Monday, October 28, 2002

Caught By The River

Recently, I've been getting the "Are you happy with the practice of law?" question frequently from partners at SmallLaw. Of course, I respond yes. And of course, I respond yes the way a five-year-old has to say yes when he's forced to wear his pink bunny slippers his Aunt Myrna got him for his birthday when Aunt Myrna, with her big mole and all, comes for a visit, pinches his cheeks, and says, "Oh, doesn't Marty look so dapper in his pink bunny slippers?" OK, so a difference is that I'm not saying yes for fear of a big whuppin' from pop if I tell Aunt Myrna, "Dapper? With pink bunny slippers? What, do you see me wearing a skirt, you mad cow?" I'm saying yes for a much better reason - that being the fear of not getting a paycheck.

Wait, I still have enough in my account that I have a net worth. Hmmmmmmm.

Sigh. So as you can probably tell, I'm feeling trapped again - you know, the feeling that there has to be something better than wake up, work, watch a bit of porn, sleep and if you didn't have a job, you could figure it all out (well, 'cept for that no job, no money thing, but I got some money, and, aw hell, yeah I hate work). Man, I need some good dreams.

Sunday, October 20, 2002

Hey, Ho, Let's Go!

I've officially made it into my thirties. I guess I'm using the term "made" in the same way a first time parachuter with a terrible fear of heights would say he "made" the jump from an airplane - sure he "made" the jump, but after a size thirteen boot kicked his screechy little ass out the plane screaming all the way down even after the parachute opened up, briefly jerking his body from 9.8 m/s squared acceleration to a soft as a feather fall onto terra firma. To belabour the imagery, yeah, the size thirteen boot would be that of ol' father time. Like the parachuter, I didn't have much say once I was out of the airplane, so to speak. OK, OK, fine, horse dead, stop kicking it.

Hmmmm, any changes? Well, I get full after just two pints of mass-produced "microbrewery" marzen when just five years ago I would've been chugging enough Guiness to make an army of dwarves (I don't mean the little people you un-p.c. insensitive bastards, I mean the bad ass living under mountains forging the Hammer of Big Death and whatnot mythical folk) say, "No, really, one more sip and I'll just fucking boot." My short term memory is, um, hmmmm, you know, I like vanilla a lot. What? Oh yeah, my short term memory is getting worse. I'm getting a big ol' buddha belly. I'm older than almost all the main character of the lager novels I used to identify with (yeah, I see the dangling participle, screw it, I've earned the right to use grammatical errors for effect, sonny).

I guess one thing hasn't changed, and that's I'm a right snarky bastard still.

Monday, October 07, 2002

Instant Karma

My faith in karma was restored on Friday.

I'd been really pissed that with all the crap that came out of Former Associate's middle school behavior (see 9/9/2002), Former Associate seemed to have been living the life. He had new job, new car, and what I thought was a new girlfriend. Before he left, Former Associate kept yapping about how Accountant Chick was totally into him - flirtatious glances, giggles, looks of interest when he mentioned he broke up with his girlfriend, etc. And it was clear that Former Associate was into Accountant Chick.

Being the suave guy he thought he was, Former Associate asked Accountant Chick out by e-mail on his last day at the firm. (For those of you sarcasm impaired, mucho sarcasm alert ahead.) Yeah, Former Associate was so uber-suave about his e-mail: he sent her e-mail regarding accounting issues, and then when Accountant Chick asked why he was leaving, Former Associate e-mailed "Well, why don't I tell you over some drinks?" That sharp warm feeling in your gut is probably the same type of internal organ hemorhaging I had when Former Associate practically forced me to read the e-mail. Surprisingly, Accountant Chick agreed to drinks. Plus she asked him during his farewell party if they were still on for drinks.

So, despite the Degrassi High sitch he started with me, Former Associate was going to go out with Accountant Chick even though he used a technique that would get your head stomped in with a pair of Doc Martins (and rightfully so) in most industrialized nations. You can see why my faith in karma was waning.

Then, I finally got Accountant Chick's side of the story. According to Secretary X, Accountant Chick was weirded out by the e-mails, but she didn't know how to respond and she wanted to be nice. Over the weekend, Former Associate called Accountant Chick at home and left her a message. Accountant Chick never responded.

Ahh, never underestimate the power of karma.