1994.

For some reason unknown to me, I did not have internet access at my
apartment this weekend. It was like it was 15 years ago before I
googled and emailed as reflexively as I breathe. Actually, it was
worse than 1994 as the technology of the day -- dial-up -- is not an
option when you do not have a land line. I never realized just how
often I have the desire to google something or how much I like getting
sucked in by Wikipedia. And, worse, I'm woefully behind on my pop
culture updates. I did have my trusty blackberry but its just not the
same. I am actually looking forward to going to work tomorrow morning
so I can get my internet fix (and make a binder) before heading to the
airport.

Commandment.

The fifth commandment is "Honor your. . . mother." (I had to look that up. And, yes, I know it says honor your father too -- and I do! -- but it doesn't help my story. I probably could only guess 60-70% of the commandments and definitely do not know their order. Years of Sunday school for naught.)

Mama said cash the check and buy lottery tickets. I take direction well: check cashed, lottery tickets purchased! Add to that the fifth commandment and I think this all adds up to the potential of divine intervention. A similar point was made to me by a friend of mine whose last name is, in fact, Devine. Coincidence? I hope not.

I'm prepared to become a MegaMillionaire tonight and share the wealth with my honorable mother (and father)!

Let Me Count The Ways.

My mom sent me one of the best cards I've received in a long time. She told me that she owed me some money and was going to mail it. It was only a small amount so I told her not to bother, that she could buy me dinner or something next time I saw her. But she was adamant. Best card because:

1) It was a funny card. It read: "Everything is fine, all I have to do is win the lottery." Funny because its true. I really do consider the lottery my retirement plan and I keep on applying for the open Next Megamillionaire position. Can't win if you don't play;

2) Her note directed me to cash the check and use it to buy lottery tickets. MegaMillions is over $300 million for tomorrow's drawing. Mama knows best. I'm buying lottery tickets tomorrow; and,

3) She included a little blast from my past. A newspaper article with a picture of my 13 year-old self at swim practice. Synchronized swimming practice.

Marketwatch.

I'm in a personal recession. That's what I like to call it when I am in a rut and just feel "eh" about everything. Sometimes, its everything. Sometimes its social and I just want to hermit in my apartment. In this case, my recession is limited to work only. My work life is primarily just one case and I feel like I am doing the same thing over and over again. Its not a depression, thankfully. And, even more importantly, I'm not at all depressed (see e.g., all other posts about fun stuff). With a recession, I just hope for a quick market correction and be done with it. Although given the actual market and economy, I am thankful to have a job and hope that my personal recession does not last as long as the actual one.

For the past two weeks, I've been commiserating at lunch with a friend, and former co-worker, with whom I've been eating lunch with five years now. We both are suffering from the same repeating career thoughts. Today, we went to lunch with our favorite recruiter, who actually placed him in his current job. I was hoping for some good news about the state of the market and how people are starting to hire again in my field. I did not get it. I did hear some interesting news that makes me want to stay tuned though. We will see how long this bit of interest keeps me engaged but its better than nothing.

Glam!

Macy's Glamorama was last night. Its where "fashion and music come together." Six designers showcased their fall lines (not fashion week because that would be Spring clothes. However, Friday's high was about 70 so fall clothing was perfectly appropriate.) One of my friends is essentially in charge of it. Missy Piggy was part of the talent along with Ne-Yo. They both had their pictures taken with the Pig. For those who don't know, Ne-Yo, while a very talented songwriter and singer, is a pocket person.

The show was super-fun. The after-party even more so. What's not to love about bars everywhere, various themed snack-stations , and dancing? Okay, the not-to-love is annoying photographers who somehow got media passes but are acknowledged to be nuts by those who know. Overall, a great time.

This morning I met a few friends at a near-by farmers' market. I left with the most unusual sunburn I've ever had. Thankfully, it will not show in any of my work clothes. I also went to pick up my order from the sparkling wine tasting. Would you believe that despite my lasting love for prosecco and all things bubbly, I did not own a single flute? I remedied that situation and immediately put a bottle or two in to chill . . . and drink. Prosecco plus True Blood dvds (no HBO here) = a lovely afternoon/evening. Maybe a tad pathetic but not at all un-enjoyed.

D is for Disappointed.

Today was D-Day. As I mentioned yesterday, I named it such because it was doctor day. Now that D-Day is gone, I know that the D actually stands for disappointed, not doctor.

The day started well, or at least per plan. All week, I've been walking a fine line between demonstrating how bad my knees are and not being in the worst pain of my life. The plan worked out pretty well, especially thanks to the thunderstorm awakening. Prior to seeing the doctor, I got my peds cured as I didn't want the doctor to have to suffer my deteriorated pedicure. It was the fastest pedicure of my life. I suspect that the quality is not so high.

After navigating the under-construction parking lot, hectic building and initial x-rays, I finally was brought to the exam room. After demonstrating my knee pop roughly 20 times per knee to a med student, a resident, a fellow and two doctors, it was determined that I have unusually loose kneecaps. They are the culprits, not a ligament or tendon as I thought. And, now, I get to wear some oh-so-attractive knee braces for at least a month to see if that will help. At best it looks like I'm wearing leggings, at worst, knee pads. In fact, I had a woman ask me if they were making me do a lot of work on my knees. I'm sure she meant that in the best way possible. Failing the success of the braces, its a rather painful sounding surgery (involving cutting my shin bone) to re-align my knee caps.

On the plus side, I got to drown my disappointment at a sparkling wine tasting with the girls. We tasted prosecco, cava, some Tasmanian sparkling, an Austrian, a French and finished with rose. As it turns out, my heart and liver still belongs to prosecco.

Baby Steps.

I got a text last night from my landlord that informed me that they had poured concrete for the sidewalk in front of my door during the break in rain this week. He also mentioned that he hoped I wasn't wearing heels when I got hme . . . but it would probably be okay to walk on either way. I was wearing flippers so all was fine. Its amazing what a difference a sidewalk makes.

AND, the ability to park in a garage agagin. (Yes, I could take public transportation and for the first 4.5 years that I lived in Chicago, I did. I (a) thought the train was fun (still do despite the occasional overcrowding, questionable hygiene, and other less savory aspects of the El) and (b) felt like I had something to prove about living in a city with great public transportation to lessen my yuppie guilt. Despite the strength of (a) and (b), the reality of having rheumatoid arthritis and its resulting jerky, painful knees means that walking up and down the stairs to the El is sometimes mentally overwhelming and as a member of the Trump gym, I can park in its oh-so-convenient, across-the-street parking garage for roughly $6 per day -- OR, $1.50 more than taking the train both ways. Done and done.

Speaking of jerky knees, I haven't been in this much consistent pain since I was first diagnosed but not yet on medicated some four years ago. It simply cannot be all that modern medicine has to offer that both of my knees pop if fully straightened. Cute at first, really painful after awhile, especially walking down stairs. As a result, I recently decided enough was enough and made an appointment with a surgeon. And, tomorrow is Doctor Day (D-Day). I'm so excited. I hope my own personal D-Day results in an invasion of the work coast, that is to say, short term medical leave while I get surgered.

Specialty.

I recently read that Mastering the Art of French Cooking is enjoying a resurgence in popularity thanks to Julie & Julia. I haven't seen the movie yet -- although, I did read the book and Julia's My Life in Paris --nor have I mastered the art of French cooking.

Instead, I have mastered the art of single cooking. Which is to say that I don't. Its not that I can't cook. Anyone who can read can cook. (Mind you, I don't think that anyone who can cook can be a chef. That's taking it beyond the written recipe into the world of art and imagination.) I just don't think that I am worth the time and effort it takes to cook, from the ingredient purchasing to the pot cleaning afterwards. Its possible I would feel differently if I liked leftovers, but I don't like them at all. Not even leftover pizza.

Despite this, I do have four dishes I can make consistently well: peanut butter cookies, banana bread, rice krispie treats, and angel food cake. (Yes, all baking. Baking is better when you're single -- its much easier to leave some cookies in someone's office than it is to leave a chicken breast.) Sadly, only the latter takes any kind of skill at all to make. Despite their simplicity, the krispie treats tend to be a crowd-pleaser. I think the special ingredient is love -- I love to make them with their marshmellow gooey goodness.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWZXoGZijH4#watch-main-area

Covering the Bases.

Today was the day that I was to attend a baseball game without box seats. And, as it turns out, I can still enjoy a game anyway without the endless drinks, snacks and a dessert cart. The key is the company, as with most things. The party had two sets of tickets and I was sitting with two pf my friends, in a the set apart from the bride and bachelorette doings. Today's game was the first portion of the bachelorette party for one of my former co-workers. She is a huge Cubs fan so it was a fitting start. (I couldn't attend the remainder of the day/evening which continued the baseball theme with dinner and four bar stops at which she'd have to round the bases via shots: Irish kiss, buttery nipple, blow job and sex-on-the-beach. Very cute idea in my opinion.)

I'm not a baseball fan. I would rather watch almost any other sport than baseball. It is just too slow for me. However, what I enjoy most about attending a baseball game -- outside of the near-requirement to day-drink -- is that it is the only place that I eat hot dogs. They are too bad for you to eat without a really good reason. And, the reason is that they never taste better than in a ballpark on a sunny day.

One of the stereotypes about Cubs fans is that they don't pay attention to the game. In my very non-scientific opinion from attending a grand total of two games, this stereotype is for a reason. I think that my friend and I paid more attention than the average Cubs fan, in no small part because we were concerned we were going to be brained by all of the foul balls coming our way. Add to the general lack of attention -- I mean, it really is a nice atmosphere to sit, talk and drink -- that today was the first day of the Air and Water Show, and I'm pretty sure that almost no one was watching the game. Guys standing in grass just cannot compete with F-16s doing fly-bys.

Between the Air and Water Show, Cubs game and just generally nice weather, the city was a zoo today. Thankfully, my evening plans were quiet. My friend's parents were in town and homecooked us all (a total of 8) dinner. It was tasty and a delightful evening.

Good Enough for Government Work.

Some months ago, there was a problem with the water in my building that required the city to dig under part of the sidewalk to reach the water main (or something). The sidewalk remained broken around that area -- covered in sand -- until recently. The rest of the sidewalk around my building was no prize either. In fact, I'd say it was an outright liability and accident waiting to happen.

Apparently, the city agreed with me. In July, they posted signs restricting parking, including access to the garage in which I have a space, for two weeks. During that period, nothing happened -- except me getting two parking tickets as I don't have a permit to park in my own neighborhood (because I don't park on the street). Needless to say, I was not pleased.

In early August, the city re-posted signs restricting parking once again, but this time for three weeks. But this time, they did something -- they completely tore out the sidewalks on Monday surrounding my building and garage. I am now actually even less pleased. For the entire week, there has been no path to enter my apartment that did not involve unstable dirt and rocks. On Wednesday morning, I stepped out my front door, down the much longer step to the ground (amazing what a difference a sidewalk makes in terms of height), and immediately twisted my ankle, falling onto the dirt and rocks. Not an auspicious start to the day. It made me mad enough that I actually wrote my alder(wo)man. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I have not received any response, not even an acknowledgement, of my complaint. Which, was nicely phrased, I promise.

As of tonight, concrete has been poured in front of the garage but we are not allowed to drive on it for the three days. (Not helpful, especially as this weekend is Air and Water Show weekend which means that my neighborhood will be overrun and street parking will be nearly impossible. Guess who isn't driving this weekend as I did manage to find a spot tonight?) And, I still have to take one giant leap for mankind to get out the door.

Good enough for government work, right? Baby steps.

Dutiful.

For years, I've wanted to serve on a jury. It could be professional curiosity. It could be that when I was a kid, my dad served on a jury for a case involving nunchucks. But, so few lawyers ever get seated. I know I wouldn't affirmatiely pick a lawyer as one of my jurors. (Oddly, the one exception that comes to mind is a senior partner, chair of his department, being picked to serve on a rape case recently. There was no doubt he would be foreman, especially after he requested a side bar with a judge. I don't know how that didn't result in an automatic mistrial but it didn't.)

So, I was excited to receive my jury duty notice. Less excited to see that it was all the way up in Skokie at 9:00 am. Nonetheless, I was looking forward to a legitimate reason to be out of the office, relatively inaccessible, and the opportunity to do my civic duty. For the first half an hour or so, I found the process interesting and instructive. Particularly, the video they show. Like how a bill becomes a law, but how a citizen becomes a juror and less cartoon-y and song-filled. But, after that, the waiting, lack of information, and boredom set in. I had a pro bono criminal case in Skokie recently so I was able to figure out that the trial was a criminal trial and we were waiting out the regular morning call. I knew that the morning call should be done by 11. But as it approached noon, not a single person had been called in for questioning and possible service. Right around noon, they informed us we were dismissed -- the defendant had called an audible and opted for a bench trial.

Overall, not a bad morning -- and I have a check for $17 to show for it.

Hostress.

Last night was an interim party for a large case that I've been working on since February. Probably because I was the only one who cared enough, I planned the party (even though I was the third choice to do so). The party was at my favorite bar near work, Theory. We bought the place out for three hours, with an open bar and a great selection of delicious snacks. Objectively, I knew that no one would have any complaints. Why would they? Free food and drinks not two blocks from the office. Only the laziest ingrate would complain about that.

I know I'm not alone in this, but I suffer from hostress, or host anxiety. A few weeks ago, my friends and I hosted a luau. And, not just any luau. We went whole hog. Literally. It was catered to include the pig-on-a-spit ("Wilbur"), there was a bartender serving our signature drink in actual coconut cups with an umbrella, our friend did a surprise fire-spinning performance, and we had hawaiian dancers who taught our guests to hula. The rationale part of my mind knew that people could not not-like it. Nonetheless, in the hours before (note: you don't need to gather particularly early when the party is catered because there is nothing for you to do but sit, worry, and drink) my hostress set in.Thankfully, the sure cure for hostress is alcohol --unsurprisingly, my weapon of choice is prosecco. And, a good time was had by all. Mind you, I know for a fact that some of my guests (at both parties) don't remember all of the good times they had, but they are sure they had a good time.

Cheers!

Life After Lawyer?

I recently celebrated five years since I completed the bar exam. I marked the date by being called into a meeting with several of the most senior partners in my firm to take notes, despite the fact that our firm employs at least 100 actual secretaries. Between that and my recent specialization in chart-making and exhibit preparation, I'm really seeing the value of my law school education lately.

Tonight, one of my favorite restaurants (Province) had an event with the Chicago Fashion Foundation (CFF), showcasing the work of a new designer while the restaurant provided delicious appetizers and a signature cocktail. (Unfortunately, it did not involve prosecco but I guarantee that a little bit of bubbly would have added that extra lil bit of something.) I attended with the girls where we met the designer, who won a scholarship from the CFF two years ago. As it turns out, she is a reformed lawyer, who used to practice personal injury law -- which makes why she left the law entirely understandable, at least to me. She is also married to a lawyer going through rehab -- he took the last few months off being a lawyer to support his wife and get her business of the ground -- who doesn't think he'll be returning to the bottle, I mean, the practice of law.

Maybe its just that time in our careers, but lately a lot of my classmates have played the, "If I weren't a lawyer, I'd be _____" game. For some people, its "an entrepreneur," some its
"a hair stylist." And, not an insignificant number have made the game reality. Whenever I play the game, my immediate reaction is: "broke." Especially as most of the things I would like to do -- which use the same basic skills as being a lawyer -- just do not pay. And, despite my complaints, I do like being a lawyer, when I get to be one. I'll never fill in that blank with "a note-taker."

In the meantime, my fallback job is going to be MegaMillionaire -- you gotta get in it to win it, you know. Thankfully, I bought my ticket today. (And, will again on Friday!)

Swagga.

The names I call my knees are not friendly. Because we are not friends these days. And, yes, I do actually yell at them. I figure if I say it out loud, maybe just maybe, they might decide to listen. It can't hurt, at least not anymore than they already do. I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis over four years ago and have been on pretty effective medication for the last four years. I really look forward to shooting up, as I like to say, when its time for my weekly dose. Lately though, it hasn't been doing the trick. In fact, lately, I'm walking like I was before I was treated. Old Righty won't straighten, Old Lefty doesn't like to bend. Luckily, I have an appointment with a surgeon in 10 days. Doctor Day (my own personal D-Day) can't come soon enough.

But in the meantime, the important question is, what's my theme song:

(A) LMFAO, I'm In Miami Bitch: "I walk with a limp like an old school pimp, a real O.G."

OR

(B) Jay-Z, T.I., Lil Wayne, Kanye, Swagga Like Us: "No one on the corner got swagga like us . . .But I can't teach you my swag, You can pay for school but you can't buy class."

Princexcess.

I have occasionally -- jokingly -- called myself a princess. I think others have repeated it -- without the joke. Its true that I only go to baseball games when I can sit in a box.* But, since baseball is one of my least favorite sports to watch, why would I want to buy a ticket, sit in the sunburn-causing sun, wait in line for watered down drinks, for what is without-fail, an 11 inning game? I cannot think of a single good reason to do that. But, throw in free drinks, shade, sometimes air-conditioning, and nice spread of hot dogs, popcorn, and other deliciously bad food, and I'm in.

But, recently, I realized that I've slowly ceded the chore part of my life to professionals. I no longer clean my house (I tidy instead) and I have a trainer. Hell, my gym presses my suits, shines my shoes, and does my laundry for me so I never have to take home sweaty clothes.

Today, though, may have put me over the top. I met Missy for an incredibly delicious lunch at NoMi which is a superb lunch spot, with its nice view, very calm atmosphere and tasty food. We split a calamari salad (except that I made her eat the calamaris that look like what they are -- those creep me out) and spicy tuna roll and had two glasses of bubbly. (Note: I was not joking in my initial post about the bubbly.) And, then, we had an appointment with our shopper. For a person like me who doesn't like to shop, its the ideal way to shop. The shopper pulled all of the things she thought I'd like, I was given a bottle of water, and had a nice little room to try on my potential purchases.

I was this close to being a lady who lunched, a real little princess. Except for that pesky job part. After a quick Berry Chill stop, it was time for both of us to go back to work.

*Unfortunately, it appears I'm going to have to make an exception to this rule soon due to an upcoming bachelorette party that involves a Cubs game, no box. Sigh. The things we must do.

**Coincidentally, when I bother to wear perfume, this is what I wear -- and I swear, I didn't know its name when I was given the sampler, from which I selected it:

A Mid-Summer's Night Malaise.

To paraphrase, "[n]ow is the summer of my discontent." In part, I blame summer itself. Mostly for not showing up. July 2009 was the coldest on record in 119 years or something similiarly crazy. The average temperature was 69.4. This statistic is depressing in a couple ways: (1) that's not warm; and, (2) it implies that even a month has a better love life than me.

Anyway, the real problem this summer is that I'm suffering from a serious bout of malaise. Every day is the same. I work essentially everyday for at least some portion of the day, doing essentially the same thing. Add to that, my body is being so rheud lately. (Something is not right when the knees pop every time you fully bend or straighten them. The names I call my knees lately . . . you'd think I was a sailor.)

The problem with admitting to some amount of discontent is that it immediately triggers a corresponding amount of yuppie guilt. With the exception of some misbehaving joints and work boredom, my life, to understate it, does not suck. I am lucky to have a job that pays me well -- despite my complaints, its not like I'm a volunteer, they do pay me. I have a great group of friends who are always suggesting fun things to do, and more importantly, doing them.

Related tangent: This summer, a few of us had a great plan of not letting work force us to miss summer yet again. No, this time, we were going to take advantage of the one nice season in Chicago and do all sorts of fun things. Kayaking on the Chicago river was the first suggestion. I guess I should have seen it as an omen when kayaking initially got cancelled due to chilly and rainy weather and took three weeks to re-schedule that our great plan was not going to work according to plan. We talked about taking water taxis to Chinatown for dim sum, going to SushiSamba's $12/2 mimosa brunch and going to play miniature golf in Millenium Park, going on a Segway tour, etc etc. So far, all we've got on the calendar is the Segway tour and everyone was too busy to actually schedule until late September, when it will officially be fall.

Nonetheless, I'm hopeful that the malaise will break. Maybe if summer decides to make an appearance, it will bring with it a break from the montony. I'm hopeful -- the high this weekend is going to be the warmest in six weeks and definitely summery. And, there is at least one great summer-in-the-Chi events coming up with the Air and Water show scheduled for next weekend.

Un-wine-ing.

Sign #2,133 that you're grown:

You actually want and look forward to meeting your friends' parents. In fact, some of them, you'd meet for a drink even if their child (your friend) wasn't free to join you. Now, of course, this assumes that your friends like their parents.

Recently, I realized that most of my friends' parents are just like mine. Despite the statistics that you hear all the time, of the say five or six people that I think of as my closest friends, all but one has parents that have been married over 30 years. We are all undoubtedly unusual and lucky in that regard. And, as a side note, maybe too idealized -- its hard to settle for a starter marriage when you have ongoing evidence that marriage can last if you're willing to put in the effort. While not perfect in their relationship to each other or me, I love my parents, enjoy hanging out with them, and wish I got to spend time with them more often. Instead, I just call them enough that they frequently tell me that nothing has happened.

Wild and crazy girl that I am, this Friday night, I met my friend and her mother for a glass of wine. And, I couldn't ask for a better way to spend the evening. Lately, I've been a social-light (attending the same events as actual socialites but never making the cut for the pictures or doing the step-and-repeat). A couple of my friends are television personalities and involved in the fashion industry. They attend events with the "fabulous" crowd probably four nights a week. (Oddly, it seems to me that the fabulous people have their events on the weekdays much more than the weekends. Either they save the weekends for the truly fabulous events or reserve that time for their actual friends and family. I can't tell and suspect I will never know the answer.) Occasionlly, they invite us to attend these events with them. Being a social-light is super-fun, but also super-tiring when you have a more-than-full time job. So, hanging out with my friend and her wonderful mom, was the perfect way to end a week.

Initially ironic.

One of the main reasons I have not blogged before now is the same reason I hate Evite: the pressure to be witty. I couldn't get past the initial step of naming the blog. Coming up with a name that is fun, funny and reflective of me or what I anticipate this blog's purpose to be was a not-insignificant obstacle. Everytime I came up with a title that even vaguely fit any of those criterion, I was reminded of that fact that there are so many funny people out there who already had claimed that name.


So, I settled on Bit of Bubbly. The reasons are threefold:


1) I love prosecco and its French cousin champagne. Some people believe that the bubbly is to be saved to celebrate something significant. I am not one of those people. I think the bubbly is always appropriate. It makes a great day drink -- light and easily mixable into the morning mimosa. If you're having a bad day, bubbles make it better. And, of course, if you want to celebrate anything, including just making it to drinks, its ideal.

As an added bonus, prosecco comes in adorable little splits. Sold.



2) This blog is highly unlikely to address anything deep. I'm not a girl who carries around a soapbox to spout out my political or religious opinions. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of opinions. Mostly though, I suspect this will be just little thought bubbles. If something is bothering me, I always sleep better once I've gotten it out of my mind by putting it on paper, or in this case, my paper proxy.





And,


3) Of the many adjectives that may apply to me, bubbly likely would not make anyone's top 25 list. This includes when I was a cheerleader in high school. The bubbliest of high school castes and I still don't think anyone would have thought I fit the personality type (or body type but that's irrelevant).