Panorama of San Bernardino

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

In the weeds

Up. Five a.m. My first thought is that it is cold. Last night, the temperature drooped to a chilly forty degrees. The lack of warmth outside matches my insides.

Yesterday was a very hard day.  The modifier very doesn't even cut it. Most people have no idea what my job as a deputy public defender is like, but yesterday was toxic. The kind of day that made me wonder how or why I do the job I do. Am I a masochist immersed in other's misery? What hole is this filling in me? Does the chaos I have to deal with on a daily basis mirror something that might be familiar to me from childhood?

Or maybe I am overthinking it. Maybe a shit day is just that. They say it's how you react that matters. And I reacted badly. Screamed at husband over lunch about something petty. The negative energy had to go somewhere.

When I used to waitress, I had many bad days. I waitressed for almost ten years. I remember the days in the weeds where you were the only server on shift and the hostess sat eight tables at once. I would run around trying to keep up. I would not let the tables drown me. Rush, rush and more rush. It was fun in a weird, miserable way. Fellow waitresses would run in, often late for their shift. How can I help, they would ask? "Can you get that table drinks and get those people's orders," I would ask in a brusque tone. My fellow waitresses never took offense. They knew my "I am busy" voice. "Thank you," I would later say with a smile after I was caught up.

In the legal world, however, everything moves at a different pace and the decorum is much different. People often take my brusqueness for rudeness. They don't understand that I only know one speed. That I am often impatient, but that I am just trying to not let it all bring me down. And down.

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Hourglass musings

Another gambling den blog post. Don't say it. You know you're thinking it. Doesn't she ever stay home?

I'm in Laughlin for my husband's birthday and I can't sleep despite the fact that we stayed out way too late.  I woke up with thoughts on my mind and it is better to write them down in case I forget.

Life is odd. We have all these experiences and moments, yet when do we really live? Is it only on weekends? Is it only in the evening after work? I've come to truly enjoy the work I do, but most days, the day rushes by like a film on fast forward. And, when I get home from work, it still flies by. I walk in the door, kiss Adrian and the dogs and then eat and watch some television or read. I'm in bed by nine most nights, then wake up at six to do it all again.

My mornings are even more hectic. I get up, let the dogs out, feed the dogs, feed and coffee myself and make my lunch and then walk the dogs before I get on the road. The entire walk I am begging them to poop. Out loud. It's humiliating to admit, but I yammer at them in my doggie talk, "It's time to poop Frodo, come on Chewie, give us one. Good boys." On the days when they refuse, I walk them twice as long imploring them, "C'mon guys, mommy is gonna be late, please poop." My dogs' bowel movements are a big part of my morning obviously and while people are very understanding about a sick kid, try explaining to a judge in a department that you're late because your stubborn Shih Tzu wouldn't take a shit.

I guess my point is that rarely do I bathe in the joy of the sun on my face and their wagging tails. My dogs love that walk every morning, but I can't say I enjoy it like I should. Even now, I am writing but am I appreciating the process? When I get up, will I enjoy going down to the Starbucks to get coffee, past the noisy jangling slot machines? Or will I lumber down grumbling to myself about my headache?

I make a pledge to bask in the joy of the moment, the now, the present. It is all I have. I want to stop the sands of time from slipping through my fingers, at least for a day.