blind insight

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

If I could get the pictures out of my cell phone and into this space, I could show you what Lambeau Field looked like last night, awash in deerhunter's day-glo orange. I could show you what we looked like, too, bundled into enough layers that only the tips of our toes felt the low-20s chill. But the mechanics of camera-phone-to-outside-world transfer elude me, so you'll just have to imagine for yourselves what we looked like - Steve glowing with the thrill of his first real Packers game, me red-nosed but toasty in my puffy coat under Steve's grandfather's Packers jacket plus fleece top, blanket, hat, gaiter, ski mittens, long underwear and two pairs of socks.

I'd prefer that you not try to picture me as I sit here typing, though, bleary eyed and flat-haired and bloated after a weekend of gastronomic and alcoholic excess and an all-nighter that's rapidly moving into its 29th hour. I vaguely remember being able to handle this type of lunacy back in the heyday of my early 20s. But at this advanced age, the combination of heavy food, excessive alcohol consumption, lack of exercise, and sleep deprivation takes a pretty heavy toll.

Next time we try to party like rock stars, we should think a little more Barry Manilow and a little less Bobby Brown.

Captured on the carousel of time, but with goose down.

Yesterday evening, I drafted a ranty, whiny, cranky post about not much of anything. For whatever reason, the specter of turning 34 loomed large and unpleasant before me, and I approached my own birthday with little of the gleeful anticipation I'd had for Steve's just a few days before. Dinner at my parents' house helped a bit, particularly when my mom broke out the traditional pumpkin birthday pie (which is what you get when your birthday abuts Thanksgiving and you don't like chocolate). But still, I went to sleep feeling angsty and old.

When my alarm clock vibrated me awake much too early this morning, it felt like any other weekday. Then Steve pulled me closer, waited for me to put my hearing aids in, and jogged my brain into alertness with a throaty rendition of "Happy Birthday." By the time I was showered and dressed, he'd whipped up a delicious birthday smoothie for me and was ready to roll with his very first effort at the Great Birthday Treasure Hunt.

Whatever doubts I may have harbored about Steve's willingness or ability to fulfill this important family obligation (which landed on his shoulders the moment he proposed) were quickly erased. Even his initial "warm-up" clue was clever, and the clues got progressively more creative and challenging as I made my way through the house. Literary references, word plays, and in-jokes figured prominently, as they should, and by the end of the hunt, with my long-coveted puffy coat resting cozily on my shoulders, I was grinning from ear to ear and feeling full of youthful energy.

I'm not sure why the impending birthday weighed so heavily on my shoulders. Now that it's here, 34 doesn't seem terribly different from 33, which felt a lot like 32. The clock keeps ticking, the pages on the calendar turn over, time marches on, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it (short of Botox, boob jobs, and the like). So I stand to face the new year head on, knowing it will bring all sorts of new adventures, both known and unexpected. Whatever comes my way, at least I'll be warm.

I came, I couldn't hear a damn thing, I conquered.

Remember a couple of months ago, when my Tenth Circuit argument was complicated by the failure of the audio amplification system? And I had to struggle through, hoping I heard the judges' questions properly and was responding as needed to my opponent's inaudible-to-me arguments?

I won!

In which 4-inch pieces of colored duct-tape kick my ass.

With the colder weather and shorter days, we're climbing inside again. It's far more convenient to do so from our new base of operations, and we've been going weekly since late October. These gym forays have brought into focus just how much harder it is to climb indoors than out, and how much we depend on a winter of pulling plastic to get in shape for a summer of playing on real rocks.

Last night, though, nothing was in focus for me at all. For some reason, I just couldn't find my routes, and I grew increasingly frustrated each time I stopped to search for the next bit of appropriately colored tape, couldn't figure out where the next hold was, and pumped out my muscles with the wait. Part of the problem, I think, resulted from the gym's new configuration, which includes lots of inverted corners, reverse angles, and overhangs. When I'm climbing outside, I have no problem reaching blindly above me or feeling around for hand and footholds, and I even enjoy having to rely on touch, balance, and mental agility to find the route, instead of on my crappy eyes. But when we're inside, I have to find specific holds marked with a specific tape color to stay on route, and grabbing one of the many others scattered around me constitutes cheating. When I get stuck or take a stupid fall or strain my neck or shoulder not because the route is too hard for me, but because I can't find the #($@*& next hold, it blows my confidence and brings hot tears of frustration welling behind my eyes.

I'm trying to get better at handling these moments, and to develop coping mechanisms slightly more effective than punching the wall, bailing out of the route, and cussing. I worked through the pissoffedness last night by pushing my way through one such route (cheating slightly on the reverse-angled portion), then climbing a few easy routes and doing some novice bouldering to try to regain confidence and rhythm. It helped, but I was still angry to be relegated to 5.8s and 5.9s after spending all last year getting solid on 10s and working 11s. Especially when the failure results not from my climbing ability, but from my damn seeing disability.

From generation to generation.

We should all look this stunning at 95:

And be this joyous at 1:

But I wouldn't want to live there.

Early reports indicate that Steve passed the family test with flying colors. "Charming," "sweet," "completely at ease," and "smokin' hot" "adorable" were among the reviews. Could he formulate sentences beyond "baw!" (ball) and "mo' eeee!" (more please), Nathan would have pronounced Steve his favorite uncle-to-be, although he might have prescribed a few remedial peek-a-boo training sessions with hilarious Great Uncle Mark. Steve even survived his first foray into the family roasting tradition, belting out our bastardized version of Copacabana without (much of) a trace of embarrassment (Her name was Flora/she was from Brooklyn/She was the youngest girl of nine/she grew up mighty fine).

When we were not eating and schmoozing with the fam-bly, Steve and I had a little time to explore the City on our own. One night, we started in a creperie, moved to an Irish pub, and wrapped up the evening with fresh, hot doughnuts and coffee at 2:30 a.m. The next, after a bit of quality tickle time with His Nathanness, we headed out to see a fantastic band at an intimate little venue in the Village, then scarfed up real New York pizza as a late-night snack. And on Sunday, after a hearty diner breakfast in Chelsea, we took the subway uptown, then savored the spectacular late-fall weather by walking clear across Central Park, luggage and all.

As happy as we were to return home to our mountain views and quieter streets (and to a house with more than one bathroom), we both felt invigorated by New York's hustle and bustle. It's a great place to visit . . .

Things I Have Been Doing Instead Of Updating My Blog.

• Writing the first of several briefs that must be finished so that i can devote the next several months exclusively to the most huuuumongulous case record yet to cross my desk.
• Trying, with marginal success, to draft a tribute song for my grandmother's upcoming 95th birthday party.
• Hanging out with my dad in the hospital. He had four stents put in his heart about 10 days ago, then had some post-angioplasty issues, but finally seems to be home for good and on the mend. Whew.
• Taking all possible steps to cover some of the three mortgages we will be paying as of December 1.
• Attempting to make a dent in the 3 tons of leaves coating our lovely, huge backyard.
• Picking apples off our tree for eating and pie-making, and picking apples off the ground for composting.
• Wondering whether the hundreds of apples still on the ground will soon begin to ferment, and if so, whether we will have a horde of drunken birds and racoons staggering around our front yard.
• Baking my second apple pie of the month.
• Trying to come up with more ideas for Things To Do WIth Apples.
• Gearing up for a six-week-long flurry of travel, birthdays, and holiday festivities.

Who's with me?

I'm feeling much better, thanks. After many long and wonderful conversations with many wonderful (but not necessarily long) people since Wednesday morning, and after reading some outstandingly funny takes on the sit-choo-ay-shun, I'm no longer investigating indigent defense jobs up North. Instead, I'm thinking about what I can do (new, different, more, or better) to prevent the country from sliding into bigoted theocracy and to move us closer to the pluralistic, tolerant, diverse, and free society we should be. If you have ideas, please pass them along.

I had a conversation today with an old friend who, with her wife, is raising three gorgeous children. Among other things, we talked about ways that Steve and I can show solidarity with gay couples as we go forward with our own marriage. I'm keeping the ceremony under wraps for now, but I'm hard at work incorporating some ideas and brainstorming others. I feel incredibly lucky - and more than a little uncomfortable - that I can marry the person I love while many of my friends whose relationships are just as committed as ours cannot.

I also made contributions this week to the ADL, NARAL, and Planned Parenthood. That felt really good. If you're looking for something to do thisminute, why not pick your favorite activist organization and send some much-needed money its way? After all, the fight is only just beginning, and it's going to be a long and expensive one.

If you can't find me, try Vancouver.

I can barely compose myself to write at this moment. I am consumed with emotion. Sadness. Despair. Fear. Anger. Shame. I've cried twice, nearly vomited on several occasions, and am shaking inside and out.

I am horrified at Bush's reelection, and I hope, hope, hope that all the terrible things I envision will not come to pass during the next four years. And when I think that so many millions of Americans in so many states voted to prohibit gay marriage, to change their constitutions to forbid people who love one another from legally formalizing their lifetime commitment for reasons that seem utterly antithetical to the principles on which this country was founded, I am embarrassed to call myself an American.

Though I normally try to keep the language on this site somewhat cleaner than the sailoresque vitriol that often spews from my mouth, I'm finding only one way to express how I feel today.

FUCKITY MOTHERFUCKING FUCKER FUCK.