Catalina, Babies, and Vocations Versus Avocations

Fortunately, for my dad, he looks a bit less geeky than this guy, and probably plays the guitar better as well.

I have returned from my trip to Catalina with a renewed and refreshed perspective: ready to take on the world of small babies, diapers, forumla, sterilization of bottles and breast pumps, crying, demands for attention, and everything else that accompanies having two babies well under a year of age in one household. 

I was warned by several people that Andrew, the older of the two babies at nine months, might temporarily disdain me and want little to do with me as his way of expressing his displeasure at my having abandoned him frn a few daya of fun and frolid without him. Such turned out not to be the case. Andrew was thrilled to see me from the moment I walked in the door on return from Catalina. If anything, he's a bit clingy in response to my haveing been away from him for a few days, but he's handling the situation quite wel, all things considered. He did, after all, have both of his parents and all four grandparents with him in my absemce.

New Baby Camille Catherine  reached the grand total of five pounds this morning. We celebrated with homemade strawberry waffles and whipped cream. i don't eat whipped cream, so I skipped that part, but mine were delicious just the way they were. We pureed Andrew's strawberries, and gave him small bowls of of purreed strawberries and whipped cream into which to dip his very thin strips of waffles. He thought it was a great breakfast. 

The next part of my blog concerns a reply by one of my readers that my father has historically been inconsistent in regard to who is important in society  with regard to his later recommendation as to what career he recommended that I pursue. I shall attempt to address the responder's concern in a not-too-incoherent manner, as i'm still somewhat running on fumes. i need a long nap at some point today, and i suspect my state of sleep may cause me to be a bit unclear and/or redundant in my adress of the poster's concerns. Please forgive me if such is the case.

My dad is all about being multi-faceted as an individual himself, and would wish the same thing for his offspring.. While one primary focus may put the food on one's table and pay the rent or mortgage, other avocations may further enrich one's life in both literal and in emotional/ psychoogical senses, and, if one is lucjy enough, even in a financial sense.. My father worked his way through medical school, incurring relatively few debts along the way, as a musician whenever he had a break long enough to get a traveling gig. I've been asked not to identify the artists with whom my father toured or recorded, but they were well-known and accomlished musicians. My dad didn't have to "sell out" so to speak, or to compromise his musical principles in order to earn the money he needed to support himself and pay medical school tuition.

My mother, as an educator and as a psychologist - both clinical and educational -- in addition to being a musicicologist, holds doctorates in piano and vocal performance and enough on-paper background and practical ability in theory and musicology to teach upper-division courses in both at the university level. She was furthermore sufficiently skilled at violin to the degree that she could teach me well enough that I could obtain an undergrad degree in violin performance. On the other hand, she spent a large portion of her working years as a school psychologist and school administrator. She also recognizes the point of being multi-facted in one's approach to a career and to life in general.

Both of my parents recognize that writing is a gift for me. It is for my dad to some degree as well. He doesn't use it as much as I plan to, though he publishes more prolifically than do most research physicians at his stature in the profession, and does more of the writing himself than do most of his peers, most of whom rely on fellows and other underlings to do their heavy writing. My father's fellows are often disappointed at the lightness of the writing load placed upon them. Most research physicians of my father's stature consider writing to be a part of the job that is somewhat beneath them and not a task they particularly enjoy. My father considers it a perk of the job, A trademark somewhat characteristic of my father's journal articles is that they contain humor in places humor would not typically be found. (In part, this is due to the final draft usually being written after a couple Guinnesses or glasses of wine have been downed, but his wit is evident even if not under the influence.

My dad "gets" my need to write. I think he just feels that writing will be both easier and more fun for me if I'm not waiting daily for the arrival of  the mail carrier,  anxiously feeling the thickness of envelopes before opening them with hope that they contain contracts and checks rather than rejection letters and the return of my original manuscripts, so that I don't have to hit my parents up for one more loan in order to pay one more month's worth of  bills. Additionally, my dad believes that one is most inspired to write when one's mind is actively engaged and one's life is filled with cognitively challenging work He doesn't believe that the slow, contemplative life lends iself to the highest quality of writing for most who wish to, or , mmore appropriately in many cases, have to  write.

My father's viewpoint is in diametric opposition to the early premise of A Room With a View, that it is the right of every young woman to be provided with a room with a view so that she can contemplate and write without the necessity of such mundane matters as how to sustain herself while she does so. My father believes that not only has this sort of attitude -- that of a right of a daughter to be "kept" with no responsibility toward her own livelihood -- has contributed to the setting back of the women's movement for generations longer than needed to be the case societally, in addition to setting women as individuals back in terms of their inspiration for whatever art form they cared to pursue. While there is a season for everything, including watching and contemplating, true inspiration more often comes from being an active participant in the world around one, and not merely an observer. Furthermore, this idea of a woman's right to be provided with a livelihood of any sort, be it a room with a view, lodging in a more cloistered setting, or plane tickets and paid hotel rooms to jet-set around the world living a life akin to those of the Kardashian offspring or Paris Hilton and her sister Nicki***, my dad feels, perpetuates the idea that, at least among women, the right to participate in the creation of art, including fashiopon design,  is the sole domain of the wealthy -- an idea he detests. Many of us detest that idea when it comes right down to it.

I could ask someone currently earning a living in the field of writng -- perhaps journalist Jaci Stephen, to name one such writer,  which is more conducive to writing:  free room and board on an unlimited basis in some remote yet scenic locale, or actually living and working among one's writing subjects, scrambling for interviews in competition with other writers also trying to eke out a living at their craft?  i don't know  what Jaci's answer would be withut having asked her,  but I suspect I could make a reasonably good guess.

My dad recognizes that I will probaby always need to write, and that it is not beyond possibility that at some point either writing or music could overtake medicine as a career for me. Still, he felt that not taking advantage of the ease with which the mastery of mathematical and scientific concepts have always come to me,  compounded by the medical school scholarships literally falling into my lap, which is not the case for most med school students,  would have made it foolish for me not to study medicine if only as a way to provide inspiration for writing and to finance a fledgling writing career, hopefully not maiming or outrightly killing off too many patients while doing such.

We are a family of multi-dimensional people. My parents respect my skill as a writer. They just think, as I do, that a degree in English composition isn't, in and of itself, the most useful degree on the planet, though there's an abundance of time for me to return  to the university setting and earn one if I truly believe the lack of such degree is standing between me and the attainment of any of my goals.. I took more electives in the English domain than were required. Those, combined with what I had already learned and what comes naturally to me, have probably provided me with what I need in order to spring-board a writing career if I so choose it. Furthermore, among professors under whom I studied while completing undergraduate studies, at least one of a few I would choose would likely be willing to serve as a mentor to me as a fledgling writer.

In summation, other than the severe time and energy encroachment, nothing in the study of medicine stands in the way of my becoming a writer as well as a physician or surgeon. Will it happen for me? It's all a function of life's great balancing act. i do not yet know just how adept I am at walking a tightrope or juggling, or any other such thing, either metaphorically or literally.

***i hold no personal agenda against any of the Kardashians nor against the Hilton sisters. I'm just not certain that the lifestyles afforded by their wealth give them any significant creative  advantage in the production of whatever art forms they pursue.  The concept that "it takes money to make money" certainly works in their favor, and  the media exposure that comes along with their territory certainly works to their benefit in promoting whetever product it is they're apptempting to hawk. They may complain about their excessive nedia exposure, but when it cmoes to promoting perfume or fasion lines, it definitely works to their advantage; I don't hear them complaining about that aspect of their publicity.  In terms of quality of production, however, I'm not at all convinced that the proverbial  Room With a View or , in their cases, mutiple rooms with as many views anyone one would desire, enabled them to produce a product in any way superior to that produced by the competition. They'll make a lot of money, but at the end of the day, I don't see the financial advantages as having enabled any of them to have created and developed a product the quality of which surpassed that of the competition less supported by financial advantages. They will have made more money simply because it takes money to make money. The sad aspect of this is that if one of such children of privilege actually comes uo with a product that is artictically superior, it's unlikely that proper credit will be given. Instead, the success will be attributed to the financial advantage enjoyed in the first place by the child of privilege who came up with the design for the product.  

Courtroom Drama

Nothing was quite this contentious in the sentencing hearing in which I participated..

We've reached Catalina and are having lunch while waiting another half-hour or so for our hotel rooms to be ready. The boat ride was uneventful, which is the way I want my boat rides to be. We did spot a few dolphins about two-thirds of the way to the island.  My mom says that spotting a dolphin in its natural habitat will bring a person good luck good luck. It sounds like an Irish version of an old wives' tale to me, but I'll take good luck in any form and for any reason.

Yesterday's sentencing hearing was a bit more exciting than I had expected it to be.  I'll spare you the complete play-by-play, as if you were that
interested, you probably would have found a way to have been there in person. Still, a couple of incidents are worth recounting.

First, and most important to me, I did have actual participation beyond sitting in the second chair while attempting to look lawyerly. My main reason for being there was to look as though I was a legitimate legal representative of some sort. My PseudoAunt would have been better served in that regard by using her younger brother Timmy in that capacity, as he is old enough to be an attorney and actually looks almost old enough. On the other hand, he has less courtroom experience than I, and in the event that one of us were actually called into service, I was the superior choice.

My first opportunity for action came when PseudoAunt bolted out of the courtroom right in the middle of a defense witness' statement to toss her cookies. She's pregnant and isn't quite through her first trimester, so throwing up isn't unusual for her at this stage. I immediately raised my hand. The judge halted the witness' reading of her statement and called on me. "The people request a brief recess," I announced.

The judge granted a fifteen minute recess. I remained at the table with the court documents. It's against protocol to leave documents unattended, and I didn't want to mess with the order in which papers were laid out. The judge and others followed to determine the seriousness of the situation. Fourteen minutes later PseudoAunt returned after having brushed her teeth, touched up her hair, and freshly applied her makeup. She sat at the defense table smiling and  perfectly poised, as if the recess had been for the benefit of someone else.

I could print the entire transcript here and it would be almost interesting enough to read, but this is my blog and not PseudoAunt's, so I'll mainly retell the parts that pertain to me.

One of the defense witnesses, as she read her statement, opined that the convicted defendant should be sentenced to probation or house arrest at the very most, in part because she was very charitable and had annually purchased at least one hundred dollars' worth of Girl Scout Cookies for the past several years. Without consulting PseudoAunt or anyone else, I grabbed my wallet and rushed out of the courtroom. Once outside the courtroom, I took off my heels so that I could run without tripping.

On the way to the courthouse that morning, we had seen, maybe a block from the courthouse,  a makeshift kiosk where a lady and some Girl Scouts were selling cookies. It caught my attention because the Girl Scout cookie sale should have been over months ago. There must have been some extra stock that needed to be unloaded. I ran at my racing speed in my bare feet to that kiosk.

I told the lady in charge, as I really didn't have time to deal with children, that I needed to purchase as many boxes of cookies as I could easily carry. The lady had generously brought plastic grocery bags for the convenience of the customers. We decided I could easily carry four bags while running. I told her I didn't care what variety of cookies she gave me, but that I needed an assortment. She hurriedly shoved what ended up being twenty-eight boxes of all various incarnations of Girl Scout cookies in the bags.
The price was four dollars a box or six boxes for twenty dollars. I pulled out five twenties, told her to keep the change, and ran back almost as fast as I had run there, carrying both the cookies and my shoes. I quickly made it through the security checkpoint, up the stairs, and down the hall. I very nearly forgot to put my shoes back on before entering the courtroom. I'm sure the judge would have been most unimpressed, and I'm glad I remembered in the last minute.

I walked briskly but quietly down the aisle to my chair, stuffing the bags under the table. PseudoAunt  look down, then smiled at me.

Other witnesses made various excuses for the defendant's actions or praised her character, but nothing was terribly exciting. mostly it was redundant and boring.

Then came the closing statements. The prosecution went first. PseudoAunt began in typical formal fashion, addressing the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and thanking them for their time and attention. She said the stuff that's always said. She rebutted a few routine excuses, and blew holes in the attempts to extol the lady's virtues.

Then she segued into what she referred to as "The Girl Scout Cookie" clause. She had me hand her all 28 boxes, which she promptly dropped all over the courtroom floor. Incidentally, she stole that move from Sidney Sheldon's Rage of Angels. The defense attorney objected. The judge said, "I think you've made your point with the visual, counselor. We now all now know what a box of Girl Scout cookies looks like. Move along."

PseudAunt deftly stacked the boxes of cookies and moved to set them on our table. She then turned and headed to the gallery to a man she recognized as a representative of the bank from which the lady embezzled. "I'll donate these to your bank," she announced, "since your bank actually paid for the hundreds of dollars of cookies Ms. S. purchased over the years. it's only a token reimbursement, but it's better than nothing. " she handed him the 28 boxes of cookies. Bewildered, he, handed some of them to those sitting on either side of him.

She went on to talk about how charitable giving is virtuous and is what we should be doing, but A) not with someone else's money and B) not for the purpose of avoiding punishment for a crime.  she pointed at me and said, "Alexis, my assistant, purchased nearly a hundred dollars worth of Girl Scout Cookies. Does that give her the freedom to park in a handicapped only space without paying a fine, or to be in possession of a controlled substance? No, of course it does not! I'm sorry Alexis, but if you do either of those things, you're on your own."

She went on to discuss the Twinkie defense, which happened sometime around 1980 when a man who shot the mayor of San Francisco and a county supervisor, then blamed the crimes on having eaten too many Twinkies and making his blood sugar excessively high. He was acquitted largely on that defense. She told the jury that it wasn't a perfect analogy because the defense attorney had not blamed the defendant's crime on blood sugar issues from eating the Girl Scout cookies -- yet, anyway. He still had his opportunity for a statement, and it might very well be a mitigating circumstance in his repertoire.

She said, though, that it was a legitimate analogy in the ludicrosity of both excuses. She talked about how recommending  light sentences for a serious crime based on purchases from charitable fundraisers would be, in essence, sending a message to all future criminals that all they need do before committing a crime would be to generously buy Campfire Girl mints, Cub Scout popcorn, or Girl Scout cookies. She told the jury they would essentially be giving a "Get Out of jail Free" card to up-and-coming criminals across the nation. she reached into her pocket and pulled out a Monopoly game "Get Out of jail Free" card, held it up, then passed it to juror number one, instructing him to pass it down to the others. She waited patiently while they each took the "Get Out of Jail Free" card. "I'll need the card back, " she told the jurors. "We occasionally play the game at home."

She told the jurors that she would have liked to send the Girl Scout Cookies into the deliberating room with them but !) that would be considered jury tampering, and 2) she didn't expect that they would have to deliberate for long enough to make it through a single box.

She concluded as eloquently as always. The judge gave his instructions and sent the panel off to deliberate. they were back in fifteen minutes with a decision, which was to recommend the maximum penalty of seven years plus restitution and punitive damages. The judge concurred and it was over.

PseudoAunt's husband reimbursed me the $100 I spent on the cookies, so I didn't have to raid the ATM on the way to the boat.

Hotel rooms should be ready. We're now a party of six, and everyone's a happy camper. For the record and in case my dad reads this, girls are in adjoining rooms, and the guys are in two other rooms that do not connect with ours. that doesn't necessarily guarantee anything, but we at least went through the motions of being pure and chaste.










 

Going to Catalina!

The first thing tomorrow I'm driving south just a bit with a rather  large entourage to harbor where we can catch a boat to Sana Catalina Island, which is approximately twenty-six miles into the Pacific, according to a song from the dark ages. I bought ginger snaps to take on the boat in order to combat motion sickness. I'd rather not take ondansetron, as I don't want to waste time being sleepy, and my help will be needed with taking care of small children on the boat  That same song purports that Catalina is "the island of romance." but my intentions are anything but romantic. I'm going there mainly to parasail. The chance even of grabbing a beer is extremely slim as most of the people traveling with me are Mormon, but I'll keep my eyes open and grab any possibility as it presents itself. I'm not a heavy boozer, but I like to plug my nose and drink a half-bottle of beer on occasion.


My temp was still in the low-grade fever range when I woke up this morning, but went down to normal before noon. It may go back up tonight, but should be gone entirely by tomorrow. If it doesn't it will be my secret.