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.
Showing posts with label Florida. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Florida. Show all posts
Monday, December 19, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
A Final Gift
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Christmas Memories
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.
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.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Birthday Memories
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
In another life
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Favorite Jeans
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.
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.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
My mother's house
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.
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.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Playground Swing
Lately, everything in my life is so fraught with meaning, and everywhere I look, I encounter so many responsibilities and commitments and obligations. It's enough to make me want to crawl into bed, pull the blanket up over my head, and not come out for a week.
When I was in Florida a couple of weeks ago, I took a break from my sister and the baby and spent a beautiful afternoon in the park with my friends and their kids. Somehow, I found myself sitting in a playground swing for the first time in years, possibly decades. I slowly started swinging. The higher the swing climbed, the more exhiliratingly free I felt. My worries and the tasks of the day seemed to fade into the distance as I swung back and forth, and the only things remaining in my consciousness were these bits and pieces of a poem from my childhood -- something about going up in a swing, up in the air so blue. For a moment, I was no longer the adult me -- instead I had returned to childhood -- innocence, freedom, and endless possibilities.
Sadly, there came a time when I had to come back to earth, literally and figuratively. But I'm still trying to somehow keep my grasp on that feeling.
When I was in Florida a couple of weeks ago, I took a break from my sister and the baby and spent a beautiful afternoon in the park with my friends and their kids. Somehow, I found myself sitting in a playground swing for the first time in years, possibly decades. I slowly started swinging. The higher the swing climbed, the more exhiliratingly free I felt. My worries and the tasks of the day seemed to fade into the distance as I swung back and forth, and the only things remaining in my consciousness were these bits and pieces of a poem from my childhood -- something about going up in a swing, up in the air so blue. For a moment, I was no longer the adult me -- instead I had returned to childhood -- innocence, freedom, and endless possibilities.
Sadly, there came a time when I had to come back to earth, literally and figuratively. But I'm still trying to somehow keep my grasp on that feeling.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Senior Memories
Fill this out about your SENIOR year of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be!!
Copy and paste the questions into your notes section, fill in the answers, and tag your friends to see their answers.
IN YOUR SENIOR YEAR DID YOU...
1. Did you date someone from your school? Yes.
2. Did you marry someone from your high school? Almost, but not quite.
3. Did you car pool to school? For a couple of weeks, until Ryan got tired of having to pick me up.
4. What kind of car did you have? None -- my dad told me to find a boy to drive me around.
5. What kind of car do you have now? 2001 VW Jetta with 35,000 miles on it. It's good to live in a place with public transportation.
6. It's Friday night...where are you now? Out at dinner. If I'm lucky there will be drinks, too.
7. It is Friday night...where were you then? Probably sleeping over one of my friend's houses so I can actually DO something.
8. What kind of job did you have in high school? None.
9. What kind of job do you do now? Lawyer.
10. Were you a party animal? No. At least not comparatively.
11. Were you considered a flirt? I don't think so.
12. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? Nope.
13. Were you a nerd? I think I was either a slightly nerdy normal kid or a really cool nerd.
14. Did you get suspended or expelled? Not during senior year. I think I got a one-day suspension for skipping math in 10th grade -- we got caught because we decided to get breakfast at Bageland. Although maybe that was just a Saturday detention.
15. Can you sing the fight song? Hell, no. I never could, either.
16. Who was/were your favorite teacher(s)? Senior year it was definitely Ms. Arena.
17. Where did you sit during lunch? Senior year I did an "independent study" which meant that I sat in the guidance office and occasionally delivered passes. So I got to take whichever lunch I felt like - which usually meant that I took part of both, wherever my friends were.
18. What was your school's full name? Coral Springs High School.
19. When did you graduate? 1993.
20. What was your school mascot? Colts.
21. If you could go back and do it again, would you? Probably not.
22. Did you have fun at Prom? Yes.
23. Do you still talk to the person you went to Prom with? Yes, although lately it's mostly text messages.
24. Are you planning on going to your next reunion? If I can manage it. The last one was fun.
25. Do you still talk to people from school? Yes, and not just via Facebook.
26. School Colors? Green and Blue.
Copy and paste the questions into your notes section, fill in the answers, and tag your friends to see their answers.
IN YOUR SENIOR YEAR DID YOU...
1. Did you date someone from your school? Yes.
2. Did you marry someone from your high school? Almost, but not quite.
3. Did you car pool to school? For a couple of weeks, until Ryan got tired of having to pick me up.
4. What kind of car did you have? None -- my dad told me to find a boy to drive me around.
5. What kind of car do you have now? 2001 VW Jetta with 35,000 miles on it. It's good to live in a place with public transportation.
6. It's Friday night...where are you now? Out at dinner. If I'm lucky there will be drinks, too.
7. It is Friday night...where were you then? Probably sleeping over one of my friend's houses so I can actually DO something.
8. What kind of job did you have in high school? None.
9. What kind of job do you do now? Lawyer.
10. Were you a party animal? No. At least not comparatively.
11. Were you considered a flirt? I don't think so.
12. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? Nope.
13. Were you a nerd? I think I was either a slightly nerdy normal kid or a really cool nerd.
14. Did you get suspended or expelled? Not during senior year. I think I got a one-day suspension for skipping math in 10th grade -- we got caught because we decided to get breakfast at Bageland. Although maybe that was just a Saturday detention.
15. Can you sing the fight song? Hell, no. I never could, either.
16. Who was/were your favorite teacher(s)? Senior year it was definitely Ms. Arena.
17. Where did you sit during lunch? Senior year I did an "independent study" which meant that I sat in the guidance office and occasionally delivered passes. So I got to take whichever lunch I felt like - which usually meant that I took part of both, wherever my friends were.
18. What was your school's full name? Coral Springs High School.
19. When did you graduate? 1993.
20. What was your school mascot? Colts.
21. If you could go back and do it again, would you? Probably not.
22. Did you have fun at Prom? Yes.
23. Do you still talk to the person you went to Prom with? Yes, although lately it's mostly text messages.
24. Are you planning on going to your next reunion? If I can manage it. The last one was fun.
25. Do you still talk to people from school? Yes, and not just via Facebook.
26. School Colors? Green and Blue.
Monday, February 16, 2009
My darling clementines
For a girl who spent a good chunk of her life in Florida, I am surprisingly anti-citrus. (And don't get me started on orange juice -- unless it's fresh squeezed, I can barely tolerate it.) There are pretty much only two kinds of citrus fruit that I bother with -- honeybell (or minneola) tangelos, and clementines. I'm not entirely sure why these are it for me, but it might have something to do with sentiment: My grandfather used to ship the former to me as a Hanukkah present, and the latter were the kind that my mother preferred when filling up Christmas stockings.
Anyway, when I went to Morocco two years ago, the food was generally average, except for one thing: the little tiny oranges that they put out at the hotel breakfast buffets. These oranges were consistently exceptional -- so consistently that I would grab two or three of them and snack on them throughout the day.
So today, while doing a bit of grocery shopping in Whole Foods, I noticed this:
To you, it might look like an ordinary run of the mill box of clementines. But to me, it's a yummy little reminder of North Africa.
Anyway, when I went to Morocco two years ago, the food was generally average, except for one thing: the little tiny oranges that they put out at the hotel breakfast buffets. These oranges were consistently exceptional -- so consistently that I would grab two or three of them and snack on them throughout the day.
So today, while doing a bit of grocery shopping in Whole Foods, I noticed this:
To you, it might look like an ordinary run of the mill box of clementines. But to me, it's a yummy little reminder of North Africa.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Home
Until today, I never really understood the saying "You can never go home again."
I was in my old hometown today, for the first time in years. Out of curiosity, I decided to drive by the old house. It has a new roof, and new front doors, and a fence around the backyard where there's now a swingset. It's the same house, but it's not my home -- and hasn't been my home for years. Heck, it hasn't even been my family's house for over six years.
It made me recall how, when I was in law school, I had this one particularly horrible semester. I'm not sure if it was classes or something else, but whatever it was, it was really draining. My last exam was Evidence, and after the test was over, I got right in the car and drove the four-and-a-half hours back to Coral Springs -- pretty much on the verge of tears the entire way. And I walked into the house, took one look at my mother, and started crying. Not just because I was stressed out and upset, but also because I was relieved to be home.
I got an A on that exam, just like my mother said I would.
It's different now. In conversation today, I referred to coming to Florida as "coming home," but it's not really true. My house is the condo in Arlington, and the place where my dad lives is just that -- no more, no less. My home, at least the way I remember it, does not really exist anymore.
My mother was home.
I was in my old hometown today, for the first time in years. Out of curiosity, I decided to drive by the old house. It has a new roof, and new front doors, and a fence around the backyard where there's now a swingset. It's the same house, but it's not my home -- and hasn't been my home for years. Heck, it hasn't even been my family's house for over six years.
It made me recall how, when I was in law school, I had this one particularly horrible semester. I'm not sure if it was classes or something else, but whatever it was, it was really draining. My last exam was Evidence, and after the test was over, I got right in the car and drove the four-and-a-half hours back to Coral Springs -- pretty much on the verge of tears the entire way. And I walked into the house, took one look at my mother, and started crying. Not just because I was stressed out and upset, but also because I was relieved to be home.
I got an A on that exam, just like my mother said I would.
It's different now. In conversation today, I referred to coming to Florida as "coming home," but it's not really true. My house is the condo in Arlington, and the place where my dad lives is just that -- no more, no less. My home, at least the way I remember it, does not really exist anymore.
My mother was home.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Dara vs. GPS
Today's Washington Post had a long feature on navigation devices. This is now a subject on which I am quite familiar.
It all started when Inbal took her brand new GPS device on the California trip. Before then, despite all my traveling, I had pretty much managed to avoid GPS. In fact, I can only remember having GPS in a rental car once: It was back when it was first starting out, and as it turned out, I didn't really need it -- it was in South Florida, where I kind of know where I'm going.
At first, my inner Luddite was a little turned-off by the GPS. I like having written directions and maps -- which is probably why I was an early adopter of Mapquest and then Google Maps. And the GPS said all the words funny, which, on occasion, made the directions difficult to understand. (It also made me snicker and mimic.)
And to be frank, the voice got annoying after a while. A surprisingly short while.
More importantly, the GPS doesn't really help with the confusion of figuring out which street to turn on when there are a whole bunch -- I mean, it's hard to judge exactly how far is 350 feet, and sometimes, you can't see the street sign until you're already in the turn lane. But in those cases, a map wouldn't really help either.
So, despite my initial reluctance, I embraced the gadget, and ultimately found it to be useful for navigating around new, unfamiliar places. Plus, I loved how it could pinpoint what time we were going to arrive at our destination. That way, when someone calls, you can tell them "I will be there at 8:43." If you try, you can make it seem like you're predicting the future.
When we got back from California, Inbal let me buy her old GPS from her. It doesn't have all the bells and whistles of her new one -- for example, it has a smaller screen and it doesn't say the name of the streets (you have to look at the screen to figure that out). Still, I find it really useful whenever I'm not exactly sure where I'm going -- which is more often than I'd like to admit, as I like to think I have an excellent sense of direction.
On the flip side, I hate how I'm starting to let it think for me. I might have needed it to find Wegmans when I was at the closing down in Fairfax, but I certainly do not need it find my way from my apartment to the new condo. But I feel compelled to see what route it recommends.
Increasingly, I find myself talking to it. "Duh. It's a one-way street." "Alright, alright. I'll get over to the left as soon as I can." "How come you're telling me to stay on the highway when the sign for the airport says to take this ramp?"
I am, however, somewhat fearful that one of these days, she's going to say, "Just what do you think you're doing,Dave Dara?"
Yesterday, I was dropping my aunt off at her friend's house downtown, and I decided to ignore the directions, and go the way my aunt suggested. The GPS originally said that we would reach our destination at 2:23. Each time I ignored it, it would recalculate the route, adding another minute or two onto the ETA -- like she was punishing me. My aunt's directions -- the way that her friend recommended we go -- ultimately wound up costing me 15 minutes. At the law firm, that would have been around $100 of time.
You win this one TomTom. But I am confident that I will, one day, emerge victorious.
It all started when Inbal took her brand new GPS device on the California trip. Before then, despite all my traveling, I had pretty much managed to avoid GPS. In fact, I can only remember having GPS in a rental car once: It was back when it was first starting out, and as it turned out, I didn't really need it -- it was in South Florida, where I kind of know where I'm going.
At first, my inner Luddite was a little turned-off by the GPS. I like having written directions and maps -- which is probably why I was an early adopter of Mapquest and then Google Maps. And the GPS said all the words funny, which, on occasion, made the directions difficult to understand. (It also made me snicker and mimic.)
And to be frank, the voice got annoying after a while. A surprisingly short while.
More importantly, the GPS doesn't really help with the confusion of figuring out which street to turn on when there are a whole bunch -- I mean, it's hard to judge exactly how far is 350 feet, and sometimes, you can't see the street sign until you're already in the turn lane. But in those cases, a map wouldn't really help either.
So, despite my initial reluctance, I embraced the gadget, and ultimately found it to be useful for navigating around new, unfamiliar places. Plus, I loved how it could pinpoint what time we were going to arrive at our destination. That way, when someone calls, you can tell them "I will be there at 8:43." If you try, you can make it seem like you're predicting the future.
When we got back from California, Inbal let me buy her old GPS from her. It doesn't have all the bells and whistles of her new one -- for example, it has a smaller screen and it doesn't say the name of the streets (you have to look at the screen to figure that out). Still, I find it really useful whenever I'm not exactly sure where I'm going -- which is more often than I'd like to admit, as I like to think I have an excellent sense of direction.
On the flip side, I hate how I'm starting to let it think for me. I might have needed it to find Wegmans when I was at the closing down in Fairfax, but I certainly do not need it find my way from my apartment to the new condo. But I feel compelled to see what route it recommends.
Increasingly, I find myself talking to it. "Duh. It's a one-way street." "Alright, alright. I'll get over to the left as soon as I can." "How come you're telling me to stay on the highway when the sign for the airport says to take this ramp?"
I am, however, somewhat fearful that one of these days, she's going to say, "Just what do you think you're doing,
Yesterday, I was dropping my aunt off at her friend's house downtown, and I decided to ignore the directions, and go the way my aunt suggested. The GPS originally said that we would reach our destination at 2:23. Each time I ignored it, it would recalculate the route, adding another minute or two onto the ETA -- like she was punishing me. My aunt's directions -- the way that her friend recommended we go -- ultimately wound up costing me 15 minutes. At the law firm, that would have been around $100 of time.
You win this one TomTom. But I am confident that I will, one day, emerge victorious.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Not beach weather
I spent roughly half of my life in Florida. In high school, if I wanted to, I could roll out of bed and, provided one of my parents would loan me a car, be at the beach in 25 minutes. And I'd know what the weather would be like: Sunny and warm in the winter, cloudy and hot in the summer, with an afternoon thunderstorm.
California's weird. I thought that at least the SoCal/beachy parts of this vacation would be sunny and warm. But it's been cold. Really cold. In fact, while walking down to the beach in Carmel today, I had to wear a sweatshirt AND a jacket.
Here's a video from the beach.
California's weird. I thought that at least the SoCal/beachy parts of this vacation would be sunny and warm. But it's been cold. Really cold. In fact, while walking down to the beach in Carmel today, I had to wear a sweatshirt AND a jacket.
Here's a video from the beach.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Cards and Flowers
When I was in law school, Mother's Day always fell right around finals. One year, I had a late final or a paper due or something, so I told my mom that there was no way that I'd be able to come down for the weekend. Then, when she and the entire family were out to dinner, I magically showed up, flowers in hand. She was so surprised to see me -- much as she was when I did the same thing for her birthday a couple of years ago -- but she lied and told me that she thought I'd be there. The truth is that she knew I would do something -- I always did something -- but she had no idea that I'd get in the car and drive for four-and-a-half hours just to turn around and head back the next day.
The real truth was that I hated not being with her on Mother's Day. Celebrations like that were very important to her.
One year, a long time ago -- back when I was still a teenager, maybe in my first year of college by then -- my mom and my sister got in a bad fight right before Mother's Day -- so my sister ignored her for the weekend.
That was so not my mom's style -- she'd get angry and then forget why she was angry about 10 minutes later -- or maybe the next day if it was really bad. So my mom wound up being upset that my sister was mad at her, but she was really bothered by the fact that that my sister didn't wish her a happy Mother's Day, or even give her a card.
Of course, I tried to negotiate a truce, and found out the truth: My sister had gotten my mom a card, but didn't give it to her as "punishment," like how you would take a favorite toy away from a misbehaving child.
But I digress. What I really mean to say is that this is the first holiday that she's not around, and it's way harder than I thought it would be.
According to a survey, this year, consumers plan on spending about $15.8 billion on gifts for Mother's Day. In 2007, the same survey indicated that consumers planned to spend $15.73 billion.
Not me. This year I am doing nothing.
Yesterday, I told my Nana that I couldn't even bring myself to go into the Hallmark store -- right downstairs -- to get her a card. Not surprisingly, she understood that I'm just not in the mood for it.
I don't think she knows how bad it is. Every time I see an ad on tv, or get an email from one of the places I used to send my mother flowers in years past, I get annoyed. I think I'm just about ready to add 1-800-Flowers and ProFlowers and FTD to my spam filter. All that marketing is really just too much for someone who just lost their mother. It borders on offensive.
No, that's not exactly right: It feels like a kick to the stomach.
You would think that the retailers would have done some kind of survey on that.
The real truth was that I hated not being with her on Mother's Day. Celebrations like that were very important to her.
One year, a long time ago -- back when I was still a teenager, maybe in my first year of college by then -- my mom and my sister got in a bad fight right before Mother's Day -- so my sister ignored her for the weekend.
That was so not my mom's style -- she'd get angry and then forget why she was angry about 10 minutes later -- or maybe the next day if it was really bad. So my mom wound up being upset that my sister was mad at her, but she was really bothered by the fact that that my sister didn't wish her a happy Mother's Day, or even give her a card.
Of course, I tried to negotiate a truce, and found out the truth: My sister had gotten my mom a card, but didn't give it to her as "punishment," like how you would take a favorite toy away from a misbehaving child.
But I digress. What I really mean to say is that this is the first holiday that she's not around, and it's way harder than I thought it would be.
According to a survey, this year, consumers plan on spending about $15.8 billion on gifts for Mother's Day. In 2007, the same survey indicated that consumers planned to spend $15.73 billion.
Not me. This year I am doing nothing.
Yesterday, I told my Nana that I couldn't even bring myself to go into the Hallmark store -- right downstairs -- to get her a card. Not surprisingly, she understood that I'm just not in the mood for it.
I don't think she knows how bad it is. Every time I see an ad on tv, or get an email from one of the places I used to send my mother flowers in years past, I get annoyed. I think I'm just about ready to add 1-800-Flowers and ProFlowers and FTD to my spam filter. All that marketing is really just too much for someone who just lost their mother. It borders on offensive.
No, that's not exactly right: It feels like a kick to the stomach.
You would think that the retailers would have done some kind of survey on that.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Phone calls
This afternoon, my Nana called to check up on me. It was a bizarre conversation, almost as if she was cross-examining me. At one point, she said, "Is there anything else I'm supposed to ask you?"
I said "Nana, what are you talking about?"
She said, "Well, when you would talk to your mother, what would she ask you?"
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I opted for laughter then, but as I'm typing this I have tears in my eyes. After all, there's something precious and funny -- and at the same time, horribly sad -- about my Nana feeling that she somehow needs to be my mother's conversation replacement. But no one -- not even my determined little grandmother -- could ever be that; it's pointless to even try.
So, I told my Nana about the phone conversations. How I talked to my mother almost every day, about nothing and everything. About how sometimes it was to ask a question, and sometimes it was just to tell her about something I did or something I bought -- but how the conversation never went according to a script.
But I didn't tell Nana about the real point of almost all of the conversations: To make my mother laugh. On the airplane down to Florida exactly two months ago, one of the things I jotted in my notebook was that "She always found my strangeness funny. And I always obliged because I didn't care if she was laughing with me or at me. As long as she was laughing."
At the funeral, I stood up and said some things, most of which I don't really remember. I do, however, know that I said that my mother had the best laugh. And it's that, not the rambling conversations, that I miss the most.
I said "Nana, what are you talking about?"
She said, "Well, when you would talk to your mother, what would she ask you?"
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I opted for laughter then, but as I'm typing this I have tears in my eyes. After all, there's something precious and funny -- and at the same time, horribly sad -- about my Nana feeling that she somehow needs to be my mother's conversation replacement. But no one -- not even my determined little grandmother -- could ever be that; it's pointless to even try.
So, I told my Nana about the phone conversations. How I talked to my mother almost every day, about nothing and everything. About how sometimes it was to ask a question, and sometimes it was just to tell her about something I did or something I bought -- but how the conversation never went according to a script.
But I didn't tell Nana about the real point of almost all of the conversations: To make my mother laugh. On the airplane down to Florida exactly two months ago, one of the things I jotted in my notebook was that "She always found my strangeness funny. And I always obliged because I didn't care if she was laughing with me or at me. As long as she was laughing."
At the funeral, I stood up and said some things, most of which I don't really remember. I do, however, know that I said that my mother had the best laugh. And it's that, not the rambling conversations, that I miss the most.
Monday, February 18, 2008
The sweater
When I was a kid, my mom had this sweater that she used to wear around the house. Nothing special, just an oversized ivory cardigan with brown buttons and two pockets. But she wore it almost every day.
It was from Bamberger's. I know this, because, the other day, I found it, on the floor of her closet, tucked in a corner. It was dirty, one of the buttons was loose, and one of the pockets was torn.
I took the sweater -- not in a surreptitious way, unlike, say, how I acquired my dad's army jacket. Instead, I walked out of the closet holding the dirty old thing and boldly announced to my father and my sister and my brother that, if no one had any objections, I was taking it.
My dad and brother looked at me as if I were crazy. My sister asked to see the sweater and, after I handed it to her, she held it for a minute or two, quietly inspecting it. Equally quietly, she announced that it was torn, and folded it up and put it on the couch next to her. When she left to go back to her house for the evening, the sweater was still there.
Leaving it like that was clearly an act of consent.
Last night, upon arriving home, I washed the sweater and then sat on the couch, mending it. It made me feel just a little closer -- a little better.
It was from Bamberger's. I know this, because, the other day, I found it, on the floor of her closet, tucked in a corner. It was dirty, one of the buttons was loose, and one of the pockets was torn.
I took the sweater -- not in a surreptitious way, unlike, say, how I acquired my dad's army jacket. Instead, I walked out of the closet holding the dirty old thing and boldly announced to my father and my sister and my brother that, if no one had any objections, I was taking it.
My dad and brother looked at me as if I were crazy. My sister asked to see the sweater and, after I handed it to her, she held it for a minute or two, quietly inspecting it. Equally quietly, she announced that it was torn, and folded it up and put it on the couch next to her. When she left to go back to her house for the evening, the sweater was still there.
Leaving it like that was clearly an act of consent.
Last night, upon arriving home, I washed the sweater and then sat on the couch, mending it. It made me feel just a little closer -- a little better.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Silence
I am currently sitting in my parents' house, alone. Actually, I am sitting in my dad's house, alone. That small change in sentence structure is so gigantic, and is so unlike anything I have ever known, anything I could possibly convey to anyone who hasn't already been through something similar.
It's like the earth all of a sudden spun off its axis. Like the ground suddenly shifted from under my feet.
Seismic. That's the word my sister and I keep using.
I cried a lot on the airplane on the way down. I couldn't read, couldn't listen to music, and, thanks to the TSA, couldn't really pace up and down the airplane. So I cried and wrote in a journal. When I told my brother and dad about it, they concluded that the people sitting next to me must have thought I was schizophrenic.
The next couple of days were a blur. There were the arrangements, and then the funeral, and then the sitting shiva. My brother described it as, "Sorry about your mom. Have some mayo." I would replace the word "mayo" with "babka," but it's close enough. I don't really remember most of it, which is probably a blessing in disguise. I kept my notes from my speech at the funeral, but I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to muster up the strength to look at it.
There are little things I think about that I never really considered before. Like how the last meal I ate with my mom was in a Denny's. And the last time I kissed her was in front of the Palm Beach International airport. And how the last conversation we had was about a Catherine Malandrino dress and the Giants winning the Superbowl. And the last Thanksgiving, the last birthday present, that kind of stuff, the stuff that I would do over again if I knew it was supposed to last a lifetime.
I think, most of all, that's what I'm going to take away from this whole crazy thing.
It's like the earth all of a sudden spun off its axis. Like the ground suddenly shifted from under my feet.
Seismic. That's the word my sister and I keep using.
I cried a lot on the airplane on the way down. I couldn't read, couldn't listen to music, and, thanks to the TSA, couldn't really pace up and down the airplane. So I cried and wrote in a journal. When I told my brother and dad about it, they concluded that the people sitting next to me must have thought I was schizophrenic.
The next couple of days were a blur. There were the arrangements, and then the funeral, and then the sitting shiva. My brother described it as, "Sorry about your mom. Have some mayo." I would replace the word "mayo" with "babka," but it's close enough. I don't really remember most of it, which is probably a blessing in disguise. I kept my notes from my speech at the funeral, but I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to muster up the strength to look at it.
There are little things I think about that I never really considered before. Like how the last meal I ate with my mom was in a Denny's. And the last time I kissed her was in front of the Palm Beach International airport. And how the last conversation we had was about a Catherine Malandrino dress and the Giants winning the Superbowl. And the last Thanksgiving, the last birthday present, that kind of stuff, the stuff that I would do over again if I knew it was supposed to last a lifetime.
I think, most of all, that's what I'm going to take away from this whole crazy thing.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Yet another family crisis
Monday night I had a really hard time sleeping. All night, I tossed and turned, having these incredibly weird dreams about my mom, of all people. When I finally managed to drag my butt out of bed Tuesday morning, I dismissed it as the product of an overworked and overtired brain, as any rational person would.
As luck would have it, my mom was really sick Monday night/Tuesday morning.* She ignored it and managed to get through most of the day, but Tuesday evening, she checked herself into the hospital. And no one told us kids. My sister lives 20 minutes away, and no one bothered to call her. The only reason we found out about it at all was because my brother called my Nana, where he found out about this and the fact that my Nana all but totaled her car on Friday. (I already knew about the car accident.)
Clearly, this is not a good year for my family.
I spent most of the day trying to find out from someone -- anyone -- what the hell was going on. No one was answering the house phone or my mother's cell phone, and my dad's cell phone went straight to voicemail -- which means that it wasn't on or wasn't charged. Go figure. So when I got home, I called my sister, who didn't even know my mom was sick, and I sent her into a panic. And then I called my Nana, who only knew the vaguest of information.
Eventually, my sister and I -- separately -- managed to get to talk to our father. (And then to each other, to our brother, and to Nana.) Turns out that my mom has some kind of infection and is septic. And now she's having complications -- she's having difficulty breathing, her kidneys aren't working, and her blood pressure is really low. And she's a diabetic who is allergic to a whole bunch of medicines.
I don't know anything about medicine, but I know this is bad -- and the doctors have pretty much confirmed my worst fears.
My entire family seems to understand the scope, but we all process it differently, I guess. Apart from failing to communicate with his children, my dad complained about how my mother was complaining, and about how she seemed so much better in the morning, before he left her to go to work. And then he decided that he would go to sleep early so he can deal with things tomorrow, with a clear head.
My brother, the baby of the family, is in some kind of denial, saying that, after the past couple of months, the fates "owe us one." My Nana is understandably worried about her eldest child.
My sister is a wreck. She called me to cry -- and I wasn't having any of it. In no uncertain terms, I told her to stop, that she could fall apart when it's over, but for now, she has to be a grown-up. She says she's not strong enough -- I told her that's bullshit -- people manage to get through what they need to get through, piece by piece, little by little. We're all worried and sad and scared about mom, but everyone else can't spend their limited energy making her feel better about it. She needs to find that strength for herself.
As for me, I'm listening to the rain pound against my window, and checking on flights to Florida for the weekend. I'm still kind of hoping to go next month, under better circumstances. But I'll decide tomorrow.
*This is not the first time such a thing has happened in my family. Half my life ago, when I was sixteen, my mom was scheduled to have foot surgery -- and I was really excited about getting to drive her car around while she recovered. But when she went to have the surgery, she had a panic attack when they tried to give her the anesthetic. Turns out, my Pop - her dad - was in the process of having emergency bypass surgery.
As luck would have it, my mom was really sick Monday night/Tuesday morning.* She ignored it and managed to get through most of the day, but Tuesday evening, she checked herself into the hospital. And no one told us kids. My sister lives 20 minutes away, and no one bothered to call her. The only reason we found out about it at all was because my brother called my Nana, where he found out about this and the fact that my Nana all but totaled her car on Friday. (I already knew about the car accident.)
Clearly, this is not a good year for my family.
I spent most of the day trying to find out from someone -- anyone -- what the hell was going on. No one was answering the house phone or my mother's cell phone, and my dad's cell phone went straight to voicemail -- which means that it wasn't on or wasn't charged. Go figure. So when I got home, I called my sister, who didn't even know my mom was sick, and I sent her into a panic. And then I called my Nana, who only knew the vaguest of information.
Eventually, my sister and I -- separately -- managed to get to talk to our father. (And then to each other, to our brother, and to Nana.) Turns out that my mom has some kind of infection and is septic. And now she's having complications -- she's having difficulty breathing, her kidneys aren't working, and her blood pressure is really low. And she's a diabetic who is allergic to a whole bunch of medicines.
I don't know anything about medicine, but I know this is bad -- and the doctors have pretty much confirmed my worst fears.
My entire family seems to understand the scope, but we all process it differently, I guess. Apart from failing to communicate with his children, my dad complained about how my mother was complaining, and about how she seemed so much better in the morning, before he left her to go to work. And then he decided that he would go to sleep early so he can deal with things tomorrow, with a clear head.
My brother, the baby of the family, is in some kind of denial, saying that, after the past couple of months, the fates "owe us one." My Nana is understandably worried about her eldest child.
My sister is a wreck. She called me to cry -- and I wasn't having any of it. In no uncertain terms, I told her to stop, that she could fall apart when it's over, but for now, she has to be a grown-up. She says she's not strong enough -- I told her that's bullshit -- people manage to get through what they need to get through, piece by piece, little by little. We're all worried and sad and scared about mom, but everyone else can't spend their limited energy making her feel better about it. She needs to find that strength for herself.
As for me, I'm listening to the rain pound against my window, and checking on flights to Florida for the weekend. I'm still kind of hoping to go next month, under better circumstances. But I'll decide tomorrow.
*This is not the first time such a thing has happened in my family. Half my life ago, when I was sixteen, my mom was scheduled to have foot surgery -- and I was really excited about getting to drive her car around while she recovered. But when she went to have the surgery, she had a panic attack when they tried to give her the anesthetic. Turns out, my Pop - her dad - was in the process of having emergency bypass surgery.
Reflections on Super Tuesday
I watched the Super Tuesday returns come in last night with the same feeling I've had for weeks -- internal conflict resulting from my likely choice of candidate in the upcoming Democratic primary. Since that blog entry, every other member of my family that has voted in the Democratic primary in their respective states has voted for Hillary Clinton.* And I totally understand why. (I'd probably only find it really puzzling if one of them suddenly voted for Mike Huckabee, Ron Paul, or this guy.)
Today, via email, I had a conversation about the candidates with a friend, someone who seems to reach similar decisions to me but approaches pretty much everything in a very different way. She asked me if it was an easy decision.
On the one hand, it's sort-of funny because I'm not 100% decided -- and I probably won't be until I actually get in the box and touch the screen. But that's academic, since I've been saying that I'm leaning towards Obama for several weeks now. So my response was more serious/less pithy:
I mean that. I get frustrated whenever I see supporters of either Democratic candidate bashing the other one. It's silly and unproductive -- and in the general election, will be turned around and used against whichever candidate ultimately prevails.
*An aside: My dad joked that he voted for John McCain -- but no one in my family has voted Republican in years, and my dad wouldn't be the first to cross the party line. (Although I am sure that if he was voting for a Republican in Florida, it would have been McCain or Giuliani -- and not Romney or Huckabee.) So then he admitted that he voted for Hillary because he and my mom don't think that a black candidate can win in this country, not yet. Of course, I then pointed out that if some people can't bring themselves to vote for a black man, what makes him think those same people would vote for a woman. So then he said that the Democrats would undoubtedly lose either way in November. Not very optimistic, right?
Today, via email, I had a conversation about the candidates with a friend, someone who seems to reach similar decisions to me but approaches pretty much everything in a very different way. She asked me if it was an easy decision.
On the one hand, it's sort-of funny because I'm not 100% decided -- and I probably won't be until I actually get in the box and touch the screen. But that's academic, since I've been saying that I'm leaning towards Obama for several weeks now. So my response was more serious/less pithy:
It hasn't been easy at all. On day one, I've was about 51-49 in favor of Obama. (Actually it was about 35-33-32 Obama-Edwards-Clinton, until I figured that Edwards wasn't really a viable candidate.) Then [Rabid Hillary supporter's] emails pushed me further into Obama territory. But [Obama Fans'] constant [commenting] about him has pushed me slightly in the other direction, not to mention Hillary's impressive performance on Letterman the other night.
Ignoring for a second the whole feminism/post-feminism aspect of the debate, ultimately, I've sort-of concluded that I like Obama's optimism and the fact that he symbolizes a complete change from the status quo, which is enough to overcome the fact that she actually seems to represent a slightly more left-of-center liberalism. But I will happily support either one of them in the general election, and I get very annoyed whenever other Democrats go around bashing either one of them.
I mean that. I get frustrated whenever I see supporters of either Democratic candidate bashing the other one. It's silly and unproductive -- and in the general election, will be turned around and used against whichever candidate ultimately prevails.
*An aside: My dad joked that he voted for John McCain -- but no one in my family has voted Republican in years, and my dad wouldn't be the first to cross the party line. (Although I am sure that if he was voting for a Republican in Florida, it would have been McCain or Giuliani -- and not Romney or Huckabee.) So then he admitted that he voted for Hillary because he and my mom don't think that a black candidate can win in this country, not yet. Of course, I then pointed out that if some people can't bring themselves to vote for a black man, what makes him think those same people would vote for a woman. So then he said that the Democrats would undoubtedly lose either way in November. Not very optimistic, right?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Trial, day 3
The bed in the hotel is comfy. Me, not so much -- but at least I'm keeping down some food -- mostly soup and some mashed potatoes for dinner. Which is good, since my brother has decided to come to town late tomorrow night, and he probably couldn't handle it if I'm all barfy and grumpy.
Of course, the fact that I'm not still throwing up is all thanks to the magical cure-all that is red Gatorade. Or, as I emailed my coworker this morning, "The Gatorade has indeed aided this former Gator." It's a wonder drug.
As for the trial, it's going sloooooooowly. Which, on the one hand is good. On the other hand, I'd like to leave Newark sometime soon. Because it totally sucks here. And, as comfy as the hotel bed is, I'd rather be sleeping in my own.
Of course, the fact that I'm not still throwing up is all thanks to the magical cure-all that is red Gatorade. Or, as I emailed my coworker this morning, "The Gatorade has indeed aided this former Gator." It's a wonder drug.
As for the trial, it's going sloooooooowly. Which, on the one hand is good. On the other hand, I'd like to leave Newark sometime soon. Because it totally sucks here. And, as comfy as the hotel bed is, I'd rather be sleeping in my own.
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