El mundial is upon us, yo.

Once again, I am left to my own devices for a weekend. T has gone down to Richmond to take care of some business and celebrate our dear friend A's birthday. Even though that makes for three out of the last four weekends out of town, I would've liked to have gone with him to hang out and celebrate summer, VA-style, but it wasn't in the cards. Instead, I will be helping to do a final drive for TPS registration at a Haitian church somewhere here in Big City, as part of my new summer job.

The summer job. Yes. So, this summer I am working for an immigration legal services organization, and it is a *big* change from my last job both in terms of the work place and the area of law. Where I was once working in the wishy-washy, creative argument-requiring area of employment law, I am now in the form-filling, by-the-book world of immigration law. Except that makes it sound boring. To the contrary, this is gripping stuff. As the head of the organization said today, immigation is all about three questions:

1. Who gets to come here?
2. Who gets to stay here?
3. Who has to leave?

And instead of practicing my McDonnell-Douglas burden of proof gymnastics, I'm learning the perils of trying to get or stay legal in a post-IIRIRA world. In other words, I'm working out my knees, learning to beg the government for relief for my poor wittle cwients (because in order to get any relief, you gotta talk about how Terrible and Heart-Wrenching your client's life is, compared to everyone else's). Ok, I've only been on the job a few days, but this is the sense I'm getting. Did I mention I'm loving it? Cause I am. I feel at home, like I'm finally doing the work I came to law school for. I love a good ol' memo on the elements of a claim, discerning principles from case law and applying new fact patterns to common law rules as much as the next student. Really, probably more. But at the end of the day, I want to be in the thick of the fray of immigrants trying to save their azzez from deportation, trying to bring their families over, trying to parlay their work with the men in blue into a green card. Yo quiero ser una abogada del pueblo, yo.

And none of this is what I sat down to write about, but it's what's coming out. Probably because to sit and think too long about the World Cup, and where I was four years ago (or the four years before that) is a little too heavy for me on a Friday night when I've already put on my pajama pants and walked the dog in flip-flops and fed my husband macaroni and cheese with pretzel goldfish and oreos for a send-off dinner. Yes, it's true that four years ago I was living the second half of my time in Durham, had the door to my little house perpetually open so that the neighbors and friends could wander over at their leisure to watch the games on my t.v. which had the best reception on the block. It's true that I was surrounded by Mexicans who were pumped about the Mundial, and it's true that my community felt like a Community, and it's true that I miss that sometimes (i.e. now). But it's also true that four years ago, I was missing waking up super early and driving in the fog of twilight over to my friend M's house to watch the games at 3 in the morning in our pajamas, and I was nostalgic for those days then. In short, the World Cup is a chance to Make Memories to the umpteenth degree. It comes around once every four years, and like that short story where the girl gets locked in the closed when everyone else goes out to see the rain for the first time in their lives, it's not something you wanna miss out on, cause this is Real.

Oh, but I said I wasn't gonna go there, didn't I? This is what's happened when I'm left alone in a house by myself, pumped up and ready for a weekend of soccer, soft clothes and snacks on a sofa.