Random thoughts and fever pitch

Sausage Egg McMuffins and Quarter Pounders with Cheese are nice for breakfast and rush-hour dinner every once in a while.  Not every day.  Ugh.  Especially interspersed with Courthouse Food, which is Universally Awful.

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Never let a civil litigator tell you that they love litigation because they have a passion for justice.  They really do it because they have a passion for Being Right, and more importantly, Making the Other Guy Look Like the Asshole S/He is.

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I-84 from Sturbridge to Hartford is BORING.

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The “Great Courses of the World” Buddhism course?  More boring than the road from Sturbridge to Hartford.

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Even if you are a foot shorter, 50 + pounds lighter, and wearing three inch heels, unlike your male partner with whom you are second seating the trial?  You still get to lug the extra bag with all the evidence, the post-its, extra highlighters, legal pads, red pens, the rule book, and the medical dictionary.  If you look up “Junior Associate” in a legal dictionary, you will find the following: “see Sherpa.”

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The Junior Associate always entertains the Claims Representative.  Which is fine, because you otherwise don’t get to take them out to lunch that much.

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The burning fire in your gut fuels thoughts all the way back home, and your mind whirs in crystal clarity, so elusive at other times.  (Why can’t you feel this clear when balancing your checkbook?)  Your dictaphone is full of ideas to be listened to when you get home, ready to make notes on pre-existing outlines, or call your colleague, to be fleshed out when the parties take up arms again the next day.

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“Awesome” means so much more when it comes from someone who has at least nominal power over your next pay raise.

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When you’re “On” for trial, it’s hard to focus on anything else.  Your mind withdraws its ability to attend– making dinner, other cases, any conversation that doesn’t involve a rehash of the day just past, or a endless speculation about the day to come.

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No matter the jurisdiction, no matter the amenities at the courthouse, self-deprecating jokes about lawyers’ hot air will always convince the clerk’s office to make you one more set of free copies.

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Sometimes, your spouse nudges you in your sleep to make you stop arguing the next day’s motion, or presenting the next day’s cross, so he can get to sleep.

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And then you look forward to cooking dinner, and finishing your next freelance piece (Roast Beef Sandwich Heavens in Boston), and to winding down before winding up all over again in a month, or two, or six.  Eyes on the horizon, but not so intently that the goals in the middle ground are forgotten.  For now.

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You’re glad you’ve all that Ice Cream left over from The Social, because you’re damned if you remembered to buy any food while you were drafting jury instructions.  Strawberry sauce counts as a fruit/vegetable, right?

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