Fingers Crossed
Really hoping for a second global pandemic so I can get a perm.
Deodorant
Tim and I buy the same brand/kind of deodorant: Old Spice Fresh Sport. (No, this blog with zero readership is not sponsored by Procter & Gamble.) We each packed our deodorant when we went to Denver, but at some point during the trip, someone’s deodorant went missing. Strange, but also possible that someone thought they packed theirs and did not, so we waited to see if one was waiting for us at home. It wasn’t. One is gone! We had a brief conversation about it, but it is SO low priority compared to everything else going on in our lives right now (jail! death! summer camps!) that we quickly moved on. We did not buy a second deodorant. We did not discuss the fact that there are two people using one deodorant. We simply started sharing.
Is this gross? Have we crossed a line? Our marriage, now ten years in, feels like a web of important but totally arbitrary lines we have drawn. Share a toothbrush? Only in extreme emergencies. We close the bathroom door to relieve ourselves, unless I just had a baby and inevitably exposed everything to everyone, in which case there is no need to be falsely modest for a month or two, when we will return to the status quo of door closed. Sharing the shower is fine, but if Tim sleeps in just a t-shirt, he looks so naked that I feel I have to cover him up. We share water bottles on a day trip, but not water glasses at home.
We have now been sharing deodorant for about three weeks. In that time, we have made multiple trips to the grocery store and drug store, which tells me that this is an issue neither of us cares about. A non-issue. But if I can predict how this ends, Tim will go to the drug store in a few days to buy sleep diapers for the three-year-old, and will come home with a new deodorant for himself. Stay tuned. (Just kidding- there will be no follow-up story. No one needed to read about this in the first place.)
100 Years
This is a photo of a newborn baby girl, my grandma, taken 100 years ago today. Her name was Suzanne Porter.
Today, on what would have been her 100th birthday, I’m not sure what to say about her. There’s too much. She was the grandparent that I was the closest to. She died on December 5, 2019 at the age of 96. She was a scientist, a devout Catholic, a harpist, an animal lover, and a poet. She thought she was a terrible mother, but I can say that she was nothing but supportive as a grandmother.
The last time I saw her was in February 2019, and I was able to tell her how much I loved her. She was still sharp.
In September 2019, my mom and husband went to go see her, but I stayed at the hotel with my three-year-old daughter. I was eight months pregnant at the time, and my mom and husband thought it would upset me too much to see her, because she was in pain and not herself. I don’t know if that was the right decision.
In late October 2019, my mom called my grandma to tell her that I had given birth to my son. My grandma knew how difficult and dangerous childbirth is, and she had been praying constantly for me. My mom told me that she was very relieved to get the news.
I feel like I should be celebrating my grandma’s life today, but I feel sad. I miss her. I wish she had met my son. I wish she had lived an easier life. I feel guilt that I did not see her at the end of her life, and also relief that I did not have to see her in pain.
I can still hear her leaving a message for my mom on the answering machine at our house: “hi, this is Mom Grandma. Call when you can.”
Danger in Denver
Guys. Guys guys guys.
My husband, kids, and I flew into Denver this morning. It’s Saturday. On Tuesday morning, we will bury my paternal grandmother. I am told she died on April 12, 2023 at the age of 99.75, but I don’t believe she is dead.
At most I saw her once a year, and I would usually see her in Colorado, where she lived the final 34 or so years of her life. Her (alleged) passing has not felt real because I have not visited Colorado since her (alleged) death.
The same was true when my maternal grandmother died in December 2019. I always saw her in San Diego. All of my memories of her are in San Diego. So until I visited San Diego and did not see her, her death was not real. Even after that, mourning her death was difficult because I was rarely reminded of her in my day-to-day life. Then I would drive down to San Diego and start sobbing as soon as I neared her freeway exit, overwhelmed with memories, grief, and loss.
Tomorrow, things may start to feel real. Today, I have been in survival mode. I am anticipating the grieving I need to do. I am also girding myself to step into the swirling, all-consuming dysfunction of my parents/immediate family and my dad’s extended family. I will also be seeing my aunt and uncle on my mom’s side, who I believe have always disliked my dad. I will be seeing a close family member who I have not seen since they were arrested and charged with a financial crime, and with whom I have only communicated over text. Should I continue? Have I adequately communicated the emotional complexity of the next 72 hours?
Today, my family unit (me, husband, kids) drove up to Fort Collins to see a college friend who moved there one year ago. As we sat in traffic on the 473 North, the rain pelting the car and grayness spreading in every direction, I said “if it’s gray all weekend, I don’t know how I’m going to do this.” A few minutes later, as my son screamed about how his car seat was wet and therefore he needed a new one immediately, I repeated the sentiment. It was not a joke. I have to scale an emotional mountain. Meanwhile, all I can think about is how soon I can revise a report I wrote, because I’d just received an email from my boss that said “good job!” and then provided comments and questions. To me, “good job” plus comments and questions really means “mediocre job” and “how stupid of you to think you were good at this,” so I must revise the report immediately and prove my worth and until I do that, I cannot possibly think about anything else. Or rest or enjoy myself, but those are two things I was not counting on doing anyway.
My husband checked his weather app and communicated the bad news gently:
H: “It doesn’t look great.”
Me: “The sun is my hope.”
H: *grim nod*
About an hour later, the clouds cleared and the sun came out. We sat on my friend’s deck, watching the kids laugh as they learned how to roast marshmallows and made smoos (my son’s word for s’mores.) Dark clouds are forecasted for tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday, but for a short period of time today, my very nervous system got a break.
Lists on Lists
I used to think I had a good memory. I suppose I do in a way. I remember the phone number and street of my best friend in fourth grade (443-2288, Tama Drive.) I remember that my law school friend’s childhood friend’s ex-boyfriend is named Rudy. I remember the outfit I wore to get the immunizations I needed for kindergarten.
In high school and college, if I could get myself to synthesize the material I needed to learn for a quiz or test into a neatly-printed one or two page study sheet, I could take a mental photograph of the study guide and remember it just long enough to score an A-. (The problem, of course, being that synthesizing the material into a study guide was SO boring that it made me want to die.)
As it turns out though, my working memory is shit. Working memory is the memory you need in order to complete a task. I have heard it described as a bulletin board where your brain temporarily stores or holds information needed to finish the job. If your working memory is shit, you start jobs and then forget about them. For instance, my son asked me for refills of his milk and water, so I picked up his cups and walked into the kitchen. I refilled his water cup at the fridge and then thought “I wonder if the milk is in the fridge or already out on the counter.” I set the cups down on the counter, noticed that the blender was dirty, and walked over and washed the blender, completely forgetting that my son still did not have water or milk.
I do this at work as well. The other day, I was feeling caffeinated and focused, so I sat in one place for two hours and typed up a timeline of the pertinent facts in a case I’m handling. As soon as I completed it, I opened up another document to doublecheck a fact, and lo and behold, I discovered a timeline I had prepared two weeks earlier for the same case! I have zero memory of preparing that timeline.
Duplicated facts are a common feature of my life. I was recently going through some of my old papers at my parents’ house, and I found a list of things I enjoy doing. I started laughing. I made the list at some point in my 20s, but it looks a lot like the list of things I enjoy doing that is currently posted on my fridge. And the one in my phone. And if I kept looking, I’m sure I’d find another similar list in one of the four journals I keep. Each time I make the list I think, “what a great idea!" as if it is the first time I’ve made the list because, in a way, it is. It is a great new idea because I have no memory of making my prior lists and therefore never consult them.
I also have duplicated thought processes, where I think through some complicated thoughts or emotions and come to a seemingly-new realization. I then communicate the realization to another person or write it in a journal, only to realize I’ve had this realization before. A few months ago, I came home from a walk and announced to my husband that I was starting to realize that I am a very sensitive person. He gently asked “…you’re starting to realize this?”
I am coming to understand (for the first time or the 50th time, really, who knows?) that if I want to avoid these duplicated efforts in the future, I will need to make a master list of my running lists and keep the master list in a conspicuous place. The master list will include things like a list of my friends, a list of emotions I commonly feel (and why), and a list of tools I can use to deal with these emotions.
The more I notice how often I duplicate tasks and thought processes, the more the man’s tattoos in Memento make sense to me, though given how the master list will evolve over time, I will stick to paper for now.
Razor’s Edge
Just realizing there’s a razor’s edge between me feeling happily busy at work and so overwhelmed I could die.
Anyone Want to Talk Inner Lives?
Let's talk for a minute about trying to make friends as an adult. Why is it so fucking hard? Is it me? Because I like me, but I am finding making friends to be very difficult.
I was talking to my therapist about it today. She asked "do you find people in Westchester to be welcoming?" The use of the word "welcoming" was interesting. Are they friendly? Yes. But are they welcoming? ...Not really. Everyone seems to already have established their friend group, and they don't need any new members.
This is how I felt when I moved to New York at the age of 22. I expected the situation I encountered when I started college - a large group of people who had just moved there and were open to and excited about making close friends. But when I got to New York, I realized that everyone already had their friends. A lot of people had moved there WITH their friends. What?! No one told me that was an option, let alone common.
My therapist has lived in Westchester for her entire life, so I appreciated her input when she told me that people here are cliquey. Thank you. They are cliquey.
A few weeks ago, a friend and I went to a local hotel on a Sunday night to get a drink and celebrate her recent work promotion. When we arrived, I saw three kids from my son's preschool class jumping on a couch in the lobby. I turned around and noticed their parents, who were all there having dinner together. I did not know one of the sets of parents. (Or, I should say, I don't know their real names. At my house, we just call them "hot dad" and "hot dad's wife.") However, two of the families recently came to my house for my son's birthday party and stayed for hours. I thought we had a really nice time. And yet, here they all were hanging out without me.
I felt stung, and yet, I would not have gone if they had invited me. I do not want to take my kids to a nice restaurant on a Sunday night. I would end up trying to talk them into eating their overpriced food, and I wouldn't be able to carry on a conversation without interruptions. I wouldn't have any fun. I want to put them to bed and then go meet one to three other adult women. Once there, I don't want to discuss my kids for hours on end. I want to share one or two funny or frustrating things, and then I want to talk about the things that interest me, like breaking intergenerational trauma and whether breath work really works and how to be creative when you work and parent. Is that so hard?
Apparently it is.
Running List
Here’s a running list of seemingly innocuous questions that will set off a HUGE fight between my sister and brother-in-law:
What’s the status of the clean laundry?
Do you not smell the cat box?
Where did the rest of the pizza go?
Didn’t you say you wanted me to come home early to help with dinner?
I invite my sister to add any that I’ve missed.
My Year So Far
Let me update you.
October 2019 - I had my baby boy. I was worried about whether I would love him because I tend to think baby girls are cuter. There was no need to worry. He is fussy, but we are in love.
December 2019 - My grandma died. She was the grandparent I was closest to, and I miss her.
January 2020 - I went to my grandma’s memorial. Later that day, I went to mass, where she was honored. Neither event came close to capturing how magnificent she was. I sobbed at the lobby bar of the Courtyard Marriott while the bartender poured me a glass of white wine and pretended not to notice.
February 2020 - At nearly four months old, baby boy could still only be awake for 45 minutes at a time. I asked my therapist if she thought I had postpartum depression. She said no; I think you have “don’t ask for help” depression. I tried to start asking for more help. Out of desperation, I started sleep training baby boy. I got Mom shamed for sleep training before 6 months.
March 5, 2020 (journal entry): I felt good yesterday, like we are turning a corner. Baby was in a good mood, and we ran some errands. He took good naps, and only woke up once in the middle of the night to eat. It was really encouraging, and I felt like myself. Today hasn’t been a bad day, but my head feels crowded and messy.
March 7, 2020 (journal entry): Today I found myself wishing I had a clogged duct so that I could rest.
March 12, 2020 (journal entry): I left the baby with a new babysitter, who seemed competent but did not engage with me very much, which made me really nervous. I ended up coming back 45 minutes early because she did not respond to a text I sent her, and I was afraid that the baby was dead. This was the last time I went grocery shopping in person.
March 16, 2020: We rented an Airbnb in Santa Barbara to escape LA during the global pandemic. We drove up in the pouring rain; I took the cats and he took the kids. We stayed for two months. Three weeks in, I went “back to work” after six months of maternity leave. I had to order a button down shirt to wear with my sweat pants so that I looked somewhat professional on my Zoom calls. Tim and I had a big fight about our sourdough starter.
May 16, 2020: We moved down to my in-law’s house in Laguna Niguel to get help with the kids. The cats went to live with my parents. We stayed for six weeks. We ordered takeout for the first time. We finished our fifth puzzle.
July 5, 2020: We moved back to Santa Monica, where I feel both physical unsafe to go outside and emotionally unsafe, because I feel filled with rage by the number of maskless people blocking the sidewalk. I bought a water table and a Pickler triangle to keep my kids occupied without a backyard.
August 1, 2020: We drove up to Monterey to stay with my sister’s family for five days and take a break. Two days in, my sister broke her ankle on our outing to a creek in Big Sur, so we extended our trip to help out.
August 5, 2020: I got tired of all of the fighting and yelling so I made all of the kids sit on the couch for four minutes. The 7-year-old spent the whole time screaming “my dad would NEVER make us do this.” One of the kids asked why they had to sit on the couch and I said “because I’m a bitch.”
So that’s where I’m at. How are you?
First Day of School
Just wanted to say for the record that this is exactly how I looked when I dropped my daughter off for her first day of preschool. And how I look every day when I pick her up.
Update From the Baby Barn
So I guess my April post was a fake out. Maybe I’m back now? It’s unclear. This pregnancy has kicked, and continues to kick, my butt.
My first pregnancy was magical. My little baby bump grew gradually. I continued to work full time and felt great until the very end of the third trimester. I made exercise a priority. I wore cute little maternity shorts and dresses.
This time around, my belly expanded quickly and violently, and I have looked VERY pregnant for months. (When people have asked how much longer and I’ve answered “two months” or “three months,” the common response has been for them to look at my belly and say, “WHOA.” It’s very flattering.) I get home after working a few hours, strip off all my clothes, and get in bed. I have tried going to Pilates a few times, but usually end up laying on the machine, fielding questions from the concerned instructor about whether I’m okay. My daughter asks me why I pick her up from preschool in my pajamas.
When people ask me how I’m doing, I say, “I have a healthy baby, so I can’t complain.” And then I complain.
To All the Readers I've Loved Before
I’m back, beeshes. As my two readers likely noticed, I took a long hiatus from blogging. I stopped because I didn’t feel like doing it. I worked on a sitcom pilot instead, because I am embracing this cliche Los Angeles existence from soup to nuts. Then I got pregnant and stopped doing anything that wasn’t entirely necessary, like feeding my daughter dinner and feeding myself two dinners. But now the glittering skyline of second trimester approaches in the distance, and I am finally feeling more like myself. And when I feel like myself, I write.
Update: about 25 minutes after I starting writing this, I got really tired and fell asleep at 5:00pm. I felt so sleepy and tired the next day that I sobbed in therapy about how my first trimester is almost over, so I should have my energy back.
I come from a long line of over-doers. My 95-year-old grandma broke her hip for the second time about 10 years ago because she insisted on bringing in the trash cans during a rain storm. We have very strong ideas about what we should get done, and do that instead of listening to our bodies and doing what is best for ourselves. This happens a lot when I get sick. I will decide how long it should take me to get better (3 days? 5 days?), and for that period of time, I will rest and let myself heal. However, once that time period is over, I start to push myself, even if I am still sick. I once went to the gym to “sweat out” the rest of my cold, which does not work because it is not a thing. I ended up coming down with the flu.
I am trying to release expectations about when I will get my energy back and what I should do each day, and remember that growing a human is an accomplishment. And for today, it is going ok.
An Olympic Loss
It's not that I haven't enjoyed the Winter Olympics. They've been fine, even great at points. I've cheered for the cute American teenagers as they've barreled down the half pipes. I've grown used to falling asleep at night watching curling. I've learned that no one can pronounce Zagitova or Medvedeva correctly, and we are all okay with that.
But I can't fully enjoy the Olympics because I keep thinking, where's Bob?!
I understand that Bob Costas can't host the Olympics forever, but without him there, things don't feel right. What makes it worse is that I never got any closure. I was alarmed when I didn't see Bob on the first day of the Olympics, but I held out hope. A pit formed in my stomach when he didn't make an appearance on the second day. On the third day, People.com confirmed what I had suspected: Bob wasn't coming this year. Or any year, for that matter. Bob had retired.
We should have been given more warning! If Rio was going to be the last Olympics with Bob, I should have been told so that I could mourn the loss appropriately. I could have baked a Costas cake, or buried a time capsule with videos of my favorite Bob moments, like when he contracted an aggressive case of pink eye in Sochi.
Am I mad at NBC? Are they to blame? Or am I really mad at Bob? After all, he's the one who left without saying good bye.
In time, I will learn to love Mike Tirico. But he'll never wear a blue suit the way Bob does.
Of Kitties and Babies
My daughter is a Karen. No, that’s not her name. I’ll explain.
My husband grew up hating cats. This caused tension when we moved in together, because I immediately wanted to get a cat. He insisted that he was a dog person, which I blew off because in my experience, most “dog people” have never met a great cat. He also insisted that he was severely allergic to cats, and said he “didn’t want to be miserable for the rest of his life.” So dramatic. To his credit, he sniffled and sneezed uncontrollably whenever he entered my parents’ house, which is also home to two cats, but a steady stream of Claritin kept his wheezing to a minimum.
About six months into our marriage, we were visiting my brother when his roommate’s beautiful Himalayan cat, Bear, came out to sniff my husband. I’m not sure what possessed my husband to pick up Bear, but he did, and he did not have an allergic reaction. We learned that miraculous day that he is not allergic to my favorite breeds of cats, i.e., any cat with a large, flat, smushed face. And so we got Kevin.
Kevin was a five-year-old Exotic Longhair who was being bullied by his cat roommates in south Orange County. We brought him to live with us, and immediately fell in love. He’s chill and independent until he decides that he wants some cuddles, and then he lies on top of me and the computer, demanding attention. He loves dental floss and would love nothing more than to take a nap on my work papers. He has had almost no health problems, and he grooms himself with care.
When my husband and I found out I was pregnant, we decided to get Kevin a kitty friend so that he wouldn’t feel lonely when the baby came. And so we got Karen.
Karen was a two-year-old Exotic Longhair who needed a home. She looked so much like Kevin that we assumed she would have a similar personality, but she’s not a Kevin. She’s a Karen. She’s fiercely loyal and loving (i.e., SUPER needy). She doesn’t seem to know how to groom herself, and always looks disheveled, even if we just brushed her. Her eyes need constant cleaning. She wakes us up in the middle of the night because she feels the need to meow VERY loudly when she’s carrying her blue dog toy in her mouth. She zips around the house, sliding on rugs and knocking things over. And even though we adopted Karen so that Kevin wouldn’t be lonely, she’s the one who was upset when the baby arrived.
My husband and I like to joke that if we had gotten Karen first, there would be no Kevin. But Kevin made having a cat seem so easy that we got a second one. We were duped!
That’s what I mean when I say that my daughter is a Karen. She does not make having a child seem easy. She makes it seem exhausting.
She started the terrible twos at her first birthday party, when she said her first word (“Me! Me! Me!") and seemingly uncovered a very strong will. While I swore I would never raise a picky child, she only wants to eat pasta, eggs, and blueberries. And she is currently going through a phase where she wakes up between 4:00-5:45 a.m. every morning. She demands a bottle, and then sometimes goes back to sleep, but more often than not, she’s up for the day. I’ve tried bringing her into bed with me, but instead of falling asleep, she lays on top of me, kicks her legs, and re-positions her head every 30 seconds.
She’s not a chill Kevin. She’s a demanding, messy Karen. And yet, when she’s lying on my chest at 4:30 a.m. and she loudly shushes me because “Daddy sleeping,” my half-awake mind thinks, “we should have another baby. Immediately."
Preparing to Flee
As you may already know, southern California has been plagued by fires this week. Our house has not been in the direct path or evacuation zone of any fires, but with the proximity of the Skirball fire, the high temperatures, and the strong, dry winds, my husband and I decided to err on the safe side and pack a few bags in case we had to evacuate.
This is not a fun task! I cried as I read the LA Times’ list of what to take if you have to evacuate. Even without an imminent threat of evacuation, deciding what to take – and more distressingly, what to leave -- in case we have to flee is an emotional job.
Here’s what I would take:
- My mother-in-law’s baby baptism dress, which P also wore when she was dedicated, and two little dresses that I wore as a baby. The last thing I want to do at Christmas is tell my in-laws or my parents that I saved my My Pillow but failed to save the family heirlooms.
- My My Pillow. I love it. I’ve become the basic bitch who travels with her own pillow.
- Our photo albums. It’s not that I don’t have digital versions of all of the photographs -- I do -- it’s that I cannot stand the idea of having to remake those photo albums. What an incredibly boring task, and I don’t even decorate the books or include any dates or comments. I just order prints online and slide them into photo albums while I watch TV. But still, never again.
- The enormous box that allegedly holds my dry-cleaned wedding dress. I say allegedly because I saw a local news segment about nefarious dry cleaners who pretend to box up your wedding dress, but actually sell your wedding dress and return an empty box to you. It’s heartless but brilliant.
Here’s what I would not take:
- My clothes. They fit strangely post-baby. They all seem to have moth holes though I didn’t think we had a moth problem. They’re either too casual or too dressy. They require dry cleaning, and I can’t bring myself to drop them off at the dry cleaners. A chance at a new wardrobe? Well, okay, if I have to.
- The cats. Kidding. That’s just a dig at my cats because Karen would not leave me alone today.
- Our couch. Obviously, we wouldn’t actually consider taking our couch in an emergency, but I will say, I wouldn’t miss it. We bought it three years ago, and the cushions have already lost all support. I’m not even tempted to nap on it.
As much as I dislike my couch and clothes, I sincerely hope that the fires end soon, and that packing our bags will be a complete waste of time.
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
My decision to work part-time from home has coincided with my next door neighbor’s decision to renovate the back half of their house.
I don’t like these neighbors. I have never spoken to them, but because our kitchen and bathroom overlooks their kitchen and back yard, I overhear a lot of their interactions. I hear them yelling at each other (to the point where we had to call the cops once), and I hear the middle-school-aged son using the f-word with such frequency that it’s hard to decipher the point of anything he is saying. While I am admittedly nosy (more about that here), these are not the types of conversations that I ever want to overhear.
I am, however, VERY curious about what type of renovation they are doing. Who needs HGTV? I can watch them tear out the back wall while I shower, and frame the new roof while I pretend to wash the dishes. With the back wall down, I can now see directly into their kitchen, where the exposed drywall that faces west says, “Range here.” I thought they were expanding their kitchen, but now it looks more like they are adding a mudroom and pantry. I watch their daily process, and text my new renovation guesses to my husband (who loves the updates, I’m sure.)
There a few *minor* problems with the construction that don’t come from watching a renovation on television. For one, the loud noise from the jackhammers, buzz saws, and nail guns keep interrupting my phone calls with clients. Also, the construction workers can see into my home. This morning, I sat on the floor for my 11-minute meditation. When I finished, I prayed for a few minutes. Out loud. Then I looked up and saw a construction worker sitting on the roof less than 40 feet away. He saw me. Finally, on HGTV, they edit out the butt crack sightings. In real life, the sightings are frequent. And vivid. So, so vivid.
Meditation Master
I’m really trying to meditate, but my fucking cat won’t leave me alone.
My law firm held a training earlier this year on mindfulness and the art of staying present. I am rarely fully present; my mind is busy (mis)interpreting the past and worrying about the future. That’s a great combination if you want to be a distracted mom and a sloppy lawyer, and if you want to miss out on most of your life.
In an effort to curb this bad habit, I started a program a week ago called 30 Days of Meditation. Each day, you increase your period of meditation by one minute. As I dropped my daughter off at daycare today, I started getting myself pumped up for today’s seven minutes. I can do this! I can focus my breath for seven minutes! It’s just seven minutes!
I get home, sit in a comfortable position on the floor, and shut my eyes. Immediately, I feel a furry head rubbing against my calf. It’s my younger cat, Karen, and she is thrilled that I am sitting on the floor. She wants to cuddle, NOW, and she is persistent. She will not be ignored.
I pause my meditation podcast and attempt to placate the extreme feline neediness by petting Karen. A lot. I hold her, scratch behind her ears, and run my hand down her back. But she is not satisfied. She is encouraged, and hungrier than ever for pets.
I try to focus so deeply on my breathing that I am able to ignore the fact that Karen won’t stop rubbing up against my hand and arm. But I am failing, because Karen isn’t just trying to get pets. She is also on a mission to rub the brown eye gunk that collects around her eyes onto my skin and clothing. This habit grosses me out to no end, and I am quickly losing patience. This is my time to be quiet so that I can set myself up for a peaceful, productive day. So I close my eyes again and breathe in and out. In and out.
And then Karen jumps up on the ottoman so that she can rub her face on my face. Now I am mad.
I (gently) toss Karen onto the couch behind me, and flash back to my parents’ old house on Via Marfil. I am about eight years old, and my mom is making dinner on a Sunday night. My sister, brother, and I are likely bickering, and apparently making a lot of noise, because my dad comes storming out his bedroom. “CAN YOU KEEP IT DOWN?! I’M TRYING TO READ MY GODDAMN BIBLE.” He obviously hadn’t made it very far into his Bible because I’m pretty sure it says in the first 50 pages that you’re not supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain.
My meditation podcast is telling me to accept whatever I am feeling at the moment without judgment, but dammit, this is not how I am supposed to feel when I meditate! I am extremely frustrated with Karen, and even angrier at myself that I have gotten so frustrated and derailed by a cat.
Finally, I head into the bathroom. I feel nothing like a Zen master when seated on a toilet, but I can’t be picky right now. Karen has laid claim to the living room, and I have no doubt that if I head upstairs to my bedroom, my older cat, Kevin, will immediately remember that he needs pets more at this moment than he has ever needed them in his little kitty lifetime. So I sit on the toilet and close my eyes. At that moment, the neighbor’s gardener turns on his leaf blower. What a joke. I give up.
When my husband gets home, I complain about Karen’s voracious need for pets. “She wouldn’t leave me alone, so I had to try to meditate in the bathroom. The bathroom!”
He looks to the corner of the room and tries not to smile.
“She’s out of food.”
I Quit
I tried to quit my job last month, but my boss said no.
I graduated from law school in 2011. I often wonder whether law school permanently changed my personality for the worse. I’m convinced I used to be funnier and less risk adverse, though there’s no way to measure that objectively. However, I don’t regret going to law school. There is at least one thing I learned for which I will be forever grateful, and that was the training in oral arguments.
In moot (read – pretend) court, you learn how to argue a case to a panel of judges. The judges will often interrupt you with questions, so you cannot read your argument or stick too closely to your outline. Rather, you prepare a roadmap for your argument, often by identifying the three significant points you must hit before your time runs out, and then you practice fielding questions and smoothly transitioning back to your points. Your goal is to be in control, but also flexible. You want to persuade the judges by answering their questions, and thus easing their concerns, but also by making the points you need to make within the allotted time.
You may be thinking, “you think law school ruined your personality, and yet you’re grateful to have learned a skill that you may never use in your life?” It’s true that I am nearly six years into my career and have yet to argue in front of a real appellate court. However, moot court skills are not just useful for appellate arguments. They are useful for EVERY argument.
During late fall of my second year of law school, I felt dissatisfied in my relationship with my then- boyfriend. It seemed like fifty percent of the time, he was glad we were in a relationship, and the other fifty percent of the time, he wished he was single, and acted that way. He never cheated on me, he just filled his time playing basketball, playing music, studying, eating with friends, etc. I decided it was time we part ways.
We had broken up once before and gotten back together less than a month later, and I was not interested in having an on again/off again relationship, so I knew I needed to make it clear that the break up was final. I sat in the quiet of my apartment and thought through the reasons why we could not be together, and I slowly put together my roadmap for the breakup. I did not want to break up with him, so I knew that I would cry. A lot. I also knew that he would have compelling reasons for us to stay together, so I needed to be prepared. Using a page from a check register, I wrote down the three bullet points for why we were incompatible, read them over, and put them in my purse.
A few days later, I road BART to his apartment. I had the bullet points in my purse. I also had a fever. When I got to his apartment, I said we needed to talk, and I launched into my persuasive argument. We both cried. He tried to get me to sit down at one point because my fever was making me weak, but I stood strong, literally and figuratively. I walked out of his apartment, got onto the BART, and sobbed the whole ride back. I hadn’t looked at the bullet points once. That’s the genius of the roadmap; once you go to the trouble of identifying and writing down your three most important points, you have internalized your argument and no longer need notes.
Which brings me to last month, when I tried to quit my job. I had been unhappy for a long time. If you ask my friends and family, they will likely tell you that I have been complaining about my job for years. I realized 14 months ago, while on maternity leave and dreading my return to work, that I needed to do something about my unhappiness, and I started looking for other jobs. Two months ago, I realized that I was stuck, and needed to take a leap of faith and give notice. So for a few weeks, I rehearsed what I would say to my boss. I practiced my introduction as I drove to and from the office. I ran possible phrasing by my husband and friends. I pictured myself speaking the words. But I never wrote a roadmap. I wrote a speech.
Last month, I walked into my boss’s office and shut the door. I felt ill, but I delivered my speech, complete with large, awkward, and entirely unnecessary hand motions. He looked shocked, but he listened. Once I finished, he asked me what I was going to do next, and I said that I didn’t know. He had more questions, like whether there are any projects at our firm that I enjoy doing, and whether we could continue a dialogue about me staying in a part time capacity.
My husband told me to be prepared for this situation, and yet I came unprepared! I never practiced fielding difficult questions and smoothly seguing back to my main points, like the point that I am unhappy and leaving! I had practiced a monologue. And because I didn’t have answers to my boss’s questions, I said yes.
Yes, we can keep talking about a way for me to stay connected to the firm.
Yes, there are some projects I like doing here.
Yes, I could stay on in a part-time capacity.
Just like that, I had lost control of the room.
…
As it turns out, my boss not letting me quit was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I’ve been struggling to find what type of law interests me the most, and I believe I’ve discovered it: part-time law. I still research, write, and advise my clients, but often from home. When I need human contact or an excuse to wash my hair, I go into the office. I have time to volunteer at a family law clinic, and I can pick the Bean up early from daycare. I will need to find a way to make some additional money at some point, but in the meantime, being a part-time lawyer is where it’s at.
My New Therapist
I have a new therapist. I loved my old therapist, but I realized that I wasn’t entirely honest with her. It’s not that I lied to her per se, it’s just that I wasn’t as forthcoming as I think someone should be if they want therapy to work.
I’ve thought a lot about why I didn’t tell my old therapist more. Here’s what I’ve got so far:
1. I didn’t want to upset my therapist. So, for instance, if I read an article online about child abuse that upset me enough to send me into a panic attack at work, I was concerned that if I conveyed the content of the article to her, she’d be equally upset. What’s the point of upsetting both of us? She needs to be in a good frame of mind to help me.
2. I was afraid of the consequences of being honest. If I am forthcoming with a medical doctor, the worst thing she can tell me is that I’m dying. If I am forthcoming with a therapist, the worst thing she can tell me is that I am a horrible person. I’d rather die than be given confirmation that I am indeed a horrible person.
3. I got the sense that discussing sex made her uncomfortable. My therapist was in her late 60’s, and whenever I raised the topic of sex, I could have sworn that the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees, the eye contact dissipated, and the note taking increased.
Having identified the reasons for my past withholding of information, I am making a concerted effort to be more honest with my new therapist than I was with my old therapist. My main rule is to think less and talk more. In a few short weeks, we have already made a few big discoveries:
1. I’m not a pervert!
When I came home, I told my husband that I only had to pay $30 to hear that I’m not a pervert, though I would pay any amount of money to hear that information. My husband responded, “wouldn’t a pervert pay any amount of money to hear that?”
2. I’m not a lesbian.
My new therapist seems to think that my lifelong sexual attraction to men was a big factor suggesting that I am in fact heterosexual. Noted.
3. Things are going fine.
Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the last 13 years of my life actively trying to work through the resentments, hurts, and negative thoughts that have been holding me back, but I’m realizing we don’t have a ton of topics to cover each week in therapy, especially when we ruled out perversion and homosexuality in the first two sessions.
...Or maybe I’m just not being forthcoming.