Honolulu

Our hotel room in Honolulu had a balcony that I loved. We were on the 19th floor of the Sheraton Waikiki and the balcony had a "partial ocean view," as the hotel called it. When I stood on the balcony, I could see Waikiki beach to the left, and the city of Honolulu to the right. There was no view of Diamond Head from the balcony, and there was constant traffic and construction noises, but I didn't care. I fucking loved that balcony. Though I couldn't see Diamond Head, I had a view of the city slowly inching its way up into the hazy mountains. I saw the waves coming in to my left.  I sat out there every morning in my pajamas, writing my morning pages and soaking in the perfect weather that we had every single day. I would close the glass sliding door behind me and be alone with my thoughts. And I would write. I wrote about what I loved about the trip, and who and what was getting on my nerves. And I confronted the love and grief I have for my grandparents. I would write feverishly, and then suddenly stop for a moment, needing to take in the scenery and process my feelings. One day when I was finished writing I stood up, arms outstretched, and closed my eyes. I felt my grandparents so strongly, so suddenly, that I opened my eyes and began to talk to them. I tried to talk to them every day I was there, but most of the time I couldn't finish my thought without choking up. The day we went to Pearl Harbor i stood with my hands on the railing and tried to tell my grandfather, but I couldn't get more than a few words out. There's so much I wanted to say, so much I still want to say to them. And sometimes I do say it, but it's not the same because they aren't responding. It's at those times I miss them the most, because all I want is to have another conversation with them.

Words and Expressions That I Hate

Cheer up/Chin up:  Seriously, what a shitty thing to say to someone. It devalues that person's feelings, and it suggests that everything would get better if they would just smile a little, gosh!

Morning, Sunshine!:  Ok, maybe it's because I'm not a morning person, but this makes me want to punch the speaker in the face. In the same vein...

'Morning! or 'S good! or any other shortened, abbreviated expression, especially in writing:  I have no good reason why this pisses me off so much, but it totally does. It just comes off as very...precious. And twee. Twee is never the way to go.

Dovetail:  I seriously hate this word so much, and I can't explain why except to say that I find it super pretentious. If you use this word, I will probably decide you are an asshole.

 Natch:  It wasn't cute in the early 90s, and it's still not cute.

On Grief and Honesty

A month ago, my beloved grandmother died, less than three months after the death of my grandfather, her husband of 70 years. Six months before that, my husband's grandfather, with whom he was extremely close, died. My best friend's grandmother died a few months ago as well. I feel surrounded by, and consumed with, death.

I am nearly 30 years old. I am told over and over again how fortunate I was to have my grandparents in my life for so long, and that I was able to be so close to them. This is true, and I am indeed grateful. But this does not lessen my grief, which is immense.

Perhaps it is silly to grieve this deeply for "just" my grandparents. Grandparents that I was fortunate to know for almost 30 years, and have a loving and close relationship. I feel silly sometimes when I think about it. I am not over it, not even close. Some days are OK, and some days I feel like dying too. Some days my anxiety disorder gets so out of control I can barely function. I often question whether this is normal.

Understandably, many people have asked me over the course of the last several months whether I am OK. I am a people pleaser, so my first instinct is to always reply with "Yes." I did this throughout November and December, falling deeper and deeper into depression until Christmas Eve. That night, I was so numb I felt like I was reciting lines and pretending to have normal emotions. I told my husband how I was feeling, and that I didn't really see the point in life. He urged me to get help if I continued to feel this way. I became outwardly defensive, but inside, I knew he was right.

The death of a young friend of my husband's on Christmas Day helped snap me out of this state. I didn't realize how serious my depression had become until I was somewhat removed from it. I started to recover,  and then my grandmother died. I feel like I am falling into the depressive state again, although I'm trying to fight it with everything I have.

One thing I am doing differently now is freely admitting when I am not OK. When people ask me how I am, I tell them when I'm having a bad day, if I am sad or angry, or if I'm feeling so anxious I cannot function.  Initially, I was embarrassed by this, but I am finding that people are more compassionate and understanding than I originally anticipated. Friends are letting me know that they have felt this grief too, and that I can call them to talk about it.  It sounds like common sense, but when you are in the depths of grief and depression, you do not think logically.

Maybe my grief isn't textbook, but it is real and it is mine, and I might as well be honest about it.

The Emergency Room Story

This happened during my first year of law school, and I swear that everything in this story is true. 

One night, while my boyfriend and I were getting read to fall asleep, he leaned over to kiss me goodnight. Unfortunately, it was dark and his nose hit my eye instead. It HURT, and I wasted absolutely no time being a baby about it. The pain wasn’t going away, and I ran to the bathroom hoping that it was caused by something being in my eye. Unfortunately, nothing was in my eye, which could only mean one thing—he had scratched my cornea.

I knew that this was a scratched cornea because I had experienced this injury before. In fourth grade, when I first got contacts, I scratched the hell out of my cornea and had to wear a patch on my eye for a week (well, maybe it wasn’t a week, but it felt like a week). For some reason unknown to me to this day, my parents were merciful and didn’t make me go to school with the eye patch. That could have been due to the extreme light sensitivity, though. Either way, I appreciated it. 

I have had minor scratches since then that have all healed very quickly, so I was hopeful that my eye would heal overnight. Except that it really, really hurt this time, to the point where I cried myself to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, I was still in pain. I had no idea what to do, so like any responsible, fully grown and independent adult, I called my parents at 6:30AM. 

My dad, who can be a bit of a worrier, insisted I go to the hospital. I told my boyfriend, hoping he would jump out of bed, to my rescue, and rush me to the ER. Instead, he responded, “Can I take a shower first?”

I couldn’t believe he asked me that after I said I needed to go to the emergency room, but I knew that letting him shower would wake him up and put him in a better mood. Begrudgingly, I responded, “FINE.” 

As he showered, I sat there panicking. What if I had to wear an eye patch? My first year oral argument was in one week—what if I had to wear it during that? Or even just during class, where a professor with zero empathy and an obsession with the Socratic Method would insist on grilling me BECAUSE I had the patch? Oh my god, what if I have cancer? (I should mention at this point that I’m kind of a hypochondriac. And by “kind of,” I mean that I regularly think I have some rare form of cancer.). I went through every horrific scenario in my head, until finally my boyfriend emerged from the shower. I was relieved to see him getting ready until he asked me:

“Can I make some coffee?”

Now I was mad. I mean, what part of “emergency room” did he not understand? I’m facing the possibility of an eye patch and cancer, and he wanted coffee? I told him “NO!” and insisted we leave right then. 

We arrived, and he dropped me off by the door so that he could park. As I’m about to walk in, this poor girl teenage girl walks up behind me. She’s moaning and doubled over in pain, escorted by her understandably upset mother. I decided that her situation was more serious than mine, and let her go first. The hospital staff must have agreed that her situation was pretty serious, as no one remained at the check-in window after she came in. I stood there for what seemed like forever. 

Finally, they started checking me in and asking me a series of questions. Another paranoid thought crossed my mind—they were going to think my boyfriend hit me! They were going to think I was abused, and they would arrest him and cart him away and oh my god this was going to suck. 

Hospital Guy: (clearly only reading off the sheet of standard questions and not actually thinking I was a victim of abuse) “Are you the victim of domestic violence?” 

Me: “No.”

Hospital Guy: “So. . .when did this happen again?” (He had already asked me how it happened)

Me: “Around midnight”

Hospital Guy: “And. . .where?”

Me: “In bed.”

Hospital Guy: “Uh huh. And what exactly happened again?”

Me: “My boyfriend leaned over to kiss me and his nose hit my eye.”

Hospital Guy: “Right. . . so this happened last night? In bed?”

Me: “Yes.”

At this point, I was sure that my boyfriend was going to get arrested for being a woman beater and I was going to have to bail him out. 

We were escorted back to one of those emergency room beds. The bed I was in was next to the girl who came in before me, separated only by a hospital curtain. The poor girl was moaning horribly in pain, which was not exactly helping my anxiety. 

The diagnosis part of the story isn’t that exciting. The doctor came in and confirmed that I did in fact scratch my cornea, and that I wasn’t dying. The only thing really noteworthy is that the doctor seemed unusually cheerful. So did the nurse, actually. I didn’t think much of it, except that it was weird to be so cheerful in an emergency room where the girl in the next area was still writhing in extreme pain. 

The doctor and nurse left for a bit. My boyfriend and I were just sitting quietly for a few minutes, when suddenly, he says:

“Oh my god. I just realized something”

Me: “What?”

Him: “They think this happened when we were having sex.” 

Me: “No. No way.” 

But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The check-in guy’s disbelief of my story, the doctor and nurse’s cheerfulness—it all made sense. He was right. And all we could do was laugh. There was no point in denying it now. So we start laughing, and about five minutes later, the nurse comes in and tells us that her and her colleagues are all laughing at us. Like I said, no point in denying it at this stage. 

To add to the absurdity of the situation, they had just put moaning girl on a morphine drip, causing her to loudly proclaim, “When I grow up, I want to be a nurse!” (By the way, the girl had shingles, but I’m assuming she recovered, and hopefully, fulfilled her dream of being a nurse). 

I Don't Do Well With Job Interviews

I'm a licensed attorney that currently doesn't practice, but I have been searching for an actual associate position.  Somehow, I manage to have to worst job interviews with the most awkward, weird attorneys ever. I used to think it was me, but now I think that 50% of attorneys are batshit crazy, and the other 50% only hire people they know. Considering I did not grow up in the city where I currently live, guess which attorneys usually interview me?

I once had an interview with an attorney who, on paper, seemed perfect. She practiced in an area of law that I was interested in, and like me, she was into yoga and wellness stuff. She seemed so cool, and after working for an attorney with whom I clashed for so long, I wanted to work for someone with similar interests and personality traits.

The very first question out of this woman’s mouth was, “I see you got a C in Torts. Do you care to explain that?” For the next few minutes, I felt like I was in a guidance counselor’s office as she drilled me on my grades and speculated that I had inadequate study habits.  It seemed ridiculous, seeing as how she chose to interview me.  It made me question the judgment of this attorney, who apparently thought it was worth her time to schedule an interview with me and then spend five to ten minutes berating me about my law school grades.  In the legal profession, time is money, and I would think that most (successful) attorneys are too busy for that.

She then went to her printer and picked up a few pieces of paper. She explained that she had printed off a list of standard interview questions and said, “I’m just going to go down this list.” And that she did. She asked every single question on a list of the worst, most awkward interview questions ever. Questions that are impossible to answer without sounding like a total tool. Questions like, “How do you determine your objectives?” "If you were a tree, what tree would you be?"

At one point, she asked (from the list), "Are you willing to work overtime?" I replied that I was, and she smirked and replied, "That question isn't really relevant." Really? Then why did you ask? Way to prepare for an interview, lady.

I didn't get the job (obviously), but it's not like I was upset about it.  If she can't even handle a standard interview, I can't imagine her handling cases in a competent manner. I don't want to work for someone like that.

While that attorney may have been insane, at least she didn't ask me illegal questions. Those I got during an interview with an all-female firm, by the senior partner. 

A little background:  I’ve been at my current job for almost three years. Before that, I worked at my in-laws’ business for a few months after I graduated law school.  Yes, I helped them with some minor legal work, but I was mainly looking for another job. My husband works at the company, too.  I worked with my husband and my in-laws for a few months.  It was about as pleasant as you think it would be.  

Honestly, I hardly ever think about my work at that company. It was truly a placeholder job for me, and everyone knew it, and everyone was cool with it. But I can’t exactly say that in a job interview. So, in my pre-interview phone conversation with the senior partner, I softened it, but was honest when I told her that this company was my in-laws’ company. 

She said, “Well, that makes it easy, huh?” 

I can’t believe I didn’t catch on there, but I didn’t. 

The company came up in the interview again.  She said the company has been around a long time, and asked if I was tempted to just not work. Since my husband obviously (in her mind) makes a lot of money. 

I told her no, that I enjoyed work, and that I’m motivated to do well on my own. 

“So you don’t see yourself as a stay-at-home mom?”

Um, what? Did she really just ask me that? 

Later, I found out that the last two associates they hired each lasted about two months.

Clearly, I'm only interviewed by the most normal, sane attorneys ever.  

The Anti-Bucket List

Over the years I’ve started numerous blogs, and thought about starting even more. I always get hung up on the idea of the first post. It’s a lot of pressure, right? I mean, it sets the tone for the entire blog (or is supposed to, anyway), and what if I completely screw it up? Worse, what if the first post is brilliant, but then I can’t top it? What if everyone judges me? And over and over again in my brain…

So if it’s not apparent from that first paragraph, I deal with sometimes-crippling anxiety. It sucks, it’s a pain in the ass, and I’m completely unable to talk myself out of it. Often, it prevents me from doing things I really, really want to do (write, quit my job, start singing again, etc.). 

There are,  however, several things that I have absolutely no desire to do, ever. Anxiety doesn’t have anything to do with this, I just simply don’t want to do those things. Which brings me to the topic of this post:  the anti-bucket list! I originally saw this on Jenny Trout’s blog, and I thought it was brilliant. I mean, come on, we always talk about the shit we really want to do, but we never talk about those things that we never ever want to ever try, right? 

So here goes!

• Bungee Jump/Sky Dive:  I’m not afraid of heights or planes. I am afraid of my parachute not opening, my bungee cord breaking, and my retinas detaching. 

• Fly on a Malaysian plane anywhere over the ocean in Southeast Asia:  Hmm, NOPE. I’d rather not end up dead at the bottom of the ocean in a plane crash, thankyouverymuch. So no Southeast Asian vacation for me. 

• Take a Cruise: I honestly don’t understand why people like cruises. I really don’t. Part of this is my claustrophobia, and yes, I know that cruise ships are big, but just the idea that you can’t get off the ship until they dock is terrifying to me. Also, I get motion sick, so there’s that, and I hear the food’s usually pretty shitty. But what freaks me out most of all about cruise ships is that they are basically giant germ cesspools. They are disgusting. How many norovirus cases do you hear about every year from cruise ships? EXACTLY.  (Also, themed cruises are weird. #sorrynotsorry.) 

• Go to Disney World on vacation. As an adult. With no children:  Ok, so a Facebook friend from high school took at trip to Disney World with her husband and literally posted around 600 pictures (and yes, I’m using “literally” correctly). I mean…why? I seriously don’t get it. It’s Disney. They’re cartoons, and it’s people dressed up as cartoon characters…I don’t know. For the record, I don’t get cosplay either, so maybe that’s why I don’t get this.  Also, too many children which means GERMS again (can you tell I’m a germaphobe?). And lots and lots of people, which makes my socially-anxious self just shiver. It sounds like a fucking nightmare. 

I'm fairly convinced that this first post was not anywhere near brilliant. I'm hoping I set the bar low enough that perhaps my subsequent posts will be fairly interesting, or at least make people think I've improved as a writer (like people are even going to read this! Ha!). But if you are reading this, what would be on your anti-bucket list?