:: Dictated But Not Read ::
Musings from the ''Miracle Girl''| [::..archive..::] |
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| Things That Have Been Said About Me |
| You are the Minx. |
| She plays taller than her height. |
| You have a refreshing attitude. |
| You're such a renaissance woman. |
| She's not much of a biller. |
| You are very angry. |
| You are so self aware. |
| You need a more sophisticated haircut. |
| You are not afraid of anything. |
| You have a great attitude. |
| Your life is like a Seinfeld episode. |
| You are winsome. |
| You look great in hats. |
| Miracle girl. |
| I am belligerently conciliatory. |
| You've got it big time. |
Sunday, June 29, 2003
The RockRecently my friend E. sent me flowers, pretty much out of the blue. The card said, “Thanks for being my rock.” I was genuinely touched. I try to be a good and supportive friend and for this particular friend I think I have done a fairly good job. The flowers were gorgeous and I felt much appreciated and proud for having been such a good friend. I did not see the card as humorous in any way.
E. moved away from here about a year ago. For me it feels like it has been a decade. For two years E. and I worked on the same floor in my law firm, lived in the same apartment building, and were practically inseparable. We often joked that we were very much like a couple. It was not unusual for us to eat 3 meals a day together in addition to taking a run or a jog together. It was also common for us to meet at the Starbucks across the street on Sunday morning and share the New York Times. We shared our largely unsuccessful dating stories, our career worries, and our frustrations with our families.
E. made her first visit back here in March. While E. and I can both put away some alcohol we are also capable of doing other things together. However, when you throw a third friend of ours into the mix somehow the only plausible activities seem to involve excessive amounts of drinking. So, it was not surprising that after a Friday night gathering at my house, E. abandoned me to do a 5K she had signed up for with me, alone.
I had only one vodka tonic the night before in order to get up and do the race in the insanely humid weather.
By Saturday night, with little sleep, a race, and shopping all day, I was fairly low energy. But E. and T. were fully ready to go and we ultimately found ourselves at our favorite dance place, dancing the night away. The only way that I could stay awake that night was to again, curb my drinking. A bunch of people met us out that night but we were the last ones standing, well some of us were standing, others not so much.
We left the dance club around 1:00 a.m. and I was virtually supporting both T.and E. T. was exclaiming that she desperately needed to pee. Her apartment was just a couple of blocks away and so I tried to scurry the two of them along. It was not easy. We were halfway between the bar and T.’s apartment when she stopped said “I have to pee, now.” I tried to convince her she could wait but she would not. She went over and started to squat on the stairway of a luxury condominium complex. E. yelled at her that she was going to pee on the beautiful shawl she had tied around her waist and started tugging at it. At this point I was laughing much too hard to do any good. E. yanked the shawl free and threw it aside and then continued tugging at T. She was pulling off her thong at this point. I told her to stop. E. and I faced away and T. peed. I don’t know exactly how it happened but E.’s purse and T.’s shawl somehow found their way onto the ground and into the pee. There we were three lawyers in the middle of the night, one of us trying to pull her tight pants up, one of us staring forlornly at her pee soaked purse but still cracking up, and the last of us, me, just laughing her ass off. When I laugh really hard it becomes necessary for me to move and so I was actually about halfway down the block when I realized I was the sober one and responsible for getting these two home safely.
We got T. to her door and then I had to walk E. back to my place, a long 5 blocks with a very, very drunk woman in heels. Somehow I got her back to my house.
In the morning E.’s friend, P. called to see how E. was. Apparently her husband had seen us walking home. I realized in a flash that P. and her husband live in the very complex where T. peed. E. quickly confirmed that her husband had only seen the two of us. Apparently he commented in the background, “Margot was your rock.” I was telling this story to a friend last week and stopped mid-sentence when I finally realized the meaning of the card.
D.B.N.R.
Monday, June 23, 2003
You can take them out but you can’t dress them upOne of my favorite memories from my erstwhile marriage is my ex-father-in-law taking me aside one fine Rosh Hashana afternoon at the cousin’s house and saying, “Uh, what do you think of J.’s suit?” Well, in fact I thought his suit was completely ridiculous. It was a gangster suit of sorts. It was double breasted with a thin white stripe running through it. He looked like he was playing dress up. Although we were not rolling in the money J. had decided to invest in some hand tailored suits. (I hope they have gone to someone who needs them now since he turned from lawyer to photographer and is not likely to be wearing them any time soon.) I tried, as usual, to discourage the investment and I think, though I am not sure of this, that when he described that particular suit I may have urged caution.
So, in answer to my father-in-law’s question I mumbled something as unintelligible as possible. Now, it should be known that everyone in that family is into clothes. I am not. I like to feel good about how I look but I like to do it with a minimum of effort so I do not always look like the sharpest one at the party but I look fine. I am not someone people come to for fashion advice. However, my ex-father-in-law apparently thought that was irrelevant or more likely had never paid attention. He confided in me (and anyone within hearing distance), “you know D. (his wife) and I help each other with shopping for clothes. Do you and J. do that?” I was incredulous. I mean, no, I am not going to go shopping with a grown man and tell him not to buy a suit modeled on an Al Pacino movie. I don’t even like shopping for me. Again, I mumbled and smiled and then escaped. There is something so fabulous about being asked a question by someone who could care less what you have to say in response.
Recently I was going to a law firm event where the suggested attire was unclear. I went to talk to a colleague, M., several days before the event. I asked what she thought she would wear. The thing that disturbed me about that was that she was immediately able to rattle off a detailed description of her dress and even the shoes she planned to wear. She finished with, “I am putting S. in a suit.” S. is her fiancé. I like S. and think he is kind of a suave guy. I bet he can pick out his own clothing for work each day. I bet he was getting dressed and going places for years before he met M. I should have ended the conversation there but I needed advice. I was asked for advice and I had to get it. I said that my date had inquired about a sports coat and wondered if she thought that would be equally appropriate. I do not recall her answer but she ended it with, “I don’t like S.’s sports coat anyway. He really needs a new one.” I began to wonder if she monitored my wardrobe. I guess not since we are only work friends and do not go out in public together. If we did I am afraid she would start to comment on my inappropriately colored pantyhose and the like.
While I am happy to advise a friend, date, boyfriend or spouse on what I believe is appropriate or attractive attire I hope I never become the sort of person who is trying to “put” a grown adult into any kind of clothing.
D.B.N.R
Saturday, June 14, 2003
Jail House RockMy ex-husband J. was notable for many things. Among others was his inability to keep track of things. At some point he decided to close one bank account and open another. I am sure there was a reason. I do not recall it now. Supposedly he tore up all of the checks and threw them out via the dumpster outside of our apartment. Several weeks later he started receiving notices of bounced checks from various stores around town. It quickly became clear that had not destroyed all of the checks and someone was writing checks on the closed account. This was particularly inconvenient since we were in the process of buying our first house. To his credit J. made a concerted effort to contact all of the appropriate people and to rectify the situation. This required a letter to each of the offended merchants and there were lots of merchants. A couple of merchants, both located in a county south of the city, fell through the cracks. The day before our scheduled move to our new home I found a warrant for J.’s arrest in the mail. I was panicked initially but then remembered that I had a friend, Bill, who was a criminal defense attorney in that county. I thought he could probably make a few telephone calls and straighten things out. I called him that night and he quickly corrected me. “You see Margot they don’t have that much to do down there so they pursue those things. He will have to go and turn himself in and bond out.” I was incredulous. He suggested that we do it on Sunday morning when things would be slow at the jail and it would be easy to get him processed. Bill offered to go down there with us which was above and beyond the call of duty. We were not all that close. He also advised that J. try not drive at all if possible in the event that he got stopped and they saw a warrant for him and arrested him. It was a fairly inconvenient state of affairs in the middle of a move.
In a surreal sort of set of circumstances, Bill arrived at our house, full of still packed boxes, at about 8:00 a.m. that Sunday morning and drove us to the jail about 20 miles south. J. was divested of his belt, watch, wallet, and wedding ring and taken to a holding cell. Although I immediately paid the bond in cash they would not let him out for an hour or so. Bill took me out to breakfast. I don’t remember what I ate but I remember the place. It was a huge room that looked more like an Elks Lodge than a restaurant. They did not have table service, it was cafeteria style. Bill was kind to me. In retrospect I realize he must have pitied me. I mean what a ridiculous situation. At the time I did not realize that. Bill was about 10 years older and much wiser and I thought he was just being a nice caring friend. I think we all have fabulous defense mechanisms that allow us to continue living our lives in the face of insanity. I have clients who are being abused or have other horrible things happening to them and manage to normalize those events and I find myself explaining to them that what is happening is objectively unacceptable. My situation was not so serious but it was unpleasant and embarrassing but I do not think I even realized how embarrassed I should be. For me, turning my husband in and waiting for him to be bonded out was just one of those inconveniences of living with someone who was a bit absent minded. The full impact of it did not hit me until years later and by then it was just an incredibly funny example of a day in the life of my marriage. It still is, however, now that I am thinking about it again and realizing I have lost touch with Bill, I feel like I should call him, thank him again, and maybe share a laugh.
D.B.N.R.
Thursday, June 12, 2003
This Peg won’t Fit in this HoleLast fall I was asked to serve on my law firm’s recruiting committee which is an honor, of sorts. The committee chooses the law students who will be offered highly paid jobs for the summer and if they perform well, permanent positions. Given that I did not “grown up” in the firm, having practiced elsewhere for 5 years, this was a sign that I had been taken into the fold. I tried hard to take my job on the committee seriously but it was hard. Most of the work is a succession of one-half hour interviews with bright eyed bushy tailed 22 year olds who know virtually nothing about the practice of law and who will be paid an obscene amount of money to be wined and dined for the summer. Whether they do it at my firm or some other firm was not of sufficient importance to me relative to the other members of the committee. I also found it hard to distinguish among the candidates with two exceptions. One was a young woman from a highly respected southern law school and the other was a man from a very highly regarded northern law school. I interviewed Heather one Tuesday morning in October and was amazed to find that she had no idea of the names of the attorneys had taken her out to dinner the night before. Faux pas, number one. Although it was the first interview of the morning she had no particular questions about the firm and evinced no interest in anything in particular. I decided that I did not think she should work at the firm because if she did it would be because she had not gotten a better offer because she clearly was not interested. Her candidacy was reviewed at a meeting two days later. At that meeting it was agreed that we would not make a decision about whether to offer her a position until the next meeting. There were differences of opinion. Between that meeting and the next meeting, someone on the committee actually contacted me to lobby me regarding Heather. He is, not coincidentally, an alumnus of the school Heather attends. I assured him that it did not matter that much to me but reiterated my objections. At the next meeting I stated famously that she was “the most apathetic person I had ever met.” The committee overruled me and gave her an offer which she promptly rejected. I was emboldened by my ability to prophesize Heather’s reaction to our offer.
The man from the northern school was named Brian. Brian was brilliant, a bit odd, and very likeable. He could hold his own in any conversation. Brian had a Ph.d. in political science from a prestigious school where he had also taught. I questioned Brian about whether he really wanted to practice law or whether he really want to return to the academy. Since the firm hopes to get some return on its investment by having these people come back to work for a number of years this was an important question. Brian replied rather earnestly that he had intentionally left the academy and did not intend to return. I was convinced and so was one of my good friends on the recruiting committee, Richard. Richard and I discussed strategy for the committee meeting because we knew the firm was resistant to people who do not fit the mold and who may be smarter than the average bright eyed top of the class law student. We argued the point in the committee. I felt just as strongly as Richard did but he made the better arguments and we won. One of the partners on the committee who was adamantly against giving an offer to Brian actually said, “Mark my words. This guy won’t last.” What he meant was he won’t last more than a year or two. Richard and I puffed our chests and told each other that the people in our firm were far too narrow minded and that Brian was going to be a great addition to the firm.
Brian’s tenure at my firm was unprecedented in its brevity, 8 days. Apparently he told our recruiting coordinator that he likes to know exactly what his hours will be each day. He also said that he prefers to work on one project at a time and then move on to the next one. Our recruiting coordinator suggested that perhaps this firm was not for him and perhaps law practice was not for him. When I heard about this I went down to Richard’s office and closed the door and burst out laughing. Richard commented that the whole recruiting committee thing takes up a lot of time and that we probably did not want to do it again in any case. We called the man who’s words we had marked (he has since left the firm) and he had a good chuckle at our expense. Richard and I have learned to not think outside of the box when it comes to hiring new lawyers. It’s not a happy conclusion.
D.B.N.R.
Thursday, June 05, 2003
Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink and DialI am my own worst enemy. I say this with certainty because my life has been incredibly lucky and yet sometimes bad things happen to me. The only explanation is that I do it to myself. I have a cool car and people often ask me if I like it and if it gives me problems. I always have to pause. I have had a reasonable number of problems with the car, the majority of which I caused. Mostly the car has a lot of bumps and scrapes where I have it run it into various stationary objects (including the SUV of the partner in my law firm who parks next to me).
Perhaps the most egregious thing I do to myself is the drunken dial. Some people think this is solely the purview of horny male college frat boys. Not so. We single women can sometimes indulge in this behavior. Admittedly the motivations may be different. The college frat boy wants one thing and one thing only. When I drunken dial the motivations are varied but the most dangerous is the desire to “communicate” something. Since I am intoxicated I am clearly ill equipped to do that and more importantly I am likely to communicate something I did not need to or want to communicate at all.
About three weeks ago yet another good friend was getting ready to leave my law firm and move to another city. Two of us planned a going away deal at her favorite bar. I rushed to get there by 5:30 despite a hectic day. No one got there for almost an hour after I did, including the guest of honor and my co-host. I was not happy with my co-host, not happy with being in my business suit in the outdoor seating among the young, hip scantily clad crowd and not happy about another going away party. By the time people started arriving I was well into my first martini and much less cranky. Around the time I finished my second martini it became clear that we were going to stay and dance with the band. That often means dancing to Latin music until 1:00 a.m. It is not doable in a business suit. So, in my very intoxicated wisdom I decided to walk home and change my clothes. I could not drive, I was too drunk. It was still early and not dangerous to walk the 12 or so blocks home unless you were weaving along the sidewalks as I was. About one block into the walk I realized that I was far too drunk to be walking home alone but I had started and so I decided to just do it.
I decided it would be wise to call and talk to someone during my journey to keep myself somewhat even. I tried a couple of friends who were not home. I then happened upon A’s telephone number in my cell phone. A. is someone I was quite smitten with about a year ago and while we are now good friends I have long ago talked myself out of any romantic feelings toward him. He has some serious life problems to work through I have no desire to sign up for those. Plus, even without those issues, I recognize that I may not be what he is looking for in his next life partner. So, I am not pining for him but I do think he is wonderful and I have some left over feelings for him and perhaps some regret. He was very kind and made sure, as best he could on a long distance telephone call, that I got home safely. I suppose I said some things in my drunken state that I would not otherwise have said because when I called him to say hello this week he unleashed a long detailed and heartfelt explanation about why he had never pursued a relationship with me. He meant well. He really did. It was the famed Seinfeld line of “it’s not you, it’s me”. I was embarrassed and uncomfortable because really I feel like I am passed it, over it. He was not happy to have the conversation either and I knew it was my fault we were having it. The drunken dial haunts.
I was telling my friend E. about this and saying my friends should take my cell phone when I start drinking. She suggested a solution. The woman is brilliant. She said we need to find someone to design a breathalyzer phone. I love the idea. Here’s how I envision it working, if you blow a .1 or higher, the phone will not dial. Never mind taking my car keys I am smart enough to not drive, I just need someone to stop me from dialing.
D.B.N.R.
Monday, June 02, 2003
PrayingI was in Fernandina Beach last week and I ran into a gang of the Christian Motorcycle Association, complete with leather jackets embroidered with “Riding for the Son”, and I felt they may be following me, watching me. I even saw one woman with a special jacket that said “Prayer Team”. We were having some ice cream at a small table outside the ice cream shop. Well, to be honest my friend was having ice cream. I was having a bowl of chemicals described as fat-free sugar-free ice cream which my dear friend purchased for me, knowing I would not ask for it but knowing also it would taste great to someone who had not eaten sugar in 6 weeks. It did but I did not feel I could eat it peacefully. The motorcycle gang which consisted of about 30 or 40 bikers was hanging out on the sidewalk near the ice cream shop uncomfortably close to us.
I know it sounds as though I am being intolerant or paranoid. I am not. Recently, because of a case I have been involved in, I have had a lot of people telling me they are praying for me. It is not being said in a tender, caring way; it is being said, in my opinion in a semi-threatening way. In other words these people hope I will see the light and make a recommendation to the court that comports with their version of what is true and correct. One person in the case even leaned across the table at me and said in a hiss, “There are so many churches watching this case.” I complained about it at first but then I realized that my life was going fairly well and decided why knock it? If all these folks are praying for me, so be it. It certainly cannot hurt. I even let go of some of my neuroses in favor of throwing out a casual, “Hey, there are whole churches praying for me. I have no worries.”
Still, it is possible that the case has made me a bit paranoid so when I saw the Christian Motorcycle Association I felt certain they must know. Maybe my name was being bandied about in their churches. Was my picture included? Typically, my companion was very entertained by the notion. I laughed along but I was feeling a bit antsy. I must admit I was not dressed for blending in. I had a rather large straw hat on my head and well, given the 80 degree temperature, no leather jacket, and given the distance from home, a convertible car rather than a motorcycle. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I finished my ice cream quickly but casually and suggested that we leave. The only logical way to go back to the car was to walk through the middle of the motorcycle gang. I kept my head down, hat pulled over my eyes, praying they would not recognize me and start a special vigil on the spot.
D.B.N.R.
