Forever Young...?

“Anyone who doubts the veracity of your blog should try skyping you. One webcam conversation with Juliet and you know that your blog does not lie,” laughed Laura, my childhood friend who I was catching up with on Thanksgiving. Within the 10 minutes my friend and I were speaking, every single one of my crib roommates (AKA my family) walked into my room. Mind you, I had just gotten out of the shower and was sitting in front of my computer with a towel on. “Privacy” is nonexistent in the Perrachon lexicon.

While Laura and I were attempting to have a serious catch-up on the past month, my brother followed by my sister waltzed in… for no apparent reason… just to check up on their “older” sister. After I finally got rid of them, my father who has been making great strides at trying to be uber involved in my life popped in. Before I knew it, I was kicked off my computer, and Daddy was enjoying a leisurely conversation with my friend. So much for our much needed catch-up.

When I finally thought I’d safely gotten rid of everyone and could attempt at a private conversation with Laura, my mother barged in furious, as always, at the state of my room. Admittedly my room has become a bit of an obstacle course in the past few months. My return home has made my laziness surge at an exponential rate. Some of you might tell me, “Wake up Juliet, it’s not like you’ve ever been tidy.” True, but if you thought I was messy before, it’s only gotten worse since my fateful return to the crib. Oh my god, that is it! Return to the crib. I have returned to my childlike irresponsible state. My poor clothes have been feeling the brunt of my new condition, as they get tossed onto the floor carelessly. I come home late at night half-drunk to find a huge pile of messy clothes on my bed and at 3 in the morning, tell me please, who really wants to puts those things away? Not I. No no, just throw them all on the floor and deal with it in the morning. Or the day after. Or … until my mother flips out on me….like NOW.

The less I care, the more my mother does unfortunately. I feel like a child again. As if it weren’t enough that I live at home jobless, everyone assumes I’m my 16-year-old sister’s long lost twin. “Oh yes, we kept this one locked up for a while…mwahahahah.” Right. Then when I complain about this to my friends, they look at me as if I were on crazy pills, “You should be thrilled, you look YOUNG.” Don’t you see? I mean, looking young is good, but looking that young!? I’m not an angst-ridden teenager all over again or am I? What about the past seven years!? Don’t those count for anything? I mean, I’m a 25 (almost 26, ah!) -year-old part-time unemployed loser who lives at home, remember? The least I can do is look my age, however irresponsible I may be in my room. And to the hairdresser I went. “I want it short, choppy, and simply different.” A few hours later, I came home looking like a new woman. My mother squinted her eyes, “You look…. older.” YES, that is precisely what I was going for! Enough of not being taken seriously.

Laura and my conversation got cut short for obvious reasons. Minutes later my whole family was showing up for Thanksgiving and I was still in my towel. As I rushed to find appropriate clothes for the feast, dry my hair, apply some makeup (attempt to not look like I’m 12), all while my mother’s screams were far from subsiding, I thought about my conversation with Laura. Despite not being able to tell her what was happening in my life, the glory of technology made it such that she was a witness of my life for 10 perfect minutes. Words were unnecessary.

While I sat at our dining room table struggling to explain to my relatives my most important “life plans” (or lack there of), I wondered what I should be thankful for. Honestly, I hate not being taken seriously, but on the flip side, I’ll probably have to be responsible for the rest of my life (one would hope!) so why not enjoy my childhood-like stint while it’s still here.

When I moved out seven years ago, my little sister Victoria was only eight. She was still the little baby I saw as a real-life doll, yes! When my sister was born, I took her in my arms and said in the uttermost serious of tones, “I’m glad you’re here, we are now two against one.” And with that I gave a vicious stare at my brother. How did I know so soon? I have now come home to discover that the little girl I left is a mature and beautiful teenager (I guess I won’t complain that people think we’re twins)…who loves shopping…a lot. Our lives until now have continuously been at different stages, but slowly and surely we are finding overlap. Talking to her makes me so happy I’m no longer in high school, I can tell you that. The other night, we stayed in together on a Saturday night. I cooked dinner, we watched a movie, then crashed early in my queen-sized bed. My father woke us up the next morning. “Mes bébés filles,” (My baby girls) he told us as he sat on my bed.

OK, I realize the past paragraph was getting a little sappy, but isn’t that cute? These are the glories of living at home, my friends. Don’t you all want to move back… like, pronto and totally watch Gossip Girl?

Ha, no. The next night, I got into such a bad fight with Sheriff Olivier, that I lost it. completely. And when I say I lost it, I mean my voice. Alright fine, also my mind. Whatever. I had an interview the next day and if it hadn’t been for the loads of cough drops and cups of tea, I would have had zero voice. Umm sign language anyone? I proceeded to be ill for about 10 days. Well whatever, it comes with the territory I guess.

So for how much longer can I linger in my post-traumatic childhood-like state? Probably not that much longer, but until then… I guess I’m “Forever Young!”

Unemployement -- enjoy it while you can...

I realize there is little reason why I should impress you with a blow by blow account of my daily routine. My life is quite obviously not that thrilling these days. The no-job/living-at-home thing doesn’t bode well for excitement, but I figure that if you’re reading this, you may be mildly entertained. Truth be told, would having a 9-to-5 job chained to my desk be that much more exciting? It seems like landing any kind of employment would justify everything, but really who wants to sit around all day snacking on M&M’s pretending to be busy so as to avoid an awkward confrontation with your passive aggressive boss who secretly monitors your every move from underneath his baseball cap (I used to work at an allegedly laid back place). Perhaps I’m overreacting slightly, but I certainly do not miss it. No full-time job means no routine schedule, which means FREEDOM! Then there’s the no-money thing, but you can’t have it all. But hey, I’m writing this on a plane to California for a few days. Word of advice to the unemployed, enjoy your freedom while you have it.

Enjoying while you can or profiter, as we say in French, is key during your “in between things stage.” I never really found the right translation for this word in English probably because Americans have no idea how to profite as the French do. How many families drink wine every night without fail in America? Unless they are French wannabies (which I totally understand) , not that many. My very French grandmother has recently told me that her daily wine – night and day—is her medicine and is what keeps her kicking. The French really do know how to live. Probably not the best place to jumpstart your career if you’re into that kind of thing, but what does that really matter? I would say profiter falls somewhere between “taking advantage of” and “luxuriating in.” Take advantage of it while it’s there, because it won’t be there forever, carpe diem!

And with that, I will attempt to describe a rather typical morning in the part-time-loser- unemployed-older-daughter’s life. Monday morning – ah, no alarm clock, no reason to wake up anytime soon, I can just sleep until I feel the urge to awaken, but that definitely won’t be for a while. Wrong. The all too familiar words of “sweet Caroline” somehow make it into my dream. I have found myself rocking away at a party to this song with some friends who I am seemingly very excited to be with, but am incapable of placing. “Bam bam bam” oh wait, that’s Olivier chiming away, is he at this party too? Ooooh, I get it, that’s right, it’s Monday morning and I’m in my bed at home.

This is how I wake up every morning. My brother has this thing with blasting corny music from his IPod speakers while he showers. Pretty soon someone will get electrocuted, but that doesn’t seem to stop him – he’s already fried his laptop this way (I wasn’t there to witness this, but I’m reminded of the scene in Groundhog Day when Bill Murray tries everything to kill himself, including submerging a plugged-in toaster in his bathtub to electrocute himself). When I express my fears, Olivier confidently retorts, “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Oh yes, yes you most certainly are – not a day goes by where I am not reminded of it. Now you all know what really happened to me if this blog suddenly stops. No I definitely did not get a job. I was electrocuted by the IPod speakers. What an embarrassing way to go. Oh I shouldn’t have said that, now I’ve jinxed myself!

I manage to lull myself back into my dream, I was so happy there. Besides, it’s only 8:30 in the morning, way too early to be awake. Guess again Juliet. Olivier busts into my room (his chill-out lounge) fresh and ready for the day. As soon as he sees me luxuriating in bed, he exasperates, “Pffff, Juliet, how do you expect to get a job?” and proceeds to belly flop onto my bed. My eyes slit open, this guy is way too excited about life right now. “No one responds to emails at this hour,” I croak. Honestly, all I need to do is make the 2 second walk from my bed to the computer – it’s not like there’s a commute involved or anyone to impress. No need to waste time on trying to look pretty! Besides, my bed is way too comfortable to leave. I spent 7 months sleeping in discomfort on a rock-hard bed awakened at all hours of the night by Thai karaoke (it makes Western karaoke sound like a heavenly musical sound), roosters, dogs, cows, you name it. This is what I call catch-up-on-my-sleep time. Admittedly, “catch up time” has been slightly over-extended a few weeks, I mean months, but profite profite profite!

Alright fine. I should probably get up and get my life on track. Bla bla BLA. I emerge from my bed with my hair sticking up in all directions (I really should invest in some headbands). I roam downstairs to the kitchen on auto-pilot only to find that we are out of the only edible cereal. Awesome. In my daze, I don’t even notice my father sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper in his bathrobe. “What the hell are you doing here!?” I ask baffled. At 9:30 AM, I’m always the last to have breakfast. I certainly should not be spoken to at that hour either. “Nice! I just got back from Asia I’ll have you know. It’s called jetlag.” Ohhh right. I look disinterested. I’m secretly glad he’s here though. My papa and I deal with things radically differently (he thinks I’m crazy, I think he’s closed off), but inside, I believe we are very much alike.

I plop down in my chair and concoct a rather unappealing mixture of five different cereal leftovers dating god only knows old long. “So what are you up to today cherie?” Hmmm, what am I up to…? I guess I should be surfing career sites and writing cover letters. Would that be a productive way to spend my Monday? Absolutely not. News flash: there are no jobs. Sending a resume blindly through the internet rarely used to work, how could it possibly work now? No no, no job searching. I’m getting on a train and traveling far far away from Larchmont. To the city that is. And there I will have a long luncheon with my uncle’s wife (I’ve been forbidden to call her my aunt since she is a mere two years older than me) followed by a lecture on reiki at my grandmother’s apartment. Oh and I should probably get ready for my upcoming “vacation” to California. It is a tough life I lead, but we’ve already discussed my martyrdom so I will spare you. The bottom line is this: PROFITEZ DE VOTRE LIBERTE (enjoy your liberty!).

5 Best (and Worst!) Things About Moving Back in with Your Parents

I recently wrote this article for excelle.monster.com, which is a networking website for the "career-minded woman." Well, clearly living at home is not doing much for my career, but they seemed to think moving back home was worth hearing about. Please check out the article here. For the uncensored version (apparently my writing is offensive?) keep on reading!:

So you’ve just been laid off. Or maybe you’re a recent graduate who hasn’t found a job yet.

As if joblessness weren’t enough of a blow to your self-esteem, you find yourself with no other choice but to move back home – back to the place you thought you’d managed to escape from forever.

Let’s be honest, moving back home is nothing to brag about, especially if you’ve been independent for a while.

But you take the good with the bad. And there’s plenty of both.

#1 Best: The Price is Right

This one is a no brainer. It’s probably the reason you moved home in the first place (and if it’s not, what’s wrong with you?). Not only is living at home rent-free (at least we hope!), but the perks tend to be hard to turn down. Just bring out those puppy dog eyes, and Daddy usually cannot resist handing out a $20 (or two). I'll admit this one mostly for girls. But seriously, most of the time, parents can’t resist lending a hand.

So when it all gets to be a little too much, think about how much money you’re saving. Even if you’ve been asked to chip in a few hundred dollars a month, it’s a whole lot better than spiraling debt.

#2 Best: Roommates—Better the Devil You Know

We’ve all endured a horrible roommate experience at one point or another. Remember that uncomfortable feeling of not wanting to return to your dorm or apartment for fear of seeing your roommate who’s been hogging your food, trashing the place, or letting her terrifying drug-addict boyfriend all but move in? Not fun.

At least at home, you know what you’re getting yourself into. You’ve known these people your whole life. They may trash your bathroom and steal your clothes, but yelling at them is perfectly acceptable. And maybe this is the chance to reconnect with your baby sister who you last lived with when she was only eight? Moving home is also a chance to reconnect with your family members as an adult.

You may be spending a little too much time with them right now, but when you do move out, you’ll be happy you had this quality time to ground yourself.

#3 Best: Housekeeping? My Mom Does It All!

We’ve all gone through that messy college phase. And perhaps that phase is not quite over? For me, moving back home has brought it back, full force. Why? Because mommy dearest does all the cleaning and laundry, so why bother!? She roams the hallways armed with Windex and the laundry bag to make sure everything is spick and span.

Admittedly, she’s a little intense about the cleanliness. But I’d rather have that than a disgusting pile of dishes or a roach-infested kitchen college-style.

#4: Best: Mom’s Home Cooking

We’ve all craved for that home cooking when far away. Nothing feels more comforting than the aroma of a pot roast simmering in a garlic wine sauce. Well guess what – now I get that every day. And if you’re lucky (like I am), not only is it delicious and free, but it’s also healthy!

Coming home is a chance to start eating right and getting back in shape. No more binging on pizza every night while watching “So You Think You Can Dance” — instead, it’s a sit-down dinner with the fam. Sure, it might get a tad bit annoying as arguments erupt over everything from politics to cleaning the closets, but it sure beats lonely dinners on the couch.

#5 Best: A 24/7 Support System

Speaking of lonely… In college, you were surrounded by your dorm mates. But when you graduated and moved into a little studio in New York City or LA, it was a whole different story.

Move back home and you will never be lonely. ever. again. Your support system is always there, whether you want it or not (and trust me, sometimes I don’t!). Your mom’s nagging might be annoying at times, but enjoy it while you have it. These people love you and will support you no matter what. It's a chance to show them who you really are and test your boundaries on people who for better or worse are sticking around.

#1: Worst: Community Living = Zero Privacy

Ah—the romanticized notion of living en famille. It’s all fine and dandy when your family does things for you, but since when do you have to do things for them!? Come on now. You just got used to your independence, and suddenly you’re coerced into contributing to the family? Did my mom just ask me to do chores? I hardly even know what that means.

Pick up your sister here, buy milk there, drop this letter off on your way to wherever it is you’re going… the list is endless! What ever happened to me time? Even showers — which should guarantee at least a little alone time — don’t when your siblings are pounding on the door demanding urgent use of the bathroom.

#2 Worst: Regression

Moving back home can undo all those years of personal growth — at least temporarily. No matter how old you are, you’ll always be your parents’ baby. And if your parents are anything like mine, you’ll be expected to report to them on your whereabouts (this does not bode well if you are trying to impress a special someone: "Oh hi Daddy, I will be home at midnight). Suddenly you find yourself in the same vicious pattern of immaturity you haven’t been in since high school. Lashing out on your parents after you thought you’d finally reached a mature and civilized relationship with them? Yikes! Parts of your personality that you thought were deeply buried may now be resurfacing.

Soon enough you’ll be on your own again, and your grown-up self will come back. But in the meantime, get used to being 24 going on 14.

#3 Worst: Sibling Rivalry Resurfaces

You thought you were passed fighting with your siblings? That’s kid stuff, right? Wrong. Your annoying siblings are back and the nightmare continues – but worse. Now the little brother whom you used to bully is bigger, taller, and much stronger than you are. The little sister, who was the cutest little baby, is now a bitchy little teenager who only cares about shopping. You really are the only cool one in the household, why doesn't anyone else get that?

Pretty soon, you find yourself throwing cake in your brother’s face. You know you don’t actually care (it was a petty argument!), but you fight for the sake of fighting. Welcome home.

#4 Worst: You Lose Control over the Remote Control

Remember the good old days when you could come home after work and just veg out in front of TV watching your favorite show? Not anymore!

Your father probably refuses to miss his CNN nightly report, your mother insists on watching her Masterpiece theatre program, and your sister is obsessed with “Gossip Girl” (OMG). There goes your must-see TV. Here’s hoping it’s on Hulu!

#5: Worst: Dating Might Be on Hold Until You Move Out

You can probably kiss your dating life goodbye. Despite having to report your whereabouts to your parents while trying to seduce someone (embarrassing!), quite honestly living at home is just not sexy. If you’re really unlucky, you might even have meddling parents or siblings who grab your phone and respond to all incoming text messages. I don’t know about you, but my overprotective brother and father seem hell-bent on keeping my romantic interests away. Sometimes I feel like I’m back in the Middle Ages—how picturesque. And if you're a guy, well this may be even worse for you. You definitely cannot seduce a lady when coming home to "your place" means meeting the intrusive mother in her bathrobe on the very first night.


Turned off by moving back home? It’s not ideal but it won’t be the worst thing that ever happened to you. And you will move out at some point. Do not despair! This may be the chance to deal with that childhood fear you've been in denial of your whole life? Be what it may, coming home has its purpose. So take it for what it’s worth and enjoy the perks. Pretty soon, you’ll be out in the world on your own again, longing for the restful, rent-free days of yore.

Family Matters

I cannot write a blog about moving back home without a little word on la famille. Ah family… Where to even begin? Perhaps I should start with the romanticized version I held in my mind while I was living in my remote little northern Thai village last year. While I learned to master the art of loneliness, oh did I miss my family. The very word evoked warmth and comfort, a sense of belonging. I yearned for that “safety net” I was writing about earlier. Even after only two months, when they came to visit me in Thailand, I had tears in my eyes when I saw them again. I want to make this clear before the ranting begins: I am very close to my family (too close these days – read more and you will find out why). They have been there for me through my ridiculous highs and the lowest of my lows. The move back has been a chance for all of us to get to know each other as adults – lovely in theory, but in practice… well it’s debatable.

But before I get into the ups and downs of our family affairs, I would like to remind everyone that I did run away from all of this for years. At first, it was to California. After two years, I realized moving across the country wasn’t far enough, so I escaped to the opposite side of the globe literally. Thailand was not only geographically far, but as we knew no one there (no mommy contacts – my mom has a friend in almost every part of the globe), it was a chance for me to flourish… without them.

After five months of utter independence of teaching in Chiang Rai, I began to cherish spending time with myself. But the lonely phase was broken on the first night of my 2-month travel circuit in Southeast Asia when I stumbled on my new family. The very next day, the Laos border officials managed to lose my French passport (read previous post), and my new friends refused to leave without me. From that moment on, there was an underlining understanding that we would all watch out for one another no matter what. Two days later, I broke my hand and found myself at my new friends’ mercy. Without them, I would probably be roaming around somewhere in the depths of Laos (not such a bad alternative to living at home some of you might tell me?). As you can imagine, with only one hand left, I became utterly dependent on my new family. I think after a few days, they were sick of tying my ponytails and packing my bags for me (I'll admit, I sort of got into the whole bossing people around thing), but they remained undyingly loyal. I was blown away at the kindness from these people I had only just met and to this day remain in contact with my family members around the world.

A couple days later, as we were relishing in how fortunate we were to be traveling worry-free, “the luckiest kids in the world,” one of my friends announced with the widest grin I’ve ever seen: “guys, we are such a family!” From that moment on, he was known to us as the father. We then entered into lengthy debate about who would take on the mother role. Somehow, we settled on our very tall British male friend – I love this guy, but he is certainly no mother. Right, so I was part of a cult for a few weeks… months… We developed a rather unusual call, “woop WOOP,” the second “woop” is pronounced in high pitched tone. Very peculiar to me at first, but within days, I became known as the club-handed cult member who shamelessly pranced around the island screaming “woop WOOP!” Admittedly a little embarrassing, but I was way past caring what anyone thought at that point. The woop woop family, a cult? Well despite many injuries (whenever we would meet doctors, we would overwhelm them with our problems – broken hand, gangrene burn, scary looking mosquito bite, too much redbull...), no one did die! I think that lack of death precludes us from being part of a cult, right?

In the Perrachon family, I would like to think we are far from being a cult. I'm quite sure "family" in our household has taken on a meaning of its own. Two out of the six “family” definitions in the oh so worthy Merriam-Webster are worth my mentioning: 1.“a group of individuals living under one roof and usually under one head” and 2. “a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation.” The woop woop family was undoubtedly united by our common convictions and affiliation. Not really the case in the Perrachon family... We have nightly screaming dinner fights where words like “communist,” “fascist,” “spiritual freak,” “nihilist,” “heartless bastard” get shamelessly tossed around. Each person is more stubborn then the next. It has become the utter norm for me to be working away in my room and to overhear an earsplitting argument downstairs. Do I even lift a finger in worry? Not in the slightest, I just type away calmly. We are truly lovely charming people, really. We are a rather entertaining bunch and I would strongly encourage you to join us for a little dinner party. We will not bite, promise. We do drink a lot of wine. And wine keeps you young, healthy, and ready for battle with the Perrachons. You'll be fine.

So back to the definitions. Yes, unfortunately we do very much all live under same roof (too close too close) and technically under one head. One head? Which head? We operate as a dysfunctionally managed company here. My father acts as the removed CEO (he is in China as I write this). Nothing can be executed without his signing it off, but as Maria Portokalos says in In My Big Fat Greek Wedding, “The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.” So despite my father being the official CEO, let's be honest here, my mother is the true boss. Her official position is unquestionably the overwhelmingly present manager. She stands around with her whip to ensure we do not have any time to rest. My siblings and I are the slaves... I mean employees (my mother will disagree with me when she reads this, but I speak the truth!) Olivier is definitely the overachieving employee who secretly or not so secretly hopes to overhaul the CEO and manager and take over. Victoria is the hardworking employee, but who prefers to keep to herself. She hopes to someday be hired by a new company -- she's clearly the only smart one here.

And I? Well as the partly unemployed loser oldest daughter, my mother decided to employ me part-time to help her on her upcoming book. We felt it was rather unprofessional for me to make phone calls on her behalf and announce myself as her daughter. I thus had to come up with a pseudo name. Sounds exciting, but it’s really more awkward then anything else: “Yes, my name is Juliet ugh Smith!?” My mother, the boss – what else is new? Olivier (my little brother sigh) also took pity on me and asked to help him with one of his wine tastings. “Oh yes my bro.. ugh I mean, my partner is on his way!” Then last week, I suddenly became my sister’s chauffeur/chaperone across New England to visit colleges. Assistant, colleague, partner, chauffeur, chaperone, I do wear many hats at this Perrachon factory of excellence. Fantastic learning experience – I’m expecting this will give my little CV a nice boost!

My CEO-like dad has recently felt that his distance has been taking a toll and so to make up for it, he has had the brilliant idea of becoming more involved in his daughter’s life. Every now and again, he usurps my phone and writes cryptic messages to boys I may or may not like, throwing off any little game I may have. Just a tad bit more involved. Ok seriously, distant CEO papa was not so bad after all! I’m over it, but have it be known, if you receive a text from me, it may really be from my father (and that is the story of how Juliet never went on another date again).

Olivier, whom we have nicknamed “the sheriff” may have spent a little too much time in Cairo where he studied abroad. For years while we were apart, Olivier was utterly removed from my life. But now in his new role as the over-protective “sheriff” brother, he seems to think his opinion is the only valid one. He has vetoed nearly every boy I have mentioned: “DROP HIM!” I am still undecided as to whether he has stolen my phone or broken into my emails yet, but I’m slightly concerned. I’m changing my passwords. (Olivier has been having some separation anxiety issues lately – last night before leaving for Philly, he held me a little too tightly in his arms, a little worrisome I will agree).

Do you hear me people? Heeeeellppp meee! Excuse me, that was totally inappropriate and uncalled for. I mean, if I move out, then I won't have anymore ridiculous material to write about. And then what would happen to my lovely little followers? No, everyday I wake up and smile at the realization that my living at home in the suburbs is the sacrifice I make for your entertainment. Come on now, this blog isn't really about me, it's all about you! I think they should canonize me: "Saint Juliet II" (Saint Juliet I was eaten by the lions -- we Juliets don't mess around, living at home, getting eaten by the lions...such victims we are!)

Wow, total digression there...! No, I’m not desperate to move out at all. Really, home is sweeeet. In all seriousness though, I think it may be time for me to move out and make a new family. Alright alright, I didn’t mean that literally. I’m not about to get married and have children tomorrow. After months of babysitting, I’m a little over the whole baby thing. I mean, tell me, what is the hype? They are all brats. Even the ones who seem cute at first – in fact, those are the worst! Little devils running around in angel disguise I tell you. Each child is worse than the other, “Mommy said….bla bla BLA.”

Seriously, why are people constantly updating their Facebook profiles with their kiddy pictures and statuses “OMG, he pooped :) !” Gross. I even have a “friend” who made her profile picture that of her fetus – poor child doesn’t even have a soul yet! And yes, I do believe that, sorry republicans. I mean, I’m technically of the right biological age to have children, but am I of the right mental age? Clearly not. I must say, I was shocked/impressed when one of my best students in my French class (oh right I am an adjunct professor of French – so I’m not totally unemployed -- business cards forthcoming), admitted to me that she was arduously trying to complete her work while being a mother of three!

Have I been a little harsh on the fam? Aw, now I feel like the ungrateful daughter who just sits around and complains all day. Oh wait, I am! Damn. So to be fair, my family is actually really cool. They’re annoying and I need my space, but please tell me who doesn’t need space from the crib? I feel fortunate to have supportive parents who have accepted me back under their roof. At the rate I’m going though, I may never leave, in which case, I suspect their support may rapidly wear off. But until I have become a vieille fille or an old spinster (since my father and brother are so welcoming to any potential candidates), I can only embrace my family as my biggest fans. After all, they are all my public followers.

The Peter Pan Syndrome

By the time I finally publish this post, it will be well into October. I'm not sure where the last few weeks went, but it is official: the summer party is over. It had its last hoorah in September before calling it a night on October 1st. Unlike the summer season, which is a carte blanche for chilling aimlessly at home, October doesn't mess around. Why can’t the party last forever?

Labor Day always knocks on my door before it registered that summer even started in the first place, especially last summer when I was still living in San Francisco. Mark Twain wasn’t messing around when he said, "The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco." If you are considering an SF trip in July, make sure to bring your winter coats, no joke. In fact, for San Franciscans, Labor Day marks their summer initiation, as their warmest months have yet to come.

Although slightly off the mark (hardly surprising coming from San Francisco), at least the “city by the bay” pretends to have seasons, hence maintaining a certain acceptance of the passage of time. Los Angeles, however, foregoes this notion entirely. Sunny sunny sunny all year long (well, there’s "June Gloom," but whatever) !! Why do you think people get stuck there for … ever…? They all say the same thing: “I really hated it for the first year, but then I kind of just stayed...? I guess I've been living here for like ten years. So maybe I like it now!?” I hardly exaggerate – everyone there acts like they’re still 25. It’s like Never Never land – admittedly, not necessarily an awful concept. The passage of time, getting old, never got anyone too excited. I hardly know anyone actually looking forward to old age. But, honestly, why does growing up have to be so terrible? I've been babysitting a lot lately and I'm fairly certain I'm happy I'm no longer a kid. They did come out with Hook for a reason -- even Peter Pan realizes he should grow up (great movie if you haven’t seen it!). Anyway, it was in Los Angeles that this all sunk in. The very lack of seasonal change contributed to the artificial nature of the LA scene. I missed "keeping it real," walking in crowded neighborhoods and most importantly the seasons I’d grown up with on the East coast.

I recently realized that this is my first proper autumn in four years. In the past, fall has always meant the start of a new school year, time to buckle down, in brief, the start of a new life chapter. It’s no coincidence that since college I’ve moved every summer, hence starting my new life just in time for the fall. At home for the first time since the age of 18, I’ve been flooded with this cozy homey feeling I’ve unconsciously yearned for since leaving.

Perhaps my season-craving was not so unconscious. Somehow, playing some good old Ella Fitzgerald always hit the homey spot. “Autumn in New York, why does it seem so inviting?” The cool autumn air has been remarkably inviting this year. These past few weeks, I’ve been relishing in this romantic notion of fall and have had these primordial urges to listen to some Ella Fitzgerald, pick apples, and play in the leaves. By the way, apple-picking is obviously the new cool thing to do. I mean, according to Gchat away messages, everyone who’s anyone is doing it. I feel out of the loop, apple-picking anyone?

All of this autumn-talk all sort of hit home – no pun intended – a couple weeks ago when I was driving through the Adirondacks on my way back from my weekend escapade to Montreal. I happened to pass through as the sun was setting – stunning. Seriously, I’m not sure anywhere else does the whole leaf-color-changing thing better than the Northeast.

How have I come thus far without complaining? And for those of you LA lovers out there, hating on LA does not count as complaining in my book. LA is such an easy target... I digress. Let it be understood : summer is for recouping, fall is for getting your shit together. Even the border officials know that. They remind me of it every time I pay them a visit.

Let’s clarify with a little interlude on crossing borders, shall we? Let’s just say border crossing is not a forte of mine these days. It has been yet another cause for my anxiety levels to rise slightly, and by slightly I mean a lot. I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with the fact that since last year, every time I've crossed a border I've run into some sort of trouble without fail. Those border people are mean! Thailand to Laos –the officials managed to lose my passport. Hundreds of tourists were passing through with me, but the officials had to choose mine to lose – whether they actually lost the passport or pretended to lose it is entirely beside the point. Next, Cambodia to Thailand – “mai dai!” Despite my virtually non-existent Thai language skills, I’ve understood all too well in my few months there what that means. CanNOT! Umm, what did I do wrong? For once in my life, having two passports was a disadvantage. Long story short, for those of you with multiple passports, use the same one when hopping from one country to the next. Trust me.

So you may assume at this point that this ill-fate has something to with being across the world far from my comfort zone. Alas, that would be too easy. On a recent trip to Montreal with my infamous brother, we were detained at the border. Perhaps if you’d seen the state of the car, you’d find it hardly shocking. You’d almost say we deserved what we got. After Olivier's college graduation, I miraculously managed to coerce my brother into driving me to Montreal to surprise our friend who was graduating from McGill. Since he was leaving his home of the past four years, Olivier packed his car with practically everything he had accumulated: skis, fridge, dirty laundry, printer, rhum, you get the gist. But we got into the caravan-esque thing. I mean, that fridge was necessary -- we like those beers cold and you know we were concerned they'd get warm in the car for all those hours. Totally valid. As for the skis, umm there still could be some snow in May, right? Isn't Canada like the North Pole? Needless to say, the Canadian border officials were not so amused. They were convinced we were immigrating to Canada. Ha! After a rather curt inquisition process where our already fragile self esteems were crushed into little tiny pieces -- "Ummm, we are brother and sister and we live at home, unemployed," we were asked to “pull aside.” As we sat there in no-man's land anxiously waiting for the verdict, I started to convince myself that maybe we were refugees. Maybe escaping to Canada was not such a bad idea after all? Run! As I sat there half worried, half contemplating running away forever Peter Pan/LA style, I suddenly noticed the creep next to me -- a Buffalo-Bill-esque old man who was apparently hiding snakes in his trunk and probably a lot more. I felt out of place. A few humiliating phone calls to our parents later, we were finally released. Phew. I’ve never been so happy to be in Canada.

Do you get what I’m saying? Border crossing scares the hell out of me! Why? Because I’m a wimp and write my heart out about my life in this blog, but can’t seem to face a border patrol man. My friend in Montreal warned me, “Juliet, simple answers this time. Just stay calm.” But no, I thought I thought my way would be better. “Bonsoir!,” I said enthusiastically with a clearly forced wide smile. Border patrol man was definitely not into it. “Where are you from?” he tersely responded. Ok, ok, I get it, do not flirt with border officials – done and done. Won’t happen again, sir. No more flirting, no more chill-out lounging, no more partying, fall is here!

What I'm really trying to say has actually nothing to do with flirting with border patrol guys just in case you were wondering. Akin to seasonal change, the border patrol man's directness is a blunt reminder that sometimes it’s time to reevaluate or simply be alert. Unlike “Lala land," where people luxuriate endlessly in denial of the fact that they are still waiting on tables at the age of 40 and still have not made it big as they had once hoped, seasonal change keeps me on my toes. And when reevaluating gets old, there's always Ella and apples.

Sailing, sailing, Over the bounding main...

So after all the ranting and raving about life in Larchmont, why move to this town you may wonder? I mean, it is consistently rated as a top place to live in America. So what are the perks? Do not be fooled by the “mont,” apart from a pathetic little hill or "hillet" right next to where I live, this place is flat. We are so not in the mountains! Au contraire, one of the greatest draws to this quiet town is its proximity to bustling New York City while being on the tranquil seaside. Sailing fanatics move here in order to keep up with their passion on a weekly basis.

While I am certainly no fanatic, there is nothing I treasure more than being on the water. When I lived in Los Angeles a few years ago, I would drive to the beach every weekend to breathe in the fresh ocean air. I would stare out into the limitless ocean and let the sound of crashing waves wash away all worries. The ocean was the ideal remedy to the stifling and isolating Hollywood. The vast nature of the sea had the power to make me take a few steps back and reevaluate my situation with perspective. The Long Island Sound is no Pacific Ocean of course, but nonetheless it has the same therapeutic quality. It has become an addiction, and I find it increasingly difficult to be away from it for too long... I just might start getting jittery.

This is exactly what happened to me in my third month of living in Thailand. I couldn’t have asked to be placed in a more spectacular region than where I ended up. I was perched up in the mountains only an hour away from the Golden Triangle, Burma and Laos. Don’t get me wrong, mountains have a similar infinite powerful quality to them. While I adored our day-trips onto the winding roads bordering Burma, by December, I got the jitters and knew there was only one solution to the problem – a trip to the seaside.

I thus embarked on 30-hour bus ride roundtrip to the closest possible island I could attain for no more than 2 nights. Most would find this hardly worth it, but to me, it made all the difference – I got my fix. December was still early on in my time there, and I was feeling the full effects of having moved across the world from everything I knew. This expedition to the ocean felt like a brief jaunt home. I remember the uncontrollable excitement I felt when I saw the big blue ahead. Whether I’m driving down Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles or biking down Beach Avenue in Larchmont, when the little patch of blue first appears, I feel that same sensation of exhilaration. It never fails me. The ocean no matter where on this planet is the ocean… waves will be waves, the salty sea breeze will smell and feel the same.

During my weekly GMAT meltdowns – period of about 6 hours right after taking a practice test and realizing that I’m not progressing and feeling like my past 4 months have gone to waste – my brother (that dear brother of mine) takes me out for a sail. I am initially reluctant, as nothing it seems in that moment can help my misery. Luckily for me, Olivier never takes "no" for an answer. “Julieeeeet,” he says, this time in a French parental tone, “snap out of it.” Seriously, he might be annoying, but I really don’t know what I would do without him. And so I grudgingly follow him to the yacht club.

I first have to get past the friendly-member-inquiring-about-my-life-plan obstacle course. Not now, please, just really not a good time to discuss my elaborate plans… Big sunglasses should do the trick. At the very least, they won’t see the bags under my puffy eyes. Once on the boat, I do my utmost to help set the boat up quickly. One mishap and Olivier does not hesitate to scold me for my ignorance. For those of you who have never sailed before, setting up the boat can be quite the process. After a screaming fight out in the bay, we finally get our sails up and are on our way out onto the Sound.

"Helloooo!? What don't you understand about pulling your jib in?" "I'm tryinnnng," I whimper. My desperation has rendered me weak -- I pathetically tug on my jib line, but the sail just flaps in the wind as if to say, "I will not surrender to your order, Juliet." Fine, go on then, flap away, see if I care! I know I have nothing to complain about, I'm on a sailboat for crying out loud! Things will work out as they always do, but at this very moment, nothing seems to be happening. I'm getting impatient. Months of effort seem to be amounting to nothing, and that was just not part of the plan. I came back from Thailand without a plan, but quickly figured I better come up with one, or else... So I came up with one that seemed reasonable. Effort has always led to results for me, but this time, I'll admit it's been a bit trying....

My mind drifts off to the rhythm of the boat beating against the waves and I let the ocean work its magic on me. I’ve got it, I tell myself. Life is like sailing, and right now I’m sailing upwind. I keep heading straight into the wind, and sailing into the wind gets you nowhere – the boat stops, the sails flutter. I’m stagnating. The only way to reach a destination set smack in the wind is by zigzagging up, tack, jibe, tack, jibe... Should I jibe and let the wind fill my sail from another angle? Fighting the uncontrollable wind amounts to nothing. I should probably stop feeling the need to control everything -- some things are simply out of my reach. Shouldn't I just accept the wind’s strength and direction and let my boat cruise to where it takes me?

“CAMP OUT!” yells the tyrant. We are now speeding upwind; the Ideal 18 is practically perpendicular to the ocean. I’m alive! At this point, I feel the need to interject with a fair warning: sail with me at your own risk. Too many times have I gone out for a sail and capsized . Years ago, I very briefly joined the sailing team in college. You will soon understand why my college sailing venture was so "brief." During my one miserly afternoon on the team, I was paired up with a rather confident young man who was not deterred by my bad karma warning and assured me that he knew exactly what he was doing. Less than 10 minutes into our sail, we found ourselves in the Delaware River desperately trying to get the sails out the water. You have been warned, unless you are my bossy brother, do not sail with me.

“Watch your head,” cries Olivier as he switches gears and decides to sail more calmly downwind. After shouting at me for letting my sail out all the way, he falls into a dreamy state of his own, “You know what I love about sailing? I love that this thing is entirely controlled by natural resources.” The captain decides the direction of the boat, yet it could never move forward without wind. All we must do is fix our final destination point, and according to the direction of the wind, we must find the individual tacks, with destination points of their own, to take us there. Perhaps one of our interim tacks has a more appealing destination than the initial one or perhaps luxuriating in the simple act of sailing down that tack careless of where we are actually heading is where it’s really at. Alternately, the wind might turn and due to such external circumstances, we’ll have to change our destination altogether. If such a thing should happen, shouldn’t we resist the ingrained urge to put up a fight and just accept?

When I was 12 years old, my French cousin Antoine came to spend the summer sailing in Larchmont. He and I would sail every afternoon with a group of fairly competitive sailors. We were consistently the losers of the class. In order to never let it get to us, we stocked up on candy ensuring an afternoon of non-stop laughter. One time we decided to get a little serious and attempted a regatta. Needless to say, we came in last. But what did we care? We had just created new memories, new stories to be told. Out there, we had no idea what we were doing, but we sailed, and accepted our pitiable loss in good humor -- that was all that mattered.

So why not just sail and not worry so much about the destination? Focusing too much on arriving there might take away from the enjoyment of the sail itself. One of my closest friends must have had this in mind when she took off a month ago for an indefinite sailing trip around the world with her Spanish lover (tough life I know). This Spaniard has been leisurely sailing around the world for the past 7 years and predicts he will continue his journey for another 10, at least. They are currently in Fiji sailing off into the sunset. She too is wondering where to navigate her ship, but for now she is allowing herself to go where the wind will take her.

My travels through Southeast Asia rendered me to undoubtedly the most free-loving and accepting hippy-esque state I have ever been in. I learned to utterly let go. When I broke my hand, after the initial unbearable pain, I nonchalantly took it in stride and told everyone, "it was clearly meant to be." And so it was... Losing functionality in one hand was so handicapping, I could hardly eat and pack my clothes on my own, let alone put makeup on or tie my hair up. I had lost virtually all control and was utterly dependent on my new friends. I suppose I don't really need makeup while I'm traveling like a dirty backpacker anyway, right? And so I kicked back and let situations unfold at their own pace. Riding the wave became my mantra (I can hear those friends snickering in the background as they read this, you know exactly who you are!).

So I wonder, is it possible to let my sail out as I did after breaking my hand, and sail downwind for a while? Or should I pull my sail in and arduously make my way toward a goal that lies somewhere upwind? It might not be so black or white... Perhaps most important is awareness of where the wind is blowing. What to do with it will be revealed in the moment. After all, one must be constantly present when sailing in order to avoid capsizing the boat -- take it from me, I have learned my lesson (in theory at least) ! There are so many ways to philosophize and I think I may have had enough for now. But do not fret, there will be more to come through a brand new metaphor! In the meantime, I’m just going to relish in having gotten my ocean fix.

The Chill-out Lounge

“Juuuuliet,” Olivier cries as he bursts into my room. Pronouncing my name normally is simply never an option for my brother. This time he has chosen to take on a proper upper-east side intonation thereby stressing the "Ju" -- quite dear, quite. Before I am able to shoo him out, he flops onto my already messy bed and nonchalantly asks, “So what’s going on?” “What do you think is going on? What has been going on for the past month?” I retort annoyed.

Sigh. I have been locked in my room since August 5^th desperately trying to train my brain to think inside the box. In order to comply with my “serious” plan of applying to graduate schools, I must unfortunately conform. Isn’t the whole point of the application to prove that you stand out, that you know how to think outside the box? These imposed standardized tests do anything but that. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’ve gotten stupider since studying for the thing. “You’re thinking too creatively,” my tutor told me the other day. So let me get this straight: since my mindset is too creative, I will undoubtedly miss the obvious answer (because the obvious answer is never correct in my world), and thus fail the test, thereby hurting my chances of getting into a decent school ... finally leading to the one inevitable fatal conclusion -- I have effectively ruined my career. Ok, now I'm being dramatic.

Clearly, my opinion is of no consequence, so whether I like it or not, I must at least try to beat the system… Suffice to say that my house is the most inappropriate choice for taking practice tests, as it lacks the peace and quiet I need. The gods must genuinely be against my studying because wherever I attempt to take a practice-test, whether it be at my friend's office or at my neighbor's house, something is bound to happen -- the Internet shuts down, the phones ring, the dog barks, what's next, seriously!? Perhaps I should try the local monastery? I mean, isn't peace supposed to be the monk's M.O.? I guess this means they probably don't have wi-fi... Damn! It seems easy, but truly is there such a thing as a quiet and connected place on this planet?! And trust me, do not suggest the Larchmont library. Last time I tried, I was kicked out by 30 screaming 4-year-olds taking a gym class in the middle of the library -- no joke. Several mental breakdowns and existential crises later, I have come to terms with the fact that my room is the only place I can count on... well sort of.

“Why don’t you just take the damn thing already? I mean at a certain point, you gotta just bite the bullet you know,” replies my new de-facto life counselor. Olivier is my little brother who no longer looks so little anymore. In fact, just as my sister and I now look like twins, Olivier looks older than me. looks. And perhaps wishes. Just as I came home from Thailand last spring, this not so little brother of mine graduated from college, thus making me feel suddenly old. Worse, with our simultaneous returns, our house has become full for the first time in years. Cozy think you? That’s what I thought in far off Chiang Rai last year. I don’t think anyone had even the slightest idea of the not-so-charming reality of all five of us being back together, stubborn personalities and all. Seven long years have come and gone since the last time we all lived together. Victoria became accustomed at being the alleged only child, Olivier became a slob, and I… well…

“Olivier, don’t you have work to do?” Not only have we all moved back home, but much to my mother’s dismay, my brother and I are always here. While I’m studying hard to get out, Olivier, well, we don’t really think he wants to leave anytime soon. Apart from the hourly screaming fights he has with my mother, I have come to believe that Olivier is loving living and working from home.

Yes, not only has he moved back home, but he also works from no other but his room, just down the hall from mine. His room has become his office, while mine has become his chill-out lounge. Every dead moment in his exhausting day is spent unwinding on my bed…kicking off his shoes, never forgetting, of course, to leave them in my room for me to inhale their delightful perfume. Mmmm, so inspiring, really. Hey, maybe smelly shoes are the answer to the GMAT?

I detect a proud little smirk on Olivier’s face as he announces, “Juliet, I’ve sold 3 cases today.” Apart from the whole work-at-home situation, I must admit, Olivier’s new job is pretty sweet – he works for a wine importer in sales. Essentially, his job consists of lunching at expensive restaurants, hosting wine tastings…and the like – poor baby! Even better though, we all benefit from his perks. Free wine, free expensive luncheons. My younger brother regularly takes me out to work lunches… yet I am still unable to afford myself a sandwich, nice.

Truth be told, for all my complaining, I’m grateful my brother is here. After living across the globe from each other these past few years, I welcome our reunion under our childhood roof as a blessing… in disguise maybe, but a blessing nonetheless. I mean, if it weren’t for him, I would definitely be rotting in the depths of my room. My social outings are limited to those with my brother, but how can I complain when he takes me to free elaborate luncheons? Once in a while, we go all out to the local Bistro Citron, a new bar/restaurant in the area and another client of my brother’s -- the kid's actually pretty good at what he does. Thanks to him, drinks there are always on the house. Umm, does this mean we have become townies!?