The Happy Feminist

PROCRASTINATION MEME

I am completely drained and exhausted.  Have been up half the night working.  So it's time for a break of sheer procrastination -- a meme from Clare at Ink and Incapability.  My brain is too fried for anything more substantive but stay tuned this weekend.  Meanwhile, here is some randomness for your pleasure (or primarily mine). 

Explain what ended your last relationship? Me finally realizing that I am not the crazy one. 

When was the last time you shaved? This morning.

What were you doing this morning at 8 a.m.?  Preparing detailed report letter to client regarding status of his case.

What were you doing 15 minutes ago? Gloating over opponent's lame motion to reconsider court ruling dismissing another client from another case.   (Litigators gloat a lot.  That's why people don't like us.)

Are you any good at math? Well, I can add.

Your prom night, what do you remember about it? A lot.  I had a track meet that day at a school two hours a way.  We got a flat tire on the way back so I showed up half an hour late covered head to toe in mud, hair all straggly from being out in the rain all day.  We didn't have cell phones then so I couldn't call to tell my date that I was going to be late and mud-covered. Found him patiently waiting on my front step and looking extremely dapper.  Frantically washed hair and dressed (black, calf-length cocktail dress, nipped in at waist with large '80s bow, and square neckline, extremely figure-flattering and highly illicit as my mother did not believe that teenaged girls should wear black).  Went to Italian restaurant with another couple and then to school wrestling room for dancing.  A little stressed  because my sadistic English teacher scheduled me for an oral exam on The Brothers Karamazov the next morning.  Returned to dorm for 2:30 a.m. boarding school curfew only to spend the rest of the night frantically reading the Brothers Karamazov.  Frustrated because only had managed to kiss date on cheek.

Do you have any famous ancestors? Not really. One of my ancestors was a 17th century Italian historian but you wouldn't know who he is unless maybe if you're Italian.

Have you had to take a loan out for school? Have I ever.  Going to law school is not, repeat not, the best financial move unless your family can afford to send you without taking out a loan. 

Last thing received in the mail? Questionnaires and authorization forms I am supposed to fill out before my appointment with my new dentist next week.

How many different beverages have you had today? It's 10 a.m. and I have already had two French vanilla cappucinnos, and two Diet Cokes.

Do you ever leave messages on people’s answering machine? Yes, of course. What kind of question is that?

Who did you lose your CONCERT virginity to? Not sure what this means -- the first concert I ever went to?  I guess the Del Fuegos, a Boston area band circa 1986.

Do you draw your name in the sand when you go to the beach? I would if I ever went to the beach.

What’s the most painful dental procedure you’ve had? Not really painful, but having my wisdom teeth removed was certainly interesting.  A lot of pressure and blood.  But I was mainly relieved to get the damn things OUT.

What is out your back door? A small deck, a grill, a backyard, and woods.

Any plans for Friday night? SLEEP!

Do you like what the ocean does to your hair? Uh, no.  I like my hair dry and unsalted.

Have you ever received one of those big tins of 3 different popcorns? Don't even know what you're talking about.

Have you ever been to a planetarium? Yes.  I believe there is one at the Smithsonian that I went to on a field trip with my class in grade school.

Do you re-use towels after you shower? Uh, yeah.  I don't spend my life laundering towels.

Some things you are excited about? Building a house in 2007.  We're interviewing contractors now!

What is your favorite flavor of JELL-O? Cherry.

Describe your keychain(s)? It's a kind of cloth hoop with a Native American gold and green pattern on it.

Where do you keep your change? In a little tupperware bowl with a plastic lid on it in our hall closet.

When was the last time you spoke in front of a large group of people? A couple weeks ago, I spoke at a seminar my firm sponsored for a bunch of Police Chiefs.  The topic was recent developments in civil rights litigation.

What kind of winter coat do you own? Black buttoned down overcoat with belt -- and the  best part -- pink lining.  From Petite Sophisticate. 

What was the weather like on your graduation day? Gorgeous and sunny every time.

Do you sleep with the door to your room open or closed? I prefer closed.  My husband thinks it's weird.

IS IT WEIRD . . .

That my husband, an otherwise standard issue American male, has made Men in Trees part of our must-see television watching every week?  Don't get me wrong -- I don't mind it.  It seems to be a cross between Northern Exposure and Sex in the City, with a lead male actor who is very easy on the eyes.  It's just an unexpected choice, especially in the middle of football season. 

As I have said  before, it's never a dull moment when you are in a relationship or marriage.  You never know when your significant other is suddenly going to start wearing corduroys with scottie dogs on them or take up some odd new interest.  My husband's newest thing (now that we've done photography and incorporated that into our lives) is going to be target shooting.  Yep.  Target shooting. 

I only learned of this when I overheard him asking on the phone when he could pick up his new something-something caliber something-something and I said, "Whoa, what's all this about, are you planning to shoot me?"  Nope, not planning to shoot me, but planning on signing us up for hunting lessons.  Two whole days in the woods in November.  I have been assured however that we are not actually going to shoot any warm furry creatures with velvety brown eyes.  We're just going to learn the ropes of shooting safety so we can do some target shooting.  I shudder to think what interest we're going to take up next after this. 

THE HAPPY FEMINIST TAKES THE COUCH

Thank you for your many supportive comments and accounts of similar experiences in response to my last post.  Your empathy and warmth have emboldened me to share yet another new development in my life, one which I would have been deeply ashamed of several years ago but which I now view in very positive terms.  A month ago I began psychotherapy for the first time in my life.  I am not planning to turn this site into a therapy blog, but I am going to discuss it a little bit and also tell you that being in therapy does not warrant the stigma it so often carries. 

Therapy was very much derided in my family when I was growing up.  My narcissist father always talked about it as a self-indulgent pastime for weaklings seeking excuses for their shortcomings or hand-holding because they can't cope with life.  I internalized these attitudes.  I often cringe when I hear "therapy talk" because it sometimes sounds too much like that Saturday Night Live character.  (If you're in the U.S. you are probably familiar with that character who used to look in the mirror and say things like, "I'm good enough, smart enough, and gosh darn it, I like myself!")  Along with a number of conservative types, I have tsk-tsked the feel-good Oprah-ization of our culture. 

But therapy at its best is not about indulging dependence or weakness or self-absorption or feel-good excuses for bad behavior.  Precisely the opposite!   I am only a novice, but it seems to me that the alleviation of personal suffering is only one goal of therapy (and certainly not an unworthy one).  Therapy fosters a clear-eyed, rational view of reality (as opposed to child-like panic, magical thinking, or self-serving rationalizations to give just a few examples).  Therapy encourages independent problem-solving.  Therapy reflects such values as maturity and the confrontation of unpleasant truths-- although it does not encourage needless self-recrimination at the expense of problem solving. Sure, I am imagine that numerous self-serving therapists and manipulative clients have abused the therapeutic process.  But therapy, when conducted the way it is supposed to be, is designed to aid people in becoming happier, more effective, and more responsible. Nothin' wrong with that. 

I first became more open-minded about therapy a few years ago when a close friend insisted that I read a book called Worry: Hope and Help for a Common Condition by Edward Hallowell. The book contained a very simple sentence that made me immediately start crying.  It was something like:  "People who worry suffer."  It was such a revelation!  I was suffering.  And suffering needlessly.  There are all sorts of measures that can relieve excessive worry, like proper nutrition, regular exercise, sufficient sleep, relaxation exercises, rational self-talk, therapy, and medication.  I prefer the idea of solving my own problems without assistance but my rational side has to admit that it is stupid and pig-headed to dismiss the idea of therapy for that reason.  After all, why is it superior to solve problems without assistance than with assistance?

Nonetheless, I resisted the idea of therapy for a long time and, after a sunny 2005, I felt that I had had some success dealing with things on my own.  But in 2006. I kept hitting a brick wall in my efforts to talk myself out of my constant fearfulness.  So I finally gave in and about six weeks ago started seeing a very kind and perceptive psychologist.

It was he who led me to the important discovery, recounted in my last post, that I am the child of a narcissist.  However, consistent with what I said about above about taking responsibility, it must be stressed that this realization is not intended to be an excuse for my own shortcomings.  I am an adult and therefore wholly responsible for my own choices and actions. I nonetheless think it is accurate to view myself as a "victim" of my father's behavior.  Despite the bleatings of those who decry the "victim culture," there is nothing wrong with viewing oneself as a victim if one has been a victim.  Accurately acknowledging victimhood is not the same thing as relieving the victim of all accountability for his or her life going forward. Understanding what was done to me and how it has affected me are necessary steps towards achieving the goals of therapy. 

My diagnoses are Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  (No, I am not like the stereotype of the wild-eyed Vietnam veteran who has flashbacks wherein he believes that he is reliving past dangerous situations.  Flashbacks are a real symptom of PTSD for some people.  I do not have flashbacks, but I do have lots nightmares of past events and intrusive daytime memories.)  Not so long ago, I would have been horrified at having a "diagnosis," but I think I am over that.  These labels merely describe something that I am actually experiencing.  And I have also come to realize that having a mental health diagnosis does not mean that one is irrational (although one may have irrational thoughts about certain areas of one's life), or incapable of functioning responsibly, or unable to make decisions for oneself or others. 

I assume that if I am ever up for a judgeship or if I apply for a law license in another state, I will likely have to disclose these diagnoses. It doesn't matter though because I think my health and happiness and effectiveness across the board are more important.  And I am honestly at the point where I think I could handle publicly admitting this under my own name if I had to.

Anyhoo, that's the long and the longer of it.  This blog will soon return to its regularly scheduled programming of feminism, feminism, and more feminism.  Cheers!

NARCISSISTIC PERSONALITY DISORDER

Apologies for the lack of posting.  I have lots of things I am dying to post, but I was distracted (in a good way) by a multitude of activities and real life issues over the long Labor Day weekend -- including a husband-initiated Elvis movie marathon and reviewing the drawings we just received from the architecht who is helping us plan our house. 

The thing that got me going yesterday was my discovery of something called "Narcissistic Personality Disorder."  Someone (to whom I will be forever grateful) mentioned recently that my father sounds like he may be narcissistic -- in a psychological rather than a colloquial sense.  So yesterday I did some exploring on-line and discovered this diagnosis.  Obviously I am not trained in psychology and this is only my opinion, but man, Narcissistic Personality Disorder seems to fit my father perfectly. 

I spent most of yesterday afternoon reading scores of on-line articles for lay people on this disorder.  There is a lot to say about it, but in a nutshell, it is characterized by a pattern of grandiosity, an excessive need for admiration, and a lack of empathy.  Others are not seen as fully human subjects in themselves but rather as sources of much-needed admiration, barriers to receiving much-needed admiration, or as objects to be stepped on so that the narcissist may elevate his own image.  The narcissist, while appearing arrogant and full of himself, actually has an incredibly fragile ego and deep-seated feelings of inferiority usually resulting from having been rejected by a parent.  (My father was a victim of childhood abuse, and his abuser, my grandfather, was probably a narcissist as well.) To compensate for his belief in his own lack of worth, he creates a grandiose, false image of himself and then identifies with it, deeply repressing his real feelings.  There are fuller descriptions and explanations here.

While there is part of me that feels a little bit silly to remain so focused on and upset about the way I was treated growing up (after all I have been mostly out of the house for over twenty years), the reality is that I am thrilled to have discovered this. I have read about people with different types of problems feeling incredibly relieved to discover labels and diagnoses that apply to their experience -- and I feel exactly the same.  It is a huge relief to realize that my father’s behavior is not unique but consistent with a documented psychological profile.

The articles all seem to describe this disorder as virtually incurable because narcissists will never admit that they have a problem and are very negatively disposed to the idea of therapy.  Narcissists are described as bad, bad news for the people around them, and even as destroyers of human lives.  Frankly, I don’t think that’s at all off the mark.  I appreciate hearing this because it validates and justifies how miserable I was growing up in what seemed a picture-perfect family.

And finally, and most importantly, this diagnosis provides a framework for understanding what seemed before to be just bizarre behavior.  Memories of all sorts of weird things from my childhood have come flooding back to me and are now clicking into place.  Like how my father would alternate between treating me with utter contempt (especially in private) and talking about me as though I were the most brilliant, fabulously talented child in the world.  Narcissists, you see, use contempt a lot to elevate themselves and make themselves appear superior in comparison.  Contempt was the norm in my house.  My father used to negatively compare my childhood deficiencies with his own supposed childhood courage and brilliance.  If I told a joke, he would just look at me stone-faced and say, “Not funny.” He constantly put me down or dissected my character flaws in minute detail. Or if there was ever an object dropped on the floor in the house, like a pen or a coin, he would call me, often from a different room in the house.  And when I came trotting to wherever he was, I would just find him silently pointing at the item on the floor, where  I was expected to pick it up while he just stood over me continuing to point.  He enjoyed being the  god-like master of the home.  And these are only a few examples.

Whenever I complained, my mother would say, “But your father is so proud of you.  He talks about your intelligence and achievements all the time.” And in fact, that was true. I often puzzled over how he could act so constantly contemptuous towards me, yet so proud of me.  Narcissistic Personality Disorder holds the answer.  The narcissist cannot stand to be associated with people who are inferior because doing so interferes with his sense of grandiosity.  So the narcissist often idealizes the people with whom he is associated so that they can be worthy enough to be in his orbit.  The narcissist views his children in particular as extensions of himself, objects that inure to his greater glory.  At the same time, though, the narcissist often devalues the people around him, including his own children, so as to make himself seem to himself and to others to be the god-like superior of everyone around him.  This all explains the childhood see-saw I experienced of being treated as either less than dirt or as an adored incarnation of all of my father’s own brilliance and energy.  It also explains why he often attributed characteristics to me that didn’t fit me at all but that he viewed as being like him or somehow reflecting his alleged intellectual and moral stature.  And to this day, he will listen with rapt attention if I boast about something I have achieved (because again this reflects on him since, in his mind, I am an extension of him), but has virtually no interest in listening to my ideas or opinions or certainly not anything I am struggling with.  Those latter things have nothing to do with him, or may even remind him of his own weaknesses he is struggling to keep hidden.

It also explains another other weird dichotomy of my childhood.  My father claimed to be (in his own words!) “a very humane guy.”  He talked a lot about his belief in the values of the humane society and the ACLU.  He would go on at great length about his empathy for the poor and the abused and the marginalized in our society.  These are values with which I whole-heartedly agree, but I could never figure out why this person who seemed so concerned about the death row inmate or the beaten dog never seemed to have any empathy whatsoever for the people around him.  The answer, I think, is that the empathy that my father expressed with regard to hypothetical people was an act, again another way of building himself up as more caring and more compassionate than others, when in reality he did not have even a jot of empathy for others.  This lack of empathy led him to constantly misconstrue what others were saying and to misunderstand others' motivations.

As apparently a classic narcissist, my father can’t bear to lose attention to anyone else.  If you came to my parents’ house for dinner and tried to tell a joke, odds are that my father would cut you off just before you reach the punch line and start talking about something completely different. You have to fight with him to get a word in edgewise. (Especially if you’re related to him.  I think he knows that he can’t totally get away with monopolizing everything in public or his image would get ruined.)  When you do get to talk, he interrupts before you get to make your point, or, when it’s his turn to talk, he simply ignores whatever you have just said and proceeds to discuss whatever is of most interest to him, even if it is a completely different topic. Also if you look away or get distracted even slightly while he's talking to you, he gets upset.  Or even if you're looking right at him, if you don't appear attentive enough, he'll get really irritated and say something like: "Are you listening?!?!? You're not LISTENING to me!"  Trust me, it's freakin' brutal day in and day out. 

When I was a kid, he only attended my school plays, recitals, or other events a couple times, ostensibly because he was working.  His absence never bothered me because he always dumped all over whatever public performance I was giving anyway.  This included ridiculing the goody-goody little girls in tutus, including me, in my ballet recital, or talking about what a crashing bore school plays are, or going on about how when he was a kid he was too much of a brilliant non-conformist to ever participate in a recital or a play.  I think the truth was that he couldn’t stand any kind of event at which someone else in the family was the center of attention, even if it was only seven-year-old me performing in a second grade play. Even at my high school and college graduations, he made me leave or tried to make me leave almost as soon as the ceremonies were done because he couldn’t stand waiting on the sidelines while I was hugging people and saying my good-byes.

Another weird thing was that I was never allowed to have sleepovers or birthday parties or friends come to play when he was around.  I think this was partly a product of his general aversion to children. Narcissists, I have been reading, often have an aversion to children as children, I guess because children in all of their silliness and dependence remind them of their own helplessness.  I myself was very much discouraged from ever behaving in any kind of childish or child-like way. The other problem was that children in groups tend to entertain themselves which means that he is no longer the focus of what is going on in the house -- thus the prohibition on having friends over when he was at home. When I did have a birthday party, it felt almost like my mother and I had to organize it on the sly because he would ridicule it or seemed irritated at any mention of it.

He would also take credit for things he had nothing to do with. For example, everyone agrees that my mother is a fantastic cook, but whenever this comes up, my father points out at length that he actually taught her how to cook.  Supposedly, years ago when he was a single guy in his bachelor pad, he would whip up fabulous meals for his dates or for his sophisticated friends, whereas my mother didn’t know how to cook at all until she met him.  Although my mother confirms this, I find it somewhat hard to believe given that my mother took home ec classes all through high school and also given that I have never ever once seen my father cook anything in my whole life except a bowl of buttered pasta (once).

And another weird thing: he is always very insistent that everyone around him and in his family adopt his tastes.  He claims to be the only person in the family who has any true appreciation of music but, in fact, the only music he likes is Italian opera, which is fine but is a rather narrow taste if that’s the only thing you listen to.  And not only that, but he couldn’t seem to abide anyone, say, watching a musical.  Musicals were something my mother quite enjoyed watching, but only when he was gone. When he  was around, his preferences and his tastes had to carry the day.  And he would insist that whatever he liked was vastly superior to everything else.  Even with regard mundane things, like the pronunciation of words, he would practically throw a fit unless you admit that his pronunciation is superior to the alternate pronunciation.

He also couldn’t stand it if people in the family were happy or excited about anything that didn’t include him.  So being happy and excited about a gift he gave you was acceptable.  But being happy and excited because you’re going back to school or because you have a fun activity of your own planned -- not acceptable.  In such instances, he would try to burst your bubble by pointing out that it wasn't going to be that great or he'd pick a fight or scream at you about some non-existent issue or do virtually anything to put the focus back on him. 

This is only the tip of the iceberg of bizarre behaviors that really were the product of a disordered personality. Other characteristics of his -- like extreme impatience, extreme pessimism, telling tall tales, unpredictability, and charisma all fit the pattern as well.   I guess this post has turned into something of a therapy session but if feels so good to have a coherent explanation for things that were not only hurtful, but awfully confusing to me as a young kid.  And the other good part is that I am feeling the first stirring of pity I have ever felt for this person.  Being a narcissist sounds like it is ultimately even more miserable for the narcissist than for anyone else.  The narcissist's fear of rejection causes him to behave in ways that ultimately lead others to reject him.  It's an awful cycle, a terrible self-fulfilling prophecy. And there is no hope for the guy because he will never in a million years admit the underlying problem.

THE MERCENARY FEMINIST: SOME RAMBLING THOUGHTS ABOUT MY CHANGING ATTITUDE TOWARDS MAKING MONEY

A very old friend of mine from high school commented to me a while ago that I have always been the “least materialistic” person she had ever met.  I laughed but I realized to a certain extent that she is correct. I would be perfectly content to live for the decades the way my husband and I did in the early years of our marriage -- in a little apartment eating a lot of Ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese. I like fashionable clothes, but I don’t mind getting my shoes at Payless.  And I don’t have any burning desire to accumulate stuff.

This indifference to building up a fat bank account or a household full of luxuries is not a mark of moral superiority, but a mark of privilege.  My family was never rich but I grew up secure in the knowledge that I would never be in want and that I would in fact have plenty of opportunities for travel and education.  In adulthood, I have never once fretted about money even when things were really tight when my husband and I both worked in low-paying government jobs that made our educational loan payments seem incredibly burdensome.  I have always felt confident that I could be fired or walk away from my fancy-shmancy law jobs and still support myself (although that might not be true if I suddenly found myself with a severe mental or physical disability).  My confidence in my ability to support myself is a function of privilege.  I am privileged to live in an economy where jobs are available.  I am privileged to be the kind of person whom people want to hire -- that is I am white, able-bodied, educated, and a native English speaker. Indeed, when I was unemployed for eight weeks after leaving my first prosecutor job, it was no problem to register with a temp agency and start bringing in a paycheck right away as a temp secretary.

My lack of any particular appreciation for or worry about money is also a function of my family background. Both of my parents grew up relatively comfortable and none of my relatives have ever striven for money but have instead all contented themselves with respectable but non-money oriented careers as teachers, ministers, and civil servants.  I don’t think I have a single business person in even my extended family, except for my father’s cousin’s husband who was some sort of executive for a large food company.  I remember being told as a kid that his job had to do with making sure the right amount of inventory was stocked on the supermarket shelves in order to maximize the company’s profits -- and wondering why on earth someone would want such a boring-sounding job just to make money.  As an adult, however, I have come to realize that his job actually involves a lot of complex business questions and that his company provides a valuable service in making certain foodstuffs easily available to the public.

You see, despite an utter lack of any natural orientation towards the profit motive, I have, rather late in life, developed a real appreciation for entrepreneurship.  A lot of this came about when I first entered the private sector to work for a dynamic private law firm that is less than two decades old but has experienced incredible growth from the time the founding partners first hung up their shingle.  I used to go to firm outings and look around at the 100 employees and their spouses and their children and think, “Wow.  The founding partners did this.  They created this exciting firm where all these people could develop professionally and also do things like pair up and have babies and build houses and build a life.  What a wonderful feeling that must be for them to see their risk and hard work bear such fruit not only in terms of very healthy profits for themselves but also in terms of the impact on their employees.”  While I don’t lack my fair share of cynicism about the business world (after all, at its best, we’re talking about “enlightened SELF-interest”), I have found myself invigorated and excited by the positive aspects of ethical entrepreneurship.

And somehow in my 30s, I have also learned that taking care of one’s own self-interest is a great thing.  I have in the past viewed hard work as an end, something valuable for its own sake, rather than a means to an end. And suddenly I find myself saying, “Why not concentrate some of my energy and time into building up my family’s financial health? Eating Ramen in the teeny apartment is fine, but why not enjoy a few acres of land and our own place?  Why not look forward to some travel and some luxury for our old age? Why not reap some personal rewards for all of our hard work? Why not possibly build a home that could be suitable for a child at some point in the next 15 years?”

Maybe this kind of thinking is obvious to everyone else, but to me it has been something of a revelation over the last few years.  I love the win/win efficiency inherent in the idea of both providing a valuable service AND building up one’s family’s wealth at the same time.  And as I view the political situation in the U.S., it appears that personal wealth is sadly becoming more and more necessary in order to enjoy personal autonomy.  To give just one example, I want to have the means to go out-of-state or overseas for an abortion should I ever need one.  And more than ever, it seems especially important to have the means to contribute to philanthropic organizations that reflect one’s values.

And finally, I think it is crucial for women as individuals to start paying more attention to money because as a class, we don’t fight hard enough for the bucks.  Our relative poverty is surely also a product of overt and subtle discrimination, including the pressure and the expectation that we will engage in far far more than our fair share of unpaid labor on the home and family front, and the pressure and expectation of selflessness.  I’d love to see more women going after money-making opportunities and aggressively negotiating their compensation.  Money is important in multiple ways -- affecting such things as the perceptions of women’s power as individuals and as a class, or funding organizations and causes that serve women (for example the far lesser fund raising ability of women’s colleges compared to colleges with male alumni).

I guess my conclusion from all this rambling thought is that we - and by “we” I especially mean women -- cannot afford to turn up our noses at money and entrepreneurship as I did for so long.  We need to look out for ourselves far more than we do. But in doing so, we are not just looking out for ourselves but elevating the power and respectability of our sex.

MY SLOW RESPONSE TO EMAILS: MORE EVIDENCE OF MY NEUROSIS

Sometimes I am quite slow in responding to emails from blog-readers.  My slowness is partly due to the fact that I do not check my blog email that often.  But I am also especially slow about responding to nice or complimentary emails.  For that I sincerely apologize.  After all, if you are taking time out of your day to compliment my blog, it seems the least I can do is tell you how much I appreciate it. (And I do appreciate it!  It really makes my day or my week to hear that people are reading and enjoying this blog!)

   But I have noticed something very odd and I haven't quite sussed out what it means about me or my neurotic little psyche.  As soon as I see something really nice something has written to me in an email, or something really nice something has written about me on another site, my first instinct is to immediately exit the screen.  I get extremely self-conscious even though I am just sitting in a room alone looking at a computer screen.  Then it takes me a while (sometimes a few days) to gear up to reading the complimentary words someone has written -- and often I just skim it the first time and then even later I gear up to read the whole thing more carefully.

   It's weird because I actually love compliments and awards and all forms of external validation. (Perhaps too much.)  Maybe I feel a little guilty about it -- I don't know.  But anyway my delay in responding is the equivalent of me looking down at the ground, blushing furiously, and saying, "Aw shucks." 

 

   

WEEKEND REPORT:TOTALLY ANONYMOUS NO MORE

I am at the office and dipping my toe back into the rigors of work after my refreshing weekend away.  I can't decide if it's easier or harder to come in to work after a weekend of fun and relaxation in a vacation environment.  I think it's actually easier because my brain feels sharper and I have a sense of perspective.  Traveling a little distance away and hearing all about my friend's life is a good reminder that the world does not revolve around the things that are stressing me out at work.

I did no lounging on the  beach -- which is good because I absolutely could not find a bathing suit on Friday night anywhere. Apparently, August is not the correct time to buy a bathing suit.  My weekend consisted of talking non-stop for hours on end with my long-lost friend, doing a lot of walking and looking at fabulous ocean vistas, eating fabulous meals, and going on a long, touristy, but worthwhile boat tour of the area. 

Long-lost friends are a little bit of a stress point for me.  I have moved so much and made many dear friends over the years, but it's hard to keep in touch and life moves so fast.  So I worry a lot about alienating and losing my friends just from distance and time and not having the opportunity to communicate as much as I'd like.  And then I get overwhelmed by my worry about it and don't communicate at all.  But it turned out that even though my friend and I haven't seen each other in several years, we picked up just as comfortably as when we left off, as though we were still fourteen years old and best friends.

And not only that -- but . . . I let her in on my super-secret blog.   So now I have two people in my real life who know that I am the Happy Feminist (including my husband).  She has no internet connection where she is now but maybe she will check in once she is back in civilization.  I spend a chunk of my life online doing this, and it feels nice to let someone in on that aspect of who I am and how I spend my time. 

ON HOME AND ROOTLESSNESS

Peacebang and Chalice Chick take on the concept of "home."  For many years, "home" to me was wherever I was.  Now it is wherever my husband and I are.  But the truth is that I don't really have a strong sense of "home."  This made me think about the consequences of not being home-oriented. I am not sure I have a yearning for "home."  I do, I think, have a yearning for an identity or connection to something larger or more historic than myself.

Part of that is that I was raised, in a way, to be completely rootless.  I have no hometown, no strong ethnic identity, and no large clan of relatives.  My parents planned their financial life carefully with the express goal of freeing me from having to care for them in their old age.  My family moved every 3 years or so, and we lived on four different continents.  We attended a non-creedal, non-dogmatic church that would (unlike, say, the Catholic church) make no claims on me if I chose to abandon it in adulthood.  I grew up expecting that I might wind up making my adult life virtually anywhere in the world.  It is really only through a series of semi-coincidences that I have wound up living only an hour's drive away from my parents.

My parents deliberately chose to raise me in such a way that I would feel free to go anywere in my adult life and do anything.  And I have been grateful for that.  If, before I was married, I suddenly got a great job offer in Bangladesh, I wouldn't have hesitated to take it. 

But I have terrible wanderlust.  I am plagued by urges to travel the world. Sometimes I wake up in the morning thinking, "Spain! Spain! Spain!" or "India! India! India!"  And I have a little trouble coming to terms with the fact that now I am very much rooted in a community probably for the rest of my life. Now, if my husband suddenly wanted to move to San Francisco, instead of being ecstatic, I would worry about throwing away all the years of toil and dues-paying I have invested in my career here where I am. The law (or at least the kind of law I practice) tends to be a very localized profession and I imagine it is hard to suddenly break into a new legal community as a mid-level attorney.  Yet, at the same time, despite my doubts, I would absolutely love to move to San Francisco.  Or Manhattan.  Or Miami.  Or better yet, London.

So part of me deeply regrets losing that free rootlessness of my younger years before I started making commitments.  But part of me has a deep yearning for that sense of identity that comes from strong identification with a particular geographic region or a particular ethnic group.  As you may have gleaned if you have read this blog before, I am very interested in family history and my ethnic roots despite the fact that my roots are quite diluted, with each one of my grandparents having a different national origin.  I have an almost irrational sense of connection with Judaism via my long-deceased Jewish grandmother.  I really (and this is probably going to make some of you want to puke) felt a great deal of pride in my boarding school, especially since my father went there also.  There was some sense of continuity and history there. (OK, OK, I know you are now picturing me in a velvet handband and pearls.  And yeah, I actually at one time owned both a velvet headband and a really gorgeous strand of pearls.  But I pawned the pearls one summer in law school when I was having trouble making the rent and didn't want to ask my parents for the money.  That is a deep, dark secret though.  Don't tell anyone.)

I am also very fond of labels.  For a long time, the only label I could think to attach to myself was "American."  (This could explain why I have a strong sense of patriotism.) But then I realized "feminist" and "Unitarian" and "lawyer" and "liberal" are also labels, and they apply to me.  They may lead people to form an absolutely incorrect impression of me, one based perhaps on stereotypes or misinformation, but nonetheless, these labels make me happy.  They make me happy because they are a way of reminding me that I am part of a long tradition that came before and that I am carrying on in my own life.

I suppose I have kind of fulfilled my parents' vision for me. I have built a life and a home entirely of my own choosing, unconstrained by any obligations imposed on me from birth.  I have also constructed an identity -- which in reality is in many respects the product of my parents' interests and values, with my own unique stamp as well.  But it has also been important to link it back with my family roots (what does my Italian heritage say about me? do I get my feminism from my grandmother?) and with the history of places and organizations with which I have been affiliated.    

 

 

RANDOM SUNDAY MORNING REFLECTIONS: LAW FIRMS AND MASSAGES

My superbusy period doesn't seem to be ending, but I'll try to work in a substantive post later this afternoon.  I was chained to my desk at home all day yesterday writing a Trial Memorandum for a bench trial I have next week. I took breaks for a long walk in the rain and a nice meal of spaghetti and meatballs prepared by my lovely husband.  Today I am back in the office to try to write yet another Motion for Summary Judgment.  For those of you who are fortunate enough not to know, these can be time consuming affairs.  One has to select the facts to include in the Motion, and show that each of these facts is established by deposition testimony or some other type of sworn statement.  One then has to research the law regarding each pending claim and then come up with an argument as to why your side should prevail without having to go through trial (on the ground that you deserve to win just based on the facts everyone agrees on). 

As I trotted up the steps of my enormous and grandiose law firm building at seven o'clock this Sunday morning, I was shocked to see a homeless person sacked out on a sleeping bag on the front steps of the building.  I know I shouldn't be shocked, as we have a moderate homeless problem in our city and our firm borders a park where a lot of the homeless spend their time.  Still, it was most disconcerting partly because the area is utterly deserted that early on a Sunday morning and also because it felt weird to walk past this destitute person into the luxury of my firm with its french vanilla cappucino maker and air of hushed opulence. 

That got me thinking about different offices I have had.  BIGLaw, where I now work, is by far the nicest office space I have ever inhabited.  It is quite a contrast to the lowly District Attorney's Office in the dinky rural county where I was a prosecutor for five years.  When I was a prosecutor, I was far more powerful than I am now (big-fish-teeny-pond syndrome), but there was no luxury whatsoever attached to that.  My office walls were mismatched fake wood paneling.  My walls were so flimsy that a witness once created an enormous hole in my wall when she accidentally bumped into it in her electric wheelchair.  The hole in my wall was never fixed.  Our carpeting was threadbare, our fluorescent lights were constantly flickering and in need of replacement.  We were exposed to lead paint (or maybe it was asbestos, I've put it all out of my mind) and the building where I worked has since been condemned and razed to the ground. 

Worst of all, when I first arrived at the D.A.'s office, there were virtually no resources for doing legal research.  We had nothing on-line.  No access Westlaw.  No access to Lexis-Nexis.  No CD-ROMs containing case law.  All we had was a bookshelf containing all the volumes of published cases for our state -- but the index portion that helps you locate cases pertaining to your legal issue was missing.  So I had all the published cases in hundreds of volumes, but no way to locate the ones that I would need to address the specific legal issues that might arise in my cases. We also had five or six random volumes of the U.S. Supreme Court Reporters. 

When I first got there, I asked my boss how they did legal research.  Apparently, they hadn't done any actual legal research in years.  They might support their pleadings with some very generalized citations from the state criminal law treatise and that was about it.  They had once asked for a budget for research costs, but the county governing body didn't understand why we would need anything beyond the books we already had! Fortunately, when I told my boss I couldn't function without at least the state law cases on CD-Rom, she took it out of another line item in the budget.  I also cribbed federal law cases from the free on-line service my husband had through his then-firm -- but sheesh.

I think of that now whenever I sit in my firm's very well-stocked two story law library which has its own law librarian and a hard copy of pretty much every resource you could need in addition to various on-line services we subscribe too.  And lots of space, and work stations for the attorneys!  I know it's weird but I always feel a little flutter of wonderment and gratitude whenever I use the firm library-- even if it's early in the morning on a freakin' Sunday.

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I know I'm late to the pile-on but I must confess to being oddly fascinated by the video footage of President Bush giving Chancellor Merkel an unsolicited shoulder massage after sneaking up on her from behind in the midst of her conversation with the Italian Prime Minister. Her grimace and defensive movement said it all -- and boy, do I know how she felt.  I have been in that precise situation when some dude I don't really know that well comes up and starts rubbing my neck shoulders when I am in the middle of a conversation with someone else.  I remember thinking, "What does this guy expect me to do? Go limp? Close my eyes and emit a deep 'Aaaaaah'? Ignore him and continue my conversation with the person I was talking to?" Of course, what I actually did was kind of break away, turn around, and include creepo in the conversation.  I probably grimaced just like Merkel too.  Bleaaaah. 

Even worse then the unsolicited shoulder massage though is the unsolicited lift up into the air. Yep.  That's what I said.  The unsolicited lift up into the air.  As in, one minute you're minding your own business being mildly sociable with both feet planted on the ground, and the next minute some asshat has grabbed you bodily and lifted you above his head in a very misguided attempt at charm.  This has only happened to me twice, -- but believe you me, it rankled.   One perpetrator was a random dude at a college party, the other was my husband's best friend from childhood who is so socially awkward that he is wont to punch you in the arm, pull your hair, shove you in a friendly way, or  pick you up, because he doesn't know what else to do.  I think in both instances I yelled, "PUT ME THE !**)#! DOWN!"  I may not be the largest person in the world but I can yell.   

A HAPPY FEMINIST WEDDING

I was going to save this post for a month from now when my husband and I celebrate our ninth wedding anniversary, but since my feelings of nostalgia strike at rather random times I figured I would write about our wedding now while the iron is hot.  That era of our life is something I enjoy reflecting on from time to time and some of my culturally conservative readers may wonder what a feminist wedding looks like.  Not that there is any one way that a feminist wedding should look . . . but, as in all areas of my life, I am generally conscious of the gender implications of what I do. 

Introducing my husband to the family:  My husband and I agreed to marry fairly early on in our relationship, 2 1/2 years before the actual wedding date.  But I didn't want to tell my parents until the time was exactly right.  Mainly I wanted to tell them closer to the time when I would actually get married in order to reduce any negative reactions they might have.  So for a long time, they just knew I had a close friend from law school who taught me how to drive and with whom I spent a lot of time.  When we were getting to the point of setting an actual date, I told my parents that I thought it would be nice if they met my friend and took us out to dinner.  My "friend" couldn't come to my parents' house for dinner because their house wasn't wheelchair accessible, but my parents graciously treated us to dinner at one of the nicer restaurants in their town.  My thought was that the first meeting between my fiance and my parents would be less awkward if they weren't meeting him for the first time AFTER getting the news.  After the dinner, my fiance left and I stayed over for the weekend with my parents.  We had after-dinner-drinks on the deck and my dad said, "Well, are you ever going to see this guy again now that he's graduating from law school?"  And I said, "Actually, we're getting married."

My parents, to their credit, only allowed a very short stunned silence to elapse before they both said, "Wow.  That's great."  My mother leapt up to open a bottle of champagne and my father clapped me on the back and gave me a big cigar.  It was very big of them because I am positive they were secretly concerned about me marrying a paraplegic.  However, they had vowed all my life to accept my choice with open arms no matter what.

My mother never hinted at having any reservations about my husband whatsoever.  My father, however, asked me several times later whether I was sure about my choice.  He opined that I was setting myself up for a "hard life." 

Large wedding or small?  I will admit that I had a rather negative attitude to start off with about having a large wedding.  We don't have large weddings in my family.  My grandparents got married in my great-grandfather's parsonage with only about five or six people present.  My other grandparents were married in a civil registry office.  My parents were married in a civil registry office.  But my husband comes from a large Irish Catholic family, and nothing less than a large wedding of at least 100 guests would do. 

I was terribly worried about how to finance it and whether it would turn into a big production that would  all fall on my shoulders while I was studying for the Bar Exam.  But it all turned out fine, and my husband was just as involved as I was in doing the work to put this thing together.

Location, location, location:  We initially chose a charming country inn for our wedding and were all set to sign a contract when  BAM -- the charming country inn pulled a bait-and-switch on us.  They had given us one price but then at the eleventh hour said that it would be an additional $2500 if we wanted to use their dining room tables and chairs, which of course I had assumed were part of the original price.  I think they figured we were sentimentalists who now had our heart set on their place.

Instead we walked away and settled for the country club where everyone in my husband's home town gets married.  It was better that way, because it was cheap and they did all the catering on site.  It was also gorgeous.  We got married on the patio before a vista of fields and mountains.

I skimped on costs by buying no flowers or decorations whatsoever.  Fortunately, we married on a Sunday so we were able to use the outdoor canopy left behind by the couple who married the day before.

The food was unfortunately mediocre (except for the cake), but I was glad to dispense with the hassle of dealing with an outside caterer.  The one expense that I insisted on for the comfort of our guests was an open bar.  The bar bill only turned out to be $350 for 100 people, however.  I was expecting it to be five  times as much but I guess I have very sober guests or else people don't like drinking on a Sunday afternoon.   

Looking your best?  I will admit that I succombed to a desire to look my very best for the occasion.  It is not often that one is the center of attention or that all of one's friends and family are gathered together at once.   I cultivated a tan all summer and I kept my weight down to its lower natural limit.  Despite being 26, I had never worn make-up before, but I got a makeover, some tips, and a bag of basic make-up from the Estee Lauder counter. 

Finding the dress was the toughest part.  I wanted something white that was not too obviously bridal.  I envisioned a white daytime dress evocative of a 1920s or 1930s garden party.   In fact, there are virtually no such dresses in regular dress stores.  Finally, my mother and I went to an actual bridal store.  I broke down and tried on a couple of big wedding dresses.  The ladies who ran the store fussed and fawned over me. They kept telling me I looked just "like a little princess," while my mother tried to keep a straight face.  Finally, I was about to give up when I saw it -- the perfect dress, categorized by the bridal store as a "going away dress." 

It had a V-neck with with a white flower at the bottom of the V, and a loose empire line at the top with lots of little seed pearls around the top.  It was loose but narrow around down the body until it flounced outward subtly just above the ankles. The sleeves were slightly more than a capped sleeve.  The dress cost only $75 (I paid another $100 for alterations) -- as compared to, say $1750, for a bona fide wedding dress.  The ladies in the store kept telling me, "You can't use that for your wedding dress. It's not a wedding dress."  But I was delighted. 

I wore the wedding dress with white stockings and 1920s style low-heeled white shoes with straps.  I had a large boquet of red, purple, and white flowers and a barrette in the back of my hair with some little purple flowers.  My husband wore a business suit, a tie carefully vetted by me, and a carnation.  I think we did indeed look our best. 

Ceremony:  I didn't feel comfortable making a grand entrance so I showed up early for my wedding and greeted guests as they arrived.  In retrospect maybe that wasn't the greatest choice, because some people seemed really disconcerted to see me right away.  On the other hand, neither my husband nor I are walking-down-the-aisle people, and our ceremony was so short that it would have been anti-climactinc after a dramatic walk down the aisle.

Our ceremony was conducted by a female justice-of-the-peace who was a friend of my sister-in-law.  We had people gather round on foot to watch the ceremony.  My mother stood up for me and my husband's sister stood up for him.  Our neice and nephew were flower girl and ring-bearer respectively.  Although I didn't plan it that way, I liked the symbolism of my husband being surrounded by women as he got married.  While he is certainly your typical American male in most respects, I think his upbringing by a single mother and close relationship with his older sister have made him who he is and have contributed to his ability to relate to and respect women better than a lot of men. 

The actual ceremony was a reading of the traditional marriage ceremony by our JP, updated slighly for feminist purposes ("husband and wife" instead of "man and wife," and no references to "obey").  My husband also requested that we take out "in sickness and in health" as it made him slightly self-conscious.  We were under no pressure to say anything except "I do," at the right time and to put the rings on each other's fingers.  Although we both thought we were very calm, we both found that our fingers were trembling when it came time to put the rings on each other -- a fact that I tease my husband about constantly to this day. 

The ceremony ended after just a couple of minutes and we immediately turned around for the hugs and congratulations from everyone gathered around.  The waitstaff started bringing around drinks and hors d'oevres, and we took some pictures.  There was a meal and then dancing.  Our music (via DJ) was Ella Fitzgerald and some other "soft" jazz during the cocktail hour, Mozart's Horn Concertos during dinner, and then dance music that we specifically requested beforehand or that was requested by our guests during the event. 

Road bumps?  Yep, we had 'em.

Probably my biggest mistake was doing a seating chart.  I wanted to do one because I always prefer to be told where to sit at weddings than having to worry about where to sit.  But man, it was a huge nightmare trying to figure who would want to sit with whom and trying to make the numbers work out.  And then, my uncle and aunt canceled four days before, throwing the whole thing out of whack and forcing us to redo it.  No sooner had we redone our seating chart, then a death in the legal community forced some of my husband's colleagues to cancel in order to attend the funeral.  And we had to redo the whole chart again.  And in the end, my husband's grumpy aunt was so offended by where we placed her that she refused to hug me or even shake my hand at my own wedding.

The other road bump was an obstreperous DJ.  We had told the company two months in advance and even confirmed in writing that we ONLY wanted him to play music.  We didn't want him to say anything, announce anything, or do a comedy routine.  But two days before the wedding, during my final consultation with the DJ, he threw a fit.  He was upset that we were limiting his artistic license and he felt that people would think he was falling down on the job if he didn't at least announce us as "Mr. and Mrs. Husband."  He wasn't swayed by my protestations that I was never going to be "Mrs. Husband" or that my friends or family wouldn't expect such a thing.  Finally, he said, "You know, I'm not an amoeba.  I have a brain. I can do more than just stand there and play records." I felt kind of bad that he felt I was impugning his vocation but it was too late to switch to a company that was more compatible with what we wanted. I had to force him to be an amoeba.

I was none too pleased, however, when I arrived at the wedding to find advertising placards for the DJ on every table.  I was prepared to do battle in my little white dress and all, but my dad persuaded me to let the guy keep them.  "Give the guy I break," he said.   So I did.  Grudgingly.  And I could tell the guy was pouting during the whole wedding.

Finances:  It was very important to me that my husband and I pay for the wedding ourselves, rather than rely on parental support.  This was mostly due to my father's controlling nature and the fact that whoever pays gets to call the shots.  My parents were cool with that although he was a little discomfited at the notion that my husband's family might think he's a cheapskate.  So I told them all that my dad was really upset not to be able to pay but it was very important to me to things for myself.  I think it worked out well because we didn't have to deal with any of the classic wedding nightmares involving clashes with overly involved parents.

We financed the wedding by my husband's savings from his first year of work, and my savings from cutting back on my living expenses during my last year of law school.  My parents insisted on paying for some very expensive, very traditional engraved invitations and my sister-in-law insisted on hiring a photographer (which we were going to do without).  And we put the rest (ahem) on our credit cards. 

As it turned out, we needn't have worried.  You see, we didn't sign up for a bridal registry (as I grew up abroad and was unfamiliar with the concept) so a lot of people didn't know what to get us.  I never expected that people would actually give us money -- but a lot of people did.  Our parents gave sizeable monetary gifts and a lot of other people wrote checks of $50 or $100.  So I wound up feeling somewhat embarrassed that I had scrimped on wedding expenses as much as I did; it seemed wrong to make a profit on our own wedding.  Of course, to this day, we still don't have fabulous matching china sets, but that's okay.

I'd do it again!  I went into the wedding planning process with some reluctance, but both the planning and the event itself were a very positive experience.  It is a good exercise for couples to work together to come up with an event that reflects their values and to have to compromise and negotiate their respective wishes under the constraints of time, space, and money. 

And it was fun and got us thinking about who we are and how we wanted to present ourselves as a couple.  I have gone from someone who never fantasized about weddings as a little girl to being something of a wedding junkie in my adulthood.  I love going to weddings now and observing how these events reflect the individuality of the couples involved.  The best compliment we got on our wedding was from several people who said: "That was SO you!"

If I have the chance to throw a big party again for my nearest and dearest around the country, I would do it again in a heartbeat -- and perhaps splurge a little more this time.  It was wonderful to gather together everyone we knew and the aspect of the wedding of which I am proudest was that we actually spent some significant time with each and every one of our wedding guests both at the event itself and over the course of the weekend.