I've been having "Our Town" moments all day today. For those of you who didn't attend their high school's production of this play, the most famous scene is one in which the main character, who happens to be dead, is able to see one of the days of her life. Appalled by how she was able to move through every day of her life without realizing how amazing it was, she can't stand to watch more than a few minutes.
I feel like my Provo self has sort of died, and, for the few days I have here before I move, I find myself wandering around glumly, wishing I had more time. This is the time of year that hundreds of Southern Californians in designer sunglasses descend upon Provo to attend BYU, UVU, and beauty school. They will spend the fall, winter, and spring loudly criticizing my city. Provonians are so totally lame. Provo is so totally ugly. The food is so totally gross. I don't think I ever really defended Provo to one of these people (we Provonians rarely do, prefering to let our fine city speak for itself at its own measured pace). Tonight, my last Sunday night as a Provonian, I would defend Provo with the ferocity of Monte Python's Black Knight: With blood spurting from the sockets where my appendages used to be, I would howl after my Southern Californian opponents, "Come on back and fight!"
For all its lack of political, ethnic, and religious diversity, Provo is bursting with gorgeously complicated people, and the more I work on figuring them out, the more I love them. They may be close-minded crazies, but they're my close-minded crazies. For all its dry brown summers and wet brown winters, the Provo landscape provides moments that make me gasp at their loveliness. Provo doesn't have any gourmet markets to speak of, but there are enough grocery stores for my mom to make some kick-booty lasagna and for Sweet's Island Eats to produce a menu on par with any similarly priced New York City restaurant.
I'm glad to move to my jewel of an apartment in New York City, I really am. If I didn't feel like it was a change for the better, I wouldn't be doing it. But I am Provo Portia, after all, and I am sad tonight to leave my home.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Never sick of words, words, words
Baby is getting some crazy language skillz. Every day he comes out with a word that I had no idea he knew. He loves learning new words, and he's constantly asking me, "whatsat?" Some concepts are a little tricky to translate into babe-ese. He really wanted to understand the blue and white "Y" I had painted on my cheek tonight for the Northern Iowa game. How to explain in terms he'll understand? "Face paint?" "Y?" "BYU?" "Yucky mess?" I tried them all. We'll see what sticks (besides the face paint, which ended up all over both of us after our bedtime cheek-smooshing ritual).
Sometimes it is heartbreakingly sweet to see the world through the language of a two-year-old. Today, before his nap, he announced, "I want to sleep." Well, now that I see it typed, it looks a teensy bit more enunciated than his version. His consonants are quite that developed, but his version was no more garbled than the PA system of New York's Metro Transit Authority. Anyway, I joyfully started carrying him to his crib for his nap, and then he said, "No. Spooky. I want to hold you sleep." Needless to say, I let the laundry do itself while I held him for forty-five minutes until he fell asleep.
See, I went so long, hopelessly in love with this little person, and so so so curious about what was going on in his little brain. Now that he can tell me, my satisfaction knows no bounds. I respond by doing, fetching, or feeding him what ever he asks.
And of course, there are funny language acquisition stories, which I have been looking forward to experiencing since forever. Example: While I was moving out of my kitchen, I handed Baby a picture I had on the wall of dried chipotle peppers. He squinted at it for a while, and then looked up at me and asked, "poop?" Now that word he pronounces as clear as a bell. Yes, dear. Mommy hangs pictures of poop on her kitchen walls. When we get to New York, maybe I'll replace that particular picture with one of arugula or something. Of maybe I'll stick with the chipotles. The image may be a handy reminder when I decide to tackle Potty Training.
Sometimes it is heartbreakingly sweet to see the world through the language of a two-year-old. Today, before his nap, he announced, "I want to sleep." Well, now that I see it typed, it looks a teensy bit more enunciated than his version. His consonants are quite that developed, but his version was no more garbled than the PA system of New York's Metro Transit Authority. Anyway, I joyfully started carrying him to his crib for his nap, and then he said, "No. Spooky. I want to hold you sleep." Needless to say, I let the laundry do itself while I held him for forty-five minutes until he fell asleep.
See, I went so long, hopelessly in love with this little person, and so so so curious about what was going on in his little brain. Now that he can tell me, my satisfaction knows no bounds. I respond by doing, fetching, or feeding him what ever he asks.
And of course, there are funny language acquisition stories, which I have been looking forward to experiencing since forever. Example: While I was moving out of my kitchen, I handed Baby a picture I had on the wall of dried chipotle peppers. He squinted at it for a while, and then looked up at me and asked, "poop?" Now that word he pronounces as clear as a bell. Yes, dear. Mommy hangs pictures of poop on her kitchen walls. When we get to New York, maybe I'll replace that particular picture with one of arugula or something. Of maybe I'll stick with the chipotles. The image may be a handy reminder when I decide to tackle Potty Training.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Apartment
For the last few days, the absence of bar studying has left a void in my stress-life. I have more than filled it by worrying about my New York apartment.
I have one, a New York apartment. My lease begins on September 2 and I will move in on September 3. This means that for one day, I will have legal possession of an apartment in a very nice location in Manhattan without actually living there. The proverbial ink is still wet on my bar exam, and I'm already living extravagently (for one day at least).
The apartment is adorable; the proximities to Husband's work, the Central Park, and the subways couldn't be better; the ward is fabulous; the landlord is a peach; the rent is (slightly) less than I expected; and we will have a dishwasher. But I still wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of night, convinced that I picked the wrong apartment.
When I whine to friends and family about my worries, they usually repond by saying, "so what if you picked the wrong apartment? There's nothing you can do about it now." Actually, there's one thing I can do about it now: I can stress about it. And when my monthly rent costs roughly the same amount of money as my wedding, I have a right. See, there were two really great apartments, and they were both good for different reasons. Now that I've committed to one of them, all I can think about are the reasons I liked the other one. I think this is called the paradox of choice, and I think I'd better get over it if I'm planning to live in New York City. If there's one thing New York has, it's options.
I have one, a New York apartment. My lease begins on September 2 and I will move in on September 3. This means that for one day, I will have legal possession of an apartment in a very nice location in Manhattan without actually living there. The proverbial ink is still wet on my bar exam, and I'm already living extravagently (for one day at least).
The apartment is adorable; the proximities to Husband's work, the Central Park, and the subways couldn't be better; the ward is fabulous; the landlord is a peach; the rent is (slightly) less than I expected; and we will have a dishwasher. But I still wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of night, convinced that I picked the wrong apartment.
When I whine to friends and family about my worries, they usually repond by saying, "so what if you picked the wrong apartment? There's nothing you can do about it now." Actually, there's one thing I can do about it now: I can stress about it. And when my monthly rent costs roughly the same amount of money as my wedding, I have a right. See, there were two really great apartments, and they were both good for different reasons. Now that I've committed to one of them, all I can think about are the reasons I liked the other one. I think this is called the paradox of choice, and I think I'd better get over it if I'm planning to live in New York City. If there's one thing New York has, it's options.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The Bar
The bar is over, and it is 99-percent out of my life. Little by little, I'm exorcising bar studying.
First to go were the posters. By the time we took the bar, we had about twelve posters and a smattering of Post-its decorating the walls of our apartment. Our family portrait was replaced by a summary of a corporate promoter's pre-incorporation liability. Our guests were greeted by a poster by the front door describing five different types of New York homicides. Baby and I memorized New York's defeasible fees while I served him his morning mush. After the bar, Baby and I spent a joyful afternoon coloring large pictures on the backs of the posters and turning them into "car slides." Then I threw them into recycling. May they meet a more fulfilling fate in their next incarnation.
Next I cleared all of the random study documents and programs from my computer desktop into an innocuous folder labeled "bar." I also removed all bar-related Web pages from my favorites list.
Once I mail back the study books (in exchange for a hefty deposit) and I get over the little post-traumatic stress flu I seem to have developed, this summer's bar study will be nothing but an ugly, fuzzy memory. Really, very much like pregnancy.
How did the bar exam go? Meh. Fine. I don't know. I don't really want to commit one way or the other until I know if I passed or not. I will say that the agony of the bar is not in the taking of it, but in the preparation for it.
The experience of taking the New York bar was fascinating to say the least. I think next year Baby and I may pack a lunch and lounge in front of the Javitz Center in New York City for the last couple of days in July, just to observe thousands and thousands of the most accomplished, privileged, and intelligent young people in New York muttering to themselves while clutching clear plastic bags of pens, pencils, feminine hygiene products, and "quiet snacks."
By the way, "quiet snack" clearly means something different for everyone. I saw one guy with about a dozen hard-boiled eggs in his clear plastic bag. While hard-boiled eggs aren't the noisiest snack in the world, I think it would be more than a little distracting to the people around me if, in the middle of the exam, I started chipping away at my tenth egg shell.
But that's just it, the bar brings out the weirdo in everyone. Some people wore law nerd tee-shirts ("I own Blackacre" or "This is my lucky bar exam shirt" or "Scalia is my hero"). Some people announced that they were wearing fresh-out-of-the-package underwear. One guy was running high-knee sprints across the back of the room during the multistate multiple choice section. Anything to give them that extra little boost. I don't think I did anything too weird. I guess I wouldn't really know though, if it seemed normal at the time.
And now it's done. There is a greater sense of closure for me now than there was when I graduated from law school. My feelings run along the lines of the typical graduation speech: When I can see past the nastiness of studying, I have a profound sense of satisfaction in doing a Very Hard Thing, followed almost immediately by an overwhelming gratitude for the scores of people who have taken care of Baby, Husband, and me over the last few months (years, really). Now I'm standing on the brink of an entirely different chapter for my little family. What I'm looking forward to more than anything, is the ability that my education, my degree, and my license will give me to toss back into the universe a little bit of Good.
First to go were the posters. By the time we took the bar, we had about twelve posters and a smattering of Post-its decorating the walls of our apartment. Our family portrait was replaced by a summary of a corporate promoter's pre-incorporation liability. Our guests were greeted by a poster by the front door describing five different types of New York homicides. Baby and I memorized New York's defeasible fees while I served him his morning mush. After the bar, Baby and I spent a joyful afternoon coloring large pictures on the backs of the posters and turning them into "car slides." Then I threw them into recycling. May they meet a more fulfilling fate in their next incarnation.
Next I cleared all of the random study documents and programs from my computer desktop into an innocuous folder labeled "bar." I also removed all bar-related Web pages from my favorites list.
Once I mail back the study books (in exchange for a hefty deposit) and I get over the little post-traumatic stress flu I seem to have developed, this summer's bar study will be nothing but an ugly, fuzzy memory. Really, very much like pregnancy.
How did the bar exam go? Meh. Fine. I don't know. I don't really want to commit one way or the other until I know if I passed or not. I will say that the agony of the bar is not in the taking of it, but in the preparation for it.
The experience of taking the New York bar was fascinating to say the least. I think next year Baby and I may pack a lunch and lounge in front of the Javitz Center in New York City for the last couple of days in July, just to observe thousands and thousands of the most accomplished, privileged, and intelligent young people in New York muttering to themselves while clutching clear plastic bags of pens, pencils, feminine hygiene products, and "quiet snacks."
By the way, "quiet snack" clearly means something different for everyone. I saw one guy with about a dozen hard-boiled eggs in his clear plastic bag. While hard-boiled eggs aren't the noisiest snack in the world, I think it would be more than a little distracting to the people around me if, in the middle of the exam, I started chipping away at my tenth egg shell.
But that's just it, the bar brings out the weirdo in everyone. Some people wore law nerd tee-shirts ("I own Blackacre" or "This is my lucky bar exam shirt" or "Scalia is my hero"). Some people announced that they were wearing fresh-out-of-the-package underwear. One guy was running high-knee sprints across the back of the room during the multistate multiple choice section. Anything to give them that extra little boost. I don't think I did anything too weird. I guess I wouldn't really know though, if it seemed normal at the time.
And now it's done. There is a greater sense of closure for me now than there was when I graduated from law school. My feelings run along the lines of the typical graduation speech: When I can see past the nastiness of studying, I have a profound sense of satisfaction in doing a Very Hard Thing, followed almost immediately by an overwhelming gratitude for the scores of people who have taken care of Baby, Husband, and me over the last few months (years, really). Now I'm standing on the brink of an entirely different chapter for my little family. What I'm looking forward to more than anything, is the ability that my education, my degree, and my license will give me to toss back into the universe a little bit of Good.
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