Monday, April 28, 2008


I hate hate hate to say it, but I think blog hiatus time is upon us. And this one, unfortunately, isn’t your run-of-the-mill, three-week, I-won’t-be-gone-long-enough-for-you-to-miss-me type of hiatus either.

No, my friends, the light at the end of this tunnel is about three and a half months away, after the bar.

Or as the French say, Le Barre de la Merde.

I’m not quitting just yet, mind you. I have one more week of class,
then one week of exams,
then one week of counting the nanoseconds before bar prep starts,
then bar prep starts. And that lasts until July 29th, when… well… the French hits the fan.

I figure I’ll post a little over the next few weeks, but sporadically at best. After that? Who knows? Will I have the time to bloig while I’m re-teaching myself three years worth of law? Will I want to? Hell, I may NEED some creative outlet, where I can butcher the English language while sharing some self-depreciating anecdote.

Option 1 – quit cold turkey. Just stop blogging until it’s pencils down.
Option 2 – blog regularly. Bar prep is really only going to be like seventy five hours per day, which leaves more than enough time for me to post pictures of the girls or rant about radio.
Option 3 – happy medium. Maybe blog every couple of weeks? Like a reverse bufblopofo? “Week 4: I’m still alive. I just re-learned torts, otherwise known as the law of knowing just enough to know you’re going to get fucked on the bar. Listening to a lot of Red Hot Chili Peppers...”

I kind of like the idea of option three. I remember doing something similar back in business school where I posted once an hour during an all-nighter (starting here and continuing for 10 excruciatingly boring posts). I may not have much to say this summer, but I think it’ll be interesting to go back and see what nonsense was on my mind during the infamous Bar Summer of Apostrophe Ought Eight.

We’ll see. In the meantime, wish me luck on exams.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Royal Toybupdates

Family: Maeve is much better. She had the croupe, which sounds, appropriately, like it’s named after a combination of the words: “cough”, “ralph”, and “poop”. In that order. She’s still a little under the weather, but should be fine by this weekend for Adelaide’s baptism. On a related note OH PLEASE DEAR ALMIGHTY GOD DON’T LET ADELAIDE GET CROUPEY. Somehow, I don’t think the words “cough”, “ralph”, “poop”, and “holy water on the noggin” would roll of the tongue very well.

Job: none yet. About 47 resumes remain unanswered, so keep the fingers crossed.

School: I know I have a lot of law school friends who check in on the blahg every now and then, so this section is aimed at you. First off, congrats on getting aaaaaaalmost all the way through law school. Two more weeks, beautiful babies. You done good.

Secondly, if anyone has any graduation tickets they don’t need, I’m in the market for nearly one billion of them. Oh wait, I have six and Jon gave me one of his spares, so I’m looking for nearly one billion minus seven. Anyone? Anyone? Grad tickets? Anyone?

Tech: NO I DID NOT JOIN SECOND LIFE THAT WOULD BE A POOR USE OF MY TIME. Okay, maybe I joined a little. My avatar wears a crown.

Sunday, April 20, 2008


Poor little Maeve caught a bug this weekend. The little knucklehead is tossing in her bed right now, trying in vain to find that one perfect position for both her and her stuffed bear.

She’s had a busy week, so Lisa and I are chalking this up to over-exertion. I mean, they’re really riding her at work, and her classes are just murder. Much of her day is spent rehearsing a recently discovered elephant impression. (She raises one arm and squeals through pursed, smiling lips – it’s precious and she knows it makes her old man laugh. It’s gotten to the point where she’ll sound her elephant’s trumpet as soon as I walk into the room, just because I’m, apparently, that deserving a father.)

For now, her fever is broken and she’s keeping pedialyte down, so we’re not really worried. It just sucks though. I could jump in front of a bullet, or push her from the path of a runaway train. I could stare down a pack of mad dogs if needed, or hold her head above flood waters. But no matter how many times I pace past her bedroom door, I’ll never be allowed to take her sweaty place myself, and let her get some sleep.

I know she’s on the mend, though. I know that cute little kid I still working her magic, beneath mottled skin and teary eyes. I know because I just went in to calm her down one more time, and as I knelt to wipe the hair from her eyes, she reached out and grinned at me.

And from behind that pained and tired little face... she squealed through pursed, smiling lips.

Keep in mind, I was expecting her to look up and continue to cry. Or look up and vomit. Or look up and continue to cry and vomit while her head spun around. But instead the little knucklehead looked up and gave me an elephant impression.

Yep, she’s on the mend.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Pure joy

I brought Maeve and Addie out to my parents for the Sunday. While my younger stayed inside to watch hockey with Uncle Lou, Aunt Mary took Maeve out for a ride on the swing.


Thursday, April 10, 2008

Tanks a lot

There are few times when I think thank-you cards are really necessary or even helpful, but I’ve always been a fan of sending them after interviews. (I hated them as a kid. I once gave a present to a friend with a disclaimer written into the card: “Part of my gift is that you don’t have to give me a thank-you card later on.” Then I ate too much and threw up in the ball pit at Chuck E Cheese’s. I’ve come so far, right?)

Anyway, it’s been awhile since I had to write a post-interview thank you card, but today I needed one. By the way, if you’ve been following along here at the RT, and can read in-between the lines: yes, the 63 resumes I sent out last week have started to produce! I probably shouldn’t talk about where I’m interviewing these days, but let’s just say that today’s meeting definitely deserved a thank-you card.

Apparently, according to the selection of cards at Target, I’m not the only male in WNY with a hatred for unnecessary correspondence. One entire aisle was devoted to bright pinks and yellows, curlie-cued fonts, pictures of butterflies and flowers, and of course, puppies. In the stationary world, evidently, puppies equate to the most sincere form of thanks.

And in one tiny corner, on the dusty bottom shelf near the end of the aisle, a non-descript cardboard box contained 100 black and white, industrial strength, economy sized, no frills, pieces of folded paper. The font used was blockish and as non-committal as one can get, with all the warmth of a death certificate. A single black line stretched across the bottom border of each card, probably in an attempt to suggest professionalism. But honestly, the line reminded me of an addition problem on a math test.


Now I’m not looking for manly man thank-you cards with footballs, engine blocks, military equipment and centerfold pin-ups on the front, but some middle ground between that and puppies might be nice. At least give me something like this:

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

Nice, indeed.

Yesterday was of the red letter variety. I can’t really share too much right now, but suffice it to say that one or two of those 63 noodles I threw at the wall last week seem to have stuck. No job offers or anything, just sticky noodles at this point. More on this as it develops.

And what about the good news I can share? Drum roll please...


It has been tested and proven: this guy has two thumbs and is ethical enough to be a lawyer. I took the test back during BufBloPoFo08, and you can read about how much it upset me then. Or ignore that and just know that I passed. Huzzah!

(By the way, my friend, Carrie, texted me last night at 11pm to let me know the scores were available online. That lucky lass gets to celebrate both her passage of the test and the passage of another year of life today. Happy Birthday Carrie!)

(Also, by the way, my friend Jon passed the test. It’s not his birthday today, but I believe his basketballing troupe won their match last night. Congrats all around, I say.)

(Also, again by the way, I have the greatest wife ever in the world and I love her more every second of the day. Plus, she’s a looker.)

Monday, April 07, 2008

A very ancient and fish-like blog

A couple of pictures to share. These might fill some of the holes in your Mike Garvey Is Getting Older Timeline.

The first is from, on average, 1998. I say “on average” because it was taken while I was in college and I didn’t have a watch then. 1998ish, we’ll say:

So yeah, this picture, taken when Tom and I were in The Tempest, is interesting if you take into account the juxtaposition of my gaze (I’m on the left) with Tom’s on the right, as well as considering the lighting used OH MY GOD WHEN DID I HAVE ALL THAT HAIR?

I mean, are you kidding me? I was frickin’ Harpo Marx all throughout high school and college and now I aspire to Matt Lauer status. Just not fair.

The second picture shows the good news:

A friend sent this one to me noting I’d lost a lot of weight. Compared to this pic, I really have. When I moved home from Chicago in 2003, I was about 270. Having been separated from my precious deep dish pizzas, I quickly lost about 15 lbs, and then Weight Watchers helped with another 25 or so the summer after this was taken.

So, I’m thinner, but so is my hair. If that give-and-take persists, I wonder what benefit I’ll gain as my eyesight worsens. “Man, that bald, thin guy with the coke bottle glasses sure knows how to skateboard really well.”

Sunday, April 06, 2008


Them Buffal kids is dumb.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

There's a blogger born every second

A particularly observant friend of mine likes to point out the extra, often hidden costs of things, using the term “that’s how they’ll get ya!”

At the movies: “Don’t buy popcorn, that’s how they’ll get ya!”
At home depot: “The picture makes this patio furniture look like a five piece set, but you have to pay for the extra chairs. That’s how they’ll get ya!”
At Denny’s: “Don’t buy appetizers, that’s how they’ll get ya! Plus they’re gross.”

I’d call him a conspiracy theorist, but of course, he’s right most of the time. Have you tried Denny’s appetizers? Disgusting.

And, call me an old geezer, but I’ve saved enough money by bringing my own popcorn and soda to the movies that I could now fund the next three sequels to Cutthroat Island.

Anyway, I bring this up because I had the ultimate that’s-how-they’ll-get-ya experience yesterday at Delta Sonic. Lisa and I traded cars for the day and on my way into work I thought I’d surprise my wife by having her equinox cleaned. (That’s not sexual innuendo, by the way, but it sure sounds like it. I do hereby proclaim that, except for this blog post, saying “wink wink, nudge nudge, I bet you cleaned her equinox but good!” is an acceptable way to imply someone else got their sex on.)

Anyway, I made this decision when I got into the car and my eyes began to water from a) trying to see through her windshield, and b) the smell.

Now, this post isn’t about how the wifey allows clutter to pile up. Heaven’s no. She’s the neat one. If it were up to me, the girls would just trade clothes every couple of days until they’re 18. We’d only need two outfits! In fact, her car is dirty because of me. We took it to tailgate at a few different Garvents this past year, and man, the combined stink of bonfire and mighty taco doesn’t give up easily.

So off to delta sonic I went. According to their website, I can get an interior cleaning for 10 buckaroos and an exterior for 6. Throw in a few dollars for tip, read the paper for 15 minutes, bada bing, bada boom, instant husband points earned.

Pftht. Right. As if it were that cheap/easy. Here, ladies and gentlemen, is how Delta Sonic’ll get ya:

1. There is no “menu” to read from until you get right up to the counter, so you have to make your car washing choices quickly while people are behind you and the salesperson is throwing mango-flavored air fresheners in your face.
2. That 10 dollars for an interior cleaning? Ten dollars at delta sonic won’t get a passerby to use a forceful stream of pee to clean bugs from your windshield. Ten dollars is only for non-SUVs and, I swear I’m not making this up, DOESN’T EVEN GET YOU SOAP. Apparently, to have the seats and carpets cleaned (and I’m using the American human definition of “clean” here, which includes frickin’ soap), I have to pay another 23 dollars for the service, and another 9 effing dollars because I have the audacity to drive an SUV.
3. Apparently, according to the cashier, 6 dollars doesn’t really clean the outside of your car either. That’s only there for, well, no one knows why the 6 dollar option is on the menu, but it sure as hell ain’t for people who want clean car exteriors. That, my friends, costs 12 clams, minimum.
4. Yeah that’s right, there’s a fourth way they’ll get ya. During the FORTY FIVE MINUTES it takes the Delta Sonic team to laugh at you behind closed doors for paying $60 to have your car cleaned clean your car, you have to sit in the waiting area which has, and again I’m not making this up: a deli, a convenience store, a pizzeria, and a Dunkin Donuts. “Sorry we’re taking so long, sir. The guys in the back have a pool going to see if you’ll break down and buy an apple fritter. By the way, they’re normally only 79 cents, but since you’re driving an equinox, it’ll be $3.25.”

So, yeah, I was got. And I was got good.

As I left, by the way, they pointed out that I could come back within five days to have my car cleaned for free, so long as I held onto my receipt. Thanks, but no thanks, Delta Sonic. If you think I’m ever coming back, well, you can wax my Aston Martin.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Will work for food. (And six figures.)

I haven’t really talked too much about my pending job search, except to say that it exists in some form. And honestly, because of current events in my life (which shall be henceforth known as “Garvents”), to say the job search even exists is overselling it these days.

I haven’t been totally dormant. I actually sent out a lot of resumes last semester, but that resulted in a whole big shitsack full of disappointment. Like just about every industry in Western New York, there are simply few/no jobs to be had.

Lisa will be the first to tell you, though, that The Mike Garvey has never gotten a job by traditional means. (Lisa will be the first to tell you that this pisses her off to no end, by the way. I’ve gotten the greatest appointments ever handed down to mortal man by utilizing a very effective process I like to call “sitting on my ass and waiting for success to find me”. In the past, I’ve gotten better jobs by prancing around like a loon for months and then stumbling upon a lucky network connection at the last second than other, more qualified, harder working members of the community could ever get through all their so-called moxy.)

But of course, the grasshopper is beginning to learn his lesson because while all his little ant friends are out playing Rock Band, celebrating the jobs they’ve gotten for after graduation, he’s sitting home, unemployed, getting the stinkeye from his (incredibly beautiful) grasshopper wife.

So. No more of this nickel and dime shit, says I. Forget about mailing one resume and one cover letter at a time! Forget about picking and choosing through Buffalo’s best firms! Time to pull out the big guns! Time to mass produce! TIME FOR MAIL MERGE.

Last night, Lisa watched on with wide and teary eyes while I tapped out my generic cover letter. She sighed romantically while I then made an excel sheet of 63 Buffalo firms that I would ever consider, no matter how obscure. (I went to each and every website to make sure the name hadn't changed, by the way. Those companies go through managing partners like my daughters do diapers.) Anyway, at the end of it all I had 63 beautiful cover letters, ready to be paired with a resume and sent off to find me a jobby job.

Lisa is swooning. “My hero!”, she’s saying. She’s so cute.

Tonight, we're addressing envelopes (I had to print the labels here at work because my printer sucks), and dropping them babies in the mail. So start those fingers a-crossin’!

Honestly, I would want to work at only a dozen or so of the firms, but at this point, I just need interview experience. If Jerkface, Smelly, Satan and Picholas, PLLC called me in for an interview tomorrow, I’d gladly accept just for the practice.

And once I get a job, I’ll have you all over for a Rock Band party. We’ll make it a Garvent. Maybe we’ll have corndogs.