A room of his or her own

My beef with law casebooks:

When did “she” become a gender-neutral pronoun? Why is it that when the author is talking about an attorney or a client, the attorney or the client is almost always a “she”? I understand that this is an attempt to include women in the discourse. Still, when I read “she,” I automatically envision a female, yet when I read “he,” I envision a generic person of no identifiable gender (unless the context makes it clear that the author is, indeed, talking about a male). So, by attempting to include women, the author ends up excluding men. Fair? I don’t think so.

I blame Professor C and his theory that most masculine nouns in romance languages are actually gender-neutral — a theory that I seem to be subconsciously applying to English pronouns for no good reason whatsoever.

 

Incrimination nation

Last night, at dinner, we were talking about what shows up if we Google our own names, how some things (which may or may not be an accurate representation of reality) might be hard to get rid of, and how those things can obviously hurt those who may want to, say, run for office.

D made a really interesting point about how in 10 or so years, when our generation gets to the point of having our own political campaigns, Internet results and the like perhaps won’t matter. In today’s culture, many, if not most people, have some dirt on them. Some of it is very public; some is protected by fickle privacy settings; and some is stored in GChat logs, text messages, and other things that one considers private, in theory, but that could easily surface if need be.  Back in the day, when electronic media wasn’t prevalent, an individual had a certain degree of control over what information is out there. Nowadays, that level of control is rapidly diminishing. Even if one does not put up incriminating photos on facebook, what are the chances that there is a text message in existence about a particularly wild and eventful drunken night? Most people know better than to put anything shocking online (then again, what to do if someone else writes a blog entry about you and refuses to take it down?), but are we supposed to refrain from using e-mail and text messages as means of private communication as well? In response to all of that, D suggested that maybe our generation will become desensitized to things that other generations would have considered scandalous simply because there will be such a wealth of incriminating information out there.

In the alternative, the only people running for office will be those who never did a single thing wrong in their lives: never drank before 21, never ran a stop sign, never used profane language, etc. Not a bad idea in theory, if not for the fact that such people (at least in my experience) tend to lack the charisma and social skills necessary to garner popular support.

What an exciting time to be a young (almost) professional. Heck, what an exciting time to be a human.

 

Clerkship craze

We recently had a mandatory meeting to discuss our university-funded summer job experiences, and I’m still infuriated several days later.

The meeting I attended was geared specifically toward judicial interns, so, after story time, the conversation predictably turned to judicial clerkships. The moral of the story was that a clerkship is one of the best experiences a recent law school graduate could have, that more people should explore those options, and that a certain professor is working very hard to basically flood the D.C. market with judicial clerks and interns from Georgetown (using those time-tested methods of contacting alumni and asking them to put Georgetown résumés on top of the application stacks).

That doesn’t sound so bad, right? In fact, I’m sure that many of my classmates probably appreciate this professor’s commitment. So what’s my beef with it? Basically, as someone who is desperately trying to break into a legal market to which I have no geographic ties, I’m not terribly fond of the idea of markets being flooded by local law schools. Local law school grads (especially those from the top local school) already have numerous advantages over out-of-towners — for example, the student can attend an interview at any time instead of having to fly in for a day.

Granted, clerkships are somewhat unique as far as a job, and I personally am not interested in a clerkship, but the basic principle is still there. What if a qualified applicant from, oh, anywhere is simply dying to get an internship or a clerkship in D.C. (perhaps because he or she wants to develop ties to the D.C. market), yet the judge rejects him or her simply because of a convenient little arrangement with Georgetown? How is that at all fair? What if I hadn’t gotten an amazing job offer over last winter break in Madison, decided to look for an internship in Boston (which was going to be the target of my job search after winter break)…and was rejected because the Massachusetts judges had a similar arrangement with Harvard, BU, and BC? Why, I’d be livid.

There’s also the problem of having alumni pull strings for current students. Whereas I understand why it might be advantageous to hire someone with local ties (for example, at a firm, a local might use his or her connections to bring in clients), I am utterly perplexed by the notion of alumni networking. The idea seems to be that you should throw someone a bone just because you attended the same school. Huh? What obligation does an alum have to someone he or she does not know? Is he or she to assume that the student is a worthy candidate and deserves special treatment simply by virtue of attending Georgetown? Well,  Georgetown is a great law school; shouldn’t the name speak for itself? For all the alum knows, the student in question could be mediocre, yet he or she might get preference over a better candidate from a different school who has no similar alumni networking opportunity with the employer in question.

Over the course of our job search, we are told to reach out to alumni at our desired places of employment. But I don’t see why “Hi, I’m Evie, and I’m getting my J.D. at Georgetown, like you did n years ago” should be any more effective than “Hi, I’m Evie, I see that you are a leading attorney in historic preservation, and I’m super interested” or “Hi, you got your undergraduate degrees in Art History and French? Me too!” or “Your biography says that in your spare time you like to play laser tag with your kids? I used to work at a laser tag place!?” Not that I would necessarily use those hooks — and certainly not that exact wording — but what is it about having attended the same school that forges a stronger bond than having a shared major, a shared hobby, etc.? What makes your school so special to you that it renders all the people who subsequently attend it special to you as well? Ask me in a few years, I suppose.

Note: I’m not necessarily opposed to networking in general. If someone were looking for a great new employee, asked a friend for leads, and the friend happened to have had an exceptional intern at some point, I don’t see why the friend shouldn’t recommend the intern for the open position. The difference is that the friend is familiar with the intern’s work and knows that he or she is a good employee. This is not so in the case of alumni networking.

But I digress. I realize that the arrangement set forth by the aforementioned professor (along with other kinds of networking) may certainly help those who aren’t necessarily the best and the brightest get good positions. Nor do I purport to be the best and the brightest myself, so I realize that similar arrangements could help me as well. Still, something about the whole idea doesn’t sit right with me.

Of course, I might be singing a different tune if I find myself unemployed…but I’ll cross that bridge once I get to it.

 

A bruncher’s paradise

Today Emma and I had our weekly brunch at Café Bonaparte, a charming little French crêperie in Georgetown. Crêpes, cheese, and chocolate? Yes, please!

Apple and brie crêpe chips. So warm and delicious.

The Montmartre crêpe, mushrooms and all.

The Last Tango: Nutella and strawberries. What more can a gal ask for?

Will I be going back? Mais bien sûr.

Wait a minute, did I write a whole post without saying anything negative? That won’t do. While I didn’t have any gripes about the restaurant and the food, I became a bit frustrated with the bike parking situation in Georgetown. I naively expected to see a bike rack somewhere in the vicinity of the café. No such luck. Lamp posts? Although definitely pretty and old-fashioned, they were much too thick for a U-lock. After marching up and down the block with Victoria in tow, I finally found a lone street sign that I could work with. When Emma and I embarked on a little shopping excursion after our meal, I had to resort to using a few young trees near our target boutiques.

I realize that Georgetown streets are crowded. There’s definitely no room for hefty bike racks that block the sidewalk. But what about the ones that are shaped like an upside-down U and that could easily accommodate two bikes? I don’t see why a few of those can’t be sprinkled throughout the shopping district, in-between the lamp posts and the fire hydrants. If they were parallel to the street (and thus the bikes would be parked parallel to the street as well), they would not obstruct the flow of pedestrian traffic.

I wonder if the lack of bike parking has something to do with the image that Georgetown tries to project (and succeeds). It’s a posh, preppy district. The metro does not go there; the assumption seems to be that those who spend time in Georgetown either live there or have cars to get themselves there. To be fair, there are a couple of buses that run along Wisconsin Avenue and M Street, but the occasional bus does not even compare with the metro or a proper biking infrastructure. Bike lanes in Georgetown? Forget about it. Could this mean that bikes are viewed as an inferior form of transportation, one that the rich should not bother with? Just (delicious French) food for thought.

 

Fourth of July Fail

The problem with holiday weekends is that my friends all go out of town to visit their families, and I’m left to fend for myself, which kind of sucks the joy out of having extra days off.

In comparison with other holidays such as Christmas and Easter, I don’t have too much beef with the 4th of July. Although I wouldn’t say that it’s my favorite holiday, I think it’s fair to say that it’s my least disliked holiday for sure. But that’s only half of the story; as a matter of fact, I do dislike the 4th of July, though it’s a different brand of dislike.

Unlike most girls my age, I don’t have many romantic fantasies. I don’t dream of guys bringing me flowers, I don’t plan my wedding — unless it’s in a mocking fashion, and I don’t have visions of dining with my lover at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Still, I like to think that I’m allowed one romantic fantasy. That fantasy happens to be watching the fireworks on the 4th of July with that special person. That has yet to happen, of course. Even when I was dating Steve, we somehow managed to get into little spats right before the 4th, which meant no fireworks for me. Last year, MSB and I were on good enough terms that he probably would have humored me, had I asked, and had he been in Madison at the time instead of in Ecuador. And this summer, well, we’re not even on good terms. In fact, since I came back to Madison, we’ve only exchanged empty formalities (what was that you said about wanting to stay friends, darlin’? Clearly, our definitions of friendship are very different). But that’s beside the point.

The point here, as one might easily guess, is that the 4th of July always leaves me disappointed and feeling lonely. This weekend was no exception. So, in a somewhat failed attempt to run away from negative thoughts, I threw myself into a couple of DIY projects.

The first one, of course, was the Motobécane restoration. She is now cleaned off, de-rusted, and patiently waiting for me to find a suitable paint color. Most of the parts have now been obtained; the only things that remain are the saddle and the grips. I’m currently torn between the B72 and the B17 Brooks saddles. Since the Motobécane will be a commuter bike, and, depending on how I install the handlebars, the riding position will be fairly upright, the B72 might be a better choice, though I’m not sure how I feel about springs. On the other hand, if I intend to have the handlebars level with the saddle — haven’t decided yet — and end up taking her for longer rides, the B17 might be a better choice. Decisions, decisions. At any rate, once the restoration is complete, there will be a whole post detailing the process and describing the results.

The second project that I had on my hands this weekend involved a picnic basket. Amanda and I are planning on attending a few more outdoor concerts this summer, so I figured that I needed to be prepared. Unfortunately, most picnic baskets out there seem to be designed for hardcore picnic-goers and come fully equipped with dishes, utensils, and a price tag to match. I was looking for something much simpler and cheaper. The World Market had several cute baskets, but only one had a lid, and it was not a convenient shape for anything wide and flat (pies? cheese platters?). So, off to Target I went, and walked out with a basket that was the perfect size and shape but had an absolutely atrocious, tacky lining, which I hated so much that I didn’t even bother taking a “before” picture.

Doing a complete 180 from the more manly task of fixing up a bike, I trashed the old lining, made a quick trip to the craft store, and sat down with some fabric, ribbon, and a sewing machine.

Transformation!

It has a much more traditional look now, with the demure olive lining and simple brown trim (finishing the edges of the slippery ribbon was a royal pain in the behind, let me tell you). To balance the drabness, I wove a few fake flowers into the lid for a little splash of brightness. Overall, I’m quite pleased with the results. Let’s see how everything holds up at the next Concert on the Square.

I can’t stay in Suzy Homemaker mode for too long, though, so shortly after finishing this quick project, I joined my dad in the basement to play with pneumatic nail guns and various kinds of caulk. The new bathroom that he’s been working on for the past couple of months is now nearing completion; photos to come!

 

Paroles, paroles

Words intrigue me.

Due to a recent conversation with someone, I’m now thinking about the various ways one can refer to someone with whom he or she is romantically involved. I will leave “fiancé(e),” “husband,” and “wife” out of the picture, since those words are quite clear and do not usually bother me.

“Boyfriend”/”girlfriend.” These are probably the most common terms. I don’t like either one. In high school or college, it they work, but I have a hard time accepting them as valid relationship terms for two people in their 30s, 40s, and beyond. “Boy” or “girl” are words that are usually associated with youth, and if two people are older, they seem inappropriate somehow. They also seems a bit too informal. I’m imagining myself in my 30s, going to a formal work function, well-dressed, surrounded by successful people…and introducing my date as my…boyfriend? The word seems out of place, no?

“Partner.” If the partner isn’t right there with you, it’s simply an unclear term. It might bring your sexuality into question, since “partner” is a fairly common term within homosexual couples. Not that I would be offended by that assumption, but why create confusion if I could simply use another word? And there could be even more confusion. Do you mean business partner? Life partner? Howdy, partner???

“Significant other.” It’s too detached-sounding. It’s a great term to use for party invitations when you want people to have a +1, but if I’m talking about my significant other with someone else, it doesn’t sound right. Neither does something like “Hi, Jane, I’d like you to meet my significant other, John.”

“Gentleman friend” or “lady friend.” This actually started the whole thought process. The person I was talking to was wondering what “lady friend” meant, concerned that it was not the same as “girlfriend.” I, for one, am rather fond of the term and would love to be introduced as such — to me, there’s no distinction in meaning from “girlfriend,” but it’s more age-appropriate. Unfortunately, “gentleman friend” is a bit of a mouthful and can come off as pretentious. I can still see myself using it, though.

“My better half” or something equivalent. If you’re just in the beginning stage of a relationship, this sounds just a tad too serious, unless clearly intended as a joke. I’m not a fan of the expression in the first place, and if it ever is used, I think it’s best left for established relationships.

“Male/female friend” signifies that it’s a platonic friend who is a male or a female, and is usually used only when clarification is needed.

“Man friend” and “woman friend” don’t seem to exist.

“Lover.” One wouldn’t use that in introductions, unless as a joke.

Am I missing anything? Am I insane for thinking so much about terminology? What can I say, words are powerful buggers.

 

August can’t come soon enough

I never thought I’d say this, but…

I can’t wait to get back to DC.

I spent the entire second semester — or at least three months, until that dreadful night in late March — looking forward to this summer. And I’m not going to complain. This summer has been going fairly well so far: I (mostly) enjoy my job, I get to see some of my dearest friends, there haven’t been any heat waves, and I discovered “magic coffee” at Café Soleil.

Still, certain things — and people — are making me realize how much I want stability, at least for a little while.

This summer feels so transitional and ephemeral. I’m living in a sublet and there’s no point in decorating or even trying to organize my room to make it feel like home because I’ll be out of there in a couple of months. As much as I love exploring new places, I’m hesitant to explore too much for fear of finding something that I’m truly enamored with and missing it like crazy when I move back to DC. On a related note, I don’t really see the point of getting to know new people, particularly in a dating scenario, since my time here is limited and I don’t want to repeat past mistakes.

Once I’m back in DC, I can do those things. B and I can finally put some time and effort into decorating our bachelorette pad, complete with an herb garden on the patio. I’ll be able to find new hangout spots and have two whole years to frequent them. I’ll be able to meet new people and make new friends without having to say goodbye to them at the end of the summer. That gives me a lot to look forward to and, whereas I used to wish this summer could last forever, I now find myself wishing that mid-August could come sooner.

 

What’s in a name?

This post by High Heeled Mom made me wonder about my own names and identities. Here is a not-so-brief and by no means exhaustive list:

 

Crying over spilt milk

The Governor vetoed the raw milk bill today. I’m not as close to the issue as MSB is, but I have been following the debate out of the corner of my eye, briefly chatted with the farmers around the Capitol yesterday, and can’t help feeling upset about the whole thing. But I’ll spare you the rant about Big Bad Ag, individual liberty of choice, and the sheer unfairness of it all; rather, I’ll go off on a tangent, as I tend to do.

So, let’s talk about pasteurization, since that’s what they’re using as an excuse to ban raw milk sales. Actually, let’s talk about how society nowadays wants to sterilize everything and put humans in a little bubble. It’s appalling. A little bacteria never killed anyone. In fact, by relying on products that are supposedly safe and clean, we are reducing our own resistance to bacteria and weakening our immune system. Steve and I were recently talking about this in the context of Purell and other hand sanitizers, which many people use obsessively. I’m not suggesting that one ought to eat dirt off the ground, of course, and there are definitely situations where hands ought to be cleansed quite thoroughly. But if one ends up in a situation where soap or Purell aren’t available, his or her body is in for a rude awakening. I don’t have any statistics to back this up, but I find it entirely conceivable that those people who got sick from drinking raw milk (a tiny percentage, I might add) had that reaction solely because they grew up with pasteurized milk (and I’ll bet anything that it was skim, yuck), Purell, and all kinds of antibacterial products, so their systems couldn’t handle something natural. People have been drinking milk and not washing their hands religiously for centuries. Miraculously, the human race is still here, for better or for worse. Just my two cents, though.

 

Crush me, come on

“I fall in love every day,” Steve admitted to me a couple of days ago. I also remember his telling me a while ago that he gets a lot of crushes.

Is it wrong to be jealous of that? Or, rather, is it silly to be jealous?

In high school, I got a lot of crushes — those ridiculous teenage crushes where catching a glimpse of him in the hallway is enough to unleash a whole swarm of butterflies in your stomach and put the dumbest grin on your face. My ridiculous two-year relationship took me out of crush commission for a while (far beyond those two years). Since then, I can only recall three crushes, and the last one ended — somewhat tragically — on Halloween of 2008, a whole year and a half ago.

I miss that feeling.

During our last disastrous meeting, Med School Boy told me that there’s no “magic.” I’m inclined to agree with that. There never was any magic. I attribute that to the manner in which we met, which is probably best described as inorganic, perhaps even synthetic. I can’t recall any sparks, let alone any fireworks. I can only speak for myself, of course, but it seems that both of us liked each other just enough to continue going on dates…until I slowly, gradually became attached and he became uninterested. But nowhere on that spectrum was there any semblance of a crush.

I wonder if I’ll ever have a chance to experience that giddy feeling. I’m quite sure that I’ll eventually experience a giddy kind of love (I’m not yet cynical or jaded enough to think that I’m bound to end up alone), but I’m afraid that I’m beyond the point of ever having a giddy crush, made that much more charming by…is it curiosity? Or the uncertainty of it? At any rate, it’s a different kind of giddy when you don’t know for a fact that the person wants to be an integral part of your life.

Where does one find these crushes? It seemed so easy in school, until I declared my Art History and French majors, thereby resigning myself to taking classes where men were as rare as a platypus in the Potomac. My work environment was not much better. And, from now on, school and work will only expose me to one kind of person: the dreaded law student. Thank you kindly, but no.

It appears that the only two ways to meet somebody nowadays are a random encounter (e.g., at a bar or a coffee shop) or through online dating. Both ways seem to preclude the possibility of a crush, since they just beg for the “like each other just enough to go on more dates” outcome. Granted, that could eventually lead to a good thing and even marriage…but not to The Giddy Crush.

It’s hopeless.

Steve, I hope you know that I’m insanely jealous.