bob loblaw's law blog


This? Is the funniest show on television.

I'm not sure what this says about my sense of humor, but there it is. Besides, Jason Bateman is hot.



he did *not*

Oh, my garlic, he did.

Excuse me. I must go vomit.




Did I already say that??

When I decided to start a blog, I figured I'd keep it as private as possible. A journal of sorts. Then I shared the link with a friend. And then another, and another, and then all of a sudden I realized I wasn't keeping it private at all. The idea of people reading was kind of cool. Kind of panic-inducing, too.

On the night I caught myself compulsively clicking the Next Blog button and reading random things written by strangers I had a sudden thought - Ohmigawd what if random strangers are reading MY BLOG? ACK!!

After I calmed down (with a bit of help from my trusty friend Jose Cuervo) I decided it was okay. How many people would actually click in anyway? And so what if they did? Pffft.

Then the very lovely Kate mentioned Site Meter and I had a whole new thing to play with...and obsess over, because that little button proves, without a doubt, that people are, in fact, READING my blather.

This is rather daunting when you are me. Why? Because I happen to be one of those people who obsesses over every word. I delete. I re-type. I delete again. I pull hair out of my head. I pace and worry and think oh, I should have said THIS instead of THAT and holy bleeding hell, man, what is THAT and what was I thinking when I typed it???

Last night's entry came about when I became utterly fascinated with the idea that random bloggers with Site Meter buttons were suddenly as aware of me as I am of the wonderful folks who wander in here. And that's all.

Now don't get me wrong, people, I love getting comments. It's nice to know people are reading even if they think my particular style of stringing words together sucks rocks. So thank you, and keep 'em coming!

And dude? Yeah, you over there, the one who wandered in looking for an Ass Parade? I give you this - my ass and the tattoo that lives above it.

I told you it was so not what you were hoping to see.


hands off the mumma

One night not so long ago, I pulled open the pantry door. When a fully cooked, completely nutritious, and totally balanced meal didn't immediately leap out at me I decided it was time to order a pizza from Our Very Favorite Pizza Place Located Conveniently on Main Street. Unfortunately, the only Lemony who thought this was a good idea was, well, me.

"I had pizza for lunch at school!" whined Lemony Brother.

"I hate pizza!" harumphed Lemony Teen.

"YEAH! Pizza sucks!" piped in Lemony Child.

I suggested they plan a fully cooked, completely nutritious and totally balanced meal. They are, after all, totally capable people. Or so they tell me.

Suddenly they insisted they weren't at all capable, a fact I will remind them of the next time they think they should be able to drive themselves to the mall in my car to spend my money.

(totally unrelated little side note...why the hell does that stupid bubble that pops up with a WeatherBug update need to be clicked on TEN TIMES before it goes away??? wait a minute...why is WeatherBug installed on my computer???)

Since the Lemonettes weren't interested in cooking anymore than I was, and pizza was out since it sucks and all, it was off to the local pub for a pint (for me) and a burger (for the Lemonettes). We sat, we ate, we chatted, we asked for the bill.

So far so good, right?


The youngest child is a bit of a spirited Lemon. She learned long ago that in our very busy...and very loud...family, a well-placed shriek is pretty much the only thing anybody will pay attention to.

Do you see where I'm going?

Lemony Child decided she absolutely must have Lemony Brother's book. Why, we'll never know since the girl is 5 and can't read words more complicated than her own name, but she NEEDED it and she NEEDED it NOW.

Obviously Lemony Brother didn't think it was quite as dire a situation as his sister. He refused her demand. All of Hell's fury was unleashed and it spewed mightily from the mouth of a five-year-old Lemon. You know what they say about hell hath no fury, right?

They weren't even close, man.

I threw my debit card at the waiter and gave him my very best for the love of all that is right and holy, man, HURRY look. He hurried, all right...right out of the pub and into his car where he screamed off into the night muttering under his breath the entire time about never, and he means EVER, having children.

The guy at the table next to us covered his ears.

The little girl at the table next to us stared in open-mouthed awe before turning to her mother and saying, "That girl is my hero!"

The mother of the little girl at the table next to us shot me a withering look as she hustled Precious the Perfect Who Would Never Do Such Things away.

I thought maybe I should, you know, stuff the youngest Lemon's mouth full of ice or something when a woman from across the dining room stood up and wandered over, put her hand on my shouder, leaned over to the youngest Lemon and said, "You are a very loud little girl."

Lemony Child immediately stopped fussing. She stood up. She put her hand on the woman's hand, which was still on my shoulder. She smiled. And then she said, "Sometimes my brother is mean to me because I'm littler than he is. He can smoosh me like a bug. Loud is all I have. Now hands off the mumma."

The lady turned to me and said, "Wow. She's a firecracker, ain't she?"




every day

I slept, I had coffee, and somewhere in between all the sleeping and caffeine the things I wanted to say stopped making sense. I hate it when that happens.

I thought I'd throw a bunch of statistics up, but meh, that's boring. Then I thought I'd rage at a government that did nothing, is still doing nothing, while people die and pharmaceutical companies make scillions of dollars...but, well, some days I just don't have the energy for moral outrage and today was one of those days.

I know, I know.

I was sorting it all out along with Volkswagen-sized piles of underwear, socks, and towels when the phone rang. I was thrilled with this development because A) it meant I could stop weeding through the underwear, and B) it meant I could stop pondering the overwhelming.

I tossed Mr. Lemony's Hanes back into the abyss of cotton and wool and dashed for the phone, fully expecting to hear Lemony's Mother venting her spleen about the management hacks at her place of employment. Imagine my surprise when instead of:


I got:

"In ten days, when you do whatever it is you do to muddle along, will you take me to muddle along with you?"

And just like that it's no longer about statistics or moral outrage.

It's about him.

It's about the enormous hole left in my world that nobody will ever be able to fill.

It's about W, who traded everything else he ever loved and didn't get nearly enough time in return.

It's about S, who is so much like him and desperate for any little piece I can bear to share.

It's something that's far more tangible than a statistic and yet far more difficult to convey.

He was here. He was loved. He is missed. And that's what today - what every day - is about.

world AIDS day

There's a lot to be said today, but I think I'll wait until I've slept and had some coffee.