|
DCLawSalsera
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Monique
Location: Washington D.C., District of Columbia, United States
Birthday: 7/19/1982
Gender: Female
Interests: salsa dancing, photography, cooking, hiking, kayaking, travel, speaking Thai, pretending to speak French, anthropology, human rights, being Jewish
Expertise: procrastination, acting as the Fab Five all rolled up in one woman for my well-meaning straight male friends, nourishing my caffeine addiction, complaining about how I don't have time anymore to entertain, picking out the PERFECT wine pairing for dinner, taming my curly hair
Occupation: Student
Industry: Legal
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  DCLawYuppie7
Member Since:
12/1/2004
|
|
| my new blog is up and running:
http://avoidingbillablehours.blogspot.com
bookmark it!
and check out the links on the sidebar, too ... pretty funny blogs in my opinion. | | |
| My love life seems to have two seasons. Either it's dry as a desert, or raining and pouring. Today, I enjoyed the latter. I had dragged my books into my favorite free-wireless-and-snob-quality-espresso coffee shop to kill the five hours I had between class and rehearsal. I must have given off some vibe today that said "I'm a well-rested woman who's in the mood to talk with cute men!" because the guys at the counter making my macchiato were awfully sweet and flirty. "Nice," I thought, "I must be having a 'pretty' day."
Not five minutes after I sat down with my coffee on an exansive velour sofa, a truly gorgeous ex-Marine asked to join me. Two hours later, we had traded traveling stories, phone numbers, and weekend plans. I finally insisted that I needed to get back to work, and he excused himself. So I dove back into the books, hoping that if I stared at the words long enough, I could somehow push the memory of his blue eyes and easy smile to the side and focus on the mechanics of the felony-murder rule.
Fat chance. I didn't get through a whole page before another young suitor came callin'. The fact that I had my feet propped up across the sofa didn't deter him. "May I join you?" Turned out he was even more 'suitable' to my tastes, and much easier to talk to. Same faith, same passions, same wanderlust and craving for challenge ... in fact, quite possibly someone I'd really enjoy dating. Again, same story: two hours, phone numbers, weekend plans.
I left thinking "I must have done SOMETHING right when I rolled out of bed, because DAMN that was nice."
Here's to getting my groove back. Because God knows four months in the desert really sucked. | | |
| Hey guys! Moving on to a bigger, better blog. If you actually read this annoying update email that lands in your inbox, be sure to bookmark www.avoidingbillablehours.blogspot.com and check it at random. Signing off!!
- Monique | | |
| Westlaw has officially won the battle for my soul. Today I opened a package from somewhere unimportant in Minnesota ... to find a silver plated Post-it holder wrapped up in paper, emblazoned with the logo "westlaw.com". It's love, I tell you!! They must know that well-timed gifts for no reason at all are the way to a woman's heart. It's so spiffy and shiny and new that I now feel like I need to accessorize the rest of my desk around it. Nevermind the fact that I'm already swimming in debt - I'm shamelessly hooked! | | |
| She is risen! I've spent the past two days in the miserable purgatory of stomach virus ... the breed that's been wandering its way around the law school. If law students weren't so freaking ambitious, maybe they'd stay home when they were sick, rather than bringing their germs with them to infect everyone else. Anyway, what matters now is that I feel TREMENDOUSLY better than I did yesterday, and certainly better than the day before, when I embarassed myself in front of my massage therapist. The interaction went as follows:
Massage therapist walks me into dark, peaceful room with big imposing elevated mat.
Her: "You mentioned most of your discomfort is in your back. Would you prefer an isolated treatment or a full body massage?"
Me: "Umm, actually, I need to go to the bathroom right now"
Her: (looking puzzled) "OK, it's down the hall across from the elevators"
Me: (beginning to hurl as I step out of the room) "Where?"
Panic set in, I turned the wrong corner, got trapped in a maze of closed doors and long hallways. My stomach was by now turning itself inside out and finding its way into my hands, which were grasping my mouth. And there it went. All over the floor just like a little girl who can't control herself in the confusing hallway of a massage clinic in front of a woman I had just met.
Ugh. The embarrasment hurt worse than the pain.
Obviously, the massage never happened. I offered to pay to clean up the mess, and they even recommended that I reschedule. Treated it as if it was just another bodily function, that these things happen all the time. They were more understanding than they needed to be of this miserable curly haired law student who had just puked all over their floor. I rescheduled, and left basking in the post-vomit glow (you KNOW it feels good once you're done), but hardly made it back home before I started feeling nauseous on the freeway.
Thank God it's over, though. I'm hoping the act of publishing the experience will somehow diminish my embarassment. We'll see. | | |
|