Settling Into a Routine

"Some men like a dull life - they like the routine of eating breakfast, going to work, coming home, petting the dog, watching TV, kissing the kids, and going to bed. Stay clear of it - it's often catching."

-Hedy Lamarr

Already handled my first call today, with a deposition starting in about a half-hour. I know I'm probably not getting paid for this one--the client is broke, but it's too late the cancel. An incentive to work from the stretch instead of the windup, and move on to something more productive.

Slane's pacing himself this morning.

Not even the chopped liver recipe in Peg's new Russ & Daughters cookbook seems able to stir him.

It's sixteen degrees outside. I've not left this space since arriving on Saturday, three days ago. Tonight I'll venture out with my knee full of sutures to head to estate planning class. The pain's mostly subsided at this point, although it's still a little uncomfortable and I yelp when I twist my knee a little.

Things have settled into a rough sort of routine here. I have class once a day, and maybe double the amount of actual class time to prep for the next one. I work, with Zoom appearances, phone conferences, and time spent researching and drafting that rounds out the balance of the workday and helps pay the bills when the clients pay. Most Thursdays we'll drive back up to Corning, and stay until Sunday afternoon unless the weather forces an early routine, which it did last weekend. So far it's working.

We've ingratiated ourselves to (with?) one of our doormen, Isaiah. The building has two doormen, and although both are nice young men Isaiah is certainly the more outgoing. Their uniform is a black turtleneck, black slacks, and black leather shoes--not the guy with a chauffer's cap, topcoat, and epaulettes I always pictured guarding the front door of a Manhattan apartment building. These two mostly sit behind the front desk and direct traffic among the steady stream of Doordash guys who arrive with aromatic bags from some local ethnic restaurant.

Isaiah's been indispensable to us twice, on each of our Beverly Hillbillies arrivals from Corning, car packed to the gills with groceries and cookware and cats. He's helped us move our cargo into the lobby, loaded it onto the luggage cart, and helped P schlep it up to the apartment while I drive around the block to the parking structure where the Caddy lives all week. This was an especially big deal last weekend, with a blizzard coming and me hopping around a day post-surgery.

I've tipped him handsomely, of course. Isaiah lives over in Brooklyn, and has mentioned that ordering takeout while he's on-shift at the counter chews through a chunk of his paycheck. So last night when Peg cooked up enough lamb stew to feed Coxey's Army, I was sent downstairs with hot Tupperwares, arriving just in time for Isaiah to cancel his delivery order and feast on P's gourmet offerings. He seems like an awfully nice young man, about Drew's age and perpetually cheerful. We've become sort of in loco parentis in a very short time. I reckon it happens.

Back to my pro bono deposition prep.