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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Not Dead, but Barely Conscious
At this time in one week, I will be finished with the bar. The feeling is remarkably similar to the way I felt when I set my date with the hospital to induce labor two years ago. Even though I wasn't exactly relishing the idea of the birthing process, I could take comfort in the thought that I wouldn't be pregnant any more. I take enormous comfort in the thought of not doing practice bar exam questions and essays any more.
So, basically, this is just another reason why moms make great law students and lawyers: They have specially practice getting out of bed to face another wretchedly exhausting day, day after day after day.
A little over a week ago, I attended my last bar review lecture. It was, technically, the last formal lecture of my lifetime of formal education, which is quite a meaningful idea, really. That didn't stop me from spending half of the lecture scrolling through Manhattan apartment listings. And, really, if I had spent the entire lecture paying rapt attention to the lecturer, it would indicate that I might enjoy more formal education. And I would not.
Enough about bar study. Who wants to hear about bar study? No one. That's why I haven't had anything interesting to blog about for three months.
On the other hand, everyone is interested in hearing about the adventures of my fabulous baby. (That was a joke: I realize that not everyone is all that interested in my baby, but some people are, and talking about Baby makes me happy. And when I'm happy, everyone is happy).
Baby had his second birthday last week. His whiz-bang gift from his parents was a pair of red Converse high tops. Just picture that: A summer-buzzed, brown-eyed, scabby-kneed, two-year-old tearing around in red Converse high tops. Carrying a birthday cupcake. No need for a photo (although there will be one eventually on my other blog). I think you have the idea.
He is so cool. I'm a pretty cool mom, and husband holds his own on the cool department too, but we don't even hold a candle to Baby when it comes to cool.
I'm pretty sure a summer of non-parent caregivers has only made him cooler. Now, granted, two-year-olds are freakishly sponge-like when it comes to picking up words and social, but I think the fact that he has been exposed to a wide variety of people and experiences this summer has given him even more mental stimulation than he would have had with me. This makes me feel good. He's learning all kinds of nifty tricks through his babysitters' hard work. Yesterday, after an unwarranted attack on his cousin, he actually said "bah-weese," which (obviously) means, "sorry." He didn't learn that from me, (as if I ever say "sorry") but that doesn't mean I'm not ok with enjoying and taking credit for it.
I will not be updating this blog for at least a week. During that week, I am asking any and all who love me to direct some good karma in my direction, specifically in the form of prayers, but, you know, I'm good with whatever. There are bigger things in life than passing the New York bar, I know, but they are a little hard to imagine at this point.
So, basically, this is just another reason why moms make great law students and lawyers: They have specially practice getting out of bed to face another wretchedly exhausting day, day after day after day.
A little over a week ago, I attended my last bar review lecture. It was, technically, the last formal lecture of my lifetime of formal education, which is quite a meaningful idea, really. That didn't stop me from spending half of the lecture scrolling through Manhattan apartment listings. And, really, if I had spent the entire lecture paying rapt attention to the lecturer, it would indicate that I might enjoy more formal education. And I would not.
Enough about bar study. Who wants to hear about bar study? No one. That's why I haven't had anything interesting to blog about for three months.
On the other hand, everyone is interested in hearing about the adventures of my fabulous baby. (That was a joke: I realize that not everyone is all that interested in my baby, but some people are, and talking about Baby makes me happy. And when I'm happy, everyone is happy).
Baby had his second birthday last week. His whiz-bang gift from his parents was a pair of red Converse high tops. Just picture that: A summer-buzzed, brown-eyed, scabby-kneed, two-year-old tearing around in red Converse high tops. Carrying a birthday cupcake. No need for a photo (although there will be one eventually on my other blog). I think you have the idea.
He is so cool. I'm a pretty cool mom, and husband holds his own on the cool department too, but we don't even hold a candle to Baby when it comes to cool.
I'm pretty sure a summer of non-parent caregivers has only made him cooler. Now, granted, two-year-olds are freakishly sponge-like when it comes to picking up words and social, but I think the fact that he has been exposed to a wide variety of people and experiences this summer has given him even more mental stimulation than he would have had with me. This makes me feel good. He's learning all kinds of nifty tricks through his babysitters' hard work. Yesterday, after an unwarranted attack on his cousin, he actually said "bah-weese," which (obviously) means, "sorry." He didn't learn that from me, (as if I ever say "sorry") but that doesn't mean I'm not ok with enjoying and taking credit for it.
I will not be updating this blog for at least a week. During that week, I am asking any and all who love me to direct some good karma in my direction, specifically in the form of prayers, but, you know, I'm good with whatever. There are bigger things in life than passing the New York bar, I know, but they are a little hard to imagine at this point.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Update on bar study and Baby-missing
Starting bar study was a lifestyle change for me, and I tend to deal with lifestyle change by developing new junk food addictions (Fritos, anyone?) and plunging myself into temporary mild depression. Depression lends itself to staying in bed while I wait for dishes to wash themselves and Baby to learn to refill his own sippy cup with soy milk. It doesn't lend itself to blogging, at least, not for me. I've learned that when I blog depressed, I get embarrassed, just as I get embarrassed when I blog while I'm delirious with happiness.
So if you haven't seen a blog post from me in a while, send me a box of cookies. It will always be appropriate.
I'm over the depression (I think). Now I'm just bored with this stuff. It's a special type of law boredom combined with the type of feeling you'd get if someone put you in the room with an elephant carcass and a fork and said, "go ahead: dig in." It's interesting, logical, illogical, maddening, and huge. And every two minutes or so, I miss my son.
How I miss my son. He now spends six+ hours a day, not with me, but with a few carefully chosen caregivers who nurture him with love, enthusiasm, and goldfish crackers. In the back of my mind, I know I should spend my few hours a day with him on "quality time," but when I do see him, I am too overcome with chest-thumping love to get out his educational flashcards. Instead, I just want to let him eat popcorn until his gums bleed and watch "Cars" until the saline fluid in his eyeballs dries up. I press my cheek into his sweet-smelling pokey summer haircut and stop myself from mentally reviewing riparian law.
This morning he looked up and me and said Pfutz? That means something, but I don't know what. He has an honest-to-goodness word, and I don't know what it is. Up till now, I've been the only one who knows his words.
Look, I'll prove it: Batz means "I want to watch 101 Dalmations." Poose means, "Please feed me soup or some other savory canned delight." Lala, depending on the context, either means "I need a drink of water" or "I'd just love to participate in the shower I can tell you're about to take." Mamoh mean, believe it or not, "let's get out the educational animal flashcards and throw them on the floor until we find the picture of the clown fish who looks just like our friend, Nemo." I can also tell you, with manic animation, the etymology and linguistic roots of all of those words, but I've learned from experience that my expertise in Baby-ese is only interesting to me, Husband, and, on occasion, a Grandparent. And now there's an entire word that I can't connect to anything in my Baby's universe.
What if it means, "Mom, I think it's time to thank you for sacrificing the heel of your sexy fire-engine red shoe by shoving it in a revolving door to prevent me getting knocked over while I paused to pick up a cigarette butt?" I swore I wouldn't miss it when he said that to me.
The point is that while I'm wrapping my head around the difference between notice recording statutes and race-notice recording statutes, I'm missing what I consider to be an enormously important stage in my baby's development. When people ask me if I plan to put Charlie in daycare while I get a full-time legal job in New York, I'm tempted to dip into my vast Baby vocabulary and say nononoNoNoNoNO!
So if you haven't seen a blog post from me in a while, send me a box of cookies. It will always be appropriate.
I'm over the depression (I think). Now I'm just bored with this stuff. It's a special type of law boredom combined with the type of feeling you'd get if someone put you in the room with an elephant carcass and a fork and said, "go ahead: dig in." It's interesting, logical, illogical, maddening, and huge. And every two minutes or so, I miss my son.
How I miss my son. He now spends six+ hours a day, not with me, but with a few carefully chosen caregivers who nurture him with love, enthusiasm, and goldfish crackers. In the back of my mind, I know I should spend my few hours a day with him on "quality time," but when I do see him, I am too overcome with chest-thumping love to get out his educational flashcards. Instead, I just want to let him eat popcorn until his gums bleed and watch "Cars" until the saline fluid in his eyeballs dries up. I press my cheek into his sweet-smelling pokey summer haircut and stop myself from mentally reviewing riparian law.
This morning he looked up and me and said Pfutz? That means something, but I don't know what. He has an honest-to-goodness word, and I don't know what it is. Up till now, I've been the only one who knows his words.
Look, I'll prove it: Batz means "I want to watch 101 Dalmations." Poose means, "Please feed me soup or some other savory canned delight." Lala, depending on the context, either means "I need a drink of water" or "I'd just love to participate in the shower I can tell you're about to take." Mamoh mean, believe it or not, "let's get out the educational animal flashcards and throw them on the floor until we find the picture of the clown fish who looks just like our friend, Nemo." I can also tell you, with manic animation, the etymology and linguistic roots of all of those words, but I've learned from experience that my expertise in Baby-ese is only interesting to me, Husband, and, on occasion, a Grandparent. And now there's an entire word that I can't connect to anything in my Baby's universe.
What if it means, "Mom, I think it's time to thank you for sacrificing the heel of your sexy fire-engine red shoe by shoving it in a revolving door to prevent me getting knocked over while I paused to pick up a cigarette butt?" I swore I wouldn't miss it when he said that to me.
The point is that while I'm wrapping my head around the difference between notice recording statutes and race-notice recording statutes, I'm missing what I consider to be an enormously important stage in my baby's development. When people ask me if I plan to put Charlie in daycare while I get a full-time legal job in New York, I'm tempted to dip into my vast Baby vocabulary and say nononoNoNoNoNO!
Friday, May 09, 2008
Bar Study
Today is the first day of a the period of my life which I shall call "studying for the bar." Husband and I briefly reviewed all of the multistate subjects, just to get an overview.
Criminal law and torts are my old friends who still call me every few days, just to see what's going on.
Evidence sends me e-mails on my birthday.
Contracts is an acquaintance who looks familiar, but I could be remembering someone else.
Property law?
Criminal law and torts are my old friends who still call me every few days, just to see what's going on.
Evidence sends me e-mails on my birthday.
Contracts is an acquaintance who looks familiar, but I could be remembering someone else.
Property law?
Stroller Selection
I'm on a quest for Baby's perfect New York stroller. Last summer, I borrowed a Maclaren Triumph from my generous sister-in-law. I used that stroller for most of Baby's waking hours. I used it as Baby's high chair, I carried my groceries in it, I rocked Baby to sleep in it, I took it to church, I rattled it across the cobblestones at Fulton Fishmarket, I bounced it down subway stairs, I plowed it across the Sheep Meadow at Central Park. The Triumph treated me well, but of course I found some minor problems. As a purely hypothetical example, it just might maybe tip over backwards if you hang a bag full of soup cans over the handles while you're grocery shopping.
As many New Yorkers have told me, shopping for a stroller is like shopping for a car (and nearly as expensive, I'm finding). In some ways it's even more difficult than shopping for a car.
First of all, for all of its excellent qualities, Provo is not a great place to buy high-quality strollers. There are lots of babies, yes, but people with money just drive their babies around in their SUVs and people without money can't afford to drop hundreds of dollars on a stroller for their hundreds of kids. You can find a not-too-bashed-up Graco at a consignment store for thirty bucks, it'll pretty much do yuh. So, if you're a Provonian in the market for a stroller that's very lightweight, very high quality, foldable with one hand, steerable with one hand, manageable over curbs, cobblestones, and subway stairs, your selection is limited.
Also, strollers are baby items, and the baby world goes through fads. For example, right now I am seeing a fad of dress-up fairy princess birthday parties among two through four-year-old girls. If little girls had these when I was little, they didn't invite me. Ruffly dresses with matching lacey panties are out. Monkeys and alligators in primary colors are in. Keeping this in mind. I have to wonder how much of the $900 on the price tag of the popular (well, popular in New York) Bugaboo Chameleon is due to the fact that it's trendy. Don't get me wrong: I'm pretty dang trendy, but not $900 worth of trendy.
As many New Yorkers have told me, shopping for a stroller is like shopping for a car (and nearly as expensive, I'm finding). In some ways it's even more difficult than shopping for a car.
First of all, for all of its excellent qualities, Provo is not a great place to buy high-quality strollers. There are lots of babies, yes, but people with money just drive their babies around in their SUVs and people without money can't afford to drop hundreds of dollars on a stroller for their hundreds of kids. You can find a not-too-bashed-up Graco at a consignment store for thirty bucks, it'll pretty much do yuh. So, if you're a Provonian in the market for a stroller that's very lightweight, very high quality, foldable with one hand, steerable with one hand, manageable over curbs, cobblestones, and subway stairs, your selection is limited.
Also, strollers are baby items, and the baby world goes through fads. For example, right now I am seeing a fad of dress-up fairy princess birthday parties among two through four-year-old girls. If little girls had these when I was little, they didn't invite me. Ruffly dresses with matching lacey panties are out. Monkeys and alligators in primary colors are in. Keeping this in mind. I have to wonder how much of the $900 on the price tag of the popular (well, popular in New York) Bugaboo Chameleon is due to the fact that it's trendy. Don't get me wrong: I'm pretty dang trendy, but not $900 worth of trendy.
Friday, May 02, 2008
On the Road
When I was in eighth grade I wrote a poem called "On the Road." I can't remember the whole thing now, but from what I do remember, it was pretty awful. I haven't written a poem in a long time. If "On the Road" is any indication, that's probably a good thing.
Anyway, today I really am on the road. Our family is in the fine city of Winnemucca, Nevada as we end the first leg of our road trip to California. By the way, "Winnemucca" is precisely the type of word Baby would say on his own, so I had high hopes of adding an extremely cool word to his vocabulary. Alas, even after multiple efforts to trick him into saying it, he failed to add it to his vocabulary before he fell asleep in his car seat.
Every time I go on a long car trip I promise myself that this time I won't read in the car (motion sickness, I know, nerd-alert) and I won't eat junk food (not a good combo with motion sickness). But what would a long car trip be without the combination of junk food flavored motion sickness? Not the kind of car trip I've ever had. So I spent my first hour in Winnemucca settling the Pringles and Nutty Bars in my churning stomach.
Baby is sleeping in the motel closet. He seems to like it. Hopefully he won't wake up with yet another hideous memory that will need to be repressed and then gradually drawn back into Baby's consciousness with the help of a kindly, parent-hating therapist.
Anyway, today I really am on the road. Our family is in the fine city of Winnemucca, Nevada as we end the first leg of our road trip to California. By the way, "Winnemucca" is precisely the type of word Baby would say on his own, so I had high hopes of adding an extremely cool word to his vocabulary. Alas, even after multiple efforts to trick him into saying it, he failed to add it to his vocabulary before he fell asleep in his car seat.
Every time I go on a long car trip I promise myself that this time I won't read in the car (motion sickness, I know, nerd-alert) and I won't eat junk food (not a good combo with motion sickness). But what would a long car trip be without the combination of junk food flavored motion sickness? Not the kind of car trip I've ever had. So I spent my first hour in Winnemucca settling the Pringles and Nutty Bars in my churning stomach.
Baby is sleeping in the motel closet. He seems to like it. Hopefully he won't wake up with yet another hideous memory that will need to be repressed and then gradually drawn back into Baby's consciousness with the help of a kindly, parent-hating therapist.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Graduation
I know, I know, I've already graduated, but I was allowed to experience the full graduation experience again last week when Hubby graduated.
I think most people would agree that graduation day itself is kind of a mixed bag. With all of the emotions tied into it, wonderful, sad, and boring, it kind of comes out a wash. An emotion map of Hubby's graduation day:
1) I was stressed up to my ears, pulling all of the last-minute plans together for picture taking, video taping, calling everyone about parking, getting a babysitter, etc.
2) I was surprisingly moved with pride when the faculty and graduates marched in. I've been to dozens of graduations, but I still think the pomp and circumstance is really cool.
3) I was super nervous before Hubby's speech. I knew it was a good speech (I wrote about a third of it and edited all of it), and I knew that Husband would deliver it well, but I really, really wanted everyone to love my fabulous husband, and I knew law students are groomed to be a prideful, sneering lot.
4) I had a growing sense of elation as the speech was received with applause and laughter (the good kind).
5) After the glow wore off, boredome, boredom, boredom. The Provo Tabernacle is hot and the doctoral hooding ceremony takes a long time.
6) I had my usual crowds-make-me-nervous jitters during the reception afterwards, but luckily Hubby's talk and our upcoming move to New York City gave me and enviable two automatic topics of conversation with my hundreds of law school acquaintances. I was also sinfully proud of my husband.
7) The rest of the day is an exhausted blur. Dinner? Some kind of something at my in-law's house? So tired. Haven't truly slept in. Five. Years.
The next few days I watched my husband go through post-graduation depression. First it's "hooray, I have so much time on my hands, and everyone loves me!" Then it's "boo, I have so much time on my hands, my friends are all gone forever, and I'll never be popular again!" Now he's turning the corner to "hmm, I have so much time on my hands, maybe I'll engage in an interesting and world-improving non-law activity before I have to start studying for the bar." I have to hand it to him: It took me three months and a baby to get to that point.
I think most people would agree that graduation day itself is kind of a mixed bag. With all of the emotions tied into it, wonderful, sad, and boring, it kind of comes out a wash. An emotion map of Hubby's graduation day:
1) I was stressed up to my ears, pulling all of the last-minute plans together for picture taking, video taping, calling everyone about parking, getting a babysitter, etc.
2) I was surprisingly moved with pride when the faculty and graduates marched in. I've been to dozens of graduations, but I still think the pomp and circumstance is really cool.
3) I was super nervous before Hubby's speech. I knew it was a good speech (I wrote about a third of it and edited all of it), and I knew that Husband would deliver it well, but I really, really wanted everyone to love my fabulous husband, and I knew law students are groomed to be a prideful, sneering lot.
4) I had a growing sense of elation as the speech was received with applause and laughter (the good kind).
5) After the glow wore off, boredome, boredom, boredom. The Provo Tabernacle is hot and the doctoral hooding ceremony takes a long time.
6) I had my usual crowds-make-me-nervous jitters during the reception afterwards, but luckily Hubby's talk and our upcoming move to New York City gave me and enviable two automatic topics of conversation with my hundreds of law school acquaintances. I was also sinfully proud of my husband.
7) The rest of the day is an exhausted blur. Dinner? Some kind of something at my in-law's house? So tired. Haven't truly slept in. Five. Years.
The next few days I watched my husband go through post-graduation depression. First it's "hooray, I have so much time on my hands, and everyone loves me!" Then it's "boo, I have so much time on my hands, my friends are all gone forever, and I'll never be popular again!" Now he's turning the corner to "hmm, I have so much time on my hands, maybe I'll engage in an interesting and world-improving non-law activity before I have to start studying for the bar." I have to hand it to him: It took me three months and a baby to get to that point.
Monday, April 21, 2008
For Reals, Sister
There are so many awesome blogs written by stay-at-home moms these days. It's one of those phenomena that makes the Internet worth all the porn. I don't have time to link to all of my favorite mom blogs (Baby's going to wake up any second), but read this one to understand (whispered, reverantly) naptime.
Lunch
I ate chicken for lunch, baked in a sauce made of mustard, orange juice, and brown sugar.
Baby ate Spaghetti O's, by himself, with a spoon.
We are both immensely satisfied.
Baby ate Spaghetti O's, by himself, with a spoon.
We are both immensely satisfied.
No, no, NO
If I ever have a daughter, I will not let her be in a children's performing group that sings "Lady Marmelade." She can cry and scream and hate me all she wants, but I refuse to allow my nine-year-old to sing "Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?" to a human audience of any kind. I'll buy her a pony instead. I'll feed her through a tube if she goes on a hunger strike.
Yes, I know, there I go again, promising myself parenting choices before I am able to see them in context, like that one time I told myself I wouldn't allow my son to watch cartoons first things in the morning (hah!). But this time is different. Cartoons are cartoons. Onstage sexual invitations are different.
I get annoyed when people write anonymous editorials saying "I'm shocked and appalled that . . ." I think that people (especially Provonians) are far to easily offended and judgmental about stuff that isn't any of their business. So when I found myself shocked and appalled by a production that our family recently saw at Thanksgiving Point (scantily-clad nine-year-olds singing and dancing to "Lady Marmelade"), I had to carefully consider my feelings.
Here are my feelings: Adults can decide to sing and dance to "Lady Marmelade" if they choose. I'll think they are pathetic, but I won't comment on their freedom to so perform. If they do it in a movie as flamboyant and sweet-natured as Moulin Rouge, I'll even choose to attend and enjoy it.
Kids shouldn't.
Yes, I know, there I go again, promising myself parenting choices before I am able to see them in context, like that one time I told myself I wouldn't allow my son to watch cartoons first things in the morning (hah!). But this time is different. Cartoons are cartoons. Onstage sexual invitations are different.
I get annoyed when people write anonymous editorials saying "I'm shocked and appalled that . . ." I think that people (especially Provonians) are far to easily offended and judgmental about stuff that isn't any of their business. So when I found myself shocked and appalled by a production that our family recently saw at Thanksgiving Point (scantily-clad nine-year-olds singing and dancing to "Lady Marmelade"), I had to carefully consider my feelings.
Here are my feelings: Adults can decide to sing and dance to "Lady Marmelade" if they choose. I'll think they are pathetic, but I won't comment on their freedom to so perform. If they do it in a movie as flamboyant and sweet-natured as Moulin Rouge, I'll even choose to attend and enjoy it.
Kids shouldn't.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Healthy as a Pig and Stone-cold Sober
Last year, 90% of the students who studied for the bar using the PMBR prep course passed the multistate section of their respective bars. I just got an e-mail telling me so. This is good news, considering that I will be using the PMBR prep course to study for the multistate.
Of course, when I read that statistic, I immediately began trying to rationalize the pass rate even more in my favor, attempting to disassociate myself as much as possible from those unfortunate would-be lawyers who did not pass. Some of them had debilitating handicaps such as blindness or pregnancy which affected their exam performance. Some of them went on Norwegian cruises rather than attend the PMBR review courses. Some of them were phenomenally stupid. Some of them abused substances, other than Kozy Shack rice pudding, which negatively affected their mental processes.
Since none of these things apply to me, my chances of passing the multistate section are probably higher than 90%, don't you think? Even accounting for the facts that (1) I am sitting for the bar two years after having graduated from law school and (2) I have maternal responsibilities for someone who is at least as distracting as a comfortable addiction to marijuana (I assume). I find myself grasping at even more outlandish potential reasons for not passing the multistate that do not apply to me: surely at least one of these non-passing students developed a kidney condition during the exam which forced him to excuse himself for multiple time-consuming and concentration-wrecking bathroom breaks. This happens to other people all the time, but it won't happen to me.
I'm ashamed to say that I developed this chilling method of reasoning in law school. That's what happens when you take a bunch of hyper-competitive, achievement-driven, unfeeling freaks and grade them on a strict curve. During the weeks before exams, I would look around the classroom, sizing up the members of my class. I would hear the news from my classmates and translate it into the potential exam performance: Lulu got engaged this semester, so she probably hasn't read for this class; George's wife had triplets, but, on the other hand, I heard he has a photographic memory; At least I know I'll do better than Trixie, whose entire family contracted leprosy last month.
Of course, when I read that statistic, I immediately began trying to rationalize the pass rate even more in my favor, attempting to disassociate myself as much as possible from those unfortunate would-be lawyers who did not pass. Some of them had debilitating handicaps such as blindness or pregnancy which affected their exam performance. Some of them went on Norwegian cruises rather than attend the PMBR review courses. Some of them were phenomenally stupid. Some of them abused substances, other than Kozy Shack rice pudding, which negatively affected their mental processes.
Since none of these things apply to me, my chances of passing the multistate section are probably higher than 90%, don't you think? Even accounting for the facts that (1) I am sitting for the bar two years after having graduated from law school and (2) I have maternal responsibilities for someone who is at least as distracting as a comfortable addiction to marijuana (I assume). I find myself grasping at even more outlandish potential reasons for not passing the multistate that do not apply to me: surely at least one of these non-passing students developed a kidney condition during the exam which forced him to excuse himself for multiple time-consuming and concentration-wrecking bathroom breaks. This happens to other people all the time, but it won't happen to me.
I'm ashamed to say that I developed this chilling method of reasoning in law school. That's what happens when you take a bunch of hyper-competitive, achievement-driven, unfeeling freaks and grade them on a strict curve. During the weeks before exams, I would look around the classroom, sizing up the members of my class. I would hear the news from my classmates and translate it into the potential exam performance: Lulu got engaged this semester, so she probably hasn't read for this class; George's wife had triplets, but, on the other hand, I heard he has a photographic memory; At least I know I'll do better than Trixie, whose entire family contracted leprosy last month.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
The One and Only . . .
Yesterday, Baby and I watched Disney's, The One and Only Genuine Original Family Band. I hadn't seen it since I was a little kid. Here are my thoughts:
This was actually two movies rolled into one: The first was a romantic musical comedy about a girl and a boy who fall in love, get in a fight, and fall in love again. It was charming, but it felt kind of anachronistic. It's not that no one was making musicals in 1969/70, but they weren't making sentimental, patriotic, western musicals. I think singing and dancing with my family band in a barn is just about the coolest thing ever, but there were moments when even I felt a little embarrassed for the actors. Baby had no complaints though.
The other movie was a political/historical movie about living in Dakota at the time it was being considered for statehood. This plot was fascinating to me in 2008, and I wish they could have shaken off the musical romance stuff and gone into more detail with the story. Did I just say that? Hang on, I need to go watch "The Music Man" to straighten myself out.
Anyway, the whole story hinges on an the presidential race in 1888, when Cleveland received more actual votes than Harrison, but Harrison won the electoral college and the election. In 1888, the country was hugely divided between Republicans and Democrats, and this movie tried to illustrate that tension. I don't know personally, but I've read that the current political situation is the most violently partisan the country has seen since the Civil War. What was supposed to look ridiculous in the movie (interrupting a political rally?!!! defacing a portrait of a presidential candidate?!!!) looked like pretty typical politics to me. In fact, the most unbelievable part of the movie was the ending when everyone becomes friends in spite of their political differences.
My favorite line: "Well how do you like that? The Democrats win an election, fair and square, and the Republicans steal it out from under their noses." If they had put this in a movie today, it would have been an unfunny effort to make the movie Important and Timely. Instead, it was just plain awesome, like an unintended pun.
This was actually two movies rolled into one: The first was a romantic musical comedy about a girl and a boy who fall in love, get in a fight, and fall in love again. It was charming, but it felt kind of anachronistic. It's not that no one was making musicals in 1969/70, but they weren't making sentimental, patriotic, western musicals. I think singing and dancing with my family band in a barn is just about the coolest thing ever, but there were moments when even I felt a little embarrassed for the actors. Baby had no complaints though.
The other movie was a political/historical movie about living in Dakota at the time it was being considered for statehood. This plot was fascinating to me in 2008, and I wish they could have shaken off the musical romance stuff and gone into more detail with the story. Did I just say that? Hang on, I need to go watch "The Music Man" to straighten myself out.
Anyway, the whole story hinges on an the presidential race in 1888, when Cleveland received more actual votes than Harrison, but Harrison won the electoral college and the election. In 1888, the country was hugely divided between Republicans and Democrats, and this movie tried to illustrate that tension. I don't know personally, but I've read that the current political situation is the most violently partisan the country has seen since the Civil War. What was supposed to look ridiculous in the movie (interrupting a political rally?!!! defacing a portrait of a presidential candidate?!!!) looked like pretty typical politics to me. In fact, the most unbelievable part of the movie was the ending when everyone becomes friends in spite of their political differences.
My favorite line: "Well how do you like that? The Democrats win an election, fair and square, and the Republicans steal it out from under their noses." If they had put this in a movie today, it would have been an unfunny effort to make the movie Important and Timely. Instead, it was just plain awesome, like an unintended pun.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Rules of Evidence
Lately I've been brushing up on the federal rules of evidence. Husband (who is working much harder on them because he has a final in three weeks) can't stand them. I kind of like them. Every piece of information you want to enter into evidence is like a little puzzle, and you have to navigate the rules of the puzzle to get it in there. Sometimes I wish I could use them to direct my daily life. Here are a few examples:
Someone is telling me a long, boring story. Objection: Witness is giving an unnecessary narrative.
Family member is sharing an embarrassing anecdote about my childhood. Objection: The probative value of this information is outweighed by its prejudicial effect. (If the damage of the anecdote has already come out, you can ask that it be stricken from the record).
Customer service representative is telling me that my feelings of aggravation have no bearing on the question of whether or not the telephone company needs to return my money. Response: The emotional distress suffered by the witness goes directly to the question of damages.
Pompous honors undergrad does not want me to question his expertise: Response: I need to conduct a voir dire concerning this witness's qualifications to give his opinion on the subject of Everything.
See? Kind of cool. Sort of replaces social rules with legal ones. At least these ones are written down.
Someone is telling me a long, boring story. Objection: Witness is giving an unnecessary narrative.
Family member is sharing an embarrassing anecdote about my childhood. Objection: The probative value of this information is outweighed by its prejudicial effect. (If the damage of the anecdote has already come out, you can ask that it be stricken from the record).
Customer service representative is telling me that my feelings of aggravation have no bearing on the question of whether or not the telephone company needs to return my money. Response: The emotional distress suffered by the witness goes directly to the question of damages.
Pompous honors undergrad does not want me to question his expertise: Response: I need to conduct a voir dire concerning this witness's qualifications to give his opinion on the subject of Everything.
See? Kind of cool. Sort of replaces social rules with legal ones. At least these ones are written down.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Cars
Baby loves them. They have been his favorite toys his whole short life. One of his first words was "car." He spends hours pushing them around on the couch cushions or rolling them down ramps. He takes baths with his cars. He sleeps with a toy car clutched in each little fist.
I thought all of this was kind of cute until it moved beyond generic toy cars to specific toy cars. His favorite movie is (duh) "Cars." While he still loves all of his cars, lately he's begun to show preference to the "Cars" cars: Lightening McQueen, Doc Hudson, Ramone, etc. (Would you like me to name them all? I can. Would you like me to quote the entire movie? I can do that too.). A couple of weeks ago he realized that one of his sets of pajamas had pictures of Lightening McQueen all over them. He spent one blissful evening watching "Cars," holding his Doc Hudson car, wearing his Lightening McQueen jammies. Every so often he's look the picture of Lightening McQueen on his tummy and gently poke it, sighing blissfully. Yesterday, he found his car pajama pants on the floor of his bedroom, and he followed me around the house saying "uuh?" until I took off his pants and put him in his pajama pants.
I never thought I'd be a mom who supported this type of behavior. I pictured myself explaining to my child that, no, we did not need to buy the Batman action figure just because he was on TV. Then I would direct my child's attention to his educational flashcards. This whole cars things really snuck up on me.
I thought all of this was kind of cute until it moved beyond generic toy cars to specific toy cars. His favorite movie is (duh) "Cars." While he still loves all of his cars, lately he's begun to show preference to the "Cars" cars: Lightening McQueen, Doc Hudson, Ramone, etc. (Would you like me to name them all? I can. Would you like me to quote the entire movie? I can do that too.). A couple of weeks ago he realized that one of his sets of pajamas had pictures of Lightening McQueen all over them. He spent one blissful evening watching "Cars," holding his Doc Hudson car, wearing his Lightening McQueen jammies. Every so often he's look the picture of Lightening McQueen on his tummy and gently poke it, sighing blissfully. Yesterday, he found his car pajama pants on the floor of his bedroom, and he followed me around the house saying "uuh?" until I took off his pants and put him in his pajama pants.
I never thought I'd be a mom who supported this type of behavior. I pictured myself explaining to my child that, no, we did not need to buy the Batman action figure just because he was on TV. Then I would direct my child's attention to his educational flashcards. This whole cars things really snuck up on me.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
In Case You Were Interested . . .
No matter how I place Baby in his crib for the night, he always manages to fall asleep in the same position: on his back with his feet on his pillow. He also snores like a lawn mower.
I am desperately in love with him.
I am desperately in love with him.
Audiobooks
All law students are required to buy and use a laptop computer. After three years in a constant feed of information and entertainment, I found I had developed a sort of attention deficit disorder where I couldn't do just one thing at a time, especially if that one thing was kind of boring. I began making lists and writing letters during talks at church. My laundry stayed in the basket until I had a movie I could watch while I folded. Nursing my baby every two hours was particularly trying: I would find myself tapping my feet, mentally reviewing the elements of common law negligence or the difference between direct and derivative shareholder suits while I sat waiting for Baby to finish up or fall asleep.
Stay-home motherhood is definitely a hands-on, eyes-on job, and this makes it hard to do two things at once if they both require either your hands or your eyes. My beloved laptop friend of three years, alas, required both. My ears and my brain, however, were almost always available and bored. I quickly grew to understand how my mother developed her addiction to talk radio. I might have done the same, but my (also law school-compounded ADD) husband convinced me to take up audiobooks.
I'm hooked. I listen to audiobooks while I'm playing with Baby in the park, getting groceries, doing housework, driving in the car. I listen to newspapers, novels, radio programs, podcasts -- I'm even taking Spanish lessons when I'm feeling pious about continuing my education.
One of the tricky things about audiobooks is that they are, in many ways, far more engrossing than printed material. Since I already had a habit of getting distracted by novels, this can be a problem. For example, right now I am listening to "The Beautiful and Damned" by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It is about a bunch of wealthy, lazy, selfish people who I intensely dislike. I don't know how it ends yet (so don't tell me), but I'm really looking forward to the part where they all get damned. I would actually like to see one of them repent and reform, but since good old F. Scott never reformed, I can only hope for a satisfying damnation.
Today, I had a lot of errands to run, so I had several hours of listening to the beautiful and damned Anthony Patch and Gloria Gilbert sneering, whining, and drinking highballs. I felt like I've been hanging out with them all day. I think I was kind of rude to the clerk at Target, just because I wanted to push Gloria into a lake. I need to take a break and listen to something with characters I actually like. Unfortunately, all I have right now is the Wall Street Journal or NPR's "Justice Talking." Decisions, decisions. I think "Justice Talking" is more likely to keep me motivated while I wash the dishes and less likely to contain beautiful and damned characters.
Stay-home motherhood is definitely a hands-on, eyes-on job, and this makes it hard to do two things at once if they both require either your hands or your eyes. My beloved laptop friend of three years, alas, required both. My ears and my brain, however, were almost always available and bored. I quickly grew to understand how my mother developed her addiction to talk radio. I might have done the same, but my (also law school-compounded ADD) husband convinced me to take up audiobooks.
I'm hooked. I listen to audiobooks while I'm playing with Baby in the park, getting groceries, doing housework, driving in the car. I listen to newspapers, novels, radio programs, podcasts -- I'm even taking Spanish lessons when I'm feeling pious about continuing my education.
One of the tricky things about audiobooks is that they are, in many ways, far more engrossing than printed material. Since I already had a habit of getting distracted by novels, this can be a problem. For example, right now I am listening to "The Beautiful and Damned" by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It is about a bunch of wealthy, lazy, selfish people who I intensely dislike. I don't know how it ends yet (so don't tell me), but I'm really looking forward to the part where they all get damned. I would actually like to see one of them repent and reform, but since good old F. Scott never reformed, I can only hope for a satisfying damnation.
Today, I had a lot of errands to run, so I had several hours of listening to the beautiful and damned Anthony Patch and Gloria Gilbert sneering, whining, and drinking highballs. I felt like I've been hanging out with them all day. I think I was kind of rude to the clerk at Target, just because I wanted to push Gloria into a lake. I need to take a break and listen to something with characters I actually like. Unfortunately, all I have right now is the Wall Street Journal or NPR's "Justice Talking." Decisions, decisions. I think "Justice Talking" is more likely to keep me motivated while I wash the dishes and less likely to contain beautiful and damned characters.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Munchies
It's starting. I really need a treat right now. Something fried. A donut maybe. Or a fast food empanada. Mmm...
I've been here before. If my munchy craving isn't satisfied in the next couple of hours, I may call a neighbor to come over and babysit while I make a frenzied run to Krispy Kreme. She understands. If she can't make it, I just might spend an entire hour in the kitchen in the middle of the night making cookies. It's that bad.
Or maybe I can convince Husband to interrupt his studies to make a munchy run for me. I think he secretly loves doing that kind of thing.
I knew this girl in high school who had cravings for popular music the way I have cravings for food. She'd seriously run home during lunch hour because she had a craving to listen to Counting Crows. I never really understood that. If I have a song in my head, I might think "hmm, I like this song a lot," and if I happened to be near my computer, I might pull it up and listen to it, but it's not a driving compulsion for me. I haven't kept in touch with that girl since high school (she was kind of weird), but I bet she's really happy in the iTunes age. Immediate satifaction for all her music addictions for a dollar a song (or for free if you're not bothered by those pesky copyright regulations).
I guess the Internet is getting close to satisfying my munchy cravings. If I were craving pizza, say, I could go to Papa John's website and order something to be delivered. But I'm never craving pizza, and if I were, I wouldn't want a whole pizza. I want a single donut. I want to open iTunes, click a button, charge my credit card 49 cents, and have a warm glazed donus appear on this napkin I have ready right by the computer.
Could you work on that Man O' Steel?
I've been here before. If my munchy craving isn't satisfied in the next couple of hours, I may call a neighbor to come over and babysit while I make a frenzied run to Krispy Kreme. She understands. If she can't make it, I just might spend an entire hour in the kitchen in the middle of the night making cookies. It's that bad.
Or maybe I can convince Husband to interrupt his studies to make a munchy run for me. I think he secretly loves doing that kind of thing.
I knew this girl in high school who had cravings for popular music the way I have cravings for food. She'd seriously run home during lunch hour because she had a craving to listen to Counting Crows. I never really understood that. If I have a song in my head, I might think "hmm, I like this song a lot," and if I happened to be near my computer, I might pull it up and listen to it, but it's not a driving compulsion for me. I haven't kept in touch with that girl since high school (she was kind of weird), but I bet she's really happy in the iTunes age. Immediate satifaction for all her music addictions for a dollar a song (or for free if you're not bothered by those pesky copyright regulations).
I guess the Internet is getting close to satisfying my munchy cravings. If I were craving pizza, say, I could go to Papa John's website and order something to be delivered. But I'm never craving pizza, and if I were, I wouldn't want a whole pizza. I want a single donut. I want to open iTunes, click a button, charge my credit card 49 cents, and have a warm glazed donus appear on this napkin I have ready right by the computer.
Could you work on that Man O' Steel?
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