As one of the editors of IndieInk, I again agreed to participate in the weekly writing challenges. This week, my challenge was from my co-editor James Whitaker, who challenged me to take my pick from the following writing prompts: "unthinkable." "somewhere...out there." "it's never meant to last..." "tomorrow." "they'll never know..." "it could have been different."
The choice was easy for me.
You see, I have an unhealthy fascination with the movie Sliding Doors. Before I understood anything about Schrödinger's cat or parallel universes, I found myself completely fascinated by the concept that one little chance occurrence – whether the movie’s protagonist caught the elevator or the train, or had to wait for the next one – could totally change a life.
As a result, I find myself constantly thinking about how things could have been different. “If only I had caught the earlier train. . . ” “If only I hadn’t accepted the invitation . . .” ”If only I had not gotten in the car. . .” “If only I had made the call. . .” It’s an exhausting way to live, trying to figure out which decision was the one that derailed everything – or worse, trying to augur whether any decision you make is going to be the one that changes your life. And, ultimately, things that seem inconsequential have deeper import; things that seem important turn out to be meaningless in the end.
Case in point: New Year’s Eve. I had spent the entire day (and the day before) catching up with an old friend, which mostly involved drinking and talking, then drinking some more. In the wee morning hours, I found myself getting up off of the couch, taking out my contact lenses, and diving face first into bed. But something held me back, and, as a result, I made the decision to go back out to the living room to check on him.
My entire life changed as a result of that split second decision. And I am completely aware that it could have been different.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Stereotypes and Self-righteousness
As one of the editors of IndieInk, I agreed to participate in one of its weekly writing challenges. This week, my challenge was from Sir: “He/She placed the stereotype on the anvil and began hammering it into something sharp and deadly that could be used to open the minds of the self-righteous.” And, while that’s poetic and all, it doesn’t really fit with this blog or my writing style. But it does lead into the idea of stereotypes and self-righteousness -- and, with that, a story.
When I was in my last semester of law school, I worked as an unpaid intern in the county public defender’s office. (I've mentioned it before, in passing.) I had great, lofty goals about what I would be doing there – the kind of lofty goals that only a 22 year old with no real-world experience could have. Mostly, they were along the line of defending the wrongfully accused, reforming the criminal justice system, abolishing the death penalty, etc., etc. Oh, the naïveté of youth . . .
The internship was jointly supervised between the assistant chief of the office and one of our criminal law professors. We had a classroom session each week, where we learned, essentially, the basics of how to practice law as criminal defense attorneys. And during the week, we were required to work a certain number of hours at the office. In bigger cases, we were required to work under the actual attorneys – and generally, they were busy enough to be thankful for whatever help we could provide. In smaller misdemeanor cases, the clients could agree to let us act as their lead attorneys, with assistance from the supervising attorneys.
Early on in the semester, the professor asked us what kind of cases we were uncomfortable with. My answer, as an upper-middle class sheltered suburban girl was easy: I wanted nothing to do with domestic battery. I didn’t want to envision a world where men hit women, where families were anything less than happy and stable. And, of course, if a fight escalated to the point where an arrest was made, in my mind it was clear that the man must have hit the woman. Accordingly, I, perhaps self-righteously, did not want to defend those men.
Of course my professor saw that as an engraved invitation to assign me to a pretty horrible domestic battery case. And lucky for me, the defendant had agreed to let me be his lead attorney. Worse yet, even though it was a misdemeanor, my client had been sitting in jail for days, because the arrest was a violation of his probation, and if he plead guilty or lost at trial, he was facing mandatory jail time.
My client was a stereotype: a young black offender with a history of violence and drugs. I remember going to the county jail to see him. I was frightened out of my mind. I remember the security, the sound of the doors closing behind me, the fear as I was led to a private interview room where I was to meet with my client – alone, without any of the guards to protect me. When my client was brought to me in shackles, I was scared to death.
I finally relaxed enough to start talking about the case with him – whether he would be interested in a plea deal if it meant that he would have a reduced sentence. But he kept maintaining that he was innocent. I didn’t believe it, not for a second. Not with his violent background. Not with the photo in the case file of his cute little girlfriend with bruises on her face and arms. I firmly believed that his desire to fight the charge was posturing, or a fear of having to do real jail time.
But then I remembered that I was there to do a job. I also remembered, from our classroom sessions, that we needed to examine the facts of the case carefully, avoid responding instinctively and jumping to conclusions, and instead, use our intellect. And so, I started digging through the files, interviewing witnesses, piecing together a defense. First I researched my client's alibi for the night of the attack, but it was a bit shaky.
But then the tide turned: I found out that the alleged victim, my client’s ex-girlfriend, was also the mother of his child, and that she had been pressuring my client to sign away his parental rights to the child. I also found out that the officer that helped her fill out her statement was her new boyfriend. The officer-boyfriend had taken the photo of her injuries, handwritten the affidavit detailing the fight, had her sign it, and one of his co-officers witness it.
After I interviewed her, the prosecutor dropped the charges against my client.
Do I think that the ex-girlfriend was a victim of violence? Unequivocally, yes. After all, it was before digital cameras, and the police report had that horrible, horrible picture in it. On the other hand, do I think that my client was innocent of the charges? I’m still not sure, but I am firmly convinced that the outcome of the case was correct.
If I learned anything from the case, it’s that not everything is what it appears to be. And I am certainly glad that I opened my mind enough to prevent stereotypes, prejudices, self-righteousness and biases from getting in the way of doing my job.
When I was in my last semester of law school, I worked as an unpaid intern in the county public defender’s office. (I've mentioned it before, in passing.) I had great, lofty goals about what I would be doing there – the kind of lofty goals that only a 22 year old with no real-world experience could have. Mostly, they were along the line of defending the wrongfully accused, reforming the criminal justice system, abolishing the death penalty, etc., etc. Oh, the naïveté of youth . . .
The internship was jointly supervised between the assistant chief of the office and one of our criminal law professors. We had a classroom session each week, where we learned, essentially, the basics of how to practice law as criminal defense attorneys. And during the week, we were required to work a certain number of hours at the office. In bigger cases, we were required to work under the actual attorneys – and generally, they were busy enough to be thankful for whatever help we could provide. In smaller misdemeanor cases, the clients could agree to let us act as their lead attorneys, with assistance from the supervising attorneys.
Early on in the semester, the professor asked us what kind of cases we were uncomfortable with. My answer, as an upper-middle class sheltered suburban girl was easy: I wanted nothing to do with domestic battery. I didn’t want to envision a world where men hit women, where families were anything less than happy and stable. And, of course, if a fight escalated to the point where an arrest was made, in my mind it was clear that the man must have hit the woman. Accordingly, I, perhaps self-righteously, did not want to defend those men.
Of course my professor saw that as an engraved invitation to assign me to a pretty horrible domestic battery case. And lucky for me, the defendant had agreed to let me be his lead attorney. Worse yet, even though it was a misdemeanor, my client had been sitting in jail for days, because the arrest was a violation of his probation, and if he plead guilty or lost at trial, he was facing mandatory jail time.
My client was a stereotype: a young black offender with a history of violence and drugs. I remember going to the county jail to see him. I was frightened out of my mind. I remember the security, the sound of the doors closing behind me, the fear as I was led to a private interview room where I was to meet with my client – alone, without any of the guards to protect me. When my client was brought to me in shackles, I was scared to death.
I finally relaxed enough to start talking about the case with him – whether he would be interested in a plea deal if it meant that he would have a reduced sentence. But he kept maintaining that he was innocent. I didn’t believe it, not for a second. Not with his violent background. Not with the photo in the case file of his cute little girlfriend with bruises on her face and arms. I firmly believed that his desire to fight the charge was posturing, or a fear of having to do real jail time.
But then I remembered that I was there to do a job. I also remembered, from our classroom sessions, that we needed to examine the facts of the case carefully, avoid responding instinctively and jumping to conclusions, and instead, use our intellect. And so, I started digging through the files, interviewing witnesses, piecing together a defense. First I researched my client's alibi for the night of the attack, but it was a bit shaky.
But then the tide turned: I found out that the alleged victim, my client’s ex-girlfriend, was also the mother of his child, and that she had been pressuring my client to sign away his parental rights to the child. I also found out that the officer that helped her fill out her statement was her new boyfriend. The officer-boyfriend had taken the photo of her injuries, handwritten the affidavit detailing the fight, had her sign it, and one of his co-officers witness it.
After I interviewed her, the prosecutor dropped the charges against my client.
Do I think that the ex-girlfriend was a victim of violence? Unequivocally, yes. After all, it was before digital cameras, and the police report had that horrible, horrible picture in it. On the other hand, do I think that my client was innocent of the charges? I’m still not sure, but I am firmly convinced that the outcome of the case was correct.
If I learned anything from the case, it’s that not everything is what it appears to be. And I am certainly glad that I opened my mind enough to prevent stereotypes, prejudices, self-righteousness and biases from getting in the way of doing my job.
Monday, February 07, 2011
Remembering
I remember that I was busy, and that I got back home for a two-week break in a long trial, the biggest trial of my career at that point -- perhaps still. I remember that I was tired.
I remember that my grandmother had been in a car accident that Friday, and was staying at my parents' house.
I remember talking to my mother before the Super Bowl. Dad was too busy, making chili. And yes, he was very excited about the Giants.
I remember talking to her right after the Super Bowl. Yes, Dad was happy that the Giants won.
I remember talking to her about how much money I had spent on the Catherine Malandrino dress -- too much, in her opinion. I remember talking to her about the planning of the California trip, which was in its nascent stages.
I remember her telling me that she wasn't feeling well, that she was tired, and that she was stressed out about the eye surgery that was scheduled for later in the week.
I remember having a weird dream, and that, as a result, I wanted to call her all day on Tuesday. I remember not getting any answer: no cell phone, no house phone. Dad didn't pick up either.
I remember that I still hadn't heard from her on Wednesday.
I remember finding out from Nana that she had gone to the emergency room.
I remember the phone call from Dad in the evening, from her side in the hospital. I remember him telling me that it was serious. I remember him asking her if she wanted to talk to me, and hearing her say, faintly, "Not now." I remember being shocked, because she always wanted to talk to me.
I remember talking to my siblings.
I remember talking to Dad when he got home that night. I asked him why he left her alone. He said nothing was going to change overnight.
I remember the cell phone ringing in the middle of the night. 3:40 a.m. I remember knowing what it was before I answered.
I remember Dad telling me to call my brother. I remember telling my brother, "Please don't make me say it out loud."
I remember sitting down in the middle of my kitchen floor -- pretty much the only empty space in that entire apartment -- and bawling my eyes out.
I remember booking a flight on the internet.
I remember driving to my office in the middle of the night to send an email to my boss and coworkers and gather the things I might need for the week.
I remember the flight to Florida, writing in the crazy notebook.
I remember my dad picking me up from the airport, and that I kept saying the word fuck over and over again.
I remember going to the funeral home. I remember that my dad couldn't find his credit card, which if you knew him, you would know is the most unusual thing ever. I remember paying with my credit card.
I remember the entire family sitting around the house.
I remember meeting with the rabbi. I remember hating that the rabbi didn't know my mother.
I remember bits and pieces of the services, both at the funeral home and at her grave.
I remember sitting shiva. I remember her friends bringing food, stuff she would have liked. I remember that my friends sent a gift basket.
I remember all of this, but the details get fuzzy over time. What airline did I fly? Was the last time I spoke with her on Sunday or Monday? Did I wear a black suit or a gray suit to the funeral? What did the rabbi look like? Were my cousins there? Was it babka or coffee cake?
I try to hold on to as much of it as possible, but so much of it is hazy. I want to remember, but on the other hand, it just brings me right back to that moment in time, the searing pain and the sheer panic. Maybe I should forget.
I remember that my grandmother had been in a car accident that Friday, and was staying at my parents' house.
I remember talking to my mother before the Super Bowl. Dad was too busy, making chili. And yes, he was very excited about the Giants.
I remember talking to her right after the Super Bowl. Yes, Dad was happy that the Giants won.
I remember talking to her about how much money I had spent on the Catherine Malandrino dress -- too much, in her opinion. I remember talking to her about the planning of the California trip, which was in its nascent stages.
I remember her telling me that she wasn't feeling well, that she was tired, and that she was stressed out about the eye surgery that was scheduled for later in the week.
I remember having a weird dream, and that, as a result, I wanted to call her all day on Tuesday. I remember not getting any answer: no cell phone, no house phone. Dad didn't pick up either.
I remember that I still hadn't heard from her on Wednesday.
I remember finding out from Nana that she had gone to the emergency room.
I remember the phone call from Dad in the evening, from her side in the hospital. I remember him telling me that it was serious. I remember him asking her if she wanted to talk to me, and hearing her say, faintly, "Not now." I remember being shocked, because she always wanted to talk to me.
I remember talking to my siblings.
I remember talking to Dad when he got home that night. I asked him why he left her alone. He said nothing was going to change overnight.
I remember the cell phone ringing in the middle of the night. 3:40 a.m. I remember knowing what it was before I answered.
I remember Dad telling me to call my brother. I remember telling my brother, "Please don't make me say it out loud."
I remember sitting down in the middle of my kitchen floor -- pretty much the only empty space in that entire apartment -- and bawling my eyes out.
I remember booking a flight on the internet.
I remember driving to my office in the middle of the night to send an email to my boss and coworkers and gather the things I might need for the week.
I remember the flight to Florida, writing in the crazy notebook.
I remember my dad picking me up from the airport, and that I kept saying the word fuck over and over again.
I remember going to the funeral home. I remember that my dad couldn't find his credit card, which if you knew him, you would know is the most unusual thing ever. I remember paying with my credit card.
I remember the entire family sitting around the house.
I remember meeting with the rabbi. I remember hating that the rabbi didn't know my mother.
I remember bits and pieces of the services, both at the funeral home and at her grave.
I remember sitting shiva. I remember her friends bringing food, stuff she would have liked. I remember that my friends sent a gift basket.
I remember all of this, but the details get fuzzy over time. What airline did I fly? Was the last time I spoke with her on Sunday or Monday? Did I wear a black suit or a gray suit to the funeral? What did the rabbi look like? Were my cousins there? Was it babka or coffee cake?
I try to hold on to as much of it as possible, but so much of it is hazy. I want to remember, but on the other hand, it just brings me right back to that moment in time, the searing pain and the sheer panic. Maybe I should forget.
Third Anniversary
I was cleaning through some things recently and stumbled across two sheets from a yellow legal pad, folded into eighths. When I opened it, I found that it was the eulogy I gave at my mother's funeral. I know I did it -- I wrote about doing it at the time -- but I don't really remember it. It's like my memory of breaking my arm in the 8th grade and getting it set -- I know it happened, I have some recollection of it, but it's oddly distant and seems like it's something I watched happen to somebody else, rather than something that I participated in. An out of body experience, of sorts.
This is part of what I said, or at least what I wrote to say:
There's more there, about my mother's laugh and her sense of humor, and how much she loved being with her family and friends. But it's not a true reflection of what I felt then or what I still feel now when I think about it: The speech was edited and sanitized and shortened into sound bytes that I, somewhat wishfully, believed I could get out without crying. It's the notebook that is the real record of my feelings, then and, along with the postscript, now. Only, now, on the third anniversary, those feelings exist in smaller, more manageable, less heart-wrenching doses.
I still miss my mother. I can't believe it's been three years. It alternately feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
This is part of what I said, or at least what I wrote to say:
My mother was my best friend. She was a good friend. She was patient and loving and wise and understanding -- most of the time, anyway. Sometimes she was still my mom.
Not too long after I moved away, I bought a car. She yelled at me, via cell phone, while I was in the dealership signing the papers. "You're just a little girl, you can't buy a car by yourself. Why couldn't you wait for me to get there?"
Even from a thousand miles away, she hated that I went shopping without her. And she still wanted to negotiate me a better price.
There's more there, about my mother's laugh and her sense of humor, and how much she loved being with her family and friends. But it's not a true reflection of what I felt then or what I still feel now when I think about it: The speech was edited and sanitized and shortened into sound bytes that I, somewhat wishfully, believed I could get out without crying. It's the notebook that is the real record of my feelings, then and, along with the postscript, now. Only, now, on the third anniversary, those feelings exist in smaller, more manageable, less heart-wrenching doses.
I still miss my mother. I can't believe it's been three years. It alternately feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Lost in Translation
I have a little sniffle today, so I left work early, took some medicine, and climbed into bed. Upon waking, I was craving soup. And so, I ordered Chinese food -- mostly won-ton soup -- from a relatively new place near my neighborhood. The food is decent and relatively cheap, plus they take credit card, which is important to someone like me, who always seems to have a ton of cash or none at all.
The problem, however, is that their English is bad. Really bad. Cliché bad. So, not only do I live in fear that they're going to send me something bizarre, but no matter how hard I try, they do not understand my address.
In theory, I should be pretty easy to understand: I speak loudly and clearly and I don't really have a regional accent. (I worked really hard to get rid of my New Jersey accent when we moved to Florida when I was 12, and I've been largely successful.) Plus, I spell.
I've ordered from this place twice now, and both times, the same thing happened. The girl on the phone takes my order, repeats it and my address back to me. She seems to have it perfect. Still, 20 minutes later, I get a phone call from the delivery driver -- with even worse English -- who is at a different building, on a different street, about half a mile away. He insists that I gave the wrong address, or that the street he is at is the street that my condo is on. I barely understand a word he is saying. He keeps saying something about a hotel. No, it's not a hotel, it's a condo. After about 10 minutes of me trying to figure out what he is saying and spelling my street address for him, finally, he seems to understand. Eventually, the food gets here. The delivery driver keeps showing me the printed receipt, which shows a different address from the one I gave on the phone.
And so, next time, I'm ordering from somewhere else.
The problem, however, is that their English is bad. Really bad. Cliché bad. So, not only do I live in fear that they're going to send me something bizarre, but no matter how hard I try, they do not understand my address.
In theory, I should be pretty easy to understand: I speak loudly and clearly and I don't really have a regional accent. (I worked really hard to get rid of my New Jersey accent when we moved to Florida when I was 12, and I've been largely successful.) Plus, I spell.
I've ordered from this place twice now, and both times, the same thing happened. The girl on the phone takes my order, repeats it and my address back to me. She seems to have it perfect. Still, 20 minutes later, I get a phone call from the delivery driver -- with even worse English -- who is at a different building, on a different street, about half a mile away. He insists that I gave the wrong address, or that the street he is at is the street that my condo is on. I barely understand a word he is saying. He keeps saying something about a hotel. No, it's not a hotel, it's a condo. After about 10 minutes of me trying to figure out what he is saying and spelling my street address for him, finally, he seems to understand. Eventually, the food gets here. The delivery driver keeps showing me the printed receipt, which shows a different address from the one I gave on the phone.
And so, next time, I'm ordering from somewhere else.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Simplification
I generally don't make New Year's resolutions, mostly because I generally don't keep New Year's resolutions. Besides, any promise you make to yourself or to anyone else after a few glasses of champagne is likely to be voidable.
This year, however, I have a resolution. A good one. But bear with me -- it requires a bit of an explanation.
The idea started with my CD collection. Despite the move towards electronic distribution of music over the past years, I keep buying compact discs. I like listening to albums as a whole. I like reading the liner notes. I like being able to grab a CD that fits my mood to take with me in the car. I like having a tangible, physical thing, instead of just having the intangible music stored on a hard drive or a .mp3 player. And what if the electronic device fails?
So now, I have entire bookshelves filled with CDs, just sitting in my condo. Of course, I've copied each onto my computer and backed them up on another hard drive. I'm starting to think that maybe it's time to change this strategy. Maybe I should sell the CDs. I don't need them; they are just things taking up space.
Then I think about all of the other things I keep in my house. Do I really need to keep a full bookcase of the books I've yet to read, when I can get books from a library? Do I really need to hang on to my prom dress -- and the elbow length gloves that went with it? People somehow manage to live with far fewer shoes, clothes, and beauty products. What is it that I can't replace? What is it that I really need? What is it that I can't live without?
The answer is depressing: Not a single thing is necessary. No thing is necessary. Nothing is necessary. Nothing. I can live with none of these things.
Under many of the measures of affluence in this country, I am quite wealthy. I have a good job that pays well, and as of this month, when I make my last student loan payment, I am by-and-large, debt free. (Well, except for that pesky mortgage . . . ) I have no significant health concerns. I have no dependents relying on me. I have so much. And yet, I constantly add to my collection of things, and I don't save. I am a shopoholic, and not in a cute, fictional way.
According to this article, I should ask myself these questions before buying anything:
I know I fall into the trap of buying because things are on sale, and I know I ignore the part about whether I have to buy things, or love it and need it.
Another article gave five tips for avoiding impulse buys:
And so, just like the summer of 2009, when I vowed to not eat meat for a whole month, I am going to spend the first few weeks of the new year putting these tricks and tips into play, trying to not buy anything unnecessary. At a minimum, each time I find myself going for my wallet, I'm going to ask myself whether the purchase is a "want" or a "need," and try to eliminate the "wants." At best, I'm going to try to not spend any money on anything that is not essential -- mortgage, utilities, food, basic hygiene and medical care, and transportation.
Simultaneously, I am going to try to figure out what possessions I can eliminate. Thoreau said, "We are happy in proportion to the things we can do without." I'm going to test that theory.
And thus, I resolve to simplify.
This year, however, I have a resolution. A good one. But bear with me -- it requires a bit of an explanation.
The idea started with my CD collection. Despite the move towards electronic distribution of music over the past years, I keep buying compact discs. I like listening to albums as a whole. I like reading the liner notes. I like being able to grab a CD that fits my mood to take with me in the car. I like having a tangible, physical thing, instead of just having the intangible music stored on a hard drive or a .mp3 player. And what if the electronic device fails?
So now, I have entire bookshelves filled with CDs, just sitting in my condo. Of course, I've copied each onto my computer and backed them up on another hard drive. I'm starting to think that maybe it's time to change this strategy. Maybe I should sell the CDs. I don't need them; they are just things taking up space.
Then I think about all of the other things I keep in my house. Do I really need to keep a full bookcase of the books I've yet to read, when I can get books from a library? Do I really need to hang on to my prom dress -- and the elbow length gloves that went with it? People somehow manage to live with far fewer shoes, clothes, and beauty products. What is it that I can't replace? What is it that I really need? What is it that I can't live without?
The answer is depressing: Not a single thing is necessary. No thing is necessary. Nothing is necessary. Nothing. I can live with none of these things.
Under many of the measures of affluence in this country, I am quite wealthy. I have a good job that pays well, and as of this month, when I make my last student loan payment, I am by-and-large, debt free. (Well, except for that pesky mortgage . . . ) I have no significant health concerns. I have no dependents relying on me. I have so much. And yet, I constantly add to my collection of things, and I don't save. I am a shopoholic, and not in a cute, fictional way.
According to this article, I should ask myself these questions before buying anything:
- Do you have to buy this item?
- Have you found the best deal?
- Have you gotten your z's?
- Are you buying just because it's on sale?
- Have you asked about future deals?
- Do you love it and do you need it?
- Can you afford it?
I know I fall into the trap of buying because things are on sale, and I know I ignore the part about whether I have to buy things, or love it and need it.
Another article gave five tips for avoiding impulse buys:
- Stick to Your List
- Get Some Air
- Be Critical
- Phone a Friend
- Use Cash
And so, just like the summer of 2009, when I vowed to not eat meat for a whole month, I am going to spend the first few weeks of the new year putting these tricks and tips into play, trying to not buy anything unnecessary. At a minimum, each time I find myself going for my wallet, I'm going to ask myself whether the purchase is a "want" or a "need," and try to eliminate the "wants." At best, I'm going to try to not spend any money on anything that is not essential -- mortgage, utilities, food, basic hygiene and medical care, and transportation.
Simultaneously, I am going to try to figure out what possessions I can eliminate. Thoreau said, "We are happy in proportion to the things we can do without." I'm going to test that theory.
And thus, I resolve to simplify.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Christmas Memories
Everyone always makes comments to me about a "traditional Jewish Christmas," i.e. Chinese food and a movie. I think it's quaint, because, until I was living in DC in my mid-20s and had my first ever Jewish boyfriend, I had no idea what that meant.
My family had a traditional Christmas: stockings, tons of presents, capped off with a giant family celebration. My mother did, however, draw the line at a tree. And Jesus. There was no room for Jesus in our Christmas.
Most of my memories of Christmas revolve around the fireplace in our second house in New Jersey, the big house in the affluent suburb. We always had piles of presents, and the Christmas presents were entirely separate from the Hanukkah presents. (Santa Claus was very careful most of the time to not use the Hanukkah wrapping paper.)
Every year, there was candy and an orange in the stocking, and when I was really good, sometimes something extra special like a bracelet or earrings. Santa was a firm believer that "good things come in small packages." And like my mother, Santa agreed that jewelry was a very good thing.
I had a really good childhood.
Before that house, we lived in a different house, a split-level, without a fireplace. In that house, Santa left the presents by the front door, and we would sit on the stairs and open them. I used to pester my father with all sorts of questions about how Santa got into the house in the absence of a chimney. My dad eventually told me that parents of good boys and girls gave Santa a spare key. Case closed.
The year we moved out of that first house, when my brother was still a baby, I remember my mother taking me into the city to see The Nutcracker. I had just started ballet lessons and was convinced that I was going to be a ballerina. I looked the part: tiny and vaguely Eastern European, particularly in comparison to my larger, blonder siblings and cousins. Unfortunately, despite 11 years of dance lessons, the klutzy gene prevailed. (At least I got the bookish gene to go with it!)
I've written before about the Christmases in Florida. I've told the story of the mutant and pornographic Chrismanukkah cookies. I've also noted that the house in Florida didn't have a fireplace, and so, we'd have Christmas in front of the television.
When I was older, I would wait until everyone else had fallen asleep to sneak out and leave presents from "Santa Claus" for the entire family. It was nice to surprise my mother. The last Christmas I spent with my entire family - in 2006 -- Santa brought us all matching pajamas. Santa was such a dork.
I miss Santa terribly right now. I could use a dose of Christmas magic.
My family had a traditional Christmas: stockings, tons of presents, capped off with a giant family celebration. My mother did, however, draw the line at a tree. And Jesus. There was no room for Jesus in our Christmas.
Most of my memories of Christmas revolve around the fireplace in our second house in New Jersey, the big house in the affluent suburb. We always had piles of presents, and the Christmas presents were entirely separate from the Hanukkah presents. (Santa Claus was very careful most of the time to not use the Hanukkah wrapping paper.)
Every year, there was candy and an orange in the stocking, and when I was really good, sometimes something extra special like a bracelet or earrings. Santa was a firm believer that "good things come in small packages." And like my mother, Santa agreed that jewelry was a very good thing.
I had a really good childhood.
Before that house, we lived in a different house, a split-level, without a fireplace. In that house, Santa left the presents by the front door, and we would sit on the stairs and open them. I used to pester my father with all sorts of questions about how Santa got into the house in the absence of a chimney. My dad eventually told me that parents of good boys and girls gave Santa a spare key. Case closed.
The year we moved out of that first house, when my brother was still a baby, I remember my mother taking me into the city to see The Nutcracker. I had just started ballet lessons and was convinced that I was going to be a ballerina. I looked the part: tiny and vaguely Eastern European, particularly in comparison to my larger, blonder siblings and cousins. Unfortunately, despite 11 years of dance lessons, the klutzy gene prevailed. (At least I got the bookish gene to go with it!)
I've written before about the Christmases in Florida. I've told the story of the mutant and pornographic Chrismanukkah cookies. I've also noted that the house in Florida didn't have a fireplace, and so, we'd have Christmas in front of the television.
When I was older, I would wait until everyone else had fallen asleep to sneak out and leave presents from "Santa Claus" for the entire family. It was nice to surprise my mother. The last Christmas I spent with my entire family - in 2006 -- Santa brought us all matching pajamas. Santa was such a dork.
I miss Santa terribly right now. I could use a dose of Christmas magic.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Watches and time
I had just gotten out of the Metro train onto a very crowded platform, when I heard the sound of something hitting the tile. The older woman in front of me had lost her watch.
I stopped to pick it up, to the great annoyance of all of the people behind me, who pushed their way around me, to the escalator. All the time, I was shouting, "Miss! Miss! You lost your watch!"
She didn't hear me.
I ran up to her -- high heels be damned -- still shouting. There was no response until I tapped her on the shoulder. Finally, she acknowledged me, and took the watch. She hasn't heard me because she was wearing earmuffs under her jacket hood.
She thanked me profusely. I meekly said it was no trouble and headed up the escalator.
I have no idea how much the watch was worth; I barely even looked at it. (I do know that it was silver and, by feel, it was somewhat dainty.) Instead, I thought about the watch that I've been wearing day in and day out -- the cheap watch that was once my mother's. I thought about the nicer watches in my jewelry box at home that I don't often wear. I wonder if that watch meant something to her, like my watch means to me. I hope it did.
I wonder why no one else stopped or tried to get her attention. I wonder why everyone just pushed ahead, trying to ignore it. Are those five, ten, maybe fifteen extra seconds really that valuable?
I stopped to pick it up, to the great annoyance of all of the people behind me, who pushed their way around me, to the escalator. All the time, I was shouting, "Miss! Miss! You lost your watch!"
She didn't hear me.
I ran up to her -- high heels be damned -- still shouting. There was no response until I tapped her on the shoulder. Finally, she acknowledged me, and took the watch. She hasn't heard me because she was wearing earmuffs under her jacket hood.
She thanked me profusely. I meekly said it was no trouble and headed up the escalator.
I have no idea how much the watch was worth; I barely even looked at it. (I do know that it was silver and, by feel, it was somewhat dainty.) Instead, I thought about the watch that I've been wearing day in and day out -- the cheap watch that was once my mother's. I thought about the nicer watches in my jewelry box at home that I don't often wear. I wonder if that watch meant something to her, like my watch means to me. I hope it did.
I wonder why no one else stopped or tried to get her attention. I wonder why everyone just pushed ahead, trying to ignore it. Are those five, ten, maybe fifteen extra seconds really that valuable?
Monday, December 20, 2010
Fini
I graduated from law school on December 18, 1998, three weeks after I turned 23 years old. Nineteen months later, after the bar exam and an extra year spent getting my LL.M, I was sitting in my crappy apartment in a complex where one of the Gainesville murders took place, packing up my meager possessions into boxes, and waiting for the movers to come get my stuff to cart it a thousand miles north. Other than continuing education seminars, I was done with school, raring to enter the working world.
Fini.
Or so I thought.
Which brings us to the beginning of 2010. After the loss of my mom, several painful failed relationships, and interminable work stresses, I found myself looking for something, well, more. That more turned into a graduate degree program at Georgetown. And as of a few minutes ago, I just turned in my final exam for my very first class.
I am proud of myself for finishing that first class, but I have so many more to go if I want to complete the degree program. I have no idea whether I’ll ever make it to the end, with work and responsibilities and (arguably) life. But still, in this moment, I am proud. Exhausted too.
Fini.
Or so I thought.
Which brings us to the beginning of 2010. After the loss of my mom, several painful failed relationships, and interminable work stresses, I found myself looking for something, well, more. That more turned into a graduate degree program at Georgetown. And as of a few minutes ago, I just turned in my final exam for my very first class.
I am proud of myself for finishing that first class, but I have so many more to go if I want to complete the degree program. I have no idea whether I’ll ever make it to the end, with work and responsibilities and (arguably) life. But still, in this moment, I am proud. Exhausted too.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
A Note for Cate, Emma Claire, and Jack Edwards
Dear Cate, Emma Claire, and Jack,
I am so sorry for your loss.
You are probably going to hear a lot of that over the coming weeks, often from people like me who didn't know your mother at all, except for what they saw of her on television and read of her in newspapers and magazines and, occasionally, on the internet. We all feel like we knew your mother, but we didn't -- you did. Remember that when people say things that aren't so kind.
As someone who also lost her mother way too early -- also at age 61 -- I feel so incredibly sorry for you, and I can't help but give advice.
To begin with, you should probably be aware that the next few weeks, and months, and years are going to be really hard -- and really weird. It's hard to imagine right now, but you will eventually get through this. In the meantime, just try to roll with it as best you can. Feel what you are feeling. Talk about it -- to each other, to your loved ones, to your friends. Don't hold it in.
Birthdays and holidays are hard, but that's expected. But be warned: you're going to find yourself crying when you least expect it. Sometimes I cry when I see people with their children -- because I miss my mother, and because I feel sorry for my future children who will never know their grandmother. In the three years since my mother died, that hasn't subsided, and I don't know that it ever will.
You'll also find yourself laughing at times, also when it's unexpected. For me, it was when I was going through my mother's possessions. I was hysterical when I found the random things that she collected, like hundreds of dollars of quarters she had hidden in her nightstand. And I laughed while searching through her disorganized files to find the paperwork about the extension she was building onto the house, only to find my birth announcement and a newspaper clipping from my kindergarten graduation thrown in the wrong file.
Mostly, try to remember your mother -- not the public version that everyone talks about, but the person. Hold on to the stories and the memories. (I tend to write mine down, but that's just me.)
My thoughts and prayers are with you.
I am so sorry for your loss.
You are probably going to hear a lot of that over the coming weeks, often from people like me who didn't know your mother at all, except for what they saw of her on television and read of her in newspapers and magazines and, occasionally, on the internet. We all feel like we knew your mother, but we didn't -- you did. Remember that when people say things that aren't so kind.
As someone who also lost her mother way too early -- also at age 61 -- I feel so incredibly sorry for you, and I can't help but give advice.
To begin with, you should probably be aware that the next few weeks, and months, and years are going to be really hard -- and really weird. It's hard to imagine right now, but you will eventually get through this. In the meantime, just try to roll with it as best you can. Feel what you are feeling. Talk about it -- to each other, to your loved ones, to your friends. Don't hold it in.
Birthdays and holidays are hard, but that's expected. But be warned: you're going to find yourself crying when you least expect it. Sometimes I cry when I see people with their children -- because I miss my mother, and because I feel sorry for my future children who will never know their grandmother. In the three years since my mother died, that hasn't subsided, and I don't know that it ever will.
You'll also find yourself laughing at times, also when it's unexpected. For me, it was when I was going through my mother's possessions. I was hysterical when I found the random things that she collected, like hundreds of dollars of quarters she had hidden in her nightstand. And I laughed while searching through her disorganized files to find the paperwork about the extension she was building onto the house, only to find my birth announcement and a newspaper clipping from my kindergarten graduation thrown in the wrong file.
Mostly, try to remember your mother -- not the public version that everyone talks about, but the person. Hold on to the stories and the memories. (I tend to write mine down, but that's just me.)
My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Scott Baio is my new Twitter BFF!
On Saturday, I attended our annual Christmanukkah party/gag gift exchange. I wound up getting a Scott Baio poster and a fart machine.
Of course, I took to Twitter to comment on my good fortune. But then a funny thing happened. Scott Baio responded to my tweet. For realz, yo:
Now, you should also know that I grew up watching very little television -- until we moved to Florida when I was almost thirteen, all the television I ever watched was:
So, of all the 80's teen heartthrobs in the world (query: is Scott Baio an 80's heartthrob? Do I even have the years right? Did I miss it because I am too young?), Scott Baio was not even on my radar.
I do, however, think it's pretty great that he responds to stuff on Twitter. It was funny and awesome and totally made my day.
Of course, I took to Twitter to comment on my good fortune. But then a funny thing happened. Scott Baio responded to my tweet. For realz, yo:
Now, you should also know that I grew up watching very little television -- until we moved to Florida when I was almost thirteen, all the television I ever watched was:
- Saturday morning cartoons;
- Shows on Friday or Saturday nights when we had a babysitter;
- Growing Pains (because my mom thought Kirk Cameron looked like my brother);
- Nickelodeon;
- General Hospital;
- reruns of The Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island when I was home sick;
- various game shows, also when I was home sick;
- Romper Room, Sesame Street, and the Electric Company; and
- whatever I was able to watch at my friends' houses.
So, of all the 80's teen heartthrobs in the world (query: is Scott Baio an 80's heartthrob? Do I even have the years right? Did I miss it because I am too young?), Scott Baio was not even on my radar.
I do, however, think it's pretty great that he responds to stuff on Twitter. It was funny and awesome and totally made my day.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Birthday Memories
On Facebook, one of my friends said that it was a family tradition to tell the story of your best birthday memory. I, however, don't really have a best birthday memory of my own: I mostly remember the bad birthdays, the ones involving sickness. I also remember the canceled 16th birthday, when my mother was angry with me. And I remember the funny ones, like when my dad bought me mousetraps.
I think my memory deficit is because, growing up, my birthdays were pretty much always the same -- family, Thanksgiving, gifts. One year, there was the infamous Bert and Ernie cake. Sometimes, when my birthday fell on Monday through Wednesday, there were cupcakes or munchkins in school. And then there were the birthday parties, sometimes jointly with my sister, in places like Roy Rogers and Friendly's. But I can't really distinguish any of them as the best -- they were all pretty much universally good. I had a pretty good childhood.
As for adult birthdays, I have a particularly fond memory of my eighteenth birthday. It was my first Florida State-Florida game. I had a friend buy me tickets to the Nirvana concert (and a bottle of Jack Daniels to pregame with). Other friends bought me my first lotto ticket, which won me $6.50. And then there was the engagement ring, but that's a story for another day.
But ultimately, my favorite birthday memory is not from my birthday -- it's from my mother's birthday. A few years before she died, I surprised her by showing up in Florida unannounced. I had spent weeks laying the groundwork -- work was really busy and I'd be seeing her for Thanksgiving anyway -- and then worked out the secret details with my father and my grandparents. Nana and Pop took mom out for lunch and I walked into the restaurant. I got to the table and my mom saw me and did a double take. She was so extraordinarily happy.
I'll have that memory forever.
I think my memory deficit is because, growing up, my birthdays were pretty much always the same -- family, Thanksgiving, gifts. One year, there was the infamous Bert and Ernie cake. Sometimes, when my birthday fell on Monday through Wednesday, there were cupcakes or munchkins in school. And then there were the birthday parties, sometimes jointly with my sister, in places like Roy Rogers and Friendly's. But I can't really distinguish any of them as the best -- they were all pretty much universally good. I had a pretty good childhood.
As for adult birthdays, I have a particularly fond memory of my eighteenth birthday. It was my first Florida State-Florida game. I had a friend buy me tickets to the Nirvana concert (and a bottle of Jack Daniels to pregame with). Other friends bought me my first lotto ticket, which won me $6.50. And then there was the engagement ring, but that's a story for another day.
But ultimately, my favorite birthday memory is not from my birthday -- it's from my mother's birthday. A few years before she died, I surprised her by showing up in Florida unannounced. I had spent weeks laying the groundwork -- work was really busy and I'd be seeing her for Thanksgiving anyway -- and then worked out the secret details with my father and my grandparents. Nana and Pop took mom out for lunch and I walked into the restaurant. I got to the table and my mom saw me and did a double take. She was so extraordinarily happy.
I'll have that memory forever.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Ancient History
I live in a city obsessed with history: Washington, DC is, in many ways, entirely focused on preserving it, interpreting it, making it, and sometimes even rewriting it. It's strange, though: The history we focus on here only goes back, at maximum, 400 years. When I was living in London, I was constantly overwhelmed by just how old everything there was. And that was nothing too -- when I was in Jerusalem, everything was even older. All that history makes me feel somewhat comforted as I'm heading into another birthday.
The years that end in zeroes and fives are the most stressful. And this time, I'm about to be in another age bracket -- the victim of an unwarranted demographic shift. All of a sudden, I am less valuable to advertisers. But I feel so young -- except when I look at the gray hairs, or when I hear my back and my knees crack and creak when I get up in the morning, or when I realize that some of the people I knew in high school now have teenage children. How did this happen? And, more importantly, how did it all pass me by? When did I become middle-aged? It seems like I was just having my mid-twenties crisis, but no, I'm far removed from all that and instead, getting closer to a sports car and an inappropriately young lover. (Does that even apply to women?)
I passed by Ford's Theater today -- the place where President Lincoln was shot. All of a sudden, I was brought back to my eighth grade trip, to standing on that very corner, with a cast on my arm and a pink denim jacket. Who was that thirteen year old girl? Where has she gone? What transformation could possibly have turned her into me? How did I possibly get here?
The years that end in zeroes and fives are the most stressful. And this time, I'm about to be in another age bracket -- the victim of an unwarranted demographic shift. All of a sudden, I am less valuable to advertisers. But I feel so young -- except when I look at the gray hairs, or when I hear my back and my knees crack and creak when I get up in the morning, or when I realize that some of the people I knew in high school now have teenage children. How did this happen? And, more importantly, how did it all pass me by? When did I become middle-aged? It seems like I was just having my mid-twenties crisis, but no, I'm far removed from all that and instead, getting closer to a sports car and an inappropriately young lover. (Does that even apply to women?)
I passed by Ford's Theater today -- the place where President Lincoln was shot. All of a sudden, I was brought back to my eighth grade trip, to standing on that very corner, with a cast on my arm and a pink denim jacket. Who was that thirteen year old girl? Where has she gone? What transformation could possibly have turned her into me? How did I possibly get here?
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Dara vs. the Library
Growing up, my favorite place on earth was the library. Not just because of story time, but because there were piles and piles of books for me to read. I consumed books like others consumed food, or perhaps even air or water. Without books, I wilted.
In college, I would occasionally hide in the library -- it was a quiet place to read and think and sometimes write. This was before computers ruled the world -- they were just there as aids to help you find things. (And also, it was where the Tallahassee Free-Net computers were located.) By the time I got to law school, I could see the evolution. Books were becoming disfavored; computer research was the way of the future. And the library? I couldn't study there -- there was too much talking and gossiping. I had to go to the med school if I wanted undisturbed peace and quiet.
Nowadays, I spend almost no time in libraries. We have a small library in the office where I do a little bit of research, but almost everything I need is available on my computer. At home, I have a large number of books -- not quite a library, but perhaps the beginnings of one -- and when I want something new, I go to the bookstore or order it to be delivered.
This brings me to the fact that, for school, I have to write a research paper, which, as it turns out, requires research. And so, this morning, I headed out to the library. First of all, I had forgotten that Georgetown plays football, so I was surprised to find that there was a game today. I was even more surprised to see how small their football games are. But I digress: I parked and walked up the hill to the library.
The library is no longer the quiet refuge of my childhood. It is a noisy place. People talk, slam their computers shut, type with purpose. I used a public computer to search the catalog for the books and articles I needed, writing notes by hand in a spiral bound notebook. I was the only one doing such things. I am a dinosaur.
I was there for a while, but then, all of a sudden, a woman with short blond hair, looking to be my age, sat down at the computer next to me. She slammed her stuff around. Her cell phone rang at least three or four times, in a loud techno music ringtone that angered me. She typed like she was trying to kill the keyboard. She read things on the screen out loud. She also had this weird thing where she kept smacking herself in the abdominal region, five or six times in a row, then would stop, and then a minute or so later, would do it again.
I had to get out of that fucking weirdness.
I finished what I was doing as best as I could. I emailed myself the articles I found online, and went all the way downstairs to the area of the library where they keep the books on religion. It was a dark and musty smelling basement with no signs of life. I quickly figured out why: that section is only open during regular business hours on Mondays through Fridays.
And so, defeated, I trudged back upstairs, straight to the help desk, and told them of my dilemma. They looked at my list of books -- five -- and told me that they would try to get me any of them that were not designated as "Library Use Only." It would take a few minutes. I decided to go to the coffee shop to grab a drink. I have never seen anything like it before: a coffee shop, noisily playing indie music, in the middle of a library. I then looked around. There were almost no books. They are archaeological relics, hidden in the cavernous subbasements where no one is allowed to go.
I managed to check out two of the five books, and raced home. I am hoping that I don't have to go back anytime soon.
In college, I would occasionally hide in the library -- it was a quiet place to read and think and sometimes write. This was before computers ruled the world -- they were just there as aids to help you find things. (And also, it was where the Tallahassee Free-Net computers were located.) By the time I got to law school, I could see the evolution. Books were becoming disfavored; computer research was the way of the future. And the library? I couldn't study there -- there was too much talking and gossiping. I had to go to the med school if I wanted undisturbed peace and quiet.
Nowadays, I spend almost no time in libraries. We have a small library in the office where I do a little bit of research, but almost everything I need is available on my computer. At home, I have a large number of books -- not quite a library, but perhaps the beginnings of one -- and when I want something new, I go to the bookstore or order it to be delivered.
This brings me to the fact that, for school, I have to write a research paper, which, as it turns out, requires research. And so, this morning, I headed out to the library. First of all, I had forgotten that Georgetown plays football, so I was surprised to find that there was a game today. I was even more surprised to see how small their football games are. But I digress: I parked and walked up the hill to the library.
The library is no longer the quiet refuge of my childhood. It is a noisy place. People talk, slam their computers shut, type with purpose. I used a public computer to search the catalog for the books and articles I needed, writing notes by hand in a spiral bound notebook. I was the only one doing such things. I am a dinosaur.
I was there for a while, but then, all of a sudden, a woman with short blond hair, looking to be my age, sat down at the computer next to me. She slammed her stuff around. Her cell phone rang at least three or four times, in a loud techno music ringtone that angered me. She typed like she was trying to kill the keyboard. She read things on the screen out loud. She also had this weird thing where she kept smacking herself in the abdominal region, five or six times in a row, then would stop, and then a minute or so later, would do it again.
I had to get out of that fucking weirdness.
I finished what I was doing as best as I could. I emailed myself the articles I found online, and went all the way downstairs to the area of the library where they keep the books on religion. It was a dark and musty smelling basement with no signs of life. I quickly figured out why: that section is only open during regular business hours on Mondays through Fridays.
And so, defeated, I trudged back upstairs, straight to the help desk, and told them of my dilemma. They looked at my list of books -- five -- and told me that they would try to get me any of them that were not designated as "Library Use Only." It would take a few minutes. I decided to go to the coffee shop to grab a drink. I have never seen anything like it before: a coffee shop, noisily playing indie music, in the middle of a library. I then looked around. There were almost no books. They are archaeological relics, hidden in the cavernous subbasements where no one is allowed to go.
I managed to check out two of the five books, and raced home. I am hoping that I don't have to go back anytime soon.
Friday, November 12, 2010
My mom's Thanksgiving insanity
As I just told my Dad, I'm not heading to Florida for any of the upcoming holidays or his birthday. Then again, it's not like he's even thought about coming to DC for Thanksgiving or my birthday.
Secretly, I kind of like being on my own for the holidays since my mom died. There's no disruption to my life. I can do what I want, with whom I want -- and if that involves sitting in bed eating pie, so be it. I am beholden to no one. Plus, there's no sense of urgently trying -- and horribly failing -- to recreate the family feeling that died along with her.
Even if we tried, it would be impossible to recreate my mother's version of the holidays. She loved any holiday that involved her getting to have her entire family around her. She would get super busy with the planning and the cooking -- and, as a result, was more than occasionally crazy -- but she loved it. All of it. I have video evidence to prove it.
She also got super weird around the holidays. One year, shortly after they moved into the current house, I was visiting over Thanksgiving and wanted to go out for breakfast. She agreed, and said that we might go with some of her new neighbors. I got up that morning, and as is my custom, threw my hair in a ponytail and put on a ratty old t-shirt and jeans combo. She saw me and said, "You're going out LIKE THAT?!?", with an incredulity that belied the fact that she had seen me go out LIKE THAT almost every day of my life that did not involve (1) office work or (2) a formal occasion.
I chalked it up to the fact that she either really wanted to impress these new neighbors or was clearly losing her marbles, and promised her that I would at least brush my teeth before we left. (Basic hygeine FTW!) My dad was laughing in the background. I interpreted that as a sign that either he thought I was funny or that he knew that asking me to dress up for breakfast was as ridiculous as asking him if he wanted to go to the mall.
We got to the restaurant, and the neighbors were there -- with their age-appropriate Jewish-y son, who, "coincidentally" also attended one of my alma maters and lived in the metro-DC area. It was a surprise set-up -- FOR BOTH OF US. And, as luck would have it, we were both hungry, tired, and completely disinterested -- and, as a result, spent the entire breakfast focusing almost exclusively on our eggs and bagels while our parents gossiped about the goings-on at the clubhouse and the homeowners' association.
I miss my mom, even if she was insane.
Secretly, I kind of like being on my own for the holidays since my mom died. There's no disruption to my life. I can do what I want, with whom I want -- and if that involves sitting in bed eating pie, so be it. I am beholden to no one. Plus, there's no sense of urgently trying -- and horribly failing -- to recreate the family feeling that died along with her.
Even if we tried, it would be impossible to recreate my mother's version of the holidays. She loved any holiday that involved her getting to have her entire family around her. She would get super busy with the planning and the cooking -- and, as a result, was more than occasionally crazy -- but she loved it. All of it. I have video evidence to prove it.
She also got super weird around the holidays. One year, shortly after they moved into the current house, I was visiting over Thanksgiving and wanted to go out for breakfast. She agreed, and said that we might go with some of her new neighbors. I got up that morning, and as is my custom, threw my hair in a ponytail and put on a ratty old t-shirt and jeans combo. She saw me and said, "You're going out LIKE THAT?!?", with an incredulity that belied the fact that she had seen me go out LIKE THAT almost every day of my life that did not involve (1) office work or (2) a formal occasion.
I chalked it up to the fact that she either really wanted to impress these new neighbors or was clearly losing her marbles, and promised her that I would at least brush my teeth before we left. (Basic hygeine FTW!) My dad was laughing in the background. I interpreted that as a sign that either he thought I was funny or that he knew that asking me to dress up for breakfast was as ridiculous as asking him if he wanted to go to the mall.
We got to the restaurant, and the neighbors were there -- with their age-appropriate Jewish-y son, who, "coincidentally" also attended one of my alma maters and lived in the metro-DC area. It was a surprise set-up -- FOR BOTH OF US. And, as luck would have it, we were both hungry, tired, and completely disinterested -- and, as a result, spent the entire breakfast focusing almost exclusively on our eggs and bagels while our parents gossiped about the goings-on at the clubhouse and the homeowners' association.
I miss my mom, even if she was insane.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
My dad vs. the time change
I always think about my dad when it's time to set our clocks forwards or backwards. This is because the man refuses to observe this custom. I don't remember whether it's Daylight Savings Time that he ignores, or whether he ignores the reversion to Standard Time, but either way, he refuses to change his clocks.
I think that he's batshit crazy. Funny, but crazy.
We have the same inevitable conversation every year: I will be in his car and I will look at the clock on the dashboard -- or I'll be in the house and look at the clock in the stove -- and I will note that it is an hour off, and I will offer to fix it. Then he tells me to just leave it alone, and it will be right again when the time changes. And then I tell him that it is annoying and confusing for all of the clocks to be wrong for half of the year. And then he tells me to fuck off and mind my own business.
Here is the funniest part of all: His sister does the same thing. They apparently share this particular insanity.
I think that he's batshit crazy. Funny, but crazy.
We have the same inevitable conversation every year: I will be in his car and I will look at the clock on the dashboard -- or I'll be in the house and look at the clock in the stove -- and I will note that it is an hour off, and I will offer to fix it. Then he tells me to just leave it alone, and it will be right again when the time changes. And then I tell him that it is annoying and confusing for all of the clocks to be wrong for half of the year. And then he tells me to fuck off and mind my own business.
Here is the funniest part of all: His sister does the same thing. They apparently share this particular insanity.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Faith and Comfort
I told my Grandmother that I don't really believe in God anymore, and that maybe I never did. "No evidence either way," I explained. "Mythology. Stories that the ancients told to explain the unexplainable," I rationalized. "Agnostic," I concluded.
She said, "You sound just like your Grandfather."
My Grandmother believes. Maybe not as much as some, but enough. Maybe not as much as she once did, but still. Even in the face of people who tell her that believers only believe because they are scared of reality -- or worse -- that they are merely hedging their bets. She still believes despite all the tragedies that she has faced in her life -- poverty, wars, the loss of a spouse, the loss of a child. Her faith comforts her.
I, in turn, am comforted by that.
She said, "You sound just like your Grandfather."
My Grandmother believes. Maybe not as much as some, but enough. Maybe not as much as she once did, but still. Even in the face of people who tell her that believers only believe because they are scared of reality -- or worse -- that they are merely hedging their bets. She still believes despite all the tragedies that she has faced in her life -- poverty, wars, the loss of a spouse, the loss of a child. Her faith comforts her.
I, in turn, am comforted by that.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The one where I discuss my unmentionables
I am going to break one of my cardinal rules and write about something I promised myself that I would never discuss in public: underwear, specifically my underwear, and even more specifically, bras.
In case you don't know, buying a bra is not as simple as going to the store, grabbing something, and paying for it at the counter. Different brands, styles, and designs all fit you differently -- pretty much like all clothing, actually. There are stores that actually specialize in bra fittings to make sure that you are wearing the right size. (Yes, I've been measured on occasion.)
Yet, despite weight fluctuations, I've been the exact same size since I turned 17 -- and coincidentally, I am also the average size for American women. Like most people, I have certain brands and styles that I like, and it changes from time to time. Right now I'm going through a phase where I love Simone Perele, a French brand.
All of this brings me to the bra in question. A few months ago, I was somehow convinced to buy a very expensive bra from a very well-known high-end label. I think it started as an experiment in trying to figure out why people would spend so much money on a plain old bra. But just like when I try on expensive shoes, the serotonin rush takes over and I fall in love. Regardless of the item being purchased -- shoes, clothes, cosmetics -- it all ends the same: a swipe of the credit card and a brief feeling of elation, followed by regret.
I am still embarrassed to admit how much money I spent, but in my defense, the bra fit great in the store. Once I got it home, however, it turned out to be among the worst bras that I have ever purchased. About halfway through the day, the fabric starts feeling itchy and uncomfortable, the straps start stretching out, and then when I move, one of the cups slips into an awkward position. I bet I could find a bra in Walmart that fits better.
As a result, this insanely overpriced bra is now relegated to the back of my drawer, for emergency use only.
I was wearing it yesterday because I really need to do laundry. Late last night, I was on the phone with my brother (who I hope is not reading this) and I had a weird itch on my shoulder. I touched my shoulder and felt something strange. Apparently, the fabric covering the bra strap had started to disintegrate, leaving random bits and pieces of sheer, glittery, beige fabric stuck to my skin.
So here is the most expensive single piece of lingerie that I own falling apart while I am still wearing it. It is disgusting, not to mention disappointing. Most importantly it is, once again, a reminder that price, reputation, and celebrity endorsements are not necessarily indicative of quality. Be warned.
In case you don't know, buying a bra is not as simple as going to the store, grabbing something, and paying for it at the counter. Different brands, styles, and designs all fit you differently -- pretty much like all clothing, actually. There are stores that actually specialize in bra fittings to make sure that you are wearing the right size. (Yes, I've been measured on occasion.)
Yet, despite weight fluctuations, I've been the exact same size since I turned 17 -- and coincidentally, I am also the average size for American women. Like most people, I have certain brands and styles that I like, and it changes from time to time. Right now I'm going through a phase where I love Simone Perele, a French brand.
All of this brings me to the bra in question. A few months ago, I was somehow convinced to buy a very expensive bra from a very well-known high-end label. I think it started as an experiment in trying to figure out why people would spend so much money on a plain old bra. But just like when I try on expensive shoes, the serotonin rush takes over and I fall in love. Regardless of the item being purchased -- shoes, clothes, cosmetics -- it all ends the same: a swipe of the credit card and a brief feeling of elation, followed by regret.
I am still embarrassed to admit how much money I spent, but in my defense, the bra fit great in the store. Once I got it home, however, it turned out to be among the worst bras that I have ever purchased. About halfway through the day, the fabric starts feeling itchy and uncomfortable, the straps start stretching out, and then when I move, one of the cups slips into an awkward position. I bet I could find a bra in Walmart that fits better.
As a result, this insanely overpriced bra is now relegated to the back of my drawer, for emergency use only.
I was wearing it yesterday because I really need to do laundry. Late last night, I was on the phone with my brother (who I hope is not reading this) and I had a weird itch on my shoulder. I touched my shoulder and felt something strange. Apparently, the fabric covering the bra strap had started to disintegrate, leaving random bits and pieces of sheer, glittery, beige fabric stuck to my skin.
So here is the most expensive single piece of lingerie that I own falling apart while I am still wearing it. It is disgusting, not to mention disappointing. Most importantly it is, once again, a reminder that price, reputation, and celebrity endorsements are not necessarily indicative of quality. Be warned.
Friday, October 22, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 30
Day 30: The last day. And I'm supposed to be writing a letter to myself telling myself everything I love about myself.
Me, me, me. Here goes:
Yesterday: Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Me, me, me. Here goes:
Dear Dara,
You somehow managed to blog your way through this exercise. You wrote for 30 consecutive days. You never did that before. You continually surprise me.
Everyone always says how smart you are. But you are so much more than that. You can be kind. You can be generous. You can be compassionate. And you can be hell-on-wheels. Even you don't know which one is coming.
You are either crispy on the outside with a gooey marshmallow center, or a gooey marshmallow exterior with a core of solid steel. No one knows for sure. It's great that you cry when you read newspaper stories about injured and dying children. Or that you laugh at sad news stories when people's names are funny. People will think you're a softie or a jerk. Keep 'em guessing.
You have a standing policy of always rooting for the underdog. You sometimes think of yourself as the patron saint of lost causes. Except without the saint part.
You are a hard worker, except when you are procrastinating. You are precise and well-prepared and very rarely surprised by any unforeseen contingencies. You are a good writer. Even your assistant chief said so. On a post-it. Keep that post-it as a reminder and rub it in his face the next time he wants to make a change to something.
You are even occasionally funny and cute. But don't push your luck.
Love,
Me
Yesterday: Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
30 Days of Truth: Day 29
Today's objective is to write about something I hope to change about myself and why.
I said on Day 1 that I hate that I am so closed-off. I hope I become less closed-off. I need to let people in instead of pushing them away.
Yesterday: Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Tomorrow: Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.
I said on Day 1 that I hate that I am so closed-off. I hope I become less closed-off. I need to let people in instead of pushing them away.
Yesterday: Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Tomorrow: Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.
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