License plates.

For those of you who don't know, I am in the process of buying a house. Which has made me even more busy than usual of late. Thus, not blogging. I'm waiting until I have something completely wonderful to say. In the meantime, however, entertain yourself with this.

(I love that this license plate is on a Lincoln.)

More on listening to song lyrics.

This proves that I am not the only one who listens to song lyrics.

This guy rocks.

Rant on "Friends" and Sugar Ray.

My job description.

Many of you think that I am a lawyer. However, this "lawyer" title is a bit of a misnomer. What I really am is an ass-watcher.

I can hear you now. An ass-watcher? The state pays you to watch asses all day? Why, that's absurd!

Absurd, but true. Every day I go to court is a day of ass watching. On any given court day, I'll have anywhere from one to nine matters scheduled. It doesn't really matter whether I have one or nine, however, because I will be sitting and waiting regardless. As I wait to the side of the courtroom for my case(s) to be called, I watch asses.

Truth be told, it's rather hard not to ass watch on the job. Invariably, as I wait, someone will be standing in front of me. I see asses of all shapes and sizes. The freakishly skinny woman with the perpetual wedgie. The lumps of shapeless doughy-ness of the middle aged men in ill-fitting suits. The occasional luscious curves of a woman with a halfway-decent figure.

I must concede that I look at women's asses far more than men's asses. Why? Because on a man, an ass is an ass. Except for extraordinary cases, they all look pretty much the same when hidden by suit trousers. But the women's asses are a veritable cornucopia of shapes and sizes. As we all know, women's dress pants tend to be rather tailored and fit snugly. Thus, all these women seem to suffer from the same problem: Visible Panty Line.

Visible Panty Line, or VPL as it is often referred to in the vernacular, is the bain of my existance. As a professional ass-watcher, I cringe in horror every time I see a woman's ass destroyed by the dreaded VPL. I wince in inner pain when I see an attractive young lady who is oh-so-obviously wearing up-to-her-neck cotton briefs (likely white).

Women! Learn the importance of purchasing thongs. Oh, there are those self-righteous femi-Nazi types who proclaim that a woman shouldn't have to be a thong. They prattle on about ass floss and other unsavory names for that delicate undergarment. At the end of the day, however, a person always looks better and is taken more seriously if she doesn't have a huge line on her ass destroying her professional image.

Thongs, ladies. For all the time and money we spend pretending to be professional attorneys (as opposed to professional ass-watchers), a two dollar thong purchased at Wal-Mart can really you look like a million bucks.

This concerns me.

And then God created the banana.

I don't think I really have much else to say. Thoughts?

Urges.

I'm a woman. I've not needs. I've got urges. Sometimes I even find it difficult to exercise self-control.

I had an urge today. In the elevator. But I controlled myself. It was difficult. I had to exercise such a level of self-restraint that I nearly fainted.

I found myself in the elevator on a journey from the third floor where I work to the ground level. I stood uncomfortably, watching the red LCD display with the red arrow pointing down. 3 --> 2 --> 1. I was joined in the elevator by a pregnant woman, my carpool buddy, and a young attorney who works for the same agency as I. I gave a sidelong glance to the young attorney, who I've never found particularly attractive.

Then all at once, I felt it. A current that started in my belly, and extended quickly to my index finger. I forced it down. Forced down that nearly-uncontrollable urge to stick my finger in the young attorney's chin dimple.

Another Saturday night.

I was invited to two parties tonight. I was asked on a date or two. Mike mentioned coming out to see him in New York City. I had the world at my fingertips when I woke up this morning... all these possibilities. The options were endless.

I woke up before 9. I did some laundry. I went to Trader Joe's and Stop & Shop. I was productive. Then you know what I did? At noon, I had two meals, ate way too much, and justified it by with the notion that I'd not had breakfast. (I had Trader Joe's sushi as a warm up, a bagel with cream cheese and lox, and dessert of dried dragon fruit and chili-covered mango. Who eats like this??? I'm hoping I have a tapeworm; I think I may be losing my girlish figure.) Then I dicked around surfing the 'net and took a late-afternoon two-and-a-half-hour nap.

I'm up now. I could go out. But I'm wearing the plaid pajama pants that I stole from Caitlin in 1995, and an oversize sweatshirt. So I'm going to walk to the video store with my roommate. I'm not going to change. I'm not even going to put on a bra. But this option still seems the most appealing to me right now.

I must be getting old.

(Seriously, I'm not always this boring. I promise.)

Delicate sensibilities.

I like to surround myself with gifted people. I do not subscribe to the belief that everyone has something to offer. I believe that there are some folks out there who really are morons without souls. Like the President. And prosecutors. But all of my friends are gifted in some way. Some are brilliant litigators. Some are fantastic analytical thinkers. Some are artists. Musicians. A few of my friends are disgustingly intuitive. And with this intuition comes a simple wisdom.

I have one friend in particular who is a lot smarter than he pretends to be. But more than that, he has that wonderful wise intuition. He's open-minded and non-judgmental. I find that many people who claim to be "liberal thinkers" call themselves open-minded and non-judgmental. But many are not. Many of these "liberal thinkers" are extremely judgmental. They are pretentious and pompous. And they take themselves way too seriously.

This friend of mine told me something wonderful a few weeks ago that really made me think. He pointed out that people let themselves be offended. In essence, they offend themselves. People who are confident in who they are do not become offended when someone says something uncomplimentary about them. People who are comfortable in their skins are more apt to be able to partake in repartee and intellectual dialectic. I thought about it. My friend was absolutely right. In the short time since he told me this little gem, I've attempted not to take myself so seriously that I become way-too-easily-offended.

I recently encountered someone who had not discovered this little piece of wisdom. He is a suitor that I was initially attracted to because he was so articulate. When we started exchanging emails, I discovered that he writes quite well. However, I also noted that he overused the semicolon and enjoyed extremely long and flowery prose. As a journalist/lawyer, I much prefer the short declarative sentence. I find the very direct approach far more satisfying. I pointed out his ridiculous overuse. He, in turn, responded with a metaphor involving music and how his abundance of semicolons provided a certain cadence and meter.

I don't like metaphors. Especially music ones. But I overlooked it.

Today I told him that I prefer a fast-paced life. He responded with, "When I play my guitar fast, it sounds boring." I thought the metaphor was trite. I said so. I was immediately attacked for having "deep-seated hostilities" and having "boundary issues." He also commented that my "litigiousness is boring."

You know what's even more boring? Someone who take himself so damned seriously. Someone who deigns to judge others based on two sentences of dialogue. Someone who claims to be liberal and open-minded, but jumps on the chance to analyze and diagnose personality flaws of a person he's just met. Someone who is so easily offended when it's pointed out that he uses tired literary devices.

If I took myself as seriously as he did, I'd be offended at what he had to say about me. But all that's happened is that I'm annoyed. He's as insignificant and irritating as a pesky gnat flying about my face. (How's that for a trite literary device???)

Michael Jackson and Frederick's models: What do they have in common?

As you well know, I am a sucker when it comes to dressing up. It's true. Even as a child, I adored stealing my mother's lingerie and pretending to be a grown-up. "If only I had boobs!" I would think to myself, convinced that I would be a flat-chested overweight adolescent for decades to come. Sadly, however, my mother's lingerie collection was lacking. So I decided then and there that when I grew up, I would have sexy underthings and unmentionables.

Therefore, it should come as no surprise that I am the gleeful recipient of the Frederick's of Hollywood monthly catalogue. I browse through each new addition, eyeing the models and knowing that I will never look anything like them. But this does not bother me. I know I'm wonderfully sexy even if I'm not seven feet tall with a 24 inch waist and double D sized breasts. Saucy and sassy and brilliant, to boot.

And so, I received my catalogue today. "Special Offer," the cover proclaims. "FREE Shipping on any purchase of $95 or more." There they go again, seducing me with free shipping. It usually works. Last month I spent $105. But not this time. I've got work to do. Two trials to prepare for this week. Nontheless, I cannot help but paw through the pages looking at what's new and what may be on sale. Really... can a girl ever own too many satiny corsets, too many lace bustiers, too many pairs of red four-inch stillettos? I say no! There are never too many sets of fishnets stockings, never too many beaded garter belts, never too many cute boyshorts!

However, as I sat looking through my beloved Frederick's catalogue, a strange realization began to take hold. These women in their see-through mesh teddies. These women in their fringed tranluscent bralettes. None of them have any nipples. Their overly abundant breasts stand at attention, draped in the sheerest of garments. But where the nipples should be there is nothing.

And then it comes to me. The only thing that explains the nipple-less women. It's the same phenomenon that explains pay-at-the-pump. It's the only explanation for Michael Jackson.

Aliens.

The Frederick's models are aliens.

Vegans.

Remember Moby? He's the guy who "samples" all sorts of stuff in order to create his own music. (I call it "stealing," but who am I to argue about semantics?) Some friends of mine were talking about him. I mentioned that he has a strange orange pallor. I suggested that it comes from the fact that he only eats carrots. He is a vegan, you know. And then I got to thinking...

I'll start with a preemptive apology to any vegans I may be offending by writing this. The Vegan Society defines veganism as "a philosophy and way of living which seeks to exclude -- as far as is possible and practical -- all forms of exploitation of, and cruelty to, animals for food... In dietary terms it denotes the practice of dispensing with all products derived wholly or partly from animals."

That's why they don't eat dairy and eggs.

You know what I found out about vegans when I was in college? All those vegan girls had a strange green cast to them. Seriously. I thought it was malnutrition. But then I realized something. College aged vegan women perform fellatio with disquieting frequency in proportion to college aged non-vegan women. They swallow, too. Which may explain the green glow.

For years I was irate at this realization. How can they possibly reconcile all this oral sex with their ethical rules regarding "dispensing with all products derived... from animals"?? It just didn't' seem consistent. Damn hypocrites.

Upon research, however, I found what I like to refer to as the Vegan Head Exception. It is as follows: "The term 'animal product' in a vegan context refers to material derived from non-human animals for human use or consumption. Ah-ha! Non-human animals! A loophole! Designed for men of all ages.

Vanity.

Every woman loves when someone appeals to her sense of vanity. Some women enjoy being called pretty. Some women enjoy when man call them sexy. Some women enjoy being told that they're wonderful in every way possible -- sweet, charming, and wickedly brilliant.

It means little to me when a man tells me I'm pretty or sexy or white hot. I'm just cynical enough to believe that such statements are merely a way to get me into bed. But there is one way to appeal to my sense of vanity. I adore when people tell me I'm a good writer.

I wish I had a career in writing. It's the only thing I really love to do. I dream of moving to London and writing a book. Or at least being a journalist. (Like most aspiring novelists, I fear I'd never actually finish writing a book.) But I have to wonder. These folks who tell me I write well -- the ones who compliment on this very blog -- are they right? Am I really an adequate writer? Do I tell a good story? Or am I too precious in my writing, too self conscious?

Regardless, here's a tip for the men out there who'd like to get me into bed: Don't tell me how pretty I am. Don't tell me how smart I am. Tell me that I construct sentences better than any woman you've ever met. Tell me that my sense of syntax is to die for. Tell me that I'm destined to be a writer and that working as a lawyer is merely a fallback career. That is how to appeal to my sense of vanity and turn me into that proverbial putty in your hand.