Ugly Juice::

Fetus Seeks Early Parole

2008-11-14T16:47:00.000-08:00

Things are starting to go off the tracks here. My doctor put me on bed rest Monday because she is concerned that I may go into preterm labor. I've been laying on the couch all week feeling like a total slug. I had hoped to whip through my stack of library books and maybe even get some work done from the office, but it turns out that laying around all day completely drains my energy. I am sleeping at least half the day. And the rest of the time, I have a hard time concentrating on anything. I hate not being able to get up and do things! But hopefully this will keep the little man incubating for a bit longer. It's insulting, actually, that he would want to leave the comfy little home I'm giving him. He doesn't know how good he has it in there, all warm and snuggly, eating all the eclairs he wants. He's 32 weeks old today. Here's hoping that he sticks around another two months, and here's hoping I get to move around before then...

Pregnant Lady Assaults Woman Behind Bakery Counter

2008-10-07T17:31:00.000-07:00

I have not been feeling awesome. The shingles seem to be gone--at least, the pain is gone, and the blisters are mostly gone. There are still some bumps. But my immune system is still really low, I've been exhausted, I'm fighting off viruses, my feet and legs are swollen, my back hurts, I have heartburn, and I can't sleep even though I'm incredibly fatigued. I don't mean to whine (though I will accept your pity if you'd like to offer it) -- I am merely illustrating my state of being yesterday, when the unspeakable occurred.

Having picked up some sort of virus over the weekend, I stayed home Monday and spent the day in bed. Around noon, baby began demanding an eclair. Shad was not available to deliver an eclair until after work, and I couldn't wait that long. So, as any devoted mother would do, I dragged my feverish self out of bed, bundled up, and drove down to the Wedge.

The Wedge bakery did not have eclairs.

No. Eclairs.

I stood at the counter looking like someone who'd just had her puppy run over. The lady asked if I'd like something else. Was she insane? NO, I DO NOT WANT SOMETHING ELSE SMUG HIPPIE LADY. ("I'm sorry your favorite puppy died, here, I bought you a new one.") I asked the lady to go look in the back. She looked in the back. There were no eclairs hidden on a secret shelf in the kitchen (if you can believe her). I asked if they were ever going to have eclairs ever again? Did they stop production? Were there not enough pregnant women in the city?! DO THEY UNDERSTAND THE RAMIFICATIONS OF THEIR FLIP DECISION NOT TO MAKE ECLAIRS TODAY?!?! She said she didn't think they had stopped making eclairs. You don't THINK so? GIVE ME SOME FACTS, LADY! Well, we had eclairs yesterday, she said. I felt my unborn child crying in my womb. I bought him a german chocolate cupcake, but he was not satisfied.

Is there another bakery in the city that makes eclairs? I cannot have this happen again. The only other places I've checked are Lunds and Wuollet, but they do not make them.

Minneapolis Woman Considers Relative Merits of Neck Amputation

2008-09-18T14:19:00.000-07:00

Pardon me for a moment, but I must whine. Shingles SUCKS. I am miserable. I'm sooooo itchy, and pain is shooting up and down my nerve pathways. My head hurts. My neck aches. I feel like I'm on fire. I can't concentrate. But if I take the Vicadin, as I did yesterday, then I get completely floaty and useless. I feel so sorry for old people who get this all the time. At least with my age, it is expected to go away in a few weeks. On a more practical note, I do not own enough turtlenecks to endure this disease.

Update: I realize it's melodramatic, but I must go into further description. Imagine you have hundreds of little rodents under your skin and they are trying to claw their way out. Plus the outside of your skin is on fire. And then someone is jabbing you in the neck with the freshly sharpened tines of a fork. The tines go under your skin and twist a little bit. Maybe they are barbed or something. And, just for good measure, a constant stream of lemon juice is rolling over those open wounds. Am I shamelessly begging for pity? Maybe. Not that it would help. Maybe I will go sit in the road and wait for a bus to hit me.

Unborn Child Enrolls in Tae Kwon Do Class

2008-09-16T19:52:00.000-07:00

Now that I can feel my little dude move, I am getting an idea of his habits. He is often active in the evenings. Tonight he is kicking the sh*t out of me. He's probably going to be a total night owl like his pop. I am doomed. It's so exciting to feel him move, and better still is when Shad can feel him, too. According to the Mayo web site, he weighs about a pound and a half now.

I've been hit with an onslought of wacky possibly preggy symptoms this past week. The lymph nodes in my neck are all swollen and the left side of my neck is stiff and covered in a rash. The rash has been here since last Thurs, and is not reacting at all to the cortizone I've been slathering on it. I went to the minute clinic and the lady shooed me away. (Actually, she said, "Hm. I have no idea what that rash is. I wonder if you have mono." And then said they had to be careful with pregnant ladies and gave me the boot. AWESOME.) I'm no MD, and I've never had mono, but I doubt that diagnosis. So, I'm back to the doctor tomorrow. Can I just be healthy for one minute??? On top of feeling like a total freak, and after a couple weeks of being able to stay awake until *gasp!* 11 p.m., I'm back to being exhausted again. I pretty much just go to work and go to bed, go to work and go to bed. I hate the fatigue soooo much. Books are going unread. Plants are not being watered. Clothes are not being sewn. Nurseries are not being planned. Needless to say, the fairies, particularly the dish-washing fairy, have once again abandoned the household in this time of crisis.

Anyway. I'm not sure what the schedule is in there, but here's hoping that after the 10 p.m. Tae Kwon Do class, little dude enjoys a long peaceful spell of meditative yoga. Or reads some poetry. Or better yet, goes to sleep.

Update: The doctor diagnosed me with shingles. What am I, 80? I'm sure I have never felt more attractive in my whole life.

PUNY Creates Best Web Site of All Time

2008-09-09T18:05:00.000-07:00

Kids! Parents! Check it out and tell everyone you know! The world will never be the same!

Yo Gabba Gabba!

Spouse Finds Secret Stash of Sweet Martha's Cookies Under the Frozen Peas in Back of Freezer

2008-09-08T18:59:00.000-07:00

Those cookies are for the baby! Check out that little chocolate-loving belly.

Fashion Industry Discriminates Against Pregnant Ladies

2008-09-06T08:01:00.000-07:00

At the risk of sounding snobby and petty and vain, I need to gripe about the dearth of quality maternity clothes available for pregnant ladies.

The options suck.

For some reason, purveyors of maternity wear have decided that my people must wear clothing of synthetic fabrics. They refuse to line our pants. They charge us a multiplier of what normal people would have to pay. And they have reduced us to only a handful of decent options, like Japanese Weekend, and Noppies, and...that's all I can think of. I'm told The Gap sells good stuff. I'm being unreasonably snobby about shopping at The Gap in this time of crisis. I feel like an Andy Warhol print when I shop at The Gap, wrapping myself in clothing for the masses. But it's not like I've never shopped there. And I buy clothes at Target, which is practically the same thing.

I'm no fashionista, but I do really love and appreciate good clothes. I care. I miss my wardrobe. I'm used to wearing a suit every day and the lack of quality career clothes is especially problematic. This is killing me. I am having a wardrobe meltdown several times a week. The "nice" jacket that I paid way too much for at Mimi Maternity is made of acetate or something. Pea in the Pod masquerades as this upscale shop for professionals, but it's all just rubbish, too, and their sizing is all screwy--I've been burned now three times on items I ordered from them online. I tried on two suits at Nine, a local maternity resale shop, and even though they purported to be my size, they were too small--the jacket didn't button around my boobs or my belly, and the waistband on the pants didn't stretch far enough. What good is a maternity suit if it only fits for the first four months? It's not like I'm an absurdly huge pregnant lady or something. I'd be in complete crisis were I not lucky enough to have been loaned some great clothes from my sister and some good friends. But they don't wear suits to work.

Further, I do understand, design-wise, why it makes sense to cut the necklines low, which helps accommodate a pregnant lady's ever-growing boobs. But it would be nice to wear a dress to work in which I'm not showing off all of my cleavage. Even if I am kind of proud of it.

Why doesn't anyone care about us? It's awkward enough to deal with my changing body day to day, and it doesn't help to feel frumpy on top of it. The wish list is simple. Give us some quality fabrics. Help us keep our boobs inside our dresses. Line our pants and jackets. And if you are going to charge us an arm and a leg for our clothes, give us what we are paying for.

All Clients Make Secret Pact to Call Attorney on Same Day

2008-09-05T12:59:00.001-07:00

My head is spinning off my head. I want to hide. There is only one of me, people. Just one.

Juice Inadvertently Inflicts Schizophrenia Upon Unborn Child

2008-08-29T09:39:00.000-07:00

There are so many things you can worry about as a pregnant lady if you want to. There's the obvious, of course: I've stopped drinking, I only eat fish occasionally, I am down to about three cups of coffee a week, and I no longer eat raw hamburger straight out of the package. I even passed up the rides at the State Fair. And then there are what I think of as more tertiary concerns, like no lunch meat unless you heat it up, no gardening without gloves, no unpasteurized cheeses or juices, etc. I've called bullshit on the cheese rule, and I've all but given up on gardening, so that takes care of the glove thing, but I've been pretty good about the rest. Shad's main concern seems to be the toxoplasmosis. He apparently even frets about it in his sleep. Earlier today:

Ugly Juice: [Stumbling to bathroom in early morning, SCREAMS]

Shad: [suddenly awakened from dead sleep] What!? What?

Ugly Juice: Stepped in cat puke! Ew! Ew! [hopping around on one
foot] So disgusting! Ew! Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.

Shad: Don't touch it! You'll get toxoplasmosis! I will clean it up! Wash it off right away with soapy water! I said don't clean it up! You need to use soap and wash it really good!!!

Ugly Juice: [sticks foot under bathtub faucet, runs hot water]

Shad: [calling from bedroom] I heard that! You did not run the water long enough! You need to scrub with soap! Our son is going to have schizophrenia! [within like 10 seconds, snoring]

It takes me a few seconds to register my surroundings when I wake up. I am truly amazed by his ability to immediately snap to it and assess the potential danger of the situation (no matter how outrageous I think his concern actually is) when it is something I never would have thought about at all. I am not sure exactly what this bodes for the future, but I think it indicates one of these parents is likely to be a bit more protective than the other. (I say this lovingly, of course. I am glad someone is trying to shield our child from mental diseases.)

Parents Prepare to be Peed On

2008-08-28T14:54:00.000-07:00

It's a boy!

Spouse Shows Shocking Signs of "Nesting"

2008-08-27T11:03:00.001-07:00

Witness the exchange in the Ugly Juice household this week:

Ugly Juice: Do we have any plans for labor day weekend?

Spouse: I was thinking we could clean the attic.

UJ: Uhhh, I had something a little more exciting in mind.

Spouse: Clean the attic AND the basement?

UJ: [perplexed] I was thinking we should invite ourselves up to Amy's cabin.

Spouse: Ermmmmm... I would rather clean the attic. We need to get this place ready for baby.

UJ: [Chews lower lip, speechless]

This man appears to be the same man I married seven years ago. He looks and walks the same, he still makes me laugh til I cry, he still refuses to break down his cereal boxes. And yet I am reminded of the situation in this lovely book I am reading, Atmospheric Disturbances, by Rivka Galchen, in which a man comes home to find that his wife has disappeared, leaving behind a woman who looks, talks, and behaves exactly like her--or almost exactly like her--and even audaciously claims to be her. Everyone else is fooled by this imposter, but our hero knows better and embarks on a search for his disappeared wifey. I will be keeping a very close eye on this simulacrum (delightful new word I learned while reading aforementioned book) but I certainly won't complain about his enthusiasm for cleaning the attic.

Meanwhile, I have tallied up your votes on the baby gender poll. Thirty-one of you voted, 19 for girl, 12 for boy. Roughly 2:1 odds. Stay tuned for the results, posted tomorrow!

(p.s. I should reveal here that I personally have had boy feelings throughout the pregnancy, although a few weeks ago, Greta and I almost simultaneously had dreams that it was a girl. Which naturally made me superstitious. This was the only baby dream I've had.)

PUNY Gallery Show Tomorrow

2008-08-22T09:23:00.001-07:00

Anyone looking for some Saturday evening entertainment should swing by First Amendment Gallery for PUNY's show. There will be art, there will be music, there will be fun.

Details here. And a sneak peek here.

Baby Daddy Gets Good Press

2008-08-19T15:37:00.000-07:00

Finance & Commerce published two stories about PUNY today, check it out!

"Puny" in name only: Minneapolis animation firm hits the big time.
Technical innovations take time in the world of animation.

Baby Gender Poll

2008-07-27T17:10:00.000-07:00

It's been funny not knowing the sex of the baby. When I talk about the baby, I usually phrase my sentences in a neutral way, but sometimes "he" or "she" slips out and then I get really superstitious. Seems like my friends and family all have their suspicions, too. I'll find out on August 28--in the meantime, let's vote!

Local Beet Farmer Throws In the Towel

2008-07-27T16:49:00.000-07:00

I am ready to face some sobering facts: some people are made to grow beets, and some people are not. I, sadly, fall into the latter category. I sowed four rows of beets. FOUR ROWS! Total yield: one good one, three small, struggling ones. Compare: I went to the Farmer's Market yesterday and paid $2 for four big fat beets. Why do I bother? My gardening "skills" (if I may use the term loosely) become more shaky by the day. My bean plant yielded seven beans, which I managed to destroy before I could eat (would rather gloss over the details, thanks). The cucumber plant died. The mixed lettuce patch is scraggly and grumpy looking. My lush-looking zucchini plant has one lone little squash on it. I am holding out hope for my tomatoes, which are looking very promising. Maybe my peppers will pull through, too. In the meantime, I will focus on nurturing these little baby beets.

And...speaking of babies! Hearing my baby's heart beat for the second time was no less thrilling than hearing it for the first time. I went to the doctor on Friday and everything seems to be looking good. The big news in baby land this week (Week 16) is that the baby is starting to make faces, is between 4-5 inches long, and is learning to make a fist. Also, baby had an insatiable demand for vanilla eclairs today, and I had to make to separate trips to The Wedge for the sole purpose of buying them. Yikes. Total pregnant lady behavior.

Minneapolis Household Grows and Grows

2008-07-19T08:35:00.000-07:00

We're having a baby!

Our little chicken nugget is just over fifteen weeks old, about four inches long, and, according to the Mayo Clinic's fetal development calendar, is busy growing skin and eyebrows this week. We heard the heartbeat two weeks ago, and it was the most amazing experience ever. I was speechless. The nurse pointed out some noises that she said were the baby kicking. It sounded like there was a little cardio-kickboxing class going on in my belly. Awesome. It's too small for me to feel the kicking yet, but I can't wait. The only other thing we know for sure about baby right now is that he or she has a crazy sweet tooth and demands piles of chocolate and, in particular, chocolate milkshakes almost every day. Pop is doing his best to accommodate these demands.

Needless to say, we're thrilled. I'm so excited about this little babe that I'm not even that upset about the fact that it's a struggle to stay awake past 7 p.m., I feel like I have a perpetual hangover, and I can't seem to poop properly anymore.

Sorry for the lack of updates recently. I've been exhausted from the pregnancy and have been working nearly every day in the past two months, as we've been preparing for trial. And on the one day off that I had, I had the brilliant luck of falling on my head and getting a concussion. Alas, such is the life if the klutzy knocked-up litigator.

So, I've made some observations, and I'm sure the list will grow as my pregnant belly becomes more apparent and more people feel compelled to share their opinions about my pregnancy and my choices.

One: A good 75% of the people I tell about my pregnancy ask "Was this planned?" This question seems less awkward and outrageous when coming from one of my close friends, but why do people think it's okay to inquire about the details of my sex life? And what does it mean, anyway, to "plan"? As many many women can tell you, you can hope and you can try, but you can't exactly plan. I know what these people really want to know is, is this a surprise? To which the answer may or may not be interesting, but how do they not realize how personal and awkward the question is?

Two: "Are you going to find out the sex of the baby?" Followed by EXTREMELY STRONG AND OFTEN CONDEMNING opinions about my decision. This is crap. There are good reasons to find out and there are good reasons not to find out. Just because I want to find out does not mean that I am a "control freak" or whatever else I've been called.

Three: "Do you want a boy or a girl?" I don't care. And newsflash: There is nothing I can do about it anyway.

I don't mean to sound crabby about the obnoxious questions/commentary. I'm not. People just don't realize, and it's surprising. I'm told the fun really begins once my belly gets big and people want to touch it.

Empty Candy Dish Sends Young Associate on Downward Spiral

2008-05-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-29T22:05:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-29T21:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-16T19:10:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-05T12:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-02T10:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-21T23:07:00.000-07:00

(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

2008-03-16T15:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-16T13:50:00.000-07:00

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."