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My co-worker and I have a deal where every Friday that our boss doesn’t show, we go to a long lunch at the thai restaurant down the street. Today was one of those days. We order a few glasses of plum wine and pad thais, and dish about work, about life, about each other. I’ve worked with her for nearly a year now, and for as small a staff as we are, it’s a real travesty that I know her so little.
She was talking about being stressed; deciding whether to renew her lease, going through a breakup, thinking about taking another bar exam.
Hold up. Breakup? I love how she just snuck that in there. She told me she was okay; break-ups are just always hard. I said something distanced, yet designed to be comforting; something like “boys are jerks, don’t worry, you’ll have moved on from him before you know it.”
Except. Her soon-to-be-ex is not of the male variety.
I consider myself a very open and accepting person, but still I’m surprised by how readily I assumed she was just like me. I also hate how easily she accepted my gaffe in judgment; like she gets that all the time. That must be so hard.
I probably shouldn’t have taken such a long lunch, retrospectively, as it basically dashed all hopes of hey, it’s an unsupervised Friday, I think I’ll take off early and go sit by the pool. Hopping into the elevator to find the executive vice president, though? And knowing that she knows I was there till 6 on a Friday? SO worth it.
And yet here I am, sitting here in my living room while all the cool girls of the world are out and getting all ready for the SATC movie. If I was back at home with my *real* friends, I like to think I’d be joining that throng.
I was never a fanatic fan of the show; I never watched it in primetime, but I have come to really enjoy it now in its on-demand form. I’d like to see the movie, but I think more for the sensation—beacause it’s just “what you do.” It’s not something I’m cloying to see so badly that I’d force J to endure it.
I’ve lived here for a year and a half, and have no friends to call up for a girly movie night. How is this? (or, more accurately, how sad is this?). I have friends, don’t get me wrong. My best gal pal hates the show with a fiery passion. A handful of my other friends are of the uber-Catholic variety, and thus even admitting that I think about sex would probably earn me no more phone calls. The rest are cool girls, from college and otherwise, but not really the buddy-buddy type. Great to call and say, hey, I’ll be in the city, let’s get dinner, but easy for me to write off as “not that serious.” I could probably organize something with them. It’s undoubtedly an indication of how much I care that I haven’t. If this was a movie I was dying to see,or something I really wanted to do, I’d find people to go with.
Still, though, sometimes I don’t really know what drives me to just sit here and wait for life to happen. I want that close Charlotte-Miranda-Samantha-Carrie bond, but I don’t know what makes me think I’ll get it if I just stare, willing the phone to ring. Something to work on this summer, certainly: take friendships more seriously. And work to build them up.
Till then, I can’t say I mind this sort of Friday night; I’ve uncorked a bottle of wine, am cooking a giant vat of mashed potatoes (so. freaking, delicious), and have cranked up the Brad Paisley. Not at all a bad way to go.
I’m something of a spy. I’m like an undercover agent. I save the world. One semicolon at a time, I save the world, most every day.
It started back when I lived at home; I was waiting for my bar results to come down, but wasn’t too keen on the idea of doing nothing in the meantime. I’m just not a girl for nothing. Sitting still? Not really a skill. Patience? Not so much a virtue as a rote practice.
Turns out, the school district where I grew up out-sources the grading of their English essays. I still find this a bit suspect, but seeing as they hired me, and let me keep working even after I moved to Virginia, I’m willing to overlook any possible fraud on the students (heh). The system is simple: teacher assigns an essay. Teacher sends me the almighty keys to the curriculum, and says “have at it” once the students’ work is in. I log into the system, ignoring the “Welcome, Mr. Teacher!” banner, and score—actually assign a numeric score—to all of the essays.
Pansy teachers. But, pansy teachers keep magda in designer jeans, so all’s well that end’s well, eh? How do I love thee, pansy school district, let me count the ways.
That love has a fast way of deteriorating, however, when 151 ninth grade Shakespearean sonnet analyses crash land into the in-queue. If I read one more thesis that says something lame-ass like “In this sonnet, Shakespeare talks about love,” I just might lose it.
And I might take it out on the HP ordering services man if he calls me one more time. Somehow, HP thinks that someone at my cell phone number has ordered a massive quantity of computer products. Last month, they were calling nearly every day to confirm the products’ readiness, but as my cell is usually off at work, all it amounted to was a string of nonsensical voicemails. Apparently another order is ready. They called at 2.30 am to tell me about it. Then again at 3. I tried to tell them to STOP CALLING, but I’m pretty sure they were in India and I’m pretty sure they didn’t speak much more English than was printed on their script. You’ve got the wrong number, I’d say. And he’d start his spiel over. Stop calling in the middle of the night, I’d insist. He’d apologize, then start over still again. I hung up on him. I hate doing that, but I had so totally been asleep, and Shakespeare has fried my brain.
Bastards. If they call back, I’ll send the pain and agony of sonnet 147 upon them. That’ll teach ‘em.
When I think of people who do “amazing work,” I envision Peace Corps volunteers, people working on disaster relief, and low-paying service to the less fortunate. I see people working for change, be it social, humanitarian, or political. “Amazing,” to me, connotes something with a bigger purpose.
Predictably, then, I was rather surprised to receive this weekend an e-mail from my high school, asking to profile me in an “alumnae doing amazing work” feature they’re preparing.
At least in my mind’s eye, a girl who sometimes works hard, but sometimes writes her blog, who analyzes cases, but only for a narrow sector of stiff IP lawyers, and who’s constantly bopping down the elevator for more coffee because woe is me, work is so dull sometimes doesn’t quite qualify.
The most troubling question on their prepared survey asks me what my ultimate career goal is. My high school, true to its elite all-girls mentality, is clawing for an answer along the lines of “I want to run my own internationally-traded, Fortune 100 company. After that, I aim to be President of the United States. I’ll be so successful, that I’ll run the world! And it’s all because of the confidence I gained in high school!”
They want to see ambition, and power, and prestige. Honestly, I’m a little torn up on the issue.
Part of me does want to move up, to move on, to be a booming bright star. She’s a legend, my bio will say, printed out in neat script under my photo on the programs at my speaking engagements. I want to wear a power suit in a big city and authoritatively lead meetings; present big ideas and really do something. I don’t think a life like this is out of reach, if I worked at it.
Sometimes I want that life, that identity. Other times—today being one of them—I’d like nothing more than to milk the money and the benefits from this job for a few more years, then get married, move somewhere quiet with big sidewalks and the ocean nearby and a mailman who whistles as he greets our dog. I want to bake cookies and be a room mom and forget that being a lawyer ever happened. I want to write creatively while the children are at school, and read stories when they get home. I want to send them to fancy schools like mine and I want them to have the wherewithal to be what is outwardly “amazing,” but I want them to know that that isn’t required, and that being amazing, if it doesn’t fulfill you, is an enormous waste of time and energy.
This sometimes-conviction fares poorly, I fear, in print. I can see it now: Angie is a high-powered businesswoman and aspiring CEO. Theresa is a human rights activist risking her life for radical change in Darfur. Magda wants to quit her job and be a housewife (cough). Amelia has started a hugely successful fund to improve health and low-income housing in the inner cities, and she and the orphans she’s saving regularly testify before Congress on the travesty of American poverty.
It’s enough to make me want to change my e-mail and never write back, disappear in an “oh! You were looking for me? Really!” cloud of feigned ignorance.
I probably should be doing more, helping people and whatnot, and I probably should be challenging myself to be just one step better here at work. Maybe I will. In the meantime, I’m going to work on being content with what I am doing and with what I want to be doing, even if it’s not as envious as the work of my ex-classmates. Because really, you never know. I may have a serious go-getter, world-changing daughter who, 30 years from now, says she owes it all to her mom, to the attention she got and the love she felt at home. That, I’d say, would be pretty amazing.
Incompetence really frustrates me. People who drive or walk too slow do, too. But I think people who try to shift blame and avert responsibility top my all-time list of supreme grievances.
I find the offense especially egregious when parents try to make someone else responsible for the rearing and discipline of their children. I was spoiled, I suppose (though I certainly didn’t see it that way at the time); I had two very involved parents who wanted everything to do with how we grew up. We heard “no” a lot. Do we know her parents? Will her parents even be there? You’ll be out till what time? No. Resounding.
The world has changed a lot since I grew up, in a house that had no internet till the tenth grade. Looking back, the landscape seemed a lot safer then: everything was visible; it was knowable and seeable. Parents today have a lot to more deal with, but I don’t think the mysticism of the internet is any excuse to let your duties-as-mom-and-dad slack off. Know when she’s online. Know who she talks to. Know where she goes, and what information she’s telling the world about herself. Harder, sure, but not impossible.
I read a case today where a thirteen year old girl registered for a MySpace page by pretending to be 18. She uploaded pictures of herself, some of which were scandalous, then made internet friends with some guy. After extensive chats, she then arranged to meet him, and was assaulted. Tragic, really. But her mom? Her mom sued MySpace. Negligence, she said: MySpace hadn’t adequately protected her daughter. EARTH TO MOM, that’s YOUR job.
Back when I was younger, if I would have broken the rules and gone out late and been by myself and talked to strangers downtown and gotten hurt, could my parents have sued the City of Seattle? Obviously the analogy is flawed, but really?
The judge in this case was a guy I like. I might even write him some fan mail. This from the transcript:
THE COURT: I want to get this straight. You have a 13-year-old girl who lies, disobeys all of the instructions, later on disobeys the warning not to give personal information, obviously, and does not communicate with the parent. More important, the parent does not exercise the parental control over the minor. The minor gets sexually abused, and you want somebody else to pay for it? This is the lawsuit that you filed?
COUNSEL FOR THE DOES: Yes, your honor.
He threw the case out, and the appellate court affirmed. Good news all around. Still, though, parenting like this makes me want to punch people in the kidney. Laws are important, and technological protections for kids online can go a long way. Nothing, though—nothing at all—will protect a child better than a parent who’s involved and on the scene, who communicates and listens and is there.
That’s about my two cents on that. Time to get back at it now, lickety split; it’s always more fun when work gets you passionate, yeah?
You know it’s summer in DC when the interns start swarming in, all hungry for a stab at the opportunities, all abuzz at being part of the proverbial action. They’re easy to spot, running around in their new suits and proudly clipping their picture IDs to themselves—wearing their red-lettered TEMPORARY credentials as a badge of honor, strung on lanyards beneath crisply ironed collars. See, I’m one of you, I belong here. I’m doing this, too. That’s the message, and I’ve been there. I remember that first badge I had. It’d be a lie to say that the thrill of buzzing myself through doors and past security has worn off. I’m easily amused, sure, but I remember feeling like the coolest person ever when it was all brand new.
We had a few interns start in our office today. When I stop and think on it, my intern summer wasn’t that long ago—two years is all—but oh, do I feel a world away from their bright-eyed enthusiasm. Remember when it was all new? And all exciting? And working in an office meant you were going somewhere and doing something (as opposed, say, to staring at a computer till you need glasses and learning mental gymnastics to tolerate the imbeciles down the hall?).
I was thinking similar thoughts over the weekend. J remains serious about his future career in music, and we took a day trip to Charlottesville where he had a dinner meeting set up. You’d think we were an old married couple or something; like I was shackled to his business plans. I tagged along voluntarily, though; I love love love Charlottesville. It’s a nice drive, too, and getting out for some country air? Always a grand idea. (Yes, I have very simplistic, 50’s era ideas of spectacular weekend plans. A drive in the country? Charming! Let me pack us a picnic, put on my good hose, load up the station wagon, and we’ll be off, at 20 mph on an old country road. My imagination? Often my best friend for a reason).
What I didn’t realize was that it was UVA’s graduation weekend. What I thought would be a nice few hours of me sitting on the downtown mall, novel in hand, watching the world go by was, once it met reality, more like a chaotic scene of strollers and wheelchairs; well dressed younger brothers tugging the hands of newly minted 20-somethings with big dreams. It was a pretty spectacular scene to sit witness to. I found a cutesy patio panini bar with a spare table, which served as a perfect window to the transitioning world around me.
More than anything, it got me thinking about the very best friend I had in college. We roomed together for three years; we were practically inseparable. I majored in English, and minored in Biology; she majored in Biology, but minored in English. We helped each other and loved each other, and oh my goodness we were BFFs and we would star in each other’s weddings and our children would be best friends. Forever! Of course!
Our junior year, she was preparing for the MCATS, I for the LSATS, and we timed each other and did hard-core drills. She went to med school in St. Louis when I moved back to Seattle for law school, and I think the miles and the stress of those years really damaged something great.
We trade detached e-mails, and sometimes voicemails, but the last time we actually talked was on my birthday in the fall. She was engaged, she said, to a guy I’d neither met nor so much as heard of.
They got married on Saturday. They were standing up in her parents’ living room, saying forever as I sat eating a sandwich and sipping wine, a backdrop to the start of other peoples’ new lives.
She called me from the airport yesterday, on her way to the honeymoon. It was different than she’d always thought, getting married, she said, and sitting there in that terminal, she wondered how we’d gotten sidetracked. How we’d gotten lost.
I think that there are things in life that you just have to go out there and get. You have to hold on to the eager enthusiasm of the moment, because getting there? Reaching that last day, finding that best friend and that perfect guy, getting that prized internship? It’s a blip. Life happens in between those markers, and you have to keep fighting for it. You have to call those old friends and keep in touch with why you dress up and leave each morning, because that energy, once it gets a kick-start, is really quite catching. And it’s what holds it all together, as fleeting as it sometimes seems.
J came back from Nashville last night, all in one piece, apparently. He called around 9 and wanted to see me, but it was going to involve some crazy scheme whereby I’d have to drive over there, follow him to the car repair man, then either drive him back with me or leave my car in his garage or something; apparently, busting back and forth to freaking Tennessee leaves some hard miles on a car. Who knew.
I opted for the “no” side of that choice, and stayed home, nursing my blah-ness. My parents’ departure and J’s disappearing act have been stale bread sandwiching the continued idocity of my job and the early-March weather the sky’s spat back out. The “specials” chalkboard of my life this week has read a giant BLAH. Color, color, nowhere. Just a lot of grey that says, magda, go back to bed; a grey that says yes, crying will make it all better! (Lies! Terrible lies!).
I don’t know the cure for the blahs. They come and they go. A temporary fix, though? Cheese. And wine. And fresh and delicious seafood. Preferably all served together; preferably all from Washington; preferably all at the Washington State Society Dinner that is (so convenient!) tonight, in downtown D.C. I’ll be there, at my college’s alumni table, with one of my best home-state gal pals.
So no J again tonight, but really, I think that’s okay. And I’m kind of looking forward to it, in a no-I-don’t-secretly-want-to-break-up-with-him way.
To the blahs I say good riddance. Choosing happiness is so often the hardest part, but tonight, with wine as my side-kick, I’m making a comeback. Yes siree.
She’s stumbling through Paris tonight, but with a certain grace, as suits her. She’s got her party hat on, is charming the euro-locals at the bar with a French that has finally surpassed mine, and is, with all certainty, rip-roaring drunk.
She’s my littlest sister, and she’s 21 today. Twenty-one. She exists only as a frenchie caricature in my mind, because I just can’t grasp the reality. I remember so distinctly being 21. I also remember doing things as a twenty-one-year-old that, ahem, no one’s little sister should be allowed to even know about.
Although there’s significantly more fuzz, I also remember the day she was born. I was in kindergarten, and she was my blue-eyed baby. Hooray! You’re 10 today! I seriously considered sending her a birthday card with this message printed inside. Behold the power of Hallmark; you, too can reverse time; back-track; take a do-over. If only it was so simple.
(And seriously? A 21st birthday in Paris? Who does that? How do I know this person?)
In other news, J’s apparently in Nashville this week. I say “apparently” because it all sort of flew out of nowhere, and as my other sister, the biochemist, oh-so-helpfully pointed out on the phone earlier, I don’t actually know. And thanks, dear.
When I started dating J, he was an attorney in a high-powered firm downtown. Stable. Secure. Known. Earlier this fall, he declared himself miserable, and went to work for a Senator. Starting in about January, he began a tortuous process I can only define as “finding himself.” Cliché, yes, but hey, if the shoe fits…
On the side, he’s started doing some legal work for a start-up band starring, hilariously, his mandolin teacher. (J’s been playing mandolin for maybe 2 years now. It’s not something I’m particularly fond of).
He’s started looking into real estate. He thinks maybe he’ll be a businessman. In my books, he’s walked the career plank, but rather than furiously and determinedly swimming for shore, he’s splashing around and amusing himself, and wondering if there’s a better beach off in a better direction.
And then I get this call on Sunday. He says he’s leaving his parents’ early and is heading to Nashville. “I’m going to negotiate a contract for the band,” he said. He’ll be gone for the week. Oh really. And I guess work doesn’t mind? You can just write them and say, peace out, I’m driving to Tennessee this week, see you around?
They’ll be really busy, he said, so he may not have time to talk when I call. “I’ll call you when I get time.” Um.
From a man who is freaking obsessed with his mobile e-mail (and has been known to regularly check his personal e-mail while we are at restaurants and in church), I have received a whopping ZERO notes of affection/amour/otherwise. No text messages. A series of short calls, all late at night.
Granted, I’m a suspicious person naturally. It’s an affliction for which I’m a confirmed carrier. The biochemist put it into words, though. I don’t actually know. It’s not that I doubt, really; it’s more that I fear. I fear that I’m losing touch with who he is at all.
And now I’m back to googling his ex-live-in girlfriend. Very. Bad. Behavior.
Working hard without hope of recognition or personal gain is a great virtue. Honesty in all things and fairness to all people is the mark of a true leader. Double-check facts and call to confirm reservations. Laugh at your own foibles. Self confidence amidst a sea of infidels and fools is a skill hard to hone, but so valuable to hold. When management doesn’t respond and the water is too hot, pry the mechanical door off its hinges and readjust the hot water heater yourself. Be abundantly generous with those you love, for time is precious. Have a glass of wine or two at home before dinner, and really talk to one another. Distance is no object when it’s real love at stake; togetherness trumps a phone call, no matter the cost or short duration. Find humor and lightness in a world that is so often grey. Lessons from dad.
Rain is good for the complexion. Sometimes a good hug makes everything better. Live life outside of your comfort zone; adventures await, even on metrobuses in the hood. Look for the joy in little things, as the world holds so much beauty that so often goes unseen. The Eating By Color cookbook is, quite simply, amazing. It is possible to find practical walking shoes that are also cute. Appreciate the finer things in life, but realize that happiness isn’t found in that which is material. Chart your own course and make your own decisions, but do so with a level head and reasoned judgment. Be glad our culture does not condone arranged marriages. A cheerful attitude changes everything. Always carry purel—life’s germy. There’s no place like home. Lessons from mom.
Brief glimpses and rememberances of what it used to be like brings homesickness on quickly. Looking for editorial jobs in Seattle on craigslist only makes this worse. There’s nothing like family, quirky as they are; there’s something invaluable about knowing and seeing where exactly you’re from. Age accumulates, so fast. We’re none of us getting younger. Appreciating advancement and change is bittersweet. Anxiety and nervous anticipation of the inevitable is a poor use of energy; time is so much better spent in grateful appreciation of all that’s been given. Independence and self-reliance is a skill to cherish, but at the end of the day, it’s just one tool in a crowded box. A weekend is never long enough. Lessons.
It’s been gorgeous here for weeks—temperatures in the high 70s, sunny days, no humidity.
Then, on the day my parents are set to arrive, it starts raining. And not just ordinary, “oh what? these sprinkles?” rain.
Here’s a rundown of the weather predicted for the next four days, the approximate duration of their stay: Partly sunny, a thunderstorm. Cloudy, heavy thunderstorms. Cloudy, rainy, breezy, cooler. Mostly cloudy, thunderstorms possible. Mostly cloudy, rain possible; windy.
Awe-some.
Looking for good news on the next page of the paper, I’m hit with the following advisory: “Do expect major metro delays this weekend, green/yellow line riders. Metro is advising riders to prepare for delays of up to 45 minutes on the Green and Yellow lines this weekend because of track work.” I live on the yellow line.
You can’t see it, but I’m flipping off the District of Columbia at this precise moment. I’m also imagining some very harsh expletives that I keep to myself not out of cultured temper, but out of fear for the google hits I’d receive.
I need to get out of this town.
In the middle of a panel discussion on industry best practices in the mobile marketplace this afternoon (yawn, I know), the young man to my left passed me the following note:
Hey, you seem really cool, I have to get back to the office but I’d really like to get to know you better! Give me a call, maybe we can get coffee sometime. –Brad, (xxx) xxx-xxxx.
Aww! Kind of sweet. Even though I think this Brad character is likely barely 21 and an admitted intern, and even though we spoke for about three seconds before the speakers started doing their thing, the gesture was flattering. Got to give it to the guy.
I thought about Brad on my ride home, and for most of my indentured servitude in the gym earlier. Well, perhaps not him specifically. More like the idea of him.
“I wonder if mom would like him if he’s who I was dating.” That’s what I was thinking. “Maybe Brad would be really pleasing to her.”
My mom is not a natural fan of J’s.
There are a million things I love about my mom, and on the scale of mothers world-wide, she gets an 11.5 out of 10. She’s amazing. On this landscape, though, the smallest of aberrations, the most minute cordons of barbed wire, can really mar the picture.
Mom’s never been really enthusiastic about any men that I’ve dated, with mostly good reason and with relatively little protest. “Ah, mom,” we’d say. “She’ll never be satisfied.” It didn’t really matter. Until now. It matters so much to me now.
I want her to like J. I need her to see how much I love him, that I love him for the right reasons, and that he adores me.
She gave me a whole little lecture series over Christmas about how she didn’t understand what I saw in him, didn’t buy it when I said we were such a good fit, wanted to be sure I wasn’t losing out on making friends and finding opportunities because I was so wholly in this relationship.
Fair points, all. But she’d met the guy only twice, and neither under ideal circumstances. First was last winter, when the whole family came out to DC. Our relationship was new, and we had a slight argument over something stupid that ended up making me cry. That wasn’t so good.
Then he came home with me to Seattle last Memorial Day, but he’d broken his collarbone about a month before; he was still hyped up on medication and wearing a really awkward brace. That was pretty unfortunate, too.
This is all she’s using to worry that I’m wrecking my life. I appreciate her concern so much, but it’s hard to keep it impersonal. I don’t want to tailor my life to please her, but her approval is so valuable to me.
They’re coming for mother’s day, my parents, and they’ll be here tomorrow. Instead of running around furtively gathering all evidence of my heathen lifestyle—J’s toothbrush and deodorant, my birth control—and instead of piling dresses and sweaters on top of the clothes on J’s shelf in my closet, I’m just sitting here agonizing about the whole thing. Wondering why she doesn’t think we’re a fit. Scared she’s right.
She specifically requested to not see him on mother’s day, which I still find a bit harsh. “We’re coming to see you,” she wrote in an e-mail. “I respect his place in your life, so maybe he could come over one night besides Sunday and we could cook something.” Between the lines I’m reading “we don’t want to consider the possibility of him as family, we don’t even want to take him out, get the picture, we don’t like you dating him, now move on along.”
True, they’re coming from really far away. It makes sense, and I understand. But still, what is this?
I (stealthily) encouraged J to go back home and spend mother’s day with his mom, which happily he’s doing. But at what cost? He’ll miss my parents entirely this trip. Maybe it’ll be good; will give me a chance to show them that I’m just as much me without him by my side. Let them see that I’m strong and dynamic, that I take care of me and make good choices. Maybe.
In my head, this weekend will be spectacular. “Our daughter can do no wrong!” they’ll be singing at the end of it. “She’s amazing and brilliant beyond compare, and confidence is her middle name! If she chooses him, we’ll love him! Too bad we missed him! He’s the best!” This will be set to music, of course, and we’ll all be holding hands and smiling ridiculously as we tap dance down the accordion thing to their airplane home. Maybe. Maybe all it needs is time.
Poor Brad probably has his phone on maximum volume tonight. He’ll never here from me, and maybe he’ll be disappointed for awhile. But in time, it won’t mean a thing. In time, it’ll all smooth over, and the rearview mirror will remember nothing. For slightly more selfish reasons, this girl’s wishing on exactly that star tonight.
