Poochie Next Door

One thing I will miss when I move is the sweet little dog next door named Niles. He has the softest dog fur I've ever felt. And he has such a good personality: he's fearless, always charging out to bark at big dogs that walk by, even though he's small; he's friendly; he's non-wussy; and he's very funny and disobedient.
Notice his very cute curled pom-pom tail.
He was yawning.
I love Niles.

A Little Update

Alright, sorry folks, I know I haven't posted anything in quite a while, but I just don't have much free time. My parents (and some strangers) read this blog occasionally, so I can't talk about everything, but here's the general rundown of Laura life:
I'm overwhelmed with law school and really need to figure out a way to live cheaper and therefore achieve more free time. Plus, my rent got raised. Hence:
I'm moving.
Yup, that's right.
Really, including myself, three (!) tenants are moving. I've been mulling it over for a few months, but a meltdown last week made it official. I need to find somewhere cheaper to live, and that means having roommates. But that's okay! It's even going to be fun! My friend Liz has been wanting to move because her apartment is too expensive too, so I finally told her I was up for it. Then, my neighbor stopped by on the night of said meltdown, bearing chocolate/cheese/cake, and I told him of my plans, and he said he was thinking of moving too (everyone's rent was raised). So now all three of us (me, Liz, neighbor Joe) are looking for a super swank house to rent. We all like to cook, we all like to garden, we're all fairly quiet and clean, so it should be a success. Plus, Liz has three cats! I love kitties! And, they're supposed to reduce stress, which I'm definitely looking forward to.
So, once we find a house, everything should be cake. After that, if a said 29-year-old could figure himself out and get over his identity crisis (why fight fate, dammit?), then everything will be peachy keen.

I Just Saw Sandra Day O'Connor

I go to an awesome law school. Supreme Court Justices O'Connor and Kennedy are here for a conference celebrating the 40th anniversary of the Federal Judicial Center.

I wasn't sure if I was going to make it in time to the Q&A with Sandra Day O'Connor, but I did. There were towncars parked out front of the legal research center, all naturally surrounded by secret service agents complete with earpieces. I walk inside, and there are more secret service agents, as well as a bomb sniffing dog. Ooh, the excitement!
Sandra Day O'Connor is best described as a feisty, witty old lady. The Q&A ended up being more biographical than educational, but that's okay. I mean seriously, how many of you can say that two Supreme Court justices visited your law school?
Yup. That's what I thought.
I am so happy to be attending Lewis & Clark.

Belonging Elsewhere

My latest trip to Europe reinforced the fact in my mind that I might really fit in better somewhere else. Specifically, Spain or France (probably Spain, though). I went to Ken's this morning, and it always reminds me of Europe, so that's what brought all this on.
So here are the following reasons why I would probably do better in one of those countries:

• It's beautiful and ancient (duh).
• Shorter work week--less of the work work work until you vomit mentality that is so common here. Yes, I know that France recently repealed the maximum 35 hour work week, but people aren't necessarily happy about it.
• The average European gets approximately six weeks of vacation a year.
• Healthy lifestyle: compact cities, excellent mass transit, lots of walking, better relationship with food.
• I look more like someone from southern Europe than a pasty Portlander--the Spanish assumed I was French, the French assumed I was from Spain. Either works just fine for me.
• Lots of people in both Spain and France knew what my necklace meant. NO ONE in Portland did. Culturally ignorant Americans!
• Being intellectual is good there, whereas in the U.S., the general concensus is that anyone educated or intellectual is an "elitist" (what's wrong with that, by the way?), or a snob of some sort.
• Both the Spanish and French are, on average, fricken hot: olive skin, dark hair, normal weight...and guys there actually find me attractive! Amazing! No one here does. Portland sucks.
• National healthcare!!!!!
• Happy, active, non-reclusive elderly.
• Afternoon siesta [in Spain and Italy]. I could really use that.

Now all I need to do is learn the languages. Yes, I know how to speak German, but Germany's mentality is much more anal-retentive and work-driven. Also, people there are too tall.

Well, I guess now I need to get back to work work work until I vomit. Sleep? I don't need sleep. I haven't gotten much sleep in the last 4 weeks, which is why I'm in such a wonderful mood lately. Grr.

Barcelona: Day 2--Artistic Stimulation

Yeah, I'm way behind.
Our second day in Barcelona was our arty-farty day. We went to Park Güell, for part of the day, which was awesome, and then in the afternoon visited the Joan Miró Museum.
But first, I wandered around that morning in our apartment's neighborhood. I bought some nice clothes (really nice little boutiques in that neighborhood), and saw this:

I know that's not PC, but whatever, it made me laugh.
Now, on to Park Güell. It was designed by Art Nouveau architect Antonin Gaudí (modernist, if you live in Spain). I consider him a genius. His buildings are characterized by a surreal, very round, organic style. One of our roommates aptly described the Park as "Smurf Land." Park Güell was a collaboration between Gaudí and an investor to create a relaxing, semi-Utopian housing development. Yup, all those crazy buildings pictured below were designed to be lived in by regular people. Unfortunately, the project was a failure; very few of the houses sold. One of them is still privately inhabited, but the rest are open to the public, as the housing development has become a tourist park in homage to Gaudí. Click on the links above to read the history behind the park and a bio of Gaudí; it's all very interesting.






I am a professional when it comes to weird facial expressions:







Below is a sculpture in Gaudí's backyard. He lived in the housing development, and his house is furnished just as it was while he lived there.
I didn't realize this while I was there, but apparently, Gaudí designed most, if not all, of the furniture in his house himself. Have you ever seen dining room chairs quite like these?
More Gaudí furniture:
A photo from the period in which he lived there:
Beautiful Art Nouveau chandelier:






The outside of his home:




Okay, enough Gaudí for now. Unfortunately, Bruno and I never made it to La Sagrada Família, his ever-unfinished hallucinatory last work, but I swear, when I go back to Barcelona, I'm going to see it up close. I love Gaudí.
Moving on, we went to the Joan Miró museum after this, which was very interesting, but we weren't allowed to take photos there, so you were spared some museum pictures.

Anyway, here are the keys to our 200+ year old apartment. Pretty cool, huh?

That night, we went to dinner at a pub in our neighborhood. The drink special of the night was a Manhattan, which I love. We each ordered one. It arrived, and I think Bruno's expression pretty much captured our reaction: confusion.
Does that tall glass above look like a Manhattan to you? It sure didn't look like a Manhattan to me. And it didn't taste like one either. Manhattans are normally served up, are more of a caramel color, rather than a honey color, have a cherry, not a slice of lemon, and are only slightly sweet from the red vermouth. What they served us tasted like syrup. It had the basic essence of a Manhattan, but it seemed like they poured a bunch of honey or something in it. Those Spaniards like their drinks sweet. As an aside, I noticed that the size of the sugar packets in Spain are twice as big as the ones here.
Later, the waitress came to take our dinner order. We had just used my coconut-scented hand sanitizer, and the waitress asked why we smelled like coconut. Shortly thereafter, we looked up at the Daily Special chalkboard, and the drink special had been changed to a Piña Colada. We laughed, realizing that it was likely due to our coconut scent.

My Greatest Hit: Moleslaughter?

The last few days, I've been getting lots of hits on this blog with people using the search term "moleslaughter." Seriously. From all over the country. Iowa, Texas, you name it.

Holy Crap! I just did an image search using the term "moleslaughter" and every single image was from my blog. Five pages of Google Images all from my blog. Not just the "Moleslaughter" post (in which I wrote about how I thought I had stepped on and killed a mole in my garden, but it turned out to be a mouse--still quite traumatic), but pretty much everything I posted.

But now, this turn of events begs the question: why are so many people suddenly using the search term "moleslaughter"? Is it the time of year where moles become a big problem? Are farmers turning to the internet searching for novel methods of mole removal? Are they so frustrated that they use the violent and bloody search term of "moleslaughter"?

Well, anyway, enjoy the new naughty mole pic at the top of this post.

How to Start a Fire at Work Like a Movie Star, Part II

The sponges in our kitchen at work smelled like mildew, so I threw them in the microwave for 90 seconds. They were bone dry, as they hadn't been used over the weekend. I didn't realize this could pose a problem.
I went back to my desk. One of my coworkers asked if I smelled something burning. Uh oh. I went back to the kitchen to investigate, and but before I could make it in, was accosted by another co-worker, asking if I had put the sponges in the microwave. Yes. Did I know that they had caught fire and were smoking and flaming? Oops. He went back to his desk. I opened up the microwave, and sure enough, the sponges were partially burnt.

Apparently, you're only supposed to put damp sponges in the microwave. There's even an article in the New York Times about it. I like to keep things exciting.

Wish I Was There

A reveller lays in tomato pulp during the annual "Tomatina" (tomato fight) in the Mediterranean village of Bunol, near Valencia, August 27, 2008. The origin of the tomato fight is disputed - everyone in Bunol seems to have a favourite story - but most agree it started around 1940, in the early years of the dictatorship of General Francisco Franco. REUTERS/Heino Kalis (SPAIN)

I love Spain.