Second update on the Wookiee

I am developing a strong aversion to IP attorneys and interns.

Stuck on you

So every time I use krazy glue, I glue my fingers together.

I don't do it on purpose; in fact, since I've noticed that it happens every time I use krazy glue, I have made an honest effort to keep my fingers from touching each other during the gluing process. But invariably, as the saying goes, the right hand does not know what the left one is doing, and when I am finished repairing the broken object, I smile with success at my one un-stuck hand until I look at the other one which now resembles the Vulcan salute.

I was repairing a Winnie the Pooh knickknack that has been in two pieces since I moved into the apartment almost two years ago. (Wow, I can't believe it's been that long…let's all take a moment….Sunrise, Sunset….okay.) And while I held the pieces together, I also glued my right index and middle fingers together. So I grabbed the tube of glue with my left and read the package to see how to un-stick my fingers. The tube said acetone (nail polish remover) or hot water. Ironically, I had just been shopping for nail polish remover at Marc's where deep discount prices rule ($3.29 bottle of wine, Matthew Fox label). After about fifteen minutes searching for the cosmetic section (of course, it's next to the wife-beater undershirts). Lots of cotton balls, but no nail polish remover. Little did I know I would need it later.

So I filled a bowl with hot water and put my hand in it. And yes, the practical joke works—placing your hand in hot water makes you have to pee, urgently. So I had to go to the bathroom. And of course I'm wearing ridiculously complicated pants, with only one hand available to do anything. In my panic I did manage to rip my two fingers on my right hand apart.

I'm still picking pieces of glue off my fingers.

Gentlemen, start your engines

So I had my second race car experience in less than a week. (Yay!)
Only this time the car was a real car (red Ford Mustang convertible). (Boo.)
And the car went 140 miles per hour. (Yay!)
But I was not wearing a shiny red helmet. (Boo.)
Only a red racing hat that blew off when we left the starting line. (Ooo...)
And I didn’t eat any bugs. (Yay!!!)

I rode in one of the pace cars for the 2005 Cleveland Grand Prix. I screamed the entire time, but my driver couldn't hear me over the roar of the engine and the screech of the tires as she zoomed through the 10 turns at 80 miles an hour. And then there was the straightaway, where my driver shifted into high gear and launched the little red Mustang off the groun. My entire body felt like a ball of electricity—especially my hair, which bore a resemblance to Doc Brown's, without the help of a time-traveling-DeLorean.

That lap around the racetrack was like a gateway drug—it just wasn't enough. Now I feel the need; the need for speed.

Crash into me

So it all started when I swallowed a bug.

Today was United Way kick-off day. My employer is a huge sponsor of the United Way, and every year they try to get 100% employee participation in donating some amount to the organization. And to encourage people to donate, they throw parties. Today was the start of the fund-raising drive, so they had a huge barbecue on the lawn. They also brought in classic cars, an Indy and a Champ car, a race simulator and: go-carts. I have only been in a go-cart once in my life, so I am told, it must have been a very traumatic experience because I don't remember a thing. They had them set up in the parking lot, and the tiny little girl inside my head was just itching to go for a ride. So I gave a donation and hopped into a shiny red one. The guy even gave me a shiny red helmet to match. I was all set: all I needed were the instructions. "Gas, here, brake, here." He said with a flurry of arm movement. "Put your brake on while I crank 'er up." I pushed the pedal to the floor. Unfortunately, I had not interpreted his signals correctly, and I pushed the gas pedal to the metal, so to speak. When he turned the go-cart from hell on, I shot forward like a little red bullet. I screamed as the vehicle sped toward the tires they put as a barrier between me and the barbecue. Right before an impact that would have sent old tires soaring into a crowd of people, a little voice inside said "Dumbass, it's like a normal car, gas on right, brake on left." I shoved my left foot down as hard as I could and yanked the steering wheel to the left. I prayed that none of the parts in the vehicle were related to Ford Explorer parts; I did not want to see how well the shiny red helmet stood up in a roll-over. By the grace of God and Dale Earnhardt, I made the turn. Victory over metal and rubber! I gave the little go-cart some gas and raced like the wind--like a good 20 mph wind. And then it happened--I had my mouth open with glee, and an enormous winged insect flew in my mouth and down my throat. And in a fit of surprise, coughing, giggling and gagging, I ran into another tire wall.

My moment in the tire wall would have been bad enough on its own; however, as I was sitting dazed in the car looking at the smoke and scattered tires, a voice above me said "You never were a very good driver--especially at MarioKart. And that wasn't even real." I looked up through the haze and my helmet and looked straight into the eyes of my ex-boyfriend. I hadn't seen him since he was hired in a little less than a year ago. We had lunch in the cafeteria and it was so awkward that even though we both said "well, see you around" when it was over we both knew that we were going to go out of our way to avoid seeing each other again at work. So you can imagine my complete and utter joy (I put that in italics to let you, the reader, know that I am being sarcastic) to know that he had witnessed my Andretti moment. He helped me out of the car and asked me if I was alright. He helped me take off my helmet. I hate to admit it, but he looked really good standing there, a look of concern on his face that would give way to laughter at my expense as soon as he knew I was alright. I stood there, my hair sticking up in cotton candy spikes from the heat and the helmet, and the only thing I could say was "I swallowed a bug."

We spent the rest of the picnic catching up, and it was nice. No awkwardness. I think he has grown up in the last year (a real job will do that to you pretty quick).

Rollin' down the road; this wheel shall explode

So my father has worked for a tire company since before I was born. I have been around tires my entire (hehe, that word has the word "tire" inside it) life. Today was the first day I had to deal with a tire on my own.

I was driving to Cleveland on an errand for work. As I was nearing the city, all these cars started honking and waving at me. (Well, the cars didn't wave--the people inside did). Now, I know the city of Cleveland is not that friendly, so I figured something was up. Finally a truck pulled up beside me and mouthed "Your back tire is flat". Shit, shit, shit. I had no idea where I was, I had never put a spare on the new car, and my cell phone was back in the apartment. I got off the highway and started looking for a gas station, thinking maybe I could just re-inflate the tire. I pulled into a darling little Citgo in quite possibly the most shadiest part of Cleveland. I found the air dispenser, but it had half a sign that said "Ou O Ord" which I assume meant that the gadget was broken. It didn't really matter, because when I looked at the driver side rear it had a big ol' nail stuck right through the tread. I panicked slightly and went inside.

The inside of the Citgo store was actually dirtier than the outside. There was old newspapers all the floor, odd bits of packaging and boxes, and four or five truckers in those baseball caps that don't quite fit right. Before I could despair, however, I looked behind the counter into the bluest eyes I had ever seen. I almost floated towards them until I realized I would be cutting in front of someone with a tattoo of the Tasmanian Devil on his neck. So I walked around the maze of aisles to the back of the line. But ol' blue eyes laughed and motioned for me to come to his window. The group of rednecks parted like the Red Sea and I went to the counter. I explained to him the situation in one long breath with lots of unnecessary details. He considered me for awhile and then said "Icannaeelpwitatire. Iweelfnd someoneaelp yooo." Then he disappeared. Before I could puzzle through what exactly he had said, I saw him waving from outside. I joined him and pointed at the flat tire. He shook his head and took a bite of the piece of pizza he had brought outside with him. "Imungry" he said in explanation. Then he disappeared back in the store. He came back with two ruggedly unattractive convoy participants. He put his arm around me and said "Now, yooootooo, benicetothisgurl. She es mycohsin. Ehf Iear yooo treeter wrong, Iwihl be vehry angry." He winked at me and went back inside. The two older men looked at the tire and said "You got a donut?" I understood this less than I did the handsome guy from whatever country Latka and Balki were from. Trucker two chimed in "Donut or Full-size?" AH, they meant the spare. "Donut" I said.

Suddenly I felt like a regular grease monkey, chatting about tire sizes and lug nuts. I was about to get down and dirty when Trucker two says "You should just use a sealant." Now, as tire litigator-in-training, this was not a good idea. Always repair or replace a puncture, I knew this. But these guys were truckers, they do this for a living. They explained how it worked, what it would do, how long it would last. So I went back into Citgo and bought a bottle of Leak-B-Gon or whatever it was called. Ol' blue eyes behind the counter was not happy. He followed me out of the store and said "Rryooshore abouthis? Idonnaewahnt yooo to gethurt. Weeneed yooo." Blushing, I said "Who?" He pointed around and said "Me, them, everyone." I looked down at the tire which was now miraculously inflated and promised him I would be alright, and thanked him for his help. He turned around and walked into the store and out of my life forever. (Everyone can heave a heavy sigh now). I thanked Trucker one and Trucker two and finished my journey to Cleveland.

I learned one thing today: the damsel in distress routine does not discriminate. It works on locals, foreigners, white collared, blue collared, and no collared alike. However, I really do wish I had actually learned to change a tire today. Or at least what ol' blue eyes' name was.

(Note: if you know what television show the title of the post comes from, give yourself a pat on the back for being uber cool.)

Mad Libs (sort of)

So I have created a Mad Lib!! Have some fun concocting Jessica's future with this letter.

(1) Letter's recipient; choose one person from the following three categories--
Family
Ex-boyfriends
College friends (aka drinking buddies)
(2) Name of an actor, politician, or famous weatherman
(3) Short term occupation that corresponds with (2) (e.g., weatherman: tracking hurricane)
(4) Glamorous place
(5) (Optional, depending on recipient; if College friend, skip to number (9)--children get in the way of a martini) Really precocious boy's name
(6) Baseball team
(7) (Optional, depending on the recipient; if Ex-boyfriend, skip to number (9)--the goal is to make him jealous, and three kids is not something to be jealous of) Adorable girl's name
(8) Equally precious girl's name
(9) Pricey item that only the obnoxiously rich seem to buy
(10) Uber famous international celebrity
(11) Vacation spot
(12) Nickname for (10)

Dear (1),
Hi! How are you? (2) and I are doing fabulously. (2) just finished (3) so it will be nice to spend some time at home in (4) with him.

[(5) is growing so quickly! Started kindergarten at the age of 3--he's a little smarty pants. And what an arm! Scouts from (6) attend every T-ball game.]

[The twins are the most beautiful babies I have ever seen--same features as their gorgeous father with golden blonde curls. (7) and (8) are going to break some hearts one day!]

(2) and I just purchased a (9); I know what could we possibly do with that? Still, we are looking forward to using it.

We won't be coming in for Christmas this year; (10) invited us to spend the holiday with him in (11). I know, we were just there for my birthday, but when (12) asks, you just can't say no!

Love, Jessica

(Don't be surprised if YOU get a letter similar to this in a few years time....)

Average every day sane psycho

So my friend René said to me recently, in her infinite wisdom, that it was time to rid myself of Daniel Cleaver and find Mark Darcy. (If the preceding allusion escapes you, you need to hop in the car and visit your local library or Blockbuster.) I also recently watched the last episode of Sex in the City, where Big followed Carrie all the way to Paris to win her back. Two examples of charmingly neurotic women who, after much comedic drama, end up living happily ever after. As lovely as these scenarios are to watch on TV or read about on the couch, I do have one teeny, tiny, little gripe about their stories....

THIS DOES NOT HAPPEN IN THE REAL WORLD.

In the real world, beautiful, intelligent, successful men do no socialize, let alone fall in love with, quirky, self-deprecating, financially-struggling, overly-analytical, insecure yet tragically funny women with really big, difficult hair. Especially when they do not look like runway models. (Okay, Sarah Jessica Parker looks amazing for being 40. And Reneé Zellweger is normally quite stunning; but as Bridget Jones she is decidedly squishy.)

My sister's graduation party was Sunday. My guidance counselor from high school was there, and she asked me how various friends from high school were doing. And as I was recounting, I realized--I am one of the last still in school, and definitely one of the last to be picked for the couples baseball game. I began to imagine this very same conversation a few years from now: "So, any men in your life?" "Nope." Silence, coupled with that look: raised eyebrows but squinty eyes, that look that is half pity, half "Why the hell are you still single? What could possibly be so wrong with you??" This law school thing is a great alibi for still being single. But I've only got a year left on that ticket. After I take the bar, the next step is to meet a man, get married in a big, poofy dress and start popping out little Jessicas (that last thought alone is enough to make me start hitting myself over the head with my keyboard while strangling myself with the mouse). Maybe I will take a cue from Adelaide in Guys and Dolls--I'll move away, where no one can find me, and invent the most amazing life for myself. It will be a real-life version of Mad Libs.

News without noise

So just a small story: I am investigating an accident in Illinois, so I decided to look on the web for any local news video of the accident. I found a site, downloaded some clips and then realized: I have no speakers on my computer. So I have spent the last hour watching news clips and trying to read lips to see if they are talking about my accident. The eerie part is because it is Friday afternoon, the office itself is strangely quiet. Every once in awhile I made a small noise just to make sure I hadn't lost my hearing.

When you're smiling...

So I hate going to the dentist. I know for most people it is not an enjoyable experience, like going to the movies or being under a tornado watch, but I rank the semi-annual visit to the dentist right up there with law school finals and waxing.

I have been going to my dentist since the toofers first poked through. He is a big guy, but not scary. That is, until he starts scraping around in your mouth. He has never admitted to it, but I think he is color blind; I think he has a hard time distinguishing between pink and white. His gloves also taste bad.

At least the hygienist stopped using bubblegum toothpaste. I don't know why they think kids will enjoy it more if you give them pain that tastes like candy. Especially when it never really tastes like bubblegum—even as a kid, it made me ill. The worst part is that they continued to use the special kids-flavored toothpaste well past the age I could tolerate an actual mint flavor. I had graduated from high school before I had graduated to the adult toothpaste.

Oola and I went out last night with my friend Kara. The goal was to only have one or two martinis; I had to be at the dentist's at 7:30 and I didn't want to be hung-over. Well, under Oola's watchful eye, one or two martinis quickly became five or six martinis. I was drunk when I set the alarm and accidentally set it for 6:30 p.m. At 7:13 I rolled over and looked at the clock. Realizing my mistake, I jumped out of bed and threw on some clothes. Why is it we brush our teeth extra-carefully the morning we go to the dentist? It's not like one brushing is going to make up for six months of not flossing. But, even though I was going to be late, I practically scrubbed me teeth and flossed for good measure. I rinsed and repeated, then remembered that was the directions for shampoo, not toothpaste. I may have had raccoon eyes and Albert Einstein hair, but I was determined to go to the dentist with a Julie Roberts/Jerry Seinfeld smile.

When I got in the chair, I was so exhausted I fell asleep (I really can fall asleep anywhere; see “Beep-beep”). The teeth polishing process is like a massage for my mouth. I didn't even notice when the hygienist went away and Dr. Doom sat down. He stuck the little mirror and little pick in my open, slightly snoring mouth. And I think they should have taught this next bit to him in dental school: warning--do not startle a patient while your fingers are in her mouth--patient bites.

I'm glad these visits only happen every six months. Maybe by December he will have forgotten that I bit him. Unless he wrote it on my chart….

Update on the Wookie

So the new intern in IP? Yeah, definitely a Wookie. He had such potential, too. But now that he's comfortable, he's hollerin' like the rest of them.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned....

So my priest has died. The guy that I took Confession with. For those of you who may not know, my priest and I have--had, I guess I have to use the past tense now--a very interesting relationship. As a good Catholic, I experience feelings of guilt all the time: some of them legitimate, some of them just me being paranoid. My priest had a great time helping me distinguish between the two. In honor of my dearly departed friend (and really, the last person who really knew the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about me), I thought I would recreate my most memorable afternoon in the Confessional (hopefully this is not the memory he took of me when he meets St. Peter in heaven).

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned, it has been several months since my last confession."
"And what is it that you have to confess?"
Long pause.
"I went to a bar."
"I think I've told you before, it is not a sin to go to a bar."
(whisper) "It was a gay bar."
"I'm sorry, you'll have to speak up."
(little louder) "It was a gay bar."
Pause.
"Well, there really is no sin there, either, unless you were there to find yourself a...."
"No, no, no, no, no, I'm not gay!"
"Well, once again, I see no sin there, unless you overindulged in alcohol."
Pause.
"Well, Father, by now you have to know that that is going to come up every time I'm in here."
Chuckle.
"Okay, so your weekly penance for drunkenness...."
"That's not all, Father."
"Go on then."
Long Pause.
(whisper) "I made out with a boy."
"What?"
"I. made. out. with. a. boy."
"Jessica, I've told you this before, making out with a boy is not a sin, either. It is the other activities that lead you down the path to sin...."
"There's more."
Pause.
"Well?"
Uber Long Pause, then--
(barely audible) "I touched him."
"I'm sorry?"
(still quiet, mumbled) "I touched him."
"Pardon me, I still can't hear you."
(Shout that echoes off the marble pillars of the church) "I TOUCHED HIM!"
Embarrassed silence on both ends.
"I assume you mean in a sexual manner--"
"Yes, Father. And I more than touched him. It was more like groping--"
Long drawn out clearing of the throat. "I think I get the idea."
Pause.
"So?"
"I really want you to think about what you did, and think about whether that is moment you would be proud of or shamed by, and use that as a guidepost for further actions."
"Yes, Father."
Get up to leave.
"And the standard Hail Marys for your usual antics."
"Yes Father."
Cell phone rings. "God damn it!"
Pause.
"Well, I guess you can just add that to my confession for the week."
"Ten more Hail Marys for the Lords name in vain."
"Yes Father."
Ten minutes later, kneeling in a pew saying my prayers.
"Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee, Blessed art thou among women--"
"Dear God, is that a hickey on your neck??"
(audible sigh) "Damn it."

I'm going to miss you, Father.