My Life, As Told Between (Baby Cakes') Naps

I survived a solid weekend of work, broken only by a brief jaunt to a white party in honor of the summer solstice, and went to my first baseball game ever yesterday.  Yes, despite living in Boston for three years, I never once saw a game in Fenway Park (please try to mask your shock and horror).  It was a firm summer outing, so we had one of those luxury boxes where you’re surrounded by large screen plasma tv’s and free food and alcohol.  For those of you who aren’t lawyers, summer events are always full of copious amounts of food and alcohol.  I think there may have been a baseball game going on below us, but I can’t vouch for this since I didn’t actually see any of it.

Also, in honor of my friend ML, I’m going to start a Word of the Week.  (Sidenote:  My college roommates and I used to do this.  — Please see above re. shock and horror.)  It’ll star slightly obscure words that I’ve come across at some point and liked enough to remember.  I’m not nearly as consistent as ML though and tend to lose interest in things quickly, so perhaps I should call it a Word of the Whenever I Feel Like It (better known by the easy to remember acronym, WOTWIFLI).  Anyways, this week’s WOTWIFLI is one of my favorites:  callipygian. 

Seriously, what is going on?

(This concludes today’s witty political insight. Tune in tomorrow, when the topic will be WTF?)

I’ve had a weird experience the last couple of weeks – I’ve been driving home while it’s still sunny outside.  It’s discerning to say the least.  A confluence of factors has brought this about.  For one thing, summer’s finally rolling around and June Gloom is finally wearing off.  I realize that Californians, at least those not living in the fog-filled depths of San Francisco and Berkeley, are horribly spoiled when it comes to weather.  If it’s not 100% perfect 100% of the time, I feel perfectly justified in complaining (after all, there has to be a reason a one bedroom condo can cost close to $1 million dollars around here, right?).  The second reason is that there’s a brief respite at work.  Rather than staying until ten every night and working weekends, I have a perfectly balanced workload with a manageable amount of work to keep me busy for a reasonable amount of time during the day.  So of course, instead of working at a reasonable pace, I’m doing nothing, billing nothing, creating a deficit of hours, and consequently using up my “vacation” time on Coffee Bean runs and chit chat.  What’s wrong with me?!

And just so this post isn’t completely about me whining, this play sounds interesting.  It might dovetail nicely into this book that I’ve been reading forever now.  I think if I stop starting other books in between chapters of it, I might finish it sometime soon.  Oh, and I recently received one of those emails filled with pictures of adorable, fluffy, baby animals, complete with a saccharine message about friendship.  I’d post it here, but (a) I don’t know how, (b) I’m afraid it’ll ruin my reputation as a hard-nosed pragmatist, and (c) I didn’t want to overwhelm anyone with that much cuteness without adequate warning.  =)  Let me know if you want a copy. 

[UPDATE:  Scratch that, rush assignment, due Monday.]

I think I have pink eye.  I’ve never had it before so I’m not sure what the symptoms are, but if the symptoms involve having a pink eye, then there’s a good chance I have it.  How does anyone over the age of five get pink eye?!  I have a hard enough time getting the respect I deserve as a ferocious litigator (don’t laugh) without adding a pink eye into the mix.  This means I now have to sit down and figure out my firm’s byzantine health care benefits and find a doctor.  Joy.  I may just opt to put up with pink eye for the rest of my life. 

On a more positive note, I spent a relaxing weekend in San Jose surrounded by my doting family.  The only unpleasant interlude was a visit from some old friends of my parents, who proceeded to tell me how great I look now, as compared to the ball of lard I apparently was as a child.  Rather then valiantly defend my former pudgy (pudgier?) self, my parents merely laughed.  Ouch.

And for those keeping track, these are my purchases for the weekend:  several books, a suede hobo (I actually bought a bag, saw another one as I left the store, went home anyways, immediately regretted it, drove the nine miles back to the store, returned it and exchanged it for another one – in tan, not green like the picture, although the green one is gorgeous), fantastic cream/green slippers, and a white dress.  It’s helping me getting over the loss of my sole mate.  (G – you are too cute!)    

[UPDATE:  No pink eye.  Just my hypochondria acting up.  While at the eye doctor however, I did get new glasses.  I’m not one to pass up an opportunity to waste money.]

But I had to return my shoes.  They were too big.  (Damn my small feet!)

I have an armchair in my office which I love.  Occasionally, it beckons to me in the middle of the day to curl up and take a (very short) nap.  Today was one of those days. 

The MP has a tendency to open closed doors without knocking.  What followed was a slightly mortifying exchange on my part and probably (hopefully!) a humorous one on his:

MP:  (*shouting to secretary outside my office*)  Oh, she’s napping!

Me:   (*yawning*)  Hi!

MP:  I just wanted to say I’m glad you made it to the game yesterday.

[Idle chit chat.]

MP:  Well, I’ll let you get back to your nap.  Sorry.

Me:  It’s okay.  I’m awake now.

I experienced a moment of panic this morning when I walked into the office and was told, “The Managing Partner is looking for you.”  Those of you who don’t work in law firms may not understand the fear those words instill.  In most law firms, the MP is given almost god-like status, he (and yes, it’s always a “he”) is to be worshipped from afar and spoken about reverently.  Comfortably perched atop the firm hierarchy, MP’s do not generally deign to talk to lowly first years.  (The MP at my office is actually very nice and approachable, but he’s still the MP.) 

Naturally, my first reaction was, “Whatever it was, it wasn’t me!”  My second reaction?  “Run!”  Alas, once I realized (a) how impractical it would be to run in my heels and (b) how uncomfortable it was hiding under my desk, I bit the bullet and called the MP.  It turns out he wanted to invite me to a WNBA game tonight because he had a couple of extra tickets.  Following the generally accepted rule that I, as the lowliest of minions, must say “yes” to any request made by virtually anyone else in the office, I immediately said “yes.” 

As it turns out, I am the only one who abides by this rule.  I ended up at the game with the MP, his wife, and his two kids.  Suprisingly, the whole thing turned out to be fun rather than horrifyingly awkward.  His family was super nice and  they knew everyone at the game (they’ve had courtside seats for as long as the LA Spurs have been playing).  Plus, I got free food and alcohol and didn’t get hit in the face with a basketball (always a plus).  At the end of the game, Lisa Leslie of the Spurs came and thanked us (well, them) for making the game.  And she gave me a hug.  She is awesome.  When I grow up to be a famous female basketball player, I’m going to be just like her.   

I’ve recently learned of an interesting burgeoning cultural phenonema – a new species propagating the middle and upper echelons of society (well, they’ve probably been around for awhile, but have been newly christened).  They are known as Bobos, based on the term “bourgeois bohemian” and popularized by David Brooks’ book.  A quick web search pulled up the following definitions, mostly taken from Brooks’ book:

• Talks like a hippy but walks like a yuppy, decrying materialism while indulging in all manner of luxuries
• Combining bohemian-style environmental tendencies with successful careers
• Blending the mainstream and the countercultural 
• Mingling 1960s rebellion with 1980s achievement

I’ve always been slightly concerned about my own laziness and lack of action in the face of such a troubled world.  I couldn’t plead ignorance, yet complete indifference didn’t quite describe it either.  I know.  I care.  Unfortunately, I just don’t know or care enough to do anything about it.  I toyed with the idea of being an activist, but having tried a brief stint of activisim in college, quickly realized that it’s exhausting to care that much about anything.  Instead, I settled for being morally opposed to diamonds I can’t afford anyways and wanting to be a vegetarian who can still eat chicken and wear leather guilt-free.  At least I now know I’m not alone. 

Hello.  My name is Y. and I’m a Bobo. 

Does anyone want to form a support group to discuss our problem?  Preferably while drinking a hot beverage brewed from responsibly picked Costa Rican beans and fashioned into a $4 latte?  Maybe we can have t-shirts made too!  Think it over.  I’ll get started on the group charter.

I got an interesting email from a good friend of mine the other day pointing out a drawback to my blog, namely that it makes it all too easy for others to not write since they already know what’s going on in my life.*  (“So that explains it!” I thought, nodding wisely, slightly relieved.)  

Yes, I write because I’m self-involved.  But I also keep this blog in the hopes that my friends will read it and occasionally write me…or at least post a comment so I know they’re alive.  So, start your own blogs (come on, everyone’s doing it!), drop me an email,** post a comment, send me a text message, come visit, or call and leave random messages on my phone when you know I won’t answer (because, as most of you all know, I’m not much of a phone person, so unless you like pulling teeth, that may not be the best method of keep in touch with me).  I’m not picky.  Don’t make me beg.  Pretty please?  (There, are you happy now?)   

* To my unnamed emailer, you know I appreciated the message and loved hearing what you’re up to!  *hugs*  Don’t hate me.  =)

** To future emailers, I promise not to post the email on my blog and publicly berate you for it. 

It’s official.  I’ve crossed the river.  (Goodbye Soul!  Hello Cute New Shoes!)  But it wasn’t my fault.  See, the shoes were on sale (and $200 is several degrees more reasonable to spend on shoes than $300) and the only size they had left happened to be my size (7, in case anyone ever wants to buy me shoes).  Besides, it was recently my birthday so this is like a birthday gift to myself (thank you to all of you who sent me birthday wishes; I hope the rest of you feel bad for forgetting!).  =)  Plus, I’ve been wanting them FOREVER.   Or at least since April.  

Anyways, clearly fate was telling me I must have these shoes.  I still haven’t managed to return the other ones so I guess I technically have two pairs of $200 shoes.  I really should be shot.  (*hangs head in shame, secretly smiling at thought of how cute shoes will look on feet*)

To my oldest and dearest friends, thanks for putting up with my grumpy, sick self in Vegas this weekend. 

Ack!

I had deluded myself into believing that my spotted sunburn would magically transform into a beautiful even tan, given a little time. Unfortunately, I discovered today that the spots had the audacity to make themselves at home. (Out, damned spot!) I’m now covered in darker oddly patterned spots. And I’m peeling. Leper-like. Sigh. I’ve turned into the hideous bespotted creature from the Cabo lagoons. Children flee in terror when they see me.
I am sad. And a little sick. (*cough. sneeze. sniff.*) Woe is me.

Did you know that when you repeat the same word over and over, it starts to sound funny?  No?  Well, my highly educated friends and I came to this startling revelation while lounging pool-side at the Villa La Estancia in Cabo San Lucas this weekend.  (I think I may have come to this same realization when I was six, but had forgotten it in the intervening years.)  That speaks to the level of sophistication on this trip. 

Despite getting off on a bad foot (thanks to those of you who put up with my whining when I had to spend most of Friday moping at the airport because of an overbooked flight), this was one of the best trips I’ve taken in a long time.  I know I love my friends, but I forget how much I love spending time with them.  We had moments of surprising intellectual depth (really, “grill” is a hilarious word!) and shocking stupidity (just because the mansion is isolated on top of a hill, we don’t know anyone, and we have no means of leaving should things go horribly, horribly wrong doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stay for awhile and enjoy the, ahem, view).   

We lounged by the pool during the day, talking, sunbathing, and reading (well, not so much with the reading).  Donning our mantles of mirth, we dubbed each other Babydolls and Giggles.  We were perpetually ready for a round of water aerobics (ready?) and a round of drinks (caipirinha anyone?).  We were pleasantly surprised by the people we met and the sights we saw.  

And, as the sun slipped behind the horizon each day, we slipped into our going-out alter egos each night.  We giggled at the Marlin, were chatted up at Squid Roe, and made meaningful connections at Clara Vista.  We dined on quesadillas, nachos, and more quesadillas.  We feasted on soup and swam in an ocean of tequila and beer.  I spent parts of the trip in agony – curled up in bed convinced I was going to die, swearing I was never going to drink again, and wondering why no one cared – and left Cabo a little charred (I’ve apparently turned into a vampire after spending the last eight months in the office devoid of daylight) and very much exhausted, but with wonderful memories and a renewed appreciation for fantastic friends, both old and new.  Same time, same place next year?  =)