It's Over!

We have finally reached that mythical period of which our family has been dreaming for months:

AFTER THE BAR.

(It's been said so often in our house the last few weeks that we were about to get it embroidered on our towels, like a family crest.)

And my brain is a puddle of goo which is taking its dear sweet time reconstituting, so here's a quick summary to tide you over until I can get this blog back to its regularly scheduled snark.

Taking the Bar: Icky.

Sleep schedule: Shot.

Chairs at the Bar: Eeeeeeevil! (I mean, at least they were padded, but they were still folding chairs which meant zero back support which means me=miserable after the first three hours. And then there were four and a half more hours. And seven more the next day. . . .)

Number of Pens of Mine Which Mysteriously Vanished, Possibly with the Participation of Bar Exam Proctors: Two. (One black, one blue.)

Our attitude after the essay exam: Deep relief.

Our attitude after the first half of the multiple choice exam: Cautious optimism.

Our attitude after the second half of the multiple choice exam: Exhausted. But it's over. Slightly-more-cautious-than-before optimism.

Amount of time before I have to think about this exam in any detail again: 8 to 10 weeks.

New family motto: It's Over!

Number of guilt-free naps I have taken since yesterday: Three.

Baby's take on the entire experience: KICK THE BLADDER!!!!!

Ah, well. At least some things stay consistent. (In other news, we are officially in the third trimester and now I can FINALLY start getting ready for this kid. Wahoo!)

Ho. Ly. Cow.

Well, the first day of the Bar is done. And for the first time since I started studying, I feel like there is actually a chance I could pass this thing.

I've been experiencing panic attacks about this off and on for the past few weeks. (Just ask Shallow Man. Poor guy. Seriously, Bar Study + Pregnancy Hormones + The Inability to Sleep for More than a Three Hour Stretch = Me + Crippling Panic Attacks = Not Fun for Anyone.) Including one last night, which was NOT helpful. So we sat down together and read some scriptures and I just said a prayer to the effect of, "I'm putting it all in Your hands now, God." And I stopped worrying.

And the miraculous occurred. I had something to write (maybe not something, you know, intelligent, but at least something) for every question. The big, hive-inducing, oh-please-oh-please-don't-ask-me-THAT subjects were not on the essay test, and I actually got almost all of my "dream topics." I couldn't have asked for a better distribution of subjects.

I never would have predicted that I'd come out of the essay day of the Bar feeling like anything other than crap. And feeling this good, well, that's just icing on the cake.

Now all I have to do is live through the multiple choice tomorrow and it will All. Be. Over.

I'm getting a grin just thinking about it.


Thanks to all of you who have offered prayers, well wishes and any other kind of support these past few weeks and the past few days especially. It's meant a lot to both Shallow Man and myself. We love you all!

An open letter to Miguel Rivas.

Dear Miguel,

To my knowledge, we've never met, although I've come to feel as though I know you.

After all, I've had conversations with so many of your acquaintances. I know many of them are probably just your bill collectors who think I'm lying when I say I don't know you—they must think I'm your overprotective girlfriend or something—but still. I've even had (very confused on my end) text conversations with some of your buddies. (By the way, what WAS so awesome about that one time you and your buddies went to Midvale? I've gotten texts about that one at least four times. "Hey man remember MIDVALE? 4REAL!" If you could fill me in on that, that would be great. I like feeling included. Also, I was unaware that there was anything that exciting going on in Midvale, and my curiosity is piqued.) And the number of Spanish calls telling me that I—sorry, I mean YOU—may already have won $10,000 has really increased my level of cultural awareness and the amount of randomness in my life. So thank you, Miguel, for that.

But Miguel, I am disappointed in you. I know it's hard to hear, but a true friend tells you stuff like that.

Seriously (and I'm just basing this off the number of times she's called and the length of time that I've had this cell phone number), you need to call your grandmother more often. We're talking four years and she still thinks you're at my number.

Shame on you, Miguel. Shame on you.

Now go and call your abuela, stat.

Regards,

Your cell number successor (that would be me)


P.S. Oh, and pay your Comcast bill. They're getting a bit testy.

Holy awesome contest, Batman!

Okay. I don't usually do this but I WANT TO WIN THIS CONTEST SO BADLY IT HURTS. So go check out this amazing contest from The Undercover Book Lover for ARCs of five really awesome upcoming books. And gum. There is also gum involved. Really, how can you lose? (Other than by, you know, not winning.) So go check it out. (But don't enter, because that might diminish my chances of winning. You know, statistically speaking.)

Annnnd... back to bar study.

Frustration; or, the Story Port-a-Potty.

So I have a REALLY GOOD story of something that happened today. As in, the story is really good. Not necessarily the what-happened part. Because that wasn't so great. But the story itself is one that would be great for blogging about.

And I really want to tell this story. Because, as I said, it's a really good story.

Tangent (not at all related to what happened today): I had an acquaintance a while back who pretty much hated me but loved drama and sharing juicy stories. One day I was the only person around when this acquaintance had a particularly juicy story and NEEDED to share it with someone like I need to run to the bathroom when Jr. starts playing kick the bladder. So Acquaintance shared the story with me and later told a mutual friend that we had really bonded that day. From that point on, there was no hatred Scritchy-ward from this person, because I essentially had pointed Acquaintance to a story Port-a-Potty at the necessary moment.

And yes, that metaphor was a weird one, but hey, it WORKS.

Because (and here's where the tangent comes back to the point)—

THIS IS A PORT-A-POTTY SITUATION.*

For various reasons, I can't really share this story on the internet at this time.

Even though I really, really want to.

I can't even give you the super-awesome tag line that would be the facebook version of this story.

This is probably about as frustrating to me as it is to you. Seriously, great story + not being able to tell it on my blog = ARRRGH.

However . . .

This is totally a story I can share in person.

You know, in case anyone wanted to hear it.

Or happened to ask me next time they see me.

Just sayin'.

(For all you lurkers or people who unfortunately have not had the privilege of meeting me in real life yet, I'm very sorry. All I can say is, I'll post it when I can. I just don't know when that may be.)


*Please note: the actual story has NOTHING to do with port-a-potties whatsoever.