Well, folks, I like it here in Omaha. It is a nice combination of midwesterly chilled-outness and big-city options. One thing I liked about Lincoln that just didn't happen in New York was that it was easy to see people and we can and do at the last minute. Omaha shares that quality. Like New York (and unlike North Platte), Omaha has some really good restaurants and cultural events (although it obviously can't match NYC in depth or breadth). And while my Lincoln social scene has been pretty stagnant for the last ten years, and NP had no social scene to offer at all, young, interesting folks in Omaha are new to me, plentiful, relaxed, and easy to meet. In NYC, the friend options were actually too plentiful--it required a ridiculous amount of extra effort to see people again that I liked but had met only once, plus most people there already feel like they have so many people to see that they don't have time to make new friends. Things were a little different at the beginning of law school, but it quickly fell into that pattern. In Omaha, especially if people are from Omaha, they seem to appreciate new faces. I like it.
And yeah, work's fine, good people, challenging, what-have-you. My place is nice. I need a roommate though. And Lulu and I have been going to obedience class. Obedience is still elusive, but it's worth 6 thursdays to try to catch it.
I'll try to post a little more often here. I've been really excited about the per-dag blogs recently, but I do have a bunch of photos that didn't make the EPD cut that still merit a look (I think, anyway).
. . .
Showing posts with label np. Show all posts
Showing posts with label np. Show all posts
May 2, 2008
Mar 25, 2008
the last week begins
This time, for HDL, notes on top.
I actually washed the ice trays before I packed them. (I suppose this may still be news to someone out there--I am moving to Omaha on Sunday [same job, different office]).
Adjectives that seem to suggest more than pizza:
Breakfast at Penny's. Tasty, and friendly, but not so easy on the estomago. They throw sugar packets at you when you read at the bar (minimum of two people at the booths).
A North Platte (the river) walk,
accompanied by my dog friend.
At what they call "the rides" at Cody Park.
NP's version of Japan's naval flag.
There should be more of these in parks:
Cody's a pretty good park: a river, "the rides," elk, geese, various playgrounds, frisbee-golf, camping, and outdoor fireplaces. Plus, or so I've heard, gay men are free to gather there at night! Poor things, they have to go somewhere. NP does not strike me as a particularly gay-friendly place. I like its parks though.
. . .
I actually washed the ice trays before I packed them. (I suppose this may still be news to someone out there--I am moving to Omaha on Sunday [same job, different office]).
Adjectives that seem to suggest more than pizza:
Breakfast at Penny's. Tasty, and friendly, but not so easy on the estomago. They throw sugar packets at you when you read at the bar (minimum of two people at the booths).
A North Platte (the river) walk,
accompanied by my dog friend.
At what they call "the rides" at Cody Park.
NP's version of Japan's naval flag.
There should be more of these in parks:
Cody's a pretty good park: a river, "the rides," elk, geese, various playgrounds, frisbee-golf, camping, and outdoor fireplaces. Plus, or so I've heard, gay men are free to gather there at night! Poor things, they have to go somewhere. NP does not strike me as a particularly gay-friendly place. I like its parks though.
. . .
Mar 21, 2008
work and home
The back end.
Tool of the trade (can be exempted from seizure under BK law).
A client's child's depiction of her happy family (little does she know).
The neighbor boys tagged my garage with "weney." It's not just my garage though.
The front end.
. . .
Mar 19, 2008
Mar 18, 2008
leftovers
Sometimes it is hard to decide which eenperdag to use. So sometimes, like today, I will post the outtakes here.
Our 8 inches of snow.
At the dog park.
. . .
Our 8 inches of snow.
At the dog park.
. . .
Mar 15, 2008
Jan 5, 2008
the great english breakfast explosion of 2008
That's how I'll remember today. The tea-tin, top unsecure and upside-down in the cabinet, carelessly grabbed, and cascading e-breakfast everywhere. I haven't been in NP often enough to know why--probably I put it back there in a frenzied attempt to find the surface of my dinner table. Or some tea-spilling set-up bandit made me a visit. Anyhow, there is now small round e-breakfast spheres sprinkled into my wishdasher and the kitchen floor. The dishes will probably come out with a slight accent. On the whole, though, no big loss. As RLY once called to my attention, e-breakfast is rather boring. Nothing compared to, say, my beloved russian caravan. Which I am now out of, alas. Tea.
Here's some more about January 5, 2008. It is the day of Lulu's first carrot. I made the mistake of giving her a big carrot--mostly she seemed to enjoy shredding it and leaving the shreds on the rug. But maybe her teeth are cleaner. Today the carrot, tomorrow, the stick.
January 5, 2008, in NP smells like poop and cigarettes. The cigarettes are because I have a smoky neighbor. I can't account for the poop stink. It only occasionally smells like poop around here. Wrong wind direction, perhaps. Or maybe the times when there was snow that I was not prepared with the plastic bag have come back to haunt me now that it's melting a bit. Regardless of the stink's provenance, today NP deserves AAMcM's moniker of North Poop.
Today is also the day after the day of Lulu's first trip to the NP dog park. Her favorite new friend, and mine, was a baby bloodhound pup. She and Razor (the bh pup) were both a little shy of the older animals (regardless of size). She also enjoyed playing with Britney, a dog of the small yappy variety.
I have a final divorce hearing and a social security appeal hearing this coming week. Final divorce hearings, when there has been a property and/or child custody settlement, as there hs been in this case, are great hearings to have early on in one's career. No cross-examining necessary, about 10 minutes max of routine questions for the plaintiff (e.g. "Is the marriage irretrievably broken?", a ridiculous statutory necessity--it's not like anyone's ever going to bother saying no.) and the only evidence is the settlement agreement. Social Security hearings are more intense and scary, but still not so bad. They are not adversarial proceedings, so there is no opposing lawyer & client trying to trip me up at every opportunity. I just have to convince the administrative law judge, an employee of the Social Security Administration, that my client is disabled.
Anyway, it's a post-holiday Saturday, and those are the best kind of all. That's what I'll say today, anyway.
. . .
Here's some more about January 5, 2008. It is the day of Lulu's first carrot. I made the mistake of giving her a big carrot--mostly she seemed to enjoy shredding it and leaving the shreds on the rug. But maybe her teeth are cleaner. Today the carrot, tomorrow, the stick.
January 5, 2008, in NP smells like poop and cigarettes. The cigarettes are because I have a smoky neighbor. I can't account for the poop stink. It only occasionally smells like poop around here. Wrong wind direction, perhaps. Or maybe the times when there was snow that I was not prepared with the plastic bag have come back to haunt me now that it's melting a bit. Regardless of the stink's provenance, today NP deserves AAMcM's moniker of North Poop.
Today is also the day after the day of Lulu's first trip to the NP dog park. Her favorite new friend, and mine, was a baby bloodhound pup. She and Razor (the bh pup) were both a little shy of the older animals (regardless of size). She also enjoyed playing with Britney, a dog of the small yappy variety.
I have a final divorce hearing and a social security appeal hearing this coming week. Final divorce hearings, when there has been a property and/or child custody settlement, as there hs been in this case, are great hearings to have early on in one's career. No cross-examining necessary, about 10 minutes max of routine questions for the plaintiff (e.g. "Is the marriage irretrievably broken?", a ridiculous statutory necessity--it's not like anyone's ever going to bother saying no.) and the only evidence is the settlement agreement. Social Security hearings are more intense and scary, but still not so bad. They are not adversarial proceedings, so there is no opposing lawyer & client trying to trip me up at every opportunity. I just have to convince the administrative law judge, an employee of the Social Security Administration, that my client is disabled.
Anyway, it's a post-holiday Saturday, and those are the best kind of all. That's what I'll say today, anyway.
. . .
Dec 9, 2007
and if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out
Without having studied that phrase at all, I have always, when I have heard it, wondered for about three seconds whether it means --if your eye sees stuff that offends you, pluck it out, or if it's the eye itself that's offensive. Maybe a scratched cornea or something. Or a twitch. Either way, it seems pretty extreme.
Whatever its meaning, it is a recurring theme in my thoughts over the past few weeks. I got a twitch right before my first trial (don't ask) and mine eye has been offended by the despicable combination of two often-terrible-on-their-own stylistic motifs: country and christmas. People, it's country christmas out here and I am constantly fighting the urge to vomit.
In other news--my formerly generous anonymous internet provider needs to get "linksys" fixed. I am writing this from a small purple but comfortable NP coffee cafe with the forgettable name of Winfield's. Anyway--that's why no posts. Although work hasn't been very worky in the past couple weeks, it's hard to feel settled enough there to reflect enough to write something about something.
Here's the Lulu news (I spend more time with her than anybody, so she's a recurring topic. hope it doesn't bore anybody too much): she loves the snow. She bounds about and dips her face in it a lot. She gets snow all over her face and then licks it off her nose, so it's the one spot w/o snow. The snow melts between her toes (yet more about her toes, I know) and then turns to ice, which after about 20 minutes becomes uncomfortable. This is a problem I never anticipated. However, 20 minutes is about the extent of my desire to romp around in the snow anyway, so it works out ok. She and I have been working on some new tricks. She can now wave goodbye, and will roll over every once in a while.
There are people singing along with a bad rock'n'roll version of Santa Claus is Comin' to Town here in Winfield's. It's time to go.
. . .
Whatever its meaning, it is a recurring theme in my thoughts over the past few weeks. I got a twitch right before my first trial (don't ask) and mine eye has been offended by the despicable combination of two often-terrible-on-their-own stylistic motifs: country and christmas. People, it's country christmas out here and I am constantly fighting the urge to vomit.
In other news--my formerly generous anonymous internet provider needs to get "linksys" fixed. I am writing this from a small purple but comfortable NP coffee cafe with the forgettable name of Winfield's. Anyway--that's why no posts. Although work hasn't been very worky in the past couple weeks, it's hard to feel settled enough there to reflect enough to write something about something.
Here's the Lulu news (I spend more time with her than anybody, so she's a recurring topic. hope it doesn't bore anybody too much): she loves the snow. She bounds about and dips her face in it a lot. She gets snow all over her face and then licks it off her nose, so it's the one spot w/o snow. The snow melts between her toes (yet more about her toes, I know) and then turns to ice, which after about 20 minutes becomes uncomfortable. This is a problem I never anticipated. However, 20 minutes is about the extent of my desire to romp around in the snow anyway, so it works out ok. She and I have been working on some new tricks. She can now wave goodbye, and will roll over every once in a while.
There are people singing along with a bad rock'n'roll version of Santa Claus is Comin' to Town here in Winfield's. It's time to go.
. . .
Nov 5, 2007
in which I use a thesaurus and the series of tubes
DMB posed me the following: "what is the word for people who live in north platt [sic.]?"
I had no idea. So I asked my colleagues, both of whom were born in NP, attended high school here, and are around 50 years old. One has lived here pretty much her whole life, the other moved down the road to Ogallala for a while and is looking to move back. Neither of them had any idea either. The best guess was "Flat Rockers?" Apparently Flat Rock is a nickname for NP, for reasons unknown. (The mystery deepens. Platte, I believe, is french for flat, but the rock part remains obscure.) Conversation on this topic led us to NP's other nickname, which is, of course, Little Chicago. My colleagues couldn't enlighten me regarding the provenance of that moniker either, but Wikipedia could: "During the 1930s, high crime rates and corruption caused North Platte to be infamously known as 'Little Chicago." This is ludicrous. Of course, that leaves "Little Chicagoans" as an option, but no one would ever know that it referred to North Platters (as I choose to call them, and as the receptionist at the North Platte Convention and Visitor's Bureau reluctantly suggested). The last alternative is just to refer to them all as the afore-blogged Bulldawgs. This cognomen, like "Little Chicagoans", does not obviously identify the denizens, but it at least retains some of the local flavor.
In other NP news, NP has graced the lyrics of at least two songs. Here are the lyrics to one, Superslab Showdown, by C.W. McCall, complete with interpretation. And here are the lyrics to another, A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left (originally called to my attention by HDL).
Yesterday, my trusty sidekick, Lulu, and I took a beautiful drive through midwestern Nebraska. I found the first few towns quaint (in an entirely un-Annapolis way) though smelly. Later I discovered that my trusty sidekick had barfed on the backseat. So they are probably merely quaint. Anyhow, I do have photos to show for it, but it's hard to post them w/o internet access at home. Maybe next weekend. At that point I will give more detail on our trip.
This was our route:
View Larger Map
I can't speak highly enough the beauty of the Nebraska sandhills. If you don't take the opportunity to visit me while I'm here, you perusers of the series of tubes, you will have forgone a wonderful, and uncommon, opportunity.
bonne soir,
. . .
I had no idea. So I asked my colleagues, both of whom were born in NP, attended high school here, and are around 50 years old. One has lived here pretty much her whole life, the other moved down the road to Ogallala for a while and is looking to move back. Neither of them had any idea either. The best guess was "Flat Rockers?" Apparently Flat Rock is a nickname for NP, for reasons unknown. (The mystery deepens. Platte, I believe, is french for flat, but the rock part remains obscure.) Conversation on this topic led us to NP's other nickname, which is, of course, Little Chicago. My colleagues couldn't enlighten me regarding the provenance of that moniker either, but Wikipedia could: "During the 1930s, high crime rates and corruption caused North Platte to be infamously known as 'Little Chicago." This is ludicrous. Of course, that leaves "Little Chicagoans" as an option, but no one would ever know that it referred to North Platters (as I choose to call them, and as the receptionist at the North Platte Convention and Visitor's Bureau reluctantly suggested). The last alternative is just to refer to them all as the afore-blogged Bulldawgs. This cognomen, like "Little Chicagoans", does not obviously identify the denizens, but it at least retains some of the local flavor.
In other NP news, NP has graced the lyrics of at least two songs. Here are the lyrics to one, Superslab Showdown, by C.W. McCall, complete with interpretation. And here are the lyrics to another, A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left (originally called to my attention by HDL).
Yesterday, my trusty sidekick, Lulu, and I took a beautiful drive through midwestern Nebraska. I found the first few towns quaint (in an entirely un-Annapolis way) though smelly. Later I discovered that my trusty sidekick had barfed on the backseat. So they are probably merely quaint. Anyhow, I do have photos to show for it, but it's hard to post them w/o internet access at home. Maybe next weekend. At that point I will give more detail on our trip.
This was our route:
View Larger Map
I can't speak highly enough the beauty of the Nebraska sandhills. If you don't take the opportunity to visit me while I'm here, you perusers of the series of tubes, you will have forgone a wonderful, and uncommon, opportunity.
bonne soir,
. . .
Oct 13, 2007
on the russian caravan of a cold wet saturday
A long walk with Lulu on paths following the South Platte River, stippled with stops to pull the evil burrs from prancing feet, followed by:
A toot around town, garage saling (no spectactular finds, alas) and finally tasting the homemade cinnamon rolls from Skelly's Inn, complete with sign rather insistently reading "This establishment is a smoking area in its entirety." It makes one feel as if one is not only disobeying the rules by not smoking, but is utterly unwelcome as a nonsmoker. Venturing into the entirely smoking Skelly's for even 10 minutes to await my donut's cinnamoning seems to triple the mental and physical exertion required to stop there. Something about the smoke's complete permeation of an establishment engaged to feed people boggles me. Nevertheless, the homemade baked goods receive high praise, and in this town of little-to-no-homemade-baked-goods and in-general-less-than-stellar eating opportunities, I felt I must give them a go. I had tried to get my hot little hands on a Skelly's cinnamon roll twice before, only to find them sold out (the most believable kind of high praise). I now know that the homemade donuts are better--less goo overdo. Anyway, this toot, followed by:
Endless tea drinking, a long-overdue return to reading, and possibly a little sewing. No cleanings or sortings or puttings-away, if possible. If possible. And let this be the end of my computering for the day.
Ciao.
. . .
A toot around town, garage saling (no spectactular finds, alas) and finally tasting the homemade cinnamon rolls from Skelly's Inn, complete with sign rather insistently reading "This establishment is a smoking area in its entirety." It makes one feel as if one is not only disobeying the rules by not smoking, but is utterly unwelcome as a nonsmoker. Venturing into the entirely smoking Skelly's for even 10 minutes to await my donut's cinnamoning seems to triple the mental and physical exertion required to stop there. Something about the smoke's complete permeation of an establishment engaged to feed people boggles me. Nevertheless, the homemade baked goods receive high praise, and in this town of little-to-no-homemade-baked-goods and in-general-less-than-stellar eating opportunities, I felt I must give them a go. I had tried to get my hot little hands on a Skelly's cinnamon roll twice before, only to find them sold out (the most believable kind of high praise). I now know that the homemade donuts are better--less goo overdo. Anyway, this toot, followed by:
Endless tea drinking, a long-overdue return to reading, and possibly a little sewing. No cleanings or sortings or puttings-away, if possible. If possible. And let this be the end of my computering for the day.
Ciao.
. . .
Oct 12, 2007
"it's first and ten with 20 yards to go"
I went to my first high school football game in, oh, say, 13 years tonight. Unfortunately, the NP Bulldogs (or 'Dawgs, as they're more commonly called) spent a lot of their time with 20 yards to go, usually as a result of "illegal procedures" (a fine term that leaves much to the imagination). The Dawgs are now 4-4, while the Kearney Bearcats are now 8-0. I asked the friendly folks (unbelievably friendly--by the end, Mr. Folks asked me if I had gotten to know people in NP, and I made some vague reply, and he then asked if I had someone to call if my car wouldn't start, just to make sure I did) sitting in front of me if they knew what a bearcat was (I didn't). At first they were both like, yeah, it's like a bobcat--but then I asked if they had ever heard of one outside the context of Kearney sports, and both admitted not. But here it is, people, the fearsome bearcat:
You'd think this lil' beastie could hardly stand up to a 'Dawg. For comparison, here is a bulldog:
Well, not so, friends, not so. Turns out, that bearcat, she's a vicious fighter that can throw amazing passes, catch them, and tackle anything. Hats off to the Fightin' Bearcats' fightin' ways. (For good times, search google images for bulldog. In the photographs, the bulldogs all look pained, bemused, or sleepy. In the drawings, they all wear spiky collars and seem to be about to rip something to shreds.)
It was the last home game of the season, so I guess that's it for the Friday night lights. I might try to catch a volleyball game or a basketball game later in the season. Mr. and Mrs. Folks were fake-insulted when I innocently asked if NP had a basketball team (it wasn't mentioned on the program, which talked about lots of other teams). Anyway, it does. Go 'Dawgs.
. . .
You'd think this lil' beastie could hardly stand up to a 'Dawg. For comparison, here is a bulldog:
Well, not so, friends, not so. Turns out, that bearcat, she's a vicious fighter that can throw amazing passes, catch them, and tackle anything. Hats off to the Fightin' Bearcats' fightin' ways. (For good times, search google images for bulldog. In the photographs, the bulldogs all look pained, bemused, or sleepy. In the drawings, they all wear spiky collars and seem to be about to rip something to shreds.)
It was the last home game of the season, so I guess that's it for the Friday night lights. I might try to catch a volleyball game or a basketball game later in the season. Mr. and Mrs. Folks were fake-insulted when I innocently asked if NP had a basketball team (it wasn't mentioned on the program, which talked about lots of other teams). Anyway, it does. Go 'Dawgs.
. . .
being
Why I like the North Platte Telegraph: a front-page article titled "School libraries being transformed" is continued on page 2 under the header "BEING, from page A1".
. . .
. . .
Sep 17, 2007
just another puppy on life
What do a dentist, an optometrist, a legal aid lawyer, a john deere dealership owner, his wife, his son, and his wife all have in common? they all got to sit with me at the NP chamber of commerce banquet tonight. Oh yes. That's right. And I managed to be underdressed, quite a feat here in the West. I heard about the latest in dentistry (laser anesthesia, tv screens on the ceiling (I suggested video games), and the most famous architect...in dentist architecture (what? you haven't heard of him? I had to say no.)). I heard about the ebb and flow of machine-buying, and about how people are buying machines in Texas and renting them out here at the relevant time of year. Migrant combines. I heard about many, many boring awards (Business Person of the Year) and Thank You Margoes, and We Couldn't Have Done it Without Yous, and waited out as much of a boring speech as I could (he didn't get started till two hours in). Now I know--I am not Chamber of Commerce Material.
In other news, not to brag or anything, but it seems Madam Lulu, aka Lady Sniffer, is literally too cute for her own good. There's an effusive neighbor that Lulu and I are going to have to try to avoid now. She gets the wee pupsicle so riled up that she forgets all she's learned about How to Take a Walk with Her Attorney. Today, post-extravagant-lovin-by-excitable-neighbor, Lulu waited till I was distracted by the poop-grass-bag extraction process, gave a great tug, and found herself free to roam the world. It was surprising for us both, I think.
Now we're going to surprising ourselves right to bed.
. . .
In other news, not to brag or anything, but it seems Madam Lulu, aka Lady Sniffer, is literally too cute for her own good. There's an effusive neighbor that Lulu and I are going to have to try to avoid now. She gets the wee pupsicle so riled up that she forgets all she's learned about How to Take a Walk with Her Attorney. Today, post-extravagant-lovin-by-excitable-neighbor, Lulu waited till I was distracted by the poop-grass-bag extraction process, gave a great tug, and found herself free to roam the world. It was surprising for us both, I think.
Now we're going to surprising ourselves right to bed.
. . .
Jul 9, 2007
stories (in descending order of length)
A banner day here in NP. Things are moving and spinning.
I went to the post office this morning to mail my practice test off to the poor man in Chicago with the annoying job of running scantrons thru a machine, and, as has so far been my luck, there was only two other post office patrons, one being helped at the counter and one in line. The post office here is notorious for its long waits (they have 4 slots at their counter, but there's often only one clerk), but, as I said, so far I've been lucky. Right after I got there, about 6 other people also arrived and got in line behind me. The dude at the counter got done and then the lady in front of me went up, so I was first in line and kind of spacing off. Then another person came in to whom I didn't pay much attention until I realized that the person (who was wearing loud, clompy shoes) was making a lot clomps more than was necessary to get to the back of the line, which was right next to the door. So I kind of glanced over and he was on his way up to the front of the line, and wearing an eye-wrenchingly bright orange coat to boot (it's been 90+ degrees here). He came up to the front of the line and just stood what would have been in front of me, if we'd both been acknowledging there was a line, about three feet away. I looked at him, and he just looked back without acknowledging in any way that anything weird was going on, which I wasn't expecting, so I just nervously smiled at him. Then I looked at the other people in line to see if they had a clue and they were all staring at him with this weird expression on their faces too. So I says to myself, I says, well, either he's crazy, he's really stupid, or he's got some kind of emergency and either way I don't need to get in his way. Then the lady at the counter got done and he clomped on up there (he was wearing cowboy boots). I waited very expectantly to see what would happen, whether it was an emergency or if his craziness or stupidity were going to show themselves in some interesting way or other. But instead, the orange-clad guy just said something very banal, like "I need a book of stamps." And the rather meek, cute little old postal worker looks at this guy (and at about this point my imagination started to run wild and I thought maybe he had a gun and was going to shoot all of us b/c he had that bright orange coat on like a hunter might wear), and he said, um, did you just cut in front of all those people in line? And the guy was like, No. And the post office guy was like, um, there's a line there. And the guy was like yeah, but they're over there. (It wasn't such a big room, and it was quite clearly a line, in my opinion.) And the post office guy said, um, you need to wait in line. Mr. Orange was kind of irked, but he was like, fine, whatever, I'll wait in your stupid "line." (that's not exactly what he said but it was the same tone.) And then the post office guy was just too nice and he caved and got him the stamps. And then the lady next to me, I looked at her with this incredulous look on my face, and she kind of laughed and shook her head and said, well, I wasn't in a hurry to get to work this morning anyway. In Brooklyn that guy wouldn't have made it past three people in line w/o having someone yell at him, nor would anyone have made lemonade with those there lemons. People here (aside from some lawyers I've heard about) are amazingly conflict-averse.
Later on, a very vicious-seeming dog decided chasing me on my bike and barking hysterically was a good thing to do. This scared the crap out of me, and I slowed down for some reason, looking for its owner, I guess. No owner appeared and the dog was still going berzerk, so I was like, hell, I'm on a bike, I can outgun this dog anytime, so I sped up a lot. Dog was going so fast it was blurry, not losing any ground at all, and I was coming up on intersections with stop signs. So I slowed down again, trying to keep my leg, the nearest biteable bit, out of range, and looked around incredulously for its owner. Finding none, and losing hope, I just yelled HEY really really loud, hoping that some distracted owner would appear and call the apeshit beast off. That didn't happen, but it did seem to frighten the dog, or at least convince it that I wasn't to be trifled with, for it turned around and trotted off. Or maybe I just got out of its range, I don't know. Next time I'm going to yell a lot sooner. Shortly thereafter, a bug flew into my open mouth and down my throat whilst I was tweedling down the road, happily unchased, on my bike. I think that right after I rode off, the dog died, was reincarnated as a bug and, knowing me so well, decided that zooming down my throat was the best way to get me.
My mother has very kindly offered to treat me to some massages while I prepare for the bar. So today I decided to investigate the massage parlor situation here, which investigation started off with asking our office paralegal, who has lived here for 50 years and knows everything and everybody, and when she doesn't know, she knows who'll know. In this case, she didn't know, hadn't ever gotten one, but, typically, she knew who'd know. So she got the county attorney on the phone, who had a couple of recommendations for me, and, it turns out, also lived in my apartment at one point. This is a pretty common occurrence here, it seems. You'll just be talking to some random person and it'll turn out they've lived in your house. It's almost like we're related. Small towns are funny. I also routinely run into my colleagues and my neighbors at the grocery store.
On a more long-term note, it seems my desperately-unhappy-in-NP colleague will be hitting the road sometime this month or next. So they're sending me a new boss. The new boss has worked here before, actually, last year and the year before. The office today was all drama, all the time.
. . .
I went to the post office this morning to mail my practice test off to the poor man in Chicago with the annoying job of running scantrons thru a machine, and, as has so far been my luck, there was only two other post office patrons, one being helped at the counter and one in line. The post office here is notorious for its long waits (they have 4 slots at their counter, but there's often only one clerk), but, as I said, so far I've been lucky. Right after I got there, about 6 other people also arrived and got in line behind me. The dude at the counter got done and then the lady in front of me went up, so I was first in line and kind of spacing off. Then another person came in to whom I didn't pay much attention until I realized that the person (who was wearing loud, clompy shoes) was making a lot clomps more than was necessary to get to the back of the line, which was right next to the door. So I kind of glanced over and he was on his way up to the front of the line, and wearing an eye-wrenchingly bright orange coat to boot (it's been 90+ degrees here). He came up to the front of the line and just stood what would have been in front of me, if we'd both been acknowledging there was a line, about three feet away. I looked at him, and he just looked back without acknowledging in any way that anything weird was going on, which I wasn't expecting, so I just nervously smiled at him. Then I looked at the other people in line to see if they had a clue and they were all staring at him with this weird expression on their faces too. So I says to myself, I says, well, either he's crazy, he's really stupid, or he's got some kind of emergency and either way I don't need to get in his way. Then the lady at the counter got done and he clomped on up there (he was wearing cowboy boots). I waited very expectantly to see what would happen, whether it was an emergency or if his craziness or stupidity were going to show themselves in some interesting way or other. But instead, the orange-clad guy just said something very banal, like "I need a book of stamps." And the rather meek, cute little old postal worker looks at this guy (and at about this point my imagination started to run wild and I thought maybe he had a gun and was going to shoot all of us b/c he had that bright orange coat on like a hunter might wear), and he said, um, did you just cut in front of all those people in line? And the guy was like, No. And the post office guy was like, um, there's a line there. And the guy was like yeah, but they're over there. (It wasn't such a big room, and it was quite clearly a line, in my opinion.) And the post office guy said, um, you need to wait in line. Mr. Orange was kind of irked, but he was like, fine, whatever, I'll wait in your stupid "line." (that's not exactly what he said but it was the same tone.) And then the post office guy was just too nice and he caved and got him the stamps. And then the lady next to me, I looked at her with this incredulous look on my face, and she kind of laughed and shook her head and said, well, I wasn't in a hurry to get to work this morning anyway. In Brooklyn that guy wouldn't have made it past three people in line w/o having someone yell at him, nor would anyone have made lemonade with those there lemons. People here (aside from some lawyers I've heard about) are amazingly conflict-averse.
Later on, a very vicious-seeming dog decided chasing me on my bike and barking hysterically was a good thing to do. This scared the crap out of me, and I slowed down for some reason, looking for its owner, I guess. No owner appeared and the dog was still going berzerk, so I was like, hell, I'm on a bike, I can outgun this dog anytime, so I sped up a lot. Dog was going so fast it was blurry, not losing any ground at all, and I was coming up on intersections with stop signs. So I slowed down again, trying to keep my leg, the nearest biteable bit, out of range, and looked around incredulously for its owner. Finding none, and losing hope, I just yelled HEY really really loud, hoping that some distracted owner would appear and call the apeshit beast off. That didn't happen, but it did seem to frighten the dog, or at least convince it that I wasn't to be trifled with, for it turned around and trotted off. Or maybe I just got out of its range, I don't know. Next time I'm going to yell a lot sooner. Shortly thereafter, a bug flew into my open mouth and down my throat whilst I was tweedling down the road, happily unchased, on my bike. I think that right after I rode off, the dog died, was reincarnated as a bug and, knowing me so well, decided that zooming down my throat was the best way to get me.
My mother has very kindly offered to treat me to some massages while I prepare for the bar. So today I decided to investigate the massage parlor situation here, which investigation started off with asking our office paralegal, who has lived here for 50 years and knows everything and everybody, and when she doesn't know, she knows who'll know. In this case, she didn't know, hadn't ever gotten one, but, typically, she knew who'd know. So she got the county attorney on the phone, who had a couple of recommendations for me, and, it turns out, also lived in my apartment at one point. This is a pretty common occurrence here, it seems. You'll just be talking to some random person and it'll turn out they've lived in your house. It's almost like we're related. Small towns are funny. I also routinely run into my colleagues and my neighbors at the grocery store.
On a more long-term note, it seems my desperately-unhappy-in-NP colleague will be hitting the road sometime this month or next. So they're sending me a new boss. The new boss has worked here before, actually, last year and the year before. The office today was all drama, all the time.
. . .
Jun 27, 2007
something I don't get
Here in NP, the preferred choice of fixing very potholey roads seems to be to cover them with a layer of tar and then a thick layer of gravel. Maybe there are other stages coming later, but there are no signs up, either to prohibit driving on the gravel/tar combo, nor to warn us about the enhanced likelihood of skidding, nor to reassure us that the condition is temporary. This is kind of bad in cars, although not awful. It is very bad for bikes. As as the cars drive over the gravel, the excess gets pitched to the side, which is, of course where we bikers (I glory in that phrase) hang. It's bumpy, unpredictable, tire-popping, uncomfortable, and it makes me have to ride with my hands on the handlebars, which I resent. I hope someone somewhere, in cowboy boots, has some kind of grand plan that's merely in the midst of unfolding, despite evidence to the contrary. I hope so.
. . .
. . .
Jun 19, 2007
when I grow too old to dream
Alas, one of the most beautiful Junes I have ever seen is slipping away while I listen to cheesy law professors lecture on the most boring crap imaginable. This morning the clouds were lined up in, um, lines. I've never seen anything like it. And the trees that smell like honey are blooming, and so are the gigantic fuchia rosebushes. The western horizon was still bluegreen when I went to sleep last night at 10:30. I'm on the western edge of the time zone, so it stays light forever. (I go to work at the ridiculous hour of 8, which has required some change in sleeping patterns--this morning I actually woke up right at 6:30, anticipating the alarm. it is what it is.) I could probably bitch about studying for the bar exam for at least a few more paragraphs, but it, too, is what it is. Another 37 days and I'll be done, at least till I find out I've passed (every available piece of wood, duly knocked on). Until then, this blog might be rather bland, I'm afraid. I wish there were some good thai peanut sauce around, spice things up.
oh yeah. today's got some good feng shui--it's Doc Yung's birthday and the Rubensteins' anniversaire. I think I'll raise a glass to the three of them right now, and make some flashcards.
. . .
oh yeah. today's got some good feng shui--it's Doc Yung's birthday and the Rubensteins' anniversaire. I think I'll raise a glass to the three of them right now, and make some flashcards.
. . .
Jun 14, 2007
np, ne
As I write, I can hear: little birds tweeting, the little high school marching band practicing, and little kids playing. Few cars and no buses. No car alarms. No loud music from the pizza place across the street. No thunderous construction projects. Nope. Of course, most of those things were largely good in their own right but I don't miss the noise.
North Platte's all right, all right. It's got big wide streets relatively empty of cars, so riding my bike ain't no thang. I pay $525 for a two-BR duplex w/ hardwood floors, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, and a garage (with opener). Gas is expensive but driving above 1.5 miles any place is unusual, so a tank lasts forever. Kids play outside a lot and people don't lock their doors. Obesity and SUVs are rampant. The sidewalks are empty (of walkers). The downtown is barely alive but the strip of chains is thriving. I am now a Walmart shopper. Everyone is eerily nice and forthcoming with information about their lives and interested in mine (I confess, I sometimes avoid eye contact to avoid the chat). My neighbors on both sides have kids and are all very nice and neighborly. There are at least two health food stores in town , although one of them (run by my landlady) is largely vitamins and food supplements. You have to drop off your recycling somewhere (not sure yet where). My neighbor has a cute new puppy, and so does her boyfriend. Work is good, it's all interesting, I have a gigantic office with a window and chairs for people to sit in and I've started studying for the bar like mad. It's actually been pretty nice not having internet at home the past week. I crave indian food but it's not to be had. Now it's time for dinner and then Professor David Epstein will lecture me on contract law.
. . .
North Platte's all right, all right. It's got big wide streets relatively empty of cars, so riding my bike ain't no thang. I pay $525 for a two-BR duplex w/ hardwood floors, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, and a garage (with opener). Gas is expensive but driving above 1.5 miles any place is unusual, so a tank lasts forever. Kids play outside a lot and people don't lock their doors. Obesity and SUVs are rampant. The sidewalks are empty (of walkers). The downtown is barely alive but the strip of chains is thriving. I am now a Walmart shopper. Everyone is eerily nice and forthcoming with information about their lives and interested in mine (I confess, I sometimes avoid eye contact to avoid the chat). My neighbors on both sides have kids and are all very nice and neighborly. There are at least two health food stores in town , although one of them (run by my landlady) is largely vitamins and food supplements. You have to drop off your recycling somewhere (not sure yet where). My neighbor has a cute new puppy, and so does her boyfriend. Work is good, it's all interesting, I have a gigantic office with a window and chairs for people to sit in and I've started studying for the bar like mad. It's actually been pretty nice not having internet at home the past week. I crave indian food but it's not to be had. Now it's time for dinner and then Professor David Epstein will lecture me on contract law.
. . .
May 31, 2007
the dirty little move II
Betsy and I hit the road for North Platte yesterday--three hours, 10 minutes, strong winds and $100 of ethanol (it's cheaper here than regular b/c of the subsidies--Betsy's never had it so good, I reckon). My mother followed along in her car, and once in NP, we spent the day driving around, talking to realtors, looking at houses (mostly from the outside), and getting discouraged. Finally, we went to an 5:45 appointment I'd made that afternoon to see a duplex, not expecting much. The first one we looked at was pretty nice--but the second, exactly the same except it had beautiful hardwood floors, was the one I wanted. It was far-and-away nicer and in better condition than anything we'd looked at that day: central air, the aforementioned hardwood floors, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, two bedrooms, a nice tree and some bushes out front, and the possibility of a dog-friend. "Judy," I says to the landlady, "Judy, I'd like to take this place. What's your application process like?" "Well," she says, "I've had good luck with attorneys. Just come down to my business tomorrow and we'll sign the papers." She was amazingly nice, and agreed to let us unload Betsy and sleep there that very night, giving us the one key she had.
So off Mom and I went to celebratory big fat greek salads and a rendezvous with the local ginormous grocery, SunMart (it's amazing how even in smallish towns in Nebraska the grocery stores look like they're prepared for visiting armies, maybe of Sun-Martians). Then we stopped at my future office to pick up Betsy, where my also-extremely-nice colleague AMcM volunteered to help us unload her! And once we got to my new place, two neighbors, James and Clayton, just showed up and insisted on helping too! A job that would have taken my mother and me four hours at least took one instead. Then we got to stand around and drink Coors Lite outside, which tasted delicious and, I was told, there was even no need for worry that the cops were going to bust us. I guess we were on "my" property the whole time anyway, but still, it's not something I'm used to doing.
My mother and I put together some of the furniture, unpacked a few necessary boxes, ate some ice cream and called it a night. This morning, I returned Betsy to her rightful owners, got some keys made, signed the lease, had the utilities switched to my name, and we took off for our state's capital. I have training in Omaha, Lincoln, and Grand Island all next week, so I won't actually be back in NP till next weekend sometime. But in the meantime, I am free of Betsy and so is my stuff, and all is well. Yesterday ended so much better than it began, it's almost hard to believe it was all just one day.
And so ends the dirty little move, at least the moving part of it. The rest of it, we'll just have to see.
. . .
p.s. The first half of the DLM really was dirty, because between Erik and I, we packed so efficiently that I had to go commando from NY to NE. It was a nice change of pace, though. Underwear might be overrated.
So off Mom and I went to celebratory big fat greek salads and a rendezvous with the local ginormous grocery, SunMart (it's amazing how even in smallish towns in Nebraska the grocery stores look like they're prepared for visiting armies, maybe of Sun-Martians). Then we stopped at my future office to pick up Betsy, where my also-extremely-nice colleague AMcM volunteered to help us unload her! And once we got to my new place, two neighbors, James and Clayton, just showed up and insisted on helping too! A job that would have taken my mother and me four hours at least took one instead. Then we got to stand around and drink Coors Lite outside, which tasted delicious and, I was told, there was even no need for worry that the cops were going to bust us. I guess we were on "my" property the whole time anyway, but still, it's not something I'm used to doing.
My mother and I put together some of the furniture, unpacked a few necessary boxes, ate some ice cream and called it a night. This morning, I returned Betsy to her rightful owners, got some keys made, signed the lease, had the utilities switched to my name, and we took off for our state's capital. I have training in Omaha, Lincoln, and Grand Island all next week, so I won't actually be back in NP till next weekend sometime. But in the meantime, I am free of Betsy and so is my stuff, and all is well. Yesterday ended so much better than it began, it's almost hard to believe it was all just one day.
And so ends the dirty little move, at least the moving part of it. The rest of it, we'll just have to see.
. . .
p.s. The first half of the DLM really was dirty, because between Erik and I, we packed so efficiently that I had to go commando from NY to NE. It was a nice change of pace, though. Underwear might be overrated.
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