A rough night at Chik-fil-A

I drove to Chik-fil-A right after work to meet the rest of the family.  I wanted to take advantage of spring break at work and the lingering spring daylight in the air to get some reading done.

There were dozens of other people ranging around the counter, desperate to order. I looked at my watch and decided to take a gamble: I ordered a milkshake to consume before the kids arrived and I would have to share. I sat down at a table and settled into a New Yorker article about teenage sex offenders (hard to focus on amidst the noise of kids yelling, people chewing, chairs scraping the ground). When the employee delivered my shake I hoped he wouldn't glance at my article and see an unfortunate word or phrase.

The restaurant filled with kids and families from one of the Christian schools down here.  Soon A and B came bounding in, with L hoisting J in her carrier just behind.  Shamelessly I pushed my empty milkshake cup away from me and got up to find a table for all of us. Reader, I littered.

We managed to secure a four-top such that I was sitting directly in the path of the sun.  A blade of light was stabbing into my eye as the thrum of people around us raged on. The kids were tired and fickle; B blocked the doors of the play area and A whimpered when it was time to eat.  My salad was virtuous but unpleasant on top of my hastily-consumed milkshake. I had succeeded in not sharing but I was paying a price.

A few minutes later -- after joylessly eating dinner, after the kids suffered around us, as the sun sat resolutely in my line of sight -- we left.  I went back to my previous table and retrieved my milkshake cup to throw away. I explained to the women sitting there why I had abandoned it and they laughed politely.

We staggered out into the Maryland evening. There are five of us now, L and me and three kids, the latest one, Josephine, born in November. She looks like Alice with Barrow's blue eyes. I walked L and the kids to the minivan -- also new; also, burgundy -- and packed them up and went back to my car. As I got closer to home I rolled down the window and listened to the music, work work work work work, the milkshake heavy in my gut, the money we spent on dinner frittered away. Inside the house the kids were fragile and irritated, always on the brink of crying or else fully over the cliff, but soon enough they would be asleep.  Three kids in a bedroom, the humidifier whirring, three warm bodies damp and restless in the night.

Whining

I've been too busy to think lately. Work has been madness since late August, as the new year began and I started working with a new set of responsibilities and challenges. L started a new job, and so our household has been leaning into the chance for her to make a great first impression, especially considering that she'll be on maternity leave soon. Alice has started potty training and is copping new attitudes and new sets of vocabulary -- today she came back from kiddie yoga and told us, in all seriousness, "NAmaste" -- and all the while the new kid in L's belly becomes all the more comprehensible. There is more to come.

I've realized, in the middle of all of this, that I really miss a few things: reading, exercise, writing.  I feel like a fat slob.  I haven't been able to sink my teeth into a book for a while. I'm dying for some new music. I recently retread John Williams' Stoner, a novel I first read in 2006 and immediately adored. It struck me as one of the most perfect, best novels I ever read, even with its flaws.  Reading it again it maintained its power and inspired me as a writer, a feeling I haven't had in a while.

Throughout my adult life, there have been things that I was so excited about -- I would shape my weeks by thinking about them, anticipating, considering, and the afterwards, reflecting and hoping for the next time.  It stated with improv class, then the gym, then hip hop, and then my writing class a few semesters ago. I miss those things. Now I think about the time commitment and the things I would miss -- time with Alice, family dinners, holding up my end of our domestic bargain. I miss that casual selfishness that made early adulthood so exciting and free.

So I'm trying to do something about it. I rejoined the gym at work and I'm looking for classes. I'm trying to carve out more time to be thoughtful and purposeful. But I still have that nagging fear, that this is the time when we put childish things aside -- passions, exploration -- and disappear into the daily routines that become the engine and the sum of our days.

Thanksgiving!

There's not much to say about Thanksgiving besides the fact that it was wonderful.  Four generations around the table -- a table nearly buckling under the weight of so much good food, most of it prepared by my beautiful wife/executive chef, L.  My grandma said the turkey was the best she's ever eaten.  The weather was nice enough to allow for plenty of long walks and an excursion to Central Park.  We all had the chance to express our gratitude for the chance to be together to celebrate the holiday and enjoy the gifts and blessings of a growing family.  I don't know what more one could want.

...Oh wait!  I DO know what more one could want.  We had a huge debacle in the morning thanks to the Macys Thanksgiving Day Parade.  We had received tickets from an extremely kind colleague of L's, so my parents and I, along with Alice, trooped down to Columbus Circle early in the morning to claim our seats in the bleachers in Central Park.  We unexpectedly had to walk ten blocks north to get to the only available entrance, and by the time we got there, the police weren't allowing anybody else in.  People were walking out of the parade route area a block away, telling all of us who were assembled, "Don't bother!  There's nowhere to sit and you can't even see!  We had tickets too!"  As you may be able to tell, the people telling us this were fashionable gay men who were waving their hands in disgust.  We bought Alice a blow-up Dora the Explorer doll as a consolation prize (she loves it - ever since she has been pushing Dora in the stroller, dancing with Dora, making us include Dora in "Ring Around the Rosy," and dragging Dora to the table to eat with us).

So, rejected by the parade, we went to a little cafe to eat some breakfast, where we encountered the people I will always think of fondly as the Thanksgiving Assholes of 2011.  Let me set the scene: picture three rectangular two-top tables lined up along the window.  Simple, right?  We pushed two tables together to accommodate our party, dumped our stuff there, and went to get our food.  When we returned, we found that the Thanksgiving Assholes - a well-dressed middle aged couple - had turned the remaining two-top around, so that both seats were now parallel to the window I guess, which had the effect of blocking us from getting into our table.  I said, excuse me, please let us in, and my polite mom said, oh, we'll just sit elsewhere (forcing us to crowd around a skimpy little table), and the male Thanksgiving Asshole said, "Oh, you'll be fine, there's plenty of room there."  The woman concurred, and after a bit more completely disrespectful small talk, the encounter was formally over. 

But not for me, of course!  I spent the rest of the meal shooting them dirty looks, saying loud remarks like "that was really rude" and "we have no room for my daughter now," and subtly jabbing the man with our inflatable Dora.  Even days later, while out on a run, I thought about them and their absolute thoughtlessness and blithe disregard for us and got irritated again.  I hope their turkey tasted like sand.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Hand, foot and mouth

There was a period last week when I was debilitated by a nasty little virus called Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease.  Alice had it first, an extremely mild case, thank God, and then passed it to me.  On Friday night I felt feverish and exhausted.  On Sunday bright red little sores started pocking the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet.  I had a few sores on my face but thankfully I was spared the wounds on the inside of the mouth that make it nearly impossible to eat.

Over the next few days these sores blossomed into bright throbbing little nubs of pain.  I could barely walk.  It hurt to bend my fingers.  My extremities felt red-hot, contorted by this raging pressure.  I went to work on Monday but left after half the day.  My colleagues were horrified.  People asked if I was staggering because of a marathon-related malady, and I told them no.  I had to lean on my desk and lurch sideways to open the door to my students.  I didn't go to the bathroom because I couldn't bear the idea of walking that far.  At home, when I removed my shoes and socks, I felt sure that my feet would be covered in blood. 

At home I crawled to the bathroom on my hands and knees to avoid pressure on my feet.  It felt a little better to elevate my feet, so I sat on the couch, responded to work emails, and watched wretched daytime programming like "The Talk."  I stayed home on Tuesday, in a haze of Benadryl.  By Wednesday the sores started receding, yet even today my hands and feet are still slightly pocked.  The skin along my fingers and toes has been peeling for days now and I don't really know when this process will be completely over.  I am basically molting dead skin over everything. 

The key point here is: it's disgusting, and it knocked me out for a couple of days.  I just wanted to record this for posterity.

Sixteen miles

Saturday's run was a sixteen-miler.  I was very anxious about it overnight; I kept waking up wondering if it was time to go yet.  I was worried that my dinner wasn't substantial enough to fuel me through.  The run was okay - I am still being slow and generous with myself, but my leg muscles were just exhausted by the end.  I feel like I am good cardio-wise, but I am trying to work on my leg muscles.  I have accumulated an almost silly regime of preparation and recovery: Nip guards!  Vaseline on the thighs!  Two bottles of Gatorade!  Ice baths!  There is no glamor in this task.

In other news, our nanny quit on Wednesday, after missing work on Tuesday for health reasons, and announced that Friday would be her last day.  Amid a week of bad news and unpleasant events, this one took the cake.  We pulled it together and hired a delightful new nanny on Saturday, and so far she is great.  Our third nanny in about 14 months.  I'm feeling like Destiny's Child up in here, but hopefully now things can settle down.

Status updates

Today I was walking along on the street when I inadvertently stepped on a Capri Sun juice thing on the ground, causing a stream of liquid to shoot through the straw and across some girl's thighs and butt.  She was audibly shocked, and started gasping and looking around.  I had to explain that I had stepped on a juice box, apologize profusely, and walk the hell away as fast as possible.

Also today I went to get a haircut, and the woman cutting my hair said to me, "How much do you want on top, well you don't have much on top, heh heh."  Only women barbers say things like this.  And yet I tipped her. 

I didn't see much of L last weekend, because of the hurricane.  And I haven't seen much of my family either, because work has been crazy.  This is one of the most hectic weeks of the entire academic year, as we launch a new academic year and welcome the new students.  There are moments when we participate in the life of the school community, when the students' youth and naivete erupts in moments of genuine enthusiasm and gratitude, that are actually quite moving.  And then there are moments when I have pull back the reins on my irritation, such as when students march directly into my office without invitation and start talking at me, or when I receive an email from someone with a completely inscrutable email address who doesn't sign their message.  "Who sent this email to me?" I replied back, before I could stop myself. 

I have been a negligent marathon trainee, I regret to report.  For the first time ever, I missed my long run last weekend because of hurricane-related childcare responsibilities.  I only had time for one early-morning three mile run this week.  And I don't know if I'll get in a long run this weekend.  But then I will get back on track. 

But tomorrow: we are packing up a rental car and driving to Rehoboth.  A couple of days at the beach, a couple of days to introduce Alice to important things like Funland and Grotto Pizza and Browseabout Books.  Jumping in the waves.  Walking in the cool evening sand.  The cry of the seagulls, ice cream on the boardwalk.  It's important that she knows this.

Hurricane Irene

The city is freaking out about Hurricane Irene.  It was a beautiful day today but there was a nervous energy in the street; the sidewalks seemed more crowded than usual, the lines at drugstores and groceries snaking down the aisles.  People clutching bottled water, toilet paper.  I went to five stores looking for D batteries to no avail.

My wife the civil servant is in Brooklyn tonight.  She is part of the city's emergency response team, working 12 hour shifts at an evacuation center in Brooklyn.  Hopefully I'll see her tonight before she has to report again for duty tomorrow.  Once the city's transit system has shuddered to a halt tomorrow afternoon, I'm not sure how she'll be able to come back home from Brooklyn.  So when does my wife come home?

The idea of going through a hurricane with just me and Alice, without L, is boggling and ridiculous.  I am very proud of my wife for the work she does and the spirit she brings to her job.  I hope she understands that she is doing important, humane work.  But her absence tonight - and presumably, through this long weekend of emergency - baffles me.

I found some batteries at home and we have one good flashlight.  I pulled aside candles and matches.  We have enough food, I guess, and milk and water.  Water bottles in the freezer.  I guess we are almost ready, with almost everything.

The vise

I have been uncharacteristically worried lately about the state of things in our life (and that's saying something).  L and I have had some big talks about our family, our careers, our home, and our finances, trying to find the best way to manage everything in a sustainable way, a way that will keep us on a good path to prosperity.  In some ways I feel like the same few questions are constantly swirling around us, and each passing day pushes us towards an answer.  Can we stay in New York?  Can we stay where we are?  Does our life require changes, large or small?  (The questions are more specific in my mind, of course, but they thunder down to the same basic propositions.)  I worry about making a choice.  I worry about not making a choice -- that our inaction will lead us to an answer in itself, an answer we may not want. 

Sometimes I wonder if we are somehow being selfish, living in Manhattan and raising a family here.  Is it stupid to try to do this?  Does it matter that we still live in New York, since we are not exactly regulars on Broadway or at the museums?  Are we trying to accomplish something best left to the financiers and their dowager mothers-in-law?  Perhaps worse: are we the last ones left at the party, still toughing it out in Manhattan while so many of our friends have cycled in and out of the city?  And yet so much of our life is grounded in the structures of urban living -- walking to playgrounds, enjoying the parks, living in a certain kind of community.  I fear that if we lived someplace surburban, we would enjoy the luxuries of the 'burbs for a few months until we woke up in horror one day, realizing: I am bored.  And then it would spiral downwards, Revolutionary Road-style.  (Not to say that city life is inherently better or more exciting; just that it has clearly become our preference.) 

If I think about these questions hard enough, it feels like the floor gives way under my feet, and all of the structures we have created to organize our life - the jobs, the childcare, the commute, the apartment, the friendships - are ripped to shreds in a single thoughtless moment, and the stark precarious nature of this balance emerges.  Yet does life ever become more solid than this?  What exactly could I expect someplace else?

I hit the point a few days ago where I just grew weary of worrying.  We had a good talk with my folks about things, and I feel like we're doing the best we can.  We are not sitting back passively and letting the circumstances of life dictate our fates; we are doing everything we can to best protect and support our lives.  Beyond that I don't know what else can be done, besides work on my patience and serenity.  Like I was saying to L tonight:  I'm worried something will happen.  And I'm also worried something won't.

At some point, I have to take a breath and just stop worrying.

Photo: my favorite monkey at the Manhattan Children's Museum.

I got my ass kicked at a writing workshop

Last night my second and final story got workshopped in my beginning fiction class.  I had been very excited about this; my first story was well-received, and I tried to really amp up the work this time around.  I was trying to be ambitious and worldly, to move around chronologically and write two interweaving stories, one when the protagonist is 15 and one when he is 45.  I was trying to write in a non-linear way about a character who was not a carbon copy of me at the present moment.  Enough of these short stories that take place within a few hours, when some protagonist who is the demographic equivalent of the author experiences some precious little epiphany.  I wanted to be narratively bold and sophisticated, to tackle some big themes.  When I passed out my story for the class to read, I was pretty proud of myself, and I thought that it had turned out well for a first draft, although obviously it needed a lot of work.

Well, unfortunately, as the workshop got under way, things were not looking so hot.  The conversation zoomed in immediately on the weak spots of the piece.  "Uneven" was the adjective that really set the tone for the discussion of the story.  I concentrated on taking copious notes, to avoid having to look at anyone as we all discussed my stilted dialogue, or how the tone was too even, or how there should be more anger.  As time passed I kept hoping for the conversation to move on to other elements (how about that sophisticated chronology?  did anyone catch how narratively bold I'm being?) but we remained mired in the bad parts.  As someone who is bad at hiding my emotions, I think it was pretty obvious that I was deflating.  By the end of the conversation, the instructor was noting that although the class discussion had focused on the problematic areas, there was a lot in the piece that worked very well -- and then he quickly went through a laundry list of good things.  But the damage was done.

I felt like a real jackass for being so proud and happy about the work.  I was embarrassed at having talked to the instructor about how excited I was to get feedback from the class.  I tried to pull myself out of my funk for the rest of the session, but I couldn't manage it -- I didn't say a word for the rest of class.  I felt like I had left my guts on the page, that I had dug really deep and put myself out there, and that I had just gotten shat on for my efforts.  I wanted to pause in the conversation and ask: "So did anyone like anything about it?  Did anything work for anyone?"  But of course you can't do that in a writing class, where workshop protocol is as sacred and inviolable as, say, the procedure for selecting a new Pope.

I had a long, redemptive, enjoyable conference with the instructor afterwards.  He said my impression of the conversation was probably a lot worse than it actually had been.  This could very well be true.  When I got home I read everyone's written critiques, and suddenly there it was -- proof that the story was not the abject failure I had thought.  People appreciated different elements of it, and found it moving in different ways, and said some really nice and thoughtful things about it.  Great.

Although I still feel dumb and embarrassed for letting myself be so crushed by all of this, I am still licking my wounds over the whole thing.  I have to put that particular story aside for a while and work on some other stuff for the time being.  Part of this is vanity, and part of it is the need for constructive criticism to come bundled with something good, something I can hang on to.  When in doubt, blame astrology -- I'm a Pisces, and I'm sensitive about my shit.

911

L arrived home late from work, around 9.  I had put the baby down and had ordered a pizza for us.  L had just walked in and was standing in the doorway of the apartment, talking to a woman in the hallway.  The woman was wearing baggy gray longjohns, clutching a cordless phone and her eyeglasses and a pen.  Apparently her boyfriend, who lives with her, was drunk and raging.  He had smashed his hand through some glass case in their apartment and was bleeding.  He had locked her out.

L invited her inside to have a place to think for a few minutes.  The woman said she just wanted him out of her apartment, but she didn't want the police involved.  She came in and stood in our doorway for a few minutes, then returned to the hallway. We offered to call the police but she declined.  The woman suggested that maybe we could ask him to come into our apartment for a few moments, and then she could return to her apartment and lock him out.  We said no. 

The man opened the door to his apartment and started yelling at her again.  He moved into the hallway, bleary-eyed.  L, the sentinel, held our door open in case the woman needed it.  The man was blathering on and on.  He started referring to us and pointing to us.  "Now my neighbor won't even talk to me!" He started comparing himself to Libya, saying it would take more than one policeman to take him down.  He talked about the Irish.  Staring at L's face to not look at the man's, I kept asking her: should we call the police now?  Are we justified now?  Finally, feeling vaguely threatened as he shuffled into the middle of the hallway, closer to the woman and our door, I called 911.  Not the first time I've done it, here in this city of shit and blood.  I put on a fleece and some flip flops to get ready.

A few minutes later I heard distant sirens, then three cruisers pulled up in front of our building.  A group of policemen swarmed inside.  Someone from dispatch called me to tell me to buzz them up.  When they poured out of the elevator I gestured to the poor woman who was standing forlornly by the stair railing, and they directed their procedures and protocols at her.  One officer, calm and low-voiced, hung back to talk to me about the call.

A little while later I got another call from dispatch, telling me to buzz up the ambulance crew.  I also thought, where is our pizza?  It's been thirty minutes.  Maybe the law enforcement can let our pizza guy in.  The ambulance crew had arrived because the man was apparently bleeding from the broken glass he had smashed.  A little while later we heard yelling from outside -- it was the man, now on the sidewalk, surrounded by cops trying to secure him onto a gurney to go into the ambulance.  He was hollering, howling at them.  Craning out of our window we could see him thrashing on the ground, the lumpy mounds of the officers' backs surrounding him.  Someone was pinning him to the ground with a knee.  Suddenly I saw our pizza delivery guy, toodling along on his bike up the block, past the spectacle of double-parked law enforcement vehicles with their lights ablaze.  "Well, at least the pizza's here."

A few minutes later the man was secured in the ambulance and the cars dispersed.  His antics made me feel more justified in calling 911 in the first place.  The cars and ambulance revved up their lights and sirens to facilitate illegal U-turns on our block, and then they were screaming up Broadway, away from our home. 

The pizza was lukewarm and doughy when we finally ate it.  We wondered what it would be like when the man inevitably returned to his apartment, to the woman in longjohns.  The city is a forceful, unrelenting place on nights like this.  Discretion, or the opportunity to ignore your neighbor, is a luxury.  What were we supposed to do?  Wait for the woman to get hit?  Wait for the drunken man to sober up, stop bleeding, stop pounding on the walls? 

What if we had just closed our door?

She's just not that into me

We're in a depressing little trough where Alice is just not that into me.  Not a lot of smiles, or interest, or engagement.  What I hope will be cute or funny usually turn out to be annoying.  I will try to tickle her or kiss on her stomach or something, and she tries to push me away, preening to the side to get away and find her mama.  Oftentimes I'll be holding her and her neck is swiveling around, trying to find L.  Once she spots her she lunges in her direction, grunting in a way that is one part whine and one part command, until I move close enough so that Alice can reach up to her.  Our touching family moments now consistent of Alice hugging L, while I hold on to Alice's lower body.  It's pretty pathetic.

I'm trying not to be bothered by this but it is frustrating.  It reminds me of the period when the baby would be at her fussiest when I came home from work.  To her credit, she has been fighting various viruses, infections and rashes for the better part of three weeks now, but I don't know what I have to do to get a smile around here.  It's a little discouraging. 

PTSD

The other night I had a dream that I was working again at my old law firm on some kind of special project.   They had call me in because they needed my expertise (as profound as it is) and familiarity with the firm.  Even in my dream state I was doubting why I had accepted this job.  "I need the money, but not this badly."  At the firm, I saw all of the old people, as well as a few strangers who had joined the firm since my departure.  I was dressed casually and felt uncomfortable, yet I was sitting around a big conference table getting ready to dive back into a particular kind of work and working environment. 

When I woke up I thanked my lucky stars once again for my change in circumstance.  I think I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about that place -- mentally mapping the hallways, checking out the current roster of attorneys on the website, skimming through Google News.  As time has passed my impressions of that place, and my role there, have changed.  In some ways I invested too much there; I put too much value on others' opinions and gave them the same tools they later used to cut me.  But who could have foreseen that.

Of course, the enduring legacy of that experience has been a lasting doubt in my own professional ability, the deflation of my self-confidence.  On some days I'm angry about that.  But all of that is over now, and only in my dreams would I ever cross that threshold again.

Mel's Burger Bar: Never again

We just came home from a singularly shitty meal at Mel's Burger Bar, at 111th Street and Broadway.  We had made plans to eat there with John and Anna and Naomi early, at 5:30, so that we could return home in time to put the children to bed without any major meltdowns.  This is smart, right?  This was good thinking.

The first sign of trouble came when we asked the waiter to give us a minute to look at the menu, and he disappeared for 15.  When we finally placed our orders, the food took almost an hour to arrive.  In the meantime the babies were fussing and various adults in our party were taking turns jostling the kids, walking them around, or trying to distract them with napkins and the smacking-the-table game.  When our food did eventually arrive -- after several conversations with the waiter in which he invariably assured us that it would be out in a few minutes -- my entire order was missing.  Once my hamburger arrived, I had to ask yet again for my fries.  They also messed up John's order too.  I finally asked to speak to the manager, and the young man who I took for a busboy turned out to be it.  He explained that the kitchen was slow and that the restaurant had gotten slammed. He was not very apologetic, and did not seem to care, although he did offer to pay for our drinks.  When the food finally arrived we devoured our meals in about ten minutes; we had to go home to put the children to bed.  Our waiter came back eventually and asked if we wanted a refill or anything, but I was too pissed to look at him and declined, even though I was dying for another Coke.  I had a point to make, and opted to stew in my own martyrdom.  When the check came, we decided, after much deliberation, not to leave a tip.  And I think that was the right thing to do, under the circumstances.

What kills me about a blown meal -- whether due to restaurant staff incompetence, failure of a delivery to arrive, or the classic table-side interpersonal argument -- is that you have no way of recovering the time and the experience: that was your dinner, as shitty as it may have been, and that's that.  You'll just have to wait for the next meal to try to have a nice time.  At one point tonight John remarked that the evening was just totally gone for me, with no chance of redemption, and unfortunately he was right.  Maybe I'm being a jerk by wallowing in my own frustration, but I still have to ask: why do I, as the diner, have the burden of addressing the shitty service that the restaurant is providing?  I don't want to be confrontational.  Why doesn't the restaurant realize that the best way to build loyalty among customers is to proactively respond to a bad experience?  Had the manager acknowledged how badly the dinner had gone -- had he bought us dessert or comped the meal, or even just genuinely apologized -- we would have had a great time and would have had a positive experience at Mel's Burger Bar.  Instead here I am writing about this, trying to repeat the name of the restaurant (Mel's Burger Bar) to improve its Google hits and noting that other diners across the internet have also experienced similarly bad service at this place, which is called Mel's Burger Bar.

I think I was a little riled up based on hearing about John and Anna's encounter with a surly, unprofessional security guard at the Natural History Museum, and my own interaction yesterday with an obnoxious line-cutting woman at Absolute Bagels.  (She cut in line ahead of me to join her friend, and when I started trying to place my order, she tried to cut me off, at which point I said, "Sorry, I didn't see you standing here this whole time," and then she gave me a dirty look, although I feel I won the karmic battle when her order got messed up and I completed my transaction and left the place ahead of her.)  It's incredibly frustrating when people treat you thoughtlessly, or contemptibly, and you feel you have no recourse but to sit there and take their shit.  I don't know if it is a new confidence, or a new pettiness, or a new crankiness, but there are some times when I find myself uttering a snotty remark, or leaving a tip of exactly $0.00, because it's the most appropriate way I can think of to politely suggest that somebody can go fuck themselves. 

And that's the end of my rant.  I feel angrier than your average Tea Party participant right about now. 

Zzzzzzzz

I am finding myself a little bored these days.  When the evening rolls around, we know we have to be home around 6:30 for LB to go to bed.  And, unfortunately, when the baby falls asleep, you still can't leave the house and go out for the evening -- that's frowned upon by most childcare experts.  Consequently we're left with this cavernous four-to-five-hour block of time to fill before we officially go to bed.

And do you know how we usually fill this time?  By watching television!  Depending on the night, we will watch several episodes of a completely disposable, completely interchangeable lineup of shitty reality shows!  Here is how every single show goes:  in the first ten minutes the challenge is announced.  Then we see the contestants work on it.  Then we see the judges criticize their work and the contestants receive their comeuppance.  Then someone wins.  Then there is a small degree of inconsequential suspense.  Then someone is eliminated.  Then that person talks about how they're doing much better now.  And then we start a new show! 

Tonight we were both home at 5:30.  The baby was fussy yet still somewhat patient so we decided, in the a burst of wild-hearted spontaneity, to go to a restaurant for an early dinner.  Alice started fussing but she was content to lie down on the banquette while we quickly ate.  Then we came home and put Alice to bed.  L fell asleep on the couch at 6:30.  I watched "Top Chef Just Desserts," 20 minutes of an Oprah Winfrey show about 30 year-old virgins, and "The Apprentice."  L woke up near the end of that last show.  Then she went into the bed to sleep for real, and I continued watching a random episode of "Big Love."  Scripted television is a rare treat in our house. 

So, in sum, I am a little bored.  I feel guilty going to the gym in the evening because I'm away from my family and leaving L with all the childcare duties.  But damn if it isn't kind of boring to be home all night, every night.  Too tired to read or write, too awake to sleep.  Television is easy, but it's so insipid.  

Tenacious

I haven't written in a while, and that's because things have been generally awful. But after two weeks of misery, work has been a lot better in the last couple of days. Before I would feel a pit in my stomach as I approached the building, and would spend the entire day braced for something bad to happen. I lost a lot of confidence in my own ability and intelligence, and I still don't feel like I trust myself to be sharp. As it happened I got yelled at/reprimanded/embarrassed every Thursday, and I'm hoping tomorrow can break the pattern.

Lately I've put a lot of time in at work, in an effort to prove my stamina and dedication. Some of it was misguided, some of it was wrong. But nobody questioned my commitment. Now I have a new feeling about work, and the new buzzword is: tenacious. I feel like I'm holding on to some bucking bronco, I am getting jerked around and beat up and bruised, I am landing in the dirt and getting mud splashed in my eyes, there might be people laughing and jeering at me, but I don't know if I can hear them -- all I know is that I'm not letting go of that damn bull.

Last night in bed I felt it again, the same sense of nervousness and anxiety seize my body as I lay in a dark room, waiting for sleep. I thought about tasks that had to be done and mistakes I feared I had made. I felt imprisoned.

There are some really good things going on, too, but I haven't had the stomach to write about them: our friends' beautiful new baby, the Tobias Wolff stories I'm still reading, the great sandwich place on 12th we just tried. All of these things waiting if and when I can break the surface and come up for air.

My role model

This was a singularly, spectacularly, bogglingly shitty week at work. I didn't think I would make it, and yet somehow here we are again on Sunday night, standing at the precipice, at the brink of another week.

I had an epiphany a couple days ago about how I need to approach everything, and I feel dumb that it took me this long. When I first started, one of my colleagues told me that I remind her of Kenneth the page from "30 Rock." She said it was about my willful good cheer in times of strife. Kenneth the page needs to be my role model at work. He is competent, relentlessly cheerful, and blithely unaware of the slights and insults and stresses that thunder down on him on a weekly basis. He just keeps chugging forward with his permanent grin, homespun wisdom, and maddening courtesy. I need to be more like this. Do your job, keep smiling, don't break a sweat, and let everything else just slide on past you.

The other little thing that's helped me figure some things out is a Coldplay song. Just because I'm losing, doesn't mean I'm lost.

Signals

You know I'm stressed at work when I start yelling at pedestrians, and dang if it didn't happen today. Earlier this afternoon L and I were on our way up to Central Park for an eight-mile run, and we were waiting for the light to change at 7th & Grove so we could continue up 7th, towards the subway. We stood there waiting patiently for the light to change so we could walk. There were cars waiting to cross in front of us. Then these two moon-faced chicks start wandering through the intersection, ignoring both the stoplight and the "Don't Walk" icon shining steadily before them. One of them had her nose buried in a guidebook and the other one was looking for traffic on the one-way street from the wrong direction. Before I could stop myself, I was talking.

"Be careful, that car's going to hit you," I said, pointing to the car a foot from their calves, which was patiently waiting for them to cross so that it could move on its green light. I was sort of hoping the driver would honk, but he didn't.

"Thanks," one of the girls replied listlessly.

"I can't believe that," L said, shaking her head.

"I know!" I replied. "How can they be so oblivious! They're the reason traffic is so horrible--"

"No, I can't believe you," L said, clarifying her point. "Why were you talking to them?"

"Because they were being stupid," I said patiently. "This is a community issue."

I explained how pedestrians have to share the road too, and how there's a time and place for jaywalking, but L did not seem particularly interested in my points, even though I felt they were strong. But it was a helpful reminder that yelling at pedestrians is an indicator that I need to manage my stress in new and different ways.

Angry weekend

It's been kind of a weird weekend. I spent a lot of it being pissed off for no clear reason, until things turned around today.

On Friday I was excited to go see "Gypsy" with L -- I had bought the tickets for Christmas, since it's a cool show and people are basically throwing themselves off the balcony from the sheer joy of the experience. I spent the work day of Friday getting random tasks done in the office and trekking from Rock Center to 9th & 55th not once, not twice, but three times. Given the traffic and bovine-like holiday crowds, this was very unpleasant.

As we prepared to go to the show, we didn't have much time to eat -- we ended up at the Most Miserable Subway location in Manhattan, the Subway the size of a walk-in closet near the West 4th train station. The woman behind the counter was hacking and coughing into her sanitary gloves and she smelled like B.O. The other people in the restaurant were incorrigible youths and a sad-looking old man. Once we made it to the theater, I was pissed with no clear rationale; after a woman cut me off, I grimaced and muttered, "she could have said 'excuse me.'" L pointed out that she did say excuse me, but this did not improve my mood. We wandered up to Starbucks to get a hot tea before the show and the crowds made me angry -- the lumbering, the slow pace, the random jerks who would clip my shoulder or smack me with their bags. I was livid, and I wanted to shove these offensive walkers, and I didn't understand why it was getting so far under my skin.

The show itself was fantastic; my foul mood lifted long enough to appreciate it. The young woman who sat next two L arrived in a long, ratty fur coat with makeup slathered on her face. She took the coat off to reveal a sequined red evening gown, bunched around her hips. She laughed raucously and applauded when no one else did. After the show we headed downtown and were going to stop for a glass of wine, but the bar was crowded and people were saving bar seats by placing their scarves across them. This was too much; I was tired of crowds, and slow walking, and compromise, so we left.

I spent all day Saturday in New Jersey for a continuing legal education session. I will be in New Jersey for the next five Saturdays, attending six hour lectures. I leave home at 7:45 am and arrive back home at 5:00 pm. This did not improve my mood, either; I came home exhausted and unhappy and did not want to do anything.

You know what improved my mood? A killer workout this morning. This workout was so good that once again I threw up in the middle of it. Following the third set of modified pushups I discreetly got up, walked out of the studio, and hunched over a garbage can on the main floor. I threw up, and then I went back in and resumed doing my crunches. And that was it. After the class I felt better, and right now I feel like a lot of then tension and anger I've been carrying for the last several days has lifted. We had a nice afternoon reading the newspaper at Chipotle, and then I read some more Cheever short stories at home.

I don't know what got into my head for the last few days. A lot of frustration with the demands on my time, maybe, combined with some of the negative aspects of city living. It is so hard to pull yourself out of a bad mood, even when in hindsight it is so obviously a complete waste of time.

Endings

1. The end of my computer. My computer died on Thursday. One minute it seemed to be fine, then it froze, then when I rebooted, instead of the reassuring Apple logo I saw a flashing file folder with a question mark on it. This was clearly not a good sign. It turned out the hard drive was fried, so I lost everything on it. I spent the whole day trying not to freak out and consider the magnitude of the loss; like a moron I never backed up my files. As a result, I lost all my music, all my photos, and three years of law school notes, as well as other miscellaneous writings (aborted attempts at fiction and my resume) and who knows what else. On the plus side, most of my law school notes are floating around my email account, I recovered my music from my ipod, and L has most of our photos. But I feel like a complete, complete idiot. Over the weekend I got a new hard drive and have begun the long road back. Incredibly aggravating. If you have photos of you and me from this modern era of digital photography (2003-present) please send them to me so I can reconstruct my life. I feel like such an idiot. It's hard to overemphasize that point.

2. The end of my high blood pressure. For the last few weeks I have been worried that I have high blood pressure, but now those fears have ended as well. At the optometrist's a while back they took my blood pressure as a perfunctory matter, and it was alarmingly high; at the end of the appointment it was even higher, because I spent the hour worrying about it. Then when I returned to the doctor later in the week it was high again. I looked up high blood pressure on the internet (never a good idea, I am not allowed to look up possible medical conditions on the internet, but I made an exception for myself) and there was absolutely no reason for me to have high blood pressure. I looked at the ingredients of Chipotle and wondered if maybe sodium was the problem. My nutritional regime had been based on things like calories, sugar, trans fats; it turns out sodium is this whole other axis that has nothing to do with anything else. But then this weekend I was home with my folks and my mom took my blood pressure multiple times with multiple devices, and my blood pressure is fine. I think the earlier doctor had a bum machine. Realizing I don't have pre-hypertension was seriously the best news of the weekend. I celebrated by eating a salt lick dipped in melted cheese and not exercising.

3. The end of a tire. Driving around Virginia yesterday, one of the tires on my mom's car blew out. We were rounding a corner and singing along to John Legend's "Green Light" on the radio when there was a sound like a gun shot and the car seemed suddenly unbalanced. I pulled into a handicapped parking spot and discovered a half-inch sized hole in the side of the wheel ... how the hell does that happen? Being a non-driving city dweller I hadn't had to change a tire since high school, when my failure to engage the parking brake caused the unoccupied car to roll forward when my dad jacked it up to replace the tire. This time around my father-in-law was there to help us figure things out; by the time we ate lunch I was a sweaty disaster. But at least it wasn't my fault.

4. The end of an era. In addition to the end of my computer, my brush with hypertension, and my mom's rear passenger tire, one other thing is ending too: my late summer indolence. Tomorrow is my first day at work at the law firm; my first day of work as a lawyer; my first day of work in a new career; my first day of a new life. Wish me luck.

Emergency mode

I finished the bar exam. It's over. The bar exam is past tense.

The last few days have been pretty rough, I can't lie. The night before the bar exam we decided to go see the new Batman flick, to relax. Unfortunately I didn't realize how dark and disconcerting the movie would be -- it made me really anxious, although it was a great flick. Then on the walk home we were walking by Stuyvesant Square Park, and I saw two men seeming to tussle over a cane or something...it was odd but didn't seem serious. Then I saw a woman on the ground moaning, crying for help and for someone to call 911. Like any concerned New Yorker, I kept walking, but I did call 911, for the first time in my life. The woman on the other line asked me a million questions and made me give my name and number, which I didn't expect. I hung up but my cell phone was in self-proclaimed "Emergency Mode," which meant the ringer was up high and had a different, more urgent tone. The 911 people actually called me back a few moments later to get more information, as the sound of sirens in the distance drew closer. After that experience, I went home and tried to get ready for the first day of the bar exam. Here are notes from the three days:

Day 1: New York Essays. Many, many people here: a lot of girls in workout clothes, and everyone seems to be wearing t-shirts from their law schools, which seems lame in a very basic but profound way. Happy to find that my seat is in the back, near the Men's Room. The essays are hard, but manageable. Several of them have issues or topics that I really sink my teeth into, which is nice. A woman behind me is shaking her box of Tic-Tacs like they're maracas -- give it a rest, Carmen Miranda. One of the essays doesn't really make sense -- I read it over and over to see what I'm missing, but the whole thing just seems askew. Shake it off. I walk home feeling angry and frustrated. Thirty minutes later I arrive home a sweaty wreck, am forced to change clothes immediately.

Day 2: Multistate Multiple Choice. Shit. Hot shit, this is hard. The exam is really tough, nothing like the practice tests. The questions they guaranteed would be on the test are not on the test. There are very few easy questions where I feel totally good. I always boil it down to two choices and then pick one seemingly at random. I feel like I have no knowledge in my head, and instead turn to animal instinct. I go through waves of fatigue and antsiness. In the mens' room there's a guy breathing heavily, because apparently he just vomited. On the plus side, Carmen Miranda is keeping it down today. Afterwards I walk home again filled with despair and self-loathing. Very sweaty at home. Am feeling exhausted, fatigued. My contact lenses have been in for too long, and I feel like I'm two days away from a head cold. Tonight L and I go to New Jersey, to stay at a Holiday Inn before the New Jersey test. This whole Jersey endeavor seems idiotic. When did we ever want to live in New Jersey? We eat dinner at a Chili's restaurant, and consider the path not taken.

Day 3: New Jersey Essays. The theme of the day: "fuck it." But wait a second! The first four essays are almost delightful in their clarity. I feel good moving through them. Lunch at Chipotle, which is $2 cheaper yet a lot saltier. The afternoon essays are a lot harder, and when I tackle the contracts essay I realize that all of the knowledge has leached out of my head. Oh well -- recall the day's theme: fuck it. Indeed. Hitch a ride back to the city with a friend. Go home to find a mass of balloons waiting in the dark kitchen -- my hearts skips two beats out of fear when I open the door. Go to the gym, go to the bar, to celebrate the end of the process. Couldn't really celebrate, but five Yeunglings helped.

I still feel pretty anxious about everything. I try to tell myself it's fine: I worked hard, I should have confidence, I went with my gut, and statistically, I am probably going to pass. But it's hard to let go of the anxiety, even though rationally I know there's nothing more I can do at this point. I just hope all the hard work of this summer was not for naught. The bright spot, though, was all the support I felt from everybody. I really appreciated the emails and comments and prayers and thoughts.

...And coming up on Tuesday: ASIA. What the hell?