Moving Thoughts

my little sister made these sweet cupcakes

The other day, a coworker, knowing that I moved from California to New York, asked me about my experience. He and his girlfriend are considering moving from New York to Florida, and he wanted some firsthand knowledge. This got me thinking. It’s been almost two years since my move (!!), but I haven’t really reflected too much, at least here, about how the move has gone, how it’s affected me and my relationships with others, and whether I’d do it again.

Since we’re all still thinking about the new year and what it holds for each of us (beyond the feverish, resolution-fueled exercising I see at the gym and yoga studio), I figure this deserves some attention. Here’s what I’ve learned in the past year and a half (not in any particular order):

Save up.

If you’re considering moving to a new city and you don’t already have a job lined up, wait. Stop. Save. As much as you can, but I’m recommending at least enough to cover your expenses for six to nine months. I’d never been unemployed for an extended period of time before I moved to New York, and I’d never really struggled to find work, so I naively thought that it would take me three to six months TOPS to find a new job.

Boy was I mistaken. It took me a full year, about a thousand job applications, and interviews with three companies (the only ones who responded), to find a part-time entry-level customer service job. Whose salary is not even close to what I was making at my previous job.

Of course my search was hindered by the worst national job market in decades, a failing economy, and an extremely competitive under-employed labor pool in New York City, but I wish I’d really heeded all those friends and family members who expressed serious reservations about my plans to leave a good job without having a new one in place. Especially since NYC is probably the most expensive city in the US.

Hello World!

Well, I’m back. It was a wild and crazy summer, full of drama, mayhem (well, not anything major…just a couple trips to the emergency room for infected appendages and one very painful bout of strep throat) and more drama.

What I'm wearing around the house these days...in preparation for my friend's wedding this weekend

The bad news is that I’m still in NYC. I know, not really bad news, just disappointing, a little, for this gal who was bit by wanderlust this summer and dreamed of a fresh new life with CityBoy in the glitteringly green utopias of Seattle or Portland or San Francisco. We still plan to get there, by hook or by crook, but it’ll be a few more months (let’s pray not years) down the road.

The good news is that I’m working. At a real, albeit part-time, job. With actual people. With whom I get to interact on a regular basis. The job itself is in customer service (I live to serve!) and it’s just challenging enough without being mind-cripplingly (and more importantly, work – ie, writing – cripplingly) demanding.

And it’s very nice to have a break from the drudgery of job-searching and day-filling and TV-watching that has been my burden, lo these many many months. Later on, I hope it translates to full-time work, with the holy grail of employment: benefits. But for now, I’m plugging along, working and writing and reading and thinking and…you guessed it, still watching TV. In my pajamas on my days-off, a ready bag of Ruffles’ Sour Cream and Cheddar chips at my side, CityBoy safely out of the picture at his own job, leaving me free to indulge in sitcom and reality TV claptrap.

So, if you’re still paying attention, I promise to be better, write more often and report more doings in this nutty, crazy city I’m currently calling home.

Rock on, my friends.

- Jho

NYC – the Rage Experiment

Hello friends.

I know I’ve been out of touch recently.  I’m attributing it to a case of the get-me-outa-here’s.  NYC has been an interesting experiment in social anxiety, over-stimulation and food orgies, but I’m a little burned out.

I actually miss the O.C., where I used to sit in my car in blissful separation from smelly and annoying others (well, okay, a lot of that time was spent in traffic-stalled separation, but at least they weren’t actually *in* my car, just in the other lane, or behind or in front of me, where I could safely yell at them for driving badly), and people didn’t feel the need to invade my space (not counting car space, as previously mentioned) on a daily, minute-by-minute basis.

The Long Journey Home

Okay, so it’s been almost three weeks since I arrived at JFK, bleary-eyed and loaded down with suitcases, but I thought I’d recap the most salient moments of the journey anyway.

It was a very emotional goodbye with the fam in Long Beach, disguised or undercut by my total inability to “surrender to the moment.”  I’d been packing, sorting, schlepping, and repacking for so many days that I was still in “let’s do this” mode when we arrived at the airport.  If you know me at all, you know that one of my favorite sayings is, “there’s no crying in baseball,” which I take as a mantra for life.  Of course I was sad, upset to see my mom so upset, and terrified of what I’d gotten myself into.  But was I going to show this, in any way, to the outside world?  Hells no.

You should understand that, while my family is extremely physically affectionate, we are verbally challenged in the feelings department.  Love is dispensed in bone-crushing hugs, noogies (from my dad), an overabundance of food and lots of rambunctious horseplay.  So there I was, barking orders at my older sister, the Drill Sargeant, about how to station my overloaded bags near the head of the check-in line without getting yelled at by airport security, briskly ignoring the fact that my mom was steadily getting more and more red-faced and red-eyed.  Several fierce hugs and promises to “call as soon as you land” later and I was working my way through check-in, where, thankfully, each of my checked bags weighed in just under the 50 lb. limit – that’s called effective packing, baby!

While waiting at the gate, I made my biggest mistake of the entire moving saga – maligning (entirely in my head, mind you) the parenting skills of a nearby couple, as their young son attempted to destroy his surroundings.  I know, we’ve all seen poorly behaved children in public and cringed and stared, but this kid took the proverbial cake.

He was more like an undisciplined, overstrong puppy, who his parents basically tried to corral within the four or five seat radius they’d created with their bodies and their bags.  He pushed and shoved and stomped and tore and smacked and lunged, in symphony with his parents’ nearly constant “stop that”s and “quit it”s and “no, I told you, no”s.  I thought, good lord, I feel sorry for the poor bastard who has to sit next to these jerks.

I know.  I KNOW.  I jinxed myself.  Because who do you suppose was sitting RIGHT NEXT TO ME when I boarded the flight?  None other than the Monster Child himself.  I knew it wasn’t going to be a good flight when the MC immediately started to pull the flight materials out of the pocket in front of him and fling them to the ground, along with, later, his earphones (repeatedly hucked at me – thank god they were the lightweight crap the airlines give out), his toys, and, I am not kidding, a heavy cardboard early reader book, which flew from his hand, up into the air, over the seats in front of us and landed with a thud, narrowly avoided hitting any of my fellow passengers.  It was a freakin’ miracle.  I kept waiting for the flight attendent to come over and say that they’d have to put the child in restraints.  Unfortunately it was not to be.

After a very tense hour and a half (this was a red-eye, mind you), the MC finally fell asleep, wrapped around his mother.  He was not a small child, probably about the size of my five year old niece (I hoped he was much younger and just ‘big for his age,’ which would somewhat explain his total lack of manners), and I could not believe that the mother was at all comfortable with this giant baby in her arms.

The only thing that made the flight bearable was knowing that only a fraction of my life span would be spent with the MC, as opposed to the child’s poor family, especially his mother.  Imagine – being totally unable to govern your own child.  It made me wince in horror.  And made me appreciate all the lovely children I know.  Thank god whatever private beatings their parents are inflicting are working.

True to his word, Cityboy met me at JFK at the ripe old time of 5am.  I’m pretty sure it was the earliest he’d been up in a long, long time.  Actually I’d be willing to bet my precious few belongings on that fact.  I think there’s even some footage of the blessed arrival, courtesy of Cityboy’s documentarian leanings, which I’ll have to procure for you later.

Nothing is better than having someone to tell your kooky stories to, and I immediately began to relate my harrowing airline adventure.  Even though I’m sure he was delirious with not enough sleep, Cityboy listened.  And in the end, that’s why I came East, to my new Home.

Rock on, people.

Jho

So long, California: Freeway Clowns

A few weeks back, before the Big Move, Big Sis and I were tooling down (or up to be more exact, since “down” to me is south and “up” is north – something else that drives CityBoy crazy) the 405 and we noticed a rather unusual looking vehicle.  Only matched by its equally unusual driver.

I’m sure I’ll see lots and lots of strange things in NYC, but nothing beats a freeway clown blasting down the road in his decked-out convertible at 75 miles per hour.

If you’re looking for a clown in the So. Cal. area, this guy gets around.

Rock on, Jho

I’m Pretty Sure This Is NOT How I Packed This

There was a brief moment when I considered driving cross-country to my new home.  It sounded so romantic, me and CityBoy taking in all the wonders of our great nation, the red rocks of Arizona, the Grand Canyon, the world’s biggest soup spoon, Mt. Rushmore, the Great Lakes.  It was an endless mind-parade of gorgeous landscapes, quaint towns and the wide open sky.

Until I remembered that I’m a bad road tripper.  I doubted that CityBoy would still find me interesting and my occasional (okay, nearly constant) oddball comments endearing after we’d slogged 2,800 miles together.  So I decided the only sane option was to cull my possessions, take only my most precious and needed items and ship most everything to New York.

About the culling:  do not underestimate 1) how much shite you can accummulate in a few brief years of single living, 2) how long said shite will take to sort and 3) how hard (and unexpectedly expensive) it will be to ship your now culled shite to your new home.  Let me just say that my family and friends are very happy (I hope) recepients of my conspicuous consumption.

By the time I left Orange County on July 8th, I was on very familiar terms with the U.S. Post Office-Huntington Beach branch staff.  It took three separate trips to the post office, each time loaded with 4-5 boxes, to transport most of my belongings.  Here’s a photo of the HB branch in the wee hours of morning.  Notice the nearly empty parking lot, which is not how this place usually looks.

Over the course of this process, I learned a few things:

- You will always need more boxes.  Just buy the 25 pack from UHaul and get over it.
- There is no such thing as too much packing tape or too much bubble wrap.
- Accept any and all help that is offered.  You will sicken of your own miserable life as it marches past you in an endless parade of boxes, shoes, kitchen thingies.  Your friends will somewhat lessen the nausea (or at least take some of the crap off your hands).
- Assume that your mailing labels will be read by five year olds.  They like BIG print and clearly marked “To” addresses.
- If you’re dropping off boxes to the Huntington Beach branch, park at the far end of the parking lot (it’s a shorter distance to the actual interior of the post office) and grab a number when you unload your first box.  By the time you’re done unloading your boxes, your number should be called.

And lastly, assume that your boxes will be put through the worst possible conditions and arrive in the worst possible shape.

I shipped three boxes of books directly to CityBoy’s storage company, who claimed they could directly receive packages (all CityBoy would have to do was move them from the first floor office up to his actual storage units).  What they failed to mention, on their website or over the phone, was that they do NOT accept packages from the US Postal Service – some BS about packages not being insured by the post office.

So…my three boxes arrived…and were summarily refused.  They then had to make the 2,800 mile trek back to California.  So far, one box has turned up repackaged and containing only 10 out of the roughly 40 books I shipped and another box has arrived in the sad state you see above.  I have to say that I’m impressed that the box arrived intact, albeit looking like it had been laundered.  The whereabouts of the other box or the missing books is, as of now, unknown.

I wish I had the willpower of my good friend Michele, who pares down every spring and moved from Seattle to Southern California with only 3 days’ notice and one carload of belongings.  You rock, girl.

Jho

Unearthed: Smurfs

So I’ve been going on and on about how much stuff CityBoy has.  Bathroom stuff and electronics stuff and old grade school stuff.  But the other day, whilst going through old boxes his parents have been storing since he was a wee one, he unearthed something really good.  I mean really really good.

Smurfs.  Smurfs?  Yes…smurfs.  A handful of tiny inch and a half tall blue beasties, all lovingly saved by CityBoy’s mother in a clean plastic baggie, including Smurfette, Hefty Smurf and Astro Smurf.  What a good woman.

Of course he must save them.  Smurftastic, right?

Organization 101, or Living with a Boy

I may be a lazy housekeeper, an amateur cook, a stealer of bed space and a fashion whore, but I’m a very organized person.  I like order.  All my shoes sit the same way in their cubbies, all my clothes hang in the same direction, all my books are alphabetized by category.  The Container Store is one of my favorite places and their motto, “Contain Yourself,” is one of the catchiest and smartest I know.

Here’s a recent photo I’m submitting as Exhibit A:

As you can see, I’m an organized person.

So imagine my chagrin to find that Cityboy is not.  Granted, he’s a neat person (in appearance and personality) and he keeps a clean house, for which I am eternally grateful.  But his brain works in mysterious ways.

For example:  his bathroom with its overflowing schmorgasboard of product.

When I first saw his apartment, I had to confirm he lived there by himself.  Because Cityboy’s bathroom houses enough product (and their accompanying implements) to groom and coif a family of five.  I’m not kidding.  Multiple shampoos and conditioners and body washes and razors and lotions and ointments and creams.  All splayed out like sad babies.  On counters and shelves and sink and tub ledge.

It’s hard for me to resist reorganizing the whole lot whenever I’m in town.  But I don’t.  Because I don’t want to be one of those women who take over their men’s lives.  And organize play dates for them with their girlfriends’ guys.  And transform their personal spaces into frilly bastions of pinkdom.

Except now I’m supposed to occupy that same bastion.

He’s doing his best, trying to pare down his belongings (or at least transfer some of the lesser used items to his storage space), which I thoroughly, thoroughly appreciate.  And I’ve offered to help, to bring a little of the Jho touch to his hidden messes.  But I don’t think he really wants me touching his stuff.

I may have been a little too excited about the prospect of reorganizing (which he reads as ‘throwing my shit out’).  I don’t understand it.  The house has always fallen under my providence in previous relationships, most guys being willing to let someone else do the stacking and shelving and putting away of the groceries.  Cityboy’s lived on his own for quite a while now, and usually I applaud his independent streak.  He cooks, he cleans, he even irons.  But I’m good at sorting.  Really, really good.

And it makes me happy.  Peaceful.  Calm.  All things I’ll need to face the chaos and swirling madness of the City outside the doors of our apartment.  What I need to remember, though, is that this is Cityboy’s first time.  His maiden voyage into the wonderful, tumultuous, head-butting experience that is ‘living together.’

So I’m going to take a step back, take a deep breath, and try to be a calming force for harmony as we merge our two households together.  Tamp down the eagerness to throw open all his drawers and hidey-holes and expose them to the light of day.  Bring some respect and dignity to this important moment.

If you have any pearls of wisdom to share, I hope you’ll comment.  Every little bit helps.

Contain yourself.

Jho

NYC: the Pros, the Cons, the Crap Shoot

I just stumbled across the old pro/con list I wrote for CityBoy back in January, when my anti-New York defenses first started crumbling.  We were looking at a whole host of potential relocation cities (including SF, Seattle, Portland, Boston and DC) but I think NY was always the top contender.  It’s a pretty comprehensive look into my brain:

Pros: It’s New York, for crying out loud. I don’t think I need to give you pros for this. But I will say that one of my regrets has been not trying NY, even if it was for the summer when I was younger. It’s the kind of place where you can really test your personal mettle. I just wonder if I’m too old and set in my ways to enjoy the testing.

Cons: I worry about a lot of things about New York, but the main ones are:

Affordability – I worry about making enough money to really be able to enjoy the place. I worry about not being able to find a decent job for myself. I worry about you losing your job. I think it’s pretty safe to say that I could not afford to live in NY on my own and that worries me because I’ve enjoyed a fair amount of self-sufficiency in the past three years.

Leaving my family behind – I’ve always been pretty independent but in the past few years, I’ve really come to value the time that I spend with my family, especially since new members seem to get added every few years. I’ve never been a kid person but my nieces and nephews are softening me and getting me used to little people and I like that. I’m also very close with my parents and siblings and have gotten used to being able to pop over to see them when I want to. I would hate to only see them a couple of times a year.

Crowds / weather / the whole New York-ness of the place – I love cities. I’ve lived in two major urban areas in my life, Boston and San Francisco, but I’ve never lived in a place like NY. I’m not a huge fan of crowds, I don’t relish the idea of trying to get to work in 90% humidity or sub-freezing temperatures, and I’m afraid that, instead of becoming one of those people who adapts and thrives in NY, I’ll become one of those people who hates it and is miserable. I worry that my misery would make you miserable.

Daunting, huh?  The truly crazy thing is that I still worry about the same old con’s and all these months of discussing moving with Cityboy have done very little to assuage my fears.

The really interesting thing that I have learned (or rediscovered) about myself this past year is that I don’t believe in fear.

Don’t get me wrong – there are plenty of things I’m afraid of (clowns, ferrets, horror movies, being old and alone) – but I don’t think we should allow these fears to cripple us.  (Except maybe the clowns.  They are so not cool.)

I was my most fearless self as a teenager.  I moved away from my parents, my family, my friends and all I had ever known to attend boarding school on the East Coast when I was 14.  It was one of the best experiences of my life, and certainly one of the most defining ones.

I’m sure this next move will be right up there.  So here’s to the Crap Shoot.  And mastering one’s fears.  And going big.  Because momma didn’t raise no chickens.

Rock on.

Jho

What stays? What goes?

Today I find myself thinking about stuff.  It’s an overcast morning in Orange County and my apartment looks a little forlorn in this grey light, as if it already knows about the dismantling that is coming.

I have lived by myself for the past three years, in a one bedroom apartment I found myself.  Everything in it has been chosen by me.

The dark brown fireplace my brother-in-law and I made from DIY plans on the Internet.  The creamy white expanse of couch that proclaims me as a woman with no children in her life.  The damask armchair and curlicued entrance mirror that I rescued from my parents’ house, inherited from my mother’s cousin, a self-made interior designer and man about town.  The cast iron pig that stands watch from the fireplace, the smaller of the two that I spied in an antiques store in San Diego.

What stays?  What goes?

Some decisions are easy.  Years of collected Lucky magazines.  Old clothes that I’ve reserved for those really thin days that never arrive.  Books I’ve bought in twos and threes that I have never read.  Gone, gone, gone.  Easy, right?

But then there are the other things.  Like the fireplace and the couch and my pig.  Size of course will determine much of this.  There is no way I can haul a six foot sofa onto a passenger airplane, nor am I willing to pay to ship it (where it likely would arrive in far worse shape than when I dragged it from my second floor apartment – it’s white and it’s huge).  But it was the first couch I ever bought.  All on my own.  I picked it out, down to its warm, nubby fabric and delicate sloping legs.

This is the compromise that marks our big step into adulthood (and yes, I realize the irony of making this statement as a 35 year old).  We agree to let go of some of the things we love.  Things we cherish and adore.  In exchange, we make our lives (and ourselves) a little more open, a little more inviting to someone else.  Who has, one hopes, let go of some things himself.

To make a litte room for the new things to come.

Rock on.

Jho