Talking Good, Happy Bunny and Man Love...Oh My!

So this morning, I was reading a case history about a client of ours. I've discussed him before, though not in this blog so don't go searching for evidence of my previous gossiping. This guy got busted for possession of meth, coke, pot, paraphernalia, you name it, and we have the privilege of representing him. Now before he is sentenced, he had to have a drug evaluation, psych eval, umpteen meetings with a probation officer, each of which results in a report being written and submitted to the judge. Then he decides just how big of a schmuck this person is, and whether they should rot in jail, chewing on their underwear and rocking back & forth, or get slapped on the wrist and sent back out to mingle with the rest of us in society. I always kinda hope for the former.

This guy is the one who had been drinking and drugging since about the age of 10. He's tried everything imaginable, too much for my lazy fingers to type here. Suffice to say 'twas a lot. Vince Neil is shaking his head and saying, "Dude, you gotta learn some moderation." But the ultimate was when he dropped acid and took LSD-laced sugar cubes at a concert and woke up in a city park eating a duck. That's right, a duck. He wrung its neck and ate it raw, feathers and all. Not sure about the beak, though. I'm curious at what point you start to think, Hmm, maybe I'm addicted. I wonder if these drugs are harming me. Anyhoo, after they ascertained that he had consumed enough drugs for a dozen rock stars (or Danny Bonnaduce), he was sent for a psych eval. During this, he confessed that he was bipolar and had bouts of depression combined with violence and suicidal thoughts. He was treated at age 25 at a place called Manlove Psychiatric Clinic. Umm, I'm not a doctor, but I have a hard time believing that any treatment at a place with that name could be beneficial. I'm pretty sure that it would only encourage drug use to repress certain, let's say, therapies used. Great googly-moogly.
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This weekend, I was on the road with a bunch of high-schoolers, heading to a speech tournament. We stayed overnight in a small town - 26 kids, 3 coaches, and me (I'm a judge). I felt sorry for the hotel staff. Our novice team ended up winning the sweepstakes. They only get a trophy, and there was no Ed McMahon, so I was a little disappointed. The varsity team got third place. The head coach was actually happy the rest of the trip home. Go figure. I'd like to say they did well because of my stellar coaching abilities. In reality, I sat on the bed eating cheetos during their practices, and only occasionally did I insert any useful critique. I was more of a heckler. I guess I helped them learn not to be distracted by the audience. I'm like Mikey on American Chopper, without the fat and the ugly glasses. I'm useless, but I'm there for moral support.
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When I got home, my family had a surprise graduation party for me. The most surprising part of it was that I graduated over a month ago. Maybe they just realized it. Of course, my college didn't put it in the paper until last week, so that probably clued them in. My sister made me a Happy Bunny cake inscribed with the words, 'So you finally graduated. Big Harey Deal!' Boy, just feel the love. However, her carpal tunnel was acting up when she was frosting it, so instead of Happy Bunny having a pink tummy, it looked like Happy Bunny was showing us his world. Nothing like a little rabbit porn to get the party started.

That's all the insight I have for today. Kat out.

Crazy Runs in Families

Working in a law office, I get to meet more than my share of crazies. From coked out strippers to wife-beating pathological liars to people who are clearly afraid of soap & water, they keep my days interesting. But sometimes I start to wonder, just what exactly draws them all to our office besides the common need for legal services? I mean, there's about six other lawyers in this town. How do they all end up here? I really want to wear my shirt to work that says, What Am I? Flypaper for Freaks?, but somehow I don't think that would go over too well.

Take for instance, the gentleman I had the privilege of speaking with yesterday. As soon as I heard the growly voice on the other end of the phone, I groaned inwardly. This guy's burners are not all heating up. He's in his 80's, and he is convinced that his kids are trying to kill him and steal his ranch. Granted, one of his sons did do that a few years ago, but c'mon, let bygones be bygones. Can't we all just get along? A few years ago, he was mad at some rancher who was giving him trouble, so he hired a hit man. The hit man went out to the ranch, and got beat up by the intended victim! I'm pretty sure that would pretty much kill your street cred. So in retaliation, the hitman went to the cops, who in turned called the Feds. The Feds show up at this old guy's ranch to arrest him. Since it was about noon, and they live in the middle of nowhere, he made his wife fix them a meal! She fries up some chicken, makes potatoes and gravy, the works. I think she was just glad she was going to have no less than 18 months but no more than 5 years of peace.

Now I would like to go on the record at this point and say I have no personal beef with this man. In fact, his chauvenistic attitude and colorful cursing remind me of my grandfather, so I usually find it kind of amusing. But the last time he was in here, he starting asking me why I wasn't married at my age and if it was because I couldn't catch a man. Trying to be funny, I told him I had caught plenty, but I threw them all back. Missing the humor, now he just thinks I'm a whore. But undeterred, he proceeds to attempt to set me up with his grandson...who's standing right there. It's the only grandkid he approves of, good job, great personality, yada, yada. Umm...a recommendation from this man wasn't exactly what I was looking for. If I were his grandson, I would reconsider using him as a reference. And right now, life-long celibacy is looking pretty good.

Could You Remove The Hot Poker?

This morning, I woke up with a hideous earache. Not the minor, slightly sore type, but rather the searing pain, hot poker in the eardrum sort. Don't get me wrong, I'm not without a high pain tolerance, but holy crap in a sombrero! This mother is on fire! I'm not sure what caused it, but maybe my neck is out of place. I was running to get the phone the other night and when I turned around, I hit my head. I have slanted ceilings upstairs, and I ran smack dab into one of them. I think somebody moved it when I wasn't looking.

Either way, the pain is now clear down my neck. I've been thinking maybe I've got a bug in there, slowly burrowing toward my brain. My mother says that's not possible, because no bug would head toward deserted territory. What a way to build up self-esteem, that. Sick of my dramatics, my mother finally demanded that I try a nasal spray, thinking that if my head was clear, perhaps my ear wouldn't hurt. So I shoot the junk into my nasal cavity, and the party began. The crap smelled like that old Avon perfumes Roses, Roses. Yeah, well, I'm allergic to flowers. I now have a flower garden in my skull, and a thousand little beatniks jamming out between my ears. Frankly, it's not a good combination. It's like having that Bilbo Baggins group singing their cult tune in my brain. As far as I'm concerned, that's one step before a straitjacket.

Boy, Am I Green

I am not generally a jealous person. In most cases, I am happy when I hear of friends' successes and only occasionally do I assume that someone has slept their way to the top. I sent cards to congratulate others, and going away parties for those who actually get out of this craphole town. Heck, I even throw baby and wedding showers, though not both at once. Ok, so those are really just celebrations for me that I'm not the one going through it, but they don't know that.

However, this week I fear that the green-eyed monster has reared its ugly head. No, I don't mean the one living in the bowl in my fridge. That's right folks, I'm talking envy. Not the kind you get when your best friend comes up with a money-making way of getting rid of crap. I mean the 'why is your life so much better than mine? you suck' type of envy. It's a little shocking that I've had this reaction, so bear with me.

I just found out that a friend of mine has moved to Hawaii. He & his wife just sold everything and headed down there on a whim. They might live there 6 months, they might stay there for good. It was a bit of a surprise, so I e-mailed him to get the gory details. Not only does he tell me how great it is there...he sends pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. The beautiful ocean, clear sky, pristine beaches, swaying palm trees, the works. Now he and his wife are both gorgeous, so their 4 year old daughter obviously got their good genes. So not only are they almost perfect physically, but now they live in a perfect place too. Frankly, it's almost nauseating. I never begrudge people their good looks, cuz no matter how unattractive we may think we are, there's always someone uglier to make us feel better. But it's a little disgusting to see someone else getting to do the things you know you could be doing also. It's not their fault at all, but it takes a little sting out of it when you can blame it on them.

I really have no reason to gripe. I am single, and I could go anywhere I wanted if I really took the initiative. I've done commercial and house cleaning and I've waitressed, so even if I couldn't find a job in my current career, there's always something to fall back on. But right now, I have a job I love and I feel like I should stay close to my family and help out. Is that a copout? Absolutely. Should I either quit whining about my circumstances or change them? Definitely. Am I going to do either of those? Not a chance. I am a gutless wonder, so I will have to live life vicariously through my friends. But in the spirit of goodwill, I hope it rains in Hawaii today.

The Virgin Islands No More

Today, one of my best friends leaves on a Caribbean cruise alone. Why? Because I had to think I had Paris Hilton's trust fund over the last 6 years, and I spent the crap outta my credit cards. Suddenly, I woke up, my millions were gone, and those annoying companies thought I should actually pay them. What's up with that? People are so greedy, especially when you borrow money from them.

So instead of basking in the warm tropical sun, I'm staring out the window of my office, wondering if birds really will blow up if you feed them rice. While irrelevant to my spending woes, I'm pretty sure watching a sparrow explode would lighten my mood. My friend was bummed that I couldn't go, but honestly, is it really wise to shell out $1500 on a 10 day trip when you've already got about 8 grand in debt? Yeah, didn't think so. I'm sure she'll bring me back some cool souvenir from some awesome place she visited, which is what I would if the roles were reversed. But somehow it's just not the same.

I keep asking myself how I accumulated so much on my credit cards. As far as I can tell, I don't have anything to show for it. No big screen flat panel TV, no mink coats or diamonds, no Rolls Royce in the driveway. Sure, I've picked up a CD here or there, blown my eardrums out at a few concerts (Nickelback rocks!), and gone on a cross-country road trip to a wedding I was in, but surely it didn't add up to all that. And it's not like I've got Miss Cleo on speed dial. Who the heck is spending all my money?!

All things considered, I get paid pretty well and I get a great bonus at the end of the year. But all I saw of my bonus this year was two checks - one to Discover and one to Mastercard. Sigh. Maybe Anna Nicole had the right idea all along. Making out with Grandpa...hmm...nope, still rather be poor.

Crank Yankers for the Younger Generation

Ok, so here I am starting my own little blog, though I really have no idea why. It wasn't like I ever got an award in a Creative Writing class. And even I know that my life is incredibly boring. Plus, I've never really been the "Dear Diary, today I met a boy who ate mud and he was so dreamy" type. If I had written a diary, I'm pretty sure I would have included things like "today I snorted coke and it was fun" just to see if my mother was snooping in it. Of course, then she would have probably chained me to a radiator or put me in drug rehab, and my life would have been radically different. Anyhoo, I make no promises of brilliance or even coherent thought, but maybe if my mental ragings are put down on paper, I won't grind my teeth at night. Here's hoping.

Today, I got a call from my grandfather at work. He was all worked up over the prank calls he's been getting. It's been going on for about 6 weeks now, with him receiving at least 2-3 hang-up calls a day. It's usually over the noon hour over shortly after, right when he's either eating or taking a nap. He's eighty years old, so he's pretty sure that someone is trying to kill him. The caller never says anything like, "I pooped my pants! YAAAAAYYYY!", so I'm pretty sure Gramps isn't being scouted out by Crank Yankers or anything.

Now, being the brilliant detective I am, I started putting clues together.

Clue #1: I have a fourteen year old nephew who is homeshooled and is at home by himself all day.

Clue #2: Said nephew has ADHD and uses it as an excuse for bad behavior.

Clue #3: My nephew rarely gets up before noon and never actually does his homework when he says he does. (I used to homeschool him, so I know things)

Clue #4: He has access to a phone.

Once my Dick Tracy-like skills were in high gear, I suggested the possibility to my grandfather. I pointed out that BigBrat, as we shall affectionately refer to him, knows my grandfather's schedule well. So I offered a way to clear up the mystery: the next time the sneaky caller rang him up, use the dreaded call return feature - *69. Naturally, this confused him, what with the phone being such a newfangled contraption and all. So I wrote down the instructions and showed him what keys to push on the phone and left left him to work the magic.

Now then, back to the call today. He had used *69, and shock of all shocks, it came from my nephew. I was stunned, almost as much as when I heard Ashlee Simpson had a crappy voice to go along with her bad dancing. Who'da thunk it? So I got on the phone and told my nephew off, informing him that the next time it happened, he didn't want to know what the repercussions were going to be. Yeah, I know, it's a pretty empty threat. But my mother used it on me, and my imaginings were always worse than any real punishment could have been. My nephew proceeds to swear he had nothing to do with it, he had been working on homework, and he hadn't touched the phone all day. M'kay. Just one little problem. An automated phone service doesn't lie. It's not like there's some evil person on the other end, trying to frame innocent 14 year olds for heinous phone pranks. Get real.

By the time he tells the story the second time, while in (fake) tears to his mother, the poor child was sound asleep when I called and had no idea what I was talking about. I was just so angry and he was so in fear for his life (since I apparently have the ability to kill children over the phone), that he didn't know what to say. Oh, gee, I don't know, the truth might have been helpful.

But, wait! There's more! The final story he ends with a few hours later is that he had indeed called him in error, while trying to contact my mom, and hung up not knowing it had already rung. But whoops! Mom never got a call from BigBrat at work that day. She even asked the receptionists, who keep a log. And the hits just keep on coming.

Now what makes me mad is not that he pranked his grandfather once. Leave a kid alone with a phone and strange things happen. When I was about 8 years old, I was at my great-aunt's house with my cousin and we were playing on the phone, breathing heavy and all that. The problem? My aunt picked up the upstairs phone to make a call and heard us. Not knowing that we were playing, she erroneously thought it was her estranged husband calling, needing help because he was having a heart attack (he had a well-known difficulty with his pumper). When the truth came out, we were strongly scolded and were afraid of touching a phone for years.

But the problem I have is that he did this for 6 weeks and then lied about it. Duh, McFly, when you're caught, you're caught. Admit it, apologize and go on. But don't try to be a CIA agent with your elaborate stories that no one believes. Except, apparently his parents. Somehow, through all of this, I became the bad guy for busting him, and Grandpa became the crazy old man who doesn't know how to use a phone. What are the odds? Believe the habitual liar over two fairly sane adults? It's times like this, I sympathize with Andrea Yates.

What do ya know? I guess I do have something to write about.