What ever happened with My Man’s summer work, anyway? You might ask.
He got a job working for an attorney named Joel Waltzer, who heads up pretty much the only authentic environmental firm in town (for those of y’all unawares as I would have been, most “environmental” lawyers work for BP, or some such bullshit. They have to be savvy to environmental laws too, y’know. So they can get away with breaking them.)
Not only is Joel apparently righteous, he’s also purty darned smart. And eager to share whatever he knows, and interested in My Man’s thoughts. Sounds incredibly ideal so far. He’s already had the opportunity to sit in a room with all the BP lawyers and class action lawyers involved with the spill, and watch while his employer gave ’em hell. Hip, hip, hooray!
Of course, the side of righteousness never has enough money, so Joel doesn’t know exactly how much he will be able to afford to pay My Man. Lucky for us, My Man’s dad is a lawyer too, with always plenty of long distance work available. So he’ll be splitting his time between the two.
The Washington Post just did an article about the Pointe-Au-Chien, the tribe My Man is working with. The haven’t filed any lawsuit yet, the article’s just about how fucked they are. Definitely take the time to look at the photo gallery. It’s pretty interesting to me how much the photos look like western bush Alaska.
He got to go down there last week. It’s a very tiny village, and he met almost everyone in the photos. The old woman leaning over the rail is the one who took he and Joel out in a boat to see an oiled area.
When they went down they stayed the night. And that, not coincidentally, is when I had my meltdown. You ladies who’s hubby’s are gone for significant periods of time, holy crap, how the fuck do you survive? I was counting up my hours in a row and feeling sorry for myself, but you’re way past hours.
I guess it’s just more evidence of the fact that what appears to be the end of one’s rope, and the real end of one’s rope are some incredible distance apart.