I toss and I turn.  I twist and I twitter.  And yet I still can’t get my mind settled.  I don’t know the answer to the age old question:  What is happiness?

In my life, I have the quintessential things that would answer this question: The love of a doting husband, sweet baby girl and caring, funky extended family members.  I have a roof over my head that we own (well, the bank owns it but we are not like so many that are facing foreclosure); I have my health; I have a very flexible job that uses my talents and pays well for the time I give it.

And yet. Most days, I feel rundown.  When I am home with Sun, I feel like I should be out doing things with her–taking her to the zoo, or Gym Rompers, or strolls in the park.  Or if I stay home I should be cooking and cleaning and wearing an apron and kitten heels.  But the reality is the day passes slowly.  I do household things and run errands but it isn’t in any way stimulating (to Sun or me).

When I am at work, I think about being home.  And work files and talk to clients.  And worry about needing to do more to further my career.  My Career.  Sometimes My Career is too heavy a weight for me to carry around.  Sometimes I wish I were that research librarian I dream of being.  The one that works 9 to 5 and researches oddball things to her heart’s content.  Then clocks out and leaves it all behind her.  The one that has a great pension and awesome benefits.  And paid days off.

Joseph Story said that “[The law] is a jealous mistress, and requires a long and constant courtship. It is not to be won by trifling favors, but by lavish homage.”  I think he meant that it requires great dedication to truly hone the expertise of the law.  But in my experience, the worry that goes along with the practice of law in an ever-competitive legal environment is what has consumed me like a jealous mistress.  Just on the fringe of my mind most of the time are nagging thoughts of should I push harder, do more, go further, all in the name of My Career.

Or can I be satisfied with my career (in lowercase) just as it is?  One that provides me the opportunity to keep my child out of daycare while still keeping my skills sharpened with a lighter load?  Will that load get too light and dry up?  Or will it permit me to pile it on in the future (date unknown) when I want to resume a fuller load?  Can I live with it being okay that I am not making the full financial use out of my legal degree?  Is it okay that I not push harder, not choose to see less of my daughter and not earn more money for the betterment of my family?

Can I accept that it’s okay to be happy that I got all of which I ever dreamed?

I wax philosophical about my law school days.  They were probably more akin to the experience most people have in college.  It was in law school that I first lived on my own and really began to know myself and test my mettle.  It was also when I was a groupie huge fan of Big Sun.

The lead singer of Big Sun, Joe, and I became fast friends.  He introduced me to the works of Hunter Thompson, telling me of a line from the opening scene of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas that went something like, “My attorney had taken off his shirt and was pouring beer down his chest to facilitate the tanning process.”  He thought as a would-be attorney, it was imperative that I know Thompson’s work.  He was right.

Joe often wore patchouli.  My mostly-steady boyfriend during law school (it was a long distance relationship that fit nicely with the schedule of a law student) spent a lot of time as a child in Hawaii.  He hated the smell of patchouli, saying it smelled like hippie sweat.

I began to wear Patchouli too.  I wore it mainly when I’d go out (without my beau).  I also started wearing it during finals.  It always reminded me that I had a life outside of the particular test I was taking.  I’d smell it and smile knowing that the test would be over soon enough and I’d be back in my world; that I was taking said test because it was my choice to be in law school to put my life on a path I chose for myself; that I had more facets than just the studious side.  I am not sure my classmates appreciated my approach to test-taking; patchouli isn’t a shy, dainty aroma.  But no one ever moved away from sitting near me and I wouldn’t have cared if they had.

I still have patchouli and wear it very infrequently.  I am now concerned what others will think of me when they smell it on me.  I have never worn it to the office.  I can only imagine what the other attorneys and staffers would think about me–probably that I’d gone off the deep end.

I have never worn it to the office, that is, until today.  I was still in a funk and knew finishing six tax returns really wasn’t gonna put a smile on my face.  So I resorted to a very old tactic: I wore patchouli.  I don’t know if that is why folks avoided me at work today or whether they intuitively knew I’d be grumpy since it was April 14th or whether I was overtly grumpy (a very distinct possibility). But as far as I am concerned, the patchouli did the trick of warding off being bugged.

Wearing patchouli today also reminded me that I am still that same person who found herself in law school; that I still know how to do what it takes to get through a tough spot; that I still have enough confidence to take care of myself without regard to what others will think of my ways.  And it reminded me that I still love the way patchouli smells today as much as I ever have.

I just returned from lunch at Galatoire’s and am writing while still under its magical spell.

I went with two friends, one of which is an attorney I work with and the other someone who once worked in my office.  Her betrayal at leaving the firm, this many years later, is still not forgiven.

Anywho, where was I?  Oh, yeah.  So, while driving there, we came across this old biddy in a Volvo station wagon.  She was hogging the road–driving down the middle and not picking a lane.  She then stopped to drop someone off and one in my party said, “Oh, she’s probably dropping someone off for lunch at Galatoire’s.”  We pulled into a parking lot, handed the keys to the attendant and turned to face Ms. Volvo standing behind me, keys in hand.  Oy.

We get to Galatoire’s and get my friend’s favorite table at the front in the center by the window.  And we ask for his waiter, Dorris.

And in walks Ms. Volvo.

Unconcerned with Ms. Volvo, we turned our attention to buttering our warmed French bread.  And ordering a round of white wine for the table.  Then we decided on what to eat.  All the while, my stresses of the day were still playing in my mind; my cuticles still in jeopardy.  I settled on splitting a Godchaux salad (lump crabmeat and seasoned boiled shrimp over a bed of lettuce served with a remoulade dressing) with one of my friends.  Then I ordered the Crabmeat Sardou–which Galatoire’s describes as “tender artichoke bottoms filled with fresh lump crabmeat nestled in a bed of creamed spinach and drizzled with a wonderfully rich hollandaise sauce”–in honor of Daisy Duke.  (Daisy, yes, it was Heaven.)

And then we just relaxed.  And breathed.  And enjoyed ourselves.  And talked.  We talked about David Vitter and the potential closing of the Catholic churches in NOLA and the funeral and accompanying write-ups about Al Copeland and about traveling and the state of the airline industry and about the LA Senate striking down naming the Sazerac as the State Drink and about family.  Interspersed in this good conversation was good eats and good drinks.  All served in good time and not rushed.  And somewhere along the way, my cuticles were saved as my stesses finally went quiet and I was nowhere but in Galatoire’s enjoying the best the city has to offer with good friends.

In other words, it was just your typical lunch at Galatoire’s.

When I stress, it shows in my fingers.  I don’t bite my nails; I don’t smoke and have yellow nails as a result; I don’t crack my knuckles.  No, my vice is that I pick my cuticles.  Until they bleed.  Then I pick some more.  In a good week, my fingertips will be in “healing mode” and not hurt so bad.  More typical, however, is that my fingertips are in varying degrees of injury–some are newly raw, some are on the mend, and some are completely healed.  Very rare is the case that at least some tips are not ripped.  Rare, too, is the case for all ten to be damaged.  Currently, I am in that rare case where all ten are in bad shape.  And crawfish season is upon us!  Oh, the misery of fingertip pain from the salt and seasonings getting in those ripped cuticles!!

The tip of my pointer on my right hand is in the best shape of the ten–it is close to being fully healed.  And somehow I’ve got it in my head that if I can see just one to full healing and then KEEP IT THERE then maybe I can branch out to all the others.  So, as of this past Sunday, I am NOT allowing myself to rip, touch, or so much as ogle that right pointer’s fingertip.  It’s been three days.  And the temptation has been so great.  See, when they are healed, they have these thin layers of skin that are just BEGGING to be ripped.  Or manicured.  And I am always in too bad of shape to get a manicure.  See my vicious cycle?

Do you think I can do it?  Stay away from just one fingertip?  Do you think if I do I can follow through with others?  With all ten?  I am cautiously optimistic.

I’ll keep you posted in the coming weeks!

Sitting at a red-and-white checkered table at Bon Ton Cafe has a way of transforming you from the mental space you are in when you walk through the restaurant’s doors. Bon Ton Cafe has many tables in its one biggish room, and these tables are usually full during lunchtime. The buzz of conversation is intoxicating. I always feel like I will see someone I know upon walking in–a co-worker, a friend, maybe even my parents. Its brick walls remind you that this place has been here a really long time, and its distinct wall hangings keep watch to make sure things don’t change too much.

The nearby French Quarter offers many fine restaurants from which to choose. The Central Business District offers several good choices as well. The Bon Ton Cafe is one such CBD stalwart and august restaurant. Its creole and Cajun fare are top-notch. But it doesn’t forget that it’s a CBD restaurant. Which means that you get the luxury of a fabulous meal with the benefit of it fitting within your budget, both time-wise and money-wise.

And as your water glass is repeatedly filled by the wait staff and your bowl of crackers slowly get buttered and eaten along with gumbos and Debbie salads and fried oysters and grilled fish specials, and the clang of silverware plays its own song above the din of the diners, you forget those piles of paperwork waiting for you back at the office. Even if just for one too-quick-to-end hour.

co·in·ci·dence /koʊˈɪnsɪdəns/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation(koh-in-si-duh ns) –noun

syn·chro·nic·i·ty (sĭng’krə-nĭs’ĭ-tē, sĭn’-) -noun

1. The state or fact of being synchronous or simultaneous;
synchronism.
2. Coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related,
conceived in Jungian theory as an explanatory principle on the
same order as causality.

* * * * *

I was watching a murder mystery show the other day and one of the detectives said about clues, “I don’t believe in coincidence.” And that got me thinking. Do I, really, believe in coincidence? In synchronicity?

This past Monday and Tuesday, I posted about a senior partner that died over five years ago. He isn’t mentioned much at my firm these days. Wednesday, while at the office, one of the attorneys I work with brought him up—he’d gotten a piece of mail addressed to the deceased partner on Tuesday.

Or the day of the deceased partner’s funeral, when I was stuck recalling to the IRS how I had calculated this crazy tax loss deduction for a client and after eight hours of not recalling it or being able to get my math to work, I asked the deceased partner to give me the answer and within minutes the answer came.

Or post-Katrina when I needed a new OB/GYN (mine fled to Atlanta never to return) and I found myself in my favorite knitting store and was introduced to Dr. Socks, an OB/GYN. I saw this as a sign. I became a patient of Dr. Socks, and it was the biggest mistake of my life. Or was it? He misdiagnosed me (or the radiologist did and my doc didn’t actually look at the films himself to realize the radiologist was wrong) and sent me down a spiral I wish I never see the depths of again. But that led me to the fertility specialist that gave me Sun.

Or the first date I had with Captain Sarcastic. He saw Hunter Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” on my bookcase and asked me to marry him. I said no. Two years later he’d ask again and I’d say yes.

Or the night I slept with a lesbian and got pregnant.

As a student of law, you learn to look for the “but for” in strings of events. As a genealogist, you look for things to ring a bell: a name on a gravestone, a date on a ship’s log. As someone who is logical and methodical, I tend to look for threads. But, to be honest, as I get older I tend not to give meaning to coincidences. I tend to be of the persuasion that if you look for some “deeper meaning,” some “sign,” you’ll usually think you see it. But that doesn’t give things independent meaning. Sometimes two roads intersecting are just two roads intersecting and not a sign to take a turn.

And I also think that believing in synchronicity discounts a person’s ability to discern. Like that dead partner giving me the answer? A miracle? Or just me finally giving my mind a rest from the stresses of that crazy week for me to refocus and see things clearly? Or my journey with getting to the fertility doctor? I’d already been referred to that doctor and even been to his office but I hadn’t been ready to accept that I had an “infertility problem.” By the time I had dealt with the aftermath of Katrina and the debacle of Dr. Socks, I was in a different mental and emotional state. I was ready to be rational and seek help for a physical problem. CS asking me to marry him on our first date? Frankly, it creeped me out and made me think he was a bit desperate. But I liked that he at least liked HST and I kept an open mind about him. Me sleeping with a lesbian and getting pregnant? Well, that one really is just a coincidence as I’d had an in utero insemination earlier that day. Don’t get worked up—we shared a bed, not sex, at an out of town conference. But.

But what do you feel? Do you believe in coincidence or synchronicity? If so, what’s the coincidence that convinced you they have meaning? If not, why not? Post about it and leave a link to your post here with Mr. Linky so we can all read about it. Don’t let me hear the crickets on this one! I’m really curious.

Wendy previously described how her Wednesdays are bat shit crazy.  I have to agree with her.  Wednesday mornings arrive like a freight train–fast and rumbling.

I always oversleep and JUMP out of bed realizing I have no more than 30 minutes to get out the house.  I shower at night, so at least that task is not in the picture.  Breakfast is always the first casualty.  CS gets Sun dressed for the day.  And I scramble to get everything else ready. 

I need to get food straight.  I make Sun’s baby food; this is not done on Wednesday mornings; I just need to mix things together and throw a banana in the bag for Wendy to mash in with her food.  That child has an odd fascination with the banana.  Then I’ve got to get my lunch packed–usually leftovers or a sandwich. 

Then I’ve got to get my wallet and cell phone and whatnots out of the baby bag and into my purse.  I don’t like carrying the big bulky baby bag to work as my purse (I use the bag as a purse on days I have Sun).  Why?  Well, for one reason, my effing parking car is in my purse and I’d forget to move it to the baby bag on Wednesdays.  And the parking lot gets fussy if you keep forgetting it.  And I can’t leave the card in the car because I am in CS’s car on Mondays and Fridays.  And I don’t want to use the baby bag as my purse all the time because, well, that’s just weird.

So, once my purse is squared away, I need to be sure the baby bag is stocked–diapers, bottles, formula.  And that my briefcase is ready–including new items that need to go into it for the day.

And in between all this, I need to get dressed and put my make-up on.  I am lucky when my shoes match (they haven’t always).

And EVERY WEEK something gets left out.  Either I forget to pack new formula for Wendy or Sun’s baby food or my lunch.  Last week?  I forgot the banana.  At dinner at the end of the day when the two families meet for us to get Sun, CS was a bit snippy about me forgetting that damn banana.  I finallly snapped at him all “I drink your milkshake”-like (yes, I quoted “There Will Be Blood”–that is my favorite new movie line and use it every chance I get). 

Today?  My cell phone.  In my mind’s eye, I can see it sitting on my counter plugged in to the charger, with the little light glowing green showing it is fully charged. 

But even with the frenzy, or maybe because of it, I LOVE Wednesdays.  I always feel a part of something bigger than just little ole me.  It’s a lot of moving parts coming together (mostly) perfectly.  And its adrenaline rush is intoxicating.

Plus, I get to talk to Sun for a bit of my commute–she babbles, “blalalala,” and I pepper it with questions like, “So then what did you dream?”

And once I drop her off, I have about 30 minutes of unadulterated radio time.  And my latest fix is Bonerama’s “Bringing it Home” CD that I bought from a certain merch chick (thanks for the recommendation, Stacey, I LOVE the CD!) this past Saturday night.

Yes; Wednesdays are bat shit crazy.  And I love every minute of them. 

Here’s the even better story my senior partner told me over drinks about his brush with Hunter Thompson.

The senior partner’s daughter was interested in being HST’s assistant. She’d been called to interview with HST in Colorado. The senior partner was reluctant to let his chaste daughter go alone to be with the likes of Thompson. So he sent his older daughter along too as a chaperon.

The three of them go out to dinner one night in Aspen. The older daughter walks around the restaurant and gets hit on by a patron. She returns to the table and Thompson asks her, “So what’d you think of him?” And the older daughter responds, “That old guy? I’m not interested.” To which Thompson cocked his head and said, “You just turned down Jack-fucking-Nicholson.”

I once was given a file by a senior partner and told, “make this go away.” It was an old succession file that at least three other attorneys had worked on. It was a large file but this bit of work would generate very little in fees. In other words, it was a dog. I reviewed it and thought about it and thought about it and thought about it. And the senior partner said, “Get it done and I’ll buy you a drink.” Weeks went by and it sat on my desk. I kept trying to come up with an easy, cost-efficient solution. Then, slowly, an idea occurred to me. And I let it rattle around in my mind for a few days. Then I discussed it with the senior partner. He liked the idea. I drafted the appropriate pleadings and lo! got a judge to agree with me. The file was officially closed.

And then the senior partner came to me and said, “Well, I owe you a drink.” And I realized that I’d be, you know, having a drink with a senior partner. Oy! What would we talk about? Would I say something stupid? I was very nervous. Thankfully we went for that drink that very evening and I had little time to think about it all.

At the bar, somehow the conversation got around to him asking the name of the journalist that worked for Rolling Stone. I could think of only one such journalist and meekly asked, “Hunter Thompson?” kicking myself because surely he could not mean HST and if he knew I really liked HST, well, I thought, that couldn’t be good.

“Yes, Hunter Thompson. He’s something,” he responded. I chuckled and waited for the slam. The senior partner was the epitome of what HST was not: conservative, traditional, reserved, in with the establishment. But. Instead he told me how he KNEW Hunter Thompson. Hunter S. Thompson. HUNTER. S. THOMPSON. I knew someone who knew HST. The man I was reluctant to have a drink with knew HST. The HST. Words failed me.

He told me this story: HST came to town and for one reason or another the senior partner ended up hosting a party for HST. (Can you believe even this much?) It was a catered affair. There came a knock at the door and the senior partner opened it. There stood Hunter Thompson wearing binoculars around his neck for, the senior partner told me, “no apparent reason.” I was now on the edge of my barstool, perched for every detail.

The party was in full swing and Thompson was eating hors d’oeuvres standing next to the dining table. Thompson leaned in to grab something to eat from the middle of the table. When he straightened up, his binoculars caught on the leaf of the table. Thompson looked down taken aback and uttered, “Whoa. The table. It’s levitating.”

This was the second best HST story that senior partner told me that night (I’ll save the other one for a later post). Why this post today? Today was my [wait for it] TEN YEAR anniversary at my job. Not one attorney has retired in those ten years. Two have died. This senior partner was one. I miss him.

I am finally beginning to feel better. My headaches are less, the ringing in my ears is gone, and I have only been through about a fifth of a box of tissues today. And the upswing of having The Death is that I think I’ve lost a few pounds!! So to celebrate, we went out to dinner! Yay!

After dinner we went to the book store and bought Sun a couple of books–a Gossie book (I love that little gossling!) and Olivia (that pig is darn cute, too). Sun received a Gossie book from my sister some time ago and so I got a second one ’cause I liked the first so much. My friends that were recently in town with their 2 year old really liked Olivia, so we picked that one up too.

Nothing like a bout of The Death to make me appreciate good health and my job–you know, the one away from home. I have spent an awful lot of time in my house this past week, too sick to work or dine with friends or meet one new online friend (whose medical problems make my measly bout with The Death seem like a pleasant walk in the park).

I still have very little appetite and no taste for coffee–two sure signs I am not feeling all that well. However, I am very appreciative to be on the mend and have things in the near future in which to look forward.