Lenten sacrifices
Tomorrow marks the start of Lent, which translates for me, into the time of year I feel most Catholic. The rigors of Catholicism hit you full force during Lent. Attending mass on Ash Wednesday brands you a Catholic and results in people staring at you as if you were a chimney sweeper and forgot to wash the center of your forehead. Mass usually runs longer than usual because of lengthier Gospel readings, including the ever popular Palm Sunday Gospel complete with audience participation. Catholics are expected to fast, which technically means only one large meal per day, as well as abstain from meat on Fridays during Lent. I foresee meatless Fridays posing a problem this year because St. Patrick's Day falls on a Friday. I *love* a good corned beef sandwich.
Ash Wednesday creeped up on me this year and I am having trouble coming up with the appropriate sacrifice. Past sacrifices have included chocolate, soda, Cool Ranch Doritos, Dr. Pepper, alcohol, and for the past two years, it has been shopping (for clothes, not food...as if!). As a law student, I tried to practice fiscal conservatism but when you are as liberal as I am, even the wallet eschews conservative practices. I want a new challenge for this year but can't come up with anything.
Suggestions from our readers?
Today's Lessons in Grammar and Vocabulary
The first is courtesy of my good friend, the Editrix. She works at a conservative publishing house here in D.C. and her company hires summer interns. While reviewing resumes, she expressed frustration to me that she couldn't possibly have an intern who was unfamiliar with the concept of the serial comma. Commas have always been a source of confusion for me (I rarely use them and when I decide to try out a comma, it is inevitably misplaced) so I inquired as to what the fuss was about regarding serial commas. Her explanation made me laugh out loud:
the serial comma, also known as the oxford comma, is the last comma in a series of more than two objects. it greatly reduces confusion. my favorite example is:
"i'd like to thank my parents, mother teresa and the pope."
just see how ridiculous that looks. like the pope could possibly be mother T's baby daddy.
the correct way is "i'd like to thank my parents, mother teresa, and the pope." much better. The vocabulary lesson comes from my new friends in New Haven, CT. I visited two friends this past weekend and my friend, EDW, decided to hold a dinner party in my honor...well, she also is a newlywed and had been searching for an occasion to break out her china. So, the party functioned to honor both me and the gifts she received at her wedding. I have no problem sharing the spotlight with a nice piece of Lenox. EDW's husband attends Divinity School at Yale and most of their friends have some affiliation with the university (read: they are all smart). For example, one of the guests, who received his undergraduate degree from Yale, succeeded in exuding intelligence but not arrogance, despite his being dressed like an Ivy League professor in a gray wool blazer on a Saturday night. Don't misunderstand me, I had a great time and all the guests were friendly, engaging and fun. But I consider the Northeast a rather intellectual place and at times at the dinner party, I felt out of my element intellectually. The guests discussed a few movies (I think they called them *films* actually) I had never heard of before and debated freedom of the press in the context of the Danish cartoons.
As we worked our way through the wine, the conversation become more relaxed and jovial. At one point, the Professor, posed a question to group that sprung out of a discussion amongst his friends at a recent bachelor party. I thought to myself, "YES! Even freakishly smart people tell inappropriate stories! It is NOT just me!" He asked us if we had an opinion on how to pronounce the word *detritus*. I stared blankly at the Professor, not only because I was disappointed he had transitioned away so quickly from bachelor party stories, but because I had never in my life heard the word *detritus*. And, suddenly, other guests were jumping in to offer alternate pronunciations. I finally interjected, asking rather crudely, "What the heck is *detritus*?". I then received a handful of definitions [official dictionary.com definition: 1: the remains of something that has been destroyed or broken up 2: loose material (stone fragments and silt etc) that is worn away from rocks] and one guest kindly placed the word in context for me by giving this example:
You know, when you make a powdered drink, you get to the bottom and there are things floating in it? That is when you would say "What is this detritus at the bottom of my cup?"To which, I responded:
Gotcha. I would probably just say "What is this crap at the bottom of my cup?"I was SO right about being out of my element. And, yes, that was the story the Professor told about the bachelor party. So funny.
Irrationality Abounds
Just so y'all know what I'm talking about when I refer to
Big Firm Life, I will let you in on our most recent brush with complete and utter insanity.
Last Wednesday, the head of Hubby's "group" (aka: division) at LifeSucker emailed to tell him that he was to meet with GroupHead and Mentor (both partners in Hubby's group) on Friday at 3pm. Now, normally, such a meeting would cause a measly associate to hem and haw and anxiously await the news that she or he caused some humongous disaster costing the firm's biggest client millions of dollars. Hubby is so burnt out that when I began the inquiry into what the meeting could possibly be about, he quickly reminded me that it did not matter anymore. What is the worst thing that could happen? If they fired him, at least he'd get a severance package and a couple weeks vacation before heading off to Government Work. (YES, he got an offer!)
With that insight in mind, he bravely went off to work on Friday without a care in his mind. Or no more than the usual pit in his stomach. When he arrived home on Friday, I began an immediate inquisition into the events of the day.
Me: What happened? Did you get fired? Did you get a bonus? Did you mess up something huge?
Hubby: No...nothing really.
Me: Well, why did they call the meeting?
Hubby: Oh, to tell me that I had made some careless mistakes on a Motion for Summary Judgment. But they caught them before it went out.
Me: Really? That was it? I tried to call you at 4:30 to find out how the meeting went, but you didn't answer.
Hubby: Oh, yeah. I didn't get out of the meeting until 4:45.
Me: Didn't it start at 3pm?
Hubby: Yes.
Me: Well, then what took so long? You must have made a lot of mistakes.
Hubby: Not really...just two commas. SERIOUSLY!!! That was it. Two partners at LifeSucker spent one hour and forty-five minutes "talking" to Hubby because he left out two commas in a 35 page document. Apparently they got all into the "you shouldn't be making these kinds of mistakes 2.5 years into practice". These people are crazy. Do they honestly think that after work 6-7 days a week for 12-24 hours a day, mistakes, such as leaving out commas, should not only be normal but EXPECTED?
The absurdity of it all overwhelms me. Luckily, we will be getting out soon. We're biding our time until Hubby can quit...
Under the Influence
A former flame of mine had a great idea for a phone. When the owner of the phone had too much to drink, the phone would prevent the owner from making a call, except to 911, of course...this former flame was really big on personal safety.
I am sorry but your call cannot be completed as dialed. You have had too much to drink and I fear if I connect your call, you will say something embarrassing, incomprehensible or offensive that you will only regret tomorrow. Seriously, put the phone down and go eat some pizza. Yes, I realize that it is not my phone's responsibility to keep me from placing late night bedrunken phone calls but maybe hearing that from my phone would snap me out of my state, convince me to put down my phone and send me looking for that pizza.
He also had the idea to allow the owner of the phone to make a call but announce to the receiver the caller’s inebriated state, thereby warning the receiver of the possible ramifications of answering.
The person making this call is on her 8th beer, is wobbling slightly and is slurring her speech. Press 1 to answer. Press 2 to send this call to voicemail. With the advent of text messaging, I need this device now more than ever. Drunk texting might be more damaging than drunk dialing...with the drunk dial, fate may intervene and the receiver of the call may not answer. Oftentimes, when I drunk dial, hearing the person's voicemail greeting snaps me back to reality and I rarely leave a message, providing me with a ready excuse the next day if intended receiver were to confront me [You have a missed call from me? Hmm...sometimes, my phone calls people from my purse by accident. Sorry!]. But I can't blame my phone for text messaging...there are no demonic elves residing in my purse, flipping open my phone and sending out non-sensical and/or inappropriate texts. Or at least no one would believe me if I tried to use that line.
I guess the solution is to stop drinking. GASP. Not the time for such drastic life changes, people. Maybe I will just start leaving my phone at home.
Material Nondisclosure
The first time I remember hearing about it I was eighteen, and working for a successful solo practicioner in my hometown on breaks from college. He spoke of it with a seriousness in his voice that I had never before witnessed. You would think that I would have received some other kind of warning, what with the six intervening years between that time and my first year of law school. But no one told me. Not the parents of friends (who were attorneys), not a guidance counselor, teacher, professor, another student, or even my pre-law advisor. It wasn't until that horrendous first year rumor mill starting running that it came creeping back to mind. All of you law students, lawyers, and countless brave individuals who choose to closely align yourselves with our self-deprecating sect know what I'm talking about: big firm life.
Big Firm Life (BFL), for those of you with little or no exposure to it, is basically a culture that promotes working ridiculously long hours, at a desk, pushing paper, with little to no human interaction and little to no control over the cases you work on. Some of these places even have rooms with cots, and showers and lockers on site. So that you NEVER have to leave. It is SO SCARY. And the weirdest part to me is how all of these young, bright associates buy into this life. They literally ignore not only their loved ones and past lives, but also their basic physical and emotional needs. All in the pursuit of status. Because the money ain't good. Well, not when you consider what they make PER HOUR. But more about that later...
You might wonder how I, as a Law Clerk, know so much about this life. Unfortunately, Hubby, like many bright young law students, was seduced into BFL. He graduated at the top of his class (like TIP top), clerked for a Federal court of Appeals, and joined a big firm. We'll call it LifeSucker. LifeSucker has dominated everything about our first year of marriage. Hubby has cancelled countless dinners, bedtimes, morning wake-up calls, and even trips with me. Not because he is so dedicated to LifeSucker, or BFL, but because he has no choice.
He generally bills 80-100 hour weeks. He works nights. He works weekends. At least 10-20 times in the past year, he has gone to work in the morning (usually about 6:30), worked through the day, the night and the next day. With NO sleep. Like not even 20 minutes. Now you tell me how LifeSucker's clients would feel if they knew that an important motion in thier case was handled by a first year associate who'd been awake for 36 hours? They're not paying the partners big bucks for that kind of a gamble on conciousness. I digress...
The happy news is that Hubby and I are fed up. So fed up that we are considering drastic measures. One option: government work. This is by far the best life a practicing lawyer can have. The problem is pay. But Hubby and I sat down and figured it out. If we live frugally (which is hard after you've been seduced by BFL pay) we can do it. Next problem: lots of lawyers have figured this out. So there is little turnover and lots of competition for the best of these jobs (ie: AUSA postions). But...Hubby has an interview with a government group today so we'll see.
Option two: move. Yep. We're that fed up. We might make a MAJOR life change and head to the farm. Yes, you read that correctly. Hubby grew up on a farm in rural TN and we might move there. The pay is about the same as a government job here in the big city, and the cost of living is less. And Hubby's real dream is to be a farmer. Yes, I am prissy. Yes, I grew up in a city of 300,000 people. But I'm kind of excited to live a laid back life! Stay tuned for more developments...
So now you know about BFL. Jersey has had some experience there too, as you've learned in previous posts, so we'll probably both have a lot more to say about it soon. But if there's still time for you, (if you're in law school) save yourself! Do not make the mistakes Hubby and I are dealing with now. All big firms are the same, even though they say they're not. (I have actual witnesses to BFL tell me that associates will go so far as to lie and sneak back upstairs to big firms after courting summer associates at happy hours and such. So a few weeks somewhere won't tell you squat.) Just remember, there's a reason they pay you like that...
Weekend Wrap Up
Weekend Wrap-up
This weekend, I attended my first “couples shower”. I have been to more than my fair share of bridal showers, and hosted a total of four, but this was my first co-ed shower. The guests were heavily coupled off but that is to be expected when we are talking about my college friends. A couples shower, it turns out, is essentially an adult party with a dress code and gifts. At times, I forgot the occasion that had brought everyone together because, unlike a girls-only bridal shower, with its chorus of ooohs and aaahs over every detail, the guests just hung out, ate, and drank with little fanfare. The most stressful part of the event was deciding what to wear. The hostess forbade jeans, which is my standard weekend attire and this dress restriction really threw me for a loop. I spent my Friday night scouring closets of similarly shaped friends for options. The hostess told me she was wearing a dress and I could not figure out what type of dress one wears in the winter. I kept thinking of jumpers. You know those long dress and turtleneck combos from Laura Ashley that used to be popular? That was the image I had stuck in my mind. Was everyone at the party going to be dressed like my first grade teacher? Thankfully, no…turns out I am just weird and no jumpers were spotted at the party. Sometimes, the way my mind works scares the bejeezus out of me!
Yesterday, I went to the Wake Forest-Carolina basketball game. *Sigh* is pretty much all I can say about the game. Wake is currently last place in the ACC with an absolutely abysmal record. We played a great first half, our shots were falling, our defense had intensity…but the second half was just plain awful. I wish I could explain how painful it was to watch. I have been a huge Justin Gray fan since he arrived at Wake: he plays with such fire and shoots the basketball with grace and determination. But, yesterday, his frustration was palpable to me, up on the 2nd tier of the Coliseum. The team just wants to win, but can’t seem to put the pieces together to make it happen. Poor shot selection, lack of rebounding and turnovers plague the team. The rumors are rampant that the current coach, Skip Prosser might leave. I am torn as to what I want to happen. Skip has done wonders for the atmosphere in the Coliseum, has brought national recognition to our team and its players and is a wonderful representative of the University. But, just like the team, I want to win. And I am starting to wonder if Skip can still make that happen.
Tonight…..is dinner with the twins and 24. The twins are great guy friends of mine, one of whom is dating my roommate and the other is not dating my roommate because technically only one can. Tonight, I am crashing their usual party of three. My contribution: Winter-spiced Chocolate Molten Cakes.
Happy President’s Day!
Tales of a Sweatshop Attorney
Prior to my current, and rather cushy, contract assignment, I worked in the closest thing to a sweatshop that an adult with a graduate degree will most likely experience. I realize I shouldn't rule it out because one never knows but here's hoping that my 7 years of higher learning and the 20 plus years I face paying for that learning means this is the worst it will get for me.
Now, to describe the sweatshop. The sweatshop is on the first floor of a very nice office building downtown. The building itself exudes prestige, with its shiny floors, fresh flowers and sparkling windows. Swank Law Firm (SLF) occupies two floors of the building, in addition to the sweatshop on the first floor. The *real lawyers* work amidst gleaming white walls, stride atop plush carpet and have access to phones, office supplies and rumor has it, free snacks. There are generally only two reasons a first floor attorney braves the upstairs:
1) To use the bathroom. The first floor sweatshop doesn't have a restroom so every time nature called, one had to take the elevator to the 12th floor. Under no circumstances could a first floor attorney use the restrooms on the 4th floor. Actual emails stating this fact circulated routinely. The firm strongly preferred we used the 12th floor restrooms but, in case of emergency, (as in 3 of your 100 first floor peers had to go at the same time and all stalls were occupied and you were incapable of holding it - and we are talking REAL discomfort here, not just a little dance), one could use the 3rd floor restroom. But be forewarned - if you are going to use the 3rd floor restroom, be prepared for the looks of disgust and annoyance that the *real employees* will throw your way.
2) To meet with the HR director, a.k.a. the Shrew. The Shrew meets with new contract employees and explains life at the firm (Your life will commence sucking now) and benefits (You have none till you've been here 4 months. I dare you to stay that long). She essentially takes you through the new employees manual, making helpful comments like "Oh, that doesn't apply to you" and "You are not eligible for that benefit" and "Oh, wait here is one for you...let me see...oh, nope, didn't read the fine print...sorry!". All in all, conversations with the Shrew do wonders for the spirit. I think the Shrew's favorite part of her job was giving new employees a tour of the firm's facilities. Of course, contract employees did not receive the tour but every tour included a visit to the sweatshop. The Shrew would bring new associates inside and the look of sheer horror on the associates' faces says it all: Is this place for real? Oh, look at their sad faces! Oh, hurry, Shrew, I don't want to stay here any longer! Please, take me back upstairs to my cushy office where I can yell for my secretary to bring me more free snacks!
I have so much more to say about the sweatshop. The cast of characters are colorful, the plot lines downright ridiculous and the conditions intolerable. That being said, I met some great friends (hi peeps!) and made good money, the majority of which now hangs in my closet. On that note, stay tuned for more "Tales of a Sweatshop Attorney".
You've Got Mail
I love Meg Ryan movies. Or at least the romantic comedy ones she makes. I realize she has tried to break out of this typecast, but to me, she will always be Sally of When Harry Met, Annie of Sleepless in Seattle, and Kathleen Kelly from You’ve Got Mail. I have one major characteristic in common with Kathleen Kelly. I never come up with the right thing to say at the right time. I constantly say clever things to people’s backs. A few days after TH and I would have a serious discussion or a disagreement, the perfect witty retort or comeback would dawn on me. I would then call TH, remind him of the previous conversation and then ‘wow’ him with my new insights. Usually, he just laughed at my quirky need to do this and we wouldn’t dwell on it.
Kathleen Kelly faces this same problem throughout the movie. She stands speechless as Tom Hanks’ character, Joe Fox, the bargain book bad guy, needles her with hurtful comments. Finally, she has her moment of zen and says exactly what is on her mind, leaving Joe Fox at a loss for words. She thinks she will feel triumphant for finally aligning her thought process and power of speech, but instead she agonizes over her comments. As an aside, her name IS Kathleen Kelly, so readers, we shouldn’t be surprised she too suffers from the ICGC.
This morning, I had a similar moment of zen. I realized last night that TH still possessed a little something that had been given to me by a former boss. I hesitate to reveal what is so promise not to judge. It is a pencil sharpener shaped like the Millennium Falcon. I love the original Star Wars movies but I am by no means obsessed. When I take tests and get nervous, I would hold the MF in my hand, like those squishy stress balls, and it calmed me down and helped me to focus. I had the MF with me during the bar exam and I loaned it to TH for his final exam last semester. Hopefully, my explanation justifies why I absolutely positively need to have it back. TH can NOT possess my test taking good luck charm!
I emailed TH to request the MF back. My email was terse, instructing him to drop the MF through the mail slot at my apartment. No contact or response necessary. He replies promptly, with a witty comment that infuriates me. I debate my next move. Do I ignore the email or do I reply? At that exact moment, I realized why I needed to reply. I FINALLY knew exactly what I wanted to say, at the exact moment I wanted to say it. I needed to take control of this moment, be a little nasty if I felt like it and not feel guilty about it. So I did. Perhaps it was immature to not just let the whole thing go but sometimes, those with broken hearts just can’t find the high road.
The ICGC
I love being an Irish Catholic. I really do. I eat corned beef on days beside March 17th, I have known all the words to the Unicorn song since I was seven, I wear my Claddagh ring and Celtic Cross with pride and I can do a mean Irish brogue. I think to a great extent my religion and my heritage define who I am. Unfortunately, for us Irish Catholics, it is not all Riverdance and Guinness. The major downside to being Irish Catholic is the ICGC, a.k.a. the Irish Catholic Guilt Complex. Since the Irish are generally a happy (albeit often inebriated) crowd, not everyone is aware of the ICGC. I had to explain it to Belle one day in college when I found myself racked with guilt over something incredibly trivial (If I remember correctly, I took my suitemate's shower time, messing up the shower schedule and facing the wrath of the keeper of the schedule). Irish Catholics feel guilty about EVERYTHING. I can recall a conversation 10 years ago when I said something I regret and I STILL feel badly about it. Ridiculous! The judge I am clerking for in the spring teaches a class at my alma mater. I skipped last Thursday for the first time and felt riddled with guilt. Sometimes my judge makes dorky jokes and I need to be there to laugh at them, in case no one else is paying attention. I am not even in school any more and he has already hired me! I am 27, single and should be able to go out for $2 drafts when I feel like it. If I racked my brain, I could come up with additional examples of how the ICGC affects my daily life. Here is today's example:
I generally try and bring my lunch to work. It saves money and since I enjoy cooking, I usually have something I can throw together for lunch. Unfortunately, due to *the encounter* this past weekend, I have avoided my neighborhood grocery store. Plus, it snowed early this week, I still haven't cleaned off my car and it would take so much energy to clean it off, drive to the grocery store, and race through the aisles while praying I don't run into TH again. All this means is that I have very little food at home. So, I have been eating out every day this week. As I get up to leave today, my co-worker comments, "Going out for lunch *again* today?" I laugh,and say "Yes, still haven't been to the grocery store!", thinking that this will be the end of the discussion. She responds "Well, you need to go to the grocery store."
Ok, Judge McJudgerson, I realize that. And I will. Perhaps tonight if I have time before
Lost. This is exactly the kind of statement that wouldn't bother most people. But, because of the ICGC, I find myself feeling incredibly guilty for indulging a little this week. If I want to splurge on an overpriced but delish salad from Cosi today, I shouldn't agonize over it. The ICGC is not the boss of me. I just confirmed plans to go to happy hour again tomorrow and skip class. Take that, ICGC.
**In the interest of full disclosure, my judge will not be attending class tomorrow night and is sending a guest lecturer as a substitute. But still! I am skipping! Jersey 1, ICGC 0.
The Real Thang
Food for thought: "We don't love qualities, we love persons; sometimes by reason of their defects as well as of their qualities."
-Jacques Maritain
Jersey and I are in very different places in our personal relationships. Jersey is the swingin' single in the big city. She is dating, but not serious with anyone right now. I, on the other hand, am a newlywed. I'm not sure how long that title lasts, but we are going on nine months, so I'm pretty sure we still qualify.
So writing the obligitory Valentine's Day post was delegated to me. But what to write? Tell the world how ooey-gooey happy Hubby and I are? How our life is like an amazing fairytale? In some ways, this is true. In the middle of writing the last paragraph, 12 beautiful long stemmed roses were delivered to my office. We still have a "date night" once a week (Friday) and we eat at the dining room table (by candlelight) a few times a week. I am married to the most wonderful man I can imagine. I met him three and a half years ago and still cannot believe that I am lucky enough to have found the one for me.
But it's not always like that. It can't be. In the short time Hubby and I have been married, I've learned more about true love than I did in the whole of my last serious relationship (which lasted six years). I've learned that life as a married adult is hard. No one tells you that before you walk down the aisle, or get whisked away on the honeymoon of your dreams. It's easy for me to see why the divorce rate is so high. You have to work at a relationship, and most of it is not pretty.
I knew this before, but it is magnified once you are married. It's obviously too complicated to discuss all of the reasons why this is the case here, but suffice it to say that when you've pledged to spend the rest of your days on Earth with a person, things take on a whole new light.
For example, you absolutely cannot make a decision, as a married person, in a vacuum. Even something as small as eating lunch affects Hubby. Seriously. Before, if I wanted to eat out, I did. Now, I have to think about the fact that if I eat out everyday, he can't. If I choose to go on a trip with the girls, Hubby has to sacrifice something in order to help pay for it. If I don't take care of my health, it affects him and our future children.
It's crazy how much things change. Most of it is good, but a lot of it is stuff I'd never considered beforehand. It convinces me, more than ever, that "romantic love" is not the real thing. And that's okay with me. Because the comforting freshly-washed-pajamas feeling that real love brings can only come with time, and the acceptance of your mate (and yourself) as an imperfect person who is worthy of a very perfect love.
So forget about the teddy bear, chocolates and overpriced card. Don't pay attention to the commercialized, pre-packaged version of love that some would have us buy into. (Quite literally, I might add). Spend this Valentine's Day celebrating real love...in whatever form you find it in your life. I imagine Hallmark will be the only party affected who ends up disappointed.
Topic Selection
Now that we have a blog, we must decide what to blog about (about what to blog? I think my friend, the Editrix, would prefer I didn't end my sentences with prepositions). From my surveying of various blogs, I have noticed most people write about what is going on in their lives in an attempt to share some wisdom, make their readers laugh, spark thoughtful debate or plain old vent about a rough day.
I must warn you that my first post will fall into that last category. I didn't get into the blogging business with my best friend to rant and rave about the rough patch I am currently experiencing. But you write what you know, right? And the story that follows, unfortunately for me, is what I know right now.
I can’t even go to the grocery store without something ridiculous happening to me. About two months ago, my boyfriend of a year and a half (alias: treehugger) broke up with me. These past two months have been spent crying, drinking and moaning on my couch (in When Harry Met Sally fashion). We still talked occasionally over email but we didn’t see each other because he kept telling me “It is too hard for me to see you right now.” And I believed him. He convinced me he was hurting as much as I was.
Last weekend, we finally saw each other at a mutual friend’s Super Bowl Party. I arrived first, frantically taking inventory of who was already present and noticed that Treehugger wasn’t there yet. I positioned myself between two friends and kept one eye on the arrivals. Finally, TH arrived. He looked skinny. Not that he was ever very big but his jeans were falling off him and his face looked gaunt. After about 15 minutes, wondering if he is going to get the nerve to come up to me, I finally bit the bullet and went up to him. I said “Hey TH” and I must have caught him off guard because he answered in this weird falsetto of a voice that I had never heard before. I panicked and ran back to the comfort of my side of the room. Then I received a text message from him complimenting me on the cupcakes I had brought to the party. A TEXT MESSAGE? Newsflash – TH, you are 28 years old and we are in someone’s living room. We then proceed to have an elaborate discussion without ever having to look at each other. He reiterated that this situation was really hard on him too. I left the party knowing that while the break up was the right thing to do, we were both having a hard time adjusting. Just knowing that was a source of incredible comfort to me.
Fast forward: 6 days. Saturday morning, I wake up and my roommate and I decide to head to Whole Foods to stock up for the pending snowstorm. I grabbed a sandwich from the deli counter and decided to check out the free cheese samples. I rounded a corner only to be confronted with TH.
Me (heart racing, in my own high pitched voice): Hey.
TH (looking sheepish): Hey.
Me: I am just looking for the Parrano (fyi: best cheese sample offered at Whole Foods).
TH: Oh, they don’t have any out right now.
Girl sidles up next to TH and looks at me. I look at her, look back at TH, look back at her and the reality of the situation dawns on me…He is grocery shopping with his new girlfriend.
Me: Oh my G*d.
And that was it. I found my roommate; she paid for our sandwiches while I ran for the comfort of my car. I am still reeling from the situation. After some investigative work by my roommate, we discovered that *the girl* is a girl from his office whom I have heard him mention many times in the past. She was in the Peace Corps. Great, a do-gooder.
Two days after the encounter, I am still plagued with questions. When did they get together? Did he cheat on me with her? Is it serious? Are they going to get married? Why didn’t any of my so called friends tell me? Why didn’t he tell me he was seeing someone else instead of saying how hard everything was on him?
I still can’t believe it.
Who We Are
Welcome, everyone! We are so glad you joined us. I thought I should give you a little background on who we are so our rantings make a little more sense.
Jersey and I are an odd pair, to say the least. We met in our junior year of college. Jersey had spent the first semester of that year studying abroad, and I (as a measly transfer student) had spent it with a horrible roomate given to me graciously by the resident housing people. (And yes, we lived on campus. We went to
Wake Forest University, a small liberal arts school where the vast majority of students live on campus all 4 years, or at least 3.) Anyway, I transferred to WFU and affiliated with our sorority. The "sisters" set Jersey and I up to live together, since we were both having a tough time figuring out where we'd be, and who with. Suffice it to say that when we first met, I think we were both scared to death. Two people couldn't BE any more different on paper.
Jersey is, as her name suggests, from New Jersey. Northern New Jersey. Her parents are from Brooklyn. I still, to this day, cannot understand her Father almost at all...her Mother: sometimes. She is a 2nd generation American. Her morals, drive and work ethic show it big time. She is Irish Catholic, the first one I'd ever really known. She spent her youth in all-girls private Catholic schools. She is tall and brunette.
I am shorter and blonde. I am from North Carolina. When I moved to DC after college (with Jersey, of course) I lived farther north than anyone on either side of my family ever has, since we came to America (hundreds of years ago). My ethnicity: Southern. Like most Southerners, I am a mix (Irish, Welsch, English, Scottish, French, American Indian) and do not identify myself as anything but Southern American. I am, like most Southerners, Protestant. (Presbyterian). I had only met one Catholic person in my entire life before I met Jersey.
But we hit it off! We had an amazing time learning from our differences and realizing how similar we actually are. We spent 2 years living together in DC before we headed off to law school...Jersey stayed in the DC area and I migrated to the deep South.
Now we are living in two different cities, both in our first year of post-law school employment. Like always, we have very different lives but still find ourselves having so much in common. Stick around...we always have something crazy going on!
Well, look at us. I do believe we have ourselves a brand new blog. Stay tuned....
