The idea that money can’t buy happiness has come up again recently. I’m not really sure how this idea ever got so much traction in our society. I personally think it's absolutely absurd. Now if someone said money doesn’t equal happiness, I could agree with that. I don’t believe that money is either necessary or sufficient for happiness.
I know that money isn’t necessary for happiness because I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie. They didn’t have much in the way of material things and certainly they were happy. Not to mention some of my happiest moments in life have cost little, if any, money. If you ever have the opportunity, try this: some summer day get an old inner tube and float around in a lake. If you do have money for a cold beer, take that with you (you may not want to drink too much, the whole drowning thing is not conducive to happiness generally). This ranks fairly high in my happy moment memory bank and was virtually free. You probably have similar memories: the perfect sunset at the beach, a rainy day curled up with a cup of tea and good book (which you presumably borrowed from the library) ---you get the picture. I think we can agree that money is not necessary for happiness. Next we must ask if money is sufficient for happiness. Well, we’ve all read the tabloids, right? Apparently the rich and fabulous are not always happy. Having yet to experience being rich and fabulous I’m tempted reserve judgment, but I think we can be safe saying money is probably not sufficient for happiness.
Now we turn to the real question though. Money may not equal happiness, but can money buy happiness? Of course it can! Money doesn’t just buy material things (though it does and they can be lovely and often make me quite happy. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God and Steve Jobs for my iPod). Money not only buys things, it also buys experiences. Experiences, the little moments in life, are where we find our joy. Yes, many of the best ones are free, but some of the best ones are most certainly not. Many of the most amazing moments of my life cost quite a bit actually. For instance, one year ago today I was in Stratford-upon-Avon where I saw Patrick Stewart and David Tennant perform Hamlet. Not only was the play, which I had the good fortune to see twice, brilliant beyond my expectations, but the entire trip was a little festival of happiness just for me. I happen to love England and Stratford is one of my favorite places on earth because of my long-time super geeky devotion to all things Shakespeare. This was my third trip to Stratford, but my first time going it alone. I did not miss having company. Being on my own felt like the ultimate indulgence. For me being in England is like wrapping myself up in a fuzzy blanket and sitting in front of a fire. On my very first trip I found myself overwhelmed with emotion because of the illogical, yet unmistakable feeling that I had somehow come home.
Last year’s trip was one of the best trips I’ve ever taken anywhere and I was happier those few days in Stratford and London than I’d been in a long time. Fast forward 365 days and I’m at work in the Pit of Despair, feeling oppressed and miserable. The difference? Money. Quite simply I don’t have the money to do many of the things that give me the most pleasure in life including travel. The more money a person has, the more choices they have for how to spend their time and how to get the most enjoyment out of life. I’m not saying one can’t be creative and find ways of enjoying things for less, but I believe the bottom line is that many of life’s greatest pleasures (for me the list includes travel, education, wine, fine dining and theatre) are not free. This does not even take into consideration the obvious fact that, if you have enough money, you can buy your very freedom--freedom from the job you need, but don't love. I've come to realize it is an absolute truth that money can buy happiness. And a Marc Jacobs handbag.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
A Real Man
I’ve been watching Mad Men this season and loving it, of course. Loving Don Draper, of course. How could anyone not? He’s so handsome. I’ve actually wrestled a bit with my infatuation with Don because, objectively, he’s not a man I would want. He’s unfaithful. He keeps secrets. He’s dishonest. At the same time he exudes a quality that seems to have disappeared from men in the past 50 years. It’s hard to quantify, but the best I can say is that Don Draper is a real man. He is confident. He’s someone you would trust in a crisis. He’s strong. He doesn’t go whining on about his troubles. I realize it is somewhat ironic that I frown upon whining since that’s pretty much all I do on this blog. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about that. Upon closer examination, it seems I’m probably most drawn to Don Draper because all the men I’ve ever dated have been boys. Never mind they were in their 30s. They were boys. I'm not sure there are any real men anymore. Perhaps none were born after 1960 in America. I’m guessing this doesn’t apply to the UK because David Tennant seemed suspiciously like a real man when I met him in spite of his boyish good looks! I look around the Pit of Despair and I don’t see any men. I see boys who make a tremendous amount of money and pretend to be men--the Pete Campbell’s of the world.
So what exactly are the qualities of a man? As I mentioned, I think a real man is confident (without being egotistical), good in a crisis and strong (I’m talking more about emotional strength here, but a certain amount of physical strength is nice too--there is the occasional jar that needs opening after all). They also need to be able to dress themselves and have appropriate clothes for all social situations. The man who doesn’t own a suit (a suit purchased in the past few years—not some ill-fitting thing his mom bought him ten years ago for his cousin’s wedding!) and can’t tie a tie, is not a man. A real man will be at ease in a variety of social situations. A real man can fly solo--guys who cling to their pack of buddies are boys. If he drinks, he drinks something serious. Real men do not drink fruity, girly drinks. BTW, bonus points for the man who can mix a real cocktail—Jack and Coke doesn’t count--I'm talking martini, gimlet, etc. Still, while these all seem to be qualities of a real man, I think there’s also an indefinable quality, a certain je ne sais quoi, which makes a man a man. Whatever it is, Don Draper has it in spades. And I love him for it.
So what exactly are the qualities of a man? As I mentioned, I think a real man is confident (without being egotistical), good in a crisis and strong (I’m talking more about emotional strength here, but a certain amount of physical strength is nice too--there is the occasional jar that needs opening after all). They also need to be able to dress themselves and have appropriate clothes for all social situations. The man who doesn’t own a suit (a suit purchased in the past few years—not some ill-fitting thing his mom bought him ten years ago for his cousin’s wedding!) and can’t tie a tie, is not a man. A real man will be at ease in a variety of social situations. A real man can fly solo--guys who cling to their pack of buddies are boys. If he drinks, he drinks something serious. Real men do not drink fruity, girly drinks. BTW, bonus points for the man who can mix a real cocktail—Jack and Coke doesn’t count--I'm talking martini, gimlet, etc. Still, while these all seem to be qualities of a real man, I think there’s also an indefinable quality, a certain je ne sais quoi, which makes a man a man. Whatever it is, Don Draper has it in spades. And I love him for it.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
I'll Never Be 24
Twenty-four year old blonde girls have become the bane of my existence. I'm guessing I'm not the only one who feels this way. After all, seem to be everywhere. Usually chatting up some guy you're interested in. It's not so much that they're blonde, I've been blonde and easily could be again. It's not so much that they're hot. I can always work out harder and, thanks to the miracle of plastic surgery, I can have giant-sized breasts that defy all laws of physics if I choose. I can have them lipo out all the undesirable padding then add a bit to the backside so I can be entirely bootylicious. Heck, if I can just find that Russian doctor from I Want to Believe, I think I can get an entire body transplant. Despite all of these technological advancements, however, they still haven't invented a pill or surgical procedure that will make me 24 again. And that's a bitter pill to swallow.
Healing Trauma Through Giving
You may recall my post a few months back about the hideous bag someone gifted me (http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/2009/02/life-as-stereotype.html) and how highly traumatized I was to think this is the way people see me. I decided it was time to put the pain behind me so I turned it into something positive by donating the infamous bag to a charity yard sale over the weekend. Had someone take this picture to memorialize the moment (and so you could see for yourself how truly awful this thing was *shudders*). Surely this is the first step toward healing.Saturday, August 29, 2009
10 Signs Your Life is Seriously Fucked Up
1) You've given serious consideration to setting yourself on fire in front of your mechanic's shop as a form of protest over taking your car in four times in five weeks. Okay, maybe you weren't that serious, but if this thought even occurs to you, I'm guessing it's a bad sign.
2) One of your closest friends says that meeting David Tennant was probably the best thing that's ever gong to happen to you. Oh sure, she tried to backpedal and denied that she meant that you had no hope for future happiness, but that's what she said.
3) There is mold growing underneath the linoleum in your bathroom.
4) You've decided to tell people you're divorced because it is so much less stigmatizing than saying you've never been married at your age. Never mind that your longest relationships (9 yrs., 6 yrs.) were actually longer than most marriages. People look at you sideways if you reach a certain age without ever having had the opportunity to blow thousands of dollars on a party celebrating your undying love for someone you eventually can't stand the sight of and engage in a nasty divorce battle (not that you're bitter or anything). Seriously, being divorced once meant you were damaged goods. Now it means you're normal while still single means there must be something really wrong with you.
5) You tried going to therapy, but your therapist yawned throughout the sessions. Apparently, even someone you were paying to listen to you found you boring.
6) Someone gives you a cats & books tote bag as a gift. (see old post: http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/2009/02/life-as-stereotype.html)
7) Only six people read your blog.
8) Your way of "getting over" on the powers that be at work involves you working late and on the weekends so that you can keep billable hours for yourself now that the head office has been hording them.
9) Your reclusive friend who hates flying is actually game for attending the Toronto International Film Festival. You have mandatory meetings and training sessions you can't get out of.
10) You've come to the point where your only requirement for a potential partner is that he will drag the bins to the curb on trash day. Still no takers.
2) One of your closest friends says that meeting David Tennant was probably the best thing that's ever gong to happen to you. Oh sure, she tried to backpedal and denied that she meant that you had no hope for future happiness, but that's what she said.
3) There is mold growing underneath the linoleum in your bathroom.
4) You've decided to tell people you're divorced because it is so much less stigmatizing than saying you've never been married at your age. Never mind that your longest relationships (9 yrs., 6 yrs.) were actually longer than most marriages. People look at you sideways if you reach a certain age without ever having had the opportunity to blow thousands of dollars on a party celebrating your undying love for someone you eventually can't stand the sight of and engage in a nasty divorce battle (not that you're bitter or anything). Seriously, being divorced once meant you were damaged goods. Now it means you're normal while still single means there must be something really wrong with you.
5) You tried going to therapy, but your therapist yawned throughout the sessions. Apparently, even someone you were paying to listen to you found you boring.
6) Someone gives you a cats & books tote bag as a gift. (see old post: http://becauselifeisshort.blogspot.com/2009/02/life-as-stereotype.html)
7) Only six people read your blog.
8) Your way of "getting over" on the powers that be at work involves you working late and on the weekends so that you can keep billable hours for yourself now that the head office has been hording them.
9) Your reclusive friend who hates flying is actually game for attending the Toronto International Film Festival. You have mandatory meetings and training sessions you can't get out of.
10) You've come to the point where your only requirement for a potential partner is that he will drag the bins to the curb on trash day. Still no takers.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Are You Kidding Me?
So a few weeks ago I took my car to the mechanic because it was making a funny noise. Needed a new water pump. Sure. No problem. Fixed. Done. A few days after I got it back, my low coolant light came on. It comes on maybe once a year so I happen to have a gallon of coolant. I thought it was odd it came on so soon after the car was in the shop, but I added some and figured that would be the end of it. Only it came on again a few days later. I took it back to the mechanic and told them the car was leaking coolant. I figured there was a problem with the new water pump. They replaced my radiator. Okay. Fixed. Done. A few days after I got my car back, the low coolant light came on. I added some. It came on again a few days later. I took it back to the mechanic. The overflow reservoir is leaking, he told me. Despite the fact that I was forced to rent a car at my own cost, and despite the fact that it seemed to me like maybe I hadn’t needed a new radiator after all, and despite the fact that the frustration triggered a ten-hour crying jag and destroyed my weekend, I had them replace the overflow reservoir. Fixed. Done. Yesterday my low coolant light came on again. Are you kidding me? This is absurd. Part of me would like to cut myself. Part of me would like to cut my mechanic. This is just so beyond ridiculous I actually started laughing when the light came on. So today I’m going to call my mechanic and see what other part of my car he can replace without actually fixing whatever seems to be wrong. FML.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
How I Met David Tennant, pt 2: Get in Touch with Your Inner Sydney Bristow
Now, where was I? Oh right, I'd just found out Kate had embraced her inner ninja and was actually inside the ballroom. Well, faster than I've ever moved before I was around to the other side of the room and easing myself inside. A couple of dozen people were milling around, but most had already gone into the party. I scanned the room. There was David Tennant about 20 feet away near the podium. Yellow shirt, red tie. Lovely. Kate was seated looking through one of the press packets that had been left behind. My first reaction was "I want that" because it had Dr. Who pictures. As I was grabbing one from the table behind me, it dawned on me that having these packets made it appear as though we'd been at the panel all along. Kate, already in full Sydney Bristow mode, had already figured that out. We picked up our press packets and made a bee line for David. A few feet away from the goal, Russell T. Davies spoke. Apparently, to us! He said "no. we're all going to meet outside for drinks." Apparently this was his way of saying "back off bitches." The British are so much more civilized. I didn't realize the comment was directed to us & was utterly confused when Kate said "oh sorry. thanks," stopped abruptly, turned around and walked back to the tables. She sat down saying "hold on I just need to take a note." I played along. "No problem. I'll wait with you," I said as casually as possible while trying to look bored and aloof (a move I learned from watching Burn Notice).
In a whisper I asked Kate if she thought we could get into the party. She thought we could as long as we didn't go through the doors near where we'd been loitering the past hour. That meant going through a doorway in which a BBC rep was standing, which seemed even worse. We would be coming out of the ball room and carrying press packets though, so we had a shot. At the moment I was just happy to be in the same room with David. The idea of actually crashing the BBC party made me entirely giddy! Kate suggested I talk about Doctor Who as we walked (having never watched the show she was ill-prepared for pretending to have just attended a panel discussion). I decided acting confident and walking quickly would be easier so, clutching our press packets to our chests to obscure the fact that we had no credentials, we strode out of the ballroom and across to the terrace. No one stopped us! We were officially in the party!
Kate suggested we grab a drink . I'd already spotted the wine guy--not only because, well, he was the wine guy, but also because he was very near the spot where David was standing. We each grabbed a glass of wine, then found a quiet corner so we could strategize. We agreed we needed to make our move and get out before someone realized we didn't have badges. As we made our way toward David, I felt more terrified than I ever had before. My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. I could actually hear blood rushing in my ears--who knew this actually happened? Halfway there I stopped. I was about to chicken out. Fortunately I had specifically told Kate she could not to let me chicken out no matter what so when I said "I guess I don't really need to talk to him" she said, "well, I'm going to" and continued in his direction. I followed close behind pretty sure I might black out at any moment. We walked straight up to him and Kate said "sorry to interrupt, but we need to take off..." And that's how we met David Tennant.
What's that? You want to know what we said to him? What he said to us? Ahhh, well, I had originally planned to give a detailed account of the conversation, but having had a while think about it I've decided to keep that for myself. You have been extremely patient though so here are some of the highlights. When Kate started talking to him, David leaned over (he's very tall--Kate not so much) and listened intently. She began with "this is going to sound strange given the circumstances..." A quizzical look--or was that panic?--flickered across David's face. In that moment I'm guessing he was thinking something along the lines of "oh no, she's going to ask to see my sonic screw driver" or "oh no, she's going to tell me she's named her cat David" or "oh no, she's going to tell me she's named her son David." Instead she finished with "but I really enjoyed Blackpool." This elicited a patented "well..." He later pointed out the Blackpool writer who was actually there--something we probably should have known since he was there for one of the other shows on the panel! Oops. Eventually, David turned to me and said hello as only he can. I introduced myself and told him how thoroughly I enjoyed his performance in Hamlet. Both Kate and I were impressed by how gracious and charming he was. He was also quite attentive and I will say that gazing into those amazing brown eyes was pretty spectacular.
Our mission having been accomplished, we got the hell out of there. I had a charity meeting to get to and, honestly, there was no reason to risk getting thrown out by security.
If I need cheering up, I just ask Kate to tell me about the time we met David Tennant. The adrenaline high was fantastic and lasted at least a week. Kate thinks I may take up bungee jumping now, but I have other ideas. Kate is now officially known as The Facilitator and crashing parties is a lot easier than I thought. I see tremendous potential and absolutely no need for bungees.
In a whisper I asked Kate if she thought we could get into the party. She thought we could as long as we didn't go through the doors near where we'd been loitering the past hour. That meant going through a doorway in which a BBC rep was standing, which seemed even worse. We would be coming out of the ball room and carrying press packets though, so we had a shot. At the moment I was just happy to be in the same room with David. The idea of actually crashing the BBC party made me entirely giddy! Kate suggested I talk about Doctor Who as we walked (having never watched the show she was ill-prepared for pretending to have just attended a panel discussion). I decided acting confident and walking quickly would be easier so, clutching our press packets to our chests to obscure the fact that we had no credentials, we strode out of the ballroom and across to the terrace. No one stopped us! We were officially in the party!
Kate suggested we grab a drink . I'd already spotted the wine guy--not only because, well, he was the wine guy, but also because he was very near the spot where David was standing. We each grabbed a glass of wine, then found a quiet corner so we could strategize. We agreed we needed to make our move and get out before someone realized we didn't have badges. As we made our way toward David, I felt more terrified than I ever had before. My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. I could actually hear blood rushing in my ears--who knew this actually happened? Halfway there I stopped. I was about to chicken out. Fortunately I had specifically told Kate she could not to let me chicken out no matter what so when I said "I guess I don't really need to talk to him" she said, "well, I'm going to" and continued in his direction. I followed close behind pretty sure I might black out at any moment. We walked straight up to him and Kate said "sorry to interrupt, but we need to take off..." And that's how we met David Tennant.
What's that? You want to know what we said to him? What he said to us? Ahhh, well, I had originally planned to give a detailed account of the conversation, but having had a while think about it I've decided to keep that for myself. You have been extremely patient though so here are some of the highlights. When Kate started talking to him, David leaned over (he's very tall--Kate not so much) and listened intently. She began with "this is going to sound strange given the circumstances..." A quizzical look--or was that panic?--flickered across David's face. In that moment I'm guessing he was thinking something along the lines of "oh no, she's going to ask to see my sonic screw driver" or "oh no, she's going to tell me she's named her cat David" or "oh no, she's going to tell me she's named her son David." Instead she finished with "but I really enjoyed Blackpool." This elicited a patented "well..." He later pointed out the Blackpool writer who was actually there--something we probably should have known since he was there for one of the other shows on the panel! Oops. Eventually, David turned to me and said hello as only he can. I introduced myself and told him how thoroughly I enjoyed his performance in Hamlet. Both Kate and I were impressed by how gracious and charming he was. He was also quite attentive and I will say that gazing into those amazing brown eyes was pretty spectacular.
Our mission having been accomplished, we got the hell out of there. I had a charity meeting to get to and, honestly, there was no reason to risk getting thrown out by security.
If I need cheering up, I just ask Kate to tell me about the time we met David Tennant. The adrenaline high was fantastic and lasted at least a week. Kate thinks I may take up bungee jumping now, but I have other ideas. Kate is now officially known as The Facilitator and crashing parties is a lot easier than I thought. I see tremendous potential and absolutely no need for bungees.
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