I went to bankruptcy court a few weeks ago -- not for myself, but because I was accompanying a friend who didn't want to go by herself and who needed a ride. Having written numerous websites for bankruptcy lawyers, it was interesting to finally see the process in action. Since the beginning, I've been the liason between my friend and her lawyer, running paperwork back and forth, helping her fill in the mountains of information her lawyer needed in order to successfully file on her behalf, and finally watching the finale of the long and stressful journey. I feel I can write with far more knowledge and depth on the subject. How ironic I haven't picked up any bankruptcy lawyer websites lately. Personal injury, Social Security Disability and Workers' Comp, and divorce lawyers, yes. But it's been a while for bankruptcy.
If you've never been to bankruptcy court, I'll tell you all about it. After we finally located the correct building in The Big City's downtown area, we entered a room decorated in what I like to call Government Bleah: gray carpet, white walls, florescent lighting, gray waiting room chairs, official posters in both English and Spanish hanging on the walls...you know exactly what I'm talking about because you've been there many times yourself, or at least in some government office that looks exactly like it. At the front of this long room were three tables set in a U formation, behind which sat a bored but pleasant-looking middle-aged woman typing away at a computer. To her right was a microphone, behind which were three surprisingly comfortable looking chairs. On another table sat another microphone and a chair. Facing these tables were rows of far less comfortable waiting room chairs, and here is where we sat down, along with a number of others who looked just as hesitant and confused as we did.
The woman, dark-haired and somehow official despite the fact that she wore nothing too distinguishing or flashy, stood and announced that we were in bankruptcy court. After giving us a few instructions, she sat down again and called up the first case. Those people went and sat in the chairs to her right along with their lawyer. The official woman then asked a series of questions, to which they answered yes or no. There was some shuffling of papers and an unanswered call for any creditors who wished to make a statement (in fact, not one creditor showed up for any of the cases I witnessed), and then the case was closed and another was called.
The only amusing thing that happened in two hours was that a tall blonde woman walked in at one point and sat very deliberately near a couple who were sitting in the row in front of us. The blonde woman sat and glared at the couple, who ignored her for a few seconds. Then the man turned back to us and said, "I'm getting the staredown," and laughed. Not knowing if "the staredown" was something that normally happened to people in bankruptcy court, I furtively watched the angry blonde woman and came to the conclusion that she must be a creditor who was very upset with the fact that these people were declaring bankruptcy; but when she leaned over and angrily whispered something to the man and woman, it was immediately apparent that she knew them on a more personal level. From what I gathered from subsequent events, the woman of the couple was an ex-spouse to a man who was declaring bankruptcy, and the angry blonde woman was the bankrupt man's current wife or girlfriend (or someone who was strongly on his side). A house had not been sold as per the divorce agreement, which caused the official a little concern. The ex-wife stood up and told the judge she'd had it on the market for a year without success, and the blonde woman snorted in disbelief. When the ex sat down, the blonde woman stage-whispered to her, "Yeah right, it hasn't even been listed yet. Way to lie!"
Bankruptcy court AND a show!
My friend's lawyer was late, but he walked in before any of his cases were called. When it was my friend's turn, the questions were asked and answered and it was all over in about two minutes. Nothing dramatic, all routine. (Interesting side note: it was the first time my friend had ever met her lawyer in person.)
I guess I kind of thought something more dramatic would happen. There wasn't even any weeping or wailing, no stern looks from the official, no explosive denunciations from a creditor. Nothing like that. Just a lot of sitting and waiting, which has always been my experience when dealing with government sorts of things.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Even Demigods Have it Rough Once in a While
I had fourteen things on my to-do list today and only managed to accomplish four and a bit. The bit was in turning on the lawn mower, mowing a strip, and finally putting the stupid thing away after I couldn't figure out how to keep it running (and yes, I checked the gas tank, thank you).
Husband and I had had a talk last night about my organizational skills -- or lack thereof. Now that I am required to produce a quota of completed work items each week (a quota set by the company and not by me, as was formerly the case), and given that I'm often desperately sitting in front of my computer trying to make my brain work long enough to spit out at least six work items, each at least 400 words of something having to do with whatever obscure keyword I've been assigned, everything else kind of gets left in the dust. Dinner, for instance, happened somewhere south of 9 pm last night, long after I wanted the kids to be in bed.
Husband argued that because I work from home, there are no boundaries between work and everything else. I need to have a quitting time, after which I do other things that do not involve work writing. It's not like I love what I do so much that I can't bear to leave it alone; it's that I struggle to keep the gray matter going day after day, and when I haven't completed my daily quota, I feel horribly guilty until I fall into bed. There's a lot of pressure to produce as many work items as I can, since I get paid by the piece and not the hour, and that need bleeds into every hour of every day.
I've been thinking about my favorite poem. I know I've stated I'm not much of a poetry lover, but this poem was sent to me during my LDS mission and it hit me hard. I've loved it ever since. We often forget, in our struggles to accomplish enormous lists of responsibilities, that our efforts do make a difference, even when we feel we fall far short. So, without further ado, I present my most favorite poem ever:
Husband and I had had a talk last night about my organizational skills -- or lack thereof. Now that I am required to produce a quota of completed work items each week (a quota set by the company and not by me, as was formerly the case), and given that I'm often desperately sitting in front of my computer trying to make my brain work long enough to spit out at least six work items, each at least 400 words of something having to do with whatever obscure keyword I've been assigned, everything else kind of gets left in the dust. Dinner, for instance, happened somewhere south of 9 pm last night, long after I wanted the kids to be in bed.
Husband argued that because I work from home, there are no boundaries between work and everything else. I need to have a quitting time, after which I do other things that do not involve work writing. It's not like I love what I do so much that I can't bear to leave it alone; it's that I struggle to keep the gray matter going day after day, and when I haven't completed my daily quota, I feel horribly guilty until I fall into bed. There's a lot of pressure to produce as many work items as I can, since I get paid by the piece and not the hour, and that need bleeds into every hour of every day.
I've been thinking about my favorite poem. I know I've stated I'm not much of a poetry lover, but this poem was sent to me during my LDS mission and it hit me hard. I've loved it ever since. We often forget, in our struggles to accomplish enormous lists of responsibilities, that our efforts do make a difference, even when we feel we fall far short. So, without further ado, I present my most favorite poem ever:
The Labors Of Thor
by David Wagoner
Stiff as the icicles in their beards, the Ice Kings
Sat in the great cold hall and stared at Thor
Who had lumbered this far north to stagger them
With his gifts, which (back at home) seemed scarcely human.
“Immodesty forbids,” his sideman Loki
Proclaimed throughout the preliminary bragging,
And reeled off Thor’s accomplishments, fit for Sagas
Or a seat on the bench of the gods. With a sliver of beard
An Ice King picked his teeth: “Is he a drinker?”
And Loki boasted of challengers laid out
As cold as pickled herring. The Ice King offered
A horn-cup, long as a harp’s neck, full of mead.
Thor braced himself for elbow and belly room
And tipped the cup and drank as deep as mackerel,
Then deeper, reaching down for the halibut
Till his broad belt buckled. He had quaffed one inch.
“Maybe he’s better at something else,” an Ice King
Muttered, yawning. Remembering the boulders
He’d seen Thor heave and toss in the pitch of anger,
Loki proposed a bout of lifting weights.
“You men have been humping rocks from here to there
For ages,” an Ice King said. “They cut no ice.
Lift something harder.” And he whistled out
A gray-green cat with cold, mouseholey eyes.
Thor gave it a pat, then thrust both heavy hands
Under it, stooped and heisted, heisted again,
Turned red in the face and bit his lip and heisted
From the bottom of his heart—and lifted one limp forepaw.
Now pink in the face himself, Loki said quickly
That heroes can have bad days, like bards and beggars,
But Thor of all mortals was the grossest wrestler
And would stake his demigodhood on one fall.
Seeming too bored to bother, an Ice King waved
His chilly fingers around the mead-hall, saying,
“Does anyone need some trifling exercise
Before we go glacier-calving in the morning?”
An old crone hobbled in, foul-faced and gamy,
As bent in the back as any bitch of burden,
As gray as water, as feeble as an oyster.
An Ice King said, “She’s thrown some boys in her time.”
Thor would have left, insulted, but Loki whispered,
“When the word gets south, she’ll be at least an ogress.”
Thor reached out sullenly and grabbed her elbow,
But she quicksilvered him and grinned her gums.
Thor tried his patented hammerlock takedown,
But she melted away like steam from a leaky sauna.
He tried a whole Nelson; it shrank to half, to a quarter,
Then nothing. He stood there, panting at the ceiling,
“Who got me into this demigoddiness?”
As flashy as lightning, the woman belted him
With her bony fist and boomed him to one knee,
But fell to a knee herself, as pale as moonlight.
Bawling for shame, Thor left by the back door,
Refusing to be consoled by Loki’s plans
For a quick revision in the Northodox Version
Of the evening’s deeds, including Thor’s translation
From vulnerable flesh and sinew into a dish
Fit for the gods and a full apotheosis
With catches and special effects by the sharpest gleemen
Available in an otherwise flat season.
He went back south, tasting his bitter lesson,
Moment by moment, for the rest of his life,
Believing himself a pushover faking greatness
Along a tawdry strain of misadventures.
Meanwhile, the Ice Kings trembled in their chairs
But not from the cold--they’d seen a man hoist high
The Great Horn-Cup that ends deep in the ocean
And lower all Seven Seas by his own stature;
They’d seen him budge the Cat of the World and heft
The pillar of one paw, the whole north corner;
They’d seen a mere man wrestle with Death herself
And match her knee for knee, grunting like thunder.
Sat in the great cold hall and stared at Thor
Who had lumbered this far north to stagger them
With his gifts, which (back at home) seemed scarcely human.
“Immodesty forbids,” his sideman Loki
Proclaimed throughout the preliminary bragging,
And reeled off Thor’s accomplishments, fit for Sagas
Or a seat on the bench of the gods. With a sliver of beard
An Ice King picked his teeth: “Is he a drinker?”
And Loki boasted of challengers laid out
As cold as pickled herring. The Ice King offered
A horn-cup, long as a harp’s neck, full of mead.
Thor braced himself for elbow and belly room
And tipped the cup and drank as deep as mackerel,
Then deeper, reaching down for the halibut
Till his broad belt buckled. He had quaffed one inch.
“Maybe he’s better at something else,” an Ice King
Muttered, yawning. Remembering the boulders
He’d seen Thor heave and toss in the pitch of anger,
Loki proposed a bout of lifting weights.
“You men have been humping rocks from here to there
For ages,” an Ice King said. “They cut no ice.
Lift something harder.” And he whistled out
A gray-green cat with cold, mouseholey eyes.
Thor gave it a pat, then thrust both heavy hands
Under it, stooped and heisted, heisted again,
Turned red in the face and bit his lip and heisted
From the bottom of his heart—and lifted one limp forepaw.
Now pink in the face himself, Loki said quickly
That heroes can have bad days, like bards and beggars,
But Thor of all mortals was the grossest wrestler
And would stake his demigodhood on one fall.
Seeming too bored to bother, an Ice King waved
His chilly fingers around the mead-hall, saying,
“Does anyone need some trifling exercise
Before we go glacier-calving in the morning?”
An old crone hobbled in, foul-faced and gamy,
As bent in the back as any bitch of burden,
As gray as water, as feeble as an oyster.
An Ice King said, “She’s thrown some boys in her time.”
Thor would have left, insulted, but Loki whispered,
“When the word gets south, she’ll be at least an ogress.”
Thor reached out sullenly and grabbed her elbow,
But she quicksilvered him and grinned her gums.
Thor tried his patented hammerlock takedown,
But she melted away like steam from a leaky sauna.
He tried a whole Nelson; it shrank to half, to a quarter,
Then nothing. He stood there, panting at the ceiling,
“Who got me into this demigoddiness?”
As flashy as lightning, the woman belted him
With her bony fist and boomed him to one knee,
But fell to a knee herself, as pale as moonlight.
Bawling for shame, Thor left by the back door,
Refusing to be consoled by Loki’s plans
For a quick revision in the Northodox Version
Of the evening’s deeds, including Thor’s translation
From vulnerable flesh and sinew into a dish
Fit for the gods and a full apotheosis
With catches and special effects by the sharpest gleemen
Available in an otherwise flat season.
He went back south, tasting his bitter lesson,
Moment by moment, for the rest of his life,
Believing himself a pushover faking greatness
Along a tawdry strain of misadventures.
Meanwhile, the Ice Kings trembled in their chairs
But not from the cold--they’d seen a man hoist high
The Great Horn-Cup that ends deep in the ocean
And lower all Seven Seas by his own stature;
They’d seen him budge the Cat of the World and heft
The pillar of one paw, the whole north corner;
They’d seen a mere man wrestle with Death herself
And match her knee for knee, grunting like thunder.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Don't Know the Real Eva Aurora? Maybe That's a Blessing
I used to write in a journal. I wrote long, long entries, full of angst and joy and deep thoughts. I wrote until I couldn't keep my eyes open late at night. I wrote when I was frustrated or feeling like a loser. I wrote when something beautiful happened. In short, I wrote a lot and I recorded my life from the time I was about 6 and my mother gave me my first red journal full of blank pages to the time I was married and I had filled up many notebooks.
I looked in my current journal the other day and realized that the last thing of note that I had recorded in my journal was in 2006. 6 years ago! Not only that, but the event about which I wrote was terribly significant for me. Unfortunately, as I read that entry, I could only remember the bare essence of it. This amazing spiritual experience was mostly lost in the mists of my mind. Had I not written it down, I would have nothing of it left. What else of such importance have I forgotten?
I don't, of course, have all that time to write in my journal anymore -- at least, not with a pen on paper. I tried on Sunday, and after a mere 200 words, my hand was so sore I could barely grip the pen. My blog -- my poor, neglected blog -- has sufficed as a place to record some things, but with a blog like this, I can't put all my deepest feelings and thoughts and emotions out into the open as freely as if I were writing in a private journal. Even if I use a pen name, it's still too public, and many of my friends know who Eva Aurora really is. I don't think they really want to read about my deepest thoughts and feelings and then see me at church or at the grocery store.
Or maybe they do. Sickos.
Anyway, the point is, I am making a go of writing in my journal again. I could just type things and print them and collect them in a binder (which I have done before), but I miss the quiet, contemplative moments needed to shape words into sentences and then write them out, letter by letter. Even if I can only write a little bit, I figure it's better than nothing. And, if worse comes to worse, I can always spend five minutes and type it all up.
The one problem I have that I didn't face as a younger, single person, is the thought that my journal will be read by my posterity. At least, the idea that anyone else would want to read it never seemed quite so real until I had my own children. Now I measure what I write by the yardstick of what I want to leave as a legacy to my kids. I should quit thinking like that and just burn everything when I reach the age of 80.
One thing my journal is lacking, like my blog, is pictures. At least I'm consistent in that way.
I looked in my current journal the other day and realized that the last thing of note that I had recorded in my journal was in 2006. 6 years ago! Not only that, but the event about which I wrote was terribly significant for me. Unfortunately, as I read that entry, I could only remember the bare essence of it. This amazing spiritual experience was mostly lost in the mists of my mind. Had I not written it down, I would have nothing of it left. What else of such importance have I forgotten?
I don't, of course, have all that time to write in my journal anymore -- at least, not with a pen on paper. I tried on Sunday, and after a mere 200 words, my hand was so sore I could barely grip the pen. My blog -- my poor, neglected blog -- has sufficed as a place to record some things, but with a blog like this, I can't put all my deepest feelings and thoughts and emotions out into the open as freely as if I were writing in a private journal. Even if I use a pen name, it's still too public, and many of my friends know who Eva Aurora really is. I don't think they really want to read about my deepest thoughts and feelings and then see me at church or at the grocery store.
Or maybe they do. Sickos.
Anyway, the point is, I am making a go of writing in my journal again. I could just type things and print them and collect them in a binder (which I have done before), but I miss the quiet, contemplative moments needed to shape words into sentences and then write them out, letter by letter. Even if I can only write a little bit, I figure it's better than nothing. And, if worse comes to worse, I can always spend five minutes and type it all up.
The one problem I have that I didn't face as a younger, single person, is the thought that my journal will be read by my posterity. At least, the idea that anyone else would want to read it never seemed quite so real until I had my own children. Now I measure what I write by the yardstick of what I want to leave as a legacy to my kids. I should quit thinking like that and just burn everything when I reach the age of 80.
One thing my journal is lacking, like my blog, is pictures. At least I'm consistent in that way.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes...
You may see my blog morphing through changes. Do not be alarmed. My lack of technology genes is combining with my need for something different. All that can result is a riot of chaos, but this chaos will not affect you in any discernible way (unless, of course, I accidentally push the wrong button and then BAM!)
That is all.
That is all.
Friday, August 3, 2012
I'm Not Planning to Riot. Are You?
Here's something worrying: I have a friend in the military who says they've been trained numerous times in the past few months on riot control. He is stationed in California. Along with all the other stories about military being trained for domestic policing purposes, this makes me veeeery nervous.
Here's something else: I can't stand this blog format anymore. Not only is it confusing, it's just all...gray. Boring. Bleah. I might be changing that very soon.
That is all. I cannot sit here and type any more words on this computer today. I will probably go absolutely and unequivocally nuts if I don't get up and do something else -- even if it's laundry.
Here's something else: I can't stand this blog format anymore. Not only is it confusing, it's just all...gray. Boring. Bleah. I might be changing that very soon.
That is all. I cannot sit here and type any more words on this computer today. I will probably go absolutely and unequivocally nuts if I don't get up and do something else -- even if it's laundry.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
I Kind of Miss Deja Vu
Remember deja vu? That odd feeling you've been in that situation before, saying those words, listening to someone else say those words? It's a strange sort of minute or two.
I was talking to my friend, Dennis, last week, who happened to be in town for a family reunion and whom I haven't seen since the college years, and the subject came up. We compared notes and realized neither of us had experienced deja vu in a long time -- several years, in fact. Since we're roughly the same age, I wondered how many others in the 40-something category have quit having those deja vu moments. Or is it just us?
He mentioned that he'd read someone's near-death experience (he couldn't remember whose or I would go and find the exact quote for you), and the author stated that deja vu happened because we'd been given an overview of our lives before we were born. That assumes, of course, that each of us existed in some coherent, intelligent state before being born on earth (which I happen to believe, since I believe the soul is eternal), but it doesn't answer the question of why deja vu would stop after a certain age. In my case, and assuming what the author said is correct, did I see enough and say, "Yes! Sign me up! I'm ready to go"? Or did I make a turn somewhere on my road of life and choose a different path, thus negating any future deja vu moments because I'm now treading new ground?
I don't really care either way. I was just wondering why the deja vu thing was over for me, but if I have another deja vu moment, I'll be sure to note it with surprise and curiosity. Now that I'm really aware, I'll be looking.
I was talking to my friend, Dennis, last week, who happened to be in town for a family reunion and whom I haven't seen since the college years, and the subject came up. We compared notes and realized neither of us had experienced deja vu in a long time -- several years, in fact. Since we're roughly the same age, I wondered how many others in the 40-something category have quit having those deja vu moments. Or is it just us?
He mentioned that he'd read someone's near-death experience (he couldn't remember whose or I would go and find the exact quote for you), and the author stated that deja vu happened because we'd been given an overview of our lives before we were born. That assumes, of course, that each of us existed in some coherent, intelligent state before being born on earth (which I happen to believe, since I believe the soul is eternal), but it doesn't answer the question of why deja vu would stop after a certain age. In my case, and assuming what the author said is correct, did I see enough and say, "Yes! Sign me up! I'm ready to go"? Or did I make a turn somewhere on my road of life and choose a different path, thus negating any future deja vu moments because I'm now treading new ground?
I don't really care either way. I was just wondering why the deja vu thing was over for me, but if I have another deja vu moment, I'll be sure to note it with surprise and curiosity. Now that I'm really aware, I'll be looking.
Friday, July 27, 2012
T
This makes the 10th time I've begun this post. The only reason for all the false starts is that I am writing so much for work that I can't stop editing myself into oblivion when it comes to writing for my own pleasure.
But just so you know, I'm still here. And here are some highlights of my summer thus far:
I gave myself a very effective pedicure with Husband's orbital sander and some fine-grit paper. If you have been assuming that combining power tools with beauty maintenance is a win/win situation, you are absolutely correct (exhibit A: the power sander for facial skin cleansing that's all the rage on infomercials). It was a bit ticklish, and one must keep the sander moving constantly to avoid burning the skin, but now I can confidently wear my strappy leather heels without feeling at all self-conscious. Plus, it saved hours of sitting around using a hand file, even if I justify the watching of a movie during that type of pedicure.
Sian and I have been taking an organ playing workshop from Linnea. Our skills will be put to the test on Sunday during church.
Husband landed an agent for his book! The agent is now pitching the book to purchasing editors of major New York publishing houses. This is a huge step, and we've been very pleased, but we haven't started spending money like he's J.K. Rowling just yet. Meanwhile, Husband has completed the outline and first few chapters of the next book in the series, which his agent strongly encouraged. While Husband thought selling a standalone from an unknown author would be easier, the agent told him that in the YA fantasy genre, they're happy to get series (serieses?).
I'm just a little bit overwhelmed with my to-do list of responsibilities lately.
For your information, this post took me nearly three hours to complete. Maybe editing can turn into a disease at some point: you become so worried about getting it just right that you can no longer write anything at all, and eventually my blog posts -- when I publish anything -- will consist of a single word. Or letter.
But just so you know, I'm still here. And here are some highlights of my summer thus far:
I gave myself a very effective pedicure with Husband's orbital sander and some fine-grit paper. If you have been assuming that combining power tools with beauty maintenance is a win/win situation, you are absolutely correct (exhibit A: the power sander for facial skin cleansing that's all the rage on infomercials). It was a bit ticklish, and one must keep the sander moving constantly to avoid burning the skin, but now I can confidently wear my strappy leather heels without feeling at all self-conscious. Plus, it saved hours of sitting around using a hand file, even if I justify the watching of a movie during that type of pedicure.
Sian and I have been taking an organ playing workshop from Linnea. Our skills will be put to the test on Sunday during church.
Husband landed an agent for his book! The agent is now pitching the book to purchasing editors of major New York publishing houses. This is a huge step, and we've been very pleased, but we haven't started spending money like he's J.K. Rowling just yet. Meanwhile, Husband has completed the outline and first few chapters of the next book in the series, which his agent strongly encouraged. While Husband thought selling a standalone from an unknown author would be easier, the agent told him that in the YA fantasy genre, they're happy to get series (serieses?).
I'm just a little bit overwhelmed with my to-do list of responsibilities lately.
For your information, this post took me nearly three hours to complete. Maybe editing can turn into a disease at some point: you become so worried about getting it just right that you can no longer write anything at all, and eventually my blog posts -- when I publish anything -- will consist of a single word. Or letter.
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