Tales from the Shark Tank

I have a new measure for how busy I’ve been. It is the state of my kitchen sink. I love to cook. It is a way to relax, work of steam, meditate, and play. The natural result of this passion, of course, is dishes. On a normal day I can run the dishwasher twice. If I’m really going to town, it can be three times, for a household of four. Sometimes I feel like I should have a dipstick to measure the depth of the mess I create.

In the last three days, I have yet to create a single load of dishes. Granted, there are lots of leftovers, so I wouldn’t be making pots dirty anyway. But no one’s been home, so there are no glasses. We’ve indulged in lots of carryout, mostly because automotive follies have had me running from here to Timbuktu every evening, but still….. Tonight I had a choice between getting oriental to go and having time for a much-needed walk. I chose the walk. Tomorrow evening I’m gaming, so dinner will be problematic yet again. It always is on gaming nights. So it looks like I will go nearly a week without actually cooking, which is just weird for me. And I can tell it by the lack of dirty dishes. The dish-stick does not lie.

Yes, that’s right. Day, not days. I’ve been busting my behind to finish this grant proposal, because NIH waits for no one. If it isn’t shipped out on April 1, then we might as well sit on it until August 1. Not good. But as of this afternoon, it is, in the main, done. Oh, I’m sure there will be corrections to make, and one bio sketch remains, but those are little things. I am certain, now, that it will be ready to go to FedEx on time. My son has spent the last two days with his grandparents to their delight and his. I must say, the thought of moving away from the ever-ready grandparents fills my heart with something greatly resembling terror.

So then what, you might ask, could be bad? I’ll tell you. My car.

The day of the great tire debacle, it had gone in for three things: a thumping tire, an oil change, and a transmission fluid leak. The only candidate the mechanic could find for that last was a loose clamp, which he replaced, and indeed no more signs of trouble appeared for a bit. That changed today. It seems I left calling cards in the form of pink puddles on the ground hither and yon, including at the lab where I do my grant writing, my own driveway, and, when I first realized what kind of trouble I was in, on my mechanics parking lot. The transmission stuck itself in 2nd gear. I’m told that condition actually has a name. It’s called “limp mode” and it is entirely apt, because that’s what the creature does. It limps, slowly and painfully, but it does move. It began to do this in the parking lot outside the lab, but I kept going…not, as intended, to pick up my son, but instead the half-mile to the mechanic.

The upshot is that it will be getting a new transmission pump, and that I am driving a rental car for a few days. The mechanic didn’t have a loaner that he trusted. It’s a hassle, but y’know? There’s good there too. We can do it. We don’t have to agonize over the financial aspect. It’s just a car, and once again, no one got stranded, no one got hurt, and Joseph was safe and sound with my folks. So on balance? I’d have to say it was a good day.

I heard a most interesting exchange this afternoon. The context has been concealed to protect the clueless.

Her: “There method in my madness…or maybe that’s madness in my method.”

Him: “What’s the ratio?”

Her: “Hard to say. They’re too well emulsified.”

Murray’s comment to the birthday/ anniversary post was “Is there a lawyer in the house?” Those who know Murray will be completely unsurprised that therein lies a tale. It comes from my wedding, which Murray attended.

Meeting family expectations in at least some things, we did a full formal wedding in the synagogue, with the requisite photographer. As is usual at such events, the photographer was taking posed pictures of the wedding party. Those involved a light tower about 15 tall, which unbalanced and began to fall over. Had it succeeded it would have fallen on top of one bride and a clutch of bridesmaids. It did not complete it’s trajectory, as someone - I believe Murray, but I’m not entirely sure - grabbed it and set it back upright. I am sure of Murray’s comment immediately after disaster had been averted. It was “Is there a lawyer in the house?”

We later counted, concluding that there were upwards of 30 lawyers and at least half a dozen judges in attendance…one of whom, of course, was Murray.

I found this article. It fascinates me. Everything I read in my dinosaur phase about fossilization, indeed everything I’ve read since has looked like paleontology had a handle on the fossilization process. Soft tissue might leave an impression in stone, but that was all; anything tangible was long gone. Now, forced to break a bone in order to transport it, they find things not that simple. In a matrix that could be dissolved in plain white vinegar, there was tissue that is still pliable, with what may be discernable cell structure, very similar to tissue from the leg bones of a modern ostrich. Jurassic Park was entirely fiction. This is better. This is real.

Ah the wonders of modern technology. I’m sitting in a bun-n-run, letting my small son run off a chunk of small-boy energy with another little boy in an indoor playground. I must admit, noisy though they are, I like the concept of them. It means on a day of penetrating damp drizzle and cold such as this one there’s still a way and a place for the run-arounds.

Yesterday was my husband’s birthday. In the usual progression, today is our anniversary. I had quite an amusing conversation with my father-in-law this morning about the definition of “old”. He said that old is 10 years older than whatever age you are, thus defining it for himself as 83. I allowed as how that did not make sense to me, as I do not consider 56 old. I define old as anything more than 50 years beyond my current standing. Since that would 96, we agreed that it would suit us both. And the marriage? It’s at 18 years and counting, and we keep referring to it as a lifetime contract with option to renew. Who knows; maybe by the time it becomes a concern science will have actually figured out a way to make that work. If not, I’ll find my own. I’m known to be stubborn that way. We went out for Mexican at a place we haven’t been to much since we moved to the other side of town. For you local types, I recommend La Margarita highly. Anything you might want they will make as you wish, which mean that if I so desire I can get fajitas without the bell peppers. For me, that’s a rare treat indeed.

There have been assorted adventures since last our intrepid reporter put fingers to keyboard. The plague, otherwise known as intestinal flu, has run through the house over the past week, hitting first Joseph, then me and now our housemate. You know a first-grader is really sick when he takes no fewer than three naps of no less than two hours duration in the course of the day, then goes to bed for the night at the usual time and sleeps straight through. He wanted constant contact with the mama, which I was more than happy to oblige him in. So what if the laundry waited a couple of days? Some of the day I spent with him curled against my leg like a kitten while I worked on the laptop, and some with him actually in my lap. I’m pretty good at letting my mind wander while my body is still; I don’t get bored under such circumstances. A little stiff, perhaps, but not bored. I’ve had that knack since grade school ,and while it has gotten me in some trouble when I drifted into dreaming in class, sometimes – like last weekend – it’s very handy.

I had a note last week from Joseph’s teacher. Asked for words that contained a long “I” sound, he included “nigh” in his list, and insisted it was indeed a word when she questioned. He even used it correctly in a sentence. Where had he learned it? I’m afraid all I said was “I’m a medieval historian. I use it myself. It’s among the least of the archaisms in my active vocabulary.” The exchange was by e-mail, so I’m not sure what she thought of that. I can imagine, though. Just when she thought she’d seen everything….

And other than that? I’m grant-writing frantically. I’ve reached the conclusion that I don’t know yet how to estimate time for the project. Every time I think I’m a couple hours away from finished, I put in a couple more hours, look it over, and think I’m a couple hours off completion. In theory, we were supposed to get some help from a state program to assist new grant-writers, but while they did recommend that we receive the assistance, there has been no contact from them since. I’m thinking they got swamped. Fortunately, I’d never expected help from them, and kept working instead of waiting. So I get to just keep plugging away until it’s done, I guess, working on it every spare minute until it’s done. I don’t have much longer. It has to be postmarked April 1 come hell or high water. Somehow that date seems very appropriate. When I was 10 I made sponge cakes, supposedly a difficult task, as much as anything because no one told me I might not be able to. I seem to have undertaken my current project with much the same cheerful optimism. Being me, it will get done. And then, being me, I’ll dive right in and do it again.

When my son came home from school this afternoon, he found me esconced in my usual chair, computer in my lap. I like to work here, especially when he’s home. He can play with all his toys and I can do whatever I can concentrate enough to do. Sometimes that isn’t a heck of a lot, but that’s another story.

Today, however, he decided to stage a protest. He asked my help in getting something he couldn’t reach, then as soon as I set aside the computer sat down on the chair right in front of it. He was very careful not to bump it, but still blocked my access. Then he grinned at me. That grin should appear as an illustration of the word “impish” in the dictionary. Not being a total fool, I asked him if he was making sure I had to pay attention to him instead of the computer. His response? “Yep!” as the grin went from impish to unmistakably smug.

My kid is no fool either.

The person for whom I’m writing grant proposals has hired another friend to help organize his papers, filing (lack of) system, etc. He’s realizing that if someone from any of several federal agencies should audit the facility, it would fall short in some areas. Nothing has fallen through the cracks, nothing has been done wrong, all the records have been kept…but it’s so disorganized that it is not possible to prove that. And that’s what happens in an audit; you have to prove you’ve done nothing wrong as much as that you’ve done everything right.

The person he’s brought in is someone who has known me since my teens, and has no hesitation in talking about it. She remembers when I first walked away from private legal practice and what I said at the time. She remembers what I said when I was trying to bear a child and instead miscarried. She remembers the people I’ve mentored, and knows how each of them turned out and what they’re doing now. She remembers helping me plan my foster-sister’s bridal shower when I neither liked nor trusted the man she was planning to marry. In short, she remembers everything I remember, and many things I had forgotten. Until this afternoon, I had not realized the extent to which she’d been watching and listening, not only to me, but to people who know me and talk about me. She knew, for instance, that my husband is working out of town, and made the connection that I am essentially single-parenting during the week, though I’d had no chance to tell her myself.

So it is interesting to hear what she thinks of what I’m doing now. She asked me today if I’d tried to go back into private practice, with the comment that she thought it would be very hard for me. She knows I have no detachment, and reminds me of it. She is of the opinion that I need to work for people with whom I need not watch my back, because they won’t stab me. They’ve been stabbed themselves, she observes, and know about it. And she’s right. I’m not good at watching my back. I don’t attack anyone in that fashion, and don’t expect to be attacked. I will care about the people I’m with, whether it is wise or not, so better to choose an environment where that won’t be destructive. She pointed out a great many things, very gently but very clearly. I can’t argue any of it; she’s right on target. Now I need to ponder what I’ve seen, there in the mirror she held up.

Back when the cast and then the wood-soled shoe came off my foot at the end of October, the doc advised me to purchase a pair of high-stability running shoes to protect the bone from reinjury. I did that promptly, and wore them until the snow came. I gave over at that point because the shoes are mesh. They are intended for runners, not walkers like me, and are well ventilated to prevent overheating. In the snow, that translates to soggy feet. The snow didn’t really last all that long, though, and when it melted I went to put on my walking shoes again.

One problem. One shoe was where it had been put, in my closet. The other was hiding. I hunted. I tore the room apart. I began cleaning madly, in the process disposing of much junk that needed it. I was glad to see it gone, but still the shoe did not appear. Meanwhile, I took up walking again as the weather warmed above the low double digits. I didn’t have my good shoes, but I had others. Trouble was, I kept on walking until I had blisters. Finally I decided that I would simply acquire another pair. They’d wear out eventually, and by then, hopefully, I’d have found the peripatetic member of the first pair.

No need. It finally turned up last night. I picked up my son’s pop-up tent to find a better place for it. The bag seemed to weigh too much for the contents, though, so I started peeling apart the layers. There, nestled deep in the spiral of nylon and net was a shoe. My shoe. The one I’d been looking for since January. In some bemusement, I pulled it out, to find that it too felt odd in my hand. Tipping it provided the cause, as a veritable cascade of super-balls rolled out of it. It seems that a certain small boy had decided that the very best place for his collection was mommy’s shoe. The super-balls have another home, and I must admit I am glad to have both my shoes again. And the tent? I’m listing it on freecycle. The best place I can find for it is someone else’s house.

By this point, anyone who bothers to read knows who Terri Schiavo is. She’s the woman in Florida who has been the focus of an endless legal battle over whether or not she should be permitted to die. She herself cannot understand this battle, cannot make her feelings known - if indeed she has any recognizable emotions. She has not had a conscious, cognizant moment in over a decade. At this point, she is mostly a symbol.

There are people who, under the banner of Christianity, are attempting to block any effort to let her die in any way they possibly can. They are led by her parents, and I’ve no doubt that they love her and think what they are doing is best for her. I can’t see it so, but mine is not the opinion that counts. But as I watch this play out in what I hope for everyone’s sake are the last days of the battle, I can’t help but think of an old client of mine.

She was (and still is) a single woman, who has chosen to live her life with her oath-sister. Years ago she was scheduled for some kind of surgery, and she knew well enough that if anything went wrong, there would be enormous fighting among the factions of her family over what to do. She didn’t want that. To add to it, there was a case currently active in Indiana very like the Schiavo case, with a fundamentalist attorney spearheading an attempt to prevent doctors from letting a profoundly brain-damaged woman die. Like Terri Schiavo’s parents, this woman is a devout born-again Christian. Unlike them, she does not consider death the ultimate enemy. So she came to me for a living will, and gave me very precise language to put in it in regard to her right to die with dignity. She said “As one who has accepted Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior, if he calls me home, then I wish to be free to answer his call, nor am I minded to delay.”

She came through her surgery just fine. She’s moved to another state. I’m not sure what she’s doing at the moment; last I heard she had decided to sell her sheep farm, but I don’t know what came after that. But I have never forgotten what she said, nor what I learned from her. I just wish I could convey that to all the people who have involved themselves in the circus that has grown up around Terri Schiavo.