Gobble Gobble, Y'all

This year was a break from my typical Thanksgiving routine. My typical Thanksgiving is as follows:

1000 hours - Arrive at my parents home in order to prepare for the 2.5 hour car-ride to my dad's family's home. As usual, the mother is running late. The kitchen counter is covered with dishes wrapped in aluminum foil. The ridiculous amount of food is evidence that my mom thinks she is the only one that knows how to make mashed potatoes, carrots or stuffing. My 19 year-old sister is upstairs packing for the overnight. She is charging her laptop, iPod and cell phone - all critical buffers between her and conversation with my family. I load the car.

1015 hours - My mom has found more shit which apparently must make the trek with us to the in-laws house. My dad is starting to get thoroughly annoyed. I go sit in the car.

1025 hours - My dad is dragging everyone out of the house into the car. My sister is screaming at my mom because my mom told her she doesn't need to bring 3 purses to Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone piles into the car. Finally, we are on the road.

1026 hours - It dawns on me that I got my dad satellite radio for Christmas last year. I then realize that Sirius features a Broadway channel. My dad begins to belt out the theme song to Oklahoma. I offer my sister $20 if she lets me listen to her iPod. She declines.

1100 hours - "Getting to Know You" from the King and I is playing. My dad knows every word, every note. He even does the part where the group of little Asian kids giggle. I pray for traffic on the Schukyll that will slow the car down enough so that I may throw myself from the moving vehicle. Tuck and roll. Tuck and roll.

1145 hours - We have finally reached the Northeastern Extension of the PA Turnpike, a state of the art two-lane highway featuring "Falling Rock" signs and billboards touting the numerous ski resorts in the Poconos. Skiing in the Poconos is as enjoyable as doing laps in a kiddie pool or sky diving off of your dining room table. I've got a bigger rush falling down my ice covered front steps. Cheaper too.

1245 hours - We arrive at my aunts house. I unload the car, say my greetings and head for the TV room. My five male cousins are gathered around the TV watching football. They make fag jokes about each other, wrestle, fart and make their bar hopping plans for later that night. I try to blend into the couch as best as possible, covering myself with every available throw pillow. I watch the Detroit Lions get their asses-kicked by Fill-In-Whatever-Team-Is-Playing-Detroit-That-Year. I can hear my sister fighting with my mom. My mom is on her second vodka-gimlet. My sister is on her 59th text message to her boyfriend. My dad is on his first cigar. I decide to feign sleep.

1600 hours - Dinner is served. Someone says a prayer that usually involves a thinly veiled reference to my Grandmother's poor health condition. Everyone digs in, the sound of eating broken only by the finicky kids at the kids table who are bitching about their cranberry sauce touching their turkey. I volunteer to remedy the situation, but am forced to remain at the grown-up table where I am peppered with the obligatory questions about my job.

- What kind of law do you practice?

- Do you like it?

- Oh, that's nice.

The only thing I hate more than being a practicing attorney is being asked what kind of law do I practice. The answer, "Nothing cool or exciting or anything about which you would be interested in hearing." I wish people would stop expecting an awesome answer. I don't defend and/or prosecute serial killers. I haven't uncovered any sort of crazy pattern in 3d Circuit rulings that is evidence of an evil plot. I haven't found or decoded secret messages in any Scalia dissents. I practice civil litigation. Mostly defense. I deal with douche bag Plaintiff's attorneys day in and day out. Their clients are liars. They are frauds. And in the end, I have to give some idiot millions of dollars because he decided that he should hoist his truck in the air with chains and then climb underneath. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

In short, my life is not a Law and Order episode. I don't get called into judge's chambers for arguments. And for the record, this is not how legal arguments go down:

Defense: Your honor, this evidence should be excluded under the case of Jimmy John v. Sally Mae.

Judge: I agree.

Prosecution: Your honor, with all due respect, Marbury versus Madison clearly states that this evidence is admissible.

Judge: Interesting. Defense counsel, how do you respond?

Defense: Mapp v. Ohio.

Prosecution: Yes, but you'r forgetting Terry v. Ohio.

Judge: I'm not looking to get overturned on appeal here. The evidence is in/out.

Being a lawyer doesn't involve being able to throw out a lot of random case names to whomever will listen. That's called being a law student. The actual practice of the law is totally different. What usually happens is that I spend days crafting a brilliantly written and researched summary judgment motion. I submit it to Plaintiff's counsel and the judge. Then, Plaintiff's counsel will shit on a piece of paper, title it "Plaintiff's Response to Defendant's Motion for Summary Judgment". He will then send this incomprehensible piece of garbage to me and the judge. I will then craft a brilliant "Reply" eviscerating every point raised in the purported "Response." Then, if I'm in state court (which I usually am), the judge will use my motion for summary judgment as a coaster for her coffee mug for a couple of weeks, and after reading it glancing at my Motion, will take her rubber stamp marked "DENIED", BAM, and mumble something about a material issue of fact, forcing a no-money case that never should be sent to a jury to settle in order to avoid the costs of prepping and going to trial. And that is how law is really practiced. Seriously though, ask me what kind of law I practice. Please. I dare you.

1700 Hours - Dinner is Over

YAWN! Wooooooo. Must be that Tryptophan or something because I am fucking exhausted. Looks like its off to bed for me!

So that's a typical Thanksgiving. Not this year though. This year, I left my family up North and went down to our beach house in South Carolina with some friends for the entire week. Here was this year's Thanksgiving.

Day 1 - Sleep in. Wake up. Walk dogs on beach. Come home. Eat. Nap. Wake up. Go fishing. Come home. Eat. Do crossword puzzle. Nap in the sun. Wake up. Shower. Cook dinner. Drink beer. Eat. Sleep.

Day 2 - Repeat Day 1.

Day 3 - Repeat Day 2. Play round of golf. Teach friends' two-year-old son to say "FUPA".

Day 4 - Thanksgiving. Repeat Day 3. Instead of seafood, eat Thanksgiving food.

Day 5 - Repeat Day 2.

Day 6 - Repeat Day 1. Drive into quaint seaside town. Window-shop. Make fun of Southerners. Mullet hunt.

Day 7 - Go home. : (

So guess which tradition I'm going to be participating in from now on?

Me: 1, Nature: 0

So I "bagged" my first deer last night. And by "bagged" I mean "hit with my car". Even that isn't entirely accurate, as it was more like my car got hit by the deer.

It's approximately 2:30 a.m. and I am in the middle of nowhere, South Carolina. Which means that I've been driving for approximately 12 hours, without incident. I'm only 15 minutes away from my destination on a lonely stretch of desolate highway. In fact, I haven't passed a car for the last 40 miles. As I approach a construction zone, I take my foot of the gas in order to adjust for the drop in speed limit. That's when out of the corner of my eye, I see this giant fucking deer sprinting headfirst into the side of my car.

Clunk.

Let me just say that the whole "deer in headlights" analogy is slightly inaccurate. When I saw this deer, it didn't freeze. It didn't look scared or bewildered. Nope. It looked pretty fucking sure that it could beat me across the highway. Confident almost. I've got proof of his hubris all over the passenger side of my door.

I kid.

The deer was okay. After impact, I pulled over immediately in order to check the damage and to exchange insurance information. And you know what? That son-of-a-bitch had already fled the scene. If I ever accidently hit someone's car, I'd at least have the courtesy to leave a note. [Editor's note: Probably]. I bet the deer was drunk.

So the deer ran away and my car is fucked up. Front panel, passenger and rear door all dented. I drive a pretty big car, so judging by the damage, I'd have to say this deer was at least seven feet long.

Anyway, so I call my dad to tell him 1) I'm at my final destination and 2) I got hit by a deer. His response, "Thank god you are okay. That could have been a lot worse." The next day, I talk to my grandmother and her response, "Thank god you are okay. That could have been a lot worse." Then I talk to my mom. Her response, "At least it wasn't a person." Yes. Thank god a crazed hobo didn't charge head first into my vehicle as I careened down the highway. That would have done quite a number on my insurance rates.

So now the passenger side of my car is horribly disfigured while the rest remains in pristine condition. It's like Mel Gibson in the "Man Without a Face." Except without the whole anti-semitism and "sugar tits" thing.

Anyway, for my legion of fans the three of you who actually read my blog, don't forget to update your bookmark. I'm shutting down the old blog within the next 2 weeks.