Tales from the Shark Tank

I have just hung up from one of my weirder telephone interactions.

Phone rings, I answer. Without preamble, the voice on the other end (gravelly, very forceful) begins:

“Hello, Helen? This is Ruby, and I’m telling you…”

I tried to break in. “Ma’am?” She went right on.

“…you’ve got to do something about Bubba, he’s on such a tear.”

“Ma’am” - a little louder and firmer.

“He’s taken that old truck of his and….”

She’s not stopping. Time for the back-of-the-courtroom voice.

“Ma’am, you have a wrong number!” She ran on for a few more words, then…

“What?”

“You have a wrong number.”

“Are you Helen Day?”

“No.”

“Isn’t this 123-5544?”

“No, you have your last four digits out of order.”

“You’re not Helen.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because this isn’t her number, and that’s not what my parents named me.”

And then I hung up. I am curious as to what Bubba was doing with his old truck, though. Sounded potentially interesting, to say the least.

My kitten likes chili.

How did I make this discovery?  Well, I had made myself a small taco salad, using chili blanco (chicken and white bean chili) left over from dinner, carrots, chopped fresh tomatoes, cilantro and lime juice on lettuce.  I’d eaten most of it when the phone rang.  If I remember the contents of the bowl correctly, when I left it it contained about 2 bites of lettuce, one small piece of chicken, a few tomato bits, some beans and some of the liquid from the chili.

Memory, however, is what I must rely upon in this matter, because upon my return I found an empty bowl, just receiving its last polishing from an ardently wielded kitten tongue.  She’d eaten every bite, vegetables and all, and was purring loudly enough to be heard in surrounding states.

Now if I could just convince my bipedal child that if I’m eating it, it must be the most fabulous of gastronimic delights, I’d be thrilled!

First, an apology for long delay in the posting of this. My laptop for the last week-and-a-bit has been kid-model rather than computer-variety. He’s had the nastiest ear infection I’ve seen, and that includes the ones that led to ear-tubes back when he was three. That’s another story, and he’s better now.

But before that struck we had our vacation. My deep thanks to our friends; it was absolutely wonderful, and exactly what I, at least, needed. We’ve been to the southern end of Indiana, with forays into Kentucky, and I have been over to Chicago on my own for a gathering of the musically inclined. And while I really hadn’t realized it could take three and a quarter hours to go about 65 miles, (it only took one and a half to come back) it was well worth the drive. But I suppose I really should take it in order.

Saturday the fifth we betook ourselves to Chateau Deer, the home of my in-laws. We split the weekend in our usual fashion, with Saturday devoted to my husband’s parents and Sunday to mine. (My apologies to those of my friends I did not see (which is all of them); I will see you again anon.) But instead of heading back north on Sunday evening, we stayed the night and headed out on Monday morning, given reason not to tarry by the invasion of the carpet cleaning crew inside my in-laws abode and the roofers outside. I feel sorry for my in-laws; this is their second new roof this summer, both courtesy of hail damage. But I digress. The end result was that by around noon on Monday, we were at the home of Murray and his lovely wife Kat. They moved into this place about a year ago, and have been trying to get me to come down so they could show it off ever since. It is well worth showing off. The house is lovely, with open, spacious rooms and lots of light and windows. And even though it isn’t terribly far from town - you can hear the traffic on the road - you see nothing but woods and fields. It’s incredible. It came with its own in-ground pool, which made our son fabulously happy. My first thought was that the pool was small, but I think that’s only because the surrounding land dwarfs it. When I experimented with swimming the length of it, I realized I’d lived in apartment complexes with smaller pools. And this one, thanks to meticulous maintenance, is crystal clear but not obnoxiously over-chlorinated as most public pools are. I could have floated in it for hours. In fact, I think I did. I suspect we’d have spent even more time paddling about, except that a band of thunderstorms blew in. One nice thing about having a kid who’s a weather maven - no argument about getting out of the pool when there’s a storm. At the first rumble of thunder, he was out of the water and heading for the house.
But in spite of the weather, he managed to spend hours in the water. He was usually in his swimsuit before he even came in to wake his dad, and in the pool not terribly long after sunrise each day. Bless my husband; he let me sleep as much as I needed to, which I deeply appreciated. I don’t like needing that much sleep, but that too is another story, and one I’m dealing with.

While we were there, we went into Louisville to pay a visit to a pizza emporium (which made me very sick) and the science center, which was quite interesting. They had a nice large exhibit on climate, weather and ecology and how they all interact, which our beloved son spent a good deal of time in. They even had a place where you could be the television weather man. Boychick tried it, but found the teleprompter somewhat intimidating. On the other hand, he’s all of eight (and a half, he reminds me, reading over my shoulder as I write), so I think he has a little time to develop his stage presence.

Wednesday some friends came over, bringing their two year old daughter. She’s utterly adorable, but I did feel sorry for her mother. The baby scaled Mt. Mommy many times over, and could not be distracted to another adult, even Daddy. After they left the little guy and I went back out to the pool for awhile, while Dad claimed a whole 2 hours to himself. And then we hied ourselves homeward, as my beloved husband had to be in trial again on Thursday.

Friday night was the gathering of filkers. I’ve not been able to do that in years, because of our son’s sensitivies, so I really don’t have much to sing for myself anymore. But I sang harmony with anyone and everyone, and caught up with friends I haven’t seen since our son was born. Some of that was a shock; one young lady there is 14 now, and was much taken aback when her father told her that she’d practiced walking around our livingroom when she was 15 months old. She’s about 6 feet tall, and beautiful in the way that a confident, intelligent person is…so striking in personality that it makes societal standards of beauty irrelevant. In that she very much takes after her mother.

I came home that night to find our boychick sitting up reading, saying he couldn’t sleep because his ear hurt. Since then life’s been taken up with taking care of a sick and miserable kidling, followed immediately by the last minute preparations for school to begin. That happened today, whereupon my friend whose son is best friends with ours called me up, and we went out for a celebratory lunch. I had to laugh - I spotted at least half a dozen other mothers. But we had a grand time, and got home in time to meet our respective busses.

Now I get to hit my “school’s started” to-do list. It is lengthy. Sew an outfit to meet the modesty standards of an ultra-orthodox Jewish wedding, without looking like it was designed by the head seamstress at a sack factory. Brief my wacko paternity case (for the law-challenged, that means put my arguments in writing). Draft pleadings to terminate a guardianship I helped set up about eleven years ago, pausing briefly in amazement that these folks would prefer to pay the extra to bring their attorney in from out of town than to let me refer them to someone Indy-local. Finish a cape for a new fledgling who is going off to college this weekend. (I have a bit of hem to finish, but it’s otherwise done.) Go to my newest neicelet’s christening this Sunday. All those things need to be done before September 1st. I believe I’m going to be busy.

Act I

Dad: “Son, put on pants before you open the door.”

Kid: “I’m holding pants.”

Dad: “Holding pants doesn’t count. Wearing pants counts.”

Act II

Me, in tones of great aggravation: “How did something ostensibly sent Priority Mail take 10 days to get here?”

Husband: “What did you expect of a system designed by the folks who planned the Invasion of Iraq?”

Act III

Kid: “Mom, when are you going to call (best friend)?”

Me: “What did I say you had to do first?”

Kid: “Pick up my toys. That’s ok, Mom. I can just pick up his toys.”

As previously observed, we live opposite a wetlands, otherwise known as a marsh. Lots of cool things about that; I see herons fly by regularly, and my usual nightly chorus is of frogs rather than engine noise or sirens. Deer walk by the house all the time, casually browsing five feet from my windows. It’s lovely, and very peaceful.

It is also very wet. That thing about standing water as a breeding ground for mosquitos? Probably 100 acres of it, right across the road. And boy, have the mosquitos gotten the message. I swear, they come from all over southern Porter County for single’s night. Of course, they travel by air. And I am here to tell you, these bugs are big enough to need landing lights. I’d not be surprised if they showed up on ground-control radar at Midway.

The other factor in my personal equation is, of course, the 100 year old farmhouse. It’s nice, and very solid feeling, not shaking in the least in the north-country winds that come across these open fields unimpeded. It’s also about as bug-proof as an entomologist’s lab. And since I have no desire to be the in-flight refreshments for these critters, I am sitting here typing after making due application of insect repellent…indoors. I think that sorta says it all.

Yesterday evening I went to take care of some routine medical maintenance involving a radiology lab.  Afterwards, our son asked me how it was.  So rather than tell him about details he doesn’t need, I told him about a pair of gloves at the radiology lab.  They’re full arm length lead gloves, articulated at the elbows, wrists and hands.  My comment was that “it looked like someone dis-armed a spacesuit”.  Joseph started laughing.  He’d both understood the play on words and found it funny.  Yippee hurrah!

Those of you who usually try to reach me, I’ll be out of touch from about noon today until Wednesday late afternoon.  Where I’m going, the only internet is dial-up where I don’t want to tie up someone else’s phone line, and there is no cell phone reception either.  Regular communications will resume Wednesday night/ Thursday morning.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

You’ve not heard much from the legal eagle because she was preparing to do a hearing in Jeffersonville, Indiana, a good 250 miles from home. It happened Wednesday, and the run up to it was - um - interesting. “Interesting” is, of course, one of those words.

I had thought myself well prepared long since. I knew what scant case law is out there on what is considered “support” for purposes of preventing application of the statute of limitations. I had (I thought) copies of every motion filed. Hard not to; I’d filed most of them. Then, on Tuesday afternoon, the phone rang. It was the other attorney. She’d gone to ask the judge what the hearing was actually going to be about, since there were a raft of free-floating motions. One of them, it turned out, was hers, a motion to have a DNA test done at the State’s expense. That was the first red flag: since the state has never provided assistance for the kidlet, the state can’t (by statute) pay for the test. I said as much to Ms. V.. “Oh, it’s a small town, we do it all the time” she tells me. “So long as the judge signs it, the Prosecutor’s office doesn’t care.” Umm…ok. But she was going on. “The judge said he’s already signed my order, though I haven’t seen it yet. And I know you didn’t get a copy of my motion, because I wrote your address wrong on the envelope and it came back to us. He says there’s no need of a hearing tomorrow, so he’s taking it off the calendar until he has the test results, and he’s taking your motion to dismiss on the statute under advisement. He doesn’t want to take evidence. You don’t need to drive down here. He’s kind an old-fashioned judge, thinks kids have a right to know who their parents are.” I’m thinking, “Umm…old fashioned? Truly old-fashioned would be to say ‘mother was married, husband is therefore father, and I’m not going to bastardize the kid unless I’m forced into it.’ That would be old-fashioned.” I was stunned. The statute of limitations trumps all. I’ve never seen such a motion put into limbo like that. And Ms. V. should have known better. She herself is a City Court judge. I figured she just thought she could do what she wanted because she’s a local judge. She all but said as much. “This is small-town practice, we do it pretty casually.” Ok, there’s casual, and then there’s beyond the pale. But after some discussion, protest, and phone calls, the hearing got left on the calendar. If nothing else, it would be appealable, but only if I kept the record clean, showed up ready to go and had to be told in person that the hearing was off, etc. I thought it was going to be a train wreck. I called the Kentucky attorney I was helping, told him what was going on and brainstormed with him, asked him to find case law for us since I was on my way to collect my kid from science day camp and wouldn’t get the chance, and prepared for a train wreck for which I was the engineer. That was the state of mind in which I drove south. And when I got there, that was what I prepared my clients for. (I figured out later that they hadn’t understood any of what I’d said, but that’s another story.)

And it’s not what happened. The judge was listening when I called and told his secretary “I want a hearing, and I want a record. Don’t take it off the calendar.” We had our hearing. We had our record without my asking for it. (That’s not automatic.) Clearly, my learned opponent hadn’t expected that, as she wasn’t a bit prepared…or if she was, her client had forgotten what she said. The judge took evidence. He told the other attorney not to go on with the paternity test, as the state couldn’t get reimbursed for the expense by my client (ok, I’m thinking, he’s read his case law), and that a statute of lmitations defense “trumps everything, even a positive test”. The wanna-be father shot himself in the foot with a semi-automatic weapon…which is to say that in response to his own attorney’s question, he made our case for us. The judge asked me if I wanted to file a brief with written arguments, which in translation means “counselor, please write this up and tie it into a neat package with a bow for me”, and gave me a month in which to do so. It came out as well as it possibly could have.

And I learned a few things. I learned that I can have another attorney, one whom I’ve known since I was 17, sitting next to me and not be the least bit nervous about it. I learned that despite nearly a decade out of the courtroom, I have decidedly not lost my chops. I’ve learned that I still know how to nail a point home - and when to stop pounding. I learned that I can still kick butt and take names. And that is very good to know.

My friend Dorothea has been going on at length about the need to change the basic culture of IT, and of Library Tech specifically, pointing out that it is male dominated and decidedly unwelcoming to women due to blatant sexism. It seems to me that that’s true, not just for librarianship, or even IT, but across the board. She’s called more than one group on sexist jokes. In response, she’s been asked to point such behavior out to them in the future, which she has rightly declined to do. It isn’t up to her to think for them or teach them basic manners, and she knows it.

I remember clearly the resentment when ethnic and racist jokes were becoming unacceptable in general company. It seemed to me then, and seems to me now, that what the resentment is about is being forced to think about what they’re doing. More, it’s about being forced to see outside their own small minds, forced to actually consider the effect of their words on others than their intended audience. In their own small cliques, they speak as if they were just talking to themselves, though what it says about them that they talk to themselves in such terms is another, and much longer, discussion.

This is the same issue, really; only the names have been changed. And I suspect it will play out in much the same way. I’m not sure we will ever change the way the men who have currently offended Dorothea think. I know that there were a number of older lawyers and judges (like the one who called me “little lady”) who never quite learned to take female attorneys seriously. They did learn that they had to work with us, that they had to treat us respectfully, and that the law could no longer be a “men’s club”. Now I don’t see nearly so much of the underlying attitude or patronization. When I began practice I was seen as a “lady lawyer”, and slotted into family law because of it. Now I’m as likely to be seen as an attorney who happens to be a woman. So if the boys in the IT locker room change their behavior, that is enough for me. Because if the next ones coming up don’t hear this sort of sexism as acceptable, then they won’t think of it in the first place. And that is how change occurs.