Peacebuilder's Bacchanalias and the Stilling Stagger

Previously on A&A's Adventures in ARTistry:  Mediations moaned and maddened, as they mingled with court papers and panicky rushes through the Englettlaw gamut. Essential epicene elixers of gravidity gamboled through Bellingham on rampages without proper tracking numbers. A cottage cheese fountain and a mad dash home brought respite and reunion. Despite the desperate pokes, jabs and incantations, a medical standstill came crashing back over the momentary momentum. Elixer vials left inutile and fully tapped beyond their refrigerated domicile. Our heroine, less stress-free crawled desperately past the stoic koi's bubble Charybdis, and towards the Oasis of FRIDAY! Yoga faeries frolick through the Sat Nam sweetness of a weekend well-spent and thoroughly readjusted.And great rejoicing was had for our hero's magical new shoes.


Coming Up: A weekend of love spits our (W)rightlings back out into the wilderness for another battle with the war-waged week. Toast is toast and oatmeal bubbles over. Will kitchen experiments yield gustatory greatness or glommy leftovers? Veins collapse and E2's plummet. Will any end reveal itself in sight or will a taut tummy turn cerulean camo with contusions? Training plans unbridled and mad dash forward into the future with only a hint of sanity. Will Mr. (W)right reach his slightly-less-totally-insane-training-goals? Will he collapse trying? And  frustration yields new contingencies and an increasingly prohibitive lifestyle prescription. Will our haggard hoyle finally reunite with her cast off feminine curves or will she plummet into madness as the treadmill turns stationary. 

Bubble Bubble, Oatmeal on the Double (or maybe just burnt onto the bottom of the pot) Magic Manic Monkeys Meet the Monday

They say "if you love something, set it free." They say a lot of crap (mostly reposted in meme form on various social networking sites and attributed to either Marilyn Monroe, Abraham Lincoln, or Samuel L Jackson), but I believe my sweetheart of a weekend took this particular adage to heart. Or so I can only imagine as I find myself once again dazedly maundering into a Monday morning. No more radiant glows from deep massages and spiritual anti-cross-fits. Time to tarnish up a little bit of that workweek edge back. Parenting plans to be proposed. Collaborative law meetings to be recorded. Elections to be held! Elections for the collaborative law board, that is. I'm not so far gone that I missed the national elections were last week. Hell I even voted several weeks prior to that. And paid attention to the local results. 

The upcoming elections today should be of a slightly different flavor. Mostly of the "um, so... anyone willing to..." followed by a dead silence... some chuckling... various people nominating other people... eventually a series of "well, if anyone else at all would be interested then nevermind but I guess I could... are you sure you don't want to (person's name)??" I've got my list of "oh dear god, please not you" people. But otherwise, it's all a wash. I keep my position for at least another year. Hopefully by next year, our life circumstances will be different. Maybe with sprats. Maybe fully embracing our DINKosity and moving somewhere a little DINKier. But something. I love typing up the minutes, but I'm slow-cooking my way up to burnt-out I believe.

The office is still reeling from an exhausting Friday mediation. The parties did reach some agreements. On things that were expressly called out as not for consideration this mediation, of course. Nothing that would leave our client in, say, a financial position to pay off her vertigo-inducing bill. But the shining spot of all this is that the hearing (yes, the one I spent days and hours preparing response materials for) is off. I'll pretend that this was due to my absolutely incredible work. Not sure what comes next, here, other than a thorough Englettlaw picking up of pieces. And probably quite the case status meeting to remember all the other little clients we have under our wings. 

On the home front, I am making good on my threat to slowly wean Andrew off high-FODMAP foods. While we are still both exceptionally skeptical that this is the relevant protocol, a little more variety never hurt. And Andrew has been eating five pieces of bread every day. Granted, this is down from eight. But still room for some variety. In terms of both economy and time, I figured oatmeal was not a horrible substitute for toast. In fact, I figured, it was kind of an awesome one. 

And so - having used up most of the hummus I'd made for spreading on said toast (also high FODMAP apparently, being a legume-based spread), I pulled the switch this morning. It wasn't the biggest rager of a success, although it was all perfectly passable. I think I put too much cinnamon in too early, and the pot I was using seems to demand a certain burnt GLOM of material on the bottom. I admit to pouring out the mostly done oatmeal and finishing it off in the microwave. But I thought the sliced banana and almonds was a nice touch anyways. It looked all fancy. If I'm feeling brave, I may try other forms of porridge. I may also try the rice cooker.

The one downside to this is that I rather enjoy have the rice cooker available, and per our contract Andrew washes the dishes created in making his food. Since he waits until the end of the evening to wash all the dishes, it would potentially leave me with a soiled rice cooker pot or with picking up one of his dishes to rewash. And the latter compromise could certainly bring about Eschaton!

But, hey, I feel accomplished for my teeny tiny experiment. No explosions and - while it may have taken him much longer and required far more deliberate slurping - Andrew did manage to eat the new breakfast. There shall be some self-patting on my back today for certain. I just hope I don't bruise myself too significantly. I have enough black and blue on my stomach from those nightly piercings. 

but only on my right side despite alternating... weird

And, since apparently the injections are merely symbolic, I actually feel better than I have in some time. Something I'm sorry to attribute to a likely decline in the previously rocketing estrogen levels brought about by several patches and pills. A little disappointing to see all the signs I associate with the opposite of what should be happening hormone-wise, but if they aren't going to work much I'm glad I don't have that cognitive dissonance of feeling totally floored just like I would if they actually were working. So, gleaming spot in the dark chasm of ambiguities is that I feel completely comfortable going to Pilates today without a single bursting bowling ball gonad explosion. Small mercies. I didn't like missing last week. 

Happy Monday all! For those of you in the US, Veteran's Day is just around the corner! And for the subset of you who are taking this as a four-day weekend, I proffer one magnificent raspberry of a :-P to you! No, really, enjoy! 

Click a Clack, SAD Light's Back A Very Commemorative Pseudo-Holidaze from the Work Desk

Happy (um... reflective, grateful, humble) Veteran's Day fellow observers. Well, fellow is a stretch. I am actually at the office after having a quick jaunt over to my favorite vampire's lair for yet another blood draw. I expect the blood draw will tell me two things: (1) that my estrogen levels still aren't responding to the massive amounts of crazy go-go juice I've been jabbing into my belly for the past two weeks, (2) my left vein is so over these needle things. It was pretty enthusiastic about being the primo vein for a while. But fickle little prima donna that it is, it's squawking about a pay raise and calling for its agent now. Or at least hurting and bruising up when I alternate back to it. 

But work. Yes, I'm at work on a holiday. Well, a half-holiday. I guess Andrew and his kind are all working today, so it's not a universal day off (though by imperial fiat, all Veteran's must go to lunch with the eccentric owner of the EI empire). We at Englettlaw tie our office closures to the court usually, but then frequently come in and work behind closed doors. 

Today, I am in at work purportedly due to an upcoming client meeting tomorrow. It will be a complicated one. There are lots of papers to do. And because it's a little complicated in a less fun and more just "huh" kind of way, I've waxed cunctatious in my duties. So I'm coming in to today to minimize distractions and get things done. Except, I don't want to at a profound emotional level having something to do with a tantrumming inner child or two.

As such I'm well set to spend the entire day at work procrastinating, reloading my email, and making up other little work tasks to do. Clearly this is a productive way to celebrate and apologize to those who have put their lives on the line for our country, been stop-lossed several times, and then pretty well screwed upon their return home (ok enough of that political commentary nonsense).

However, it is still a rather important day. I have finally broken out the SAD light. Its lovely rays of sunshine and joy are casting a gelid sun-wash over my shriveled winter brain and casting out the cobwebs. Of course, we're actually having some very beautiful sunny afternoons at the moment, so it is a little less necessary at this point. But the morning and evening darkness certainly takes its toll. Yesterday, I was so bedraggled by afternoon that I had to lay down in my office. Not hugely comfortable incidentally. 

I am also into the part of the season where the heat is too high to close the window, but the morning chill is icy enough that I must chose between working in a sports bra with a migraine, or while wearing gloves and a light jacket. I'm opting for the latter. These gloves actually aren't too bad for typing, though that dexterity comes at the cost of any actual effectiveness. 

It is also a gravely important week. We've begun 2015! At least insofar as Andrew's training calendar is concerned. We are in "prep" which is different from "base" which is different than "build" which is different than "live on your bike and race every weekend."

Andrew is very pleased with himself for being "reasonable" and "disciplined" this year. By which I mean that after some significant struggle, he has decided not to attempt the 400 hour training schedule to which he has routinely aspired and of which he has - with great distress and anxiety - fallen short. To accomplish this plan, he would need to do at least one evening ride a week. And the light and weather are both not great for these things. Last year, with twisting and tossing and angsting, he managed 330 hours. And he actually did really well race-wise. So perhaps, he thinks, the 400 hour schedule could even be counter productive.

So... he's slashed back dramatically to... 350 hours. Which I might point out is still more than he did (after a lot of twisting and angsting) last year. But on the other hand, I'm so proud of even the faintest glimmer of sanity that I don't want to discourage it. So, we'll call this a good sign. 

Best news being that today he's just going on a run at lunch instead of trying to cram a ride in after work in freezing dark. 

And with that, I find myself grinding down towards the time when actual work demands attention. It's been a blast putting it off, but time to ... fabricate some other excuse for not doing the work that brought me in here in the first place!

Hollerin' Hoyden's Fortnight of Punctures Picks Up for Another Season

My oh my do I espy the peak of our cantankerous camel's kyphosis? It may well be we've reached dromedary day! Between the non-holiday of yesterday and a bit of volunteering merriment on Friday, today is both Monday, Wednesday and PANIC-DAY. 


But my oh my am I happy for the semi-day of yesterday. There was much cleanup and a modicum of rejoicing. We even - finally - managed to stop by Cuts Plus for some much needed trims, AND (after significant scavenging) found a couple of leftover Thanksgiving decorations buried between the Halloween sales and the Christmas surge. The office shall have a turkey by golly!

And of course, my bi-weekly bummer of a report on the blood test. I'm getting used to this here, but it's still tough right after the call. My estrogen levels are super low. Like nearly post-menopausal low after two weeks of injections. So we're a far cry away from "the right dose" still, I guess. Which means another week or two of self-stabbings and another blood test on Saturday (probably followed by another incremental dosage increase and another blood test next Wednesday if I follow the pattern). It's frustrating and mopeworthy to feel no sense of progress and a bevy of side effects (now even exacerbated by the low estrogen after a few years of some supplementation or other). And I know we're nearing the date in which we will have to pull the plug and write off the several thousand dollars this initial foray has cost our HSA. 

Andrew and I were realizing that our amazon wishlists are out of date and Christmas was fast approaching. I suggested it was too bad that we couldn't just put gift certificates for PeaceHealth Labs, Seattle Reproductive, and RoxSan Pharmacy on our lists. All I want for Christmas is a few decent follicles and an E2 of +150, baby. Catchy, I know. Just wait for The Eggs of Wrath: The Musical. That will be my headliner song. And the special effects on the ultrasound scene... oh you'll have to see it to believe it (if I ever reach that scene again, yeesh). 

But that bit of routine threnody aside (and at this point I could just schedule an hour at the end of any blood test day for "mope and self-pity party"),  it was a lovely Tuesday to set us up for a survivable Wednesday. We shall overcome! Clients and tigers and bears, oh my!!

Today is the First Day of the Rest of My Idle LifeGooble Gooble and other Grateful Gaieties of mid-November

Things are about to get curioser than curioser and curioser ever fathomed: despite several years of the same exercise less and eat more and gain weight theme, I've more or less kept a steady enough stream of always walking at my treadmill desk. Between four to six hours a day. And admittedly, I don't necessary gambol along, although it's a mild enough pace that I've been dubbing it "light exercise" and not cause for concern. But one woman's steady pacing while working is another handful of people's "moderate thirty minutes three times a week" exercise. 

Having begged for specifics from my doctor about what happens if the injections do or do not start working (preferable in some kind of complicated flow chart because I am both a lawyer and a case manager by compulsion), I've gotten the skinny (har har): One more week to see what happens. If nothing happens then, we stop. I go back to princess of patches and Ooooh barracuda HRT cycle for a month to get back my white-pants red flow. Then I take a break. And then I come back and either try starting all these injections at a higher dose or pull out the big guns and go full IVF. If it does start working, ultrasounds, things moving quickly and probably another week. 

Good news, I'll more than likely be through all this nonsense (or so excited to have had a reaction that I don't mind) by Thanksgiving holidays. And my estrogen starved soma will be getting a fix one way or another. 

But at the end of this, she also told me to cut back any exercise to 2-3 hours a week and gain 5-10+. As you can imagine, the two prescriptions may be interlinked. 

So for now, anyways, I suddenly have a very elaborate standing desk. Which is good, because standing still is not an exercise in my book and it beats the hell out of sitting. And well, it certainly will shortcut my other struggles with attempting to gain weight to eliminate that extra 500-1000 calorie drain on my net intake. And I'll admit with my recent medication/winter related fatigue, I was really starting to feel it after walking a little bit and feeling far better on the weekends. Think I'll be cutting down to short walks outside when it's nice, hippy spiritual yoga, and my weird YMCA pilates class. Maybe go back to that stretching class targeted at the silver sneakers demographic.   

But it is a little strange. Positives include being able to wear skirts and actual work clothing (prohibitively uncomfortable for several hours of walking). Downsides include being very fidgety. I've done several thousand knee bends and calf raises and stretches in the last hour or so alone. 

But it'll be an interesting experiment and good preparation for whatever next job lands me with a little less sweet and cushy of an office accommodation. Possibly even fewer heater/temperature battles. 

But enough about my stationary worklife (and increased trips back and forth through the office in frothed up pace panics. How about some more "semi-active not exactly work or exercise" shenanigans?

Tonight is a grand night for the WDRC: Their annual "Peacebuilder's Awards." This is, of course, an elaborately constructed fundraising event that seems to me (the uninitiated) to use up as much time, hours, cost, and energy (in dollar equivalents) to never possibly justify the enormous haul brought in from all the rich drunk people who attended to (1) get ragingly drunk for charity (2) network while ragingly drunk.

 As you may guess, these events are anathema to an introvert like me. I've actually been to several, but only as a comped "dancer" (either performing specifically or just brought in to provide atmosphere). Oh and I do go to the grand PeaceHealth one with my dad from time to time. But that's with my dad. Of course I do that. 

Anyways, according to the schedule that we reviewed in detail at our volunteer orientation, I would have a total meltdown roughly two hours into the event (well when the official beginning of the event occurs, I'd have a meltdown. There are a few hours of unscheduled drinking and raffling and wine-walling time before that). I'm pretty sure it's even on the carefully parsed agenda. No dancing, actually, which is a rarity for these events. But the typical raffles, silent auctions, catered dinners, "dessert dashes," wine walls, and several hours of poetry readings and awards given as excuses for inspirational speeches about the DRC (read: time to let people get sufficiently soused to then get super sentimental about the inspirational conflict-resolution type messages there, AND then reach for their checkbooks).

 Andrew raised a good point. Where events like this seem to rely on getting attendees' wallets thoroughly lubricated with intoxication, it is a bit concerning that these events are also held far enough away from anything that it's likely all these attendees will be driving home. 

At any rate, I am not going to the event, but I am being a sport of a volunteer and doing the midday preparations. In this case my role commences with a drop by Boundary Bay (local restaurant responsible for catering) to pick up a truck load of flatware. I was actually unaware of the extent of the load (or the contents) until the volunteer orientation yesterday. When the point person asked if I had a big car, I snorted and said I could borrow one. A volunteer from the back of the room raised his hand (me! me! me!) and said he had some kind of large car. She said we could talk about it afterwards. I'd somehow thought the man with the car was volunteering to pick this stuff up in my stead. But when I attempted to speak with him, he was... kind of ... not super conflict resolution magnificent. 

I tried approaching him after the big meeting, but he was talking to two friends. Once that broke up, I finally approached and said "so, you said you have a bigger car?" He looked at me like I was an insane person and asked what this was about. So I reminded him of the earlier offer and that he'd said he had a bigger car. He then snorted as if I had flung poop at him and said in a mildly condescending voice "bigger than what?" Trying to thrust out a heavy nevermind, I said something about having a kia. He then looked on the verge of rolling his eyes and said "but what kind of kia??" I told him "trust me, a small car."

Anxious to leave and get on with my day far from this flummoxing conversational fandango, I reiterated that it was fine and I could borrow my husband's Pathfinder, but at this point he was going on about his four cars and their various sizes. Trying to conclude the conversation, I said it sounded like the Pathfinder would really be fine so never-mind. He carried on about how he didn't usually lend his car to strangers, but... after my fourth attempt to conclude the conversation, he looked annoyed, told me he really needed to be in the meeting with the serving staff and wanted to know why I couldn't talk about this later. THEN insisted on getting my number so he could talk to Ilana about this and get back to me. Needless to say, I haven't heard back from him. Did I mention he's the lead server of the evening and helping with the presentations? Did I also mention I'm really glad I'm not staying for the event? 

But before then, it promises to be a mellow (idle) day at the office followed by a weekend of staying warm and cozy indoors (hopefully) and a Sunday jaunt to the Pacific Northwest Ballet that shall not be deterred by illness or injections this time, by golly! Which is darned well both more rewardingly peace building AND restorative than any big old function or day of click-a-clack work work work. 

Give Thanks, for it is Friday! 

Mediation Matroyshkas Yuk Up on Yucca: A Sticky Gummy Guilty All-Amuricuhn Week

Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: Mediation madness marred our heroine's mind. Identities flung to the curb in a gaseous burst of panic and confusion. Rooms tornadoed in torrid tornadoes. Sleep blew away in the wind tunnel of infinite mind. Stones fired harmonic unities. And our couple returned to the altar to pray for their imperiled marital bliss in a pelfered Mazda and with plenty of panic. 

Coming up: Mediations continue their merry-madness. And Adella once more descends through Franz Kafka's The Doctor Visit. Will she emerge from the shifting Matroyshka with new pills? Will Dr. House's illegal intervention kill or save her? Gum goes the way of the gas guzzler, as oral fixations succumb to eco-guilt. What new lives shall be taken in the compost heap of Pacific Northwestern trash tetris? Father of the Pink Beard returns in a huff and puff of nicotine. And our hero sets out upon his endless infinite mountain quest with a battered spoke, while Sis & Brood, Inc. promises a visit of epic food proportions. Sherpas shall be required. Running rampages come in every context while poisonous produce lurks in the kitchen and smoke seeps from the stove. Can anyone survive the weekend? 

Separate your bottles, retrieve your paring knife, and check your grocery list twice.

Mediation Mojo Don't Fail the Feets Now And Attack of the Eco Guilt

Here at work, we are entering Bout 3 of Mediation Madness in our grand Year of the Muddled. Mediation. 

A recap for those of you following the series points: Mediation #1 didn't go. Last minute pile of bloviating nothing from the other side necessitated rescheduling. Mediation #2 happened on Monday. It appeared that rime would ridge Satan's heinie before any "agreement" would be reached between these particular parties, after all the "delightful" ways various involved professionals have been poking hornets nests with lit sparklers... but implausibly, the mediation actually did resolve in a signed agreement. 

Of course, the fall out of that agreement continues, as one of the agreements had to do with the "use" of a certain "professional" whom I won't call-out in so many words, other than to call this professional Dr. Looney-Tunes. Dr. Looney-Tunes is a therapist. Well, technically a counselor (distinctions galore). Let's just say DLT and our client don't get along. But of course DLT is  professional, so it is definitely is all our client's fault that during DLT's "communications therapy" communications between the parties has deteriorated. Anyways, now that DLT has been informed of the mediation agreement (ending that part of DLT's services) DLT is turning to our office to argue with the agreement. Just short of going in for a court order to force our client to spend more time in the clinician's chair. A little odd, but that's life. Seriously, if you're thinking about getting a therapist, ask your family law attorney friends first. We've got horror stories and success stories on almost every counselor/shrink/trepanation specialist in town!

Anyways, so Mediation #2 was a victory won at quite the cost. We are also crediting my strange wallet and gas line escapades with taking  some of the mad juju away from the mediation site to allow agreements. 

And that brings us to Mediation #3. If Monday's mediation victory could be bought at a cost, then surely the cost of today's would involve loss of limb or the lives of family pets... but, you know, we're trying to stay optimistic here. Maybe swine will flutter in with alae of resolution before we subsequently have to rush to the courthouse with legal motions afluttering. Maybe!

In the meantime, the (W)right homestead has settled concertedly into its climate controlled equipoise. The bike-and-chain has his Pathfinder back unscathed and frisky as ever. The air conditioning protocols are being developed. The new room arrangement continues to be the how did we not stumble into this earlier? And no additional peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were frozen at 4 a.m. this morning. So all is well...

Well... well, maybe with a little disappointment as a coda to an utterly not-disappointing date night. Turns out that the big race in Port Gamble was cancelled yesterday. This leaves Andrew without an insane way to punish himself for "series points" come the weekend. Since his entire week has been targeted towards training up to this event, it took him aback a bit. There is a pretty heavy chug-a-chug of the internal recalculations for both of us. Him for rearranging his cycling goals for the rest of the month. Me rearranging my little calendar slots for the next few days. Lots of brain power, I assure you. 

In other news, we have finally started using the incredibly accessible and affordable local FoodPlus! Program. It's basically an add on to our garbage/recycling service. They partner with Green Earth Technologies for full-scale composting services. I've dallied with composting before, but never fully committed. Our prior tenants must have used the service, because we had the proper bin for FoodPlus! next to our garbage can. We just haven't enough waste to add on a waste removal service. I already don't need garbage or recycling pick ups as often as the most liberal intervals. Of course, I do indulge in a lot of food prep, and I'm sure that the garbage disposer doesn't need the entire dregs of a pot of broth pulp... 

After realizing that the office also goes through about twenty forests' worth of paper towels a month, I realized I could consolidate office compost and home compost and maybe make it worth it. So, we're experimenting. Works great at home. Requires carting some kitchen waste in smelly bags from work. But nothing bad. 

The funny side effect is that it is making me super aware of my waste production. The same way diets of any kind work as much because you're suddenly aware of what you've been cramming into your coconut-cream-pie-hole... Unlike recycling, which apparently inspires people to give themselves karma-credits to the point that they feel more justified being jerks elsewhere, composting makes me feel really, really self-conscious about the non-compostable "garbage" I create. Particularly the gum wrappers. 

I've admitted to being a chain-chewer with a pretty compulsive habit before. Sometimes I wean off the wriggly's when all that gunk starts to agitate my stomach. But more recently, I've been realizing that an obscene percentage of my remaining waste consists of gum wrappers and those little petroleum pleasure sticks that come in them. 

Benightedly, I did one of those google maunders through the possibility that either gum or its wrappers could be composted or otherwise handled. It can't. The stuff is mostly as durable as radioactive cockroaches wearing lasers on their heads. 

And, of course, I had to stumble right onto a few environmental impact assessments of the production of gum, costs of removing it, etc. etc. Stories of little birds eating gum and exploding (or was that alka seltzer... whatever) So, while I don't buy into that whole "it's unnatural and will KILL YOU WITH ITS BRAIN!!/nutrasweet" line, I am once again taking a pause on the compulsive chewing... for now. 

Which opens up a whole new world of oral fixations. I do think gum chewing is good for oral hygiene, breath freshening, saliva production, and stress management. So substitutes could be valuable. Smoking, probably not a better alternative. Toothpicks, though, I already sometimes use. And I do hate forests. I also rather enjoy chewing on parsley and fennel seed (old habit). So I'm trying these out. I think something a little mintier wouldn't hurt. 

I'm sure I'll lose my guilt and go a little wild eventually. It is my one true addiction, gum smacking. But we'll just pretend it's Lent again and I have a new 40 day challenge. 

So,  I suppose while I bend over backwards to reduce my miniscule carbon footprint with alternatives to the old petrol pleasure tar, I'll head back up to my bedroom and crank up the a/c to hiemal and hope that Mediation #3 can be coaxed into a frozen-hades type scenario this morning. 

Waiting For Aunt Flo* 

The Medical Matryoshka Re-commences With Follow-Up Fun and Likely Bonus Referral Out 

* FN: "Aunt Flo" is vernacular for a specific phase of the female cycle that appears to involve wearing white stretch pants, running on beaches, and doing lots of yoga... at least based on commercials. While this is in reference to that "time" or - in this case - lack of time "of the month," no further disgusting details or references will be included to curl the masculine toes or scrunch the faces of the constitutionally queasy. 

As a this-is-the-internet-so-deal-with-the-TMI-or-no catch ya up, I've been struggling with some cyclical fall out of what we think had to do with being underweight for a few years. I gained some weight with a shocking amount of specialist guidance required (seriously, not easy to change a set point either way) and have been taking hormones that induce a fluctuating state of magnificent PMS to pregnancy symptoms at all times so as to make up for whatever symptoms I might have missed in the intervening years.

It is time for the legendary FU (so it can feel, sometimes) with Doctor Specialist Number 1 who will be likely referring me to Doctor Specialist Number 2 some time later today. As medical mysteries go, mine is fairly prosaic and mostly doesn't interfere with my day to day functioning (in fact, often simplifies life astronomically), but I wouldn't mind some form of theoretical clarity.

And/or not waiting in a room for several hours only to be escorted to yet another room to then get sent to another building to wait in yet another room. Maybe if that kind of waiting around felt like it had more pay off. Human beings like a sense of control in their lives, even an illusory one. I totally understand at this point why so many people turn to alternative medicines and prayer and whatever else: medical science seems to wanna move slowly and cautiously (sometimes) and that's hard for a patient. Just having a sense of agency, possibly in the form of some tincture or daily action, helps. Incidentally another vote for the placebo.

I'm ornery today (see above comment about the fluctuating hormones and the perma-PMS). It's not that bad. It's not my dentist (and choirs of angels sing at mere mention of my eerily perfect dental experience), but it is a nice time to read my strange French crime novel and not worry about work. And I actually like my doctor. 

Anyways, perhaps today will be the day that Dr. House storms into my waiting room, does something unethical and borderline criminal while fighting off screaming extras and a few regulars in hockey masks, and explains that everything can be cleared up if I just drop two hits of acid and drink some purple-berry kool-aid! One never knows. 

Andrew's exciting race for Saturday has been cancelled, so he's rolling with the punches by torturing himself minus the race fee. Seven hours of cycling this weekend after coming home at 6:40 last night and immediately hopping on a bike and planning a jello-legged Friday "lunch-ride" in the interim. And the a/c churned upstairs in our little tamarin-cave. I love holing up in the bedroom. Reminds me of my halcyon days of twenties and roommates, where I lived in my room between sneak-outs to the kitchen or bathroom. 

And with that, I bid you a happy Friday. No doubt updates shall be forthcoming. Most likely of the "and then the assassin got bad stomach cramps when he attacked the ex-contractor buddy of the alcoholic philanthropist who is harboring a dark secret about the bratty child that the crazy woman is now nannying!" variety. Because I am not gonna make the mistake of forgetting my book this morning!

Also, I made yucca for the first time yesterday. Well, bought it and made it not-poisonous (I hope!). Reports on whether I keep over from poor preparation shall also be forthcoming! If I survive!

Naw, I'll give you the thumbnail now just in case. Yucca is one of the most rapaciously consumed carbohydrates in the galaxy according to several websites I stumbled onto after picking up a weird stick of a root next to the jicama. It was on sale! How could I resist? 

It's covered in waxy tree bark, contains a "woody core" (apparently - I didn't find any in the little twig I got), and enough cyanide to make a person sick if it is consumed raw. Several helpful sites informed me of the way to make it edible and it boils down (har har) to this: 

1. cut into 4-6 inch barks. 

2. Use a paring knife to cut off the waxy peel. 

3. cut sticks in half and then in half again to have long quarters. At this point, theoretically the woody core is revealed, but I'll take somebody else's word on that. 

4. Boil for 20-40 minutes until it is translucent. Or, in my case, covered in remaining vegetable broth and boil until you smell smoke from upstairs, to whence you wandered to leap into a cold shower after believing there to be at least another fifteen minutes of broth to boil with the yucca. 

5. Come downstairs dripping and holding onto a towel, though not wearing one and transport the entire pot into the sink. Run cold water liberally until the risk of smoke has diminished. 

6. Soak the crap out of the pan. 

7. Once again check for the aforementioned "woody core". Cut at the corner randomly and call it good. 

8. Cube and enjoy. 

It's pretty good, and I've enjoyed adding it to my salads, food mish-mashes. More work than most of the foods I prefer to eat, but any food that doesn't kill me OR successfully burn the house down is a success in my book!

Magical Mystical Pill Organizer Like an Advent Calendar for anytime, but with pills!

I have so needed a pill organizer for longer than I can recall. I have a great memory (implications of prior sentence not withstanding). For some things. Numbers, if I've worked out mnemonics for them. Names, with the same mnemonic caveat. Every detail of every conversation, musical twist, emotional texture and sapor of scent... all that is indelibly etched into the crevices of my cranium. But little things like "what did I just do five seconds ago"? Not always as well. The body is an efficient thing and will seek to cut mental costs wherever possible: hence habit! Habit is great, in that is bypasses conscious lucubration and delves quietly down into the automatic processes that make sure things get done. 

Until it's not. 

Like if it's a so-called "bad" habit. Trying to break a tendency encoded into muscle or behavioral memory takes a whole lot of conscious thought to override and ends up being far more taxing. And sometimes, since it was so automatic, you don't really remember the doing of it. 

We remember struggle. We don't remember easy. And taking pills is easy. It's automatic. It's thoughtless. Until the web of routines is shaken with a tremor. Then all hell breaks loose. Did I take my pill? Did I just drink my coffee and forget it? If I don't remember should I take one just in case and risk overdosing myself or leave it alone and risk underdosing? 

Always a conundrum. I have had a series of memory encoders to bring conscious thought (thus memory) back into it. In the mornings I make a grand production of taking my pill. First I'd just announce the fact that I was doing so to Andrew, but as that became routine, I had to add little memorable nuances. It's now become a morning ritual for me to display the pill I intend to ingest with grand flourish and narrate the entire process between pill and final swallow. Little comments on the temperature of the coffee and the returning of the bottle are helpful. Andrew has an allergy pill he takes at the same time. 

That works pretty well. In the evenings, I just send him a chat that I'm about to take my pill, which works as a written record should I doubt myself later. 

Of course, sometimes I get all into the announcements and the intention without actually taking the pill in question. Maybe there was a last minute thing that sidetracked me and I'm back to the "should I double-up or skip a pill" weighing of pros and cons. 

My next variation was to turn the pill bottles upside down after ingesting them, and then switching them in the morning. This works quite well, unless they fall during the day, or I also forget to to place them one way or another. 

So, finally I have found a pill container to my liking. The nice thing about these are that I can refer to a calendar, check sky or my watch for the a.m./p.m. part, and be fairly certain of my answer. Also, if I keep a decent pill popping compliance, I"ll have a little reminder of what day of the week it is... which never hurts in our sometimes distempritis-stricken lands. 

I'm sure I"ll find some way to complicate this as well in my memory, but at least I have a cute new toy that matches my socks. 

Happy Saturday! Hope it's full of excitement and August adventuring. Dan of the Pink Beard is back from a year long Arabic intensive in Jordan, and stopping by Bellingham before heading off to George Washington University. Bike-and-chain will be doing a four-and-a-half hour bike ride.  And I'm going to help Papa T with the very first grocery run in anticipation of the Sis and Brood's upcoming visit. They travel up to his home in the Canadian Gulf Islands for the first week. The Gulf Islands are very remote, and transportation of foods across borders is complicated, AND feeding three fussy children is a fool's errand... so the grocery bills shall hit astronomical and the compost piles shall reach the sky!

You Got me Runnin' (well, maybe); Baby What you Wan' Me to Do? The Running of the DINKS and Afternoon at the Cinema

This morning the DINKS shall run by golly! Or maybe not. Who can tell. We missed the last two DINK runs together. Two weekends ago, I went out dancing the night before and my arch was aching. Besides the Tour de France was on. Last weekend, Andrew's car cavils and pre-wedding negotiations took on an entirely different connotation of running (with the implied like decapitated poultry trailing after). 

My ambitions for running have a decided fair-weather clause. My definition of fair-weather is a narrow enough band to make life difficult for all involved. If it's below 50 degrees out - so, say, winter or early spring or fall or sometimes during the summer- then my toes go turgid and my fingers shrivel into little blue iceballs no matter the level of insulating intervention. The numb toes is a little problematic for things beyond comfort even. On the other side, if it gets much above 60 - so say, any part of summer other than that special band of witching hour through which we generally slumber - then I get hot. I don't mind getting a little sweaty, but humidity is usually attendant with the warmer weather. And I don't do humidity. My lungs, particularly, don't enjoy respiring water. I have yet to develop gills. As of 5:52 a.m., it is 61 degrees out and 91% humidity. This bodes ill for said ambitions. Of course, my ebbing ambitions don't pound a death knell in the DINKy running plans, as much as they imply there shall be great gnashing of teeth, lamentations and (possibly literal) bellyachings during the experience. Lucky Mr. (W)right!

Yesterday was a mad dash of a different kind. Andrew had intended to embark upon a 4.5 hour bike ride. But his wheel had different ideas. It snapped a spoke midway through. So he returned after a mere 2.5 hours. Lazy bones, I know! Never fear, he'll be doing the 4.5 one today probably. 

While Andrew was off,  I served as Supermarket Sherpa for Papa T, a man with a list and a lot of terror. He can handle his own groceries, but THE FALCONERS ARE COMING!! Annually, Sis & Brood (Inc.) come out for most of August. Their first leg of the trip always involves going off to the Gulf Islands where my Dad has a house on a teeny tiny little island in the middle of nowhere. Food is not easily acquired once at the home. And food that the kids are willing to eat on any given day is not easily acquired or even imagined... ever. I swear, the household garbage disposal is offered more viands than several small island nations. 

So, Papa T had the first phase of the list for this annual outing. This list involves brand specific, highly detailed instructions that must be met on peril of additionally volatile temper tantrums while stuck on a remote island with nowhere to run. So it's important to get it right. And Freddy's is hard to navigate for most people, what with its narrow aisles and dearth of common sense placement of any given object. I was pretty on yesterday, though. I surveyed the list, divided the items into clusters, and systematically moved through the store on a full scale and quite targeted sweep. Round One down in twenty-five minutes. New record for me. This clearly is a new career path that I might benefit from investigating. 

Papa T will be going back for more stuff the day before the trip, as he lacks storage capacity for anything perishable and will be throwing the remaining US-bought groceries into coolers immediately. He will then do a final run of  produce in Canada before getting onto the ferry. Quite the production. I may become embroiled in the Thursday in-country run. 

Upon returning home, I made Sunday-night dinner. Because it's nice in the kitchen in the mornings and it sucks to have the oven on in the afternoon stew of summer. And we had plans for dinner this evening.

What plans? With whom? When??? If you're my friend Dan Pink Father of the Beard, you want to know all that in detail in lieu of merely accepting a goodbye. I love Dan, but he has a different set of boundaries than my very private, contrary, and introverted self. And humans often tend to entrench into contrasting roles when met with contrast, I become more recalcitrant the more he queries. Based solely on a teenage campaign of his to get me to play chess with him, for instance, I shall never touch a chess piece. I'm oddly difficult like that. But when we're not playing fifty billion personal questions, Papa Pink Beard my oldest friend and I'm glad to have him for a visit between his Arabic language program in Jordan and his Masters program as GWU.

He's just back from nearly a year in Jordan. Having spent two years in Romania a few years back, we've already gone through the DEAR GOD, AMERICA!! type culture shock. He's never really been a fan of American culture, so it's always been a bit  of a mismatch. Travelling outside the country mostly appears to be a relief for him. This time back, he was much mellower about the experience, though I found it quite funny that the "American" things over which he caviled were some of my favorite aspects.

To wit:

(1) In Jordan, a host could never elliptically imply that a guest should leave because that host has something else to attend to; it's an unspoken rule, at least in this part of the US, that there are certain commonly understood codes that wrap up a visit (rising from a seat, theatrically checking a watch, busing dishes, referring to upcoming plans, a certain timbre to the word "Well.." not otherwise elaborated) that consist of a no questions asked opportunity for a polite guest to make excuses. As somebody who gets queasy at the thought of having a drop-in guest, at least having the mutually respected illusory plans, is respite for me. And when I spend time with almost anybody I need to have it blocked out as a specific period of time, with plans on either end.  If I don't wrap up within a determined period of time, I run the risk of tapping out my introvert-energy battery and breaking into tears. Which is awkward.

(2) In this part of the US, our fashion is closer to pajamas and active wear. He feels it's sloppy and disrespectful. I feel that it's a highly nuanced hierarchy of social cues, investments, and a heckuva lot more nuance than he's seeing. Also, it's a lot more comfortable than having to kit up in heels and well pressed linens before leaving the house. Don't get me started on makeup and hair torturing products. But I've previously made my peace with all this, as you all know. 

(3) Americans are more obsessed with time and the use of its passage. True. But I'm even more obsessed with time and planning than the average. Dan did refer to a Swiss friend who found his stay in Jordan particularly vexing due to that sense of timelessness. Dan was amused that when this friend's father visited, his subsequent thank you note said "thank you for all the planning." Dan found this quite alien. I feel I need to hop the first plane to Switzerland. A land of planning! Where schedules are literally followed! Oh the merriment. 

(4) You can't smoke just anywhere. Apparently there's a whole lot of chain-smoking in Jordan. Here in the the Pacific Northwest in particular, smoking is pretty limited to college ramshackles and some of the less savory streets of downtown. It's kind of a social taboo at this point. 
(4) Ok, actually I found this one interesting. Dan was commenting that people here speak much too loudly. He subsequently followed up that Jordanians had no problem yelling as a way of emphasizing speech and it was not taken as hostile or aggressive. He added that he had taken to yelling in those contexts as well, as it's sometimes the only way to be heard. I did note that he was speaking far less loudly than he used to. He has the kind of resonant voice that can fill a room ,so the muting was certainly a contrast. On this note, it's a muddle. I agree that people speak far too loudly here (mandatory eavesdropping abounds at the commanding volumes of average conversation), but then again, I don't really find the yelling or the talking over each other thing very appealing. 

Anyways, to fill the time, we all went to Lucy, which is the ultimate Luc Besson film. It takes Besson to utterly new heights. Insipid psuedo-scientific philosophical ideas crammed into a blender with a little touch of Old Boy and a whole lot of suggested but ne'er developed plot conceits. It makes Prometheus look like a well-stitched film! Crazy action. Morgan Freeman giving a fairly hilariously rambling lecture to a bunch of serious looking students with an admirably straight face. And more stock footage interjected than most documentaries. I can't decide whether this is kind of film's answer to T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, or the editor just realized that the movie was only forty minutes in final cut and started pasting in cheetahs and exploding stars. Either way, it was awesomely insipid in the most delicious of ways. And one most certainly emerges in kind of a bemused daze.

The whole thing looks kind of like a really bad acid trip. Which is not a bad thing, but you do feel a hangover afterwards. I may not be able to speak anything resembling sensical sentences for quite some time. Fortunately, few people will likely know the differences.

And with this and that and the other, it's likely time to get on with my day and prepare for another steamer. Might even give the husband a bit of a run-around one way or another before his ridiculous bike ride. Carrots quiver in terror as I contemplate the post-run phase of my morning.

Lost In Mediationland at the Tip of the Unicorn's Horn: The Year of the Mediation Begins With a ... Huh

Previously on A&A's Adventures in Cohabitation: Dragons undulated to the sigh of bandoneons. Heart-breaks healed and mediation skills were retracted while supervisor's departures pended perilously atop a calendar of upheavals. And circus bears raged through with tutus ruffled, growling promises of anomie to come!


Next Up: The Year of the Mediation Commences with explosions and blow-ups betwixt implausible cases of past incompetence. Will the resulting flurrying papers behead any beloved characters? Drills come out and smiles break glass as our heroine flees work for a moment of unlikely respite. Court looms in the land of Turkey. Will the clowns ride their horses to victory? And first-husband (W)right begins his Odyssean maunders from home. Will his plucky Penelope fend off the single-lady blues with a healthy heaping of Tour de France and a spatula full of foods?

Strap on your silliest helmet, dye your sheep crimson, and get ready to calendar hop through time to find the answers to this and more...



Strapped in and Ready to Ride the Wiley Workhorse Time for that Dentist's Appointment Yet??

I once again throw my hands to the skies with white flags unfurled: I have no idea what day it is and the day-of-the-week metric is officially useless for the next fortnight or so. Especially with Mr. (W)right's impending Friday-Saturday absence, and related shuffling, There is no anchor reference for my calendar week. 

 Theoretically yesterday was Tuesday. It did, in fact, conform to certain expectations of Tuesday in that I went to the DRC in the afternoon. In other regards, it lived up to the more relevant expectations of "The Falconers must be coming soon, because things are amping up again" late-July bedlam (ooooh bed). A routine consult turned into a tag-team attorney hunt through the paper trails of two separate cause numbers and administrative hearings - all with some pretty shocking but just-credible levels of incompetence and other flagrant violations of the Rules of Professional Conduct - to sort out what the heck happened and why did your ex wife's brother's pet goat get custody of your daughter??? before even addressing the major emergencies that needed triage.

At the same time, a never-routine mediation turned into a last minute blitz of "well, if that's all you can give us, then why are we having this mediation?" scuffling and shuffling. Sometimes mediation just doesn't make sense. Like when the other side (1) gets in a mediation letter after hours the day before a morning mediation, (2) insists that the first issue to be addressed is one that nobody agreed to mediate, (3) ignores the slurry of documentation, responses, answers, and queries that have been supplied over an eight week period of unresponsive radio silence from that other side, and (4) includes a client's emailed response document to a tangential issue that could have been provided at any time in the last six weeks and isn't relevant to mediation... all with none of the requested documentation or any answers in sight (perhaps the letter was intended to come with a decoder ring and relevant answers properly encrypted to protect against unwarranted google/facebook/NSA/KGB data caching! Maybe the damned letter was in Cherokee translated into Pig Latin).  

The cancellation and follow up discussions between attorneys and attorneys, attorneys and clients, everyone and the mediator, interjected itself at random intervals during the tag-team emergency consult. A few minor characters and cameos may have been decapitated by all that flying paper.

 ...All of which, fortunately was not interrupted by mom-boss' scheduled consult, who'd written down the time wrong and was on her way in an hour late. 

... And my mom had a four-way in the afternoon. So kind of one of those days. 

I also spent the morning in intensive focus mode to draft a declaration that I'd written down as being due on Friday, but which actually - by any rational count - would not be due until late next week. Ah well. I swear somebody told me to do it by the 25th! I swear. And, hey, at least it's done. Or started. It's a rough draft, after all. 

Today, we interrupt our regularly scheduled Wednesday for a dentist's appointment! Yep, they like to reassure me that my dental hygiene is stellar, but there's just nothing to be done about childhood sealants sometimes. So off to numb my face and stare into space for a spell (over lunch time, which is not really how I'd prefer to stuff my face about that hour). I'm looking forward to it. My dentist is preternaturally pleasant and is essentially a model for any client-service based metric. Seriously. I am not being paid to endorse Dr. Lemperes. Though I do not write off some kind of strange mind-control or happy drugs in the well maintained tea/coffee station. I don't know how he does it, but no matter how horrid the procedure, one comes out with a smile (good advertisement for a dentist, I suppose). 

The only thing I'd like to amend (other than perhaps bringing back my pediatric dentists' practice of giving me a small toy at the end of each visit... dinosaurs!!) would be that in addition to their office iPod for patients during longer procedures, they invest in some google glass with a kindle app. Seriously, this - to me - is the absolute best theoretical lure of google glass: being able to read when I am in positions that make it impossible to hold a book or device. Laying back during procedures, cooking, out in the rain... talking with boring people... Just think! I joke on that last one. While I'm thoroughly distractible by devices and crosswords when conversations seep around my little happy headspace (drowning out my happy elevator music sometimes even), I get plum irritable if I'm pulled away from an actual tome and have found it best not to attempt reading in mid-colloquy. 

"Thursday," my DRC shift is all inverted so I can tag along to the small claims court (where we trowel for mediable cases, of course). I anticipate taking the morning off work, running, doing Pilates, purdying myself back up, and jaunting over to court. And since Andrew's going to be gone this weekend, we are thinking of going out to eat with mom-boss and boytoy one day early.  

"Friday," Andrew isn't coming home, and it's cycling related. So it's virtually Monday!

"Saturday", Andrew still isn't coming home, at least  until pretty darned late. I'm estimating 9 or 10 p.m. at the earliest. Since Thursday's half eaten, I am thinking about coming into work to catch up/start up. Although all the weekend household things I want to do still need to be done regardless of whether husband is around or not.

"Sunday," Andrew may still be alive and I may find him zonked in the bed beside me. No promises on that one. If so, we've of course got the Tour and a little running. And then, on the sacred no-fly-zone of Sunday afternoon to evening, we have a wedding in Darrington to attend. So surely it cannot actually be Sunday.

And, of course, Monday, Andrew is currently planning to go track racing. Obviously this is a thoroughly sane conceit after a 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. bike race, travelling all weekend, and staying out a bit late on Sunday. Especially with another race far afoot and twenty miles long coming up the next weekend (and work promising to heat up in the meantime).  Obviously. You can see why I'm auditioning for replacements here. Even the old bike-and-chain can only take so much battering! And my future second husband is still terrifically underage and on the cusp of that yucky awkward period of adolescence that makes me pretty firm in my plan to defer on that one for at least fifteen more years. 

But enough about people other than me, whatever flyballs fall into field, I've got my mit on and am game to chase after them, even if it means smacking right into the fence or toppling over a base. 

...Or to just leap onto the counter and battle with the several floodlights we have in our kitchen of bizarre electrical choices!

Happy Whateverday!

Tip O'The Unicorn's Horn on a Gray Thursday Morn 

First off, today's tippee toe post is dedicated to my friend Ms. Woo, who has stated her intent (via internet meme) to become a unicorn due to her weariness with the inherent complications of being human.  I don't want to stand in the way of anyone's dreams, but I've got to warn her and any others of you that are seduced by said internet meme that the idyllic picture painted of the uni-life is distorted.

 It's hard out there for a pimp, but doubly so for a unicorn. There are poachers and alchemists always after your horn.  Dragons every which way to be conquered. And that whole laying one's head in virgin's laps thing... (1) confusing because how the heck do  you distinguish? (2) a trick! There are hunters nearby. But if you can get past these things, I really do believe you'll make an excellent unicorn and I support your efforts. 

Well, darn, I've decided that Pilates would be  a bit of a tight (read last dregs of a thoroughly emaciated toothpaste tube tight) squeeze between (1) the work I wanted to get done this morning, (2) the time required to change and arrive at small claims court after Pilates, and (3) the limited scope of my desire to slosh about a lot in that drizzle of an answer to my supplications for Pacific Northwest Weather to return. We's gots ourselves a rainstorm. Worthy of a steamy November even. I'm loving it more than those people on TV purportedly love McDonald's, but I don't need to have soggy feet all morning either. 

So instead. I'm at work for another short spell, having finished up most of the aforementioned priority work. And tuning in to realize I have missed the beginning excitement for today's final Tour de France blast through the Pyrenees. Those little avatars are changing place with some rapaciousness today! Almost exciting. 

Last night was our last date night before Mr. (W)right's crazy double header weekend nonsense. We enjoyed it by spending some quality time together, and terrorizing local restaurant, The Black Pearl. No, we weren't absolutely appalling, but I can't say we get in A+ in terms of desirable customer ratings. 

First, for whatever reason, the heat was on (THE HEAT IS ON! No, literally, they had the heater on in the restaurant). It was rainy and cool last night, so I understand, but the downtown incarnation of Black Pearl is a little sweat box, and I admit to avoiding it during nice weather because it turns into a bit more of an authentic Southeast Asian experience than I'd like in there. We were initially seated at a nice table right under the heaters. My head immediately commenced to throbbing, and after some five to ten minutes of feeling more and more miserable, I decided to take agency for my own comfort and change seats. Of course, the next table was also under heaters. And the other table had a little window right next to the diners (whom I knew just to add to awkwardness). 

The serving lady/owner, who is an angel, thought we were leaving in impatience and rushed to intervene while I roved about the restaurant like a dog circling its final seating spot. Finally, I gave up. Then I noticed Andrew putting on his sweater, and was surprised to realize that he felt enough of a draft in his seat to want to warm up. Naturally I recanted my prior refusal of his offer to "switch" seats and musical chairs resumed. I don't know why he was cold. I was still down to my cami and slightly roasting. But it was better. 

Yes, Mr. (W)right is - of course - right: My body/god/the fates hate me. I am consigned to always have algid feet and hands, while my arms and legs to turn numb and violet at the first tremor of chill. But in all circumstances I shall still find rooms stuffy and hints of calescence shall stoke nausea and the steady beat of head-bangs up top.

Anyways, back to the restaurant. Having finally surrendered to the least stuffy spot in the (still stuffy) restaurant, I then pursued  fussy customer status by sending back my "Yummy Vegetarian Salad." My explicitly and repeatedly requested "on the side" of peanut sauce had been unceremoniously sludged atop the mound of greens. I feel guilty about this, but I actually don't really eat the sauce. A large percentage of peanut sauces have fish sauce in them, which I don't care for. And it's just a bit heavy for me. I order it on the side in case I want to dip, but more often because my meal companions might want it. Of course after the kerfuffle, our server/owner made special effort to accommodate my on-the-sidedness with serving spoon and several mentions that we could serve you another dressing. Naturally, Andrew didn't really want the peanut sauce that evening, and it went mostly unused. So, thanks to me, a full salad doused in peanut sauce was chucked. And another large vial of peanut sauce was to follow! Ah well. I'm now enrolled in the Food Plus compost pick up service from home so I'm earning a little credit towards my profligate dalliances with unnecessary food waste. 

Andrew, being sweet like this, mitigated my lingering roving puppy dog peanut sauce hating contrition (and demonstrated his love) by upending the end portion of his bowl of noodles into his lap. Quite the dramatic gesture! Don't think I don't appreciate it. I'm not sure those tiny rice noodles will ever fully detach from his brown Carharts. 

Thank goodness for heavy work pants meant for factory work.  Date night is hazardous for those who don't pack the appropriate OSHA certified safety equipment (the goggles were handy as well on this sploosh of an outing!). 

Thank greatness, we all survived (including The Black Pearl, despite our best efforts to the contrary), and returned home to swap out our sotten sundries for some cozier enduement. 

And back to today with a smile on my face. I'm off to Small Claims court for a brief spell soon. Just to be proper, I may even put on real pants and a real shirt. Sure, I found it on the side of the road in a free pile, but it's a real honest to goodness shirt and everything! Really!

Forget Nine2Five, How About Six-Thirty2Six-Thirty? Single Lady Weekend Has Begun

The Ol' Bike-and-Chain is officially off. Well, he will be soon. I left for work while he was still in pjs, but I can only assume that he has subsequently packed up the double lunch I made him to be spread across two days (knock on wood he doesn't gorge himself on it all at once!), the several pounds of bike paraphernalia that he prepared last night, and maybe some extra clothes, and has hit the road.

After a spot of work today, he'll be heading to Seattle to stay the night with a teammate (his lurid video editing affair with another woman was just the beginning of course and now he's moving on to all sorts of acquaintances and all sorts of bike related activities). Tomorrow morning, he'll drive to Roslyn and ride his bike around-and-around-and-around-and-around from 9:00 a.m. until some time after 5:00 p.m. After the bike riding is done, I suspect there shall be feasting on rib roast and general bedazed befuddlement. Eventually he intends to drive home and sneak into bed (long after I've offlined). 

I've wished him well, given him a few extra kisses to make up the difference of a lost morning and couple of evenings together, and will see him on Sunday. 

Bring on the cabana boys! Adella's single for 48 hours! WHOOOOO! Or just plop me on my mom's couch with the remote control and let me fast forward through a week of Tour de France recordings (leave a tissue box nearby to daub the drool from my face). 

I'm torn between all the clamoring alternatives for things to do with this single-lady time. Do I go about my usual chores? Do I put in some extra work to recover from a topsy turvy work-week? Do I glom onto the aforementioned couch? Do I take some kind of ad-hoc adventure somewhere that only I'd appreciate? Do I try to finish this book I'm reading that is simultaneously interesting and yet emanating some kind of reader-repellant juju that has made it difficult for me to indulge in my usual biblio-binge (thus frustrating me into a far more urgent state of "let's just get this over with already... ooooh squirrel!")? Do I pretend I'm going to read my book and then enter into a cross-wording frenzy from which I emerge several hours later covered in pencil smudges and more newspapers than are circulated in Whatcom County?? I just can't decide. 

But I think I might try to play it cool and focus on recovering. Because it really has been an odd week. 

Yesterday's arcanity was of a mellower peculiarity than earlier in the week. Instead of my afternoon shift, I went with the WDRC to small claims court. The biggest area in which the DRC mediates is family cases. The second biggest, though, is small claims. Family is generally more specialized (being a family law attorney, I know from reviewing some train wrecks of "settlement agreements" that extra training and finesse is required; getting a family mediator with the right blend of training and temperament is a rarity),  and takes extra training for mediators to master.

Small Claims mediations have a satisfying symbiosis between the court's needs to lessen the load of litigation, the litigants' interests in actually reaching cost-effective conclusions to their disputes, and the DRC's need to have a forum for their training and practicum students. Since the disputes are generally more straightforward, more contained, more varied, and more amenable to creative problem-solving, they are tailor-made for mediator training. As such, small claims courts and mediation centers have long partnered.

At UW, small claims was our largest mediation source as well, so it was a bit of a flashback. Except Whatcom County seems to take its small claims courts a little more seriously. In the King County courts, there's usually a single judge handling the entire docket. All litigants wait in one courtroom. The judge cursorily reviews the claim, asks some questions, and then rules. They churn through like butter. 

In Whatcom, there are three sitting small claims judges. In the first courtroom, all litigants are given a roll-call and asked if they'd like to try mediation. Those that decline are assigned a court-room/judge. Those that try mediation can come back and be heard same day usually, but aren't assigned a judge. The trials are a little longer and a little more formal, as well. 

I may be called to case manage the process at some point. That would involve giving the opening "what is mediation and why you might consider doing it instead of airing your irrelevant and legally anemic dirty laundry in a public forum where your chances of recovery even if you get a judgment are slim to none... did we mention mediation is awesome and super successful?" spiel. Aaaand filling out some paperwork. Aaaand wrangling the mediators. So I was there to observe all that. As was New-Vanessa, Luke, who will be doing all the wrangling as of next week! I also sat next to a practicum student who went through the UWLS training with Julia Gold. I initially thought perhaps at the same time as me until I realized I'd actually already graduated in 2012 and must have done the training in 2010 or so. But he was nice. A retired municipal attorney who put in some time teaching ESL and traveling around Turkey in the Peace Corps way back when. 

Anyways, if you enjoy Judge Judy/People's Court, then you should know that small claims in Whatcom County starts at 9:00 a.m. You can usually eyeball an interesting case during the roll call/mediation answers. And small claims cases are open to the public. 

Since there were only a smattering of mediations, Vanessa, Luke and I  sat through a fairly lurid little tale of landlord-tenant mayhem. The black-letter law is dull and clear-cut in this area, but the stories... and oh the stories will out! Clowns! Horses rampaging down the highway! Sotten sexual advances and dogs peeing on inebriated tenants passed out in lawns! Really, I couldn't repeated it here on such a family friendly forum. Really.

Moral being: mediate, because you probably have never consulted a lawyer and you have no idea that (unfair as it might feel) you still owe way more/are due to receive way less than you think. Mediate because you may have a business that doesn't need the public humiliation of your prior ill-fortune and regrettable decisions. Mediate, because... otherwise I will be tempted to attend your small claims court and start mentioning names in a blogger post or Bar Newsletter regular article. A little more of a strong arm approach to mediation, but one for people to consider. Really, the moral is that if you're idly unemployed and can't afford cable, you are missing out on some real entertainment opps at the local court calendars. 

Anyways, the morning was rather devoured by these little fripperies into the lives and livelihoods of others, so the rest of the day was a bit of a flurry. And even madder for the pre-weekend meal out with my mom and the boytoy (just in case Andrew dies, it seemed fitting for them to have a weekend meal with him). 

And so, I know now that today is Friday but several days before have already felt like Friday. So I think we're inventing a new name for today. Farfanuggin day, it is!

Mom-boss has a double court date plus double meetings and a mediation letter due out. I've got some support to play in all that. But first I'm off to stretch to the oldies... (with the oldies given the median age of the group). 

I missed Pilates yesterday, which I shall rue for ages, since I had been the only student on Thursdays the prior weeks. But it shan't happen again today. Mainly because there is no Pilates to miss! 

Happy Farfanugginday to you all!

Time and Trials Single-Lady-for-the-Day Celebrates with a coffee and a chock full DVR

Today I am determined: I will catch up with the live play of the Tour de France. I'm only about fifteen minutes out from catching up at this point. Once I've caught up, yes, I'll get to watch several exciting commercials about how Jelly Beans are the perfect cycling energy food (Jelly Belly makes a good point, considering what's usually in those gels and shots). More importantly, I'll get to figure out whether all the distortion, static, screen melting, etc. is the fault of a crusty dvr or something to do with the station/receiver. Not looking promising. The blips and techno-stutters are full in force during this recorded coverage, and I suspect that there's more to come in the live play. But at least if I've caught up and am still experiencing reality melt, I can supplement with the little Tour de France website avatar cyclists and live blogs. 

Time trials are oddly boring and exciting in an entirely new way than the rest of the Tour is boring/exciting. Regular stages consist of long stretches during which nothing happens shocked through with unexpected bursts of sheer adrenaline soaked thrall. And sheep. Chromatic sheep. There are also always matters of strategy, temporary alliances as interests align and diverge like shifting sands on a breezy beach... 

Time trial is exclusively about how fast any individual rider is. No deals, all wheels. Of course, they make up for it with exceptionally silly super hero outfits. And it definitely tests a whole new kind of strength and fitness, sending cyclists out in a race alone. With fifteen seconds differentiating fourth through second place (Nibali in first could basically walk his bike across the line, or try unicycling the stage while holding an ice cream cone in one hand and humming a jaunty tune with the time gaps he's got at this point), these little differences in strength matter. The whole top five (after first) is up for grabs and undetermined. 

Yesterday was a pretty wild finale to our wacky work-week. Another mediation letter went out reeking of brimstone and sulfur Actually, while I've been fearing the work on this one (heavily sedimented issues from some ridiculously complicated dissonances created by prior attorneys needing to be delicately sorted out from a crypt of old documents and nonsensical spreadsheets), we put in a great letter. Unlike, say, the other side (this is a theme in THE YEAR OF THE MEDIATION so far), who provided no documentation and a list of vitriolic and inaccurate characterizations that essential boil down to Mediation Agenda: Making my client's future ex stop being such a DOO-DOO HEAD! Super promising, I know. 

But regardless, my work is done... for now. 

In other excitement, a case we've been trying to get an order in on for months finally reached a head with a pending hearing, which was apparently finally enough to get the other attorney a bit more engaged (say willing to return our phone calls more than once a month...). Additional client priorities shuffled in and out at inconvenient intervals of course. 

But then we were done! DONE DUN DUN..... Weekend!! And all the bloodshed and inkstains seep away in the dewy mist of freedom. With the boyfrianceband off to chase his cycling doom, I was ready to enter a deep single coma. There was reading (and I've sent the Mirabal sisters off into history once more, time for a French crime novel). There were crosswords. I broke out the spatula and scraped tubs of peanut butter and yogurt clean. A mad evening, I assure. Today my ambitions have faded into "more of the same." After the time trial. There may be chopping. Maybe cooking. If I'm smart, I'll time myself for a walk of some sort. 

Aaaaand, I've shifted to the live feed. I see a little disturbance flickering in at the corners... holding my breath. Dun dun DUUUUUN (Still DONE with the week). And it's looking promising on the live feed. 

Go superheros!!