Enigmatic Female

Granny

Dallas' Granny died last week. She was a feisty, yet forgetful, 85 years old. Her mind wasn't what it once was by the time I met her around this time last year, but there was still plenty of personality to amuse me. Like how she called her daughter's husband, Slough-foot (because he's the kind of person who looks like he's always just stepped in something), how her advice to me at my wedding shower was, "If you will just shut up, you'll never say anything wrong," how she had a cat, originally named Sinatra, a name which she thought was stupid and hard to remember, so she renamed him, "Baby Boy," and would tell us how she'd say, "Baby Boy, where are you?" and he'd come a-running. Dallas and his older brother spent quite a bit of time with Granny when they were young, as she would look after them while their parents worked. She tells stories (sadly, the same ones were often repeated over and over again in the same hour or so visit, a creeping reminder of her mental deterioration) about how they went walking in the woods, or for a ride on a small train, or to the zoo when the boys were younger. She was so tickled by my appreciation for McDonald's (my first non-babysitting job was as a cashier/drive through runner at age 16), as I expressed it to her at our first meeting, that she misremembered that we ate a meal there (rather than at Subway) that day, and always treated McDonald's food as our own private joke. She was quite a plucky lady, and when she was younger and wanted a stone house, she set her husband and her four children the task of digging rocks for it out of the fields on their land, and cementing them to the walls of their home. This house is still standing, in decline, and she lived in it, alone, until the day she died. The street on which it sits is named for her. We've been mourning, and yet offering thanks that she hadn't had to leave her home of 65 years, or her cat, for whom she was making arrangements on her death bed. Rarely does a day pass when we don't make some reference to Granny, whether it's to say, "That's life for ya, Granny," her favorite phrase to attribute to a precocious seven-year old Dallas, or to say, "I'm BO-ORED," her favorite phrase to attribute to her ungrateful youngest grandchildren, or just to tell stories about her, remembering the good times. May she rest in peace, even as her husband, long-dead, will likely be put to work first thing upon their reunion.

Less Anxiety, Please?

For the past six months or so, Dallas and I have been telling each other that it will be a snap for me to find a job once the bar results are in, and I think there have been times when I've really believed this, but for the most part, I've felt a sickening dread that maybe I won't find a job. Ever. Then what? Writing as a career? Modeling? Culinary school? Oh, I know, I can be a teacher! This train of thought went so far that several days before the bar exam results came out, Dallas and I, both expert negotiators (hey, we even TAed a course in negotiation at the same time, only for different professors), agreed that if I didn't pass the bar, then I could become a teacher. Dallas has never had any doubt I would pass the bar exam, and knew this to be a safe deal to make. Dallas, you see, isn't the biggest fan of any job that I might take that isn't legal, as he feels like this closes off any future career I might want that is law-related. While I completely agree with his reasoning, there always comes a point when you have to question the veracity of your current path, because things are not coming easily. I don't mean not coming easily, like you interview for three jobs and none of the three will have you. I mean a prolonged job search punctuated by rejection and the well-wishes of the rejectors who seemed delighted enough with your qualifications, but really had someone more senior in mind, or someone who had already passed the bar. You see how a girl could get discouraged. At the point when bar passage was imminent, I began sending out resumes again, en masse. I've applied for somewhere in the ballpark of 50 positions, and this week, along with a few polite letters of immediate rejection, I've gotten a couple of interviews as well. I am beginning to trust that I will, indeed, have a job, and soon. Am I sleeping any better at night? Not really. Instead of being kept awake by the anxiety of not having any prospects, I am now wide awake with excitement over the imminent possibilities and going back to work. It seems, as Dallas has known all along, I really like being a lawyer and am getting excited about being able to do it again. Life is good, or it will be very soon.

Alternative Career?

Dallas and I were at the mall last night. We were walking off the effects of our celebratory dinner, which was capped off, for me, by warm bread pudding with ice cream and caramel. MMM. So good. I decided, in keeping with the momentum of the day, that a new interview suit was in order. We started hunting. We looked in department stores (Dallas was outraged by the $92 t-shirts we saw in Barney's), Ann Taylor, and other usual budget-friendly suit shops. Frustrated that jackets didn't want to button nicely over my rather ample bosom, I decided to check out a store that carries "women's sizes" (translation: big clothes for big women).* Not surprisingly, the smallest size they carried was perfect in the bust, but far too large in the waist. The pants, however, due to my impressive caboose, fit very nicely. The problem, however, wasn't how the clothes fit as much as how frumpy they were, and that they wanted $60-$90 for pants that I normally wouldn't pay $30 for, as they felt cheap and gapped in weird places. The ladies who worked in the shop chatted Dallas up as I tried on pants and pants and pants. Nothing was quite right (except a pair of corduroys that I was just not going to pay $80 for) and I decided not to get anything. As I was leaving, though, one of the shop girls asked me whether I would be interested in modeling some of their clothes in a fashion show next weekend. Tickled by the thought of myself as a model, even a "plus size" model, I agreed (I am under no delusions about my not-a-size-2 curves). They took my phone number, and I will be going in next week to try on my outfit and get a rundown on modeling protocol. Sounds like fun. And? Afterward I get a whole 25% off whatever I want to buy from the store. Those corduroys? They might be coming home with me.

*I eventually found a perfectly cut suit at Macy's, which is now at the tailor for a few alterations.

The Score

So, the Texas Bar Exam? It's totally my bitch. That's right, I passed it. Me: 2, Bar Exams: 0.