My mother is at Walmart with my sister right now. I don't know what they're after. They spent a good part of the afternoon setting up our Christmas tree, and doing some accounting. I spent my time preparing a lovely meal that smelled like burnt plastic for a few minutes. Why, you might ask?

Well, it actually smelled like burnt plastic until the frying pan cooled down enough to permit me to peel the offending piece off its hot little bottom. You see, Mom had an upset tummy when she woke up this morning. She didn't know what caused it, but opined that the meal I fixed her last night was suspect. It included a couple tablespoons of yogurt, which might have been too vintage for the purpose. I made some chicken soup because I thought it might be mild enough to fill the parental stomach, and stay there.

Meanwhile, Mom developed a hankering for pork chops. I asked her about the soup, which she seemed to think would be theraputic earlier in the day, and she opined that it would go fine with the chops. I made the chops, browning them in a little oil, and as it turned out, a rosting little plastic tab on the burner.

The meal turned out to be quite appetizing once the smell of plastic had dissapated. Both Mom and Chicagoann complemented me, and I hope their graciousness was prompted by the subtile flavors of my culinary efforts, rather then the real possibility that they didn't want to discourage me from future efforts. Mom can cook, but she'd rather stand on her head and recite the Bill Of Rights, than decide what to have for dinner. I, however, enjoy having absolute control over our repast, and don't usually consider packaging to be part of the ingredient list, so she is usually content to eat what I cook.

Where this started was the fact that Chicagoann is visiting, and she and my female parental unit are doing G-d knows what at Walmart. This is fortunate for me, because I have run out of raw hide chews, and my very good friend, happens to be a big, yellow dog who thinks this particular treat is due him immediately after he eats his dinner. So, I end this Sunday with several things on my mind:

1. I'm glad Chicagoann is here, and that G-d knows what prompted her to take Mom to Walmart.

2. I'm glad Mom feels well enough to eat pork chops and go to Walmart. The reason I couldn't get raw hide chews earlier today is that she felt lousy, and I didn't want to ask her to drive me to Walmart when it was light enough out for her to do it.

3. I am very glad that the stench that came from the kitchen earlier didn't reflect the quality of my cooking efforts, because;

4. McDonalds is a real come down from pork chops and vegies.

There are members of my family who don't approve of what is known in the venacular as the "f-bomb". I am not one of those members, but I can appreciate the need to insert it into conversation sparingly, and not in church or open court. However, my brother-in-law-the-Islamic-terrorist came up with a satisfactory way to imply the forbidden word without actually saying it.

Every time the name of a certain polititian came to her lips, my sister, Chicagoann would attach the "f-bomb to his name. Chicagoann isn't nearly as handy with that word as I can be when I am fighting my computer or describing the nature of a judge who rules against me in court. As a result, every time she used that particular descriptive, she would embarrass herself. My b-i-l-t-I-t suggested that she just substitute the polititian's name for the "f-bomb", and she could have the satisfaction of expressing her true feelings without offending the people around her, or in my case, , being held in contempt of court and spending the night in jail.

I intend to take this new approach to swearing as far as I can, but in no way plan to abandon the real thing. For me, it is rather like the way I used to substitute nicotine gum for a cigarette when I flew, or was otherwise prohibited from indulging in my nasty pleasure.

"I think you're acting like a real Truman jerk"

"Okay, I'll launder the Washington clothes."

"Well, stick it up your Roosevelt little --" Oops, I came close to a "no, no" that time.

Chicagoann's tendency is to be Bushed off. If she is just a little annoyed, she can get her feelings out with a well placed "W". When she is really snarked, she can use the whole name. I won't do it here. After all, we're in public, sort of, and I don't want to embarrass anyone.

I can see that any president from Washington through Obama could become swear words in the right hands. My mitts would lend particular enthusiasm to that endeavor, as I find swear words amusing, and well placed, quite adequate to their task. I'll have to Fordn' think about it. Maybe it can be a new trend. It even has international potential. "Would you please move your Sadam -- you know."

Yesterday, I told you about Judgipoo's unfortunate medical travails. Today, I had a couple of hearings with him, and he is still recovering from his ordeal. I know pancreatitus (still avoiding the spell checker, are we?) is very painful. The knowledge of how bad it can be is still something I would have to confess is from observing my old dog, Mickey. When he got "tummy rot" he would be lathargic, and disinterested in everything around him.

Judgipoo said he wasn't in so much pain, but he did feel tired by the middle of the afternoon. I don't think it broke his heart when we asked for a continuance. I also found out he is due for caderac surgery. I'm an expert on eye pain, and hope he doesn't get a headache like some of the beauties I've had over the years.

Perhaps I am prefacing my observations because I don't want to be misunderstood. I do genuinely empathize with Judgipoo, especially since he thinks he won't enjoy full recovery for at least a month. Still --

Judgipoo: "It is miserable to feel lousy on the inside and not be able to see on the outside."

Lucille: "I have IBS, believe me, I know what you mean."

Judgipoo was in the hospital last week. He had pancriatitis. Hell, I'm too tired to run the spell checker. Anyway, it appears that he took some medicine that caused him some problems.

I feel sorry for him. Being a victim of irritable bowel syndrom, I can tell you that sore guts are no picnic. I can also tell you that if you eat the wrong things, you can get sore guts at a picnic. But, I digress from the reason that Judgipoo's condition, despite my sincere sympathy, appealed to my funny bone as well.

I used to have a beautiful black and tan collie shepherd mix dog. Mickey was a sweet, very smart, and mischeivous example of his species. I loved him dearly, and still do. But, he did have a number of really bad habits.

TJ, the golden retreiver, as we know is no piker when it comes to sticking his nose into anything organic that can't outrun him. However, although there isn't much that doesn't appeal to his pallet, he sticks close to home, and usually doesn't get anything that we wouldn't eat ourselves. Two pounds of smoked turkey, for instance, disappeared from a plate on the counter. Mom says she didn't eat it, and I know I didn't, so my guess would be that the theif was hairy, and quick.

Mickey was a roamer. He sampled garbage from far and wide. He dragged home a 5 pound ham one time. Another time, a 5 pound block of cheese found its way to our back porch. After Thanksgiving or Christmas, Mickey would escape to plunder the neighbor's leftovers. That is how he got panchreatitis.

We had pills to give him, and they always pulled him out of it. However, he got his worst bouts from eating garbage. In Judgipoo's case, he probably got it from hearing garbage all day long. That's my take on it, and I'm sticking to it.

You may remember my recent entries about the jury trial from the Twilight Zone. Well, the fellow fired me after he was convicted. He hired another attorney, who did an excellent job of defending him. Instead of the 20 years he'd rather appeal than kiss the prosecutor's -- and do two, he got 40 years, to be served consecutively. Yep, not listening to my advice cost him 38 years of his life.

I don't take any satisfaction from his fate. Prisons are such horrible environments that if he lives through it, he will be a vicious criminal, instead of what he is now, a vicious criminal. Seriously, he has wasted his whole life. I wish he had taken the plea offer I negotiated for him. He would have taken an intense anger management course, and maybe it would have helped. But, then again, he seemed to feel justified in what he did, and was pretty confident that a jury of his piers would acquit him.

His girlfriend is better off being permenantly without him. Her ex, who has been a client of mine for years told me he had known VC for most of his life. He said he had never had a girlfriend who he hadn't beaten, and that he had given the victim in this case a fat lip a couple weeks before he broke her nose and fractured her eye socket. Its not impossible to think he would have killed her if he had gotten out for turning him into the police to begin with. That does happen in this crazy world.

The whole soap opera was in the newspaper, on the front page to be exact. The victim had sent the editor an email declaring that she had known VC for 25 years and that he had never laid a hand on her. This, despite the fact that she left her house with nothing on but a smile, and showed up at another citizen's house wearing a bath towel she had stolen from her neighbor's clothesline for cover.

The jury might have wondered why, if she came home with a broken nose that VC hadn't given her, he didn't call the police or an ambulance for help. Instead, he told her to take a shower to "wash the blood" off. She escaped before he could demand that she paint the walls and scrub the floors to cover the stains.

The sad thing about domestic violence victims is that they often love the perpetrator. He isn't always angry and violent. In fact, after he causes injury, he is the first to apologise and promise never to offend again. When he makes the promise, he probably believes it himself. Eventually, he convinces the victim of his rage that there is something she does to merit his displeasure, and that he is justified for losing his cool. Then he gets mad again, and no bars hold.

There is an expression that "in the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king". I got my own back this week, but I'm not sure it's any kind of honor.

My sister, San Antonia is visiting. She has some time off work. She didn't ask for a vacation, but she fell and broke her arm in a couple of places, and a nurse practitioner can't do her job nearly so well when half of her body is paralyzed.

My mom tripped on something last night. She tore a large hunk of skin from her hand. The doctor taped her up, and told her to keep her mitts out of water. So, both she and my sister are unable to do anything that requires more than one hand.

I, however, have managed not to injur myself lately, which is something I would celebrate if I wasn't afraid I'd pull something. The cut I gave myself last week when I was cooking has mostly healed. The burn I gave myself when I reached for the hot frying pan I knocked off the stove is gone. I haven't sprained, bruised or cut anything lately, and so I am in pretty good shape for me.

Because I am the only uninjurred human here, I will be able to do all the cooking and the dishes. I don't mind kitchen work, and we ordered pizza tonight, so the dishes I have done should be the end. But what satisfies me about this whole thing is I can add to the old cliche, and I always enjoy an opportunity to contribute, however modestly, to the language. In the land of the blind, the one eyed man may be king, but in the land of the gimps, the two handed blind person gets her own back. Just call me "your Royal Highness", and pass me the dish washing liquid.

Trick Or Treater Pulls Gun Pastor passes out odd Halloween Treat You Raise 'em We Cage 'em Your Meat Balls Or Your Life! Occasionally, I am stumped for material. I can't think of anything stupid I've done, and I haven't had Judgipoo to inspire me. At those times, I surf the net for grist for my smart alec's mill. Sometimes, the world is kind to me, and provides so much material, I am fairly glutted with snarking opportunities. Sometimes, no one takes the trouble to entertain me by doing something rude, unusual or wierd. This week, I am in writer's clover. The links above are a prime example of just the kind of tasteless excess I love. I subscribe to an ezine called "weird news" Unfortunately, I couldn't find a link on their site to the whole news letter, so I had to provide independent links to each story. The first story is about a 10 year old boy who pulled a gun on his neighbor when she playfully suggested that she would love to steal his Halloween candy. Rarely has a Snickers bar received such strong protection. Maybe it was the Smarties that inspired him to threaten the woman's life. Not to be outdone for strange behavior, an Ohio minister wanted the little Halloweeners to repent of their evil in the worst way. He gave them candy for "Trick Or Treat", and also distributed a bit of literature for their edification. The tract he handed out was a story about a mother who hadn't accepted Jesus as her Lord, Savior, or anything else, who lived to regret her wicked ways. Each of her 4 kids met tragic ends. The illustration showed one of her sons hanging from a noose after having committed suicide. "Happy Halloween, Kiddies!" The third story concerned some cops who were trying to raise money for their fellows who were killed in the line of duty. The T-shirts they offered to the public pictured a young child behind bars with the caption "You raise 'em, We Cage 'em". Nothing like a little public relations. Finally, a 13 year old kid was walking home with his lunch when a couple of young men robbed him at gun point. They searched him, and took his most valuable possession, a meat ball sandwhich. Oh, yeah, they did leave his cell phone, which he put to good use by reporting the robbery to the police. Now, any one of those stories could have inspired a whole column on its own. I couldn't decide which one to use, and the material is already a bit dated. So, I did you all a favor, and sent you all four blurbs. After reading these little life exerpts, I almost don't blame the ten year old for carrying a gun. Folks are strange, and possibly dangerous.

My first grade teacher and I were not friends. She didn't recognize my genius, and I reciprocated by making her job as hard as I possibly could. The rest of my classmates were equally talented at annoying the good woman, and so her voice was frequently stretched to its limits in terms of register and volume. I called her "Miss Yeller", and thought my literary license was safe in the bosom of home, family and in particular, my mother.


The school year progressed. I drew on my desk as soon as it was clean. Cindy Smithers threw up, and I ran through it just because I was curious about what would happen. My classmates indulged in equally annoying behavior, and Mrs. McCartney probably survived by eating handfuls of antacids and cough drops.

When I got home at night, Mom would always ask me about my day. She would say things like, "how did you and Miss Yeller get along?" and "what did Miss Yeller teach you today". I would answer, recounting each event that the teacher's voice exceeded normal decibel with pleasure and satisfaction. Then --- .

One day, I found out that my secret wasn't secret anymore. My classmates were entertaining Mrs. McCartney with a blizzard of spit balls and rubber bands. Conversations that might have been carried on during recess were occurring full blast in the middle of arithmetic.

Mrs. McCartney was running low on antacids, cough drops, and that of which she had little to start with, patience. I wasn't contributing to the noise level, but I'm sure I was participating in the festivities by drawing on my desk. Finally exasperated, the teacher boomed, "Lucy! You think I yell a lot. You should hear yourselves!"

It transpired that Mrs. McCartney and my mother had engaged in one of those vicious activities known as a "parent / teacher" conference. Adults, anxious to betray their small charges in the name of entertainment exchange stories about the little dears, assuming that Junior would never find out how cute it really was when he drew a portrait of himself on the bathroom wall with indelible ink, or little Betsy's face was actually funny when it was covered with her mother's lip stick and mascara. My mother told Miss Yeller about our nightly ritual, including my pet name for her, and did not inform me that the cat was out of the bag, as it were.

One would think that such a confrontation would result in embarrassment for the child, and well it should. Tears of apology and regret should stream down the offender's cheek, if only to give the victim an opportunity to forgive the affront. The scene should close with a hug, and touching words of love and mutual understanding. The tears flowed, all right. They were plentiful and sincere. In fact, I laughed so hard, I almost wet my pants. Mrs. McCartney didn't get the joke, and might have kept me after school to explain it, but my classmates were laughing as hard as I was, and she didn't want to spend one more minute with any of us than she had to.

My sister, Chicagoann is a graphic designer. She is helping me improve my website. She visited my blog, and it reminds me of how careful one must be, even when changing people's names to protect the guilty.

She asked me if Ma Kettle knew that that was her name in my blog. She knows. The reason I call her that is that her kids are always moving in and out of her home. One daughter is on her third divorce. Her son doesn't have a driver's license, and thus must rely on other folks to get him to work. He has found other folks not to be the most reliable, and so he has had several jobs, and has never been able to leave the nest. Ma's third daughter has left home a few times, and returned for financial reasons. So, I call Ma "Ma", because like the literary character, she has lots of kids and grandkids, and with Pa is their one strong influence. Understandably, that role can be exhausting.

Radar knows who she is, and why. She has excellent hearing, and like the character in MASH knows what is going to happen before it does. Her abilities remind me of the
TV character's habit of announcing helicopters were bringing in wounded before anyone else on the base knew what was happening.

Radar's son, Beelzabub earned his name. He is a little boy, which should explain a lot. He is older now, but when he was smaller, he used to terrorize our little dogs, to the point that they still jump into my lap for protection whenever he is around.

Judgipoo is a name I chose out of the affection you develop for a pain in your ---. Ahem! He is a local jurist whose temper is legendary. Some of my colleagues refuse to practice in front of him. The thing is, his decisions usually have some basis in fact. This is to say, I leave his courtroom feeling like he and I have been to the same hearing most of the time. The tropical plants and wild life I have imagined in his courtroom, and the gallons of bactine used by our local bar to soothe their blistered ears are real -- okay, maybe not, but they should be.

So, now that I have spilled my guts in public, I will tell you a story that shows how dangerous it can be to give someone a name other than their own, and how to dig a hole deep enough to squeese a middle aged attorney and her dog under a rock.

The time change makes me cranky in the spring. It's that "forward" part that I resent. It means that what my body considers 6:00 a.m. suddenly becomes 7:00 a.m. This means, physically speaking, I end up dealing with Judgipoo at a less civil hour than usual. Of course, I would be the first to say that there is no real civil hour to have to deal with Judgipoo. It's enough to make anyone cranky.

This week is when time goes back to where it should be. Where I live, it used to be this time all year long. In summer, my sister Chicagoann would be an hour behind us, and Lady Baltimore would be on the same time. In winter, Lady Baltimore would be ahead by an hour, and Chicagoann would be on the same time. It always gave me that sense that they had to catch up with me. I don't have much to lord over my relatives, or anyone else for that matter, so I get my kicks where I can.

Now, it is that blissful time of the year when normality returns. I can sleep till 9:00 a.m. and the clock will say it is only 8:00 a.m. It's psychological to some extent. One wouldn't think an hour would matter that much. But, then again, not every one has to deal with Judgipoo, and in his court, an hour's more rest does make a big, fat difference.

I wonder if Mrs. Judgipoo gets as much pleasure as I do reclaiming that extra hour. In the evening, it is nice. After all, they probably go to bed an hour earlier, and I'm sure even Judgipoo is charming when he is asleep. But, seeing him an hour sooner every morning? The lady deserves a purple heart.

The holidays are a special time for family law attorneys. Of course, we celebrate like the rest of the world. In fact some of us celebrate more than we should, but
I, I mean we don't usually brag about our excesses. We leave that pleasure to others, like our legislators.

The reason this time of the year is so relevant to divorce lawyers is that parents
are most likely to bring contempt citations and motions to modify their divorce decrees during these "special" times. It is a sad situation. Most parents want to see their children during joyful occasions, and are too often deprived of participating in their happy events because of a toxic relationship with the other parent.

It is only natural to want to remember little Susie in her princess costume, or share pictures of Johnny as a Power Ranger. Obviously, both parents can't have their children at the same time. It would be too much to ask everyone to be civil to each other for a few hours so everyone can enjoy the fun. Or, is it so obvious?

If the parents live in the same town, couldn't Mom, Dad, Step-Mom, Step-Dad and Step-Sibs
all terrorize the town together? After all, Halloween, in particular is supposed
to be scary. Couldn't they bury the hatchet, preferably not in each other, for the two hours most towns allow for trick or treating? It would be worth considering.

Of course, if parents could reach reasonable agreements like that all the time, my colleagues and I would be unemployed. The last thing anyone in their right minds wants is a bunch of lawyers with time on their hands. Not only would we be more likely to soap windows and tip over outhouses if we couldn't charge the public hundreds of dollars an hour to keep us off the streets, but Lexis and BMW dealers would soon find themselves driving Chevys, and only doctors would be able to afford Rolex watches.

Do you think you could choke down turkey and dressing with your ex just so you could spend the time with your kids? Can you picture having everyone in your original and blended families gather around the Christmas tree to share the joy of watching the kids open their presents? It would be lovely, but I'm not planning on standing in the unemployment line any time soon. For the most part, that fact is a relief. However, I can't help but fantasize a world where people could put their differences aside long enough to share their holidays with their kids.

We all have fantasies. Mine includes a warm sandy beach, in front of the ocean, with wild life that stays at a respectful distance, especially out of my swim suit.

If Judgipoo's fantasies include flaying live attorneys and terrorizing the public, he is living them. He doesn't like visitation squabbles, and a typical one goes like this:


Noncustodian: "S/he won't let me see the child."

J: "Well, if I was you, I'd show up at the door every time I had visitation and insist on seeing the child!"

NC: "If I do that, the police get called."

J: "Well, she has the advantage. She knows you won't see the child unless she wants you to, and she doesn't want you to."

NC: "Yes, Sir, I was kind of hoping you'd help with that."

J: "What do you expect me to do? I already signed an order. She ignores it. Do you want me to send the mother of your child to jail?"

NC: "Well, yeah, That's the general idea.

J, snorting with disgust: "Custodian, aren't you letting him see the child?"

C: He never calls. He doesn't acknowledge birthdays or Christmas. The child hasn't seen him for 2 years."

J: "You're both immature. You, Custodian want to raise the child without a father. You, Noncustodian, aren't making any effort to see the child. -- " The lecture continues for the next hour to hour and a half. If Judgipoo is feeling pressed for time, he can make it last 2 1/2 hours. After all, he has to include the bit about how many cases he has, and that these people aren't the only ones he has to deal with, and that they are wasting the court's valuable time.

Yesterday, he surprised me. His usual lecture was only 15 minutes. He ordered specific visitation times and places, down to the days and hours. I don't know if the people will follow his ruling. My client will try, and the other guy may stick to it. If he does, the child will have a father, and that is good. If he doesn't, we'll be back in court a couple of months from now, and -- rinse and repeat.

Regardless, I am stunned, and can't help but wonder. Was I dreaming, or did I walk into the wrong court? Has Judgipoo been the victim of a body snatcher? Will he be back to normal tomorrow? Is there something I can do to make the body snatcher stick around?

TJ the Golden Retriever was getting a bit gamey. He loves to roll in grass, and other members of his species like to enhance the experience for him. What it boiled down to was that he stank, which is not something you want your bedmate to do.

The last time he got a bath, we took him to our local Pet Smart, and picked him up a couple of hours later. He was soft and shiny, and, when it came right down to it, darned expensive. Maybe it was the bows in his hair, or the stinky perfume they sprayed on him, but he smelled and looked like he was a French --- poodle. Cute isn't something he does with grace. The bows came out right away, and the perfume was satisfactrally diluted with the helpp of some of TJ's fellows as soon as he had another rolling opportunity.

Today, I gave him his beauty treatment myself. It saved me a few bucks, and right now, that matters. The first thing I had to do was capture him. He has perfected what I call "drive by obedience". This is when you call the doggy, he comes, and as soon as you reach for his collar, he takes off. He knows he can easily outrun a plump, blind middle aged woman, and I try not to take the enthusiastic tail wagging personally.

I do have one trick up my sleeve. I had already stripped for the doggy bath, so I guess you couldn't say that it was a sleeve exactly. I did, however mumble a few prayers regarding my hope that Pa Kettle wouldn't suddenly show up as I raced to the kitchen to grab a dog treat.

TJ is such a pig that he was easy to lure into the shower for a liver strip. My mother sat on the stool outside the shower to help me keep him in. She must have misunderstood me when she asked if he was ready for prime time, because the door suddenly opened, and a dripping wet dog rocketed out of the shower stall. There wasn't an inch of dry in the bathroom. Everything, human and otherwise was suddenly covered with water and dog hair.

I tried to get him into the back yard. He shook himself off several times as we walked to the door. I got him out one door. I stood and waited for a few minutes. I figured he had gone to the other end of the yard, and I turned around to go through the house to catch him. He met me half way there, shaking himself dry all the while.

I'm apologizing to Pet Smart for ever questioning their charge for dog bathing. It is a bargain at twice the price. And, whoever said "a person who doesn't know how soap tastes has never washed a dog" was 100% right.

Morning came early. I woke up with my heart in my throat. It wasn't the live jury that scared the hell out of me, although I admit contemplating my upcoming adventure made me feel like a pork chop in a pen of pit bulls. It was the dream I had just had that I was already at the trial, and had forgotten to change from my nightgown to something a little less comfortable and a lot less revealing. When I gained consciousness, I was relieved to realize that my real world terrors hadn't happened yet, and their was still a chance that, I don't know, the courthouse would be hit by a meteor before I had to face the truth that I was about to engage in a first class uphill unwinnable battle.

My client did everything he could to look like a thug during the trial. I did everything I could to paint him as Santa Clause's double. The state contented itself with helping its witnesses paint a picture of a violent predator who shouldn't be allowed to say the word "Christmas", let alone be characterized as that holiday's most beloved secular symbol. The victim added to story hour by telling the jury the "truth", that she had been attacked by a man she had met in the bar earlier that year, who just happened along when she needed an alibi for her boyfriend to avoid going to prison for 20 years for beating the snot out of her.

The jury, whose members mothers hadn't been into dropping their infants on their heads, didn't believe the victim's new story, anymore than you do. They brought back verdicts of guilty of everything but the class "D" felony, which was as satisfying as say being comforted by the fact that TJ, The Golden Retriever ate your steak, your salad and potato but couldn't reach your dinner role, so you at least had something to eat.

To my immense relief, the judge let everyone go then. So, after making a useless motion that I had to make if I didn't want to be sued for malpractice, Ma Kettle and I drove home, and the defense, or at least it's attorney, finally got to rest.

Now, for the sentencing hearing that is scheduled for later this month. I'll keep you posted, but I have a feeling my client will, as he so delightfully put it, get to do what he wanted to do, which was to "Appeal a sentence of f-ing 20 years, rather then kiss the prosecutor's -- and do two."

Halloween is coming next week. It is my job to sit out on the porch and pass out
treats. If I don't, all of the little trick or treaters will get a 3 dog serenade.
They would only have to put up with a one time concert. For my mother and I, there
would be an encore every time the door bell rang.


I used to love Halloween. I always came up with difficult costume ideas. One year,
I wanted to be a pumpkin. To their credit, my parents managed a structure of coat
hangers and bright orange cloth that won first place in a contest for my little sister years later. When I had it, it meant that I got to carry the flashlight. I could see some then, so having the light did give me some "lording it over the other kids"
pleasure.

One year I went as a cat. One year, I went as an angel. According to my siblings
that was my best disguise ever. One year I went as a book, and another, I wore one of my
brother's suits and went as one of the Beatles.

Nowadays, I dread halloween being as it is my job to sit on the porch no matter how
cold it is, and no matter how many or few customers I have. But, I still love the
weeks leading up to pumpkin day.

I get to choose what kind of candy I'm going to
pass out, and of course, I have to sample it, repeatedly. As a result, I'd probably
need a king sized sheet to make a ghost costume. Would you like a Tootsie Roll?

The next day I settled down with the file and started to prepare my case. I was just about to take some notes when the prosecutor's office called again. They had filed a priliminary motion, and the judge wanted us all to come to court to hear it before the trial. I was due in Judgipoo's court that afternoon, but I was sure this little bit of legal wrangling wouldn't take very long. Fortunately, the judge in my jury trial was kind enough to call Judgipoo and explain why I was going to be an hour late for his court.

The hearing in Judgipoo's court shouldn't have taken more than an hour. You'd think I'd learn, but it was that thing about the maternal parent's inability to hold on to me, and me being dropped on my fat head that keeps me from remembering facts of life, such as I never, never, never get out of Judgipoo's court when I think I'm going to. Admittedly, that fact sometimes works to my advantage. I have prepared for half day hearings that were reduced to 10 minutes by a well placed judicial snarl. However, I can remember many more meetings with Judgipoo that, like this one, lasted three or four hours more than might have been expected. It was 7:00 p.m. when I got home, and I still had hours to go before I saw, let alone got to climb into my bed.

When I struggled back to my office, Radar, Ma Kettle and I reviewed some of the tidbits the state had to offer for our edification on the morrow. My client and his girlfriend, the victim who hired me to defend him, had made several phone calls to each other while he was in jail.

My clients are among the most generous people on earth. They can be relied upon to save the police and prosecutor all the trouble they can by confessing to whatever the cops want to accuse them of doing. I don't know if it would have made any difference, but recorded comments like: "They can't get me for no "C" felony cause I didn't use no weapon", and I know, Babe, it's my own f-ing fault I'm in here" probably had some influence on the jury. Juicy observations such as "Do you think we can work things out if I give up drinking?" just made my job that much more interesting. The pictures of my client's hands with the fresh cuts on his knuckles also added to the challenges of the defense.However, despite all of that, I was ready to face a jury of my client's piers, so I set my alarm and got ready for a fun day in the boxing ring.

You may wonder why I waited until the Saturday before trial to meet my illustrious client. Well, he had been in jail, and I was going to visit him there. Then he was out of jail, and going to come to my office. Then he was back in jail, ...

It appears that our rocket scientist had bailed himself out of jail to the tune of 00.00. From that, I gathered he was a little math challenged. If he had posted ,000.00 he would have gotten all of his money back once he appeared at his court dates. He decided to give a nonrefundable 00.00 to a bail bondsman instead, even though the maximum time it would have given him on the outside was 10 days. Freedom is precious, but it didn't make sense for him to pay so much for so little. After all, if he was acquitted, which he was confident he would be, he would be free as a bird at no cost, by the end of business the next Thursday. He didn't ask my advice on the matter.

In fact, the first I knew of it was when I cancelled my trip to the jail because he was out, and would be able to keep his appointment with me in person. I lined up all of the things I wanted to explore with him, and awaited his arrival. He didn't show. I asked Radar to see if she could find out why a visit with me was of no interest to a man facing a jury trial the next week. She informed me that she already had the answer to that question. He had reclaimed his luxury suite in the Gray Bar Hotel because he had violated the court's no contact order, and the judge didn't see the humor in his disobedience. Thus, Ma Kettle and I found ourselves at the jail, undergoing the aggravation described in my previous column.

That Monday, we had to attend an initial hearing on the 5 (count 'em) new charges against him. In addition, there was the small matter of the state requesting that his bail be revoked because he couldn't keep it in his pant -- ahem-- I mean he wasn't convinced that "no contact" meant "stay away from the victim until otherwise advised by the court". That is when the court decided to renew his lease on the county's rent free accomodations.

That afternoon, I had to go to a retention hearing in Judgipoo's court. That, for those of you who have never beaten your kids, or taken drugs when you're supposed to be watching them, is when the judge decides they'd be better off with a trained gorilla than they are with their parents. I take that back. I never met the foster mom, and she might have been a different kind of monkey altogether.

I got home from court, and continued slogging my way through Prince Charming's file.
Ma Kettle and Radar described pictures to me that would curl your hair, even if you were bald. The poor woman's face was recognizable as human only because she had lips and bangs. Everything else was blood, bruising and very painful looking.

"I ain't going to take no f-ing plea!" mine criminal said before we exchanged any greetings. "I didn't do nothing wrong!"

"I have a plea offer that --"

"Weren't you listening? I ainn't going to take no plea!"

"Listen to me," I said. "I have a duty to tell you about any plea offer the state makes

"You're just as bad as the idiot they appointed for me. You just want me to plead it out! Well, let me tell you. I'm going to hire a real lawyer on Monday who will stick up for me. I ain't taking no plea! If you can't handle my case, then just say so, and I'll hire someone else who can!"

I sucked in a deep breath. I should have brought one of Judgipoo's tropical plants with me, because G-d knows, it would have gotten the best steam bath ever. Ma Kettle and I were both gritting our teeth, and I had to draw in a nice calming breath before I spoke.

"Look," I said through gritted teeth. "I'm not begging you for a job. You can hire whoever you want to defend you. It's not my -- in the sling if you're convicted. You could face up to 45 years in jail, and with your past record, even if you were just convicted of the "C" felony, you'd be looking at 8 years. Besides, what do you think is in my best interest? Going to trial and getting paid a lot more, or talking you into a plea? Before you answer, remember, who gets to go to jail if the verdict is guilty."


"I don't give a --. I'd rather appeal than kiss the prosecutor's -- and do 2 years. Miss Lucille, I'm telling you, I ain't accepting no plea."

"Okey doky, cough up some of that pretty green stuff if you want me to represent you, and we'll go in front of a jury. If you want Jesus Christ to represent you, have him contact me by Monday so I don't waste time preparing for your trial."

The truth is, at this point, I had an ethical duty to assume I would be a co-star at this production, and so not knowing whether I would be hired or not, I spent the rest of my weekend preparing for trial. You guessed it. There's a lot more to come.

"Ah," I started, "The prosecutor says he broke your nose."

"Oh, that," she said. "I've broken my nose a few times."

"She said you ended up with a crack in your eye socket," I continued.

"Really?" she said. "I hadn't noticed. I wonder if that's why I'm having so many headaches"

"You know he's going to have to do some time?"

"Yes," she conceded, "But I don't want him to have to do years and years. My back still hurts, but I am afraid to go to the doctor because they may use that against him."

"I'll call the prosecutor again, and if we can work out a plea agreement, maybe he won't have to spend years and years. Do you know if he has a previous record?"

"Oh yeah," she said, and, it turns out, that she had reason to be as impressed as she sounded. "He has a few things on his record."

"Like, how many things?"

"I don't know, I think it's under forty."

"Anything serious?" After all, he could just be a traffic ticket fiend.

"No," she said. "Mainly just assault and battery."


I spent the next few days trying to convince the state's attorney that my client wasn't quite as bad as Adolf Hitler. She agreed, but took the position that the only difference was in quantity, not quality.

"You do know that your victim isn't planning to show up for the trial?"

"I've subpoenaed her. If she doesn't show up, I'll have her arrested."

"Yeah, I thought you'd say that. But, she is unwilling to testify. What kind of plea offer would you give me?"

"I don't know. I'll really have to think about it." she informed me. "If you saw the pictures, ... well, you'd understand."

"Oh," I assured her. "I understand. I feel very sorry for this woman, but she doesn't want to take the witness stand, and I would like to resolve this in a way that no one will have to perger themselves."

"I'll look at the file and call you back," she said. "But, he is going to have to spend time in jail."

I had a few ideas regarding appropriate punishment, but I didn't want to get blood on my new sarated knives. Besides, I didn't think I could get a permit to perform surgery in the jail. I did talk to a couple of officers who would have been willing to help me. However, sigh, I had to defend the guy, and that's what I tried to do despite his considerable efforts to thwart me. I did leave my cane in the reception area. I didn't think he could do much damage to me if Ma Kettle was the only weapon at hand. In fact, I almost wish he had tried something with her. Then, he would have gotten a nice healthy taste of his own medicine.

So, being the dutiful attorney I am, I called the prosecutor to start negotiations. She informed me that she was willing to deal, but she wasn't willing to dismiss the case, or let him plead to a misdemeanor.

"Why not," I whined. After all, that is what I get paid to do. "I'm sitting right here with the victim, and she wants him to come home so they can get on with their lives."

"I don't forgive him," the state's attorney informed me smartly. "I think he should rot in jail."

"Well, so do I," I thought but didn't say. "but what we need to settle is the question of for how long?"

"Did she tell you what he did?" the prosecutor asked.

"I think so," I said. "She said he slapped her once, and that they had both been drinking a lot."

"Did she tell you about her broken nose, cracked eye socket, and the bruises on her back?"

"Er- a - no, she didn't bring those things up," I admitted.

"Did she tell you that he made her take a shower to wash the blood off, and that she had to sneak out of the apartment in the nude?"

"No," I said. "She didn't go into those details."

"Did she tell you that she had to steal a towel from a neighbor's clothesline, and that she passed out in a yard two blocks from her house?"

"Let me call you back," I said. "I think I need to flesh this story out."

To the client, the jury may be a panel of good, upstanding citizens who will see that his constitutional rights are protected, until that is, they bring in their verdict. To a defense attorney, it is a three day ordeal that ultimately will be a waste of time. When the expected verdict finally issues forth, she knows that her efforts will be the topic of angry grumbling at the county lock up that night. She knows that she will be demoted from the heroic status of Joan of Arc, to the reputation, deserved or not, of Typhoid Mary. Since I can't tell my side of the story to the inmates, I'll spill my guts to you, gentle reader, in the hopes that you won't regard me as one might say a plague of locosts, or a shoe enhancement from TJ, The Golden Retreiver or one of his kin.

Several weeks ago, I had an appointment with a new client. I take those occasionally to keep the lights on, and to pay Radar, among other worthy aspirations.

The woman told me that her boyfriend was in jail for 4 felony cases, all having to do with assault and battery, causing serious bodily harm. There was a bit of bruising on the victim's back, but she had gotten that from falling down, and could not remember when and how it happened. She also had a cut on her nose, but 4 stitches had taken care of that, and there weren't any hard feelings. the lady begged me to do everything I could to get the love of her life out of jail as soon as possible.

I suggested to her that springing him from the gray bar hotel might not be easy, because the victim of his little temper tantrum might feel he had managed to find appropriate accomodations on his own, and might not be anxious for him to change residence just yet. She assured me that the recipiant of his impromptu face resculpturing exercise forgave him, and wanted him out as bad as she did. She said that the victim hadn't been hurt badly, and that she only remembered being struck once.

"Hmmmm!" the bemused attorney considered, "2 "B" felonies, a "C" and "D" do sound like a lot of charges for one slap. He is going to have to plead to something, though. After all, he didn't have any right or reason to hit her."

"He knows that," she assured me. "He wouldn't have done it at all except that he was drinking whiskey instead of beer, and whiskey makes him forget what he's doing."

"Well," I said slowly, "I'll do what I can, but I'll need the victim's help to convince the prosecutor."

"Oh, I'll help you," she promised. "It was me he hit."

I am a tree hugger. I have been a tree kisser, too, but mainly because I’m blind,
and trees have a bad habit of not announcing their location, or getting the heck
out of my way when they should see me coming. Early summer usually finds me hanging
from the cherry tree in our back yard, trying to rescue the fruit the birdies haven’t
already claimed. I wish they’d stick to the stuff I can’t reach on top, and leave
me the cherries I can get with a ladder. Still, I love trees, and when I’m not sharing
any involuntary affection with them, I respect their right to live, and stop speeding
drunk drivers any way they see fit.
This is my point. Saying I’m in favor of a clean environment is a bit like announcing
that I’m not against puppies or apple pie. We all agree that it is preferable to
have clean water to drink and pure air to breathe. Where we seem to have disagreements
and controversy is what is threatening to deny those things to us. This brings us
to global warming.
The earth has been undergoing climate change all through its 4 billion year existence.
What we had been told in the last few years is that our cars and land fills were
warming things up and killing all the polar bears. A few weeks ago, we were informed
that those responsible for telling us the sky is falling were doctoring their stats,
and were on the whole lying to us.
The sad thing about all of this is the effect it will have on the ecology movement
in general. We humans don’t like to be told lies. Understandably, once we have been
fooled into believing falsehoods, we are reluctant to hear further warnings on the
same subject. This means there will be those among us who will burn fossil fuel with
abandon, and throw recyclables into the regular garbage, mumbling under their breath
that they knew Al Gore and his ilk were lying all along.
Maybe global warming is bunk. Frankly, I had no doubt that it was happening. As I
said before, our earth has been freezing and thawing for millennium. However, I hope
that fact doesn’t make us wasteful. Even if our fossil fuel turns out to be renewable
and our land fills don’t have a significant environmental impact, the stench and
litter are still ugly, and I hope mankind continues its fight to save as many species
as it can from extinction. I would hate to find us all alone on the planet with our
garbage. That is a sickening thought. I think I’ll go out and find a tree to hug.
Ouch! There’s one now.

I was never a great student in high school. I passed everything, and did manage to
get into college, but the valedictorian and I didn’t sit anywhere near each other
at graduation.
If anything would have kept me from an institution of higher learning, it would have
to be math and science. Nothing bores me more than rote memorization, and most facts
aren’t subject to interpretation, no matter how creative and interesting my spin
on them.
My dad thought all of his kids should be "a" students. He thought it was just a matter
of studying and attending classes. I went to school, and for lack of a better place
to sleep and write letters, I never missed algebra. I was always relieved to get
a "d" in such classes, because when you hate something that much, passing seemed
like a respectable, if not always attainable, goal.
When I was a freshman in high school, I had to submit to a torture called "Health
and Safety". I liked the stuff about where babies come from. Heck, I was at that
age where I would have been willing to participate in a live demonstration with the
right boy. However, I had no interest in the names of things, and thus was not the
least bit interested when we got to the ""Marvelous And Complicated Endocrine System".
For those of you who hated science as much as I did, the "endocrine" system has to
do with your glands. We had to learn all of them, from pituitary to adrenal. I’m
not sure I can remember the function of any of them, but I will remember the name
and location of one for the rest of my life.
"Your grade in health and safety is unacceptable," the paternal parent advised me.
"I’m not too shot about it myself," I tried, "Maybe I should skip that class."
All right, I didn’t really say that. If I had, I wouldn’t be here to write this.
I’d like to think my mother would have been sad at my passing, but Dad and my health
and safety teacher — not so much.
"We are going to sit here until you can recite your lesson from memory," Dad informed
me.
"Does that mean without mistake?" I said nervously.
My father read my health book, and had no trouble memorizing the diagram. It was
teaching it to me that wasn’t easy. He pointed to various parts of my body, demanding
that I name the gland located there, and give him a description of its function.
I tried. Really I did. I wanted to get away from Dad and my book almost as much as
he wanted me to learn what was in it.
When he finally was content that he had drilled the information into my thick and
reluctant skull, he made me repeat what he thought I should have learned. "Point
to the location of each gland, and tell me what it does," he instructed.
"Adrenal," I began, pointing in the general area of my kidneys. Dad nodded. "Mammary,"
I dutifully pointed to my boobs. "uh huh," Dad encouraged. "Pituitary," I hesitated
at the base of my skull. "Right," "Thyroid," I motioned to my throat. "Keep going"
I paused for a couple of beats. I knew the next one was near my ear, and that it
began with "p". I furrowed my brow in thought. "Penal", no that had to do with jail.
"Hmmmmm" Finally I had it! "Penis" I blurted triumphantly.
The bench we were sitting on started vibrating like a small earth quake. Dad tried
to speak, but he couldn’t say anything past his gasping laughter. I turned to ask
him what was so funny, and it was then that I saw he was doubled over. In fact, the
only thing in my limited line of vision was his khaki clad butt. Happily enough,
our impromptu tutoring session ended. After all, when he recovered enough to correct
me, he figured that if I hadn’t learned anything else, the "Pineal" gland was forever
ensconced in my brain.

Friday is my favorite day of the week. I am especially fond of those hours that start right after my office closes. I can look forward to being lazy for a couple of days, instead of what I am inclined to do the rest of the week, which is feel guilty about it.

Tomorrow I'll sit in my recliner and surf the net. Tomorrow night, I'll sit in my recliner and watch TV. Sunday, a bit of the same. There will be two dog walkings and some cooking. Mainly, though, I will loaf and doze until Monday at 6:30, when I'll have to get up for court.

It just goes to show you that all good things must come to an end. In the case of my alarm clock, it will be a frustrating, noisey end. In fact, just the thought of it takes the shine off the laziness factor. The sound of it provides a whole extra demention of discomfort. I wonder if the judge would give me a continuance so I could sleep in?

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<a href="http://www.arcamax.com/trivia/s-5880-299537-print">6 Kinds Of Devil?</a>

According to the above link, there are six different kinds of devils. Whoever counted them missed a few. That's all right. I'm here to help.<br><br>
The devils that made it to this survey mainly had to do with the natural world. They live in large bodies of water, under mountains, in fields and the wind. Their reputations are ugly, but If I can put up with a bunch of scurrilous exaggerations and half truths, darn it, so can they.<br><br>
Here are a few examples of deviltry that did not make it to their little list:<br><br>
The Time Devil: Day light savings time is one of those. My alarm clock is another. In fact, anything, including calendars and people who insist on reminding me of appointments and court dates belong to this class. Sorry, Radar, I love you, but would like you a lot better if you weren't handing me a phone.<br><br>
Devil dogs: TJ, the golden retreiver is the best devil dog in the world. He likes to chew paper into little strips, steal food, and become very noisy and obnoxious if he thinks himself entitled to, yet another, raw hide chew, and it isn't procured and delivered fast enough for the doggy's purposes. Daisy displays her demonic side during thunder storms, and Molly ate my neighbor's kitten.<br><br>
Beelzabub: : To the unsuspecting, this little devil comes packaged in the body of an innocent 6 year old boy. However, if you knew him as well as I do, you would see my point. You would see his too, but he usually wears a hat.<br><br>
Beelzabub is Radar's contribution to the gene pool. He annoys us -- ahem -- visits us when his mother works late. When he walks down the hall bellowing my mother's name, our little dogs run for cover. They seek protection wherever they can, and are especially fond of trying to tunnel under my key board. I could live with this inconvenience, but my keyboard is usually on my lap when this happens. Any lazy (oops did I say that?) computer user can tell you that the pressing of random keys does little to enhance a presentation, such as a legal brief or column for 8sc,slifjerrrrrrrr -- <br><br>
Judgipoo: Of course he rates his own category. In fact, if you poled my clients and colleagues, Judgipoo would probably achieve the rank of king, nay empiror. I would give him the rank he thinks he deserves, but that would be blasphamous, and I doubt if I could outrun a lightening bolt, let alone a charge of contempt of court.<br><br>
Finally, I will gripe about the seeming fact that everything takes longer than it should. You know what I'm talking about. When you try to accomplish something simple, and everything goes wrong. Something you need breaks, someone you have to talk to before you can start isn't home, and doesn't carry a cell phone, and/or you run out of the thing that you only need a bit of to finish your project, and you have to run to get it before the stuff you already put on it dries. . Yes, friends, you would have to agree that the biggest, most annoying devil is as the old axiom says, in the details.

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