Ladies and gentlemen, the road trip is officially about to begin. We spent a weekend in Lake Tahoe with my parents, and have now given ourselves one day to assemble all necessary items for 2 months on the road before heading off to Yosemite, the first stop on the itinerary.
That one day of preparation is today, and I'm sitting here staring at the Blogger logo instead of sorting laundry, organizing camping gear, working out the budget, researching routes, buying last minute gadgets, or even taking a shower.
The thing is, I hate packing. Packing for a 3-day trip can take me up to 12 solid hours, and I've never even traveled for longer than 2 weeks at a time. I've moved across the world more than once, but going somewhere to live, somewhere with drawers and cabinets and a feeling of permanence, is an entirely different thing. Jordi has lived like a turtle with his home on his back for a number of months on several different occasions. I, however, still have the tags on my big North Face backpack.
When I moved back from Amsterdam, I had a total of 5 bags--2 suitcases, 2 duffel bags, 1 backpack--and the airline charged me an extra $100 to get them all on the plane. This was after throwing out or giving away piles and piles of stuff, and I was only there for one year. In the midst of that disaster, I decided to simplify my life and just have less crap.
This road trip is my chance to prove that I can. Jordi keeps telling me I just don't need very much, but this is coming from the guy who's wardrobe consists of 6 t-shirts and 2 hoodies. I see how stress-free his packing process is, and I try to channel some of that minimalist energy, but I know I'll never be able to match his level of freedom and flexibility when it comes to material goods.
The problem, as with most things in my overly considered world, is that I can't handle the decisions. You essentially have to see into the future, predict what scenarios might possibly befall you, and make sure you're prepared. I, however, have an overactive imagination and an inhuman ability to worry about things most people don't even think about. I imagine weirdly specific and unlikely scenarios, and then somehow decide that bringing 15 tank-tops is the best way to prepare for them. Not surprisingly, all this leaves me with is a big tangle of semi-soiled spaghetti straps and more weight than I ought to be hauling around. But I continue to bring too many of everything because I just can't stand the prospect of being unprepared.
They say you should stack up everything that you want to bring, and then bring half of it. This, I may be able to do. I just wish I could also leave behind the half of my brain that is illogical, irrational, and convinces me to pack my entire summer wardrobe for a fall trip to the Pacific Northwest.
Wish me luck.
28 September 2009
23 September 2009
Ladies' Home Journal and Me
As I waited this afternoon in Livermore's Piazza for Hair (fancy, eh?) while a woman called Gail coiffed Jordi's mane, I started flipping, as one does, through Ladies' Home Journal. Making my way for the interview with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams I stumbled across this article about chronic worriers. Below the title, the infinitely wise Ladies at the Home J. asked, as though speaking right to me, as though reading my mind, Hey Honey, "Spending too much time thinking about all the things that could go wrong in your life?"
Yes! I thought. I am! I always am! Maybe this magazine, this holy grail of Relaxation Techniques and Mood Boosters, was meant to find me, meant to land in my lap and, and...deliver me! Plus, when that's taken care of, I can learn "5 Moves for a Sexier Stomach" and "How to Give a Killer Massage".
It was kind of like getting a fortune cookie with your Chinese take-out that says "You will soon embark on an exciting adventure" right before leaving for a trip to the Grand Canyon with your parents. Like, "Oh my god! How did they know?!"
But in all seriousness, I do relate to much of what the article says about the tendency to worry, its pros and cons. Reading through it, I let out a deep breath, grateful for their reminder that I am not alone, that lots of people are anxiety-riddled stress magnets, that researchers at Yale actually discovered a genetic mutation that can increase the inclination to fret. I'm just gonna tell everyone my chromosomal make-up is to blame.
I was feeling better already. Then, I read this: "Eighty-five percent of the time people's worst fears never materialize." They had plucked that doozy out of the body of the text and put it in big colorful letters as one of those gems they use to suck people in. They included this seemingly impossible to prove statistic with the purpose of calming the nerves of their worrisome readers.
My immediate thought was this: that means 15% of the time people's worst fears do materialize! Fifteen percent of the time! That's a big number! Statistically speaking, that means that 15 people out of 100 will experience their worst fears before they die. Or that 15% of my worst fears will materialize before I die. Or that 15% of all dead people died from their worst fear. Or that 15% of your total time on earth is how much time you'll spend suffering your worst fears. Or that I should use 15% of my energy preventing my worst fears from happening.
Or that magazines will publish 15% of all bullshit statistics if it means selling 15% more copies.
Don't get me wrong, the article actually offers a lot of practical advice for coping with anxiety, like sharing your fears, writing it down, getting all the facts. There is one tip, though, that I just struggle to take seriously. A psychologist suggests setting up a worry-free "zone"--I picture some kind of area in the living room sectioned off with traffic cones and caution tape and a flashing light--a time of the day when you won't let yourself worry. This, I can understand. But then it says that "a related technique is to choose one specific time to worry -- from 5 to 5:30 p.m., for example." This I kind of get. It's like only allowing yourself one cookie instead of seven. But a specific time? I imagine someone telling their friends they can't go to the movies because they'd miss their daily half-hour of worrying, then sitting down, closing their eyes tight, and inventing nonsense to worry about because their psychologist told them to.
4:58...4:59... 5:00!
Ready...aaand...worry!
Here it goes: I'm worried that my cynicism and bad attitude will forever prevent me from conquering this bad habit.
Sounds like something I might find in a fortune cookie.
Yes! I thought. I am! I always am! Maybe this magazine, this holy grail of Relaxation Techniques and Mood Boosters, was meant to find me, meant to land in my lap and, and...deliver me! Plus, when that's taken care of, I can learn "5 Moves for a Sexier Stomach" and "How to Give a Killer Massage".
It was kind of like getting a fortune cookie with your Chinese take-out that says "You will soon embark on an exciting adventure" right before leaving for a trip to the Grand Canyon with your parents. Like, "Oh my god! How did they know?!"
But in all seriousness, I do relate to much of what the article says about the tendency to worry, its pros and cons. Reading through it, I let out a deep breath, grateful for their reminder that I am not alone, that lots of people are anxiety-riddled stress magnets, that researchers at Yale actually discovered a genetic mutation that can increase the inclination to fret. I'm just gonna tell everyone my chromosomal make-up is to blame.
I was feeling better already. Then, I read this: "Eighty-five percent of the time people's worst fears never materialize." They had plucked that doozy out of the body of the text and put it in big colorful letters as one of those gems they use to suck people in. They included this seemingly impossible to prove statistic with the purpose of calming the nerves of their worrisome readers.
My immediate thought was this: that means 15% of the time people's worst fears do materialize! Fifteen percent of the time! That's a big number! Statistically speaking, that means that 15 people out of 100 will experience their worst fears before they die. Or that 15% of my worst fears will materialize before I die. Or that 15% of all dead people died from their worst fear. Or that 15% of your total time on earth is how much time you'll spend suffering your worst fears. Or that I should use 15% of my energy preventing my worst fears from happening.
Or that magazines will publish 15% of all bullshit statistics if it means selling 15% more copies.
Don't get me wrong, the article actually offers a lot of practical advice for coping with anxiety, like sharing your fears, writing it down, getting all the facts. There is one tip, though, that I just struggle to take seriously. A psychologist suggests setting up a worry-free "zone"--I picture some kind of area in the living room sectioned off with traffic cones and caution tape and a flashing light--a time of the day when you won't let yourself worry. This, I can understand. But then it says that "a related technique is to choose one specific time to worry -- from 5 to 5:30 p.m., for example." This I kind of get. It's like only allowing yourself one cookie instead of seven. But a specific time? I imagine someone telling their friends they can't go to the movies because they'd miss their daily half-hour of worrying, then sitting down, closing their eyes tight, and inventing nonsense to worry about because their psychologist told them to.
4:58...4:59... 5:00!
Ready...aaand...worry!
Here it goes: I'm worried that my cynicism and bad attitude will forever prevent me from conquering this bad habit.
Sounds like something I might find in a fortune cookie.
18 September 2009
The Flying Dutchman
I'm writing this post for two reasons: one is to provide more details about the next few months of my life, and the other is to use that oh so clever, impossible to resist title that I'm sure has you all just tickled. It does, doesn't it? Doesn't it? I know.
Anyway, as we speak, there is a Dutchman flying over the continental USA, soon to land in San Francisco, get in a little Honda Fit, and be swept off to my home town. This mysterious individual stepped foot in our proud country for the first time but one week ago. He visited New York City and Washington D.C., and now he will visit Livermore. Glorious, typical, suburban Livermore. I am dying to know what he thinks. He's from the bold city of Amsterdam, has traveled extensively through Europe, Asia, the Middle East and Northern Africa, but I have a feeling this place will really surprise him. And cue culture shock.
I have an invested interest in this visitor for several reasons, the foremost being that he is my current beau. We're, ya know, going steady. Young love and all that sort of thing. His name is Jordi. And, to clarify, that is pronounced "Yordi" as the Dutch "j" makes a "y" sound. He often introduces himself to non-Dutch speakers as Jordi with a "j" sound, as though the real pronounciation is just so foreign and strange that our brains will blow a fuse and we won't be able to talk to him at all. Right.
When we first met and he introduced himself to me using this Englishified version of his name, I laughed and asked if it was a nickname. He said no, but thanks. I much prefer the Dutch version because it's cool and different and, to be frank, because the other version always makes me think of Geordi La Forge, the blind guy from Star Trek: The Next Generation who wore a visor over his eyes that looked like a headband.
You may also recognize him as LeVar Burton from Reading Rainbow.
My mom is a big Star Trek fan--always pining for Captain Jean-Luc Picard--and when we were kids we used to have to watch episodes with her in the evenings while we ate our ice cream. She had all the collectible ceramic plates hanging in the kitchen of our old house. There, I said it. I tell you this because I want you to know that I'm not familiar with Geordi La Forge because I am personally a fan. On that one, I'm guilty by association. But I did enjoy Reading Rainbow. Who didn't?
So, back to the matter at hand. Jordi is on his way here not only to see my roots, but also to join me on a 2-month road trip around California and other states in the West. So far, the trip is only very loosely planned, but there will be more to come on our adventures. After Mr. La Forge... I mean, Jordi... after Jordi leaves the U.S., he'll be flying to Guatemala and backpacking down there until he runs out of money or something else spurs him to go home, or somewhere else. As far as I know, that's his plan. You could say he is, in fact, like the Flying Dutchman, "a ghost ship that can never go home, doomed to sail the oceans forever." We have very different traveling styles.
This difference will account for many of our adventures, I'm sure, but I'm nothing but excited for the places we'll go and the things we'll learn from our surroundings and from each other. I mean, I can go anywhere! There are friends to know, and ways to grow...
But you don't have to take my word for it. Stay tuned.
Anyway, as we speak, there is a Dutchman flying over the continental USA, soon to land in San Francisco, get in a little Honda Fit, and be swept off to my home town. This mysterious individual stepped foot in our proud country for the first time but one week ago. He visited New York City and Washington D.C., and now he will visit Livermore. Glorious, typical, suburban Livermore. I am dying to know what he thinks. He's from the bold city of Amsterdam, has traveled extensively through Europe, Asia, the Middle East and Northern Africa, but I have a feeling this place will really surprise him. And cue culture shock.
I have an invested interest in this visitor for several reasons, the foremost being that he is my current beau. We're, ya know, going steady. Young love and all that sort of thing. His name is Jordi. And, to clarify, that is pronounced "Yordi" as the Dutch "j" makes a "y" sound. He often introduces himself to non-Dutch speakers as Jordi with a "j" sound, as though the real pronounciation is just so foreign and strange that our brains will blow a fuse and we won't be able to talk to him at all. Right.
When we first met and he introduced himself to me using this Englishified version of his name, I laughed and asked if it was a nickname. He said no, but thanks. I much prefer the Dutch version because it's cool and different and, to be frank, because the other version always makes me think of Geordi La Forge, the blind guy from Star Trek: The Next Generation who wore a visor over his eyes that looked like a headband.
So, back to the matter at hand. Jordi is on his way here not only to see my roots, but also to join me on a 2-month road trip around California and other states in the West. So far, the trip is only very loosely planned, but there will be more to come on our adventures. After Mr. La Forge... I mean, Jordi... after Jordi leaves the U.S., he'll be flying to Guatemala and backpacking down there until he runs out of money or something else spurs him to go home, or somewhere else. As far as I know, that's his plan. You could say he is, in fact, like the Flying Dutchman, "a ghost ship that can never go home, doomed to sail the oceans forever." We have very different traveling styles.
This difference will account for many of our adventures, I'm sure, but I'm nothing but excited for the places we'll go and the things we'll learn from our surroundings and from each other. I mean, I can go anywhere! There are friends to know, and ways to grow...
But you don't have to take my word for it. Stay tuned.
Here's something lovely.
The next time you want to buy a gift for a special someone (including yourself), consider supporting a local Bay Area artist, Rebecca Medrano, designer of Riella Creations. She makes truly beautiful jewelry by hand, each piece unique and from the heart. To browse her lovely creations, visit her etsy shop, and see what's new on her blog.
15 September 2009
Praying Agnostic
Tonight, as I was carrying my heavy Trader Joe's bag through the dark parking lot, I saw a mother and her child get out of the car next to mine. The mother wore lavendar scrubs and crocs, probably having finished a day of work at the nearby hospital, and her little boy, maybe 5 or 6, wore a bright tie-dye shirt. As she helped him climb out of her old minivan, an ambulance sped through town, its siren lifting a call of distress over the rooftops and down to our tired ears. She and her son exchanged a glance, and at once I saw his little hand sweep across his chest, making the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. He knew someone needed help, and he'd been taught that every little bit counts.
I'm not religious; my parents raised me in the Methodist church and I went with the trendy Christian kids to Young Life camp in high school, but I have since come to relate more to the agnostic belief system than anything else. Religious devotion is something that I fear at times, something that I often can't help but admire, and something that I will probably never understand.
Prayer, though...prayer is something this agnostic gets. I don't know if prayers are ever answered, or if anyone is listening, but I believe in sending positive energy into the universe, and in so doing nurturing one's own soul. I like to think that every source of love, every smile, every helping hand, every tiny plea for someone else's well-being, adds to the overall good of humankind and pumps the energy we all share with new light. Just as every tragedy, every hate, every insult or ill wish, hurts us all.
As the siren faded into the distance--a passing emergency that, this time, didn't involve us--I watched the boy finish his prayer and walk off, hand in hand with his mother, to help pick out groceries for a late dinner. After a few steps, she stopped to lean down and kiss his little face, then on they went. And now, sitting here in my quiet house, I find myself wanting to pray for them...whatever that means.
Maybe there is no sense, no purpose or meaning to life, to all of our daily toils and triumphs. Or, maybe, there is something that connects us all. I'll never claim to know what's going on, to know the answer, but I will always try to do good, to treat others right, and to send love into the world--even when that means merely closing my eyes and hoping that whoever is on the other end of that siren will be OK--because to me, that seems to be what matters most.
I'm not religious; my parents raised me in the Methodist church and I went with the trendy Christian kids to Young Life camp in high school, but I have since come to relate more to the agnostic belief system than anything else. Religious devotion is something that I fear at times, something that I often can't help but admire, and something that I will probably never understand.
Prayer, though...prayer is something this agnostic gets. I don't know if prayers are ever answered, or if anyone is listening, but I believe in sending positive energy into the universe, and in so doing nurturing one's own soul. I like to think that every source of love, every smile, every helping hand, every tiny plea for someone else's well-being, adds to the overall good of humankind and pumps the energy we all share with new light. Just as every tragedy, every hate, every insult or ill wish, hurts us all.
As the siren faded into the distance--a passing emergency that, this time, didn't involve us--I watched the boy finish his prayer and walk off, hand in hand with his mother, to help pick out groceries for a late dinner. After a few steps, she stopped to lean down and kiss his little face, then on they went. And now, sitting here in my quiet house, I find myself wanting to pray for them...whatever that means.
Maybe there is no sense, no purpose or meaning to life, to all of our daily toils and triumphs. Or, maybe, there is something that connects us all. I'll never claim to know what's going on, to know the answer, but I will always try to do good, to treat others right, and to send love into the world--even when that means merely closing my eyes and hoping that whoever is on the other end of that siren will be OK--because to me, that seems to be what matters most.
14 September 2009
Beautiful Botanicals
Over the weekend on a trip down to sunny LA, I enjoyed a lovely afternoon with my family at the Huntington Library. We took a liesurely stroll through the botanical gardens and saw some very old manuscripts, including Shakespeare's First Folio. These are a few of my favorite photos from that delightful Saturday afternoon.
Word.
Since I claim in my irresistably charming 'About Me' to be a big reader, I thought I might prove it to you all by sharing from time to time what it is that I'm currently falling asleep to when I go to bed every night.
At the moment, it is none other than The Lord of the Rings. Some of you may wonder why I hadn't already read this monstrosity, while others may wonder if it isn't a few too many elves and goblins for my liking. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a diehard H. Potter fan, but other than that the fantasy world is not one in which I spend much time. Be that as it may, I find myself thoroughly enjoying Frodo and company, and I certainly tip my hat to ol' Tolkien for doing it first.
I figured if I was going to embark on the quest to the land of Mordor where the shadows lie, I'd do it right. This includes a giant, red, 1200-and-some-page edition of the classic and reading about those pesky wraiths by a dying fire at a secluded camping spot in Norway, a black cliff stretching up behind me and a great, still lake curling around the rocks to my side. There could have been wraiths anywhere. Anywhere!
So I was enjoying all the orc-beheading goodness until a wicked combination of jet lag, too much time on the internet, and one very boring page rained all over my hobbit parade. I have been stuck on the same sentence halfway through the second volume for literally 2 weeks. I go to bed every night, settle in with the 10-pound book crushing my intestines, and read this:
I know I must press on, and I will finish this book. But let's just say it could be a good, long while before I am posting about new reading materials.
At the moment, it is none other than The Lord of the Rings. Some of you may wonder why I hadn't already read this monstrosity, while others may wonder if it isn't a few too many elves and goblins for my liking. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a diehard H. Potter fan, but other than that the fantasy world is not one in which I spend much time. Be that as it may, I find myself thoroughly enjoying Frodo and company, and I certainly tip my hat to ol' Tolkien for doing it first.
So I was enjoying all the orc-beheading goodness until a wicked combination of jet lag, too much time on the internet, and one very boring page rained all over my hobbit parade. I have been stuck on the same sentence halfway through the second volume for literally 2 weeks. I go to bed every night, settle in with the 10-pound book crushing my intestines, and read this:
The day passed uneasily. They lay deep in the heather and counted out the slow hours, in which there seemed little change; for they were still under the shadows of the Ephel Duath...And then, like wizard magic, I am unconscious.
I know I must press on, and I will finish this book. But let's just say it could be a good, long while before I am posting about new reading materials.
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