I like to move it, move it.

As my friends know, I like to move it.

Which is why I am SO excited about Dance Dance Revolution.

Which is why I want it for my birthday, which is mid-January.

I have no idea how much this game costs, so I'm thinking that oodles of my friends can all chip in and then we can have a Dance Dance Revolution party. And we can all move it, move it.

Post Script. My friend tells me that if I don't have a Playstation (which I do not), they make plug-and-play versions of this game, but that they're "kinda lame." This displeases me. So, I guess I'll have to go without Dance Dance Revolution. But do not fret! I will soon have a belated (very belated) housewarming gathering, which will surely tun into our very own Saucy Dance Revolution Party and we shall all move it, move it together!

The rest of the world is getting fatter.

I have never been so excited to weigh 146 pounds.

Yup, you heard right. The Saucy Vixen just admitted her weight to all five of her faithful readers out there. And in case you, my Saucy Readers, missed it the first time, I shall state it again: I have never been so excited to weigh 146 pounds.

And now, some history: I am only five-foot-two-inches tall. (I never really had a chance at tallhood, what with my father being 5'4" and my mother measuring in at a whopping 5'1".) In High School, my weight topped out at about 148 pounds. In college, instead of gaining, I lost. I went down to a mere 120, which was extremely difficult to maintain; throughout college I pretty much stayed at 125.

Then I graduated. And started a job I hated for a micro-managing boss with a hardcore Napoleon Complex. I found myself in a two-and-a-half year relationship that was amazingly unhealthy. And my weight soared to 165. The summer before law school, I brought it down to 140. But with the bar and my first job public defending, I ended up at a doctor's weigh-in on September 15, at 156.

So I decided to change my life. I started birth control and quit smoking. I got a new job. I started working out four times a week. And I told myself that I was eating better. But I wasn't eating better. Not better at all. Lean Pockets is not "better." Three bowls of cereal for dinner is not "better."

Frustrated with my lack of progress (as I had somehow managed to talk myself into really really thinking I was eating better), I joined Weight Watchers online almost exactly six weeks ago. At 156 pounds. And in those six weeks I lost ten pounds.

Now that in itself would be awesome, right? But it gets BETTER.

I am at my parents' place in Miami right now soaking up the sun. And I found paperwork documenting the physical I underwent before entering undergrad. At 148 pounds, I was in the 80th percentile of weight for people my age and height. How depressing.

And now? I checked. I'm at about the 40th percentile for people my age and height. Which means that even though I'm the same weight I was in high school, everyone else around me has gotten fatter. Cool, huh?

Which is why I've never been so excited to weigh 146 pounds.

Woo-hoo!

Western Massachusetts.

Here's a tidbit for those of you who don't know:

When people talk about "Western Mass," what they really mean is "West of Boston." They don't even mean "farther West than Worcester." And Worcester is only about a third into the state.

Look at the map, people! There's an entire state out there. Big ol' open spaces. Rolling hillsides. Much more'n the big Can o' Beantown.

Be that as it may, people talk about "Western Mass" as if Boston is the center of the universe. The same way New Yorkers (at least those from The City) refer to Yonkers as "Upstate," not realizing that Dutchess County isn't on another planet. (In fact, it's not even half way up the state.)

How very provincial. When will the city dwellers learn?

Spinal tap update.

Okay, so it's not all rainbows and gumdrops.

I felt a-okay on Tuesday, and so I went downstairs, took out the trash, made myself lunch for the next day, and tinkered about for an hour or so. After which, I had a raging pressure headache.

Yesterday, I woke up to go to work. Showered, got dressed. Then realized that the headache from standing or sitting upright was causing severe nausea. So I called the doctor's office. They told me to stay on my back and drink plenty of caffeine, take Tylenol, and stay hydrated. I explained the nausea, and the doc called in a prescription for anti-nausea meds.

I slept for about an hour thereafter, and woke up feeling sick, sick, sick. Picked up the meds at the pharmacy and took one. Which didn't help with the projectile vomiting. So I called Chris all upset, having convinced myself that I was dying from lack of a stomach lining. He came over and fed me soup and crackers and tea and flat Diet Coke. Which was awesome for him.

The problem? I missed another day of work yesterday, and am not going in today because of the pressure. Which I normally wouldn't mind so much, except that this was supposed to be my first full week of work. AND I'm leaving next Friday for a week to visit my parents. I suppose it's good that with my handy-dandy Mac laptop, I can still type and be flat on my back. Cool, huh? (Don't let that conjure up any unsavory images.)

The moral of this story?

Nope, there isn't one. Except that spinal taps suck and make you miss work.

Bedtime stories.

Last night, being extremely bored, I asked Chris to read me a bedtime story from a children's book I picked up second-hand for a quarter. He read through the options and I chose Hansel and Gretel.

Now, bear in mind, that right before Chris got to bed, I took a sleeping pill. One of the remedies for the post-tap headache is lots of caffeine. So with two cups of coffee coursing through my veins, as well as the tenderness in my back, I knew I'd have a tough go with the whole sleep thing. So I settled in to listen to Chris read Hansel and Gretel, not realizing how loopy the sleeping pill had made me.

The story started off the way it always does, with the children's father all sad because there was not enough food in the larder for all four (the father, step-mother, and two children) to bite or sup. And, of course, the step-mother suggested that they leave the children out in the woods.

At that point, the story that I remembered (and I'd never read this particular version from this particular book) took a strange twist. Hansel got killed, somehow.

So this morning, I e-mailed Chris at work to ask him whether I remembered the strange version correctly. "Did Hansel die in that story you read me?"

He wrote back. "Yes. It was a bit of a twist on the traditional story. A vengeful and jealous God smote Hansel. But his step-mother reanimated him and then the story continued in the regular fashion."

Oh, alright. I accepted that I had come across a very strange version of Hansel and Gretel, and left it at that.

But in my stuck-in-bed boredom, I decided to read the story that I fell asleep during last night. And you know what? God did not smite anyone in this version of Hansel and Gretel! There was no magical reanimation! Chris took advantage of my drug-induced state and deviated from the story, adding religious elements and a not-so-nice God.

I should have him read me bedtime stories more often.

Spinal tap success.

I had my spinal tap yesterday. And I want to start with the comment a kind reader left for me on my first post regarding the dreaded tap:

I still count my spinal tap as the most painful experience of my entire life. Make sure they give you some proper pain medication. If it isn't an opiate of some kind it isn't good enough.

First of all, who writes this to someone? I was worried enough as it was going in, but a comment like this is just mean and thoughtless. But more importantly, it's just downright wrong. I had my spinal tap yesterday, and I can tell anyone who is at all concerned about getting one: Whoever wrote that comment has clearly never suffered any pain greater than a paper cut.

This isn't to say that the procedure was all hearts and flowers, gumdrops and teddy bears. No. The doctor stuck a big ol' needle in my back. But before doing it, he shot me up with a whole lot of numbing stuff. There was some uncomfortable pressure while the needle went it. And then it was over. My back aches and feels a bit tender, but is no worse than lower back pain one gets during menstruation (I can only assume my helpful commenter was of the male persuasion) I get a dull, throbbing headache when I sit or stand up, but as long as I'm lying down for now, it's nothing that a cup of coffee, orange juice and some Tylenol can't take care of.

In fact, the doctor didn't even bother prescribing me opiates (though I can't really take them anyway). And from what I've heard from others, they only jack up to opiates if there is a consistent and extremely painful headache that lasts more than a day-and-a-half.

And so, to those of you who worried or expressed concern: Thanks. I have a bit of a headache, but I'm feeling a-okay. Chris drove me there and back and made me dinner afterwards and read to me when I got bored of having to lie on my back. (I'm still bored of lying on my back, but at least I get to communicate with you, my lovely, wonderful, caring readers; all two of you readers out there).

Another day of this back-lying-boredom, and then it's back to the new job. And that's what we call spinal tap success.

Part II: Justice?

New job.

New state.

Words on the courthouse at the old job: Obedience to law is liberty.

Words on the courthouse at the new job: The welfare of the people is the highest law.

And they wonder why I left.

(See Part I here.)

A city built on Rock n' Roll...

It's the second day of Channukah and I've not gotten any presents yet.

On top of that, my birthday is coming up on January 17. What do I want? I was this t-shirt. It's friggin' awesome!

(And it can be purchased here.)

Enlarge your penis.

I'm trying to convince Chris to take penis-enlarging drugs.

Why?

Because I think it'd be awesome if his penis shot lasers. Like the Monster Cock.

Clarification: No, I don't really want Chris to get a penis enlargement. He already has a Monster Cock. Really, folks. He's hung. Hung like a jury with a seriously nagging doubt. (I love you, Chris. Thanks for putting up with me discussing your genitals in a public forum.)

On Hebrew school and improper word usage.

My parents made me go to Hebrew school when I was a kid. It started off as once a week in Kindergarten. By fourth grade, I was going twice a week. And by sixth, it was thrice weekly.

Hebrew school was awful. We learned bible stories, and the teachers weren't too fond of my questioning the faith. The rabbis? Oh, they loved my silly questions, but the teachers were young do-gooder types who weren't quite sure how to handle my rambunctious ways.

Because of this, my folks let me become a Hebrew School Dropout in the eighth grade. The teacher was an ass and we'd all had enough.

And speaking of asses... The most irritating thing about Hebrew school (to me, at least) was improper word usage. In the seventh grade, we had some sort of ceremony (for what, I do not recall). Each of us presented either an English or Hebrew recitation of one of the Ten Commandments.

Saving the best for last, I was to recite the English text of the Tenth Commandment:

You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, his male or female slave, his ox or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor's.

You know what they made me do? They made me say the word "donkey" instead of "ass." If they had let me just go ahead and use the A-word, everything would have gone smoothly. But because I was so very irritated that they changed the text for purposes of political correctness, I was so theatrical and so ridiculous in my recitation, that I was the only reciter who got a laugh from the audience.

The most egregious example of word usage tampering during my religious education was during the translation of my Torah portion during my Bat Mitzvah. I read Leviticus 26.3 through 26.13. To be sure, the text of Leviticus 16.13 is as follows:

I am the Lord your G-d who brought you out from the land of Egypt to be their slaves no more, who broke the bars of your yoke and who made you walk erect.

See the problem? If you guessed it was the word "erect," you are correct. Ding ding! I had to say the word "upright."

We all know of my penchant for proper syntax and my distaste of evolving usage (e.g., the fact that "melancholy" is now used as an adjective instead of a noun, the proper adjective form being "melancholic"). Given this, combined with the tampering with religious text for the sake of cleaning it up, is it really any wonder why I grew to hate organized religion?

"Why I need a spinal tap." Or, "Lenscrafters be damned!"

Back in September, LensCrafters send me a coupon. A huge discount on new frames. Fifty percent off lenses. Yay! Since my glasses are more than two years old, and my visions seems to be a tad blurry in one eye, I went in for an eye exam, and to purchase some new specs.

I got my eye exam, and the optometrist told me that the prescription in my left eye was actually a bit higher than it needed to be. So she wrote up a new prescription. Then she told me that she saw something a bit worrisome in the back of my eyes and wanted to dilate my pupils.

I had never had my pupils dilated before. I get squeamish when it comes to eye drops. Also, I've always been extremely sensitive to light. But because I live only two minutes from LenscCrafters, and because the optometrist was insistent, I reluctantly agreed.

The dilation threw my balance off, and I had to drink a lot of water to keep from throwing up. (Please note that ever since I punctured an eardrum more'n a decade ago, I am particularly affected by anything that has the potential to throw my balance off.) Twenty minutes after the drops went in, I was back in the chair getting lights shined in my eyes.

After that, the optometrist wanted me to take visual fields test to check my peripheral vision.

I failed.

The eye doc sat me down again and explained that she was concerned. I had inflamed optic nerves, the likes of which she had learned about, but never seen. Even more distressing to her what that I seemed to have huge blind spots in my peripheral vision. She referred me to a neuro-opthamologist (there are only two in the state), and wrote him a letter herself.

Last week, I had my appointment. I was given more tests, and my visual fields were tested yet again. And again, I failed. The doc dilated my pupils again and told me the same thing: Inflamed optic nerves. However, he told me my case was "interesting."

"Most patients I have with inflamed optic nerves present with different symptoms," he explained. "They have intense headaches that last for three days. Debilitating headaches with headaches. They also have loss of vision for up to a minute at times. You don't seem to have any of these symptoms."

Right. So what was wrong?

Doc told me that what I have is most likely a congenital defect that I've always had; no one had ever noticed before. The fact that I never noticed a loss of peripheral vision means I've probably always had huge blind spots. The defect is called optic disc drusen. It is un-treatable, yet harmless. However, there is no way to diagnose it.

No way to diagnose it, that is, except for ruling out anything else it could be. Like stuff that would cause pressure on my spinal chord. Like tumors.

Hence the MRI and spinal tap.

Damn, you LensCrafters!

Roller Girl!

A law school friend and I have decided to take up roller derby.

I am uncoordinated and unathletic. This'll be awesome!

Check up with me in a month to see if I've done it. I'm hoping it won't be like the swing dancing lessons I never took.

Ouch!

I have to get a spinal tap.

I hear they hurt.

Not cool.

Love the one you're with?

For a long time, I maintained that the song Escape (more commonly known as The Pina Colada Song) is the saddest song ever written.

Think about it: A guy who's tired of his lady (we'd been together too long; like a worn out recording of a favorite song) responds to a personal ad. Despite the fact that he has a girlfriend, he agrees to meet up with the woman at a bar in Southie. He gets there. She walks in. And who is it? His own lovely lady. And she says, "Oh. It's you." Then they laugh for a moment, and he says, "I never knew that you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, and the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne." To me, the guy sounded like a total douche. He didn't know anything about his girlfriend. They both tried to cheat on each other via the personal ads, and then found each other. Sad, sad, sad.

But then I realized that there's an even sadder song. Two sadder songs, in fact. I realized this during my third year in law school when I was canoodling with AIDS Boy (the boy who convinced himself I gave him AIDS, when he didn't have it -- I clearly didn't, either). I realized it when he told me that the reason he was marrying his fiance, despite the fact that he cheated on her at least thrice, was because she was the "least crazy" woman he'd ever dated.

He was settling down because he thought it was what he was "supposed" to do. He was marrying the girl he'd been with since he was sixteen years old for the same reasons he'd gone to law school instead of film school: (1) His parents wanted him to; and (2) it was the path of least resistance. It was expected of him. It was the right thing to do. Somehow.

The two of us were driving around town once, having eaten lunch and on our way to The Puppy Center (to look at baby Golden Doodles). A song came on:

And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with;
Love the one you're with.
Don't be angry, don't be sad,
Don't sit cryin' over good things you've had,
There's a girl right next to you
And she's just waiting for something you do...
Love the one you're with.

It fit him. I told him so. "You're marrying this girl just because you you figure you should love the one you're with." He agreed, sort of. He told me how he wanted a wilder woman, a woman who doesn't dress in twin sets all the time, who's less conventional. This soliloquy, of course, ended with the predictable: "I've never met a girl like you before." Which can be a compliment, it's a statement that can make me all melty at times. But not from someone who's engaged. But since he couldn't find a wild woman, a fun woman, an open-minded type, since he always attracted the twin-set-and-pearls type, he was marrying the girl he'd been with for nearly a decade.

Love the one you're with.

In that moment, I decided that Love The One You're With is a sadder song than Escape.

Then I got home and downloaded the song. Or rather, I downloaded a little ol' medley of two songs. And I pondered these lyrics:

You can't always get what you want.
But if you try sometimes, well you just might find
You get what you need.

Whether my friend got what he needed from Twin Set Fiance, I can't say. But that little medley struck me as a marriage of the two saddest songs ever written.

Because after all, if you can't always get what you want, you may as well love the one you're with.

What is your city built on?

As many of you know, Jefferson Starship believes that "this city" was built on rock and roll.

In an effort not to work on my motion to suppress scheduled for tomorrow, I have decided to do some research regarding what various cities have been built on. Because surely, they can't all be built on rock and roll.

As it turns out, the city in which I live is built both on "compliments by many people" as well as on "the Connecticut River flood plain." Not as exciting as being built on rock and roll, is it?

So I've turned to the city in which I currently work. Ah. It's built on "low and level ground."

Boring!

What about Columbus, Ohio, where I went to high school? A tad bit more interesting: "The real Columbus is built on the people whose families have been here for more then a century, the hard working men and women who work the land." This should not be confused with the Knights of Columbus, which is built on patriotism. (Clearly, Columbus, Ohio is not built on patriotism.)

I've lived in other places, as well. Like Boston. And let me tell you, Boston is a jackpot. It's built on "specific types of man-made land." Other parts of Boston are built on tidal flats. In short, Boston is built on a collection of peninsulas.

And so it goes. Having established that few, in any cities, are built on rock and roll, I ask you, gentle readers, to share: What is your city built on?

The only thing I remember from torts...

This may very well be the only case I really remember from first year torts class (not counting Palsgraf, of course).

"We are called upon to determine whether United Airlines took adequate measures to deal with that elementary notion of physics - what goes up, must come down. For, while the skies are friendly enough, the ground can be a mighty dangerous place when heavy objects tumble from overhead compartments."

Andrews v. American Airlines

What not to do the morning after Thanksgiving.

Go to the gym.

Suffer through a workout burping up turkey and pie.

Not a good idea.

Don't use Bank of America.

Let this be a recommendation not to use Bank of America.

I was formerly a BankBoston customer. Which then got bought by Fleet. Which was then bought by Bank of America. My primary checking account is t an online checking account that bears an interest rate of over 4%. I still maintain my Bank of America account so that I can deposit my house-mate's rent check without having to mail it in. That is the only thing I use it for. However, to avoid a maintenance fee, I need to keep a balance of $750 in the account. While I can do this, I find it annoying.

So. I decided to see if there's any way I can reduce my minimum balance without paying a maintenance fee (which is ridiculous, really; they're the ones making money by holding my cash; I get little out of it). I saw a Special Offer(!) on the web site. For a Limited Time Only, Bank of America was waiving the service fee on a different account that did not require a minimum balance.

Awesome. I called and switched.

Then I read the fine print. And called back.

As it turns out, in order to waive the fee, one needs to have at least one monthly direct deposit into the account. Unless, of course, one opens the account online. 'Cause it's an Exclusive Online Offer. Which, as I mentioned, is for a Limited Time Only. I don't do direct deposit on that account; it goes into my online interest-bearing account.

So I called back. And confirmed that they are, indeed, assholes.

Me: So you're telling me that your existing customers have to pay the fee, while new customers do not?

Phone Rep: Well, it is a promotional offer.

Me: Well, switch my account back. Which I will be closing next week.

Phone Rep: Sure. Is there anything else we can help you with today?

Don't use Bank of America.

I'll keep you posted on who has better deals.

Add some spice to your life.

Just don't do it with cinnamon.

Seriously.

We had poker night last night. Chris made lasagna (with his own sauce; it was awesome). We had spiced apple cider. And near the end of the night, I somehow ended up eating half a stick of cinnamon.

It made me sick.

Don't do it.

On similies and song lyrics.

I listen to the radio. The local pop station.

Perhaps that's my first mistake.

Because a few days ago, I was driving to work. As many of you know, I have a severe affliction that causes me to actually listen to song lyrics. For whatever reason, I wasn't really paying attention that day. It's likely I was thinking of something else, something mindless and silly, like an argument for a motion to suppress, or a series of questions for a killer cross.

And then I heard it. The dulcet tones of American Idol winner Jordin Sparks telling me:

You’re still a part of everything I do.
You’re on my heart just like a tattoo.
Just like a tattoo.
I’ll always have you.

I mean. Really-

I mean-

I-I-I-I-

I'm speechless.

Seriously?

What the fuck is that lyric? (I try not to swear here, but I'm really at a loss on this one.)

I'm going to ignore the fact that the song makes no sense. It was as if someone strung some words together that happened to rhyme. And when the songwriter couldn't come up with a rhyme? Well, nothing rhymes with "you" better than another "you." And the rhyme for "moment"? Surely, "broken" was perfect! Yeah, I'll ignore the lack of meaning and ridiculous rhyming. For now.

But, shit, come on, man. We are now comparing the permanency of love to the permanency of a tattoo? You know, that is damned near poetic. Because when I got my tattoo... well, let's just say it wasn't one of my better moments. I'm a tad regretful now that I'm no longer twenty-one. So I have no issue comparing that stupid mistake to, oh, the love I thought I felt for some ex-boyfriend.

In case you weren't paying attention earlier, let's recap:

Bad radio station.

Jordin Sparks.

You’re on my heart just like a tattoo.
Just like a tattoo.

I don't even have anything to say.

Please put me out of my misery.

Odd side effects.

Chris was here for the weekend. Neither of us felt very well, so we ended up watching lots of TV. Which is how we happened across a commercial for Mirapex, used to treat Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS).

According to the National Institute of Neurological Disorders, RLS is characterized by "unpleasant sensations in the legs and an uncontrollable urge to move when at rest in an effort to relieve these feelings." These aforementioned sensations " are often described by people as burning, creeping, tugging, or like insects crawling inside the leg." Also, it is important to note that many folks with RLS have difficulty falling asleep because of the bug-like, creepy-crawly sensations.

Lucky for RLS-sufferers that Mirapex came along. It relieves symptoms of RLS. Awesome!

But wait. There's more.

Mirapex has some unsavory side effects. According to the television advert, Mirapex "may cause you to feel drowsy or fall asleep." Given the fact that those who have RLS experience difficulty falling asleep, this doesn't seem a bad thing, right? Right?

Then we saw the commercial again. And we caught the entire sentence: "Mirapex may cause you to feel drowsy or fall asleep during normal activities such as driving." Um. Falling asleep. During normal activities. Such as driving. Okay then. Still, though, that's not an awful side effect. Right?

But wait. There's more.

If you're on Mirapex, contact your doctor if you "experience increased gambling, sexual, or other intense urges."

Hmmm. So which is worse? The symptoms or RLS or the side effects of the treatment?

A fair and balanced look at Saluti Cahn.

From the tracking of my blog (I feel oh so very technologically advanced!), I have learned that I get quite a few hits from folks searching for information regarding Saluti Cahn.

As always, I will refrain from comment.

I have, however, compiled a list of sites I've found regarding Saluti Cahn.

In the interest of being fair and balanced (much like Fox News), I have included all pertinent information. Please note that the views contained herein do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the author or her affiliates.

Saluti Cahn's official website.

Commentary from a former employee regarding SC's health insurance practices.

SC's principal's federal campaign contributions (if party affiliation matters to you).

Enjoy!

Post script, July 22, 2009.

I came back to this post because I noticed a comment had been posted to it. I discovered three broken links on this page. All three were from tripod-based blogs; I was taken to a page that stated that the pages had been deleted due to terms of service violations. Based on what I know of Dean Saluti, I deduce that he had the sites pulled. A Google search for Saluti Cahn proves that Dean has signed up for a gazillion business networking sites, in an effort to push unsavory reviews farther down in the search results.

I have this new finding:

A self-indulgent blog by Dean.

Post Script, February 24, 2010.

So I just discovered Saluti Cahn's "feedback" page. For more on it, check out this post.

New job.

It's official.

I just accepted a new job and gave notice.

Still public defending. Just in a different state.

(And when I say "in a different state," I mean geographically, not metaphysically.)

Dinner.

Tonight for dinner I had ramen noodles and tuna fish.

Why on earth would I eat that?

Well, my boyfriend recently made me stew. I sometimes like stew. I didn't like this stew, and ended up taking two bites and discarding the rest of what I'd ladled out for myself.

The problem for me with stew is the fat on the beef. It's not a health thing, mind you. See, when I eat any sort of red meat that's not in some sort of stew or soup or sauce, I can cut off every single itty-bitty piece of fat. This is a habit I developed at a very young age. While most people find red meat fat rather flavorful, I hate it. Unfortunately, when you get stew beef and don't trim it, it has all sorts of fat. So I tend not to eat it.

What's my problem with beef fat?

It's slimy.

Pickle.

I had a pickle in my lunch today.

It was slimy.

I threw it out.

Slimy stuff.

Apparently, this has been some controversy regarding my opinion that children are slimy. It was a flippant, offhanded comment. But lest y'all are concerned, I would like to take this opportunity to announce that I am of the opinion that there are many things out there that are slimy. I have compiled a list:

Oysters.

Uncooked liver (or chicken or beef, for that matter).

Boogers.

Slugs.

Worms.

The insides of frogs.

The outsides of frogs.

The insides of any living creature.

People who deal in hedge funds.

Unethical attorneys.

In fairness, I don't really like any of the above things. I am non-discriminating in my distaste for slimy things. I am sure that my opinions are not shared by the masses. Just as many folks like children, many folks also enjoy oysters.

So to my friends and readers who may have children (or who may like other slimy things): Rock on. You like kids? Good for you. You like unethical attorneys and boogers? Way to go. I respect your opinions.

Just keep that slime away from me.

On identity theft and bad karma.

Several years ago I was taking Advanced Constitutional Law. During the first class, we had a lengthy conversation regarding identity theft. People were waxing intellectual (as they often do in law school) until I raised my hand and announced:

"I live a pretty boring life. If someone wants my identity, he can have it."

Now, understand that I don't use my debit card. I like float. I charge everything (and I mean everything) and then pay my credit card in full at the end of every month. I hate cash and avoid using it. I don't believe in consumer debt. Creditors hate me, as they never make any money. How do I do this on my trying-do-be-a-do-gooder civil servant salary? Well, I try to live an ascetic life.

Despite the fact that I don't use my debit card (except for ATM withdrawals), a few years after my identity theft proclamation, someone charged $80 at a restaurant in California and $800 at The Children's Place at an outlet mall in a bordering state. I didn't buy children's stuff. I don't even like children. I think they're slimy.

Clearly, it was karma kicking me in the ass. Unlike with credit card companies, regular ol' banks don't like to grant provisional credit. They did not want to put the money back in my checking account. I had to yell and scream and stay on the phone for a very long time, and demand to speak to supervisors before the problem was fixed.

After that was fixed, I lived the good life for another year.

That year ended today.

I checked my credit card transactions online (because I'm just that anal). There was a charge for $9.48 for EST COMPANY; it was made on this past Saturday. I googled this "company." Nothing. I don't really care about the ten bucks all that much; but I don't dig unauthorized credit card use. So I called my credit card company. They canceled the card and are sending out another one. But in order to put the charge in dispute, I had to call the vendor's number (the vendor that's located in Boca Raton; it was a non-Internet purchase, and live nowhere near Florida, much less Boca). The number didn't connect.

So I called the company back and got the credit back. It was only ten bucks, so they didn't require an affidavit from me.

What is this mess?

It's karma. Again. Giving me a swift kick in the ass.

Moral of the story: Don't joke about identity theft. It'll come back to get'cha.

From the journal of a neurotic woman.

I got to work today at 6:55 a.m.

This is not atypical.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Legally ridiculous.

I had a two o'clock appointment this afternoon for which I was adorably nervous. I was so nervous, in fact (adorably so), that I made my boyfriend stay at my place until I got back from the appointment.

He has a class tonight at five, and an hour long commute can turn into an hour-and-a-half commute at 3:30 in the afternoon. But he stayed and waited at my place until I returned at 3:30. Now that's love. But I digress...

I got home and went upstairs to my extra-bedroom-cum-office-never-used-cum-den. He was watching a DVD. I looked at the television. Legally Blonde.

I don't know which his worse. The fact that I own not only Legally Blonde, but also Legally Blonde 2 (they came together; really, they did). Or the fact that he was watching it.

Solution to the Arab-Israeli conflict.

Preemptive caveat: This may be offensive to some.

This is true. Happened today. Seriously. It's a lunchtime conversation at the office between me, Guy From Work and Girl From Work. The others -- Investigator, Secretary, Boss, Girl From Work, and Random Former-PD Who Was Visiting -- looked on, amused.

Me: So Chris and I were having a little debate last night.

Guy From Work: Yeah?

Me: Yeah. I showed him a letter my mom had written to The Nation about the Israeli/Palestinian thing. He was disagreeing with what my mom was saying. Which is fine. But, of course, I totally had to take Mom's side. So I start defending Israel, and Chris starts telling me that what they're doing would be like us -- the U.S. -- going somewhere, taking over, and displacing the people who already live there.

So I think to myself, hey, isn't that what we -- the U.S. already did? Which I mention to him. And then the perfect solution occurred to me.

Guy From Work: You've already told us that the solution would be to let Israel have Florida.

Me: Well, the Jews are there already. Except that we'd have to get rid of the Cubans.

Girl From Work: And the Haitians.

Me: Probably wouldn't work.

Girl From Work: Probably not.

Me: So the new perfect solution. Since it worked for the U.S. last time. Set up Palestinian reservations and grant them gaming rights.

Guy From Work: You know what game they'd play, don'tcha?

Me: Russian roulette.

Weight loss.

Disclaimer: This entry is girly and whiny and pretty obnoxious.

I am all about instant gratification. So even though my exercise/eating better program only started on September 15, I am impatient. And even though I've lost six or so pounds and a few inches from my waist, I am not satisfied.

Which makes me one of those crazy, weight/size obsessed women I hate.

The fact that I allow myself occasional chocolate or fries doesn't help my position much.

But I apparently made a mistake a little while ago. When getting rid of all the clothes that no longer fit me, I held on to a pair of J. Crew corduroy pants. I found them this morning in my closet and took a peek at the size.

Size 4.

Hell, I can't remember ever being that small. But apparently I was, because I remember buying them only two years ago at the outlet, during a shopping excursion with a girl from the legal clinic I was in.

I am all about instant gratification. And now that I found these damn pants, I simply hate waiting for them to fit. (Though to be honest, I can't imagine that they ever will).

Reason #438 to hate the Red Sox.

I preface this entry by stating that it's not just the Red Sox I hate. It's all professional sports. Baseball, basketball, football, etc, etc, etc. I am indiscriminate in my hatred. I view professional sports as an excuse for grown men to get drunk and act like moronic babies.

But today, the Red Sox really incurred my wrath.

I had a motion to suppress scheduled. This is the second time it has been scheduled; the first time, the state trooper did not show up because he hadn't enough notice of the motion (even though I filed it on the agreed-upon "file by" date). The judge granted the opposition's continuance, over my objection.

We showed up today. While one of the troopers was there, the one that was actually present when my client was stopped was missing. And why? He was sent to Boston. Because Boston needed extra manpower. For the parade.

The parade? What effing parade?

The parade for the Rod Sox.

The opposition explained this to the judge, who granted the continuance over my objection.

So the Red Sox get their parade, while my client sits in jail, waiting to vindicate her rights. Which only proves that professional sports are more important than the Fourth and Fifth Amendment rights of poor people.

Go Sox.

So. Tired.

I've been very tired lately. More tired than I should be. Exhausted, in fact.

The fact that I've never been able to sleep very well for very long doesn't help much.

I left work early yesterday, told my boss I wasn't feeling well, was too tired to accomplish anything. Which was true. I spent the day looking at the world through a thick, hazy fog. I took work home with me, but didn't look at it. Why? I was asleep by seven last night.

I woke at midnight, briefly.

And again at five of five, before my alarm went off (it was set for 5:03).

I got to work at little after six to do the work I didn't do yesterday.

I printed a few motions I need to file, discovered a tragic typo on one I have already filed, and went over some material for the motion to suppress I have scheduled for today. But I'm still tired -- even though I slept last night. Too tired to even really be nervous about my hearing today. Too tired, in fact, to watch horrible '80s music videos on youtube.

Yes, you heard correctly: too tired to watch horrible '80s music videos.

Something must be wrong.

Poetry.

The truth is (and I know this may be viewed as blasphemous by some), I hate poetry. Hate it. It bores me and gives me visions of pretentious high school and undergraduate students. Even the so-called good stuff irritates me.

Or maybe it's just that I don't "get" poetry.

I have a theory that most people don't get poetry. They just pretend to in order to sound deep and smart.

Much like the people who claim to enjoy the film "Lost in Translation."

On rehydrating beef jerky.

We were supposed to have pizza at work on Friday. However, the natives were getting restless before lunchtime, and I was very hungry. Guy From Work and The Investigator were in my office when I decided to pull out my emergency bag of beef jerky. Lo and behold, someone had forgotten to seal the re-sealable Ziploc-esque seal. My jerky had gone stale.

"My jerky has gone stale," I announced.

"Jerky can't go stale," Guy From Work said. (He's a real know-it-all sometimes.)

I disagreed with him, and we got into a discussion on the merits and downfalls of stale jerky. Somewhere along the line, we decided to attempt to rehydrate the stale jerky.

I took a small piece of jerky, ran it under water, wrapped in a piece of paper towel, and put it in the microwave for twenty seconds.

The jerky did not rehydrate. It started smoking.

On grammatically incorrect graffiti.

In the public restroom on the second floor of the courthouse, the following is written in black permanent marker:

Susie sucks more cock than whores on a Friday night

Argh!

I mean, come on. If you're going to insist on defiling an already-disgusting public restroom, at least do it with proper grammar.

On sex (in the context of long term relationships).

My friends all seem to be getting married or divorced.

The folks in their late twenties to early thirties are getting married. The folks in their mid to late thirties and early forties are either getting divorced or have been divorced.

The ones in between... Well, the newlyweds are all happy in their townhouses and condos. They're still glowing with recent post-marriage bliss. They're planning on squirting out children. The ones who've been married for a while mostly bitch about how they're not having sex. (It should be noted that my newlywed friends tend to be women, while my friends who have been married for some time tend to be men.)

Based on this, I've become hesitant towards marriage. I've found few people who are married and happy. The general trend seems to be married or happy. One of Chris's professors even told the class that once a couple gets married, it's all over; there's nothing to work towards anymore, and so the romance dies. The marriage is the end result, and children are apparently a reason (maybe the reason?) to stay together.

This seems a sad commentary. Especially for me, who feels neither the need, nor the desire to reproduce.

The lack of sex in during marriage seems to be epidemic. I hear it from everyone. I hear it from the divorcees as well as from the married-for-a-while folks. And so I ask them: How often do you have sex? How little is not enough? The answers always astound me: once a month. Once a month!

I don't understand. I mean, sure, I can see the novelty wearing off. I can see sex becoming routine, or even perfunctory. People have to work at keeping things fun and lively and exciting. That's just the reality of long term relationships. But once a month?? Hell, once a week is too infrequent for me.

As if that weren't bad enough, I am now hearing of people in long term relationships (non-marriages) who have sex infrequently. Friends who have lived with their girlfriends for less than a year are having sex twice a month. I am simply aghast.

I mean, sure, I'm the girl who has stayed in dead-end relationships just because the sex was good and plentiful. But twice a month? After having lived together for six months???

Which made me start thinking about Chris. I adore Chris, but he claims that he never had exceptional sex prior to our relationship. Whether I believe him entirely... well, I've not decided yet. But I don't want him to move in and then get to the point where sex is a chore. I don't want him putting out only once every week-and-a-half and then being resentful that I'm asking for too much. (I know he's a guy, but this has actually happened to me before.)

I just don't get it. I don't understand why people stop having sex. I don't understand how people let it get boring. And I really, really do not want to become one of them.

Tea and soldiers?

My boyfriend, Chris, wrote me an e-mail this afternoon describing what he wants to do this weekend. At one point, he said, "We'll make tea and soldiers."

I became confused. Tea and soldiers?

At first I thought that perhaps "soldiers" is a euphemism I'm not familiar with. Or, perhaps, there was some obscure definition. So I looked up "soldiers" in the dictionary. And there is an obscure definition:

A sexually undeveloped form of certain ants and termites, having large heads and powerful jaws.

For some reason, I don't think that's what he meant.

So it was off to Wikipedia. Nada.

With that depressing result, I realized I had to do some further research.

First, I turned up a comment on a political blog:

And to think, our founding fathers went to war over some taxes on their tea and soldiers sleeping in their barns. How much will we put up with?

I mean, sure, the sentiment is kinda cool. But I have not found my answer.

Next was some more history from Peter Parley's Universal History, On the Basis of Geography, by Peter Parley, Elizabeth Manning Hawthorne and Nathanial Hawthorne. Page 474 reveals the following:

They made so strong an opposition to the Stamp Act that parliament was forced to repeal it But a tax was soon afterwards laid on tea and soldiers were sent to America to enforce the payment of the duty.

Oy. That can't be it, either.

My final discovery was a thread having to do with childhood memories. In one, a woman talked about cooking with her mum. Her final fond memory was:

Staying at Grannie's and having half a grapefruit, boiled egg, tea and soldiers in her little kitchen.

Hmmmm. She did say "mum." Which means she must be British. Chris did live in England during his boyhood. Hmmmm. Interesting. It must be a whacky English thing. That's it!

Of course, I still don't know tea and soldiers entails. So help me out and let me know.

On being in court. Or: ARGH!

I have been in court every day for the past twenty-one work days. I am in court for the next two. Then I have a blissful Friday in the office, followed by a week with four non-court days.

I've had full weeks before. But I usually get at least a day to, you know, actually prepare cases rather than just sit in court waiting for my cases to be called.

But oh, oh, oooooh. I can't remember the last time I was this excited for the week to be over.

I am a bit concerned.

I usually get to work somewhere between 7:20 and 7:40. Most others arrive about an hour later. I like the time to relax, prepare for the day, and read my work e-mail. It's quiet. I am not tempted to talk to colleagues when I should be working.

But today, I am a bit concerned. I got in, got some water, and sat down to read my work e-mail. And I found this message from my boss concerning an "important directive":

Effective immediately all personnel will stop calling employees by their Christian names and will cease wearing pork-pie hats...

I find this a bit odd.

Post Script. I did some research and found the following that sheds some light on the e-mail I received:

The hat was prevalent in New Guinea in January 1944, when Australian troops had just defeated a Japanese stronghold at Kankiryo Saddle. The book Australia in the War of 1939—1945 Series 1—Army Volume VI—The New Guinea Offensives (1st Edition 1961) states on page 766:

According to the historian of the 2/10th Battalion, when word was received that General Vasey would visit the area on the 2nd, a signal was sent to all companies: "Other ranks will cease calling officers by their Christian names and will cease wearing pork-pie hats."

Then Tony shaved the llama.

Do I really need to tell you which misheard lyric that really is?

The Great Hoodie Caper.

I am convinced that there is a magical misfit out there. His commits all sorts of crimes. He is a nefarious creature. A drug dealer, gang banger, and thief. He is the lowest of the low, the bottom rung of humanity, lower and less intelligent than a single-celled amoeba. Less intelligent, even, than a horny, Republican law student (and second only to this man, they are the worst types of creatures out there). He sells drugs in school zones, he robs convenient stores, he beats his girlfriends and pimps them out to support his habit, he holds people hostage inside fast food restaurants. The amazing thing? He does all these things without ever getting caught.

His name is Hoodie Man.

Hoodie Man resides in high crime areas, where men wearing hoodies are virtually ubiquitous. And how does he avoid getting caught? He wears his hoodie during his crime sprees; people rarely see his hair or his face when he is in action. And when he is not committing crime, he takes his hoodie off. Which is why no one can ever recognize him.

So what happens? Some other poor chump who happens to be wearing a hoodie gets accused of Hoodie Man's crimes.

Hoodie Man usually wins, at least when it comes to pinning his crimes on other people. (We don't know whether he'd actually win at trial, since he's never been caught.) My poor clients who own hoodies get picked up again and again because of Hoodie Man's actions.

However, occasionally, I am triumphant. I received the judge's findings today on a recent motion to suppress. He allowed the motion, finding that because the only description given of a suspect was that he was wearing a hoodie, the police did not have reasonable suspicion to warrant a pat frisk of my client, who was only stopped because he was wearing a hoodie.

Take that, Hoodie Man.

Poor grammar nauseates me.

Every now and then someone will say, "I'm nauseous."

This always makes me giggle a little bit. Sometimes, if I don't like the person, I'll think to myself: You sure are nauseous, bitch!

The word nauseous means causing nausea. Something that makes other people feel sick. If you feel sick yourself? Then you feel nauseated.

Of course, all this is falling by the wayside. If you look up the word nauseous in an online dictionary, you will find that the common usage (read: incorrect usage) wins over, and the first definition is: to feel nauseated. This is wrong. It is as wrong as using the word melancholy as an adjective (it's a noun; the adjective form is melancholic).

Alas. Language is ever-evolving. Which means that when people misuse words long enough, they become "proper."

As for me, I implore you all. Bring proper usage back! You are no longer nauseous, friends and neighbors. You are nauseated! Change your usage. Do it in the name of grammar. Do it to feel intellectually superior. If those reasons aren't enough for you, then just do it for the Saucy Vixen.

Kitty cat.

A colleague has a former client who wants to sleep with her. He comes to the office on occasion to bring her little tidbits. Two weeks ago it was a very vaginal-looking plant and a tiny cat figurine.

Yesterday, I pointed out to her that both are vaginal gifts.

Her response: "A kitty isn't vaginal."

My retort: "It is if you call it a pussy."

Saving.

The official spelling is Daylight Saving Time, not Daylight SavingS Time.

Saving is used here as a verbal adjective (a participle). It modifies time and tells us more about its nature; namely, that it is characterized by the activity of saving daylight. It is a saving daylight kind of time. Because of this, it would be more accurate to refer to DST as daylight-saving time. Similar examples would be a mind-expanding book or a man-eating tiger.Saving is used in the same way as saving a ball game, rather than as a savings account.

Nevertheless, many people feel the word savings flows more mellifluously off the tongue. Daylight Savings Time is also in common usage, and can be found in most dictionaries.

Adding to the confusion is that the phrase Daylight Saving Time is innaccurate, since no daylight is actually being saved. Daylight Shifting Time would be better, but is not as politically desirable.

Motion denied.

Big fuckin' surprise. I mean, being a prosecutor is like being a Yankees fan: Your team wins even when it shouldn't.

Trial is scheduled for tomorrow. Mandatory minimum. Turd of a case. But at least we'll go down fighting.

Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been, nor will I ever be, a sports fan. I bow out of the Yankees/Red Sox controversy, which -- trust me -- is very difficult to do. I just stole the analogy from someone else, who said it back when the Sox were still losing all the time.

Cops versus Clients.

When cops do it it's called a "pat frisk."

When my clients do it it's called "indecent assault and battery."

And they say there's no justice.

Testilying.

I had a motion to suppress today in a case involving a search warrant. I argued an extremely narrow issue. The factual issue: the police report failed to mention a detail regarding how the warrant was executed.

I have no doubt that the search occurred the way it was written. That is, the detail was left out of the report because it never happened.

The prosecutor presented one witness; while the officer who testified was on the scene, he was not the officer who wrote the police report. Also, he was not the officer who purportedly did the thing that was never mentioned in the police report.

I told my boss this morning: "The cop'll take the stand, lie about what happened, I'll put my guy on to testify to contradict it, and then the motion will be denied."

It's not so much that I think police officers actively lie. Rather, I don't think they remember one case from the next. As this officer said, he's executed over a hundred warrants during the past two years. The purpose of the police report is to record the details because, really, cops can't be expected to remember the details on every single thing they do. Do some cops actively lie? Sure. But for the most part, I think they fill in the blanks and connect the dots during testimony. They know the standards and the rules; they know what they have to say to win.

Conversely, a defendant likely remembers pretty damn well what happened. He's had a single encounter that is pretty life-changing. The execution of a search warrant isn't just work to a criminal defendant. It's something out of the ordinary. It's something particularly memorable.

(The above should not be construed as a dimwitted notion that defendants never lie. That would be silly and naive. It's merely an illustration that a defendant is more apt to remember the details of an an interaction with police than a police officer is to remember an interaction with a citizen.)

The really irritating part? Even when the cops fill in the empty spaces (or just out-and-out lie), they're generally believed. People want to believe their police officers.

In the meantime, the judge took the motion under advisement. The trial is scheduled for Friday. I await my denial.

The veal of humanity.

So Chris and I were discussing cannibalism a while back. I told him that he'd likely not taste very good. He'd be all stringy and gristly. He responded by telling me that I would taste delicious. Why? Because I'd stew in my own fat juices. How sweet. He's good like that.

Then I got to thinking. It's been argued that if people turned to cannibalism, it would be so wonderful, that we'd not be able to go back. Which made me wonder what the best tasting human would be. The answer: babies. All that tender, succulent goodness.

Mmmmmm. Babies.

Third Way Clients.

Third Way Clients are the one who believe there's a third way. You present two options, and they want the third. Conversations with such clients generally results in withdrawal from representation.

A watered-down example of such a conversation goes like this:

Client: I want to go to trial.

Me: Okay. We'll set up a trial date.

Client: When?

Me: At the very least, sixty days.

Client: That's bullshit. I've been in here a month and I have to wait another two?

Me: If you want a trial, yes.

Client: What if I cop to this today?

Me: With your record, no judge is going to give you more than six months. You'd likely be out at halftime, in two months.

Client: But I didn't do this shit.

Me: Alright then. We'll set up a trial date.

Client: Can you get my bail lowered?

Me: I can try.

Client: Think they'll drop it?

Me: No.

Client: Why not?

Me: Because you have a history of not showing up in court. You failed to appear on your last six cases. Your bail is $500, which I understand you can't post, but it's highly, highly unlikely that any judge is going to lower it with your history of defaults. It doesn't mean I won't bring you in for a bail review, but I don't want you to get your hopes up.

Client: I didn't do this shit, man. Can't you get it dismissed?

Me: No, I can't do that. I understand that you're frustrated, but I have no legal grounds to ask for a dismissal today.

Client: So if I cop to this, I get out in two months?

Me: Yes.

Client: And I'm stuck here for two months for trial?

Me: Yes.

Client: That's bullshit.

Me: You're right. It's total bullshit.

Client: Man, you're just not in my corner. You don't wanna fight for me.

Me: Hey, I agree that this is bullshit. I want to fight for you. But this is the reality we're dealing with.

Client: Fuck you. I want a new lawyer.

Me: You got it.

This is a sanitized version of such a discussion. Usually there's a lot more swearing on the part of the client, and a lot more interrupting. Often, there are more frequent attempts on my behalf to explain the law. The end result is always the same with these clients: A client wants out, and at the realization that he's going to be stuck in jail until his trial date, it becomes my fault. Luckily, I've had very few of these types of clients. But they never cease to annoy me.

I need advice.

I'm thinking of taking a swing dancing class. I wanted to take Spanish, but it's too late to enroll. And I really have no interest in wedding planning, accounting, or Microsoft Word for Morons. So swing dancing it is.

Should I? Ya think? Could be fun, right?

On headlines.

My undergraduate degree is in print journalism. But I was never good at writing headlines. On an exam, when given a story about a beer contest, I came up with:

Guinness Gives Good Head

My professor was not amused. However, it was not the worst I ever came up with. When given a story about a local teacher dying, and told to write a two deck headline with a specific character count, I came up with:

Teacher Dies
Due to Death

It was the nadir of my headline-writing career. (Note, however, how the characters line up; this was, perhaps, the only good thing about this headline.)

Fortunately, I was a better copy editor than I was a headline-writer. When people put errors in headlines, I caught 'em. Not so with my professor. Well, at least on one occasion. She told the following story:

As head copy editor working the night shift for the early edition, she was ultimately in charge of everything that was printed in said early edition. Prior to print, when the layout team was just filling space, they would put in mock-ups, or what are called "dummy" headlines or "heds." Imagine her chagrin when the following headline went to print:

Dummy Hed For Dummy Story

Quite tragically, the story happened to be about special education kids. Although my she was called into the publisher's office the next morning, she was not fired.

Nonetheless, it's amusing to see that these sort of things still happen.

Trial strategy.

I am at the office early this morning because I have a school zone case scheduled for trial today. This makes me extremely anxious and a little nauseated.

Since I've lost my taste for beef jerky, I've decided that today's trial strategy will include watching this in order to assuage my nerves.

After all, the only thing better than '80s music is fake '80s music.

Justice?

The courthouse where I work is called The Hall of Justice. It's a misnomer, which I suppose is vaguely entertaining.

What is more entertaining, however, is what is inscribed in two-foot tall letters on the front of the edifice:

Obedience to Law is Liberty.

Right. And war is peace

My type.

When I was younger -- in high school -- I found myself attracted to tall skinny-but-not-too-skinny guys. More recently, however, I've found myself attracted to a different type. Tall, yes. I adore tall guys. Six feet and taller is dreamy. (The dreamiest man I've ever known is about 6'6", I think.) But I find the bad-boy look to be sexy. I don't like bad boys, mind you. Just the look. Shaved head, ink, motorcycle-riding men. Larger built men who don't make me feel like an ogre when I'm naked with them. That's my type.

My boyfriend is not my preferred type at all.

(I must digress for a moment and state that few of my boyfriends have been my type. Serious Boyfriend #1 was 6'4", but huskier than I usually like; he looked like a wookie. Serious Boyfriend #2 was 5'9" and weighed about 230; he was shorter and stockier than I generally dig. Boyfriend #3 was my type, as described above. And Serious Boyfriend #4 was 5'8" and I'd be surprised if he weighed more than 120; way too thin for my tastes.)

Despite Chris not being the type I am traditionally attracted to, I realized something today: My boyfriend is hot.

You can't keep a good man (or sex offender) down.

Many of you already know about the saga of my sex offender. The one who plead to failing to register, and was then held on a violation of his community parole supervision for life because he was homeless. People who kept track of the story may also remember that I filed a habeas in the matter. And they may also remember that he was released the day before the hearing was to go before the judge.

Pesky little suckers. Not letting me litigate the issue of an unconstitutional imposition of lifetime community parole.

About a week after he was released, I got a call from his parole officer. "He has absconded," she told me. "He is in violation of his parole."

I haven't heard from him since his release. To my knowledge, he hasn't turned up yet.

I wish him well.

* * *

Post Script. What this means is that if he does turn up, I'll have another issue to litigate. He was already violated once. Another violation would place him in jail for six months instead of thirty days. And so the issue the next time around will be appealing the first violation as unconstitutional on the basis that the only basis for the purported violation the first time around was his homelessness.

On guns.

I have always professed to hate guns. In the abstract, ideological sense. Guns kill people. So do overzealous right-to-lifers, mind you. But guns make it a lot easier. There is no reason to own a handgun. It's not as if people go deer hunting with semi-automatics. The only reason, in my mind, to own a handgun, is to kill someone. That's it.

But damn, when they're not killing people, they're a lot of fun.

At lunch today, a colleague was expressing what a tough week she had had in court. It's true, too. From Friday until today, her job has been annoying and unfair. She's had to deal with a lot of difficult people and I do not envy her that. She mentioned cutting out a little early. To get away from it all. We all suggested she do something, some activity, to get out the negative energy.

Somehow, the idea of shooting came up. And so, five of us left a tad early today and went to the local shooting range. We had a minute long lecture of gun safety and operation. For $28, we could get a shooting lane, a gun, and a box of .22 caliber bullets. We purchased four lanes and had at it.

I was paranoid at first, paying more attention to safety than shooting. But it soon became evident that I wasn't going to shoot off my hand, and I began to relax. It was at that point that I realized that I am a crappy shot. I hit the ceiling more than I hit the target. Nevertheless, it was great fun. For me, it wasn't a power trip. I didn't feel powerful. Quite the contrary, I felt foolish. If given a gun in an uncontrolled environment, I'm way more likely to shoot my own foot than to ward off danger (or kill a would-be rapist or murderer before he raped or murdered me). But it was, quite simply, great fun.

I have always professed to hate guns. Guns kill people.

I just wish they weren't so much fun to shoot.

Part II: My boyfriend is a nerd.

I quit smoking yesterday.

Of course, it doesn't really count as having quit since it's only been forty-eight hours. Quitting smoking is merely a lull in smoking and is not actual quitting until ninety days have passed. Anything short of that is the inchoate stages of quitting. It's pre-quitting. It's not-quite-quitting.

I digress.

I got home today and brought in the mail. Among the pieces of junk-mail was an envelope with only my first name written on it.

Ah-ha! Chris is at it again, I thought to myself.

I went into the kitchen and took the bottle of water I take to work every day but don't drink out of my bag. I saw an envelope on my kitchen table propped up by the salt shaker.

I carried both envelopes upstairs with me to my room. I wanted to change out of my suit before I read anything. And then I saw another envelope on my bed. So I took the three envelopes into my office/den so I could sit on my couch and read 'em. There on the coffee table was another.

He left me cards again, encouraging me to keep not-smoking.

He's the best.

On smoking.

I had my first cigarette when I was fourteen. But I didn't really start smoking until my freshman year of college. I was shy and it was an easy way to meet people. "I can stop whenever I want," I told myself, in my moronic eighteen-year-old fashion. I was wrong.

When I graduated from college, I decided to cut back, rationalizing that I would eventually quit. I went from a pack a day to about a half a pack a day, give or take, and than remained my cigarette intake for about two years (give or take).

Then, the summer prior to law school, I moved in with my parents for three months (something I swore I'd never do), worked out five days a week, lived on something nearly as absurd as nine hundred calories a day, and quit smoking. I didn't smoke for two months shy of two years. I currently smoke as few as two cigarettes a day and as much as eight cigarettes a day.

I decided on Thursday that I would quit on Monday. Someone in my office quit back in June (had a brief relapse, and I think re-quit) and did the patch thing. We heard a lot about it at the office -- heard about the quitting and about the patch and all that jazz. I know that for some people, it's easier to talk about it. But I don't wanna be that person. I'm not doing the patch or the gum or any of that stuff. I'm just stopping.

So like I said, I decided that I would quite on Monday. I had one (one!) cigarette yesterday. And since I'd not smoked today, I thought to myself, "Self, why bother smoking at all today? May as well quit a day early." I had two smokes left in my pack, so instead of throwing 'em out, I ran 'em under water and then threw 'em out. I knew if I didn't do that, I'd be the pathetic person taking them out of the trash.

And now? Now I wish I hadn't watered 'em down.

Calling all the ladies.

I was talking to a friend of mine about going to the gynecologist. I hadn't gone since November 2002. She was appalled. When asked why I hadn't gone, I explained that I hate being told how unhealthy I am. And I hate being weighed.

She explained that going to the gynecologist isn't all that bad. She explained her last visit. How her lady doctor (and I don't mean lady parts doctor; her doc is a woman) warmed the instruments before inserting them. She held them under the light and them ran warm water over them. She made the trip to the gynecologist like a spa for the pussy. She probably even sprinkled my friend's vagina with tea tree and lavender oil, too. They do that sort of stuff in Crunchy Town, where my friend lives.

And then the lady doctor inserted her finger into my friend's rectum.

This has never happened to me before. No one has ever digitally violated me at the gynecologist's office. I always thought that they were separate parts, and that the gynecologist had no business going there. She got me all paranoid that I'd be getting something shoved past my most southern sphincter during my doctor's visit this afternoon. I am happy to report that this did not happen.

My question to all you ladies out there is: Is it normal to have a digital rectal exam during a regular maintenance trip to the gynecologist? I'm curious as to what others have experienced.

Time to change.

I went for my annual today. I was not happy about this. I knew they would put me on their evil scale and then prod my lady parts with their devil tools. Truth is, the worst part was the weigh-in. I'm at my top weight. This is not good.

When I asked the doc about birth control (even though I smoke), he told me that he'd give it to me not because it's a good idea, but because even though I'm a smoker, I'm under thirty-five.

In the end, he essentially told me what my last doc told me at my last annual exam in 2002 (albeit in a more polite manner): I've overweight, don't exercise enough, have blood pressure on the high side, and really need to take better care of myself.

The summer before I went to law school, I got in shape. I went to Curves with my mother. Yeah, I know, Curves is for old folks and out-of-shape losers. That was my thought, too. However, last time I went, I also quit smoking and lost twenty pounds in two months. The best part about it is that I actually, you know, go to Curves. When I had gym membership, I never went. The lack of structure at the gym puts me in an amotivational state. The time commitment is too much. Curves, I go, I spend my thirty-five minutes, get my exercise, and but for the awful music (which I secretly enjoy, in a We Built This City sort of way), it's painless.

It's time. Again. It's time to get myself in better shape. I have an appointment for my weigh-in and measure-in tomorrow at 5:30. I am quitting smoking when my current pack is finished, or on Monday, whichever comes first. I am going to eat better, particularly at work. No more Dunkin' Donuts sandwiches for lunch. Time to change. What excitement.

The perfect crime.

Saucy Vixen will go to jail for ... Carrying around a gun shaped like a penis 'What sexual activity will you go to jail for?' at QuizUniverse.com

A guy with a shaved head and tattoos is hot.

A guy with a shaved head and tattoos and a motorcycle is hotter.

My best friend, Mike (who happens to have a shaved head and tattoos), drives a pickup truck that doesn't go over fifty-five miles per hour (sixty at best). He paid five hundred dollars for it this past winter after his Neon got totaled and Geico decided not to pay for it. To add insult to injury, he's still making payments on the no-longer-functional Neon.

Unfortunately, Mike and I have not seen enough of each other lately. But we'll be seeing each other a lot more often coming up. And why? He's getting a motorcycle and I'm gonna be his bitch. It may only be a crotch rocket, but it still rocks.

Sure, it's a foolish purchase. Sure, the money would better be spent on, you know, a car that runs. But it's not for me to tell him how to spend his money.

Speaking of foolish purchases... I gotta get me some chaps.

Thoughts from the Ladies' Room.

Every now and then I walk into the public restroom in my office building and think to myself, wow, it smells like shit in here.

And then I think: Well, at least it's the appropriate place to smell like shit.

I'm not a nerd!

I totally stole the following from Chris's LJ.





I am totally not a nerd, y'all. This comes as a bit of a surprise. Of course, it was all computer and science based. If they had word nerds, though, I may have scored higher. But then again, I believe that Scrabble is the worst game ever. So I guess I'm not a nerd after all.

Judicial discretion?

I am not making this up:

Authorities are investigating allegations that now-suspended Mobile County Circuit Judge Herman Thomas periodically removed prisoners from Mobile County Metro Jail and spanked them in a room at the courthouse, according to courthouse sources involved in the inquiry.

Once inside the room, according to the sources, the judge would ask the young men to drop their pants and prepare to be spanked with what they described as a wooden or fraternity-like paddle.

I can tell you don't believe me. But I'm sure you'll believe MSNBC.

The worst game ever.

I had never played Scrabble before.

"But Saucy Vixen," my friends would tell me. "What with your penchant for words, you'll rock at Scrabble."

It never seemed like much fun to me, though. It seemed like work. But not wanting to completely dismiss it, I decided I'd try it out.

Saturday I had some friends over. Chris cooked dinner. I bought a cake. And we played Scrabble.

And you know what? It's the worst game ever. When I say, it's the worst game ever, what I mean is: Scrabble is the WORST game ever.

You know what happened? Guy From Work won. He won. This is not surprising unto itself. What is surprising (and downright irritating) is how he won. At this point, I must take a slight digression: I don't like the challenging part of Scrabble. It's stupid. I lose a turn if I challenge the fact that Chris chose to spell the word "null" with only one "L"? Not cool. Not cool at all. So instead of taking the chance that I'd lose a turn, I kept a list of words I thought were bulltwaddle so I could look 'em up afterwards.

Guess what word Guy From Work used. Oe. What the fuck is oe? Spell check doesn't even pick it up! It's not even a word! (I apologize for offending the delicate sensibilities of my readership by using the f-word. I generally don't do such things, but this oe nonsense really cooks my goose.)

Oh, but it is. It's a damn weather formation off the coast of some African island. Even though you won't find "oe" on dictionary dot com, it was in the Scrabble dictionary. Total bull. Oe.

I hate you, Scrabble. Damn you. Damn you, Scrabble, to the Hell I don't believe in. Die, die, die. I hate you.

Part II: God?

My current boyfriend is into the God thing.

He's not pushy about it, would never demand that I share is his religious or spiritual beliefs, doesn't chastise me for the way I act in this regard, or for my feelings on the matter. Once, in the beginning, he announced that I do "believe" in God, I just don't know that I do. Since that time, he hasn't said much, other than the fact that he doesn't wish to discuss God or religion or spirituality with me.

This displeases me, if for no other reason than I don't like people to unilaterally decide for me which tops are and are not off limits for discussion. Just because I am dispassionate about the matter (or even passionately against the active practice of religion (for me, not for others)) should not disallow me from speaking intellectually about something. In short, I don't like being told what to do, and declaring an issue off limits is a form of telling me what I am allowed to speak about, what is acceptable to speak about.

But wait. There's more. As much as I hate to admit it, I am a bit resentful. Not of his relationship with God. (As an aside, I cringe when writing the phrase "relationship with God." I find the concept of a personal relationship with something called God so egomaniacal. As if this Thing Called God has time to develop relationships with all of his believers.) It's not his beliefs I resent, it's merely what I perceive to be his sense of spiritual entitlement, if you will. A sense of religious superiority. As if I am somehow less compassionate, less good, less of a person because I don't subscribe to a definite belief in the Almighty. As if he (and others who are steadfast in their beliefs in God) is somehow more "right" than I, "better" in some way.

This is, of course, likely my own issue, developed by past relationships and past dealings with people more religious and God-fearing or God-loving than I. It's not that I disbelieve in God, per se. It's more that I don't care to think about it. And I am resentful of the fact that most religious folks are haughty in their beliefs and arrogant in their humility.

"Finding" God isn't going to make me better, or more capable, or happier. I depend on myself to achieve what I want in and out of life. Why isn't that enough? Why does there have to be more? Why must people insist that I cannot be a healthy and vibrant person on my own?

I am a baker's wet dream.

Two-and-a-half weeks ago, I was at the doctor's office for a urinary-tract-cum-kidney infection. Doc gave me a ten-day dose of Ciprofloxacin. It's the anti-anthrax antibiotic. It's some serious stuff. It made me tired, it make me woozy, it made me feel like poop. But it cleared up the the infection.

Merely a day after the ten days were up -- Saturday -- I began to feel a tad itchy. I began to get that not-so-fresh feeling. I ignored it, convinced that the Powers That Be wouldn't be so evil as to throw another infection my way.

I was wrong.

The antibiotic killed nearly all the bacteria in my body. If I'd been exposed to anthrax, I'd have been set. But it killed the good stuff, too. Antibiotics: Our friends, our enemies. As it happened, it killed the bacteria that prevents an overgrowth of yeast.

So today, I finally went back to the doctor. "I have a yeast infection," I said, explaining my previous course of treatment.

He swabbed the delicate folds of my nether region and came back thirty seconds later. "You have a yeast infection," he said.

I could bake bread in my lady parts. I have a brewery in my pants. I am not happy.

God?

I've never really been big on the whole God thing.

When my parents made me go to shul with them on Rosh Hashanah -- long after I'd turned thirteen and they'd promised that religion would be my choice -- I became irate. Why did I have to go? I didn't see the point.

I remember trying to feel something during services. But all I got out of it was a lot of standing up, sitting down, reading along, and boring lectures made by Rabbis who didn't have a very good grasp on proper grammar. It was boring, really. I didn't feel some overwhelming sense of community. The dogma was bothersome. I could (and still can) recite the Sh'ma, but it's wholly rote; it means nothing to me.

For a while, I dated someone who is very involved in spirituality and personal growth. When I told him that I sold my soul on eBay, he insisted that despite that, I still do have a soul. When I spoke of my refusal to believe in some higher power, he pointed out the fallacy of my thinking in ways that I could understand. And so I became interested, and even hopeful, that there really is a something out there, something more, something bigger than us.

I tried to be spiritual. I read a lot, I learned a lot, and I talked a good game. I developed personal philosophies and pontificated on them. I talked about nonduality as if I had a clue. I professed to be uber-learned about earth-based spirituality and polytheism. I developed my own mores, and was often told that I had an extremely skewed moral compass. I relished that.

At the same time, I began to loathe all organized religious acts. I had a visceral reaction at weddings, at the recitation of Hebrew words, and the empty acts of Jewish tradition (not empty unto themselves, but empty because the people partaking in them had no clue why they were doing what they were doing, but followed the tradition blindly). At work, I would listen to people talk about their relationships with God. I would abstain from comment, holding my tongue, lest I say something offensive and and awful.

These days, I don't really have a set of beliefs. I abhor dogma in any form, including some of the tenets of Judaism. The mysticisms are fascinating, but I know so little about them. I can't stand blind faith. I don't look to God for the answers. I don't trust that everything will be "okay" because God will make it so.

Instead, I have faith in myself. I know I haven't lived that long, but I have gotten through everything that's been thrown my way thus far. I am strong and I am confident that everything will be okay. In fact, it's not even so much that I'm confident that things will be okay: I know it. I know that no matter what happens, things will be, well, fine.

I wish I believed in something more, something greater. I wish I could have that sort of faith in anything. But instead, I have to be content with knowing that I make my own decisions and that I am what makes me happy, or sad, or successful, or not. That will have to be enough.