I was in Disney World for a few days - so that's why no posting.
In anticipation of the trip I'd been thinking Disney was boring and fake in a way that was insulting. Either I've fast-forwarded to middle-aged-dom (as predicted!), where you prefer the quaint and predictable over dingy and precarious, or Disney is not that bad. In fact, I had a wonderful time. It's clean, everyone is smiling, seriously, everyone. Food is plentiful. You can go on cool rides that let you feel like you are flying over an orange grove, releasing just enough Orange Grove Scent to make you feel like you are there. I don't care if it's fake, it truly is a magical place. To be honest, I've enjoyed all my trips to Disney, including a recent all-expenses paid that I won and took my best friend for free! I think I've been feeling down, and going to Happyland felt like I'd have to force myself to match the tone.
It is where I simultaneously discovered how depressed and not depressed I truly am. I realized that when I have some down time, and can take the day as it comes with no plans, I'm happy-go-lucky, and I hear, fun to be around. My mind isn't filled with myriad activities and goals that need accomplishing. I don't feel the need to drastically revise my life. I think, is this what normal people feel like? I also find when I'm on a plane ride, held captive in my seat assignment which plopped me 30 aisles away from my husband, in my solitude I become sick with grief, daydreams are more like daymares and all I can think about is my father and regrets.
I unintentionally commemorated the 3 month anniversary of his death in Disney World. There are no rituals to be performed on such a date, by Bosnian or any other tradition that I'm aware of, but my own. Remembering. Not Forgetting.
Mike and I had a dinner date on the river across from the fireworks display at the Magic Kingdom. We ate filet, drank a great syrah, held hands, said a prayer, chit chatted.
That night, I dreamt of my father for the first time since his passing. It was a neutral dream. I was simply calling him up to ask him a question, like I often did in the past. For his amusement, I decided to ask him in Serbo-Croatian. Even in my dream I knew I was getting it wrong, and I don't think he understood what I was asking.
In my dream, he didn't (or couldn't?) respond, but I knew he was listening.
It's a Disney World
Ladybug in My Pocket
An unsavory slide
Riddled with rank and file
And the sense found in denial.
Follow, flow, and forward go
Into, inside, fully flee
And you - accompanying me
On songs like this one.
Prayerful sloth
Tiny one, small world
Wings unfurled
Mother and child
Hidden from view
And all along we knew
What was happening.
How to Become a Millionaire Like Me
“I thought you worked full time?” you query.
I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I’m a volunteer! I figure corporate America needs all the help they can get these days and I'm willing to do my part.
Okay, I’m no millionaire, but I work in finance and am getting a masters in finance and I’d like to think I know something about it. Oh, yeah, and none of this advice necessarily reflects the views of my employer or anyone else I know in case you might want to sue them. It’s all me, baby. However, if an idea that is particularly brilliant does reflect views from my employer or someone who knows me, credit is duly given, because to do otherwise would be intellectual property infringement and they might want to sue me.
Also, this advice applies to people who have full time jobs and live expensive lifestyles while complaining that they never have enough money to start saving, investing, or paying off their debt. I don’t want anyone who is unemployed against their will or has prohibitive health issues thinking I don’t commiserate with their plight.
- Save your damn money first. Seriously. Please. Take a portion of your paycheck and have it go automatically into a savings vehicle that incurs heavy penalties should you want your money back too soon. Something like buying longer term CDs or funding your IRA. Don’t worry about finding the best interest rates and seeking high-growth investments, yet. For now, park your funds in a CD or moderate allocation fund until you get enough finesse (and money) to explore things like hedging strategies, risk management, and estate planning.
- Don’t worry about your precious “emergency fund.” Every personal finance guru touts the emergency fund like a kid and their favorite binki. Blanki. Wha wha. Whatever. Of course it’s an f-ing brilliant idea to have 6-9 months of income and expenses stored away. But how come so few people do it? Like overeating, smoking, or other damaging yet gratifying habits, spending a pile of cash is a quick train to Happyland. When it comes down to it, having thousands of dollars stashed in a place where you can get your grubby “I just gotta live my life” hands on them "in an emergency" will only buy you the security of the first plane ticket to Bangladesh or Box of Blahniks because the spirit moved you.
- Fund your IRA or 401K plan first. Like I said, this advice doesn’t make sense financially, but so much of finance is psychology. For example, an IRA is a wonderful thing because you get penalized heavily for withdrawing money early. It’s a veritable retirement savings chastity belt. Anyways, my personal opinion is that once you start funding your IRA, you will get excited watching it grow. It will sink into your brain that Savings Are Good. You will want to do more of this. You will then start your Emergency Fund. You will wake up on the count of 10. 1….2….3…
- Don’t bother with a budget*. They are easy to manipulate, hard to track, and promises to yourself are painless to break. Like I said, take your paycheck and deposit a good portion of the money somewhere you cannot touch it for a long, long time. Then you will be left with less expendable income. Increase that stash-away portion over time. Math is simple. The less money you have left over, the less money you can spend. *Unless you do something idiotic like use a credit card to buy crap you don’t need or can’t afford.
- Don’t use credit cards to buy crap you can’t afford. Unless you have the cash or income to back it up within 2-3 months. And by back it up I don’t mean managing the monthly minimums, I mean paying it off 100%. A credit card should be viewed as an extremely short-term loan. If you don’t make enough money to afford the flat screen TV, you have to go without. If you unwittingly decided you have to have a mélange of home entertainment goodies, then you will need a budget to help you wade through the morass of your financial faux pas. To be honest - if you are contemplating any of this, my previous advice won’t apply to you at all because you need help that cannot be found on blogs. See a financial professional and possibly, a doctor.
- Enjoy your damn life, even if you make dumb mistakes. Mike and I made up a ritual on pay days. There is a song that goes with it. It’s called “Buying Shit That We Don’t Need!” Here’s how it works. We get paid. We think we are rich, we get the urge to go to Target and buy fun décor or scented items for the home. Especially anything that looks handmade or ethnic. We sing that song, then go shopping. It’s irresponsible, but the moral of the story is that even if Mike and I buy something we shouldn’t have, overall we are really prudent so if we run out and buy 90% off Christmas decorations – it’s okay. (I really needed them…)
Happy Saving!!
PS – Don’t cheat on your taxes. The IRS will find you and it will not be worth the money you “saved.”
Among Other Tragedies
Normally the news of a star’s death wouldn’t make me personally upset. But it’s just the stuff like this that is affecting me lately. Stuff that you think wouldn’t matter, and now you wonder how you were so callous that it never mattered. Like my finance class essay, Heath Ledger’s death brings a tear to my eye. He was a pretty good actor. Brokeback was a bold choice and I liked it. And he had such a cute baby.
In “Fatherless Women” I just finished the chapter about girls who lose their fathers at a very young age. It can have debilitating effects on her ability to relate to men later in life. Even having a bad father is better than having no father, according to some studies. It depends on how bad of course, here they are talking about garden variety absentee fathers and those who are generally unsupportive, saying things like, “Oh you’ll never make it as a ceramicist.” (Fathers who are abusive are another category.) Because somewhere in a daughter's heart lies the hope that Dad might change his ways, and somehow this is psychologically healthier than no chance at all.
Additionally, finding a surrogate father who takes on the committment whole-heartedly is critically important for those girls. A surrogate father who fails to protect the daughter at critical times or backs down when the daughter gets bullied for example, leads to the daughter internalizing that burning “Hey, you’re not my real dad” feeling as something wrong with her, and can lead to long-term dysfunction. Let’s hope Michelle finds a daddy for Matilda Rose.
It’s shit like Heath Ledger dying and stock markets crashing and our government supporting socialist policies that makes me want to check out. What was that phrase from the 70’s? Plug in and check out. Ugh who knows. I’m not an historian.
Neither am I an essayist or journalist. I’m a blogger. I write like a blogger. I think like a blogger. I’m going to make sweeping generalizations about bloggers. They are free-wheeling fresh thinkers. Foaming at the mouth types and people are reading their blogs to ignore their own lives, even for a moment. That’s why I read blogs. I love them. They can be the sugary-sweet brain decay kind or the inspiring, knock you off your chair kind. Blogging is an official form of “media” now. For who's purposes I don't know, but Thank God for classifications. How else would I make it through the mire of media without it? If you have a blog, you can say you’re a journalist and deduct things on your taxes. You are legit just for saying something, anything. The saying “something” is the part I like. Heck, look at my cheesy sub-heading. “The something I’ve always wanted to say.” It’s stupid yet droll crap like that that makes blogs, blogging, and bloggers so damn appealing. I love it and hate it at the same time. It’s dorky and it’s cool. It’s self-congratulatory and self-effacing and it’s…
Shit. Heath Ledger died. I hope there’s a heaven, ‘cause now my dad gets to meet Heath Ledger. Not that I think Heath Ledger is going to heaven. Not that I particularly think he isn’t. Hypothetically speaking. ‘Cause I’m not sure I believe in heaven but I sure as Hell hope there is one. I hope he does. Get in. That we all do. Even bad people. I hope bad people can get good and get in. I might be one. I can’t know. If there is my dad and Heath will be playing soccer.
I keep imagining my dad is playing soccer in heaven. I’ve had this vision repeatedly. How weird is that? Like he’s wearing this yellow and white striped rugby-style shirt, white shorts, is about the same weight and hair shade as in the 80’s and he’s playing soccer. I have no clue where this comes from.
Geez. Heath Ledger. Oh well. Shit happens.
Too Much F*replay, Not Enough Action
All this talk is getting us nowhere. A comment on Rebecca Thorman’s recent post got to me:
“…we have too many choices and life may be easier in many ways, but we also spend more time alone. Words are very powerful, but there’s nothing as contagious as another person’s enthusiasm face to face…I also think that constantly consuming so much information can almost make you feel like you’ve been involved in something, because it does feel like a giant conversation going on around you. But it turns out that you’ve actually just been sitting there.” Comment by “Mary”
When I tried Reading Deprivation, I was lost. I needed my fix. Reading, blogging, theorizing, and philosophizing – while it’s a stimulating and constructive use of time, it prolongs the “getting to action” part of what we are yearning for. Action will move a conversation forward, while talking about it ad nauseum will keep it stagnant. Isn’t that why we find the political milieu dismal? All talk, action mediocre at best?
I’ve been writing a lot - about creativity, death, renewal, whatever – which is great for fine-tuning my creative side, but the unromantic reality is that I’m sitting in my hot bungalow bedroom, bleary-eyed, typing away with a cup of coffee. Fun, but hardly the kind of thing that gets you anywhere. Even published authors with tenure positions don’t feel the perceived glamour of their lifestyles.
We had a moment last night where I said something sort of off-handed to my husband. I was talking about my father, and his crazy-ass life full of adventure. Then I declared we are nothing like him.
He was born in Serbia, on a mountain, in a house with a dirt floor
He used to dive for dead bodies as a service to his city’s police force
He used to jump off 10 story bridges
He was a wandering poet. No shit. Telling poetry in cafes, sleeping on train station floors.
He was accepted to the National Croatian Ballet and National Folklore Ensemble as their principal dancer with no formal dance training
He came to America after a mandatory service in the Communist army where his courtship with my mother was under scrutiny as possible espionage
He started his American career as a rig repairman
He soon owned the company
He soon ran a business winning accolades
He threw out the opening pitch at Tiger’s Stadium one year
He was a generous, loving, doting father - the best snuggler that ever was
He took risks
He lost everything
He kept going
I think this freaked both of us out. “Wha’ happened?” We’re thinking slowly. “We’re cool, we’re artsy, we’re risk-takers…” We glance at ourselves in our Saturn SUV, pulling up the drive to our neat little home, in a neighborhood full of other…yuppies…dog in our lap…
We met for reasons other than driving cars that are not mini-vans thank you or because we go to our jobs dutifully every day. We met because we are both artists. He went to art school, I went to music school. Luckily we’re not the annoying bleeding-heart types – but we love creative expression. We spent our early time together on musical projects, going out on dates. Impressed with each other, ourselves. We haven’t lost anything, but we miss that part of ourselves, it’s been lying dormant. So – tonight I propose reclaiming what’s already ours.
Sad is the New Happy
Between Rebecca Thorman’s pleas to our generation to get off our duffs, the recent cultural obsession with getting and staying happy – it’s been brought to my attention that we seem to be facing the destruction of one of our best assets and motivators. This author calls it melancholy, I might call it discontent. Whatever you call it – don’t chase it away completely. Certainly depression is a problem that can and should be remedied in hopes of becoming more well-balanced. However, a healthy dissatisfaction can point us away from the status quo, guiding us to what we need. And maybe what we need isn’t to be happy all the time. Great art, great leaders, great concepts and ideas are often born from struggle, strife, a good fight. I believe they can come from happiness and unabashed joy too. There is massive power in both.
So don’t get rid of one for the other. Learn from your sadness and your delight, use it to motivate and change yourself, your world. I have learned a lot from my father’s passing already. About myself, what makes me happy, my relationships, my creative capacity and urges. It’s unreal what is being born from the immense sadness and pain I’ve been feeling. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but at the same time it is an incredible opportunity to learn. And I have to see it that way. If it was just dark and I stopped there I’d never find my way out, I wouldn’t change at all. I wouldn’t learn from past mistakes…and I need to, I want to.
You might be asking…but I’ve read some of your blog (you mean it?) didn’t you just get off Mad and Angry bus, er, Treadmill? Not entirely. Yes, I’ve been worn thin with the weight of the last year. Between marriage and the deaths of three close family members within weeks of each other, you’ve got to imagine why I took the wheels off my “change the world” tour. I’ll gear up again soon enough. But I’m on sabbatical right now, renewing, reading, writing. It’s healing me. Despite what I may have said.
You get to take breaks from your life missions every once in a while, regroup, re-evaluate. Also, be willing to be wrong. Are you supposed to be standing in the same space you occupied 3 years ago? A break can give you time you need to change your mind. And then when you are ready, move!
So, onward.
“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.” - Helen Keller
Trust Me
Read this powerful, simple, and poignant post by Gina Barreca – a professor and writer I happened upon today who I instantly loved.
If you have a loved one nearing death – don’t be shy about asking them these kinds of questions. Obviously only you can gauge your relationship and what you are comfortable sharing, but these are the times to go out on a limb for communication’s sake.
Trust me.
I’ll Hold the Hammer
I’m no Rosie the Riveter. But apparently being a handy woman is catching on.
There are women friendly sites to help a new breed of DIYers:
Tool Girl
At first I feign insult. “I don’t need any damn pink construction boots, who do they think I am, Paris Hilton?” Then I realize I’m a total sucker for marketing targeted to youngish women, and I’m not alone. Case in point – to my delight, my friend Claire gave me a purple Swiss Army-style knife for Christmas. Instead of the iconic utilitarian cross symbol, it has a heart and star on it, comes with a vial for perfume, tweezers and a mirror (which I used today to pluck a straying browline), along with the more conventional scissors, bottle opener and knife.
Regrettably, I do not actually know how to do things with power tools. My father was happy to show me, and we’d worked on a few projects, but I didn’t glean much because I wasn’t hands-on enough for anything to stick. I’d offer to help, but we both knew he’d need to intervene on my behalf to keep from ruining his tools or cutting off a limb. Instead, I’d hold the hammer. Or screwdriver, or dry wall. Whatever needed holding.
He, on the other hand was a genius. Not kidding. He’d just make stuff up as he went along. My favorite example of his ingenuity was when I came home one day, he was in our front yard with wooden half circles scattered all around him.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“A fountain for one of my clients.” He replied.
“Do you know how to make fountains?”
“No, but I will when I’m done.” He looked up and smiled. A cigarette probably hanging from his mouth. Damn it. He had a twinkle in his eye. It came from his mischievous, intrepid, and often mysterious nature. I’d trail off into the house, leaving him behind to work.
One summer I decided I wanted to work for him. It lasted all of one week, but it was really fun. That’s how I’d describe it. Really fun, high school kid hangs out with dad really fun. Sigh. I would alternate between reading Jane Eyre and painting garages. I was the only high school girl I saw traipsing with a toolbelt.
We'd drive all around, he'd twist his moustache. That moustache! We’d barely talk, but it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t the least bit awkward. It was relaxing. Like a monastic retreat. That week he told me about his new favorite hamburger place. Rally’s. He was so enthusiastic about it. Then we went there for lunch.
Since his death, everyone is wondering what to do with his power tools. I keep fantasizing about building tables like the one we made in college. I can’t tell you about it, because it is so cool that if anyone heard the idea they’d make them. So, sorry...that's between me and my dad.
I Am Changed Forever
I am changed forever. How do I know? I cannot finish a class in International Finance without thinking of my father and crying once I’m in the safety of my car. I cry all the way home. This kind of thing will happen forever.
I was feeling like I was inching closer to my dad in class. Analyzing international currency exchange rates…felt oddly like he was there. It felt like something he would be interested in. I was so excited, I didn’t want to go on break. I wanted to crunch numbers in my father’s name.
***
The first time I went to Croatia, I felt like I was going home. I can’t explain this feeling. For the longest time when I was a child, I used to say to my mother, “I want to go home.” I’d be standing at our kitchen counter, at home, but I’d ask her impatiently to go home. She didn’t know what I meant, I could not put words to what I was feeling.
And then, years later on my first visit as an adult to “the homeland,” I stood on the white hot rocks on the Croatian coastline, looking onto the Adriatic. I fucking felt at home. Unreal. Done, finito, solved. It must have been the trip to the Olympics in Sarajevo when I was 4. The parties, the snow, the sounds, the food, the people. I wanted to go back.
Just prior to going back, I had spent a whole year studying Slavic culture in preparation. I took a Serbo-Croatian language course, Slavic film course, studied and performed Russian and Czech classical music, pursued an independent study in Serbo-Croatian and Slavic folk music, helped edit a book on Czech diction for a Janacek opera, found anyone who would do kolo dancing with me. Of course Ann Arbor has a hippie population who does folk dances of various countries in barns on the outskirts of town - they knew how to dance the kolo better than I did!!! It was unreal. That year I danced in aisles at a concert meant more or less academic enjoyment at Hill Auditorium, met Esma Redzepova, the Queen of the Gypsies
The point of all this is that I’ve always sought ways to be closer to my family. Because I love everything that my family is about. My grandfather, grandmother, father, mother. They are artists, dancers, singers, philosophers, bakers, philanthropists, poets…and still are. My family is crazy creative. We are wild, and it comes from our roots. And I love those roots. I’d never change a thing about this family. There is so much cool stuff about Croatia and Serbia and Bosnia. And it’s coursing through my veins. I can’t explain stuff like this.
What does this have to do with International Finance? I flipped out when I saw that we got to choose our paper topic in the emerging markets. I nearly jumped out of my seat to ask the professor if the former Yugoslavia was an appropriate choice.
I imagine talking to my dad about it. We could talk about the political influences on the economy in the former Yugoslavia. He’d even tell me about the Russians buying up Croatian real estate this summer. He was there. Just this summer. He would sit back, arms behind his head, he’d twist his moustache now and then and provide me with all sorts of anecdotal history to pepper my paper with.
I’ve got write it without him…it’s now a love letter to him wherever he is.
Disappointment, Compassion, Reconciliation, Renewal
This week in The Artist’s Way is about compassion. I find it hard to have compassion for myself. I’d like to think this is why I sometimes find it hard to have compassion for others. I think part of my recent attitude problems might stem from this. Yes, I've had some attitude problems. I think about my mistakes. Oh, there seem to be so many, so overwhelming. The arguments with my family in particular are the hardest to bear.
I’ve been mentally whipping myself over personal issues surrounding father’s death, my wounds fresh, and now I’ve got to forgive myself? Or forgive myself for not forgiving myself? It’s all too convoluted. I’ve been trying to grapple with this and wrote a long post about specifics but decided against posting it for a few reasons:
A) While I’d love to apologize and know I should, I stubbornly still think I’m right.
B) God only knows who reads my blog and I’m afraid they will hate me.
C) I’m not ready.
Disappointment, Compassion, Reconciliation, Renewal is the progression that I think things have to take. Anyone?? I have to have some compassion before I can forgive myself or ask for forgiveness. I’m not there yet. That’s all. I know I will be. It’s not even been three months since my dad died. It feels like years, I miss him so much. I still want to be angry and hopeless sometimes. I want to still blame things, other people. I want to find reasons, excuses. I don’t know if I’m going through stages of grief or whatever, but I’m not ready to forgive and forget. Part of me thinks forgiving is forgetting. And I never want to forget.
I am stubbornly refusing to let go right now. My rage and despair has yielded a bit, but only to disappointment. Huge, bitter disappointment. And many times it doesn’t feel like moving on or healing. It just feels like sitting, like a lump. I’ll just have to let it sit there for now I suppose. When I force it, it feels false. It might go away, it might come back. Whatev.
Harsh. For everyone. I’m not oblivious to other’s suffering. I just hope they can also understand mine.
Tiny Rhapsody
I felt like I got a phone call from an insolent son this saturday, apologizing for his bad behavior. The lyrics from Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody come to mind, "Mama, oooh, didn't mean to make you cry."
This little melodrama is due to an incident on Saturday morning when Kiynago bit a visitor. She ended up being just fine, Thank God. He is all up to date on his shots, so there was nothing to worry about from that standpoint. But, it was horrible. Anyone who has encountered an angry animal will know what a shock it can be. Poor Kiynago ran away immediately when he recognized he’d done something bad.
I think Mike and I felt worse for our guest who was trying to laugh off the shock, and for our dog who didn't know better. We felt like bad parents, neglectful of their child's destructive capabilities. Our eyes wide, "I'm sorry" flowing, Mike chasing Kiynago upstairs. It was a dramatic and distruptive event that shook up our whole weekend.
We’re going to take extra measures to ensure nothing like this happens again and are certain we'll be successful, but we hate that this happened in the first place. We feel like we should have known better. Kiynago is old, has developed cataracts, and gets easily freaked out if he feels threatened, whether it's real or not, he's a dog and can't tell the difference. We thought we knew which situations would cause this, but his most recent episode indicates he is worsening.
Knowing he is getting older and more unpredictable is a source of sadness and frustration. I love that damn dog. Even though he’s temperamental, he’s so sweet and has been a comfort to me so many times. At age 14, my mom drove me to Ohio where I picked him out of a litter, he was the smallest one and I knew I'd love him. I know this sounds weird, but sometimes there is no one to talk to and crying with your dog in your lap is the best thing you can do.
Anyways, old boy, we’re gonna take care of you. 
File Under: Weird
I would say this article speaks for itself but my favorite quote is,
"The change in his skin color prompted him to move from Oregon to California, where he hopes to be accepted."
There are so many things wrong with this I can't know where to start. Just had to share.
Slut Birds and Divorce
I don't believe in divorce. I think it's for the birds.
Oddly enough - did you know that love birds are not monogamous? They are like the sluts of the bird world. A friend of mine first revealed this to me, and in checking her sources, it's true!! It seems birds are more cosmopolitan than we are - pairing for life but slutting it up on the side.
Their defense, from National Geographic News,
"Females benefit from promiscuity by improving the genetic quality of their young. A good provider is not necessarily the best sperm donor, so while the female builds a nest with her mate, she may sneak out and go sperm shopping for a male with brighter feathers, bigger body size, or a more glorious singing voice—all indicators of good health.
This widespread lack of fidelity led scientists to coin a new term: social monogamy—living in pairs but sexually unfaithful."
You have to admit, this is hilarious. Those wiley birds find a male to care for them and then seek the best genetic material on the side. Kind of funny when you think of people who release them at their wedding.
But what does saying, "I don’t believe in divorce" mean? As a Catholic, I don't consider it an option. And in defense of Catholicism, it's more complex than, "You can never get divorced." There are a whole host of reasons under which it is appropriate to get divorced, one being, if you lied to yourself or your spouse about why you wanted to get married in the first place, which is
totally reasonable to me. In that case, the marriage would have been a sham and an anullment would just tidy up it's state of invalidity.
In preparing for my own marriage, I found that the church made it pretty clear to us the ways we could determine if we were making the right choice or not. I appreciated the in depth pre-marriage religious counseling we had to go to. While I initially dreaded it, envisioning a repeat of the Jesus-Camp I was coerced into attending in high school, it was much different. I think it began a process of discovering why we felt so strongly about each other and if we had what it would take to make it. There was a lot less Jesus and a lot more us than I had expected. Stuff like family of origin, habits, finances, and other practical topics were on the docket.
Mike and I did not sign a pre-nup and swore we’d never mention the word divorce in an arguement, no matter how mad we were. As if it simply doesn’t exist for us. I think couples who believe in divorce, on paper, out loud, or in the back of their minds are always going to be thinking about it. Every fight, every strewn sock, every night out too late is going to be a tally mark towards escape. There is less of a commitment to make things work out.
In Stumbling on Happiness, Daniel Gilbert illustrates this paradox of choice with an experiment done with college students who volunteered for a study in which they enrolled in a black and white photography course. At the end, they were to choose their two best photos to develop and after they were produced, were told they could only take one home. One group was told their choice was irrevocable, that once they took one, they could not ever have the other, non-choosers. A second group was told they could take one and had a time period in which they could change their minds if they wanted, choosers. Afterwards, they were interviewed and asked how satisfied they were with their photo choice, the non-choosers reported being much happier and pleased with their photos than the choosers.
The ability to choose the outcome led to a decrease in satisfaction, which is why I believe that similarly, in marriages when one or both couples have decided that “if things don’t work out” they have an escape clause. It’s just silly. Don’t get married. It’s not something to try and see if it works out. Anyways. I’m pretty old fashioned this way.
I suppose it’s because for the longest time I thought I’d never get married, and if I had kids I’d be a single mom. I thought that would be so romantic. I also envisioned myself making tons of money, wearing Armani suits and holding conference calls out of my work from home office while my maid/nanny watched the kids. Hehehe. Oh well. Life changes and I think for the better. It can be funny watching your belief systems grow and change over time. I enjoy the ride. A lot.
Neat Trick of the Day: Dynamite Clean-Up
I do not like to clean house. I'm sort of sloppy. You may not notice this on your first trip to my home because my mother instilled in me a deep fear of other people seeing my messes, unless they know me fairly well. Shouts of, "Don't let them see our garage!!!" were common when I told her a friend was coming for a visit.
When I was young, she instituted something called "Dynamite Clean-Up." She was trying to get my sister and I excited about cleaning fast and furiously in 15 minute intervals. She'd come to the bottom of the stairs and yell "Dynamite Clean-Up time!" She'd start off with sincere enthusiam, until her calls became bellows and slightly less exuberant. To her chagrin, it never caught on. My sister and I were lazy.
Well, she'd probably be happy to know the seeds of clean-loving-fun she strew (in the most orderly way) have blossomed in my own home. I have introduced "Dynamite Clean-Up" to my husband, and I believe he finds it more palatable than "All Day Clean-Up."
There are two versions:
Lazy Man's Version: While watching TV, tackle a new cleaning task each commercial break. Mike and I emptied the dishwasher, tidied the living room, and folded two loads of laundry last night during SuperNanny this way!
Slight Less Lazy Man's Version: Set aside 1 full hour for cleaning, but rotate cleaning in 5 minute intervals. This sounds hectic, but for someone like me who needs frequent distractions and often has things that never belong in the room they are in, this technique is perfect.
There you go!
Unplug the Hedonistic Treadmill
Can't Keep Runnin'
I spent some time reading my own blog today. I'm sorta negativo aren't I? Anger and depression stemming from an acute event such as the loss of a family member is understandable, and that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m noticing the ongoing and pervasive low-level dread I seem to lug around.
Well, I’m going hit the big red STOP button of life’s Hedonistic Treadmill. If you’ve never heard the term before, perhaps you will grow to love it like I have, or like this guy. It is a perfect descriptor for when you experience life as the kind of person who is never satisfied – no matter what your accomplishments are. You view the glass as upside down, i.e. unfillable, starting from square one even if you just completed a major task. You chase, even achieve your goals - only to find you’re precisely where you started emotionally and psychologically.
My blog has revealed to me my unbalanced ways. Not that they were particularly well hidden, but a few posts stick out and I think I need to make a change – not at self-improvement as I’ve historically pegged my “problem” to be, but at self-acceptance. This is a subtle but significant turn in my thought processes.
I believe my Mouse-on-a-Mill behavior stems from attempting one self-improvement project after another – hoping for a superior, happier me at the end. Whether it is voice lessons, masters degrees, exercise regimens, meditation, etc. I always expect to emerge happy and aglow from my transformation. Instead I emerge exhausted, much like some of my contemporaries. We are the proverbial squirrel just trying to get a nut, but once we get it, we bury it and start looking for the next one.
The book “Stumbling on Happiness” by Dan Gilbert demonstrates why we are bad at guessing what will make us happy. There are many reasons for this – read the book to find out – or take my word for it, we are really bad at this. After these realizations I’m tempted to stop setting goals, eat bon bons, get pleasantly plump and declare c’est la vie! But I’d be missing the point. The point is not to walk backwards on the Treadmill, but stop the machine and take a mental victory lap for all the miles you’ve logged. Look back and say – “Hey, I don’t suck!” (If that’s all you can muster.)
The other point is that it is still good to push yourself. Because sometimes getting the job, the girl, or making craploads of money can make you happier. But not always, and you should find out these kinds of things about yourself now so you don’t misdirect your efforts. Maybe, just maybe, you’d be happier quitting your high profile gig in the ad industry to become a prairie dog farmer. Maybe.
Basically, find a good balance. I’ve found that The Treadmill does not keep me on my toes, but runs me ragged. So the goal for me is to be more realistic about what actually makes me satisfied, since bigger, better, faster, more hasn’t been quite what it’s cracked up to be. I hope to discover the ways I trick myself into thinking I’ll be happy but end up depressed, and figure out what I really enjoy doing instead. Oh – and once I find that thing - avoid the immediate urge to make it a full time job.
Jalousie
Today's soundtrack is un petit francais.
It sounds so much more romantic in French, doesn’t it? Jealousy? Naming people you are jealous of and why is another exercise from "The Artist's Way.
I have no trepidation with this exercise, I start naming names immediately. Maybe I should pretend it was difficult, so I don't seem petty and vindictive. It's less about vindictive and back to the whole self-esteem issue I seem to struggle with. I may experience jealousy, but I don't begrudge people whatever asset they have I deem more valueable than my own.
I’m jealous of Mike, for example, and his ability to have peace of mind. Peace of mind! That’s so sick of me. He is generally a very happy-go-lucky guy. Easy to make plans with, fun, generous, doesn’t get caught up in mental minutia. I realized that am constantly, unconsciously (I swear) thwarting his effortlessness with plans and complaints and activities and goals. I do things like make Excel spreadsheets for how many vegetables I eat and am incredulous when he shows no interest in playing along. How can he live without calculating every move he makes?
He, unphased by my shenanigans, goes along with some plans, trying to meet me halfway, as he sees the major battles going on in my mind and he does what he can. But nothing is ever enough for me, not because he is not enough, but because I am never ever satisfied. It doesn’t stem from jealousy, but jealousy is a by-product of my ‘unfinished’ life. I look at all these threads, leading nowhere and begin to enlist whatever resources I can to finish them with me. I am my own biggest resource, and Mike, being my husband, is an obvious choice. Also, considering he was the one who finally tied my thread to his, musically and romantically, he completed two strings in my life I declared I longed for more than anything else. You would think then that I’d be forever grateful, complete, and that I wouldn’t fret over some fraying in other areas of my life. No – I find thread after thread, bemoaning that I don’t have enough hours in the day, enough dollars in the bank, enough skills to pay the bills. (Oh come on, you were begging me to say that.)
So. Jealousy. I’d list all sorts of other people I’m jealous of, but I try not to name names lest someone finds my blog and gets mad at me. Although maybe they’d be flattered by my anxiety over them. Or maybe they are just as jaloux too.
Confessions from the Edge
Edge.org, a super cool website, popped out to me via “Arts & Letters Daily” via “From Boston with Love”
I highly suggest going to the site and reading a couple of these responses to The Edge Annual Question for 2008:
When thinking changes your mind, that’s philosophy.
When God changes your mind, that’s faith.
When facts change your mind, that’s science.
What have you changed your mind about? Why?
I was fascinated by this extensive catalog of flip-flopping theories coming from people a lot smarter than myself. I have always thought that if you were smart enough, achieved enough, were published enough, etc. that you would enjoy some modicum of psychological peace, knowing you’ve done everything you could, considered all variables, bask in the sunlight of your own mental prowess, ripening to perfection, the goals you set – achieved - and you can simply rest.
Not the case, and these answers shed some light.
I tend to salivate at celebrity misgivings and this site was a candy shop of shifting mentalities on display. Their public declarations of wrong-ness, failure, and doubt make my private obsession seem bearable, even healthy and normal.
When a physicist speaks of the laws governing his science as “fuzzy and flexible” instead of “absolute and perfect” it makes me feel like I am right to follow my hunch and assert that things don’t follow a one size fits all path. For example, for the longest time I believed crap outlined in self-help tomes, condensed to shorthand here: “If you just believe in yourself you can achieve all your dreams.” A nice rosy picture, but far from reality, and detrimental to healthy pursuit of goals in my opinion.
When a Harvard philosopher says that she has come to regard the theory of falsifiability as “a blunt instrument, unthinkingly applied” I think of arguments I have had with philosophy types who corner me with logic, leading me to feel dumb and wrong. Instead I can cheerily recognize that anything can be disproven with enough reason, even the fact of our existence. So, I don't need to feel so bad when someone proves to me contradicitions in my belief systems. Big f-ing deal.
I’m no philosopher, but I’ll take a stab: I think, I doubt, therefore I am fuzzy and flexible. Yawn, stretch, sigh…smile.
Ohia
The soundtrack for my evening.
I'm alone. Mike’s outta town, in Cleveland to fight a speeding ticket. I’m feeling weird. Playing music that makes me cry, organizing compulsively, flirting with scissors - tempted to cut all my hair off. I told you this was a problem. Trying to hang with Kiynago, who walks away annoyed. He looks back at me with disdain registering on his doggy face, behind the flop of grayish black hair. He’s old and tired. I got him 13 years ago as a sophomore in high school. Imagine that, old boy.
I see photos. Cry. When no one is around I can cry the kind of cry that brings me to my knees. Stumbling, pounding on a pillow kind of cry. It feels good to get it out.
I miss my husband. First time we've been apart since...gee, I don't know. It's times like this you have epiphanies. You change. The first time Mike left town without me, we’d been dating a while and in his absence I realized I was desperately and hopelessly in love with him. Boom. I changed from merely enjoying his company to wondering how I’d ever lived without him. Just like that. I think I'm feeling like that tonight too. I’m always in the middle of a change.
I think being alone is very, very good. Healthy, necessary. I’ve often thought going on a retreat would be great. These kinds of times are usually a catalyst for discovering stuff about myself. I remember when I decided that I love singing, that I hate my hair, that I’m beautiful, that I forgive my father, that I can live without someone, that I will do the best I possibly can, that I always do. And if I fuck up, it’ll still have been my best.
Heart on My Sleeve
- Can you say palazzo pants?! Or my favorite, sailor pants?? They fit well because the legs are wide and flowy, allowing the waist to fit without alteration most of the time.
- Forming fitting, knee-length or longer skirts actually look really good on me! Who knew?