an open letter to whoever makes stocking decisions at the stores around here

To whom it may concern:

I try hard to keep our house relatively organized.  This is not easy when any attempt at organization is constantly undermined by three people under the age of twelve, and occasionally undermined by the resident adults.  

There is one organizational item that I disproportionately love.  That item is the holiday color coded bin: the big orange and black tubs you can put Halloween decorations in, the red and green ones for the Christmas decorations, etc.  This is essential when you have an attic completely jammed with all sizes and colors of plastic bins full of kindergarten art projects, baby clothes, high school yearbooks, your sister's sewing machine, cases from CDs you no longer listen to, and the like.  If you don't have color coded bins, you never find all the holiday stuff until the holiday is good and over and you are searching for the stuff for the next holiday.

(the ubiquitous bin*)

only the good die young

Yesterday, I noted how, when it comes to battles between man and nature, nature comes out on top.  This is almost universally true in literature on the topic, and tends to be my experience in life as well.  Who am I, in battle against a tenacious dandelion, after all?

Why is it then, that the other big literary theme -- good vs. evil -- doesn't seem to me to go the same way?

Kathy and I have a very similar value structure.  We both value integrity, and standing up for the little guy, and things of that nature.  I won't even call in sick to work unless I am really, actually sick.  In spite of some less-than-stellar moments in my past (we all have those), I actually think I do a pretty good job of living life in line with my values.  I know from personal and professional experience (we used to work together, isn't that juicy?) that Kathy does too.  And yet, it doesn't seem to have helped either of us much in life.

(via)

Biglaw life

It's St. Patrick's Day.  Being named Erin, I typically have a lot of fun on this holiday.  I have memories of drinking green beer at 9 am and not being the only one in the bar.  I have memories of my time in San Francisco with Kathy wearing a ridiculous hat and getting all mad when the Irish pub called last call at 11 pm (which is kind of ridiculous, you must admit). 

But this is where I am apparently spending my St. Patrick's Day this year:

boys will be boys

Today, Meg at APW wrote a brilliant post about being a self-full wife.  Which means, roughly, being a wife that doesn't feel the need to sacrifice everything while husband walks down the street whistling with his hands in his pockets.  Which reminded me of a topic I think about often enough that I actually don't need to be reminded.

I have had enough of letting men off the hook.  I have seen some of my favorite women, otherwise strong, independent women, women with careers and families and lots of opinions, women who kept their names when they got married and marched on Washington for women's rights, sacrifice for men because of gender stereotypes. 

This is the thing.  Men actually can figure out how to wash a shower.  They can also do a load of laundry without destroying clothing, and load an unload a dishwasher.  Without having to be "reminded."  They can also tell you when they are upset instead of just walking around sulking and cranky until you pry it out of them.  They can fulfill your emotional needs.  The reason they don't is that it is not required of them.  Because we, as a culture, let them off the hook. 

(I would like to put Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus into the Freedom Trash Can.)


My grandmother passed away when my grandparents were in their late sixties.  My grandfather was diagnosed with cancer a short time later. In addition to the pain and loss at the death of his lifelong partner, my grandfather was faced with a terminal illness and a house full of machines he did not know how to operate.  Like the washer, the dryer, and the stove.  And guess what?  Within a pretty short period of time, he figured it out.  The man was not going to walk around in dirty pants and eat nothing but peanuts (although he actually tried the peanut thing for a while, until his doctor told him he wasn't allowed to do that).  I'm not saying he was perfect, or that the women in his life didn't step in and show him the ropes a bit.  But if that old dog was able to do these new tricks, all men can.

the reason for the season

Yesterday, I was frantic all day at work (which is why I did not post).  I was wrapping up a hundred little details so I wouldn't be bothered over the holiday.  I was arranging for a delivery to a partner's home tomorrow, since the firm's mailroom is closed and apparently he planned on reviewing a document over the weekend (!).  I was doing all the small projects I could so that I could work from home today and not have to carry home a huge stack of paper.  After work, I had errands to run, gifts to pick up, etc. 

And somewhere about mid-day, someone I went to high school posted a facebook status along the lines of "If you are stressed out about Christmas, you're missing the whole point of the glorious holiday season!"  Um, excuse me, but eff you. 

A pigeon shooting day

Some days start out like this:

(Come on now, Betty Draper from Mad Men. 

If you don't know that, you need to get the first season from Netflix.)

And some days start out like this:

Today was one of those pigeon shooting days for me.  The car wouldn't start.  I was so rattled I drove around a "Do not enter" sign and got pulled over.  I was so rattled by that, that I left my wallet in my car and my friend who owns the coffee shop had to give me my coffee for free.  And that was all before 8:30 a.m.  All I am saying is that it's a good thing I'm too liberal to own a gun.  Because this would have been me.  Shooting at pigeons.  For lack of a better enemy.

the cold

I have both kinds of cold.  It is FREEZING outside today.  And also I have a completely stuffy head.  Both of these things make me really homesick for my time in the Bay area. 

It's so cold I wore Kathy's coat today, since I couldn't wear my ski jacket to a meeting of an industry group I had to go to for work, and after three winters in New York, I still do not have an appropriate coat.  When it's like this, I always find myself thinking, "Come on!  50 degrees and foggy in the middle of August isn't so bad, is it?!"  There are things I like about winter.  Like skiing, and getting to stay home from work for snow days.  But when it's not snowy, and the city is crowded with tourists sauntering down the street without a care in the world (and blocking my way!), and I have to walk to work because there are no cabs, I just want to scream I get so cold.  And.

(look at these cold germs.  via here.)

I have a head cold.  That means no getting up and going running, boxes and boxes of Kleenex, and embarrassingly blowing my nose in the aforementioned industry group meeting.  And that horrible red chapped nose thing.  I never got colds when I lived in California.  I do not think it is because they are any less common, I just think my immune system was a lot stronger.  Stress and lack of sleep tend to wear it down a bit.  I have gotten sick so many times in the last 3 years since leaving California that I can't believe it.  When I lived in California, my yoga teacher had a policy that if you had so much as a sniffle, you should stay home, and avoid spreading your germs all over the props.  I missed one class because of sickness the whole 3 years I lived there.  For real, one class!  I have had about 7 colds per year since moving to New York and joining this rat race.  Yikes. 

And so, what is the solution to this?  I haven't the faintest idea.  It's not like I can move back to Berkeley and go back to law school.  Although that does sound fun. Perhaps some Emergen-C is in order.  And a nap?  Not likely, but sounding so very appealing.

Carlos the garage man

Last night, around 12:30 a.m. I went to the garage to pick up my car after work and drive home.  There was a huge, enormous scrape all along the passenger side rear bumper.  I have had problems with the garage dending, dinging, and scraping the car before.  I point it out to them, first a little irritated, and then progressively more irritated each time the car comes back with new damage.  I always point it out to the same guy, who always says to me, "It was like that when you brought it in.  We didn't do that."  Now, I drive the car home, and park it in the driveway.  The next day, I turn around and drive it back to work and park it at the garage.  Unless someone is sneaky rubbing white-painted cement poles on the side of my car while we're sleeping, I'm pretty sure I know where the damage is coming from.

Last night, I totally lost my temper on the "we didn't do it" man.  I was sarcastic, and yelled at him about "playing bumper cars" at the garage.  I can try to blame it on New York, but as you know, I haven't gotten much sleep, work is stressful, and this was pretty much the last straw.  It was really just me, losing my temper.  Finally, "we didn't do it man" says to me, "It's not my problem.  Talk to Carlos."  Carlos?  Apparently, Carlos is the manager.  I yelled something about how Carlos is there during the day and I have a job, thankyouverymuch so I can't just be trotting over here to chat with Carlos.  Then I drove away.  And squealed my tires.  I know, not my finest hour.