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.