That's Not How Any of This Works: "Home to Roost" (Suits S7 Ep6)

A little bit of background: Yesterday it was chilly and rainy in Denver, so I worked out and then spent the rest of the day lounging around watching the royal wedding, which BBC America is STILL playing on a continuous loop.

Guys. Enough.

Anyway, then I went to see The Who's Tommy at DCPA. I knew nothing about it except for the song Pinball Wizard, so when the story went from Dad is MIA in World War II to Mom finds a new love who wants to marry her but then HOLY SHIT DAD'S NOT DEAD AND HE COMES HOME AND SHOOTS AND KILLS THE FIANCE, I was a bit taken aback. Then inexplicably Tommy is in some kind of weird fugue-ish state that combines aspects of PTSD, autism, catatonia, and who knows whatever else, and then after a Christmas party Mom and Dad go out and Uncle Ernie babysits and FUCKING MOLESTS TOMMY AND WHAT THE HELL AM I WATCHING. Then he gets bullied by cousins, and his dad and uncle take him to a prostitute, i.e., pay an adult to rape a child with severe sensory issues, but the prostitute sings a really catchy song, so I guess it's OK? Also, Tommy's really good at pinball even though he can't see or hear or do anything, and this makes him famous.

Then Mom and Dad decide they've had enough of Tommy's shit and the people with the white coats are on their way. But before they arrive, Mom freaks out and smashes Tommy's head on a mirror and suddenly he's better, which is not how any of this works. He's still famous and he grapples with fame and identity and purpose and then everybody seems happy and it's over.  I'm totally confused as to how this show ever got made.

So I had this sense of "nothing makes sense and that's not how any of this works," combined with royal-wedding-on-the-brain, when I thought, I wonder what Meghan Markle's show Suits is like? And the answer is, hilariously improbable yet not entirely unwatchable. But in watching it, I kept thinking, that's not how law firms work. That's not how law works. That's not how trials work. That's not how any of this works. And it was like I was writing a recap in my head, so I decided to make it official and write it down.

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So, Suits. The show just finished Season 7, but you have to pay for seasons 1 through 6, and that wasn't happening. I chose Season 7, Episode 6 because it was very plot-driven and fast-moving but also bonkers.

Long story short, Mike is a brainy whiz-kid law dude who looks to be about 25 but somehow has already managed to:

• get himself hired as a lawyer by a schmancy New York law firm that only hires Harvard Law grads (*eye roll*), even though he didn't go to Harvard or any law school and isn't actually a lawyer, he just printed a fake Harvard diploma. Sure.
• get busted for being a fraud (see above) and serve some time in jail, but now he's out.
• somehow redeem himself and get admitted to the bar, which strikes me as improbable given his criminal history and the nature of his offenses, but OK, whatever. 

He's now back again at BigLaw, working for Harvey, his big firm partner/mentor dude who is a corporate law hot-shot. But Mike likes to work for the common good as well, and he somehow he manages to score a deal that allows him to work for BigLaw and also do some pro bono work for a clinic that represents the unwashed masses in public interest cases. Also, he's a disgraced ex-con who I'm guessing is working for this firm as an associate, but his office is roughly the size of the entire downstairs of my house. 

On the "previouslys", we learn that the main story line involves a pro bono case in which Mike represents Oscar, whose son died in prison after a fight. The son was a month from parole, though, so he wouldn't have been acting up and the whole thing is very fishy. At first everyone thinks it was just a one-time incident involving the prison being too cheap to have enough guards and medics on duty, but then Mike uncovers a huge criminal conspiracy involving the private prison company and a construction company. Their scheme is to use illegal prison labor to build their facilities while also generating fights involving guys who are about to get out on parole, meaning that their sentences get extended and the construction company gets more illegal prison labor. It is supremely evil. Mike wants justice for Oscar's son, and rightly so.

The problem is, BigLaw has brought in Dule Hill, who used to be an intern for President Bartlet, as a hot-shit partner. One of Dule Hill's clients is the evil construction company and they are NOT pleased about the prison litigation, so Mike has a conflict of interest and can't continue representing Oscar. Mike hands the case off to Oliver, a whiny annoying dude he used to work with over at the Do-Gooder Clinic.  Mike also signs an agreement that he will not work on the prison case any more, and in addition to signing the agreement, Harvey makes him give his "word" that he will abide by the contract. Which strikes me as overkill, because isn't that what the signature is for?

But Harvey obviously knows Mike better than I do, because as we will find out, even with that extra assurance, it takes Mike about 5 minutes to decide, "fuck it, this case is too important. Yes, I gave Harvey my word, but I also gave Oscar my word, and justice must be done." So in addition to being confused about what it means to give people your "word," Mike is back working on a case that he shouldn't be working on because he's conflicted out AND he agreed not to touch it. Something tells me that this is not going to end well.

One of the things that is making Mike so gung-ho about the case's prospects is that he has found a key witness to tie together all the various parts of this conspiracy, and it's a GUY WHO ALSO TRIED TO KILL MIKE WHILE HE WAS IN PRISON!!! I will refer to this gentleman as Father Phil, because he's played by Paul Schulze, aka Father Phil Intintola, Carmela's schnorrer of a priest on the Sopranos (and who Tony Soprano hilariously referred to as "Monsignor Jughead"). Before he was an inmate in the same prison as Mike, Father Phil was in another prison where he got pulled into a scheme to receive rewards in exchange for picking fights with guys whose paroles were about to expire, so their sentences would get extended. Sound familiar? But Father Phil doesn't feel particularly inclined to help Mike out, so Mike lures Father Phil with the prospect of big money that he could set aside for his daughter.

Also, in the course of maybe a day and a half, the case turns into a class action because there's more than one inmate involved, which is not how class actions work, nor do classes get certified when the whole case is less than a week old.

Somehow, notwithstanding working for BigLaw which, like most big law firms, makes its money on the exhausted, billable-hour-generating backs of its associates, Mike feels like he can get away with spending his waking hours poring over documents with Oliver and tracking down potential witnesses, even though the higher-ups at BigLaw are like, "dude, where the fuck are you? We've got big money corporate cases you need to be working on."  

Also, Mike is engaged to and cohabitating with the Duchess of Sussex, who also works at BigLaw. She realizes that Mike is actually working on the prison case, in violation of his agreement and his word to Harvey, and she is NOT HAPPY. Not only because he could get fired, but because he gave Harvey his word. But Mike is committed to helping Oscar, so he presses on. 

No one brings up the fact that continuing representation in a matter that presents a conflict with client's interests is a big no-no, and given what it took him to get admitted to the bar, it seems like Mike wouldn't be so cavalier about jeopardizing his status. That strikes me as at LEAST as big a deal as whether he gave Harvey his word.

Mike and Oliver go to see Father Phil and try to get the name of his "source," who I guess can corroborate the conspiracy.  Father Phil wants money up front. Mike and Oliver explain that without the source there may not be any money because the other side has filed a motion to dismiss.

What, what? What kind of motion to dismiss? Why now? They make it sound like the issue before the judge is whether there's enough evidence to proceed with the case, but that's not how any of this works. In a civil lawsuit, you file a complaint that says, the other side did bad things, and they should pay damages for it. Then, the parties engage in discovery, meaning they get to seek documents, information, witnesses, whatever, to help them prepare for trial.

And Mike and Oliver are doing that - they've tracked down Father Phil, they've got other guys they could be talking to, they're still in the process of building a case.  But for some reason, there's a hearing tomorrow on the motion to dismiss, and Mike and Oliver tell Father Phil that if he doesn't give up his source, the whole case will be thrown out. Father Phil's word isn't enough - they need corroboration. 

Except they don't need corroboration, at least not yet. They're still doing discovery. They're still finding things out. In a civil case you don't file motions to dismiss that amount to, "judge, even thought the parties aren't finished with discovery and are still building their cases, you should make a determination at this arbitrary point in time about the sufficiency of the evidence in the case." If there was no evidence after going through discovery, or if the evidence didn't support the plaintiff's case, THEN you could file a motion to dismiss, but it's totally premature in Mike and Oliver's case. It makes no sense. That's not how motions to dismiss work.

Also, as my friend Christi pointed out, it would be a motion for summary judgment, not a motion to dismiss, but to explain the intricacies of that would add significantly to the length of this post, so suffice it to say from a civil procedure standpoint, that's not how any of this works.

Plus, you don't find out about a motion to dismiss (or a motion for summary judgment) on the same day that you find out that the motion has been set for hearing tomorrow. That's not how court scheduling works. Motions get filed, the other side gets 30 days to file a brief in response, then the movant gets 14 days to file a reply, then the court looks at its calendar and set the hearing for a Wednesday that is three months from now. Nothing is happening tomorrow.

BUT WAIT!!! Apparently 7 years ago, Father Phil went to a prosecutor with evidence that the prisoners were being mistreated, but the prosecutor didn't give a shit. So there IS corroboration they could pursue. But the hearing's tomorrow! Hurry, guys!!

Luckily, that afternoon Mike and Oliver get a sit-down with the prosecutor, who confirms that Father Phil came to her alleging that he was being victimized as part of a conspiracy by the prison company to abuse prisoners. They refer to Father Phil by his character's name, Frank Gallo, which makes me think of Joey Gallo, the fake name that Joe Pesci gave Judge Munster in My Cousin Vinny, when he was trying to convince him that he was a reputable New York lawyer. Coincidence? 

Anyway, the prosecutor believed Father Phil but the case never went anywhere because the higher-ups weren't interested: "no one gives a shit about prisoners and they way they're treated."  Mike and Oliver then tell the prosecutor that she's going to tell the court what she knows, or they're "going to subpoena her records under the Freedom of Information Act." 

Mike and Oliver need to take all the seats, because that's now how any of this works.  First of all, you can either make a request for records under FOIA, or you issue a subpoena, but you don't do both. Also, a prosecutor's records are not the kind of federal agency records that you get through a FOIA request. For a couple of legal whiz kids, these two are not so sharp. 

But neither is the prosecutor, because she just says, "you guys are a couple of little shits" in a "curses, foiled again!" type of voice, so it looks like Click and Clack are back in business. They've got their corroboration.

Bad news, though. Back at BigLaw, Harvey (Mike's boss) has gotten a call from Father Phil that Harvey and Mike "better not fuck him over again." Harvey is all worried because he knows that Father Phil tried to kill Mike, and he doesn't know why Mike is communicating with him. In order to assure Harvey that he is not working on the prison case, Mike says that Father Phil is helping him on a different case at the clinic and that he's got everything under control. Apparently, even though Father Phil has seemingly been in jail for the bulk of his adult life, his assistance on a case involving the Brooklyn Housing Authority is invaluable because "he's from Brooklyn." Sure, Mike. Harvey is understandably dubious at this patently absurd explanation. 

Meanwhile, the B plot this week involves Louis Litt, the other big lawyer in the firm.  Louis is supposedly a bulldog of a great lawyer, but also bat-shit crazy with a tendency to blow up and yell at people in a truly alarming way. Louis has Issues for which he sees a psychiatrist with a German accent, so you know he's legit (the psychiatrist, not Louis). Louis's behavioral "quirks" are often played for laughs even though they're not remotely funny. He's abusive and awful and sad.

Early in the season, Louis was freaking out because he had just been dumped by his pregnant fiancee, so he took it out on a couple of the associates he's in charge of, including Stephanie. He told Stephanie that she was an idiot and that no one would ever want to procreate with her. Rather than tell Louis to go fuck himself, Stephanie stuck around, only to later get fired for failing to do some assignment that the Duchess had given her. Stephanie goes to work for BigLaw's rival firm, and then sues Louis for sexual harassment.

Louis being Louis, he predictably loses his shit about the lawsuit - it has to go away because he's been accused of sexual harassment before and he doesn't want to get a bad rep.  I think that ship has sailed, Louis. Louis tells the Duchess that she needs to take care of it, but she informs him that there were tons of witnesses to his awful behavior and it's not going to be so easy. He tells her to send someone over to Stephanie's new firm to pressure her to drop the suit. 

Do I need to explain to you that that's not how you defend a sexual harassment case?  I didn't think so.

Katrina, a BigLaw associate, shows up in Stephanie's office to talk her out of the sexual harassment suit. I will refer to Katrina as Jody Sawyer, because she is played by Amanda Schull from Center Stage, perhaps the greatest cheesy ballet movie ever made. Anyway, after being a prima ballerina for Cooper Nielson's new ballet company, where bad feet and under-developed technique were no impediment to a great dancing career, Jody apparently took a job as an lawyer and she's friends with Stephanie. But she also happens to be the friend who convinced Stephanie to take the shitty job at BigLaw to begin with, so Stephanie's not buying what Jody Sawyer is selling.  Stephanie was humiliated and is convinced that everyone thinks that she had to leave BigLaw because she "couldn't hack it," and that this lawsuit will fix that. Stephanie will see Louis in court.

Now, I'm not an expert in employment/sexual harassment law, and I'm certainly not a defender of Louis's behavior, but I have doubts about the merits of Stephanie's case. Louis was an unforgivable jerk and said some horrible things relating to Stephanie's sex, but she was fired for cause by someone else, totally unrelated to the incident with Louis. Also, it took her all of 3 minutes to get a new and seemingly better job, so I'm not sure what her damages would be. Employment lawyer friends, feel free to weigh in in the comments. 

Back at the firm, Dule Hill rails at Harvey that his construction company client is PISSED that not only has the prison case not gone away, but now it's a class action and there's a witness from another prison, and somehow it's all Dule Hill's fault. Somehow, Dule Hill and his construction company client construe the conflict rule to mean that "not only can no one in your firm work on a case that conflicts with our interests" (which is true), but also that "any lawyer you refer the case to must also make the case go away," which is not how any of this works.  If I represent a client in a case, I will have to withdraw from the case if someone in my firm represents a different client with a conflict. However, that doesn't mean that I also have to make sure that the next lawyer who takes the case actively craters the case, THEREBY VIOLATING THEIR OBLIGATION TO THE CLIENT TO ZEALOUSLY REPRESENT THEM. Dule Hill is an asshole, and so is his evil client.

Also, according to Dule Hill, tomorrow's motion to dismiss in the prison case is now a "trial." OK. Whatever. 

Anyway, with the reference to "inmate from another prison," Harvey puts two and two together, realizes that the inmate in question is Father Phil, and that Mike is still working on the prison case. He's not happy.  He finds the Duchess doing research in a "law library" that is full of random books that would be useless for legal research processes, plus nobody uses books to do research anymore. The Duchess lies and says she doesn't know where Mike is or what he's working on. Harvey goes to Oscar and pretends to be checking to make sure that Oscar is satisfied with Mike's pro bono representation, and Oscar's enthusiastic two thumbs up confirms to Harvey that Mike is working on the prison case. Harvey purses his lips.

Harvey confronts Mike, who says that justice is more important than "some client's bottom line," conveniently leaving out the part about the conflict and thus the violation of the Rules of Professional Conduct, which could put Mike's license at risk. Harvey tells Mike to either give case to Oliver or Harvey will show up in court tomorrow and spill the beans about the breached agreement, which will "leave the judge no choice but to toss the case" and Oscar won't get a dime. 

My ears prick up, because that's not how any of this works.

In sexual discrimination land, Louis is making prune smoothies in the office break-room, as one does, when Jody Sawyer comes to him with an offer of settlement from Stephanie. These people are speedy drafters of pleadings. The agreement requires Louis to pay money, which he's fine with, but also to admit guilt, which he's not fine with. Jody Sawyer says, you're not going to do better than this, and whatever you do, don't go see Stephanie.

Raise your hand if you think Louis is going to go see Stephanie. OK, you can all put your hands down now.

At Mike and the Duchess's apartment, the Duchess is VERY upset that she had to lie to Harvey. She tells Mike to pick one - work at the clinic or stay at BigLaw, but he can't do both. She's not wrong. Mike goes to Oliver and tells him he's got to take the prison case on his own. Oliver pisses and moans about how he's being left hanging high and dry, but Mike tells him to man up and get the goddamned job done. I echo that sentiment. Nobody likes whiners, Oliver.

Predictably, Louis goes to see Stephanie - he runs into her as she's getting out of a cab after work. There's no explanation of how Louis knows where and at what time Stephanie's cab will be dropping her off.  Anyhoo, Louis says he'll pay the money but won't admit to the sexual harassment. She tells him to go piss up a rope. He takes the bait and loses his cool and tells Stephanie that she's a pathetic loser who got fired for cause and then concocted the lawsuit out of spite.  I hate it when I agree with Louis. But Stephanie's got a room-full of witnesses to present to a jury, so bring it, Louis. It's ON.

That went well. 

Somehow, in the five minutes between Stephanie and Louis's fight and the next scene, which takes place that same night in the law firm, the Duchess and others in the firm have been subpoenaed to testify against Louis. Meaning that Stephanie's lawyers prepared the subpoenas, found process servers, and got the witnesses served after business hours, all in less time than it takes me to type the word "subpoena." Impressive.

The next morning, Jody Sawyer tells Louis about the aftermath of his stupid confrontation with Stephanie - the subpoenas have been served and witnesses will be testifying against him. Basically, Louis is in big trouble. Louis's response is to tell Jody that she and the others should just LIE UNDER OATH.

Oh, Louis.

Some mousy associate says, "why don't you just apologize to her?" Light bulb. So Louis goes to Stephanie, who says, "if you think that coming to me with an apology is going to get me to drop the suit, you have another think coming!"

Which is exactly what then happens.  Louis apologizes and tells her about his pregnant fiance dumping him and why he acted like such an asshole and she commiserates that she's 34 and a dried up old spinster who will never meet anyone or have kids, and that's why his words upset her so much. They make up! No more lawsuit! Because apparently that's how sexual harassment lawsuits get filed and settled! (It's not, actually.)

Back to the prison case. It's the day of the big hearing/trial. Oliver is confident: "this motherfucker's going down." Go Oliver!

The defense's argument is that the plaintiffs/witnesses are all convicted felons who can't be believed because they're just trying to stick it to the Man. Which isn't a reason to not let the jury hear the evidence and make their own credibility determination, and I don't know why the judge is entertaining this argument.

Oliver says, not so fast - the case hinges on the word of a US attorney who will testify that Father Phil told her he was abused .... so, hearsay? Oliver, you're not making sense.

Defense lawyer says that the US attorney's case file is inadmissible because it wasn't turned over to the defense in discovery -- but discovery wasn't finished, or it began and ended yesterday, so I don't know what the hell is going on.

Oliver shoots back that he only asked for and received the file yesterday, so it's admissible because the US attorney wouldn't have had time to falsify something in such a short amount of time. What? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING OLIVER.

Either Professor Rose glossed over that rule in Evidence class, or I was asleep.

The judge takes that word salad and, to his credit, says that the case should move forward unless someone can give him a compelling reason to dismiss it. Anyone? Beuller?

At which point Dule Hill makes a perfectly timed entrance and bursts into the courtroom, yelling at the judge that he has a binding agreement that says that BigLaw won't work on the case, but Mike breached the agreement, meaning that the case has to be dismissed. WHAT? I'm super confused. Dule Hill then says as proof, he'll put Oliver up on the stand to testify about Mike's involvement.

This is when my head explodes. THAT'S NOT HOW ANY OF THIS WORKS!

Dule Hill is not an attorney of record in the case. He does not represent either party to the lawsuit. He has no right to call witnesses or make arguments or do ANYTHING, and certainly has no basis for making one of the parties' attorneys get on the stand to testify as a witness - that's not a thing. Dule Hill should not be talking to the judge at all. Any judge in this situation would say, "I have no idea who you are but shut up and sit down before I throw your ass in jail for contempt."

Instead, THE JUDGE GRANTS THE MOTION TO DISMISS!!!  HE DISMISSES THE CASE!! WHICH MAKES NO SENSE! The conflict agreement is between BigLaw and the Clinic - the legal consequences for breaching it would be that Mike and BigLaw can't work on the case, not that the case gets dismissed. But I don't have a fake law degree from Harvard, so what do I know. 

I would also note (again) that the far more serious issue is that Mike's participation in a case in which he has a conflict is a major breach of the ethical rules, but in Suits-world, nobody seems concerned about a call from the Office of Attorney Regulation. Mike is just pissed because Dule Hill made a big stink in open court and embarrassed him, instead of coming to him privately so they could work it out. Whatever. Shut up, Mike.

This whole thing is totally insane. This show is insane. 

And I will probably keep watching it. 

Twenty-one

Dearest Emma,

Today is your birthday. You would have been twenty-one years old.

Generally, I do not cry anymore every time I think about you. I do cry every time I talk about you, but usually I can think about you without breaking down.

But not today. I cried the entire drive to work this morning. I had a sense of deja vu, calling back to the plane ride to Boston for your funeral, when I leaned my head against the window and wept the whole time.  I'm crying as I write this.

Today is rough. Twenty-one is a big birthday. Official legal adulthood. In my mind, you are a kid - a kid on the cusp of adulthood, but a kid nonetheless. But you would be heading into your last year of college. You would be preparing for what comes next. Independence. Pursuing your interests. Pursuing a career. 

When I write about you, I try to think of something we did together - keep alive the memory. It's playoff hockey season, and you were a Caps fan just like the rest of us. You were always part of the group that went to a Caps game the night before Thanksgiving. You and Jason always hung out at that game - he really loved you.

I ache with the longing to talk to you, to hear about your adventures. Maybe you would come visit and I would take you snowboarding. Maybe we would go on a roadtrip.

With each passing year, the thought of who and what and where you would be becomes hazier.

I think a lot about your father. My brother. I wish you could see how extraordinary he has been and continues to be in the aftermath of all this tragedy. He is so solid, so steadfast, so decent, so good. He is such an amazing father to Ollie and Hazel, just as he was to you. He has found a way to live with joy, with new love, with hope.

I don't know that I could have done it. I mean, I could have done it because there's no alternative. But it's hard to fathom.

Our lives continue. They are productive and mostly happy and full.

But there will always be a big hole where you should be.

I will continue to do my annual climbs in your memory - your yahrtzeit. You will always be part of us, part of our narrative. We will always love you and miss you.

All my love,

Wendy

Rhapsody in Blue

I live in a 122 year old house that I adore, but which is undeniably a work in progress.

She needed new floors. New configuration. New bathrooms. A new kitchen. New paint.

Slowly but surely, slowly but surely, I'm making her pretty again.

Bringing color to the house is a huge part of that. Color brightens my mood. Color is life.

From drab and dingy whites and greys - not to mention some truly godawful wallpaper - I have painted every single room in the house. My room is turquoise and citron. The kids' room is wasabi green. My bathroom is sage green. My workout room is coral. My hallway is yellow. My living room is lavender-grey. My kitchen is orange.

But the exterior of the house was depressing. I've been wanting to repaint the exterior for nine years. But painting the exterior of an old Victorian, that's very tall with a very steep pointy roof, and all kinds of detail, is expensive. I couldn't afford it for a long time.

But now I can.

I hired a company on the recommendation of a friend. When the owner showed up at my house for the initial consult, he had stars in his eyes when he knocked on my door.

"Your house is so beautiful!!!" he gushed.

"She can be," I grinned. "That's where you come in."

"I have ideas," he said.

"Tell me," I said.

Turns out we had similar ideas. I wanted something dramatic and elegant. I wanted the door to have a pop of color. I wanted the front porch to not look like it led into a crack den.

They started painting last Monday. We started here:

That house is the color of despair and old bras. And there is no color I despise more than that dark maroon/burgundy on the window trim.

We made progress. The kids came home from school the first day and called me in a panic.

"MOM WHY IS THERE HAZARD TAPE AROUND OUR HOUSE I'M SCARED!!!"

 

It took a little longer than anticipated. We had a few days of rain. And as Ray, the painter, said, "your house is the most dangerous house I've ever painted."

 

But she is beautiful now.

I returned home from work last night and could not stop grinning. I just stood there, smiling. I love everything about it. It makes me so happy. Color makes me so happy.

Now, on to replace some of the baseboards in the dining room....

Feel it in your heart and feel it in your soul

With every reunion, I take away different things.

I wasn't in touch with my India peeps for a really long time. Like, for twenty years after graduating from AES, I didn't see anyone, except for a few isolated incidents.

Then came the advent of Facebook and social media, and all of a sudden all of these wonderful people came flooding back into my life. This incredible experience - the magical confluence of being the right age, with the right people, in the right place, under the right circumstances - went from being a huge part of my life, but one that was undeniably in the past, to a current active presence in my everyday existence.

About 11 years ago, when I was living in Hawaii, Lisa and I reconnected on Facebook and via our blogs. As Facebook grew, so did my connections with people from my peripatetic childhood - friends from Israel, from high school in Virginia, from college and law school, and best of all, from India.

I reconnected with Kristin, who I have seen once in 20 years, but who is and always has been one of my favorite people in the world. I reconnected with Sophie. With Jason and Jason and Greg and Russ and Kassie and Mark and Chris and Daniel Azul and Kim and Julie and Susanna and Kristina and Raphaela and Robin and Sid and Rajiv and Paul and Boo and Carter and Jackie and on and on. We are all over the world, but I am in contact with some of them on a daily basis.

Then I started attending reunions and my head and my heart exploded. In 2010, it was emotional and sensory overload from connecting with these people and these experiences after 23 years.

In 2014, the love-buzz, the intensity of the connections, grew stronger.

In 2015, there was another big all-class reunion, and increasing sense that the India crew was a family. And not even one comprised of people that I had known at school - it was expanding to include people who I hadn't known in India because we weren't there at the same time, but who I came to know and love through the reunions themselves. It was expanding to include significant others. People like Ritu and Seana and Anne-Lene and Paul and Ingrid and Kerry and Kendall and Nicole and Sean and Marin and Lauri came into my life.

What struck me this past weekend is how much our reunions fill in the gaps of memory, which is a huge thing for me. When I can't remember, I feel like I'm losing a part of myself.

I was sitting at dinner and we were talking about how much freedom we had in India. How our parents let us do the craziest things at the ages of 16 and 17, before there were cell phones or even reliable landlines to parts of India.

"Hi, Mom and Dad! I was hired to be an extra in a BBC mini-series in Allahabad! Greg and Emily and Dan and I are going. They're sending us by train and putting us up in a hotel. See ya in 4 days!"

"OK, honey, have fun!"

"Hey, Mom and Dad! We've chartered a bus to go to Rishikesh to go white-water rafting with a couple of Canadian stoners. There won't be any chaperones or anyone over the age of 17, and we'll be camping by the river."

"Have a great time!"

WTF.

Jason remarked that the Rishikesh trip was dangerous.

"That bus ride was rough," he said. "And Kassie almost drowned in the river."

I don't remember that at all. I remember sitting around the camp fire. I remember jumping out of our rafts at one point and floating down with our life vests. I remember that Sandy and I took a shower in a freezing cold waterfall. But I don't remember any danger. Maybe I was just oblivious.

After reminiscing about the BBC shoot in Allahabad, I now remember sitting next to Saeed Jaffrey during a crowd shot and totally embarrassing myself by saying, "you look familiar! I know you! Haven't we met?" He gently explained that he was a actor and I had probably seen him in some of his movies.

We talked about the mini-course trip to Kerala senior year, and how we got busted for skinny-dipping in the ocean. I had very faint memories of that but they have all come back to me.

On Saturday, my parents had a ton of food left over from a political fundraiser they hosted that was sparsely attended, so everyone came over to hang out in the afternoon.

Jason B. brought his parents, which was amazing. His mom is hilarious and at one point pulled me aside and whispered conspiratorially, "Wendy, isn't that your ex-boyfriend over there??"

She was pointing to Greg. Who I dated for four months over thirty years ago, and who I haven't thought of as an ex-boyfriend for at least twenty-four of those years.

"Yes, I suppose it is," I laughed.

She was very concerned that I had recovered from the break-up. I found it hysterical, and assured her I was fine.

Anyway, I had exactly zero recollection that back in India, she and my mom and a couple of other women had a standing weekly bridge game and were close friends. And now, because of our reunions, they are back in touch and have plans to get together, along with Lisa's mom, Betty, and some other India friends.

As the years go by, the arms of our experience grow longer and longer, and envelop more and more people into the warm, loving hug of our reunions.

It's hard to fathom how many years have gone by.

At one point on Saturday night, a group of us was dancing and laughing. Lisa and I were literally jumping up and down. I was delighted but also amazed.

I thought, how is it that we are only a couple years away from being 50 years old? How is that possible?

I wouldn't say that I still feel 17, but I certainly don't feel any older than maybe 35, in terms of my physical fitness and approach to life.

India lives in all of us, and it keeps us young. We keep each other young.

The last dance is always to All Night Long.

Nicole said, "are you going to cry?"

"I'm not going to cry," I responded.

I cried.

Looking around at this group of old friends, all of whom feel the same magic that I do when we're together, all of whom look back on our time together as lightening in a bottle, I cried with joy for the love we have for each other and I cried with sadness because even before they're gone I miss them.

In my head, the picture of our time in that exotic place so many years ago feels like a painting that is being dusted off. With every reunion, the image is clearer and comes more fully into focus. Usually the passage of time causes the opposite to happen.

But we are our own time machine, bringing back the past and making it our present and future.

Will you be my bodyguard? I'll pay you 50 cents every day.

As you all know, Josie has always been full of sass. She lives her life as if she's on stage, hamming it up for any audience, real or imagined. She's fearless and protective of her friends, unafraid to speak her mind or take on confrontation. .

Before, she didn't have much to back it up. She's tall and insanely skinny but not particularly threatening. You wouldn't look at her and worry about meeting her in a dark alley.

But now, she has the skills. The skillz. She's really good at taekwondo, which she has been taking since the beginning of the school year. Her forms are perfect and her kicks are beautiful, high and precise. She can spar and scrap.

Sometimes these factors - the protectiveness and the fearlessness, plus the skillz - coalesce in ways that are not so positive, at least as far as school is concerned.

Josie has a group of friends she hangs out with. Many of them are African-American. And one day, a bunch of boys from another grade were harassing Josie and her friends, calling them names and using racial slurs.

I got a call from the principal later that day. I sighed, bracing myself for the news. My kids don't get in trouble that much, but enough that I feel like a day without a call from the school is a good day.

Turns out, Josie was not a fan, at all, of her friends being called nasty names. She and her friends told the boys to stop, but they didn't stop. So Josie decided to take matters into her own hands.

Or more precisely, her feet. Because when one of the boys wouldn't stop with the name calling, Josie hauled off and clocked him in the side of the head with a perfectly placed roundhouse. And then maybe a few well-placed punches.

This is a no-no at school. And a no-no under the tenets of taekwondo - it's only to be used for defensive purposes.

I was proud of her for sticking up for her friends, but I knew she needed to be punished - you can't just go around beating people up.

The thing I had a problem with was the punishment itself. Rather than suspend her or make her participate in some restorative justice efforts, she was barred from recess, couldn't go to "specials" - art, gym, that sort of thing - had to eat her lunch in the office, and couldn't hang out on the playground after school. So basically, if she wasn't in class, she was spending the day in the office.

FOR THE REST OF THE SCHOOL YEAR.

I call bullshit.

This happened in late February. By the time spring break was rolling around in late March, she was a basket case. She cried before school, she cried after school, she missed her friends, she couldn't play, she got no exercise during the day.

One of her good friends - the same one who asked me if I was ever going to get married again - said to me, "Wendy, I think Josie really needs some therapy."

I set up a meeting with the principal, basically to say, enough is enough. She's learned her lesson. And the punishment is destroying her.

To her credit, the principal agreed. She and Josie drew up a behavior contract together, decided on rewards and consequences, and Josie got her privileges back.

"Ok, Jos. Remember, you can't use your taekwondo to beat people up. I know your friends were getting picked on, and it's always important to stand up to bullies and to stick up for your friends. But no matter how justified, kicking a kid in the head at school is never going to end well."

"OK, Mom."

Fast forward a week or so. Zeke is having his first experience playing organized youth soccer. For the past five years, he's only played flag football, but all of a sudden he's crazy for futbol. He watches Cristiano Ronaldo videos and teaches himself dribbling skills. He's really good.

"Where'd you learn how to do that?" I ask.

"Self-taught. YouTube," he replies.

So I signed him up to play soccer with the Colorado Rapids youth league. He was so, so excited.

His coach was a complete dick. He didn't teach them anything about the game. He didn't teach them about strategy or how to move on the field, how to play their positions, stuff like that. And he spent the practices yelling at the kids in a nasty way.

At the first game, the coach told Zeke to play defense. Zeke went and stood where he was told. And he tried to play the ball, but he didn't really know what he was doing, and he made mistakes.

The coach's response was to scream at him, and say that he was a terrible player, the worst kid on the team, he should never be allowed back on a soccer field. The other kids were yelled at too, but Zeke was standing the closest to the coach, so he bore the brunt of it.

Yeah. I know. I wanted to throttle the guy, too.

 So, Zeke is standing on the field crying and being berated. The coach then pulls him from the game and continues to yell at him while Zeke sits on the ground with his head in his hands, sobbing.

Jason and I watched this unfold, horrified. We both had tears in our eyes.

I said, "this is awful. I can't stand to see him treated this way."

Jason said, "me either. I'm going to go get him. We're done."

So we went and got Zeke. Jason had a few choice words for the coach. We left, and told Zeke he never had to play for that team again.

Josie, as it turns out, had a few choice words for the coach as well. Zeke was riding with me, so we had already gone towards my car. Jason was driving with Josie, and they had to pass the coach again on the way to his van.

Josie went up to the guy and said, "you can't treat my brother that way! My brother Zeke is the best brother in the world and if you're mean to him I'm going to use my front snap kick [she actually used the Korean name for it, but I don't remember what it is] and kick you right in the nuts!"

So.

Maybe she still needs to internalize the lessons of her past a bit more.

But still. In a fight for justice, physical or otherwise, I want her on my side.

In which I throw myself into the fire and somehow survive

It's kind of a running joke between my mother and me - except one that isn't all that funny - that I am the world's worst shopper.

Not in the sense that I don't know how to do it - I am physically and intellectually capable of going to pick out clothes for myself.  Sort of.

Rather, it's that I despise it more than just about any activity I can think of. Like, I would rather clean the toilet, clean the cat box, or snake the hair out of the drain than go to the mall.

My mother is totally the opposite. Before she retired and was traveling around the world all the time, she would always have free time scheduled on her trips for seeing the sights, or, more often, supporting the local economies by shopping. She has an infinite capacity for it.

When she and I shop together, it generally consists of her saying, "there's a huge sale, just take a look," and then I take a look and try on one thing and immediately feeling like the walls are closing in and I need to get out of there immediately.

And when we're not in the moment, we can kind of laugh about it. But it is truly an anxiety-producing event for me. I walk into a mall and I immediately feel fat, ugly, and poor. I get agitated and panicky. The choices overwhelm me and I am paralyzed. It's awful.

So when it came to buy myself a new suit, I knew I was in trouble.

I have an important oral argument coming up in a case in federal court. It's a big deal. There's a lot on the line, and I feel a huge amount of pressure to do well.

And I don't have anything to wear.

I haven't had to wear suits to work in forever, so I have a uniform of black, navy and beige pants that I wear with a solid color shirt and a cardigan. The pants are all the same brand and style. The shirts are all the same brand and size. I have a bunch of cardigans that I swap out. I buy all of it online. It's super easy. But it's not formal enough for federal court.

Like I said, this is a really important case. I'm going to be well prepared and I'm confident I can handle it. I'm good at oral argument. But I also want to go into battle looking like a boss.

I tried finding something online. I bought a beautiful red dress with a matching jacket. I was excited.

But when it arrived, the dress, while gorgeous, fit in the body but was so tight in the boobs I couldn't get it over my shoulders or zip it. Story of my fucking life.

So I steeled myself and headed over to the mall today.

I was already having a shitty day. I was tired and super stressed out and upset about a number of things. I spent the morning lying in bed and feeling weepy. I was pathetic.

Eventually I reached my limit of wallowing and decided I needed to get up and act like a functioning human being. I washed my puffy face, put on some makeup, and went to buy a suit.

It went about as badly as I anticipated.

First of all, there was nothing that I liked. I really didn't want to go the institutional black or grey route - I wanted red or purple or something similarly dynamic. But there was nothing. I went to Macy's, Ann Taylor, Brooks Brothers, White House Black Market, Talbot's, Banana Republic, and Nordstrom (where, for the first time at that store, I got truly shitty service). Everything was black or gray, or an ugly color or pattern, or weirdly cut, or festooned with random features like dumb-ass bell sleeves.

I called my mother.

"I can't find anything. There's nothing."

"Did you try Nordstrom?"

"They had nothing. And the service was awful."

"Really? At Nordstrom?"

"Yes. I went everywhere. I can't believe how little selection there is."

"What about one of the little boutique-y shops in Cherry Creek?"

"You know I can't do that."

"Go to Neiman's."

"Ugh. I'm not going to fucking Neiman's. I hate that place. Plus their prices are ridiculous."

"Well, then you're going to have a hard time finding a fucking decent suit."

Touche.

My dad picked up the phone offered me to buy me any exorbitantly expensive suit I wanted. He was in a good mood because Virginia's men's basketball team had just beaten Duke, at Duke. He likes to give his children and grandchildren gifts. He's super generous and lovely.

When he got off the phone, my mom and I went back to our conversation. She suggested some online options. She said she'd mail me three of her suits that I could get tailored. I felt my anxiety level continue to rise.

Finally, I went back to Macy's. I found some suit separates in black. Sleek, no bell sleeves, no flounces or other bullshit that I hate. Very Alicia Florrick from The Good Wife. So I bought it. Done.

I came home completely exhausted and worn out. I had something to eat, did some laundry. and went back to bed.

And that was my day.

Let's talk about sex, baby

This sounds like such a cliché, but I can’t even deal with how much access my kids have to information that they might not be ready for.

All of a sudden they’re asking me about sex CONSTANTLY. When I had them a couple of weekends ago, I heard references to porn.

“What do you know about porn??” I demanded.

Zeke replied, “nothing, really. There’s sex on it? Like on the internet, there are places like Pornhub?”

For pete’s sake.

“WHERE DID YOU HEAR ABOUT PORNHUB??!! Did somebody show it to you?”

I felt like my head was going to explode.

“No! My friend Hugo told me about it.”

“Oh my god. OK. Well, DO. NOT. Do you understand? It’s totally inappropriate.”

“Why? I thought sex wasn’t a dirty thing.”

“It’s not, but the way it’s shown on places like Pornhub make it look dirty. When you’re ready to have sex, I want you to have a great experience that’s safe and fun and happy. And that won’t be dirty. But right now, you should not be looking at porn. It’s not a healthy thing for you to see.”

He seemed satisfied with that answer.

“Ok, Mom.”

Josie was less placated.

"Mama, what is sex?"

I sighed. "You know how babies are made, right?"

"Yeah."

"That's sex."

"But how does sex end up with a baby? How do the sperm and egg meeting create a baby?"

Ah. That one I can do. That's not sex, that's science.  So I explained about egg fertilization and cell division.

"Does it hurt to have a baby?"

"Yes."

She thought about this for a while.

"Does it hurt to have sex?"

This is where I blew it.

"Not if you're doing it right," I replied.

As soon as the words left my mouth I immediately regretted it. Because what followed was a cavalcade of questions flowing from that one stupid quip. I finally had to end the conversation.

"I'm sorry, but we are not having a discussion right now about 'how to do sex' the right way. When the time is right - and that won't be for many years - we can have that talk. Some of it you will have to figure out on your own. That's just how it is. And I will be happy at that point to have any conversation you want to have. But we're not doing it when you're 8 years old."

"I'll do it when I'm 26," she said.

I started to say that she probably won't want to wait until she's that old, but I thought better of it and caught myself.  No need to make the same mistake twice.

So just look at them and sigh, and know they love you

My children are once again going through a time of turbulence. Once again through no fault or choice of their own. Once again caused by the capricious inability of the adults in their lives to get their shit together.

Their dad and his partner (wife? girlfriend? I have no idea and as far as I can tell, neither do they) are splitting up after 2 1/2 years together. This weekend has been a shit show. Fights and crying and recrimination.

It was my solo weekend. I had planned a very pleasant Saturday - going to the waxing salon, going to the blood donation place, heading up to the mountains for a solo night in a cheap hotel before a solo morning of skiing, followed by a non-solo evening of fun.

But then Saturday morning I ended up at Bonfils with a needle in my left arm while with my right arm I held the phone as both children and adults called me crying, asking me to solve their problems.

The children I can handle. I will always help them solve their problems.

I have lost patience with the adults.

The past couple of years have been hard on the children. And I have tried to hold my tongue as fallout from events and patterns in the other household spilled into mine. They view me as the safe haven. They trust me with everything. They walk into my house and I can almost feel the tension leave their bodies.

But if I say too much, I'll get dismissed as the bitchy ex-wife, the know-it-all, the one who can't mind her fucking business.

It's a diplomatic high-wire act.

Yesterday I cut the wire. When I came off the mountain from skiing to find multiple texts from my children and voicemail messages of them sobbing hysterically, I was done. I called her and told her that having my children calling me crying - or worse, running away to my house when they're supposed to be with dad -- was not acceptable or sustainable. That she and their dad needed to grow up and figure out how to create a harmonious household that didn't leave my children anxious and in tears.

"I don't want to hear about how you think their behavior is disrespectful. Find a way to earn their respect. They are manifestly miserable in your household, and you need to fix it. You are the adult. They did not choose to live with you, and they hate it, and you need to either figure out a way to make them not hate it, or you need to not live with them anymore."  I raised my voice. I know that what I said was harsh and that I said it harshly. But it needed to be said.

She chose option B.

To be clear, this had been a long time coming. They're not breaking up because I yelled at her. I don't have that kind of power or influence.

And quite honestly, it's not what I wanted. A happy, stable household is good for the children. Now things are in disarray again. I worry about them. Zeke in particular seems fragile and exhausted. It makes my heart hurt.

Last night, on my non-solo evening of fun, we were out watching a light-hearted, funny musical about dating. It was charming and hilarious. But there was one song in which the male protagonist described his relationship with his mother, who died when he was young. She didn't have a lot of time for him because she worked a busy, high-powered job, and then she died of a heart condition. In the song, the mother is singing to her son that he was always foremost in her heart, even though she didn't show it. It's his imagining of his mother's love letter to him from the grave.

True to form, I started to cry. Stuff like that always makes me cry now. Don't even get me started on the new Proctor & Gamble "Thank you, Mom" ad in honor of the Olympics.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the weight of the responsibility I feel to be their constant. Not that parents ever really get a break, but my need to overtly step in as the protector feels particularly heavy right now. And maybe what's hardest is the knowledge that I can't really protect them from much of anything.

Life is hard. They're getting the lesson early.

Come on baby, wait and see, cuz I'm gonna take you surfin' with me

Most of you know the story.

Back when I was young and single and living in Atlanta, I was inspired by the movie Blue Crush and by a super fun surf lesson on the Outer Banks and decided that I would take a surf trip to Costa Rica.  I found a surf camp that did an all-inclusive lessons/board rental/hotel/breakfast deal, found some willing friends, and off we went.

While I was there, I ended up falling for a hot Australian surf instructor.

I ended up marrying him.

It ended up not ending so well.

I was always a sucker for a good story. We had a great story. But it wasn't enough to sustain us.

Anyway.

I still love the beach and the warm and the sun. I love to surf.  But it's been so long. My skills are beyond rusty.

back when I wasn't so rusty

In the throes of my recent crazy work schedule, knowing that I would be crazed until I finished a big federal court oral argument in early February, I decided that after the argument, I would treat myself to a birthday present of a surf trip.

I did some research on locations and plane tickets and decided upon Sayulita, Mexico. I did some more research and found a surf camp there that has a similar deal to the one in Costa Rica - hotel, surf lessons, surf board rental, breakfast.

 I put out the call for people who wanted to come with, but no one was available.

I still waffled a little bit.

Maybe I won't go in February. Maybe I'll go over spring break. Maybe I should save the money on something less frivolous. Maybe I shouldn't travel by myself. Maybe I'll be lonely.

I won that battle with myself. Meaning I decided to do it. I'll go by myself. I'll relax and surf and maybe make friends with other people in my lesson group.

Or not. Maybe I'll just hang out by myself and read and sunbathe and sleep.

Maybe I'll meet some hot guy and have a fling. I mean, it's not exactly unprecedented.

In any event, I found an insanely cheap plane ticket, so I bought it.  I made my surf camp reservation. I'm good to go.

It does feel a little deja vu-ish.  Back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, even though technically the crime occurred in a completely different country.

When I was still in the thinking-about-it-maybe-planning-it stage, I was talking about it with a friend of mine.

"It sounds amazing," she said.

"I know. Surf, sun, relaxation. Total chill-out time. I don't remember the last time I was able to totally relax like that, no kids, no obligations."

"Amazing," she said again.

I nodded.

"Can I give you some advice, though?"

"Sure."

"Don't come back married."

Roger that.

Celebrate what you want to see more of

My dear friend Lisa wrote this blog post and it inspired me.

I'm not one for New Year's resolutions - when he was here, Sam asked, "so, did you make any resolutions for the new year?" "Nope," I said. "Yeah, me either," he said.

But I believe in taking stock, in reflection, in gratitude. So I'm stealing borrowing Lisa's idea for a blog post.

It's been such a strange year. It has felt so disjointed to me, lacking any kind of continuity or theme.

I guess it's silly to expect periods of time to be thematically connected. Time passes. Different things happen.

But the past years have been somewhat easy to lump into categories.

2014 was the worst year ever. My marriage fell apart. Emma died. I felt sad and wretched and despondent and unhealthy. Deep breaths full of shards of glass.

2015 felt ever so slightly more hopeful - a fresh start. Still painful, still traumatic, but ever so slightly more hopeful. A house that was all mine. Efforts to heal and cope with all the loss. Venturing back into dating, some of which was ridiculous, but some of which was lovely.

2016 was fucking insane. More tragic deaths, reinforcing the importance of living without fear. And of course, the election.

On to 2017. More craziness, but also some sense of settling in to post-tragedy life.

And much to be grateful for.

I'm grateful for my mother and father.

I'm always grateful for them. My birthday gift from them was a trip to New York to see Hamilton on Broadway. They bring the family together on a regular basis - the beach in July, home for Thanksgiving, plus other visits in between. They are generous and loving. They are amazing grandparents.

My mother and I still talk on the phone every day. On the rare day we're not in touch, I feel off. Incomplete.

In June, they had their 50th wedding anniversary. My brothers and I threw a party for them, and from our perspective, it was as much a celebration of what wonderful parents they were as it was a celebration of their love for each other. And those two things are inextricably intertwined, I think. The strength of their relationship flows down to us, in the support they've always shown, the sense of fun and adventure our lives have had, the laughter and the travel and the emphasis on always learning and growing.

I know how lucky I am in that regard.

I'm grateful for my friends.

Through the magic of social media and modern communication, I'm still in touch with so many of my friends from high school and college and law school and beyond.

Some of them are here in Denver. I have four India friends in town, and eight or nine UVA friends (including five sorority sisters). I have some cousins here. I have friends from work and the neighborhood.

Lisa and Kristin and I have a WhatsApp chat that has been going on for the better part of a year. If I can't see them in person, being able to "talk" to them every day via recorded message is the next best thing.  Plus I get to see Lisa when I'm in Virginia, and she and her kids have been coming to the Outer Banks with us in the summer.

These are all people who love me and care about me. If I ever needed anything, I have a large support group to draw on. And they know that I would be there for them in return.

Knowing that is a powerful thing.

I'm grateful for my career.

Eighteen years ago, I took a job with a firm that practiced special education law. I didn't know the first thing about special education law. But since then, I've had the good fortune of working with amazing people who have dedicated their lives to educating children with disabilities, and to support them in their efforts. The work is interesting and challenging and rewarding, and I love it.

I'm grateful for my health.

I'm fit and strong. I almost never get sick. I may be 47, but there really isn't anything physical I want to do that I can't do. I ski hard, I hike hard, I work out hard, I play with my kids hard. In February, after a big case at work finishes up, my birthday present to myself will be a trip to Mexico to go surfing. I'll spend the next month and a half doing some dynamic/plyometric type drills to improve the "pop" in my pop-up on the surfboard, but any limitations in that regard will be skill- rather than age-related.

My ass still fits into my jeans and my mother passed on her good skin. Very few wrinkles. That plus hair dye keeps me looking younger than I am.

I'm grateful for my children.

They are beautiful and funny and kind. They enthusiastically participated in the women's march in January, and believe in equality and inclusion. They like to travel and are interested in the world around them. They are fun to ski with. They shower me with love and snuggles. They crack me up by saying, "Alexa, fart!" and then seeing what happens.

I'm grateful for all of you. It still astounds me to open up Statcounter.com and see how many people from all over the world have visited this blog. I love writing. I love feeling like I have a posse out there in the world of the interwebs.

In the coming year, I will nurture all of this gratitude - try to be a good friend, a good mother, a good daughter, a good sister, a good lawyer, a good writer, a good athlete. Continue to seek out adventure. Continue to seek out love.

Happy New Year.

Jesus take the wheel

After they closed the Eisenhower tunnel on I-70 back to Denver, here are some things that, had I known them, would have spurred me to lean in the direction of getting a hotel room in Frisco for the night, rather than power through in a major snowstorm - at night - because I just wanted to get home:

• The alternate Breckenridge-to-Denver-via-Fairplay route is a high-elevation route along the Continental Divide that takes you over two mountain passes via a narrow two-lane road, with many switchbacks and steep grades.

• One of the mountain passes is Hoosier Pass, which rises to 11,542 feet and is one of the highest mountain passes in Colorado. Wikipedia informs me that it is "the highest point on the TransAmerica Trail, a transcontinental bicycle route that stretches from Yorktown, Virginia to Astoria, Oregon." Awesome.

• The other mountain pass is Kenosha Pass, which tops out at 10,000 feet (still very high). Fun fact: it goes near the town of South Park and has been featured in the show a few times!

• The entire route feels like a looooong, extended version of driving over Loveland Pass (albeit at slightly lower elevation), which I would never ever attempt in a snowstorm, at night, because I would be terrified of dying, and rightly so.

But alas, I didn't know any of these things. After living here for almost 9 years, it's kind of pathetic how little I know about Colorado, outside the confines of Denver and it's surrounding areas, plus the part of the mountains where I go to ski in the winter. I really need to broaden my horizons.

So that's how I ended up making my way back to Denver with my brother Sam and his wife Camille and their little dog, Walter, white-knuckling it for hours in the dark over snowy, icy, slippery roads, whose edges were barely visible to me so I couldn't see where I was coming from or where I was going. There were numerous points when I was scared of sliding off the side of the mountain because of the road conditions and steep grade. There were numerous points when the snow and wind were swirling so powerfully that I could not see anything beyond the car, so I simply had to stop in the road and wait for the visibility to improve because it felt like going backwards or forwards would surely end in our deaths.

Mercifully, Sam took over for the last two hours of the drive. He preserved my sanity.

By the time I got home, we had driven that day for over 9 hours in a snowstorm, over a total of five high mountain passes (before the really bad part of the drive, I had already driven over Vail Pass three times - long story, don't ask).  

After dropping Sam and his crew at their hotel, I was so fried and emotionally exhausted and worn out that I climbed into my bed, cried for 30 minutes, went to sleep, and basically didn't get out of bed until I picked them up at their hotel the next night so we could go out for dinner (which was lovely and delicious).  

When I closed my eyes, I had visions of sheets of snow blasted by the wind, illuminated only by the car's headlights. My body and my brain felt weighted down with a tiredness that overwhelmed me. 

I did not take this picture. I found it online. But this is what it looked like.

I was telling Kristin and Lisa about it the next day and Kristin asked how I got through it. The truth is, I don't really know. I just did. 

One thing that I am good at is pushing through pain, be it physical or emotional. I block out as much as I can so I can just focus on getting from one minute to the next. It's how I got through running a marathon with a herniated disc, Zeke's birth, climbing fourteeners, long plane rides with a crying baby when we were both sick. You just keep moving forward because there isn't another option. You can fall apart when you're done, but not before.

Sam and I distracted each other by playing music and harmonizing to songs we love - the Indigo Girls provide a nice challenge, with their vocal lines that swoop and swirl, trading off the melody and harmony. We did Bob Marley with Sam taking the bass line and me harmonizing on top of it. We told stories and tried to make each other laugh. 

Whoever wasn't driving would hold two phones, one with an altimeter and one with a map of our route, so we could call out the parts of the drive we couldn't quite see -- "the road is going to curve gently to the left coming up" "there is a series of switchbacks up ahead" "you've got a straight shot for a little while." 

I don't know what purpose the altimeter served, except to make me realize how crazy it was for us to be out in that weather with the bulk of the drive over 9500 feet. When we finally started to descend near Denver, there was something gratifying about seeing the altitude numbers drop.  Below 6000 feet, I joked, "we're practically at sea level!"

It's taken me a few days to recover from the experience, and I don't know that I'm fully over it. My chest still tightens when I think about it. 

I'm heading back up the mountains to take a ski lesson on Saturday, and the thought of the drive makes me nervous, which is not me at all. Plus the forecast is clear and the roads should be absolutely fine.

In any event, if something bad happens, I will deal with it. But here's hoping it doesn't come to that.

12 years ago today

I was scrolling through Facebook tonight and saw a friend's post referencing how warm it was for December 9th.

I thought to myself, "what is it about this date that rings a bell?" It seemed so familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

Then I remembered it was my anniversary.

Even thought it's not a day I celebrate anymore, I was stunned that it had completely slipped my mind. I'm very calendar- and date-oriented. My sense of time is very visual - I see my days and weeks laid out on a grid. I keep a calendar with everything written down, but I also can see it in my head.

I can remember things like the date I first met an ex-boyfriend I dated years ago, or when I went to a particular football game a long time. I remember other peoples' birthdays and anniversaries. The dates others died.

And yet my own anniversary - a date that was obviously extremely significant in my life, as much as I look back on the event itself as a mistake - wasn't on my radar at all.

Sometimes the way my brain compartmentalizes amazes me. I look back on being married and I can barely remember what it was like.

Today I was taking Josie and Zeke and Josie's friend Annie to a jumping/parkour/gymnastics/ropes course place. It's seriously badass.

In the car on the way there, Annie said, "Wendy, are you ever going to get married again?"

She is not, shall we say, a shy girl.

"Probably not," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't imagine why I would. I don't want to be married."

"But why?"

"I don't know. I don't like people in my face all the time. I don't want someone living in my house and spending my money and bothering me all the time. I like to see who I want to see when I want to see them, and then they can go home."

"Do you want a boyfriend?"

"I don't know. I guess. It's nice to date someone."

Josie said, "she dates lots of guys!"

I laughed. I wanted to clarify that I've been on lots of dates, but I doubt she would have cared about the distinction.

My kids are very encouraging in this regard.

A few weeks ago Josie said, "Mommy, I want a step-father."

"You're going to be waiting a while," I said. "Don't hold your breath."

I do know this, though - if I do meet someone and it turns into something, I will remember, years later, the date and day of the week we met.

Until my brain decides that it's better for me never to think of the entire episode altogether, and if I do think of it, it seems like it happened to someone else.

At least I've never celebrated "pumpkin spice" season...

I think about recent conversations I've had, and just what I've been thinking about generally, and I'm incredibly bored by it.

There are certain conversational themes that I abhor, because they strike me as demonstrating such a lack of imagination. People who lament that it's Monday, or who when you greet them on a Wednesday and say, "how are you," respond, "well, only two days to Friday!" Women who repost memes about drinking, like those e-cards with a woman on it and the text is something like, "the most expensive part of having kids is all the wine you have to drink."

So boring. So basic.

And I feel like I have become one of *those* people, constantly whining about how tired and busy and frazzled I am.

I got a new job in September. And it's an amazing job, doing the work that I do best, for a cause I believe in, and I try to do it in a way that I believe is true to both my ethical and professional obligation to zealously represent my client, and to my personal drive to do the right thing morally.

But I've also never worked as hard in my life. As I've written before, I commute a long way, and during the workday I am so buried in emails and meetings and briefs and requests for guidance that I frequently don't eat because I lose all track of time and then I'm starving and exhausted and lightheaded. When I'm not at work, I have my phone and I get work-related texts and emails until 10 at night.

And all of this is in addition to trying to have quality time with my children, and trying to spend time with friends, and trying to read more and write more, and trying to have some semblance of a social life.

Somewhere in all of this I try to exercise.

Today one of the women in the office greeted me and asked how I was. I really, really like her - she's one of those people who you occasionally meet in your life and you immediately have a good feeling, like "I could really be good friends with this person." And I said, "I'm doing well. And I hate people who say stuff like this because it's so fucking unoriginal, but damn, I'm so glad it's Friday."

And then I drove home to get the kids, and while I was in the car one of Josie's friends asked if she could sleep over, so I set that up, and then I had to chase Zeke down at a friend's house down the street, and then he wanted to have a friend sleep over. So I organized all of this while also taking the kids to their board-breaking and belt-testing ceremony at the taekwondo studio, which took an hour and a half but felt like four hours, so everyone was fidgety and hungry.  It was great to see the kids break their boards and get their yellow belts, though.

Josie

Zeke

When we finally got out, I dropped Josie at her friend's, stopped by Zeke's friend's house so he could pick his stuff up, and then went home so we could scarf down some pizza.

I answered one final email and decided the work phone is going to be put away for the weekend. And I'm going to chill out and not constantly have a running list in my mind of all the things I need to take care of.

I'm going to contemplate things as they come. Just observe what's going.

Like, after we dropped off Josie, the boys and I were in the car and they were giggling.

"Mom?"

"What's up, son?"

"What's the 'c' word?"

"There's no reason you need to know the answer to that question."

"Is it 'crap'?"

"Sure."

I love 10-year-old boys.

We were all joking around while we ate pizza.  This is a friend that Zeke hasn't had over before. I'll call him Joe. He's a nice kid. But it turns out one of the reasons he and Zeke get along so well is that they have a tendency to get in trouble in school.

I asked, "what are the things that you tend to get in trouble for?"

"One time me and Zeke were throwing a football and were trying to get it in the trash. Plus I get in trouble a lot just for talking."

Being an energetic boy in school is a bitch.

"Can I give you some advice?" I asked. "Don't even worry about being good because it's the right thing to do. Just figure out what it is that pisses your teacher off and try to avoid it. The bottom line is, being in trouble sucks. And doing stupid stuff in class never ends well. Just try to fly under the radar."

"It's hard," Joe said.

"I know," I agreed.

"How late can we stay up?" he asked.

"As late as you want. I don't care. Just don't destroy the house."

"Ok, cool."

So now they're upstairs in the playroom, playing Star Wars Battlefront or some other game on the PS4. I'm sure they're using the worst swear words they can think of.

And I'm downstairs in my house. When I look around at my house and my rugs and my artwork, I think, "my house is really pretty." I feel good in my surroundings.

From time to time they "drop in" from the upstairs Echo, using the system like an intercom. "Hi, Mom!"  "Hi, guys!"

I'm listening to a Spotify radio playlist that the boys put on. I like to keep up with what the kids are listening to.

I'm probably betraying myself as a traitor to all of my indie-loving friends, but Nick Jonas's "Jealous" is really catchy.

I know there are shows on Netflix or Amazon Prime for me to get caught up in.

And I am breaking my rule by saying this, but I'm enjoying a glass of wine. Which, for me, is actually really unusual. I never ever drink at home, by myself.

Maybe it'll help me be more interesting.

Anyway, that's my night.

And all those things I didn't say, wrecking balls inside my brain

This is what I should have said, when he started yelling at me ten minutes into our first date, when I had the audacity to (respectfully) express a different psychological or temperamental approach to dating than the one he had expressed.

I don't think I'm interested in talking to you anymore. I'd say, 'have a nice life,' but the odds of that are pretty much non-existent, so I'll just say 'good-bye.'

I was accused of trying to "mother" him, of telling him how to live his life, of lecturing him that his statistical approach to love - of believing that he'd have to go out on 30 dates before he would find anyone worthwhile, and that having only gone on 5 this year, he was doomed - was wrong.* He became louder and more irate as he talked, jabbing his finger at me and punctuating his diatribe with, "why are you doing that, counselor?" 

His voice was filled with contempt and he called me "counselor" as if it were an epithet.

I'm actually proud of being a lawyer, so it seemed like a misplaced insult to me. But unlike when I'm arguing in court and I can be prepared and dispassionate, my ability to come up with quick, logical, cutting zingers escaped me.

Instead, I was stunned and I gaped at him in disbelief. I have never in my life been spoken to that way by a date, and my eyes started to tear. I blinked them away before he could see them.

Rather than gathering my coat and my purse and telling him to go fuck himself as I scooted out of the booth, I asked, "why are you yelling at me? I didn't say any of those things."

Part of my reaction was because our exchanges before meeting had been lovely and encouraging. We texted, we talked on the phone, we even FaceTimed, and he could not have been sweeter. He's good looking and ridiculously smart and was interesting to talk to. It seemed so promising.

So to be attacked and berated right out of the gate was shocking. Surreal. Incomprehensible. I didn't know how to process it. I hadn't walked into the restaurant armed for battle, so I was exposed and vulnerable.

"I was just trying to talk to you. I don't know anything about you, so I'm trying to get to know you."

He threw his head around as if my efforts to make normal first-date conversation were too outrageous to be borne. His agitation was palpable.

"Jesus, I don't want to do this! I just want to talk and have fun! I don't want to feel like I'm being interviewed!"

"What are you talking about? I was talking about the sports teams we liked. And instead of comparing stories about who we liked growing up, you launched into a statistical analysis and talked about demographics and economic trends. You never even answered my question!"

"It was a malthusian analysis!"

I didn't know how to respond to that.

He continued, "I don't want to sit and do all the talking. You talk!"

Rather than gathering my coat and my purse and telling him to go fuck himself as I scooted out of the booth, I tried to talk. I don't even remember what I was talking about. I just remember him being fidgety and looking around like he'd rather be anywhere else.

I stopped talking and sighed and shook my head.

The waitress was walking by. He stopped her and said, "check, please."

We had been there for 15 minutes. We hadn't even ordered anything to eat.

Rather than gathering my coat and my purse and telling him to go fuck himself as I scooted out of the booth, I sat there throughout the process of waiting for the check and then waiting while she ran his credit card and brought the slip back.

While we waited, he started talking about politics. He is vehemently anti-Trump, anti-establishment, anti-anything run by old white men, and without any prompting from me - by this point, I was scared to say much of anything - he started this unbelievable rant in which his voice got louder and louder and he was irate and every other word was "fuck." Finally the hostess came over to the table and asked him to tone it down because there were children at the next table.

It was mortifying.

The check came back. He signed it.

I gathered my coat and my purse and scooted out of the booth. I did not tell him to go fuck himself. I said, "I'm going."

He stood up and his demeanor became almost sheepish.

"Can I give you a hug goodbye?"

Are you kidding me? I though to myself.

My nerve didn't fail me this time.

"No."

I didn't fall apart until I got home. I pulled into my driveway, still shell-shocked. And then I burst into tears. I cried as I walked into the house. I cried as I realized I needed to put the garbage and recycling bins in the alley. I cried in the alley as a guy passed me, walking his dogs.

I pulled out my phone and texted a guy I know, a guy who is always sweet to me. Our schedules never match up so we barely ever see each other, but we manage to hang out together once a month or so.

He was sympathetic and kind and supportive and outraged on my behalf. He talked me off the ledge. It was what I needed to hear.

But I slept horribly that night. I woke up feeling psychologically bruised. I still do, a little bit. I am generally one to say, "next!" in the face of a bad date, but I've never had a date like that. I think I'm done for a while.

All because I couldn't say from the beginning, go fuck yourself, dude.


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*For the record, I did none of these things. I simply stated that I had different thoughts about it.