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?
Showing posts with label overreacting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label overreacting. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Anger
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Biopsy
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Stir-crazy
I am trying so hard to be positive, to think positive thoughts.
The hardest part, though, is that I am no good at sitting on my hands waiting for things to happen. I like to make things happen, to get concrete answers. I need to know what is going on. And, as I've said countless times to countless people, patience may be a virtue but it isn't one of mine.
I am driving myself crazy. I am making myself sick. I need to get out of my head.
The hardest part, though, is that I am no good at sitting on my hands waiting for things to happen. I like to make things happen, to get concrete answers. I need to know what is going on. And, as I've said countless times to countless people, patience may be a virtue but it isn't one of mine.
I am driving myself crazy. I am making myself sick. I need to get out of my head.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Christmas Spirit
I am, at heart, a non-confrontational person. Yeah, I'm guilty of offhand sarcastic remarks and quips when things annoy me, but most of it is meant in jest. For me to really get aggravated -- and speak out about it -- things really really have to bother me.
Today, I was bothered.
On my way to pilates, I stopped at the UPS store to drop off a package. I was returning one of many, many catalog purchases of late. Apparently, one of the ways I dealt with not getting a birthday present from my mother was to buy new clothing and shoes. But I digress.
The package was prepaid. So, I just wanted to run in and run out of the store so I could get to my class, but there was no parking, so I wound up driving around for a couple of minutes looking for a spot. When I finally parked and ran up to the store, large box in front of most of my body (The box was 2 feet long -- no joke), I noticed that there was a very long line of parents and kids, most of whom were holding red and green balloons.
I quickly gathered that none of the people in line were actually there to conduct business in the store. You see, as luck would have it, the UPS store is in a neighborhood that was having its annual Christmas Tree lighting ceremony, and the store itself hosted Santa. So after exchanging brief words with some of the parents, I decided to bypass the line and go straight to the door.
Of course some blond woman yelled at me, "How rude! Don't you see that this woman with a stroller and a baby is trying to get out? You should have let her out first."
In my defense, I didn't see the woman with the stroller and the baby. The box was obstructing my view, especially while trying to hold it while keeping the door open. And in all honesty, all of the people and all of their kids seemed like they were moving into the store, not out of it. But on some level, I was not being very observant. I mean, I was surrounded by all of the kids and the noise, and all I wanted to do was drop off the stupid giant box.
I said, "Oh. I'm just trying to drop off this box and I didn't see her." I continued walking into the store, handed the clerk my box, and proceeded to exit. The transaction itself took 5 seconds.
On my way out the door, the woman started with me again. She said "You are so rude."
I was halfway out of the store, but I got annoyed. I spun back around and said, "Excuse me?"
She didn't say anything, so I started walking again.
Of course, then she said, "I guess some people don't understand Christmas."
I stopped again. "You really want to do this in front of your children?"
She glared at me and said, "I can't believe you are so rude."
I got a little defensive. "First of all, I didn't see the woman with the stroller because I was carrying a very big, very heavy box. And second, if anyone has the right to be mad at me, it's her -- not you. Mind your own business."
She said something else, but I don't even remember what it was. All I know is that by this point, I was fuming. So as I turned and walked back to my car, I said, "Well, I guess your kids are learning that the true spirit of Christmas is to be judgmental and rude."
The woman with the baby and the stroller? She was long gone by that point. But if she had said something to me, I probably would have apologized.
Today, I was bothered.
On my way to pilates, I stopped at the UPS store to drop off a package. I was returning one of many, many catalog purchases of late. Apparently, one of the ways I dealt with not getting a birthday present from my mother was to buy new clothing and shoes. But I digress.
The package was prepaid. So, I just wanted to run in and run out of the store so I could get to my class, but there was no parking, so I wound up driving around for a couple of minutes looking for a spot. When I finally parked and ran up to the store, large box in front of most of my body (The box was 2 feet long -- no joke), I noticed that there was a very long line of parents and kids, most of whom were holding red and green balloons.
I quickly gathered that none of the people in line were actually there to conduct business in the store. You see, as luck would have it, the UPS store is in a neighborhood that was having its annual Christmas Tree lighting ceremony, and the store itself hosted Santa. So after exchanging brief words with some of the parents, I decided to bypass the line and go straight to the door.
Of course some blond woman yelled at me, "How rude! Don't you see that this woman with a stroller and a baby is trying to get out? You should have let her out first."
In my defense, I didn't see the woman with the stroller and the baby. The box was obstructing my view, especially while trying to hold it while keeping the door open. And in all honesty, all of the people and all of their kids seemed like they were moving into the store, not out of it. But on some level, I was not being very observant. I mean, I was surrounded by all of the kids and the noise, and all I wanted to do was drop off the stupid giant box.
I said, "Oh. I'm just trying to drop off this box and I didn't see her." I continued walking into the store, handed the clerk my box, and proceeded to exit. The transaction itself took 5 seconds.
On my way out the door, the woman started with me again. She said "You are so rude."
I was halfway out of the store, but I got annoyed. I spun back around and said, "Excuse me?"
She didn't say anything, so I started walking again.
Of course, then she said, "I guess some people don't understand Christmas."
I stopped again. "You really want to do this in front of your children?"
She glared at me and said, "I can't believe you are so rude."
I got a little defensive. "First of all, I didn't see the woman with the stroller because I was carrying a very big, very heavy box. And second, if anyone has the right to be mad at me, it's her -- not you. Mind your own business."
She said something else, but I don't even remember what it was. All I know is that by this point, I was fuming. So as I turned and walked back to my car, I said, "Well, I guess your kids are learning that the true spirit of Christmas is to be judgmental and rude."
The woman with the baby and the stroller? She was long gone by that point. But if she had said something to me, I probably would have apologized.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Holiday musings
I miss my mother. I don't say it aloud very often, but it's there, all the time -- a constant subtext lingering just below the surface of everything I say and everything I do. Even when I am completely happy, it's not without a sense of profound loss.
Don't get me wrong -- I am happy. Things are good. In those minutes, the sense of loss strikes when I wish I could pick up the phone and tell my mother.
But I think that next few weeks will be a challenge of another sort. It'll start with my birthday and Thanksgiving, the first of both without my mother, and on the same day, no less. And then the rest of the holidays, which seem like they're off in the distance now, but will soon be rolling in like the tide. And even though I'm trying not to be sad or to dwell -- to keep things light and in perspective -- there's a part of me that wants to crawl into bed -- preferably with pie -- and not come out until after New Year's.
Don't get me wrong -- I am happy. Things are good. In those minutes, the sense of loss strikes when I wish I could pick up the phone and tell my mother.
But I think that next few weeks will be a challenge of another sort. It'll start with my birthday and Thanksgiving, the first of both without my mother, and on the same day, no less. And then the rest of the holidays, which seem like they're off in the distance now, but will soon be rolling in like the tide. And even though I'm trying not to be sad or to dwell -- to keep things light and in perspective -- there's a part of me that wants to crawl into bed -- preferably with pie -- and not come out until after New Year's.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Out of Character
I'm not sure whether it's because of my profession or in spite of it, but for some reason, I have evolved into a particularly non-confrontational person. Unless it's of dire importance, I generally let things go -- or, at worst, passive-aggressively complain after the fact.
So, if, for example, someone cuts in front of me in a line, my general reaction is to let them do it. Sometimes I'll turn to the person behind me and say something loud enough for others to hear like "I don't understand why people think they're too important to wait in line," but more often than not, I'll just let it happen and quietly stew.
On Friday, however, I stood up for myself. I was on line to put my name on the list for a table at a busy (and somewhat overrated) restaurant about 90 minutes before the Coldplay concert. Some girl pushed in front of me to get to the hostess stand. Initially I thought that they had called her name for a table, but when she got up to the front, she was putting her name on the list -- the same thing I had been waiting to do, the same thing the girl in front of me had been waiting to do.
It only took me a second to decide to put an end to it. I took a step over to the side and said "Did you actually just push me out of the way to put your name on the list?"
She said, "Oh, I didn't know I did that."
I said "How did you not realize it when you physically pushed me out of the way?"
The hostess had no choice. She took the name of the girl that was really in line in front of me, and then my name. The girl who cut in front? Well, she didn't get her name on the list, and left in a huff, clearly embarrassed.
And I felt vindicated. Maybe I should stand up for myself more often.
So, if, for example, someone cuts in front of me in a line, my general reaction is to let them do it. Sometimes I'll turn to the person behind me and say something loud enough for others to hear like "I don't understand why people think they're too important to wait in line," but more often than not, I'll just let it happen and quietly stew.
On Friday, however, I stood up for myself. I was on line to put my name on the list for a table at a busy (and somewhat overrated) restaurant about 90 minutes before the Coldplay concert. Some girl pushed in front of me to get to the hostess stand. Initially I thought that they had called her name for a table, but when she got up to the front, she was putting her name on the list -- the same thing I had been waiting to do, the same thing the girl in front of me had been waiting to do.
It only took me a second to decide to put an end to it. I took a step over to the side and said "Did you actually just push me out of the way to put your name on the list?"
She said, "Oh, I didn't know I did that."
I said "How did you not realize it when you physically pushed me out of the way?"
The hostess had no choice. She took the name of the girl that was really in line in front of me, and then my name. The girl who cut in front? Well, she didn't get her name on the list, and left in a huff, clearly embarrassed.
And I felt vindicated. Maybe I should stand up for myself more often.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Dreams and Puppies
My subconscious is messing with my head. I had a dream last night -- technically this morning -- that somehow managed to make my already confusing life seem even more confusing.
And no -- it wasn't a sex dream. Or even the recurring dream that I keep having where I get in an argument with my sister and throw a glass of water at her. The main plot of the dream involved me eating a picnic lunch with several friends, coworkers, and random family members. Seems innocent enough, right? But suffice it to say that this dream has altered my perception.
Anyway, onto bigger -- and hopefully brighter things. I think I'm getting myself a puppy for my birthday. I don't know what kind yet, but here are my biggest considerations:
Some of my favorites are Beagles, Puggles, Malteses, Maltipoos, Cockapoos, and Yorkies. But I'd rather not buy a puppy from a breeder when there are perfectly good puppies in pounds. So, if anyone has any suggestions, let me know.
And no -- it wasn't a sex dream. Or even the recurring dream that I keep having where I get in an argument with my sister and throw a glass of water at her. The main plot of the dream involved me eating a picnic lunch with several friends, coworkers, and random family members. Seems innocent enough, right? But suffice it to say that this dream has altered my perception.
Anyway, onto bigger -- and hopefully brighter things. I think I'm getting myself a puppy for my birthday. I don't know what kind yet, but here are my biggest considerations:
- I have allergies. So a dog that does not shed too badly or is considered "hypoallergenic" would be good.
- I am under 5'2", and the condo is under 1300 square feet. So a small-ish dog would be great. Bonus points for one that will fit into a pet-carrier that I can take onboard an airplane.
- After having one dog that ate linoleum, crown molding, and a Soul Asylum CD, I would prefer a dog that is not likely to chew too much important stuff. And while we're on the subject of that dog, I would like one that does not have too much separation anxiety.
- No excessive barking, and no biting. I guess that means friendly.
- The dog should be relatively smart, or at a minimum, easily trainable.
- Most important: the dog has to be cute. Supercute.
Some of my favorites are Beagles, Puggles, Malteses, Maltipoos, Cockapoos, and Yorkies. But I'd rather not buy a puppy from a breeder when there are perfectly good puppies in pounds. So, if anyone has any suggestions, let me know.
Friday, July 11, 2008
New insight as to where I stand with my dad
Last night, I was on the phone with my dad, and somewhere after 20 minutes, the conversation went off the rails in a really unusually disturbing way.
I'm paraphrasing a bit, but here's the essence of the conversation. We were talking about family and communication and then took a detour into talking about custody fights. As I am apt to do, I forgot for a moment, that, for all intents and purposes, my father had almost no relationship with his father after his parents divorced when he was a kid. So I took the position that it's the dad's obligation to fight to be involved in the kid's life.
Then Dad says "I don't know why people get into such messy, horrible custody battles. If it were me, I would just cut my losses and walk away."
Being one of the kids in question, I was a little shocked by this. "Dad, you mean to tell me that, if after you had me, you and mom divorced, and she withheld custody from you, you wouldn't have fought to see me?"
"Your mother would never have been so unreasonable. That's one of the reasons I married her."
"That's not my point. You wouldn't have felt it necessary to have a relationship with your own kid?"
"Not if the mom was using the kid as a weapon -- It's not worth the fight. And I turned out fine without much of a father."
"Yeah, but don't you think that anyone crazy enough to try to exclude the father from their kid's life as punishment might not be the most stable parent."
"Maybe, I guess. But it's messy. Not worth it."
"So you wouldn't have fought for me? Man, you suck. Glad to know where I stand."
"That's not fair."
I'm paraphrasing a bit, but here's the essence of the conversation. We were talking about family and communication and then took a detour into talking about custody fights. As I am apt to do, I forgot for a moment, that, for all intents and purposes, my father had almost no relationship with his father after his parents divorced when he was a kid. So I took the position that it's the dad's obligation to fight to be involved in the kid's life.
Then Dad says "I don't know why people get into such messy, horrible custody battles. If it were me, I would just cut my losses and walk away."
Being one of the kids in question, I was a little shocked by this. "Dad, you mean to tell me that, if after you had me, you and mom divorced, and she withheld custody from you, you wouldn't have fought to see me?"
"Your mother would never have been so unreasonable. That's one of the reasons I married her."
"That's not my point. You wouldn't have felt it necessary to have a relationship with your own kid?"
"Not if the mom was using the kid as a weapon -- It's not worth the fight. And I turned out fine without much of a father."
"Yeah, but don't you think that anyone crazy enough to try to exclude the father from their kid's life as punishment might not be the most stable parent."
"Maybe, I guess. But it's messy. Not worth it."
"So you wouldn't have fought for me? Man, you suck. Glad to know where I stand."
"That's not fair."
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Screaming people are more annoying than stupid people
Last night, on Metro on the way home from the ballpark, I caught a "special" blue line train to Virginia from L'Enfant Plaza on the upstairs yellow line platform. To me, this seemed perfectly normal.
Other people were confused. They thought the train was going to go all the way around on the normal circuitous blue line route -- clearly not understanding that, from the upstairs platform, the only thing the train could do is cross the bridge straight to the Pentagon. Or they didn't understand that, at least from Pentagon to King Street, the blue line and the yellow line run on the same route.
Of course, I don't really care what other people do. If they're dumb enough or confused enough, it's their problem, and as far as I'm concerned, they can wait to get on the next yellow line train.
I must be in the minority. Some crazy ass lady on the train with me stuck her head out the door of the train and started yelling at people, trying to explain to them how the train was going to work. And while most of the people tried to ignore the crazy screaming, some of the previously confused people actually allowed themselves to be browbeaten into getting onto a train even though they weren't entirely sure where it would wind up.
Of course, the small percentage of train converts was not enough for the crazy lady. She moved on to the next door and started screaming louder and more insistently. And as they held the train for about four minutes, she went back and forth from the one door to the other screaming at people.
I felt embarrassed for the man that was with her. I felt embarrassed for the people that she treated as stupid children. I felt embarrassed for the crazy lady who looked, well, crazy.
But in addition to being embarrassed, I was annoyed. I hate screaming people. But it's more than that: I hate people that don't quietly mind their own business.
But mostly, I didn't see the point -- and I still don't. Why run around like a crazy person, screaming at people who have nothing to do with you? If they're confused, it's their obligation to try to figure it out. And if they're too dumb, well, that can't really be fixed anyway.
Other people were confused. They thought the train was going to go all the way around on the normal circuitous blue line route -- clearly not understanding that, from the upstairs platform, the only thing the train could do is cross the bridge straight to the Pentagon. Or they didn't understand that, at least from Pentagon to King Street, the blue line and the yellow line run on the same route.
Of course, I don't really care what other people do. If they're dumb enough or confused enough, it's their problem, and as far as I'm concerned, they can wait to get on the next yellow line train.
I must be in the minority. Some crazy ass lady on the train with me stuck her head out the door of the train and started yelling at people, trying to explain to them how the train was going to work. And while most of the people tried to ignore the crazy screaming, some of the previously confused people actually allowed themselves to be browbeaten into getting onto a train even though they weren't entirely sure where it would wind up.
Of course, the small percentage of train converts was not enough for the crazy lady. She moved on to the next door and started screaming louder and more insistently. And as they held the train for about four minutes, she went back and forth from the one door to the other screaming at people.
I felt embarrassed for the man that was with her. I felt embarrassed for the people that she treated as stupid children. I felt embarrassed for the crazy lady who looked, well, crazy.
But in addition to being embarrassed, I was annoyed. I hate screaming people. But it's more than that: I hate people that don't quietly mind their own business.
But mostly, I didn't see the point -- and I still don't. Why run around like a crazy person, screaming at people who have nothing to do with you? If they're confused, it's their obligation to try to figure it out. And if they're too dumb, well, that can't really be fixed anyway.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Musings on the state of celebrity journalism
I don't remember how, but earlier today, I stumbled across this Salon article about celebrity gossip. It actually made reference to the Atlantic Monthly article about being a papparazzo on the trail of Britney that I read yesterday. Which was totally the point of last night's South Park.
But I digress.
I started reading the article at my desk while eating my lunch and I laughed out loud enough times that I decided that, in order to prevent choking, it would be best to put down my fork until I got to the end. Here are the most ridiculous morsels, with commentary:
But I digress.
I started reading the article at my desk while eating my lunch and I laughed out loud enough times that I decided that, in order to prevent choking, it would be best to put down my fork until I got to the end. Here are the most ridiculous morsels, with commentary:
- ". . . all I could do was stare at my candy-colored cover choices, recognize in some dazed way that I didn't know what a Heidi or a Spencer was. . . ."
- "Perhaps the biggest shift in how we ingest our gossip, though, is the feeling of over-saturation and over-stimulation. We have gorged ourselves on nip-slips and sex tapes and divorce proceedings to the point of queasiness at the idea of consuming another morsel of celebrity meat. Or maybe that's just me."
- ". . . a slew of midlevel actors . . . were only likely to make really juicy national headlines if they did something incontrovertibly nutty, hopefully in front of a wandering photographer: Julia Roberts ditching Keifer Sutherland before their wedding, Rob Lowe bedding an underage chick at the Democratic convention, married Bruce Springsteen cavorting in his skivvies with the girl in his band on a Rome rooftop."
- Picking up an US Weekly no longer guarantees a visit with a cast of familiar characters, but a roster of mysterious names: Minka Kelly, Benji Madden, Stacy Keibler -- who the hell are these people and what are they doing in my imagined celebrity neighborhood?
- "And to read up on those names I do recognize, I no longer need to turn to the tabloids. Not when Wall Street Journal writer Asra Nomani is writing Op-Eds for the L.A. Times about Britney Spears, or the Atlantic is putting her on its cover. . . .When Heath Ledger died in his Manhattan apartment, it was the New York Times that led the coverage of the story, and by the time the celebrity weeklies hit stands after the death of Anna Nicole Smith, CNN had been covering the story for four days in a row, with more vigor than it might apply even to a tight primary contest."
- ". . . I find myself longing for a return to some old-fashioned canned stories cooked up by publicists and pegged to movie releases. I'm over stars being just like me, or worse off than me. I would like them to be different, and more glamorous, and better . . . I would like to read about their attractive homes and perfect relationships and healthy but satisfying Zone diets and think to myself: "Well, easy for them! They're celebrities!""
Sunday, March 02, 2008
This one's for the girls in the audience
The downside of being away from home for so long -- not to mention all the late nights spent doing trial prep -- was that I wasn't really paying attention to my diet, or spending a lot of time at the gym, for that matter. So, I've gained about 8 pounds since Thanksgiving. Which, when you're about 5'1", is about a dress size.
Of course this poses a problem: I have a black tie wedding to go to next weekend, and the pretty Nanette Lepore dress that I bought is no longer going to fit me.
So, here are my choices:
What to do, what to do?
Update: I added links to pictures of the dresses in question. Let me know what you think.
Of course this poses a problem: I have a black tie wedding to go to next weekend, and the pretty Nanette Lepore dress that I bought is no longer going to fit me.
So, here are my choices:
- Wear the dress I wore to the inaugural ball in January, 2005. (Quilted satin, mostly black with gold squares.) Pro: It closes, and it doesn't look that bad. Plus it's not as overwhelming as my other ball gown. Con: It doesn't fit that well -- it's not quite the right proportion because it is not a petite. And it has uncomfortable boning in the seams. And it's sleeveless. And you can see my tattoo. And it needs to be dry cleaned.
- Wear the dress I wore to my sister's wedding in May, 2004. (Iridescent light green chiffon with beaded straps.) Pro: It's green and very pretty. Con: It's very sheer and lightweight and hard to match shoes and accessories to. And you can see my tattoo.
- Wear the grey empire waist dress that I wore on a cruise with my parents in May, 1999. (Grey velvet embroidered top, grey chiffon bottom.) Pro: It is a beautiful dress. And I can wear a bra with it. Con: It squishes my boobs down. And you can see part of my tattoo.
- Wear the navy blue dress I wore on that same cruise with my parents. (Navy blue velvet top, midnight blue chiffon skirt, cowl back.) Pro: It fits really well. Con: The zipper won't lie flat. And you can see part, if not all, of my tattoo.
- Wear the bridesmaid's dress from Nicole's wedding. (Navy blue satin two piece with low v-back and subtle beading at the empire waist.) Pro: It fits really well. I can wear a bra with it. And it has a matching wrap that I can use to cover up my tattoo. Con: It looks like a bridesmaid dress, which is somewhat inappropriate.
- Wear the black dress I wore to the law firm's office Christmas party in 2006. (Black chiffon, beading at waist, low cut.) Pro: It is a gorgeous dress and fits me well. Plus it's black, which means that I can find a wrap to wear easily. Con: It's black -- I'd rather wear something with color. Oh, and without a wrap, you can see my tattoo.
- Figure out a way to lose the better part of ten pounds by Saturday. Pro: My beautiful new Nanette Lepore dress would fit. As would some other options. Con: You'd probably still see my tattoo. And I'd probably make myself sick. Oh, and it's not likely to happen.
- Try to find a new dress. Pro: I get a new dress. Con: I have to buy a new dress when I have tons of dresses in my closet. And I'd have to go shopping, when I'm already stressed enough.
What to do, what to do?
Update: I added links to pictures of the dresses in question. Let me know what you think.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Trial, day 6
I stayed up late last night working on my outline for today's cross-examination. In retrospect, I think I should have taken the "simpler is better" approach, since I made all the points I would have made even without the last-minute revisions, and now I just have another witness to prepare for anyway, and less time to do it with.
But forget about all that. The most interesting thing that happened in today's installment of the kabuki theater that is trial involved a bomb threat. And the requisite bomb-sniffing dogs.
The officers were wandering around the halls of the courthouse, flashlights in hand, accounting for all of the stray bags and boxes. The dogs were especially interested in our paralegal's leftovers from lunch. And, when we asked, one of the officers said that the dogs' sniffing and barking was meaningless -- but that if the dogs suddenly sat down, the officers would run.
Then one of the dogs sat down.
No one ran, though. And nothing exploded. Yet. My head is still a prime target.
But forget about all that. The most interesting thing that happened in today's installment of the kabuki theater that is trial involved a bomb threat. And the requisite bomb-sniffing dogs.
The officers were wandering around the halls of the courthouse, flashlights in hand, accounting for all of the stray bags and boxes. The dogs were especially interested in our paralegal's leftovers from lunch. And, when we asked, one of the officers said that the dogs' sniffing and barking was meaningless -- but that if the dogs suddenly sat down, the officers would run.
Then one of the dogs sat down.
No one ran, though. And nothing exploded. Yet. My head is still a prime target.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Trial, day 5
The trial started off great today. I had two witnesses on cross-examination, a fact witness and an expert witness. I kicked ass on the expert witness. I made all my points, quickly and effortlessly. And the best part was that it was over and done before he even knew what happened to him.
In the afternoon, I had the fact witness. It was going so well. And then, I made two mistakes -- and in the process, did three things that a lawyer should never do.
First, I violated the "one question too many" rule. It's a pretty basic concept. You work real hard to set everything up perfectly, and the witness is going along with it, agreeing with everything you say -- and then you ask the one question that clues the witness into where the questioning is going, and he starts to rethink and backtrack from everything he said previously.
At that point, the judge needed to take a break to take a phone call. So, instead of taking the break, I rested, which was bad on two levels. First of all, taking a break instead of resting would have given me the opportunity to confer with my co-counsel to go over things I may have missed. And second, it was stupid to end on a note that wasn't great. I could have redeemed myself.
Rookie mistake. I'll have to make up for it tomorrow.
In the afternoon, I had the fact witness. It was going so well. And then, I made two mistakes -- and in the process, did three things that a lawyer should never do.
First, I violated the "one question too many" rule. It's a pretty basic concept. You work real hard to set everything up perfectly, and the witness is going along with it, agreeing with everything you say -- and then you ask the one question that clues the witness into where the questioning is going, and he starts to rethink and backtrack from everything he said previously.
At that point, the judge needed to take a break to take a phone call. So, instead of taking the break, I rested, which was bad on two levels. First of all, taking a break instead of resting would have given me the opportunity to confer with my co-counsel to go over things I may have missed. And second, it was stupid to end on a note that wasn't great. I could have redeemed myself.
Rookie mistake. I'll have to make up for it tomorrow.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Dear Pat Robertson
Dear Pat Robertson,
Once upon a time, while I would disagree vehemently with everything you stand for, I would have to grudgingly acknowledge your brilliance in managing to unite evangelical Christians for political purposes, i.e. electing Republicans, and turning it into a largely influential political movement. Hey, Mike Huckabee won Iowa today, and he's one of your guys, right?
But word on the street is that you're back to your old shenanigans, making random predictions and thinly-veiled threats of chaos and violence.
On the plus side, at least you're not trying to predict the weather or terrorist attacks, sans computer models or highly-classified intel. And guessing that there's going to be a recession and the stock market is going to crash when there's a "downturn" in the market isn't really putting yourself that far out on a limb.
Still, a word of advice: Evidence has shown that people who claim to hear the word of God are either (1)lying, (2) crazy, or (3) high. Sometimes they're a combination of more than one.
Sometimes the best thing you can do is keep quiet.
Regards,
Dara
Once upon a time, while I would disagree vehemently with everything you stand for, I would have to grudgingly acknowledge your brilliance in managing to unite evangelical Christians for political purposes, i.e. electing Republicans, and turning it into a largely influential political movement. Hey, Mike Huckabee won Iowa today, and he's one of your guys, right?
But word on the street is that you're back to your old shenanigans, making random predictions and thinly-veiled threats of chaos and violence.
On the plus side, at least you're not trying to predict the weather or terrorist attacks, sans computer models or highly-classified intel. And guessing that there's going to be a recession and the stock market is going to crash when there's a "downturn" in the market isn't really putting yourself that far out on a limb.
Still, a word of advice: Evidence has shown that people who claim to hear the word of God are either (1)lying, (2) crazy, or (3) high. Sometimes they're a combination of more than one.
Sometimes the best thing you can do is keep quiet.
Regards,
Dara
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Bah humbug
Even though the mass media would have you think this time of year brings out the best in people, my personal experience is that it does exactly the opposite. Everyone is rushed and busy and striving for some kind of perfect holiday, and in being that way, they inevitably wreak havoc on everyone and everything that gets in their way.
I'm not any different.
Take last week at work. We're planning the office party, which happens to be reviving an old tradition -- the gag gift secret Santa. The tradition had been all but extinguished because at various times, feelings had been hurt by insensitive and occasionally inappropriate gifts. But this year, we got the go-ahead to try again -- a probation of sorts. Everyone wants this to work, to keep the tradition from dying out for good.
One of my friends decided to be in charge of the process, but it became clear that he didn't have some of the organizational details down -- such as how participants have to both give and receive gifts, and that it's not "secret" if you are both on the list and making the list. So, in a way that was probably less than diplomatic, I interceded and said that I'd be in charge of the list. Admittedly, the way I went about it was undoubtedly bossy and overbearing, but in my head, I just was trying to help.
I sent an email announcing that I'd be in charge of the list. In a joking way, I referred to it as a "bloodless coup." Another co-worker got offended by my tone and, apparently, the fact that I took over in a bossy manner. So, she cornered me and proceeded to lecture me about how horrible I was. At first I thought she was joking, and then, once I realized that she was, indeed, serious, I got offended by her tone -- which I would later describe as "essentially calling me a bitch without actually using that word." I did, however, understand her point that I might have stepped over the line. So, I apologized to my friend. At the end of the day, I thought it was over and done with.
The next day, the coworker who lectured me came into my office, purportedly to apologize. Of course, she did this by first telling me that we're still friends, then by telling me that she never actually used the word "bitch" to describe my behavior, and third, by telling me how wrong my behavior had been. She repeated the third point four times. The first time, I said, "I got your point. I was offended by your tone yesterday, but I got your point. And I apologized, and it's over now, so let's move on."
The second time, I said, "Alright, I get it, it's done. Can we stop now?"
The third time, I just said, "Can we stop? Please."
When she continued, I said something offensive, taking her lord's name in vain and using a very bad word, one that's not allowed on television. She then said, "Now I'm offended" and stormed out of my office.
Clearly, I shouldn't have gone for the nuclear option. But I was pushed.
Damn holidays.
I'm not any different.
Take last week at work. We're planning the office party, which happens to be reviving an old tradition -- the gag gift secret Santa. The tradition had been all but extinguished because at various times, feelings had been hurt by insensitive and occasionally inappropriate gifts. But this year, we got the go-ahead to try again -- a probation of sorts. Everyone wants this to work, to keep the tradition from dying out for good.
One of my friends decided to be in charge of the process, but it became clear that he didn't have some of the organizational details down -- such as how participants have to both give and receive gifts, and that it's not "secret" if you are both on the list and making the list. So, in a way that was probably less than diplomatic, I interceded and said that I'd be in charge of the list. Admittedly, the way I went about it was undoubtedly bossy and overbearing, but in my head, I just was trying to help.
I sent an email announcing that I'd be in charge of the list. In a joking way, I referred to it as a "bloodless coup." Another co-worker got offended by my tone and, apparently, the fact that I took over in a bossy manner. So, she cornered me and proceeded to lecture me about how horrible I was. At first I thought she was joking, and then, once I realized that she was, indeed, serious, I got offended by her tone -- which I would later describe as "essentially calling me a bitch without actually using that word." I did, however, understand her point that I might have stepped over the line. So, I apologized to my friend. At the end of the day, I thought it was over and done with.
The next day, the coworker who lectured me came into my office, purportedly to apologize. Of course, she did this by first telling me that we're still friends, then by telling me that she never actually used the word "bitch" to describe my behavior, and third, by telling me how wrong my behavior had been. She repeated the third point four times. The first time, I said, "I got your point. I was offended by your tone yesterday, but I got your point. And I apologized, and it's over now, so let's move on."
The second time, I said, "Alright, I get it, it's done. Can we stop now?"
The third time, I just said, "Can we stop? Please."
When she continued, I said something offensive, taking her lord's name in vain and using a very bad word, one that's not allowed on television. She then said, "Now I'm offended" and stormed out of my office.
Clearly, I shouldn't have gone for the nuclear option. But I was pushed.
Damn holidays.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The black hole of doubt
At first, I was nonplussed by last week's phone call -- by how we somehow managed to behave like old, dear friends. Like grownups. But that was before the reality of it all sunk in.
And before he sent me the Thanksgiving text message, opening the floodgates.
Of course, it's exactly how he wanted to play it. At some point he made the decision to call me out of the blue, to have a superficially pleasant conversation, to talk about work and then to segue into telling me that he's possibly coming into town in the next few weeks and would like to see me -- and then, when I politely inquire about some happy news he passed on several months before, it opens the door for him to tell me how everything has fallen apart. Which makes me feel sorry for him -- sorry for how the events in his life have not gone according to plan. Which then makes me start feeling a tinge of guilt for the way we left things all those years ago. The same way he made me -- and eventually everyone else -- feel like I was the bad guy all those years ago.
Now I'm confused and bewildered and feeling badly, on so many levels. And it's snowballed to the point that I can't get it out of my head.
And I'm left asking questions, trying to figure out why he felt the need to talk to me. Or why he waited to spring the news on me the way he did? Why can't he just say what he wants to say -- to tell me what's going on, without the whole setup, the whole bait-and-switch conversation.
And why now, when this time of year is filled with so many lingering ghosts of our past?
And before he sent me the Thanksgiving text message, opening the floodgates.
Of course, it's exactly how he wanted to play it. At some point he made the decision to call me out of the blue, to have a superficially pleasant conversation, to talk about work and then to segue into telling me that he's possibly coming into town in the next few weeks and would like to see me -- and then, when I politely inquire about some happy news he passed on several months before, it opens the door for him to tell me how everything has fallen apart. Which makes me feel sorry for him -- sorry for how the events in his life have not gone according to plan. Which then makes me start feeling a tinge of guilt for the way we left things all those years ago. The same way he made me -- and eventually everyone else -- feel like I was the bad guy all those years ago.
Now I'm confused and bewildered and feeling badly, on so many levels. And it's snowballed to the point that I can't get it out of my head.
And I'm left asking questions, trying to figure out why he felt the need to talk to me. Or why he waited to spring the news on me the way he did? Why can't he just say what he wants to say -- to tell me what's going on, without the whole setup, the whole bait-and-switch conversation.
And why now, when this time of year is filled with so many lingering ghosts of our past?
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Time travel
I was out and about last night/this morning. Well, while that's true, it's imprecise. I was out people watching in a very crowded bar while sipping on a drink. Said bar was what I would describe as "too crowded" and "too loud."
Ultimately, that means only one thing: I'm getting too old.
Sad, isn't it?
But now, in retrospect, I'm a little melancholy. When I was supposed to be in the prime of my bar going years -- mid-twenties -- I was already a gainfully employed "adult." And when I was in graduate school, I was too young to appreciate how good I had it. And now, most of the time, it's the sort of thing I can take or leave.
I wish I could go back in time and fix it. I want to tell younger Dara to not make the same decisions, to not make the same mistakes. To savor the good parts of life while she's young. To make the right decisions, choose the right paths. Because all of a sudden, she'll turn around, and be in her thirties, and the music in the bar is too loud, and there are too many people, and all she'll want to do is sit on a couch and have polite conversation with the people around her without having to scream at them.
Ultimately, that means only one thing: I'm getting too old.
Sad, isn't it?
But now, in retrospect, I'm a little melancholy. When I was supposed to be in the prime of my bar going years -- mid-twenties -- I was already a gainfully employed "adult." And when I was in graduate school, I was too young to appreciate how good I had it. And now, most of the time, it's the sort of thing I can take or leave.
I wish I could go back in time and fix it. I want to tell younger Dara to not make the same decisions, to not make the same mistakes. To savor the good parts of life while she's young. To make the right decisions, choose the right paths. Because all of a sudden, she'll turn around, and be in her thirties, and the music in the bar is too loud, and there are too many people, and all she'll want to do is sit on a couch and have polite conversation with the people around her without having to scream at them.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Hold On, Hold On
Maybe it's the time of year -- the darkness starts to creep in earlier and earlier, the leaves start to fall. Maybe it's the end result of the Jewish holidays, and the taking stock of my life that inevitably ensues. But whatever it is, I always find myself getting a little more pensive than usual around this time.
It's somewhat worse than usual this year -- maybe because of my grandfather, or maybe because I'm not dwelling on the big-picture career issues that I had to distract myself with for the two prior years. But whatever the cause, I'm spending way too much time in my own headspace -- and even for me, it's mildly disturbing.
For the past couple of nights, right around bedtime, I've been listening to Neko Case. I'm pretty sure it's complicating the matter. I'm drifting off into sleep, trying to unravel my own muddled thoughts, listening to certain words:
The most tender place in my heart is for strangers
I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
Lying in bed at night, I'm starting to think I understand this. At least to me, it's about the wall. You know the one -- the wall we all put up, protecting our hearts from others, protecting others from us, protecting ourselves from ourselves. It's easier to be kind when others have no expectations of you and you have no expectations of them.
In the end I was the mean girl
Or somebody's in-between girl
This is the line that kills me, the one I relate to. This makes the whole song make sense to me: The story of the girl taking stock of her poor romantic choices in, of all places, the middle of a wedding -- and resorting to self-medication as the way to get through it all.
In any event, the song just fits. It fits with the somewhat-serious conversation I had with my mother the other day, where somehow, in response to something, I explained to her that, on the inside, I'm still the same scared little kid I've always been, but that from the outside it's hard to see -- or for me to let anyone see it -- because of all of the layers and layers of scar tissue that have accumulated over the years. My mother sort-of chuckled, and asked me why I thought it was any different for her at 60.
The thing is, it's different for her -- she's adept at letting people in. I'm just not built that way.
The funny thing is that I don't want to be this way -- I want to change, to be open and to tell others how I feel, even with the possibility of rejection. But at this point, my behavior is reflexive, a habit. Or maybe it's more than that: It's who I am.
It's somewhat worse than usual this year -- maybe because of my grandfather, or maybe because I'm not dwelling on the big-picture career issues that I had to distract myself with for the two prior years. But whatever the cause, I'm spending way too much time in my own headspace -- and even for me, it's mildly disturbing.
For the past couple of nights, right around bedtime, I've been listening to Neko Case. I'm pretty sure it's complicating the matter. I'm drifting off into sleep, trying to unravel my own muddled thoughts, listening to certain words:
I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
Lying in bed at night, I'm starting to think I understand this. At least to me, it's about the wall. You know the one -- the wall we all put up, protecting our hearts from others, protecting others from us, protecting ourselves from ourselves. It's easier to be kind when others have no expectations of you and you have no expectations of them.
Or somebody's in-between girl
This is the line that kills me, the one I relate to. This makes the whole song make sense to me: The story of the girl taking stock of her poor romantic choices in, of all places, the middle of a wedding -- and resorting to self-medication as the way to get through it all.
In any event, the song just fits. It fits with the somewhat-serious conversation I had with my mother the other day, where somehow, in response to something, I explained to her that, on the inside, I'm still the same scared little kid I've always been, but that from the outside it's hard to see -- or for me to let anyone see it -- because of all of the layers and layers of scar tissue that have accumulated over the years. My mother sort-of chuckled, and asked me why I thought it was any different for her at 60.
The thing is, it's different for her -- she's adept at letting people in. I'm just not built that way.
The funny thing is that I don't want to be this way -- I want to change, to be open and to tell others how I feel, even with the possibility of rejection. But at this point, my behavior is reflexive, a habit. Or maybe it's more than that: It's who I am.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Dorm room beds
Growing up, I always had a twin bed. And no tv, but that's a story for another day.
Sometime around my senior year of high school, my parents got my sister and my brother -- both younger -- queen size waterbeds. Their purported justification was that I was going to be moving out soon. I was annoyed, but even at 17, I would have understood that buying me a new bed was probably a waste of money (that might have been better spent on clothes and shoes).
When I moved into my first dorm room, I looked at the stained little twin mattress in horror. Not because it was so small, but because it was not particularly clean. And it was ancient. But you know what? It was comfortable, and I somehow managed to live with it for the entire year.
My second year, I moved into a historic dorm that had just completed renovations. My dorm room had a new twin sized mattress. Unfortunately, it was covered in vinyl, which made it exceptionally uncomfortable. Still, I lived with it.
I bought a full-sized bed when I graduated and went to law school. But that's not the point.
One of the things I learned in college was that it is possible for two people to fit on a twin-sized bed, even if one of them is over 6 feet tall. It might not be perfect, but it works. Heck, it's a right of passage. And people have survived worse. (Sleeping on the bathroom floor comes to mind, but I'm sure there are worse things than that, too.)
So it really annoys me to read in The Washington Post that whiny, spoiled college students are now getting larger dorm mattresses because twin mattresses are too small.
Maid service too? Sheesh. What's next, wash-dry-fold?
Still, I had to laugh about how the students all basically said the same thing:
I'm sure their parents are all so proud.
Sometime around my senior year of high school, my parents got my sister and my brother -- both younger -- queen size waterbeds. Their purported justification was that I was going to be moving out soon. I was annoyed, but even at 17, I would have understood that buying me a new bed was probably a waste of money (that might have been better spent on clothes and shoes).
When I moved into my first dorm room, I looked at the stained little twin mattress in horror. Not because it was so small, but because it was not particularly clean. And it was ancient. But you know what? It was comfortable, and I somehow managed to live with it for the entire year.
My second year, I moved into a historic dorm that had just completed renovations. My dorm room had a new twin sized mattress. Unfortunately, it was covered in vinyl, which made it exceptionally uncomfortable. Still, I lived with it.
I bought a full-sized bed when I graduated and went to law school. But that's not the point.
One of the things I learned in college was that it is possible for two people to fit on a twin-sized bed, even if one of them is over 6 feet tall. It might not be perfect, but it works. Heck, it's a right of passage. And people have survived worse. (Sleeping on the bathroom floor comes to mind, but I'm sure there are worse things than that, too.)
So it really annoys me to read in The Washington Post that whiny, spoiled college students are now getting larger dorm mattresses because twin mattresses are too small.
University officials hoping to keep students on campus and compete with off-campus housing are trying new room designs and all manner of amenities to appeal to the millennial generation, especially those seeking the comforts of home while in school. Some have given single rooms to students not used to sharing. Others have offered maid service and microwaves. Now they're giving them a larger space on which to lay their heads.
Maid service too? Sheesh. What's next, wash-dry-fold?
Still, I had to laugh about how the students all basically said the same thing:
" . . . And it is easier to fit multiple people."
". . . students also indicated 'that sometimes they are not in the bed alone.'"
". . . And it's definitely much easier to have another person in the bed if the occasion arises."
I'm sure their parents are all so proud.
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