A Nature Special In The Kitchen

Yesterday was not a good day on a lot of levels.

Sometimes I'm stressed but more or less ok: I tell myself that if I fail the bar, I'll just take it again in February and that I will pass and that I'll get a job and I'll be able to pay off my loans and it will all be ok and the world will not end. That's what I tell myself.

But somedays I don't quite buy it, and I get jittery and stressed and so perhaps I need a drink to settle my nerves so I can continue productively studying. Yesterday was one of those days.

EZ was sharing my anxiety, so we decided to have an afternoon cocktail. I proceeded to the bar to retrieve some glasses and said something like "Goodness it's dusty over here. It' s like something died."

EZ, viewing dust as our common enemy, came over to inspect our dust problem, when his face contorted and he said "Something did die."

I took a closer look and -good god- realized that there was a dead mouse nestled in the glassware. EZ had said several weeks ago that he thought he heard skittering, but I told him that a) he was completely paranoid and b) he was imagining things. Guess he gets the last laugh on that one.

But what I love is that even though my mind processed what it was (i.e. a dead mouse) my consciousness didn't allow it to process (i.e. [chuckle] *looks* like something died over here). I guess that's how the Stepford wives do it. But hey, when you're already stressed out to pre-heart attack levels that last thing you need is a dead creature as a momento mori. Would you like a side order of death with your bad day? Apparently so.

Also, dead mousie had been on the bar for a *while* and was at fist only visible as a puff of fur which looked like a ton of dust. But on closer inspection, you can see the little carcas complete with maggots at work (if you click on the picture you can enlarge). It's like having a PBS special on what happens after death going on in the kitchen. EZ and I both wanted to retch as we realized we had been using glasses off the bar for a few days now without having noticed the creature (for the record, we were using smaller glasses from a different section of the bar).

And as bad as seeing the dead creature is, dealing with it is much worse. EZ and I flew into a panic realizing we actually had to deal with this and decided to consult with Tiny, who was upstairs and unaware of the critter. We basically just shouted "Oh my god" and "gross" at each other for about five minutes before trying to come up with a disposal plan.

My first impulse (which I did not share) was to vacuum the damn thing up. But I was afraid that it might clog up the vacuum or, depending on it's stage of decomposition, break up as it was being vacuumed sending maggots everywhere. Either prospect is horrifying so I kept it to myself. Tiny volunteered to dispose of it once provided with gloves and many many plastic bags. EZ, being man of the house, pulled himself together and said he'd do it and before losing his nerve he quickly grabbed a cereal box from the recycling bag and scopped the mess into the trash. Clearly I am worthless as I volunteered to do nothing.

I am going to need to be very very drunk by July 26. Please make the bad man stop.








Present Terror Level: 5 Bobby Pins

The Terror Level Keeps Rising

As Samuel Johnson said: "When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully."

Well friends, we are a fortnight from the bar exam. I am hoping that my impending sense of doom serves to concentrate my mind wonderfully. So far so bad.

If my mind fails to concentrate, I may have to be a street lawyer in the same vein as a street preacher. That is, a crazy homeless person shouting snippets at strangers like "I'm a covenant running with the land!" or "burglary consists of a breaking and entering of the dwelling of another at night time with the intent to commit a felony" and what not before going back to my cardboard box.

It will only get worse before it gets better.

Current Terror Level: 4 Bobby Pins

Bobby Pins: My Very Own Terror Alert System

About this time last year my friend KN had her soul broken by studying for the bar exam.

She told me "I'm in bad shape, cause I've got out the cloth headband like it's seventh grade."

At the time, I didn't understand what she was talking about. Cloth headband? What the hell?

Now I fully understand.

As the study stress sets in, small things begin to make you crazy. Like WHY IN GOD'S NAME IS MY HAIR TOUCHING MY FACE?! GET OFF!

I have taken an alternate approach to KN's cloth headband - that is, bobby pins. When I get home from Bar review, I secure my bangs back from my face with pins, a la 1992.

But after a while little wisps start working their way out and TOUCHING MY DAMN FACE. Therefore I have to insert another pin to secure those hairs. Over time, I add more pins ever closer to my forehead. And just as the colors of our terror alert system signify how ready we must be for attack, the number of pins is a direct correlation to my stress.

It's 19 days until the Bar and counting. We're presently up to three bobby pins of terror.