Ketchup

So, I guess nine days before I move out of my place is probably not the best time to familiarize you, my adoring readership, with the place I have inhabited for the last seven months but this is what we have to work with, people. The last seven months have basically been so cram packed with crap I did not want to do that even the minute escape from reality that is blogging seemed to be an extra burden on my psyche. At least I got to do it in a cute little cabin situated on Pico and Cloverfield.

With just enough space between the bush and the walkway for this beast, my trusty steed, and my beach basket.


In the last seven months, I took a winter intensive and the Spring semester for a total of 19 units, took and passed the Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam, graduated from law school, rolled right on into Bar prep, and then the three day fiasco of the Bar itself. I finished one week ago today and am still having to remind myself to breathe and let my shoulders recoil from their semi-permanent position right next to my ears. When these nine days are finished, I move to the Rancho. Here's a shot from the hill above overlooking the glory that is Papa's collection.


And, the view from my soon-to-be front porch. No beach cruiser to be seen, but plenty of room for my ideal garden.


If you want to come visit and shoot guns, come move junk, pet horses that are more like big dogs, or ride around on a tractor, let me know. Me? I'll just be waiting the next for months for my Bar results to come and trying to drop the trailer.

Home for the Holidays

I made it home safe, sound and in time for some much needed sleep on Sunday. Since then, I've been watching the "Law and Order" Marathon on television which makes so much more sense now that I've taken the Federal Rules of Evidence and understand the Attorney-Client Privilege, the standard for expert testimony, and hearsay.

We've got family stuff going on for the next few days -- and this will be the first year in 18 or so that we celebrate Christmas day at somewhere other than the Ranch. Last year, I used the good will and pity I amassed by breaking my femur in half to coax my sister, second sister, and cousin onto the quad and race them at full break neck speed up and down the quarter mile driveway. If there's one thing that I learned from being sick, it's the best time to get people to do things they don't want to.


That's Cas on the front of the quad, cushioned by an old mattress. That's me, driving and Ash and Jenny are holding on for dear life off the back.

Fly Away

I've been interrupted three times recently.

The first was on Monday. I was leaving from my house after three days of furious studying for Federal Tax to actually attend the exam. I opened the outer door of my flat and found myself in the busy, smoky scene of a fire four doors down, but all up in my space. Three fire trucks, ambulances, people scurrying. It felt strange, like I had stepped into another world. I couldn't imagine how I missed it all happening. I mean, I can usually hear a flea fart through the single paned windows in my room. How did I miss it? I wasn't sure, but I was a bit annoyed at the commotion.

The second time was yesterday afternoon. Taking a break from my furious study habits, I was just out of the bath. The doorbell rang and it was a fireman offering free home inspections because a man had died in that fire, and they wanted to check my smoke alarms.

The third was that same night -- last night. This time, it was drum beats. Loud and more furious than my studying. Long, wailing singing. A crowd of people on the street, making one noise:

"Fly away. Fly away, home."

This time, I could hear it through my windows. I wanted to run down and make sure it was what I thought, but I thought better of interrupting such a procession.

So, I just listened. And, thought.

"Fly away. Fly away, home."

Somehow, the furious studying didn't seem so important.

The View from My Computer

Me (looking forlorn), lots of big books (feeling quite foreboding), some very British window tapestries (required in libraries.)


It's Finals time. One down, four to go, finished on Friday next. And 4/5 of the way through with law school.

Hopefully my personality remembers how to work when I get the chance to use it again cause my jokes seem to be lost on these books.

Margaret Thatcher wears Ferrgamos

I mean, I guess if you are a former British Prime Minister, the first women to lead a Western Country, and BFF with Ronald Reagan during the Cold War years, you deserve some expensive Italian navy blue flats.

She stopped by the Pepperdine house tonight, on her way back from Parliament's opening ceremony where she still sits on the House of Lords, and spent an hour greeting students and letting us take photos.

She asked questions, and listened intently. When asked if we were studying British law, Ben replied that we weren't and stuttered a bit. He stuttered because his European Union Law teacher had only just warned him NOT to mention that he was taking EU Law because Margaret Thatcher hates the EU and would freak out that people were not only using, but also teaching EU law.

She was gracious, and funny. Old, but still beautiful and impeccably dressed. One student remarked that she is "still rocking a wicked perm." About half way through, Professor Popovich had to run up to his flat to grab her a glass of scotch and water so apparently she is still rocking in general.

She Shall Remain Nameless

The stage: Dinner at the National Portrait Gallery, overlooking the well-lit London cityscape. A lovely prefix dinner, accompanied by four well-educated friends, chattering away about life, love and other mysteries. The conversation is animated and punctuated by the surrounding crowd of twenty-somethings with after work drinks, and fifty-somethings with after museum meals.

Friend One: "I would really love to get back to the Tate Modern to see their new exhibits. The Dali exhibit last year was fantastic. Expensive, but fantastic."

Friend Two: "The Tate had a Dolly Parton Exhibit?! .... Oh wait, you must mean Salvador Dali. .... Please don't tell anyone I just said that."

Friends One through Four laugh hysterically because Salvador Dali and Dolly Parton exist in such different worlds that it's hard to imagine that they have ever, in the history of the world, been confused before. (However, someone might want to call Trebek and tell him it would make for a good Jeopardy answer where they combine two phrases, like Salvador Dali Parton.)

Friend One: "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about it, but I do have to put it on my blog."

And, scene.

I Guess It's Cool in France

Friends, your eyes do not deceive you: This is, indeed, a Durex Premium Condom Dispenser in the middle of the main drag in Bordeaux.



Or, more accurately, Blaye, the little town outside Bordeaux where we stayed. A town where you struggle to find more than 6 people under 50 in a restaurant on a Friday night. I can't imagine that this little gem gets much good use, but apparently someone thought this was a good enough idea to spend the money implementing it.

I can imagine very few situations in life that would make this transaction worthwhile, but cie la vie. French is the language of love, so who I am to argue with their birth control choices?