Last night I left the hotel and had a not-so-great experience.  I found the Gaslamp District to be touristy, overpriced and shitty.  I got lured into a restaurant for "happy hour specials" and then found out after I went in that the happy hour special was only for the bar area, fine, and then apparently my martini was not eligible for "happy hour" and thank god I asked when he gave me a food menu because the default menu was NOT the specials menu.  He gave me another, smaller menu.  Whatever.  I was pissed at being duped.  I hate, hate, hate that.  I wanted a deal and I was upfront about that.  I feel like I was lured in.  The whole area made me uncomfortable.

My conference today got done at noon, so I took the ferry to Coronado and I was charmed.  The ferry was reasonably priced, uncrowded and on time.  The island was delightful.  I walked and walked and walked.  I took a bajillion pictures of cute houses and plants.  I sat in the sand.  I came back on the ferry.

I stopped at a restaurant attached to the Embassy Suites that had a sidewalk sign that said "Happy Hour 4-7pm."  So I went in and asked about "happy hour."  They directed me to the hotel lobby and when I ordered my drink at the bar I realized that it was a free happy hour for hotel guests.  I tipped well.  I ate hummus and crackers.  It was really all I wanted for my dinner.

It always amuses me to crash events like that.  I figure if you are respectful and tip well, what's the real harm?

Sunburn and free happy hour.  This is the California I like.

It's so damn sneaky.  It has me hate it theoretically and then I get here and the sun and the air and the nice people and I am all like, "Oh, CALIFORNIA!"  And I want to roll in the moderate temperatures and awesome.

I did not know fish tacos came this way.  I am obsessed.  Salmon, mahi mahi and tilapia have all been consumed.  Wow.  So, so, so good.  Why didn't I think about the tacos when I came to San Diego?!

I got involved with a large scale eviction case that included a federal loan guarantor a nasty landlord and lots of really salt of the Earth folks who got unceremoniously booted from their apartments.  I did some fast lawyering and got a good result for them.  Also some headlines for my boss, which he loved.

I flew out on Thursday to go to San Diego for a bankruptcy conference and got a text on the way to the airport from my paralegal telling me that I won my Supreme Court decision.  I thought she was kidding.  By the time I got to the airport I had reporters that wanted to talk to me about the case.

And then air travel.  Spending so much close time with people that you don't really talk to in a real way.  I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I actually cried at one point and I am sure the guy sitting next to me worried that I was a basket case.  I was just happy.

I am here alone and the bankruptcy attorneys around me don't really want to talk about my housing case or my juvenile court appeal, but my email is blowing up from colleagues, family, and even my favorite law school professor who read about me in the paper and sent me an email to congratulate me.  I feel disconnected from it all.

I have finally stopped crying. 

I love Starbucks coffee.  And by that I mean the medium Pike Place Roast.  I like it that Starbucks is everywhere for the reason that chains make sense.  I can walk into a Starbucks in Miami or Boston or Omaha or Seattle and get the same coffee.  Except that Starbucks is getting weird on me.  I forgave them for the obnoxious Italian sizes (I always just order in English) and I forgave them for their ridiculous coffee drink menu (halfwhipskimlatteblahblah).  I could always get a dependable cup of coffee quickly.

And then this summer they started the "blonde" coffee thing - what the fuck?!  You want light coffee?  Add some half and half to it like East Coast people.  I thought the pumpkin mocha chai (or whatever that shit is that isn't coffee) was the problem, but I think now that it really started downhill with the "blonde" roast coffee.

And all of a sudden I sometimes have difficulty getting Pike Place Roast.  You know, the ORIGINAL coffee.  The one they are KNOWN for.

I used to be able to walk in, order a medium Pike Place and be out of there before the skimwhipmocha lady's drink was even started.  But several times now I am told, "I'm sorry.  We don't have any of that brewed."

What the fuck, Starbucks?  You're losing me here.  I get that you make more money off the other shit, but your heart and soul, your BASIS was always your Pike Place Roast (which I LOVE).  I defended you against all my friends who rail about you.  I resolutely carry my Starbucks mug (in ceramic so I don't have to touch plastic with my lips! I love it!) and get it refilled many times a week.

I'm about ready to carry my Starbuck's mug into the local coffee shop and try to figure out which organic/green/fair trade blend is a medium roast.  Mother fucker.  Can I just get a coffee around here?

The thing about visiting old people is that you can't like anything.  Because if you say anything they just give it to you.  The kids and I visited my Grandma (93 years old) over the weekend and I ended up with a sack of 1950s Vogue patterns, a box of green crystal glasses (they were literally in her cupboard last night - she rolled them in newspaper and boxed them up for me this morning despite my protests), my son ended up with the rest of the apple strudel and my daughter was given the necklace off her body.  "That's a cool necklace," my daughter commented.  It was immediately draped over her head.  I was given a diamond necklace that I am trying not to think about too much.

"Make a list of the things you want, Lea Anne.  No promises, but I want to know what you want so you will remember me."  I was tearing up.

It's corny, but sheesh, how could I ever forget her?  I can't even post any of this on Facebook because she's ON Facebook.  She gave me the diamond necklace because she saw that I lost a necklace last week.  (I posted about it on Facebook.)  I don't want anything, of course, I just want my grandma.  She spans my entire memory - always in that house, in that kitchen, still mixing biscuits on her counter and talking to her dog and sitting in her favorite chair.  She brews coffee and reads the paper and holds her own in any conversation.

We had a nice visit.  She has been sorting letters and cards.  It was fun to look through those things with her.  We went through her college yearbook and she shared stories about her childhood and young adult hood.  She and I both laughed about how quickly time passes.  We helped her with some house and yard chores.  She told the kids stories.  "Your mom used to like to stand on her head between the bean plants.  All I could see were her feet sticking out above the plants."  She enlisted the kids to help her put mulch on her roses.  "Doc gave me that plant," she said, referring to her husband.  "He's been dead, what, 45 years?"  She seemed surprised that it had been that long since she was widowed.  The mud triggered a memory of playing in the road ruts in  front of her grandparents' house after the rain.  "Nes and I pretended we were alligators," she chuckled.  In the span of 5 minutes she had memories of 35 years ago, 45 years ago and 85 years ago.  All memories are sharp for her.

There is so much that is striking about her.  She has one of the sharpest minds I have ever known.  She is delightful to spend time with and a wonderful hostess.  (I hear her struggling to move around the kitchen and I know that she will not take my help with everything, so instead of trying to take over I try to help.  I know that she will mix biscuits as long as she is breathing, so I don't fight that, instead I get the jelly and set the table.)

How many times have I eaten biscuits at that table?  I couldn't even tell you.  But I know that I will never forget her biscuits, and I bet my kids won't either.

I was late to my first fucking class of the quarter.

I got pulled over by a cop who was, um, 22?  I tried to not just lose it on him when he pulled me over.

He knew my address, even asked me if I still use Major Insurance Company for insurance.

I am 16 days expired on my plates.  I mailed in the registration renewal, but obviously, I did this at the last minute.  This adorable/asshole knew all of that.  I did not have the new stickers on my license plates because I HAVEN'T GOTTEN THEM YET!

What pisses me off about this is that the cop knew all of this and yet pulled me over JUST BECAUSE MY LICENSE PLATE STICKERS WERE WRONG.

I got a warning.

And I was late to my first class of the quarter. Hooping.

So I was stressed when I got there 10 minutes late.

I had a whole playlist for my first class (covering hoop tubing with tape) I didn't get through because I was late and I was so freaking out when I got there.

I could never be a teacher for real.  Every class is so different personality wise.  Some quarters are flexible and cool.  Tonight?  Not at all.  Fuck.  "Is this all we're doing?!" asked one student tonight when she realized that we were just making hoops and starting waist hooping.  "Um.  Yeah," I said as I tried to help 4 people with sparkle tape that I warned them was difficult to use.

Shit.

So we're Facebook Friends, but are we Spotify Friends?  Because my playlist tonight was inspired by Bruce's cover of "We Shall Overcome" which spawned my rememberance of Sonic Youth's "Superstar," which may be the best version ever (well, it is).  Anyway.  I have good music taste.

My playlist was "covers" as we "covered" tubing with tape.

This weekend was a huge tournament at my old coach's school.  He is respected on a national level and there were schools from four states at this tournament which just impressed the hell out of me.  And then my kid and her debate partner did well.  They broke to quarter finals and got what is called a TOC bid (permission to be in a big, national tournament).  The best part was at the awards ceremony when my old coach, who was announcing the awards, came away from the podium to high five my kid when she got her award.

The whole team did well and won overall as well.  And the great part is really just how fantastic these kids are and that I get to be a part of it in a peripheral way.  I get to love and enjoy them.

It is sad to me that the birth of my relationship with Bill is here on Xanga (sometimes I go back and read the crazy in love and sex-fueled posts and cry) and it is also the only place I feel safe writing about the death of it.

Sunday a friend and I went for a long, hard bike ride outside in the cold.  We finished up our twenty miles with a stop at a diner near our houses and had grilled cheese and martinis.

My son was in the hospital and Bill did nothing - didn't come to see him or me.  Didn't even offer emotional support.  His kids were at the house over the holiday weekend and it's like he doesn't see them.  I fed them, cleaned up after them and entertained them.  He took them to visit his parents and left shortly after dinner and went to a hotel by himself, leaving the kids with his parents and brother.  (I took the kids out for tacos on Saturday, for example, and asked him to come.  "No.  I don't like that taco place," he said.  "Ok, well then where would you like to go eat?" I asked.  He was quiet for a minute and then said, "I don't want to go anywhere."  There are many, many, many examples of things just like this.)  He sleeps and sleeps and sleeps.  He is not eating dinner anymore.  He is physically unable to do any more than he is doing.

"I know I should leave," I said as I finished my martini.

"Why do you stay?" my friend asked.

"I love him," I said.  "And I think he will kill himself if I leave."

He thinks about it every day.  Every single day he wishes he was dead.  ("It hurts my feelings to be with someone who wishes he was dead very day," I say.  "It's not about you," he says.)

And this is where well meaning people ask about medication and counseling.  All I know to say is that we have done that, he does that, and that he is not doing well.  ("Talk to his doctor."  Ok.  I do that and they ask questions and they up his uppers or give him Viagra or ask if he has a plan and he says "no."  We go to marriage counseling and he sees a psychologist (the best he's seen ever) and he gets angry or can't answer the questions that are asked)  I am really feeling like this can't be fixed.

This is the "for worse" part, right?  I have begun to think of this as a terminal illness.  If he had cancer that progressed to the point that he could not get out of bed or something I would not expect him to go out for tacos with me, right?

This morning was a colossal mess. I am sad and angry about the state of my marriage. I really feel bad whining about my marriage all the time. I worry that it is me. I wonder if my expectations are too high. But they seem low to me? We talked on the porch for a short while before he had to go and he observed, "This can't be solved in ten minutes." Long story short, my emotional neediness freaks him out and makes him distance himself from me which results in me getting sadder and him getting angrier. Anyway. They left.

My son was napping, the girls were happily listening to music/texting friends/planning shopping and the turkey was in the oven.  I leashed Stella and took her for a very long walk. I cried while we walked. I lay in the leaves in the park and she licked my face. We walked some more. My house smelled amazing when we got home. I finished up dinner prep and we had a beautiful dinner - just the four of us. It was quite different than any Thanksgiving dinner I have ever had and was pretty awesome, actually. We listened to pop music on M's iphone. We went around the table saying what we were grateful for about each other (you have awesome hair, you have good taste in music, etc.) and then had an airing of grievances (my favorite was M's grievance that I only make the corn casserole on Thanksgiving and "this shit is too good for once a year"). My son and I played Monopoly after dinner while the girls did all the dishes. My son is now napping, the girls are heading out shopping soon, and I am finishing off the beaujolais.

I feel reminded that my kids and I are my family. My husband is not a father to them and his kids are not siblings to them. My kids and I can love them but really when it comes down to it, it is me and my (shockingly similar to me) kids.

My mother is law is a little crazy and is over medicated.  She has fibromyalgia and takes narcotics that she mixes pretty freely with a whole variety of other medications.  I have known her for 12 years and I have watched her deteriorate.  She can't concentrate enough to drive a car or read a book.  Her social anxiety is worse all the time.  She has some paranoid ideas and it is difficult to talk to her sometimes because she doesn't remember things or misunderstands or mistakenly takes offense.

Despite all of this, I love her and enjoy spending time with her.  My husband does not.  He has his own social anxiety issues and does not want to spend the holidays (or any day) with his family.  I enjoy holidays at her house because it's emotionally easier for me in some ways.  They're not my parents. These aren't my siblings.  I love them all and think they're pretty cool, so it works out ok for me.  I have always helped with Thanksgiving dinner at her house and one year I even cooked the whole meal at her house because she was recovering from surgery.

I lay all of this history out there because it is relevant to the funny and irritating result that my mother in law thinks that I don't want to come to her house for Thanksgiving.  She told my husband, my brother in law and my father in law that I don't like having Thanksgiving at her house.  She sends me carefully crafted emails in which she tip toes around and compliments me on my cooking or parenting or whatever and then says, "I know that you like having Thanksgiving at your house, but this year is different..."  Um.  What?  I mean, it's not like we have Thanksgiving at their house every year, but we do every other year and even some of the others.  And they have always been very pleasant in my experience.

My brother in law and I worked out the menu (she should not be allowed in the kitchen for reasons that should by now be obvious) and we both told her this and despite that she emailed us both and asked us to bring different things.

And then yesterday my son was home sick from school.  And then last night his abdominal pain was worse and was on the lower right side.  And the doctor at the ER confirmed appendicitis and the surgeon took out the funny thing.  Surgery is amazing these days.  He was home before Bill got home from work.  But it changes Thanksgiving plans for me.

I'm having Thanksgiving at my house.  So there!  Ha!