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New Blog, Old Blog

2012-01-10T18:57:00.001-05:00

I know, I know. I'm a crappy blogger. I only posted 18 times in 2011, which means I posted, on average, 1.5 times per month. I can't -- or won't -- promise to be better this year, at least not here. I love this blog with all my heart, but I've been cheating on it with a newer blog. But I have a good reason. Really.

You see, we're having a baby. And, as we're wont to do, we decided to start writing about it at The OliRue Baby Blog. If you miss me, or even if you're just curious, you should probably check the new site out.

On occasion, I will still update here with non-pregnancy and non-baby related items. And then, there's always Tumblr, where I share random nonsense from the internet, perhaps more frequently than is called for.

On how we met

2011-12-19T19:07:00.011-05:00

Everyone keeps asking me how I met my husband. It's a tough question, because I don't actually remember meeting him.

We met in middle school, when I first moved from New Jersey to Florida at the beginning of the 8th grade. I mostly remember him from the bus, when he was sitting next to the boy who set my friend's hair on fire. On that same bus, later in the school year, he taught me the ingredients in a screwdriver.

I also remember him from classes -- mostly English classes -- both in middle school and high school. In 9th grade gifted English, he sat in front of me and had long hair that he would flip onto my desk. I had a brief crush on him -- but my crushes were always transitory, fleeting things.

We were always friends: we traveled in somewhat different circles, and we weren't particularly close friends, but I can honestly say that we always liked each other. (In retrospect, it's a little puzzling to both of us that we weren't closer friends when we were younger.) And then we left school and went in completely different directions, but somehow, 23 years later, we wound up here, together -- and now, married.

It's a pretty remarkable story, even if I can't remember the very beginning.

Eloping

2011-12-14T19:27:00.000-05:00

When we first started talking about getting married, I said that I loved the idea of being married to him, but I just I didn't have it in me to do a wedding: I have enough stress with work that I didn't want to plan anything, especially anything major. Plus, the families are all over the place, and that's a pain to deal with.

So we would elope.

The next question was where. Vegas is cliche. Going down the street to the local courthouse seemed so boring. On a beach somewhere warm and tropical? Yes, please.

Then it became a question of when -- and the answer was that we didn't want to rush into it. But then, the perfect scenario presented itself: I had an upcoming work trip to the Caribbean, and he could take off a few days to go with me. Hmmm . . . .

We read the requirements for getting married down there. It seemed easy enough. We rushed around to fill out and send out forms and certified checks, to find an officiant, to get a dress and a suit and rings. And then the preparing was over.

We flew down to the islands. We picked up our license the next morning, and then I went to work. The next morning, Saturday, the officiant came to the hotel, picked us up, drove us to a beach, married us in between rain showers, took some photos, and drove us back to the hotel. He sent our paperwork back to the courthouse for certification.

I spent the rest of the weekend divided between work and touristy pursuits. On Monday, a full day of work.

Tuesday, we picked up the certified copy of our marriage license, and caught a plane back home. And here we are. Married.

I wish everything could be this easy.

Halloween

2011-10-31T19:07:00.001-04:00

In February, when my boyfriend moved here, he found a federal government job almost immediately. They pretty much offered it to him instantaneously, with a catch: it was going to take some time for them to be able to get all of the paperwork done and have him start. Well, we know how this goes -- government budget issues, threats of shutdown, yadda yadda yadda. So, in the meantime, while waiting for the government to get its act together, he found a job with a moving company -- at the beginning he mostly worked as a mover, but now, most of the time, he schedules and supervises the movers. His job sucks, mostly because he generally works 12 hour shifts starting at 7 am.

This morning, on his way out the door, he told me he hoped that he would be home early tonight. I said, "Of course. Who moves on Halloween evening?"

In all seriousness, he said, that they have one job this evening. A guy named Vlad.

This can only end poorly.

A Portrait of Domestic Tranquility

2011-10-18T19:07:00.013-04:00

Usually, my boyfriend has to get up very early for work. This morning, he did not have to be in until 10, so he made me very cute eggs and peppers for breakfast. He is very good at sneaking vegetables into my diet.

Right before I left, I told him that one of the things I loved most about him was that I am confident that, in the event of a zombie invasion or apocalypse, he will protect me and our theoretical future children. He then started planning our theoretical future weapons cache.

This is why he is my boyfriend.

Remembering

2011-10-15T22:21:00.000-04:00

Today would have been my mother's 65th birthday.

Happy birthday, mom. I miss you.

Spiraling Towards Chaos

2011-09-30T19:27:00.003-04:00

I've been reading a ton of stuff about Occupy Wall Street and We Are the 99 Percent. You should too.

As it stands, I have no room to complain. I have a steady job with a salary that, allegedly, puts me in the top 10% of all American wage earners -- although, to be completely fair, my salary is probably in the bottom 25% of people with my educational background who have been working for as long as I have. I have health insurance. After years and years, I finally paid off my student loans in January, and I have no other major debt.

I am finally financially stable enough that I bought a condo, and now, just before my 36th birthday, am thinking about having kids.

But here's the rub: I have a mortgage that, if I were to be out of work for longer than a month or two, I could no longer afford. And with the government on the verge on a shutdown -- again -- this is becoming is a real possibility to me.

The middle class is something of an illusion. Unless you are really rich, you are just a few paychecks away from utter chaos.

But it's bigger than that: how are we supposed to function with our livelihoods, our government, our nation in such disarray?

Adventures in Carsharing

2011-07-03T16:12:00.000-04:00

After much debate, I sold my car. I had been thinking about it for a few years, as I barely drive, but it was somehow reassuring to own a car, just in case. Plus my car -- my shiny blue Volkswagen -- seemed to be a part of my identity. So I kept the car -- for ten years (and only 47,000 miles).

When boyfriend moved in, we found ourselves with a new problem -- two cars and only one parking space. It became a constant cycle of searching for -- and paying for -- parking. Saturday mornings were the worst, since neither of us had to get up for work, but one of us had to get up by 8 to feed the meter, and you know, sometimes you just want to sleep in.

Last weekend, I finally wound up selling my car to a friend of mine who had recently bought a place just beyond the beltway. So this week, I embarked on a new, car-free era. I will walk, take metro, and ride buses. Perhaps I will take cabs in case of emergency. And, to some extent, I can use boyfriend's car -- on mornings when he works and I don't (Sundays and the occasional holiday) if I need the car, I can get up early and drive him to work.

There's also car sharing. Zipcar is in abundance in my neighborhood -- pretty much every street corner has at least one of the orange signs indicating that a zipcar lives there.

Today was my first zipcar experience. When I enrolled, I got a credit that expires at the end of the month, and so, I decided to rent a car as "practice," so that when I really need the car, I won't have to figure out the process -- or worse, figure out that some part of the process doesn't work right. And so, this afternoon, I brought lunch to my boyfriend at work.

The car-sharing process was the easiest thing. (1) Apply for zipcar membership (which took about a week). (2) Reserve car (using internet or iPhone app). (3) Walk to the car (when you reserve, you are told which car and where it is parked). (4) Use your zipcard (or iPhone app) to open the car. (5) Drive. (6) Return car. They even sent me a text message 30 minutes before my reservation ended to remind me to bring the car back because someone had a reservation right after me. And if I needed to put gas in the zipcar, it has its own gas card.

The only downside that I experienced was that, when I went to go make my reservation this morning, I found that of the 20-or so cars parked within a six-block radius, only two were available. I wound up reserving a silver Nissan Sentra named Sinbad, parked about three blocks from my house. (Yes, all the zipcars have names. How quaint.) So the lesson learned was to reserve early, or face the possibility that a car will not be available.

So, car-free week one was a success. On to week two . . . .

Six Months Ago . . .

2011-07-01T00:00:00.022-04:00

Just before Thanksgiving, I was sitting in the atrium of the National Building Museum having lunch with a friend of mine from high school. We were discussing our plans for the holidays, when I mentioned that I would probably be spending my New Year's Eve with my best friend from high school, having a party at her house, in Pittsburgh. My friend thought it sounded like fun, and started thinking that if he had nothing better to do, he might join us. And then suggested that we invite a third friend, who didn't live too far away from Pittsburgh.

When I told my best friend, she thought it was a great idea, but cautioned that our third friend would probably not be able to join us. I sent him a message anyway.

Ultimately, that friend did join us, and after a long New Year's weekend of drinking -- and subsequent crazy, random happenstance -- he is now the best boyfriend I've ever had. More than that, really -- he's the best boyfriend I could even imagine. And so, every day since then, I am thankful that I decided to go back out to the living room to check on him. And I am equally thankful that he decided that he wanted to kiss me when I held out my margarita glass for him to refill while saying, "I'm an excellent drinker." Mostly, though, I am so exceptionally thankful that he decided to move here and give this crazy thing a shot.

Happy six month anniversary.

Kryptonite

2011-06-06T19:07:00.015-04:00

I haven't written anything of substance in weeks. Oh sure, I post the occasional quip on twitter, link on tumblr, picture on pinterest, but nothing of substance since this -- and even that was a half-assed attempt.

Even my notebooks lie fallow.

It's not just because I'm busy. It's because I'm content. And, naturally, contentedness is kryptonite to my writing.

Even last week, when I was all aggravated with United Airlines, I couldn't muster enough frustration to put together an entire blog entry. The most I could come up with was a series of tweets to express my dissatisfaction. How weak.

This must end, and soon.

A Final Gift

2011-04-20T19:27:00.001-04:00

When I was at my dad's house in February, I was cleaning through some stuff, just like every other time I've been down there since my mom died. This time, though, it was with a little more urgency, because Dad wants to sell the house. So I spent the week down there packing things into boxes, and deciding which portions of my childhood were to be kept and which portions were to be thrown away.

I threw a lot of stuff away. I mostly kept photo albums and books, a few housewares -- finally, an improvement over my college silverware from Walmart! -- some knick-knacks. I left the stuff I didn't know what to do with -- the collectible dolls, the artwork, the furniture.

I gave my Barbies to my friend's daughters and I brought some Beanie Babies for my nephew and cousins to play with, but I put the rest of the stuffed animals and Cabbage Patch Kids in a green Rubbermaid bin with a note that said "free to good home."

After all that, I went through some files. In the drawer, I found my birth certificate, my parents' ketubah, other various and sundry mementos that my mother held on to. I also found a red box with a pair of tiny, gold, hoop earrings. They were not my mother's taste, or even my Nana's or my sister's. They were clearly mine. In all likelihood, my mother had bought me a present and forgot where she left it. But in that moment, it was as if she knew that one day I would be going through all of the stuff, and wanted to leave me a token of her appreciation, a thank-you for coming in and trying to make order out of her chaos. A final gift.

Pain Meds

2011-04-13T20:08:00.003-04:00

I hurt my knee and my hip, basically doing nothing. Maybe it was because I wore the wrong shoes, maybe it was because I tripped while walking, maybe it's because I'm getting old and fat -- but for whatever reason, I've been in pain since Sunday night.

It interfered with my sleeping a bit on Sunday night, but it got worse on Monday. In fact, I was in so much pain when I woke up Tuesday morning that I literally cried. Instead of pouring myself a bowl of cereal or drinking the coffee that my boyfriend was attempting to hand to me, I just sat on the couch crying like a baby. If I weren't in so much pain, I would have smacked myself.

So last night, to avoid a repeat, I took a pain pill. It was the good stuff -- the addictive stuff. Twenty minutes or so after taking it, I was relaxed and mumbly. A few minutes after that, I was asleep. I slept well, deeply. I had the most amazing dreams. I woke up refreshed -- although, admittedly, my knee and hip still hurt when I try to move.

If these pills were available without a prescription, I would probably take them all the time. I can see why they're dangerous.

Things Better Left Unsaid

2011-04-04T19:07:00.002-04:00

A few weekends ago, the boyfriend and I spent the weekend visiting his family. For reasons involving late-night pouring rain, a puppy, and his niece, I wound up forgetting my cute little polka-dot umbrella. When I told him about the umbrella, he sweetly volunteered to ask them to send it to me.

I declined.

I should have stopped there. Instead, I explained -- which is a rookie mistake.

Here is what I said:

"I have another umbrella. Plus, I'll see your family again, and I'll get the umbrella then. Or whatever: if we break up, oh well, it was only an umbrella."

It Could Have Been Different

2011-03-09T19:27:00.020-05:00

As one of the editors of IndieInk, I again agreed to participate in the weekly writing challenges. This week, my challenge was from my co-editor James Whitaker, who challenged me to take my pick from the following writing prompts: "unthinkable." "somewhere...out there." "it's never meant to last..." "tomorrow." "they'll never know..." "it could have been different."

The choice was easy for me.

You see, I have an unhealthy fascination with the movie Sliding Doors. Before I understood anything about Schrödinger's cat or parallel universes, I found myself completely fascinated by the concept that one little chance occurrence – whether the movie’s protagonist caught the elevator or the train, or had to wait for the next one – could totally change a life.

As a result, I find myself constantly thinking about how things could have been different. “If only I had caught the earlier train. . . ” “If only I hadn’t accepted the invitation . . .” ”If only I had not gotten in the car. . .” “If only I had made the call. . .” It’s an exhausting way to live, trying to figure out which decision was the one that derailed everything – or worse, trying to augur whether any decision you make is going to be the one that changes your life. And, ultimately, things that seem inconsequential have deeper import; things that seem important turn out to be meaningless in the end.

Case in point: New Year’s Eve. I had spent the entire day (and the day before) catching up with an old friend, which mostly involved drinking and talking, then drinking some more. In the wee morning hours, I found myself getting up off of the couch, taking out my contact lenses, and diving face first into bed. But something held me back, and, as a result, I made the decision to go back out to the living room to check on him.

My entire life changed as a result of that split second decision. And I am completely aware that it could have been different.

Stereotypes and Self-righteousness

2011-03-02T18:00:00.041-05:00

As one of the editors of IndieInk, I agreed to participate in one of its weekly writing challenges. This week, my challenge was from Sir: “He/She placed the stereotype on the anvil and began hammering it into something sharp and deadly that could be used to open the minds of the self-righteous.” And, while that’s poetic and all, it doesn’t really fit with this blog or my writing style. But it does lead into the idea of stereotypes and self-righteousness -- and, with that, a story.

When I was in my last semester of law school, I worked as an unpaid intern in the county public defender’s office. (I've mentioned it before, in passing.) I had great, lofty goals about what I would be doing there – the kind of lofty goals that only a 22 year old with no real-world experience could have. Mostly, they were along the line of defending the wrongfully accused, reforming the criminal justice system, abolishing the death penalty, etc., etc. Oh, the naïveté of youth . . .

The internship was jointly supervised between the assistant chief of the office and one of our criminal law professors. We had a classroom session each week, where we learned, essentially, the basics of how to practice law as criminal defense attorneys. And during the week, we were required to work a certain number of hours at the office. In bigger cases, we were required to work under the actual attorneys – and generally, they were busy enough to be thankful for whatever help we could provide. In smaller misdemeanor cases, the clients could agree to let us act as their lead attorneys, with assistance from the supervising attorneys.

Early on in the semester, the professor asked us what kind of cases we were uncomfortable with. My answer, as an upper-middle class sheltered suburban girl was easy: I wanted nothing to do with domestic battery. I didn’t want to envision a world where men hit women, where families were anything less than happy and stable. And, of course, if a fight escalated to the point where an arrest was made, in my mind it was clear that the man must have hit the woman. Accordingly, I, perhaps self-righteously, did not want to defend those men.

Of course my professor saw that as an engraved invitation to assign me to a pretty horrible domestic battery case. And lucky for me, the defendant had agreed to let me be his lead attorney. Worse yet, even though it was a misdemeanor, my client had been sitting in jail for days, because the arrest was a violation of his probation, and if he plead guilty or lost at trial, he was facing mandatory jail time.

My client was a stereotype: a young black offender with a history of violence and drugs. I remember going to the county jail to see him. I was frightened out of my mind. I remember the security, the sound of the doors closing behind me, the fear as I was led to a private interview room where I was to meet with my client – alone, without any of the guards to protect me. When my client was brought to me in shackles, I was scared to death.

I finally relaxed enough to start talking about the case with him – whether he would be interested in a plea deal if it meant that he would have a reduced sentence. But he kept maintaining that he was innocent. I didn’t believe it, not for a second. Not with his violent background. Not with the photo in the case file of his cute little girlfriend with bruises on her face and arms. I firmly believed that his desire to fight the charge was posturing, or a fear of having to do real jail time.

But then I remembered that I was there to do a job. I also remembered, from our classroom sessions, that we needed to examine the facts of the case carefully, avoid responding instinctively and jumping to conclusions, and instead, use our intellect. And so, I started digging through the files, interviewing witnesses, piecing together a defense. First I researched my client's alibi for the night of the attack, but it was a bit shaky.

But then the tide turned: I found out that the alleged victim, my client’s ex-girlfriend, was also the mother of his child, and that she had been pressuring my client to sign away his parental rights to the child. I also found out that the officer that helped her fill out her statement was her new boyfriend. The officer-boyfriend had taken the photo of her injuries, handwritten the affidavit detailing the fight, had her sign it, and one of his co-officers witness it.

After I interviewed her, the prosecutor dropped the charges against my client.

Do I think that the ex-girlfriend was a victim of violence? Unequivocally, yes. After all, it was before digital cameras, and the police report had that horrible, horrible picture in it. On the other hand, do I think that my client was innocent of the charges? I’m still not sure, but I am firmly convinced that the outcome of the case was correct.

If I learned anything from the case, it’s that not everything is what it appears to be. And I am certainly glad that I opened my mind enough to prevent stereotypes, prejudices, self-righteousness and biases from getting in the way of doing my job.

Remembering

2011-02-07T19:27:00.002-05:00

I remember that I was busy, and that I got back home for a two-week break in a long trial, the biggest trial of my career at that point -- perhaps still. I remember that I was tired.

I remember that my grandmother had been in a car accident that Friday, and was staying at my parents' house.

I remember talking to my mother before the Super Bowl. Dad was too busy, making chili. And yes, he was very excited about the Giants.

I remember talking to her right after the Super Bowl. Yes, Dad was happy that the Giants won.

I remember talking to her about how much money I had spent on the Catherine Malandrino dress -- too much, in her opinion. I remember talking to her about the planning of the California trip, which was in its nascent stages.

I remember her telling me that she wasn't feeling well, that she was tired, and that she was stressed out about the eye surgery that was scheduled for later in the week.

I remember having a weird dream, and that, as a result, I wanted to call her all day on Tuesday. I remember not getting any answer: no cell phone, no house phone. Dad didn't pick up either.

I remember that I still hadn't heard from her on Wednesday.

I remember finding out from Nana that she had gone to the emergency room.

I remember the phone call from Dad in the evening, from her side in the hospital. I remember him telling me that it was serious. I remember him asking her if she wanted to talk to me, and hearing her say, faintly, "Not now." I remember being shocked, because she always wanted to talk to me.

I remember talking to my siblings.

I remember talking to Dad when he got home that night. I asked him why he left her alone. He said nothing was going to change overnight.

I remember the cell phone ringing in the middle of the night. 3:40 a.m. I remember knowing what it was before I answered.

I remember Dad telling me to call my brother. I remember telling my brother, "Please don't make me say it out loud."

I remember sitting down in the middle of my kitchen floor -- pretty much the only empty space in that entire apartment -- and bawling my eyes out.

I remember booking a flight on the internet.

I remember driving to my office in the middle of the night to send an email to my boss and coworkers and gather the things I might need for the week.

I remember the flight to Florida, writing in the crazy notebook.

I remember my dad picking me up from the airport, and that I kept saying the word fuck over and over again.

I remember going to the funeral home. I remember that my dad couldn't find his credit card, which if you knew him, you would know is the most unusual thing ever. I remember paying with my credit card.

I remember the entire family sitting around the house.

I remember meeting with the rabbi. I remember hating that the rabbi didn't know my mother.

I remember bits and pieces of the services, both at the funeral home and at her grave.

I remember sitting shiva. I remember her friends bringing food, stuff she would have liked. I remember that my friends sent a gift basket.

I remember all of this, but the details get fuzzy over time. What airline did I fly? Was the last time I spoke with her on Sunday or Monday? Did I wear a black suit or a gray suit to the funeral? What did the rabbi look like? Were my cousins there? Was it babka or coffee cake?

I try to hold on to as much of it as possible, but so much of it is hazy. I want to remember, but on the other hand, it just brings me right back to that moment in time, the searing pain and the sheer panic. Maybe I should forget.

Third Anniversary

2011-02-07T02:45:00.009-05:00

I was cleaning through some things recently and stumbled across two sheets from a yellow legal pad, folded into eighths. When I opened it, I found that it was the eulogy I gave at my mother's funeral. I know I did it -- I wrote about doing it at the time -- but I don't really remember it. It's like my memory of breaking my arm in the 8th grade and getting it set -- I know it happened, I have some recollection of it, but it's oddly distant and seems like it's something I watched happen to somebody else, rather than something that I participated in. An out of body experience, of sorts.

This is part of what I said, or at least what I wrote to say:

My mother was my best friend. She was a good friend. She was patient and loving and wise and understanding -- most of the time, anyway. Sometimes she was still my mom.

Not too long after I moved away, I bought a car. She yelled at me, via cell phone, while I was in the dealership signing the papers. "You're just a little girl, you can't buy a car by yourself. Why couldn't you wait for me to get there?"

Even from a thousand miles away, she hated that I went shopping without her. And she still wanted to negotiate me a better price.

There's more there, about my mother's laugh and her sense of humor, and how much she loved being with her family and friends. But it's not a true reflection of what I felt then or what I still feel now when I think about it: The speech was edited and sanitized and shortened into sound bytes that I, somewhat wishfully, believed I could get out without crying. It's the notebook that is the real record of my feelings, then and, along with the postscript, now. Only, now, on the third anniversary, those feelings exist in smaller, more manageable, less heart-wrenching doses.

I still miss my mother. I can't believe it's been three years. It alternately feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.

Lost in Translation

2011-01-12T20:47:00.002-05:00

I have a little sniffle today, so I left work early, took some medicine, and climbed into bed. Upon waking, I was craving soup. And so, I ordered Chinese food -- mostly won-ton soup -- from a relatively new place near my neighborhood. The food is decent and relatively cheap, plus they take credit card, which is important to someone like me, who always seems to have a ton of cash or none at all.

The problem, however, is that their English is bad. Really bad. Cliché bad. So, not only do I live in fear that they're going to send me something bizarre, but no matter how hard I try, they do not understand my address.

In theory, I should be pretty easy to understand: I speak loudly and clearly and I don't really have a regional accent. (I worked really hard to get rid of my New Jersey accent when we moved to Florida when I was 12, and I've been largely successful.) Plus, I spell.

I've ordered from this place twice now, and both times, the same thing happened. The girl on the phone takes my order, repeats it and my address back to me. She seems to have it perfect. Still, 20 minutes later, I get a phone call from the delivery driver -- with even worse English -- who is at a different building, on a different street, about half a mile away. He insists that I gave the wrong address, or that the street he is at is the street that my condo is on. I barely understand a word he is saying. He keeps saying something about a hotel. No, it's not a hotel, it's a condo. After about 10 minutes of me trying to figure out what he is saying and spelling my street address for him, finally, he seems to understand. Eventually, the food gets here. The delivery driver keeps showing me the printed receipt, which shows a different address from the one I gave on the phone.

And so, next time, I'm ordering from somewhere else.

Simplification

2011-01-01T00:01:00.018-05:00

I generally don't make New Year's resolutions, mostly because I generally don't keep New Year's resolutions. Besides, any promise you make to yourself or to anyone else after a few glasses of champagne is likely to be voidable.

This year, however, I have a resolution. A good one. But bear with me -- it requires a bit of an explanation.

The idea started with my CD collection. Despite the move towards electronic distribution of music over the past years, I keep buying compact discs. I like listening to albums as a whole. I like reading the liner notes. I like being able to grab a CD that fits my mood to take with me in the car. I like having a tangible, physical thing, instead of just having the intangible music stored on a hard drive or a .mp3 player. And what if the electronic device fails?

So now, I have entire bookshelves filled with CDs, just sitting in my condo. Of course, I've copied each onto my computer and backed them up on another hard drive. I'm starting to think that maybe it's time to change this strategy. Maybe I should sell the CDs. I don't need them; they are just things taking up space.

Then I think about all of the other things I keep in my house. Do I really need to keep a full bookcase of the books I've yet to read, when I can get books from a library? Do I really need to hang on to my prom dress -- and the elbow length gloves that went with it? People somehow manage to live with far fewer shoes, clothes, and beauty products. What is it that I can't replace? What is it that I really need? What is it that I can't live without?

The answer is depressing: Not a single thing is necessary. No thing is necessary. Nothing is necessary. Nothing. I can live with none of these things.

Under many of the measures of affluence in this country, I am quite wealthy. I have a good job that pays well, and as of this month, when I make my last student loan payment, I am by-and-large, debt free. (Well, except for that pesky mortgage . . . ) I have no significant health concerns. I have no dependents relying on me. I have so much. And yet, I constantly add to my collection of things, and I don't save. I am a shopoholic, and not in a cute, fictional way.

According to this article, I should ask myself these questions before buying anything:

Do you have to buy this item?
Have you found the best deal?
Have you gotten your z's?
Are you buying just because it's on sale?
Have you asked about future deals?
Do you love it and do you need it?
Can you afford it?

I know I fall into the trap of buying because things are on sale, and I know I ignore the part about whether I have to buy things, or love it and need it.

Another article gave five tips for avoiding impulse buys:

Stick to Your List
Get Some Air
Be Critical
Phone a Friend
Use Cash

And so, just like the summer of 2009, when I vowed to not eat meat for a whole month, I am going to spend the first few weeks of the new year putting these tricks and tips into play, trying to not buy anything unnecessary. At a minimum, each time I find myself going for my wallet, I'm going to ask myself whether the purchase is a "want" or a "need," and try to eliminate the "wants." At best, I'm going to try to not spend any money on anything that is not essential -- mortgage, utilities, food, basic hygiene and medical care, and transportation.

Simultaneously, I am going to try to figure out what possessions I can eliminate. Thoreau said, "We are happy in proportion to the things we can do without." I'm going to test that theory.

And thus, I resolve to simplify.

Christmas Memories

2010-12-22T17:42:00.008-05:00

Everyone always makes comments to me about a "traditional Jewish Christmas," i.e. Chinese food and a movie. I think it's quaint, because, until I was living in DC in my mid-20s and had my first ever Jewish boyfriend, I had no idea what that meant.

My family had a traditional Christmas: stockings, tons of presents, capped off with a giant family celebration. My mother did, however, draw the line at a tree. And Jesus. There was no room for Jesus in our Christmas.

Most of my memories of Christmas revolve around the fireplace in our second house in New Jersey, the big house in the affluent suburb. We always had piles of presents, and the Christmas presents were entirely separate from the Hanukkah presents. (Santa Claus was very careful most of the time to not use the Hanukkah wrapping paper.)

Every year, there was candy and an orange in the stocking, and when I was really good, sometimes something extra special like a bracelet or earrings. Santa was a firm believer that "good things come in small packages." And like my mother, Santa agreed that jewelry was a very good thing.

I had a really good childhood.

Before that house, we lived in a different house, a split-level, without a fireplace. In that house, Santa left the presents by the front door, and we would sit on the stairs and open them. I used to pester my father with all sorts of questions about how Santa got into the house in the absence of a chimney. My dad eventually told me that parents of good boys and girls gave Santa a spare key. Case closed.

The year we moved out of that first house, when my brother was still a baby, I remember my mother taking me into the city to see The Nutcracker. I had just started ballet lessons and was convinced that I was going to be a ballerina. I looked the part: tiny and vaguely Eastern European, particularly in comparison to my larger, blonder siblings and cousins. Unfortunately, despite 11 years of dance lessons, the klutzy gene prevailed. (At least I got the bookish gene to go with it!)

I've written before about the Christmases in Florida. I've told the story of the mutant and pornographic Chrismanukkah cookies. I've also noted that the house in Florida didn't have a fireplace, and so, we'd have Christmas in front of the television.

When I was older, I would wait until everyone else had fallen asleep to sneak out and leave presents from "Santa Claus" for the entire family. It was nice to surprise my mother. The last Christmas I spent with my entire family - in 2006 -- Santa brought us all matching pajamas. Santa was such a dork.

I miss Santa terribly right now. I could use a dose of Christmas magic.

Watches and time

2010-12-21T19:26:00.000-05:00

I had just gotten out of the Metro train onto a very crowded platform, when I heard the sound of something hitting the tile. The older woman in front of me had lost her watch.

I stopped to pick it up, to the great annoyance of all of the people behind me, who pushed their way around me, to the escalator. All the time, I was shouting, "Miss! Miss! You lost your watch!"

She didn't hear me.

I ran up to her -- high heels be damned -- still shouting. There was no response until I tapped her on the shoulder. Finally, she acknowledged me, and took the watch. She hasn't heard me because she was wearing earmuffs under her jacket hood.

She thanked me profusely. I meekly said it was no trouble and headed up the escalator.

I have no idea how much the watch was worth; I barely even looked at it. (I do know that it was silver and, by feel, it was somewhat dainty.) Instead, I thought about the watch that I've been wearing day in and day out -- the cheap watch that was once my mother's. I thought about the nicer watches in my jewelry box at home that I don't often wear. I wonder if that watch meant something to her, like my watch means to me. I hope it did.

I wonder why no one else stopped or tried to get her attention. I wonder why everyone just pushed ahead, trying to ignore it. Are those five, ten, maybe fifteen extra seconds really that valuable?

Fini

2010-12-20T11:51:00.005-05:00

I graduated from law school on December 18, 1998, three weeks after I turned 23 years old. Nineteen months later, after the bar exam and an extra year spent getting my LL.M, I was sitting in my crappy apartment in a complex where one of the Gainesville murders took place, packing up my meager possessions into boxes, and waiting for the movers to come get my stuff to cart it a thousand miles north. Other than continuing education seminars, I was done with school, raring to enter the working world.

Fini.

Or so I thought.

Which brings us to the beginning of 2010. After the loss of my mom, several painful failed relationships, and interminable work stresses, I found myself looking for something, well, more. That more turned into a graduate degree program at Georgetown. And as of a few minutes ago, I just turned in my final exam for my very first class.

I am proud of myself for finishing that first class, but I have so many more to go if I want to complete the degree program. I have no idea whether I’ll ever make it to the end, with work and responsibilities and (arguably) life. But still, in this moment, I am proud. Exhausted too.

A Note for Cate, Emma Claire, and Jack Edwards

2010-12-07T21:57:00.000-05:00

Dear Cate, Emma Claire, and Jack,

I am so sorry for your loss.

You are probably going to hear a lot of that over the coming weeks, often from people like me who didn't know your mother at all, except for what they saw of her on television and read of her in newspapers and magazines and, occasionally, on the internet. We all feel like we knew your mother, but we didn't -- you did. Remember that when people say things that aren't so kind.

As someone who also lost her mother way too early -- also at age 61 -- I feel so incredibly sorry for you, and I can't help but give advice.

To begin with, you should probably be aware that the next few weeks, and months, and years are going to be really hard -- and really weird. It's hard to imagine right now, but you will eventually get through this. In the meantime, just try to roll with it as best you can. Feel what you are feeling. Talk about it -- to each other, to your loved ones, to your friends. Don't hold it in.

Birthdays and holidays are hard, but that's expected. But be warned: you're going to find yourself crying when you least expect it. Sometimes I cry when I see people with their children -- because I miss my mother, and because I feel sorry for my future children who will never know their grandmother. In the three years since my mother died, that hasn't subsided, and I don't know that it ever will.

You'll also find yourself laughing at times, also when it's unexpected. For me, it was when I was going through my mother's possessions. I was hysterical when I found the random things that she collected, like hundreds of dollars of quarters she had hidden in her nightstand. And I laughed while searching through her disorganized files to find the paperwork about the extension she was building onto the house, only to find my birth announcement and a newspaper clipping from my kindergarten graduation thrown in the wrong file.

Mostly, try to remember your mother -- not the public version that everyone talks about, but the person. Hold on to the stories and the memories. (I tend to write mine down, but that's just me.)

My thoughts and prayers are with you.

Scott Baio is my new Twitter BFF!

2010-12-06T22:57:00.005-05:00

On Saturday, I attended our annual Christmanukkah party/gag gift exchange. I wound up getting a Scott Baio poster and a fart machine.

Of course, I took to Twitter to comment on my good fortune. But then a funny thing happened. Scott Baio responded to my tweet. For realz, yo:

Now, you should also know that I grew up watching very little television -- until we moved to Florida when I was almost thirteen, all the television I ever watched was:

Saturday morning cartoons;
Shows on Friday or Saturday nights when we had a babysitter;
Growing Pains (because my mom thought Kirk Cameron looked like my brother);
Nickelodeon;
General Hospital;
reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island when I was home sick;
various game shows, also when I was home sick;
Romper Room, Sesame Street, and the Electric Company; and
whatever I was able to watch at my friends' houses.

I was forbidden from MTV, and a whole lot of other stuff. So, while I know about shows like "Joanie loves Chachi" and "Charles in Charge," I can honestly say that I might not have ever seen an entire episode of either. Pretty much all of my pop culture comes from books and movies.

So, of all the 80's teen heartthrobs in the world (query: is Scott Baio an 80's heartthrob? Do I even have the years right? Did I miss it because I am too young?), Scott Baio was not even on my radar.

I do, however, think it's pretty great that he responds to stuff on Twitter. It was funny and awesome and totally made my day.

Birthday Memories

2010-11-28T18:42:00.006-05:00

On Facebook, one of my friends said that it was a family tradition to tell the story of your best birthday memory. I, however, don't really have a best birthday memory of my own: I mostly remember the bad birthdays, the ones involving sickness. I also remember the canceled 16th birthday, when my mother was angry with me. And I remember the funny ones, like when my dad bought me mousetraps.

I think my memory deficit is because, growing up, my birthdays were pretty much always the same -- family, Thanksgiving, gifts. One year, there was the infamous Bert and Ernie cake. Sometimes, when my birthday fell on Monday through Wednesday, there were cupcakes or munchkins in school. And then there were the birthday parties, sometimes jointly with my sister, in places like Roy Rogers and Friendly's. But I can't really distinguish any of them as the best -- they were all pretty much universally good. I had a pretty good childhood.

As for adult birthdays, I have a particularly fond memory of my eighteenth birthday. It was my first Florida State-Florida game. I had a friend buy me tickets to the Nirvana concert (and a bottle of Jack Daniels to pregame with). Other friends bought me my first lotto ticket, which won me $6.50. And then there was the engagement ring, but that's a story for another day.

But ultimately, my favorite birthday memory is not from my birthday -- it's from my mother's birthday. A few years before she died, I surprised her by showing up in Florida unannounced. I had spent weeks laying the groundwork -- work was really busy and I'd be seeing her for Thanksgiving anyway -- and then worked out the secret details with my father and my grandparents. Nana and Pop took mom out for lunch and I walked into the restaurant. I got to the table and my mom saw me and did a double take. She was so extraordinarily happy.

I'll have that memory forever.

Ancient History

2010-11-16T22:27:00.004-05:00

I live in a city obsessed with history: Washington, DC is, in many ways, entirely focused on preserving it, interpreting it, making it, and sometimes even rewriting it. It's strange, though: The history we focus on here only goes back, at maximum, 400 years. When I was living in London, I was constantly overwhelmed by just how old everything there was. And that was nothing too -- when I was in Jerusalem, everything was even older. All that history makes me feel somewhat comforted as I'm heading into another birthday.

The years that end in zeroes and fives are the most stressful. And this time, I'm about to be in another age bracket -- the victim of an unwarranted demographic shift. All of a sudden, I am less valuable to advertisers. But I feel so young -- except when I look at the gray hairs, or when I hear my back and my knees crack and creak when I get up in the morning, or when I realize that some of the people I knew in high school now have teenage children. How did this happen? And, more importantly, how did it all pass me by? When did I become middle-aged? It seems like I was just having my mid-twenties crisis, but no, I'm far removed from all that and instead, getting closer to a sports car and an inappropriately young lover. (Does that even apply to women?)

I passed by Ford's Theater today -- the place where President Lincoln was shot. All of a sudden, I was brought back to my eighth grade trip, to standing on that very corner, with a cast on my arm and a pink denim jacket. Who was that thirteen year old girl? Where has she gone? What transformation could possibly have turned her into me? How did I possibly get here?

Dara vs. the Library

2010-11-13T14:49:00.003-05:00

Growing up, my favorite place on earth was the library. Not just because of story time, but because there were piles and piles of books for me to read. I consumed books like others consumed food, or perhaps even air or water. Without books, I wilted.

In college, I would occasionally hide in the library -- it was a quiet place to read and think and sometimes write. This was before computers ruled the world -- they were just there as aids to help you find things. (And also, it was where the Tallahassee Free-Net computers were located.) By the time I got to law school, I could see the evolution. Books were becoming disfavored; computer research was the way of the future. And the library? I couldn't study there -- there was too much talking and gossiping. I had to go to the med school if I wanted undisturbed peace and quiet.

Nowadays, I spend almost no time in libraries. We have a small library in the office where I do a little bit of research, but almost everything I need is available on my computer. At home, I have a large number of books -- not quite a library, but perhaps the beginnings of one -- and when I want something new, I go to the bookstore or order it to be delivered.

This brings me to the fact that, for school, I have to write a research paper, which, as it turns out, requires research. And so, this morning, I headed out to the library. First of all, I had forgotten that Georgetown plays football, so I was surprised to find that there was a game today. I was even more surprised to see how small their football games are. But I digress: I parked and walked up the hill to the library.

The library is no longer the quiet refuge of my childhood. It is a noisy place. People talk, slam their computers shut, type with purpose. I used a public computer to search the catalog for the books and articles I needed, writing notes by hand in a spiral bound notebook. I was the only one doing such things. I am a dinosaur.

I was there for a while, but then, all of a sudden, a woman with short blond hair, looking to be my age, sat down at the computer next to me. She slammed her stuff around. Her cell phone rang at least three or four times, in a loud techno music ringtone that angered me. She typed like she was trying to kill the keyboard. She read things on the screen out loud. She also had this weird thing where she kept smacking herself in the abdominal region, five or six times in a row, then would stop, and then a minute or so later, would do it again.

I had to get out of that fucking weirdness.

I finished what I was doing as best as I could. I emailed myself the articles I found online, and went all the way downstairs to the area of the library where they keep the books on religion. It was a dark and musty smelling basement with no signs of life. I quickly figured out why: that section is only open during regular business hours on Mondays through Fridays.

And so, defeated, I trudged back upstairs, straight to the help desk, and told them of my dilemma. They looked at my list of books -- five -- and told me that they would try to get me any of them that were not designated as "Library Use Only." It would take a few minutes. I decided to go to the coffee shop to grab a drink. I have never seen anything like it before: a coffee shop, noisily playing indie music, in the middle of a library. I then looked around. There were almost no books. They are archaeological relics, hidden in the cavernous subbasements where no one is allowed to go.

I managed to check out two of the five books, and raced home. I am hoping that I don't have to go back anytime soon.

My mom's Thanksgiving insanity

2010-11-12T17:57:00.006-05:00

As I just told my Dad, I'm not heading to Florida for any of the upcoming holidays or his birthday. Then again, it's not like he's even thought about coming to DC for Thanksgiving or my birthday.

Secretly, I kind of like being on my own for the holidays since my mom died. There's no disruption to my life. I can do what I want, with whom I want -- and if that involves sitting in bed eating pie, so be it. I am beholden to no one. Plus, there's no sense of urgently trying -- and horribly failing -- to recreate the family feeling that died along with her.

Even if we tried, it would be impossible to recreate my mother's version of the holidays. She loved any holiday that involved her getting to have her entire family around her. She would get super busy with the planning and the cooking -- and, as a result, was more than occasionally crazy -- but she loved it. All of it. I have video evidence to prove it.

She also got super weird around the holidays. One year, shortly after they moved into the current house, I was visiting over Thanksgiving and wanted to go out for breakfast. She agreed, and said that we might go with some of her new neighbors. I got up that morning, and as is my custom, threw my hair in a ponytail and put on a ratty old t-shirt and jeans combo. She saw me and said, "You're going out LIKE THAT?!?", with an incredulity that belied the fact that she had seen me go out LIKE THAT almost every day of my life that did not involve (1) office work or (2) a formal occasion.

I chalked it up to the fact that she either really wanted to impress these new neighbors or was clearly losing her marbles, and promised her that I would at least brush my teeth before we left. (Basic hygeine FTW!) My dad was laughing in the background. I interpreted that as a sign that either he thought I was funny or that he knew that asking me to dress up for breakfast was as ridiculous as asking him if he wanted to go to the mall.

We got to the restaurant, and the neighbors were there -- with their age-appropriate Jewish-y son, who, "coincidentally" also attended one of my alma maters and lived in the metro-DC area. It was a surprise set-up -- FOR BOTH OF US. And, as luck would have it, we were both hungry, tired, and completely disinterested -- and, as a result, spent the entire breakfast focusing almost exclusively on our eggs and bagels while our parents gossiped about the goings-on at the clubhouse and the homeowners' association.

I miss my mom, even if she was insane.

My dad vs. the time change

2010-11-07T23:41:00.003-05:00

I always think about my dad when it's time to set our clocks forwards or backwards. This is because the man refuses to observe this custom. I don't remember whether it's Daylight Savings Time that he ignores, or whether he ignores the reversion to Standard Time, but either way, he refuses to change his clocks.

I think that he's batshit crazy. Funny, but crazy.

We have the same inevitable conversation every year: I will be in his car and I will look at the clock on the dashboard -- or I'll be in the house and look at the clock in the stove -- and I will note that it is an hour off, and I will offer to fix it. Then he tells me to just leave it alone, and it will be right again when the time changes. And then I tell him that it is annoying and confusing for all of the clocks to be wrong for half of the year. And then he tells me to fuck off and mind my own business.

Here is the funniest part of all: His sister does the same thing. They apparently share this particular insanity.

Faith and Comfort

2010-10-28T00:43:00.002-04:00

I told my Grandmother that I don't really believe in God anymore, and that maybe I never did. "No evidence either way," I explained. "Mythology. Stories that the ancients told to explain the unexplainable," I rationalized. "Agnostic," I concluded.

She said, "You sound just like your Grandfather."

My Grandmother believes. Maybe not as much as some, but enough. Maybe not as much as she once did, but still. Even in the face of people who tell her that believers only believe because they are scared of reality -- or worse -- that they are merely hedging their bets. She still believes despite all the tragedies that she has faced in her life -- poverty, wars, the loss of a spouse, the loss of a child. Her faith comforts her.

I, in turn, am comforted by that.

The one where I discuss my unmentionables

2010-10-26T19:27:00.015-04:00

I am going to break one of my cardinal rules and write about something I promised myself that I would never discuss in public: underwear, specifically my underwear, and even more specifically, bras.

In case you don't know, buying a bra is not as simple as going to the store, grabbing something, and paying for it at the counter. Different brands, styles, and designs all fit you differently -- pretty much like all clothing, actually. There are stores that actually specialize in bra fittings to make sure that you are wearing the right size. (Yes, I've been measured on occasion.)

Yet, despite weight fluctuations, I've been the exact same size since I turned 17 -- and coincidentally, I am also the average size for American women. Like most people, I have certain brands and styles that I like, and it changes from time to time. Right now I'm going through a phase where I love Simone Perele, a French brand.

All of this brings me to the bra in question. A few months ago, I was somehow convinced to buy a very expensive bra from a very well-known high-end label. I think it started as an experiment in trying to figure out why people would spend so much money on a plain old bra. But just like when I try on expensive shoes, the serotonin rush takes over and I fall in love. Regardless of the item being purchased -- shoes, clothes, cosmetics -- it all ends the same: a swipe of the credit card and a brief feeling of elation, followed by regret.

I am still embarrassed to admit how much money I spent, but in my defense, the bra fit great in the store. Once I got it home, however, it turned out to be among the worst bras that I have ever purchased. About halfway through the day, the fabric starts feeling itchy and uncomfortable, the straps start stretching out, and then when I move, one of the cups slips into an awkward position. I bet I could find a bra in Walmart that fits better.

As a result, this insanely overpriced bra is now relegated to the back of my drawer, for emergency use only.

I was wearing it yesterday because I really need to do laundry. Late last night, I was on the phone with my brother (who I hope is not reading this) and I had a weird itch on my shoulder. I touched my shoulder and felt something strange. Apparently, the fabric covering the bra strap had started to disintegrate, leaving random bits and pieces of sheer, glittery, beige fabric stuck to my skin.

So here is the most expensive single piece of lingerie that I own falling apart while I am still wearing it. It is disgusting, not to mention disappointing. Most importantly it is, once again, a reminder that price, reputation, and celebrity endorsements are not necessarily indicative of quality. Be warned.

30 Days of Truth: Day 30

2010-10-22T00:01:00.025-04:00

Day 30: The last day. And I'm supposed to be writing a letter to myself telling myself everything I love about myself.

Me, me, me. Here goes:

Dear Dara,

You somehow managed to blog your way through this exercise. You wrote for 30 consecutive days. You never did that before. You continually surprise me.

Everyone always says how smart you are. But you are so much more than that. You can be kind. You can be generous. You can be compassionate. And you can be hell-on-wheels. Even you don't know which one is coming.

You are either crispy on the outside with a gooey marshmallow center, or a gooey marshmallow exterior with a core of solid steel. No one knows for sure. It's great that you cry when you read newspaper stories about injured and dying children. Or that you laugh at sad news stories when people's names are funny. People will think you're a softie or a jerk. Keep 'em guessing.

You have a standing policy of always rooting for the underdog. You sometimes think of yourself as the patron saint of lost causes. Except without the saint part.

You are a hard worker, except when you are procrastinating. You are precise and well-prepared and very rarely surprised by any unforeseen contingencies. You are a good writer. Even your assistant chief said so. On a post-it. Keep that post-it as a reminder and rub it in his face the next time he wants to make a change to something.

You are even occasionally funny and cute. But don't push your luck.

Love,
Me

Yesterday: Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.

30 Days of Truth: Day 29

2010-10-21T00:01:00.008-04:00

Today's objective is to write about something I hope to change about myself and why.

I said on Day 1 that I hate that I am so closed-off. I hope I become less closed-off. I need to let people in instead of pushing them away.

Yesterday: Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Tomorrow: Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

30 Days of Truth: Day 28

2010-10-20T00:01:00.011-04:00

Today's question is what I would do if I got pregnant or if I got someone else pregnant.

Excepting some kind of medical miracle, we can rule out the latter. So the question for me is what I would do if I were to become pregnant. And the answer is quite simple: I would have a kid.

This is not to say that I am pro-life: I most certainly am not. I believe, with every fiber of my being, that having a child is a decision, and it's one that should be made carefully and thoughtfully. If the idea of abortion offends your morals or ethics or values or religious principles, then that affects your calculus. But everyone else's decision should be made based on their own morals and ethics and values and religious principles and anything else that might pertain to the decision, and not what anyone else says or thinks or does. Every situation has its own facts and circumstances.

For me, I've been caught in the trap of thinking that having a child was something that waited until you were in the perfect relationship, in the perfect situation, at the perfect time. I now comprehend just how naïve that is. Relationships are never perfect, and even when things seem that way momentarily, you can't always avoid tragedies, either large or small. People lose jobs, people fall out of love, people get ill, people die. If you wait for the stars to line up perfectly, you'll wind up waiting forever. And, perhaps most importantly, if you are not prepared, at least on some level, to be a single parent due to divorce/death/other misfortune, you are not entirely prepared to be a parent.

So yeah, if I were to find myself pregnant, I would have the baby. I can afford to have one, would like to have one someday, and -- perhaps most importantly -- I'm not getting any younger. This is not to say that I'm out actively trying to have myself a baby: I most certainly am not. I work too much, I have no real support system, and I have other things that I still want to do. But I am also profoundly aware that the universe works in mysterious ways.

Yesterday: Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Tomorrow: Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.

30 Days of Truth: Day 27

2010-10-19T00:01:00.004-04:00

Today's subject is the best thing I've got going for me right now.

My mind. Without it, I am nothing. With it, I am everything.

Yesterday: Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Tomorrow: Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?

30 Days of Truth: Day 26

2010-10-18T00:01:00.003-04:00

Today's question: "Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?"

Man, I wish I could skip this one. This is hard to write about, and even harder to do it without falling back to my normal self-defense mechanisms of sarcasm and snark.

Life is challenging, and even people whose lives may seem great to outside observers struggle with things. Sometimes you're swimming with the current -- but other times you're swimming against the current and doing all you can to just keep your head above the water, and you have these fleeting moments where it seems to hard to just keep going and you want, desperately, to just stop.

So, yeah, my answer is yes, but never in an active "I'm going to kill myself" kind of way. It was more of a passive "my current situation sucks and I think I would rather not be alive to deal with it" way. But I was cognizant enough to recognize that, in that moment, I needed help -- and lucky enough to be able to go out and get help. And, to be honest, for me, that was the hardest part: I'm not one to admit weakness.

Since then, Buddhism has helped: it's made it easier to just let go and stop struggling against the current.

Yesterday: Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Tomorrow: Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?

30 Days of Truth: Day 25

2010-10-17T00:01:00.001-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about the reason that I'm still alive today. This is a poorly crafted question. If I were to read the question in terms of cause-and-effect, well, I'm still alive today because I was born, and, as my luck would have it, I haven't done anything stupid enough or careless enough or reckless enough to be dead.

But I think what this question is really trying to get at is what I view as my purpose -- my raison d'être, as it were. And the truth is, I don't know : I'm constantly searching for a higher purpose, a meaning to all of it. But on some level, I think the search for meaning is the higher purpose.

Yesterday: Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Tomorrow: Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?

30 Days of Truth: Day 24

2010-10-16T00:01:00.062-04:00

Today I'm supposed to make a playlist for someone, and explain why I chose all the songs.

I used to make mix tapes all the time -- later, they evolved into mix CDS. And I still occasionally do it -- just not for other people: I make them for me.

Occasionally, my mixes have a theme. Sometimes they just have a mood. Most often, they are just an attempt to capture a moment in time, musically. Sometimes, then, the moment in time or the mood or the theme intersects with a particular relationship, and later, when listening to the CD, I realize that it's all about that relationship -- good, bad, or indifferent.

This, my dears, is why I liked High Fidelity so much.

Some years ago, I had a boyfriend who made me mix CDs: they were always attempts at a theme, and were, by and large, intended to be funny. I tried to make him a mix once. It had no focus, no unifying theme, no real thought. It was merely a collection of songs that I thought he would like. I wish I could take it back, for many reasons.

Last year, I was dating someone who asked me to make him a CD with a collection of things that he might like or that would expand his musical knowledge. I started working on it, but then I decided it (he?) really wasn't worth the effort. After all, a mix CD is a gesture of love.

So, reconciling all that with the mission at hand, I'm going to post a playlist for all my writer and blogger friends, about the things we love: writing and reading and books and authors. Because you're awesome.

Moxy Fruvous: My Baby Loves A Bunch of Authors (Speaks for itself.)
10,000 Maniacs: Hey Jack Kerouac (Author, best known for On the Road.)
Ryan Adams: Sylvia Plath (Poet and author of The Bell Jar. Sadly, best known for committing suicide by putting her head in the oven.)
Vampire Weekend: Oxford Comma (A song about punctuation, at least in title.)
Elvis Costello: Every Day I Write The Book (Speaks for itself.)
Bruce Springsteen: Dancing in the Dark ("I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book.")
The Beatles: Paperback Writer (Speaks for itself.)
U2: Stranger in a Strange Land (Title of a novel by Robert A. Heinlein.)
Jefferson Airplane: White Rabbit (Based on Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.)
Guns 'N Roses: November Rain (Allegedly based on the short story Without You by Del James.)
Metallica: One (Based on Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo.)
Led Zeppelin: Ramble On (Filled with references to J.R.R. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings trilogy.)
The Police: Tea in the Sahara (References to The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles.)
The Cure: Killing an Arab (Based on The Stranger by Albert Camus.)

Yesterday: Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Tomorrow: Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.

30 Days of Truth: Day 23

2010-10-15T00:01:00.039-04:00

Today, I'm supposed to write about something I wish I had done in my life.

I'm sitting in Los Angeles, where my mom lived when she was in her early 20s, on what would have been her 64th birthday. I often found myself hating her birthdays. I hated having to organize my siblings enough to do something nice for her. I grumbled about how hard it was to figure out what gifts she might have wanted and how I would have to brave the crowded shopping malls to go get it. I used to get annoyed by how she always wanted me to use my vacation time to go down to Florida just to see her.

I wish I could go back in time and take it all back. I wish I had told her that I loved her more often than I did, and not just when I was pushed or prodded. I wish I had thanked her for everything -- for giving me life, feeding me, clothing me, taking care of me, pushing me to be a better person, fighting for me, loving me. I wish I had pushed her to take better care of herself. I wish I had been a better daughter.

Yesterday: Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Tomorrow: Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)

30 Days of Truth: Day 22

2010-10-14T00:01:00.004-04:00

Today, I'm supposed to write about something I wish I hadn't done in my life. And, despite the fact that I try to live my life with as few regrets as possible, there are several. I regret not spending more time with my mom before she died. I regret putting my career above my personal life. I regret eating that last Reese's peanut butter cup.

More than anything, though, lately I've been wishing that I hadn't rushed my way through college. If I could go back in time and do it all over again, knowing what I know now, I think I would take my time instead of graduating early. I'd take classes just for the sake of learning and not necessarily for my major or to help me get into law school. I would waste oodles of my father's money just studying art and literature and whatever random impractical thing that piqued my interest. This, ultimately, is why I'm back in school -- only this time, I have to find time to do it while I'm working and pay for it myself.

Yesterday: Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Tomorrow: Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.

30 Days of Truth: Day 21

2010-10-13T00:01:00.003-04:00

Today I'm supposed to answer the following question: "Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?"

I used to think that there was no such thing as a dumb question. I was wrong. This is a dumb question.

People bicker. They argue. Sometimes they say mean, hurtful, or spiteful things. It doesn't mean they don't love each other. It just means that they're assholes, same as everyone else.

So, if the person is really your best friend -- which means you're not deluding yourself -- you forget about all of the shit and you are there for them when they need you -- and you stay out of the way when they don't. If you're not sure, ask.

And sometimes, when you're very lucky, you get to go to Chick-fil-A in your pajamas together.

Yesterday: Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Tomorrow: Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.

30 Days of Truth: Day 20

2010-10-12T00:24:00.001-04:00

Today's topic is my views on drugs and alcohol. Like almost everything else I've written during this exercise, it pretty much boils down to "Don't tell me what to do and I won't tell you what to do" and "moderation."

I occasionally have a drink; when I was younger, I drank more. I've always tried to be careful about not drinking and driving, and not drinking so much that I've done anything that I could regret. I won't say that I've been perfect: back when I was younger, I didn't really control my drinking as much as I could have or should have. Some people might have some really funny stories -- provided, of course, that they were sober enough to remember. But on the other hand, I know plenty of people that really overdo it, and, in comparison, my indiscretions have been small.

Now that I've gotten older, I've figured out that moderation is the key. I like the occasional drink -- although I keep way more alcohol in the house than I will ever drink. (Note to self: throw more parties.) As far as behavioral concerns, my general view is that you need to be able to control your habits so that you don't hurt yourself or others. And you need to be able to stop if necessary: once the habit becomes so all-consuming that it affects your relationships, your career, or your health, you should probably reconsider it. If you can't stop, you should get help.

As for drugs? I generally believe that people are adults and drugs should be legalized and regulated -- and heavily taxed -- much like alcohol and tobacco. People should be allowed to rot whatever brain cells they choose to rot, provided they're not hurting anyone but themselves. This is basic survival-of-the-fittest.

Yesterday: Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Tomorrow: Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?

30 Days of Truth: Day 19

2010-10-11T23:52:00.003-04:00

Today I'm supposed to give my views on either religion or politics. But honestly, if you read this blog, you already know. I have beliefs. But more than I believe in any particular religion or political ideology, first and foremost, I believe that no one else should tell me what to believe or not to believe, what I can or cannot say, or what I can or cannot do (as long as I'm not causing harm to anyone else). And I believe that it's reciprocal: it's not my place to tell other people what they should believe, say, or do.

That said, I think the world would be a better place if we would all endeavor to treat each other with kindness, compassion, and respect, no matter what our disagreements on any particular issues of policy or faith.

Yesterday: Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Tomorrow: Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.

30 Days of Truth: Day 18

2010-10-10T00:01:00.004-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about my views on gay marriage. But this is really really simple: I have absolutely no problem with it. I have no problem with homosexuality -- many of my favorite people are gay. More significantly, I have no problem with any two consenting adults deciding to form a partnership and pledge their lives to each other. We should all be so lucky.

I can't figure out why people are still so hung up on these types of non-issues. If you don't agree with homosexuality, don't have sex with a same-sex partner. If you don't believe in gay marriage, don't have one. If you don't believe in abortion, don't have one. If you don't believe in Jesus, don't go to church. Your religious values or moral code or ethics or whatever you call it are not the same as everyone else's. Therefore, your ability to do what you want to do -- provided you are not hurting anyone else -- should not be limited by other people's values, and vice-versa. This, my dears, is how freedom and liberty work. If you disagree with that, well, maybe you should remember why the Puritans came here from England back in 1620. (Hint: it had something to do with trying to escape being persecuted for their different beliefs.)

So, yeah, I think people should be allowed to get married to whomever they want, provided that they are of age, able to consent, there are no legal obstacles to the marriage, and -- most importantly -- the other person wants to marry them back. Do I think that various religious institutions have to perform the ceremony? No -- the religious institution is likewise free to make such a choice. But I certainly don't want to be a member of such a biased, prejudiced, closed-minded religious institution.

Yesterday: Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Tomorrow: Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?

30 Days of Truth: Day 17

2010-10-09T01:07:00.002-04:00

Today's topic is a book that I've read that changed my views on something. Again, this is particularly difficult because there are so many to choose from. Not just because I read so much -- which I do -- but because almost everything I read affects me in some way. All good books should affect you like that. And the great ones? They should make you think about things in a new way, make you question your beliefs, and inspire you.

That said, in the past few years, I think the book that has affected me the most is The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. First and foremost, she's become one of my favorite authors -- which is especially wonderful because she's still alive AND relatively prolific -- which means that I keep getting to read new things. (And she's even on Twitter! Bonus!)

Anyway, I read the book in a contemporary literature class during my first year of college, but like a lot of things I read in college, I raced through it, just getting what I needed out of it to get a good grade on the paper or exam -- which, sadly, was pretty much like my approach to college in general. (This, ultimately, is why I'm back in school.)

Lucky for me, someone mentioned something about the book to me sometime around the time of the 2004 presidential election, when there was a strange intersect in this country between what seemed a little like fundamentalist religion and right-wing neo-fascist politics. So I re-read the book. And wow! Imagining what might happen if the country took a few more steps towards a social conservatism led by people who interpret the bible literally? SCARY. But what is most frightening is that the book is not all that far-fetched. I mean, usually, when you read dystopic futuristic books, there is some kind of crazy environmental or scientific catastrophe that launches the entire world into a tailspin. But this book? Completely possible, and completely in the control of human beings. So now, every time I hear about some politically-oriented fundamentalist group trying to use biblical literalism to back up some completely immoderate position (see Westboro Baptist Church), all while laughing in the face of basic human values, a little chill goes down my spine. Because this book shows just what is at the end of the slippery-slope. And it's not pretty.

Oh, and the book? Great read. Well written, interesting, fantastic story.

Yesterday: Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Tomorrow: Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.

30 Days of Truth: Day 16

2010-10-08T00:01:00.040-04:00

Today's topic is someone or something I definitely could live without.

This is hard because everything is so fundamentally intertwined with everything else. Whether it's causal relationships, tangential relationships, or something else, we all are, in large part, a reaction to the other people and things in our environment. Or, to quote Salman Rushdie: "I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I’ve gone which would not have happened if I had not come."

That being said, I could definitely do without most of the negativity out there in the world. I'm particularly attuned to it during election season, but with the 24-hour news networks and the pundits out there, it's gone from being a cyclical affliction to a constant sickness. Everywhere you turn, it's always people calling each other names and accusing them of all sorts of heinous things while pretty much refusing to take any responsibility for anything or take any steps to make the world better for anyone. Politicians say whatever it takes to get elected and to stay elected and don't do much of anything at all -- at least where it affects real people and their basic needs. And pundits? What the hell do they do except feed off of others' malaise? I could do without all of that: I would like to replace it with leaders who think and act instead of counting their poll numbers and news that reports instead of antagonizes.

Yesterday: Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Tomorrow: Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.

30 Days of Truth: Day 15

2010-10-07T00:01:00.038-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about "something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it."

I have two.

1. Caffeine. As early as high school, I pretty much lived on Diet Coke and coffee. By the time I graduated from law school, I was drinking two or three cups of coffee in the morning, and cans of Diet Coke the rest of the day. I couldn't function without it: I was addicted. So, in 2002, I decided to give up all caffeine -- cold turkey.

Giving up coffee was the easy part. But soda, tea, and chocolate? I lasted six weeks. I started back with a little bit of chocolate and the occasional green tea in the afternoon. And then the Diet Coke. But I stayed off coffee for years -- until my nephew was born in 2009. I was getting my sister a Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee, and I couldn't resist the siren call. I still don't need it the way I used to, but I definitely like having it back in my life, in moderation.

2. Red meat. Remember last summer when I had my little project where I gave up all meat and poultry for 30 days? The first few days were relatively easy, so I kept going. Eventually, though, I got really anemic. Plus, I remembered that I really like meat. So, once again, I reverted. I don't eat a lot of it, but I won't ever rule it out either. Again, it turns out that, for me, moderation is the key.

Yesterday: Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Tomorrow: Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.

30 Days of Truth: Day 14

2010-10-06T00:01:00.044-04:00

Today's topic is a letter to hero that has let me down. The problem? I don't really have any heroes -- never have. Growing up, I didn't put any faith in political or religious figures, and I was never naive enough to believe that actors or athletes or rock stars were any more or any less than just people with a particular talent. I am a skeptic -- and it's hard to truly be let down when you've never truly believed in anything in the first place.

The closest I ever got to heroes were authors. But most of them were already dead by the time I got around to reading their books. And, honestly, I can't remember ever really being let down by them. Just the opposite.

Yesterday: Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Tomorrow: Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.

30 Days of Truth: Day 13

2010-10-05T00:01:00.036-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write a letter to a band or artist that has gotten me through tough times. My letter would be way too goofy. Instead, I'll just make a few comments.

As anyone who knows me already knows, my favorite band is U2. Heck, it was pretty much the soundtrack of my entire adolescence, from The Unforgettable Fire to The Joshua Tree to Rattle and Hum to Achtung Baby. To this day, whenever I need inspiration, I invariably default to The Joshua Tree or The Unforgettable Fire. Right before my mom died, I had gotten the 20th Anniversary deluxe re-release of The Joshua Tree, and I remember listening to it a lot in the hotel room in Newark.

Still, if I had to say that there was one song that helped me get through my mom's death, it wouldn't be a U2 song. It was, of all the random things in the world, a Lifehouse song -- Broken. A silly little pop song that made me pull over to the side of the road and bawl my eyes out.

The broken clock is a comfort
It helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow
From stealing all my time
And I am here still waiting
Though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best
Like you've already figured out

I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
There is healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you

The broken locks were a warning
You got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded
I'm an open book instead
And I still see your reflection
Inside of my eyes
That are looking for purpose
They're still looking for life

I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
Is there healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you

I'm hanging on another day
Just to see what, you will throw my way
And I'm hanging on, to the words you say
You said that I will, will be okay
The broken light on the freeway
Left me here alone
I may have lost my way now
But I haven't forgotten my way home

I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
There is healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
Barely holding on to you
Barely holdin on to you

It still brings me right back to that moment, when I was so lost, and so alone, and I had no idea what I was going to do next. Barely holding on, indeed.

Yesterday: Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Tomorrow: Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)

30 Days of Truth: Day 12

2010-10-04T00:01:00.012-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about something I never get compliments on.

My taste in boyfriends.

My close friends and family members NEVER like the people I date. And when it ends, I always get some variation on "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?"

Yesterday: Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Tomorrow: Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)

30 Days of Truth: Day 11

2010-10-03T00:01:00.011-04:00

Today's topic is something people seem to compliment you the most on. For me, compliments tend to come in two varieties: compliments about my physical appearance or compliments about my mental abilities. People are either telling me that I have pretty eyes or that I'm funny; that I'm cute or I'm smart. I'm not complaining.

Although it was really weird when a lady on Metro told me that I had the most beautiful hands that she had ever seen.

Yesterday: Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Tomorrow: Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.

30 Days of Truth: Day 10

2010-10-02T09:25:00.002-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know. And, to be honest, this is something I'm working on. As bad as I may be at staying in close contact with people (see yesterday's post), it takes an awful lot for me to completely let people go. I almost never do it, instead leaving the door open just enough.

That never works out well. I need to completely shut out the people that hurt me, take advantage of me, don't have my best interests at heart, don't love me for me -- but instead for what I do for them. I need to decline their invitations to engage, instead of worrying about whether it's rude to ignore them: I need to ignore them. I need to stop picking up the phone when they call and responding to the emails and the texts. I need to let them go.

Yesterday: Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Tomorrow: Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.

30 Days of Truth: Day 9

2010-10-01T00:01:00.006-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about someone that I didn’t want to let go, but just drifted. And there are a ton of people that this could apply to. Every time I transition to a new city or a new phase of life, I seem to get worse and worse at keeping in touch with my friends from before. And my family? Since my mom died, I barely keep in touch with any of them -- I haven't spoken with my aunt in two years. It doesn't necessarily mean that I don't think about these people, miss them, and, in my own way, love them. What it does mean is that I get busy and life distracts me, and as a result, I am completely horrible at finding time to stay in touch. Facebook and email help, but I know it's not enough.

Still, that's not really what this topic makes me think about. It makes me think about my sister. Growing up, we were so close -- best friends. Once I left for college, though, it seems like the whole dynamic changed and we started drifting apart. Now, all of a sudden, it's like she's a complete stranger. The socio-economic differences in our lifestyles don't help.

As the older sister, I've always been there for her when she needed me. Then it started to seem like the more I do for her, the harder she pushes me away. Other people in the family get angry with her, and up until recently, I always found myself defending her. But now, I find that I can't do it anymore -- I can't defend her, and I can't always run to her rescue when she calls me. So, over the summer, I stopped calling. And she hasn't called me either -- I haven't spoken to her since June. (I have spoken with her husband, as he still calls me on occasion.)

I don't have it in me to maintain a relationship that is a one-way street. So, in my own way, I let go. Either way, it hurts like hell. And I miss her.

Yesterday: Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Tomorrow: Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.

30 Days of Truth: Day 8

2010-09-30T00:01:00.030-04:00

Today's topic is "someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit." I'm going to resist the urge to write about family members here. Because, let's face it, while certain ones drive me crazy, and too many of my relationships are out of balance, that's not really what this is about.

So I'm going to talk about teachers. I did, on occasion have supportive, encouraging teachers, but they were the exception, not the rule. More often that not, however, I wound up with teachers that did not understand me, and wound up trying to discourage me. It was really frustrating for me -- and probably more so for my mother.

As a kid, I was always reading and writing stories. I'd read on the bus, under my desk, during lunch, on the playground during recess -- and my teachers used to actively discourage it! One teacher kept commenting to my grandmother (who worked at the school) that they needed to get me to put down the books and play more, "like all of the other kids." And I got in trouble for reading things that were age-inappropriate -- i.e. too advanced. I was also in a gifted program that took us out of class to do additional work, and we were expected to make up all the regular classwork that we missed.

I always felt that I was being punished for being smart. So I would act up -- I stopped reading what I was assigned, I refused to do my homework. In short, I decided to purposefully stop participating in the system. It took my mother a long time to figure my behavior out, but eventually she understood. It got somewhat better when we started having classes that were tracked for "gifted" or "honors."

Still, in a high school gifted English class, I had a teacher that tried to get me kicked out of the program because I refused to write a five-paragraph essay that just regurgitated the points that she made about the books. I had written a paper with my own ideas, in my own way, and in my own voice -- and rather than encouraging me to think for myself and try to support my own conclusions, she tried to punish me. And again, I was lucky enough to have a mother who encouraged me and fought for me.

Yesterday: Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Tomorrow: Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.

30 Days of Truth: Day 7

2010-09-29T00:01:00.006-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about "someone who has made your life worth living for."

I was born. It was not my choice; it was my parents' choice to have me. (This is particularly timely today, on what would have been my parents' 36th wedding anniversary.) I am grateful for that -- glad to be alive, in the present time, in my present circumstances. I am cognizant of the myriad ways that the stars had to align for everything that I am and everything that I have to even be possible. But yet, I don't live for or because of any of that.

The idea of someone -- just one person -- who made your life worth living? It's trying to reduce your entire existence to one relationship. To me, that seems dangerous, lacking in a solid foundation. Life is more beautiful, more subtle, more complicated than that.

I live for me. Maybe that's selfish.

Yesterday: Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Tomorrow: Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.

30 Days of Truth: Day 6

2010-09-28T00:01:00.002-04:00

Today's topic is "something you hope you never have to do."

This brings me to something I think about a lot: death and loss. I wish I had never had to learn how to lose someone I loved and how to grieve. But ultimately, loss and death and grief are universal -- we all have to go through it at some point. If you're lucky, you don't have to think about it until you're good and old and perhaps ready to let go of things. Personally, I think had to learn the lesson a little too young. In the absence of that lesson, I would say that I hope I never have to go through the loss of anyone that I love, but now I know just how unrealistic that is. Besides, my grandmother is 85 and my dad is almost 70. Ultimately, eventually, I will lose them both -- and perhaps my siblings, other family members, and friends. I now know that life is like that, and all you can do is love the people you love while they're around for you to love them. It sounds so simple, doesn't it?

Every once in a while, my dad and I talk about "what ifs," and things like his health care directives. As far as I know, he hasn't reduced any of it to writing yet, but I know he's going to put me in charge. And I hope that I never have to make any of those decisions. I would be no good at it: I am no good at letting go.

Yesterday: Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Tomorrow: Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.

30 Days of Truth: Day 5

2010-09-27T00:01:00.004-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about something I hope to do in my life.

There are a quite a few that come to mind. Many of the first ones were travel related: I would like to see every state, go to a baseball game in every major league park, travel the world. And then there are the accomplishment goals: I would like to write a book, get my Ph.D. But all of these are small goals -- and are all things that I've at least started working on.

Then I realize what the real answer is: I hope to someday have a family. This is something that I didn't really know or understand until a few years ago. If you had asked me if I wanted kids when I was 25, I probably would have looked at you like you were crazy. If you had asked me the same question at 30, I probably would have said maybe, but not any time in the near future. Then I lost my mother -- and as a result, I realize the importance of having a family, of having ties both to the past and to the future. I want to have those ties.

Will it ever happen? I don't know. Everything else seems so much more controllable for me.

Yesterday: Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Tomorrow: Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.

30 Days of Truth: Day 4

2010-09-26T00:01:00.007-04:00

Today I'm supposed to write about something you have to forgive someone for.

This takes me to Buddhism.

Don't worry, I'll explain.

A few months back, I read some Buddhist philosophy that moved me. My biggest take-away is a quote from Pema Chödrön, "stop having expectations of others and just be kind." (There's another quote from another Buddhist nun that I read recently that strikes me in the same way: "We don’t get angry because the glass is broken, we get angry because we thought the glass would never break.")

When I was at the spa a few weeks back, I took a meditation class. One of the instructors had us try to find a mantra to meditate to. Her instruction was to breathe in a gift that we were giving to our self, and breathe out a gift that we were giving to the world. The Pema Chödrön quote was my inspiration -- my inhalation thought is "letting go" and exhalation is "kindness". For the record, this works a lot better than some random Sanskrit word or focusing on various parts of my body.

So what does this have to do with forgiveness? I have to forgive people -- particularly my family and friends, and most specifically, my father -- for not living up to my expectations. I'm working on it, every day, by trying to let go of those expectations. Some days it's easy, other days, not so much.

Yesterday: Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Tomorrow: Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.

30 Days of Truth: Day 3

2010-09-25T00:01:00.002-04:00

Today's mission is to write "something you have to forgive yourself for."

I have to forgive myself for not being perfect.

I struggle with this, day in, day out. I hold myself to an impossible standard, and I am constantly disappointed when I can't meet those expectations. It also works in tandem with the walls I wrote about on Day 1 -- I don't let anyone close enough to see beyond the facade out of fear that they can see the imperfections. I know this. I understand this. And still, every day, it is a challenge.

Yesterday: Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Tomorrow: Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.

30 Days of Truth: Day 2

2010-09-24T18:46:00.013-04:00

For Day 2, I'm supposed to write about something I really love about myself. This, too, presents a challenge, because there are so many things about me which are loveable.

For example:

I am cute. I have pretty eyes, and dainty features. My hands are nice, especially when my nails are long. I have small feet, and my toes are not gross.
I am very strong for as small as I am.
I am a really good person and a really good friend. I am a good listener. I am reliable. I am honorable. I am not purposefully hurtful. And, despite what my brother might tell you, I am very nurturing.
I am smart, I am clever, I am witty, I am funny -- and I know that "smart, clever, and witty" and "clever, witty, and funny," while related, are not precisely the same thing.
I know the difference between their, there, and they're, and how to use them in correctly-spelled, correctly-punctuated, complex sentences. (Take that, oxford comma!)
I am good at my job. I am organized, precise, able to multi-task. I am a good researcher. I am a good student. I am a good reader. I ask thoughtful questions. I am a quick learner, and people generally only have to explain things to me once.
I have an exceptionally good memory.
I can keep plants alive.
Giant t-shirt collection notwithstanding, I have excellent taste in shoes and clothes. I also have an uncanny ability to bargain shop.
I am quite decent at fantasy baseball and fantasy football -- and don't have to qualify that with "for a girl."
I can make a sock monkey. From, like, actual socks.
I can gift wrap presents like no one's business.
I make great cookies.

Clearly then, I am awesome. And I love that.

Yesterday: Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Tomorrow: Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.

30 Days of Truth: Day 1

2010-09-23T19:53:00.001-04:00

So, for Day 1, I'm supposed to write "something you hate about yourself." At first this seems easy -- I have a host of things about myself that I really don't like. I don't like my weight. I don't like my thighs. I don't like how little motivation I have lately. I don't like how easily I give up on things. I don't like how materialistic I can be.

But none of those really advances to the level of hate.

What I do hate are my walls. Almost all of who I present to the world is facade, and my real self is locked away. I don't let people in -- at all -- and as a result, I find myself often feeling that there is no one out there that really knows me. Even my family -- they only see fragments and spectres.

I've gotten close to letting people in -- and there are times when those people probably think I've done so -- but it's never more than just a glimmer, and then I get scared and close back up. I wish I could stop it. I don't know how.

For tomorrow: Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.

30 Days of Truth: The Prologue

2010-09-23T19:19:00.032-04:00

Let's face it kids. I haven't exactly been prolific lately. Don't get me wrong: I have tons of ideas of things I want to say -- in my head, in my notebooks, in draft form -- but I haven't really had the inspiration to write anything of significance in weeks, maybe months.

So then I stumbled across this meme -- 30 Days of Truth. GirlVaughn is doing it. Thinking Too Hard is doing it. So now, I'm doing it: 30 days of me trying to write things that are brutally honest.

Here is the schedule:
Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

Los Angeles Thoughts

2010-09-15T20:39:00.000-04:00

I always relate Los Angeles to my mother. She always told great stories about when she lived out here in the late 60s/early 70s. When I'm out here, I often wonder about her experiences -- what it was like for her to just pick up and leave the east coast at such a young age, with no one but distant family around. Then I realize that I did the same thing at right around the same age. The only difference was that I never went back.

When I checked into the hotel, they put me in room 1015. My mom's birthday. Weird.

Bad luck or bad karma?

2010-09-14T23:37:00.006-04:00

I almost never write about dating. There are many reasons for that, but they probably all boil down to the same central concept: I am no good at it, and I don't want to give my friends any more ammunition than they already have. Still, sometimes there is a really really good (read: horrible) story that just needs to be told. Today, the merit of the story outweighs my general rule.

A few months back, by happenstance, I met a guy. Right age, right religion, single, liked a lot of the same things, worked in a similar job, similar background, had interests outside of being a lawyer . . . in other words, he was perfect on paper. (Of course, the last time someone was perfect on paper, he wound up dumping me in the IHOP. I should really know better.)

Anyway, the guy and I hit it off almost instantaneously, but because of work, we didn't go out right away. Instead, we spent a few weeks getting to know each other through long email conversations. Eventually, we went on a first date, and a second. I even told my best friend about him, which is something I generally don't do unless I've been seeing someone for a while -- like a month or more.

Anyway, then we went on what was our third or maybe even fourth date. To a relatively early movie, on a random midweek evening.

For those of you who don't know, I like to watch movies. I pay attention. I think about plot twists and acting and cinematography.

I am also not a teenager. This is an important detail.

So, the movie started, and about five minutes in, the guy started pawing at me, like we were sixteen years old and sitting in the back of a theater in a suburban mall -- instead of mid-30s professionals sitting in a downtown art house theater. I politely pushed him away.

He did this on and off for the next two hours, to the same result.

Now, granted, I can occasionally be cute, but I am not that irresistible. And I expect to have my boundaries respected. So by the time the movie was over, I was really annoyed and felt more than a little violated.

He sent me an email that night telling me how nice I was. I ignored his email, and several other attempts at contact over the next several days. I thought about responding and telling him what I was thinking -- and if I were really a grown up, I would have explained and given him a second chance or something -- but ultimately, I am a child, and in that moment, I lacked the desire and motivation to communicate. So, instead, I continued to ignore him and instead concentrated on work -- which, in my defense, was really busy. Not being a total and complete dumbass, the guy eventually got the message and stopped pursuing me.

I thought this was the end, but still, had an inkling that it wasn't. I mean, we don't work with each other, but we run in some of the same circles. I understood that, eventually, my luck would run out, as it always does.

Which brings me to last week, when I was looking for concert tickets on Craigslist and ran across an interesting personal ad. I pretty much never respond to those things. Really. But the ad was interesting and funny and witty and my curiosity got the best of me. So I wrote a quick note in response to the ad.

Of course, it was him. And rather than ignore it (like I would have), he decided to write me back, making a joke about trying to figure out what etiquette dictates. And what would Emily Post or Miss Manners do? Well, they wouldn't have responded to a Craigslist ad in the first place. So now, here I am, completely mortified. FML.

Fifteen Albums

2010-09-01T22:16:00.001-04:00

(from Facebook)

The rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Choose fifteen albums you've heard that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes.

15. U2: Achtung Baby
14. Neko Case: Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
13. Pearl Jam: Ten
12. Dave Matthews Band: Crash
11. They Might Be Giants: Flood
10. Fleetwood Mac: Rumours
9. U2: The Unforgettable Fire
8. The Cure: Disintegration
7. Nirvana: Nevermind
6. Guns N Roses: Appetite for Destruction
5. Bon Jovi: New Jersey
4. Madonna: Like A Virgin
3. The Police: Synchronicity
2. Led Zeppelin IV
1. U2: The Joshua Tree

On Ground Zero, Islamic Centers, and Shopping Malls

2010-08-18T21:33:00.002-04:00

I was on the phone with my dad and he asked me what I thought about the controversy surrounding the mosque being built near Ground Zero. I told him that I am a firm believer in property rights and religious freedom -- and that those two things are some of the core values of American society. So, under that analysis, if they own the property and have the right zoning then they can build whatever they want there.

I also believe that there's a great deal of room between "what you are legally permitted to do" and "what you ought to do." Ethics, not to mention good taste and good judgment, is a gray area. As a society, we've never been particularly effective at legislating morals, and yet, the politicians and pundits keep talking about it.

Now, admittedly, I might not have lived in lower Manhattan on 9/11, but back then, I lived close enough to the Pentagon that my apartment was filled with smoke. And while I'm not reflexively offended by the idea of a mosque being built in the vicinity, I can understand why others might be. Should that offense be mitigated -- at least somewhat -- by the idea that the project is a religious center for a mainstream sect that disagree with the fundamentalist leanings that led to the attacks, and intends it as a memorial of-sorts? Maybe, maybe not. On the other hand, can the decision to build at that spot be viewed as a bit callous and insensitive, and perhaps worse? Like Shakespeare said, "If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces."

But then I read that one of the things that they're planning on building at Ground Zero -- not near, but at -- is, essentially, an underground shopping mall. That offends me at least as much -- probably more -- than any mosque being built in the neighborhood. The idea of swarms of tourists buying t-shirts and tchochkes on the very site of the attacks makes my skin crawl. But who's railing against those developers? Minority religious expression is bad, but offensive and tacky consumerism is the status quo, I suppose.

So, I'm back to where I started. If they own the property and have the right zoning and permits and the city gives them the go-ahead, it's no longer a legal issue. They can build whatever they want. What they should build is a matter of judgment, and that's between them and their conscience. The politicians and pundits need to keep their mouths shut and focus on real issues.

Desert images

2010-08-11T23:20:00.001-04:00

The desert is an interesting place. To grow there, the plants adapt. The plants get hard, spiky, spiny, almost like animals themselves. But still, there's a beauty -- a desolate beauty.

First thing in the morning, deep in the canyon, the first light makes the desert seem surreal, almost nightmarish. The Saguaro cacti look like spiny supernatural arms growing out of the ground.

I am enamored of cactus flowers. They bloom for only one day each year, opening their petals at dawn and closing them at dusk. How poetic and sad.

One day! Can you imagine living your entire life for just one day?

The Umbrella Theorem

2010-08-02T21:10:00.000-04:00

I'm leaving for vacation in a few hours. I'm on the verge of going computer-free for the entire week. I hope I don't go through withdrawal.

In preparing for the week off, I had to make sure my work was covered. So I had to go from office to office to talk to the coworkers that were covering for me, to explain the status of the various projects that they would be covering. It was during my last conversation, with one of my colleagues that I've known since my first day in the office, I realized that this is an extrapolation of the Umbrella Theorem.

I learned about the Umbrella Theorem almost ten years ago, when I first started working. My coworkers and I would, occasionally, head out to lunch. We'd meet at the elevator bank and head downstairs. On occasion, someone would note the presence or absence of an umbrella. Eventually, I realized what it meant: If you're heading outside and see clouds in the sky, you bring your umbrella -- not to avoid the rain, but to prevent it. And so, the Umbrella Theorem became a part of my life. I always bring my umbrella -- because, more often than not, it seems as if the Universe only enacts its revenge when I'm unprepared.

So, today, as I was making sure that my boss, my coworkers, and my assistant were fully informed about my vacation, the cases, and whatever issues might arise, it was not in real preparation for dealing with anything, but was really a prophylactic measure against anything happening. And at the exact moment I realized what I was doing, my colleague figured it out too. "This is like bringing the umbrella along to lunch," he said. I laughed, "Exactly."

It's the same thing for the BlackBerry -- I could leave it at home and attempt to totally unplug. But, in my mind the Umbrella Theorem prevents it: if I leave the BlackBerry at home, there will, undoubtedly, be an emergency. And so, I'm bringing it with me. As I said to my boss, there's only so much unplugging I'm capable of. Baby steps.

Veruca Salt

2010-07-19T19:07:00.002-04:00

I understand -- really I do -- that if I were to get everything my greedy little heart desires that I would be utterly impossible to deal with. I would feel entitled, that I deserved what was coming to me. And then -- lo and behold! -- I would be bored with it all and I would need more, more, more, faster, faster, faster. After all, I am human. I exist. I crave. I want.

Je veux, donc je suis.

I am trying, really I am, to embrace the Buddhist philosophy of abandoning desire. Be happy with where I am, what I have. Be in the moment.

And yet, still, here I am. Wanting just a little bit more than what I have. Trying to figure out how to have everything. It can't be that hard. Just a little bit more, really. Just. A little. More.

Anger

2010-07-14T22:22:00.000-04:00

On Sunday, it will be four weeks since I've spoken to my father. I haven't heard from my sister since about a week before that. This might be nothing to most people, but it's a big deal to me. Together, they represent approximately 50% of my remaining family -- and my father is my only living parent. So considering that neither of them seems to care enough to check to see whether I'm alive or dead . . . . I am angry.

It's a growing anger. Every day, I get exponentially angrier and angrier.

Today I am furious.

I am owning up to this feeling. I own this feeling.

I am not letting this feeling own me. Just admitting, out loud, that I am angry, and not having anyone try to invalidate my anger or dismiss it or talk me down is enough right now.

Customs

2010-07-10T10:49:00.001-04:00

I am going to wind up on a no-fly list sooner rather than later. Not for terrorist activity, mind you, but because I am a jerk. Particularly before I've had my morning coffee.

This story took place a few weeks ago, in June, when I was flying home from St. Thomas. No wait -- let me go back further than that, to give you the background.

In case you didn't know, St. Thomas is one of the United States Virgin Islands. As in United States. As in where I am a citizen, where I live, and -- save for those few months in London when I was in college -- where I've always lived.

I've been flying back and forth to the USVI for work for about the last year -- maybe a little more, maybe less. To fly home, you have to go through customs -- fill out a form, show identification, declare what you're bringing into the country. Since I've been there on business, I haven't really been coming back with a lot of souvenirs -- maybe a t-shirt or two for my nephew, a cheap pair of earrings, a shot glass. Not much. And as for the identification, I've shown them my driver's license and, if they ask, my official government ID badge. Usually I pass right through -- occasionally the Homeland Security guys flirt with me.

The last trip home was a nightmare. I had been working nonstop, and was rushing to get home. I booked myself an 8am Saturday morning flight out. Of course, on Friday afternoon, a tropical wave started hitting the island, and the rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. I had to leave the resort before 5:30 to return the rental car and get to the airport, and of course, the shuttle wasn't running to take me from the main building down the hill to the parking lot. So I covered myself up as best as I could with my sweatshirt and ran down the hill in the pouring rain, with two suitcases and a carry on. At the foot of the hill, the water came up past my ankles. When I got in the car, I was drenched. When I got to the airport, before checking-in (but after returning the rental car), I ran into the bathroom to change into dry clothes. I then waited on a very long line to check-in, and an even longer, slower line, to get through customs. My flight is at 8 -- and, by the time I get to the front of the line, it is after 7. I haven't even made it to security yet.

Of course the agent asked for my passport. I don't have my passport. He then asked for my birth certificate. I don't have my birth certificate. I have my driver's license. I have at least two official government IDs. I have my Voter's Registration Card. He tells me that I need to have either a passport or my birth certificate.

In the last year, I have never been asked for my passport or birth certificate. And, as far as I knew, I didn't need either.

The Border Patrol website says:

Q: Do travelers from U.S. territories need to present a passport to enter the United States?

A: No. These territories are a part of the United States. U.S. citizens returning directly from a U.S. territory are not considered to have left the U.S. and do not need to present a passport. U.S. territories include the following: Guam, Puerto Rico, the U.S. Virgin Islands, American Samoa, Swains Island and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands. If the traveler also visited non-U.S. territories, he/she is required to present a passport.

Although U.S. citizens are not required to present a passport upon departure from the U.S. territories, travelers are encouraged to travel with a passport or other proof of citizenship, as they will be asked questions about citizenship and any goods they will be bringing to the U.S. mainland upon their departure from U.S. territories.

But the rules might not be that clear, at least according to a giant poster on the wall, which says:

US Citizens

No passports are required for US Virgin Islands travel.

The Western Hemisphere Travel Initiative requiring passports will not affect travel between the United States and its territories. U.S. citizens traveling between the United States, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin islands will continue to be able to use established forms of identification, such as birth certificates and government-issued photo ID, to board flights and for entry. Vaccinations are not required.

The following are usually accepted as Proofs of U.S. Citizenship:

* a valid U.S. passport -or-
* Certified copy of birth certificate plus government issued photo ID -or-
* Official U.S. government document verifying citizenship
* Certificate of citizenship
* Certificate of naturalization
* Consular report of birth abroad of a U.S. Citizen
* Valid photo I.D. (Photo I.D.'s are not applicable for minors up to 16 years of age.)

NOTE: A Voter's registration card is NOT valid proof of U.S. Citizenship.

I tell the agent that I have nothing except what I've shown him. I comment about how going to a U.S. territory is not leaving the U.S. I add "Since when do you need a photo ID and your birth certificate to board a plane in the U.S.?"

He tells me I should have my birth certificate, but it would be better if I just traveled with my passport. I say I do not ordinarily travel with my birth certificate, and do not have my passport with me. This goes around and around in circles. He is getting annoyed with me, and I asked for a supervisor.

Finally he starts typing into his computer. He asks about my business on the island, my employer. When he learns that I am a lawyer, he says, "Of course." Then he asks where I was born. I say "New York City." He says, "Where is that?" I, of course, say "Are you serious?"

He glared at me. He was serious. Dead serious. He types something else into the computer. At this point, I've moved beyond mere petulance to full-force obnoxious smug superiority. So I explain that New York City is, indeed, in the State of New York, which is in the United States of America. He angrily types into the computer, and finally, lets me go. As I'm gathering my stuff to leave, he says, "Next time just bring your passport or your birth certificate."

Lucky for me, I had to race to get to the plane, and kept my mouth shut. Otherwise I'm not sure if I'd have made it home.

Q&A

2010-07-01T23:30:00.000-04:00

Q: If you could go back in time 10 years and tell your younger self something, what would it be?

A: Don't necessarily work so hard at work, and work harder at your relationships. Because in 10 years, the work will still be there, but the relationships might not.

(via Formspring.)

Dreams

2010-06-27T20:38:00.001-04:00

I had a strange dream about my mother last night. It was set somewhere straight out of a Gothic horror tale: isolated, dreary, and desolate; full moons and stormy nights. Amongst all the scenery, I was searching and searching for my mother. And in the end, when I finally found her, it turned out that she didn't want to be found, and that I was very angry about her abandoning me.

I woke up with tears in my eyes. I also woke up with the fear that, maybe, underneath my facade, I am still angry with her for leaving -- for dying. That can't be it, can it? Is the solution to everything that simple?

As seen on TV

2010-06-08T20:08:00.008-04:00

People always think it's funny when I tell them that I don't watch television shows about lawyers. But I don't -- I can't. I used to, and then I would get angry about how the profession is so distorted.

On television, the case always goes right to trial. But in real life, the trial is only one event in a long chain of events, and in large part, it's kabuki theater -- a show for the judge and/or jury, and by that point, the lawyers and the witnesses have studied their parts, rehearsed their lines, and put on their costumes.

The television viewer doesn't see all of the investigative work that goes into preparing the case -- some of it before it's even filed. The viewer doesn't see all of the motions that are researched, written, filed, and argued before the trial takes place. The viewer doesn't see all the settlement conferences and mediations. The viewer doesn't see all of the scrambling around before the trial starts to get exhibit lists and witness lists prepared and exchanged. The viewer doesn't see all of the long hours in front of the computer screen.

The television viewer sees my job and thinks it's much easier and more glamorous than it is.

Gift Horse's Mouth

2010-06-05T01:12:00.002-04:00

For the record, I have little or no expectation of receiving gifts, pretty much from anyone. When I was a kid, my dad used to go on business trips and bring me back hotel soap. I genuinely appreciated the token of affection, however meager. Today it's not much different: I am genuinely touched when someone thinks of me, even when I don't necessarily understand the thought.

All of this brings me to last week, when I was in New York, and saw my aunt -- who gave me my "birthday present." For those who don't know, my birthday was in the fall, approximately six months ago. And the present? Let's just say that it consisted in part of my grandmother's underwear.

Okay, not exactly underwear. Three half-slips. Probably vintage.

I am certain that this chain of events was the result of my telling her that I needed something of the sort to wear under a sweaterdress. In the winter. And despite the weirdness of it all, it was genuinely quite lovely that my aunt remembered the conversation and then spent the time searching through my grandmother's drawers -- and drawers, ha ha -- to find them for me.

Which then, brings me back to my dad. The other night, I told him about how, thanks to his sister, I was now in possession of his mother's delicates. He didn't think it was quite so funny, and he was perplexed by my reaction.

"It's a good thing you think the whole thing is funny. Personally, I'd be insulted if someone gave me used underwear for my birthday."

"Dad, at least it wasn't real underwear. And besides, I'm just glad she thinks I'm as skinny as Grandma."

What Holds Us Down

2010-06-02T21:18:00.002-04:00

I don't think that we, as human beings, are equipped to recognize happiness: instead, we're hard-wired to strive for more, for better. Generally, it's not a bad trait, but sometimes, there are unintended consequences. Take antibiotics for example: 100 or so years ago, scientists were determined to figure out a way to fight infection, and now, because of their work, the world is a much safer place as a whole, and people live longer, healthier lives. Well, except for the whole antibiotic resistant bacteria thing.

I've spent the last two-plus years since my mom died trying and failing at figuring out how to be happy. Some days I feel as if I'm just not built for happiness. Other times I feel as if I'm a victim of circumstance. As with most things, the truth likely lies somewhere in-between.

By way of contrast, two years ago, my father made a point of saying that he was going to try to not be unhappy -- and, by all objective indications, it seems as if he's been quite successful. I think the end result of my quest for happiness is that I find myself even less happy than I was to begin with. And the end result of my father's quest to not be unhappy has yielded some sort of happiness.

It's not until RIGHT NOW that I've realized that the two things are distinct. Not unhappy is not precisely the same as happy: the Venn diagrams overlap somewhat, but the circles are not the same.

I have many things to be thankful for. I have a home, a car, a job, an education. I have more than enough in the way of material possessions. I have friends and family. But I still find myself looking at what I don't have and it tears me up. I don't have enough leisure time, or the money to do what I want whenever I want to do it. I don't have children. I somehow manage to surround myself with people who have an expert way of making me feel second-rate or second-choice or just not good enough. And, when push comes to shove, I'm not even sure that I have a person that I could really rely on to take care of me in case of emergency.

Am I wrong for wanting more than what I currently have?

Don't get me wrong: I am extremely grateful for my current situation. I like my clothes and shoes and CDs and DVDs and books; I like my condo and my car. But this is not happiness: things are not happiness. If push came to shove, I don't think there's much that I would fight to hang on to. It would be very easy for me to let go of things, people, and places and move on: there are so few things in my life that I am particularly tied to, and even less that is irreplaceable.

On a very basic level, I am a traveler. And not just for work -- which I do, a lot. Somewhere, in my personality, I have some kind of nomadic streak. At this point in my life, I've been a lot of places. Still, there is so much more out there for me to see, and I desperately want to get there, before it's too late. If I could, I would start tomorrow -- just get on the plane and go. The where doesn't even matter anymore.

It's the logistics that get in the way. I have a job, responsibilities. I have a mortgage. I have family, more or less. Still, other than my material possessions, what is anchoring me to any one place?

Maybe that's the solution to all of it: I should let go of things, get rid of the clutter that weighs me down and holds me in one place. Be ready to go on a moment's notice, whenever the whim strikes.

Time Travel

2010-05-24T01:11:00.001-04:00

Getting back in touch with people you haven't seen in a long time is odd. In a way it's disturbing -- everything is out of place, out of context. But, on the other hand it's comfortingly familiar. Not only does it reconnect you with the other person, it simultaneously reconnects you with who you used to be, the good and the bad and the in-between. You might not be able to go back in time to impart your hard-earned knowledge on your younger self, but you certainly can, from time to time, have your younger self remind you of who you really are, and who you really want to be.

Eavesdropping

2010-05-18T20:08:00.000-04:00

I was sitting on the metro, quietly minding my own business, when the girls standing next to me started having a very animated conversation about someone who had, apparently, died very tragically. They were going into details about what happened, and how it happened, and how it affected all of these other people. I couldn't believe the events they were discussing, or that they were able to have this discussion without completely bursting into tears.

And then it hit me: They were talking about the events of a television show. One that I used to watch.

Apparently, I am so wrapped up in work that I have no idea what passes for popular culture these days. And I shouldn't eavesdrop, no matter how salacious the story.

Thoughts on Mother's Day

2010-05-08T22:07:00.000-04:00

I'm not gonna lie: Mother's Day is hard. It's not just the commercials and tv shows (et tu 30 Rock?). It's everywhere, even in the non-touchy-feely realms like professional sports. Everyone at the baseball stadium was wishing everyone else a Happy Mother's Day weekend. Heck, every one at the 7-11 was wishing it too.

It's the whole weekend now? Isn't the day enough? Damn you Hallmark.

I've always hated the day. My mother had very high expectations for Mother's Day and her birthday, and her whole demeanor was affected by whether or not you met those expectations. She expected cards, presents, yadda yadda yadda. A tribute. She made her disappointment known when I couldn't manage to be there to celebrate with her. In those times, she was the Godfather, and I was there to pay my respects.

I miss those times. I'd take a demanding mother over no mother at all any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Especially on the second Sunday in May.

In another life

2010-05-05T19:15:00.013-04:00

On May 10, it will be the eleventh anniversary of the day that I was sworn into the Florida bar. On August 7, it will be the tenth anniversary of the day I left grad school behind and started working as a lawyer. Since then, it's been a roller-coaster, to say the least.

As some of you know, I am an avid Lost watcher. And I am very very intrigued by the current plot-line where the main characters are featured in an alternate reality, where small changes in their lives lead to entirely different end results. Or, as Desmond famously says, "See you in another life."

(This may also explain why I am so fond of Hot Tub Time Machine. Well, that and the excessive use of hair metal. But I digress . . . .)

Every once in a while, when work gets really really busy and stressful and I reach a point where I've had it UP TO HERE with lawyering (in general) and other lawyers (in particular), I find myself wishing I work in a profession where people tried to be nice and kind and helpful instead of becoming deadlocked in a never-ending competition for the title of "World's Biggest Asshole." In these moments, instead of rushing home to cry, punching someone in the face, or announcing my decision to quit the practice of law and move to the south of France to write poetry, I try to make myself take a time out -- a pause in the action, like in the movies where the main character seems to be moving in slo-mo while all of the blurry surrounding action continues in fast-forward.

In that momentary stillness, I often reflect. I think about my decisions to go to law school, to be a lawyer, to take the job I have -- TWICE! -- to move away from my family, and pretty much every other step along the path that has led me to the place where I am now. And in so doing, I occasionally think about what my "other life" would be.

When I graduated from college and moved my stuff back from Tallahassee to Coral Springs, I was already admitted to law school, to begin six months later. Despite my protestations that I needed a break (i.e. lying out by the pool, extensive sleeping, and voracious reading) my dad told me that there was no way that he would allow me to live in his house for six months without a job.

At that point, my only real work experiences were 1) part time telephone sales for the Tallahassee Democrat and 2) working as an unpaid intern in a government office. So I did what any overqualified-yet-underexperienced unemployed new graduate would do: I applied to one of the many local neighborhood Target stores, thinking that, until school started, being a part-time cashier would be good enough. Target had other plans: they hired me as a management trainee, and, as a result, I spent the next few months working my butt off in retail.

I diligently and quickly learned EVERY SINGLE JOB in that store. I met the trucks in the morning and unloaded them. I painted shelves and changed displays. I learned the inventory system. I opened the store in the morning and closed down the store at night. I even learned how to be a cashier, run security, and serve popcorn at the snack bar. After a few weeks, they gave me a real management job: I ran the seasonal department during what turned out to be the two busiest times: back-to-school and Christmas. I worked a lot of hours and was on my feet pretty much the entire time, but for me, it was relatively mindless menial labor.

Plus the job paid well for 1995. As a nineteen year old with no debt and no real obligations, I was making $10 an hour, plus overtime, and, as long as I remained a full time employee, I qualified for health insurance. I could have stayed in that job and moved up the management ranks. With no student loans and living with my folks, I could have saved money, eventually moved out on my own, and had a completely different existence than the one I've managed to create for myself. At a minimum, I wouldn't be confronted with the endless deadlines and toxic personalities that tend to permeate the legal profession.

When I get all stressed out, I think about this alterna-life, and, some days, when it's real bad, I envy it, more than just a little bit. On the other hand, if I had chosen this path, I would not have gotten to experience the things that I've experienced, made the friends that I've made, or learned the things that I've learned. I'd be me but somehow, not me. And most days, being me is pretty okay.

Customer Service Success Story: InCase

2010-04-30T18:30:00.003-04:00

A few months ago, I bought a rubberized protective case for my iPhone. And now, less than 5 months after I started using it, it has torn in one place and is starting to tear in several others.

I notified the manufacturer, not necessarily because I wanted them to do anything about it, but because I wanted to let them know that their product failed to meet my very minimal expectations.

Within 5 minutes, they responded to my email, asking for more information. And within 1 hour of receiving that information, they had notified me that they were shipping a replacement.

This is, by far, the best customer service I have received in ages. Maybe ever. Thank you, InCase. I might not be particularly happy with the case, but I am definitely impressed by your service.

Message received

2010-04-27T19:30:00.001-04:00

Last night, I took the computer out to my desk in the sunroom and worked until the essays were finished and printed, and the grad school application packet was all ready to go. I finished well after midnight. After the writing and proofreading and printing and re-printing, I surveyed my surroundings, took a quick breath and a final swig of Diet Coke, and turned off the light switch, forgetting that the one light switch controls all of the power for the entire room. There was a subtle snapping sound and then the quiet buzz of all the electronic equipment was gone. Not that it mattered, I was going to sleep.

This morning, I got dressed and ready for work, wrote the check for the application, and clipped the items together, getting the packet ready for the post office. I grabbed my keys, cellphone, and bag, and as a matter of habit, looked down at my mother's watch, the watch that I've taken to wearing over the past few weeks. It had stopped, at 1:44 -- which, as far as I can tell, was the exact moment I turned out the light in the sunroom. But stranger than that? When I went to adjust the time, the watch started back up as if nothing had happened. It was as if the watch merely wanted to make a point of the time when I completed my effort.

After I mailed in the application, I got to the office and started my day. As I usually do at lunch, I checked the internet -- facebook, twitter, news aggregator, email. And on my email home page, I saw my horoscope.

There's nothing you love more than education -- however it is that you choose to define it. You see the world as a huge classroom and everyone you meet as a potential teacher or student. At the moment, you're craving something resembling an actual classroom with a real, live teacher. Even the prospect of homework doesn't sound too bad to you! It's time to sign up for some classes or maybe to take a more active role in your kids' education.

I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

Essay writer's block

2010-04-24T12:46:00.000-04:00

The application directions say to write an essay on a book of my choice and discuss the central argument or theme of the author. I have done this so many times in the past, and often, I didn't even get to choose the book. So why do I have such writer's block?

I can't even narrow it down to one book.

At this rate, it will never get finished.

Roses

2010-04-22T20:00:00.004-04:00

Please don't give me roses.

Don't get me wrong: Roses are a beautiful tradition, a lovely gesture. But they're just that: a gesture. They smack of trying too hard and yet, of not trying hard enough. Of trying to impress with the cost and the ostentatiousness, but not trying to find out who I am or what I really like.

Roses are too lofty, too rife with metaphor, with their soft petals amongst the thorns. They're for apologies, for Mothers' Day and Valentine's Day. They're for pageant winners, prom dates, and brides.

I am none of those things. Give me something from the earth. Give me daisies or tulips or sunflowers that fill the room with color. Give me the gardenias that remind me of my mother. Give me the night-blooming jasmine that scented the evenings of my childhood.

But please don't give me roses.

Thoughts on flying

2010-04-21T23:04:00.001-04:00

My favorite part is the takeoff. Absolute anticipatory stillness followed by a sudden burst of speed. The racing racing racing towards the horizon and then, just before the runway ends, we're in the air, floating, as if that's where we had always been.

My second favorite part is the clouds. Sometimes they look like cotton balls in the great vastness of jar that is the sky. Other times, the sun peeks through, and it looks like Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, and any minute now I'll look out the window just in time to see a white-bearded ivory-robed God reaching out to impart the spark of life to Adam. Today, though, the clouds look like cotton candy. I want to stick my hand out the window and gather up the sticky spun sugar on my finger. Delicious!

I hate the landing. The crashing back to earth. The suddenness of the bumps, the clanging and jolting parts, the squealing tires and brakes. The abrupt, mechanical nature of it all. I want to stay in the sky, in the dream, floating.

Hotel room

2010-04-20T21:54:00.004-04:00

I am writing from a beach resort on a tropical island, in a room just feet from the sea. It's the kind of place that many people dream about on a winter day. You all should be jealous -- it is breathtakingly beautiful here. Close your eyes and imagine paradise. That's where I am.

Well, except for the teensy tiny fact that I'm only here for work. Details, details.

Naturally, all this led me to thoughts of travel and the hundreds of other hotel rooms I've been in in my life.

There's something vaguely reassuring about hotel rooms. Yes, there are differences in quality between a motel off of the interstate versus a beach resort versus a 5-star hotel in the center of a megalopolis. Still, it's nice to know that you can go anywhere in the world, and as long as you have a credit card, you can get a bed to call your own. Sometimes you can even get a bathroom and a television.

That's when you know you're lucky.

Stuff

2010-04-13T12:04:00.000-04:00

One of the things people can't understand about losing a parent is how hard it is to go through all of their stuff. People accumulate so much during their lifetime. So much that I'm starting to think that there is some merit to the idea espoused by George Clooney's character in Up in the Air, that the weight of all of these things is what is keeping us tied down and slowly killing us. But in this case, it's not the weight of my own things that is killing me; it's the things my mother left behind. Every time I think I finish, I find a new pile.

On the one hand, I want to get rid of everything; on the other I want to keep everything forever because it's all I have left.

Communicating With My Father

2010-04-06T18:35:00.007-04:00

After the biopsy, towards the end of the day, I had one of those moments when I really really wanted to talk to my mother. Of course, that's not a realistic option anymore -- at least if I want to hear an actual voice speaking back to me. So I did the next best thing -- I called my father. Or at least tried to. The cell phone rang and rang with no answer. Then I tried the house phone, knowing that it would go to voicemail, as he's barely ever there. I tried the cell phone again that evening, the next morning, and again at lunchtime.

He called me back almost 30 hours after I made the first phone call. By that time I had deduced that he had left his cell phone in his car. And by that time, I was also livid. What if it had been a real emergency?

He then reacted precisely the way that I thought he would: dismissive of the whole ordeal. Some of it is because he's been through similar procedures, but part of it is that by acting as if it's nothing, he makes it nothing. I understand that; I tend to do the same thing. I am very much like him.

It's funny. In terms of father-daughter dynamics, all things considered, the two of us are pretty close. My mother used to joke that the first thing she remembered me saying was "Mommy you can leave now; Daddy's home." He was a good dad when we were little -- he read to us, and played with us, and generally treated us like grown-ups. I've never really had to edit myself in front of him, and he's always encouraged me. It was a very laissez-faire style of parenting, to say the least. Still, I do occasionally wonder how many of my decisions were made to please him instead of myself, and I often think that his expectations of me are awfully high, but in my heart, I know that he loves me no matter what.

The relationship has been more complicated since my mom died and he suddenly became an only parent. I sometimes hold him to a higher standard of parenting -- a more involved standard of parenting, similar to that of my mom. And he couldn't possibly meet that standard, even on his best day. So I get frustrated with him. Sometimes it's justified, sometimes it's not. And I'm not sure how much of it he knows or he doesn't know, because he's not particularly perceptive and he's not much of a communicator. And actually, the latter is one of the litany of reasons -- some real, some imagined -- that causes me to get upset.

During the summer, we were barely speaking. He explained that he felt that "No news is good news," and that I would call if I needed anything. In the meantime, I was feeling that if he cared about me, he would pick up the goddamn phone and check up on me.

I eventually gave in. I called him -- and called him an asshole. Lucky for me, he takes things like that in stride. And while things haven't been exactly fantastic since then, at least we're speaking. Plus he acknowledged my birthday, which was a vast improvement from last year.

And at times, our relationship is very good. During Hanukkah, I called him, just to make a joke that I thought he would find particularly funny as an accountant, a Jew, and a man who prides himself on thriftiness. "Hey Dad, did you know that if you saved the extra candle in the box of Hanukkah candles every year for 44 years, it's like getting a box for free?" He laughed.

During the course of that conversation, he said something that was, on the one hand, really sweet, and on the other hand, not particularly diplomatic. And I took it like most compliments: badly. I told him that Mom would have never said anything so undiplomatic. At first he responded in jest, but then turned serious, saying that the worst thing that could possibly have happened was my mother dying first, because he knows that I lost both my mom and my best friend.

My eyes filled with tears. Not just because it was true, and sad -- but because it was unusually perceptive, given the source.

So I said, "You know Dad, you're really not so bad." And I meant it, at least in that moment.

It never lasts.

Observation #6

2010-04-05T17:26:00.002-04:00

Generally speaking, when the tests come back negative, the doctor's office will say so in the voicemail message. If they ask you to call the office, then either the results are bad, inconclusive, or lost.

Biopsy

2010-03-31T16:38:00.002-04:00

This morning, I went to the dermatologist. I expected the visit to take 10 minutes, but then, I remembered to ask her about a weird bump on my nose. She looked at it, found a second one, and decided to biopsy them, mostly to be safe. After all, I have a family history of paleness. More importantly, my mom had skin cancer a few years ago, but all that really meant was she had a small tumor removed from her nose, and some reconstructive surgery performed by a very handsome plastic surgeon who she was just aching for me to meet.

I can imagine being very very nervous before a biopsy, running various worst-case scenarios through my head. But this biopsy came about so suddenly that I didn't have enough time to get nervous.

I was surprisingly fine with the shots of lidocaine and the first biopsy, right up until I caught a whiff of the scent of my own flesh being cauterized. Then I felt the second biopsy, and had to smell the burning flesh all over again.

Once it was over, I got up off of the table, and went to go get my purse and the post-procedure care instructions. I felt the room spinning, and went to go sit down on the chair. That was the last thing I remember until the doctor, the nurse, and the assistant were all standing over me. I had no idea when it was or where I was, and it took me a good 15 or 20 minutes to begin feeling like myself.

Vasovagal syncope. Common faint.

My mother would have seen this one coming from a mile away.

Mom used to joke about me passing out at doctors' offices. The story always went something like, ". . . It was just a shot. Then I looked across the room, and Dara's eyes were rolling around in her head. I got there just before she fell down. . . ."

I always took it as a thinly-veiled insult, implying that I was a girly little wuss, afraid of the sight of my own blood.

Sometimes Mom took a bizarre pride in my fainting episodes. "I told the nurse that Dara was no good with needles, but she ignored me. And of course she missed the vein. So, after Dara passed out (as expected), she threw up all over the sterile equipment tray."

The worst, though, was the time it happened when she took me for a pedicure at the beauty school and they cut my foot. That one led to an emergency room visit, a lot of fluids, and a whole host of lectures about the interplay between low blood pressure and dehydration. So, since then I try to drink more water and eat breakfast, yadda yadda yadda.

Today, when I got home, I commented about the event on Twitter and Facebook. Which led to some panicked friends, and a panicked phone call from my brother, about how I was supposed to let him know BEFORE any medical procedures.

Now, hours later, in the comfort of my own house, the idea that it might be skin cancer is slowly sinking in. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is the idea of going through this alone -- without my mom holding my hand and warning all of the nurses that I am a fainter. It made it all easier.

Bikinis, tattoos, and sarcasm

2010-03-26T23:59:00.012-04:00

(Scene: A lovely tropical destination, where our brave and fearless heroine has been sent for work. She sits at a table on the patio of a resort hotel with her coworker, who is on his second or third rum drink. It is clear that she would rather be anywhere else, with just about anyone else.)

Coworker: There are a lot of women in bikinis here.
B&FH: Yes. We are at a beach resort.
Coworker: My wife says it's okay if I look, as long as I don't do anything else.
B&FH: Yeah, people say that.

(Several increasingly uncomfortable moments of Coworker commenting on the women of the resort as they pass by.)

Coworker: I don't understand why women get tattoos. It's trashy.
B&FH: Yeah, whatever.

(A few uncomfortable moments later.)

Coworker: Is that a tattoo on your wrist?
B&FH: Um, yeah. I generally keep it covered up.
Coworker: I don't know why you'd do something like that. I'd never let my daughters do anything like that.
B&FH: Well, I guess my dad wasn't paying enough attention.
Coworker: Looks like a star.
B&FH: Something like that.
Coworker: Why'd you do it?
B&FH: It was the only way I was ever going to be able to tell the difference between my right and my left.

A Cookie Experiment

2010-03-10T22:23:00.013-05:00

For some reason, I got it in my head that I needed to bake hamantaschen for Purim. Forget that I hadn't been feeling well -- forget that I was busy with work -- forget that I had no time -- forget that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. These cookies demanded to be made.

So I acquired a recipe from a friend, and on Sunday night -- the day after Purim -- I made the dough, which was the easy part. And then I struggled to make the triangle shapes. That night I used about half of the dough, filled most of the cookies with nutella and a few with strawberry jam -- and watched a bunch of soggy triangles emerge from the oven. Strike one. I put the rest of the dough back in the refrigerator overnight.

The next evening I tried again. I took just a small bit of dough and rolled it out less thinly. I used a juice glass to cut out a half-dozen circles, filled them with black raspberry preserves, and pinched them into triangles. Much better, but the shape still needed work. Strike two.

So, with about a third of the dough left, I tried again the next night. Instead of rolling out the dough and using a cookie cutter, I rolled the dough into a log, as if it was the Pillsbury ready-to-bake cookie dough, and used a knife to slice it into quarter-inch circles. I filled half with nutella and half with lingonberry jam from Ikea. I folded them into triangles using the pinwheel method I read about on the internet.

I baked them for the perfect amount of time, until they were just barely golden brown.

The result was magnificent -- especially the lingonberry ones. Home run!

When I tasted them, I thought about my great-grandmother. When I was little -- essentially still a toddler -- I used to "help" her in the kitchen when she baked jelly cookies -- kosher jelly cookies. I think that's why I like to bake so much, even though neither my mother or my Nana were bakers.

And I know it's impossible for me to really remember the taste of those jelly cookies, but I imagine that these were pretty close.

Surprise in my work bag

2010-02-16T21:45:00.003-05:00

I have a bunch of bags that I use for work. I have a Kate Spade tote, two Coach handbags, two Tokidoki for LeSportsac messenger bags, among others. But for some reason, lately, I've been using a cheap gray and black Old Navy houndstooth messenger bag. I think I've been using it nonstop since before Christmas, which is unlike me, since I usually change bags every other week or so.

I took the bag with me to Florida last week, and then to Chicago and Wisconsin this weekend, using it as my "personal item." When I got home last night, the bag smelled faintly peculiar, like rubbing alcohol or some cosmetic item had spilled in it. The smell got worse today, but for the longest time, I couldn't figure out what it was. Nothing had spilled; everything was in place. As the day progressed, the odor kept getting stronger, and I noticed that the contents of my bag looked peculiarly dusty.

I decided to take everything out of the bag for inspection. And then I saw it. Mushed into a corner of the bag was an orange -- or what used to be an orange. At this point, it was flat, dried out, and covered in a light green mold. I tried to get it out of the bag, but could only get part of it loose.

The bag is now in the garbage. And, in retrospect, I am so glad that this was not one of my more expensive handbags. But from now on, I'm either changing or cleaning out my bag every week.

Favorite Jeans

2010-02-10T21:07:00.003-05:00

Originally, I was only supposed to be in Florida for a day and a half -- Friday night until Sunday morning. But, on Thursday morning, when I realized that the snow was coming, I changed my plans to leave that afternoon. I ran from work to my condo, threw some stuff in a suitcase, and raced to the airport. I forgot pajamas, but I did manage to remember to pack a few t-shirts, a pair of flip-flops, and my favorite jeans.

The jeans are my favorite jeans, but by no means do they fit me. They are at least three sizes too big; I can put them on and take them off without opening the button. Basically, they are denim sweatpants.

Saturday night, I found out that my flight home was canceled. Sunday morning, I ran to the grocery store with my dad, wearing the jeans and a very large Florida Law t-shirt that I had given him during my first year of law school. When I got back to the house, I walked past a full-length mirror and caught my reflection. I yelled, something to the effect of "Dad, why the hell did you let me go out of the house looking like this?"

He shrugged his shoulders and said that I looked okay in his opinion. But when pressed, he did say that I looked like I was twelve.

On Tuesday, I finally got to fly home. The security lines at Palm Beach International were very long, but I travel enough that I have it down to a science.

Or so I thought.

I remembered to take my liquids out of my bag. I remembered to take off my shoes. I remembered to take everything out of my pockets. My luggage did not set off any alarms. I did not set off any alarms. Still, I got selected for a pat-down. The TSA agent was very kind about it, and let me know that my baggy clothing was the reason. Apparently, people hide all sorts of things in baggy clothing.

My favorite jeans are now retired. I'm going to have to start wearing pants that fit me. For security reasons.

Driving to work

2010-01-29T23:42:00.006-05:00

Today marked the end of my four-month long experiment with driving to work. And to be honest, there are a few things that I'm going to miss about it. I'm going to miss being able to stay in the office late and not have to worry about walking to the train or how long the wait is going to be. I'm going to miss being able to drive somewhere straight after work without having to work out the logistics of going home to get my car. Most of all, I'm going to miss not really having to worry about how comfortable my shoes are to walk in or whether my outfit is appropriate for the weather.

But as a whole, I'm not going to miss driving that much. I'm looking forward to not being stressed out about traffic and not having to fill up my gas tank every few days. I'm looking forward to being able to go places after work without having to figure out the parking logistics. I'm looking forward to walking a bit more.

More than anything though, I'm looking forward to what I'm going to get back. In the last four months, I've managed to finish approximately four books, because instead of spending my commuting time reading, I've been spending it sitting in traffic, listening to the radio. So I'm really looking forward to the quiet time with my books. It's been sorely missed.

Resolutions

2010-01-13T23:16:00.004-05:00

I'm sure I've said it before, but I'm not really one for making New Year's resolutions. Don't get me wrong: I understand the desire to change the way we do things, and starting over with a clean slate, and the symbolism associated with a new year, a new month, a new week, or even a new day. But for me, deciding to make changes has almost nothing to do with starting a new calendar.

Adding to the problem is that my desire for change is not necessarily focused on any one particular thing. I'm almost always trying to do better or to be better in so many facets of my life -- diet, exercise, finances, relationships -- and I fear that focusing on just one area might throw everything else off balance.

So no resolutions or promises from me this year. Instead, I'll just keep trying.

Unfinished novels

2009-12-07T21:56:00.006-05:00

Last month, when I was at my father's house, I stumbled across a box of pictures and papers that my mom had kept. For years, she had been asking me to help her put the pictures into albums, and for years, I managed to avoid the task. But while sitting in the loneliness of that house, I couldn't help but look in the box.

There were our baby pictures. Our school pictures. Pictures from our vacations. Pictures of my mother's travels from before she was married. A few newspaper clippings, invitations, and other scraps of paper she had kept. And at the bottom, was a red file folder, one that I had seen before.

Her novel.

Sitting in her office, surrounded by memories of her unfinished life, I couldn't bear to read it. And I don't remember having ever read it. But I do remember her telling me about it when I was a little girl, when she was first figuring out that I was a writer. How she had started writing a novel, but could never manage to get it finished -- how she started feeling that in order to write well, she needed to read more. But she also promised me that one day she would finish it and let me read it.

She never did.

That's how I saw my mother: as a reader. She read anything, everything. So I grew up in houses that were always filled to the seams with books. And I read anything, everything. Just like my mother.

And like my mother, I want to write. I have stories to tell; I have words that are simmering just below my surface, wanting to be shared. And an unfinished novel that I can never bring myself to work on, because there are so many other things to do, so many books to read.

My mother's house

2009-11-07T00:46:00.004-05:00

My father pulled his new car into the garage and immediately pointed out the new lights. Once we got inside, he showed me where he had shelving built into the closet in the office, after the old shelf fell down. But other than that, the house seems the same as she left it -- the same furniture she picked out, the same art on the walls, the same piles of things that she never got around to.

It breaks my heart to be here. So I can understand why he keeps talking about selling the house. It's like being in a museum.

On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur

2009-11-04T00:01:00.003-05:00

To me, books are like comfort food. When I am sad or melancholy, I tend go back to the same ones over and over again.

Lately, one of those books is The Little Prince. I vaguely recall reading it as a kid -- I think I even read it in the original French -- but I don't think it had much of an effect on me then. But as an adult, I find it deeply moving. I think a lot about the episode with the fox, particularly the statement that "one sees clearly only with the heart," and the discussion of what it means to tame and to be tamed -- or, stepping outside the allegory, to love and to be loved -- and the responsibility that comes with it. It is so simple and yet, so very profound.

If you've read it, you know what I mean. If you haven't -- go read it now!

blah blah blog

New Blog, Old Blog

On how we met

Eloping

Halloween

A Portrait of Domestic Tranquility

Remembering

Spiraling Towards Chaos

Adventures in Carsharing

Six Months Ago . . .

Kryptonite

A Final Gift

Pain Meds

Things Better Left Unsaid

It Could Have Been Different

Stereotypes and Self-righteousness

Remembering

Third Anniversary

Lost in Translation

Simplification

Christmas Memories

Watches and time

Fini

A Note for Cate, Emma Claire, and Jack Edwards

Scott Baio is my new Twitter BFF!

Birthday Memories

Ancient History

Dara vs. the Library

My mom's Thanksgiving insanity

My dad vs. the time change

Faith and Comfort

The one where I discuss my unmentionables

30 Days of Truth: Day 30

30 Days of Truth: Day 29

30 Days of Truth: Day 28

30 Days of Truth: Day 27

30 Days of Truth: Day 26

30 Days of Truth: Day 25

30 Days of Truth: Day 24

30 Days of Truth: Day 23

30 Days of Truth: Day 22

30 Days of Truth: Day 21

30 Days of Truth: Day 20

30 Days of Truth: Day 19

30 Days of Truth: Day 18

30 Days of Truth: Day 17

30 Days of Truth: Day 16

30 Days of Truth: Day 15

30 Days of Truth: Day 14

30 Days of Truth: Day 13

30 Days of Truth: Day 12

30 Days of Truth: Day 11

30 Days of Truth: Day 10

30 Days of Truth: Day 9

30 Days of Truth: Day 8

30 Days of Truth: Day 7

30 Days of Truth: Day 6

30 Days of Truth: Day 5

30 Days of Truth: Day 4

30 Days of Truth: Day 3

30 Days of Truth: Day 2

30 Days of Truth: Day 1

30 Days of Truth: The Prologue

Los Angeles Thoughts

Bad luck or bad karma?

Fifteen Albums

On Ground Zero, Islamic Centers, and Shopping Malls

Desert images

The Umbrella Theorem

Archives

Veruca Salt

Anger

Customs

Q&A

Dreams

As seen on TV

Gift Horse's Mouth

What Holds Us Down

Time Travel

Eavesdropping