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!?

The Big Bang Effect

Last night, I dreamt I was about to embark on a daring journey across the Universe. The Universe! Wow, I guess I really do want to get out of here. Ok, apart from my unconscious voicing the evident, the dream didn’t come out of nowhere. Just before hitting the sack, I watched a few episodes from the History Channel’s The Universe – really fascinating stuff. Still, venturing out into the Universe sounds pretty appealing right now… Earth to Juliet (no pun intended) – right now, you are home, indefinitely, dream on!

Needless to say the transition home has been a bit of a shock to my system. I was as far away from comfort as possible and now I am relishing in it. In Thailand, I woke up every morning to the perpetual promise of the mystery of what that day would bring. I loved never knowing what new adventure lurked around the corner. And man did I get my fair dose of it between the concussion, the broken hand, the robbery, the list goes on. I was effectively a walking disaster. In fact, my mother seriously considered shipping me a helmet after the concussion incident. Apart from the shocking fact that helmets do exist in Thailand, that was just pure lunacy. I knew my mother was slightly on the over-protective side, but really? Anyway, maybe she should have sent me that helmet, because my karma progressively deteriorated from that moment on. Towards the end of my time there, I got a worried email from one of my fellow-teacher friends suggesting I invest in a bubble-wrap duffel coat, just in case. (The innovative world of fashion has not failed us, we have a picture to demonstrate that such a coat does in fact exist!)

Turned off from moving to Thailand to teach English? Please don’t be. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. All of those mishaps are what made my experience ... well an experience. According to Merriam-Webster, “experience” is “the fact or state of having been affected by or gaining knowledge through direct observation or participation.” Yes, I was affected, yes I gained knowledge, yes I participated, and yes I most certainly was in a state. A crazy crazy state. After all of that insanity, I was ready for a little comfort.

I went from a place where I had no safety net – oh did I fall, and oh did I get hurt – to the place where my safety net was born. I returned to Larchemont-les-bains (French version for Larchmont – I think it adds a certain je-ne-sais-quoi to the name), where everywhere I go someone will undoubtedly recognize me. I take that back. I shouldn’t flatter myself – I’m not that popular here. My 16-year old sister, however, is. Apparently we look like twins these days. “Wow, you look just like Victoria now.” “No,” I sweetly respond, “she looks like me.” I came first! The other day, my neighbor of 20 years came over for dinner. After a long conversation about the meaning of life, he asked me, “where is Juliet?”

Ok, seriously though, apart from the apparent confusion with my little sister (hey, I guess it’s flattering, it means I look young), people do know me here and it’s not necessarily a good thing. By now, I should be adept at explaining my return home. That is clearly not the case; otherwise I probably would not have started a blog obviously attempting to make some sense of the whole affair. Nevertheless, I have concocted a fairly serious story about applying to grad schools and looking for a job. But despite my respectable story, I still get those perplexed “are-you-sure-you-know-what-you’re-doing-with-your-life” looks, as if there were some other reason for being home I’m desperately trying to keep under wraps.

In all honestly though, the comfort of home, the safety net, is exactly what I needed after being away for so long. I was basking in this thought the other day at my brother’s wine tasting around the corner – yes, still in Larchmont and yes, my little brother has a legitimate job. We’ll get into that one later. Anyway, equipped with my “serious” story, I was actually enjoying chatting with all my parents’ friends – members of my so-called safety net, some of whom have known me since I was a little girl. Out of nowhere, I managed to knock a bottle of wine off the shelf right between my legs. All eyes were on me and my crimson cheeks. (Definitely crashed that party).

At that point, all I wanted to do was disappear into a dark hole… or maybe somewhere into the Universe? – I should really work on that.

Return to the Crib - beginnings...

I considered baptizing this blog “Juliet, in Larchmont,” as the riveting sequel to my previous blog “Juliet, in Thailand.” Indeed, wherever Juliet goes, drama ensues and why would that not continue in good old Larchmont? Larchmont, the quaint New York suburb, which CNN/Money and Money magazine ranked 11^th on its list of the 100 Best Places to live in the United States, is where I grew up. It is my home.

Like most American suburbs, it’s truly lovely. Just the idyllic place to grow up… until the age of 16 that is... Then for the next 10 to 15 years depending on how fast you mature, the place effectively qualifies as quaint, or for the real haters as boring. “Hey, I like Larchmont,” my friend defensively stated to me the other day. And he’s right. I mean, the place has its perks – how else would it have received that kind of a ranking?

In all fairness, Larchmont really is a charming little town on the sea only half an hour from the alleged capital of the world. I love coming home…. As long as I know when I am leaving. The place changes when it becomes an indefinite return to the nest. For a 20 -something looking for a new adventure, Larchmont wouldn’t be on the top of my list. That being said, in my resolution of taking perspective on events as they unfold, I ask myself, “Maybe, just maybe this place has its own unique adventure to be had… lurking in the background?” “Foolish girl,” I can hear my childhood friends scorn. Home is home, and you’ll be thrilled to get out of there as soon as you can. True, but home has its own merit, and I’m not about to leave without making sure I understand why I’m here. Just as my 7 months of adventure in Thailand resulted in one of the most radically life changing experiences of my brief 25 years on this planet, my unexpected return to the crib will have its place too.

In a period of recession, more people have endured this return to the nest than ever before. This blog might appeal to those in the depths of debt, still recovering from being laid-off, or simply going through a standard quarter life crisis. I do not mean to jest about the latter, quarter life crises are a serious matter and should not be taken lightly, but I’ll get into that later…

The truth is, my sleeping pattern of the past few weeks has been rapidly deteriorating. Nerves. Why can’t I naturally be as zen as I should be after living in a small town in Northern Thailand for all that time? I mean, I should be a full-on Buddhist by now. Yet, the nerves are entrenched in me, like leaches, they poke their ugly faces as soon as they feel the temperature rise. Perhaps you are asking yourself why someone who is living at home, in the comfort of family life, should be so stressed that they cannot sleep? The entire time I was in Thailand, the promise of the eventual return to the comfort of home was what kept me living the adventure to the fullest. Now that I have returned, all I want is to find a way out! The irony. The grass is always greener on the other side my friends. Thus, ensues the taxing search for the next step, the next chapter so to speak... studying for the hellish GMAT examination, grad school applications… In brief, no sleep.

Last night, the idea of creating this blog came to fruition rather suddenly. I was particularly aggravated, as a naughty little mosquito kept buzzing in my ear all night long. I probably only slept about four hours, but in those few scant hours of sleep, I dreamed of writing about my life back at home. I woke up to the sound of the mosquito who was still there (those things are tenacious!). It was as if he were telling me, “Juliet, there is no time to sleep. You must write!” oh right, that makes perfect sense. I am 2 weeks away from the GMAT, which I am miserable at, I hardly see any of my friends anymore, do I even have any these days? They probably all think I’m rotting somewhere. But, I should write. Of course! So perhaps the mosquito should be this blog’s mascot. I mean, if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be reading all of this nonsense.