In Defense of Lawyers

"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."

William Shakespeare, Henry VI, (Act IV. Scene II.)

So we have a bad reputation. We've heard the jokes, we've seen the shameless DUI defense billboards, we watched as OJ was found not guilty, and we've personally witnessed various other miscarriages of justice orchestrated at our hands. We get it. We deserve it. We're sorry.

Recently, however, I have been reminded why I am more than willing to take up the flag for lawyers. I like lawyers. Lawyers, as it turns out, are some of my favorite people. (That's not to say I don't have favorite people who aren't lawyers, of course . . .) As a general matter, we're funny. We are. You can't endure the circus that is law school, complete with the socratic method, existing and still applicable legal principles from the time of the covered wagon, and the mania that is class rank and law review, without at least a modicum of humor. Not to mention what you have to do to get through the billable hour and, in the case of women, the still testosterone laden practice, and the deadlines . . .oh the deadlines. I recently attended a small all-women, all-attorney party where the banter was faster than Usain Bolt, and (she says proudly) baser than any bachelor party. Love those lady lawyers. . .

And we're not just a funny bunch. Several weeks ago someone dear to me was in need of an attorney--and for something serious, and not of their own making. I wrote a few e-mails, made a few calls, and within minutes had helpful responses from, if you can imagine, several busy lawyers. So, you see, we're useful. Sure, kind of like flashlight useful or baking powder useful--you never think twice about us, but if you need us, you really need us--but useful nonetheless.

Then, of course, there's my writing partner Laura, without whom this blog, The Pecking Order, Done Fell Out, my razor thin margin of sanity, my love for Chico chai would not exist - and what kind of life would that be?

So as I sit looking into the future, after 18 months of voluntary unemployment, and see the practice of law on the very near horizon, all I can say is, put down the Shakespeare and bring on the jokes. I promise we'll laugh.

Basketti

If you scroll to the top of this page you're reading, you'll see the title and description of our blog. See that part that reads, "unrelated thoughts on . . . well . . . unrelated topics?" That's where this post is headed. I got nothing. My kid had the pukes this week (yup, woke me up at 5 a.m. to tell me he didn't feel good, then puked the previous night's spaghetti all over my feet . . . twice. I gotta learn to move) and school has started and work is nutty and we're writing like crazy on the new book and, basically, my creativity is all tapped out. Oh yea . . . and I haven't had a drink all week! What I'm trying to say, in a terribly verbose, round-about way, is that this post has no rhyme or reason, no structure, no coherent narrative. It's more like . . . say . . .well, the aforementioned spaghetti - I'm just going to spew my thoughts all over the page.



So, my gynecologist is really cute (told you I'd spew - no segue, no transition, just bam! Random thought). No, that's not an apt description. He's burn-your-retinas hot. So hot, in fact, that this week, when he talked to me for over 20 minutes about healthcare reform (of all things) after my annual exam, I batted my eyes and tossed my head and asked questions, not even caring that I was still in that dusty rose paper open-backed crop top with nothing but a glorified paper towel over my nether regions and some poor woman was probably waiting in another exam room to hear her baby's heartbeat. Classy.



Know what's not classy? Telling me about your ENTIRE DAY in one long Facebook status update. Do I want to know that you opened your front door and a goat was standing on your porch? Absolutely. Do I want you to quote some (a) obscure or (b) naughty or (c) nostalgic song lyric and wait for others to quote additional lines in their comments? Might be entertaining. Is the occasional one sentence update about your hot gynecologist interesting? Usually. But please do not do this: Had fried eel for lunch today, then fell asleep at my desk. After work went to the store. Preparation H was on sale so I bought three tubes. Then Hector and I got in the spa and watched the stars. My favorite was the big dipper. We just finished eating ice-cream sundaes and now I'm going to brush my teeth, use the Preparation H, and go to bed. Stop. Just. Stop.



And now, I will heed my own advice and put this post out of its misery. But first, I have to share one more thing . . . when I'm blogging, the tab at the top of the page says "Blogger." And every time I read it, my internal dialogue goes like this: "Blogger? I hardly know her." (I do the same thing with Twitter. Yep, just did it again.)



So now you know. I have a crush on my gynecologist, I'm not interested in the minutiae of your life, and my humor is base and juvenile. Pretty sure I'm about 12 years old. Thanks for still being my friend. I promise to write something more interesting next time . . .

Can't (Probably Shouldn't) Touch This

So I'm of the age where, at least once a day, the passage of time is at the forefront of my mind. Whether its a new laugh line or the desire for neck surgery or the fact that I am now the coach and not the player, its there. Often. I'm also of the age where if I mention this to any number of my loved ones, they roll their eyes, call me a baby, and say "just you wait".

Today I am staking official claim on feeling old. I don't care if I am still occasionally carded when buying wine or that I wander into Bebe every now and then, which really should never be done by anyone larger than Twiggy (see, not really a spring chicken with that reference). Why, you ask. Because I've decided, after research and consideration, to opt out of fashion this season and I urge you women who also lived through the 80s to do the same.


I sat below the dryer at my salon, and, yes, its a salon, complete with tattooed assistants and uber-hip stylists in leather and 6 inch heels, although, in the interest of candor, I haven't changed my hair style in any meaningful way (save a mishap in Paris last year that cost 300 Euro [do you know the exchange rate!?] and a large measure of self-confidence) for over a decade. I was reading Elle's 20 must have fall fashion items and all I have to say is, in the spirit of Joan Rivers (just keeping the vintage consistent), can we talk? Of particular concern is the following:

Man Trousers: Okay, that's not exactly what the folks at Elle were calling them, but its close and it doesn't really matter, because what ever you call them is a mere euphemism for high-waisted, pleated slacks. PLEATED slacks, people! Did we not finally decide in the early 90s that, to our collective horror, a front pleat is never, ever our friend.
MC Hammer Pants: I'm sure there's a revamped name that taps into the collective conscious of the kids too young to remember "Can't Touch This", but they will always be MC Hammer pants to me. Not only is all that material a little less than comfortable to walk in, I'm not sure its ever a good idea to leave that much to the imagination in that particular region, if you know what I mean.
Neon: I think we called it fluorescent in the 80s, when I was 13 and it was okay to wear the particular shade of pink that sears the corneas. Fluorescent, neon, whatever you want to call it, its like a fling with the guy from the coffee shop--fun while it lasted, but it should never be revisited.
Shoulder Pads: Please refer to MC Hammer Pants comments and incorporate by reference comment from Man Trousers re: never being our friend.
And finally, my personal favorite:
Leather Shorts: And not just leather shorts, but high waisted leather shorts. There are so many things to say about leather shorts that if I have to spell them out, you might as well just buy a pair and find out yourself.

I emerged from the dryer and closed the Elle magazine, taking up silent arms against the fashion powers that be who are trying to bring back the mishaps that litter my old photo albums. And when I returned to my stylist's chair and she asked if I wanted something different, I looked down at my boot cut jeans and muted t-shirt, looked up proudly and said, no, don't touch it.

Art in the Modern Age (Or, Does This Mean Pale Ale is the New Absinthe?)

When my family and I went to Paris last summer with Kris and her son, we stayed in the Montmartre. (And by the by, for anyone who thinks that sentence sounds snobby, please know that since that fabulous trip, we have been eating ramen and vacationing in Oroville while we pay off the credit card bill…). Our metro stop “sortie” funneled us past the Moulin Rouge, and the Place du Tertre was only a short, steep, smoke-filled walk from our apartment (about the equivalent of 6-8 blocks, or as I measured it, two crepe stands four boulangeries, one cheese shop, and about 15 cafes . . . sigh). Even though the area is now somewhat touristy and commercialized, the mention of “Montmarte” still conjures images of anbsinthe-addled artists communing to share vision and talent and wax quixotic on all things bohemian, of men like van Gogh, Matisse, Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec living the artist’s life, of Picasso setting up his easel in the Place du Tertre. We’ve all seen Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen’s poster for the famous Montmartre cabaret, Le Chat Noir (yes, you know it, it’s orange and yellow with a large “artsy” black cat, can be found on postcards, canvas bags, and adorning the wall of at least one of your college friends, most likely the one majoring in theatre or dance), and maybe some of us (me) have wished we were part of the artistic community it’s come to represent.

Well, let me tell you . . . we are. The ideals the Montmartre have come to represent—a marketplace for creativity, the exchange of “big ideas,” a haven where emerging artists can rub shoulders with those who have paved the way—are alive and thriving and can be found . . . on Facebook. Artistic endeavors can feel lonely, especially in our modern world, where art is often relegated to hobby status—to something we fit in after work and the kids’ soccer practice and walking the dog and cleaning our toilets (my life is glamorous, no?). It’s not our “real job,” so we don’t bring it up in conversation, hesitate to ask for input from others, and often pursue it quietly and alone. But Facebook has changed that. In the past year, I’ve discovered many of my friends—not only those I’ve just found, but also those I know well—are artists. They are talented photographers, children's authors, video-game designers, choreographers, purveyors of cupcake creations, actors, models, tutu-makers, and rock stars. We may not live in the same place, but we can engage and innovate and inspire one another simply by putting our work out there. Nothing rips me from the banality of daily life and gets me back to the manuscript faster than reading about a friend starting a fashion/music/lifestyle company, or another friend touring with his band. So, for all its problems (no, I don’t care that you just bought a cow for your farm or that your fairy name is Princess fussypants), Facebook serves an important (I would argue necessary) purpose. Sure, it can be a time-suck, a voyeuristic escape, a narcissistic soapbox—but it can also be an artistic enclave without geographic constraint. To all the artists . . . let your light shine! Please, comment, and let us know about your creative endeavor.

Falling Out of Perspective

A word about perspective--the precious, elusive thing that it is. Like wisdom, it usually comes with age and almost always too late to do anything but nod your head with a wry smile and lament what you could have done better. I could give you a number of examples, but most of them are simply too personal for this blog, so let's take an easy one--my ill-fated move to North Carolina at the age of 26, the day after I graduated from law school.

Let's be clear--I am not the faint of heart when it comes to moving. The child of an Air Force officer, I'd had seven houses and seven schools by the time I was fifteen. You do the math. So showing up in a new place, receiving the stares, the whispers, eating alone, faking nonchalance, disinterest, confidence, ingratiating myself to strangers, learning who to ask questions and from whom to stay away--all this was bred into me as strongly as my love for all things coconut (other than car air fresheners) and Jim Croce music, which is why I braved the first move of my married life with, well, what I thought was perspective.

As my husband and I drove the Honda Accord and Toyota Landcruiser from Arizona to North Carolina, it didn't occur to me that I hadn't lived in the south for, oh, 18 years. That I had become, in my own mind, a native Californian, that even Arizona (where I attended law school) was a little too far from home and right of center for my taste. I won't bore you with details of how difficult the move was and I'll only briefly share something that happened while I worked as an assistant public defender in a small, rural, town on the border of North and South Carolina and, if you think there's not much difference there, you're wrong.

After months of losing cases, trying to help clients with problems neither I nor anyone else could likely solve, and feeling generally eroded by representing the indigent in criminal court, Mary Jane Bryant's case was called. She was in her fifties, dressed to the nines--meaning she wore a bra--and charged with larceny for stealing lipstick, lingerie, and condoms from Kmart (I'm not making that up). It was not her first offense and a conviction would mean jail time. Not a lot, but I'm not sure the amount of jail time is really any one's first concern. As I was heading to the courtroom for her trial, one of the probation officers came running in and said "Mary Jane Bryant done fell out again!" And there she was in the middle of the courtroom, pretending she'd fainted, trying to stop her eyelids from fluttering, waiting for the ambulance, or whomever, to pick her up and cart her away to another day of freedom. It was mildly funny at the time, but more than anything I was concerned with what the judge would say because, you see, Ms. Bryant had apparently pulled this stunt a time or two.

I don't know what happened to Mary Jane Bryant and her larceny case because I quit my job and moved back to California to take the bar and start my career here. I wanted to leave North Carolina quickly as I could, but once I arrived home, I found myself talking constantly about this place I'd just spent the last two years. And now, with 8 years behind me and yes, you guessed it, a little perspective, I wish I could have seen the situation for what it was--a brief, colorful period in my life that would produce dozens of ridiculously funny memories, not to mention be the inspiration (one of them) for our second novel, Done Fell Out. If it's ever published, I'll be dedicating my portion to Mary Jane Bryant.



Unrelated post script - please note for the record my dear friend, you know who you are, the change in title. You can rest easy that there will be no raised beach scenes or purple cursive writing on the cover of this novel.

Random . . .

I am vexed. Perplexed. It's like I have been hexed. (Straight outta 8-mile, yo). Bad rhymes aside, a few things are troubling me lately because of their nonsensical nature. Because they defy rational explanation. Because they are so random. Why, for instance, are there so many dead snakes on the side of the road I take to work? I get that snakes crawl out of the fields to the hot asphalt at night. I get that these unsuspecting, moonbathing serpents are likely hit by cars. But why do they end up on the side of the road, just on the shoulder? Are they flung there by car tires? Do they slither slowly off the road after a mortal wound, only to collapse and die once they cross the fog line? Is there a roving band of snake killers in python boots veering off the road to take them out while the rest of us sleep? Again, it vexes me.

Here's another one. I live in a small-ish town. I have a fairly tight circle of friends and acquaintances. Yet, I know at least five different women-bright, lovely women-who sell Mary Kay products. Do any of them really think they'll sell enough to earn that pearly pink Cadillac? Have they heard of market saturation? Yep, perplexed.

There's one more, and it's the most troubling, the most random, the most explanation-defying, the most likely to prompt an audible "WTF." I work in a nice office. We have cake each month to celebrate birthdays, baby showers for employees, and potlucks every now and then. We are courteous and professional to one another. We have adjustable office chairs, ergonomic keyboards and Vista on our 27-inch monitors. We don’t wear open-toed shoes, skirts above the knee, or bare shoulders. And yet, one wall of our employees-only bathroom (which is decorated like the public sector version of Las Vegas’s version of a cathedral, complete with faux-paint, stenciled border and tri-color light) is covered in . . . wait for it . . . boogers. I know, right?! WTF?

These things pain me. I need the world to make sense. I soak up order and patterns and logic. And, yet, I recognize our blog has had no discernible posting pattern. Sometimes we post twice a week, sometimes once a month. Well, no more! From now on, dear readers (all 5 or 6 of you), we post every Friday! Fictionlimbo Fridays are here!

And now that you can breathe that huge sigh of relief, I'm interested to hear what vexes you . . .

Vomiting with Precision

So I've been boycotting my own blog. I'm not sure why. Maybe I should have known it was coming considering the last, bitter entry I penned, i.e. Pity Party. The party, however, seems to be over and I thank Laura for continuing to post on our behalf. Good woman, that-not-quite-a- cougar-but-she-will-be-all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips-in-five-years (see Choose Wisely) dear friend and writing partner of mine. Now, onward.

During my blogging hiatus, I observed at coffee shops, read interesting books, took my son and a friend to Folsom Lake (yikes), all of which could have inspired a blog entry. For example, I sat down to begin an entry about bumper stickers after I saw a quintessential, silver 1980’s Fiero (did they actually make them after the 80s?) with a spoiler and a bumper sticker that read “I’d Rather Be Driving a DeLorean ”. Awesome. There were so many things to say I had no idea where to start with that one, so I didn't. (But stay tuned, I still think there’s valuable stuff to mine on the topic of bumper stickers).

Where I will start is the same old place we always start—writing. Last week, I was editing the first two chapters of our second book, currently entitled Star Struck, when I noticed that we used a certain word three times. This happens when two people write together, whether it’s subliminal, by happenstance, or because we are of the same mind when it comes to choosing words. Whatever the case, it happens more often than we even realized. Take vomit, for example. Laura has mentioned (Warning! This Post May Self-Destruct!) that we couldn’t seem to get enough of vomit in the Pecking Order and, as it turns out, there’s not a great substitute for vomit. Puke is too coarse, throw-up is awkward, hurl is too colloquial, and so on and so forth.


In the first two chapters of Star Struck, we used the word precise twice and precision once. And as I was pondering a good alternative (I have yet to come up with one, by the way; precise sounds so crisp and neat its hard to replace), I realized that the difference between the words vomit and precise captures the difference between our first and second books, not only in terms of the style in which we're writing, but the way in which we're writing it. The genesis of The Pecking Order was two vignettes - one that discussed a giant fruit of the type a farmer ties to his flatbed truck to haul down to the county fair for the big blue ribbon prize (or something equally ridiculous); and a second about being lost in the grocery store in the middle of the day. After these two vignettes, which had nothing to do with one another (both were cut from the final draft), Laura and I proceeded to upchuck (see, I've learned my lesson) all over the computer screen, trying to cleanse our souls of the big firm litigation experience by writing about it. Upchuck writing: cathartic, yes; glimmers of brilliance, certainly; plot producing, no. So, and you know the story by now, we cleaned ourselves up and set about making a book of it.

We've done things differently with Star Struck, which, as an aside, is a title subject to change (a dear friend of mine scrunched up her face and said "Jackie Collins" when I told her). Before putting proverbial pen to paper, we toiled over the plot, sketched out major and minor characters, giving them birthdays and histories and quirks and hangups, and debated tone and point of view longer than you'd believe and definitely for more than several Sponge Bob episodes. Dare I say, we've approached it with--wait for it--precision. And it shows in the writing and the ease with which we edit and move on to the next chapter. The writing gods willing and the creek don't rise (method writing, I suppose - some of Star Struck is set in the south), we'll be finished in five months rather than five years. And while we might repeat the same word every now and then, we definitely don't feel like vomiting.