But Slenderly. . .

Where am I?

Greetings from . . . wait, where the hell am I?  Tucson!  Hello from the Wild West.  It's been a quite a week of travel, beginning last Friday when we hoofed it (well, plane-d) to Chicago, made a few failed attempts to leave Chicago on the day we were actually scheduled to leave Chicago, finally got home to New York, and then yesterday, I winged it out here.  I am tired of the airplanes, but I am always happy to be someplace that is sunny and offers "sunset" tequila shots to guests at 5:30 every evening.  I work at perhaps the most retreat-happy firm in America and am at yet another one (just for mid-levels! to talk about mid-levely things!).  I have to admit, they totally work on me.  Four days at some nice resort with a bunch of my friends?  I really do end up feeling all warm and fuzzy and damn it, all appreciated and shit.  Of course, my cynicism bone is rather small and undeveloped (the metacarpal as opposed to the femur).

This has to be quick since the cocktail hour starts . . . in three minutes.  Then dinner.  Then an outdoor movie by the pool in fancy new monogrammed robes and flip-flops (the firm's initials, which, well, is taking firm pride perhaps a step too far.)  And I need to iron my dress, which I am not ashamed to admit to y'all that I love and was thrilled to get to pull out of summer storage.  It's like reconnecting with a past crush – oh hello there, lovely!  Of course, the strappy fun of the dress is somewhat undermined by the gleaming red of my sholders. I have been here less than 24-hours and am already sunburned.  I blame a run I took this morning.  Sunscreen did not occur to me until I was 600 vertical feet above the hotel, panting, sweating and realizing that that sun was damn hot.  Poor red collarbone and shoulders and improbably, backs of knees. 

So Chicago.  AWESOME.  We had a ball at the art fair and saw so many wonderful things.  Things waaaaayyyyyy out of our price league (and forever out of our price league unless I manage to strike Texas Tea in the backyard, Clampett style).  But beautiful, beautiful things and paintings and photographs.  We did buy a very small little drawing by a British artist that we love, so that's exciting. 

And the food.  Whoa.  Seeing as I shamelessly stole suggestions from Holly's comments section, we too ate the delectable lemon ricotta pancakes with gingersnap butter at the Bongo Room (holy moses.)  although we had to walk a few miles in order to feel human again and I was then forced to retire to bed for a digestive nap, they were worth it. And pizza at Gino's East with sausage and mounds of cheese and good cold beer.  But the real food experience was at this little place called Avec.  It was one of the most memorable food delights in recent memory.  We sat at the counter and drank far too much wine and ate and ate and ate.  They don't take reservations, so we arrived at 6:15 in the hopes we'd get a table – but sister, I would wait for hours for that food.  Smooches to you, Avec.  kiss, kiss.

We also had the ridiculous delight of running into Holly and Sean on the streets of Chicago.  I espied an adorable haircut out of the corner of my eye and turned to look more closely and realized, Hey! Her!  I know her!  Holly!  DK afterwards asked me (1) who was that again?  A law school friend? and then (2) How did you know her if you've never met?  You wouldn't notice Brad Pitt if you rode up an elevator with him (sad, but true.  I am . . . uh, notoriously unobservant.  Lost in my lala land).  What can I say?  A cute haircut gets my attention.  We had pizza the next night and it was great to finally meet person to person.  She and Sean were just as delightful as I'd always assumed. 

So Chicago: awesome.  O'Hare?  Hell.  Our American flight was canceled, our attempt to get on a United connection was unsuccessful.  Everything else was booked.  There were many many unfortunate conversations with incredibly unhelpful and unpleasant people.  And I behaved . . . poorly.  I don't do extremely well with frustration, especially when I get the distinct feeling that the airline employees are trying to send me to an early grave.  So I said some things I regret, including several shrill demands of "What is your name, sir!"   I suspect I believe that someone will somehow be filled with a renewed sense of responsibility if he/she is identifiable, or that my not-so-implied threat of a angry letter detailing them personally as (the greatest of Nancy insults) particularly rude will miraculously turn them into affable and helpful employees.  You know what doesn't work as an inducement to good service?  That.  Wow. 

Today, however, I cleaned out my closet. . .

Wow, hello.  I have to tell you, I feel like I've been underground for the past two weeks, like a little sad mole who squints at daylight and toils away underground, furiously digging deeper in its tunnel.   

So, work.  It kicks my ass occasionally.  This case, at least, is awfully fun (topic-wise). It hit full stride in the beginning of April, and I've spent the vast majority of all my days and weekends glued to the computer, drafting, fielding endless questions from two partners -- or sequestered away in a conference room with the team (all four of us), bickering over argument support and fine-tuning our papers, taking the red pen to paper again and again and again.  It's honestly amazing to review the difference between the initial draft I send off into the world and the final one that gets filed, a product of days spent working over word by word.  The rare original phrase survives, though the skeleton is largely intact. The time commitment utterly, totally, sucks, but the feeling of seeing one your sentences from a filing show up in the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal is indescribably surreal. 

Nonetheless, I am so happy to be on the other side.  DK is so happy that I'm on the other side. That's the hardest part, by far.  Coming home, again, at two in the morning, stopping to slip off my shoes in the hallway so the clack of heels won't wake up the sleeping sweet lump in the bedroom.  The cat, blearily wanders out to glare curiously at me while I take off my coat.  I finally slide into bed, touch DK's back, whisper "I'm home" after he startles awake.  Kiss the back of his head, breathing in his soapy smell, and fall asleep with my hand on his back, an reassurance to myself of a connection.  I think, "Just one more week," and fall asleep thinking of to-do lists and circuitous worries. 

It all finally finished on Thursday, when two big whammies came due (a filing and, in another case, a big deposition). I symbolically celebrated by chopping off my hair (CHOP) in a long-needed cut.  

And this weekend has been perfect.  Quiet and just the two of us and a shockingly lovely New York.  We started off Saturday early, with a big cup of tea and quick read, then worked out at side-by-side treadmills with a hard, punishing run.  I fussed at my hair, worried it was too short, too boy, but DK ruffled my head of little curls and told me to stop being dumb. The weather was amazing, bright sunshine, 70s, and we held hands walking up to the Morgan Library, to look at the Vasari (el al) drawings.  Then walked across town to one of our favorite galleries to look at a show of an artist I really like.  I've thought about a particular drawing of hers for a year and we went into the back to see it again – and took the plunge!  I think of it as Miss Havisham's wedding cake.

Then we stopped by Union Square to buy some flowering cherry branches and sunchokes and little cipollini onions.  And finished the day watching backed-up Top Chef episodes and sucking down slurpy Thai noodles. 

Bliss. 

Not a bad way to return back to the world.  I missed it. 

April Fool's!

I love me a good prank. So I clearly have a soft spot for April Fool's day, and am delighted to say I got my big sister this year.

M is a little more reserved than I am.  She is not with the splash up your feelings on the internet and routinely finds my humor a touch on the irreverent side, if not downright strange.  She thinks I use oddball phrasing (guilty) and old-timey words (true).  She cannot understand my dorky fascination with things like "nautical phraseology!" or "almanacs - whee!" or whatever random thing has caught my fancy.  To make her point, last night I called her a tippler.  And, when queried, defined it as a sot.  (So sue me, I read too much Wodehouse when young and impressionable).  In short, she thinks I'm weird -- occasionally sweet, can make her laugh, but nonetheless, decidedly weird. 

But M is nothing if not a good sport -- deep under the Junior League reserve and her Miss Manners instinct lurks an excellent sense of humor and appreciation for the absurd.  Which is why she won't mind that I hacked into her Facebook account and "updated" her personal data.  The below may not be funny to anyone who doesn't know M personally, but suffice to say, my younger sister howled upon imagining our elegant, cool blonde of a sister even knowing what any of the things below are.  Tron?  Hee.  Best of all?  Everyone on her "friend list" got alerted that she had updated her personal info.

About Me:                    Nobody knows I'm punk rock.

Activities:                      Working my way through all XI Star Trek movies. Beam me up, Scotty!

Interests:                       Studying the Japanese tea ceremony; pruning; tatting lace doilies; juice fasts, general preening, TRON

Favorite Music:             Death Metal, 80's Hair Bands, early Notorious B.I.G., Enya

Favorite TV Shows:      Punk'd!

Favorite Movies:            Clueless

Favorite Books:             The Unbearable Lightness of Being; His Dark Materials; Elmo's Potty Time

Favorite Quotes:            I may not be everyone's cup of tea, but I'm somebody's glass of champagne!

Edited to add:  She took is rather well.  Wine helped.  What about you?  Any good pranks this year?  I understand that I am one of the few puerile adults running around dorkily cackling to themselves about "a really great gag, ho ho ho," but would like to think I'm not alone. 

Edited to also add:  I love the dentist.  They flatter me silly about my shapely teeth (how do I know they don't try that old line on everyone) and healthy gums.  And because I am a shameless praise whore who rarely gets told I have a shapely anything, I have already signed up for my next 6 mo. check-up, floss at the ready.

Last Edited to add: Speaking of random old-timey phrases that pop, seemingly unbidden, from my mouth -- "Slow as itch."  I've used it three times in the last week and was grossly accused this afternoon of making it up.  Google has not aided me in finding out its origin, but come on, people, you've heard of "slow as itch," right?  My older sister thinks my grandmother is haunting her (more on that later); I just think she's just whispering colorful phrases into my ear at night.   

Introspective Blather

I have rarely been so pleased for it to be Friday.  Maybe it's because it's March (or nearly the end of), or because I can't quite get my head around how quickly the year has flown by, but I am having a bit of . . . melancholy?  Anxiety?  Or I'm just tired.  Last night was a 2 am night in the working world (though on a fun new case), and when I crawled into bed besides a sacked out DK and a hard-stare-giving Topo, I found myself in the ol' worry loop.  You know, when you know the thing you most need to do is sleep, but the sleep is elusive because Mr. Brain has decided now is the perfect time to ponder doleful topics like "Is life passing me by?" and "Whither the child?" and "Am I only happy in this job because I don't know what else is out there?  Am I a coward for thinking I'm happy?" which then devolves swiftly into my plowing deep the fields of crazy:  "If I get pregnant in the fall/winter, then I could take 3 months maternity, and then maybe add an additional 3-5 months as a 'sabbatical' and we could move to France while DK works on his thesis and then I could go back to work as a senior associate and but, wait, shit, we can't go to France because of our enormous mortgage payments and god, this is what they mean by "golden handcuffs" but maybe if I stopped spending money, I could save enough to pay the mortgage and go to France and couldn't we live frugally there?  Could we rent out our apartment? What about the art? Would it go into storage?  Shouldn't I tighten the ol' belt now just in case so I can take long walks with my non-existent infant in a small French village and learn how to properly speak French instead of relying on my current half-assed high school version?"

Or something like that.  It was a boring track set on endless loop and I awoke quite worn out with myself.  I just feel like I am running out of time, like there's this compression when I look at the calendar, not just from a baby point of view (though, yes, I'd be a big lying liar to say it doesn't cross my mind), but from a doors close point of view.  It's easy to imagine taking six months off to live in France as an associate.  It is impossible to imagine being able to do so in three years time.  It is easy to imagine having flexibility regarding where we will live as an associate (with good reason, I've already gotten to move cities three times within the same firm); it is almost impossible imagining we could do so if I have long-term prospects here. And how to figure out baby and savings and mortgage payments in all of that, is, well, worry-making. 

It's not just a question of to go for partner or not.  Sometimes I just worry that my world view has just become to myopic.  The thing is, the world I know, the world of straight-forward, march-step associate hierarchy is, by its very nature, going to change.  Thus, I'm going to have to make some major decisions in the next few years that are a bit daunting.  See, I've had a clear idea of what I wanted to do as a career for many years and it has been a road that is not particularly hard to see: it is well paved and brightly lit, good signage.

Nor has my path to get here been marked by particular angst.  I went to the same small school from pre-kindergarten to senior year.  I went to the college I wanted to go to.  I studied, as anticipated, English and art history.  I worked in a law firm after graduation.  I worked for the general counsel of an internet company after that.  I went to law school and after one summer of doing public interest work, and have been at the same firm since 2002.  On paper, not particularly adventurous.  All those things happened in wide variety of locations: Kansas City, upstate New York, Edinburgh, San Francisco, Boston, Dallas, New York – which I think imbued a fairly straightforward trajectory with a sense of genuine upheaval.  And every year, my job has changed, in nature of work, the level of responsibility, the management role.  But I don't want to lose out on great opportunities (like FRANCE) because I can only see the laurel crown.  Or vice versa.  You know? 

Phew.  Happy Friday!  Well -- an interlude -- I just had a big tearful conversation with DK in which I tried to explain all the above and he basically told me to give myself a break.  That I shouldn't beat myself up for some imagined character failing or degrade our present life because I worry that I could possibly falter at some future point when choices need to be made.  His point is that the path often looks clear in retrospect, and we should be proud and happy that where we are in such a good place, with a great home and dear friends and satisfying work.  He's thrilled to finally be working on his dissertation, proud that I've earned enough doing work I enjoy to live well, buy a terrific home we love and – well, we'll make the changes we need to make as they come due.  We'll have a baby when it's right for us to have a baby (knock wood).  We'll stay or go as opportunities arise.

Can you tell DK is a wee bit more laid back than present company?   

Put like that, it's hard to continue to Eyeore around, all "woe" and "wherefore?"  But I am going to start a secret France slush fund.  Just to have a little reminder that we can do it if we want. 

House Proud

All my worry was in vain!  The very next day after writing about my trepidation that DK and I were about to enter the painting chip abyss, he paints.  As a surprise.  I came home on Monday night to perfectly coated gray walls in our living room/dining room, a grinning, sweaty boy, and a totally weirded-out cat.  Bliss!  Check it:

The BEFORE (wow, this is a lame before, but trust me, lilly white walls):

The AFTER:

We still need to tackle the long wall together, but I am thrilled. 

What the hell, here are a couple more photos of the place (someone perhaps got a new camera and has turned quite shutterbug happy).  I bought these two plates (from this great 7 sins/7 virtues set) two years ago and had this vague idea of hanging them, but they languished in their box under the bed until last week when DK hung them for me in the kitchen.  They look ten billion trillion times better against the gray background: 

Embrace the Beige, Part Deux

Remember long ago when DK and I took the plunge, like lemmings, into the abyss of paint chips?  And we fretted and pondered and debated the little swathes of paint randomly adorning our walls?  After much debate, we finally settled on a color named "Calm" for our living/dining area, an ineffable mix of light gray and cream that we so hotly debated and which has ended up looking like . . . plain old basic white.  So, yes, in essence, last June we hired someone to paint our white walls the very barest , the merest hint of off-white, a deviation so subtle that a standard parlor game for visitors has been "pin the tail on the non-painted wall." 

Now, ten months later, having finally admitted we are still living with white walls, we are back at the Herculean task of finding a paint color we both like that is neither too light nor too dark, not overly beige, but not peachy; subtle but not boring – in other words, right but not wrong.  Perhaps hardened by our last experience, we breezed in the paint store on Saturday like seasoned professionals.  No wide-eyed talk of "well, what do you think about a cheerful green?" or leafing through design magazines for the inspiring choice ("look how nice that inset wall of brown looks against the blue.").  No, we marched in, declined help, made for the fan book of paint chips (all THREE separate huge books) and got to business buying up eight different samples.  And there was almost no disagreement; we knew we liked a coffee gray, we knew we wanted it a little darker, and we knew we didn't want to engage in endless speculation about the relative merits of "Cement Gray" versus "Portland Gray" versus "Revere Silver." 

Once home, we opened up the samples, briskly daubed a finger into each tin and smeared a sample onto a piece of white paper under its name.  And then laughed, because the page looked as if eight identical paint swabs had been applied.  Here's to continuity!  Nonetheless, we both liked one just slightly more than the rest, painted a test patch, declared victory and just as I was ready to ring up the painter, DK said something about "mulling" it over for a few days, "living with it,"  "seeing it in the morning light."  Which – well, yes, good idea.  But that way trouble lies, my friends, that way trouble lies.  I know the boy, and given half a chance, he will happily engage in a quixotic pursuit for perfection, only to drive both me and himself raving mad in the process.  There is a reason we had over twenty (2-0) paint samples in our house last June.  My little questing knight, ever tilting at the windmills of aesthetics. 

So you can understand why I was ready to close my eyes and jump, hestitation be damned.  To be impetuous and paint with abandon, and in the process, neatly side-step the morass of indecision.  Sigh.  Not to be.  And sadly, DK just said something that portends certain doom. 

[The scene: 8:30 pm, Sunday night, apartment bathed in the soft glow of lamps.]

DK: Don't you think it's looking a little . . . yellow? 

[Nancy nervously follows his gaze to the 2x2 test patch on the column.]

Nancy: It's the lamps; they make everything look a little yellow.  Even the white baseboards look yellow.

DK: Right, so it looks yellow.  I don't like it so yellow.

[A beat.]

Nancy: Kill me now. 

---------------

What else?  Well, last night I had perhaps the greatest lobster roll of my life.  And friends, I do not say that lightly.  There are few things I like more than a lobster roll.  I have sought out delectable specimens high and low.  I have debated the merits of straight, buttered lobster on a roll v. the slight tang of a lobster salad on brioche.  I have read articles, searched online and debated where The Best one can be found in Manhattan.  And the answer is Pearl's. Holy moses, it is good.  I'd heard the hype of course, but baby, I am a believer now.  Huge, rich butter pieces of lobster, with the perfect touch of lemony sauce on this totally delectable buttered roll.  Seriously, whoa.   

I picked up five for take-out last night for a girl's poker night and we all ate in quiet reverence, an occasional "oh my god" thrown in.  I didn't have a particularly good poker game (luck was decidedly not a lady), but the booze and the food and the (very) late night of laughs were hard to beat. 

Is it really possibly March?

For the first time in months, I walked to the subway today sans tights, in some seriously high strappy heels, and felt positively gleeful tottering about, new colt hesitant on the busy sidewalk, in something other than boots.  Don't get me wrong, I love a good boot, particularly of the shiny delicious leather ilk, and my ever-expanding collection attests to that affection.  High heeled black, low riding shiny, low buckled brown, high ankle, stripy rain: they line up like dutiful soldiers under my hanging skirts, ready and reporting for duty, ma'am!  But as you may have noticed *cough* I'm been somewhat absent this month, and my time in warmer climes has reminded my calves and toesies of the happiness of being unhampered by layers of material.  So I'm quite jolly at these first whispers of spring in New York, though, as a quick glance out the window confirms, I may have been too quick with the boot banishment.  Bare legs in the rain?  Oh Nancy. 

Well.  It's been quite a month.  In the twenty-nine days of February, I managed to make four separate trips, so my month zipped by with many hours spent on an airplane: NY to Kansas City; NY to Hawaii; NY to Detroit; and finally, NY to LA to Santa Barbara to Ojai Valley.  And when I wasn't ensconced in the latest Sky Mall offerings (which, solid gold, people, that magazine gives me endless delight.  A plant disguised as a litter box?  A full-sized Yeti for the garden?  A globe that opens up to reveal a hidden beer cooler?  Yes, yes and yes), I've had that little niggling annoyance, what is it again?  Something about billable hours?  It'll come it me. 

So much to tell, so little aptitude to tell it. 

Let's see.  Some girlfriends and I went to this mess of an Irish pub on Wednesday. Usually, this is a crew who feels quite strongly about their champagne, so I wrote a hesitant email suggesting that perhaps Paddy McO'Neils might be the best locale for our shindig since wine was likely not an option: "Buyer beware: I think it's Guinness or it's 'I said good day, sir!'" But one friend was insistent, so we found ourselves at a table tucked away in the sea of plaid, a touch incongruous in our suits and carefully applied lipstick.  But, getting with the program, we gleefully ordered up some pints of Bass and onion rings and my single friends started furiously whispering that there were some cute ones about.  Cute, maybe, but less than charming.  At one point in the night, this drunk guy wandered past our table, stopped, turned to eye each of us up and down, and slurred, "I've just got one word to say to you fancy ladies . . . .nicccceeee."  And stumbled down the stairs to the bathroom. 

This morning it was all I could do to leave my closet.  I have a little stool tucked in there and I happily perched on it with my morning tea and admired the surroundings with the cat.  Shoeboxes! And everything hanging by color and type!  Suits over there on special hangers!  DK has been a dreamboat and spent this week organizing my closet.  [I know. Seriously.]  He ventured in on Monday and tsk-tsked over my "unused space" and too many hangers and "look at your shoes" which, I had formerly thought looked fine until I noticed that they were actually shoved on top of each other and covered in dust (see first paragraph) and all akimbo.  I usually abdicate and run when I see that organizing gleam in DK's eye, but I felt weirdly defensive and fragile to implied criticism and tried half-heartedly to shield the worst of it from him.  "It's fine! I've hung up everything! There's nothing to see here!" but the jig was up, as my scraggly sweater arm hanging past the shelf testified.  As god as his witness, my closet was going to be Improved. 

Two days later, and I think DK hung the moon.  My god, it is beautiful.  My pal K came over for dinner last night and she had barely taken off her coat before I shepherded her in to the bedroom and opened my closet door with a flourish.  "BEHOLD."  Ten minutes later, as I lovingly pointed out the cat bed tucked away on the second shelf (what? his favorite respite from the harried world of our apartment is my closet and we are nothing if not indulgent to Herr Topo's desires) and the way the light just caught the undulating waves of fabric, DK found us to hand us some wine. The three of us stood in there for a while longer, thoughtfully sipping, and admiring before I realized it was 8:30 and I hadn't started cooking. 

That's all I got.  I need to summon the strength to write two long emails and then make for the hills.  Tonight is spa night with my sister (Hooray!) and I signed up for a massage, but am now torn about whether I should call and plead to please instead get a facial.  Damn this puritanical streak that makes me feel like I should be doing something productive, like battling those ever encroaching wrinkles . . . and yet, massage? It calls to me, particularly since I got this new fancy ergonomic chair at work that, ironically, is killing me and I find myself clutching the small of my back and wincing when I get up to go to the printer.  So to fight the good fight of the pores or to indulge in some lower back kneading?  Oh these tough decisions.

Happy weekend.  I've missed this place. 

Aloha

It's been quite a whirlwind of a week.  Friday night to Kansas City, funeral and reception and dinner on Saturday, back home to New York on Sunday, twenty million work things on Monday and FLIGHT TO HAWAII on Tuesday.

Oh the sunshine is nice.  We met my parents on Tuesday night and have done our very best to relax, tell silly stories about Grandmother (like how her three rules for men were: short hair, firm handshake and no facial hair.  otherwise you might as well just be some crazy democrat (um, hi!)).  Frankly, it's so nice to be outdoors again, to go for a run in the morning before the sun gets too intense, eat freshly cut pineapple, run around clad in flip-flops and a bikini, scrunching sand between my toes.  Yesterday, the four of us toddled around the golf course for several hours, DK and Dad exchanging tips on things like the proper stance, me employing my rather more, cough, unorthodox approach, and mom acting as the world's most cautious golf cart driver and keeping us well hydrated with iced-tea-lemonade concoctions.   I have never really taken to golf; I mean, I enjoy the ol' bucket of balls out on the driving range or whacking a ball out of the sand, but frankly, when DK was obsessed with it several years ago, I politely yawned and bid him a fond adieu as he, a maniacal gleam in his eye, headed out at 5 am in the San Francisco fog. 

But now I kind of get it.  DK was playing a different type of game altogether.  A crazy man, all walking, all weather (preferably rain since it keeps the masses away), 36 holes type golf.  Whereas yesterday, I was treated to the type of golf that include nice sunny days, and a leisurely pace and zippy little carts.  Well!  Golf wasn't so bad!  I surprised myself by not being too hideous.  I'd square up, imagine a pendulum, twist the ol' wiggly around, and let fly.  And by gum, the ball went (relatively) straight and (relatively) far.  To be fair, anytime I got some good loft on my ball, I felt like I deserved a Klondike bar, so my perception is perhaps a bit generous. 

There were a few moments though when I felt my ire rising, when I may have muttered a "Jesus Christ damn it" under my breathe when my ball zipped by that elusive wee hole again.  Putting?  Not so much.  Also, the endless stream of advice wore a little thin.  When DK or Dad settled up to their ball, all silence prevailed.  A reverend hush fell over us as they torqued up.  Afterwards, there might be some discrete discussion regarding pin placement and whether the 6-iron was too much club.  But for me?  My god, the peanut gallery would not stop talking.  My choice of club was questioned, my stance, something about putting more weight on my front foot.  I'd take a practice swing or two, take a step forward and one of my party would chose then to offer up some choice bit of advice.  Not being one to suffer such indignities (didn't you hear?  I am the world's expert on absolutely everything -- even when I am most decidedly not), I would screech in a not-very-lady-like manner for them to stow it and that I didn't want to hear boo and if they were going to treat each other with such kid gloves, well, as god as my witness, I would be given the same respect.  And then I'd self-righteously stalk up to my ball and let off some stinker that headed into the water.  But occasionally, I'd do the exact opposite of their advice (DK to my dad, "She is the most stubborn woman!" Dad to DK, "You could say that") and send off beautiful, straights shots and they were very gracious to cheer me on with a  "Nice ball, girl!" or "That's your best five-iron yet!"  Plus, that sound, that perfect wonderful thwack.  Golf, I can see your allure after all. 

I left them to it today though; Mom and I contemplated another three hours and eighteen holes (really I think 13 is about perfect; 9 not enough, 18 too many, but 13-14 would be the perfect amount of golf for me) and wisely decided to get massages instead. 

Heh.  VACATION!

1916-2008

Marcelle C. Garland -- I loved her very much. 

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older,
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

May all of you be so lucky to have a person in your life like my grandmother.  She wasn't always easy, but she was truly delightful. 

Summer Daze

Oh it is a cold and rainy gray day in Manhattan today.  And, despite my pledge of healthy eating and exercise, I managed to inhale an enormous lunch while planning drinks with friends tonight, Wednesday night and Friday night. Why, she said in a rather heavy-handed set-up, it's just as if I'm learning to be a summer associate again!

Well, ho ho! As it turns out, I am going to be reliving my summer associate days in a way. In a strange, happy twist of fate, I'm going to be helping run our program this year which will translate into shepherding 45+ sweet young things through work assignments and fancy lunches, 4 am karaoke nights and sailing on the Hudson.  It sort of boggles my mind. What can I say? I'm both excited and pleased with a heaping spoonful of trepidation mixed in. I cautiously voiced some concerns to some pals (mainly about me being old as the hills and married and not all whhooooooo! parrttttyyy! and hey, what about my cases?), but as my friend E gently explained to me, my role may be more along the lines of a "smiley approximation of authority" than 24-hour party person.  To which I say, phew.   

AND.  Did I mention that part of this gig is getting totally shielded from all other work?  Work like lawyer work?  Billable work?  Briefs and memos and conference call work?  It speaks volumes of my dorkatude, but I am already a little wistful for my cases.  Nonetheless, not being one to look a Mr. Ed-sized gifthorse in the mouth, three months is a pretty nice break from the usual routine, eh?  I'm looking forward to it.

I have to say, I loved my summer back in the day.  After my first year of law school, I got a grant to do public interest work and did homeless advocacy in Berkeley.  My 2L year though, I bit the bullet and interviewed at a bunch of firms, agonized briefly over which one to chose, and ended up in the right place for me.  I worked in one of the California offices and my memories are of working quite hard actually (it's not all ice cream trips and fancy lunches), writing memos and acting truly ridiculous with my cohorts. 

Yes, there was a weekend in wine country, picnics on the beach, a retreat in LA.  All of that.  But the hands-down best event was white-water rafting.  A (now retired) partner, Larry, who I loved, led the charge every year.  Larry was a corporate guy, but was heavy heavy into Native American culture and artwork.  He devoted a huge portion of his time doing pro bono work for a tribe in Arizona and his office was covered with paintings and bronze sculptures.  He wore a heavy silver turquoise bracelet that I noticed my first day shaking his hand – and I remember thinking, "huh, interesting." (read: what kind of hippie place was this alleged "white glove" firm anyway?)

So Larry has big into the white river rafting and organized a trip up to Oregon every summer.  We – DK got to come too -- met up early in San Francisco on Friday morning, got on a bus and drove for eight hours to the campsite.  And the bus ride!  God, we had to watch endless footage of Larry on various class 5 rivers, some instruction video and, disturbingly -- Deliverance.  Yes, Deliverance – a movie that haunts me to this day.  Nothing quite says Camping Trip Woot! like backwater crazy hick rapists, am I right? 

The rafting itself was a blast, with heart-thumping maneuvering and dips and rocks and lots of water splashed everywhere.  At one point, DK pulled Larry back into the raft when he went ass over teakettle after a particuarly steep bump.  And later, we all sat around a giant camp fire passing around a bottle of hideous moonshine Larry picked up god knows where, telling stories.  We all slept out under the stars -- per mandate that the night was "too beautiful for tents." (hippie). The outfit that organized the tour woke us up the next morning with mimosas and fresh mango and sizzling bacon.  Then we sort of floated down the river (there wasn't any hard rafting that day), lolling about in the sunshine. 

I wonder if January is too early to start daydreaming of outdoorsy fun.  What's that? It's frigid out?  Right you are.  But we are going on vacation in eight short days in warmer climes.  Oh sun, old friend, can't wait to see you.