New Year's Resolutions

Every December, I make a long list of things I want.  This isn't a Christmas wishlist, but a several-page list of New Year's Resolutions.  The list is impossibly long, and some of the items on it are irreconcilable.  I want to travel the world, to keep a spotless home, to garden, to write, to save lots of money for retirement, to throw fabulous dinner parties, to read all the books, to be a better wife/sister/daughter/friend/lawyer/driver/pianist/baker/Scrabble-player.  I always want this to be the year I finally sew myself a designer wardrobe, become fluent in five languages, run a marathon, and put an end to all the injustice in the world.  And so I end up making a list with literally hundreds of resolutions.  Twelve months later, I've inevitably achieved at least some of them ("find a job," "make bread from scratch at least once," "don't end up in the emergency room") but nevertheless discover these accomplishments haven't changed me into that person (witty, fearless, intellectual, tireless, fun, gracious, healthy, talented, vibrant, extraordinary) that inspired me to make the resolutions in the first place.  At the end of the year, it turns out there are never enough hours in a day (nor, I suspect, in a century) for someone as unfocused and tired as me to transform life into perfection.  But, as Elder Holland said in our sacrament meeting a few days ago, that's ok... the point is to keep trying.

Between launching into my career, becoming a home owner, and adopting a dog and two cats, 2012 brought a lot of new responsibility, so I'm mostly just hoping I'm up for the challenge.  Here's to 2013.  Whether or not I end up traveling to a foreign country, kicking my 3-a-day bottled water habit, or making a cheesecake, hopefully twelve months from today I'm a better person than I am today and, more importantly, that there's at least a little bit more happiness in the world because of my efforts.

Given that one of my resolutions this year is not to kill anyone, I'd better wrap up this blog post before things get any more suffocatingly cheesy.  Happy New Year!

Confession:

I'm only one Team Jacob t-shirt and one Justin Beiber album away from middle school.

When I was thirteen, I essentially acted like an adult.  I watched movies like Citizen Kane, read Dickens and Vonnegut, and listened almost exclusively to classical music, with some classic rock occasionally mixed in.  At youth gatherings, I inevitably ended up in the corner talking to one of the adult leaders about Ibsen's feminism or something we had both read in the New York Times.  I didn't fit in well with the kids my age, and I didn't know how to relate to their obsessions with make up, boy bands, and middle school drama.

Now I'm twenty two, it's almost as if I'm making up for my lost adolescence.  Sure, I'm still a reasonably responsible individual, and I still probably wouldn't fit in well with a group of tweens (somehow I don't think they'd appreciate my fondness for words like "bucolic" and "effervescent" or want to discuss the pros and cons of legal positivism).  At the same time, however, my tastes have become remarkably juvenile.  From what I usually feel like watching (10 Things I Hate About You, Post Grad, Clueless) to what I usually feel like listening to (Glee, High School Musical, and Taylor Swift [sorry Britny!]), I ought to be fourteen years old.  I prefer Seventeen to Cosmo and Forever 21 to Banana Republic (although the latter is purely because, if I have $30 to spend on clothes, I'd rather get eight t-shirts and a headband than one camisole, especially if it might be made by child labor either way).  I worry about who I'm going to sit with at lunch, and I'm still mildly scandalized when I find out two of my classmates are sleeping together, even if they've been dating for months.  This week, to celebrate the mid-term break, I checked two books out of the library:  James Joyce's Dubliners (a collection of literary short stories) and Nancy Farmer's The Sea of Trolls (a young adult novel about an eleven year old who gets kidnapped by Vikings).  Guess which one I loved, and which one I found boring and may never finish.

P.S.  It turns out the secret to enjoying Notre Dame football games is to sit with one's friends, at least ten rows behind obnoxious sophomore boy and his sophomoric friends (who, more than halfway through the semester, still haven't managed to figure out that their assigned seats are not in the middle of the law student section).

The Case of the Missing Casebooks

As anyone who knows me well enough to read this blog probably knows, I love bookstores. In my perfect imaginary world, I would spend two or three nights a week curled up on an easy chair at Borders with cocoa and a new book (and somehow magically not feel guilty about exploiting a commercial establishment with my loitering, merchandise-using, freeloading ways). There is, however, one trip to the bookstore that I generally dread - the one that heralds in the beginning of each new semester. Spending seven hundred dollars on books is my idea of heaven, except when that seven hundred dollars only buys four dense casebooks and their statutory supplements on such enthralling matters as Partnerships, Corporations, and Other Business Associations.

This semester I was able to buy my Federal Tax Law casebook online (saving $70), because the professor kindly informed us of the ISBN for the required text over a week ago. I hadn't heard anything about the other books, though, and deciding that there weren't enough days left to order the books online and have them shipped in time to safely be able to complete my reading assignments before Monday's classes, I headed to the bookstore, warily armed with my credit card and expecting the worst.

I quickly located the section with the law school textbooks (the wall is very easy to spot - laden with hundreds of hard cover casebooks [all around 1500 pages and uniformly bound in impressive shades of blue, red, and black with gold lettering] a quiet shopper can hear those unlucky shelves moaning and lamenting their fate like the damned souls in the Divine Comedy). I began looking through the tags on the shelves, indicating the various classes: Not-For-Profit Organizations, Administrative Law, Federal Courts... After a few minutes, I came across paper-bound books with pictures on the cover and realized I was no longer in the right section. Concerned, I began retracing my steps, peering more carefully at each tag. As before, I did see the Federal Tax casebook on the shelf, but not a hint of any of my other five classes.

Finally defeated (with irrational fears going through my head that every class I had registered for this semester had mysteriously been cancelled) I approached a bookstore employee for help. Somewhat annoyed that I didn't have my course numbers with me, she led me over to a computer and began inputting my professors' names.

"Medieval Legal History?" she asked. "The professor informed us there were no books needed for the course." One by one she looked up all of my classes, and each time informed me the same thing "The system says there are no required texts."

A few hours later, I began to get emails with course syllabi, each one including a message from the instructor that there were no required texts and he (the pronoun evidences my university's gender issues, not mine...all my professors this semester are men) would be emailing us attachments containing our reading assignments each week. So even though it means less impressive-looking tomes to use in torturing my own bookshelf, I think I can live with buying some $2 binders and using my free printouts rather than having to spend money on casebooks. Now I just need to convince my husband that the $700 I had set aside for textbooks should still be spent at a bookstore, on a shopping trip with a more enjoyable purpose :)

Discover an Amazing Brownie Recipe? Check!

So ages ago, I posted a list of things I wanted to accomplish over Summer Break. Surprisingly, I did almost all of them - the Law Review writing competition, interviews, travelling, moving, reading, swimming. I failed at writing a novel (the three sentences I jotted down before realizing my plot premise was more than a little creepy* were definitely not sufficient to count), and my new apartment, while adorable, is generally less-than-clean. But for the most part, my summer was a success.

Except for the brownie recipe. I tried at least five different brownie recipes over the summer, but none of them were as good as the box kind. Except for the kind made out of a box mix, with some coconut and sweetened condensed milk thrown in (sweetened condensed milk has a magical way of making everything taste even better). When the summer ended, however, my quest did not. Rather, the cooler fall temperatures, along with the apple harvest and sales on pumpkin puree, pushed me into a baking frenzy. And then, last week, I found it - the brownie recipe I've been hunting for. They're quick and easy to make, have a texture at least as good as a boxed mix, and are a great way to get rid of the lonely, browning banana that is inevitably left on our counter after his friends were all devoured. I bring you deliciousness.

BANANA BETTER-THAN-BOX BROWNIES

1/2 c. margarine (or butter, if you're richer than me or feeling fancy)

2/3 c. semisweet chocolate chips

1 egg

2/3 c packed brown sugar

1 medium banana (overripe is fine)

1/2 t imitation vanilla extract (or the real thing, if you're richer than me or feeling fancy)

1/4 t salt

3/4 c all-purpose flour

More semisweet chocolate chips (1/2 c. is good)

Grease an 8x8 pan, and preheat the oven to 325. Put the butter in a small saucepan, and melt over medium heat. Remove from stove, and stir in the chocolate chips. Set aside. Beat the egg lightly in a medium bowl. Add the brown sugar, and the banana. Mash the banana up fairly well as you stir things together (it would probably be easier to do this before putting it in with the egg and sugar, but that would require getting another bowl dirty). Put in the vanilla and salt, then dump in the butter/chocolate chip sauce. Stir everything together, and gradually add the flour. Dump everything into the pan, and add a generous sprinkling of chocolate chips on top. Bake about 30 minutes, until a knife poked in the middle comes out mostly clean (some moist crumbs are fine). Wait to cool a little bit so you don't burn your mouth, and enjoy with lots of cold milk.

So good! My quest was definitely worth it (ignore the crazy hair... today was just one of those days).

*Turns out a story about a 16 year old who gets into law school but doesn't tell anyone she's 16 because she wants to be treated normally and then starts hanging out with a twenty something classmate she has a crush on who is weirded out when he inevitably finds out how young she is and then causes a huge scene in criminal law while the clueless professor is lecturing about statutory rape, while it makes for an entertaining daydream in Crim Law, had probably best be left unwritten - there's just the little plot problem that 16 year olds, prodigies or not, really shouldn't be going after 23 years olds.

("Evan stared at me icily as he raised his hand.

'Yes, Mr. Jasper,' the professor said.

'What if the girl mislead everyone into thinking she was older than she really was?' My heart sunk to the pit of my stomach. 'What if this wasn't a situation where the defendant took home a girl from a bar, but one where the girl deliberately crafted a false identity and exploited the trust of people she pretended to befriend? What if," he spoke slowly and deliberately, his eyes continuing to drill into my soul, "she was a fraud?'

The professor blinked several times, as though he realized Evan hadn't actually been talking about criminal law, but he answered the question. 'You should read the Lafave hornbook more closely, Mr. Jasper. The intent of the victim would be relevant if this were a crime of scienter, but such details are technically irrelevant in the context of a strict liability offense. Of course, they might sway a sympathetic jury, but juries are unpredictable, as Texas v. Scott makes clear. Mr. Hensley, will you please recite the facts of that case?'

Class continued for another 45 minutes, but my notes stayed blank. I felt too guilty to concentrate, and was too angry to care...")

No Rest for the Indecisive

Yesterday, after a morning of working, I finally went into the bathroom for a shower. Once inside, I made two horrific discoveries:

1. I didn't have any razors (normally this might not have been a crisis, but I already hadn't shaved for three days, and I really wanted to wear a skirt for my dinner date with Mike)

2. We didn't have any toilet paper (this one's always a crisis)

Quickly, I decided that an emergency store run was in order. I didn't have the car, but fortunately our new apartment is less than a block from a big box super store, so I figured I could jog over, grab some tp and razors, and be back within 15 minutes. It seemed like a good plan, but I forgot how evil these big box stores can be.

First, there was the toilet paper aisle. I don't mind that it's hidden in the back of the store, in hopes of enticing people into buying all the snack food you have to pass on the way. I didn't even mind (terribly) that they always put the toilet paper by the paper towels, sometimes making it hard to determine which is which, at least at first glance. What I did mind was the dizzying array of choices.

1 ply or 2 ply? 4 pack or 6 pack? Big rolls or regular sized ones? Do we have room to store a 12 pack? Scotts lasts forever... but it can't be a better deal than the store brands, can it?

I just wanted the cheapest package that would do the job - but trying to figure out which package was cheapest, given the different roll sizes and pack sizes, was much too taxing for my math skills. The cost per sheet indicators on the price tags weren't much help either, because about half of the varieties were on sale. Finally, I grabbed a random package (Scott's environmentally friendly variety, in a four pack, if you're curious) and then headed to the health and beauty department to get razors.

Here, the whole process was repeated again. 2 blades or 3? Disposable or the kind with cartridges? Do I want moisture strips?

Again, cheap was better, but I did want to spend enough to get one that would work. And, again, the price per unit indicators on the shelf tags were useless, thanks to all of the "bonus" razors in the various packages.

By the time I finally got home from the store, I was stressed that I'd made the wrong choices (what if Mike hates this kind of toilet paper?) and grumpy because my fifteen minute run to the store had taken over a half hour.

I suppose choices are a good thing, and I can definitely live with them, if it helps everyone get what they need. It does irk me, though, that I never seem to have any consummer choices when I need them (how is it that I'm lucky if a store carries 1 suit in my size? [Usually made out of linen or dyed some garish color that defeats its purpose as a suit.] I promise I'm not the only pint-sized law/business student in the world).

"Cookies" and my anti-climatic visit to a bar

In case it hasn't already become apparent, I am completely obsessed with desserts. In fact, some of the highlights of my week have been Rhubarb-Strawberry Cobbler and Zucchinni Chocolate Chip Cake - and it's been a really good week.

So last weekend, when some of my classmates invited me to go to a neighboring city's summer festival, my first thought was naturally about the bake sales. After watching the little parade (the town has a population of less than 2000, so the parade was basically a procession of horses, firetrucks, and regular cars with posterboard advertisements taped to the sides) and wandering around the craft fair, we went to go get food, and I began scoping out the dessert options.

Unfortunately, my options were limited by the $1 I had in my pocket, so the chocolate dipped cheesecake on a stick was not a possibility (Mike, who was working, usually carries all the cash, and I had forgotten to borrow any). I looked over the booths run by local church groups, hoping to find some home baked brownies or pie.

The only brownies I could find, though, were being sold by a weight-loss group and, with visions of artificial sweeteners and whole grain flours ruining the chocolatey goodness, I passed them by. At the next booth, though, I spotted a bunch of elderly women selling cookies, 3 for $1. The cookies had obviously been donated by different women - in the peanut butter cookie basket, for instance, there were smaller cookies and larger cookies and some that had been rolled in sugar. They all looked delicious, though. After much indecision, I decided to buy some oatmeal cookies - there were several different kinds in the basket with delicious looking chocolate chunks or dried cranberries.

When I handed over my $1 to the woman at the booth, she reached in the basket of oatmeal cookies and handed me a baggie of cookies. I was disappointed to see, however, that my cookies did not have chocolate chunks or cranberries or even raisins. In fact, they looked very odd - flat and perfectly circular. After one bite, I realized why. These weren't bake sale cookies! They were the Great Value brand oatmeal cookies sold for $1.50 a package and found on the bottom shelf of the Walmart snack aisle. I was grandly disapointed - although I did still eat them. After all, they were vaguely cookie-like.

In other news, last weekend was also the first time I'd ever gone to a bar (the law school was hosting a social event to help welcome new students to South Bend). I was very excited to finally get to go to one of these things - I missed most of the law school social events last year because they were all in bars and I was still underage. When we got to the bar, I realized that I'd left my ID in the car, a few blocks away. Turns out, though, that I didn't need it. No one ID'd us when we went in (the ID checker didn't appear to watch the doorway until about five minutes after we went in) and the waitress missed me when she ID'd our group before taking drink orders (of course, I did only order a huckleberry lemonade, but she checked Mike's ID, and he only had a water). It was nice not to have to go back to the car to get my license, but also vaguely disapointing to know that it wouldn't have mattered if I had still been 20.

So now I have two more tasks to add to my To Do This Summer list - get (or make) some real oatmeal cookies, and be ID'd. It's going to be a busy three weeks :)

I ♥ Sleep!

You know you're an adult when you keep a running countdown in your head to track the hours left before you can go to bed.

Ok, so maybe I used to count down to bedtime as a child too, but that was just because I was worried I wouldn't get through my stack of library books before my mom made me turn the light off.

Mmmm... sleep.... only 11 hours and 16 minutes to go!

Ye Olden Days Lacketh Convenience

Ordinarily, I'm a big fan of all things medieval.  

In fact, I even got up the courage the other day to visit the medieval collections at the library here at Notre Dame - an entire floor of non-circulating books, many of them very old and most of them in Latin.  Unfortunately I couldn't stay long - I was worried that one of the Medieval Studies doctoral students studying there would suddenly yell something like "Hey, you can't be here... you're just a law student."  Plus, more rationally, I neeeded to hurry back to the law school so I could actually get some work done that day.  But I intend to go back, scary Ph.D. candidates and all.  It was too wonderful to stay away from long.

But this post isn't about the impressive medieval collection here, or my love for crumbling Latin texts written a thousand years ago.  It's about the medieval period I'm going through in my own life, and how much I dislike it.  Turns out, I couldn't have been happy in the Dark Ages.  Or even the 1980s (although, if you ask me, the decade of big hair and Prince was the real dark age).

Last weekend, one of our neighbors moved out of our apartment building.  Normally, we probably wouldn't have noticed, but this particular neighbor happened to be the only person around with un-password protected wireless internet.  We'd been mooching internet off him all year, and now it's gone.  Mike and I decided not to sign up for our own account at this point, because we are moving at the end of next month (to a "real" apartment, with a separate bedroom and living room and a kitchen that will have more than 18 inches of counterspace, even after we move the microwave in - so exciting!).

So now, anytime we want to look up a recipe for dinner, or check to see where a Facebook event is happening, or need to look through recent decisions by the Supreme Court of India (my task for work, of late) we have to pack up our computers and either walk 3 1/2 blocks to the grocery store, or make the 20 minute walk to the law school building (despite the added distance, the law school building is usually the more attractive option - it's quieter, and has sofas).  

I know I shouldn't be complaining, especially because we conveniently had free internet for the entire school year.  But still... I miss the twentyfirst century!!

Random Ramblings of an Exam-Fried Mind

I may be in the midst of the most grueling finals week of my life, but, hey, at least one week from today I'll be free!*

Although, truth be told, as demoralizing as exams are, there's a little part of me that kind of likes the insanity.  If only that little part of me would have chimed in to remind myself about the existence of the First Amendment during my Con Law exam this afternoon...

I had the first Gyro of my life today, and thought it was delicious.  Plus, an excellent excuse to get bakalava... mmmmmmhmmm! 

*Working on a twenty or thirty page paper and an exam on citation forms for the law review competition.