her own luxurious retirement, but also the luxurious retirement of her parents. Oh, and that yacht.

This video is hilarious... and if we can't laugh at ourselves, then there really is very little left to do about the situation. Even desperately trying to save others from making the same mistake doesn't make my decision any better. And, they never listen anyway. I can't say there has been one person that I've successfully talked out of going to law school. So while class sizes increase, tuition steadily rises and law schools make money hand over fist... student loan debt is skyrocketing and salaries are plummeting. The legal market is beyond saturated, and the economy isn't lending itself to litigiousness. People can barely afford to go out to eat anymore, much less pay a lawyer to help them sue their neighbor over the rights to Blackacre.

hello mother, hello fodder.

As a corporate/transactional (not to mention "baby") lawyer, I rarely have the "opportunity" to go to court.  The first time I was chosen (by default) to represent one of our firm's clients on a Motion for Permission to Leave the State, I was stoked.  I called my mom immediately after work to tell her the news.  She sounded really excited for me and asked what I would have to do.  I told her I didn't have to do much, just enter my appearance and tell the judge that my client has no prior criminal record and has had this weekend vacation with her husband planned for months.

"What does 'entering your appearance' mean," she asked.

"Oh, you know, I just say something like, 'Good Morning Your Honor, Nicki [insert last name here], attorney registration number da da da da da, appearing on behalf of the Defendant,'" I responded, my heart already fluttering with adrenaline.

She was silent.

"What?"  I asked, shocked she wasn't impressed.  I mean, I thought it sounded pretty legit.

"Well, it's just that... I always thought that once you... I don't know... made something of yourself... you would stop going by 'Nicki' and start calling yourself 'Nicole.'"

Um...  what?!  She went on to tell me that "Nicki" was such a high school soccer player name, and that "it had always been her dream that one day I would go back to being called 'Nicole'."  Her dream?!?  She couldn't be serious.  Now, it's a normal, motherly dream to want your daughter to become a lawyer, or to marry for love, or to start popping out grandchildren, but to go by a different name... your DREAM?  I was offended.

Out of spite, I introduced myself to the court for the very first time with my high-school-soccer-playing name instead of my "given" name.

I love the name "Nicole."  But I haven't been Nicole since the first day of fourth grade in Mr. Tarcin's class.  Up until that point in my life, he was the only teacher who told the class that if there was a different name you wanted to be called, just come up after class and let him know.  I, being the tomboy that I was, saw this as my opportunity to finally, officially, go by "Nicki."  After all, kids had been calling me "Nicole Bowl" since I had nicknamed myself that in the second grade.  Clearly, Mr. Tarcin was giving me a chance to re-invent myself, for better or worse.  I had been "Nicki" ever since.

My freshman year of college, I made a short-lived attempt to go by "Coley."  Fortunately for me, I went to college in-state, where there were too many kids from my high school to successfully change my name to something that so-closely resembled "E-Coli."

Recently, I have begun to go by Nicole.  Again, I really love the name Nicole... I much prefer "Nicole" over "Nicki," but it's not that simple.  I don't want to be one of those people who, "now that she's a lawyer, she's going by her given name."  But it's funny to me how everyone does that - even guys.  I am in an office with three "Michaels."  Each and every one of them went by "Mike" before becoming a lawyer.

As much as I hate to be conventional, and hate even more to be cliche, maybe now is the perfect opportunity to embrace "Nicole," and not only embrace it, but insist on it.  If nothing else, my mother will finally be proud of me ;)  (kidding Mom.)

let's set the record straight

First off, I did NOT wear a turtleneck sweater to the first day of law school... in AUGUST.

I feel like I've been really bashing my decision to become a lawyer, so I want to take a minute to publicly state that some really great things came out of that decision to go to law school.  I had fun.  SO much fun.  Maybe, at times, too much fun.  I have heard myself say on a couple of occasions that I had more fun in law school than I did in undergrad (sorry Bucky...).  It's true.  If DU Law had a Big Ten football team, I could wholeheartedly stand behind that statement.

law school graduation card

I began law school known as "Nicki From Wisconsin," the girl who sat in the front of the class, constantly raising her hand, and (allegedly) wore a turtleneck sweater in August.  I went to law school thinking I was about to experience the worst three years of my life, with terrible, cut-throat, note-stealing classmates and a bell curve that people would kill each other over.  To say I had a chip on my shoulder would be putting it mildly.  I judged people and openly rolled my eyes.  I didn't care if people hated me because, after all, "I was there to be a lawyer, not make friends.  I already had plenty of friends from college."  I had the wrong first impression for almost every single person I met in the first two weeks of law school.  Over the course of those three years, it became laughable how utterly WRONG I was about most of the people there.  I had always prided myself on being a good judge of character, on knowing a good person when I saw one, and for generally sticking to my guns on my first impressions of people (that one I learned the hard way).  But law school turned all of that upside down.

The "frat boy" who "totally wasn't my type" and wore a pink collared shirt the first night I met him (insert blatant eye roll here) and I now live together, with a dog and a backyard, and often drink wine and laugh at how WE ended up together.  The bubbly blond girl with the pink "rolley bag" suitcase/backpack, who I met at a "new law student mixer," turned my back on and audibly retorted "who let Malibu Barbie into law school"  (yes, I am aware that this is a scene right out of Legally Blonde... and no, I'm not proud of myself) is not only one of the most compassionate, resilient people I have ever met, but she is hands down one of my best friends on this planet.  I just realized that a picture of her dressed in a bunny costume (from last halloween) comes up on my phone when she calls...  Pretty crazy irony there.

I could go on and on and on about the incredible people I met while studying to be a lawyer.  I could tell story after story of the incredible support and friendship that grows out of three years of constant stress and regularly feeling like Jessie Spano ("There's NO time, there's NEVER. ANY. TIME.!").  Like a mother's response to her child after a nasty, painful divorce, "If I had it to all over again, honey, I would, because you know what?  YOU were worth it."  I feel that way about my friends.  So whether I am a lawyer for the rest of my life or not, I ended up with some pretty unbelievable people in my corner out of this whole thing...

i'm only happy when it raaaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnsssss

Ok, that's not true at all.  My allergies flare up, my hair gets all curly and it's impossible to get out of bed.  But this morning, amidst a torrential downpour, I have new-found inspiration and motivation to make this book happen.  I'm sure some of you are wondering when the book blog posts will start, and my answer for you is: soon... hopefully soon.

Right now, the act of blogging has been more out of commitment to non-legal writing than anything else.  I am trying to make myself write everyday (or as close thereto as possible.... I am also trying to avoid words like "thereto").  I'm hoping that by forcing myself to write, even when I feel like I don't have anything to write about, I will develop a habit and routine I can stick with.  I apologize for what that means for my audience:  Some days, I will just be boring... or bitter and repetitive.  I can easily fall back on bitter.  I will do my best to avoid the mundane, pessimistic and broken record rants, and I also promise to make the transition to book posts in the very near future.

The clouds and rain this morning made me want to sit at my table at home with a cup of coffee (or four) and crank out some more of this story, which is getting more and more complicated in my head as the days go by...  I have that frantic feeling - like if I don't start writing it all down soon, It won't be there when I actually sit down with that cup of coffee to finally put the thoughts to paper.

Bring on the snow.

leave it to the lawyers...

...to have an event on how to blog :)

So not only is the focus of my Docket article lawyers who blog, but Lawyer/Blogger Kevin O'Keefe is hosting a blogging event for lawyers!  (My use of this exclamation mark makes it official: I'm a dork.)

Granted, I'm new to the blogging scene... and admittedly, I have a different blogging motivation than a number of lawyers who are out there self-promoting and linking to important cases they have worked on (of course only those cases that have come down in their favor), but the more I research my upcoming article, the more I find that many, MANY other lawyers have done this first.  I shouldn't be surprised.  The practice of law is generally about not reinventing the wheel, and an often used phrase around the firm is: "There's a form for that."  Perhaps it's the reliance on form documents and pleadings that leads to monotony and the mundane-ness (I really want this to be a word... mundanity?) of the practice of law.

In grasping for the right word there, I am reminded of Eminem's segment last night on 60 Minutes and my awe of his way with words.  Regardless of whether you love him or hate him (I generally like him but can admit that he sometimes makes me cringe), you have to respect his mastery of the English language and the talent he has for "bending words."  Furthermore, I also genuinely appreciate Eminem's correct use of "enunciate," rather than "pronunciate."  Despite the fact that I just made up "mundanity" and "mundaneness," I have a general disdain for blended (not "bended") words: like guesstimate.  I don't care if it's been incorrectly used for long enough to make it into the dictionary...  that doesn't make it a real word. 

I have really digressed, so I'll stop here.  The point of this post was supposed to be that I am interested in meeting other lawyers who blog and getting the scoop on their practices or non-practices, as the case may be.  I also like that there will be beer, good beer.  For some reasons lawyers who blog also strike me as the type of people who appreciate microbrews, run marathons and have labradors retrievers...

three follow-up remarks

There are three follow-up comments to my most recent blog post:

(1)  I did not win the lottery.  In a going forward manner, for future posts, just assume I did not win the lottery unless I inform you otherwise.

(2) Upon further reflection, we would probably have to take our chances with the bed bugs.

(3) My cousin and his wife had their baby yesterday at 10 am on 10-10-10.  This cool birthday might actually outdo my cool birthday.  As much as I hate to be outdone, welcome to the club Izzy!

canal day + 1

an unsettling start to the day.

I walked outside of my building this morning to see a "Terminex" truck parked outside.  It's scary that me needing to call an exterminator would first require winning the lottery*.  If anyone in our building has bed bugs we're moving into my boyfriend's parents' basement. 

*For those of you following along at home, my numbers this week are:  05 06 28 38 54 (PB: 11).  I'm thrilled that my Powerball is 11.  My birthday is 8/3/83 (only THE coolest birthday that year), and if my Powerball number can't be 3, I'll take 11 because 8+3=11.  I'm totally going to win this week.

"Today is the best day of your legal career."

I should be banned from public lawyer events.  At least public lawyer events where there are a number of brand new attorneys who just found out they passed the Bar Exam that day.  Note:  these people found out they passed the Bar and decided there was no better way to celebrate than to attend a schmoozing event at a downtown law firm that certainly wasn't going to hire them.  I tell you this as if it provides some sort of justification for my behavior...

Honestly, I couldn't keep my mouth shut.  I couldn't help it.  In retrospect, I'm not proud of myself, but at the time... there was nothing I could do.  After my initial, "that's great, congratulations!!!!!" or "wow, I bet you're relieved THAT'S over!!!!!" (please take note of the excessive exclamation marks and please insert plastic smile here). I simply could not shut myself up.  I should be embarrassed... but I'm not.

First, it was the woman who had not only found out she had passed the Bar, but it was also her birthday.  Really?  Your BIRTHDAY??  And you decided to spend it with me and a room full other female attorneys who have no idea who you are, and frankly, probably won't remember you tomorrow.  Really...??  Now, I can fully acknowledge that I am a birthday brat.  B.R.A.T. - brat.  And never in a million years would I spend my birthday (let alone the day I passed the Bar) eating hors d'eourves, shaking hands and limiting my consumption of alcoholic beverages to one and a half glasses of wine.  No way, no how.

Next it was the woman from New York, who could not talk enough about how "excited she was to be a lawyer."  I told her (direct quote), "Great!  You should really remember today because this is the best it will ever be.  Seriously.  Today is the best day of your legal career."  Yes, seriously.  Clearly, I offended not only the bar-passer, but also the group of women within ear shot who were hosting the event and trying to recruit new members to their organization.  Worst part?  I felt no remorse.  After all, it's true...  she might as well know about it now.

As if it could get much worse, I was on a roll.  When I get on a roll, my filter more or less dissolves.  In my own humble opinion, I was a riot, so I allowed my "humor" to extend from the one-day-old lawyers to other, more seasoned lawyers who set me up to make some, probably really out of line, comments.  I might never be invited back, actually.  One lawyer had to excuse herself early to go take care of her dog, who had ANOTHER urinary tract infection.  Turns out, "she's really prone to UTI's."  I couldn't help myself.  I absolutely had to remark, "Riiiiight.... that's what they ALL say.  'Really prone to UTI's.'  We know what THAT means." 

Lucky for me, this lawyer with the UTI dog is a friend of mine, so I didn't directly offend her....  Although she had assisted in the organization event, and I could tell she wasn't pleased with my public remark. It probably goes without saying that the other attorneys in the discussion (who probably have their own UTI-prone dogs at home), were not amused by my antics.

I like to think I left before I made too much of a spectacle of myself... but then again, the jury's still out.

you can't make this up...

This is my Kia.  The Kia has a boo-boo.

This is the story of How the Kia Got Its Boo-Boo, and other related injustices.

She awoke to a blizzard.  The kind where before your eyes are even open you know it's snowing.  It's a sixth sense of sorts, or maybe just an offshoot of the sense of smell.  It's funny that precipitation has a smell. In her half-asleep state, she considered playing hooky and staying in bed all day.  Then she remembered her meeting.  "How To Manage Your Debt In a Down Economy."  She had signed up months ago, telling herself that the meeting would be the start of "getting serious about her finances, saving, investing, and no longer living paycheck-to-paycheck."  Up until that morning she had allowed herself to run her account to zero month after month.  When she ran out of money before her next paycheck, she would just throw it on her credit card and tell herself she would be paying it back soon... real soon.  She had never really denied herself what she thought she deserved, and the time had come to figure out how she was going to pay it all back.  She just hated that it had to be snowing.

 It took everything she had to drag herself out of bed and stumble through the living room to her bathroom.  It was always freezing in the old house, and for the millionth time she cursed her landlord and his exorbitant rent. Granted, it was a fantastic neighborhood, but the house leaked like a sieve.

She got ready quickly and poured herself a coffee on the way out the door.  They typically had coffee had these events, but it wasn't something she was willing to leave to chance.  Her roommate had started her car for her 30 minutes earlier when she had left for her office.  She knew she was lucky.  A random roommate off the internet, and after a couple months of living together, they were already friends.  It was too cold for the snow to melt, as it often did in the city, so she got the scraper out of her backseat of the car.    Her hair was still wet and began to freeze as she quickly brushed the snow off the windows, just enough to be able to see.  Again, she was late.  She was always late.  She wished she could just succumb to her tardiness and allow herself to be one of those people whose friends tell her to arrive half an hour before she is really supposed to be there.  But she just couldn't let herself not care.  She was always late, but that always embarrassed her.  Because it was typically only five to ten minutes late, she would find herself repeating in her head, almost chanting, throughout her drive, "I'll be close.  I'll be close."  That morning was no different.

She pulled up to the building and instantly remembered the horrible parking situation.  She glared at the clock: already ten minutes late and no time to park a few blocks away and walk.  It hardly seemed right to use her credit card unnecessarily to pay for parking when she was going to a debt management seminar, but it looked like she might not have a choice.  She had been dating a guy who lived a couple blocks away from the building for the last three years or so.  They were still dating, but she had learned her lesson by then and wasn't about to call it anything more than just dating, not yet at least.  Given her three years of experience with the neighborhood, she knew parking spots turned over quickly, so she gave herself "one more block" before conceding to paying for city parking. After turning the corner, she miraculously found a (free) street parking spot.  Maybe the day wouldn't turn out so bad after all.

She rushed into the lobby and apologized to the receptionist for being late, as if the receptionist cared whether she was there or not.

"Don't worry honey.  We've delayed the presentation until 9:15.  Seems everyone is having a little trouble in this weather," she cooed, nodding excessively.

With a huge sigh of relief and a silent pat on the back for not paying to park, she helped herself to a steaming cup of free coffee and gathered her presentation packet.  She walked into the large room, expecting to recognize more people than she did.  Sadly, she knew too many people who were in the same situation she was, having taken out a good-sized mortgage on an education that couldn't quite provide a return on the investment.  She chose a seat near the front of the room, telling herself she was going to be serious about this presentation, "note-taking serious."  As she waited, she alternated between flipping through the presentation packet and checking her Blackberry (the "Crackberry," as she called it).   The airwaves were uncommonly slow that morning.  A couple lawyers at her firm had already emailed to report that they would not be making the commute that morning, but vowed to "work from home."  She resorted to staring out the window as she waited for the presentation to begin.  The normal mountain view was barely visible through the snow, and she mused at the massive windows of the conference room.  It was the same conference room used for the many legal presentations mandated by the state.  It struck her as just another mockery of her life choices.  "See this," the window taunted, "all you can do is look..."  Just as she felt the bitterness start to creep back in, the presenter entered the room and tapped his microphone to signal the beginning of the presentation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today on this snowy Wednesday morning.  We applaud your commitment to your finances," the presenter began.  He was a short, fit man, with curly dark hair.  Already she hated him.  This guy clearly had it all together.  He had probably never been in the kind of debt that would force one to a debt management seminar, and, to make matters worse, it was his job to go around the country talking to people about how he had "gotten control," paid off all his debt, and how awesome his life was now because of it.  It was going to be a long morning.

"I would like to start off by saying I know how daunting it is to be in debt, but I want to assure you that you are not alone.  There are other lawyers out there in just as much debt as you are."  He paused, as though the idea had just come to him.  "In fact, would everyone please stand." The presenter cautiously looked around the room as people began getting to their feet.  She reluctantly stood up, really, really not wanting to do that whole "introduce yourself to your neighbor thing."  If she had known what was really coming, however, she would have jumped at that chance.

"Now, when I say your level of school debt, will you please sit down," the presenter continued, with a certain air of self-satisfaction and smugness.

She immediately felt her heart start to race and did a quick calculation in her head.  She took a deep breath as the numbers began floating through the room.

"25,000 dollars," the presenter began.  She was relieved when no one sat.  There were a couple other attendees that looked as nervous as she felt, and somehow that consoled her just a bit.  Misery does love company.

"50,000 dollars," came the next number.  Someone raised their hand to ask whether undergraduate debt should be included in the total number.  Another yelled out whether the group should differentiate between government loans and private loans.  The presenter's short answer was to include all school debt, undergraduate, graduate, law school, private and public.  At that announcement, she felt slightly better about her situation.  There had to be someone there who was a career student, who pursued law school after getting some obscure PhD that took ten years... or even a doctor.  She had heard a rumor in law school once that an open-heart surgeon (she loved that phrase... because, really, was there any other kind?) decided to go to law school to defend malpractice suits against doctors.  Where was that guy when she needed him?

"125,000," she heard the presenter say.  Clearly, she had missed a few numbers in there, but it didn't matter.  He was nowhere near her number yet.  About half the room sat at the mention of 125,000.  She could tell those were the people who thought they had it bad and were just now realizing how much worse it could have been for them.  They could be in her shoes.

"150,000 dollars." Everyone else but her and three other people sat down.  A quick calculation revealed that those people likely didn't have any undergraduate debt or had intelligently paid it off before committing to being a lawyer for the rest of their lives.  

"175,000?"  At this point, the presenter was asking, and in the same tone, judging.  Judging really hard.  Two more people sat down.  She stayed standing, feeling the tears stinging the back of her eyes.  She cleared her throat and made eye contact with the only other person still on his feet.  They exchanged half-smiles.  The kind of half-smiles that really said "please, please have more debt than me..."

"200,000 dollars." The other guy took his seat, with the relief of a man saved  from a death row sentence at the last possible minute. It was official.  She had the most debt out of anyone in that room, which was saying a lot.  This was a debt-management seminar, after all.  This was for the people who had it really bad.  It was one thing to have the most debt out of her group of friends.  Most of them were trust fund babies anyway.  It was entirely another thing to have the most debt out of everyone at the debt crisis seminar.  She stayed standing, probably more out of shock and self-loathing than anything else.  The presenter didn't know what to say.  Clearly, he hadn't thought this little exercise through in its entirety.  The people were staring at her, waiting for a reaction.  She couldn't believe she didn't burst into tears right there and scramble out of the conference room.

"So, may we ask how much debt you do have?" The presenter asked  She couldn't believe he asked.  Wasn't it bad enough it was over 200,000 dollars?  OVER 200,000 dollars, and he needed an exact number?!?   

"240,000," she heard herself say quietly.  Or maybe it wasn't quietly.  Maybe it just seemed quiet  through the roar of rage pounding through her head.  She could hardly believe she had answered him.  240,000 dollars.  For what?  To be a lawyer?!?!  It hardly made any sense to her anymore.  Why in the world did she do such a thing?!?  HOW had she done such a thing?!?!  Suddenly it was all a blur and she knew she had to sit down... immediately.  

***

 

Yuppiness is...

14 dollar yoga and dinner at Whole Foods.

Namaste.

The Docket

Today, I joined The Docket Committee - the group of lawyers who publish the monthly newsletter, The Docket.  It's by lawyers, for lawyers.  Most notorious for their April Fools editions (specifically, the mandatory marijuana testing from last year: State Mandates Drug Testing for Attorneys), The Docket provides a much-needed outlet from the stifling monotony and/or overwhelming stress of the every day job.  In preparation for my new "hobby," I began reading articles from years past.  Here are a few of my favorites:

Babel Fish Saves El Dia
For those who know me, it's obvious why I laughed out loud (not to be confused with "LOL," but really, truly laughed. out. loud.) at this article.  After a summer in Argentina as a foreign summer associate (translation: American intern), I more than understand the necessity AND danger of babelfish and its counterparts in translating law.  In fact, another intern and I turned in a project we had worked on all summer: a 200 page guide to microfinance lending, targeted to Argentine microfinance institutions (think Grameen Bank) to assist them in soliciting fund from United States investors (it's a mouthful, right...) Basically, we wrote about the benefits of obtaining non-profit (501c3) status in the U.S.  But that's not the story.  The story is that we busted our butts (ok not really... We slacked off all summer, only working 4 days a week, traveling all over South America, and generally taking advantage of the 3:1 ratio of Argentine Peso : US Dollar, typically at bars, restaurants and shoe stores all over town) to get this report done, staying very late on our last night of work (before each of us left the following morning on our respective vacations:  me to Peru, Caitlin to Ushuia and Tierra del Fuego), and left the extensive report on the Partner's desk and having the taxi take us directly to our favorite restaurant for much needed wine and sushi.  However, we only produced the report in English.  We figured we had a couple days when we got back to "translate it" into Spanish... I mean, how hard could it be?  We had be "translating" documents all summer...

Suffice it to say, our translations turned out pretty similar to the babelfish translations and our supervising partner was not pleased.  I still feel guilty for how much work we created for the friends we left at the end of the summer, the not-so-foreign summer associates who spent over three months fixing out monstrosity.

Who Is Your Favorite Kid Lawyer
I love this article.  Not only did the article's author write a novel himself (clearly my dream), but he covered other books with exceptional plot ideas.  I'm left feeling overwhelmed again by those who have gone before me...  This article and the story descriptions solidify that I need to incorporate law into my book.  Stay tuned for that.

Brazilian What?...
Mostly the title and general subject matter of this article got me.  I can certainly appreciate the so-called "feminine struggle:" whether it's with jiu jitsu (the comparison of martial arts to the study of law was especially humorous to me, although I'm not sure that was intent.  Is "yoga" a martial art??), being an attorney in a male-dominated profession (or conversely, having your superiors be extremely insecure female attorneys who have battled the male-dominated profession and, in my opinion, lost), or well... the Brazilian myth (what TMI??).  But recently, I had a female partner come into my office and matter-of-factly state: "We need to do something about your work attire."  My jaw hit the floor.  This only happens in movies... right?  Wrong.  It was perhaps the most cliche conversation I have ever been subjected to: "We want people to respect you for your intelligence.  It really isn't a good idea to wear sleeveless shirts and you stay away from skirts." And on, and on and on.  Yes, I'm serious.

Anyway, guess what my first article assignment is??  Lawyers Who Blog.  Again, I'm serious :)

rant for a monday.

I hate bumper stickers.  The occasional clever and funny ones are probably an exception to my general rule, but for the most part, bumper stickers make me cringe.  Now, it's one thing to buy a bumper sticker and put it on your car, or to get a bumper sticker for free and put it on your car.  It's even "ok" (relatively speaking) to create your own bumper sticker and have it printed or produced ("professionally") and put it on your car.  It is ENTIRELY another thing to cut a picture out of a magazine and use packing tape to adhere it to the back of your car.

The general public never ceases to amaze (appall?) me.

FOMO

FOMO = “Fear Of Missing Out” (credit:  Yoni Mekuria)

My plan has recently become to forego buying a ski pass this year and use that time to work on the book.  It really is the perfect plan:  I don’t like things I’m not good at, and skiing is certainly one of those things.  For the last three years, I have tried (really, really tried) to get into skiing, but it’s not for me. Actually, I have always wanted to make T-shirts and bumper stickers that said “I ski for après” because I do.  I ski for as long as I have to ski to be able to justify spending the rest of the afternoon and evening in the hot tub drinking beer and eating expensive cheese (because that’s what you do in the mountains).  I don’t actually enjoy skiing.  I am just a little risk averse (ha), and skiing is not my passion.  Sorry “brah.”  And then you throw in that a ski pass is going to cost me at least $700 and I haven’t won the lottery yet… I just don’t think I can do it.  I am perfectly happy snowshoeing for a couple hours in the morning (to justify that beer and expensive cheese of course), and then writing for the rest of the day.  Or so I thought.

Last night we came up to the mountains to stay at a friend's parents' amazing house in Edwards for his birthday weekend.  Within the first 15 minutes of arriving, all anyone could talk about was ski season.  Seasons gone by and the season to come... and for a minute, I worried about breaking the news to my skiing buddies and considered bailing on this whole book thing.  I could be a sheep - spend the winter "skiing" (yes, those are necessary quotation marks, as opposed to "unnecessary quotation marks", because I am THAT bad at skiing) because that's what athletic people do in the winter in Colorado.

But really, THIS is what I want to do.  I want to write a book a whole lot more than I want to be a good skier.  I want it to be winter so I can write... and really, what an awesome environment to write in...[blogger won't upload my photos of the aspens turning out the window... bummer.  Trust me, they're beautiful].

Going to bike Vail Pass!  Cheers!

patience is a virtue...that I don't have.

I am not a patient person.  Generally, when I decide to do something, I want it done yesterday.  As a result of being impatient, I am sometimes also impulsive (see my 3-year-old chocolate lab --> who was purchased as an 8 week old puppy following a nasty break-up).   I have recognized that my impatience is both a blessing (see same dog), but also a curse.  It motivates me to get things done, while also allowing me to procrastinate because I know that once I put my mind to doing something, it'll get done.  I've always said that if I could see a snapshot of my future self and know that everything works out, I could be a lot more patient.

This endeavor is no different.  I've had to visit a couple bookstores recently looking for my book club book... and I've found myself  both totally inspired and completely intimidated by the quantity and quality of books out there. Inspiration combined with intimidation is a powerful force.  I just want to know how my book turns out before I take all this time to write it.  Is that so bad?  I mean, what if it sucks?  What if it's really terrible... and everyone reads it because they have to, and then they tell me it's great (because they have to)... but really, it sucks?  Then what?  So I ask this:  Please people, if my first book sucks, please, please don't let me write a second one.

i see a theme.

I'm doing a little housekeeping by finishing the blogs I had started over the last couple weeks and, for whatever reason, didn't finish.  I'm struck by how funny this one is given the "dolla dolla bills ya'll" post (started a week or so ago and also finished today... can you tell it's Friday afternoon?).

The original title for this post was "Sunday afternoon sesh," and I had planned on writing about how easily the characters were developing themselves.  Instead, I wrote about the lottery:

Sunday Afternoon Sesh
"... I just sat down to (finally) write for the weekend... and the first thing I did was check the clock, because that's what we lawyers do before we begin working on project.  Maybe for comparison's sake, I should keep track of the time I spend writing a book.  That way I can do an actual cost-benefit analysis when the time actually (hopefully) comes to transition from being a lawyer into being a writer.

So, I didn't win the Powerball last night.  I've only recently started playing the lottery.  That's how I know I need a change in my life.  I'm playing the lottery.  Regularly.  And what's worse... I can't check the winning numbers without having a couple glasses of wine first.  Now, I'm a very rational, reasonable person.  I know the odds.  I know I'm probably not going to win.  (What's funny here is that I originally wrote "I know I'm not going to win,"  but then I deleted that, and added "probably.")  But for some reason, when it comes to actually checking the winning numbers, there's a part of me that allows myself to be convinced that I won.  You know why?  Because something's gotta give.  So it might as well be winning the lottery.  Right?  Well, I didn't win.  But I did get two of the numbers, which was enough to make my heart stop momentarily and also ensure that I buy two tickets again next week."

dolla dolla bills y'all

I want to begin by saying I voted for Obama, and if I had to do it over again, I would, if for no reason other than the Income Based Repayment program (http://www.ibrinfo.org/what.vp.html#eligible).  However, when it comes to other fiscal matters (ie. taxes), I often find myself agreeing more "conservative/right-wing/republican" individuals (note: I did not use the term "politicians.").

As such, I thoroughly enjoyed this article:
http://abovethelaw.com/2010/09/earning-250000-does-not-make-you-rich-not-in-my-town/

I laughed out loud at the line: "We're middle class.  That's what middle class people do: live as far above their means as possible until it becomes impossible. And then we play the lotto like everyone else."

This comment rang especially true for me.  A co-worker (another lawyer... with 9 years of experience and resentment more than I have) and I regularly leave the office to go downstairs to the 7-Eleven (yes, there's a 7-Eleven in our building... don't judge) and buy lottery tickets.  He always tell me it's the best five minutes of his week because for that time, he lets his mind run away with the possibility of never having to worry about money ever again.  When he first let me in on his secret getaways, I laughed and suggested he try yoga instead.  But now, a year into my "occupation" (see side bar), we go together.

I can't help but relate to Ben Affleck's character in Good Will Hunting:
Chuckie:  Every day I come by your house and I pick you up. And we go out. We have a few drinks, and a few laughs, and it's great. But you know what the best part of my day is? For about ten seconds, from when I pull up to the curb and when I get to your door, 'cause I think, maybe I'll get up there and I'll knock on the door and you won't be there. No goodbye. No see you later. No nothing. You just left. I don't know much, but I know that.

It turns out, my co-worker was right.  We take the elevator down to the 7-Eleven.  We quietly wait in line to buy our tickets.  We scan our issued tickets, taking note of the powerball number.  We let ourselves get carried away in the "what if's," and for those five exhilarating minutes, all is right with the world.