Anyhow, I’ve been running around doing the fun prep-work, such as making sure people have underpants and loading up on Target wine cubes (they load well, come on).  And of course, no vacation prep would be complete without the hell that is trying to find a swim suit that covers all the bits that no one needs to see.  My problem is that because I am still breastfeeding, my top half is about 5 sizes bigger than my bottom half.  The one swimsuit that “fit” made my bewbs look like they were 4 seconds away from letting in the plumber and the pizza delivery guy.  Not an appropriate look for a family vacation.  But I eventually found a two-piece that contained everything, covered much, and didn’t require contortions with Nads.  So yay.

And then there was the hard stuff…

Our wonderful first-born, Rusty Debris (RD), is one of those kids.  You know, the kind that do the Sexy T-Rexy dance to the beat of their own drum.  The very bright but socially awkward kind who has something very special that makes everyone just want to throw their arms around him and keep him, well, him.  He’s had problems in school off and on, but they took a major dive for the worse once he started middle school.  All of a sudden the As and Bs turned to Cs.  His locker, backpack, room, pants pockets, and world became filled with crumpled assignments he couldn’t remember to turn in.  He would lose his tests between his desk and the teacher.  And during this time he took the ACT (yes, as a 12 year old; it’s through the Duke TIPS program) and seriously?  His scores could get him into college right now.  But he needs to get through 7th grade first.

So we all pulled on our big-girl pants and got to work.  We told him that if he didn’t bring all the Cs up, he would lose his computer and DS until there were no more Cs.  He didn’t.  And despite much wailing and gnashing of teeth, we stuck to the big guns.  Yes, we know he is bored.  Yes, we know he has spatial issues that make organization difficult.  But the bottom line is that he is going to have to be able to function in the real world, which means he HAS to be able to kind of get his shit together.  At least until he gets a helper monkey or builds a robot-butler or Lego Girlfriend.

The hammer came down.  And it sucked.  At one point, he and I had a “discussion” about the whole thing.  I say “discussion” because after a gentle spiel from me about how we loved him and knew he could do it and how awesome he was, he looked at me and said “You have really big bags under your eyes.”  Seriously.

So yeah, it sucked.  But it also worked.  He now understands that there are consequences that no amount of tears, anger, and complexion-based jabs can ameliorate.  After eight LONG weeks, he got all of his grades up.  I am so proud, exhausted, and happy for him.

Mama don't raise no athletes.

One other kinda big thing that came out of this ordeal is that we (i.e., me, Cee Rock, and RD) decided that we would pull RD out of school and homeschool him, starting this summer.  Yes.  Huge, I know.  I will write more on this once the whole concept settles into my brain.

Until then, I’m heading to the beach, where I plan to spend 190 solid hours in a hot tub, hooked up to a margarita IV.  I will be somewhat less poorly rested and equally pale upon return.

Magic Animal

Yeah, I thought about the title for a long time.  I came to the conclusion that the world needed another pork/bbq themed pun about as much as Hoda and Kathie Lee need another drink.  Anyhoodle…

I was a vegetarian for a very long time.  Before that, I was fed a steady diet of tinned meat — Spam, corned beef & hash, deviled ham, beef soup.  You get the picture.  Mom jammed econo.  Our “fancy” Friday night dinner was cube steak and mashed potatoes with brown gravy (from a packet, of course).  No wonder it was so easy for me to give up meat. I had never really met good meat.  In fact, I was actually in my 20s before I had a real steak.

As I became more interested in the making of food, I eventually gave up my vegetarian ways.  However tasty the meat is, I will be forever grateful for my vegetarian years because I learned so many valuable things — like the importance of balance, flavor, and color. Or that a meal doesn’t need meat.  And that it really matters where our food comes from and how it was grown or raised, both for humane reasons and for taste.

I quickly learned that if you get good meat from a good source, cooking with meat is just so much damn fun.  And eating it?  Well, after gorging myself on every animal under the sun during the infamous Summer of Meat, I settled back down into a balance of meat and no-meat meals.

Now that I have a family of 5 and have inherited my mother’s ability to jam econo, I am interested not just in what makes a good meal, but what will also make good leftovers.   I have developed a special fondness for “economy” cuts — I have an awesome idea for a food show called “Bottoms Up!” wherein I get drunk while making tasty things from cheap cuts of meat.

Someday…

While I have gotten pretty decent at making things that people are willing to eat, I had never made actual pulled pork BBQ before.  Sure, I’ve made roasts and fall-apart 5 Spice Pork and all sorts of things that are close to being pulled pork BBQ.  But actual pulled pork BBQ?  It just seemed like hubris to me.  But after I was inspired by the lovely Iris’s post, I decided ‘what the hell’?

Let’s DO this thing.

Ruby’s Pulled Pork BBQ

• 4 lb pork butt (heh)
• coarse salt (I use kosher)
• cracked pepper
• ground chipotle pepper
• cooking oil
• 1 bottle (16 oz) of mexican coca-cola
• tamari (or soy sauce or worchestershire)
• hoisin (optional)

Let the pork get to room temperature.  Cut it into 8 even chunks.  Mix a couple tablespoon of salt with a teaspoon or so of chipotle powder and as much pepper as you want.  “Rub” the chunks of meat with the salt mixtures until are sides are coated.

Preheat oven to 300°.

In a big, deep, oven-proof skillet (I always use a dutch oven), heat oil ‘til it shimmers.  Sear the meat in two batches, making sure to brown on all sides.  Remove from heat, take meat from skillet and set aside.

Pour coke and sauces into skillet and stir ‘til combined.  Return meat to skillet.  If the coke does not come up at least halfway on the meat, add more coke.  Or water.  Or beer.  Just do not cover the meat with liquid.

Pork en Coke

 Put dish in oven and reduce heat to 275°.  Let pork cook for approximately 2 hours. But check it every 45 minutes or so. Because seriously? It could be ready in one hour; it could be ready in 4.  It depends on how much fat your roast has (more is better) and how thick your chunks are and other technical stuff like oven calibration and magic. At any rate, you will know it is ready when the fat is almost totally rendered down and the meat falls apart.

Smack it up, flip it, rub it down... Oh boy.

At this point, eat it however you want.  I like it pulled, on half a bun, sauced up, and piled with slaw.  My darling and talented husband made this kick-ass mustard sauce; hopefully he will leave a quick how-to in the comments.

Porky Goodness

Me.

I’ve been a card-carrying member of the Migraineur Society for almost 16 years now.  I can still remember how the first migraine felt — I actually thought I was dying.  I couldn’t see, I kept smelling weird, bright, burning smells, I couldn’t stop vomiting, and my head felt like, well, like this:

Should have gotten an epidural...

I called my mother, who came and got me, tucked me in bed in a pitch black room, and hugged me while I sobbed uncontrollably that I was DYYYYYIIIIIIINNNGGG.  She also correctly identified this as a migraine and not, as I had feared, some sort of surprise head-birth/inevitable death thing.

At that point, I *finally* understood the difference between a headache and a migraine, and why migraine people got so grumpy when you used the two terms interchangeably.  It’s kind of like saying you totally know what it would be like to lose an arm to a shark because you lost a toenail to fungus that one time.

Anyhow, happily that first migraine only lasted about 11 hours.  And, even more thankfully, it still firmly holds the record for Worst Migraine I Have Ever Personally Suffered.  Unfortunately, since that night I have enjoyed approximately eleventy-billion migraines.  And while I could gripe and moan about how much they suck, I will instead talk about why they rock.

Yes.  You read that correctly.  There are upsides to migraines that make them almost worth the suck-fest.  First, the fact that you are part of a pretty cool sub-group of humans – a group that includes Hildegard von Bingen, Thomas Jefferson, Lewis Carroll, Friedrich Nietzsche, Virginia Woolfe, Elvis Presley, Sigmund Freud, Loretta Lynn, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

A second “gift” is one best exemplified by fellow migraineurs Vincent Van Gogh and George Seurat; specifically the pleasure of scintillating scotomata or the “Seurat Effect.”  Or, as I think of it, the kaleidoscope eyes.  Sometimes it just causes me to experience color very intensely — so intensely I can taste and smell it.  It often starts with a little glitter spot that grows into a full-on “aura,” where I see everything as if through a kaleidoscope.  It is really freaky.  And, on occasion, dangerous as it usually creates giant blind spots, where my brain fills in sparkly pretty nothing instead of registering, say, an oncoming vehicle.

But, danger aside, I actually very much enjoy this aspect of migraines.  I like the way life looks through my migraine.  I have a bit of mild synesthia, so color has always been very important to me.  And I am obsessed with pattern.  But, to my eternal dismay, I have never had any ability to draw or paint objects (I can paint the hell out of a wall, but cannot render any object realistically or artistically).

So I was absolutely delighted to discover the Percolator app, which I like to use in conjunction with my second husband, the Hipstamatic.  Finally I can make things look like they do in my imagination and my kaleidoscope eyes.  I’ve started keeping a Tumblr blog of the pictures (check out my Tumblr), but I thought I’d share just a few of my favorite migraine-O-vision pictures here.

My favorite cookie jar:

Hoot.

 

My lunch:

Egg Salad.

 

Confused daffodil:

Harbinger.

Red Onions.

'Til Death Do Us Party

Okay, since my last many posts have been serious downers, I thought I’d write about something positive.  And since the Day of Hearts and Yummy and SexyStuff is fast approaching, I thought I’d write about the person who brings all these things to my life and, coincidentally, asked me to marry him on that Day of Days five years ago.  After I clued up and realized what he was asking, I said “yes.”

Anyhow, here is the Tale of How We Kinda Met Several Times and Eventually Started Dating…

{cue swelling harps…}

It was seven or so years ago.  I was a single mom and solo parent for over five years.  By the time I moved to the Grand Ol’ South, I had been on exactly one-half of a date in all that time.  I say “one-half,” because I didn’t realize it was a date until the very end, when my son’s pediatrician leaned over with the kissy-face.  Yes, that was exactly as awkward as you might imagine.  And as I leapt out of the car and rushed inside to my insurance handbook to look for a new pediatrician, I realized that I had just been on a date — or, more accurately, Dr. Kissyface had been on a date.  Not me.  So yeah.  One-half.

Anyhow, I had moved to the South and, odd shoe that I was, was immediately barraged with well-meaning attempts to mate me up.  One fateful eve — the day before my birthday, actually, I finally agreed to go out with some fellow lady-lawyers.  Two true and funny things about this:  first, this was the first time I had ever left my son with a sitter to go out just for the sake of having fun.  He was FIVE.  Let that sink in for a minute…  And second, these three lady-lawyers whom I barely know would eventually become my three best friends; seven years later, we are closer than sisters.

So, my dear friend Daisy suggested we go to X club to see her favorite local band.  A couple of beers in and Daisy, SG, and Sunshine start asking me what kind of dude I was into.  In an effort to be polite while rendering the prospects of a set-up impossible, I pointed to the Dude rocking the guitar and said “that guy.”  Which, while true — because who isn’t into hipster-nerd guitar players who sing like they’ve made a deal with the devil and sport horn-rimmed glasses? — was not exactly something that would ever happen outside of a movie starring John Cusack. *ahem*

The funny thing?  About a month before I moved down here, my dad sent me a clipping from the local newspaper of an interview with some dude who worked at the local university by day and a philoso-rocker by night with an attached Post-It informing me that Dad had found “the perfect guy for [me]!”

Yep.  Same Dude.

And, as it turned out, Daisy actually knew the Dude.  So of course this became a “Cause” with the ladies.  We went to see his band a few more times over the next year; every time Daisy would see if I was willing to be introduced and every time I would flee the scene before such a thing could take place.

Fast forward almost a year.  I allowed my local barrista to engage in a little match-making with some random fellow.  No, this was NOT with the same Dude.  Random Fellow was one of those older, creepy, “take care of you” types who spent the ENTIRE lunch staring hungrily at my breasts.  Seriously — I’ve breastfed 3 kids and I KNOW what a hungry-for-boobie face looks like.  I was so irritated that my return to dating involved such a jackwagon.

So when Daisy called me to see if I wanted to go see the Dude’s band that weekend (one year and one day from the original sighting), I said yes.  I figured it would cheer me up.  Plus, it was my birthday.  But, as always, when Daisy tried to introduce us, I was unavailable.  But this time, the thought of an introduction stuck in my mind.  After thinking about it all weekend long, I asked Daisy if she wouldn’t mind “pimping me out,” so to speak.  I didn’t expect anything to happen — really, the Dude was probably group-dating a posse of skanks, but it was still a nice thing to dream about.

Imagine my surprise when a few days later the Dude emailed me.

We emailed back and forth for several weeks.  Eventually we had our first, real, big-girl Date.  It was a whirl-wind evening of Indian food, Indiana Jones, eggs over medium, and a late-night make out session.  In the parking lot of a lube joint.  In the rain.  Yeah.  That’s how you date, motherscratchers.

Both of us being older and encumbered with all sorts of baggage, we had a few minor near-misses.  Such as the imaginary pleated-front khakis.  And scary Lawyer Prom.  But really?  I think we both new from the beginning — maybe even the first email — that this was Something.

And now, 6 1/2 years, a marriage, an adoption, two births, a campaign, and god-knows-all-kinds-of-craziness later, we are still smoochy-woochily, make-you-ill, get-a-room, in love. Big L Love.

I never wanted to get married.  I never thought I had a soulmate.  I never believed in a thing called love.  Until I met my Dude.  I can’t imagine life without him — I can’t imagine me without him.  He keeps me sane, calm, safe, inspired, excited, content, hopeful, creative, aroused, comforted, amused, intrigued, and happy.  He keeps me loved.

And because I believe in him, I believe in Love.

]]> http://guitarpicksandapronstrings.com/2012/02/09/i-believe-in-a-thing-called-love/feed/ 5 http://guitarpicksandapronstrings.com/2012/02/05/should-you-go-to-law-school-part-three/ http://guitarpicksandapronstrings.com/2012/02/05/should-you-go-to-law-school-part-three/#comments Sun, 05 Feb 2012 15:21:41 +0000 ruby falls http://guitarpicksandapronstrings.com/?p=312

Sandwich: Not a Lawyer, Still Delicious

And now I shall regale you with the enchanting tale of my life as a solo attorney…

Practicing as a solo attorney is incredibly stressful and difficult, although at first it was exhilarating to be my own boss.  I set my own hours!  I didn’t have to put on a suit everyday!  I got to pick my own clients! And business cards! Wheeeee!!!!

That exhilaration quickly wore off.

To anyone considering doing this, I would strongly urge you to do as much research as you can before proceeding.  There are so many pitfalls.  The kind with ropes and trap doors and alligators and scorpions.  If the scope of your practice is too narrow, you can’t build a practice quickly.  If the scope of your practice is too broad, you will go crazy trying to keep all that book learning’ in yer brain meats.  Too much contingency work will tank you.  Clients will run you ragged and refuse to pay you.  Creepy old men will tell you to “wear something sexy” and insist you meet them at their house.*  FancyBigLawAttorneys will blow you off.  Established solos will “refer” shitwork to you. You will feel like you are ALWAYS WORKING ALL THE TIME yet the money barely trickles in.

*yes, this really happened.

One of the biggest mistakes I made was getting into ‘fee-splitting’ arrangements with other attorneys.  As a newly solo attorney, you are under an incredible amount of pressure to just get work, and so you feel compelled to take everything that comes your way, especially when your resources are limited.  So when another solo offers to split work with you, you jump at the chance. I got lucky and had one relationship with a well-established solo that was very fair and mutually beneficial.  He was incredibly kind and did much to make me feel better about lawyers in general.

Unfortunately I had another relationship with a different attorney that turned into an absolute nightmare.  He gave me work, but I only got paid if it eventually became a case that settled or won an award at trial.  And I did ALL of the work, so essentially he was just referring cases to me.  Except he would then take half of whatever meager settlement I got.  As if that weren’t bad enough, he involved me with a client with whom he had what I considered an inappropriate relationship.  And then ultimately refused to pay me my fair portion of settlement fees in accordance with our previous agreement.  So, giant pile of awesome right there.  Live and learn.

These are just some of the highlights — or lowlights, more precisely.  And all of this is on top of a six-figure student loan debt, which yes, is the norm these days.  Of course, if you are like me, you will have read this and still think that it will be different for you.  And again, I sincerely hope it is.  But you need to understand that the majority of lawyers are not like you.

I must also write that it wasn’t all bad.  I LOVED law school.  And I loved doing appellate work.  Basically I loved the work but didn’t much care for the profession.  And while I have talked about some of the ickier people I met along the way, I must point out that I have also met some absolutely amazing people as a result of law school and working as a professional lawyer.  In fact, my best friends and I used to all work at the same firm — that is how we met.

The key point in that sentence, however, is “used to.”  All of us were smart, hard-working, and, at least for two of us, dedicated “Company Men.”  None of us work there anymore.  None of us made partner, despite our hours, profitability, and dedication.  And none of us are technically practicing attorneys anymore.  One moved in-house, two moved into education.  This seems to be pretty much the way it goes for female attorneys.  Anecdotally speaking, out of all the female attorneys I know and keep up with (at least 30), I can count on ONE HAND the number of us that made partner in almost 10 years of work.  But then again, given the current economic client, even the white dudes aren’t making partner.

So…should you go to law school?  I can’t answer that.  But if you suspect that deep down in your parts you would really prefer to do something else, then for the love of Pete, do that something else.  Because whether its clown college or culinary school or opening a roadside origami stand, chances are high that it will be more soul-rewarding and less financially risky than going to law school.

Hot cocoa has never stressed me out.

In a perfect world, mothers with PPD wouldn’t have any other problems.  They would have a stable, happy relationship with their partner.  Their children would be healthy and happy.  Their job would be fulfilling and stress-free.  They would have a comfortable home and would not be living paycheck-to-paycheck.  They would not be drowning in debt.  They would be otherwise healthy, with excellent healthcare coverage and plenty of time and resources for self-care.  They would have a great support network of friends and family.  In short, they wouldn’t have any other unreasonably negative issues to deal with, other than those presented by life with PPD.

If only.

The truth of the matter is, I don’t know anyone who has the above-depicted fantasy life.  While I am very lucky to have much of what I have described above, I cannot say that PPD is the only problem facing me right now.  I am not here to complain about my life — do not get me wrong.  I love my life and am blessed with many lovely things and people.  But there are other things that must be factored in.  This is what I call “PPD Plus.”

In addition to the PPD, I also have an autoimmune situation and financial worries.  While we’ve managed to finally get to a place where we are able to narrowly live within our means, we are still far from having a fail-safe safety net.  The AOSD is still a major buzzkill, to say the least.  The stress of worrying that I will get stressed out and trigger a flare-up becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of fevers and joint pain.  But really, we’ve been dealing with these issues for several years now and have become fairly adept at managing them.  Because we *have* to — because they are part of our life and cannot be ignored.

Which brings me to my point.  Mothers with PPD Plus need to know know that there are some things that contribute to our stress that can be ignored.  Things that probably should be ignored.  The main issue, I think, is one of prioritizing and purging.  Trying to find a balance between the things we cannot control and the things that we can.  Take a look at your life and try to find the sources of your stress and anxiety.  Ask yourself, is this something that I really need in my life?  Do I really need this person/expense/activity/relationship or is it simply causing too much difficulty?  And if you think that you cannot excise this thing from your life, take a closer look.

If it is an activity, ask yourself if it is something that provides you with more than it costs (emotionally, time-wise, and financially).  Is it something or someone that you feel obligated to keep in your life?  Again, ask yourself why.  If it is something to which you have made a commitment, consider that asking for a sabbatical is totally reasonable.  If it is a person or a relationship, consider this:  people that truly love and care about you should not be causing you unnecessary stress.  If they love and support you, they will understand if you need a break.  If they don’t, then your choices are painfully simple:  deal with them or let them go.

Believe me when I write that I KNOW it is not that easy.  I’ve had my share of crazy bosses and other people and thought, for whatever reason, that I simply had to tolerate the petty, mean, bullying, passive-aggressive, batshitcrazy they brought to the table.  But when YOU are already suffering, the LAST thing you need is the added stress of having to deal with someone who simply brings nothing but negativity to your life.

Therapists will tell you that you effectively have two choices — “handle” the negative people or cut them out of your life.  Neither of which are easy — if it is someone who has made you miserable, the last thing you want to do is “handle” them just so they feel good — especially when they don’t bring anything positive to your life.  But sometimes this is a worthwhile endeavor.  In some cases, making the troublemaker feel safe and loved via “handling” enables them to love you (or what passes for their version of love), and you may find that this relationship can be mutually beneficial.  I think that this works best in situations where the other person doesn’t have any specific antipathy towards you, per se.  This doesn’t mean that they like you — they may not really like anyone.  I just mean that they haven’t “targeted” you.  If you suspect that the negative person may have a mental illness or personality disorder, you might find this site helpful for understanding the other person’s situation and some tips on how to protect yourself.

If, however, you are unwilling to “handle” someone and simply want them to leave you alone (which is totally understandable, especially when you are trying to deal with your own issues), you may need to cut them out of your life — at least until you are equipped to deal with them again.  Obviously I am not a mental health professional and what I am writing here reflects only my own opinions.  That said, I feel very strongly that negativity breeds negativity.  In other words, if you decide that you need to part ways with someone, for your own sake, you should do so in the least negative way possible.

This is NOT the time for a “noisy withdrawal.”  Exit the situation with as much grace and silence as possible.  Be clear and brief.  Do not engage in discussion or fights.  Do not respond to emails or texts.  And, though you may not want to read this, do not see this as the chance to tell your side of the story to the world.  We don’t exist in a vacuum and chances are that you will have mutual friends or family.  You will have to decide who needs to know about your decision to withdraw from a relationship and how much they need to know; I think generally the less information you provide to as few people as possible is best.  Don’t spread the negativity around; just let it go.

But as far as people who are not directly concerned by your decision go, do NOT involve them — if they ask why you are no longer talking to So&So, just say that you have grown apart or aren’t that close.  No, it isn’t fair that someone has lied about you, been inexcusably rude, or hurt you for no real reason.  And yes, we all need to vent our frustrations and anger.  But this is NOT the time to take your situation public and trash the other person — it doesn’t matter what they have said about you or done to you.  I know that the urge to tell the truth is strong in these situations, but honestly, the people that know and care about you already know the truth.  And people that are willing to believe nasty things about you?  Do you really need them in your life?  Probably not.  So exit with grace and silence.  I promise you that even though it may seem and probably is unfair, you will feel so much better if you just let the negativity go.

Dealing with other crap on top of PPD is a challenge.  Hopefully you won’t have to do this alone.  Hopefully you will be lucky enough to have the support of close friends and family.  Try to cut yourself some slack.  If you can get rid of a source of stress, do it.  If you can’t, reach out for help on how to deal with it.  Therapists are great, but if you aren’t lucky enough to have access to one, the interwebs are a treasure.  Not to mention, there are tons of anonymous places to vent your feelings (my comments section, for e.g.).  For me, Twitter has been an incredible place for help with and understanding PPD — just search for #ppdchat.  There are tons of lovely, supportive women on there.

PPD Plus can be handled.  It isn’t fun, but you aren’t alone.

xoxox – ruby

Kate Bush -- Not a Lawyer, Seems Perfectly Happy.

Yes, I am a lawyer.  Or at least I used to be.  I went to law school.  I loved law school.  I had wonderful professors and after a shaky first semester, I did quite well.  I met a fantastic group of like-minded, nerdy law geeks.  I was in law review and was elected to the Board.  I had my student comment published.  I ‘took the book’ in Conflicts and Feminist Legal Theory.  I graduated, received a J.D. and then completed a judicial clerkship with a tough but brilliant judge.

And then I became a lawyer.

Prior to graduation, I had dreams of being involved in public service.  But, as most students realize, the economic burden of student loans dictated that I seek employment with a private law firm.  I was lucky to get a job with a great mid-size firm in the area in which I was seeking to relocate; I was a single mother at the time and felt it best to move closer to my parents so that I would have a solid support system to help raise my then-five year old son.  The downsides were that I would be practicing in a limited area of law instead of the property work I had hoped to do and there was a burdensome commute.  Also, the firm had high billable hour requirements.  I would typically work until 5:30 so that I could make it home by 6:30, spend an hour or so with my son, and then work for several more hours from home.  Usually I got to bed around midnight and got up at 6:00.  I would also take my son into work with me on weekends when necessary.  It wasn’t the worst experience, and I met a lot of great people.  But it wasn’t what I had imagined life as a lawyer would be like.

During this time, I met the man who was the love of my life and would eventually become my husband.  My son was also diagnosed with PANDAS, a very strange and scary thing.  You can read about that here.  The balance between life and work became unmanageable and so I began looking for a position that would be easier on everyone.  I found a position with a smaller firm in my hometown that seemed to be a perfect fit.  They sold themselves as a “family-friendly” firm with no billable hour requirement and I was offered a dual-position on the business/property and employment sides, which was a dream.

Of course that was just what it was — a dream.  After a good first year, I unwittingly got on the bad side of one of the partners when I asked to be taken out of one of my practice areas.  At the time, the scope of my work was simply too broad and, in addition, I was the only attorney at the firm licensed in a neighboring state.  I simply had too much responsibility for a new lawyer and not enough mentoring.  Also, there was a culture of sexism and racism that I found simply untenable, although I kept this to myself at the time.

Shortly after I announced that I was pregnant, I received a 20% pay cut.  This was NOT something we could sustain.  This might come as a shock to some, but associates do not make that much money; in fact, i was making about the same as local public school teachers once benefits were taken into consideration.  The idea of “big money” only applies to associates at the most elite firms (i.e., NYC, D.C.) and partners, who made about 4 – 10 times what the associates made in my experiences.  The carrot in this is that if you take it all like a man for 5 – 7 years as an associate, you will reap the rewards when you are made partner.  IF you are made partner.  And these days, even the men aren’t making partner.

Anyhow, prior to the pay cut, I earned just a little more than my husband and things were already paycheck-to-paycheck.  And with a new baby coming, we simply couldn’t absorb that sort of a loss.  We would have to choose between therapy for our son and daycare; both of which we could not live without.  I at first believed that this punitive measure was simply an error.  In my opinion, the numbers didn’t warrant such a pay cut.  I wasn’t the lowest biller, though I was the only associate who received a pay cut, while all the others received raises.

I attempted to appeal the decision.  I was told that if I did certain things, after 3 months they would review the situation and reinstate my full pay.  I did everything that was asked.  I was very sick while pregnant but continued to work my ass off under the assumption that they would be fair.  At the review meeting, they said they would only give back half of what they had taken.  At this time, I also became aware that there had been a plan to get rid of me.  An actual *plan.*  With nasty emails, even. And I apparently wasn’t the first.  Or the last.

At any rate, I had to accept that they would not be fair and that they wanted me gone.

During this time, they also hired a male associate, fresh out of law school, who had not been admitted to practice yet in any jurisdiction.  I was licensed in three jurisdictions with 5 years of experience.  They were paying him $10,000.00 more than they were paying me.  He would go on to fail the bar exam.  And still remains employed there.  I assume he eventually passed the bar.

At any rate, I was hugely pregnant and had to work.  I couldn’t reasonably get another job, being both obviously pregnant and limited to our geographical area.  Therefore, I really had no other choice but to plan to go solo. In the meantime, I had to continue working there in a terrible environment through the duration of my difficult pregnancy and very brief maternity leave.  After I came back, I worked a short while more and then gave my notice.

And then I went solo…

The Return of TequilaGUN!

Short answer?  Probably not.

Unless you:

A.)  Are wealthy (or your parents are wealthy and have no problem with paying for everything), OR

B).  Somehow manage to get your entire law school tab paid for, including ALL living expenses, AND

C.)  Get into a top tier school (this means one of the Top 50 Law Schools), AND

D.)  Are committed to making it into the top third of your graduating class AND making either law review or moot court, AND

E.)  Enjoy stress and have no problem with working over 60 hours a week every week, AND

F.)  Understand that being a successful lawyer, for the overwhelming majority of lawyers, means having to accept unfairness, both in others and yourself, AND

G).  Also understand that Atticus Finch is a fictional character and you are not.  Most lawyers are driven by greed and ego; those who are not either work for people who are or are driven by their own needs to make money.  Yes, the prosecutors on Law and Order are awesome.  And yes, the judicial opinions you read in law school  are (mostly) written by erudite, thoughtful humans.  However, the chances of you being that kind of a lawyer are almost zero, regardless of your values and intents, because the profession is primarily about financial success (quantity) and has almost nothing to do with intellectual abilities, the quality of your work, or your personal beliefs.

Everyone tells themselves they are different and that the above doesn’t apply.  I did.  And I was wrong.  Of course there are always exceptions to the rule and I am sure that there are some attorneys out there who are both successful AND generally happy with their overall quality of life.  However, there don’t seem to be that many of them in private practice; at least, in my personal experience.

While I hope that it is different for you, you should realize that this is a very difficult profession and if you are not a white male, chances are you will have even more obstacles to overcome on the road to success.

I am going to share my story over the next couple of posts.  I hope it helps you or at least provides some real, non-cheerleadery insight into how things really work.  At any rate, I know it has helped me to write it all down.

]]> http://guitarpicksandapronstrings.com/2012/01/17/should-you-go-to-law-school-part-one/feed/ 8 http://guitarpicksandapronstrings.com/2011/12/22/every-moment-with-my-children-is-a-gift/ http://guitarpicksandapronstrings.com/2011/12/22/every-moment-with-my-children-is-a-gift/#comments Thu, 22 Dec 2011 19:16:07 +0000 ruby falls http://guitarpicksandapronstrings.com/?p=297  

Soooo…

A good while back, a friend of mine had the audacity to post a simple statement on Facebook about how she was tired of not being able to get the housework done until after midnight.  No whining, no complaining; just stating the fact that not being done with the day until hours past she wanted to go to bed was hard.

And, of course, IMMEDIATELY came the But-Children-Are-Angels-Sent-By-God Shame Brigade.  You see a lot of this kind of stuff on the interwebs:  mom complains, people pillory mom for complaining by insinuating she is a shitty mom.  In fact, “Momshaming” seems to be the favorite past-time of a large number of people with too much free time and even more passive aggression.

So anyhoodle, one woman posted that my friend shouldn’t complain because “Every moment with your children is a gift.”  Oh boy…

Seriously lady.  At no point was my friend “complaining” about anything.  She is an incredibly sweet person and dedicated mother of two young children and I have never seen her write anything negative about any aspect of her life.  And she certainly wasn’t complaining about the kids.  She was writing about TIME and not having enough of it to do everything that she needs to do for her family without taking away from her own very basic physical needs.  So, giant foam middle finger to you, Righteous Commenter, for bringing something totally unnecessary to the party.

But since you opened that door of worms, let’s just chat for a sec about this whole “every moment with your children is a gift” thing.

Now, I don’t know the woman who commented on my friend’s post.  So it may very well be that by ‘every moment is a gift’ she meant a very WIDE scope of gifts.

As in some moments are truly fucking spectacular gifts, like a giant panda robot or a Ferrari or a beachfront condo in Hawaii, while other moments are super sweet homemade gifts that you will treasure forever, like lopsided ashtrays, popsicle stick art, and glitter-covered hand-turkeys.  And then some moments are utilitarian gifts like oven mitts, socks, and bathrobes.  But a few of those moments are perplexingly awful gifts, like anthologies of fart jokes, candles that smell like a goat carcass decomposing in a vat of cinnamon-scented vapo-rub, or a sackful of 90s era happy meal toys and partially-eaten chicken nuggets.

If this is what she meant, then hell yes:  Every moment with my children is a gift.  But if, as I suspect, she meant that EVERY SINGLE MOMENT WITH YOUR CHILDREN FROM GESTATION TO YOUR DEATH AND POSSIBLY BEYOND is a sparkly pink sugar-coated blessed miracle to be treasured with every fiber of your being OR ELSE, then she needs to STFU.

My friend was simply admitting that her job is hard — and then what I presume is some sequined Justin Bieber sweatshirt-wearing, Look’s Who’s Talking Box Set-owning judgmental pearl-clutcher insinuates that “good” mothers enjoy every freaking moment, while those that ever dare to complain are horrible, selfish people.

Really, the LAST thing a sweet, exhausted mother needs is to be freaking MOMSHAMED by some “friend” on Facebook just for having the balls to admit that her job is hard.

Real friends don’t judge; they help.  A real friend would pay to have your lawn mowed so you don’t have to do it, or bring over an entire feast AND clean up, or come over and watch your kids so you can make an incredibly stressful phone call in peace, or buy you the double stroller you desperately need, or take off work and drive around with a screaming baby so you can take a shower in peace.  I could go on and on and on with examples like this because these are things that *my* friends have done for me [fist bumps to my Cosmic Sisters (Daisy Chain, Southern Girl, and Sunshine), Dr. Monkey, Jenn, Cee Rock, and all the rest of y'all].

Precious Gift #3

Because YES, every moment with my children is a gift.  Hell, every moment of life is a gift.  And I treasure it.  But I also treasure the friends who help me through the crappier “gifts” that life hands me.

So, next time you see some momshaming going down, feel free to jump in and say something that is actually productive.

Or knock the pearl-clutching Shame Brigade into a port-O-potty and roll ‘em down a rocky hill.

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