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In Defense of H-town

05/16/2011 By ChristianneSanchez 4 Comments

I have a friend who likes to compare his fabulous life in Austin to other cities. Usually, Houston is his target. And it’s not just him. I’ve lived in Houston for nearly four years now, and if there’s one thing I often hear from people, it’s how much Houston sucks. It’s irritating and I’m tired of it.

The following things exist, whether we like it or not: traffic, bad weather, crime, potholes and people with bad attitudes. I suppose more of these things exist in Houston. I believe it’s also a perception for some people. These people just hear about these things and complain about them. They haven’t actually lived it. (And by the way, living in a distant suburb 20 miles away and commuting every day is not the same thing as living in Houston.)

But even if I’m wrong about perception, and there are more “bad” things in Houston, why focus on them? The more you focus on the negative, the more of it you’re going to get. The more you focus on the positive, the more of it you’re going to get.

I like nothing better than to read Facebook status updates that are positive. I’d rather not read that: you are sick, you hate the airport, you got the wrong order at the drive-through, you’re sick of traveling, blah blah blah. I don’t care. Tell me something good.

And if you’re going to tell me something good, please don’t negate it by comparing it to something else. You don’t need to one-up the people who aren’t sharing in your particular brand of goodness. Your goodness and their goodness can co-exist.

Houston is a big city. I love that. It means there is an eclectic mix of people, food, drinks, culture, events and fun. When I worked downtown, I felt such energy there. It reminded me of Manhattan—another place I’ve lived and loved.

Austin is a fabulous place to live. Don’t get me wrong. It’s my hometown. It’s the place I went to college and the home of my beloved Longhorn football. It’s where most of the people I love most in this world live. It’s liberal and there are beautiful hills and beautiful lakes. But just because Austin is wonderful, it doesn’t mean that Houston can’t be wonderful too.

The bottom line is this: Houston. Is. Not. A. Terrible. Place. To. Live. If you live there and you think so, move. If you don’t live there and you think so, don’t tell me about it. I’m too busy enjoying my life to listen.

Photo is property of the author. Visit Christianne’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Opinion

A rock opera? Who knew?

12/21/2010 By ChristianneSanchez 7 Comments

I would say that have almost zero culture in my life.  I don’t even go to movies very much.  So when I was asked recently if I’d like to see a rock opera called Bluefinger, I said yes and tried to keep an open mind, but I expected to completely hate it.

Bluefinger is the story of a Dutch rock star named Herman Brood.  He never really made it here in the States, but he was very well-known in the Netherlands.  Brood eventually committed suicide at the age of 54 by jumping from the roof of a Hilton hotel.

At first I thought it was weird.

But then a funny thing happened.  I really got into it.  The actor playing Brood was amazing.  He could act.  He could sing.  He even had a killer accent.   He completely captivated me.  He took us on a journey from the young rock star’s early days—doing heroin, partying and bringing down the house at his concerts—to his later years, during which time his body began to give out from heavy heroin use.  Brood walked with a cane, moved at the speed of molasses, and seemed suddenly like a very old man.  The play conveyed 20 years in two hours, and did so brilliantly.

My father was an alcoholic who died from cirrhosis of the liver.  So I suppose that’s why watching this actor go through the stages of Brood’s life, I was reminded of my father.  It was the other people in Brood’s life—and similarly, my father’s—who wanted him to quit his addiction.  It wasn’t Brood.  In fact, I kept hearing surprised laughter from the audience when he would make comments about how much he loved himself, and that he loved his life.  Wasn’t this supposed to be a tragic story?

But it turns out that Brood was having fun.

And from what I understood, the reason he took his life was because he’d stopped having fun.   The drugs stopped working.  He could no longer get high.  And his doctor informed him that soon his body would stop working.  So he decided to end his life.

His loved ones were, understandably, saddened by his death.  The people left behind missed the life, the legend, the unbelievable force that was Herman Brood.  But I think Brood—wherever he wound up—is probably happy.

So what about my father?  He didn’t commit suicide by jumping from a building, but he gave up just the same.  But maybe his death wasn’t some depressing, tragic tale of a man with an addiction he couldn’t kick and demons he couldn’t chase away.  Maybe he’d just stopped having fun.

I don’t know what the truth is, but that’s what I choose to believe.  And I choose to believe that wherever he wound up, he, too, is happy.  Just like Herman Brood.

Photo is property of the author. Visit Christianne’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Opinion

So it’s not always about me?

11/22/2010 By ChristianneSanchez 1 Comment

A story of dating advice and the difference between men and women.  (Names have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty.)

A boy named Hank texts me while I am sitting at dinner with my friend Tracey, her husband Danny and his friend Pierce.  It is Hank’s inaugural text—we met one night at a bar and exchanged numbers, but until that moment, he has not communicated with me.

Tina and Pierce think that I should not write a response for at least an hour.  This way, I don’t look too eager.  Pierce, in fact, thinks I should wait two hours.

Danny shakes his head.  “No, no, no—here’s what you do.  You wait two days and then you write him back and you say, ‘Who are you?’”  As he is dispensing this sage advice, Tina is snapping her fingers to catch my attention and shaking her head and frowning as if her husband is insane.

Pierce agrees with Tina.  “That’s too much,” Pierce says, “She has to show some interest.”

“You’re a chick,” Danny says.  “There will always be guys.”

I think that it’s probably difficult for Hank to make the first phone call or text (considering I hate the phone, I’m actually delighted with the text) because we all fear rejection.  So I’m more in Tina and Pierce’s camp.  As in—I shouldn’t write him back right away, but waiting two days and then acting as if I don’t remember him just seems downright mean.

The next day, I’m with Danny in the car and I receive another text.  This one is from a guy I will call Jack.  My iPhone helpfully shows me that the last text from Jack was over a month ago.

“Here’s one time I will take your advice,” I say, waving the phone at Danny.  “I won’t write him back at all.  It’s been an entire month!”

“I know they want it to be a kinder and gentler world,” Danny says.  “But it’s not.”

“Who?  Who wants it to be kinder and gentler?  Guys?” I’m confused.

“Tina and Pierce.  Tina never had to deal with this issue because she’s hot.  And Pierce is obviously off his game.”  He says some other things but I’m not really listening because I’m stuck on the statement that Tina is hot—she is—and therefore doesn’t have to play the dating game.  What I’m getting out of this is I’m not hot, and thus I have to work harder.  Ouch.

That evening I am having a glass of wine with my friend  Meredith and her husband Ted.  I recount the story, and I can see Meredith get an angry look in her eyes because she’s taking it the exact same way—that I am not hot.  Ted sees us both bowing up like we’re about to fight someone and he starts shaking his head.

“Before you say a thing, ladies, that’s not the way he meant it,” Ted says.

“HOW COULD HE MEAN ANYTHING ELSE?” I’m pretty sure we’re both screaming some version of this sentence at the same time.  Good thing we’re in a loud bar.

“He was talking about his own experience with dating.  He had to play the game because he doesn’t think he’s good-looking.  He wasn’t talking about you when he made the statement.”

“Oh.”  We are both quiet for a moment as I consider how the same information was interpreted in two completely different ways—one by the men, and one by the women.

No wonder dating is so hard.  We’re not even speaking the same language.

Visit Christianne’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Humor

Lawyerin’ ain’t easy

10/07/2010 By ChristianneSanchez 3 Comments

MSN recently ran an article about people getting laptop burns on their legs.  I scrolled through the article comments and came across this gem:

“There are way too many sleazy lawyers out there. It is too easy and too profitable to become a lawyer in this country and the payouts are like winning the lotto.”

Having graduated from law school this past May, this comment struck a nerve.  First, becoming a lawyer starts with graduating from college with good grades.  Then you must undertake the LSAT–a three-hour ordeal that allegedly tests your reading comprehension and logical reasoning.  After you’ve finished the test and received your scores, you put together an application for each school you hope to attend.  This includes the perfect personal essay and a $100 application fee.

Then you wait anxiously to be accepted.  You quit your job, borrow a ton of money, and maybe move to a new city.  The first year, you take 30 hours of core classes–things like constitutional law, civil procedure, torts and contracts.  These are not easy concepts to grasp.  You work like a dog.  You don’t see your friends or your family that much.  You are poor.  You read hundreds of pages each day in order to be prepared in the classroom.  Your professors embarrass you.  Your grade is one final exam at the end of 13 weeks.  You go into a room and write about the law for three hours.  When that exam is finished, it is compared to the exams 79 other people wrote and graded on a brutal curve.  Because of that curve, everyone around you is hoping you’ll tank.  Almost every day, someone reminds you that the only people getting jobs are those in the top ten percent.

That’s what law school is like.  Once you’ve completed those three years of hard work, the $3000 bar review course begins the day after graduation.  For the next 13 weeks, you eat, sleep, and breathe the law.  You go to bar review for three hours each morning.  You study, you read, you take practice exams in the afternoon.  You take more practice exams.  You again work like a dog, and you live in constant fear that you will fail.  In Texas, you know that the bar exam is one of the top three most difficult in the entire country.  The test lasts two and a half days.  You write short answers for an hour and a half about procedure. You answer 200 multiple choice questions.  You answer twelve essay questions.  When you’ve completed this endurance test, you wait anxiously again–for four months–for results.

Doesn’t that sound easy?

The second part of that statement claims: “It is…too profitable to become a lawyer in this country.”  Remember—the top ten percent are the only ones getting gigantic paychecks, and even those jobs are disappearing in this economy.  To get that fat paycheck, you work 80 hours a week and you don’t have a life.  If you aren’t in the top ten percent, then you are fortunate to get a job and you’re certainly not making the big bucks.  I have two part-time jobs right now, and I’m getting paid for both of them, and I’m the lucky one.  Still, I drive a 12-year-old car.  I owe more than $100,000 in student loans.

Easy and profitable?  Definitely not easy, and profitable is questionable.  Becoming a lawyer in this country requires discipline, patience and determination.  Sure, there are sleazy lawyers.  But if and when lawyers get that big payout, most of us deserve it.  I know I do.

Visit Christianne’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Biz, Opinion

No biological clock here

09/30/2010 By ChristianneSanchez 7 Comments
I don’t want children.  When it comes up in conversation, people usually assume some things about me.  First, they think that means I don’t like children.  Or they assume I am selfish and shallow.  And finally, I get the familiar line: “Oh, you’ll change your mind.”

I don’t hate children.  In fact, there are plenty of children in my life whom I like quite a bit.  My friend Miquela’s four-year-old Saylor delights me when I sit next to her in the back seat of the car and she asks me questions like, “How tall are your friends?”  I recently babysat for my friend Beth’s baby Lily, and spent the whole time glued to her, laughing when she used me like a jungle gym.  When I’m at my parents’ house, I throw the football for the neighbors’ boy Braeden in the pool.  The fact that I don’t want children of my own does not translate into me disliking children.  My friends are all wonderful parents.  I couldn’t be more happy for them.  And because my friends are so special to me, their children are special as well.

I am selfish.  I love my life.  I love being able to sleep in on weekends and going to brunch with my friends.  I love going to happy hour on the spur of the moment.  I love watching football, or mindless guilty-pleasure TV.  My time is my own.  I know that raising a child takes exactly that–a lot of time.  Not to mention a lot of love and commitment.  My parents divorced when I was seven, and my mother was a single mom.  She was–and still is–my best friend.  Watching her struggle and sacrifice to make ends meet and to provide the things I needed–and didn’t need, but wanted!–made a huge impression on me.  I knew then that if I were to have children, I would have to devote myself in the same way and at the same level.  And if I’m not willing to do that, then in my mind, I have no business having a child.

And why do people think I’m going to change my mind?  Simply because I’m a woman and my maternal instinct is going to kick in?  I suppose that made sense when I was 19, but I’ll be 33 in a couple of months.  I’ve thought about this a lot, and I just don’t feel it.  I don’t understand why other people think they know me better than I know myself.

Upon breaking up, my ex told me that he would do whatever it took to make things easier on me to have a child, which he suddenly desperately wanted–after five years of telling me quite the opposite.  He said that we could try egg harvesting, or surrogacy, or adoption.  It seemed he hadn’t heard a word I’d ever said about what it means to me to have a child and why I’d decided against it.  Apparently, he thought I was worried about my belly being distended with pregnancy and winding up with stretch marks.  Or maybe he was the one worried about it.  I realized in that moment that he was all wrong for me.

I don’t want children.  That may not be okay with you, or with my ex, or with anyone else, but it suits me just fine.

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Filed Under: Opinion