With apologies to those who've already heard this on Twitter or Facebook:

Every lawyer going through law school has to decide what type of law that they eventually want to end up practicing. That Law and Order stuff you see is for the litigators, the guys who stand up and argue in front of judges and juries. More power to them, but there are many other disciplines: corporate, intellectual property, securities and transactions, and more.

Midway through her law school, bubblesutonium decided that she wanted to study tax law.

When we explain this to most of our friends in the legal profession, the usual reaction is about what you'd expect if a medical student explained that they want to become an expert on colon cancer. It's a valued and important specialty; you're glad somebody's working on it, and you're glad it's not you.

The hell of it is that this isn't a pose: bubblesutonium is genuinely interested in this stuff. It's esoteric, obscure even to other lawyers, tends to make experienced litigators glaze over in party conversations, but warms the cockles of her economics-educated heart.

As a bonus, tax law is mostly recession-proof: highly specialized with a constant demand. There are only two certainties in life, and bubblesutonium has no interest in becoming a mortician.

The problem, which we knew going in, is that tax law, because of its complexity, requires--you see it coming--more schooling. It's one of the only legal disciplines that needs an extra graduate degree. The degree is called an LLM, a master of laws. For two semesters, nine months, you study nothing but tax law. Sound like fun?

bubblesutonium still wanted to do it.

UW has a tax LLM program, but it's not very well regarded. In fact, it was explained to both of us that in the world of tax LLM programs, there really were only two choices. There was NYU's law school in New York, and then there was everything else. Boston University, Georgetown, and Northwestern have good, well regarded programs, but for tax lawyers, NYU was Harvard and a Fulbright scholarship rolled into one.

So she sent them an application.

Which they've accepted.

Unless a job falls in her lap sometime between now and then, bubblesutonium will be in New York this fall. God willing, we'll probably end up graduating at the same time in 2010. Hopefully the economy will have settled down by then.

(SInce I'm sure somebody's going to ask: No, we're not moving. Bar the occasional visit, I'm staying right here for the duration.)

It's more work and yet more schooling, but it's a chance for my wife to have something she's always wanted: a highly specialized, lucrative, professional career in a field that she loves. And she earned that chance the hard way. This is the same woman who, five years ago, was wait-listed and then rejected from Seattle University's law school. Now she's a magna cum laude law school grad who's been admitted to one of the top law programs in the country.

Faith manages. Hard work gets you some interesting places too.

I couldn't be more happy for her.

Last week my father sent me a yellowing, much-folded copy of a newspaper article on my maternal grandfather and the company he ran in the early 1970s. God love Grandpa, but pull quotes were not his specialty. Of his years at the company, he said, "It's been interesting and I've enjoyed it. I think the results have been satisfactory."

It's not quite "The nourishment is palatable," but it's up there.

I miss Grandpa terribly, but he's long gone. My other grandfather, though--I call him Granddad--is alive, reasonably hale, and one of my favorite relatives. Yeah, he's nearly deaf, and not moving too fast, but his mind is still sharp and his humor wonderful. bubblesutonium and I just returned from a short visit with him at his home outside Milwaukee.

It was a lovely weekend, with good food and great conversation and one hell of a lot of motorcycles. Turns out over 100,000 bikers and their companions poured into town this weekend for Harley-Davidson's "105th Anniversary" party. I have never seen so many motorcycles in my life, all with the signature potato-potato-potato-potato sound of a Harley engine.

All the hotels had large sections of the parking lot blocked off for the bikes. Our hotel had set up a free bike-washing station with lots of extra shop towels for polishing up the chrome. Every business had a WELCOME BIKERS sign outside its front door, not excepting the local concrete company.

I missed my old bike a bit, but I don't think my BMW would have gone over too well with the Harley crowd. They're not as impressed with German engineering as I am.

They say that one of the ways to face the horrors and fears of your life is to write about them. It helps you to make those fears smaller, and manageable.

Okay.

Here, then, are all the reasons why I'm turning into my mother.

1. The hair. Going grey in exactly the same pattern.

2. The wrinkles. My mother (and hers before her, for that matter) always looked young for their age, but they developed this odd network of fine wrinkles around their eyes very young. The glasses help cover mine. I view this as another perfectly fine reason to wear Nerd-O-Vision lenses instead of contacts.

3. The difficulties in letting someone else into their kitchen. bubblesutonium, God bless her, decided to cook dinner the other night. (Tasty, tasty dinner.) It took acts of will to let my wife, who not only lives here but co-owns every possession I have under community property law, use my good kitchen knives. WTF?

4. The mild insomnia. Thanks, Mom.

5. The late-onset obsessive-compulsive disorder. I've turned keeping the downstairs clean into near-zealotry. I went to clean out my car today and discovered that the only items I could find in the car were an ice scraper and an old tin of Altoids. I did seven loads of laundry the other day while whacked out on cold meds. I'm giving serious consideration to putting a small cat bed on the desk behind my monitor in an attempt to get Sandy to shed in one, easily cleaned place.

I'm the lower-rent, more hirsute, less successful version of my mother. You have no idea how this unnerves me.

Fortunately, I still have two skills my mother does not: I can jog, and I can parallel park. Identity differentiation for the win!

Dear Mom: Of course I still love you. Remember that while you're dreaming up the exact wording for the message you're about to leave on my voice-mail.

My mother and step-dad, long since retired and living on an island, are currently working on a community project that is eating their lives. They've been putting in 10 hour days every day for the last couple of weeks, and the end is not yet in sight.

I think my mother had completely forgotten about mother's day until I called her this afternoon.

"Do I need to recite the 'By the way, you're retired now' speech again?" I asked.

To all the other Moms reading my scribbling, a very happy Mom's Day to you.

A mother is not a person to lean on but a person to make leaning unnecessary. - Dorothy Canfield Fisher

The hell of it is, when you look at bubblesutonium's picture, she looks exactly the same. She had a few more pounds on her at the time, but that's the only difference. To this day, she has not a grey hair, no smile lines, nothing. The pictures could have been taken yesterday.

Albinism hath its privileges.

Me? In the pictures, I look at least a decade younger, maybe more. Long, long hair. No grey hair, no beard, no glasses. No fine network of lines around the eyes. Sharper, less watery eyes.

Still, when we look at each other these days, the smile is the same.

Happy anniversary, babe. Eight years and counting.

Barring his childhood in eastern Maryland and a few years for a world war, my grandfather has spent most of his ninety-*cough* years living near Milwaukee, Wisconsin. For many years he lived in a beautiful pre-war brick house in an upscale suburb called Wauwatosa. It had a detached garage in the back, with a long driveway.

One day I asked him if he ever got tired of shoveling the snow during a Wisconsin winter.

"Well," he said in his cement-mixer baritone, "you have to remember that I'm retired. I don't have to get up every morning and drive to work at the hospital any more.

"So, when it snows, I go out in the morning, shovel a bit, and go back in when I get tired of it.

"The next day I go out again, shovel a bit more, and go back in when I get tired.

"Eventually, one of two things happens. Either I finish shoveling the driveway, or the snow melts. Either way works for me."

This is not news, of course, but she's reached a new plateau. She's a rock star.

(Except, er, her band's MySpace page is completely broken on both Safari and Firefox. Hm. Try this if the other site doesn't work for you.)

Good stuff. Tell your friends.

My life is, shall we say, a bit interesting right now. Someday soon I'll be able to write about it.

In the meanwhile, over the last week, I've made it to one baseball game (Seattle won), one basketball game (Seattle lost), one impromptu sushi-and-drinks dinner, and about half of a show by the Tiptons. The Tiptons are five women, four saxophonists and one percussionist, who play a brand of music called, for lack of a better term, "eclectic jazz." Neat stuff. I wish we'd been able to stay longer. Their opener was good too, a local salsa/swing band with some good chops.

While travelling to Kansas City for my father-in-law's funeral, I read the new edition of Robert Penn Warren's All The King's Men. Later I reread one of my favorite biographies, Sheldon Novack's Honorable Justice, a biography of Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, and continued muddling my way through The Nothing That Is: A Natural History of Zero. In idle moments I've been paging through a bit of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations.

Distraction, and lots of it. Sometimes that's useful.

---

So this is a U.S. Navy-issue funeral:

On a glorious day, with the Kansas sun turning the headstones into uniform, shining beacons of white, the family gathers on a lush hillside with grave markers as far as the eye can see. You follow a man in a dark suit and a government issue car to a small, open-air pavillion about halfway up the hill. There the family arranges itself uncomfortably on four benches before a small altar holding your father-in-law's ashes.

An African American preacher steps up and stumbles over the details of the deceased's name and life before going into five minutes of a highly entertaining, rhythmic, passionate, "praise the Lord and pass the tabasco sauce, Amen" riff on death and salvation in the Lord. The Navy lieutenant present manages to keep a straight face whle the Navy lieutenant commander nearly cracks up.

A bugler plays 'Taps.' Both Navy personnel carefully fold an American flag. The commander, still laughing, hands the flag to your mother-in-law, recites a set speech about the thanks of a grateful nation.

Everyone gets up, returns to their cars, and drives to a far corner of the cemetary, where a tiny but deep one-foot-by-one-foot hole has been dug. The box of ashes is dropped in the hole. Everyone throws a handful of dirt in. Two polite civilians quickly replace the dirt and carefully arrange a divot over top. Two minutes later, there's no visual sign that the hole had ever been there.

Fifteen minutes from start to finish. Quick, efficient, orderly disposal. Everyone smiles, thanks the preacher and the man in the dark suit, and wanders off.

And that's it. Seventy-some years of life capped in fifteen minutes and a 1x1 square of grass, surrounded by family members united in their genial distrust of each other. Stamp the folder 'COMPLETED' and file. Management thanks you for your patronage.

You're all on notice: When I get run over by an oncoming 43 bus on Montlake Boulevard, I want a loud, drink-filled wake, with stories and laughter and plenty of music. And, by preference, I want the building burned down immediately afterward. I always wanted a Viking funeral.

Late at night, most of my household tends to wander into our bedroom. My wife goes to sleep with one of the cats at her feet. The dog goes to sleep in her bed. And, sometimes, I stay up and work in the entirely-too-damn-comfortable chair across the room.

Tonight I was typing away, listening to my wife's gentle snoring, when suddenly she sat upright.

"Oh no!" she said, faintly concerned.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

With absolute conviction, but not a lot of concern, my wife said, "There's something coming down from the ceiling!" It was as if she was telling me that I'd forgotten to take the trash out again.

I looked up. "No, there's not."

"Oh," she said. "Good," she added. And she rolled over and went back to sleep.

If she remembers any of this in the morning, I will be profoundly surprised.

I have the coolest wife in the whole wide world.

She buys me Cthulhu slippers for Valentine's Day.

Those of you who read bubblesutonium's journal will already have heard this, but for those who haven't: we lost my father-in-law last night.

The news wasn't entirely unexpected. H.'s dad has been in ill health for many years and has been hospitalized for many months following unsuccessful spinal surgery. She flew down to visit him and say her goodbyes a month or two ago. Still, the early morning phone call is always a shock to the system no matter how much you think you've prepared for it.

H. has been a little quiet today but is holding up well. We're keeping a low profile. Aside from indulging H.'s love of touring open-houses, we've been at home all day, cooking, reading, and relaxing. There's a small fire burning cheerfully in our fireplace. We've baked two batches of chocolate chip cookies and are planning a fondue dinner tonight. We've also delighted in hanging out with wings2speak, who arrived last night for a couple weeks of well-deserved Christmas vacation, and who's also been enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet.

We're still waiting to hear from H's mother. I only briefly spoke to her this morning. Needless to say, she's hurting. I'm hoping we'll be able to help her out a bit in the days and months to come.

H. summed it up very well in a phone call to a friend earlier today: Wherever my father-in-law is right now, he's enjoying a perfectly prepared T-bone steak. That by itself is a mercy. (The feeding tube at the hospital was driving him crazy.)

Thanks and love to those of you who've called and e-mailed to check in. We're doing fine, just working through it.

---

(For the locals: yes, wings2speak is staying with us. Feel free to call our house if you'd like to catch up with her.)

(consumer note: there are no puns in this post)

I'm back in Milwaukee this weekend. *waves across the state line at rollick and non-lj user Shemmah* It's been about six months or so. Time to go visit the grandparents.

All of my grandparents lived to a ripe old age, and two of them are still alive: my paternal grandfather and my maternal grandmother. Both of them live in the same elder-care home in one of Milwaukee's suburbs, despite the fact that neither of them has any relatives living within 1000 miles. (There's a story behind that coincidence, which I'll tell some other time.)

The people on my father's side of the family tend to live long and deeply sardonic lives. 95 is common, 99 is not unheard of. Granddad is no exception: he's 92. He's slowed down a lot, gets tired easily, but he's still reasonably independent, with a very active mind and a wicked sense of humor. I love spending time with him.

Grandma, on the other hand, isn't faring so well. She's in her late 80s, and her body is just gone. She only weighs about 80 pounds. Arthritis and repeated strokes have taken their toll: she can't hold herself upright, use her hands or legs, or speak. Her eyes are so light sensitive and damaged that she's essentially blind; even a flickering candle is uncomfortable to look at. These days she only stays awake for about ten minutes at a time.

What makes this so cruel is that Grandma's mind is still active, trapped in that decaying body. Her hearing is as good as ever, and she can still respond with a word or two once in awhile. I told her I'd grown a beard, and right on cue, she stiffened in dismay. When I commented that the election was looking more and more like a referendum on the Iraq war, she whispered, 'You're right.' Still, it's very obvious she doesn't have much left in her.

So this is how you keep Grandma company: you sit with her in her permanently dark room and keep up a monologue of anything that you think might interest her. Sometimes she'll respond, more often she'll sit in silence, but if you think she's sleeping and stop, chances are she'll wake up within a few moments and moan a bit to indicate that she wants to hear more.

I was struck by a horrible impulse while talking with Grandma today: tell her the truth. Tell her how much it hurt when she was viciously mean to bubblesutonium, claiming H. wasn't good enough for me. Tell her how much I loved the old summer home in Wisconsin's northwoods, and how much it hurt when she made Grandpa sell it. Ask her why, after I confided my fears about my parents' divorce, Grandpa and Grandma immediately ran to my mother and told Mom all about it, painting my father as a conniving liar who didn't take care of me. Tell her that I love her dearly and her neuroses nearly drove me mad. What would it matter? She couldn't run to Mom and complain about what I said this time. She can't talk.

I didn't say any of this, of course. What would be the point? She can't respond or defend herself. It would be pure spiteful vengeance, deliberate cruelty beyond measure. The fact that I even thought of it reminds me that I've still got a long way to go to learn peace and kindness.

I'm heading home on the early flight tomorrow. On my normal schedule, I'm supposed to return to Milwaukee sometime around late February or early March. Grandma's beaten the predictions before, but the odds are I'll be back before then.

My in-laws have lived for years in the hurricane belt, in Pensacola, Florida. They've always been very blasé about hurricanes. They've lived through several of them, most of which have passed by with only minor damage. The last major one, Opal, didn't tend to do much damage to them; their house is inland, on (relatively) high ground.

Yesterday, Pensacola got hammered by Ivan, with a storm surge of 10-16 feet and 130 MPH winds. The reports from the city don't look good; the locals are saying this is the worst storm damage they've ever seen.

If you can spare a kind thought for our relatives, now's the time.

I'm still looking over the household finances, and the picture ain't pretty.

Our budget was always based on the idea that bubblesutonium and I would continue at our previous income growth level. Once that income level dries up, all bets are off. While Bubbles is currently working at two jobs, she's still not making what she was a year ago. And my paychecks aren't changing much either.

So: the motorcycle gets sold. My car gets sold. We'll use the proceeds to buy something cheaper, for which we can pay cash.

Unless we see a sudden windfall, we'll probably have to sell the house next year. The debt load for the repairs we had to do is just too damn high, and we've had to pour too much of our retirement savings into it. We need to find something else that's more in our price range, and preferably isn't going to need as much work.

We could probably stay in the house if we took on a housemate. I don't know of a lot of people who would want to live with me, though.

It'll all get worked out. We're not in serious trouble yet. I just want to make sure that we've worked everything out and are back on a normal budget before we get into a real bind.

OK, the previous entry didn't come out right.

Bubbles and I are fine. No one is serving anyone divorce papers. We're looking forward to our anniversary together. Relax. :)

I think zauditu put it best: I was looking for a honeymoon-like anniversary. And we're getting one. And Bubbles is being very generous in indulging my semi-romantic wishes. Life is cool.

The minor angst I have around all of this is largely around the fact that it took me three tries to decide that this is what I wanted, and communicate that to H. and our friends. There's an interesting lesson for me here. We all want to be honest in our relationships. (Well, most of us anyway. If you don't want to be honest, remind me never to date you.) However, you can't be honest about what you need until you've looked at yourself enough to understand what you need.

---

Somebody at work sent me the privacy policy for an outfit called CinemaNow, with the cover note: "Now this is a legal document I can read."

bubblesutonium and wings2speak should definitely read this, but others might be amused as well.

Many of you left very thoughtful comments to my last post. Thank you all. I'm still processing a bit, so you'll probably see more about this.

I'm heading to Milwaukee this weekend--

"Describe Milwaukee for me."
"You remember that article in the Onion a few years back about the Olive Garden on Blue Mound Road in Brookfield, rated as the best Italian restaurant in the Milwaukee area? That restaurant exists, and the Onion wasn't kidding."

--where I suspect I'll have a fair amount of free time to ponder, in between visiting elderly relatives and working on a few tech documents.

Lord, I hate these visits. I know it's a mitzvah to care for your elders, and it's important, and I do it willingly. Still, I always end up comparing the vibrant, frustrating, loving Grandma I remember to the tiny, frail woman in a wheelchair who can't speak, can't use her hands, and can't stand any light source brighter than a flickering candle. It's damn depressing.

In better and unrelated news, a bad evening at the ballpark is still better than any good day at work. Go Mariners!

Seems these days like my friends and coworkers with kids are spending lots of time discussing their kids, which is Just, Right and Good, not to mention Inevitable, but leaves me childless and feeling mildly deprived.

So for all of the worried parents out there, I offer the following allegedly true story of a very young, very towheaded, waysofseeing:

Shortly after I turned two, my parents enrolled me in a preschool on the local university campus. They were happy to see me, except for one thing: I didn't talk.

Not a word. Not "mommy," not "daddy," nothing.

Oh, I babbled happily enough, and said lots of nonsense things. (Some would argue that 28 years haven't changed me very much.) Everyone thought I was reasonably well-adjusted...but I couldn't talk. Or wouldn't. The teachers were mildly concerned, and told my parents as much...but they decided to let it slide and keep an eye on me.

Fall semester passed by, and I still didn't say anything intelligible. The winter holidays rolled around, and the preschool closed over the winter break. I waved 'bye' to my friends and teachers at the preschool and went home, burbling happily. I don't remember the event, but I'm told I had a very good holiday. A few weeks went by, and school reopened in mid-January for the spring term.

The first day was chaotic, as always, with teachers scrambling to keep up with a new crop of students. Around 10 AM, your humble scribbler, then a bored and self-assertive two-year-old, apparently walked up to one of his favorite teachers, pulled on her dress, and said, "Please, Miss Laura, may I go paint now?"

Boy, was I surprised when Miss Laura looked down at me and screamed.

---

True story, according to Mom. Apparently I went from not saying a word at all to speaking in complete, grammatically correct sentences within two weeks. By age three I'd learned to read. Of course, reading well didn't help the fact that I was consistently two years or so behind on social development until I turned sixteen, but I turned out OK. I think.