In trying to look on the bright side of being 2+ hours away from AB, my friends and family for a year in a city that is hotter than hell and slower than molasses, I needed to look no further than across the bridge into a neighboring state, where I can get Yuengling Lager, also known as Sweet Sweet Nectar of the Gods, or Where Am I And What On Earth Happened Last Night?

Seriously, this stuff is worth crossing state lines and venturing into uncharted redneck-ville for. Way back when I was but a wee undergrad, Yuengling was only distributed in Pennsylvania. So every time a PA native headed home, we sent them on their merry way with cash and orders to bring back lots of Yuengling and Utz Party Mix.

While I was happy to resume saying “y’all” and shed any vestiges of Yankee-ness that I inadvertently acquired while living north of the Mason-Dixon, I was sad to leave behind my favorite beer. Needless to say, I was thrilled when I learned it was being distributed along the entire East Coast. Except for my Great State, that is (probably due to our odd and archaic distribution laws). Nevertheless, being a stone’s throw away from a state where I can get it is pretty sweet indeed.

The temperature reportedly topped out at 106 degrees today.  Though I don’t always never carry a thermometer with me, I can say that walking across the parking lot after work today, I nearly spontaneously combusted.  I am also relatively certain that I will have to sell one of my kidneys in order to pay my power bill next month.

The city is probably a good two hours away from the coast, but is situated on a big, soggy river that makes the air thick enough to chew.  I didn’t even know where this place was when I interviewed for the job (cut me some slack, I never took Geography as a kid!), and it’s a good thing I didn’t, otherwise I might have run screaming.

After giving it some serious thought, I might be better off practicing law in Afghanistan.  Or Antarctica.  Or anywhere that is (a) 30 degrees cooler, and (b) won’t make me take the bar exam again.

It’s a good day when I go to class, and a great day if I actually manage to do most or all of the reading before class actually starts. I have nary an outline to show for the semester and the two papers that I have to write this semester are still just a figment of my uninspired imagination.

As the weather gets warmer and sunnier, the patios of the downtown bars — not-so-coincidentally located a mere block or so from the law school — suddenly become more alluring. Consequently, my sharp decline in motivation is directly correlated with an increase in beer consumption on warm, sunny patios. I justify it by reflecting back on the wise words of Professor Entertainment-and-a-half. As a matter of fact, I have taken her at her word and not bothered to show up for Entertainment Law in weeks.

Strangely enough, I have seen the 3L apathy shared by myself and my comrades spread to the 2L class like an insidious infectious disease that eats your brain and gives you the overwhelming desire to drink massive amounts of booze and wake up in a gutter.

Now, I’m sort of baffled about this because 2L’s just aren’t allowed to share in our sloth and apathy. They still have to care. It’s sort of like a rite of passage where you are not allowed to completely let yourself go until spring semester of your last year. After all, law school is essentially just a three-year hazing process. Except, the reward is nothing more than a pretty piece of paper and a staggering amount of debt.

As the real world of nine-to-five jobs and Ann Taylor suits draws frightening near, I have decided to embrace my apathy and revel in spring fever. After all, when else in my life will I be able to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, not show up if I just don’t want to, and drink a bottle and a half of wine on a weeknight?

I visited the hospital to check on Kim and Kim Jr. After chatting for a while with her, Baby Daddy, and Baby Grandma, the dreaded question was asked: “Do you want to hold her?”

Me: Ack! I’m scared of babies. And they’re scared of me, too. I might drop her.
Baby Grandma: You won’t drop her.
Me: Babies wiggle. She might just wiggle right onto the floor.
Baby Grandma: She’s too little to wiggle! Don’t be afraid.

So, rather than be shown up by an infant, I reluctantly agreed to hold her. They handed me a tiny little pink football and snapped some pictures while laughing at my complete and total awkwardness and ineptitude with children. Luckily for both me and Kim Jr., she didn’t move an inch. But she did make an awful face at me.

Me, responding to the awful face: Kim Jr., I know you don’t really like me right now. But when you’re 16 and I buy you beer, you’ll love me. Just wait.
Kim: You can buy her beer when she’s 21.
Me: I’m sure you’re praying that she’s not like you were when you were a teenager. But, turnabout is fair play!
Baby Daddy: And she’s not dating until she’s 35!
Me, whispering to Kim Jr. (as if she understands a word of this): Don’t worry, you can bring boys to my house. I won’t rat you out to the parents.
Kim: Don’t you think it might be a little suspicious when Aunt LST lives 50 miles away and is babysitting for her when she’s 17?
Me, to Kim Jr.: I guess we’re not gonna win this one, kid.

I got back to my dad’s house and he asked me about the baby and how Kim was doing, etc. The funny thing about my dad is that he seems to think that engagement and pregnancy are illnesses that can spread through person-to-person contact, at least where I am concerned. After every wedding I go to, he asks if it gave me “wedding fever.” “Of course it didn’t,” I say. His response is usually something like, “Thank fucking Christ.”

So of course, during Kim’s pregnancy he was definitely concerned that it might somehow rub off on me. After I threw her a shower a few weeks ago, he asked, “So does this mean you want a baby?” And my response was a resounding, “Hell no!” much to his relief.

Despite my phobia of babies and children, I’m starting to warm up to the idea of being “cool Aunt LST,” the one who lets Kim Jr. drink at my house when she’s spending the night, teaches her how to drive a five-speed, and convinces Kim and Baby Daddy to let her get a dog. This situation might work out pretty well, I think.

Being a future lawyer, I’m a desirable guest on my friends’ list when they conduct their financial calculus as to who will provide the best payoff in the food-and-booze-to-gift-ratio. Or so they think. In reality, I’m taking a government job while trying to juggle getting a mortgage and paying off my student loans. If this information was widely known in my circle, I’d certainly be cut from the guest list in the first round.

Apparently marriage has become a booming business in this country. While I have been quietly purchasing nice things for my kitchen when I have the extra cash to do so, I realized one Cuisinart and a set of Henkels too late that all I had to do was get engaged and register for whatever the hell I want, and other people would buy it for me. I clearly missed the memo on that one.

Pretty soon I’m going to be priced out of my friends’ weddings, so I’ve started to develop a wedding fiscal strategy.

First, I am going to set a budget each year for wedding expenses, and when that budget has been reached, decline invitations to any weddings for the rest of the fiscal year. So, if you want me in attendance at your wedding, make sure to either a) get married early in the year, or b) register for cheap shit and pay for my hotel room.

Next, I’m consulting with some tax-savvy law students to figure out how I can make this shit tax-deductible. I am certain that many people spend far less money supporting a child (which can currently be itemized) than I anticipate spending on wedding-related expenses in the next couple years.

Finally, I have realized that in order to equalize this cost-benefit ratio, I need to fast for three days before attending any wedding and carry a large purse so that I can take full advantage of the buffet. As an aside, your chances of securing a positive RSVP from me improve exponentially if you assure me that you will have an open bar with a ready supply of Amstel and Stoli.

And for those of you whose weddings I have dutifully attended (or will attend), gift in hand, please note that I am graduating in May, and as such I have registered down at the local Infiniti dealership.

I really have to wonder where this strange tradition began. Taking season change forecasts from a rodent seems mighty odd to me, particularly one named Gen. Lee who lives in a miniature antebellum mansion. Southerners will apparently take any opportunity to shove their Civil War heritage in your face when assigning nomenclature, whether it be to a groundhog or a Dodge Charger.

I was thinking that instead of checking weather.com each day, I could just buy my own groundhog and keep him in the house. Then I would always be abreast of changing weather conditions. Not sure how the Terrorists would like that, though.

Today I accepted a one-year clerkship with Judge R. in a relatively decent-sized city down by the coast. I had actually previously received another offer from a judicial circuit in the northwest corner of the state, but they insisted that I start on June 1 and had to know by today.

Because I have balls the size of cantaloupes, I contacted Judge R. to see if he’d made any decisions because I was on a tight deadline and wanted to be able to consider his circuit, if possible. I guess my chutzpah paid off, as he e-mailed me back and offered me the position. It starts in August and is only a couple hours from the beach and from two of my friends who will be living down on the coast.

Aside from the crappy pay, everything else is pretty sweet. The hours and benefits are great, the location is nice and the experience will lead to excellent job opportunities afterwards, no matter what I decide to do.

I am not sure that the reality has hit me quite yet. I despise wearing a suit, but will probably have to wear one every day. I will not, however, let the man keep me from kicking off my heels under the desk. I am not quite sure it has sunk in that I’ll be working and not continuing to postpone the real world for as long as possible. Being a part of the working populace is something that totally eludes my realm of thinking.

In any case, it is a new adventure. The Terrorists have packed their toys, but I told them it was a bit premature. First, they have to suffer through a whole summer of putting up with me while I study for the bar (which I plan to do by the pool, for what it’s worth). If they can survive that, they can survive anything.

Check out my little Etsy shop. If you want to order Christmas presents, payment has to be received AND clear by December 15th in order to ship by the USPS holiday shipping deadlines.

C’mon, you know you want to.

In the spirit of the holiday, here is a non-exhaustive list of things I am thankful for:

• My family, even though some of them drive me batshit crazy
• The Beef
• The Boston Terrorists
• My friends, even though most of them think I have died
• Not having to join the real world yet
• Afternoon naps (with the Terrorists, of course)
• $1 draft specials
• College football
• Grande nonfat two-raw-sugar lattes
• A well-stocked bar
• A month-long break at Christmas

And here is a list of things that I do not currently have, but would be thankful for if I had them:

• A lot of money (or even sort of a lot of money)
• A plan for my life
• My sanity
• A fundamental understanding of UCC Article 9
• The ability to fall asleep at night, undrugged
• A house with a fenced-in yard for the Terrorists
• Job offer(s) that don’t suck
• Completed outlines for all my classes
• A good radar detector
• Freak repellent

Freaky Guy: Hey, I think I recognize you from somewhere. Did you go to W High School?
Me, obviously confused: No. I went to L High School.
Freaky Guy: That was going to be my next guess. Wasn’t there some article about you in the paper where you got arrested for beating another kid up for stealing your lunch?

[I shit you not. This is what he said. You can understand my utter speechlessness at this point.]

Me, wondering what kind of Bizarro world I’ve landed in: Ummm…
Freaky Guy: Just kidding, just kidding!

[Who the fuck says shit like this when they are "just kidding" WITH A TOTAL STRANGER?]

Freaky Guy: So you’re at Local State University now, right?

[Do I have a stalker? If I do, he is the worst stalker I've ever seen. Which might actually be a relief. I mean, if you're going to have a stalker, it's best if he's a shitty one who will end up peeping through someone else's window 70 miles away because he sucks at doing his stalker research.]

Me: No, I’m at PDSEU Law School.

[Internal Monologue: Dammit, dammit, dammit! I should know better than to leave this conversation open-ended like that.]

Freaky Guy: Oh, well if you do immigration I can get you a ton of work when you finish.
Me: I’m not. But one of my friends is.

[Internal Monologue: Shit, there I go again, not cutting the conversation off when I had a perfectly good chance.]

Freaky Guy: Well, here, why don’t you give her my number. [He finds a piece of paper.] I work with the daycare workers around here. Do you have a pen?

[A couple of points here. First, why are you giving me your number? I don't want it! Second, what does it mean to "work with" the daycare workers? Are they mild-mannered child care providers by day, hookers by night?]

Me, lying my ass off while sounding apologetically sincere: No, I’m sorry, I don’t have a pen.
Freaky Guy: Well, I’m sure I’ll see you up front at the checkout, I’ll give it to you before I leave.
Me, happy to see the light at the end of this tunnel: Okay!

At this point, I hustled away, grabbed the first thing that remotely looked like what I came to the store for, and made a beeline for the self-checkout. As I was sprinting through the automatic doors, I looked behind me to make sure Freaky Guy didn’t see my frantic and somewhat awkward escape.

Upon further reflection, I’m fairly sure that I could have avoided most of the situation had I: (a) told him I had just been released from a mental institution and was living in a halfway house; (b) screamed “RAPE!”; or (c) pretended not to speak English (or Spanish).

When am I going to learn? Apparently, not soon enough.