When I had Ro, Jon's cousin got me this one-line-a-day memory book.
I have generally been pretty good about writing in it, but after a seriously insane work situation last October (followed immediately by nonstop nausea and vomiting of pregnancy), I missed writing in it from November through January. Now I'm circling back around and trying to piece together from the bullet journal, calendar and photos what happened. This is not ideal.
Oh the things I could accomplish if I were more disciplined. Let's see how this NaBloPoMo goes when I start back at work on November 20...
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Thursday, November 09, 2017
Friday, November 03, 2017
there is no time like the last minute
Here's a list of books I've read since being on light-duty/bedrest and maternity leave, in reverse order:
I'm a bit ashamed to write out this list in a room that has a bookshelf holding at least 10 titles I'd like to read. Which is across the hall from a room that houses a nightstand stacked with another five books I'd like to read first.
Because I'm so stubborn, I refuse to start anything until I've finished The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks--which is so well written/reported and interesting. But I've been trying to read it since 2015 and keep having to re-start because my kid thinks it's funny to remove my bookmarks and throw them in the hamper. How long can you go without reading a book before they take away your bibliophile card?
I read somewhere that the amount of FaceBook content people read would equate to about 200 books a year. Because I don't really sleep and I can hold my phone and a baby at the same time without waking my husband, I would guess my number of equivalent books is probably close to 500. Apparently multiple people have reported that they come to my page to find out what's going on because they like my amalgam of posts. That's curious, because I don't really post about myself or my family and don't post photos of my kids. I only repost things I find interesting and news from reputable sources. I'm probably using the same muscle I toned with this blog for a decade.
Writing this out made me sad. Perhaps, starting Monday, I need to institute a break from tv during the day. I have 10 weekdays left on maternity. The least I can do is find out what the heck happened with HeLa.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
that old library is now a Korean church
I got roped into hosting a "facebook party" where the representative holds prizes and cutesy quizzes and we all spend an hour virtually looking at kids books online. I want to buy ALL OF THEM for my kid. And by "for my kid," I really mean, "for me."
Here's the thing: I have always been obsessed with books. I clearly remember being three years old, climbing down the steps with my mother of the downtown library in the old, yellow-stone building. I remember thinking to myself that it was my favorite place in the world. I made my mother bring me there as often as I could. The librarian knew us and would show me cool books. Now I realize I was probably the only brown three-year-old looking for books, so I'd be pretty hard to forget.
Later, there was Nancy Drew. I made it a mission to read every single one of the "old," hardcover series. And I'm pretty sure I did it. The Mystery of the 99 Steps, I believe, was my favorite. I had to google to remember the plot, because all I could remember was "the secret of the 99 steps." They went to France! There was intrigue! There was danger! These girls were doing it for themselves! What's not to love?
As a pre-teen, I often found myself escaping into books anytime I wasn't supposed to be doing something else. Like being in school, or taking a shower. I read at the table (until they yelled at me), under the covers with a flashlight (until they yelled at me). I always took a book to the boring family parties where the closest kid to my age was my brother, whose novelties I could enjoy plenty at home. I sat in the corner and tore through whatever I had with me until it was done. And then I'd sullenly look at whatever they had on tv and be forced to socialize. It's funny, because I'm actually an extrovert.
Much later, I was reading for a living.
Now, I never get to read non-board books. Not even for work. I've had The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks sitting on my nightstand for two years. Perhaps, now that I've removed the Facebook application from my phone, I'll get around to dusting it off.
Or instead I'll dive into the mountain of kids books I'm ordering. At this point, my attention span is more suitable for preschool-level reading, anyway.
Here's the thing: I have always been obsessed with books. I clearly remember being three years old, climbing down the steps with my mother of the downtown library in the old, yellow-stone building. I remember thinking to myself that it was my favorite place in the world. I made my mother bring me there as often as I could. The librarian knew us and would show me cool books. Now I realize I was probably the only brown three-year-old looking for books, so I'd be pretty hard to forget.
Later, there was Nancy Drew. I made it a mission to read every single one of the "old," hardcover series. And I'm pretty sure I did it. The Mystery of the 99 Steps, I believe, was my favorite. I had to google to remember the plot, because all I could remember was "the secret of the 99 steps." They went to France! There was intrigue! There was danger! These girls were doing it for themselves! What's not to love?
As a pre-teen, I often found myself escaping into books anytime I wasn't supposed to be doing something else. Like being in school, or taking a shower. I read at the table (until they yelled at me), under the covers with a flashlight (until they yelled at me). I always took a book to the boring family parties where the closest kid to my age was my brother, whose novelties I could enjoy plenty at home. I sat in the corner and tore through whatever I had with me until it was done. And then I'd sullenly look at whatever they had on tv and be forced to socialize. It's funny, because I'm actually an extrovert.
Much later, I was reading for a living.
Now, I never get to read non-board books. Not even for work. I've had The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks sitting on my nightstand for two years. Perhaps, now that I've removed the Facebook application from my phone, I'll get around to dusting it off.
Or instead I'll dive into the mountain of kids books I'm ordering. At this point, my attention span is more suitable for preschool-level reading, anyway.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
looks like she's made it
Hey guess what, Internets, my friend Shalini wrote a book! And people can buy it on Amazon!
I think it is amazing that she's been talking about this for a long time, then put in the sweat and tears and hard work, and now when you click on this link, you can see all that hard work and even read it on your Kindle.
Who knew that the shy girl with whom I roasted marshmallows in fifth-grade girl scouts and then again in my backyard in high school was going to be a bona fide author (under a pseudonym)?
Makes me believe that things can really happen if you use your talent and a LOT of hard work. Congrats!
***edited to add***
You can get a print copy, now!
I think it is amazing that she's been talking about this for a long time, then put in the sweat and tears and hard work, and now when you click on this link, you can see all that hard work and even read it on your Kindle.
Who knew that the shy girl with whom I roasted marshmallows in fifth-grade girl scouts and then again in my backyard in high school was going to be a bona fide author (under a pseudonym)?
Makes me believe that things can really happen if you use your talent and a LOT of hard work. Congrats!
***edited to add***
You can get a print copy, now!
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
wherever you are
So it's been three weeks since this happened.
I haven't been back to work. The doctors gave me six weeks, but I didn't think I needed that long. I wanted to start work again this past Monday when Jon was going back, but I managed to catch some kind of respiratory virus that took away my voice and has left me coughing my lungs inside out. Plus there's post-pregnancy stuff happening physically, like achy pains and food coming out of me for a person who is not here to eat it. So maybe my body was telling me I needed a little more time.
For the last year, I yearned for a week at home with no responsibilities so I could do things like sew together the sweater I knit for our nephew that didn't get done by Christmas (which is fine, because he's still got a couple of years before he will be big enough to wear it) or finish a quilt I have all cut out for a friend whose child is already like 5 months old. I had even been dreaming of a week without new requests at work so I could finish all the half-completed tasks that keep getting shoved onto a back burner. Time to get our wedding album together, even. We already paid the pretty penny for it, but never signed off: I want to swap out some photos our photographer laid out (way too many shots of me). Coming up on our two-year anniversary, I don't know how our photographer will react if--and when--I redesign and ask him to change it.
But I didn't want that time like this. Never like this.
I need to take this empty, useless feeling and burn it into my heart to stop myself from ever wishing things were slow and dull so I could *do* stuff. Clearly I can only accomplish anything when my schedule is completely full. Not having anywhere to go apparently means sleep until 3 p.m. and watch television that I wouldn't be able to pass a quiz on a week later.
The thinking is what's really getting to me. I haven't had time alone for a long, long while, and generally I like it that way--the circus in my brain can sometimes be kind of scary. I'm trying to figure out what and why and how, and there are no answers.The only thing making this somewhat bearable is the love and support from family and friends.
In April, Ri and C's baby, Ari, turned a year old. I, in signature Cadiz fashion, couldn't get to the bookstore fast enough. I spent an entire afternoon in there, looking at every chewable board book that seemed entertaining. It is one of my favorite things to do. I walked out of there with an armful of books for Ari and one little book for our own baby.
I haven't been back to work. The doctors gave me six weeks, but I didn't think I needed that long. I wanted to start work again this past Monday when Jon was going back, but I managed to catch some kind of respiratory virus that took away my voice and has left me coughing my lungs inside out. Plus there's post-pregnancy stuff happening physically, like achy pains and food coming out of me for a person who is not here to eat it. So maybe my body was telling me I needed a little more time.
For the last year, I yearned for a week at home with no responsibilities so I could do things like sew together the sweater I knit for our nephew that didn't get done by Christmas (which is fine, because he's still got a couple of years before he will be big enough to wear it) or finish a quilt I have all cut out for a friend whose child is already like 5 months old. I had even been dreaming of a week without new requests at work so I could finish all the half-completed tasks that keep getting shoved onto a back burner. Time to get our wedding album together, even. We already paid the pretty penny for it, but never signed off: I want to swap out some photos our photographer laid out (way too many shots of me). Coming up on our two-year anniversary, I don't know how our photographer will react if--and when--I redesign and ask him to change it.
But I didn't want that time like this. Never like this.
I need to take this empty, useless feeling and burn it into my heart to stop myself from ever wishing things were slow and dull so I could *do* stuff. Clearly I can only accomplish anything when my schedule is completely full. Not having anywhere to go apparently means sleep until 3 p.m. and watch television that I wouldn't be able to pass a quiz on a week later.
The thinking is what's really getting to me. I haven't had time alone for a long, long while, and generally I like it that way--the circus in my brain can sometimes be kind of scary. I'm trying to figure out what and why and how, and there are no answers.The only thing making this somewhat bearable is the love and support from family and friends.
In April, Ri and C's baby, Ari, turned a year old. I, in signature Cadiz fashion, couldn't get to the bookstore fast enough. I spent an entire afternoon in there, looking at every chewable board book that seemed entertaining. It is one of my favorite things to do. I walked out of there with an armful of books for Ari and one little book for our own baby.
At 17 weeks, a baby will be able to hear you, so it is encouraged that you talk, sing and read to them.
There were so many funny, cutesy books to choose from, but this is the one that I chose for our child's first book. Basically, it's about how no matter how old the baby is, where he or she may be, no matter the circumstances, my love will always find him or her. I rubbed my belly in the store and got teary-eyed. I couldn't have said it any better.
Yesterday would have been the 20-week mark of the pregnancy--we'd probably be having an ultrasound to finally find out the sex. But instead, I'm sitting here with this book, hoping that wherever our baby is, our love has indeed found its way there.
Sunday, April 01, 2012
careful where you flash that nerd card
Apparently, starting a sentence among coworkers with the words, "You know, I read an article..." has the same effect on a lively conversation as the sudden, untraceable stench of really bad gas: uncomfortable silence.
The other day I was in a meeting with a bunch of people we didn't know very well with whom we will be working closely and whose close cooperation we really need over the next 18-24 months. We were waiting for the meeting to start, so naturally the conversation turned to the children's television program, Blue's Clues.
As one of the few people in the room that hasn't actually had a child, of course it was me who informed the group that striped-shirt Steve was no longer on the show, that he "had gone away to college." I don't know where I pick up all this random information, but trust me, I have a lot of it. It was an innocuous conversation, and everyone was participating pretty enthusiastically.
But then I said, "You know, I read somewhere (not somewhere, it was Malcom Gladwell's The Tipping Point, but I didn't want to go all-out nerd with an attribution) that there was a lot of research and testing that went into the format of Blues Clues and that its particular format really helps kids that age learn, and it's pretty ground-breaking television for little kids."
Silence. Choked the life right out of that conversation.
A few days ago my team and I were having lunch together and shooting the breeze about how we were so sick of studying. I brought up how The Hunger Games made more than $150 million on its opening weekend. No one had heard of the series. So I started describing the premise. They seemed kind of interested until I said, "I read an article that the author used to work in television and the whole series is structured in some ways like a play or show, into threes, and so in some ways a natural translation to screen, but despite that, some people are saying they really didn't do a good job translating it to film..."
The sound of crickets was deafening.
I didn't hear myself in those situations, but just seeing my own words here is starting to bore me. I'd better keep my reading to myself.
The other day I was in a meeting with a bunch of people we didn't know very well with whom we will be working closely and whose close cooperation we really need over the next 18-24 months. We were waiting for the meeting to start, so naturally the conversation turned to the children's television program, Blue's Clues.
As one of the few people in the room that hasn't actually had a child, of course it was me who informed the group that striped-shirt Steve was no longer on the show, that he "had gone away to college." I don't know where I pick up all this random information, but trust me, I have a lot of it. It was an innocuous conversation, and everyone was participating pretty enthusiastically.
But then I said, "You know, I read somewhere (not somewhere, it was Malcom Gladwell's The Tipping Point, but I didn't want to go all-out nerd with an attribution) that there was a lot of research and testing that went into the format of Blues Clues and that its particular format really helps kids that age learn, and it's pretty ground-breaking television for little kids."
Silence. Choked the life right out of that conversation.
A few days ago my team and I were having lunch together and shooting the breeze about how we were so sick of studying. I brought up how The Hunger Games made more than $150 million on its opening weekend. No one had heard of the series. So I started describing the premise. They seemed kind of interested until I said, "I read an article that the author used to work in television and the whole series is structured in some ways like a play or show, into threes, and so in some ways a natural translation to screen, but despite that, some people are saying they really didn't do a good job translating it to film..."
The sound of crickets was deafening.
I didn't hear myself in those situations, but just seeing my own words here is starting to bore me. I'd better keep my reading to myself.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
every day i'm studying
When I was a kid, my brother and I could pretty much opt out of anything (family obligations, chores, etc.) if we gave the excuse that we were hitting the books. Which was pretty awesome. But then when we came home with a 98 out of 100 my dad would ask, with a completely straight face, "What happened to the other two points?" So I guess it only worked if we actually studied.
I've been out of that game for more than a decade, and in tackling the tests and projects coming up for my job, I find myself right back to my old habits; begging off things to study then trying really hard not to be distracted by trivial things like organizing my socks. Here we are, the night before the first test at 8:30 p.m. and I still have to go over the last third of the book.
Sigh.
I've been out of that game for more than a decade, and in tackling the tests and projects coming up for my job, I find myself right back to my old habits; begging off things to study then trying really hard not to be distracted by trivial things like organizing my socks. Here we are, the night before the first test at 8:30 p.m. and I still have to go over the last third of the book.
Sigh.
Friday, November 25, 2011
blessings
Above all else, Jon and I wanted this wedding to be a reflection of us. We were holding it in my hometown, and nearly all of his guests would have to travel to attend. Plus I was trying my best to get in as much Indian stuff as possible. So we were thrilled when the pastor at the church Jon grew up attending (where his parents still are very active) agreed to fly all the way out here from California to officiate.
Pastor Dave has known Jon well for a long time--his son is one of Jon's childhood best friends and former roommate. He and his wife were the ones who started asking Jon when his "bride" was coming back to town after that first Christmas party back in 2005. While my family knows several great pastors, the close ties Pastor Dave has to Jon made him a natural choice.
With the craziness of planning, we really weren't able to spend that much time discussing our ceremony with the pastor. He sent us a packet with sample services and we hemmed and hawed about it right up until the week of the wedding, which is when we chose our readings as well:
First reading (read by my dad's sister's daughter, who came out from Dubai)
Later, we realized that Pastor Dave came out for our wedding even though it was the weekend of his only grandchild's first birthday. And even though they were flying out the next morning at 6 a.m., I think I even saw him out on the dancefloor.
*The Bible from which my cousin read was one that Jon found on his doorstep many years ago--it's monogrammed with his name. He's pretty sure who sent it, and he hopes that person realized it was a part of our wedding.
Pastor Dave has known Jon well for a long time--his son is one of Jon's childhood best friends and former roommate. He and his wife were the ones who started asking Jon when his "bride" was coming back to town after that first Christmas party back in 2005. While my family knows several great pastors, the close ties Pastor Dave has to Jon made him a natural choice.
With the craziness of planning, we really weren't able to spend that much time discussing our ceremony with the pastor. He sent us a packet with sample services and we hemmed and hawed about it right up until the week of the wedding, which is when we chose our readings as well:
First reading (read by my dad's sister's daughter, who came out from Dubai)
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up! Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three brands is not quickly broken.Second reading (read by one of Jon's very good friends from college, whose husband--also a very good friend--was in our bridal party).
--Ecclesiastes 4:9-12*
Calvin: What's it like to fall in love?Pastor Dave is a consummate professional. He didn't know which readings we'd chosen until we rehearsed the night before the wedding. Instead of judging us for my commitment to practicality or Jon's unbridled love for Calvin and Hobbes, he smiled and even worked it into his sermon at the actual ceremony. He made us all feel at ease with the big-ness of the day. But he won my heart forever when he calmed my mom's nerves before the wedding, saying prayer with her before it began. He's a great guy, and very good at what he does.
Hobbes: Well... say the object of your affection walks by...
Calvin: Yeah?
Hobbes: First, your heart falls into your stomach and splashes your innards. All the moisture makes you sweat profusely. This condensation shorts the circuits to your brain and you get all woozy. When your brain burns out altogether, your mouth disengages and you babble like a cretin until she leaves.
Calvin: THAT'S LOVE?!?
Hobbes: Medically speaking.
Calvin: Heck, that happened to me once, but I figured it was cooties!
--Bill Waterson
Later, we realized that Pastor Dave came out for our wedding even though it was the weekend of his only grandchild's first birthday. And even though they were flying out the next morning at 6 a.m., I think I even saw him out on the dancefloor.
*The Bible from which my cousin read was one that Jon found on his doorstep many years ago--it's monogrammed with his name. He's pretty sure who sent it, and he hopes that person realized it was a part of our wedding.
Monday, December 06, 2010
and for that, you're getting a bestselling thriller in your stocking
"Did you know there's a new book out about the '85 Bears?"
"Hold up a second: Are you suggesting that I get you A BOOK for Christmas?!?*"
"No, I already bought it."
"Um, what kind of guy shops for himself right before the holidays?"
"This guy. If I want it, I buy it."
"You dork."
*As much as I don't like owning books, I love to give them. And my brother claims not to read, which is why it frustrates him when I keep giving him books. Yet somehow he's intimately familiar with the contents of certain sports books--many of which he has received as gifts. From me.
"Hold up a second: Are you suggesting that I get you A BOOK for Christmas?!?*"
"No, I already bought it."
"Um, what kind of guy shops for himself right before the holidays?"
"This guy. If I want it, I buy it."
"You dork."
*As much as I don't like owning books, I love to give them. And my brother claims not to read, which is why it frustrates him when I keep giving him books. Yet somehow he's intimately familiar with the contents of certain sports books--many of which he has received as gifts. From me.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
my sister's keeper
I just finished reading My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult. I approached it with a little hesitation. Mostly because I've always thought of myself as my brother's keeper, but more in the sense that I asked for him, I can't give him back and (don't tell him but) I would never want to.
I'm not going to go into detail about the book, except that it's about how a family deals with having a daughter with a serious medical condition. Cc is also reading it; she mentioned that it could hit close to home for me and that I didn't have to finish if it made me uncomfortable. And I did identify with some of the book--the helplessness, the confusion, the loving somebody so much that you'd risk anything for them. But that's about it.
As the story unfolded, I started to examine the memories of feelings I had as a kid. Sure it wasn't always a picnic when my brother was in the hospital (and maybe it's because that was so long ago), but I rarely felt overlooked and certainly never felt invisible. I credit my mom for that; she grew up having to share my nani's attention with six other kids and three jobs. It made sense why other, more needy kids got more facetime, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt her. So my parents have always gone out of their way to make sure I had special moments as the center of attention, too, and that I wasn't an afterthought.
I assumed being vigilant about doling out attention was something everyone's parents do, but as I moved through the book I realized that's not the easy feat my mom and dad made it seem. It must have been tricky to keep sight of something as silly as an extravagant birthday party for your six-year-old when your 2-year-old is getting ready to have open-heart surgery. But I remember all those birthday parties, every special outing, and how they only shuttled me off to some Auntie's house a couple times when the going got really tough, not as a protocol.
Little kids are perceptive. They remember things like the refreshing relief that not everything is about the other guy. And they hold onto feeling loved and special well into their adult life. I can only hope to do just as right by the kids I might have someday.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
the big reveal
This is the story about how I met H, and how you might have known him all this time, too.
MAY, 2005
I started this web log on March 7, 2005, partly because I had been reading other people's work and was inspired, and partly because I needed an outlet to replace the four-hour conversations I was used to having every day (dungeon hours meant I was only available when my friends and family were either at work or asleep). And I didn't want anyone to forget about me.
Around that time, a popular blog written by An Intern In New York named Andy was featured as a Blog of Note. One of the links in his sidebar took me to Jazz...In Strange Places, and Jasmine's "100 things about me" post. I identified with a lot of her list, particularly her love for Nancy Drew novels. So at 2:42 a.m., I left her a comment about the girl detective, chocolate and cats.
Apparently another new blogger, Jon, found Jasmine's 100-things list simply by clicking the "Next Blog" button at the top of his screen, and at 3:41 a.m., he left a long comment lambasting the previous commenters as well as himself. Normally I would have gotten angry, but something about his self-deprecating tone made me hesitate to tear into him about how the Internet was supposed to be about supporting people, not bringing them down (funny how naive I was back then). I went over to his blog and made a case for old Nancy, who really was a pioneer for her time. He replied that he was glad I didn't take it the wrong way and that he was only trying to be funny, not a jerk.
JUNE 2005
After that, we all started commenting on each other's blog posts. Along with Jasmine, Jon and I, there were Omar, Syar, and several other bloggers who have come and gone in the last four and a half years. Soon, Jon wrote his own "100 things" post. My response to it was jon, honestly. i won't even try to explain just how much you scare me. So many things on that list could be said about me, too, except the part about his HATING being barefoot (I'd be barefoot all the time if it weren't for snow). I was impressed at how many of his priorities lined up with mine, what with all the love for siblings, loyalty to friends, mutual appreciation for tv, etc. There were also some bizarre things on the list, like the fact that we've both dreamt of being shot and how he drove from New York to California making only four stops. One of those stops? My hometown. To me, it was a sign.
The comments started adding up, however, and after a few months it was obvious that Jon and I were practically conversating with each other in the comments. One night in the dungeon, Blogger broke down and I realized just how much I missed hearing what Jon had to say. I emailed him, saying it had been nice of him to keep me company all those nights when I was convinced the one-eyed man was going to hack me to bits and stuff me into a utility closet.
SEPTEMBER 2005
I had met Jasmine in person that summer (it's important to note here that at this time it was still perceived as sort of creepy to meet people "from the Internet" so that was kind of a big deal). I tried to get information about what she thought of Jon, whom she had met in California, and she confirmed he's as cool as I suspected. In September I saw Jasmine again in New York when I went to visit Alexandra, and we went out to dinner and to a club.
Those four days had been the longest I'd gone in six months without communicating with Jon, and it was killing me. A few weeks earlier, he had conveniently given me his phone number by sending me a photo from his phone. Alexandra and I had been bar-hopping, and obviously discussing the bizarre long-distance infatuation I had with him as well as the improbabilities of it going anywhere (again, dating someone you'd met "online" at that time mostly meant going through something like match.com, which had a bad connotation because of a friend's bad experiences). With every drink, the urge to contact Jon was getting harder and harder to resist.
NOVEMBER 2005
Text messages led to phone calls, phone calls led to plane tickets, and Jon arrived at Chicago's Midway airport November 4. We went to my favorite all-night diner and then I dropped him off at his hotel. I went back to my parents' house, sad that I hadn't heard trumpets and birds singing when we first saw each other and the next morning I called cc in tears because I thought we didn't have a *connection* in real life. He had been shy and reticent; I was unsure and still processing how different he is from the guys I had always pictured myself dating (i.e. he's not an Indian boy). Both of us were acting really awkward. Jon and I had discussed the implications of this meeting and agreed that it had to happen, that we had to find out sooner or later. And if we didn't have chemistry we could always be good friends. So with that in mind, I picked him up and showed him the sights, starting with hot dogs at Portillo's and a trip to the then-named Sears Tower.
Somewhere after lunch and before we got to the top of the tower, the good old rapport surfaced through the nerves and the tension and we fell into our normal banter. I liked the sound of his voice and that I could actually see the expression on his face. I especially enjoyed hearing the exotic "o" sound he pronounced as in "honestly" (which I pronounce in the midwestern style, "haanestly"). As soon as I forgot about my expectations, things went right back to the lovely way they always had been.
There was a suspiciously short line on the way up to the Sears Tower, and surprisingly few people in the observation deck. It was so dark and clear, we could see lights all the way out to a couple of states. There were a few times I thought he was going to kiss me as we looked out over the glittering city, but I'm really glad he didn't--I would have lost all respect for the guy.
I brought him back to his room and stayed to watch the ten-minute film he had made in college on his laptop. He stars in it as well, and I think I fell in love with him even more after seeing how he looked in college, bright orange corduroys and all. We didn't feel like going to a bar or a club, so we sat through the only thing on tv: It was a Hitchcock film, his only screwball comedy, called Mr. and Mrs. Smith. We laughed about the ridiculous plot and how everything was magically resolved as Mrs. Smith crossed her skis at the end. If only life were that simple.
I went out to California a month later and he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. We've talked for several hours every night since, and have only gone one five-day stretch over the last four years without at least a text message back and forth. I must admit, we haven't yet run out of things to say. And I hope we never do, because today he asked me to spend the rest of my life talking to him, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
MAY, 2005
I started this web log on March 7, 2005, partly because I had been reading other people's work and was inspired, and partly because I needed an outlet to replace the four-hour conversations I was used to having every day (dungeon hours meant I was only available when my friends and family were either at work or asleep). And I didn't want anyone to forget about me.
Around that time, a popular blog written by An Intern In New York named Andy was featured as a Blog of Note. One of the links in his sidebar took me to Jazz...In Strange Places, and Jasmine's "100 things about me" post. I identified with a lot of her list, particularly her love for Nancy Drew novels. So at 2:42 a.m., I left her a comment about the girl detective, chocolate and cats.
Apparently another new blogger, Jon, found Jasmine's 100-things list simply by clicking the "Next Blog" button at the top of his screen, and at 3:41 a.m., he left a long comment lambasting the previous commenters as well as himself. Normally I would have gotten angry, but something about his self-deprecating tone made me hesitate to tear into him about how the Internet was supposed to be about supporting people, not bringing them down (funny how naive I was back then). I went over to his blog and made a case for old Nancy, who really was a pioneer for her time. He replied that he was glad I didn't take it the wrong way and that he was only trying to be funny, not a jerk.
JUNE 2005
After that, we all started commenting on each other's blog posts. Along with Jasmine, Jon and I, there were Omar, Syar, and several other bloggers who have come and gone in the last four and a half years. Soon, Jon wrote his own "100 things" post. My response to it was jon, honestly. i won't even try to explain just how much you scare me. So many things on that list could be said about me, too, except the part about his HATING being barefoot (I'd be barefoot all the time if it weren't for snow). I was impressed at how many of his priorities lined up with mine, what with all the love for siblings, loyalty to friends, mutual appreciation for tv, etc. There were also some bizarre things on the list, like the fact that we've both dreamt of being shot and how he drove from New York to California making only four stops. One of those stops? My hometown. To me, it was a sign.
The comments started adding up, however, and after a few months it was obvious that Jon and I were practically conversating with each other in the comments. One night in the dungeon, Blogger broke down and I realized just how much I missed hearing what Jon had to say. I emailed him, saying it had been nice of him to keep me company all those nights when I was convinced the one-eyed man was going to hack me to bits and stuff me into a utility closet.
SEPTEMBER 2005
I had met Jasmine in person that summer (it's important to note here that at this time it was still perceived as sort of creepy to meet people "from the Internet" so that was kind of a big deal). I tried to get information about what she thought of Jon, whom she had met in California, and she confirmed he's as cool as I suspected. In September I saw Jasmine again in New York when I went to visit Alexandra, and we went out to dinner and to a club.
Those four days had been the longest I'd gone in six months without communicating with Jon, and it was killing me. A few weeks earlier, he had conveniently given me his phone number by sending me a photo from his phone. Alexandra and I had been bar-hopping, and obviously discussing the bizarre long-distance infatuation I had with him as well as the improbabilities of it going anywhere (again, dating someone you'd met "online" at that time mostly meant going through something like match.com, which had a bad connotation because of a friend's bad experiences). With every drink, the urge to contact Jon was getting harder and harder to resist.
So I texted him: How screwed up is it that you can miss someone you're [sic] never even met?The texts kept coming, and I kept giggling in the corner, until Jasmine--who hadn't been aware of our email love affair--said, What are you laughing about so much, Cadiz? Is Jon the one text messaging you? I was so flabbergasted that she'd guessed* that I asked him what I should tell her.
He replied: Only slightly.
His reply: That you and I are text messaging each other tonight...and that you are carrying my baby :)
What I said next: That's cool, as long as you understand one thing: The children will have Indian names.
NOVEMBER 2005
Text messages led to phone calls, phone calls led to plane tickets, and Jon arrived at Chicago's Midway airport November 4. We went to my favorite all-night diner and then I dropped him off at his hotel. I went back to my parents' house, sad that I hadn't heard trumpets and birds singing when we first saw each other and the next morning I called cc in tears because I thought we didn't have a *connection* in real life. He had been shy and reticent; I was unsure and still processing how different he is from the guys I had always pictured myself dating (i.e. he's not an Indian boy). Both of us were acting really awkward. Jon and I had discussed the implications of this meeting and agreed that it had to happen, that we had to find out sooner or later. And if we didn't have chemistry we could always be good friends. So with that in mind, I picked him up and showed him the sights, starting with hot dogs at Portillo's and a trip to the then-named Sears Tower.
Somewhere after lunch and before we got to the top of the tower, the good old rapport surfaced through the nerves and the tension and we fell into our normal banter. I liked the sound of his voice and that I could actually see the expression on his face. I especially enjoyed hearing the exotic "o" sound he pronounced as in "honestly" (which I pronounce in the midwestern style, "haanestly"). As soon as I forgot about my expectations, things went right back to the lovely way they always had been.
There was a suspiciously short line on the way up to the Sears Tower, and surprisingly few people in the observation deck. It was so dark and clear, we could see lights all the way out to a couple of states. There were a few times I thought he was going to kiss me as we looked out over the glittering city, but I'm really glad he didn't--I would have lost all respect for the guy.
I brought him back to his room and stayed to watch the ten-minute film he had made in college on his laptop. He stars in it as well, and I think I fell in love with him even more after seeing how he looked in college, bright orange corduroys and all. We didn't feel like going to a bar or a club, so we sat through the only thing on tv: It was a Hitchcock film, his only screwball comedy, called Mr. and Mrs. Smith. We laughed about the ridiculous plot and how everything was magically resolved as Mrs. Smith crossed her skis at the end. If only life were that simple.
I went out to California a month later and he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. We've talked for several hours every night since, and have only gone one five-day stretch over the last four years without at least a text message back and forth. I must admit, we haven't yet run out of things to say. And I hope we never do, because today he asked me to spend the rest of my life talking to him, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
Oh and if you haven't figured it out yet, H is Jon. And Jon is H. I love them both equally.
*Jasmine's response via twitter: @cadiz12 @jonmuller I knew it was Jon only because I know how funny he is. Also, your 1,000 questions about him were pretty transparent ;)
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
me, Gandhi, Darwin, Clinton...and Duff
Yesterday Ri was telling me about a segment on Good Morning America about this book Why Him? Why Her?, and she said there was an online quiz that would reveal your personality type. So I took the little test.
Apparently, my primary traits are of a "Negotiator" and my secondary traits are of a "Builder." Normally on these quiz-type things there are one or two bullet points that I disagree with, but I had zero beef with this one. Aside from the generic "friendly," "sweet," "empathetic," "trusting" types of adjectives, it picked up on the more specific "you almost always seek consensus and harmony, and are willing to give up some of your pleasures to build an orderly, harmonious home and family life," and even "when you feel betrayed you can be unforgiving and hold a grudge too long." Yep. But I'm trying to work on that last one.
At the end, the assessment told me that I naturally gravitate toward Director/Builders. So of course I asked H take the quiz when he got home. I'd say it targeted him pretty dang well, too, with the "analytical," "logical" and the "You are also calm, efficient, quick to make decisions and remarkably self-disciplined." Naturally, he is a Director/Builder.
None of this revealed anything I didn't know before--while we do our fair share of bickering, H never makes me feel like yelling until my throat feels torn or hurling inanimate objects at his head; we usually just talk it out. But when you've been feeling frustrated and useless, it's a nice consolation for an unbiased third party to confirm that something you did actually works.
Here are some celebrities who share our personality profiles:
It's a pretty impressive list. However I must not be caught up on all the stuff Hillary Duff is doing lately that makes her especially noteworthy.
Apparently, my primary traits are of a "Negotiator" and my secondary traits are of a "Builder." Normally on these quiz-type things there are one or two bullet points that I disagree with, but I had zero beef with this one. Aside from the generic "friendly," "sweet," "empathetic," "trusting" types of adjectives, it picked up on the more specific "you almost always seek consensus and harmony, and are willing to give up some of your pleasures to build an orderly, harmonious home and family life," and even "when you feel betrayed you can be unforgiving and hold a grudge too long." Yep. But I'm trying to work on that last one.
At the end, the assessment told me that I naturally gravitate toward Director/Builders. So of course I asked H take the quiz when he got home. I'd say it targeted him pretty dang well, too, with the "analytical," "logical" and the "You are also calm, efficient, quick to make decisions and remarkably self-disciplined." Naturally, he is a Director/Builder.
None of this revealed anything I didn't know before--while we do our fair share of bickering, H never makes me feel like yelling until my throat feels torn or hurling inanimate objects at his head; we usually just talk it out. But when you've been feeling frustrated and useless, it's a nice consolation for an unbiased third party to confirm that something you did actually works.
Here are some celebrities who share our personality profiles:
Oprah Winfrey
Leo Tolstoy
Katie Holmes
Bill Clinton
- Hillary Duff
- Mohandas Gandhi
- Charles Darwin
Albert Einstein
Hillary Clinton
Bill Gates
Nicole Kidman
It's a pretty impressive list. However I must not be caught up on all the stuff Hillary Duff is doing lately that makes her especially noteworthy.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
i think my mom even has that sari
Back in October when 30 consecutive days of posting were glaring at me from the calendar, I put out a request for post ideas. Guyana Gyal suggested I let loose a stream of consciousness--with no editing*. I tried it a few times, but most of my consciousness streams are just spouty releases of my mental circus of neverending worry: How's the job thing going to work out? Is my brother going to make fun of the woolly socks I'm knitting him for Christmas? Will I be able to make my mortgage payments next year? Did I forget to set Pushing Daisies to record? Am I going to have to run for the bus again tomorrow morning? Are H and I going to have to move to Poughkeepsie to be in the same zip code? Are we out of oatmeal?
But I just watched a movie that liquified my already-chewy center, so I'm feeling a little more consciousness-streamy than usual. It made me cry the good cry. You know the one: when the tears slip down their tracks and make a puddle in the hollow of your neck. As opposed to the ones that fall off the side of your face and into your ears. I really hate those; they're uncomfortable. But mostly because things must be really, truly crappy if I've burrowed under the covers to let it all out.
It was the movie based on The Namesake, a Jhumpa Lahiri book I read years ago and adored, not just for the premise of not knowing where you belong (with which I identify very strongly), but because there weren't any flowery descriptions or clever setups; the author just said it how it was. And honest, that IS how it was for me. The extremely specific details snuck up on me like a fight scene from the Batman tv show. The author was just going along talking about these Indian people trying to get their footing in America and BAM! I recognized the nervous excitement from snapshots of my mom getting off the plane here in 1977. POW! I saw a freeze-frame from an auntie party in my own living room in 1995. WHAM! I heard a snide remark like ones I made to my friends back in junior high. I knew these things were coming, but I had no idea they would hit me so very squarely upside the head.
I gave the book to my mother and she identified with the characters too; mostly the parents' struggle to figure out what the heck they were doing when they got here and how to hold on then let go of their children after they'd sort of gotten an idea. However, other people have said the story was too typical. Cliche even. And that might be true; this is a land of immigrants. But aren't we all just writing about what we know and hoping somebody else will read it and get what we're trying to say? I know I am, most of the time.
One thing's for sure: I've never had a story capture feelings of my own experience so precisely that the glimpse of a mustache in the cold drawer of a morgue seemed so potentially familiar that my heart constricted in panic, if only for a second.
*Sorry, gg, I had to edit. The actual stream-of-consciousness version of this post didn't make no kind of sense.
But I just watched a movie that liquified my already-chewy center, so I'm feeling a little more consciousness-streamy than usual. It made me cry the good cry. You know the one: when the tears slip down their tracks and make a puddle in the hollow of your neck. As opposed to the ones that fall off the side of your face and into your ears. I really hate those; they're uncomfortable. But mostly because things must be really, truly crappy if I've burrowed under the covers to let it all out.
It was the movie based on The Namesake, a Jhumpa Lahiri book I read years ago and adored, not just for the premise of not knowing where you belong (with which I identify very strongly), but because there weren't any flowery descriptions or clever setups; the author just said it how it was. And honest, that IS how it was for me. The extremely specific details snuck up on me like a fight scene from the Batman tv show. The author was just going along talking about these Indian people trying to get their footing in America and BAM! I recognized the nervous excitement from snapshots of my mom getting off the plane here in 1977. POW! I saw a freeze-frame from an auntie party in my own living room in 1995. WHAM! I heard a snide remark like ones I made to my friends back in junior high. I knew these things were coming, but I had no idea they would hit me so very squarely upside the head.
I gave the book to my mother and she identified with the characters too; mostly the parents' struggle to figure out what the heck they were doing when they got here and how to hold on then let go of their children after they'd sort of gotten an idea. However, other people have said the story was too typical. Cliche even. And that might be true; this is a land of immigrants. But aren't we all just writing about what we know and hoping somebody else will read it and get what we're trying to say? I know I am, most of the time.
One thing's for sure: I've never had a story capture feelings of my own experience so precisely that the glimpse of a mustache in the cold drawer of a morgue seemed so potentially familiar that my heart constricted in panic, if only for a second.
*Sorry, gg, I had to edit. The actual stream-of-consciousness version of this post didn't make no kind of sense.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
i'll take everything but the hype. to go.
I've been an enthusiastic member of several failed book clubs. I'm not sure why they don't seem to work out, but I haven' t been to a single gathering at which every person has actually completed the reading. Maybe it's never meant to be for me. That's probably because The Universe knows that if there's one thing I love, it's to tell other people what I think.
So I've accepted that I'm alone in this reading thing. I just tell my notebook what I think instead. But I'm always trolling around for something new, trying to find something good and engaging that's either mostly undiscovered or old enough that I've missed out on all the hype. Because during that window in which everyone is all about it (I'm talking about you, Zadie Smith's White Teeth,) good books are like helium balloons with a slow leak: By the time you get around to them, they are doomed never to live up to all the rave reviews, and by that last page you're left with a limp piece of rubber and a resounding sense that you would've better spent that time watching a countdown on Vh1.
You'll see a little book on my sidebar from now on. It's linked to Shelfari, a new way for me to hunt around for something good to read. I've listed some titles that I've loved and if you're in the market for something to read, I recommend them (just click "next"). But that's all I'll say. I don't want to set you up for a letdown.
So I've accepted that I'm alone in this reading thing. I just tell my notebook what I think instead. But I'm always trolling around for something new, trying to find something good and engaging that's either mostly undiscovered or old enough that I've missed out on all the hype. Because during that window in which everyone is all about it (I'm talking about you, Zadie Smith's White Teeth,) good books are like helium balloons with a slow leak: By the time you get around to them, they are doomed never to live up to all the rave reviews, and by that last page you're left with a limp piece of rubber and a resounding sense that you would've better spent that time watching a countdown on Vh1.
You'll see a little book on my sidebar from now on. It's linked to Shelfari, a new way for me to hunt around for something good to read. I've listed some titles that I've loved and if you're in the market for something to read, I recommend them (just click "next"). But that's all I'll say. I don't want to set you up for a letdown.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
but what if i can't find it?
Highcontrast has suggested there should be a book called Soul Searching for Dummies, and that I should set out to try and write it. Unfortunately, I'm not really sure what soul searching actually is. Whenever I sit around and try to contemplate where my life is headed, the exercise turns into a mental review of what has happened followed by thorough self-bashing over every single thing that I've done wrong along the way. Doesn't really sound very pleasant nor productive to me.
Friday, September 21, 2007
too close to home
I haven't had a lot of time for books lately, but cc gave me one to read during my recent travels that was quick and extremely engaging. The Chicago Way is a private-eye noir that appealed to me for several reasons, but the thing that kept me turning pages was the dead-on description of the city. I was all ooh and ah-ha about places I recognized until the detective went to meet some acquaintances. River North gallery district? Hey, that's where I work! A double-dip from Mr. Beef on Orleans? Hey, I walk past that place every day! An unassuming little eatery with a red awning under the Brownline El tracks? Now hang on just a clock-punching second!
In the book, Brett's Kitchen is the setting for the detective's meeting with a mob connection, a place where they get cannoli and arrange a rendezvous with the big boss. Brett's also happens to be located across the street from my office (we can see it from the window), and sometimes I go there for both breakfast and lunch. The wry waitress has a new hair color every few weeks and reminisces about life back in Mexico, where she'd get her morning glass of milk straight out of a cow. However, the place is often bumping and people sit at the tile-topped tables to enjoy oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins with the newspaper. Or even for a meeting. And in the refrigerated case, next to the banana bread and frozen Snickers, is usually a whole tray of cannoli.
Normally, I'd chalk that kind of description up to artistic license and not think too much about it, but after I found out that the author was a journalist, I thought twice. Because if there's anything I know about good journos, it's that they do their homework. And not only was this guy an investigative reporter and one of the only ones to interview serial killer John Wayne Gacy, he's also behind A&E's Cold Case Files, which resolves real-life (and sometimes bizarre) murders.
So now every time I go to Brett's, I reevaluate the suited guys wrangling messy Mexican Chicken Sandwiches out of the corner of my eye and hope that I haven't done anything to piss them off.
In the book, Brett's Kitchen is the setting for the detective's meeting with a mob connection, a place where they get cannoli and arrange a rendezvous with the big boss. Brett's also happens to be located across the street from my office (we can see it from the window), and sometimes I go there for both breakfast and lunch. The wry waitress has a new hair color every few weeks and reminisces about life back in Mexico, where she'd get her morning glass of milk straight out of a cow. However, the place is often bumping and people sit at the tile-topped tables to enjoy oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins with the newspaper. Or even for a meeting. And in the refrigerated case, next to the banana bread and frozen Snickers, is usually a whole tray of cannoli.
Normally, I'd chalk that kind of description up to artistic license and not think too much about it, but after I found out that the author was a journalist, I thought twice. Because if there's anything I know about good journos, it's that they do their homework. And not only was this guy an investigative reporter and one of the only ones to interview serial killer John Wayne Gacy, he's also behind A&E's Cold Case Files, which resolves real-life (and sometimes bizarre) murders.
So now every time I go to Brett's, I reevaluate the suited guys wrangling messy Mexican Chicken Sandwiches out of the corner of my eye and hope that I haven't done anything to piss them off.
Friday, July 20, 2007
i need to hold my hippogriffs
On some of your blogs recently, I've commented about how I stumbled upon the whole Harry Potter phenomenon--basically this law professor that I admired and feared closed a complicated lecture with a p.s. he prefaced with "Now, hear me out." It was a little after the first HP came out and he had been reading it to his kids at bedtime. He confessed that it was the first of their books that he looked forward to opening every night and consistently kept reading after they'd fallen asleep. He said that even though it's a "kids' book," HP is an excellent read for anyone. I was so curious, I went out and bought it right after class. I stayed up all night, didn't do any homework and finished it in nearly one sitting.
Granted, I had the benefit of being the first person outside of that class to get hooked on what would become a billion-dollar franchise. (I'm sure if I hadn't discovered it so early on, the hype would have been an automatic turnoff.) I saw the first movie, but because they left out one of my favorite parts, I've been sour on them ever since. I get it; it's tricky to condense 900 pages into two hours of screentime, and I sure don't envy that job. But I still prefer the books--pacing is at your own discretion and no amount of CGI magic can top your own imagination. Plus, it's well-written (can't say that about a ton of books these days), exciting, unpredictable, and--with the cost of movies today--you get more entertainment for your money.
The last of the series comes out tomorrow, and I plan to be holed up and inhaling it as fast as I can so someone doesn't spoil it for me (last time around, somebody gave away the climax to a whole line of people waiting to buy the book). To refresh my memory, I've been trying to read the two that came before it, but I haven't been doing a very good job. And I think the frenzy of finishing on time is addling my mind.
Despite all that, I still recommend ignoring the hype and giving the books a whirl to those who haven't already. You've gotta admit there's something special about a story that has got kids putting down their PS3s to pay attention. But after today, I probably should add a warning: READING HARRY POTTER MAY PUT A HEX ON YOUR BRAIN.
Granted, I had the benefit of being the first person outside of that class to get hooked on what would become a billion-dollar franchise. (I'm sure if I hadn't discovered it so early on, the hype would have been an automatic turnoff.) I saw the first movie, but because they left out one of my favorite parts, I've been sour on them ever since. I get it; it's tricky to condense 900 pages into two hours of screentime, and I sure don't envy that job. But I still prefer the books--pacing is at your own discretion and no amount of CGI magic can top your own imagination. Plus, it's well-written (can't say that about a ton of books these days), exciting, unpredictable, and--with the cost of movies today--you get more entertainment for your money.
The last of the series comes out tomorrow, and I plan to be holed up and inhaling it as fast as I can so someone doesn't spoil it for me (last time around, somebody gave away the climax to a whole line of people waiting to buy the book). To refresh my memory, I've been trying to read the two that came before it, but I haven't been doing a very good job. And I think the frenzy of finishing on time is addling my mind.
* This week has been extremely busy at work, with my putting in 15-hour days three times and collapsing in exhaustion as soon as I get home. Last night I actually fell asleep early with the book on my face and didn't even notice for a couple of hours.
* When the train stopped in the city this morning, I was so engrossed I couldn't remember if I retrieve my monthly train/bus/El pass ($140) until I was almost all the way to the bus and didn't see it in the pocket of my bag. I ran all the way back to the tracks and went through 2/3 of the cars searching for it until the conductor announced on the intercom, "You have exactly one more minute, young lady!"
When I got off, defeated that I hadn't found it, he gave me a stern lecture about how I should either keep the ticket on a lanyard around my neck or just hold it in my hand instead of putting it into the little clip on the edge of my seat. He went on to say that I'd made them late getting back to the yard which really pisses off the engineer and these days money is tight for everyone and the chances of it being returned to Lost and Found are slim. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, looked down and me and said he hoped I'd learned my very expensive lesson.
I'm usually very good about holding onto that sucker and I thought I remembered taking it off the clip and putting it into my bag-- especially because the head of the sleeping guy in front of me was lolling dangerously near my ticket and I had to wait for him to shift to get it. Upon further inspection, it actually WAS in my bag, tucked between the pages of my datebook, which is why I didn't see it earlier. I still feel like I had to go to the principal's office for no reason, but at least I didn't waste my money.
* All that drama made me miss my bus, and another one didn't come for forty minutes. After I got on I was so distracted by the book that I didn't realize I should have gotten off until three stops past my office.
* After all the chaos of this past week, today is a slow day at work, and it's going to take all my will power to leave HP in my bag and focus on reports. But I'm sure I'll find a way to justify taking it out to the park for some catching up during lunch.
Despite all that, I still recommend ignoring the hype and giving the books a whirl to those who haven't already. You've gotta admit there's something special about a story that has got kids putting down their PS3s to pay attention. But after today, I probably should add a warning: READING HARRY POTTER MAY PUT A HEX ON YOUR BRAIN.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
i can get back to inhaling now
Ri once described my appetite for books not in terms of reading, but "inhaling." It's always been that way, ever since I sounded out the adventures of The Poky Little Puppy for myself. Recently she asked me for a recommendation and I consulted my notebook (I list ones I've heard about and then when I've read them, I give each a two-line review and a grade. Shut up.), only to realize I hadn't read anything new since last October. That's a really long time for me, especially if you consider how many precious commuting hours I've saved by working from home this year. Unfortunately, I've spent most of that extra time on the world's worst hobby: worrying.
Approaching the end of year two on the dungeon contract, it became very clear that I didn't really want to work erratic night hours much longer. What with the fact that I interacted with my boyfriend more than I would have if he lived in my own time zone and my mother breathing down my neck to procreate, it seemed the grandchildren of her dreams just might stay there if I didn't join the land of the living. But I didn't know what I wanted: another great opportunity with night hours or a less interesting gig with a schedule that allowed me to see the sun?
For months I freelanced, working from home and paying out-of-pocket health insurance. I transitioned back to being awake during the day, talked to people in other states and different industries and tried to figure out where I belonged. And all that time I worried. So much that I didn't sleep well, wasn't productive, didn't follow through as thoroughly as I should have. And I rarely did anything fun because I couldn't allow myself to relax.
I went to Miami. Then Detroit. I courted people in New York. I e-mailed companies all over the place and called people who knew people. And suddenly some big-time decisions had to be made. I obsessed. I asked for more time. I obsessed some more. I ran it by my friends and family. Repeatedly. Some told me I'd be stupid if I did one thing. Some said I'd be nuts to go with another. I was paralyzed with indecision.
Right around then, Rolling Stone published its 40th anniversary issue. It was shiny and red and I read it cover to cover. I don't know if the discussion of the turbulent Sixties resonated with my turbulent state of mind, but I couldn't put that thing down. And then, on page 132, I got my answer. In an interview with Rolling Stone's Keith Richards, Kurt Loder asks, Any life lessons you'd like to pass on to that younger generation?
Right then I knew I'd have to turn down a wonderful job opportunity because if I had to work odd hours in a strange city where I didn't know anyone, at this point in my life it wouldn't matter how great the gig was. I decided to take my chances in limbo a little longer rather than be stuck and unhappy far away. And it worked out for me: A few days later I got an offer from one of the places I've been freelancing. They created a permanent position for me. Working during the day! Not on weekends! Not on HOLIDAYS, either! And I can take the train, which means no more parking!
I don't have to be able to see cc to know she's reading this and rolling her eyes that I got inspiration from a man who allegedly snorted his father's ashes, but someone who's been rocking as hard and as long as he has must know a thing or two about a thing or two.
Even though it's not a book, I decided that because of its heft, the front-to-back way I tackled it and what it did for me, Rolling Stone's The Fortieth Anniversary deserves an entry in my notebook right under the scathing review of Atonement:
Approaching the end of year two on the dungeon contract, it became very clear that I didn't really want to work erratic night hours much longer. What with the fact that I interacted with my boyfriend more than I would have if he lived in my own time zone and my mother breathing down my neck to procreate, it seemed the grandchildren of her dreams just might stay there if I didn't join the land of the living. But I didn't know what I wanted: another great opportunity with night hours or a less interesting gig with a schedule that allowed me to see the sun?
For months I freelanced, working from home and paying out-of-pocket health insurance. I transitioned back to being awake during the day, talked to people in other states and different industries and tried to figure out where I belonged. And all that time I worried. So much that I didn't sleep well, wasn't productive, didn't follow through as thoroughly as I should have. And I rarely did anything fun because I couldn't allow myself to relax.
I went to Miami. Then Detroit. I courted people in New York. I e-mailed companies all over the place and called people who knew people. And suddenly some big-time decisions had to be made. I obsessed. I asked for more time. I obsessed some more. I ran it by my friends and family. Repeatedly. Some told me I'd be stupid if I did one thing. Some said I'd be nuts to go with another. I was paralyzed with indecision.
Right around then, Rolling Stone published its 40th anniversary issue. It was shiny and red and I read it cover to cover. I don't know if the discussion of the turbulent Sixties resonated with my turbulent state of mind, but I couldn't put that thing down. And then, on page 132, I got my answer. In an interview with Rolling Stone's Keith Richards, Kurt Loder asks, Any life lessons you'd like to pass on to that younger generation?
"First off, don't do anything if there's not joy in it, a sense of exhilaration. A day is a day, and each one is going bye-bye, and you've only got so many more in front of you. Friendship is probably one of the most important things in life. Apart from your immediate family, it's about friends -- the ability to make friends, the ability to forgive friends. And their ability to forgive you. It's just the ability to enjoy other people's company, really. Then you've got it all, man. The rest of it's gravy."
Right then I knew I'd have to turn down a wonderful job opportunity because if I had to work odd hours in a strange city where I didn't know anyone, at this point in my life it wouldn't matter how great the gig was. I decided to take my chances in limbo a little longer rather than be stuck and unhappy far away. And it worked out for me: A few days later I got an offer from one of the places I've been freelancing. They created a permanent position for me. Working during the day! Not on weekends! Not on HOLIDAYS, either! And I can take the train, which means no more parking!
I don't have to be able to see cc to know she's reading this and rolling her eyes that I got inspiration from a man who allegedly snorted his father's ashes, but someone who's been rocking as hard and as long as he has must know a thing or two about a thing or two.
Even though it's not a book, I decided that because of its heft, the front-to-back way I tackled it and what it did for me, Rolling Stone's The Fortieth Anniversary deserves an entry in my notebook right under the scathing review of Atonement:
5/07
The Fortieth Anniversary
Rolling Stone
Interview issue; what the greats went through in the Sixties is still relevant. Eye opening.
A
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
