Enigmatic Female

Good News to go with the Bad News

Yesterday, on the anniversary of our engagement, Dallas and I trudged off to Crandall, TX, a small town outside of Dallas where Dallas' sister-in-law went to high school. Dallas' brother and sister-in-law had reserved a lot in a new housing development in this town on Saturday, as they've outgrown their current home, and are looking to be closer to sister-in-law's mother, who has offered to take care of their baby for them free of charge. Dallas and I have been casually looking for a new home for some time, as Dallas and I both wanted to live in a more rural or small town area, and our current house isn't child-friendly and we're going to try starting a family soon. We've been exploring various areas, types of homes, builders, etc. The homes in the Crandall community are on quite a bit of land, and the homes are exceptionally reasonably priced. In short, it sounded like everything we've been looking for in a new home for ourselves with the added bonus that we would be neighbors with Dallas' brother and sister-in-law, with whom I'm very close. We looked around, checked out floor plans, walked off the dimensions of various lots, and ultimately decided that we, too, would put a deposit down to hold a lot. We did not, however, reserve the lot directly next door to the in-laws. That might be a little too much family closeness. Instead, we're about 11 lots down from them, an easy walk, but not in earshot. We don't need any more details on their sex life than we already have, which is significant, as they share with us frequently (usually it's a lack thereof, rather than an abundance).  We will go back on Thursday to sign a contract and get the building underway. We expect to move sometime in June or July.

The Score

So, the Texas Bar Exam? It's totally my bitch. That's right, I passed it. Me: 2, Bar Exams: 0.

This Moment of Clarity Sponsored By Cafe Brazil

Recently I've had pangs of self-doubt. Did I do the right thing in leaving New York and my job when I did to move here and be married to Dallas? In that former incarnation of my life, it seemed that I lacked very little. I liked my job, loved my friends, had a large salary to spend on clothes, brunch, and the latest lip gloss, and I was learning to box with a kickass trainer who helped me lose about 20 lbs in just a couple months. Life was very very good. But, and this is a loud, painful, whiny but, I felt that all of those good things were a mere consolation prize for not having what I really wanted -- a steady relationship that could lead somewhere. And by somewhere, I mean marriage, 2.4 children, a few dogs, and a full-sized kitchen. It didn't seem that I could have the life I wanted in New York without making half a million dollars a year (not to mention not being able to find the right man), which would essentially prevent me from taking any enjoyment I could find in that life, as I'd spend sixteen hours a day at work. So I moved and got the marriage, the dogs, the kitchen, and in a couple years, the children will hopefully follow, along with a house in the 'burbs with a pool and swingset out back. Unfortunately, I threw out the baby with the bath water, and accidentally convinced myself that I had to give up all the things I enjoyed about my New York life in order to get the things I wanted from my Dallas life. I've even compromised my firm stand against chain restaurants in my quest for perfectly grilled quesadillas and good salsa (a story for another time). Today, for the first time in a very long time, I feel whole. Like maybe, just maybe, I can have both the pleasures of my New York life along with the satisfactions of my Dallas life. Today I had brunch with a girlfriend. Without Dallas. It was the first brunch I've eaten in a resaurant since I left New York. I felt compelled during my first weeks in Dallas to cook an exciting breakfast for Dallas on the weekend. It was going to be "our thing," this excellent breakfast, with blueberry cakes, and frittatas, and good sausage, and homemade biscuits. Only, it never really took, and we usually found ourselves grabbing something quickly before we rushed out of the house for the rest of the day. There was no weekend ritual like I had in New York, where I was something of a brunch hound, often indulging in two brunches per weekend, as it was one of the only times my otherwise-busy attorney friends could be certain of having free time. In those days I was willing to wait an hour for a perfect cup of Sarabeth's coffee and an English muffin, to break my pork-free diet to indulge in the thick bacon strips at Good Enough to Eat, to run the risk of seeing an ex's mother at Popover Cafe for their strawberry butter on a hot popover. A good brunch would set just the right tone for a wonderful rest of the weekend. Today's brunch showed me what I've been missing, both in terms of kindred female company, as well as the wonderful indulgence that is a cozy Saturday morning meal begun with hot gourmet coffee, and finished by jelly on toast. And, to quote my kindred female dining companion about the suitability of brunch at Cafe Brazil, "what it lacks in atmosphere it makes up for in [taste]." The meal was lovely, and it boasts something way way better than any New York brunchery -- a self-serve coffee bar with more than a dozen coffee selections to which you ferry your own thick ceramic mug and choose your own brew. Bravo!

It's My (Husband's) Party and I'll Cry If I Want To...

Tonight (it's early Sunday morning, but I'm talking about Saturday night; you get it) we had a birthday party for Dallas. We invited several people, about 15 or so were expected, perhaps as many as 19 or 20. With expectations very high, I got to work planning an extensive Spanish and Mexican menu with accompanying theme beverages (I'm a huge fan of a party having a signature drink; this party had margaritas, sangria, Spanish wine, and Mexican beer). We scrubbed, we shopped, we planned, we executed, we considered opening our own catering service. Well, maybe it was only me who considered, and only briefly, but confidence was quite high on the likelihood of party success front. To boast a bit, I make excellent, excellent drinks and pretty good food, and when I lived/hostessed in New York, my guests would almost always drink me out of whatever I was serving and sing my praises loudly. Not so tonight (they did say how much they enjoyed the food and such, what I mean is that they didn't eat much of the food, nor drink much of the drinks). Dallas asked me after the guests left whether I thought they might have been bored. I replied that I think they had a nice time, but that I thought he and I were bored. And we were. Are we getting friends that are too mature? Were we too tired to have fun? Was there an awkward melange of people that made it difficult to get conversations going? We did combine several odd groups: people Dallas knows from his former job, people he knows from his current job, his childhood friends, his brother and wife, friends we went to law school with. It really boggles the mind how much factions were present. All I know is, I can't sleep for thinking about the inordinate cost of this party (somewhere between $400-$500 with all the groceries, liquor, music, cookie cake) and that it might not have been worth it. I'm not convinced that anyone had a good time. I enjoyed seeing our friends, and meeting a few people I hadn't met before. The conversation just seemed to take a while to get going, and I was so busy during the early part of the night getting dinner ready, that I didn't really spend much time chatting with people I wanted to. And, I think some of the guests might be planning an intervention due to Dallas' and my seeming alcoholism. In all fairness, we drink fewer than 1 drink per week at this point. There was a time, before we lived together, that we would drink far more, but ever since we've lived together, we hardly touch the stuff (my theory -- we don't have the right drinking companions here and I am not a fan of drinking with each other alone at home -- it's almost like drinking alone). That doesn't mean I don't want to tie one on from time to time as mood or circumstance warrants. I might have overdone it this time, though. Our guests' eyes widened as they looked at the conspicuous display of beverages available for their enjoyment and seemed quite overwhelmed at having to make a choice.

The New York City social scene is remarkable in that no one has to drive home from anywhere, and most gatherings happen at bars or restaurants. Therefore, most parties involve drinking to the point of at least a good buzz. My friends in New York, admittedly all of them lawyers (lawyers drink more, as a group, than any other profession), keep a few bottles of nice liquor and a couple of wines on hand for company, and would never hesitate to offer it to a guest, or imbibe as a guest of another. Here it seems that this is not the done thing, likely in large part because people must drive home at the end of the evening. This means that I've been buying alcohol with New York expectations but for Dallas consumption. In real terms, it means that I have remaining every single one of the 18 Mexican beers I purchased, we didn't open the Spanish wine, we didn't drink an entire pitcher of margaritas, and we didn't finish either pitcher of the white or red sangria I made. This amounts to fewer than 4 bottles of wine, 1 cup of tequila, 2 cups of triple sec, one dirty vodka martini, a Manhattan, and a leftover Texas beer for a 3 hour party of 15 people. That is roughly 27 drinks for 15 people over 3 hours and Dallas and I had 8 of the drinks between us. This is about half of what I would expected. So, 19 drinks over 3 hours for 13 people, one of whom is pregnant, so 19 for 12 people. Less than 2 drinks per person over the course of the evening, and it's bound to be far less than that, as one pitcher of Sangria was still half full, as was the margarita pitcher, and some of the glasses were still half full. In addition to all the leftover booze, we threw away enough food to feed a Somali village through a long drought.

The moral of this story is that I've learned a hard lesson tonight -- being overprepared for a party doesn't equal success. It would have been fine without the $21.99 per pound Serrano ham we had (that no one, including us, ate), and the three varieties of olives, and the cheeses. We didn't need so much food. Plastic plates would have been far easier (I've already done 2 loads of dishes, with 3 or more to go -- we have used almost every item we received from our wedding registry for this party). The bigger bottle of tequila was quite unnecessary, as were the additional bottles of wine. And the beer. Next time simpler is better. I will serve chips and queso, have a taco bar like we had tonight (killer pork tacos), some ice cream, and some sangria and we'll call it a night.

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world...

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from a law school professor of mine regarding proposed changes to the curriculum of the seminar I took with him in the fall of 2003. He sent the email to a fair number of his former students, and along with the request for feedback on the curriculum, he wanted us to update him on our lives. I emailed him back about the curriculum, and told him that I left my firm in New York in the spring, and that I was recently married and now reside in Dallas. He responded that one of his good friends is running for Congress from Dallas and that I should look the guy up, as he is extremely well-connected and could be helpful in getting a job with a prosecutor's office. I checked out the candidate's campaign website and determined that I would get in touch with him soon, but hadn't made contact yet.

Saturday morning began as all Saturday mornings do for Dallas and me. I woke up, fed the dogs, and parked my ass in an enormous reading chair with outlines and sketches for a novel I've been working on while Dallas slept. Then someone knocked on the door. Annoyed, because I hate solicitors who come door to door, especially on a Saturday morning, I gave him a blank, slightly irritated stare through the glass of the door. I opened the door in my pajamas, and our house alarm started shrieking loudly and the dogs started barking at the top of their voices. I shut off the alarm and saw the flyer he carried with his name prominently displayed at the top. Stunned, I said, "Do you know Professor T?" He was taken aback for a moment, from all the noise and confusion, then said, "Of all the hundreds of doors I've knocked on, you're the only one who has asked me that. You mean, do I know 'The Man'? Of course I know 'The Man'! He's a dear friend of mine." I told him to come in for a minute, and explained that I had taken a course with Professor T in law school, that I had recently moved to Dallas, recently taken the Texas Bar Exam, and that Professor T suggested I contact him, and that I was so happy to meet him. He asked my name, said he would be happy to sit down with me and let me pick his brain about where to apply for jobs, as he and his wife (a professor at a local law school) know almost every lawyer in town. He reminded me to vote for him, and he was on his way. I, of course, immediately emailed Professor T telling him of the crazy coincidence. He seemed like a great guy, and I guess the ball is in my court. I haven't yet decided whether I would want to help him with his campaign, or just sit down with him for a bit, but either way, the hard part is over, as we've now met and he knows my name.

Deliciously Damp and Comparatively Chilly

I have never looked forward to fall the way I am looking forward to it this year. Then again, I've never lived through more than thirty consecutive days of over one hundred degree temperatures as I have this summer. The rain we've had for the past two Mondays has been a welcome relief for the cracked, brown ground, as much as for my dried out skin. These pictures were taken last Monday, when the rain came like an unexpected gift, providing me with an unseasonably cozy morning in which to drink tea, eat a few cookies, and write while looking out onto a beautiful gray sky that would have made me cringe in New York City, but which delighted me in Dallas.

Just Another Day at the Mall

While gazing longingly at an incomprehensibly expensive pair of Christian Laboutin flats ($570.00 -- that's U.S. dollars, not pesos) in the shoe department of the North Park Mall Nordstrom a few days ago, a song played through the store speakers (no piano music on a Monday afternoon, apparently) that I recognized. The "ba-bay...ba-bay" immediately called to mind Rudy Huxtable, age five, along with various other Cosby Show cast members, lip syncing along to the Ray Charles classic, "The Night Time is the Right Time." I recognized the song, and the reason for my recognition, just moments after a black shoe salesman asked whether I needed any assistance. Clearly I wasn't going to be putting my sweaty, dirty, flip-flopped foot into a $570 shoe that I had no intention, let alone ability, to purchase, but I wanted the salesman to like me, or at least think I was comfortable contemplating such a gross purchase. I caught myself just before I slipped in a comment about how that song always reminded me of the Cosby Show, realizing that I was making an assumption that I shouldn't be making. The assumption was that this middle aged black man working in an upscale shoe department would not only get my reference to the Cosby Show, but that he would appreciate it and somehow think better of me for having made it. Bad. Bad, bad, bad. Perhaps he would have gotten it and agreed with me, but it's unlikely that the reference would have made him think any differently about me than he did when he asked whether he could help me and I responded that I was just browsing. Or, maybe it would have brightened his day. Who knows? All I know for sure is that I'm glad I caught myself before I turned into a "but some my best friends are..." joke.

Tick, Tick, Tick

Things are, pardon the pun, moving right along. My accounts have all been changed to my soon to be new Dallas address, I have no fewer than five pairs of shoes waiting for me in my new residence, and I am almost finished with the Texas Bar Application, a process I've been dreading for some time. If you're not a lawyer, you might not appreciate that you can't just go roaming about the  country and be able to work in your chosen profession. Oh, no. You have to get registered in whichever state you intend to work, which can either be fairly easy or a gigantic pain in the ass approaching the gravity of the "grape-like hemorrhoids" I once heard described in a very special Oprah devoted to taking a healthy shit (Oprah admitted to peering into the bowl following a dump -- it was classic). Texas is in the hemhorroid category, which has also made it somewhat more difficult to find a job, as few firms seem willing to take on a new hire who isn't already a member of the illustrious institution that is the Texas Bar. Still I persist in my hunt for employment, and am currently waiting to hear from two firms that are quite different but potentially equally enjoyable. I am finishing out things at my current job -- attempting to hand off as much of my current caseload as possible before leaving, while continuing to travel frequently to Dallas to handle as much household reorganization as possible before I bring a truckload of new crap into the mix. Leaving a few items each time I visit hasn't made the dent I intended it to in my store of possessions, so I might have to abuse my baggage limit the next time I fly down (for St. Patrick's Day -- there's a parade!).

Yesterday S called as I was heading from the airport to the office in a cab and said he was in town from Seattle, was in my neighborhood, and would like to have lunch if I was free. I haven't talked to S since he called to wish me a happy birthday in August, pre-brunch, pre-Thanksgiving, pre-Dallas, pre-engagement. I figured that my friend, B, must have told him I was engaged (or maybe even more likely, B told B's mother, who told S's mother, who told S), but I still felt somewhat guilty for not telling him myself, so I agreed to lunch. We met at one of my favorite spots near my office and were soon chatting about people we knew, his goal of moving to New York very soon (he was in town interviewing for a job), and of course, my engagement. He waited until the end of the meal to ask, and I ran him through the entire story, from brunch to proposal, to moving plans. Telling him I was in love with someone else was easier than I thought it would be, but still more difficult than it should be after all this time. We chatted on about me leaving New York and he commented that life moves in four-year cycles and that we're at the end of one (it's been over four years since he moved to Seattle and I to New York, but each of us has been feeling restless for several months and needing a change) and that it's time to take a new direction. He and I broke up at the end of the last four-year cycle, right around this time in February 2002; I was devastated and lost all sense of personal direction for a bit. The end of this four-year cycle is so fittingly the opposite, as I am looking forward to every second of the next four years, knowing that whichever direction I take, Dallas will be there with me.

I'm In Love And He's In Dallas

Today begins a long weekend of interviewing for positions in Dallas; four interviews in six days is a lot, but hopefully the job search, which has been ongoing since early December, will be fruitful and this weekend will be the sum total of interview Hell. Saturday we are picking up the car I bought by phone from my New York office at a dealership in Dallas. Sunday we're painting the living room of "our" house in Dallas. As weird as it is to say "our" house, it's weirder to call it Dallas's house, as I will be living there very soon (hopefully by mid-February). Hopefully I will find time over the next few weeks to update a bit more frequently than I have over the past few weeks. My holiday was rife with stories of drunkenly falling off my grandmother's walker, getting a nasty case of cellulitis in my engagement ring finger the day before Christmas Eve necessitating a trip to a physician on Christmas Eve resulting in a ten day course of antibiotics, and meeting Dallas's extended family and having his granny make jokes about how Dallas knew his dog before he knew me (a timeline that we're not going to  continue trying to convince her is untrue).