They're fighting again...

My roommate is twenty-one years old. (Those who know me know that I have a general loathing for early-twenty-somethings. It's not so much that I find anything intrinsically abhorrent about them. It's just that I remember being that age; I was an idiot. Most early-twenty-somethings are idiots.)

My roommate is perky and sometimes irritating. But she's a good person, despite her unfortunate age (and the world view that goes along with it). My roommate's boyfriend is twenty-four. He comes over quite often. He's a good guy. She's a good girl. But there's one thing that irritates me:

They fight a lot.

I came downstairs and he was preparing a pesto pizza at her direction. She looked up at one point and exclaimed, "Noooo! What are you doing? Don't you want a crust? And it can't be that thick!!"

The boyfriend commutes sixty miles each way to and from work. He returned from work, went to the store, purchased what my roommate had requested, came over, and proceeded to prepare the meal. Sure, he may not have known what he was doing. Sure, he may have messed it up. But he was doing something kind and nice for his girlfriend. And she was being hyper-critical. I winced myself at her abrasive tone.

Now, I likely wouldn't put up with such behavior from a significant other. But if someone did talk to me like that, it wouldn't really be worth my time to engage.

But he engaged. Briefly. The spat was over almost as soon as it started.

My roommate remedied the pesto/crust problem and directed her boyfriend to slice mozzarella. Immediately, she ripped into him for cutting the slices too thick. Then she put her hand in the way to pick up a slice of cheese and get him the Look of Satan when his slicing came close to her fingers. "My fingers!" she shouted. More bad behavior. And what did the boyfriend do?

He engaged. I felt like I was listening to my parents argue as a kid. My roommate had that Jewish-mother-as-abrasive-as-kitchen-cleanser demeanor. Her boyfriend had that self-righteous defensive tone. I remember how on the occasions when my parents fought, it was just like my roommate and her boyfriend. It was always incredibly loud, incredibly obnoxious, and about something incredibly asinine. These silly arguments that I remember from my childhood were always symptoms of some other stress.

And then he left the house. At some point, though, he came back. And about an hour ago. They've been arguing since. I catch snippets and phrases. "I've never been so hurt..." "You don't trust me..." "Can't you...?" He left the house again. He came back. The boy is trying to talk to her, trying to reach some sort of resolution.

I remember these sorts of arguments; I've had them. I remember these emotionally draining confrontations. And you know what? It's never worth it. It's never productive. Nothing is ever accomplished. I've been there. I've been the one who's come back, desperate for a resolution, desperate for an ending. The status quo is usually maintained, apologies are exchanged, and nothing is ever resolved.

I may not have have the best history or luck with my relationships. That said, I'm so glad I'm past these types of arguments. I'm so glad I've reached a point where, for the most part, I'm able to walk away before I lash out and say mean and hurtful things. I'm so glad that I can address small problems before they become huge disasters.

Perhaps youth really is wasted on the young. (I say that tongue-in-cheek, realizing that I'm still young.) Perhaps there are folks who wish they could go back and experience the exhilarating feeling of the firsts we experience when we're young: first kisses, first loves, first heartbreaks. Perhaps youth really is akin to a magic, fairy-land place.

But sometimes growing up feels good.

I love you, Gideon.

Several months ago, my friend sent me a link to a public defender blog. I read. It was well written, cogent, and evocative. I was smitten with the author's impeccable use of grammar. I was wowed by his lofty analysis. I simply had to know more about this amazing blogger, who wrote under the name of Gideon.

I clicked on a link to write to Gideon. His email address contained the phrase "threegenerations." As in "Three generations of imbeciles are enough," written by the prosaic Justice Holmes in Buck v. Bell (holding that compulsory sterilization doesn't violate an individual's due process rights).

Gideon and I corresponded for a bit until he realized he already knew me. And how did he know me? The author of the blog was the same person who'd told me about it in the first place: My friend had sent me his own blog and neglected to tell me it was his.

In all seriousness, though, he hits some good issues and handles it with aplomb. So if you're reading this because you want to know more about the law and less about my poker night, check out his blog.

My mother is wrong about the Macintosh.

My mother commented on my last post that we did not own the Mac Plus in 1986. I have to apologize, Mom... I have to apologize that you are so very wrong.

The Macintosh Plus was released in January 1986. The big difference between the Plus and the plain ol' Mac (later dubbed the "Macintosh Classic")? The Mac Plus had a SCSI port. And being early adopters, my parents just had to have the SCSI.

Moral of the story? It's bad to mess with someone who has such a ridiculously good memory for completely pointless information.

Return from the Dark Side.

In 1986, my parents purchased our first Macintosh computer. It was a Macintosh Plus, and their biggest decision in buying it was whether to get the one with the internal hard drive. Seven years old at the time, I played with the tutorial and learned all about the function of a mouse. It was heavenly.

Several years later, my mother bought the Macintosh LC. From there she got a Performa. Upon entering college in 1997, I got my own power Mac. Then, in 1999 I upgraded to my first laptop: the G3 PowerBook. It was $2,500 and I thought no computer could ever be better. That G3 laptop lasted more than four years with no problems. And in that time, I acquired my mother's hand-me-down G4 desktop.

And then I switched to the dark side. I was using a PC at work, and I got used to it. So I sold the perfectly-functioning G3 and G4 on eBay and got myself a Toshiba in February 2003. By January 2006, the thing had died. It was fond of overheating and turning itself off. Because I had little money at the time the damn thing dropped dead, my father kindly got me an HP; it was inexpensive and not top-of-the-line, but I only used it for Internet use and word processing.

A few months ago it started overheating and turning itself off. Watching stupid videos? No go. Automatic shutdown.

For years, I would explain to people the difference between PC and Mac users: PC folks use their computers. Mac folks love their computers. How did I ever manage to forget my roots? Was the less expensive alternative (the PC) worth my time and frustration? After some soul-searching, I came to the conclusion that the answer to that question is a resounding no.

No! No more viruses. No! No more crappy hardware. No! No more having to purchase peripheral devices.

So yesterday, while Chris lay in bed sleeping, I crept out of the house and went to the Apple Store, where I purchased myself a MacBook. It's wonderfully fabulous.

For four years I've been away in the Darkness of PC-Land. It feels good to be home.

You don't have to take your clothes off to have a good time.

Years ago some friends tried to teach me to play poker. By "friends" I mean a group of young men and one other girl (who also didn't know how to play poker). Because we had neither money, nor chips, the game quickly turned into strip poker. I can safely say that it's impossible to learn how to play poker when you're surrounded by a group of silly boys who want to see you naked.

Last night I had some people over for dinner. Chris cooked, per usual. The gathering consisted of me, Chris, my best law school friend, Mike (the best friend/pseudo-ex-boyfriend), and a guy from work. My friend from work brought with him poker chips (really nice and heavy clay ones) and other assorted poker accoutrements.

It was a five dollar game. Chris and guy-from-work both ended up having to buy for another five. A whopping thirty-five bucks were on the table (big money, people), and I ended up with twenty-one of 'em. How this happened, I do not know. However, I actually learned how to play and ended up with sixteen more dollars than I started with. And I didn't even have to take my clothes off.

To burgle.

When someone's home as been broken into, he will often tell his friends, "My house was robbed."

This is not true. Robbery is stealing something from a person through the use of force of the threat of force. Burglary is stealing something from a dwelling at night. (Most jurisdictions don't require the nighttime element; it is, however, part of the common law definition.)

Robbery versus burglary is pretty basic criminal law. But most folks don't know the difference.

And so, when someone has broken into your home and stolen your flat panel TV that you paid WAY too much for, or your diamond jewelry that small children had their hands cut off for, remember, your home was not robbed. It was burgled.

My boyfriend is a nerd.

I really do try not to write about my boyfriend because I don't want to be "that" girl. But he just tends to do things that are worthy of writing about. (He really ought to stop that.)

When I saw him on Wednesday, he started grinning about something. So I asked him about the dopey smile. "I know something you don't know," he responded. Of course I questioned. He told me it was a surprise. "When will I discover what what it is?" Soon, he told me. Maybe the next day. Maybe in two weeks. When I get something to eat.

So as soon as I left, I searched my kitchen. Nothing. Of course, it's hard to find something when you don't know what it is you're looking for.

I called him the next day and left a message. "I wanna know what my surprise is! Tell me!"

He e-mailed me a response. "You'll find out when you get home. So come home."

And I did. He left cards all around my house. In the freezer. In some kitchen cabinets. In my underwear drawer. Propped up on top of the dryer. Under my pillow.

So nerdy-sweet.

My boyfriend is a nerd. I love it.

Reunion.

And so, my trip here to Sunny Columbus, Ohio is nearly over. The reunion has come and gone and I have come out unscathed.

Truth be known, I suppose it was better than I expected. My class was known for being the most apathetic and having less school spirit than any class before or since. The class of '97 just didn't really care; members of our class were too busy drinking wine coolers on our parents' basements and smoking sub-par weed. As for me personally? I was far too busy being angry and not fitting in.

Few people showed up; less than half the class was there (my class had approximately 135 people in it). Who didn't show? The really popular kids were the ones not in attendance for the most part. The trivial and petty part of me wants to believe that this is because they peaked in high school; maybe they did and maybe they didn't, and maybe I don't really care as much as I once did.

Nearly everyone looked the same. Almost all the women looked the same. Some didn't seem to have aged a day. The men changed more. The once-scrawny kid was hopped up on steroids. The little pothead kid looked good, but got irritatingly drunk and coked up. Two guys put on lots of weight; one looked like the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man while the other one more closely resembled Jabba.

The cliques re-cliqued. The self-proclaimed popular kids sat at their own table, while everyone else mingled with one another. I'll talk to anyone, but I gave up on the people who walked away when I attempted to approach them. (Ed note: Our country has health care issues and poverty. War is going on around us. How are we going to all live together in peace and harmony if some douchebags can't even be cordial at a high school reunion?)

I was curious about everyone. And I got what I came for. I came back with awesome hair and a law degree (neither of which anyone EVER expected would happen). My curiosity is satisfied and I feel a lot better. I may not have fit in much in high school, but that seems to be the general consensus across the board. Some girls came back married baby-factories. Some boys came back married to baby-factories. I'm glad I'm not in their positions, but they all seemed happy enough.

As for my old friends I've lost touch with... we fell into the same routines we always had with each other as if no time had passed. And maybe that'll happen again when we see each other in another decade.

Questions or concerns.

Every Fourth of July in the little town of Bexley, Ohio, those who have class reunions ride on parade floats. The class of 1997 is no exception. I just received the following e-mail regarding the float:

This should be a blast and I hope people will be a part of this fun occation. Let me know if there are any questions or concerns.

I'm concerned that it's been ten years since high school and you still don't know how to spell "occasion."

A confession.

Eight years ago, I read my boyfriend's journal. He kept it in a black and white composition book.

We were living in a castle in The Netherlands. He had borrowed an Ani Difranco CD and I was in his room to retrieve it; he had given me permission to do such. Told me that it was in the top drawer of his desk. So I went into his room and opened the top drawer of his desk and found the CD right on top. Right on top of the black and white composition book. And I did what I shouldn't have. I picked it up and started thumbing through it.

He had written a letter to his best friend from home. Written a letter to her and taped it into his journal. He had chronicled a few weeks of his summer for her. And he had written about his trip the previous summer -- nearly a year earlier -- to visit me. He had written about our drive back from downtown, cruising along Route 315 in my mother's convertible, the top down, wonderful music blaring from the speakers. He had written how wonderful the drive had been. He had written about how despite how wonderful it was to be cruising down the highway in my mom's convertible, that something had been missing. She hadn't been there. And so a feeling of melancholy blanketed him. He had written that he missed her. He had written that she was home to him. All this while he was with me.

The next day, I confronted him. Not about the contents of the journal, of course. I merely told him that I desperately loved him and could tell that he didn't love me. "I have loved you passionately," he told me. Past tense.

The moral of the story? Nothing good can ever come from reading another's private thoughts.