frageelay asked: In your post about your job, I think you answered your own question about whether or not to stay. Also: I miss you and was excited to see you posting again.
Oh, my sweet dear Tony! Toni! Toné! :) I’ve missed you too.
A little update: I gave my notice of resignation at the firm last week. Despite all its drawbacks, I’m really going to miss my soon-to-be old job and the good people who I got to know.
Most of all, I’ll miss the warm feelings associated with restoring someone’s personal freedom, validating his right to a dignified existence. I dare say I’m phenomenal at bleeding heart lawyering. I hope they find a replacement that is willing to bleed, and is better at it than I am.
Having said that, I can’t pretend that I’m not more than a little excited about living just 10 minutes from my new job, the tens-of-thousands of dollars more I’ll be making per year, and the sane schedule that will allow me to have a balanced life.
I hate to be this person, but judicial review wasn’t established by the founding fathers. It was Supreme Court Chief Justice John Marshall who essentially granted his own court that power. Again, I apologize for my own cuntiness. I just couldn’t let that one go.
No, no. I appreciate someone…
Actually (insert cunty tone), … the U.S.S.C. exercised judicial review to strike down a federal statute as unconstitutional in U.S. v. Yale Todd (2 yrs. before Hylton), under Chief Justice Jay. The Hylton court held in favor of the respondent, so therefore it never affirmatively asserted its authority to strike down legislation as unconstitutional. For that reason, Hylton was as useful to the establishment of the judicial review doctrine as Plessy v. Ferguson was to a more expansive interpretation of the Equal Protection Clause.
Because the Marbury court struck down an act of Congress, and published its opinion before Congress could repeal the act and render the decision moot (like it did after Yale Todd), it’s always cited as the case that conclusively established our judicial review doctrine.
And the only thing The Federalist Papers are good for are dicta fodder for dissenting justices who want to restrict the U.S.S.C.’s equity jurisdiction.
'Hannibal' is the best thing to come out of NBC, or non-cable prime time for that matter, for as long as I can recall. Please do yourself a favor and watch the re-runs this summer or fall, so you can be on board for season 2.
For the past 11 months, I’ve been working at a non-profit law firm that promotes the civil liberty interests of people with disabilities of all kinds. I want to say right out front that I feel honored to work with this firm. The attorneys and advocates are fucking warriors. I love my clients, and am proud of the fact that I help people whose dreams and passions are all too easily disregarded by well-meaning professionals and guardians, and that I leave them feeling heard, and with a new spirit of hope. I’m fascinated by the area of law I practice, and I get a kick out of devising new ways to put the screws to oppressors.
I should be happy, right?
There’s a cost that’s come with doing this work for this firm. The hours are insanely long. Some of the above-mentioned warriors are also gaping assholes, and the way they conduct themselves in public forums embarrasses me. The firm is reviled in the legal community as being a posse of ball-busters who don’t give a shit about consumers’ best interests. And, to the critics’ credit, they’re partly right — best interest is irrelevant. I’m not my clients’ mommy or their guardian ad litem. My role is to make sure their civil rights aren’t trampled upon. Even if it means that sometimes, I’m reserving a client’s right to make a stupid decision.
I need to decide if I will continue on this noble path, and therefore make peace with the sacrifices I must make in terms of a well-balanced life. For the past 10+ months, I’ve not been sleeping well. I’m not eating well. I’m more than mildly depressed. I haven’t been on a date or social outing for 5 months, and haven’t had sex in that long. I recently bought a sensible pants suit at Talbot’s. The pay is criminally low. The commute costs 12 hours and $130 per week. I’m not sure how long I can continue like this. Not very long, I suspect.
I’m in my late 30’s. I want a balanced life. I want to be healthy, both physically and emotionally. I want to have interests beyond the latest ADA advisory opinions, legislative testimony, and HUD land use restrictions. I want a livable wage. I want to purchase a home, start a family of my own. I just wish that my desire to put myself first doesn’t require that I completely re-examine my commitment to pursuits that I am so proud of.
Anyhow, I know I haven’t posted to my Tumblr in a long time, and this job is partly why. For those that still follow it, thank you for listening.
Anyone know where I can get the older versions of iPhone apps — that is, those which are compatible with the iPhone 3G?
I gave my old iPhone 3G to a friend, and it seems that the current versions of the Facebook, Angry Birds, and Words With Friends apps are not compatible with the 3G, and I’d love to upload those apps to the phone.
Is there an online archive of old versions of apps, or am I screwed?
I watched the most powerful documentary on Nova (PBS) last night — ‘A Walk to Beautiful.’ I can’t get it out of my head.
Ethiopian girls living in remote rural villages take on the brunt of their families’ manual labor. At age two, they are carrying heavy stick bundles, and by age 8, they are carrying things that an adult American woman of average build can’t lift off the ground. Consequentially, these women’s growth is stunted, and as young women, their bodies can barely endure child birth — they are often in labor for days, even weeks, with no modern medical attention.
For some of these women, child labor literally tears their insides apart. Not only do they suffer devastating stillbirths, they develop fistulas between their wombs and bladders. Because they can’t control the resulting urine leakage, the women’s families and villages shun them. The women are either kicked out of their homes and are relegated to a poorly constructed grass lean-to on the edge of town, or are encouraged to kill themselves, or are even killed. Their only chance of returning to society is treatment at the country’s solitary obstetric fistula hospital.
This documentary definitely put things into perspective. For some women in the world, failure to be a perfect mother, lover, and servant results in shame, ostracization, even death. Although women worldwide have a ways to go before we can safely say that we share equality of opportunity with our male counterparts, today at least, I truly feel like a lucky woman.
I need your suggestions on songs to trail run to, that is. Leave it to me to decide in late July to get my beach body back, but I really love it. Right now, I’m working a playlist that’s heavy on Lady GaGa, Katy Perry, Lady Sovereign, Avril Lavigne, Kelly Clarkson, and Fergie. I don’t feel no shame about that, so don’t chastise. I need more, however. I. NEED. MORE. ENERGY.
When he wasn’t totally pissing me off or making me want to kick him in the nuts, Jeff and I had a lot of fun together making our short-lived podcast, Jeff & Jess: 21st Century Penpals. When I got home after hearing the news from Victoria and Albert, I found myself playing these. Laughing turned to crying, turned to laughing again. I think this is how I’ll prefer to remember my friend. Hilarious, sweet, cutting, perpetually weird.
Here is a link to the episodes that made it to air, for those that are interested.
I have too much going on in my mind regarding Jeff and his suicide to write about it with any measure of eloquence right now. Perhaps another time. But I needed to acknowledge his passing today.
My relationship with Jeff — the friendship, the 21CP podcast — was complicated, to say the least. My heart hurts. Sometimes his intensity, his raw desolation, was too much for me to carry and I had to withdraw and recover. Such a smart, analytic man. Such a deep feeler. Perhaps these things were his undoing.
I sincerely thank the people who’ve been looking out for Jeff. Since his father died in 2009, he’s been on a slow decline. I never thought it’d end this way. I also want to give special thanks to those who sprung into action today in hopes of saving him.
The young campaigner straddles my waist with the confidence and guile of a Conquistador. He peels off his ‘Ron Paul Revolution 2012’ hoodie, revealing a masculine trail of hair leading down into his skinny jeans to his turgid groin, all topped with a rumpled Infringement Festival t-shirt.
"My, aren’t we the anarchist," I smirk, my voice heavy with lust as I eye the impressive coil of muscle shifting in his pants. He laughs, stroking his lightly stubbled jaw conspiratorially, his head descending toward my milky breast. He hungrily claims a pert nipple with his mouth like an animal, maintaining steady eye contact all the while, burrowing into my soul. I gasp at the sharp pain, quickly followed by ripples of liquid heat under my skin’s surface. God, he’s beautiful. Jet black hair, piercing blue eyes, long eyelashes. A younger, straighter, more sinister personification of Jake Gyllenhaal. For a moment, I understand the sensual allure of Pan, the goat-god.
"I feel like you’re going to burn an A on my forehead while we fuck," I utter, half as a statement, half as a question. "Like in ‘The Scarlet Letter’," he chuckles, his eyes cast up from his work on my breasts, now covered with pink nip and bite marks. Batting his eyes at me, as if he’s merely stroking my knee, I feel his hand cup my mound, his palm pressing and squeezing me insistently through my yoga pants. He knows that I’m on my period; it’s been an issue of contention between us all night.
His eyes darken with mischief as his fingers delve into my panties, searching my face for a reaction. I grow nervous as he plays with me, but am quickly lost in the liquid heat rushing from my nipples directly to my sensitive clit. He withdraws his fingers, and we both see the blood. I bite my lip; he smiles. He brings his fingers up between us, his grin widening as he deftly draws a capital “A” above my left breast. “My little slut. My Hester Prynne.” I laugh, shocked and amazed at the perversion, … the novelty of what’s transpiring between me and this dirty, dirty boy. “We’ll probably both have to update our OKCupid questionnaires after this.”