Taking inventory.

Warning: I do try not to write streams of consciousness. But I'm tired right now, and that's exactly what this entry is. A wholly self-indulgant musing of things that are important only to me.

I've not written anything serious here in quite sometime. Sure, there's the rants about bad '80s music, and short pieces regarding a possible career selling hot dogs. The last serious thing I've written was likely some missive about Mike, something I thought was well written and heartfelt, but was likely only histrionic and trite.

And so, The Saucy Vixen becomes serious as she takes inventory of her life:

Housing.

Let's see. I just bought a house. It's nothing particularly lavish. It's a cute, little cape with yellow siding and brown shudders. The carport (attached to the single car garage) and cracked black tar driveway add just a hint of Americana to it. The house is on a borderline commercial/industrial area, but still in the town with the "good" schools. It is within fifteen hundred feet of a school, so any drug dealers in the area will get even more time if convicted. Groovy, huh? Gotta love the penal code.

I wish I could say that I did it all on my own. I wish I could pontificate about how incredibly independent I am. But the sad truth is that my parents helped me with the down payment. The other sad truth is that I need a roommate to support the mortgage. There is a small chance that my current roommate may be staying in-state for a clerkship. However, the judge has yet to let her know. Graduation is tomorrow and she plans on moving to Virginia on Monday if she doesn't hear from the judge. And so, for the first time ever, I shall be living with a stranger (as all my friends have their own living situations).

Career.

This work thing is going pretty well. It's been almost a year, and no one's been killed yet because of me. So that's good. I don't think I've messed up too badly, and I don't think anyone wound up in jail because I screwed up. No one killed, no one in jail when s/he shouldn't be because I messed up. Decent track record thus far, I think. The "Oh my God, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing" feeling is gone. And I feel like I have a damn good grasp on evidence. I could have applied to go "upstairs" to work on more serious cases. For personal reasons, I decided not to. This was hard for me, as I'm usually the go-getter type when it comes to career moves. But for reasons I choose not to expound upon, I think this was a good move for me.

More importantly, though, I like what I do. I dreaded work a bit in the beginning. I was afraid of days in court. I felt like I was missing a lot, and I hated having to ask for help (I always have). But I'm starting to really get into all this. And not just for the rhetorical reasons having to do with my personal notions of justice and fairness. I'm starting to actually enjoy the day-to-day stuff. Which is good.

On the downside, my carpool buddy left he fold. I know he wasn't particularly happy, and I know his commute was gruesome. But I miss riding to and from work with him. He kept me just a little more sane. I'd be working on something some evening and have a question. No problem. I'd ask Carpool Buddy on the way to work in the morning. And between the two of us, no matter what the issue was, we could usually figure it out during the thirty-five minute drive. In addition to his legal acumen, he was also pretty damn cool. And he pretended not to mind the two weeks I constantly sang We Built This City. The rest of the office wanted to murder me. Or at least assault and batter me. With a dangerous weapon.

Interpersonal relationships.

I've already lost touch with friends from school. My clinic partner works far away, lives far away, and has a boyfriend (as much as I love her, she tends to forget people when she's romantically involved). James lives the fuck down state, so I never see him much either. AIDS Boy won't return my correspondence; I can't blame him.

I still hang out with Joe. He still brings me pizza and ice cream and cigarettes and Dunkin' Donuts gift cards. I can't help but feel guilty.

Mike called me a week (or two?) ago, and I didn't return his call. I chatted with him via IM last night. He still continues to piss me off by dating very pretty but irritatingly vapid women. He told me he met someone at a bar a little while ago. She's a social worker. She's socially aware and attends political events. He told me more (stuff I don't remember now), and she actually sounded really cool. Actually smart. No children. Minimal baggage. But is he interested in her? Of course not. "Something just isn't there," he tells me. Yeah, she's missing the gaping hole in her head that the women he dates usually have.

None of this should bother me, really. But I can't help but be disappointed in Mike and his God-awful taste in the female company he keeps. And yes, some of it is just resentment. It all reflects poorly on me. I may not be tall and thin and gorgeous, but dammit, I'm nearly brilliant. (Nearly. Not quite totally brilliant. But close enough so that most folks can't tell the difference.) And I'm cute enough. I'm certainly attractive. And as it has been ascertained time and again by random passers-by, I have a stupendous rack. What more could he ask for? It occurs to me once again that if he really is only interested in the pretty morons, then I really am too good for him.

So are my personal relationships fulfilling? For now, I suppose. I've kind of gone on a social hiatus. I've lost touch with some friends, but I still have a social circle that I enjoy. A random cornucopia of folks I stay in touch with: high school friends, college friends, law school friends, work people, drum circle folk, and the like. As far as romantic relationships go, I am way too busy with work and homeownership to deal with such things. Dating is exhausting and I feel I've gone through all the potential suitors in my area. The people of interest I do meet are completely wrong for me, and I don't have the energy to get involved with yet another person who is oh-so-emotionally unavailable.

So what of my life inventory? Am I happy? I suppose. But for the first time in a long while, I am content. And that's good enough.