Archive for May, 2011

Amy has some great friends. I was invited to tag along for a group dinner on a week night. It was a house party in the back yard with candles placed in small tin buckets and music pouring out of an ipod. This is the second time I have been to this home. I determine that I adore this couple. She is as naturally flawless and beautiful as a person gets. He is a funny, quirky, and handsome Brit. I know he is lucky to have her because he as so much as said so. I envy their love and their relationship. You can see it in her face when she looks at him. You see it in the way he clears her dishes and pours her more wine. I save their corks and I put them in my pocket. They are a talisman. I can look at the evidence later when I doubt this evening existed. I want the magic to continue and hope I become infected.

The Brits parents (Keith and Wendy) and brother (Warren) are at this dinner. I feel a recognized warmth. My family gives off the same heat. His parents are well versed in travel and art. Warren could read the phone book and Amy and I would swoon. They share their wonderful stories. I learn from this meeting. I love the sing song of the four accents. They have passion that is so lacking in others I meet. It flows like paint onto a canvas. They invite us to their home abroad. I know the offer is real and genuine. I feel safe here on this back porch. We talk about tea cozies. Wendy tells us about a ruffian named George that held a crush. Keith confirms her story and tells us how he won.

On this back yard porch we explore ourselves. A little bit of fiber fill is pulled from Amy and I. Some seams pop. Questions are asked. Amy admits that too many people are reading our blog and she feels like shutting down. I reveal that I read too many books at once and I fail to finish them.

Harmless stories that really appear inconsequential. Keith admits that he has canvas on an easel that needs to be painted when he gets back home.

He retired so he could paint.
He has been putting it off.
When I ask why he says, “Because there is no time really.”

I hear his response as my own. “I don’t know why really.”

We all have some heavy coins in our pockets.

I feel that Amy knows there is more beneath his reasons for not painting. I feel that she knows there is more beneath my reasons for not finishing my books.

I feel loose pieces floating under my skin. I feel them like a wool sweater.

So later that evening I take it upon myself to ask St. Jude to help me. If I am a lost cause I might as well follow the leader of them. St. Jude is not giving me any answers but just more questions.

What is the harm in not finishing a book really? Who says I have to finish them if I don’t want to?

What if Keith doesn’t go home to finish his painting?

I don’t much like the thought of that.

Why should I even care? While we all shared a fun evening that hardly qualifies me to demand that this man go back to England and paint a picture upon my selfish insistence.

My thoughts gush like shallow creek water. The water spills and splashes up and over all shapes and forms of stones.

I want Keith to start and finish his painting.

I already know that I would travel to England to view it.

I had a 341 meeting in Lansing last week. This is where a bankruptcy attorney has a meeting with their client and the Chapter 7 trustee. The Chapter 7 trustee has a bunch of questions for my client.

This hearing is so routine. At this point in my practice I think a monkey could do it. My clients are always anxious and nervous even when I tell them not to be. This goes with the territory of being sworn in under oath and having to discuss the most intimate and humiliating reasons why that individual needed to file bankruptcy in the first place. It is financial failure at it’s finest. I feel for my clients. I am often humbled by their struggles.

My client insists that I attend this meeting. She wants me to go. I could have hired another attorney to attend. This would have saved me both time and money. I never have enough time. There is never enough money.

I really care about my client. So I go. As I pull off the downtown ramp I feel my body tense. I know this town well. I lived here. My past self walked these streets. She feels far and distant from me. I see her as a stranger. I bump into her at the courthouse.

I ask her if her struggles were worth it. She smiles. It could have been easier she assures me. If she would have known this and that. She could have remained single and entered law school. It took her some time to figure her path out. Would haves, could haves, should haves.

Yes but there are the children. You can’t ever wish them away.

She reminds me that she had two small children when she entered law school. She also started an in home day care to help pay their bills. She would get up at 4 a.m. every morning and read until 6 a.m. The children would come and she would watch four additional children until 5:30 p.m. When the last child was picked up she would run out the door with her books to class. It was a 6 p.m. to midnight haul every night of the week. Weekends were library days unless she had to grocery shop. She did this for four years of her study.

I know her husband was not very kind or supportive. If you ask him he would tell you he was. He would tell you a lot of things about her and none of them were very nice things. I wondered why he wanted to marry her in the first place. What did he really see in her to begin with? She wonders why he objected to their divorce. He constantly would remind her that she was really quite worthless. I mean couldn’t she see that she was a horrible wife and mother? His words were stones. He really liked throwing them.

There were a lot of arguments. She really couldn’t do much of anything right. One night her law books ended up in a mud puddle in the middle of the street. Another night he tried to throw her down the stairs. Police were called. Too many times they came and went.

It was easier for her if the suppers were hot and on the table at 6:00 before she left. Laundry ironed and folded. House cleaned. Bills paid. She was only lacking sleep. She would anticipate what he would complain about and take care of it before it became an issue. This was also very taxing and exhausting. It started to become an exit strategy.

When she softens and attempts to defend him she will blame herself for the currents that pulled them apart. At the time neither party could really define with clarity the currents that tugged.

She wanted a law degree. He wanted a stay-at-home wife.

He wasn’t her soul focus. He began to hate her for it. She began to lose respect for him. His anger was violent and volatile. She never knew what would set him off. Lack of money didn’t help. Her lack of attention didn’t help.

The library and the school became a safe place to be. She loved it there. She loved her professors. She loved her classes. She loved the intellectual challenge. She would stay as long as they would let her.

She will tell you that there was a moment of complete despair. That moment where you face that wall of self-doubt. She was left wondering why she was put on this planet. Thinking it would be so nice just to sleep and never wake up. Wondering what drove her to this. Why wasn’t she just happy being a wife and a mother? Why exactly was she working and trying so hard? Questions that bombard her—what are you really doing? Do you really think you can make a difference? Do you really think you can become a lawyer? There are so many of them. Look at the hours of study. Look at the lack of sleep. You are never going to make it. You are not smart enough. This is so expensive. You don’t have any friends because you have no time for them. Your children miss you when you are gone. Your husband can’t stand your class schedule and your marriage is falling apart. He is right you should just up and quit.

You are facing the tax code, rules of evidence, and the UCC. This is that moment when that distant stranger is in the library. She puts her head down on that table and just closes her eyes.

This is too hard. She and I can’t do it anymore.

And then there is silence and she squeezes out a silent prayer: “Please God, just let me make it through. I will do anything if I can become an attorney. I want to help people. I want to make a difference. I want something for myself. I want to provide an example for my girls. I want to contribute to the financial well being of my family. I want to carve out something for myself. I want this to belong to just me. I want to make my parents proud. This is what I would like to become. Please just help me.”

She is back on the courthouse steps and I am looking at her. I remember her story when the security guards make me take off my shoes and belt and ask that I open up my briefcase. I am reminded of who I am when they scan my driver’s license and check my bar card.

I am asked to give my appearance for the record. I feel needed and wanted when my client hugs me and thanks me over and over for helping her though this very difficult time.

When I get back to my car I am relieved. I want to leave her and those difficult times in Lansing. They are hard to look at. When I look up, I see her smiling in my review mirror.

She is nodding and waiving goodbye, “Yes, it was definitely worth it.”

I did it again this week. I had a relapse. It happens whenever I have too much fun. I am out in this world loving it, meeting all kinds of crazy people and seeing all kinds of crazy things. I get so wound up and energized. Then I crash. I just do it to myself, again and again and again…….

This past weekend at 11:30 p.m. I got that text from my friends (yes I have them). I have to go out with Stacie and Alicia because they have sooo much fun when we all go out together. I look at my watch. It is Saturday night. Too late for me to venture out. I should just stay in. It takes time, money and energy to go out. Do I really feel up to it?

Laziness is sitting in my bed. He is rubbing his big fat belly wanting me to lie down next to him. He reminds me that I have more depressing things to do like write in my journals and read my books. He points out I don’t really have any cool outfits to wear and that I don’t look so hot. He points out I really do look rumpled and tired. I need to stay in and just keep him company.

Opportunity barges in the bedroom. He overheard our conversation. He tells Laziness to just shut up. Opportunity insists that I need to go out. He points out that I don’t get invited out very often. He grabs my cell phone and scrolls through my text messages. “See three texts for you to go to River City Saloon means that they really want you to go.” He guilts me. He tells me that if I don’t go they will just stop calling me. So the arguments to go or not to go bounce on that teeter totter. Laziness and Opportunity start in on a roommate war. They are starting to shout. It gets loud and I grab my car keys. I hope they don’t start throwing things at each other while I venture out.

I went. I drank one beer. It was late enough in the evening where a lot of people in the bar were tanked. I take in these people who come to a bar named River City Saloon located on the West side. The women, now in their 60s, are still wearing an 80s hairdo. They are bleached and wrinkled tan. Their breasts sag. I wonder for a second if it looks like I fit in. As I enter the bar I become self conscious and I remind myself not to look too long at anyone or hold a gaze. I am in no mood for mindless chatter with a unknown person. I want to find my table full of friends. The men to me look the same: old, fat and bald.

The evening unfolds itself easy. The band is great. The music is loud but not too loud. We dance and are having more than sweaty dance floor fun.

Then ‘it’ happens on break between the sets.

It was in the form of a too drunk, hippie haired, nose ring, biker chick—sea hag. She whips off her tank top. I am looking at the glory of her bare pink boobies.

This is the moment I look at my fellow beer drinkers. I am pinching myself. Is this scene real? I am looking around.

“Hey, do you guys see what I see?”

Her boobies continue to flop and flail. Her tire of fat rolls onto the dance floor. She runs and sways and is shaking her arms in the air.

We all in unision yell, “Cover that shit up!”

An excited 4 ft. Fabio then decides he is going to do a cartwheel on the sidelines in proper cheerleader fashion.

This apparent shocking nudity (that I did not pay to watch) is something I am not accustomed to. Our table explodes with whoops and hollers.
I am embarrassed and in awe.

Over the course of that evening these events transpire:
Laura gives a handsome married man a lap dance
The band’s drummer lets me in on his drums
4 ft. Fabio’s twin brother makes moves on Alicia and she is not having any part of it
the sea hag’s brother singles me out (lucky me) and wants to carry on a conversation
(All I do is laugh and he gets mad at me and frustrated with my apparent lack of any meaningful conversation & takes it upon himself to lick my arm).

The table witnesses all of this. Everyone is full of beer and rolling with hysterics.

Opportunity slides up next to me. He is so goddamn handsome. He whispers in my ear, “See I told you this would be crazy fun.”

I nod and agree.

The next morning I text the friends who did not go on this adventure. I tell my girls about it in the morning. I tell my prune faced mother. I make my classy family proud that I have ventured into this dark cave called the River City Saloon.

I don’t care what they think.

I am on a hillbilly high throughout the weekend and it spills over to Tuesday. Then it starts to wane. On Wednesday I start feeling that hole and gap in my life. I am slipping back into my depressing funk. I realize I need another fun fix to keep me moving forward.

I need another fun adventure or contact with this crazy world to keep me from crying. I feel it is getting chilly outside. My head is heavy with my business worries. I have trials. I have work.

Real life has an appointment and he is sitting across from my big lawyer desk.

I shut the door for this appointment. I secretly confide in him that I need another snort or hit of last Saturday. I ask him what is he selling and how much is it going to cost and most importantly, “How soon can I get another fun fix.”

Real life just looks at me unblinking. He refuses to answer any of my questions.