Conflicts of Interest

Two articles on the Times web site today particularly interested me and it wasn't until I was flipping between one and the next that I realized how starkly different, yet interconnected, they are:

The first, "Five Basics for Building a Solid Financial Future," caught my eye because I’ve been thinking that, oh, I don’t know, maybe I should start accumulating grown up things like health insurance and a retirement plan once I’m back. The columnist writes:

Few employers want us around for 40 years, so our income is likely to have ups and downs and disappear altogether for brief periods between jobs. Saving for retirement is now mostly our responsibility, too. Health insurance, for those of us who have it and manage to keep it, requires increasingly large amounts of money out of our pockets. The list goes on and on ... Given the stakes, it is hard to avoid the persistent low-grade fear that we have made wrong choices or cannot find the right ones, even though they are out there somewhere.

The second, "Chasing Utopia, Family Imagines No Possessions," profiles a successful young family from Austin, TX, who are donating everything they own to live a simpler life off the land in Vermont, a current fantasy of mine. (They are, of course, not going so simplistic that they can’t blog about the experience.) The Times dubs this part of "the voluntary simplicity movement" that started so, so, long ago, in the 1980s:

"The idea in the movement was 'everything you own owns you,' said Dr. Grigsby, who sees roots of the philosophy in the lives of the Puritans. "You have to care for it, store it. It becomes an appendage, I think. If it enhances your life and helps you do the things you want to do, great. If you are burdened by these things and they become the center of what you have to do to live, is that really positive?"

Methinks not.

There's a great appeal in this idea, chiefly because it's such a great excuse for the sorry state of uninsured and quasi-unemployment I'm in right now. So, in the course of reading these two articles, which essentially totaled the time it took to drink one cup of tea, I’ve decided to eff it all and become a socialist, as money is the root of evil. Must be the current Spanish administration rubbing off on me.

Serenity Now

Actually, the serenity took place yesterday, on the way back to Seville from Cordoba.

Who am I? Where am I going?

After reading Sam Kashner’s article in Vanity Fair, “Here’s to You, Mr. Nichols: The Making of The Graduate,” I’m totally crushing on Mike Nichols.

The quotes provided by the 76-year-old director made me laugh and contemplate things in a way that only a rich man who’s had the time and the means to reflect on life can. My favorite (and the article’s penultimate) quote is: “There’s nothing better than discovering, to your own astonishment, what you’re meant to do. It’s like falling in love.”

Sweet, non? It also reminds me of part of the reason to I came to Spain: to find what I guess would be my second calling, as my passion for writing slowly fades. (Yes, at 28, I’m burnt out. I’m over the competitiveness of the publishing world, the countless unrecognized résumés and seeing so many hacks get ahead, especially now that anyone with a blog can call themselves a writer—linkage company at right excluded.)

You see, the last time I spent a long period of time abroad, in England, I went thinking I would return home and become a kindergarten teacher. I always loved writing, but teaching was more practical (hey, that word again!) and just as underpaid, heh. Instead, walking the same streets and learning in the same classrooms as of some of my most favorite writers uncontrollably reignited my passion for pen and paper, and so, here I am.

And now, I’m almost right back where I started eight years ago, wandering the streets of some foreign city and waiting for inspiration, for that realization to strike, however corny and clichéd the whole idea may be.

At the time Nichols controversially cast Dustin Hoffman in the lead, he was reading Henry James’ “The Beast in the Jungle,” about “a young man who lets life and love pass him by while he waits for a cataclysmic event to transform him.” I plan to pick this book up on our next trip to the English-language bookstore; it certainly sounds apropos.

Image: Patricia Lin

My Mom's Better Than Your Mom

...because she's on ABC!


You'll have to go here to see the actual video (seems ABC isn't quite as technologically savvy as CBS' Andy Rooney). She was selected for the segment based on her outstanding volunteer work with the New Jersey chapter of the American Chronic Pain Association. (She also has her own alternative therapy practice.) Moms has become quite media savvy over the last few years; so much so I think her industry contacts are now far better than mine, as is her forward bend.

Oh well. Yay, Mom!

Thank you

I'm the type of person who looks for signs. Signs that what I'm about to do is the right thing; signs that I did the right thing; signs that I missed an opportunity. Sometimes they appear; more often than not, they don't. But when they do appear, I feel a confidence that no person or words can otherwise give me. Whether these signs come from God, fate, the universe, or are just mere idiotic coincidence, I don't know, but they are nonetheless comforting.

Yesterday, I turned down a promotion and quit my job. Honestly, I had sort of expected to panic the second I left my boss' office, much like I had when I plunked down the hefty deposit for my own apartment in New York. I'd be lying if I said I didn't experience a little anxiety over the move--especially after the guttural "What?!" my usually laid-back father uttered when I told him--but in general, I felt calm. Still, on the subway ride home, I asked for a sign. A sign that I had done the right thing in quitting my job--and not just in quitting my job, but in uprooting everything I know and truly testing the strength of mine and Jay's relationship by moving to Spain.

This morning, in yoga class (of all the places this may be completely apropos or incredibly cheesy), my instructor read the following quote from Anais Nin at the end of a particularly challenging hour and a half:

"It takes courage to push yourself to places you've never been before, to test your limits, to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain inside the bud was more painful then the risk it took to blossom."

I got my answer.

"Are you a travel agent? Because you're taking me on a guilt trip." --Homer Simpson

It's not everyday you get asked this question:

Would economy flights work for you based on these dates or do you only fly business?

I struggled with my response for a while--"Of course I only fly business class! I don't mingle with the hoi polloi!" or "It's a pity you even have to ask"--but ultimately, my strong sense of morality mixed with a dash of guilt over taking advantage of a PR person who didn't just go ahead and book me economy class tickets on an eight-hour flight prevailed, and I replied, "Economy is fine."

And I'm not even Catholic, so I have no idea where this "do right by others" thing comes from.

Getting reacquainted

It’s hard for me to get excited about a trip down the to the Jersey shore. My first thoughts are: traffic, sand in my bum and having to tell people I’m spending a weekend at the Jersey shore. (They invariably always reply, “Oh, going to break out the Trans Am and pick up some guidos, eh?”)

But my last trip, in honor of Mariel’s 27th birthday, was different, and mostly because Jay, who hadn’t visited Jersey’s beaches since the tender age of eight, came with me. I don’t mean it to as sound as saccharine as it does—even if we ever break up he will be my travel companion of choice because he gets so excited about the littlest things—like skee ball, for instance—and it’s hard to not get caught up in his enthusiasm. (Another example: When we drove from Chicago to visit that other tri-state area of Ohio-Kentucky-Indiana last summer, the rental car company gave us a mini van. I could not have been more embarrassed; Jay however, could not get over what a smooth ride it was.)

We stayed at The Blue Water Inn, which is not nearly as nice as it appears in the photos, but it’s not a bad deal for a cheesy weekend down the shore. Because it had been so long since his last visit, Jay was eager to do it all in the small amount of time that we had. By the time we got to Ocean City, the boardwalk was closed, save for a few pizza places and arcades, which we obligingly hit up after first downing a few alcoholic beverages in our room, just like the glory days of prom weekend in high school. We played skee ball, a few games of air hockey and managed to avoid the temptation of Dance Dance Revolution, mostly because there were a couple of kids hanging around who we thought might kick our asses if we did. We also took part in the requisite black-and-white photo booth.

The following day we spent at the beach, followed by an evening barbeque at Mariel’s, where there were rounds of flip cups to be played after the gourmet food was cleared from the table. On our last day, we proceeded to eat our way down the boardwalk. (Pork roll for him, French fries for me; then fudge and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Mack & Manco's pizza came highly recommend, but we both passed, as it also looked highly greasy.) The only item on the checklist we missed was mini golf.

On the way home, Jay made sure to tell me what a great time he had, but it wasn’t until I reflected on the trip later, by myself, that I realized I had a great time, too. I have been down the shore so many times I forgot how charming it could be if you treat each visit as if it were your first. I’m sure this concept can be applied to any place you visit regularly. Try it and you’ll be amazed at the fresh perspective it provides.

Enough already

Lots to catch up on here, people. Get ready.

I've always likened myself a deep person, but considering my understanding of the philosophical meaning of "deep" came from "Pump Up the Volume" (thanks to a severe pre-teen crush on Christian Slater), I'm not so sure that's the case. Further evidence to wit: The following rambling post about Death and What It Means To Me. Sort of like, "What I Did On My Summer Vacation: The Morbid Version."

Right before I left for my trip to Opio, the Grim Reaper decided to level a few blows (four in the last two weeks; with one more impending; thankfully some have been peripheral). Oftentimes, these things make sense (my great uncle: in his eighties; suffering from throat cancer) and sometimes, they don't (as in my 21-year-old sister's friend). The obvious point here is that you never know when your minute's up; so carpe diem, as the cliché saying goes. But never has death been so much on my mind than when I was in France, trying my damnedest to relax. I'm not sure whether it's due to dramatics or a result of the mindful awareness I've been trying to practice lately.

"The present is the only time we have to perceive; to learn; to act; to change; to heal."

So lately I've urged myself to do things I'd otherwise let segue into laziness: apologize when bumping into someone on the subway; spend 30 euros on a cab to a tiny, medieval village; occasionally stop what I'm doing and remember to breathe. It's this new mindset that's helping me learn that I am largely responsible for what happens to me (it sounds so simple, but its taken me 27 years to grasp this concept) and also what I think is causing death to bother me so much (probably because I'm not necessarily in control of it).

As much as I enjoy the slightly more relaxed and "present" me, I sometimes wish for the old gal to appear who can't manage to see two feet in front of her face. At least she was ignorant of such things as time. This more mindful version is only more aware of it, which means there is still more work to do. Any of this making sense? No? Good. Moving on...

In order to end on a happier note, here are some photos of me practicing the art of carpe diem that resulted in my abdominals being sore for days:




Normally I wouldn't seek out a trapeze (trapezing?), but while in France the opportunity presented itself and off I went. Wrapping your legs around that bar is harder than it looks and I've thus realized I need to step up the abdominal core work in my yoga practice. It only took two minutes to swing, but my abs ached for a full two days afterward. Cie la vie.

More Opio photos here, which tell the full tale of the trip quite well. You can also check out an awesome video from a fellow journalist on the trip here. I make the occasional appearance (usually eating), including an inadvertently bitchy send off at the end.