the daily snivel
It was three miserable weeks, but I finally got my iBook back. Imagine -- three weeks of scribbling lecture notes by hand, enduring the tingling of overextended tendons as I attempted to keep up with the whirlwind pace of developments in tax law and the common law confessions rule. Laptops have transformed today's modern universities, I tells ya. Professors pace themselves by the modern metronome of the staccato beat of fingers stabbing at keyboards. We, the low-tech people, can hardly keep up. At least those of us who write with our left hands who were never trained to hold a pen properly.
Gripe, gripe, gripe.
Instead of replacing the reed switch in my display (a $50 part that has a wire that passes out from the display through the hinge to the motherboard which sometimes frays with extended use), the good folks at B.Mac decided instead to order a whole new $500 display, as they can just hook it up without the bother of installing a new cable. From their perspective, it's a sensible decision -- from mine, I'm just relieved I got the computer back without paying a cent (in fact 50 thousand cents, to be precise). You see, the screen started giving me problems about a week after my original warranty expired -- thank God I bought the Applecare service plan this summer.
Similarly, I talked a friend of mine into buying an iBook for herself this October, and while on the whole Apple computers (and, frankly, most other kinds of computers) are extremely reliable, it's just a fact of life of laptop ownership that problems will happen, the parts are extremely proprietary and tightly assembled, and the slightest little hardware issue could wind up costing you hundreds of dollars. So I talked her into buying Applecare as well, and I can now show off my shiny new $500 display as testament to the fact that it more than pays for itself down the road.
But at the end of the day, I'm just writing this entry to say that I'm happy my computer is back. I'm so much more productive and happy with my Mac at home, work and at school. It means I've got my beloved music and iTunes back, as well as the ability to take half-decent notes, use a reliable web browser, and generally just regain a much-needed sense of organization and style.
It also briefly takes my mind off the real issues of my week, like my poor, clinically manic friend who got herself evicted this weekend (and doesn't want to fight it), the inflexible Crown who insisted that I waive my client's s. 11(b) Charter rights last week (I refused, got into my first real debate in court, saved the right but lost the argument, and now stickiness has ensued because they're using that tactic even more now), and the looming horror of exams.
So, yes, I'm enjoying my sweet, shiny, beautiful iBook. It's kind of like the "precious" I get to stroke and whisper soothingly to in my dank little world this week.
Sunday, November 09, 2003 Gripe, gripe, gripe.
Instead of replacing the reed switch in my display (a $50 part that has a wire that passes out from the display through the hinge to the motherboard which sometimes frays with extended use), the good folks at B.Mac decided instead to order a whole new $500 display, as they can just hook it up without the bother of installing a new cable. From their perspective, it's a sensible decision -- from mine, I'm just relieved I got the computer back without paying a cent (in fact 50 thousand cents, to be precise). You see, the screen started giving me problems about a week after my original warranty expired -- thank God I bought the Applecare service plan this summer.
Similarly, I talked a friend of mine into buying an iBook for herself this October, and while on the whole Apple computers (and, frankly, most other kinds of computers) are extremely reliable, it's just a fact of life of laptop ownership that problems will happen, the parts are extremely proprietary and tightly assembled, and the slightest little hardware issue could wind up costing you hundreds of dollars. So I talked her into buying Applecare as well, and I can now show off my shiny new $500 display as testament to the fact that it more than pays for itself down the road.
But at the end of the day, I'm just writing this entry to say that I'm happy my computer is back. I'm so much more productive and happy with my Mac at home, work and at school. It means I've got my beloved music and iTunes back, as well as the ability to take half-decent notes, use a reliable web browser, and generally just regain a much-needed sense of organization and style.
It also briefly takes my mind off the real issues of my week, like my poor, clinically manic friend who got herself evicted this weekend (and doesn't want to fight it), the inflexible Crown who insisted that I waive my client's s. 11(b) Charter rights last week (I refused, got into my first real debate in court, saved the right but lost the argument, and now stickiness has ensued because they're using that tactic even more now), and the looming horror of exams.
So, yes, I'm enjoying my sweet, shiny, beautiful iBook. It's kind of like the "precious" I get to stroke and whisper soothingly to in my dank little world this week.
I am continually impressed by my friend Angela's website, which she uses to convey a range of progressive, critical, and well-researched opinions on the political reality of the United States. As an American (albeit one who lives in Toronto, Canada), she is passionate about the toll taken against the environment, civil liberties, women's reproductive rights, and peace by the Bush administration. In a world of web-logs that whine about the minutiae of everyday life (including my own Daily Snivel), I always find her writing refreshing, clear, and compelling. On top of it all, she's just an incredibly cool person to know.
So, I kind of feel the need to justify myself a little bit and explain why I usually end up whining about my romantic misadventures, or otherwise trivial ramblings, like my crashy desktop PC, etc. My problem is that for five days out of every week, I work at the University of Ottawa Community Legal Clinic as a caseworker, where we deliver legal services to low-income people (including Carleton University and University of Ottawa students -- you're all automatically eligible for representation, so come on down!). I'm in the criminal division, but we also represent clients in tenant and civil matters, as well as having a division specifically for women who have been the victims of crime, an HIV division, an Aboriginal division, and a Community Legal Education division.
We help a lot of people. One of my friends in the tenant division was recounting a day when she was serving as duty counsel at the Ottawa housing tribunal, and she literally had to help mothers and babies being evicted by their landlords.
I deal with people who may seem objectively less sympathetic (e.g. driving while impaired; theft; leaving the scene of a traffic accident or having no insurance; public intoxication; or riding your bike on the sidewalk and smacking into a pedestrian), but they all have stories that no one else knows about, and they all have worries and are all afraid of what's going to happen to them. Most of them just had incredibly bad luck, and through a not-too-outrageous chain of events, an otherwise routine day turned into a Very Big Problem. Sometimes my clients just had the bad fortune of irritating mall security guards, who get them charged with "Committing a Prohibited Act," contrary to the Trespass to Property Act. Can you figure out what that offence applies? I can't. In my very humble, not-a-lawyer opinion, in many cases I think it basically means: "what you did wasn't technically against the law, or we'd charge you with something else, but we want you to charge you with something anyway." At least, that's what I'm going to be arguing down the road.
All of us have broken the law at one point or another in our lives, and many of us have had the good fortune to never have been caught. My job is to help people when I can, and I think of myself as a good advocate. I've got two trials coming up in the new year, I've appeared on behalf of my clients before a Justice of the Peace, I've discussed charges with police and Crown prosecutors, and I'm constantly doing research and writing letters on behalf of my clients.
I easily put in ten hours a week at the clinic (and often more), above and beyond my part-time job at the Canadian Breast Cancer Network, and my classes. When I get home, I just want to sleep. I do keep up on current events, and I do have a lot of opinions about the horrible state of the world these days, but when the time comes to rant, all I often manage to do is complain about the fact that I'm feeling lonesome, or my iBook is still in the shop (they're waiting for a part...), or whatever.
For instance: last week was the Hallowe'en Party for my law school. We went to a big, loud, obnoxious club in the Byward Market (Suite 34 on Clarence Street, for reference). I looked perfectly horrible as a decomposing corpse, complete with tattered rags, flies crawling my skin, maggots, and congealed blood and brain matter soaking my obvious head wound and dribbling down my pale, crumbling face. My sister went as a borg drone, and looked absolutely perfect. Both of us were actually nominated for best male and female costumes, respectively. My sister was a runner up, and I didn't hear my name being called in the drunken din, so I'll never know how I might have done in the final judging.
That night, I screwed up my courage and talked to someone I'd been meaning to get to know better since last year, but never really felt comfortable approaching (an upper year student, who was really sweet and supportive last year when I was a baby-faced, innocent, first-year law student). She really liked my costume, and at various points in the evening we'd meet in the crowded club and chat a bit. At one point, she was drunk enough to actually smack my rear end playfully.
That happens to me a lot these days. I take it to mean I have a nice bottom.
So, as the night progressed, I chatted a bit more with her, and we had a lot of laughs. We even danced a bit, but it became clear that she was getting so drunk that she was becoming a menace to herself -- kind of like the "Drunk Girl" character on Saturday Night Live -- so I left her to the care of her friends and danced on my own. My powerful liver (we come from a long line of English, Scottish, and Irish drunkards) kept me from actually getting drunk or sloppy, so I tend to just be amused/bemused by the antics of people who can hardly stand. Which was nearly everyone by the end.
But I made sure to say goodnight to my acquaintance, and she gave me a big hug and a kiss on my moldering cheek, and I planted one on her own in kind. I even left some corn syrup blood on her face, to my horror.
I mean, it was really nothing, but I was glad we'd connected a little bit. I'd always wanted to be better friends with this person, and I was too shy before that night. But I bumped into her subsequently at school, and to my mild surprise she didn't remember ANYTHING that happened that night. No memory existed at all in her head after the very beginning of the night, as we stood in line, and admired one another's costumes.
I think what I'm getting at is that I feel more than a little silly to have summoned the courage to talk to someone who I admire, only to discover -- after talking and laughing and dancing and even a teensy tiny bit of innocent flirtation -- that she was so very, very, very drunk that she didn't even remember seeing me inside.
But that's just the way the cookie crumbles, I guess.
So, I kind of feel the need to justify myself a little bit and explain why I usually end up whining about my romantic misadventures, or otherwise trivial ramblings, like my crashy desktop PC, etc. My problem is that for five days out of every week, I work at the University of Ottawa Community Legal Clinic as a caseworker, where we deliver legal services to low-income people (including Carleton University and University of Ottawa students -- you're all automatically eligible for representation, so come on down!). I'm in the criminal division, but we also represent clients in tenant and civil matters, as well as having a division specifically for women who have been the victims of crime, an HIV division, an Aboriginal division, and a Community Legal Education division.
We help a lot of people. One of my friends in the tenant division was recounting a day when she was serving as duty counsel at the Ottawa housing tribunal, and she literally had to help mothers and babies being evicted by their landlords.
I deal with people who may seem objectively less sympathetic (e.g. driving while impaired; theft; leaving the scene of a traffic accident or having no insurance; public intoxication; or riding your bike on the sidewalk and smacking into a pedestrian), but they all have stories that no one else knows about, and they all have worries and are all afraid of what's going to happen to them. Most of them just had incredibly bad luck, and through a not-too-outrageous chain of events, an otherwise routine day turned into a Very Big Problem. Sometimes my clients just had the bad fortune of irritating mall security guards, who get them charged with "Committing a Prohibited Act," contrary to the Trespass to Property Act. Can you figure out what that offence applies? I can't. In my very humble, not-a-lawyer opinion, in many cases I think it basically means: "what you did wasn't technically against the law, or we'd charge you with something else, but we want you to charge you with something anyway." At least, that's what I'm going to be arguing down the road.
All of us have broken the law at one point or another in our lives, and many of us have had the good fortune to never have been caught. My job is to help people when I can, and I think of myself as a good advocate. I've got two trials coming up in the new year, I've appeared on behalf of my clients before a Justice of the Peace, I've discussed charges with police and Crown prosecutors, and I'm constantly doing research and writing letters on behalf of my clients.
I easily put in ten hours a week at the clinic (and often more), above and beyond my part-time job at the Canadian Breast Cancer Network, and my classes. When I get home, I just want to sleep. I do keep up on current events, and I do have a lot of opinions about the horrible state of the world these days, but when the time comes to rant, all I often manage to do is complain about the fact that I'm feeling lonesome, or my iBook is still in the shop (they're waiting for a part...), or whatever.
For instance: last week was the Hallowe'en Party for my law school. We went to a big, loud, obnoxious club in the Byward Market (Suite 34 on Clarence Street, for reference). I looked perfectly horrible as a decomposing corpse, complete with tattered rags, flies crawling my skin, maggots, and congealed blood and brain matter soaking my obvious head wound and dribbling down my pale, crumbling face. My sister went as a borg drone, and looked absolutely perfect. Both of us were actually nominated for best male and female costumes, respectively. My sister was a runner up, and I didn't hear my name being called in the drunken din, so I'll never know how I might have done in the final judging.
That night, I screwed up my courage and talked to someone I'd been meaning to get to know better since last year, but never really felt comfortable approaching (an upper year student, who was really sweet and supportive last year when I was a baby-faced, innocent, first-year law student). She really liked my costume, and at various points in the evening we'd meet in the crowded club and chat a bit. At one point, she was drunk enough to actually smack my rear end playfully.
That happens to me a lot these days. I take it to mean I have a nice bottom.
So, as the night progressed, I chatted a bit more with her, and we had a lot of laughs. We even danced a bit, but it became clear that she was getting so drunk that she was becoming a menace to herself -- kind of like the "Drunk Girl" character on Saturday Night Live -- so I left her to the care of her friends and danced on my own. My powerful liver (we come from a long line of English, Scottish, and Irish drunkards) kept me from actually getting drunk or sloppy, so I tend to just be amused/bemused by the antics of people who can hardly stand. Which was nearly everyone by the end.
But I made sure to say goodnight to my acquaintance, and she gave me a big hug and a kiss on my moldering cheek, and I planted one on her own in kind. I even left some corn syrup blood on her face, to my horror.
I mean, it was really nothing, but I was glad we'd connected a little bit. I'd always wanted to be better friends with this person, and I was too shy before that night. But I bumped into her subsequently at school, and to my mild surprise she didn't remember ANYTHING that happened that night. No memory existed at all in her head after the very beginning of the night, as we stood in line, and admired one another's costumes.
I think what I'm getting at is that I feel more than a little silly to have summoned the courage to talk to someone who I admire, only to discover -- after talking and laughing and dancing and even a teensy tiny bit of innocent flirtation -- that she was so very, very, very drunk that she didn't even remember seeing me inside.
But that's just the way the cookie crumbles, I guess.
