equilibrium-girl.com

Afflictions of the Single Woman's Brain

My sister (who I'll call "Dish")suffers from a type of condition called Boyfriend Amnesia, in which her brain selectively filters out 99.97% of the ways in which her current boyfriend has been either a.) to ignorant to notice, or b.) proactively been a jerk. The curious thing, however, is that Boyfriend Amnesia disappears completely at the time of one's wedding, and is replaced by Husband Hyperfocus, where a woman picks up on every committed infraction and assesses it a higher importance than necessary.

Like most serial monogamists, Dish remains absolutely committed to making this work out because I think she is a true believer in the whole of "meant to be" paradigm. Under this worldview, you have an absolute duty to sally forth in the dating world, discerning which potential beau was "meant to be" your mate for life-or at least for a very, very long time. If things don't work out with a potential fellow, you cry for exactly 4.62 days while your best friends describe in exact details all of the reasons he wasn't right for you. They finish up their helpful, soothing diatribes, draw up their collective breath, and utter the phrase of finality: "It'll work out for you, because this one, sweetheart--it just wasn't meant to be." Then they'll add "You're worth more" or "You can do better" for good measure.

But in the meantime, until either one or both of you mutters "I'm sorry..it just isn't working out," you have an obligation to, as Tim Gunn from Project Runway says, "Make it work." So you tell yourself that his forgetting to call every now and then is "just him being busy" or you say "he's only been acting this way lately," and you forget all of those times that you called your sister or friend that year and cried about his brushing you off with no explanation. In this fashion, Boyfriend Amnesia takes over your brain, like some sort of water-oil mixture that lets all the gunk settle to the bottom settling in comfortably until the point of break-up when all gets agitated and mixed up and gives you the right thing, sort of like the tang in the vinagrette dressing.

In the past, the only person that's been able to shake Dish out of this state is Conan. He did it in the parking lot of Kr0ger's while we were doing pre-Thanksgiving errands three days ago. I forget exactly what he said, but she broke up with the poor bloke who was her boyfriend at the time at the end of that week. It was long overdue. I'm ineffective at it, for some reason. I've tried all of the usual lines. I've even suggested that she should "rethink" things. But I've never said "I think you should break up with him," because that translates to me hating the guy. In that case, it's not so much the truth as much as the appearance that carries the day.

The particular boy in question came over to visit her when I was talking to Dish yesterday, so we couldn't continue the conversation at hand, the one that was a typical exhibit of Boyfriend Amnesia. Yes, I know she has to see it for herself, but I think because this current version is remarkably better than the previous one gives her a certain amount of myopia when she looks at him. He's not that bad of a guy...he's just not that great either. But hey, it's really not my life or choices, now is it?

Still Life: Sunday Afternoon

So much for eating well today. Had a good start at breakfast (veggie sausage and whole wheat toast w/ garlic powder and parmesan cheese), but we decided to go out to lunch--and instead of the salad I had in my mind, I got my favorite turkey panini with artichoke spread, plus some french onion soup. But the real kicker is the raspberry ice cream pie I made yesterday and have sitting in my fridge. Just had a slice--it's so light and perfect. I shouldn't feel guilty about eating it, but I do. My advice: don't put the fresh raspberries in the pie, and then freeze it. Because you have to negotiate around frozen raspberries while eating it. Bah, listen to me whine.

I let The Governor take a nap in our bed just now. He was still awake when I checked on him a little while ago. He sat up and exclaimed, "It looks like the sea, mommy!" It was almost enough to compensate for how tired I am today, for we are dog-sitting a chocolate lab mix who likes to get up at 6:45 a.m. And that makes me uber-bitchy. So let the bitchiness continue--I'm in a pouty mood.

Contents

Every morning I stand before a gaping chasm of mystery, waiting the right answer to come forth. It's not like the question I'm transmitting in my mind to that large dark hole is that profound of a metaphysical question. I'm certainly not trying to solve the mystery of cold fusion, nor am I attempting to determine whether dead weight loss actually exists. The request is really a selfish one, for it is really all about me.

I can stand in front of my closet for as long as ten (10) minutes, waiting for the right skirt or pants to catch my eye and select itself as part of my outfit for that day. I've engaged in serious negotations from time to time with a silk, patterned skirt or chalk striped black bootcut pant, even to go so far as to slip it on, analyze fit in front of my mirror with my brow furrowed. I do this because I lack a certain level of objectivity, and to this day no one has proferred a "best practices" set of guidelines against which to benchmark correct ass fit.

It's particularly important these days. Having switched jobs recently, I no longer work with just attorneys and accompanying assistants and other support staff. That means the mean level of co-worker attractiveness has increased.

And once again, it's high school and I'm that introverted little girl feeling confused and awkward--and I just want to fit in. Only this time, I'm not just surrounded by seas of blonde hair, pink seashell-colored lipstick, and cattiness--there are even more beautiful women than I would probably ever encounter in the small Midwestern city in which I grew up.

And so I've filled my closets over time with black bootcut pants, black 3/4-length sleeve tops, and high-heeled sandals. Mostly, they are designer items purchased at outlets (b3be, Banana Repugnant, B_CBG). They have been agonized over in ill-lighted store dressing rooms. I have bought coordinating K@te Sp@de bags in neutral colors and made my own from vintage reproduction fabric ordered online to match. Really, I should just stand in front of my closet each morning and ask the following of it: May I have my self-esteem back?.

The closet always remains silent, for it wasn't to blame for the loss of self-image in the first place. So what can it really say? How can the self-esteem that eroded over the course of 3 years of working with a catty, snide co-worker and petty boss have washed along into my closet, ready to be reassembled and worn again? How can years of having fault found with my sentence structure (and not legal analysis--which I find to be quizzical) be erased? How can my level of dissatisfaction with my post-pregnancy be reversed? Can you do anything with the inherent questions that stem from growing up Asian in a Midwestern town? Or will I always feel twelve years old, waiting for that next boy to put his fingers on the outer edges of his eyes and draw them outwards?

But the closet can't answer those questions, so it--along with my chock-full makeup bag and handmade jewelry--provides me with substitutes. I get a certain sense of self-satisfaction when pulling on a pair of kitten-heeled slides with subtle bows on the top. I admire the fact that the trendy puffed-sleeve top makes my once-muscular arms look a bit toned. At the last minute, I switch purses to a rust-colored hobo that I found in the dark, slightly dusty corner on the third shelf. It fits my two cell phones, makeup bag, and 3 pens (all different, yet all necessary). And always, a chunky gemstone bracelet with a smooth sterling silver clasp. Throughout the day, I will twist the gemstones around as I sit through conference call after conference call, my machinations becoming the most intense when I frame a statement in my mind that then travels out my mouth, through landlines, and into the ears of others.

I realize there isn't anything that can really substitute for self-image, but my closet helps get me along my way as I work throughout the day to rebuild it. A phone call in which I stand my ground and require the client to jump through necessary hoops. A presentation, at the end of which the agency provides their gratitude. And finally, at the end of the day--and after the most intense negotiation in which I have partcipated--the thirty kisses that my son requires before he agrees to go to bed.

I get ready to sleep. I leave my closet doors open, for it doesn't make sense to close them. I turn out the bedroom light. As the light from the airport runway 2 miles away radiates through my curtains, I see the dark, large rectangle hole in my wall--like a mouth, framing answers to the questions I have in my head.

Funnai

I am working on an entry of substance, but for now enjoy this great commercial that Conan sent me (QuickTime required).

A Most Intimidating Experience

My current work experience of herding blind cats along should be adequate preparation for tomorrow's task at hand: chaperoning a museum trip for 32 youngsters, all between the ages of 3 1/2 and 6. I don't know if they will be convinced to continue holding sweaty hands for the entire duration of the trip, or if I and the other "adult" chaperones will take turns running after individual red-shirted tots who decide to sporadically stray from the pack.

I am really looking forward to it-I enjoy visiting the classroom and the kids are just so funny, with their assorted runny noses and all. I was treated to an ee cummings-like re-telling of the Spongebob Squarepants movie last month when I went to join The Governor's class for lunch one day:

patrick starfish, he flew in and crashed
spongebob stole king neptune's crown
no he didn't yes he did
plankton did
hey hey (shirt tugging) plankton stole king neptunes crown
spongebob and patrick drove the burger car

Tomorrow will be fun-a little scary for a woman who really doesn't think of herself as an "adult" even though she's held a professional job and has had parental status for the past handful of years. Maybe that's why I eagerly volunteered to chaperone: I feel more comfortable in a group of preschoolers than anyone else.

Tossin' and Turnin'

It's a beautiful Saturday morning, bright with late spring sun-why should I not be feeling relaxed and glorious? Because I tossed and turned until 2 a.m. last night, that's why. The influx of work did not stop until 10 p.m. last night-I juggled caring for The Governor solo and answering questions from a cagey marketing person about a piece for which I lacked a critical piece of information until after 8--on a Friday night. Thanks very much for the info. I was so worked up that I couldn't fall asleep, and it seems that the remnants of the anxiety have woken me up bright and early on a Saturday morning. So lovely.

Yesterday at work felt like swimming in deep water. I couldn't touch the bottom, couldn't feel anything stable under my feet. Occasionally, I would dive down, head first, and muck around in the details--but both phones (cell and office) called me back to the surface, making me swim from one project to another. There were enough kind words of encouragement to keep me afloat. I am trying to make a mental note to try and enjoy the experience of being valued and busy for a change. A part of me can't wait for this Very Big Project to be completed, and yet it was probably one of the reasons why I was chosen for this job, at least for the near term. Beyond its completion (knock-on-wood)...who knows what will happen.

The Governor paid a visit to my work the other day. He was very well-behaved and I was able to get a couple of things out of the way. He had a great time, met my co-workers, and was fairly charming (of course), dirt under the fingernails and all. His speech and level of understanding changes every day-while we were driving home from the bookstore yesterday, he said "I wanna show you something when we get home." Usually, it's "I wanna show you something (implied: RIGHT NOW, MOMMY!!)." He understood that I could not turn around at that moment to see loader on the back of his toy truck pop up at the press of the button.

Speaking of charming, here is a picture that Conan took of him last week:

Everyone says that he looks "just like" me, and you can note the definite similarities from this picture. But more importantly, it just makes me laugh.

So She Ponders

Transmogriflaw is pondering the return to work after having been off due to the birth of her son. I posted a comment in it, but the entry has really made me think about how much success in the legal profession should really play in someone's life, particularly if that someone happens to be a mom.

"The private side isn't for everyone," I told my friend Junior today when he called. "If you are someone whose self-esteem hinges on things besides your job and money, you might have issues with working at a firm." I was lucky in some respects to find good mentors here and there--people who just wanted to be good lawyers and wanted me to be a good lawyer too. People that gave me chances, and knew my capabilities. People whose emails would appear at 10 p.m. on my BlackBerry screen, but did not expect an answer until later that week, but got them from me the next morning.

For the longest time, I clung desperately to the notion that I could conquer firm life with competence. For a while, it worked because I had great bosses, and because my past experience provided me with additional background and credibility. But law firm partners are human, regardless of what mental promotions beyond this state they may accord themselves. Humans..they aren't always inclined to reward competence, particularly if they have other priorities. If this only happened occasionally, I could mentally assign it the "anomaly" label and move on. But it didn't happen occasionally-it happened frequently. I didn't want the stress of negotiating landmines with the complex weight of motherhood strapped to my back.

And so I made other arrangements. It took some time, energy, and blows to my ego, but I finally landed. I've begun the process of re-building my self-esteem, but I am a far way off from feeling right about myself. The problem with this current job is that mistakes must be made--that really is the only way to learn. But mistakes are the catalysts of endless internal dialogues concerning competence. I'm trying, really trying not to let it get to me--but invariably it does.

Slipping Through the Cracks

Conan notices at lunch today that I am distracted, much like yesterday. This weekend is one for re-focusing. A part of me has come to terms with being one of those typical professional women whose self-esteem is rooted very much in her job performance. It's become less so since The Governor waltzed his funny little round-and-round, frenzied polka into my life. However since my job is mine and mine alone, I've put so much stock in it.

Work is extremely busy. In addition to my regular tasks, I was asked to assist in a big project that was, from the beginning, a Very Big Deal. Lately, there has been an onslaught of tasks in that Very Big Deal. So many details, so many questions. And my "regular" work continues to pile on. Wednesday, I caught errors that I didn't catch before from the team that has continuously asked for very short deadlines. Thursday, I got some criticism that was really meant to be constructive. Friday, I spent most of the day humbled and quietly ashamed by my very own desire to be Miss Perfect. And yesterday and today I have been wondering how to reduce my error margins.

There are practical answers to the questions imposed during my self-inquisition to be sure. Even I know what they are: use my Task list more, give myself five more minutes to double check my reviews, and read through my emails one last time before transmittal. However, there is that nagging sense of being "terribly imperfect" that stems from the combination of the sacrifices my parents made for my education, and being put through the wringer during the time I spent working for Gordon Gekko. It makes this professional adolescence a little more painful for me.

We are all so busy at work, all so tired, and so things fall through the cracks when we are asked to do things on short notice. Yet strangely, this explanation I give to my clients just doesn't satisfy my disappointment with myself. Really, the only thing is to learn, press on, and try not to take it personally. Yet for me, the latter really can't be helped.

Lucky Girl

Looks like Zhang Ziyi got the coveted role of Nitta Sayuri in the film version of Memoirs of a Geisha. Mameha will be played by Michelle Yeoh.

"Hi, Just Wanted to Say..."

The Remote Boss was recently accorded the title of Official Rock Star (to paraphrase). I attempted to write him an congratulatory email, but I just couldn't think of anything to say. I just sat there at my computer with a blank email form in front of me, blushing.

Any suggestions?

Just A Boy

We sat down on the dusty steps of an East Village brownstone, and at 10:42 on a Tuesday night 10 years ago, he told that he loved me. As the taxis crawled by and folks began to walk in packs to Webster Hall, my insides felt like dancing, bursting to the sky. He loves me, he loves me-and not just because the song said so.

He told me this in the midst of him revealing his parents knowledge of my also being in New York for the summer. I’d followed this boy to the city after having graduated magna cum laude from a fine institution with Ivy League envy. I’d done something my mom had always told me never to do: I followed a boy.

A boy to whom I’d had no formal commitment, just really a terribly strong attraction that was mutual (for a change). He’d gotten an internship in the IT department of a top I-bank for the summer. I’d gotten a year-long fellowship to start in the fall, and I really didn’t have much to do that summer, except enjoy it. That last year of college, I’d become very good friends with a girl who lived there-among other tests of friendship, we’d broken into a frat boy’s room and drank his good champagne. I once thought she was kind of a slut, but then changed my mind—because you, see, I was kind of slut myself. Of course, not that I’d admit that to anyone else. And besides, I was only mildly slutty. So naturally, I’d wanted to also see hang out with her that summer too.

It’s a testament to my argumentative skills that my parents let me go, seeing as they knew the said boy was also going to be there. But they gave me a check to cover my expenses for my first couple of weeks, and set me on a plane to New York. I stayed with my friend for the first week, paid for coffee with the $100 bill my parents had given me (strange, I know), ate $4.95 pasta with a $30 bottle of wine, shopped for used jeans, rode the 6, and just got used to the smell of garbage on the street.

The boy arrived one week later. I met him at La Guardia, and we spent the next couple of days with our arms wrapped around each other, getting over the shock of negotiating human sidewalk traffic, buildings that extended to the sky, and steel and concrete that stretched out for miles. He was from a small, Midwestern town and so every observance was punctuated with slight disbelief.

One night, after we’d experienced the joy of waiting for a table at a trendy SoHo restaurant, we stopped on the walked back to his East Village digs. I forget what introduced the topic, we sat down on the step. “I’m pretty sure,” he began, “I love you.”

. Earlier, he’d sung “You Are My Sunshine,” faltering slightly at You’ll never know dear/how much I love you, and while I didn’t say anything, I’d wondered what he felt when he sang those words. But it was there, sitting on the dusty doorstep of someone else’s home, that I’d felt that it was worth the time and expense to indulge the expense and the risk of following.

I landed a great temporary job that tided me over for the entire summer. We discovered a format for a project that got him rock star intern status at his i-bank. We learned to rollerblade in Battery Park. I discovered that my body simply didn’t like nonoxynol-9. We discovered tiramisu in Little Italy and a small, out-of-the-way seafood café a block up from my rented room. We talked while his tightey-whites polka-danced with my cheap polyester panties in the front-loading washing machine at the Laundromat one block north from my place. We danced at Nell’s. And in the midst of it all, we had a relationship. We had fights, got jealous. We dropped off dry-cleaning, and picked it up 24 hours later. And of all things, I’d experienced my first taste of real life. Not the idealized, out-of-focus life of college (where there was always another boy to like, a class to get an A in by doing an extra project, or friends that you could substitute in and out of your life), but the basic hum-drum and rhythm of everyday work and everyday love.

We ended up going our separate ways after the summer ended-he back to school (he was a junior), and me to move forward with the rest of my life. There were many things to come, including finding the one who would actually become my husband, finding that I had space in my heart for two loves, wending my way through five years of possibly the best career I could imagine for myself, and finally coming to a place in my life where I know where I am. But yes, I was “weak” at one point in my life, and I followed a boy. But that was when I started to know what “real” life was about.

What She's Doing on Sunday Nights

It's okay that no one else in my e-World watches The Contender and can rejoice with me in the fact that there are 4 semi-finalists to be happy about. The problem is that you can only be both happy and sad at the outcome of each match from here on...with the exception of the "fan favorite," since we don't know who actually will be chosen.

I was happy that Jesse won last night, primarily because I do like having such dead sexy eye candy gracing my TV screen on Sunday evenings. Those of you in the know will realize that he bears a certain resemblance to a certain person, and that my appreciation is somewhat sentimental. But he does bring the hot to the show, and for that we are ever so grateful. Particularly if the hot man in question loves his family.

My favorite part of the show last night: when he was clutching his little girl's tiara in his gloves when he walked out after being introduced, and then handed her little crown to her. Everyone say "awwww!" with me.

Not so great: the tightey whiteys of his that seem to be all over the Y@h00 extra footage. Get this man some boxer briefs, people.

My second favorite moment in last night's show was Alfonso was dancing in the gym. Not a fan of the sunglasses-in-pictures look, but if you click around the site, you will fine that the boy is button-cute, with a great story and a personality. I like this one, he makes me smile. Let's go salsa dancing, kid!

Conan's favorite is Peter, (or "Pee-TAH," as he calls himself). Conan likes that he is humble and low key. He also thinks Peter's wife is hot (she is), and that their daughter is cute (ditto).

I think that Sergio is great, but more importantly, he has good taste in women seeing as his very-pretty girlfriend is a law student. And we do enjoy his informed commentary.

Last night's episode was the usual good fare. I'm not sure if it's the editing, but Anthony's constant "look at me/I'm a dad/I'm doing this for my kids" theme was a little old. Lots of the contestants are fathers, and they are all doing it for their families. But I don't see anyone else toting their pictures of their kids to the press conferences. It's hard to tell from the editing, but he sorta fights dirty and I'm not sure his technique is all that great. His mom rocked, though. I liked her. But I'm glad that Jesse won. So please, if you have any inclination to curl up on Sunday nights and watch a little boxing mixed in with a lot of personal stories, come join me.

True Love = V. Difficult

I should have been better about posting in S3@Jay's parenting thread, but I just couldn't debate or exposit the philosophical bases of parenting approaches with someone who isn't currently experiencing the everyday mini-heartbreak of disciplining a spirited and stubborn preschooler. I will admit my own selfishness in lurking the thread, posting a single response, and not responding any further. However, the ironic reality is that I was busy trying to parent. And failing miserably at it on some days, and doing decently on others.

Lately, The Governor has started to really exhibit the wily and spirited nature that is expected of the offspring of two very passionate people. To top matters off, he is also quite stubborn. And things have started to get a little, well, difficult. Yesterday morning was very, very hard--we almost didn't go to a co-worker's picnic because he would not accept anything but sweets for a pre-picnic snack when we were choosing a light meal before the picnic at the grocery store. So we returned home.

At that point, I threw my hands up because I was so overwhelmed that I knew I couldn't parent effectively, not then, not five minutes after. I had been through a very difficult week at work, Conan and I were having a disagreement, and everything just seemed to be too much. However, the upside is that Conan stepped in and gave The Governor some time to calm down and think about how he acted, and calmly and firmly told him that he was not to act that way if he expected to go to the picnic. We ate a healthy lunch, and proceeded to have a great afternoon. I told Conan later that it may have been the first time that I just surrendered and let Conan do his job as a parent--and he did the job really well.

I'm not a perfect parent. I'm not going to pretend that I know everything. It's really hard. It's exhausting. I'm often confused. I often doubt myself. I don't think I'm doing that great of a job a lot of time. But I have to believe that I can do this. Every day, it takes so much strength and love and patience to just start parenting. But I have to believe I can do this.

And so every night before bed, I look at The Governor's picture. I look at his wonderful face, hear his happy laugh in my head, remember all of the great things he's been doing and all of the ways that he shows us that he's a good kid (throwing away the trash, realizing that he has accidentally hurt someone and saying sorry, following directions), and then I think about why I'm doing this. It's tough, but I'm doing it.

Mumbo Jumbo

How can something as simplistic and mundane as a really, really, big LED screen have the privilege of having the wonderful distinction of being called the Jumbotron? I've been hammering through various contracts and other materials, and that thing has been mentioned more times than I can imagine. I'd always conjured up this fabulous mental image of a huge, globe-shaped, rotating display when I come across the word "Jumbotron." Or maybe something even cooler, like a big, elephant-shaped, walking contraption the size of a Tiffany's store, with maybe displays in the place of eyes. But noooo--it's a two-dimensional, flat screen. And what fun is that?