Singing to the Preacher Teacher - February 6, 2008

My powers of prophecy are getting stronger with each passing day. It is a shame that I can only foresee my own tumultuous downfall, for my premonitions work only when I sense my doom.

I knew today was going to be interesting. It was the only day which I was (and will be) able to wear normal people clothes. Wearing my sandals has begun to be a security blanket of sorts. It reminds me where I came from and most definitely where I wish to end up.

After staying up late watching Wolf Blitzer pontificate with pundits of all sorts, I was poised to have a rough start. Going to bed late and waking up early does not make for an easy life.

The "how close can I cut it" game (where I see how late I can wake up and still make it to class on time) is beginning to take its toll on me. Contracts is rough as it is; my continuous need to yawn and stretch helps nobody.

I sit in the back of my Contracts class. It is not so much a choice as it was forced upon me. It is a class where participation can lift your grade quite significantly. The method to gaining the most points is to not necessarily participate the most, but ensure the Professor recognizes your name when allotting final grades. When the teacher is senile, this is all the more difficult.

Luckily, I have a last name on which Professors tend to fixate. I do not know why, but just like Apple Jacks, they just do. I just try to make it easier for them to remember my name.

I am not a contracts "wiz", nor do I pretend to be. Civil procedure, however, is where I shine. So, when the Professor asked a question about the options an executor has in ensuring the correct dispersal of items on a will that has inconsistencies or trouble with wording, everybody just sat quietly - the door to my world suddenly opened.

He could not believe there were no hands being raised. He again repeated his question, following it up with, "you must have been taught this in civil procedure, people."

The switch flipped so quickly in my head that the light bulb most likely shattered. Up went my hand; to his memory went my name. The glory of my answering the question was the fact that I was not even paying as close attention as I should. Let's just say I was multi-tasking (I needed to prepare for Property later in the day - a great decision by me).

I was correct in my answer, and the glory was mine.

There was a blink in time where I nearly died from overwhelming annoyance. Having previously discussed "Annoying Guy" and "Arch-Nemesis Girl," I was asking for the perfect storm of annoyance to occur. It was just a matter of time before they combined their efforts. "Girl" gave her usual confusing answer that was originally simple (she loves to throw in ever big word she can find in addition to reading large sections of text straight from the book). After the Professor took a minute to try to understand the answer, up to the sky went the hand that is connected to "Annoying Guy's" brain. When his hand goes up, the brain shuts off. He always confuses the life out of me and loves to give his personal feelings about every issue - most of the time connecting his thoughts to a personal story about somebody he knows and should not have shared.

Annoying Guy added his powers of confusion to Annoying Girl's, and when their powers combined I became Captain Annoyed-Face. I wish Ursula from The Little Mermaid would take their voices in exchange for making them no longer annoying. However, I don't even think a Disney villain can help. Woe is me.

After Contracts, Michelle and I went to the library for a very brief period to do some work. When the 12:00 hour came, she and I gathered our belongings and made our way to a meeting. I am usually the only person who identifies with the male gender. This makes the meetings all-the-more fun for me as most of the women are very pretty and incredibly smart - just the way I like it. It is even better that everybody involved is very into public service and altruism. Very sexy.

Pizza was served, and boy did we need it - Michelle has a pizza addiction, so she had been awaiting this meeting since it was scheduled in early January (yeah, she is addicted a little too much - I told her that she has a problem).

After the meeting, off I went to the stupid class where I managed to remain inconspicuous. The Professor did not call on me, which was a safe move for her as I become a volatile creature upon entering the room. Nobody knows what I may do if forced to participate.

Upon the conclusion of class, I jumped for joy, clicked my heals and made my way back to the library. They are pondering dedicating the cubicle I use to me. A bronze placard on which my name will be inscribed is currently being prepared for the naming ceremony. Bars are not the only places that have "regulars".

Nearly two hours later, off Michelle and I went to Property. The reading is as confusing as possible under the circumstances. The material is dry and everything we read is a new definition. This week alone, there have been nearly 50-such definitions, and they are not easy to memorize. The law takes normally used words and gives them a new legal definition that is nowhere near the same as its common meaning. Take a fee simple, for example. What in the world does that mean in common usage? Nobody knows.

We walked into the classroom where I proceeded to flirt with the good looking, and highly desirable girl behind me (the same one who always initiates conversations where I am enabled the opportunity to shamelessly promote myself). Mere minutes before class began, I turned to Michelle and told her that I knew I was going to get called on today.

The Professor always starts class by "randomly" selecting three students who will be on call for the entire two-hour class. After she announces those names, it is off to the races. It is like the lottery short story where names are drawn by the town and a person is stoned each year. They do it because it is tradition. Nobody cares if somebody else is getting stoned, but it is not so good if the stones are being hurled in your direction.

Premonition: Confirmed.

Mr. H, the Minister of Property preached from her pulpit. "Son of a Baptist," I audibly exclaimed. I knew it.

The girl sitting to my left (Michelle sits to my right), turned to me and said good luck. I scoffed at her a big "Thanks. I hate you." She giggled at my demise. I shook my head in disgust.

I managed to make it through the first hour of class without being ceremoniously tied to a lead weight and thrown into the water like a witch in Salem. The question was: would he float during the second hour of class?

While the two young ladies whose names were called along with mine were enabled the opportunity to share the unceasing barrage of questions, the second hour was declared my own. Though my classmates sometimes raise their hand and volunteer the answers, I was without a choice in the matter.

Round one through six was scored in my favor. Seven was not to be had in my scoring column. The question was meant to trick me. The answer was the subject of discussion nearly two weeks prior, and I had no chance going into it.

Eight, nine and ten found themselves in my win column. But, then came eleven. It turns out that any number that rhymes with your name is a number that hates you with a passion.

Question eleven was my Vietnam: I had no business trying to answer it because there was no way I was going to get it correct. The answer was a new type of property that we had neither read nor discussed. When I assuredly got it wrong, I looked perplexed, and my classmates must have looked the same. The Professor is fantastic at perceiving our questions and feelings. The smallest eyebrow raise, slanted mouth or miniscule body movement is taken in by her seemingly all-knowing eyes. What a gift.

The type of property was explained, and we moved on. Questions twelve and thirteen were denoted with a big "W" in my on-screen scoring tracker.

Near the end of class an instant message popped up on my computer screen. "Great job, man," the box displayed. "Great job," I questioned back.

"Yeah! You handled it!"

I proceeded to be perplexed by what was being displayed. I did not think I did that well.

Not long after, my screen blinked again - a message from Michelle - and again, and again. As it became clear to me, my hesitation to be content with my performance was a feeling that only I possessed. From the last five minutes of class and throughout the rest of the night, I received words of congratulations from most of my classmates who had my screen name.

I dedicate this big win to the Dean.

At one point in class, the Professor wanted everybody to answer a question as to the type of property conveyed. When three people of the over 100 answered alone, she stopped. Then she turned slightly to the left and lifted up her head in unison with her arms.

"Come on," she gleefully announced. "I'm workin' on a choir."

Sheer brilliance. I held back from saying, "Amen, preacher teacher." Remaining silent is a decision I regret. It was far-too fitting for this class. I wanted to continue to remain under the radar for as long as possible - as is now known, it was a futile attempt.

I got home, prepared my resume, cover letter and writing sample for my interview tomorrow. I do not want the position as much as I want the legal interviewing experience. Another summer position offer would be nice, however. It would make my decision fantastically hard. As my Mom always said, "To have to decide between two great choices is not the worst thing that should happen." I should be so lucky.

Plus, the interview is giving me a great opportunity to miss my two-hour Contracts class and my two-hours of stupid class. How bad could this interview be?

Sometimes being in the choir is a great option. I will leave the solo performances for the annoying students. Plus, what preacher likes to give the spotlight to somebody else?