Do all dogs go to Heaven?

This is literally a church signs debate, being played out in a Southern US town, between Our Lady of Martyrs Catholic Church, and Cumberland Presbyterian, a fundamentalist church. From top to bottom shows you the response and counter-response over time.

Meet Tessie!

Tessie is a ten week old Puggle who joined our family on May 23rd. Her mom, Ginger, is a Beagle and her dad, Chomper, is a Pug (hence, "Puggle"). Tony and I have wanted to add a canine member to our family since last September - well, really for the past four years - but between passing the Bar, finding a job, saving up for puppy expenses, and taking the MCAT, this was the first time we were able to make the commitment of our finances and time.

Tony named her after a song. Or a Red Sox player? Or maybe it was a song about a Red Sox player... I'm not really sure, I was too busy squishing all the rolly skin around her face while he explained her name to pay attention. But in any event she's definitely Tess.



She's a little resistant to loose-lease walking.
Really lease-walking in general.







And a relationship with the cats is still...

...evolving.

But she's playful and sweet and always wants to be wherever we are. We couldn't be happier to add her to our little family. Welcome Tessie!

Spring

Spring is slowly starting to suggest itself in Indianapolis...

Flowering trees are blooming.

Ugly geese are pooping on lawns.

Kids are playing in parks.

The weather is warm and sunny. And windy.

And the Maiolinos are making watermelon margaritas.



Yep. Definitely Spring.

Sunday Afternoons with Milo

It is oh-so-lovely,
on a stormy Sunday afternoon,
to have a cat like Milo
to curl up with
and read and nap
while the scent of a delicious dinner
of roasted chicken, sweet potato, and roasted vegetables wafts through your home.

It's so easy sometimes,
with alarms beeping at 6:00a.m.
and idiots driving 25 mph on the 40 mph road when you're late to work
and judges who think your pleas are too harsh
and victims who think they are too lenient
and dirty laundry
and cat puke,
to become disillusioned.

But with a purring cat in your lap
and a good book in your hands
and smell of Sunday dinner all around you
and - most importantly - an obscenely handsome and hard-working husband
sitting on the other end of the couch,
it's very easy to remember what a truly happy life I lead.

A Tribute to My Profession

A little about me: I am loud and obnoxious; I will interrupt you when you are talking and I will not apologize for it. I probably won't even notice I did it. I'm argumentative and I think I'm always right. I never give up when I'm making a point and I never give in if you disagree with me. I will repeat the same thing over and over again until your ears bleed and you finally agree with me just to get me to shut up. I'm smart enough to always have a retort to whatever it is you have to say, but not smart enough to know when I've lost. I have to win. Have to. And I am the wordiest little brat you've ever met.

That's just me. Doesn't sound great, right? Well those are my talents; I didn't ask for them, but they're what I got. And as a wise man once said, "Your talent is God's gift to you. What you do with it, that's your gift back to God." I am a prosecutor. I take my abilities, and my orneriness, and I speak for those injured individuals and communities who cannot speak for themselves. I fight for little pieces of justice every day, and more days than not - I get some. I am not paid much, but I am proud every night when I go home.

There are heroes in this world. They're called District Attorneys. They don't get to have clients, people who smile at them at the end of the trial, who look them in the eye and say, "thank you." Nobody is there to appreciate the District Attorney, because we work for the state. And our gratitude comes only from knowing there's a tide out there. A tide the size of a tsunami coming out of a bottomless cesspool. A tide called crime, which, if left unchecked will rob every American of his freedom. A tide which strips individuals of the privilege of being able to, to walk down a dark street or take twenty dollars out of an ATM machine without fear of being mugged. All Congress does is talk, but it's the District Attorney who grabs his sword, who digs into the trenches and fights the fight. Who dogs justice day, after day, after day without thanks, without so much as a simple pat on the back. But we do it. We do it, we do it because we are the crusaders, the last frontier of American justice. Knowing that if a man cannot feel safe, he can never, never feel free.

- Richard Bay, "The Practice" (1997)

Snow Day

One of the great high school experiences, as all Pacific Northwestern kids can attest, is awakening to see a few flurries of snowflakes outside your window. This grand event, for our wholly ill-prepared little corner of the world, means...drum roll...SNOW DAY!

As my New England - and increasingly snow-arrogant - husband will tell you, nowhere on the planet is the weather phenomenon of "snow" dealt with properly except in New Hampshire, Maine, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut. He bemoans Indy's lack of quality preparation ("Why weren't these streets salted last night before it snowed?") and the inept maintenance post-storm ("How have they not figured out that they can't just plow once if it's still snowing, they have to come back and get the new-fallen snow?!?") All this to say nothing of his opinion of Indianapolis drivers commuting in the snow; the frustration brings out his inner aggressive, swears-like-a-sailor, Bostonian. Admittedly, I share some of this frustration when it takes me over two hours to make my twenty-minute commute to work. So you can imagine the momentary horror I experienced this morning when I looked out the window and saw:

(Except that it wasn't plowed yet. They didn't get around to that until 10 a.m. or so, 'cause no one goes to work before that, right?)

It was actually still snowing when I woke up at 6:00 a.m., which did not bode well since I was due in court at 8:30. A quick check of the local news station showed that Tony's campus was closed down for the day but the courts were still open! Seeing no reason why Tony should get to stay all warm in bed when I was going to have to brave the wintry weather, I returned to the bedroom, peeked out the blinds (making as much noise as possible), and murmured as loudly as I could through laryngitis, "Gosh, I'm not sure I'll be able to get my car out. I think I'll go try." My sweet husband, ever the sucker, I mean, protector, rolled over and groggily mumbled, "Wait. You stay inside. I'll get dressed and go out and check." Twenty minutes of valient effort later, Tony tromped back inside - looking much like a Yeti - and announced, "Your car is stuck. You're not going to work."

Just then, my Blackberry blinked to life with the emailed message that the courts were closed for the day and my office had decided to close as well.


Blissful déjà vu!
That greatest of all post-Christmas winter events!
Unscheduled, joyous gift from Mother Nature:
Snow Day!


We excitedly went back to bed but, as in high school, were much to hopped up on adrenaline to fall back asleep. No matter though, since my day- instead of work - has been filled with home-made multi-grain waffles (a Saturday morning tradition here at the Maiolino house), the sewing of living room curtains, old movies, laundry, freshly baked cookies, and reading on the couch with Sadie purring on my lap.
All in all, not bad for a random Wednesday in January.

Milo ventured out briefly to explore the patio,
decided he didn't care for it and ran back inside.

White Christmas

In the 25 wonderful Christmases I have celebrated up until this year there has always been one tiny missing piece: snow. For my father, raised outside Chicago, and my husband, raised outside Boston, white Christmases were somewhat old-hat. But for Mom, Carrie, Jeff, and I, all raised either outside Los Angeles and/or Seattle, snow has eluded us each December 25th. Until this year.

This year an unprecedented snow storm blew through the Pacific Northwest and dumped a respectable eight or so inches on us. Huge, fluffy flakes were even falling on Christmas morning and unlike the little flurries that leave a barely-there dusting of white on the ground, this "blizzard" (gotta work with what you can get in Western Washington) left more than enough snow for Santa, his sleigh, and those reindeer. It was my perfect holiday, with all six of us safe and snug at my parents' cozy house.




Of course there were snowball fights,

against cowardly boys who turned our efforts at a snowman + woman into barricades.

And the making of snow angels.

And the building of a most excellent snowman named Johnny Disco, who, sadly, never got the girlfriend we promised him; we decided we were too hungry for lunch to bother building her. Enduring the holidays alone ultimately proved too much for him and he collapsed, in despair, shortly after Christmas. A poignant reminder to be grateful for the loved ones surrounding us this holiday season, and always.

Inside, we played games,

trimmed the tree,

and prepared a delicious Christmas feast, Thanksgiving-
style (since we didn't get to spend that holiday all together this year), of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, cheesy rolls, salad, and my mom's yummy Chocolate Christmas Cake.

Tony, under the tutelage of my dad, cooked and carved his first turkey. Preparation for our own hosting of a holiday perhaps...

In the spirit of all things snowy, cozy, and Christmas:
Happy Holidays, from my family to yours.