Chipped Polish & Wornout Jeans

So I don't have much to write about tonight, but I did cook a real meal. I rarely do so because living alone means having no one to cook for and cooking a big meal for one person is a hassle and a mess that isn't always worth it. Allow me to present tonight's meal, oven roasted pork with potatoes, gravy, rolls, and great northern beans. The meat was a touch too done, but still delicious. Tonight’s meal is rated 8.5 out of 10 for over cooking the meat and not being able to grill or really sear the meat. This is proof I need people to cook for from time to time.

So yesterday was the day of first year oral arguments at the Hall of Justice, and I put on my suit and heels and argued my case. It was like getting back in the saddle again, really. It's been months since I was in the courtroom, and I missed it more than I thought. I felt awesome to put on my pearls, be certain that my hair and make-up looked good, put on a nice suit, and slip into my killer shoes. To stand in front of a judge and start off with "May it please the court...", to address the court and argue with conviction, even though the case was weak, it was thrilling. This may seem lame to my readers, but I live for those moments. All went well, except for the lost car situation (not discussed here because I don't feel like talking about my stupidity beyond saying I completely forgot where I parked because I don't belong in L-ville and don't belong in the big city). So lets us do a recap of being back in the saddle again, or oral arguments.

I arrived with plenty of time to swap my flats (which I drove in because my heels are high) for the killer heels pictured above, adjust my suit and take a deep breath to collect myself. Entering the Hall of Justice brought back memories of mock trial. I did my first regional as witness in those courtrooms, and I also did my first regional as both a captain and attorney there. I felt this surge of power and faith as I watched my things go through the metal detector and stepped through myself. Then I walked into the courtroom, placed my portfolio on the table, and I was alive. Yes, dear reader, I love the courtroom. I love being able to stand there and stand for something. Even if right now, the cases I argue, the people I represent, the job I perform isn't real yet. I love the idea that I can use my passion, my fire, my strength, my brains, to solve problems, to be able to, in some small way, affect the world, make it better. That is why I want to be an attorney so badly.

The argument went well. I wasn't nervous, but I was, as usual, concerned about my accent. It's gotten much stronger, and while I love it, the glorious, lyrical, and attractive Southern drawl can be a hindrance up here in the Northern city. When I worry about my accent it causes me to get tongue tied, but other than that issue I think I did just fine. I hope the judges' written comments were as good as the verbal comments I received. I got compliments on how passionate my argument was, how I argued with conviction even though I had the most difficult side of the case and probably didn't believe in it. Apparently was the only one who answered the question "Without the eyewitness testimony, were you a jury in this case, would you convict?" with a yes. I also got compliments on how well I handled difficult questions, answering them and deflecting them to make them seem much less damaging, and how I was able to use bad facts to my advantage, even though they were potentially extremely damaging to my side. Apparently, several people think that I will make an excellent advocate and a great attorney. So, dear readers, I was back in the saddle yesterday, and it was incredible.

I apologize for my lack of frequent updates and interesting things to read here at Chipped and Wornout; although  it feels odd to apologize for my lack of updates to just three followers. Maybe there are lurkers, I don't know. If you lurk and don't comment, how do I know that you are there? And if you lurk and don't follow me, how do I know you exist? Anyway, apologies for the lack of content.

When I was a teenager (oh man, how old did that phrase just make me feel) I had this pair of worn out jeans that I loved more than any article of clothing in my entire wardrobe. That demonstrates just how much of a tomboy I really was back then because while all the other teen girls around me were obsessed with wearing the cutest clothes, I was in love with a pair of jeans that had somehow managed to last three years and hundreds of washes, had particularly wide flared bottoms, were faded in all the right places, and had holes in a couple of places. These jeans were so shaped to my body that they fit perfectly and were extremely comfortable; it killed me with they finally became too short for my suddenly long legs and too tight for my hips. I immediately began searching for a pair of jeans that were like those that I loved so much, and I finally settled on a pair of light wash Arizona flares, snug at the hip, flared widely at the bottom. I bought two pairs of the style, and I wore them as often as possibe. They fit perfectly, and they were the essence of my personality in denim form, which may sound silly to most people. I always felt my best when I could strut (yes, I did strut in those jeans, with that lovely Southern belle swing in my hips) around wearing that perfect pair of jeans. I was even wearing them well worn as they were, the day I agreed to be Jake's girlfriend in October of 2008. Actually that day was one of the last days I got to wear those jeans because they developed a hole in a place that rendered them unwearable, and I could never find another pair in that style. I was terribly saddened by the loss of my favorite jeans. Well last Friday while shopping with Mama (Spring Break found me at the 'rent's house in the Boro) I found a substitute, that, while not equal to my glorious jeans, is adequate for my needs. I've never liked the idea of buying jeans that are pre-distressed, but I really liked the way the fabric felt and they were the only decent flares in the whole section. (What happened to jeans that flatter women with wider hips? Seriously, skinny jeans make your hips look bigger, while flares balance you out.)

I know, I know, you're thinking, what the heck Nic, why obsess over pants? Also you are probably wondering how a pair of jeans can be the essence of a person. Just like me, those jeans are worn and faded, but still strong enough to handle just about anything. They are full of spunk and fire. They aren't plain, average, or ordinary. They are different, and they make a statement. Well lets put it this way, it was very appropriate that I was wearing those jeans the day I agreed to be Jake's girlfriend. I was coming off a bad relationship and in my typical way I was on fighting back. I was scared to death, but hell bent on recovering, and I really liked him. In fact, as we stood by my blazer in the parking lot, I was thinking "Hell, boy, asking me out already. I know you like me, and I've been flirting shamelessly as obviously as possible so you should know I like you too. If you don't I'm going to have to do it." (Please hear this statement with a Southern drawl) That is typical Nic behavior, and there were a couple of moments that afternoon when I almost grabbed him and kissed him since it seemed that he wasn't getting the idea; that would surely have gotten the point across. I couldn't just stand there and let this not happen. So I sort of drew on their power.

Yes dear readers, behold the power of wornout jeans. I'm sorry this entry is so dull and pointless. Maybe next time I will come up with something interesting.

One of my favorite lines from Sweet Home Alabama (aside from Jake's "Honey, just cause I talk slow don't mean I'm stupid.") is the line in the cemetary where he tells her "Who says you can't have both? You can have roots and wings, Mel." The ex-boyfriend, affectionately called The Coward by my friends, who came before Jake once told me that I wasn't what he called a "nester". He said I wasn't the kind of woman who needed to settle down with a white picket fence and nice little family with lots of kids. He told me that I was the kind of woman who simply needed a home to come back to after my latest adventure was over; I wasn't the kind of woman who was meant to be a happy housewife. I needed a companion for my adventures, someone to go with me on the wild ride that was the life I wanted. He said that I didn't need a man in my life, I simply allowed one into my life because I desired a companion, and because sometimes I required a reminder that I need to eat and sleep and take care of myself when I get all wrapped up in taking care of everything and everyone else. I laughed at the time; I was twenty years old, and I had no idea what kind of woman I really was or what I was meant to be. Funny, now that I think about it, perhaps in a way he was right. I want both; I want to have roots and wings.

I want to have a home that is my own to come back to, a place that is my own sanctuary, but I really don't want the perfect little house in a subdivision with a little backyard and a white picket fence. Somewhere tucked away with the rest of my old sketchbooks and notebooks is a design for that house in my dreams. It's all laid out in detail, carefully drawn on graph paper. (I was in maybe the seventh or eighth grade when I drew it, and I was sitting in the huge living room of my Nanny's house as my Pa drew a layout for a project that never happened.) It was perfect, designed to suit both my personality and my career choice, and I have dreamed of that house for a long time. It's changed over the years, just a bit; for instance extra things were added when the person I wanted to share my home with made suggestions. That house, sitting on five or more acres of the best land I could buy, is where my roots would be. The life I want to lead isn't exactly simple. I want to do something big. I want to save the world. I want to be able help children in need and stop the evils of abuse and child trafficking; I want to make a difference in this world. I want to fight crime, put the bad guy behind bars, and change the world. I want to spread my wings, and I want to fly.The path I want to follow is not one that lends itself to settling down, and even if I wanted to settle down, now is definitely not the time. I predict long hours ahead of me, and sleepless nights. I can see the difficulties that my life will bring. I can see a little shoebox apartment, just a bit bigger than the current Shoebox I live in, one bedroom, and maybe a little dog. Nothing fancy, just place to rest my head.

I didn't want to marry Jake and settle down. The reason I wanted to marry him was because I love him, and I wanted to share my life with him. He was partner, my best friend, and the best thing to ever happened to me. It wasn't that I wanted to settle down; there is still too much life to live and too much to be done. I wanted to share my adventures with him, to have him by my side. It was never about settling down; it was about the fact that no one matched me the way he did. I'm hard to handle, mostly because I'm stubborn, willful, sarcastic, hard headed, full of fire and sparks and insanity, sometimes moody, almost always snarky, goofy, and all around a mess. This means that if you are going to be my partner, you have to be prepared to deal with that. There are very few men that I have met in my life who have been able to handle me. I was surprised that Jake could, but he did. Being with Jake and possibly marrying him wasn't ever about being settled down. It was about having a companion to have adventures with, someone who knew me, someone I love. I don't need a man in my life, but I chose to allow Jake in because I care about him and love him. Now he walked out, decided I wasn't the woman he wanted, and I can get by alone. I just don't want to live without him. If I must, I will go on, but I'd like to have the chance to get back what I lost. I have roots and wings, but I have no companion.

The weather is beautiful, which means that if this gorram Yankee city wasn't so barren and dead looking I could take some really great pictures. But alas, nothing nice to photograph. I'm sure that if I really felt inspired I could come up with some artistic shots of this place. I just am not inspired by Yankee-ville, sorry to say, and I haven't got the time to go be all creative. This saddens me because I love photography, and I would love to spend some time with just my camera and my iPod. Hopefully there will be at least a little time next week during Spring Break, between the massive amount of outlining that needs to be done. I am behind on that sort of thing because of the outline, which is apparently normal according to several 2L and 3L students. Hopefully if I can just sit down and do it the outlining will not take 40 hours of my break so that I have no time to relax and breathe. I also want to do some writing and some drawing. I really want to do some creative work. I haven't got the chance to do much in the way of creativity lately because of my busy schedule.