A Sign?

What could it mean that, as I was driving to the airport to leave for a business trip on Friday, the chorus to this song was playing on every one of the three country stations pre-set in my car radio--all at the same time:

Lyrics:

Monday, hard to wake up
Fill my coffee cup, I'm out the door
Yeah, the freeway's standing still today
It's gonna make me late, and thats for sure
I'm running out of gas and out of time
Never gonna make it there by nine

Chorus:

There's gotta be something more
Gotta be more than this
I need a little less hard time
I need a little more bliss
I'm gonna take my chances
Taking a chance I might
Find what I'm looking for
There's gotta be something more

Five years and there's no doubt
That I'm burnt out, I've had enough
So now boss man, here's my two weeks
I'll make it short and sweet, so listen up
I could work my life away, but why?
I got things to do before die

Repeat Chorus

Some believe in destiny, and some believe in fate
I believe that happiness is something we create
You best belive that I'm not gonna wait
'Cause there's gotta be something more

I get home 7:30 the house is dirt, but it can wait
Yeah, 'cause right now I need some downtime
To drink some red wine and celebrate
Armageddon could be knocking at my door
but I ain't gonna answer thats for sure.
There's gotta be something more!

And just before I heard this song on every station, I was fantasizing about my resignation meeting--without yet having another job lined up. If that isn't a sign of the need to go, I don't know what is.

Books, books, books!

Brett has tagged me to provide answers to these book questions, so now, after a brief vacation delay, I will answer his queries to the best of my abilities:

Number of books I own:
This is an uncountable number. My guess would be 282, give or take a few that I have loaned but that have not been returned, but this is purely a guess. Yes, I have a book addiction. I have been trying to whittle my collection down by donating books or selling them at Half Price Books, but it seems that before I can do that, my dog engages in his own brand of recycling by eating the books. He has a remarkable ability to find them in dog-proof (or so I thought) places where I have hidden them! And it hurts me to see books that have been chewed.

Last book I bought:
The Wonder Spot, by Melissa Bank (a second effort by the author of The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing). As often occurs, this was an impulse purchase in the airport on the way home from my recent business trip. I don't know what it is about the airport, but I am VERY prone to impulse purchases of reading material there.

Last books I read:

· Be Happy at Work: 100 Women Who Love Their Jobs, and Why, by Joanne Gordon

· Bridget Jones's Diary, by Helen Fielding (re-read)

· Newcomer's Handbook New York City, no specific author

· Take Big Bites, by Linda Ellerbee

· A Thousand Days in Tuscany, by Marlena de Blasi

Five books that mean a lot to me:
Anne of Green Gables, by L.M. Montgomery. I received this series of books as a Christmas gift from my aunt and uncle when I was about 10 years old. Before Christmas Day was over, I had already read the entire first book and cried my eyes out over the death of Matthew, Anne’s adopted father. I had always been a reader, filling pages and pages of lines with books I read during my library’s summer reading program. But I think it was the way this book involved me that let me know I will be a reader for life, and was a preview of the magic powers of escape one can find in a book.

The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. This is the first book I remember that had a profound impact on me. I read it while travelling alone in Europe, during a six-week hiatus I had negotiated before starting a new job. I was somewhat stunned at leaving my first firm ever, but knew it was time. The book inspired me, reminding me that life is too short to settle or compromise one's ideals. I have read it again many times over the years, and it always reinvigorates me.

Bel Canto, by Ann Patchett. I loved this book, with its great story and simple writing. But the reason it means a lot to me is that I actually attended a reading and book signing by the author, where she actually made some personal remarks that inspired me. In my book she wrote, "Read everything, write well, have a thrilling life." It was around this time that I started actually believing that there could be something different in store for me, a dream that is just now coming to fruition for me.

Tender at the Bone, by Ruth Reichl. This book entertained me, with its descriptions of food and wine intertwined with the very interesting story of the author's life. It also showed me that a low-key writing style like mine can actually support a book!

Constitutional Law by Nowak and Rotuda. I read this in law school while taking my favorite course of all time (in which I made my best grade of all time--a sure indicator of my interest!). Nothing else interested me quite so much . . . I love both the procedural and substantive aspects of constitutional law. And now I hope to make it my career!

Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Friday night.

After a business day-trip out of state, following a hectic post-vacation week at work, I couldn't wait to get home tonight. This is the guilty pleasure of the single 30-something girl . . . coming home, washing one's face, putting the newly-long hair up and slipping into comfy clothes. So here I am lounging with a nice glass of Chardonnay, dogs at my feet, and my favorite series of all time, you guessed it--Sex and the City--in the DVD player. I'm not even letting it scare me about what life in NYC will be like. Oops, I'm not supposed to talk about that.

Soooo . . . tomorrow I plan to be decadent . . . with maniacal house-cleaning, a hike with the dogs at the nature preserve, a pedicure and massage, a movie and a fabulous dinner. And that's only Saturday . . . . ahh.

Busy, busy, busy at work

since returning from my vacation, which you can read more about here.

I have only written about the first few days, but hope to catch up this weekend!

Almost there.

No, not yet "almost" for the new life. Although I have learned that the amount of bullshit one can tolerate in the average workday increases exponentially when one knows that the days in which one will have to tolerate such things are numbered.

"Almost there" refers to my VACATION. Yes, rip rock rollin' vacation, a whole week of it!!! And it won't involve seeing family members . . . to the contrary, it will be an excellent mix of solitude and time spent with old friends and new friends, with a liberal dash of baseball-watching thrown in for good measure. Oh, and cute hip hotels like this:



and this:



In light of how little sleep I've had in the last few weeks, I fear that I may sink into one of the lovely beds, with curtains drawn like a cave, and never emerge.

But I know I will see fantastic things that will draw me from my room, such as this place:



and this temple:



and another kind of temple:



Okay, that's all for you! Just a taste, the tiniest lick of the spoon covered with frosting, because I am going to have some smashing photos from this trip! I can't wait . . . one more day.

A Musical Morning

Damn this new VAIO. I had a beautifully written post nearly crafted, and the finicky touch pad took it away from me, forcing me to start again. ArgGGGGGGGGGGGGGh. I will try again, because I will not let that touch pad defeat me, but please know this post will not be as wonderful as it would have been, BUT FOR THE TOUCH PAD.

Okay, so yesterday I was on my way to the place where I work out. (A rare occurrence--how rare, no one really needs to know). I saw the first of two musical "situations," shall we say. It was a guy who could be an Anthony Michael Hall stand-in (circa The Breakfast Club), sitting in his white compact car at a red light. He was frenetically bobbing his head to some music that I could not hear. But boy, was I curious about what exact type of beat was causing this boy to groove so.

I was still pondering him when, just a mile or so away, I stopped at a red light of my very own. While sitting there, I noticed a man with a portable keyboard, standing at the side of the road. (I am NOT making this up!) He appeared to be playing the keyboard. Not one to miss a musical moment twice, I turned down my low-brow sports/fun radio station and rolled down the window. (I digress: is it still "rolling" when your window is electrically controlled with just the touch of a button?) Anyway, with the window down, I heard some nice music emanating from this man's keyboard! He realized that I was actually listening to his music and he seemed pleased, not wanting the moment to pass. The light changed. I wasn't quite ready to go yet, but I did.

So here's the strange thing. Tonight I was driving home really late from work, taking a totally different route than I was on when I saw this man yesterday, and there he was, at the red light! For a moment I thought he might be a figment of my imagination. But I know he was real. Maybe he couldn't sleep. Maybe he thought, I'll go play some music for the people who worked late tonight. Maybe he was there as a reminder to do what you love, no matter how crazy it may appear to others.

Day Two of Brief-Writing at the Cafe (AKA the "Neighborhood Starbucks")

There are days when my heart seems closer to the surface than on other days . . . like today.

On my way to Starbucks to continue my brief-writing outside the total isolation of my home, I saw the man who walks his dog past my house every day. When I first noticed him walking past my house, shortly after I moved to the neighborhood nearly 5 years ago, he had with him a beautiful Golden Retriever kind of dog. I noticed this winter that the Golden was walking more slowly, so much so that he/she wasn't even on a leash for their walks anymore. I noticed when I saw the man today that I had not seen him in a long time. And I'm not sure about this, but I don't think his dog was with him today. I hope that isn't the case, and that I just overlooked the dog's presence in my haste to get caffeine.

At Starbucks they played my favorite song in the world (with the possible exception of the James Taylor/Ray Charles rendition of "Sweet Potato Pie"), Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah." This version, which I hear at this place from time to time, is done a capella (not typically my favorite). But it still sounds beautiful, Jeff Buckley being what he was and the song being what it is. This song stirs deep feelings in me that began with the boyfriend who introduced me to it, but have continued even beyond the time when he was present in my life. Today these feelings remind me that I am more than a churner-out of briefs and that soon the work I am doing will stir feelings in me to match even those I am feeling today.

On a less navel-gazing note, a future Saturday Night Live character was born at Starbucks today--the Very Loud Talker. This skinny guy in preppy clothes parked his SUV out front and, before coming in, gazed at himself in the reflection of the window of the SUV in the next parking spot over. While odd, this did not prepare us for his "indoor behavior," which is to SPEAK AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS TO PEOPLE STANDING JUST A FEW FEET AWAY FROM HIM. He seemed to have no clue that he was blowing out the eardrums of those nearby or that he was acting in any way out of the ordinary. It wasn't just his volume, though--he also spoke loudly of matters best left for quiet, delicate conversation. Methinks he was never told as a young boy, "Use your inside voice, honey." His effect on us was so stunning that everyone looked at each other after he left, still reeling in shock from the experience. You know it's bad when the Starbucks barristas actually ask, "Is everyone okay over there?" upon his departure.

Eyebrow-Raising Folk

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Funny how certain kinds of quotes

catch one's eye when the timing is right. Most recently, I latched onto these statements made at Oberlin's commencement ceremonies by Dr. William F. Shulz, Executive Director of Amnesty International U.S.A. (excerpts below):

But though truth takes a myriad of forms, there is one truth that remains beyond dispute--a truth this institution has also sought to elucidate--and that is that all blood flows red, that more profound than all our differences is our common suffering and that what will save us and save our planet is a recognition of the frailty we share. That truth is under threat today from the enemies of democracy and the champions of it; from the purveyors of morality and the disdainers of it. But it is still true.

To see beyond appearances, beyond pretense and stereotype, beyond bombast and bravado, right into the authentic heart of misery, into the common bonds of suffering--the remarkable capacity that we human beings occasionally display to identify with another's pain, despite all of our brutality, to exercise a moral imagination, despite all of our pettiness--it is that upon which human rights are based and the salvation of the world depends.

And then there is a final article of faith this College has always sought to propagate and that is the conviction that history is not finished; that the future is not fated; and that with our privilege, with our degrees, comes our responsibility to build a more benevolent nation, a more hospitable people, a more welcoming world.

Somewhere in one of the great art museums in Europe hangs a large painting of Faust and the Devil sitting at a chess table. Faust has made his pact with the Devil and now his face is contorted in anguish because he retains on the chessboard but a knight and a King and the King is in check.

One day a great chess master happened into the museum and naturally this painting eye caught his eye and he sat down in front of it and stared. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. And still the master stared. And then suddenly, leaping to his feet: "It's a lie!" he shouted at the top of his lungs for all to hear. "It's a lie, I tell you. The King and the knight--they have another move. They have another move."

And that, my friends, is the final message this school would have its graduates deliver to a bruised and battered world--that, no matter what orthodoxy may claim or ideology may bluster, history is not finished, the future is not fated, what comes next is in our hands, so that in the face of hardship and injustice, of suffering and of death, we say, "The story is not over. The end is not here yet. For it is not just the King but the knight, not just the Queen but the rook, not just the Bishop but pawn, not just the wealthy but the pauper, not just the powerful but every starving, lonely, frightened person in the world, every single person, every single one of us, who has another move. We all have another move.

Pat Buchanan once famously said that America was engaged in a "culture war." For once, he was right. We are engaged today in an enormous struggle for the soul of this country. It is a struggle between those who would close down culture and those who would keep it open. Between those who welcome the preeminence of one nation and those who give their fealty to the common interests of the globe. It is, in short, a struggle between those with a parched vision and those with a generous heart. This institution has always pledged itself to one side of that equation and, to you who graduate today I leave you with one very simple message: "Wear the mantle of these values proudly; then give no quarter; fear no shadows; and make the mountains tremble."

His last statement brings tears to my eyes. If only I could . . .

Woodward and Bernstein

With the recent Deep Throat revelation, my interest in Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein has been rekindled. I have obsessively read articles about them, finally stumbling upon this very juicy one, by Alicia Shepard in the Washingtonian.

The entire article was well-written and interesting, and this quote in particular caught my attention:

Annie Groer, Post reporter who went to Montgomery Blair High School with Bernstein: There are those who say Carl squandered gifts or frittered away a fortune. But one can’t say he’s led of life of quiet desperation. In the end, I think his regrets will be sins of commission rather than omission. You regret what you did, not what you didn’t do. I’m for that.

I think it is because I feel the first sentence could apply to me. Now I want to ensure I don't live the rest of my life in such a way that the second sentence applies to me . . . may my sins be those of commission, not omission.

My New Mantra

Via Eric Zorn's blog today:

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle . . . Plato

Anyone who has tangled horns with me in the years since my father's death will understand why I want so very badly to live this phrase. Dad surprised me by dying six and a half years ago, when he was 56 and I was 29. Afterwards, I was, unsurprisingly, numb for a period of many months. I felt soft and vulnerable after that, not unlike the interior of an exposed wound. I was sensitive and patient, didn't sweat the small stuff and readily excused the frailties of others, knowing that they meant nothing when one could die tomorrow. Sadly, that feeling wore off at some point (I'm not sure when) and left me smack in the middle of what has now been a years-long phase of alternating between being a winsome, belly-laughing person who is all-too-beloved by my friends and a tantrum-throwing too-big-to-be-a-toddler girl who is highly pissed off at losing her father when she wasn't expecting it.

When these tantrums occurred, I would watch, stunned, as if standing outside myself. I was perplexed to see the embarrassingly furious person (me) taking her unidentified anger out on some poor soul, but was utterly unable to stop the carnage. This caused great heartache for me and sometimes, I am sure, extreme embarrassment for my friends who witnessed it. It always resulted in hurt/annoyance for the person on the other end, I have no doubt. Because that person was typically a stranger, I was not around to see the aftermath. But always--without fail--I was disgusted with myself afterwards, wondering what went wrong and how I could stop it from happening again.

I only recently realized why I am so easily angered. My guess is that there is no one cause. Partly anger at losing my Dad. I am trying to work through this, with partial success.

Another probable cause is my anger at being left with my mother as my only parent; she is like an alien being I do not understand, and whom I am not altogether sure actually loves me. I am altogether sure that she does not see in me what my father saw--while he saw my faults, he loved me despite them, the one person in my life in whom I have found the unquestioning acceptance I crave so deeply. I have tried to deal with this by expecting less of her, without much success. I then tried to discuss my issues with her, with even less success. She was willing to discuss briefly, but obviously does not understand my concerns. I am figuring out what to do with this, but don't know yet.

The other part of the equation is the one most recently discovered--my total lack of fulfillment found in the work I do--that can only be changed by a total career and lifestyle change. As I have referenced in other posts on this blog, I now know what I need to do career-wise and am finding some peace in having come to that realization. But while I bide my time until I can make that move, I still feel like a tiger pacing in its ugly and outdated concrete cage at the zoo, wondering what it will take to escape. In the meantime, I want so badly to stop swiping my paw through the bars while people who had nothing to do with my capture stroll by on their way to see the elephants. Hopefully, Plato's wisdom will help me in my efforts.

P.S. If any of my "victims" happens to read this nearly-invisible blog, please accept my humblest apologies. I am so sorry for any pain I may have caused you.