Being thankful, on purpose.

{2 Corinthians 12:9-10} But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

{Isaiah 43:2} When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

I took some hits last week - to my physical stamina, my professional self-confidence, and my faith that good always wins. Since this summer, I've been working on a violent sexual assault case, one of the worst I've encountered in my career. And for the first time in my career, a trial of mine ended in complete acquittal. 

On the most basic level, my pride was injured, but while another loss may just have left me indignant, this one left me disillusioned and heartbroken. I love trial. It's a rush, and satisfying to know that in the end, the truth wins. I am comfortable in a courtroom, maybe more than in any other space. I know what to do, or at least I've thought that I had a pretty good handle on it. I like wearing the white hat. I like being on the side of the broken and abused because I love watching as people find their voice and realize that they can heal and be strong and overcome. That being hurt is something that happened to them, but it's not who they are. 

I knew there were weaknesses in the case, but I felt like my co-counsel and I confronted them as best we could and helped the jury move past them. I say all the time that juries regularly surprise me but almost never in a good way, and that's never been more true than this case. I've never left a courtroom feeling like justice lost, like a criminal had escaped conviction, like a victim wouldn't see her tormentor held accountable...like evil won. It's not a good feeling. It feels very much like a death. 

The victim was so brave and so inspiring. I've read all the police reports so many times I've practically memorized them, and I've heard her tell her story before, during our trial prep meetings. Nothing prepared me, though, for watching as she told a jury of strangers what had happened to her on, as she describes it, the worst day of her life. As she testified, I actually struggled to maintain my composure, which has never happened to me during trial. I went home that night feeling physically sick because I couldn't stop thinking about what she had endured. This woman said repeatedly that she thought she was going to die. She talked to God and said her mental goodbyes to her babies, and she did her best to make peace with the fact that in that moment, her life was ending. 

And then after her testimony was all over, she hugged me and thanked me for believing her, knowing that we were days from the end of trial and from a verdict. She thanked me and she smiled, and then she left everything in my hands. 

I can't shake the feeling that I failed her, that there was something I should have done or said that would have made all the difference. At the end of the day, though, I can't pinpoint what it might have been, and my education and experience tell me that there's nothing substantive I missed. The proof was there, and for whatever reason, this jury just didn't believe her or didn't care about her. That makes me feel gross inside. And yeah, it makes me very angry. I keep repeating to myself the advice my dad gave me before my first trial: "Alane, the prosecutor never loses. The prosecutor presents the case and gives the victim her day in court. That is winning. That is everything." He's right, but that doesn't stop this from feeling very wrong. 

I love Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday. This is meant to be a season of thankfulness, a time for taking stock of life's blessings and articulating them in a purposeful way. I'll admit, though, that this year, I'm struggling.

That's not okay. So, I decided to force a little thankfulness, and as so often happens, I forced it for about half a minute, and then suddenly realized I wasn't forcing it anymore. I'm much better at sorting through my thoughts by writing about them, and after days of being emotional and disconnected, it's reached the point where I have to process this experience somehow. Hence, this blog, and a list of things about this past week for which, in hindsight, I am grateful. 

1) A very supportive boss. He will mime vomiting if/when he reads this because he's no good at accepting compliments unless they're about his appearance, but I really, truly have a fantastic boss. He's funny and encouraging, and he took over most of the day-to-day tasks that I'm typically responsible for, without me even asking, because he knew I'd been doing trial prep around the clock for weeks. He stayed at work late on a Friday to wait with me on a verdict, and when it didn't go the way we wanted, he walked me to my car and didn't make me talk about it. That's a gift, folks. 

2) Really amazing friends. Two of my best friends in Phoenix sent me funny messages every single day, boosted my confidence even when I wasn't really feeling it, and distracted me from the worst parts of trial with baby pictures. Friends are family that you choose, and choosing them is one of the best decisions I ever made. 

3) More about friends. I'm lucky that my old boss is now my friend. She reminds me to take care of myself, and to take it easy on myself when work gets rough. She has listened carefully and given thoughtful feedback when I've asked her advice, and on Friday, she not only took the time to tell me I did a good job, but she also sent me a video of her littlest baby girl, covered in peanut butter, and chattering into the camera. She checked in on me over the weekend, and she did all of that while in the midst of facing the loss of her father-in-law, explaining that loss to her two very young children, and helping them learn to grieve for the very first time. I don't know how to ever thank her properly for that. 

4) My mom. Pragmatically, I don't tell her much about my cases beyond the bare bones (the basic charges, and maybe a few details just for reference). Despite that, she prayed for me and for our team, and she checked in multiple times a day, and when I called her so tired I literally couldn't string words into a sentence, she told me to hang up and go to sleep. And when I told her the verdict, she said she knew I had done my best. That without knowing the details, she felt confident enough in me to say that...well, it means the world. 

5) More about family. I spent most of yesterday with a cold washrag on my face because I had a horrible headache, probably due primarily to exhaustion from lack of sleep the preceding days. My cousin texted to check on me tonight and then sent me a bath-time video of her toddler telling me to feel better, complete with blown kisses. Love and laughter are the best balm for a bruised heart, and I'm thankful for those who take the time to send them along. 

There's more to say, and maybe I'll make it a point to add to this list later. For now, I'm thankful that I feel peaceful for the first time in a while, and I'm thankful for another night of rest before an abbreviated work week. 

xo,

avb

The Round House

by Louise Erdrich

Why did I read this book? My reasons are pretty simple, really. I am a woman, and therefore concerned about women’s issues in general, but especially crimes committed against women. I am a prosecutor, and my case load consists almost entirely of violent offenses and sex crimes. I work on an Indian reservation, so I’m woefully aware both of the brutality and injustice suffered by Indian women who are victims of violent crime, and of the technical stumbling blocks that often arise and sometimes prevent an offender from being held responsible.

I’ve read a couple reviews that compare this book to To Kill a Mockingbird, I suppose because it explains and embraces Native American culture in the same way that Mockingbird does for small-town Alabama. I can’t speak for how accurate that is because I didn’t grow up on a reservation, and in any event, I imagine that all reservations are different, the same way that all small Southern towns are different. I can tell you, though, that Erdrich knows her stuff. Her Indian Law assertions are right-on, and the way she describes tribal interaction with police officers and prosecutors who are “outsiders” is definitely consistent not only with what I’ve experienced, but also what has been shared with me by those who practice in other communities.

I am taking this plot synopsis from an Amazon.com review because I can never seem to synopsize without editorializing: “Our narrator - an Ojibwe lawyer named Joe Coutts - recalls his 13th summer from the perspective of time. Joe's position as the only child of tribal judge Bazil Coutts and tribal clerk Geraldine Coutts kept him feeling loved and secure until his mother is brutally and sadistically raped as she attempts to retrieve a potentially damning file. Although the rapist is rather quickly identified, the location of the rape--in the vicinity of a sacred round house - lies within that "no-man's land" where tribal courts are in charge and the neighboring Caucasians cannot be prosecuted, no matter how heinous the crime. Thrust into an adult world, Joe and his best friends Cappy, Zack and Angus are propelled to seek their own answers.”

I found this book to be both touching and uniquely effective in both entertaining and teaching. Moving, thoughtful, well-paced. The end is heartbreaking, and all too often absolutely within the realm of possibility.

Like Truvy in Steel Magnolias, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion!”

When I blog, I try to strike a balance between light-hearted frivolity and discussion of serious topics about which I feel passionately. I do this for two reasons, first because I think that a blog devoted solely to either extreme would become tiresome after a while, and because Southern women (like women everywhere) have to navigate both worlds all the time, so I want my blog to represent us accurately. We often find ourselves laughing hysterically at a funeral or crying at a baby shower, and while either of those may feel wildly inappropriate someplace else, in the South, it’s just how it is.

I find that, in general, some people are pretty eager to dismiss Southerners as stupid, and I don’t think that pinning down the cause of that is as easy as rewinding to the Civil Rights Movement and pressing the play button. I hate that part of my home state’s history, but I’m still proud of the progress made since then, and the ongoing struggle and those that are fighting through it. I’ve tried to figure out just what it is about Southerners, and Southern women in particular, that makes people feel so entitled to judge us. Is it the big hair and the heels and the bright lipstick? Is it the accent in general, or maybe that we regularly use words like “sugar” and “honey” when referring to humans? Does it just drive everybody insane at the grocery store when we talk about “sacks” and “buggies” instead of “bags” and carts”?

Now, I have a friend who would agree with Suzanne Sugarbaker – that women who aren’t Southern are just jealous of women who are, and this jealousy accounts for their rudeness. I’m not really convinced that’s true, but at the same time, I do often feel like I have to overcome some preconceived bias before people will listen to me. Yes, it’s true that we take football just as seriously as we take church on Easter morning, and yes, when it comes right down to it, we are probably even more serious what we wear to either occasion. This is not about some misplaced sense of priority, although I think lots of people would make that accusation. The smartest and kindest women I know, without exception, are Southern, and for me, “smart” and “kind” are the highest compliments that exist.

Perhaps I’m just hypersensitive because I work in law, which punishes femininity and rewards severity. I admit that my natural response to conflict used to be softer, but after six years of constant confrontation, I’m harsher now – partly because I’m more sure of myself and my decisions, but also because harsh works and soft wastes time. Although I know lots of female lawyers who strive to be more like their masculine counterparts, I actually try very hard every single day to be more like my grandmother. And I guess that at the end of the day, that’s the point that I’m trying ever so circuitously to make: Southern women are soft and feminine and still effective, and I’m really, really trying to be more aware of that in my everyday life.

Today was a very big day in my world.

Congress passed the Violence Against Women Reauthorization Act of 2013, which has been languishing in the House of Representatives since early last year. Although the House passed the Reauthorization last April, its version did not include additional provisions written to protect domestic violence victims who are gay, Indians residing on reservations, and illegal aliens. Today, thanks largely to a bipartisan effort by Senator Dorgan, the complete version was passed, guaranteeing rights to these historically marginalized and under-represented groups. I find it unfortunate at best, and despicable at worst, when politics gets in the way of humanity. Regardless of one’s views on same-sex marriage, homosexuality in general, ethnicity, or immigration policy, I would hope that we can all agree that everyone deserves civility and safety.

I’ve been on my soapbox about VAWA for ages, and if you’re my Facebook friend, you already know that. Stop reading now if you aren’t interested in the details of tribal vs. federal jurisdiction because I’m about to delve pretty heavily into it in order to explain why I care so much.

When you’re talking about Indian Country, determining where to prosecute is not as easy as pinpointing the location of a crime. Even if all relevant parties were clearly within the reservation’s perimeter boundaries, there are three possible answers to the jurisdiction question, and after determining where the crime occurred, you must also know the race of both the suspect and the victim, and the nature of the crime. Crimes committed by Indians fall under the jurisdiction of the tribe, first and foremost, but also the concurrent jurisdiction of the federal government. Non-victim crimes committed by non-Indians fall under the exclusive jurisdiction of the state.

Now for the exciting part: Until today, crimes committed by non-Indians against Indians fell within the exclusive jurisdiction of the federal government. Such offenders could be punished neither by the state (via the local district attorney or city attorney), nor by the tribe. The functional result of this was that most low-level offenders went unpunished. Like prosecutor’s offices everywhere, the U.S. Attorney’s Office is overworked and understaffed, and though they tend to do well in charging the most serious domestic violence offenses, the less serious, misdemeanor incidents fall by the wayside. This is, of course, because they typically rely on tribal prosecutors (like me) to handle misdemeanors committed by Indians, and there simply doesn’t exist a mechanism by which to ensure prosecution of those same crimes by non-Indians in federal court. VAWA corrects this problem by specifically providing for the prosecution in tribal courts of domestic violence crimes committed by non-Indians against Indian victims.

The Internet is ablaze with heated discussion, most of which is waged by people who have no idea what tribal jurisdiction means, how tribal courts operate, or even what an Indian is according to federal statutory and case law. For reasons that should be apparent, the arguments I find most offensive are those that claim that tribal courts (and by extension, tribal prosecutors) are inept, and in the pursuit of some misplaced sense of vigilante justice, will inevitably trample the rights of the accused. Most of this comes under the guise of “equal protection” banter, but in reality, it’s thinly veiled racism, considerable arrogance, and mammoth condescension.

Who is it, exactly, that our Republican Representatives are fighting so hard to protect from prosecution? Yes, let’s talk about that. They are people who marry Indian women and father Indian children. Men who live on reservations and take advantage of all the benefits inherent therein. Men who abuse their wives and girlfriends – hit them, suffocate them, sexually assault them – and who live in relative assurance that they will never face justice because their victims feel scared, hopeless, and alone. Men who rely on the insulation of the reservation, and their victims’ hesitance to leave it, to get away with horrific crimes.

Did you know that Indian women face domestic violence and sexual assault at a rate 2.5 times higher than any other race or nationality? One out of three Indian women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. Historical cultural trauma systematically perpetrated by the government throughout the 19th and 20th centuries bred distrust of those outside their inner circles. Hardly any reservations have self-sustained shelters, so deciding to leave an abusive relationship implies far more than it might for a non-Indian. Indian victims must leave behind a culture, traditions, their entire families, their tribes’ sacred places, and flee to a generic shelter that is not only unfamiliar, but also intrinsically foreign, while their non-Indian spouses / boyfriends / significant others remain behind on their reservations.

I am thrilled with today’s Congressional vote – thrilled that these women will have a voice, thrilled that their abusers will be held responsible, and thrilled that I get to be part of this exciting time in Indian Law.

The Language of Flowers

by Vanessa Diffenbaugh

I began this book first because it was recommended by a friend, and then because Goodreads reviews were pretty much universally positive. Disclaimer: If you’re looking for “literature,” you should probably look elsewhere. I think this probably best falls under the category of Women’s Fiction, but whatever.

Apparently, Victorian couples communicated through flowers, each species of which has a distinct meaning and message. Now, in all honesty, I have no idea how popular or widespread this communication technique was historically, and I don’t intend to do the research to find out. Nonetheless, I have to acknowledge that the idea of it is certainly romantic, and potentially secret enough for Victorians to find erotic. Ostensibly, this flower language is what the book is about, and if you’re into flowers or secret messages, you will probably enjoy the secondary romance plot. Maybe because I work directly with court wards and foster children, I found the flowers far less intriguing than the characters.

Victoria Jones is a young woman who’s recently aged out of foster care. That may not seem significant, really, except that it is, I promise you. The child dependency process and the foster care system are specifically designed to protect against the exact situation in which Victoria finds herself: suddenly adult and without a home, a family, or a livelihood. Ideally, children without parents find stability – permanence – within a couple years of entering the system, at most. Victoria never found permanence, and though she would blame herself – tell you it’s because she was a constant disappointment and repeatedly failed to meet the requirements of successive placements – that’s not altogether true. Victoria – and many real-life children like her – are failed by the system that is designed to protect them.

Reading this book made me think a lot about the children whose welfare is entrusted, in part, to me. As a guardian ad litem, what does it mean for me to advocate for their best interests? Chick lit or not, it’s not every book that makes me reassess the way I do my job. Diffenbaugh understands foster children. Somehow, she articulates the fear, doubt, aggravation, and deep affection between children and their foster parents. I’m familiar with the dynamic, but I don’t think anyone I know is capable of so effectively characterizing it at such a soulful level.

Thankful

The holidays are a strange time, huh? It's the end of the year, and just as I'm relishing in a tiny bit of relief from triple-digit Arizona summertime temperatures, I'm thrown into this whirlwind season of forced festivity and gift-giving anxiety. Even shopping, which I love, reduces me to a ball of stress because I become neurotically fearful of choosing the wrong present and disappointing someone that I love. Every public building - malls, post offices, grocery stores, airports - morphs into a sea of humanity that sets my teeth on edge and makes me want to run, screaming, toward the nearest exit. In the middle of my panic, though, I occasionally have moments of lucidity, seconds when I remember that all of this stress is simply a distraction from what's important, and that the method of celebration really shouldn't detract from that which is being celebrated.

I am blessed, and fortunate, and happy.

And so, I am thankful:



For lipgloss, the redder the better, and sparkly nail polish, any color (except orange, because as Blake says, "Orange is for Auburn." YUCK!).

For Blake, Malak, Abby, Mattie Grace, and Isaiah, and especially this year, for Charlie and Ben. Nothing makes holidays more magical than big smiles on little faces.

For pretty shoes.

For NPR.

For old friends, most of whom are distant geographically but close in all the ways that matter.

For new friends who are becoming old friends, and who are there to laugh at all my various predicaments, and then help me get out of them, and then laugh some more.

For my DVR.

For a mom who doesn't stop answering the phone even after I've called her nine times in half an hour.

For a dad who taught me to love the law, and never gets tired of me asking him to explain it to me just one more time.

For my grandparents, Horace and Ruthie. Nothing I say could ever be enough, so I won't try.

For philosophy's eye hope under-eye cream.

For cousins who were like siblings as we grew up, and more importantly, who are my friends now.

For a job that's more than just a job, and for coworkers who are more than just coworkers.

For good music.

For The MISS Foundation, which reminds me to be grateful, mindful, and gentle, and which inspires me to live and love fiercely.

For Google.

For Google maps.

For Instagram, Skype, Goodreads, Facebook, text messaging, email, and mobile phones. My friends and family are busier than ever and scattered to the four winds, but I still get to laugh with them when they're happy, cry with them when they're not, share with them a well-beloved book, watch their babies grow, and tell them I love them.

For a hairdresser who doesn't mind a challenge, or that I constantly change my mind.

For sweet tea.

For pearls.

For Sephora (and Barney's).*

For the quickly-approaching awards season.*

For a God who lavishes His grace, mercy, and forgiveness even when I forget to ask and even when I don't deserve it, and who answers prayers I didn't even know to say.

Happy, Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. xo, avb

*Added at the request of SCM, who knows me so well.

"It's about to be Halloween..."

So much has happened in my life during the past year, though looking at this pitiful blog, you’d never know it. I’m gonna’ try to do better, though. Promise. And to start, I want to talk about the most significant addition to my agenda.

About two years ago, I started reading a blog, Rockstar Ronan, at the urging of my boss at the time. She had gone to law school with the blogger’s husband, and she told me about how her friends’ son had been diagnosed with Neuroblastoma, a particularly insidious and deadly form of childhood cancer. Ronan lived in the Phoenix area with his family, so maybe that’s why I immediately felt such a connection to them; I joined thousands of others in sending up prayers for his healing. The blog posts were primarily positive and funny, mostly because Ronan is such a cutie, and his mom often posted photos of him. Y’all know how I love kid photos. Though I wasn’t a daily reader at first, I almost always checked in weekly to see how Ronan’s treatments were progressing, and to be honest, I was really quite certain that he would recover because he never “looked” sick in pictures, and his mom’s stubbornly bubbly tone made a cure seem inevitable.

One day in May 2011, I found out that Ronan had died. And then Taylor Swift wrote a song called “Ronan.” And somewhere in the middle of those two things, I learned about the MISS Foundation and Dr. Joanne Cacciatore.

I remember the night I filled out the application to volunteer with MISS. I had just read a particularly heart-breaking blog post, and I sat in the middle of my bed and typed out my responses to the application’s questions on my iPhone. To be honest, I never thought I’d even be contacted again. What could I possibly offer them?

Fast-forward to July 2012. I had accepted a new job and planned to start following a week-long vacation with my mama (btw, we had so much fun). Right about that time, I got an email from MISS explaining that they had reviewed my volunteer application and wanted to know if I was interested in a position on their Executive Board of Directors. I was shocked. Also, humbled, terrified, and a little bit speechless, which doesn’t happen to me very often, as y’all know. I spent a couple hours on the phone with some of their leaders, and I fell in love with their spirit, their kindness, their energy, and their motivation.

I’ve been on the Board for all of two months now. It’s been more rewarding that I can even articulate.

And so now it’s about to be Thanksgiving. In addition to being more thankful than ever for all of the beautiful babies in my life, I am also grateful that MISS is here for all the families with missing babies. And, I’m so grateful that I get to be a part of that.

Teaching? Really?

After a brief hiatus, I'm back to blogging.  And as my first order of business, I suppose I should report that Monday, I will begin my first day of teaching.  No, no, I didn't quit my job in a fit of rage and exasperation.  Instead, I decided that perhaps it would be nice to have another outlet for all my non-existent free time.

A while back I sent my resume in to Rio Salado Community College.  It was just a whim, really.  Several friends of mine teach at various community colleges in the valley, so I thought I'd apply and see what happened.  I got a call last week, and lo and behold, got offered a position as an adjunct professor.  I'll be teached PAR102, and if you know anything at all about that class besides that it's a course for paralegals, then you're ahead of me.

It's all online, which is great because that means it won't interfere with 1) my trip to Austin in November, or 2) my holiday plans.  It pays great, so I'm hoping that I love it.

Wish me luck!  And you might want to throw in some wishes for my students.  We all know that I am not the most patient person on the planet.

Texas

I just returned yesterday from a last-minute trip to Texas. Last week, I was in my supervisor's office, and he asked if I wanted to go to Texas. I said, "To live? Yes, please." He explained that there was a Crimes Against Children conference happening in Dallas, and that another person who had planned to go now couldn't, leaving a spot open for me...but that I would, sadly, have to return to Phoenix the following Thursday.

Needless to say, I immediately began readying myself for the trip.

I had a wonderful time. The conference was informative and often entertaining, in as much as a crimes against children conference can be entertaining. I miss being in school, so I soaked up all the knowledge I could in four short days, and I now have aspirations of prosecuting cyber crimes. We'll see where that goes.

Hopefully, it will take me to Texas, because I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Texas really is like a whole other country, y'all, and that's definitely a good thing. Good manners, good food, hats and boots wherever you look, and lots of smiling faces. Work has been keeping me feeling pretty burned-out, so I'm happy to report that I'm home, feeling refreshed and energized for a new week.

Key Lime Pie

A Story in Two Parts

Many of you know that I finished trying a child death case about two months ago. While I was still busy with case prep, one of the defense attorneys and I started talking about how happy we would be once the case was over. I promised to bake him a pie in celebration (well, I promised a cake; he said he’d prefer pie), and he requested key lime (ostensibly because I am Southern, but I think it’s because he wanted to passive-aggressively torture me by forcing me to juice and zest about 117 tiny little key limes). But I digress. He's since gotten another job, and today was his last day...so we had pie at my office to say goodbye.

I’ve never made a key lime pie before, so I couldn’t decide what recipe to use. I finally decided to make two different kinds.

PIE # 1:
1 9” graham cracker pie crust
1 14-oz. can sweetened condensed milk
3 egg yolks
½ cup key lime juice
zest of 2-3 key limes

Mix the ingredients together and dump them in the pie crust. Bake at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes.

Result: a very nice but intensely tart pie. If I had this to do over again, I’d have made the pie crust instead of using a ready-made one. Otherwise, the pie set up nicely and was very easy to slice. Also, it was SUPER easy to make.

PIE # 2:
1 9” graham cracker pie crust
3 egg yolks
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons cornstarch
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 cups water
1 tablespoon butter
1/4 cup key lime juice
finely grated peel of 1 lime

In a saucepan over medium-low heat, combine the 1 cup sugar, flour, cornstarch and salt; gradually stir in the water. Cook, stirring constantly, until thickened. Gradually stir about 1/3 of the mixture into the beaten egg yolks; stir mixture into the remaining hot mixture in the pan. Continue cooking over low heat, stirring, two minutes. Stir in the butter, lime juice and peel and cool slightly. Pour into the baked pastry shell and cool.

This recipe told me to make meringue topping and then place the pie in the oven to brown. I didn’t make meringue, so I just put the pie in the oven for about 3 minutes. I’m not sure if I was supposed to do this or not, but I got worried that the eggs didn’t get cooked enough on top of the stove…so, a few minutes in the oven assuaged some of my fears of poisoning my office with salmonella.

Result: a pie that I think tastes better than the first one, but that didn’t set up so great and didn’t present as prettily. Again, not the biggest fan of the prefab crust, but whatever. I'll do better next time.

Note: I topped both pies with fresh whipped cream. To the heavy cream, I added a little bit of confectioner’s sugar and some almond extract. I used my stand mixer to whip it until it was fluffy and beautiful.

Note 2: I used a microplane zester. If you don't have one, go get one. Don't even attempt to zest these itty bitty suckers without it.

Happy Easter!

I had a great Easter weekend. I spent most of Saturday relaxing, which was nice given that I had to work last weekend. Twelve straight days of work tires me out!

For Easter, I went to church and then spent the afternoon at the home of some wonderful friends. Their Easter get-togethers remind me of my family's when I was growing up. Tons of family, bunches of children, egg hunting, games, wonderful food, and funny conversation. Since I don't have any family out here, I feel so lucky and blessed to be included in their day.

This year for Lent, I gave up celebrity gossip. That might sound petty or trivial, but if you stop to consider how much time I spent checking People.com and UsMagazine.com (both on my computer at work and my iPhone), and how much time I spent watching E!, it turned out to be WAY to much time spent caring about a lot of crap that I have no business caring about. Whenever I had a few minutes to kill, I'd log onto the Internet and read mindlessly about people that I don't know and who, for the most part, disgust me with their ridiculous, silly, and often illegal behavior.

I think I've learned to make better use of my time. One positive result has been that I read the news more often, and I pay more attention to it (rather than just glancing over it). Also, I've begun to spend my free time on activities that probably won't rot my brain: playing crossword puzzles and Scrabble on my iPhone (okay, it's not really Scrabble; it's really the Words With Friends app -- my user name is avbreland, so if any of you have it, please start a game with me, and if you don't have it, get it).

I haven't reverted back to my old habits yet. We'll see how long I last, now that I don't have the guilt of Lent to keep me on the straight and narrow.

twenty-NINE

Well, there it is. I turned 29 on Monday, and I've been expecting the gray hairs to sprout and the lower back & knee pain to start ever since. Luckily, neither of those has transpired yet (although I will admit that I found one gray hair a couple months back and basically had to be talked down from throwing myself into the canal).

That said, the big day itself wasn't nearly as traumatic as it might have been. I went to work, like I always do on Mondays, and my boss brought Sprinkles cupcakes to celebrate. I had lunch with some funny friends who always make me laugh. Dinner with more wonderful friends followed work, and then I went to sleep pretty early.

There is a wonderful legitimacy that comes with being 29, I think. I've decided that this is going to be a great year. I feel blessed and lucky to have the family and friends that I have, and despite the fact that I live so far from many of them, I think that as I get older, I appreciate them more and more. My job is dynamic and interesting, and I'm finally comfortable enough with my experience and skill set that I can relax a little bit and enjoy it. I guess that as it turns out, 29 isn't all that rough after all...

Amanda, this is for you.

This was too long to post as a comment on your blog, so I put it here. Your post, and your memories of vanilla ice cream and graham crackers made me think of something that happened to me recently.

I was sitting in my living room the other day, praying about a trial that I have coming up that involves the death of two children. I pray a lot about work, just because it’s stressful, and oftentimes, I’m dealing with victims who aren’t cooperative, or defense advocates who seem to think it’s fun to be aggravating just for the sake of being aggravating. This case is a special one, though. It's been pending for over a year now, and I really want a conviction, not for myself, but because it will mean justice was served for those two babies. I haven't known how best to handle a few difficult issues that have arisen, and finding myself at an empasse, I did what you've done: give it to God.

The scripture that I was led to during my prayers was Jeremiah 29:11 (the Bible actually opened to this passage on its own). I thought it was odd when I read it initially: “I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” I first found it utterly unhelpful, and I thought that there must be another scripture on that page that I was meant to read. After all, the reason that I have the case at all is because these children are dead; these children have had their futures taken from them.

As I often do when thinking about children, I then started thinking about Grandmamma, which initially made me sad all over again. But then, I got the most peaceful feeling; I just knew – in that moment – that God's Will will be done with that trial now, even if it's not the ending I foresee or would prefer. He has a plan. He knows better than I do. And no matter what happens, it will be for the best because it is His plan, not mine. He gave me the reassurance I needed with the trial, and He gave me some very sweet memories of my grandmother as a balm to heal some of the hurt of thinking about these two babies who never had anyone like her in their little lives.

I'm saying all that to say this: I know God gave me Grandmamma's spirit to help me through that moment. I know it because of how my dinner turned out that night. One of the saddest things for me, usually, about making scrambled eggs and grilled cheese is that I can’t make them taste like Grandmamma’s tasted. But on that night, both were perfect. I haven’t felt that peaceful in a long, long time.

112

Why is this number important?

Is it the number of days left 'til Christmas? Nope...it's only July!

Is it the number of files in my office that need my immediate attention? No, but it's probably fairly close.

Could it be, you wonder, the number of petals on a chrysanthemum? No.

It is, ladies and gentlemen, the projected temperature - in degrees Fahrenheit - in Phoenix on Friday. Gees.

Michael Jackson

Isn't it funny what a difference just a few years can make?

I've been watching various retrospectives on the life of Michael Jackson this weekend, mostly because I promised myself that I would do nothing more strenuous than sleeping and breathing all weekend (had a bad week; lost a child abuse trial).

Michael unveiled the moonwalk in 1982, the year after I was born. People just a few years older than I am remember the Michael of the Jackson 5, and the Michael of "Billie Jean" and "Thriller." I was only three years old in 1984, when Michael's hair caught on fire while he was filming a Pepsi commercial. It was after this, apparently, when his obsession with plastic surgery began, and when he idiosyncracies started to appear.

What do I remember about Michael Jackson? Of course, I remember the first time I saw the moonwalk. And like everyone else, I was awed by it. But, by the time I was aware enough to choose the music I listened to, and to choose what I watched on television, Michael Jackson was this weirdo who sang that one song from "Free Willy" that everyone knew the words to.

Years went on and he married Lisa Marie Presley, and there was that weird kiss at the VMAs. And then he was accused of child molestation. He caked on more and more makeup, and his nose got smaller and smaller until it seemed it would just fall off (and who knows...maybe it did). Michael became more and more reclusive, the result of which was that he just seemed weirder and weirder. And then he named his third child "Blanket" and hung him over a fourth-floor balcony railing so the paparazzi could see the baby...only not his face, because that was covered with...wait, what? A blanket.

Then, when I was in the middle of law school, he was again accused of child molestation, only this time, I was particularly interested because...well, because I was in law school. We would spend lunch hours watching trial coverage on Court TV. I was devastated when he was found not-guilty. What is it with California juries? I'm sure glad I don't prosecute there. Overwhelming evidence + a camera in the courtroom = acquittal every time.

What do I think about Michael Jackson's death? Well, maybe because I was too young to ever love him, or particularly love his music, I'm not particularly affected. Sure, the guy was talented - spectacularly so. And of course, he broke down barriers and invented new styles of music and dance. But to me, he's a pedophile who was never made to take responsibility for whatever damage he caused. And he was a man who looked increasingly feminine, and then just plain strange. He had too much plastic surgery, too much money, and too much control over the people around him, all of which resulted in too much medication, and likely, his death.

Maybe the purpose for his death is so that the family and friends mourning Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon could do so in peace.

I'm going through a phase...

...of reading and rereading. In the past month or so, I've reread Little Children, The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets, Cold Comfort Farm, and three or four other favorites. I'm not sure why. But, now that I'm done, in addition to keeping a promise to myself and beginning to read Atonement (see below), I am also keeping several other promises to myself: Love in the Time of Cholera and One Hundred Years of Solitude. If you don't hear an update soon, assume I've flung myself over a bridge and into whatever body of water is nearest. Clearly, I'm also going to be needing some comic relief, which hopefully will come in the form of a few as-yet-undetermined, but hilarious novels.

Along with keeping these promises, I'm also allowing myself to admit defeat: The Emperor's Children has gotten the better of me. I don't know why. I can't figure out her emdashes, and even if I could, I think she's just smarter than I am. Maybe I'll give it a whirl later on.

And, I seem to have lost The Constant Gardener. I know that I was enjoying it, so I can't imagine what became of it, but it's been gone for quite a while now. So until I either find it or buy another copy, I'm in limbo.

Now, you may be asking yourself how I'm going to get through my summer reading list. Well, it's roughly 11,000 degrees outside here in Phoenix. As such, it's nearly impossible for my office friends and me to have our daily lunch dates without melting and wanting to shower. So, my answer is this: I shall be a good girl and bring my lunch every single day, and during lunch, I shall also read. We'll see how this goes, and how long it lasts.

My Life is Boring

OK, so my last post here was about my new job. Tomorrow, I will celebrate its 6-month anniversary, which in addition to being somewhat satisfying in its own right, has the added benefit of meaning that I am officially off probation. Yay! Now, they have to have a reason to fire me...and though that may seem like an inconsequential milestone to some, it is ever-so important to me, given that I am the only one of the office's most recent three hires to make it off probation. Whew.

What's happened in the last 6 months? Not a whole lot, actually, except that the last month has been fairly eventful. I bought a new car (well, new-ish). A Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo, steel grey, and quite pretty, and from which I derive great joy in driving, although I will admit that I have to separate myself from the fact that now I am one of those SUV drivers about whom I seem to complain non-stop. Though in my own defense, it's really the van drivers I most detest.

And then, there's the funnest news of all: MY TATTOO! She's quite small and ladylike: a red and yellow orchid just below my right ankle. And she makes me smile whenever I look down and see her peeking out from my most serious work shoes. OK, let's be honest, I don't actually own very many pairs of serious work shoes, but she still makes me smile. Who'd have thought?

My New Job

Anyone reading this blog already knows about the new job, but still, it seemed like the sort of life event that should be recorded here. Yesterday was my first day, and of course, it was filled with all sorts of awful orientation events (including the dreaded introductions, where you have to tell something about yourself. My question: What is my fantasy vacation? In case there's any interest, I said Botswana. The room reacted as if I'd said Jupiter).

Hmmm...

Today, I shared an elevator with a defense attorney...considerate of me, I know. (You can just tell the defense attorneys from the prosecutors...a practiced eye can even tell the private attorneys from the public defenders. This guy was private. For sure). He commented on my Starbucks muffin, and when I responded, he asked me where I got my "sweet little accent."

I'll admit that I was somewhat reassured by comments like these the first 600 times it happened. At home, no one even thinks I have an accent, so when people here notice the accent, it's nice. But at the same time, I'm pretty sure that when this particular defense attorney decided to ask me about my accent, it never entered his mind that I was 1) educated, and 2) employed by the County Attorney's Office. I also think it rather presumptuous of him to categorize me as "sweet" without even knowing me.

My supervisors tell me that jurors are going to love me. I'm not sure what commentary it is on my lawyering abilities that I'm apparently supposed to depend on a few "y'alls" to win my trials.