Christmas Past

Most of my Christmas memories blend together into a cluster of church pageants, unreasonably-large meals, and apple cider. There's always been a tree. There's always been music. There are gifts from family on Christmas Eve and from Santa on Christmas morning. No matter our age, it is the job of my sister and I to "find out what people want to drink" and to eventually serve the pie, which is stored not in the kitchen, but in a mysterious place in our house that has always been known to our immediate family as the Cold Sewing Room.

I remember sleeping downstairs in sleeping bags one year with my sister and our cousin Jody. We tried to stay up all night, an unsuccessful effort to catch Santa. We covered every doorway with wrapping paper and tape, certain we'd hear something in the middle of the night. When we woke up in the morning, the traps were securely in place, the gifts were under the tree, and our parents were calmly sipping coffee in the kitchen, undaunted by our paper barriers.

Another Christmas, the three of us put on our snow pants and boots and walked a mile through a snow-filled ditch to our grandma's house. Someone would have surely driven us, had we asked. Or, we could have simply walked on the road in far less time than the two hours it took in the ditch. But if we'd chosen either of those options, I'm sure I wouldn't remember that day.

In the late 90s, my sister claimed the unique experience of ruining Christmas three years in a row. One of these occasions was incited by my mother's addled plan for her 18 and 19-year old daughters to wear matching velvet dresses to church just as we did when we were 4 and 5. It didn't play well.

More recently when we were home for the holiday and in search of entertainment, my sister called a local movie theater to find out what was playing. After getting her answer and the showtime, she thanked the person on the other end of the phone and began to hang up. "So," the theater attendant interrupted, "are you for sure going to come then?" If we'd gone to the movie that night, they likely would have shown the movie to a theater of two. Because we didn't, I'm sure they locked up early.

It hasn't been a great year. Some bad memories have been added to the good. But as I near home, I first drive past an empty movie theater. My jeep then creeps carefully down the icy gravel road bordering the ditch we once hiked through, up to our waists in snow. I walk through the doorways once sealed tight with wrapping paper, past the framed picture of matching velvet dresses from our childhood. And for a little while, because everything seems okay, I find out what people want to drink and go to the Cold Sewing Room to get the pie.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Objection. Relevance.

Unfortunate Lawyer: I was just at a hearing where the other side offered "God’s Holy Word as Defendant’s Exhibit C" and handed the judge a Bible. I objected that "God’s Holy Word" was irrelevant. Do you think I’ll go to hell for that?

Penelope: Maybe. But you know...it's also hearsay.

Go west of the Prime Meridian and take your first left.

These are my friends. I wish that you knew them.

Drew has the best-fitting jeans of anyone I know and would be the most likely to pull your tail if you were wearing a costume that required such a feature. He mysteriously disappears for weeks at a time, gives really good hugs, and mumbles on the telephone. Recently, he tailored something for me, put 60 pins in my dress, and didn't stick me once. When I tell him he should learn more about werewolves and the Swiss (their cheese and pocket knives), he tells me I should learn more about Hungary. And their hippos.

Travis is known to tell 20-minute stories that start with the words "Quick story for you...," veer off course to include, "...and then, my pediatrician's brother...," and end with "...well, that was longer than I anticipated, but I think you see my point." On any given day, he is the most stable thing in my life, and is the least likely to read and respond to personal email during work hours. If any of this makes you think Travis is stuffy, then you were not at the party in September when he put on a red wig and did ballet jumps in my living room. I am secretly in love with him.

Cathy is the pretty one. I have known her the longest and, when I met her 8 years ago, her hair was red, spiky, and 1-inch long. Now, she looks like this but still wears short dresses and hooker boots to her Quaker church on Easter Sunday. She always knows about some really great new band, and she sometimes gets sick to her stomach when she thinks about how much her Mercedes cost. I have a crush on her dad, Bob, who enjoys green Jell-O with pears in it. Her mom, Nancy, is very understanding about the crush. Cathy once drove to a different state in the middle of the night with $7 in her pocket to stop a boy from getting on an airplane, which is cooler than anything I have ever done.

Matt is very witty and mostly kind, but cusses at you if you say that you don't like waffles. He sometimes explains things in grand metaphors that start out normal but end with him saying things like "collective inertia" to explain something pretty simple. I trust him enough to loan him books and musical instruments and my best friend Brad, and he returns almost all of them to me un-broken. He reads to children and visits his parents often and has curly hair. He doesn't eat anything east of the Prime Meridian and, if asked to select a song for a compilation CD, will always choose 'Gimme Dat Nut' by Eazy E.

Button Me Up, Tie Me Down

The button popped off of my pants today. It's probably been a long time coming, this ultimate surrender...this abandoning of ship. It must have felt good. For the button, I mean.

I feel like this has been happening to several of my friends lately, which could mean a couple of different things: (a) we've been hibernating and easing into our winter coats woven from pumpkin pie and cheesy potatoes and dinner rolls and gravy; or (b) this sort of thing has been happening all along, but we're now just good enough friends that we can talk about it. (My friend Andrew's button launched off his pants with such force that it ricocheted off a door and Brad had to duck to escape it's path. Or so it was reported.)

Since I have no immediate plan of action to counteract the departure of this or any other button, I have instead compiled a list of people who could potentially witness such an event. And I have ranked them in order from #1 (the person whom I would least like to witness the exodus of the button) down to # 10 (the person whom, if this must happen, I would most like to see it).

1. My mother
2. Any boy that I formerly dated
3. Joshua Jackson
4. A doctor specializing in Type 2 diabetes
5. A waiter/waitress, while I am simultaneously ordering a piece of cake
6. Anyone who works out on a regular basis
7. My secretary (the nice one)
8. My dental hygienist *
9. Brad, Penelope, or my sister
10. Troy. I can't really explain it, but he would just...understand.

* This is who actually saw it happen. Clearly, the situation could have been worse.

Liquor Slicked Highway

Dear Client:

If you're wondering when the turning point was at our court hearing this morning, I would say it was right around the time that two deputies were called into the courtroom and the judge asked you to blow into a breathalyzer.

See you in 30 days.

All the best,
Unfortunate Lawyer

The Worst Conversation of My Life

Conversation with Starbucks barista:

Barista: How's your day going?

Penelope: It's going pretty good.

Barista: What are you up to today?

Penelope: I'm helping my mom. I'm grading labs for her.

Barista: Oh, my mom does that too. She... (voice trails off, but I think I hear the word "math.")

Penelope: Your mom teaches math?

Barista: No (looks at me like I'm completely batshit crazy).

Penelope: (Realizing that I would just need to start over): What I was trying to say it that my mom is a chemistry teacher, and I'm helping her grade labs for her classes.

Barista: Oh, my mom breeds labs. The dogs.

Button Eyes, Lullabys, Carrot on the Ground

I have spent the past 3 days at my parents' farm. I will express my feelings about this, and my desire to get back home, by showing you my mother's Snowman Village:

I would have guessed something dirtier.

My friend Travis admitted to 2 things he does when he's home alone:

1. Sing
2. Practice his referee moves

"Did you take an Ambien with your Franzia and sleep walk here?"

There's an episode of 30 Rock where Liz Lemon proclaims that she has her life together as a tooth falls out of her mouth.

This morning, as I arrived at the courthouse, I was silently congratulating myself on several things:

1 - Having a productive weekend
2 - Creating a 'budget' for myself
3 - Cleaning my house AND doing all of my laundry
4 - Going to the gym
5 - Arriving at the courthouse on time

I think the phrase "I have my life together" was actually flashing into my mind as I opened my car door and it fell off.

Things My Mother Sends Me, Part 2

A phone call:

Troy: Hey, what's up? Where are you?

Me: On my way back from the courthouse. Want to know what I have in my briefcase right now? I'll give you 3 guesses.

Troy: Underwear.

Me: [silent]

Troy: Well?

Me: The game wasn't supposed to be that easy.

Fever Till You Sizzle, What A Lovely Way To Burn

A brief but powerful flu virus cheated me out of my weekend.

It started Friday at noon, and by 9pm, I had a temperature of 102 and was simultaneously shivering and sweating under a down blanket. My mom called to check on me. I was a little out of it, but I remember her talking a lot. In my feverish delerium, I recall two pieces of the conversation very distinctly:

1 - "You need to take some Tylenol. For the fever. You don't have Tylenol in the house? How can you not have Tylenol? No, Ibuprofen and Alleve are not Tylenol. You know, Tylenol is a pretty basic thing and you should really have it around. Well...Tylenol PM will be okay for tonight, but tomorrow, you really need to go buy some extra strength Tylenol. I can't believe you don't have Tylenol in your house. [speaking across the room to my dad] No, she doesn't have any Tylenol. No Tylenol in the house - can you believe that? Huh. Well, how about aspirin? Do you have any aspirin? No, Ibuprofen and Alleve are not aspirin. Really, Tylenol is a very basic thing. Nowhere in your house do you have Tylenol? You know, Tylenol is something you should really just have on hand."

2 - "...and it's not like you have a husband to take care of you..."

That shade of Humiliation looks great on you.

Halloween found me wearing 5-inch platform shoes, a long blonde wig, and an Alice in Wonderland dress. It also found me at a party where at least 3 men were dressed as women.

I had been talking to a boy for 5 minutes when he suddenly poked my chest (which was at his eye-level) and asked, "What are your boobs made out of?"

I thought it was unusual that a complete stranger had just felt me up, and I looked at him, confused. "They're just...my boobs," I said, not understanding.

It took a moment to sink in.

I took off my wig and vowed not to wear the platform shoes for another 365 days.






(Also pictured: Penelope, who dances like this in front of complete strangers.)

Keep smilin', Keep shinin'

Over Halloween weekend, my co-blogger, Penelope, traveled the 832 miles from her doorstep to mine for a visit. She had been in town for about an hour when we grabbed a late lunch. The kid making my sandwich was trying to have a conversation with us, which did not go well.

Penelope turned grumpy. Eyes: rolling. Smile: fake. Face: exasperated.

"What's the problem?" I asked, since the mood was very unlike her.

"I haven't seen you since January, and there is no way in hell I am sharing you with the Quizno's boy."

It was the nicest thing she's ever said to me.

You would see the biggest gift would be from me, and the card attached would say...

"If you're not winning the game with the personnel on the field, then you have to bring in the replacements."

My friend made that comment yesterday. He wasn't talking about sports, and it wasn't a metaphor related to the election.

He was talking about his friends. I hope I don't get benched.

Election Day

It's election morning. Official results are several hours away, but I think that our collective optimism is best expressed through the text that Matt sent to Brad last night:

"It's like tomorrow is Christmas. But Santa is like God. And I have a feeling God thinks we have been good."


-----------------------Not Matt-----------------------------Matt------

I will stay a boy forever, and be banished if I don't

I arrived at trial this morning early enough to ask the court attendant for a Band-Aid for my hand.

Unfortunate Lawyer: "Thanks. I looked everywhere this morning, but could only find Spiderman, Care Bears, and Jesus Band-Aids."

Lori the Court Attendant: "Oh, I didn't know you had kids!"

Unfortunate Lawyer: "I don't."



I realize now that I probably should have thought about the quality and maturity level of my personal first-aid collection before looking at her like she was the weird one.

Sometimes Your Words Just Hypnotize Me

One of our legal assistants is prone to panic attacks. Last week, she went to see a hypnotist because she heard it might help. Before she went, we joked that the hypnotist might secretly add some extra trigger words so that she would, with certain cues, start acting like a bear or a donkey or a Rockette.

She came back to the office without incident, but the rest of the work day was interrupted by my 42-year old boss randomly shouting words and snickering. "Hey, can you copy this because SMORGASBORD I need it for my deposition tomorrow AQUARIUS. And don't forget that I'll be gone the whole day CORIANDER but will try to return some calls after work hours RED BARON."

He was quiet for a minute while she stared at him and gathered the papers. But he couldn't stop. "Flabbergast! Snorkel! Sassafrass! ORVILLE REDENBACHER!"

Nothing happened. He eventually walked away disappointed, but not before muttering "BOUFFANT" and looking at her expectantly.

It's a wonder we get anything done at this office.

Terrified Pickles!

When my mother sends me things in the mail, she's not trying to be weird. It just ends up that way, every single time.

My friend Melissa puts effort into it. When she sent me Snap-a-Party plastic ware last year for no particular reason or occasion, I didn't think it was strange. I just started planning the events for which I might use the gift, which came complete with napkin rings and toothpicks.

And, when I recently received a misshapen package in the mail from Alaska, I was delighted with its contents:

The Jesus band-aids are especially useful right now. But no one has called me on my hamburger.


UPDATE: After I thanked her for the Hannah Montana pen (which plays music), Melissa replied:

"The lady at the post office asked what I got you for your birthday, and when I told her, she asked how old you were. After I said you were 30, she responded (while shaking her head in an 'I'm disappointed in you' way), "Well, it's the thought that counts."

They [refuse to] call me '3-Stitch'

I'm in an 8-week woodcarving class with a couple of friends. During our introductory class, our instructor, Jim, announced that he's had students cut themselves while working, but he's never had one die. Then, as he walked away, we heard him mumble, "Except for Betty Stimler..."

Five weeks into the class, the fate of Betty Stimler is still unknown. Beyond that, the class has had its ups and downs:

Up: Our classmates. We've won-over Rex (woodcarver's fanny pack) and Pat (orange). Glenna (center, hiding) is playing hard to get.

Down: My ear of corn (middle) was lost in the mail to my sister, who received only a chewed up envelope in a plastic bag with a note that said "The Post Office cares."

Up: My chicken, which is the greatest thing I have ever made. Ever.

Down: My midnight trip to the emergency room. I broke Jim's ONE rule of woodcarving: Keep Things That Bleed out of the way of Things That Cut. To make matters worse, I've been trying to jumpstart a new nickname for myself all day, and no one is playing along.

Thanks, but no Thanks for that Obituary to Nowhere

Check out the following e-mail conversation:

1)
Hi Adam and Jessamy,
I just wanted to send my condolences to Adam (& Jessamy). I read about your grandfather's passing in the Times. It sounded like he was a great man. I am sorry about your loss.
Love,Wendy (& Josh)
Peace, Love, and Burritos,
Wendy
LLC Moe's Catering

2)
Hi Wendy,
Thank you for the the thoughts, however, although my grandfather is terminally ill and a great man, he lives in Cincinnati and I'm pretty sure he is still alive. I don't know Jessamy so I think you must have found the wrong Adam.
Thank you anyway!
Adam

3)
I am sorry, the Times reported a Seth Macon V----- of North Carolina with Adam (& Jessamy) listed at one of eight grandchildren. I am really sorry about that.I wish your real grandfather the best. I feel like a total idiot!

Animal Vests

When I was a law student, I took a class that required me to go to court and represent people charged with crimes under the supervision of my professor. I had assumed that I would need to buy a suit for when I appeared in court. However, on my first day of court, I had still not purchased a suit. I was afraid that I would be terribly underdressed. Then I noticed what the prosecutor was wearing: a sparkly vest with three-dimensional lions, tigers, and giraffes on it.

Well, I thought as I looked at her. Guess I don't need to buy a suit.

Exclamation Point

I'm not supposed to type my own letters at work. I have been trained to dictate them into a tape recorder for my secretary to type, and I have been taught that this is faster and more efficient than typing them myself.

When we dictate letters, we say the punctuation. For example, my dictation of a letter might sound like this: "Dear Penelope colon What are you trying to prove question mark My friend Joby likes your blog posts more than he likes mine period new paragraph..."

But that's not how you're supposed to talk in real life.

At a recent hearing, I was cross-examining a witness...and it had been a long day. I looked down at my paperwork and casually asked, "Ms. Jones, did you participate in mediation on February nineteen comma two thousand eight?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, as the judge's head and that of the opposing lawyer snapped towards me in perfect unison.

"Uh...sorry, Ms. Jones. I'll ask that question again."


When I relayed the story to my mother (who is funny but who does not make fun) responded, "O boy. That's a blunder. I'm surprised you didn't say 'question mark' at the end."

Figure Me Out and Set Me Free (for $40)

On Friday, I parked in the courthouse parking lot without a valid parking permit visible in my windshield. I've been doing this for at least 6 months with no repurcussions. Before that, I maybe got 2 tickets in a year. It's a risk that I do not acknowledge. I saw the parking attendant heading in the direction of my car as I locked the doors and started walking toward the building. I knew this meant I would get a parking ticket. I was running late, and I did not care.

"Hey! Hey, lady! Do you have valid parking pass?"

I will pretend I cannot hear you, I decided quickly. I will be silent and keep walking. Under no circumstances will I be moving that car.

"HEY. HEY, LADY! Purple Jeep! PURPLE JEEP! HEY!!!!"

I could be deaf, I rationalized. How do you know I'm not deaf? You are making a scene. People are looking. And my Jeep is blue, not purple.

"HEEEEYYY YOU!! YOU! PURPLE JEEP!"

I could be deaf OR I could be wearing headphones. You don't know. I will not turn around, no matter how loudly you yell.

"HEY!!! LADY WALKING ACROSS THE STREET. I WILL GIVE YOU A TICKET IF YOU DO NOT MOVE THIS CAR! HEEEEEEYYYYYYY!"

Yes! Give me a ticket! Isn't it your job to give me a ticket? Why are you screaming at me? Please...please just write the ticket and let's both move on from this ugly affair.

"HEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYY YOUUUUUUUUU!!"

This is very uncomfortable.

Silence followed.

Oh, thank god, I thought. She's writing the ticket. It's over. Thank you...I'm sorry I parked in your lot without a valid parking permit visible in my windshield. I truly am.

I stopped holding my breath.

"HEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYY YOU! WOMAN WALKING UP THE STAIRS!!!!"

Seriously? You cannot tell me this is fun for you. I know it is not fun for me, and this simply cannot be fun for you, either. I beg you to please just write me the damn ticket.

"Um...excuse me, Miss. I think that woman over there is trying to get your attention." An attorney that I recognized was pointing behind me, across the street, at a woman wearing all purple (she matched my jeep), who was standing with her arms over her head...one wildly waving a clipboard...the other tangled into her own hair, as if to pull it out. She looked, from my brief glance, like the type of person not at all accustomed to being ignored, by reason of her insanity.

This guy definitely knows that I'm not deaf, I cursed. "Thanks," I told him.

I was nearly up the courthouse steps when I stopped and turned, giving in at last. At this acknowledgement, she put down her arms and was silent for a moment. I nodded at her, smiled warmly, and waved as if seeing off an old friend at the airport. She began to write me a ticket, and I pushed through the revolving door to start my day.

Blizzards: The Very Best of Inclement Weather

There were a number of places I went this weekend that were against my better judgment. Among them was the Dairy Queen, with Brad and Rachel on Friday night. After considering all of my options, I ordered a Girl Scout Thin Mint Blizzard from the girl behind the counter.

"Oh, this is great," I told her. "It might even be better than the Pumpkin Pie Blizzard."

She was excited. "I was wondering if you were going to have the Pumpkin Pie again, " she said, with a twinkle in her eye. "I was going to ask if you wanted it...but I didn't want your friends to know that you had been here by yourself."

I think the Dairy Queen girl and I understand each other.

Donut Rumors

If you've heard any rumors that I have memorized the PLU (price look-up) codes for jumbo donuts and other bakery items at the grocery store, I want it to be clear that I have done no such thing. Okay, I admit that I occasionally go to the store and buy a few donuts or brownies or even cakes. But it's not like I'm there every day. And when I buy a cake for twelve, it's not like I'm going to eat the whole thing. I'm going to share it. Obviously. So if Bob from the self check-out station tells you that he saw me at City Market last week purchasing four jumbo donuts, one chocolate coconut cake, a liter of coke, and knew the PLU codes for it all just tell him that him that you know he's a liar. And if the people at my work tell you that it was no one's birthday and that I shared none of this fine food with the office, tell them that they are liars too.

Never Underestimate the Power of a Conehead

My dad convinced me to take a class on typing my freshman year in high school. This and many other things have proven to me that my dad is a genius. The class was, as you might imagine, all about typing. We learned how to use the keyboard correctly and which fingers are used to press which keys, etc. Our teacher (I'll call him Mr. Brady) was really enthusiastic about our learning. He observed us as we completed different typing exercises. If he felt that we were making too many errors, he made us wear a giant foam hat shaped like a crab. There was even a "lounge" in the classroom where he would send us if he felt like we weren't focusing and needed a break.

It was apparent that Mr. Brady was somewhat crazy. But on the day of our first timed exam he out crazied himself. He took out an overhead projector, and held up a conehead doll. He then announced to the class that he was going to put the conehead on the projector so that we would have "conehead power" during the test. The conehead shaped silhouette on the wall would be emanating this power. He also had a bee man doll, and occasionally put that on the overhead projector as well.

I'm thinking that based on how my career has been going lately, it's only a matter of time before I walk into court with a conehead doll and overhead projector.

Don't look down.

Some shoes have pretty names.

I imagine it's someone's job to name them after girls. It's cute, I suppose, to have shoes named Sonja or Ingrid...as if they're your friends.

It's been quite some time since I've had shoes with a name.

I knew my chances were bleak back in high school when my mother asked a local shoe repairman (in hushed tones) for a favor. She slid a pair of my too-small shoes across the counter, looked at him desperately, and asked if there was anything he could do to help us. He sliced them in half, added a couple inches in the middle, and put them back together again. The modified shoes were still no Trixie or Nicolette...but they fit. (My mother is industrious. She also has a keener sense of humility than I, and was not nearly as tickled when the anecdote found its way into in the local newspaper.)

Since then, I have purchased shoes from specialty catalogs, custom manufacturers, and drag queen websites. Still, my 'specialty' shoes have always lacked something: a name. I don't have a pair of Susana's or Sadie's waiting for me at home.

Recently recommended to me for the winter was a pair of shoes from Dansko. The men's professional clog would reportedly be comfortable, appropriate for work, and (most importantly) identical to the women's version. My hopes soared. I ordered the largest size available and patiently waited for them to arrive.

Their name is Karl. And they do not fit.

Russ, Interrupted

Troy and I took a quick roadtrip over the weekend to go to a friend's wedding. A few hours into the trip, we swung through Troy's hometown to say hi to his parents. We walked in the back door and Troy yelled down the stairs to the basement.

Troy: Hi Dad!

Troy's Dad: Hey there!

Me: Hi Russ!

Troy's Dad: Uh-oh.

The situation became immediately clear.
Interrupted: Naked Saturday.

I threw away that picture of your baby.

I don't mean to sound insensitive, but you can stop sending me pictures of your baby.

I looked at the first few pictures before tossing them into the shoebox that holds old theater tickets, past wedding invitations, and greeting cards. There they will remain, face-down under the card my sister sent me (the one with the picture of the little girl holding a sign that reads "I like corn on the cob" where you would expect to see a "happy birthday" message). I won't see these pictures again until, several years from now, I dig through that box in an effort to paste into a scrapbook those items worth saving. The corn-on-the-cob card will make it into the book. Your baby will not.

The back of your baby's picture probably says something like "age 6 months" or "18 months." This means nothing to me. (The rest of the world counts age in years, by the way.) Can your baby talk? Can it walk? Can it do math? Don't send me pictures unless it can do math.

Chances are, you wrote your baby's name on the back of the picture. When I find it in a few years, it will be stuck to my ticket stub from the County Fair Demolition Derby with some sort of purple syrup. When I pry them apart, I will smile as I remember the grape sno-cone I had the night my friends and I watched those cars catch on fire. I will have a detailed recollection of the deep-fried Oreo cookies and losing our car in the parking lot, but I will look at "Emma, 8 months" with an empty stare of non-recognition.

As I cover the back of my demolition derby ticket with rubber cement and paste it into a book, my elbow will inadvertently knock your baby's picture onto the floor. As I turn the page and add a picture of Penelope's dog, I will stretch out my legs and unknowingly kick your baby under the large, built-in desk in my basement. Under the desk it will stay..."Madison, 4 months"...for an untold number of years. I will eventually move out of my house and someone else will take my place.

On a rainy day in September, years in the future, this new resident of my house will be cleaning the basement. (She will be a more conscientious housekeeper than I.) And when her mop reaches under the desk, it will unearth a small photograph. She will pick it up, look at your baby, and cock her head in confusion. She will turn it over and, for just a moment, will attempt to recall "Noah - 20 months." She will shake her head and give up as she moves to the next room with her mop. On her way, she will pass a shoebox filled with letters, postcards, and last week's concert tickets. And she will casually toss your baby's picture on top.

Because we're No Nonsense

Yesterday, the weather started to change. I walked outside in the morning and went back in to get a sweater. It felt like fall, and I smiled. Not just because it’s my favorite time of year, or because it means Halloween is right around the corner, or because Penelope is coming to visit in 7 weeks.

I smiled because this summer has been riddled with Nonsense, and September feels like the start of something better.

It’s been a rough summer by any standard. The people I love have lost jobs, lost parents, and lost friends. Three ended relationships. Two attended funerals under unimaginable circumstances. One drove ten hours each weekend to visit his mom in the hospital. At some point, our problems shifted from kid problems to real problems, and there’s no end in sight.

All of this means that there’s no time, no energy, and no heartache left for Nonsense. So let me say this:

When you invent a story about how my friend, the substance abuse counselor, is using drugs – that is Nonsense.

When you spread a false rumor that This Boy is cheating on That Boy – that is Nonsense.

When you cycle through your friends at your convenience and intentionally hurt Travis’s feelings – that is Nonsense.

When you throw a tantrum and storm out for no reason – that is Nonsense.

When you break up with Brad and then kiss the new person that he’s dating – that is Nonsense.

All of it. Nonsense. And I know we can all do a little better.

Welcome, September.

Her lovin' is a wild dog, she's got the look.

Moments after he announced to me and Brad that being on the State Fair Board is "like Heaven," Troy's mood turned. He was beside himself.

"Heather and Cory had sex on my couch on New Year's Eve." He seemed certain that the catastrophe had occurred.

"Eww. How do you know?" we asked.

"Alissa told me." He said, disgusted and shaking his head. "Can you believe that?"

"Wow. So Heather told Alissa that it happened?"

"Well, yes. She indicated it."

"Indicated it?" Brad clarified. "How did Heather indicate to Alissa that she had sex with Cory on your couch on New Year's Eve."

"A wayward glance."

Well then. That settles it.

This is a Short Man's Room

Boss #5 and I are usually the last two people in the office at night. Yesterday, he asked if I was staying late.

“Yeah. I have a client coming in at 6:30. Why? Do you need me to write that motion for you?”

“No," he said. "I need to throw out my computer monitor and I don’t think I can reach the top of the dumpster. Can you lift it up there for me?”

“That is the weirdest thing you have ever asked me to do.”

“If that’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever asked you to do, I feel really good about my level of professionalism at the office.”

34. Or more.

I just finished a 4-day trial on the case from which this blog gained its name. After 19 months of litigation, 350 billable hours, and $52,500 of unpaid fees, here is what I have learned:

1. When you argue in front of the 7 justices of the state supreme court, it is best to remove the stickers from your notebook that depict strips of bacon and eggs cooked over-easy. (Also, to leave your Dr.Pepper Lipsmacker in the car.)
2. Don't make fake "snoring" noises when opposing counsel calls her 12th witness to the stand.
3. When you can't find the document previously marked as Exhibit E, do not suggest that the Judge may have "misplaced it." (even if he TOTALLY did)
4. If you try to keep a running tally of the number of times the word "softball" is said on the record at a lesbian-themed trial (because you think it's funny), you are probably going to miss something.
5. The number of lesbians who want you dead can no longer be accurately determined by counting the names on a mass email, and may increase exponentially without warning.

Time to burn, Lots to learn

When I received an invitation today from friends wanting to get together soon, I realized with chagrin that I was able to confirm my availability for 12 of the next 13 evenings.

I had a similar experience last year when a glance at my calender revealed "Watch Troy's Cat" as my only social event* scheduled for the entire month of October.



*That's right. Social event.

So you don't want to go out?

My friend Joby's new strategy for fending off undesirables at the bar involves telling them that we're married.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I'm actually married. My wife's name is Unfortunate Lawyer. She's really tall. We have a daughter named Jessica."

I think he'd probably get away with it if he didn't consistently follow up by elaborating, "Jessica fell into a well when she was younger. She was stuck in there for a couple of days."

I give up.

I used to go to great lengths to hide my unfortunate taste in movies and television shows. I wanted to be the kind of person who watched independent films on the Sundance Channel, not ABC Family Originals. My law school roommate and I developed a code. Melissa would greet me in the hall between classes and ask whether I remembered to set the TV to record "that documentary that's on tonight."

That "documentary" was also known as The OC.
Oh, I'd remembered alright.

When Taylor asked what movies I had recently seen, I listed Whale Rider, Hotel Rwanda, and Born into Brothels. That would have been true, except that it was Center Stage, The Princess Diaries, and 10 Things I Hate About You.

My summer roommate, John Paul, helped me properly define my weakness. He recognized the brand new sub-genre of movies that had cropped up within the broader genre of Teen Romance. The sub-genre was this:

Movies about girls who, at the beginning of the movie, don't know they're princesses but who, by the end of the movie, are princesses. *

There are more of them than you might think. This revelation helped me characterize the two other sub-genres that define my character flaw:

Movies about dancers who lose their dance partner but find a new partner from the 'wrong side of the tracks'; because their love is starcrossed, tragedy strikes, but the story culminates in a dance performance or competition where the couple is reunited to learn an important lesson about life, love, and dancing. **

and

Movies about a popular high school student unexpectedly paired with an unpopular student, often but not always provoked by a wager; the unpopular student discovers the source of the unlikely coupling, but not before the popular student develops true feelings for the unpopular one, and everyone learns an important lesson about popularity, honesty, and kissing...at the prom. ***

But I give up. You win. I'm tired of hiding.

Go ahead...look under that copy of Night by Elie Wiesel on my bedside table. You're going to find a Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic book underneath. Push aside Boston Legal in my trunk full of DVDs. Hiding there are Seasons 6 & 7 of Degrassi Junior High: The Next Generation.

Happy now? Have I been humiliated to your satisfaction?

If not, just hit the 5th pre-set radio station in my jeep. It's country.

* The Prince and Me (I and II), Princess Diaries (I and II), What a Girl Wants, First Daughter, Chasing Liberty, Enchanted, A Cinderella Story, Sydney White, Ever After, Ella Enchanted

** Dirty Dancing, Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, Footloose, Center Stage, The Cutting Edge (I, II, and III), Step Up, Step Up 2: The Streets, Save the Last Dance, Take the Lead

*** 10 Things I Hate About You, Whatever It Takes, Drive Me Crazy, Can't Buy Me Love, Never Been Kissed, 16 Candles, Clueless, Empire Records, Romeo + Juliet, Can't Hardly Wait, Blue Crush, Pretty in Pink, Bring it On, Win a Date with Tad Hamilton, She's the Man, How to Deal, The Girl Next Door

Jealous of My Dancing?

Over the fourth of July weekend, I went on a camping trip. One night of the trip consisted of going out to a few bars, where I had an occassion to show off some of my best dance moves. I think the way everyone felt about my dancing can be summed up in the following exchange that took place between me and one of my camping buddies:

Me: I don't like camping. I am a clean freak.

Camping buddy: Really? Because you dance like a dirty freak.

Why I'll Never Quit My Job: The Things I Find

Boss #5 of 7 was out of the office this week on family business, so I covered his hearings. On Thursday, I was already on my 3rd hearing of the day at 8:30 am. Frazzled and rushed, I introduced myself to Boss 5's client and explained that I'd be covering his preliminary hearing. I shook his hand, explained what would happen at the hearing, and tried to be as impressive as my 8:30 a.m. self could be.

As we stood outside the courtroom, I felt as though I'd won his confidence, even though he'd hired Boss 5, an attorney with 15 years of criminal defense experience, and not me. "Don't worry. I know what I'm doing," was the unspoken message that I'd conveyed.

We entered the courtroom, sat down at the defense table, and I opened his file.

Yep. That's a sock. Boss 5 likes to take his files home to work on them. He also has a 4-year old daughter.

Again...just to confirm: There was a sock. In a criminal defense file.

Things only went downhill from there.

Why I'll Never Quit My Job: The Things I Hear

While I was parking at the jail for my sixth hearing of the day, I called back to the office to talk to Boss #6 of 7. I knew there were new rules for what items lawyers could bring into the secure portion of the jail, but I needed to double-check what those rules were.

"You have to leave your keys and phone in the lockers out front, but you can take everything else back," Boss 6 clarified.

"Okay-thanks. Bye."

"Wait!! Unless you're carrying! You can't take drugs in. Are you carrying? Cough once if you're carrying!"

Swing, Batter.

About 10 months ago, my good friend started dating my best friend. 7 months ago, they broke up...badly.

The past 7 months have been a delicate dance. For Brad and Matt, the dances have been The Silent Treatment and I'm Not Apologizing, respectively. For their mutual friends, it's been a veritable recital of Don't Invite Both of Them, Make Sure They Sit On Opposite Ends of the Table, and OhGodDoYouSeeThatLook?BradIsGoingToRipHisFaceOff.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday at dinner, Brad announced to me and Rachel that he was going to start being friendly to Matt. Overly friendly, he said. "In fact, I sent him an email today inviting him to a party this weekend."

I was stunned. Really? Friendly? After all this time, they were just going to be friends again? "Prove it," felt like the natural response.

"Fine. I'll send him a text right now." I watched, holding my breath. Rachel and I glanced at one another, our eyes terrified but hopeful. Was this a trick? Was he just toying with us? Did he have some sinister plan for Matt? "What's your end game?" we asked.

"Nothing! You don't believe me? I'm going to start being friendly with him. Overly friendly," he declared again. Brad typed a text inviting Matt to a baseball game on Wednesday. He set the phone down on the table and it beeped. Message sent.

Brad sat smirking as we squirmed in our chairs, uncomfortable. A hundred questions were racing through my head. What did this mean? What would Matt think? Was this an elaborate plot to lure Matt to the baseball stadium and chain him to a radiator in a dungeon with steam pipes and fiery blasts singeing his ears at regular intervals? We fidgeted as Brad sat across from us, smiling and unrattled.

Maybe this was real. Yes...it was real. They were going to be friends again.

A vibration interrupted the first trusting thought I'd had. Brad's phone was ringing. We all leaned in cautiously to look. It was Matt calling. Calling, after 7 months of silence and avoidance, only 30 seconds after receiving Brad's invitation. Didn't he know it could be a trick? Wasn't he suspicious? It was a gutsy move, without a doubt.

Cool and Collected Brad disappeared as quickly as he'd emerged. He gasped, covered his face with his hands, and dove under the table.

Bluff? Consider it called.

Pulling away from the restaurant, I dialed Matt's number. I desperately needed answers, and wanted to congratulate him on his straightforward move of calling Brad directly. I was proud of him, and was hopeful that this might actually be the start of repairing something that had been badly broken.

What I learned was that at the very moment Brad was diving under our dinner table, Matt was discovering he'd dialed Brad's number by mistake, screaming, and throwing his phone across the room.

It's possible that this "friends" thing is going to take a little longer than I was led to believe.



UPDATE:
It's the day of the baseball game.

Brad: Today is the day!
Me: Whatever. Just remember that I don't handle Class A felonies.
Brad: Is being overly friendly a Class A felony?

Go sell Crazy someplace else.

To sort out a few recent anxiety issues, I decided that it might be a good idea to talk to a counselor. I have 2 friends who are in therapy locally, and they happen to see the same psychologist. I called one of them to get the number for the counseling office. When the receptionist scheduled me for my first appointment, she asked if I would like to see Sandy, my friends' therapist.

"Unless you would feel conflicted because your friends see her, I think I could get you in with Sandy this week."

"Oh, no," I snapped. "If Sandy is who my friends see, I definitely need someone else. They both come here every week. That shit's not working. And I need results."

I hear the University of Puerto Rico has a nice law school.

I tutor a girl named Natalie, who has desperately been trying to get into law school for the past year. She was convinced that she needed to consult a psychic to find out, the night before her big exam, whether she would get into law school.

Psychic Suzanna not only told Natalie she wasn't going to law school, but also mentioned that her boyfriend was cheating on her.

She didn't do so hot on that test.

L-I-A-R

This morning, I had a deposition involving 3 attorneys, 1 court reporter, and my client, who was appearing by phone from a state prison.

Soon, a transcript of the deposition will exist, forever preserving each and every word spoken during those 4 hours. A court reporter doesn't edit the transcript when you misspeak, mispronounce, or just generally sound like a jerk. And when you mess up and then look at the court reporter and say "strike that," she doesn't actually 'strike that.' When you try to do that, the transcript is going to look something like this:

Unfortunate Lawyer: So when you went to the...when you left your house for the...let's see...when you were walking out the door...oh, uh...strike that...when you...while you...okay strike that. I'll start over. Is all of this on the record? Okay, strike that. Did you leave your house that day?

Here's a list of some of the things I said on the record today, now preserved for generations to come. I wish I could assure you that these things were all (1) appropriate, (2) relevant, and (3) well-received, and that they only seem strange here because they are taken out of context. I can provide no such assurance.

• "Let's move on from the pepperoni Hot Pocket."
• "Would you say the gold tooth is noticeable?... And is that for practical purposes or for decoration?"
• (to another attorney) "You go first...no, you go...me? No, you go ahead...really...you go."
• "Did your trial attorney tell you the State's plea offer of...oh, shoot, I broke my pencil...whoops...is there...let's see, I might have...ah, sorry...do you have a pencil I can use?"
• "dead alibi" x 9
• "Let's talk about your claim that your trial lawyer was ineffective. Did he... Did he not... Well, let's just do it this way. Why did you tell the judge that your trial lawyerwas a 'lazy jackass'?"

At the end, when I thought the record was closed (it wasn't), the court reporter asked me how to spell the name of the witness who testified against my client at trial.

• "The spelling of his name? L-I-A-R. That's how it's spelled."

If depositions were like parties, I don't feel like I'd be invited back to one any time soon.

People are weird around me, Chapter 2

Chapter 2: My bike repair guy.

Brad and I were out for a leisurely bike ride last weekend when he got a flat tire. It was probably flat for the whole 15 blocks that we rode, but who's really keeping an eye out for that sort of thing?

An hour later, we stumbled upon the only bike repair guy in the city who wanted us dead.

"YOUR TIRES SHOULD BE AT 65 PSI. ARE ALL OF YOUR TIRES AT 65 PSI?!?"

"...."

"IF YOUR TIRES ARE NOT AT FULL EFFICIENCY, YOU ARE NOT AT FULL EFFICIENCY."

"...."

"BRING YOUR BIKE TIRE INSIDE AND LET ME SEE IT."

I reached for a nearby bicycle wheel and gave it a little squeeze. "Is this what 65 psi feels like?"

"THAT'S NOT A PRESSURE GAUGE!"

"I don't have a pressure gauge. We just have the one flat tire. I think the rest are fine."

"DON'T THINK. KNOW!"

He stormed to my jeep, where I imagine that he squeezed the remaining 3 bike tires and threw a private tantrum surpassed in fervor only by that of my mother the night she discovered my [shameful, disgraceful, deceitful] tattoo.

Our remaining 3 tires were not at Full Efficiency.

We left, heads hanging, as gracefully as we could manage. I'm comforted by the infallible knowledge that there are only a few things in life for which Brad and I really need to be at full efficiency.

Happy Father's Day

"Your dad always talks to the cats," my mom announced.

I turned my attention to the kitchen at my parents' house and, sure enough, Dad was having what could only be described as a conversation with the cat. It was the cat my sister and I dropped off at their farmhouse 5 years ago and never came back to get...the cat originally named 'Weed', and regrettably re-named 'Furball' by my mother.

During my 2-day visit, my mom described my hair as "unkempt", my career as "stagnant", my lack of a boyfriend as "disappointing", and my current weight as "something to really work on."

I know exactly why my dad talks to the cats. Exactly why.

Happy Father's Day, and hang in there, Dad.

I knew I should have bought that kayak.

The following is an email exchange I had with my friend Matt today. It doesn't really need an introduction.

Matt:
I’ve taken an unnatural interest in the Floods of ‘08. I haven’t had one conversation in the last 4 days that didn’t involve the word ‘flood’. I read the scrolls at the bottom of the screen during television shows instead of watching the show itself. I take walks to the river to look at the flood, like I’ve never seen water, land, and mud before. I watch the news to hear about the flood, read the paper to learn about the flood I’ve just heard about, and I make phone calls to relatives and friends to inquire about the flood, asking questions I already know the answers to. I’m not a reporter. I’m not a disaster worker. I’m not a volunteer. I don’t live in a flood plain. I guess I’m just…into…floods?

Unfortunate Lawyer:
Oh God. Me too. I call my mother daily to update her on the flood. During all other non-floods, my mother calls me once a week and I usually send it to voicemail. The only websites I have been on for the past 3 days have been the newspaper and 3 different TV stations. Yesterday, I had the Live Stream Full Flood Coverage newscast on my computer all day, even though I don't have sound. It's been days...DAYS...since I've been on my favorite celebrity gossip blog. I snuck downtown to gawk at the river 2 nights ago and got caught by Rachel, who was also gawking. I shamelessly snapped photos of the bridges and sent them to my sister and parents from my cell phone. I haven't been this obsessed with anything since the Bentler murders and the Great Ape Trust. What’s wrong with us?

Matt:
I don’t know what it’d be diagnosed as. But whatever it is, I’ve got it bad. It’s like a car wreck, happening over and over again, and I can’t look away. And the suspense doesn’t help either.
After it’s all said and done, I don’t know what will fill the void left over. Family and friends? Doubtful. Hobbies or my career? Nope. I’ll probably be left rocking back and forth in front of my TV or computer, remote and/or mouse in hand, staring blankly at the screen. I think we should be worried.

Photo by Rodney White/The Register

Thursday

It's a regular Thursday at work. The only thing unusual is that the entire midwest, where I live, is flooding. But because some of the levees are holding and we're obviously all getting a little too comfortable around here, we're greeted with the occasional deadly tornado to keep us on our toes.

The freakish weather might not have anything to do with anything, but today...just today:

• 2 clients (who have worked for at least a year to get their kids back) had them taken away again;
• 1 client relapsed on drugs (see "burrito", below)
• 1 client relapsed on alcohol and was kicked out of her treatment facility; and
• 1 client threw a burrito at me. I tried to move, but it hit me in the chest. I watched it fall, graze my leg on the way down, and land on the floor of my office. I got the cheese off my shirt, the beans off my shoe, and the spatter of sour cream off my neck. But I still smell like salsa.

I think that all of my clients have started hanging out with each other. I can picture them together right now...on a raft...floating through the flooded city streets...out of their minds on meth.

My Little Brother Can Save Your Marriage

In a time when divorce rates are reaching 65%, don't you think it's time you got some marital advice from a college senior who has never been married, is not even thinking about marriage, but does like to throw down a mean party and listen to NWA? I thought so. My brother, who recently turned 21, has discovered everything you need to know about finding marital harmony: White Christmas.

Recently my brother took his new theory to the streets while out one night with a group of friends. A girl in the group got noticeably hostile and started a fight with him. She was quite a mouthy little thing. Now, you might think that my brother talked back or perhaps made a few obscene gestures. But you couldn't be more wrong. Instead, my brother interrupted the argument and sang White Christmas, the theme song from the lovely musical, and that girl shut her face. Immediately.

It's really too bad that all those people spent time writing books like Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus and The Ten Commandments of a Successful Marriage when all they had to do was give my brother a call and ask him what he thought. You can expect to see my brother on upcoming episodes of Oprah, where he will further explain the art of singing White Christmas and its application to your new marriage or other relationships.

People are weird around me.

Chapter One: My new doctor.

Today, I saw an odd little doctor about a foot injury. I was going to ignore the foot problem, but made the mistake of mentioning it to my mother. She became convinced...convinced...that my foot was broken, that it had been broken for months, that I probably had a blood clot, that any sudden movement would knock loose the blood clot, that the newly-freed clot would swiftly travel to my heart, and that I would die. Instantly. Her panic turned to my panic. Enter Doctor Peculiar.

Doctor: What's going on here?

Me: Well, I hurt my foot. I don't know what's wrong with it. But it hurts right...here.

Doctor: Ooookay. Well. You have rather large feet.

Me: Yes.

Doctor: They are very long.

Me: Yep. Do you think that has something to do with my injury?

Doctor: No.

Me: Okay.

Doctor: Looking at your x-ray, there are no bones that are obviously broken.

Me: Well, that's good.

Doctor: I'd certainly say so, yes. Very good.


Doctor Peculiar then honed in on my foot, staring. With very little precision and even less indication of experience with this sort of thing, he curled his fingers into a fist, lest the index finger. In this pre-formed "pointing" position, his hand closed in on my foot.

Poke.

"Does it hurt there?"

"No."


Rather than simply retracting his hand, Doctor Peculiar's entire body rocked backwards after this first point of contact, as if he was frozen in his Pointing Position. I stared, fascinated, as he appeared to be coming in for another one.

Poke.

He did this with exactly the same level of bewitched curiosity as a cat nudging a square of Jell-O with its paw.

"Does it hurt there?"

"A little."

"Okay then."


He referred me to a podiatrist and prescribed me something called Daypro, which I suspect will be laced with a small amount of Rohypnol to render me unconscious for just long enough for him to sneak into my house, snap some photos of my "long" feet and post them on a website which will almost certainly have the word 'amazon' or 'giantess' somewhere in the web address.

Oh, I'm onto you, Doctor. I'm onto you.

At least this means I have good taste in art.

There's a painting hanging in our law office that I really like. When I first started working here, I complimented one of my bosses on the artwork, and he told me that he painted it himself. Apparently, he was an art student before he was a law student.

For the past few years, I have been telling my clients that a lawyer in my firm painted the piece on the wall of the conference room. The casual conversation has always been a convenient ice-breaker. Until today. Today, my client looked from me...to the painting...back to me...back to the painting...and then sighed. It was a loud, exasperated sigh.

"Are you serious?" she said.

"Yes. My boss painted it. He used to paint a lot before he became a lawyer."

"That's a print of a painting by Monet."

Turns out the lawyer in my firm was just "joking" when he told me that.

It was sort of like the time when I realized that the blind man who I'd worked with for 2 years thought that I was black. (I'm not.) And when I gently asked him why he thought that, he said "Someone told me you were."

Okay. Maybe it's not like that at all. But they both just seem like strange jokes to play on a person.

Category?

Don't squint. You're seeing this right.

1) leopard-print push-up bra
2) $30 cash

3) asparagus

If you said Things My Mother Sent Me in the Mail Today...you would be correct.

Best Day Ever.

Jean is going to learn not to mess with me

Dear Non-Client:

Thank you for your unprompted, unexpected call today. I am very pleased that, in your quest to find an attorney, you found my name and number. Unfortunately, I will not be able to represent you.

I am thrilled to learn that you "heard I am the best," even though I am 100% certain that you have heard no such thing. I also appreciate that, 6 minutes into the conversation, you admitted that you were in prison. I don't want to jeopardize our new and fragile relationship, but I already knew that.

Some people can always tell when it's about to rain. I can always tell when a phone call is originating from a state correctional institution.

I appreciate how thoroughly you have considered your legal options. You want to sue the Department of Corrections for $100,000 because you almost swallowed a chicken bone that was hiding in your soup, but you would settle out of court for $50,000 and immediate parole. You would also give me, your attorney, 15% of any amount won.

I like your enthusiasm, but I love your generosity.

I also appreciate that you're looking at this realistically. You told me that you know the immediate parole might be a "pipe dream" but wanted me to "sound them out on it all the same."

I've done a number of things as a lawyer that I have found to be humiliating. I have asked 7 hours worth of deposition questions about a used condom and errant sperm. I have pulled aside an attractive prosecutor to have a hushed conversation about what, exactly, constitutes "manual genital manipulation" in a prostitution case. And I have watched, with my boss, a crude homemade sex video to determine whether my client was conscious during its taping.

But I'm not asking anyone...I mean anyone...to let you out of prison because you found a bone in your chicken soup. Not even just to "sound them out on it."

I'm very sorry, and I wish you the best of luck. What's that? Can I refer you to another attorney? No, no...I'm afraid I can't. Oh, wait. Yes. As a matter of fact, I can. Call Jean. Here's her office number. And her cell. Make sure you tell her I sent you.

Best of luck,
Unfortunate Lawyer

O

Ouch! I just punched a baby!

Spite.

My politically-involved friend, T, had another fit of misplaced rage on Tuesday night, watching primary results come in. Something about Hillary not doing as well as he would have liked. His anger would be better aimed at a more devoted Obama supporter...not at me. Sure, I voted for him. That was, like, 4 months ago. I've bowed out of the action since then.
T started yelling at me that he wants Obama to win the primary, so that when John McCain beats him in the general election, T can call me from the train station -- dirty, beaten, and starved, his gold fillings ripped from his teeth, finally down to his target weight of 98 lbs, ready for shipment to Canada with all the other homosexuals -- and say, "I told you so."
I bet if you survey voters when all this is done and ask them why they voted the way they did, there's going to be a surprising number of people who say: Spite. I voted out of spite.

It's only Wednesday

...but I just sprinkled a fair amount of non-dairy creamer onto a grapefruit in my office kitchen.

A named partner in my law firm watched me do it. He then observed as I rinsed it off, replaced the creamer with sugar, and slipped out the door without a word.

I bet he's spent at least 10 minutes this afternoon considering what comparable errors I could be making in the courtroom and double-checking my malpractice insurance policy.

Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter was melodramatic.

Justice Frankfurter was mad as a hornet in 1946, when he wrote a Supreme Court opinion saying that a fraud had been practiced on the Court and "the very temple of justice had been defiled."

I haven't read all the details yet, and I can't promise that when I do, I'll read it very thoroughly. But dancing in my head are visions of lawyers armed with water balloons, spray paint, and full bladders in the chambers of the US Supreme Court. Anything short of that just makes him seem overly theatrical.

Little People, Big Ideas

Things my (tiny) friend Rachel has promised to "bring back":

• vests


• shirts with Tonka trucks


• rain boots (aren't those already "back"?)


• gold


• Abraham Lincoln

Confession

My mother still buys me underwear. I don't know why she thinks I can't buy my own underwear. I can definitely buy my own underwear.

The latest pair has caused me some concern.

Deal with what...exactly?

I do hate your eggrolls.

Yesterday evening, I was unreachable by phone for exactly 90 minutes. I was giving a speech to a room full of old lawyers eating roast beef, bacon-flavored corn, and non-birthday birthday cake.

When I checked my phone, I had 18 text messages from 12 people, more than I usually receive in an entire day. None of the texts, standing alone, was particularly noteworthy. But strung together as one imaginary conversation...


"If one was looking, where would one find you tonight?"

"In your 'summer robe' made of pad thai and gobstoppers."

"Do you ever feel like your car wants you dead?"

"I wish - I passed out at 9:30."

"Your pathetic display of affection last night made my heart warm."

"I'm not on my A-game."

"I bet you're pretty pleased that you eluded me."

"That's exactly what you want, isn't it? So transparent."

"Haha! Georgia was wearing your nametag around the event tonight. She was drunk. Are we breaking up?"

"One of my board members was wearing your nametag around all night. Did I mention she's in AA?"

"I've been lost all day without talking to you. I have been sad."

"R u furious with me?"

"Mitzi, You know why! Now you gotta french braid my hair this weekend!"

"I'm drinking a rum & coke and contacting the FBI."

"I hope you were able to get your shaking under control. Today was a shit show."

"I'm not kidding about the FBI."

"You hate my eggrolls. I can tell."

"Take two shots of whiskey and call me in the AM."

Valtrex and Lies

I was watching TV the other night, and I saw a commercial for Valtrex. It's a medication that treats genital herpes. Apparently, people with this particular STD have pretty awesome lives. They're all attractive and in shape. They all have attractive and in shape significant others who know about their STD and don't really mind. They go canoeing, they run on the beach, they go to exclusive pool parties, they lie in hammocks with their boyfriends/girlfriends, etc. They talk to their doctors and make sure their partners are protected and don't have sex before or during outbreaks.

I could almost believe that people with genital herpes really live like that. But then I noticed something that really didn't make a lot of sense to me: the lady who wears knee pads, elbow pads, wrist guards, and a helmet while rollerblading. Something about that struck me as odd, and I asked myself, how does a person who goes to such lengths to protect herself while engaging in a relatively safe and no longer existent sport manage to contract genital herpes? How does a person remember to wear wrist guards but doesn't remember to use condoms? How exactly does that happen? It's very wise to think about your safety while rollerblading. Who wants a sprained wrist or scraped elbow? I certainly wouldn't. But you know what else I don't want? Genital herpes. So allow me to give you some advice, fake lady from the Valtrex commercial: why don't you go ahead and trade in those knee pads for a pack of trojans? I assure you, if you care about your safety, which you clearly do, condoms can do a lot more for you than the safety equipment you currently use.

My Brand New House. Well, not mine exactly.

My friend Troy and his boyfriend bought their first house last night. Troy's default position is something in the grumpy-27-year-old-curmudgeon category, so the ear-to-ear grin that he wore for several hours was really something to see.

The house. is. awesome. It's in a funky, liberal, historic neighborhood close to downtown. His backyard has a stream, pond, AND waterfall, and the upstairs bathroom has...wait for it...a bidet. God only knows what he and his boyfriend will use that for.

My favorite thing might be that the house has a library. Not just a room with lots of books. But a library with aisles of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. His offer on the house has only been accepted for about 20 hours, and I've already worn out all the jokes I can think of involving Mrs. Peacock and a candlestick. I need to work on something new. If only the house had a conservatory. And some rope.

I saw the inside of the house for the first time today. The good news: It looks like your rich grandma's mansion. The bad news: It looks like your rich, crazy grandma's mansion. You know...your grandma who has 13 cats, a banjo, and who drops acid before she picks out her wallpaper. (Troy...don't get upset. I love it love it love it. Let's just take care of those metallic/pheasant-loving/flowered walls sooner rather than later).

Anyway, gotta run. I have to meet Professor Plum. He apparently needs to borrow a wrench.

Oh, and congratulations, Troy & Eric. I think you (we) will be really happy together in your (our) new house.

In case your friends are perverts, too.

Keep your fingers crossed that your chosen friends have done something questionable enough online that they'll consider federal prison survival tactics for at least a couple of minutes. At LEAST a couple of minutes.

COALITION AGAINST ONLINE PREDATORS

March 31, 2008

Re: Case File CD3452
Adam XXXXXX (DOB: 1-1-78)

Dear Mr. XXXXXX:

Our organization has been active since 2001 in investigating and reporting illegal activities related to the online solicitation and corruption of minors. Several internet accounts registered to your name have been monitored by our organization since September of 2007. Multiple accounts have been identified as containing inappropriate or unlawful contact or attempted contact with minors or individuals purporting to be minors. Such contact includes repeated attempted access to the personal webpages of minors for purposes prohibited by law. These accounts include, but may not be limited to:

-------------------------------------------------------

facebook.com/profile.php?id=123456789

adamxxxx20@hotmail.com

--------------------------------------

You may not be aware that it is a violation of several state and federal statutes to solicit minors, attempt to solicit minors, or distribute corruptive materials to minors via the internet. It appears that your current activity violates the following state and federal statutes, nonexclusive:

State Code § 728.12 Sexual Exploitation of a Minor – Class “C” Felony

United States Code § 2G2.1 Sexually Exploiting a Minor by Production of Sexually Explicit Visual or Printed Material – Base Offense Level 32

United States Code § 2G2.2 Receiving, Transporting, Shipping, Soliciting, or Advertising Material Involving the Sexual Exploitation of a Minor – Base Offense Level 18

Count I – Base Level + 2 – At least 10 images but fewer than 150

Count II – Base Level + 7 – Distribution to a minor intended to
persuade, induce, entice, coerce, or facilitate the travel of the minor to engage in prohibited sexual conduct

United States Code § 2G3.1 Importing, Transporting, or Mailing Obscene Matter; Transferring Obscene Matter to a Minor – Base Offense Level 10

Because of your activities, you have been placed on a short list of individuals for continued intensive monitoring. This list, as well as all documentation and results from our investigation, will be provided to the federal prosecutor for the Southern District of [State] thirty (30) days after your receipt of this letter. We advise that you discontinue any and all unlawful internet usage immediately, although it will ultimately be the determination of the federal prosecutor whether to bring the above charges against you.

On a personal note from our coalition: We, as parents, find your actions reprehensible and we hope that you will be punished to the fullest extent of the law.

Sincerely,



T. Blommers
Executive Director

Fools of the April Variety

I don't know where this mean streak comes from. But after a month of planning, Brad and I kicked back to watch April Fools Day unfold like this:

• 4 fake letters to friends indicating that they are under surveillance for soliciting minors online and will likely be prosecuted for multiple felonies



• 2 fake letters to friends strongly implying that they have gonorrhea and/or chlamydia



• 1 fake email address, which sent out invitations and flyers to a friend's "first performance as drag queen Lola Twat"



• 1 fake paternity test, promising a 99.99% likelihood of fatherhood to an illegitimate child



• 1 saran-wrapped car



• 760 dixie cups, stapled together in one giant mass, placed on someone's porch and filled with various flavors of Kool-Aid

Vacation Glitch #1

Sister and I planned our vacation last week. We were going to meet in Seattle on Labor Day Weekend, and spend the week after in Seattle & Vancouver...maybe even Portland. My schedule was clear; her schedule was clear. It was perfect. We had an hour-long conversation discussing some details and the absolute delight that our vacation would surely be. She had to book her flights right away to take advantage of some free miles she had from a past-vacation-gone-terribly-wrong. Today, I printed off her flight details and went online to book my arrival & departure times as close to hers as possible. Here's what I found on her itinerary:

May 23 - May 30.

That's Memorial Day, Sister. That's. Memorial. Day.

During an hour-long conversation of excited chatter, we apparently never realized that one of us was talking about a spring vacation 2 months away and the other was talking about a fall vacation 5 months away. I don't know how this is possible, but it's possible. While Sister is attending the Sasquatch Music Festival ALONE, I will be in trial at the county courthouse. This is, without question, a hitch in the get-along

We're working on it.

It was always burning, since the world's been turning.

Dear Torch,

It's been really great getting to know you over the past year. I've enjoyed reading about you, in police reports and otherwise. I've listened with an open mind when you've talked about the night of the fire in your apartment building. It's a heart-wrenching story. Really, it is.

You've recalled the horror of waking up in the middle of the night to a smoke alarm going off, of realizing that there was no safe exit through the door, and of leaping from your 3rd floor apartment to the ground below. I've seen your medical records, so I know that you're not lying when you recount the physical pain you've experienced since that jump. I do hope those broken bones are healing nicely.

But it's your legal complaints that have me stumped, Torch. You see -- you've filed lawsuits against your landlord, against the hospital, against the jail, and against several other government agencies. You've done this, it would seem, because you suffered some injuries that night. Here's why that confuses me:

You started that fire, Torch. You do it all the time. You set buildings on fire. It's what you do.

That night, you started a sizable fire in your apartment complex. So it's puzzling to me that, 30 minutes after you held a match to gasoline-soaked rags in a hallway trash can, you were "surprised" by the smoke alarm. It seems to me that you maybe could have anticipated that alarm going off. And perhaps if you hadn't been so "surprised" by the alarm, the smoke, and the flaming building, you wouldn't have had to jump out the window.

I'm just saying.

Again, Torch...it's not that I haven't enjoyed your company over the past year. As far as arsonists go, you're very personable. I've become familiar with the twinkle in your eye when an attorney stops a deposition because he need to step outside for a smoke. You only know me as "that girl" who is a lawyer for "one of those places you sued." But all the same, I feel like we've come a long way together. I just want you to be ready for the hard questions come trial. I hope you won't hold it against me. I'd like to remain friends and such.

All Best,
Unfortunate Lawyer

I'm gonna lose. And I'm gonna lose huge.

I have a trial coming up in a couple of weeks. (Not the one that I don't understand. A different one.)

I talked to the judge today because I filed a Motion to Transport. My client currently "resides" at a state penitentiary, so the judge needs to order that the sheriff transport him back to the courthouse to be present for his trial.

The judge reviewed my motion and said: "I don't think I'm going to have him brought all the way back here just for his postconviction relief trial. It doesn't really seem worth it. He can just testify by phone."

Something tells me I'm not going to win this one.

Counting Crazy Sheep

Have you ever tried counting sheep to make yourself go to sleep? It really works. I usually get to about thirty and I am totally out. I count the sheep as they jump over a fence. But when I decide to count sheep, I always know that I'm in for a nice surprise because the sheep always surprise me. The first sheep is usually wearing a giant clown wig, the second sheep does a double back flip over the fence, the third sheep might have some devil horns, and the fourth sheep just runs right into the fence, instead of jumping over it, etc.

They are some crazy sheep. Crazy sheep indeed.

Guy with blond hair says "I was looking for change in the gutter"

I say "ok thats what you told the police"

"Hey maybe you should stay in here a couple of days and dry out"

"No, I need to go to work. I work for ADT security."

Is there a Plan B?

I have a trial next Thursday that I don't understand.

Seriously. This isn't one of those things like when you were in high school and you were all OMG I'm totally not ready for this English test, when you actually studied for 6 hours and you secretly knew you're going to ace it.

Nope. This is not like that. I can't even explain what this case is, except that it's a civil case challenging a conviction in a criminal case. Whatever.

Next Thursday, the judge is going to ask me to make an opening statement, and I'm just going to stand there with my mouth open. Know why? I don't understand my case. I'm looking at a list of potential witnesses right now, deciding who I should subpoena. But next Thursday, I will put my witnesses on the stand and have no idea what questions to ask them. Know why? Don't understand the case.

My saving grace was going to be one man: an attorney who represented my client during his criminal case. I planned to call him, knowing that he would be able to explain to me what was happening, knowing that he would testify in court as to why my client should get a new trial, and knowing that...finally...someone would tell me what this case is about. Fifteen minutes ago, I made the call.

Turns out he died last year.



UPDATE: Mobilizing Plan B. Because everyone -- except this guy -- deserves a lawyer who understands their case.

GuestBlogger: Sister

Dear Unfortunate Lawyer (also known as "The Good Sister"):

When a photo appeared in our hometown newspaper of your childhood boyfriend (the one you never actually spoke to), for an award he won during your senior year of high school, I immediately cut it out and mailed it to you. I mailed it with a note written in the sloppy handwriting of a boy that said "I never forgot what we did that day at recess. I still think about you." I signed his name, sealed the envelope, and mailed it from the post office in the town where he lived.

But really...I thought you would know it was me. I thought you would know it was a joke and I thought we would laugh together about how funny I was. And when you brought it up several months later, sitting in the kitchen of our parents' house when I was home from college at Christmas, I thought you were just complementing me on how funny my joke was.

It was when you got the the part of the story where you wrote him back, saying that you didn't actually remember what you did "that day at recess" but you'd love to get together now, that I wasn't quite sure how to react. Were you fucking with me? Were you playing a joke of your own? I soon realized that, sadly, you were not. I was the only joker in the room that night.

You were so confused (and rightfully so) as to why this boy would take the time to write you and even send a photo of himself and then not respond to your friendly reply. I was curled in a ball on the cold hard floor, in fits of uncontrollable laughter, imagining how confused this boy must have been when he received your letter. I was past the point of being able to speak, knowing that I had caused both of you to try your hardest to remember what happened "that day at recess."

What could I do? The letter had been sent and received. I hoped the two of you wouldn't run into each other anytime soon and I made a mental note to tell you the true origins of the letter in about 10 years, when it would seen equally funny to both of us. That was in 1996. And so now, 12 years later, here is my confession: it was me!!! I know what you and your "boyfriend" did that fateful day at recess, and what you did was nothing. whoops. :)

I apologize for any confusion or embarrassment suffered as a result of my action. You weren't planning on getting back together with him anyway, right?!

Love,
Sister (the bad one)

Sissy Ass Punk

I don't drink brass monkey, like the beat funky
Nickname Eazy-E your eight ball junkie

Reality Checks:

• Cried during an episode of Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County
• Friend suggests that I might enjoy a "singles cruise"
• Debit card is declined at the Wendy's drive thru
• Call log shows that all missed calls are from someone named "mom"
• Refrigerator contains hillshire ham and one cinnamonster

I Becomes We

When people who were in relationships would refer to themselves as "we," it used to make me a little homicidal. "We work out in the morning," "We are vegetarians," etc. I thought it was totally co-dependent and lame.

However, I have come to the unfortunate realization that I am now a part of this problem. I've found myself saying things like, "We are taking our lunch break now," "We are leaving town," or "We love to watch Red Hot Red Carpet on the E channel."

But when I say "we," I'm not talking about me and my husband or my boyfriend. I'm not even talking about a friend. No, I'm talking about me and my bichon frise, Rudy.

I am single and no longer question why.

It's why I have 32 extra sets of chopsticks in my kitchen drawer

You know how sometimes you order so much Chinese food that they just assume you're ordering for 2 people, but you're totally just ordering for yourself?

I do.

It's a fly by night thing

The family trip to Southern California to visit Sister was relatively peaceful. There was an escalating argument regarding my mother's relentless pursuit of renting a Rug Doctor to clean Sister's carpet against Sister's wishes. My mom won. Sister reports that the carpet is (1) not any cleaner; (2) still wet, days later; and (3) potentially poisonous to Ghost and Mato, the dog and cat of the beach house.

My family hasn't been on a vacation together for at least 8 years. Growing up, there was always a summer adventure in a dilapidated motorhome. One year, that adventure took us to California, just as last weekend did. In celebration of the fond memories that have surfaced over the past 5 days, I have compiled a list of ways that this vacation was different from the Unfortunate Lawyer Family Vacation of 1986.

1986: Mother teases Sister about whether or not she has a boyfriend
2008: Mother askes Sister if her boyfriend of nearly 4 years is "serious" or just a "fly by night thing"

1986: Family exhausted after a full day of swimming, sightseeing, and closing down an amusement park
2008: Family exhausted after introductory video at The Getty

1986: Mother injures herself doing a cartwheel
2008: Mother injures herself by "catching her arm on her purse" and has to "take herself out of the game"

1986: Parents cook campground breakfast on propane stove
2008: Parents displeased with lack of English muffins at Super 8 continental breakfast

1986: Dad wants to spend significant time at the beach
2008: Dad wants to spend significant time at the Home Depot in Marina del Rey

1986: Mother questions me about my childhood boyfriend, Nick
2008: Mother expresses thinly-veiled concern that I might be a lesbian

1986: Mother becomes nervous after not getting direct answers about Nick
2008: Mother becomes nervous after not getting direct confirmation of heterosexuality

1986: Mother produces homemade chocolate chip cookies she brought from the farm
2008: Sister produces cookies and brownies she purchased at medical marijuana dispensary

1986: Sister hides her diary under bed in motorhome
2008: Sister hides all evidence of boyfriend co-habitation under bed in house

1986: Sister and I's first trip to the ocean
2008: Mom and Dad's first trip to Ikea

If Only I Could Get Knocked Up

My behavior and some of the things I do are completely unacceptable. But I realized that if I were pregnant, I would have the perfect explanation for my ridiculous antics. The fact that I scheduled my entire weekend around getting a giant cinnamon roll would be understandable. I would also have a legitimate reason for the times when I go to the grocery to buy one thing: a cake that serves twelve people. I wouldn't have to make up excuses when I run into people I know like "It's my nephew's birthday" or "I run an underground cake delivery service." No one would ask me any questions about getting out of bed at 3 p.m. No one would laugh at me because I cried during an episode of "Growing up Giraffe" or threw a temper tantrum because the plastic wrap I was wrapping my sandwich with got stuck to itself.

It's really too bad that I hate babies so much.

Good Times from 2007

In October, I was awakened in the middle of the night by some really, really loud, sick and wrong sex noises. I live in a condo, and I assumed that the noise was coming from upstairs. I heard them again a few nights later, so I put a note on their door just asking in general for them to "keep in down."

About four days after that, I received a note on my door. The note read: "You are probably unaware of this but your late night sexual encounters are really loud and have been waking me up. Please be more respectful during quiet hours."

That note is up on my wall. Right next to the poster of Ice Cube and my GED.

You're really tall. Do you think there's a retirement villa large enough to accommodate you?

I used to get, "Hey. You're really tall. Do you play basketball?"

I remember the day it switched to, "Hey. You're really tall. Did you play basketball?" I felt old. Really old. Looking back, I suppose the alternate language could have been due to (1) looking too old to play basketball; or (2) looking too out-of-shape to play basketball. Both would have been fair assumptions.

Today, I got, "Hey. You're really tall. Do you have kids?"

"....."

It's happened. I understand that I'm old enough to have kids. That's fine. But now, I apparently look like a MOM. I'm on my way right now to buy MOM jeans and a sweatshirt with some embroidery on it.

Aside from apparently looking like Mrs. Unfortunate Lawyer, Mother of Four, I now also have to suspect that my gas station attendant (who asked me this question) wants to breed with me. He's short; I'm tall. Short + Tall = Normal Kids.

Thanks, but no thanks.

As a side note, I'm heading to California today to visit Sister. My parents are flying out there, too. It's a family trip. This means that you can expect my next post to be titled: Ways My Mom Made Me Cry This Weekend. Stay tuned.