I know lists such as these are usually of the feel good type. Aka, most romantic movies on Netflix, best movies to watch with your family over the holidays, best shows for kids, etc. I've read such lists. I've used such lists. I've even written such lists.
But lately I've watched some really effed up stuff on Netflix that has made me (a la the title of this post) question humanity. In the sense that the documentary credits roll, and I think to myself, What is wrong with people?
The whole thing has me reflective in a weird way as I'm driving to do my preschool pick ups. I find myself thinking things like: Is the human race doomed to destroy itself? Are we all solely driven by greed? Are we all inherently violent? What will become of me and my family and all of our offspring until the end of time? What is time? What will I make my family for dinner tonight?
I don't know. I really have been in a good mood lately, so I'm not sure what the fixation is with the doom and gloom. But if you for some reason, like me, want to watch some documentaries that really make you doubt the future of the human race, here they are:
Friday, February 27, 2015
Thursday, February 19, 2015
I didn't learn how to make pasta until my senior year in college. And the first time I did, I was absolutely petrified to use the burner.
That's how much I know about cooking.
This has never really posed a problem. As a student, I used the dining halls, and became an expert in take out food. As a young lawyer, I worked late and ordered in most nights (on the client's dime, of course). On the weekends, I dined out and became a self proclaimed "foodie" (whatever that means). And, lucky for me, my husband loves to cook. I was always happy to encourage him.
Then I had kids, and I breastfed them for the first 6 months of life, and that was all well and good. And then something happened that I never anticipated.
They had to be fed. Food, that is.
Every. Single. Day. Three. Times. A. Day.
This is literally - for me - the worst part of parenting. I suppose it's a bit like working for the U.S. Postal Service. Or being a toll booth collector. Or working at a laundromat. Because the work never ends. Just when you are done with one meal, and you feel the slightest bit of satisfaction, it's ready for the next meal. And then the next, and the next, and the next. YOU ARE NEVER DONE. IT GOES ON FOREVER AND EVER.
I hate every second of preparing, serving, and cleaning up after meals.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
The only time in my life that I regularly went to the gym was during my 18 month stint as an attorney at Skadden in New York. Say what you want about Skadden, but it has a great gym, that happens to be onsite, complete with uniforms, classes, and trainers. I would go almost every day, not so much to lose weight or get in shape, but to regain my sanity. The gym served as my refuge whenever I needed a mental break. I generally went in the early afternoon, and would then return to my desk to continue work and order dinner.
Then I left New York and moved to DC and started having babies. And I hadn't entered another gym since.
Until two weeks ago.
On my first day back at the gym, I had a session with a personal trainer (complimentary for all new members). Before we started our workout, she had me fill out a cheesy survey that asked about my eating habits, fitness level, and goals. I told her my number one goal was to get some tone and build muscle.
And how long have you had this goal?
Six years. I replied.
I didn't think there was anything wrong with this response, but she looked visibly shocked. She seemed to realize her response wasn't appropriate, so she gave me a nervous laugh and set the clipboard aside.
I got defensive. I have three kids! Six and under! I was pregnant for 27 months! I was breastfeeding for 27 more! I've been tired! Really tired!
She didn't care. She was pushing 21 and probably thought I was a complete weirdo. Okay, lady, that hasn't been able to tone a muscle in 6 years. Just shut up and do a plank. We did a 30 minute session and I couldn't walk for three days.