Today, I feel deeply unhappy.  I feel desultory, irritated, scrubbed raw, and crabby.

I am in the midst of planning my mother's memorial, roughly five months after her passing.  My father doesn't want much to do with it, but keeps dismissing ideas and suggestions.

I am increasingly unhappy in my current position.  I am bored, but underperforming, a bad combination.  I recently applied for a new position; here's hoping something changes quick.

I'm feeling broke as hell.

On the other hand, my hubby gave me the greatest compliment yesterday.  He had to submit a resume and a cover letter for a volunteer position at the Sundance festival next year.  It was odd, because I felt so confident in what to include, despite the fact I have no experience in that arena.  But he told me that I helped him elevate his cover letter from a B to an A, and that he couldn't have done it without me.  I was touched!

Although I do feel that I am a better than average editor (despite not having any professional experience), I feel like this is where my empathy helps me out.  I am able to see what someone wants and help communicate that to someone else.  My husband runs a multi-million dollar store in a national chain.  He is a born leader with tremendous vision.  But when I asked him what he thought they would be looking for, he was blank.  And yet, it seemed to clear to me that they would want someone who is as passionate about film as those in attendance, and yet be reliable and help the event run smoothly.  Once I helped bring those qualities out in his letter, it shone.

I guess it's not all bad after all.


Name Observations

It hasn't happened in a long time.  In fact, I don't recall it happening since I left my temp gig:  I got called "Lisa" on the phone.

Reminded of this frequent experience, I went asking Google for help.  I did happen to find this exchange here:

I find this fascinating for a couple of reasons: 1) Other people have had the same experience as me, specifically on the phone (i.e. Rachel=>Lisa), 2) This happens to other seeming dissimilar names, 3) it works in reverse (i.e. Lisa=>Rachel, or Rachel=Lisa=Rachel, etc), and 4) someone goes on to say that Rachel is mistaken for Rebecca.  This is same story is lore in my family.

I was named after my grandmother.  However, as a young child, this confused me because everyone called her Jean.  Well, the story goes that when my grandmother was a child, her neighbor often mistook her name and called her Rebecca.  This so infuriated her mother (my grandmother), that she decided to use my grandmother's middle name, Jean.  And it stuck ever since.


C'est la tuile!

Mon oncle and I have been independently studying french.  He does amazing things like read novels in French.  I just spend a lot of time on DuoLingo, and try to keep my french straight from my german and Spanish (and potentially Hebrew and Vietnamese?)  However, I have a leg up on him because he only had a semester or two of French in college.  Whereas I started taking french in the 5th grade, and I continued all the way through my first year of college (where I maxed out the program at my little community college).  As a result, he occasionally sends me texts in French or asking about words.  Here's an exchange I found particularly fun:

Today, mon oncle texted me for help deciphering "C'etait la tuile!" in the context of someone being ambused and feeling demoralized.  (I think he's reading a Bond-esqe spy novel).  Based on this link, I thought maybe he meant "It sucked".  But he seemed to think it meant the roof was caving in on him.  Hmm, Qui sait?


observations pt 2

I have a new co-worker.  At first, he reminded me of a lumberjack: tall, broad-shouldered, brown hair.  Today is only his third day, and I’ve only talked to him twice, so I can’t say I have  bead on him.  But I’ve noticed he’s reading a Jodi Picoult book, which is an unusual accoutrement for a lumberjack.  Consider me intrigued.


Yesterday, I encountered a blind couple in a building downtown.  We were both headed for the elevator, so I let them know one was ready, held the door for them, and punched their floor number for them.  While we ascended, another (sighted) woman entered the elevator.  She seemed visibly upset by their white canes, by their Spanish conversation, even after they departed.  It mixed like oil and water with my own observation of them, and my pride in having been helpful to them, in looking out for one another. 


It hurt my heart. 


I wished her good day and meant it.


My mom's childhood friend sent me a picture of my mother today. Although I see what her friend liked about it, all I can think is, "my mother would have hated that picture."

In my class this semester, I've been learning a lot about how media influences our cultural experience. Much of it is done with a capitalist sense. It's good business for us to hate ourselves.  And it saddens me that I think she was taken in by as much of this as most of us.