I love the summertime ice cream treats just as much as anyone else, even though I'm a mature, professional woman with a great family and lots of adult-type responsibilities.
I still can't help giggling like a perv_y little schoolgirl when I eat a chocolate covered banana.
It's hard not to snicker when your client attempts to give you a "Blogging 101" lesson: "EG, I don't know how familiar with weblogs, or "blogs," but it's this way of updating your website with items that post in reverse chronological order. The really neat thing is that people can comment on your posts. You can even use these things called "tags" to organize your entries into custom categories."
I have to preface my recommendations with "Based on my experience in advising on online content related matters..." since I'm not sure I want my clients to know that I blog. Or use the term "blog" as a verb, for that matter. It's sort of neat to have to provide blog-related legal advice, but there really is no case law on the specific subjects on which I'm asked to advise. This is where the legal profession becomes somewhat of an art form that is involves a certain amount of divination--cast your stones out and see what the pattern yields.
Happy Mom's day to all of the mommies out there. My mom's day morning consisted of being woken up early and being presented with handmade cards (from both The Gov and Conan), breakfast bagels and white chocolate mocha, and now I'm allowed time to laze around on teh intarweb.
Ack! I spoke too soon. I heard Conan say "I'm going to take a little break." "From what?" you might ask. From occupying His Honor, of course. It'll be about 1.4 minutes until the latter comes upstairs, beginning an earnest plea with "Mommy, mommy, MOMMY!" *sigh*
There was a 2-hour stretch this afternoon where I felt like I was doing that speed dating thing, only instead of trying to impress someone of the opposite sex, I was trying to give the best legal advice I could give within 25.4 minute increments of time. Dial one conference call number, wait for everyone to join, listen to the scenario, provide advice, make sure everyone understands the implications of not following said advice. Repeat. Repeat again. Not sure how I managed to do it, but I called my boss somewhere during that 2-hour time frame and asked him a question.
It's such a stark contrast to my work experience from 2 years ago, where I could sit in my office amid stacks of file folders, 10-Ks, and memo drafts and not talk to anyone the entire day. There would be days when my phone would not ring at all--because I wasn't the person to whom the clients were directed to talk. And actually speaking to the clients was such a big production--it was the time of the pre-meeting meeting (billed, of course, to the client account). So strange indeed.
I got my copy of Keri Smith's Living Out Loud and have started reading it. I want to be able to consider my work play and to enjoy it. I know there's so much potential for me in the job-I just need to give myself direction. Still working on that.
When Conan's away for the weekend, the house grows in size from being "too small" to being "just right"--just right for a mother and an active son who is a stone's kick on the shy side of five. There are couches to sit on for watching TV, no wayward socks on office floors, and no cut-up sweatpants functioning as pajama bottoms (his not mine) on bathroom floors.
At night, however, the house becomes too big, with corners filled to the brim with shadows and noises that induce skittishness in trying-to-sleep mothers. While I went to bed at 11 last night, I was up at least 4 or 5 times making sure that the doors were locked, the lights were out, and no random entryways existed to invite strangers into our home. Our dog, who sleeps at the foot of our bed, looked at me quizzically each time, the unanswered question of "when are you going to get in bed and stay there?" appearing in his brown eyes.
The answer ended up being 3 a.m., after a cup of hot milk finally let my psyche release enough of the anxiety of being alone to allow me to surrender to sleep.
I have an admission to make.
For all of the organic, good-for-you ingredients, I just can't get hyper-obsessed about Lush. Everything smells great, feels good, smells terrific, and I do have my favorites, but I just don't feel the I-gotta-have-it obsession.
You know what it is? It's the price point. When Lush used to be only in Canada, I bought stuff online and happily clicked through the sites UI, thinking that the prices were going to be converted to U.S. dollars before getting charged to my credit card. Maybe I always bought more than I remembered, but I have some doubts as to whether or not the currency conversion took place.
However, there is a Lush shop in the D_C area, so I've been able to stop by whenever I can find a parking spot in Ge0rget0wn. And I still think stuff is too pricey. I have reservations about paying $4.00 for a single purpose bath bomb. I feel a pang in my stomach when I fork over $22.50 for 17 ounces of my favorite shampoo from there. I know the ingredients are first rate and either safe synthetic or natural/organic, but in comparison to all of the other things I could by with the money (ink pads in gorgeous colors for $5, sterling silver wire, gemstone beads), I can never purchase without feeling bad because a part of me thinks it's too much money. Maybe I'm stingy, but that feeling ruins the purchase experience for me-and consequently it ends up not being so much fun.