C'mon gravity! You used to be cool!!

When stress abounds in my life, I reassure myself by repeating the mantra, "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, then it's not the end." Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. Right now, it's not working. For the last three weeks, the refrain at our house has been "We don't care if the answer is yes or no; we just want an answer so we can start making our plans." Well, today we got the answer, and it was no. This means it's time to stop living in denial and start facing the fact that Scott really wants to go to GW over PSU. I can't say I blame him. If grad school is at least partially about the name brand factor, this decision is pretty much a no-brainer. But the price tag weighs heavily on my mind, especially given the fact that we are already saddled with so much student debt. GW would double it. Ever the pragmatist that I am, this terrifies me. Ever the optimist that Scott is, he is sure that we will be fine. I'm trying hard to look past the money issue in order to get a better handle on the situation. It's not easy. But here are the pleasant facts: Our lease is up in August, which would make it an ideal time to relocate. We have just enough in savings to be able to shove a handful of our possessions into the car and take a road trip across the country, while leaving the remainder of our possessions in storage here. I've wanted to go back to DC since I interned there 7 years ago, and we've always talked about moving to the east coast eventually. We don't yet have kids, so picking up and moving across the country and living in an apartment furnished with freecycled everything is actually feasible. The job opportunities we want are there. Grad school is only two years; if we end up hating it there after two years, we can come back here (or go somewhere else) with relative ease. It would be an undeniable adventure. Here are the not so pleasant facts: The cost of living in DC is about 50% higher than it is here, so we're guaranteed to be living in an absolute ghetto for the next two years. We actually have jobs here that pay the bills. We have friends here. And I absolutely love living in Portland. As you can see, there are strong arguments for both sides. As I think about it, I know part of my hesitancy stems from the fact that life is so good for us here. And if Scott goes to PSU, we get to stay here, he gets that MBA he's been craving, tuition is so very much cheaper, and the status stays quo. However, part of me is asking "What if?" What if things are supposed to be even better? It's a pretty massive leap of faith...over a seemingly bottomless pit. But as usual, my fretting is largely for my own benefit, because, when it comes right down to it, it's not just my decision to make. For some reason, Scott didn't appreciate my suggestion that he move out there by himself and not come back here until he's a Master. Sigh. Someone tell me what we should do. Please.

The one with all the answers

I am waxing nostalgic at the moment, thinking back to the days when my life was infinitely simpler, and the toughest decisions I had to make related to which friend I wanted to play with, or what song I wanted to listen to on my little pink radio, as I danced around the living room. Things were definitely easier to figure out then. Of course, if ever I came up against a question to which I had no clear answer, I would resort to my trusty Magic 8 ball to show me the way. Was there any query that magical toy could not handle? In light of the big decisions that have been interfering with my ability to sleep lately, I have decided to seek the wisdom of that sage, for it surely had all the answers then, so why not now?

"Should I try again for phase II?" --You may rely on it

"Will I get that job I applied for?" --YES

"Are we going to have to move this summer?" --My sources say no

"Is Scott going to go to (grad school I'm scared to admit he might go to)?" --It is certain.

"Am I crazy for thinking my problems should have simple answers?" --Signs point to yes.

Well that clears that up.

Every time I start to think..."Maybe..."

I stumble upon something like this... http://shitmykidsruined.com/

**Update: Evidently the woman who had the brilliant idea to start the aforementioned site is becoming quite the media darling. You know you're amazing if the New York Times is interested in running a story about your adventures in parenting. http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/18/nyregion/18bigcity.html

Language barriers

The sun is shining brightly through my office window, and has been interfering with my concentration all day. Toward the end of the day, I got a phone call from an insurance adjuster about a complaint I recently filed, asking me how much time I had billed on the case thus far. Drat. Another case heading for settlement before I even get a chance to get my hands dirty. So far I have a perfect record of getting cases settled. I guess no one wants to fight me. I put the adjuster on hold to inquire of the boss how much time he had on the case before it came to me, and then picked up the call to the adjuster to let him know how much fees are going to be. After telling him what my time was going to cost him, I waited for the response, but there was only silence. I thought for a second that we had been cut off, but the line didn't go dead, so clearly there was still someone on the other end. The secretary then piped up that I might have picked up a call she had put on hold, which was with a Spanish speaking client. Sure enough, when I said the client's name, he confirmed that I had picked up the wrong line and was duly befuddled at why I was going off in English about something that had nothing to do with him. The adjuster got a good laugh when I told him the reason for his extended wait on hold, and assured me that it's Friday. It happens. It surely does. Can I have my weekend now??? Please?

Definitely not a party

Several months ago, a law school friend of mine updated her Facebook status to read: "Just got out of Ex Parte. They lied. It isn't a party." I've been a lawyer long enough now that the '09 bar number is thankfully not the latest model, but I'm still new enough at the whole thing that I'm still experiencing lots of firsts at work. Yesterday was my first experience with ex parte, and my friend was right. Definitely not a party. My boss explained to me that the process essentially consists of going before the presiding judge, introducing myself, calling the case, and telling her what I wanted. It sounded easy enough, and since I'd gotten quite a bit of similar court experience at my last job, I hopped in my car and headed down to the courthouse. My first attempt was an utter strike out, because, while I was told ex parte started at 9:00am, I wasn't informed that it ends at 9:05am if there are only a handful of lawyers in attendance. So when I finally made it through security and up to the courtroom, I was sorely disappointed to find it empty, with the exception of one pro se litigant who also didn't know about the five minute rule. So I had to come back at 1:30pm that same day for another shot at face time with the judge. I was so paranoid about being late again that I showed up at 1, and miraculously found a parking spot right in front of the courthouse. In downtown Portland, I think this will be an experience to commit to memory because it will never happen again. The line to get through security was long, and of course I had to take off my shoes and belt and shove them, along with my purse, through the x-ray machine. After going through the metal detector, I hurried to get my things and head up to the courtroom, but in my haste, left my purse at the security table. Seriously? Luckily, I realized my blunder before some klepto had the opportunity to make off with it. Back in the courtroom, I waited as the attorneys trickled in, and I realized that afternoon is the inherently superior option to morning ex parte. The room was quickly filled with people. The judge came in, we all formed a line, and took turns making our requests. The guy in front of me got up and introduced himself and was calling the case, when he realized he had the wrong case number on his pleading. Oops. So he ducked out of the line and then it was my turn. I didn't think I could possibly do any worse than that guy, so I strolled confidently up to the podium and announced my name and affiliation, along with the correct case number. Then I asked the judge for a reset on the trial date. She asked me if I wanted it in normal course or with dates certain. Huh? I responded with the ever witty "That's an excellent question" response as I quickly scanned my pleading to see if the boss had indicated whether or not he wanted a set date or just the next available date on the docket. Of course he had not. The judge, so patient and reassuring, started explaining to me what each option entailed. If the rest of the lawyers in the line didn't know I was a rookie before, they sure did now. I blurted out that I wanted normal course because it sounded like the most reasonable option, handed my pleading to the clerk, and walked towards the door. I wasn't sure if that was all there was to it, so I went slow enough that the judge could call me back if she needed to, but she didn't, so I left, feeling adequately flustered. Nope, definitely not a party.

On shuffle

My iTunes is on shuffle right now, and the chorus of the current song keeps repeating the phrase "Is anybody waiting at all?" As it turns out, the answer is yes. Scott's grad school apps have been in for almost a month, and we're at that point where responses are trickling in. So far, the tally is one yes (from a safety school) and one no (from the reach school), and Scott has two interviews scheduled for next week. Starting off with an acceptance is the most overwhelmingly relieving thing about the whole process, even if it's a yes from a safety school. It means that you are for sure going on to grad school, which takes some of the pressure off. I remember well what it was like to get a yes right off the bat. Huge sigh of relief. And with more schools indicating "maybe" by inviting Scott to interview, a sense of excitement is definitely there at the possibility of having multiple options to ultimately choose from. It's pretty fun to see Scott so thrilled about this newest adventure. I admit, I'm a little excited too. But with 5 more schools yet to respond, things are still utterly up in the air. My way of dealing with situations beyond my control is to make a spreadsheet, crunching the numbers and weighing the strengths and weaknesses of the schools that are still in the running. Ridiculous, right? I know. Especially since it's me, and not him that is agonizing over the numbers. He thinks it's hilarious. Maybe it is, just a little. But seriously, higher education really is ridiculous. You pay a ton of money just to get the admissions committee to look at your application, you spend weeks of stressful anticipation waiting to find out if those schools are going to give you the privilege of giving them even more money, and inevitably there will be schools that determine that even though you are perfectly willing to give them tons of your money, they aren't going to waste their time inundating you with knowledge. And this is even before you set foot on campus for the first time. Wow. You would think that one year out of grad school, I'd be at least a little less jaded about the whole experience. Nope. The song playing now describes how I feel about school. I...Hate...Everything About You. And I'm not the only one that feels that way. Grad school makes people worse versions of themselves. I really hope MBA Scott isn't anything like Law School Me. Maybe that's my real apprehension about this whole situation.

Blindsided on an idle Thursday

One of my all time favorite songs includes the following admonition: "Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday."

I was never very good at following this counsel, as I am, by my very nature, a worrier. Today has been one of those days where I find myself agonizing over the big fat question mark that has managed to insert itself into the effortless routine of my current existence. At this very moment, Scott is in the throes of grad school applications, which means that this year, he's actually serious about getting that MBA. That's right, folks: it has been a drama three years in the making, but he took the GMAT last Saturday, narrowed his list of grad school selections, and is now banging at the door of higher education, anxiously waiting to see who answers. This is the year where it all happens. School in September is an all but foregone conclusion. He has applied to schools in the area and a handful of programs in various parts of the country, as is customary when you want to make sure you have options when you make a decision of this magnitude. With those options, comes the possibility of having to find a new place to call home. I can't help but reflect on how different the process was when I was in his shoes. I had no job, no commitments and no significant other to speak of, which meant I had nothing tying me down to a particular locale. I was invested nowhere which made me literally willing to go anywhere, and that was perfectly alright. I was able to fit all my earthly possessions into the back of my trusty Honda and go wherever fate took me, which incidentally, was the fabulous Pacific Northwest. It all worked out so perfectly, even though I do recall being an complete basket case when I was embarking on this particular adventure. Fast forward four years. Now, relocating means excitement but tempered by a healthy dose of anxiety. Will Scott be able to transfer with his job? Will I be able to find a job? Where will we live? How will this affect our other plans and goals? Can we afford to move? And of course the most daunting of all, the prospect of having to take the bar exam in another jurisdiction. Double shudder followed by a dry heave. The stumbling blind part, before you know that everything is going to work out, is the most stressful part of all. And as my lunch break winds down, I can only hope that work will occupy enough of my brain to keep the unnecessary fretting to a minimum.