Today I had my first small claims experience as an attorney.
For those of you who don't know, small claims is for people who don't want to hire an attorney to sue someone, so they represent themselves, and the amount of money they are asking for is less than $5,000. I've never represented anyone in small claims trials before, because usually your insurance company only sends in an attorney to represent you when there is much more at stake (the big boys and girls lawsuits).
I went into the experience hoping, praying, for some real-life Judge Judy or Peoples' Court drama complete with shouting, questionable clothing, and the bailiff having to restrain at least one hysterical baby mama. I got none of that. Only a handful of people on the pages long docket bothered to show up, and most of them came only to learn that the other party hadn't been served and they would have to come back in a month.
Except for my opponent. He was there, ready and waiting. He had a stack of crumpled documents and sat quietly, waiting for his turn. I almost felt sorry for him, as I sat next to my client with my briefcase, in my suit. This should be easy. The facts weren't all in our favor, but I had hard evidence to point to, contracts that were signed, numbers and figures to quote, and caselaw if needed.
I grew impatient as I listened to the plaintiff begin to tell his story--he started somewhere in the middle, had to back up to explain why we were there, skipped over some of the important parts, and kept on ramblin'. He was going with the "it ain't right" theory.
Finally, it was my turn. I followed my outline, hit all my points, admitted all my exhibits into evidence, and summed up our position in a clean and concise ten minutes.
It wasn't until I heard the judge ask the plaintiff how he should calculate the damages that I realized "this isn't going well." I had prepared for such an outcome, and I pulled out my printout of the Kelley Blue Book value for the plaintiff's vehicle and started to quote the numbers, right down to the dollars and cents, for the judge. It wasn't until I heard the judge ask the plaintiff what HE figured his car was worth and then wrote down in his notepad the "guesstimate" the plaintiff came up with that I realized "this REALLY isn't going well."
So the guy without an attorney, with a wadded up pile of papers, and an estimate of damages that he determined after a less-than-extensive Craigslist search won. At least the judge did me the favor of not issuing his judgment right away in open court--he waited about half an hour before sending an electronic notice. Too bad the electronic notice gave me a small heart attack and sent me into shock because it read: "judgment entered in favor of plaintiff in the amount of $10,000." (Remember what I said before: the limit in small claims court is $5,000). I immediately emailed the partner on the file assuring him that "there must have been a mistake."
The good news is, it was. One extra zero and suddenly things get REAL. If you've ever fantasized about how and when your boss is finally going to realize that you have no idea what you're doing and kick you to the curb, then you get it.
Small claims court = 1
Amy = 0
Is there anything more adorable than toddlers running around in swimsuits?
No, of course not.
But I ask you, is there anything more disgusting than cleaning up a toddler with a poopy swim diaper? I'm not talking about those disposable Finding Nemo Huggies swim diapers that are designed for you to peel off VERY CAREFULLY and throw straight into the trash. I'm talking about the baby speedos that are made of non-absorbent swimsuit material that they wear underneath their swimtrunks. These are basically designed to "trap" the "solids" until you have a chance to dispose of them...ew. Here is a particularly handsome model showing off his speedo:
By way of background explanation, my son's "swim school" is far from what I remember from swim lessons. They swim indoors in a 90 degree heated salt water pool (which the hippies tell me is "safer" and "more natural" than using chlorine and other skin-peeling chemicals), and disposable swim diapers are NOT ALLOWED at the facility. Again, the hippies tell me that the aforementioned baby speedos are "safer" and "better for the environment" than the disposable ones. They also conveniently hock the baby speedos at the front door when you first check in for $12 a pop.
It's all good and "environmentally friendly" until you have to peel one of those babies off and find to your complete surprise that there is a soggy mess awaiting you. I will admit that there were times when I seriously considered just dropping those bad boys straight into the garbage and forking over another $12 just to avoid having to deal with the mess. Don't judge me.
Kuddos to all those that do the cloth diaper thing. You are saving the environment one Diaper Genie at a time. For me, I'll just focus on recycling my paper and plastic and buying organic produce every once in awhile. And word to the wise--even if your child's swimming pool is run by hippies, don't drink the water. Even baby speedos have their limits.
My parents recently lost their dog, Stewart, after he ran off and got hit by a car along the highway. I will spare you my rage and incredulity (big emotions call for fancy words) about the driver who so thoughtlessly drove on and prolonged the suffering of those who were looking for him for days. But I would be doing Stewart an injustice if I focused on the negative, so I'll move on.
Stewart never met a stranger and was loved instantly by those who met him. He was a good dog and a member of our family in every way that matters. I can still remember going with my parents to the Humane Society and waiting, and waiting, and waiting until the powers-at-be allowed us to meet him. He had issues to say the least. He was so shaggy that they couldn't really accurately identify his breed, he was covered with mats, he had a puncture wound on his hip, and as a result had to wear one of those satellite-dish looking cones until it healed. And it quickly became evident that he had been abused. He had a loud, piercing bark that could scare away would-be burglars and strangers, but he never used it, because he loved everybody. He loved squeak toys, treats, and naps in the sun. He hated thunderstorms and being left alone (who can blame him for that?).
For my family, and I assume that any other dog-lover would agree, we can take comfort in knowing that we will see him again someday, because we are ardent believers that all good dogs go to heaven. I'm not interested in engaging in any theological debate over whether that is true, and you can keep your opinions on that subject to yourself. I don't believe that the same God who put such time, energy, and effort into creating those wonderful creatures who so perfectly mirror our Savior's unconditional love for us would pass up the opportunity to enjoy that love in the afterlife. So, Stewart, enjoy your naps with the angels and do us a favor and look up a spunky schnauzer by the name of Harry. I think you two have a lot in common.
