YAY FOR ME! . . .

I discovered today that although my Judge would love to have me return to continue my clerkship, that will have to happen after the woman to whom he offered a one-year position starting in the fall of 2005 leaves. That means I have to putz around for at least one year, perhaps two. What should I do? Can I conceivably enter another legal position, only to leave after such a short period of time (although taking into account burnout, one year = a lifetime)? Maybe I can try something totally new and leave law completely for a year ... work at the local library? Apprentice with a baker? Take classes at the Culinary Institute of America, or Columbia School of International and Public Affairs, or NYU Law, or the Institute of Culinary Education? Be a nanny for a year (with commensurate salary and benefits, naturally. I have a lifestyle to uphold. [Oh, please.])? The possibilities bounced around my brain all day long until I was dizzy.

Or that could have been residual codeine.

But then I came home to find that my precious Elsa Peretti sterling silver cross necklace -- that which was lovingly given to me upon the occasion of my birthday several years ago but then was brutally ripped off my neck by a clingy Noodle -- was fixed and in an inconspicuously-wrapped box, waiting to lay its coldness and warmth against my collarbone once more. I am complete.

But then, my family and I went to Baden-Baden in New Joisey, in the heart of weird New Joisey Korean-ness. The land where "no smoking" is greeted with (a) looks of confusion; (b) disbelieving guffaws; or (c) "f*ck you"s. We gorged on Korean-style fried chicken, perfect white cubes of pickled turnips, sliced jalapeno peppers (I don't really know when and how jalapeno peppers became part of Korean cuisine, but I can dig it), spicy stir-fried squid and vegetables, and white noodles in savory sauce. And a cosmopolitan. And a pitcher of cheap beer. And lots of second-hand cigarette smoke. (Incidentally, our waitress carded me when I ordered the cosmo and beer because, as she later said, "I thought it was weird that with three adults at the table, a fifteen-year-old was ordering the drinks." I'll be thanking her when I'm fifty.)

But then, we talked about golf the whole time. I, slightly buzzed, made Omma recount to Appa my perfect (ok, near-perfect) form, my long drives, my intense putting concentration, my quickly-improving short game, my ability to listen to directions and do exactly as instructed. Then, still slightly buzzed, I made her do it again. Then I lectured Appa that he should keep his right arm stuck to his side during the follow-through, that he should keep his eye on the ball and not be so intent on watching it fly, that he should not rush through his putts, and that he should listen to my golf tips.

But then, I drove my parents home -- it's my birthday dinner, but I'm still the designated driver -- and ordered some new EZ-Pass tags for all of us. After all, only APPA would get two speeding tickets for zipping through an EZ-Pass lane and get all of our tags -- which share an account number with his -- SUSPENDED.

But then, Omma handed me my new Calloway 7-wood -- the one with the shiny metallic blue big head -- and of course, I had to grip it and start swinging it around my parents' foyer. And naturally, I gouged an inch-long wedge into our newly-painted hallway wall. Naturally.

But then, I departed my parents' place and went to the local Mobil station, where I pumped an absurd FORTY DOLLARS worth of gas. That was just stupid. Drivers shouldn't have to pay for gas. Or parking. And the passenger of the Volkswagen Jetta in front of me danced around the vehicle as gas flowed into his car. DANCED. ENTHUSIASTICALLY.

But then, I came home, and proceeded up the steps leading to the building's main doorways. I nearly had a heart-attack as I looked up to reach towards the door handle and saw that SOME IDIOT had placed a ghoulish wolf's head on top of a stuffed body wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and SAT THE DAMN THING on a folding chair right by the main doorway. WHAT THE!!!! I looked around to make sure no one had heard my terrified squeak, and I tempted fate to lean in and make sure the ghoul was fake (what would I have done if it moved?!). And then, to my utmost chagrin and embarrassment ... I BACKED IN TO MY BUILDING so that I could keep my eyes on the seated ghoul at all times. It would really have sucked if it had been real and it jumped me from behind while I was opening my mailbox.

But then, it occurred to me that my crazy neighbor -- the bunny lover -- might have placed that ghoulish decoration at the entrance. It's just something she would do and think was charming. I stuck my tongue out at her door and scowled as I walked by.

But then, I'm now home and thinking "in a couple of days, we turn the clock back one hour and gain an hour of time, so I could pretend that I have one more hour of time now, and putz around do something and watch another hour of TV and lounge for one more hour and wake up late tomorrow morning because 10 o'clock will really be 9 o'clock. Right?"

Weirdness ... you can't chalk it up to the full moon, because that spectacle (which, naturally, I missed) is long gone. Nay, my friends! It's my birthday weekend, and it just doesn't get any weirder than this!

Yay for me!