Goodbye (In Song)

Clearly I have reached the procrastination stage of freaking out, because instead of working on ALL THE STUFF that I really absolutely need to get done right now in order to end my work at two jobs, put all my stuff in a POD and drive across the nation in time to start on Christmas Eve, I am blogging and surfing the web. This is what usually procedes periods of great productivity tinged with hysteria for me, so I am embracing it. By searching for list of great good-bye songs online.

My favorites so far?
Hello Goodbye by the Beatles (What the hell is this song actually about? Not sure, but it is awesome.)
I've Had the Time of My Life from the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack (An eternal truth: Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Another eternal truth: why is this still the best movie ever?)
I'm Coming Home P.Ditty with Skylar Gray (Love the ridiculous nature of this video, and the message that PDitty is trying to return to his ghetto roots despite having been a millionaire now for the better part of two decades.)
Leaving on a Jet Plane (or NOT, see previous post) by Peter Paul and Mary
Friends by Michael W. Smith (A tribute to my sappy, quasi-evangelical youth group days and anyone whose eighth-grade graduation slide show had this as the background music. Also, this particular video is a fairly amazing slide-show of cheesy images that will make you tear up or laugh hysterically depending on what mood you're in.)
Midnight Train to Georgia by Gladys Knight (Yes!)

Any favorites to add that I should look up on you tube and play on repeat while I pack boxes and weep? Send em on over!

Travel

I actually don't really understand this cartoon, but I love it. Thanks orthocuban.com!

So, we'll actually be driving to Oregon when we leave in a few weeks. Turns out shipping an 85 pound dog across the country in winter is a bit of a thing.

But I am happy about this fact for a single reason: it will mean no airline travel during the holidays. This will be good for me, because I've decided that air travel is just not what it used to be. And not only because you are stuck like a veal in seats that get smaller every year with no food or movies and not even tiny bars of soap to steal that say American Airlines on them. And not only because now that they are charging to check bags everyone brings on three pieces of luggage large enough to fit the entire cast of CATS inside.* But mostly because air travel these days brings back bad memories of middle-school gym class.

What, you might ask, does a seventh-grade class full of sweaty and awkward pre-teens trying to learn basketball have to do with domestic air travel? Well, quite frankly, the fear of getting picked last. I don't know if I'm overly sensitive to this given my not-very-athletic childhood**, but has anyone noticed the increasingly ridiculous boarding procedure plaguing domestic air travel recently?

At least in my memory, boarding announcements used to go like this:
The gate agent announced: "First Class Passengers are welcome to board at this time along with any passengers needing additional assistance or those traveling with small children." Then we would wait several minutes while men in suits with briefcases annoyingly and unhelpfully brushed past families juggling multiple car seats and several small children. We peons traveling in coach without children would patiently stand by or make a final bathroom run. Then we would hear, "Passengers seated in rows 27 and higher are welcome to board." And everyone would line up and slowly make their way down the gangway. And finally "Passengers seated in rows 6 and higher are welcome to board." And the rest of us would get on and everyone would feel okay and we would take off.

But now this process has morphed into a ridiculous pageant of elitism that leaves me brimming with fury and Mr. L sad that he ever agreed to go anywhere with me in the first place. It starts like this:
"Welcome, ladies and gentleman, we are ready to begin boarding flight #12345 to Whereversville." at which point everyone in the waiting area whether they are on the flight or not jumps up and crams toward the boarding gate like a mob at a Black Sabbath concert (yours truly included. "What if they don't have room for my bag?" I think, judgmentally eyeing a carry-on burdened family of five a few paces ahead of me.)  Now that we are all standing there, you might think it was time to actually board the flight. But no, no, mon cher. "First I'd like to invite our Delta Super-Platinum Elite First-Class Gold Star Flyers to board via the red carpet on the right side of the boarding area." Approximately two men in suits go forward. And then we all wait for several more minutes, I assume while those two men are seated, hang up their suit jackets, and have a Manhattan prepared for them and the Wall Street Journal laid out. "Now I'd like to welcome our 2011 MVP Gold-Status Top Tier Frequent Flyers to board via the red carpet on the right side of the boarding area." Maybe one more person boards and then we wait for five minutes. This is the point at which my middle-school induced status anxiety mixes with my self-righteous tendency toward egalitarianism, which together make for a potent tincture of indignation. "Oh," I seethe to Mr. L who is trying to ignore me having already anticipated this outburst, "they get to board via the RED carpet, because they are ELITE flyers with SUPER special talents. What is this? The Roman Empire?" "Please just chill out. All seats depart and arrive at the same time," says Mr. L. Though factual and sensible, this is not at all helpful. "Thank you. It is now time to welcome our 2011 Silver Class Honored Members to board via the red carpet." And my fury increases. And it goes on like this for what feels like forever until every possible combination of precious metals, status labels, and membership categories has been combined in order to welcome, in total, about 8 people. And one of the children of the family of four with all the luggage trips and starts crying and I briefly feel badly for judging them. But only for a moment until I hear the nail in the coffin of my good traveling spirits: "Passengers in Boarding Group 2 are welcome to board via the BLUE carpet on the left side of the boarding area." And that is it. It is just TOO much. Because now having my anxiety raised for the last 30 minutes while we welcomed business people like monarchs of old, I have to spend the next 30 minutes FREAKING OUT about which boarding group I am in (usually something like 5, but is that in the middle or at the end? How do we know?) and if I'll have a place to put my bag. And so I cram forward annoyingly like everyone else and at the last minute am forced to confront my mediocrity when I board via a completely different stupid little lane with blue carpet. And, when finally aboard, I have to shove past the Delta-Super-Platinum guy in first class who is already on his second free drink and is looking at me as though he is slightly annoyed that I am there at all and have accidentally brushed his arm with my bag which probably they will end up checking anyway because there is not room. And my good traveling juju is lost forever. And not even Sky Mall Magazine can save me.

So, hopefully, you can see why I'll be glad to be packing it up in the Accord this holiday season with the dog, some books on tape, and free snacks galore. We'll be having our own super-elite, top-tier, diamond members party up in there.



*PLEASE STOP BEING SO RIDICULOUS WITH THE BAGS, EVERYONE. Now let me get my prejudice-against-folks-with-kids on for a second and don't get pissed because this is just common sense: your five-year-old SHOULD NOT carry on his bag and a personal item. That's just ridiculous. Several months ago, I was on a plane sitting the row behind a family of six. ALL of their children, aged about 3 to 9 had huge rolling suitcases and backpacks so big compared to their frame that they could have hiked the Andes with them. And it probably took the family 25 minutes to exit the row. Why is this? Because three years olds aren't that coordinated. AND THEY ALSO CAN'T GET THEIR OWN DAMN LUGGAGE OUT OF THE OVERHEAD BIN BECAUSE THEY ARE ONLY A FOOT TALL. I understand it is frustrating and expensive to travel with a family and  I feel for you man. That seems tough. And I understand that the airlines are bleeding you dry. But let's work together to fight for justice and find a better solution than treating your toddler like a sherpa and making me worried I'll miss my connection.

**I seriously think that there should be more psychological support for those of us who had to endure middle-school gym class. I have talked with SO many friends who were seriously traumatized by these barbaric scenarios such as picking people for teams, etc. Most of them have just barely recovered. Isn't there a better way to educate young people about the value of physical activity without subjecting them to the very expression of social hierarchy that as awkward adolescents they spend all their time fearing? Get on it America.

Westward Expansion

My sister gave me this bumper sticker a few years ago, which I put in a drawer and forgot to put on our car. I got it out the other day and realized that the back reads, "Follow your heart. It will lead you home." Turns out its true!

So, as it turns out, my last several sentimental posts about Boston and our adventures in NE do, in fact, have a common purpose which is not to eternally and sap-tasitcally memorialize my life here: it is to help me say goodbye to it. Because we are headed home.

A few months ago, the painful reality that my little church was not going to be able to pay me much longer came into specific relief. And so I started searching around for something else. I was not imagining that I would be able to find an opening in the particular part of the world most appealing to me (Oregon), but, as it were, that is exactly what I found. And it worked out. And we're going.

And thus the reason I've been so delinquent in posting these past few weeks is not because nothing erratic or hilarious has happened (believe me, it has), but because I haven't had time to write about it amidst goodbye saying, box packing, farewell letter writing, condo renting, wall spackling, furniture taking-aparting and generally freaking out. Because, surprisingly, it turns out that even doing the thing you really want to do can be scary as S**T.

We've always said that we were moving back to Oregon. And we've always dreamed about the days when we would get to live amongst the mountains and neo-hippies again and have a garden to grow tomatoes and actually see our families and friends at regular intervals and have organic, fair-trade, fresh-roasted coffee delivered to our door via bike messenger.  But it so happens that when your dreams become reality, things are more complex than your imagination would have made it seem.

This is the right thing for us, and we are so grateful for this opportunity. But it is more complicated than I ever thought it would be to say goodbye. Because this place is now a part of who I am. And I will miss it. I will miss my friends and my colleagues. I will miss my home and my neighborhood. I will miss the Indian food restaurant across the street and its constant provision of take-out. I will miss the snow (not that much, but maybe a little). I will miss my work and all the people there and how it and they have frustrated and fulfilled me in ways that I could not have imagined. I will miss not having a toaster. I will miss Shabbat dinner. I will really miss my book club.

Looking back, I realize that in many ways, this the place where I became an adult. It is the place where I prepared for and entered my career. It is the place where I feel I fully and truly lived into my role as a partner to Mr. L (we've now lived here 5/7 of the time we've been married, which is a lot proportionally.) It is the place where we created our own unique family traditions and made friends who had only known us together. It was the place where we did things on our own and found out that we're fairly capable people.

So in saying goodbye to this place, I feel I'm saying goodbye to all that. But I am already starting to realize that there are great things ahead, too, and other stages of life that will be just as transformative and fulfilling and frustrating and exciting.

We just bought and shipped my nephew his first ever bike, a birthday gift.* And we'll get to see him ride it soon. And we'll get to be there for many milestones after that. And there is something giddily happy about that for me. Also, I hear the coffee is great out there.



*Brother-in-law: If you are reading this, we are SORRY that you will be the one who has to assemble the bike, which I am afraid may have come in 24,000 pieces. Clearly we did not fully think through the awesomest-long-distance-aunt-and-uncle-in-the-world plan enough to realize it came with a mandatory burdening-parents-who-are-already-busy-doing-other-stuff-with-putting-bikes-together-at-midnight addendum. We will buy you a bottle of gin as soon as we arrive to make up for this oversight.

Clutter Free Living

I don't know that I've shared before in this forum one other fact about my urban life that surprises most people outside of the Boston area: that the place in which Mr. L and I currently live is, in total, 450 square feet. No, that is not a typo, that is the actual square footage of our condo give or take about 8 feet (we've never been able to tell if that bathroom is part of the calculation).  I just wanted to throw this out there in case any of you ever find yourself in a very TINY living situation for a very LONG time (a submarine, prison, Manhattan, for instance) so you will know where to turn for help.

Over the years, Mr. L and I have worked hard to cultivate a lifestyle that we have labeled, "Clutter Free Living." Let me be clear, this is not some values-based idealism ("Oh, we just decided to free ourselves from the constraints of our stuff!" or "You know, we can feel fulfilled by other means and don't feel the need to accumulate material possessions.") No. That's not it at all. It's just that there is literally NO room for clutter, unless we decide to get rid of our dog or, say, all our clothes. In fact, I'm always keeping in the back of my mind a list of material possessions that I will accrue the minute there is more space to be had to put them (1. Couch, 2. Toaster, 3. Cat, etc. etc.) But for now, clutter-free we are and clutter-free we will be.

In case you are interested, some of the policies associated with this lifestyle are the following:
1) Throw away (or recycle more likely, if you care about the earth) ANYTHING that you will not read, or use, or look at again until the next time you move or clean our your closet. This includes old birthday cards or other cards (unless they are filled with lengthy, meaningful and UNIQUE proclamations of love or friendship that you think will be meaningful to read in the future), owners manuals (you must learn to admit early-on that you will never read these or consult them ever again), other benign documentation (this is the paper your new credit-card came glued to in the mail, receipts of any kind and notices of marriages, baby's births, etc.), pet toys your pet has lost interest in and chargers for devices you no longer own.CAST THEM OUT.
2) Throw away (or recycle if possible) anything that is BROKEN. This sounds silly, right? Who would keep things that are broken? You would. And so would I. Because it always starts off so innocently: "I'll get around to fixing that." or "Maybe it can still be useful somehow." No. You won't. And it won't. You'll simply banish said broken item to a distant closet to be consumed in dust and your guilt until you move five years from now and throw it away. Why not do it now?* This includes old computers, sporting equipment, and ceramic products that have not been glued back together within six weeks of being broken. Seriously.
3) BANISH all trinkets. The ceramic alligator you got in the Everglades? The really cute little cardboard box you got at your friend's wedding that was full of candy? The bandana they gave you at that road race that you'll never wear but that you fondly remember? OUT LIKE TROUT. A very limited number of trinkets (think 2-3) may be displayed on book cases or other flat surfaces. But any trinkets that need to be stored away need to be thrown away.**
4) Buy one, set one free. Whenever you buy something, get rid of something else. This way, you will always maintain approximately the same amount of stuff, instead of creeping toward a cluttered life with every nook and cranny full to the brim. (Note: this does not apply to handbags or kitchen gadgets...at least not in our house.)
5) Review your wardrobe every season in search of: items you didn't wear at all this year (why do you think you'll wear them next year if you didn't find cause to this year?), stained items (if it hasn't come out by now, I hate to break it to you, but it ain't comin' out), ripped items (if you didn't sew it up yet, you probably don't care that much), and items that no longer fit you (though some small spectrum of fat to skinny fit items is appropriate for seasonal changes in physical make-up, extreme storage of clothing reminiscent of another body is not a great way to live without clutter....and regret).
6)  Limit nostalgia. Nostalgia for stuff usually only comes when you keep it. So unless an item has some great personal meaning to you (it was your grandmother's broken falafel maker, which she bequeathed to you, we just CAN'T give it away), snap a photo if you must and say sayonara. Once it's gone, you'll forget it anyway and move on.

In addition to these helpful guidelines, here are a few indicators you are falling off the bandwagon:
1) You are storing things in the trunk of your car large enough that you must remove them in order to put other things in there. (Guilty.)
2) You are attempting to justify to your partner purchasing some huge item for which there is no room. (Guilty).
3) You are considering moving to a bigger place in order to get a toaster. (Guilty. That's just a really expensive toaster.)



*I should be clear that I AM for fixing things, if they can be fixed. Someday I'll tell you about the wild goose chase I had to go on to get my lamp fixed, one that involved 14 phone calls and a visit to the fairly sketchy apartment of a man named Brian. But seriously if you don't have a real, concrete plan and timeline to fix something (one that includes either hand tools or the cell phone number of a skilled handy-man), axe it. (NOTE: SB and WEB3, if you are reading this, should you ever decide to live in a tiny place, you will be EXEMPT from this category, mostly because you had that broken jukebox in your LIVING ROOM for like 20 years and then fixed it which makes you awesome and probably able to actually fix anything in the world.)
**One helpful thing to do to make this easier is to shift your souvenir buying habits. Instead of trinkets, collect something else on your adventures: Christmas ornaments, place mats, something that will help you remember but also be useful.

Urban Excursion

There are many times (given the incredible human capacity for adjusting one's sense of normal) that I forget that I live in the city. It's not that I'm in denial, it's just that I kind just think of this as my home and forget about other homes I've had that do not have so much concrete, and so little parking and so many other people.

But every now and then, I am reminded of my reality by some hilarious occurrence that could only happen in an urban environment. And thus when I walked into our laundry room/bike storage area the other day and saw this, I laughed aloud:

Now, to someone who has never been in our laundry room before, this might look like an unremarkable scene (other than to note that we are approaching a bike storage crisis). But if you look closely in the bottom left, you will notice what I noticed which is this:

Yes. A tiny pink tricycle locked WITH ITS OWN TINY CABLE LOCK to the bike rack. I don't know why I found this so precious, but I did. Perhaps it was because I envisioned all the other tiny pink tricycles that litter the yards and expansive front porches of families that do not live in the city, that can get left out all night and picked back up whenever the spirit moves. But here is this little one's trike locked up with a cable, amidst a million other salt-encrusted, Kryptonite secured commuter bikes: all of which made me feel  compelled to give a shout out to the gritty urban parent that rigged this up so their daughter or son might have the same opportunities for trike riding that those suburbanites have.

God bless the city.

FHH

My sister very often reminds me that when I first moved to Boston, I spent about the first 18 months lovingly referring to it as "This Frozen Hell Hole." For the most part, I have left that agony behind with some key wardrobe additions and the adjustment that comes with doing anything for a while.

But it snowed here last night. On October 28.

I'm just saying, was I that far off?!??!

Nostaligia's Here Early This Year

I thought I was too young for nostalgia to have kicked in yet. And then I made my second cousin cry.

It wasn't intentional really. He's only 4.

We were all on vacation together (my cousins that is) and his father asked if I might help out by turning on the TV for the little ones. Hoping to get some gold stars in the cool and collected older-relative-without-kids category, I obliged.

"I want cartoons," Mr. 4 year old demanded.

"No problem." I said and flipped on the set. It was on MSNBC so I pressed the channel up button. That wasn't cartoons either. I thought it was no problem. But it was a BIG problem. 

"I want carTOOOONS," he screamed.

"Just a second" and I pressed the channel up button again. And didn't find cartoons there either.

"I WANT TO WATCH CARTOONS," he shrieked bordering on hysteria. And that's when it all went to hell. He continued to disintegrate further and further each time I clicked the button desperately searching for cartoons, as though the actual fact of me pressing the button was existentially tazing him or something. And then he started to cry. "But I wanted the CARTOONS."

Thankfully, this is when his father stepped in.

"Oh, sorry about that. He doesn't understand broadcast television. He only understands things that stream instantly. He thinks you're torturing him by refusing to put on the show he wants."

Oh my Lord, I thought. This was truly the child of another generation, a child who would grow up without many of the formative experiences of my youth. And that was when I fell down the rabbit hole of nostalgia.

He (clearly) will never understand waiting for his favorite TV show to come on. He will simply watch them on Netflix.

He will likely never watch a video tape of something recorded off TV, in which the editing out of commercials meant the first 3 seconds after every break were missing. Instead, he'll log onto Hulu and find it in its entirety.

And he probably will never have to wait up all of Friday night to hear if he favorite song would come on the radio, finger poised over the record button of his tape player the entire time. Instead, he will download things on ITunes.

Actually, come to think of it, he probably will grow up without knowing what a tape is: without the whir of the player, without the loud click of it reaching the end, without the agony of having just spent 8 minutes rewinding the wrong side. 

He will probably never spend most of his life singing the entirely wrong lyrics to his favorite songs ("Secret Asian Man" for instance) only to be corrected by a lucky friend who bought the album and can consult the lyrics in the front booklet. He will simply look all these things up on the internet.

Will he ever, I wonder, learn to look things up in an encyclopedia? Hauling the big volume emblazed with the correct letter off the shelf in order to answer some dinner table quarrel? Likely not. Even my father, who is not far from twenty times his age has a Droid for these types of things.

In many ways, he will have a totally different life. Which makes me wonder, is it always like this? What are the things that our parents said of us, 'I can't believe they'll grow up without..." I can think of some, but I wonder if others are lost to us. Lost to the tides of change where changing channels is as foreign as an 8-track.

What a world we live in.