Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Lessons Learned
(1) There will always be critics. I need to develop a thicker skin if I'm going to be able to blog.
(2) While my hat is off to those men and women who can keep up the demands of daily blogging, I don't have it in me yet. Whether that's a lack of material or a lack of energy or a lack of confidence, I'm not there just now. I think that forcing myself to post every day come hell or high water was tantamount to biting off more than I could chew so early in the game. I'm glad I gave it a shot, but I think that the publish or perish threat forced me to blog something -- anything -- and resulted in diluting quality of content in favor of volume. I'll know for next time.
(2) While my hat is off to those men and women who can keep up the demands of daily blogging, I don't have it in me yet. Whether that's a lack of material or a lack of energy or a lack of confidence, I'm not there just now. I think that forcing myself to post every day come hell or high water was tantamount to biting off more than I could chew so early in the game. I'm glad I gave it a shot, but I think that the publish or perish threat forced me to blog something -- anything -- and resulted in diluting quality of content in favor of volume. I'll know for next time.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Hiatus?
It's amazing how quickly having your little sister ridicule your blog will motivate you to contemplate not blogging.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
So It's Thanksgiving...
Amazingly enough, no food coma. I exercised something resembling self-restraint, and didn't need to pick up my belly and carry it home with me. Of course, now it's 9:45pm and I'm peckish. But no matter -- we have leftovers. So if my hunger gets the better of me, I can help myself.
But I don't want to talk about the meal (good), the company (better than good), or any other traditional Thanksgiving details. The thing that left the biggest impression on me today was a near run-in with a homeless man on the ride out to my mother's Thanksgiving dinner.
Coincidentally, my husband (fine, since he's dispensed with pseudonyms on his website, I'll just call him by his name), Brent, blogged about an encounter with a few homeless men earlier this week. I don't intend for our blogs to serve as point/counterpoint or anything of the sort; I think my writing might suffer by comparison were that the case. It's just inevitable that I'll reference things he thinks about and says, as our lives intertwine pretty inextricably.
Anyway, Brent and I were headed out to Queens from our apartment in Midtown Manhattan. We rode an E train to get there. While en route to the subway station, we actually remarked to one another how dead -- how preternaturally empty -- the City seemed. The subway, however, was anything but.
Unlike the streets above, the subway car we entered -- at the front of the train where, even during weekday rush hours, you can usually find at least a few empty seats -- was packed. All sorts of folks were headed in the same direction we were, which meant that neither of us was able to get a seat of our own.
The ride to my mom's place isn't too long; at worst, it runs maybe 45 minutes. Tonight, we were only going to a stop by my grandmother's apartment, and then my mother was going to pick us up and give her a lift, killing multiple birds with one stone, so the ride was even shorter -- maybe 25-30 minutes. Even so, I wound up spending a very long ten-minute stretch on the subway.
Considering how packed the car was, I was startled when I noticed that, between stops, such that there'd be no incentive to give up one's seat, a slew of people (European tourists, if I had to guess; none of them speaking English) scurried out of their seats and crowded the corner of the car where Brent and I were standing. Because we were both carrying heavy containers of food, for about a half a second, I thought about taking one of the recently-vacated seats. Only half a second. I came to my senses pretty quickly.
While New Yorkers are surprisingly polite about some aspects of subway travel (e.g., giving directions to evidently-lost tourists, and waiting for folks to exit subway cars before entering the cars themselves), they are not so generous-of-heart as to relinquish perfectly good seats en masse for no good reason. So that large an exodus had to be motivated by something inappropriate and unseemly taking place near them. Upon reconsideration, I knew better than to try to grab a seat. I just didn't know what in particular I didn't want to be seated next to, even though I knew without a doubt that I was better off standing.
Brent saw him first; my view of the fellow was largely obstructed by a fellow traveler. There was a middle-aged, hard-living homeless man reclining on the subway seats. He had just dropped his trousers to half-mast (towards what end, I knew not, nor did I care to inquire). Folks were both recoiling in horror and staring at him, like the cliched train wreck off which you cannot pull your eyes. The tourists near me laughed nervously.
I couldn't see much of this man; just enough to see that he didn't seem to be threatening anything more disruptive than airing out his equipment. Eventually, he lit and smoked a half-used cigarette. The stench was overpowering. But he didn't make any fuss, didn't make any advances, and kept to himself, for all the commotion he was causing.
At the next stop, half-sickened by the stench of the cigarette, I convinced Brent to switch cars with me. We moved one car over, and that was that.
Except it wasn't. I can't help but pity the man. I imagine that anyone who has sunk so low as not to car (or not to realize) that he's disrobing on mass transit is in a very bad way indeed. I don't know where he came from, how long he's been like this, or what's going to happen to him. I know that I didn't have the power to help him -- not with Thanksgiving leftovers, and not with spare change. This guy needed Help with a capital "H."
New Yorkers talk about the "Homeless Problem" -- something that is called increasingly to our attention as the weather turns colder. It's that time of year when those who can't find shelter take to the buses and, more often, subways for warmth and a little protection from the elements. This guy we saw tonight? Sure, he's part of the problem. But he was -- he is -- human, too. And I'm totally flummoxed over what to do. I had the good sense not to point and giggle. But my pity won't change anything.
I don't write to propose any grand solutions. I don't have any. I just want to express how useless, how helpless I feel at observing this man tonight in this condition.
I learned recently that my brother's girlfriend has made a habit over the last few years of volunteering on Thanksgiving at the Bowery Mission. I don't know her all that well yet, but I was really favorably impressed to learn that about her. Even though it's important to focus on family during this holiday, she has made a policy of helping folks who need it. Again, given what I said above, I know that cooking or serving a warm meal for some homeless people won't solve the Homeless Problem, either. But it's a lot more admirable, a lot more meaningful, a lot more money-where-your-mouth-is than blogging about it.
I used to make a habit of volunteering with New York Cares. I think it's time to get started being involved again. My family nurtures me. Hell, this City takes good care of me. I ought to give something back.
But I don't want to talk about the meal (good), the company (better than good), or any other traditional Thanksgiving details. The thing that left the biggest impression on me today was a near run-in with a homeless man on the ride out to my mother's Thanksgiving dinner.
Coincidentally, my husband (fine, since he's dispensed with pseudonyms on his website, I'll just call him by his name), Brent, blogged about an encounter with a few homeless men earlier this week. I don't intend for our blogs to serve as point/counterpoint or anything of the sort; I think my writing might suffer by comparison were that the case. It's just inevitable that I'll reference things he thinks about and says, as our lives intertwine pretty inextricably.
Anyway, Brent and I were headed out to Queens from our apartment in Midtown Manhattan. We rode an E train to get there. While en route to the subway station, we actually remarked to one another how dead -- how preternaturally empty -- the City seemed. The subway, however, was anything but.
Unlike the streets above, the subway car we entered -- at the front of the train where, even during weekday rush hours, you can usually find at least a few empty seats -- was packed. All sorts of folks were headed in the same direction we were, which meant that neither of us was able to get a seat of our own.
The ride to my mom's place isn't too long; at worst, it runs maybe 45 minutes. Tonight, we were only going to a stop by my grandmother's apartment, and then my mother was going to pick us up and give her a lift, killing multiple birds with one stone, so the ride was even shorter -- maybe 25-30 minutes. Even so, I wound up spending a very long ten-minute stretch on the subway.
Considering how packed the car was, I was startled when I noticed that, between stops, such that there'd be no incentive to give up one's seat, a slew of people (European tourists, if I had to guess; none of them speaking English) scurried out of their seats and crowded the corner of the car where Brent and I were standing. Because we were both carrying heavy containers of food, for about a half a second, I thought about taking one of the recently-vacated seats. Only half a second. I came to my senses pretty quickly.
While New Yorkers are surprisingly polite about some aspects of subway travel (e.g., giving directions to evidently-lost tourists, and waiting for folks to exit subway cars before entering the cars themselves), they are not so generous-of-heart as to relinquish perfectly good seats en masse for no good reason. So that large an exodus had to be motivated by something inappropriate and unseemly taking place near them. Upon reconsideration, I knew better than to try to grab a seat. I just didn't know what in particular I didn't want to be seated next to, even though I knew without a doubt that I was better off standing.
Brent saw him first; my view of the fellow was largely obstructed by a fellow traveler. There was a middle-aged, hard-living homeless man reclining on the subway seats. He had just dropped his trousers to half-mast (towards what end, I knew not, nor did I care to inquire). Folks were both recoiling in horror and staring at him, like the cliched train wreck off which you cannot pull your eyes. The tourists near me laughed nervously.
I couldn't see much of this man; just enough to see that he didn't seem to be threatening anything more disruptive than airing out his equipment. Eventually, he lit and smoked a half-used cigarette. The stench was overpowering. But he didn't make any fuss, didn't make any advances, and kept to himself, for all the commotion he was causing.
At the next stop, half-sickened by the stench of the cigarette, I convinced Brent to switch cars with me. We moved one car over, and that was that.
Except it wasn't. I can't help but pity the man. I imagine that anyone who has sunk so low as not to car (or not to realize) that he's disrobing on mass transit is in a very bad way indeed. I don't know where he came from, how long he's been like this, or what's going to happen to him. I know that I didn't have the power to help him -- not with Thanksgiving leftovers, and not with spare change. This guy needed Help with a capital "H."
New Yorkers talk about the "Homeless Problem" -- something that is called increasingly to our attention as the weather turns colder. It's that time of year when those who can't find shelter take to the buses and, more often, subways for warmth and a little protection from the elements. This guy we saw tonight? Sure, he's part of the problem. But he was -- he is -- human, too. And I'm totally flummoxed over what to do. I had the good sense not to point and giggle. But my pity won't change anything.
I don't write to propose any grand solutions. I don't have any. I just want to express how useless, how helpless I feel at observing this man tonight in this condition.
I learned recently that my brother's girlfriend has made a habit over the last few years of volunteering on Thanksgiving at the Bowery Mission. I don't know her all that well yet, but I was really favorably impressed to learn that about her. Even though it's important to focus on family during this holiday, she has made a policy of helping folks who need it. Again, given what I said above, I know that cooking or serving a warm meal for some homeless people won't solve the Homeless Problem, either. But it's a lot more admirable, a lot more meaningful, a lot more money-where-your-mouth-is than blogging about it.
I used to make a habit of volunteering with New York Cares. I think it's time to get started being involved again. My family nurtures me. Hell, this City takes good care of me. I ought to give something back.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Inching Ever Closer
...to the end of NaBloPoMo. As of this post, I'll be 7/10ths of the way done with my daily posting obligations. For now, at least, I think it's an experiment that will end with the conclusion that posting qua posting is maybe not the best way to go.
It doesn't make sense, to me at least, to be prolific if I sacrifice quality for volume. I'd rather have less content but have each post say more.
In fairness, it's possible that I've been uninspired because I've been overwhelmed. I've worked ten days straight now, and I'm worn out.
Thank goodness Thanksgiving is right around the corner!
With respect to family-face-time at the holidays, we've gotten into the habit of dividing our time between Thanksgiving in New York with my family (specifically, Thanksgiving dinner with my mother's side, and the ensuing weekend with my dad's side), and Christmas in Tulsa with my in-laws. It works out well. Not raised to celebrate Christmas, I'm happy to forsake the City for biscuits, red meat, and relaxation. Christmas in Tulsa is a good time.
Thanksgiving is a changeable thing these days. It used to be a big gathering; now it's just my grandmother, mom, her beau, and my sibs, their spouses, my husband, and I. Even though we total nine people, that's a pretty modest crowd compared to years past.
In any event, while our ranks are somewhat diminished, there is an up side to the holiday. It's becoming more collaborative. Since my grandmother no longer has a full working kitchen of her own, my mother has stepped up and does the majority of the cooking. But, more each year, my sister, brother, and I supplement the staples with our own contributions.
This year, I'm bringing a chocolate peanut butter pie (bought at the Green Market yesterday; who has time to bake when you're working without cease?) and green veggies -- brussel sprouts, to be precise. My husband is bringing a family recipe: cranberry fluff, which tastes incredibly good, albeit somewhat Midwestern for our table. It'll be a few years before we have the space and means to prepare a turkey, brisket, and the rest of the fixin's, but it's nice to be able to say that we're contributing meaningfully. Add to that my sister's apple pie and brownies, and my brother's (fine, my brother's girlfriend's) vegetarian dish, and it looks like we're ready for some grade-A gluttony.
If I don't post tomorrow, it'll be because I'm still coasting off a postprandial high.
It doesn't make sense, to me at least, to be prolific if I sacrifice quality for volume. I'd rather have less content but have each post say more.
In fairness, it's possible that I've been uninspired because I've been overwhelmed. I've worked ten days straight now, and I'm worn out.
Thank goodness Thanksgiving is right around the corner!
With respect to family-face-time at the holidays, we've gotten into the habit of dividing our time between Thanksgiving in New York with my family (specifically, Thanksgiving dinner with my mother's side, and the ensuing weekend with my dad's side), and Christmas in Tulsa with my in-laws. It works out well. Not raised to celebrate Christmas, I'm happy to forsake the City for biscuits, red meat, and relaxation. Christmas in Tulsa is a good time.
Thanksgiving is a changeable thing these days. It used to be a big gathering; now it's just my grandmother, mom, her beau, and my sibs, their spouses, my husband, and I. Even though we total nine people, that's a pretty modest crowd compared to years past.
In any event, while our ranks are somewhat diminished, there is an up side to the holiday. It's becoming more collaborative. Since my grandmother no longer has a full working kitchen of her own, my mother has stepped up and does the majority of the cooking. But, more each year, my sister, brother, and I supplement the staples with our own contributions.
This year, I'm bringing a chocolate peanut butter pie (bought at the Green Market yesterday; who has time to bake when you're working without cease?) and green veggies -- brussel sprouts, to be precise. My husband is bringing a family recipe: cranberry fluff, which tastes incredibly good, albeit somewhat Midwestern for our table. It'll be a few years before we have the space and means to prepare a turkey, brisket, and the rest of the fixin's, but it's nice to be able to say that we're contributing meaningfully. Add to that my sister's apple pie and brownies, and my brother's (fine, my brother's girlfriend's) vegetarian dish, and it looks like we're ready for some grade-A gluttony.
If I don't post tomorrow, it'll be because I'm still coasting off a postprandial high.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Day 20
Like Eden, I'm getting worn out with this daily posting. Especially as a blogging newbie, I've found that, while NaBloPoMo gets me to be prolific, and while the increase volume of posts has caught my husband's attention, it means that I have less energy to devote to cultivating a truly thoughtful, thought-provoking post.
So today is something of a cop-out. Inspired by Gothamist, I'll link to this page. I encourage you to check it out.
I thought I was being creative by passing on the pumpkin pie in favor of the atraditional peanut butter pie, but the selections on Daniella Spencer's page truly boggle the mind.
So today is something of a cop-out. Inspired by Gothamist, I'll link to this page. I encourage you to check it out.
I thought I was being creative by passing on the pumpkin pie in favor of the atraditional peanut butter pie, but the selections on Daniella Spencer's page truly boggle the mind.
Monday, November 19, 2007
My First Ringing Endorsement
He may be a bit biased, or maybe he did it under duress, but the love of my life finally acknowledged me (that is to say, acknowledged this website) on his blog.
I only began blogging recently. So far, my readership consists of my husband, my mom, and a close high school friend. Once a fellow I met on Facebook stopped by, but I've not seen hide nor hair of him since, nor of any other visitors.
That's okay. Readership will grow or it won't. As I said a while back, this blogging exercise is an experiment.
But, since my readership is so small, I may as well write something that both holds their interest and doesn't bore (or, I suppose, offend) them.
This being 2007, I spend the lion's share of each day away from the folks I love the best. Sometimes I work so late, that I only get a few minutes with them. Sometimes, I don't even get that. I have to resort to virtual means of communication. When we do make time to interact face-to-face, often we're too tired, or too harried, to make time for conversations about the things that really move us, that really matter.
While I've been guilty of navel gazing, my husband has been posting about some real thought-provoking topics. Maybe if we had enough face time, and maybe if I thought to ask him, he'd've shared his conclusions with me in person. Likely not. I never say in ten words what I can say in fifty and, even when he gets a word in edgewise, I tend to cut him off. (It's not motivated by a sense that what I think about is more important than what he thinks about. Truth be told, the enthusiasm for whatever I'm thinking usually just bubbles up and is hard to stop; I give voice to the thought before considering that I'm interrupting. And by then it's too late.)
These blogs are providing us with soapboxes, on which we can pontificate and expound to our hearts content. I'm not just glad to have a page on which to articulate what's on my mind; I am thrilled that I get to learn (and that other people get to read) what gets my husband thinking on any given day.
That his topic of choice was me yesterday? I guess that means that, despite all the hours we spend apart, I'm still doing something right.
While I've been guilty of navel gazing, my husband has been posting about some real thought-provoking topics. Maybe if we had enough face time, and maybe if I thought to ask him, he'd've shared his conclusions with me in person. Likely not. I never say in ten words what I can say in fifty and, even when he gets a word in edgewise, I tend to cut him off. (It's not motivated by a sense that what I think about is more important than what he thinks about. Truth be told, the enthusiasm for whatever I'm thinking usually just bubbles up and is hard to stop; I give voice to the thought before considering that I'm interrupting. And by then it's too late.)
These blogs are providing us with soapboxes, on which we can pontificate and expound to our hearts content. I'm not just glad to have a page on which to articulate what's on my mind; I am thrilled that I get to learn (and that other people get to read) what gets my husband thinking on any given day.
That his topic of choice was me yesterday? I guess that means that, despite all the hours we spend apart, I'm still doing something right.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
'Tis Better to Be Pissed Off Than Pissed On
Archie's unofficial mascot status is officially revoked.
(That didn't take long.)
The little fucker chose to make known his displeasure (with life, with me, etc.) this morning by pissing on my messenger bag -- a bag which has, for the last three years, served as my carry-all to and from work, my de facto briefcase, if you will.
Naturally, I discovered as much exactly two minutes before I had to leave for work. (Yes working all weekend. No, not fun at all.) Of course, the bag contained not just all sorts of miscellaneous papers, but my favorite scarf -- a baby-blue number from Burberry.
I bought the scarf in 2000, when I was summering at a large law firm. Knowing I likely wouldn't be earning such a plush salary for years to come (I planned to, and did, wind up cutting my teeth in the public sector right out of law school), I splurged on it. Admittedly, it was an extravagance, but the fact that I've lovingly cared for and worn it for the last seven someodd years is testament to the fact that it was a not completely frivolous one. I could just as easily have bought and destroyed seven $30.00 scarves over seven winters; this one was meant to last.
Up until now, it had lasted.
I washed the scarf by hand in a Woolite equivalent intended for lingerie, and hung it up to dry. I'll have it professionally dry cleaned afterwards. (The messenger bag, while equally soiled, is of less concern; it was an ad hoc gift and has had a good life. If it's come to the end of the line, and if I can't get the stink out, the world won't end.)
Crisis averted, I made it to work only eighteen minutes late -- still three-quarters of an hour before my boss arrived. Even so? Archie has moved to the top of my (very short) shit list, big-time.
Charlotte? I don't know if you can read this (the lack of opposable thumbs making 'net access difficult for you), but I officially dub thee the new mascot of this blog. So there.
That'll show him.
(That didn't take long.)
The little fucker chose to make known his displeasure (with life, with me, etc.) this morning by pissing on my messenger bag -- a bag which has, for the last three years, served as my carry-all to and from work, my de facto briefcase, if you will.
Naturally, I discovered as much exactly two minutes before I had to leave for work. (Yes working all weekend. No, not fun at all.) Of course, the bag contained not just all sorts of miscellaneous papers, but my favorite scarf -- a baby-blue number from Burberry.
I bought the scarf in 2000, when I was summering at a large law firm. Knowing I likely wouldn't be earning such a plush salary for years to come (I planned to, and did, wind up cutting my teeth in the public sector right out of law school), I splurged on it. Admittedly, it was an extravagance, but the fact that I've lovingly cared for and worn it for the last seven someodd years is testament to the fact that it was a not completely frivolous one. I could just as easily have bought and destroyed seven $30.00 scarves over seven winters; this one was meant to last.
Up until now, it had lasted.
I washed the scarf by hand in a Woolite equivalent intended for lingerie, and hung it up to dry. I'll have it professionally dry cleaned afterwards. (The messenger bag, while equally soiled, is of less concern; it was an ad hoc gift and has had a good life. If it's come to the end of the line, and if I can't get the stink out, the world won't end.)
Crisis averted, I made it to work only eighteen minutes late -- still three-quarters of an hour before my boss arrived. Even so? Archie has moved to the top of my (very short) shit list, big-time.
Charlotte? I don't know if you can read this (the lack of opposable thumbs making 'net access difficult for you), but I officially dub thee the new mascot of this blog. So there.
That'll show him.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Regifted
I ordered a copy of The Zanzibar Chest by Aidan Hartley recently. The book came highly recommended by a friend. That said, since it's not typical Valerie reading material, I opted to order a used copy from Amazon.
On the inside jacket was a message that read:
"To Ralph & Lucy.
Christmas 2005.
Wishing you much happiness in your new era and thanks for 'putting me up' and 'putting up' with me.
Thanks. Love Sue."
I don't know Ralph, Lucy, or Sue. I don't know how (or if) Ralph is related to Lucy. I don't know if Sue is related to either of them. I can't tell if either Ralph or Lucy bothered to read the book, and I suppose I'll never know if Sue gave them a copy because she had read and loved it, or because she thought one or both of them would like it.
In any case, I guess the book was destined to find its way into my hands. After reading tons of fiction (most recently The Time Traveler's Wife, but only because Pajiba told me to), I needed something a little grittier, a little more real. Maybe it wasn't what Ralph and Lucy were looking for, but I think it'll do the trick for me.
Smells like serendipity.
On the inside jacket was a message that read:
"To Ralph & Lucy.
Christmas 2005.
Wishing you much happiness in your new era and thanks for 'putting me up' and 'putting up' with me.
Thanks. Love Sue."
I don't know Ralph, Lucy, or Sue. I don't know how (or if) Ralph is related to Lucy. I don't know if Sue is related to either of them. I can't tell if either Ralph or Lucy bothered to read the book, and I suppose I'll never know if Sue gave them a copy because she had read and loved it, or because she thought one or both of them would like it.
In any case, I guess the book was destined to find its way into my hands. After reading tons of fiction (most recently The Time Traveler's Wife, but only because Pajiba told me to), I needed something a little grittier, a little more real. Maybe it wasn't what Ralph and Lucy were looking for, but I think it'll do the trick for me.
Smells like serendipity.
Friday, November 16, 2007
(!)
Not only did I get my much-sought-after nap(s), but I have to work this weekend. All weekend.
Bah.
Humbug.
If Thanksgiving weren't fast approaching, I'd not be a very happy camper right now.
Bah.
Humbug.
If Thanksgiving weren't fast approaching, I'd not be a very happy camper right now.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Not That You Asked
...but filling out mortgage loan applications is exhausting. At least it's one more thing checked off of my "To Do" list.
Right now, the thing I want most in the world is a nap. Followed by another nap.
Right now, the thing I want most in the world is a nap. Followed by another nap.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Acknowledgment
Last month, I mentioned that my husband and I were headed back to visit my alma mater. While we were there, I was presented with an award at an alumni dinner.
I've volunteered for Brown since I graduated. I loved my time there, and the school continues to serve me as an alumna. I don't have tons of money to donate, so I've gotten in the habit of donating my time. I have volunteered as an alumni interviewer, a class officer, a reunion chair, a gift committee member, and a member of the board of the Association of Class Leaders. It keeps me busy, and I'm overextended to begin with. But I love doing it; it's the least I can do to give back to a school that really helped me grow into my adult self.
As much as the pleasure of being able to return the favor should be reward enough, I've gotta say: it felt pretty darn good to have my efforts recognized.
I've volunteered for Brown since I graduated. I loved my time there, and the school continues to serve me as an alumna. I don't have tons of money to donate, so I've gotten in the habit of donating my time. I have volunteered as an alumni interviewer, a class officer, a reunion chair, a gift committee member, and a member of the board of the Association of Class Leaders. It keeps me busy, and I'm overextended to begin with. But I love doing it; it's the least I can do to give back to a school that really helped me grow into my adult self.
As much as the pleasure of being able to return the favor should be reward enough, I've gotta say: it felt pretty darn good to have my efforts recognized.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
We Got It!
The Good News: Our offer was accepted; we are going to buy the co-op we've been considering. Let's hear it for square footage and homeownership!
The Less-Good News: I'm about to lose the street cred that comes with a 212 area code :(
On the whole, this is a very, very good thing.
The Less-Good News: I'm about to lose the street cred that comes with a 212 area code :(
On the whole, this is a very, very good thing.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Frack to His Frick
I would be remiss in my duties, after having introduced Archie, if I failed to give his twin sister, Charlotte, her due. Not that she comes as an afterthought; Charlotte is the sweetest little catface that ever there was.
Archie and Charlotte were born on Memorial Day 2000; they were, respectively, the highest-strung and the lowest-key of a litter of four. My ex-husband and I chose them; he selected Archie and I Charlotte. She was the little goofball who couldn't stop chasing her own tail around.
They were about this size when we first got them:
Archie (with the symmetrical Eddie Munster markings) was on the right; Charlotte (who boasts the "eye patch") was on the left. If the paper holder to Charlotte's left, which held 8.5 x 11" sheets of paper, helps you gauge their size, you can see that they were tiny little squidgens -- about 2.5 lbs. each. They each fit in a single hand.
Fortunately, as they've grown in girth, their energy levels have diminished proportionately. They used to bounce off the walls of the apartment, chasing one another around. Archie usually caught Charlotte, tackled her, and, er, mounted her (cat incest!); eventually she'd get sick of it, his at him, and take a good swipe at his nose. Served him right. (We've since gotten them fixed and declawed, so thankfully there's a lot less sibling-humping going on chez nous.)
Charlotte was a dainty, twee little thing. She was as sweet as Archie was malcontent, and as aloof as he was needy. For the first three and a half or so years I had her, she was also really small. She always ate, but couldn't keep food down, and didn't get much bigger than five pounds, even as Archie waxed lithe and muscular. And then, one day, after the latest round of treatment for her gastric distress, she stopped puking and started growing.
Charlotte now outweighs her brother by a good two pounds, clocking in at thirteen and change. She's built like a cross between a T-Rex and Jabba the Hut -- stubby arms sticking out from a whole lotta furry belly. She is the picture of lethargy, a veritable heat-seeking missile. Eighty-five percent of the day, Charlotte can be counted on to be snoozing somewhere warm. I think she spends the other fifteen percent eating.
Rubenesque and slow-witted though she may be (Charlotte bought her stupid at a two-for-one sale, I think), she is a huge sweetie. Charlotte doesn't demand anything. She just exists. She occasionally wants to be combed, but if I don't have the energy, that's okay. She'll sell her soul for a bite of any table scrap within reach, but won't pout or act out if she's not given any. On those rare occasions where she'll curl up with me (only me; she's a one-person cat), it makes my whole week.
Not too much else to tell. Like Archie, she'll likely show up in my stories from time to time. Charlotte isn't the squeaky wheel in my household, but not a day goes by that she doesn't make me smile. The cat who answers to a thousand (stupid, nonsensical) nicknames -- Mishu, Shrimpkin, Shrimp Toast, Squeezle, Wombat, Little Girlface, Chicken Butt, Baby Chickenhead, Meep, and, my favorite, Captain Baby Jumbo Shumai -- may not have much going on upstairs, but she is pure, unadulterated goodness, and my life is better for having her in it.
Archie and Charlotte were born on Memorial Day 2000; they were, respectively, the highest-strung and the lowest-key of a litter of four. My ex-husband and I chose them; he selected Archie and I Charlotte. She was the little goofball who couldn't stop chasing her own tail around.
They were about this size when we first got them:
Archie (with the symmetrical Eddie Munster markings) was on the right; Charlotte (who boasts the "eye patch") was on the left. If the paper holder to Charlotte's left, which held 8.5 x 11" sheets of paper, helps you gauge their size, you can see that they were tiny little squidgens -- about 2.5 lbs. each. They each fit in a single hand.
Fortunately, as they've grown in girth, their energy levels have diminished proportionately. They used to bounce off the walls of the apartment, chasing one another around. Archie usually caught Charlotte, tackled her, and, er, mounted her (cat incest!); eventually she'd get sick of it, his at him, and take a good swipe at his nose. Served him right. (We've since gotten them fixed and declawed, so thankfully there's a lot less sibling-humping going on chez nous.)Charlotte was a dainty, twee little thing. She was as sweet as Archie was malcontent, and as aloof as he was needy. For the first three and a half or so years I had her, she was also really small. She always ate, but couldn't keep food down, and didn't get much bigger than five pounds, even as Archie waxed lithe and muscular. And then, one day, after the latest round of treatment for her gastric distress, she stopped puking and started growing.
Charlotte now outweighs her brother by a good two pounds, clocking in at thirteen and change. She's built like a cross between a T-Rex and Jabba the Hut -- stubby arms sticking out from a whole lotta furry belly. She is the picture of lethargy, a veritable heat-seeking missile. Eighty-five percent of the day, Charlotte can be counted on to be snoozing somewhere warm. I think she spends the other fifteen percent eating.
Rubenesque and slow-witted though she may be (Charlotte bought her stupid at a two-for-one sale, I think), she is a huge sweetie. Charlotte doesn't demand anything. She just exists. She occasionally wants to be combed, but if I don't have the energy, that's okay. She'll sell her soul for a bite of any table scrap within reach, but won't pout or act out if she's not given any. On those rare occasions where she'll curl up with me (only me; she's a one-person cat), it makes my whole week.
Not too much else to tell. Like Archie, she'll likely show up in my stories from time to time. Charlotte isn't the squeaky wheel in my household, but not a day goes by that she doesn't make me smile. The cat who answers to a thousand (stupid, nonsensical) nicknames -- Mishu, Shrimpkin, Shrimp Toast, Squeezle, Wombat, Little Girlface, Chicken Butt, Baby Chickenhead, Meep, and, my favorite, Captain Baby Jumbo Shumai -- may not have much going on upstairs, but she is pure, unadulterated goodness, and my life is better for having her in it.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Unofficial Mascot of That Valerie
Considering we're only just getting to know one another, I'd best introduce y'all to Archie. (I figure he doesn't need a pseudonym; he's just a cat, after all.) The cast of characters at this website so far is pitifully small, and I've been meaning to rectify that. So, without further ado, here he is:
Archie is a high-maintenance whore. He's a seven and a half year old Alpha-male cat -- a domestic short hair with patterns that make him look like a small furry cow. I've had him and his sister, Charlotte (more on her in another post) since August 2000. Archie is good looking, and knows it; he's nimble; he's too bright for his own good, and he's slowly plotting my demise -- I'm sure of it.
The way I always describe my current abode is that it's really Archie's apartment. I just pay the rent, feed him, and replace his litter (and my husband just cleans the place). But make no mistake -- we are permitted to live here at his pleasure. *sighs*
Archie is painfully territorial. There is not a surface in this apartment -- well, not one six inches off the ground -- that isn't slathered in cat schmutz. Archie rubs his head on everything. Newcomers might mistakenly view this as affection. It's not. It's his way of asserting ownership of and dominance over every space and item with which he comes into contact. (I suppose I should thank my lucky stars that he's stopped spraying things; a former "malicious pee-er," he used to piss on anything that was both dear to me and expensive to dry clean to get his way....)
Archie is also notorious for making miscellaneous cloths -- including bed sheets, bath mats, and the occasional cashmere sweater, or his sister -- his bitch. It's not uncommon to find him rolling on his side, grasping an item with his fore-paws, and scratching the hell out of it with his rear claws, as shown in the picture on the left.
He's nocturnal, he's demanding, he's vocal (especially at night), he bites his sister, he makes my husband sneeze, and he has terrible breath. And yet, he makes my life richer and more interesting just by being there.
I can't imagine that I could continue to post without talking about the little guy. He drives us nuts at my place, but he's so intrinsically part of the family that he is the subject of more conversations than I ever would have expected.
Archie is a high-maintenance whore. He's a seven and a half year old Alpha-male cat -- a domestic short hair with patterns that make him look like a small furry cow. I've had him and his sister, Charlotte (more on her in another post) since August 2000. Archie is good looking, and knows it; he's nimble; he's too bright for his own good, and he's slowly plotting my demise -- I'm sure of it.
The way I always describe my current abode is that it's really Archie's apartment. I just pay the rent, feed him, and replace his litter (and my husband just cleans the place). But make no mistake -- we are permitted to live here at his pleasure. *sighs*
Archie is painfully territorial. There is not a surface in this apartment -- well, not one six inches off the ground -- that isn't slathered in cat schmutz. Archie rubs his head on everything. Newcomers might mistakenly view this as affection. It's not. It's his way of asserting ownership of and dominance over every space and item with which he comes into contact. (I suppose I should thank my lucky stars that he's stopped spraying things; a former "malicious pee-er," he used to piss on anything that was both dear to me and expensive to dry clean to get his way....)
Archie is also notorious for making miscellaneous cloths -- including bed sheets, bath mats, and the occasional cashmere sweater, or his sister -- his bitch. It's not uncommon to find him rolling on his side, grasping an item with his fore-paws, and scratching the hell out of it with his rear claws, as shown in the picture on the left.
He's nocturnal, he's demanding, he's vocal (especially at night), he bites his sister, he makes my husband sneeze, and he has terrible breath. And yet, he makes my life richer and more interesting just by being there.
I can't imagine that I could continue to post without talking about the little guy. He drives us nuts at my place, but he's so intrinsically part of the family that he is the subject of more conversations than I ever would have expected.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Pleasant Surprise
As planned, I made it to the Josh Ritter concert last night. It was great fun. He has an amazing energy live, and, since it was general admission seating, I was essentially in the third row, close enough that I had an unimpeded view all night long. The band added a lot to the show -- especially a horns section that came out for the occasional song. Not only were they great (and enthusiastic) musicians; the whole crew had an amazing sartorial sense. They were seriously stylish -- boasting alternatively a crisp suit and shirt (which allowed Josh to look comfortable and sexy rather than all buttoned up), some pork pie hats, a waxed, glorious handlebar mustache, and a blue paisley tuxedo with black lapels. These guys really put some thought into their show. They said it was the last night of their tour, but they were anything but tired out. I really enjoyed every minute of it.
The only downside to the show was that my husband and I were stuck on our feet for upwards of four continuous hours. (My tootsies are still killing me today, and I'm skipping out on my workout because they need a rest.) But -- between Ritter and his opening act, the versatile Eric Bachmann, who, accompanied by a violinist, really got the night started on the right foot -- it was worth it.
In other news, I went back to see the apartment I like in Jackson Heights. Am mulling over whether to make a bid on it. I think we will, and I think we'll do it tomorrow. That said, because my husband and I couldn't decide without seeing it one more time, the broker has slated it for another open house tomorrow. That gives more passers-by an opportunity to vie for the place and get it instead of us. I guess there's a price to pay for the luxury of taking time to make up our minds.
Otherwise? Caught up with an old friend over tea this afternoon. About to watch a little Grey's. Hoping it's not demonstrative of a lack of solidarity with the screenwriters -- whose right to strike I endorse -- to watch a show while the strike is on. Is that the equivalent of crossing a picket line? I'd like to think no.
The only downside to the show was that my husband and I were stuck on our feet for upwards of four continuous hours. (My tootsies are still killing me today, and I'm skipping out on my workout because they need a rest.) But -- between Ritter and his opening act, the versatile Eric Bachmann, who, accompanied by a violinist, really got the night started on the right foot -- it was worth it.
In other news, I went back to see the apartment I like in Jackson Heights. Am mulling over whether to make a bid on it. I think we will, and I think we'll do it tomorrow. That said, because my husband and I couldn't decide without seeing it one more time, the broker has slated it for another open house tomorrow. That gives more passers-by an opportunity to vie for the place and get it instead of us. I guess there's a price to pay for the luxury of taking time to make up our minds.
Otherwise? Caught up with an old friend over tea this afternoon. About to watch a little Grey's. Hoping it's not demonstrative of a lack of solidarity with the screenwriters -- whose right to strike I endorse -- to watch a show while the strike is on. Is that the equivalent of crossing a picket line? I'd like to think no.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Not Just Another Friday Evening
Tonight I'm going to make good on my promise to get out there, at least from time to time, and am going with my husband to go see Josh Ritter perform live at Webster Hall.
I first discovered Ritter's sound courtesy of the website 3hive. It only took one hearing of his song "Thin Blue Flame," and I was hooked. I downloaded that song, listened to it over and over, and knew all the lyric to it (as well as to a few of Ritter's other songs) before that weekend was out. So you can imagine how psyched I was to hear he'd be touring through NYC.
Going to see his performance tonight is not only a way to enjoy something cool my city has to offer (although admittedly not one of its countless free marvels), but also enables me to appreciate music at a new level. Owning CDs is good, but attending live performances -- particularly more intimate ones -- can be transcendent. Here's hoping tonight proves to be one such show.
I first discovered Ritter's sound courtesy of the website 3hive. It only took one hearing of his song "Thin Blue Flame," and I was hooked. I downloaded that song, listened to it over and over, and knew all the lyric to it (as well as to a few of Ritter's other songs) before that weekend was out. So you can imagine how psyched I was to hear he'd be touring through NYC.
Going to see his performance tonight is not only a way to enjoy something cool my city has to offer (although admittedly not one of its countless free marvels), but also enables me to appreciate music at a new level. Owning CDs is good, but attending live performances -- particularly more intimate ones -- can be transcendent. Here's hoping tonight proves to be one such show.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Confessions of a Former Social Butterfly
Socially speaking, some folks are spokes on a wheel while others are hubs. Some people socialize with and bare their souls only to a few incredibly close friends, while others tend to circulate amongst a larger set of acquaintances. People who can be categorized as hubs, however, aren't just folks with lots of friends; they go a step beyond that. They bring people together.
While I've never though of myself as wanting for close friendships, I've always seen myself as a natural hub. I'm guilty of having played matchmaker (or having tried to) more than my fair share of times. I always think of friends of mine who don't know, but who I suspect would like, one another, and have tried to set up social gatherings where they can meet and get to know one another. I likewise enjoy meeting my friends' friends, and befriending them in my own right. Although formal salons are no longer de rigeur, in my day I have organized study groups (while in school), hosted potlucks, and planned and thrown tons of house parties. I'm a joiner, a signer-upper, and close to fearless in new social settings. I strike up conversations with strangers while waiting in line at the Post Office, if that gives you any idea.
Perhaps my training as a telemarketer (I spent my college years raising money from alumni and undergraduates' parents for financial aid, faculty salaries, improvements to buildings and grounds, etc.) made me so comfortable in my own skin, or perhaps my willingness to take such a job was a natural outgrowth of my gregarious nature. Either way, I'm an extrovert, generally speaking.
This feature in particular came in handy when I went through my separation and ensuing divorce a few years back. After three years of marriage, and five years of couplehood all told, I found myself living on my own, and I craved company desperately. I was lucky: I had then (and still have) an amazing, and amazingly supportive, network of close personal friends. I always describe my relationships with these people by saying that we write one another reciprocal blank emotional checks, which we can cash as needed -- even if it's inconvenient and without a moment's notice. Even as time passes, and as we get older and have families of our own to attend to, I suspect that if I called one of these friends with a true emergency, they'd drop everything to be there for me. I know I would for them.
But I digress. As much as I loved these friends, and as good as they were about being there for me, a gal can't help but feel guilty kvetching without cease about the same woes to the same sympathetic ears night after night. It's not like I was a bastion of epiphanies and realizations at the time. I just had to grapple with my uncoupling -- the reasons behind it, why it was a good thing, what it meant, and what was going to happen next -- for a while before it all started to make sense.
When my gracious but beleaguered closest friends started to show signs that they were tiring of hearing of my saga, and before I shifted gears, began dating again, and spent our periodic phone conversations regaling them with humorous anecdotes of first-date woes, I sought out new friends. I decided to reestablish myself as a hub par excellence, constantly making dinner plans, hosting parties, and doing whatever it took to make sure I wasn't alone.
It was exhausting.
I guess exhaustion was what I needed back then. I sought it out so that I didn't have time to let the "what ifs" run rampant in my head. I succeeded. I befriended new colleagues, I made gym buddies and started attending spin class religiously, and I signed up for a share in a summer beach house. I made sure that I always had something to do, and someone with whom to do it.
It was actually a lot more rewarding than being married, at least the first time around. I engaged with folks who valued my input, dealt with me fairly, and sought out my company.
As great as it was, socializing ad infinitum took a ton of energy. It also drained my budget. Going out to eat is never as cheap as cooking at home. Throwing parties is loads of fun, but the time devoted to buying groceries, libations, setting them up, and then to facing the inevitable post-party cleanup is time you don't get back.
Eventually I met my husband (who recently made sure to let me know he'd rather I stop referring to him as "the Mister" online). Eager to invest myself in our budding relationship, I beat a hasty retreat from my status as unofficial party planner for my crowd. Although I didn't get lost in our relationship such that not every "I" statement turned into a "we" statement, I relinquished my post as Minister of Fun for my peeps, and stopped making plans on a nightly basis.
These days, I try to maintain a balance. Without sacrificing the one-on-one time essential to a healthy relationship, I still like to socialize with my friends. So sometimes my husband and I go out with one of my friends, or one of his, and we're lucky enough (and we're of such an age) that each of us has friends who are in relationships of our own with spouses or significant others whom we both like. So double-dates are also on the agenda. However, inevitably I, or we, wind up going out so frequently that I start feeling overwhelmed by my full dance card. This is usually followed by an inevitable return to hermit/shut-in status, and then followed by my reintroduction to society....
It's hard to get it right. Friendships that aren't nurtured eventually evolve into acquaintances or ex-friends. Now that I'm in my thirties, breakups with friends usually aren't a function of any big dramatic event so much as the result of a gradual parting of the ways. One person has a kid, and the other doesn't; one person is coupled and the other is single and in need of a wing-man; and so on.
I'm not yet ready to become a spoke, but -- for me, at least -- hub status is too exhausting to maintain continuously. I have to figure out what there is halfway in between the two and try to become that.
While I've never though of myself as wanting for close friendships, I've always seen myself as a natural hub. I'm guilty of having played matchmaker (or having tried to) more than my fair share of times. I always think of friends of mine who don't know, but who I suspect would like, one another, and have tried to set up social gatherings where they can meet and get to know one another. I likewise enjoy meeting my friends' friends, and befriending them in my own right. Although formal salons are no longer de rigeur, in my day I have organized study groups (while in school), hosted potlucks, and planned and thrown tons of house parties. I'm a joiner, a signer-upper, and close to fearless in new social settings. I strike up conversations with strangers while waiting in line at the Post Office, if that gives you any idea.
Perhaps my training as a telemarketer (I spent my college years raising money from alumni and undergraduates' parents for financial aid, faculty salaries, improvements to buildings and grounds, etc.) made me so comfortable in my own skin, or perhaps my willingness to take such a job was a natural outgrowth of my gregarious nature. Either way, I'm an extrovert, generally speaking.
This feature in particular came in handy when I went through my separation and ensuing divorce a few years back. After three years of marriage, and five years of couplehood all told, I found myself living on my own, and I craved company desperately. I was lucky: I had then (and still have) an amazing, and amazingly supportive, network of close personal friends. I always describe my relationships with these people by saying that we write one another reciprocal blank emotional checks, which we can cash as needed -- even if it's inconvenient and without a moment's notice. Even as time passes, and as we get older and have families of our own to attend to, I suspect that if I called one of these friends with a true emergency, they'd drop everything to be there for me. I know I would for them.
But I digress. As much as I loved these friends, and as good as they were about being there for me, a gal can't help but feel guilty kvetching without cease about the same woes to the same sympathetic ears night after night. It's not like I was a bastion of epiphanies and realizations at the time. I just had to grapple with my uncoupling -- the reasons behind it, why it was a good thing, what it meant, and what was going to happen next -- for a while before it all started to make sense.
When my gracious but beleaguered closest friends started to show signs that they were tiring of hearing of my saga, and before I shifted gears, began dating again, and spent our periodic phone conversations regaling them with humorous anecdotes of first-date woes, I sought out new friends. I decided to reestablish myself as a hub par excellence, constantly making dinner plans, hosting parties, and doing whatever it took to make sure I wasn't alone.
It was exhausting.
I guess exhaustion was what I needed back then. I sought it out so that I didn't have time to let the "what ifs" run rampant in my head. I succeeded. I befriended new colleagues, I made gym buddies and started attending spin class religiously, and I signed up for a share in a summer beach house. I made sure that I always had something to do, and someone with whom to do it.
It was actually a lot more rewarding than being married, at least the first time around. I engaged with folks who valued my input, dealt with me fairly, and sought out my company.
As great as it was, socializing ad infinitum took a ton of energy. It also drained my budget. Going out to eat is never as cheap as cooking at home. Throwing parties is loads of fun, but the time devoted to buying groceries, libations, setting them up, and then to facing the inevitable post-party cleanup is time you don't get back.
Eventually I met my husband (who recently made sure to let me know he'd rather I stop referring to him as "the Mister" online). Eager to invest myself in our budding relationship, I beat a hasty retreat from my status as unofficial party planner for my crowd. Although I didn't get lost in our relationship such that not every "I" statement turned into a "we" statement, I relinquished my post as Minister of Fun for my peeps, and stopped making plans on a nightly basis.
These days, I try to maintain a balance. Without sacrificing the one-on-one time essential to a healthy relationship, I still like to socialize with my friends. So sometimes my husband and I go out with one of my friends, or one of his, and we're lucky enough (and we're of such an age) that each of us has friends who are in relationships of our own with spouses or significant others whom we both like. So double-dates are also on the agenda. However, inevitably I, or we, wind up going out so frequently that I start feeling overwhelmed by my full dance card. This is usually followed by an inevitable return to hermit/shut-in status, and then followed by my reintroduction to society....
It's hard to get it right. Friendships that aren't nurtured eventually evolve into acquaintances or ex-friends. Now that I'm in my thirties, breakups with friends usually aren't a function of any big dramatic event so much as the result of a gradual parting of the ways. One person has a kid, and the other doesn't; one person is coupled and the other is single and in need of a wing-man; and so on.
I'm not yet ready to become a spoke, but -- for me, at least -- hub status is too exhausting to maintain continuously. I have to figure out what there is halfway in between the two and try to become that.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
In Case You Were Thinking of Bidding on the Apartment I Want to Buy...
please, please, puh-leez don't. Or at least have the decency to make an offer so painfully low that the seller is insulted and refuses to deal with you any more.
The Mister and I really like a place we saw earlier this week. But we would just feel better about making an offer if my parents saw it and gave it their blessing. My father's schedule doesn't free up at all until this weekend, so we won't tour the apartment again until Saturday at the earliest -- four long days away.
So I'm biting my nails, wondering if someone else will snatch this apartment out from under us. I sure hope not.
The Mister and I really like a place we saw earlier this week. But we would just feel better about making an offer if my parents saw it and gave it their blessing. My father's schedule doesn't free up at all until this weekend, so we won't tour the apartment again until Saturday at the earliest -- four long days away.
So I'm biting my nails, wondering if someone else will snatch this apartment out from under us. I sure hope not.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Burning the Candle at Both Ends
My watch and calendar seem to know that Daylight Saving Time has ended, but neither one of them bothered to tell my internal clock.
I was nocturnal in college, but I've become something of an early-riser as an adult. I suppose that's still a relative term: it's not like I get up at the crack of dawn; I usually roll out of bed at 8:00 a.m., the time that most of my fellow New Yorkers are beginning their daily commutes into the City. Still, when you consider that on Sundays when I was in college, I slept through and therefore missed brunch (which ended somewhere in the neighborhood of 2:30 p.m.) as often as not, it's a big improvement.
Getting to sleep in until eight is a joy and a delight on most weekdays. The problem is that I can't seem to teach my internal clock to set the snooze button on weekends. Even sleeping with earplugs (to drown out the street noise) and a sleep mask (to block ambient light), I still get up hours before the Mister drags himself out of bed on most weekends these days.
I have reconciled myself to this being-forced-to-wake-up/unable-to-go-back-to-sleep on weekends status by reminding myself that -- if 8:00 a.m. is an indecently early time to rise on a Saturday or Sunday, it's a mercifully late hour at which to rise the rest of the time. With a ratio of 5:2, I would say it cuts pretty heavily in my favor.
The problem is that we set the clocks back this past weekend. And my darned eyes have been jolting open at 6:15 a.m. -- 45 minutes earlier than they would ordinarily, even allowing for the switch from Daylight Saving Time to whatever time it is the other six or so months out of the year.
I've tried to make the most out of this newfound even-earlier-riser status by going to the gym before work, rather than leaving it for afterwards, when a frillion different excuses populate my brain, justifying the lethargy that inevitably ensues when I flop down on my sofa rather than switch immediately into my gym togs. Still? I. Am. Wiped. Out.
I was nocturnal in college, but I've become something of an early-riser as an adult. I suppose that's still a relative term: it's not like I get up at the crack of dawn; I usually roll out of bed at 8:00 a.m., the time that most of my fellow New Yorkers are beginning their daily commutes into the City. Still, when you consider that on Sundays when I was in college, I slept through and therefore missed brunch (which ended somewhere in the neighborhood of 2:30 p.m.) as often as not, it's a big improvement.
Getting to sleep in until eight is a joy and a delight on most weekdays. The problem is that I can't seem to teach my internal clock to set the snooze button on weekends. Even sleeping with earplugs (to drown out the street noise) and a sleep mask (to block ambient light), I still get up hours before the Mister drags himself out of bed on most weekends these days.
I have reconciled myself to this being-forced-to-wake-up/unable-to-go-back-to-sleep on weekends status by reminding myself that -- if 8:00 a.m. is an indecently early time to rise on a Saturday or Sunday, it's a mercifully late hour at which to rise the rest of the time. With a ratio of 5:2, I would say it cuts pretty heavily in my favor.
The problem is that we set the clocks back this past weekend. And my darned eyes have been jolting open at 6:15 a.m. -- 45 minutes earlier than they would ordinarily, even allowing for the switch from Daylight Saving Time to whatever time it is the other six or so months out of the year.
I've tried to make the most out of this newfound even-earlier-riser status by going to the gym before work, rather than leaving it for afterwards, when a frillion different excuses populate my brain, justifying the lethargy that inevitably ensues when I flop down on my sofa rather than switch immediately into my gym togs. Still? I. Am. Wiped. Out.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Just for the Record
I posted this post on November 2nd, not November 1st.
Blogspot dot com is so not my friend today. What's the point of making good on my promise to post daily, in the spirit of NaBloPoMo, if my very own blog will betray me?
In fairness, I had started that post the day before (i.e., November 1, 2007), because I know it takes a while to upload image files from my computer. That said, I didn't complete & publish it until the 2nd. Even so, my blog insists that it was posted the day before. Not fair :(
I just want the NaBloPoMo powers that be to know that I was really doing my best to post daily. And even if the website glitch disqualifies me, I'm still enjoying the kick in the ass that this experiment is giving me, and I plan to keep posting throughout November anyway. Maybe even afterwards.
Blogspot dot com is so not my friend today. What's the point of making good on my promise to post daily, in the spirit of NaBloPoMo, if my very own blog will betray me?
In fairness, I had started that post the day before (i.e., November 1, 2007), because I know it takes a while to upload image files from my computer. That said, I didn't complete & publish it until the 2nd. Even so, my blog insists that it was posted the day before. Not fair :(
I just want the NaBloPoMo powers that be to know that I was really doing my best to post daily. And even if the website glitch disqualifies me, I'm still enjoying the kick in the ass that this experiment is giving me, and I plan to keep posting throughout November anyway. Maybe even afterwards.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Work Ethic
It's a Sunday, and I have work to do. Not household chores, and not errands (although I have to attend to those as well), but honest to goodness, do-it-or-your-job-is-on-the-line employment-related work.
I'm pretty lucky, I suppose. My job is an office job -- a desk job, if you will -- more often than not. I don't have to do any heavy lifting or manual labor; I rarely have to travel for work. And my work is portable. I don't even have to haul my sorry ass into the office to get it done. I'm sitting at home in my PJs, in front of my computer. Give me a computer with MS Word and an Internet connection, and I'm good to go.
What's more, my work is intellectually challenging. I feel engaged by the assignments I'm given; they make me think. Some people go into a specialized practice when they become lawyers. While I respect that choice, I fear that to do so means learning more and more about less and less. I don't want my professional expertise to be a mile deep and an inch wide. I worry I would spend time writing memoranda on the same topics, just plugging in new names to the same tired analyses. Doing something different, and something fresh, requires me to keep my mind sharp. I need to tackle a new body of law, or nuance of a familiar legal principle, grapple with it, master it, and produce a brief explaining why, as applied to the facts of the case on which I'm working, it should result in an outcome favorable to my client.
The down side to all of this is that it's not easy -- not usually easy, anyway. There is the requisite rolling up of the sleeves -- online legal research. Before I can write a compelling argument, I have to learn what the law says. When it doesn't favor the position we're taking, I have to find a way to make it cut in my favor. This takes some serious strategizing. And it can take a lot of my time.
I really cherish weekends. I opted to be a public sector litigator to get good training, but after forsaking the public sector for the private, I decided to make a trade-off. I wanted to go to a firm with a sophisticated practice, where my legal writing wouldn't consist of using the "Find and Replace" function to mark up an earlier memo and appropriate it for a new, virtually-identical case. But I also wanted to go somewhere where I wouldn't be tethered to a Blackberry. The downside of going to a small firm is that I have a salary that, while more than adequate to cover my expenses at present, is now less than half of what first-year associates are making at large "white shoe" law firms.
The upside of working at a litigation boutique, rather than at a larger shop, has always been that I have ample down time. I suppose that's a relative term. At my brother-in-law's wedding just one week ago, people were shocked and aghast to hear that I'm frequently at work until 7:15 p.m., and that even when I get home at 8 p.m. or thereabouts, I have yet to work out, cook, or eat dinner, to say nothing about relaxing. Still, I manage to cook dinner for the Mister (or he for me) about 50% of the time -- not bad for someone keeping my hours -- and I regularly make it to the gym at least two-to-three times per week. At a big firm, these options would likely not be available to me.
But, on weekends like this one, where to procrastinate means risking not only the wrath of my bosses, but also blowing a court deadline, I can't bring myself to ignore looming assignments. It's the right thing to do to buckle down and get the work done.
My sister has always had the "stick-to-it-ivness" to get her work done when it's called for. So does the Mister. Growing up, my motto was "why do today what you can do at 2 a.m. before the project is due?" Rarely suffering any consequences from this approach -- I got As throughout high school, and was accepted into two Ivy League institutions -- I'm surprised that I ever learned to start projects before the eleventh hour.
Maybe it's called growing up. Maybe I've developed a conscience. Whatever the reason, I can't justify to myself any longer the sense in putting off until tomorrow (or at least until later on tonight) what must be done today. I'm thirty-one, so I suppose it's about time. It's just something that surprises me, since it snuck up on me. I don't remember waking up one morning and feeling any different, it's just the case that now, if there is work to do, I know I'll work until after dark, after the gym is closed, over the weekend, whatever it takes, to get a job done.
I'm proud of myself for making this change. I know that to do otherwise would leave my colleagues in the lurch. And I owe them more than that. But it's more than that. They haven't bought my loyalty (even though I'm earning more than I ever have in my life), and it's not the fear of getting let go that motivates me either. I just know that, when my name gets signed to a court document, I want to be proud of what I've written, certain that I gave it my best shot. Truth be told, I don't just work hard these days because most of the work I produce becomes a matter of public record when filed with the Courts. I just want to know that I didn't half-ass it.
So when I go to bed tonight, I may not be up to date on Ugly Betty, and I may not have finished watching The Illusionist on DVD yet, but at least I'll know that I can walk into the office tomorrow confident that I've
done what I was supposed to do.
I'm pretty lucky, I suppose. My job is an office job -- a desk job, if you will -- more often than not. I don't have to do any heavy lifting or manual labor; I rarely have to travel for work. And my work is portable. I don't even have to haul my sorry ass into the office to get it done. I'm sitting at home in my PJs, in front of my computer. Give me a computer with MS Word and an Internet connection, and I'm good to go.
What's more, my work is intellectually challenging. I feel engaged by the assignments I'm given; they make me think. Some people go into a specialized practice when they become lawyers. While I respect that choice, I fear that to do so means learning more and more about less and less. I don't want my professional expertise to be a mile deep and an inch wide. I worry I would spend time writing memoranda on the same topics, just plugging in new names to the same tired analyses. Doing something different, and something fresh, requires me to keep my mind sharp. I need to tackle a new body of law, or nuance of a familiar legal principle, grapple with it, master it, and produce a brief explaining why, as applied to the facts of the case on which I'm working, it should result in an outcome favorable to my client.
The down side to all of this is that it's not easy -- not usually easy, anyway. There is the requisite rolling up of the sleeves -- online legal research. Before I can write a compelling argument, I have to learn what the law says. When it doesn't favor the position we're taking, I have to find a way to make it cut in my favor. This takes some serious strategizing. And it can take a lot of my time.
I really cherish weekends. I opted to be a public sector litigator to get good training, but after forsaking the public sector for the private, I decided to make a trade-off. I wanted to go to a firm with a sophisticated practice, where my legal writing wouldn't consist of using the "Find and Replace" function to mark up an earlier memo and appropriate it for a new, virtually-identical case. But I also wanted to go somewhere where I wouldn't be tethered to a Blackberry. The downside of going to a small firm is that I have a salary that, while more than adequate to cover my expenses at present, is now less than half of what first-year associates are making at large "white shoe" law firms.
The upside of working at a litigation boutique, rather than at a larger shop, has always been that I have ample down time. I suppose that's a relative term. At my brother-in-law's wedding just one week ago, people were shocked and aghast to hear that I'm frequently at work until 7:15 p.m., and that even when I get home at 8 p.m. or thereabouts, I have yet to work out, cook, or eat dinner, to say nothing about relaxing. Still, I manage to cook dinner for the Mister (or he for me) about 50% of the time -- not bad for someone keeping my hours -- and I regularly make it to the gym at least two-to-three times per week. At a big firm, these options would likely not be available to me.
But, on weekends like this one, where to procrastinate means risking not only the wrath of my bosses, but also blowing a court deadline, I can't bring myself to ignore looming assignments. It's the right thing to do to buckle down and get the work done.
My sister has always had the "stick-to-it-ivness" to get her work done when it's called for. So does the Mister. Growing up, my motto was "why do today what you can do at 2 a.m. before the project is due?" Rarely suffering any consequences from this approach -- I got As throughout high school, and was accepted into two Ivy League institutions -- I'm surprised that I ever learned to start projects before the eleventh hour.
Maybe it's called growing up. Maybe I've developed a conscience. Whatever the reason, I can't justify to myself any longer the sense in putting off until tomorrow (or at least until later on tonight) what must be done today. I'm thirty-one, so I suppose it's about time. It's just something that surprises me, since it snuck up on me. I don't remember waking up one morning and feeling any different, it's just the case that now, if there is work to do, I know I'll work until after dark, after the gym is closed, over the weekend, whatever it takes, to get a job done.
I'm proud of myself for making this change. I know that to do otherwise would leave my colleagues in the lurch. And I owe them more than that. But it's more than that. They haven't bought my loyalty (even though I'm earning more than I ever have in my life), and it's not the fear of getting let go that motivates me either. I just know that, when my name gets signed to a court document, I want to be proud of what I've written, certain that I gave it my best shot. Truth be told, I don't just work hard these days because most of the work I produce becomes a matter of public record when filed with the Courts. I just want to know that I didn't half-ass it.
So when I go to bed tonight, I may not be up to date on Ugly Betty, and I may not have finished watching The Illusionist on DVD yet, but at least I'll know that I can walk into the office tomorrow confident that I've
done what I was supposed to do.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Two Down...
twenty-eight days of NaBloPoMo to go. (Well, twenty-seven, now that this has been published.)
Where am I going to get twenty-eight days' worth of ideas? I seriously need to buy this book.
Not much to report here. It's been a lazy Saturday so far. Despite the fact that I was up fairly late last night (re-watching Platoon for the first time in ages), I woke up early today, let the Mister sleep in, lazed around the house, and then met a friend for a late brunch. At least I got in two nice cross-town walks; the weather was perfect for that today. Am contemplating doing a little work today, maybe hitting the gym. After that, am probably going to watch Gone Baby Gone.
I guess that after the out-of-town trip last weekend, it's nice to stay relatively still for a change.
Where am I going to get twenty-eight days' worth of ideas? I seriously need to buy this book.
Not much to report here. It's been a lazy Saturday so far. Despite the fact that I was up fairly late last night (re-watching Platoon for the first time in ages), I woke up early today, let the Mister sleep in, lazed around the house, and then met a friend for a late brunch. At least I got in two nice cross-town walks; the weather was perfect for that today. Am contemplating doing a little work today, maybe hitting the gym. After that, am probably going to watch Gone Baby Gone.
I guess that after the out-of-town trip last weekend, it's nice to stay relatively still for a change.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Halloween Highlights
Below are some of the better pictures we captured during and after the Halloween Parade. I learned two lessons at it: (1) you can't spend enough on a high-quality flash for your camera, and (2) line up early.
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Each of these skeletons was operated by numerous puppeteers.
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More high-fying puppets (the parade's theme was "Wings") -- which struck me as Burtonesque in nature.
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I have not the words.
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This woman was either a washing machine or a robot, but either way, I think it was the best costume I saw all night.
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Each of these skeletons was operated by numerous puppeteers..jpg)
More high-fying puppets (the parade's theme was "Wings") -- which struck me as Burtonesque in nature..jpg)
I have not the words.
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This woman was either a washing machine or a robot, but either way, I think it was the best costume I saw all night.
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If you can't do this when you're young and ripped, when can you get away with such a costume? (At least, I think it was a costume. This being NYC, one can never be 100% sure....)
Off and Running
Erring on the side of caution, I figured I'd better post *something* before the day gets away from me. For the next thirty days, NaBloPoMo is the boss of me.
That said, after last night -- where I made good on my plan to visit the Village Halloween Parade -- I'm thinking this could be fun, as long as I answer when opportunity knocks.
Walking the City with the Mister, I felt alive for the first time in ages. As much as we love one another, we have gotten into something of a rut. Between both of us being somewhat overworked, and what with him studying for the GMAT exam, we don't have the energy to give the best of ourselves to each other at night. It's wake up, rush to work, come home, rush to the gym, and then get back at 11 p.m. to inhale some dinner, chat, try to decompress and fall into bed. Meals are consumed on the sofa, in front of the DVD player more often than not.
While there's nothing inherently wrong with that routine, and it was borne of necessity in large part, we have to -- we want to -- change it. Last night's affirmative choice *not* to go home and do nothing (well, if not nothing, to settle back into our routine), we shook off some dust, checked out the parade, walked around the City for a few hours, caught some dinner out at a restaurant we hadn't been to in ages, and had a great old time. I fell in love with him and with my City (not that I'd fallen out of love, just that it's nice to be reminded) all over again.
I needed that. And I'm going to make a point of doing that more often.
That said, after last night -- where I made good on my plan to visit the Village Halloween Parade -- I'm thinking this could be fun, as long as I answer when opportunity knocks.
Walking the City with the Mister, I felt alive for the first time in ages. As much as we love one another, we have gotten into something of a rut. Between both of us being somewhat overworked, and what with him studying for the GMAT exam, we don't have the energy to give the best of ourselves to each other at night. It's wake up, rush to work, come home, rush to the gym, and then get back at 11 p.m. to inhale some dinner, chat, try to decompress and fall into bed. Meals are consumed on the sofa, in front of the DVD player more often than not.
While there's nothing inherently wrong with that routine, and it was borne of necessity in large part, we have to -- we want to -- change it. Last night's affirmative choice *not* to go home and do nothing (well, if not nothing, to settle back into our routine), we shook off some dust, checked out the parade, walked around the City for a few hours, caught some dinner out at a restaurant we hadn't been to in ages, and had a great old time. I fell in love with him and with my City (not that I'd fallen out of love, just that it's nice to be reminded) all over again.
I needed that. And I'm going to make a point of doing that more often.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Amateur Shutterbug
Lacking any formal training in photography, I've always been of the school of thought that if I document an event with a hundred photos, and two of them are good, I can up my percentage going forward by looking over the photographs and seeing what worked and what didn't. Rather than invest the time or money (both of which are somewhat scarce) in a course, I've just taken thousands of photos, and compared them to what I saw, and to the look I was trying to achieve.
While I doubt any amount of autodidactic effort will put me on par with any of my regularly frequented photobloggers -- all of whom clearly know what they're doing -- I figure that even mere improvement is cause for celebration. Taking a less crappy photograph is still better than taking an unabashedly crappy snapshot.
Until recently, the obvious occasions for photography have been at Big Events: weddings, holidays, and other family gatherings. I also have made a point of documenting my vacations with scores of photographs, mostly of vistas, as my friends are generally far more interested in seeing pictures of places they might someday visit than of people they will never meet.
What I haven't done is make a point of photographing my hometown. It seems a shame. I'm always peoplewatching -- on the sidewalk, out the window of my apartment, on the subway, and yet I'm shy about actually documenting the faces and phenomena I see in this town. Truth be told, something amazing is always happening in New York City.
I always assume I'll stay here forever. I've already lived here for most of my life. I'm out of school, my family is settled in and around the five boroughs, and -- as pricey as I find it to be -- I love it here. But I don't know for sure that one day I won't look around, consider the fact that my monthly rent for a 675-sq. ft. apartment is more than double one friend's mortgage (mortgage!) for a townhouse more than twice that size in Atlanta, or that it's nearly ten times another friend's mortgage on a home he's renovating in Charleston, SC. The cost of a down payment on any home I might hope to buy is more than double the cost of an entire single-family home in countless cities in America.
So -- on the off chance that one day I might say "fuck it all" and forsake my hometown for the heartland -- I ought to make a point of playing photojournalist. I should document all that is precious and all that is extraordinary about the city in which I live.
Tomorrow is Halloween. I think it's about time I stop bragging about how phenomenal the City's Halloween Parade is and start capturing it firsthand. Same with the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. And so on and so forth. If anything, maybe making a point of bringing my camera with me will force me to get off my ass and to take more advantage of the City's offerings. That wouldn't be a bad thing at all.
If I post Halloween pics on this site sometime soon, you'll know I made good on my plan.
While I doubt any amount of autodidactic effort will put me on par with any of my regularly frequented photobloggers -- all of whom clearly know what they're doing -- I figure that even mere improvement is cause for celebration. Taking a less crappy photograph is still better than taking an unabashedly crappy snapshot.
Until recently, the obvious occasions for photography have been at Big Events: weddings, holidays, and other family gatherings. I also have made a point of documenting my vacations with scores of photographs, mostly of vistas, as my friends are generally far more interested in seeing pictures of places they might someday visit than of people they will never meet.
What I haven't done is make a point of photographing my hometown. It seems a shame. I'm always peoplewatching -- on the sidewalk, out the window of my apartment, on the subway, and yet I'm shy about actually documenting the faces and phenomena I see in this town. Truth be told, something amazing is always happening in New York City.
I always assume I'll stay here forever. I've already lived here for most of my life. I'm out of school, my family is settled in and around the five boroughs, and -- as pricey as I find it to be -- I love it here. But I don't know for sure that one day I won't look around, consider the fact that my monthly rent for a 675-sq. ft. apartment is more than double one friend's mortgage (mortgage!) for a townhouse more than twice that size in Atlanta, or that it's nearly ten times another friend's mortgage on a home he's renovating in Charleston, SC. The cost of a down payment on any home I might hope to buy is more than double the cost of an entire single-family home in countless cities in America.
So -- on the off chance that one day I might say "fuck it all" and forsake my hometown for the heartland -- I ought to make a point of playing photojournalist. I should document all that is precious and all that is extraordinary about the city in which I live.
Tomorrow is Halloween. I think it's about time I stop bragging about how phenomenal the City's Halloween Parade is and start capturing it firsthand. Same with the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. And so on and so forth. If anything, maybe making a point of bringing my camera with me will force me to get off my ass and to take more advantage of the City's offerings. That wouldn't be a bad thing at all.
If I post Halloween pics on this site sometime soon, you'll know I made good on my plan.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Back from the Wedding
A few pictures of the Mister and my gorgeous in-laws to hold you over until I have time for a longer post:
The Mister, his big brother, and their beloved Momma, above.
And, below, the Mister giving a reading at the ceremony for my brother-in-law and newly minted sister-in-law:
They were gorgeous, no?
The Mister, his big brother, and their beloved Momma, above.
And, below, the Mister giving a reading at the ceremony for my brother-in-law and newly minted sister-in-law:
They were gorgeous, no?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Fear of Flying
The good news: as noted a few days back, I'm leaving for a long weekend on Tybee Island tomorrow.
The down side: only way to get there is to fly. While I'm a seasoned veteran of plane rides, I'm still not a fan.
I suppose part of this fear can be chalked up to my front-row seat for the World Trade Center Disaster. I had just started a job at 100 Church Street on September 10, 2001; day two of orientation for that job found me at the corner of Barclay and Church Streets in my best suit and pearls at quarter to nine in the morning. Not fun, to say the very least. Anyone who remembers the sights and sounds (and smells) of that morning would have a little residual PTSD when it comes to flying, even six years after the fact.
But the truth of the matter is that I am a reluctant passenger when it comes to flying because airplanes are large, heavy metal objects held up in the sky with no visible means of support. When you think about them in those terms, it's pretty hard to trust them.
The down side: only way to get there is to fly. While I'm a seasoned veteran of plane rides, I'm still not a fan.
I suppose part of this fear can be chalked up to my front-row seat for the World Trade Center Disaster. I had just started a job at 100 Church Street on September 10, 2001; day two of orientation for that job found me at the corner of Barclay and Church Streets in my best suit and pearls at quarter to nine in the morning. Not fun, to say the very least. Anyone who remembers the sights and sounds (and smells) of that morning would have a little residual PTSD when it comes to flying, even six years after the fact.
But the truth of the matter is that I am a reluctant passenger when it comes to flying because airplanes are large, heavy metal objects held up in the sky with no visible means of support. When you think about them in those terms, it's pretty hard to trust them.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Validation
I jumped on the Facebook bandwagon. Both enchanted with online social networking mechanisms, inasmuch as they allow us to reconnect with old friends, make new ones and, well, network, and terrified of it, because of the inevitable surrender of personal information to the aether, I did it reluctantly, and somewhat late in the game.
As something of an afterthought, I posted a link to my blog on my Facebook profile. That was a few days ago. After the initial slew of acknowledgements by friends and acquaintances, activity concerning my profile has started to slow down. Which is fine with me. Like this website, it's an experiment.
Then yesterday, I got a friend request from a fellow I did not know, with whom I had nothing in common, save that we had graduated from the same college, albeit six years apart. Although he's the same age as one of my younger brothers, I was pretty certain he wasn't one of his friends. Moreover, I didn't recognize his name as one of the alumni volunteers whom I oversee in connection with their interviewing of high school applicants to my alma mater.
It turned out he hadn't been looking for me; he was seeking out another woman with my first name. Go figure. But, in investigating my profile to confirm that I was not the woman he was looking for, he noticed the link to my blog, and opted to read it. He wrote:
p.s. just saw you (and your husband?) have a blog. very interesting. i'm going to have to read it later, although i could take a quick glance at the very first couple posts about grown up sadnesses and realities. i can't agree enough with some of it! *** anyway, i'll have to read and comment some more -- you and your counterpart seem like such very fascinating people. rock on! :)
Serendipitous, no?
While I'm not sure how I feel about being told that my website is focused on "grown up sadnesses and realities," that sort of feedback is why I've started this blog. Give me a reaction -- any reaction -- so long as you listen to what I have to say and take me seriously. (Or, at least, take me seriously when I'm trying to be serious, you know?) I guess the dialogue has begun. I couldn't be more excited.
As something of an afterthought, I posted a link to my blog on my Facebook profile. That was a few days ago. After the initial slew of acknowledgements by friends and acquaintances, activity concerning my profile has started to slow down. Which is fine with me. Like this website, it's an experiment.
Then yesterday, I got a friend request from a fellow I did not know, with whom I had nothing in common, save that we had graduated from the same college, albeit six years apart. Although he's the same age as one of my younger brothers, I was pretty certain he wasn't one of his friends. Moreover, I didn't recognize his name as one of the alumni volunteers whom I oversee in connection with their interviewing of high school applicants to my alma mater.
It turned out he hadn't been looking for me; he was seeking out another woman with my first name. Go figure. But, in investigating my profile to confirm that I was not the woman he was looking for, he noticed the link to my blog, and opted to read it. He wrote:
p.s. just saw you (and your husband?) have a blog. very interesting. i'm going to have to read it later, although i could take a quick glance at the very first couple posts about grown up sadnesses and realities. i can't agree enough with some of it! *** anyway, i'll have to read and comment some more -- you and your counterpart seem like such very fascinating people. rock on! :)
Serendipitous, no?
While I'm not sure how I feel about being told that my website is focused on "grown up sadnesses and realities," that sort of feedback is why I've started this blog. Give me a reaction -- any reaction -- so long as you listen to what I have to say and take me seriously. (Or, at least, take me seriously when I'm trying to be serious, you know?) I guess the dialogue has begun. I couldn't be more excited.
Monday, October 22, 2007
So good, I can almost taste it....
Last week was hellacious at the office, work-wise. I logged crazy hours to get a brief out. This week promises to be only slightly better. The thing that is keeping me going right now is the promise of a little down time.
The Mister's brother is getting married this coming weekend in Tybee Island, just outside of Savannah, GA. We're leaving town Thursday, and won't be back until Sunday evening.
Weddings are cause for celebration in their own right, but I've been promised "southern home cooking at its best." That's one thing we New Yorkers don't get nearly enough of. Friday, we'll be dining at The Lady & Sons. It should be great fun. My tastebuds thank me in advance, even if my waistline won't forgive me for the meal I anticipate consuming.
The Mister's brother is getting married this coming weekend in Tybee Island, just outside of Savannah, GA. We're leaving town Thursday, and won't be back until Sunday evening.
Weddings are cause for celebration in their own right, but I've been promised "southern home cooking at its best." That's one thing we New Yorkers don't get nearly enough of. Friday, we'll be dining at The Lady & Sons. It should be great fun. My tastebuds thank me in advance, even if my waistline won't forgive me for the meal I anticipate consuming.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Trade-offs
The Mister is posting about hope -- something we'd been discussing last night before going to the Springsteen Concert. After reading it, I told him that I found it sad, but beautifully written. He responded by observing that, when writing, he hadn't thought the subject sad so much as a function of grown-up reality, but, upon reflection, agreed that it was sad. My reaction is below:
Some grownup realities are sad. At least, that's how it strikes me. Being a child prepares you to be a grown up in some ways; in others, it doesn't. Of course, the alternative would be for children to be mini-grownups, as they were in Puritanical times. That's probably no good, either. But our days are neither as frivolous nor as lighthearted as in our respective childhoods.
In fairness, lots of grown-up realities are not sad; they're, in fact, better than childhood realities. We get to set our own schedules, not eat our vegetables if we don't want to, come and go as we please, and so on. We get to drink liquor, drive fast cars, and have sex (assuming someone is willing to sleep with us). I just question the wisdom of the grownup realities that aren't fun. Are they all necessary -- taxes, and long hours, and jobs, and insurance, and rent? I guess the living as a communal collective only has so many strengths in today's society. But by buying into them, so many of us do work we don't like -- or aren't good at -- or both -- for salaries that are too low to afford homes we don't like that are far from the jobs we don't like.
I guess it's the price we pay for health care, infrastructure, and the like. Still, even if we don't rebel, it's probably advisable to question the wisdom of it all from time to time, no?
Some grownup realities are sad. At least, that's how it strikes me. Being a child prepares you to be a grown up in some ways; in others, it doesn't. Of course, the alternative would be for children to be mini-grownups, as they were in Puritanical times. That's probably no good, either. But our days are neither as frivolous nor as lighthearted as in our respective childhoods.
In fairness, lots of grown-up realities are not sad; they're, in fact, better than childhood realities. We get to set our own schedules, not eat our vegetables if we don't want to, come and go as we please, and so on. We get to drink liquor, drive fast cars, and have sex (assuming someone is willing to sleep with us). I just question the wisdom of the grownup realities that aren't fun. Are they all necessary -- taxes, and long hours, and jobs, and insurance, and rent? I guess the living as a communal collective only has so many strengths in today's society. But by buying into them, so many of us do work we don't like -- or aren't good at -- or both -- for salaries that are too low to afford homes we don't like that are far from the jobs we don't like.
I guess it's the price we pay for health care, infrastructure, and the like. Still, even if we don't rebel, it's probably advisable to question the wisdom of it all from time to time, no?
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Running on Fumes
We've gotten slammed with motions at work. I've been burning the candle at both ends trying to get everything under control. Something always gets shortchanged: sleep, relaxation, work, my personal life, exercise, etc. Fortunately (depending on how you look at it), I'm still prohibited from working out for one more week so as to let my stitches heal. So I'm juggling one fewer ball than I usually am.
Even so, I have to wonder: how do people manage working full-speed ahead all the time? As it is, I only sleep six to seven hours per night. Even on the weekends. And it's not like I have any major domestic responsibilities: the Mister is not only self-sufficient, but he's something of a lone wolf. If I don't make it home for dinner for a couple of days, he doesn't just understand, but relishes a little extra free time. I cannot fathom how people manage not only to work 'round the clock but to keep a tidy house and to raise a family.
Then again, ten years ago, I couldn't have imagined the obligations I'd be handling at 31. Maybe if the changes come gradually, we find a way to budget our time better. Here's hoping.
Even so, I have to wonder: how do people manage working full-speed ahead all the time? As it is, I only sleep six to seven hours per night. Even on the weekends. And it's not like I have any major domestic responsibilities: the Mister is not only self-sufficient, but he's something of a lone wolf. If I don't make it home for dinner for a couple of days, he doesn't just understand, but relishes a little extra free time. I cannot fathom how people manage not only to work 'round the clock but to keep a tidy house and to raise a family.
Then again, ten years ago, I couldn't have imagined the obligations I'd be handling at 31. Maybe if the changes come gradually, we find a way to budget our time better. Here's hoping.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Contrast
As I think I mentioned late last week, I was out of town this past weekend, so I didn't get a chance to post. That said, yesterday was the six-month mark of my marriage to the Mister, and that deserves at least a few words.
When discussing the making of serious decisions -- particularly with respect to romance -- I've heard many people waiting for a sign. Biblical days being long since past, we rarely get anything as obvious as a burning bush (or the modern-day equivalent, I suppose, of neon flashing lights) to tell us "Do this," or "Don't do that," "Marry him," or "Run away screaming from his suggestion that you move in together." I, for one, never expected it.
But, raised on Hollywood, as so many of my generation were, I didn't think it unreasonable to wish for, hope for, dare I say it, even expect, pivotal, unexpected, and relationship-affirming moments like that in the end of that chick-flick masterpiece, Pretty Woman. Some moment, some event to help me say "It's now, now" and to tell me which decision to make, or to confirm that I had made the right decision about something.
Last night reminded me how silly that all is.
Not to malign those people who do luck out and have banner moments. Those are awesome and not to be sneezed at. I'd love a few. Heck, I think I've had a few in my life.
But it's those moments that arrive when I contrast how content I am with how complicated others' lives can be that I realize how good I really have it.
I've lived in the same apartment for 2.5 years now, with the same next door neighbor for all of that time. She's beautiful, or at least, the bones are there. She is short, petite, blond-haired, blue-eyed, with what some of my male friends would call a "tight little body." She has a husky, Tara Reidish voice. I can see the guys having gone crazy for her a few years back. She's my age, give or take -- early 30s or late 20s. The thing is, she looks all used up -- like she's been on one too many benders. It's a pity. (Don't even get me started on the fact that she's an elementary schoolteacher; I shudder for the future.)
My next door neighbor has been fodder for some amusement but only passing concern. She's
never disruptive in terms of having fights in the hallways, or vomiting on my doorstep. She's a loud talker, prone to standing next to the too-thin apartment door while chatting on the phone, lamenting her latest love affair, or fighting with her folks, or begging a soon-to-be-ex-beau not to leave. But since that was the most trouble she'd given me, I never had cause to care.
Last night, at about quarter to eleven, our doorman called the Mister, advised us that her father (who lived in a suburb 30+ minutes away) had called him, told him that he and our neighbor had had a fight, and had threatened to take an overdose of sleeping pills. Our doorman further explained that our neighbor's mother had died just a month ago after accidentally combining alcohol and cold medicine, or something to that effect.
Drama ensued. The NYPD, EMS, and FDNY all arrived. They broke open her door with a crowbar, or started to before someone showed up with a key (I'm not sure which), and stayed with her for about half an hour, until her father showed up. It was so much sadder than it was funny.
The mister and I had gone up to Providence and Newport, but, for whatever reason (he was under the weather, we were both tired, the programming of the events on campus had changed, etc.) the weekend had lost some of its magic. Even so, en route home last night, we both reaffirmed how good we have it. But that didn't really hit home until last night's events involving our neighbor.
Juxtaposed with her life, I realize -- in the same way that, when stricken with a cold, I lament to my stuffy-nosed self "I'll never again take for granted how good I have it when I'm healthy" -- that, although it's not without its complications, my relationship with the Mister is relatively drama free. We're happy with each other. We're happy together. That's sign enough for me.
When discussing the making of serious decisions -- particularly with respect to romance -- I've heard many people waiting for a sign. Biblical days being long since past, we rarely get anything as obvious as a burning bush (or the modern-day equivalent, I suppose, of neon flashing lights) to tell us "Do this," or "Don't do that," "Marry him," or "Run away screaming from his suggestion that you move in together." I, for one, never expected it.
But, raised on Hollywood, as so many of my generation were, I didn't think it unreasonable to wish for, hope for, dare I say it, even expect, pivotal, unexpected, and relationship-affirming moments like that in the end of that chick-flick masterpiece, Pretty Woman. Some moment, some event to help me say "It's now, now" and to tell me which decision to make, or to confirm that I had made the right decision about something.
Last night reminded me how silly that all is.
Not to malign those people who do luck out and have banner moments. Those are awesome and not to be sneezed at. I'd love a few. Heck, I think I've had a few in my life.
But it's those moments that arrive when I contrast how content I am with how complicated others' lives can be that I realize how good I really have it.
I've lived in the same apartment for 2.5 years now, with the same next door neighbor for all of that time. She's beautiful, or at least, the bones are there. She is short, petite, blond-haired, blue-eyed, with what some of my male friends would call a "tight little body." She has a husky, Tara Reidish voice. I can see the guys having gone crazy for her a few years back. She's my age, give or take -- early 30s or late 20s. The thing is, she looks all used up -- like she's been on one too many benders. It's a pity. (Don't even get me started on the fact that she's an elementary schoolteacher; I shudder for the future.)
My next door neighbor has been fodder for some amusement but only passing concern. She's
never disruptive in terms of having fights in the hallways, or vomiting on my doorstep. She's a loud talker, prone to standing next to the too-thin apartment door while chatting on the phone, lamenting her latest love affair, or fighting with her folks, or begging a soon-to-be-ex-beau not to leave. But since that was the most trouble she'd given me, I never had cause to care.
Last night, at about quarter to eleven, our doorman called the Mister, advised us that her father (who lived in a suburb 30+ minutes away) had called him, told him that he and our neighbor had had a fight, and had threatened to take an overdose of sleeping pills. Our doorman further explained that our neighbor's mother had died just a month ago after accidentally combining alcohol and cold medicine, or something to that effect.
Drama ensued. The NYPD, EMS, and FDNY all arrived. They broke open her door with a crowbar, or started to before someone showed up with a key (I'm not sure which), and stayed with her for about half an hour, until her father showed up. It was so much sadder than it was funny.
The mister and I had gone up to Providence and Newport, but, for whatever reason (he was under the weather, we were both tired, the programming of the events on campus had changed, etc.) the weekend had lost some of its magic. Even so, en route home last night, we both reaffirmed how good we have it. But that didn't really hit home until last night's events involving our neighbor.
Juxtaposed with her life, I realize -- in the same way that, when stricken with a cold, I lament to my stuffy-nosed self "I'll never again take for granted how good I have it when I'm healthy" -- that, although it's not without its complications, my relationship with the Mister is relatively drama free. We're happy with each other. We're happy together. That's sign enough for me.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Apropos of Nothing
It's a busy Friday afternoon; am buzzing trying to get lots done before heading out of town.
Where? Well, since you asked nicely, I'll tell you:
The Mister and I are headed back to my alma mater for Homecoming, which includes a lot of alumni leadership meetings. I'm even scheduled to receive an award -- neat-o. I've been doing it for years, but, ever since the Mister and I became an item, it's become something of a tradition -- a weekend getaway for the two of us. We shack up in a cozy bed and breakfast, I attend meetings on Saturday, and then on Sunday we head up to Newport, RI together to check out the mansions there. It's great fun to have a weekend in New England, and it's not as claustrophobic as reunions can be. (Not that I should malign reunions; am class president for my upcoming tenth next May.) We never make time, but one of these days, we are going to try to get seated for dinner at one of the best casual restaurants in the country.
I'll post some photos when we get back.
Where? Well, since you asked nicely, I'll tell you:
The Mister and I are headed back to my alma mater for Homecoming, which includes a lot of alumni leadership meetings. I'm even scheduled to receive an award -- neat-o. I've been doing it for years, but, ever since the Mister and I became an item, it's become something of a tradition -- a weekend getaway for the two of us. We shack up in a cozy bed and breakfast, I attend meetings on Saturday, and then on Sunday we head up to Newport, RI together to check out the mansions there. It's great fun to have a weekend in New England, and it's not as claustrophobic as reunions can be. (Not that I should malign reunions; am class president for my upcoming tenth next May.) We never make time, but one of these days, we are going to try to get seated for dinner at one of the best casual restaurants in the country.
I'll post some photos when we get back.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
My Father's Daughter
My mother has often mentioned that my father passed out at some point during the day she was in labor with me; she's tailored the story to suit her needs, but, at least one of the times she's told it, she reports that he fainted dead away at the moment I was delivered. Although I was arguably there for the event, my memory of it is nil, so I'll have to take her word for it.
While it was clear from the time I was a young girl that was never going to enter the practice of medicine -- I made it plain that I wanted to be, and planned on becoming, a lawyer from the time I was five -- I was never a particularly squeamish kid. Or adult. I have always been pretty calm under fire, and don't start shaking or contemplating the awfulness of blood and guts until after a crisis has passed.
In an effort to raise my threshhold still further, in college I volunteered at several campus blood drives. What's more, I gave blood regularly myself. Amazingly, I never fainted. Didn't come close even once. In fact, female blood donors rarely had any trouble making it through a session. It was always the guys -- the big ones, six feet tall and muscle-bound -- who passed out during anything plausibly squicky.
Today, nearly two weeks after minor, outpatient foot surgery, I had an appointment to have my stitches removed. However low-risk, this was my first surgical procedure, save for a wisdom tooth extraction about five years back. It was the first one involving a hospital, an IV, and sedation. And I made it through that like a champ.
Because the work was done on my foot, I had to stay off it for the next ten or so days. This gave the stitches time to heal, without adding to the task of mending the additional burden of enduring the repetitive pressure from enduring my body weight as I walked. No biggie.
I also was forbidden to get the incision wet. So my foot had remained swaddled in several layers of gauze and topped by a bandage for nearly two weeks. Moreover, every time I showered, I had to wrap up my bandage in a gerry-rigged contraption involving a garbage bag and several bandaids. Not fun.
And yet, I got through it all without any major issues. Wouldn't you just know I'd grey out when it came time to get the stitches out?
I'm such a wus.
The nurse wasn't mean. She was just no-nonsense. But she started cutting through the ACE bandage, and I didn't know what my foot would look like. Then I saw the betadine-soaked fabric, and under it what looked like a huge bloody black and blue spot. It was actually magic marker on my foot, which I hadn't known would be there. But it looked like it was all gross and pus-filled and so on, and I got worried. From that point on, it was just some subconscious urge that took over. I felt queasy, then I started sweating and then I got simultaneously hot and clammy. I knew exactly what was happening, and felt silly about it. It's like crying involuntarily -- you don't feel worked up intellectually, but some primal urge takes the reins of your body and suddenly it's reacting. Kind of unnerving.
I suppose it could have been worse. It probably was barely a blip on the nurse's radar; I'm sure the event made more of an impact on me than on her. (Like so many other things -- we're always certain that everyone else has nothing better to do than stare incessantly at the pimples on the edge of our noses, and that, when we fart in class -- or at work -- not that I'd ever do such a thing, of course -- everyone knows it, judges us, and we're marked for life with a virtual scarlet "F," with any hopes of inclusion in the cool circle gone forever....) She fetched me a wet paper towel, fanned me, and in a matter of minutes (maybe less), the color had rushed back to my face and I was sheepishly laughing about it with my doctor, who examined me afterwards.
But still...I'd always prided myself on a certain visceral fortitude. I wonder what I can do to get that back. I don't want to be the girl who faints, or almost-faints, even if no one else cares.
While it was clear from the time I was a young girl that was never going to enter the practice of medicine -- I made it plain that I wanted to be, and planned on becoming, a lawyer from the time I was five -- I was never a particularly squeamish kid. Or adult. I have always been pretty calm under fire, and don't start shaking or contemplating the awfulness of blood and guts until after a crisis has passed.
In an effort to raise my threshhold still further, in college I volunteered at several campus blood drives. What's more, I gave blood regularly myself. Amazingly, I never fainted. Didn't come close even once. In fact, female blood donors rarely had any trouble making it through a session. It was always the guys -- the big ones, six feet tall and muscle-bound -- who passed out during anything plausibly squicky.
Today, nearly two weeks after minor, outpatient foot surgery, I had an appointment to have my stitches removed. However low-risk, this was my first surgical procedure, save for a wisdom tooth extraction about five years back. It was the first one involving a hospital, an IV, and sedation. And I made it through that like a champ.
Because the work was done on my foot, I had to stay off it for the next ten or so days. This gave the stitches time to heal, without adding to the task of mending the additional burden of enduring the repetitive pressure from enduring my body weight as I walked. No biggie.
I also was forbidden to get the incision wet. So my foot had remained swaddled in several layers of gauze and topped by a bandage for nearly two weeks. Moreover, every time I showered, I had to wrap up my bandage in a gerry-rigged contraption involving a garbage bag and several bandaids. Not fun.
And yet, I got through it all without any major issues. Wouldn't you just know I'd grey out when it came time to get the stitches out?
I'm such a wus.
The nurse wasn't mean. She was just no-nonsense. But she started cutting through the ACE bandage, and I didn't know what my foot would look like. Then I saw the betadine-soaked fabric, and under it what looked like a huge bloody black and blue spot. It was actually magic marker on my foot, which I hadn't known would be there. But it looked like it was all gross and pus-filled and so on, and I got worried. From that point on, it was just some subconscious urge that took over. I felt queasy, then I started sweating and then I got simultaneously hot and clammy. I knew exactly what was happening, and felt silly about it. It's like crying involuntarily -- you don't feel worked up intellectually, but some primal urge takes the reins of your body and suddenly it's reacting. Kind of unnerving.
I suppose it could have been worse. It probably was barely a blip on the nurse's radar; I'm sure the event made more of an impact on me than on her. (Like so many other things -- we're always certain that everyone else has nothing better to do than stare incessantly at the pimples on the edge of our noses, and that, when we fart in class -- or at work -- not that I'd ever do such a thing, of course -- everyone knows it, judges us, and we're marked for life with a virtual scarlet "F," with any hopes of inclusion in the cool circle gone forever....) She fetched me a wet paper towel, fanned me, and in a matter of minutes (maybe less), the color had rushed back to my face and I was sheepishly laughing about it with my doctor, who examined me afterwards.
But still...I'd always prided myself on a certain visceral fortitude. I wonder what I can do to get that back. I don't want to be the girl who faints, or almost-faints, even if no one else cares.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Keep on keepin' on
My last post was October 4th, and it's already the 9th. However did that happen? What's my excuse, especially what with the three-day weekend that just passed?
I guess it's a good thing that this month is a dry run for November, which is NaBloPoMo. In the meanwhile, I'm going to have to ramp it up, or I'll never hit my one-per-day minimum.
This is harder than it looks.
I guess it's a good thing that this month is a dry run for November, which is NaBloPoMo. In the meanwhile, I'm going to have to ramp it up, or I'll never hit my one-per-day minimum.
This is harder than it looks.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
The Road to Hell...
is paved with good intentions, or so the saying goes.
I meant to post daily. I did; I really did.
Oops.
I have nothing particularly important to add at the moment, so I guess this post is a place-holder.
The one thing I could add is this: the mister told me that kvetching online, as I did a few posts back, when I barked about our incommunicada wedding photographer, was the equivalent of begging for bad karma. He said it was a waste of air, in essence, to send negative energy into the universe.
I'd like to say I proved him wrong. The proof of our album reached us a couple of days ago, we edited it, and it's now in final form, waiting to be printed and bound. I'd like to take credit for that.
Truth be told, that progress probably has more to do with the fact that the Mister saw the photographer's invoice on my desk, called her, and asked her what had happened. So maybe it really had nothing to do with blogging juju after all....
I meant to post daily. I did; I really did.
Oops.
I have nothing particularly important to add at the moment, so I guess this post is a place-holder.
The one thing I could add is this: the mister told me that kvetching online, as I did a few posts back, when I barked about our incommunicada wedding photographer, was the equivalent of begging for bad karma. He said it was a waste of air, in essence, to send negative energy into the universe.
I'd like to say I proved him wrong. The proof of our album reached us a couple of days ago, we edited it, and it's now in final form, waiting to be printed and bound. I'd like to take credit for that.
Truth be told, that progress probably has more to do with the fact that the Mister saw the photographer's invoice on my desk, called her, and asked her what had happened. So maybe it really had nothing to do with blogging juju after all....
Monday, October 1, 2007
Life in Six-Minute Increments
A practicing attorney since 2001, I have spent the better part of my career billing my time. I'm on the clock from the moment I walk into my office until day's end. If my bosses have reason to call me at home (they were gracious enough to let me be on my honeymoon, but they did call me with work-related questions and assignments, amongst other times, two days before my wedding, the day my grandfather died (three times), and two hours after I got out of surgery this past Thursday), then I keep billing even though I'm not at my desk or in court.
The life of a litigation associate requires an continued effort to bill as much as possible (albeit reasonably). Our boss' salaries, and, to a slightly lesser extent, our own, depend on attributing to various clients the time we spend performing tasks that further their causes. We don't work for free. While some time may be discounted or written off, and other bills will go uncollected, for the most part, the harder we work, the more our firms thrive.
I bill in fractions of an hour. One-tenth of an hour is the smallest amount I can bill. That means six-minute blocks.
(I shudder to think how much time I could bill if I were focusing on the legal memorandum I have to get out tomorrow, rather than penning this post. But -- damn it -- it's 8:44pm, and I want some time for myself. In truth, I suppose the mental break will allow me to return to the brief somewhat refreshed. That said, I doubt it'd be a justifiable allocation of time.)
Even bathroom breaks and lunch breaks have to be weighed against how much time we want to spend in the office.
In theory, the associate who bills the most is the biggest asset to the firm. Of course, that could mean a penalty for being too efficient: if it takes you only six hours to do what it'd take your colleagues ten hours to do, then unless your time is billed out at a higher rate, the result is that you have brought in less revenue than your colleague.
The thing is...
I always swore I was the type of person who worked to live, rather than vice-versa. And it's now 8:49pm, and I'm still at the office. With miles to go before I sleep (to sleep, perchance to dream). I'll be up before 8, and at work before 9:30, with plans to do it all over again tomorrow. Lather, rinse, repeat.
It's not that my efforts go unrecognized. I've held my job for over 22.5 months now. I've gotten two raises, and, often enough, have praise heaped on me. My bosses seem to take my input seriously. I get to go to court. I take depositions. I question witnesses in major proceedings. I'm developing skills and, I suppose, a valuable base of knowledge.
But something has got to give. I'm not the hardest working associate out there, and I'm certainly not the highest compensated. Even so? I'm making more than I ever have in my career, and I'm working harder. It's nearly always dark when I head for home.
I don't have any children yet. I just come home to an apartment with my husband and two cats (more on them later). No one really depends on me to do much in terms of domestic upkeep. If I sleep in, I just forego a shampoo, and no one is any the worse for it. If I don't feel like cooking, I order takeout, and life goes on. Groceries can be ordered online, as can pharmaceuticals and other household supplies -- I even outsource my laundry (no, I don't just mean dry cleaning).
So what suffers? My health, for one. I've gained a bunch of weight -- only small amounts, over time, but the cumulative effect is not a happy thing. I don't make it to the gym nearly as much as I'd like; considering what I pay in membership fees, I'd be better off paying a body-double to pose as me. And my relationship with the Mister.
When you're constantly exhausted, when you give the best of yourself, the hours when you're most awake, and when you're at your most coherent and productive, what do you have left over for the person you love best? It's amazing: perhaps, when you factor in hours spent sleeping side by side, he gets more face-time with me than anyone else. But when you discount it? How many six-minute increments does he get?
I met the Mister later in life. I was already an erstwhile Mrs. -- someone's discarded baggage. He didn't get to enjoy me, and I didn't get to give to him what I could have given, what I did give, when I was new, when I was one of "those innocent young maidens unicorns always come to," as Molly Grue once said. Don't get me wrong -- I'm still plenty scrappy and not without moxie -- but I used to have energy. And now I don't -- at least not like I did before. And it's only going to get worse.
You have to wonder: it's the work, and the billing for it, that keeps money in my bank account, food on my table, and a roof over my head. I can't just quit it. But it's the Mister, and the time I spend with him, that keeps me alive. How am I supposed to strike a balance?
The life of a litigation associate requires an continued effort to bill as much as possible (albeit reasonably). Our boss' salaries, and, to a slightly lesser extent, our own, depend on attributing to various clients the time we spend performing tasks that further their causes. We don't work for free. While some time may be discounted or written off, and other bills will go uncollected, for the most part, the harder we work, the more our firms thrive.
I bill in fractions of an hour. One-tenth of an hour is the smallest amount I can bill. That means six-minute blocks.
(I shudder to think how much time I could bill if I were focusing on the legal memorandum I have to get out tomorrow, rather than penning this post. But -- damn it -- it's 8:44pm, and I want some time for myself. In truth, I suppose the mental break will allow me to return to the brief somewhat refreshed. That said, I doubt it'd be a justifiable allocation of time.)
Even bathroom breaks and lunch breaks have to be weighed against how much time we want to spend in the office.
In theory, the associate who bills the most is the biggest asset to the firm. Of course, that could mean a penalty for being too efficient: if it takes you only six hours to do what it'd take your colleagues ten hours to do, then unless your time is billed out at a higher rate, the result is that you have brought in less revenue than your colleague.
The thing is...
I always swore I was the type of person who worked to live, rather than vice-versa. And it's now 8:49pm, and I'm still at the office. With miles to go before I sleep (to sleep, perchance to dream). I'll be up before 8, and at work before 9:30, with plans to do it all over again tomorrow. Lather, rinse, repeat.
It's not that my efforts go unrecognized. I've held my job for over 22.5 months now. I've gotten two raises, and, often enough, have praise heaped on me. My bosses seem to take my input seriously. I get to go to court. I take depositions. I question witnesses in major proceedings. I'm developing skills and, I suppose, a valuable base of knowledge.
But something has got to give. I'm not the hardest working associate out there, and I'm certainly not the highest compensated. Even so? I'm making more than I ever have in my career, and I'm working harder. It's nearly always dark when I head for home.
I don't have any children yet. I just come home to an apartment with my husband and two cats (more on them later). No one really depends on me to do much in terms of domestic upkeep. If I sleep in, I just forego a shampoo, and no one is any the worse for it. If I don't feel like cooking, I order takeout, and life goes on. Groceries can be ordered online, as can pharmaceuticals and other household supplies -- I even outsource my laundry (no, I don't just mean dry cleaning).
So what suffers? My health, for one. I've gained a bunch of weight -- only small amounts, over time, but the cumulative effect is not a happy thing. I don't make it to the gym nearly as much as I'd like; considering what I pay in membership fees, I'd be better off paying a body-double to pose as me. And my relationship with the Mister.
When you're constantly exhausted, when you give the best of yourself, the hours when you're most awake, and when you're at your most coherent and productive, what do you have left over for the person you love best? It's amazing: perhaps, when you factor in hours spent sleeping side by side, he gets more face-time with me than anyone else. But when you discount it? How many six-minute increments does he get?
I met the Mister later in life. I was already an erstwhile Mrs. -- someone's discarded baggage. He didn't get to enjoy me, and I didn't get to give to him what I could have given, what I did give, when I was new, when I was one of "those innocent young maidens unicorns always come to," as Molly Grue once said. Don't get me wrong -- I'm still plenty scrappy and not without moxie -- but I used to have energy. And now I don't -- at least not like I did before. And it's only going to get worse.
You have to wonder: it's the work, and the billing for it, that keeps money in my bank account, food on my table, and a roof over my head. I can't just quit it. But it's the Mister, and the time I spend with him, that keeps me alive. How am I supposed to strike a balance?
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