So it happened.
I was out there. Right at the precipice. Rocking ever-so slightly heel-toe, heel-toe on the lip of the volcano. The depths about to suck me in.
Another 24 hours of sleepless workfullness having come and gone. 18 cups of coffee, 4 diet cokes, and incalculable amounts of sugar.
All for another project, never to be used, I am sure.
Then slept some. A mistake to be sure. Through my sleep I kept getting wicked cramps in my legs - like someone was pulling my achilles tendon from the top, forcing my toes into a pointed position. The flashes of pain punctuating the restlessness of the slumber.
Then I woke up.
The buzzing feeling was still there, but now it was screaming shrilly in my head, over and over again. *Fire* *Fire* *Fire*
"You must evacuate the building, please proceed in an orderly manner to the exits."
"In the event of a water landing, your seat cushion will double as a flotation device."
"For your safety, please keep you hands and arms within the vehicle at all times."
I feel so oddly misshapen, bloated, drained of all energy. To borrow a phrase from another burnt out associate, A dried out husk, attempting to function. Jabba the Hut with big blinking eyes. Immobile. Impossible.
Went to the gym in some misguided attempt to try to feel normal. 5 minutes on the bike and I was out of breathe and feeling dizzy. Normal has left the building. All I am left with is my self-loathing and my hysteria, multiplied and gaining strength by the minute in its synergy with fatigue and sleeplessness as this impossible situation drags on.
So I cried. I sobbed. Wracked through and through with the absolute hatred of it all. Pampered partners posing in "command the troops"/land on the aircraft carrier photo-opps with the toiling associates and paralegals for benefit of the client electorate -or- insisting on tasks being done on unreasonable timelines and then questioning the manner and time in which they are done, simply because it delays their bedtime -or- such partners questioning the fact that the indentured serfs they have hired do not sleep ("You were up all night? But why?" Finishing your avalanche of work, asshole). Then there are the serf-politics: food, food, food. Control issues. Who gets to order. Executive assistants bad mouthing associates to other partners, just because they can. People jockeying for position and attention of aforementioned partners. Concern about career advancement.
Politics? Seriously? This is just a matter of survival folks.
At about 4:30 the other morning, in an odd twist, people started to apologize for cursing. We punctuate every other phrase with "fuck" or "bullshit" so that is kind of odd. But anyway, the response was: "No apologies. Profanity is welcome here. In fact, we are in a situation that is beyond that really. We are in need of words that are beyond profane."
And yes, we are.
We are in need of words that are beyond profane.
I keep searching for them. Though maybe all that will do it justice at this point is silence because there just are no words for this.
Inhuman; Insane; Incalculable personal psychological damage. They begin to describe. But they just really do not accurately capture the essence of this process.
I sobbed to co-workers. I sobbed to my sister. I make everyone feel bad. They just want to make things better. They can't.
I ended up on a project yesterday with a partner who after 45 minutes wanted the work product, he thought it was taking too long. I would just like it noted, that, for the record, he never gave me a timeline, and that he has no fucking clue how long things take because he doesn't ever do the basic things. I don't think he knows how. He is so fucking helpless he asks other people to do things that are well beyond their job descriptions - whether he does so because he doesn't realize it isn't in their job description so they wouldn't know how, or that he just doesn't care and just wants someone else to get it done - it is still pretty classless. Obviously, we all pick up the slack when necessary, but the patronizing way in which he asks - he doesn't acknowledge it isn't something you always do. But anyway, I apparently was trampling on his 10 pm bedtime deadline, and so he comes in 45 min after gving the assignment, taps me repeatedly on the shoulder (THERE WILL BE NO TOUCHING!!!) and asks "Is it done yet?" I reply with, No, I am working on it. To which he replies, "Well then what are you doing?" In an accusatory tone as though I had just been sitting around drinking a pina colada and shopping on Amazon. So then he says, "Well just give me what you have, you can send me the rest as you finish it." I print it out. He questions how long that takes (there are 8 people sharing a printer by the way). He then questions why there are no cites. I try to tell him that tracking down cites takes some time and that a lot of the stuff he wants needs to be processed. He isn't listening. He barks: "Just get me the cites."
I started to cry. And so it goes. So from then on, if he needed something, he sent someone else in to get it from me because he didn't want to look at me.
Whatever.
That was really the moment. That was the point when I knew. When I felt it for the very first time. I felt it truly, through and through. I *am* going to quit or I *am* going to get fired. Either way, I am out. Is it going to happen now? If I had the guts, I would do it now. If they hadn't so grossly miscalculated, they would do it now. Either way, we can't live with one another anymore.
I look at myself in the mirror and I am wholly unrecognizable. I hate what I see. It frightens me.
A lifeless dried out husk. Rotting from the inside out and the outside in. Nothing of value left for anything.
The worst part is: I feel like death and I have not even had the worst of it here. There is someone who has slept 2 hours in the last 80. When he asked for time off to sleep last night, he was met with dead silence. Ultimately, I think they allowed him 4 more.
Fucked up. Just a fucked up situation. In every way.
Yes, relying on the cacaphony of blue language is the mark of a lzy writer. But you know what? I am lazy and tired and I don't care who knows it.
I got nearly 12 hours of sleep (more or less) last night because I took a sleeping pill. I was determined to make a go at it if I could. I don't feel much better. Better than yesterday, yes. But still awful.
I need to get out of here.
Soon.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Monday, February 21, 2005
Day 7: Wickeder and Wickeder...
No rest for those folks.
No rest for me.
5 hours of sleep in the last 60 hours. Nice.
I don't do well with no sleep. The semester of my life in which I pulled 22 all-nighters is over. And it was college, so there were naps. This straight-through thing... so not working for me.
'Bout 6 a.m. this morning I was forced to shut one eye - perhaps in a delirious attempt to fool my body into thinking I was achieving some sort of fractional amount of sleep - but mostly because I was seeing double, and closing one eye was the only way to make that stop. Retreated shortly thereafter...
Funny thing how you feel worse after getting some sleep than having gone without. You hurt. All over. But without aching. It is more of a persistent buzzing - your body's "trunk door is open" *Beep* *Beep* *Beep*
No rest for me.
5 hours of sleep in the last 60 hours. Nice.
I don't do well with no sleep. The semester of my life in which I pulled 22 all-nighters is over. And it was college, so there were naps. This straight-through thing... so not working for me.
'Bout 6 a.m. this morning I was forced to shut one eye - perhaps in a delirious attempt to fool my body into thinking I was achieving some sort of fractional amount of sleep - but mostly because I was seeing double, and closing one eye was the only way to make that stop. Retreated shortly thereafter...
Funny thing how you feel worse after getting some sleep than having gone without. You hurt. All over. But without aching. It is more of a persistent buzzing - your body's "trunk door is open" *Beep* *Beep* *Beep*
Days 4-6: Vote Me Off of The Island (Please!)
Okay, so the silly game of legal survivor continues. Instead of two teams on each side of the island, we are three factions in abutting conference rooms. We may not have to eat rats, but we do have to consume fairly vile catered hotel food slathered in butter, oil and cream sauces. Discussion of food - when it is served, when we get to eat, what we get to eat, the oppression of not getting to choose what we eat is pretty much the discussion that occupies the entire day. Pretty pathetic. Well, it is interspersed with the occasional pro- or anti- factional comments. Hey man, 6 days in the same 20 foot radius without leaving the building would make anyone snarky. Oh and there are discussions by the people who are super-fired up to be here. I just don't get it. I mean I do. I am empathetic, but not sympathetic. I would give anything, anything to go home right now. This sucks.
I am currently up writing what is, in quality, the world's crappiest motion. I am trying so very hard to make it good, as it is to be reviewed by partner and head of the firm. And, well, it is fairly important. Unfortunately my pea brain is unable to produce even semi-adequate work product. The timelines and the lack of sleep make my mental shortcomings rather evident.
Oh well. Maybe they will fire me. Then I get to go home. And sleep.
Till then, I must pretend that I want to keep doing this job.
Yay.
Seriously, people enjoy this? How? Why?
I am currently up writing what is, in quality, the world's crappiest motion. I am trying so very hard to make it good, as it is to be reviewed by partner and head of the firm. And, well, it is fairly important. Unfortunately my pea brain is unable to produce even semi-adequate work product. The timelines and the lack of sleep make my mental shortcomings rather evident.
Oh well. Maybe they will fire me. Then I get to go home. And sleep.
Till then, I must pretend that I want to keep doing this job.
Yay.
Seriously, people enjoy this? How? Why?
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Day 3: The Land That Time Forgot
In the eye of the storm. The hurricane swirling around me is sure to pull me in at a serious level sooner rather than later. Till then, a little this, a little that and a lot of nervous anticipation.
Beyond the mundane that now rules our lives - when is lunch? five minutes before noon or noon exactly? when is dinner? 5:55 or 6? mayo on the sandwiches? heresy! unidentifiable fish? probably fodder for food poisoning. Airplane sized bottled water? are we lawyers or are we gnomes.. don't answer that - the issue that is cropping up is an acute home sickness. Or rather home being sick for us. The pull of people's lives is already making itself known on a regular basis. Calls requiring attention to matters that cannot be deferred or cannot be given proper attention from hundreds of miles away. Daughters, husbands, birds and plants missing folks. None of those things are an immediate pull on me (yes, requisite touch of melancholy), but do have some amigas missing me and have a lovely bouquet to prove it.
[I was trying to insert a picture of said bouquet of lovely tulips here, as I managed to take a picture, ever so fuzzy of the loverly flowers with my camera phone. First camera phone pic - woohoo! Welcome to the 21st century! But I can't figure out how to insert the pic into the middle of one of my postings. Go straight to jail, do not collect $200 for passing GO. Am clearly a Luddite at heart. Horses and buggies. Yay. So please bear with me and just imagine the flowers - pink, pretty and perfect in every way.]
Some random potpourri:
VOCAB OF THE DAY: Forgot to mention it yesterday, but unbeknownst to most of the world's populace and as I recently discovered, the word quashal is actually a word.
Quashal. n. An act of quashing something (opposed the quashal of the indictment)
"To the quashal!" Hip, hip, hooray!
Also, the difference between empathy and sympathy. As we eventually understood it (or decided we understood it) -
Empathy: I understand and recognize your pain. Sympathy: I feel your pain
INABLE-MINDED, INABLE BODIED: I cannot catch anything thrown at me, and chances are it will bounce off of some soft exposed flesh resulting in bruising. Also, accumulate random bruises. Latest addition to the collection a big ol' welt on the knee which I vaguely recall having slammed against my nightstand early one morning. Not entirely sure how I managed that. What can I say - I have a gift.
SO THIS PRIEST, THIS RABBI, AND THIS GUY WITH SMALL POX WALK INTO A BAR: Note to self. Hell, note to everyone: Small pox = not funny. Not ha ha funny. Not knee slapping funny. Not even forced smile, courtesy laugh funny. Not a matter to be joked about or entertained hypothetically but in the guise of seriousness.
TV in hotel bar. On mute. Close captioning on. Newsbulletin re. release of smallpox by Islamic fundamentalists. 50 reported cases in Europe. 10K expected by the end of the month.
Not funny.
Panic inducing.
What the fuck?
Apparently on TV they are showing a gathering of world leaders discussing what to do next. OMG, what to do next? Look there is Madeline Albright representing the U.S. - okay. No wait, Madeline Albright? Isn't she 1 and a half administrations ago? Okay, close captioning just says she said she is president of the U.S. and that she is making decisions.
Clearly, what we have here is a failure to communicate. And what apparently was a mock exercise as to how the world would react to such a catastrophic event, as presented by Nightline. Not funny. Not amusing. Not informative.
Even if we had sound. Flipping channels mid-way through program = panic attack waiting to happen.
Beyond the mundane that now rules our lives - when is lunch? five minutes before noon or noon exactly? when is dinner? 5:55 or 6? mayo on the sandwiches? heresy! unidentifiable fish? probably fodder for food poisoning. Airplane sized bottled water? are we lawyers or are we gnomes.. don't answer that - the issue that is cropping up is an acute home sickness. Or rather home being sick for us. The pull of people's lives is already making itself known on a regular basis. Calls requiring attention to matters that cannot be deferred or cannot be given proper attention from hundreds of miles away. Daughters, husbands, birds and plants missing folks. None of those things are an immediate pull on me (yes, requisite touch of melancholy), but do have some amigas missing me and have a lovely bouquet to prove it.
[I was trying to insert a picture of said bouquet of lovely tulips here, as I managed to take a picture, ever so fuzzy of the loverly flowers with my camera phone. First camera phone pic - woohoo! Welcome to the 21st century! But I can't figure out how to insert the pic into the middle of one of my postings. Go straight to jail, do not collect $200 for passing GO. Am clearly a Luddite at heart. Horses and buggies. Yay. So please bear with me and just imagine the flowers - pink, pretty and perfect in every way.]
Some random potpourri:
VOCAB OF THE DAY: Forgot to mention it yesterday, but unbeknownst to most of the world's populace and as I recently discovered, the word quashal is actually a word.
Quashal. n. An act of quashing something (opposed the quashal of the indictment)
"To the quashal!" Hip, hip, hooray!
Also, the difference between empathy and sympathy. As we eventually understood it (or decided we understood it) -
Empathy: I understand and recognize your pain. Sympathy: I feel your pain
INABLE-MINDED, INABLE BODIED: I cannot catch anything thrown at me, and chances are it will bounce off of some soft exposed flesh resulting in bruising. Also, accumulate random bruises. Latest addition to the collection a big ol' welt on the knee which I vaguely recall having slammed against my nightstand early one morning. Not entirely sure how I managed that. What can I say - I have a gift.
SO THIS PRIEST, THIS RABBI, AND THIS GUY WITH SMALL POX WALK INTO A BAR: Note to self. Hell, note to everyone: Small pox = not funny. Not ha ha funny. Not knee slapping funny. Not even forced smile, courtesy laugh funny. Not a matter to be joked about or entertained hypothetically but in the guise of seriousness.
TV in hotel bar. On mute. Close captioning on. Newsbulletin re. release of smallpox by Islamic fundamentalists. 50 reported cases in Europe. 10K expected by the end of the month.
Not funny.
Panic inducing.
What the fuck?
Apparently on TV they are showing a gathering of world leaders discussing what to do next. OMG, what to do next? Look there is Madeline Albright representing the U.S. - okay. No wait, Madeline Albright? Isn't she 1 and a half administrations ago? Okay, close captioning just says she said she is president of the U.S. and that she is making decisions.
Clearly, what we have here is a failure to communicate. And what apparently was a mock exercise as to how the world would react to such a catastrophic event, as presented by Nightline. Not funny. Not amusing. Not informative.
Even if we had sound. Flipping channels mid-way through program = panic attack waiting to happen.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Day 2: Outwit, Outplay, Outlast
(1) Seven sentences you don't need to finish that end in satisfying
explectives/innuendo and/or generally naughty words:
- My car is a piece of...
- Me so...
- Oh my cellmate, he's my...
- Mother...
- That is total...
- I've got my eye on you...
(2) Chalk one up for the good guys
- motion won (with a little contributing effort from a particular peon)
(3) Random observation:
There is a distinct pleasure in wanting nothing more than to learn all about someone, and then a certain comfort and affection in the familiarity that that warmly gathered knowledge breeds. It is a stark reminder of the change in tenor of someone's role in your life, when the small things that you had thought would always be true have changed. Sad. In the end, more sad than any knock-down drag-out fight.
(4) Favorite George Costanza Quotes:
-"That's it! I'm out! I'm leaving on a high note..."
- "It's not a lie if you believe it."
(5) Notation About 4 Star Hotel Living:
- Laundry service is in fact available, but it cost $4 for a pair of socks to be cleaned, $12 per t-shirt, and onwards and upwards from there. They do however provide you with a clothes-line type thing in your bathroom. Though using it makes elegant bathroom look like shanty
town. Once again, peasant-like nature bleeding through.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Day One
Made it in one piece.
Missed a flight. Navigated airport security. With two laptops nonetheless. Always good for a laugh.
Next flight delayed for change of wind shield wiper. Weird. Some poor bird. Ooph.
Passel of work, but nothing too hectic.
Things learned today:
- STUPID OFFICE PROTOCOL THING: If you type a first name into Outlook, it will send an e-mail to that person.
- SELF REALIZATION: My fears and worries put each other into perspective, but apparently only temporarily. Case in point - didn't bat an eye re. flight today. Usually a nervous flyer(surprise!). Lots of turbulence. I was unfazed. Note to self - terror of trial useful in fight against fear of flying.
- GROWING UP?: My errant older brother called to check in on me. Said he is trying to make up for past deficiencies. Just wants to make sure that I am okay. So I guess he is not truly a bad person for ignoring me and making me worry for so long, and I am not such a bad person for bringing up my grievances with my bro (and resultantly making him cry). So apparently I can vent constructively and my family members are capable of changing (responding constructively to said vent).
Interesting?
- ABSOLUT PEASANTRY: Much like my first (and only) trip in 1st class where I proceeded to ball up my coat to stick it under my seat, and the flight attendant over my shoulder noted, "Dear, you know we can hang that in the closet for you..." and thus I branded myself a 1st
class rookie, and a permanent member of the peasantry. Clearly I am a Coach girl, through and through. So at hotel today, I get my own room - 2 queen sized beds. I don't even know what to do with that. It feels odd enough to be in a hotel room by myself. It is even more odd to have one with such an over-abundance of bed space. The decadence, the luxury. It boggles my mind. Feel like I should alternate beds every night just to make use of them.
Missed a flight. Navigated airport security. With two laptops nonetheless. Always good for a laugh.
Next flight delayed for change of wind shield wiper. Weird. Some poor bird. Ooph.
Passel of work, but nothing too hectic.
Things learned today:
- STUPID OFFICE PROTOCOL THING: If you type a first name into Outlook, it will send an e-mail to that person.
- SELF REALIZATION: My fears and worries put each other into perspective, but apparently only temporarily. Case in point - didn't bat an eye re. flight today. Usually a nervous flyer(surprise!). Lots of turbulence. I was unfazed. Note to self - terror of trial useful in fight against fear of flying.
- GROWING UP?: My errant older brother called to check in on me. Said he is trying to make up for past deficiencies. Just wants to make sure that I am okay. So I guess he is not truly a bad person for ignoring me and making me worry for so long, and I am not such a bad person for bringing up my grievances with my bro (and resultantly making him cry). So apparently I can vent constructively and my family members are capable of changing (responding constructively to said vent).
Interesting?
- ABSOLUT PEASANTRY: Much like my first (and only) trip in 1st class where I proceeded to ball up my coat to stick it under my seat, and the flight attendant over my shoulder noted, "Dear, you know we can hang that in the closet for you..." and thus I branded myself a 1st
class rookie, and a permanent member of the peasantry. Clearly I am a Coach girl, through and through. So at hotel today, I get my own room - 2 queen sized beds. I don't even know what to do with that. It feels odd enough to be in a hotel room by myself. It is even more odd to have one with such an over-abundance of bed space. The decadence, the luxury. It boggles my mind. Feel like I should alternate beds every night just to make use of them.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Yeah, it's me again...
Apparently I don't know anyone in my time zone who is up at this time, and so you hear from me, again, for the fourth time today.
I realize I have a tendency to sound really schizophrenic in posts because I will lament the awful-ness of my life, and then turn around and try to intersperse some statement as to how profound I am and how much hope I harbor for the future and how much it holds for me.
I know it all sounds weird. But it's true, in that I am a sucker for hope. It has been what I think always comforts those who deal with me in my darkest times - I do want a better life. I want something more. I strive. I look forward. Even when I flounder.
But right now, I am not just worried. I am not just scared. I am terrified. Utterly terrified. I don't remember such fear. Ever. And I am a huge fraidy cat. White knuckled terror. I am too tired to do anything (I still need to finish a lot of my packing), but I can't sleep. I have been waking up in cold sweats since last Thursday. I am compulsively eating because it remotely calms me. Of course it leads to not fitting in any of my clothes which makes me more unhappy, but oh well. My stomach alternates burning and stabbing pain sensations. Breathing. Is. Hard. Very. Hard.
I am so scared.
I really don't want to do this.
I really, really don't.
Help.
Help.
Help.
No one can help me.
I realize I have a tendency to sound really schizophrenic in posts because I will lament the awful-ness of my life, and then turn around and try to intersperse some statement as to how profound I am and how much hope I harbor for the future and how much it holds for me.
I know it all sounds weird. But it's true, in that I am a sucker for hope. It has been what I think always comforts those who deal with me in my darkest times - I do want a better life. I want something more. I strive. I look forward. Even when I flounder.
But right now, I am not just worried. I am not just scared. I am terrified. Utterly terrified. I don't remember such fear. Ever. And I am a huge fraidy cat. White knuckled terror. I am too tired to do anything (I still need to finish a lot of my packing), but I can't sleep. I have been waking up in cold sweats since last Thursday. I am compulsively eating because it remotely calms me. Of course it leads to not fitting in any of my clothes which makes me more unhappy, but oh well. My stomach alternates burning and stabbing pain sensations. Breathing. Is. Hard. Very. Hard.
I am so scared.
I really don't want to do this.
I really, really don't.
Help.
Help.
Help.
No one can help me.
Counting....
I had not wanted to do this now, only because I don't know that I have the proper amount of time to do justice to what I want to say. But I will do so in abbreviated form, because perhaps, economy of words is better. More power in forthright clarity.
Lest you think my life is all gloom and doom. It isn't. Why? Because I have these absolutely amazing friends (and siblings) who are nothing short of beacons. They are the lighthouses and the buoys that guide me through my tumultous seas. The ride is rough, but the sailor remains living, breathing and sentient.
But there is one particular friend whose frienship is of a value truly immeasurable. How? Because she is honest and good and kind and loving. She is generous with herself and her time, even when the weight of life's other demands life bear down on her. She complains very little (though I wish she would complain more - she helps carry so much of my burden, I would love to be able to help carry hers) and she listens an awful lot. She remembers. She inquires. She cares. She opens her life in a way that few people are capable of. She shines. She is light to every room she enters. She is comfort to every person she converses with. She makes the world a better place just by virtue of being in it. A true beauty - striking features outdone and outshone only by the power and beauty of a boundless soul. All of these glittering generalities of mine truly do not do her justice. It says a lot when a person finds the right soulmate in life, and the first time around as well, as my friend has done. In her husband, she found her ideal, she found her happiness. It is what she deserves and more. My words often fail me in truly important topics of conversation, as they most clearly are doing here. But how to describe the indescribable, the formerly unrecognizable? And this brings me to my point, my paean for my friend, is brought on, not by Valentine's day (yes, singletons celebrate Valentine's Day too, we just celebrate friends and family rather than the BF/fiancee/husband type folk) but by her uncanny timing, her commitment to our friendship even when I am plumbing the darkest depths of my inner sorrow, and a comment I heard someone make the other day. As I wept in my office today (a christening of sorts, this is the first time my job has made me cry in my new office) and I thought I was lost beyond the depths of rock bottom, a bouquet arrived "bringing Spring to me, if I could not come to Spring." A perfect reminder. A flash of reality. True friendship is a gift I can list among my assets. I am beyond fortunate, and it is something to be happy about. I smiled, the bitter tears of a moment earlier still running down my face, marveling at how friendship can re-contextualize any of life's moments. Anyway, it brought to mind this observations someone made to me a few days ago: They noted that, surrounded as we are by all sorts of people that we interact with in all sorts of ways, it is incredibly rare to find someone, anyone, in life who "gets you." Simple statement. But true. And encapsulating of a lot of intangibles (see, less words are more). So this afternoon it got me to thinking: My friend is wonderful in so many ways, and, what is so amazing is that she is this incredible, inspiring person and she "gets me." She "gets me" in a way that I don't "get me." But in her, I can see the hope of what is possible. That weird, complex, unpredictable, mind boggling and flat out infuriating as I am, that it is possible for others, others who I love and respect, to "get me." That someday, strolling along I may bump into that guy, and he will be the one because he "gets me." And I will know it because I won't be acting in his presence. Ever. But till then, I am okay. I am not alone. I am luckier than most people will ever be, because I do have someone who "gets me."
Lest you think my life is all gloom and doom. It isn't. Why? Because I have these absolutely amazing friends (and siblings) who are nothing short of beacons. They are the lighthouses and the buoys that guide me through my tumultous seas. The ride is rough, but the sailor remains living, breathing and sentient.
But there is one particular friend whose frienship is of a value truly immeasurable. How? Because she is honest and good and kind and loving. She is generous with herself and her time, even when the weight of life's other demands life bear down on her. She complains very little (though I wish she would complain more - she helps carry so much of my burden, I would love to be able to help carry hers) and she listens an awful lot. She remembers. She inquires. She cares. She opens her life in a way that few people are capable of. She shines. She is light to every room she enters. She is comfort to every person she converses with. She makes the world a better place just by virtue of being in it. A true beauty - striking features outdone and outshone only by the power and beauty of a boundless soul. All of these glittering generalities of mine truly do not do her justice. It says a lot when a person finds the right soulmate in life, and the first time around as well, as my friend has done. In her husband, she found her ideal, she found her happiness. It is what she deserves and more. My words often fail me in truly important topics of conversation, as they most clearly are doing here. But how to describe the indescribable, the formerly unrecognizable? And this brings me to my point, my paean for my friend, is brought on, not by Valentine's day (yes, singletons celebrate Valentine's Day too, we just celebrate friends and family rather than the BF/fiancee/husband type folk) but by her uncanny timing, her commitment to our friendship even when I am plumbing the darkest depths of my inner sorrow, and a comment I heard someone make the other day. As I wept in my office today (a christening of sorts, this is the first time my job has made me cry in my new office) and I thought I was lost beyond the depths of rock bottom, a bouquet arrived "bringing Spring to me, if I could not come to Spring." A perfect reminder. A flash of reality. True friendship is a gift I can list among my assets. I am beyond fortunate, and it is something to be happy about. I smiled, the bitter tears of a moment earlier still running down my face, marveling at how friendship can re-contextualize any of life's moments. Anyway, it brought to mind this observations someone made to me a few days ago: They noted that, surrounded as we are by all sorts of people that we interact with in all sorts of ways, it is incredibly rare to find someone, anyone, in life who "gets you." Simple statement. But true. And encapsulating of a lot of intangibles (see, less words are more). So this afternoon it got me to thinking: My friend is wonderful in so many ways, and, what is so amazing is that she is this incredible, inspiring person and she "gets me." She "gets me" in a way that I don't "get me." But in her, I can see the hope of what is possible. That weird, complex, unpredictable, mind boggling and flat out infuriating as I am, that it is possible for others, others who I love and respect, to "get me." That someday, strolling along I may bump into that guy, and he will be the one because he "gets me." And I will know it because I won't be acting in his presence. Ever. But till then, I am okay. I am not alone. I am luckier than most people will ever be, because I do have someone who "gets me."
Please Do Not Spindle or Mutilate
Apologies for bringing the crowd down. Not the festive mood one might hope for 'round these parts. Clearly.
But I am worried. This is faux-day 1 (I am still here, leave tomorrow for There) and I already broke into tears, felt like I was about to shatter into a million pieces, fervently wished I could disappear into the ether, and literally held onto my head to make sure it did not truly fly off.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I know everyone thinks I am nuts, over-exaggerating, jumping to conclusions and making my own life difficult. Perhaps this is true, but riddle me this: How many of them are still at the office trading e-mails with various partners and outside co-counsel and turning drafts of a motion?
If a big fat goose egg comes to mind, that is just about right.
Not begrudging that they are out and about, because really, no one should be here. I would not want that for anyone. However, I have to feel there is at least a tiny shard of truth amongst the entropy created by my hysteria. It really does suck. I am not making it up.
The primal scream I posted here earlier was an exact stenographic replay of something I speoke out loud in the office. Oh, but see, "spoke" is not the right word. "Cried out" doesn't quite cover it. "Screamed" may be a little much, but "yelled" is really just about right. My assistant sits on the other side of our floor, and shortly after my vociferous angst, I get an e-mail from her asking if I was okay with four question marks after the query. This is not standard operating procedure for her - she and I go days without interacting (not because we don't get along, but she just doesn't sit near me and I am pretty self sufficient). So yeah, generally not a good sign when (1) you openly declare that you "hate your fucking life" (2) you do so in such a way that everyone in a 60 foot radius can hear, (3) you are at work surrounded by co-workers..... and (4) when you find out that all of the co-workers could hear you yell, you don't care. At all.
In this life, everyone walks around with the weight of a crumpled dream in their pocket. Some are more tattered and worn than others. They have been tucked away longer. It is imperative to retrieve your dream from its linty storehouse before it becomes so faded, so spindled and mutilated, that it is rendered unrecognizable.
I hold my dreams in the palm of my hand. Nervously running them throough my sweaty fingers - over and over and over. Worrying the edges, rubbing off the shine. Keeping them resident in the dark crevices of my pocket. Unexposed. Unrealized.
They do me no good there. The darkness wears away at them, perhaps more insidiously than the light. If I try, I may lose them in a shower of failure. But rendered crevasse dwelling and mole-like, they die slowly anyway. Slipping away.
I know what my dream is. I know what makes me feel better. I may be a fool for beginning to believe that I can do it, that it is the only answer, to making my life well-lived. But I am a bigger fool for doing nothing about it.
Let's see if I can emerge from 5 weeks in self-destruct mode in one piece, in order to make good and follow up on that dream.
But I am worried. This is faux-day 1 (I am still here, leave tomorrow for There) and I already broke into tears, felt like I was about to shatter into a million pieces, fervently wished I could disappear into the ether, and literally held onto my head to make sure it did not truly fly off.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I know everyone thinks I am nuts, over-exaggerating, jumping to conclusions and making my own life difficult. Perhaps this is true, but riddle me this: How many of them are still at the office trading e-mails with various partners and outside co-counsel and turning drafts of a motion?
If a big fat goose egg comes to mind, that is just about right.
Not begrudging that they are out and about, because really, no one should be here. I would not want that for anyone. However, I have to feel there is at least a tiny shard of truth amongst the entropy created by my hysteria. It really does suck. I am not making it up.
The primal scream I posted here earlier was an exact stenographic replay of something I speoke out loud in the office. Oh, but see, "spoke" is not the right word. "Cried out" doesn't quite cover it. "Screamed" may be a little much, but "yelled" is really just about right. My assistant sits on the other side of our floor, and shortly after my vociferous angst, I get an e-mail from her asking if I was okay with four question marks after the query. This is not standard operating procedure for her - she and I go days without interacting (not because we don't get along, but she just doesn't sit near me and I am pretty self sufficient). So yeah, generally not a good sign when (1) you openly declare that you "hate your fucking life" (2) you do so in such a way that everyone in a 60 foot radius can hear, (3) you are at work surrounded by co-workers..... and (4) when you find out that all of the co-workers could hear you yell, you don't care. At all.
In this life, everyone walks around with the weight of a crumpled dream in their pocket. Some are more tattered and worn than others. They have been tucked away longer. It is imperative to retrieve your dream from its linty storehouse before it becomes so faded, so spindled and mutilated, that it is rendered unrecognizable.
I hold my dreams in the palm of my hand. Nervously running them throough my sweaty fingers - over and over and over. Worrying the edges, rubbing off the shine. Keeping them resident in the dark crevices of my pocket. Unexposed. Unrealized.
They do me no good there. The darkness wears away at them, perhaps more insidiously than the light. If I try, I may lose them in a shower of failure. But rendered crevasse dwelling and mole-like, they die slowly anyway. Slipping away.
I know what my dream is. I know what makes me feel better. I may be a fool for beginning to believe that I can do it, that it is the only answer, to making my life well-lived. But I am a bigger fool for doing nothing about it.
Let's see if I can emerge from 5 weeks in self-destruct mode in one piece, in order to make good and follow up on that dream.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Here is the Love
I know. I was going to abstain from any commemoration of Valentine's Day, one way or another, but it occurs to me, I actually do have something to say:
There is a world where the wind blows cold and cuts cruelly, where everyone walks around carrying an unfulfilled dream crumpled in his pocket, and where the gray tones of decisions made reflect both profound ambivalence and an absence of color slowly, pervasively enveloping everything and creating for the backgroun of life an ashen, grainy pallette.
This is the world we live in, if we let it.
This is the world I often glimpse. I live on an edge, a precipice, where this is the view which plays out in some grotesque panorama before me. A visceral fear rises within me that this is the world I am to inherit. That I am to inhabit. Or worse, that I am inviting. Numerous and persistent, the fears flip rapidly: personal weakness as invitation; the leaching of warm hues leaching from my life an inevitability; that regret and its fraternal twin, pain, are a component of just dessert.
This is the world I fear because it is a world where hope has been so fully abandoned it cannot even be said to wither on the vine, as there is no longer even the tiniest seed of imagination or sentience necessary for it to exist, even in nascent form.
I resent my fear, and how I allow it to run my life, but at least my fear reminds me that I have not become a part of that world with no hope, that I want something more for myself.
And I do.
There is a world where the wind blows cold and cuts cruelly, where everyone walks around carrying an unfulfilled dream crumpled in his pocket, and where the gray tones of decisions made reflect both profound ambivalence and an absence of color slowly, pervasively enveloping everything and creating for the backgroun of life an ashen, grainy pallette.
This is the world we live in, if we let it.
This is the world I often glimpse. I live on an edge, a precipice, where this is the view which plays out in some grotesque panorama before me. A visceral fear rises within me that this is the world I am to inherit. That I am to inhabit. Or worse, that I am inviting. Numerous and persistent, the fears flip rapidly: personal weakness as invitation; the leaching of warm hues leaching from my life an inevitability; that regret and its fraternal twin, pain, are a component of just dessert.
This is the world I fear because it is a world where hope has been so fully abandoned it cannot even be said to wither on the vine, as there is no longer even the tiniest seed of imagination or sentience necessary for it to exist, even in nascent form.
I resent my fear, and how I allow it to run my life, but at least my fear reminds me that I have not become a part of that world with no hope, that I want something more for myself.
And I do.
It's Cornucopic...
A cornucopia of random observations:
Disclaimer: This may become the format for the next 5 weeks as I am not sure if and when I will get to post given that I will be "in trial." In the midwest, apparently lawyers say they are "on trial" - something I never understood, as it leads people to believe that it is in fact your life and freedom hanging in the balance or your money and reputation on the line. However, given the fact that I feel as though I am going off to war having said goodbye to my loved one's and bought myself a month's supply of new underwear, perhaps "on trial" is in fact more apropos.
Take this J.D.....: You know that it is time to find a new job when you start to envision getting hit by a car or taking a spill somewhere - anything that will cause you to have to be hospitalized but not cause lasting harm - as a legitimate means of avoiding work. Not good, not good at all...
And Shove it.: You really know you need to leave not only the job, but the entire profession, when you share the aforementioned thought with others that do your job, and every one of them admits to having had similar thoughts. On more than one occasion.
Words, Words, Words: My sister asked me today: "You told me 'randar' is a real word, right?"
Though I employ the term on a semi-regular basis, I recognize it isn't an O.E.D. sanctioned component of the English language or anything, so I respond: "Ummm, no. Never said any such thing."
She is unfazed: "Oh, well, I told some people it was a real word. So could you, umm, write me a definition of the word. Make it look legit, so I can tell them I got it from some official source."
Ah, okay.
I thought it was a word that was indigenous to having grown up in the NorCal region, so I did a quick survey of the NorCal babies I know: "If I say, 'That guy is a total randar' you know what I mean, right?"
Unanimous response: "No."
Well, then.
So it appears that the word is completely indigenous to me. And that I have now pawned it off on my unsuspecting sister as some legitimate part of the modern lexicon. So here I stand before you, a shameless word-forger. Interesting. Well, given that that is the case and that I am thoroughly unapologetic about the whole thing, I may as well try to provide her a faux-legitimate definition to go along with my misinformation, so here goes:
RANDAR (n.): 1. A person who, though invited (often merely as a courtesy), is an unexpected, unintegrated part of a group at an event. E.g. Everyone Jason invited to his party showed up, including friends, family, and a couple of randars. 2. An odd, unknown person. E.g. We were having a good time at the bar until a couple of randars came up and wouldn't leave us alone.
A Celebration of Non-Celebration: Valentine's Day is tomorrow. I was going to dedicate an entire painstakingly crafted entry to this tomorrow, but I have changed my mind.
The significance of this day for me this year is in its non-significance. Despite the fact that red hearts are floating around in every shop window and the iTunes has 2 iTunes Essentials Mixes for Valentine's Day (Valentine's Day for Lovers and Valentine's Day Alone - the contrast between the two perfectly exemplified by their opening songs: Berlin's "Take My Breath Away" versus Alanis Morissette's "You Oughta Know" - enough said), I have absolutely no urge to do any of the following:
(1) wear black in protest,
(2) lament that I have no date/have no boyfriend/have no husband/have no prospects/have no cats and/or shotgun,
(3) to perform my annual 8 minute and 42 second soliloquy about the conspiracy between Hallmark, Russell Stover and Victoria's Secret which begat this monstrous holiday (BTW, while I understand the lingerie and the cards expressing affection, I do not get the whole giving of chocolates thing. Chocolates as a generic gift at the holidays for the inevitable unexpected gift from randar person or far-away, rarely seen relatives, I totally get. But chocolates for someone, usually the woman, you are trying to declare your continued undying love and affection for? Not so much. If she is body conscious - as most women are - this is a set-back just wanting to happen. Insensitivity negative points for you. Or if she isn't body conscious, it still just comes off as a gift in which very, very, very little thought was invested. Once again, mass insensitivity negative points for you. So to review: Lingerie - good. Bling - good. Sappy card and/or poem written by you - Good. Chocolates - bad!),
(4) to put on a brave face of being Valentine-less to the betrothen around me, by squeaking, "Well, at least I am saving money. Besides, I wouldn't want someone to have to spend $200 on roses for me just because they buy them for a particular day" while my eyes brim up with tears,
(5) to put John Michael Montgomery's "I Love the Way You Love Me" on repeat (not much of a country fan, but you can't beat it for tug at the heartstrings/twangy pronouncements of love and/or heartbreak),
(6) alternatively, to put "I Will Survive" (Gloria Gaynor), the aforementioned "You Oughta Know" (A. Morissette) or "Liar" (Henry Rollins Band) on a continual rotation for 12 hours,
(7) to sigh uncontrollably all day long, in a shameless solicitation of attention and sympathy from anyone in a 3 mile radius,
(8) to alienate all of my married and coupled friends, who respond the aforementioned pleas for sympathy with kindness and affection, to which I whine, "But you just don't understand. You have someone who loves you. I am unloved. I will always be unloved. I am the antithesis of love. I am where love goes to die." (Drama queen much? Sad to say, not only have I actually given this "oh woe is me" speech, I have done so on a number of different occasions. Sometimes I try to change it up by throwing in a couple of mentions of love actually hating me, as somehow the anthropomorphization seems to add a little color to the whole rant), or
(9) refusing to use the very word, and betraying my bitterness by omission (and sad attempts to be snarky-clever): "Oh it's that day today. Yeah, I generally find that it to be rather tacky to acknowledge V.D. in public."
I am officially indifferent to Valentine's Day. Really feel like that is a personal victory.
Now if I can just get people to believe it.
The Semi-Well Illuminated Side: Because I feel that it is important in my quest to successfully make it through the next 5 weeks (Outwit, Outplay, Outlast), I am forcing myself to list several good things about the upcoming trial experience:
1. Billables requirement this year - taken care of. Which hopefully will translate into my student loans being taken care of in turn.
2. I will have no problem keeping my Lenten resolution to give up complaining about singleness. Cannot complain about not dating when you have no time to date.
3. I will be living in a 4 star hotel for over a month. How many people can say that? Other than rock stars and oil magnates. Oh, I am so uber-faux fabulous.
4. The company will be good. I get along with everyone I work with, more or less.
5. There must be more, I just can't think of it right now.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Lint
So the Lenten season is upon us.
I have long been a C & E Catholic, though in recent years, much more E than C. This year, I totally worked through lunch, dinner and Ash Wednesday apparently. Oops.
So now, I guess I am neither C nor E, but just flat out lapsed. So be it.
I have to confess (as lapsed or not, the guilt-tendency of my erst-while religion is genetically ingrained), I have always attended Ash Wednesday mass more as a kick-off for Lent (sort of like the Olympics Opening Ceremony, but no torch, just ashes) than as any commemoration of Christ. And for that reason, I have always made it a point to go to the latest mass of the day because I just don't like walking around with the ashes on my forehead. A light dab is okay, I suppose. You can imagine that it gives you a "sensual dusky look" that some fashion magazine might write about someday, well at least in low light and if the people around you squint. But there is always that rogue priest that has to use Ash Wednesday as a means of self expression. And thus, his priestly frustrations are thus tacitly expressed on your forehead in the form of a big black sooty dot - thus somewhat approximating an emphatic inky fingerprint, manifesting itself as a really unfortunate birthmark, or appearing to betray the fact that you are in fact part-Holstein cow. And you have to walk around with this mandatory polka-dot for the rest of the of the day. And Ash Wednesday being, well, Ash Wednesday after all - though the date on which it falls varies every year - it always falls on a Wednesday, necessarily a work day or a school day - a day when you must interact and be seen by others in more formal situations than say a typical couch-surfing, hangover nursing Sunday. (Oooh, wait, that is supposed to be a church day too, huh? Oops. Lapsed, re-lapsed, and collapsed apparently.)
I suppose the point is to be seen with the ash-dot. It is supposed to announce to the rest of the world that you are a "true believer" yadda, yadda, yadda. But really, who knows what it means? Other Catholics? Well, why do you have to tell them. Isn't the fact that you went to mass and are celebrating Ash Wednesday enough? Do you need to have some sort of communal religious high-five? Non-secular validation, if you will? Or are you trying to show the "others" (all those lovely pagans and heathens and the like - basically anyone I enjoy or find remotely interesting) your religious zealousness? If that is the case, as is typical of the Catholic church, it is a PR blunder. The ad geniuses at the Vatican have not recognized that the non-Catholics probably have very little idea what those ashes mean. The message is, well, a little bit too subtle.
Illustrative anecdote:
In college, I went to Ash Wednesday mass in the early evening with a number of people who lived in my dorm. We went straight to dinner in the dining hall afterwards. Overheard in the line for overcooked peas and soggy pasta (a comment to one of the people who went to mass with me, let's call him JP):
"Du-uuuude... what is that shit on your forehead???"
JP's (laughing) response: "Hey man, that's Jesus Christ."
See, message not coming through. At all. But does make for pretty funny story though. Or at least, I, in my heathen-ness, am laughing.
Faux-religiosity aside, I like Lent. It is always a nice wake up call to re-assess and re-group. Sort of a New Year's redux: Giving you a second chance at making a first impression on the year ahead, with the added advantage that the time line is much more realistic. Giving up Junior Mints, Capn's & Diet, or Starbucks Coffee Cake for a year? Forget about it. Giving any of those things up for 40 days (give or take a few)? Within the realm of possibility. Definitely do-able.
So you notice that the list of possible Lenten sacrifices pretty much centers around food and drink. Stock answer for that thematic trend: Lent is about giving up something you must think about every day. So food is convenient because, ostensibly, you eat every day. Giving up mayonnaise or beets for Lent is cheating because if you hate those things, you will never have to make the decision to forego during the 40 day period. Along the lines of a single girl who is always at work deciding to give up sex. Honorable? Perhaps - though as an unmarried person she isn't supposed to be having sex anyway. Damn the Catholic church is no fun. Sort of leaves you puzzling over the Hollywood interpretation of Lent doesn't it? But as Sacrifice? No. Hard to sacrifice what you haven't got, or rather, what you are not getting.
Anyway, the formula is simple: No rigorous self denial + no pain of deprivation = No salvation. Well, I don't know that it is actually that dire an equation, but I can imagine the Church getting all fire and brimstone about it just to scare the flock into compliance.
In any event, beyond the stock answer, is the truth. Everyone (and I don't care what people say or how much they deny it, this is true) - everyone who actually attempts a Lenten sacrifice is tacitly dieting. What better excuse for not having dessert without getting pressured?
You know, I would just love a slice of that chocolate cake, but there is the little matter of that pact I made with God about baked goods. So sorry. Maybe sometime in the Spring?
Once you get far enough along in the season, then the you can abbreviate the "pact with God" song and dance into:
"No pasta? Atkins?"
"Nah. Lent."
Easy as that. Hence you get many over the top resolutions bandied about: renouncing bread, abandoning all carbs, shunning anything with sugar.
Last year I stumbled upon something that had the desired dietary implication, made me think about the sacrifice every day, and which transcended a number of evil food groups and alleged necessities in my life: Baked goods. Thus, capturing the sweets/desserts, sugar, daily intake, and Starbucks dependencies in my life.
It was hard. Damn hard. So hard that on Easter I was at my more regular house of worship - Starbucks - right at 5:30 am when it opened and purchased not one, but two pumpkin scones. So bad, but so, so good. (Though I don't know that I will ever eat two scones in one sitting again. Wicked, wicked stomach ache. But so, so worth it.)
I always felt that more could be done for Lent though. For instance, if you made proactive resolutions, rather than reactive ones, imagine what might be possible. If I resolved to do something every day for 40 days, as well as give up something. I could learn a lot, gain a lot, and make a difference. Reaction from the Catholic peanut gallery to my out-loud musings on the matter: "Umm, yeah. Interesting. That is a very, well, protestant view of Lent." Given that lukewarm reaction, my resolution has yet to take off with the greater errant Catholic populace.
But I am a congregation of one. I minister to a flock encompassed by me. So I set my own moral tone and spiritual guidelines. Our only religious conclusion: God exists, but the rest is up to you. Alrighty then.
So affirmative and negative resolutions for Lent it is:
NEGATIVE RESOLUTIONS: (A) Baked goods again (this is still tough - still like my morning pastry, and, have developed a stalker-like relationship with chocolate chip cookies). Also, given that I wanted to have a sacrifice that was not food related, I also decided (B) I would not complain about being single for the entirety of Lent. So far, so good. Valentine's Day on Monday might be tricky, but feeling strong about it now.
AFFIRMATIVE RESOLUTIONS: I have two: (A) Do something considerate and unsolicited for someone each day (e.g. a well timed compliment at a frazzled moment, or helping someone complete a task, even if not solicited to do so). (B) Listen. More. To Everyone.
I have long been a C & E Catholic, though in recent years, much more E than C. This year, I totally worked through lunch, dinner and Ash Wednesday apparently. Oops.
So now, I guess I am neither C nor E, but just flat out lapsed. So be it.
I have to confess (as lapsed or not, the guilt-tendency of my erst-while religion is genetically ingrained), I have always attended Ash Wednesday mass more as a kick-off for Lent (sort of like the Olympics Opening Ceremony, but no torch, just ashes) than as any commemoration of Christ. And for that reason, I have always made it a point to go to the latest mass of the day because I just don't like walking around with the ashes on my forehead. A light dab is okay, I suppose. You can imagine that it gives you a "sensual dusky look" that some fashion magazine might write about someday, well at least in low light and if the people around you squint. But there is always that rogue priest that has to use Ash Wednesday as a means of self expression. And thus, his priestly frustrations are thus tacitly expressed on your forehead in the form of a big black sooty dot - thus somewhat approximating an emphatic inky fingerprint, manifesting itself as a really unfortunate birthmark, or appearing to betray the fact that you are in fact part-Holstein cow. And you have to walk around with this mandatory polka-dot for the rest of the of the day. And Ash Wednesday being, well, Ash Wednesday after all - though the date on which it falls varies every year - it always falls on a Wednesday, necessarily a work day or a school day - a day when you must interact and be seen by others in more formal situations than say a typical couch-surfing, hangover nursing Sunday. (Oooh, wait, that is supposed to be a church day too, huh? Oops. Lapsed, re-lapsed, and collapsed apparently.)
I suppose the point is to be seen with the ash-dot. It is supposed to announce to the rest of the world that you are a "true believer" yadda, yadda, yadda. But really, who knows what it means? Other Catholics? Well, why do you have to tell them. Isn't the fact that you went to mass and are celebrating Ash Wednesday enough? Do you need to have some sort of communal religious high-five? Non-secular validation, if you will? Or are you trying to show the "others" (all those lovely pagans and heathens and the like - basically anyone I enjoy or find remotely interesting) your religious zealousness? If that is the case, as is typical of the Catholic church, it is a PR blunder. The ad geniuses at the Vatican have not recognized that the non-Catholics probably have very little idea what those ashes mean. The message is, well, a little bit too subtle.
Illustrative anecdote:
In college, I went to Ash Wednesday mass in the early evening with a number of people who lived in my dorm. We went straight to dinner in the dining hall afterwards. Overheard in the line for overcooked peas and soggy pasta (a comment to one of the people who went to mass with me, let's call him JP):
"Du-uuuude... what is that shit on your forehead???"
JP's (laughing) response: "Hey man, that's Jesus Christ."
See, message not coming through. At all. But does make for pretty funny story though. Or at least, I, in my heathen-ness, am laughing.
Faux-religiosity aside, I like Lent. It is always a nice wake up call to re-assess and re-group. Sort of a New Year's redux: Giving you a second chance at making a first impression on the year ahead, with the added advantage that the time line is much more realistic. Giving up Junior Mints, Capn's & Diet, or Starbucks Coffee Cake for a year? Forget about it. Giving any of those things up for 40 days (give or take a few)? Within the realm of possibility. Definitely do-able.
So you notice that the list of possible Lenten sacrifices pretty much centers around food and drink. Stock answer for that thematic trend: Lent is about giving up something you must think about every day. So food is convenient because, ostensibly, you eat every day. Giving up mayonnaise or beets for Lent is cheating because if you hate those things, you will never have to make the decision to forego during the 40 day period. Along the lines of a single girl who is always at work deciding to give up sex. Honorable? Perhaps - though as an unmarried person she isn't supposed to be having sex anyway. Damn the Catholic church is no fun. Sort of leaves you puzzling over the Hollywood interpretation of Lent doesn't it? But as Sacrifice? No. Hard to sacrifice what you haven't got, or rather, what you are not getting.
Anyway, the formula is simple: No rigorous self denial + no pain of deprivation = No salvation. Well, I don't know that it is actually that dire an equation, but I can imagine the Church getting all fire and brimstone about it just to scare the flock into compliance.
In any event, beyond the stock answer, is the truth. Everyone (and I don't care what people say or how much they deny it, this is true) - everyone who actually attempts a Lenten sacrifice is tacitly dieting. What better excuse for not having dessert without getting pressured?
You know, I would just love a slice of that chocolate cake, but there is the little matter of that pact I made with God about baked goods. So sorry. Maybe sometime in the Spring?
Once you get far enough along in the season, then the you can abbreviate the "pact with God" song and dance into:
"No pasta? Atkins?"
"Nah. Lent."
Easy as that. Hence you get many over the top resolutions bandied about: renouncing bread, abandoning all carbs, shunning anything with sugar.
Last year I stumbled upon something that had the desired dietary implication, made me think about the sacrifice every day, and which transcended a number of evil food groups and alleged necessities in my life: Baked goods. Thus, capturing the sweets/desserts, sugar, daily intake, and Starbucks dependencies in my life.
It was hard. Damn hard. So hard that on Easter I was at my more regular house of worship - Starbucks - right at 5:30 am when it opened and purchased not one, but two pumpkin scones. So bad, but so, so good. (Though I don't know that I will ever eat two scones in one sitting again. Wicked, wicked stomach ache. But so, so worth it.)
I always felt that more could be done for Lent though. For instance, if you made proactive resolutions, rather than reactive ones, imagine what might be possible. If I resolved to do something every day for 40 days, as well as give up something. I could learn a lot, gain a lot, and make a difference. Reaction from the Catholic peanut gallery to my out-loud musings on the matter: "Umm, yeah. Interesting. That is a very, well, protestant view of Lent." Given that lukewarm reaction, my resolution has yet to take off with the greater errant Catholic populace.
But I am a congregation of one. I minister to a flock encompassed by me. So I set my own moral tone and spiritual guidelines. Our only religious conclusion: God exists, but the rest is up to you. Alrighty then.
So affirmative and negative resolutions for Lent it is:
NEGATIVE RESOLUTIONS: (A) Baked goods again (this is still tough - still like my morning pastry, and, have developed a stalker-like relationship with chocolate chip cookies). Also, given that I wanted to have a sacrifice that was not food related, I also decided (B) I would not complain about being single for the entirety of Lent. So far, so good. Valentine's Day on Monday might be tricky, but feeling strong about it now.
AFFIRMATIVE RESOLUTIONS: I have two: (A) Do something considerate and unsolicited for someone each day (e.g. a well timed compliment at a frazzled moment, or helping someone complete a task, even if not solicited to do so). (B) Listen. More. To Everyone.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Shock and Awe
I am shocked. Really.
Of course, these are just preliminary reports. Just an In Touch mention; nothing is definite till it makes the cover of People.
However, that doesn't mean that, in the meantime, there is not a great deal to consider.
Our fave: That it is KF's reluctance to clean up after the three dogs (BTW - Bit-Bit? Really?), and not the fact that he had two kids out of wedlock, the second of which was born during their engagement, or that buffalo wings and velour track suits played an integral part in their not-so-legal wedding ceremony and reception, or that he is such a strapping hunk of manhood that he is jealous of their three dogs, that led our ever-bright Ms. Spears-Federline to the conclusion that ol' Feddie might not make such a good poppa.
Wow - with instincts like that, I wish Britney were my mom.
SPEARS' MARRIAGE 'ON THE ROCKS'
Pop princess Britney Spears' marriage to dancer Kevin Federline is reportedly on the rocks after less than five months, according to two U.S. magazines.
In Touch Weekly claims Federline, 26, has been socializing on a regular basis without his 23-year-old wife. The couple wed in September after a whirlwind romance.
In Touch reports a friend of the couple saying, "Kevin has suddenly started partying like a single guy.
"In addition to going out on several occasions without his wedding band on, he's been hanging out with his old posse of pals and flying to Las Vegas for weekends of drinking, gambling -- and even lap dances in strip clubs."
Another magazine, Life and Style Weekly, claims Federline's behavior has prompted Spears to reconsider starting a family. Federline infamously ended his relationship with former "Moesha" actress Shar Jackson in April, while she was pregnant with their second child, to be with Spears.
A source tells Life and Style, "It has occurred to Britney that Kevin isn't a great help in cleaning up after the dogs [Bit Bit, Lacy Loo and Lucky]. And he might not be too eager to be on midnight diaper patrol either."
Federline is said to be annoyed by the amount of attention Spears pays to the three pooches. The source adds, "The other night Britney was leaving with Kevin for a romantic meal, but Bit Bit whined and whined and refused to be left. Eventually, they stayed home and ordered takeout."
Of course, these are just preliminary reports. Just an In Touch mention; nothing is definite till it makes the cover of People.
However, that doesn't mean that, in the meantime, there is not a great deal to consider.
Our fave: That it is KF's reluctance to clean up after the three dogs (BTW - Bit-Bit? Really?), and not the fact that he had two kids out of wedlock, the second of which was born during their engagement, or that buffalo wings and velour track suits played an integral part in their not-so-legal wedding ceremony and reception, or that he is such a strapping hunk of manhood that he is jealous of their three dogs, that led our ever-bright Ms. Spears-Federline to the conclusion that ol' Feddie might not make such a good poppa.
Wow - with instincts like that, I wish Britney were my mom.
SPEARS' MARRIAGE 'ON THE ROCKS'
Pop princess Britney Spears' marriage to dancer Kevin Federline is reportedly on the rocks after less than five months, according to two U.S. magazines.
In Touch Weekly claims Federline, 26, has been socializing on a regular basis without his 23-year-old wife. The couple wed in September after a whirlwind romance.
In Touch reports a friend of the couple saying, "Kevin has suddenly started partying like a single guy.
"In addition to going out on several occasions without his wedding band on, he's been hanging out with his old posse of pals and flying to Las Vegas for weekends of drinking, gambling -- and even lap dances in strip clubs."
Another magazine, Life and Style Weekly, claims Federline's behavior has prompted Spears to reconsider starting a family. Federline infamously ended his relationship with former "Moesha" actress Shar Jackson in April, while she was pregnant with their second child, to be with Spears.
A source tells Life and Style, "It has occurred to Britney that Kevin isn't a great help in cleaning up after the dogs [Bit Bit, Lacy Loo and Lucky]. And he might not be too eager to be on midnight diaper patrol either."
Federline is said to be annoyed by the amount of attention Spears pays to the three pooches. The source adds, "The other night Britney was leaving with Kevin for a romantic meal, but Bit Bit whined and whined and refused to be left. Eventually, they stayed home and ordered takeout."
One Soul to Sell
It appears that the gauntlet has been thrown. Change is afoot, and there is no stopping it.
Today I was told I would be going "to trial." To wit, a case I have been working on in my continued and fervent desire to ameliorate the plight of the corporate man is about to get beyond its "exchanging contentious e-mails" and "aggressive paper-pushing" phase and develop into full-blown "contentious witness examinations" and "even more aggressive, but now behind-the-scenes paper pushing" phase.
My office is "Here." The trial is hundreds of miles away from Here. It is "There."
Opening serve: "You are going to stay here and support the trial team remotely."
I was a child left behind, and it was good. Lackadaisical half-hearted return shot (only because it was required to keep up the illusion of a game at least): "Okay."
Powerful shot to outer edge of the court, nearly grazing the out-of-bounds line: "Actually, we are going to need you to go there. But it will be a while after the rest of the trial team has left, and you will return well ahead of them as well."
Possibly couched in a "we are doing this for your career development more than anything else" sort of tone. Then again, it could have been the wishful thinking of the listener. Compulsive as she is about control and knowing exactly what is going on, she cannot help herself. Furiously run across the court, nearly diving to lob the ball back across the court. It barely clears the net: Ignoring any shred of practical law firm life experience she has ever had, as well as the first rule of being a trial lawyer, carelessly, she asks one question too many: "So what will we be doing there? What should I bring there? How long will I be there?"
*Whoosh*
Out of nowhere, with lightning speed, a searingly wicked volley. It's sheer force searing and its velocity rendering it unreachable, unplayable and untenable to this unfortunate and unhappy (if not wholly unwilling) participant in The Game: "We need you. For the duration."
Game. Set. Match.
Toast, thy name is CLC.
I will be shipped off to There for the foreseeable future. 18 to 20 hour days, 7 days a week, for many, many weeks (not so many that you can't count them on your fingers, but more than are required in order to make the gesture that immediately comes to mind. Opposable thumbs need not apply.)
Officially, I will be staying in a hotel. More accurately, I will be living in a conference room, working like a fiend, day-dreaming of sleeping (is that redundant?) and longing for natural light. Hell, after 5 weeks in an internal conference room, I think rickets and scurvy could become legitimate areas of concern. Who knew I would be able to utter such words in the context of my employment? I mean given that when I fill in the "occupation" box on any background form, I have never had occasion to answer "Pirate" or "18th Century British Sailor." No wonder they say the practice of law is often archaic.
Needless to say, the announcement of my swift and sudden indefinite relocation to There raised some legitimate concerns on my part (read: just short of succumbing to a debilitating panic attack in my office - saved only by an intuitive and perfectly timed "hanging in there?" e-mail from the dearest of dear friends and the stark realization that, in being considerably taller than George Costanza, I, in fact, do not fit comfortably underneath my desk, and that any panic about the situation re. There was clearly outweighed by the potential embarrassment of having to be removed from beneath my desk via the jaws of life).
The last time I faced a situation of work, stress and lack of balance in similar to proportions to this, I was studying for the bar exam. The shorthand account of that time of my life sounds rosy enough:
"I graduated from law school. Took a week off and then started studying for the bar. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I passed and now I am a lawyer."
But that leaves out innumerable crying jags, cursing and damning my dysfunctional relationship with numbers ("Stupid pre-calc - but for that "B," I too could have been an i-Banker and my life would be all cocktails and dollar bills." Or maybe I said stripper... in which case I guess I was cursing my lack of rhythm and my inescapable paunch), and near daily hyperventilation episodes near the end.
Truly, burn out does not even begin to describe.
When I awaited my bar results, my fear of failure had very little to do with any concerns over my job security, and had everything to do with my utter terror of having to take the exam again. I felt myself physically incapable of every going through the ordeal again.
But now... there is this. There is There. And I have to do it - alone.
Well, not really alone. I am friends with my colleagues, most of them more friend than colleague really. But with the bar ordeal, I had the ex-BF (who was the current BF at the time) there to hold my hand, talk me down and help me through. Even in all the bitterness that I have harbored towards him since our parting of ways, I have always been grateful to him for his help during that period. My family in fact is grateful as well. They always talk about how his help was invaluable in getting me through that experience.
Well, now it's time for the poster child of over-stressed, hyper-self critical behavior to stand alone. On her own two feet. To endure this trial (in every sense of the word) and to do so without hysterics or hyperbole.
It is a very real possibility that that is not possible. And what might the results of failure be? It is too soon to tell. Either way, the trip to There will remove any and all inertia I have ever complained about. My life is moving now, in a very real and unmistakable way. Changes will have to made - either by them or by me - but they will be made.
Some perspective: 20 hours of work a day for the 7 days of a week works out to 140 hours of work, and 28 hours of sleep in a week!
From what I understand, normal folks get around 56 hours of sleep a week, not to mention that maybe, just maybe (and I am just guessing here) they do other things with their time when they are awake other than work. Little nibble of pasta you prepared yourself in that room in your house which is rumored to be functional for such purposes here, a little catching up on TivOed episodes of "Arrested Development" and "Nip/Tuck" there.
As I have whined about at great length here on prior occasions: Lawyers work entirely too hard. And not just too hard - ridiculous hard. 140 hours of work, 28 hours of sleep... make Jack, and anyone else for that matter, quite dull and fucking insane.
I know, I know: What am I whining about? I can gripe all the way to the bank. A lot people work a lot longer for a lot less. I recognize that. It eats away at me. It keeps me doing what I do, because when I think of that, I feel ridiculously overpaid. But though the lawyerly compensation is good, did you ever stop to think of why? They don't pay us what they do because they like us, appreciate us, or even respect us. It is all about the Benjamins. They pay us what they pay us to keep us. They have to pay us the amount they pay us because they have to cover both the cost of living and the cost of not living. And how much is that exactly? How much is enough to give up your life, the entirety of your 140 hours? Not for nothing. Everyone has a price. Mine reaches my mailbox every two weeks, and, as I didn't consider the fine print, it is also 40% less than I agreed to, given the mandatory tithe I must pay to the tax-man.
You'd have thought I would have driven a harder bargain given that I only have one soul to sell....
Then again, Bart Simpson sold his soul to Milhouse for $5. So maybe I am getting a better deal than I think. But Bart realized that he wanted, that he needed his soul back when he noticed that his life was fundamentally changed in every way - from the very mundane (automatic doors would not register that he was standing before them) to the essential (he no longer found the masochism of Itchy and Scratchy as hilarious as he should). Having sold his soul, Bart was a non-entity in every way that mattered. When he went to try to get his soul back, Milhouse demanded $50 for it. It was a price Bart thought he could not afford to pay. When he relented, it was too late. Bart's soul represented only a bankable commodity to Milhouse, nothing more, and so, he had traded Bart's soul for material gain - he traded it to Comic Book Guy ("CBG") for a pittance, for some ALF pogs. Bart tried to retrieve it from CBG, but found that CBG had also commodified it and sold it to the next highest bidder. Bart was now soulless and apparently with no avenue of recourse. Lucky for him Lisa was the soul-buyer. She bought the soul because she valued it. She wanted to give it back to Bart, because he needed it, and ultimately, because she loves him.
In this life, the love you need to count on to save your soul is your own. Someone else may be able to save me and help me retrieve my soul; but, I can retrieve my own soul.
I can save myself.
I just have to choose to act. To do as I know I should. As I need to do.
The peril is really in the waiting. Wait too long, and your soul may be beyond recovery. Lost to you - the only person who (at least now) truly and correctly values it - forever.
And so you will stand, despondent, asking the soul searching question, left facing only an impenetrable and inescapable void in return. A paycheck in one hand. A handful of ALF pogs in the other.
Today I was told I would be going "to trial." To wit, a case I have been working on in my continued and fervent desire to ameliorate the plight of the corporate man is about to get beyond its "exchanging contentious e-mails" and "aggressive paper-pushing" phase and develop into full-blown "contentious witness examinations" and "even more aggressive, but now behind-the-scenes paper pushing" phase.
My office is "Here." The trial is hundreds of miles away from Here. It is "There."
Opening serve: "You are going to stay here and support the trial team remotely."
I was a child left behind, and it was good. Lackadaisical half-hearted return shot (only because it was required to keep up the illusion of a game at least): "Okay."
Powerful shot to outer edge of the court, nearly grazing the out-of-bounds line: "Actually, we are going to need you to go there. But it will be a while after the rest of the trial team has left, and you will return well ahead of them as well."
Possibly couched in a "we are doing this for your career development more than anything else" sort of tone. Then again, it could have been the wishful thinking of the listener. Compulsive as she is about control and knowing exactly what is going on, she cannot help herself. Furiously run across the court, nearly diving to lob the ball back across the court. It barely clears the net: Ignoring any shred of practical law firm life experience she has ever had, as well as the first rule of being a trial lawyer, carelessly, she asks one question too many: "So what will we be doing there? What should I bring there? How long will I be there?"
*Whoosh*
Out of nowhere, with lightning speed, a searingly wicked volley. It's sheer force searing and its velocity rendering it unreachable, unplayable and untenable to this unfortunate and unhappy (if not wholly unwilling) participant in The Game: "We need you. For the duration."
Game. Set. Match.
Toast, thy name is CLC.
I will be shipped off to There for the foreseeable future. 18 to 20 hour days, 7 days a week, for many, many weeks (not so many that you can't count them on your fingers, but more than are required in order to make the gesture that immediately comes to mind. Opposable thumbs need not apply.)
Officially, I will be staying in a hotel. More accurately, I will be living in a conference room, working like a fiend, day-dreaming of sleeping (is that redundant?) and longing for natural light. Hell, after 5 weeks in an internal conference room, I think rickets and scurvy could become legitimate areas of concern. Who knew I would be able to utter such words in the context of my employment? I mean given that when I fill in the "occupation" box on any background form, I have never had occasion to answer "Pirate" or "18th Century British Sailor." No wonder they say the practice of law is often archaic.
Needless to say, the announcement of my swift and sudden indefinite relocation to There raised some legitimate concerns on my part (read: just short of succumbing to a debilitating panic attack in my office - saved only by an intuitive and perfectly timed "hanging in there?" e-mail from the dearest of dear friends and the stark realization that, in being considerably taller than George Costanza, I, in fact, do not fit comfortably underneath my desk, and that any panic about the situation re. There was clearly outweighed by the potential embarrassment of having to be removed from beneath my desk via the jaws of life).
The last time I faced a situation of work, stress and lack of balance in similar to proportions to this, I was studying for the bar exam. The shorthand account of that time of my life sounds rosy enough:
"I graduated from law school. Took a week off and then started studying for the bar. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I passed and now I am a lawyer."
But that leaves out innumerable crying jags, cursing and damning my dysfunctional relationship with numbers ("Stupid pre-calc - but for that "B," I too could have been an i-Banker and my life would be all cocktails and dollar bills." Or maybe I said stripper... in which case I guess I was cursing my lack of rhythm and my inescapable paunch), and near daily hyperventilation episodes near the end.
Truly, burn out does not even begin to describe.
When I awaited my bar results, my fear of failure had very little to do with any concerns over my job security, and had everything to do with my utter terror of having to take the exam again. I felt myself physically incapable of every going through the ordeal again.
But now... there is this. There is There. And I have to do it - alone.
Well, not really alone. I am friends with my colleagues, most of them more friend than colleague really. But with the bar ordeal, I had the ex-BF (who was the current BF at the time) there to hold my hand, talk me down and help me through. Even in all the bitterness that I have harbored towards him since our parting of ways, I have always been grateful to him for his help during that period. My family in fact is grateful as well. They always talk about how his help was invaluable in getting me through that experience.
Well, now it's time for the poster child of over-stressed, hyper-self critical behavior to stand alone. On her own two feet. To endure this trial (in every sense of the word) and to do so without hysterics or hyperbole.
It is a very real possibility that that is not possible. And what might the results of failure be? It is too soon to tell. Either way, the trip to There will remove any and all inertia I have ever complained about. My life is moving now, in a very real and unmistakable way. Changes will have to made - either by them or by me - but they will be made.
Some perspective: 20 hours of work a day for the 7 days of a week works out to 140 hours of work, and 28 hours of sleep in a week!
From what I understand, normal folks get around 56 hours of sleep a week, not to mention that maybe, just maybe (and I am just guessing here) they do other things with their time when they are awake other than work. Little nibble of pasta you prepared yourself in that room in your house which is rumored to be functional for such purposes here, a little catching up on TivOed episodes of "Arrested Development" and "Nip/Tuck" there.
As I have whined about at great length here on prior occasions: Lawyers work entirely too hard. And not just too hard - ridiculous hard. 140 hours of work, 28 hours of sleep... make Jack, and anyone else for that matter, quite dull and fucking insane.
I know, I know: What am I whining about? I can gripe all the way to the bank. A lot people work a lot longer for a lot less. I recognize that. It eats away at me. It keeps me doing what I do, because when I think of that, I feel ridiculously overpaid. But though the lawyerly compensation is good, did you ever stop to think of why? They don't pay us what they do because they like us, appreciate us, or even respect us. It is all about the Benjamins. They pay us what they pay us to keep us. They have to pay us the amount they pay us because they have to cover both the cost of living and the cost of not living. And how much is that exactly? How much is enough to give up your life, the entirety of your 140 hours? Not for nothing. Everyone has a price. Mine reaches my mailbox every two weeks, and, as I didn't consider the fine print, it is also 40% less than I agreed to, given the mandatory tithe I must pay to the tax-man.
You'd have thought I would have driven a harder bargain given that I only have one soul to sell....
Then again, Bart Simpson sold his soul to Milhouse for $5. So maybe I am getting a better deal than I think. But Bart realized that he wanted, that he needed his soul back when he noticed that his life was fundamentally changed in every way - from the very mundane (automatic doors would not register that he was standing before them) to the essential (he no longer found the masochism of Itchy and Scratchy as hilarious as he should). Having sold his soul, Bart was a non-entity in every way that mattered. When he went to try to get his soul back, Milhouse demanded $50 for it. It was a price Bart thought he could not afford to pay. When he relented, it was too late. Bart's soul represented only a bankable commodity to Milhouse, nothing more, and so, he had traded Bart's soul for material gain - he traded it to Comic Book Guy ("CBG") for a pittance, for some ALF pogs. Bart tried to retrieve it from CBG, but found that CBG had also commodified it and sold it to the next highest bidder. Bart was now soulless and apparently with no avenue of recourse. Lucky for him Lisa was the soul-buyer. She bought the soul because she valued it. She wanted to give it back to Bart, because he needed it, and ultimately, because she loves him.
In this life, the love you need to count on to save your soul is your own. Someone else may be able to save me and help me retrieve my soul; but, I can retrieve my own soul.
I can save myself.
I just have to choose to act. To do as I know I should. As I need to do.
The peril is really in the waiting. Wait too long, and your soul may be beyond recovery. Lost to you - the only person who (at least now) truly and correctly values it - forever.
And so you will stand, despondent, asking the soul searching question, left facing only an impenetrable and inescapable void in return. A paycheck in one hand. A handful of ALF pogs in the other.
It finally happened...
I received that sign from on high that, in fact, my relationship withStarbucks is not all in my head. There is something going on there. Today, my Starbucks cup spoke to me. No really. I swear. It was muffled at first, as it was obscured by one of those handy-dandy cardboard sleeves, but as I went to dispose of the cup and the sleeve fell away, I saw this imprinted on the side:
Okay, so I had been hoping that our first opportunity for communication would be direct. But maybe Starbucks is shy and thus it feels it has to communicate with me through a proxy. A kind of Cyrano de Begerac type thing. Okay, I get it. But, Keith Olbermann? Really. When I think pithy words of wisdom, he is not exactly the first person who comes to mind. And, I have to say, I think it rather a stretch calling him a "broadcast journalist" even if it is only on the side of a cardboard coffee cup. But you know, communication is communication, so I was going with it.
But then, my eye scanned farther down the side of the cup and came upon this (in smaller font of course, the stenographic equivalent to muttering under one's breath, I suppose): "This is the author's opinion, not necessarily that of Starbucks."
So what does this mean: Starbucks does not believe I am "good enough"? That's not what they said in the early morning hours when I handedover my four bucks for a venti non-fat no-foam sugar-free hazelnut latte? Does Starbucks only like me for my money? So we are not "dating," but just "hanging out"? What gives?
Apparently, Starbucks is just not that into me.
However, it is being coy and trying to give me just enough to keep hanging on to the hope that there is something there. After its disclaimer of our relationship it states, in even smaller print, "To read more or respond, go to www.starbucks.com/wayiseeit."
Yeah, fat chance buddy. You gotta give me more than that - or at the very least 3 or 4 cocktails or very strong double espressos - before I am buying into the sincerity of that ploy.
And so, the cat and mouse game of the caffeine-fiend and her ubiquitous supplier continues.
The world bursts at the seams with people ready to tell you you're not good enough. On occasion, some may be correct. But do not do their work for them. Seek any job; ask anyone out; pursue any goal. Don't take it personally when they say "no" - they may not be smart enoughto say "yes."
-- Keith Olbermann, Broadcast journalist and host of MSNBC's Countdown with Keith Olbermann.
Okay, so I had been hoping that our first opportunity for communication would be direct. But maybe Starbucks is shy and thus it feels it has to communicate with me through a proxy. A kind of Cyrano de Begerac type thing. Okay, I get it. But, Keith Olbermann? Really. When I think pithy words of wisdom, he is not exactly the first person who comes to mind. And, I have to say, I think it rather a stretch calling him a "broadcast journalist" even if it is only on the side of a cardboard coffee cup. But you know, communication is communication, so I was going with it.
But then, my eye scanned farther down the side of the cup and came upon this (in smaller font of course, the stenographic equivalent to muttering under one's breath, I suppose): "This is the author's opinion, not necessarily that of Starbucks."
So what does this mean: Starbucks does not believe I am "good enough"? That's not what they said in the early morning hours when I handedover my four bucks for a venti non-fat no-foam sugar-free hazelnut latte? Does Starbucks only like me for my money? So we are not "dating," but just "hanging out"? What gives?
Apparently, Starbucks is just not that into me.
However, it is being coy and trying to give me just enough to keep hanging on to the hope that there is something there. After its disclaimer of our relationship it states, in even smaller print, "To read more or respond, go to www.starbucks.com/wayiseeit."
Yeah, fat chance buddy. You gotta give me more than that - or at the very least 3 or 4 cocktails or very strong double espressos - before I am buying into the sincerity of that ploy.
And so, the cat and mouse game of the caffeine-fiend and her ubiquitous supplier continues.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
A Pause For Station Identification...
A break in the action.
Momentarily.
Unable to be witty. Bear with me.
Damn, at this point I am having issues putting sentences that approximate pidgin English together, let alone well constructed thoughts and artful analysis.
Good thing my job doesn't involve any of that kind of thing.
There was a time in my life when I professed "Sleep is for the weak." And I meant it. Really.
That time is clearly over. Sleep is good. Sleep is necessary. Sleep is right. I miss it.
7 hours of shut eye over a 72 hour period just doesn't sit well with me anymore. Could be that resistance to caffeine I am building.
8 cups of joe into my day. No buzz. No alertness. Just orange alert level fatigue. And having to get up to pee every 5 minutes. Though, I suppose that is one way to maintain a state of consciousness. If not, I am going to be in trouble.
May have to pull out the big guns soon and go in search of some Jolt Cola. Or that horrible caffeinated water concoction I used to drink in college - Krank H2O - yeah, that sounds healthy.
Momentarily.
Unable to be witty. Bear with me.
Damn, at this point I am having issues putting sentences that approximate pidgin English together, let alone well constructed thoughts and artful analysis.
Good thing my job doesn't involve any of that kind of thing.
There was a time in my life when I professed "Sleep is for the weak." And I meant it. Really.
That time is clearly over. Sleep is good. Sleep is necessary. Sleep is right. I miss it.
7 hours of shut eye over a 72 hour period just doesn't sit well with me anymore. Could be that resistance to caffeine I am building.
8 cups of joe into my day. No buzz. No alertness. Just orange alert level fatigue. And having to get up to pee every 5 minutes. Though, I suppose that is one way to maintain a state of consciousness. If not, I am going to be in trouble.
May have to pull out the big guns soon and go in search of some Jolt Cola. Or that horrible caffeinated water concoction I used to drink in college - Krank H2O - yeah, that sounds healthy.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
But Then I Got High...
Not really.
Well, I may be on a sugar high. But I need it. As I am you know where, doing you know what.
There is being on top of things and getting in early, and then there is still being here at 1:08 in the morning.
Stellar week all around. Really.
Productivity is now at an all time high. So much so that ... I just joined the Farnsworth Bentley fanclub. I was going to try to justify it, but I can't. So, I won't.
Check out the confirmation letter:
Mr. Bentley Fan Club Registration Confirmation
Thank you very much for registering to receive special announcments and event dates for Mr. Bentley. By registering you have also increased your chances for winning an autographed umbrella.
Oooh, now I have a better chance of winning a Farnsworth umbrella than the lottery. Hey the man did not get to be poolboy to the newest Proactiv spokesman for nothing. He knows the truth: You gotta play to win. Then again, he will never be the sage that our esteemed Mr. Diddy has become. My favorite quote, about the aforementioned, Proactiv gig:
In a 30-minute infomercial, Combs tells actress Vanessa Williams, "I definitely had an acne problem. I have to make sure my sexy is all the way right."
You're Goddamned right he does. The man has his priorities in line. We should all watch and learn.
So here, at 1:24 in the a.m. we have learned:
(1) The Bentley Fanclub requires no money to join, but it does demand that you answer three questions about Farnsworth correctly. Apparently, being in a position to show your devotion to the man behind the man is an exclusive club, is an exclusive privilege. You must not only be able to read, you must then be willing to read the content of the site. Lesson learned: Some people will do anything for a chance to with a $300 umbrella (yes, that is how much they retail for - a piece of wannabe doesn't come cheap), and fear rejection/seek affirmation so much, that they read the website to make sure they get the right answers, then proceed to share their story of self degredation in a cheap ploy for attention. :)
(2) Per the man the pre-dated Bennifer I (who is now inexplicably married to Gollum), even if it seems selfish, you must always, always "make sure [your] sexy is all the way right" at all times. Hey, at 1:27 a.m. it is every person for themselves. Or by themselves, but let's not go there.
(3) It is annoying when someone doesn't put 2 spaces between her sentences. It looks. Weird. And. Jumbled. Together. So here goes, a resolution I can finally keep: 2 spaces between sentences. One small step for CLC, one large step for legibility.
With that, I bid you good night. One more round of revisions for the Big Boss and I am headed home...
Well, I may be on a sugar high. But I need it. As I am you know where, doing you know what.
There is being on top of things and getting in early, and then there is still being here at 1:08 in the morning.
Stellar week all around. Really.
Productivity is now at an all time high. So much so that ... I just joined the Farnsworth Bentley fanclub. I was going to try to justify it, but I can't. So, I won't.
Check out the confirmation letter:
Mr. Bentley Fan Club Registration Confirmation
Thank you very much for registering to receive special announcments and event dates for Mr. Bentley. By registering you have also increased your chances for winning an autographed umbrella.
Oooh, now I have a better chance of winning a Farnsworth umbrella than the lottery. Hey the man did not get to be poolboy to the newest Proactiv spokesman for nothing. He knows the truth: You gotta play to win. Then again, he will never be the sage that our esteemed Mr. Diddy has become. My favorite quote, about the aforementioned, Proactiv gig:
In a 30-minute infomercial, Combs tells actress Vanessa Williams, "I definitely had an acne problem. I have to make sure my sexy is all the way right."
You're Goddamned right he does. The man has his priorities in line. We should all watch and learn.
So here, at 1:24 in the a.m. we have learned:
(1) The Bentley Fanclub requires no money to join, but it does demand that you answer three questions about Farnsworth correctly. Apparently, being in a position to show your devotion to the man behind the man is an exclusive club, is an exclusive privilege. You must not only be able to read, you must then be willing to read the content of the site. Lesson learned: Some people will do anything for a chance to with a $300 umbrella (yes, that is how much they retail for - a piece of wannabe doesn't come cheap), and fear rejection/seek affirmation so much, that they read the website to make sure they get the right answers, then proceed to share their story of self degredation in a cheap ploy for attention. :)
(2) Per the man the pre-dated Bennifer I (who is now inexplicably married to Gollum), even if it seems selfish, you must always, always "make sure [your] sexy is all the way right" at all times. Hey, at 1:27 a.m. it is every person for themselves. Or by themselves, but let's not go there.
(3) It is annoying when someone doesn't put 2 spaces between her sentences. It looks. Weird. And. Jumbled. Together. So here goes, a resolution I can finally keep: 2 spaces between sentences. One small step for CLC, one large step for legibility.
With that, I bid you good night. One more round of revisions for the Big Boss and I am headed home...
Monday, February 07, 2005
I am sure there must be a certain lesson to be learned in the exquisite pain and continual disappointment of having to wake up day after day and still be me. But, at this point I don't have time to try. I have to get back to floundering about trying to find the answer to the unanswerable, while fighting off the less and less unlikely conclusion that it is just beyond my limited intellectual capabilities to track it down.
Mondays. Gotta love'em.
Mondays. Gotta love'em.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Running List: Alternate Career Paths
- UMBRELLA HOLDER/PERSONAL BUTLER. The inspiration for this particular gig was divined from the sudden ascension of P.Diddy's manservant, Farnsworth Bentley (aka Derek Watkins) last year at Cannes. Taking a long hard look at my resume, I am really not qualified to do much of anything, but, damn it, I can definitely hold an umbrella. It appears that umbrella-holding is in fact a growth industry. Business is booming and positions are opening up all over the place, as evidenced, by Michael Jackson's large, burly, as-yet-un-named umbrella holder who has been escorting His Wackoness to court appearances as of late. See, I could do this: I love vacationing in tropical places (San Tropez, here I come), I have had practice carrying umbrellas in the most extreme of weather conditions (three years in Chicago, living right off of the Lake, took care of that), I am perfectly willing to "re-brand" myself and give up my name (been looking for a way to jettison the awkward construct that is my last name for years now, though I suppose it could have been worse), and now, I can also assure my mother than my new career will not put my law school education to waste (Hell, the as-yet-unnamed burly gentleman escorting MJ these days is getting more exposure to a courtroom than I ever have).
- FEMALE SUSHI CHEF: My qualifications here, well, I am already female (so that saves a good $80K right there), I love sushi, and I think that any job that allows you to handle large knives has to be pretty cool. The hitch: Generally, there are no female sushi chefs. Why? Well, given that Larry Summers only condemned women's math and science skills rather than their abilities at serving raw fish in an artful and tasty way, this seems to be a mysterious gender bias indeed. Answer: There are almost no women who are sushi chefs in Japan: legend has it that women's hands are too warm to make sushi. And so things get curiouser and curiouser, as everyone I know who is familiar with the temperature of women's hands (either because they own a pair themselves, or are lucky enough to be able to spend quality time with someone elses), believe women's hands to be perpetually cold. However, glass ceilings or tatami mats or what have you will not deter me. Temperature of extemeties be damned. Apprenticeship is no longer a necessity, there are educational opportunities out there, and being a rarity, there is a Hollywood-like potential in the position. Sushi chef as rock star. Just need to get past the little issue with dealing with fish guts, and I should be okay.
- KOBE BEEF MASSEUSE: I just learned the intricate and elaborate efforts that go into creating Kobe beef. It is fairly mind-boggling. These cows are fed the finest food, drink beer, and are "lovingly massaged" for the entirety of their lives. No wonder this beef is so expensive. Hmmm, maybe I don't want to be the masseuse, but rather I want to be the cow. The fatter you get the better, your every whim catered to, being highly sought after. Not too shabby. Well, there is that minor detail re. the slaughter thing, but think of the great run they have prior to that. What a fantastic 28 months. Being the masseuse, while still interesting for the inherent value of trying to watch people keep their composure when you tell them what you do for a living ("Oh yeah, hard day at the office. What do I do? Oh, I tenderly massage large cows for a living."), really actually belongs on an alternate running list: World's Worst Jobs (would have to stick being a esthetician who specialized in brazilian waxes right up there...).
- [More later...]
Dude. I am so not feeling this today.
It is Saturday.
I am at work.
I am alone.
I am unproductive.
That all being said, the day has been a pretty good one. Extensive shoe and blond-isme therapy this morning. Helped.
But now, aargh, there is this.
I really feel like there ought to be something about my job that I enjoy. Something about the actual job itself (not just people I work with, the location of my office, or accessibility to good vending machine candy). There really must be something.
Nope.
There is nothing I actually like doing at my job.
There are plenty of things I don't mind doing, but actually deriving pleasure from them? Forget about it.
I think it is because the profession of lawyering is such that even the most mundane of tasks has the potential for becoming a stressful ordeal which takes years off of your life. For instance, the three line cover letter that requires four drafts and review by three sets of eyes, and is so nit-picked for purely stylistic (preference) reasons, that it nearly blows the Fed Ex deadline for the day.
Time it should have taken: 6 minutes.
Time it ended up taking: 7 hours, 42 minutes (capped off with a breathless run to literally grab the FedEx guy, promise him your first born, a cut of the royalties on your first book, a ham sandwich etc., to hand him your letter.)
Or, in a slightly less mundane, but regardless not-so-unusual assignment, a simple research project. At least, when it is described to you it is called "simple" and "straightforward" and "casual."
"Look into this..."
"Get back to me in an hour or so..."
Inevitably there are kinks and complications. Judicial precedent unforeseen and the like. A scouring of every data base known to man required. You supplicate, the assigning partner on high grants you a two hour reprieve. Annotated by this small throwaway comment:
"Oh yeah, and just throw your finding in an e-mail...."
Throw, huh?
So scurrying back to your hovel you go. Two hours won't be enough, but you'll have to make it work.
Then, about an hour and 40 minutes in, partner swings by and say, "Yeah, why don't you make that a formal memo. And you know, while your at it, why don't you cc ...." [Insert laundry list of other partners' names here, culminating with a reference to the head of the firm.]
Oh yeah, we are in trouble now. Trailing comment here being, "Yeah, just take care of that before you leave tonight..."
Now, as casual as this comment was, there is of course, no way, that any memo (especially any memo I produced) could be of acceptable quality to send to the head of the firm. An e-mail memo, "thrown together" as it were, is especially unacceptable. The task of starting and finishing this memo has now gone from mundane, to standard, to pressure filled, to unending, to, what BigLaw firms euphemistically like to call "a potentially career limiting move." Umm, yeah. Looks like a certainty to me.
Looking for an escape route, but getting summarily dismissed because the head of the firm thinks I am an imbecile was not exactly the one I had in mind.
Be careful what you wish for?
It is Saturday.
I am at work.
I am alone.
I am unproductive.
That all being said, the day has been a pretty good one. Extensive shoe and blond-isme therapy this morning. Helped.
But now, aargh, there is this.
I really feel like there ought to be something about my job that I enjoy. Something about the actual job itself (not just people I work with, the location of my office, or accessibility to good vending machine candy). There really must be something.
Nope.
There is nothing I actually like doing at my job.
There are plenty of things I don't mind doing, but actually deriving pleasure from them? Forget about it.
I think it is because the profession of lawyering is such that even the most mundane of tasks has the potential for becoming a stressful ordeal which takes years off of your life. For instance, the three line cover letter that requires four drafts and review by three sets of eyes, and is so nit-picked for purely stylistic (preference) reasons, that it nearly blows the Fed Ex deadline for the day.
Time it should have taken: 6 minutes.
Time it ended up taking: 7 hours, 42 minutes (capped off with a breathless run to literally grab the FedEx guy, promise him your first born, a cut of the royalties on your first book, a ham sandwich etc., to hand him your letter.)
Or, in a slightly less mundane, but regardless not-so-unusual assignment, a simple research project. At least, when it is described to you it is called "simple" and "straightforward" and "casual."
"Look into this..."
"Get back to me in an hour or so..."
Inevitably there are kinks and complications. Judicial precedent unforeseen and the like. A scouring of every data base known to man required. You supplicate, the assigning partner on high grants you a two hour reprieve. Annotated by this small throwaway comment:
"Oh yeah, and just throw your finding in an e-mail...."
Throw, huh?
So scurrying back to your hovel you go. Two hours won't be enough, but you'll have to make it work.
Then, about an hour and 40 minutes in, partner swings by and say, "Yeah, why don't you make that a formal memo. And you know, while your at it, why don't you cc ...." [Insert laundry list of other partners' names here, culminating with a reference to the head of the firm.]
Oh yeah, we are in trouble now. Trailing comment here being, "Yeah, just take care of that before you leave tonight..."
Now, as casual as this comment was, there is of course, no way, that any memo (especially any memo I produced) could be of acceptable quality to send to the head of the firm. An e-mail memo, "thrown together" as it were, is especially unacceptable. The task of starting and finishing this memo has now gone from mundane, to standard, to pressure filled, to unending, to, what BigLaw firms euphemistically like to call "a potentially career limiting move." Umm, yeah. Looks like a certainty to me.
Looking for an escape route, but getting summarily dismissed because the head of the firm thinks I am an imbecile was not exactly the one I had in mind.
Be careful what you wish for?
Friday, February 04, 2005
It's an EggChicken thing....
Cluck. I am a chicken because I hide in my office doing a job I hate, avoiding a life I want, but which I fear achieving.
Gobble, gobble. I am a turkey. Both in amplitude and in attitude. Goofball and butterball. Partial to the color brown. So ugly, I am cute. Put people to sleep, but in a comforting way.
Hoot. I am an owl. I like the night time. Early morning hours (round yonder after midnight) work for me. I also like to bite into Tootsie pops. Chocolate flavor is my favorite. I both wear glasses and manage to fool people into thinking I know what I am talking about, on occasion. I also can turn my neck, well, not that far, but it does make a nice rice-krispie snap-crackle-pop when I do.
Cuckoo. Ah...that one is just too easy.
Hiss (I think that is the sound that a peacock makes). I am a peacock. I can be nasty when I get to be particularly self absorbed and narcissistic. I do like bright colors.
Tweet. I am a canary. I always think I saw a puddy cat. And I love yellow, though truth be told, I own nothing yellow. No clothing, no linens, no inanimate object. And I am just such a sunny person too. Weird.
Okay, enough of this. It really sounds like a bad 2nd grade play.
I tried to go Beatles, and I went Barney instead. Oops.
Yellow submarine; purple dinosaur.
"I am the Walrus; I am the Eggman"; "I love you. You love me. We're a happy family...."
Can't go any farther with that one at this time because, well, in all honesty, I have run out of Barney references. Thank god it was the Barney references that tapped out first; If it had been the Beatles trivia, I might have had to do something desperate, because really, what would that say about me?
**************************************************************
Confession:
I am afraid to go home. I am not entirely sure why. But I am.
I have a lot of stuff I can/should/must do here, but I could leave it for tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. That is the marvelous thing about this idyllic world of mine - there is always work to be done. *Sigh of reverie*
But I am afraid to go home.
Like I said, I am not sure why.
I have trouble enough getting myself in here (the point at which my work day begin is laughable, really), getting myself out should be the least of my worries. Come 5 o'clock I should be running for the door.
But I am not.
I am sitting here. At work. On a Friday night. Sad, huh?
Said something today, that I usually don't say all in succession, but once I did so, it made something obvious:
"Just waiting (1) to win the lottery, (2) for my money tree to bloom, and/or (3) a rich man to come sweep me off my feet and love and care for me forever."
Damn. Am I really waiting on all of those things in order to start my life? Am I really waiting on any of those things in order to start my life? May as well be planning on brunch with the Easter Bunny, summering in the Hamptons with Elvis, and starting a knitting club with Big Foot.
Won't win the lottery. Not because I am a pessimist. Because I don't buy lottery tickets. I have been talking about winning the lottery for going on 4 years now. I have bought exactly one ticket. One ticket. In that whole period of time. Needless to say it was not a winner (then again, no one ever buys a winner at a 7/11 in Palo Alto). Charlie Bucket, dear reader, I am not. I need to make more of an effort than that. There is risk averse (I went to Vegas and complained about how expensive drinks were. My mom says to me that she thought you got drinks for free in Vegas. "Not when you are playing the nickel slots. Not when you are playing the nickel slots.") and then there is just lazy. Or, maybe, just fearful...
The money tree will not bloom, because there is no such thing as a money tree. Then again, maybe there is. Ingenuity, repackaging of archetype, arbitraging on passing fancy - entrepreneurship, a business of one's own, making it happen. I have ideas, all nascent, but a little time and nurture might make something come of them. Toiling for myself would beat toiling for someone else who in turn toils for someone else... Then I could avoid going home for legitimate reasons. Cultivating and running my busines, my baby. But I am all talk, no follow through. Afeared, in every way...
The rich man. Well that is the biggest pipe dream of them all. And not even for the litany of self deprecation and masochistic insults I could gratuitously throw my way. Really, it is just because I will not meet him in my office. And this is where I am currently hiding. I won't meet him at home either (which is where I am heading, when I finally screw up the courage to leave my office). But saying I want to marry a rich man always leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. I would never want to commit myself to someone just based on their money. I just couldn't. It would be so soulless and depraved. Unkind I can be to myself; to someone else, I would never do such a thing. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it. I wear my feelings on my sleeve, all over my forehead, across my chest, and any place else you can imagine. Have known a number of dorky lawyers who bought too-fancy-too-fast-too-expensive cars to make up for shortcomings (literal and perceived) in order to "impress the ladies." Always wondered what the logic was there? Do you really want to be with someone who just likes you for your car? Do you really want to be with someone you like just for their car? All the while the two of you are making out, with the gear shift getting in the way, she trying to forget that he looks like a sweaty child molester and he trying to forget she is an uber-bitch. Is that happiness? Fulfillment (well other than momentary)? Is it right? Either way, not for me. Money, especially talking about it, whether it is how much you need or how much you have got, just turns me off. I guess I do want a rich man, but not like it sounds. A man rich with what he has; complete with what he has got. Everything he has metaphysical and physical is mine; Everything I have, metaphysical and physical is his. Somehow, whatever it adds up to, is always enough. I find it is always easier to work towards a goal in a team. I don't need to stop working. I need a teammate, so I can finally know what I am working for. Till then, just a 'fraidy cat...
Okay, it is officially tomorrow now. I have to be back here in less than 12 hours. Ooph. Hair coloration tomorrow morning. All those mirrors for 3 hours. Ugh. I guess I should go.
Bed time.
Gobble, gobble. I am a turkey. Both in amplitude and in attitude. Goofball and butterball. Partial to the color brown. So ugly, I am cute. Put people to sleep, but in a comforting way.
Hoot. I am an owl. I like the night time. Early morning hours (round yonder after midnight) work for me. I also like to bite into Tootsie pops. Chocolate flavor is my favorite. I both wear glasses and manage to fool people into thinking I know what I am talking about, on occasion. I also can turn my neck, well, not that far, but it does make a nice rice-krispie snap-crackle-pop when I do.
Cuckoo. Ah...that one is just too easy.
Hiss (I think that is the sound that a peacock makes). I am a peacock. I can be nasty when I get to be particularly self absorbed and narcissistic. I do like bright colors.
Tweet. I am a canary. I always think I saw a puddy cat. And I love yellow, though truth be told, I own nothing yellow. No clothing, no linens, no inanimate object. And I am just such a sunny person too. Weird.
Okay, enough of this. It really sounds like a bad 2nd grade play.
I tried to go Beatles, and I went Barney instead. Oops.
Yellow submarine; purple dinosaur.
"I am the Walrus; I am the Eggman"; "I love you. You love me. We're a happy family...."
Can't go any farther with that one at this time because, well, in all honesty, I have run out of Barney references. Thank god it was the Barney references that tapped out first; If it had been the Beatles trivia, I might have had to do something desperate, because really, what would that say about me?
**************************************************************
Confession:
I am afraid to go home. I am not entirely sure why. But I am.
I have a lot of stuff I can/should/must do here, but I could leave it for tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. That is the marvelous thing about this idyllic world of mine - there is always work to be done. *Sigh of reverie*
But I am afraid to go home.
Like I said, I am not sure why.
I have trouble enough getting myself in here (the point at which my work day begin is laughable, really), getting myself out should be the least of my worries. Come 5 o'clock I should be running for the door.
But I am not.
I am sitting here. At work. On a Friday night. Sad, huh?
Said something today, that I usually don't say all in succession, but once I did so, it made something obvious:
"Just waiting (1) to win the lottery, (2) for my money tree to bloom, and/or (3) a rich man to come sweep me off my feet and love and care for me forever."
Damn. Am I really waiting on all of those things in order to start my life? Am I really waiting on any of those things in order to start my life? May as well be planning on brunch with the Easter Bunny, summering in the Hamptons with Elvis, and starting a knitting club with Big Foot.
Won't win the lottery. Not because I am a pessimist. Because I don't buy lottery tickets. I have been talking about winning the lottery for going on 4 years now. I have bought exactly one ticket. One ticket. In that whole period of time. Needless to say it was not a winner (then again, no one ever buys a winner at a 7/11 in Palo Alto). Charlie Bucket, dear reader, I am not. I need to make more of an effort than that. There is risk averse (I went to Vegas and complained about how expensive drinks were. My mom says to me that she thought you got drinks for free in Vegas. "Not when you are playing the nickel slots. Not when you are playing the nickel slots.") and then there is just lazy. Or, maybe, just fearful...
The money tree will not bloom, because there is no such thing as a money tree. Then again, maybe there is. Ingenuity, repackaging of archetype, arbitraging on passing fancy - entrepreneurship, a business of one's own, making it happen. I have ideas, all nascent, but a little time and nurture might make something come of them. Toiling for myself would beat toiling for someone else who in turn toils for someone else... Then I could avoid going home for legitimate reasons. Cultivating and running my busines, my baby. But I am all talk, no follow through. Afeared, in every way...
The rich man. Well that is the biggest pipe dream of them all. And not even for the litany of self deprecation and masochistic insults I could gratuitously throw my way. Really, it is just because I will not meet him in my office. And this is where I am currently hiding. I won't meet him at home either (which is where I am heading, when I finally screw up the courage to leave my office). But saying I want to marry a rich man always leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. I would never want to commit myself to someone just based on their money. I just couldn't. It would be so soulless and depraved. Unkind I can be to myself; to someone else, I would never do such a thing. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it. I wear my feelings on my sleeve, all over my forehead, across my chest, and any place else you can imagine. Have known a number of dorky lawyers who bought too-fancy-too-fast-too-expensive cars to make up for shortcomings (literal and perceived) in order to "impress the ladies." Always wondered what the logic was there? Do you really want to be with someone who just likes you for your car? Do you really want to be with someone you like just for their car? All the while the two of you are making out, with the gear shift getting in the way, she trying to forget that he looks like a sweaty child molester and he trying to forget she is an uber-bitch. Is that happiness? Fulfillment (well other than momentary)? Is it right? Either way, not for me. Money, especially talking about it, whether it is how much you need or how much you have got, just turns me off. I guess I do want a rich man, but not like it sounds. A man rich with what he has; complete with what he has got. Everything he has metaphysical and physical is mine; Everything I have, metaphysical and physical is his. Somehow, whatever it adds up to, is always enough. I find it is always easier to work towards a goal in a team. I don't need to stop working. I need a teammate, so I can finally know what I am working for. Till then, just a 'fraidy cat...
Okay, it is officially tomorrow now. I have to be back here in less than 12 hours. Ooph. Hair coloration tomorrow morning. All those mirrors for 3 hours. Ugh. I guess I should go.
Bed time.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
*Looking up and around in complete incredulity*
*Kicking tires*
*Putting hand under fabric to see if it is see-through or not*
Umm, well, it appears I have changed the template of my blog. A little crisper and cleaner, but I am not convinced it is better. This 2/3 of of a page column width things makes the length of my diatribes, well, lengthier. But...there is now space between the lines, so maybe that helps in the reading of it.
Somehow the sidebar part with the titles of my posts and my archives is now down at the very bottom of the blog. Not sure how to move it? Made an attempt, but my clear lack of knowledge as to how HTML works was rather apparent. Kind of a featherless chicken result. Useful, maybe; but ultimately just freakish looking. So, if you are looking for ease of navigation. You must scroll... down, down, down... still not quite there... down. There.
Following the White Rabbit down the proverbial Rabbit Hole.
Not sure if I can promise a lot of the aspects of Wonderland. No hookah in sight. Am fond of tea though. Love hats, though my head is too big for them.
Anyway, so these are the new digs. Let's see how they work out.
My huge regret is that it erased all of my comments. Not that there were many, but I treasured them all. So if anyone ever feels like commenting out there ever again, please feel free. You are invited and encouraged to do so. The girl who fancies herself an auteur cherishes every single one of them.
*Kicking tires*
*Putting hand under fabric to see if it is see-through or not*
Umm, well, it appears I have changed the template of my blog. A little crisper and cleaner, but I am not convinced it is better. This 2/3 of of a page column width things makes the length of my diatribes, well, lengthier. But...there is now space between the lines, so maybe that helps in the reading of it.
Somehow the sidebar part with the titles of my posts and my archives is now down at the very bottom of the blog. Not sure how to move it? Made an attempt, but my clear lack of knowledge as to how HTML works was rather apparent. Kind of a featherless chicken result. Useful, maybe; but ultimately just freakish looking. So, if you are looking for ease of navigation. You must scroll... down, down, down... still not quite there... down. There.
Following the White Rabbit down the proverbial Rabbit Hole.
Not sure if I can promise a lot of the aspects of Wonderland. No hookah in sight. Am fond of tea though. Love hats, though my head is too big for them.
Anyway, so these are the new digs. Let's see how they work out.
My huge regret is that it erased all of my comments. Not that there were many, but I treasured them all. So if anyone ever feels like commenting out there ever again, please feel free. You are invited and encouraged to do so. The girl who fancies herself an auteur cherishes every single one of them.
Tired, sluggish and uninspired today.
The energy required to memorialize something (rant or rave) eludes me today.
So, a little potpourri before I bow out of the Center Ring of the Big Top this evening:
My mother.
A controversial figure. Well, at least I have made her out to be. I hope, however, that in detailing her shortcomings here and elsewhere in my life, while I may have been ungrateful, that I was not spiteful and led people to believe that I ever thought that any of the things she has ever done with me she has not done with my best interests at heart. Wrong she may have been, but she has always acted in a manner where, even (or especially) when I didn't deserve it, she put trying to attend to my interests far before her own. As a word, "selfless" doesn't even begin to give my mother her due. "Generous" is a start, but is devoid of the depth of emotion required for an apt description. I guess, "mother" is probably the only fair word. With all of the good and all of the bad that it might connote, it is a word attached to many, but a mantle firmly secured by a proud few. She is not perfect, and she has screwed up a lot, but my mother has always tried and never, ever given up. In the end, it is hard to ask for more than that. You can, but, in doing so, you ignore how far ahead of the game you are.
It seems to me parenting is supposed to be an act defined by its selflessness. To be a parent is to define yourself exclusively by others. And a lot of times those others are a handful. In other words, it is a thankless job that goes on for the rest of your life and requires a complete divestment of ego. In other words, it is a true labor of love, in ever sense of the word. There are a lot of people out there, however, who have selfish parents. Who are more concerned about how they are perceived as parents to the rest of the world, than tending to the charges they have brought into this world. Living with that is difficult.
But my point here, as roundabout as it is, is that, as much as I may complain about my mom, sometimes, oftentimes, she does have a point. For instance, I have long complained of not having "any hand-eye coordination." My mother's response, "Of course you have hand-eye coordination, otherwise everytime you went to eat something, you would miss your mouth and stick your fork in your eye." (Can you see where I get this tendency towards vivid imagery/flair for the absurd?) Anyway, I have long cited that quote of my mother's, if only because I think that "sticking your fork in your eye" imagery is funny. (Call me macabre...) However, in a recent conversation with my mother, it comes to light that once again, she was teaching without really telling.
I have always been so literal, so hyper-sensitive, I have required detailed and explicit explanation of the meanings of everything, as well as any underlying intentions. Otherwise I just don't get it. I see the trees. But never the forest. Anyway, I was telling her about my recent troubles: How I have been feeling; How I just want to run away; Lamenting the lack of a blooming money tree to make it all happen. It was mostly about venting out loud because my mom is not so good with dealing with feelings. They make her nervous. She laughs. Laughs a lot. At the most inappropriate times. That is how she deals. But if you don't know her, it seems, well, odd. She didn't laugh this time, so that was good. She did launch into cliches (which is also normal), she's got a number of all-time greatest hits that make their way into any conversation: "Everything in excess is bad" is one, and "Cuando la vida te da limones, hace limonada" (When life gives you lemons, make lemonade) is another. Formalities having been exchanged, those were clearly thrown out, and thus we were on to the main event. Upon my concluding rant that "I would be alone forever" and that it was good she has four other children so that they can provide her with grandchildren someday, my mom says, oh so originally: "You can't love someone else till you love yourself." (Did I mention she loves Dr. Laura, and maybe Dr. Phil. All of those first-name only professionals really speak to her). I then respond that, "I am incapable of loving myself. So what do I do then? Does that mean there is no hope for me?" A pause. (Not really what you want to hear from anyone after such a question. Hesitation as a response there is never good. But it is especially bad when it comes from your own mother. D'oh!). Clearly, I was hanging on a precipice - adult pain and childhood insecurities potentially coming together to swirl into a psychiatric Perfect Storm. But then, at the last minute, my mother, mi mama, pulled it out. "You are capable of loving yourself. You do. You love yourself enough to get up in the morning and brush your teeth. You love yourself enough to walk on the sidewalk and not into traffic. You love yourself enough to put clothes on to keep warm and not get sick." And there it is, my mother's "you don't stick a fork in your eye" wisdom reemerging after all these years. This time around, surprisingly enough given how hysterical I have been lately, I actually heard her though: You do love yourself, at least a little.... And that is something. It is someplace to start. She's not really all that articulate, but if you listen, apparently, my mom does have something to say.
The energy required to memorialize something (rant or rave) eludes me today.
So, a little potpourri before I bow out of the Center Ring of the Big Top this evening:
My mother.
A controversial figure. Well, at least I have made her out to be. I hope, however, that in detailing her shortcomings here and elsewhere in my life, while I may have been ungrateful, that I was not spiteful and led people to believe that I ever thought that any of the things she has ever done with me she has not done with my best interests at heart. Wrong she may have been, but she has always acted in a manner where, even (or especially) when I didn't deserve it, she put trying to attend to my interests far before her own. As a word, "selfless" doesn't even begin to give my mother her due. "Generous" is a start, but is devoid of the depth of emotion required for an apt description. I guess, "mother" is probably the only fair word. With all of the good and all of the bad that it might connote, it is a word attached to many, but a mantle firmly secured by a proud few. She is not perfect, and she has screwed up a lot, but my mother has always tried and never, ever given up. In the end, it is hard to ask for more than that. You can, but, in doing so, you ignore how far ahead of the game you are.
It seems to me parenting is supposed to be an act defined by its selflessness. To be a parent is to define yourself exclusively by others. And a lot of times those others are a handful. In other words, it is a thankless job that goes on for the rest of your life and requires a complete divestment of ego. In other words, it is a true labor of love, in ever sense of the word. There are a lot of people out there, however, who have selfish parents. Who are more concerned about how they are perceived as parents to the rest of the world, than tending to the charges they have brought into this world. Living with that is difficult.
But my point here, as roundabout as it is, is that, as much as I may complain about my mom, sometimes, oftentimes, she does have a point. For instance, I have long complained of not having "any hand-eye coordination." My mother's response, "Of course you have hand-eye coordination, otherwise everytime you went to eat something, you would miss your mouth and stick your fork in your eye." (Can you see where I get this tendency towards vivid imagery/flair for the absurd?) Anyway, I have long cited that quote of my mother's, if only because I think that "sticking your fork in your eye" imagery is funny. (Call me macabre...) However, in a recent conversation with my mother, it comes to light that once again, she was teaching without really telling.
I have always been so literal, so hyper-sensitive, I have required detailed and explicit explanation of the meanings of everything, as well as any underlying intentions. Otherwise I just don't get it. I see the trees. But never the forest. Anyway, I was telling her about my recent troubles: How I have been feeling; How I just want to run away; Lamenting the lack of a blooming money tree to make it all happen. It was mostly about venting out loud because my mom is not so good with dealing with feelings. They make her nervous. She laughs. Laughs a lot. At the most inappropriate times. That is how she deals. But if you don't know her, it seems, well, odd. She didn't laugh this time, so that was good. She did launch into cliches (which is also normal), she's got a number of all-time greatest hits that make their way into any conversation: "Everything in excess is bad" is one, and "Cuando la vida te da limones, hace limonada" (When life gives you lemons, make lemonade) is another. Formalities having been exchanged, those were clearly thrown out, and thus we were on to the main event. Upon my concluding rant that "I would be alone forever" and that it was good she has four other children so that they can provide her with grandchildren someday, my mom says, oh so originally: "You can't love someone else till you love yourself." (Did I mention she loves Dr. Laura, and maybe Dr. Phil. All of those first-name only professionals really speak to her). I then respond that, "I am incapable of loving myself. So what do I do then? Does that mean there is no hope for me?" A pause. (Not really what you want to hear from anyone after such a question. Hesitation as a response there is never good. But it is especially bad when it comes from your own mother. D'oh!). Clearly, I was hanging on a precipice - adult pain and childhood insecurities potentially coming together to swirl into a psychiatric Perfect Storm. But then, at the last minute, my mother, mi mama, pulled it out. "You are capable of loving yourself. You do. You love yourself enough to get up in the morning and brush your teeth. You love yourself enough to walk on the sidewalk and not into traffic. You love yourself enough to put clothes on to keep warm and not get sick." And there it is, my mother's "you don't stick a fork in your eye" wisdom reemerging after all these years. This time around, surprisingly enough given how hysterical I have been lately, I actually heard her though: You do love yourself, at least a little.... And that is something. It is someplace to start. She's not really all that articulate, but if you listen, apparently, my mom does have something to say.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
BTW, my Blog is, apparently, totally ghetto.
No little headline "thingies" so you have to wade through the buckets o' useless prose to actually figure out what I might be saying.
Formatting is all wrong. I just discovered embedded links. No links to other blogs neatly posted along the side. No pictures. No sound. Though, even if I knew how to do it, I would not include any sound on my blog anyway. No one wants to hear "Dancing Nancies" on continual loop.
Clearly, I am running the cocktail napkin scrawling of Blogs.
Nice.
Was going to try to be surprising and change, and perhaps adopt some of these changes, but apparently you get what you pay for. My free ISP won't provide it; I as your free entertainer thus won't follow through.
Cheap.
Still feeling vile; Still hating myself more than anything else I can possibly imagine in this world; Still trying to sink into my floor so as not to have to really exist on the plain and thus feel the immensity of me. But... all that being said, I have decided that all of those complaints are boring. They also tend to make people uncomfortable and given that I should at least pretend that people read this thing, it is probably inappropriate to self-flagellate every day. So will try to limit myself to once or twice a week. Maybe I could resolve to do that for Lent? I resolve to do everthing for Lent, but mostly it is about trying to diet. Lord knows I need it this year. Also, it often seems Catholocism is about nothing more than continual self-flagellation. So actually, I am quite pious. God is pleased that I hate myself. Go red-staters!
Still, I am working on letting anger towards others, if not myself go. It occurs to me that this might entail letting people go from my life. People leave my life all the time (run is probably more like it), but never on my terms. And I never really come to grips with their departure. Never give up; hold onto the pain of rejection. Yeah, I am a party girl!
Anyway, been meaning to do this for a while. There are a couple of people I am definitely willing to let go of (though, it must be said, they both fall into that category of people who left me), and thus commemorate doing so now.
Person #1 - let's call her Desdemona (why, just because (1) I don't want to call her person number 1, and (2) I need to make use of my Othello knowlegde somewhere) basically did the unforgivable. She bailed and basically told me she purposefully bailed because she couldn't take being around me (and, to be fair to her, and the way I treat myself) anymore. At the time, I told her I understood. I thought I did. Hell, if I had the choice, I would not want to be around me either. However, being a friend entails dealing with good and bad, and sometimes a friendship has more bad than good, but you stick with it because you are friends. A tautological explanation to be sure, but that's what it is. It is what it is. You are friends and you suck it up. Not this person. She bailed. And ultimately, it is unforgivable. Moreso because of the extreme position of trust she was in. If you had asked me, I would have said she was one of my best friends. And she bailed. She bailed. Clearly I am not over it because otherwise I would be bathing in indifference rather than seething in anger. But, I really have no urge to forgive her. I just can't. She bailed because I wouldn't do the things she wanted me to do to change my life. I told her why I wouldn't do them (case in point, I will not take antidepressants because they will fuck up my metabolism - which they did) and she didn't care. She thought I was insensitive and an idiot. Maybe I am. But I was never that way towards her. Then again, this is also the person who told me I shouldn't ask for a transfer of offices that I clearly needed to make (for my mental well being) because it would jeopardize my career (which if she had been listening to me at all for the past three years, she would know that I care less than nothing about). In the end, I suppose it was her way or the highway. Highway it is then. It is just difficult when someone professes to be a close friend of yours and then eliminates you. Betrayal of friendship is more painful than betrayal of romance. I know romantic things will end, and sooner rather than later, and that they are meant to be excruciatingly painful. But friendship is not supposed to be like that. It is meant to be a buffer, a comfort, a support.
Yeah right.
Am I petty because I want to send her a rather unpleasant e-mail detailing her betrayal, how much it hurt me, and how much she sucks? (I know the answer is YES, and I know I won't send her such a letter, but I still want too. Yet another thing to add to the list of "things I need to work on in order not to be a bad person" - crap!)
Person #2 - let's call him Iago (the malevolence implied by that name actually doesn't suit him, but I need to run with my Othello theme, and like saying "Iago") - was a very good friend. Then he wasn't. Then he disappeared. I have seen him 3 times in the last year and a half for a total of about 4 minutes. The girlfriend moved in with him, but really, I don't think that was the problem. I have lost friends when they became more involved before, but this didn't feel like that. And truly, I have seen her a lot more than I have seen him in the last year and a half. So really, I have no idea. At least he didn't say that he intentionally stopped speaking to me because he couldn't stand to deal with me anymore. Fantastic. So much for that. So there it is: Here lies friendship with Iago, 2001 - 2003?/2004?. May the friendship rest in peace.
That makes me think that it might be an interesting exercise to write one's own eulogy. Isn't that a standard for most english classes these days? I never got that particular assignment, but it might be interesting in valuing how well lived one's own life has been (a real-time assessment, if you will). What might be even more interesting is having someone else you know write your eulogy.... revealing to be sure.
BTW: Eulogy v. elegy? Anyone? Anyone?
So, if I were to write my euology/elegy it would probably go something as follows:
Here lies CLC. Though hyphenated and oftentimes fragmented, she meant well.
No, no. That won't do. No apologies. Just truth.
Here lies CLC. Her time here totaled over a quarter century [NOTE: We know that much is true. Here's hoping it can eventually be changed to "over a century"] but as to life actually lived, her years were far less than those deemed by biology. She matured, on a physical level, on the same timetable as everyone else. Her emotional coming of age did not occur till after the dawning of year 25. [Damn, this is a boring eulogy.... zzzzzzz]
Okay, again...once more, with feeling:
Here lies CLC.
She was always moving. Sometime she was moving backwards, at other times she was pitching forwards. The combination of the two oftentimes left her in a crazy lateral holding pattern, which in turn presented as inertia to her and the rest of the world. It frustrated her to no end.
But truth is, as that is all that is left in the wake of death, she was always moving. Though she was always afraid, she was always moving. To new geographical locations - some challenging in their distance from home; others in their proximity to it. To new experiences - private schooling in the original Ivory Tower; graduate school keyed to a study of justice, in the end a lifelong commitment to the career of hide and seek; working, making a living which keeps one's hands soft, but makes one's soul hard, at least around the edges. To new people - blessed with friends, even in spite of herself. The friends that remained, taught her truth and the buoyancy and resiliency of love. The friends that moved on, taught her lessons, some in their presence, some in their departure. She was better for having known all of them.
She aspired.
Aspired to many things.
To a life not filled with regret. She learned the cliche is possible to achieve, in realizing that immediate regret as an impulse is inevitable; it makes you careful, which in turn makes you good. Regret as a long term descriptor is a cancer, which will pain you and continue to suffer and be consumed long after you shuffle off of this mortal coil.
Every moment of her life, as she lived it, was filled with regret; yet, surprisingly, in the end she owned it all. All of it: Blessings and curses; the happiest memories, the searing body blows; the time spent, the time passed; the time wasted; the time enjoyed.
She cheated, she lied, she calculated, she faltered, she failed, she disappointed, she dwelled; she forgot.
She did.
She laughed, she achieved, she wandered, she gazed, she gave, she tried, she meant, she considered, she played, she listened, she talked.
She loved. If not herself, then others. Always. Nothing more, nothing less.
Perhaps a life well lived after all.
Or, if you prefer the short version:
Here lies CLC. She loved Starbucks.
No little headline "thingies" so you have to wade through the buckets o' useless prose to actually figure out what I might be saying.
Formatting is all wrong. I just discovered embedded links. No links to other blogs neatly posted along the side. No pictures. No sound. Though, even if I knew how to do it, I would not include any sound on my blog anyway. No one wants to hear "Dancing Nancies" on continual loop.
Clearly, I am running the cocktail napkin scrawling of Blogs.
Nice.
Was going to try to be surprising and change, and perhaps adopt some of these changes, but apparently you get what you pay for. My free ISP won't provide it; I as your free entertainer thus won't follow through.
Cheap.
Still feeling vile; Still hating myself more than anything else I can possibly imagine in this world; Still trying to sink into my floor so as not to have to really exist on the plain and thus feel the immensity of me. But... all that being said, I have decided that all of those complaints are boring. They also tend to make people uncomfortable and given that I should at least pretend that people read this thing, it is probably inappropriate to self-flagellate every day. So will try to limit myself to once or twice a week. Maybe I could resolve to do that for Lent? I resolve to do everthing for Lent, but mostly it is about trying to diet. Lord knows I need it this year. Also, it often seems Catholocism is about nothing more than continual self-flagellation. So actually, I am quite pious. God is pleased that I hate myself. Go red-staters!
Still, I am working on letting anger towards others, if not myself go. It occurs to me that this might entail letting people go from my life. People leave my life all the time (run is probably more like it), but never on my terms. And I never really come to grips with their departure. Never give up; hold onto the pain of rejection. Yeah, I am a party girl!
Anyway, been meaning to do this for a while. There are a couple of people I am definitely willing to let go of (though, it must be said, they both fall into that category of people who left me), and thus commemorate doing so now.
Person #1 - let's call her Desdemona (why, just because (1) I don't want to call her person number 1, and (2) I need to make use of my Othello knowlegde somewhere) basically did the unforgivable. She bailed and basically told me she purposefully bailed because she couldn't take being around me (and, to be fair to her, and the way I treat myself) anymore. At the time, I told her I understood. I thought I did. Hell, if I had the choice, I would not want to be around me either. However, being a friend entails dealing with good and bad, and sometimes a friendship has more bad than good, but you stick with it because you are friends. A tautological explanation to be sure, but that's what it is. It is what it is. You are friends and you suck it up. Not this person. She bailed. And ultimately, it is unforgivable. Moreso because of the extreme position of trust she was in. If you had asked me, I would have said she was one of my best friends. And she bailed. She bailed. Clearly I am not over it because otherwise I would be bathing in indifference rather than seething in anger. But, I really have no urge to forgive her. I just can't. She bailed because I wouldn't do the things she wanted me to do to change my life. I told her why I wouldn't do them (case in point, I will not take antidepressants because they will fuck up my metabolism - which they did) and she didn't care. She thought I was insensitive and an idiot. Maybe I am. But I was never that way towards her. Then again, this is also the person who told me I shouldn't ask for a transfer of offices that I clearly needed to make (for my mental well being) because it would jeopardize my career (which if she had been listening to me at all for the past three years, she would know that I care less than nothing about). In the end, I suppose it was her way or the highway. Highway it is then. It is just difficult when someone professes to be a close friend of yours and then eliminates you. Betrayal of friendship is more painful than betrayal of romance. I know romantic things will end, and sooner rather than later, and that they are meant to be excruciatingly painful. But friendship is not supposed to be like that. It is meant to be a buffer, a comfort, a support.
Yeah right.
Am I petty because I want to send her a rather unpleasant e-mail detailing her betrayal, how much it hurt me, and how much she sucks? (I know the answer is YES, and I know I won't send her such a letter, but I still want too. Yet another thing to add to the list of "things I need to work on in order not to be a bad person" - crap!)
Person #2 - let's call him Iago (the malevolence implied by that name actually doesn't suit him, but I need to run with my Othello theme, and like saying "Iago") - was a very good friend. Then he wasn't. Then he disappeared. I have seen him 3 times in the last year and a half for a total of about 4 minutes. The girlfriend moved in with him, but really, I don't think that was the problem. I have lost friends when they became more involved before, but this didn't feel like that. And truly, I have seen her a lot more than I have seen him in the last year and a half. So really, I have no idea. At least he didn't say that he intentionally stopped speaking to me because he couldn't stand to deal with me anymore. Fantastic. So much for that. So there it is: Here lies friendship with Iago, 2001 - 2003?/2004?. May the friendship rest in peace.
That makes me think that it might be an interesting exercise to write one's own eulogy. Isn't that a standard for most english classes these days? I never got that particular assignment, but it might be interesting in valuing how well lived one's own life has been (a real-time assessment, if you will). What might be even more interesting is having someone else you know write your eulogy.... revealing to be sure.
BTW: Eulogy v. elegy? Anyone? Anyone?
So, if I were to write my euology/elegy it would probably go something as follows:
Here lies CLC. Though hyphenated and oftentimes fragmented, she meant well.
No, no. That won't do. No apologies. Just truth.
Here lies CLC. Her time here totaled over a quarter century [NOTE: We know that much is true. Here's hoping it can eventually be changed to "over a century"] but as to life actually lived, her years were far less than those deemed by biology. She matured, on a physical level, on the same timetable as everyone else. Her emotional coming of age did not occur till after the dawning of year 25. [Damn, this is a boring eulogy.... zzzzzzz]
Okay, again...once more, with feeling:
Here lies CLC.
She was always moving. Sometime she was moving backwards, at other times she was pitching forwards. The combination of the two oftentimes left her in a crazy lateral holding pattern, which in turn presented as inertia to her and the rest of the world. It frustrated her to no end.
But truth is, as that is all that is left in the wake of death, she was always moving. Though she was always afraid, she was always moving. To new geographical locations - some challenging in their distance from home; others in their proximity to it. To new experiences - private schooling in the original Ivory Tower; graduate school keyed to a study of justice, in the end a lifelong commitment to the career of hide and seek; working, making a living which keeps one's hands soft, but makes one's soul hard, at least around the edges. To new people - blessed with friends, even in spite of herself. The friends that remained, taught her truth and the buoyancy and resiliency of love. The friends that moved on, taught her lessons, some in their presence, some in their departure. She was better for having known all of them.
She aspired.
Aspired to many things.
To a life not filled with regret. She learned the cliche is possible to achieve, in realizing that immediate regret as an impulse is inevitable; it makes you careful, which in turn makes you good. Regret as a long term descriptor is a cancer, which will pain you and continue to suffer and be consumed long after you shuffle off of this mortal coil.
Every moment of her life, as she lived it, was filled with regret; yet, surprisingly, in the end she owned it all. All of it: Blessings and curses; the happiest memories, the searing body blows; the time spent, the time passed; the time wasted; the time enjoyed.
She cheated, she lied, she calculated, she faltered, she failed, she disappointed, she dwelled; she forgot.
She did.
She laughed, she achieved, she wandered, she gazed, she gave, she tried, she meant, she considered, she played, she listened, she talked.
She loved. If not herself, then others. Always. Nothing more, nothing less.
Perhaps a life well lived after all.
Or, if you prefer the short version:
Here lies CLC. She loved Starbucks.
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