October 8, 2007

Single White Devil Seeks Cohort

Posted in Blog Backlash, Lawyer Lifestyles at 5:00 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

It seems I am running out of excuses as to why I am still single. And since learning that Peyton Manning is married, I figured it was time to do something about it. Okay, so I am putting a bit of a spin on that. Really, after getting the job and the new place, I saw the wagons circling, and at some point on vacation, my mom must have marked me with a special ink as it seems I can’t walk to the subway without someone trying to fix me up.

Now, being fixed up by friends is quite possibly the worst thing ever. There is really no better way to learn what your friends really think of you than by agreeing to let them fix you up. In addition to coming face-to-face with your blind date, you also get to see just how desperate your friends think you must be.

So I decided to take matters into my own hands. I decided to Internet date. But, almost as if my readers could read my iMac’s mind, before I could post a profile, I started receiving some very flirtatious emails from male readers of this blog.

And as I weeded out the crazies and the otherwise un-dateables, I started to wonder how many of these guys have read my whole blog or just read in the Legal that I am suddenly without a steady booty call.

I came to this conclusion after the 47 thousandth married man came forth about his relationship status. Umm, I am only pretty sure I have made myself pretty clear on a married man’s chances of dating me; the words snowball and hell come to mind. Also understand that I won’t date anyone in a serious relationship. And, yes, this includes those of you who have a girlfriend, but aren’t really sure that you’re still into her. Figure all of that out and then call me, or rather, email me. Not before

As for the rest of my rules as to who I will and won’t date – sure, they are pretty spread out and I don’t pay attention to all of them all of the time and if I were online dating, I would have them all in a neat little profile with a catchy headline. So I decided to put it all here. The minimum requirements you should have before sending me an email asking me out on a date.

* You and I will not get along if you voted for George W. in 2004. Even if you think you have a really good reason for doing so, great. I still don’t want to hear it.

* Something I would like to hear (read)? Your full name. After 11 years, I think I can say it, I’m a city girl. I am always concerned for my safety and if I can’t Google search you, then I grow suspicious that you are either a) an Internet predator or b) married. Either way, I will not meet you out for a drink.

* I would also like to read that you didn’t wrestle in high school, never lived in Michigan and hate the NY Giants and the New England Patriots.

Now, Lauren has a great rule about not dating any man whose jeans she could not wear. As she would explain, if ever you are in bed with the one you love (or like enough to let them see you naked) and a fire breaks out, you don’t need the embarrassment, not to mention waste of precious time, accidentally grabbing your boyfriend’s jeans and finding you can’t get into them. I think this is a great rule, but not one I necessarily subscribe to. I do however have a height requirement. I need you to be at least 6 feet tall. I have a lot of heels that I love. I have loved them before I met you and I will continue to love them when you don’t call me after our first date.


September 27, 2007

Because Sometimes, “My Bad” Just Doesn’t Cut It

Posted in Office Hijinks at 8:34 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

It’s not as if I have never screwed up before.  But I guess my mistakes were either not that catastrophic or, more likely, I just didn’t care about the results. 

However, when I screwed up at the new job recently, I cared. 

There I was, sitting back, enjoying the fact that I had just completed a brand new task recently assigned to me.  Something I have never done before.  Okay, maybe I was gloating a bit, when an e-mail popped up in the corner of my screen indicating that I had made a mistake and now someone was mad. 

Mind you, it wasn’t a big mistake.  I sent something to someone that didn’t necessarily need to see it and that someone let me know it in a not very nice manner. 

What made the minor mishap snowball into a major catastrophe was that there was no one around to tell me that it was okay.  New Boss was in an important meeting and Imelda was out to lunch.  

I dialed Mentor’s number. Mentor, who would want me to tell you that she is tall and skinny and blonde, had helped me with the project.  I was sure she would have comforting words of wisdom for me and everything would be all right.

“Devil, it really isn’t that big a deal.  Just print out the e-mail, leave it for New Boss and he will probably call the guy to apologize.  You won’t be fired.  Trust me.”

And at first I believed her. 

But then my brain started working up possible worst-case scenarios.  What if This Guy was a really important contact for the firm and my one nuisance e-mail has sent him over the edge, and right now he was drafting a letter saying he never wanted to do business with us again?  Or maybe he was on the phone with the partner in charge and they were trying to figure out why the heck they hired me in the first place?  Maybe This Guy is the same guy that writes all the nasty comments about me on this blog and he has been waiting for me to screw up so he could expose me to the world as a big, dumb fraud. 

By the time Imelda got back from wherever the heck she was, I had settled upon the fact that This Guy and New Boss served in the Vietnam War together and once, in the middle of the jungle, with the enemy all around them and shrapnel in his leg, This Guy carried an unconscious New Boss to safety and New Boss has “owed him once since” and now This Guy was going to cash in that chip by asking that I be fired for inconveniencing him with my nonsense e-mail.

Mind you, I don’t think New Boss is old enough to have served in Vietnam, but it doesn’t matter.  See how sometimes having a great imagination works against me?

Imelda stopped in to see if I was okay, and I told her the whole awful story. 

She laughed and said it would take a lot more than that to get fired from here.  She started to walk away.

I have really big blue eyes and when I am terrified, they are even bigger, which makes people want to help me. 

Imelda sat back down.  “Okay, I’ll e-mail him and tell him he needs to put out a small fire.  He will respond to me. “

I blinked a couple of times

“It’s going to be okay.”

After several e-mails back and forth, New Boss was fully apprised of the situation and confirmed that it really wasn’t a big deal.  The big jerk even laughed at my anxiety over the whole affair.  As a punishment he told me I had to go to confession. 

Since I am only pretty sure that any church I stepped foot into would immediately be set on fire, I met up at a neighborhood bar with Lauren instead.  Bartenders are like confessors, sort of.

September 24, 2007

Sick Day

Posted in Office Hijinks at 9:42 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

I hate being sick.  And I’m not talking about hangover sick.  I’m talking about being physically sick – you don’t know what it is you have because you aren’t going to bother going to the doctor’s, all you know is that you hurt all over and it is difficult to do anything but lay on your couch and watch really bad TV – sick.   

And I think it is worse for me because on top of all of that, I’m a recovering hypochondriac. 

I once had a primary care physician refuse to take any more blood from me.  You know how recovering alcoholics receive a coin for being six months clean, and they tell the story of their personal rock bottom?  That was mine – when my doctor that I loved and trusted and needed refused to take any more of my blood.  I threatened to never see him again. You can imagine this would be a significant blow to his business, but still he refused.   

At the time, I was quite convinced I was dying from the bird flu, because I was home sick and Channel 10 news had just reported that a flamingo at the Philadelphia Zoo had been diagnosed. Since I was living in the Art Museum area at the time, which isn’t far from the zoo … well, you can see where I am going with this.   

That was a turning point for me. I still never saw that physician again, but it was more out of embarrassment; as it turns out, he was right, I didn’t have the avian flu.     

Part of my hypochondria comes from my mother.  She’s a nurse, and before me, she was pretty lackadaisical when it came to her children’s (and by “children” I really just mean Big Sis) health.  I won’t embarrass the ol’ girl too much here, but just know that when my sister was 7, she walked around with a broken arm for more than two days because my mother was convinced she was fine.   

And then I came along.  And in kindergarten, as 5 year olds sometimes do, I got chicken pox.  Except my crazy body and immune system landed me in the hospital for nine days, I had to have surgery to remove lymph nodes and had my picture taken for a medical journal.  After that, my mom was pretty careful never to dismiss anything I got as just a cold. 

As a recovering hypochondriac, I now avoid getting sick.  Whenever anyone near me starts to cough or sneeze or even sniffle, I reach for the Airborne and zinc lozenges and then chase it all down with Echinacea tea.   

And when I do get sick, I like to pretend I am not.  I get really dressed up for work and I put on lots of make up and I smile and when anyone asks me what is wrong I shake my head and say, “Nothing.  I feel great.”     

I was so good at faking well that earlier in the week, New Boss didn’t even know anything was wrong.  He asked me if I had a fun weekend and I responded, kind of truthfully, “Oh, I was sick.”   

He smiled and said, “What?  Did you have meningitis like that girl at Penn?” 

And that is when I decided to go home.  Not because I needed to make an appointment to have my spine tapped.  I mean, a lot of Penn students take the subway; she could have been one of them.  But, no, I went home because I gave up.  I was sick, and the only thing that would make me better was time on my couch, in my sweats, watching Maury Povich. 

I’m not really sure what the 12 steps to recovering from hypochondria are, but I certainly felt like admitting that I just had a cold and needed to be home was an important one.   

Plus, if it was meningitis, it really wasn’t fair exposing my co-workers to it. 

September 6, 2007

About New Boss

Posted in Office Hijinks at 4:52 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

I feel really bad for New Boss.  Actually, I feel pretty terrible for any guy that has to work with mostly women, but since I know New Boss and I like New Boss, he gets most of my sympathy.  Oh, word of warning, I am about to be kind of unkind to my sex. 

Women (and yes, I am generalizing here, sue me.  Oh, no, wait, don’t.  But feel free to write any nasty little comment your heart desires below) tend to be more emotional than men.  This is often a good thing, but can also be a really bad thing; especially in an office.  Being a woman and working around a lot of women, I never really noticed how our temper tantrums and gossiping and mood swings and our general want of everyone else to be able to read our minds affected men until the one day New Boss had another man working with us. 

He clung to this guy like Kate clinging to that wooden door at the end of Titanic.  Unfortunately, Part- Time Friend is only in our office once a week.  So, New Boss was once again left tired and outnumbered. 

I saw this same exasperation in my coach in college.  He had to deal with 14 girls every morning and afternoon and after only a year or so, he was physically and emotionally drained.  Not to mention completely unsure of what was right or wrong anymore and so he left it up to us to pretty much control everything.

Fortunately, New Boss isn’t there yet.   

There we were, sitting in New Boss’s office, his head was down as he reviewed some of my work, I was listening intently to his comments and criticisms.  Then he looked up and registered a look of fear and dread so complete, he actually shuddered.  It was a look of absolute horror.  Not the oh-my-god-I-didn’t-expect-the-axe-murderer-was-hiding-in-the-closet horror.  No, this was much worse.  This was guy horror.  This was oh-my-god-are-you-gonna-cry horror.

In the third grade, I accompanied my mom for a portion of a parent-teacher conference.  I took her on the tour of the classroom and listened as Miss Newhart told her that I was a joy to have in class, although I did have a tough time accepting constructive criticism.   

Now, I had a little school girl crush on Miss Newhart.  I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.  The fact that I was doing anything she disapproved of broke my little, eight-year-old heart.  So I immediately set out to take criticism better; that is once I looked up criticism in the dictionary. 

So I know I am good at taking criticism. I have been practicing for more than 20 years.  However, my stupid face still gets in the way.  I really want to be good at what I do but, as I sat there listening to how much improving I have ahead of me, my face must have been contorting into a look of shock, or alarm, or disappointment or dread; maybe a combination of all three.  

But to New Boss it was a look that said,  “I think I am going to cry now.”   

He dropped the page, complete with proofreader’s marks all across it, started shaking his head and tried to justify his critical comments.

And, no matter how emphatically I shook my head, he wasn’t buying that I really was okay with all that he was saying.

I know New Boss reads the blog, but I don’t think his fanaticism goes back so far as to know about my affliction.  Still, I need his feedback to get better at what I am doing.  So I have resolved that the next time he is away, I will install a mirror behind his desk, just to the right of his head.   

Not only will this keep my face in check, but it will give me something to look at when I get bored or tired of listening to him. 

August 24, 2007

Best Friends Forever

Posted in Office Hijinks at 7:57 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

So there I was, just before my vacation, sitting with my ex-roommate telling her all about the new job.   I gushed about the cool new people I work with and how much I really enjoy the work and all the crazy things we do during the day.  I told her about we decorated Boss’s office for his birthday and how someone is always using Photoshop to create something goofy to make the rest of us laugh.  Lauren smiled and said, “Oh my god it is as if you are back on student council in high school.”

I smiled at the analogy.  I have often thought working in a law firm was a lot like being in high school.   And just like my first month in high school, I was suffering through the awkward getting to know everyone phase.   

Just before starting the ninth grade my parents pulled me from public school and enrolled me in a private, Catholic school.  They thought ninth grade was the best time for me to make this transition since I would be starting a new school, regardless.  What they hadn’t realized is that, while six or seven parishes all sent their ninth graders to this one high school, those six or seven schools only produced one class a piece.  I was walking into a school where no more than seven groups of kids had all known each other now for over eight years.   

But being the good sport that I was, I joined activities and tried out for various teams and did my best to make friends and influence people.  And before you could say, “It smells like teen spirit,” it was homecoming and I was helping to decorate the school.   

After attaching green and gold to anything that stayed still, I wandered back to my locker to get my bag and my books.  As I approached, I saw CK, a cheerleader who sat in front of me in homeroom, standing at her locker.  Apparently CK’s job was to attach construction paper footballs with player’s numbers at random, to various lockers.  As I got closer, I saw that she had attached one such football to my locker.  Once I was there, I saw that the number on the football corresponded with the number worn by the boy I thought, at the time, I was going to spend the rest of my life with.   

And CK knew it and saw to it that his number ended up on my locker. 

My whole face spread into a smile.  I had a friend, and more importantly, I had a cheerleader friend. 

Now, back at the office, sure I chatted with the other girls and even helped them decorate Boss’s office but I still didn’t feel like I belonged.  My only lunches out were still with friends from the old firm.  And don’t even get me started on the lack of happy hour invites.   

I thought about this as I sat on the subway on my first day back from vacation. It is not easy being the new girl and it wasn’t as if I could just offer to let someone copy my homework to get them to like me.  

I wondered what I could do to fit in as I flicked on my office light and saw that in my absence, my desk had been ransacked.  Sportswear with the firm’s logo covered everything, a banner with the firm’s name was acting as a table skirt, streamers hung from my overhead cabinet and a poster welcoming me back and noting how much I was missed was prominently displayed.   

I couldn’t have been happier if they had taped 57 Hottie’s bar number to my office door.

August 16, 2007

Vacation’s Over – Bring on the Brownies

Posted in Lawyer Lifestyles, Office Hijinks at 11:34 am by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

There are two main problems with my new dream job. The first is the people I work with; they are obscenely normal. Not Stepford Wives normal but very normal nonetheless. No one is emotionally or verbally abusive, I have yet to meet anyone who could turn a child to stone with his grin. None of my new co-workers obsess over the latest missing person reports on CNN nor am I worried that when two particular co-workers are conferring quietly in a corner that they are secretly plotting to take over the world. And I have yet to meet anyone that eats their hair.

All of this is great for me personally. I finally work with a group of people that I can invite to a bar-b-cue without worrying about how to not to invite the crazies. However it makes blog material hard to come by. I sincerely hope that this is all part of the honeymoon phase and once my probation is over, they will start to show their true, binder-clip-hoarding-because-what-if-the-supply-room-runs-out-and-the-company-stops-making-them-and-then-what-will-I-use-to-hold-back-my-hair selves.

It’s that or I will have to stir up some trouble.

The second problem with the land of milk and honey is all the milk and all the honey. With all the birthdays, anniversaries, visiting dignitaries, catered lunches and just lunches order in for the heck of it, rarely do two days in a row pass without someone poking his or her head into the office and announcing that there is some high calorie, high fat, ridiculously delicious food in the kitchen.

This is awesome. That is, if you don’t have any plans to appear in front of my mother and my aunt in a bikini. I, of course, did; all of last week while I was in North Carolina on vacation with my family. I have no problem equating my struggle with staying away from the delicatessen sandwiches and the doughnuts and the salads made with mayonnaise the last couple of days before my vacation to climbing Mount Everest or surviving for nine days at the bottom of a ravine with only the water you were able to make by melting snow.

So on Monday, as my mother was slathering on the sun protection factor, when Aunt commented on mine and Sister’s athletic builds, and then added, “But you also like to eat” I clenched my jaw and glowered in her general direction.

I knew she didn’t really mean to offend me, and it is true, I do like to eat. At the same time I wanted to defend myself. I also run – a lot. And, I felt like pointing out, Matt and Meredith were telling me just the week prior that obesity can be blamed on your friends and acquaintances and I would even go so far as say co-workers as well and maybe if I worked where Sister worked I would be uber-skinny too.

Instead I just smiled and patted her on her head. Aunt is really short and so when I can’t say what it is that I am thinking I sometimes like to remind her that if I wanted to, I could crush her.

However, my saint-like devotion to Slim Fast and my ability to just say no to everything from brownies to cookies to gummy worms (okay I’ll admit it, I had one gummy worm) paid-off. No, I wasn’t nearly as skinny as Sister or Future Sister-in-Law. But I was able to resist the temptation of the bags of kettle cooked chips and the six pounds of fudge that sat on the kitchen counter most of the week. And when everyone else claimed to not have had any of Daddy’s Double Stuffed Oreos, as he stood there holding the empty bag, I was the only one telling the truth. And telling the truth just feels good.

Of course, I had opted to numb my sudden onset of body dysmorphic disorder with tequila. Who wants a cookie when you can have a margarita?

August 2, 2007

I Think Cowards Are the People that Stick it Out

Posted in Lessons Learned at 1:42 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

When I was younger, my mother had a rule about not quitting anything we started.  Okay, let’s be frank, the woman had a lot of rules; but one rule that never changed and was often repeated was that we weren’t allowed to quit.   

This is why in the third grade the bridge on my cello broke and could not, mysteriously, be repaired. 

It is also the reason I was a cheerleader well into high school.   

However, sometimes quitting is the hardest, gutsiest thing to do.   

You know that I recently got a new job.  What you don’t know is that at the same time New Boss was conspiring to lure me away from Old Boss, I was out looking for a bartending job.   

I had my fill of feeling useless and underutilized and not very smart.  So I took a random Tuesday off, put on my cutest, most respectable looking white pants and booby top and headed to Old City in search of a serving job that would pay my bills and afford me time to get some writing done. The long-term goal was to either a) become a world famous author or b) get into a good MFA/PhD program and then become a world famous author.  Or at least teach others to do so.   

And I have to tell you, this plan scared the crap out of me.  What if I couldn’t make ends meet?  What if I didn’t get into a good program?  What if I did get into a good program, but it turns out I am a lousy writer?  What if I start teaching and a couple years into the whole thing, after I get married and have a mortgage on my home, I get sacked because it is against university policy to sleep with hot, male students in exchange for passing marks in freshman composition?

Those are a lot of “what ifs?”  But in the end, the idea of staying somewhere, doing something that I knew didn’t make me happy, scared me a whole lot more than what I didn’t know.   

Fortunately for me (and bar patrons everywhere, as I am a lousy, miserable server) New Boss called that very day with an offer of more writing, more growth, more freedom and more money. 

Puppy called me a couple days ago to tell me she had quit law school.  For those of you who don’t remember, Puppy was an original member of the editorial committee, a co-hort and a co-worker at the old job.  She had decided, long before she started with the firm, that she wanted to go to law school.  She took an LSAT prep course, she took the LSAT, she wrote essays, got letters of recommendation and sat quietly, waiting for letters of admission. When she finally found out where she could go, she packed up her belongings and moved to Michigan. 

After a year of lectures, study groups and law school exams, Puppy realized it wasn’t for her.

I told this to New Boss, not that he knows Puppy, but he does like to gossip, and he mentioned that after his first semester in law school, a professor advised his class that it wasn’t too late for them, that they didn’t have so much invested that if law school wasn’t what they had hoped, they could still walk away.   

Then, New Boss buried his head in his hands, shook his head and mumbled, “if only I had listened.”

I think this is something we all need to be reminded of every now and again.  Not just when we are sitting somewhere we really don’t want to be, but are still there because it is familiar.  I think this is also a good thing to remember when we are thinking about taking a big step and our fear of failing or making a mistake prevents us from doing it.   

Because while quitters may not always prosper, I don’t recall anyone getting very far sitting around doing nothing.  I mean, I had fill out three whole bartending applications before my dream job was handed to me. 

July 19, 2007

The Accidental Date

Posted in Office Hijinks at 5:21 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

I may have accidentally broken my rule about dating co-workers last week.  

It was a really nice Friday and I had dressed particularly sharp just in case I bumped into Loophole (the summer associate I am allowed to have a crush on because he’s not an attorney yet) in the elevator or the lobby. 

I spent most of the morning emailing friends, trying to convince them that they really wanted to go to happy hour that night, while simultaneously trying to tap into my spidey-senses to determine where Loophole would be live at five. The email icon popped into the corner of my desktop and I clicked on it fearing another rejection from a friend cool enough to be going down to the shore that weekend. 

Instead, I found an email from Counselor, a co-worker introduced to me by L.  He noted that it was a lovely day and asked if there was anyway I could escape from my desk for lunch. We had witty email banter back and forth and decided to grab lunch outside somewhere.

Lunch was fun, more laughing and some discussion of politics and then the bill came and he took it. Odd, for a friendly lunch.  I would have raised an eyebrow (if I could raise just one) but instead I thanked him and put my pocketbook back down.

As we were making the long walk back to work he made a comment about having fun and wanting to do it again. Now, I have only been on maybe seven dates, but this part, this part about having fun and getting together again seemed to be how each of them ended. 

Confused, I called my sister who goes on more dates than anyone else I know.

“Hey Sister, what’s up?”

“Hey Devil, how are you?” 

“Not so good.  I think I just went on a date with a guy I work with.”  

“Oh, remember the time I accidentally went out with IT Guy?” 

“Yeah, well, it was a lot like that.”

“Did he pay?”


“Then it was a date.”

“What?  No.  I have had lunch with Old Boss and he always paid and those were never dates.”  

“Yes, but he was your boss.  And you were celebrating.”  

“Not always.  Sometimes we just had lunch just because and he would pay.”  

“It was different.  Those were not dates.”  

“They had better not have been.  Old Boss is married.”

There was some silence as I think we both mulled over my current situation. I remembered the last time I was accidentally on date with a co-worker.  He was engaged to be married so I thought I was safe.  Then he told me he wanted to sleep with me and I realized I was not in my happy place.  I thought about it some more, and that guy didn’t pay.  

I was just about the mention this when Sister asked, “So what are you going to do about it?”

I bit the side of my lip and shrugged my shoulders.  “Nothing; just wait and see what happens next.”  

Because, I mean, if he calls or emails asking to go out for lunch again, clearly this means he just wants to be friends.  I never get asked out on a second date.

July 12, 2007

The Tragically Hip

Posted in Office Hijinks at 3:16 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

I have been laboring under a huge misconception. 

All these years that I was typing out dictation I assumed the lawyers doing the dictating were all dorks.  I was convinced that all the cool guys and gals from high school went on to be doctors or investment bankers or professional wrestlers.  Or if they couldn’t make it in any of those professions, they were the hot high school teacher that the current senior class was fantasizing about. 

I guess some of them grew up to be cops and firefighters too.  Really any profession that has had a calendar or a Harlequin romance novel written about it.

Lawyers, I assumed, were those kids that weren’t cool.  That all sat at the same lunch table talking about comic books and science fiction movies.  They had a real knack for memorization and a spite for all things unfair and uncontrollable, like acne and premature baldness.

Now, keep in mind that I heart dorks.  In fact I am a secret dork.  Well, maybe not so secret as I think most of my friends suspect as much, so when I say I worked with a bunch of dorks before, believe me, I counted myself lucky.  Further, I have always really felt Veronica Sawyer’ s pain when she says to Christian Slater’s character in Heathers “You know what I want?  Cool Guys like you out of my life.”  Of course she said this while blowing JD away with a gun.  I don’t have any intention of taking such drastic measures.  Yet.   

But it seems that my assumption that only dorky high school kids go on to get law degrees was a mistake.  Don’t get me wrong, this profession does have its plethora of uncool.  Still, it seems, some cools kids did go to law school.  And apparently they then all went on to find employment at my new firm.

There I was in the elevator, taking my iPod off, for the most part minding my own business when Some Guy 1 got on the elevator and said hello to Some Guy 2.  They started chatting and before Some Guy 2 got off the elevator they had plans to golf together.  Some Guy 2 said, “Yeah, definitely give me a call.  We’ll get together and chase after our balls.”  This comment was immediately followed by a fist pound. 

Then, Some Guy 2 chuckled a bit, winked at me and left the elevator. 

Okay, maybe I am making up the wink, but the two did fist pound before the second one walked out.  Worse than watching two grown men fist pound, this was not the first time I heard this very same conversation.  I was in the eleventh grade, sitting in Western Civ waiting for whatever that teacher’s name was to get class started, and the Mike to my left and the Mike in front of me were discussing the upcoming weekend and the possibility of going to the LVCC to play 18 holes.  Understand, I went to school with about 40,000 Mikes; all of them were cool and all of them were friends.  Mike to my left mentioned chasing their balls and Mike in front of me waited for me to react. 

Back then I simply sighed and longed for the day when I would be surrounded by more mature, more intellectually stimulating men. 

Back in the elevator I sighed and realized just how much I missed Favorite Associate and our discussions about art and 1940s musicals and British sketch comedy and P.G. Wodehouse.  

Mind you, this has me very worried.  Not only are cool guys less interesting as a whole,  which could mean real trouble for this blog, but friends of mine have been perusing my new firm’s website looking for potential new boyfriends.  I don’t know how I feel about fixing up my friends with these new co-workers.  Scientists have yet to isolate the a-hole gene; however, they do note it is more common in cool guys. 

July 2, 2007

Welcome to the First Ever Klemmy’s

Posted in Blog Backlash, Lawyer Lifestyles, Public Service Announcement at 8:38 pm by devilwearsbrooksbrothers

So apparently some of you don’t think I am very funny, some of you think I’m whiney and at least one of you thinks you may end up like me in 5 to 10 years.  Still not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing, but in an effort to win some of you back I am offering my first ever list of the best things in Center City.   

See, I know at least some of you are new to this city, whether that is because you just moved here from law school or because you are summering here.  Some of you may have even moved here because of a significant other.  Well, moving is hard and learning a new city is even harder, not that I know from first-hand experience, but I hear these things.   

So, here are my observations on where to eat and hang out since that is what I do a lot of in Philadelphia.  Maybe farther down the road I will offer suggestions on where to go to see a show or the best place to buy flowers after you screwed around on your girlfriend.  Maybe.  For now, I will stick with what I know: food and drink.     

The best part, if you don’t agree with me you can say so.  I only ask that if you think I messed up, tell me why.  Give me an alternative.  I will try it and let you know why you are wrong.  Other readers can try both and agree with me.  This way everyone wins. And we like that right?  Everyone winning.  

Best Dunkin’ Donuts 

This is a no brainer.  The Dunkin Donuts in the concourse located between the ATM machines and a salad shop, across from the bookstore, underneath 4 Penn Center. Yes it always has a huge line, but they fly through that line like it was their jobs.  I guess because it is. 

Best Sandwich

Nodding Head’s Muffaletta.  I know a lot of you may disagree with this,  you may argue that choosing a sandwich that is not native to the area is just wrong, but I don’t care.  This thing is heaven on a boule roll. 

Second Best Sandwich

Café Loftus’ The Elvis. It’s got peanut butter, it’s got bananas and it’s got honey all toasted to gooey perfection on your choice of bread.  And at less than $4.00, what is there not to love? 

Best Pizza

Dolce and Carini’s white slice.  At 20th and Chestnut this is a bit of a hike for some of you.  But if you love garlic and ricotta cheese, trust me it is worth it. 

Best Burger 

Good Dog.  If I didn’t ruffle your feathers with the muffaletta, this choice for best burger may.  But I am sorry, they stuff their burgers with Roquefort cheese.  There is no other word for that but awesome.   I’m not giving them best mussels or best fries or even best beer selection.  Not that those are categories this time around, but those are all the categories their number one competitor for best burger would surely win. 

Best Summer Happy Hour

Mexican Post.  The food is not great, the layout is awkward and the service is deplorable.  But with $3.00 margaritas the size of your head, you can overlook all those other things.  Plus the outside patio is nice as long as it isn’t too hazy hot and humid in the city. 

Oh and be advised that these are just my opinions formed over 10 years of trial and error.  There was no official voting or polling or sampling done and these views certainly don’t express the views of my editor or this publication.

Also, if you have a nut allergy, don’t get the Elvis Pressley as it is made with peanuts and therefore could kill you.

I would really hate to see that happen to most of you.

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