I had the pleasure of attending law school at the American University Washington College of Law.

Yes, I just used the words "pleasure" and "law school" in the same breath.

WCL is a special place.  People don't steal books from the library there.  They circle the answers (in pencil, because we respect books, yo) and put them back.  That sums up how different it is from other law schools, particularly those in the top tier (of the arguably meaningless US News rankings) and those in DC (Georgetown, I'm totally looking at you.)

I developed some seriously great mentor relationships during my time at WCL.  To me, finding a kindred spirit in an educator casts a bright light on my learning experience.  I was lucky to have several such bright lights.

One of these lights was recently extinguished, and I am sad.  

Jim Day taught me Oil and Gas Law and Energy Law.  He was an adjunct professor at WCL because, as he would have put it, he was far too busy working in the business and making "real money" to profess full time.  He, shall we say, believed in incentives.  Each semester, he chose one final exam essay which was the best in the class, and awarded that student a monetary prize of one thousand dollars per course credit. 

Oil and Gas Law was 2 credits.  I didn't win.  Energy Law was 3 credits.  I did win.

Jim Day was sartorially talented -- quite the snappy dresser.  He was unapologetically capitalist and conservative.  He believed, and proved, that the pursuit of petroleum engineering was the source of bounteous financial gain.  He believed, and proved, that knowing the law and the policy was the key.

Jim Day wrote books, and published them.  He held book signing parties where everyone drank bourbon.  Those were fun.  He had a razor sharp wit and a perpetual gleam in his eye.  He gave you the feeling that he was thinking faster than you.  Like, a lot faster.  He was.

Jim Day sent me a handwritten Christmas card every year, in response to my unapologetically cute family photo cards. 

When I got married, Jim Day sent me a wedding present.  It was a really nice Calphalon soup pot, which I still use almost daily.  When I thanked him for the pot, he raised his eyebrows, "Oh, is that what we sent you?  Good.  My wife did a good job.  I told her to get you something nice."

Jim Day was a straight shooter, a smart man, known to have a cocktail, proud of his boots, well-traveled, and well-read.  He saw great things in me.  He constantly challenged me.  

"What are you reading?  What's your next job going to be?  Are you making enough money?"  

I stammered, sometimes, in response.  I tend to be self-effacing and he had no time for that.  

"Buck up.  Be confident.  You are smart.  Get in there and kick some ass, little lady."

And now that he's gone to the great cocktail party/book signing/oil well in the sky, I feel reminded.

Thanks for everything, Professor.

Hope someone tells you to kick some ass today.

Talk soon,
Heather

sass karma

Once when I was in college, my friends and I went to a modern dance performance.  There was a piece performed called "Recess," where the dancers simulated playing on a playground, but all dancey-like.

We were smart asses and it cracked us up, like a lot.  To us, it felt, in a word, sassy. We talked about it for the next few days.  (Yes, this is bitchy.  But dude.  It was hilarious.)

The concept of sassiness infused my group of friends for a while.  Everything was either sassy or not sassy.  In the way that people are killing words like "epic" and "fail" lately, we set out to completely slaughter the word "sassy" with overuse, misuse, and abuse.

I suppose that we were sassy, in the bad way, but you know ... it was college in Central Maine and we needed something to do.  I'll leave it at that.

But apparently, karma will not leave it at that.

Because I have been blessed with the likes of one bona fide Sassy Pants.  

Here's a sample:

• (In response to me telling him to put his pjs on for the thirteenth time, in that voice you use when you are telling someone something basic for the THIRTEENTH TIME)  No, Momma!  You don't talk to me like that!  
• (In response to my "good morning" the other day) I don't want to go to school!  I'm going to stay in bed!
• (While walking downstairs)  Momma.  Wait. Your. Turn.
• I WANT COOKIES FOR BREAKFAST.

You get the idea.

PS:  The kid loves watermelon.

Hope karma is kind to you today.

Talk soon,
Heather

i crack myself up

What can I say?  It's a classic Mom move to display your child's artwork in your office.

It compels colleagues to make vague, complimentary remarks like:

-- Oh, you must be very proud.
-- Look at all those colors!
-- What a nice ... picture!
-- How old is he again?

He's three.  You don't have to think his pictures are great.  I do.  And luckily, I do.

To wit, a recent picture of my office door:

He told me that's what the picture was.

I'm pretty sure he's a genius.

Hope you are flattered in the abstract today.

Talk soon,
Heather

i went to the grocery store on mother's day and was fine with it

Jack and I went to the grocery store  yesterday afternoon.  We were out of dog food and milk and fruit and other things that we need for our survival as a family.  

We are at that awkward stage where Jack is far too "grown up" to sit in the cart like a baby -- but far too distractable and headstrong to walk alongside the cart, particularly if I have a long list of pressing things to buy.

That means that The Plan is to get one of those monstrous carts that looks like a car and drives like an 18-wheeler, and yet, has a pathetically small basket for groceries.  I brazenly promised Jack one, and then couldn't find one.  

However, I did find a bright-eyed HEB employee who was probably 18 but looked 11 to me.  I asked him if there were any car carts left, and he trotted off to the parking lot to find me one.  I breathed a sigh of relief and told Jack to hold tight -- his chariot was coming.

As the 11 year old HEB employee drove the cart back to me, a momma interloper snagged him and asked for it.  He politely explained that he was delivering it to someone else and that he was sorry.  Phew again; Jack and I were saved.

On her way by with her two children, the momma interloper gave me stink eye.  Happy Mother's Day, indeed.

For me, Mother's Day is like my birthday.  I super duper mega love it.  I feel special all day.  I will happily be showered with flowers, cards, gifts and compliments.  I will not turn them down.  You can make me a martini.  You can buy me dessert.  Yes, please.

But, like on my birthday, I also realize that real life calls.  I go to work on my birthday.  It's OK.  

I go to HEB on Mother's Day.  And that's OK, too.

Because you know what?  I would be sad if I didn't have Pablo and Lucy to buy dog food for; Durel to buy fruit for (he loves fruit, man), and Jack to buy milk for.

You know what I mean?

Hope someone needs you today.

Talk soon,

Heather

move over, lynda carter

First, I saw this, which is pretty much the best thing ever.

And then I realized I had to share the superhero obsession currently taking root in our home.

I've always loved Wonder Woman.  My childhood doll was not Wonder Woman, but she had brown hair and blue eyes and a yellow top with red piping and blue pants.  So, duh.  She was *totally* Wonder Woman.  I still have her.

I have Wonder Woman in my office to help me be an Amazon lawdog.

I dressed as Wonder Woman one Halloween.  That was right around the time Durel and I started being all flirty pants with one another.  I am 100% serious when I say that the Woman Woman costume contributed to our success.

Jack is really into Batman now.  He often refers to him by his full name, "Batman, the Dark Knight."  (He also refers to himself as "Jack Attack, The First."  We are big on full names right now.

He asked me the other day, "Momma, are you Wonder Woman?"

I replied without hesitation.  "Yes."

He was unfazed because he knew that I was.  "Momma, I want to go to the store and get you some Wonder Woman clothes."  (By the store, he means Target.  Obviously.)

I replied without hesitation.  "OK."

So, I'll let you know how that goes.

I doubt they have this at Target.
If they did, I doubt I would buy it.
If I did, I doubt I would share.
If I did, I doubt I would ever leave my house again.

Hope you feel invincible today.

Talk soon,
Heather

this one's courtesy of the who

My dear brother, nephew, and son playing kickball on a fine spring day in Austin not too long ago.

I can't explain how my brain works.  Because I looked at this picture for a while, and then this happened:

Even in the backyard

He can beat your best.

His uncle leads him in

And he just does the rest.

He's got little feet of fury

Never seen him fall...

That little Jack Attack kid

Sure plays a mean kick ball!

Not that Lindy and Eli don't also play a mean kickball.  But you know, I'm partial.

Hope Roger Daltry inspires you today.

Talk soon,
Heather

we don't really condone this type of thing...

But we did do a little friendly family wagering on the Kentucky Derby last weekend.  We put all the horses' names into a hat (OK, a bowl) and each drew two names.

We put in I think $5 per person per horse?  Yes, that adds up.

Anyway, then we watched the race.  We had paused it whilst we finished up our horse-picking.  I may or may not have made the mistake of picking up my phone just as we were about to watch the race.  I may or may not have seen, courtesy of the NBC News push notifications that I may or may not have authorized, that Orb was the winner.

None of us had drawn Orb.  (There were seven of us.  We each drew 2 horses.  That's 14.  19 ran the race.)

We had agreed that if no one had drawn the winning horse, we would observe a second place winner.

The second place finisher was Golden Soul.

And the rest, they say, is history.

But, for the record, I am not *really* teaching my three year old son to gamble on horse races.

Durel is.

Hope you have a buck to pass today.

Talk soon,
Heather

thanks, costco, for reminding me how old my baby is getting

Jack used to love the pizza at Costco.  (Flashback) case in point:

Remember the time he ate two pieces?  I do.

He now prefers the hot dogs.  FYI.

Yes, he ate an entire one pound Costco hot dog.  Don't judge.

And if you are at the South Costco, I recommend the potty in the tire section.

Jack recommends taking a break to count the tires after your break for the potty.

We grow, we change, we count things.

Hope you have a surprisingly cheap meal today.

Talk soon,
Heather

an ode to the Davies

My family rocks.  That is the truth.

We are pale Irish folk who love potatoes and wine and do not tend to excel at sports.

We are well-read, stubborn, interesting, and interested.

We like music.  We like board games.  We like wine.  (It bears repeating.)

We like Christmas.  We never give useful gifts.  We give cool gifts, like Rosie the Riveter bobble heads and mythology books and Wonder Woman mugs and black and white photos of the Brooklyn Bridge.

We drink too much coffee.

We stay up late and hate getting up in the morning.  

We all, and this is really something, if you think about it, CREATE something.

Cristy embroiders like sarcastic wildfire.

Dagwood papier maches like only Melvix can.

Lisa forges handmade glass beads and creates jewelry with them.

Lindy builds stuff.  Like, all the time.  

Eli write computer programs.  

Francie writes poetry and dances ballet.

James is an awesome photographer.  And also has a really, like totally popular podcast.

Jenny, well, she is an Artist.  There is nothing she can't do.

Durel was a mixologist before the advent of hipsterism.  He also tends to win things like Rib-Offs with aplomb, after making his barbecue sauce from scratch and being all nonchalant about it.

I write.  Two blogs in theory.  One blog in reality.  But great things are brewing, FYI.

We live all over the country and don't see one another nearly enough.  But we were all together last week to celebrate Mom and Dad for their remarkable 50 years of marriage.  And when we did that, we all realized how much we like one another, which is nice.  And how grateful we are to our amazing parents for teaching us to be who we are and who we want to be. As a parent, I now realize how selfless, expensive, and just plain HARD that is.

And as they watched us gire and gimble in Austin, all together for a brief and giddy moment, they were happy.

Hope you know a Davies.

Talk soon,
Heather

the patience of a saint named uncle james

For a place that is perpetually in a drought, Austin has a lot of fountains.

Don't get me wrong, I love fountains.

So does every three year old on the planet.

The other evening, Aunt Jenny, Uncle James, Jack, and I were walking to the restaurant where we met Grammy and Pop for dinner.  

(For locals, we tried to go to Buenos Aires in the Hill Country Galleria.  It's amaze.  However, the rest of the world has discovered that it's amaze, and they told us we would have to wait an hour.  Which, in toddler speak, is a big HELL NO.  So, we ended up at Cafe Blue, which I am meh about.)

It was a lovely evening, so we walked.  The shortest path from Point A to Point B involved passing enticing fountains.  

I held Jack on the edge for a while so that he could splash without falling in.  (Mother of the Year, right here.)  However, he wasn't done.  The water was still flowing, and Jack wanted to be there.

Enter, Uncle James.  He's a patient, patient man.

Jack flailed a bit.  He wanted to Be One with the water.  James was unsure of exactly how to do that -- in a parent approved way.

Rest assured, he figured it out.  He ran Jack up and down the row of fountains, which made everyone giggle or squeal or smile with glee.

So clearly, this is the conclusion:

We ate, we drank, we made merry.  We ran up and down the row of fountains.  We splashed, we smiled, we lived in the moment.

Hope you get a decent splash in today.

Talk soon,
Heather

wearing my heart on my wrist

Aunt Jenny and I took Jack to the playground the other weekend.  

(This is the first in a long line of posts where I catch you up on ALLTHEFUNSTUFFLIKEWOAH that we've been doing.  This is me starting at the beginning, which is a very good place to start.)

We went to Central Market.  It's one of our favorite places.  We were there before the mad crowds on a lovely Sunday morning.  Jenny and I got coffee.  Jack got a smoothie.  Some pastries were eaten.  (Apple scone blew my mind a little bit.)

Jack keenly spied another kiddo with a balloon, and immediately and irrevocably decided that he needed one.  I totally get that.  So does Aunt Jenny.  So, off we went.

We found the Balloon Lady and she was happy to give Jack a green balloon.  He wanted yellow, but they only had purple and green to choose from.  On a lesser day, this could have caused a serious meltdown.  On the great day that was this day, Jack happily chose green and we went on our way.

Three minutes later, the green balloon was bobbing in the rafters of the store.

We went back to the Balloon Lady and she was happy to give Jack another green balloon.  He had forgotten all about wanting a yellow balloon, thank goodness.  He now just wanted ANOTHER BALLOON to replace the First Green Balloon that had surely been the Best Balloon Ever.

So, we got another one.  And Jack was happy.

Jenny and I were happy, too, because this one had a slip knot in the ribbon, so we could secure it on Jack's wrist.

We went back to the playground, because we had lots of errands to run that day and weren't quite ready to start being all efficient yet.  More playing was in order.

Jack:  "Mama, can you hold my balloon?"

Me:  "Uh...sure, buddy.  Here, give it to me."  

I removed the balloon from Jack's wrist and put it onto my wrist.  He ran off to play.  I kept drinking my coffee, and turned to Jenny for some more playground sister talk.

She smiled at me.

Jenny:  "You are a good mom."

Me:  "Aw.  Thanks!  That's sweet of you to say."

Jenny:  "No, I mean it.  And, it's so clear how much you enjoy it."

Me:  [melted from truth bomb and love of son and sister]

Hope you have an apple scone, a balloon, and an awesome family today.  

Talk soon,

Heather