Those of you in the legal profession, enjoy this bit of wonderment. Heck, anyone even folks without a JD can enjoy this bit of info. From today’s Star Ledger, the paper that puts the Sopranos and American Goddam Idol front page above the fold:

Call it the Jersey defense.

Lesly Devereaux, the latest public official hauled into court on corruption charges, conceded yesterday that prosecutors have her nailed on the key facts of the case.

Yes, she threw government work to her ailing mother and her desperate sister. Yes, her secretary devoted the great bulk of her time to Devereaux’s private law practice while on the public payroll. And yes, Devereaux tried to hide all this by drafting documents she now concedes were phony.

But she is pleading not guilty.

Her pitch to the jury yesterday boiled down to this: In the slimy pit of New Jersey politics, everybody does this kind of stuff.

“Jim McGreevey put his paramour in charge of homeland security with a six-figure salary,” said defense attorney Jack Furlong. “I don’t recall Mr. McGreevey facing indictment for that.

“Why are we singling out Lesly Devereaux? Is she the only one who threw a bone to a member of her family in New Jersey? I don’t think so.”

Ah yes. Jersey. We have the best tomatoes, the best corn, the best blueberries, among the best beaches (including a federally-funded and -protected nude beach!), and… the best corrupt state government in the land. And that’s the new defense: everyone else is corrupt, so why not me?

It’s just breathtaking. The article goes on to describe this woman as something between a tyrant and complete egomaniacal nutjob who also has been indicted on charges of food stamp fraud.

But my favorite part is the following: “New Jersey politics is a slimy business. Even watching it from a distance, you sometimes feel the need to take a hot shower afterward and hug your children for reassurance.”

So true, dude. So true.

10. You hold on to the bar by raising your arm up in the air. Some people should not do this, most particularly when they are 6’ and I am 5’3” and while they should have showered, they have apparently skipped that this morning and I’m about to pass out from the wave o’ stench.

9. Hot platform. Remove sweater. ICE COLD TRAIN CAR OMG. Freeze. Put on sweater. Step off train car. HOT like SAUNA with extra train smell! Begin to feel lightheaded and consider buying climate control suit to move around in.

8. Everyone smells. Including you.

7. The real New Yorkers somehow figured out how to move about through the hot and the cold and the hot and the cold without getting wrinkled or wilted, and they will not share that secret. But they always look good. It’s not fair.

6. Someone on every train car will be intoxicated, loud, and upset about something. Usually aliens. Seems aliens start listening to your thoughts a LOT more in the summer.

5. If there are musicians singing on the train, a tourist will get up and dance and sing with them. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it’s a little mortifying to watch. Especially if the tourist is a man with pasty legs in shorts, dark dork socks and sandals. You’re never getting that image out of your head.

4. It still smells. Hold your nose or breathe through your sleeve.

3. You’d think it’d be cooler in the tunnels, but it’s not. However, when you surface back to the street, that 90+ degree humidity feels MUCH nicer than the subway platform.

2. Bag sitters? Pole huggers? Seat Straddlers? Somehow, more common in the summer. Especially the seat straddlers. I assume they sit like they’re riding horses because they need to air out the little parts. I still rage at them all in my head like a psycho, though.

1. OMG the SMELL.

Today: barely 70. Sunday? 90! Morag thinks? WTF!

Honestly, I am so sleep deprived going on 2 weeks now that all I can think of is 9 or 10 uninterrupted hours of sleep. And yet, I am home, I am in my jammies and… I get in my own way and don’t get to bed much before 1030. I read, I watch tv, I work on the laptop on stuff that could ostensibly wait until morning except that I’m having a jolly old time NOW so up I stay. I just get in my own way, literally and figuratively.

Meanwhile, the Bird improves. Last night there was 3am screaming and crying, but it seemed to be a ruse to get us to come into his room, because the minute Hubby walked in, it was Party Time Excellent! Eventually the man will snooze all night. Someday. When he’s 14 and sleeps until noon the next day.

Wow. Weather! And sleep! Tune in later when I write about something seriously interesting, like dandruff. 

I never need to do another gift guide. Amazon’s curiosity gift guide puts mine to shame.

We suspect Freebird has a “beer reflection,” because he’s nonstop irritable and whiny, and keeps pulling at his ear. The doctor saw fluid but not inflammation, so perhaps it got worse, perhaps its bothering him, perhaps Satan has taken my happy little dude and replaced him with the Devil’s Toddler. Ask Rbelle. I was on the phone with her, and she got to witness over the cellular airwaves the meltdown of the day, all because I wanted to put the Bird in his highchair and feed him. Evil Mommy! I hope this crap temporary because while I loved cuddling in the “big bed” with Freebird last night as he wound down for bed, I miss my mellow, happy dude.

And yes, we really call it a “beer reflection.” We refuse to say the actual words aloud. Even last night after many many up-and-down soothing episodes between 2 and 4 am where the Bird would sleep for 15 minutes then wake up screaming and crying, we discussed the likelihood that the problem is “beer-related.” If our house were bugged by some larger federal entity with bugging capabilities, they’d think we were plying our child with Pabst.

Maybe Pabst would help?

Either way, after an early-morning soothe-a-thon to the screaming, miserable toddler man and a happy dosing of Motrin for the pain, the Bird calmed down - but then had a little party in his crib. Singing, talking, reading books, then eventually sleep. It goes without saying that we are a bit sleep-deprived. Hubby and I were talking about our lack of sleep before I left this morning, and I said, “Hey, just as soon as he starts sleeping again, we’ll have a newborn! It’s like a baby bootcamp preview!”

Somehow this did not help much.

That said, I’m still having a marvelous day. 

The Bird is well enough to go to school, though he was super cranky this morning and clearly wanted a few extra hours of sleep. Me too, Bird, me too. But alas, I shall have to content myself with a slowly growing realization that Father’s Day is Sunday and I better get on that. Here’s a glimpse of how tired I am: I’d rather click and shop from my desk chair than get up and go to the card store. How sad is that? But if you’re like me, consider the following gift ideas.

For the Baseball Fan: Now Batting, Number...: The Mystique, Superstition, and Lore of Baseball’s Uniform Numbers. A book all about why players chose certain numbers and the reasons and superstitions behind uniform numbers on certain teams. Seems to me that it would be great toilet reading.

For Democrats Obsessed with Politics: The Assault on Reason by Al Gore. Positioning himself to be that guy Democrats wish would run for office already, Gore moves from global warming and the environment to how our decision-making process has been assaulted by soundbites and song and dance routines.

For the Husband or Father who is really about 12 years old inside: The Trail Blaster Sandbox a Zen sand garden for boys: “You can create your own tabletop 4 x 4 truck courses while sitting in your office. Take a minute out of your stressful day to relax as you jump cars, race through the course and rake the sand.” Cool! And on sale for $19.99.

For the man who loses his cell phone: An armchair for the phone, suitable for desk usage. Many a person I know has one. Very handy. You can also get a bean bag chair, for the more casual cell-phone-losing-man.

For the man who fixes stuff: Magnetic wrist band to hold screws, nuts, bolts, etc. Hubby was putting together a chair on a porch last weekend, and could have used this instead of fearing that the screws or the Allen wrench were going to fall down into the slats of the porch floor.

For the grill master: The pig tail meat flipper for the grill. Rack of ribs? Big ass steak? No problem!

For just about any dude: A personal gumball machine. Fill it with M&Ms, candy, whatever. Yum!

After a weekend of feverish ornery toddler, I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep well after a lot of anxious worrying over bullcrap that kept me from sleeping, plus it’s harder to get comfortable as I am larger in the front bit by bit every day. Plus, full on distraction & care of the Bird when he’s tantrum-y and feverish is not fun, for him or for me. He wants to feel better, and he doesn’t, so he is PISSED OFF.

But I am not at home, and Hubby is, even though it is my turn. I totally feel guilty about that, as our “take turns” system is a good one and I totally owe Hubby the next two sick days with Bird.

Between you and me and the internet, I probably should be at home. I’m so brain-dead I might have to start pounding my forehead on a hard surface to wake my brain up. Coffee is not getting the job done over here and I might need intravenous intervention. Is there a caffeine drip in the area? Because I totally need one. Stat.

However, when I left this morning, Freebird and Hubby were cuddled in bed together, which was both alarming and adorable. Adorable because Freebird was resting his head on Hubby’s shoulder, all curled up under the covers, watching the Weather Channel, which, after The Wiggles, is his favorite show. Alarming because it was a sign that clearly the little man still felt poorly, because I have never seen him sit still that long. Ever. Unless he was sleeping. But clearly Freebird wanted to be home with his Daddy, and that will make him a happy little man, as much as possible.