Watching the Incredibles, I learned that superheroes shouldn't have capes. Capes are an occupational hazard that can lead to traumatic consequences. However, now that I have reached superhero status in my own personal life, I have to admit, a cape seems like a necessary accoutrement. If I were a superhero with an outfit appropriate to my station in life, I think I would still choose to have a cape. Also, I would like thigh high boots, and lots of spandex.
As a matter of fact, after my day today, lady suits and high heels seem somehow anti-climactic. Why, you ask? Well, I had my first real hearing today. Okay, so it lasted less than 30 minutes and I only spoke very briefly. In fact, I did much more talking with the other lawyers in the hallway before the hearing than I did in the actual hearing which, as it turns out, has a lot to do with how law is practiced in real life. Still, I stood up, in front of a judge, and asked for something. And I got it. The fact is, that as a result of my involvement in this particular case, at this very moment, a little girl is at home with her mother after 377 days in foster care. There is still one more child who has not yet been returned to her mother but, because of my speech to the judge this morning, she will have more contact with her mother than she has been allowed to have before. I have to say, I feel like a major success.
I did have a new outfit. I have to admit, I looked pretty awesome. Thanks to TJ (Maxx, that is), I had a brand new lady suit. Still, I feel the more appropriate way to dress a world-changing dynamo like myself is in figure-flattering spandex and thigh highs. And whether or not a cape is an occupational hazard for people who are swinging from buildings and saving people from crimes, I think that, in my particular circumstance, it is appropriate. I just go from courtroom to courtroom, reuniting families and generally changing this sad, sad world for the better. Today, when I stood up and asked the judge to return a child home to her mother and to ensure the well-being and eventual return of the second child, I changed the world. Because of me, because of all the hard work I did and the fourteen hour days I put in to prepare for this, a family is much more whole than it has been for more than a year. And hopefully they will have the tools to deal with each other better than ever, and they will thrive. I have to say, I feel like I definitely had a role in making things better for all of the people involved. And I need a costume that reflects my new-found role in the world. Maybe if the costume had a little glitter, too. I like glitter.
*Disclaimer: Although I am telling this story from my own perspective and this narrative centers around my role in these proceedings, I do not wish to cause offense to any of the other people who were involved in making this hearing successful. I have a clinic partner and a supervising attorney, all of whom worked very hard in this hearing and made the end result possible. As I have mentioned before, blogs (as well as Facebook, MySpace and Twitter and any other internet networking source) are inherently vain, self-absorbed things and I do not mean to infer that I was the only person working on this case although, admittedly, I do spend the majority of my time focusing on myself. Just to be clear.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Eleventh Commandment
When I flip through other people's blogs (as I sometimes do) I notice that many of them revolve around two main themes: (1) religion, and (2) families. It seems like pretty much every single blog has to do with one of these two things. Although I love family photos in matching Ralph Lauren polos and two golden retrievers as much as the next person and am waiting with baited breath to hear about the family trip to pick this year's Christmas tree, I am not in the family way. I am also not going to turn my writings into a Bible study of sorts. If you are into either of these things, this blog is not for you. If you click "next blog," you will quickly and effortlessly be transported (most likely) to another blog full of religion and family outings. If, however, as I suspect, there is a market for the non-religious, non-familial blog post, please, read on. I do apologize, though. Although this blog (fortunately, in my opinion) is neither of these two things although, for a few moments, I will discuss a little a bit of Southern theology, courtesy of my enlightened grandfather (who, it must be said, graduated in the top ten of his high school class--which would be a remarkable feat if there had not been only nine people in the class to begin with).
On Thanksgiving, after a family dinner, which is always full of various stresses anyway, my sister's new husband, Kyle, stood up and cleared her plate as well as his own. This irritated my grandfather, who accused her, among other things, of being a bad wife and a bad Christian. He would get her a Bible and she would see. When she replied that she already had a Bible and that she was perfectly capable of reading and interpreting it on her own, he insisted that the Catholic Bible is different (read: inferior) to the Bible that Baptists read. Unfortunately, this always launches him into a tirade about a specific verse in the Book of Matthew where we are told that we should call no one father except the Father in heaven. He even went so far as to call the priest in his neighborhood Catholic church to ask him about the verse and to tell him that how very wrong he was. My grandfather was surprised to know that the priest had read this verse and that he did not find it particularly troublesome and that, when parishioners called him father, he did not lose any sleep at night over it. My granddad thinks that, because Catholics call their priests "father" that they are all heretics and will die a fiery death. Okay, he didn't go that far--but he did say that we don't know how to read our Bibles. If we did, we could see that, as everyone else knows, that it was written down thousands of years ago in the Good Book that a wife must always pick up after her husband. On this point he was most adamant. The Bible says so. Even though my grandmother (a very sensible but somewhat cold woman) told him that she had read the Bible, too and that she had seen nowhere that a wife was required to clean up after her husband. Of course, I know that my grandfather is wise and all-knowing and that, somewhere in the Bible, there must be a passage that reads that "Thy wife shalt clean up thy husband's dinner dishes." Moses probably chiseled it onto the back of the stone tablet where he wrote the other ten commandments. Either that, or God spoke it out of the burning bush, or wrote it in the sky when he parted the sea. It seems to be an important enough point that any or all of these things are equally likely. Thank goodness my granddad told me.
On Thanksgiving, after a family dinner, which is always full of various stresses anyway, my sister's new husband, Kyle, stood up and cleared her plate as well as his own. This irritated my grandfather, who accused her, among other things, of being a bad wife and a bad Christian. He would get her a Bible and she would see. When she replied that she already had a Bible and that she was perfectly capable of reading and interpreting it on her own, he insisted that the Catholic Bible is different (read: inferior) to the Bible that Baptists read. Unfortunately, this always launches him into a tirade about a specific verse in the Book of Matthew where we are told that we should call no one father except the Father in heaven. He even went so far as to call the priest in his neighborhood Catholic church to ask him about the verse and to tell him that how very wrong he was. My grandfather was surprised to know that the priest had read this verse and that he did not find it particularly troublesome and that, when parishioners called him father, he did not lose any sleep at night over it. My granddad thinks that, because Catholics call their priests "father" that they are all heretics and will die a fiery death. Okay, he didn't go that far--but he did say that we don't know how to read our Bibles. If we did, we could see that, as everyone else knows, that it was written down thousands of years ago in the Good Book that a wife must always pick up after her husband. On this point he was most adamant. The Bible says so. Even though my grandmother (a very sensible but somewhat cold woman) told him that she had read the Bible, too and that she had seen nowhere that a wife was required to clean up after her husband. Of course, I know that my grandfather is wise and all-knowing and that, somewhere in the Bible, there must be a passage that reads that "Thy wife shalt clean up thy husband's dinner dishes." Moses probably chiseled it onto the back of the stone tablet where he wrote the other ten commandments. Either that, or God spoke it out of the burning bush, or wrote it in the sky when he parted the sea. It seems to be an important enough point that any or all of these things are equally likely. Thank goodness my granddad told me.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Five Minute Feminist
For the record, I just want to say that I am not a feminist in any form or fashion and, generally speaking, I regard the mere word—feminist--with a shudder. It seems almost dirty. It puts me in mind of scary he-women who stomp angrily around the earth with a permanent chip on their shoulders and talk a lot about how much they hate men. Some even hate sex. Believe me, I am not one of these people.
In fact, I grew up in a family with traditional gender roles—and I like it. Generally speaking, my parents have two fights. I will recount them for you, in all their gory details, here.
1. Let it first be said that my dad very much enjoys power tools. And tractors. And my mother really likes her garden. It is a fight that brings my mother to tears almost every year when my dad takes the chainsaw to her crepe myrtle.
2. My mom does the cooking and cleaning, including washing the dishes. Sometimes, though, women and machinery—like garbage disposals—do not mix. Every so often, my mom gets something stuck in the garbage disposal, and my daddy has to come fix it. “God damn it, Amy,” he always says. Which, I have to admit, is a nice change from “God damn it, Katie,” which he says much more frequently.
Traditional gender roles have dominated my life. As a born and bred southerner, I like these things and take pride in ritual. I look forward to having and raising children, and fully expect to host a number of dinner parties and Thanksgiving dinners for family and friends. I don’t care for manual labor and expect to be exempted from these tasks.
That being said, I am an educated person. I am going to be, if not the primary breadwinner in my future family, a major part of it. I don’t have anything against stay-at-home mommyhood (and, if it was an option for me, I’m not sure I wouldn’t jump on the opportunity), but I fully expect to work for a living.
Also, I hunt and fish with the best of them. Which brings me to the problem I’m going to address today. On Friday, I went hunting with Andy at some old family property near home. My granddad owns quite a bit of land, inherited from distant property-owning relatives, and he, the founder of the family business, believes strongly in hunting and fishing---and in his granddaughter’s access to hunting and fishing. I was hunting at one piece of property, near a big, beautiful oak tree that I have dubbed Grandmother Willow (I am well aware, of course, that she is NOT a willow), and Andy was hunting a few miles down the road at my great-great grandmother’s property. I got in my stand at like 12:30, and sat all afternoon without seeing much more than mosquitoes, several choice specimens of the elusive gray squirrel species, and three turkeys. I wasn’t discouraged, though. I knew that things would just get better and I had a good amount of faith in my spot and the set up of my stand. Around 3:30, I knew things were just getting good, so I stayed really still, my excitement mounting with every passing minute.
Just after 4:00, I heard a lot of rustling. That’s weird, I thought. It’s not a squirrel. Definitely not a deer. What on earth could be making all that noise? Within a couple minutes, I saw the rough silhouette of something I have never before seen walking through the woods: a trespasser. Without a moment’s hesitation, I set down my bow, climbed down from my stand, and marched purposefully across the bottom, past Grandmother Willow and up to the stranger. I did not consider at the time the potential dangerousness of marching up to a strange man unarmed and demanding that he leave my property immediately. Hands on my hips, I walked straight up to him and asked, loudly and clearly, “who the hell are you?” He told me that he was the son of a groundskeeper my granddad employs. I told him to leave. Immediately. He was apologetic, but I was furious. I texted Andy, complaining. I knew my hunt was ruined, but I got back up in my stand, hoping that in the last hour or so I had until dark that things would improve and that I might at least see something.
At about 4:50, I hear more un-deerlike rustling. Then I spotted the second trespasser: the groundskeeper himself. He, in full camo, walked right up to MY stand with a rifle (in a non-rifle county before general firearms season opened---completely and totally illegal—not to mention the trespassing and attempting to hunt in MY stand). I asked him to leave and he tried to have a conversation with me. Asked if I had seen anything and how long I’d been there. I was so mad I was shaking. Told him to leave, and, finally, he did.
The biggest injustice didn’t happen until the following day, when I called my granddad to tell him about the trespassers, the rifle, and the sheer injustice that they felt that they were entitled to hunt in my own personal stand.
“What are you doing in a tree?” was the first question he asked. I was a little surprised, I wasn’t the one who had done anything wrong, after all. I was where I was supposed to be.
“Hunting,” I told him. I mean, duh.
Granddaddy went on to lecture me about the impropriety of a girl hunting from a stand. After all, he says, you can hunt just as well from a truck in regular clothes. All this camo and tree stands, he told me, was good for business, but, frankly, unnecessary. Especially for a girl like me.
But he didn’t stop there. Not only was it dangerous for silly little me to hunt in a tree (after all, I could fall!), but he also had another beef: Andy was too far away from me. “What would he have done if you had fallen?” he demanded. “Who would have known?”
For one thing, no one would have known regardless. If we had been on the same property, I wouldn’t have been visible to him anyway and, if I had fallen, he wouldn’t have known til he came to get me. I told my granddad as much, but he wasn’t convinced.
Apparently, hunting from trees is acceptable for men—like my dad, my uncle, and my brother---who is four and a half years younger than me. But, for silly little girls like me who just don’t know what they’re doing (and, furthermore, are unable to tell the difference between muzzleloaders and rifles), tree stands are unacceptable.
This isn’t about hunting. This is about me being a young, healthy, physically fit adult who is perfectly capable of doing many of the same things as my male counterparts. I can do all sorts of things. I may not be able to win a logging contest or something, but, let’s face it, what value would THAT have anyway? There's also a relatively large number of things I wouldn't WANT to do--but, if I put my mind to it, I could, and I do not appreciate being told that I can't. It's not like I climbed up trees with spikes in my boots or something. I mean, there was a ladder involved.
Please excuse my rant. I can't help it. I'm not a feminist, but just for a few minutes I wanted to stand up for my I don't appreciate feeling like a silly little goose of a girl who can't do anything that requires any level of skill. I'm not a feminist, but a little girl power is almost always in order. The Spice Girls had it right after all.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Gas Fire, a Memoir
On a Saturday not so very long ago, I went grocery shopping with my mom and got a little inspired in the spice aisle. Frequently this happens to me--it seems like there's a whole world of different tastes out there and, if I can just master the combination of a variety of them, I can come up with some sort of masterful dinner creation that will wow Andy and inspire poetry in him. Or, at the very least, a proposal. Anyway, the curry powder caught my eye and reminded me in general of a summer spent studying abroad and specifically of an afternoon at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, Turkey. Once I was able to pry my sorority sister/best friend/roommate away from a chubby Turkish man encouraging her to "look into my eyes and smell my love tea," I walked past a beautiful display of spices, piled high in huge ceramic pots. The smell is one that I have grown to associate with Turkey--and curry was one of those spices.
My mother, a curry hater, wrinkled her nose when I put it in the cart. But I put it in the cart regardless, determined to master the art of Thai cooking. Andy loves Thai.
I spent the drive back to school the following Monday morning musing about my recent spice inspiration and dreaming up all of the interesting things I could make with it. The possibilities felt intoxicating, and I was eager to put Mitzi, my KitchenAid mixer, to good use. I decided that the first thing I would do would be to make a breader to fry chicken with, just as an introduction to the culinary art that is cooking with curry. As a spice, it was relatively foreign to me--which was part of the mystery and intrigue that I felt whenever I pondered the possibilities. I spent several unproductive clinic hours envisioning what I would use to create my perfect fried curry chicken breader--it would include flour (of course), a little egg, a little milk, some smoked paprika, salt, and some curry powder. I tasted the breader and it seemed pretty good to me. Definitely worth a try. I knew that, like all recipes, you generally have to make them a time or three before you really get the science down. I wasn't swayed. I knew that if I was brave some sort of culinary masterpiece would prevail.
I got my smallest frying pan out, because, lets face it, I wasn't exactly preparing to feed an army. Cursing my crooked burners (they've been that way all along), I put a bit of oil in the bottom of the pan and turned on the burner. While waiting for it to heat up, my phone started to ring. It was Andy--and I never miss a call from Andy if I can help it--so I answered. We were chatting, and I was covering up my chicken with my brilliant breading when I bumped the frying pan.
Big mistake #1.
Because the left side of the burner faced lower than the right side, a little oil sloshed out of the side of the pan. "I'll call you back! I HAVE A FIRE!" were literally the words I screamed at Andy as I hung up on him, and threw the phone down on the counter.
I know you think that, in moments of crisis, you will remember all the things you learned at Girl Scout camp about what to do in emergency situations. Like, what to do if you're being attacked from behind, how not to tip a canoe, what to put on campfire burns. And how to put out grease fires. Of course, as I'm sure you know, and as, I can assure you, I knew, too, you can never, ever, never, I repeat NEVER put water on it. But of course, you won't remember. And I didn't either.
I quickly filled a cup with water and threw it on the fire.
Big mistake #2.
Instantly, I had flames that were about a foot and a half high, reaching from my stove top to the hood. My first thought: Save Betty! (Betty is my little pet bunny. A lot of haters call her "bitch bunny," but I fiercely maintain that she is simply misunderstood.)
My second thought: If if I have to call 911 to get the firefighters out here, my landlord will find out I have a pet.
My third thought: Will I have time to save Walter, my Wii, too?
Luckily, by then, I wised up a little. I threw a kitchen rag over it and turned the burner off. The flames died down and I was able to take a moment to still my rapidly beating little heart. My hands shook. My hair flew in wild spirals around my reddened face. But the fire was out.
I called my mom and, after she did the mom thing and made sure me and my Betty were okay, she told me a story, from which I gleaned two very important details:
1. One Halloween, my dad was the Jolly Green Giant, complete with green paint. If you know my dad, you know that is a very funny piece of information.
2. My parents burned down their farm.
Okay, I exaggerated a BIT on number 2. They did not burn down their WHOLE farm, but they did burn up three acres before the firemen arrived on the weekend after Halloween one year a million years ago when they were in college. When the firemen were talking to my dad, he still had a little bit of green paint on the inside of his ear. That's how number 1 ties in. Anyway, learning about how my very, very careful father set fire to the farm that he bought with the money he earned trapping muskrats in high school and saved until he had enough to buy a farm of his very own made me feel a little bit better about (1) starting a grease fire and (2) trying to put out said grease fire with water. At least I didn't burn three acres. In fact, there was no damage. My frying pan, my oven, my hood, and even my dishtowel survived, completely unscathed.
I baked my curry chicken in the oven instead. It wasn't that great.
My mother, a curry hater, wrinkled her nose when I put it in the cart. But I put it in the cart regardless, determined to master the art of Thai cooking. Andy loves Thai.
I spent the drive back to school the following Monday morning musing about my recent spice inspiration and dreaming up all of the interesting things I could make with it. The possibilities felt intoxicating, and I was eager to put Mitzi, my KitchenAid mixer, to good use. I decided that the first thing I would do would be to make a breader to fry chicken with, just as an introduction to the culinary art that is cooking with curry. As a spice, it was relatively foreign to me--which was part of the mystery and intrigue that I felt whenever I pondered the possibilities. I spent several unproductive clinic hours envisioning what I would use to create my perfect fried curry chicken breader--it would include flour (of course), a little egg, a little milk, some smoked paprika, salt, and some curry powder. I tasted the breader and it seemed pretty good to me. Definitely worth a try. I knew that, like all recipes, you generally have to make them a time or three before you really get the science down. I wasn't swayed. I knew that if I was brave some sort of culinary masterpiece would prevail.
I got my smallest frying pan out, because, lets face it, I wasn't exactly preparing to feed an army. Cursing my crooked burners (they've been that way all along), I put a bit of oil in the bottom of the pan and turned on the burner. While waiting for it to heat up, my phone started to ring. It was Andy--and I never miss a call from Andy if I can help it--so I answered. We were chatting, and I was covering up my chicken with my brilliant breading when I bumped the frying pan.
Big mistake #1.
Because the left side of the burner faced lower than the right side, a little oil sloshed out of the side of the pan. "I'll call you back! I HAVE A FIRE!" were literally the words I screamed at Andy as I hung up on him, and threw the phone down on the counter.
I know you think that, in moments of crisis, you will remember all the things you learned at Girl Scout camp about what to do in emergency situations. Like, what to do if you're being attacked from behind, how not to tip a canoe, what to put on campfire burns. And how to put out grease fires. Of course, as I'm sure you know, and as, I can assure you, I knew, too, you can never, ever, never, I repeat NEVER put water on it. But of course, you won't remember. And I didn't either.
I quickly filled a cup with water and threw it on the fire.
Big mistake #2.
Instantly, I had flames that were about a foot and a half high, reaching from my stove top to the hood. My first thought: Save Betty! (Betty is my little pet bunny. A lot of haters call her "bitch bunny," but I fiercely maintain that she is simply misunderstood.)
My second thought: If if I have to call 911 to get the firefighters out here, my landlord will find out I have a pet.
My third thought: Will I have time to save Walter, my Wii, too?
Luckily, by then, I wised up a little. I threw a kitchen rag over it and turned the burner off. The flames died down and I was able to take a moment to still my rapidly beating little heart. My hands shook. My hair flew in wild spirals around my reddened face. But the fire was out.
I called my mom and, after she did the mom thing and made sure me and my Betty were okay, she told me a story, from which I gleaned two very important details:
1. One Halloween, my dad was the Jolly Green Giant, complete with green paint. If you know my dad, you know that is a very funny piece of information.
2. My parents burned down their farm.
Okay, I exaggerated a BIT on number 2. They did not burn down their WHOLE farm, but they did burn up three acres before the firemen arrived on the weekend after Halloween one year a million years ago when they were in college. When the firemen were talking to my dad, he still had a little bit of green paint on the inside of his ear. That's how number 1 ties in. Anyway, learning about how my very, very careful father set fire to the farm that he bought with the money he earned trapping muskrats in high school and saved until he had enough to buy a farm of his very own made me feel a little bit better about (1) starting a grease fire and (2) trying to put out said grease fire with water. At least I didn't burn three acres. In fact, there was no damage. My frying pan, my oven, my hood, and even my dishtowel survived, completely unscathed.
I baked my curry chicken in the oven instead. It wasn't that great.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Here's Your Sign
I have to say, I really enjoy blogging. Sometimes its really nice to be able to talk freely and unashamedly about nothing but yourself. Although I do try to be witty and to appeal to a non-me audience, I am aware that sometimes I lapse into periods of shameless self pity and dwell on details that are probably uninteresting to anyone but myself. A blog, after all, is necessarily a predominantly selfless act. A blog isn't started to discuss things that are happening to other people, but instead to reflect on the things that have a profound impact on us as individuals. I embrace my inner selfishness every time I write and, I have to admit, I really do look forward to each post. On days when I feel like I have nothing to write, I am disappointed and frequently click the "New Post" link anyway and stare at the blank white page. When I was a kid, I felt the same way about writing stories. I would sit in class, looking down at a blank white sheet of notebook paper, and feel an inexplicable compulsion to fill it with some kind of a story. Today, years and years later, I offer you no self deprecating monologue of the sufferings of a law student. Instead, I provide a (hopefully) amusing anecdote about one of the dumbest people I have heard of since the assistant prosecuting attorney with the 377 parking meter violations. (Although, to be sure, she is a pretty ridiculously stupid person.) My fifth grade self, who was generally engrossed in writing stories about secret words discoverable from under the couch in the living room, and of romances between a character remarkably like myself and a fictional idyll of a boy who was always named Adam, would approve much more of this story-telling function.
First of all, I need to lay a bit of a foundation. I guess to have a complete picture of who I am, you should know that my parents own a business. But my dad isn't your typical business-owner. He certainly doesn't go to work in a shirt and tie. If he did, it would get in the way. A tie, in my dad's case, would be more of an occupational hazard than anything else. Much like how, in the movie the Incredibles, there's that whole discussion of how capes on superheroes are dangerous--so too would a tie be in my dad's situation. Our store sells sporting goods--specifically, for hunting and fishing. And my dad happens to be one of the best archery technicians in the country. (Imagine what would happen if he drew back a bow and his tie got caught!) My grandparents started the business back in 1954, when they dug worms themselves and sold bait and tackle out of the back of their house. Since then, we have developed into a couple of different businesses, but today our biggest business is the sporting goods store. We still sell bait and tackle--and, in fact, we are one of the largest wholesalers of bloodworms on the east coast. So, basically, I am an heiress much like Paris Hilton. See the resemblance?
Anyway, back to my story. Last night, my parents got a call from the police that the alarm was going off at the store. My dad rushed in like a superhero to see what all the trouble was about. When he got there, he learned that around midnight last night a woman was driving downtown. As I'm sure you guessed, she is not a fine upstanding woman of strong moral fiber. No, instead she is the type who eschews sobriety and responsibility in general, in favor of a looser lifestyle. She, while out for a late nightcap, was speeding negligently down the street that our store is on, crossed two lanes of traffic, went over the median, crossed two more lanes of traffic and struck a car, going the opposite direction. The man driving the car was thrown headfirst across our parking lot, where he crashed into our chain link fence, tore it down, and landed in our boat yard where we have several stacks of jon boats. The force of the accident caused Mr. Innocent to slam into the boats, propelling two stacks of them back about 15 feet, where they crashed into the opposite side fence and spilled over. Before I go any further, I feel compelled to tell you that Mr. Innocent is fine (so fine, in fact, that he came into the store today to make sure that we had all the information on the woman who hit him so that we would also be able to successfully sue the bastard) and that he seems to have suffered no permanent damage. Still, the amount of damage that the woman did to the fence and the boats totals around $17,000.
Homegirl was worried, and probably rightfully so, after seeing the driver of the other car flying through the air and soaring into our boat yard. So she did what any non-thinking completely wasted person would do who feared for nothing more than herself: she drove off. She didn't make it very far, though. Before long, her car (which was pretty badly damaged in the accident) quit running. Then, someone hit her as her car suddenly stopped running in the middle of a very busy street. When the second car accident person tried to call the cops to report the accident, she dug her hole even deeper: she physically ran for it. I bet that was a sight worth seeing.
By the time the cops got there, homegirl was long gone. The second driver gave a report to the police, but she was nowhere to be found. You may ask, how do we know that Drunky McDrunkerson was the one who hit the first car and then was involved in the second accident when we don't physically have a person to connect to the first accident, and rightfully so. It's a reasonable question and one to which I have a very satisfactory answer. It is true that, after she left the scene and was involved in the second accident it would, under normal circumstances, be hard to establish a link between the first and second accidents. Certainly it is feasible that two accidents could occur within a short distance of each other in that part of town so late at night. Well, lucky for us, it just so happens that Drunky hit the first car with such force and in such a perfect, perfect place that, not only did she cause little to no damage to the poor man who was involved, but she also left a perfectly readable imprint of her license plate numbers on his car. Apparently Drunky also has a couple other felony charges and its looking pretty likely that she will be sitting on the inside looking out for awhile after all this goes down. Good job, Drunky, at least you made it easy for the police to find you after leaving the scene. So, as Jeff Foxworthy would say....here's your sign. We appreciate you laying a trail that was so blatantly obvious that even the cops could figure it out. Also, we appreciate you having insurance---it certainly makes things a lot less messy for us, and we have $17,000 in damaged boats.
Once again, my first year torts professor has inspired me--let's sue the bastard!
First of all, I need to lay a bit of a foundation. I guess to have a complete picture of who I am, you should know that my parents own a business. But my dad isn't your typical business-owner. He certainly doesn't go to work in a shirt and tie. If he did, it would get in the way. A tie, in my dad's case, would be more of an occupational hazard than anything else. Much like how, in the movie the Incredibles, there's that whole discussion of how capes on superheroes are dangerous--so too would a tie be in my dad's situation. Our store sells sporting goods--specifically, for hunting and fishing. And my dad happens to be one of the best archery technicians in the country. (Imagine what would happen if he drew back a bow and his tie got caught!) My grandparents started the business back in 1954, when they dug worms themselves and sold bait and tackle out of the back of their house. Since then, we have developed into a couple of different businesses, but today our biggest business is the sporting goods store. We still sell bait and tackle--and, in fact, we are one of the largest wholesalers of bloodworms on the east coast. So, basically, I am an heiress much like Paris Hilton. See the resemblance?
Anyway, back to my story. Last night, my parents got a call from the police that the alarm was going off at the store. My dad rushed in like a superhero to see what all the trouble was about. When he got there, he learned that around midnight last night a woman was driving downtown. As I'm sure you guessed, she is not a fine upstanding woman of strong moral fiber. No, instead she is the type who eschews sobriety and responsibility in general, in favor of a looser lifestyle. She, while out for a late nightcap, was speeding negligently down the street that our store is on, crossed two lanes of traffic, went over the median, crossed two more lanes of traffic and struck a car, going the opposite direction. The man driving the car was thrown headfirst across our parking lot, where he crashed into our chain link fence, tore it down, and landed in our boat yard where we have several stacks of jon boats. The force of the accident caused Mr. Innocent to slam into the boats, propelling two stacks of them back about 15 feet, where they crashed into the opposite side fence and spilled over. Before I go any further, I feel compelled to tell you that Mr. Innocent is fine (so fine, in fact, that he came into the store today to make sure that we had all the information on the woman who hit him so that we would also be able to successfully sue the bastard) and that he seems to have suffered no permanent damage. Still, the amount of damage that the woman did to the fence and the boats totals around $17,000.
Homegirl was worried, and probably rightfully so, after seeing the driver of the other car flying through the air and soaring into our boat yard. So she did what any non-thinking completely wasted person would do who feared for nothing more than herself: she drove off. She didn't make it very far, though. Before long, her car (which was pretty badly damaged in the accident) quit running. Then, someone hit her as her car suddenly stopped running in the middle of a very busy street. When the second car accident person tried to call the cops to report the accident, she dug her hole even deeper: she physically ran for it. I bet that was a sight worth seeing.
By the time the cops got there, homegirl was long gone. The second driver gave a report to the police, but she was nowhere to be found. You may ask, how do we know that Drunky McDrunkerson was the one who hit the first car and then was involved in the second accident when we don't physically have a person to connect to the first accident, and rightfully so. It's a reasonable question and one to which I have a very satisfactory answer. It is true that, after she left the scene and was involved in the second accident it would, under normal circumstances, be hard to establish a link between the first and second accidents. Certainly it is feasible that two accidents could occur within a short distance of each other in that part of town so late at night. Well, lucky for us, it just so happens that Drunky hit the first car with such force and in such a perfect, perfect place that, not only did she cause little to no damage to the poor man who was involved, but she also left a perfectly readable imprint of her license plate numbers on his car. Apparently Drunky also has a couple other felony charges and its looking pretty likely that she will be sitting on the inside looking out for awhile after all this goes down. Good job, Drunky, at least you made it easy for the police to find you after leaving the scene. So, as Jeff Foxworthy would say....here's your sign. We appreciate you laying a trail that was so blatantly obvious that even the cops could figure it out. Also, we appreciate you having insurance---it certainly makes things a lot less messy for us, and we have $17,000 in damaged boats.
Once again, my first year torts professor has inspired me--let's sue the bastard!
Friday, November 5, 2010
Get Out Your Jump to Conclusions Mat
Last night, Andy and I were talking about Christmas presents. Presents happen to be one of my favorite topics, and I consider myself a most experienced and enlightened gift-giver. Unfortunately, my financial situation makes it such that I can't do anywhere near as much as I'd like to do for the people who matter most in my life but, as I may have mentioned before, I am a planner, details are my particular specialty, and what I lack in monetary resources, I make up for by careful pre-planning and strict budgets. This year, I have been saving up/stockpiling since September. Next year I hope things will be considerably easier, as I will have found (cross your fingers, ladies) gainful employment of the legal variety. Still, as for this year, times are lean and I must carefully budget and plan each and every purchase. The presents I still have to purchase are for my sister, my parents and a little more something something for Andy. My vision is that I will have a plethora of presents for him. My mom always wraps each little thing separately, so that on Christmas morning we have a mountain of presents...and this, too, is my view. Gift-giving makes me as excited as I used to be to have gifts given to me. I take lots of time to select the perfect thing for each person, listening carefully to everything they say for months before I start to plan. Basically, Christmas is a year-round process.
Anyway, last night I was talking to Andy as he drove home from a hunting trip, and we eventually came to the subject of presents. He asked if I had figured out what to get him, and I have, partially, but am always interested to catalog things that he wants for future reference--or to give suggestions to his parents for things to do for him. Anyway, he gave me a few ideas and then he said, and I quote:
"I already know what I'm getting you for your big present."
Aha! I thought, let's see what I can weasel out of him. "Can you give me a hint?" I asked, slyly. Generally when I am given hints, I am able to figure things out. And he said, and I quote once again,
"No. But it's very expensive."
Well, I have to say, that set my little mind to racing. In MY mind, although I am sure there are numerous other possibilities, "very expensive" can mean only one thing: diamond. Let's discuss the evidence I have to support this theory: he told me he was saving. His dad told me he was saving. He asked me what kind of ring I would like. We discussed what color gold (as far as I am concerned, he can pick out whatever else he wants, but I want white gold) and side stones and ring shape and everything. Also, I told him I want to get married next September (conveniently after the bar exam, but before I find out the results so I would have time to honeymoon and have parties in my--that is, our--honor before I have to be a big kid and go to work) and he talks about it, too. I also made it clear that there will be no house together until we are married, and he keeps referring to next year when we buy a house. Also, there have been other little hints in daily conversation that I have taken to mean that yes, we are soon to be engaged. Betrothed. Promised. Whatever. I am convinced against the possibility of unconvincing that Andy is the one for me and that he knows that I'm the one, too. It makes me giddy.
Let's not discuss the evidence I have that does not support this theory.
You're setting yourself up for disappointment, you may say, and rightfully so. What if I'm wrong? It's bad to set a date on these things when you have no control over it at all. I don't think I'm convinced it will be Christmas (although I'll let you know if I feel a twinge of heartbreak when I wake up Christmas morning with nothing sparkling on a certain left hand finger), but I do want to think that I'm right. A couple weeks ago I asked my mom if Andy had asked for permission yet. (I'm not proud of it, okay? Don't judge me.) She said no. But she WOULD say no. I don't think she's lying to me, but I don't think she'd tell me, either. And Andy plans at the last minute, so if he was going to ask, he would probably do it much closer to the day he actually popped the question. I love that expression. It's like it comes out of nowhere and punches you in the face. Well, under those conditions, I would be thrilled to get punched in the face, even if it was with a rather large diamond. Small price to pay, it seems to me, in exchange for a lifetime of happiness with the boy of your dreams.
So, although I am well aware that it is entirely possible that I am jumping to illogical conclusions, I jump regardless. Please jump with me, too, because I would like to spend the remainder of the time between today (November 5th) and December 25th in a tulle, flower arrangement, and venue-selecting induced stupor.
Anyway, last night I was talking to Andy as he drove home from a hunting trip, and we eventually came to the subject of presents. He asked if I had figured out what to get him, and I have, partially, but am always interested to catalog things that he wants for future reference--or to give suggestions to his parents for things to do for him. Anyway, he gave me a few ideas and then he said, and I quote:
"I already know what I'm getting you for your big present."
Aha! I thought, let's see what I can weasel out of him. "Can you give me a hint?" I asked, slyly. Generally when I am given hints, I am able to figure things out. And he said, and I quote once again,
"No. But it's very expensive."
Well, I have to say, that set my little mind to racing. In MY mind, although I am sure there are numerous other possibilities, "very expensive" can mean only one thing: diamond. Let's discuss the evidence I have to support this theory: he told me he was saving. His dad told me he was saving. He asked me what kind of ring I would like. We discussed what color gold (as far as I am concerned, he can pick out whatever else he wants, but I want white gold) and side stones and ring shape and everything. Also, I told him I want to get married next September (conveniently after the bar exam, but before I find out the results so I would have time to honeymoon and have parties in my--that is, our--honor before I have to be a big kid and go to work) and he talks about it, too. I also made it clear that there will be no house together until we are married, and he keeps referring to next year when we buy a house. Also, there have been other little hints in daily conversation that I have taken to mean that yes, we are soon to be engaged. Betrothed. Promised. Whatever. I am convinced against the possibility of unconvincing that Andy is the one for me and that he knows that I'm the one, too. It makes me giddy.
Let's not discuss the evidence I have that does not support this theory.
You're setting yourself up for disappointment, you may say, and rightfully so. What if I'm wrong? It's bad to set a date on these things when you have no control over it at all. I don't think I'm convinced it will be Christmas (although I'll let you know if I feel a twinge of heartbreak when I wake up Christmas morning with nothing sparkling on a certain left hand finger), but I do want to think that I'm right. A couple weeks ago I asked my mom if Andy had asked for permission yet. (I'm not proud of it, okay? Don't judge me.) She said no. But she WOULD say no. I don't think she's lying to me, but I don't think she'd tell me, either. And Andy plans at the last minute, so if he was going to ask, he would probably do it much closer to the day he actually popped the question. I love that expression. It's like it comes out of nowhere and punches you in the face. Well, under those conditions, I would be thrilled to get punched in the face, even if it was with a rather large diamond. Small price to pay, it seems to me, in exchange for a lifetime of happiness with the boy of your dreams.
So, although I am well aware that it is entirely possible that I am jumping to illogical conclusions, I jump regardless. Please jump with me, too, because I would like to spend the remainder of the time between today (November 5th) and December 25th in a tulle, flower arrangement, and venue-selecting induced stupor.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Geriatric Demographic and Other Revelations
Casual realizations of the week of November 1st:
1. It is generally a bad idea to use your empty soda can as a temporary trash can until you get up the energy to stand up and walk over to the real trash can. Sometimes you will forget that you have done so, wonder how much soda may be left in the can, and attempt to drink---sometimes with particularly nasty consequences.
2. Also, while driving long distances, you may be tempted to try to figure out a way to pee in the leftover drink cup sitting nearly empty in your cup holder. It is always so inconvenient to waste the time that it takes to take an exit, to find an appropriate place with a relatively clean bathroom, pee, and then find your way back to the interstate again. It's funny what you will consider when you are feeling particularly desperate. GPS travel has permanently altered my mindset on long trips. Glinda, my GPS, tells me when I am supposed to arrive at my destination and it makes me irrationally angry when a minute is added on to that time. I try to avoid this at all costs. However, for the aforementioned reasons, this is a bad idea. Disregard, and do not attempt to figure out a way to do this, no matter how many minutes it adds on to your travel time. (Don't worry--I followed my own advice in this particular instance because the possibility of an extremely nasty situation seems so likely.)
3. "I piss excellence," is an appropriate response in most situations.
4. Tang time is always a good time. I really enjoy its sugary sweetness and I can overlook the slight tinge of banana. Today at tang time, there were also coconut macaroons, teeny tiny cheesecake bites, and the standard flying WV cookies. Yum.
5. I wish my life was a musical. I would very much like to suddenly jump into the center of a group of people and dance my way down the hallway. It seems so much better than walking. This week's soundtrack song: Hall and Oates, "You Make My Dreams." Try it, see if you don't feel like dancing.
6. I am an advocate of being a bargain shopper. Before I buy something online, I frequently search for coupon codes. I also have recently discovered the benefit of coupon cutting. I always buy the products that get discounts with a grocery store MVP/VIP or whatever card and I eat or drink whatever is on special. However, that being said, there are three things you should never, never, ever consider cost when purchasing. These things are: (1) vacuum cleaners, (2) toilet paper, and (3) pregnancy tests. Spend the money on the trusted brand--you won't be sorry. Just because you can get some things at the Dollar Store does not mean its a good idea.
8. At least 75% of the things in my fridge are cheese products. The other 25% are condiments.
9. Old men are my demographic. It is always a good idea to make it a point whenever I am negotiating to address the oldest man in the room. This is a theory that has been reinforced throughout the years. At the risk of boring you, I will give one example to illustrate this point. Last summer, my sister and I were traveling home from vacation in Mexico. Our flight came in somewhere in the godforsaken midwest, and we were expected to wait through an overnight layover, sleeping on our duffle bags somewhere on the floor of the airport. Icky. I didn't want to. So when we got in from Mexico, there was a line of airline officials. I searched down the line, summarily vetoing every single woman or young attractive man, selecting instead a much older gentleman who looked a little stern. I saw through that facade, though, and sweetly asked if he could do anything to change our flight. After a few minutes of casual talk, he changed our flight without charging at all. My sister said it was masterful. Well, I have to admit, I do feel connected to the elderly. It's a gift. Be wary, though, if you choose to follow this course of action--the geriatric demographic has some downfalls, too. Sometimes they get a little touchy-feely. A slight hazard, I admit.
10. Every single girl in the world deserves a boyfriend like Andy. Okay, this realization isn't funny or even the slightest bit clever. But still, I sincerely hope that each and every girl in the world finds someone who listens to them complain, who makes them feel better whenever something goes wrong, who calls every night before bed just to say good night, and always says I love you. Every single girl in the world also deserves some chocolate, in some form, every single day, diets notwithstanding.
1. It is generally a bad idea to use your empty soda can as a temporary trash can until you get up the energy to stand up and walk over to the real trash can. Sometimes you will forget that you have done so, wonder how much soda may be left in the can, and attempt to drink---sometimes with particularly nasty consequences.
2. Also, while driving long distances, you may be tempted to try to figure out a way to pee in the leftover drink cup sitting nearly empty in your cup holder. It is always so inconvenient to waste the time that it takes to take an exit, to find an appropriate place with a relatively clean bathroom, pee, and then find your way back to the interstate again. It's funny what you will consider when you are feeling particularly desperate. GPS travel has permanently altered my mindset on long trips. Glinda, my GPS, tells me when I am supposed to arrive at my destination and it makes me irrationally angry when a minute is added on to that time. I try to avoid this at all costs. However, for the aforementioned reasons, this is a bad idea. Disregard, and do not attempt to figure out a way to do this, no matter how many minutes it adds on to your travel time. (Don't worry--I followed my own advice in this particular instance because the possibility of an extremely nasty situation seems so likely.)
3. "I piss excellence," is an appropriate response in most situations.
4. Tang time is always a good time. I really enjoy its sugary sweetness and I can overlook the slight tinge of banana. Today at tang time, there were also coconut macaroons, teeny tiny cheesecake bites, and the standard flying WV cookies. Yum.
5. I wish my life was a musical. I would very much like to suddenly jump into the center of a group of people and dance my way down the hallway. It seems so much better than walking. This week's soundtrack song: Hall and Oates, "You Make My Dreams." Try it, see if you don't feel like dancing.
6. I am an advocate of being a bargain shopper. Before I buy something online, I frequently search for coupon codes. I also have recently discovered the benefit of coupon cutting. I always buy the products that get discounts with a grocery store MVP/VIP or whatever card and I eat or drink whatever is on special. However, that being said, there are three things you should never, never, ever consider cost when purchasing. These things are: (1) vacuum cleaners, (2) toilet paper, and (3) pregnancy tests. Spend the money on the trusted brand--you won't be sorry. Just because you can get some things at the Dollar Store does not mean its a good idea.
8. At least 75% of the things in my fridge are cheese products. The other 25% are condiments.
9. Old men are my demographic. It is always a good idea to make it a point whenever I am negotiating to address the oldest man in the room. This is a theory that has been reinforced throughout the years. At the risk of boring you, I will give one example to illustrate this point. Last summer, my sister and I were traveling home from vacation in Mexico. Our flight came in somewhere in the godforsaken midwest, and we were expected to wait through an overnight layover, sleeping on our duffle bags somewhere on the floor of the airport. Icky. I didn't want to. So when we got in from Mexico, there was a line of airline officials. I searched down the line, summarily vetoing every single woman or young attractive man, selecting instead a much older gentleman who looked a little stern. I saw through that facade, though, and sweetly asked if he could do anything to change our flight. After a few minutes of casual talk, he changed our flight without charging at all. My sister said it was masterful. Well, I have to admit, I do feel connected to the elderly. It's a gift. Be wary, though, if you choose to follow this course of action--the geriatric demographic has some downfalls, too. Sometimes they get a little touchy-feely. A slight hazard, I admit.
10. Every single girl in the world deserves a boyfriend like Andy. Okay, this realization isn't funny or even the slightest bit clever. But still, I sincerely hope that each and every girl in the world finds someone who listens to them complain, who makes them feel better whenever something goes wrong, who calls every night before bed just to say good night, and always says I love you. Every single girl in the world also deserves some chocolate, in some form, every single day, diets notwithstanding.
Monday, November 1, 2010
A Spoonful of Sugar
I am prone to exaggeration. By now, you probably know that, but still, I want to preface my post with a very true statement about myself so that you know how to take some things I say in the spirit in which they are meant. That is to say, at the time I said them, I meant them with ferocity, but now, as time has faded the memory of the various injustices done to me, I see things in a calmer, more rational light. So it is with clinic.
Now that some time has passed and I have gotten some perspective, things have transformed a little. Now that I have had a terminally ill client, who we all knew was going to die any day and we had a number of ridiculously complicated things to do for her in a very limited but we weren't sure exactly how limited span of time, whose case was extremely stressful, I feel much more capable. Now that things have calmed down from that case, I have realized that the majority of my frustration was because of the mismanagement of that first case. And even though there have been some mismanaged and some extremely disorganized things that have happened since then, I can look at them a little less hatefully now that I no longer have a client who may die any day. My clients now are healthy and seem likely to survive the next fortnight, which is definitely a plus, so the work that I have to do is less desperately pressing.
This past week was pretty good. I think that I can mark last Monday as a turning point for me and my clinic experience, which is strange because really I didn't do much for clinic at all. I had gone in to school for office hours at noon which, luckily for me, tends to coincide with the lecture series that the law school offers every so often. I don't generally GO to the lectures (they are boring and I have enough class time, thank you very much) but the law school also provides refreshments after the lectures and Savannah, my clinic partner, and I tend to crash the after parties. Last Monday was no exception. Savannah was pumped because, instead of the icky red punch they have had all year, they had orange punch, which Savannah calls Tang. It is not Tang, though. It's so much more than Tang. Tang is gross; this orange punch is deliciousness, except that it does have the teeniest hint of banana, and I am allergic to banana. Anyway, after free egg rolls and mini quiche and chicken salad sandwiches and bacon wrapped chicken and fruit and veggies and flying WV sugar cookies (because what reception would be complete without them?), we were pretty giddy. After that, we went down into the clinic office. Savannah refers to these receptions as "tang time" which we generally sing to each other, rather than say. Armed with a serious sugar high, everything else in clinic seemed much less miserable. And my sugar high has lasted a week now.
In addition to tang time, Professor Umbridge is trying to butter me up. Although I still swear that we are pretty close to mortal enemies, I have to admit that the email she sent last week melted my hatred a LITTLE bit. (Just a little, though.) In the name of painting a complete picture for you and not completely villanizing the woman, I will include an email that she wrote and forwarded to the members of our clinic:
Dear Purveyor of Awards,
Now that some time has passed and I have gotten some perspective, things have transformed a little. Now that I have had a terminally ill client, who we all knew was going to die any day and we had a number of ridiculously complicated things to do for her in a very limited but we weren't sure exactly how limited span of time, whose case was extremely stressful, I feel much more capable. Now that things have calmed down from that case, I have realized that the majority of my frustration was because of the mismanagement of that first case. And even though there have been some mismanaged and some extremely disorganized things that have happened since then, I can look at them a little less hatefully now that I no longer have a client who may die any day. My clients now are healthy and seem likely to survive the next fortnight, which is definitely a plus, so the work that I have to do is less desperately pressing.
This past week was pretty good. I think that I can mark last Monday as a turning point for me and my clinic experience, which is strange because really I didn't do much for clinic at all. I had gone in to school for office hours at noon which, luckily for me, tends to coincide with the lecture series that the law school offers every so often. I don't generally GO to the lectures (they are boring and I have enough class time, thank you very much) but the law school also provides refreshments after the lectures and Savannah, my clinic partner, and I tend to crash the after parties. Last Monday was no exception. Savannah was pumped because, instead of the icky red punch they have had all year, they had orange punch, which Savannah calls Tang. It is not Tang, though. It's so much more than Tang. Tang is gross; this orange punch is deliciousness, except that it does have the teeniest hint of banana, and I am allergic to banana. Anyway, after free egg rolls and mini quiche and chicken salad sandwiches and bacon wrapped chicken and fruit and veggies and flying WV sugar cookies (because what reception would be complete without them?), we were pretty giddy. After that, we went down into the clinic office. Savannah refers to these receptions as "tang time" which we generally sing to each other, rather than say. Armed with a serious sugar high, everything else in clinic seemed much less miserable. And my sugar high has lasted a week now.
In addition to tang time, Professor Umbridge is trying to butter me up. Although I still swear that we are pretty close to mortal enemies, I have to admit that the email she sent last week melted my hatred a LITTLE bit. (Just a little, though.) In the name of painting a complete picture for you and not completely villanizing the woman, I will include an email that she wrote and forwarded to the members of our clinic:
Dear Purveyor of Awards,
"I am nominating the students in my Child & Family Advocacy Clinic for the excellence award this month.
We have eight students in CAFLC. This is the first semester the clinic has operated and the students have done an excellent job in representing clients in very demanding cases, both because the stakes were high, the issues complex, and the personal circumstances of our clients extremely dire (including our first client, a mother with a disabled child who died from a terminal illness 3 weeks after we took her case). The students have worked very hard as a team, including over Labor Day weekend, where 6 of the 8 students worked to help the client who was dying arrange her affairs to provide for the care and well-being of her disabled son. The case was extremely complex and required the students to get up to speed on a number of fairly complex issues. When our client took a turn for the worse over Labor Day weekend, students spent the weekend with Prof. Weise and myself working day and night to complete the work. The family was extremely grateful and the client passed away knowing that her child would be provided for, which took a heavy burden from her at the time of her death.
In addition to that case, students have represented families and children in cases involving family violence, special education, abuse & neglect cases, and disputed custody and child support cases. Through our students' efforts, we have obtained protective orders for two clients, each with small children; helped two families whose disabled children have been bullied and harassed by peers at their schools, and helped clients seeking to adopt or formalize guardianship arrangements for children whose parents have abandoned them.
In addition to representing individual clients, our clinic has been appointed as guardian ad litem for three children in three cases in Family Court to assist the court in deciding highly contested custody disputes. We are partners with the WVU Medical-Legal Partnership with the Pediatrics Department and our clinic students have spent time weekly in the Adolescent and Children's continuity of care clinic at the WVU Health Sciences building. So far this semester, we have provided advice and legal assistance in cases involving very young children who are struggling with life-threatening illnesses.
Throughout the semester, the students have also done a great job of community outreach, visiting various non-profits, hospitals, courts and other providers of services to children and families to establish connections and referral systems.
They have traveled to visit clients in their homes in Taylor, Upshur, and Marion counties. They have all worked hard, diligently, and passionately to make a difference in children's lives -- and they have."
Okay, so she didn't write that first line and I also took out the names of the other clinic students, but everything else in that email is verbatim. Kind of nice. Anyway, that email, in addition to tang time, has made my life a little brighter. And has also made me reconsider my course choices for next semester. To take clinic, or not to take clinic? Right now, I'm leaning towards taking it. Ironic, huh?
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