Empty Candy Dish Sends Young Associate on Downward Spiral

My assistant has a candy dish. She keeps it out in the open so that anyone can get at it, which I suppose is fine SO LONG AS she is there to replace whatever they take so that there is more for me ME! when I need it. But it should be OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE that since she is MY assistant, I get DIBS on the last kit kat after hours. This is simple etiquette! Who are these barbarians??? They all have their own assistants who chose, for whatever selfish reasons, not to provide a candy dish for them. That is NOT MY PROBLEM.

Anonymous-Looking White Guys Put on Blue Shirts and Infiltrate Firm

I've long held a theory that if you are holding a clipboard and act like you know what you are doing, you can probably enter a lot of places from which you would otherwise be excluded. Shad has a similar theory involving carrying a computer monitor--it is applied in situations where you need to explain the need to park illegally. In fact I had such confidence in this theory in undergrad that I regularly parked in front of Murphy Hall on Church Street, an area that is not even close to being a legal parking spot (and that is conveniently located within a four-second walk to the front door of the J-school) with the intention of explaining that I was delivering a computer monitor if I was ever caught. Somehow I was never ticketed, which simply emboldened me. Now that I am old and wizened, I feel proud of Young Anna's audacity; I'm sure now that I wasn't ticketed because whoever was in charge--They--assumed no one would be stupid enough to park on the sidewalk in front of the building unless there was a damned good reason for it.

I digress. Here is the story: I work in a big firm, but I do recognize my coworkers. Yesterday I saw two men milling around my floor whom I did not recognize. But they were wearing blue button-down shirts, which gave me pause. They must be lawyers, right? This is the uniform of lawyer-dudes. (If my current workload lets up I am going to walk around the firm and conduct a survey of shirt colors. I'm guessing 60% blue; 30% white; 10% other.) But I was suspicious; I was not going to be tricked by the blue shirts. I conducted an investigation and eventually found seven contract lawyers locked in a room reviewing documents. (Four of the seven (57%) were wearing blue shirts.) So, they say they are contract lawyers, but I believe it is actually a cabal of blue-shirt vigilantes who are emptying all the paper trays and staplers when I'm not looking.

Senior Partners Remember Young Associate Works For Them

Shit! Here I thought I was going to be able to continue hiding in my office reviewing documents forever. In fact, I came to realize that I didn't want to do anything else. I decided I simply didn't want to do anything hard. Possibly ever again. (A therapist might say, pityingly, that this was merely an attempt to empower myself.) But then work starting coming. And coming. Suddenly I am facing a bunch of deadlines and am reporting to seven different people. I miss the old days.

It occurs to me that the definition of "mid-week" changes the longer you practice law. Right now, for example, I like to define mid-week as "sometime Thursday." But I seem to be working for an attorney who defines mid-week as "Tuesday morning." I respectfully dissent, since I know for a fact that she regularly works Saturdays, which, I think, should allow me in good faith to turn in that project on Friday morning.

To complicate matters, I apparently volunteered to host a sock puppet show at some point during a debaucherous evening a few weeks back. This of course is a story line we've seen before, with slight variations, involving me and that wondrous punch at the Red Dragon. When I got into my car the following morning, I faced one of those sobering situations where the CD player blared out of the speakers as soon as I turned the key; glancing at the passenger seat I found a black headband of unknown origin. I slowly began to remember tromping through The Wedge the night before with a couple of girlfriends, wearing these ridiculous headbands, making plans to return in one week to see how many hipsters had picked up on the trend. Pleased to have solved the headband mystery, I declined to unravel the rest of the night: the karaoke, the random acts of craftiness, the offer to host a sock puppet show one month hence. I sighed, put the headband away, turned the radio down, and drove to work. I was reminded of my obligations when an invitation was mailed in mid-April, inviting a crew of crafty puppeteers to the show.

But no fear! I have put quite a bit of thought into the sock puppet show. After considering several worthy candidates, from Chekhov to Twain (and including one of my own authorship, ultimately jettisoned and rightly so), I have decided--I think--on an ancient Greek tragedy.

Minneapolis Woman Lazily Passes On Someone Else's Poached Fish Recipe

Due to the boring state of my current affairs and a lack of imagination or energy to stir up drama in the mundane, I am reduced to posting a recipe. It's quick, easy, and elegant. I picked it up from The Minimalist in the NY Times. There's even a nifty little video.

It's possible that the main reason I enjoyed this dish is because I made it with halibut, and in my household, we thoroughly enjoy our halibut puns.

Halibut you'll never guess what I picked up at the store. I'm going to poach it in white wine and butter, just for the halibut. Go on, try it, halibut you'll like it. Etc.

Lettuce-Wrapped Fish

Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Several big leaves of romaine lettuce, Bibb lettuce or white cabbage
1 1/2 pounds thick white fish fillet (rockfish, cod, hake, snapper), in pieces about 3/4 to 1 inch thick, 1 inch wide, and 2 inches or less across
1 cup white wine, approximately
2 to 3 tablespoons butter.

1. Bring a large pot of water to a boil and salt it. Take as many big, intact leaves of lettuce or cabbage as you have pieces of fish. With large outer leaves, cut out center veins 2 to 3 inches up from bottom of leaves, to the point where the leaf is more pliable; with inner leaves this may not be necessary. One or 2 at a time, blanch leaves in boiling water until they are tender and flexible, 30 seconds to a minute. Remove and drain on paper towels.

2. Put a piece of fish on each leaf and sprinkle with salt and pepper; fold or roll fish in leaf so edges overlap. It is not important to make a tight seal, but it is nice if package covers all the fish. When done, you can cover and refrigerate packages until ready to serve, or continue.

3. In a large, broad skillet or casserole with a cover, bring wine to a boil with butter. Reduce heat to a simmer and add fish packages. Cover and simmer until a thin-bladed knife easily penetrates fish, 5 to 10 minutes. Remove fish to a warm platter.

4. Over high heat, quickly reduce liquid in skillet; it is likely there will be more than there was when you started. When it is thickened a bit, pour over fish and serve.

Yield: 4 servings.

Minneapolis Woman Finally Creates New Music Mix

For those of you who have been wanting to gently nudge me on the topic for the past, oh, 18 months or so, you can thank joLynn for stepping up to the plate. She and Amy were over for dinner recently feasting on SPAM- and duck-stuffed game hens (this was during the--happily, short-lived--SPAM phase, wherein I invited unsuspecting friends over to dinner and served different variations of SPAM) and, toward the end of the evening, joLynn broached the sensitive subject of the unchanging playlist. Now the criticism is not totally fair--I did add about ten new songs to the existing mix in August 2007. But Franz Ferdinad and Kings of Leon, though I love them so, apparently grow old after awhile. (To some people.)

But let me tell you an unrelated and, of course in my opinion, fascinating, story. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it was true. I had to replace some dying tulips earlier this week. I pulled them out of the vase and tossed them out the back door.* It had snowed heavily that day, and the back yard was blanketed in about six inches of soft, sticky snow. I lobbed the bouquet into the air, and, mid-arc, each tulip righted itself and landed, like a lawn dart, straight up in the fresh snow. It was a beautiful, miraculous sight: it was still snowing, and the world was quiet and white except for these twelve red tulips standing perfectly straight up in the ground.

*I am not, by the way, in the habit of chucking all unwanted items into my backyard. But I do tend to occasionally toss organic matter into the snow in the belief that it will naturally decompose or get eaten by birds before spring arrives. Which really just basically indicates that I should move my compost bin to a more accessible location.

Mood Fouled By Simple Math

A couple of days ago I figured out how many days I have left to live if I grow to be as old as my great-grandparents. I've been feeling gloomy ever since.

Yippy Dog Moves In Next Door

(No further narrative required re headline, I trust.)

And...there's this. I didn't really intend for it to look like a cry for help. It's not. I'm just fine. Yes, indeedy.

Latest Painting Reveals Tribal Influences

My latest painting was painted from a live model. It's a strange thing to have a portrait of some random person hanging on your wall. But I'm proud of it even though it's bad. It was hard to do. So it stays.

Greta says I have "tribal influences." I can't explain why my people look like they are carved out of wood.

Offended Cheese Avenges Self

I hosted a little soiree at my place last week, for which I picked up a chunk of creamy--and extremely stinky--cheese. Thinking that the taste would compensate for the olfactory assault, I covered it with a coffee cup to prevent the scent from wafting across the room. I roasted garlic. I lit candles. Nothing doing. Finally, in an extremely misguided attempt at eradicating the problem, I picked up the stinky cheese and chucked it out the back door.

I did not realize that it landed on the steps leading to the garage. (Where it lay. In wait. Perfectly poised to cover the bottom of my shoe at the moment I least expect it.)

Let's back up to Friday morning. We are filing some papers on Monday, and the partner I'm working with sent me an email asking me to "take a quick look" at a particular issue.

Now, any young associate knows that these words are the kiss of death. (Followed closely by "I know there is a case out there that says X. Find it.") The issue, of course, is never "quick."

I set to work. The partner sends me an email in the afternoon looking for an answer. I need a lot more time. There are several bases to cover. There are nuances. And most importantly, the law has not been saying what we want it to say. Oh, and another thing: I am terrified of this attorney. Only because I greatly respect her. And of course I want her to think that I'm smart and a worthwhile human being, and I just get myself all panicked and worked up when I don't feel like I'm doing an awesome job for her (which is all the time). So I go down to her office, tell her what I found so far, and tell her I'll need more time to look at x, y, and z. She agrees those things should be looked at. She asks me to get a memo to her by tomorrow (Saturday) afternoon. She tells me the issue I'm looking at is going to be used to write a footnote in her brief.

A footnote.

I'm back in my office researching. At 4:19 I get an email from her, asking me to look at one other thing while I'm at it. I reach for my letter opener and notice that my assistant has astutely hidden all sharp objects. The messiness of my hair is directly proportionate to my level of frustration. At around 7 p.m., I pack up all of my things and take them home. I drink an entire pot of coffee between 8 p.m. and midnight. I go to bed at 1:30. I have dreams about working for another partner in the office. He praises my work. He tells me I'm brilliant. He can't believe his good fortune at having me work as his associate. I wake up at 6 a.m., brew a pot of coffee, and am back in front of my computer at 6:04. At 8:30, I pack up my things to return to the office.

I grab my briefcase, throw on my coat, and head down the sidewalk to the garage. On the bottom step, I feel a great squeeeeeeesh under my foot. I stop. I close my eyes. I definitely smell something. Looking down I see that the chunk of stinky cheese has attached itself to the bottom of my shoe, squished around the sides of my shoe, and embedded itself in that little seam between the side of the shoe and the sole. I grab a twig and attempt to scrape it off. The cheese has powerful adhesive properties. I yank the shoe off and scrape the sole against the retaining wall. The main chunks are gone, but this is an extremely creamy cheese. And, I have not done right by this cheese. I have cast it out to be tormented by birds and squirrels. This cheese has a chip on its shoulder. It has been insulted, rejected, snubbed, exiled! Summarily deported without a trial! This cheese seeks revenge, and who can blame it?

My car fills with the smell of this insidious stinky cheese. The smell follows me out of the car, across the parking ramp, down the elevator, through the skyway, into Dunn Bros, out of Dunn Bros, down the escalator, across the foyer, up the elevator, onto the 27th floor, and through the security doors. I slip into the break room, and thoroughly scrub my shoe with hot soapy water in the sink. I spend the rest of the morning in my socks.

The memo is written, but I can't send it on because my research is not saying what I need it to say. I keep looking into every nuance, make sure every base is covered, desperately try to think of what thing I have overlooked that will open the door to this most brilliant of footnotes. My fingertips perform a series of calisthenics--rap on my desk, mess my hair; they meet each other to form a temple, thumbs attempting to drill a hole in my forehead: Think, think, think!

At 11:30, my phone rings. It is the partner. I stare at the phone. I can't pick it up. What can I tell her? I don't have what she needs! I have a 7-page memo telling her all of the reasons not to write the footnote! I stare at the phone as it rings three times. Finally I pick it up. My voice cracks a little bit as I say hello.

"I decided not to write the footnote," she says. "You can stop researching."

"Oh." I clear my throat. "Good."

Perfect Storm Converges in Minneapolis Bathroom

Former roommates know I have two (I swear! Only two!) peculiarities: (1) I hate when food wrappers/remains (particularly banana peels) are thrown anywhere but in the kitchen garbage, and (2) I get extremely panicky when I think someone else has used my toothbrush.

The toothbrush thing can be traced pretty far back, but was definitely exacerbated in April 1998. I was studying in London for the semester, and a group of us traveled to Scotland for a week. We took an overnight bus out of London, and by the end of the next day had hitchhiked to the southern point of the Isle of Skye, far from any convenience store. As we settled in to a little hostel at the foothills of the Cuillins, Theresa noticed that she had forgotten her toothbrush. Somehow, I suppose because I was her closest friend on the trip, this became my problem. "Come on," she said, "just let me use your toothbrush." My response was not a word. It was more like a deep rumbling in the throat. She pressed on: "It's no big deal. It's just like kissing. You would kiss me, right?" Sharing a toothbrush is NOT like kissing. It involves an extreme digging up and swapping of germs. But, I was also empathetic. It drives me nuts not to be able to brush my teeth. And we were in the boonies; she had no other choice. I sighed. "Sure, I would kiss you," I said.

The next week, back in London, I was dealing with red, swollen gums. If I brushed my teeth too hard, they bled. I asked Theresa oblique questions about communicable diseases. I became paranoid that all of my roommates were using my toothbrush. I bought a new one. I boiled it every few days. I slept with it under my pillow.

Toothbrushes come in these wacky colors that help you identify which one is yours, which is nice. The color of our toothbrush is one of the many small but frequently changing details that we have to keep track of in our daily lives, along with our pin numbers, location of our car keys, approximate amount of gas left in the car, etc. etc. etc. Of course this would be easier if I committed to a toothbrush color and stuck with it, but that's boring. And my spouse is on his own toothbrush cycle sometimes (like, say, he went on a trip and lost his old brush so had to get a new one), so there is of course always the danger that in a few overlapping weeks, we could end up with the same color, and then I have to remember some secondary identifying factor, like the brand of the brush I happen to be using these three months. I try to avoid this scenario by picking up slightly obscure colors (like, say, orangey-yellow). I think what I'm trying to say here is that since I get a new toothbrush every few months, I don't get too attached, and I'm not so concerned about picking it out of a line-up; I just remember enough basic details to identify which of the two brushes on the bathroom sink is probably mine and which one is probably not.

Which, of course, can be complicated by the addition of a roommate (Greta is living here for awhile).

Voila. The perfect storm: