Bar Blues

     Tonight I'm studying for the bar exam and obsessing over my percentage points, hoping to do well enough just to pass. Tonight Craig is working until nine o'clock (for a grand total of an 11 hour day) because he's taken a second job to support us while I study for the bar and obsess over my percentage points, hoping to do well enough just to pass. Repetitive--yes, but these are my thoughts for the next 59 days little while.  I'm grateful for all the people who've said they're sure I'll do fine.  I can only take a little comfort in that, though.  It's a hard test, harder than most others and smart people fail it all. the. time.  Granted, not so smart people also pass it.  The point is, there are people that work hard in law school and study just as hard for the bar and don't pass.
    Most of the time I've got a positive attitude and I believe in my ability to pass and blah blah blah, but this is my blog and I'll cry if I want to.  I hate that Craig is working more hours in a week than I can count without getting teary.  It's mostly today that's gotten me down.  I'm actually really proud of us both for working so hard.  I love how close we are because of all of this.  I feel sometimes like if you don't go through times like these in your marriage, you might be getting cheated because it's shown me how rock-solid we are. In fact, I think it's more normal than not to struggle at the outset.  BUT leaving aside all perspective and maturity, I will issue a preemptory warning apology:  if you talk to me about your fifteen vacations taken this year, or tell me that I just HAVE to try some new thing, or that we should make an impromptu plan for something that costs only $(insert whatever dollar amount) I may stick out my tongue at you.  I may even do a little wave under my chin to seal the deal.  I'm not mad at anyone and I am, in all seriousness, happy for anyone's success, I'm just feeling that childish at the moment.  In fact, I would love to see photos from your vacation and I do want to hear the pros and cons of a recent purchase and please, please, please allow me to take a rain check for the fun plans.  I plan on having some big fun when this is over and will be thrilled to receive the invite. Just not today (x 59).  I do, however, predict a swift and complete return to normalcy, relative though it may be. 

For Mother's Day

"A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world.  It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path."

-----Agatha Christie


I'm not a mother, so I can't speak to the truth of this sentiment from that end, but from the perspective of a daughter it feels right to me.  What a strange thing to grow up thinking that all your thoughts are your own, only to learn later that much of what felt groundbreaking, was ground already covered by your mother.   The slow revelation of a child to their parent is matched in complexity and sweetness only by the slow revelation of parent to child.  My mom was the first person I ever knew, and will be one of the few people that I can never truly know.  There are no secrets, only a cloud of a thousand points of connection that obscures a mother in a way that others aren't.  When I was a little girl and my mom would tell a story about something that happened before I was born I would ask her over and over, "But where was I?"  I could never understand how there was a time before I existed.  How could she, my mom, have been before I was?  I couldn't exist without her and it seemed unreal that she did, before there was a me. 

I've been blessed by a complicated, profoundly interested and interesting, funny, compassionate, and steely mother who has loved me enough to cover distances and troubles I couldn't conceive of as a kid.  I've been loved enough for a room of people.  When my dad died, she loved me enough for both of them.  When I've been weak and scared she's loved me into action.  When I've had my heart broken, she's loved me back together again.  The love of my mom will always carry me just a little further than I thought I could go. 

I've always adored my mom and told everyone who would listen how funny and smart she is and how my mom can do this, and make that, and knows how this thing and that works.  My mom can create a pot from clay she dug from the creek and paint it with homemade glaze. She can make straight As while working thirty six hours a weekends and being a single parent. She can grow and can the best green beans, recover from stuff that would make a weaker woman fall, and she can fix anything. She can stand up to anyone. She can knit, draw, crack a filthy joke, heal the sick, find anything online, and do the things that other people are afraid of, like moving to a new town and starting fresh.  She can get in the trenches with anyone, do voices for every pet we've ever had, learn to do everything she's ever tried to, and make someone feel like the most special creature on earth. 

She's always resisted this view of her that I hold and always maintained that she could've been a better mother and done this or that differently.  She's made it a point to never hide or deny her imperfections.  What I had, though, was space to succeed and fail and a fertile place for my imagination to grow.  I was allowed to be myself at every age and that, trust me, took patience.  Even when I've felt like I was grabbing at air trying to find my place, I know that I still have a place wherever she is. To me, there is no better mother than that.

To this day, there is no one that can comfort me like my mom or make me trust myself when things get a little hairy.  She has always told me to keep my chin up and it's become a mantra for my life.  It's how I face my fears and leap head first, even when I want to run.  People tell me sometimes that I'm strong or that I'm confident and I always think, I'm impersonating her.  What would mom do?  The old joke of turning into your mother is no joke here. I talk to myself, sing to my pets, dance in the kitchen, constantly fight the battle against being a pack rat, and rarely back down from a challenge. She'll never know, though, that no matter what I become I'll always strive to be a woman after her example.  No matter what, I'll always be her button.  I love you Mom!

Ed Zachary Syndrome

I'm not much of a practical joker because (a) I'm a baby and don't like having it done to me and (b) because I can't keep a straight face for anything.  Any surprises that I try to keep or secrets that are exciting show all over my face.  I'm always given away by smiling like an eight year old being sung to on their birthday.  Half embarassed, half-trying not to pop from excitement.  Needless to say, I rarely pull anything off and I'm inappropriately proud when I do.

The following story happened almost a year ago, but I still feel good about the fact that I actually pulled off a joke, rather than forgetting the punch line like usual or laughing too hard to get it out.  Craig was living in Memphis and  I was still in Jackson, so most of our chats were on the phone.  He was complaining about his foot hurting.  As a side note, we've since found out that he's got some legit issues there, but don't let that dampen your perspective because I'm not, dangit.  Anyway, I casually mentioned that he might be suffering from Ed Zachary Syndrome.  He wasn't familiar with the condition, so I said that maybe he should look it up online sometime.  Some how, the fact that the phone was between us kept me from blowing water through my nose at my little prank. 

I'm not saying it was the funniest joke, or even that clever, but the stars aligned just right for me to finally pull a prank. He complained, we were on the phone, and it was all just too right.

I am smiling as I type this because I still think its that funny.  If you don't see the humor, maybe you should see a doc.  You might have it too.

What I'm Packin'.....

Or that’s what I might call this if I didn’t envision all of my many five readers rolling their eyes at yet another cheesy pun title. It has to be said though, I cannot help it. If I’m sitting on some word play-- awesome, cheesy, terrible or ingenious, it will make its way out. God help me if I’m ever in court and the urge to be witty ever strikes. Fortunately, it’s doubtful that will happen because I’m usually somewhere between boredom and nail biting please-don’t-let-me-say-anything-stupid terror, and that’s not really fertile ground for my flavor of humor. It’s not restless leg syndrome. It’s more like restless jaw syndrome. Quitlaughingatyourownjokes-itis.


I digress. My internship is at 201 Poplar. For those not from or familiar with Memphis, that’s the address and common name of the city jail and criminal courts. It’s only called the Criminal Justice Center when the perky news girl stands in front of it on the news to question the justice system and whether or not all lawyers should be hung and quartered. Fortunately, she still has that inquisitive look, so I’m guessing she hasn’t come to a conclusion yet. Fingers crossed for lawyers. Part of the quaint charm of 201, as the defendants call it, is that you have go through a metal detector. If you’re ever down for a real treat of a tale, ask me about the day the fire alarm went off and we all had to file back into the building one-by-one through security. I have never felt closer to death safer.

My life of crime began and ended on the same day when I accidently stole a pair of slippers from Wal-Mart as a kid. I was carrying them while we were checking out and my mom made me take them back once she realized what happened. I’ve never been much of a trouble maker, apart from my inability to tuck in my shirt, per the dress code in high school. Because of this, I’m not accustomed to being singled out at security or looked at with any suspicion. For pete’s sake, I’m 5’2’’ and look just a touch like a cabbage patch doll. A few weeks ago I went through security, though, and they made me stop while they went through my bag. With breath shortening, palms beginning to sweat, and flashes of a life spent without lip gloss in jail, I waited. I was sure that someone had planted several grams of something unlawful in my bag,when all of the sudden they pulled it out. My pencil sharpener. Wah wah wah. Not only was it a pencil sharpener, it was the one I’ve had since fifth grade with my ten year old cursive “Laura Britt” written across the side. You could see where I had misjudged the room to write so it was more like “LAURA BRitt” with the final “t” wrapping around the side. It really could only have been less cool if they pulled out my old retainer or some Immodium tablets or something.

Since then, I’ve been a little bit more careful about what I carry in my work bag. One thing I haven’t tackled yet, though, is the purses that I rotate through. I usually move to the next one once the one I’m carrying gets too cluttered. I’m terrible about cleaning them out. They end up looking like a miniature version of a crazy cat lady’s house.  I seem to collect shiny little objects like a bird does.  I randomly grabbed three bags out of the closet to demonstrate. 

Here we have some long forgotten hand lotion, some fossilized tissues, and a case for a camera that had 2 megapixels if that clues you in on how long ago it was used.

It appears as though an ibuprofen bottle was half emptied in this one.  This one also has a stack of pink post-its.  I'm kinda Hansel and Gretel-esque with my post-its.  There's usually a trail of them where ever I go.

Lastly, and I swear this was not altered to appear more insane, we have a bubble gum wrapper, some tape, a bobby pin, super glue, and a spool of ribbon.  Perhaps I could fashion another tiny purse to clutter out of these items. 

These are some sites/blogs that I read regularly and think are pretty fantastic.



thesneeze.com


mentalfloss.com


http://sleeptalkinman.blogspot.com/


goodbite.com


www.hownottoactold.com/

Enjoy!

Zoo Day

Eugene Walter, of Mobile thank you very much, is a sharp and charming writer.  He also lead a most colorful life as any blue blood, old south, hometown hero/homosexual, mardi gras king, self-professed recovering Catholic and some would say, alcoholic, would.  He claimed that all he needed to spice up a party was construction paper and dim lighting.  He also said, in a statement that rings more true to me than most things, that all people are either cats or monkeys when boiled down to their true essence.  My own self-diagnosis lands me squarely in the catagory of a cat.  On Friday we went to the zoo to visit, among the other beasts, the monkeys.  I like to see how the other half lives.  It was a perfect day to be outside.  We took our time and saw the whole park.  I wish I had more photos to post, but I'm still working out for myself whether or not it's okay to ask strangers to take your picture when you (a) live in the city you are out in, (b) have six billion pictures of you and the person you're with, and (c) when you yourself don't have a firm grasp on how to work your camera. I'm leaning towards not ok.

This was taken in the new Teton Trek exhibit. 

Clearly Craig lacks the stamina to be a female explorer.  Exploring this one chicken has him snoozing.

I, on the other hand, take conservation very seriously.

Wringing Out

     I'm like a sponge.  I don't retain information like a whiz kid, as handy as that would've been handy for law school.  I'm not easily influenced by other people's personalities or opininions.  I'm a sponge in the sense that I soak up the highs and lows of other people's lives and end up water logged.  On my best day I hope it manifests as real compassion.  At my worst I can be nosy and controlling.  Everyone knows this situation.  You feel deeply for someone you love that's hurting.  You watch them stumble to get back on their feet.  Sometimes you watch them take the easy road that leads to nothing. Nothing--and it hurts you.  Sometimes you have the privilege of watching someone discover their own ability to survive and hopefully thrive.  Sometimes you watch like a game show audience as someone chooses what's behind curtain two, when you know that curtain one contains the highest prize. 
     It's hard on me.  It's hard to watch someone make a mistake, or what I believe to be a mistake.  It's hardest of all to let it go and just hope that it all works out.  Ultimately, it's my own problem.  I've thought that one of my best qualities as a friend is my ability to get down in the trenches with someone.  I think maybe I was wrong.  I'm gonna try, for now, to only go along for ups and not worry so much about other people's downs, at least beyond the point that I have any influence.  I'm going to let other people's problems be their own.  Maybe this supposed strength was really a weakness.  I'm going to try to stop wrining my hands worrying about other people and start wringing out the gunk I've soaked up that wasn't mine to begin with.
     This may be a terrible idea.  Hopefully no other sponge is out there soaking this up and realizing my mistake before I do.