Ravings of a Textual Deviant

Alisa’s case continues to make the editorial section of the local paper. I heard that the judge’s email address had to be shut down, as did that of the Marion County court in question. Since the story broke, I can’t even count the number of mutual acquaintances who’ve read the story and said to me “…and then I realized it was our Alisa!”

That’s our Alisa indeed. Although she may be feeling a bit chagrined at her informal comment—the one that the reporter chose to use in place of her more professional response—I can guarantee that her opinion remains unchanged. You see, Alisa’s one of those lawyers who chooses to use her powers for good. I know that sometimes seems like the next most common thing to a unicorn, but this I’ve seen with my own eyes. Because Alisa is my best friend, I’ve been hearing about the non-confidential aspects of this case for some time. Every time she talks about it, her eyes start blazing, her voice takes on a tone of outraged disbelief, and I’d swear that the very air around her becomes charged with electricity. Both Alisa and I are members of a mainstream minority religion, and we’re both very conscious that this sort of case is exactly where religious oppression can start. I can’t speak for her, but I am overwhelmingly gratified on her behalf by the number of people, from conservative Christians and Catholics to atheists and the spiritually nonaffiliated, who have asked me to pass on their support to Alisa. Every word of encouragement is appreciated; the only reason Alisa’s not the number-one family lawyer in the state is because she cares so much about her clients that their troubles are her troubles, and that way lies burnout. Personally, I’m optimistic that things will be set right in the court of appeals. I hope that the people involved in the case will soon fade into comfortable obscurity; living in the spotlight can be hot and uncomfortable. And I hope that it will be soon, so that my best friend can heave a huge sigh of relief, and bask in the satisfaction of a job well done.

UPDATE: Daily Kos has kindly compiled a list of some of the reaction to the case in the blogsphere. And Ed tells me it made his second-favorite magazine. (”I’d hesitate to see Guns & Ammo’s take on it,” he adds.)

Karen and I finally got around to our long-delayed shopping trip, and it was so much fun that I can’t wait to do it again. After lunch at the Kona Grill, we hit the Temple of Shoes, which was the high point of the trip for me. We tried on various pairs of shiny, sparkly shoes and commiserated about the lack of availability of small sizes and the fact that boots are only made for flamingo women. The main object of the trip, a summer party dress for me, was a total wash despite heroic efforts on Karen’s part. However, when we got back to my house and started going through the closet, we found something that will suit quite well indeed. I could even wear my shiny, sparkly new shoes with it.

We just got home from the movie, and I am…searching for a verb…appalled. On the way home, I actually asked Ed to turn the car around so I could ask for the last two hours of my life back. “I don’t think they can do that, honey,” he said, very gently. “Do you think they could wipe my brain?” I asked.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s wind back to the point where Ed and I left the theater.

Ed: I don’t think Richard Burton could have saved that dialog.
Li: And the acting…
Ed: Yeah.
Li: The costumes weren’t even good. Naboo maternity wear? Awful.
Ed: I can’t argue that. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Come on, let me get some coffee and then I’ll love you like I did on Naboo.
Li: If you say “love me like you did on Naboo” to me again, I will not be held responsible for my actions.
Ed: I’m beginning to see the appeal of the dark side of the force.
Li: What? It’s not like you get better lines.
Ed: No, but you get to kill people with really rotten dialog. “Love me like you did—” vrrrrrrr [Ed mimes a lightsaber strike].

UPDATE: Watch this instead. The writing’s ever so much better.

“Husbands are different from us.”—Manisha

A big congratulations to Karen and Dorothea, who are well on their respective ways to fabulous new jobs; and the same to Rachel, for finishing law school with minimal brain damage, and an early Happy Birthday to Ed (who will be vastly relieved that I haven’t included his age).

All in all, it’s been a good week…and I have a feeling it’s going to be a great weekend. Hope yours is, too.

In the midst of all the business with evicting the Parasitic Housemate, my very favorite lawyer has had one or two other things on her mind…

Update: Alisa and I both nearly fainted from shock when we saw that the local paper was actually supporting her side of the case!

This weeks Lunchtime Poll is about tardiness, in acknowledgment of the fact that it is, itself, late.

Describe a game you’ve played in or run (or would like to play in or run), based on a “ticking clock” setup.

I’m going to take the easy way out and say I’d like to run the “Red Alert” game I described in Paul’s IRE #5.

Two people who have a tendency to annoy me spent a day annoying each other instead. It would’ve been great, except that I kept hearing from one of them how annoying the other was.

I’d provide context, but it didn’t help me any, either.

Me: Where’s a T. Rex when you need one?
Brent: I’ve wondered that myself on occasion

Last night, we successfully evicted my friend’s parasitic housemate…despite multiple timing problems, traffic, and a general lack of organization on my part that is probably best described by one of those unofficial military acronyms like SNAFU or FUBAR. At one point, a handful of us were sitting outside, waiting for the guy with the large van to arrive. “It’s like we’re having a picnic,” my friend’s seven-year-old son observed. I nodded, “Only without the fun.” I haven’t been that tightly wound in ages, and words are not adequate to describe the immense relief I felt as I took the lock off the empty storage unit and stepped into the sunshine. Given that the parasite has a few philosophical problems with my moving methodology, and I’ve been the main target for her annoyance, I decided to leave street theater to the mimes and declined to help unload at the new apartment, thereby avoiding confrontation. Fortunately, I had exceptionally capable hands to delegate to. I got my friend back to her house and enforced relaxation upon the both of us until it was time to order pizza.

It was a long, grueling week; I seem to have managed to lose most of a clothing size through sheer stress non-eating. Still, the important thing is that the job was done, and I would like to publicly thank the many kind and generous ladies and gentlemen who made it possible. You know who you are. And I would be remiss if I didn’t say that those very people are the best possible post-eviction party guests ever. We spent the rest of the evening sprawling in puppy piles on the kitchen floor, telling stories and eating pizza and cake. My friend and her family finally have a peaceful house. I am looking forward to a long weekend that doesn’t have anything to do with cardboard boxes, trash bags, or facilities with concrete floors.