November 14, 2003
It takes a village.
My Starbucks was jiving this morning! Adam, one of the longtime employees, had his guitar set up in the corner and was happily playing holiday tunes to us groggy professionals en route to our offices. I adore Adam and the rest of his co-workers. They always have a smile and a compliment ready for me along with my tall drip and multigrain bagel. They know my name, know I take my coffee black, and know that I alternate my breakfast selection among two or three different options. Even when the line is out the door, they make sure I have my coffee, my pastry, and the balance on my handy-dandy Starbucks card within a few minutes.
When I first left private practice for the Federal Defender's office, one of the more challenging adjustments to government life was getting used to the absence of firm-bought, secretary-made, always-hot coffee in the office. For years I'd avoided patronizing the Evil McCoffee Empire, but now I was faced with three choices: (1) participate in the office coffee club, which meant having to make the stuff myself, wait for it to drip, and wash the coffee maker on a daily basis; (2) walk several blocks out of my way to an independent coffee shop with lousy pastries; or (3) buy Starbucks. I'm incredibly lazy about my morning coffee -- I want it hot, strong, and NOW with no dirty dishes involved. So the convenience factor tipped the scales in favor of option 3, and I started patronizing the branch located right in my office building.
Within a few weeks, it felt like my neighborhood coffee shop. As I said, they know me there, and they make it feel like home. Starbucks is not the cheapest habit to support, but I've found that the friendly interaction I get at this outlet is as important to me as the caffeine and sugar fix. I don't feel this way about most other Starbucks locations, but this one seems to be staffed by a particularly professional and friendly group that takes pride in ensuring a satisfying morning coffee experience.
This morning, while I was enjoying Adam's musical talents, I started thinking about all the people without whom I would be powerless to survive. Maybe I could bring myself to make my own coffee if I had to, but what would I do without my hair stylist, my "aesthetician" (the chick who waxes my eyebrows), my pedicurist, my personal trainer, my dry cleaner, my cleaning lady, my physical therapist, and the great workers who roll my burritos at Chipotle? I interact over and over with these people every week. Some of them, like my cleaning lady, I never see in person, but without them, my life would be far more difficult.
I'm perpetually indebted to my "people," these men and women whose jobs it is to take care of me and make my life easier. And I get far more out of my relationships with them than simply the services they provide. Many of these folks have been in my life longer than some of my friends; they have weathered job changes, breakups, injuries, and bad hair days with me. I've become very attached to them, and though I'm simply one of the many people they serve each day, I flatter myself by thinking that I mean more to them than a generous tip.
For example, I love hearing about the romantic exploits of Summer, the gorgeous blonde who keeps my brows perfectly shaped. For years I've been encouraging Farah, my nail tech, to travel and to challenge herself. Now that she's back in school and contemplating a study-abroad program, I feel some sense of pride in her accomplishments. Jeremy, my hair stylist, is an enormous man with countless tattoos and piercings, but he's a total softie who always has a hug for me and loves to talk about his 9-year-old son. My personal trainer and tri coach, Barrie, pushes me to test my physical limits and has helped me break personal records. In addition, we've given one another all sorts of personal advice and support over time. Cathy, my physical therapist (like Bob, who preceded her), is always up for interesting political and philosophical discussions while she manipulates my aches and pains.
Sometimes I feel like an economy unto myself, supporting a legion of workers with my wants, needs, and vain indulgences. Since leaving private practice, I've tried to cut down on my expenses, particularly those in the "vain indulgence" category. But I can't seem to give up everything, and the luxuries that involve personal contacts have been the hardest to forego. I guess most busy professionals have a similar supporting cast. Perhaps in this way, we create our own small towns within the urban jungles we inhabit.
When I first left private practice for the Federal Defender's office, one of the more challenging adjustments to government life was getting used to the absence of firm-bought, secretary-made, always-hot coffee in the office. For years I'd avoided patronizing the Evil McCoffee Empire, but now I was faced with three choices: (1) participate in the office coffee club, which meant having to make the stuff myself, wait for it to drip, and wash the coffee maker on a daily basis; (2) walk several blocks out of my way to an independent coffee shop with lousy pastries; or (3) buy Starbucks. I'm incredibly lazy about my morning coffee -- I want it hot, strong, and NOW with no dirty dishes involved. So the convenience factor tipped the scales in favor of option 3, and I started patronizing the branch located right in my office building.
Within a few weeks, it felt like my neighborhood coffee shop. As I said, they know me there, and they make it feel like home. Starbucks is not the cheapest habit to support, but I've found that the friendly interaction I get at this outlet is as important to me as the caffeine and sugar fix. I don't feel this way about most other Starbucks locations, but this one seems to be staffed by a particularly professional and friendly group that takes pride in ensuring a satisfying morning coffee experience.
This morning, while I was enjoying Adam's musical talents, I started thinking about all the people without whom I would be powerless to survive. Maybe I could bring myself to make my own coffee if I had to, but what would I do without my hair stylist, my "aesthetician" (the chick who waxes my eyebrows), my pedicurist, my personal trainer, my dry cleaner, my cleaning lady, my physical therapist, and the great workers who roll my burritos at Chipotle? I interact over and over with these people every week. Some of them, like my cleaning lady, I never see in person, but without them, my life would be far more difficult.
I'm perpetually indebted to my "people," these men and women whose jobs it is to take care of me and make my life easier. And I get far more out of my relationships with them than simply the services they provide. Many of these folks have been in my life longer than some of my friends; they have weathered job changes, breakups, injuries, and bad hair days with me. I've become very attached to them, and though I'm simply one of the many people they serve each day, I flatter myself by thinking that I mean more to them than a generous tip.
For example, I love hearing about the romantic exploits of Summer, the gorgeous blonde who keeps my brows perfectly shaped. For years I've been encouraging Farah, my nail tech, to travel and to challenge herself. Now that she's back in school and contemplating a study-abroad program, I feel some sense of pride in her accomplishments. Jeremy, my hair stylist, is an enormous man with countless tattoos and piercings, but he's a total softie who always has a hug for me and loves to talk about his 9-year-old son. My personal trainer and tri coach, Barrie, pushes me to test my physical limits and has helped me break personal records. In addition, we've given one another all sorts of personal advice and support over time. Cathy, my physical therapist (like Bob, who preceded her), is always up for interesting political and philosophical discussions while she manipulates my aches and pains.
Sometimes I feel like an economy unto myself, supporting a legion of workers with my wants, needs, and vain indulgences. Since leaving private practice, I've tried to cut down on my expenses, particularly those in the "vain indulgence" category. But I can't seem to give up everything, and the luxuries that involve personal contacts have been the hardest to forego. I guess most busy professionals have a similar supporting cast. Perhaps in this way, we create our own small towns within the urban jungles we inhabit.
November 13, 2003
A woman of valor.
I made an important discovery this morning! Somehow, I managed to sleep through my vibrating alarm clock this morning (possibly the battery died, but more likely I shut it off and went back to sleep, obliterating the memory of being buzzed awake in the first place). I woke up with a jolt around 5:50, and realized that my doorbell alert system was flashing madly. I knew it had to be my swim-lesson buddy, Monica, who picks me up at 5:45 on Thursday mornings. So I jumped out of bed, cursing madly, grabbed one hearing aid, and tore down the stairs. Just before I opened the door, I realized I was almost naked, so grabbed a jacket and raced outside. I'd managed to pick up the right-ear hearing aid, which meant I couldn't hear a darn thing. Plus, while I could see Monica's car, it was still really dark out, so I couldn't figure out where she was standing. She finally tapped my arm, after she managed to control her hysterical laughing at near-naked, wild-haired, confused little me. Oy vey. But we made it to swimming and even had a decent workout. So what was my great discovery, you ask? Well, it was good to learn that my deaf-chick doorbell can actually wake me up!
______________________
But my harrowing morning was not what I planned to write about today. This day, November 13, is the 94th birthday of my amazing and wonderful grandmother, Flora Mermelstein. My grandmother is a force to be reckoned with, and a constant source of inspiration to me. She lives every day of her life as fully and enthusiastically as she can, and she has never stopped learning, exploring, and challenging herself. At 94, she still works a few days a week as the bookkeeper for a prestigious entertainment law firm in Manhattan. She walks to the Fairway Market and Lincoln Center (and Filene's Basement, where she buys some of her always-stylish outfits). She has always been a fabulous cook, and she still makes delicious meals even when she is cooking only for herself. While she travels a bit less than she used to (her wonderful travel stories fuel my insatiable wanderlust), she continues her annual Rosh Hashana trek to Colorado. When she couldn't get here in 2001 (because 9/11 was just a week before the holiday), the sadness and disorientation we felt in the wake of the terrorist attacks were compounded by the strangeness of her absence.
My grandmother reads the New York Times every day, listens to NPR, and watches public television. She knows more about current events and international affairs than anyone I know (except maybe my father). She is a staunch liberal Democrat, and a vocal supporter of reproductive freedom, gay rights, church/state separation, free speech, and international human rights. Her charitable and philanthropic efforts have ranged from typing Braille documents for the blind back in the '70s (I loved playing with her Braille typewriter when I was a kid) to bringing meals to homebound AIDS patients in the '90s, to her generous financial support for my father's public interest human rights law firm, for the Foundation Fighting Blindness, for diabetes research, and more.
Grandma was the first in the family to use an Apple computer, and taught the rest of us about this strange gizmo known as a "mouse." She uses e-mail and has a cell phone, and is pretty savvy about the latest technology. Like most of my family members (perhaps this is where we get it from), she is a voracious reader, and her book recommendations are always superb. She is also a wonderful writer, with a sharp wit and a delightful flair for language. She writes book reviews and other essays for her Hadassah chapter newsletter, but her real talents shine through at important family celebrations, when she treats the honoree to a poem or song. At a recent gala dinner for the 80th birthday of Grandma's boss, a well-known theatre lawyer, the song my grandmother and aunt composed and sang brought down the house and earned kudos from all sorts of Broadway big shots.
I have been incredibly lucky to develop a close and unique relationship with my grandmother. When I was a little girl, my parents would sometimes leave me with her and my grandfather when they went on vacation, so despite the fact that we lived 2,000 miles apart, she and I were able to bond from the time I was very young. During my Vassar years, she gave me my own set of keys so that I could come and hang out in New York City whenever I wanted to. She never complained when I stayed out until the wee hours with friends, and we would have wonderful talks in the mornings over strong black coffee and thin slices of toasted bagel covered with pineapple cottage cheese. One of our most special times together was during my junior year, when I was living in Strasbourg, France. She traveled to France on an Elderhostel program, and we roamed the streets of Paris and Strasbourg together, drinking wine, eating great food, and having wonderful conversations.
My grandmother was (and still is) a beautiful woman, and she had many suitors. But she didn't marry until she was 30, pretty old for her generation, because she was holding out for the right man. She found him in my grandfather, who stole her heart and made her laugh like no one else. Since I reached adulthood, she has always told me never to settle, and to wait to get married until I meet the right man. Of course, since it became clear that I was actually following that advice, she's started pushing me a bit, saying that she doesn't want to live forever, only long enough to dance at my wedding. I joke back that my pickiness is really just a ploy to keep her around indefinitely, but the truth is, I can't imagine getting married without her there to share it with me.
So today, my Grandma Flora is 94 years old. I hope this year brings her great joy and good health and many new experiences. I am forever blessed to have her as my everlovin' G-ma.
______________________
But my harrowing morning was not what I planned to write about today. This day, November 13, is the 94th birthday of my amazing and wonderful grandmother, Flora Mermelstein. My grandmother is a force to be reckoned with, and a constant source of inspiration to me. She lives every day of her life as fully and enthusiastically as she can, and she has never stopped learning, exploring, and challenging herself. At 94, she still works a few days a week as the bookkeeper for a prestigious entertainment law firm in Manhattan. She walks to the Fairway Market and Lincoln Center (and Filene's Basement, where she buys some of her always-stylish outfits). She has always been a fabulous cook, and she still makes delicious meals even when she is cooking only for herself. While she travels a bit less than she used to (her wonderful travel stories fuel my insatiable wanderlust), she continues her annual Rosh Hashana trek to Colorado. When she couldn't get here in 2001 (because 9/11 was just a week before the holiday), the sadness and disorientation we felt in the wake of the terrorist attacks were compounded by the strangeness of her absence.
My grandmother reads the New York Times every day, listens to NPR, and watches public television. She knows more about current events and international affairs than anyone I know (except maybe my father). She is a staunch liberal Democrat, and a vocal supporter of reproductive freedom, gay rights, church/state separation, free speech, and international human rights. Her charitable and philanthropic efforts have ranged from typing Braille documents for the blind back in the '70s (I loved playing with her Braille typewriter when I was a kid) to bringing meals to homebound AIDS patients in the '90s, to her generous financial support for my father's public interest human rights law firm, for the Foundation Fighting Blindness, for diabetes research, and more.
Grandma was the first in the family to use an Apple computer, and taught the rest of us about this strange gizmo known as a "mouse." She uses e-mail and has a cell phone, and is pretty savvy about the latest technology. Like most of my family members (perhaps this is where we get it from), she is a voracious reader, and her book recommendations are always superb. She is also a wonderful writer, with a sharp wit and a delightful flair for language. She writes book reviews and other essays for her Hadassah chapter newsletter, but her real talents shine through at important family celebrations, when she treats the honoree to a poem or song. At a recent gala dinner for the 80th birthday of Grandma's boss, a well-known theatre lawyer, the song my grandmother and aunt composed and sang brought down the house and earned kudos from all sorts of Broadway big shots.
I have been incredibly lucky to develop a close and unique relationship with my grandmother. When I was a little girl, my parents would sometimes leave me with her and my grandfather when they went on vacation, so despite the fact that we lived 2,000 miles apart, she and I were able to bond from the time I was very young. During my Vassar years, she gave me my own set of keys so that I could come and hang out in New York City whenever I wanted to. She never complained when I stayed out until the wee hours with friends, and we would have wonderful talks in the mornings over strong black coffee and thin slices of toasted bagel covered with pineapple cottage cheese. One of our most special times together was during my junior year, when I was living in Strasbourg, France. She traveled to France on an Elderhostel program, and we roamed the streets of Paris and Strasbourg together, drinking wine, eating great food, and having wonderful conversations.
My grandmother was (and still is) a beautiful woman, and she had many suitors. But she didn't marry until she was 30, pretty old for her generation, because she was holding out for the right man. She found him in my grandfather, who stole her heart and made her laugh like no one else. Since I reached adulthood, she has always told me never to settle, and to wait to get married until I meet the right man. Of course, since it became clear that I was actually following that advice, she's started pushing me a bit, saying that she doesn't want to live forever, only long enough to dance at my wedding. I joke back that my pickiness is really just a ploy to keep her around indefinitely, but the truth is, I can't imagine getting married without her there to share it with me.
So today, my Grandma Flora is 94 years old. I hope this year brings her great joy and good health and many new experiences. I am forever blessed to have her as my everlovin' G-ma.
November 11, 2003
Make way for ducklings.
For reasons that remain a mystery to me, we federal employees have today, a Tuesday, off for Veteran's Day. I'm certainly not complaining -- it's nice to have a holiday in the middle of the week! I contemplated skiing or climbing today, but decided to take advantage of the day off and the beautiful weather to take my snazzy bike out for a spin.
The Platte River trail is one of my favorite rides in town, but I've never ridden it mid-week before. It was almost like having my own private bike path -- aside from a few homeless men crouched by the creek under the bridges, I only passed a few other cyclists (just enough to feel safe, really). The absence of traffic allowed me to let my mind wander and to take in my surroundings in a way I typically can't when I have to worry about scanning the path for people and objects.
My sense of smell is always pretty powerful (I joke that it's overcompensating for my eyes and ears), and today it seemed to be working in high gear. As I rolled along, I could smell the changes in the landscape, from the fresh cut golf-course grass to the dry leaves collecting in the underpasses to the smell of the South Platte itself -- not unpleasant, but you wouldn't want to drink it. On the way back, I must have been hungry, because I felt bombarded by intense food smells I've never noticed on the path before. At one point, the smell of chicken noodle soup filled the air, followed a mile or two later by fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Closer to downtown, I thought I smelled popcorn, but realized it was coming from a nearby construction area.
But the best moment of my ride came about 15 miles into it, right after I turned around. I saw something on the path ahead, and slowed down to try to navigate it. As I got closer, I realized it was a conga line of ducks, waddling purposefully across the path to the river. I stopped and watched as they shuffled along, wiggling their little duck tushies and quacking happily. They paid no attention to me on their way to the water, although one or two of them tossed a beak in my direction as if to say, this is our world, but you're welcome to share it.
It's been a while since I've had such a close interaction with non-domesticated animals in what really is the middle of the city. I was reminded not only of one of my favorite children's books (as my title today suggests), but of the blue-footed boobies I encountered in the Galapagos Islands. These colorful birds spray their guano-ring nests in the middle of the trails and waddle about tending their eggs, oblivious to the camera-happy tourists stepping around them.
There's no great point to this observation (and I need to take a shower now so I can get down to the serious business of laundry and cookie-baking). But this little ducky moment made my day, so I wanted to share it.
The Platte River trail is one of my favorite rides in town, but I've never ridden it mid-week before. It was almost like having my own private bike path -- aside from a few homeless men crouched by the creek under the bridges, I only passed a few other cyclists (just enough to feel safe, really). The absence of traffic allowed me to let my mind wander and to take in my surroundings in a way I typically can't when I have to worry about scanning the path for people and objects.
My sense of smell is always pretty powerful (I joke that it's overcompensating for my eyes and ears), and today it seemed to be working in high gear. As I rolled along, I could smell the changes in the landscape, from the fresh cut golf-course grass to the dry leaves collecting in the underpasses to the smell of the South Platte itself -- not unpleasant, but you wouldn't want to drink it. On the way back, I must have been hungry, because I felt bombarded by intense food smells I've never noticed on the path before. At one point, the smell of chicken noodle soup filled the air, followed a mile or two later by fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Closer to downtown, I thought I smelled popcorn, but realized it was coming from a nearby construction area.
But the best moment of my ride came about 15 miles into it, right after I turned around. I saw something on the path ahead, and slowed down to try to navigate it. As I got closer, I realized it was a conga line of ducks, waddling purposefully across the path to the river. I stopped and watched as they shuffled along, wiggling their little duck tushies and quacking happily. They paid no attention to me on their way to the water, although one or two of them tossed a beak in my direction as if to say, this is our world, but you're welcome to share it.
It's been a while since I've had such a close interaction with non-domesticated animals in what really is the middle of the city. I was reminded not only of one of my favorite children's books (as my title today suggests), but of the blue-footed boobies I encountered in the Galapagos Islands. These colorful birds spray their guano-ring nests in the middle of the trails and waddle about tending their eggs, oblivious to the camera-happy tourists stepping around them.
There's no great point to this observation (and I need to take a shower now so I can get down to the serious business of laundry and cookie-baking). But this little ducky moment made my day, so I wanted to share it.
November 10, 2003
Vive le weekend.
Some Monday mornings, I arrive at my office feeling like the previous Friday was a lifetime ago. This weekend seems to have had that effect on me (but in a good way).
Friday night, I attended a dinner and lecture event at a modern orthodox synagogue with a couple of friends. I went only because my friend Linda asked me to join her, and I was happy to have the excuse to catch up with her. My friend Howard came only because I asked him to, and because he's been looking for opportunities to reconnect with the Jewish community.
Not unexpectedly, walking into the orthodox shul felt a bit like entering a foreign country. Howard and I, reform Jews that we are, both felt a bit out of place, but we did our best to muddle along with the davening. And though I always feel like an outsider in an orthodox shul, I love watching the insiders. The scene is one of organized chaos, as part of the group earnestly speed-chants in Hebrew, another segment kibbitzes loudly, oblivious to the prayers, and the rest keep an eye on the kids that are constantly running in and out and around the room. And my feeling of otherness came only from within -- the rabbi and the regulars were warm and friendly, and brought a nice bottle of whiskey to our table of twenty- and thirty-something mostly-newcomers to make us feel welcome. The only Jewish events I've ever been to at which hard liquor flows freely are the orthodox ones!
I woke up on Saturday with a bit of pounding in my head from the few sips of Cutty Sark I'd foolishly ingested. After a much-needed pedicure, I spent a few hours roaming around downtown in search of the perfect presents for Steve's impending birthday.
I have a tendency to work myself into a tizzy over present shopping. I love buying things for people, but I'm never content to just buy some random nice thing. No, I always have to find the perfect gift; one that captures both the recipient's personality and interests and reflects my own connection to them. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my quest for the perfect present that I run out of time and energy and end up buying exactly the marketing-driven type of thing I so studiously try to avoid. But I did well on Saturday, finding almost everything I wanted. And no, Steve, you CANNOT take a peek in my closet . . . .
After sating my shopping urge, I was feeling domestic, so baked a big batch of chocolate chip cookies. I cranked up Billie Holiday on the kitchen CD player and danced around the kitchen with the mixing bowl, humming along to Lady Day's silken sounds. Baking always leaves me feeling calm and contented, and fills my little house with sweet smells. I sometimes bake just because the smell of fresh-baked goodies relaxes me (and my office is always happy to indulge this need). The cookies came out pretty well, too. They didn't have quite the chewy-gooey consistency I was shooting for, and I was afraid to let Steve try them since he'd assured me that no one can touch his mom's chocolate chip cookies. My efforts may not have rivaled Wisconsin's best, but Steve's eaten close to a dozen of them already, so I guess I did OK.
Perhaps it was the sugar high, but against our better judgment, we decided to brave the crust and crowds and GO SKIING yesterday. Despite the long lift lines, it was worth it. We were only on the slopes for a couple of hours (hooray for season passes), but got in five decent runs and had a great time. I'm always terrified when skiing in dense crowds because of my lack of peripheral vision, but I managed not to kill myself or anyone else, and was able to relax and even let my speed out in a few places. I can't wait for the "real" season to begin. I'm already dreaming of the powder days ahead!
So now it's Monday morning. I have briefs to write, a hearing to prepare for, and a death penalty case to review for a colleague in Wyoming. Some weeks, particularly when I've been working non-stop or am struggling with a case I can't stop thinking about, I lose all sense of time and the days blur together in a haze of sleep deprivation. Today, though, I feel like I've returned from a rejuvenating vacation. I'm full of energy, and eager to jump back into my cases.
The speaker on Friday night (who was too intense and judgmental for my taste) talked about making Friday night Shabbat. I had a hard time hearing him and never quite figured out how his actual speech related to the topic, but the concept of Shabbat as a separation between the mundane and the spiritual is valuable. While I'm not sure that "making Friday night Shabbat" is the key to my emotional well-being, making the weekend a separation from the hyper-scheduled intensity of the rest of my week very well may be.
Friday night, I attended a dinner and lecture event at a modern orthodox synagogue with a couple of friends. I went only because my friend Linda asked me to join her, and I was happy to have the excuse to catch up with her. My friend Howard came only because I asked him to, and because he's been looking for opportunities to reconnect with the Jewish community.
Not unexpectedly, walking into the orthodox shul felt a bit like entering a foreign country. Howard and I, reform Jews that we are, both felt a bit out of place, but we did our best to muddle along with the davening. And though I always feel like an outsider in an orthodox shul, I love watching the insiders. The scene is one of organized chaos, as part of the group earnestly speed-chants in Hebrew, another segment kibbitzes loudly, oblivious to the prayers, and the rest keep an eye on the kids that are constantly running in and out and around the room. And my feeling of otherness came only from within -- the rabbi and the regulars were warm and friendly, and brought a nice bottle of whiskey to our table of twenty- and thirty-something mostly-newcomers to make us feel welcome. The only Jewish events I've ever been to at which hard liquor flows freely are the orthodox ones!
I woke up on Saturday with a bit of pounding in my head from the few sips of Cutty Sark I'd foolishly ingested. After a much-needed pedicure, I spent a few hours roaming around downtown in search of the perfect presents for Steve's impending birthday.
I have a tendency to work myself into a tizzy over present shopping. I love buying things for people, but I'm never content to just buy some random nice thing. No, I always have to find the perfect gift; one that captures both the recipient's personality and interests and reflects my own connection to them. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my quest for the perfect present that I run out of time and energy and end up buying exactly the marketing-driven type of thing I so studiously try to avoid. But I did well on Saturday, finding almost everything I wanted. And no, Steve, you CANNOT take a peek in my closet . . . .
After sating my shopping urge, I was feeling domestic, so baked a big batch of chocolate chip cookies. I cranked up Billie Holiday on the kitchen CD player and danced around the kitchen with the mixing bowl, humming along to Lady Day's silken sounds. Baking always leaves me feeling calm and contented, and fills my little house with sweet smells. I sometimes bake just because the smell of fresh-baked goodies relaxes me (and my office is always happy to indulge this need). The cookies came out pretty well, too. They didn't have quite the chewy-gooey consistency I was shooting for, and I was afraid to let Steve try them since he'd assured me that no one can touch his mom's chocolate chip cookies. My efforts may not have rivaled Wisconsin's best, but Steve's eaten close to a dozen of them already, so I guess I did OK.
Perhaps it was the sugar high, but against our better judgment, we decided to brave the crust and crowds and GO SKIING yesterday. Despite the long lift lines, it was worth it. We were only on the slopes for a couple of hours (hooray for season passes), but got in five decent runs and had a great time. I'm always terrified when skiing in dense crowds because of my lack of peripheral vision, but I managed not to kill myself or anyone else, and was able to relax and even let my speed out in a few places. I can't wait for the "real" season to begin. I'm already dreaming of the powder days ahead!
So now it's Monday morning. I have briefs to write, a hearing to prepare for, and a death penalty case to review for a colleague in Wyoming. Some weeks, particularly when I've been working non-stop or am struggling with a case I can't stop thinking about, I lose all sense of time and the days blur together in a haze of sleep deprivation. Today, though, I feel like I've returned from a rejuvenating vacation. I'm full of energy, and eager to jump back into my cases.
The speaker on Friday night (who was too intense and judgmental for my taste) talked about making Friday night Shabbat. I had a hard time hearing him and never quite figured out how his actual speech related to the topic, but the concept of Shabbat as a separation between the mundane and the spiritual is valuable. While I'm not sure that "making Friday night Shabbat" is the key to my emotional well-being, making the weekend a separation from the hyper-scheduled intensity of the rest of my week very well may be.
