25 and All That Jazz

Back in elementary school we’d write the same three things at the top of all our assignments: full name, class subject, and the date. The cool girls put hearts over the i’s instead of dots so I tried it for a while and failed but then someone told me that my ugly handwriting meant I was "creative," so that was an avoided self-esteem blow.

THIS "S" thing

Anyway, writing the date became such a habit that the headers started to look empty without it. We’d eagerly fill up the upper right corner with January 14th, 1998, or whatever year it was, then doodle some of those weird "S" symbols before lumbering through the boring multiplication problems listed below.

The only time writing the date was a struggle was after winter vacation, after we’d left behind our prime numbers and dependent clauses, only to come back to review tests and a new calendar year. Instead of 1998 it was 1999, and I could never remember to update the year. It felt so unnatural, like breaking a habit, to switch that last number from an 8 to a 9. Like converting from chocolate to vanilla, or from Republican to open-minded. Point is, changing the date took effort, and no one likes to do that.

The same formula introduced our papers in college: name, class, and date (plus our professors' names to feed their egos). And whenever winter quarter rolled around, I’d think oh man! Not a new year! With later dates came bigger reflections. I can’t believe it’s already 2010! Last year went by like a flash! Better do more this coming year! The changing of years marks the progression of time, of getting older, of slipping closer to deadlines or farther from dreams. And recognizing this makes the beginning of the year as panicky as it is hopeful. Resolutions, honey, make some resolutions.

January celebrates not only the New Year but my birthday as well, and so it's a "new year" for me in both senses. It's an exciting time, all the snow and the gifts and the positive vibes, but I also get super angsty. Ages 22, 23, 24 came and went and I look exactly the same (as my 17-year old self). Did I do it right? Did I accomplish all the things I'm supposed to do at that age? Maybe not compared to Emma Watson. Oh man, I need to catch up to Emma Watson! 

25 and still love sprinkles

But this January I felt okay, happy in fact, to welcome in 2015... or for me personally, 25. 2014 was a big year for me, professionally and emotionally, and I experienced a lot of firsts. I got my first ever big girl job with salary and benefits. I moved to a new city (Paris) and found an apartment on my own. I felt my first real heartbreak, and the slow, painful process of getting over it. And I got over it. Most of my new friends have (beautiful) accents. It’s the first year to do my own taxes, the first year to mess up my taxes, and I started using Instagram. At 24 I ran with the bulls. I started my first novel (and stopped halfway through). I dated a red head. I tried Umami burger. I finally got a smart phone. I watched The Wire. I almost bought eye cream. I flew home for the holidays. I got good at French. I started liking French. I can't believe I'm starting to like French.

I realize this post is self-involved and boring. It's my space for a "personal reflection," or rather a 'list' of reasons/excuses to not feel ashamed that I am not making as much as my peers or haven't yet launched my sitcom writing career or haven't found true love or that I feel skeptical of love and dating and men and uncertain about where I want to live or what I want to do and if I'm any good and what's my voice and whether or not to dye my hair and if so what color, and also if my readers are getting any of this or if I have readers and if not then is it because I'm a bad writer or offensive or self-involved or if I should start using more punctuation. Maybe I'll start with that. That's the easiest to solve. Periods. Here's to a quarter century. Here's to another 25 years, to hopefully accumulating answers to some of these doubts but also continuing to ask the questions. To feeling good about turning the page, to changing the date.

Living in Paris with Today's Terrorism

There was a shooting today in Paris. Twelve people died, among them prominent journalists and cartoonists. Two were police officers. It was a planned massacre, targeting a satirical magazine that publishes irreverent images, offending those with extremist beliefs. You can read more accurate information about the event and the magazine Charlie Hebdo here. I can really only share my take.

I learned about the shooting just after lunch, when a colleague told me to check the news. I saw the headline “Terror in Paris” on cnn’s homepage and felt confused since I just returned from a normal, uneventful meal on one of the city’s busiest streets, and nothing like “terror” crossed my mind.

What the hell? Why hadn’t there been screaming and shouting? Why were people out shopping, eating, laughing? Did they not know what had happened either? The lack of concern upset me. I clearly remember 9/11 (I was wearing pigtails and those terrible overalls that weren’t even cool then) and our teachers wheeled in televisions and we all watched in silence, not really sure what was happening. I was young, but even though I was hundreds of miles away it still felt very close and I just wanted to be next to my mom (she happened to teach in the same building… so that was convenient). I understand today’s events are not quite the same scale. And yet, it was an attack on freedom of speech and that is something very close at heart. How come here in Paris, where I work in the city center just minutes away from major sites, I had to go online to find out that the country’s biggest terrorist attack in decades had just occurred only 3 kilometers away?

"Je Suis Charlie"

There was no announcement at work, no discussion about what was going on, and how and if this could possibly affect us.  My first thought was “told you so” about the incompetent French police force in their berets for letting the gunmen get away. Then back to, why hadn’t we stopped working? Sure, none of us were directly affected and if we let every disaster in the world lead to a moment of silence, a word would never be spoken.

But a publication was attacked today for expressing (some could say in a distasteful way) a perspective. An idea. A cartoon. A story. A joke. I have worked on editorial staffs and never written anything worth getting shot over (except maybe for being so awfully boring), and so I cannot say I’ve felt the risks as those at the magazine (who had previously received threats). But the thought of fearing for your life for an idea, for working or interning to realize that idea, even cleaning the floors of the rooms where those ideas are being created… this is so fundamentally against what I, an outspoken blabbermouth, a writer, and an American, believe in.

Further updates in the story revealed that the gunmen parked their car and hijacked another just five blocks away from where I live. To be honest it made me nervous and I thought about where I’d hide in my apartment if they came in or if I’d run or try some kind of Kung Fu and then I felt stupid and embarrassed for thinking about trying martial arts against a man with a military gun when I can’t even do a pushup. Then I thought I’d go home and do some pushups.

Instead, I went to Place de République, where they were holding a rally to commemorate those killed and to stand up for “liberté d’expression.” There were hundreds, maybe thousands gathered around (and climbing on) the Statue de la République, holding candles and signs reading “Je suis Charlie,” or I am Charlie (for the name of the magazine). I would be lying to say I was moved by the experience. If felt a bit underwhelming, that the teens screaming “we need you Charlie!” were just there for attention and most of them were white and the whole thing felt stilted. It could have been the people laughing and drinking beer next to me, or maybe my paranoia that someone would start shooting, but I just wanted to get away as quickly as possible.

 I walked home with my friend who shared his experiences in London riots and I realized I’ve never actively been, or wanted to be involved in, any serious protests. I watched “The Interview” last week and couldn’t help but wonder if the North Korean government would ever find out and target me (I didn’t enjoy it, I swear!). My mother taught me the gift of paranoia. I’m sure I would have marched for Ferguson if I were in the US, but Chicago gets cold in December and I might have called it quits after hours of nothing spectacular. I don’t know. Maybe it’s weak to be uninvolved, to be scared. Even if I’m too pathetic to do a pushup, I should at least defend these beliefs with a more powerful tool, words. But then again words and pictures can get you killed too.  

Not sure how to round this one up, as it’s late and I’m jetlagged and I’m taking public transportation tomorrow morning to possibly the most populated metro stop in the city. I’m not too concerned, but surprised people around me aren’t more. Maybe it’s something to do with growing up in a country with guns and school shooting drills and hate crimes and inequality constantly on the radar. Maybe that’s why I choose to write about my mom’s pumpkin bread, or stepping in dog shit instead.  I don’t know. I know that what happened today was wrong and disturbing and tragic but there’s many sides to every story, and this is just mine. But I’d like to know more.

To Eat or Not to Eat... There is no Question

This is my 7^th time flying back to France in the past three years, making it my 38^th international flight since graduating college, and all I want is a banana. I’ve grown so accustomed to taking planes (and trains and automobiles) that 9 hours squeezed in seat 37F feels like a snooze.  Traveling has taught me a lot about myself. All those hours roaming through airport terminals, or in 37F between cryers and farters and sometimes babies, and never remembering to charge my kindle… these are the moments that have shaped the woman I am today. Because thanks to all these worldly experiences, I believe I’ve finally learned, or should I say been enlightened, about one of life’s most valuable lessons: what NOT to eat while traveling.

May the odds be ever in your favor. 

I love bananas. They go great in pancakes but not in duffel bags. No matter how careful I am they end up smashed at the bottom of my carryon and then it’s all wet and mushy on the bottom and feels like I’m carrying a dirty diaper that’s got my laptop inside. And that’s gross.

So slice it up, put it on some bread with some pb and make it a sandwich. Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. Peanut butter leads to dry mouth, followed by thirsty mouth, resulting in urges and frequent bathroom trips which are a pain in the ass unless you’ve got the aisle seat but who wants the aisle when you can have a window seat and stare at the pretty clouds and tiny buildings. No peanut butter. Same goes for chips, nuts and pretzels. Avoid salty things that make you want to do wet things.  

On international flights I know that I’ll be stationary for the next 8-12 hours, so I prefer to avoid things like pizza where I’ll literally feel the fat soaking into my love handles. I also try to limit desserts like donuts, cake, cookies, brownies and muffins to one (of each) to not feel regretful. Those chewy granola bars are packed with high fructose corn syrups and the healthier ones leave crumbs all over the seat and on my lap and in my bra, which is just itchy and rude. I could just wait and try the airplane food, but that’s a high-risk decision I’m not willing to take.

Oranges get sticky. Salads are pretentious. Bagels make me gassy. Apples seem like the perfect medium, but then you’ve got that darn core to worry about and unless you flag down a flight attendant, that too ends up on your lap on in your bra and that’s no fun either.

So what’s the solution? Buy an overpriced meal at the airport? On my writer’s salary… Ha.

After countless trial and errors, it’s still a struggle I battle before each takeoff: how to pack the perfect snack to carry me through to the next time zone. Perhaps I’m thinking way too much into this, but I’m a writer so I’ve got nothing better to do anyway.

Today I’ve armed myself with what might be the winning meal: sliced bread with spreadable butter; a fruit/nut salad in a shaker (not at all pretentious); a cookie; probably a second cookie; pre-sliced apples (coated with orange juice so they don’t brown… thanks, mom); and an empty water bottle to refill once I’m past security. I may have also packed an entire loaf of pumpkin bread… only time will tell. One could call this type of travel lunch preparedness “extensive,” “over-involved,” even “stingy”… but I like to think of it as “art.” Because rather than joining in with the stinkers and the screamers in row 37, my belly-happy self can instead spend the next nine hours daydreaming of croissants, macarons, and other treats that await me once I land.