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.