The power went out at my house about a week ago, and isn't expected to be back on for weeks.  Weeks. 

Fortunately, I'm not at my house.  I was staying at the fella's place when the grid-destroying storm struck.  I was all comfortably warm and nestled in a chair by the fireplace.  My mother called and explained the predicament--everyone was out of power, but would I come back home?  I could stay at their place, where there's no power but at least a generator, and I could, you know, keep her company.

"Do I have to?"  ('Couldn't you just talk to dad?', I wondered, silently.)

My mother reluctantly agreed that it didn't make much sense for me to drive home only to have to live in a cold house sans power.  She mailed me a few of my bar study books, and she and my dad are taking care of the peeps and the kitty and my plants (though I suspect my orchids may have already succumbed to the cold). 

So, I continue to curl up by the fire, continue to cook lavish meals, and continue to halfheartedly pretend to study for the bar exam.  I'm currently at my favorite coffee shop, supposedly studying.  It would probably be more convincing if I had a bar study book with me, but I didn't want to be that close to them. 

There's something toxic about Secured Transactions.  It sounds constricting.  Decidedly unsexy.

I blogged last week about what I could do instead of studying for the bar.  An update on my progress:

1.  I redisovered language-learning software on my computer and set about learning Spanish.

2.  I made homemade lasagne, complete with homemade pasta and two sauces--a robust roasted tomato mushroom one and a delicate white sauce.  Creamy.  Orgasmy, even.

3.  I intend to make homemade ravioli tonight--spinach and ricotta filling with a sweet garden tomato sauce.  (I even have organic home-grown tomatoes in the freezer for the sauce.)

4.  I read a few books.  Five, maybe?

5.  I got a haircut.  It's cute, but not as cute as Jeremy used to make it. 

6.  The fella and I went to see "Up in the Air" and were the only two people in the theater.

7.  I counted all the fella's books.  (2,758)  Upon hearing this, my mother suggested, "Maybe you need a job."  Pshaw.  Maybe the fella needs more books.

Anyway, in case anyone was worried about the peeps (Jim), the peeps are fine.  Despite the bitter cold, they're clucky and feisty and laying lots of delicous eggs.

And in case anyone was worried about me (anyone?), I'm fine, and my procrastination is going splendidly.  It's ok to lie and pretend to have been worrying about me.

Forsaking erotic fiction for more serious (but still ultimately masturbatory) prose, I recently finished reading Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections.

My assessment:  Heavenly, heavenly prose. I sighed with pleasure, groaned with delight, craved a cigarette when it was over.  Sometimes I'd read a great sentence and just stop, admire, and, as one reviewer warned, have to check my impulse to whistle. 

I try not to be prescriptive, but if this book isn't on your reading list, it really ought to be.

I've begun studying for the bar exam, by which I mean, I've begun procrastinating about studying for the bar exam. 

The last time I was studying for a bar exam, it was summertime, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself reading french erotica and sunbathing in my yard, surrounded by plenty of cigarettes and booze.  Oh, and I blogged about diddling and rainstorms, and I chatted endlessly with endless numbers of virtual friends, and I smoked, and drank, and took nudie photos, and, well, really had a lovely time.  A few weeks before the exam I realized that my "bar study" didn't really follow any of the helpful and instructive "bar study models" I'd been given, so I crammed a bit, wept a little, and hoped for the best.  (As I went on smoking and drinking and taking nudie photos and chatting with all of you about how I really ought to be studying.) 

I took the exam and then worried for three months about the wisdom of not studying for the 'professional responsibility' section of the exam and instead simply titling an album of nudie photos "professional responsibility."  (The photos were very tasteful, I assure you.  Professional.  And responsibly nude.)

In hindsight, it truly was professional.  And responsible.  Notwithstanding my months of fretting, I'd passed the exam with ease--and done far better than I should have, especially considering my unorthodox study methods.

Having moved to another state, and having parents who don't think that a thirty-year-old woman should really be "retired," I'm faced with another bar exam.  (This wasn't my idea.  They offered to pay all the fees, though, and I figured that it couldn't be all that bad.  I was wrong, of course.)

The exam is about five weeks away.  If I still had internet access at my home, you could safely anticipate a fresh round of drunken blogs and nudie photos.  Sadly, though, I will have to resort to other, non-fubarish forms of procrastination.

Suggestions?  Because this Corporations outline just isn't doing it for me.

It stormed here last week, and I'm still digging out my yard.  For a few days, though, I was simply stuck.  I could don my snowboots and many layers of clothing to make it to the mailbox, but that was about it.

Then tragedy struck. 

I was out of envelopes.

What was I to do?  How could I communicate with the outside world?  A message tucked into a wine bottle doesn't travel very far when you toss it into 3-foot waves of snow.

Then, Genius struck.  (This may have also been the effect of too much cold on my brain.)  I found an old mis-addressed envelope, and I carefully un-did the glued edges, placed it on my cutting board, and traced around it with a nifty razor knife thingy.  I carefully folded in the flaps, worked a little magic with a glue stick, and voila!  An envelope! 

After I made a couple, I realized that plain white paper just wasn't that interesting.  I took an old atlas and started tearing out pages, turning them into little envelopes.  Then I had the brilliant idea of using large nudie photos.  Something tells me I might get better mail service if my carrier is regularly regaled with sugartits.

But: A question.  Will the post office deliver mail that has nudity on it?  Will they even deliver my non-nudie map envelopes?  Is writing (other than the addresses) allowed on regular mail?  Do any of you happen to be disgruntled postal workers who might know the answers to my all-important questions?

i will be expecting to hear from you soonest so we can become friends, you truly have a charming smile, so you have to tell me the secrete behind it when we meet on chat

The secrete is saliva.  Once it dribbles down my chin, it's drool.

Now that you know all my secrete secrets, we won't have to chat.

If people just went to Vegas to screw and get drunk, it wouldn't be such a bad place.

Instead, people go there to shop.  

I intend to close my eyes and pretend that Vegas is exactly how HST described it in Fear and Loathing, and I was actually just at the Mall of America for a long weekend.

In other news, Pops had a happy 80th, his girlfriend is a delightful lady, and the fella and I drank enough to drown our sorrows over Vegas being a consumer-friendly hell-hole. 

Lest you wonder or your parents try to lead you astray, the Eiffel Tower in Vegas is not "just like" the one in Paris.  

I have, in some way, reentered civil society.  I own a car.  I’m contemplating getting health insurance.  Lacking a public option, I may just cross my fingers and my legs, hope that I don’t die of aids or childbirth. 

 Anyway: the car.  I used to own a car.  I hated it, preferred to walk almost two miles to work rather than drive my beast of a Chrysler (a ‘99 LHS, well-suited for the old, the infirm, the severely obese, the kinds of people who don’t mind shitty gas mileage so long as they have very, very large seats.)

 My new car is a 2000 Toyota Corolla, purchased for a song from a 40-something divorcee living in a trash-strewn apartment.  The wallpaper border in his bathroom clashed vigorously with the yellow tile.  That there is either yellow tile or wallpaper border in one’s bathroom signals distress.  That there is both signals despair.  I think he was in need of cash.

 Despite the fact that I am thirty years old and enjoying a blissful early retirement, my life is veering toward normalcy.  I cook a lot.  I read trashy (albeit semi-literate) novels.  I sunbathe profusely.  I swear more than I sunbathe.  I’m contemplating (someday) having a job, but only if I can find one that would allow me to maintain my current level of sunbathing and swearing.

 Also, I’m dating someone.  This someone isn’t married, and he doesn’t appear to be a psychopath, which makes this all fairly remarkable for me.  Also, new.  Also, nice.

 The only catch, one might say, is that this someone started teaching at the college level around the time I was born.  This, I think, is a good thing, as it meant he was well practiced by the time I appeared in his course.  That class was twelve years ago.  He recalls that I sat in the back of the classroom and would volunteer smart, sarcastic comments.  I remember that he wore tight pants, had fantastic hair. 

 He still has great hair.  

One of the fun things about dating someone you've known for twelve years is that you have lots of memories of each other.  Most recent memories:

When I was in M's freshman class, I recall, early in the class, him making some remark about an old song--and how it was about giving (or getting) a blowjob.  I was 18 and impressed.  "So this is college, eh?  Sexy professors talking about blowjobs in class?  Clearly I'm on the right path in life."

I shared this memory with M, and he swears he would never talk about blowjobs in class.  Unless it was something in a novel, in which case he might talk about it, just to, you know, bring it to the students' attention.  Anyway, he denies that he talked about blowjobs when I was in his class.  Clearly, he's a liar.

The most recently revealed memory:  M told me last night that, eight years ago, he may have masturbated while thinking about me.  And it may have been to some image of me wearing a very sheer blouse.  And this might have occurred during the time period when he was supervising me.  

All possibilities.  All probably true.

I'm headed to Vegas on Thursday, kids, and I'll be honest: I've never been to Vegas, and I've never wanted to go to Vegas.  My dislike stems not from fear, but rather loathing for all that's glittery and fake and over-commercialized.

Vegas ranks right up there in my mind with sparkly hump-day bling.  In fact, Vegas might actually BE sparkly hump-day bling.

I wouldn't be going to Vegas at all, but it's the fella's dad's birthday; pops is getting on in years and would like to meet me and apparently try to kiss me at some point.  (Or so I've been warned.)

Anyway, I'm looking for non-touristy Vegas recommendations.  I'd like to go someplace in Vegas that's not a chain, that isn't all lit up at night, and that doesn't have hordes of tourists milling about it taking photos.  Are there any good coffee shops?  Any nice art to look at?  A cozy used book store?  A vegetarian cafe filled with non-vegasy types?

To clarify: Please don't tell me which casino to go to.  There are lots of casinos.  I intend to go to none of them, unless pops and his paramour insist.  (And they will probably insist.)

In other news, I spent my weekend cooking and riding in helicopters.  I would say that I flew just like the peeps, but the peeps are actually somewhat pudgy and can't fly all that well.  But!  They're laying delicious eggs!

For all my literary (or simply horny) friends, I have a book recommendation: Nicholson Baker's The Fermata.  You should order it now, so that you've read it by the holiday season and can order it for all your pervy friends and relatives.  (Just don't give it to your mom.  Unless you want to find her fapping under the tree.  But if you've previously found your mom fapping under the tree, then you should give it to your mom.)

The book is, essentially, literary porn.  Not erotica, because, like Jim, I don't really do erotica.  The book is hilariously filthy, though, whilst being simply hilarious.  You'll laugh out loud, then wish the people around you wouldn't be totally freaked out if you read them a passage or two.

Also: Baker uses my name (my real-life name, not my fubar name) as a verb.  In case you were wondering, it means something dirty.  

On a side note, Baker's Vox is shorter but also delightful.  Both are novels that you'll have to put down--because your hands will be busy elsewhere.  

Happy reading/fapping!