I think I could start an entire blog by this name. My boss has the magical way of making all conversations with you intensely awkward in ways that no one can ever really put their finger on, generally with the result of darting eyes and nonsensical babble. Not in a creepy way or inappropriate way, but more like how a teenager feels when running into her high school Calculus teacher at the mall kind of way.

This morning he came to my office re: my article, to find me slumped over my keyboard, face in hands, rubbing my eyes in pain, looking at case citations. (Yeah, doing work is hard.)

He gave me back my article with revisions today. His major point? Remove all citations/quotes to internet billionaire Mark Cuban, because "I don't really like him. They're good quotes and all, but I just don't like Mark Cuban" Um. Ok.

Me: "But the Steve Schwarzman quotes are ok? You like him?"

Fritz (paraphrase): "Yeah. I like Schwarzman. Those can stay."

Schwarzman? He likes Schwarzman? I was about 2 seconds from retorting that I, on the otherhand, really dislike Steven Schwarzman, and however much Mark Cuban might be a self-centered wacky loose cannon, Steve Schwarzman is twice the arrogant jerk that Mark Cuban even when he's asleep or under anesthetic. Instead I laughed, and while openly laughing at your boss for his irrational hatred of internet billionaires is not preferred office behavior, it's still a distant second to openly mocking/challenging them on it. Or, put differently, nervous uncomfortable laughter is always a preferred response to nervous, uncomfortable sarcastic babble.

I think I'm making progress here.

It's been a while since I've posted anything, but then something happens that just MUST be shared with the world.

It's 95 degrees out today, so what better way to slog through the Trusts and Wills portion of my bar review class than by sitting in a bikini pool-side? And I lucked out too- just as I was entering, the lone occupants, an Asian couple and their toddler, were exiting, leaving the entire area to me. So there I am, lounging on a such chair on my sea-turtle patterned beach towel, on my bluetooth with Ramona discussing whether if Rachel and Joey had lived in Virginia rather than NYC, their cohabitation would have resulted in a valid presumption of paternity. I think nothing of a serviceman clad in his blue service shirt and navy shorts with Ben Franklin hair and Chris Farley body entered the clubhouse adjacent.

Next thing I know, a ball of pale, jiggly flesh clad only in a small, red pair of swim trunks goes hurtling out of the French doors of the clubhouse and into the pool, cannonball style. As he emerged, he slicked back his balding-Ben Franklin hair, and loudly said, "oooh YEAH."

That was awkward. I pretended not to notice. I stammered something into the phone about a multifactor test.

But thinking I had apparently had not heard him. He says it again. Louder. "ohhh yeah." There were then some moans. Some grunts. Your basic array of sex noises. And of course, more Oh Yeah's, all while in the pool, facing me.

I don't know what happened next. I didn't stay to find out. I told Ramona that I forgot my hiliter at home and had to go get it (a bad excuse, since I had 2 sitting next to me at that point.) and high-tailed it out of there.

It occured to me it has been quite some time since my last blog. This is clearly not because I have nothing to complain about- quite the contrary. I've had this flu that turned into *the cough* and I'm too busy violently heaving and cursings the flimsy sandwich bags I have instead of functioning lungs. But, I digress...

Needless to say, after first being sick, and now sounding sick, I've fallen behind beyond the usual half-assed studying to full-blown textbooks-unopened for days behind. Thus, that Wilton cake decorating course I signed up for a month ago at Michaels was already seeming to be a poor choice. I missed last thursday's class to stay in bed, but told my instructor I'd come in early this week to make up the lesson and learn how to do the frosting rose. I had only the best of intentions.

Well, Scalia was giving a speech on campus today (I couldn't miss Nino, could I?) so...I was not 30 minutes early. I was instead 10 minutes late, with no cake to decorate but some cupcakes I made the past weekend. I tried to make the rose...just like in the book. Using green frosting was a mistake, because after the flower came out all wilty and floppy looking, I realized I had made a fantastic cabbage but a really crappy rose. Meanwhile, my classmates were making fantastic cakes, that coudl have come straight out of that glass case in Kroger's, decorated with rose sprays, tied with neat litte frosting bows. I tried again. and again. Proving that practice doesnt' ALWAYS make perfect, I couldnt' even replicate my succesful cabbage again. I did, however, manage to drop at least two attempts on the floor and rip an icing bag so the swirls of frosting were coming out the sides and not the tip. I was about to fold a new wax paper bag and try, try again, but then I had a thought.

I would rather have been studying. Seriously.

At that point, it was all over. Never mind that I had yet to master the lesson, while the rest of the students were almost done decorating their entire cakes. Never mind that I was now smeared in confectioners sugar with only 45 minutes separating me and successful completion of course one. I realized that, a) I sucked at cake decorating, and b) I didn't really care if I did. I could have tried, and I'd like to think that eventually, I might have gotten the hang of it. Or, I could pack my bag, tell Ms. Janet Worrell (Certified "Wilton Method" cake decorating instructor for the Charlottesville location of Michael's craft store) that I was terribly sorry to leave early but I had an 8pm appointment that I was running late to. Within 5 minutes I was in the minivan, driving home. And I haven't looked back.

Incidentally, the only result of this failed class was one frosted cupcake with a warped looking multiculored rose on top. I accidentally set my purse on top of it while getting into the van, but not until after I had preserved its memory with a cellphone photo. I"ll probably paste it to facebook... Now to try and get the red icing off of white leather...

In a few short months, I'll be graduating. So begins three months of buying overpriced invitations, paying cap and gown fees, or contributing to some "class gift' which will inevtably be something like an ugly fountain or yet another bust of Thomas Jefferson that will be placed in some out-of the way corner of a courtyard looking misplaced just so that they can say 92% of highly indebted students indebted themselves even further because they loved this place so much, so you too should give us money.

The one boon has always been the graduation speaker. Usually some high profile alum, the past three years included Janet Napolitano, (Governor of AZ) David Baldacci (Bestselling Author) and Senator Evan Bayh of Illinois. I would have been excited had any of those people spoke at my graduation- not only would it have been interesting, but it's kind of cool to show off to the grandparents. Ok, I'm shallow and pretentious. But it's MY day and I've paid enough to get here! I even had to take some tests and read some books along the way, too. I deserve to feel important.

So this week they announced the graduation speakers for this year's law graduation. They wanted a dynamic speaker. Someone who wouldn't polarize the students. Prefereably, someone outside of political office, but that could still testify to the power of the UVA law degree and all that could be achieved with it. So naturally, a great fit would be the PGA Tour Commissioner.

My first thought, of course, was "PGA? That's GOLF, right?" Well, I do go to UVA. I shouldn't be surprised if our caps and gowns are navy blue with orange argyle. Geez. And of course, we ARE going to be lawyers. And what lawyer DOESN'T love golf? Right? I'll be honest. The only golf club I've ever swung was the kind you use on astroturf, and prior to today, I didn't know that there was a PGA tour Commissioner. I'm not even really sure I know what the PGA tour is. I'll admit it, I was a bit disappointed.

The Law Weekly featured an article about Commissioner Finchem, a distinguished-looking white male member of the class of '73. He's got quite a resume, actually. He was chosen for the position of commission from a short list that included Dan Quayle, and is best known for rescinding professoinal golf's ban on Bill Murray (no, seriously.). He had run unsuccessfully for commonwealth attorney in '77. He was staff director for Carter's '80 campaign, and finance director for Mondale's campaign in '84. Ok, so he's not who I would have chosen, but maybe I could at a least learn a thing or two from him about getting over disappointment.

A travel puzzlebook of Jordan's offered this tidbit of wisdom: The word travel comes from the root "travails" because in the old days, travel was very difficult and grueling. Maybe we haven't progressed as far as we think we have...

It's currently 4:26 am, EST and I'm up, typing on MySpace. For those that know me well, it would normally be unusual for me to be up this late, but a week after a rather grueling return trip home from Asia, I have developed a bizarre jet-lag induced sleeping schedule which involves an evening nap, and then another in the early morning hours. In general, this means that I get to enjoy most of the few daylight hours offered this time of year (from about 7:30 to 5:30, roughly.) However, sleeping throught normal dinner hours and my unwillingness to cook at 2 am has meant my meals have included such healthy items as oreos and milk, or a variety of products bearing the "Campbell's Chunky" label.

The plane ride back was quite an adventure. We crossed twelve time zones, flying from Kuala Lumpur to Taipei to LA, where Jordan and I parted ways. Despite calling ahead to book our seats, a window and a middle seat, upon checking in we found that they had reseated us. Our new seats were the same: a window and a middle seat, but separate from each other. This makes NO sense, seeing as the people next to us were both traveling alone, but we took the seats thinking that as I had been reseated in an emergency exit with no seats in front of me, surely someone would trade. Well, that didn't work out, seeing as while the people next to me had a good four feet of leg room, I instead had a large bulkhead purporting to contain a fourty-foot inflatable slide at my feet. I became quite adept at sitting with my legs at a 75 degree angle to the right of me over the course of the 14 hour flight.

To make matters worse, they had the little fold-out tv sets and a seat pocket beneath the window because there were no seats in front of me. Naturally, my book of crosswords fell out of the overstuffed pocket containing three copies of all the normal in-flight perfume catalogs and laminated cards, etc, and so I had to kneel down in the dark to fish under the seat for it. Of course, while I was doing this, the tv, which I had pushed up to gain access, fell down, trapping me between the seat and the bar holding it up. I couldn't lift up up again from behind me after about 5 minutes of trying, and finally found a way to crawl out from under it. I can't tell if the woman next to me was amused, annoyed, or just embarassed for me.

We arrived in LAX, and poor Jordan had to scramble, since he only had a short time before his 1pm flight back to Charlottesville. I took my time, only to find that the check-in for my flight had closed already. Customer service informed me that this was because my flight no longer existed, and at some point while I was over the pacific ocean they rebooked me onto a flight that closed its doors at some point around when I was still taking my duffle out of the overhead bin of my previous flight. 45 minutes in line later, I managed to get an overnight flight to DC with an ETA in C'ville of 9:30 am. To translate, this meant that before my flight even began boarding, Jordan was brushing his teeth for bed.

I was also offered some inane and semi-technical response of why they could not reroute my baggage once it was tagged for a particular flight, regardless of the fact that the flight no longer existed, and in order for me to recieve my luggage I would either have to drive to Richmond, or wait for them to send it to chicago, then DC, and then Charlottesville, but not to worry, I would have it by the end of the week. Jordan's luggage went missing in the fray too, but his arrived in 2 days, whereas mine took 3. And this, my friends, is why you should always pack a toothbrush and some spare undergarments in your carry-on.