I'm getting a lot of hits lately from people who are trying to figure out how to scope out a law school or how to choose which law school to go to.
I hate to break it to you, BUT the economy sucks right now, law schools are flooded with applications, more schools are getting accredited by the ABA every day, AND...
...this is like the WORST possible time to take on debt and go to law school. Seriously, it just isn't worth it right now. I mean, you might get LUCKY, but that will be what it is, LUCK. No amount of intelligence or ingenuity or anything else right now will help you get a job. (I have multiple friends who graduated at the top of their class and got good jobs only to get laid off.)
I'm not lying. Right now, law school is so grossly not worth the investment. Very few of you will get a decent job or even a job that pays more than an undergraduate degree in today's environment. Law firms are just not hiring that much. Save your pennies.
Again, my apologies.
P.S. If you're still insistent on going - you know those employment statistics that all the law schools put out? I would hit up their career services office and ask questions like:
1) What is your median starting salary? (The numbers for the top of the class typically skew the average.)
2) What percentage of your students who are employed at graduation have the title of lawyer/attorney/associate at their job?
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Oh, Johnny D...
When I was a kid, my father had a serious man-crush on John Denver. Whenever my family was gathered around a campfire, which in my youth seemed like every other weekend, my father’s guitar repertoire consisted of two factions – every John Denver song known to man and the entire Peter, Paul, and Mommy album. “I’ve been swallowed by a Boa Constrictor. I’ve been swallowed…” During my mother's softer moments, he would always play Annie's Song for her (which I found painfully slow and boring as a child). I am nearly certain that at several points in my life, my family spread out a blanket on a cool patch of grass with a bucket of fried chicken and took in a John Denver concert or two.
I own almost every Peter, Paul, and Mary album. However, after leaving my parents’ house, I never thought again about John Denver except in reference to my father. I thought his music was corny and cheesey and pop-like. And then one day, I was driving in my car and a John Denver song came on the radio. I was bouncing up and down in my seat, and singing along so vigorously that I almost ran off the road.
This weekend, I cleared a lot of junk off my ipod, and amazingly, I had space for some new songs. What did I download? John Denver.
Now I thought for sure that I liked his songs, not for their musical quality, but for the memories they evoked. Yet, as I listened to them over and over again this weekend, I found myself thinking, “Oh, a fiddle! I love fiddle! Banjo! I love banjo! This music is…so good?”
And that’s when I had to face facts – being surrounded by the tunes of John Denver as a child has greatly influenced the type of music that I love today.
So, with that in mind, I officially renounce my former sneer of Johnny D, and stand here before you to say, I love the music of John Denver, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
For Christmas, I’ve thought about giving my Dad a trip with just to the two of us to the Telluride Bluegrass Festival next June. Think he could handle it?
P.S. to Butterflyfish - If you don't have the John Denver/Muppets Christmas album, you MUST go get it NOW. It's awesome. That and the PPM Holiday album were staples during my childhood Decembers.
Double P.S. - During my mother's pregnancy, and for the first year of my life, I was always referred to as Annie. My mother didn't give me that as my first name (it's my middle name) because my father had a grandmother named Anne, and after giving my brother a middle name from my father's side of the family, my mother's own mother would have blown a gasket. In fact, shortly after my birth my maternal grandmother had a chat with my three year old brother and told him that he should not call me Annie because it was not my real name. So persistent was my brother after learning this that my mother finally gave up calling me Annie. What's the point of this? Well, it might not be a coincidence that I was born in the spring of 1975 and Annie's Song hit number #1 in the late summer/early fall of 1974. Perhaps one day I'll get the guts to ask my parents about it - I might owe more to John Denver than I know. ;-)
I own almost every Peter, Paul, and Mary album. However, after leaving my parents’ house, I never thought again about John Denver except in reference to my father. I thought his music was corny and cheesey and pop-like. And then one day, I was driving in my car and a John Denver song came on the radio. I was bouncing up and down in my seat, and singing along so vigorously that I almost ran off the road.
This weekend, I cleared a lot of junk off my ipod, and amazingly, I had space for some new songs. What did I download? John Denver.
Now I thought for sure that I liked his songs, not for their musical quality, but for the memories they evoked. Yet, as I listened to them over and over again this weekend, I found myself thinking, “Oh, a fiddle! I love fiddle! Banjo! I love banjo! This music is…so good?”
And that’s when I had to face facts – being surrounded by the tunes of John Denver as a child has greatly influenced the type of music that I love today.
So, with that in mind, I officially renounce my former sneer of Johnny D, and stand here before you to say, I love the music of John Denver, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
For Christmas, I’ve thought about giving my Dad a trip with just to the two of us to the Telluride Bluegrass Festival next June. Think he could handle it?
P.S. to Butterflyfish - If you don't have the John Denver/Muppets Christmas album, you MUST go get it NOW. It's awesome. That and the PPM Holiday album were staples during my childhood Decembers.
Double P.S. - During my mother's pregnancy, and for the first year of my life, I was always referred to as Annie. My mother didn't give me that as my first name (it's my middle name) because my father had a grandmother named Anne, and after giving my brother a middle name from my father's side of the family, my mother's own mother would have blown a gasket. In fact, shortly after my birth my maternal grandmother had a chat with my three year old brother and told him that he should not call me Annie because it was not my real name. So persistent was my brother after learning this that my mother finally gave up calling me Annie. What's the point of this? Well, it might not be a coincidence that I was born in the spring of 1975 and Annie's Song hit number #1 in the late summer/early fall of 1974. Perhaps one day I'll get the guts to ask my parents about it - I might owe more to John Denver than I know. ;-)
Snapshots...
The other day I had a cut and hunted down some ointment. When I found the tube, the sight of it made me smile, and I thought, “Wow, it must be over a year since I’ve used this.”
Well, I’ll give you a hint. Here’s my tube of toothpaste that I use every day.
Last September Musician Boy spent three weeks at my house while we waited for the electricity at his place to come back on post-hurricane, and during that time, we discovered that he squeezed his tubes from the bottom. Not only that, but he pretended to be profoundly disturbed that I squeezed mine from the top. As a joke, he found every tube of anything in my house and ‘fixed’ them. Every time I opened a tube for the next few months, goo or paste or whatever would go squirting every where.
Very carefully, I unscrewed the top, but it was no use – ointment all over the counter. I laughed. Loudly. There was no sadness in it, no bittersweet tinge. And I realized that I had moved past the break-up with Musician Boy, the hope of getting back together, the fall-out that occurred afterward, and all the shitty moments in-between. I hadn't forgotten them; I'd just moved past them. Now that MB was more a memory, I could enjoy a little nostalgia from the good moments.
Later that night I had dinner with friends, and afterward they wanted to head over to our neighborhood bar. I bowed out because I was tired, and ten minutes later, one of them texted me to say, “Musician Boy is here.”
I texted back, “Aww, send him all my love...along with a kick in the nuts.”
(And then I went back to playing with the dog.)
Ya know, I don’t date that much, and when I do, I don’t date for that long. Musician Boy is one of the few guys for whom I felt I had a true affection. I wonder how much of it was actually loving the guy, and how much of it was the intimacy that comes with knowing little details about a person’s life like how they squeeze their tube of toothpaste.
Well, I’ll give you a hint. Here’s my tube of toothpaste that I use every day.
Last September Musician Boy spent three weeks at my house while we waited for the electricity at his place to come back on post-hurricane, and during that time, we discovered that he squeezed his tubes from the bottom. Not only that, but he pretended to be profoundly disturbed that I squeezed mine from the top. As a joke, he found every tube of anything in my house and ‘fixed’ them. Every time I opened a tube for the next few months, goo or paste or whatever would go squirting every where.
Very carefully, I unscrewed the top, but it was no use – ointment all over the counter. I laughed. Loudly. There was no sadness in it, no bittersweet tinge. And I realized that I had moved past the break-up with Musician Boy, the hope of getting back together, the fall-out that occurred afterward, and all the shitty moments in-between. I hadn't forgotten them; I'd just moved past them. Now that MB was more a memory, I could enjoy a little nostalgia from the good moments.
Later that night I had dinner with friends, and afterward they wanted to head over to our neighborhood bar. I bowed out because I was tired, and ten minutes later, one of them texted me to say, “Musician Boy is here.”
I texted back, “Aww, send him all my love...along with a kick in the nuts.”
(And then I went back to playing with the dog.)
Ya know, I don’t date that much, and when I do, I don’t date for that long. Musician Boy is one of the few guys for whom I felt I had a true affection. I wonder how much of it was actually loving the guy, and how much of it was the intimacy that comes with knowing little details about a person’s life like how they squeeze their tube of toothpaste.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The Self-Contained Thanksgiving...
Because I’ve lived more than a thousand miles away from my family since the age of eighteen, making a quick jaunt home for Thanksgiving has never really been an option.
This usually leaves me with two scenarios: spend Thanksgiving with a friend and their relatives or join a group of friends at their house for Thanksgiving. The first instance can involve tense moments between relatives, several hours of driving, or sleeping on a couch, and it typically leaves me feeling tired. The second circumstance usually involves drinking wine and whiskey for four hours, again finding me tired and hungover the next day.
Since any type of activity since the flu leaves me feeling sleepy, I decided that this year, I would just stay home and spend the day with Martha.
This morning we got up, stayed in our pjs (well, I stayed in my pjs), and watched the Thanksgiving Day parade followed by the National Dog Show (or whatever it was called). Interestingly, Martha preferred the parade to the dog show, possibly because as a mutt she feels like the dog show is a little breedist.
And then?
Well, just because we were going Thanksgiving solo didn’t mean we needed to deny ourselves a turkey!
That’s right kids. We made our own and one side.
At some point Wine-Time-Girl called to check on me and said, “You’re making a whole turkey? My mom is just preparing a turkey breast!”
Should have come here!
Having never prepared a turkey or stuffing before, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but as it turns out, it is super easy! For the turkey, rub some salt and pepper on it, put a little bit of broth in bottom of the pan along with chopped carrots, celery, and onion, and let her rip, basting the turkey every so often. For the stuffing, sautee some chopped celery and onions in a saucepan, add stuffing crumbs and broth - then bake until golden brown. I didn't have to consult a recipe for any of it!
Everything turned out great, the clean-up was a jiff, and now that it’s all over, I’ve thrown the bones, remaining vegetables and everything else into large pot. The stock is simmering and Martha and I have sat down to watch a movie.
All-in-all, it might be one of my favorite Thanksgivings ever, and everyone is welcome to drop by for a turkey sandwich over the weekend. We’ve got plenty of leftovers.
This usually leaves me with two scenarios: spend Thanksgiving with a friend and their relatives or join a group of friends at their house for Thanksgiving. The first instance can involve tense moments between relatives, several hours of driving, or sleeping on a couch, and it typically leaves me feeling tired. The second circumstance usually involves drinking wine and whiskey for four hours, again finding me tired and hungover the next day.
Since any type of activity since the flu leaves me feeling sleepy, I decided that this year, I would just stay home and spend the day with Martha.
This morning we got up, stayed in our pjs (well, I stayed in my pjs), and watched the Thanksgiving Day parade followed by the National Dog Show (or whatever it was called). Interestingly, Martha preferred the parade to the dog show, possibly because as a mutt she feels like the dog show is a little breedist.
And then?
Well, just because we were going Thanksgiving solo didn’t mean we needed to deny ourselves a turkey!
That’s right kids. We made our own and one side.
At some point Wine-Time-Girl called to check on me and said, “You’re making a whole turkey? My mom is just preparing a turkey breast!”
Should have come here!
Having never prepared a turkey or stuffing before, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but as it turns out, it is super easy! For the turkey, rub some salt and pepper on it, put a little bit of broth in bottom of the pan along with chopped carrots, celery, and onion, and let her rip, basting the turkey every so often. For the stuffing, sautee some chopped celery and onions in a saucepan, add stuffing crumbs and broth - then bake until golden brown. I didn't have to consult a recipe for any of it!
Everything turned out great, the clean-up was a jiff, and now that it’s all over, I’ve thrown the bones, remaining vegetables and everything else into large pot. The stock is simmering and Martha and I have sat down to watch a movie.
All-in-all, it might be one of my favorite Thanksgivings ever, and everyone is welcome to drop by for a turkey sandwich over the weekend. We’ve got plenty of leftovers.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Oh, that's sad...
I was just sitting outside on my deck smoking a cigarette. When it was finished, I put it out and thought, "Well, I'm tired. I guess I'll get ready for bed."
Then I walked inside and saw that it was 8:30 pm.
And even after that, I'm *still* thinking about going to bed.
It's like I have the symptoms of depression...lack of interest in food/sex/activity, fatigue, unintentional weight loss (just a few pounds).
EXCEPT that I *don't* have sadness, hopelessness, loneliness, crying, you know, the things that actually make up depression.
My boss told me today that she thinks I have mono. How hilarious would that be?
I think I just need more naps in my day.
Then I walked inside and saw that it was 8:30 pm.
And even after that, I'm *still* thinking about going to bed.
It's like I have the symptoms of depression...lack of interest in food/sex/activity, fatigue, unintentional weight loss (just a few pounds).
EXCEPT that I *don't* have sadness, hopelessness, loneliness, crying, you know, the things that actually make up depression.
My boss told me today that she thinks I have mono. How hilarious would that be?
I think I just need more naps in my day.
Monday, November 23, 2009
TLAWALAM – Now with MORE Martha!
A few days ago I was on the phone with my Dad, and he asked how she was enjoying her pet store gift card. The parents sent her *quite* the present after she saved the day with the break-in.
Um yeah, I hadn’t used it. Martha has treats galore and a tendency to destroy any toy she’s given. My father however, insisted that I go use the card and let her rip apart stuffed animals to her little heart’s content. So this weekend, we jaunted over to store and picked up a few items.
I was determined to get her some new clothes, and finding them is usually problematic. She’s a little dog, but she’s kind of barrel-chested, and very few things actually fit her. The selection of possibilities was highly limited, but we did our best.
This little sweater seemed possible at the store. I mean, Martha never struck me as the type of girl who would go for pink, but I thought she might be able to pull it off in a punk kind of way.
Yeah, she looked like an idiot in it – just not her coloring I guess. She did like the purple Kong Wubba she’s chewing on in the photo.
The second t-shirt looked ridiculous in the store, but I think it’s kind of cute on her.
If you look closely, you can see her other new toy.
Shot from the back – the t-shirt says ‘Bad to the Bone’ – har, har, har.
Besides that, she got this little toy which we’ll save for another day. It's made with fire hose material so maybe it will last longer than five minutes.
Oh yeah, she was NOT a fan of the elf hat which had me laughing hysterically.
When Martha and I found each other she'd been dumped on the side of the highway and was days away from being put down. Untrained, un-housebroken, and exhibiting a few behavioral problems, she's come a long way through love, patience, and consistency.
If you're thinking of bringing a new pet into your home, please consider getting one that is 'gently used.' She rescued me as much as I rescued her.
Um yeah, I hadn’t used it. Martha has treats galore and a tendency to destroy any toy she’s given. My father however, insisted that I go use the card and let her rip apart stuffed animals to her little heart’s content. So this weekend, we jaunted over to store and picked up a few items.
I was determined to get her some new clothes, and finding them is usually problematic. She’s a little dog, but she’s kind of barrel-chested, and very few things actually fit her. The selection of possibilities was highly limited, but we did our best.
This little sweater seemed possible at the store. I mean, Martha never struck me as the type of girl who would go for pink, but I thought she might be able to pull it off in a punk kind of way.
Yeah, she looked like an idiot in it – just not her coloring I guess. She did like the purple Kong Wubba she’s chewing on in the photo.
The second t-shirt looked ridiculous in the store, but I think it’s kind of cute on her.
If you look closely, you can see her other new toy.
Shot from the back – the t-shirt says ‘Bad to the Bone’ – har, har, har.
Besides that, she got this little toy which we’ll save for another day. It's made with fire hose material so maybe it will last longer than five minutes.
Oh yeah, she was NOT a fan of the elf hat which had me laughing hysterically.
When Martha and I found each other she'd been dumped on the side of the highway and was days away from being put down. Untrained, un-housebroken, and exhibiting a few behavioral problems, she's come a long way through love, patience, and consistency.
If you're thinking of bringing a new pet into your home, please consider getting one that is 'gently used.' She rescued me as much as I rescued her.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Old Standards...
The last year was spent carrying around the green $16 purse from Target. And then there was the little brown bag that cost $12, but quickly fell out of my favor. (Both purses can be seen in this post.)
After my promotion I thought about getting a new purse, a “nice” purse, a brandy-namey purse.
Yeah, that never happened. Instead I returned to the tried and true which very-very-very long time readers will remember as one of my signature items.
Yep, that’s right. I’m back to using my Powell’s canvas book bag as a purse, and it’s like being reconnected with a long lost friend.
Looking for a holiday gift for the hard-core bibliophile with a slightly green bent? I highly suggest the bag which is still available on the Powell’s site. Be sure to check out the cool selection of subject-based nalgene bottles along with the Kleen Kanteens. (Can you tell that these kids are out of Portland?)
Personally, I’m thinking of picking up this groovy little rucksack for the days when I'm feeling sporty.
Pic from powells.com
And by the way, certain NYRB titles are 30% off right now - totally hot.
After my promotion I thought about getting a new purse, a “nice” purse, a brandy-namey purse.
Yeah, that never happened. Instead I returned to the tried and true which very-very-very long time readers will remember as one of my signature items.
Yep, that’s right. I’m back to using my Powell’s canvas book bag as a purse, and it’s like being reconnected with a long lost friend.
Looking for a holiday gift for the hard-core bibliophile with a slightly green bent? I highly suggest the bag which is still available on the Powell’s site. Be sure to check out the cool selection of subject-based nalgene bottles along with the Kleen Kanteens. (Can you tell that these kids are out of Portland?)
Personally, I’m thinking of picking up this groovy little rucksack for the days when I'm feeling sporty.
Pic from powells.com
And by the way, certain NYRB titles are 30% off right now - totally hot.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
No Brainers...
Tonight I had two events I could attend: a girl friend's book club or a guy friend's birthday party and this morning I still wasn't sure which one I was up for.
I spent the day running around town for a city-wide art show called Artcrawl in which two people I knew had exhibitions. The day was cold and rainy - and it's still that way.
On the way home, I picked up a bottle of red and a quart of tortilla soup. The dog greeted me at the door with a look on her face that seemed to ask, "Can we hang out just the two of us tonight?"
I hopped on the computer to check the score of the football game only to realize that the game a) started at 7, and b) was on ABC (as in NOT cable).
Martha's now parading around the house in her UT sweater while I sip my pinot and yell, "TACKLE HIM! TACKLE HIM!"
It's a good way to spend an evening.
I spent the day running around town for a city-wide art show called Artcrawl in which two people I knew had exhibitions. The day was cold and rainy - and it's still that way.
On the way home, I picked up a bottle of red and a quart of tortilla soup. The dog greeted me at the door with a look on her face that seemed to ask, "Can we hang out just the two of us tonight?"
I hopped on the computer to check the score of the football game only to realize that the game a) started at 7, and b) was on ABC (as in NOT cable).
Martha's now parading around the house in her UT sweater while I sip my pinot and yell, "TACKLE HIM! TACKLE HIM!"
It's a good way to spend an evening.
Friday, November 20, 2009
You don’t need to throw me a soft pitch just because I’m a girl…
I often receive comments on this blog with which I disagree. They don’t bother me. I enjoy the array of perspectives. But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel the need to respond publicly, not because I’m pissed off or need to prove them wrong, but because sometimes you just need to educate the masses. It’s a civic duty really, and I take it pretty seriously.
A week or so ago I wrote a post on this blog about my discomfort with weddings, my hideous fear of marriage, and the psychological trauma this has caused me in the wake of my brother’s impending nuptials.
To which some highly astute anonymous individual replied:
Here's the thing, though. All these weddings don't have to be about you. Surely you can be in a moment and watch an event happen without it having anything to do with you personally. Of the 50% of marriages that fail, 50% succeed. Folks get married, have children, build houses, have interesting personal and professional lives; grow old and have huge holiday gatherings all the time without suffering any effects consistent with the death of one's soul.
I think part of it is not meeting the ying to your yang, but part of it is not being willing to entertain the idea that committing yourself to a lifetime of narissism [sic] and self-exploration might ultimately seem more like a prison than building a life together with someone else. For many, marriage isn't the end of their single existence so much as it is the beginning of something much more meaningful and profound. Your parents had you and you have gushed about how wonderful your relationship with them has been. Contrast that depth and meaning with an image of your mother's single alter ego, browning in the autumn son [sic] of her adulthood while she lives out of a hip urban apartment and looks forward to weekends of hitting on similarly greying [sic] divorcees at the local old peoples' bar, sans legacy, marriage or children burdening her. Could her choice to marry and have you come close to measuring up?
I also prefer dress #2. I hope your brother receives nothing but beeming [sic] support from his sister who is also wildly happy for him on his wedding day.
Dude, for reals? You’re really going to post that on this blog? I mean, have you not been reading?
Dear Anonymous,
Thanks for your insight and comments. We dig comments on this blog and encourage them, but well, let me just make a few remarks.
I am wildly happy for my brother. Some days I like his fiancé more than I like him. He’s a really lucky guy. His marriage (if you read both posts closely) has never been an issue. You say that I have turned this into something that is “all about me.” Well, here’s the deal. Imagine one of your greatest fears, be it skydiving, public speaking, running into a burning building, or accompanying a blog comment with actual identifying characteristics. Now imagine that someone you really love has asked you to do it because it’s *really* important to them.
On the one hand, you’re considering their feelings. On the other, you’re thinking, “Oh HOLY SHIT.” The main reason that I don’t want to be a bridesmaid at his wedding is that I’m thinking of him. I want the guests to be focusing on my brother and my sis-in-law and their love, not the fact that a bridesmaid has fainted during the ceremony only to be revived and start puking all over the officiant. I’d feel like such an asshole if that happened, and that it’s a possibility makes me all the more terrified of being in the wedding. So you see, it is expressly because I am thinking of my brother and sis (in-law) that this whole conflict has come about.
Again, we’re not talking about something I would just prefer not to do. We’re talking about a real and actual fear.
Second, you seem to make an assumption that my dislike of marriage somehow equates to not wanting a long-term relationship and/or children. Again, if you’d read this blog closely, you would know this is not the case. My issue is now and has always been with the concept of marriage itself. For the billionth time, I take issue with legally binding myself to another person, and as I’ve stated before, I feel (personally) as if it actually serves to CHEAPEN the relationship between two people. If someone I loved also loved me and wanted to spend their life with me long-term, I would hope that I would have enough trust and faith in that person and the relationship to not say, “Sounds good. Let’s put it in writing just to be on the safe side.”
Let’s look at two phrases from your comment for a moment.
“…part of it is not being willing to entertain the idea that committing yourself to a lifetime of narissism [sic] and self-exploration might ultimately seem more like a prison than building a life together with someone else…. Your parents had you and you have gushed about how wonderful your relationship with them has been."
Hopefully, seeing these two together in tandem, you can now see how they are conflicting statements. Yes, I have gushed about my relationship with my parents. I have also gushed about how much I adore my brother and my sister as well as how much I value my friends. And then there are the posts about caring for my grandparents during my twenties after both of them were diagnosed with terminal illnesses. I have stated (numerous times) that human connections are the most important things to be had in life.
Pray tell, how am I a narcissist? Forgive me, no one ever told me that rejection of marriage was the defining characteristic of a narcissist.
But now we’re getting to the best part, and here you’re really going to get slammed… because OHMYGOD, YOU DID NOT JUST INSULT MY MOTHER!
Let’s revisit your words for a moment, shall we?
“Contrast that depth and meaning with an image of your mother's single alter ego, browning in the autumn son [very telling sic] of her adulthood while she lives out of a hip urban apartment and looks forward to weekends of hitting on similarly greying [sic] divorcees at the local old peoples' bar, sans legacy, marriage or children burdening her. Could her choice to marry and have you come close to measuring up?”
Dude, are you some middle-aged white guy living in a completely isolated existence? As if to suggest that if my mother had not married or raised children her life would be less fulfilling or without the same value? And that if such had happened, she’d be spending her time sitting at a bar talking to someone like you?
Legacy? Some of the women who have left the greatest legacies in society never had children. They left us their writings, their paintings, their thoughts. They influenced, not a small brood, but the entire world.
I’m half-tempted to call my mother and ask a) her reaction to your comment and/or b) whether or not my existence or the existence of my siblings, marriage to my father, etc is what gives her her meaning in life. In response to the second question, I am nearly positive that she would laugh hysterically and then say, “No offense, Ana. I’m not saying that you weren’t a fascinating child or that you continue to fascinate me today, but my life and my identity…doesn’t center around you.”
For the first part, she’d make no comment – partially because she’s too “polite” and partially because she’s far too superior to even waste thirty seconds of typing on it.
My mother is an amazing person who deserves to be viewed as an individual rather than as a supporting actress.
And just for a moment, where do you think my vigor in all of this comes from? Have you ever thought for two seconds that part of my outlook might have come from, oh I don’t know, the greatest influences of my life? As in, my mother and father?
It’s interesting that in your whole assessment of an alternative world, you fail to address my father. Could he still live a fulfilling life without my existence? Do you simply name my mother because we have vaginas in common, and therefore I could more readily identify with her situation? Awesome. Not only do you insult my mother, but you somehow manage to degrade the relationship I have with my father.
As a final note, I will direct you to the people I link to and the people who comment most frequently on this blog. They are:
Magic Cookie
Butterlyfish
Lag Liv
PT-Law Mom
They are all married with children. I adore them. They seem to like me. We all chat offline. I respect and admire them. I consider them to be my friends in a manner of sorts, and when they comment, they are always supportive.
You cannot compare the life of a single person to a married person or a married-with-children person or a single with children person. It’s apples and oranges. One type does not have more value or a more fulfilling life than the other. I think the women above realize this. And for the sake of my sex/relationship life, I wish more people did in general.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to spend an unfulfilling evening with my unfulfilling friends watching an unfulfilled artist.
I remain affectionately yours,
Ana
And PS - My mother wouldn't live in a hip urban apartment. In her fantasy, it's a cute 1920's bungalow. I know because she tells me about it all the time. She feels comfortable sharing her dreams of if she'd never gotten married and had kids because she knows that I'm smart enough not to take it personally. I mean, her life? I'm part of it, but I'm not exclusively it.
A week or so ago I wrote a post on this blog about my discomfort with weddings, my hideous fear of marriage, and the psychological trauma this has caused me in the wake of my brother’s impending nuptials.
To which some highly astute anonymous individual replied:
Here's the thing, though. All these weddings don't have to be about you. Surely you can be in a moment and watch an event happen without it having anything to do with you personally. Of the 50% of marriages that fail, 50% succeed. Folks get married, have children, build houses, have interesting personal and professional lives; grow old and have huge holiday gatherings all the time without suffering any effects consistent with the death of one's soul.
I think part of it is not meeting the ying to your yang, but part of it is not being willing to entertain the idea that committing yourself to a lifetime of narissism [sic] and self-exploration might ultimately seem more like a prison than building a life together with someone else. For many, marriage isn't the end of their single existence so much as it is the beginning of something much more meaningful and profound. Your parents had you and you have gushed about how wonderful your relationship with them has been. Contrast that depth and meaning with an image of your mother's single alter ego, browning in the autumn son [sic] of her adulthood while she lives out of a hip urban apartment and looks forward to weekends of hitting on similarly greying [sic] divorcees at the local old peoples' bar, sans legacy, marriage or children burdening her. Could her choice to marry and have you come close to measuring up?
I also prefer dress #2. I hope your brother receives nothing but beeming [sic] support from his sister who is also wildly happy for him on his wedding day.
Dude, for reals? You’re really going to post that on this blog? I mean, have you not been reading?
Dear Anonymous,
Thanks for your insight and comments. We dig comments on this blog and encourage them, but well, let me just make a few remarks.
I am wildly happy for my brother. Some days I like his fiancé more than I like him. He’s a really lucky guy. His marriage (if you read both posts closely) has never been an issue. You say that I have turned this into something that is “all about me.” Well, here’s the deal. Imagine one of your greatest fears, be it skydiving, public speaking, running into a burning building, or accompanying a blog comment with actual identifying characteristics. Now imagine that someone you really love has asked you to do it because it’s *really* important to them.
On the one hand, you’re considering their feelings. On the other, you’re thinking, “Oh HOLY SHIT.” The main reason that I don’t want to be a bridesmaid at his wedding is that I’m thinking of him. I want the guests to be focusing on my brother and my sis-in-law and their love, not the fact that a bridesmaid has fainted during the ceremony only to be revived and start puking all over the officiant. I’d feel like such an asshole if that happened, and that it’s a possibility makes me all the more terrified of being in the wedding. So you see, it is expressly because I am thinking of my brother and sis (in-law) that this whole conflict has come about.
Again, we’re not talking about something I would just prefer not to do. We’re talking about a real and actual fear.
Second, you seem to make an assumption that my dislike of marriage somehow equates to not wanting a long-term relationship and/or children. Again, if you’d read this blog closely, you would know this is not the case. My issue is now and has always been with the concept of marriage itself. For the billionth time, I take issue with legally binding myself to another person, and as I’ve stated before, I feel (personally) as if it actually serves to CHEAPEN the relationship between two people. If someone I loved also loved me and wanted to spend their life with me long-term, I would hope that I would have enough trust and faith in that person and the relationship to not say, “Sounds good. Let’s put it in writing just to be on the safe side.”
Let’s look at two phrases from your comment for a moment.
“…part of it is not being willing to entertain the idea that committing yourself to a lifetime of narissism [sic] and self-exploration might ultimately seem more like a prison than building a life together with someone else…. Your parents had you and you have gushed about how wonderful your relationship with them has been."
Hopefully, seeing these two together in tandem, you can now see how they are conflicting statements. Yes, I have gushed about my relationship with my parents. I have also gushed about how much I adore my brother and my sister as well as how much I value my friends. And then there are the posts about caring for my grandparents during my twenties after both of them were diagnosed with terminal illnesses. I have stated (numerous times) that human connections are the most important things to be had in life.
Pray tell, how am I a narcissist? Forgive me, no one ever told me that rejection of marriage was the defining characteristic of a narcissist.
But now we’re getting to the best part, and here you’re really going to get slammed… because OHMYGOD, YOU DID NOT JUST INSULT MY MOTHER!
Let’s revisit your words for a moment, shall we?
“Contrast that depth and meaning with an image of your mother's single alter ego, browning in the autumn son [very telling sic] of her adulthood while she lives out of a hip urban apartment and looks forward to weekends of hitting on similarly greying [sic] divorcees at the local old peoples' bar, sans legacy, marriage or children burdening her. Could her choice to marry and have you come close to measuring up?”
Dude, are you some middle-aged white guy living in a completely isolated existence? As if to suggest that if my mother had not married or raised children her life would be less fulfilling or without the same value? And that if such had happened, she’d be spending her time sitting at a bar talking to someone like you?
Legacy? Some of the women who have left the greatest legacies in society never had children. They left us their writings, their paintings, their thoughts. They influenced, not a small brood, but the entire world.
I’m half-tempted to call my mother and ask a) her reaction to your comment and/or b) whether or not my existence or the existence of my siblings, marriage to my father, etc is what gives her her meaning in life. In response to the second question, I am nearly positive that she would laugh hysterically and then say, “No offense, Ana. I’m not saying that you weren’t a fascinating child or that you continue to fascinate me today, but my life and my identity…doesn’t center around you.”
For the first part, she’d make no comment – partially because she’s too “polite” and partially because she’s far too superior to even waste thirty seconds of typing on it.
My mother is an amazing person who deserves to be viewed as an individual rather than as a supporting actress.
And just for a moment, where do you think my vigor in all of this comes from? Have you ever thought for two seconds that part of my outlook might have come from, oh I don’t know, the greatest influences of my life? As in, my mother and father?
It’s interesting that in your whole assessment of an alternative world, you fail to address my father. Could he still live a fulfilling life without my existence? Do you simply name my mother because we have vaginas in common, and therefore I could more readily identify with her situation? Awesome. Not only do you insult my mother, but you somehow manage to degrade the relationship I have with my father.
As a final note, I will direct you to the people I link to and the people who comment most frequently on this blog. They are:
Magic Cookie
Butterlyfish
Lag Liv
PT-Law Mom
They are all married with children. I adore them. They seem to like me. We all chat offline. I respect and admire them. I consider them to be my friends in a manner of sorts, and when they comment, they are always supportive.
You cannot compare the life of a single person to a married person or a married-with-children person or a single with children person. It’s apples and oranges. One type does not have more value or a more fulfilling life than the other. I think the women above realize this. And for the sake of my sex/relationship life, I wish more people did in general.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to spend an unfulfilling evening with my unfulfilling friends watching an unfulfilled artist.
I remain affectionately yours,
Ana
And PS - My mother wouldn't live in a hip urban apartment. In her fantasy, it's a cute 1920's bungalow. I know because she tells me about it all the time. She feels comfortable sharing her dreams of if she'd never gotten married and had kids because she knows that I'm smart enough not to take it personally. I mean, her life? I'm part of it, but I'm not exclusively it.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Athletic Force Majeure...
So, I’m working on a project for North Africa, and the other day, I emailed my counterpart in Algeria to say:
Hey Dude,
What’s up? I still need that stuff we talked about last week in order to proceed.
Hugs & Kisses,
Ana
He emailed back:
Dude,
Really sorry about that. We’re currently in a national security crisis right now. Egypt and Algeria had a football match and all hell broke loose. We had to evacuate all of our Egyptian employees for personal safety reasons, and now we are seriously screwed in the manpower department.
Will get your stuff as soon as possible.
Peace Out & Go Algeria,
Mohamed
Hey Dude,
What’s up? I still need that stuff we talked about last week in order to proceed.
Hugs & Kisses,
Ana
He emailed back:
Dude,
Really sorry about that. We’re currently in a national security crisis right now. Egypt and Algeria had a football match and all hell broke loose. We had to evacuate all of our Egyptian employees for personal safety reasons, and now we are seriously screwed in the manpower department.
Will get your stuff as soon as possible.
Peace Out & Go Algeria,
Mohamed
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Goin' to the Chapel...
Did I scare you with that title? Did you think it was for me? Gah, no! NEVER! I promise you, I will never-ever-ever have some kind of fancy-schmancy wedding ceremony. I’ll tell you why in a minute.
But First!
Brother and Sis-in-Law are getting married in April, and the planning has started to heat up. If you remember, I wrote a post about it shortly after Christmas last year because they asked me to be a bridesmaid, and I was having an existential crisis over it all. In my thirty-four years, I’ve always managed to squirm my way out of being one, but this time I knew I couldn’t say, “Uh, no thanks.”
Anyhoo, the bridesmaid dresses have been announced. Well, sort of. We can pick out anything we want in the color champagne from David’s Bridal. When I first got the email, I cringed a little bit at the whole David’s Bridal thing, but given that the bridesmaids live in Houston, Seattle, and somewhere in North Carolina AND the wedding is in Oxnard, California, I figured that Sis-in-Law had picked the site to make it easier on all of us rather than pick a cute dress shop in L.A. where we’d all have to fly out ten times in order to get a dress.
Now, while we each supposedly get to pick a dress, the Bride did include in her email the one which she *thought* I would end up wearing. Here it is:
(Both photos are from davidsbridal.com)
Um…I can kinda see why they picked it out for me. I mean, it’s a classic cut, and it's pretty, but it varies from my taste in a few ways. First, I don’t like showing my legs unless I’m in tights. Seriously. I own like two pairs of shorts, and I never wear them. There’s nothing wrong with my legs. I just don’t like to show them for whatever reason. Second, I have a tiny waist – so the less Empire-waisted, the better. This dress has the potential to look like a sack on me. I mean, I’ll go the store and try it on. Who knows? My bro and sis-in-law might be right. It might be the most flattering one for me.
Here’s the one I’m leaning towards in the meantime:
Minus the come-hither stare and hair-flip, of course. This one works well because it a) covers my legs, b) is cinched at the waist, and c) I’m somewhat pear-shaped, and for a dress like this I’d only have to worry about sizing in the top. (I guess what I’m trying to say is on top I’m a size 0 and on the bottom, I’m a 1 or a 2, and sometimes this makes buying dresses difficult.) The other reason I think a long dress would be good – they’re getting married on the beach – which means no heels to elongate your legs. The Bride has given us the option of bare feet or flip-flops.
So there you go. At some point, I’ll have to go to the actual store to try these little numbers on. I keep thinking it will be fun and goofy, but I have a strange fear that it will end like that episode in S&TC where Carrie is standing in a dress and then all of the sudden starts breaking out into hives and screaming, “GET THIS OFF ME!!!!”
While I have invited everybody and their dog to the bachelor/bachelorette party in Vegas (because let’s be serious – my family is not the type to pull out the stupid veil, cover my SIL in condoms, or do anything remotely bachelorette-y – this is just going to be a group of kids goofing off in Vegas) I will not be taking anyone of remote romantic interest to the actual wedding.
You see, weddings and I have a little bit of history. Not only do I avoid being a bridal attendant like the plague, I avoid weddings in general. In my adult life, I have been to a grand total of THREE, and here’s what happened:
1) At one, I fainted when the two people signed their marriage license;
2) At another, I freaked out during some portion of the wedding when the pastor-person started saying things like, “From this day forward, they will only have one life, and neither will be known without the other…” So bothered was I by the one-ness statements that I actually got up in the middle of the wedding and tried to leave. A friend held me in a death grip and sat me back down on the pew while I whispered as quietly as possible, “I can’t breathe. I need to leave. I think I’m going to die.”
3) And that third wedding, well, I actually took my first and only date to that one. It seemed harmless enough. I mean, he wasn’t just my boyfriend – we were living together. The two of us flew in from the West Coast to Texas, and I made it through most of the ceremony just fine– although I sat without my boyfriend, perched aloft in the church with the organist (I sang in the wedding), my bird’s eye view allowing me to look over the scene as if I wasn’t really a part of it.
At the reception, I fluttered around with my old friends, doing anything to distract myself until my boyfriend pulled me aside and whined that he didn’t know anyone there, and I wasn’t attending to him properly. I looked him square in the face and said, “When I saw those two people get married today, I realized how in love they were, and I also realized that I don’t love you like that. Not only do I not love you in that way, but I know in my heart that I will never love you like that and now that’s it’s so clear to me, I don’t see any point in continuing this relationship. AT THE RECEPTION PEOPLE! IN ANOTHER STATE! He spent the rest of the evening in the motel by himself, and a few days later, I put him on a plane. My flight was supposed to leave an hour after his, but after I’d watched him walk through the gate, I ran down to the desk and extended my stay in Texas for another week, left a voicemail on our machine saying I wouldn’t be home for awhile, and then proceeded to party my ass off over the next few days. (And YES, my friends STILL talk about it.)
And it's not something I appear to be growing out of. Just a few weeks ago, one of my friends from law school was getting married, and the day of the event, I sat at brunch with Wine-Time-Girl slamming mimosas as if they were shots. I was a basket-case. I mean, I wanted to go, but I didn’t want to go, and WTG finally convinced me that I shouldn’t go. So instead we made up this story about how I, um, got lost on the way to the church and afraid of walking in late to the ceremony, just went straight to the reception.
The fear is profound, people. I can date. I can take the title of girlfriend (sometimes). I cannot handle the idea of legally binding myself to another person for FOREVER. One person? Forever? It goes against everything rational to me. It just freaks me out to no end. I mean, I’ve never been able to stay with a person for even a year. (By the way, this makes Boy #4’s flip-out a few weeks ago all the more ridiculous in context. I am planning to write an unedited post on my whole reaction to *that* situation, but a) I wanted to give him the chance to redeem/explain himself with a face to face meeting, or b) wait until I figured he’d stopped reading this blog. I think enough time has gone by now for both.)
So yeah, I’m thinking that if I take a date to my brother’s wedding, it will probably be fairy-god-brother, as he seems the most well-equipped to talk me down from the ceiling when I am curled up in the fetal position right outside the reception hall. Yet another reason to wear a long dress – so I don’t accidentally moon someone during the experience.
My brother’s getting married! Oh joy.
But First!
Brother and Sis-in-Law are getting married in April, and the planning has started to heat up. If you remember, I wrote a post about it shortly after Christmas last year because they asked me to be a bridesmaid, and I was having an existential crisis over it all. In my thirty-four years, I’ve always managed to squirm my way out of being one, but this time I knew I couldn’t say, “Uh, no thanks.”
Anyhoo, the bridesmaid dresses have been announced. Well, sort of. We can pick out anything we want in the color champagne from David’s Bridal. When I first got the email, I cringed a little bit at the whole David’s Bridal thing, but given that the bridesmaids live in Houston, Seattle, and somewhere in North Carolina AND the wedding is in Oxnard, California, I figured that Sis-in-Law had picked the site to make it easier on all of us rather than pick a cute dress shop in L.A. where we’d all have to fly out ten times in order to get a dress.
Now, while we each supposedly get to pick a dress, the Bride did include in her email the one which she *thought* I would end up wearing. Here it is:
(Both photos are from davidsbridal.com)
Um…I can kinda see why they picked it out for me. I mean, it’s a classic cut, and it's pretty, but it varies from my taste in a few ways. First, I don’t like showing my legs unless I’m in tights. Seriously. I own like two pairs of shorts, and I never wear them. There’s nothing wrong with my legs. I just don’t like to show them for whatever reason. Second, I have a tiny waist – so the less Empire-waisted, the better. This dress has the potential to look like a sack on me. I mean, I’ll go the store and try it on. Who knows? My bro and sis-in-law might be right. It might be the most flattering one for me.
Here’s the one I’m leaning towards in the meantime:
Minus the come-hither stare and hair-flip, of course. This one works well because it a) covers my legs, b) is cinched at the waist, and c) I’m somewhat pear-shaped, and for a dress like this I’d only have to worry about sizing in the top. (I guess what I’m trying to say is on top I’m a size 0 and on the bottom, I’m a 1 or a 2, and sometimes this makes buying dresses difficult.) The other reason I think a long dress would be good – they’re getting married on the beach – which means no heels to elongate your legs. The Bride has given us the option of bare feet or flip-flops.
So there you go. At some point, I’ll have to go to the actual store to try these little numbers on. I keep thinking it will be fun and goofy, but I have a strange fear that it will end like that episode in S&TC where Carrie is standing in a dress and then all of the sudden starts breaking out into hives and screaming, “GET THIS OFF ME!!!!”
While I have invited everybody and their dog to the bachelor/bachelorette party in Vegas (because let’s be serious – my family is not the type to pull out the stupid veil, cover my SIL in condoms, or do anything remotely bachelorette-y – this is just going to be a group of kids goofing off in Vegas) I will not be taking anyone of remote romantic interest to the actual wedding.
You see, weddings and I have a little bit of history. Not only do I avoid being a bridal attendant like the plague, I avoid weddings in general. In my adult life, I have been to a grand total of THREE, and here’s what happened:
1) At one, I fainted when the two people signed their marriage license;
2) At another, I freaked out during some portion of the wedding when the pastor-person started saying things like, “From this day forward, they will only have one life, and neither will be known without the other…” So bothered was I by the one-ness statements that I actually got up in the middle of the wedding and tried to leave. A friend held me in a death grip and sat me back down on the pew while I whispered as quietly as possible, “I can’t breathe. I need to leave. I think I’m going to die.”
3) And that third wedding, well, I actually took my first and only date to that one. It seemed harmless enough. I mean, he wasn’t just my boyfriend – we were living together. The two of us flew in from the West Coast to Texas, and I made it through most of the ceremony just fine– although I sat without my boyfriend, perched aloft in the church with the organist (I sang in the wedding), my bird’s eye view allowing me to look over the scene as if I wasn’t really a part of it.
At the reception, I fluttered around with my old friends, doing anything to distract myself until my boyfriend pulled me aside and whined that he didn’t know anyone there, and I wasn’t attending to him properly. I looked him square in the face and said, “When I saw those two people get married today, I realized how in love they were, and I also realized that I don’t love you like that. Not only do I not love you in that way, but I know in my heart that I will never love you like that and now that’s it’s so clear to me, I don’t see any point in continuing this relationship. AT THE RECEPTION PEOPLE! IN ANOTHER STATE! He spent the rest of the evening in the motel by himself, and a few days later, I put him on a plane. My flight was supposed to leave an hour after his, but after I’d watched him walk through the gate, I ran down to the desk and extended my stay in Texas for another week, left a voicemail on our machine saying I wouldn’t be home for awhile, and then proceeded to party my ass off over the next few days. (And YES, my friends STILL talk about it.)
And it's not something I appear to be growing out of. Just a few weeks ago, one of my friends from law school was getting married, and the day of the event, I sat at brunch with Wine-Time-Girl slamming mimosas as if they were shots. I was a basket-case. I mean, I wanted to go, but I didn’t want to go, and WTG finally convinced me that I shouldn’t go. So instead we made up this story about how I, um, got lost on the way to the church and afraid of walking in late to the ceremony, just went straight to the reception.
The fear is profound, people. I can date. I can take the title of girlfriend (sometimes). I cannot handle the idea of legally binding myself to another person for FOREVER. One person? Forever? It goes against everything rational to me. It just freaks me out to no end. I mean, I’ve never been able to stay with a person for even a year. (By the way, this makes Boy #4’s flip-out a few weeks ago all the more ridiculous in context. I am planning to write an unedited post on my whole reaction to *that* situation, but a) I wanted to give him the chance to redeem/explain himself with a face to face meeting, or b) wait until I figured he’d stopped reading this blog. I think enough time has gone by now for both.)
So yeah, I’m thinking that if I take a date to my brother’s wedding, it will probably be fairy-god-brother, as he seems the most well-equipped to talk me down from the ceiling when I am curled up in the fetal position right outside the reception hall. Yet another reason to wear a long dress – so I don’t accidentally moon someone during the experience.
My brother’s getting married! Oh joy.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Ana Can Haz Internetz...
Growing up, I think my mother thought that chicks got screwed in a lot of life. Because of that she trained her daughters to be independent, assertive, and self-reliant.
Today, I am kick-ass at a lot of things, but two areas plague me. I have difficulty reaching objects in high places, and I suck at technology.
The first drawback makes sense given my midget status, but the second failure always draws a blank for me. I love taking things apart and putting them back together. I know how to change a tire, change a car battery, and at one point, knew how to change the oil, but gadgets? Ick, it takes me forever to adopt them and love them.
Take for example:
My (first and only) stereo – it was given to me by my father in 1991;
My (first and only) TV – purchased by my father in 1997 after my boyfriend always wanted to watch movies at his stinky apartment where he lived with several roommates;
My (first and only) VCR – inherited in 1998 during the division of items when the boyfriend (by now a live-in) and I broke up;
My (first and only) DVD player – given to me by my brother for Xmas in approximately 2000…after he gave me a DVD in 1999 and I failed to purchase a player for it;
My (first and only) Computer/laptop – given to me by my mother in 2004…because I was writing my law school applications at work. (Sadly, my Stinkpad has now passed on. A moment of silence, please.)
My (first and only) ipod – won in a drawing in 2008.
My (first and only) blackberry – forced on me by work in 2009 after receiving my promotion. I still don’t know how to use it except to check college football scores on ESPN during the weekends.
There is absolutely no excuse for any of this. During childhood, we were the first people on the block to own a VCR (1977?), a Pong (1979), a personal computer (1981), and every other technological whiz-bang that my dad paid three times as much for as the person who bought it the next year.
To add insult to injury, my father worked at IBM for thirty years of my life, and my little sister works at that “little” software company in Seattle that starts with an M.
About the only technological thing I have ever been good at is the internet. Back when the information highway was just a babe and Mosaic was the browser of choice, I petitioned the Graduate School of Library Sciences to take an internet class because it was the only department in all of UTexas that offered a course. One of my first jobs out of college was sitting at a computer all day collecting information about people from online sources. To this day, it’s amazing what I can dig up on someone in fifteen minutes or less. This is why there’s only one site on the internet that carries my real name. I mean sure, there are other sites with *my* name, but that’s another person. You’ll only find the real me at austinchronicle.com.
I love the internet. I have trouble functioning without it, and why the move to my new apartment has been so difficult. The internet SUCKed here. And every day, I swear it got worse, until a few days ago when I couldn't even load my gmail. I did everything to try and figure out what was wrong. When I finally tested my internet speed do you know what it told me? After several failed attempts where the darn thing timed out, I learned that my download speed was somewhere between 37-150 kbps. Now I may be technologically retarded, but I do know the unit system, and my wireless router (given to me by my father in 2005 when he purchased a new one) could handle transfers of 11 mbps, and why in the heck would you need that much for....okay, I'm too tired to work out the decimals here, but you know what I mean. .037 mbps? .150 mbps? Is that right?
Sad. So sad. So I gave up, gave in, and finally called my Internet Service Provider. (Actually, I contacted them online via chat while at work so I wouldn’t actually have to talk to anyone.) After about an hour’s worth of baloney, they finally decided that *I* was not the problem, and today a technician came out to check the line.
A few whirs and clicks later, and voila, a speed test revealed a download rate of 22,000 kbps. I know. That still probably sucks, but I think it's awesome. I mean, I can load my email now.
I vaguely considered asking the technician if he wanted to make out because, for a solid sixty seconds I was actually in love with the guy, but I needed to get back to work.
I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. It's like when you haven't dated anybody for ages and finally get laid.
Today, I am kick-ass at a lot of things, but two areas plague me. I have difficulty reaching objects in high places, and I suck at technology.
The first drawback makes sense given my midget status, but the second failure always draws a blank for me. I love taking things apart and putting them back together. I know how to change a tire, change a car battery, and at one point, knew how to change the oil, but gadgets? Ick, it takes me forever to adopt them and love them.
Take for example:
My (first and only) stereo – it was given to me by my father in 1991;
My (first and only) TV – purchased by my father in 1997 after my boyfriend always wanted to watch movies at his stinky apartment where he lived with several roommates;
My (first and only) VCR – inherited in 1998 during the division of items when the boyfriend (by now a live-in) and I broke up;
My (first and only) DVD player – given to me by my brother for Xmas in approximately 2000…after he gave me a DVD in 1999 and I failed to purchase a player for it;
My (first and only) Computer/laptop – given to me by my mother in 2004…because I was writing my law school applications at work. (Sadly, my Stinkpad has now passed on. A moment of silence, please.)
My (first and only) ipod – won in a drawing in 2008.
My (first and only) blackberry – forced on me by work in 2009 after receiving my promotion. I still don’t know how to use it except to check college football scores on ESPN during the weekends.
There is absolutely no excuse for any of this. During childhood, we were the first people on the block to own a VCR (1977?), a Pong (1979), a personal computer (1981), and every other technological whiz-bang that my dad paid three times as much for as the person who bought it the next year.
To add insult to injury, my father worked at IBM for thirty years of my life, and my little sister works at that “little” software company in Seattle that starts with an M.
About the only technological thing I have ever been good at is the internet. Back when the information highway was just a babe and Mosaic was the browser of choice, I petitioned the Graduate School of Library Sciences to take an internet class because it was the only department in all of UTexas that offered a course. One of my first jobs out of college was sitting at a computer all day collecting information about people from online sources. To this day, it’s amazing what I can dig up on someone in fifteen minutes or less. This is why there’s only one site on the internet that carries my real name. I mean sure, there are other sites with *my* name, but that’s another person. You’ll only find the real me at austinchronicle.com.
I love the internet. I have trouble functioning without it, and why the move to my new apartment has been so difficult. The internet SUCKed here. And every day, I swear it got worse, until a few days ago when I couldn't even load my gmail. I did everything to try and figure out what was wrong. When I finally tested my internet speed do you know what it told me? After several failed attempts where the darn thing timed out, I learned that my download speed was somewhere between 37-150 kbps. Now I may be technologically retarded, but I do know the unit system, and my wireless router (given to me by my father in 2005 when he purchased a new one) could handle transfers of 11 mbps, and why in the heck would you need that much for....okay, I'm too tired to work out the decimals here, but you know what I mean. .037 mbps? .150 mbps? Is that right?
Sad. So sad. So I gave up, gave in, and finally called my Internet Service Provider. (Actually, I contacted them online via chat while at work so I wouldn’t actually have to talk to anyone.) After about an hour’s worth of baloney, they finally decided that *I* was not the problem, and today a technician came out to check the line.
A few whirs and clicks later, and voila, a speed test revealed a download rate of 22,000 kbps. I know. That still probably sucks, but I think it's awesome. I mean, I can load my email now.
I vaguely considered asking the technician if he wanted to make out because, for a solid sixty seconds I was actually in love with the guy, but I needed to get back to work.
I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. It's like when you haven't dated anybody for ages and finally get laid.
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