Working, Girls

Hey, you.  Yes, YOU there, the one with the boobs.  You’re a lawyer, right?  Or some sort of Big Law type, at least?  I figured.  I could tell by the bewildered look on your face.  I know, sweetie, I know: It’s confusing being a woman in and around Big Law these days.  First, unless you have a time machine and a magic wand, it looks like you’re not making partner any time soon.  Sorry.  Then, of course, there’s the finding-a-long-term-sex-partner-who-doesn’t-require-batteries problem.  And then, there’s the latest slap: Laminated scraps of “advice” from Citibank your employer about the stupid things that you do to sabotage your career, you (apparently) soft-spoken, smile-happy, invisible moron cow.

And the advice doesn’t stop there.  You can’t even find a good glass ceiling to smack your head up against anymore without tripping over a stack of advice for women lawyers on everything from how to dress for success (Avoid nudity!), to how to toughen up (Sass those boys right back when they act rapey at the office!), to how not to look like a drowned clown corpse at work (Forget it, lost cause!).

At this point, I’m so bored with the heaps of so-called advice from other lawyers and professional counsel-givers that I had to turn to the one person I could think of whose advice never fails.  The one person who knows what it’s like to carve out a niche for yourself in an often cruel, mystifying profession overwrought with over-educated lunatics: My friend, Alanna.  I think you could learn a lot from her. Why?  Because she’s never wrong.

And she’s a hooker. [Read more]

Does This Law Degree Make My Ass Look Fat?

Quick question: You’re a single guy, let’s say in your late twenties to mid-thirties, with a decent job, given the choice between the following two single women to date; which one do you choose?

Choice A: A real-world-hot 28-year-old receptionist on her fourth job in three years, who lives with two roommates in a fifth-floor walkup in some outer borough, aspires to someday have a job that gives her either free shoes or health insurance, and only sounds like an idiot when she speaks out loud.

Choice B: A real-world-hot 28-year-old BigLaw lawyer (I know, just go with me here) who paid off her school debt by herself in three years, lives alone in a doorman building in Manhattan, is funny and down-to-earth, and runs a small, successful side business selling artisanal cupcakes that she bakes in her spare time.

Clearly, you choose Choice A.   Why?  Because, if the status quo in my firm…and in my life…and in my friends’ lives…and in any bar from New York to L.A. is any indication, a law degree confers about as much romantic value to a single woman as a meth habit and a hidden penis.

Don’t believe me?    [Read more]

The Marrying Kind

Oh, friends, I know: Where have I been lo these past few months?  I’d like to say that I’ve been off on a soul-searching journey, finding peace within Big Law.  Or pursuing emotional self-improvement.  Or romping around with an aspiring actor type with soccer legs and a limited vocabulary.  But, sadly, I can’t say any of those things.  Truth be told, I’ve been pursuing self-improvement of a different kind.  There’s no way of admitting this without getting ambushed, so I’ll just lay it out there: I had a breast augmentation.  A big, round, expensive one.  And if you’ll forgive the hubris, the new additions are pretty incredible.

Now, before you start judging, hear me out.  Anyone who is even remotely familiar with the parade of psychopaths populating my romantic life knows that I’ve had no luck in finding The One.  The whole law-degree thing just hasn’t reeled them in like I thought it would.  At this point in my life, I just want to meet a professional, well-educated man and I realized a few months ago that I needed to take more drastic action to make it happen.  And I figured that inflating my boobs to the point where I resemble a pair of engorged cantaloupes resting on a blanched pretzel rod seemed like a good— oh crap, wait, that’s not right.  I was getting myself confused with our favorite litigious ex-Citi siren, Debrahlee Lorenzana, there for a minute.  Sorry.  I’ve just actually been at the office this whole time. [Read more]

Deal Goggles

I should’ve seen this one coming, I know.  I’ve had enough experience by now with sexual humiliation at the hands of Big Law to have known better.   But no matter how seasoned, how street smart you may think you are, this one sneaks up on you without warning.  One minute, you’re cruising along on a string of all-nighters for a fire-drill deal with a senior associate you know only well enough to find mildly repulsive; the next minute, you’re pinning him up against the wall of a file room with your Prada pencil skirt hiked up around your waist, clawing at each other like starved lunatics.  The culprit: Deal Goggles.  And let me assure you from recent personal experience, by the time you realize you’re wearing them, it’s way too late. [Read more]

Prelude to a Kiss

I may not be a doctor, but I can spot a good epidemic when I see one. No, I’m not talking swine flu. Or Mad Cow. I’m talking about a bug that’s more contagious, more debilitating. A bug that seems to be tearing through scores of Big Law associates faster than you can say “stealth layoffs.” As much as I’ve tried to find one, there’s just no immunization you can get to ward this one off-and it looks like my fellow Big Law drones haven’t found one, either. The plague in question? Young female associates getting themselves embroiled in ridiculous sexual situations with vile, insane partners. And as far I can tell, a cure is still a long way off. [Read more]

Losing Your Mind: A Primer

There are a few moments in any young lawyer’s life guaranteed to perk up the day. Closing a deal after a marathon of strained, sleepless nights. Winning a case after three years of document review and trial prep. Finding out you haven’t been included in the firm’s latest slaughter. But none comes close to the thrill of witnessing your opposing counsel have a public, full-out mental breakdown. Call me a sucker for schadenfreude, but there’s just a greasy comfort that sets in when you realize that there’s someone—anyone—outside of your own tortured corner of Big Law who’s closer to losing his mind than you are. Only thing is, that comfort comes with strings—and if you’re not careful, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll double back and take a nice, firm chokehold right around your own neck. [Read more]

The Myth of the Cool Partner

It’s happened—after a few years and a few thousand billable hours, I’ve finally found him.  Sure, there have been loads of false starts along the way, but I think this time it’s for real: I’ve finally met the worst partner in the entire firm.  At first, I thought the winner might be Russ, the firm’s resident stone-faced robot and reigning Big Firm Savant.  But no.  Then, for obvious reasons involving hidden harnesses and coconut-flavored lube, I thought it could possibly be Ian, our favorite slave-driving Pervert, Esq.  Wrong again.  No, in the past few weeks, the true winner has revealed himself to be a creature far more insidious, more vile: the Cool Partner.  And I’m here to warn you—he’s a type more dangerous than you’ve ever imagined. [Read more]

Respect the Ring?

Quick question: When you think of the average married, middle-aged guy slogging his way up the Big Law partner track, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?  A pasty, bloated puppet?  A bald head?  An over-worked, under-stimulated robot, bunking in at the office while the wife lies safely, if not securely, back at home?  Well, if the state of affairs in and around my firm is any indication, you’d be off the mark—way off the mark.  Because as far as I can tell lately, when it comes to  Big Law romance, a wedding ring is the new corporate aphrodisiac. [Read more]

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