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.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Anger
On Sunday, it will be four weeks since I've spoken to my father. I haven't heard from my sister since about a week before that. This might be nothing to most people, but it's a big deal to me. Together, they represent approximately 50% of my remaining family -- and my father is my only living parent. So considering that neither of them seems to care enough to check to see whether I'm alive or dead . . . . I am angry.
It's a growing anger. Every day, I get exponentially angrier and angrier.
Today I am furious.
I am owning up to this feeling. I own this feeling.
I am not letting this feeling own me. Just admitting, out loud, that I am angry, and not having anyone try to invalidate my anger or dismiss it or talk me down is enough right now.
It's a growing anger. Every day, I get exponentially angrier and angrier.
Today I am furious.
I am owning up to this feeling. I own this feeling.
I am not letting this feeling own me. Just admitting, out loud, that I am angry, and not having anyone try to invalidate my anger or dismiss it or talk me down is enough right now.
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.
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