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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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?