Thursday, April 30, 2009

The perks of being a wallflower.

I had to take Otto in for service today, and he turned out to need way more than just an oil change (I've apparently been driving around with a nail in my tire for quite a while now...), so I was forced to navigate this city by foot. Joy! I do prefer walking to most other modes of transport; however, this week I am studying for finals. That means I am carrying around a laptop, casebooks, notebooks, and all the essential studying accoutrements (yes, I spelled that the British way). So I found my way to a Coffee Bean and sat down on the outdoor patio with Wills and Trusts to bang out some serious studying. If you have never had the opportunity to sit outside a coffee shop for five hours on a nice day in LA, well - I'm not sure if I recommend it. But my experience was rather interesting, so I will now tell you about it. Then you can decide whether this is the sort of position you would like to put yourself in.

I arrived around 930am, spread my books out, whipped out the ol' iPod, and got down to business. About ten minutes into the slow abrogation of the Rule Against Perpetuities, a man came and sat down at the table in front of me. He pulled a stack of about 45 unopened parcels of mail from his backpack and proceeded to sort through them. He then made a phone call. It ended, "Great, I will see you in a few." I got back to reading as I awaited his mystery coffee date and was a tad thrown off when it turned out to be a woman at least thirty years his senior. His mother? No. Too formal. A lover? Exciting! Well, not quite. It turns out this woman was his therapist. I will spare the details, as I don't know much of it myself because as soon as I realized this was a patient-therapist conversation, I turned the volume way up and tried to tune them out. At one point I heard the therapist ask, "Do you love her?" and he equivocated a bit before saying, "Yes. Yes, I do." Okay, I'm sorry, but isn't there some sort of fiduciary relationship here that calls for meeting in a more private place? What about confidentiality? Doctor-patient privilege? I don't even care about this patient's privacy so much as I care about my right not to have to hear Freudian psychobabble while I'm trying to learn about trust administration! I mean, I could have jumped in twenty minutes before this lady started talking about the guy's relationship with his mother. The whole thing reeked of Oedipus right from the start. I totally called it, too. But I couldn't talk to anyone about it because I was in a public place - a place where one should never EVER have a therapy session. (As a sidenote, I am not at all against therapy. I think it is a useful tool. I just think it, like several other things I can think of, should not be done in public.)

Moving on. While that guy was being shrunk (er, artistic license), a group of three sat down at the table to my right. I gathered pretty quickly that the youngest was there for a job interview. Boring, boring, trustee duty of loyalty, diversification of trust assets, boring boring. Believe me when I tell you I was not even listening. I have little interest in hearing personal details of people's lives, especially when I don't know the people involved. But I absolutely could not help but overhear this one part of the conversation. The man interviewing asked her what she had been doing these past few months (the standard gap in the resume question), and she - I promise I am not making this up - said that she actually couldn't do much because she was recovering from her breast enhancement surgery. Well, actually, she clarified, this one was a breast reduction surgery. She had gotten enhancement surgery and they made them way too big, so her fiancee ("such a sweetheart") paid (as an engagement/wedding present) for her to have them fixed. Again. I should add that this was not an interview for a stripping job, or for a new Playmate, or for a bartender, even. It was for production of mechanical parts for some whatever or other. Now, I understand that this is LA, and people are perhaps a bit more open with their bodies than in NY. But, in no way is this appropriate during a job interview. NO WAY. I wasn't even part of the conversation, and I was offended. My virgin ears.

Ok, other than those two meaty offerings, I don't have much more to share about my experience at Coffee Bean. Two grown men played chess with Simpsons chess pieces. I thought that was mildly humorous. A law student I had never seen before sat by me with his First Amendment textbook and flashcards. We exchanged glances of mutual understanding re the woes of finals studying. He said Wills and Trusts looked like the most boring class ever, and I thanked him for his input. I complained about having an open-book exam, and he said at Southwestern all the exams are closed-book. I decided to stop complaining. An interested bysitter overheard our discussion of law school and noted that UCLA has an extremely high bar passage rate and is a great school. I told him I was aware and that I was pleased with my decision to attend such a fine institution. I mentioned I was promptly returning to NY after graduation, and he said, "Oh, from the little I know, I believe NY and CA are the two hardest bar exams." I told him I had heard the same thing. (This man clearly knew nothing about law school but read all the law blogs the same way my pops did when I first started law school. This guy, however, was lounging around on Coffee Bean's patio at 130 in the afternoon on a weekday in way too short shorts and a fanny pack. My father would never wear a fanny pack.) Eventually, he caught on to my curtness and began asking the male law student about a player for the Dodgers. Did he do this to politely allow me an escape from the conversation? Did he think because I'm a lady I wouldn't understand that thing the menfolk call "sports"? Eh, who cares? I got back to my studies, and he tossed a "Good luck on the bar" in my direction when he left.

As much as I enjoyed my time in the sun on Coffee Bean's patio, I nearly jumped for joy when I called and found out Otto was ready. I returned on foot to the dealership and found a happy, shiny Otto, new tire and all, waiting for me. I also found an eager Subaru man waiting next to Otto. My Subaru man and I have a nice rapport. He was deeply saddened when I told him (pre-Coffee Bean) my cross-country road trip was only going in one direction. He asked if I could come back and visit, and I told him it'd be difficult to swing, but I would do my best. After handing me my keys and discussing my car, my Subaru man and I shook hands, and he gave me a Subaru card with a number written on the back. He said he would love for me to call him if I had time in the next two weeks before leaving. I told him I was studying for finals, but I appreciated the gesture. And he said, "But you are such a happy girl! Always with a smile. It makes my heart so warm." I couldn't help but smile in spite of it all. (Perhaps he's just used to seeing disgruntled car owners who have to make alternative arrangements to get to work after dropping their cars off for service.) I do have to admit that my crass NY attitude/sarcasm and my perpetually cheery outlook on life don't always mesh well, but this Subaru man totally saw through me, and I loved him for it. I told Subaru man he would always be my friend, and we parted ways.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

I would be a horrible paparrazo.

The other night Shmind and I were dining at this great place in West Hollywood called Cafe Med. The menu is extensive, the portions are humongous, and the patio heat lamps are pumped up to the max. When I walked in to find Shmind donning a goofy grin and eagerly texting away on her crackberry, I knew something was up. I approached the table and she mouthed to me, "turn to your right!" (You may wonder how one can mouth an exclamation. It's all about the eyes. Go ahead, try it in a mirror.) I turned my head to the right, expecting to see Britney or Brangelina, but alas, all I saw was a man with long blond hair and grossly red dried out skin. I looked at him and his table for a while longer than I should have, trying to fit any of them into my somewhat limited mental bank of celebrities before deciding he must be some famous chef I've never heard of or seen since I don't watch Top Chef or Hell's Kitchen. I turned back and Shmind whispered, "You don't know who that is?" I said no, and she said, "But you were born in the 80's!" (Shmind is just a few years older than me, also an 80's baby.) "Have you ever heard of Fabio?" Of course I've heard of Fabio! Who could forget the bird in the face on the roller coaster incident? I should have known with the long blond hair. But this Fabio was about 20 years older than any Fabio I'd ever seen, so I was thrown off. Then I felt like an idiot for having squinted in his direction for longer than I should have. He probably thought I was checking him out. Gross.

So I have decided to live at my parents' house on Long Island this summer as I study for the bar. I am pretty pumped despite the fact that my room there is overflowing with clothing and I have to somehow fit my entire LA apartment into that room. Living there means a fully stocked refrigerator, a world class collection of DVDs, and zero rent payments. Wahoo! Additionally, we are totally bringing back the 80's (a style which I, as you should know by now, absolutely love) in that brother, sister, and I will all be living under that roof. Ha, it's going to be quite a summer. Oh, and since the shift to a summer on Long Island gives me one more week before the bar course begins, Pops and I are going to drive Otto (mi coche) back to NY! While it won't be nearly as crazy a drive as my east to west adventure with Small Asian Friend, my dad is actually a cool guy (when he's not making me listen to talk radio), so I'm rather excited.

In other news, Subway is no longer offering its $5 footlongs. Major bummer.

In more exciting news, I recently purchased a ticket for next fall's Austin City Limits. I've never been to Austin, TX. I've never been to a 3-day music festival. Needless to say, I am stoked beyond belief. The lineup hasn't been announced yet, but rumored to be performing among the 120 or so bands are Kings of Leon, Pearl Jam, DMB, Most Def, John Legend, and Beastie Boys. Wowweee! Small Asian Friend, Roomie, and I are all set for three days of hippie/hipster/music-lover indulgence. Now all I have to do is study for and take finals, graduate, drive back to NY, study for and take the bar, and then I'm free!

I took my first-ever spin class yesterday and totally loved it. Unfortunately, my bony bottom is so sore today I can barely sit on my excessively padded desk chair. I think if I continue to attend spin classes I'm going to have to invest in a pair of those padded biker shorts. I always thought those were for pansies. But really, why can't they make bike seats a bit more padded? The bike I had as a kid was awesome- the seat was like a couch cushion. Perhaps that's the problem. I was so spoiled as a child, I never built up the resistance I needed to ride a real person bike. I guess I am officially a pansy.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Dine at your own risk.

I was out at dinner with an LA Friend the other night. (She asked to be called Gossip Friend, but as a one-time watcher, turned hater of that show of a similar name, I couldn't consent to such a name for someone I actually enjoy.) We were at one of those trendy tapas places where they like to get as many people in as possible, so you're basically sitting on your neighbor's lap, and you can't hear the people you're eating with, let alone the waiter as he sneaks up behind you since there's no room for him to stand in between tables. (Please excuse the run-on sentence.) The tables of the different parties have a tiny space between them, so it's not actually one of those communal places where you're literally sitting at the same table as everyone else in the joint. But we might as well have been. So we're ordering our small plates in shifts, two to share, another one to share, and one each since we couldn't agree, shouting to actually be able to converse with each other, and having a grand ol' time when our neighbor sees our food arrive. He leans over to our table (conveniently located about 4cm from his table) and says, "Wow! Those look good!" He was, of course, referring to our patatas fritas, which indeed looked good, but were entirely too salty. He asked what they were, LA Friend responded, as I tend not to enjoy obnoxious dining neighbors, and that was that. Now fast forward about twenty minutes. Obnoxious neighbor again leans over to our table (leaning completely over the girl in his party seated to his left and my right) and (I'm still in shock that this happened!) sticks HIS fork in OUR patatas fritas. He doesn't ask; he doesn't say, "oh excuse me," to which I obviously would have responded, "excuse THIS," while ripping the fork from his fingers and bending it in half. He says nothing. I give him the death stare. The girl seated to his left looks absolutely mortified. The guy sitting across from him says, "Sorry. He's been drinking," or something to that effect. LA Friend picks up the patatas fritas plate and places it on our neighbor's table.

Who thinks this is an okay dining practice? Emily Post certainly would not approve! I'm not usually one to be picky about etiquette. An individual with whom I was once intimate criticized me at one point during our relationship for the way I use my fork and knife. I happen to think I use my eating utensils appropriately, and I blame any odd cutting and eating behavior on my being somewhat ambidextrous. But my shortcomings aside, I can spot rude, totally disgusting behavior when I see it. This was it. I know people in LA are supposed to be superficial and all wrapped up in appearances and image and whatnot, so this guy must have been visiting from the boonies somewhere to not know you don't stick your fork in someone else's food without asking. (That last part sounded like a euphemism for something else. Totally unintended.) So, eaters beware: if you prefer the trendy-overcrowded-we're-all-one-big-happy-family eateries, you just might encounter a neanderthal like this creature.

On the more humorous side, LA Friend reported to overhear a fantastic snippet of conversation as we left a post-dinner bar:
Person #1 (attempting to pick up Person #2): Hiii. [There may have been a "how are you?" or some other line tacked on there, but my memory now escapes me.]
Person #2: Um, we've made out.
Person #1: Oh. [Pause.] Recently?

In other news, I have reverted back to my 13-year-old self. No, I have not developed a crush on teen "heartthrob" Zac Efron. I'd rather stab a pencil in my eye. No, this is much better. Last night I watched the 2008 smash hit Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist. I had completely forgotten netflix sent it to me before my Florida trip, so I decided to forgo studying for a night (I often find urgent reasons to forgo studying) to watch it. I loved it. I can't even explain what it was about this movie (I dare not call it a "film") that captured my attention and my heart for much longer than the 1 hour and 29 minutes I spent watching it. Perhaps it was the central role music played. Perhaps it was the fact that I was sort of misfit-y in high school, in my own world, like Norah.... Oh, who am I kidding? There is no rhyme or reason to it. I thought it was awesome. I don't have to defend it. Now I must be off to go do grown-up things...like drink wine.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Paper overload.

About five months ago, I subscribed to two magazines. While I'm not generally a magazine connoisseur (or enthusiast, even), I decided a year of The New Yorker (to prepare me for my re-immersion into the great City) and The Economist (because it's pretty fantastic) couldn't hurt. The only magazine I've consistently subscribed to during my years in LA is Women's Health, and I read each issue cover to cover the moment I receive it each month. I figured adding two more magazines into the mix would not interfere with my lifestyle in any way. I was wrong. The New Yorker and The Economist are both weekly magazines. That means I am bombarded with 200 pages of news, ads, culture, cartoons, and editorials EACH WEEK. Did I mention I'm a law student? Why would I subject myself to even more reading than I already have to do each week for class?

At first, I managed fairly well. I was excited by the newness of it, I guess. I was able to partake in conversations (though I sometimes feel The Economist should spell certain proper nouns phonetically, so people like me don't feel self-conscious raising them in everyday conversation. Though, that might kill the esoteric vibe of the magazine, and SIR's followers wouldn't like that). Those first weeks, I also felt a renewed (and welcome) sense of New York superiorism that had seemed to simmer away these past few years. But then things changed. The social life kicked in again, and free time meant reading for class or discovering the joy of tivo. I started running outside to work on my tan, so I didn't drag the magazines to the gym for an hour of perusing whilst ellipticizing. Basically, my entire point here is to lament the stack of glossy paper collecting dust in the corner of my room. The problem with weekly news-ish magazines is that after a certain amount of time they just become old news. And who wants to read old news? No one, that's who.

To those of you who subscribe to weekly magazines and manage to read them cover to cover each week, I salute you (and seriously question your priorities). To SIR and the editors over at The New Yorker (who are undoubtedly reading this), I apologize for using your issues as coasters for my morning oatmeal bowl and various glasses of water throughout the apartment. I resolve here and now to make a better effort to at least open each issue that comes my way.

I wonder if I'm contributing to the slow death of print media. At least sister will be happy if everything turns electronic. She's into the trees, ya know. Ok, that is all.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Into the home stretch.

After a week of no internet access in Florida, I have returned to the homeland (New York) for a few days before heading back to LA to finish up the last week and a half of classes. Sweet! Sister and I ran all over Orlando, hitting up Sea World, Epcot, Universal's two parks, and plenty of candy and fudge shops. We saw our fair share of fanny packs, descended upon the resort pool only to find it overrun by elementary schoolers and their parents, and nearly ran over a possum in our pimped out Chrysler rental car. A great time was had by all (er, both).

Slight back track: Before departing for Florida, I had the great fortune to see Katy Perry live in concert out in Palm Springs. She was super. Opened with Hot n Cold, closed with I Kissed a Girl, and sang some awesome cover songs in between. Oh, did I mention this performance took place during a White Party? I'm never more excited than when I get to wear cropped leggings with an oversized shirt of the same color, and a thick belt of a contrasting hue. Trust me, it's hot. I don't care what anyone says - the 80's contributed some fine flair to the fashion world. Wheee!

So tonight I return to the smog of tinsel town for one last month of finals, west coast friends, and humidity-free sunshine. More to come.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Sweden rocks; the Queen does, too.

Great news! Sweden has become the seventh country to permit same-sex marriage, beginning in May 2009. I've always liked Sweden. The Swedes have given so many gifts to the world: ABBA, those nifty Viking hats, Ace of Base (my first CD, tied with Boys II Men), Swedish meatballs, the word (and the thing) "smorgasbord," and now marriage equality. I even have an Adidas track jacked that has the Swedish flag on it. Incidentally, I was planning to sell said jacket to a used clothing store here in LA this weekend, but I am now reconsidering.

Last week I gave my brother an iPod. Yesterday, Vote for Change gave Her Royal Heiness an iPod. Interesting timing, Mr. President. That's all I have to say about that.

On Sunday I depart for Florida. Sister and I will enjoy a week of sunshine and togetherness (and a $27/day surcharge on our rental car since I'm two months shy of turning 25). Apparently, a tornado touched down in Florida this morning. Super. I was, in fact, oddly obsessed with The Wizard of Oz as a child; however, my great tornado scare while driving cross-country with Small Asian Friend during the summer of 2006 was action enough for me. Aren't tornadoes supposed to stick to the midwest?

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Back to life.

Oh, spring break, you passed me by so quickly.

Today I had my first actual (slightly) embarrassing moment in law school. I made it nearly three years without any major blunders. But today, for some inexplicable reason, I was unable to pronounce both the words "revocable" and "irrevocable" while trying to articulate my question in front of the professor and the class. There was really no way to get around this, as my entire question focused on a difference between revocable and irrevocable trusts. I finally broke down and said "a trust that is not able to be revoked." Stupid. Luckily, I am just about a month shy of graduation (yippee!), and I don't really care that my entire class laughed at my fumbling for words. I am a tough cookie, as my grandpa says. Luckily, Friend from the Valley was there to continue making fun of me during our next class together. (I should add that he has been known to have trouble pronouncing words himself, but I would never make fun of him because I am a thoughtful and compassionate individual.) Good thing I have high self-esteem.

I would like to take this moment to share that I have become enamored by a certain dark haired, light eyed singing sensation. If you watch American Idol, then you no doubt know the dazzling star of whom I am speaking. If you do not, then you can disregard the rest of this paragraph and move on to the subsequent one (like a create your own adventure story - whee!). He wears black nail polish and tight jeans, has a bigger vocal range than pretty much any person ever, and does a pelvic thrust rivaling Elvis and Conrad Birdie. If only he were into ladies, we could meet, have a torrid romance, and make beautiful, talented, blue eyed babies. Though, talent aside, I think I'd rather make babies with the guy who performed last in tonight's show. I don't remember his name, but he has a Jack Johnson type of musical appeal and a killer smile. Swoon. Additionally, I would be remiss not to mention that I think the girl with the crazy red hair is an absolute rock star, and I hope she makes it to the finals. (She's definitely not my girl type, though, so no baby-making there. Plus, she's only 16. I draw the line at 21. If I can't have a legal drink with you, no thanks.) Black nail polish vs. red hair dye could be a finals showdown worth watching. Ok, enough about American Idol. Who cares? I don't even own a television.

Tomorrow I register for the Bar exam. And so begins the beginning of the end. Come summer, I will have no life other than studying and working out. Actually, that doesn't sound like a huge departure from my life over the past three years. It's like I always say: Who cares if no one outside of the Barbri course is going to see me, as long as I can run circles around all of those bookworms, I will feel super. Yes, that is what I always say. Ask anyone.