The Dreadful Calm Between the Storms

You know, the crime shows and movies never show the aggregate deadly hours of waiting for something to happen in court. I am trapped on the bench at the moment, in all my medieval costume splendor, waiting for the attorneys in a contested divorce to emerge from the conference room and tell us all whether my sage advice has moved either of their clients even a millimeter one way or the other. The errant husband in the  matter before the court today (this divorce has been hanging around since 2010) was in front of me yesterday, too. But that was for his conviction for domestic violence against the current girlfriend. Today he is resplendent in a black t-shirt emblazoned with a logo referencing some band tour and featuring either skeletons or zombies ... I can't tell from here. And they can't figure out why I don't take them seriously. Ain't love a grand thing?

The Granddaughter

This matter was scheduled for all day, but I'm hoping that they will have enough sense to realize that they are going to end up paying their lawyers far more to try this case than the value of their entire, dissipated marital estate. But what is money when "principles" are at stake? Am I sounding ever so slightly jaded this morning?

I am once again deep in the slough of academia; the Women In Criminal Justice class at the college. It's an upper division course which I have taught a number of times and I still despair over the students' grasp of history, social theory and general life experience. However, as a wise colleague reminded me, they're only kids, Jayne. I try to recall what I knew (or, more to the point, didn't know) when I was 19 or 20. The memory doesn't really extend so far back. So I am yet again trying to inure myself to the deer-in-the-headlights look that seems to be the classroom-wide response to some things that I say. The most recent examples of this phenomenon include, but are not limited to:

1)  My brilliant explanation of how the historical spectrum of societal perception of women, which falls between the concepts of the Madonna and the Whore, fell to pieces around my feet when I came to discover that they had absolutely no idea who the iconic figure of The Madonna was (no, she has not recorded anything);
2)  I handed out two newspaper articles this week for them to read. One was about the remarkably patriarchal and vicious attacks still being made by media and parliamentarians on Margaret Thatcher, lo, all these years on. None of them, in a room of nearly 20 college juniors and seniors, could tell me WHO Margaret Thatcher was (is)!!!
3) I use the term "paradigm" a lot in lecture; one of the kids finally asked me what that word meant (I tell them early on to either ask or look up any word I use that they don't understand). However, this was not before someone tried to explain an archetype in an essay exam by using the word "paradiddle."

Alas, this shall all be over for awhile come May when final grades are due. And they are nice kids. Sometimes my vast age comes to haunt me ...

Ah, most excellent! The attorneys have announced that the matters at issue have been settled and have announced the parties' agreement. We are spared trial. One of the lawyers said he asked his client whether he really wanted "all that stuff to come out in a trial in front of the judge" and the client replied, "Hey, man, don't worry about it. She already knows about all this stuff." One can only smile and shake one's head ... (or, as they say in The South, bless 'em, Lord!).

There is more to be said, but not at this moment.

Now we are waiting for the gas company technician to get to the house to look at my fireplace and tell me whether he can install a remote control for it, or if I have to replace the entire unit to do that. If the brilliant construction techniques and fine materials used on the place before I bought it are any indication, it will be a new unit. The house was not finished when I bought it and I didn't know at the time that the builder was at the terminal end of his own divorce. This is only relevant because I have come to discover over the past six and a half years that the only things in the house I can be sure of are those which I purchased and had installed myself. The gas fireplace wasn't one of them. And, since the controls are tucked safely away underneath the firebox, just above the floor, turning the flippin' thing on and off is a project of Python-esque low comedy. I end up lying on the floor, fending off dogs and cats who think this is some sort of cuddle time (they must think I'm someone else ...), twisting around trying to see the tiny instructions on the card with the correct lens in my trifocal glasses, and generally feeling put upon and grumpy. The whole concept of lovely, leaping flame at the press of a button shimmers before my failing vision like a promise from a troubadour's song. For those of you who didn't get that allusion, read: lovely, romantic, and completely false! Anyway, I anticipate my knight errant shall arrive shortly in drooping jeans, a work shirt, ball cap and big ol' boots to tell me that they have a great deal for me ...

W-S finest ...

I have been having bucolic fantasies lately about gardening this spring and summer. Do not panic and think that my senile dementia is progressing even faster than you thought. I'm not considering anything more fantastic than some raised beds for a few vegs out back beyond the deck. This would involve having either the handyman or the yard guy build said raised beds (and we're talking about raised clear off the ground; I have no illusions about weeding that involves any bending) and do all the hauling and lifting before I dirty my dainty hands with seedlings (I have no patience for all that embryonic stuff) and watering cans. I'm sure the yard guy will have something to say about where the beds go; he, after all, is the one who is tasked with all the work out there. And, in truth, I see nothing idyllic about trooping across the yard out to the garden beds. I think I just want to clump down off the deck, pick what I need, and go make dinner. I was seduced by the pictures of raised beds on the back of the Williams Sonoma catalog, but I have no intention of paying the steep tariff they require for what I can get for much less at the local hardware store, even after paying The Guys to put it all together. I am making an effort to be prudent. That way I have more money to splash out on cookbooks and Le Creuset cookware that I don't need. We shall see how this stands the test of reality. I may just spend the money on a new fireplace and lie about staring out the French doors at my garden-less demesne. Which, when you come to think on it, makes a whole lot more sense. More than those trendy chicken coops Williams Sonoma was flogging, anyway ...

I am patiently waiting for the weather to improve to the point that I can once more terrorize the neighborhood with my Vespa scooter. She has been sitting patiently under her shroud all winter in the garage. Plugged in to her trickle charger and being moved a few inches ever week or so to keep the tires from flattening. I shall be interested to see if the novelty has worn off and the courthouse staff and law enforcement in general will not feel compelled to remark upon all the strange costumes I could affect and ride around town wearing. Oh well, I suppose that is far more harmless than following me around in patrol cars to make sure I don't fall over. One of my bicycles is on the trainer in the room with the TV monitor. The theory was that I could ride it while watching the endless movies on offer there. I shall be very glad when I can take it back outside and swan along the river. There is little to be enjoyed about mindlessly pedaling inside. I have been looking at bike tours and hoping for some inspiration for my granddaughter and me. We are both happier in a corner with our nose in a book or listening to music and knitting than out blasting around the countryside or playing courts. However, we are constantly harangued by her father and my son (who look remarkably alike) to get out and move. So bike trip it may be.

And, with that, I leave this blog-lette. The fireplace guy is imminent and I have to finish the study guide for the next exam before my more clingy students start calling and feigning panic. I truly hope you are all well and that life is not being any more horrid than usual to you.

Defeats are usually temporary and their effects short-lived. The battle is not the war.

(Nando Pelusi, Ph.D.)