I know some other bloggers started a book club of sorts that focuses on women and the workplace. I think that's awesome, and one day I'm actually going to read one of the books.
However, if there's any area in which I've truly slacked off since coming to law school, it's my hobby of reading fiction. When I lived in Austin, I purposely chose an apartment complex directly across the street from a public library. Austin had a wonderful online service where you could request a book from anywhere in the system. They'd send the book to the library of my choice, notify me by email when it came in, and I'd walk across the street to pick it up. Before I started law school I read at least two books a week.
I'm not sure I even know where the public libraries in Big City are - so embarrassing. Over the holiday break I read about six or seven books and decided to make fiction reading a New Year's Resolution. How to do that? The goal is to read 30 pages of fiction every night before I go to bed. I won't break any reading records, but I will get back into the groove of reading.
Currently, I have about 25 pages left in Shadows on the Hudson by Isaac Singer. (It's one of my faves and since I don't know where the library is, I've slowly been re-reading my collection.) At any rate, I'm about to start a new one, and I'm inviting you to join me if you'd like.
This time I've actually ordered a used paperback off of Amazon so I'll be reading it for the first time. I plan to review it here on the blog sometime around February 27th. Feel free to make your own blog post or reply in the comments when the time comes.
AND THE FIRST BOOK SELECTION FOR ANA'S CRAZY FICTION BOOK CLUB IS:
...drumroll...
Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie
The book starts begins with the partition of India and Pakistan and moves on from there. But don't worry, it's not all political commentary. No, the novel is actually about every child born during the midnight hour of India's independence. All were born with some type of special powers, the narrator's being telepathy. Additionally, two children are switched at birth - one from a wealthy family and the other a result of an affair between an Indian woman and a British man. A little bit of history and a little bit of mysticism. Sounds like it could be good.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Top 1/3? That's average. Bottom 1/3? That's average, too.
Here’s the breakdown for grades at my school:
A = 4.0
A- = 3.66
B+ = 3.33
B = 3.00
B- = 2.67
C+ = 2.33
And so on…
Rankings recently came out for my class. The top 5% has an average of 3.66 or about an A-. To be in the top 25% you need a 3.33 or a B+ average. The next level down, 3.0 or B average, puts you in the ‘top’ 70%.
That’s right. Forty-five percent of my class has an average somewhere between a B and B+. The rankings come in 5% increments and the differences between each are a few hundredths of a point. One or two extra B’s can wipe you out in a semester. An A can send you sailing into academic mecca. If you take that extra effort to raise your hand regularly in class and get those participation points, you can graduate with honors.
When you look at those numbers, you think something must be wrong. Surely there must be a method to provide more differentiation between the top third and the bottom third. Perhaps more grades? A B++ worth 3.5 or a BB worth 3.16?
The problem is, many professors at my school think it’s already difficult enough to distinguish between a B and B+ exam. Often times when I’ve visited a professor about a former test, they can show me the difference between an A and a B paper, but when I ask about a B+? They swirl their pencil over the entire paper and say, “One more point here, one more point there.” Sometimes I wonder if my GPA would be higher if only I could type faster.
Perhaps the best example is the time a student’s exam disk was accidentally printed in duplicate. Not only were all of the exams so alike that the prof failed to notice that he graded the same exam twice, but one copy earned a B while the other was graded a B+.
There’s other factors that play into this. Most of the top 25% are eligible for BigLaw, but if you’re not in that group, you’ll be much better off with legal experience on your resume when you graduate. You can either work 20 hours a week and risk getting a few more B’s which could lower your rank by 25% or you could choose to not work and (maybe) get one or two more B+’s, but still be outside the top quarter. Which is better? I don’t know. My theory is to work – because you might end up with low grades even without work experience.
Students may also individually strategize. For example, last spring I took an advanced tax class with 13 people, about 11 of which were CPA’s. A friend who had signed up with me immediately dropped. In hindsight, I should have. It was my lowest grade ever. Another friend of mine doesn’t care what classes she takes, but won’t enroll for one unless she has an outline from someone who already took the course and made a good grade.
On a personal level, it’s frustrating. In the last two semesters my GPA has fallen less than 1/10th of a point while my rank has fallen by 20%. I used to be in the top third; now I’m barely hanging on to the middle. Of course it’s all an illusion because the reality is that there’s not much difference between the top 1/3 and top ½. However something tells me employers don’t realize that when they're sifting through resumes.
A = 4.0
A- = 3.66
B+ = 3.33
B = 3.00
B- = 2.67
C+ = 2.33
And so on…
Rankings recently came out for my class. The top 5% has an average of 3.66 or about an A-. To be in the top 25% you need a 3.33 or a B+ average. The next level down, 3.0 or B average, puts you in the ‘top’ 70%.
That’s right. Forty-five percent of my class has an average somewhere between a B and B+. The rankings come in 5% increments and the differences between each are a few hundredths of a point. One or two extra B’s can wipe you out in a semester. An A can send you sailing into academic mecca. If you take that extra effort to raise your hand regularly in class and get those participation points, you can graduate with honors.
When you look at those numbers, you think something must be wrong. Surely there must be a method to provide more differentiation between the top third and the bottom third. Perhaps more grades? A B++ worth 3.5 or a BB worth 3.16?
The problem is, many professors at my school think it’s already difficult enough to distinguish between a B and B+ exam. Often times when I’ve visited a professor about a former test, they can show me the difference between an A and a B paper, but when I ask about a B+? They swirl their pencil over the entire paper and say, “One more point here, one more point there.” Sometimes I wonder if my GPA would be higher if only I could type faster.
Perhaps the best example is the time a student’s exam disk was accidentally printed in duplicate. Not only were all of the exams so alike that the prof failed to notice that he graded the same exam twice, but one copy earned a B while the other was graded a B+.
There’s other factors that play into this. Most of the top 25% are eligible for BigLaw, but if you’re not in that group, you’ll be much better off with legal experience on your resume when you graduate. You can either work 20 hours a week and risk getting a few more B’s which could lower your rank by 25% or you could choose to not work and (maybe) get one or two more B+’s, but still be outside the top quarter. Which is better? I don’t know. My theory is to work – because you might end up with low grades even without work experience.
Students may also individually strategize. For example, last spring I took an advanced tax class with 13 people, about 11 of which were CPA’s. A friend who had signed up with me immediately dropped. In hindsight, I should have. It was my lowest grade ever. Another friend of mine doesn’t care what classes she takes, but won’t enroll for one unless she has an outline from someone who already took the course and made a good grade.
On a personal level, it’s frustrating. In the last two semesters my GPA has fallen less than 1/10th of a point while my rank has fallen by 20%. I used to be in the top third; now I’m barely hanging on to the middle. Of course it’s all an illusion because the reality is that there’s not much difference between the top 1/3 and top ½. However something tells me employers don’t realize that when they're sifting through resumes.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Would I be more employable with a baby on my knee?
A few weeks ago I ran into a woman I knew in college, but haven’t seen since that time of my life.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Well,” she paused smiling, “I’m married and I have two little girls.”
It came out like, “Well, I won a Pulitzer, and then two Nobels.”
And in that moment, I was genuinely happy for her, because who wouldn’t be happy for someone who thought they’d hung the moon?
The woman is also an in-house counsel at a large company, but didn’t mention that until I asked. I thought it was odd because, well, as a woman, it’s relatively easy to get married and have babies if you so desire,[1] but much harder to achieve the status of in-house counsel. At the end of our meeting, she passed me her card and told me to give her a call because I’d expressed an interest in the area of law she practiced.
“Are you going to call her?” my mother asked when I recounted the story.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t know if I can sit through an hour of being looked down-upon in hopes that I might find some good advice.”
Nearly since birth I’ve proclaimed that I had no desire for a spouse or children. Most people responded with a look that indicated I protested too much. Surely, I was just bitter at my lack of options. Or perhaps I was closeted sexually and frustrated. Yes, I was cute, intelligent, etc, but the reason I was single, everyone knew, was because of my overbearing, obnoxious personality.
For a period of time, I thought this was true, and yet I still managed to date, still knew men who found me attractive, despite that I once had a t-shirt made which proclaimed, ‘I am not your personal cheerleader.’ However, I always seemed to back away from long-term commitment. Perhaps, I was just meeting the wrong types of men, men who weren’t my equals or men who didn’t meet my expectations. Really, I must want to be married and have children someday! Someday?
And then the moment of truth came, unexpectedly and seemingly out of nowhere. I flew to Breckenridge, Colorado to meet a girlfriend and help her prepare the week before her wedding. We dropped off gifts for the house party at the various hotels, put together last minute centerpieces for the reception, and I was perfectly happy. Then, two days before the wedding, I accompanied her and her fiancé to the county clerk for their marriage license. As the clerk handed my girlfriend the information she needed to contact Social Security about a name change I asked, “You’re not going to change your name are you?”
“Yes. Of course!” she answered.
“But,” I stammered, “You’re not really going to drop it completely though? You’re just going to change your maiden name to your middle name, right?”
“No.” she said.
I watched my friend as she filled out the form, carefully writing her mother’s name, her father’s name, her place of birth…
“Ana!” my friend screamed as she bent over me.
Somewhere in all of that I had fainted.
That was the moment I knew for sure that I never, ever wanted to get married.
I proffer no reason for my belief other than that I am always happier when I am uncoupled. There is no great career aspiration that supersedes a biological drive. Break-ups from long relationships always bring a joyous sense of relief for me, a reclamation of my freedom and independence. I see nothing wrong with people who date, marry, and reproduce. I figure that that is what makes them happy.
What I still struggle with however, are the people who so value marriage and children that they will not, cannot, believe that I could want to be without such. Though my close friends understand and respect my beliefs, as I get older, general acquaintances or new introductions often find me staring awkwardly at my shoes when I am addressed with pity or condescension. Some married people won’t even invite me to events because they think I’d be an odd sock in a group matching pairs.
Poor Ana. Poor, poor, Ana.
“I just don’t know if I can stomach it,” I repeated to my mother.
“You know,” she replied, “many of my friends are divorced or have never been married, and they seem to be similar in some capacities. They all have an assortment of really close friends unlike any friendships I’ve ever had.”
“I feel like that!” I said. “I feel like my friends are enough! I never really feel lonely!”
My mother continued, “They take classes in cooking and painting. They attend cultural events and read wonderful books.”
“I love that about my life,” I added.
“They’ve traveled all over the world and live in quiet, cozy bungalows.”
“I can’t wait to have my two bedroom bungalow one day,” I sighed. “I don’t want anything more than 1500 square feet because it would be too much to take care of and a large space often lacks intimacy. See Mom! Can’t you understand why some people would like that type of life?”
“Yes, I can,” she replied, “which is why some days I’m so horribly jealous of them. The path to happiness and fulfillment is different for each individual. Call the woman and when you meet her just smile, and be gracious and feel lucky that you have the courage to live a life that works for you.”
“How are you?” I asked.
“Well,” she paused smiling, “I’m married and I have two little girls.”
It came out like, “Well, I won a Pulitzer, and then two Nobels.”
And in that moment, I was genuinely happy for her, because who wouldn’t be happy for someone who thought they’d hung the moon?
The woman is also an in-house counsel at a large company, but didn’t mention that until I asked. I thought it was odd because, well, as a woman, it’s relatively easy to get married and have babies if you so desire,[1] but much harder to achieve the status of in-house counsel. At the end of our meeting, she passed me her card and told me to give her a call because I’d expressed an interest in the area of law she practiced.
“Are you going to call her?” my mother asked when I recounted the story.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t know if I can sit through an hour of being looked down-upon in hopes that I might find some good advice.”
Nearly since birth I’ve proclaimed that I had no desire for a spouse or children. Most people responded with a look that indicated I protested too much. Surely, I was just bitter at my lack of options. Or perhaps I was closeted sexually and frustrated. Yes, I was cute, intelligent, etc, but the reason I was single, everyone knew, was because of my overbearing, obnoxious personality.
For a period of time, I thought this was true, and yet I still managed to date, still knew men who found me attractive, despite that I once had a t-shirt made which proclaimed, ‘I am not your personal cheerleader.’ However, I always seemed to back away from long-term commitment. Perhaps, I was just meeting the wrong types of men, men who weren’t my equals or men who didn’t meet my expectations. Really, I must want to be married and have children someday! Someday?
And then the moment of truth came, unexpectedly and seemingly out of nowhere. I flew to Breckenridge, Colorado to meet a girlfriend and help her prepare the week before her wedding. We dropped off gifts for the house party at the various hotels, put together last minute centerpieces for the reception, and I was perfectly happy. Then, two days before the wedding, I accompanied her and her fiancé to the county clerk for their marriage license. As the clerk handed my girlfriend the information she needed to contact Social Security about a name change I asked, “You’re not going to change your name are you?”
“Yes. Of course!” she answered.
“But,” I stammered, “You’re not really going to drop it completely though? You’re just going to change your maiden name to your middle name, right?”
“No.” she said.
I watched my friend as she filled out the form, carefully writing her mother’s name, her father’s name, her place of birth…
“Ana!” my friend screamed as she bent over me.
Somewhere in all of that I had fainted.
That was the moment I knew for sure that I never, ever wanted to get married.
I proffer no reason for my belief other than that I am always happier when I am uncoupled. There is no great career aspiration that supersedes a biological drive. Break-ups from long relationships always bring a joyous sense of relief for me, a reclamation of my freedom and independence. I see nothing wrong with people who date, marry, and reproduce. I figure that that is what makes them happy.
What I still struggle with however, are the people who so value marriage and children that they will not, cannot, believe that I could want to be without such. Though my close friends understand and respect my beliefs, as I get older, general acquaintances or new introductions often find me staring awkwardly at my shoes when I am addressed with pity or condescension. Some married people won’t even invite me to events because they think I’d be an odd sock in a group matching pairs.
Poor Ana. Poor, poor, Ana.
“I just don’t know if I can stomach it,” I repeated to my mother.
“You know,” she replied, “many of my friends are divorced or have never been married, and they seem to be similar in some capacities. They all have an assortment of really close friends unlike any friendships I’ve ever had.”
“I feel like that!” I said. “I feel like my friends are enough! I never really feel lonely!”
My mother continued, “They take classes in cooking and painting. They attend cultural events and read wonderful books.”
“I love that about my life,” I added.
“They’ve traveled all over the world and live in quiet, cozy bungalows.”
“I can’t wait to have my two bedroom bungalow one day,” I sighed. “I don’t want anything more than 1500 square feet because it would be too much to take care of and a large space often lacks intimacy. See Mom! Can’t you understand why some people would like that type of life?”
“Yes, I can,” she replied, “which is why some days I’m so horribly jealous of them. The path to happiness and fulfillment is different for each individual. Call the woman and when you meet her just smile, and be gracious and feel lucky that you have the courage to live a life that works for you.”
- I'm not saying it's easy to find a spouse that you adore, with whom you have a great relationship, plus wonderful kids, but rather, getting a ring and a baby generally are not that difficult depending on your desires. Despite how wonderful a couple may appear in public, you never really know.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Why I don't watch network news anymore...
The tv was just on and CBS news (a la Katie Couric) ran a piece wondering if the release of movies like Juno and Knocked Up as well as the recent pregnancy of Jamie Lynn Spears (all events of 2007) had any influence on the rise in teen pregnancy which was up 3% (in 2006).
Apparently today's teens can read the future.
Either that or the producers at CBS think their viewership is composed of morons.
(I'm going to go with option B. Thank you, CBS, for your commitment to journalistic integrity and your respect for the general public.)
And P.S. - There was no mention whatsoever on the possible effect of abstinence education.
Apparently today's teens can read the future.
Either that or the producers at CBS think their viewership is composed of morons.
(I'm going to go with option B. Thank you, CBS, for your commitment to journalistic integrity and your respect for the general public.)
And P.S. - There was no mention whatsoever on the possible effect of abstinence education.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Are Millennials Lazy?
The folks at Ms. JD asked that I post information about their essay contest. Here's the skinny:
How Do We Close the Gap Between Baby Boomers and Millennials on Work/Life Balance?
Ms. JD and The Project for Attorney Retention promote work/life balance in the legal profession. When recent law school graduates push for more part time, flex time, or balanced hours, they are sometimes dismissed as "slackers." The message is: if you don't want to put in the work, pick another profession. What would you say to a baby boomer law firm partner who thinks young lawyers are lazy and don't understand what the profession is all about? What would you say to a senior colleague who says she had to put in the work, so why shouldn't you? In short: what's your rationale for work/life balance reform in the legal profession? You might contrast the work styles, lifestyles, or priorities of recent graduates with preceding generations of lawyers; compare the practice of law with other professions; assess the economics of work/life imbalances; or share persuasive personal experiences. Or, feel free to get creative and write us an argument unlike any of the examples we just mentioned.
Visit www.ms-jd.org/essaycontest to learn more or to submit your essay of 1500 words or less.
Submissions will be accepted until February 29, 2008.
The $1000.00 winner will be announced in March and published* on www.ms-jd.org and on www.pardc.org.
*Publication decision is at the sole discretion of Ms. JD and PAR.
Go for it, ladies!
If you'd like a little inspiration from Ana, check out some of these rambling posts.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Is the 50's mother a myth?
When I first brought Martha home from the SPCA, I read all the literature I could find on being a good dog owner. Dogs were pack animals that didn’t like to be left alone. One should never crate their dog for longer than four hours at a time. Terriers were especially in need of stimulation and companionship. Many private placement groups wouldn’t adopt them out unless one person would be home for most of the day.
Attempting to follow my instructions diligently, I ran home after school every day, not just to let Martha out, but to play with her and walk her. I took her to the dog park several times a week. Many times I’d forgo evening plans because I felt as if I’d been away too long and needed to spend time with her. The books seemed to hold true. Martha always wanted and needed more attention. How horrified I was when I had to leave her at the kennel for twelve whole days!
And then I came back, and Martha was just fine. No, Martha was better than fine; she was great. Since my trip to Seattle, Martha’s kept herself occupied quite happily. For the first time, I spent seven hours at work without a quick trip home. She was not the least bit harried when I returned that evening. Yes, she wanted to go out for a walk, but she wasn’t as frazzled as she would have been before I took her to the kennel. I kept experimenting, working during the day, then coming home at night, spending an hour or so with her, and jetting off to meet friends. When I needed to get things done around the house, I just ignored her. And you know what?
She’s the best behaved she’s ever been. She doesn’t seem the least bit unhappy. In fact, for the first time, Martha appears content. In the mornings after our walks, she goes into her crate on her own while I get ready for class. There’s no crying when I leave or sad yelps when she hears the door open as I arrive home. As I sit typing this, she’s played a game of self-fetch and is now lounging happily with a bone. The kid is thriving, and while I sat at my kitchen table tonight going over readings and schedules I pondered, is this whole maternal guilt-thing newly created? And might it apply to more than just my dog?
Since women started working there’s been an ongoing debate over the effect on the children. My argument has always been that men, as a group historically uninvolved in a child’s upbringing, need to pick up the slack where women left off, but now I’m wondering, is there really any slack to pick up, or do we as women simply feel guilty because society tells us that as working mothers we don’t spend enough time with our children?
We always hear that the 50’s were the golden era of the housewife. Mothers put their children first and raised them to be the future of tomorrow. Is that really true? The moms of yesteryear had a ton of other items to keep them busy. Not everyone had washer/dryers, dishwashers, microwaves, or takeout options. How much of a mother’s time was spent cooking, cleaning, grocery-shopping, or (horror of horrors) ironing?
My own mother’s stories from the era don’t ring true to the stereotype. According to her, back then children were seen and not heard. She and her brother ate an early dinner in kitchen by themselves, took their baths, and then stopped by the living room for a kiss from their father during cocktail hour before being sent off to their bedrooms for the rest of the evening. There were only a handful of hours she could possibly spend with her mother between the end of the school day and this 6 pm ritual. Not only that, but my grandmother was highly involved in community-related activities: garden club, fund-raising bazaars, sorority alumnae chapters, PTA president. Those participations don't sound like the selfless activities we associate with the post-war mother. The one memento I have of my grandmother’s from that time period is not a beloved piece of bake-ware or an arts and crafts item she made with her children, but an engraved silver platter commemorating her presidency of a wives’ social club. I suspect that a child's purpose to many men and women during that time period was not emotional fulfillment, but rather evidence of a picture-perfect lifestyle that was trotted out in front of the guests and neighbors occasionally.
Ask my mother for a memory of her own mother from childhood and she'll tell you that she remembers questioning whether it was a martini or a manhattan that had a cherry.
Perhaps mothers were mothers before the 50’s? No, that doesn’t work for me either as I distinctly remember the story of how my great-grandparents got my grandmother a dog when she became frightened from being left home alone so often. Go farther back than that, and now we’re talking about the days when people had children in order to have more farmhands.
Is the nurturing mother of old a myth? Is it possible that when women began working, someone told us that our children would be scarred, and our response was to spend more time with them than prior generations? Did women (and men) suddenly begin giving children a greater voice out of guilt? How many times in recent memory have you witnessed a child throwing a fit while a parent gushed over them like a lady-in-waiting? Are the latch-key children of the 80’s so bitter precisely because they received more attention than their predecessors? Do children, just like my dog, feel more entitled to a mother’s time with each additional second shared?
As today’s women (myself included) worry and agonize over the choices related to working and raising children, of daycare and team sports, of baking cookies as opposed to bringing home the bacon, I look at Martha napping peacefully in her dog bed and have to ask, are we going about this all wrong, and at the same time, are we competing with an image that never existed?
Attempting to follow my instructions diligently, I ran home after school every day, not just to let Martha out, but to play with her and walk her. I took her to the dog park several times a week. Many times I’d forgo evening plans because I felt as if I’d been away too long and needed to spend time with her. The books seemed to hold true. Martha always wanted and needed more attention. How horrified I was when I had to leave her at the kennel for twelve whole days!
And then I came back, and Martha was just fine. No, Martha was better than fine; she was great. Since my trip to Seattle, Martha’s kept herself occupied quite happily. For the first time, I spent seven hours at work without a quick trip home. She was not the least bit harried when I returned that evening. Yes, she wanted to go out for a walk, but she wasn’t as frazzled as she would have been before I took her to the kennel. I kept experimenting, working during the day, then coming home at night, spending an hour or so with her, and jetting off to meet friends. When I needed to get things done around the house, I just ignored her. And you know what?
She’s the best behaved she’s ever been. She doesn’t seem the least bit unhappy. In fact, for the first time, Martha appears content. In the mornings after our walks, she goes into her crate on her own while I get ready for class. There’s no crying when I leave or sad yelps when she hears the door open as I arrive home. As I sit typing this, she’s played a game of self-fetch and is now lounging happily with a bone. The kid is thriving, and while I sat at my kitchen table tonight going over readings and schedules I pondered, is this whole maternal guilt-thing newly created? And might it apply to more than just my dog?
Since women started working there’s been an ongoing debate over the effect on the children. My argument has always been that men, as a group historically uninvolved in a child’s upbringing, need to pick up the slack where women left off, but now I’m wondering, is there really any slack to pick up, or do we as women simply feel guilty because society tells us that as working mothers we don’t spend enough time with our children?
We always hear that the 50’s were the golden era of the housewife. Mothers put their children first and raised them to be the future of tomorrow. Is that really true? The moms of yesteryear had a ton of other items to keep them busy. Not everyone had washer/dryers, dishwashers, microwaves, or takeout options. How much of a mother’s time was spent cooking, cleaning, grocery-shopping, or (horror of horrors) ironing?
My own mother’s stories from the era don’t ring true to the stereotype. According to her, back then children were seen and not heard. She and her brother ate an early dinner in kitchen by themselves, took their baths, and then stopped by the living room for a kiss from their father during cocktail hour before being sent off to their bedrooms for the rest of the evening. There were only a handful of hours she could possibly spend with her mother between the end of the school day and this 6 pm ritual. Not only that, but my grandmother was highly involved in community-related activities: garden club, fund-raising bazaars, sorority alumnae chapters, PTA president. Those participations don't sound like the selfless activities we associate with the post-war mother. The one memento I have of my grandmother’s from that time period is not a beloved piece of bake-ware or an arts and crafts item she made with her children, but an engraved silver platter commemorating her presidency of a wives’ social club. I suspect that a child's purpose to many men and women during that time period was not emotional fulfillment, but rather evidence of a picture-perfect lifestyle that was trotted out in front of the guests and neighbors occasionally.
Ask my mother for a memory of her own mother from childhood and she'll tell you that she remembers questioning whether it was a martini or a manhattan that had a cherry.
Perhaps mothers were mothers before the 50’s? No, that doesn’t work for me either as I distinctly remember the story of how my great-grandparents got my grandmother a dog when she became frightened from being left home alone so often. Go farther back than that, and now we’re talking about the days when people had children in order to have more farmhands.
Is the nurturing mother of old a myth? Is it possible that when women began working, someone told us that our children would be scarred, and our response was to spend more time with them than prior generations? Did women (and men) suddenly begin giving children a greater voice out of guilt? How many times in recent memory have you witnessed a child throwing a fit while a parent gushed over them like a lady-in-waiting? Are the latch-key children of the 80’s so bitter precisely because they received more attention than their predecessors? Do children, just like my dog, feel more entitled to a mother’s time with each additional second shared?
As today’s women (myself included) worry and agonize over the choices related to working and raising children, of daycare and team sports, of baking cookies as opposed to bringing home the bacon, I look at Martha napping peacefully in her dog bed and have to ask, are we going about this all wrong, and at the same time, are we competing with an image that never existed?
Friday, January 11, 2008
Oh look, a new mop!
Martha, after spending twelve days in that fat factory that is my vet's kennel, is now convinced that I am starving her to death. Today, in order to demonstrate her plight, she licked every square inch of my kitchen floor in search of crumbs. Upon completion, she looked up at me with doleful eyes making sure that I'd witnessed her humiliation.
"'Bout time you started earning your keep around here," I replied.
"'Bout time you started earning your keep around here," I replied.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Memememe...
1. Put your iTunes, Windows Media Player, etc. on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS.
IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY?" YOU SAY?
Today 4 U, Tomorrow for me – Rent
HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF?
Beautiful Wreck – Shawn Mullins
WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Wishbones – Slaid Cleaves
HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
Don't Laugh at Me - Peter, Paul & Mary
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
Will I lose my Dignity - Rent
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
No one Mourns the Wicked – Wicked
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Don’t Speak in English – Chip Taylor & Carrie Rodriguez with Will Taylor and Strings Attached
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Home to Houston – Steve Earle
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT OFTEN?
Come Back to Texas – Bowling for Soup
WHAT IS 2 + 2?
Castanets – Alejandro Escovedo
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
She Talks to Angels - Black Crowes
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
What I Really Mean – Robert Earle Keen
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
No day but Today – Rent
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Mary’s Boy Child – Boney M.
WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Godspeed (Sweet Dreams) – Dixie Chicks
WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Rush Around – Edie Brickell
WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
The Boxer - Simon & Garfunkel
WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Fidelity – Regina Spektor
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR?
Making Pies - Patty Griffin
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Money – Cabaret
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Amie – Damien Rice
Hat Tip - Legally Blonde
Okay, everyone!
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS.
IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY?" YOU SAY?
Today 4 U, Tomorrow for me – Rent
HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF?
Beautiful Wreck – Shawn Mullins
WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Wishbones – Slaid Cleaves
HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
Don't Laugh at Me - Peter, Paul & Mary
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
Will I lose my Dignity - Rent
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
No one Mourns the Wicked – Wicked
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Don’t Speak in English – Chip Taylor & Carrie Rodriguez with Will Taylor and Strings Attached
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Home to Houston – Steve Earle
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT OFTEN?
Come Back to Texas – Bowling for Soup
WHAT IS 2 + 2?
Castanets – Alejandro Escovedo
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
She Talks to Angels - Black Crowes
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
What I Really Mean – Robert Earle Keen
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
No day but Today – Rent
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Mary’s Boy Child – Boney M.
WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Godspeed (Sweet Dreams) – Dixie Chicks
WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Rush Around – Edie Brickell
WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
The Boxer - Simon & Garfunkel
WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Fidelity – Regina Spektor
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR?
Making Pies - Patty Griffin
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Money – Cabaret
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Amie – Damien Rice
Hat Tip - Legally Blonde
Okay, everyone!
Living on a student budget...
Wine-Time-Girl and I went to lunch today. We each had a margarita and an individual order of chicken fajitas; the total was $9.01 per person.
"Can you believe this bill?" she said, amazed by how inexpensive it was.
"I know," I replied, "they raised the price of margaritas by a quarter!"
"Can you believe this bill?" she said, amazed by how inexpensive it was.
"I know," I replied, "they raised the price of margaritas by a quarter!"
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
New Kid at the Office...
I peered over the edge of Wine-Time Girl’s cubicle.
“So I said hi to the new intern, and she didn’t even respond. I bet she took one look at me and sized me up as riff-raff that she better not associate with.”
“Or possibly she’s just preoccupied because it’s her first day, and she didn’t hear you,” WTG replied.
“Whatever. Look at her, wearing makeup, in crisp khakis. And is her button-down shirt starched? What a suck-up!”
“Have you considered that perhaps the new intern is dressed appropriately, and you and I are just taking gross advantage of the casual dress code at our office?”
I gave Wine-Time and myself the once over. I was wearing jeans, t-shirt, and black converse. My hair needed to be washed, and was pulled back in a loose bun. No make-up adorned my face. Wine-Time managed to get on make-up, but she too wore a loose bun, accompanied with velour lounge pants and flip-flops.
“Nah,” I said.
“So I said hi to the new intern, and she didn’t even respond. I bet she took one look at me and sized me up as riff-raff that she better not associate with.”
“Or possibly she’s just preoccupied because it’s her first day, and she didn’t hear you,” WTG replied.
“Whatever. Look at her, wearing makeup, in crisp khakis. And is her button-down shirt starched? What a suck-up!”
“Have you considered that perhaps the new intern is dressed appropriately, and you and I are just taking gross advantage of the casual dress code at our office?”
I gave Wine-Time and myself the once over. I was wearing jeans, t-shirt, and black converse. My hair needed to be washed, and was pulled back in a loose bun. No make-up adorned my face. Wine-Time managed to get on make-up, but she too wore a loose bun, accompanied with velour lounge pants and flip-flops.
“Nah,” I said.
Monday, January 07, 2008
I love the internet...
Cost of purchasing used textbooks online for spring semester: $260
Money earned selling my books online from fall semester:$200 $230
Sweet. Does anyone else remember the pre-internet days when you would spend $500 on books at the local textbook store and then get back $40 from the same place at the end of the semester?
Money earned selling my books online from fall semester:
Sweet. Does anyone else remember the pre-internet days when you would spend $500 on books at the local textbook store and then get back $40 from the same place at the end of the semester?
Saturday, January 05, 2008
The homecoming...
I woke up at the crack of dawn and ran nearly a mile in subzero weather. I was so excited, I couldn’t help myself. With each passing block I stripped off another layer until I finally arrived at my destination.
“I’m here to pick up Martha!” I exclaimed to the woman beside the counter.
After charging me an amount equal to a full week’s worth of work, the receptionist instructed me to have a seat and Martha would appear shortly. In the meantime, two women arrived with a cat and a baby, sitting across from me. Five minutes later the phone rang and I heard the receptionist say, “Martha Smith.”
I guess they were having trouble locating her.
I started to become antsy. Had they lost her? Was she okay? Had Martha suffered an emotional trauma due to our separation? Finally, a door opened and Martha came bounding out. She glanced at me, then made a beeline for the receptionist desk. As the tech hauled her over to me, Martha noticed the two girls and turned in circles, stopping only to jump wildly.
“She was a little smelly, so I put some cologne on her,” the tech said as she handed Martha off.
Hell yeah she did. Martha stank, but not from dog smell. Martha reeked of a cheap Avon cologne from the 80’s. I could barely breathe. And she was fat! Like a little butterball. How could such a small dog gain five pounds in twelve days? Holding her leash, I remained in the waiting room for a few moments hoping Martha’s energy would subside, but she was too excited by the cat, by the women, by the new surroundings, by all the other people. She pulled hard on her leash trying to escape and I decided to leave.
For the entire jaunt Martha hopped crazily along the sidewalk, making sure to sniff every scent and mark her territory accordingly. She was oblivious to the little girl at the other end of the leash. I thought she might calm down as we neared the house, but she continued to survey the area as if everything was new and unseen.
“Dear god,” I thought, “she’s forgotten me. She’s forgotten all of it.”
That is until we walked inside the house. Martha sat down, but was still squirming with energy. As soon as the leash disappeared, Martha ran up the stairs.
“MY TOYS!!!! MY CRATE!!! MY BLANKIE!!!”
For two hours Martha carefully re-inspected all of her toys and nuzzled with her blankie as I sat alone in my living room. Not once did she come by to say hello.
I had to laugh. Here I was, so worried that she would struggle with the kenneling, and yet she’d thrived. Martha was able to create her own happiness regardless of my presence. She was just the same as the first day I visited her at the shelter when she’d run around in our private room playing with cat toys and watching the people outside. Martha was the strong and independent girl I’d hoped I was getting when I went to the counter that fateful day and said I’d decided to adopt her.
When Martha was still bouncing around the house, I decided to take her to the enclosed tennis courts to play fetch. Perhaps I could wear her out a little. We got to the courts and I tossed the ball. Martha quickly ran to the other end, then stopped when she spied something in the distance.
“What is it Martha?”
Pacing, jumping, somersaults. The dog was in ecstasy.
“Where have you been?” she seemed to say through the chain link fence. “I haven’t seen you in SO LONG!”
It was the type of reception I’d been expecting a short time earlier. The gate to the tennis courts opened and Martha was overjoyed. Mayhem. Craziness. Love and affection.
A few seconds later a dog appeared at my feet, bursting with excitement, jumping all over me.
“I MISSED YOU!” she said.
I gave her a little pat and rubbed her back.
“Thanks, Tinkerbell,” I said. “I missed you, too.”
As I played with the poodle, Bartender-Boy threw the ball for Martha until her fat little legs could no longer carry her.
“Did you have a good break?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered, “But I’m glad to be back home and back to normal.”
“I’m here to pick up Martha!” I exclaimed to the woman beside the counter.
After charging me an amount equal to a full week’s worth of work, the receptionist instructed me to have a seat and Martha would appear shortly. In the meantime, two women arrived with a cat and a baby, sitting across from me. Five minutes later the phone rang and I heard the receptionist say, “Martha Smith.”
I guess they were having trouble locating her.
I started to become antsy. Had they lost her? Was she okay? Had Martha suffered an emotional trauma due to our separation? Finally, a door opened and Martha came bounding out. She glanced at me, then made a beeline for the receptionist desk. As the tech hauled her over to me, Martha noticed the two girls and turned in circles, stopping only to jump wildly.
“She was a little smelly, so I put some cologne on her,” the tech said as she handed Martha off.
Hell yeah she did. Martha stank, but not from dog smell. Martha reeked of a cheap Avon cologne from the 80’s. I could barely breathe. And she was fat! Like a little butterball. How could such a small dog gain five pounds in twelve days? Holding her leash, I remained in the waiting room for a few moments hoping Martha’s energy would subside, but she was too excited by the cat, by the women, by the new surroundings, by all the other people. She pulled hard on her leash trying to escape and I decided to leave.
For the entire jaunt Martha hopped crazily along the sidewalk, making sure to sniff every scent and mark her territory accordingly. She was oblivious to the little girl at the other end of the leash. I thought she might calm down as we neared the house, but she continued to survey the area as if everything was new and unseen.
“Dear god,” I thought, “she’s forgotten me. She’s forgotten all of it.”
That is until we walked inside the house. Martha sat down, but was still squirming with energy. As soon as the leash disappeared, Martha ran up the stairs.
“MY TOYS!!!! MY CRATE!!! MY BLANKIE!!!”
For two hours Martha carefully re-inspected all of her toys and nuzzled with her blankie as I sat alone in my living room. Not once did she come by to say hello.
I had to laugh. Here I was, so worried that she would struggle with the kenneling, and yet she’d thrived. Martha was able to create her own happiness regardless of my presence. She was just the same as the first day I visited her at the shelter when she’d run around in our private room playing with cat toys and watching the people outside. Martha was the strong and independent girl I’d hoped I was getting when I went to the counter that fateful day and said I’d decided to adopt her.
When Martha was still bouncing around the house, I decided to take her to the enclosed tennis courts to play fetch. Perhaps I could wear her out a little. We got to the courts and I tossed the ball. Martha quickly ran to the other end, then stopped when she spied something in the distance.
“What is it Martha?”
Pacing, jumping, somersaults. The dog was in ecstasy.
“Where have you been?” she seemed to say through the chain link fence. “I haven’t seen you in SO LONG!”
It was the type of reception I’d been expecting a short time earlier. The gate to the tennis courts opened and Martha was overjoyed. Mayhem. Craziness. Love and affection.
A few seconds later a dog appeared at my feet, bursting with excitement, jumping all over me.
“I MISSED YOU!” she said.
I gave her a little pat and rubbed her back.
“Thanks, Tinkerbell,” I said. “I missed you, too.”
As I played with the poodle, Bartender-Boy threw the ball for Martha until her fat little legs could no longer carry her.
“Did you have a good break?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered, “But I’m glad to be back home and back to normal.”
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