My dad.

So it's hard watching your father get older.

When I was little, there was no one stronger, braver, or smarter than my dad--I think that is the way it is for most kids. When I worked in the day care, the two-year olds used to get into shouting matches saying "No, MY Daddy." There was never any context to these fights and no other words were involved (it really was the most bizarre behavior I'd ever seen--one minute they would be quietly eating paste and shoving art supplies up their noses, the next they would be screaming about their dads--I would try to explain to screaming boy one that screaming boy two also has a daddy, and then they would start yelling at me, in which case I would calmly tell them that, contrary to their belief, it was actually MY daddy). He could fix anything, knew the answer to every question and knew exactly how much milk to put in Sugar Crisp so that it did not get too soggy during Saturday morning cartoons.

But as you grow older, you start to notice chinks in the armor. The hardest day is when you realize that your dad is not super-human: he's just human. You have to learn to start relying on him less and yourself more. It's a natural part of the growing-up-and-moving-out-of-your-parent's-home thing. However, it's still disheartening to watch as your hero slowly gives up hope and accepts his own mortality; that pillar of strength that you once relied on is crumbling before you. It is in that moment when you have to become the pillar of strength for him.

My father is still the smartest man I know. And he is still the bravest, for different reasons than I thought as a kid (which was for killing spiders and getting the snake out of the crawl space): now it is a much more complex, gray-shaded version of bravery. And I still rely on him--only now he relies on me, too. Which is okay, I guess, as long as he doesn't ask me to remove snakes from the house--that's what Mom is for.

It's not wise to upset a Wookiee.

So its always interesting to watch someone assume a new position of power.

At work, we have two departments: litigation and IP. An aisle separates us physically, but the division does not end there. The two departments have taken on distinct characteristics, from the people that work there to the way they do business. IP is like a Wookiee—big, loud, irate, messy fighters; Litigation is more like a Jedi—quiet, mindful, slow to anger, but deadly.

When I was hired, IP also hired three new interns. They unconsciously established a pecking order and at the bottom of the heap was a guy we will call Anakin a) to preserve his anonymity and 2) because the name is appropriate for the story I am trying to tell. Anakin was a nice guy, quiet, reserved, oblivious to the fact that he was destined to become a Wookiee. He was a nice change from the fuzz and carnage of IP.

Until this week. IP added another grunting to the pecking order, and Anakin began his quick decline to the Dark Side. It was subtle at first, mostly explaining to the new guy how important he was to the office. Then he would loudly say hi to every big-wig and muckity-muck that would walk down the neutral zone between departments: “Hey Dan, how's it going?” “Bob! What's up?” “Great weather we're having, Dave.” “Nakamoto-san, how's it hanging?” For most if not all of these people, the response is: “…………........................” with the sounds of crickets chirping in the background while the lawyer looks at Anakin to try to figure out who this kid is and why he is shouting at him. Now he talks boisterously of polymer compounds and Chinese Law, patents and inventors. His telephone conversations reverberate throughout the office, adding to the cacophony of all the other IP lawyers discussing every intimate detail of their personal lives on speaker phone. I'm worried that the next time I poke my head over my cube, I'm going to see him standing on his desk, wearing nothing but metal sash, pounding on his chest and yelling like Chewie.

I hope the new guy turns out to be more like Luke. He’s kind of cute and I would hate to see him turn into a big hairy beast.

Care Bear Stare

So:
No matter how much you've read about a case;
No matter how expensive your matching shoes and handbag were;
No matter how many depositions you have summarized;
No matter how professional the string of pearls looks around your neck;
No matter how many expert reports you've read;
No matter how great your suit looks;
No matter how hard you examined the subject tire;
Even if you read the case file from cover to cover--

You lose all credibility in the eyes of opposing counsel if you are wearing a Care Bear bandaid on your thumb.

No, if anyone orders Merlot I am leaving....

So Jessica and I finished an entire bottle of merlot while watching the movie Sideways. Great fucking movie; the ending was a little abrupt, but the scenes with the wrecked car and the golfing place, what the hell do you call it, that place where you golf....anyway, fucking hilarious.

So I'm drinking this merlot that was bottled by Camelot--Camelot, that mythical city where everything was supposed to be perfect but love got in the way. Where peace could have existed if everyone followed their head and not their heart. (Apparently, Camelot is somewhere in Napa Valley). Anyway, I was drinking this wine and watching this movie about getting over your fear and your hurt and learning to love again and I realized that for some people that is just not possible. For some the risk is too great, or the prospects too remote. The story of King Arthur and Guinevere and Lancelot divides the world into two types of people: those who love and those who sacrifice. If you subscribe to T. H. White's version of the legend, Arthur sacrificed his kingdom and his ideals of "might for right" to save the woman he loves; a woman who betrayed him to have sex with a Frenchman. For some, the pleasure of knowing, giving, and receiving love is not in their destiny--for one reason or another, they have been apportioned a spectator role in this non-spectator sport of life. The only options are to continue in their role or end it--permanently . Both options seem equally bleak, but at least with the former you can still drink alcohol.

Preferably a good merlot. Though not necessarily from Camelot.

She's ready for her close up, Mr. DeMille.

So I love being reminded that smart does not necessarily mean intelligent.

As I've mentioned before, my sister is graduating from high school in a couple weeks. She is one of the brightest minds that our yokel Amish school district has ever produced, so she is getting all sorts of accolades and awards. One of the perks is she gets to be in those Salute to Graduate commercials on local TV, the one where all the promising young scholars pose in their cap and gown, all full of hope and ambition. (I think a much better commercial would be all those kids four years from now, when they have properly learned how to do a keg stand and how to remove puke stains from a lace camisole).

I drove Katelyn up to Cleveland to make her television debut. She actually looked very good in her little white gown (and she met a cute boy from Orrville, poor thing had no idea where that was). The final shot of the day was all of the kids together, throwing their hats in the air in the time-honored tradition. The kids were all tired (they had to be there at 8) and the director wanted to do it in one take. The director yells "Action!" and the kids all grab their hats and launch them into the air. It was quite moving actually--until the hats came down and the kids start pushing and shoving and tripping over themselves to get their hats back--while the camera was still rolling. So the director asked that the kids do it again, but this time wait until he yells "Cut!" to retrieve them. They set themselves up again, ready to toss the cap again. Only this time, because they were afraid they were going to lose the hat because they couldn't go get it right away, all one hundred or so of them either tossed their hats lightly two or three feet in the air or tossed it to the side or in front of them. This take was slightly less awe-inspiring than the first one. "Cut!" the director yelled again, clearly frustrated with the best and the brightest of Northern Ohio. He came down from his little scaffolding and approached my sister, who was near the front. He asked for her cap and she gave it to him. "Like this!" he yelled and threw the cap in the air with the gusto that only a character in a bad afterschool special about overcoming adversity to graduate top of his class could muster. He handed the cap back to my sister and said "Let me see you try." Determined to do her school, her family, the whole cotton-picking town proud, Katelyn took a deep breath, pulled down her arm and flung her cap: right into the eye of the cute guy from Orrville.

Half and hour later or so, the director finally got the shot he wanted, with Katelyn far to the right, and the boy from Orrville toward the back so that people could not see his swollen eye.

Riddle me this....

So my world is a little sadder today. While perusing IMDB newsposts, I found the news: the Riddler, the first Riddler and arguably the best Riddler, died yesterday. A great character actor, Frank Gorshin could imitate anybody, from Marlon Brando to George Burns. He is the only celebrity autograph I have.

Do yourself a favor. Go out this weekend and rent the old Batman movie (before Batman had nipples, back when the package was out on full display). Not only will you be treated to the best Riddler to date, you get Caesar Romero's Joker (who refused to shave his mustache during filming, so they just painted over it) and Burgess Meredith as the Penguin (whose maniacal laugh is very similar to my honk--it must be a bird thing).

Oo, baby it's a wild world

So I am not a big fan of nature. I prefer my nature in a scented candle, in a vase on my desk (note: if you ever get on my shit list, the most efficient way to get off the list is red tulips), or behind glass or bars at the zoo.

I am beginning to think the feeling is mutual.

Late Tuesday night, after a grueling week of finals, I was walking up to my apartment. I was fumbling in my bag for my keys when I heard a noise. Startled, I looked up and saw some sort of large albino rat type thing. It looked at me with beady red eyes. It was a possum! It made the noise again and I ran back to the car. After a few moments of controlled breathing, I said to myself: Jessica, it's just a possum. They play dead when they are scared. If you walk back now, I'm sure the thing is flopped out on the sidewalk and you can just tip-toe past. I walked back slowly to the sidewalk. The possum was still there, seemingly undaunted by my presence. The damn thing was sitting between me and the stairs to my apartment. I thought for a moment about taking the long way around, but then I remembered in terms of the hierarchy of the world that I was (supposedly) superior to it. So I stood my ground. I phoned a friend in my hour of need to ask the million dollar question: possums are a) friendly b)unfriendly c)rabid or d)the most deadly creature on the planet. He suggested running at it, like a game of chicken. I told him I couldn't: the whole point of chicken was to try to get the other side to call your bluff. This possum already knew that he had nothing to fear from me. He suggested yelling at the possum. I took a few steps toward the possum, took a deep breath, and said "shoo". The possum flicked its tail, considered my words for a moment, and then came running at me. I screamed and ran the rest of the way down the sidewalk, dropping my handbag. When I turned around again, I had another thought: the reason that Man is the top of the hierarchy is because we have weapons. I picked up my handbag. My plan was simple: I was going to use my handbag to attack the possum, like an old lady would fend off a mugger. I looked at my handbag: I had received it free with purchase from Bath and Body Works; it was small with short handles. In order for it to be effective as a mace-like-weapon, I would have to get really close to the varmint. But before I could contemplate this further, the future roadkill advanced toward me again! Terrified by the bloodlust in his eyes, I threw the only thing I could get my hands on: my handbag. The bag sailed through the air and landed just in front of my assailant. He jumped back in surprise and scampered off, back into the wild foliage that is the landscaping around my apartment. Not taking any chances on a retaliatory attack from the possum's posse, I grabbed my handbag and thundered up the stairs to my apartment.

I may have won this round with nature, but I'm not sure as to who will win the war.

My God

So my cousin asked me to be his Confirmation sponsor. I was honored, but a little confused: I am the least religious person in the family, except for maybe him. Maybe that was the reason: while the rest of my family is experiencing the divine in paradise, he and I will be drinking a long neck in the in-between, where Birkenstock sandals never went out of style and Bob Saget is funny.

Part of the confirmation ceremony involves picking a saint's name to go by. In theory, you are supposed to pick a saint that you admire, or have a connection with, or that you want to be more like, etc. In reality, most teenagers pick a name that is cool, or whatever saint their friends are going with (nothing like Catholic peer pressure). For example, I went with the archangel Gabriel, because I like the idea of an all powerful archangel, 'cause when the shit is going down, my patron saint could kick anyone else's saint in the ass. My cousin decided to go with St. Bartholomew. Why? He likes Bart Simpson.

There is always a rehearsal of the confirmation ceremony the day before, so that the sponsors can figure out what the hell they are doing and so the confirmation "takes" on the first try. But, since I do not live in the same state as my cousin and I am a busy, busy girl, I could not attend the run-through. So on the holy day, my aunt gave me a sheet of paper with my instructions on it. Before we walked up the aisle, she whispers to me "Oh, by the way, the bishop might ask you a few questions. Good luck!" What kind of questions? Religious questions? Theology questions? Math questions? As we sat in the pew, I asked my cousin. He said he didn't know, he hadn't paid attention during the warm-up, his mother was taking notes and he had brought his Gameboy. When it was finally our turn to go up, I felt like Eve after she had eaten a bit of the Red Delicious: very exposed and very naked. We got up to the bishop, who was wearing a pointed hat with flames (he would have done well in punk band). I placed my hand on my cousin's shoulder. The bishop said "What name have you chosen?" "Bartholomew" "Bartholomew, receive the holy spirit" "Amen". It was over before you could say original sin. As we turned to walk away, the bishop said "Why did you choose the name Bartholomew?" We both froze and turned back to face the bishop. I tried to rack my brain for some tiny bit of Catholic knowledge, but all I could come up with was a yellow cartoon character and an exclusive island resort. My cousin glanced at me, his eyes pleading for an answer. I know he was thinking the same thing I was: can the holy spirit be taken back? I could see it now: the Bishop, throwing his pointed hat to the floor in disgrace, drawing an upside down cross on my cousin's forehead and saying "Tirips yloh eht eviecer" while the man who holds the Bishop's crozier used it as a hook from an old Vaudeville act to haul my cousin and I off stage. Finally, my cousin piped up "He was an apostle." The sad part was I didn't even know if this was correct. "An underrecognized one" I added. The bishop nodded and said "He lived for his faith and he died for his faith, you should do the same." With a slight bow, we both hurried down the aisle before the bishop recruited us for martyrdom.

It's always a good idea to start your adult life as a Catholic with a lie. To a Bishop.