Warning: What follows is self-indulgent musings of a birthday scrooge. It is meant to be cathartic for me, so feel no pressure to actually read.
For some odd reason, my birthday is my least favorite day of the year. Its the day when ghosts of Jane's past come back to haunt. The bell begins to toll in late may, and by July 1, the bell rings constantly in my ears. Coming, Coming, Coming. The fear of getting older is only a tiny piece of this. Instead, it is the ghosts of past and present that provide the deepest torture. Maybe it all started with my 5th birthday party when one boy started finding the pennies for the "hunt for pennies" game before it was time thus causing me to pout and cry in the kitchen in my mouse feather dress.
I work really hard not to have this day be such a big deal. But, it is work.
All my most horrible versions of myself come back to visit. The mall rat, sorority girl who was thrilled to be number 3 on my high school "Prettiest Girl list" instead of appalled that such a list existed. The girl who choose sorority over quality when making friends. (Not to insult some of my very good friends who were in my sorority) The girl who was secretly thrilled that the frat boys had bestowed a nickname on me. These Jane's come back and their mistakes come flowing back and turn my stomach into knots. The Jane who drank too much to overcome social anxiety and deep insecurity. The girl who cruelly dumped a nice, loving boy for a narcissistic egomaniac.
The present Jane gets anxiety about who will come to the party. How many people will be there? How many friends do I have? I have no friends. I usually try to keep it small and family but then everyone says... "Don't be silly have a real party"and once I plan the party, all those people are out of town. The music in the background is "It's the most insecure time of the year"
Then the ghost of Jane's future touches down and reminds me my eggs are dying and no one may ever love me and I may die alone, that sad old crone attempting to steal children from playgrounds.
11 months of the year, I do my best to remain a person who works everyday to be the best version of myself. Imperfect? absolutely. Trying? totally. But I am working on being a better, calmer, more zen person. Once this years mini-breakdown is over, I will hopefully return to the Jane who knows she is surrounded by an amazing family and loving circle of friends. I am grateful for my magnitude of blessings...on July 31st.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Worth a thousand?
Now that I work full-time and generally lead a less exciting life.. I find I don't have a blog-a-day in me any more. When I lived in Nyanza, my blog was my way of sorting out all the activities of the day. It was my processing and reflection time. Now, my work is confidential and the day to day moments less foreign. I don't think anyone wants to hear my thoughts on the daily commute. I certainly don't want to give any of thoughts over to my commute.
But I have been taking pictures or "making" pictures as my photography teacher would say. Most of my pictures are fairly uninspired... I have no great techniques and tend to photograph buildings and people I know. But, hopefully I am learning and opening my eyes and lens to new and interesting moments.
I plan to share some of those moments here
But I have been taking pictures or "making" pictures as my photography teacher would say. Most of my pictures are fairly uninspired... I have no great techniques and tend to photograph buildings and people I know. But, hopefully I am learning and opening my eyes and lens to new and interesting moments.
I plan to share some of those moments here
 |
| Fathertime |
 |
| Bryant Park Reflections |
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday 3
My father and I have a subscription to The Metropolitan Opera, the Friday 3 series. We have done it for 2 years thus far and are now making our choices for the next year.
The plan had some minor adjustments during my sojourn in Rwanda. Usually my brother filled in.
Since my return our ritual has a nice quiet tone. We usually eat at La Pain Quotidien. We talk about different things. Sometimes I babble about family stuff, sometimes we address politics and the real world. Sometimes I get the feeling I can read my Father's mind and he mine, and then sometimes I feel this isn't true at all.
Last Monday, my mother was in Cleveland admitting her 93 year-old mother to the hospital, my dog was dying and I was, in short, freaking out. I called my father on the verge of hysteria and to be honest have no recollection of what he said. But I felt better after.
That Friday, we went to see La Boheme. During dinner we discussed that Sunday would be Calypso's last day on earth but that things for Grummy seem to have stabilized. I was calm during dinner and we even had some laughs.
We went off to La Boheme, upon which the musical Rent is based. (Side note, this production of it is from my Uncle Frank Taplin's era at the Met). I mention this fact to make it clear that I am totally familiar with the story. There were no plot twists or surprises.
During the fourth act, before Mimi had even entered the stage, I gasped in one of those deep choking breaths that is often a prelude to tears. And my dad reached across, grabbed hand, pulled me closer and didn't let go until the opera was over. I sobbed (quietly I hope) the entire act, but I felt safe and loved.
The plan had some minor adjustments during my sojourn in Rwanda. Usually my brother filled in.
Since my return our ritual has a nice quiet tone. We usually eat at La Pain Quotidien. We talk about different things. Sometimes I babble about family stuff, sometimes we address politics and the real world. Sometimes I get the feeling I can read my Father's mind and he mine, and then sometimes I feel this isn't true at all.
Last Monday, my mother was in Cleveland admitting her 93 year-old mother to the hospital, my dog was dying and I was, in short, freaking out. I called my father on the verge of hysteria and to be honest have no recollection of what he said. But I felt better after.
We went off to La Boheme, upon which the musical Rent is based. (Side note, this production of it is from my Uncle Frank Taplin's era at the Met). I mention this fact to make it clear that I am totally familiar with the story. There were no plot twists or surprises.
During the fourth act, before Mimi had even entered the stage, I gasped in one of those deep choking breaths that is often a prelude to tears. And my dad reached across, grabbed hand, pulled me closer and didn't let go until the opera was over. I sobbed (quietly I hope) the entire act, but I felt safe and loved.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's day
I love Valentine's Day. Sincerely, cheerily, romantically, j'adore valentines.
I know one of the major objections to Valentine's Day is that it is a manufactured hallmark holiday.
So what?
I have much less objection to the bastardization and commercialization of a day commemorating St. Valentine than, for example, the birth of the messiah.
For me, V-Day doesn't have to be about Prince Charming bringing you roses or lavish dinners and gifts. Up until very recently, every year on the 14th I received a red envelope postmarked from Cleveland, Ohio and signed "?" in my Grandmothers handwriting.
This year, my Dad gave me the 4th book in Trollope's "Chronicles of Barsetshire", my mom indulged my knitting addiction by buying me yarn and my friend Susan made me the best card ever. Her handmade and heartfelt card brought the good kind of tears to my eyes. My beloved Zeke shared a gummy valentine heart with me and even stood still while I covered him in kisses. To top off such embarrassment of riches, my adored Jack Jack fed me grapes this morning and cried when I dropped him off at school.
I will give into the paper hearts hung in coffee shops and cupids flying in bodegas and spend the day telling my nearest and dearest that I love them. In a world filled with news of chaos and woe, I just can't find fault with a day that encourages people to spread the love.
Besides, the pink and red theme really breaks up the gray of February.
Much Love,
XOXO,
Jane
Teaching in the u.s.a.
Last week I taught French to my mother's students for a week. The fact that I taught French is probably laughable to anyone who knows me, but the point of this week was to get the kids excited about the language. Putting aside the differences in the ages, teaching in the USA was clearly a different experience. First of all, before I even stepped into a classroom, I had this gong in my head moment while speaking with my Mother's boss, where I realized not only were there books to be had, but I could make copies or create handouts.
"Oh, so it's okay, if I make copies for the class, like out of books or, like I could print from the computer?"
"Yes" (pause, coupled with a quizzical look) "Your mom or I could make copies or you could. Whatever you want"
Besides the glaringly obvious differences like reliable electricity, a computer/projector in the classroom, the realization that my entire lesson didn't have to be written on the board was shocking. Between the class size (10 kids as opposed to 60) and the availability of paper I felt the possibilities for the week were endless.
Of course, using all of my resources, I hardly created a teaching revolution. There were handouts, PowerPoint's and a little You-Tube. Nothing too radical, but I encouraged dancing. It seems to be emerging as my teaching trademark.
What really made the week fun was the students. The 5th graders were insanely and wonderfully sweet. They were excited about the week of language and were an ideal audience. But like my students in Rwanda, their thirst for learning was the best part. The week made me come to realization that teaching is fun! For a week. I love teaching when everyone is excited, thirsty, and enthused. It is those hard weeks in the middle when you have to get through grammar and there is almost no way to spice it up that make teaching hard. The weeks before vacation when you could stand naked in front of a classroom and elicit no response that make me want to bang my head against a wall.
Being the star of a long-running show is hard. Guests spots are no problem.
"Oh, so it's okay, if I make copies for the class, like out of books or, like I could print from the computer?"
"Yes" (pause, coupled with a quizzical look) "Your mom or I could make copies or you could. Whatever you want"
Besides the glaringly obvious differences like reliable electricity, a computer/projector in the classroom, the realization that my entire lesson didn't have to be written on the board was shocking. Between the class size (10 kids as opposed to 60) and the availability of paper I felt the possibilities for the week were endless.
Of course, using all of my resources, I hardly created a teaching revolution. There were handouts, PowerPoint's and a little You-Tube. Nothing too radical, but I encouraged dancing. It seems to be emerging as my teaching trademark.
What really made the week fun was the students. The 5th graders were insanely and wonderfully sweet. They were excited about the week of language and were an ideal audience. But like my students in Rwanda, their thirst for learning was the best part. The week made me come to realization that teaching is fun! For a week. I love teaching when everyone is excited, thirsty, and enthused. It is those hard weeks in the middle when you have to get through grammar and there is almost no way to spice it up that make teaching hard. The weeks before vacation when you could stand naked in front of a classroom and elicit no response that make me want to bang my head against a wall.
Being the star of a long-running show is hard. Guests spots are no problem.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Means
After four months of unemployment, certain actions that used to be routine are now taking on a new gravity. Dry clean only clothes, for example, used to be just that. Now, I can't just take a huge pile of sweaters, pay the 90 dollars and be on my way. Going to the drugstore is another, 10 bucks for deodorant! And don't get me going on the price of tampons, but that has always annoyed me. Even the subway is $2.25 a ride! I knew things had gotten serious when I pondered cheaping out on a gift for my two-year-old nephews birthday. That is just not Auntie Jane style.
I am attempting to live within my means currently and I am not very good at it. At this point in my life I can't point the finger at my upbringing. I am a grown up and I need to take responsibility for my complete and utter lack of budgeting skills. Money doesn't grow on trees? I must admit I am far luckier and better off than most people in similar jobless situations. I do not have to worry where my next meal is coming from or how to clothe my children. I am fully aware my problems are low on the scale of true woes. My extremely generous mother allows me to live with her and she fulfills my food and wine needs nicely. Her devoted cleaning lady also does all my laundry and kisses my hands. But I really like stuff. I really like nice stuff. In retrospect, perhaps not buying $500 boots, a new coat and three cashmere sweaters might have been a slightly better cash saving plan than handwashing but I couldn't resist! I actually bought them while in Rwanda so they were waiting for me when I got home. It got me through a dark moment towards the end of my journey. Shallow? Possibly. Effective? Absolutely. And did I need 2 pairs of new jeans? Almost surely yes. Taking a 24 dollar pilates class 3 to 5 times a week is non negotiable, because you really can't put a price on mental health. On the Pollyanna side of things, I have cut way back on having dinners and drinks out and that is significant savings! I am also knitting all gifts for all people from now on, so I only have to spend money on yarn.
My problem is I tell myself that this ONE item doesn't matter, that it won't make a dent and will be easy to pay off after one paycheck. I haven't gotten myself into a romantic comedy worth of debt (see shopoholic with Isla Fisher-the clothes are to die! ) but my savings account is looking pretty anorexic (think it might be anemic too). But, isn't that the point of spending a year in a third world country? So you can be selfish, materialistic, and exceedingly well dressed for the other 80 years and still look back and think "I am such a good person, I taught English in Rwanda!"
I am attempting to live within my means currently and I am not very good at it. At this point in my life I can't point the finger at my upbringing. I am a grown up and I need to take responsibility for my complete and utter lack of budgeting skills. Money doesn't grow on trees? I must admit I am far luckier and better off than most people in similar jobless situations. I do not have to worry where my next meal is coming from or how to clothe my children. I am fully aware my problems are low on the scale of true woes. My extremely generous mother allows me to live with her and she fulfills my food and wine needs nicely. Her devoted cleaning lady also does all my laundry and kisses my hands. But I really like stuff. I really like nice stuff. In retrospect, perhaps not buying $500 boots, a new coat and three cashmere sweaters might have been a slightly better cash saving plan than handwashing but I couldn't resist! I actually bought them while in Rwanda so they were waiting for me when I got home. It got me through a dark moment towards the end of my journey. Shallow? Possibly. Effective? Absolutely. And did I need 2 pairs of new jeans? Almost surely yes. Taking a 24 dollar pilates class 3 to 5 times a week is non negotiable, because you really can't put a price on mental health. On the Pollyanna side of things, I have cut way back on having dinners and drinks out and that is significant savings! I am also knitting all gifts for all people from now on, so I only have to spend money on yarn.
My problem is I tell myself that this ONE item doesn't matter, that it won't make a dent and will be easy to pay off after one paycheck. I haven't gotten myself into a romantic comedy worth of debt (see shopoholic with Isla Fisher-the clothes are to die! ) but my savings account is looking pretty anorexic (think it might be anemic too). But, isn't that the point of spending a year in a third world country? So you can be selfish, materialistic, and exceedingly well dressed for the other 80 years and still look back and think "I am such a good person, I taught English in Rwanda!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)