Full Circle

Ten years ago (give or take a few months), I started my legal career as a public defender in Louisville, KY.  I was newly divorced, living on my own for the first time, and ready to take on the world.  That first year was the most fun I've ever had at a job -- and also the hardest I've ever worked.

Life moved itself along, both my personal and professional lives, and I left the PD's office, did some other things, then wound up TOTALLY JOBLESS for over a year.  Have I mentioned that before?  Sorry, I know it's dull.  The only thing duller than being unemployed has to be reading about someone being unemployed.

But today we're not talking about dull unemployment, because today, ten years after I started as a public defender, I am starting over . . . as a public defender.

I've moved over to a different county, so it won't be EXACTLY the same.  But it still feels strangely like going home again.  I know how to do this job, and I know I can do it well.  And real life gets to start up again.  I don't have to check job sites, and when someone asks me what I do, I have an actual answer.  And it's an answer I can be proud of.

I'm excited, and not just a little terrified, and happy.  Wish me luck.

This Post Doesn't Even Have a Title

I wish I were going to write something beautiful and insightful tonight, but yeah, I don't think that's happening. It's Derby Week in the Hall of Justice, which means light dockets and lots of leaving early. Last week was kind of a hard week, both work-wise and social-commitment-wise, so I'm taking it easy this week.

Here are some things I am loving this week:

Yoga. Believe it or not, I like it, and I think it's even exercise.

Korean food. Had it for the first time tonight, and it was mighty tasty. I ate a fermented black bean, and I would totally do it again.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season Two. I'm rewatching, since I got Seasons One and Two for my birthday. Ahh, the good old days, when Angel was hot, Buffy was a virgin, and Spike was still deliciously bad.

Dollhouse. Oh, Joss Whedon, how I love you. You have made me love yet another show, even though you made the poor choice of Eliza Dushku as the star.

My new air popcorn-popper. I haven't tried it out yet, but I'm super excited about it, since I'm a weirdo who likes neither butter, oil, or salt on my popcorn.

Monday Stuff

1. Today, because my violin playing was so bad, Hannah (my teacher) decided to "cheer me up" by playing for me the next song in my line-up to "show me what I have to look forward to." Two lines into the song, I started laughing. I thought it was a joke, see, because it was SO RIDICULOUS to think I could play that. I even said, "Really, do you think I'm ready for that?" Luckily, my current song is so hard I will likely be 40 before I get finished with it. Oh, and can I just say that Vivaldi sucks all kinds of violin ass?

2. At Weight Watchers tonight, I lost 3.8 pounds. And I was TOTALLY not happy with that. You know why? Because I was hoping for more. Just 77 more pounds tonight, and I would have been done.

3. If I have one weakness as a cook, it is that I never remember that more is not always better. I made a Pampered Chef recipe for a chicken club pizza that I had at my party last week, and put waaay too much chicken and cheese and bacon on it. Now I feel like I need to just go eat lemons until sometime around Wednesday. Blech.

4. I went back to the holdover today to talk to a pro se defendant, and another defendant said to me, "Are you a lawyer?" When I said yes, he asked, "Are you a public one or a REAL one?" Hooh, boy, was that the wrong thing to say to me! So I said to him, "Boy, was that the wrong thing to say to me." Then I told him that I'm a prosecutor and that I'll be watching out for his case.

5. I am once again trying to work my way through The Artist's Way. The first few weeks demand that I figure out who is to blame for my stagnant creativity. I'm pretty convinced that it was that college poetry writing professor who laughed so hard at my poem, then at the end of the semester, asked me to read it again so she could laugh at it some more. Yeah, I'm thinking it's totally her fault that I didn't write Harry Potter.

Keeping the Parties Straight is Half the Battle

Often, I love my job. It can get stressful and annoying, like any other job, but seriously, I can't think of any other place I could work that would have the equal measures of drama and comedy.

Just the other day, a woman comes to the door of our conference room, and asks, as people do a hundred times per day, "Has my case been called?"

One of my co-workers began the endless process of trying to get out of her which of the 200 cases on the docket was "hers."

"Are you the defendant?"

"What?"

"Do you have charges against you today?"

"Huh?"

This is the point at which I usually get thoroughly exasperated and turn the whole mess over to someone else. This time, the woman got exasperated first:

"Look," she said, in a tone that clearly showed she thought we were all totally dense, "I'm the VICTIM . . . NOT the vic-TOR."

Oh, yeah. Courtroom comedy. I couldn't make this stuff up.

From the Department of Making You Feel Better About Your Life

So, I handled a case today with a 19-year old defendant. As in, born in 1990. I was having a hearing on charges of Attempted Murder from an incident in which he (okay, allegedly) shot a guy "thrice" (and yes, that's what the officer put in the report) over a dice game.

Last week this dude was indicted on a Murder charge.

Some time ago, he was indicted on charges of Assault in the First Degree. Each incident was entirely separate, no relation between any of them.

Did I mention he's 19 years old?

Suddenly, I don't even feel guilty about the pile of laundry I'm ignoring.

I Think Someone Stole My Saturday

Oh, for pete's sake, it's Monday. I don't know how that happens so FAST! Here's some randomness for you and your own personal Monday . . .

1. At my Weight Watchers meeting tonight, I lost 1.2 pounds. Todd cannot understand the misery that comes with being told you have lost 1.2 pounds when you hoped for, at minimum, 2.2 pounds, which would put you into a "new" set of numbers, or, even better, 4 pounds, which would earn you another five pound gold sticker.

2. I have discovered that there is a strong inverse relationship between how hard I practice the violin and how happy I am with my playing during the week and how much I suck at my actual lesson. (Or is that a direct correlation? Anyway, if I do good during the week, I suck ass at the lesson.)

3. I have officially given up on finishing Todd's Christmas scarf this winter. Goodbye, poor beautiful, cable- and bobble-filled scarf, I will see you in the Fall and you will be ready for Christmas 2009, I swear.

4. Edgar Sawtelle never did start to suck. It was beautiful and heartbreaking right until the end. I balanced out all the heartbreak with the latest in a fabulous werecat series. Ah, trashy supernatural romance novels, how I love you.

5. In organizing some files at work this afternoon, I realized that I have been prosecuting the priest-stalker since August 2006. When I started her case, I wasn't even married yet. Sheesh, priest-stalker, can't you give me a break?

6. This Friday, the latest Joss Whedon show debuts on Fox. Who is Joss Whedon, you ask? He's ONLY the creator of the best TV show in the history of TV shows, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. So I am sure you can imagine my excitement.

7. Little and I went to a "Solve the Sherlock Holmes Mystery" event thingy at the Frazier Historical Museum a few weeks ago. We failed utterly at solving it. I felt so guilty about our performance that I'm reading some Sherlock Holmes stories for the first time ever. He was a wee bit pompous, wasn't he?

8. After making fun of them mercilessly on Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve, I am listen to The Ting Tings incessantly. They make me want to put on my blue wig and dance.

8. I have a new dress from Old Navy that I got for $9.99, and it's totally cool. (Told you this post was going to be random.)

Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving . . .

Whew! We are in a flurry of activity around here tonight. What with the house cleaning, and the car-key making (those suckers never did turn up) and the last-minute shopping bits, you'd think it was Christmas Eve, rather than Thanksgiving Eve!

Tonight I did something one should never do on the night before Thanksgiving -- went to Kroger. Luckily, I only needed a few things, but boy howdy, there were some men there who were obviously on a Mission From Their Wives. One guy was leaning on his cart with his elbows, wondering loudly to anyone around, "Where are the freezer bags?" Then there was the guy who was all cheesed off at one of the Kroger employees, "Well, this is a FINE TIME to run out of WHIPPING CREAM!"

Earlier today I took part in another Thanksgiving Eve tradition: the annual Get Your Client Out of Jail for the Holiday Day. I was feeling pretty generous, and let a couple out. It was the earnest little newbie public defender that got to me. I remember that day from my first year . . . one bad-check-writer chick was so grateful that she hurled herself into my arms and yelled out as I was walking away, "God BLESS you, PD Lady!" It's nice to be appreciated, you know.

Tomorrow we're heading out for Thanksgiving dinner, then a few days away. (There will be blogging, though, because Novemember STILL isn't over.) I'm packing up my knitting, the fantastic-book-I'm-reading-that-I'll-blog-about-later, and my violin, and that's all I need (plus my sweetie, of course) for a few days of quality thankfulness.

Hedging My Bets

Today's passage at church was that familiar, "whatever you do to the least of my people, you do to me" section. I swear, I did NOT remember how much hellfire and brimstone is in that passage! All that stuff about sheep and goats, and people on the left and on the right, and going to hell for ever and eternity . . . it was enough to make one poor woman get all teary-eyed while relaying a tale of some dude who asked her for "gas money."

"What if that was God, and I MISSED HIM?" she wailed.

Here are my thoughts on the matter:

1. God doesn't go around disguising himself as the homeless (or the gassless), hoping to trick us into condemning ourselves to hell.

2. God doesn't send anyone to hell.

3. If God WERE going to send me to hell, it would probably not be JUST because I didn't give money to that guy who stand outside the courthouse with a walker, asking for change. (Especially because that guy is totally a faker; I've seen him CARRY the damn walker.)

4. I should probably be nicer to people, just in case. I might need all the help I can get.

I wonder, does it count in my favor that I always dismiss the charges against people who are charged under the "panhandling" statute?

'Cause I do. Every time.

I Wonder If She Had a Hotel Room?

If you know me in real life, (and since I have approximately 4 regular readers, all of whom DO know me in real life, the odds are pretty good that if you're reading this, you know me) you'll remember that for the past two years, I have been prosecuting a woman who is stalking a priest.

No, (in case you DON'T know me) I am not exagerating, it's been two years, and she really is stalking a priest. Anyway, you should also remember that this woman is bat-shit crazy. Recently, she began leaving irate messages for my boss, complaining about my overzealous prosecution.

Yesterday, one of her messages, which had the "Young and the Restless" theme song playing in the background, included this tidbit:

" . . . and THEN, Ms. Lewis CONVIENTLY kept me in jail past the inauguration, because she KNEW I was planning to go."

You're welcome, President-Elect Obama. You're very welcome.

Sometimes, There's Nothing Funny to Talk About

When I was a Public Defender, people often asked me, "How do you sleep at night, representing those criminals?" I usually responded, "Like a baby, thanks."

Now that I'm on the other side, I still get those questions occasionally, "Don't the horrible things you see keep you up at night?" Usually, the answer is no, except that sometimes I stay up late telling funny stories.

Then there are the not-so-funny stories. Some are pretty damn bad.

Like the three year old victim I heard about this week, whose horrific injuries just won't leave my mind; the victim I would seriously consider bringing into my home to live, just so I could be certain he wasn't hurt again.

Like Marco David Chapman, who committed a terrible, heinous crime, but was a victim himself. I can't bear to think of forgiving him, but I can't bear to think of the state allowing his suicide-by-execution. It is for people like him that I am so grateful I believe in God, for surely only the God I believe in could offer him forgiveness and healing.

I don't think my job gives me any more access to horrible stories than the average person has; maybe it makes me notice them more. And on those days, the days that the stories hit me the hardest, I fervently wish that I had decided to be a librarian.

I don't have kids. If you do, please give them a hug. It could change their lives.

And People Wonder Why I Stay Home on Saturday Night

I did my monthly Saturday in the Domestic Violence Intake Center today, and it gave rise to a few questions.

1. If you were afraid of an ex with whom you might have children, would you track him down at the club and spit on him?

2. If your ex with whom you might have children spit on you, would you knock her over and kick her?

3. If you ex with who you might have children knocked you over and kicked you, would you bust out his windshield and headlights?

4. If you were either of the above people, would you run to the courthouse to file charges on the other?

5. If you were on a jury, would you convict either of these people?

6. Would you convict both?

In the words of one of our illustrious judges, "Don't start nothin', won't be nothin'."

Good advice, I think.

He Wasn't Amused

Today in court:

Dude: Man, can't I just get a fine or somethin'?

Me: No, you could go to jail. You're on probation, and you're charged with Carrying a Concealed Deadly Weapon and Possession of Marijuana.

Dude: That wasn't a weapon, it was a stick! A stick, to keep the dogs off me!

Me: Oh, because they were attracted to the smell of the pot?

Bless Our Hearts

Just as soon as Olympic-fever subsides, I get caught up in a new obsession: the Democratic convention.

Hated Hillary's speech, loved Bill's, thought Michelle's was very solid (and her family frighteningly Camelot-like), and teared up to Joe Biden's son. Right now, I'm listening to poor ol' Al Gore while blogging.

Poor ol' Al. I can't seem to say his name without putting "poor ol'" in front of it. (Kind of like I can't talk about my niece Maddie without adding, "Bless her heart." She just seems to require a bit of extra blessing. Bless her heart.)

Poor ol' Al is that quintessential uncle that everyone has -- the one who is just so damn nice, and gives you such nice presents, that you desperately WANT to be interested in what he's saying, but blast it all, he's just . . . well, boring. Bless his heart.

One of the reasons I think of him as "poor ol'" is that for him, it must be extra heart-breaking to think of how close he came to winning, and how close we all came to NOT being in a senseless and endless war, to NOT worrying incessantly about gas prices and budget cuts.

Seriously, it'll still break your heart if you think about it too much.

Something else that broke my heart today? The elderly lady with dementia who was in court trying to get back the money she posted for her granddaughter's bond. I'm sure you can guess that granddaughter skipped out and left her high and dry. The worst was when the judge asked her how much it was, and she said, "One hundred and FOUR dollars," in such a reverent and awe-stricken voice that you just knew that $104 meant something necessary and unattainable to her.

I guess that's the place we're all in now, where a lost $104 dollars may mean not having luxuries like dinners out, or it may mean not having necessities -- like dinner.

It's a fascinating and exciting time; tonight we will see the first African-American presidential candidate nominated by a major party. Tonight is the beginning of our chance to make up for the past eight years. I hope everyone is watching. I know I will be, and I will be thinking about that one hundred and FOUR dollars the whole time.

And You Thought Finding a PENNY Was Good Luck

Once again, I am starting a week with the resolution to be nicer to people. Mostly to random people . . . OK, to criminals. Criminals are people, too, right? So I should be nice and kind to them, right? Well, that's what I tell myself all the time.

This dude comes up to me yesterday with a charge of Possession of Marijuana -- not the most exciting crime in the world, and really, for how easy we are on that crime, we should all be out smoking a big ol' doobie on our lunch hour, because we can all totally afford a $25 fine and court costs, and hey, marijuana might just make us all nicer to other people, thus obviating the need for be-nicer-to-people resolutions.

So I offer dude his fine and costs, and he says to me, "I don't think I'm guilty."

Fine. In the interest of being nicer, I will not point out how your not THINKING you are guilty wastes my time, when you in fact ARE guilty. I will instead say, "Okay, today is your arraignment and we will enter a plea of not guilty for you and set your case for a pretrial conference."

Dude: "Well, see, I found it."

Me: "Found it?"

Dude: "Yeah, I was just walking down the street, and I found it. Somebody else's pot, just laying there, so I picked it up and then right after that I got arrested. I just found it."

Now, this, as we all know, is a lie. Seriously, raise your hand if you believe this dude.

That's what I thought. But, instead of pointing this out, I nodded sympathetically, sighed dramatically, and said to Dude, "I know. Happens to me ALL THE TIME."

Ten minutes later, Dude comes back up to me and says, "You know that fine? I think I'll just take that. It'll be easier. Even though I JUST FOUND IT."

I didn't even hit him. I just said, "You know . . . that's actually NEVER happened to me."

Dude: "Yeah, I know."

It Doesn't Help That Hillary Won My State

Over the past few years, I have found myself saying, on occasion, "I could have been a librarian."

Being a librarian really was my second choice for a career, and sometimes I do wonder if I made the right choice. For example, I had the following conversation today in court with a defense attorney:

Defense Dude: I can't believe you won that argument in court yesterday.

Me: Really?

Dude: Yeah, because I gave money to the judge's campaign. I expect to get something in return for that, you know.

Me: Well . . . I think it's nice to have a judge who may not think about who has donated money to him when making a judicial ruling.

Dude: I'm sure that's how you feel, but I gave him money, and I expect to win arguments for it. He just better not send me any more campaign solicitations for donations.

Seriously? He really said that out loud? I mean, I knew that a lot of attorneys thought that way, but to hear one just out and out say it?

Gah.

Then tonight, as the returns are coming in from the primary, I'm forced to accept that the largest number of votes in the District Court Judicial race went to a girl with a lot of money, a father in politics . . . and less than two years of experience as an attorney.

I was terribly naive when I decided to become an attorney, and probably not much better when I actually started working. Maybe it's TOO naive for me to cling to some idea of honor in my profession. It certainly doesn't get me anywhere to act in an honorable manner myself. Somehow, though, I can't bring myself to get down in the muck with people like that guy I quoted up above.

Man . . . I could have been a librarian.

Hey! What's That in Your Pants?

Sometimes I find things to be funny that really aren't that funny.

Grammar, for instance. And making up words. Today a friend and I were laughing about the time she used the word "agreeance" (as in, you and I feel the same way about something, so we are in agreeance), and I thought it was kind of funny, until I realized she was SERIOUS and then it was just hysterical.

And my oldest niece, when she was younger, really liked to go shopping for clothes, and she would occasionally pick up a single article of clothing, like a shirt or a jacket or something, and say, "this is a cute clo."

Get it? Because "clo" would be the singular of the plural word "clo(th)es?"

And tonight, Todd and I had dinner at one of our favorite neighborhood haunts, Fat Jimmy's Pizza. As we were walking out, I noticed a crayon drawing of a pizza that a kid had done, stuck up on the wall, with the caption boldly proclaiming, "Fat Jimmy's Rule!"

Get it? Like the place is named for a bunch of Jimmies, all of them fat? Hilarious!

But then sometimes, I don't think things are nearly as funny as other people do. Today, in the conference room, one of the other prosecutors was handling a shoplifting case, and they were discussing the issue of restitution. The grocery store guy was explaining how they were owed restitution because they couldn't resell the items once they had crossed the threshold of the store door.

Trying to be helpful, I interjected, "Yeah, no one wants meat that's been in someone's pants."

And the room erupted.

Seriously, people, I was talking about steaks. What THEY were thinking, I just don't know.

Guess What I'm Thinking

Over the past few months, as Big Brother (AKA Louisville Metro Government) has deleted all my favorite blogs from the approved viewing list, I've been scoping out some new blogs. Today, I was reading one that I thought was a hopeful prospect for the Favorites List, when the author launched into a glowing review of the book What is the What. She talked about how beautiful and touching it was, and how she felt so deeply for the Lost Boys of the Sudan.

And all I could think was that this is the same book which is currently lying on the ottoman where I finally tossed it in frustration and utter boredom, after griping to Todd that the guy "needed to get over that damn robbery and talk about something interesting, already."

Yeah. And the other day, when I said to Todd that I thought I was guilty of not being very nice to people in court, I waited and waited for him to say, "You? I'm sure you're nice to everyone!" except that he never did.

So . . . since it seems I'm not really very nice, I have been making a conscious effort to be NICER to people for the past few days, and brother, am I exhausted.

It really shouldn't be that hard. I was raised better than this, truly; I wouldn't want anyone to blame my poor mother for my not-niceness. But it's definitely not easy.

For instance, every time today that I was thinking, "SHUT UP ALREADY YOU FREAKIN' DIRT BAG JUST SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD," I had to say, "Yes, Your Honor, of course, Your Honor, I'll get right on that, Your Honor."

And although the voice in my head was screaming, "HOW CAN ANY GROUP OF PEOPLE BE SO DAMN STUPID AND STILL GET DRESSED IN THE MORNING," what came out of my mouth was, "Sure, NO PROBLEM. I'd love to set aside the bench warrant you have because you're three hours late for your court appearance. Let me do that for you right now."

Best of all, when I was thinking, "FUCK! FUCKITY FUCKY FUCK!" . . . I just smiled and said nothing at all.

I admit, there was that one moment, very near the end of the court's docket, when all I could think was, "I'm really just not listening to what this attorney is saying right now AT ALL," and what came out of my mouth was, "You know, I'm just not listening to what you are saying right now AT ALL.

But I said it nicely.

In re Snot

I think it's God's way of laughing and pointing at me like a 12-year-old boy that I got a cold two weeks after getting my nose pierced.

I have come to realize that I have, heretofore, taken some things for granted, like picking my nose and blowing it when necessary. (Oh, come ON! You know all those things are necessary, and you KNOW that sometimes a girl just needs a good nose pick.)

It's not IMPOSSIBLE to do those things soon after piercing your nose, but it is a tad bit more delicate. I won't lie, I was relieved to find that I could sneeze without launching a tiny, stainless steel nose stud missile across the room at unsuspecting passers-by. Sneezing? No problem.

But yesterday, I was sitting in my court conference room, surrounded by defense attorneys and police officers, all of whom were waiting for me to handle their case, and I swear, I could NOT think straight for all the snot that was threatening to trickle down my face

So, as politely as possible, I said, "Excuse me a second," and grabbed a tissue to blow.

And blow, I did. I blew really hard, in fact, because I wanted to get it over with in one blow so I could get on with the job at hand. I blew SO hard, however, that I managed to twist the nose ring so that instead of discreetly lying up against the inside, upper portion of my nose, it was poking out the front, making it appear that not only did I have buggers sticking out my nose, but that my buggers are made of STAINLESS STEEL.

Gah. I held the tissue up to my nose for a second or two, hoping that by a little bit of pressure, I could twist the dang thing back up into my nose -- keep in mind that all the while the afore-mentioned attorneys and cops are still staring at me -- until finally I gave up, choked out, "I'll be right back!", and bolted for the bathroom.

I tell you what, it's hard to be this hip.

It Might Be a Question of Religious Tolerance

I lost a jury trial yesterday (because juries are the stupidest thing ever invented by stupid people, not that I'm bitter) and although the judge and I don't always see eye to eye (yes, that is some serious understatement right there), he apparently felt the need to comfort me today, and called me up to the bench to tell me this story.

Judge: I liked your arguments yesterday, and I thought that guy was guilty. I mean, I think you really hit the nail on the head -- it was all about the power for that guy. I think he hit her in the eye, just like you said.

Me: Thanks, Judge.

Judge: I think he wanted her to get religion, and she didn't want to.

Me: Well . . . that's one way of looking at it.

Judge: Reminds me of this friend I had. He was an alcoholic, drank all the time, and he met this woman, and she was an alcoholic, too. They got together and had a baby. Then, he got religion, see, and he wanted her to get religion, too, but she didn't want to, she wanted to keep drinking, so he killed her, see --

Me: He did WHAT?

Judge: Well, he killed her, and now he's in prison, see. He shot her.

Me: He shot her?

Judge: Well, see, she wouldn't stay home with the baby.

(Pause)

Judge: So what I think is, you can't poke somebody in the eye just because they won't stop drinking.

Sunday Musings

For the past six years, much of my life has been concerned with, for lack of a better term, "crime and punishment."

When I was a Public Defender, the work was hard, but the philosophical standpoint was easy: I had a client and it was my job to believe he was innocent and act accordingly. As a prosecutor, though, I've discovered it's not quite that simple. Now I'm supposed to figure out the truth -- and not only that, but I'm supposed to figure out what the "just" consequences are. I'm supposed to consider the evidence (or lack thereof), the jury appeal, the person's prior record, etc, etc, and come up with something that makes sense -- while satisfying my boss, the judge, the victim, and all the myriad other people who think it's any of their business.

It's enough to give a person a migraine, I tell you. And it's getting to me. I'm starting to dream of "happier" careers, jobs in which people aren't arguing and fighting all day long. Jobs in which I'm not constantly trying to come up with ways to make people miserable -- even if they deserve it. I'm just not feeling that I'm really behind it, anymore.

Today in church, the sermon was about Zacchaeus the Tax Collector, which besides inspiring one of the best Bible School songs ever, has a pretty good moral of acceptance and forgiveness. It seems, according to the story, that Jesus will forgive everyone: tax collectors, prostitutes, even Republicans (no, Republicans aren't specifically mentioned anywhere, but one can assume).

I realize that this is Sunday School 101 stuff, but today it struck me as revolutionary. Forgiveness -- just because you ask for it. It seems so comforting, but more than that -- it just seems restful. I can let go of that running tally of my own sins that I've been carrying around pretty much since birth, because they're already forgiven. And while, at work, I still have to figure out the consequences for other people's actions, somebody else (whoever that somebody else may be in your own head) is already taking care of forgiving them. It's not ALL something I have to solve.

I've been teetering around, religion-wise, for a while now, trying to figure out the answers to some questions that bother me. I'm not so sure, these days, what exactly I believe. I've even asked myself, now and again, "could I be losing my faith?"

But, putting some of those tough questions aside, I guess I'm still feeling good about the basics. This whole forgiveness thing? Now THAT's something I can get behind.