Today I'm supposed to write about my views on gay marriage. But this is really really simple: I have absolutely no problem with it. I have no problem with homosexuality -- many of my favorite people are gay. More significantly, I have no problem with any two consenting adults deciding to form a partnership and pledge their lives to each other. We should all be so lucky.
I can't figure out why people are still so hung up on these types of non-issues. If you don't agree with homosexuality, don't have sex with a same-sex partner. If you don't believe in gay marriage, don't have one. If you don't believe in abortion, don't have one. If you don't believe in Jesus, don't go to church. Your religious values or moral code or ethics or whatever you call it are not the same as everyone else's. Therefore, your ability to do what you want to do -- provided you are not hurting anyone else -- should not be limited by other people's values, and vice-versa. This, my dears, is how freedom and liberty work. If you disagree with that, well, maybe you should remember why the Puritans came here from England back in 1620. (Hint: it had something to do with trying to escape being persecuted for their different beliefs.)
So, yeah, I think people should be allowed to get married to whomever they want, provided that they are of age, able to consent, there are no legal obstacles to the marriage, and -- most importantly -- the other person wants to marry them back. Do I think that various religious institutions have to perform the ceremony? No -- the religious institution is likewise free to make such a choice. But I certainly don't want to be a member of such a biased, prejudiced, closed-minded religious institution.
Yesterday: Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Tomorrow: Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Saturday, October 09, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 17
Today's topic is a book that I've read that changed my views on something. Again, this is particularly difficult because there are so many to choose from. Not just because I read so much -- which I do -- but because almost everything I read affects me in some way. All good books should affect you like that. And the great ones? They should make you think about things in a new way, make you question your beliefs, and inspire you.
That said, in the past few years, I think the book that has affected me the most is The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. First and foremost, she's become one of my favorite authors -- which is especially wonderful because she's still alive AND relatively prolific -- which means that I keep getting to read new things. (And she's even on Twitter! Bonus!)
Anyway, I read the book in a contemporary literature class during my first year of college, but like a lot of things I read in college, I raced through it, just getting what I needed out of it to get a good grade on the paper or exam -- which, sadly, was pretty much like my approach to college in general. (This, ultimately, is why I'm back in school.)
Lucky for me, someone mentioned something about the book to me sometime around the time of the 2004 presidential election, when there was a strange intersect in this country between what seemed a little like fundamentalist religion and right-wing neo-fascist politics. So I re-read the book. And wow! Imagining what might happen if the country took a few more steps towards a social conservatism led by people who interpret the bible literally? SCARY. But what is most frightening is that the book is not all that far-fetched. I mean, usually, when you read dystopic futuristic books, there is some kind of crazy environmental or scientific catastrophe that launches the entire world into a tailspin. But this book? Completely possible, and completely in the control of human beings. So now, every time I hear about some politically-oriented fundamentalist group trying to use biblical literalism to back up some completely immoderate position (see Westboro Baptist Church), all while laughing in the face of basic human values, a little chill goes down my spine. Because this book shows just what is at the end of the slippery-slope. And it's not pretty.
Oh, and the book? Great read. Well written, interesting, fantastic story.
Yesterday: Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Tomorrow: Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
That said, in the past few years, I think the book that has affected me the most is The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. First and foremost, she's become one of my favorite authors -- which is especially wonderful because she's still alive AND relatively prolific -- which means that I keep getting to read new things. (And she's even on Twitter! Bonus!)
Anyway, I read the book in a contemporary literature class during my first year of college, but like a lot of things I read in college, I raced through it, just getting what I needed out of it to get a good grade on the paper or exam -- which, sadly, was pretty much like my approach to college in general. (This, ultimately, is why I'm back in school.)
Lucky for me, someone mentioned something about the book to me sometime around the time of the 2004 presidential election, when there was a strange intersect in this country between what seemed a little like fundamentalist religion and right-wing neo-fascist politics. So I re-read the book. And wow! Imagining what might happen if the country took a few more steps towards a social conservatism led by people who interpret the bible literally? SCARY. But what is most frightening is that the book is not all that far-fetched. I mean, usually, when you read dystopic futuristic books, there is some kind of crazy environmental or scientific catastrophe that launches the entire world into a tailspin. But this book? Completely possible, and completely in the control of human beings. So now, every time I hear about some politically-oriented fundamentalist group trying to use biblical literalism to back up some completely immoderate position (see Westboro Baptist Church), all while laughing in the face of basic human values, a little chill goes down my spine. Because this book shows just what is at the end of the slippery-slope. And it's not pretty.
Oh, and the book? Great read. Well written, interesting, fantastic story.
Yesterday: Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Tomorrow: Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Friday, October 08, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 16
Today's topic is someone or something I definitely could live without.
This is hard because everything is so fundamentally intertwined with everything else. Whether it's causal relationships, tangential relationships, or something else, we all are, in large part, a reaction to the other people and things in our environment. Or, to quote Salman Rushdie: "I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I’ve gone which would not have happened if I had not come."
That being said, I could definitely do without most of the negativity out there in the world. I'm particularly attuned to it during election season, but with the 24-hour news networks and the pundits out there, it's gone from being a cyclical affliction to a constant sickness. Everywhere you turn, it's always people calling each other names and accusing them of all sorts of heinous things while pretty much refusing to take any responsibility for anything or take any steps to make the world better for anyone. Politicians say whatever it takes to get elected and to stay elected and don't do much of anything at all -- at least where it affects real people and their basic needs. And pundits? What the hell do they do except feed off of others' malaise? I could do without all of that: I would like to replace it with leaders who think and act instead of counting their poll numbers and news that reports instead of antagonizes.
Yesterday: Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Tomorrow: Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
This is hard because everything is so fundamentally intertwined with everything else. Whether it's causal relationships, tangential relationships, or something else, we all are, in large part, a reaction to the other people and things in our environment. Or, to quote Salman Rushdie: "I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I’ve gone which would not have happened if I had not come."
That being said, I could definitely do without most of the negativity out there in the world. I'm particularly attuned to it during election season, but with the 24-hour news networks and the pundits out there, it's gone from being a cyclical affliction to a constant sickness. Everywhere you turn, it's always people calling each other names and accusing them of all sorts of heinous things while pretty much refusing to take any responsibility for anything or take any steps to make the world better for anyone. Politicians say whatever it takes to get elected and to stay elected and don't do much of anything at all -- at least where it affects real people and their basic needs. And pundits? What the hell do they do except feed off of others' malaise? I could do without all of that: I would like to replace it with leaders who think and act instead of counting their poll numbers and news that reports instead of antagonizes.
Yesterday: Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Tomorrow: Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 15
Today I'm supposed to write about "something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it."
I have two.
1. Caffeine. As early as high school, I pretty much lived on Diet Coke and coffee. By the time I graduated from law school, I was drinking two or three cups of coffee in the morning, and cans of Diet Coke the rest of the day. I couldn't function without it: I was addicted. So, in 2002, I decided to give up all caffeine -- cold turkey.
Giving up coffee was the easy part. But soda, tea, and chocolate? I lasted six weeks. I started back with a little bit of chocolate and the occasional green tea in the afternoon. And then the Diet Coke. But I stayed off coffee for years -- until my nephew was born in 2009. I was getting my sister a Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee, and I couldn't resist the siren call. I still don't need it the way I used to, but I definitely like having it back in my life, in moderation.
2. Red meat. Remember last summer when I had my little project where I gave up all meat and poultry for 30 days? The first few days were relatively easy, so I kept going. Eventually, though, I got really anemic. Plus, I remembered that I really like meat. So, once again, I reverted. I don't eat a lot of it, but I won't ever rule it out either. Again, it turns out that, for me, moderation is the key.
Yesterday: Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Tomorrow: Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
I have two.
1. Caffeine. As early as high school, I pretty much lived on Diet Coke and coffee. By the time I graduated from law school, I was drinking two or three cups of coffee in the morning, and cans of Diet Coke the rest of the day. I couldn't function without it: I was addicted. So, in 2002, I decided to give up all caffeine -- cold turkey.
Giving up coffee was the easy part. But soda, tea, and chocolate? I lasted six weeks. I started back with a little bit of chocolate and the occasional green tea in the afternoon. And then the Diet Coke. But I stayed off coffee for years -- until my nephew was born in 2009. I was getting my sister a Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee, and I couldn't resist the siren call. I still don't need it the way I used to, but I definitely like having it back in my life, in moderation.
2. Red meat. Remember last summer when I had my little project where I gave up all meat and poultry for 30 days? The first few days were relatively easy, so I kept going. Eventually, though, I got really anemic. Plus, I remembered that I really like meat. So, once again, I reverted. I don't eat a lot of it, but I won't ever rule it out either. Again, it turns out that, for me, moderation is the key.
Yesterday: Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Tomorrow: Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 14
Today's topic is a letter to hero that has let me down. The problem? I don't really have any heroes -- never have. Growing up, I didn't put any faith in political or religious figures, and I was never naive enough to believe that actors or athletes or rock stars were any more or any less than just people with a particular talent. I am a skeptic -- and it's hard to truly be let down when you've never truly believed in anything in the first place.
The closest I ever got to heroes were authors. But most of them were already dead by the time I got around to reading their books. And, honestly, I can't remember ever really being let down by them. Just the opposite.
Yesterday: Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Tomorrow: Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
The closest I ever got to heroes were authors. But most of them were already dead by the time I got around to reading their books. And, honestly, I can't remember ever really being let down by them. Just the opposite.
Yesterday: Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Tomorrow: Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 13
Today I'm supposed to write a letter to a band or artist that has gotten me through tough times. My letter would be way too goofy. Instead, I'll just make a few comments.
As anyone who knows me already knows, my favorite band is U2. Heck, it was pretty much the soundtrack of my entire adolescence, from The Unforgettable Fire to The Joshua Tree to Rattle and Hum to Achtung Baby. To this day, whenever I need inspiration, I invariably default to The Joshua Tree or The Unforgettable Fire. Right before my mom died, I had gotten the 20th Anniversary deluxe re-release of The Joshua Tree, and I remember listening to it a lot in the hotel room in Newark.
Still, if I had to say that there was one song that helped me get through my mom's death, it wouldn't be a U2 song. It was, of all the random things in the world, a Lifehouse song -- Broken. A silly little pop song that made me pull over to the side of the road and bawl my eyes out.
It still brings me right back to that moment, when I was so lost, and so alone, and I had no idea what I was going to do next. Barely holding on, indeed.
Yesterday: Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Tomorrow: Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
As anyone who knows me already knows, my favorite band is U2. Heck, it was pretty much the soundtrack of my entire adolescence, from The Unforgettable Fire to The Joshua Tree to Rattle and Hum to Achtung Baby. To this day, whenever I need inspiration, I invariably default to The Joshua Tree or The Unforgettable Fire. Right before my mom died, I had gotten the 20th Anniversary deluxe re-release of The Joshua Tree, and I remember listening to it a lot in the hotel room in Newark.
Still, if I had to say that there was one song that helped me get through my mom's death, it wouldn't be a U2 song. It was, of all the random things in the world, a Lifehouse song -- Broken. A silly little pop song that made me pull over to the side of the road and bawl my eyes out.
The broken clock is a comfort
It helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow
From stealing all my time
And I am here still waiting
Though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best
Like you've already figured out
I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
There is healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you
The broken locks were a warning
You got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded
I'm an open book instead
And I still see your reflection
Inside of my eyes
That are looking for purpose
They're still looking for life
I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
Is there healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you
I'm hanging on another day
Just to see what, you will throw my way
And I'm hanging on, to the words you say
You said that I will, will be okay
The broken light on the freeway
Left me here alone
I may have lost my way now
But I haven't forgotten my way home
I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
There is healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
Barely holding on to you
Barely holdin on to you
It still brings me right back to that moment, when I was so lost, and so alone, and I had no idea what I was going to do next. Barely holding on, indeed.
Yesterday: Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Tomorrow: Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Monday, October 04, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 12
Today I'm supposed to write about something I never get compliments on.
My taste in boyfriends.
My close friends and family members NEVER like the people I date. And when it ends, I always get some variation on "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?"
Yesterday: Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Tomorrow: Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
My taste in boyfriends.
My close friends and family members NEVER like the people I date. And when it ends, I always get some variation on "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?"
Yesterday: Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Tomorrow: Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Sunday, October 03, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 11
Today's topic is something people seem to compliment you the most on. For me, compliments tend to come in two varieties: compliments about my physical appearance or compliments about my mental abilities. People are either telling me that I have pretty eyes or that I'm funny; that I'm cute or I'm smart. I'm not complaining.
Although it was really weird when a lady on Metro told me that I had the most beautiful hands that she had ever seen.
Yesterday: Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Tomorrow: Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Although it was really weird when a lady on Metro told me that I had the most beautiful hands that she had ever seen.
Yesterday: Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Tomorrow: Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 10
Today I'm supposed to write about someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know. And, to be honest, this is something I'm working on. As bad as I may be at staying in close contact with people (see yesterday's post), it takes an awful lot for me to completely let people go. I almost never do it, instead leaving the door open just enough.
That never works out well. I need to completely shut out the people that hurt me, take advantage of me, don't have my best interests at heart, don't love me for me -- but instead for what I do for them. I need to decline their invitations to engage, instead of worrying about whether it's rude to ignore them: I need to ignore them. I need to stop picking up the phone when they call and responding to the emails and the texts. I need to let them go.
Yesterday: Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Tomorrow: Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
That never works out well. I need to completely shut out the people that hurt me, take advantage of me, don't have my best interests at heart, don't love me for me -- but instead for what I do for them. I need to decline their invitations to engage, instead of worrying about whether it's rude to ignore them: I need to ignore them. I need to stop picking up the phone when they call and responding to the emails and the texts. I need to let them go.
Yesterday: Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Tomorrow: Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Friday, October 01, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 9
Today I'm supposed to write about someone that I didn’t want to let go, but just drifted. And there are a ton of people that this could apply to. Every time I transition to a new city or a new phase of life, I seem to get worse and worse at keeping in touch with my friends from before. And my family? Since my mom died, I barely keep in touch with any of them -- I haven't spoken with my aunt in two years. It doesn't necessarily mean that I don't think about these people, miss them, and, in my own way, love them. What it does mean is that I get busy and life distracts me, and as a result, I am completely horrible at finding time to stay in touch. Facebook and email help, but I know it's not enough.
Still, that's not really what this topic makes me think about. It makes me think about my sister. Growing up, we were so close -- best friends. Once I left for college, though, it seems like the whole dynamic changed and we started drifting apart. Now, all of a sudden, it's like she's a complete stranger. The socio-economic differences in our lifestyles don't help.
As the older sister, I've always been there for her when she needed me. Then it started to seem like the more I do for her, the harder she pushes me away. Other people in the family get angry with her, and up until recently, I always found myself defending her. But now, I find that I can't do it anymore -- I can't defend her, and I can't always run to her rescue when she calls me. So, over the summer, I stopped calling. And she hasn't called me either -- I haven't spoken to her since June. (I have spoken with her husband, as he still calls me on occasion.)
I don't have it in me to maintain a relationship that is a one-way street. So, in my own way, I let go. Either way, it hurts like hell. And I miss her.
Yesterday: Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Tomorrow: Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Still, that's not really what this topic makes me think about. It makes me think about my sister. Growing up, we were so close -- best friends. Once I left for college, though, it seems like the whole dynamic changed and we started drifting apart. Now, all of a sudden, it's like she's a complete stranger. The socio-economic differences in our lifestyles don't help.
As the older sister, I've always been there for her when she needed me. Then it started to seem like the more I do for her, the harder she pushes me away. Other people in the family get angry with her, and up until recently, I always found myself defending her. But now, I find that I can't do it anymore -- I can't defend her, and I can't always run to her rescue when she calls me. So, over the summer, I stopped calling. And she hasn't called me either -- I haven't spoken to her since June. (I have spoken with her husband, as he still calls me on occasion.)
I don't have it in me to maintain a relationship that is a one-way street. So, in my own way, I let go. Either way, it hurts like hell. And I miss her.
Yesterday: Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Tomorrow: Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 8
Today's topic is "someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit." I'm going to resist the urge to write about family members here. Because, let's face it, while certain ones drive me crazy, and too many of my relationships are out of balance, that's not really what this is about.
So I'm going to talk about teachers. I did, on occasion have supportive, encouraging teachers, but they were the exception, not the rule. More often that not, however, I wound up with teachers that did not understand me, and wound up trying to discourage me. It was really frustrating for me -- and probably more so for my mother.
As a kid, I was always reading and writing stories. I'd read on the bus, under my desk, during lunch, on the playground during recess -- and my teachers used to actively discourage it! One teacher kept commenting to my grandmother (who worked at the school) that they needed to get me to put down the books and play more, "like all of the other kids." And I got in trouble for reading things that were age-inappropriate -- i.e. too advanced. I was also in a gifted program that took us out of class to do additional work, and we were expected to make up all the regular classwork that we missed.
I always felt that I was being punished for being smart. So I would act up -- I stopped reading what I was assigned, I refused to do my homework. In short, I decided to purposefully stop participating in the system. It took my mother a long time to figure my behavior out, but eventually she understood. It got somewhat better when we started having classes that were tracked for "gifted" or "honors."
Still, in a high school gifted English class, I had a teacher that tried to get me kicked out of the program because I refused to write a five-paragraph essay that just regurgitated the points that she made about the books. I had written a paper with my own ideas, in my own way, and in my own voice -- and rather than encouraging me to think for myself and try to support my own conclusions, she tried to punish me. And again, I was lucky enough to have a mother who encouraged me and fought for me.
Yesterday: Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Tomorrow: Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
So I'm going to talk about teachers. I did, on occasion have supportive, encouraging teachers, but they were the exception, not the rule. More often that not, however, I wound up with teachers that did not understand me, and wound up trying to discourage me. It was really frustrating for me -- and probably more so for my mother.
As a kid, I was always reading and writing stories. I'd read on the bus, under my desk, during lunch, on the playground during recess -- and my teachers used to actively discourage it! One teacher kept commenting to my grandmother (who worked at the school) that they needed to get me to put down the books and play more, "like all of the other kids." And I got in trouble for reading things that were age-inappropriate -- i.e. too advanced. I was also in a gifted program that took us out of class to do additional work, and we were expected to make up all the regular classwork that we missed.
I always felt that I was being punished for being smart. So I would act up -- I stopped reading what I was assigned, I refused to do my homework. In short, I decided to purposefully stop participating in the system. It took my mother a long time to figure my behavior out, but eventually she understood. It got somewhat better when we started having classes that were tracked for "gifted" or "honors."
Still, in a high school gifted English class, I had a teacher that tried to get me kicked out of the program because I refused to write a five-paragraph essay that just regurgitated the points that she made about the books. I had written a paper with my own ideas, in my own way, and in my own voice -- and rather than encouraging me to think for myself and try to support my own conclusions, she tried to punish me. And again, I was lucky enough to have a mother who encouraged me and fought for me.
Yesterday: Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Tomorrow: Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 7
Today I'm supposed to write about "someone who has made your life worth living for."
I was born. It was not my choice; it was my parents' choice to have me. (This is particularly timely today, on what would have been my parents' 36th wedding anniversary.) I am grateful for that -- glad to be alive, in the present time, in my present circumstances. I am cognizant of the myriad ways that the stars had to align for everything that I am and everything that I have to even be possible. But yet, I don't live for or because of any of that.
The idea of someone -- just one person -- who made your life worth living? It's trying to reduce your entire existence to one relationship. To me, that seems dangerous, lacking in a solid foundation. Life is more beautiful, more subtle, more complicated than that.
I live for me. Maybe that's selfish.
Yesterday: Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Tomorrow: Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
I was born. It was not my choice; it was my parents' choice to have me. (This is particularly timely today, on what would have been my parents' 36th wedding anniversary.) I am grateful for that -- glad to be alive, in the present time, in my present circumstances. I am cognizant of the myriad ways that the stars had to align for everything that I am and everything that I have to even be possible. But yet, I don't live for or because of any of that.
The idea of someone -- just one person -- who made your life worth living? It's trying to reduce your entire existence to one relationship. To me, that seems dangerous, lacking in a solid foundation. Life is more beautiful, more subtle, more complicated than that.
I live for me. Maybe that's selfish.
Yesterday: Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Tomorrow: Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 6
Today's topic is "something you hope you never have to do."
This brings me to something I think about a lot: death and loss. I wish I had never had to learn how to lose someone I loved and how to grieve. But ultimately, loss and death and grief are universal -- we all have to go through it at some point. If you're lucky, you don't have to think about it until you're good and old and perhaps ready to let go of things. Personally, I think had to learn the lesson a little too young. In the absence of that lesson, I would say that I hope I never have to go through the loss of anyone that I love, but now I know just how unrealistic that is. Besides, my grandmother is 85 and my dad is almost 70. Ultimately, eventually, I will lose them both -- and perhaps my siblings, other family members, and friends. I now know that life is like that, and all you can do is love the people you love while they're around for you to love them. It sounds so simple, doesn't it?
Every once in a while, my dad and I talk about "what ifs," and things like his health care directives. As far as I know, he hasn't reduced any of it to writing yet, but I know he's going to put me in charge. And I hope that I never have to make any of those decisions. I would be no good at it: I am no good at letting go.
Yesterday: Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Tomorrow: Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
This brings me to something I think about a lot: death and loss. I wish I had never had to learn how to lose someone I loved and how to grieve. But ultimately, loss and death and grief are universal -- we all have to go through it at some point. If you're lucky, you don't have to think about it until you're good and old and perhaps ready to let go of things. Personally, I think had to learn the lesson a little too young. In the absence of that lesson, I would say that I hope I never have to go through the loss of anyone that I love, but now I know just how unrealistic that is. Besides, my grandmother is 85 and my dad is almost 70. Ultimately, eventually, I will lose them both -- and perhaps my siblings, other family members, and friends. I now know that life is like that, and all you can do is love the people you love while they're around for you to love them. It sounds so simple, doesn't it?
Every once in a while, my dad and I talk about "what ifs," and things like his health care directives. As far as I know, he hasn't reduced any of it to writing yet, but I know he's going to put me in charge. And I hope that I never have to make any of those decisions. I would be no good at it: I am no good at letting go.
Yesterday: Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Tomorrow: Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Monday, September 27, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 5
Today I'm supposed to write about something I hope to do in my life.
There are a quite a few that come to mind. Many of the first ones were travel related: I would like to see every state, go to a baseball game in every major league park, travel the world. And then there are the accomplishment goals: I would like to write a book, get my Ph.D. But all of these are small goals -- and are all things that I've at least started working on.
Then I realize what the real answer is: I hope to someday have a family. This is something that I didn't really know or understand until a few years ago. If you had asked me if I wanted kids when I was 25, I probably would have looked at you like you were crazy. If you had asked me the same question at 30, I probably would have said maybe, but not any time in the near future. Then I lost my mother -- and as a result, I realize the importance of having a family, of having ties both to the past and to the future. I want to have those ties.
Will it ever happen? I don't know. Everything else seems so much more controllable for me.
Yesterday: Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Tomorrow: Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
There are a quite a few that come to mind. Many of the first ones were travel related: I would like to see every state, go to a baseball game in every major league park, travel the world. And then there are the accomplishment goals: I would like to write a book, get my Ph.D. But all of these are small goals -- and are all things that I've at least started working on.
Then I realize what the real answer is: I hope to someday have a family. This is something that I didn't really know or understand until a few years ago. If you had asked me if I wanted kids when I was 25, I probably would have looked at you like you were crazy. If you had asked me the same question at 30, I probably would have said maybe, but not any time in the near future. Then I lost my mother -- and as a result, I realize the importance of having a family, of having ties both to the past and to the future. I want to have those ties.
Will it ever happen? I don't know. Everything else seems so much more controllable for me.
Yesterday: Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Tomorrow: Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 4
Today I'm supposed to write about something you have to forgive someone for.
This takes me to Buddhism.
Don't worry, I'll explain.
A few months back, I read some Buddhist philosophy that moved me. My biggest take-away is a quote from Pema Chödrön, "stop having expectations of others and just be kind." (There's another quote from another Buddhist nun that I read recently that strikes me in the same way: "We don’t get angry because the glass is broken, we get angry because we thought the glass would never break.")
When I was at the spa a few weeks back, I took a meditation class. One of the instructors had us try to find a mantra to meditate to. Her instruction was to breathe in a gift that we were giving to our self, and breathe out a gift that we were giving to the world. The Pema Chödrön quote was my inspiration -- my inhalation thought is "letting go" and exhalation is "kindness". For the record, this works a lot better than some random Sanskrit word or focusing on various parts of my body.
So what does this have to do with forgiveness? I have to forgive people -- particularly my family and friends, and most specifically, my father -- for not living up to my expectations. I'm working on it, every day, by trying to let go of those expectations. Some days it's easy, other days, not so much.
Yesterday: Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Tomorrow: Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
This takes me to Buddhism.
Don't worry, I'll explain.
A few months back, I read some Buddhist philosophy that moved me. My biggest take-away is a quote from Pema Chödrön, "stop having expectations of others and just be kind." (There's another quote from another Buddhist nun that I read recently that strikes me in the same way: "We don’t get angry because the glass is broken, we get angry because we thought the glass would never break.")
When I was at the spa a few weeks back, I took a meditation class. One of the instructors had us try to find a mantra to meditate to. Her instruction was to breathe in a gift that we were giving to our self, and breathe out a gift that we were giving to the world. The Pema Chödrön quote was my inspiration -- my inhalation thought is "letting go" and exhalation is "kindness". For the record, this works a lot better than some random Sanskrit word or focusing on various parts of my body.
So what does this have to do with forgiveness? I have to forgive people -- particularly my family and friends, and most specifically, my father -- for not living up to my expectations. I'm working on it, every day, by trying to let go of those expectations. Some days it's easy, other days, not so much.
Yesterday: Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Tomorrow: Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 3
Today's mission is to write "something you have to forgive yourself for."
I have to forgive myself for not being perfect.
I struggle with this, day in, day out. I hold myself to an impossible standard, and I am constantly disappointed when I can't meet those expectations. It also works in tandem with the walls I wrote about on Day 1 -- I don't let anyone close enough to see beyond the facade out of fear that they can see the imperfections. I know this. I understand this. And still, every day, it is a challenge.
Yesterday: Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Tomorrow: Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
I have to forgive myself for not being perfect.
I struggle with this, day in, day out. I hold myself to an impossible standard, and I am constantly disappointed when I can't meet those expectations. It also works in tandem with the walls I wrote about on Day 1 -- I don't let anyone close enough to see beyond the facade out of fear that they can see the imperfections. I know this. I understand this. And still, every day, it is a challenge.
Yesterday: Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Tomorrow: Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Friday, September 24, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 2
For Day 2, I'm supposed to write about something I really love about myself. This, too, presents a challenge, because there are so many things about me which are loveable.
For example:
Clearly then, I am awesome. And I love that.
Yesterday: Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Tomorrow: Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
For example:
- I am cute. I have pretty eyes, and dainty features. My hands are nice, especially when my nails are long. I have small feet, and my toes are not gross.
- I am very strong for as small as I am.
- I am a really good person and a really good friend. I am a good listener. I am reliable. I am honorable. I am not purposefully hurtful. And, despite what my brother might tell you, I am very nurturing.
- I am smart, I am clever, I am witty, I am funny -- and I know that "smart, clever, and witty" and "clever, witty, and funny," while related, are not precisely the same thing.
- I know the difference between their, there, and they're, and how to use them in correctly-spelled, correctly-punctuated, complex sentences. (Take that, oxford comma!)
- I am good at my job. I am organized, precise, able to multi-task. I am a good researcher. I am a good student. I am a good reader. I ask thoughtful questions. I am a quick learner, and people generally only have to explain things to me once.
- I have an exceptionally good memory.
- I can keep plants alive.
- Giant t-shirt collection notwithstanding, I have excellent taste in shoes and clothes. I also have an uncanny ability to bargain shop.
- I am quite decent at fantasy baseball and fantasy football -- and don't have to qualify that with "for a girl."
- I can make a sock monkey. From, like, actual socks.
- I can gift wrap presents like no one's business.
- I make great cookies.
Clearly then, I am awesome. And I love that.
Yesterday: Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Tomorrow: Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 1
So, for Day 1, I'm supposed to write "something you hate about yourself." At first this seems easy -- I have a host of things about myself that I really don't like. I don't like my weight. I don't like my thighs. I don't like how little motivation I have lately. I don't like how easily I give up on things. I don't like how materialistic I can be.
But none of those really advances to the level of hate.
What I do hate are my walls. Almost all of who I present to the world is facade, and my real self is locked away. I don't let people in -- at all -- and as a result, I find myself often feeling that there is no one out there that really knows me. Even my family -- they only see fragments and spectres.
I've gotten close to letting people in -- and there are times when those people probably think I've done so -- but it's never more than just a glimmer, and then I get scared and close back up. I wish I could stop it. I don't know how.
For tomorrow: Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
But none of those really advances to the level of hate.
What I do hate are my walls. Almost all of who I present to the world is facade, and my real self is locked away. I don't let people in -- at all -- and as a result, I find myself often feeling that there is no one out there that really knows me. Even my family -- they only see fragments and spectres.
I've gotten close to letting people in -- and there are times when those people probably think I've done so -- but it's never more than just a glimmer, and then I get scared and close back up. I wish I could stop it. I don't know how.
For tomorrow: Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
30 Days of Truth: The Prologue
Let's face it kids. I haven't exactly been prolific lately. Don't get me wrong: I have tons of ideas of things I want to say -- in my head, in my notebooks, in draft form -- but I haven't really had the inspiration to write anything of significance in weeks, maybe months.
So then I stumbled across this meme -- 30 Days of Truth. GirlVaughn is doing it. Thinking Too Hard is doing it. So now, I'm doing it: 30 days of me trying to write things that are brutally honest.
Here is the schedule:
Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.
So then I stumbled across this meme -- 30 Days of Truth. GirlVaughn is doing it. Thinking Too Hard is doing it. So now, I'm doing it: 30 days of me trying to write things that are brutally honest.
Here is the schedule:
Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Los Angeles Thoughts
I always relate Los Angeles to my mother. She always told great stories about when she lived out here in the late 60s/early 70s. When I'm out here, I often wonder about her experiences -- what it was like for her to just pick up and leave the east coast at such a young age, with no one but distant family around. Then I realize that I did the same thing at right around the same age. The only difference was that I never went back.
When I checked into the hotel, they put me in room 1015. My mom's birthday. Weird.
When I checked into the hotel, they put me in room 1015. My mom's birthday. Weird.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Bad luck or bad karma?
I almost never write about dating. There are many reasons for that, but they probably all boil down to the same central concept: I am no good at it, and I don't want to give my friends any more ammunition than they already have. Still, sometimes there is a really really good (read: horrible) story that just needs to be told. Today, the merit of the story outweighs my general rule.
A few months back, by happenstance, I met a guy. Right age, right religion, single, liked a lot of the same things, worked in a similar job, similar background, had interests outside of being a lawyer . . . in other words, he was perfect on paper. (Of course, the last time someone was perfect on paper, he wound up dumping me in the IHOP. I should really know better.)
Anyway, the guy and I hit it off almost instantaneously, but because of work, we didn't go out right away. Instead, we spent a few weeks getting to know each other through long email conversations. Eventually, we went on a first date, and a second. I even told my best friend about him, which is something I generally don't do unless I've been seeing someone for a while -- like a month or more.
Anyway, then we went on what was our third or maybe even fourth date. To a relatively early movie, on a random midweek evening.
For those of you who don't know, I like to watch movies. I pay attention. I think about plot twists and acting and cinematography.
I am also not a teenager. This is an important detail.
So, the movie started, and about five minutes in, the guy started pawing at me, like we were sixteen years old and sitting in the back of a theater in a suburban mall -- instead of mid-30s professionals sitting in a downtown art house theater. I politely pushed him away.
He did this on and off for the next two hours, to the same result.
Now, granted, I can occasionally be cute, but I am not that irresistible. And I expect to have my boundaries respected. So by the time the movie was over, I was really annoyed and felt more than a little violated.
He sent me an email that night telling me how nice I was. I ignored his email, and several other attempts at contact over the next several days. I thought about responding and telling him what I was thinking -- and if I were really a grown up, I would have explained and given him a second chance or something -- but ultimately, I am a child, and in that moment, I lacked the desire and motivation to communicate. So, instead, I continued to ignore him and instead concentrated on work -- which, in my defense, was really busy. Not being a total and complete dumbass, the guy eventually got the message and stopped pursuing me.
I thought this was the end, but still, had an inkling that it wasn't. I mean, we don't work with each other, but we run in some of the same circles. I understood that, eventually, my luck would run out, as it always does.
Which brings me to last week, when I was looking for concert tickets on Craigslist and ran across an interesting personal ad. I pretty much never respond to those things. Really. But the ad was interesting and funny and witty and my curiosity got the best of me. So I wrote a quick note in response to the ad.
Of course, it was him. And rather than ignore it (like I would have), he decided to write me back, making a joke about trying to figure out what etiquette dictates. And what would Emily Post or Miss Manners do? Well, they wouldn't have responded to a Craigslist ad in the first place. So now, here I am, completely mortified. FML.
A few months back, by happenstance, I met a guy. Right age, right religion, single, liked a lot of the same things, worked in a similar job, similar background, had interests outside of being a lawyer . . . in other words, he was perfect on paper. (Of course, the last time someone was perfect on paper, he wound up dumping me in the IHOP. I should really know better.)
Anyway, the guy and I hit it off almost instantaneously, but because of work, we didn't go out right away. Instead, we spent a few weeks getting to know each other through long email conversations. Eventually, we went on a first date, and a second. I even told my best friend about him, which is something I generally don't do unless I've been seeing someone for a while -- like a month or more.
Anyway, then we went on what was our third or maybe even fourth date. To a relatively early movie, on a random midweek evening.
For those of you who don't know, I like to watch movies. I pay attention. I think about plot twists and acting and cinematography.
I am also not a teenager. This is an important detail.
So, the movie started, and about five minutes in, the guy started pawing at me, like we were sixteen years old and sitting in the back of a theater in a suburban mall -- instead of mid-30s professionals sitting in a downtown art house theater. I politely pushed him away.
He did this on and off for the next two hours, to the same result.
Now, granted, I can occasionally be cute, but I am not that irresistible. And I expect to have my boundaries respected. So by the time the movie was over, I was really annoyed and felt more than a little violated.
He sent me an email that night telling me how nice I was. I ignored his email, and several other attempts at contact over the next several days. I thought about responding and telling him what I was thinking -- and if I were really a grown up, I would have explained and given him a second chance or something -- but ultimately, I am a child, and in that moment, I lacked the desire and motivation to communicate. So, instead, I continued to ignore him and instead concentrated on work -- which, in my defense, was really busy. Not being a total and complete dumbass, the guy eventually got the message and stopped pursuing me.
I thought this was the end, but still, had an inkling that it wasn't. I mean, we don't work with each other, but we run in some of the same circles. I understood that, eventually, my luck would run out, as it always does.
Which brings me to last week, when I was looking for concert tickets on Craigslist and ran across an interesting personal ad. I pretty much never respond to those things. Really. But the ad was interesting and funny and witty and my curiosity got the best of me. So I wrote a quick note in response to the ad.
Of course, it was him. And rather than ignore it (like I would have), he decided to write me back, making a joke about trying to figure out what etiquette dictates. And what would Emily Post or Miss Manners do? Well, they wouldn't have responded to a Craigslist ad in the first place. So now, here I am, completely mortified. FML.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Fifteen Albums
(from Facebook)
The rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Choose fifteen albums you've heard that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes.
15. U2: Achtung Baby
14. Neko Case: Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
13. Pearl Jam: Ten
12. Dave Matthews Band: Crash
11. They Might Be Giants: Flood
10. Fleetwood Mac: Rumours
9. U2: The Unforgettable Fire
8. The Cure: Disintegration
7. Nirvana: Nevermind
6. Guns N Roses: Appetite for Destruction
5. Bon Jovi: New Jersey
4. Madonna: Like A Virgin
3. The Police: Synchronicity
2. Led Zeppelin IV
1. U2: The Joshua Tree
The rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Choose fifteen albums you've heard that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes.
15. U2: Achtung Baby
14. Neko Case: Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
13. Pearl Jam: Ten
12. Dave Matthews Band: Crash
11. They Might Be Giants: Flood
10. Fleetwood Mac: Rumours
9. U2: The Unforgettable Fire
8. The Cure: Disintegration
7. Nirvana: Nevermind
6. Guns N Roses: Appetite for Destruction
5. Bon Jovi: New Jersey
4. Madonna: Like A Virgin
3. The Police: Synchronicity
2. Led Zeppelin IV
1. U2: The Joshua Tree
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
On Ground Zero, Islamic Centers, and Shopping Malls
I was on the phone with my dad and he asked me what I thought about the controversy surrounding the mosque being built near Ground Zero. I told him that I am a firm believer in property rights and religious freedom -- and that those two things are some of the core values of American society. So, under that analysis, if they own the property and have the right zoning then they can build whatever they want there.
I also believe that there's a great deal of room between "what you are legally permitted to do" and "what you ought to do." Ethics, not to mention good taste and good judgment, is a gray area. As a society, we've never been particularly effective at legislating morals, and yet, the politicians and pundits keep talking about it.
Now, admittedly, I might not have lived in lower Manhattan on 9/11, but back then, I lived close enough to the Pentagon that my apartment was filled with smoke. And while I'm not reflexively offended by the idea of a mosque being built in the vicinity, I can understand why others might be. Should that offense be mitigated -- at least somewhat -- by the idea that the project is a religious center for a mainstream sect that disagree with the fundamentalist leanings that led to the attacks, and intends it as a memorial of-sorts? Maybe, maybe not. On the other hand, can the decision to build at that spot be viewed as a bit callous and insensitive, and perhaps worse? Like Shakespeare said, "If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces."
But then I read that one of the things that they're planning on building at Ground Zero -- not near, but at -- is, essentially, an underground shopping mall. That offends me at least as much -- probably more -- than any mosque being built in the neighborhood. The idea of swarms of tourists buying t-shirts and tchochkes on the very site of the attacks makes my skin crawl. But who's railing against those developers? Minority religious expression is bad, but offensive and tacky consumerism is the status quo, I suppose.
So, I'm back to where I started. If they own the property and have the right zoning and permits and the city gives them the go-ahead, it's no longer a legal issue. They can build whatever they want. What they should build is a matter of judgment, and that's between them and their conscience. The politicians and pundits need to keep their mouths shut and focus on real issues.
I also believe that there's a great deal of room between "what you are legally permitted to do" and "what you ought to do." Ethics, not to mention good taste and good judgment, is a gray area. As a society, we've never been particularly effective at legislating morals, and yet, the politicians and pundits keep talking about it.
Now, admittedly, I might not have lived in lower Manhattan on 9/11, but back then, I lived close enough to the Pentagon that my apartment was filled with smoke. And while I'm not reflexively offended by the idea of a mosque being built in the vicinity, I can understand why others might be. Should that offense be mitigated -- at least somewhat -- by the idea that the project is a religious center for a mainstream sect that disagree with the fundamentalist leanings that led to the attacks, and intends it as a memorial of-sorts? Maybe, maybe not. On the other hand, can the decision to build at that spot be viewed as a bit callous and insensitive, and perhaps worse? Like Shakespeare said, "If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces."
But then I read that one of the things that they're planning on building at Ground Zero -- not near, but at -- is, essentially, an underground shopping mall. That offends me at least as much -- probably more -- than any mosque being built in the neighborhood. The idea of swarms of tourists buying t-shirts and tchochkes on the very site of the attacks makes my skin crawl. But who's railing against those developers? Minority religious expression is bad, but offensive and tacky consumerism is the status quo, I suppose.
So, I'm back to where I started. If they own the property and have the right zoning and permits and the city gives them the go-ahead, it's no longer a legal issue. They can build whatever they want. What they should build is a matter of judgment, and that's between them and their conscience. The politicians and pundits need to keep their mouths shut and focus on real issues.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Desert images
The desert is an interesting place. To grow there, the plants adapt. The plants get hard, spiky, spiny, almost like animals themselves. But still, there's a beauty -- a desolate beauty.
First thing in the morning, deep in the canyon, the first light makes the desert seem surreal, almost nightmarish. The Saguaro cacti look like spiny supernatural arms growing out of the ground.
I am enamored of cactus flowers. They bloom for only one day each year, opening their petals at dawn and closing them at dusk. How poetic and sad.
One day! Can you imagine living your entire life for just one day?
First thing in the morning, deep in the canyon, the first light makes the desert seem surreal, almost nightmarish. The Saguaro cacti look like spiny supernatural arms growing out of the ground.
I am enamored of cactus flowers. They bloom for only one day each year, opening their petals at dawn and closing them at dusk. How poetic and sad.
One day! Can you imagine living your entire life for just one day?
Monday, August 02, 2010
The Umbrella Theorem
I'm leaving for vacation in a few hours. I'm on the verge of going computer-free for the entire week. I hope I don't go through withdrawal.
In preparing for the week off, I had to make sure my work was covered. So I had to go from office to office to talk to the coworkers that were covering for me, to explain the status of the various projects that they would be covering. It was during my last conversation, with one of my colleagues that I've known since my first day in the office, I realized that this is an extrapolation of the Umbrella Theorem.
I learned about the Umbrella Theorem almost ten years ago, when I first started working. My coworkers and I would, occasionally, head out to lunch. We'd meet at the elevator bank and head downstairs. On occasion, someone would note the presence or absence of an umbrella. Eventually, I realized what it meant: If you're heading outside and see clouds in the sky, you bring your umbrella -- not to avoid the rain, but to prevent it. And so, the Umbrella Theorem became a part of my life. I always bring my umbrella -- because, more often than not, it seems as if the Universe only enacts its revenge when I'm unprepared.
So, today, as I was making sure that my boss, my coworkers, and my assistant were fully informed about my vacation, the cases, and whatever issues might arise, it was not in real preparation for dealing with anything, but was really a prophylactic measure against anything happening. And at the exact moment I realized what I was doing, my colleague figured it out too. "This is like bringing the umbrella along to lunch," he said. I laughed, "Exactly."
It's the same thing for the BlackBerry -- I could leave it at home and attempt to totally unplug. But, in my mind the Umbrella Theorem prevents it: if I leave the BlackBerry at home, there will, undoubtedly, be an emergency. And so, I'm bringing it with me. As I said to my boss, there's only so much unplugging I'm capable of. Baby steps.
In preparing for the week off, I had to make sure my work was covered. So I had to go from office to office to talk to the coworkers that were covering for me, to explain the status of the various projects that they would be covering. It was during my last conversation, with one of my colleagues that I've known since my first day in the office, I realized that this is an extrapolation of the Umbrella Theorem.
I learned about the Umbrella Theorem almost ten years ago, when I first started working. My coworkers and I would, occasionally, head out to lunch. We'd meet at the elevator bank and head downstairs. On occasion, someone would note the presence or absence of an umbrella. Eventually, I realized what it meant: If you're heading outside and see clouds in the sky, you bring your umbrella -- not to avoid the rain, but to prevent it. And so, the Umbrella Theorem became a part of my life. I always bring my umbrella -- because, more often than not, it seems as if the Universe only enacts its revenge when I'm unprepared.
So, today, as I was making sure that my boss, my coworkers, and my assistant were fully informed about my vacation, the cases, and whatever issues might arise, it was not in real preparation for dealing with anything, but was really a prophylactic measure against anything happening. And at the exact moment I realized what I was doing, my colleague figured it out too. "This is like bringing the umbrella along to lunch," he said. I laughed, "Exactly."
It's the same thing for the BlackBerry -- I could leave it at home and attempt to totally unplug. But, in my mind the Umbrella Theorem prevents it: if I leave the BlackBerry at home, there will, undoubtedly, be an emergency. And so, I'm bringing it with me. As I said to my boss, there's only so much unplugging I'm capable of. Baby steps.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Archives
I used to love sitting down with my grandmother, looking at old pictures, listening to her tell stories of the way things were when she was a girl and her mother -- my great-grandmother -- still young. She would also whisper stories of my mother's childhood, perhaps with a wink, helping me to see the girl -- the person -- underneath the parental veneer.
I still love those moments with Nana, although they are more rare now. I try to get her to write things down, and she does it in spurts -- a caption on a photograph here or there. A few years ago, when she was sick, and my littlest cousin was still a toddler, I bought her a book so she could write things down for him, just in case. I'm not sure if she ever used it, and lucky for my cousin, she's beaten the cancer, so far.
I think that Nana's boxes of photos and clippings are why, since childhood, I've always tended to keep my own pictures, mementos, scrapbooks. I also think that, on some level, it's why I keep journals -- so that the stories live on. I'm a collector, an amateur archivist.
A few weeks ago, while cleaning out some things, I stumbled across a small collection of camcorder videos that I had made in law school: some footage of my friend's band playing; one of my brother's plays; a video of my roommate and I dancing around our apartment. And then I found paydirt: several hours of family movies over the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays in 1997, where we were just sitting around, talking to each other, playing with the dog, eating pancakes. My mother at her best and happiest: surrounded by her college-age children and parents.
Watching the tape was like time travel. All of a sudden, I was sitting there, hearing my mother's voice, my mother's laugh, for the first time in years. And seeing the sights and sounds of a family, together, all under one roof, happy. I had not forgotten those sights and sounds: what I had forgotten was how much I loved being a part of a family, a collective.
I copied the video to my hard drive. I'm going to burn it to DVD and send it to my siblings and my father, so that they can remember too. And, in some way, the video will help my mother live on in some tangible way -- just a little -- for my nephew and, perhaps one day, my children.
I still love those moments with Nana, although they are more rare now. I try to get her to write things down, and she does it in spurts -- a caption on a photograph here or there. A few years ago, when she was sick, and my littlest cousin was still a toddler, I bought her a book so she could write things down for him, just in case. I'm not sure if she ever used it, and lucky for my cousin, she's beaten the cancer, so far.
I think that Nana's boxes of photos and clippings are why, since childhood, I've always tended to keep my own pictures, mementos, scrapbooks. I also think that, on some level, it's why I keep journals -- so that the stories live on. I'm a collector, an amateur archivist.
A few weeks ago, while cleaning out some things, I stumbled across a small collection of camcorder videos that I had made in law school: some footage of my friend's band playing; one of my brother's plays; a video of my roommate and I dancing around our apartment. And then I found paydirt: several hours of family movies over the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays in 1997, where we were just sitting around, talking to each other, playing with the dog, eating pancakes. My mother at her best and happiest: surrounded by her college-age children and parents.
Watching the tape was like time travel. All of a sudden, I was sitting there, hearing my mother's voice, my mother's laugh, for the first time in years. And seeing the sights and sounds of a family, together, all under one roof, happy. I had not forgotten those sights and sounds: what I had forgotten was how much I loved being a part of a family, a collective.
I copied the video to my hard drive. I'm going to burn it to DVD and send it to my siblings and my father, so that they can remember too. And, in some way, the video will help my mother live on in some tangible way -- just a little -- for my nephew and, perhaps one day, my children.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Veruca Salt
I understand -- really I do -- that if I were to get everything my greedy little heart desires that I would be utterly impossible to deal with. I would feel entitled, that I deserved what was coming to me. And then -- lo and behold! -- I would be bored with it all and I would need more, more, more, faster, faster, faster. After all, I am human. I exist. I crave. I want.
Je veux, donc je suis.
I am trying, really I am, to embrace the Buddhist philosophy of abandoning desire. Be happy with where I am, what I have. Be in the moment.
And yet, still, here I am. Wanting just a little bit more than what I have. Trying to figure out how to have everything. It can't be that hard. Just a little bit more, really. Just. A little. More.
Je veux, donc je suis.
I am trying, really I am, to embrace the Buddhist philosophy of abandoning desire. Be happy with where I am, what I have. Be in the moment.
And yet, still, here I am. Wanting just a little bit more than what I have. Trying to figure out how to have everything. It can't be that hard. Just a little bit more, really. Just. A little. More.
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.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Customs
I am going to wind up on a no-fly list sooner rather than later. Not for terrorist activity, mind you, but because I am a jerk. Particularly before I've had my morning coffee.
This story took place a few weeks ago, in June, when I was flying home from St. Thomas. No wait -- let me go back further than that, to give you the background.
In case you didn't know, St. Thomas is one of the United States Virgin Islands. As in United States. As in where I am a citizen, where I live, and -- save for those few months in London when I was in college -- where I've always lived.
I've been flying back and forth to the USVI for work for about the last year -- maybe a little more, maybe less. To fly home, you have to go through customs -- fill out a form, show identification, declare what you're bringing into the country. Since I've been there on business, I haven't really been coming back with a lot of souvenirs -- maybe a t-shirt or two for my nephew, a cheap pair of earrings, a shot glass. Not much. And as for the identification, I've shown them my driver's license and, if they ask, my official government ID badge. Usually I pass right through -- occasionally the Homeland Security guys flirt with me.
The last trip home was a nightmare. I had been working nonstop, and was rushing to get home. I booked myself an 8am Saturday morning flight out. Of course, on Friday afternoon, a tropical wave started hitting the island, and the rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. I had to leave the resort before 5:30 to return the rental car and get to the airport, and of course, the shuttle wasn't running to take me from the main building down the hill to the parking lot. So I covered myself up as best as I could with my sweatshirt and ran down the hill in the pouring rain, with two suitcases and a carry on. At the foot of the hill, the water came up past my ankles. When I got in the car, I was drenched. When I got to the airport, before checking-in (but after returning the rental car), I ran into the bathroom to change into dry clothes. I then waited on a very long line to check-in, and an even longer, slower line, to get through customs. My flight is at 8 -- and, by the time I get to the front of the line, it is after 7. I haven't even made it to security yet.
Of course the agent asked for my passport. I don't have my passport. He then asked for my birth certificate. I don't have my birth certificate. I have my driver's license. I have at least two official government IDs. I have my Voter's Registration Card. He tells me that I need to have either a passport or my birth certificate.
In the last year, I have never been asked for my passport or birth certificate. And, as far as I knew, I didn't need either.
The Border Patrol website says:
But the rules might not be that clear, at least according to a giant poster on the wall, which says:
I tell the agent that I have nothing except what I've shown him. I comment about how going to a U.S. territory is not leaving the U.S. I add "Since when do you need a photo ID and your birth certificate to board a plane in the U.S.?"
He tells me I should have my birth certificate, but it would be better if I just traveled with my passport. I say I do not ordinarily travel with my birth certificate, and do not have my passport with me. This goes around and around in circles. He is getting annoyed with me, and I asked for a supervisor.
Finally he starts typing into his computer. He asks about my business on the island, my employer. When he learns that I am a lawyer, he says, "Of course." Then he asks where I was born. I say "New York City." He says, "Where is that?" I, of course, say "Are you serious?"
He glared at me. He was serious. Dead serious. He types something else into the computer. At this point, I've moved beyond mere petulance to full-force obnoxious smug superiority. So I explain that New York City is, indeed, in the State of New York, which is in the United States of America. He angrily types into the computer, and finally, lets me go. As I'm gathering my stuff to leave, he says, "Next time just bring your passport or your birth certificate."
Lucky for me, I had to race to get to the plane, and kept my mouth shut. Otherwise I'm not sure if I'd have made it home.
This story took place a few weeks ago, in June, when I was flying home from St. Thomas. No wait -- let me go back further than that, to give you the background.
In case you didn't know, St. Thomas is one of the United States Virgin Islands. As in United States. As in where I am a citizen, where I live, and -- save for those few months in London when I was in college -- where I've always lived.
I've been flying back and forth to the USVI for work for about the last year -- maybe a little more, maybe less. To fly home, you have to go through customs -- fill out a form, show identification, declare what you're bringing into the country. Since I've been there on business, I haven't really been coming back with a lot of souvenirs -- maybe a t-shirt or two for my nephew, a cheap pair of earrings, a shot glass. Not much. And as for the identification, I've shown them my driver's license and, if they ask, my official government ID badge. Usually I pass right through -- occasionally the Homeland Security guys flirt with me.
The last trip home was a nightmare. I had been working nonstop, and was rushing to get home. I booked myself an 8am Saturday morning flight out. Of course, on Friday afternoon, a tropical wave started hitting the island, and the rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. I had to leave the resort before 5:30 to return the rental car and get to the airport, and of course, the shuttle wasn't running to take me from the main building down the hill to the parking lot. So I covered myself up as best as I could with my sweatshirt and ran down the hill in the pouring rain, with two suitcases and a carry on. At the foot of the hill, the water came up past my ankles. When I got in the car, I was drenched. When I got to the airport, before checking-in (but after returning the rental car), I ran into the bathroom to change into dry clothes. I then waited on a very long line to check-in, and an even longer, slower line, to get through customs. My flight is at 8 -- and, by the time I get to the front of the line, it is after 7. I haven't even made it to security yet.
Of course the agent asked for my passport. I don't have my passport. He then asked for my birth certificate. I don't have my birth certificate. I have my driver's license. I have at least two official government IDs. I have my Voter's Registration Card. He tells me that I need to have either a passport or my birth certificate.
In the last year, I have never been asked for my passport or birth certificate. And, as far as I knew, I didn't need either.
The Border Patrol website says:
Q: Do travelers from U.S. territories need to present a passport to enter the United States?
A: No. These territories are a part of the United States. U.S. citizens returning directly from a U.S. territory are not considered to have left the U.S. and do not need to present a passport. U.S. territories include the following: Guam, Puerto Rico, the U.S. Virgin Islands, American Samoa, Swains Island and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands. If the traveler also visited non-U.S. territories, he/she is required to present a passport.
Although U.S. citizens are not required to present a passport upon departure from the U.S. territories, travelers are encouraged to travel with a passport or other proof of citizenship, as they will be asked questions about citizenship and any goods they will be bringing to the U.S. mainland upon their departure from U.S. territories.
But the rules might not be that clear, at least according to a giant poster on the wall, which says:
US Citizens
No passports are required for US Virgin Islands travel.
The Western Hemisphere Travel Initiative requiring passports will not affect travel between the United States and its territories. U.S. citizens traveling between the United States, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin islands will continue to be able to use established forms of identification, such as birth certificates and government-issued photo ID, to board flights and for entry. Vaccinations are not required.
The following are usually accepted as Proofs of U.S. Citizenship:
* a valid U.S. passport -or-
* Certified copy of birth certificate plus government issued photo ID -or-
* Official U.S. government document verifying citizenship
* Certificate of citizenship
* Certificate of naturalization
* Consular report of birth abroad of a U.S. Citizen
* Valid photo I.D. (Photo I.D.'s are not applicable for minors up to 16 years of age.)
NOTE: A Voter's registration card is NOT valid proof of U.S. Citizenship.
I tell the agent that I have nothing except what I've shown him. I comment about how going to a U.S. territory is not leaving the U.S. I add "Since when do you need a photo ID and your birth certificate to board a plane in the U.S.?"
He tells me I should have my birth certificate, but it would be better if I just traveled with my passport. I say I do not ordinarily travel with my birth certificate, and do not have my passport with me. This goes around and around in circles. He is getting annoyed with me, and I asked for a supervisor.
Finally he starts typing into his computer. He asks about my business on the island, my employer. When he learns that I am a lawyer, he says, "Of course." Then he asks where I was born. I say "New York City." He says, "Where is that?" I, of course, say "Are you serious?"
He glared at me. He was serious. Dead serious. He types something else into the computer. At this point, I've moved beyond mere petulance to full-force obnoxious smug superiority. So I explain that New York City is, indeed, in the State of New York, which is in the United States of America. He angrily types into the computer, and finally, lets me go. As I'm gathering my stuff to leave, he says, "Next time just bring your passport or your birth certificate."
Lucky for me, I had to race to get to the plane, and kept my mouth shut. Otherwise I'm not sure if I'd have made it home.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
Q&A
Q: If you could go back in time 10 years and tell your younger self something, what would it be?
A: Don't necessarily work so hard at work, and work harder at your relationships. Because in 10 years, the work will still be there, but the relationships might not.
(via Formspring.)
A: Don't necessarily work so hard at work, and work harder at your relationships. Because in 10 years, the work will still be there, but the relationships might not.
(via Formspring.)
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Dreams
I had a strange dream about my mother last night. It was set somewhere straight out of a Gothic horror tale: isolated, dreary, and desolate; full moons and stormy nights. Amongst all the scenery, I was searching and searching for my mother. And in the end, when I finally found her, it turned out that she didn't want to be found, and that I was very angry about her abandoning me.
I woke up with tears in my eyes. I also woke up with the fear that, maybe, underneath my facade, I am still angry with her for leaving -- for dying. That can't be it, can it? Is the solution to everything that simple?
I woke up with tears in my eyes. I also woke up with the fear that, maybe, underneath my facade, I am still angry with her for leaving -- for dying. That can't be it, can it? Is the solution to everything that simple?
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
As seen on TV
People always think it's funny when I tell them that I don't watch television shows about lawyers. But I don't -- I can't. I used to, and then I would get angry about how the profession is so distorted.
On television, the case always goes right to trial. But in real life, the trial is only one event in a long chain of events, and in large part, it's kabuki theater -- a show for the judge and/or jury, and by that point, the lawyers and the witnesses have studied their parts, rehearsed their lines, and put on their costumes.
The television viewer doesn't see all of the investigative work that goes into preparing the case -- some of it before it's even filed. The viewer doesn't see all of the motions that are researched, written, filed, and argued before the trial takes place. The viewer doesn't see all the settlement conferences and mediations. The viewer doesn't see all of the scrambling around before the trial starts to get exhibit lists and witness lists prepared and exchanged. The viewer doesn't see all of the long hours in front of the computer screen.
The television viewer sees my job and thinks it's much easier and more glamorous than it is.
On television, the case always goes right to trial. But in real life, the trial is only one event in a long chain of events, and in large part, it's kabuki theater -- a show for the judge and/or jury, and by that point, the lawyers and the witnesses have studied their parts, rehearsed their lines, and put on their costumes.
The television viewer doesn't see all of the investigative work that goes into preparing the case -- some of it before it's even filed. The viewer doesn't see all of the motions that are researched, written, filed, and argued before the trial takes place. The viewer doesn't see all the settlement conferences and mediations. The viewer doesn't see all of the scrambling around before the trial starts to get exhibit lists and witness lists prepared and exchanged. The viewer doesn't see all of the long hours in front of the computer screen.
The television viewer sees my job and thinks it's much easier and more glamorous than it is.
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Gift Horse's Mouth
For the record, I have little or no expectation of receiving gifts, pretty much from anyone. When I was a kid, my dad used to go on business trips and bring me back hotel soap. I genuinely appreciated the token of affection, however meager. Today it's not much different: I am genuinely touched when someone thinks of me, even when I don't necessarily understand the thought.
All of this brings me to last week, when I was in New York, and saw my aunt -- who gave me my "birthday present." For those who don't know, my birthday was in the fall, approximately six months ago. And the present? Let's just say that it consisted in part of my grandmother's underwear.
Okay, not exactly underwear. Three half-slips. Probably vintage.
I am certain that this chain of events was the result of my telling her that I needed something of the sort to wear under a sweaterdress. In the winter. And despite the weirdness of it all, it was genuinely quite lovely that my aunt remembered the conversation and then spent the time searching through my grandmother's drawers -- and drawers, ha ha -- to find them for me.
Which then, brings me back to my dad. The other night, I told him about how, thanks to his sister, I was now in possession of his mother's delicates. He didn't think it was quite so funny, and he was perplexed by my reaction.
"It's a good thing you think the whole thing is funny. Personally, I'd be insulted if someone gave me used underwear for my birthday."
"Dad, at least it wasn't real underwear. And besides, I'm just glad she thinks I'm as skinny as Grandma."
All of this brings me to last week, when I was in New York, and saw my aunt -- who gave me my "birthday present." For those who don't know, my birthday was in the fall, approximately six months ago. And the present? Let's just say that it consisted in part of my grandmother's underwear.
Okay, not exactly underwear. Three half-slips. Probably vintage.
I am certain that this chain of events was the result of my telling her that I needed something of the sort to wear under a sweaterdress. In the winter. And despite the weirdness of it all, it was genuinely quite lovely that my aunt remembered the conversation and then spent the time searching through my grandmother's drawers -- and drawers, ha ha -- to find them for me.
Which then, brings me back to my dad. The other night, I told him about how, thanks to his sister, I was now in possession of his mother's delicates. He didn't think it was quite so funny, and he was perplexed by my reaction.
"It's a good thing you think the whole thing is funny. Personally, I'd be insulted if someone gave me used underwear for my birthday."
"Dad, at least it wasn't real underwear. And besides, I'm just glad she thinks I'm as skinny as Grandma."
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
What Holds Us Down
I don't think that we, as human beings, are equipped to recognize happiness: instead, we're hard-wired to strive for more, for better. Generally, it's not a bad trait, but sometimes, there are unintended consequences. Take antibiotics for example: 100 or so years ago, scientists were determined to figure out a way to fight infection, and now, because of their work, the world is a much safer place as a whole, and people live longer, healthier lives. Well, except for the whole antibiotic resistant bacteria thing.
I've spent the last two-plus years since my mom died trying and failing at figuring out how to be happy. Some days I feel as if I'm just not built for happiness. Other times I feel as if I'm a victim of circumstance. As with most things, the truth likely lies somewhere in-between.
By way of contrast, two years ago, my father made a point of saying that he was going to try to not be unhappy -- and, by all objective indications, it seems as if he's been quite successful. I think the end result of my quest for happiness is that I find myself even less happy than I was to begin with. And the end result of my father's quest to not be unhappy has yielded some sort of happiness.
It's not until RIGHT NOW that I've realized that the two things are distinct. Not unhappy is not precisely the same as happy: the Venn diagrams overlap somewhat, but the circles are not the same.
I have many things to be thankful for. I have a home, a car, a job, an education. I have more than enough in the way of material possessions. I have friends and family. But I still find myself looking at what I don't have and it tears me up. I don't have enough leisure time, or the money to do what I want whenever I want to do it. I don't have children. I somehow manage to surround myself with people who have an expert way of making me feel second-rate or second-choice or just not good enough. And, when push comes to shove, I'm not even sure that I have a person that I could really rely on to take care of me in case of emergency.
Am I wrong for wanting more than what I currently have?
Don't get me wrong: I am extremely grateful for my current situation. I like my clothes and shoes and CDs and DVDs and books; I like my condo and my car. But this is not happiness: things are not happiness. If push came to shove, I don't think there's much that I would fight to hang on to. It would be very easy for me to let go of things, people, and places and move on: there are so few things in my life that I am particularly tied to, and even less that is irreplaceable.
On a very basic level, I am a traveler. And not just for work -- which I do, a lot. Somewhere, in my personality, I have some kind of nomadic streak. At this point in my life, I've been a lot of places. Still, there is so much more out there for me to see, and I desperately want to get there, before it's too late. If I could, I would start tomorrow -- just get on the plane and go. The where doesn't even matter anymore.
It's the logistics that get in the way. I have a job, responsibilities. I have a mortgage. I have family, more or less. Still, other than my material possessions, what is anchoring me to any one place?
Maybe that's the solution to all of it: I should let go of things, get rid of the clutter that weighs me down and holds me in one place. Be ready to go on a moment's notice, whenever the whim strikes.
I've spent the last two-plus years since my mom died trying and failing at figuring out how to be happy. Some days I feel as if I'm just not built for happiness. Other times I feel as if I'm a victim of circumstance. As with most things, the truth likely lies somewhere in-between.
By way of contrast, two years ago, my father made a point of saying that he was going to try to not be unhappy -- and, by all objective indications, it seems as if he's been quite successful. I think the end result of my quest for happiness is that I find myself even less happy than I was to begin with. And the end result of my father's quest to not be unhappy has yielded some sort of happiness.
It's not until RIGHT NOW that I've realized that the two things are distinct. Not unhappy is not precisely the same as happy: the Venn diagrams overlap somewhat, but the circles are not the same.
I have many things to be thankful for. I have a home, a car, a job, an education. I have more than enough in the way of material possessions. I have friends and family. But I still find myself looking at what I don't have and it tears me up. I don't have enough leisure time, or the money to do what I want whenever I want to do it. I don't have children. I somehow manage to surround myself with people who have an expert way of making me feel second-rate or second-choice or just not good enough. And, when push comes to shove, I'm not even sure that I have a person that I could really rely on to take care of me in case of emergency.
Am I wrong for wanting more than what I currently have?
Don't get me wrong: I am extremely grateful for my current situation. I like my clothes and shoes and CDs and DVDs and books; I like my condo and my car. But this is not happiness: things are not happiness. If push came to shove, I don't think there's much that I would fight to hang on to. It would be very easy for me to let go of things, people, and places and move on: there are so few things in my life that I am particularly tied to, and even less that is irreplaceable.
On a very basic level, I am a traveler. And not just for work -- which I do, a lot. Somewhere, in my personality, I have some kind of nomadic streak. At this point in my life, I've been a lot of places. Still, there is so much more out there for me to see, and I desperately want to get there, before it's too late. If I could, I would start tomorrow -- just get on the plane and go. The where doesn't even matter anymore.
It's the logistics that get in the way. I have a job, responsibilities. I have a mortgage. I have family, more or less. Still, other than my material possessions, what is anchoring me to any one place?
Maybe that's the solution to all of it: I should let go of things, get rid of the clutter that weighs me down and holds me in one place. Be ready to go on a moment's notice, whenever the whim strikes.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Time Travel
Getting back in touch with people you haven't seen in a long time is odd. In a way it's disturbing -- everything is out of place, out of context. But, on the other hand it's comfortingly familiar. Not only does it reconnect you with the other person, it simultaneously reconnects you with who you used to be, the good and the bad and the in-between. You might not be able to go back in time to impart your hard-earned knowledge on your younger self, but you certainly can, from time to time, have your younger self remind you of who you really are, and who you really want to be.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Eavesdropping
I was sitting on the metro, quietly minding my own business, when the girls standing next to me started having a very animated conversation about someone who had, apparently, died very tragically. They were going into details about what happened, and how it happened, and how it affected all of these other people. I couldn't believe the events they were discussing, or that they were able to have this discussion without completely bursting into tears.
And then it hit me: They were talking about the events of a television show. One that I used to watch.
Apparently, I am so wrapped up in work that I have no idea what passes for popular culture these days. And I shouldn't eavesdrop, no matter how salacious the story.
And then it hit me: They were talking about the events of a television show. One that I used to watch.
Apparently, I am so wrapped up in work that I have no idea what passes for popular culture these days. And I shouldn't eavesdrop, no matter how salacious the story.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Thoughts on Mother's Day
I'm not gonna lie: Mother's Day is hard. It's not just the commercials and tv shows (et tu 30 Rock?). It's everywhere, even in the non-touchy-feely realms like professional sports. Everyone at the baseball stadium was wishing everyone else a Happy Mother's Day weekend. Heck, every one at the 7-11 was wishing it too.
It's the whole weekend now? Isn't the day enough? Damn you Hallmark.
I've always hated the day. My mother had very high expectations for Mother's Day and her birthday, and her whole demeanor was affected by whether or not you met those expectations. She expected cards, presents, yadda yadda yadda. A tribute. She made her disappointment known when I couldn't manage to be there to celebrate with her. In those times, she was the Godfather, and I was there to pay my respects.
I miss those times. I'd take a demanding mother over no mother at all any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Especially on the second Sunday in May.
It's the whole weekend now? Isn't the day enough? Damn you Hallmark.
I've always hated the day. My mother had very high expectations for Mother's Day and her birthday, and her whole demeanor was affected by whether or not you met those expectations. She expected cards, presents, yadda yadda yadda. A tribute. She made her disappointment known when I couldn't manage to be there to celebrate with her. In those times, she was the Godfather, and I was there to pay my respects.
I miss those times. I'd take a demanding mother over no mother at all any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Especially on the second Sunday in May.
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.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Customer Service Success Story: InCase
A few months ago, I bought a rubberized protective case for my iPhone. And now, less than 5 months after I started using it, it has torn in one place and is starting to tear in several others.
I notified the manufacturer, not necessarily because I wanted them to do anything about it, but because I wanted to let them know that their product failed to meet my very minimal expectations.
Within 5 minutes, they responded to my email, asking for more information. And within 1 hour of receiving that information, they had notified me that they were shipping a replacement.
This is, by far, the best customer service I have received in ages. Maybe ever. Thank you, InCase. I might not be particularly happy with the case, but I am definitely impressed by your service.
I notified the manufacturer, not necessarily because I wanted them to do anything about it, but because I wanted to let them know that their product failed to meet my very minimal expectations.
Within 5 minutes, they responded to my email, asking for more information. And within 1 hour of receiving that information, they had notified me that they were shipping a replacement.
This is, by far, the best customer service I have received in ages. Maybe ever. Thank you, InCase. I might not be particularly happy with the case, but I am definitely impressed by your service.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Message received
Last night, I took the computer out to my desk in the sunroom and worked until the essays were finished and printed, and the grad school application packet was all ready to go. I finished well after midnight. After the writing and proofreading and printing and re-printing, I surveyed my surroundings, took a quick breath and a final swig of Diet Coke, and turned off the light switch, forgetting that the one light switch controls all of the power for the entire room. There was a subtle snapping sound and then the quiet buzz of all the electronic equipment was gone. Not that it mattered, I was going to sleep.
This morning, I got dressed and ready for work, wrote the check for the application, and clipped the items together, getting the packet ready for the post office. I grabbed my keys, cellphone, and bag, and as a matter of habit, looked down at my mother's watch, the watch that I've taken to wearing over the past few weeks. It had stopped, at 1:44 -- which, as far as I can tell, was the exact moment I turned out the light in the sunroom. But stranger than that? When I went to adjust the time, the watch started back up as if nothing had happened. It was as if the watch merely wanted to make a point of the time when I completed my effort.
After I mailed in the application, I got to the office and started my day. As I usually do at lunch, I checked the internet -- facebook, twitter, news aggregator, email. And on my email home page, I saw my horoscope.
I think the universe is trying to tell me something.
This morning, I got dressed and ready for work, wrote the check for the application, and clipped the items together, getting the packet ready for the post office. I grabbed my keys, cellphone, and bag, and as a matter of habit, looked down at my mother's watch, the watch that I've taken to wearing over the past few weeks. It had stopped, at 1:44 -- which, as far as I can tell, was the exact moment I turned out the light in the sunroom. But stranger than that? When I went to adjust the time, the watch started back up as if nothing had happened. It was as if the watch merely wanted to make a point of the time when I completed my effort.
After I mailed in the application, I got to the office and started my day. As I usually do at lunch, I checked the internet -- facebook, twitter, news aggregator, email. And on my email home page, I saw my horoscope.
There's nothing you love more than education -- however it is that you choose to define it. You see the world as a huge classroom and everyone you meet as a potential teacher or student. At the moment, you're craving something resembling an actual classroom with a real, live teacher. Even the prospect of homework doesn't sound too bad to you! It's time to sign up for some classes or maybe to take a more active role in your kids' education.
I think the universe is trying to tell me something.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Essay writer's block
The application directions say to write an essay on a book of my choice and discuss the central argument or theme of the author. I have done this so many times in the past, and often, I didn't even get to choose the book. So why do I have such writer's block?
I can't even narrow it down to one book.
At this rate, it will never get finished.
I can't even narrow it down to one book.
At this rate, it will never get finished.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Roses
Please don't give me roses.
Don't get me wrong: Roses are a beautiful tradition, a lovely gesture. But they're just that: a gesture. They smack of trying too hard and yet, of not trying hard enough. Of trying to impress with the cost and the ostentatiousness, but not trying to find out who I am or what I really like.
Roses are too lofty, too rife with metaphor, with their soft petals amongst the thorns. They're for apologies, for Mothers' Day and Valentine's Day. They're for pageant winners, prom dates, and brides.
I am none of those things. Give me something from the earth. Give me daisies or tulips or sunflowers that fill the room with color. Give me the gardenias that remind me of my mother. Give me the night-blooming jasmine that scented the evenings of my childhood.
But please don't give me roses.
Don't get me wrong: Roses are a beautiful tradition, a lovely gesture. But they're just that: a gesture. They smack of trying too hard and yet, of not trying hard enough. Of trying to impress with the cost and the ostentatiousness, but not trying to find out who I am or what I really like.
Roses are too lofty, too rife with metaphor, with their soft petals amongst the thorns. They're for apologies, for Mothers' Day and Valentine's Day. They're for pageant winners, prom dates, and brides.
I am none of those things. Give me something from the earth. Give me daisies or tulips or sunflowers that fill the room with color. Give me the gardenias that remind me of my mother. Give me the night-blooming jasmine that scented the evenings of my childhood.
But please don't give me roses.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Thoughts on flying
My favorite part is the takeoff. Absolute anticipatory stillness followed by a sudden burst of speed. The racing racing racing towards the horizon and then, just before the runway ends, we're in the air, floating, as if that's where we had always been.
My second favorite part is the clouds. Sometimes they look like cotton balls in the great vastness of jar that is the sky. Other times, the sun peeks through, and it looks like Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, and any minute now I'll look out the window just in time to see a white-bearded ivory-robed God reaching out to impart the spark of life to Adam. Today, though, the clouds look like cotton candy. I want to stick my hand out the window and gather up the sticky spun sugar on my finger. Delicious!
I hate the landing. The crashing back to earth. The suddenness of the bumps, the clanging and jolting parts, the squealing tires and brakes. The abrupt, mechanical nature of it all. I want to stay in the sky, in the dream, floating.
My second favorite part is the clouds. Sometimes they look like cotton balls in the great vastness of jar that is the sky. Other times, the sun peeks through, and it looks like Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, and any minute now I'll look out the window just in time to see a white-bearded ivory-robed God reaching out to impart the spark of life to Adam. Today, though, the clouds look like cotton candy. I want to stick my hand out the window and gather up the sticky spun sugar on my finger. Delicious!
I hate the landing. The crashing back to earth. The suddenness of the bumps, the clanging and jolting parts, the squealing tires and brakes. The abrupt, mechanical nature of it all. I want to stay in the sky, in the dream, floating.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Hotel room
I am writing from a beach resort on a tropical island, in a room just feet from the sea. It's the kind of place that many people dream about on a winter day. You all should be jealous -- it is breathtakingly beautiful here. Close your eyes and imagine paradise. That's where I am.
Well, except for the teensy tiny fact that I'm only here for work. Details, details.
Naturally, all this led me to thoughts of travel and the hundreds of other hotel rooms I've been in in my life.
There's something vaguely reassuring about hotel rooms. Yes, there are differences in quality between a motel off of the interstate versus a beach resort versus a 5-star hotel in the center of a megalopolis. Still, it's nice to know that you can go anywhere in the world, and as long as you have a credit card, you can get a bed to call your own. Sometimes you can even get a bathroom and a television.
That's when you know you're lucky.
Well, except for the teensy tiny fact that I'm only here for work. Details, details.
Naturally, all this led me to thoughts of travel and the hundreds of other hotel rooms I've been in in my life.
There's something vaguely reassuring about hotel rooms. Yes, there are differences in quality between a motel off of the interstate versus a beach resort versus a 5-star hotel in the center of a megalopolis. Still, it's nice to know that you can go anywhere in the world, and as long as you have a credit card, you can get a bed to call your own. Sometimes you can even get a bathroom and a television.
That's when you know you're lucky.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Stuff
One of the things people can't understand about losing a parent is how hard it is to go through all of their stuff. People accumulate so much during their lifetime. So much that I'm starting to think that there is some merit to the idea espoused by George Clooney's character in Up in the Air, that the weight of all of these things is what is keeping us tied down and slowly killing us. But in this case, it's not the weight of my own things that is killing me; it's the things my mother left behind. Every time I think I finish, I find a new pile.
On the one hand, I want to get rid of everything; on the other I want to keep everything forever because it's all I have left.
On the one hand, I want to get rid of everything; on the other I want to keep everything forever because it's all I have left.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Communicating With My Father
After the biopsy, towards the end of the day, I had one of those moments when I really really wanted to talk to my mother. Of course, that's not a realistic option anymore -- at least if I want to hear an actual voice speaking back to me. So I did the next best thing -- I called my father. Or at least tried to. The cell phone rang and rang with no answer. Then I tried the house phone, knowing that it would go to voicemail, as he's barely ever there. I tried the cell phone again that evening, the next morning, and again at lunchtime.
He called me back almost 30 hours after I made the first phone call. By that time I had deduced that he had left his cell phone in his car. And by that time, I was also livid. What if it had been a real emergency?
He then reacted precisely the way that I thought he would: dismissive of the whole ordeal. Some of it is because he's been through similar procedures, but part of it is that by acting as if it's nothing, he makes it nothing. I understand that; I tend to do the same thing. I am very much like him.
It's funny. In terms of father-daughter dynamics, all things considered, the two of us are pretty close. My mother used to joke that the first thing she remembered me saying was "Mommy you can leave now; Daddy's home." He was a good dad when we were little -- he read to us, and played with us, and generally treated us like grown-ups. I've never really had to edit myself in front of him, and he's always encouraged me. It was a very laissez-faire style of parenting, to say the least. Still, I do occasionally wonder how many of my decisions were made to please him instead of myself, and I often think that his expectations of me are awfully high, but in my heart, I know that he loves me no matter what.
The relationship has been more complicated since my mom died and he suddenly became an only parent. I sometimes hold him to a higher standard of parenting -- a more involved standard of parenting, similar to that of my mom. And he couldn't possibly meet that standard, even on his best day. So I get frustrated with him. Sometimes it's justified, sometimes it's not. And I'm not sure how much of it he knows or he doesn't know, because he's not particularly perceptive and he's not much of a communicator. And actually, the latter is one of the litany of reasons -- some real, some imagined -- that causes me to get upset.
During the summer, we were barely speaking. He explained that he felt that "No news is good news," and that I would call if I needed anything. In the meantime, I was feeling that if he cared about me, he would pick up the goddamn phone and check up on me.
I eventually gave in. I called him -- and called him an asshole. Lucky for me, he takes things like that in stride. And while things haven't been exactly fantastic since then, at least we're speaking. Plus he acknowledged my birthday, which was a vast improvement from last year.
And at times, our relationship is very good. During Hanukkah, I called him, just to make a joke that I thought he would find particularly funny as an accountant, a Jew, and a man who prides himself on thriftiness. "Hey Dad, did you know that if you saved the extra candle in the box of Hanukkah candles every year for 44 years, it's like getting a box for free?" He laughed.
During the course of that conversation, he said something that was, on the one hand, really sweet, and on the other hand, not particularly diplomatic. And I took it like most compliments: badly. I told him that Mom would have never said anything so undiplomatic. At first he responded in jest, but then turned serious, saying that the worst thing that could possibly have happened was my mother dying first, because he knows that I lost both my mom and my best friend.
My eyes filled with tears. Not just because it was true, and sad -- but because it was unusually perceptive, given the source.
So I said, "You know Dad, you're really not so bad." And I meant it, at least in that moment.
It never lasts.
He called me back almost 30 hours after I made the first phone call. By that time I had deduced that he had left his cell phone in his car. And by that time, I was also livid. What if it had been a real emergency?
He then reacted precisely the way that I thought he would: dismissive of the whole ordeal. Some of it is because he's been through similar procedures, but part of it is that by acting as if it's nothing, he makes it nothing. I understand that; I tend to do the same thing. I am very much like him.
It's funny. In terms of father-daughter dynamics, all things considered, the two of us are pretty close. My mother used to joke that the first thing she remembered me saying was "Mommy you can leave now; Daddy's home." He was a good dad when we were little -- he read to us, and played with us, and generally treated us like grown-ups. I've never really had to edit myself in front of him, and he's always encouraged me. It was a very laissez-faire style of parenting, to say the least. Still, I do occasionally wonder how many of my decisions were made to please him instead of myself, and I often think that his expectations of me are awfully high, but in my heart, I know that he loves me no matter what.
The relationship has been more complicated since my mom died and he suddenly became an only parent. I sometimes hold him to a higher standard of parenting -- a more involved standard of parenting, similar to that of my mom. And he couldn't possibly meet that standard, even on his best day. So I get frustrated with him. Sometimes it's justified, sometimes it's not. And I'm not sure how much of it he knows or he doesn't know, because he's not particularly perceptive and he's not much of a communicator. And actually, the latter is one of the litany of reasons -- some real, some imagined -- that causes me to get upset.
During the summer, we were barely speaking. He explained that he felt that "No news is good news," and that I would call if I needed anything. In the meantime, I was feeling that if he cared about me, he would pick up the goddamn phone and check up on me.
I eventually gave in. I called him -- and called him an asshole. Lucky for me, he takes things like that in stride. And while things haven't been exactly fantastic since then, at least we're speaking. Plus he acknowledged my birthday, which was a vast improvement from last year.
And at times, our relationship is very good. During Hanukkah, I called him, just to make a joke that I thought he would find particularly funny as an accountant, a Jew, and a man who prides himself on thriftiness. "Hey Dad, did you know that if you saved the extra candle in the box of Hanukkah candles every year for 44 years, it's like getting a box for free?" He laughed.
During the course of that conversation, he said something that was, on the one hand, really sweet, and on the other hand, not particularly diplomatic. And I took it like most compliments: badly. I told him that Mom would have never said anything so undiplomatic. At first he responded in jest, but then turned serious, saying that the worst thing that could possibly have happened was my mother dying first, because he knows that I lost both my mom and my best friend.
My eyes filled with tears. Not just because it was true, and sad -- but because it was unusually perceptive, given the source.
So I said, "You know Dad, you're really not so bad." And I meant it, at least in that moment.
It never lasts.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Observation #6
Generally speaking, when the tests come back negative, the doctor's office will say so in the voicemail message. If they ask you to call the office, then either the results are bad, inconclusive, or lost.
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.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Bikinis, tattoos, and sarcasm
(Scene: A lovely tropical destination, where our brave and fearless heroine has been sent for work. She sits at a table on the patio of a resort hotel with her coworker, who is on his second or third rum drink. It is clear that she would rather be anywhere else, with just about anyone else.)
Coworker: There are a lot of women in bikinis here.
B&FH: Yes. We are at a beach resort.
Coworker: My wife says it's okay if I look, as long as I don't do anything else.
B&FH: Yeah, people say that.
(Several increasingly uncomfortable moments of Coworker commenting on the women of the resort as they pass by.)
Coworker: I don't understand why women get tattoos. It's trashy.
B&FH: Yeah, whatever.
(A few uncomfortable moments later.)
Coworker: Is that a tattoo on your wrist?
B&FH: Um, yeah. I generally keep it covered up.
Coworker: I don't know why you'd do something like that. I'd never let my daughters do anything like that.
B&FH: Well, I guess my dad wasn't paying enough attention.
Coworker: Looks like a star.
B&FH: Something like that.
Coworker: Why'd you do it?
B&FH: It was the only way I was ever going to be able to tell the difference between my right and my left.
Coworker: There are a lot of women in bikinis here.
B&FH: Yes. We are at a beach resort.
Coworker: My wife says it's okay if I look, as long as I don't do anything else.
B&FH: Yeah, people say that.
(Several increasingly uncomfortable moments of Coworker commenting on the women of the resort as they pass by.)
Coworker: I don't understand why women get tattoos. It's trashy.
B&FH: Yeah, whatever.
(A few uncomfortable moments later.)
Coworker: Is that a tattoo on your wrist?
B&FH: Um, yeah. I generally keep it covered up.
Coworker: I don't know why you'd do something like that. I'd never let my daughters do anything like that.
B&FH: Well, I guess my dad wasn't paying enough attention.
Coworker: Looks like a star.
B&FH: Something like that.
Coworker: Why'd you do it?
B&FH: It was the only way I was ever going to be able to tell the difference between my right and my left.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
A Cookie Experiment
For some reason, I got it in my head that I needed to bake hamantaschen for Purim. Forget that I hadn't been feeling well -- forget that I was busy with work -- forget that I had no time -- forget that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. These cookies demanded to be made.
So I acquired a recipe from a friend, and on Sunday night -- the day after Purim -- I made the dough, which was the easy part. And then I struggled to make the triangle shapes. That night I used about half of the dough, filled most of the cookies with nutella and a few with strawberry jam -- and watched a bunch of soggy triangles emerge from the oven. Strike one. I put the rest of the dough back in the refrigerator overnight.
The next evening I tried again. I took just a small bit of dough and rolled it out less thinly. I used a juice glass to cut out a half-dozen circles, filled them with black raspberry preserves, and pinched them into triangles. Much better, but the shape still needed work. Strike two.
So, with about a third of the dough left, I tried again the next night. Instead of rolling out the dough and using a cookie cutter, I rolled the dough into a log, as if it was the Pillsbury ready-to-bake cookie dough, and used a knife to slice it into quarter-inch circles. I filled half with nutella and half with lingonberry jam from Ikea. I folded them into triangles using the pinwheel method I read about on the internet.
I baked them for the perfect amount of time, until they were just barely golden brown.
The result was magnificent -- especially the lingonberry ones. Home run!
When I tasted them, I thought about my great-grandmother. When I was little -- essentially still a toddler -- I used to "help" her in the kitchen when she baked jelly cookies -- kosher jelly cookies. I think that's why I like to bake so much, even though neither my mother or my Nana were bakers.
And I know it's impossible for me to really remember the taste of those jelly cookies, but I imagine that these were pretty close.
So I acquired a recipe from a friend, and on Sunday night -- the day after Purim -- I made the dough, which was the easy part. And then I struggled to make the triangle shapes. That night I used about half of the dough, filled most of the cookies with nutella and a few with strawberry jam -- and watched a bunch of soggy triangles emerge from the oven. Strike one. I put the rest of the dough back in the refrigerator overnight.
The next evening I tried again. I took just a small bit of dough and rolled it out less thinly. I used a juice glass to cut out a half-dozen circles, filled them with black raspberry preserves, and pinched them into triangles. Much better, but the shape still needed work. Strike two.
So, with about a third of the dough left, I tried again the next night. Instead of rolling out the dough and using a cookie cutter, I rolled the dough into a log, as if it was the Pillsbury ready-to-bake cookie dough, and used a knife to slice it into quarter-inch circles. I filled half with nutella and half with lingonberry jam from Ikea. I folded them into triangles using the pinwheel method I read about on the internet.
I baked them for the perfect amount of time, until they were just barely golden brown.
The result was magnificent -- especially the lingonberry ones. Home run!
When I tasted them, I thought about my great-grandmother. When I was little -- essentially still a toddler -- I used to "help" her in the kitchen when she baked jelly cookies -- kosher jelly cookies. I think that's why I like to bake so much, even though neither my mother or my Nana were bakers.
And I know it's impossible for me to really remember the taste of those jelly cookies, but I imagine that these were pretty close.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Surprise in my work bag
I have a bunch of bags that I use for work. I have a Kate Spade tote, two Coach handbags, two Tokidoki for LeSportsac messenger bags, among others. But for some reason, lately, I've been using a cheap gray and black Old Navy houndstooth messenger bag. I think I've been using it nonstop since before Christmas, which is unlike me, since I usually change bags every other week or so.
I took the bag with me to Florida last week, and then to Chicago and Wisconsin this weekend, using it as my "personal item." When I got home last night, the bag smelled faintly peculiar, like rubbing alcohol or some cosmetic item had spilled in it. The smell got worse today, but for the longest time, I couldn't figure out what it was. Nothing had spilled; everything was in place. As the day progressed, the odor kept getting stronger, and I noticed that the contents of my bag looked peculiarly dusty.
I decided to take everything out of the bag for inspection. And then I saw it. Mushed into a corner of the bag was an orange -- or what used to be an orange. At this point, it was flat, dried out, and covered in a light green mold. I tried to get it out of the bag, but could only get part of it loose.
The bag is now in the garbage. And, in retrospect, I am so glad that this was not one of my more expensive handbags. But from now on, I'm either changing or cleaning out my bag every week.
I took the bag with me to Florida last week, and then to Chicago and Wisconsin this weekend, using it as my "personal item." When I got home last night, the bag smelled faintly peculiar, like rubbing alcohol or some cosmetic item had spilled in it. The smell got worse today, but for the longest time, I couldn't figure out what it was. Nothing had spilled; everything was in place. As the day progressed, the odor kept getting stronger, and I noticed that the contents of my bag looked peculiarly dusty.
I decided to take everything out of the bag for inspection. And then I saw it. Mushed into a corner of the bag was an orange -- or what used to be an orange. At this point, it was flat, dried out, and covered in a light green mold. I tried to get it out of the bag, but could only get part of it loose.
The bag is now in the garbage. And, in retrospect, I am so glad that this was not one of my more expensive handbags. But from now on, I'm either changing or cleaning out my bag every week.
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.
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