I Dream of Door

I am going to ignore the fact that is has been 5 months since my last post. I will remedy this.

There are a few things that I figured I would be guaranteed after finishing law school and passing the bar: First, a decent salary, and second, a door. I shall explain.

“A decent salary” needs no explanation. The number I initially had in my head will remain in my head now that I realize, given the state of the economy, how ridiculous it is. Every day, post bar passage, this number has gotten lower…and lower…and lower. I’ve now resigned myself to the “as long as I can pay my bills and fill myself with cocktails on occasion” standard. Things are working out nicely in that department. What about my second, arguably more important guarantee? Not so much.

I want a door. Yes, a lovely wooden (at this point ill settle for any material sturdier than cardboard), four sided, handle bearing door. Why? Because a door = an office. To be fair, I currently work in an office. However, my work space hardly qualifies as such. Let me give you a mental picture:

Think laaaaarge open space with three, yes three, desks that are occupied by no less than two but up to four individuals….in one. big. space. Sounds like a cubicle? Um, no. A cubicle has WALLS. Our office manager and I are settled in the wide open spaces  of a “you can’t do anything because everyone, including clients, can hear everything” non-office.

It’s like when you got your first “non service industry job” in high school, or even college, and your boss didn’t have room for you so he stuck a small desk in some obscure location of the office for you….yeah. It’s like that…only with an honors undergraduate degree, a $200,000 legal education and a license from the State Bar of California. Bitter much?

What makes things better is the lobby of said “office.” Recently remodeled by gangster inspired entertainment agent/owner of our floor, the lobby boasts porn-like white leather couches, green walls and carpet and a ghastly large faux orchid focal point. It’s like the Standard Hotel, circa 1968, meshed with an Asian massage parlor and together they brought Tupac and Diddy posters along for the ride. Good lord ‘yo.

To be fair, working on my floor is great. The people are wonderful, including my boss, and I do find my work interesting. However, I do dream of working in a sans Asian/gangster porn den lobby, random desk placement in an undefined space office. I figured going to law school and becoming all professional and ‘stuff would lend itself to a professional work space. At least court appearances provide a reprieve…

Perhaps by the time I can afford more than top ramen and two buck chuck, I’ll get my door. Here’s to hoping.

SHAME!

Duuuuuuuude. I can’t believe I haven’t blogged since OC-TOOOOOO-BER! All I can say: shiz has been busy around these parts. Quick recap: 

I got a new job, you know, as an actual attorney. So far I am loving it!

I’m still living with the boyfriend. Per his gentle request (constant whining) I’ve learned to put my shoes away, use socks rather than Andrew as a foot warmer and to rinse out the sink after I brush my teeth. Men, ugh.

I’m still working out 6 days a week and waking up at freakishly early hours. Not sure why that's important...

Dot is still alive and kicking…my ass that is. I’ve realized my life is essentially run by a fifteen year old, fifteen pound (ish) one-eyed, missing teeth dog. Named Dot. So there’s that.

Moving on. Today my friends let us focus our attention on the most interesting of venues, the court room. Today we will not be focusing on the unfortunate souls who find themselves there as a result of a lawsuit. Instead, we will be turning our attention toward those who choose to go to court for a living. The attorneys.

Yes, I am an attorney. However there is one detail that distinguishes a small handful of attorneys, myself included, from the rest of our counter parts. Our knowledge of suiting. Suiting you ask? Suiting, aka, what you wear to court. I don’t proclaim to be a master of knowledge regarding suits, however I do know what is appropriate and what is not appropriate to wear in court. (Really what is appropriate to wear in any professional setting...) During my daily travels to court I have witnessed some of the most egregious crimes against fashion. I’m not saying we all need to throw down wads of cash and focus solely on our appearance. However, a closer look at what we wear in court might not be a bad idea. My thoughts:

FIT

Take yourself back to yesteryear when you were learning how to dress. Remember the old saying, if you have to ask if you should wear it the answer is no? Newsflash! That rule still applies today! Ladies, if your midsection resembles anything similar to a heaping pastry, your pants are too tight. Gentleman, if you can see your ankles, your pants are too short. There should be no tucking, puckering or stretching on your person. You should be able to move around…comfortably, during the day. Also, that button on the front of your blazer? Sure it looks nice, but it also serves a purpose. Make sure your jacket fits. You’ve seen that Subway commercial with all of the people eating fast food whose buttons suddenly POP off flying in all directions? Don’t be that guy. Should this happen in the court room, your button flying off and hitting a poor soul in the eye, I can assure you there are plenty of attorneys willing to take that poor soul’s case…

FABRIC

Lord where do I begin. The obvious: If you can see through it- not proper suiting material. If you can get pit stains- not proper suiting material (get a lined jacket ‘yo). If you see moth-balls or holes- not proper suiting material. I know, good suits are expensive. However they also last FOR-EV-ER. (Not forever, but at least long enough to constitute a necessary investment). I know you think your 1970s green polyester suit is sexAy. It’s not. It’s scary and also it probably smells. Please act (throw away) accordingly.

FORM

Sure suits come in a “set” if you will. However, being the fashion forward profession that we are (psht), you may feel the need to mix and match your suit. Sure, a suit dress with a different color blazer is A-ok. You can even match different jacket and pant fabrics (GASP). Should you choose to spice up the lectern, please remember a few things. First, if you think something doesn’t match you are correct. Take it off. Second, take into account your shirt, blouse or tie. Thou shall never step into court wearing black pants, a brown blazer, a blue pin-stripe shirt and a red tie. Get my drift? Color blind is not a recognized defense in any court of law.

FOR REAL?!

I will not recount the horrors I have witness the past few weeks in court. Rather, I am going to take proactive steps to ensure that our profession doesn’t get an even worse reputation… (cheating bastards who can’t dress well?!?!?!) Please raise your right hand a repeat after me: “I will never channel Lady GaGa. I will not layer shiny jewelry or accessories for fear that I may blind the judge and/or the jury. I will, under no circumstances, wear anything that was popular in 1982. I will throw out my pair of suit pants that button in the middle of my rib cage, all of my jackets that have sleeves longer than my hands, and any piece of clothing that strains, pulls or tugs on my person any fashion. I will pay attention to the length of my hem and plan my shoe choice accordingly. Finally, under no circumstances will I walk into court barefoot.”

Ok, I think that about covers it. I am clearly not made of money, but through careful planning, saving and major blow out sales at Banana Republic I’ve managed to create a professional work wardrobe. If I can do it on my budget (which is now seriously depleted as my debit card was recently stolen) then you can to! Go forth, and suit well. Also, when in doubt, channel Scott Disick. Sure the guy may be a tool but he for damn sure can rock a suit. 

 Sidenote: Outside of court, polyester, muffin top and blinding jewelry all you want. Hell, parade around your neighborhood dressed as a banana. Just bring a change of clothes to court.

The Southern Wedding

As I was raised in Texas by parents who were raised in Southern California, it took me a while to get up to speed with all things southern. Take, for example, southern food. I was not introduced to a grit until I went to college. Until I became hip with Paula Deen, I thought a collard green was a dirty word. Chicken fried steak? I honestly still don’t get it. Also, what the hell is the big deal with sweet tea?!

Anyway, getting my southern bearings took me a good eighteen years. There is one thing, however, that I was introduced to immediately. The southern. family. wedding. YEEHAW! First, I should provide background about my family. I was raised by parents who had, hmmm, shall we say differing ideas about child rearing and what is important in life than most of our neighbors. I was told at a young age I would be going to grad school. I was told that education and career should the most important things in my life until I graduated and began my career. Men? I mean sure, if you want to date that’s fine. My dad always told me, “don’t be one of those idiots who gets married in your early twenties. Remember you have the rest of your life to be married. It can wait.”

No offense to my friends that are already married. Doug’s advice shouldn’t be read as one size fits all.

The moral of the story? Weddings weren’t really on my radar. I had no, and still really don’t have any, desire to get married. The drinking/dancing honeymoon stuff I can get behind. Big white dress in a church? SCARY. The parade of horrible that can be my relatives? NO thanks. However, despite all of my parents “sage” advice, I was warned told about the southern wedding.

I don’t get it. Alright, let me explain. The southern wedding is BIG. It is loud. It may or may not involve hay stacks, cowboy boots, two stepping, 500 fraternity and sorority sisters and an insurmountable number of family members. Oh, and for one of my friends, Bevo will be involved. (shout out to ‘ya K Nasty!!)

I recently went to a family wedding with my boyfriend. The wedding was BIG, the wedding was loud and there were more boots and big hair in once place than I would EVER care to see again. The best part about southern weddings, are the stereotypical guests. Specifically, the out of towners, the random, the distant relatives and the party person/people.

The out of tonwers really don’t belong. First of all, they probably have no idea where the are/where they are going. “Saaaaaaaaam, I told you the church is on the right!!!” These folks always seem to have an air of confusion surrounding them. Look people, you’re in Texas not Afghanistan. Grab a beer and some fried chicken and join the party.

Ah, the distant relatives. In my experience these are the ones that you have to invite because they are family, but you really know nothing about each other. If you are lucky, the distant relatives will aim to “make a good impression.” This may or may not involve full length beaded and ankle length coat tails. Yikes.

When I speak of the random, I don’t mean Vince Vaughn wedding crashers random. I mean, who the hell is that guy? The random is usually a lurker, scoping out prey at the bar or waiting to swoop in on the dance floor.  No one knows the random but no one is willing to strike up a conversation with him. Don't let your beer goggles get in the way here people. Stay clear of the random.

The party person is always my favorite. This is usually the best man, maid of honor or some other particularly intoxicated college friend. The party person somehow always manages to find the mic, whether it be at the rehearsal or the actual wedding. “remember that time we learned how to do keg stands behind the KA house and you had to pee on a tree and then we woke up on a couch in the alley?!” Yes I do remember. However I didn’t plan on sharing this tid bit with great aunt Mildred. Classic. Don’t ever change party person, don’t ever change.

I promise I am not a total pessimist, and I really do enjoy family weddings. I am usually the first one on and the last one off of the dance floor… with minor breaks to refill my cocktail. Having family that is willing to travel to see you or is willing to come even though they haven’t seen you since you were in diapers is pretty darn cool. Thankfully, my family and my boyfriends family are the sh*t. Phew! However, until (if ever) this happy even comes my way, I am going to spend my time with Dot…Training her to eat food off of the living room table.

Until next time,

Exercising My Rights

Oh blog, how I have missed you. I think of you often. Unfortunately, I have a case of the running around like a chicken sans head. Sigh. So… quick update.

1.       I have a job(s). Thus why I am busy. I bounce back and forth between the two jobs like a crazy person. I am working and making money, so thou shall not complain.

2.       I am still looking for work. What, wait? Right- so here’s the thing. I love my jobs, but they may or may not be permanent/ turn into salaried positions. Mama wants a salary, and preferably an office. So I figure while things are still pretty informal what’s the harm in looking around. Right? Right.

3.       Dot is still alive and kicking. Yeah we weren’t worried about that. She is going to last longer than you will. Touche.

That’s whats going on here. I did, however, omit one tiny detail. I GOT MY GYM BACK!! Yes, this makes no sense. Allow me to explain. In April, much to my HORROR, my gym closed for renovations. Word on the street was that the new gym was going to be so nice and upscale that membership dues were going to increase upwards of $65 bucks a month.

[do you have any idea how many bottles of two buck chuck you can buy with that? 30. That’s a lot!!!]

Needless to say, I had to find another gym in the mean time. Enter Bally’s. Note: I apologize if anyone reading this works for Bally’s, loves their Bally’s or is offended by my comments. The thoughts and opinions in this article are the authors and the author’s alone. Law school ya’ll.

What's wrong with Bally’s? Ah, let me count the ways:

1.       The machines were always broken. At one point HALF of the gym didn’t have power. Soommmeeeoooonnneee probably forgot to pay the electric bill. Well played Bally’s.

2.       The pool was SKANKY. I mean go under the water with your goggles on and discover all sorts of horrors not limited to hair, fingernails and debris skanky.  Thanks, but no thanks.

3.       Shotty Construction. Ok seriously the weight room was on the 3^rd floor of the building. I swear every time Chuck Norris dropped his barbell the ceiling was going to collapse. That sh*t will wake you up in the morning.

4.       Class dues. Yes, you pay for the membership…but wait! There’s more! You had to pay additional fees for every single class. Riddle me this, if the power is out, the pool isn’t habitable and the building is older than father time, where the hell else are my dues going?

On the bright side, Bally’s did provide me a place to work out for a few months. The other day I decided I had enough, I wanted to go back to my former gym. I thought I’m a lawyer; I can negotiate my way to a better deal. This is horse shit- I will demand my membership at the old rate. Foolproof plan ya got there…

Monday, I went into the gym guns blazing.

            T: I would like to speak to a manager.

            M: I’m a manager, how can I help you?

T: I would like to discuss my membership with you. I was a member pre-renovation and I feel that raising my fee due to the new appearance and equipment is unconstitutional.

            M: Ma’am, we…

T: Unconstitutional!!! This is CRUEL and UNUSUAL punishment. Also, this is a clear violation of my free exercise clause. I demand entrance to this facility!!

…unbeknownst to me, the manager had taken my membership card and swiped it. Turns out if you were a member at that gym pre-renovation you did in fact get to keep your membership at the reduced rate.

             M: MA’AM.

             T: Really? Raising your voice at me? HARASSMENT!!!

              HARASSMENT I SAY!!

             M: YOU ARE STILL A MEMBER, CHILL OUT.

             T: Wait, what?

The nice man then went on to explain what I had yet to realize. Sh*t. I apologized profusely, blaming all of my pent up bar knowledge that was not actually tested on the bar thanks California. He shrugged it off as I swallowed my pride.

When I was little my dad told me I was going to be a great litigator. This is due to the fact that I found pleasure in arguing with various family members regarding the exact color of the sky. Well you know it’s not blue everywhere, it depends on the reflection of the molecules etc. Nooooow I get what he was talking about. Apparently the gym manager now agrees. Point Doug.

On a different note, the place is amazing. When I walked in I was struck with how different everything looked. But oh wait… what’s this? Towel service? Free bottled water? New machines? FLAT SCREENS on every machine? A sauna? Basketball court? FIFTY brand new spin bikes? I’ve heard of this place…. HEAVEN!!!! [insert huge smile]

Thankfully my little skirmish with the manager didn’t tarnish my reputation. However, when I checked in this am a different front desk attendant greeted me, “good morning counselor.”Damn. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. At least I have my gym back.

Until next time,

I'm Taylor W, and I am not a Phoenix

As I have been stuck on the I cant get a damn job bandwagon, I had a thought… if I didn’t go to law school, what else would I be doing? What alternate career would suit this sassy southerner? Well, part southerner. I’m kind of like a buttery biscuit topped with egg whites and avocado. Ya dig? Moving on. Here are some of my thoughts:

1. Traffic Enforcement Officer (a.k.a bitch if you park there imonna give you a ticket!)

                I know, you are thinking “Taylor what the EFF?! You can’t give people parking tickets, you are the QUEEN of parking tickets.” This is true. I believe that any signs of improvement in the California economy are a direct result of my relationship with the LA traffic enforcement. My bank account agrees. I swear, those sassy little traffic vixens wait in their three wheeled go-carts just WAITING for my meter to expire. But officer, I was 30 seconds late. Sucks to be you! Why yes, yes it does. In fact, I got a $68 dollar ticket last week DIRECTLY IN FRONT of my apartment. Now that is truly impressive. So, like the old saying goes, if you can’t beat ‘em join em right? I can just picture it now, dressed in my fancy pleated khakis and crisp white shirt zooming down Santa Monica boulevard to give Mr. Maserati a ticket…or to ask him if he is hiring, either one. It could work right?

2.  Nurse (a.k.a bitch imonna stick you with this needle!)

                This is really just a horrible idea for so many reasons. 1) I cannot stand needles. Yes, I am a 25 year old grown woman. However, I still squeal for sweet gentle Jesus whenever nurse Sally walks toward me with that death instrument. 2) I would dick around. I can see it now, Taylor walking around the hospital with an O.R. mask.. Dr. Phillips, I am your faaaaathhaaaaah. 3) I lack compassion. Shocking right? Actually, that isn’t 100% true. I am very compassionate…toward my friends. Some lady bitching at me because little Johnny got an eraser stuck up his nose? Maybe sooommmeeonne should keep a better eye on Johnny.  Yeah, not so much. Finally, 4) I SUUUUUUCK at math. My father neglected to pass down the “I can do math” gene. I still have nightmares about my dad hovering over me while I sat at the kitchen table at 1am in the morning trying to figure out my calculus homework. Oh, and to you Ms. Horne, I have NEEEEVVVVEEEERRR used anything above jr. high level math. Maybe that’s why I can’t find a full time job? Food for thought.

3. Restaurateur (a.k.a Charles Shaw isn’t fine wine?)

                I would LOOOOOOVE to own a restaurant. I love to cook, watch food network and I have an eye raising amount of experience, how do you say, sampling adult beverages. The only problem- I know nothing about operating a restaurant. I know nothing about owning a restaurant. Shit, I know nothing about owning anything. I’m pretty sure my dad is the rightful owner of my dog, I rent my apartment, and just about the only things I can call mine are either previously owned or from the mecca that is IKEA. I digress. This really is an actual dream of mine a loooooooooooooooong time down the road. I just need to make sure I keep my eye on the prize. An endless supply of good wine at my fingertips? Must. Not. Get. Sloshed. At. Work.  I should probably keep that in mind at all times… So this idea could actually work. In thirty years. Sigh.

Well, until then I will cling to my newly acquired part time jobs, (yes I have two now !!!) and the handle of “Vodka of the Gods” in my freezer.

Until next time.

Downgrade Taylor's Credit Rating

So last Monday, three days after the bar, I started looking for a job. Enthused, I sent out over 40 resume’s a day last week. What did I get?  7 rejection letters and some random asshole asking me on a date. Can a sister catch a break?

I know, I know the economy sucks. The great thing was that I had school to hide behind. Yah, it looks like shit out there but I’m protected by my academia bubble…until now. Granted, I have only been searching for a job for eight days, but it is beyond discouraging. Lets consider, I graduated at the top of my class in high school. In college, I could count the number of B’s I received on one hand. I graduated law school at the age of 25 with three amazing summer externships under my belt. What’s my point?

I just applied at subway.

What’s wrong with this picture? I’m not knocking the awesomeness that is the six inch meatball sub (Moses on the mountain its amazing), but I didn’t go to law school to work at Subway. If I didn’t have any loans to pay off, then this wouldn’t be an issue. However, as I am considering tucking Dot in a nap-sack and hiding from Sallie Mae for fear of default, the problem is real.

Another example of my misery- I have the best friends in the world. In college I was blessed enough to meet and befriend seven of the most amazing women I have ever met. Since that time, we have all remained extremely close. Visiting those girls is often the highlight of my month, quarter or year. As we are “that age” several of us (them) are getting married. Cut to the point- I just had to tell one of my best friends that I can’t attend her bachelorette party because I can’t afford it. Actually, that’s an understatement… Whenever I have enough money to buy groceries or put half a tank of gas in my car I think tiny baby Jesus…Amen.

No job = no social gatherings = no friends, right? My boyfriend woke me up in the middle of the night last week because I was shouting, “BUT I DON’T WANT TO BECOME THE CAT LADY. I CAN’T AFFORD FANCY FEAST!.”

Well shit.

There has to be good in all of this right? Actually, there is. When you live on a budget that involves searching under your couch cushions for gas money, you tend to become on savvy B. Exhibit A: yesterday- said no no bachelorette party day- I was feeling pretty down. Andrew’s solution? “Lets go fry some shit.” And fry we did. Oil, flour, okra, and chicken  totaling $7.50 (plus probably ¼ of a bottle of vodka) = a damn good time. “What else can we fry? Lets fry a cherry! Didn’t work. What  about beer? ?!?!!? We could fry DOT! Drunky-skunky. Needless to say, we had a blast.

So here is my point: 1) I should have a DAMN job because I am SERIOUSLY qualified, 2) but I don’t, 3) therefore I will look as much as I can and make every efforts to find employment even if it involves asking toasted or regular, and finally 4) I will continue to enjoy daily happy hour and pray I don’t throw my dog into the frying pan.

Until next time,

Dont Hate

It is 10:03 pm on Sunday, July 24th. Who gives a shit? Good point... However- I am taking the bar on Tuesday. This Tuesday? Yes, as in day after tomorrow. What the hell are you doing here then? Again, good point. I took a momentary study break and realized how long it as been since I've updated my blog. I miss it- and I plan to return. However I hope the one half of a person that reads this will excuse my absence. The last ten weeks have been hell. Thankfully, the end is near. I have many tales to tell and there are laughs to be had. Don't get cocky, only your brother reads this blog. .....well, even if that is the case, I felt I needed to account for my absence. 

While we are on the topic of my brother, check out his blog: http://ohsnapclt.blogspot.com/ He is just getting started, but my brother is many things including hilarious, laugh your ass off sarcastic and totally relatable.

I look forward to rejoining the real world and updating the One Eyed Dog. Until then, if you have any spare time- shoot me a good luck thought or perhaps a prayer. I could use it.

Cheers.