Made of Sugar and Spice and a touch of Pure Evil

In my free time, I do a few side jobs. I teach a night class for college students because I enjoy helping them get into graduate school. I help a 9th grader with her math because she’s the coolest person I know. But another job involves spending an hour a week with a 10-year old girl. There’s only one reason I haven’t quit yet: spite. She doesn’t want me there, so I show up - every single week. Her mom is always in such good spirits when she picks up her daughter from the library.

“Well, it looks like you got a lot done today! Good job!”

Your daughter spit on me.

"Hopefully those math workbooks and flashcards are helping."

She hacked something up and spit on my arm in the middle of the library. I could all but see the H1N1 on my arm.

"I know it can be a challenge to keep her on task. She’s just so strong-willed."

Why do you always drop your voice to a nearly inaudible level every time you describe your daughter as ‘strong-willed?’ It’s not a bad word. It’s also inaccurate.

"You know, her teachers say she’s doing so much better since we got her on the medication. We’re really pleased."

Your child is a sociopath.

"Her grades have improved. We’ve noticed better behavior at home."

She could kill without remorse. Animals for sure. Possibly humans.

"We really appreciate you taking the time to work with her. I think it’s helping a lot with her confidence."

She put honey in my hair and tried to stick a toothpick in my eyeball. She attacked me like a wolf.

"She seems to enjoy her time with you."

She’s planning a way to kill me in my sleep. ‘Strong-willed?’ No. There are words for what your daughter is, but society frowns on calling children those things.

"We’ll see you next week – same time and place!"

An asshole...[as the monster hugs me]...your third grader is an absolute asshole.

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

Death And All His Friends

I saw my client on the news this week...dead. I've had a few clients die in my four years as a lawyer. I've already been trained to check the Inmate Record at the county jail every morning to see if any clients were arrested the previous day. Now, I'll probably start reading the obituaries, too. Just in case.

There's nothing funny about my clients dying, and I'm not intending to make light of it. I just thought I'd take a minute to remember them here.

#1 - You had some problems. You claimed that in the 80's, your junior high principal made you sign a confession for an FBI agent admitting to stealing your friend's babysitting checks. I doubt it, but I'm still sorry I couldn't help you more. I'm also sorry I could not recover lost earnings for you of $5,000 per week that you would have earned as an exotic dancer but for the same FBI agent harassing you at the strip club. I don't remember exactly how you died, but I always liked talking to you. You told good stories. RIP

#2 - I procrastinated for so long on your real estate case that you died of natural causes before I could finish it. Let this be a lesson to us. And by "us," I mean "me." You were a very nice man. I will probably have to work on your case for free for the next 10 years, just to get it off my desk. But that's my own fault. RIP

#3 - Your photo on the news looked like it was taken at Glamour Shots. You had a really foul mouth for a pretty girl, and I sort of liked that about you. Also, your name was Heaven, which is ironic because I seriously doubt it, if you know what I mean. RIP

I am a disappointment to the Sixth Amendment.

The State Appellate Court today, instead of receiving my brief that's due, will likely be receiving a scrap of paper with a handwritten note that says: "I don't understand the assignment."

Let's see how that flies.

They say it's your birthday.

When I was 7, birthdays were a very big deal. There were banners, cakes, parties, and games. It would be decades before I acknowledged my mother's creative abilities, but I'm sure that crafting Bert & Ernie pinatas out of papier-mache was harder than it looked. Birthday cakes were decorated by a woman named Lavonne, who lived on the gravel road next to our gravel road, and whose last name was something that sounded like 'pastry', but wasn't. My chosen cake design was probably something lame like rainbows and hearts, destined to be outdone by my sister's racecar theme a few months later. Still, seven was a good year, I think. Seven was fun. Seven felt like roller skates and surprises.

After that, birthday parties got smaller before they got bigger again. Thirteen was tough. Thirteen felt like devastating crushes and Firehouse songs. Seventeen was better. Seventeen felt like bonfires and ambition. I don't really remember birthdays in college until the year I turned 21. I remember twenty-one. Twenty-one felt like 99 Bananas and shame.

My 24th birthday fell during my first few weeks of law school. I'd chosen a school three states away in a city where I didn't know anyone. My mother, more confident than I in my ability to make friends quickly, called a local grocery store and ordered me a cake. She seemed certain that I would be celebrating with new friends, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that I hadn't made any yet. When I picked up my cake and handed over my last twenty-five dollars, I looked down into the box. "Happy Birthday Pammi." Pammi, which is not my name. Pammi, which is the worst name in the history of names. Pammi, who I think was the panda on Shirt Tails. After I got back to my apartment and unsuccessfully attempted to turn the "P" into a "T" with my finger, I started eating the cake directly out of the box and didn't stop until I'd eaten the entire thing two weeks later. Twenty-four was not good. Twenty-four felt like bulimia and failure.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Over the past several days, I've celebrated with family, co-workers, teammates, and my very best friends. Tomorrow, my friend Jackie will call and, for the 14th consecutive year, will sing me a song. Penelope will leave a message on my phone in a ridiculous voice that I won't understand. And one more time this year, with old friends, I will blow out the candles. Like every birthday before, this one feels different. It's more complicated than 7 but less confusing than 17...more sensible than 21 and less absurd than 24. As more time passes, I don't know exactly what I'll remember from this year, but I've loved those who have been a part of it. So thanks, guys, because I can't imagine thirty-one feeling any better than this.

belly full of baby in a shotgun wedding

I got a letter from my health insurance company today telling me how to get pregnant.

"Dear Unfortunate Lawyer: We have analyzed medical claims data that indicate you might be interested in or are pursuing treatment for infertility. We want to make you aware that UnitedHealthcare has infertility services available to you..."

Wow, UnitedHealthcare. Wow, did you ever get that one wrong.

"You and your partner have access to a network of superior services...etc, etc...we look forward to helping you on your journey."

Really? Do you? Because I could list 1,000 things that I want right now, and exactly none of those things would be "baby." In fact, if there's one thing I dislike more than the sound of children playing, it's the sound of children singing. And if there's one thing I detest more than the sound of children singing, it's the sound of babies crying. But sure, let's do this. Let's embark on this beautiful journey together. A journey that started, apparently, with me changing my birth control prescription, and progressed to you writing me letters about my unwanted child and a "partner" that I don't have. Thanks. I can't wait to see where we go from here.

What the $#@%!

When people go out to dinner, they normally do not order dessert. That has been my experience and it kind of pisses me off. People will inevitably say no when the waiter comes by the table and asks if anyone is interested in dessert. Why? Why don't you want any dessert? You're too full? Really? I don't think so. I think you're just too afraid to say you want dessert because you think people will secretly judge you.

There is, however, a time when almost everyone will order dessert. That is when it's someone's birthday. But here's the thing: if it's someone's birthday, there will usually be a group of people and they will only order ONE DESSERT. I went out to dinner for three of my friends' birthdays in January. And of course this is what happened.

I sat in my corner of the table silently brewing over the complete absurdity of the decision to order one dessert for eight people. How does that make sense? How is that logical? IT'S NOT. But I told myself to relax. Everything would be okay. The fact that my friends think it's just FINE to order one dessert for eight people would probably mean that I would not get to have very much of it. I reassured myself that I could always go to the McDonald's drive thru and get a sundae afterward. Because I do things like that.

When the dessert came, everyone took one bite. No one seemed to care about it. Pretty soon I was eating that entire thing by myself.