As posted earlier in the week, I have been busy with a jury trial for the past few days. In order to protect the privacy of the victim's family, I won't post the details here, but it is enough to know that the victim was brutally slain then buried in a wooded area. Family members were accused of the crime, and we tried one of them this week.
I write this sitting in the courtroom, waiting on the jury to tell us they've come to a verdict.
Lots of the negatives of my job have been going through my mind lately. Mostly, the pressure. I take the task of seeking justice very seriously, and I think that's as it should be. Police officers across this country stand in the gap between violence and peace, danger and safety - between evil and good. In my opinion, it is not a dramatization to say so. They tell us, each of us, that they will protect us, that is not okay for people to kill, hurt, rape or rob us. They tell us these things, and they are willing to be shot at, cursed at, abused and fought with for the priviledge of very little pay and work that brings rifts to many marriages. They tell us these things, and they catch the bad guys.
And then it's up to me to make those promises come true. When I fail, I make their words - and worse, their work - a lie.
I accept that burden, much like I accept the burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt. What I do should be hard, there should be pressure, and it should cause stress. I'm sending people to prison here, after all, and I damn well better get it right.
But......I can't be perfect, and I have realized lately that if I continue to demand perfection of myself, I am not going to be able to be effective much longer. The pressure of perfection is too much. Being stressed because I take my job seriously is fine. Being stressed because I require myself to meet impossible standards is not.
In this moment, however, as I wait for the jury to deliberate, before I know if I have "succeeded" or "failed," I truly feel that I have done my best. And I have come to the conclusion that, win or lose, I have to find a way for that to be enough.
Is your best enough for you?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Under Pressure (or, ding ding ding da da ding ding)
So not much news from here lately. I begin a homicide trial today, grisly stuff, and have been looking at photos of wounds and worse. It's an experiement in anxiety for me, and I struggle with perfectionism all the time. I've been reading a great book, Overcoming Procrastination. It says procrastination is not a problem, but rather a symptom of a problem, usually perfectionism and/or fear of failure.
Boy, nothing like reading something like that and feeling like you're looking in mirror. More about that later, when I'm feeling less schizophrenic.
Please bear with me and the lack of posts. I'll be done by the end of the week, I hope, and we'll visit some of the issues raised by my job in a way I haven't gotten into here before.
For now, think about perfectionism, fear of failure - does it impact you? Do you have a love/hate relationship with some tasks, both because and in spite of that thrill of walking the tightrope?
Can we ever succeed if we set the standard at "perfect'?
Boy, nothing like reading something like that and feeling like you're looking in mirror. More about that later, when I'm feeling less schizophrenic.
Please bear with me and the lack of posts. I'll be done by the end of the week, I hope, and we'll visit some of the issues raised by my job in a way I haven't gotten into here before.
For now, think about perfectionism, fear of failure - does it impact you? Do you have a love/hate relationship with some tasks, both because and in spite of that thrill of walking the tightrope?
Can we ever succeed if we set the standard at "perfect'?
Monday, February 9, 2009
Under Construction
So, obviously, there have been a few aesthetic changes around here lately. I hope y'all like the new layout, color scheme, photos, etc. I changed things for a number of reasons:
1 - I like to change the way things look - houses, rooms, my hair, and apparently, web pages. Change is good.
2 - I've gotten back into photography and wanted to share some of recently taken photographs and
3 - figured out how to add the photos and the slideshow you see above and to the right.
4 - to be honest, I also visited blogs of some friends around the country and theirs look WAY better than mine did. So I guess this is kind of the blogger's equivilant of dressing up for your girlfriends. Check out www.teaworthy.blogspot.com and www.transactionista.blogspot.com for some worthwhile reading. Thanks to TAG and E for inspiring me to spruce up my corner of cyberspace.
Hope you like the changes. More photos to come.
1 - I like to change the way things look - houses, rooms, my hair, and apparently, web pages. Change is good.
2 - I've gotten back into photography and wanted to share some of recently taken photographs and
3 - figured out how to add the photos and the slideshow you see above and to the right.
4 - to be honest, I also visited blogs of some friends around the country and theirs look WAY better than mine did. So I guess this is kind of the blogger's equivilant of dressing up for your girlfriends. Check out www.teaworthy.blogspot.com and www.transactionista.blogspot.com for some worthwhile reading. Thanks to TAG and E for inspiring me to spruce up my corner of cyberspace.
Hope you like the changes. More photos to come.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Snuggling in.....
It's very cold today - 37 degrees just past noon. I know it gets much colder elsewhere (just looking at the ads for Renee Zellweger's new movie New in Town makes me shiver), but for South Georgia, it's cold, and we don't understand cold here.
With a hint of snow, or even slush, our markets sell out of milk, schools shut down, and government offices close. Should frozen precipitation of any kind actually happen, nobody drives. We don't know how.
Even so, I long for it.
I envy my friends who live in climates with actual seasons. The idea of bundling up and tromping around in beautiful frozen neighborhoods or city streets is so appealing. Georgia winter is a poor excuse for the season. I'll stay inside and enjoy the things that make me feel warm and pretend we're having real winter weather outside.
My favorite things that warm my imagination and my heart are:
a soft pair of my husband's athletic socks. Mine never feel like that!
my favorite yoga pants, probably in need of retirement, but I'm not ready yet. They're faded black cotton knit with a drawstring and a couple of accidental bleach marks. I like to pair them with the socks and add an old t-shirt.
the sound of the washing machine running
making a turkey pot pie or pot of chili
football on the television
open blinds in the den (aka the man cave)
the warm taupe walls of said man cave, also the silk plant in the fireplace (coal-burning and no longer safe) and the heavy wood frame of the mirror above the mantle
candles in lieu of the fires I wish we could have
the smell of baking beer bread (yum!)
This weekend we're going to visit old friends, but I hope this cold weather holds out until Sunday night when we return, so I can warm up again at home.
With a hint of snow, or even slush, our markets sell out of milk, schools shut down, and government offices close. Should frozen precipitation of any kind actually happen, nobody drives. We don't know how.
Even so, I long for it.
I envy my friends who live in climates with actual seasons. The idea of bundling up and tromping around in beautiful frozen neighborhoods or city streets is so appealing. Georgia winter is a poor excuse for the season. I'll stay inside and enjoy the things that make me feel warm and pretend we're having real winter weather outside.
My favorite things that warm my imagination and my heart are:
a soft pair of my husband's athletic socks. Mine never feel like that!
my favorite yoga pants, probably in need of retirement, but I'm not ready yet. They're faded black cotton knit with a drawstring and a couple of accidental bleach marks. I like to pair them with the socks and add an old t-shirt.
the sound of the washing machine running
making a turkey pot pie or pot of chili
football on the television
open blinds in the den (aka the man cave)
the warm taupe walls of said man cave, also the silk plant in the fireplace (coal-burning and no longer safe) and the heavy wood frame of the mirror above the mantle
candles in lieu of the fires I wish we could have
the smell of baking beer bread (yum!)
This weekend we're going to visit old friends, but I hope this cold weather holds out until Sunday night when we return, so I can warm up again at home.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Soooooo Joonyaleeg
THE Junior League. In my childhood, the women of THE Junior League (pronounced joonyaleeg) were everything my mother was not: girly, fit, well-dressed, coiffed, made up, socially ambitious, members of the country club. They sold apples every year, and all the 'popular' girls were picked up from school in cars with red Apple Annie stickers on the back windows. These girls were just like their mothers.
I was more like mine.
In young adulthood, I grew to share Rebecca Wells' view - or one of her characters' view - of such organizations. In one of Wells' novels, a child has heard her mother and friends describe anything seen as conformist, boring, or clammoring for social approval as 'so joonyaleeg.' And so the child is mortified when she uses this word to describe something at a party, only to realize as the word escapes her mouth what it means - Junior League. Her hostess, of course, is the president and queen bee of said organization. Later, she laughs. To this character - and for a time, to me - women who belong to these clubs embodied a particular negative stereotype - Stepford wivey, emptyheaded, boring. Sans edge. Well-behaved. And the worst - stupid.
And so, in light of recent developments, I confess. I have become what I ridiculed.
I am a Junior Woman.
And I will be the first to admit, the title alone is funny. A 'junior' woman. When do I get to be a full-fledged one? When I turn 45, it seems. Until then, I am the lesser model - resigned to Skipperdom, hoping to one day become a Barbie.
But before you think I've abandoned all that previous derision, know this - my club? It ain't your mama's Junior League. Or maybe it just looks different from the inside.
You see, the women of my club, they aren't all that well-behaved. As I get to know them, I find edge, darkness, determination and grit I never expected to find among the French Country furnishings, Pinot Grigio, and cashmere.
My current favorite is Bunni, a high-voiced personal trainer with a terrific wardrobe and fabulous house in our town's nuevo-riche subdivision. Get to know her, and you find out she's been married three times before the age of 30, the last time to a builder, hence the fabulous house. Husband one was a cheater, number two was a Vegas marriage quickly annuled (or, as she puts it, she pulled a Britney), and number three was a drinker who left her with a mortgage she can barely pay. Despite this, she's upbeat and hilariously sarcastic. She also loves to shock people with her marriage stats.
Another member is Barbie, stay at home mom with blonde hair and new boobs. Barbie, however, is a computer whiz and vicious roller hockey player. I was invited to join the club by A, a fellow lawyer who recently lost over 100 lbs. She credits 'the divorce diet,' alluding to her recent split from a husband who was her father's age. She tells hilarious stories about trips home to visit her hippie mother, who grows her own marijuana and sounds like she belongs on a commune.
And these are just the best examples. The club also includes Missy, a 4k teacher who recently set her classroom on fire and Sheila, career student and amature private investigator who has dated most of the unmarried men in town - and maybe some of the married ones.
These women look the part of THE Junior League of my hometown, but they certainly don't act it.
Maybe that's why I like them.
I was more like mine.
In young adulthood, I grew to share Rebecca Wells' view - or one of her characters' view - of such organizations. In one of Wells' novels, a child has heard her mother and friends describe anything seen as conformist, boring, or clammoring for social approval as 'so joonyaleeg.' And so the child is mortified when she uses this word to describe something at a party, only to realize as the word escapes her mouth what it means - Junior League. Her hostess, of course, is the president and queen bee of said organization. Later, she laughs. To this character - and for a time, to me - women who belong to these clubs embodied a particular negative stereotype - Stepford wivey, emptyheaded, boring. Sans edge. Well-behaved. And the worst - stupid.
And so, in light of recent developments, I confess. I have become what I ridiculed.
I am a Junior Woman.
And I will be the first to admit, the title alone is funny. A 'junior' woman. When do I get to be a full-fledged one? When I turn 45, it seems. Until then, I am the lesser model - resigned to Skipperdom, hoping to one day become a Barbie.
But before you think I've abandoned all that previous derision, know this - my club? It ain't your mama's Junior League. Or maybe it just looks different from the inside.
You see, the women of my club, they aren't all that well-behaved. As I get to know them, I find edge, darkness, determination and grit I never expected to find among the French Country furnishings, Pinot Grigio, and cashmere.
My current favorite is Bunni, a high-voiced personal trainer with a terrific wardrobe and fabulous house in our town's nuevo-riche subdivision. Get to know her, and you find out she's been married three times before the age of 30, the last time to a builder, hence the fabulous house. Husband one was a cheater, number two was a Vegas marriage quickly annuled (or, as she puts it, she pulled a Britney), and number three was a drinker who left her with a mortgage she can barely pay. Despite this, she's upbeat and hilariously sarcastic. She also loves to shock people with her marriage stats.
Another member is Barbie, stay at home mom with blonde hair and new boobs. Barbie, however, is a computer whiz and vicious roller hockey player. I was invited to join the club by A, a fellow lawyer who recently lost over 100 lbs. She credits 'the divorce diet,' alluding to her recent split from a husband who was her father's age. She tells hilarious stories about trips home to visit her hippie mother, who grows her own marijuana and sounds like she belongs on a commune.
And these are just the best examples. The club also includes Missy, a 4k teacher who recently set her classroom on fire and Sheila, career student and amature private investigator who has dated most of the unmarried men in town - and maybe some of the married ones.
These women look the part of THE Junior League of my hometown, but they certainly don't act it.
Maybe that's why I like them.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Oh Baby!
I'll say it - trying to make a baby can really put a damper on your sex life.
Everybody always giggles when a couple says they're 'trying' to get pregnant. "Well, at least the trying's fun," goes the joke.
News flash - it's not. Really. NOT.
Sure, people want to believe that trying to get pregnant is just a matter of having enough sex. "Just have a glass of wine, or two, relax, and enjoy it," a co-worker told me, a mischievous look on her face. Her doctor (thirty years ago when she was 25) gave her that sage advice, and it worked for her.
Well, wonderful. But I'm not 25, and believe me, for a long time, I was trying to take that approach. But as I tick ever closer to 40, it's a little hard to do that.
What nobody wants to talk about is that trying to get pregnant turns sex into work. I've peed on so many ovulation tracker sticks, I almost need one in order to go. My personal favorite is the one that shows a digital smiley face when the hormones in your urine show your ovulation time is imminent. That damn smiley face mocks me.
It mocks me because just like peeing seems to have no purpose without a testing stick, sex has no purpose if ovulation is not detected. Honestly, if B starts heading in that direction any time other than a double-line day, I get confused. I'm not ovulating. Why the hell would I want to have sex?
And when it is detected, frankly, that's almost worse. Stereotypically, my wonderful husband is not so into the foreplay portion of the program, whereas I......am a woman. I don't need candles or flowers or soft music, but I do need some action between my butt hitting the mattress and him hitting, well, me.
Add to that the fact that my hubby loves nothing more than crossing chores off a list, the feeling of accomplishment he gets from getting things done, and it's a recipe for disaster.
B, it seems, has a whole new outlook when it comes to babymaking sex (as opposed to sex for pleasure). Gone are weekend days spent in bed, spontaneous pre-dinner interludes, even pre-company quickies. Instead, sex has become something else to cross off a list. He can't help who he is, and I don't want to fundamentally change him, but come on! I knew this was going to be tough when, after my first positive ovulation test, he said to me in exasperation "It doesn't have to be good, it just has to be workmanlike," invoking a lawyer's term which amounts to meaning good enough to accomplish a particular purpose with no extras.
We've fought over sex these last months, and that's never happened before. Who fights over sex?
Apparently, we do. He gets agitated when I can't go from 0 to 60 in two kisses and a tweak, and I get agitated that he gets agitated. Once, we both got so angry we not only didn't have sex, we didn't speak for almost 24 hours.
But sometimes, when all is right, the purpose of the babymaking efforts - our love for each other - outshines the babymaking efforts themselves. His kindness, his humor, his capacity for love make me remember all those qualities of his that I hope I will see in our baby. And ultimately, though it's not been a perfect process, any shared goal, especially this one, brings us closer together.
It's a good sign, I think, that this hasn't been easy and we don't give up, on our goal or on each other. I know when we raise this child I hope for, we won't always agree on what needs to be done, or how. But we do agree on what's important, and in the end, we love and trust each other more than any other person. There's nobody I'd rather disagree with.
So now it's time for bed, and there were two lines on that stick tonight.....where is that man?
Everybody always giggles when a couple says they're 'trying' to get pregnant. "Well, at least the trying's fun," goes the joke.
News flash - it's not. Really. NOT.
Sure, people want to believe that trying to get pregnant is just a matter of having enough sex. "Just have a glass of wine, or two, relax, and enjoy it," a co-worker told me, a mischievous look on her face. Her doctor (thirty years ago when she was 25) gave her that sage advice, and it worked for her.
Well, wonderful. But I'm not 25, and believe me, for a long time, I was trying to take that approach. But as I tick ever closer to 40, it's a little hard to do that.
What nobody wants to talk about is that trying to get pregnant turns sex into work. I've peed on so many ovulation tracker sticks, I almost need one in order to go. My personal favorite is the one that shows a digital smiley face when the hormones in your urine show your ovulation time is imminent. That damn smiley face mocks me.
It mocks me because just like peeing seems to have no purpose without a testing stick, sex has no purpose if ovulation is not detected. Honestly, if B starts heading in that direction any time other than a double-line day, I get confused. I'm not ovulating. Why the hell would I want to have sex?
And when it is detected, frankly, that's almost worse. Stereotypically, my wonderful husband is not so into the foreplay portion of the program, whereas I......am a woman. I don't need candles or flowers or soft music, but I do need some action between my butt hitting the mattress and him hitting, well, me.
Add to that the fact that my hubby loves nothing more than crossing chores off a list, the feeling of accomplishment he gets from getting things done, and it's a recipe for disaster.
B, it seems, has a whole new outlook when it comes to babymaking sex (as opposed to sex for pleasure). Gone are weekend days spent in bed, spontaneous pre-dinner interludes, even pre-company quickies. Instead, sex has become something else to cross off a list. He can't help who he is, and I don't want to fundamentally change him, but come on! I knew this was going to be tough when, after my first positive ovulation test, he said to me in exasperation "It doesn't have to be good, it just has to be workmanlike," invoking a lawyer's term which amounts to meaning good enough to accomplish a particular purpose with no extras.
We've fought over sex these last months, and that's never happened before. Who fights over sex?
Apparently, we do. He gets agitated when I can't go from 0 to 60 in two kisses and a tweak, and I get agitated that he gets agitated. Once, we both got so angry we not only didn't have sex, we didn't speak for almost 24 hours.
But sometimes, when all is right, the purpose of the babymaking efforts - our love for each other - outshines the babymaking efforts themselves. His kindness, his humor, his capacity for love make me remember all those qualities of his that I hope I will see in our baby. And ultimately, though it's not been a perfect process, any shared goal, especially this one, brings us closer together.
It's a good sign, I think, that this hasn't been easy and we don't give up, on our goal or on each other. I know when we raise this child I hope for, we won't always agree on what needs to be done, or how. But we do agree on what's important, and in the end, we love and trust each other more than any other person. There's nobody I'd rather disagree with.
So now it's time for bed, and there were two lines on that stick tonight.....where is that man?
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