It still smarts like it was four minutes ago

When I interviewed for my current job, the hiring partner asked me if I would be willing to take the Washington bar exam and emphasized to me that if I got the job, I would need to. This is because the majority of the firm's practice centers around litigation in the state of Washington. I think when we had this conversation six months ago, I must have said something idiotic, like "Sure, I'd love to take another bar exam!" After I got the job, the subject didn't come up again because new associates are generally expected to prove their worth with the firm for at least a year before the partners feel justified in footing the bill for an associate to take the Washington bar exam. For good reason, too. Evidently, with the lost productivity, wages, bar prep and other such fabulousness, the price tag for an associate to get licensed in Washington hovers around $40,000. Or so I was told. Today. When I was informed that a July 2011 bar exam might be in my future. Part of me is thinking it's pretty darn awesome that the partners are even considering having me take the bar at this point. It means they think I'm a decent enough lawyer to actually send out into the world; to handle the real courtroom aspects of litigation, rather than just the paperwork. And then there's the rest of me, the part that actually heard the words "bar exam." I've heard it said that time dulls even the most painful memories, but I found out first hand today that two years is not enough time to blunt the effect of that particular brand of trauma. I'm pretty sure there is not enough time in all of eternity to make me comfortable with the idea of sitting for another bar exam. Studying night and day for another bar exam. Turning into a horror show caricature of myself for another bar exam. As this conversation ensued in my office between me and one of the partners, he took a step back (presumably after seeing the unadulterated look of panic that surely swept over my face) and inadvertently bumped against the framed certificate that proclaims me a member of the Oregon State Bar. It nearly fell off the wall. I'm pretty sure that's a bad omen.

By any other name

I've been getting positive attention at work lately, which means more and more assignments are being deposited at my desk. I cannot lie; I love it. Of particular awesomeness is the fact that I'm getting to do a great deal of legal research and writing. I know, a lawyer, writing legal stuff. Mind blowing. But there is one tiny detail about this arrangement that bothers me. Or more accurately stated, there is one tiny detail about this arrangement that bothers my inner narcissist. I never get to put my name on my work. All the pleadings, advice letters, legislative analyses and case law synopses that come from my desk are signed by a partner. At some level, I suppose this makes sense. Big deal corporate clients really like to see a name they know and trust affixed to the bottom of a letter containing advice on how to manage their legal affairs. Preferably a name that is also on the wall in the lobby of our office, in big shiny letters. As a student, to me the best part about writing something amazing was putting my name on it and declaring to the world that the novel ideas on that paper had their genesis in my brain. But as a second year associate, I guess the ideas spilling from my brain are still considered a work in progress. I do find it exciting that established attorneys who have been successfully practicing law for longer than I have been alive trust me to come up with legal solutions that will ultimately go out to our clients and shape the way they do business. But this is one of those instances in which the practice of law is annoyingly idiosyncratic. I'm pretty sure in any other context, putting your name on something you did not write is more commonly referred to as plagiarism.

Broadcasting idiocy

In the line of duty, it is sometimes incumbent upon me to read letters from opposing counsel in which grandiose posturing is performed and threats are leveled. As a general rule, lawyers are pretty good with words. I can attest to the fact that this lawyer chooses every word with care because I've had it drilled into me that the subtlest of shifts in semantics can completely alter the meaning of what I'm trying to convey. And then there are lawyers like the guy whose words came across my desk recently and gave me the uncontrollable urge to cram a dangling participle down his throat. The letter contained a threat of penalties against my client...I think. The spelling and grammar were so atrocious that I could only guess at what he was trying to say. And when I thought I finally had it figured out, my annoyance was compounded by the fact that I found myself unable to draft a response that was not dripping with sarcasm. I had to assume that since the guy ostensibly made it through law school and passed the bar, he's probably no dummy. However, if you have something to say and you come to the conclusion that it is important enough to commit to writing, don't you think it might be a good idea to dust off those grade school grammar lessons and fire up your spell checker so you can avoid looking like a complete idiot to the person reading your words? And while I'm being a curmudgeon, can we expand that to all forms of written communication, not just legal blustering? Please and thank you.

And for my next trick, I will turn my face red

Today was such a long day at work. I spent the last hour working on a problem related to a third party lien and for the life of me, I could not make my numbers match up with the numbers of the settlement. The partner who had given me the assignment was on the phone, so I had to wait to ask him how he came up with the numbers he had given me. I waited...and waited...and waited. And still, the little red light on my phone indicated he was still chatting it up with some judge or client or other random person of more significance than myself. I finally decided to set aside that particular project for the moment and I started pulling documents from another file. From the corner of my eye, I saw the partner approaching my office. Without bothering to look up, I say in my usual, slightly too loud voice, "Are you finally finally finally off the phone? I've been waiting forever to talk to you about this lien. I can't figure out how you got the numbers you did and I need you to show me how you came up with these figures..." When I finally looked up, I saw that he was clutching the mouthpiece of his telephone headset and motioning for me to be quiet...because he was still very much on the phone. Ooooooh, I'm such a winner! In a move right out of the cheesiest cartoon, I stopped mid-sentence and clapped my hand over my mouth as my eyes popped out of my head like tennis balls. He had come to my office to get a file I was working on, and the person on the other end of the phone had been privy to my awesomeness. And let's face it, I am awesome. The attorney whose office is next door to mine saw the entire scene and was failing miserably at containing his laughter. Luckily, my boss saw the humor in the situation and we all had a good laugh about it after he finally finally finally did get off the phone.

If you have luck, take it, care for it...

Don't worry, this isn't another rant about how indignant I am about the recent disruption to my five year plan. I'm pretty sure I'm over it. Pretty sure. But yeah, with all the other stuff going on, it was most excellent to have the opportunity to spend an entire evening laughing myself silly. Brian Regan. Is there a funnier person on the planet? Probably not. For our fourth anniversary, I got us a pair of tickets to see Brian Regan when his tour came through Portland. And after several months of anticipation, the big show was last night. So worth it. I was first introduced to the comedy stylings of Mr. Regan while I was in college, during what was probably the very last summer of my life that was devoid of adult responsibilities. Good times had by all. Now I'll occasionally drop a "You too!" or "Take luck" in casual conversation to see if I'm speaking with someone who has an acceptable sense of humor. If they know what I'm talking about, a comical exchange will usually follow. If they don't, I just feel sorry for that person. Their life must be so bleak. So last night, we got to hear some of his new material, which was thoroughly entertaining. But I must say, the best was when, during his encore, he launched into the classic "little league" bit, after some not so subtle urging from the crowd. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prLLabn1vPA FREE SNOW CONE!!! Thank you for giving me something to look forward to. Thank you for making me laugh. And thank you for putting things in perspective. Life is pretty darn hilarious, even when things don't go according to plan.

Has to land on somebody

As I sit here pondering the latest turn of events in my life, a line from a movie comes to me. It's somewhat poetic that this dialogue from my favorite movie should come to me at a time like this, and be so utterly appropriate. "Bad luck?" "Yeah. It floats around. Has to land on somebody." What a succinct way of summing things up. It has to land on somebody. In the movie, this exchange occurs between two imprisoned murderers, one of whom was wrongly accused and convicted. The one responds to the other with incredulity that he would describe such a miscarriage of justice as mere "bad luck." My problems will likely never be on par with wrongful imprisonment for double homicide. But I suppose it was rather naive of me to think I would never be the person on whom bad luck happened to land. It's like that. Shapeless. Ephemeral. And utterly indiscriminate. Now that it has descended, I'm at a loss for what to do with it. I would really like to gloss over the first four stages of grief and get right to acceptance, but that is just not happening. When the news first broke, I fully indulged my denial. I used humor to deflect and cold analytical thinking to rationalize and reassure myself. Now I seem to be hung up on anger. Things like this happen to other people. We were doing everything right; how could this happen to us? And how dare you, fate? How dare you screw up my perfectly ordered existence like this? Part of me clings to the belief that things will be okay. Things always work out for the best, don't they? Everything happens for a reason, and all that? I guess we'll find out soon enough.

Moment over

Scott and I were on our way home from church this morning, discussing some weighty matters that are going on in our collective life at the moment. When I posed the rhetorical question, "What do we do?" Scott's response was, "Pray." After a pause, I rejoined with, "Just to make it today." Scott nodded slowly and said, "I was just thinking that, but I didn't say it because I figured it wasn't the right moment." "Oh," I said, "Don't worry, I said it for both of us." Somber moment over. Thank you, Hammer, for providing the soundtrack to today's important discussion.