Last night Matt, Judd, and I celebrated our team’s Trivia win at the Lowertown Bulldog. We are walking back to my car when I announce my plans to drop out of law school:
Last night Matt, Judd, and I celebrated our team’s Trivia win at the Lowertown Bulldog. We are walking back to my car when I announce my plans to drop out of law school:
The fun continues in Family Law:
Professor W: “What about gambling? Does anyone gamble? Who has ever gambled? Jill?”
Jill: “Well, I bet on sports. It’s like drinking a beer while watching a game! If you have $5 riding on it then the most boring game becomes the most exciting thing you have ever seen in your life!”
I sucked it in like Mariah Carey at school today. I wore a snug shirt as a motivation to go to the gym. This is an old Dr. Phil trick based on the theory that discomfort is an incentive for change.
Most of us buy bigger clothes when we gain weight. We hang out with less athletic friends, pick up passive activities (that involve butter and booze), and do everything possible to be comfortable in our obesity.
What a busy, hilarious week. There is too much to write about, so I am settling for pictures and captions. This is choppy, but appropriate given the state of things…
This week featured a massive iced-tea spill at the office. Amber is cackling as I run to fetch napkins:
Living in a brightly colored house would make directions easier: “I live in the blue house. No you don’t need an address. Trust me. You’ll know.”
Other favorite color combinations in my neighborhood include purple with blue trim, lime green, and hot pink. And yes, the neighborhood lawn-art is way worse than the paint jobs…
Judd and I took the dogs on a walk around Lake of the Isles this morning. He now realizes that I do not exaggerate the craziness I run into on these walks.
There were vicious mini-dogs, creepers that went out of their way to talk to us, and a lot of awkward “why is the dog doing that?” moments. We survived with a lot of lysol, some silly string, and a taser.
There were also mansions. The Lake of the Isles is cluttered with them.
This is my favorite:
Bam! I know there are grander mansions directly on the lake, but this is my favorite. I will live here someday. I will wear a long, flowy bath robe and saunter out to the front steps to fetch the morning edition of the New York Times. The dogs are dead at this point, the bad-ass kids are away at boarding school and Juddson is off on business.
It is just me, my mansion, my coffee, and the lemurs…
The mansion straddles a hill slightly off the lake and is surrounded by dramatic old churches. Living directly on the lake seems inconvenient. The constant stream of cars, dogs, and gawkers is not worth the status boost. Then again, maybe my opinions will change when I’m fabulously wealthy and in need of a prestigious address…
Last week I decided to stop wasting my time.
I quit a clerkship, dropped a pair of toxic “friends” and told the boyfriend that I not getting any younger, these ankles are swelling, and it is time to finalize our adoption and mortgage plans…
Well, maybe not that last part, (That is for this week!) but I have realized that this blog is one of the things that is wasting my time.
This blog is supposed to be a journal and a time saver. It is neither.
I was leaving my apartment building this morning when I saw a man run across the street. He clutched a soda and started shouting at me:
Sodaman: “Hey, can you hold the door for me?”
Me: “Uh, sure.
Sodaman: “Thanks. I live in apartment #45…just don’t want the police to come and…”
In which Gertrude establishes who’s boss:
I moved some furniture around so that the Rottweiler can no longer see me leave the apartment. This might help end her kennel-hysterics.
Harley decided to camp out behind my books during the furniture move:
And yes, I’ve decided that I’m going to construct a book-fort around him when I move from this apartment.
My apartment building is old and decrepit, aka vintage, so bathroom wall leaks in odd places. This isn’t new.
Two weeks ago I had a mysterious leak from my medicine cabinet. The landlord eventually came, fixed the leak, and said, “OH MY GOD! Look at the water damage to the paint in your bathroom! We need to fix this!”
Turns out that the paint in the bathroom has had water bubbles and stains since before I moved in a year ago…
After a week of scheduling, the painter arrives. I leave the painter (hoping he doesn’t rob me) and walk the dogs around the Lake of the Isles.
The Mississippi river is finally thawing and video-game-style ice chunks are a-flowing.
Today in family law Professor W told us what we already suspected:
Professor W: “The correlation between divorce grounds and the rate of divorce is weak. Sort of like the correlation between doing well in law school and doing well in practice… […]
Spring break was exhausting.
The week was strewn with awkward middle-of-the-day appointments and my entire salary went to the vet.
I come home from work on Saturday night to find my apartment covered in scat and blood.
Apparently stress caused the Rottweiler to have a bacterial imbalance, and erm, yeah. Blood. Everywhere. It was disgusting.
I was on the phone with Madre Jansen while scrubbing the blood from the floor:
Me: “Ugh.”
Madre Jansen: “What’s wrong grasshopper?”
Me: “I’m scrubbing blood from the floor. The Rottweiler is having issues again. I’m going to vet.”
Madre Jansen: “This is getting expensive. Maybe you should give the dog back to the humane society.”
Me: “Ugh. We’ll see. I still want to make her into a handbag.”
Madre Jansen: “Maybe she’s on her period and – excuse my language – just a sloppy bitch.”
I laughed so hard that I almost dropped my phone in the blood.
Mom cursing = hilarity every time.
It was my third vet trip within a week. Harley did a good impression of my face when I saw the bill:
The birthday boy decided to do his best Jay Sean pose:
I came home from work, Gertrude was out of the kennel, and the floor was covered in blood.
Another trip to the vet, $230, a hospital stay, and a dozen tests later, the doctor tells me that stress induced a bacteria imbalance which causes the rottweiler to pee blood. Charming.
The only thing that’s keeping me from killing both of the dogs is the cuteness:
Two small miracles happened.
Spring break is complete.
I frequently share an elevator with a guy who looks just like Michael Buckley. Until today I have only exchanged polite nods with Buckley in that “I’m acknowledging your fashion sense” sort of way, but today Buckley broke the ice:
Buckley: “Nice shoes.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Buckley: “I have a similar pair, but my boss would kill me if I wore loafers1 to work. Even nice ones.”
Me: “I am an intern, so we are expected to look a hot mess anyway.”
Buckley (cackling): “I didn’t think you guys were aware of that.”
Earlier: Amber’s Skill and Competence.
1 Joseph Abboud loafers.
Amber is raging about the office today. Amber’s father is a dog breeder and coaxed her into running a Twin Cities kennel club, which apparently1 has caused some drama:
