Wait, wait...I don't want to see anything I like because this is real. Everything is a complete illusion. Pink Floyd is a f-ing sellout, something I never thought possible. Everyone is looking for something and it's all meaningless. This blog is f-ing nothing-it's a speedbump-not even a speedbump in the flow of things...Everyone and everything is so sad I can't even believe it-why why why do we all buy into it??? I have no idea? I will likely die with no explanation to this phenomenon and that is the sad reality of life-that I am a westerner with too much opportunity plagued by the same reality as a non-westerner struggling to survive with a single reality. That/this is the tragedy-not that we can't reconnect, connect, establish ourselves...this world is destined to die and we will die along with it. That is the reality. I can already hear people saying "Oh , Ashley is depressed, someone help her..." Well, this is help-this is truth. There is no help. We are all "depressed" and we might as well fess up to it! There! I did it! In my tiny corner of the internet which is the only reality (seemingly)-I admit that the world is an illusion and I want nothing to do with it! Ahhh, I feel better already...

I wonder if in 2009, Barack Obama will be added to the proper names in predictive text of cell phones....

Processing return from Maine... Here are a few pictures of the trip:




A hotel on Rt. 9 between Calais and Bangor.




A small convenience store that sells ice, bait and mountain dew.



A blueberry factory-now owned by Wyman's (their logo is in the distance)

...so obviously it was snowy, but nice. Seemed much more desolate than other visits. Maybe that's just the dead of winter and the loneliness of the holidays...

At the airport...

Maine. Trying to keep up with the rest of the country, but still using scotch tape when it should be using glue.

yow-zaa! Now, there's an idea.



(source)

There is something that is strangely intimate about the 4-way stops here in Evanston.
Like seeing grown men eat.
Vulnerable and cautious.
Drivers communicate on an instinctual level, following an unwritten code.
And the right decisions are made.

If sidewalks were runways, I still wouldn't like this look

To veer away from more serious conversations, such as "will I be killed by a bomb in India in February?" I'd like to focus on seasonal fashion. Notably, the ski mask. I hadn't thought about the ski mask as anything more than something runners must wear during early morning jogs and of course a necessary accoutrement for any serious snowmobiler. But I have to draw the line at walking down city streets with this almost overly functional piece of winter gear.

Then I thought, "Hey if it's warm, who cares if it frightens me (and small children)?" Why can't we be comfortable and warm no matter what it looks like? My first thought to dispute my attempt at being diplomatic: high heels. I'll be the first to admit that the reason I don't own any high heels is because I can't walk in them, not because I don't like them. But they are the perfect example of how a small amount of pain is necessary to fit into social ideals of beauty, at least in this country. Maybe the rules are different once we're out of the office and onto the streets, but I still feel that the slight sting of cold air on a bare face is a small price to pay, not just for being presentable, but for not being scary.

Though I found a few acceptable forms of ski masks, this one is just plain scary, but also hilarious.



Photo credit: http://swapatorium.blogspot.com/2004/12/ski-masks.html

A slight kink in the plans

So here's the thing about going to Mumbai: It just got bombed. No, that's inaccurate. It's hotels, tourist destinations and train stations were taken over by terrorists who are targeting Westerners. There that's better. Except that for me it's not. At all.

My first response was to play the whole thing down. Like, "O.k., this type of thing happens all the time right? Isn't there an unspoken rule about things happening twice in the same spot?" These delusional statements were followed by anger that I'd let fear get in the way of taking an awesome trip. This was followed by more anger about spending and perhaps losing money because of terrorists. Later came sadness about the people whose lives were lost and a solid commitment not to lose my own.

It's not just about taking a trip. I mean, I had no assumptions about what I might learn from traveling to India. In signature form, I was naive about the implications of traveling to a developing country as an American. Sure, I heard that I would see extreme poverty, and I knew that religion was treated very differently, but I guess my own respect and admiration for other cultures clouded the fact that not everyone thinks like me. Some, not even close, as evidenced by recent events.

So, the task at hand for me is to weigh my options. Am I willing to risk being held hostage to prove that I'm not afraid... After September 11th, everyone was saying, "We can't let the terrorists win! Do not be afraid!" Of course, George Bush said to go shopping, but what I saw was increased discrimination in this country of Middle Eastern people. Should Americans stop going to India and countries where the U.S. is not held in high regard? Maybe we should all just go back to our own respective countries, vow to immerse ourselves exclusively in our own cultures and just call it a day.

Maybe it's because of the internet (or the million other reasons), but I would say that's likely never ever to happen. Not even close. There will always be extremists in every nation, culture, and representing every view point who wish the whole world, except for their own, would go away. I think it comes from fear-fear of assimilation, discrimination, and persecution-not to mention the belief that compromise would result in an eternity in hell.

That aside, I don't want to live in fear. I also don't want to die. So, it's sort of a toss-up at the moment. We'll see what happens....I'm open to suggestions.

Procrastination has gotten the better of me

I am a runaway blogger as of late. But I've been thinking...
1. That I'm tired of shows like 90210 featuring "high school students" that are actually in their early twenties celebrating their 16th birthday.
2. That I want 3 and 5 year olds, especially the ones I care for, to act like adults, except cuter.
3. That I'm considering giving box hair dyes another try...
4. After years of thinking that they would make good companions, turns out I really don't like squirrels.
5. That I can't believe I bought a ticket to India!

Would a scarf in any other font seem so sweet?

I'm not sure what the recent Helvetica font obsession is all about. I guess it's a techy-typographer-underground-graphic designer-type of thing. But I absolutely love this scarf-not because it's in Helvetica, which is actually one of the easiest fonts to read, but because it's just nerdy enough to be fashionable without being too hipster. I promise I'm not posting it here because I want it for Christmas....really. (But just in case you're wondering, I like it in black.)




(Image from: http://www.veer.com/products/merchdetail.aspx?image=VPR0005441)

An ode to rooms past

Ok, I'm trying not to sound like a spoiled tween here, but I miss my own room. Don't get me wrong, I love sharing space with Jonah and building apartment, after apartment, after, nope don't have to built it, it's already done (ever so lovely house he grew up in) with him. There's just something about the solace, the escape from the world, the pink-ness of bedrooms that I created for myself growing up and into my college years. Something about surrounding yourself with objects, colors, blankets etc. that describe and inspire you. I appreciated being able to trash said room in a fit of not knowing what to wear and knowing that no one would discover my temporary bout of insanity. Having a solid home base is crucial in dealing with a crazy world. I feel that my world lately is about moving my laptop from kitchen table to coffee table to den, where I still can't get an internet signal, to back to the kitchen. Moreover, with such frequent moves, I've downsized the very supply of aforementioned objects, fabrics, etc. that describe me materialistically.

I'm having to remind myself now that I don't want to sound like a spoiled 20-something. Downsizing does help moving and there is a healthy aspect to shedding material from the past. Plus, isn't it now in-vogue for affluent couples to have their own rooms? I don't know, I'm not sure that I could get into such formality. But in a break from the recent past, I do long for a solid home base, a place to call my own for, you know, at least a year.

Thoughts on a splinter

Last night, as Jonah diligently attempted to remove a tiny splinter of unknown origin out of my foot, I realized that despite the pain of the tweezers, there was something purely relaxing about being made to sit still. I instantly remembered my love of visiting the doctor. (Provided I am entirely confident of my good health beforehand, whereby you suggest, "then why would you be going to the doctor?) It is the yearly checkup that I love so, and not all of it, but specifically the parts where my nose, ears, mouth and eyes are checked out, followed by the cool stethoscope examining my breathing and heartbeat. I also don't mind the height check. The reason, I deduced last night, was because it too, requires that I sit still. Another instance came to my mind last night of being a portrait model for my roommates while I attended art school. This of course, required complete stillness (not to mention a healthy (?) dose of vanity).

So what is it about being told to sit still that so irritates a child under the age of eight, but for me, creates absolute calm? I believe it is the habit I've gotten into, ever since I understood the meaning of being "productive," that has made me run around like a chicken with it's, you know, trying to get and be and finish and start as many things as possible. Meanwhile, I'm getting absolutely nothing done, drinking questionably unhealthy amounts of coffee, and summarizing my life into periods of procrastination or distraction. I can't count the amount of times I ask myself each day, "What am I doing with my life???," and all those other "woe-is-me" declarations that I will spare you from reading.

Maybe it has something to do with the theory behind meditation... Meditation, like running a mile every morning before breakfast, has become one of those things that I always say would solve all my issues if I could just get into doing it. However, in times like last night, when I was forced to surrender my task-oriented sensibility, I like to think that I practiced a mini-meditation of sorts. And this morning, after deciding that I would run after breakfast (that would be now), the radio, which normally opens my day with the grim economic forecast and the traffic report reminding me that I don't own a car, has remained off. While the ticking of the wall clock coupled with the keystrokes of my computer is starting to sound rather zen.

'Word Play' on 'No Play and All Work'

I just realized that busy-ness, as in being busy, would be spelled (if it were a word?) as either busy-ness (nah) or busi-ness. Business. Hmm. That explain a lot.

In conversation, what is 'off limits?'

A few years ago, a friend told me there were two things she didn't talk about with friends and family alike. They were, and are: politics and religion. I was confused and angry after hearing this. After all, she was a fairly liberal person, artistic, open-minded. Why would she be so closed off to debating about two of the most relevant subjects of our lives? The answer: she hates arguing. And generally that's what any "discussion" about these two always controversial topics, turns into. Wouldn't it be great if we could all comfortably present our ideas on these two topics, or any topic for that matter, and simply agree to disagree. Or, even better, leave a little wiggle room in our respective ideologies to grow and develop. How idealistic for me to think this way, especially when I am the first to notice my blood pressure rising when I hear or see support of John McCain and Sarah Palin.

So, if my friend was right, and it is best to steer clear of politics and religion, what can we talk about that really matters? Don't get me wrong. I don't want to talk string theory over dinner or anything, but I think we could all benefit by making conversational strides towards understanding the most heated differences we possess. And if there's one thing that I can't stand, it's feeling awkward about asking questions or stating my opinion. What happened to that person who said "No question is a dumb question?" When I was a kid, I asked my parent's friend how much money she makes. The response was like, "Ashley (!) you don't ask something like that! " Huh? Well, I wanted to know. I had no idea whether workers were paid the equivalent of my allowance per hour or what being rich or poor actually meant-everyone looked the same to me in those days. Today I still have no idea.

Jonah and I are supposedly middle class, if you take into account that we have enough food to eat, clothes that are nice enough, and can count on never being homeless (although we can't take this for granted). So I guess if there's one thing that I'd like to talk about if I have to set God and Obama on the shelf, is money. Take for example today, I got my hair cut at the Aveda Institute. It's a school for hair dressers and their rate is $15 for a haircut. Pretty much the cheapest besides SuperCut, and a far better result, even with the varying skill levels of the students. When the girl cutting my hair asked what kind of shampoo I used, and I answered "Pantene" I felt as if I had just been caught wearing Keds in a room full of stilletos. In a way though, it speaks to my economic status. Yes, Pantene is 5-ish dollars, and that was my primary reason for buying it. Now, from what I could infer about my later conversation with the hairdresser, her financial situation was much like mine. But apparently she appreciates good shampoo.

So, here's the thing: It's easy with credit to act like you're rich, but everything must be repaid someday. On the flip side, actually having money doesn't guarantee happiness-so what is money's real worth? Contrary to debating what happens after death, and regardless of who will be our next president, money is something that everyone agrees is real and necessary. Today, it seems as if we can tell how much people make by the car they drive, the clothes they wear, the shampoo they use, etc., but what does this really show? What if the “look of money” is more important to people, than actual happiness and debt-free living. The “it” bag, designer labels, cars, shoes, hair, cell phone, iphone. Then there are the big houses, the nanny, the housekeeper.


What if we all had the same size houses, there was only one kind of automobile, and clothes producers were no longer able to place logos on their products? What about healthy competition in the market, you ask? Well, is hasn’t done us very good lately. I don’t know if I’m starting to sound like a socialist (and I’m still not clear on what is so bad about socialism) but what if the government were to have more of a hand in capping prices for the previously listed items? No more $150 pairs of jeans? That’d be alright.

See, I’m not sure if money is a touchy subject for people. I’ve had conversations in the past couple of weeks about bargain shopping, coupons, how much money I’m willing to spend on shampoo, etc. Maybe the sensitive issue is salary. Countless talented people go unappreciated (financially and artistically) in our society. But I think the real issue is that there just doesn’t seem to be enough money in the hands of those who truly need it. And until real changes are made and wealth is more evenly distributed, it will continue to be a topic that we discuss-uncomfortable or not. Maybe we need to focus privately on whatever Faith/God we believe in to know that things will get better, while also taking politics off the shelf, discussing the issues, and not being afraid to argue, especially in times like these.

Look for me in suburbia

Well, it's been a while. My new life in suburbia is apparently a full-time job. Let me start with the family home and the two kids, a boy and a girl. No, they're not mine, thank god, but they are cute. I guess they've grown on me. And they are a full-time job-40+ hours a week, which is good because I can temporarily stop looking for jobs, but not so good because I don't want to be a full-time mom, even though I'm labeled as a nanny. It's weird because, as a nanny, I am responsible for so much of the discipline of the children and also to play with them on their level, to teach them and to take them places. At the same time, I do not have the same bond with them as their parents', and I even worry about whether they like me. I never thought I'd say this, but I catch myself not only wondering, but worrying whether the 5-year old girl thinks I'm mean.

A few years ago, I babysat two two-year old boys on the weekends. I felt closer to those two boys than I do to the current children for a couple of reasons. First, they were both boys and for whatever reason I relate more to boy children than girl children. Coincidentally I took a six-question quiz in "Chicago Parent" magazine (at the kids' house) today that supposedly answered the question of what gender I would be a better parent for, because apparently, I guess these days you can choose. Riiight. Anyway, the most ridiculous part of the quiz was that, no matter what you answer, the quiz states that you're actually a great parent for either gender. Hmm. So, I analyzed the question myself during the kids' nap time. One of the reasons, as I spoke of before, is that I relate to the way boys deal with problems: being physical rather than emotional, yelling rather than crying, pointing blame rather than taking responsibility/compromising. I guess the other reason why I related to the two boys is that they had dark hair. I know this sounds crazy, but when you're a babysitter/nanny, there is something that happens when you go out in public when you say to yourself, "Do people think this is my kid?" or "Am I even old enough to have a kid?" Now when the kid(s) have light blonde hair and I have black hair, the chances of them being my kids is pretty slim. Although a nice older woman on the street the other day told me I had a beautiful child. I nodded with a smile, but uncomfortably, and as if I was taking credit for something I didn't create. Oh well, I guess people will believe whatever they want.

On an unrelated note, but sticking with my suburban theme, I baked cupcakes this weekend. The cupcake tin was my first piece of bakeware that I have purchased, well, ever. Pumpkin-chocolate-chip cupcakes with creamcheese (one word?) frosting and cinnamon icing. A little underdone, but you can't tell that from the picture.