Minneapolis Woman Considers Sucking on Runs in Carpet For Comfort

The official story in my head was that I left work at 3:30 because my bellyache wouldn't go away, that my body required communion with its precious precious heating pad. Two hours later, reclining on the couch with my book, some wine, and freshsaltybuttery popcorn, with vision blurred by tears of hilarity, a subtler motive is revealed:

"There was so much unpleasantness in the workaday world. The last thing you ever wanted to do at night was go home and do the dishes. And just the idea that part of the weekend had to be dedicated to getting the oil changed and doing the laundry was enough to make those of us still full from lunch want to lie down in the hallway and force anyone dumb enough to remain committed to walk around us. It might not be so bad. They could drop food down to us, or if that was not possible, crumbs from their PowerBars and bags of microwave popcorn surely would end up within an arm's length sooner or later. The cleaning crews, needing to vacuum, would inevitably turn us on our sides, preventing bedsores, and we would make little toys out of runs in the carpet, which, in moments of extreme regression, we might suck on for comfort."

Joshua Ferris, Then We Came to the End 178 (2007).

Young Associate Wonders If Matchy Matchy Coffee Cup Is As Good As It Gets

I'm stuck doing doc review this week. By 10 o'clock this morning I was cross-eyed and desparately scanning my surroundings for sharp implements that I might use to stab out my eyeballs. Finally I prevailed upon Mike to sneak out of chambers and meet me for coffee. Here is where my day turned around. Not only because I enjoyed spontaneously meeting Mike in the middle of the morning at The Secret Caribou That Is Halfway Between Here And The Government Center and we both got the trivia right and enjoyed a leisurely coffee break. All of those things were great, but, on top of that, the Caribou Coffee Cup exactly matches my shirt today. It's kind of an aquamarine color. This was pointed out to me twice by people I ran into in the skyway on my way back to the office, and once more by someone who walked by the doc review room and noticed me languishing away with my matchy-matchy coffee cup sitting next to me. God, my life is so thrilling. So thrilling! I'm so glad I went to law school for this.

Mock Trial Judge Gets Drunk With Power

Yesterday I volunteered to judge a collegiate mock trial tournament. I was the presiding judge in the second round, which meant I ran the court room, ruled on all of the motions, etc. It was a fun review of the rules of evidence, and it was awesome to walk into the room and have all these incredibly earnest college kids stand up--for me! ME!

By and by, the prosecution was introducing some exhibits that the defense kept objecting to, arguing they were impermissible character evidence. I kept overruling the poor kid. And in truth, I felt kind of bad about it. But my rulings on their objections didn't affect their scores, so I thought I might as well let them play this stuff out. Plus the character evidence was kind of interesting (and, ahem, legally admissible), and I liked to see the prosecution bumble around trying to introduce the exhibits. When the defense renewed his objection for the fourth time, he asked for permission to voir dire the witness.

I put on my "thoughtful" face (Voir HUH? Gulp! What the f*** does that mean!?!? OK, OK, just appear confident, be cool. Let's just see how this goes...) and then granted permission. I could hear a collective gasp and mutterings among the peeps: She's letting him voir dire the witness! He approached the witness and asked her some questions about the exhibit. Then he went back to his table and renewed his objection to the evidence. I overruled him. (Ruthless! I know.)

After the round, we sent away the score sheets and the other (scoring) judge and I gave them some feedback. This was interesting for me, because of course I'm looking very lawyerly up there, and yet I don't feel like a big-firm attorney in a pinstriped suit, I feel like I just finished college last week. I kept up the charade and remained very professional throughout the feedback session until near the end when Mr. Voir Dire asks: So, did you think it was appropriate for me to voir dire the witness? I just laughed and said, "Dude, I don't even know what that means. I was just playing you."

Not much else to report. Engaged in more office piracy this week, emerged with better chair and second ficus plant for office, yay! Ate at Brasa yesterday, tasty. Watched Cloverfield last night, good. Reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, fun. Am going through phase where have to make popcorn every night in pan on stovetop, yum. Am thinking about cheating on Y by joining different gym, minefield, too many work peeps, am terrified of running into them in shower room, experience could happily die without.

Chichi Beverage Company Manages to Replicate Sensation of Tossing Cough Syrup Down Gullet

I am addicted to the grilled vegetable sandwich, on focaccia, with Chipotle aioli, at the Macy's deli. I have eaten it for dinner three times this week. But that is neither here nor there. The topic of today's story is airforce(R) NUTRISODA(R) Functional Beverages. The 8.4 oz beverage cans, which sell for $2.50 a can over at Macy's, claim to be packed with functional vitamins to help you Renew, Focus, Calm, or otherwise achieve some ideal state of being. I admit to getting sucked into the scheme on occasion, and have been known to pick up a can of Focus on nights that I am working late, or Radiant on days when my adult acne attacks. In all I have probably guzzled 15-20 cans of the beverage in my lifetime.

Here I must interrupt myself to tell a sub-story. My second year of law school I was in the family law clinic, and our professor invited this woman to come in to speak with us about relaxation techniques. The woman owns a couple of spas in town and has developed some lines of health and beauty products which she shamelessly shilled to us over the course of her presentation. Then she started talking about how awesome those damn Nutrisodas(R) are. She had been presenting herself as a sublimely calm person at peace in mind and body and we should be so lucky that she is sharing her secrets with us. Then she tells us she drinks four (FOUR!) cans of Calm every morning. I thought Summ and I were going to explode from a suppressed giggling fit.

Oh, God. I'm boring myself. My only point is that I bought a can of Renew this afternoon and it tastes exactly like cough syrup. It even manages to taste thick. Gross. I hate it.

In other news, I went on a double date last night with Shad and Amy. We each drank three martinis over the course of an hour at Rossi's, then stumbled into the State Theater just before the curtain came up on Avenue Q. The show was fun and silly and worth seeing. After the show, I decided to show Shad and Amy my office. They walked in and instantly--"No. No no no no no."--began lecturing me about the bad feng shui and started moving my furniture around. Apparently my set-up is not visitor-friendly (Newsflash! I get about one visitor a month!) and it is creepy that I choose to sit with my back to the door. We raided the offices of employees who have recently left the firm but that yielded nothing that would truly improve the space. I don't think it's so bad, but I've been ordered to bring in a big hanging plant, make some pillows, and procure some more art. Pillows. Yes. That is just what I need to succeed at this firm.

Crabby Woman Probably Gets What She Deserves

I was in bed last night when Shad came home. He walked into the room and said, "Baby, the sidewalk to the garage is really slippery. Be careful tomorrow. You will fall down."

Unfortunately for Shad and for unknown reasons, I was really grumpy yesterday and had been taking it out on him all afternoon. He endured it sweetly and finally dismissed me from the project we were working on and sent me to the gym. Exacerbating this inexplicable baseline crabbiness, you do not need to know me well to know that I resent few things more than being told what I am going to do. If I slip and fall on my ass in the morning, I want it to be because I decided all on my own that I was going to slip and fall on my ass in the morning. So being the jerk that I am, I roll my eyes in response to his sweet warning. "I know it's slippery. I saw the ice on it today." "I know, but I'm telling you it is really really slippery right now. You WILL fall." Now I'm getting downright cranky. Not only is he telling me what I will do, but he seems to be suggesting that I'm a klutz! Which is TOTALLY UNSUBSTANTIATED! So I growl back, "I'm always careful on the ice." (It's true: when I was eight I slipped on the ice and cracked my chin in half.) "Be extra careful. Maybe you should walk in the snow next to the icy path." Heavy, sarcastic sigh (Why, exactly, am I committed to being so ridiculously crabby today? It's actually starting to become exhausting.): "Look, I've walked the path a million times, I'll be careful, I'll be fine." At this point I am kissed on the forehead, gently reminded that I twisted my ankle after falling on this very path about four weeks ago, and tucked in for the night.

This morning, I opened the back door and faced the treacherous path. The ice glimmered tauntingly in the morning light. I took a breath and began the journey. I will not fall. Tiny step. I will not fall. Tiny step. I will not fall. Tiny step. I will not...

I fell. Spectacularly. My left ankle twisted under me, my whole body flew up in the air, and I landed on my ass with limbs splayed in every direction. It would have been like a cartoon if I had been carrying a huge sheath of papers. It's hard to tell what hurts more: my (re-)twisted ankle, my bruised bum, or my terrifically damaged ego.

Crafty Squirrel Shows Up Late to Party

I was chillin in the Sky Lounge this morning when all of a sudden I heard this loud sound, like clashing metal. I leapt to the window, pulled back the curtains, and found myself eyeball to eyeball with a squirrel. Its little claws were gripping the window screen for dear life. I have no idea how it got there, it had to have jumped from a tree or scaled the house or something. As we stood there, transfixed in each other's gaze, it seemed to be pleading with me: "Look, I know you're running a little speakeasy in there. It wasn't easy to get here, man, so just let me in. C'mon, I even brought some food to share."

I swear to you, I am not making this up: the squirrel was holding a piece of white cake in its mouth. The cake had blue frosting.

The incredulousness of this event should be tempered by considering the particular race of squirrels native to our yard, no?