If I were the Unquestionably Grand Inarguably Divine Office of the President-Elect (UGIDOOTPE)…

I would appoint only members of the opposition (who are also members of the Senate, which coincidentally is led by a majority of my own party but not sufficient a majority to have unfettered reign) to my cabinet and the various offices and heads of departments of my administration.

Those appointed would be representing states that have recently altered their primary color alignment to match that commonly associated with my own party. The governors of those states would also quite conveniently be members of my party.

This would all but assure loyal replacements in the Senate in states where such vacancies are filled by gubernatorial appointment, and take advantage of prevailing popular opinion in states where the seats are filled by special election.

I would then, of course, fire all my cabinet and department heads.

Audacious enough for ya?

Rumored Updates

I heard a rumor recently that my husband would like to begin blogging more often. In honor of said rumored declaration, I have revamped our blog so that is again *our* blog.

In the event of any actual posts, I will, of course, notify readers of my blog that these posts are present. If they do not surface and the rumor is merely a rumor, do enjoy the new look as you're stopping by in hope.

Why I Shop At Wal-Mart

Unsettling though it was, I had to come to the conclusion fairly early in my professional endeavors that I am no mathematician. Fortunately, the law rarely requires me to calculate numbers: computers handle our billing, legal assistants figure out interest on judgments and filing fees, and the courts, well bless them all, they are chiefly responsible for gracing the world with formulas. The judges can't do the math either, so they make it easier on the rest of us by establishing open-ended solutions.

Speaking with people who are more adept at the numerical arts usually leaves nodding my head and agreeing with everything they say, so as not to appear more intellectually diminutive than I am. This, of course, is much better than my former tactic of one-upmanship that invariably resulted in my weighing in with something more than commonly unintelligible, like "BUT, if you phanubulate the incanculcatory formule-formulumam... summation, the divisor invariably quotates to the y-axis. So it's really all relative."

Mildly put, I'm dumb as a rock. I am, however, more than capable of minding, say, money.

I'm a Scrooge.

Face it: it's much easier to do the math when you have all "+" with no"-" thrown in to complicate matters. This, unfortunately, makes me no great thrill to shop with, to which my lovely wife can attest. I can indicate "no" in fourteen variants of the English language, not including facial contortions, posturing, and low-guttural expressions usually associated with gastronomically distressed porcine.

As we concluding our Christmas shopping (Okay, long aside here. Yes, I intentionally threw in the word, "conclude" since it's the case, and I'd like to laud Kelly for her efforts in getting us here, that is, a Conclusory Stage of The Game. This Conclusory Stage is noteworthy since it's... well, not July), we found ourselves in Wal-Mart last night, picking up a few essentials for the upcoming Jelly-Dip Bake-a-thon and Yogurt Fry. Being in need of a tablespoon, Kel found a set of four plastic spoons, one of which featured a handle with no bowl, it having been broken cleanly off. Knowing my Scroogesquian ways, she decided that we should ask for a discount on the set as we perceived it unlikely that another consumer would purchase them. (Upon reflection, I may have overestimated the perspicacity of North Charleston's populace: More than one person I've witnessed thus far would likely have assumed the broken handle to be a Gourmet Spoon-Swabbing Paddle and found it a bargain).

After having scanned our other merchandise, I asked our clerk whether they would be willing to provide a discount for the broken item, priced at $1.97. The exchange, roughly remembered, went as follows:

PETE: "We found this set of spoons already broken on the rack. Could we get them at a discount?"
CLERK: 'I need to ask my manager.'

After unsuccessfully attempting to call her manager, who was kneeling on the floor not eight feet away, "Martina, Martina, Martina, Martina, Martina," etc. ("Martina" likely thought there was a vaguely annoying repetitive anomaly with the HVAC unit), she finally persuaded a young, upwardly mobile manager-in-training to stop. For our purposes, we shall call him, "Bubba." Not once during the incident did Bubba look at us, despite standing approximately 1.5 feet away. It must have been one of those ten habits of highly successful managers.

CLERK: 'These people claim they found these broken on the rack.'
BUBBA: "Did you ask them whether they found one that wasn't broken?"
CLERK: 'No.'

Sensing a disturbance in the Force, I interjected, "I don't care that it's broken, I want to know if you'll sell it to me for a discount."

The Force began to quiver with the untenable burden that is Communication in the Modern World. In a tone of voice generally reserved for congregants at a wake, Bubba responded, "Uh... uh... tell them... we'll give them 10% off."
PETE: 'No thank you.'
CLERK: "How much is that?"
BUBBA: 'You don't know?'
CLERK: "You KNOW I'm not any good at math!"
PETE: 'No thank you!'
BUBBA: "Then WHY are you working as a cashier?!?"
CLERK: 'Don't you start on me now! I dunno what it is!'
PETE: "No thank you?"

At this heart-pounding stage of the negotiations, I'm delighted to say that cooler heads prevailed. Bubba, being the intelligent young manager that he is, emitted a snort of contempt that likely resulted in irretrievable damage to his sinuses. While annoyed at having had to sit through their spat, I was glad that he was going to put this ignoramus of a cashier in her place.

Except he didn't.

Instead he pulled out his ubercool, "For-managers-only-iPhone" activated the calculator, and, after what seemed like a painfully long amount of time said, "It's uh... forty-cents."

"No thank you."

Postscript. As my friend Gabe pointed out later, I should have just stopped their exchange much earlier by offering, "Five dollars. Ten percent of $1.97 is five dollars. I'll take the change in cash, please."

hee hee

"A man in love is incomplete until he has married. Then he's finished."

~Zsa Zsa Gabor

Pass the mint jelly

In the throws of taking the California bar exam for the second time (and yes, I mean "throws" as if to say "In frustration Pete throws his MBE/essay/PT book or laptop or neighbor's cat across the room with tremendous force.") I have decided that I must find another hobby. When one says one desires the life of an academic one must take into consideration professional certification exams and the nightmare that is preparing for them. Otherwise one is a muttonhead.

I am a muttonhead.

Truncated holidays, little to no personal time with wife and daughter, littler time to commune with one's pillow, ballooning churlish figure, being the only individual in recorded history personally boycotted by representatives of the United Farm Workers Union standing in solidarity with their coffee bean-picking brethren whose labor loads have increased tenfold since I started studying again--these are just some of the factors that have caused me to consider afresh my roster of recreational activities. And while I find the personal letters of admiration and support from the presidents of Starbucks, Dunkin' Donuts, Folgers, Maxwell House, PepsiCo, and some slave driving coffee plantation owner named Jorge amusing, I truly doubt this Bar exam process is worth (a) the suffering I put my family through; (b) the frustration expended every other day by my wildly varying state of emotional stability; (c) the money spent in caffeine, travel, caffeine, fees, caffeine, study materials, and caffeine; and (d) the energy necessary to bellow orders at the picketers to stop bashing my car with their signs. Dudes, it's just bean juice!

Lucky for me I'm a muttonhead. Otherwise I might experience some disapprobation over this situation. Fortuitously I am the possessor of an indefatigable spirit of German élan; ergo I’m a muttonhead that wants spread his penguin-like wings and ... flop? Eat raw seafood! Er… swim in arctic waters…?

Perhaps the analogy needs some massaging. Unfortunately, nature and genetics have robbed me of this opportunity altogether and I must now pass through life as a hunky (read chunky), god-like (read Bacchus), corporate caffeine captivated cretin.

Does whacking picketers constitute a hobby?

/s Muttonhead

N.B. The next time you see Kel, give her a hug. It's pretty hard on her to care for the baby AND Piper during this time....

Love Languages

I have not quite figured out why it is permissible within my household to form a posse and gang up on me but when such possefication is directed at Kel, she curls up in a ball and squeaks, "Don't hurt Piper's mommy!!!" Cute, but irritating in the sense that all efforts to tickle and/or otherwise benignly institute assaults on her person are effectively estopped by my laughing.

Of course, being an American of German extraction, I know that not all disputes are effectively resolved through physical means. Negotiation is also useful. So please, gentle reader, offer me advice on how to respond when, in a moment of conciliatory gentility, I attempted to talk through our differences rather than resort to said physical resolution and was met with, "NO HABLO SPRECHEN ZIE FRANÇOIS!"

Leaves me wondering who this self-contained U.N. chap named François is and what he's doing tickling my wife....