In a few days, none of this will matter

But in the meantime, I wish I could just crawl up and tell everyone to leave me the fuck alone. I am one of the calmest people on the face of the earth, but today - after being told that the four hours of work I did on a document yesterday didn't show up in the new version, and basically calling me a liar to my face - that I never did any of it - I nearly lost it. When I offered to fix it, after finding an orphaned copy of the document on my harddrive, when you rolled your eyes at me and said you would have someone else who could handle it do it - yeah.

I've been in my office crying for the last two hours. I'm so angry I'm shaking. I know it's not about this. But I just can't take anymore screaming - today has been just absolutely h.o.r.r.i.b.l.e.

If I didn't worry about not having a paycheck for that extra week, and for looking unprofessional (and having to report walking out with no notice to the bar and oh - perhaps a malpractice action) I would completely blow this popsicle stand tonight and never look back.

But no. I'm a glutton for punishment, and I will sit here, upset - and worry about what these people think of me, and how horrible the next week will be.

But there is only one week.

Seven days left.

Lost and Finding

Well, we went to about fifteen different apartments/lofts this weekend trying to find a place that was: (a) clean, (b) reasonably charming, (c) affordable; and (d) within a short enough commute to work - but not too close to family. Since it snows there, covered parking was important too.

We looked at quite a few lofts (horribly disappointing - when you think of a loft apartment do you picture generic beige apartment carpeting and speckled white walls? Well - I don't anyway. One loft was adorable - exposed brick, enormous floor to ceiling windows - looking out over a green area - in a converted warehouse - but they had put up 3/4 walls throughout the entire space and it felt so claustrophobic. It was a horrible use of space, and for a one bedroom for $1300 in that market - I said no thanks. They also wanted close to another $100/mo. to park - and $10/per 10 pounds of pet. Considering I have two monstrous nearly 20 pound cats - that was just wayyyyyy too much moohla.

We also checked out one too many generic white bread apartments. yes, I realize that you have newer appliances and amenities (such as a heated pool) but let's get real. Who here thinks I'll be hopping in the pool when the average high temps are hovering at around 20 degrees?

On Saturday, I found an apartment on the third floor in an older building that was directly across the street (well - across the park) from my new job. It had exposed brick in the kitchen, with all granite countertops - new stainless appliances, hardwood floors, built in wine rack in the kitchen, stained glass windows in the bathroom, a sun room, etc. - but... it was $1250 a month. Considering I'm taking around $12,000 paycut to move there that's a big deal to me. Walking distance to work - but I couldn't exactly call and say that I was stuck in traffic now could I?

Sunday - we went to get coffee and this little independent coffeehouse (very cute) that we had coffee at on Saturday. On our way out, he stopped to read the sports page. I was irritated with him because he was taking so damn long, and picked up the paper and flipped to the classifieds. Townhome - 2/2, hardwood floors, full dry basement. After going to all of our other appointments - and realizing that our flight left in two and half hours and we had NO clue where we were going to live... on a whim, we drove by. Cute from the street, the place wasn't amazingly spectacular inside - but for a year - I think it would be perfect. Literally within walking distance to a brewery/pub. Two blocks inside a state that actually believes in science and not religious mumbo jumbo. Washer/dryer hookups in the enormous basement, one car garage, street parking for the other car, original hardwood floors... nice quiet residential street. Bigger place than we have now. Giant beautiful maple tree in the front yard.

And the best part - $775/mo.

That is less than HALF what we pay now a month. I am so elated. It's got phenomenal closet space and it's close to shopping... work... everything.

Finally something good. Finally.

Italian does not mean deaf.

In my other office, there is an attorney visiting from Italy who sits in the office next to me. His English is, while heavily accented (all the better for me - I have a thing for any man with an accent - and a special fondness for Italian men*) is impeccable. There is a partner who is working with him who is convinced he must be deaf. She practically screams in his ears each time she talks to him. I can only imagine how this must grate on his nerves.

He's not going to understand you any better if you're just louder.

It's ridiculous, and yet - when we were in France and 'Dam we noticed so many Americans doing this. Straining their voices to the upper limit to make themselves (in their minds) clearer.

I want to point out to her that she's making an ass of herself. I mean, what are they going to do - fire me?

*A few years ago, I briefly, but simultaenously dated three men named Anthony Joseph Italianlastnamio- none of who knew about the other. My husband, who was just a friend then - however, did know at the time - and thought it was hilarious. Ehhhh- it definitely made slip ups of names easier to deal with.

Winding down and freaking out

I've given my notice at my job, and I'm trying to simultaneously wind down and tie up a million loose ends.

We fly out tomorrow to try to find an apt. because I'm not sure how long we'll be there and I don't want to get trapped in a house or neighborhood we're unhappy with. I'm committment phobic. {You know... I'm always the guy in the relationship. The one who is typically irritated by spooning (I'm not big on being held), who feels foreplay is usually a waste of time... the one who doesn't call when I say I will... the one who would rather go fishing with a cooler full of beer than attend a chick flick, the one who doesn't want to talk about "feelings" and "where is this relationship going" and always forgets anniversaries and birthdays. Yeah, I'm that girl.}

As I attempt to stare down the giant pile of documents piling over my desks (I actually have two offices now) I keep thinking...

I feel like I am choking. There is not enough air.

There is so much to be done.
There is so much I haven't even started.
There is so much that I have to finish.
There is so much that I don't even know where to start.

And then I get stressed. And then I realize...

There are only 24 hours in a day.
I am only one person.
I do not have superpowers.

When I go home at night, I try to study - pushing myself to remember the minutea of criminal procedure, conflicting constitutional dicta spewed from the Supremes, rules of procedure and evidence, and all the things I tried so hard to forget after the bar exam two years ago. The problem with learning another state's laws are that they are just familiar enough to make you comfortable and yet foreign enough that you find yourself utterly confused and exposed. I have one month and three days until the bar exam. one month and three days. As the words roll across my tongue in anything other than the softest whisper my heart palpitates and I feel faint.

When I took it before I studied for at least seven weeks straight. No work. No trying to coordinate a cross-country move. No distractions.

I have two weeks left of work. Fourteen days, nine work days. I am supposed to be at a doctor's office today having a cyst tested, but I had to cancel the appointment - because I am so innundated with work here.

There are fifteen days until my birthday. By now, I thought I would have "done" something with my life. Something meaningful. Something lasting. Something that would bring other people happiness or meaning. I feel so insignificant. I feel like I have failed to do anything other than live a life of mediocracy.

When I first moved here, I didn't know anyone. I came here to be with someone that I thought I loved. Someone that I found only loved my potential, my promise of being a trophy... not me. Late nights, with him in another state, I would sit on the beach in the moonlight letting the waves lap at my bare legs. I felt so tiny... so small when faced with the enormity of the ocean - with the vast expanse of waves stretching out as far as I could see.

I have one month before we will need to be packed, two cars sold, a yard sale finished, other stuff toted off to charities, a bar exam taken, vet records picked up, doctor visits planned, so many thousands of things.

I got my bar application in on the very last permissible day, so I'm not even sure that they will let me sit for it as a few crucial documents were still missing from it. As I've already given my notice here, I am in tremendous financial trouble if they don't.

I keep waking up in the middle of the night with my heart racing worrying about everything I have to do. I feel so alone.

I can't breathe.

I thought about going to the beach to "think"... but to be quite honest I am afraid that the depth of my insignificance and powerlessness may overcome me.

Unspeakable

I found out today that my childhood pastor has been indicted on child molestation charges, of his own daughter. This is the man that counseled me through difficult times when I was struggling with the pressures of being a teenager. This is the man who baptized me. Who attended to my grandfather's funeral. Who prayed with my family.

I am so horrified. I used to babysit for her and her siblings almost every week.

I am so sorry K. So incredibly sorry that this happened to you. So sorry that no one was able to stop this.

How does this happen?

Kitchen fetish

I love to cook, but I absolutely abhor my kitchen knives. They were his prior to when we moved in together, and god only knows how long he's had them. They're marginally sharp, and missing the crucial paring knife that I can't live without. Any good chef worth her weight in salt will tell you that good kitchen knives can mean the difference between a so-so cooking experience and one that borders on well, pleasurable.

As I was trying to inventory the items in the kitchen that I wanted to replace after we moved, I decided that I wanted to ditch the kitchen knives that we have and splurge a little. Not too much, but a little - on some that were worth my while.

We looked at some on Amazon, and Michael said the only way you're going to know if you're going to like them is to actually hold them. So off we went to a store specializing in kitchen supplies and I found out that the Wustoff Classic knives that I thought I wanted were way too heavy for my tiny hands, so I decided to try the Henckles five star knives - and fell in love. As it turns out, they were on sale, so he convincend me to go ahead and buy them. And I did, and a few more open stock items too.

Now - I'm all set and wanting to chop, slice and dice up everything in my general vicinity. And I'm having a bad day, so it's best not to come too close.

Arlene

Looks like my planned weekend getting a tan (and by tan I mean freckles and a sunburn) at the beach this weekend is about to come to a screeching ass halt.


I'm so over Florida.

Erasing

Over the past week, I've been trying to systematically erase the minute rememberances of the last few years of my life. Not the memories, but rather the errant paper receipts piled in a drawer, the pens with no caps that clutter my desk, the canape cutters in the kitchen, the drawers full of clothing forgotten for more stylish choices. And I have come to a frightening conclusion... I have way too much stuff for a person my age. And even though there will be a team of movers doing all the packing and relocation for me, I will not be taking all this stuff with me. But it's hard to let go. It always has been for me.

But I'm learning. Letting go of the victorian ivory lamp my great-grandfather bought me when I was 10 with it's fringed brocade shade and etched roses. Letting go of the desk I got for Easter when I was eight, my initials carved into the front drawer with a protractor. Letting go of the pale pink silk negligee embroidered with spring flowers I bought back in college, still wrapped in scented tissue paper from the store - never worn. Letting go of the straw cowboy hat that my curls used to cascade under. Saying goodbye to the last vestiges of my first apartment, the beginning of my (temporary) independence and relics from every place I've called home since then. Releasing the cookbook with the pages stained with summer strawberries, the red heels that tied at the ankle bought one day when I just felt beautiful and alive. Letting go of small rocks picked up in Sedona, Ouray, and Seattle tucked into jacket pockets, of birthday and graduation cards yellowed with age... of ticket stubs, christmas ornaments and old journals - their pages full of declarations of undying devotion and scrawled poems on airplane napkins. Eliminating a decade's worth of film negatives of landscapes and faces etched into my mind.

This is hard. Even though I recognize the necessity of the endeavor, I feel like a part of me is being discarded with each trash bag. I feel like I'm losing something more than the physical item. I have to keep myself from digging through the garbage to retrieve a paperbook with a split spine that I remember reading with the sun spilling through the windows and laughter reverberating off the walls.

I was in the shower this morning when I heard the garbage truck amble down the alley. The water streaming over my face I leaned my head against the wall. This shouldn't be so hard.

It's just stuff after all.

Not my words, but my heart

To have without holding
Marge Piercy

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurst to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can't do it, you say it's killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
you float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor's button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.