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.

Sea Change’s recent post reminded me of a situation that happened to me in law school. If you’ve never attended law school, let me explain one critical detail: poop. Poop are things that have been prepared by students that are passed down to the next class to help the new students. Mainly, it’s outlines and similar stream-lined materials. It’s coveted and, often, secretly guarded. I ended up making my own outlines, but it always helped to have the good poop that was floating around.

As a green freshman, I didn’t know any upper classmen, and I had no poop. I remember there was one guy in my section that had all the poop imaginable, and he didn’t share it. (He also failed his first semester–nenur-nenur-nenur).

One day, I was in the smoking room (back when you could smoke indoors, which I didn’t, but I met a certain friend there and so would go visit him and drink coffee out of those cups that had poker hands on them). An upper classman was using the pay phone (back when such creatures existed–I won’t mention how much that pay phone cost to make a call) (holy crap! how old am I???) and when he hung up he saw me and must have seen my deer-in-the-headlights look because he asked if I was a freshman and inquired as to what section I was in. I told him and he said, “Oh, that’s a good section. I wasn’t in that section but my girlfriend was. Do you have all the poop you need?” Never in my life did one little question–Do I have all the poop I need–ever mean so much. I had none. Zilch. Nada. Not one page.

He gave me his girlfriend’s number and by the end of the week I had all the poop I could wish for! Ah, glorious poop! And I gave it to anyone in my section who asked for it.

And the following year, I returned to the smoking room and looked for a kindred lost soul and gave the gift that had been given to me. Yes, the gift of poop. And I made him promise to do the same the following year and to have his beneficiary promise to do the same.

I wonder if, over ten years later, that chain is still unbroken. I like to think it is.

Last night was my firm’s holiday dinner at Commander’s Palace. I don’t know if it is that I didn’t make it to last year’s soiree or that being a new mother, I don’t get a lot of adult interaction, but I enjoyed myself at last night’s party more than I can remember enjoying in a long time.

Steinbeck and a bizarre obituary were discussed; liquor was imbibed; good eats were consumed; friends were toasted and remembered. And a fellow picking on a banjo serenaded us. CS and I had the Last Straws, a dixieland band, play at our wedding reception; I was reminded of that night last night. And I got to hear “You are My Sunshine” and Christmas carols plucked on that banjo.

It was a joyous occassion. Taking maternity leave had the effect of allowing me to re-appreciate the great group of folks with whom I work. Damn, I’m lucky.

I wrote this long post about how things did improve for me today (other than the glitch of my work computer not working for a spell). Then my laptop decided to eat the post.

Here’s the best part of that post: I do not like my handwriting. My g’s look like my brother’s, and I know that is weird to even think about. Further weird is that I am one of those people who’s loops have to connect. The “a” at the end of my name? Drives me crazy. I am always going back and making it closed. And I know a psychoanalyst would have a field day with my handwriting, but the really weird part is that I never did this “closed loop” thing until I saw some crime show about handwriting analysis and they talked about people who close those loops and people who don’t. I can’t remember, though, whether the closed folks were the serial killers or the open folks were. . . .

Sometimes I am asked by a client to do something that simply can’t be done. Not that what they are asking for is illegal, rather that what they ask for is just unattainable.  This happened recently. And before I could catch myself, I heard myself say, “Sir, this is a pen in my hand, not a magic wand.” Yup, I said that. Aloud. To a client. Where was my filter??

Depression always sneaks up on me and then, BAM, kicks me in the teeth. This bout is no different. Looking back, the onset was evident: irritability at the least little thing (mainly directed at my poor hubs). Then it builds to not wanting to do simple chores around the house or go to Yoga classes. Then comes the layer that always reveals itself as true depression–my complete lack of desire to go to work. The good news is that once I am at this stage, it tends to be at its worst and I should be on the upswing in another day or so. Probably around 5pm on Friday, I’ll be feeling pretty dandy.

But until then, I have to live with myself. And, boy, am I a bore these days. Even I am tired of hearing myself sigh. This time, I know the cause of the depression and I have the tools to pull myself out of it. And I will use those tools. But depression and me, we have our dance to finish in our own way. I can never seem to cut that dance short, even when I see it for what it is.

So if you see my hubs, smile and be kind to him. He needs the reinforcements.

I got into a conversation yesterday about having christened Sun over the weekend with another attorney in my office. The parish (church parish as opposed to what the rest of the country refers to as “counties”) where we baptized Sun is the one where my grandfather and uncle live. The church is the one I’d walk to with my sister and cousin when we were children visiting my grandparents. It is close to where we live now, but it isn’t our parish. It IS the parish of the attorney I was talking to.

One thing led to another and we progressed to grammar school. That parish has a grammar school and also a day-care equivalent. I hate to admit that I’ve even begun this issue of where to put Sun for grammar school. But this is how it goes:

1. Since most schools these days have day-care and the cost is the same as “regular” day care, why not get the most out of your money and send the kid to a school day-care?
2. If you are going to select said day care, why not have it be at the school where the child will go to grammar school? She can maybe make friends earlier and otherwise transition easier to “big girl school.”
3. Where you put your kid for grammar school certainly impacts where she’ll go to high school. Most graduates of any particular grammar school tend to go to one or two high schools. That’s just the way it is.
4. Similarly, most graduates of any particular high school tend to go to one or two colleges (or, alas! no college).

So it you want your kid, say, to want to think college is something you do without having it be an option and you want that college to be, say, LSU, then by a bit of reverse engineering, you can see where it certainly matters where you put the kid for day-care.

Okaaaay. But Sun ISN’T in day-care. My husband and I made a conscious decision that, for us, it wasn’t what we wanted. The hubs and I are both working less (and thus currently earning less) to keep her out of day-care. But yesterday I was told that I’d better re-think that decision when she gets to be the ripe old age of two. Because, I am told, if I don’t put her in a school day-care, she will be behind in kindergarten when she is five. How can I live in a world where NOT putting a child in day-care is BAD?

Slippery slope being what it is, this issue rages on. I live in the New Orleans area. The mere thought of public school gives me the shivers. Ain’t. Gonna. Happen. So, it’s private schooling. Private schools here take two paths: parochial (primarily catholic) and non-religious. The better non-religious grammar schools start at about $6,000 a year and go upwards to $15,000. A year. Yeah. Parochial are cheaper–$2,500 to $4,000 a year.

Take the dollars out of it, and I want Sun to go where she’ll get the best education and not be around kids who don’t want to go to college nor snobs ala Veruca Salt. Fact is, neither my husband nor my parents graduated from college. My grandparents did not go to college, nor did two of my siblings. I KNOW you can be successful and happy without college. But I also know that less doors are open to you without college and your success can require a lot more work.

In the end, I want her to go where she’ll be challenged academically but where she’ll make friends that will span the course of her life. What I really want is what I had–a solid foundation amongst kids that came from families that had similar values as my family had. Many of the friends I made in grammar school are still close friends to me today.

But what educational system will be the best for Sun? What kind of student will she be? Will she have a learning disability that may warrant putting her in a less competitive environment? And most importantly, how am I supposed to know the answers to all these questions by the time Sun is two?

I was fishing around on my iPod for some tunes. I was tired of my playlists and just couldn’t settle on an artist or album. Then I saw “shuffle” as an option. I’d forgotten I’d had this option. I pushed it and waited. And out came the Traveling Wilburys. I was happy. Then came ABBA, the Allman Brothers, Big Sun, the Police, Elton John (two songs back to back), the Cars, the Police again, and on and on.

With each new song, I thought to myself, “Oh, I love this song!” And as each song ended, the anticipation of the next rose–would I like it, too? And I did! And then it occurred to me that its MY iPod, of course I should love each and every song in it. But there is something special about hearing all of your favorite songs collected randomly for you to hear. It’s like the perfect radio station. I mean, with a playlist, you know the next song coming up. You may love it, but it isn’t spontaneous.

And so today I reminded myself how good I am at picking songs I love. I have never been so happy to get on the road to have to drive for an hour. That was the highlight of my day.

Now for the lowlight. Thursday is one of the days that I work from home and Sun is with me. Except that today I had to go to Baton Rouge for a Continuing Legal Education program. And don’t you know that not only does Sun roll from her back to her front (which she’s done for three days now without me seeing it) but she also rolled from her front to her back. Yeah. While I sit in a classroom listening about declaring a person mentally incompetent and CS stays with her. Sometimes working and being a mom really, really suck.

I was talking to a co-worker today when another co-worker walked up and said something to him. He asked if she had a sore throat as her voice sounded scratchy. She answered, “Yes, I think I am coming down with something.”

And at that moment I thought, “Hmmm. My breast milk would probably knock that right out. I should offer her some.” This was quite thoughtful in my mind. Breast milk is the veritable elixir of life. Baby’s tear duct is blocked? Drop a bit of breast milk in it. Sore or cracked nipples or skin? Rub a little breast milk on it. Bug bites? Ear infections? Squirt a bit of breast milk on them. It heals what ails ya!

Nonetheless, my internal conversation continued and I thought, “Good God, woman, are you mad? You can’t offer your breast milk to a co-worker. If you do, she’ll look at you weirdly and never make eye contact with you again. She’ll talk about you behind your back and not even accept a cup of coffee from you lest it be tainted. Rumors will spread and the whole office will ostracize you. You’ll need to find another job. In another city.” And I walked away in a fog missing the rest of what was said between my two co-workers.

Am I the only breastfeeding mother this has ever happened to?