Spittin' Mad

I had a shitty day today.

My coworker was out sick, so I had to handle the entire calendar by myself. I'm a clerk in a criminal courtroom and on any given day, the atmosphere can range from lively to hectic. Today it was like a livestock auction.

On average, we handle 30 cases a day. For each case, there's roughly 10 people involved: the Judge, two Prosecutors, a Defense Attorney, the Defendant, a Pretrial Services Rep or Probation Officer, a US Marshal, and perhaps an unruly Witness or two. My job:

• get the parties together
• call the case
• look up the defendant's other cases
• report relevant background to the judge
• make phone calls to staff regarding drug treatment & mental health assessments
• update the court jacket
• generate commitment & release papers
• update the case in court-wide database, and
• scan paperwork.

Meanwhile, I have to keep one ear open for any questions the judge might ask. Record proceedings. Respond to inquiries. Locate missing attorneys. Answer phonecalls. Resolve calendar issues. Repeat 30 times.

Now today, I had an additional task: suffering the histrionics of another clerk.

It was a busy day, I was feeling sick myself, and to top it off, I had a double workload. This other clerk wanted to know why I had sent a case to her courtroom without warning her. It's standard procedure since her courtroom handles half a calendar, but I apologized, told her it had been crazy in here, then hung up the phone. She called back and huffily informed me she was telling our supervisor.

Who then was duty-bound to investigate. She called me into her office: What was going on? By then it was 3 pm and I was exhausted and pissed off. At best, this was a misunderstanding; at worst, it was a huge waste of time. I left my supervisor's office reassuring her we'd work something out.

Not likely. I can no longer pretend it's okay to be that dumb. Before, her mild imbecility had only amused me - her blank stare, the three-second pause before answering any question, the way she smacked gum (borrowed) with an open mouth. You'd be reading a newspaper and hear: "You readin' the paper?" You'd be eating a salad and hear: "You eatin' a salad?" But today she proved that idle minds are indeed capable of great mischief.

But as Ed Norton demonstrated in "Fight Club," office squabbles are not resolved through petty escalation. Instead, they are put to rest by spitting blood at the offending party. Feral sneer optional. Whenever things get tough at work, I will fantasize about doing this. And it will take me to my Happy Place.

*******

While we're on the topic of Ed Norton, I might as well get out of my system all the men I would leave my boyfriend for:

Ed Norton's smirk
Dustin Hoffman's empathy
Clint Eastwood's squint

While we're on the topic of my boyfriend, I might as well show all the men he looks like a composite of:

And finally, the composite of my dreams:

Profiles in Playground Courage

My friend Carter is being sued. Nothing dramatic or racy, just what happens when a small group of people get greedy and take themselves too seriously.

Carter started DC Kickball in 2005 after determining that the kickball needs of Washington area professionals were not being met. Among those needs: kick ball, drink beer, have fun. He used to run a major division of another league and but grew frustrated at the way things were handled. In addition to poor management, the players were losing out: bar "specials" were lousy and social budgets kept shrinking. Strange, since the league was run by volunteers.

Carter created his own league, drummed up sponsorship from Adams Morgan businesses, and raised over $2500 for the Latin American Youth Center in the process. Happy grown ups, happy businesses, happy kids.

Then the grumpiness began. The other league, miffed that Carter had brought his skills to a competitor, sued him for intellectual property theft. Carter could very well be the only person in history to be accused of "stealing kickball." That would put him in the ranks of such master criminals as The Great Hopscotch Absconder, The Purloiner of Pickle, and El Tetherball Bandito.

The Washington City Paper found comedy in the absurd and published a feature piece on the rivalry. Not long after, the Wall Street Journal put the story on page 1. (Which says interesting things about where national stories get scooped.)

While the merits of the case may be frivolous, it does cause Carter a real headache. The same individualism that fosters a spirit of entrepreneurship also promotes a system in which all grievances, no matter how petty, are resolved through complex lawsuits.

Or, as one attorney whines as he rubs himself against the Simpson family car, "Me so litigious!"

Food Love

I've always been a big fan of certain products - Butterfingers, Wheat Thins, etc. My life wouldn't be the same without them. But even though you should always pass along compliments, I could never bring myself to write the companies and let them know.

First, there's your reputation to consider. What if I wanted to become a labor leader like César Chávez? I would have to prove my independence from corporate interests and fawning letters to the Keebler Company would never do. Also, the free samples could create a conflict of interest. For example, Doritos. How could I champion the cause of Mexican agriculture on one hand while consuming American-produced corn chips on the other? My fingers would be stained orange with guilt.

There's also your sanity. What if I did write the letters, and began to take them a little too seriously? Sitting in a darkened room, day after day, inhaling nacho cheese Bugles and composing love letters to the customer service branches of major snack consortia. What if this replaced all human contact? Clearly, it's a pastime better left to the elderly and schizophrenic.

But some products are so wonderful they must be praised. Lavishly. I find myself often thinking I'd like to marry this or that. Following is a list of products, and the scary, intense feelings I have for them:

Trader Joe's Tuscan Wheat Bread.
I love it so much, I may never be able to have normal relations with a man again.

Nutella.
God may hate orphans in Africa, but He hasn't completely forgotten us.

Wheat Thins.
Bold, nutty, slightly wholesome - this must be the flavor of unicorn horns.

Butterfingers.
The number one choice of child molesters. (And molestees.)

Ben & Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch.
This, not jazz, is America's finest export. Sorry, black people.

Milk Duds.
I don't need my teeth anyway.

Holy Cuppin' Cakes

My brother just got engaged. He proposed to his girlfriend Jennifer while they were visiting her family in Cape Breton Island.

They've been dating since I was a senior in college - five years of confusion and delight. He pursued; she ran. They got together, she ran. She pursued, he stayed. And then, aha, they figured it out. They were meant for each other. And that's what all the drama had been about.

We're all ecstatic. My mom's glowing, my dad's giddy, and my other brothers are full of manly good will. Even though I'm younger, I'm so proud. Almost like our roles are reversed, and I'm watching him grow up. This is the brother who used to chase me down in the hallway of our house in California (I was eight, he was fourteen), sit on my chest, and fart on me. Not quite on the face, but definitely making contact with the sternum.

He's also the brother who averted a family feud by lighting up his fart during vacation in Yosemite. We were in the final stretch of a hotly contested game of Monopoly and tensions were running high. Joel knew just the thing. He turned off the light, flipped onto his back, and let out enough fire to put any dragon's breath to shame. Did I mention we were staying in canvas tents.


Rewind a little further. Some of my earliest memories of freedom involved copying Joel. He knew how to sweet talk his way into anything and had privileges I could only dream of. TV and sugar were off-limits to me, but if Joel was doing it, suddenly I was flying under the radar. So I'd pour a bowl of cereal, pull up a cushion, and immerse myself in whatever marine documentary he happened to be watching. If it was Sunday afternoon after church, I'd pretend to laugh along to the "The Three Stooges."

In high school, I used to steal his clothing. I thought he was perfect and hoped the magic would rub off. He never got mad to find his favorite tie-dyed t-shirt or beat-up Levis missing. I subconsciously copied his messy, engineer-ish handwriting, which he in turn copied from Dad. It took me years to figure out that by the time I had entered a particular phase, eager to rant, he was just getting over it. But he never let on.

Throughout college break ups, I'd call him up on the west coast and leave incoherent messages on his answering machine. In extreme cases, I'd do some frantic searching on Priceline and hop a flight to San Francisco. I spent Superbowl XXXVI with Joel and his friends as the Patriots beat the Rams. He had struggles of his own but never burdened me with more than I could handle.

Our relationship has always been about humor, loyalty and growth. And to celebrate his engagement to Jennifer, I want to send them a gift. They live together in L.A. and I've been meaning to get them a house-warming present for a while. I was thinking of the Jesus Pan. Jesus would want them to have pancakes with His Image on them, don't you think?

Meet the Napper

What's to say about this cat? I like her; she's mine.

Soma's a black market cat. I got her in June of 2002 from a girl who was moving to Texas. She worked in a cavernous indie pop venue called the Black Cat, where shaggy emos drink cheap beer and brood with the dedication of old men. The girl was driving cross-country and posted this ad on Craigslist:

YOU WANT MY CAT.

And I did. I had always wanted a cat.* If it hadn't been for my three older brothers and their assortment of cats, dogs, hamsters, parrots, lizards, snakes, and fish, I might have had one. But my parents had grown wise over the years and refused to take responsibility for one more animal. Now that I was living on my own, free of beleaguered folks and allergic roommates, I was in the market for a pet.

The only problem was, my apartment had a no-pets policy. Even though it went unenforced, and many of the building's occupants were furry, I knew it wouldn't pass a Humane Society inspection. I had to find my cat on the street. Thus, like so many others before me, I turned to the internet and arranged a blind date.

I first met Soma on a park bench in Dupont Circle. The girl had brought her in a crate, which she held on her lap as I craned my head to peer inside. I saw terrified blue eyes in a white face.

She had the coloring of a Siamese with the racing stripes of a tabby, like a snow leopard crossed with a raccoon.

The girl explained she had taken Soma in when she was a six-week stray and had turned up on her doorstep one day. She spent most of her time sleeping - as if healing - which was why they had named her Soma. After the drug in Brave New World. Now she was six months old. She liked to be scratched along her jaw. Did I want her?

I took her home.

She hid from me for three days behind the couch. If I lay on the floor with my arm outstretched between the wall and the couch, I could just touch her with a finger. She was a living, breathing presence in my home - exotic, yet comforting. We were intensely aware of one another. I decided to leave her alone for a few days and spent the weekend in New York.

I had only been back for a few hours when she suddenly emerged from behind the couch. Hello. She took a sniff and began to explore.

She's a "plopper" - that is, she doesn't cuddle so much as fall heavily against you. Most nights I have to fight her for space on the pillow. It's a losing battle since she's mostly made of air; she compresses easily. She sleeps on my head and lets me play games unworthy of a cat's dignity, including Moon Bounce, Airplane, Gravity Pants and "The Shake Down."

She's seen me through 6 roommates, 5 apartments, 4 birthdays, 3 boyfriends, 2 LSATs, and 1 city. She greets me when I come home and wakes me up in the morning. She's been called Soma, Somie, Somington, and Selma by various roommates. Friends, male and female, swear she's "the only cat I like." I think I'll keep her.

*As I mentioned, I always wanted a cat. Here are a few reasons why: