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.
6.19.2008
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.
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.
6.16.2008
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.
6.15.2008
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 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.
6.12.2008
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.
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.
6.07.2008
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.
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.
6.02.2008
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.
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.
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