Doing a favor for a friend today, I made a rare appearance at the local domestic docket. Nothing makes me feel better about my lot in life than a watching miserable dissolution parties and no-contact-order-seekers wait in line to ruin their and others’ lives.
First up– attorney approaches the bench, the Petitioner is sworn in, and attorney explains to the judge that Petitioner’s disso is “somewhat unusual,”in that the parties’ child has actually been determined to not be the fruit of the loins of the Petitioner, and therefore no child support will be ordered, and no parenting classes required.
Also, during the offer of proof, it comes up that he is currently unemployed, and has agreed to assume 80% of the community debt.
Next at bat– pro-se litigant. approximately 19 years of age, 4′8″, 260 pounds, acne, greasy hair, and Sharpie-brows. Seeking protection order. Respondent is present and normal. The judge denied the order without much argument– the only one denied that day.
Third, visitation dispute. Apparently daddy can’t afford child support. He has completed a financial worksheet, and– I applaud his candor– included $55 per month for alcoholic beverages.
Lastly, a motion for temporary orders– the Respondent’s mother came with him to counsel table to speak on his behalf– his mother is not a lawyer, and is highly offended when the judge asks her to leave the bar.
I have no idea what it was I was supposed to be asking the judge for today, but he granted it. So good news, there.
4. Complete 26.5 mandatory continuing legal education credits, preferably not through classes involving estate or business-entity formation as topics;
5. Finish reading Moby Dick (the ability to complete the final 87 pages has eluded me since assigned the book in 1995– I’d like to know if my essay on the book earned an 89% because I didn’t guess the ending correctly, or because the writing was of generally low quality);
6. Prevent clients from calling me after 7:00 p.m. unless they or someone they love are currently being consumed by a magical conflagration, the magical properties of which prevent anyone, save me, from extinguishing it;
7. Take more weekend trips;
8. Clean the toilet;
9. Use the “premature adjudication” joke in an oral motion argument.
Item: Woe unto You Lawyers (Who Do Not Wash Your Hands)
In early November, I noticed a fellow attorney use the bathroom in the courthouse and then leave without washing his hands. While waiting for my cases to be called, I carefully created a small hand-lettered sign from a 3 x 5 card which said Attorneys must wash hands before returning to Court, and wedged it into the frame surrounding the mirror above the sink backsplash. Apparently the custodian must believe that someone with some authority placed it there, because it is still there nearly two months on.
Item:In Soviet Russia, Pants Track You!
Does anyone else who practices in an area with a large number of recent emigrées from former Soviet Socialist Republics notice that they tend to favor track-pants for court appearances? I have seen no fewer than eight separate defendants for whom Slavic languages are first-tongues appear in nice dress-shirts and blue track-pants with white piping. I’ve been too scared to mention and inquire further into this, and mostly am grateful that they do not favor heavily-soiled yellow or green sweat-pants, as tend to life-long U.S. Citizen defendants (also lots of University of Nebraska t-shirts in various states of disrepair– oh, sure, like you went to the University of Nebraska!)
Item: The Old Bailey Hack
My family have shown remarkable perspicacity in their choices of gifts for me this year. My long-suffering and dour Gran purchased for me a boxed-set of Rumpole of the Bailey DVDs. This was a show I grew up watching on PBS, the only station deemed watchable in our home (except for Letterman and SNL on NBC), and seeing it again, now that Rumpole and I share a profession, was a wonderful treat. My mother purchased the three-disc Criterion box of Brazil for me. I, in turn, sent them Harry and David baskets, laboring under the misapprehension, apparently, that old people enjoy fruit.
Item: Old People Do Not Enjoy Fruit as Much as You’d Think
I was thrilled to receive a holiday greeting from the delicious Girl Counsel today. I’m equally overjoyed to be able to make the following comment about a Christmas card for the first time in my life:
I think you may have misspelled “poon.”
I spent the Thanksgiving holiday with my mother’s family. Sixty-odd Irish Catholics with ten yelling, running kids each, crowded into the basement of the K of C hall in a tiny mining town in the Old State. It was fairly predictable– Aunt Evelyn drinking vodka from a Mountain Dew bottle to fool us, none of us being fooled, frequent smoke-breaks to the parking lot, unidentifiable salads, and creative uses for mashed potatoes and bread cubes. The unpredictable part was my late arrival. I ran into a tiny strip of town that was actually the outskirts of town. There is an appreciable distance between this pre-town strip and the actual town, and I mistook the outskirts for the actual town. I drove around for almost an hour trying to find anything vaguely Catholic. Eventually, I gave up and kept driving, thinking I’d find a bar that was open, and voila, town, nearly half a mile away on the opposite side of the river. In the end, I drove four hours for forty-five minutes of family time before they all left to go hunting. At the time I arrived, there was some shredded turkey, lukewarm, congealed gravy, and a melange of mashed potato and green-bean left. Everyone saved up their legal questions for me, asking who they ran into during the past year could and couldn’t be sued. The Volvo did well, but I was paranoid of ninja deer appearing from nowhere and doing further damage.
Things I am thankful for just at present, in no particular order:
1.
2. The Tribe, and its enlightened views on cigarette pricing;
3. My friends, far-flung and difficult to get to though they may be;
