Got back into the swing of things with a relatively productive day today. Picked up a new bankruptcy referral- my second of the week after things being frighteningly quiet all year so far. The first appointment in the second one will be either Monday afternoon- after It Which Must Not Be Named- or late on Tuesday. I can do either now because a court hearing scheduled for next Tuesday will not require an appearance for argument. That generally means the judge has already made up his mind; I'm not going to jinx the outcome by mentioning which set of papers so far was a bunch of shameless whining.
I got in my first hourlong cardio of the week, and felt good. I'm almost done with Wherever I Wind Up,
a memoir by current Mets pitcher R.A. Dickey. I'd heard an interview with him on the radio a few weeks ago, and the revelations about how much misfortune he's faced and overcome in his life were just remarkable. The book tackles them with grace, but they still hit you like a ton of bricks as he relives some immensely painful moments from his childhood and some almost-as-bad experiences in his baseball career.
Ordinarily, I would be planning to head to Toronto this weekend, the first time in almost a decade the Mets have played an interleague series up there. But between lost time around work and home this week and Emily's animation screening this weekend (finally scheduled, for 10:30 Sunday morning at RIT), I just can't do it.
My day ended by firing a client. He was- is- a sympathy-inducing soul, but this time it just got too much for me to take. I'd cleared my last two hours of the week to make an appearance for him in an outlying court, only to be told on the way in that his brother, who knows somebody who knows somebody, had "taken care of it." Since he had no need, therefore, to bring money for the anticipated fine, there was none for me, either. I said, sorry, I can't work like this anymore, and that was that.
But I'm home, there's a total pigout meal on the grill, and our daughter's having her film debuted day after tomorrow. Things could be a lot, lot worse. Just ask R.A. Dickey.
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