I’m in London! Notwithstanding a two-hour delay leaving JFK (about which I was none too happy but also too sleepy to fuss), my flight to Heathrow went about as well as any economy-class transatlantic flight could have. The flight had more no-shows than expected, leaving me with two seats to commandeer as my own. I once again demonstrated my ability to contort my 6’6″ frame and lie flat across two tiny airplane seats. No, I’ve never done Yoga – I have Tae Kwon Do to thank for any flexibility carried over from childhood. Whenever I wanted to sit up, my legs had at least a few inches of clearance against the seats in front of me. The dinner meal, featuring chicken, rice, spinach, a crumpet, cheese, crackers, and a choice of wine, was also surprisingly tasty. And what better way to wake up than to a cup of English Breakfast tea whose deep color and powerful aroma make it easily mistaken for coffee. 

After taking an express train from Heathrow to an Underground station, then taking the subway to the hostel, I could hardly pile enough praise on London’s rail network. Its above-ground trains, subways, and buses put all other public transit systems I’ve seen in the U.S. to absolute shame. Any government purporting to be a democracy owes its citizens a public transit system that’s expansive, accessible, and affordable, and while the weak dollar makes hopping on the Tube sting slightly for Americans like me, London’s public transportation is one of the many things I love about this wonderful city. I hadn’t lived here or even visited since I was a toddler, but London is quickly becoming one of my favorite cities in the world. I’ll know more definitively after seeing more of the sights tomorrow.

I checked into the hostel in the late afternoon. An unexpected benefit of the delayed flight leaving New York was getting to carefully research where I’d be staying my first night in London. The trans-European tour didn’t begin until the day after I arrived, so I needed a place to lay my head down, get a shower, and maybe even wash clothes in the meantime. After reading some reviews and comparing locations (i.e. proximity to Tube stations and downtown London), I settled on the Palmers Lodge in the Swiss Cottage neighborhood. I chose well. The building is a massive, renovated Victorian mansion with comfy beds, friendly staff, and plenty of lounge space (I’m writing this from a leather chair in the main lounge). They even offer free wifi and breakfast, along with a coupon for a one-pound pint from the downstairs bar. The neighborhood itself, while not particularly “charming,” had plenty of everyday fare, allowing me to get a cheap haircut (where they even treated me to a spot of tea and conversation about Obama’s candidacy), some miscellaneous travel supplies like baggage locks and power converters, and a tasty bacon, brie, and avocado panini for dinner.

It was too late in the afternoon for me to do much tourist-y stuff (visiting museums, historical sites and the like), so I decided to save that for later. After dinner, though, I took the subway downtown and managed to find an amenable tree in Hyde Park to do some reading. Walking around the park, it finally started sinking in that even though today was Monday, I wasn’t going to the office today. Or the next day. Or the day after that… “Really?” I thought. “Isn’t there something I should be doing right now?” Well, besides enjoying myself, no, there isn’t anything I should be doing. My job required me to juggle all manner of dates and tasks while being ready at a Blackberry buzz’s notice to come to the office and assist with a project. But no longer – no attorneys to update, no vendors to hassle, no filing deadlines to remember. Finally realizing this at first made me slightly uneasy, but it wasn’t long before that uneasiness was replaced by a warm, fuzzy, “Hooray, by brain can at last relax!” feeling. It could be initially difficult to slow my mind down from the whizzing pace to which it’s become accustomed for Lord-knows-how-long, but I’m optimistic

The day had been pretty exhausting, so after returning to the hostel and enjoying a brew, I hit the hay at about eleven. Today’s plan is to take a walking tour of the area with other hostel-mates and visit Westminster Abbey in the afternoon. Chaucer’s grave is, of course, a must-visit… any others folks would like me to see / photograph?

Stay tuned!

Getting my cast off warrants a much-needed vacation, and by God, I’m taking one. February 28 through March 3 I’ll be enjoying some L.A. sun (assuming the weather improves after this week).

Northwest Airlines gave me a $200 flight credit from a DC-Minneapolis ticket I had canceled last year (long story), and the credit has to be used before March 11 for it not to go bye-bye. Hmmm… where best to celebrate, I thought. The prime candidates were New York, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, San Fransisco, and Jonesboro, Arkansas. Eliminating four of them was easy. First up, I wanted somewhere car-friendly and not requiring a huge amount of walking. Sayonara, NYC, walking with a boot/cane combo would be a nightmare. Next, somewhere I hadn’t visited in a while. Hit the road, Jonesboro, we had fun over Christmas. After that, somewhere warm. Adios, Minneapolis, your subzero temperatures won’t react well with my still-healing foot or my proclivity to slip on ice. Finally, somewhere I wouldn’t be visiting anytime soon. See ya later, San Fran, I’ll stop by in August after returning from China. So, from a wholly selfish standpoint, the city of angels was the remaining, easy choice (come to think of it, New York came in dead last insofar as it failed all four criteria: too many stairs, went there in December, freezing cold, and visiting in May for a trial and probably in late March to see friends).

Hell, the warmth factor alone was nearly enough to sell me. For being so close to the Mason-Dixon line, DC gets quite cold in the winter. Before getting the walking cast, not a day went by without a passerby glimpsing me hobbling through the crisp January air and saying, “Your toes must be cold!” Stupid open-toed cast… I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Wear a Christmas stocking? They just don’t make socks big enough to cover a leg cast without also being festively-colored or adorned with pom-poms. Besides, on cold enough days, I took my scarf from my neck and wrapped it around my toes instead. A close encounter with frostbite on my middle toe (better known as “roast beef”) taught me that the little piggies shouldn’t be left in freezing temperatures for long. On most days, though, I much preferred that the blood bound for the brain be given warmth priority over blood bound for phalanges, so most of the time, scarf around the neck it was.

Process of elimination and icicles on toes aside, the real reason for the trip is my little sister and current Claremont McKenna student Lauren (AKA Durf, the Durfster, Durfee, Lurfee, and the name that started it all, Lurfen). She had a particularly rough time last semester and, especially after the roughness continued through winter break and even into this semester, could use some cheering up. Everyone needs something to look forward to. I know I do.

My expedition to L.A. in September was quite fun. I hung out with Lauren, played video games involving lightsabers, caught up with a few friends, and discovered a new favorite beer which, true to my word, is stocked in my fridge even as I type. Having chosen to brave four Minnesota winters in seeking a bachelor’s degree, the visit did have one drawback: becoming green with envy toward the Claremont colleges’ students with their relaxed lifestyles and sunny, palm tree- laden campuses. Getting to study by a pool in the middle of March… that just doesn’t seem right! Not when my brethren and I would spend the month locked in the library as snowfall barricaded the exits, dashing any hope of escape. Experiencing a Claremont kid’s life firsthand made it tough to avoid the conclusion that I sure had bet on the wrong horse…

The trip should be packed with perks. Provided she’s not busy with Classics geektressing, it’d be good to see Libby’s awesome former roommate Kathy again. I’m also hoping to catch up my long-lost friend Kirby, whom I’ve known since first grade and I last saw in Dallas several summers ago. She’s a film student at the AFI in Hollywood and thus bound to know how best to live it up in hills. Also on the list of things to do: spend a Disneyland day with the Durf, eat my weight in In-N-Out burgers, bask on a sandy-yet-slightly-sketchy SoCal beach, enjoy “free” dining hall cuisine, and enjoy me some glitzy L.A. nightlife. Necessary armaments: a Mickey Mouse hat, pregnancy-paneled pants, board shorts, Lauren’s student ID, and my sharpest navy blazer and fashionable $100-but-got-for-$30 jeans.

Everyone needs something to look forward to.

Today was the day. I had been talking it up since the cast was first put on. To anyone who has asked about the prognosis of the injured appendage, the answer has been a variant of “Well, I’ll know on February 4th when I get another round of X-rays.” As the day drew closer, containing my excitement became increasingly more difficult. There was hardly a moment in which I felt unencumbered – in one way or another, I’ve been all too aware of my ailment… and all too eager to be rid of it. Today would be the day on which I’d find out whether I’d be able to start walking, or continue hobbling.

The first bit of good news came just after being called from the waiting room. The doctor said that healed or no, the cast had to come off so that X-rays could be taken. Hooray! A few cast-free moments at a minimum. Often a doctor will introduce you to the tools he will be using: in my instance, what looked to be a small circular saw with tiny, sharp teeth. Not this doctor – he revved the saw and got right to cutting. Having had a cast removed at age 13, I knew that an oscillating saw can’t break skin, but that didn’t quite hold back an initial panicked feeling when the saw first hit the cast.

Once all of the cuts had been made and the cast pieces removed, I damn near leaped from my seat. The next bit of good news: I could balance on two feet! Double hooray! My biggest fear at that moment wasn’t falling down (though I could immediately sense that my right leg had weakened significantly). I was afraid of the smell. Thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected. Given that feet start stinking after just a day in normal shoes, I was braced for a noxious knockout once my right foot met fresh air. There wasn’t really an odor, much to my surprise. No bed of roses, certainly, but not bad.

There were, however, several other surprises. First, my right leg was not initially strong enough to support my whole body weight. “Duh” in hindsight, but my initial triumphant stand caused excitement and cockiness to get the best of me. I immediately tried putting my whole body weight on my right foot, and it damn near gave out. I saved myself from a nasty stumble by catching the table at just the right moment. Guess I’ll have to work on strengthening those muscles. Next, as I was massaging my leg and foot to soothe the muscles and get the blood flowing freely again, I was surprised to see hairs caught between a few of my fingers. So I tried pulling at some hairs near my ankle. They all came out with ease! Ack! Better not rub against that leg too much, unless I’m going for a silky-smooth look. The real freak show, though, was hiding on the other side of the foot. To all those women I’ve ever mocked for using special podiatric exfoliant products, I beg your forgiveness and humbly request your assistance. The skin on the forefoot and heel was rubbed raw with jaundiced, peeling edges. The sight was so horrendous that I snapped a camera-phone photo for posterity. For y’alls sake, I’m not posting it here. Icky, indeed. I’m in desperate need of expertise here, though, so anyone offering info on how to get the soles of my feet looking normal again will instantly become one of my favorite people.

It wasn’t long before I was sent to the X-ray room, and after all of the snaps were taken, I anxiously awaited the verdict. I wasn’t expecting a declaration that it had fully healed and that I could walk normally again – even I knew that neither was true. The hope instead was that partial healing and good bone position would allow me to get fitted with a walking cast. And that’s just what happened. The orthopedist said that there was some new bone growth, but that the bones were perfectly aligned and healing nicely inclined him toward prescribing “the boot.” The device is pretty nifty: consisting of a hard plastic shell and neoprene lining with fasteners and air cushions, it keeps the foot immobilized while allowing full weight bearing. In other words, I can walk in it! The walking motion with the boot is more natural than I had expected, too. Of course, the doctor’s orders were to minimize walking time in the very beginning and steadily increase weight bearing over time, but the feeling of being mobile again was too good to take in small doses today. I walked around the office and my apartment more times than I could count. I even lifted weights in the upstairs gym. In my defense, I did use crutches on the longer trips to and from the office. I’m stubborn, not stupid.

Ah, freedom. Not full freedom just yet, but I have an appointment in three weeks that will hopefully bring even better news. Now that I’m rid of the peg-leg gizmo, I’d sure like to be rid of comments about how fitting an eyepatch / cutlass / parrot would be to complete the pirate ensemble. This calls for celebration… not too much, given what can happen when equal parts champagne, white wine, beer, whiskey, vodka, and moonwalking are mixed. There’s a good chance I’ll be toasting my newfound mobility in Charlottesville this weekend (keeping the toasts light), and I’ll definitely be basking in some California sun later this month (stay tuned).

Again, big thanks to everyone who has put up with my complaining, offered car rides, extended niceties, or otherwise accommodated my gimped-out self. You guys rock.

If you’re an Obama fan, you’ll surely think so after reading this open letter that several of them signed. As you can guess by the title of the blog featuring it – “Habeas lawyers for Obama” – the signatories are habeas counsel to Guantanamo detainees and are throwing their support behind the Illinois Senator, whose efforts to restore the rights of habeas corpus and limitations on executive overreach are unmatched by any others among the current crop of presidential contenders. More information regarding the merits of our claims, as well as my own involvement with the case, can be found in this past post.

The letter’s main text reads:

HABEAS LAWYERS SUPPORT OBAMA

January 28, 2008

Dear Friends:

We are at a critical point in the Presidential campaign, and as lawyers who have been deeply involved in the Guantanamo litigation to preserve the important right to habeas corpus, we are writing to urge you to support Senator Obama.

The Administration’s Guantanamo policies have undercut our values at home and stained our reputation around the world. All of us are lawyers who have worked on the Guantanamo habeas corpus litigation for many years, some of us since early 2002, and we were all deeply involved in opposing the Administration’s attempt to overturn the Supreme Court’s Rasul decision by stripping the courts of jurisdiction to hear the Guantanamo cases. We have talked with Senator Obama about why the Guantanamo litigation is so significant, and we have worked closely with Senator Obama in the fight to preserve habeas corpus.

Some politicians are all talk and no action. But we know from first-hand experience that Senator Obama has demonstrated extraordinary leadership on this critical and controversial issue. When others stood back, Senator Obama helped lead the fight in the Senate against the Administration’s efforts in the Fall of 2006 to strip the courts of jurisdiction, and when we were walking the halls of the Capitol trying to win over enough Senators to beat back the Administration’s bill, Senator Obama made his key staffers and even his offices available to help us. Senator Obama worked with us to count the votes, and he personally lobbied colleagues who worried about the political ramifications of voting to preserve habeas corpus for the men held at Guantanamo. He has understood that our strength as a nation stems from our commitment to our core values, and that we are strong enough to protect both our security and those values. Senator Obama demonstrated real leadership then and since, continuing to raise Guantanamo and habeas corpus in his speeches and in the debates.

The writ of habeas corpus dates to the Magna Carta, and was enshrined by the Founders in our Constitution. The Administration’s attack on habeas corpus rights is dangerous and wrong. America needs a President who will not triangulate this issue. We need a President who will restore the rule of law, demonstrate our commitment to human rights, and repair our reputation in the world community. Based on our work with him, we are convinced that Senator Obama can do this because he truly feels these issues “in his bones.”

We urge you to support Senator Obama.

We encourage you to forward this message to anyone who might be interested.

Signed, eighty-eight hardcore advocates for justice, the Constutition, and the true principles of a free society (I’m paraphrasing). It’s worth mentioning that these advocates are not smalltime. They consist mostly of law professors and litigators from the upper echelons of legal practice. And they chose their words carefully: language that we need a president who won’t “triangulate this issue” cannot be anything but a direct swipe at Hillary, and one as hard-hitting as it is well-deserved. Hillary can be counted on to do whatever is in Hillary’s best interests at a given moment. This issue, which cuts at the core of our rights and values, is too important to risk being abandoned for politics’ sake. Obama’s the real deal. And this is proof that at least eighty-eight accomplished, principled lawyers agree.

These lawyers were the reason I took this job, and they’re a source of continuing inspiration as I prepare to become a lawyer myself.

My first day back at work (only two days after the accident), my secretary came into my office, saw me with a cast on, and just started laughing. I don’t blame her in the slightest. I started chuckling, too, doing my very best then and thereafter to project a sense of good humor to others. I’d be the first to agree that this whole breaking-my-foot thing is pretty absurd, and in a funny sort of way.

Despite being ushered in by a temporarily debilitating injury, January has been my most productive and social month in recent memory. Crazy, right? Seems logical that walking on crutches would make my daily routine more sedentary, but no; gimp leg notwithstanding, I’ve enjoyed many a night and weekend out these last four weeks. As the swelling subsided, so did any sense of frustration and self-pity. Thank the Lord on high it only took a few days. The very week my foot broke, I ventured out every single night.

I have the people in my life to thank. No question. Family members, good friends, co-workers, and even perfect strangers have all gone out of their way to make things just a little easier for me. Guess I should thank the strangers, too. Acts of kindness have been as numerous as they have been affirming, from Lizz driving me to and from work every Friday to an elderly gentleman pausing a few moments to hold a door open. These kindly door-holders haven’t been limited to old men – they span gender, generational, and racial lines (much like Obama’s coalition! Hey-oh!). I can hardly hobble anywhere without someone lending a helping hand. Of all the things that have made the hardships and inconveniences of crippled life bearable – enjoyable, even – good company takes the gold, with mobility devices and entertainment options finishing far behind.

To all of you, thanks for being so accommodating. Especially given that my injury resulted from my stupidity alone, I owe y’all.

Transitioning from fully mobile one day to hobbling along the next was far more painful than I had let anyone realize. My first week on crutches knotted up my back and damn near destroyed my wrists. At first, I told myself “Eh, crutches can’t be that bad, right?” The first day, that proved true. Granted, I kept trying to defiantly walk on my freshly-splinted foot and throw down the crutches in protest, but to get any sort of distance, the crutches were sort of necessary. Thank God I had spent the last year building upper body strength – walking on crutches would have been a nightmare for my arms and shoulders otherwise. Contrary to common knowledge, when using crutches, you’re supposed to put all of your weight on your hands during strides, instead of simply resting your armpits on top of the crutches. Many aren’t strong enough to follow those directions, but not wanting to risk underarm nerve damage, I always put full weight on the handles while crutching. “Great upper body workout,” I figured. Just one problem: my wrists weren’t accustomed to supporting the full weight of a 6’6″ guy with such frequency. So, instead of feeling the usual armpit soreness that first-time crutchgoers tend to feel, I woke up the next day with awful wrist pains that nearly kept me from going back to work.

Yup, you read that right. “Nearly” kept me from going to work. Instead of having the good sense to stay home, rest, and wait until my foot could be put in a permanent cast, I picked up that pair of crutches and headed out. The first stop was the Rite Aid on the way to the Metro. The clinic doctor had given me a Percocet prescription the day before… who am I to argue with doctor’s orders? Besides, even having hobbled the mere 600 feet from my apartment door to the pharmacy, my aching wrists were already signaling that my crutches would need some padding. I still find it absurd that I needed pain meds less for the underlying injury (broken foot) than for the fresh pain that the treatment (crutches) had prompted. Why the crutch designers couldn’t make those handles comfortable enough for a single painless day of crutching is beyond me, but as it stood, those handles needed some serious padding. I waited for the prescription to be filled and, seeing no specialized “crutch padding,” took the advice of a friend. With dishrags hanging from my belt and a roll of duct tape around my left forearm, I awkwardly crutched to the counter, paid for the crutch “upgrades,” and sat down on a nearby bench to wrap the rags around the handles and use the tape to secure them. Once my prescription was ready, it was off to the office.

Walking with crutches was agonizing at first, and not just because of the wrist pangs. Stairs were a mortal enemy, slowing me down at best and threatening slippage/tumbling/death at worst. I would have to stop every hundred feet or so to catch my breath, and sweating through my wool coat was far from sexy. Having misplaced my only backpack, I could carry only what could be easily hooked onto a finger or two. And all the while, my constantly searing wrists, arms, shoulders, and back made me constantly contemplate hiding in bed for six weeks straight. Even now, several weeks later, discomfort follows me day and night. The pain of sore upper body muscles and joints has given way to purple, throbbing toes from poor circulation in the cast and midnight calf cramps from leg underuse.

The biggest surprise of the few days after the accident was my bitter attitude toward people around me. To be sure, the aches and pains of initial crutch-wielding would be enough to turn anyone a little sour, but my bad mood bled into my default perceptions of others. Rathern than simply treating others’ random acts of kindness (holding doors, giving up seats, etc.) as blessings, I constantly looked for signs of discourtesy and grew angrier at the sight of any act that could be construed as willful ignorance toward my hardship. It was the strangest damn feeling… and from from a person who believes in the universal, genuine good of people and normally lacks any sense of entitlement. In that sense, being injured was bad for my ego in opposite senses that somehow made for a brutal one-two punch: being in pain and partially immobilized brought on feelings of helplessness and dependence while spurring narcissism and cynicism.

Fortunately, the internal melodrama of those first few days subsided, and my typically good-humored self reemerged from behind the smiling face that I had previously painted on. Despite my differently-abledness and the occasional urge to toss my crutches out the nearest window, I’ve spent the last few weeks being productive by day and social by night. Whoda thunkit? More on the upside of gimpiness later.

Last night’s New Year’s Eve festivities were a rockin’ good time. After our usual toast of hop-packed beer, my friend Mat and I donned our Duran Duraningest attire and spent most of the night at an 80s-themed house party. Cheesy electronica music? Check. Ring Pops that turn your mouth blue? Check. Sporting a tuxedo shirt over a neon undershirt with the ubiquitous green tie around my head? That’s a big check. After watching the ball drop and spending a few extra hours perfecting our Axel F groovings, we met up with some of Mat’s grad school friends for drinks at a bar near Cleveland Park. Shortly thereafter, we went back to Mat’s place in Georgetown and enjoyed some wine (which I think he had just gotten for free at a VA vineyard) before conking out around 3.

It seems I can’t go two months without spraining something these days. Sometime between electric sliding and moonwalking, my foot twisted oddly and became progressively more painful as the night wore on. Of course, my recollection of when/how it happened was made particularly fuzzy by copious amounts of wine, champagne, and spiked punch, which had a similar effect on my memory of, well, pretty much the whole evening. Leaving the 80s party a little after 1:30, I was limping slightly but could still bear full weight on my right foot. By the time we reached Mat’s apartment after 3:00, though, the pain had gone from annoying to crippling. So much so that it would intermittently wake me up. The pain reached an apex this morning as I rolled off Mat’s couch, hobbled to my car, and drove home with a wincing expression that never left my face.

First a sprained shoulder, and now a potentially broken foot. Blimey, ’07 just had to get in one last punch. The last hospital-worthy injury I had sustained prior to 2007 was a hairline break of one of my armbones playing football when I was 14. I wonder if these frequent ER visits of mine will earn me a preferred patient punchcard… you know, one that makes my third visit copay-free.

So long 2007, and thanks for all the fractures. I’m sure I’ll be more forward looking once the pain subsides. Oh, and be sure to check out Dave Barry’s recap of the past year. Brilliant stuff.

UPDATE: Good news: it’s not sprained. Bad news: it’s broken. I got the full cast-and-crutches treatment. Looks like I’ll be hobbling around for the next couple of weeks…

Click the image if you can’t read the tiny print. You won’t be disappointed.

I especially love how not wanting bacon isn’t an option. Because, um, it isn’t. Ever.

The seller of the eBay auction linked above offers to drive a person of your choosing batshit nuts through eerily personal postcard rants.  The winner of the auction, with a victim in mind, will send the seller several personal details about the victim, as well as the victim’s address. The seller, planning on spending a holiday in a small Polish village, will send the victim a series of anonymous postcards with scribbled rants that integrate those personal details. The postcards will be complete with a mail stamp from the originating Poland town.

Confused and creeped out by a flurry of psychotic ravings originating from a no-name town in Poland at the hand of someone who appears to know them will set the victim on a quest to find out who the author could be. Anyone who personally knows the victim will (almost surely) have an alibi by virtue of, well, not being in Poland, leaving the victim feeling helpless and disturbed.

Personal experience tells me that a scheme like this creates an itch that a) can’t be scratched and b) won’t go away. During high school, my AIM profile linked to a 20-question quiz that I had set up, following in the footsteps of about half of my good friends. The quiz questions tested people’s knowledge about me and progressively got more personal and thus more difficult. The answer to the last question at the time was known by at most two people. Once someone completed the quiz, her score was posted on a publicly-accessible page.

My friends’ scores all varied, but only one person (let’s call her “HeideggerChick”) managed to score a perfect 20. I sent this “HeideggerChick” an IM and therein asked who she was. She playfully dodged the question and signed off. Intrigued, I confronted the only two people who could have achieved that perfect score, and they both denied being this illusive individual.  “Who the hell could this person be?” I wondered. I saw her online several times shortly thereafter and tried to discover her identity… more playful banter, but no cigar.

We stayed in intermittent touch for over six years.  In the beginning, I pressed for details that would clue me in to who she really was. The intellectual tug-of-war was initially fun, but as time went by, I abandoned the effort altogether and corresponded as though we had an intuitive understanding that friends tend to share. Playing the figure-her-out game after a while seemed strangely inappropriate (though I did suggest we meet on one occasion). Our conversations got personal without being that personal – she told me about her fiancee (later husband), her job with a defense contractor, the book she was writing, and her social life in the DC area, but she never once divulged her name or any other personally identifiable details. Not that I could have verified the information anyway – she could have been making it all up. I did at least form the impression that she was several years my senior and quite brilliant to boot. What we lacked in common life experience was made up for with a similar style of speech and a lone-raised-eyebrow curiosity.

To this day, her true identity remains a mystery. I still wonder how she earned that damned perfect score. It alludes me why she continued talking to me. I mean, really, what person does this. Guess I’ll never know. And as much as I’d sure love to know who she really is, I can at least remember the witty exchanges and remind myself that a dash of mystery makes life worth your interest.