“Assume you’ll need to adapt to local things unless you want to spend way more than necessary! When I moved to the Caribbean, I found that food and toiletries and clothes (even the fully-non-brand name variety) were all two to three times more expensive than the States. On the other hand, if you learn to live like the locals, you’ll save quite a lot: for example local fruit (and rum!) was practically free, and local bakeries and goat dairies were cheap. One of my roommates was suspicious of everything not imported from the States and spent WAY too much money; I risked the local route and not only saved but got a much more interesting experience.”
– Scarlett, who has not only lived and done volunteer work in the Caribbean, she also applying to do more in Rwanda. Fingers crossed!
Email chain twixt Scarlett and myself about our then-impending birthdays, but two days apart. I’m 25 today, a full quarter century. Many happy returns/Condolences!
Scarlett:
So PLEASE tell me I am not the only one freaking out here about our impending birthdays. 25 is PETRIFYING. the last hallmark before “Qualifies for Senior Discounts”. The end of the “18-24” check-box. The end of pretending you’re sort of maybe still a “young adult” and can justify things like hitchhiking and trespassing and running around on roofs and switching jobs every six months because you’re still kind of college-aged and therefore still kind of post-adolescent and therefore still kind of justifiably enjoying your youth. 25 is “No More Excuses For Not Having Your Merde Together”-Land. It’s doom and destruction and HOLY LORD I AM HALFWAY TO FIFTY and I Am Actually An Adult And Need To Start Behaving As Such. It’s like AGH HOW AM I NOT PUBLISHED YET AND WHERE HAS MY LIFE GONE AND I HAVE BEEN FREAKING OUT ABOUT GETTING OLD SINCE I WAS ABOUT TO TURN *FOURTEEN*, SO THIS IS DIRE! And knowing that for every year after this I’ll be begging the fates to be “only” 25 again.
Oh the problems that come with living in America. Such a tragic and difficult life I lead, with so many real and legitimate problems!
Enjoy your last days of youth…
C.:
Sorry, beloved, I did this particular freak out when I got married at AGE TWENTY-THREE and WHAT AM I THINKING?! I have to be a Real Live Grown Up now, what the hell – what do you MEAN a 401k plan?! However, to be fair, the “AUGH HOW AM I NOT PUBLISHED YET AND WHERE HAS MY LIFE GONE” I can totally relate to. I think I’ve just decided to (in public) age gracefully and act as childish as possible in private. So far it has served me well. I don’t mind going to a new age grouping as I suspect that I shall never have my merde together, no matter what age I am.
Scarlett:
I laugh at myself on this point as well. It’s odd because part of me relaly doesn’t care, in terms of how society-at-large tends to freak out about aging…it’s just the not-published/waste-of-life thing that freaks me out! I seriously remember (as I’m sure you recall as well) running around school like a crazed person on my 14th birthday. Having spent my childhood DESPERATE to be 13 because TEENAGERS WERE SO COOL, I was completely unable to deal with being 14 because it sounded “too old to be a child prodigy” and I hadn’t written a symphony or been published yet. Oh, 8th-grade Scarlett, if only you knew how LITTLE you would actually accomplish OVER THE NEXT 11 YEARS.
C.:
I remember dying to be a teenage and then realizing it didn’t feel too different from being a pre-teen. My aging angst died at that moment. I realized that some people spend their lives racing to be a certain point and they dedicating the rest of their lives to staying at that point, and it frankly seemed more than a little ridiculous. Ah, pseudo maturity! How I shall abandon thee when the wrinkles come!
How I see me and my friends fifty years from now. We'll look like the Queen, but wear higher heels and use (probably) less fragrant language.
“And after this there is void. Absolutely nothing…except, of course, for the sweet trolley and our fine selection of Aldebaran liqueurs. And now, at the risk of putting a damper on the wonderful sense of doom and futility here, well I’d like to welcome a few parties.” – Douglas Adams
Barring those who have, in fact, been living under rocks you will no doubt be aware that according to some, the End Times kick off tomorrow. Sorry about those brand new, still green bananas you bought and the fact that you just cleaned your house. I, for one, am disappointed. Where are the zombies?!
Editor’s Note: Here they are. In theory. I wish more survival classes had been taught with a dash of humor.
In any event, no I am not one of those who thinks the world will collapse into the screaming blackness of nothing tomorrow morning. But it’s a slow day at work, minions, and so Wise and I banded together and sold Susie on the idea of an End of the World/Zombie Apocalypse/It’s Friday party. Cupcakes provided.
Anyone have a good “End of the World” story to share? Here’s one. My family never freaked out about Y2K and generally found the panic rather funny. A couple neighbors tried to warn us of the perils that awaited (some religious, some not) but we politely thanked them for their concern and went along as usual. The evening of December 31st, my parents went off to their normal New Years’ Eve party and Peregrine came over to help me babysit my siblings. After they’d gone to bed we stayed up watching old monster movies (Godzilla featured heavily) and black and white films. When midnight came we annoyed all our neighbors by running into the yard and shouting, “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
Then, quite suddenly, there was a massive, crashing roll of thunder right over our house and a crack of lightening. We glanced at each other.
“D’you think…?”
“Nope. But…”
“Back inside?”
“Yes!”
“It must be exhausting to be you!” “It’s a living.” – C. and Margot
It is a great thing to have friends who are not just wonderful, but wonderfully interesting. Take Margot. We work out together three times a week during which we have deep conversations, rant about our frustrations, swap recipes, plan parties, debate politics, discuss religion, trade books, and do our best to absorb tidbits of life wisdom from each other.
We also spend an inordinate amount of time dodging her would-be suitors.
This + PhD = Margot
Margot has this amazing ability to turn men into stricken puddles of hormones at her feet – without trying in the slightest. And with good reason! She’s frighteningly funny, devastatingly intelligent, both pretty and charming, has eyelashes about an inch long that flutter just so, and gorgeous masses of blonde hair. Boys trip over their own feet to talk to her. Which, as you may imagine, can make things a bit congested on a jogging track.
Last night a very nice, very eager boy who met her once about a year ago and has been smitten with her ever since, accosted us on our workout. He seemed harmless enough so we struck up a conversation in which she took the lead, and I hung back and let the boy have a go. I was too busy chuckling at him to realize that five minutes in she had skillfully maneuvered me between her and her gallant. When I did catch on and tuned into the conversation, I understood why.
“And this plays into my theory that nothing in life is free. Take Facebook, it’s a classic philosophical example of the interconnectedness but inherent loneliness of human life! Did you see my latest status update?”
“No…” Margot said politely, as she couldn’t very well say that she didn’t even know what his last name was, or confirm they were in fact Facebook friends.
“It was about this very theory! I explained it all! Of course, this probably stems from my many romantic failures in high school. This one time…”
A half hour later she threw me a look of desperation so we politely excused ourselves and ended our jog early.
The truly funny thing about this incident for me is that it is, approximately, the 4073rd time it’s happened.
“No, I won’t do it! I’m revolting!’ “…I know what you’re trying to say, but you should know that’s not how it’s coming out.” – Georgie and C.
Once a month J. and I get together with Angel and Hotty. Hotty and J. are both from the City and were in Korea together at about the same time, although their paths didn’t really cross until they married Angel and I (respectively), but now we’re the coolest foursome of Couple Friends you ever did see. We watch movies, treat each other to our favorite restaurants, and generally pal around. Every once in a while one of us scores a deal and we all get to partake.
Last Friday, for instance when Angel got four tickets to the musical A Tale of Two Cities. A night out at the theatre, good company, but no I wasn’t entirely transported.
Let's face it. It's hard to make this sort of thing enjoyable.
Why? Because while I was sick with the plague I watched Les Miserables in concert for its 25th anniversary, and had just listed to the soundtrack of The Scarlet Pimpernel a couple of days earlier. I like my French revolutions with either A) delicious foppery, or B) soul wrenching redemption. You simply can’t beat the humor of The Scarlet Pimpernel, or the power of Les Miserables – fun family fact, Les Mis is the only musical to ever have made me cry. Kiri and I watched it at the Queen’s Theatre in the West End and wept. Buckets!
J. played along although he isn’t as big a fan of musical theatre as I am and made stereotypical American comments stereotyping the French. Although I will grant him, they really never got their whole revolutionary act together (any sort of cultural event that gets lovingly nicknamed the Reign of Terror can probably be labeled a failure).
In any event, it was too like Les Mis for me, despite the totally different revolutions. The downtrodden rise up, and it ends badly. The most standout characters are villainous (In LM the Thénardiers, in ToTC a graverobber and his cronies). Main character is a man who has changed his name to escape his past and is continuously running from it. In both plays the characters are driven to their various acts of self-sacrifice for the love of a little girl. Etc., etc., etc.. Oh I enjoyed it, but like I said, not entirely transported.
It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
I did a weekend soundoff a while back, but even with my assortment of friends (the lot of which easily form the Who’s Who of intriguing people) this was a bit much for a weeknight. While on the way to see a friend starring in another play, the following sentence was uttered verbatim:
“So. Margot. There you were in a strange city staying with a toxic couple who have gotten drunk and the wife – who is currently having an affair with a French street performer named Andre – is starting to come on to you in a desperate bid to end her marriage…what do you do now?”
Yes, there is a story behind this. All true. Sadly, it’s not mine to tell. Some of my single friends wonder why I like to stay home most weekends these days, I just can’t keep up!
“Cheers to a New Year and another chance for us to get it right.” – Oprah Winfrey
A decade, dears. There have been revolutions, wars, natural disasters. There have been cures for diseases, leaps in technology, triumphs of humanity. The iPod is approaching its 10th anniversary. I’m 10 years on since starting high school…where does time go, exactly?
A big decade for me, all things considered. Lots of good stuff happened, some bad as well but surprisingly little in comparison I find (which belies all my complaining, shhh). My small galaxy of people had a pretty stellar year too. Jane had to move three times in one year as she and her husband struggled with the economy, jobs, and life, but now they seem pretty settled (and much closer to me than California!). Janssen had a lovely little girl. Wise is about to follow Jannsen’s maternal lead any second now and her husband got a clerkship post that they are thrilled about. Hennessy got married and bought a house. Sav is graduating and her husband got into the grad school of his choice – hurray! Venice moved (which I’m still not over) but it was the right choice for her and Val and they have a bright future ahead. Peregrine also moved back to DC, has a fabulous job and a very special – but sadly top secret – project she’s working on. Scarlett is in grad school in New York, dealing with personal demons (aren’t we all?) but doing so with her usual clear-eyed honesty and personal flair. Angel got a great new job. Margot is having some truly heinous battles in the teaching craft, but I’ve never seen her more awesome, (which, if you knew her, you would realize is a statement of gargantuan proportions). Dad retired, Mum got a job teaching at university and they moved to the US to enjoy retirement (by which I mean, Dad flung himself into manual labor to turn a patch of East Coast backwoods into an estate). Gio graduated high school and is on to uni himself. Buddy and Snickers started at a new school in a new country and are doing swimmingly.
Next year will find J. graduated and off to grad school, goodness knows where. Most likely we’ll be moving as all but one of the schools he’s applied to are in different states and/or countries. 2011 will be a year of adventures and I’m thrilled. It’s been too long since I’ve had one.
Obligatory Goals:
Shop less.
Eat better.
Save more.
Exercise longer.
Love harder.
Complain less.
Anticipate more.
Hope the New Year brings you all the adventures you desire, kittens. See you on the other side.
“Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another!” – The Crucible
Let’s continue on the baby rant theme, shall we? Or perhaps a variation of it…the names some people inflict on their children. Unusual names are fine, I have one for heaven’s sake, but some names seem more cruel than anything else. Here’s a few that have come across my desk in the past few weeks (J., please read this and admit that the nice English names I want to bestow on our children, though odd to an American ear, are far from the worst I could come up with):
Boys
Oral – why, by Jove?! Hildebrande – named after what was no doubt an embarrassing uncle Balthazar – are you a video game character? No? Bad choice Stetson – are you a Mountie’s hat? No? Bad choice Turk – is your last name Irish in any way? If so (it was) bad choice Jumber – baffling
Girls
Jaraka – an Anglo-American girl from somewhere in the midwest Daxy – after, apparently, a Star Trek character Camillo – wrong last letter Moment – it only takes a moment…to make your child hate you forever
Just so we’re clear, lots of unusual names are quite nice – Janssen’s baby’s name is not common and it’s adorable. Ditto on my godniece. But let’s be clear just because your spawn’s name is unique, it does not follow that it’s in good taste.
PS – See J.? My ideas are looking better and better, aren’t they?
“I can’t think why mothers love them. All babies do is leak at both ends.” – Douglas Feaver
Wise and R2 are both pregnant and due about the same time. I’ve had a slew of acquaintances spawn recently. Last Friday the office girls and I had that conversation about childbirth that traumatized three-quarters of us, and at dinner last night my god-uncle (jokingly) asked when J. and I were going to add to the list. Short answer, not any time soon, Deus Volent. Pregnancy seems to be on everyone’s collective brain these days.
Apart from my completely lack of desire to have children in the near future, pregnancy, as far as I can tell, produces all sort of undesirable social effects. I can’t begin to count the times that pregnant women have been accosted in public places by, as far as I can tell, perfect strangers. People seem to feel it’s their prerogative to run up, clap hands on their stomach, and demand when they are due or coo over them in an alarmingly possessive manner. I can personally guarantee the first stranger who tries that with me when I’m eventually ready to have kids will have their ears blistered.
Also, it seems to turn people (in their minds at least) into friends with everyone in sight. Which can be awkward for the individual on the receiving end of this jovial goodwill.
Friday evening I ran to Nordstrom to find a baby shower present for R2. When I stepped off the tile floor into the carpeted are of the baby section, I might as well has crossed the Bosporus!
There were choruses of “Awww!” from every corner, even though I saw next to no people anywhere. A creepy enough beginning, but it got more bizarre. Wandering past a rack of clothes a perfect stranger leaped at me out of nowhere clutching tiny shoes in her fist.
“Aren’t these the most adorable things you’ve ever seen?!” she demanded shrilly before disappearing behind shelves of diaper bags.
A bit shaken I began flipping through clothes when a woman on the other side of the store held up a pair of pajamas, waved them back and forth to get my attention, and when I furtively glanced up, yelled, “These are just too cute, I had to share them with someone!” I nodded and moved away quietly…
Ducks. Gender neutral enough? You decide
Only to back into a third woman who held up two onesies asking my opinion which one she should buy, launching into the life story of both herself and the person she was buying this present for.
“Uh, the one on the left?” I offered.
“My left or your left?” she demanded. “Are ducks gender-neutral enough?”
“Um. Yes.”
“By the way, when are you due? You’re not showing at all,” she said, reaching for my stomach.
“I’m not pregnant,” I managed through clenched teeth, nearly tripping as I backpedaled to avoid her hand.
“Oh. Well, you have time,” she said, patting the shoulder I couldn’t wrench away in time.
“One measure of friendship consists not in the number of things friends can discuss, but in the number of things they need no longer mention.” – Clifton Fadiman
Yesterday was one of those days where everything went wrong.
On Tuesday I started a project to audit our records of everyone who is permanently forbidden from campus. I worked on it and nothing else for two days, 16 straight working hours and paid meticulous attention to detail. The product I turned in was exactly what had been requested.
NEED. CAKE. NOW.
Yesterday I went to talk with the officer who assigned me the project and he told me it wasn’t what he wanted at all (even though when I gave it to him Wednesday and he looked over it, he pronounced it good). Instead of just running an audit to see whether our paper files and electronic files meet up, apparently I’m supposed to create an easy reference guide so that a committee of people can decide whether any of these people should be permitted on campus in the future. Which is not what I was originally assigned and which requires entirely different information than an audit which, not to harp on, I’d spent 16 hours compiling data for.
Then! A volunteer organization we (and when I say “we” I mean “I”) run background checks for started a minor panic with it’s volunteers by declaring that they had never received the results of checks we (meaning “I”) had run.
“Bollocks!” cried I viciously, pulling up multiple emails spanning a month demonstrating that I had, in fact, sent the results off properly.
I have pride issues. I have no problem admitting when I’ve done something incorrectly or correcting mistakes. But when I’ve done my job properly, supplied exactly what was asked, and done so in a fabulously quick manner, only to be told I’m completely in the wrong and/or failed in a basic duty when I haven’t…poor J. gets a long rant over lunch.
However, thanks to a long and rather hilarious talk with Sav, Vodka, and Hennessy about (among other things) law, obstetrics, and drugs (legal ones!), I’m feeling in much better form.
Small Dog Syndrome 