At the dead end of one of the roads in the old country club neighborhood in West El Paso, near a pond fed by what he calls a "Texas Waterfall," amidst two happy formerly indoor cats, two wood ducks, two regular ducks, three sheep and one bat, dad and I have been sunning ourselves for the past few days.
(Those interested in a more detailed inventory of animals should know there are also frogs, leagues of songbirds, at least one small lizard, and a heron, although I can't speak personally to its existence, depending instead on Amanda's reports.)
Since arriving in El Paso Thursday evening, dad and I haven't stirred from Amanda's shack - or more specifically, the big, partially shaded deck in front of it, overlooking the aforementioned manmade pond where the aforementioned waterfowl paddle and the aforementioned cats patrol. Midmorning we have coffee and read, by late morning the sun has moved above the big tree directly in front of the deck and we have some sun, and at noon we collect Amanda and have lunch somewhere.
(So far we have had Mexican food thrice and ordinary food once; Amanda's workplace has a neighboring business called "Burro-Time," which is a hut-sized drive/walk-up establishment with a menu board where most of the prices have been whited out and only a few have been written back in with felt-tip marker. I had the barbacoa tacos, which were excellent, and Amanda appears to be developing a taste for chile relleno.)
In the afternoons I've tried to do a little research, but I've mostly read fiction, taken naps, and watched movies on the television dad procured in short order upon arriving and realizing this central shortcoming amongst the shack's other charms. Dinner has largely been prepared in the shack, which boasts all the amenities, if the sink is sometimes stubborn to drain.
(Humor aside, at least at this moment in El Paso's climate, the place Amanda rents is more than comfortable. It has chinks in its armor here and there which may make cooling it a challenge, but right now it's lovely almost all day to have the doors open and the cats strolling in and out.)
Amanda had yesterday entirely off, so we broke out of our routine and visited downtown El Paso for a tour of the city's free art museum, which has a temporary exhibit featuring work of Monet, Matisse, and some of the American impressionists as well. Afterward we had lunch at the race track, and dad guided us through the program into some successful horse-picking by the last few races.
(Amanda also chose one based on its likelihood of excelling as a hunter under saddle horse - I agree, it had a lovely trot - but we couldn't reproduce results based strictly on similarity to show horses.)
Sunday we spent the afternoon in Mesilla, New Mexico, which is a very small town with a historic downtown square, lots of adobe buildings, and a wonderful restaurant with a glass ceiling in the dining room and a colorful history of its own, judging by the high-ceilinged, ornate bar with its several chandeliers, and the approximate age of the brick floors, smoothed to a polish by years of happy diners' traffic. Some sort of costumed troop of actors were reenacting a historical event of some kind in the square, but due to our late arrival, a subpar speaker system, and the unfortunate timing of the reenactment's lunch break, we never quite figured out it was. We did hear the word "secession" thrown around, and later research reveals that in March of 1861, Mesilla purported to secede from the Union and call itself a separate territory ("Arizona").
(Those interested in this little piece of history are welcome to educate themselves from the same semi-reliable source of which I availed myself: http://www.lcsun-news.com/mylascruces/ci_17612661)
I've been reading a beautifully written historical novel set all over Europe, with wonderful complicated sentence structure and diction that still reads smoothly. Unfortunately, the effect of reading something like this is that my own writing becomes wordy and convoluted, in a sort of subconscious and desperate imitation, and for that I apologize. However, I know my audience, and for that reason, I blog anyway, knowing that delivery is in this case secondary to content. And my content is good, bringing as it does news of Amanda, our beloved veterinarian, who I visited at work today and happened to find behind the desk, holding a chart, wearing her lab coat, and no doubt solving medical mysteries. I was so proud I choked up.
(Dad and I head home early Thursday morning.)
Monday, March 21, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Extracurricular Activities
I apologize in advance for the inevitably poor grammar and organization that is to follow in this post. Like a sapped solar panel, I have none left; I must recharge.
I have been spending 90% of my time lately on an "assignment." I put it in quotations because I usually define assignments as follows: 1) Assigned 2) Graded.
I haven't been called upon to think about assignments at all for some time, because they aren't really a thing in law school. In law school, professors prefer to grade one set of things, so they make that thing a final exam, and put all the things they ever taught you inside it.
This "assignment" is not graded. If it is completed, you pass. If it is incomplete, you fail. Because the "assignment" is a 30 or fewer page paper, with only a few other specifications, completion is not really an issue.
By 90% of my time, I mean all my time. Normally when I refer to "my time," I mean the hours in a week minus evenings with Sara and Joey, minus mornings eating breaking and drinking coffee, minus lunch breaks, minus barn visits.
But right now, I mean 90% of the hours in a day. And by day, I mean day plus night, or 24 hours. Which is roughly 22.5 hours. Or so. I'm bad at math and too tired to consult a calculator.
I'll cut the cryptic and admit: the paper is a brief, a moot court brief to be exact. And moot court is something I've been eagerly anticipating for some time.
Moot court is an exciting time in a 2L's life when she finds a smart partner, writes a big paper, and then makes arguments on that paper in the style of a Supreme Court hearing, with hopes to win scholarly fame and thousands of dollars in scholarships.
I WAS SO STUPID TO ANTICIPATE MOOT COURT.
Like most potentially rewarding tasks, moot court has taken over my life, preventing me from going to the barn more than twice in fourteen days, and infecting me with a 24-hour bout of insomnia that was truly terrifying.
This is how insomnia works: you are too tired to be productive or think clearly, and far too tired for physical comfort, but you can do nothing other than troll the dark house like a ghost and try to study only to realize you can't really read because apparently the parts of a brain that decipher symbols turn off without rest. Luckily it was a one-night-only experience.
Some combination of a stressful atmosphere, furious typing and massive amounts of data entry, organization and reorganization caused my Gateway PC to finally close its doors for business. It had been on its sickbed for some time, but in the heat of brief drafting, after I had gotten up to refill my coffee cup and sat back down to reopen the document, it innocently asked, What document?
Well, its exact words were, "Cannot retrieve mootctbrief.doc. The item no longer exists."
There was a moment where I considered throwing the computer out the window.
It must have understood the look on my face/read my mind, because after a restart it grudgingly gave up the document. But that was the last straw. After emailing the document to my several email accounts (the nonprofessional's version of "backing up") I decided it was time to replace the Gateway.
I have suffered from Indecisive Buyer's Syndrome (IBS) since girlhood. The most intense struggles usually took place at a rest stop familiar to my immediate family in Limon, Colorado. But the Gateway's previously mentioned terminal illness has been known to me for some time, and I knew I would need to replace it before final exams this semester. So, I'd done some thinking, made many consultations, and I Knew What I Had To Do. Still, the price tag on an apple product has a nonphysical weight of approximately 14 million pounds.
One beautiful, life-changing MacBook Air later, I have all but finished the brief.
The best parts of the brief were written by my brilliant moot court partner Jared. My parts, however, really aren't so bad.
Today, we print. Tomorrow, we party.
Also, unfortunately for Joey, tomorrow he has a scheduled minor surgery to remove a growth on his cheek. Luckily for Rachel, her mother is coming through town and can take him back to Abilene, and her father will drive him to and from the clinic.
Today I got an email from a professor. Professors, you ask? What are those? I had all but forgotten myself that technically the most important thing in my life is the 13-odd credit hours for which I WILL be graded. The professor in question is freshly returned from arguing before the Supreme Court, in a very non-moot way. His message? I have an assignment (sadly, quotations here are inappropriate). A law school first for me, and one I'm sure will cause me to continue putting my recent purchase (the beautiful, featherlight MacBook Air, if you somehow forgot about it, which I never will, because it cost more than any nonliving thing I've ever bought) to good use.
Back to real, graded and curved life for the next few months. I feel like I've been on a strange, stressful working vacation.
I have been spending 90% of my time lately on an "assignment." I put it in quotations because I usually define assignments as follows: 1) Assigned 2) Graded.
I haven't been called upon to think about assignments at all for some time, because they aren't really a thing in law school. In law school, professors prefer to grade one set of things, so they make that thing a final exam, and put all the things they ever taught you inside it.
This "assignment" is not graded. If it is completed, you pass. If it is incomplete, you fail. Because the "assignment" is a 30 or fewer page paper, with only a few other specifications, completion is not really an issue.
By 90% of my time, I mean all my time. Normally when I refer to "my time," I mean the hours in a week minus evenings with Sara and Joey, minus mornings eating breaking and drinking coffee, minus lunch breaks, minus barn visits.
But right now, I mean 90% of the hours in a day. And by day, I mean day plus night, or 24 hours. Which is roughly 22.5 hours. Or so. I'm bad at math and too tired to consult a calculator.
I'll cut the cryptic and admit: the paper is a brief, a moot court brief to be exact. And moot court is something I've been eagerly anticipating for some time.
Moot court is an exciting time in a 2L's life when she finds a smart partner, writes a big paper, and then makes arguments on that paper in the style of a Supreme Court hearing, with hopes to win scholarly fame and thousands of dollars in scholarships.
I WAS SO STUPID TO ANTICIPATE MOOT COURT.
Like most potentially rewarding tasks, moot court has taken over my life, preventing me from going to the barn more than twice in fourteen days, and infecting me with a 24-hour bout of insomnia that was truly terrifying.
This is how insomnia works: you are too tired to be productive or think clearly, and far too tired for physical comfort, but you can do nothing other than troll the dark house like a ghost and try to study only to realize you can't really read because apparently the parts of a brain that decipher symbols turn off without rest. Luckily it was a one-night-only experience.
Some combination of a stressful atmosphere, furious typing and massive amounts of data entry, organization and reorganization caused my Gateway PC to finally close its doors for business. It had been on its sickbed for some time, but in the heat of brief drafting, after I had gotten up to refill my coffee cup and sat back down to reopen the document, it innocently asked, What document?
Well, its exact words were, "Cannot retrieve mootctbrief.doc. The item no longer exists."
There was a moment where I considered throwing the computer out the window.
It must have understood the look on my face/read my mind, because after a restart it grudgingly gave up the document. But that was the last straw. After emailing the document to my several email accounts (the nonprofessional's version of "backing up") I decided it was time to replace the Gateway.
I have suffered from Indecisive Buyer's Syndrome (IBS) since girlhood. The most intense struggles usually took place at a rest stop familiar to my immediate family in Limon, Colorado. But the Gateway's previously mentioned terminal illness has been known to me for some time, and I knew I would need to replace it before final exams this semester. So, I'd done some thinking, made many consultations, and I Knew What I Had To Do. Still, the price tag on an apple product has a nonphysical weight of approximately 14 million pounds.
One beautiful, life-changing MacBook Air later, I have all but finished the brief.
The best parts of the brief were written by my brilliant moot court partner Jared. My parts, however, really aren't so bad.
Today, we print. Tomorrow, we party.
Also, unfortunately for Joey, tomorrow he has a scheduled minor surgery to remove a growth on his cheek. Luckily for Rachel, her mother is coming through town and can take him back to Abilene, and her father will drive him to and from the clinic.
Today I got an email from a professor. Professors, you ask? What are those? I had all but forgotten myself that technically the most important thing in my life is the 13-odd credit hours for which I WILL be graded. The professor in question is freshly returned from arguing before the Supreme Court, in a very non-moot way. His message? I have an assignment (sadly, quotations here are inappropriate). A law school first for me, and one I'm sure will cause me to continue putting my recent purchase (the beautiful, featherlight MacBook Air, if you somehow forgot about it, which I never will, because it cost more than any nonliving thing I've ever bought) to good use.
Back to real, graded and curved life for the next few months. I feel like I've been on a strange, stressful working vacation.
Friday, February 25, 2011
The most interesting part of my life is my dog
Last week in Professional Responsibility, our professor informed us that, statistically, 30% of third-year law students are clinically depressed. This is not shocking news; law school is basically designed to destroy human happiness by confining you to a windowless building, surrounding you with peers who hope you will fail so that they might succeed, and then heaping an incomprehensible amount of work on your shoulders.
In the middle of my deepest, darkest law school moments, I have turned not to alcohol, weepy music, binge eating or prescription drugs. I have turned instead to Joey, my wonderful spotted dog, who absorbs tears and frustration with equivalent grace, whose happiness at simple things like The Way Things Smell or Running Through a Park in the Sunshine is contagious. We should establish now that no one has ever loved a dog the way I love my dog, and if they have, they have certainly never told me about it.
If Joey could vacuum his hair off the floor, he would be a flawless companion. As it is, he does all the things of which he is physically capable, including lying patiently at my feet while I study, never disturbing me when I need to sleep in, and accepting a flexible feeding schedule when my days run long. He does insist, however, that we go outside regardless of weather, my work load, or my bad mood, and that once we are outside we appreciate The Way Things Smell, acknowledge all oncoming human traffic with wagging tail and smile, respectively, and recall that the larger world is a happy place.
It is so easy to make a dog happy, and being in the presence of canine happiness is an irresistible force. A dog is a cheap vending machine for happiness. I understand the statistics: the 30% of depressed 3Ls are the 30% denying themselves this easy therapy.
In the middle of my deepest, darkest law school moments, I have turned not to alcohol, weepy music, binge eating or prescription drugs. I have turned instead to Joey, my wonderful spotted dog, who absorbs tears and frustration with equivalent grace, whose happiness at simple things like The Way Things Smell or Running Through a Park in the Sunshine is contagious. We should establish now that no one has ever loved a dog the way I love my dog, and if they have, they have certainly never told me about it.
If Joey could vacuum his hair off the floor, he would be a flawless companion. As it is, he does all the things of which he is physically capable, including lying patiently at my feet while I study, never disturbing me when I need to sleep in, and accepting a flexible feeding schedule when my days run long. He does insist, however, that we go outside regardless of weather, my work load, or my bad mood, and that once we are outside we appreciate The Way Things Smell, acknowledge all oncoming human traffic with wagging tail and smile, respectively, and recall that the larger world is a happy place.
It is so easy to make a dog happy, and being in the presence of canine happiness is an irresistible force. A dog is a cheap vending machine for happiness. I understand the statistics: the 30% of depressed 3Ls are the 30% denying themselves this easy therapy.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Royal Carribean, thou doth embody American excess and imperialism
I would like to preface this post by admitting that, had I not gone on a holiday cruise with my father and sister this winter, I would remain a person who has never seen a sea turtle or towel animal in person or visited a neighboring country. In all, it was a positive experience. But looking back, I can't help but notice how cruise ships so totally reinforce the American stereotype: we are a nation of obese, materialistic simpletons.
Let me just say, I don't think America is a nation of obese, materialistic simpletons. But if I went on enough cruises, I might become an obese, materialistic simpleton, a process described in three parts below.
I. Why Cruising Would Eventually Make Me (or anyone else, for that matter) Obese
Food is available at almost all hours on a cruise ship, and the average cruiser gains two pounds per day. Like calves fatted for slaughter or ritual sacrifice, cruisers are offered gourmet breakfast, lunch and dinner in the dining rooms, where there is no limit on how many appetizers, entrees or desserts you order. Should hunger or boredom strike between meals, the Windjammer Cafe offers buffet-style eating all day. And for those who get the munchies at the midnight pool parties, they may enjoy hot dogs, nachos, or a full Mexican buffet, depending on the evening. While cruisers are encouraged to use the few small swimming (really more like wading) pools, a modest rock climbing wall, and putt-putt course, these are not really the kinds of things that put the "activ[e]" in "activity."
II. Why Cruising Feeds Materialistic Tendencies
After feeding cruisers into complacency, the ship crew's second priority is advertising. A shopping preview is offered each day to illustrate all the souvenirs and jewelry cruisers will have an opportunity to purchase at their destination. In fact, the cruise lines' designated piers are surrounded by shopping, both before and after the security checkpoints, like any good mega-corporation. After one of the on-shore excursions marketed aboard the ship, cruisers are deposited in other shopping areas - in our case, downtown Cozumel, which is an unreasonable walk from the piers and basically requires that a cruiser pay taxi fare to get back to the ship.
III. Cruises Transform People into Simpletons
Apparently, the more cruises you take, the simpler you become. The couple we encountered who had taken one hundred and forty-odd (yes, between 140-150 cruises with Royal Carribean) cruises were not even clear on where the ship was going, let alone planning to debark at the destination. Royal Carribean discourages such habits as making your own bed or straightening your own stack of magazines. Invisible international employees who don't need to be paid in the realm of American minimum wage will take care of that the instant you leave your room.
Let me just say, I don't think America is a nation of obese, materialistic simpletons. But if I went on enough cruises, I might become an obese, materialistic simpleton, a process described in three parts below.
I. Why Cruising Would Eventually Make Me (or anyone else, for that matter) Obese
Food is available at almost all hours on a cruise ship, and the average cruiser gains two pounds per day. Like calves fatted for slaughter or ritual sacrifice, cruisers are offered gourmet breakfast, lunch and dinner in the dining rooms, where there is no limit on how many appetizers, entrees or desserts you order. Should hunger or boredom strike between meals, the Windjammer Cafe offers buffet-style eating all day. And for those who get the munchies at the midnight pool parties, they may enjoy hot dogs, nachos, or a full Mexican buffet, depending on the evening. While cruisers are encouraged to use the few small swimming (really more like wading) pools, a modest rock climbing wall, and putt-putt course, these are not really the kinds of things that put the "activ[e]" in "activity."
II. Why Cruising Feeds Materialistic Tendencies
After feeding cruisers into complacency, the ship crew's second priority is advertising. A shopping preview is offered each day to illustrate all the souvenirs and jewelry cruisers will have an opportunity to purchase at their destination. In fact, the cruise lines' designated piers are surrounded by shopping, both before and after the security checkpoints, like any good mega-corporation. After one of the on-shore excursions marketed aboard the ship, cruisers are deposited in other shopping areas - in our case, downtown Cozumel, which is an unreasonable walk from the piers and basically requires that a cruiser pay taxi fare to get back to the ship.
III. Cruises Transform People into Simpletons
Apparently, the more cruises you take, the simpler you become. The couple we encountered who had taken one hundred and forty-odd (yes, between 140-150 cruises with Royal Carribean) cruises were not even clear on where the ship was going, let alone planning to debark at the destination. Royal Carribean discourages such habits as making your own bed or straightening your own stack of magazines. Invisible international employees who don't need to be paid in the realm of American minimum wage will take care of that the instant you leave your room.
Friday, November 12, 2010
The state of my horse ownership
Lately I have been distracted by showing at the Royal, Amanda showing at the Royal, a friend showing Diddy at the Royal, and planning my day around when I can make a trip to Tonganoxie to hang out at the barn. I have gone through periods where the horses weren't the first thing on my mind, but this isn't one of them. Unfortunate that this phase of the cycle should fall so near my final exams.
Diddy is banished to a pasture, where he and his buddy Sprite are enjoying free choice hay. Technically I am banished to my studies, which are pretty daunting, considering final exams are looming and I have yet to discover the secret code that decodes the tax code. (I'm aware that's an awful sentence. Mere reference to tax class muddles my brain.) Yet somehow I've still gone to the barn twice in the last week with plans to visit over the weekend.
It's hard to explain why I feel guilty about making time for something that makes me so happy. But I do feel guilty, the way I used to feel guilty about changing my undergraduate major to creative writing. Somewhere in elementary school I determined that fun things are not valuable things, and it's been a difficult notion to shake. According to this logic, tax dominates my life and is the fodder of constant waking nightmares; because it is miserably difficult, it must be of great value!
Today I drove through seamless rain to the barn, slogged through the mud to catch a very wet and very obese pinto mare named Sprite, and I was damp and shivering and smiling idiotically by the time we arrived back at the barn. Shame on you, Universe, for allowing me to enroll in Federal Income Taxation; but thank you, thank you, for horses.
Diddy is banished to a pasture, where he and his buddy Sprite are enjoying free choice hay. Technically I am banished to my studies, which are pretty daunting, considering final exams are looming and I have yet to discover the secret code that decodes the tax code. (I'm aware that's an awful sentence. Mere reference to tax class muddles my brain.) Yet somehow I've still gone to the barn twice in the last week with plans to visit over the weekend.
It's hard to explain why I feel guilty about making time for something that makes me so happy. But I do feel guilty, the way I used to feel guilty about changing my undergraduate major to creative writing. Somewhere in elementary school I determined that fun things are not valuable things, and it's been a difficult notion to shake. According to this logic, tax dominates my life and is the fodder of constant waking nightmares; because it is miserably difficult, it must be of great value!
Today I drove through seamless rain to the barn, slogged through the mud to catch a very wet and very obese pinto mare named Sprite, and I was damp and shivering and smiling idiotically by the time we arrived back at the barn. Shame on you, Universe, for allowing me to enroll in Federal Income Taxation; but thank you, thank you, for horses.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Jessie
My little Westie died last week. One week ago tomorrow, my sister carried her into the veterinarian’s office, set her on the table, and held her head while she passed away very quietly a few seconds later.
I saw her over the weekend before, and spent Saturday night waking up every couple hours to make sure her saline drip was still administering a drop of fluid every four seconds and stroking her head. Pain or senility had eliminated her normal enthusiasm. When I came home over these several years since officially leaving the nest, she would greet me with a Westie grin, follow me everywhere, and whine quietly at the door when I left. Over the past few weeks, she was visibly declining. Her hearing disappeared entirely over the course of the last year, but until two weeks ago she was still eating with her usual vigor, demanding to be lifted onto the couch or chair to sit beside the family member of her choice, and greeting her best friend and contemporary Orange Cat when she was let outside.
I learned many things from a small white terrier. An early lesson was that a terrier will resist training that is inconsistent with her basic need to chase squirrels, follow scents, or nap on the sofa. Another was that charisma is far more important than coat color in being cast in such live theater productions as The Wizard of Oz. I learned that canine loyalty will lead your dog to continue sleeping outside your bedroom door for weeks after you leave for college, but that abandonment is not held against you in the least when you return to visit. I learned that a father can better combat loneliness when afforded a small white sidekick. And recently I learned that it is no tragedy at all to die at the end of a long, happy life with family members nearby.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Interviewing, a play in three acts
Prologue: The way employment out of law school works in a ideal world/economy
Law school is not the traditional training program for lawyers. In fact, law schools are a fairly new invention; as few as two hundred years ago, there was no such thing. Prospective lawyers either studied independently or apprenticed for a lawyer until they were educated enough to pass the bar exam.
Part of that legacy is the modern manner that most law firms solicit new lawyers. While still in law school, you interview with employers who hope you will tentatively commit to becoming a part of their firm or office through summer employment. Summer associate or clerk positions are considered extended interviews, where you the student and "they" the firm can both decide whether you fit. The 1L summer is nonessential; the 2L summer is key. That isn't to say that some won't find great employment as 3Ls, but in an ideal economy, the 2L spends her summer at a law firm that plans to hire her after graduation.
Act I. The on-campus interview
At KU and many other law schools, the career services office invites employers to come to campus to conduct interviews. Employers choose a day; law students submit resumes, cover letters, transcripts, etc online; employers review the applicants' credentials and invite a certain number to sign up for interview slots. From those interviews, employers select students for call-back interviews.
Because of on-campus interviews, I spent about two weeks wearing one of my two suits to class every day. Since they're both gray, I imagine many people assumed I was wearing the same suit every day.
Also because of on-campus interviews, I received several invitations for call-back interviews.
Act II, The call-back interview
Employers call, inform the student they were happy to have met her, and hope that their colleagues could have the pleasure as well. Law firms invite her for a half-day of shuffling between offices and being taken to lunch; they present her with a generous check for travel expenses. DA's offices file her in, interrogate her, speed-walk her through the office and move on to the next interviewee. All of these interviews are fun and interesting. She becomes adept at walking fast in heels through all indoor terrain.
Act III, The call
From among the call-back interviews, a few will result in a call wherein the employer makes the student an offer for summer employment. Law firms pro-rate the starting salary of a first-year associate at the firm. DA's offices cough up slightly above minimum wage. All opportunities have their own appeal. Ultimately she chooses the law firm she enjoyed visiting most, though not the one offering to pay her the most. It is a happy day!
www.kmazlaw.com
Law school is not the traditional training program for lawyers. In fact, law schools are a fairly new invention; as few as two hundred years ago, there was no such thing. Prospective lawyers either studied independently or apprenticed for a lawyer until they were educated enough to pass the bar exam.
Part of that legacy is the modern manner that most law firms solicit new lawyers. While still in law school, you interview with employers who hope you will tentatively commit to becoming a part of their firm or office through summer employment. Summer associate or clerk positions are considered extended interviews, where you the student and "they" the firm can both decide whether you fit. The 1L summer is nonessential; the 2L summer is key. That isn't to say that some won't find great employment as 3Ls, but in an ideal economy, the 2L spends her summer at a law firm that plans to hire her after graduation.
Act I. The on-campus interview
At KU and many other law schools, the career services office invites employers to come to campus to conduct interviews. Employers choose a day; law students submit resumes, cover letters, transcripts, etc online; employers review the applicants' credentials and invite a certain number to sign up for interview slots. From those interviews, employers select students for call-back interviews.
Because of on-campus interviews, I spent about two weeks wearing one of my two suits to class every day. Since they're both gray, I imagine many people assumed I was wearing the same suit every day.
Also because of on-campus interviews, I received several invitations for call-back interviews.
Act II, The call-back interview
Employers call, inform the student they were happy to have met her, and hope that their colleagues could have the pleasure as well. Law firms invite her for a half-day of shuffling between offices and being taken to lunch; they present her with a generous check for travel expenses. DA's offices file her in, interrogate her, speed-walk her through the office and move on to the next interviewee. All of these interviews are fun and interesting. She becomes adept at walking fast in heels through all indoor terrain.
Act III, The call
From among the call-back interviews, a few will result in a call wherein the employer makes the student an offer for summer employment. Law firms pro-rate the starting salary of a first-year associate at the firm. DA's offices cough up slightly above minimum wage. All opportunities have their own appeal. Ultimately she chooses the law firm she enjoyed visiting most, though not the one offering to pay her the most. It is a happy day!
www.kmazlaw.com
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