Upon the death of a patriarch

I apologize for the topic of this post. It is such a struggle to decide what to say publicly when someone dies. I think that the way it “ought” to be dealt with is something that many people have strong feelings about, and yet there is no consensus. So in a selfish attempt to sort through my own head after the death of my Grandfather, on this the day we laid him to rest, I am making my thoughts public. I promise this won't be too sad, more a reflection; death is inevitable and dying at nearly ninety is something of an accomplishment. Not that we won't miss him, but there is much more to be celebrated than mourned. 

 My Grandfather was not an easy man: raised in depression, served in the Navy and worked on the railroad, he had gained the requisite tough exterior. I did not have an easy relationship with him as a young girl; I was eventually able to hold my own, but there were years I lived in terror of his acerbic tongue. To this day I think I have spilled more tears over his short temper and impatience than any other man or boy. Eventually I came to understand that he had his own burdens, that he loved us but didn't express it well. That, for most of my life he was either dealing with being the caregiver for my grandmother as she suffered from a terminal illness, or mourning her loss, was a difficult realization that shed some light on his temper. As I grew up I came to appreciate that he was stubborn, not only in his demands but also his love for family.

 I also came to view and appreciate my grandfather’s quiet streak of feminism. I don’t imagine that is a word that he would have been very comfortable using, and he certainly wasn’t radically progressive in the area, but it was pretty clear that he viewed my grandmother as a partner and that they raised their sons and daughter to raise strong women of their own. He was nonchalant about voting for a woman or going to female doctors. He was raised by a single mother after his father passed away, and I am sure watching that strength of will had a great influence on him. He never batted an eye when I decided to work on the hill or go to law school, and he was an equal opportunity interrupter.

 In his last days he asked for us all to come see him. He could be demanding, and we wondered if he was feeling bored, but, when we arrived, it was clear he was saying goodbye, taking his last moments to enjoy us all together. He had been sick for some time, and while we had joked that he was stubborn enough to live forever, I had accepted that his time was near. His last question to me was whether anyone actually read the books in our law library, which I could answer honestly that they did. I’ll think of that question any time I pull a reporter from the shelf, a small carried forward " I love you".

“Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.” 

—Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky

My Grandfather had lost his front teeth to a horseshoe as a young man,
when my cousin and I lost our front teeth at the same time he tool the
opportunity to show off his inner first-grader. 

Spring time trips and birthday disappointment.

In continuing my attempt to take you through the months of life that were un-blogged, I am writing once more about last spring. (And hey, this is the third post this month so I would say I am making some, middling, progress.)
My parents sent my little sister to visit me, for her spring break, which just happened to be around my birthday and, more importantly at cherry blossom time. It was a pretty awsome trip, although not without its trials-we are sibblings after all and even as we get older we know how to push each other's buttons, although traveling together has gotten much easier as time has gone on. (The first road trip I rember taking with her, led to me threatening at some point to throw her out the window. I was serious, my parents were displeased.)

It was nice to show her around DC and take her to some of my favorite places, with the added advantage of Meghan still being on my parents dole, so she was a less expensive visitor than many of my friends. Plus there really isn't a better time to be in the district than the end of March. (This is a stark contrast to the beginning of July which I would argue is the worst time to be in the district.)  
Another plesant birthday surprise- my parent's got me a Kindle Fire! I was very excited, I always ask for a surprise gift from my parents. I know in many ways this is mean, basically I am testing how well they know me, giving them no hints, but it makes the gift so much better because I have no idea what is coming and it is something I probably wouldn't have gotten for myself. Which really illistrates the problem of gift giving as you get older, anything that I would ask for there is a good chance I will just buy it for myself and giving money just goes to needs like groceries and rent. (Not that I mind thos things- a girls gotta eat but it is so much fun to be really surpriesed and touched by a gift.)
Unfortunately my little sister had to leave early on the morning of my birthday, which left a bit to be desired as birthdays go. Thursdays were my long day last semester (nearly straight through from 10 in the morning till 8 at night) and most of my friends (including my roommate) forgot I realize that this is partly my fault, my facebook doesn't have my birthday on it, and I tend to not make a big deal about it, but still it was a little depressing. Thankfully I had saved a stack of cards from people at home to open and enjoy, because a spring break trip and law school isn't quite as insane as a wedding. (Plus my roommate eventually remembered and insisted on margaritas and chocolate cake- something that tastes good even the day after your birthday.)

She is definitely not Jake, but my roommate makes a mean birthday cake.

In Between

I love Holidays (in theory and in part) and I love my family, and with exams being over you would think that going home for winter break would be a blissful three weeks. Unfortunately, going home for the holidays isn't easy, so much of it seems to emphasize the things that are difficult about being in my early to mid twenties. It places into sharp focus the fact that I am in limbo. I am some place between the family I grew up with and the family I will create, I am not a child my parents have to raise but I am not one of the grown-ups either. Most of the time it is easy to ignore, I am busy enough living two parallel lives that the places they blur together aren't so noticeable, but when I am home living as a daughter, all of the ways I have changed come into sharp (sometimes comedic ) relief.
This year was better than most, usually my dad and I get along wonderfully for about three days and then we spend the rest of my time at home at each other's throats. Most of this comes from my unwillingness to take (what the Irish and the polite person in me would call) blarney. After many occasions of, mostly good natured, teasing I would remind him that if he wanted a pushover he should have raised one. It used to be that my mom and little sister let him off the hook, so my coming home was the estrogen bomb that sent him running to his man cave. This year my little sister came home first, and she took her turn taking on my father. Which meant I either got to be "the good one" or I had a partner in crime. What I call a win win.

Me and my Mom, making fun of my Dad at Fort Point
Under the Golden Gate Bridge 

While I had hoped my little sister's active social life and snark while at home would suck up my Dad's attention it seemed to shine it back on me, as if we both needed to be held to an eighteen year-old's level of scrutiny. Although it has been many years since I have allowed him to control my social life, while I am at home I do understand that my parents have a right to know where I am going. This also frequently means I get my dad's commentary about things like skirt length (you're sure you don't want to cover your legs?) tight warmth (with all those holes your legs must get cold, why don't you put on pants?) driving routes (don't take the freeway it will be crazy the frontage road is better.) Not to mention a general proclivity for asking questions he doesn't wan't to know the answer to- trust me dad what you are looking for is not in the pink bag, you DON'T want to go in there. Although much of this impasse was defeated when he realized that I could embarrass him more (with the contents of said pink bag)  than he could embarrass me (because anything that embarrassing I wouldn't bring home).
It was a tougher year for my Mom and I, we are very close and other that a few disagreements, generally about my clothing budget and reluctance to disclose my love life (mostly because it doesn't exist) we get along really well. This year there was an undercurrent of tension between us, I think because we both realize that Holidays at home may be coming to an end and will certainly get shorter. I can't be sure, but the whole year had a sense of change to it. So while I am still in between I don't know if it will be for long or what it will mean on the other side.
It was still a magical Christmas, with weather most people could only dream of. So thank you, Babette for taking the heat off me, Mom for caring enough to worry about change, Dad for my thick skin and unwillingness to take crap, and my whole family for a wonderful holiday season!

Visiting Washington DC

It has been a couple of weeks since my mom visited me. I was so glad to have her visit, although the visit had a few missteps. Most notably my aunt who came down from New Jersey to spend the weekend with us got ill, and the weather was less than perfect but it was a nice visit none the less.
My Dad comes to DC frequently for work but this was the first time my mom had visited, in fact it was the first time I had ever been her hostess in any capacity an it was a nice experience. (I always lived in a dorm or my sorority house in college so there wasn't much of an opportunity.) I like hosting people and DC is a great place to have people visit me in, there is plenty to do, it is easy to get around and I know the city well enough that I can integrate a visit into my hectic life with [relative] ease. Sometimes I think that if the whole law school thing doesn't work out I will open a bed and breakfast, so I can bake scones and have visitors every day. (And then I realize that I would never have my house to myself and that dream dies.)  Generally visits are very different depending on who is coming to visit and why:
Business Trip: (usually my dad) generally he has a rental car and at least a few nice meals I can tag along on. Basically this is my opportunity to eat and live like I did before loans. Generally includes trips to home depot and target.
Tourist Visit: Someone who is excited to see me but also excited to have a tour guide. These trips involve a lot of walking and eating usually at place off the beaten path. Typically I get about a week behind in my work (which is entirely my fault, I will use any excuse not to read.) These trips offer an opportunity to see the sights I never see in my day to day life. Although I refuse to go to the Air and Space Museum, seriously you can't pay me.
My mom's visit didn't really fit into either of these categories. It was closer to a "here is a window into my real life." We made pizza and watched West Wing reruns, we went on a grocery run, and spent some time with my DC family. She helped me get my house a little more together. It was the perfect visit, and now I can look around my house and see little pieces of her. Thanks for visiting mom.

Things My Job Has Taught Me: Part III (I am so incredibly lucky)

So this is another perspective post...
We have a large murder trial going on in court right now, it is gang related so security is pretty tight and everyone is a little jumpy. The worst part about the whole thing is the number of children involved: each of the two defendants have at least one child. The victim and most of the witnesses, many of whom were (legally) children when the murder occurred, have children. Most days we have four or five children in the courtroom who are anywhere from infancy to elementary school aged.
Now anyone who knows me knows my general tolerance for children is low, but really a child in a courtroom? It would be distracting and inappropriate in any circumstance (I am sorry there are some places that children don't belong, especially children who misbehave these include courtrooms, boardrooms, romantic restaurants and lecture halls.) And even if social mores and the rules of polite company don't bother you, do you really want your four year old listening to graphic shooting testimony or seeing autopsy photos blown up to life size?
I tend to be all for honesty and openness with children, I think that my parents treating me and my inquires with respect helped spring my intellectual curiosity. But there is something to be said for preserving childhood,  and I can't imagine that you have much in the way of childhood memories when you are exposed so young to the criminal justice system. It is by the luck of birth that I was born to an upper middle class white family and my first exposure to the law was visiting the Supreme Court at four. The archetype for me to mold myself to Earl Warren. I try to remember that not everyone has positive images and hope for their own future, that there are so many whose  model is absent or in shackles.

I had a better time without you.

Samuel Beam aka "Iron and Wine" at the 9:30 club

I have had tickets to see Iron and Wine at the 9:30 Club last Friday since some time in January. On Thursday the people I planned to go with told me that they had sold their tickets weeks earlier. I was pissed, I couldn't believe how inconsiderate it was, especially because I don't think they would have told me at all if I hadn't asked them about meeting up. I don't know how people get away with being so inconsiderate and still have friends. (It wasn't that they canceled but that they didn't offer the tickets to me to see if I could find someone to use them, or tell me early enough that I could sell mine.)

I tried to sell my ticket and, predictably, was unable to find a buyer. So rather than let the ticket go to waste I went to the show alone. My mom wasn't happy about it. (I think she expects me to run into Sid Vicious and end up dead in the Hotel Chelsea anytime I go to a concert. This means that I often wait to tell her about them until after the fact.

It avoids conversations like this:

Mom: but why do you want to go?

Me: Because they are awesome and the lead singer is cute. [Or I listened to them every day for a month when I was hating being abroad. Or because all my friends are going. (But that just brings up the bridge conversation.)] 

Mom: But it is expensive.

Me: How would wasting the tickets saving me money?

Mom: I just don't want you to get hurt. 

Me: Mom it just Outside Lands [or the Catalyst, or the Greek, or the 9:30 club]  and I have the cheap tickets, I am not going to meet some ne'er do well musician who tempts me with his words and move into his bus.

Mom: Well things happen. (She finishes in such a way that I can see her eye brows raise and her head tilt through the phone so she may as well be screaming "YOU SHOULDN'T GO.") Okay so that isn't exactly fair, but my Mom's distaste for heat, crowded spaces, and loud noise come out any time going to a show comes up.)

I disregarded her advice and went and I was really glad. In part because there is something really empowering about doing a "couple-y" thing on your own. I would have been upset if I had let the ticket go to waste, and while I could have blamed it on my friends ultimately I had control over the use of my ticket. While I was an anomaly, most people don't go to concerts alone, people were friendly, the beer was good and the music was better.  I generally have a head on most of the waifish hipster girls so I was ten feet back from the stage and could see everything perfectly. The whole set was amazing, and because I was alone I could sing along and enjoy the music without idol chit-chat. As an encore he did an a cappella version of "Flightless Bird American Mouth" that brought tears to my eyes. While it would have been nice to share it with someone who appreciated the music, obviously the people who bailed on me were not those people. 

  

Failure is not an option...

When I was about nine or ten my dad brought back a t-shirt from a business trip in Florida. It is a quote from Gene Kranz, the NASA flight director on Apollo 13. While it is exactly what I would want to hear from a flight director if I was an astronaut, I think as a child I would have been better served by the words of Edison "I have not failed. I have just found 10,000 ways that don't work."

While "failure is not an option" works reasonably well as a stance for the parents of a bright (if sometimes lazy) child living in a town where teachers were told not to use red pens, everyone had to be given valentines, birthday party invitations and end of the year trophies, at some point we will all fail. Success isn't about never failing, it is about learning to fail well. This has been the toughest lesson of law school. One of the secrets of the law, which is actually painfully obvious, is that you are going to lose half of the time, and if you define winning as getting exactly what you client wants well then that number is considerably lower. So law school is the excruciating experience of failing a lot, of breaking you down to very small painful parts and building you back up in a way that makes failure less personal so you can learn from losing, so that even the worst sort of day isn't really a failure.

This isn't compatible with "failure is not an option" and it has isolated me. I have created an infallible facade in front of a very human girl. When I am less than perfect there is no one to share that with because it doesn't fit with who I was created to be. There is nothing to success if it wasn't fought for and in exposing our wounds we are allowed to learn from them rather than letting them fester in the dark.

     

Beer... it's not just for breakfast anymore.

So I guess it is going to become tradition for me to write about my baking habits on minor holidays and not much else. (I do promise that there are more exciting and interesting law school related bits coming.) But I have actual pictures for this, and it is about something mildly entertaining that isn't reading and writing for hours. 

Anyway coming from a family that recognizes its Irish roots (probably perceives them as stronger than they are, but thats another story) Saint Patrick's Day was a pretty big deal. I can remember getting into a debate with my cousin about the merits of Kelly v. Emerald green as true green and being pinched in the morning for not wearing green pajamas.

This year was pretty boring, because law school has taken up my life, and somewhere along the way I became responsible i didn't even have a drink. But I did make Guinness cupcakes. Which are amazing. I double the beer in mine so they actually taste like stout and they came out so well. Plus it is really fun to give food away. Anyway...   

  

Grace is a fan of all baked goods, beer not so much.

Home

Well I am back in DC, technically Maryland, but well you get the point. I meant to write some during vacation but that, along with a slough of other things, didn't happen. This Christmas will certainly be remembered, but for all the wrong reasons.
Thomas Wofle was right, you can't go home again. The vestiges of your former self, which live in foggy memories and haunt the walls of your childhood home are phantoms, reaching out to you with a hope they cannot fulfill. They leave you lost, lonely, and mean; searching dusty tomes for an artifact to reassure you in your future or stabilize the foundation from which you grew. Ultimately you are left unfulfilled, having unearthed more weaknesses then you care to acknowledge. And still it pulls on you calling for you to stay, to hold onto that fuzzy version of your past self that never really existed.
I thought about running away, frequently, over the break. Getting in a car or on a plane and leaving it behind, the debt, the responsibility. It is a silly dream I know, leaving would make things infinitely more complicated. It is the spirit of American wanderlust in me, I guess, but I know it isn't a viable option. (Just as much as I know the price of the cheapest one way ticket from IAD to De Gaulle on most days.) If I were living in a Russian novel Paris would be my Moscow. I love stories about the post-war expat community in the city about artists and poets and the family they formed there. I have been to modern Paris and I know that Montmartre doesn't look like it did fifty years ago. That the place I imagine doesn't exist and probably never did, it is probably the musings of the romantic in me I have been trying, unsuccessfully, to kill for far to long. I still love the city though, every time I am there I understand why it is the French have such an aversion to work. It would be a lovely life, sitting by the Seine writing, painting, drinking wine and eating cheese. The piece of me that loves Pacific avenue and local bands and feels guilty for not becoming the type of lawyer that defends indigenousness peoples from huge multinational corporations and the ill will of their government wants to run away, to live that life. I am not that person, I don't wander, I plan. I will have my Juris Doctorate mere months after my twenty-fifth birthday.  At least here I know what my role is. Law school is terribly isolating, piercingly difficult and at times painful in the myriad of ways it makes me feel like an idiot but I know who I am and what I am supposed to do. I know I am capable, and that I have the wonderful support I need to do it. Just because you can't go home again doesn't mean it's not there waiting, changed, rough around the edges but there none the less.

The Coast Guard is dropping SPAM. (It is not good as my Aunt's turkey)

OR

The time the rest of the country calls the holidays and Law Students call exams.

My trip to my aunt's for Thanksgiving was lovely. I was able to leave a day earlier than planned because my contracts class was canceled and Amtrak is amazing. (Another reason to love train travel, it only cost me $3 to rebook my ticket, it never ceases to amaze me how much more civilized train travel is, even during a delay in Philly everyone was okay, there was so much less stress and upset then when I fly.)
My break was just the respite I needed from the insanity this part of the school year brings with it. I was able to go for a couple of nice walks, eat WAY too much tasty food, catch up on sleep, and generally bum around getting my head ready for the insanity that descended as soon as I got back to school. I even caught up on the last of my readings (for the whole semester)! I didn't think that was going to happen.
Should I have, in all honesty, probably come home early to miss the craziness of traveling the Sunday after Thanksgiving and work more on my outlines, which are woefully unfinished. Well, the insane 1L in me says yes, and I should have been working the whole time. But mostly my philosophy is that the insanity doesn't really help anyone and that calm focus is such a better way to go about things. This is not how most 1L's feel. Most of my classmates seem to be surviving on coffee and anxiety alone. Even at Cal, where there was a fair amount of exam anxiety, I never saw anything like I see from my classmates now.
It is hard to explain exactly what it is like using anything but a long silly over extended metaphor. It feels like we are all on a boat together an I am aware that everything is fine. We are floating along and everyone needs to keep doing their jobs and there won't be a problem. But then about half of my ship[class]mates are running around screaming that we are sinking. They are running around, screaming, jumping into life boats (and leaving the safety of the boat for the dangers of an open ocean in a dingy.)
Mostly I am fine, I can see the insanity of only getting three hours of sleep a night, or committing a case book to memory, or completely cutting myself off from the rest of the world. But there comes a point when everyone around you is screaming and yelling and a little irrational voice in the back of your head starts saying, wait what was that, are we sinking? I know that it is irrational but you can only block out so much of the crazy. And it is nearly impossible to convince people that we are on the Love Boat and not the Titanic. (Okay well maybe not the Love Boat, although with the amount of inter-classmate dating it is getting there. I guess it is more like that Carnival cruise that was adrift for a week. Yes its stressful and the generators and water system have failed, but the Coast Guard is dropping spam and we will get through this.)
The level of stress and crazy running back and fourth wares on you, and you wonder when we are going to push piggy off a cliff. Which, is why I will leave a room when people are spinning themselves into a frenzy, and why I have committed myself to going for a run every day that I don't have class. (Dead week starts tomorrow so it is most days for the next three weeks.) Because when I am working out everything else falls away, I am not a 1L preping for my first exams, my mom isn't sick, I am not going back home to negoitate the tightrope of my childhood-self and friends with the person I am becoming; there is just music and breathing and (probably way too much) burring of muscles. (It is my Coast Guard SPAM- if you will allow me to take it too far.)
Talking to people about this time of year I get so excited for the future, when holiday stress won't have anything to do with outlining or exams,  because December will be just another stressful month at work and it will just be the added stress of parties and presents and decorations. Then I realized that it is sad that I am excited for the stress other people dread. It is hard to believe after a lifetime being in school before the holidays that I only have this one and then two more, then I get to be a grown up. (I guess?)

Anyway that was a rambling post which is probably pretty indicative of where my head is.

 Now onto studying!

Little Women

It's been a tough week for my mom and with her my whole family. This news has really gotten me thinking about how important our relationship is. The more I think about it the more I realize the legacy of women in my life. My family is full of mythical women, not that they were not real but just that at some point their impact became bigger than themselves. Thinking back on the people and stories that shaped me it was almost always the women in my life. (With the obvious huge exception of my father.) 

One of the common tropes in our culture is how poorly women treat each other. There are more books about mean girls and cruel sorority sisters than anyone could read in a lifetime. Looking at the cultural artifacts of modern times you see instance after instance of women treating each other terribly, really all reality TV is women putting each other down for publicity. It makes me ill to watch for two reasons. The first, if women want to be held on an equal plain as men we need to take cues from them in how they treat one another, and it certainly isn't pulling one another down. I think it is so important for women to be there for each other, especially the young girls who are learning from us. The second, more personal reason, is I would like culture to reflect my experience, I was raised by a tribe of amazing women each of whom have blessed me with amazing gifts. I wish that this was more women's experience, and that it was what was expected of us. Of course if the standard we are held up to is cruel and degrading that will be what young girls learn, and the experience won't change.

There are so many women who have gotten me where I am: 

The grandmother who taught me that it was okay to be smart and that we each have struggles to deal with.

The grandmother who wished positivity for me and pushed me to be happy, who loved life and taught me to make a mean pie and showed me what it meant to love deeply. 

The aunt who nurtured my creative side. 

The aunt who let me know it was okay to want what I want. 

The aunt who is understanding and honest and has more answers about my crazy weird family than I could hope for.    

The nanny who became a sister and friend, a trusted confidant, with true perspective.

The cousin who always made me feel cool.

The cousin who was there as a big sister and fellow chocolate addict. 

The friend who forced me to have some fun in high school.

The friend whose steady friendship is fiercely dependable.

The friend who is much to understanding of how lazy I am, how much I love junk food and my love of inappropriate conversations. 

My sister who reminds me that there is so much light and beauty in the world, who is much too kind and the only other person on the planet who really gets my parents. 

Most importantly my mom, I try to remember how lucky I am to have such a wonderful relationship with my mom. Who lets me know it is okay to cry and that she is always on my side, a dependable safety net to use as I need. I don't know how she is able to keep the crazy mis-formed pieces of our family together, to create order in the chaotic universe of our lives. She is somehow always only a phone call away, and even more astonishing she can reach through the phone and span a continent with her words. I can't believe her kindness and generosity, the way she willingly sacrifices herself for the rest of us. I hope I don't forget how lucky I am and that I never have to try to fill her shoes.    

Love you mom

   

On a side note I did not want to title this post "Little Women," it was the first thing that came to my mind, but I immediately thought, no I can think of something better than that. So I racked my brain and searched online and you know what I discovered, there just aren't many books about women's relationships. I thought about Jane Austen, but really her books are about finding husbands in the company of your sisters. And then I thought of Amy Tan and Toni Morrison but those are as much about poverty and the minority experience, which really wasn't what I was going for either. (Plus neither have written a book that I would read of my own free will, sorry if that is literary blasphemy.)  According to fiction it seems that a measure of success for women (at least white privileged women) is never forming strong enough bonds with other women that you can't leave them behind. In most novels (even good ones) female protagonists are either finding men or hating their mothers (or both). I think that we can blame Disney and Shakespeare for this.   

How the Giants won me a beer, and the World Series

I had a difficult time deciding what to call this post. I thought about referencing masochism again, something about how much joy torture can bring at the end, but I thought that was going a bit far. 

I thought more seriously about referencing the Journey song "Lights." And the line, "So you say your lonely, well I am lonely too. And I want to go home to my city by the bay." Because tonight I am as homesick as I have ever been, being in the midst of what my mentor called the most isolating experience she has ever been through, was nothing compared to this evening. And I wish deeply to be back in my City by the Bay. 

I actually sat an watched the Giant's game this evening. I didn't believe that the Giant's would be able to win until there was one strike left. The whole bottom of the ninth I was screaming at the announcers who acted like game was won already. This is a team that exemplifies the idea that it isn't over till the fat lady sings. They were in a similar situation the last time they were in the series and were able to loose it. Acts of God have interrupted their World Series. Cautious optimism is the name of the game. Then Wilson threw the last pitch and the Giants won.

I  immediately started crying. I was so terribly happy. It was the culmination of years of sitting being tortured by Giant's baseball. And I am so glad that it was this team of freaks and miss-fits that was able to do it. Because the Giants are a team of the underdog. This was the way the win was supposed to go, for a team not a star. The cold nights at candlestick, the hot days in the bleachers, the painful losses, seeing Buster Posey hit a home run in his first game in the majors, the Barry Bonds home runs, my grandfather teaching me to keep score, my teen-aged crush on J.T. Snow, my childhood idolization of Glen Ellen Hill because he grew up in my home town and shared my birthday. It is more than what it means to me, it is what it means to my family, an most especially my dad.

I wouldn't love baseball if it wasn't for my dad. His willingness to bribe me with hot chocolate if it was cold and ice cream if it was hot, because "we aren't dodgers fans, and we stay till the end of the game." His ability to sit through games with wining kids, although I am sure the headphones with Kruke and Kype on the radio helped.  His utter devotion to a team that seemed to always let him down. The Giants won their last world series three weeks before my dad was born . (It was the third longest streak behind the Cubs and the Indians if you are keeping track. I used to joke that he was the Giants' curse, and they would win the series again three weeks after he pasted away.) He was born before Major League Baseball came west of the Mississippi and has a couple hazy memories of the when the Seals played in San Fransisco. This means he picked his team and his league, and while the rest of his family has hazy alliances to the American League and the Oakland A's, my dad is nothing if not a Giants fan. He taught me from a young age why the designated hitter rule was an abomination and that the only prejudice you are allowed to express openly is against Dodger's (and then it is best done in a loud voice.) His stories of being a young fan are the stuff of Americana.

This win was a big moment for my childhood self and the part of me that is truly my father's daughter. And I couldn't share it with my family. There wasn't anyone around I could hug, who got it. Who knows what an accomplishment it was to get a Croix De Candlestick or the nausea that comes when you discuss 2002 and Ortiz. I was alone in my joy and sometimes that is even harder than being alone in sadness
.
So I cried, big smiling wet tears for my team and my family. When it came time to pay my bill my weighter turned to me and said "your beer is on me. You totally made my night. I am a Red Socks fan so I get it." Maybe I wasn't as alone as I thought I was, but I was still outside of my city missing my people.
Really I just looking for someone to be able to do this with:

Carlos Avila Gonzalez / San Francisco Chronicle

Because that is how I felt.

So thanks dad for spending every summer and a small fortune giving me a passion for baseball and a tolerance for torture. You can let mom know it was worth it. 

(And I promise I will post on this weekend, but it probably will be about this time next week)

Oh Giants how I love thee...but its a good thing I am a bit of a masochist.

Honestly there is a reason the Folsom Street Fair has such a welcoming audience in San Fransisco; Bay Area residents have been enjoying the torture of Giants baseball for five decades. 

 I love baseball, I was raised on Giants baseball. My father has been a fan since they moved to San Fransisco. I know that if I ever wanted to break my fathers heart (or kill him) all I would have to do is come home in the blue and white of the dreaded dodgers.I don't have a TV and I was going to avoid the pain that is Giants' baseball, just keep track of playoffs on the periphery. I knew it was best to stay away lest it suck me in like an all to tempting drug whose high is not worth the pain as you come down. Then last night's Bar Review (the clever pun for our weekly law school "social" gathering) was at a sports bar... I walk in and I am surrounded by the Giants/Braves game. And Tim Lincecum was doing an amazing job pitching despite the lack of support from the lineup. (14 Strike out, shut out, full game pitched thank you very much. I am a little in love with him, if only he would stop with the chew, gross.) So I watched  the game rather than meet people or be social. I squealed, I pounded on the table I groaned. To which my East Coast gay Best Friend (here after dubbed "hotlanta"- it is a long story mostly based on his being from Atlanta) cheekily pointed at me and said "what is this, who are you, what is going on? I haven't seen this side of you and I don't like it."
Needless to say I was hooked. I wore my jersey today, I searched out a place to watch the game, and awkwardly sat at a prime booth for hours. Only to be let down. We were ahead by four runs and lost it. We had the bases loaded and did nothing with it. And now we have to go to Atlanta tied in the series. But, because there is always hope, I leave with this...

Yep that is Tim Lincecum with his dog Cy...
(we would be getting married if not for his chew habit.)
Photograph © Black Oak French Bulldogs

 

Don't You Wish This Was The Chunnel Train From London to Paris?

Kinder don't you think.
Although I rarely get to ride in the luxury that is the acela.

The title of the the blog is an advertisement that is on the train from Atlantic City to Philadelphia. (I take a New Jersey transit train from Atlantic City to Philadelphia and then get on the much nicer Amtrak train from there to DC.) The adds must be in every car, and they have been posted for the last few years. I see them every time I am leaving the shore and every time I think "yes thanks for rubbing it in jerk." It has to be the last thing that you would like to see as you are leaving your vacation for the real world. I don't know what the add is for, probably an airline or a travel agent or some other similar service or maybe it is some wealthy Parisian sadist's way of getting her jollies. I think that the Amtrak adds are much more civilized, they make me want to get on a train, instead of just wishing I never had to get up for school again.

Because I couldn't find a picture of the coffee counter
 here is the scene from Marnie

I am home safe and sound and ready for another week. It is hard to face reality again, but as transitions into it go I can't think of a better way than Amtrak. I love taking the train, something most Americans don't understand. (Even with the kid kicking the back of my seat and the depressing advertisements both courtesy of New Jersey transit.) Maybe it has something to do with being from a "railroad family" both my grandfather and great-grandfather were railroad men, and I think there are days my dad wishes he had taken up the family occupation. Train travel is so calming and civilized, I don't have to take off my shoes or disply the contents of my bag. I can get up and walk around, there is WiFi on  the trains and places to plug in your computer. Even when we get stalled, which is not uncommon, I don't mind all that much. And I love it when my travel takes me to beautiful old stations, Union Station and Penn station are some of my favorites although the old station in California my great-grandmother used to commute out of holds a special place in my heart. How many people can say they are the fourth generation to get a cup of coffee a counter? (Plus it was in Hitchcock's Marnie doubling as the Hartford Connecticut.)  I will gladly take a train over flying or driving (at least if I am the driver.)

The Jersey Shore

I am spending the long wekend on the Jersey shore. But just so there is no confusion my Jersey shore looks a lot more like this... 

than like this...

It is hard to belive that we are only two weeks in, I am already tired. ( I will blame it in part on school deciding to hold a special Friday session and therefore having an extra day of class this week.) Lame especially considering the fact that I would have been able to get out of town a day earlier and avoided the traffic, except with the hurricane coming I guess the shore is dead. Leave it to me to plan a beach vacation for during a huge storm.
Although it seems that now the storm has passed, missing us pretty much completely and now we have beautiful weather and smaller crowds that your usual labor day. It is sort of perfect for my intentions, relax spend time with my family, soak in the calm. I am even caught up on my reading so I only had to bring my computer. (I was able to read a novel today on the beach!) It is shaping up to be a great weekend!

A Project...

Goodbye Pedicure 

So there is a long running joke in my family about "projects." When I was little I relished going over to my Aunt's house (here after referred to as Aunt Artsy) in addition to her three kids who I grew up with and regarded as quasi siblings, I loved it when she took care of me because she put together the best art projects. Muffin tin crayons: check, magazine collages: check, egg carton caterpillar: double check. I loved them, I loved her big box of art supplies and the fact that she always sat down and worked with us (to my four year old self the fact that she as a grownup was actually an artist was the most amazing thing i could think of.) The first thing I would ask when I got in her house would be "Aunt Artsy can we do an art project."  Now while I loved the projects even at four I was already goal oriented and task focused so it was typical of me that I would sit down and within ten minutes be done. This meant I would get up holding my completed artwork and stand looking up at her and ask "Aunt Artsy can we do another art project?"
When I grew out of this and got to be a bit older it was a favorite story to retell. How in preparation for my visit my Aunt would spend hours coming up with an idea, collecting supplies, laying stuff out and then I would be through it and ready for a new one in a matter of moments. to this day when I ask for a favor my uncle will frequently say "Aunt Artsy can we do an art project."
Now for my immediate family a project has an entirely different connotation. A project is what happens when my mom decides the house is too settled and something needs to change. Depending on when this mood strikes this could be rearranging furniture (something that happens so frequently that it is a running joke in our family) contact papering drawers, framing things in my sister or my bed room or what my father truly dreads a painting or wall paper "project."

I really can't describe how
ugly these were 

But hopefully you get the idea
(I forgot to take a pre-primer photo)

Growing up it wasn't uncommon to come home from sears with a gallon of paint and plans for a desk, wall or bath room. In high school being involved with set dressing for the theater meant that i got even more experience. And know I say "oh I'll just throw a coat of paint on it and it will be as good as new" with as much ease as my mom does. As a result when my roommate found a set of free bookshelves a couple blocks away I said "sure lets grab them." Even though they were terribly ugly and in really bad shape, it was just a matter of throwing a coat of paint on them.
I wanted to paint one of the walls in my room, it would be easy enough to pain them as well right? Well as was the case with many of the projects of my youth, it wasn't as cheap or easy as I expected, but the results I can be reasonably proud of.
Now getting the bookshelves in the house wasn't easy, we couldn't easily carry them so we ended up propping them up on my roommate Miata and only barely getting them up the steps into the house. And then the week of painting started, of course it was the hottest and most humid we had. And of course it didn't want to stick,and the color was more "brown black" than the "black brown" it claimed to be and matches our furniture but after days and coats and patience we have a completed living room.  

Only two more coats to go...

you should meet my family...

So in an effort to keep from repeating myself and making sure that everyone receives the same gems of snarky wit many of you appreciate from me, I have given in and started a blog...we will see how frequently I actually post.
School hasn't actually started yet, so I guess calling myself a law student is a bit presumptuous but hopefully it can be excused. I am in the process of getting my house set up, it is a great place about a block from metro and for the rent I am still waiting to see what the catch is, the place is too great. I have one roommate but we have three bedrooms between us, it is amazing how much more personal space I have compared to undergraduate collective living.
The one catch... when we moved in it hadn't been cleaned. Well it had been, because the cleaners charged our landlord but it wasn't up to my standard of new tenant move in clean. Now  it wasn't fraternity house dirty or (heaven forbid) Argentina house mom dirty, but it needed a little TLC. The floors needed to be mopped, appliances scrubbed, bathroom given a good bleaching and mirrors shined, nothing I couldn't handle. I start scrubbing, and dusting and sweeping and eventually get to the point where I want to move our fridge, oven, and washer/dryer (did I mention we have a washer dryer in the house!) so that I could get to the floor under them. At this point I ask my roommate for help moving them and she looks at me as if I am crazy and says "is that really necessary."
Mollified, I finished what I was doing and went to to my room and called mum. She was supportive and I think happy that after years of enabling me (she had a standard that could only easily met by her own hands) I hadn't become some sort of lazy festering bum unable to clean up after herself. (I promise mum, I will not wallow in my filth, you taught me well.) Anyway after a conversation on the merits of brushes versus sponges when cleaning grout and toilet bowls as well as our mop solution of choice (yes seriously- it seemed less nerdy at the time) I felt redeemed.
Later in the evening however I got a call from a friend from boarding school who is also in DC. Deciding to relate my story, and vindicate myself further I explained what happened. Her response was "Yea Kate you are like the most type A person I know. It can be a little scary at times." Then she reminded me of a school nickname I received for my fastidiousness.
After hanging up I had the nagging desire to explain myself; or at least give her a 'not ugh' listing the members of my family who are considerably more type A than I. As such I have titled my blog "If you think I am type A."
I promise that there will be more information on the house, my attempt to set it up (Yea Ikea, I have my furniture, now I just have to wait for surrogate father Jim to help me set it up) and school, when it finally starts.

The only thing to know is how to use your neurosis.
 Arthur Adamov