Vacation, Phase One: Thousand Islands

After months of planning and a few agonizing weeks getting things in order to leave town, Todd and I have finally done it -- we're on vacation!

The first leg of our trip was in the Thousand Islands region of New York. We flew into Syracuse, New York and picked up our rental car to drive to Clayton. We arrived early afternoon to a town that looked suspiciously like, well . . . Eminence.

With one big exception: the St. Lawrence River. Lord, this river is gorgeous. If your idea of a river is the Ohio, you ain't seen nothin'. This water is CLEAR -- I swear you wouldn't mind drinking it! It's a pretty good area for all water activities. Our first afternoon we saw a new one -- bike retrieval.

Seriously, some dude dove down right in front of our inn and hooked himself two bikes. Huh.

Anyway, after checking into the inn (site of the first serving of Thousand Islands dressing to the public, no less) we drove around the area a bit and ate dinner at a little restaurant on the river, where we saw this:



Oh, yeah. That's when you know you're on vacation -- when you take sunset photos.

Monday morning we went on what turned out to be a great kayaking trip. I have to admit, kayaking is not my absolute favorite activity in the world, but in the right conditions, it can be great. And these conditions were right. Beautiful weather (in the mid to upper 70's), great conversation, and cute little islands to navigate around. Here's proof that I actually took part in this activity:


Not that I think you wouldn't believe me, but proof never hurts.

Todd took advantage of our own little deserted island to do some snorkeling:


Later that afternoon, we tried the hardest two people could ever try to go scuba diving. Here's how the afternoon went:

1. Arrive at dive shop. Encounter the world's surliest, most unhelpful and quite possibly craziest dive shop lady. Rent equipment. Ask her for directions to dive sites. She responds: "it's right there in town."
2. Locate first dive location. Discover we have no way of determining our depth (yes, that's important. Haven't you heard of the bends?). Snorkel for awhile, trying to figure this out.
3. Go back to dive shop. Ask about depth gauge. Learn we've had one all along. Harumph.
4. Locate second dive location. Have to stop for directions from girl at national park: "it's right there in town."
5. Drag dive gear to site. Discover that we have been given wrong equipment.
6. Curse crazy old bat who gave us defective equipment.
7. Give up and snorkel.

Actually, although not diving was a big bummer, we did some great snorkeling. We found the remains of some kind of wreck that was shallow enough we could dive to it without equipment. And I just love to watch fish hanging out in their own environment -- and I'm not ordinarily a fish kind of person. But did you know that fish hang out and sit on rocks?

I swear, I saw a fish sitting on a rock. Cool. Todd kept trying to catch one with his bare hands, but those fish were all, "get OUT, crazy land dude. We are not getting caught by bare hands."

This morning, after returning defective dive equipment and getting our money back from crazy dive shop lady, we took a tour of Boldt Castle:




Here's the story: this dude Boldt, some kind of hotel magnate, became enamored of the Thousands Islands, so he bought himself an island, changed its name to Heart Island, and started building a big ol' castle for the love of his life, Louise.

You wouldn't think someone named Louise would inspire such passion, would you? Celeste, maybe. Or Delilah. Louise -- not so much.

Anyway. So, Boldt is just building along, and Louise dies. (Of "consumption," which is what all romantic heroines are supposed to die of.) Boldt immediately orders that all work stop, and the place sat vacant until the mid 1970s, when restoration began.

The coolest part of this story? While it was sitting vacant, it was apparently a graffiti mecca. Seriously, we saw graffiti inside dated WAY back -- like in the 1920's. How cool is that? Some dude even put his address, with a plea: "Please write." I swear, if it hadn't been dated 1927, I would write to the poor schmuck.

After the tour, we headed out of town, crossed the border (where we encountered very suspicious Canadian dudes) and arrived in Montreal tonight. So far it's been great (I'm writing this while listening to the music from the jazz bar downstairs, for example), but this his been a super long post already, so I'll pick up with Montreal tomorrow.

In the meantime, greetings from the Lewis Family vacation!

Actually, I DID Go to Law School for This

So . . . this morning I was feeling a little bit down as I walked into work. A little useless. Like my job isn't important; like I don't do anything worthwhile and don't get any respect.

And then, just when I was giving a great big sigh, the god of lame, bummed-out prosecutors smiled down on me for one perfect moment when I saw . . .

. . . A WOMAN IN COURT WEARING A TIARA.

People, I shit you not. Oh, I have never wanted a camera phone so badly. I wish you could have seen it:

Silver high heels.

Makeup that would make our old friend Edie Sedgewick proud.

Long, red hair that was either a wig, a weave, or just sprayed within an inch of its life.

And a tiara. Actually, it looked a bit more like a Junior High School beauty pageant crown, but I tell you what -- she worked it like it was a tiara worthy of Queen Elizabeth.

I'm not sure even ol' Elizabeth could have sauntered through the district court throngs with the same grace and aplomb as this lady. I wanted to cheer when she went past. I'm afraid I did the proverbial double-take. A detective standing next to me said, "I almost bowed just now."

Oh, yeah. THAT's what I'm talking about. A reason to keep going to work every day.

A Plea For Help

Meet Iago:



I first met him about eleven years ago. He had been found hiding under the steps of a realty office in Eminence, Kentucky, a little kitten, all alone. Since a woman who worked there knew that I was in the market for a kitten, she brought him to me.

He was pretty scraggly. But a few shots, and a lot of Iams later, he was sleek, healthy, and happy.

He's all grown up now, still sleek and healthy, but not quite as happy.

See, my life has changed a lot in the past eleven years ago. He's stuck by me through a lot of stuff, but when, a few years ago, "stuff" included living with another cat, he kind of reached his limit.

The simple truth is, Iago just doesn't like other animals. People, of all shapes, ages, and sizes, he loves. Animals -- not so much.

So I find myself in a position of looking for a new home for Iago. And since this is proving to be more difficult than I really imagined, I'm appealing to the "internets" in the hopes that there might be some lonely animal lover silently reading my blog, who would be interested in giving Iago a new home.




So, anyway, here are the particulars:

1. Iago -- named after the Shakespearean character, not the parrot in "Aladin."

2. Approximately 11-12 years old.

3. In perfect health. Has been accused of being fat, but has been confirmed by more than one vet to be decidedly "big-boned." Neutered. Declawed in the front, but has claws in the back.

4. Very handsome, orange with a bulls-eye pattern on his side.

5. Likes snuggling with humans, cramming himself into small spaces, and sleeping in closets.

6. Needs a loving home where he can relax and soak up some personal attention.

I really want him to have that loving home where he can be happy again. If you might be that person who can offer that, just leave me a comment with a way to contact you. I would send along with him a new litter box and litter, his favorite sleeping basket, and a few bags of food.

And if you aren't in a position to help him out, I'd really appreciate any spreading of the word you can do.

Thanks, animal lovers!

A Shawl of Many Colors

For the past few months, I've been kind of "meh" about my various craft projects.

You heard me: MEH.

The "It" dress is too hard, quilting is WAY too hard, and knitting . . . well, knitting is hot. Plus, I had determined that the yarn stash is a bit out of control and it needed to be weaned down a bit before any new yarn purchases could be made.

But the other day, while pondering, yet again, the virtues of being a hippy versus being "mod," I was inspired. I had visions of an oh-so-cool, so-ugly-its-cute shawl made of granny squares. The kind of thing that Dharma's mom would have worn.

So, I gathered the stash, and "commenced ta grannyin!" Here's what I have so far:




The plan? Well, we're going kind of loosey-goosey on this one.
Step One: Granny until there's no stash left.
Step Two: Tie those suckers together in some sort of shawl-like shape.
Step Three: Throw it over my shoulders and embrace my inner hippy.

I'll keep you updated, but I have high hopes for this one.

The Perils of Monday Night Television

I freely admit that I am addicted to watching TLC television.

"Little People, Big World?" I'm there. "What Not to Wear?" SO there.

So I really don't think I can be blamed for being sucked into the show that was on last night about the Duggar Family.

Have you heard about these people? An Arkansas family, some variety of conservative fundamentalist Christian, who have . . .

(Oh, Lord, I can't even type it without taking a deep breath first.)

. . . seventeen children.

I'M TOTALLY NOT KIDDING. SEVENTEEN CHILDREN.

People, I have seen hell, and it is the Duggar Family. Imagine: seventeen children, two sets of twins, dressed in uniformly bad clothing, all with NAMES THAT BEGIN WITH J.

Oh, and the father's name is Jim Bob. And he has served as an Arkansas state legislator. You guess at the party affiliation. Go on, guess!

I used to think that Saw was the most disturbing thing I had ever seen, but after watching this show, I had to huddle under the dining room table for an hour, rocking back and forth, holding on to my Ortho-Novum for dear life.

Their justification for single-handedly ensuring the survival of the Republican Party? They asked God to bless them with as many children as He saw fit. Mom Michelle (who has, without a doubt, the worst hair I have ever seen, and since I'm from Henry County, AND work in warrant court every day, that's saying something) says, "Children are like flowers, how could you ever have too many?"

Well, hells bells, Michelle, have a flower garden, then, but STOP with the children! Even Angelina Jolie is appalled!

Does God want ANYONE to have seventeen children? I mean, God knows me pretty well, I think, and I'm not sure that He is willing to trust me with even one. I think he's waiting to see how Penny the Wonder Puppy turns out.

And I can't help but think about all the resources going into the upkeep of seventeen baby Duggars, and what could be done with all that money. I mean, I suppose people have a right to make their own decisions about whether to have children or not, and how many, but doesn't seventeen seem a bit . . . well . . . irresponsible?

Not to mention . . . OUCH.

Say it with me ladies: OW-FREAKING-CH.

Just Another Random Monday

Do you know any of those people who use the word "literally" alot?

As in, the classic: "I was literally scared to death. TO DEATH, I tell you."

Sheesh. Can't we just delete the poor word from the dictionary and put it out of its misery?

But I have to say, this weekend was a pain in the neck.

Literally.

I woke up on Saturday, full of resolve to swim laps and reward myself with a trip to the Farmer's Market, tried to do something outrageous -- like look to the right -- and HURT MY NECK.

Seriously, how stupid is that? I spent most of Saturday laying on the couch and whining about how I couldn't move my head.

(Which reminds me of a friend of mine who once thought her dog had had a stroke, but in fact, he had just strained his neck. Why that cracks me up today, I do not know.)

People, I'm here to tell you, you do not appreciate the normal range of motion you have with your neck. Necks are marvelous things, and I will never, ever, take mine for granted again. I'm going to give it a little grateful pat right now, just for good measure.

It IS getting better, now, thank you very much. But still -- SHEESH.

I tried to drown my sorrows with a new batch of banana ice cream, this time with toffee chips. The lesson I learned from this experiment: Toffee chips are mostly SUGAR and therefore will DISSOLVE if left to sit in the ice cream mixture to chill.

So the banana ice cream was just plain banana ice cream with a mild toffee flavor. Scrumptious nonetheless, particularly with a bit of butterscotch ice cream topping. Boy howdy.

And since I could quite easily look straight forward, Todd and I watched a movie on Saturday, too: Factory Girl. I had never even heard of Edie Sedgwick before this, but now I am totally obsessed with whether I would have been "mod" or "hippy" had I been alive in the 60's.

I've always said that I would have been a hippy anti-war activist, but that was before I had fully appreciated the makeup that the Edie Sedgwick-types wore.

Have you SEEN that makeup? The dark, dark eyeshadow, the thick eyeliner, and the FALSE EYELASHES?!? It makes me swoon. And the earrings? Man, oh man. Give me some thigh-high boots and a polka-dotted minidress and I would be perfectly happy. Shoot, I think I could make my hair look mod right now, with the cut I so fortuitously already have.



And yes, now that you mention it, I DO think I would steer clear of the propensity to jam heroin filled syringes into my ass THROUGH MY CLOTHES. No need to go overboard, people.

Well-Deserved Credit

When I was a brand-spanking-new public defender who had never had my own desk before, I had a fabulous secretary. One of those really good ones who you could trust implicitly to take care of you; one of those people who made you look good.

She became a good friend. She was a single mom, had been in the military, and was struggling to raise her son, go to school, work full-time, and keep it all going on the salary of a secretary at a public defender's office (I'm sure you can imagine that people don't exactly get rich at such a job).

That was nearly five years ago. Last night I went to a reception for her to celebrate her new position as the first full-time -- PAID -- director of a group called "Women in Transition," a group she helped start.

WIT is a group which works at fighting the effects of poverty, and at preventing poverty. It was started by a group of college welfare recipients in the late 90's, just when the welfare laws were drastically changing. They are doing good work, and my friend has been with them since the beginning.

She's not going to get rich at this job, either. Not monetarily, anyway. But boy, did she look good, standing at a podium, talking about the work she plans to do, and the passion she has for doing it. I'm so proud of her, and so happy that she is getting the chance to do something with all that potential and talent -- happy that she's no longer using that talent to make some lawyer look good.

Todd and I have often spoken about how in our professions, we are surrounded by people who have pretty afluent and privileged backgrounds; third and fourth generation lawyers. I think we blend in pretty well, mostly, but the fact remains that we don't share that background.

And I'm glad.

My life is full of people who have come really far from where they started. All three of my own parents, as well as my parents-in-law, have done some pretty major pulling themselves up by their bootstraps. My father was in foster care. Both my step-father and my father-in-law did tours in Vietnam. My mother and my mother-in-law each lost fathers a lot younger than you should. None of them had any money. And I've learned something about life and survival and what it takes to find contentment from each of them.

It's a good legacy to have. I don't know that I'll ever be able to live up to it, or go as far, comparitively speaking, as they have. But I think they should know that I know it.

So, for my family, and my friend at WIT, and all those other people who have what they have because they've worked for it -- I'm proud of you all.