Some lessons are meant to be learned more than once.
Note to self: A glass of wine with dinner is always a good idea. However, two bottles of wine and several Jack & Cokes are not.

May it please the court
Most of the 5 people that read my blog will probably know that I was briefly enrolled in law school several years ago. I withdrew during the first year for reasons unrelated to my actual law school experience, which was on the whole, quite good. Now, after a few years off, I'm revisiting the whole grad school question (as I do every year around this time).

Mind you, for the last few years I have always assumed I'd go back to law school. But a few years will do a lot to a person and lo and behold I think I might not want to go to law school anymore. I am now considering going into a program that would leave me with two letters, neither of which would mean doctor. (Much to the chagrin of my blessed mother I'm sure.)

Now, this is not the first time I have traveled down this hypothetical road. And it won't be the last. Next week I'll probably decide to go back to law school all over again. I'll try not to bore you with the details at that time, if and when it occurs. But for the first time, I think, I am finally facing the realization that one of the primary reasons I made the decision to go to law school in the first place was in order to avoid taking the GRE. Because, you see, there's math on the GRE. And, you see, I suck at math.

So I guess I'm finally coming down to the heart of the matter. The real question is which is worse: Learning math? Or becoming a lawyer?

Adventures in pet sitting.
Being that C and I are just about the only people not going home for the holidays has conveniently made us the natural candidates for best place to leave your four-legged children while you're away on holiday this year...to my extreme dismay. I probably would not have been so willing to set up a kennel in my very small apartment had our friends not been leaving with the dual purpose of celebrating Christmas with family and saying goodbye to a dying loved one. What's a friend to do?

So C and I have become the primary caregivers for a very loud and feisty diva of a Siamese cat (Jazzimon) and a very large and loveable Chocolate Lab who weighs more than I do (Scratch). This, of course, is in addition to my own very timid cat who's wondering what the hell is going on around here and has consequently tried to bolt every time we open the back door (Tofu).

While my cat is on a special diet because she's old, the other two are on their own special diets because they're fat. This means three separate feedings in three different rooms. Only, since I don't actually have three rooms, it involves a revolving set of closets in an attempt to waylay the fat and perpetually hungry Jazimon so Tofu can have a bite to eat. But regardless of my tireless efforts to keep their respective foodstuffs apart they are all constantly getting into each other’s provisions (and probably into mine when I’m not looking).

Yesterday, between dealing with several catfights, an anonymous shit on the fancy rug, and vomit in several locations, I managed to pull a muscle in my neck, which has left me practically immobile. Nevertheless, I was cooking for a dinner party to celebrate C’s birthday so I couldn’t let a triviality like 15 degrees of neck movement slow me down.

Enter Dan with his heat patches and magical pill. “Here take this. It’s a painkiller. You won’t feel a thing.”

Which is how I began my 12-hour stupor of drug induced drooling, head lolling, and gibberish. Later, as I was making my round of phone calls to postpone the dinner party, Rachael responds to my explanation with a hearty laugh. “Oh, Oxycontin! I’ve heard of that! It’s also known as Hillbilly Heroine, though people usually snort it or shoot it up. That shit lasts forever! You should know better than to ever trust Dan when it comes to drugs!”

Um, okay, thanks for the information. And where were you when I was ingesting this “Hillbilly Heroine” might I ask? So now I’m back to the pain and that’s where I plan to stay. Though I must say I have an improved 45 degrees of neck movement thanks, in large part, to some Pilates instruction by Bruno. And since today’s C’s real birthday, hopefully there’s still time to set things right. Maybe, if I play my cards right, I can score some more of that Oxycontin to slip into the animals’ food and we can enjoy a nice quiet evening…shhhhh.

This is me sinking to new levels of depravity.
C and I crashed a holiday office party on Friday night for the free booze. How pathetic is that? No wait...it gets worse. Being that the booze was free and I didn't know anyone there I was, of course, drinking at twice the rate that I would normally if I had to shell out my own money. And since it was free, our little crew was also inclined to steal several bottles of it at the end of the night when we were kicked out because everyone that actually worked there had already left. And furthermore, since I was so unbelievably shit-faced from having single-handedly polished off about a case of wine, I decided it was a good idea to invite all of my new drunken best friends over to my house to keep drinking.

I think I had a great time. I have several tableaux fixed in my memory like party favors that would certainly indicate that I had a great time. Unfortunately, my blackout has prevented me from being able to piece together much of what happened after the posse got back to my house. However, this has provided me with another occasion to be greatful for C, who was fortunately not as plastered as I was and who can, therefore, fill me in on all the painful details of what an ass I made of myself. On second thought, maybe blackouts are really a defense mechanism and are best left alone. Do I really need to know that I told two strangers who had no means of escape my deepest feelings about my mom's death? Or that I passed out on the bathroom floor with my head in that nasty place behind the toilet? And other details that I'm actually too embarassed to mention here?

I think, originally, the idea was to get out more in order to make friends. But after this little experiment gone awry I think I may need to do some fine-tuning of my getting-to-know-you persona. Or maybe a couple of sessions at AA would be more fitting.

I've finally had it.
I tried to be patient with the enetation comments that were, frankly, a pain in my royal ass. But enough is enough. Unfortunately, (you know the drill) this means I am losing all of your inspired past comments. But when you all consider the time you have spent trying to leave me a comment only to have your thoughts lost in cyberspace and your computer freeze up, I think you'll be pleased with the change.

And, furthermore let me just add that this change has nothing whatsoever to do with any spurious insinuations Samwise may have made in a former comment about my theoretical teenage malfeasance. I'm sure I have no recollection of anything having to do with Everclear, butcher knives, or any other such nonsense. No no no, my lily-white past is completely beyond reproof. Nothing to see here...go on about your business. That's right.

Fodder for people who already don't like me...
I’m not sure I should take as much pride as I do in saying that I used to be one of the world’s greatest liars. And I really don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that. You remember in high school when everyone had to lie all the time? To get out of curfew, to get out of taking a test, to explain why you weren’t at your girlfriend’s house having a sleepover when your parents called to check up on you. Well, I could have charged a pretty penny for all the elaborate lies I schemed up to help my friends and associates get out of many a hairy situation.

Sometimes I would even make up lies just for the fun of it. (And yes, I realize I’m looking a little pathological at this point, but stay with me.) I traveled down the memory lane of lies last night with Bruno and had a fun time reliving some of the tall tales I created that I’m most proud of (most details have been left out to protect the innocent)…

1. Dallas, TX circa 1988 - The time I convinced an entire group of friends that the fake boa constrictor stuck up in the tree outside of Haagen Dazs to scare away birds was, in fact, an endangered and exceptionally venomous Burmese Python that had escaped the Dallas zoo and managed to elude its captors, who were not equipped to provide an antidote should anyone get bitten. (And yes, I realize that pythons are not venomous.)

2. Somewhere in Michigan circa 1990 - Field Hockey Camp. It was situated on the edge of a lake where a small island was visible about 50 yards from the shore and our cabin. I somehow managed to convince my teammates that there was a serial killer living on the island who had been released from prison when his health degenerated to a point where he was confined to a wheelchair. Instead, the state agreed to set him up on the island and bring him monthly provisions by motorboat. No one went to the bathroom by themselves for the entire trip.

3. Dallas, TX circa 1991 - There was the time I stopped by a friend’s house to be greeted at the door by her mother. Though my friend wasn’t there, her mother refused to let me walk away. Out of nowhere, she demanded to know if I was a smoker. Figuring her conservative Turkish views might frown on a 16-year old female smoker, and fearing that she would therefore not want her daughter hanging out with one, I insisted I was a non-smoker and proceeded to paint myself as the sweetest most innocent health conscious young lady her daughter had the privilege to know.

Finally, once I had completely secured her glowing opinion of me, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and declared she had found them in her daughter’s jeans while rifling through her dresser and was informed they were mine during the interrogation that followed.

Now, to be fair, my friend and I had bought the pack together and agreed to split it, so I guess she wasn’t completely framing me. But regardless, I did what any good friend would do: I took the fall. Only it was no easy task to then convince her mother that I was a depraved smoker who had been using her daughter to stash the evidence of my sinful ways. I convinced her that my friend had been trying to help me quit by keeping them from me and that, without her good influence, I might spin out of control on a drug-ridden path of self-destruction. So you see? Sometimes I can use my powers for good too.

4. Austin, TX circa 1995 - I had my future hubby convinced for several years that I worked my way through high school at Hooters performing such acrobatics for extra tips as jumping rope and hoola-hooping at the table and posing for pictures with my amply-sized pom-poms. If you know mea at all you know how absurd a notion this really is.

Unfortunate for me, I seem to have lost my special powers of fabrication sometime in the late 90’s. I think that last one is the last whopper I ever told. For some reason (probably karma) hubby has developed some sort of lie radar and it is absolutely impossible to tell him anything but the honest truth. It definitely puts a damper in planning birthday or anniversary surprises. And it has certainly put a dent in the amount of fun I can have at the expense of others. So if I should ever tell you anything quite out of the ordinary, you can rest assured that it’s nothing but the truth. Because you see, I simply can’t tell lies anymore. So you can trust me, yes that’s right…trussssst me.

I have been directed to write a blog entry since the husband is apparently not thrilled about my new custom of emailing him every five minutes to demand why he hasn’t responded to my last seven emails or to regale him with the mind-numbingly uninteresting minutiae of my day. (e.g. I think I just broke the copy machine, but hopefully they won’t trace it back to me; I found out the deli on the corner has sushi; In my next life I hope to come back as a penguin for obvious reasons; I’ve decided to start pilfering office supplies. Do you need anything?; ; I wonder how many times I can flick my tongue against my upper lip before my jaw freezes up.) You get the picture.

But for better or worse, I will be unemployed as of Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, no more time spent mastering the art of sleeping with eyes open = no more income. The odd thing is, I still can’t figure out why they hired me in the first place. The part-time temp for the holiday season is a good idea if, and only if, you actually have an increased workload, which does not seem to be the case in this scenario. Perhaps I’ll impart that little gem of wisdom on my way out the door (last paycheck in hand). Until then, it’s back to developing a new and daring form of self-expression through paperclip art.