"…Oh, so you work for the VA?" AAAaaarrrggghhh!

(And I don't mean to say that with a pirate accent. But if I did, it would be funny.)

The answer to the title question is No. Quite the contrary. People don't seem to get it.

First, I don't like to advertise that I'm an attorney:

1. No one believes it's possible because
(a) I'm a "blonde"
(b) I'm never serious enough
(c) I have only a superficial understanding of world history and current events
(d) Any combination of the above
(e) (b) and (d)

2. When they find out and see that I don't make any money at it, they must think
(a) I'm a sucky lawyer
(b) I'm a lame businessperson
(c) I have no drive or ambition and "why did she bother going to law school?"
(d) I'm so honorable to have given up a lucrative salary and high-powered career for the sake of my family
(e) All of the above except (d)

3. I think I'm scamming people because
(a) It sounds funny to me, too
(b) I feel like a girl in a costume who says she's a princess
(c) I feel like a stripper who tells everyone she's a ballerina
(d) I feel like a ballerina who is really a stripper
(e) (d)

4. I may miss out on some lawyer jokes I haven't already heard
(a) Like that'll ever happen,
(b) Then I have to chuckle politely at a lighthearted attempt to offend members of my profession when the only thing that really offends me is the jokester's negligent use of a trite and insipid riddle,
(c) At which point I will be forced to reach into my handy freight car full of witty and sarcastic comebacks that all-too-often will hurt some fragilian's feelings,
(d) And then my audience will mutter amongst themselves things like, "See what a bitch she is? I told you she was a lawyer."
(e) This one is not multiple choice

Now, on to the point I was trying to make.
When people ask me if I work, where I work, what I do, or why did you write me that nasty letter, I hesitantly say that I'm a lawyer. I have been an attorney for over 17 years and that word still sounds funny coming out of my mouth. It's a big part of my life and it takes up a lot of otherwise barren real estate in my mind, but it's not who I am. My heart is in it, but only to the extent that it satisfies my desire to analyze and to write and to make my enemies suffer in abject shame as I expose their unscrupulous and heinous acts with my superior intellect, my unparalleled legal research skills, and my sly ability to threaten blackmail by distributing non-existent hidden-camera video, and (oh yeah) to help people.

Anyway, so this is what I usually say: "I mainly practice veterans' law. I fight the VA. I handle benefits appeals for veterans or veterans' widows who deserve compensation from the VA." Sometimes I dumb it down even more, but I always say, "I Fight The V.A." Then, nine times out of ten, this is what I get: They nod approvingly and say, "Oh, so you work for the VA. That's great." I have to take a deep breath, tell myself (1) they weren't listening to my boring job description, (2) they know not what they say, and (3) they are idiots who don't mean to insult me.

Then I politely say, "Uh, NO. I Do Not Work FOR The VA. I FIGHT them. They are the EVIL Empire. I am doing the Lord's work here, you moron. Don't you listen?" Then I tell them if they know any disabled vets, I'll be glad to help them or at least put their file on my back burner with all the others. I wonder whether they think, "Wow, she's mean. If I were to fight the VA, I'd want her on my side," or simply "Yep, she's a lawyer alright. What a bitch."

Whatever. Thanks for letting me rant.

Fun Mom or Pathetic Aging Dork?

I went roller skating last night. It's one of the few sports I can do. I think I can still ski okay, too. But don't ask me to play anything involving a ball. Too much running. I like sports that let you coast. Like biking. Downhill.

So every couple of months, Katy's school reserves a roller rink for a skate party. It's a long drive, and the place is surrounded by gun stores, used car lots and pawn shops. It's called Rollercade. I've found information that it opened in 1984, but its MySpace page (yes, it has its own MySpace page) says that it's 56 years old (and female). I graduated from high school in 1984, so I still consider the 80s to be recent history. This place looks like something out of American Graffiti or Happy Days. Its big bright flashing neon sign is not "retro;" it's a true anachronism. Its interior walls are carpeted in colors usually reserved only for bowling alleys and cheap motels-—geometric designs in purple, orange, yellow, and gray, all time-worn and matted. The rink is encircled by a waist-high cinderblock wall well-coated with a good quarter inch of layer upon layer of (probably lead) paint, hot dog grease, and Jolly Rancher stickiness. The snack bar steadily exhales its popcorn butter and ball park nacho cheese breath into the asbestos-laced air. It's dimly-lit, like a good roller rink should be. All the better to be mesmerized by the dusty and chipped disco ball that still twirls proudly, pretending to be a full moon winking at the world below. The place is a bit of a dump. And I absolutely love it.

It's like time travel. I can feel its history and see its ghosts. Big-haired, blue-eyeshadowed girls giggling over boys in parachute pants and skinny ties. I see Marcia Bradys and Wally Cleavers and even a Lenny or a Squiggy. Mostly I see my 7th grade self. I feel that ache of unrequited love for the popular boy who didn't know my name. I remember that sick feeling in my gut when the lights would go down and I'd hear the first few bars of that Styx song, Babe. (If you're around my age, you can hear it now, can't you? So beautifully heartbreaking.) That song meant it was time for the couples to skate. Boyfriends held their girlfriends' hands and rolled slowly by, feeling that teenage hormonal kind of love. The kind of love you felt slow dancing at the prom with your dreamboat sweetheart as if no one else in the world existed. Back when "4-ever" really meant something. (It meant you had no concept of just how long forever could be, but it also meant that the grown-up real-world definition of forever didn't matter at all.) I would watch the couples and pretend not to care as I seethed with envy and self-pity, watching the secret object of my innocent desire wrap his perfect arm around his perfect cheerleader girlfriend. I didn't have a real boyfriend or feel that "4-ever" love until I was about 17. Too old for skating. I imagine if I had been one of those lucky couples skaters, a trip to the rink today would still be bittersweet. Of course, for them, more sweet than bitter.

Whoa, I went off a little there, didn't I? I only meant to say that I skated the entire time. I was lapping all the kids, and sent only a few of them clattering to the floor in my wake. I weaved in and out through clusters of clumsy skaters like the roller derby queen I imagined I was. I resisted the urge to sing along to the music. They played a lot of Hannah Montana and Jonas Brothers, so I had to act like I didn't know the words, lest I make a real dork of myself. And I resisted the urge to do the hand motions when they played YMCA. Good thing I was sober. I did catch myself singing when they played Smash Mouth's All Star. And yes, I did do the "shape of an L on her forehead." I think my kids still think I'm a fun mom. Unless they have me snowed and they're already mocking me behind my back. I wouldn't put it past them. Anyway, I was glad I had made a chiropractor appointment for this morning. Now I'm off for a hot Epsom salt bath. Time travel can be a treat for your mind, but it's hell on your body.

Sometimes I Feel Like I'm in a Seinfeld Episode

You know, like this is a blog "about nothing."

Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer on my last post, but I had to get that off my chest/heart.

Now for something completely different. My latest potpourri of observations.

FYI: If an item of clothing has the word "vintage" printed on it, it isn't.

I just got Mike a new T-shirt that says "Feminist chicks dig me." I dare him to wear it to a Hillary Clinton rally. This shirt is a nice supplement to one I got him a few years ago from Comedy Central's "The Man Show." It says, "Men. We're just better." As if putting it on a T-shirt can make it true.

Has anyone else noticed the hand gestures people use when relating an e-mail conversation? According to my personal, unscientific study, over 93% of those I have observed, including myself, must do "air typing" as they speak. I talk with my hands a lot anyway. Not in broad, artistic, sweeping gestures like an Italian. I tend to keep my hands and arms inside my immediate personal space so as not to whack my bony wrist against doorframes, grocery store displays, or errant children. I have noticed I do this odd looking, brisk, angry nun handclap or sometimes "jazz hands" to add emphasis to or distraction from the no doubt salient point I am trying to make. For those who do not normally talk with their hands, I have found that they still cannot resist air typing. I must confess I have never seen anyone actually air type the shift key, the tab key, or the number pad, but I do see some of them thumbing an imaginary spacebar, and once I even saw an air-typed version of ctrl-alt-delete. And these imaginary keyboards are not the least bit ergonomic. I saw a woman in Target the other day yammering into her Bluetooth and typing away on her grocery cart handle. This is progress for you. Twenty years ago, if a suburban mom had been found talking to herself and pretending to type on a grocery cart, she would have endured some uneasy stares at a minimum, and at most, a police escort back to the mental ward to make sure she took her Thorazine that day.

Speaking of grocery stores, the one I usually go to has a plastic shield covering the selection of razor cartridges. When you lift the shield, a little alarm goes off, I assume to alert any nearby store personnel to give you the evil eye and to set the store's security cameras on you to make sure you don't shoplift these outrageously overpriced items. So now that I actually have to pay for these high-tech, quadruple-bladed, moisturizer-infused hygiene products, I'll have to go back to wearing my big, pocket-lined overcoat to the store where I can discreetly stock up on some steaks, a rack of ribs, and maybe a chicken or two.

Another interesting thing I ran across in the grocery store, this time with the kids, was a clever display for Axe (that men's body spray that I think they use the way women use Febreze on curtains and carpet to neutralize and cover up stink). Now don't get me wrong. I like a nice-smelling man, but the anecdotal evidence I have gathered tells me that young men (and a lot of car salesmen) believe that when it comes to cheap cologne, more is better. Especially if you're a construction worker, mechanic, or dope smoker. So anyway, I'm in the cosmetics department, minding my own business, and just as I bend over to consider a $12 eyeliner, I hear the sound of what has recently become the universal phrase for, let's just say, getting some action. This Axe display has a button on it, which the kids of course cannot resist pressing. Over and over and over. It blares a musical tune Axe calls "Bom Chicka Wah Wah." So my kids are cracking up as they play with this, oblivious to the fact that they are listening to today's version of 1970s porn music.

So I bought some spray paint at Home Depot the other day. Of course, they keep it locked up in a cage and you always have to track down someone in an orange apron (which is almost like trying to spot and catch the mythical chupacabra), who must then track down another orange-aproned person who might have the key and who is not busy on a break chit-chatting with another orange-aproned person about when their next break is. So, I employed my skinny son's arms to reach through the gap in the paint fortress gates so he could grab the can of primer I needed. I couldn't wait to sniff it when I got home, and then go tag some overpasses. So I take my few items to the self-checkout machine. I like doing it that way because it minimizes human contact and small talk with a real live orange-aproned clerk who may be in danger of catching a snide remark from me when she asks, with her pierced lip, if I found everything I needed. I may have said something like, "Yes, but no thanks to any of you employees." (This is not a general slam on all Home Depot stores, just a general slam on the one I usually go to.) By the way, Katy wants to know why they call every store THE Home Depot when there are more than one. I told her it's just one of those mysteries of life that she should be prepared to encounter more regularly as she grows up. So anyway, I'm at the self-checkout machine, and I scan my can of paint. I can't tell you how flattered I was when the machine suggested that a clerk check my ID. I looked over at the 20-ish checkout monitor, who was a good 12 feet away. She pushed a button that must've told the computer I looked plenty old enough from 12 feet away that to actually card me would be an exercise in lunacy.

New topic: Why do I keep my kids' lost teeth? Where do I put them? When I was a kid, the tooth fairy would fly away with them after leaving me a quarter. Now these teeth go for about a buck, at least in our house. And there have been times that the tooth fairy forgot to make a visit. That's when I have to scramble and grab a ten from my purse, then rush in and pretend to find it on the floor under the head of the bed. "Look! It was here all along, you just must have pushed it out from under your pillow." "Wow!" they say, "I got ten bucks for that one!" Then I have to make up a story that molars are worth more because she pays by weight. Then they ask why the tooth is still there. "Maybe her toothbag was full, or maybe she knew it was special to me, so she left it as a souvenir of the day you pulled it out yourself after getting hit in the jaw with a soccer ball." You know, I tell my kids enough white lies almost daily as it is. When tradition forces me to deceive them further with all these imaginary gift-bearing creatures, I can't help but wonder when the kids are going to sit me down and ask, "So what else have you been lying to us about? What about that Jesus story?" Anyway, I have all these little snack-sized Ziploc bags with a tooth in each one of them. The earlier bags are Sharpie-marked with the name and a date. The more recent ones are unmarked. I'll have to take those to the dentist for identification.

I guess keeping teeth isn't quite as bad as something else I've heard about. I know of a mother who somehow preserved her infant son's umbilical "stump" after it fell off. What a lovely display to run across in an otherwise pastel-colored baby book. My sister had a lot of trouble dealing with that when her kids were babies. She called me one day, almost frantic, saying "It came off! It came off! So now what do I do with this little piece of 'jerky'?" Jerky. Now that's funny stuff.

I have a few more tidbits, but they kind of deserve a post of their own. Then I have another, more serious one to hit you with at some point, probably next time one of my dark moods hits.

I consider this a successful purge. I'm going out of town for a long weekend, so I hope this drivel spillage will hold you for a while.

He called her "Angel"

I did not know her well. We knew her as Marie, but her husband called her "Angel." Yesterday morning, unexpectedly, she became one. I did not spend much time with her, but every time I saw her, even the first time we met, she gave me a warm and meaningful hug. She was a veteran. She was a teacher. And I know she was the center of her husband's life and the heart and soul of her young daughter's world.

She gave us a big box of chocolates for Christmas. I kept meaning to thank her. I'm sure I threw away the card along with its sentiments without any thought that the words were written by a living hand that would soon never hold a pen again. Every time either of us would open that box for a piece of candy (and we opened a lot), we would think of how sweet and thoughtful she was. Now that still half-full box sits on our pantry shelf looking like a shiny gold coin amongst a pile of wooden nickels.

Every day at my desk, including right now, I rest my feet on a small wooden footstool Marie and I jokingly fought over at a garage sale. She allowed me to have it after I offered to buy and donate another sale item (I think it was a printer) that she mentioned her school could use. I have never forgotten, and certainly won't now, the strong, energetic, and grateful hug she gave me after we made that deal.

This morning, her husband and her daughter, if they slept at all last night, woke up to their first full day without her.

At times like this, I'm always reminded of an Emily Dickinson poem that reads:

The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth -

The sweeping up the heart
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.

I understand Dickinson's meaning, but I know that their hearts will remain in pieces on the floor, and the love they want to use again will never be put away.

When such a sudden permanent absence turns your world upside down, jerks away your footing, and leaves you literally at such a dark and helpless loss, every single mundane, necessary, and automatic living act seems incongruous with the emptiness you feel inside. Somehow disrespectful. And when you see everyone else going about their business as if nothing has changed, you can't imagine how the world can keep turning when the steady, familiar rotation of your world came to a screeching halt on what would have otherwise been just another normal day. Just a square on a calendar with a number in it. Time takes all the days before it and sends them out to sea. Our hearts and minds keep swimming. Time will take all the days after it and give them a painful significance. Our living bodies will trudge through deep wet sand under thick water and against cruel waves toward a new steadiness, a new familiarity we will be forced to accept.

I don't think time ever heals wounds like this. It may continue to wrap its bandage thicker and thicker, but that bandage will yet remain loose and penetrable by even the most unexpected flashes of memory and even the most otherwise mundane living acts that mark the numbered boxes on our calendars.

Just give me the rest of the week

I have about a 2-inch high pile (or it would be a pile if I were to gather them in one place) of random thoughts scribbled on receipts, napkins, junk mail, my Hello Kitty notepad, neon post-its, expired coupons, and my left hand just screaming to be heard. The kids just went back to school on Monday, so I am catching up big time this week, including writing a brief that is due Friday, which means I really must finish it today (Wed.) After I get it done, I will definitely need to exercise my creative side--not that lawyering isn't creative, especially with some of the cases I take. This place is my refuge and my rejuvenator (didn't mean to make that sound like a warm, fuzzy, cheesy attempt at poetry) so I will have to take comfort here again very soon--if only to be able to trash the paper scraps that adorn my desk like so much spent confetti. Better there than in my head. But better here than on my desk. So be back asap.

HNY

That means happy new year, but i'm too tired and shaky right now to spell it out. It's 2:30 p.m. and I feel like I'm coming out of a coma, so bear with me, folks. I just used up most of my keystrokes for the day commenting on a comment on my x-mas, er, holiday letter. I will get back to my better self soon, but I couldn't let this day go by w/o saying HNY to anyone who happens upon this page today, the first day of the rest of our lives. I like the idea of 2008. I like 8's. Sure, 7's are lucky and all, but 8's are CRAZY. Remember that card game? Speaking of games, Katy is patiently waiting for me to go play her new HSM (that's High School Musical, to anyone who doesn't have a daughter between the ages of like 5 & 13) DVD game. I'll have another cup of coffee and start 2008 by playing a game with my 8-year-old daughter. After she wins this one, I think I'll have to kick her butt at a game of crazy eights. Who am I kidding? She'll slaughter me. She didn't drink as much as i did last night.