BipolarLawyerCook

Diner bananas, originally uploaded by BipolarLawyerCook.

There are lots of phrases to describe being crazy, but going bananas seems to be an apt metaphor. Everything seems to be safely encased in the tough, smooth, attractive skin, but then something changes, and your outer skin becomes thinner, more easily bruised, and your insides turn to gelatinous mush. Your inner fruit is no longer nutritive fuel, it’s useless instead. And god forbid you drop the banana on the floor– the greasy and sugary stains and splatters take so much longer to clean than other kinds of messes.

(I am actually feeling much better, I just had this thought while I was editing my flickr stream and cleaning up other assorted greasy-peel messes.)

Anyone tried trileptal?  After a hypomanic surge at 200mg on lamictal, what I hoped was my old standby, and continued mild migrainous symptoms at 100mg, it looks like I get to hop the new meds rollercoaster for a while.

Please feel free to email me offline, bipolarlawyercook AT gmail DOT com.  Thanks, all.

The Beatles’ White Album is a classic that spans the test of time, but it just doesn’t sound the same when you’re 33 and drinking riesling while checking work email, compared, say, to when you’re seventeen, listening to it on the boom box in the basement of your friend’s house, sharing a dime bag and a case of Natty Light with ten of your best National Honor Society friends while playing a massively-creative game of Assh*le, the card game.  Not that I would have any basis for knowing what a dime bag even is, esteemed member of the bar that I am.

Dear Sandwich-Making Guy at the Quizno’s Near Work:

When I tell you which sandwich I want, naming it by the full name assigned by your store, the correct response is “Everything on that?,” meaning, of course, that you want to know if I want everything listed on the signboard as being included in the sandwich.  (Although, I suppose it would be more reasonable for me to say “no onions” or whatever, if I didn’t want the sandwich as ordered.)

But when you listed off half the ingredients in the sandwich to me in response, you confused me.  See, now I think maybe the mustard’s extra?  I don’t know.  I thought I made a reasonable response when I said, “everything that it usually comes with.”  But apparently not, because then you repeated back two thirds of the ingredients to me, confusing me even further.  “I just want what it says on the sign,” I said, pointing.  And then, God help me, you looked over your shoulder as if to say, “There’s a sign up there?  Wow.”

The fact that I had to repeat “everything” twice more before you said “Got it?”  Well, that’s the optional mustard, I guess.

With a deep and confused sigh,

BLC

(And yes, I shouldn’t expect much of a chain anyway, but the area right around work is a food wasteland.  Even deeper sigh.)

Lawyers like to argue; when there aren’t opposing counsel or ornery clients to argue with, they argue amongst their own colleagues.  Partners, especially– they get paid a lot to argue, so they argue a lot, to earn their salary. 

Which would have been fine, except that they were arguing over punctuation, syntax, and word choice in a brief already approved by the client, that needed to be filed for the end of the day, or miss a very important deadline that would foreclose further appeal.

So, the argument over each i, t, comma, and semicolon was a little frustrating, for THREE HOURS.  Agh.  My hair will be grey by the end of the month. 

But the case itself?  Hella interesting, in the way that only extremely geeky federalism questions can be.  I’ll tell you all about it when it’s resolved.

Typewriter 2, originally uploaded by BipolarLawyerCook.

What I did as part of my summer mental breakdown: try and write on a laptop nearly as outdated as these typewriters, with no memory, an external wireless card, and no battery. Momma needs a new set of keys.

Summery poached halibut, originally uploaded by BipolarLawyerCook.

Yes, I actually cooked dinner for the first time in ages. Nothing like being bipolar to screw up the cook part of the identity.

Halibut steak poached in olive oil, white wine, and three ears of corn (cut from the cob), two chopped beefsteak tomatoes, and two dozen chopped green beans. The liquid was seasoned with salt, pepper, and dried basil. I overcooked the halibut, by about 5-7 minutes. Simmer on medium-low heat, with a lid, appx. 10 minutes, instead, until vegetables are al dente and the fish flakes under light pressure from a fork.

Encheesement:  The sprinkling of extra cheese onto one’s pizza.

Pepperification:  The sprinkling of red pepper flakes onto one’s Tortellini Caprese.

The BH is under the impression that Encheesement is a basic human right, whereas Pepperification is an optional one not subject to the Geneva Conventions.  What say you?

Wide solemn eyes,
contemplating the chocolate bar he’s chomping on,
cross-eyed.
His towheaded pageboy tops an oversized
blue oshkosh hooded sweatshirt.
As he munches his chocolate bar,
he kicks his small feet in sandals so large
his toes are nearly invisible.

“When does the train leave?”
“Soon.”

A pause.  Another bite of chocolate.

“When’s soon?”

“Plateau,” over at RealMental, hopefully self explanatory regarding my neglect to write here and to visit you and your own wonderful writing and sharing at your blogs.

Never fear, though.  Unlike the Monty Python Dead Parrot, I’m not dead, merely resting.