Prospect Park, Brooklyn

I am a lawyer.  This means that I think about future contingencies and the probability of bad things happening and how to protect against bad things happening that have not yet happened. It’s a dance, this protection of bad things.  I run around carefully laying down arrows before people’s feet, like “don’t go this way!” or “HEAVENS SWEET MARY DO NOT TAKE A LEFT.”

I write a lot of contracts.  Sometimes I scowl and shake my head at innovation or even compassion because of the inadvertent layering of future bad things atop the good.  I sit in meetings and scratch my head and answer text messages from ladies named Sharon.  Think of me as some muttering old professor, always trying to create walkways over water.  Bridges over bombs.  Pathways around trouble.  I talk to myself while walking toward the bathroom.  Maybe that’s why no one takes me to lunch.

But here I go referring to bad things and good things like I’m some hand-wringing evil avoider.  It’s just merging companies or buying widgets and no one is dying.  And let’s not kid ourselves. I’m in Target at lunch buying socks for my kids who always manage to lose their socks.  I am no superhero, and my job isn’t that important. Except when people are fired and laid off and punished for the color of their skin.  Or when someone works so very hard to build something from nothing, only to have that something vanish because of a deal gone wrong.  Every penny they worked for is just ripped out from underneath them.  It’s all just boilerplate on a page that no one reads but the lawyers.

I do.  I read those words. I’m in a profession people turn to when there are problems, real or in the future. In some small way lawyers are a tool to avoid these atrocities, and are paid to fight against such wrongs when they surge. So it’s only natural that when I see something, I rush on past it to the next thing, and imagine how that thing will be avoided by some reworking of this thing.  It’s no wonder I imagine my children in college and believe they’ll never pass Chemistry. How could they, really, when we spent two hours with dolls and imaginary tea parties and I let them skip bath and now we are all just lying in one bed with unbrushed teeth atop each other snoring.

I often can’t just let life be. To lie in bed and look at leaves fluttering to the earth, or live inside of love without the fear of it being crushed.  I try to write out my current station in life so clear that it cannot be ambiguous, or terminated without cause, and will withstand the scrutiny of any judge.  And yet life is not a contract.  Even contracts we make between two people and God, as any family lawyer knows, can be broken. And we are left only with today – shreds of us, really – floating along.  And when we collect all those pieces to form a life again, we begin wringing our hands at what it all means, and what future is to come, and whether we will again be ripped open like a deal gone south in a smoky back room.

I didn’t read the boilerplate.  The love will someday vanish.

And yet God tells us to not worry, us goofy little humans.  For if he cares for the ravens, he cares for us.  His yoke is easy and his burden is light. The same language is repeated throughout the scripture that we are and will forever be taken care of. The edges will be made smooth.  The pathways straight.  “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28.

There are times that I fear the future, when flakes of me fall like snow and I panic at the thought of losing myself again in the weather.  And yet I cannot write a life that suits me.  I cannot create an air-tight pathway that my legal brain craves.  What I can do is trust, and pray harder than I expected, and smooth out the rushed and harried edges of my heart.

The other day I walked along the long pathways of Prospect Park on the edge of a rain, holding the hand of the One Whom I Love, and for once didn’t worry about the future.  I felt solid and calm. I knew this is all I care to be, and all I care to live, and all I care to do.  And in the echoed and narrow aisles of the St. Patrick’s Cathedral with scaffolding covering the stained glass like an apron, I grasped his hand and whispered to God that I am thankful this torn and beautiful life, just a drop amidst a congregation dripping.  For outside these holy walls where two-dollars-will-light-you-a-candle is a Burberry store with four-hundred-dollar scarves, and people drenched with greed, and yet I am on the inside of love.

I am a lawyer.  I worry about how current things affect future things.  Yet at the same time I am learning to not worry.  For I am a daughter cherished. His hand has written the most perfect contract that cannot, no matter how much I scrunch up my nose, be terminated.  And this allows me to rest in the knowledge that the good can outweigh the bad, and love wins.

My friends.  Those intellectual and hollowed.  Those working and labored.  Stop worrying about the protection of your current status.  God is the arbitrator and the judge.  The prosecutor and the defender. We have but to lift up praises to the heavens, and offer ourselves as consideration for such a lofty gift. And in return we receive peace, amidst our toiled human instincts and flawed minds.  We can finally come to Him, the forever and the infinite; the never and always.  Despite our drenched hearts that fear love. Despite our minds that tear at things.  Despite our very selves.  We can finally rest.

Odd and Curious Thoughts (about being a lawyer)


(1)    You have to purchase replacement shoes.  As in “this is part of my wardrobe so it’s totally worth the investment because the leather is peeling off the back of these cheap ones because I hobble across pavement all the time to and from my car and don’t tell me your job is casual or you work from home and all you wear is flip flops because I will cut you.”  Anywho, back to purchasing heels.  Black is generally best.

(2)    People come into your office leading with statements like “I hope I’m not interrupting you but we have a situation.” Tantalizing.

(3)    Sometimes when it’s a boring Tuesday you can just wave your arms around in the hallway of a clinic and say things to a supervisor like “we can’t have our doctors left bare and bleeding on the stand and left with no defenses and when I say ‘medical record integrity’ I am dead serious,” and watch new nurses just blink and stare at you in fear and then you’re all “just kidding I’m just looking for the bathroom.”

(4)    When at cocktail parties, you just say you work in management so you won’t get asked how much child support some deadbeat ex is supposed to pay or whether a landlord has a duty to get rid of the cockroaches.  Because when drinking a cosmo at a swanky bar you don’t want to talk about someone’s bitter divorce and/or roaches. Mostly no to the roaches.

(5)    Why is someone here at this swanky bar that lives in an apartment with roaches and is not instead at Home Depot buying some sort of spray?

(6)    Saying you’re a lawyer makes one think you’re rich, when in reality most real estate salesman and drug reps I know make more money than lawyers.  Unless you successfully sue Exxon, in which case you’re doing fairly well and don’t have to worry about roaches. Or dates.  Or heels with worn leather backsides.

(7)    Sometimes when you’re skimming an article about a mass layoff, you begin to wonder if proper notice was given and start randomly researching the elements of a certain statute to see if that company did their due diligence and wonder what their severance agreements looked like and you’re all GOOD GRACIOUS WOMAN IT’S THURSDAY NIGHT DRINK A BEER AND QUIT RESEARCHING RANDOM CRAP THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU, YOUR CLIENT, OR YOUR LIFE.

(8)    Often a lawyer thinks “why didn’t I just become a language arts teacher or perhaps work in the Estee Lauder counter in the mall?”  Why is no one saying anything. Maybe it’s just me.

(9)    Being a lawyer means you read a lot of words, so if you are trying to date a lawyer you should stay away from statements like “hey you’re pretty I really don’t spell too great but maybe we should go on a date my name is Doug?” Just a tip.  A random tip I know nothing about.  Not that I’m a spelling or grammar nerd (Seriously, Doug? Seriously?)

(10) When you get a phone call and the Caller ID says “Office of Inspector General” or “Federal Bureau of Investigation” it’s best to just go to lunch because those people are so boring and have no sense of humor.

(11) And lastly, when your head hits the pillow at night, you can say with a deep breath that you helped create a lasting impression upon the world because you provided a legal opinion on some random subject that tomorrow, no one will remember.

It’s lovely being a lawyer.  Honestly I’d pick it over any other profession.  It keeps the lights on, helps me afford bug spray, allows me to make fun of myself, stocks my closet with shoes, and keeps my brain active so when I’m old and senile the health care workers will hear me shout “RES IPSA LOQUITOR!” at the top of my lungs as they feed me pudding. And honestly, isn’t that what life’s all about?



On Being a Lawyer


All of us are trained for something.  We make cappuccinos or hold human hearts in our hands or fix leaky pipes.  Well, I happen to be a lawyer.

Having this profession means I’m trained to look at words with a certain critical eye, wondering how sentences back clients into corners, or create paper giants that will take off their straw hats someday when no one expects, when executives have new jobs and children are peacefully sleeping in their beds and the moon is fading next to the morning sun.  It’s then when the aggrieved will roar.

I once got a call on a Tuesday afternoon from a heart surgeon with kind wrinkles and silver hair who liked to volunteer at the local community clinic and had a pretty young wife. His voice cracked and his breathing was quick, and I knew.  I knew that this highly-educated man, who could remain calm under any form of pressure, was breaking.  A life could be on the line and squiggly lines could flatten but this man who would take deep cleansing breaths and call a code and draw from deep immeasurable pools of training and experience was trapped in a world he didn’t understand.

He’d been sued.  

And the moment his name was scrawled on bloody paper, the middle initial pierced between the first and last in print before him, the color ran from his face and all he saw was his life’s work twirling like a tornado, flocks of patients running from his office and the medical board digging into his charts like a dog after a meaty bone.  A house in the mountains and a Range Rover and kids at Stanford all faded, and all he saw was this.  He dialed my number with shaky fingers and said he didn’t understand.  He treated the patient’s family for a decade.  He was scared to death and swirling.  But now?  I called my own form of code and took a deep cleansing breath, working to save a different form of life.

I’ve spent a dozen years living this profession.  I can’t say I’m the best attorney that’s ever practiced, but I’m not afraid of analyzing a non-compete or looking up an issue I’ve never encountered or going head-to-head with some dude in a suit with an ego problem.  I’ve got this.  I know this.  I’ve grown into these pants.  And I realize it’s a mix of talent and determination and a good measure of grit, thankful for the good fortune of having parents who put education a priority and being born in a first-world nation. But mostly I’m just thankful I’ve been given this calling, and this ability to think differently, to help those who need it most.  I want to look into this man’s face and hold his hand and tell him that no one has the ability to rip his heritage away.  I’ve got this, I tell him.  And I mean it.

There are times I want squeeze out of these pants I’ve worn so long.  Do something different.  Shed the lawyer image. But even if I change into flannel pajamas and surround myself with play dates and grocery store runs, the call of law never really leaves.   Because once you know something – when you live it and study it and peel back the onion layers to smell it and cry it and feel it inside – it never goes away. Lawsuits that haven’t occurred yet in the far distant future plague my mind, wedged between actions and limitations, and arguments shuffle in priority order while I’m driving or eating toast or mopping a kitchen floor.  My mind’s a domino game of what-ifs and probabilities and percentages of risk, drawing circles around bombs that might never detonate.  Protect and secure and make safe.  That’s what policeman do and what mothers do and what lawyers do as well, although we get to wear more expensive uniforms and have sexier shoes.

I like to call myself a writer, but much as I want to hide from it, I’m also a lawyer.  Because I have spent too many hot showers trying to develop counter arguments that will not fail.  I can solve problems others cannot, and respond in the language lawyers understand, and I have the ability to stand in the face of an adversary and say with full confidence that “I do not fear you.” That is power, and something a man who has fixed a hundred leaky hearts cannot do.

So I suppose I’ll always wear these pants, stitched with secret knives to shred all those paper dragons, who may never appear and just might turn out to be crumpled up tissue and sticks.  But every once in a while one will emerge large and ominous, and it’s in that moment I realize I’m in my element, and I was born for this, and I’ll never escape. Because I don’t just wear the pants of a lawyer any more.  The fabric has soaked into my skin and my own body has absorbed it up, so now it’s just a part of me, walking.



legal eagle

I am both revolted and thrilled at being a lawyer.


There are times I am confident I chose the right profession.  Instead of saying I’m a project manager or I do consulting work for a computer software company (yawn/bore/snooze), I get to say I’m an attorney.  That means I’m smart.  Tough.  It stands for something.  I get to wear heels and I’m not easily threatened.  I look forward to a good adversary and can hold my own in a swearing match.  And I’ll be damned if I didn’t settle an entire case once for $500 and a ream of copy paper.


And yet.


My heels are not from Neiman’s.  I got them at TJ Maxx with the size 10 sticker still firmly implanted on the inside of the heel.  I don’t read the Wall Street Journal, although I used to subscribe and marvel at those dot-art pictures, flipping through it to find a movie review or a piece on sea lions.  But all I found were boring articles on the economy.  Then I realized it’s called the Wall Street Freaking Journal and such articles are actually important to some (boring lame uninspired) people.  I dropped my subscription.


In my free time, instead of going to the theatre or golfing, I get online to check out what Angelina Jolie wore to the Oscars.  I like to search for hidden treasure at Goodwill and think of all the recipes I can make that contain pumpkin. In law school, I went on a hunt for antique mayonnaise jars the day before my Taxation of Estates final.  My study group just shook their head as if I went on some trek in the Amazon.  “What?” I said as I unscrewed a rusty lid and stuck my nose inside to see if the jar still smelled.


There is just something about law that’s flat-out boring.  A few months ago, I sat all day long in a freezing cold conference room staring at presentations about healthcare reform.  The speakers were just giddy about the subject matter and pranced about the podium rubbing their hands together with glee, espousing their opinions on section 501(r) and whether the government would come out with new regulations and – oh hell.  I was focusing on some lady’s hair and didn’t keep track of the rest.  I was impressed with their enthusiasm, though.  All top-of-their-class with great hair and Washington internships.  I can imagine them all conversing at a dinner party, giggling and drinking Bordeaux.   I worked for Representative Williams!  Really I did! I have an ornament to prove it!  Congressional Aide I was!  Bloody hell!


I kept pretending to take a call so I could step outside into the lobby.  I gave men around me that why can’t my office just leave me alone, already? look while I pressed my phone to my ear like I couldn’t hear and eased out of the room.  We were across the street from the capital; it’s not like we were in Somalia with questionable cell phone reception.  In reality, I was calling my secretary to tell her that I was dangerously close to letting my bar card expire and having a go at a juggling career.   I wondered if she had eaten lunch.  Did she have a sandwich?  Was there rain in the forecast?  Did she say she had ham? After the fifth call, my secretary told me to get off the phone and go back in.


“You’re starting to become annoying,” she said.


I trudged in and plunked down in my chair, opening spam emails to pass the time.  Did you know Frontgate was having a bedding sale and The Body Shop offered free shipping?  Fascinating!  I was so bored I texted everyone I knew with little random statements, such as “sitting at a CLE!” or “you having a good day?” or  “I’d like to slit my wrists because I chose the most boring career on the planet and perhaps I should re-evaluate my life here on earth and buy nicer shoes.”  But everyone else was busy or distracted or annoyed and didn’t respond.  I sat there rubbing my temples and smiling at the man next to me who said this was one of the best conferences yet.  “Oh yes,” I said.  “So informative.  Did you know about those relaxed jurisdictional rules?  Insane!”  We all giggled and adjusted our glasses and looked back at the speaker.  I tried to not focus on his freakishly thick hair, but let’s face it.  My focus was helplessly lost.


All the folks that talk at these conferences are from big mega-firms.  They eat and breathe this stuff.  They wouldn’t think of pondering whether strawberry and fig go together for the purposes of making jam or whether they should make seventeen hand-made birthday party invitations for a five-year-old.  Maybe I did choose the wrong career.   Maybe I missed my calling.


But then, I go back to work the next day, with a night full of rest and a mug full of strong coffee.  I listen to the methodical voices on NPR and inch up north through rush hour traffic.  When I get to the office, I have four voicemails from people who need my advice.  I have emails from folks who care what I think, who want me to help them answer their questions.  Edit their letters.  Review their contracts. Ease their minds.  No one cares about my shoes, although today I am rockin Ann Klein Leopard-print peek-a-boos.


I laugh when someone tells me they will sue, because I know they are lying and instead simply forgot to take their bipolar meds.  I have a head that’s bursting with knowledge about causation and limits of liability and risk.  I am a professional, and can go head-to-head with others because I’ve earned the right.  Then, at that very moment, I know I’m meant to be an attorney.  Those speakers are dull because they choose to be dull.  I celebrate Wednesdays and send out quotes from Joan Rivers via email and shop for old jars.  And if I need something from the conference, I can always look through the powerpoint slides. I suppose that, despite hating legal conferences, I like what I do.  After all, when someone says they’ll have their lawyer call me, I get a tingly feeling in my stomach.  “Go ahead,” I say through a crooked grin.  “I welcome the call.”


Here’s to being a lawyer.  Go ahead.  Sue me.