No more shooting up with the Red Cross

When I was 17, the Red Cross held a blood drive at my high school. A bunch of my friends had signed up to donate, and, not to be outdone, I too put my name on the list. That single act of "don't wanna look like a pansy-ism" has resulted in many subsequent donations, and an oh so attractive cluster of needle point scars over the one vein in my arm that is occasionally visible enough to tap. I figure, since my body can efficiently replace the lost blood, then there's no reason for me to hoard it. On the other end of the spectrum, is Scott. His mantra is that he needs his blood. All of it. In the nearly 5 years that I have known him, I have tried many times to convince him to accompany me to a blood drive and donate. My success rate in that endeavor has been an astounding 0%. Apparently I was going about it all wrong. Last Sunday the blood drive coordinator from our ward was recruiting donors for the latest extravaganza, and he approached Scott about donating. For some odd reason, when confronted with the fact that I had already signed up, Scott mysterious told the coordinator he would do it too. Apparently "don't wanna look like a pansy-ism" isn't only a high school malady...you just need the proper motivation for it to come out. The blood drive was yesterday, and though I was informed that my blood pressure was lower than normal (but slightly higher than that of a corpse), my donation went off without a hitch. When it was Scott's turn, I was sure to hover and provide moral support. I cracked lame jokes while the technician inserted the needle, and I reassured him that the worst part was over. After exactly two minutes, Scott mumbled that he wasn't feeling so hot. A staffer came over and started to put the back of his chair down to ease the feeling. She told him to uncross his legs and cough, but there was no response from him. The color completely drained from his face, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he was gone. After yelling his name no fewer than 7 times without any response, the staffer called for reinforcements and quickly set about removing the needle and doing what she could to help Scott regain consciousness. It was quite the flurry of excitement. Scott finally came around after several seconds of radio silence, and was presented with his golden ticket response for any future donor coordinators trying to put the squeeze on him: Donor Reaction. The staffer checked the box on Scott's form, asked him some questions to make sure he was feeling better, instructed him to stay put for another 15 minutes, and then rest an additional 15 minutes at the snack table. We spent the requisite amount of time hanging out and laughing it up with other donors in attendance, all of whom I'm sure were glad the center of attention was not any of them. We had to ditch Scott's car at the stake center because he was obviously in no position to drive, and on the way home, he informed me that while he had seen a light, he didn't go towards it. Though I'm pretty sure no one had ever died while giving blood, I was reassured nonetheless.

Managing expectations

I'm in the midst of a sneezing fit at this very second. I ate way too much at lunch and my current condition is an unfortunate side effect of my gluttony. I have no idea why overeating makes me sneeze 25 times in a row, but it does. That has nothing to do with my motivation for blogging today. I have a job interview on Thursday. I'm super excited about it, but it's also a little nerve-wracking. It's a job I've had my eye on for a while, so just making it past the resume wasteland is an ego-booster. However, sad experience has taught me that it is at this point that things can quickly become demoralizing (I'm looking at you, FBI). I like to think that I look pretty good on paper, but being the realist that I am, I also know there are tons of other applicants who look far better on paper. I have accepted the fact that my resume is really an incomplete snapshot of who I am, and if I don't get a call back, it's probably because I'm still building up that working world credibility. The failing is my resume's fault, not mine personally. I can live with that. But when I get called in for an interview, suddenly the pressure ratchets up a few notches because I know that I present pretty well in person. This means that if I don't end up getting a job offer, the failure is personal. It means I may be adequate on paper, but in person I somehow fail to measure up and no amount of creative spin can change that. With this particular interview, the pressure is even more pronounced, because two of the three interviewers on the panel are people I know, who encouraged me to apply for the job. That fact had me feeling pretty confident at first, but now I'm grappling with the understanding that it would be quite prudent to keep my expectations in check. It's highly unlikely that I'm going to walk in the door and have them offer me the job, despite the fact that they know me and ostensibly think I'd be a good fit for the position. I'm still a pretty young lawyer, and undoubtedly there are more qualified candidates who will also be vying for the position. While getting to the interview stage is usually a major accomplishment, in this case, I fear getting the interview was the easy part. If I get the job, it means higher pay, better benefits, and my personal favorite, a permanent departure from private practice. This is everything I want. Is it too much to hope for?

Love/hate...mostly hate

Did you know that lawyers are almost twice as likely as the general population to suffer from depression? That was the cheery affirmation that arrived on my desk this morning in the form of the Oregon Attorney Assistance Program newsletter's front page story. Is that supposed to be a pep talk? I was out of the office on vacation all last week, and it was glorious. Spending hours on end, road tripping with my best guy, seeing friends and family, scuba diving in the frigid waters of the Puget Sound, and all of it, even the most boring part, was a million times better than being at work. In fact, coming back to work, to a massive stack of papers that most definitely wasn't there when I left, was an event that could accurately be described as depressing. Which leads me to wonder, is my growing weariness of my job a product of being in a position that is ill-fitting, or is being an attorney just an inherently depressing line of work? I have a serious love/hate relationship with the entire situation. I love not being unemployed. I have friends who are still searching for jobs in the over-saturated legal field, and their struggles overwhelm me with gratitude that I was able to transition from bar study to work with absolutely no downtime. But I was so anxious to avoid the breadline that I jumped at the first job offer I got. Okay, so it turned out to be the only offer (out of hundreds of resumes I sent out), but this has led me to continually wonder if I may have found something better if I had just been willing to wait it out. I love that I have nearly a year of substantive legal experience under my belt, which will surely be of great use to me when and if my dream job does finally materialize. I hate that all that experience is in an area of law in which I have zero interest in remaining. I love that my current job has enabled me to dust of my languishing Spanish skills and actually use them on a daily basis. I hate that I have to deal with Spanish speakers all day long who assume that because I'm a white girl, I can't possibly understand what they are saying to me, let alone their problems. I love working in an office that is relaxed and laid back. I hate that I'm the only one that doesn't seem to get to take advantage of the "come in late and leave early" policy because I feel guilty if I don't put in 8 hours. I hate that every case I work on settles before I really get a chance to do any real lawyering. I hate that my paychecks, which are a joke anyway, go entirely to pay for my student loans. I hate that I feel like I sold out because I was so concerned about where the money would come from to make those student loan payments. I hate that I bought into the law school scam in the first place and will spend an indefinite amount of time paying for that mistake. I hate private practice. There, I said it. I really do. All I'm doing is trying to get money for clients for whom money is an imperfect remedy. They're never happy with the results, no matter how good they are from a legal standpoint. Yes, mostly hate. I'm daydreaming of getting that ideal job; the one I love so much, I'd do for free, while toiling away at a job I practically am doing for free, that essentially saps my will to live. No wonder lawyers are a despondent bunch. On the upside, Scott made a decision regarding grad school that we're both happy with, and things seem to be panning out with the dream job prospect he has been shooting for. One less thing to agonize about. And if things would just start panning out with the dream job prospect I have been shooting for, the love/hate balance might finally shift in favor of the former. I can only hope.

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?