exitstrategy

I have recently heard that the we have reached the bottom of the price drop in home values.  I have not researched the validity of this statement.  Instead, I decided that I must purchase a condo and so I set up an appointment with a real estate agent.  However, there are a few minor problems with my dream of home ownership:(1)  I want a condo that is much nicer than the condo that I can afford(2)  I want to have money saved, but I do not want to have to stop spending money So, even though I knew that there would be some problems, I met with the realtor.  She gave me some information, showed me some listings and gave me a sense for what I can afford.  If I wait a while longer (or borrow money from my parents which I have considered but such thoughts have caused bizarre mommy nightmares for the past 3 consecutive nights, including a particularly scary one when my parents made me pay them exorbitant prices for some crappy old art they were letting me put up in my new joint-venture apartment between myself and mommy/daddy), then I can afford a place I will really love.  During that waiting period I will need to tighten the purse strings: no more shopping, minimize my eating out, limit travel, and limit (gasp! eliminate?) cabs. So after that informational meeting that just happened to be located in the middle of mag mile, I walked home and decided there could be no harm in “window shopping.”  Well, apparently the stress of having to save money led me to spend more money in one day than I have in the past month.  In fact for the past 3 months I have cold turkey stopped shopping (with a few odds and ends here and there - I mean I am not in prison and I have to work with ball scratchers and fat bastards so deserve a few gifts now and then).  Like a drug addict, the lure of being in the store proved too much.  And, as all of us addicts know, once you start you cannot stop. In fact, I was the recipient of 2 warnings from above to STOP SHOPPING.  I went to purchase a belt that I love but do not need.  That was the first sip that led me down a binge drinking spiral.  Next I went to go look at the sale shoes.  I found a pair I loved and in fact was told by a family of well dressed high-powered women that they “looked hot.”  When I gave them to the sales girl, though, she told me my card had been declined.  Declined?  That cannot be.  I have barely spent money in a while.  So I called the card company and they had put a freeze on it because they were shocked at the amount of money I was prepared to spend on a pair of shoes.  Yes it was a sign.  But, I was too hopped up for signs.  Damn you heavens with all your wisdom.  So I went to another boutique and bought another pair of shoes.  And, lo and behold, Hashem sent me another sign in the form of a fraud alert on my card.  Did I listen?  Of course not. So now what do I do?  May I ask one small favor of you, my loyal fans?  Please tell 1,000 or 10,000 of your closest friends to read my blog.  Spinsta needs to pay for her new pair of shoes!!! 

Two years ago, I went home for Christmas and went for lunch with my parents.  I knew that I had a brief to work on but I stayed up until 2 AM the night before and figured I would be okay for lunch.   Well, I was wrong.  I got an email right after we ordered that said “you must call me immediately.”  So, my parents cancelled our lunch and we ran out of the restaurant in a poof of smoke, got into the car, cruised down the highway and just as I approached my house to go to the computer and call the partner she emailed “You know I do not have time to waste on you.  I will just do it myself.  Don’t waste my time again.”  Ouch - that was one of the reasons I left my prior firm.  I mean what is ever so urgent in the law that one needs to rush out of lunch? Well I thought those days were behind be but lo and behold, this Sunday I was again called away from my lunch.  ”Spinsta, I want to send this memo to the client in an hour or an hour and a half.  Please call me to let me know you can do the final edits.”  So, I called the partner, told him I was at lunch but that I would go home and finish the memo.  I threw money on the table and ran home.  It was as if I was a doctor being paged.  CODE BLUE: Must finish Memo STAT.   I mean I am not really like a doctor because I was not saving lives.  I was, to the contrary, editing a memo that was to “edify the client” on its potential claims.  Although the partner decided it was a matter of life or death that the client get the memo on a Sunday afternoon, the client would not look at the memo until Tuesday at the earliest after the holiday weekend.  Get a life Partner STAT.  I mean my mom always wanted me to be a doctor, but get real. It was enough to bring the Spinsta back to her half empty ways.  But, then, it happened.  A sign from above.  There is meaning to life again.  I have a purpose.  Are you ready?  They are casting for Real Housewives of Chicago.  It is my calling.    I will bring a whole new vibe to the show.  Sure we have seen married broads with hot bods and rich husbands and spoiled children who fly in private jets, live in giant homes, buy $15,000 handbags.  Been there done that.  Who doesn’t want to see a Fat Spinsta go to her glamorous job (camera zooms on the ball scratching), goes on exciting dates (camera zooms on pudgy accountant and nearly comatose Spinsta), goes on a shopping slurge (camera zooms on Fat Spinsta at Neimans - she does know how to shop) and of course to enjoy fine cuisine (camera zooms on Spinsta and the cab driver sharing some australian licorice).   Finally, Dr. Spinsta can turn off her blackberry and live the life she was meant to live.  And of course the season finale involves the Spinsta meeting a nice doctor (I mean it is scripted reality television so in my fake reality I would like to meet a nice doctor) and becoming Dr. and Mrs. Spinsta (after all my notoriety he will need to keep my name).   

I am not sure what it is about me, but for some reason people feel compelled to say bizarre things to me.  Take for instance an experience I had at my previous firm.  I emailed a partner to try and get on a new case he was working on.  Instead of responding by email, the partner called me to tell me that unfortunately he had already staffed the case.  ”But,” he said, “I did not know you existed before and I now I do.  So in the future when I get another case I will certainly call you and really just sink my teeth into you.”  Hmm, I wanted to work on your case I did not want to become your vampire wife. There have been several other awkward conversations, but none as excruciating as yesterday.  I had been working on this motion all week.  I had stayed late, come in early, and done what I thought was a really good job.  When I got into work yesterday there was a message waiting for me.  ”Spinsta, that motion needs substantial work.  There is no way it will be ready when it it due so I will call opposing counsel for an extension.  Be prepared to work on the motion today.”  Ugh, I knew it was gonna be a bad Friday.  A few hours later I get a call from the partner on his cell phone.  I pick up the receiver and say “Hi this is Spinsta.”  ”Who’s your daddy?  WHO’S YOUR DADDY?”  I was so uncomfortable I did not know how to respond so I started laughing awkwardly in a high pitched hyena laugh.  ”HEHE HEE HEE.”  ”We got the extension.”  ”Oh great.”  Click.  As soon as I hung up the phone I ran to tell my secretary.  She is a very sweet girl but not the brightest bulb and I am not sure if she got the implications of the statement.  Not getting the response I wanted, I went to talk to another associate.  As I told her the story she literally crawled under her desk to try to deal with the awkwardness.  ”Are you serious?”   “Bible,” I say.   Fast forward a few hours later and I am in the partners office working on the motion.  At one point he stops talking, looks around, looks down, shuffles his papers, looks at me, looks down.  And then he says “Um you know what I meant when I said who’s your daddy before?  I was just excited I got the extension.  You know its like saying ‘Who’s your buddy?’  ’Who’s the man?’  I did not mean any funny stuff.”  OMG this confession is even more awkward than the who’s your daddy convo.   He had clearly been agonizing over it and hoping I did not think he was a harasser.  I mean how do I respond to this?  What do I say to put his mind at ease?  I mean it was beyond weird and it is NOT like saying Who’s Your Buddy, especially since no one says that.  ”Um, HE HE HE”  More hyena laughs to buy me some time.  ”It’s ok, I did not think you were my father. HE HE.”  And then we never spoke of it again. I mean I clearly said the wrong thing in return.  I doubt he was worried that I assumed by his comments he was attempting to adopt me.  But I was on the spot and I did not know what to do.  I mean at least I will be prepared the next time someone says something creepy to me.  For instance, if Fat Bastard were to call me and say “Who’s Your Buddy?  WHO’S YOUR BUDDY?”  I will know what to do.  ”NOT YOU, I am suing you for harassment.”   And now I am off to enjoy my holiday weekend. 

So I have received some harsh/realistic criticism of my last post.  ”Oy a little depressing Spinsta.”  ”Are you ok to be left alone?”  ”Your happiness should not come from a home or a job, but from within.”  Well I have taken all those comments to heart.  I am going to be a glass half full.  It was just a case of the Mondays. But what is my inspiration?  Where is the sunny side of things?  Well, luckily for me and apparently for you, tonight is the American Idol finale.  I mean I was in no shape to write this joyful blogisode last night - after the final competition.  It was pitiful.  I mean Kara DeLaGuardia (or something) wrote the most terrible song ever.  ”I love the mountains and I have dreams.   I dream.  Life is Full of Dreams!!!”  Or something. But tonight is different.  Tonight is democracy in action.  Remember the hope that I was filled with when Barack Obama became our president?  Well tonight is another monumental night.  I am not comparing Barack to Adam or Chris, but it is a fact that more people voted last night than in the actual election so this is actually one of the most pure expression of democracy.   And Kara DeLaGuardia just sang a duet with a woman in a bikini and then flashed her own itsy bitsy teeny weeny at the dramatic crescendo of the performance.  And they made that poor blind guy do a song and dance number to If You Think I’m Sexy.  And they have every old rocker that ever walked the earth.  Where is HEART???  Truly, my friends, tonight anything is possible. So have no fear, the Spinsta is all smiles.  And in the sake of full disclosure, I will let you all know that I write this post from a nice white padded cell.   BZZZZT BZZZZZZZZZZ.  One flew east, one flew west . . .  

While it is safe to say that the Spinsta is, um, what is the word?  Depressive?  Pessimistic?  An oracle?  Well today I was feeling a little extra of whatever the word is that I am searching for.  One friend suggested I had a case of the Mondays.  After considering if that was the reason for my funk (note: said friend was being ironic or trying to be funny channeling Office Space, I mean the Spinsta would not be friends with someone who honestly used that phrase), I thought about why was it that I was feeling a little extra of whatever that word is. Now I am no therapist but I think it has something to do with the latest string of successes that have befallen my former classmates.  Saturday night I went to a party at a former classmates.  He lives in a major penthouse and he has benjamins strewn across his bed.  Well, maybe not strewn, but there is certainly some treasure chest somewhere in his bachelor pad extraordinaire.  Juxtapose the major pad with my current “abode.”  The Spinsta lives in a closet - literally.  Almost a year ago I decided to move to a smaller, cheaper place to save money.  Although, here we are a year later and I am still living in a closet with no real savings to speak of.   At this party there was a former classmate who did two clerkships, and now is some major associate who also teaches a class.  Oh yeah, speaking of former classmates who are now professors, another classmate I found out is also teaching.  I mean what the f - can my former law school no longer afford to hire grown professors?  Ugh and the second person turned prof is a real piece of work.  She is quite substantial - not fat but stacked, like a tank.  But she wears very girly clothes and she walks with such an exagerated sway you would think you were watching The Nanny or something.  I mean yes clearly I am bitter - but often those who are the most bitter are the most keen observers.  Now talk about contrast: they are high powered business women and I am, well what am I?  Miserable, yes.  High powered, no.  Not unless clerical work is going to take me straight to the top. And then last but not least, they are all married.  Well not bachelor pad, but everyone else in the free world.  Except the Spinsta.  Contrast yet again. I have this overwhelming feeling that I am like this girl who moved back home with her parents and works at the Walmart and has to see the cool kids from high school shop at the Walmart (hmm, maybe I should have picked a different store because it is a little embarrassing for the cool kids to be shopping there.  Well use your imagination - some big box store) and must ring up their goods.  You know like the horrible movie with Sandra that is always on TV - hope floats.  Ugh who am I kidding - I love that movie.  Yet another reason why I will never be a high powered woman (I don’t know why those two are related but I am feeling very hyperbolic so just go with it).   And then to top it all off, not only is my life worse in comparison to my classmates slash Walmart-workery-living-with-parentsish.  No, my life is also stuck on repeat.  You know, like Groundhog’s Day.  But my Groundhogs day does not end up with me falling in love and becoming the heart and soul of Pucksatony.  No, my Groundhogs day starts with the same walk to work, the same forced hello to the same clowns, the same crappy work, the same constant harassment about the same crappy work, the same crappy sandwich meat, followed by the same walk home past the same homeless man who yells the same creepy phrase (”spare some change baby girl”).   So now what?  I do hope this is a case of the Mondays.  Otherwise, I guess I am going to have to make a change.  Note to self: find a different way to walk home. 

So after three years of working at an office I have become an expert on the office party.  I mean I can’t write good, I can’t read good, and I don’t argue in a court (and if I did it would not be good).  But ladies and gentleman, the Spinsta can drink good. I have been to the elaborate office party.  When I was a summer, I went to a football stadium that had been rented out just for my company.  A local marching band had been hired for the occasion and they performed a half time show just for us.   But one thing I have never experienced (until tonight) is the sober office party.  Or, let me rephrase - the I am sober while the rest of the people are hammered office party. See, the office party at the football field - I was HAMMERED.  I sort of remember having a conversation with the head of my group, informing her that my sister had a dog and how I had single handedly trained the dog to use a litter box.  Now my sister had a dog but the dog had accidents like it was his job and I certainly did not train him to, um, BE A CAT.  But, because I was so hammered, I went on and on about the cat-like things my sister’s dog did. Or, better yet, there was an office party where I told the whole place how I was a ballerina.  I am not sure why, other than it made perfect sense at the time.  It did engender a few pervy comments, but I thought it was hilarious. Well fastforward a few years later (and apparently a few years more mature - although I was telling people I was a ballerina on Saturday night.  Hmm, well whatever) and I was at an office party but I was not drunk.  I was able to observe the people like it was an experiment.  I mean they were hamsters and I was the one who watched them run on the wheel.   However, it was not as interesting as I had thought, or at least not as discovery channel as I had envisioned.  Like I thought I would look at these clowns and hear a narrator in my head saying “here you see the middle aged man in his natural habitat - surrounded by people who are his piers and or his subordinates - get drunk and say innapropriate things.”  I thought I could view it with a detached perspective, just watching said clown in his element.   What I was not prepared for, however, is how disgusting said middle-aged clown is in his natural habitat.  Said clown gets way too drunk, said clown talks about masturbation and/or oral sex.  Said clown is spitting on you and talking about masturbation and/or oral sex.  Um, and said clown is so gross that said clown should NEVER have said oral sex - and probably not even said masturbation because the mental image alone is enough to want to blind oneself. So where do I go from here?  I have been on the other side of the office party and it is not pretty.  I guess the only option is to get even drunker than said clown.  Oh and if he talks about masturbation and/or oral sex, well at least I will be too drunk to remember. Viva la summer events.  I can’t wait for the memorial day party.  Note to self: pick up some horse tranquilizers.  

Now that my friends know that I blog (the ones who know the real girl behind the Spinsta persona), they have this annoying tendency of suggesting blog topics.  But, they don’t suggest current events, or pop culture, or other actual blog topics.  No, instead they suggest that I blog about whatever current disaster has befallen me. For instance, a few weeks ago the Fat Bastard was really getting me down.  He was making me print stuff and run it upstairs to his office because he is too fat and lazy to walk the 10 paces to the printer.  I mean he was like one of those really obese people who can no longer get off the couch and so they need to have their children bring them buckets of chicken and they need to be hoisted up by a crane.  But, that night when I got home from another demoralizing day at work I did not want to joke about Fat Bastard.  When I shared my frustrations with my friends they nearly all said “oh well at least it is something to blog about.”  There were a few who asked “why do the children only bring buckets of chicken?    Or, last week I went to get dessert at Dominick’s.  I decided that I needed to have apple pie.  After searching the bakery, the refrigerator section and the frozen foods, there was no apple pie to be found.  So, I settled on a GIANT piece of carrot cake.  I checked out and paid for my GIANT cake and when the bagger reached for a plastic bag, I stopped her and said “its ok, I don’t need a bag.  I will just carry it.”  ”Ok then,” she said.  ”Is there anything else I can get you?  A fork?  A bib?”‘  I ate the entire GIANT piece and then shared the saga of being outted by the bagger for being a cow.  ”Ha, why do people always say things like that to you.  Well at least it is something to blog about.” If I have a bad date, I am told to blog about it.  If I have no date I am told to blog about.  Or, if I have to sit next to Fat Bastard as he chews loud/breaths loud/ acts in his normal nasty ways, if I have to walk passed a homeless man who laughs at me, if I get told by my mother that I should become a mail order bride, or any other terrible thing that happens to me, I am always told the same advice: blog about it. This has me thinking.  Am I just here to entertain?  To make you all feel better about yourselves?  I am a person too.  I mean hath not a Spinta eyes?  If you prick a Spinsta, does she not bleed? This reference is even more appropriate when I recall that I signed up for weight watchers today.  A pound of flesh!!!