Sunday, July 02, 2006
Note to self:
Janice Dickenson Modeling Agency is crack. I'm getting stupider by the second, but I can't stop.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Jiggity jig
It's funny how little things seem to change. I arrived in DC late last night. For whatever reason, my father turns airport pick-ups into some sort of Ocean's 11-type mission. He picks up at DEPARTURES, not Arrivals and sends one of the little brothers in to wait by the escalator between baggage claim and Departures. Last night, we had a three-person team on the mission. I have no idea why - many of his more recent peculiarities, I blame on retirement.
This week, every time I've told people that I'm going home to DC, I've indicated apprehension about the heat, humidity, recent flooding, and weather in general. However, I found myself rushing outside. Humidity at night retreats to something lush.
I opened the car door and was enveloped in the scent of jasmine - not the cheesy air freshner kind. My mother (staying up way past her bedtime) had come along and brought me a jasmine mala . In the car, my parents studiously only asked me questions about the flight. (I have complained, quite bitterly, about the Spanish Inquisition on the car ride home.) My mother started the smothering (notice how the word 'mother' is right in there?) on the topic of climate control. The smothering is like a physical entity - ivy growing, entwining itself around the victim. The worst part is that I find myself doing it too. There are times when my mother pries open my jaws and has her say: "You'll be cold without a sweater" (said to Neel Mehta at our Maverick dinner - more to come on this.)
We piled out of the car and I took my things up to the bedroom of my childhood (recently abandoned by LB2.) I slept in the twin bed I occupied from age 7 to 17 (canopy removed to "butch it up" for my little brother.)
And now, I'm watching the World Cup with my parents, just like I did in 2002, 1998, 1994, etc.
This week, every time I've told people that I'm going home to DC, I've indicated apprehension about the heat, humidity, recent flooding, and weather in general. However, I found myself rushing outside. Humidity at night retreats to something lush.
I opened the car door and was enveloped in the scent of jasmine - not the cheesy air freshner kind. My mother (staying up way past her bedtime) had come along and brought me a jasmine mala . In the car, my parents studiously only asked me questions about the flight. (I have complained, quite bitterly, about the Spanish Inquisition on the car ride home.) My mother started the smothering (notice how the word 'mother' is right in there?) on the topic of climate control. The smothering is like a physical entity - ivy growing, entwining itself around the victim. The worst part is that I find myself doing it too. There are times when my mother pries open my jaws and has her say: "You'll be cold without a sweater" (said to Neel Mehta at our Maverick dinner - more to come on this.)
We piled out of the car and I took my things up to the bedroom of my childhood (recently abandoned by LB2.) I slept in the twin bed I occupied from age 7 to 17 (canopy removed to "butch it up" for my little brother.)
And now, I'm watching the World Cup with my parents, just like I did in 2002, 1998, 1994, etc.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Nightgrinder
My favorite part: My dentist hovered over me, eyebrows creased with concern, announced that I had started grinding my teeth and asked, "Is there anything stressful in your life?"
It may not have been polite to laugh that heartily with his face only inches away. He started laughing too and said, "I love asking that question - everyone always responds the same way. Unless you're living in a small Mexican fishing village, everyone's life has stress."
The news that I'm grinding my teeth at night has left me feeling oddly....broken. I think it scares me that I may be so out of touch with myself that I am manifesting anxiety in this visceral, physical way. That there might be this whole cistern of unhappiness that only seeps out at night.
For now, I am popping anti-inflammatories (my cheeks are quite round enough without the puffiness, thank you!) and using a nightguard. (My rockstar dentist decided to just make one for me because sending it to the lab would take too long.)
I seem to have taken yet-another unplanned hiatus from ze blog. As usual, the hiatus does not indicate nothing to write about, but rather too much. I see myself as an old-time telephone operator, eyes scanning the switchboard for little pinpricks of light. My fingers are flying as fast as they can, and yet, that's the easy part. I am considering the unconsiderable - looking at the clay and asking it to speak to me. Will I be quiet enough to hear it?
It may not have been polite to laugh that heartily with his face only inches away. He started laughing too and said, "I love asking that question - everyone always responds the same way. Unless you're living in a small Mexican fishing village, everyone's life has stress."
.........
The news that I'm grinding my teeth at night has left me feeling oddly....broken. I think it scares me that I may be so out of touch with myself that I am manifesting anxiety in this visceral, physical way. That there might be this whole cistern of unhappiness that only seeps out at night.
For now, I am popping anti-inflammatories (my cheeks are quite round enough without the puffiness, thank you!) and using a nightguard. (My rockstar dentist decided to just make one for me because sending it to the lab would take too long.)
.........
I seem to have taken yet-another unplanned hiatus from ze blog. As usual, the hiatus does not indicate nothing to write about, but rather too much. I see myself as an old-time telephone operator, eyes scanning the switchboard for little pinpricks of light. My fingers are flying as fast as they can, and yet, that's the easy part. I am considering the unconsiderable - looking at the clay and asking it to speak to me. Will I be quiet enough to hear it?
Friday, June 23, 2006
55 Fiction Friday: Compendium
Friday makes a list and checks it twice, even though it's totally not seasonal.
“Make new friends.... Find new job where boss is not despotic idiot …. Take charge of finances …. Apply to grad school…. Plan a vacation …. Dump guy you never see anyway …. Clean and organize apartment.” With a heavy sigh, she drew a line through the whole list and neatly printed, “GET A LIFE.”
And...something I've been meaning to do - a reverse chron list of my FFF to date:
“Make new friends.... Find new job where boss is not despotic idiot …. Take charge of finances …. Apply to grad school…. Plan a vacation …. Dump guy you never see anyway …. Clean and organize apartment.” With a heavy sigh, she drew a line through the whole list and neatly printed, “GET A LIFE.”
.........
And...something I've been meaning to do - a reverse chron list of my FFF to date:
- Compendium (see how I did that? It's, like, so meta!)
- Nonfat latte
- Law School Sympathy
- Midnight Sun
- She's crafty
Monday, June 12, 2006
Least Complicated
I finally did it! I finally managed to lie about my dating status. Or at least, dissemble.
The delivery guy was clearly Indian (his compatriot called him Bapu - BAPU, for pete's sake!) , so I decided to try and circumvent the 20 questions by asking him where in India he was from. He replied, "India." This was going to go well, I could just tell. My first name (on all the delivery papers) couldn't be more Indian if I tried. (So is my last name, but only if you're familiar with our little neck of the woods.)
I was signing papers for the delivery guy when he said "So, you live alone." To anyone inside my apartment, it's beyond obvious that I live by myself - but why (WHY) would a delivery guy comment on it? It's creepy! Then he said, "You don't have boyFREN?" I managed to sputter "I didn't say THAT." Oddly, he had me totally pegged: "You just don't want to LIVE with him." I'm not sure if that was meant as a commentary on my domestic failings or a simple observation, but I couldn't have said it better myself.
The delivery guy was clearly Indian (his compatriot called him Bapu - BAPU, for pete's sake!) , so I decided to try and circumvent the 20 questions by asking him where in India he was from. He replied, "India." This was going to go well, I could just tell. My first name (on all the delivery papers) couldn't be more Indian if I tried. (So is my last name, but only if you're familiar with our little neck of the woods.)
I was signing papers for the delivery guy when he said "So, you live alone." To anyone inside my apartment, it's beyond obvious that I live by myself - but why (WHY) would a delivery guy comment on it? It's creepy! Then he said, "You don't have boyFREN?" I managed to sputter "I didn't say THAT." Oddly, he had me totally pegged: "You just don't want to LIVE with him." I'm not sure if that was meant as a commentary on my domestic failings or a simple observation, but I couldn't have said it better myself.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Olé, Ola, Allez
In honor of the World Cup, a story about my mother:
Our family has always been into sports. I remember watching tennis when we lived in France. (Aside: when I asked my father about the scoring, in time-honored paternal fashion, he told me to figure it out. I’m sure I wasn’t the first 5 year old to not be able to decipher “love-15-30-40” not to mention deuce, add-in, add-out, tiebreakers, etc. Sometimes, Pops, you should explain what’s going on.) After we moved to the U.S., we watched (American) football and were solid Redskins fans. At some point while I was in college, Mom turned into a raging basketball fan (but that’s a story for another day.)
All the kids in my family started playing soccer at a young age. Saturday morning games were a large part of my childhood. The parents thronging the sidelines reflected one of my favorite aspects of D.C. – it’s cultural and linguistic diversity. Cantonese, Bahasa Indonesia, Hindi, a smattering of West African languages, Portuguese, Spanish, French – I’ve heard it all at youth soccer games. (I remember listening to an Argentinean dad and realizing that he was yelling at his son in a language other than Spanish. When I asked him about he said “Yes, I’m speaking Italian – that’s where our family moved from.” For some reason, this blew my mind – I guess I just assumed, based on our family, that people moved to English speaking countries.)
The year was 1994 – World Cup Fever was sweeping the U.S. (More accurately, it was sweeping a certain segment of the American population.) This coincided with what was probably the nadir of my relationship with my parents. They just didn’t know what to do with me and were trying to clamp down tighter and tighter, and I was reacting (predictably) unfavorably. Thankfully, our family was able to agree on watching soccer games.
We had watched most of the Round of 16, and we were all arrayed in our preferred seats. The final was between Brazil and Italy. I’ve been a Brazilian soccer fan for a long time, so I was perturbed that my mother was supporting Italy. When asked why, she said (try and follow the logic), “Roberto Baggio is a Buddhist, and that’s sort of like being Hindu.” Not surprisingly, I pointed out that the rest of the Italian team was most likely Roman Catholic. She said, “Still – one is better than none. And I’m sure the Brazilian team is all Christian.”
One is better than none, indeed.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
DTG does the Bar
(May not make sense to non-law types)
DTG: VA civ pro blows
maisnon17: :-)
maisnon17: I remember Conrad asking me about CA civ pro
maisnon17: and I had to tell him that we only need to know FRCP
maisnon17: no Cali specific-stuff. He was irate
DTG: yeah, I resent people who are taking the truly easy bars like jersey and ct
maisnon17: dude, NO ONE would call the California bar easy
maisnon17: I think NY is harder, but people often put Cali ahead b/c of its dismal pass rate
DTG: yeah, Cali has it's own issue with the third day
maisnon17: THE THIRD DAY
DTG: duh duh duh
maisnon17: man, I think we could make it a movie:
maisnon17: THE THIRD DAY: The Widowmaker
DTG: today I was contemplating how much i would pay to get automatically barred
DTG: I think I came up with 25k
maisnon17: dude, when I was studying for the Bar
maisnon17: I considered whether I'd do an extra semester of law school
maisnon17: b/c - studying is like 2 months, and a semester is 4
DTG: this is more studying than I've done in law school in total
DTG: my brain is pissed at me
DTG: VA civ pro blows
maisnon17: :-)
maisnon17: I remember Conrad asking me about CA civ pro
maisnon17: and I had to tell him that we only need to know FRCP
maisnon17: no Cali specific-stuff. He was irate
DTG: yeah, I resent people who are taking the truly easy bars like jersey and ct
maisnon17: dude, NO ONE would call the California bar easy
maisnon17: I think NY is harder, but people often put Cali ahead b/c of its dismal pass rate
DTG: yeah, Cali has it's own issue with the third day
maisnon17: THE THIRD DAY
DTG: duh duh duh
maisnon17: man, I think we could make it a movie:
maisnon17: THE THIRD DAY: The Widowmaker
DTG: today I was contemplating how much i would pay to get automatically barred
DTG: I think I came up with 25k
maisnon17: dude, when I was studying for the Bar
maisnon17: I considered whether I'd do an extra semester of law school
maisnon17: b/c - studying is like 2 months, and a semester is 4
DTG: this is more studying than I've done in law school in total
DTG: my brain is pissed at me
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See
Whenever I get sick, my mother asks me the same thing: Why?
And it annoys the crap out of me every time. (It goes without saying that if I'm sick, I'm already crankypants to start with.) The last go around, I told her "well, a microorganism has invaded my body, and my immune response is staging a rousing defense. Thus, elevated temperature, increased mucosal secretions (resulting in post-nasal drip, i.e. sore throat), etc. etc." She amended, "I mean, what are your symptoms."
I woke up this morning with that odd little tickle, like a nagging memory of something you've forgotten to do. I had to close my eyes and knit my brows together a little to figure it out: my throat did not.feel.right. Shit. Work is going to go to '11' next week, and as pretentious, ridiculous, and self-centered as it sounds - I don't have time to be sick right now.
I believe deeply in the power of the body to heal itself. Given the raw ingredients of water and sleep, it can work miracles. A lot of my "fighting off illness" measures are probably placebo effect - but if it works, who cares? Thus, I am guzzling Airborne® (mmm....pink grapefruit flavour!) and echinacea (which a friend calls Ganesha.)
Citrusy effervescence, meet elephant-headed god. Make me well.
And it annoys the crap out of me every time. (It goes without saying that if I'm sick, I'm already crankypants to start with.) The last go around, I told her "well, a microorganism has invaded my body, and my immune response is staging a rousing defense. Thus, elevated temperature, increased mucosal secretions (resulting in post-nasal drip, i.e. sore throat), etc. etc." She amended, "I mean, what are your symptoms."
.........
I woke up this morning with that odd little tickle, like a nagging memory of something you've forgotten to do. I had to close my eyes and knit my brows together a little to figure it out: my throat did not.feel.right. Shit. Work is going to go to '11' next week, and as pretentious, ridiculous, and self-centered as it sounds - I don't have time to be sick right now.
I believe deeply in the power of the body to heal itself. Given the raw ingredients of water and sleep, it can work miracles. A lot of my "fighting off illness" measures are probably placebo effect - but if it works, who cares? Thus, I am guzzling Airborne® (mmm....pink grapefruit flavour!) and echinacea (which a friend calls Ganesha.)
Citrusy effervescence, meet elephant-headed god. Make me well.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Happy, happy, happy
Why the new look, you may ask?
Because I've had the same one for a YEAR now! That's right - my blog has been around for a year. How bizzah. In that time, I have prepared for, taken, and passed the Bar exam (and been sworn into the California Bar.) I have remodeled and sold my home in the DC area. I have re-established myself in the Bay area - moving, buying a car, finding an apartment, locating the nearest Target, etc. And, oh yeah, starting a new career.
The blog has chronicled the emotional topography of the past year (for the most part: not surprisingly, there is some schtuff I keep off the Interwebs.) It has been an absolutely fabulous way to connect with and meet like-minded people. As much as my friends from high school, college, work life, etc. are wonderful people - my fellow bloggers also occupy a place in my heart. I'm a sucker for good writing and magnetically drawn to good storytelling, so it shouldn't be a surprise that I find the blogworld so sympatico.
What will the next year bring? Will she ... buy a new place? Start doing races again? Moderate her Target addiction. Tune in next time!
Because I've had the same one for a YEAR now! That's right - my blog has been around for a year. How bizzah. In that time, I have prepared for, taken, and passed the Bar exam (and been sworn into the California Bar.) I have remodeled and sold my home in the DC area. I have re-established myself in the Bay area - moving, buying a car, finding an apartment, locating the nearest Target, etc. And, oh yeah, starting a new career.
The blog has chronicled the emotional topography of the past year (for the most part: not surprisingly, there is some schtuff I keep off the Interwebs.) It has been an absolutely fabulous way to connect with and meet like-minded people. As much as my friends from high school, college, work life, etc. are wonderful people - my fellow bloggers also occupy a place in my heart. I'm a sucker for good writing and magnetically drawn to good storytelling, so it shouldn't be a surprise that I find the blogworld so sympatico.
What will the next year bring? Will she ... buy a new place? Start doing races again? Moderate her Target addiction. Tune in next time!
Monday, May 29, 2006
Jinx
Dateline: Miami
I was swirling a glass of shiraz at dinner when I jokingly said, "I'm making it an early night - I'll go to one bar, but I'm not coming home at 4 am wearing someone else's shoes." Famous last words. I know better than to make simple, declarative statements challenging the universe to prove me wrong.
After dinner (and drama)en famille with the rest of the firm's litigators, some of the cool kids hopped over to the Hotel Delano. A lot of people had noted that South Beach reminded them of L.A. in terms of the vacuous pandering to appearance. I don't think I really understood what they meant until we hit the Delano. I saw people (I'd say "women", but I'm not sure) in shapes, sizes, and colors not known to Nature. There was one woman who, I swear, was the exact shade of Crayola Crayon's Burnt Sienna.
We settled around a table near the gorgeous pool. The weather was perfect, the conversation was kickin' and before you know it the lights went on, the international symbol for "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." We headed across the street to the 24-hour Cuban food joint. Trust me when I say that it was the best food I had during my entire trip to Miami. We hailed two cabs and headed back to the hotel.
And here's where the misadventure starts.
Our cabbie was .... a little odd. He didn't pull over to the curb when we hailed him, and then quietly admonished us that he could get in trouble for stopping in the middle of the street. This was a bad sign, but one we didn't really notice at the time. Hint 2 might have been when he ran the red light and nearly T-boned another car. I'll let that sink in. The best part was that he started questioning us as to what had happened. Each of us said some version of "dude, YOU had the red." At this point, he had slowed down to about 15 mph, and was sort of clutching at his chest/feeling his forehead. (He was a young guy, so no real worry of a coronary.) I realized that the situation was getting desperate, so I tried to console him and said that running reds happens to everyone at some point, etc. How insane is that? But I just wanted to get back to the hotel and get in bed.
Driving, driving, driving.....slowly realizing that the guy doesn't know where the hotel is. And that he didn't/wouldn't radio to find out where it is. Finally, the associate from NY took charge and declared that we were close enough. We piled out of the cab and started walking. Walking. Our faithful 'Papa Smurf' led us in the direction and everything was going fine until we ran smack into a fence. Ladies and gentlemen, we had to hop the fence. In my case (and Amiga's) this meant hopping a fence in a dress and heels. I hate hopping fences in the best of circumstances, and this certainly wasn't ideal.
On the beach, it was magically quiet. The ocean, the stars, the stacked beach chairs....everything just seemed still, suspended. We set up some beach chairs, and the Parisian associate stripped down to his boxers to take a swim. It turned into a game of Marco Polo, every few minutes, one of us would raise our head off of our chaise lounge and call out "Antoine?" and he'd respond from the water. The insects started biting and we gathered ourselves for the home stretch.
Finally, finally in our hotel! Amiga and I shared the elevator. When she fumbled for her room key, I told her she should just sleep on the other bed in my room - it was 6 am for pete's sake. As she pulled the key from her purse, she said that she would have just gone down to the front desk for a new one if she hadn't been able to find it. We parted ways and I sauntered down my hallway, feeling the carpet underneath my toes, dangling my heels in my left hand. I slid the key card in, and .... nothing.
So, I headed back to the elevator, down to the reception desk. I used my best model walk (head high! shoulders back!) to glide across the lobby. I imagine I was a bit of a sight: dress, heels, full makeup, sand clinging to my ankles. Not surprisingly, the desk clerk asked for picture ID. I floated back to the elevator knowing full well that I looked like a "Walk of Shame." The whipped cream with cherry on top, for me, was calling back down to the same desk clerk to schedule a wake-up call and having him say "Have a good night." We both knew it was 6:15 am!!
The next day, we found out that the other cab was back at the hotel by 4:30 am. Nice.
So what happened? I joked about not coming home at 4 am wearing someone else's shoes, and I ended up coming home at 6 am wearing no shoes at all. Lesson learned: do not thumb your nose at the universe, because it will thumb right back.
I was swirling a glass of shiraz at dinner when I jokingly said, "I'm making it an early night - I'll go to one bar, but I'm not coming home at 4 am wearing someone else's shoes." Famous last words. I know better than to make simple, declarative statements challenging the universe to prove me wrong.
After dinner (and drama)en famille with the rest of the firm's litigators, some of the cool kids hopped over to the Hotel Delano. A lot of people had noted that South Beach reminded them of L.A. in terms of the vacuous pandering to appearance. I don't think I really understood what they meant until we hit the Delano. I saw people (I'd say "women", but I'm not sure) in shapes, sizes, and colors not known to Nature. There was one woman who, I swear, was the exact shade of Crayola Crayon's Burnt Sienna.
We settled around a table near the gorgeous pool. The weather was perfect, the conversation was kickin' and before you know it the lights went on, the international symbol for "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." We headed across the street to the 24-hour Cuban food joint. Trust me when I say that it was the best food I had during my entire trip to Miami. We hailed two cabs and headed back to the hotel.
And here's where the misadventure starts.
Our cabbie was .... a little odd. He didn't pull over to the curb when we hailed him, and then quietly admonished us that he could get in trouble for stopping in the middle of the street. This was a bad sign, but one we didn't really notice at the time. Hint 2 might have been when he ran the red light and nearly T-boned another car. I'll let that sink in. The best part was that he started questioning us as to what had happened. Each of us said some version of "dude, YOU had the red." At this point, he had slowed down to about 15 mph, and was sort of clutching at his chest/feeling his forehead. (He was a young guy, so no real worry of a coronary.) I realized that the situation was getting desperate, so I tried to console him and said that running reds happens to everyone at some point, etc. How insane is that? But I just wanted to get back to the hotel and get in bed.
Driving, driving, driving.....slowly realizing that the guy doesn't know where the hotel is. And that he didn't/wouldn't radio to find out where it is. Finally, the associate from NY took charge and declared that we were close enough. We piled out of the cab and started walking. Walking. Our faithful 'Papa Smurf' led us in the direction and everything was going fine until we ran smack into a fence. Ladies and gentlemen, we had to hop the fence. In my case (and Amiga's) this meant hopping a fence in a dress and heels. I hate hopping fences in the best of circumstances, and this certainly wasn't ideal.
On the beach, it was magically quiet. The ocean, the stars, the stacked beach chairs....everything just seemed still, suspended. We set up some beach chairs, and the Parisian associate stripped down to his boxers to take a swim. It turned into a game of Marco Polo, every few minutes, one of us would raise our head off of our chaise lounge and call out "Antoine?" and he'd respond from the water. The insects started biting and we gathered ourselves for the home stretch.
Finally, finally in our hotel! Amiga and I shared the elevator. When she fumbled for her room key, I told her she should just sleep on the other bed in my room - it was 6 am for pete's sake. As she pulled the key from her purse, she said that she would have just gone down to the front desk for a new one if she hadn't been able to find it. We parted ways and I sauntered down my hallway, feeling the carpet underneath my toes, dangling my heels in my left hand. I slid the key card in, and .... nothing.
So, I headed back to the elevator, down to the reception desk. I used my best model walk (head high! shoulders back!) to glide across the lobby. I imagine I was a bit of a sight: dress, heels, full makeup, sand clinging to my ankles. Not surprisingly, the desk clerk asked for picture ID. I floated back to the elevator knowing full well that I looked like a "Walk of Shame." The whipped cream with cherry on top, for me, was calling back down to the same desk clerk to schedule a wake-up call and having him say "Have a good night." We both knew it was 6:15 am!!
The next day, we found out that the other cab was back at the hotel by 4:30 am. Nice.
So what happened? I joked about not coming home at 4 am wearing someone else's shoes, and I ended up coming home at 6 am wearing no shoes at all. Lesson learned: do not thumb your nose at the universe, because it will thumb right back.
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