two in one

here are two songs that are the same song:

i went to a "the weepies" concert last friday.  it was an acoustic night and, therefore, they sang "be my thrill" acoustically.  i like the orig version of this song.  but i LOVE the acoustic.  like love, love it.  like now the recording i took of it is both my alarm clock and my ringtone.  i love love love love love love love love it.  but i don't have a full version of it to listen to on itunes and you can't download it either.  consequently, i've started listening to and enjoying the original version more.

i would like to go back to the very beginning of this post and the idea of there being two songs that are the same song.  because this is a daily feeling in my life, only a little different.  in my mind, there are two law schools that are one law school.

the original law school is like the original version of "be my thrill" because it is a lot louder and a lot faster and a lot pizzazzier and a lot more in-your-face-ier.  like law students.  they wear power suits and carry power brief cases (starting as 2Ls) and use their own rhythm to power themselves forward and into the wide and powerful world of law.  this song has that internal drive.  it gets you up and moving into to the top 10% of your class, onto law review, onto the dean's list.  

this law school isn't my favorite.  in fact, this law school is less than not my favorite.  it turns me off to the whole idea.  and that's probably why i delayed going to law school for approximately 3 years. 

but there is another law school.  the acoustic law school.  it is sweeter and slower and more unassuming.  it worms its way into your heart and makes you feel warm with possibility, promise, and sincerity.  it makes you think that maybe, just maybe, you can have all the things you wanted, all the things you've aspired to for perhaps your whole life.  

i was introduced to this law school during orientation week in the form of my dean of admissions.  his name is reyes aguilar (king eagle- a bill he fits).  he's from texas, but his family is mexican.  he's got this sort of old hollywood aura hanging around him.  that's right, i said old hollywood aura.  and what i mean by that is that he reminds you of a time when men were men, strong and silent, tall, dark, and handsome, used few words, didn't stand for overly emotional emotions, and inspired faith and confidence in all that they met.  clark gable.  that's who reyes aguilar is to the s. j. quinney school of law.  

anyway, i have seriously digressed.  

he talked to us a lot during orientation week.  on the last day, he was telling us that some of us were going to get really bad grades and that we were going to be sad because we had always been smart and for many of us, that was going to be inevitable.  and we probably all wanted to cry, but were trying super hard not to.  and then, in a bizarre fate-twist, he started crying.  completely composed CLARK GABLE started crying!  for absolutely not one apparent reason.  so, he took a swig or two from a handy water bottle, cleared his throat, recomposed himself for a brief moment, and finally said:

"my mom died earlier this year.  right before she died she gave me some advice and i knew that it was advice because she started by saying, 'listen mijo".  for those of you who don't know what mijo means, it's a term of endearment in spanish for your son.  it's like saying 'little one'.  mija is what you say when you're talking to a girl."  

well, unbeknownst to clark/reyes, i started to tear as soon as he uttered the word mijo because i knew what it meant and have recently developed a dominant soft spot for latin american romance languages.  

he went on to say, "i stopped giving advice in these things a few years ago because you get so much of it and really you just need a chance to figure it out on your own.  but this year is different because i am going to give you advice.  maybe it's because i miss hearing, "listen mijo".  so, listen mijos, listen mijas.  i want you to go home and write down why you came to law school so that you don't lose sight of what brought you here.  i want you to have it to look at when you start to forget and when you wonder why you came here in the first place.  i don't want you to lose who you are right now at this moment because that you shouldn't change in law school.  you should just be adding to it.  we chose you because of who you are right now. that is how you got here and we want you to continue being that for the next three years.  and i want you to know that my door is always open for you, even if it is closed, it is open."

let me tell you what.  i have built no defenses against a clark gable archetype calling me "my child" and telling my not to lose sight of myself and the reasons that i came to law school because they need to be my guiding light.  being addressed in familiar spanish made coming to law school with dreams of being an immigration lawyer seem oh so appropriate.  and good.  and attainable.  

moving to law school felt like a break-up with everything i have done over the last few years. and the last few months.  i've changed a lot, added a lot, refined a lot, and gained a lot; especially recently.  leaving that behind, or feeling that i had to in order to progress broke my heart.  but then there was my dean of admissions telling me i'd better not let go of all of that or else.  and that his door was always open for me.  

that is acoustic law school.  

acoustic law school helps me to like not-acoustic law school.  or bear it.  whatever.  it gets me through the classes and the homework and the just wanting to drop my classes because today is the add/drop deadline.  it helps me remember that there is more and that that is why i'm here at all.

toasty golden brown

i submit that this is the best color in the world (toasty golden brown, that is).  i've spent a solid amount of my life in pursuit of it.  i want it to be my summertime descriptor from my sunkissed coiffure to my perfectly tanned toes.  this desire dates back to my childhood.  luckily, i have two older sistercousins who share this drive.  and together, we have come up with an almost foolproof and highly effective toasty-golden-browning process.  out of the goodness and generosity of my heart, i will share it with you today.

so.

step one-
listen to some music that is like this:

i don't know or care why, but the weezer blue album has skin priming properties that greatly enhance the tanning process.  it's almost as though the power chords and head-bangy rhythms get the cells dancing and singing and thirsty for vitamin D and sunburn.

step two-
apply lotion.  ordinary ol' lotion.  i like lotion with aloe in it, but it really doesn't matter.  do this 20 minutes in advance.  that is the optimum amount of absorption time.  just trust me.

(*note- girls- all of this works better if you've got a clean shave.  especially since if you shave after you tan you shave off your tan.  what a waste.)

step three-
get yourself some trashy mags (us weekly, people, vogue, vanity fair, these are some of my faves) and a diet coke.

step four-
locate some water.  tanning always goes better, faster, and smoother with water body near by.  so, find a lake, river, stream, kiddie pool, and set up camp.  camp should include a towel and/or pool chair, aforementioned magazines and beverage, ipod (just in case), and companion (because tanning always goes better, faster, and smoother with a body body near by as well).

step five-
get wet.  everything.  hair included.  it is a fact that the reflective properties of the water clinging to your skin speeds up the entire affair.

step six-
lay down.  read, drink, talk, listen, sing, sleep, whatever for no fewer than 20 and no longer that 40 minutes.

step seven-
re-wet.

step eight-
flip over.  repeat step six.  repeat step seven.  repeat step eight.  repeat step six.  repeat step seven.  repeat step eight.  you get the gist.  this can go on for as long as you like.

step nine-
once you have finished with the actual sun it is imperative that you slather your skin in lotion, aloe lotion this time.  it must be aloe lotion.  or hawaiian tropic after sun.  that stuff is like liquid gold.  the faster you can re-oil your toasted skin, the better.  peeling is the suntan's worst enemy.

step ten-
take a hot shower.  especially if your tan has escalated to burn.  you might say i'm crazy, but i'm not.  it hurts like the dickens in the shower, but your skin feels SO much better when you get out.  and it seals in the color.

and there you have it.  ten easy steps to a perfect tan.  this is my life's work, my masterpiece, my mona lisa.  use it well and use it wisely.

summer, i wish you'd never leave.
  

where has the time gone?

the spirits of summer have never been less generous.  unrelentingly they snatch their sunny days from me, this year faster than any other.  i am not grateful.  especially since i am staring down the long and expensive barrel of Law School.  i've never needed a neverending summer more.

if i were to choose one word to catch and en-capsule the last few months (and what a silly and futile exercise that seems to be) it would be unforeseen.  so much of the recent past has blind-and-broad-sided me.  i feel indebted to the experience i have gained, to the exposure i have been given, and to the interests, tastes, and involvement that that has led to.

this world is a big one, regardless of what they say.  so much to see.  so much to do, to learn, to relish, to allow to transform (or transfigure if you are a witch/wizard) you.  this has been the common thread through most of these posts of mine.  i have been swept up completely in the south wind that has been blowing my way.  i hope it doesn't stop.  boy do i ever.   

i feel like this song a little bit, or a lot-a bit:

and also like this poem.  because this summer and those who peopled it have changed me.  and there's nothing i can give that will repay them.

"The Lanyard" by Billy Collins (first heard on NPR)

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.        

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.