Couple Or Not

Oops, That Wasn't In The Recipe!

Lucille — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 02:55:49 GMT

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.

You Know, Judge, You're A Real Nixon!

Lucille — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 16:44:18 GMT

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."

A Smart Alec's Dilemma

Lucille — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 03:33:17 GMT

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."

No, Judgipoo, I Believe It Was Medicine, Really!

Lucille — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 01:45:49 GMT

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.

And, Now The Rest Of The Story ...

Lucille — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 19:14:16 GMT

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.

A Cinderella Day

Lucille — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 00:21:31 GMT

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.

Halloween Is Over, But It Can Still Be Pretty Scary

Lucille — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 03:24:52 GMT

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.

Name That Teacher, But Don't Tell Mom

Lucille — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 00:58:25 GMT

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.

On Changing Names To Protect The Guilty

Lucille — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 01:14:32 GMT

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.

Does Anybody Really Care What Time It IS? I Mean, Besides Me And Chicago?

Lucille — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 15:11:44 GMT

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 Family Who Trick Or Treats Together Gets A Lot Of Candy

Lucille — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 00:37:39 GMT

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.

So, how did You Take Over Judgipoo's Body, And Can I Get You To Stay?

Lucille — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 23:45:00 GMT

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?

Essay On A Dirty Yellow Dog

Lucille — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 23:00:40 GMT

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.

The Never Ending -- I Take That Back! It's Finally Over!

Lucille — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 21:06:58 GMT

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."

9 days until Halloween, Do You Have Your Candy Yet?

Lucille — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 16:27:05 GMT

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 Never Ending Jury Trial 6

Lucille — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 21:00:55 GMT

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.

The Never Ending Jury Trial 5, I think

Lucille — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 20:49:36 GMT

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.

The Never Ending Jury Trial 4

Lucille — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 20:45:12 GMT

"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.

The Never Ending Jury Trial 3

Lucille — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 20:39:06 GMT

"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.

The Never Ending Jury Trial 2

Lucille — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 20:34:19 GMT

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."

The Jury Trial, A Drama In Many Parts 1

Lucille — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 20:30:00 GMT

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."

It's Not Easy Being Green

Lucille — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 19:08:39 GMT

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.

A Bright Khaki Moon

Lucille — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 19:30:07 GMT

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.

I'd Rather Sleep In!

Lucille — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 19:02:09 GMT

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?

Only 6 KindsOf Devils? Nah, There's A Lot More!

Lucille — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 18:04:21 GMT

html]
6 Kinds Of Devil?

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.

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.

Here are a few examples of deviltry that did not make it to their little list:

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.

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.

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.

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 --

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.

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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Guinness Book Of World Records, Or How The Young Lawyer Recieved Her Vast Scientific Education

Lucille — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 23:54:28 GMT

Another amazing artifact of human stupidity is the Guinness book of world records. When I was in high school, my science teacher felt that if we wanted to learn science, we would read the assignments. So, he kept us entertained by reading from the Guinness book. If he had tested us on its contents, I would have gotten an "A". However, he testedus on the text book, which I didn't find the least bit entertaining, and so my science grade was barely passing, despite the fact that it was the only class in which I actually paid attention.

Mr. Storm used to wow us with stories about people who sneezed every 5 seconds for years on end. "I bet she didn't eat a lot of graham crackers," he would enthuse. The tallest man or woman in the world, and their short counterparts were also featured in our scientific wanderings.

Nowadays, Guinness seems to focus on less edifying fare. Subjects such as the world's biggest ball of string, or longest chewing gum wrapper chain have replaced such educational offering as conjoined twins connected at the chest -- "I bet they didn't eat a lot of garlic," and two headed live stock that could sing "Row, Row, Row your boat" in syncopated harmony.

Yes, Americans, it is sad how our educational goals have decayed. I'd say more about that, but I have to see if I can balance another kibble on my 50 foot dog food pyramid before it crumbles or TJ eats it. I hope I can find someone to pick the Guinness rep up at the air port. After all, I have to stay here and protect my work.

Even Fictional Gardens Need Nutrition

Lucille — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 18:18:39 GMT

I haven't mentioned Judgipoo's tropical garden lately. It is in good health. The Venus lawyer traps are positively prosperous. Today, they got a taste of steam from a different quarter.

My client's ex-husband sued her for failure to pay their children's medical bills. She counter-sued him, because he owed her a lot more than she owed him, for both medical debts and child support.

If you go into Judgipoo's court, you best have a bottle of Bactine and asbestos ear muffs. He is always telling my colleagues and me how unprepared we are, and asking us how we expect him to make a decision when we haven't given him any evidence or useful information. I try to prepare for him. I make copies of any documentation I think supports my case, and review with my clients as much as I can. I try to deal with last minute emergencies, like people who bring in a reem of new stuff the night before the hearing, in a way that spares both my client and I instant death. Today was no exception.

My client brought me a truck load of documents showing what she spent on her kid's medical expenses for the last 7 years. Radar dutifully made copies of the documents and prepared nice little summaries of their contents, so that Judgipoo and opposing counsel would know what we wanted. We showed up on time, but made the mistake of not assuring Judgipoo we were there. Opposing counsel looked at Radar's work, and said he was ready to just let Judgipoo hear the case.

This particular colleague has been my friend for years. He was the nicest to me of anyone when I first started my practice. I didn't want him to get yelled at, but there's only so much one can do. Besides, he knew better, having practiced in front of Judgipoo for as long as I have.

The games began. Judgipoo asked us to explain what we wanted, and he interrupted as usual. I told him about my cute little exhibits, which normally would have made him happy. Today, he interrupted and informed me that he wasn't taking evidence now, he just wanted to know what we wanted.

"Well," I told him, "I want opposing counsel's client to pay his child support, his share of the kid's medical expenses, and his share of their oldest son's college expenses."

"Well, that's not proof!" Judgipoo yelled. "You'll have to do more than tell me what you want!"

My friend, the other lawyer, who had gotten his lecture earlier asked me if I would agree to a continuance. I did, although steam was pouring out of my ears by then. The flora and fauna in Judgipoo's courtroom were singing by the time we left. They don't usually get fed from 3 sources at once. And, as we all know, a varied diet is the key to health.

Elmer Was A Bull, But No More!

Lucille — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 18:28:48 GMT

http://www.arcamax.com/trivia/s-28535-770450-print 7ArcaMax.com - Who is Elsie married to.htm.html Now we know! It is a mystery that I've been puzzling for years. Well, there isn't a lot of entertainment around here, and I have to have something to think about when Judgipoo isn't burning my ears. I read sometime ago that Matel had given Barbi a whole family. Her father was a doctor, and her mom was a 1950s version of a mom. She had a little sister, who we've met, and I think there was a brother in there somewhere. Sue me if I'm wrong. I just didn't feel like chasing the information. After all, as I said, I have more important things to consider. Take the question of why Slinkys are not as much fun when they're made of plastic instead of metal! The link above leads to the history of Elsie The Cow. She is not my sister, or soul mate, but thanks for asking. It turns out that she is not a single girl either. She is married to Elmer, who was made into -- I mean is the bovine who is celebrated in the famous glue of that name. The reason you might not blame me for misstating, Elmer's current whereabouts, even though some would say he must be my brother-in-law, is that he is a steer. You heard that right. The good people at Borden's loved their icons so well that they made damned sure they couldn't reproduce. I actually think I know what really happened. After all, even cattle can't keep secrets on the Internet. Picture if you will, a warm summer afternoon. Elsie is standing in an open field enjoying the weather, perhaps contemplating the good fortune that she hasn't been invited to be the guest of honor at the neighbor's barbecue. She looks over the fence and sees a beautiful specimen of the male of her species. She winks her eye, and when he responds to the obvious invitation, she asks him his name. "Elmer," he says with a smile. "And you might be?" "Hamburger if this smart ass writer has her way," she replies. No, not really. I just made that up. You can rely on the honesty of anything else I report in this entry. I swear it's all true. What she says is, "Well, Elmer, jump over the fence and let's keep each other company." (She said something else, but this is a family blog, sort of) "All right!" Elmer gives a mighty jump, and then says a few things that don't normally come out of bovine mouths, but are common exclamations made by certain smart ass writers. Nevertheless, he untangles himself from the barbed wire and lands at Elsie's side. "You're famous around here," she says flirtatiously after her new friend comes to. "Aren't you Elmer the bull?" "I was until just now. After that jump, I'm just Elmer." The thing that I still don't understand about all of this is how Elsie could produce milk, evaporated or otherwise, without having babies. Oh well, maybe I should quit obsessing about this, and do something constructive, like look "Barbi's family" up on the Internet. Does anyone know if Skipper had a Slinky?

The Yard Sale From -- Heck?

Lucille — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 20:21:11 GMT

The difference between a yard sale and trash pick up is the distance from the curb.

Okay, I give up! Why do people do it? Am I talking about doing dangerous drugs that impede what little mental process some people have? No. Are we going to engage in a diatribe about joining cults? Not today, but probably in the future. What, you may ask, is your brilliant author going to explore today, and when, you may be praying by now, is she going to get to it? Well, the answer to the first question is a yard sale, and the second one is probably never, but if she sticks her head out the back door, that could change.

It is cold as a witch's -- maybe we should say a well digger's -- hmmm. It is chilly as the dickens, with a 60% chance of rain, and Radar, Ma Kettle, the Duke of Granger, and several other persons have invited everyone and his brother into my otherwise peaceful Saturday existence by placing ads in the paper, putting their excess goods on tables, racks and -- no -- I won't say it -- they couldn't possibly stick my dad's old table saw there anyway. My 90 year old mother was outside this morning stacking cardboard boxes because the yard was a mess, and people might be coming. I thank G-d every day that she can still do that, but I wish the rest of the revelers had cleaned up before they closed the circus down for the night.

There are enough people having yard sales today to keep the shopping brisk. Some people attend these little fiestas for a living. They buy everyone else's crap, mark it up, and rent a space at a flea market so that people can buy it back for their own yard sales next year when they are asking themselves "what was I thinking when I bought this piece of ---". Why, rumor has it that some of this junk has been circulating since the Civil War! I should know. I started the rumor.

I do take one comfort from this whole business. Not all trash ends up in the land fill. A lot of it is circling through our environment, taking up temporary residence in people's garages, attics, and in our case, storage sheds. It's kind of like a buzzard in reverse. Next year, a lot of it will experience a change of scenery as it is boxed up, displayed on racks, tables, and with my dad's old table saw, which is too big to put there, even if waking me up at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday hadn't inspired me to challenge that truth of physics.

Years from now, archaeologists will puzzle over our society. They will be interested to know how we dealt with our garbage. They will stumble on our dumps, and assume that most of it ended up there. Then, someone will dig up a few old houses, or land on the great Uttermohlen storage shed farm, and realize that a lot of it went from place to place, never staying anywhere for long, and will have to conclude that our land fills were regarded as junk libraries, and that we were all enthusiastic patrons. I guess recycling in any form is to be regarded as a good thing. In fact, when it is done with such fervor and dedication, it should be considered downright patriotic. Now, if I can only find a comfortable way to sit on my dad's old table saw.

Eating Contests -- Why?

Lucille — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 00:02:04 GMT

There are many things in life I'll never understand. That was an understatement. Add a few "manys" to that sentence, and we'll be a lot closer to the truth.

Eating contests are an example of things that puzzle me to the extreme. What talent does it take to eat more hot dogs, pizza or dog food than anyone else? All right, I put that last in for TJ the golden retreiver. Eating contests don't confuse him. He thinks they are the best entertainment going. In fact, he challenges the little dogs every day, and so far he is the undisputed champion.

However, I read about human devotees of these gorges, and frankly, just thinking of it makes me want to throw up in their honor. The idea of schlepping up more jalapenos then my neighbor just doesn't appeal to me. In fact, if he wants to get into a hot pepper eating contest, I'll give him my supply, and leave the neighborhood before the explosion.

The thing that really amazes me about these speed feasts is that the winners are always so proud of their dubious feats. They glow and preen in interviews like they have actually accomplished something wonderful. I haven't gotten a complement for consuming anything since I ate my liver and onions when I was a kid without whining and resisting. If you ever met my Dad, my meak submission to devouring cow organs would require no further explanation.

I did win the battle when it came to stewed tomatoes. By the time my brother described what they looked like, no one at the table was able to choke them down. He had seen a dead rabbit on the road the day before --- okay, I'll move on.

He Can Make Me Do The Dumbest Things

Lucille — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 18:52:48 GMT

This morning was an excuse for the fates to do two things to me that I detest. They
are face Monday, and face it early. I had to be in a town 30 miles from here at 8:30
a.m. for one of those hearings to set a hearing. I did not like it one bit.

I made it. It never pays to be late to one of those parties. You may stand in line
for an hour no matter what time you get there, but if you�re late, you may have been
the only one scheduled to appear, and if you don�t show, the judge will be cranky.

I showed, and it turned out to be one of those mediumly annoying situations. There
was a line, but it wasn�t a long one. I finally found myself in front of his majesty.

"So, what do you want?" the judge asked.

"Ah, you told me I had to be here," I reminded him.

"Oh," he said. "I must have wanted a status on your case."

"Yes, sire, that must be what you wanted."

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"Call it in next time," I might have suggested, but I do have to live here, so I
said, "Could we set this matter for a final hearing?"

"Sure," the judge replied. I think he was glad to have something useful to do. "Did
you ever get that new software to work?" he asked his court reporter.

"No, Sir. I�ll try it again. Hmmmm. Oops! No Sir, I can�t get it to work."

"Well, tell you what. What do you say to having a telephone conference tomorrow so
we can set the final hearing?"

"Why the heck not," I smiled as I backed out of his august presence.

Do you remember a character from the old Beetle Bailey comics named "Zero"? There
was one strip where Zero, Beetle and Sgt. Snorkel were skiing. In the next frame,
Sgt. Snorkel told Zero, "Watch that tree!". In the final frame, Zero is staring at
the tree mumbling, "he can make me do the dumbest things."

I Hate Dogs!

Lucille — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 23:09:49 GMT

I hate dogs. All right, they're soft and fuzzy, and they have sweet faces. But, if you observe them for any time, you'll see that they're aren't noble like Lassie, or loyal like Rin Tin Tin, and are, on the whole, not the least trustworthy.

Take TJ, The Golden Retriever. I feed him the best dog food money can buy. He dines on raw chicken and a special grain that I buy on the Internet, and about a cup of mixed veg per day. You would think that a dog offered such delightful vittles would shun such offerings as can be obtained from say, the floor at Walmart, or our home garbage can. But, my dogs, all three of them, seem to prefer discards from our life over fresh nutrition from theirs. TJ will eat fresh fruit and vegies, but he'll also sample what cats eat, after they have eaten and processed it.

An incident this morning reminded me what low born theives members of the canine species can be. I was eating my low calorie breakfast, which consists of a cream horn from Wallmart, and a Diet Coke from McDonalds. I delicately nibbled the end of the cream horn, and in a moment of inattention, it slipped from my fingers and skittered down my front. I reached to retreive it, figuring it's trip wouldn't make it inedible, when what should my seeking fingers grasp instead? A fuzzy muzzle had beaten me to my quest, and the cream horn disappeared without a trace before you could say Jack Robinson, or "Darn it TJ!" It hadn't even skidded to a stop before it was miraculously changed from a confection of pastry and cream to a little more golden retriever than I had before.

Did he even say "thank you?" Heck no. He stood there wagging his tail, and if he knew English, he might have been saying "Ha Ha! Got ya'".

I went to the kitchen to get another cream horn. I trundled it back to my chair, and quicker than you could say Jack Robinson, or "Not this time, Mr. Dog," my elbow got a warm steam bath, and I had company.

"You know," my tail switching companion informed me, "You do have to give me two pills, and a little more of that yummy cream horm would help them glide on home."

He had a point. It would be easier to share a little more of my breakfast with him than it would be to waddle back to the fridge and cut him a nutritious piece of cheese in which to bury his medicine. I gave in. I held on to the better part of my breakfast this time, but it wasn't for satiation or lack of interest on the doggy's part.

It reminded me of past offenses, like the time I looked all over the house for the rest of my birthday cake last year, and only found some bits of plastic and paper plate for my efforts. Then there was another theivery when i dropped a whole pear, and I mean I hadn't even had a nibble, and it disappeared down the doggy before I could even get out of my recliner and ask my mom to help me find, "what pear, Lou? There's nothing on the floor over there."

So, don't try to convince me that big brown eyes and wagging tails are anymore than a lying theif's cheap distraction. I know what the hairy devil has on his mind. He knows that if he makes me laugh hard enough, he can get away with murder. I'm glad he's not violent. I guess in the end, I know I'm a surly old grouch who hates to laugh, and that must be why I hate dogs.

Revenge Can BeSweet If It's Against Microsoft

Lucille — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 23:51:56 GMT

I have a confession to make. Bill Gates is my twin brother. I don't make this assertion lightly. My mom would be willing to claim him if he were to take pity on his poor relatives in Indiana.

The reason I know Bill and I are kin is that I spend more time with him than anybody else. Even my dog, my mother and my secretary can't claim the dubious pleasure of my company as much as old Bill does.
My most recent family reunion with my errant sibling took place today. He and I had been colliding witheach other for several days, but today, I probably would have disowned him, if it wasn't for that poor relative thing I mentioned earlier.

I have been building a web site since Heck, or at least TJ, The Golden Retreiver was a pup. He is 9 years old, TJ, not Heck, and I am no closer to satisfying my quest than I was, say 4 years ago. The next time I have a brain storm, I hope I come up with something that doesn't give illegal drugs a bad name. Yes, gentle reader, I'm addicted to Coke, but only the diet kind.

I heard that Word For Windows, 2010 would do what I need it to do, which is format my ebooks in "PDF" without loosing the cute little hyperlinks I took such great pains to include. What my wicked brother didn't tell me was how hard he could make a "free trial download" to actually get.

I would have bought it outright if I could be sure it would work. My screen reader vender assures me that it can, but they don't know if it can be used for the link thing, which is the only reason I would consider adding to my collection of 10 count 'em word processors.

I tried "Open Office", which was free, but totaly unuseable to me. I tried ABIword, which was also free, but didn't play well with Window Eyes. So, finally, I reached that point I always reach with rotten siblings, and I had my other brother, the Duke Of Granger, help me find a telephone number that got me to -- Bombay. The guy spoke passable English, and he didn't leave me until I got my download. Want the number? Okay, but you have to promise to call it, a lot. Here it is, and Bill, may I say revenge is sweet, and you owe me big time. Of course, I'll take it all back if you can dig that poor relative thing.
877 244-8653

Deth Of A Faithful Fridge, Or: The Ice Box Quitteth

Lucille — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 18:07:05 GMT

I had today pretty well planned. I got up intending to write my blog, do my office
work, and spend the rest of the day working on my web site. I even had a good Judgipoo
story to share, so I was what the kids would call "psyked, I think that's how you
spell it, and I couldn't wait to turn on my little computer and spend the day in
creative bliss.

I was just settled in when my secretary told me one of my clients was desperate to
talk to me. After she left, my appointment arrived, and I had to make several phone
calls to clarify her situation. I went to the kitchen, and was puzzled to note
our refrigerator was not making it's obnoxious high pitched buzzing noise.

I reached in for some ice, and discovered water with a few crystals floating around in it instead.

Mom and I talked the situation over with Pa Kettle, who infformed us in colorful prose that our fridge
had cooled its last. He actually said it had done the same thing my dogs do in the
back yard, but I'm too much of a lady to repeat his diagnosis.

I spent the rest of my day in the notorious town about 30 miles from here searching for the fridge
of my budget, if not of my dreams, and I am finally home, exhausted, and relieved
that is over. The upshot is that I didn't get a lot done today, but I still have
a good Judgipoo story to tell you.

The Great Underwear Detector

Lucille — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 17:58:40 GMT

The Under Wire Bra Caper Attorneys have access to their clients whether or not said clients are guests of the state. The right to counsel in a criminal case is one of those things guaranteed in the constitution. However, too many times, bureaucrats don't have much use for that inconvenient little document, and they make their own rules. Penal facilities are particularly notorious for their irrational rules and regs. This lady's underwear did the same thing my artificial hip does, which is set off metal detectors. Ms. Horseman did the polite thing, and ducked into a lady's room to remove the offending garment. So, she was denied entrance the second time because she wasn't wearing a bra. I would hate to think what would have happened had my hip been the cause of controversy. It isn't like I could duck into the ladies for a little impromptu surgery. Ms. Horseman's travail reminds me of a story one of my female colleagues told me a few years ago. She isn't very well endowed. In fact, if you saw her naked, you might be tempted to offer her Calamine lotion to help get rid of the mosquito bites on her chest. Because of nature's lack of generosity in this regard, she never wears a bra. I don't wear prescription glasses for pretty much the same reason. One day, she went to visit her client in prison. They wouldn't let her come in because she was braless. She tried to explain that she didn't own that kind of underwear because, frankly, she had nothing to wear it for. The officials were, as officials are wont to be, unmoved, and refused her access to her client. This made her mad. She went to a local Victoria's Secret and bought the laciest black bra she could find. Next, she bought a low cut shirt so the lace on her bra peeked out in an obvious manner. The guards weren't happy about it, but she was within regulations, and they had to let her in. I wonder where I could get a black lace hip.

9 K! I'd Be Tempted!

Lucille — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 18:24:30 GMT

My clients don't ignore everything I say. But, when it comes to money, it is anyone's guess what will happen. I can't say this lady has ignored me, yet, but if I were a betting woman I'd lay odds on her doing what she wants, which is spend the money.

What happened is the ex filed for visitation. He hadn't seen his child for 3 years. I advised my client that he should get to see his child, but that I thought the judge would start the visits out slowly.

We filed a motion to collect the support he hadn't been paying since the child's birth, and opposing counsel and I all met in Judgipoo's attorney's room before the hearing.

After we chatted, we learned that what my client wanted was for the father to drown. She was willing to settle for a promise from him never to bother her about visitation again during his natural life. What opposing counsel's client wanted was for my client to be eaten by a bear. If he never had to pay child support again, he would settle. Thus, we made everybody happy by agreeing that my client's husband would adopt the little boy, which would render visitation and child support moot.

The current husband signed the petition for adoption. The father filed the consent to adoption. The Social Security Administration cut the mother a check for $9000.00, which should have gone to the father.

I called the mother's home right away to beg her not to spend the money. A familiar male voice answered.

Lucille: Is M there?
Man: I don't know where the hell she is.
Lucille: Is this her husband?
Man: NO! click.

Maybe she'll call me tomorrow in response to the letter I sent her. I wouldn't lay odds on it. If she got $9000.00, she may feel like she hit the jack pot, and decamped to parts unknown. We'll know soon enough. If she got the money and blew it, I don't want to be anywhere near when it comes to Judgipoo's attention.

A Little Clean Up Would Be Nice

Lucille — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 18:26:40 GMT

Lady Baltimore, my sister, coined an expression that I never appreciated as much
as I do today.. "Mission creep: describes that situation we all know where a small
project turns into a big, fat, expensive free for all. Well, let's rephrase that.
It turns into an all credit card paid disaster.

Our travail started with the fact that the said Lady Baltimore and my other sister,
San Antonia are coming for a visit in a couple weeks. Mom and I have lived here with
our 3 dogs since my dad died 6 years ago. Our bathrooms have gotten out of style,
since we haven't done anything to update them since our tornado 36 years ago. There
is a tendency for we lazy cheap types to be content as long as the toilet flushes
and the bathtub fills on command.

However, although both of my out of state sisters have visited here a number of times
since mother nature's little temper tantrum, Mom decided that things should be cleaned
up before their next arrival. We were going to hire Ma and Pa Kettle to wash walls
and do a little painting, and call it a day.

Enter, my other two sisters, Chicagoann and Salindianapolis, who are the least fashion
challenged people I know, and who felt we were due a new do. The wall paper I asked
Pa to glue down has been torn out. The floor I hoped to mop and wax before the big
arrival is being replaced. Our kitchen is getting painted, and the whole house is
in an uproar.

I can't complain. Okay, I can, and this wouldn't be much of an entry if I didn't.
They are doing the labor for us, and it will look modern and pretty when they are
done. I am happy to have the "new and improved" facilities, and truly appreciate
their efforts on Mom's and my behalf.

I just hope I don't forget that the toilet is no longer in it's accustomed hole. I don't want to visit the crawl space, especially
not when my pants are at half mast.

A WiseCouch Potato

Lucille — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 18:34:13 GMT

Even the laziest person has redeeming qualities. Take me, for instance. If there is a way to do something easier or to avoid doing something unpleasant altogether, I'm on it like the proverbial ugly on a bug. I still do my work, and I pay my debts, so, as I said I do have redeeming qualities. My dog even thinks I have a nice personality, especially when I'm doing something worthy of praise, like feeding him.

When I first started my practice, our divorce court was ruled by one of the laziest people on earth. This man went to lunch at 10:00 a.m., and returned to court at 2:00 p.m., if we were lucky. If you happened to have a hearing scheduled when he wanted to do something else, his secretary would happily inform you that he was not available, and you would just have to reschedule. If you've ever read Catch 22, and you remember the character Major Majors, you have an idea of this jurist's ability to slip out of anything that smacked of work.

However, giving the devil his due is what this post is about. He wasn't all bad. I wouldn't say he had a great personality, but he didn't sue my mother for whacking into his Caddy with my dad's truck, and she backed into him three times. He forgave my first dog guide for throwing up all over the courtroom floor. And, as far as I knew, he wasn't an ax murderer or a drug dealer.

The one thing he did do that was good was the little lecture he delivered after every divorce case involving kids. It went something like:

"You two evidently thought enough of each other at one time to get married. You had kids together, and apparently planned to live together and raise them. Now, you are changing things around. That's fine. You are adults, and can do what you want. However, nothing has changed for your kids. They love and need both of you. If you are unhappy with each other, go to the wood shed and holler at the top of your lungs. Don't discuss the other guy's failings with your kids. You let him be the father, and you let her be the mother. Divorce is hard enough on kids without the parents treating each other like dirt."

Most judges don't say anything after a divorce hearing. When you've heard the same story a zillion times, it loses its punch. The judge in this story could probably give his little speech in his sleep. Still, it was a good one, and I couldn't pass on better advice to divorcing parents.

Happy Labor Day

Lucille — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 18:39:38 GMT

Hot? I'll show you hot! Today, it has to be in the 90s. Tomorrow promises to be the same. Next week, it is supposed to cool down some. The week after that, they're predicting a blizzard. Okay, not really, but in Indiana, you don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows. (Sorry, Mr. Dylan)

I've finally figured out something that's been bothering me for a long time. I've mentioned in this space that I'll never understand Judgipoo. Now, I think I do. Well, not thoroughly. I've never pretended to be a brilliant psychologist, psychic or what ever. But, I have had a thought that would explain some things about him.

Today, we had a hearing to find out if it was okay to hit kids with shoes and belts if they were annoying. The welfare department said they didn't think it was, so we went to court to let Judgipoo weigh in on it. He took an hour and a half bitching -- ahem -- I mean lecturing the parties about what incompetent parents they both were, said we hadn't proven an emergency, and sent us on our merry ways. Then, he caught himself and said my client had a darn good claim to a change of custody, and that he would set a hearing in October for a full fledged evidentiary hearing.

Meanwhile, TJ, The Golden Retreiver, paced, pulled at his leash, and kept trying to leave the courtroom. I don't think he especially cared if I accompanied him. He just wanted to go. His antics seemed to inspire even more loquatiousness on Judgipoo's part, and we were stuck for another 15 minutes.

When we got outside, I took TJ to a patch of grass, which he covered with a broad spectrum herbacide, otherwise known as dog --- well you know.

I was puzzled, as I thought my hairy friend had had access to the back yard all day, and had had plenty of opportunity to water the greenery closer to home. When I got home, I found out that Pa Kettle had locked the dog door while he was mowing our grass, and that TJ had not had his usual opportunity to do what all G-d's chillin' gotta' do.

It was after that that Radar and I had a meteorological discussion that ended with some speculations on what we can expect from the local climate in the next few weeks. It crosses my mind that Judgipoo was born and raised here in Indiana. I don't have any scientific basis for this hypothesis, but could the weather you are exposed to all your life influence your genetic make-up? Could Judgipoo's ability to be hot and bothered one minute and cold and clammy the next (metaphorically speaking, just in case there is a dirty mind among my readers, and I sincerely hope there is), be connected with our unpredictable and mostly nasty Indiana climate? I don't know, but as long as I am sitting in my air conditioned artist's garret, it's something to think about that doesn't require a lot of my vast intellectual (did I spell that right?) capacity. Happy Labor Day, and I hope the only thing that gets roasted is your hot dogs -- and hamburgers.

Marijuana, Smoke It, But Don't Say It!

Lucille — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 18:42:08 GMT

I can understand editing. It is something any writer does so that the words that
seemed brilliant after say 3 or 4 beers can be reconsidered in the hopefully sober
light of day. I don�t even find it offensive that some publishers don�t want what
I have to offer, although, I do wonder what�s not to like? But this is a puzzler.

One of the ways to publicize a web site is to write articles on its main subjects.
Each article directory gives the fruits of your labor away in exchange for letting
you brag about yourself and your wares in the "resource box".
Each directory has different little forms to fill out, which can take hours. This
is why I belong to an article submission service. They take my brilliant prose and
distribute it to 10,000 places where they are "always looking for fresh, entertaining
content" for their readers. Hey, I aim to please.

I'm glad this service exists. A job that could take me 2 days a week,
and could inspire language from my sweet lips that would make glass shatter only
takes an hour. The language doesn�t get much better, but there isn�t nearly as much
of it.

So, the subjects I write about usually have to do with divorce, criminal law, or
good old gov�ment incompetence. I recently submitted one such article to my service,
and it was rejected.

It was written with my usual wit and insight, so I was puzzled. It didn�t contain
any of the language I referred to above. After all, I know better than to print everything
I say. I wrote to their support in frustration, and asked what the � okay, I didn�t
use the language there either, but I was sorely tempted. To their credit, their response
was prompt. My sin? I had used the word "marijuana".

I hadn�t been extolling its use. I hadn�t been telling people to disobey the
law, like they�d need any encouragement from me, right? I had merely mentioned that
a client of mine had been unfairly punished, and that marijuana was part of the reason
for her punishment.

Well, being the good netizen I am, and indulging in little enough physical activity,
I determined that my sense of humor would get a work out. I substituted "whacky weed"
and "green leafy substance" for the offending word. My article sailed right through
the editorial process without a hitch.

I have submitted articles that liberally used the words "sex", and "adultery", and
never had a problem. I doubt that "pot", "spliff", "doob", "dope" or any number of
slang expressions for ye� old bong filler would have given offense. It was the most
formal name for the stuff, the term the police use in their reports, the thing the
judge says when he is sentencing some poor jerk that apparently gave offense. I guess
I�ve been politically corrected, but I�m still baffled.

The Chrysler Saga

Lucille — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 18:52:39 GMT

Never say "never". There are some things you learn the hard way, and the hard way seems to be my best teacher.

The first car I ever owned was a Plymouth Horizon. It was sold to me through my dad by a little old Christian woman who swore it had never been in anything but a bumper kiss in a church parking lot. My dad believed her because his mother dropped him on his head, too. I inherited my gullability from him, so I'm not casting aspersions.

The car needed major repairs every month. I was never able to pay Dad back for its purchase, because it took every bit of my meager income to keep it on the road. Finally, he sold it.

"I'll never own another Chrysler," I said one day.

"Never say never," my dad warned. "As soon as you do, you'll have to take it back."

The next day, my aunt in Florida called and said she had just bought a new car. She was selling her old car very cheap, and she wondered if I would be interested. It had low mileage, and the only reason she bought a new one was because she liked the color.

I accepted her offer, and soon found myself in possession of a beautiful red coupe with white leather seats.

The upholstery wasn't prime. My aunt had a grandson whose mother never taught him manners when it came to the use of a pen knife, and he apparently thought the manufacturer could have provided more texture to the smooth white leather. Still,it ran good, was in my price range, and did I mention what make it was?

They Call Me Baby Speed Bump

Lucille — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 18:54:28 GMT

The government can�t solve all of our problems. If it could, the guy who served me a cold hamburger for lunch would be facing hard time. I mean, after all, it�s not like his oversight is a first offense. He�s served other unsuspecting patrons the same greasy, undercooked lump of cow, and should have to pay with his spatula.

There are some things our state governments should tackle, and one of those is the protection of our children. Hey, I don�t like kids either, but they do grow up eventually, and they make lousy speed bumps, so I think our legislators ought to address this problem. Little kids, I mean the ones under say twelve, shouldn�t be allowed to ride motorcycles.

Yes, I can just hear it. Its like the jokes circulating the Internet where manufacturers advise us we should keep their knives out of children or that using their electric hair dryers in the shower is not a good idea. To most of us, these words of wisdom seem so obvious that we are amazed that anyone would feel it necessary to tell us. But, while there is a limit to human intelligence, human stupidity is boundless. Here is a case in point.

I have a client who hired me to file an emergency petition to keep her former husband from transporting their 3-year-old, 32 pound kid on the back of his Harley. Fortunately, the judge made the right decision, and for the time being, Daddy has to pick the kid up in his truck. But the Welfare department and the police felt helpless to intervene against this behavior because it is not illegal. It�s not???? you might be saying. That�s what I said, and I�m a lawyer. It is true. You can�t drive your kids around in a car, van, or truck without appropriate safety restraints unless you want a ticket. It is, however, perfectly legal in all states for a little kid to be placed on the back of a motorcycle and only be protected by Daddy�s driving ability and the strength of his grip on Daddy�s shirt.

The fact that Junior could fly off the bike if Daddy were to hit one of our many potholes or suddenly have to brake because of traffic conditions has no bearing on whether Daddy is guilty of neglecting his duty. I guess if the kid lets go or loses his grip, its his tough break. After all, it was on his watch, and he sure as heck will know better next time, if there is a next time.

The paramedics who scrape his little body off the road, and the coroner who has to verify the cause of death have no gripe. If the little idiot had just held on like Daddy told him to, he�d possibly still be with us. But, who cares? Dead kids make great news copy.

Maybe I�m being old fashioned. After all, I am a lady of a certain age, and while that age isn�t anything I care to advertise, when I was growing up, my parents had the strange notion that they were supposed to protect me. They didn�t let me do harmless things like roller skate on Highway 52 or take rides home from school with strangers. Neither of them drove a motorcycle, so maybe I�m missing the point.

I ask you, parents of the world, am I wrong? Is there an excellent reason for a little kid to ride on the back of a �hog� that I don�t understand? Would we be denying our youth a right as important as, say, their education if we outlawed this behavior? Would our nursery school students stage a protest in Washington if this exciting and fun form of transportation was universally outlawed for them? What do you think? Tell me. Better yet, check your state laws and tell your legislature if your kids aren�t protected from such stupidity before some unsuspecting toddler is killed or permanently injured.

The Black Widow Chapter 7

Lucille — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 19:26:22 GMT

When "Jimbo" announced his mission, I felt a bit of a jolt. He mentioned that a friend of his had asked him once if he wasn't afraid that TW might do him in. He didn't think so. After all, she had told him she loved him, so he felt safe back then. Since she was having a fling, he was concerned that she might have had a change of heart about letting him live. If I represented him, I might make it to her list, and so I wasn't anxious to be involved in their marital woes. I didn't want to tell him I'd help if I wasn't a little afraid of his wife, but I did manage to extract myself gracefully.

"You see, Jimbo, the problem is that I have represented both of you before, and it would be a conflict of interest if I were to take either side."

We agreed that if Jimbo wanted to divorce the "Black Widow," I would do the paper work if they reach an agreement. If they fight over anything, they will each have to get their own new attorneys. Jimbo says that's fine with him, and he'll tell TW to make an appointment with me to get things started. Does anyone know where I can get a good strong dead bolt?

The Black Widow Chapter 6

Lucille — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 19:22:12 GMT

The fates of husbands 1 - 3 were under discussion. At least, that is what Harold James, "just call me Jimbo" sort of said at one point. He seemed to have a lot of trouble sticking to the subject. He didn't have any trouble coming up with plenty of them, he just couldn't find one he liked well enough to examine for more than one sentence. Eventually, he told me that what he wanted was a divorce. It took him a half hour to share that information. It appeared that, well, except for a few delicately selected omissions, I'll let him explain:

"You know, I been in the hospital 3 times, and then up here for a long time, and TW ain't been to see me once. I told her I loved her, and wrote to her 4 times. And you know what got back to me? She says that my letters upset her! But, what about me? I can't think but one good reason for her to be mad at me. Back when I worked for the city, well they told me she needed an operation, and I said "Go ahead, do it", and the nurse told me it wasn't no thyroid tumor that she had. The nurse said that TW had her a baby girl. TW told me that that was true, because the thing moved, and your thyroid wouldn't do that on you.

So, anyway, I make good money, but I don't even have 5 dollars in my wallet. I say, TW we should go out for dinner. She pays all the bills, and takes all my money. In fact, I called the credit union and they said I didn't have nothing in my account. She bought herself a pair of shoes, and I didn't raise a bit of ... heck? All I said was "you need 'em Babe, so I'm glad you got 'em."

So, anyway, there's this guy, I'll call him "X", cause I know you ain't supposed to name names. Even I know that much. Well, his name is Sammy Goodwin, but I shouldn't have told you that. Anyway, he calls every morning and they talk for hours. She leaves the house and they meet for coffee. You know, she pushed one of her old men out in front of a truck, and done shot the other one while he was on the toilet. Editor's note: I had also heard that one of her spouses seccumbed to electric shock when she threw her hair dryer into the bath with him). Sometimes she ain't in the house from 9:00 in the morning til 10:00 at night. And that's why I want a divorce.

The Black Widow Chapter 5

Lucille — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 19:16:26 GMT

There are days when I think Radar likes to stir things up. She loves a good story as much as I do, but sometimes I swear she doesn't feel she gets enough just answering my phone and fielding inquiries about why I really can't afford to work for free and that no, I don't think the prosecutor sells the drugs the police confiscate. If I don't have anything else to do, I sit in my recliner, like I happen to be doing right now and write. I could do this all day, and be perfectly content.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy talking to clients, and going to court always gives me something to think about. But my first love is writing, and it always has been. Nothing pleases me more than having the chance to write a brief telling some judge or other why the only side of a case happens to be the one I'm promoting.

Today, Radar decided that I shouldn't spend my off time in my artist's garret, or as she so crudely put it, on my big fat ... Of course, I had to go to court. My defendant ended up with a misdemeanor pot charge because his lawyer is a genius, but that is beside the point. The fact that the state didn't have squat to convict him of anything else helped, but I was the one who pointed that out. It was after his case that Radar arranged for me to enter the twilight zone.

"You need to go out to the nursing home for one of your favorite clients," She sounded too pleased with herself for me to believe she was telling the unvarnished truth.

You mean the black widow is in the nursing home?" I thought I was being sarcastic. The "Black Widow" is my favorite client in the way that Fidel Castro is my favorite Cuban. She is as interesting as a train wreck, and almost as dangerous.

"No, it is her husband. He says he needs to talk to you immediately."

"Her husband is in the nursing home?"

I admit I was a little concerned about the details. The "Widder" as we fondly call her is rumored to have disposed of two or three husbands. Husband # 4, the only one she hasn't killed yet, is the one I was supposed to visit. Not to unjustly accuse the good lady, but it did cross my mind that she may have had something to do with his current address. He wasn't dead, but the "widder" is older now, and she may be slipping.

The BlackWidow Chapter 4

Lucille — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 19:11:16 GMT

And, I was, as many young barresters are, an inpecunious party
Gilbert and Sullivan

When you are first starting out as a lawyer, you tend to get attached to your clients. You are inclined to believe just about anything they tell you. In part, this is because you yourself have been trodden on by authority figures all your life, and are sure they are getting the same bum rap you got when you --- never mind. The other reason for your loyalty is the simple fact that they paid you, and no one has done that before while you were wearing clean clothes.

I arrived at the hearing ready to do battle for the Widow and her father. I was prepared to remind the judge that not everyone had a good background and happy home life. Some of our less fortunates turned to alcohol to soothe their wounded psychies. It wasn't the choice we would have them make, but Judge, there surely is room for mercy when dealing with such as these. Please, Judge, these good, but less fortunate people don't need the harsh centure of society, they just need soap and water -- I mean understanding and compassion.

I entered the courtroom majestically. I only fanned my nose a couple of times to disburse the stench. After all, it would be bad form to gag or pass out. I was ready to make my plea, when I heard a voice from the bench.

"You again," the judge said sadly, "All right, I assume the two of you were drinking, got in a fight, and the police were called. Then what?"

Tomorrow, we'll fast forward to a more recent place and time.

The Black Widow Chapter 3

Lucille — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 19:07:26 GMT

When I, Good friends, was called to the bar, I'd an appetite fresh and hearty.
Gilbert and Sullivan

Well, I didn't have a lot of experience. Because of that, I assumed the police had been a little hard on the Widow and her Daddy. I asked for "discovery", which is a request for any information the prosecutor has that makes him think he can send my innocent, defenseless clients to jail.

According to the police, the Widow and Daddy had been throwing a few back at our local pub. They had gotten into a heated discussion, which included beer being splashed about in a most unseemly manner. The pub's owner wasn't against his customer's having occasional baths, he just didn't think they should do it on his premises, with the product he usually sold to go inside his patrons, rather than on them and his floor and tables.

He suggested that they could continue their volatile little chat elsewhere, which prompted them to leave the establishment with a few choice suggestions about the barkeep's parentage. Nevertheless, his suggestion that he could arrange for them to spend a few luxurious days at a barred spa he knew did encourage them to "take it somewhere else."

The morning of their court appearance finally came. It was my second or third time in front of a judge, so I was nervous. I dressed carefully and mentally rehearsed a speech that would have made Perry Mason proud.

to be continued

The Black Widow Chapter 2

Lucille — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 19:05:32 GMT

I suggested that maybe she would be given probation. After all, she should get points for modifying her criminal activities from capitol offenses to misdemeanors. The next day, she was in my office. This time, her father was with her.

It appeared that the Widow wasn't the only one facing a visit to criminal court. Daddy had also been arrested on the same day, for pretty much the same reason. Apparently, they could have drunk themselves silly without inspiring police intervention, but the screaming match they enjoyed in front of the police station annoyed the cops. My guess would be that our town's finest asked the dueling pair to leave, and when they refused to do it, they were invited to sample the Gray Bar Hotel's accomodations.

That day in my office, they were a united front. They were falsely accused, and the police owed them an apology. After all, they were standing on someone's front lawn when they were "having their discussion", and the fact that it was private property precluded "public" intoxication as a charge. Could they really be arrested for having a family conference across the street from a police station? Was it wrong for a father and daughter to chat, just because they weren't on their own property? Had either of them enjoyed the benefits of soap and water in the last month? For answers to this, and one or two other questions of great philosophical import, stay tuned.

The Black Widow Chapter 1

Lucille — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 18:57:53 GMT

Every town has its characters. I suspect I'm one of ours. After all, how many blind lady lawyers do you know? I've lived here for the last 30 years as an an adult, and was raised here from the time I was 12 until I went to college, so my fellow citizens have had plenty of time to get used to me.

Another citizen of long standing is a lady we affectionately call"The Black Widow. Her family has been here for generations. Her father was a fire fighter before he was injurred. Her mother was crazy, and she made sure her daughter had an adequate level of the right genetic material to carry on the tradition.

I first met "The Black Widow" when I was walking up the post office steps one afternoon. She was feeling no pain, having consumed half the beer in our county. As I recall, it was Friday, and I was mailing something for my parents before I got down to the business of consuming the other half. The Widow introduced herself, and remarked that she heard I was the new lawyer in town. I admitted that, despite the fifth amendment, and she proceeded to tell me her woes.

She had apparently recently been arrested for public intoxication, and she didn't want to go to jail. She had had several priors, and was afraid that our local judge would not treat her little adventure as a first offense.

LU: "A lot would depend on the last time you were in trouble, and what you did."

BW: "Its been about 10 years since I was in trouble before."

LU: "Then, you shouldn't be too bad off. What was your previous crime?"

BW: "It started out as murder, but they reduced it to manslaughter."

It Don't Come Easy!

Lucille — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 20:24:58 GMT

Ringo Starr was right! When he wrote those prophetic words, the Internet hadn't even been invented. But, he was sooo right!

I am changing my web site. I got everything written. I hoped to upload it, and start working on --- ANYTHING else.

You see, I love to write. I love the Internet. I love to write for the Internet. but I hate to figure out technology, which is the only way my writing can reach the web. Well, for what it's worth, I'm back, and Ringo was SOOO right!