The Baby Bump That Lasts Forever.

I recently learned that one of my dearest friends in the world is preggers, prompting a visit to thebump.com in search of a cute, and hopefully useful, Yay for You! gift. This is where I got stuck:

Anyone I know who's pregnant, trying to get pregnant, or even thinking about getting pregnant: Have I got the perfect arts and crafts project for you.

From the product description:

"You may not be pregnant only one time, but you will only be pregnant with this baby one time. (Dang, I thought you could just shove them back in if you wanted to relive a particular pregnancy. Maybe that's why kangaroos have that pouch.) This belly casting art kit is a fine (Only fine? I'd like to see what they consider "great.") way to remember how your belly felt and looked during your gestation period. The kit comes easy to use and non-toxic. (Thank goodness, I was afraid you were expecting people to slather their baby bumps with all kinds of toxic goo.) It comes with 5 rolls of plaster tape, belly casting lubricant, a plastic drop cloth, (And while it's setting you can paint the nursery!) non-latex gloves and a sanding screen for finishing. After it's formed it's so easy to decorate! (As if that belly cast isn't gorgeous enough on its own.)"

As my friend Jill would say, So many questions.

1. Why is this in the Nursery Decor section of the shop? Would someone really make a cast of their belly and hang it on the wall for their baby to gaze at dreamily? I guess since it's "so easy to decorate" you could add paint (and sparkles and feathers if you're so inclined) and make it match your nursery's decor. But does your baby really need to be reminded of a place they won't remember? Wouldn't it kind of freak people out when they went into the nursery? Like, Hey, nice to see you father-in-law! Oh, that? That's just a cast of my pregnant torso. Man, my boobs looked great then, don't you think?

2. Why the boobs? I mean, if I had to guess I'd say it's because if you just did the belly people might not know what it is hanging on the wall, but I also don't know tons of women who just want to hang a cast of their boobs up for all to see.

3. Speaking of the decorating, why? Granted, no one wants to see themselves looking all grey and cakey, but how could you really decorate your belly cast so that it was more decorative and less awkward? If you paint it all pink and white and flowery for a little girl's room, it might make them think being pregnant is all sunshine and rainbows and bunnies, and we certainly wouldn't want to mislead them. If you paint it with some kind of little all-star theme for a boy's room, well, why don't you just send them to Hooters? And if you paint it to look real, well, you just sailed right on past awkward to creepy.

4. Let's assume you aren't going to hang it in the nursery, or that your baby has reached the age where having a cast of their mother's torso while they were "gestating" is no longer appropriate. What do you do with it? It's not likely to be just the conversation piece you were missing to complete your living room. Probably not the most romantic thing to have hanging in your bedroom. Nude art doesn't really go in the kitchen or dining room. The bathroom? You do get naked in there. But it would have to be the master bath, because having guests stuck looking at that while they pee might make for some uncomfortable moments at your next dinner party. It would also have to be a big bathroom, because your belly cast is going to protrude from the wall a little more than standard artwork. I don't know if I'd want to be constantly bumping into myself. I run into door jambs and walls enough already, it would suck to knock myself (and baby!) off the wall. What if I broke my belly cast? It would be like breaking my baby in my belly. Not sure if I could live with that. I guess you could put it in storage, but I think it would be rather cumbersome and fragile, just like some pregnant women.

5. I question the whole "easy to use" part. Sure, the model cast they show looks super adorable, just how a baby bump should look. But I have a feeling that plaster tape + DIY body molding + pregnant lady = bumpy (and not in a good way), lumpy, not-cute baby-belly keepsake.

Of course, there are no product reviews, and none of these questions can be answered until someone actually tries this out. I have a feeling I'm going to be purchasing this in the near future. Friend, I apologize in advance.

Back in the saddle.

Life's been, let's say interesting, the last few months; new developments, some good, some not-so-good. Lots of stories/funny occurrences I've wanted to share with all three of my loyal readers, and just haven't sat down to do it. But I've decided mount up and try to blog at least a couple times a week, since writing has always been a bit of an emotional release for me, even if I'm not writing about the hard stuff.

Also, now that I finally logged on here and checked out a few old comments, I realize how selfish I've been, depriving my public (sorry Ep!) of the little bit of joy my scribblings (can you call them scribblings when they're typed?) bring to their life.

Besides, yesterday, while browsing on thebump.com for a "Yay you're pregnant!" gift for a dear friend (I won't say who yet on the very small chance that someone might read this that she hasn't told yet) I came across something too completely uh-mazing to not share with you. Check back later today for the details!

Keeping the romance alive.

I would like to start with my defense: I have never been big on Valentine's Day. I know this is a common stance, the whole, why-do-you-need-a-day-designated-to-show-someone-you-love-them-you-should-show-them-every-day-or-at-least-on-a-random-Thursday-in-April-not-on-a-day-of-overly-priced-candy-and-roses. So I do very little to acknowledge it. I used to be very romantic in general, in a cheap/silly way, like getting Scott a random m&m's dispenser and candy to fill it when he finished a big test. But as the years have passed, I've slacked on my random acts of thoughtfulness. And Scott was always right there with me, with the exception of our first Valentine's Day, when he did the whole roses-chocolate-perfume thing (and which I have to admit was very nice). But mostly, we haven't put much effort into our gifts to one another.

Until a couple of years ago. Scott, remembering my long-standing rule that flowers on Valentine's, anniversaries or birthdays were not a good gift because they didn't show any thought or originality, and that roses were pretty much always a waste of money on me, actually put some thought into his gift to me: A giant rose-scented Yankee candle. As I opened it, I could tell by his boyish smile that he was proud of this gift. "You said never get you roses! But you love Yankee candles, and so I thought the rose-scented one was romantic for Valentine's Day." "It's great! I love it!" But he could tell by my face and my fake enthusiastic voice that I didn't. Lest you think I'm heartless, I really thought it was a GREAT idea. He clearly thought about it and came up with a clever alternative to flowers, and I do love Yankee candles. But, in my further defense, the reason I told Scott that roses, while pretty, are never a good idea to give me is because I can't stand the smell of them. So rose-scented candle ≠ my favorite Valentine's Day gift ever. However, I had never explained my aversion to roses in particular, so knowing how excited he was about his gift (and Scott rarely gets excited about anything that doesn't involve football) I tried to act really excited about it, lit it up and burned it the rest of the evening. Then I never burned it again. Every once in a while he'd notice it and comment that he knew I didn't like it.

Flash forward to today. Now, we both stopped and got cards and gifts after work, and we both acknowledged that we only got something because we were afraid if we didn't the other would and we'd feel bad. (For the record, I feel bad anyway.)

Scott got me a very sweet card about how we are great together because we understand one another and have our inside jokes and other-romantic-like stuff. And he got me a book, which he hurried to explain was from Hallmark and that he got as an afterthought instead of the picture frame with a sentiment about dogs (granted, I love my dogs) that he'd been carrying around. I don't want to go into what the book was, I'm sure I'll mention it later, but no, it wasn't dirty, just related to something we've been "discussing," i.e. trying to convince the other we're each right.

It totally made me tear up while apologizing for how janky his gift was. Here's why:

The card I got him says:

(Outside) "Some nights I lie next to you and feel like the luckiest woman in the world." (Inside) "Other nights I feel like a woman who should never serve chili for dinner ever again."

True? Absolutely. Sweet or romantic? Not at all. To further defend myself, I did write some very sincere/sweet sentiments inside. And when I was coming up with questions for a newlywed game for my friend's wedding shower one of the questions I found was "If you were blindfolded in a crowded room, how would you find your man? By sight, smell or taste?" And I totally said smell. Scott has a musk. Sometimes it's a little fresher than others, and sometimes I tell him he has to shower before he can come to bed, but he has a distinct smell.

Anyway, couple that card with the gifts I gave him -- a box of white chocolate-covered pretzels (that I told him he had to share with me) and a small heart-shaped tin with a picture of two frogs and a thought bubble that says "Toadally in love" and containing a "passion cookie" (really, a flower-shaped shortbread-ish cookie in alternating petals of "chocolate" and "vanilla") -- and keeping in mind that I spent a total of $6.97 at Wal-Mart for this display of affection and you'll totally get why I teared up when his gift wasn't just as janky as mine.

The next time I jokingly say that Scott isn't the most romantic guy in the world, someone please remind me that I'm the girl that got him a card that referenced farting in bed.

Just another reason I'm glad my parents are internet-illiterate.

Scott and I are going to a concert tomorrow night with one of my cousins and his wife, in Tulsa, which means we're going to spend the weekend with my parents. Now, I love my parents, they are wonderful people and I enjoy spending time with them. But they are the most conservative people I know, which can put a damper on things.

You need to understand that when I say conservative, I mean that I think Jesus was more liberal than my parents. No cursing (you don't even say "butt" as in your ass, or "sucks" as in this sucks big fat hairy balls, around my parents), no drinking, no deviant behavior of any kind. I hid my belly button ring from them, until it was ripped out about 4 months after I got it (which hurt like hell, but I digress). I hid my tongue ring from them for a few months, then when I gave up on that, my mom was so disappointed that she called my Nana and asked her to tell me she didn't like it. Luckily that plan backfired because when Nana saw it she said she thought it was cute. They still don't know about my tattoo. And I will never forget this conversation, as I lliterally had my hand on the front door knob, about a month before my wedding, about to meet up with Scott for a three-day trip to find a place to live in northeast Missouri:

Dad (apparently all too aware that Scott and I would be spending two nights, unchaperoned, in the same hotel room): Now, don't you go up there and be having sex and getting yourself pregnant.

I froze, mortified, despite the fact that there was only my parents and myself in the house. I had no idea how to respond.

Mom: Oh, don't worry, that's why I made her that doctor's appointment for next week. She's going to have a female exam and get on birth control.

At this point I just wanted to get the f*ck out of there, but seeing as how I was unable to do much more than stutter, "I-I, uhh, i-it's, wu-well..." I was pretty much stuck until I figured a way to extricate myself from the most uncomfortable conversation anyone has ever had.

Dad: Well, that's good, just remember, you're not married yet.

I should mention here that Scott and I had been dating for over three years, while we each had our own apartments in Norman he pretty much lived with me and we had been having (safe, responsible, birth-controlled) sex for most of our relationship. However, my parents remained blissfully in the dark about most of that. Any time they came to town, we rushed to hide any trace of Scott in my apartment. When we visited my parents, not only did we (obviously) have to sleep in separate rooms, we had to be on separate floors. Seriously. I had to sleep downstairs with my mom in my parents' room and Scott and my dad would each take one of the upstairs bedrooms. But I was not about to call attention to my sexual history just to prove to them that I was a good, responsible, pregnancy-wary daughter.


Needless to say, I finally got away from the most horrible conversation anyone has ever had, we found a place to live, got married, and so on. Now, even though we are both pushing 30, any time my parents come to visit, instead of hiding any trace of Scott, I hide any trace of alcohol. I actually have cabinet space devoted to last-minute wine rack stashing.

But you're an adult, you can do what you want, you argue. You make a fine point, but with my parents I prefer to avoid the conflict that would no doubt ensue, fueled mostly by their disappointment in my lack of adherence to the singular direction of their moral compass. Also, I truly love my parents and have so much gratitude for everything they've done for me over the course of my life that what some people might consider a serious case of vaginitis when it comes to standing up to my parents, I prefer to look at as respect for our differences and a desire to help them maintain their peace of mind.

Back to the dilemma of the weekend. Scott has big plans to get wa-wa-wa-wasted Saturday, and I would very much like to be right there with him. My cousin's wife recently found out she's preggo, so we have a designated driver (safety first, kids), so the only thing limiting the level of my potential drunkenness is the fact that, post-concert festivities we'll be returning to the site of my childhood sheltering and repression. I pointed this out to Scott when he mentioned his plans to get (I shit you not, but I love him so don't judge) "crunk" Saturday night and he countered with, "Oh, come on, your parents go to bed so early there's no way they'll still be up when we get back." I will grant him that my mom will likely expire for the night no later than 9 or 10 p.m. But my dad still has a tendency to wait up, despite my 28 years on this earth and my five and a half years of marriage.

I have, over the years, gone out and enjoyed a few drinks with friends while staying with my parents' but I have always managed to reign it in before I reach the point of obvious intoxication, and I always make sure to have a mint or a gum handy, and I don't think I've ever greeted my dad reeking of alcohol. But while I certainly don't want to be Debbie Downer and cut Scott off tomorrow, because to be quite honest we could both really use a night of drunken debauchery right about now, I am concerned that we will be found out. And I have a valid reason for concern, and it honestly has nothing to do with being afraid of how he'll act: for some reason, after even just a few beers, I can always smell the alcohol on Scott.

Perhaps I'm just accustomed to his natural musk (sorry, I don't know what else to call it). Or perhaps I'm overly sensitive because of the vodka-church incident. In college my friend Miranda and I convinced Scott and her boyfriend at the time to accompany us to church. We had arranged to have the two of them share a place, seeing as how they both pretty much lived with each of us in our own apartments but needed a place of their own to avoid scnadalizing our parents. This particular weekend, we had a party at their place Saturday night and apparently they stayed up until the wee hours, sitting on the roof, killing a liter of vodka. I leaned over to Miranda during the service and whispered that Scott either forgot to shower or else he was seeping alcohol from his pores. She said Josh smelled like a brewery. We were both embarrassed beyond belief, especially since it was a full house and the guys definitely had people close enough on their other sides to catch a whiff anytime we stood up or sat down. And if you've ever been to a Baptist church, you know there's a lot of up and down before the sermon starts.

Over lunch they told us just how much they had drank and quite frankly we were impressed that they weren't stumbling around and slurring their words. But ever since I took Scott to church sweating vodka, I've been a little paranoid that whenever he decides to tie one on, everyone can smell it on him. Maybe I'll just make sure to leave his cologne in the car and spray him down when we pull in the drive. Did I mention we'll be going to church with my parents Sunday morning?

Tripping down memory lane.

This weekend Scott finally got around to unpacking/sorting through about 8 boxes of stuff that's been sitting in our "office" since we moved in (i.e., since July). While the boxes included mostly textbooks, binders full of class notes and old mail, rousing no real interest on my part, there were a few gems:

1. A newsletter from a hospital that he worked at a couple of different summers in college. He pulled it out of a file folder, looked at it a minute, turned to a certain page and showed me the picture of a guy, covering up the name.

Scott: Who do you think that is?

Me: I have no idea. Should I?

Scott: Come on, who does it look like?

Me: Well, it looks kinda like C-----, but I know it's not him.

Scott: (triumphantly, as I finish my last sentence) Yes! Doesn't it look just like him? (Starts to chuckle). That's why I saved this! That guy totally looks like C-----!

Me: (laughing hysterically) You really kept that - (almost falling off the couch from laughter) - because that guy kind of looks like C-----?

Scott: (somewhat proudly) Yup! This is from (checking date) July of 2000.

Guys, I knew my dear hubby has a sentimental streak (he has, in the past, saved various Valentine's/Easter/Christmas candy given to him by me, as well as a chocolate racecar Valentine from his little brother, despite my insistance that when people give you candy, they intend for you to eat it) but this momentarily surpassed even my comprehension capabilities (hence the hysterical laughter when I realized he was serious). He kept, for over a decade, a newsletter with a picture of a guy who kind of looked like a friend of his. Yet every time we move he complains about the amount of stuff I have...

2. You might see these tickets and wonder what concert or game we're going to soon. Well, friends, look more closely and you'll see that these tickets are from 2007. To be more specific, the January 1, 2007 Fiesta Bowl featuring Oklahoma and Boise State, which was a sad, sad day for Sooner fans, but that's beside the point. To fully appreciate this story, I have to take you all the way back to December of 2004. OU was going to the Big 12 Championship game, and it being our last year we wanted to go. Scott then suggested taking my parents with us since they'd only been to one other OU game. What a great, sweet, fun plan, right? And so he got the tickets. Only instead of the 4 tickets we needed, he got 10. His plan was to sell the other 6 on eBay, hopefully making enough to pay for all four of our tickets in the process. Only he didn't consider that the Big 12 Championship game is never a sellout. And our tickets were way at the top of Arrowhead Stadium. He did manage to sell 2, at face value, to a girl he worked with who wanted to take her dad to the game, but the other 4 sat there, never even listed on eBay, and equalled a loss of about $300. Between December of 2004 and December of 2006, he had often hinted at wanting to buy several tickets to games or concerts and make big money off them, but I had always managed to convince him that it wasn't the smartest thing he could do to try to make some money.

Then one cold December day in 2006 I came home from Wal-Mart and was greeted with, "I did something that might not have been a great idea." "How many tickets did you buy?" I asked, knowing what he had done without even having to ask. "Six. And some parking passes." "Well, at least you didn't get ten this time." "They were $135 each." Silent stare. "But I'm really gonna put them on eBay, and the Fiesta Bowl will definitely sell out, so I shouldn't have any trouble selling them. Even if I end up selling them at face value, we won't lose money. At worst we'll break even." Raised eyebrows. "I promise, I'll really sell them. I mean, it would be awesome if we could figure out a way to go, but if we can't, I'll definitely sell out of them." But we didn't go. And he obviously didn't sell them. So every once in a while, if he starts complaining about a particularly costly purchase, I can sweetly say, "Remember that time you bought those Fiesta Bowl tickets?" I have a feeling that's something we'll both always remember, mostly because I'll always remind him...

3. As I already mentioned, Scott's kinda a softy. He has a file case full of cards, notes, photos and invitations to weddings, graduations and parties. The final laugh we got out of the weekend's reminiscing came courtesy of a dear friend of ours. I was opening the cards and invitations and reading them to Scott as he sorted through other stuff. There was an inviation to OSU's graduation, and Scott first guessed it was his older brother's. Then this fell out, I started reading it and we both instantly knew whose invitation it was. (I will mention here that this friend is recently engaged to an adorable girl, but hopefully will always maintain his irreverent sense of humor and quick wit.) Click to enlarge and enjoy:

You know who you are, and we love you for it.

Friends don't let friends give a four-fingered shake.

A couple of weeks ago I spent the weekend with Scott at his residency program's callback weekend. Essentially, they invite med students they've interviewed and are considering offering residency spots to come and spend the weekend hanging out, meeting more residents and faculty than they could squeeze into the interview and try to get a better idea of who will be a good fit for the program. The first night I met a female applicant and her husband and both instantly moved to the bottom of my (admittedly completely irrelevant) list of desirables. Why the instant disappoval, you ask. They both had horrible handshakes. And yes, in a setting where you are surrounded by other professionals and you are trying to get a job, I'm judgy. (Also completely irrelevant here is my current lack of a job only because I am confident that if there is one part of an interview I can nail, it's the handshake.)

WTF?

A weak handshake is probably my longest-standing pet peeve. I remember judging little old ladies as a child in church during the weekly "let your neighbor know you're glad they're here" hymn when they gave me the four-fingered shake. I now realize that some of them may have had arthritis that made a real handshake painful, but others could get around just fine, so they really had no excuse. My hands are the same size as Scott's nine year old brother and yet I manage to fully grasp even the chubbiest, man-ring wearing and cigarette-stain bearing hands and give them a solid shake. (I hope you're imagining me shaking hands with a gold-chain-sporting, greasy-haired mafia boss from Jersey right now, because that is totally the mental image I was going for.) Anyway, both halves of this couple gave me the same four-fingered old-lady shake, and I was instantly annoyed by both of them for different reasons.

When I get a four-fingered handshake from a man, I'm a little insulted. The feminazi in me silently flares up and I think What, you think I can't handle a real handshake? Afraid of hurting a poor little girl? Would you shake a man's hand like that? Listen, pal, (I'd totally fit right in with the aforementioned mafia, btw) it's time you learn to respect women like you respect men. Now give me a real handshake or go ahead and pussyfoot it out of here.

But seriously, guys? You aren't going to break my hand if you actually grasp it to shake. This may come as a shock but most of you aren't gifted with freakish strength. If you are, (or just think you are as is more likely the case) don't be an asshole and try to crush my hand just to show off your masculinity, but also don't insult me with a half-assed handshake. It's 2011. Don't make me give you the anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-in-heels schpiel.

As much as the husband's finger-shake irritated me, the wife's irritated me more. I mean, come ooooon. You're a few months away from having M.D. after your name. You're obviously not a complete idiot and you have at least enough ambition to have survived medical school. You're a professional trying to make a solid, professional impression. I'll grant that this was a casual evening at an attending's home, but the weekend was still more or less a second interview. And I know I'm not one of the residents, but you also don't know what I do, and I could be someone you want to impress. (I'm not, but she didn't know that.)

Frankly, I'm always a little confused by women who give other women the four-fingered shake. It always ends up looking like you're giving me your hand to admire. Guess what? I'm not a 19th century suitor. You're not curtseying, I'm not bowing and I'm not going to kiss your hand. Unless you just got engaged you have no reason to show off a ring to me (I know, wrong hand) and manicures don't really do it for me. Look at the above picture. Ridiculous. If you're used to men just shaking your fingers it's one thing, but woman to woman, I just don't get it. Again, the feminazi in me silently seethes, Heard of the women's movement? Yeah, you're setting it back with that puny excuse of a handshake. Dramatic? Yes. Justified? Absolutely.

Whenever I encounter one of these sad excuses for a handshake I have to resist the urge to say, "Let's try that again. Now, don't be afraid to really grasp my hand and give it a shake this time." However, since that is never really a socially acceptable thing to do, I can only hope that at some point someone will tell the offender that they really need to work on their grasp.

Part of me fears that it's kind of like reading or riding a bike. You should have learned how to shake hands in your formative years, so if your handshake sucks at this point it's probably too late for you. I kind of hope some day I'll be one of those crotchety old ladies who won't give a damn and I'll give any young chippee with a limp grip a handshake tutorial. In the meantime, if you know someone with a less-than-impressive handshake, and you can work it into a friendly conversation, give them a few pointers. They'll thank you for it if they have to greet me with a handshake in about 40 years.

Loratadine + Dr. Pepper = The Keys to My Heart

That is, contrary to appearances, a key. "Penis to my heart"sounds painful.
Unless you're one of those women who can swallow a sword.

Today Scott went to get his haircut and came home with 2 surprises for me: a 60 count bottle of generic Claritin and a 24 pack of Dr. Pepper. I was so happy I teared up.

Lessons to be learned:

1. Guys, impressing a woman is really quite simple. Pay attention to the little things that make her happy. Take me for instance -- my day doesn't get off to a good start without a Dr. Pepper for breakfast and since I'm apparently allergic to life, I'm a snotty, red-eyed, carries-a-roll-of-toilet-paper-around-the-house mess if I run out of allergy meds. Of course, it's entirely possible that poor Scott was just tired of seeing a roll of toilet paper perched on the back of our couch as well as listening to reasons why Dr. Pepper from a 2 liter bottle is just not the same as the good stuff in a can and decided to end his suffering along with mine. But I'm choosing to believe that he just loves me and wanted to make my weekend better. Either way, mission accomplished, sir.

2. When a 24-pack of caffeinated, sugary deliciousness and a 2 month supply of antihistamines brings tears to your eyes because it's the best thing that's happened to you all week, you're officially a hot mess and should really find a hobby, or maybe volunteer somewhere. Or just watch Jersey Shore and feel pretty good about most of your life decisions.

Book (Cover) Review - Love, Lust and Faking It

I recently came across this gem while browsing celebrity gossip:

I have a few problems with this book cover. (I should clarify here that I have no real problem with Jenny McCarthy. Given the fact that she became famous in the first place for being a hot blond with awesome boobs, she's at least done stuff to somewhat maintain a career as an actress, plus she's used her celebrity to advance autism awareness, which is truly admirable. And I haven't read the book, which apparently has some decent reviews. The source of my rant is truly the book cover.)

First and foremost among my hangups is that Jenny McCarthy is identified as a New York Times best-selling author. I know she earned that accolade with the books she wrote about babies and autism and she's very dedicated to her cause. But seriously. I mean, she started out as a Playboy model and then got her big break with Singled Out. She starred in movies like Wieners and Dirty Love.* I also know many questionable titles, among them Sarah Palin's Going Rogue, have ended up on that list, which is really just a measure of sales and has nothing to do with literary or cultural merit. And yet it bothers me that this book cover (accurately) identifies its author in the same company as writers like Norman Mailer, Boris Pasternak, Salman Rushdie, John Irving, David Sedaris and numerous other authors I adore.

My second problem with this book cover is that it's just weird. The artwork is very Danielle-Steele-meets-Gothic-fantasy-with-a-modern-twist. Sunset on a jetty? Are your boobs obvious enough? Is he muscle-y enough? Did he just rescue you from the surf or is he about to whisk you away to that lighthouse? And there must be something pretty amazing on that cell phone you're distracted by to keep you from devoting all your attention to the serious smolder that guy is trying to rock.

Except for my third, and honestly biggest, problem with this book cover. Smoldering Steve there has a MULLET. A CURLY MULLET. That was honestly the first thing that caught my eye. Really Jenny McCarthy? And Jenny McCarthy's editor? And the art department at Harper Collins? I mean, if you wanted to emphasize the "faking it" part, put a picture of Jenny and Jim Carrey on the cover, because I'm guessing there was some faking it happening there. But to take what would otherwise be a solid artist's rendering of a hot guy and topping him off with a curly mullet just confuses me. And leads me to believe that whoever you're connecting with on that cell phone doesn't have a mullet, which means you will be leaving Smoldering Steve for Mullet-free Matt, and the whole sunset-on-a-jetty-before-hot-sex-in-a-lighthouse thing is just a tease. It gets even more confusing when you realize that the first chapter of her book describes how her mom reconnected with her high school love after divorcing Jenny's dad. Which is a sweet, heartwarming story that has little to do with giant boobs and sunset and lighthouses. So your bookcover is misleading. And you should be warned that cat-ladies everywhere are going to be disappointed when there is no mention of that gleaming mullet ravishing you in that lighthouse.

*You really should check out this review. Consider it my Christmas gift to you. And you're welcome.

Who did we think we were?

That's what I asked when I sent my college roommate and still dear friend several pictures I dug up from our younger days. She had asked for photos to use in a slideshow in her upcoming wedding and I finally sat down a couple of weeks ago to go through old pictures so I could scan and send some to her that pre-date the advent of digital cameras. Most of them date back to 2001-2002, our freshman year at OU. As I looked through boxes of photos, I was struck by how young everyone looked and I couldn't help but laugh at our always-ready-for-party-pics poses.

The day we moved into the dorm.

I miss those girls. I miss them running up and down the dorm hall in preparation for a night out. I miss them getting biscuits and gravy from the student union and eating it in line outside the stadium at 4 a.m. so they could get good seats for the big game. I miss them riding around in the Explorer, rap music blaring and congratulating themselves on how bad-ass they were for nailing the entire song. I miss their anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better ambition, their sometimes overinflated but always unflappable confidence and their conviction that one day soon they would reach "the top." Those girls had everything going for them. They were young, cute, smart and fearless. I was dead-set on being a hotshot attorney, crusading for women and children and giving a voice to those without one. She was med school bound, with the goal of being a top cardiac surgeon and having a major impact on the world of medicine. They had big dreams and all the tools they thought they needed to make those dreams reality.

The night we ended up at the infamous Forum, or
the church-converted-to-a-nightclub-that-lasted-about-a-year.

But for all the book smarts God saw fit to gift them with and all the street smarts they were acquiring for themselves, they were missing a vital piece of information: You can't plan Life. When you try, it will shake your hand and tell you good game after it's beat you in a close race -- at best. At worst it'll roundhouse kick you in the teeth, spill your Dr. Pepper, steal your Coach bag, max out your credit cards, ram your car into a stop sign and then drop it off in your driveway with f*ck you keyed into it. Of course, being either hopelessly optimistic or a glutton for punishment, you'll throw yourself back into the milieu , bruised and broke, but hopefully not broken, and you'll start planning your next trip around the sun.

We made the most of the snow day we had that year.

I'd guess that about 90% of our plans didn't quite pan out, or at least not the way we thought they would. I could argue and say to Life, "Ha. You thought you changed all my plans, but here I am, married and a lawyer, just like I said. Sure I don't have three kids, but I have three dogs, which are much better than kids because they don't talk back, they don't touch all your nice stuff with their sticky little fingers and you can leave them unattended for a whole day." But the next week I feel my biological clock ticking and some kind of maternal instinct fighting for air, whereas the week before I was convinced that I never want the smelly, noisy, sticky little things. And let's face it, the road to (and through) law school was a bit bumpy, and right now the road to that hotshot career I envisioned has all but washed out. I'm sure Life is smugly gloating at my continued attempts to make plans and control their outcomes. The girl in those pictures would have flipped off her intangible nemesis and marched her headstrong self straight into the flood. The woman I am now stops and says, "Ok, I get it, I'll find another road."

I like to think that my mom is right when she says everything happens for a reason, and so there's a reason for all the dumbshit or hurtful stuff I've done just like there's a reason for all the smart, good or nice things I've done. But I also think it's bullshit when people say that they wouldn't have done things differently if given the chance. If the girl in these pictures would have been able to look ahead and see where she'd be in nine years, I'd hope she'd have been smart enough to do a lot of things differently. But that doesn't mean I'm not ok where I am, and it also doesn't mean that I think I'd be any happier -- I'd likely just have a different set of regrets and a different set of problems.

Proud of almost having finished our freshman year at OU
without getting alcohol poisoning or roofied.

While my friend and I have both been able to mark some things off the long list of things we set out to accomplish, we haven't quite conquered the world the way we thought we would. We aren't movers and shakers, travelling the world, making heads roll and hearts melt. We're living our relatively quiet lives, caught up in building our lives as part of a couple, planning weddings, juggling family holidays, fitting in girls' night and watching football with friends, all the while slowly carving out our niches, which by now probably appear to be series of unconnected tunnels that lead nowhere. However, if my mom is right, all those tunnels will join up eventually and we'll have had fun exploring them all along the way.

Circa October 2010. We still know how to rock it,
we just call it a night earlier.

It was good to be reminded of the girls we used to be. It made me appreciate who we've become and all the unexpected turns our lives have taken in order to make us comfortable with being women that our 18-year-old selves would have scoffed at. But it was also good to remember the I-can-be-anything-and-do-anything attitude we had back then. And I still think we'll both reach "the top." The mountain may be a little smaller and closer to home, but that's fine because we'll be able to recognize a lot more of the people and places that make up the view.

A Thanksgiving Tableau

Attendees at my parents' house this year for Thanksgiving dinner were my parents, of course, my aunt Sue and uncle Victor, and Scott and I. A traditional holiday feast consisting of turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, dressing, veggies and rolls was served. Conversation began with the usual topic of midget wrestling* then moved on to co-workers my dad has had at various jobs, including but not limited to Fish Eye and Broke Toe. Eventually, my dad worked in his schpiel about how men are inherently greater than women. At this point I began clearing the dishes, followed shortly thereafter by my mom and aunt. My dad continued to regale my uncle and Scott with his opinions on women, how they should be kept** and their uses.*** He then tried to help us finish clearing the table and was met with dismay. My mom insisted that he join the menfolk and that they could talk about manly things that we poor women just wouldn't be able to understand. She also told him that the next time he got hungry he could just go to the reservation and hunt him up a new woman.

On Saturday before we left, my dad apologized to me and said he had his medicine and would start taking it again.****

I love family holidays. Only three more weeks to go until the next one!

*If my dad doesn't bring it up, Scott will; he loves hearing about the glory days of the aforementioned "sport."

**In case you're wondering, as I'm sure you are, women should be kept on reservations, then when a man needs one for whatever purpose (see note below) he can just go and hunt one up. Who knows, this could turn out to be more entertaining than midget wrestling. After all, no one said we can't carry our own weapons.

***Sex, cooking, having babies, cleaning, sex, laundry and, obviously, sex.

****Which means that Christmas will be much less offensive but also much less entertaining.

Graduation Recap

Bre, I'd totally hire you.

It's been almost a whole month since I officially went from unemployed law student to unemployed law grad and with all the subsequent commotion, I am just now getting around to uploading those pics to my computer, and I thought I'd share some highlights from the day:

1. Commencement Speaker WIN - Secretary of Energy Steven Chu. In a surprisingly entertaining and sincere speech, Secretary Chu advised all Wash U grads to "do something that matters." That was after he likened himself to the corpse at an Irish wake, i.e. the only thing between us and the party.

2. People Watching WIN - While waiting for the processional to end at the university-wide ceremony, we were afforded a great people-watching opportunity. Reagan found a guy with an awesome pompadour, and we decided that the Secret Service was there with Secretary Chu. Also, while waiting to leave the first ceremony, a poor WULAW staffer, stuck waiting with our banner, had clearly had enough of the festivities.







3. Undergrad WIN - At least I assume it was an undergrad scheme to bring in a giant inflatable penis, blow it up and send it flying through the graduate section toward the end of the university-wide ceremony.

4. Commencement Speaker FAIL - Strobe Talbott, President of the Brookings Institute. We all had much higher expectations for this speaker than for Secretary Chu, but our confidence was misplaced. The speech was more appropriate for a political rally, making many in the audience, regardless of political standing, a little uncomfortable. I was trying to hang on, thinking the president of one of the nation's oldest think tanks would eventually have something to say worth hearing, but as soon as the words "nuclear proliferation" escaped, I became much more interested in trying to find people I knew in the crowd and calculating how long my poor feet could hold out, which brings me to...

5. Cute Shoe FAIL - So I had these super cute strappy snakeskin, 3.5" heels that I wore. Big mistake. While they gave me a bit of much needed height, my hubby informed me that I was still one of the shortest grads. He said he found my spot in the processional for looking for the dip towards the end of the alphabet. (In my defense, I was surrounded by about a dozen guys on either side, so I could have been a normal-sized person and still been shorter than those around me.) Also, in the process of crossing campus for the first ceremony, I tripped and bit it, hard. I actually have a graduation scar on my anklebone. The shoes came off as soon asI got to my seat on the quad, and stayed off until I had to process in for the law ceremony. They are now in their box in a packing box, probably never to be unpacked again.

6. Voice of the Class WIN - Becky's "Part of Denmark" story was cleverly analogized to our class and she left me feeling good about choosing Wash U, largely due to the many fabulous folks I have been lucky enough to meet while here.

Just one of those fabulous folks, my old rooomie!

7. Gathering FAIL - Due to the general chaos of the day, and the large number of people I was toting around after the ceremony, I was unable to find any friends post-J.D.-conferment for party pics. Dang. But I did end up with some great ones before the whole shindig got underway. Plus, our 7 a.m. mimosa toast on top of the parking garage was hard to beat.

8. Regalia WIN - Despite my last post, I have to say we all look pretty sharp in our robes and tams. And the hoods definitely add to our general overall scholarli-ness. Way to spring for the high-quality stuff, Wash U. If we get nothing else from our degree, we looked pretty damn sharp on the day you gave it to us.

At least we look official.

9. Diploma...WTF - So I get my diploma, get back to my seat to read over it, and realize I can't. Read it, that is. Because it's in Latin. Even the name of the school. And the name of the state. I'm pretty sure there isn't a real Latin word for Washington, much less Missouri. It looks like the fake diploma that comes with the diploma frames you find at Wal-Mart. I did get a nice, classy frame for it, with Wash U School of Law in gold on the matte, and I hope that quells any doubts people might have about the legitimacy of my degree if they see my diploma.

Washingtoniana? Missouriensi?

All in all, a memorable day. Thanks to friends and family, a great few days leading up to and following it. But mostly, I'm just glad I don't have to go to summer school.

Regalia Fail.

Graduation is in four days. Today I picked up my cap and gown, etc., cracked up with a friend who I ran into in the bookstore over the caps we have to wear, got home and got an email from the same friend suggesting that I try on my gown, because as a fellow shorty, the one I got might just be too long. So I broke into my bag of goodies:

Along with the robe, tam (because we're too cool for mortarboards) and hood, I was delighted to find a message from the Commencement Committee telling me to BYO water if I think I'll get thirsty during the four-hour ordeal, instructions for how to use my hood and how to care for my robe (otherwise that shit'll cost ya $600). I proceeded to practice looking like a grad:

The thing about robes or gowns or whatever you want to call them is that one-size-does-not-fit-all. I got the 5'2" version, which is intended for all of us vertically challenged graduates. The problem is that there is no difference between mine, my equally-short-but-30-pounds-lighter-friends and a 200 lb potbellied linebacker for the midget football league. Also, I'm never quite sure how long those things are supposed to be. At any rate, this one definitely made me look like a midget in a choir robe. I thought maybe the hat would help me look more "doctoral":

It did not. It did, however, lend itself to some stylistic interpretations that would most likely not be law-school approved:

Chef Liz! Ummm, does this mean I have to BYO snacks, too?

I must have been thinking about paying off my student loans with my non-existent income.

Then I remembered I hadn't added the tassel! That had to make it better.

Or just kinda sad and droopy.

THEN IT DAWNED ON ME! I forgot my cape.*

Am I swooping? My superhero* instincts must have taken over.

*You doubt my terminology? Just wait until you've had Commencement/Superhero Training.

Still missing something. Luckily, my graduation garb came with a coordinating Adult Hooded Poncho!

The hooded poncho helps, especially with the logo in front.

So basically, I hope it rains Friday. Otherwise I'll just look like a midget linebacker in a choir robe and funny hat.

I'll show you my Schmoo if you'll show me yours.

Apologies to anyone who was hoping for a picture of a vagina.

Excerpt of actual conversation I had with my friend Ep via Blackberry messenger today:

It started out talking about how Scott and I are trying to make a post-bar exam trip to visit Ep in Curacao, and about how Scott's fam is taking a cruise that will port there for a day in June, but how I have been dying to stay at an all-inclusive place so I could spend more than 8 hours exploring any given place.

Ep: Branson! Problem solved.

Liz: (I explained that we were thinking more Caribbean sun and snorkel, then...) Oh, don't you worry. I get to spend a week in Branson with my mom, sister and nieces this summer. It's my mom's favorite vacation destination.

Ep: (Funny story about his mom suggesting Branson as a romantic get-away spot, then...) Tell the fiddling Asian I said hello.

Liz: Branson is hard to beat for romance! And I happen to love Shoji Tabuchi.

Ep: (Clearly amazed that I knew not just of whom he spoke, but that I also knew the star performer's name.) You always have to one up! I saw the man for something like my eighth birthday. OU lost to Miami. I cried.

Liz: I'm glad someone else has childhood Branson memories. I, unfortunately, have teenage Branson memories too.

Ep: Yikes. Shepherd of the hills, bitches!

Liz: Been there. Oh yeah. Fire in the hole!

Ep: Hell yes!

(Sorry if you don't get the references to Branson's awesomeness. Just know that you're missing out. And that Fire in the Hole is a roller coaster with drunk singing miners pillaging a town that used to make me cry. It's like Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney World, only Ozark-style. Oh YEEEAHH.)

Ep: Going back as an adult...if I prayed, you'd be thought of.

Liz: (Brief exposition on the romance that could be had over fried chicken at the Dolly's Dixie Stampede, then...)

Ep: HO-LY hell! You're way too dangerous not to stay aligned with. What recall!!

Liz: Well, it's not often I realize a friend has the same fondness for Branson that I do. (I fill Ep in on the post-finals-pre-graduation trip to Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, complete with a stop at the original Dixie Stampede, that I'm taking with friends.)

Ep: (Suitably impressed.) Get. The. Fuck. Out.

Liz: Why Dollywood, you ask. It's got Dolly, roller coasters, friend food and presumably lots of mountain people.

Ep: Did you ever make it to Dogpatch U.S.A?

Liz: Yes. (As if he needed to ask.) I LOVED that big white thing! I also saw the Rainbow Brite Show at Dogpatch. Do you know, that big white blob that danced around there? I forget what he was called, but I definitely have a stuffed one of him here at my parents' house.

Ep: Been googlin' like mad since first mention...

Liz: My mom tried to get rid of it once and I 'bout had to cut a bitch. I was all "NOOO! I love (insert-name-of-big-white-blob-from-Dogpatch-USA)!!!"

Ep: The schmoo?...Yeah! The Schmoo!

Liz: YES! I kept thinking Moo, but I knew that was wrong. SCHMOO! (If you knew the Schmoo, you'd understand why this excitement is completely appropriate.) I'm sad that if I have kids, they will never meet the real Schmoo.

Ep: He lives in our hearts.

Then I sent Ep this picture:

Schmoo makes my heart happy.

Liz: I found him! In the top of a closet! I sent you a picture of my Schmoo! I feel like you are my long-lost childhood doppelganger. All this time I had no idea we had so many shared experiences. (Notice the irrational excitement. Irrational because now, in my calm state, I realize that there are hundreds of thousands of children who experienced the wonders of Branson AND Dogpatch U.S.A. But irrational excitement is what happens when you find your Schmoo.)

Ep: Whoa! He's glorious! (Yes. Yes he is.)

Liz: Also, if one didn't know what a Schmoo is, one might think it's a dirty thing to send a picture of.

Ep: Hahahaha. It's still porn to me.

Liz: I think I will dedicate my next blog post to Schmoo.

And here we are. I figure I might as well keep going with the childhood throwback thing. Plus, I really like saying Schmoo! I actually say it out loud every time I type it. Good thing no one was around this morning, or for the last half-hour...

My Skipper was a soap star, how 'bout yours?

Today, on Sirius 90s on 9 (my new absolute favorite radio station, shout-out and thanks to my dad, who will hopefully never read this blog, for getting me 6 more months of listening pleasure) I heard that controversial hit from 1997, Aqua's "Barbie Girl." Every time I hear that song, which has been about twice in the last 6 months thanks to the aforementioned 90s on 9, I go back to a simpler time. Not junior high, because let's be honest, those three years were a bitch. No, I'm talking way back. Back to when I actually played with Barbies, Kens and Skippers.

I had probably around 12 Barbies, but only 2 Skippers and 2 Kens. Every Barbie needed a Ken, which meant that each Ken had to do sextuple duty. When I busted out all my Barbie loot, I was very careful to maintain completely separate story lines for each Barbie/Ken pairing. I'd like to say my young mind was subconsciously thinking metaphysical thoughts and I saw every Barbie as an extension of all the others but it probably had more to do with my early affinity for following daytime TV. At any rate, even though my Kens had to fill the role of boyfriend/husband for multiple Barbies, there was never any jealousy amongst the bevy of buxom blondes. Ken was never seen as so much as a two-timer, much less a six-timer. It was like they all knew they were just actors on the stage of my imagination.

Now, I firmly believe that the story line I am about to relate came about as a direct result of watching too many soap operas with my Nana. I spent all day every Monday-Friday with her until I started kindergarten, and then I spent the summer weekdays with her. My Nana was my absolute favorite person in the world. She taught me lots of things, like if you make your oatmeal with milk and loads of sugar, it's actually quite delicious. She also introduced me to soap operas. Every day, from noon to 3, we watched "our shows": Days of Our Lives (going strong since 1965), Another World and Santa Barbara. Oh, the drama! The love affairs! The scandal! The cat fights! The people dying horrible, fiery deaths and then mysteriously reappearing years later! The way women always went to bed and woke up with alarmingly perfect hair and make-up!

(I admit, somewhat shamefully, that I occasionally still tune in to Days of Our Lives just to see if my favorite Salem-ites are still alive, whether they have some sort of soap opera amnesia and whether their unrequited love has been requited. Also, I love trying to figure out if Sami Brady is in good-girl or bad-girl phase.)

Anywhooo, my most memorable (i.e. the one that horrified my mother and so I actually remember it) Barbie saga involved a love triangle between Barbie, Ken and Skipper. Now, I always assumed Barbie and Ken were in their mid-to-late twenties. I didn't really think about Skipper's age, I just knew she was slightly younger than Barbie based on the fact that she was shorter and had smaller boobs. I would like to stress that I did not grasp that Skipper was apparently intended to be between the ages of 13 and 15. Anyway, everybody knows Barbie and Ken are a supercouple, just like Bo and Hope. Anyone who knows their daytime soaps knows that a couple doesn't achieve supercouple status without their share of strife and scandal. So I created a little real-life (and by that I mean entirely soap-opera-based) drama for Barbie and Ken. Enter Skipper.

Apparently Barbie, with all her blonde, big-boobed, tiny-waisted bombshellness, wasn't enough for Ken. In his defense, I've always thought Barbie must be a lot to handle. I mean, who looks that good all the time, no matter how you butcher her hair or mis-match her outfits. Keeping that perfect tan and always being bikini ready must take a lot of effort, so I'm gonna go ahead and say Barbie's high maintenance. Plus, imagine how hard Ken must have to work to afford not just all the dream homes and cars, but the education for Barbie's many job changes over the years. She's as schizophrenic when it comes to her career as I am.

Point is, I guess Ken needed a break from all that hotness and all that hot pink. To tell the truth, I never really thought about Ken's motivation until just now, I just knew Barbie and Ken were epic, and since most of my knowledge of love and marriage was, at this point, informed by the aforementioned, I knew Dance Club Barbie and Animal Lovin' Ken needed some daytime-style drama if their relationship was going to survive. Skipper was the obvious choice. Cute, bubbly, and slightly more au naturale than her big sister, she was a refreshing change. (Of course, if I had realized at the time she was jail-bait it would have been even more awesome...) Too bad for Ken and Skipper, my 8-year-old self didn't know about contraception. That's right folks, my Beach Blast Skipper got knocked up. Luckily for Skipper, her clothes weren't as tight-fitting as Barbie's, so no one noticed the baby bump (cleverly crafted from bits of torn Kleenex) for a while.

To my way of thinking, the only thing more scandalous than a Ken-and-Skipper-love-child was five love-children. Luckily, I also happened to be the proud owner of Quints, the cute little set of quintuplets that pre-dated, or perhaps foreshadowed, America's obsession with multiple births and unreasonable numbers of children. I guess since Barbie didn't want to sacrifice her 36-18-33 figure or her constantly morphing professional life to have kids, Ken figured that when he got the chance to spread his seed he better do it up right. At any rate, soon Skipper's bump grew to mammouth proportions. Eventually, my poor mom noticed.

I was a pretty quiet kid, content to hole up in my room for hours on end reading books or acting out my elaborate doll-dramas. Mom would occasionally come upstairs just to check on me, as she did on this occasion. I can't recall the exact details of my mom's discovering the sordid details of my active imagination, but I imagine that she had to have heard a bit of my improvised character dialogue as she walked up the stairs and down the hall, which may have gone something like this:

Barbie: I can't believe you would cheat on me! And with my little sister!

Ken: I'm so sorry, Barbie, I love you, really I do. But it just happened.

Skipper: But Ken! I'm pregnant with your children! You said you loved ME!

Ken: Sorry babe. Barbie's the love of my life. I just bought her a hot pink Corvette convertible to prove it to her.

Barbie: Oh, Ken! I love hot pink Corvette convertibles! Let's go for a ride down to my 50's-style drive-in!

Skipper: But what am I supposed to do? I'm having five babies! And they're all yours!

Ken: Don't worry babe, I'll pay child support.

(Barbie and Ken ride off in hot pink Corvette convertible, heading to the drive-in then back to their dream house. Meanwhile, Skipper is left all alone in Barbie's (pink) RV where she has been living for the last few months.)

Cue real-life mom: (worriedly) Honey, what are you doing?

Young Liz: (innocently) Playing with my Barbies.

Mom: What have your Barbies been up to lately?

Liz: (matter-of-factly) Ken had an affair with Skipper. But it's ok, Barbie forgave him because he bought her a Corvette.

Mom: (cautiously) Well, that's good, I guess. But what's under Skipper's dress?

Liz: Kleenex. I had to make her pregnant because she's accidentally going to have five of Ken's babies.

Mom: Elizabeth, why is Skipper going to have Ken's babies?

Liz: Because she had an affair with Ken.

Mom: But why did they have an affair?

Liz: Because Skipper liked Ken, even though he likes Barbie. Then Ken and Barbie had a fight and Ken thought he might like Skipper better. But then she got pregnant and he decided he really liked Barbie after all.

Mom: (clearly concerned about the fact that this all makes so much sense to her daughter) How on earth did you come up with that?

Liz: (patiently explaining to mother who clearly has no idea about the ways of the world) It happens all the time on mine and Nana's shows. Except sometimes on those people have affairs because they think their wife is dead when she's really not.

Like I said, I can't recall the exact conversation my mom and I had, but subsequent discussions (when I was old enough to actually properly discuss such themes) reveal that my mom was confused/concerned/horrified over Skipper's pregnant state and my thinking it was weird that she didn't understand that stuff like that just happens. I think at this point my mom tried pretty hard to convince me to forego this storyline and have some of my Barbies go on a camping trip with the Kens and a non-pregnant Skipper. Of course, I would have had none of that because I had big plans for Skipper and those quints. Also, I figured at the very least, Skipper could convince Barbie to have pity on her/not want Skipper to tell the whole town that Ken was her baby-daddy and give her the fold-and-go cottage, and maybe the RV for keeps. After all, Skipper would need something a lot bigger than a hot pink Corvette convertible to haul all of Ken's babies around...

Liz's Top 10 Tips for Surviving Law School

Let me start off by saying that if you aren't currently a law student, I have ONE tip for you: Don't do it. That's all. You'll thank me later, when you still have youthful optimism, faith in humanity and confidence in your own intelligence and competency. (You'll really thank me when you realize you've saved three years and $150k.)

For you suckers who have already made the mistake of signing on to finance the hallowed halls where the goal is to kill your dreams and eat your soul, here is a guide for coming out with a little bit of your "-ness" still intact.

1. Don't take a class that doesn't have outlines from past years available online. Even if you're a crazy-outlining-fool, these things can get you through on-call days with at least a little dignity intact. And if you hate outlining, there's really no need to reinvent the wheel.

2. Don't eat the NASCAR burger out of the vending machine. Or if you really must, say, for a challenge created to make the last semester more interesting, don't examine it too closely.

They don't look like this when they come out of the vending machine...

3. Make the effort to find good friends. You will need them to bitch with, to laugh with, to cry with, to find amazing excuses not to study with. You'll probably have to look hard as most of the folks who will stand out in most classes will be either still-in-college-mode-too-cool-for-school types or else pretentious douchebag types. But when you find them, whether it's early or late in the game, it will be well worth your while. They are the only people who will truly understand the 3 years of pain.

4. If there happens to be a British professor, take their class. It's totally worth it to hear them say things like "states can't go around cutting people's bollocks off just because they've been naughty." It will take you from this:

to this:

5. Don't expect the career services office to be much help in your job search. Unless you're gunning for BigLaw and are near the top of your class, they likely won't know what to do with you.

6. Every once in a while, venture across campus to the world of the undergrads. It's refreshing to see what you were like not so many years ago...just try not to get depressed when you realize you'll never be that carefree again.

7. Don't be a douchebag. Or a gunner. Or a think-you-know-it-all-prick who prefaces words with "pseudo-" or "quasi-" or who uses big words that don't really make your point any more clear. Everyone gets that you're smart. We're all smart. We're just not all assholes.

Special tips for spring semester, 3L year:

8. Try really hard to take as many pass/fail classes this semester as possible. By this time no one cares enough to actually put forth the time or effort to compete with the asshole 2Ls.

9. Don't take a class with an attendance policy this semester. Again, you won't care, and as spring looms on the horizon, you'll want to be out in the sunshine, i.e., not in class surrounded by asshole 2Ls.

10. Plan a kick-ass post-finals trip with some of those friends you've made. Preferably to Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, with a stop in Nashville and then dinner at Dolly's Dixie Stampede, but really, anywhere will work. You'll deserve it by this time.

So I'm in debt up to the eyeballs of a much taller person and I have no job prospects -- I'm going to the Dixie Stampede, bitches. So, so worth it.

I hope these tips help anyone who happens to stumble upon them. Friends, feel free to leave your nuggets of wisdom in the comments. Together, maybe we can help those who have already fallen prey to dreams of making the world a better place or promises of 6-figure salaries come out on the other side not much worse for the wear.

Speed-Networking, CSO's answer to the Great Recession?

Here at WULAW, today is Solo, Small and Midsize Firm Day, brought to you by your helpless helpful CSO office. It promises "one-to-one time with no less than 10 attorneys." It includes a fifty-minute speed networking session, followed by a half-hour reception.

Now, I don't want to be Debbie Downer, but really? Speed-networking? I mean, I guess the CSO gets an A for effort, and maybe I'm just jaded, but I don't really see many meaningful connections coming out of 5-minute chat sessions with alumni who have likely been somehow guilted talked into sharing their nuggets of wisdom and encouragement to ten downtrodden law students apiece.

It's a great idea, in theory. But I never saw a list of the attorneys who would be here. I assume they're mostly from St. Louis firms, which is great. Except a lot of us 3Ls will be out of student loan money soon, so if we want to stick around here to take advantage of all our new connections, we will need jobs. I doubt many of these fine folks are handing those out at Solo, Small and Midsize Firm Day.

Of course, I'm being selfish here, we 3Ls aren't the only ones in need of jobs, plenty of 1Ls and 2Ls are still floundering around, hoping for bite at a summer job. And to be fair, we seem to have been officially dubbed "The Lost Year" in the legal job market. So, go, you young, fresh-faced young ones, with the glimmer of landing a six-figure salary still in your eye. Speed-network. Speed-network until you can't remember another name and until you have run out of
resumés. Godspeed.

And CSO, don't worry about us 3Ls. We will find jobs. We may not make enough to pay our student loans, or even our rent, but we will find ways to fill our time, whether we be deferred or utterly jobless. I hear Chipotle is hiring.

When I grow up (Or, 5 career paths to fall back on).

Now that I have submitted my bar application, it's time to start seriously considering my fall-back plan. Really plans, since I don't expect any of them to pay the bills for any extended amount of time. My current top 5:

1. Boradway Star. When I was a little kid, I used to say I wanted to be a singer/dancer/actress on stage. I honestly feel like right now I have as good a chance at this as I do getting a job as an attorney. A quick review of the qualifications:

• Can I sing? In my car and in the shower I put on quite a concert.
  
• Can I dance? I actually took dance when I was younger and won some talent contests. Then again, 10-year-old me was pretty freaking awesome at just about everything. Seeing as how I am pretty much old balls now, I would probably break a hip.
  
• Can I act? We should check with Professor Rosenzweig on this one. I try to act like I'm paying attention in tax class three days a week, so if he's convinced, I'm pretty sure it's a go.

2. Reality TV Star. For further explanation, read this.

3. Coiner of Words. There is actually a story to this one, and it goes a little something like so: One Friday afternoon, during a make-up tax class where we were all dreaming of the booze and boos to come at the annual WLC auction, Jackie and I got to talking about rompers. Rompers? you ask, Why on earth were you talking about rompers? Well, it just so happens that our new mutual bff (who doesn't yet know she is our new mutual bff, but once you read her blog, you will want to be her bff too) has a vendetta against rompers of the adult variety. And in case you haven't noticed, for some inexplicable reason, the fashion world for some reason thinks they are a great idea right now. Anyway, Jackie accidentally found herself the confused owner of this gem:

And the following conversation ensued:

Liz: You know, that romper truly reminds me of stuff I wore in the summer when I was about 5. Jackie: Agreed. Which, is awkward, since as Una points out - you have to get completely naked to pee.
Liz: I think I would think it was a really short dress on the rack.
Jackie: Dislike. It looked like a long halter!
Liz: That is so true...the whole peeing thing is not overcomable.
Jackie: Overcomable.....good word.
Liz: I know. I just coined it. Rompers are good for something. Maybe I can get rich off that word. Jackie: I'm not sure you can -but might as well try. You can sell that word to dictionary companies while wearing a romper. It's a unique marketing strategy.
Liz: And they will know exactly what I mean.
Jackie: Totally - because you can strip down to show that the peeing while completely naked thing is wierd.
Liz: And then they would feel sorry for this poor girl who just humiliated herself by getting naked in a business meeting to which she wore a romper and they would totally buy my word.
Jackie: YES! I think this is the best idea yet.
Liz: I will add it to my list of fall-back plans.*
Jackie: Please place it near the top. And hire me as your fashion consultant. I can buy rompers with the greatest of ease.

To anyone reading who happens to work for Merriam-Webster or Random House or any other dictionary publisher: "Overcomable" is for sell.

To any of my friends who happen to have taken IP law classes: I may need your help soon. "Overcomable" is going to be big. HUGE, in fact.

*Done.

4. Professional Poster Maker. Reagan and I are going in together on this one because, as we learned while making posters for the ROW raffle and bar review at the Atomic Cowboy, we are awesome with an electronic paper cutting machine, glue and glitter. Here is just one of our creations:



We are available for weddings, birthdays, bar mitzvahs, happy hours, auctions, potlucks, upcoming evening of fabulousness at Shiver, Sugar and/or Norwoods' and road trips to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

5. Mechanical Bull Rental Company. Haven't you ever been to a party and thought, man, this is a great party, but it just seems to be missing something? What that party was missing, friends, was a mechanical bull. Because a party just isn't a party until something like this happens to one of YOUR friends:

Friends don't let friends ride mechanical bulls...sober.

Also available for weddings, birthdays, bar mitzvahs, happy hours, auctions, potlucks, upcoming evenings of fabulousness at Shiver, Sugar and/or Norwoods' and road trips to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. (I hear Dolly's got some serious mechanical bull skills.)

NB: I am currently seeking investors for any/all of these endeavors. Checks can be made out directly to me. Thanks in advance for your contribution.

Why I will never keep a food diary.

1. A can of Dr. Pepper.

2. St. Louis Bread Co.'s You Pick Two - I picked the Fuji Apple Chicken Salad and Chicken Noodle Soup, with a sourdough roll and a Dr. Pepper.

3. A Butterfinger and a 20 oz. bottle of Dr. Pepper.

4. Two cold pieces of the Colonel's Original Recipe Kentucky Fried Chicken, left over from yesterday's dinner.

Only 35 calories per serving.

5. A can of Del Monte Stewed Tomatoes. Straight from the can, to a bowl, to my mouth.

6. Two Marshmallow Peeps. (Moderation is key here, folks.)

They only come around this time of year.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

On the upside, the Vending Machine Challenge returns tomorrow, live from the WULAW Commons.