I Know Why The Caged Bird Throws Himself In Front Of Oncoming Traffic

My friend Troy just got back from an arts conference at a mountain resort in Utah. The day he arrived, he noticed that the leaves on one tree on the mountainside had just started to turn yellow. He described sitting on his balcony reading a book and watching a waterfall crash down a mountain about fifty yards away. On the morning he left, all of the trees had turned. The way he described this place, I'd expect a rabbit in a tuxedo to serve me breakfast in bed.

One of the traditions of the conference is to release into the wild a bird that had been nurtured back to health over the past year. In a fitting tribute to nature, wildlife, and the liberal spirit of the conference, everyone gathered outdoors for some commemorative words. A celebrity was even there to shower praise on those who participate in these noble efforts. The caged bird patiently awaited 45 minutes of pomp and circumstance - surrounded by dozens of proud, self-satisfied conference attendees.

Then finally, it was time. The cage was hoisted into the air. The door was opened. The bird flew free to the applause of the crowd! I'm certain, had Troy cared enough to look, he would have seen a few tears in the group. The bird soared to a nearby tree and perched atop a high branch, free at last. The program continued on, but the celebrity was soon interrupted by two consecutive sounds.

Thud. Gasp.

The bird, taking flight once again, had glided gracefully through the mountain air, dipped towards the green earth, and flown directly into the path of an oncoming bicycle.

I hope they release the same bird again next year.

*Photo credit: Jennifer Gregory on RatesToGo travelblog

I ain't that baby's daddy, but I treat him like my own.

Lawyers make mistakes: we miss deadlines, we forget things in our calculations, and sometimes we just lose when we really should have won.

Occasionally, on an ill-fated Friday, we ask the wrong person for sperm.

I think the lesson here is that when your job is to ask a young father to donate sperm to the mother of his child, so that she can have another baby, you shouldn't just grab the file on the top of your stack and dial the number. Because you might end up asking a 50-year old, divorced, happily re-married man if his ex-wife (whom he divorced 10 years ago) can please have some of his sperm in a cup. And when he sounds confused and asks what, exactly, you're talking about, you might repeat the entire pitch one more time before realizing that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong.

It could happen. I'm just saying.

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.

"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.

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.)

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

Hurt, but not Injured.

While leaping the year with 50 or 60 friends and strangers at my house on Friday night, it seemed like a completely reasonable idea to exit my house through a window. The door was fully operational and 3 feet away.

I hurt myself, which has caused me to limp unattractively.

Today, in a public restroom, I spotted a woman looking at me. Then she started limping, clearly mocking me. I gave her the Filthiest Look Ever and limped away, appalled by her rudeness.

Then I rounded the corner and saw her crutches leaning against the wall.

I am karma's bitch.

I break up with everyone I know each Valentine's Day. The 4 preceding posts are the break-up letters from the past 4 years. Because I broke so many hearts yesterday, I became karma's bitch at exactly 4:35pm. Here's a rough schedule of my Valentine's Day 2008:

2:00pm - Meet with Client outside courtroom. Client is 40 years old, mentally ill, and has had a legal guardian and conservator for years. Client lives at a hospital domiciliary an hour from the courthouse.

2:30pm - Hearing begins. Client's guardian tries to have her committed to residential psychiatric care. I argue that Client is just FINE, and should be living independently.

2:31pm - Judge decides that Client and I will lose this case, but lets me argue for another 2 hours anyway.

3:30pm - Client's boyfriend (and ride back to the domiciliary) is taken away from the courthouse in handcuffs due to 1 outstanding felony warrant and 1 mean-spirited phone call to the sheriff by Client's evil sister.

4:30pm - Courthouse officially closes.

4:35pm - Client adjudged mentally incompetent, in need of continued guardianship, and committed to a residential psychiatric care facility.

4:36pm - Hysterical crying.

4:37pm - Client realizes her boyfriend is gone. More crying.

4:38pm - I realize there is no one to drive Client back to the hospital domiciliary but me. Client still crying. Now I feel like crying, too.

4:45pm - Attempting to think of someone...anyone...who doesn't have plans on Valentine's Day who can come with me.

4:46pm - Call Brad, who has plans after all. Shit.

4:50pm - In the car. Client, crying, insists she knows how to get home. Glance at the map and give map to Client so Client will be occupied with something for the hour-long trip.

5:00pm - Stop #1. Client rifles through purse for change to buy a soda. I offer to purchase said soda when Client is seen counting pennies, becoming frustrated, throwing pennies back into purse, and counting again. Client further requests string cheese. I oblige, thinking it is a small price to pay for an smooth and uneventful trip.

5:12pm - Stop #2. Hysterical crying episode and "smoke break".

5:20pm - Miss exit.

5:30pm - Realize we have have missed exit.

5:31pm - Gently tell Client we have missed exit, and ask to look at the map. Question received by hysterical crying and screaming, "I'M IN CHARGE OF THE MAP! I'M IN CHARGE OF THE MAP!"

5:45pm - Stop #3. Exit, park, look at map. Phone call to Brad to confirm: still alive, not killed and eaten by Client.

6:00pm - Approach mile-long dam over lake in the dark, with freezing rain. Recall that I can't see at night and am terrified of driving over bridges.

6:01pm - Start across bridge. Driving, white-knuckled and nervous, not listening to whatever Client is screaming about this time.

6:03pm - Client takes my silence as a "bad answer" to whatever question was asked. Client has "episode", slamming herself against the seat and screaming at me with her finger in my face.

6:04pm - Stop #4. Safely across bridge. Pull over to get some air. Resign to self that this is where I will surely die, at the hands of Client. Text Brad to say goodbye and to tell him that I love him.

6:30pm - Arrive at domiciliary, miraculously.

6:35pm - Talk privately with nurse about putting Client on suicide watch for the night. See nurse take Client down hall to room. Wave goodbye to client. Breathe sigh of relief.

6:47pm - Reach for keys in briefcase. Discover wallet missing.

Final scene:

7:02pm - Hospital Domiciliary Psych Ward:

3 people screaming.
Client and Nurse in a physical tug-of-war over wallet in a room with padded walls.
Nurse screaming, "Give it to me! Give it to me!"
Client screaming, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Unfortunate Lawyer, please don't send me to jail!"
Me, wildly waving my arms in the hallway screaming, "It's okay, it's okay. She can keep it!"

Happy Valentine's Day to me.

Maybe I'm not explaining my job very well.

I work at a private law firm, which means that the other 6.5 lawyers in the firm try to fill their schedules with paying clients. Not me. I have all kinds of clients who don't pay.

Sometimes I know they're not going to pay and I do the work anyway; other times, clients like to surprise me with that at the end of a case. And still other times, I work on contract with the Public Defender office, where I'm appointed by the court to represent clients on criminal charges that the PD's office doesn't have time to handle. This is where I meet some of my favorite people.

Today, my court-appointed Client had been charged with being a habitual violator of driving while his license was suspended. I introduced myself, explained what would happen at his arraignment that day, and made sure he knew the maximum penalties for what he'd been charged with. The maximum penalty for this is 2 years in jail. When Client heard this, he said something to the effect of:

"Whhhaaaaaaaaaaaat?" with an upward inflection on the end, for effect.

I then told Client the following things: (1) We can fight the charge and go to trial; (2) You can probably plead guilty to a lesser charge; (3) You will, under no circumstances, actually do 2 years in jail; and (4) It is most likely that you will do no jail time...none at all.

Client was either not listening, or simply not comforted by any of this, because he looked at me with suprising sincerity and said:

"I'm going to need to get a lawyer, aren't I?"

What's that guy doing with that brick? Oh, I see.

The Scene:
The Lexington, 11:00pm

The Players:

Troy
Unfortunate Lawyer
1 perpetrator, under the influence
1 gold station wagon
1 brick
1 station wagon window with unfortunate luck, but surprising resiliancy
1 question from Troy to Unfortunate Lawyer: "Should I call 911?"
1 answer from Unfortunate Lawyer to Troy: "No."
1 telephone call by Troy to 911
2 police cars
3 witness statements given to Officer Ryan, Midwest City Police Officer, FarmTown High School Class of 1996, 10th Grade Homecoming Date of Unfortunate Lawyer, Unapologetic Racist

The Victims/Casualties:

1 hysterical owner of a gold station wagon
1 station wagon window
1 tarnished memory from Homecoming 1993
Countless non-white residents of Midwest City

The Lessons Learned:

Troy enters people's license plate numbers into his Blackberry when they're not looking.

It takes every ounce of Officer Ryan's strength to refrain from shooting you. Yes, you.

When I leave Matt's apartment at 10:00 with the promise that I am 'going home', I should probably 'go home.'