But Slenderly. . .

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.

The Enforcer

I have always been something of a priss about rules.  And though I have merrily broken many minor ones I have decided do not apply to me at one time or another, my stomach tightens and I get all antsy when Fundamental Rules are broken.  Such Rules include the obvious moratoriums on killing and stealing, but run right down the gamut to not running red lights; replacing a toilet paper roll when you use it up, not wearing a micromini and halter top to work (I'm looking at you Rachael W from Dallas – despite what Ally McBeal taught, sometimes it's not appropriate for me to see all but see your lady business during a business meeting).  But since we moved to New York, I have become an even fiercer believer in the Rousseauian social contract.  Rabid, even.

In New York, there is no wide open zone of privacy.  My walk to the subway is a negotiation in sidewalk etiquette.  The train to work is an incredibly complicated social dance.  Who will get a seat?  Can you ask that (rude) man to stop splaying out his legs so another person can fit on the bench?  Is my purse zipped up?  When it's a really crowded train, should I avert my eyes despite being pushed up against some stranger? Or should I ruefully grin to acknowledge the awkwardness?  My office is relatively private, but my door is rarely closed and I can always hear the murmur of phone calls and meetings.  Even our apartment, our oasis, is not entirely private.  The next door neighbor's yippy dogs.  The woman above who won't take off her high heels as she click-clacks about.  The person who leaves the light on every time in the garbage/recycling room.  And don't get me started on the necessity of blinds and shades and curtains when you look out on the beautiful vista of . . .another apartment building across the street.

So, being in basically constant contact with my fellow species makes the rules all the more critical.  It's the thin strand that keeps us all from going all Lord of the Flies on each other.  And when those rules are routinely flouted, well, people (me) can get annoyed.  Antsy.  Pissed off.  So when you visit New York and think, "God! People are so rude.  They are so angry."  Cut us some slack; we're constantly negotiating a huge number of unspoken social rules and quietly (or not so quietly) enforce them.  My biggest failing is my deep, dear desire to be made a hall monitor.  To be an Official Enforcer of the Social Contract by special commendation by Mayor Bloomberg.  I daydream of handing out rule lists and demerits to the guilty.  You!  Daring to walk THREE to a sidewalk, dawdling, poking along, not allowing faster people to pass? DEMERIT.

Has the social contract been forgotten?  Heaven forbid.  I actually sometimes wonder if people are just assholes or just don't know.  Well, if it's the latter, look no further.  Here are the main violations that make my head explode:

·      Do not litter. Please, throw your trash in one of the ubiquitous receptacles on every street corner. DK and I were walking down the street a few weeks ago and saw these two men talking on the other side of the street.  Heavy-set, vaguely Russian mob-like, one of the pair pulled out a cigarette and casually flicked the empty carton right into the street.  He didn't hesitate, he didn't even glance around.  Just threw the entire package into the gutter.  We both sucked in an outraged breathe.  Shameless. I muttered.  And DK, the hall monitor of all hall monitors, marched across the street, picked up the pack, waved it at the pair, and said, "What are you doing?  There's a trash can right there -- what is wrong with you?"  They looked at him like he was from Mars.  I looked at them to judge whether or not they were going to punch DK in the face.  Luckily, they were more bemused than angry and watched him march off to throw away the trash.  Sigh.

·      Let people get off the subway train car before you push your way in.  This kills me.  My old beloved assistant (Hi S! When are we getting a drink?) once told me that she actually lost it one time and bopped a woman who refused to move a centimeter to let people off the train with her roll of wrapping paper.  It made a very satisfying twoop! sound, but then S ran like the dickens off the train before fists were thrown.

·      Escalators: Stand on the Right; Pass on the Left: It's like on the road.  And I am not above employing a dramatic or two to let the road block person know it's time to move aside – a slightly sterner step (stomp), a heavy sigh heaved. What?  Passive agressive who?  Oh, me.  Yes.   

·      Stop Hogging the Sidewalk.  Let's say you are walking with your family.  It's a lovely family, I'm sure.  You, the parents, your adorable kiddies there in a pram. Note to self: you do not all need to be in a single line, a single slow dawdling line.  Walk in twos so people can pass you. 

·      Random Public Spitters.  It's gross.  Stop it.  Employ a Kleenex. 

·      Don't Blare Music, Play Your Bongo Drums, Scream, Have a Dance Party, or Drunkenly Sing With Your Loudmouth Old Frat Brothers past 10 pm at Night.  Also known as our neighbors.  And they're actually not so bad.

·      Subway Special: (a) Don't lean your entire body up against the pole.  Everyone around you wants to use the pole and we don't want your sweaty back pressed against our hand.  (b) Don't splay your legs out and put your packages next to you on the seat so you can (purposely) prevent someone else from sitting down.  It's always men who do this.  Seriously, who sits that way?  I know you're doing it to be a prick – stop it.  (c) give up the seat for the pregnant lady or elderly.  It's just the right thing to do.  (d) if it's a crowded train, move into the aisles so it doesn't turn into a horrible crush right by the door.  Yes, I'm looking at you.  Move in, already. (e) if someone accidentally steps on your foot, or their bag knocks against you, chill out.  It's a train, stuff happens.  There is no need to call that person a "fucking bitch."  Particularly if they've already apologized.  It just makes you seem like a crazy, nasty person.  (it was an accident! my bag barely grazed her! I apologized immediately!)

There's probably more, but my years of my life have been cruelly shaved away over rampant abuses of the above rules.  Your turn.  Is there a social contract rule that you dearly wish people would adhere to?  Back in my driving days, I was all about turn signal abuse.  Wow, my heart just started racing thinking about it.

This Aunt business isn't so bad

I walked into my office this morning to completely fogged-out white windows.  It's like working up in the clouds – I can't see Park Avenue at all, much less any building or slice of sky. New York has disappeared, save for the whirl of helicopters and the omnipresent faint ring of jackhammers that reach me even up on the 49th floor.  For whatever reason, the soft, unrelenting white haze has sparked me to delve into Hard Core Office Tidy.  I sent twelve binders to records; trashed stack after stack of case law (why do I keep them – for months afterward?)  I store little piles like a foraging squirrel in all sorts of little corners, under my desk, next to my drawer.  Cases with various colors of tabs and different colors of highlighting and my cryptic scrawl across the top ("+ on materiality; denies c, cite lang").  I just looked down at the pile closest to me and it says, "Ish.  statute [underlined three times] allows change-in-terms; can be disting."  Of course.  Well put.  Well, pfooosh, into the recycling bin with you!  Ish or no ish.

It's been a pretty laid back 2008, delightfully so.  DK's been battling the sick since we got back from Portland, though he's finally on the mend.  Sadly, he couldn't come down to Philadelphia with me last weekend because we have seen first hand what germs + kiddos can wreck.  And we like my sister too much to do that to her.  But it was a bummer since I was all excited about trying out zipcar together.  [do you know it? It's a great idea for city dwellers who bid a fond bon voyage to the old car and who weren't allowed to bring their Vespa with them to NYC because of "taxis" and "you'll kill yourself" admonishments.  Sigh.  Anyway, for an annual fee, you can use these zipcars for quick hour trips, or weekends at a reasonable price, all insurance, gas etc. paid for.  And you don't have to deal with some car rental hassle, just take your zipcard to the nearest location – for us, across the street – and use it to unlock the car . . . and go!]  Anyway, I was all het up about the inaugural zipcar outing and had reserved a Mini Cooper because I thought DK would have fun driving it and because I knew it would thrill the pants off my five year old nephew. 

Despite DK's malingering cold and due to a surprisingly draconian cancellation policy, I still went, just solo mio.  And damn if that car wasn't fun to drive.  So little and zippy like!  And I got to do what I love doing on car trips: namely, blasting the music really loud and singing at the top of my lungs. So I sang my little heart out, busted a move or three, spent some time marveling at how much of my brain RAM is used storing up the lyrics to 70s classic rock songs and getting terribly dumbass lost THREE times. 

At one point, I was convinced I had suffered some sort of early onset Alzheimer's or a mini-stroke because, dude, how can one girl be so dumb? Lapse in Judgment One:  I missed a big turn off.  Flew right by it. I realized it as I was passing it, cursed, calculatingly eyed the traffic around me, and chose to exercise some restraint instead of careening my car over three lanes of traffic to make my exit (how I've changed from my younger days.  Self, I barely know you).  Lapse in Judgment Two.  Then, once I got sorted and back on track, I sternly told myself to pay attention and not be a dumbass, but then, not twenty minutes later, whoosh, I passed my next important exist.  Now, say what you will about the Pennsylvania turnpike, but this is what I say: I hate you.  I HATE YOU TURNPIKE.  Because unlike most normal highways where mistakes are made and one can quickly turn around at the next exit and no one is the wiser, on the turnpike, you have to drive twenty miles before the next possible turnaround.  Twenty miles.  Anyway, I cursed like a sailor, screeched "JESUS CHRIST KATHLEEN"* and drove on.  And on.  Until finally I got to that magical, elusive exit that shimmered in the distance like a mirage. I got off and turned around and decided to call my sister.  While I was gabbing on the phone with "hate the turnpike, seriously, seriously, oh my god" I looked up and the inevitable fork in the road.  One sign said East; one sign said West.  I said, "Wait, which one? Where am I?  EAST? WEST? Marcelle!" and I couldn't think and there were cars and I took West (hint: wrong) and got back on the goddamn turnpike heading the wrong way AGAIN.  That was Lapse in Judgment Three, in case you were wondering. 

[*Kathy Griffin.]

Anyway, a sad boiling rage took over and I primal screamed as loud as I could and then, just . . . drove.  What can you do?  I just gave into my fate of being a shitty direction taker driver and drove.  West.  Some more.  Then I pulled into a rest stop and got out, shakily, and wandered inside to use the restroom.  It did occur to me around this time (now 3:00) (I left at 11:45) (it is a two-hour drive) that I hadn't eaten anything all day besides a cup of tea, which DK is fond of reminding me, isn't actually food.  So I inhaled a Danish, got a big ol' latte and pulled out googlemaps.  Turns out, I could take a back way and called my brother-in-law who guided me gently through the windy trails of northern PA.  I arrived, battle hardened, weary, but in one piece. 

I was just there for a day, but it was grand.  I went on two nice runs with my sister – which is always fun because I turn into annoying jock woman and spend the whole time swatting her butt saying "hustle up!" and "let's do this one fast."  What? She loves it.  And then I devoted the rest of the time to being Aunt Nancy Extraordinaire.  Those kiddies are so cute – Connor (5) and Vivan (2) are these little blond, blue-eyed imps.  All they wanted to do was tackle me, giggle, play hide and seek.  Vivvy isn't so hot at the hide-and-seek though she loves it. I count to ten and call out, "Where are you?  I'm going to find you" and I hear this little voice pipe up, "Here is!  Here is!"  And I find two grinning muchkins behind an arm chair.  And when she's doing the looking, we count together "One, two, three, six, nine, ten" and she trundles off, sing-song calling "Where is?  Brother, where is?"  I taught Viv how to Eskimo kiss and called her a silly goose, which she loved and would point at me and say "'Illy 'oose!"  And they both pull up their shirts to display buddah bellies for me to tickle and zerbet.  They adore being tossed on the sofa with a pile of pillows.  They have to take turns getting tossed and woe be it if I spend a hair too long tickling Miss Viv.  Connor has gotten very accustomed to having me all to himself and there was one instance of some tears and a time out and the saddest little wail of, "But Mommy, she's my Aunt Nancy! She's mine!" 

Ah me, they are cute.  Marcelle worries that she's not doing enough, is working too many hours at her job, isn't consistent enough with bedtimes or routine or discipline.  But she and Michael are clearly doing something right because they are raising two of the sweetest and good natured little tykes around.  I love being around them and feel lucky to have four of the best nephew and niecelets ever.  To the point where I routinely find myself thinking of things we can do when they're older – I planned in my head on the drive back the music compilation I'm going to give Connor when he turns twelve (all the classics he'll need to form a core collection – some Beatles, some Zepplin, some Miles Davis.  Suite Judy Blue Eyes or Sweet Home Alabama?); introducing Viv to the Nutcracker.  Taking them to try new foods and see New York through their eyes.  DK and I in the midst of planning as "Silly Topo" book for my Portland niece (another absurd dreamboat) who was fascinated by all the ridiculous things I told her Topo gets up to ("Aunt Nancy, what's another silly thing that Topo does?")  So thank you siblings for making such awesome children.  We'll try to return the favor one of these days.