Just took the MPRE. I don’t get the results for 5 weeks, but for those who’ve yet to take it: don’t worry too much. Despite being given by the National Conference of Bar Examiners, it pales in comparison to the actual bar.

On the adolescent-sex-exploration-scale it’s like drinking out of the same soda can as your boyfriend.

Shout out to Mark Shipley (my first) who, on second thought, deserves a double-shout: when we couldn’t find a bottle that would actually spin, he improvised with my tube of Dial-A-Lash.

Let’s hope things stay this simple for a while.

I have loved no man like I love old homes. I’ve had many affairs, but none so sordid as the one I’ve carried on with 734 Longmeadow Street. The house is grand, but decaying. Built in 1884 and formerly occupied by the family that invented Absorbine Jr., its’ facade is governed by grotesque pillars… its’ sides adorned with peeling white paint. Most people think the house is gaudy, tacky and ill-fit for Longmeadow Street; it’s no surprise the home has remained vacant for the better part of the past 15 years. How could I love something so wrong? Well, I know in my heart we are meant to be together. How could I love someone I barely know? I’ve tried to get close for years! Unfortunately, the one day I got the guts to make a move, the Longmeadow police instructed me and my tippy-toes to back away from the Palladian window on the porch. Until I can figure out a way for us to work, I am limited to doing drive-bys every time I go home to Massachusetts.

I didn’t mind the 4 hours I spent last week on what turned into a self-guided walking tour of my new hood. After all, I was in love. According to Mt. Pleasant DC Dot Org, an advertisement in the October 29, 1836 Washington Globe described the area as “well-suited for the residence of a gentleman of fortune,” with a “commanding view of the city” and “every advantage for the display of taste in improvement.” In a misguided attempt to get back to my sublet, I ended up on the Mt. Pleasant historic trail. I saw the path Teddy Roosevelt took to skinny dip in Rock Creek Park and the first house in the neighborhood occupied by a black family brave enough to take Shelley v. Kraemer up on its’ offer.

One house particularly stood out. It brought me back to a similarly stumbled-upon home in Santiago. Getting lost in Barrio Bellavista was one of the better things that happened to me during the time I spent living in Chile. After a lunch of fine local cuisine (guacamole on a hotdog bun), I found myself face-to-face with a mammoth salmon-colored mansion. The house was decrepit; draped in vines, covered in rust…it had to be unoccupied for at least a century. I moved closer to try and get a peek inside when all of the sudden an iron shutter on the top floor sprung open. Out came a scary-looking woman with closepins in her hand and a cigarette in her mouth. I took that as a sign to keep it movin’. But, like last-year’s tryst with a charming impresario, I shied away with a pang of regret. Maybe it just needed a little TLC. However, I wouldn’t know if this was the case until I gutted it and saw the plumbing. In the end, I wasn’t willing to make the investment.

When I lived in Hawaii I had an awesome apartment. It overlooked the ocean; I could hear waves crashing at night and see the 6am surfers from my bedroom. The best part was that it had this huge lanai. Even better, that wicker-furnished apartment on Tusitala came equipped with a set of binoculars…perfect for checking out my shirtless surfer-neighbor as he stood on his lanai.

I’ve managed to stop moving at one point. When I did settle down we found ourselves in a remodeled condo near Union Square. I made some concessions, but managed to convince him to paint one of the walls pool-table green. The second half of that relationship moved us into a Brooklyn apartment with an old kitchen and very little sunlight. It was there the relationship turned sour, though ironically when I was my happiest. He complained all the time – the view, the stove, the pieces of plaster ceiling that fell on him when he slept. I could have moved to another place, I maybe could have even married him. A good guy, but I know I could never wholly love a man with no appreciation for a window with a view of a brick wall and electrical outlets covered in 16 layers of paint.

Though my romances with Chile, Hawaii and the guy I left each place for never worked out, 5 years later and I am still willing to overhaul my life.

Today I started bringing a few of my belongings from my temporary sublet into my new non-temporary apartment. On first glance it is your typical studio with lacquered wood flooring, a sort of kitchen and a radiator. But, if you stay a while you notice these little narrow entryways. One leads to a bedroom, the other to a closet. I signed the lease after I discovered where the last nook lead: into a full-blown vanity space. There is a huge mirror, makeup studio lighting and loads of shelves for clothes, belts, shoes and hats. Note to My Future Realtor: this is a selling point. I’ve spent the last 2 years working with a closet that is dark, tiny…oh, and in my kitchen. I spent all of last year getting dressed in my living room cause that is the only place I can fit a rolling rack and a full-length mirror.

I could barely contain my excitement as I wrote out the check, but I grew tired once I thought about logistics. Would all my stuff fit? …Who on earth is gonna carry my tanker desk? …I can’t drive a U-Haul!!! Considering the fortunate events that have taken place this go-around, those things are minor. But, I’m still weary; something about this move feels more permanent. I guess relocating is always bittersweet, but I’ve never really thought about it until now. A store that sells Bustelo is usually enough for me and my belongings to cross state lines. Though there’s a bodega that stocks my delicious coffee right up the block, I am just not quite ready. Leaving Brooklyn makes me really sad, but I can’t say I have a choice. I would be a fool to turn down the chance to lawyer for the Senate. But hey, love hurts.

For a little more on my new digs, check out The 42.

If you live in DC and want to know the history of your house check out Kelsey & Associates, they can tell you all sorts of cool stuff like who lived there and where they worked.

I advise against traveling alone in Chile (the buses do not go in a loop and you will get mugged in your own courtyard), but should you find yourself partnerless, take a trip to La Chascona. A term of endearment meaning “the woman with the messy hair,” Pablo Neruda named the house after Matilda Urrutia, his once-mistress whom he later married.

OH! and If you fail to see the difference between stalking property and stalking people, please familiarize yourself with your own state law.

To my dad: you are wonderful and I am lucky to have you! Thank you for making me read ahead.

I’ve also had many wonderful mentors in my short academic and professional career. To my other “dads:” thank you for teaching me the law..and, the ropes.

Hours spent burning the midnight oil and $160K worth of tuition and you may not believe me.

This requires I explain to you a little bit about the Italian culture. It doesn’t matter how many companies they own or how many suits they have…an Italian will always be a working-class thug. From Vinny who runs his dad’s pizza shop to Gianni who owns hotel bars in Monaco…both of them will equally rent out the unfinished wine cellar to the kitchen staff and try to pay the beer delivery guy with eggs.

And though most of what they do borders on fraudulent, for all intents and purposes let’s call it opportunistic.

Italians don’t do anything unless it benefits them in some way. Landing a good bartending shift requires you to be a little strategic yourself. This can mean anything from sitting at a bus stop on a Sunday until the manager shows up to do the schedule to joining the softball team the owner plays on (both successfully done).

I am currently getting the run-around at a few nightspots here in Washington. To get in not only do I have to make some good moves, I have to make them fast. Because I’m leaning towards both law and politics, I have very little time left to flatly milk a good opportunity once it presents itself. As an attorney being too opportunistic runs afoul of professional responsibility; doing the same as a Member of Congress will rightly get you tossed before the Select Committee on Ethics.

The only place the law allows for unabashed opportunism is the opening statement. Before I did my nightly “please hire me” rounds on 18th Street, I made my way to the Eastern District of Virginia to catch the first day of the William Jefferson trial.

Former Rep. Jefferson is the Congressman who infamously stored $90,000 in his freezer. The opening statements were just like we were taught in school: the prosecutor repeatedly referred to and emphasized the $90K and portrayed every transaction he was involved in as an “official act” (to prove a bribe you have to show an officeholder took something of value in exchange for performing an official duty). On the other hand, the defense attorney made every single thing he did look like a good deed for the less-connected. Jefferson is a loving man who wants nothing more than success and happiness for his wife and five daughters…whose life mission is bringing opportunity to under-developed countries in Africa…who kept stacks of hundred-dollar bills money in the freezer cause he didn’t want his housekeeper to steal it.

Working in the restaurant industry and I thought I had heard it all.

I once had a boss who made me and my best friend steal tubs of salad dressing from the back of a truck while the delivery guy was in the bathroom: “Evvv-ery sinnnggg-le Tuesday he comes in with his fat wife; every Wednesday I gotta order more bread.“

I worked for a man who used to keep all of the paper towel rolls in a locked room in his parents’ basement: “Use tha bleach.”

I had a boss who once fired his whole kitchen staff cause he thought they were stealing silverware: “You see this fork? Do you know how many forks I had when I opened this place? Those fucking guys, they want to open their own restaurant. I see them always cahootin.”

Nevertheless, I have always had a thing for lawyers and for restaurateurs. Their status; their wit, their bad habits…they are just so hard to resist! I couldn’t resist blogging about this because I don’t have much longer before I can partake in the antics of my co-workers before copping a deal with the Feds.

I am counting down the days before someone submits a post about the intern who straightens her hair in the Dirksen bathroom every morning. Whatever, YOU try being Italian and living in a city built on a swamp.