Dear Ex,

It's been such a long time since I've spoken to you. Literally it's been maybe 8 years. I've been thinking about you alot lately. I tend to think about you alot when I'm feeling insecure about something. Like right now, I'm insecure about my future employment. I think I do this because now you're wildly successful. I wonder if you ever think about how well I took care of you back when you weren't so successful. Sometimes I get bitter about you, because I feel like I made you a better person for some other woman. Sometimes that's a little hard to swallow.

I wonder if you're happy. I wonder if you ever miss me. Sometimes I miss you. I was so very in love with you. I wonder if you ever think about how much fun we had together. But you know what I wonder about the most? Why did I keep catching you in the bathroom with half cooked carrots in your rectum? Seriously. What was that about? I always meant to bring it up, but there never seemed to be an appropriate time.

Sincerely,

Grace

Questions

Question I don't want to be asked: How was your interview, Grace?

Question I want to be asked: Wanna go mid-day drinking, Grace?

What they Don't Teach in Feminist Jurisprudence (aka Vag & the Law)

Things That Are Currently Freaking Me Out

As always, in no particular order:

1. 6 years ago, I got a ticket for making an illegal u-turn. Normal people wouldn't give a rats ass about that, but all of a sudden, as I fill out the Character and Fitness of my bar application, I'm filled with fear, shame, and humiliation.

2. Ditto regarding the unpaid parking tickets.

3. Ditto regarding the really late car payments.

4. Tomorrow (well, today, Tuesday) I have my third and final interview for the only job I applied for post law school. A job that probably doesn't even exist anymore.

5. In girl on girl pornos, girls give BJ's to dildos. I don't get it. Who benefits?

6. I look around at my apartment, and my life, and the choices I've made today, and every day before today, and the choices I will likely make tomorrow, and they all seem like the worst choices in the history of life.

7. About this time last year, this guy started on his path to complete self destruction. And I can't help but feel like I could have done something more to stop it. I should have seen it. I should have known. I should have done more to help him once I found out.

8. This doesn't really rise to the level of "freaking out" but whatever, it's my blog... I looked at pictures from the Barrister's Ball, and I did not look as good as I thought I did.

9. I think my law school, as an entity, is having a nervous breakdown.

That's all. Whatever. If you're reading this, wish me luck tomorrow. Or whatever, be a dick and don't.

The Barristers Ball

Often referred to as Law School Prom, last night lived up to its name. Everyone looked gorgeous, the food was non-descript, and everyone ended up fall down black out drunk. I was no exception. My dress was red and my hair was curly, and I drank buckets of wine.

Here are some things I remember:

They made us choose when we bought the tickets if we wanted chicken, pasta or fish. I chose pasta. But last night I wasn't feeling like having pasta. So, at the little check in place, I asked if I could switch. And they told me I couldn't. Which was fucking retarded. As if the hotel makes EXACTLY the amount that is ordered. Please. So then I asked a little bit later, and still the answer was no. All I wanted was a fucking piece of fish. So when the waiters came out, I told the waiter that I ordered fish, and guess what? I got the fucking fish. So I'd like to apologize to the person who was stuck with my pasta. As it turns out, it was better than the fish.

Towards the end of the night, a girl who was drunker than me came up to me and introduced herself. Actually she had to tell me her name like 5 times. I guess I'm supposed to know her because she's a member of the law school student group that I am the president of. But I don't pay attention to people so it's no wonder I don't know her. Anyway, I think she was a 1L. And she was totally hitting on me! And I can't remember her name, except that it may have been Irish sounding. She also had pretty hair.

My friend who I LOVE who told me he wasn't going to go to Prom, showed up, and looked dashing. He should marry me. As a matter of fact all my guy friends looked so awesome, and those in the tuxes? Fuckin A. Yum.

In a rare moment of Grace exercising decent judgment, I didn't attend the after party that my friend was having, deciding instead on sneaking an early pass out. All sides involved report that I missed the biggest knockdown dragout in the history of law school.

As of this morning, the drunkest picture of me that has ever been taken is now in circulation.

Loud Talker on the Red Line #3

Ok. This guy takes the cake. I really hated him. I hated him SO much that I moved seats so I could get a really good picture of him in all of his douchebagorous shame. Just everything he said was so fucking stupid. It was like he was a bad actor in a bad play with bad writing. These are the things I learned about this punk.

1. He got a job as an administrative assistant, so "like all I do is like, ask, people who are stupider than me if they want coffee."

2. His mom is being "such a bitch just because I dropped out of college in my third year, and she feels like she shouldnt have paid tuition for me not to graduate, but I was like, 'Whatever, Mom, quit with the vicarious living"

3. He thinks it's tacky that Anna Nicole Smith died in a Hard Rock Cafe. She didn't have enough class to even die in a 4 Seasons.

4. "People in their 20 are bitter, people in their 30's are jaded, and people in their 40's. umm ok whatever. Who cares. They're old"

5. He's SO over people with no class. SO over them.

I met a fellow blogger... and it was COOL!!

In case anyone wondered, NambyPamby is cute and funny in person. Of course, I was drunk... so...

Why I'm a fucking loser

Problem: I'm going to Mexico 1 month from today. I have to be in a bikini one month from today.
What I'm doing about it: Eating a whole pizza by myself.

Problem: I'm really poor.
What I'm doing about it: Ordering the pizza from a restaurant instead of eating the frozen one in my freezer.

Problem: To Do List- 1. Outline for 30 page research paper due on Thursday. 2. Reading for class tomorrow. 3. BIG trial at work this week. 4. Bar Exam Application 5. All of the paper for my externship credit is already past due.
What I'm doing about it: 1. Grease: You're the One that I Want 2. Desperate Housewives 3. Brothers & Sisters 4. The L Word. 5. Wine & Xanax

I should sue myself.

CourtTV you suck. But secretly you rock.

Don't worry about the Scooter Libby commentary. Certainly don't worry about the Jessica Lunsford murder trial. Don't have cameras in those courtrooms today. Let's all watch a crazy ass probate hearing for Anna Nicole Smith's estate/DNA/Etc...

A probate hearing on CourtTV? With lots of shots of Anna's huge cans? I'm sort of opposed. But sort of in favor.

Googling Todd Stroger Stats

"Todd Stroger" Nepotism = 2190 hits
"Todd Stroger" layoffs 1,210 hits
"Todd Stroger" Idiot = 604 hits
"Todd Stroger" irresponsible = 524 hits
"Todd Stroger" unconstitutional = 298
"Todd Stroger" Urkel=255 hits
"Todd Stroger" Douchebag = 30 hits
"Todd Stroger" "Gray Davis" = 26 hits
"Todd Stroger is a joke" 2 hits
"I hate Todd Stroger" = 2 hits
"I love Todd Stroger = 0 hits
"Todd Stroger is Smart" = 0 hits
"Todd Stroger Support" = 0 hits
"Todd Stroger Supporters" 0 hits

Admittedly, sometimes (very rarely) the latter is not being used to describe the former. I'm just reporting the stats. Do with them what you will.

Additionally, I googled the phrase "Todd Stroger is a". Here are the top 20 hits:

1. "I think Todd Stroger is a joke,"
2. "Todd Stroger is a man struggling to come out of the shadow of his father."
3. "Todd Stroger is a man. He might not have as much bass in his voice as I got, but he's a strong man."
4. "No thinking person in Cook County will believe Todd Stroger is a reformer,"
5. "Todd Stroger is a beneficiary of his father’s largesse, always been on the government payroll."
6. "However, the biggest problem we have with Todd Stroger is a lack of knowledge in running the office. "
7. "Todd Stroger is a former state Rep and son of John Stroger who was chosen by the Democratic Central Committee after the serious stroke suffered by his father forced the elder Stroger to vacate the ticket."
8. "A vote for Todd Stroger is a vote for Divine Right of Kings and the right of royal succession.
9. "Todd Stroger is a man,"
10. "A vote for Todd Stroger is a vote for corruption!"
11. "No thinking person in Cook County will believe Todd Stroger is a reformer,"
12. "Todd Stroger is a lying little shit who has no business being Cook County Board President."
13. "BTW, did you catch that Burt Odelson, District 209 attorney and attorney for the Stroger campaign, claimed Todd Stroger is a reformer."
14. "Todd Stroger is a pleasant young man, but even Democrat ward bosses have publicly called him a "lightweight," clearly agreeing with Tony Peraica that Todd Stroger does not have the ability to preside over a $3 billion corporation, which is exactly what Cook County government is."
15. " Todd Stroger is a genial man who isn't strong enough to carry his father's gavel."
16. "Though Todd Stroger is a young man, as a former investment broker, state legislator and five years as an alderman, he is qualified for the job as county board president, Beavers said."
17. "Todd Stroger is a great political leader who has been in public office for the last 15 years. Do you hear anybody talking about that?"
18. "I think I should be able to write over and over again "If I don't have a job when I graduate it's because Todd Stroger is a douchebag" until I've filled up 30 pages." (That one was mine)
19. "Wow...Todd Stroger is a liar...just like his dad...I am so very surprised and shocked...NOT!"
20. " Looking beyond the official discussions, the budget cutback ordered by Cook County Board President Todd Stroger is a reflection of a measure whose devastating consequences will affect the poorest."

Ok... I've wasted enough time. I've got to go google "anna nicole smith" some more.

Grace 9 years ago

I was trying to think of something to write, but nothing was coming to me. So I was looking through old writings, and I found one from 1997, when I was living in Los Angeles. I had written it because someone was writing a book of excerpts from the lives of waiters and waitresses experiences and asked me to write something for her. Here goes:

Fuck. I have no fucking career. I have a degree and like so many others of my generation it’s most productive use so far is to keep my soda from staining the coffee table. Instead, I work in a bar. No ordinary bar, mind you. It happens to be one of those snappy L.A. bars. That you have to be on the list to get into. Then, if the snotty doorman (who can tell a Vercase scarf from a Melrose ripoff at 50 feet) deems you worthy to enter our establishment, you are then allowed to pay an astronomical sum for a cover charge, and then in order to actually purchase a cocktail you have to put a second mortgage on your home or at least give a c-list celebrity a hand job in the alley.

I don’t have a problem with that. Hell, if you can afford it, or stomach it, more power to you. I say, and like so many fellow mid western, slightly modest girls, I don’t even have a problem with the liposucked, breast augmented chicks who swarm these sort of bars in search of their Armani encased soulmate.

My problem is deeper and brings out an ugly, angry side of me that only the few nearest and dearest to my heart ever get to see. I call it the Gloria Gaynor syndrome. It makes me want to chew off my thumbs. I’m only a wee 24 years old, and am completely aware that I was just a baby when the song “I will survive” came out. Back when feminism was something real. Back when I will survive was meant and sung with spirit and independence and a true sense of freedom from men. We didn’t hate men, we could even love, respect and honor them. But we sure as hell didn’t have to have them. That’s my 24 year old take on it anyway.

Here we are in 1997 and as we all know everything from bell bottoms to brady bunch movies are back in style. That also means that in the course of an evening at my bar, I am forced to hear “I Will Survive” approximately 5,683 times. But instead of jauntily snapping my fingers to this empowering tune, I drop my tray of cosmopolitans, camparis and microbrews, let them crash to the ground and run for cover. I’m not crazy. I have to do this, because if I don’t I will be trampled and possibly killed by the mad dash of dumbass women euphorically racing to the dance floor.

Previously these women were the same tame bunch who snottily commented on our un chic wine selection, while protectively holding their boyfriends/husbands/sugar daddy’s hand. They sit in their thousand dollar outfits, in the VIP section tapping their perfectly manicured hands , and hoping the that the air conditioning units don’t ruin their $300 coifs, all the while watching like lionesses over their men for fear of them finding a younger, prettier, and more physically endowed model, because if that happens she’ll have to shop at Dress Barn and have her roots touched up at Supercuts. That is, until she finds a new man.

But then my nemesis, the DJ decides to go for my feminist jugular, and spins he Gloria. All hell breaks loose. Before the first 4 bars of this song are over the very same women who stared with daggers at the young chippy in the fetching tap pants and four inch platforms is now clutching her hand in sisterly bliss as they both sing along with Ms. Gaynor. The dance floor is riddled with more of the same exuberant feminist camaraderie. Women are even lip syncing the words to their men as they watch.

I cannot be sure, but my guess is that this song and many like it had a much stronger effect on men and their view of where they stood in our lives, back when it first came out. Back then, the men might have pondered “what ever can this mean? Will she still cook for me, and clean for me? If this empowerment thing continues, who will hand wash my speedo. Who will feel obligated to suck my dick NOW?”

Now in Beverly Hills, in 1997, the response is somewhat different. When “I will Survive” is spinning, the women dance their tai bo’d asses off, and the men congregate at the bar to enjoy that one last scotch on the rocks in relative bliss, and as they sip away I guarantee you that their modern inner monologue is quite different. As they stare at their girlfriend, or more often than not, someone else’s, they quietly pat themselves on the back for the fine set of breasts that was lovingly paid for with his Visa Corporate card, and contemplate how to make her most recent nose job a tax deduction.

As far as fear goes, it’s not even a second thought to these men. As the music ends, so does the sisterhood. The women leave the dance floor, and without a second thought to their new found girlfriends, they slink back to their man. After all, that’s where the Cristal is. And don’t they fucking know it.

Rehab

NO. Not mine. Don't be fucking ridiculous. I'm not going to rehab until I can do it like Lindsay Lohan after a night in a Hollywood hotel room where I was found in a hallway completely unresponsive to medical personnel. I'll pull that one out right after the July bar exam, I think. I'm just rehearsing until then. I'm talking about rehab as a means of getting famous people/politicians out of trouble. It used to be hilarious. Now it's just stupid and passe. Like when people tell Christa McAuliffe jokes or go to law school. Ok. I could have probably used better examples but you know what I mean.

Let's just discuss this year. Mark Foley, the Page fucking US representative. He gets caught discussing cute underage butts bouncing up and down with high school boys, and asks them to measure their erect penises, and when he gets caught, he runs off to rehab because of his alcohol problem. Wha, wha, what? Because we can't talk about his penchant for 15 year old cock? Alcohol seems to be the least of his problems.

Then we have Mel Gibson. We all know about his anti-Semitic drunken rant about Jewish people. The only good thing that came out of that mess was the use of the phrase "Sugar Tits" which I plan on using liberally. Anyway, instead of addressing his problems with the fact that he has a dangerous hatred of Jewish people, he goes for a little booze treatment. Yeah, the oft forgotten 13th step of recovery: Stop hating jewish people. Whatev.

Michael Richards. Now I'm not sure if he actually entered a treatment facility for his racist tirade, but I know he was "seeking serious psychiatric blah blah blah" to try and understand where that anger stemmed from. Because it most CERTAINLY couldn't come from the fact that he's simply a fucking racist douchebag, could it? Naaaa. That's too simple. So thank God he's getting the counselng that he so desperately needs.

And then there's Isaiah Washington. He went to "rehab" because he called TR Knight a faggot, and then used the word faggot again at the fucking Golden Globes. Um. And where is that treatment held? The Bette Ford Center for Homophobic Actors Desperately Trying to Hold on to Their Jobs? Does he get some sort of little chip for every day, week or month he doesn't say something offensive to PFLAG?

Here's the one that sucks the most though. This came out yesterday. Gavin Newsom aka Hottest Mayor Alive, is now "seeking treatment" for his alcohol problem. What bothers me though, is the timing. He is seeking treatment just hours after his campaign manager confronted him about the fact that Gavin was fucking his wife. I really do hate to say anything bad about Newsom, because he has done so much for gay rights, and is just generally so good looking, that I'd cheat on my spouse with him. Actually I would cheat on my spouse 5,000 times for his hot ex-wife Kimberly Guilfoyle. I think this is a good reason why I should remain single. But I digress. He got busted. He should let the other guy kick his ass, and then he should say he's sorry, and maybe take a slight beating in the press for like 2 weeks, and then it would be fine. Now he has to go to rehab, so everyone sees him as someone who is not strong enough to be responsible for his own actions. (But somehow is strong enough to be mayor of a major American city.)

It's wrong. It's deceptive. AND IT DOESN'T WORK ANYMORE!!! WE ALL KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING!

Celebrities/Politicians: Stop going to rehab and "seeking treatment" and start apologizing. Or better yet. How about this? Stop fucking up so much!

That's all. Oh, and by the way this guy started using heroin in rehab. Better watch out. You might leave with a little more than a bad case of homophobia.

High School Biology

I recently had dinner with the headmaster of my old high school. I went to a cool high school. It was a private school for artsy types. Yes. I was an artsy type. All of the teachers were artists. The English teacher was a ballerina. The geometry teacher was a violinist, the physics teacher was a sculptor. You get the point. The headmaster was an actor. He was also the only person even vaguely concerned with the shitty quality of the academic education at the school. He decided that what the school needed was a biology class. And he was going to teach it. And it was a new "requirement" and in this "biology class" we were going to dissect cats.

I was annoyed. Not so much about the cats. Cats aren't high on my list of things to care about. I just didn't want to take a science class. Seemed stupid and unnecessary. I was also a senior, and I was bored, so I started an all school protest. Petitions got signed, parents were calling in. I think there was some rhyming chant. The thing really took off. I was awfully impressed with myself. By the time I had staged the biology class walk out, I had managed to infuriate the headmaster to the point that I thought he was literally going to punch me in the face.

"Grace!! Get in my fucking office."

I stamped out my cigarette. (yes, we were allowed to smoke. we were allowed to do anything)

So I go into his office, and I sit down. And he starts yelling at me about how I was such a pain in the ass, and he was going to call my dad and I was going to get suspended for missing class etc... unless I admitted that I didn't really care about dissecting cats.

I have no idea why I did it, but I started laughing. And I admitted it. I told him he was right and I really didn't care about dissecting cats.

He looked me dead in the eye and said "Grace, you have a fucked up sense of humor. Get out of my office."

So I did. I couldn't figure out if I was in trouble or not though. The cat discussion seemed to be dying down, and everyone thought I was this cool rebel who saved them from "biology." But the headmaster still seemed really pissed at me. And while I liked being a rebel, I didn't like disapproval. It started to get to me. So I started being a good girl. Showing up to class on time, not pulling my gay friends leg hair in class, not leaving class to go make out in the practice rooms. Volunteering for stuff.

One day the headmaster asked me to run an errand for him. This wasn't uncommon. I was a senior with a car, and we were a private arts school on a budget. Because I was still in ass kiss mode, I said yes. I had to run down to one of the universities in the city and pick up a couple of boxes. I do it. I feel like I'm back in good graces with the headmaster. For some reason, I assumed that the boxes went up to the theatre wing, so going the extra mile, I bring the boxes all the way up 4 flights of stairs and drop the boxes on the stage, and go off to class down the hall. About half an hour later, there's screaming down the hall. Panic. Soemthing's going on. Being dramatic folk, the entire class gets up to find out what all the commotion was about. We walk into the theatre to find all of the boxes I had brought up were opened, and loaded with dead cats. All over the stage. The headmaster had sent me to fetch the dead cats.

Apparently, Grace wasn't the only one with a fucked up sense of humor.

3:00 in the morning post

I just realized that the last time I posted anything was like 10 days ago. I have a couple of good excuses, like my computer broke for a few days, and school and work have been busy, but mostly, I've just had nothing to say. Or I've had too much to say and couldn't decide on a topic. Speaking of not being able to decide on a topic, I have to come up with a topic for my senior seminar paper which is "Selected Issues in Criminal Procedure". I think I should be able to write over and over again "If I don't have a job when I graduate it's because Todd Stroger is a douchebag" until I've filled up 30 pages.
The Bears lost. It's sad. But I got drunk at a superbowl party, and found out I was really really good at beer pong. I mean, like exceptionally good. I wish it counted as a sport.

I just woke up from a dream where I was making out with Chelsea Clinton. In my dream she was a really good kisser.

Who thought the Superbowl commercials were just blah this year? I did.

ok. I'm going back to sleep. This awake shit is nonsense.