Home Is Just Another Word For You

I couldn't agree with my fellow blogettes more. Home is definitely where the heart is.

My parents still live in the house I was raised in, and I have always loved it. I'm sure they'll move at some point, but when they do it will be extremely difficult for me, even though I'm a big girlfriday now.

I went on to live in my first dorm room, which was my own home, but not really. I loved the taste of independence. I loved coming and going as I pleased. I loved the friendships I made with people I didn't just see at school, but bonded with in my pajamas. But it wasn't home.

Then I moved to my first real apartment. It was the first home that was my own, but again, not really home. I felt like the ultimate single girl-- very Sex and the City. I was making my own money, budgeting, bringing home the bacon and frying it in the pan. I also lived with a great friend then, but it wasn't quite like coming home to family. It was more like living like an anonymous tax paying citizen, and it was what I was really craving. I liked to believe I had it all figured out, but I definitely still depended on my parents, big time.

Next I moved to an apartment in a far away state. Surely this one would finally be my home. I loved that place. My roommates and friends were great and my life looked exactly like I wanted it to. I was doing what I was passionate about and enjoying every minute. I also felt like I had finally found my city, I place where I wanted to put down roots. And yet still, it just wasn't my comfy place. I craved my real home.

I would go on to move around a lot. And as fun as it was to live in new places, I never thought of anywhere but my childhood house as my home.

But truthfully, that has all changed. As much as I still love visiting home, I don't feel totally comfortable, relaxed and happy if my husband is not there. I love that house and I'm extremely close to my immediate family; it's great to be there. But true contentedness does not come to me without him. I hate to sound schamltzy, but being around HubbyFriday brings me a peace that I have never had before. It doesn't matter if we are in dumpy motel off the interstate or on a beatiful island vacation or curled up on our couch. He will always be my home.

Pittsburgh

As the saying goes: Home is where the heart is.

…but my heart has never been in Pittsburgh.

I’ve lived in Pittsburgh for the past two years while my husband is getting his MBA. At first, I was excited to live in what has been titled “the most livable city”. I knew that Pittsburgh was trying to clean up its old Steel Mill image and it would be a fun adventure to live in a new city. However, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t love this city the way all the local Pittsburghers do. I really can’t ever say that I have thought of Pittsburgh as ‘home’.

Pittsburgh has some very interesting people who live here. Culturally it is blue-collar to its core. Since the dying age of the Steel Mills, Pittsburgh hasn’t had much to attract new, young people to the city. As a result, most of the people who live here (students excluded) were born and raised in Pittsburgh, their parents have grown up in Pittsburgh, and all their family is in Pittsburgh. There are very few people who permanently relocated to Pittsburgh intentionally, or for career-related purposes.

Then, there are the crazy Pittsburgh ‘quirks’! Which, I have to admit, I thought were absolutely crazy when I came here…but some have started to grow on me. For one thing, when you go to a restaurant and order a salad…they put French fries and melted cheese on the salad!!

Talk about losing the health appeal.

Then there is the famous Pittsburgh Primanti’s sandwich. This sandwich has the regular bread, meat and cheese…but then they continue to put the fries and coleslaw on the sandwich!

Finally…there is ‘Pittsburghese’ – an entire language of slang words and phrases that belong exclusively to Pittsburghers. Here are a few for example:

**Yinz – meaning: a group of people. i.e. ‘Are yinz going to the movie tonight?’ or ‘Do yinz guys know how to do that?’

**Red Up – meaning: to clean up. i.e. ‘We have guests coming tonight so we need to red up the house’

**N’at – meaning: shortcut way to say ‘and that’. i.e. ‘For breakfast I will this n’at.’

**Buggy – meaning: shopping cart. i.e. ‘Will you get the buggy for us to put our groceries in?’

**Chipped Chopped Ham – meaning: very thinly sliced ham. i.e. ‘Do you want a pound of chipped chopped ham or sliced ham?’

**Gumband – meaning: rubber band. i.e. ‘I will use a gumband to hold this paper together’
There are many, many more. But you get the idea.

And how can you talk about Pittsburgh and not think of the Steelers? This part I actually have really enjoyed while living in this city. I have never, ever been to a place that takes more pride in a team than Pittsburgh does. They live and die by the Steelers. I have an outside sales position. Every Monday morning we have a sales meeting with all the sales people. During football season the first 20 minutes of the meeting is to discuss the Steelers game that weekend. Both men and women know every single player, every play they made, the history of all the coaches, etc. On game day, everywhere you go is a sea of Black and Gold. It is actually a lot of fun. I was able to go to two Steelers games this season and both were incredibly exciting.

I will admit: Pittsburgh hasn’t been my favorite place to live. I don’t like that it takes me 30 minutes to get to a good gym, the winters are horrible, it rains more days here than Seattle, and I live in a small and cramped $500/month apartment. However, I have found some great friendships and created some wonderful memories over the past two years. Maybe the next place we re-locate to will feel more like ‘home’. And if not, that is ok. I have had fun in the process learning of the ‘quirks’ that this city has to offer.

Good at Being Uncomfortable

I never quite realized, until asked to write about it, just how little I think about this notion of home.

When I'm in the city and I'm getting ready to visit my family on Long Island, I say, "I'm getting ready to go home." When it's Sunday morning on Long Island, my mother asks, "What time are you going home?"

Home is both.

In 1980 home was Miami, in a small apartment with a small backyard. Apparently, for a short time around 1984, we lived in North Carolina, but the details on that are fuzzy.

From 1985 until 1990, home was Middle Village, Queens. In 1990 we moved to the Hamptons. From 1998 until 2002, home was: the dorm on 5th Ave and 10th street, the dorm at Union Square, the NYU property at Via Pompeo Neri in Firenze, and the dorm on Broome Street and Centre.

In 2002 I moved into the smallest apartment ever built in the West Village; a year later I moved to a beautiful apartment in the financial district of Manhattan; two years later I moved back to Long Island (I moved back home); in 2005 I moved to another small apartment in Morningside Heights, but only lasted there a month; I moved into my friend's unbelievable apartment for a few months right smack on Central Park, across from Tavern on the Green; then I moved into my most recent home on the Upper West Side. I've been there- three years and counting.

I don't watch those fixer-upper shows-- those shows on TLC where they flip a house, or where they design on a dime. I don't buy magazines with centerpieces on the cover. (Unless the centerpiece is made of cookies). I don't like looking at paint swatches or carpet panels. I don't like thinking about color combinations for living room walls and crown moldings.

When I was younger I asked every female adult I could-- what's the deal with the white picket fence? Women always talked about it on TV and I never understood. But I didn't get it. Maybe because I never had a white picket fence. Not that I'm complaining... I'm not. I'm an adult and still don't miss the white picket fence.

I went through a phase where I decided my white-picket-fence was going to be a claw-toed porcelain tub. But then I used one and frankly something about getting naked in an antique feels a little...germy.

Another while, I mildly obsessed over my future home having a "meditation room" with a clear view of the ocean in a big bay window. But my yoga phase ended and I realized-- I don't even like to meditate, anyway- I might have ADD.

There was a time when I thought-- linen closet. ...Linen closet. With neatly stacked, fluffly, color coordinated towels-- sage and rose-- that smells of cedar and lavendar... and then I admitted that to some boy and a few, drunken nights later he got all goggley-eyed and said, "Someday I'm going to make sure you have the linen closet that makes you so happy." And I was like, "What ew gross."

I went to my very good friend's beautiful wedding on the island of St. John and I spoke to the wedding florist-- a woman who spends her summers in New York and her winters in St. John. It seems to me the most perfect arrangement. I wouldn't need much. I'd even settle for a partial view of the ocean from my room- or at least close enough to walk to the beach. I'd really only need a computer and an internet connection. Then I'd get my dose of high-octane, steel and dust, whenever I was living in the city.

I could live with that. I could call that home.

The truth is, I spend all my time thinking about "job." Not "home." What will my career look like when I'm big enough to make decisions about my life (I assume I am not big enough now to make such decisions). What my job will look like, will design my home. If I'm traveling, my home will be simple, stable. If I'm sedentery (oh please God no), my home will be six months here, six months there. If I can help it.

And it's ok, because I'm good at being uncomfortable.

Lights will guide you. . .

Home. Home is more than simply a place or a building or where you rest your head—Home is a drive through the rolling hills of middle-America; past orchards and cow fields; through forests and over rushing creeks and streams. Home is nestled just off a cul-de-sac at the bottom of a hill; tucked against an open expanse populated by daydreams, bobsled runs, and tadpoles. Home is the steps up to the attic from my childhood bedroom closet, and the way I could waste countless hours hidden there, alone with my imagination. Home is the smell of chili cooking in the kitchen, fires in the fireplace, and football on the television. And home is enjoying that chili after a long day of hiking in the woods.

Home is the feeling you get when you’re in the last fifteen minutes of your four hour drive to see your long-distance boyfriend. Home is the smell of exhaust on the bridge as you wait to enter the city you long to be in. Home is the way the sun glistens on the fall leaves rushing past your car, catching the light of a sunbeam as your little car tugs its way up the familiar back road into the city. Home is a large parallel parking space waiting for you, and the soft tapping of a fingertip on your car window before you’ve even had time to turn off the car and gather your things.

Home is the awkward sqwauk of a heron taking flight from the end of the dock and the complete silence you hear when you try to fall asleep. Home is the morning sun cascading through the kitchen, blinding you as it bounces off deep blue granite. Home is the feel of cool cherry hardwood floors on barefeet in August, and the dust on the porch in the pollen-filled spring. Home is the cackle of teenagers being pulled on a tube past your house, and the quiet slap of a kayaker’s oar on the water. Home is watching the sun settle in behind the clouds while trolling the boat around the last corner of the lake, and trying not to speak while my father guides the boat on to the lift just past dusk.

Home is a living room filled with laughter of a family engaged in a marathon of board games, and home is a stocked refrigerator, full pantry, and open bar. Home is the dog rushing out of the door to great you when you arrive, and home my father’s knowing eyes watching through the window as I pull away to leave again. Home is the way your heart warms when surrounded by loved ones, and the way your heart hurts when you are away.

You Can Spell Transient: D-I-V-O-R-C-E

My Home is not so much a place, but more like a group of people. When I was 10 the parents divorced and the custody arrangement was as follows: every other day. Yep. I switched houses each and every day for the next 8 years of my life. And even when I came back from college that’s what I did until MommaMonday moved to DC (then she lost out). Going back and forth wasn’t always the easiest. I had two workaholic parents who were never happy when I remembered my soccer equipment was at the other’s house….on the way to practice. I never had the right clothes to fit my mood, I was constantly forgetting my contact lens case and cleaners, and the parents were forever rearranging the schedule so often that I was chronically forgotten somewhere. Trust me, that was very hard on a 12 year-old who was already a bit overanxious and a worrier.

But I got by. And I couldn’t have thought of a more perfect arrangement. I got to see them both equally. Which was good because they are two of my absolute most favorite people on Earth. DaddyMonday is one of those sweet, kind hearts who would give his left arm if someone wanted to borrow it for the day. And MommaM is as no-nonsense as they come. And a laugh a minute. I tell people we have the same quirky, weird sense of humor, but really she’s a lot funnier than I am. She’s funny, I’m just quirky and weird. So it didn’t matter that my body and my stuff (but never everything that I needed) didn’t have a permanent “home.” My home was wherever they were.

When I went to college my home was with David. I went wherever he went, he went wherever I went. He is one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met, and I’m eternally sorry that we aren’t close anymore. Dave had this remarkable way of taking the most mundane activities and turning them into something special, something that I remember almost 10 years later. We spent many, many nights in the Physics lab having stapler gun wars and quizzing each other on quantum theory over late-night T-Bell. He was the one who introduced me to the rest of my college home of Beth, Zack, Willie, DeeJ, Waldo, T-Monk, and Pills (if it sounds like a group of characters, trust me, it was). Whenever I think about any of those people, I am always home.

My life was, is, and will always be, full of Jeffs. I met my first Jeff in May of 1999 while working in DC for the summer. He calls me Peanut. Why, I’ll never know, but perhaps one could infer….Anyway, I call him Sunshine. He is the sunniest, most light-hearted person I know. Yet, he still retains this air of cynicism. I love it! He taught me all figuring out who I am, and the more practical matter of how to sweet-talk the cafeteria ladies at the Lab into free stuff. He was there for me through the trauma of 9/11 and life in the big city. He’s one of the few people who knows me well enough to know what special place the Rolla has in my life and even sent a sympathy card when she passed. Now, that’ll make anyone feel at home.

In between the Jeffs is a Michael. For those of you who know me, you know what a struggle this friendship has been to maintain over the last 18 months. Michael was the quintessential best friend, from 2002 when we met, to sometime around early fall of 2007 when he just stopped talking to me. We all have our theories on why, and I won’t get into those here, just suffice to say I’m still heartbroken over it. I have probably close to 50 postcards that decorate both my fridge and my desk at work from Michael. He travels all over the world and never forgets to send me something. It’s so nice to be thought of in Greenland, and Taiwan, and Peru, and Clemson, South Carolina. Yea Michael! Michael was not only an outlet for my travel passion (which he shared, but to an even greater extent) but someone who could match (and even surpass) me intellectually. When we met, this was something that had been missing in my life for a long time. We have never lived in the same place but always made time to see each other, even when it included flying into Syracuse in the middle of a blizzard the day after Thanksgiving or sprinting, in flip flops, through the Chicago airport so I would make my flight and therefore make his graduation. I can still remember riding up along the Pacific Coast highway at sunset, the two of us pointing out contrails to each other and trying to decide if we should stop and see the Hearst Castle. Ahhhh….when I think about it now it takes me home. I am so sorry you are mad at me Michael, I miss you more than almost anything in the world.

The second and third of my Jeffs arrived in 2003. And with them they brought a GirlFriday and a LeeCee into my home. I am never down with these four around me (and the stove is never off, the water is always running, there is, indeed, underwear on the front lawn, the cans and bottles are always recycled, there is glitter everywhere, the birthday is a week! long, and the beach house is never empty). These four have brought me the greatest joy of my life. I have never laughed so much, been comforted so many times, and felt overwhelmingly loved. It pains me each day to be away from them, and I would give almost anything to play foosball, DDR, or beer pong one last time. Even if it only involved pink lemonade. I might even sleep in a tent and sprint at the sound of a whistle if that’s what they wanted me to do. Who knows who I might run into coming back……

So when I think about home, it isn’t here, it’s over the mountain, it’s up on the beltway, it’s down in the sun of south Flordia, across the bridges of San Francisco, and off of St. Charles in the Bayou.

Excuse me, I gotta go. I’ve got to call home.

An Open Letter the the Airlines

Dear Every-Terrible-Airline-I-Have-Dealt-With (and that's most of them):

We are your customers.  We pay you money, and you provide us with a service.  That service is getting us safely and comfortably to our destinations.  Being that we always provide you with the bill you are owed, you really need to step up to the plate to remember what your purpose is and do it well.

One way you may try to accomplish this is through some improved training of your flight attendants.  I believe in being extremely kind and polite with everyone I encounter in public, assuming they treat me the same way.  So I cannot imagine why a flight attendant would ever give me a hard time about anything.  And yet they do.  I'm sure they encounter some very difficult passengers, but is it not their job to handle these folks with class and grace?  I've dealt with snark, ineptitude, and outright rudeness too many times to count.  The days of cute stewardesses in blue Pan-Am dresses may be long behind us now, but the need for friendliness is not.

As you know, when a human being is traveling to a new destination for business or pleasure, it is only natural that they should want to bring clothes and incidentals with them.  I think that your customers are paying enough and giving up enough that they should be provided with planes that can accommodate two suitcases, provided they are not too heavy.  And I know the liquids thing is a TSA requirement, but in my opinion, it amounts to discrimination.  I am a woman with thick, long hair and I need a lot of products to tame it.  If I check them, my bag could (and often does) get lost.  If my bags get lost, I don't always even get a toiletry kit (as if those contents would be helpful to me), an apology, or money to buy new clothes or incidentals- even if my bag doesn't come back to me until the next day.  I feel you should invest in technologies that do exist that would allow better screening and the ability to bring liquids on the planes.  Now, maybe this in turn would raise our rates.  I think passengers would either like really cheap rates and then would be more forgiving of everything they deal with, or are willing to pay more to not have to suffer so many indignities.  Air travel economics is indeed complicated, but the basic tenets of capitalism should hold- and consumers need better choices.

In closing, I would like to address the issue of missed flights due to lay-overs.  I have seen flights close their doors and sit at their gates not allowing people in who were late to due to the airline's lateness of a prior flight.  I have seen flight attendants totally unwilling to say anything to help a worried passenger who knows the flight they're on is going to screw them over.  I have seen airline personnel be extremely rude to be people who have tried desperately to make their layover, accepting no responsibility whatsoever and not even offering ADVICE on where to stay in their layover city or how to get there.  It's deplorable.

For all of the awfulness out there, there are definitely kind and capable airline personnel, and even entire airlines that seem to try to go that extra mile (I've been almost always impressed by the way jetBlue handles everything).  I thank them.  And I appreciate that most of the time, we all reach our destinations safely.  If the trip could be more enjoyable, that would be nice too.

Love,

GirlFriday

Cruise Journal

My husband and I went on a cruise a while back. This week as I was thinking about what to write for “travel” I suddenly remembered that I had been journaling during the entire cruise trip. I looked through some old files on my hard drive and finally found the entire 7-day detailed description of the trip! It was 10 pages long, so I won’t force you to read through the entire trip. However, I think the story of how we got to Florida from Idaho is pretty entertaining. Here is (almost verbatim) my description of the trip (I will warn you in advance – this blog is a little long).

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February 2007
We were flying Delta airlines and one of our friends dropped us off at the airport at 7:30pm. There were many funny things that happened on this flight. We had arrived early and were at the terminal waiting for our plane to depart. We still had about 30 minutes until the plane was scheduled to leave. All of the sudden, this sweaty, plump little guy (resembling a blend of George Costanza and Newman from Seinfeld) wearing an Indiana Jones hat and camo pants comes RUNNING down the corridor. He was SO afraid he was going to miss his flight! It was really funny to watch him once he realized he was early and indeed had not missed his flight. He then proceeded to take off his over-shirt because he was so hot and only had this little, tiny wifebeater undershirt on. Sheridan and I were trying to stifle our laughter (ironically this guy ended up flying on the same flights as us all the way to Atlanta).

I forgot to mention, on this first flight we were directly across from the airplane bathroom, and on all the other flights we were VERY close to it. Thanks Orbitz. We soon arrived in Salt Lake where we had a four hour layover. I was going to have some family come visit us, maybe go out to dinner, but it didn’t really work out because they all had prior arrangements and my 16-year old sister was too afraid to drive on the freeway (she had just gotten her license and wasn’t yet comfortable on the highway). But, it ended up working out better, because I had a 12-page paper due in one of my classes by 5:00pm on Monday (but I wanted to get it done as soon as possible so I could enjoy my vacation). So, in SLC I worked on the paper (with a lot of Sheridan’s help). Oh yes, I forgot to mention that the whole week before this I had strep throat with a temperature of up to 105 degrees and was still recovering from my sickness. Luckily, Sheridan hadn’t caught it and was able to take care of me all of last week. I was still a little weak, but the antibiotics were making me feel much better. We departed SLC at 11:45 pm (MST) and landed in Atlanta, GA at 5:05 am (EST)!!! Talk about a long trip! Sheridan has a hard time sleeping on planes so he let me lay down on his lap (we didn’t have a third person to fill the seat next to us) and I was able to sleep while he watched some movie about Robin Williams running for president.

Day Two – Sunday February 18, 2007
So, technically this is already day two, although we never really got a chance to sleep after day one. We get to Georgia and have about a two-hour layover and I only have about half my paper done. Although I am completely exhausted, I plugged in my laptop and started working on my paper relentlessly (one again, with much of Sheridan’s help organizing my tired ideas). At 7:20 am we leave Georgia for Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. Keep in mind we had been traveling for more than 24 hours straight at this point.

This is where the story gets interesting.

We land in Ft. Lauderdale at around 9:00ish (AM Eastern Time). I still have to put the final page on my paper. Luckily, in Ft. Lauderdale, the wireless internet is free at the airport! We had plopped down on one of the airport chairs and I worked to finalize the paper. I get my paper done (nearly 12 full pages) and email it to Dr. Kim. Yay! What a relief! My paper is all done.
So, it is now probably about 10:00 am and we have to get from Ft. Lauderdale to Miami (about 30 miles) and don’t know how we are going to get there. We could have taken a shuttle through the cruise line, but that was going to cost $40 per person, and we didn’t want to waste $80 and figured we could find a better way there. HusbandThursday (then BoyfriendThursday) thinks he is being smart, and decides to ask the old bum sitting on the corner the cheapest way to get to Miami. He gave the bum a dollar for the directions. The bum tells us that you can catch the 1 and then the 12 and that will get you to Miami for $1.50. So, we decide, why not?? We still have about 6 hours until the boat leaves, let’s try the bus!! So, we get on the first bus at the airport (remember we have ALL of our luggage for the cruise: my huge, enormous bag, Sheridan’s bag, our scuba gear bag, Sheridan’s suit bag, and my big old honkin’ purse). We get on the bus and ask the bus driver, “Can you get us to Miami?” He smiles, laughs, and says he will tell us when we need to get off.

We ride the bus through some really sketchy parts of town, we are both trying not to make eye contact with anyone – the people on the bus were really shady. Keep in mind we are two innocent little white people from Idaho. I have never ridden a public bus in my entire life!! However, Florida is really pretty! I’ve never seen real live palm trees before. Turns out, halfway, we have to switch busses because Miami is in a different county than Ft. Lauderdale. So, we get on a different bus with even ghettoer people than the bus before.

This was the trip from hell. The bus stopped EVERY block. The whole bus ride took us two very long hours! You must also remember - neither Sheridan nor I had really gotten any sleep the night before. Picture this. We are sitting on this bus, trying to hold ALL of our luggage either between our legs or on our laps. We are both nodding off occasionally because we are so incredibly tired. In an attempt to stay awake, we ended up talking to the lady beside us. She was really friendly and told us where we could get off in Miami that would be closest to the cruise ports.

If we would have realized how far away from the ports we were, we probably would have taken a taxi. But, what we didn’t realize is that we were on the completely opposite side of the port! We had to walk around for about 30 minutes before we finally realized we were even on the wrong side!! Then we decided we could just walk across the bridge to the correct side of the port (about 3/4 mile). We had been trudging around our entire luggage (switching off, because my luggage had rollers, but the two other bags were so heavy). I swear, people probably would have thought we had been evicted from our homes if they had seen us rolling around these massive amounts of luggage in downtown Miami!

Finally we arrived at the ship! Both Sheridan and I are sweating at this point, my hair looks like crap because it is so windy outside, but we finally made it to the ship! There were about 5 ships leaving today, and ours was the very last one – so we had to walk about an extra mile or more just to get to our ship. But, we made it in time, which was all that mattered. We showed our passports and driver’s licenses and got on the ship. We check into our room and are pleasantly surprised that our room has a window! We didn’t pay the extra fee for that, so it was nice. I am really just exhausted at this point (my body is still really weak from being sick the week before). After we explore the boat a little, we decided to take a quick nap to rejuvenate our spirits. What an interesting start to our trip!! I hope isn't a sign that the rest of the trip will be hectic and crazy! We will see from here....

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Genf

My first attempt at international travel could not have gone any worse. It started out okay. My parents dropped me off at the train station and sent me on my way to Newark. I check in, got on to the plane, and prepared myself to sleep the entire way to Frankfurt. I ordered a few cocktails, and proceeded to stare at the ceiling for the next 8 hours, incapable of sleep. It was torturous.

Speaking little French or German, I disembarked my first flight, and rushed to the next gate that was written on my boarding pass. I’d missed my connection, and would have to go find the next departing plane. The only trouble was, I couldn’t find Geneva listed anywhere on the departures screen. I sat there staring at it for nearly 15 minutes before it finally clicked that “Genf” was Geneva in German. Gate located—now I just had to explain that I’d missed my connection to the nice german-speaking gate attendant. That process took a mere 45 minutes to resolve.

Frustrated by my unexpected layover, I decided to try calling home, only to discover that the calling card my mother had purchased for me didn’t work. At all. So I spent $15 dollars to use my credit card to call the states and let them know I was still alive, albeit stuck in Germany for the next two hours. . . My father assured me that my day would only get better.

Oh how wrong he was.

My luggage arrived safely with me in Geneva, and I was able to locate my railpass, get it validated at the ticket counter, and hop on the train into town. Success! When I arrived at the station, my goal was to do two things—first, buy a calling card that actually worked. I found one easily at the Migro market in the station. Second, I thought I’d better get some cash out of an ATM to supplement the 100 Swiss Francs I’d brought will me from home. I tried three different machines, and NONE of them would take my PNC atm card. Hmm. Well, I’ll figure this out later, I thought, and headed out to find the bus to my dorm.

I walked out on the curb, and realized that I needed to actually go across the street to get to my bus. The only problem was you had to go UNDER the street to get across, so I proceeded back into the station, towing both of my large suitcases, and ventured across the street. It was at this point that I started to wonder if it wouldn’t have been smarter to mail my clothes across the ocean for the summer. But I was a big girl, I could do this on my own, I thought to myself as I heaved the larger of the two suitcases ahead of me on the escalator.

I don’t know if it was exhaustion, stupidity, or the fact that Europeans are much better at packing lightly, but halfway up the escalator the weight of my suitcase gave in, and it came tumbling backwards, and I went along with it, head over heals backward into a poor, unsuspecting French-speaking man. He caught me and kept me from a much worse fate, but I couldn’t even muster a mere merci; what came out of my mouth was some combination of gracias, I’m so sorry, and a dumbfounded look of sheer shock and embarrassment. I didn’t know an escalator ride could feel so long.

At the top of the escalator, after my tumble, I was convinced that I needed to get away from that station as fast as possible. Having determined that, I flagged a taxi, rather than try to find my bus stop. Only problem was, I couldn’t, for the life of me, explain how it was that I needed to get to my dorm. I gave the driver my address, and he didn’t know where it was. I wrote it down, and he still wasn’t sure. “Cite Universitaire” I said. He finally understood. Thank GOD.

I can’t even remember how long I’d been traveling by the time I arrived at the back door of the dorm where he dropped me off. I dragged my godforsaken bags through the restaurant that connected the two towers of my dorm and finally found the check in counter. I introduced myself in broken French, completed the necessary paperwork, and looked down to realize that my pen had exploded all over my hands. Not just a little bit, like when you get a spot or two on your index finger. I’m talking a full-fledged black mess, everywhere. Including on the skirt I had worn for my travels.

This is just getting laughable, I thought to myself.

The woman behind the desk took pity on me and brought me into the office to wash my hands. I tried, but the cheap soap and lack of paper towels left me soggy, ink stained, and desperately seeking the comfort of my own bed. I grabbed my key from her with a soggy hand, collected my belongings, found my room, called home briefly to say I was still alive, and got into bed for the next three hours.

I awoke, groggy and confused, and went to open the door and venture out in search of my friends who should have arrived by now. Only I couldn’t get the door to open. I tried locking and unlocking it. I tried kicking, pulling, pushing, and screaming. Nothing worked. Finally, I resorted to panic, and began pounding, desperately, until a neighbor came by. I shoved my key under the door and asked him to unlock it for me, please. He looked at me like I had lost my mind when he got me out. This time I was able to say merci, but entirely unable to explain to him that I had thought I’d locked my self in. I say thought because the well-rested version of myself later realized that if you turned the lock too far it would go slack, and I simply needed to tighten it in order to unlock the door and leave on my own accord. . .

I never did get my ATM card to work; I tried every ATM on the east and west banks of the city, and finally resorted to having my dad wire me cash and then fed-ex me a Wachovia ATM from a new account that he opened on my behalf. On my way home at the end of the summer, I watched a robot explode a bag someone had left behind, and the airline lost my largest piece of luggage. I arrived home with a small suitcase full of dirty laundry and flip flops, and a new sense of independence. I didn’t get a chance to properly thank the man who saved me from breaking my neck on the escalator, and I didn’t make it to at least two or three of the cities I’d hoped. But I did manage to survive the single worst first 24 hours out of the country that I could have imagined. And I can’t wait to go back.

Travelin’ Light

It seems only appropriate that this week’s topic is travel, and I find myself out of town for a very long weekend. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I love to travel. I used to be a big fan of road trips but since I’ve bought a new set of wheels it’s just not the same. So I fly.

For probably close to 80% of my adult life I’ve been in a long-distance relationship (where I find myself again these days and the reason for my current out-of-townness). Everyone I know likes to give me a hard time about always finding myself in a situation where I’m removed from the one I love. They seem to think there’s a reason for it. (Am I afraid of commitment? Do I like my independence too much? Am I really *that* hard to live with? Yes.) Regardless of why it keeps happening, and as much as I’d love to live in the same city as a boyfriend for more than a few months, I *do* love to go visitin’.

My house has never really felt like home and a lot of that probably has to do with the fact I spend all of my furniture money on getting out of town. And my renovation money. And since I’m never around to make it feel homey, why should it? My sturdy blue Samsonite, that is waaaay bigger than those little metal boxes that they put by the gate for you to (theoretically) check the size of your carry-on, feels more like home anyway. I know the exact dimensions, the sizing of the pockets, and precisely how I can organize it to maximize space potential (winter is much tougher than summer, sweaters are thick!). I know the biggest purse I can bring and how to attach my water bottle (empty of course!) and tennis shoes to the outside to add even more items to my load. I’m an expert packing and repacking my laptop and quart-sized Zippie from my suitcase, and I think I can put any pair of shoes back on in a matter of seconds. And don’t even get me started on people who check a bag. I’m not sure why someone would ever do that (given the wait on the other end and the chance of loss), especially now that there’s a fee. Egads.

So, to make this short and sweet (it’s 3 am, and I still have two full days of Mardi Gras left), I am a huge fan of getting on a plane and gettin’ out of town. Boston: yep, I’ll do it, Go Sox. DC: Sign me up! New Orleans: Hey mister throw me some beads. Florida: Move out of my way, you’re blocking the sun.

I just want to thank the crew, the Academy, and Jesus.

I'm also loving this topic and it's timeliness.  I'm all about the cinema!  I'm going to follow the lead of several of my fellow blogettes and share some of my more untraditional 'faves' with y'all.

1. Best Performance By An Actor I Usually Hate

I detest Julia Roberts.  I think she is your typical smug, self-adoring celebrity.  And she has a horse face.  But there are times when I see movies of hers, and I can't help but love them and think she was great in them.  The first such film is My Best Friend's Wedding which I thought was incredibly hilarious and fun.  The Julianne character she played was a nut job, but relatable, and I loved the performances by Rupert Everett, Cameron Diaz and Dermott Mulroney.  I also have to give it up for Erin Brokovich, which I thought was deeply moving and also well-done on Julia's part.  The superbly talented and unrecognizable Aaron Echkart is just a bonus.

2. Best Suprisingly Well-Done Turn By A Character Actor

Despite the fact that I have not ever seen Star Trek anything, I thought the spoof film Galaxy Quest was really great.  The story was engaging and the cast was wonderful-- even a not-yet-famous Justin Long.  But the stand-out here was definitely Enrico Colantoni, of "Just Shoot Me" fame (or not).  He plays an alien with a funny, halting monotone and an awkward movement, and he's quite brilliant.  I love those moments when some actor you would have otherwise discounted shows you why they made it.  It's like, who knew?

3. Best Dramatic Performance By A "Comedic Actor"

I've always appreciated Jim Carey's offbeat performances in Man on the Moon, The Truman Show, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.  But here, I got to give it up for Steve Carrell in Dan in Real Life.  The movie is definitely not perfect.  E.g. What does the fact that he's some sort of advice columnist have to do with anything?  And some of the family interactions feel a little forced.  But even through the funny parts, Carrell is playing a total straight man and he really brings you in.  I remember watching this movie in the theatre, and when the talent show scene came on, and he's singing to Juliette Binoche, I suddenly had tears streaming down my cheeks.  It was such an incredibly poignant moment, the kind you rarely feel in movies these days.

4. Best Performance That Wowed Me After-The-Fact

I really liked the movie Gone Baby, Gone and thought the actress playing the trashy mom was good, but didn't think much about it at the time.  But later, I noticed Amy Ryan in Dan in Real Life (incidentally, with Steve Carrell) and also in "The Office" (also with Steve Carrell). She was so good in "The Office" going tit-for-tat with comedy heavyweight Carrell, it was really hard to believe that she is the same woman from Gone Baby, Gone.  But she is, which makes her performances in both all the more impressive.  Seeing her in this movie put her on my and many other's "Ones to Watch" list, and very deservedly so.

I could go on and on.

  

5. Most Incredible Flash-In-The-Pan (Claire Forlani, from Meet Joe Black to brilliant cinematic achievements such as Jackie Chan's The Medallion???  But why?  She's so. . . pretty. It makes no sense.)  

6. Actor I Had Lowest Hopes For But Was Completely Proven Wrong About (Daniel Craig, a brilliant Bond and also wonderful in Munich)

7. Best Performance By A Movie Star I Had Completely Forgotten Was Actually An Actor (George Clooney in Michael Clayton- wonderful film)

8. Best Movie That Deserves All Of The Overblown Praise It Gets (Walk The Line)

Anyway, the point is I love movies, and of all the awards shows, The Oscars is the one I have some respect for.  So enjoy the show, and my pick for Most Versatile Leading Man (from song and dance on Broadway to Wolverine- is there anything that Hugh Jackman can't do?).

Favorites?

Short and Simple this week…

In lieu of the upcoming Oscars event on Sunday I have compiled a list of my favorite movies and, in my opinion, the worst movies ever made.

Top Five:

1 – Braveheart
2 – Pride and Prejudice
3 – Rocky Series
4 – Sound of Music
5 – Without Limits (not a very well-know film but a very inspirational running movie)

Bottom Five:

1 – Basically anything recent with Samuel L. Jackson (i.e. Snakes on a Plane, Freedomland, Lakeview Terrace, etc)
2 – The Hottie and the Nottie (not that I want to admit to actually watching this)
3 – Glitter (just before Mariah Carey went crazy…)
4 – From Justin to Kelly (American Idol film gone very very bad)
5 – Baby Geniuses (I am the oldest of 10 kids, so unfortunately, I have seen some very very terrible children’s films)

Feel free to add your own favorites/worst and/or challenge my list.

Positively Cinematic

Is it normal to frequently-or-always imagine one's life as a series of celluloid scenes? Is it? Because I've realized that's how I've viewed the world ever since I was a little girl, and I have a bad feeling that no, it's not normal.

It's not just the present moment that always feels... epic. It's the past too. And forget about the future. It's all spread on a huge screen and hundreds of people are popping popcorn into their mouths and laughing, and crying hysterically (and "hiccuping"), and biting their fingernails with me and my cast of characters.

The old hallway in my apartment building... it's old. The moldings are layer upon layer of paint-- a stale pinkish beige. My door is brown. Fluorescent lights blink. There's a window above my door that's sealed shut now. My neighbors are quiet, except for old Helen who practices her violin day and night, but pauses delicately when she hears a door open or close. I can feel her rush over to her peephole.

She is the rent-collector who makes sure her flapper-girl neighbors aren't up to no good. That they have no male visitors. That they haven't been drinking the moonshine.

The elevator is entirely copper with intricate curls and designs. It rattles up and down and you've got to slide the manual door open. It weighs a ton. There's an ancient fire place in the lobby with a large mirror over it. I catch a glimpse of myself for a moment, dark mascara sliding under my eyes.

I am sneaking in from my night job- singing at a bar, to a nearly empty audience.

Outside are brownstone steps. I am met with cool, crisp air and the sound of wind coming off the Hudson. Boats bobbing in the basin. There's the Eleanor Roosevelt statue, pensive with her hand under her chin. She is all-knowing.

I sit down next to her, somber Saturday after somber Saturday, pigeons at our feet. I'm hoping she'll share her secrets, even though she refuses to speak. You know the answer Eleanor, all you have to do is say it.

I hop down the steps, swinging my lunch bag. The sun is shining.

Little birds are carrying ribbons and flowers over my head and humming along with the bread-and-butterflies.

But then I get on the subway platform and the woman with the dirty fingernails is playing her guitar and her voice carries down the tiled tunnel.

I frantically weave between the densely packed strap hangers, running from her voice but it follows me like snaking smoke. And I can't escape her gaze. She sees my fear and laughs a gaped-tooth grin. The train comes and I push my way on. Everyone else seems unafraid and the doors shut in the silence.

They've tried to paint the office walls bright colors, I suppose to keep us motivated. But the greens and oranges look stiffly, uncomfortably vintage. I get started on the daily filing and data tracking, knowing it was never supposed to be this way.

I look around and no one seems disturbed. Everyone else is sorting and labeling and copying and whiting-out, efficiently making their way around the corners of the cubicle maze. I begin by feeling itchy, and then warm- I tug at my turtleneck. The windows are sealed with insulation- I want to peel it off. I turn to my coworker friend, "We didn't really know what we were getting ourselves into when we came here, huh?" She is confused: "What do you mean? Legal needs all my records to match." I swivel back in my chair, with tears perched in my eyes. My hand covers my mouth as I sink a little. I am realizing I must leave even though I only arrived at work minutes ago. I gather my coat and scarf and bag. Someone asks where I'm going. My voice is louder than I'd anticipated: "Lightness has a call that's hard to hear!!!" And I run. And I trip, get back up and run out into the street, dragging my scarf down 5th Avenue, unable to catch my breath but I don't stop because I'm losing it.
I run through the park where we once gathered for tambourine playing, when I wore flowers in my hair; and another time when the leaves once covered the pavement and everything was yellow and red. But I run through it, kicking up the old leaves, the old flowers.
I run through the intersection where I was almost hit by a bus on 9-11, that when it continued on, the driver giving me a stunned look, I saw the boy I used to date on the other side and we hugged and cried in the middle of the street, people filling the lanes, everywhere around us.
I don't stop until I get to a train station and get on the first train out, romantically zipping past the giant board with the blinking track listings. I get on a train that travels above ground and pass the connected apartments of Queens, the auto body shops, the train yard. The sun and clouds defined above. The scenery grows less urban and I begin seeing trees and the sidewalks disappear... the duck farm and the little bridge with the creek running under it... I've caught my breath and arrive at a station that looks familiar. I walk three miles to the beach where we celebrated dawn after the prom, the same place where she came to cry when our friend died at 28-years-old of a brain tumor. And the seagulls and the seaweed and the sea glass and the sandpipers suck the tears out of me and it starts to rain, pour...

Of course it does, it's an indie film.

"A Day in the Life" starts up. I am soaked. My hair is stuck to my face and my jacket is taking on a translucent hue, but I sit anyway- in the dune, near the sign that says not to sit in the dunes. I put my head back and let the sky consume me.

Wide shot. Roll credits.

The 12:01 Phenomenon

The first 12:01 am show I remember hearing about was the release of Episode One of Star Wars my senior year of High School. I had friends who were camping out at the theater over night. I’ve since met friends in college who slept outside of a theater in Washington, DC for a full week in advance of the show. Despite all the hype, my parents wouldn’t let me go. I had to settle for a 7:00 pm show on opening day. I felt inadequate.

For some reason, missing out on that first midnight show has made me all the more likely to go to them now. In theory, going to a movie at 12:01 am is kind of compulsive. I’m not sure what it is that makes me do it. There are lots of reasons to go to the 12:01 am show: you get to see it before anyone else does and not have to worry about having the surprise leaked by some doting fan discussing it on the street; you’re so excited about seeing it that you can’t bear the notion of waiting until the following afternoon; you have a real craving for junior mints at that hour of day anyway so why not entertain yourself while eating them; you have insomnia; you’re a college/law school/grad school/business school student and don’t have to get up until noon anyway; you’ve been dying to show off your new Darth Sidius costume; or maybe its just that all your friends are doing it. . .

After being deprived of that first opportunity in high school, I’ve developed a penchant for the midnight show. Star Wars Episode Two. Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone. Spiderman. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Fellowship of the Ring. Two Towers. Add to that all the opening day movies: Superman, Return of the King, the other Harry Potter movies, Quantum of Solace, Spiderman Two, Spiderman Three, Cloverfield, Star Wars Episode Three. I know there are others that are escaping me; some worth watching, others not.

For someone who hates crowds, waiting in line, and sitting still for more than 30 minutes at a time, I absolutely love the 12:01 show. There’s something about the excitement of sharing the absolute first show with a theater full of others who are just as excited as you are, if not more. If you’ve never been to a movie in which someone in costume gets up before the previews and acts out a scene from the previews, you haven’t lived. If you haven’t staked out your seat in a jam-packed theater and gotten more entertainment from watching your fellow viewers, you’ve missed out. If you’ve never gone in costume yourself, that’s probably a good thing. And if you’ve never waited in line in sleet and freezing rain, you’re probably far less likely to have caught the cold I did while waiting to see Return of the King.

But if you’ve never gone to a midnight show, I challenge you to this. Pick a movie with lots of hype. Read the reviews. Watch the stars on morning show circuit. Take a look at the action figures lining the aisle at the toystore. Go online and buy yourself a ticket to the midnight show. Get a group of friends who are willing to poke you to keep you awake while waiting in line. Get a thermos of coffee or flask of whisky to keep you sharp while killing the time. Bring a pack of cards, your ipod, this week’s issue of the economist, or whatever you need to bide the time, and settle in for your wait until the witching hour. Watch the sheer giddiness on the faces of the folks around you. Listen to the cheers when the first Fox searchlight graces the screen, and join the thunderous round of applause. Do that, and if you’re not sold, I’ll comp you your ticket.

A Walk to Remember. That Doesn’t include A Walk to Remember.

But I do love Mandy More (FYI).
Anyway, for anyone who goes to the movies or rents them regularly, it seems like memories of those experiences are a dime a dozen (if one could really call staring at a screen an “experience.” For those of you who watch the Bachelor, you’re used to almost anything being called an “experience, so we’ll go with it). But there are a few that stand out in my mind. My first thought on this week’s topic (Movies!) was to turn my blog of movies into a top 10 (or even a top 5, bottom 5) but instead I think I’ll take a trip down memory lane……

First Movie. The first movie I can remember seeing is Gone with the Wind. MommaMonday took me to this old theatre downtown that had been renovated and was being used to showcase local theatrical presentations. I can remember some years later going back to see the production of A Christmas Carol. I slept through most of that…..and then some years after that, when we had our Senior Prom there. Anyway, we went to see Gone with the Wind and I remember MommaMonday remarking that we were the youngest women in the audience by a good three dozen years; it was a very true statement as almost everyone else had blue hair and bifocals. The movie was amazing, though, with the old dresses (I can still visualize Scarlett in her curtain dress after all these years) and quaint southern drawls. The antique sconces, intricate woodwork and blood red curtains of the old theatre just added to the effect. What a first movie experience!

First R Movie. I remember going over to Aunt and UncleMonday’s place when I was fairly young (12, 13 maybe) to watch the cousins while they moved stuff from their apartment into their new house. Unbeknownst to my parents, who never would have approved, they popped in Pretty Woman for me to watch while the cuz went down for a nap. I had never even heard of the movie (I’m 12, remember…), but sat there completely mesmerized. I wanted to dress like Julia Roberts, act like Julia Roberts, fall in love like Julia Roberts. I don’t remember completely “getting” that she was a hooker in the beginning. I think that being 12, I concentrated on the Rodeo-drive shopping and romance of having some rich man sweep you off your feet. It definitely made an impression, being that I still hold onto these same hopes…..

First Stolen Movie. My boyfriend in high school had some friends who worked down at our town’s local movie theatre. The first time we ever went there on a date was to see the movie High School High. His friends let us in without paying (thank God, I remember the movie being awful), but when I told my mom about it (with great glee when I got home. “Guess what?! We didn’t have to pay!”) she marched me back up there and made me pay for both my boyfriend and myself. It was absolutely mortifying. So instead of being able to move on and forget this positively retched movie (which, no doubt, for 99% of the 100 people who ever saw it was possible), it instead still lingers in my brain. Thank you MommaMonday and Jon Lovitz. Blech.

First Bawling, Hiccuping Movie. I saw Titanic in the theatre. With 200 other women. We all cried. I’m not sure about the rest of them, but I even went so far as to bawl. Loud painful sobs, with nose blowing and hiccupping. I’m not sure I would experience quite so much visible emotional sadness if I were watching it for the first time at 27, but I think for a hormonal 18 year-old, it was more than I could handle. How could Jack die and leave Rose by herself; they were so in love?! I know everyone likes to make fun of that movie today (Jack, I’m flyyyyiiing), but I think we’ve all forgotten that it did stir quite the emotions when it first came out (okay, at least all of us who have estrogen coursing through our veins).

First Profound, Eye-Opener Movie. My college boyfriend really wanted to go see a particular movie that I had no interest in seeing. Until that point in my life, I’d probably pretty much bossed people around when it came to the movies. If they wanted to see something I didn’t, we compromised until we got to the one movie we were both willing to see, but neither of us was dying to see. I never completely caved. But with Oh, Brother Art Thou?, I was adamant that I DID NOT want to see such a stupid looking film, but I gave in. Anyway, I was mesmerized by the movie, which still reigns in my top 10 of all time. I’m the first to admit that I was completely wrong, and it just made me realize that I should let other people have their way some too, especially when it can result in enjoyment like that. But just so you know, giving in can result in seeing films like Malibu’s Most Wanted (GirlFriday?!?), The Perfect Storm, and I Am Legend (see below), all disgraces to the film industry.

First Walk-Out. The only movie I have ever walked out on was Ace Ventura, Pet Detective. 2. When Nature Calls, or some shit like that. I can’t even remember what was so horrible about it, or even who I was with (who, no doubt, wasn’t happy about having to leave). I think I can almost recall some crude bathroom humor, which doesn’t ever sit well with me, but it could also be the presence of a lame plot. Either way, I left and forfeited probably close to 10 bucks. At the time I think I would have paid 10 more just not to have to sit through the rest of it. So next time I see one of you, make sure to let me know how this one ended. Since I obviously care. One other note on this subject: I also could have walked out on I Am Legend, if I hadn’t been with three other people. It was unnecessarily scary and the dog dies (ooops, spoiler alert, sorry).

I could run this trip down memory lane on for hours (or pages), but I’m going to leave you with just two more. First “I Could Sit Through That Again, Right Now” Movie: Contact. A really terrific movie for any of you who have never seen it. And First Subtitles Movie: Amelie. Also great. And also probably could have sat through that one again as well.

GirlFriday Week

I do love birthdays.  I love them in a way a grown woman shouldn't.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's because I'm not a person who requires a lot of attention from my friends (I make up for this by demanding an unhealthy amount of attention from my parents), and once a year, I enjoy being the central reason for letting the good times role.  So much so, that I don't really have a birthday.  I have birthweek.  I know that sounds sort of preposterous, but somehow it works and everyone loves it.

I really enjoy PG activities, and GirlFriday Week is always chock full of them-- board games, karaoke, painting pottery (a super-fun outing organized by GirlWednesday when I turned 20), pizza and cake.  Very sadly, I haven't had a GirlFriday Week since I moved away from my friends.  I don't mind too much.  My husband treats me very well.  But I can't help but be reminded about how much I miss my friends every time I get a year older.

I love to hear from all of my old friends on my birthday, but it's not crucial to me.  I don't evaluate someone's friendship based on whether and to what extent they remember and celebrate my birthday.  Especially with the handy dandy Facebook reminder, it's not really an indication of someone's amount of care for you, or even their level of thoughtfulness and class. And sometimes it can even feel like people are remembering and contacting you sort of just for show.  That doesn't mean they care about you more than your closest cousin who plum forgot.

It's nice to hear from folks, but people are busy.  They have a lot of crap going on, and just because they don't call, email or send a gift does not mean they don't care about you.  I think the most important thing is that you hear from your parents, and that the people who you hang out with regularly or work with do something sweet for you.  And if you don't tell anyone it's your birthday, you can't get upset that they don't know it!

In school, I was on the young side for my grade.  I always liked that.  Even though I knew it didn't mean much, it felt good that I was accomplishing things slightly sooner than most.  Well, I must have really liked how it felt, because I went on to accomplish a lot of things at ridiculously young ages.  But now I'm in my late 20's and I'm losing most of that novelty.  My peers have definitely caught up if not exceeded me, and now it's like, who cares that I hit milestones at young ages-- we all ended up hitting them eventually.  In that sense, it's a little hard getting older, because I'm losing that "young and accomplished" feeling that was once so intense every time I blew out the candles.  

Still, I don't mind getting older.  Mostly because I'm so happy with where I am as a person.  I'm sure it's dangerous to think even that.  After all, life doesn't always go as planned, and I will probably reach birthdays at which everything is not so rosy.  I haven't previously thought about birthdays so reflectively, as a time to be gracious and appreciative.  But perhaps I should.  From now on, in addition to arcade games and ice cream sundaes, GirlFriday Week will be about being thankful for everything in my life.  It might not be perfect, but it's GirlFriday.  And it's pretty fabulous.

P.S. Happy Birthday, BrotherFriday.

It All Started With a Fishing Pole...

Over the last few years my opinion has begun to change about birthdays – particularly regarding the birthday gift. When I first met my now-husband he surprised me that first summer with a fishing pole as my birthday present. I remember quietly chuckling to myself and thinking this was probably one of those gifts that men are infamous for giving. You know - the ones that they would have rather gotten themselves i.e. a leafblower for Christmas or cool phone accessories for Valentines Day. But, when he gave this gift to me he said that this was going to be one of the greatest gifts I had ever gotten. Why? Because we were going to create endless memories from this one gift. And he was absolutely right.

I had never been much of an angler before that summer. But my then-boyfriend (now-husband) spent countless patient hours showing me the tricks and techniques necessary to be successful at stream casting. I fell in love with the sport. We went fishing in the Boise River about 80 of the 90 summer days that year. Both of us would get off work, quickly change clothes, head to our secret spots on the River, and fish until dusk. We would wake up early each day and make bets on who was going to catch the most fish, who was going to catch the first fish, who was going to catch the biggest fish, etc. The grand prize for the winner of these bets would always be a snow cone – flavor of the winner’s choice. To this day this is an activity that we both love, and most importantly, it is an opportunity for us to spend a lot of quality time with one another.

That birthday gift five years ago was the starting point for a tradition we challenged ourselves to uphold. The challenge: each year we will only give one another birthday gifts that you can create a memory with. The gift does not have to cost a lot of money (and in fact, shouldn’t cost a lot) but it has to be something that you can physically do that will be memorable. This is actually a lot harder than you would originally think. It is somewhat easy to get someone a watch, new cologne, or a nice polo shirt. It is a lot more difficult to come up with a gift that can create a memory. Since making this pact, we have gone on countless memorable trips, and have received and given many other personal memory-creating gifts to one another.

It has changed the way I look at birthday gifts. No longer do I fret over, “What is he going to get me” or “I don’t know what to get him”. We don’t give gifts of large value but they have a lot of significant meaning and are much more enjoyable to give and receive. I have since started to implement this gift-giving philosophy with my friends and family and have received much greater responses than I have ever seen before!

I Know I'll Often Stop and Think About Them

Unseasonable warmth in February- I shed my wool coat for my trench, a scarf. I rested my head back against the seat cushion as the train waited in the station with doors open while a steady breeze blew through my hair. The air was cool with warm undertones. A preview of an almost spring. I sat on the train in the eastern Long Island station and waited for the doors to close and the train to take off. And as I waited, I didn't fail to notice a ghost of my younger self ride her bike quickly along the side of the tracks, in the gray gravel. Her bike skid a little, she stuck her legs straight out, opened her eyes and mouth wide in anticipation of the tumble. But it didn't happen that way. The bike dipped and she sloppily dug one sneaker into the ground and caught her balance. She shrieked happily, pushed off and pedalled furiously away.

I remember how my sweatpants felt back then- pants I was allowed to get dirty when I rode my bike everywhere- they were baggy and had elastic at the ankles. I wore them with big white socks and sneakers. I had a "1986 World Series- Mets" sweatshirt. Or a puffy windbreaker. I always wore pony tails or french braids that, after a few minutes in the wind, my curls would fall out of. My tongue was usually purple or blue from a treat from the ice cream truck.

So I looked like a maniac... My bike was pink. I was a runny-nosed mess most of the time. But as a kid nothing was better than than the first signs of spring. In Queens where I grew up it meant running outside at even the faintest hint of warmth and turning over all the bricks, in the small garden we shared with my grandparents, to look for "rollie pollies" or lady bugs. My sister and I would dust our bikes off and pull them out of the garage and race along the train tracks behind our apartment. It was cold, but sort-of warm.

This old memory made me feel so comfortable I could have fallen asleep right there on the train. And I love the way weather holds such a memory for me- in a way no diary ever could.

Here's a great line from the book I'm reading, about a girl who tried to hold onto her memories so tightly, but after much reflection thought better of it:
"I was beginning to understand, and with the touch of an imaginary wand I released my prisoners, flung open the dining room doors and sent them on their way, let them go, scattered them like the seeds of a dandelion that one blows into the wind on a warm summer's day."

I kind of like the way these vivid memories come and go like an unseasonably warm winter afternoon. I can't summon that exact feeling just any time of the year, it's a special day that I remember these things. The memories aren't prisoners, they're visitors.

The train doors closed and we began to chug along. I couldn't shake that dusky, almost-spring feeling-- I was glad for it though. I didn't want to lose it like deja vu that slips away before you can figure out why it's so familiar. I wanted to hold onto it.

Almost spring used to make me sad, fill me with a sense of hopelessness. In college a boy broke my heart in the almost-spring. We sat on the pavement outside the dorm on one of our last days together and I watched as the girl I knew he'd started to like instead of me crossed the street in front of us. There was nothing I could do to stop the situation. So instead I went for an endless walk around the city in a big sweater and a scarf.

I don't remember what I thought about as I walked around the city until the evening turned too cold and windy that I had to return home. But I do remember exactly what it felt like that day, to put my hands on the cool sidewalk and push myself to my feet, before leaving him.

Later in life this time of year brings me right to Italy. When the air was cool and warm at once, I was in Florence. I remember the reddish tiles of the Tuscan roofs, the off-white walls, the over sized doors and the dark green shutters. The small, sleepy city with a river through it, the wide piazzas, the rising sun glinting on the cap of the Duomo... being alone in Europe- to call Europe home for a few months.... Almost spring in Europe smells like spinach quiche in the oven, sounds like a cool breeze rattling a tall row of cypress trees, smells like the shopkeeper's perfume, looks like the lights of shops along the downtown cobblestone streets.

My train kept on rolling past the familiar towns. I was headed back into the city. A place where I've spent, and continue to spend, many almost-springs.

The playground in Middle Village where my sister and I would roller skate the slopey perimeter... The promise of school almost being over before summer break... Going to church for Easter and noticing the tulips... Exploring an old, abandoned house with my best friend... Moving into my first nice apartment and sitting on the roof-deck to finish my favorite book while the sun set over Manhattan... Going for a comfortable jog along the Hudson River and past the doggie park...

I love to reflect and watch my memories grow up as I do, each year a different age. Seasons like birthdays taking me through life. I like to imagine what future memories I might create when the thermometer hits 50 in coming Februaries.

I am a planner.

I chart out my life with to-do lists and post-it notes scattered on my desk, my computer desk-top, and my blackberry task list. For every large objective, I think in process-oriented task increments.

What, you may ask, does this have to do at all with birthdays?

Simple. Birthdays are the ultimate increment by which to measure progress towards and success in reaching precisely such goals. At least for the first twenty-five years of my life, that was the case.

When I was truly little, the goals were equally small- age five- teach myself cursive using my brother's handwriting homework; age seven- get ears pierced; age ten- have my first big birthday party with all my friends.

Once I hit the teenage years, the birthdays obviously carried with them the more “serious” milestones: thirteen- kiss my first boy; fourteen- start highschool; fifteen- get first real job; sixteen- get driver’s license; seventeen- get senior driver’s license.

And then came eighteen.

Eighteen for me was when birthdays first got serious. At eighteen, I became an adult. And I don’t mean in the legal sense, the voting sense, or the able-to-buy-cigarettes-and-porn sense. I mean that my eighteenth birthday was the first birthday on which I thought about birthdays in terms of what I had accomplished, or what I needed to accomplish in the coming year. With an early April birthday, I had the pleasure of receiving college acceptance and rejection letters for my birthday. Only the thing was, all the good letters came the day BEFORE my birthday, and the skinny, ominous envelopes arrived the day OF my birthday. Oh cruel world. At eighteen, I wasn’t focused on what illicit transgression I would partake in—I was focused on the fact that my “dream” college had delivered the big N-O on my first day of adult hood. Happy Birthday, welcome to reality, sucker.

At eighteen, I was focused keenly on my future. My chart looked something like this: Nineteen- pick college major; twenty- land kick-ass summer internship; twenty-one- take LSAT and begin applying to law schools; twenty-two- get in to top 15 law school, graduate summa cum laude, and move in with boyfriend, soon to be fiancé. Move to big city—live fancy “adult” life together; marry during final year of law school, and start high-paying career, all by the age of twenty-five.

Somewhere between twenty-one and twenty-five the train derailed. I didn’t get in to the big city school of my choosing, and my boyfriend didn’t even follow, let alone become my fiancé. I tacked on another year of graduate school, and birthdays started to send me into a serious funk in which I just wanted the day to come and go as quickly as possible so I could avoid the introspection. At twenty five I found myself single, lonely, and trying desperately to figure out what direction I was headed in life. Sure, I was only single for a little while, and I had a job all lined up for the summer that would likely lead to a final job offer, but I felt as though by failing to satisfy the artificial timeline I had set out for myself I was in some way inadequate as a person. I had failed.

Twenty-five: Grow up.

Fortunately for me, I turned twenty-five in the company of a few friends who were older and wiser than me whose opinions I respected and who tended to succeed in talking me out of fits of irrationality. Rather than placate my whining diatribe on why I was a failure in not checking off my to-do list by twenty-five, my best friend told me to pull my head out of my ass and stop trying so desperately hard to shape my life into the artificial mold I had created for myself. So at twenty-five years, one hour, and 45 minutes old, I let go of my “grand plan.” I adopted the best “come-what-may” mentality that can be expected of a psychotically type-A personality, took a deep breath, and looked forward to the year ahead. At twenty-six, I celebrated my last birthday as a student, and at twenty-seven, I celebrated the first birthday in which old and new friends came together and celebrated as one in the city I now call home. I will celebrate twenty-eight as a newly married woman, three-years behind “schedule.” And I am okay with that, because I wouldn’t take back the three years between for all the world.

Weekday Dish: Five Girls in their 20s……..

Only for another 6 months. Then it will be four girls in their 20s and one in her 30s. And that one is ME. There I said it. I’m turning the big 3-0 (don’t you hate when people use that phrase?!) this summer. I’m telling the world – or rather the 10 people who might read this blog.

Since the year I turned 26 twice, I’ve been trying to turn back time, and I’m not sure why. I turned 26 three times and this year will be my second try at 27. Everyone at work is confused about how old I really am and is constantly asking, and each in a different way: How old are you? What year were you both? My son’s 26, aren’t you his age? Seriously people, how am I supposed to keep track of my lie when you keep making me do math. So my routine answer has become, “I’m in my mid 20s” or “cresting on toward 30, although that seems really far away.” Heh, I think. That will keep them guessing (and me too).

I remember when I started we went out for a lunch for the summer birthdays on my actual birthday. I had only been there a few weeks so no one was expected to know it was my day. I was talking with a friend about how ironic (in an Alanis way, not actual irony) it was that we were going out on my actual birthday when he proceeded to email our director at work and slip her the info. At the lunch she spilled the beans, wishing me a happy one, then asking if I was 21. 21?! My first thought was: how could they have justified hiring someone who was just 21 into this job? My second thought was: does she really think I could have worked for 2 years and gone to grad school and still been 21? Who was I, Doogie?

I’ve really liked being the youngest (by almost 10 years) in my office, but lately it’s become a burden. Perhaps it’s always been a burden, but I’ve only recently discovered it. Turns out that if they think you’re only 21 they will treat you like you’re only 21. Especially when the Director and most of her senior leadership have birthdays (years included) within 12 months of each other. And that age is 50. So I’m the kid. Literally.

I really want to start embracing the impending 3-0 (said it again! Next thing you know I’ll start talking about only the weather and eating dinner at 4:30), but I can’t. It’s not in my genes. I remember when DaddyMonday turned 40 he left town for three days, no note, nothing. He had been stressing about that day for probably two years. GrammaMonday always talks about how 40 was fine for her, as was 50 and 60, it was 30 that was the problem.

I seriously don’t know what I’m going to do to get myself over this ageaphobia (new word. Definition: fear of revealing one’s true age). I want to embrace my age, especially since I have a lot to show for my 29.5 years, but as DaddyMonday reminds me: wait until 40. As GrammaMonday says: I spent my entire 30th birthday crying. And as MommaMonday says: At 29 your ability to conceive begins to decline. You do realize your eggs are drying up, right?

It seems the deck is stacked against my success.

Where'd All My Security Go?

Money is important to me.  I am not one of those people who say, I can make do on $35K/year for the rest of my life.  I can't.  It's not because I have expensive tastes.  I think it's probably because of the way I was raised.  See, my parents made a decent living, but were extremely cautious with their spending.  Making money and having money was all about security for them.  Money was valuable to the extent that it could keep us healthy, safe and productive.

I like to indulge in buying things, though I have my limits.  I recently got an expensive Burberry wallet I have been pining for.  I love it, and I'm glad I have it, but I also felt a little dirty when I bought it.  I know I didn't need it.  But I will allow myself to do stuff like that- splurge with a couple of hundred dollars.  I also see things like Chanel bags that I desire, but giving up $2,000 for a bag is something I don't think I could ever do, no matter how much money I had.  At least I hope not.

Part of the irony about buying stuff you want is that if you're anything like me, it will really actually never be enough.  I used to think if I won the lottery or married a prince, I would just go out and buy all of things I really wanted (one huge period of splurging) and then keep it kind of reasonable.  Something grand here and there, but for the most part stick to stores along the lines of J.Crew, not Bergdoff's.  But I don't think it ever ends for most girls.  There is simply too much fashion, jewelry, make-up and accessories to be had.  (Sigh.)  Perhaps it is a blessing that I can't afford fancy stuff.

But back to the overall concept of money.  I do crave security and therefore want to have money, but what's really scary is that the idea of security has completely shifted.  Working hard in school and being a top performer used to be enough to know that you would always be able to provide for yourself and loved ones.  Not these days.  I know a lot of people who are total badasses in terms of higher education and prestigious jobs and are out of work, with no end to their unemployment in sight.  And forget about making money, even just saving money is not a guarantee.  You think your company has your pension secure, that you can retire on your 401k, but for the first time in a long time, people are really and rightfully questioning all that.  The best way for us to get out of this recession is to be unafraid.  I'm with GirlMonday.  Spend.  Do the things you wanted to do.  Reach your goals.  Go for it anyway.  But I can see why people would be really, really scared to do so.  I'm tempted to withdraw from the bank and hide it under the mattress myself.

I know the economy is in the toilet right now, but I still believe in capitalism and that all of this will self-correct and all of that good stuff.  I'm for the government spending-- appropriately. Last year, I made less money that the year before (when I was a single girl aggressively working my butt off).  Sure, it was a little sad to see the gross income go down.  But it didn't bother me like it should have.  Why?  Because if I had made more money, a greater chunk of my total would have gone to taxes.  So personally, it wasn't worth it for me to put in more time and effort.  That's just the honest truth.  The government's rate of tax incentived me to work less.  I find that very sad.  

I'm all for helping out the truly unfortunate, but I have doubts about the way the government allocates my money.  There are things I want to do that I can't do because I have to give up so much of my income.  For example, I'm not going to have children until I can afford it.  Yet, some of my money is contributing to the welfare of some other kid.  It doesn't seem fair, because it's not.  I can respect that people lack resources and get into negative situations, but shouldn't I be able to help them on my own terms (e.g. charity of my choice)?  It's not just the supposedly poor the government wants to spend for.  There's the banks, the auto industry. When's the last time the government bailed you out of your debt?  I'm losing the money I have invested because of your bad management practices, but part of what I have left is devoted to saving you?  And that's going to make me more confident in the economy?

I want to hold onto my money.  Even if I have some to spare, I don't think of it as extra cash flow.  It's my security.  It's not easy out there, and I think I'm entitled to hold on to whatever I was able to get my hands on in the first place.

Growing up with $Money$

I decided to take a different approach this week on the topic of money. I grew up in a family that would fairly be categorized as middle class. I have always had a keen sense of observation on the demonstrated behaviors of individuals that did in fact grow-up in wealthy families. Many families have a fair amount of wealth, but my focus for this article is on the group of extremely wealthy individuals. While there are always exceptions to any broad categorization of a collective group of individuals, I think that overall my perceptions of this group are quite accurate.

Many children living in a financially wealthy family environment expect more from their parents as far as clothing, trips, and gifts. They fail to understand how expensive these items and experiences can be, and also how fortunate they are to get those items and experiences. Can anyone really blame them for having these desires and not fully understanding how fortunate they are? No, not really, what kid wouldn’t have the same wants and desires? But as these children start to become teenagers and young adults this once uniform group begins to separate into two distinct clusters.

The majority group I call the “Appreciators” because they realize how fortunate they are and begin to truly appreciate the opportunities that have been provided by growing-up in a wealthy family. Then there is the minority group known as the “Suckers” because they feel set for life, have very little, if any, appreciation for their fortunate situation, and have little desire to have any meaningful impact in any arena during their life.

The Appreciators often spend their young adult life devoting their time and energy towards setting and achieving personal and professional goals as well as helping others through social causes. They try to add meaningful activities to their lives and in some way shape or form help others. Most people in this group are humble, and don’t like to make others feel as if they are flaunting their money. A prime example of the individual that falls into this group is Anderson Cooper. Most people have seen him hosting his show on CNN, but during his younger years he spent time in Africa trying to bring about change to a struggling society. Even though Anderson comes from the Vanderbilt family, and was set for life, he demanded more from himself and actively pursued opportunities to make a meaningful impact. The point is not that a trip to Africa, or seeking out absolute righteous activities should be expected to fall with the Appreciator group, but an effort toward setting and achieving personal and professional goals should be made. I respect the individuals that compose the Appreciators because they have the desire to accomplish their own goals and make a difference in this world.

Then you have the worst of the worst, the Suckers. This group would gladly waste their entire life playing video games, snowboarding, going to concerts, and attending events and parties so that they can tell their moocher friends about how cool and exclusive it was. (This crowd always has a few moocher friends that feel special for being associated with the rich person, and the moochers often expect some freebies for being such “good” friends). Not that the Suckers don’t have the right to partake in activities they enjoy and spend their time how they desire, but I resent all of the individuals in this group. Mostly I resent them for trying to impress me and the world with their bank account and self-centered experiences when they have the potential to be and do so much more. Rather than dare to be great and make a difference in this world they would rather leach off the past blood, sweat, toil, and success of their ancestors. Instead of having a meaningful life, they would rather pursue endeavors that at best provide brief moments of satisfaction. Sadly, most in this group will listlessly roam this earth without ever realizing their available opportunities, and for this the world will quickly forget they even existed.

A Recipe

Ingredients:

a dozen or so envelopes

a box to fit said envelopes

a pen

a paycheck, regularly (preferable)

your debit card

a pair of scissors

Directions:

Make a list of your expenses: gas bill, TV, Cell phone... student loan payment, credit card, rent... doctor co-pays, toiletries, clothes... Don't forget things like "haircuts" and "vacation" and "gifts"- places you spend money once or only a handful-of-times a year versus once a month, or once a week.

On the upper corner of each envelope write an item.  

In the box place the envelopes for the expenses that you don't need to carry around with you.  For example, you probably don't need money for furniture on you at all times, but it's probably a good idea to have your grocery envelope in your purse.

When you get paid and the check goes into your account, you remove that exact amount in cash.  (If your bank requires a minimum balance, keep that amount in there and remove the rest).  Take your wad home and distribute the money into the envelopes.  Start with immediate necessities and work your way back.  On the envelope record what you've deposited and on what date.  

When you need to pay a bill, take the cash out of the corresponding envelope, deposit it and pay your bill.  Note on the amount you've taken out of the envelope and the date.

The next time you get paid, repeat the process.  

Come the holidays, you will have a small savings devoted fully to buying gifts.  Every six to eight weeks you have exactly what you need to pay- in cash- for your hair cut.  

Then take your debit card and pair of scissors and cut it in half.  Ok, no need to be dramatic.  Keep it but don't use it.

This is a recipe for getting in close touch with your money.  You will see, touch, distribute, spend exactly what you have and not a penny more.  You will realize you can't buy something if the fund is dry- or you will realize that you should start depositing more money into one envelope rather than another.  

It's called "the envelope system"-- it's how my grandmother used to do it- and she was a very successful businesswoman.    This guy does it too.  

Happy saving!

Ten Year Plan

It is fitting that Girl Friday chose money as this week’s topic—I actually received the email informing us of her selection shortly after concluding my first meeting with our financial planner. We were introduced to him through a mutual friend, and chose to schedule an appointment so that we could begin our marriage on a strong financial footing. My father is fond of telling me that money troubles are one of the leading causes of divorce. Whether it be the failure to communicate about money or the inability to align financial goals, many couples allegedly have difficulty working towards a unified financial future.

The future Mr. Tuesday and I have always prided ourselves on our ability to communicate. Even when emotions get the best of us (or me) and I flare up irrationally, we always make it a point to calm down and discuss our frustrations in a civilized manner. So it seemed appropriate that we, wanting to avoid the communication difficulties that befall some couples, sit down and chat with someone who earns a living counseling folks such as ourselves about wise decision-making.

After a few weeks of back and forth to schedule a meeting that would work with three full schedules, we confirmed a time and location and were ready to meet. He told us that all we needed to bring with us was knowledge of the balances in our respective savings, checkings, and retirement accounts, as well as any additional investments we might already have. Further, we should consult our respective employer’s benefits plans to understand life insurance, retirement, and long-term disability coverage available. We did all that; we were prepared.

But then came the questions. Picture yourself ten years from now. How do you envision your finances? What job do you hold? Where are you living? Do you have children? What are you saving for?

We fell silent.

After a pause that probably felt much longer than it was, I chimed in—“we’ll certainly own a home by then. And likely have our first child, if not have another on the way.” There, I’d come up with a respectable answer.

“And your job?” He asked. “Where will you be working? Are you figuring you’ll be making Partner about that time, as well?”

Partner? Really? I need to decide that NOW?

“I don’t know. It’s difficult to say having just started at the firm. It is too early to determine whether I can really envision myself staying in the private sector. I mean, I would like to go into the Government when the time is right. If such an opportunity presents itself before the ten year point, I might consider it.”

I received a knowing nod in response, and sat in quiet introspection as the future Mr. Tuesday explained that he wasn’t certain where he was headed. He didn’t plan to build a future at his current job necessarily. “I’d like to go back to school at some point, but I really don’t want to go until I have a better sense of what I want to DO,” he explained.

More nodding.

“What about your spending habits? What kind of lifestyle do the two of you envision living for yourselves?”

More silence.

“Well, honestly, that’s something we need to work on. We know that we want to start saving to buy a home, but we’ve been dealing with a lot of extra wedding-related expenses so far this year, and really aren’t certain what a ‘normal’ cash flow is for each of us.” There, that was an educated sounding way of saying I don’t have a clue.

“Well, you realize that saving has to be the first impulse. You have to save first and allow yourself to spend only after putting aside money. That’s the only way you can really do it.” He seemed so wise and all-knowing; but what he was really doing was stating the obvious.

We felt like children, really. It’s no wonder that money breaks people apart. While it is easy to think that it is “just money,” there is a real truth to the fact that as you look forward into adult hood, everything you do is shaped by money in some form or fashion. A job becomes more than what you do from 9 to 5; or from 8 to 7, such as the case may be. The job brings the paycheck, and the paycheck is the gateway to home ownership or higher education or a fast sports car. I don’t mean to imply that money is everything; but the plans that we make, the priorities that we set for ourselves, are not possible without the financial foundation to back it up. The blood in our veins may be what keeps us alive, but the cash flowing through our bank account is what keeps us moving forward toward the ten year point. It brings a whole new layer of meaning to the saying two hearts beating as one.

Money, It's a Gas: Grab that Cash with Both Hands and Make a Stash

This week is all about money. Bucks. Dough. Moolah. Clams. Greenbacks. Quid. Cold Hard Cash. Loot. Bacon. Coin. Benjamins. And my favorite: Fitties.

This is good timing for this subject given the state of our economy and the state of my wallet. Two years ago (right before the housing market took a plunge) I bought a house. As has always been the case with me, this was just another example of my ability to time things perfectly. And to make matters worse, I didn’t plan on staying in it for very long. But that’s a story for another day. I don’t want to take up too much of your time this week and I don’t have much to say, but the house is just a perfect example of two of my thoughts on money:

The first is that with the purchase of the house, I needed to fill it with nice furniture (first thought, Pottery Barn, second thought: Restoration Hardware, third thought: Target, latest thought: Ikea, next up: Goodwill). I knew that getting everything I needed wouldn’t happen in the first year, but I really thought that 2009 would be the year I could dump the college couch out by the curb and invest in something nice. I currently own two couches, a desk, and a bed. My kitchen table and coffee table (aka TV stand) currently have commitments elsewhere as soon as I can relive them of their duties here, so that doesn’t leave me with much. No wonder I never invite anyone over……Anyway, what I’ve finally realized in the last few months is that I’d rather spend my money on traveling to see friends and going on exciting trips than have furniture. If I’m off doing something fun, then I’m not missing my crappy pink couch. And since I can’t have both….Beach House it is. Mardi Gras it is. Tahoe it is. OBX it is. And I’ll just stick with the furniture I have. And the four completely empty rooms.

Second thought about money is that I have decided to refuse to let the foul mood of our nation and the crappiness of the economy keep me from doing what I want to be doing. If I want to change jobs, I will. And I won’t be (too) afraid. If I want to try to sell my house, I’ll give it a shot (prepare for the worst), but not be afraid to do so. If I want to spend money at the rate I did before the market went in the tank, then I’ll do that as well. I’ve been too good for too long. I invest obscene amounts of money in my 401(k-for krap), own a house, and have several months of salary saved. I refuse to put my life on hold because of fear (DaddyMonday says to blame the liberal media for fear-mongering, I say - don’t tell anyone we’re related). That doesn’t mean I won’t be careful, but I’m not going to let years slip away just to be careful. I’m already on year 3……….

So there: my thoughts on the fitties.