Well we're in the final days of battle preparation before we stampede into the great unknown. Three years of rigorous academic competition has now led us to the final hurdle for becoming whatever it is we've been trying to become for however long it's been since we started trying to become it. The bar exam starts on Tuesday this week. The bar exam is a magical mechanism by which a bunch of grumpy attorneys test and then grade hundreds of state applicants on their knowledge of 20 or so complicated legal topics, 3 of which may actually be applicable to their future careers. Some have compared it to fraternity hazing. I think though that the analogy fails because the "hazers" standing on the other end can't possibly enjoy watching any of this take place, especially having to waste the rest of their summers away grading garbled nonsense spewn out in 7 hours or so of essay typing as panicked and exhausted career beggars dump all 400,000 things they've crammed or attempted to cram into their brains, in no particular order.
My friends and I are spread broadly across the nation this evening, celebrating Pioneer Day in unison by closing up the books and calling it an early night. Annette Thacker's pony-tail has become permanently affixed to the top of her head by now (a true sign of panic) and Corey Boyd's apartment looks like a den of schizophrenics with papers strewn about containing diagrams and phrases written in giant squiggly handwriting as Boyd walks through it speaking somehow even faster than she normally speaks. I've seen or communicated with both of these super-humans and wondered if I could possibly have any claim in passing the bar exam if these two seem at all concerned. In any event I feel the bond in the air as 150 of my closest friends, once again, feel the same thing at the same time, the same way we have all felt the same things so many times before. Gosh I love my battalion.
This week as I began to study one morning I noticed that an old friend was logged onto Facebook. I clicked on his picture and attempted to instant message him, starting out by calling him an offensive-in-some-circles word that had sort of a special meaning to us over the years. Instantly I realized that I had in fact clicked on the wrong picture and instead had clicked on a person who is older, conservative, professional, and absolutely would not think what I had said was funny. In my 3 seconds of absolute panic, I immediately began typing: "heeeey, :) I just won a free ipod!!! This is ToToAlLy LEGIT man!!!! :)-"
Yup. That's right. I pretended to be spam. It apparently worked as I got a message from him a little later saying: "Eli, I think your facebook got hacked! I'm so sorry! I just got a really weird message from you. You may need to change you password." Deception, successful. Soul, less.
Ironically this was the day I visited the prison and subsequently vowed to never ever do anything wrong ever again, including parading myself as spam online to avoid consequences of my carelessness.
Anyway, off to the bar. Please send all positive vibes my way. I would also appreciate sacrificing firstborns if you've got one to spare.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Snake Infestation
Recently my well-meaning sister Krisanda sent me a link to an article that I never should have read. The article was about a snake infestation in a house in southern Idaho. There are about 300 reasons I never should have read this article. Topping the list are: it involves snakes, Idaho is too close for me to feel apathy, I have enough other terrible stuff to lose sleep over, and I'm so behind on my bar study right now that I should be strapped to an uncomfortable chair and have my eyelids removed with nothing but the giant stack of bar prep books strewn about in front of for the next month if I expect to ever catch up (also meth would help).
But I read it. Not initially, but I read it after about a week of letting it take up space in my inbox. The pressure mounted and finally I popped the sucker open and read all of the horrific details until I lay curled up in the fetal position on top of the highest, flattest, clearest surface I could find while humming songs from my childhood that I thought might bring me back to my "happy place" (which is a tropical beach with no animals). And I know what you're saying to your computer right now as though I can hear you: "Oh jeez. I've read that article and they are just garter snakes. Calm the heck down." To you, antagonizer and unsympathetic close-minded electronic heckler, I respond: "I wouldn't care if it was even just one garter snake that was four inches long and died while saving a family of puppies from a fire. Once even that snake is discovered within reach of a person's property, that person should have a Constitutional right (and I don't hand those out often) to prompt the president to declare a national state of emergency and have the whole town evacuated. Also, I hope you're doing well. I'm sure we haven't seen each other for a while (and maybe we've never met). I love what you've done with your hair."
But once the shock of the possibility of the thought of a snake infestation subsided and I began to see color again in the world (several days later), I was left with one lingering concern. During this snake infestation, the man of the house took the initiative to sweep the property and collect the snakes in buckets in order to protect his family, one time going so far as climbing through the crawl space under the house through a man-covered snake den to survey the extent of the problem. While conceding immediately that if ever I'm on any kind of committee that has a say in this, I will absolutely and without reservation support this man going straight to heaven no matter what he does for the rest of his life, I was left wondering if this kind of gall is a prerequisite for manhood. I've always seen men do things of this nature without flinching simply because (and say this next part in a gruff man voice) "it needed doin'!" Case in point, the dead bird massacre of three years ago where Bob scooped a rotting, once-flying beaked animal off the ground while I lay inside with a warm washcloth over my forehead. And I don't mean to assign this special bravery to men alone. In fact one of the biggest "it needed doin'!" people I know happens to be my younger sister Micalyne who I once saw eat a sandwich made out of cookies, bbq sauce, ranch dressing, lemons, lunch meat, mayo, brownies, and a number of other unidentified substances, just to win a game (she also spent about four years changing adult diapers and showering biting geriatrics in the Alzheimer's wing (another straight-to-heaven candidate)).
So the real concern is whether I can never be a man unless I'm at least theoretically willing to do the snake sweep in order to protect my family and property. If this is a requirement for manhood, I, without a doubt, am at least one requirement short of achievement. If I hypothetically had a home, wife, and children (hypothetically, because hypotheticals are all I have) and I became aware that a snake could possibly be somewhere on the property, I would immediately call the house from a long-distance number (because I would have caught the first flight out of town before doing anything else), tell my wife to leave everything but the children and get as far away from the town as possible, and then pay someone to set the entire property on fire. Twice. Then I would send a tractor to dig up the whole property and this would be followed by a duster plane that would cover the land 12 times with anthrax. The property would be re-burned every six-months for the next decade. Once the ten years were up, I would sell the property (from a remote location) to bad people. Note that never during that explanation did I ever say I would have anything to do with weaseling my way around in a crawl space under the house to survey the problem.
My friend told me over the phone the other day (I've been talking about this with a lot of people) that I just need to wait to buy a home until I can afford to pay people to take care of all of the snake-type situations and then I will never have to worry about having to do it myself or feeling like less of a man for letting the problem fester. In this way, he claimed, I could effectively buy my manhood. If this is true, it may be my only way. Any thoughts on the matter would be greatly appreciated.
And I'm really not kidding about the cookie sandwich. I even have pictures.
~It Just Gets Stranger
But I read it. Not initially, but I read it after about a week of letting it take up space in my inbox. The pressure mounted and finally I popped the sucker open and read all of the horrific details until I lay curled up in the fetal position on top of the highest, flattest, clearest surface I could find while humming songs from my childhood that I thought might bring me back to my "happy place" (which is a tropical beach with no animals). And I know what you're saying to your computer right now as though I can hear you: "Oh jeez. I've read that article and they are just garter snakes. Calm the heck down." To you, antagonizer and unsympathetic close-minded electronic heckler, I respond: "I wouldn't care if it was even just one garter snake that was four inches long and died while saving a family of puppies from a fire. Once even that snake is discovered within reach of a person's property, that person should have a Constitutional right (and I don't hand those out often) to prompt the president to declare a national state of emergency and have the whole town evacuated. Also, I hope you're doing well. I'm sure we haven't seen each other for a while (and maybe we've never met). I love what you've done with your hair."
But once the shock of the possibility of the thought of a snake infestation subsided and I began to see color again in the world (several days later), I was left with one lingering concern. During this snake infestation, the man of the house took the initiative to sweep the property and collect the snakes in buckets in order to protect his family, one time going so far as climbing through the crawl space under the house through a man-covered snake den to survey the extent of the problem. While conceding immediately that if ever I'm on any kind of committee that has a say in this, I will absolutely and without reservation support this man going straight to heaven no matter what he does for the rest of his life, I was left wondering if this kind of gall is a prerequisite for manhood. I've always seen men do things of this nature without flinching simply because (and say this next part in a gruff man voice) "it needed doin'!" Case in point, the dead bird massacre of three years ago where Bob scooped a rotting, once-flying beaked animal off the ground while I lay inside with a warm washcloth over my forehead. And I don't mean to assign this special bravery to men alone. In fact one of the biggest "it needed doin'!" people I know happens to be my younger sister Micalyne who I once saw eat a sandwich made out of cookies, bbq sauce, ranch dressing, lemons, lunch meat, mayo, brownies, and a number of other unidentified substances, just to win a game (she also spent about four years changing adult diapers and showering biting geriatrics in the Alzheimer's wing (another straight-to-heaven candidate)).
So the real concern is whether I can never be a man unless I'm at least theoretically willing to do the snake sweep in order to protect my family and property. If this is a requirement for manhood, I, without a doubt, am at least one requirement short of achievement. If I hypothetically had a home, wife, and children (hypothetically, because hypotheticals are all I have) and I became aware that a snake could possibly be somewhere on the property, I would immediately call the house from a long-distance number (because I would have caught the first flight out of town before doing anything else), tell my wife to leave everything but the children and get as far away from the town as possible, and then pay someone to set the entire property on fire. Twice. Then I would send a tractor to dig up the whole property and this would be followed by a duster plane that would cover the land 12 times with anthrax. The property would be re-burned every six-months for the next decade. Once the ten years were up, I would sell the property (from a remote location) to bad people. Note that never during that explanation did I ever say I would have anything to do with weaseling my way around in a crawl space under the house to survey the problem.
My friend told me over the phone the other day (I've been talking about this with a lot of people) that I just need to wait to buy a home until I can afford to pay people to take care of all of the snake-type situations and then I will never have to worry about having to do it myself or feeling like less of a man for letting the problem fester. In this way, he claimed, I could effectively buy my manhood. If this is true, it may be my only way. Any thoughts on the matter would be greatly appreciated.
And I'm really not kidding about the cookie sandwich. I even have pictures.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Monday, June 13, 2011
Utah Valley Marathon
The Utah Valley Marathon happened yesterday. The race organizers did an incredible job and the weather was perfect. This was my fourth marathon and fortunately my best, in many ways. Nonetheless, it was still chuck full of hilarity (the main reason I put myself through these things).
For a dramatic recount of last summer's marathon experience in SLC, see this. You can assume that most everything written there is a pretty accurate description of this marathon as well, with a few differences.
Pre Race:
We had to catch the shuttles in Provo that took us to the starting line at 3:30AM (because, as usual, the race organizers wanted to make sure we were standing by, somewhere up in the dark cold mountains, hours before the gun went off). Most people spent this time standing in a slow-moving line for one of the 3,000 porta-potties. These lines remained 30 people long each, right up until we all heard the sound of a gun at 6:00 when all immediately stopped hoping for relief and sprinted toward the starting line, meaning that dozens upon dozens of people presumably started the race carrying more than they had hoped. Fortunately more porta-potties lined the course throughout the remainder of the 26 mile adventure, although sadly for those in the back, conditions were likely less ideal inside the by-that-time-highly-trafficked-by-tired-and-desperate-people potties.
Miles 1-10:
I ran the race with my friend David, expecting him to eventually split away from me and probably set some kind of world record. But at least for the beginning of the race we stayed together. We also tried to stay relatively close to one of the designated pacers who held up a protest-type sign on a stick for the entire race saying that he was on pace to run a 3:10 (Boston qualifying time for men in their 20s). For this period of the race David and I recounted word for word our favorite episodes of Friday Night Lights.
Miles 10-15:
Somewhere in this space David got ahead of me (never to be seen again) as I ran with the 3:10 pace group. Running with the pace group could be compared somewhat to living a self-help book with a group of strangers. The pacer was possibly the most positive human-being of all time; this is the kind of person you would like to punch on normal days but find yourself trying to stick as close to without touching like a parasite that fees on positive emotion when having to run 26 or so miles. So our parasitic relationship lasted until mile 15 where I stopped to use a porta-potty, only to find that the pace group apparently didn't feel the need to wait for me (and after all that we had been through together). It was probably about time for us to split anyway. Not only was I out of my league with that group, but one of them smelled like he should have used a porta-potty himself around mile 10 but probably didn't want to experience the abandonment that I braved at mile 15.
Miles 16-23:
We saw the mouth of the canyon ever approaching as we climbed a few more surprising inclines (surprising because I never bothered to check out the course before the race to find out that it actually wasn't a 26 mile free-fall like I had originally assumed when I heard we would be running down a canyon, but rather a long road with ups and downs and an overall small net-loss). At about mile 19 an aid station handed out more energy gel packs (our third offering). I accepted (because I was in no position to decline aid by this point) but then desperately asked every runner within earshot whether eating a gel pack that late in the race would really kick in and benefit me in time. As I asked I found myself silently begging all of them to tell me there was no use by this point so I would feel justified in not eating another one of those terrible things that has the texture of your grandma and tastes like your great-grandma. The general consensus was that it was still worth it, and so I sucked another one down, dramatically shuddering and whimpering for the entire 8 seconds that it took to complete one long continuous swallow.
Miles 23-23.7:
Micalyne jumped in after not having run 12 feet in about 4 years (this little girl was once one of the fastest runners in the state and is not shy to admit that baby-raising and a dozen other impressive pursuits has led her to slower pastures in recent years . . .). Typically by this spot in a marathon I'm going at a speed that is slow enough to make my family and friends on the side-lines pretend that they don't see me when I go by so they don't commit social suicide by claiming me through cheering in front of all of the other spectators. So Micalyne probably thought this would be no different. But I was actually maintaining a pretty good speed when I met up with her so our little stint didn't last very long. Nonetheless, her words of encouragement were both motivational and comforting during my time of great need. For that short stint, I heard some of the following (if you read these in a WWF wrestler voice, they are much more entertaining):
Micalyne: YOU LOOK STRONG! YOU LOOK POWERFUL! PUSH YOURSELF!
Miles 23.7-26.2:
We approached Corey who now jumped in as Micalyne's motivational speech suddenly came to a complete halt and she exited the race without saying goodbye. Corey, being a great friend, immediately took over the role of inspirer, using an approach that differed dramatically from Micalyne's. After pressing play on her phone in hand to serenade me with her favorite collection of Britney Spears songs (just what I always wanted (note: sarcasm); she claimed she had a Paul Simon song ready to play as well but I never did hear it . . .) she began her own string of motivational statements that differed dramatically from Micalyne's:
Corey: Your haircut looks great! Also I really like your running outfit! Most of the people we've seen go by are dressed terribly. You wouldn't believe it! Like, their clothes are really loose. It's like, "hello? You're running a race! Wear clothes that fit you!" Why aren't you responding to me? It's really awkward to talk to you when you don't respond.
Somewhere around this point, the statements turned into self-compliments:
Corey: Guess what?! I didn't eat any chocolate yesterday! So I guess we're BOTH accomplishing big things right now. And my hair also looks super good. And I'm running so fast with you right now!
We then ran through the last of the aid stations where I think I literally took over one-dozen cups of fluids from the 10 or so people holding out water and Powerade (and just so we're clear, the proper use of the word "literally" is the only strict confinement of hyperbole I consistently hold myself to). I felt like a monster running through that line, grasping for everything placed in front of me with both hands, and pouring it onto my face just in time to grab another. I actually took three cups at once from the last guy. As I finished going through the line I heard shocked laughter from the volunteers behind who likely felt like very recent victims of a rapid and violent pillaging. It was at this point that Corey said something in a tone that clearly indicated that she thought this was the most important accomplishment of the day:
Corey: Those people back there think you're so funny! I bet they all want to be your friend!
Shortly after this we approached the final few blocks and Corey disappeared as mysteriously as she came. I realized that she and Micalyne had successfully motivated, distracted, and entertained me during the most difficult part of the race, and I'm incredibly grateful to both of them
I finished with a 3:22. I was pleased with it. It's a 14 minute personal record for me and the first marathon I've run without feeling the need to be hospitalized the next day. As usual it was incredibly hard and for the rest of the day I vowed never to do one again. But the memories of misery are slowly slipping away and I'm starting to wonder if maybe I have a few more left in me. But much of it will depend on whether they can find a way to make the power gel packets edible.
~It Just Gets Stranger
For a dramatic recount of last summer's marathon experience in SLC, see this. You can assume that most everything written there is a pretty accurate description of this marathon as well, with a few differences.
Pre Race:
We had to catch the shuttles in Provo that took us to the starting line at 3:30AM (because, as usual, the race organizers wanted to make sure we were standing by, somewhere up in the dark cold mountains, hours before the gun went off). Most people spent this time standing in a slow-moving line for one of the 3,000 porta-potties. These lines remained 30 people long each, right up until we all heard the sound of a gun at 6:00 when all immediately stopped hoping for relief and sprinted toward the starting line, meaning that dozens upon dozens of people presumably started the race carrying more than they had hoped. Fortunately more porta-potties lined the course throughout the remainder of the 26 mile adventure, although sadly for those in the back, conditions were likely less ideal inside the by-that-time-highly-trafficked-by-tired-and-desperate-people potties.
Miles 1-10:
I ran the race with my friend David, expecting him to eventually split away from me and probably set some kind of world record. But at least for the beginning of the race we stayed together. We also tried to stay relatively close to one of the designated pacers who held up a protest-type sign on a stick for the entire race saying that he was on pace to run a 3:10 (Boston qualifying time for men in their 20s). For this period of the race David and I recounted word for word our favorite episodes of Friday Night Lights.
Miles 10-15:
Somewhere in this space David got ahead of me (never to be seen again) as I ran with the 3:10 pace group. Running with the pace group could be compared somewhat to living a self-help book with a group of strangers. The pacer was possibly the most positive human-being of all time; this is the kind of person you would like to punch on normal days but find yourself trying to stick as close to without touching like a parasite that fees on positive emotion when having to run 26 or so miles. So our parasitic relationship lasted until mile 15 where I stopped to use a porta-potty, only to find that the pace group apparently didn't feel the need to wait for me (and after all that we had been through together). It was probably about time for us to split anyway. Not only was I out of my league with that group, but one of them smelled like he should have used a porta-potty himself around mile 10 but probably didn't want to experience the abandonment that I braved at mile 15.
Miles 16-23:
We saw the mouth of the canyon ever approaching as we climbed a few more surprising inclines (surprising because I never bothered to check out the course before the race to find out that it actually wasn't a 26 mile free-fall like I had originally assumed when I heard we would be running down a canyon, but rather a long road with ups and downs and an overall small net-loss). At about mile 19 an aid station handed out more energy gel packs (our third offering). I accepted (because I was in no position to decline aid by this point) but then desperately asked every runner within earshot whether eating a gel pack that late in the race would really kick in and benefit me in time. As I asked I found myself silently begging all of them to tell me there was no use by this point so I would feel justified in not eating another one of those terrible things that has the texture of your grandma and tastes like your great-grandma. The general consensus was that it was still worth it, and so I sucked another one down, dramatically shuddering and whimpering for the entire 8 seconds that it took to complete one long continuous swallow.
Miles 23-23.7:
Micalyne jumped in after not having run 12 feet in about 4 years (this little girl was once one of the fastest runners in the state and is not shy to admit that baby-raising and a dozen other impressive pursuits has led her to slower pastures in recent years . . .). Typically by this spot in a marathon I'm going at a speed that is slow enough to make my family and friends on the side-lines pretend that they don't see me when I go by so they don't commit social suicide by claiming me through cheering in front of all of the other spectators. So Micalyne probably thought this would be no different. But I was actually maintaining a pretty good speed when I met up with her so our little stint didn't last very long. Nonetheless, her words of encouragement were both motivational and comforting during my time of great need. For that short stint, I heard some of the following (if you read these in a WWF wrestler voice, they are much more entertaining):
Micalyne: YOU LOOK STRONG! YOU LOOK POWERFUL! PUSH YOURSELF!
Miles 23.7-26.2:
We approached Corey who now jumped in as Micalyne's motivational speech suddenly came to a complete halt and she exited the race without saying goodbye. Corey, being a great friend, immediately took over the role of inspirer, using an approach that differed dramatically from Micalyne's. After pressing play on her phone in hand to serenade me with her favorite collection of Britney Spears songs (just what I always wanted (note: sarcasm); she claimed she had a Paul Simon song ready to play as well but I never did hear it . . .) she began her own string of motivational statements that differed dramatically from Micalyne's:
Corey: Your haircut looks great! Also I really like your running outfit! Most of the people we've seen go by are dressed terribly. You wouldn't believe it! Like, their clothes are really loose. It's like, "hello? You're running a race! Wear clothes that fit you!" Why aren't you responding to me? It's really awkward to talk to you when you don't respond.
Somewhere around this point, the statements turned into self-compliments:
Corey: Guess what?! I didn't eat any chocolate yesterday! So I guess we're BOTH accomplishing big things right now. And my hair also looks super good. And I'm running so fast with you right now!
We then ran through the last of the aid stations where I think I literally took over one-dozen cups of fluids from the 10 or so people holding out water and Powerade (and just so we're clear, the proper use of the word "literally" is the only strict confinement of hyperbole I consistently hold myself to). I felt like a monster running through that line, grasping for everything placed in front of me with both hands, and pouring it onto my face just in time to grab another. I actually took three cups at once from the last guy. As I finished going through the line I heard shocked laughter from the volunteers behind who likely felt like very recent victims of a rapid and violent pillaging. It was at this point that Corey said something in a tone that clearly indicated that she thought this was the most important accomplishment of the day:
Corey: Those people back there think you're so funny! I bet they all want to be your friend!
Shortly after this we approached the final few blocks and Corey disappeared as mysteriously as she came. I realized that she and Micalyne had successfully motivated, distracted, and entertained me during the most difficult part of the race, and I'm incredibly grateful to both of them
I finished with a 3:22. I was pleased with it. It's a 14 minute personal record for me and the first marathon I've run without feeling the need to be hospitalized the next day. As usual it was incredibly hard and for the rest of the day I vowed never to do one again. But the memories of misery are slowly slipping away and I'm starting to wonder if maybe I have a few more left in me. But much of it will depend on whether they can find a way to make the power gel packets edible.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Way the World Works
Have you ever gone to a road race? There is one thing that is certain to happen at literally every single road race that is ever planned: they will not have your shirt size. This is absolutely the case 100% of the time. No exceptions whatsoever. They will, however, have hundreds of t-shirts that are 2 sizes larger than anyone could possibly ever wear who would be interested in running a road race. They will have exactly 0 smalls, 4 mediums, 75 larges, 2,000 XLs, and roughly 8 million XXL-XXXLs (and this all despite the fact that only 200 people registered to run). And I am absolutely positive that nobody who has ever run a road race has ever wanted anything larger than a large and 98% would prefer a small. This is even more ridiculous when the race is a marathon (although maybe not as I am regularly passed in marathons by overweight middle-aged men who don't seem to be straining themselves--this is depressing for many reasons, not the least of which is that this is evidence that regular exercise is no guarantee, apparently, of anything. Interestingly in last year's marathon the large group of overweight middle-aged men were all dressed as the Statue of Liberty. I never did find out why this was the case but I was embarrassed for humanity).
Races don't have the market cornered on nonsensical order decisions. I am always floored that in every store I ever enter I can find a pretty similar ratio of clothing items. Some have argued that surely the store ordered an equal number of sizes initially and the smaller sizes just sold more quickly because the smaller sizes fit actual people. To this I have two responses: first, this does not explain why the ratios are so imbalanced even when the item is clearly new, and second, if it really is the case that the normal sizes are selling more quickly, then why on Earth wouldn't the store order more in those sizes in the first place?
And these stores have other problems as well: I went to Sears recently. At least I think I did. I pulled up to a large building that looked like it had been shot-out during the Civil War. When I walked in I had the distinct impression that this store had been shut-down in 1985 and they just forgot to lock the doors. I noticed a sign pointing me to the appliances, which apparently were located in the basement. When I got there and asked spandex lady with a Sears name tag where a certain item might be located, she informed me that that appliance was on the third floor with some of the other appliances (all of this amid cackles, the source of which I never really understood). When I arrived on the third floor after walking up the escalator (yes, walking. It of course was not working at the time) I searched for a while until I found butterfly eyelashes girl who was about 40 years younger than spandex lady but equally helpful. Butterfly eyelashes girl nodded and assured me that what I was looking for was located in the basement. Feeling like I was well on my way to getting caught in an eternal loop (and at Sears, the happiest place on Earth), I explained to her what spandex lady had told me (but without the mysterious cackles) to which butterfly eyelashes responded, "well . . . it sounds like you figured out that we don't have any then." I know I just gave one out recently, but I would like to officially award butterfly eyelashes the Tellin'-it-like-it-is-award. She seems like the type who has probably earned it every day of her life.
Because I'm the easiest customer in the world to please, I'm sure I'll go back. Maybe they have a pile of XXL t-shirts I can dig through.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Races don't have the market cornered on nonsensical order decisions. I am always floored that in every store I ever enter I can find a pretty similar ratio of clothing items. Some have argued that surely the store ordered an equal number of sizes initially and the smaller sizes just sold more quickly because the smaller sizes fit actual people. To this I have two responses: first, this does not explain why the ratios are so imbalanced even when the item is clearly new, and second, if it really is the case that the normal sizes are selling more quickly, then why on Earth wouldn't the store order more in those sizes in the first place?
And these stores have other problems as well: I went to Sears recently. At least I think I did. I pulled up to a large building that looked like it had been shot-out during the Civil War. When I walked in I had the distinct impression that this store had been shut-down in 1985 and they just forgot to lock the doors. I noticed a sign pointing me to the appliances, which apparently were located in the basement. When I got there and asked spandex lady with a Sears name tag where a certain item might be located, she informed me that that appliance was on the third floor with some of the other appliances (all of this amid cackles, the source of which I never really understood). When I arrived on the third floor after walking up the escalator (yes, walking. It of course was not working at the time) I searched for a while until I found butterfly eyelashes girl who was about 40 years younger than spandex lady but equally helpful. Butterfly eyelashes girl nodded and assured me that what I was looking for was located in the basement. Feeling like I was well on my way to getting caught in an eternal loop (and at Sears, the happiest place on Earth), I explained to her what spandex lady had told me (but without the mysterious cackles) to which butterfly eyelashes responded, "well . . . it sounds like you figured out that we don't have any then." I know I just gave one out recently, but I would like to officially award butterfly eyelashes the Tellin'-it-like-it-is-award. She seems like the type who has probably earned it every day of her life.
Because I'm the easiest customer in the world to please, I'm sure I'll go back. Maybe they have a pile of XXL t-shirts I can dig through.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The End of the World
In case you hadn't heard yet, the world is ending on May 21st (this coming Saturday). See http://www.wecanknow.com/. These people mean business. When I tried to order a bumper sticker from them this afternoon, I was told that it's too late because "with our Lord's Return such a short time away, we are no longer offering free printed materials since there is not enough time remaining for us to effectively produce and distribute them." (And by the way, I would like to take this time to formally award wecanknow.com the "Tellin-it-like-it-is" award. Congratulations. May you join the short list of mind-speakers proudly).
When I saw this, I thought, maybe I should stop studying for the bar. I mean, I don't have that much to lose because they've given me a date that's close enough that I don't forfeit much if I alter my week plans in vein. Had they listed May 21st of next year as the date, it would be a trickier decision. On the one hand, if I stopped everything boring that I was doing and the world did in fact end when predicted, then I would have made out pretty well in that situation. Of course if I wasted the year and nothing happened after all, I would be pretty upset with someone.
But Saturday? I could blow some pretty miserable things off this week, because there's no sense in memorizing a bunch of stuff about criminal punishments if God is going to swoop down and take care of it all with his own form of due process just four days from now. If he doesn't show up, I can make up four days pretty quickly.
Other things you may want to consider blowing off this week:
1. Brushing your teeth
2. Exercise
3. Eating sushi just so your friends think you're cultured (it doesn't really have that effect anymore anyway).
4. Planning your summer family reunion (especially if you're ordering t-shirts (see wecanknow.com message above)).
5. Yard work (it may all get burned up on Saturday anyway)
6. Anything at your job that has a deadline post-May 21st (you're probably pretty safe to hold off for now)
7. Don't start Crime & Punishment. In my experience it will take more than six years to finish it (I did read 3 pages recently, in case you wanted an update on my progress. But it's going back on hold until after May 21st).
8. Calling any customer service line to get a problem resolved (especially if it's Dell or T-Mobile, in which case you may be on the phone until the judgment day no matter when it comes anyway).
9. Buying anything from Costco. You won't get through it in time and it will take you an hour to find what you're looking for.
10. Dieting. I mean, you probably don't want gluttony to be listed among your final acts, but there's really no point in starving yourself for the next four days if there will be no need to have a beach body this summer.
I only wish I had heard about this before my long run last Saturday where I actually attempted to drink out of a river because (surprise, surprise) I somehow forgot, again, that my body needs fluid when I exercise in the blazing sun for two hours at a time. Fortunately I stopped myself from river-drinking after noticing a dead animal half-way in the water just four feet up-stream (it was a May miracle).
Anything else anyone would like to hold off on until we're sure that there will be a next week?
On the bright side, if the world does end, at least that means that "Glee" won't return for a third season.
~It Just Gets Stranger
When I saw this, I thought, maybe I should stop studying for the bar. I mean, I don't have that much to lose because they've given me a date that's close enough that I don't forfeit much if I alter my week plans in vein. Had they listed May 21st of next year as the date, it would be a trickier decision. On the one hand, if I stopped everything boring that I was doing and the world did in fact end when predicted, then I would have made out pretty well in that situation. Of course if I wasted the year and nothing happened after all, I would be pretty upset with someone.
But Saturday? I could blow some pretty miserable things off this week, because there's no sense in memorizing a bunch of stuff about criminal punishments if God is going to swoop down and take care of it all with his own form of due process just four days from now. If he doesn't show up, I can make up four days pretty quickly.
Other things you may want to consider blowing off this week:
1. Brushing your teeth
2. Exercise
3. Eating sushi just so your friends think you're cultured (it doesn't really have that effect anymore anyway).
4. Planning your summer family reunion (especially if you're ordering t-shirts (see wecanknow.com message above)).
5. Yard work (it may all get burned up on Saturday anyway)
6. Anything at your job that has a deadline post-May 21st (you're probably pretty safe to hold off for now)
7. Don't start Crime & Punishment. In my experience it will take more than six years to finish it (I did read 3 pages recently, in case you wanted an update on my progress. But it's going back on hold until after May 21st).
8. Calling any customer service line to get a problem resolved (especially if it's Dell or T-Mobile, in which case you may be on the phone until the judgment day no matter when it comes anyway).
9. Buying anything from Costco. You won't get through it in time and it will take you an hour to find what you're looking for.
10. Dieting. I mean, you probably don't want gluttony to be listed among your final acts, but there's really no point in starving yourself for the next four days if there will be no need to have a beach body this summer.
I only wish I had heard about this before my long run last Saturday where I actually attempted to drink out of a river because (surprise, surprise) I somehow forgot, again, that my body needs fluid when I exercise in the blazing sun for two hours at a time. Fortunately I stopped myself from river-drinking after noticing a dead animal half-way in the water just four feet up-stream (it was a May miracle).
Anything else anyone would like to hold off on until we're sure that there will be a next week?
On the bright side, if the world does end, at least that means that "Glee" won't return for a third season.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Sunday, May 8, 2011
The Public Library
I am technically finishing up two jobs right now before I take the bar in July. One is at the Attorney General office and the other is with the professor I've worked with for a few years. She and I are desperately trying to finish up a paper ASAP on online contracting (my apologies to the 4% of you who got so bored that you died just now). What this means is that I'm sort of splitting my days, spending a little time on each project. I occasionally attempt the contract research at public locations rather than at home, knowing very well that the "at home" option is not one that I'm capable of performing without long naps on the floor. It always starts out with the best of intentions, usually with me sitting up straight and alert with a laptop in front of me, repeating motivational statements out loud with the occasional fist pump. Then within 3 minutes I make the first mistake of finding a blanket to wrap myself in. About 30 seconds later I decide that I'll be more productive if I lay down on the floor, even though I know very well that trying to type and research while lying down is actually incredibly uncomfortable. It's usually 2 minutes after that that I begin my 6-8 hour nap (nap for me=laying silently, but awake, thinking about things that will never, ever, be important, like how much weight could I lose before dying* or would I be able to distinguish between people if everyone was bald**).
So having learned my lesson on more occasions that I would like to admit, long ago I decided that work-time can never happen at home for me. Fortunately I'm quite productive when in public places, partly because I have this totally irrational fear that people are judging me if I'm on Facebook or YouTube instead of a website that looks incredibly boring. This is most irrational when my choice of work venue takes me to the Salt Lake Library where I'm probably not only the only person who has anything productive to do at all, but I'm also the only person who is not screaming at someone across the table with a mullet about whose turn it is to do laundry (I'm actually not kidding when I tell you I have witnessed this exact argument by two separate couples at the library in the last week). I think, naturally, adults without children who hang out at the public library in the early afternoon on a weekday don't have much going on.
Yet despite the entertainment happening around me, I'm still able to get quite a bit done. That was until the other day when the following conversation took place (names have been changed):
Man: Do you have a cigarette?
Woman: Does it look like I do?
Man: You always have a cigarette.
Woman: You already owe me like 900 cigarettes.
Man: No! I gave you some beer yesterday!
Woman: Oh yeah. Well like 200 then.
Man: That's more like it. So can I have a cigarette?
Woman: Fine. But you can't smoke in the library again. (Again?)
Man: Fine, I'll go outside.
Woman: And not just downstairs like last time. You have to go outside.
Man: I know!
Woman: And we can't smoke in front of the kids no more. They don't brush their teeth enough as it is. The last thing we need now is for their teeth to rot because they're smokin'.
So many things I'm learning in the public library: some beer is roughly the equivalent of 700 cigarettes, you shouldn't smoke if you're a child and you don't brush your teeth often enough, and the public library smells like cigarettes apparently because people can get away with smoking inside. Mystery solved on that last one.
~It Just Gets Stranger
*70lbs
**No
So having learned my lesson on more occasions that I would like to admit, long ago I decided that work-time can never happen at home for me. Fortunately I'm quite productive when in public places, partly because I have this totally irrational fear that people are judging me if I'm on Facebook or YouTube instead of a website that looks incredibly boring. This is most irrational when my choice of work venue takes me to the Salt Lake Library where I'm probably not only the only person who has anything productive to do at all, but I'm also the only person who is not screaming at someone across the table with a mullet about whose turn it is to do laundry (I'm actually not kidding when I tell you I have witnessed this exact argument by two separate couples at the library in the last week). I think, naturally, adults without children who hang out at the public library in the early afternoon on a weekday don't have much going on.
Yet despite the entertainment happening around me, I'm still able to get quite a bit done. That was until the other day when the following conversation took place (names have been changed):
Man: Do you have a cigarette?
Woman: Does it look like I do?
Man: You always have a cigarette.
Woman: You already owe me like 900 cigarettes.
Man: No! I gave you some beer yesterday!
Woman: Oh yeah. Well like 200 then.
Man: That's more like it. So can I have a cigarette?
Woman: Fine. But you can't smoke in the library again. (Again?)
Man: Fine, I'll go outside.
Woman: And not just downstairs like last time. You have to go outside.
Man: I know!
Woman: And we can't smoke in front of the kids no more. They don't brush their teeth enough as it is. The last thing we need now is for their teeth to rot because they're smokin'.
So many things I'm learning in the public library: some beer is roughly the equivalent of 700 cigarettes, you shouldn't smoke if you're a child and you don't brush your teeth often enough, and the public library smells like cigarettes apparently because people can get away with smoking inside. Mystery solved on that last one.
~It Just Gets Stranger
*70lbs
**No
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Pomp & Circumstance
When I last left you, I was exhausted and wondering how to prepare for a graduation speech. In those few days that have since slipped away, I lived through all of the graduation festivities and moved away from Provo.
Commencement happened on Thursday when my friends and I marched in the endless parade of 2011 BYU graduates into the giant Marriot Center to be addressed by Elder Scott and to be embarrassed when we didn't stand up as the doctorate students were invited to arise (thinking, because we had been told, that the "juris" doctorate students would be recognized separately from the others). Most of the rest of the commencement is a blur. All I remember are some disruptive jokes and commentary from myself and my restless friends on either side of me while inspirational and spiritual chunks of counsel emanated from the speaker. And then it was another march to outside where we took another 12 dozen pictures to add to the 12 dozen pictures we had taken before commencement with our blood-shot tired eyes and wrinkled robes.
Thursday night we had a graduation party with piles of meat in a church gym, reliving old memories with best friends while classmates passed their babies around and took more pictures. Then it was back to Annette's office which was now full of all of our stuff that we had cleaned out of CTU and our carrels. Corey and I stayed late working on my speech. I would type for a while, read, and then Corey would tell me I did a good job but then demand that I change everything (she's getting a lot better at the "tell me I did a good job" part). It was, I knew, going to be one of the last of about 2,000 times I would have Corey flawlessly critique something I was nervous about until we worked out all the kinks. I'm going to miss that. Corey and I left around 11:00.
I didn't really set an alarm. Just woke up when I was ready to on Friday, hoping that my body would sleep as long as it needed to to rid myself of the now 4-day headache. It seemed to work. I rolled to school at about 11:00 AM to find a frantic Annette with curlers in her hair, somehow simultaneously on the phone with all of her friends who had called her to ask for details about where were supposed to be throughout the day, knowing that Annette would be the best person to call for that kind of information. I sat in her office amid the piles of personal belongings that personally belonged to about 6 different people but were starting to get so mixed up with one another's stuff that I wondered how long it would take for us to separate everything out. Sort of reminded me of our lives and how they've all grown together enough that I almost don't remember anymore which experiences are mine and which belong to my friends, in some cases.
Annette popped in and out over the next few hours, looking more put together each time, as I tried to work on my speech amid laying on the couch, sneaking barefoot into the CSO for candy, and walking across campus to visit an old history professor who I meant to visit all year but never could seem to find the time to. On the way I passed hundreds of graduates and their families out taking advantage of the sun for pictures. Finally I printed my speech off and took it into a classroom to practice giving it several times. When I came back, I found a Corey telling me to print it off again because she had gotten ahold of my laptop and made some changes. Then Annette showed up and told us it was time for more pictures outside. I put my stinky robes on once again and smiled while people I know and don't know ordered us around and told us to smile. This happened until it was time to line up for convocation.
We stood in that line for 45 minutes or so, alphabetically and sweaty. Finally we were ushered onto the stage. I sat on the front row, directly in front of the professor I've worked with and become close to over the last few years. She kicked me a few times from behind with her high heels and cracked jokes about her odd robes that oddly had long black shards of fabric hanging off of each sleeve. The curtains opened and we spoke. The lights blinded me and I couldn't really see the crowds of people and crying babies, which I thought was probably a good thing. I stood up there and cracked some awkward jokes, sometimes getting laughs from the crowd in front of me of family members, sometimes getting laughs from the crowd behind me of classmates, but usually not really both crowds at the same time. And sometimes neither crowd at all. My speech went quickly and the next thing I knew we were walking across the stage to get hooded and handed diplomas before singing "America the Beautiful" and getting sent outside while an old man, who's position I never did find out, told me I should probably get married now that I'm done with school.
Outside 2,000 people stood around and hugged, took pictures, and chatted, slowly slipping away to their cars for dinner plans until there were only a dozen or so left. I left with my family and had dinner with them in American Fork. Somehow after the dinner I got so lost trying to drive back to Provo that I ended up on the west side of Utah Lake (and if you aren't familiar with the valley, just trust me--this is shockingly, terribly, and almost unbelievably lost and out of the way). I didn't realize this until I looked East and saw the "Y" lit up on the side of the mountain. It looked like I was looking down from space. And there was a large dark mass between me and the rest of Provo, which I knew had to be the giant lake. So I turned around and drove back, wondering how 6 years of residence did not prevent that from happening. Oh well.
I stopped back by Annette's office on the way home to pick up some clothes and books I had left there. The building was dark and quiet and didn't seem like the place that I had had so many laughs and anti-laughs for three years. Instead it just seemed like the base for our graduation festivities. I can't really explain it. It just sort of took on a new persona (that building always had a persona to me) and it wasn't the one that it had consistently been for so long. So wondering when the nostalgia would boot out the celebration frenzy, I flipped off the light and headed out with a pile of what was probably mostly my stuff.
As I packed everything I own into my and Krishelle's cars yesterday, stopping one more time by the school to find Annette cleaning out her office, or attempting to, I thought about what it was that I really gained from this whole experience. An education and a degree--that's obvious. But it feels like I care much more about this thing than the generic understanding of what an education and a degree would produce. A new sense of belonging? Unprecedented confidence? A second family? Direction? Comprehension of true dedication? Perspective? An almost unlimited supply of new strange experiences to draw from? I'm sure it's all of those things, and something bigger that I can't really seem to wrap my mind or vocabulary around. I just know that whatever it is I gained, it's something that I don't think I would trade for anything. It's something that manifests itself through encouraging emails from classmates sent from opposite sides of the world when second semester grades come out. Through late nights in a professor's office to clean up an article, not feeling so tedious or boring because the sense of accomplishment and teamwork from focused friends relentlessly continues past midnight. Through the calm sense that slack will be picked up without complaint by consistent back-scratchers after desperately trying not to leave any slack in the first place. I don't want to forget any of it. But even if I do, it all still happened, and forgetting any of it can't change the fact that I'm different because of it.
So long days of picturing the law building when someone talks about home. Farewell naps at my carrel and trips across campus to buy chocolate with a good friend when naps and chocolate are needed for coping with competitive stress. Good bye late night competitions, frantic brief writing, crackers and cheese on Fridays, Halloween parades with homemade costumes, awkward professor run-ins in bathrooms and stairwells, lunch on the grass, weekend runs in the canyon, wraps, pre-5k trash-talking, taking 25 minutes to get anywhere because of the great friends lining the path, embarrassing unintentional emails, study room pot-lucks, finger-pointing, arguing, waiting for competition results emails late at night in the basement with best friends, summer reunion barbeque's, fighting about accurate recollections of memories, and laughing endlessly over jokes that never get old, even if some won't admit it.
Onto the next chapter, or book, or page---however that metaphor goes. Here's to hoping for a bright future lit by the luminous bon-fire that now sits in the past, showing the best ways for life to Just Get Stranger~
Commencement happened on Thursday when my friends and I marched in the endless parade of 2011 BYU graduates into the giant Marriot Center to be addressed by Elder Scott and to be embarrassed when we didn't stand up as the doctorate students were invited to arise (thinking, because we had been told, that the "juris" doctorate students would be recognized separately from the others). Most of the rest of the commencement is a blur. All I remember are some disruptive jokes and commentary from myself and my restless friends on either side of me while inspirational and spiritual chunks of counsel emanated from the speaker. And then it was another march to outside where we took another 12 dozen pictures to add to the 12 dozen pictures we had taken before commencement with our blood-shot tired eyes and wrinkled robes.
Thursday night we had a graduation party with piles of meat in a church gym, reliving old memories with best friends while classmates passed their babies around and took more pictures. Then it was back to Annette's office which was now full of all of our stuff that we had cleaned out of CTU and our carrels. Corey and I stayed late working on my speech. I would type for a while, read, and then Corey would tell me I did a good job but then demand that I change everything (she's getting a lot better at the "tell me I did a good job" part). It was, I knew, going to be one of the last of about 2,000 times I would have Corey flawlessly critique something I was nervous about until we worked out all the kinks. I'm going to miss that. Corey and I left around 11:00.
I didn't really set an alarm. Just woke up when I was ready to on Friday, hoping that my body would sleep as long as it needed to to rid myself of the now 4-day headache. It seemed to work. I rolled to school at about 11:00 AM to find a frantic Annette with curlers in her hair, somehow simultaneously on the phone with all of her friends who had called her to ask for details about where were supposed to be throughout the day, knowing that Annette would be the best person to call for that kind of information. I sat in her office amid the piles of personal belongings that personally belonged to about 6 different people but were starting to get so mixed up with one another's stuff that I wondered how long it would take for us to separate everything out. Sort of reminded me of our lives and how they've all grown together enough that I almost don't remember anymore which experiences are mine and which belong to my friends, in some cases.
Annette popped in and out over the next few hours, looking more put together each time, as I tried to work on my speech amid laying on the couch, sneaking barefoot into the CSO for candy, and walking across campus to visit an old history professor who I meant to visit all year but never could seem to find the time to. On the way I passed hundreds of graduates and their families out taking advantage of the sun for pictures. Finally I printed my speech off and took it into a classroom to practice giving it several times. When I came back, I found a Corey telling me to print it off again because she had gotten ahold of my laptop and made some changes. Then Annette showed up and told us it was time for more pictures outside. I put my stinky robes on once again and smiled while people I know and don't know ordered us around and told us to smile. This happened until it was time to line up for convocation.
We stood in that line for 45 minutes or so, alphabetically and sweaty. Finally we were ushered onto the stage. I sat on the front row, directly in front of the professor I've worked with and become close to over the last few years. She kicked me a few times from behind with her high heels and cracked jokes about her odd robes that oddly had long black shards of fabric hanging off of each sleeve. The curtains opened and we spoke. The lights blinded me and I couldn't really see the crowds of people and crying babies, which I thought was probably a good thing. I stood up there and cracked some awkward jokes, sometimes getting laughs from the crowd in front of me of family members, sometimes getting laughs from the crowd behind me of classmates, but usually not really both crowds at the same time. And sometimes neither crowd at all. My speech went quickly and the next thing I knew we were walking across the stage to get hooded and handed diplomas before singing "America the Beautiful" and getting sent outside while an old man, who's position I never did find out, told me I should probably get married now that I'm done with school.
Outside 2,000 people stood around and hugged, took pictures, and chatted, slowly slipping away to their cars for dinner plans until there were only a dozen or so left. I left with my family and had dinner with them in American Fork. Somehow after the dinner I got so lost trying to drive back to Provo that I ended up on the west side of Utah Lake (and if you aren't familiar with the valley, just trust me--this is shockingly, terribly, and almost unbelievably lost and out of the way). I didn't realize this until I looked East and saw the "Y" lit up on the side of the mountain. It looked like I was looking down from space. And there was a large dark mass between me and the rest of Provo, which I knew had to be the giant lake. So I turned around and drove back, wondering how 6 years of residence did not prevent that from happening. Oh well.
I stopped back by Annette's office on the way home to pick up some clothes and books I had left there. The building was dark and quiet and didn't seem like the place that I had had so many laughs and anti-laughs for three years. Instead it just seemed like the base for our graduation festivities. I can't really explain it. It just sort of took on a new persona (that building always had a persona to me) and it wasn't the one that it had consistently been for so long. So wondering when the nostalgia would boot out the celebration frenzy, I flipped off the light and headed out with a pile of what was probably mostly my stuff.
As I packed everything I own into my and Krishelle's cars yesterday, stopping one more time by the school to find Annette cleaning out her office, or attempting to, I thought about what it was that I really gained from this whole experience. An education and a degree--that's obvious. But it feels like I care much more about this thing than the generic understanding of what an education and a degree would produce. A new sense of belonging? Unprecedented confidence? A second family? Direction? Comprehension of true dedication? Perspective? An almost unlimited supply of new strange experiences to draw from? I'm sure it's all of those things, and something bigger that I can't really seem to wrap my mind or vocabulary around. I just know that whatever it is I gained, it's something that I don't think I would trade for anything. It's something that manifests itself through encouraging emails from classmates sent from opposite sides of the world when second semester grades come out. Through late nights in a professor's office to clean up an article, not feeling so tedious or boring because the sense of accomplishment and teamwork from focused friends relentlessly continues past midnight. Through the calm sense that slack will be picked up without complaint by consistent back-scratchers after desperately trying not to leave any slack in the first place. I don't want to forget any of it. But even if I do, it all still happened, and forgetting any of it can't change the fact that I'm different because of it.
So long days of picturing the law building when someone talks about home. Farewell naps at my carrel and trips across campus to buy chocolate with a good friend when naps and chocolate are needed for coping with competitive stress. Good bye late night competitions, frantic brief writing, crackers and cheese on Fridays, Halloween parades with homemade costumes, awkward professor run-ins in bathrooms and stairwells, lunch on the grass, weekend runs in the canyon, wraps, pre-5k trash-talking, taking 25 minutes to get anywhere because of the great friends lining the path, embarrassing unintentional emails, study room pot-lucks, finger-pointing, arguing, waiting for competition results emails late at night in the basement with best friends, summer reunion barbeque's, fighting about accurate recollections of memories, and laughing endlessly over jokes that never get old, even if some won't admit it.
Onto the next chapter, or book, or page---however that metaphor goes. Here's to hoping for a bright future lit by the luminous bon-fire that now sits in the past, showing the best ways for life to Just Get Stranger~
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The End?
It is finished.
Here I sit on my bed having just eaten a giant bowl of blueberries (I didn't realize I had a huge bag of blueberries until today and now I'm frantically engaging in my pre-move tradition of masticating every bit of food in my possession in my final hours of current-residence so as not to let anything go to waste when I cram 26 years of life into my tiny car and haul it, once again, off to the unknown just a few short days from now). My final final of all of law school (and of my whole academic career) ran its course this morning. Yesterday I got to school sometime around 7:00 AM and frantically prepared for my afternoon final, only to immediately return to CTU (an office in the school my friends and I have completely taken over and named after Jack Baur's 24 "counter terrorist unit") to learn everything there is to know about wills and estates by the following morning.
Around 2:00 AM, it became very clear that we would not be going home before our final as there was still much left to do. And so it went. It was sometime around the witching hour when we were talking about what happens when a beneficiary predeceases the testator of a will that Annette very seriously said, sort of under her breath, "I really hope I predecease this final." This is making me laugh, even now. But I understood exactly what she was feeling. It wasn't just the two weeks of brutal finals, politicking, studying, competing, soul-searching, and nail-biting that had gotten us to the pits of intellectual fatigue by last night. It was the end of three long years of running at full speed, and we knew it. We felt the weight of those three years on us as we tried to learn one more thing, and tried to help one another learn one more thing, so we could take one more final so that we could finally move on to whatever it is that we are now supposed to move on to.
And just like that, the sun came up while we sat in CTU in our final preparation moments before we descended to the first floor to take our last final. I spent the afternoon passing on information to next year's 3L class in several meetings, and then cleaned out my carrel and CTU, finding four pairs of pants and an unlimited supply of Tupperware that had migrated to the school over the year. And after 32 straight hours without leaving the building, I took my pile of stuff and left, not yet feeling everything that is my life right now sort of disappear as I walked out of the building. Maybe that feeling will come after I've rested long enough to be able to think clearly enough to recognize significance. Maybe it will come after the craziness of graduation dissipates over the next two days as 150 of my closest friends and I put on awkwardly uncomfortable robes and hoods and march around Provo in front of gawking family members and friends who have been so supportive of our quest over the years, even without really seeing what that quest looks like in CTU at 3:00 in the morning on the last night of academic life. Or maybe it will all hit me as I take that car-load of everything I own and leave Provo after six years of residency this coming Saturday.
There is no doubt I'll miss it. There is no doubt that I'll look at this law school experience as one of the happiest times of my life. A time where I learned about friendship and family, diligence and struggle, discouragement and hope. And as time wears on, I'm sure the funny, light, and positive memories will become more prevalent in my ever growing nostalgia for something that has made me such a different person than I was three years ago.
I'm supposed to be writing a graduation speech right now to deliver in less than 48 hours. As I try to gather my thoughts, I have no idea what to say, in part because I have no idea what I feel (also, there are several thousand people attending this thing and I don't even know where to begin in trying to address a crowd like this). I'll probably awkwardly type up a few cliche phrases and climb into bed, hoping that tomorrow it will all come together. Who knows--maybe I'll predecease graduation.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Here I sit on my bed having just eaten a giant bowl of blueberries (I didn't realize I had a huge bag of blueberries until today and now I'm frantically engaging in my pre-move tradition of masticating every bit of food in my possession in my final hours of current-residence so as not to let anything go to waste when I cram 26 years of life into my tiny car and haul it, once again, off to the unknown just a few short days from now). My final final of all of law school (and of my whole academic career) ran its course this morning. Yesterday I got to school sometime around 7:00 AM and frantically prepared for my afternoon final, only to immediately return to CTU (an office in the school my friends and I have completely taken over and named after Jack Baur's 24 "counter terrorist unit") to learn everything there is to know about wills and estates by the following morning.
Around 2:00 AM, it became very clear that we would not be going home before our final as there was still much left to do. And so it went. It was sometime around the witching hour when we were talking about what happens when a beneficiary predeceases the testator of a will that Annette very seriously said, sort of under her breath, "I really hope I predecease this final." This is making me laugh, even now. But I understood exactly what she was feeling. It wasn't just the two weeks of brutal finals, politicking, studying, competing, soul-searching, and nail-biting that had gotten us to the pits of intellectual fatigue by last night. It was the end of three long years of running at full speed, and we knew it. We felt the weight of those three years on us as we tried to learn one more thing, and tried to help one another learn one more thing, so we could take one more final so that we could finally move on to whatever it is that we are now supposed to move on to.
And just like that, the sun came up while we sat in CTU in our final preparation moments before we descended to the first floor to take our last final. I spent the afternoon passing on information to next year's 3L class in several meetings, and then cleaned out my carrel and CTU, finding four pairs of pants and an unlimited supply of Tupperware that had migrated to the school over the year. And after 32 straight hours without leaving the building, I took my pile of stuff and left, not yet feeling everything that is my life right now sort of disappear as I walked out of the building. Maybe that feeling will come after I've rested long enough to be able to think clearly enough to recognize significance. Maybe it will come after the craziness of graduation dissipates over the next two days as 150 of my closest friends and I put on awkwardly uncomfortable robes and hoods and march around Provo in front of gawking family members and friends who have been so supportive of our quest over the years, even without really seeing what that quest looks like in CTU at 3:00 in the morning on the last night of academic life. Or maybe it will all hit me as I take that car-load of everything I own and leave Provo after six years of residency this coming Saturday.
There is no doubt I'll miss it. There is no doubt that I'll look at this law school experience as one of the happiest times of my life. A time where I learned about friendship and family, diligence and struggle, discouragement and hope. And as time wears on, I'm sure the funny, light, and positive memories will become more prevalent in my ever growing nostalgia for something that has made me such a different person than I was three years ago.
I'm supposed to be writing a graduation speech right now to deliver in less than 48 hours. As I try to gather my thoughts, I have no idea what to say, in part because I have no idea what I feel (also, there are several thousand people attending this thing and I don't even know where to begin in trying to address a crowd like this). I'll probably awkwardly type up a few cliche phrases and climb into bed, hoping that tomorrow it will all come together. Who knows--maybe I'll predecease graduation.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Operation Breakfast Overload
On Wednesday morning at 8:30 I updated my Facebook status (you know, Facebook. The social network that tears people apart). Less than 48 hours later, this status had a 100+ comment thread, had provoked mass emailing, messages from the administration, two Facebook groups, an elaborate prank, secret leafleting of falsified satirical press releases, and a possibly altered election result. Thank you, untameable technology for two days of shocking entertainment.
Rewind to a few weeks ago . . .
My dear friend Annette has served as the student body president at the law school this year and has done a fantastic job doing whatever it is student government leaders are supposed to do (promising the "best year ever!" and then delivering, I suppose). Particularly, I have watched her answer email complaints, attend 245 meetings per day, and gracefully put out a new fire every hour, on the hour, for about ten months now, without breaking a sweat.
The 1Ls turned in a large writing assignment a few weeks ago, bright and early one Monday morning. For reasons still not clear to any of us, their writing professors emailed the 1L class, explaining that Annette and the rest of the SBA board members would provide the 1Ls with a congratulatory breakfast on that Monday morning. The problem: Annette never made this commitment, nor was she ever aware that the professors had made this promise on her behalf. Not a big deal, you might think; but evidently, it was to some because within hours of the breakfast disappointment, Annette had received complaint emails from members of the 1L class who apparently were on the brink of starvation and whose lives depended upon Annette feeding them. After an unsuccessful attempt to contact the professors responsible for the mix-up so that they could restore Annette's reputation as a non-flake, Annette communicated with the 1L class on her own and explained that there was a miscommunication and that she, in fact, had never made such a promise and certainly would have delivered had she done so.
This was not enough for at least one 1L, who continued to complain about the SBA's alleged failures; and these complaints culminated in an interesting campaign tactic earlier this week. This 1L (we'll call him "Home-boy") decided to run for student body president for his second year, a position typically occupied by a third year student. Home-boy was rude to Annette, continued his complaints about her, and then passed out his campaign flyers to everyone's carrels on Wednesday morning. The flyer read, "When [home-boy] promises breakfast, [home-boy] brings breakfast." A bit defensive of Annette and quite tired of the lack of appreciation for everything she has done for everyone, including home-boy, I responded with the following Facebook status update: "Eli is wondering whether a 1L's passive-aggressive attacks on Annette Thacker in his SBA campaign flyers is really going to be an effective approach. Particularly since it's well accepted that Thacker is likely the best president of anything anyone has ever seen (and that includes Pres. Palmer from 24)."
Feeling that I had done my Christian duty to defend my friend's honor, and truly not expecting anything to come of it, I went about my business. Then the madness ensued.
Several people asked around for the full story, commented on this post, and immediately jumped to the defense of Annette. In the meantime, another 1L composed a hilarious email that any 13 year old girl with a vendetta couldn't have done any better and spammed the entire 1L class, pleading with his peers to vote for home-boy and allow the four 2L candidates to split the vote among the upper classes so that the 1L class could "take control of the school." The administration responded to this by reminding everyone of the anti-spamming policy. But this was well beyond a ridiculous email by this point.
"Operation Breakfast Overload" was well on its way. Someone had the idea to fulfill the promise Annette never made by actually bringing home-boy breakfast. And a lot of it. On Thursday morning while I was at work in Salt Lake, the pictures came trickling in as several dozen of my light-hearted and creative classmates dropped off boxes of cereal, home-made muffins, pancakes, balloons, yogurt, and several other popular breakfast items, all at his carrel while home-boy sat in class. In the meantime, the 1L "spam" email had gone viral and had made it around the non-1L classes thirty or forty times, several campaign tactics were altered to draw more votes for the 2L candidates, and an all-out war had been waged on my Facebook page between unlikely combatants.
On Friday the civil war officially ended as a 2L candidate was named victor. I, of course, hope that home-boy doesn't have hard feelings and does recognize that the vast majority of the class intended no harm in what most definitely was a great overreaction to a campaign flyer that was probably intended to be not much more than a subtle joke. But overreaction is what law students do best.
Most of us who didn't really ever have a dog in the fight, but still found the entire thing absolutely the most entertaining thing we had witnessed since 1996, wondered afterwards how so much activity could result from one half-joking status update on Facebook.
Gosh I'm going to miss high school.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Rewind to a few weeks ago . . .
My dear friend Annette has served as the student body president at the law school this year and has done a fantastic job doing whatever it is student government leaders are supposed to do (promising the "best year ever!" and then delivering, I suppose). Particularly, I have watched her answer email complaints, attend 245 meetings per day, and gracefully put out a new fire every hour, on the hour, for about ten months now, without breaking a sweat.
The 1Ls turned in a large writing assignment a few weeks ago, bright and early one Monday morning. For reasons still not clear to any of us, their writing professors emailed the 1L class, explaining that Annette and the rest of the SBA board members would provide the 1Ls with a congratulatory breakfast on that Monday morning. The problem: Annette never made this commitment, nor was she ever aware that the professors had made this promise on her behalf. Not a big deal, you might think; but evidently, it was to some because within hours of the breakfast disappointment, Annette had received complaint emails from members of the 1L class who apparently were on the brink of starvation and whose lives depended upon Annette feeding them. After an unsuccessful attempt to contact the professors responsible for the mix-up so that they could restore Annette's reputation as a non-flake, Annette communicated with the 1L class on her own and explained that there was a miscommunication and that she, in fact, had never made such a promise and certainly would have delivered had she done so.
This was not enough for at least one 1L, who continued to complain about the SBA's alleged failures; and these complaints culminated in an interesting campaign tactic earlier this week. This 1L (we'll call him "Home-boy") decided to run for student body president for his second year, a position typically occupied by a third year student. Home-boy was rude to Annette, continued his complaints about her, and then passed out his campaign flyers to everyone's carrels on Wednesday morning. The flyer read, "When [home-boy] promises breakfast, [home-boy] brings breakfast." A bit defensive of Annette and quite tired of the lack of appreciation for everything she has done for everyone, including home-boy, I responded with the following Facebook status update: "Eli is wondering whether a 1L's passive-aggressive attacks on Annette Thacker in his SBA campaign flyers is really going to be an effective approach. Particularly since it's well accepted that Thacker is likely the best president of anything anyone has ever seen (and that includes Pres. Palmer from 24)."
Feeling that I had done my Christian duty to defend my friend's honor, and truly not expecting anything to come of it, I went about my business. Then the madness ensued.
Several people asked around for the full story, commented on this post, and immediately jumped to the defense of Annette. In the meantime, another 1L composed a hilarious email that any 13 year old girl with a vendetta couldn't have done any better and spammed the entire 1L class, pleading with his peers to vote for home-boy and allow the four 2L candidates to split the vote among the upper classes so that the 1L class could "take control of the school." The administration responded to this by reminding everyone of the anti-spamming policy. But this was well beyond a ridiculous email by this point.
"Operation Breakfast Overload" was well on its way. Someone had the idea to fulfill the promise Annette never made by actually bringing home-boy breakfast. And a lot of it. On Thursday morning while I was at work in Salt Lake, the pictures came trickling in as several dozen of my light-hearted and creative classmates dropped off boxes of cereal, home-made muffins, pancakes, balloons, yogurt, and several other popular breakfast items, all at his carrel while home-boy sat in class. In the meantime, the 1L "spam" email had gone viral and had made it around the non-1L classes thirty or forty times, several campaign tactics were altered to draw more votes for the 2L candidates, and an all-out war had been waged on my Facebook page between unlikely combatants.
On Friday the civil war officially ended as a 2L candidate was named victor. I, of course, hope that home-boy doesn't have hard feelings and does recognize that the vast majority of the class intended no harm in what most definitely was a great overreaction to a campaign flyer that was probably intended to be not much more than a subtle joke. But overreaction is what law students do best.
Most of us who didn't really ever have a dog in the fight, but still found the entire thing absolutely the most entertaining thing we had witnessed since 1996, wondered afterwards how so much activity could result from one half-joking status update on Facebook.
Gosh I'm going to miss high school.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Friday, March 11, 2011
New York. New York.
The highly anticipated New York trip came and went. This was for the moot court ABA national competition. At BYU, four oralists and two brief writers qualify for the BYU national team during their second year to compete at the national competition for their third year. So I've been anticipating this competition for some time now. And it finally came last Wednesday.
Wednesday:
Our travel group of six boarded a plane for JFK. Memorable moments on the flight: my teammate Annie flossed with a string she found in her clothing because "it was an emergency" and then insisted on showing me everything she was able to pull out of her teeth as if to justify her questionable public-clothes-flossing decision. At JFK we climbed into sketchy black automobiles and asked strangers to drive us to Brooklyn in the middle of the night; one of the drivers, for reasons we still don't know, at one point put the car in reverse on a quiet street and drove at full speed for what seemed to be 30 or 40 minutes, only to put the car back into drive and cover the distance he had just back-tracked.
Thursday:
Annie was my oralist partner and Jon was our official brief writer/bailiff. Sometime on Thursday Annie and I discovered that Jon would make an amazing life out of being an assistant of some sort because for the next three days, neither of us made a single decision for ourselves (and when we finally did on Sunday, disaster. Details to come). So Jon practiced our arguments with us, told us where to go, answered affirmatively just as we requested each time we asked whether we looked like we fit our team name ("Team Sexy"), etc. On Thursday night we argued in our first round and did very well, beating the team we went up against by a pretty big margin, and getting the highest scores of anyone judged by our set of judges. We were on our way. Moot court competitions are about appellate advocacy so the way the rounds work is there is a panel of judges who pester us with difficult questions for 15 minutes at a time while we try to argue our case. As you can imagine, this can be an incredibly intimidating (but totally fun, in the same way that marathon running is fun) experience.
Friday:
More of the same: reading, practicing our arguments, having Jon tell us exactly what to do and where to go. About an hour before it was time to leave for the courthouse we also started our "beautification" process (named by Annie) in which we beautified to the best of our abilities. My beautification process was a lot simpler than Annie's. Nonetheless, I foolishly complained about it and said I was grateful I didn't have to do it very often, after which I was "informed" (in a voice that most people use to scold) that life is not fair because apparently my female friends are required by law to participate in beautification every single day of their lives. Who knew.
Our Friday night round went as well as the Thursday night round, and after it was over we were seeded 5th out of 39 teams based on our team scores.
Saturday:
Another round in the morning. Another victory. We were getting exhausted by this point but having the time of our lives. Eventually on Saturday we were beat out in a very disappointing and shocking tie-breaker in semi-finals. Depression ensued. We stuck around for the end of the competition when all of the final results would be announced. Somewhere between 90 and 100 individuals argued in the competition and they gave out awards for the top ten individual oralists. I knew my scores were decent and I was hoping to end up in the top ten but thought it would be close. They started announcing the top ten and by the time they got to six, I was sure I hadn't made it. But, alas, I was third. Third! While I think Annie and I should have won the stupid thing, and I was quite sad we didn't, I couldn't be too sad about finishing third overall.
On Saturday night, we hit the city (along with all 7 billion other people on the planet (which means that you, too, were there that night)), wandered like zombies, and ate everything in sight.
Sunday:
Annie and I, sure that we were responsible enough to venture out without Jon to guide us, climbed aboard a Subway train and headed for what we thought was going to be some place near Central Park. When we exited, we were in a quiet neighborhood that looked pretty rundown. We walked through it, not worried one bit, until the following conversation took place:
Eli: Why does this part of the city seem so dead?
Annie: Maybe everyone is still sleeping?
Eli: Something seems strange about this place.
Annie: Hang on, let me check my clothing for loose string so I can start flossing again (ok, she didn't say that, but I don't remember what she said and I just wanted to remind you all about the nasty flossing experience from the plane).
Eli: Wait. Why does that sign say "Harlem" on that building?
Annie: Um . . . Oh it's probably just a building called Harlem.
Eli: Yeah, I'm sure that's it.
Annie: Oh . . . and that store must just be called, "Harlem market."
Eli: Now that I look around, everything seems to say "Harlem" on it.
Annie: So, are we in Harlem?
Eli: I think so.
Annie & Eli: [Both silently replaying in their heads every horror movie they've ever seen clips of that took place in Harlem. Eli also hears Cathie's voice in his head from Wednesday night, informing him that New York is full of people who will try to kill him].
Suddenly, and probably dramatically, Annie and I clung to one another with all our might and jog-walked for the next 15 minutes until we found a subway, grabbed onto the sides of the next train, and hung on until Tuesday at 4:13.
Then we attempted lunch, where Annie was served something that they claimed was "egg" but looked and tasted more like something that was scooped up off of the side-walk on a really busy and hot day, dyed yellow, and then kept uncovered in a refrigerator next to expired milk for three days until the electricity went out because someone forgot to pay the bill at which point it sat for another four days in the mostly shut room temperature refrigerator air. Plus, add salt.
So we stopped at forty or fifty more places and ate again and again, walking through Central Park along the way (which we miraculously found by ourselves after our life-changing experiences on the streets of Harlem (we're thinking about writing a book now that we're experts on rough neighborhood life (we'll probably call it, "Wrong Subway Stop") (and by the way, I'm told that Harlem isn't really so bad anymore anyway. When I looked it up online, I was told that Brooklyn is the sketch part of town now. Ironically, we were staying in Brooklyn and thought it was rather pleasant (evidently we are not good at recognizing true sketch)))).
We got to JFK about an hour before our flight. Climbed aboard the plane on time and waited for our departure. We were so pleased to be told that we would be sitting in the plane for about an hour and a half before taking off because, what must have been the storm of the century, had delayed some passengers who needed to board our plane; they were delayed for about 13 seconds, thus exceeding the flexibility limits of the JFK airport to the point of rendering our escape from NYC impossible without a long miserable wait. Eventually Mr. jokey jokey pilot, who evidently does not know when it's time to be a stand-up comedian and when it's time to Rambo the whole damn thing and just take off without permission, got on the intercom, cracked a few jokes, and then informed us that because JFK was apparently rebuilding the entire runway from scratch, we would be sitting on the plane for a few more hours. Fortunately Mr. jokey jokey pilot did make sure to explain to us that he was also disappointed in the delay and that we weren't the only ones suffering (this calmed all of us down, and made each of us feel better that our pilot, who was responsible for flying 800 billion pounds of materials across our nation through storms and in the middle of the night, was feeling irritable and cranky). 397 hours later, we arrived in Salt Lake City, grumpy, tired, and with the realization that reality would be hitting us in our first class of the week in just a few short hours.
But Annie and I are pretty sure we can handle anything now that we've experienced the gang life.
~It Just Gets Stranger
Wednesday:
Our travel group of six boarded a plane for JFK. Memorable moments on the flight: my teammate Annie flossed with a string she found in her clothing because "it was an emergency" and then insisted on showing me everything she was able to pull out of her teeth as if to justify her questionable public-clothes-flossing decision. At JFK we climbed into sketchy black automobiles and asked strangers to drive us to Brooklyn in the middle of the night; one of the drivers, for reasons we still don't know, at one point put the car in reverse on a quiet street and drove at full speed for what seemed to be 30 or 40 minutes, only to put the car back into drive and cover the distance he had just back-tracked.
Thursday:
Annie was my oralist partner and Jon was our official brief writer/bailiff. Sometime on Thursday Annie and I discovered that Jon would make an amazing life out of being an assistant of some sort because for the next three days, neither of us made a single decision for ourselves (and when we finally did on Sunday, disaster. Details to come). So Jon practiced our arguments with us, told us where to go, answered affirmatively just as we requested each time we asked whether we looked like we fit our team name ("Team Sexy"), etc. On Thursday night we argued in our first round and did very well, beating the team we went up against by a pretty big margin, and getting the highest scores of anyone judged by our set of judges. We were on our way. Moot court competitions are about appellate advocacy so the way the rounds work is there is a panel of judges who pester us with difficult questions for 15 minutes at a time while we try to argue our case. As you can imagine, this can be an incredibly intimidating (but totally fun, in the same way that marathon running is fun) experience.
Friday:
More of the same: reading, practicing our arguments, having Jon tell us exactly what to do and where to go. About an hour before it was time to leave for the courthouse we also started our "beautification" process (named by Annie) in which we beautified to the best of our abilities. My beautification process was a lot simpler than Annie's. Nonetheless, I foolishly complained about it and said I was grateful I didn't have to do it very often, after which I was "informed" (in a voice that most people use to scold) that life is not fair because apparently my female friends are required by law to participate in beautification every single day of their lives. Who knew.
Our Friday night round went as well as the Thursday night round, and after it was over we were seeded 5th out of 39 teams based on our team scores.
Saturday:
Another round in the morning. Another victory. We were getting exhausted by this point but having the time of our lives. Eventually on Saturday we were beat out in a very disappointing and shocking tie-breaker in semi-finals. Depression ensued. We stuck around for the end of the competition when all of the final results would be announced. Somewhere between 90 and 100 individuals argued in the competition and they gave out awards for the top ten individual oralists. I knew my scores were decent and I was hoping to end up in the top ten but thought it would be close. They started announcing the top ten and by the time they got to six, I was sure I hadn't made it. But, alas, I was third. Third! While I think Annie and I should have won the stupid thing, and I was quite sad we didn't, I couldn't be too sad about finishing third overall.
On Saturday night, we hit the city (along with all 7 billion other people on the planet (which means that you, too, were there that night)), wandered like zombies, and ate everything in sight.
Sunday:
Annie and I, sure that we were responsible enough to venture out without Jon to guide us, climbed aboard a Subway train and headed for what we thought was going to be some place near Central Park. When we exited, we were in a quiet neighborhood that looked pretty rundown. We walked through it, not worried one bit, until the following conversation took place:
Eli: Why does this part of the city seem so dead?
Annie: Maybe everyone is still sleeping?
Eli: Something seems strange about this place.
Annie: Hang on, let me check my clothing for loose string so I can start flossing again (ok, she didn't say that, but I don't remember what she said and I just wanted to remind you all about the nasty flossing experience from the plane).
Eli: Wait. Why does that sign say "Harlem" on that building?
Annie: Um . . . Oh it's probably just a building called Harlem.
Eli: Yeah, I'm sure that's it.
Annie: Oh . . . and that store must just be called, "Harlem market."
Eli: Now that I look around, everything seems to say "Harlem" on it.
Annie: So, are we in Harlem?
Eli: I think so.
Annie & Eli: [Both silently replaying in their heads every horror movie they've ever seen clips of that took place in Harlem. Eli also hears Cathie's voice in his head from Wednesday night, informing him that New York is full of people who will try to kill him].
Suddenly, and probably dramatically, Annie and I clung to one another with all our might and jog-walked for the next 15 minutes until we found a subway, grabbed onto the sides of the next train, and hung on until Tuesday at 4:13.
Then we attempted lunch, where Annie was served something that they claimed was "egg" but looked and tasted more like something that was scooped up off of the side-walk on a really busy and hot day, dyed yellow, and then kept uncovered in a refrigerator next to expired milk for three days until the electricity went out because someone forgot to pay the bill at which point it sat for another four days in the mostly shut room temperature refrigerator air. Plus, add salt.
So we stopped at forty or fifty more places and ate again and again, walking through Central Park along the way (which we miraculously found by ourselves after our life-changing experiences on the streets of Harlem (we're thinking about writing a book now that we're experts on rough neighborhood life (we'll probably call it, "Wrong Subway Stop") (and by the way, I'm told that Harlem isn't really so bad anymore anyway. When I looked it up online, I was told that Brooklyn is the sketch part of town now. Ironically, we were staying in Brooklyn and thought it was rather pleasant (evidently we are not good at recognizing true sketch)))).
We got to JFK about an hour before our flight. Climbed aboard the plane on time and waited for our departure. We were so pleased to be told that we would be sitting in the plane for about an hour and a half before taking off because, what must have been the storm of the century, had delayed some passengers who needed to board our plane; they were delayed for about 13 seconds, thus exceeding the flexibility limits of the JFK airport to the point of rendering our escape from NYC impossible without a long miserable wait. Eventually Mr. jokey jokey pilot, who evidently does not know when it's time to be a stand-up comedian and when it's time to Rambo the whole damn thing and just take off without permission, got on the intercom, cracked a few jokes, and then informed us that because JFK was apparently rebuilding the entire runway from scratch, we would be sitting on the plane for a few more hours. Fortunately Mr. jokey jokey pilot did make sure to explain to us that he was also disappointed in the delay and that we weren't the only ones suffering (this calmed all of us down, and made each of us feel better that our pilot, who was responsible for flying 800 billion pounds of materials across our nation through storms and in the middle of the night, was feeling irritable and cranky). 397 hours later, we arrived in Salt Lake City, grumpy, tired, and with the realization that reality would be hitting us in our first class of the week in just a few short hours.
But Annie and I are pretty sure we can handle anything now that we've experienced the gang life.
~It Just Gets Stranger
 |
| Annie and I right before our first round. |
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