Retreat

December is probably one of my most anticipated months of the year. It signals my birthday, Christmas, and the New Year. But, for all that, it doesn't make for much of a genuine break. I came straight from exams (or, more accurately, my post-exam party, hangover in tow), and was whisked immediately off to a much needed appointment with my hair dresser, the mall for last minute shopping, my aunt's Christmas party, a visit with my Grandma, and suddenly it was Christmas. With errands and jet lag and two days of -20 snow storms, I have yet to see any of my beloved friends, in fact. If all these flurry of activity weren't enough, between Christmas and New Year I always find myself overwhelmed with the pressure of New Years plans. So, for perhaps the fourth year in a row, I have simply opted out. For true relaxation and an unequivocal break, I have escaped to the Rockies. 

 

My whole family has escaped to our cabin in Waterton Lakes National Park. I plan to do little more than laze by the fire, get a leisurely start on my readings, and allow the clean air and fresh water to cleanse my skin and my soul. Here's a glimpse. Get ready to get jealous.

Being at the cabin means sweaters and leggings and afternoon naps, not concealer and mascara.

So, however you choose to spend your New Year, surrounded by glitter and bubbles and friends, or snow and deer tracks, enjoy it. Tabula rasa everyone. See you in the brand spankin' new year.

I Survived the Apocalypse

I am not speaking of the Mayan apocalypse. I'm talking about the apocalypse that is a law student's first round of exams. Ah, what fresh hell it is. For over a month I felt the constant nagging guilt of feeling as though any energy not expended on the law was energy poorly expended. So you have my apologies. I know I am always apologizing. But, though it was a conversation fuelled by gin and tonic, I made a blogging vow with a classmate of mine. It may even lead to a cool collabo. But first things first - to nurture and love my once and future blog. 'Tis the season, isn't it?

Speaking of, have you seen a more idyllic Christmas picture? An argument could perhaps be made for switching the wine for egg nog, and hanging some additional stockings above the fire (there is my cat's stocking up there, hardly in the frame. It's white and reads "Cats love Christmas too." Which is funny, because my cat could hardly be said to love anything at all, except most certainly sleep and food, and occasionally me, but I suspect that is in large part because I facilitate the latter of her two most constant and unerring loves).

But this is exactly how I envision spending my Christmas break. Blowing off commitments to go out and socialize, which would require trekking into the cold and braving trecherous roads in horrendous weather, in favour of staying in with a glass of truly fabulous red wine, Bernard Callebaut chocolate cherries and a roaring fire. I am aged before my time.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Like a Devil's, sick of sin

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

--Wilfred Owen 

Remembrance Day does not glorify war. Remembrance Day is an opportunity to reflect on war, its horrors, its losses, and the sacrifice of those involved. It is not political. It is reverent.

#4 - Shake It Off, or, Taking up the Mantel

My lovely friend Kathy had a blog, once upon a time. I feel like we are the generation of people who will have "had blogs." Because we are, if HBO's Girls has taught me anything, the generation of self-indulgent prima donnas who want to talk about our feelings and our emotions and try to leave behind a relic of our humanity. Or something like that, right? And then we are all going to get hit in the face with the concrete brick of reality, with real life deadlines and commutes and relationships and commitments. And thus, we abandon our navel-gazing revelry and get to work. Well don't you fret - while I completely understand my friends' abandoning their blogs for real life - I am too big a narcissist and too poor at prioritizing to give up blogging for anything less than being, meh, just too lazy. But as long as there is work to do and a library for me to sit in fruitlessly, there will be blog posts.

The point that I have been dancing around is that I am going to take up the mantel of one of Kathy's last, abbreviated, blog projects. She found a moral imperative to provide law students with tips for surviving law school. She only got three tips in, which should probably leave me with a sense of foreboding, but I find myself wanting to pick up where she left off. Because law school is overwhelming, and taking a step back to re-evaluated and decide what is important and what paths need to be taken strikes me as helpful for me and hopefully illuminating for others.

I do this, however, realizing that I begin this undertaking with the optimistic view that I will survive law school, and the humility that I almost certainly don't have any actual answers. I am no pro at law school. But I am prone to navel gazing [see above] and so occasionally am given a moment of clarity where things that are self evident become so again, after being crush by my Torts textbook or my Legal Process deadline.

Shake it Off

As you will hear, law school can be cut throat. Take every smarty pants who did well in school who you ever knew, put them together in one class, and tell them that an A (and therefor a prestigious 1st year internship that could very well lay the groundwork for their entire career) is entirely contingent not on how well they know the subject matter, or how hard they've studied or even how well they do on their exams - that A is entirely contingent on you doing better than your fellow smarty pants.

I'm not Jewish, but let me just say; Oy.

My experience has thus far not been the horror story that Selma Blair painted for me in Legally Blonde (my personal quintessential law school film). A lot of people in my classes are really supportive and helpful, and virtually no one goes out of their way to make sure their classmates don't understand a concept. 

But there will be comments. "Oh, well if that works for you, then I guess go ahead." "Do you have all your summaries done yet? Because I do, but I'm worried they aren't thorough enough." Just the other day, after trying to assure a friend of mine that she had time to eat lunch, I was on the receiving end of "I'm behind. You're really behind, but that doesn't mean I'm not behind."

Excusemewhat? I'm sure I looked like I had been slapped. It hurt. It was mean. But I have the confidence that it wasn't intended to hurt or come across as mean. It almost certainly came from a place of insecurity and stress that had exactly nothing to do with me.

And that's when and why you need to shake it off. You can spend all day freaking out about whether or not you're behind, or you can just go ahead make sure it's not true. Mind games - and whether mind games are actually being played, or we all just read way too much into other people's actions, is an assumption I would certainly contest - are not going to help you.

what is more likely to help you is this picture of a Puli jumping. Or "shaking it off," if you will.

We all (hopefully) are going to go be lawyers, and that probably means some of us will work with each other. So don't be a douche. But if some one is a douche, don't vilify them. Shake it off, and realize that we're all probably a little stressed.

The Wildly Obscure Halloween Costume, Well Executed

There are a number of ways that you would be able to deduce that I went to a liberal arts school. I have been known to espouse the virtues of the oxford comma. I tuck my pants into my socks. Just this week I made a bell hooks joke. But I feel that at no time is my socially-crippling liberal arts background as cogent as it is at Halloween.

The rest of the year I can avoid engaging in debates about the relevancy of Hegelian historical theory, or restrain myself from suggesting we move to a political system that honours a philosopher king, but at Halloween my desire for a witty and unique costume makes these engrained ticks unavoidable. I will wear a wildly obscure costume, well executed.

This became evident in just my second year of liberal arts education. Two friends and I, based on a ludicrous rant about over zealous leftists, went as communist cats.

Chat Guevara, Chairman Meow and Fidel Catro, here to empower the proletariat and look just adorable. Now gimme candy.

This was well received at my university. We were all stars! The wittiest! This costume, in its absurd specificity, was topped only by my friend Geoff, who one year went as a Beatle in a box. I think he was Ringo. Wittgenstein joke - get it? No? Congrats - you're a normal, well socialized individual. I'm jealous.  This sort of reception, of course, set a very unrealistic standard for my young malleable mind; I was left with the impression that this sort of vaulted humour would enshrine me in social scenarios as the charming and hilarious heroine, here to turn life into an HBO comedy. Notsomuch.

I have endeavoured since then to make my costumes related more directly to pop culture icons. You know, something to avoid coming off as an ivory-tower elitist. A costume relatable to the every-man! The self realization of my Chat Guevara facade, as it were. However, liberal arts has clearly gone so far as to taint my mind as to what exactly qualifies as an icon.

My point? My Halloween costume:

Robert Palmer Addicted to Love Band Member! Duh. My mum and dad and 38-year-old former colleague Shannon got it. And Heather (the lovely little kitten in the middle, who, incidentally, went as  Kim Kierkegaardashian this year. "My wild hair, black ensemble, popped blazer collar and general ruffled and mournful demeanour are the Kierkegaard elements. My fake lashes and amazing ass are the Kim Kardashian"). That exhausts the list.

But, seriously, this is not a bad likeness. But familiarity with the original is a prerequisite to appreciating a likeness, and this costume just did not have a large enough fan base for that. But check it out!


The curse of the upper middle class dedication to meaningful, not pragmatic, education rears its ugly head every Halloween. I'm just a misunderstood victim of circumstance, really.

Next year I should probably just be a Spice Girl.

Law School Ladies Look Bomb

Today proved the first ideal opportunity to capture a phenomenon that I have found both surprising and awesome about law school.

Namely, the girls here are babes.

Or, to be more clear, are sartorially brilliant. So many of the girls I go to school with have distinct personal styles, and you very rarely have anyone in class roll in in yoga pants and a t-shirt (sorry girl in the front row who rolls in daily in yoga pants and a t-shirt - no jibe intended). While some may find this standard a daunting one, I have personally found it inspiring. The freedom to express myself with clothing without worrying that I may be made to feel overdressed has inspired me to be ever more creative in constructing a morning ensemble. I have been plumbing the depths of my closet with an increasingly perceptive eye for possible outfit constructions, making use out of old and new garments alike. And it's fun!

I discussed my fascination with the fashion law school studies has seemed to evoke with a couple of my girlfriends here, and the sentiment was mutually felt. We did, in fact, decide that it would be a great idea to start immortalizing some of our favourite outfits.

Today was a less formal photo shoot than certainly what I had in mind (see: trans-friendly bathroom backdrop), but the hilarious coincidence of nearly identical outfits seemed like fair grounds for a picture. Let me present to you Law School's "Who Wore it Best?" Black and Blue edition:

So, some notable differences here. Caroline opted for a Victorian-style high-necked lace top, a structured blazer and, not clearly captured, a distressed-gold flat. This amounted to a much more classic look, though her more brightly blue pants serve as an edgier element in light of these classic pieces.
My interpretation of the blue-pant-black-top-black-blazer phenomenon was much more rockabilly-cum-rock star. My pompadour bouffant, black leather booties and slouchy blazer, paired with a low cut leotard which, yes, bears my bra, made for a much less professional, and somewhat less conventional, take on the look. Less See Jane, more Wheredidugetthat, Street or otherwise.

What should this installment be called? Law School Looks? Sartorial Solicitors-in-training? Attourney Attire? I'm going to go with Vestiary Capacity for the time being. Because it's like testamentary capacity! Getit??

The Short Hair Debate

It is that time of year again. No, I don't mean autumn. And no, my midterms just passed actually. It is the time of year when I realize I have put no effort into a Halloween costume and it's right around the corner, yes, but that is also not what I am talking about. It is that unanticipated and entirely unpredictable time of year, coming approximately twice per annum, that I am in the throes of an insatiable desire to cut off all my hair.

No, not G.I. Jane style. I don't think white girls can get away with that in every day life, certainly not without prompting questions about what cancer society you were fundraising for and how much your femininity earned them. This time around (because, as I say, I fight this urge every few months) I find myself adoring Miley Cyrus' cropped cut. It's so versatile - it can be edgy and modern, or subdued and classic. A friend of mine even suggested that if I do it, do it all the way and go blonde. That one is probably not in the cards

Whether or not this particular cut would suite me is beside the point, however. It is less this particular cut that I crave, than simply short hair itself. However, I have found myself torn by other considerations.

First, and deplorable as I find this to be in myself, I am very concerned about what people would think if I were to have short hair.

I should say, short hair again. I wore my hair in a pixie cut for well over a year, almost four years ago now. The growing out process has been taking place ever since, and has included all sorts of eccentric behaviour to encourage long and healthy locks, including, but not limited to, taking a weird American hair-thinning supplement, the box of which warned that the contents may contain traces of shark. So, given those endeavours, I find myself trying to remember why I decided to grow my hair back out at all.

I have friends who rave about my short locks. Some friends even tell me things like "you have such a good face for short hair," which really just feed my ego unnecessarily. I may cut my hair just so that people will compliment my face. But I also love what having short hair says about a woman. To me it says that she is not concerned with traditional notions of femininity and sex appeal; she's self confident, stylish and modern. And I like to think that those are all things I see in myself. But, while I gaze at model shots like the one of myself on the boat there, I know that, in reality, a lot of my life with short hair resembled:

I'm the one on the right, just to be clear.

Less appealing. But, altogether I put more effort into my appearance, I justify to myself. I could avoid looking like a boy! I will not ever again try to grow in my eye brows! So when I find myself trying to justify cutting my hair, even when confronted with truly unflattering pictures of my beloved pixie, I realize that how I think I look with short hair is really not what gives me pause. What bothers me is the opinions of ignorant people.

I know that sounds truly ridiculous. Why would anyone care about the opinion of ignorant people? Because I have friends who, in this regard, are ignorant people. To be clear, I do not for one second assume that everyone who tells me that they like my hair better long is saying so because their opinion comes from a place of anti-feminist woman-shaming. That is totally a legitimate opinion, and one that I must at least in part share - if I thought I looked like crap with long hair, I hope I would not leave it long just because I put the time in. Like eating an entire plate of food you ordered even though you aren't hungry, because goddamnit it's there. But, there are people who I love and respect who, nonetheless, have very entrenched and traditional notions of femininity. Men and women. And I just hate to imagine facing people for the first time since the cut, knowing some would commence trash talking my new "butch" style the moment I exited the vicinity. Short hair automatically excludes you from the ranks of beautiful people in the minds of a lot of men and some women. I have a hard time convincing myself that I don't care about that.

However, and more alarmingly, do I perhaps need to consider how short hair could impact my career? Would a young and edgy hairstyle read as immature and unapproachable to an interviewer from a more conservative law firm? Is it possible that looking as common, or at least as uncontroversial, as possible will be the safest avenue to help ensure future employment? Law hasn't been unaffected by the recession, and new lawyers are having to fight hard for jobs like everyone else.When I hear about articles advocating and explaining why female lawyers should be wearing skirts or just generally how high the standard of professional appearance (I say euphemistically) is for female lawyers, I realize that these are factors I probably need to consider. Could cutting my hair be a career killer?

When I asked my mum what she thought about me cutting my hair she immediately began listing advantages of long hair, citing the time I had put into growing it, how versatile it was now, and the like. It was as though I had proposed the idea of dropping out, or moving to Nebraska - my mum's speech made it seem as though it was her motherly imperative to dissuade me from this simply foolish course of action. When she realized that these arguments were seeming to have the opposite of their intended affect - as strongly felt parental opinions are wont to do -  just short of actually making me promise, she pleaded with me to wait to cut my hair until I come home for Christmas, telling me that she would call my hairdresser once we were off the phone to make me an appointment for the day after my plane lands. I think she's hoping that this fever for Farrow-length locks will abate by then. And maybe it will. But there's something about that possibility that makes me a little sad.

Maybe I'll just start smoking like Mia Farrow instead. I mean, look how cool she looks. And that sort of live-fast-die-young attitude seems entirely consistent with what I hear of the alcoholism and cocaine habits that run rampant in the legal profession.

But short hair? That's probably pushing it...