The Modern Descartes

A few months ago, as I was flipping channels, I came across a very interesting TV program called “Genius by Stephen Hawking.”

The TV show promised that it would teach you how to think like a genius. (Obviously, I am already pretty much there… A near-genius, if you will… If you won’t, I don’t care.)

The first episode discussed cartesian coordinates, a coordinate system that, “specifies each point uniquely in a plane by a pair of numerical coordinates, which are the signed distances to the point from two fixed perpendicular directed lines, measured in the same unit of length.”

So, yeah… that.

The cartesian coordinate system was invented by René Descartes (pronounced day-KART), a 17th century Philosopher, Mathematician, Scientist, dubbed the father of modern western philosophy (and not to mention a major hunk).

Am I right or am I right?

The documentary discussed Descartes numerous contributions to philosophy, religion, mathematics, and science… It also talked about how he slept for 8-10 hours each night, and then spent the first few hours of his day lying in bed, thinking.

It was at that moment that I turned to my husband and said, “I should do that.”

“That” being… spending a lot more time in bed sleeping, and thinking.

Descartes had it pretty easy… It’s not like I’m hanging out in the Netherlands in the 17th century, with loads of time on my hands, being a merchant’s wife, working on a needlepoint… I have got a job, and responsibilities, and bills to pay, and plants to keep alive, and a husband to satisfy.

If I had more time, more quality sleep, and some time to ponder, analyze, and reflect… I could do all kinds of thinking and dreaming and writing and philosophizing … And most likely come up with a new idea that would change the world, or a new mathematical coordinate system that would really shake up the world of nerds.

I have a lot of ideas (tons).

I am a modern day Descartes… If you will excuse the pun (and the burp I let slip earlier).

Just like my main man René, I am a Thinker, Dreamer, Writer…

So I started this Twitter account, where I can tweet all of my fantastic #ideas to a captive audience (28 followers and counting).

And maybe, just maybe… Something will go #boom.

Tweets by ModernDescartes

The Celebrity

The other day I overheard a conversation about “celebrity” sightings. The pair were getting very, very excited as they “upped” each other’s star sightings.

“I saw Vikram Vij riding the skytrain.”

“Oh yeah? I saw David Usher eating gelato in English Bay.”

As I overheard names like “Bif Naked” and “Fiona Forbes,” I first thought to myself, “who?” and then I thought about how weird it is that people get this excited about seeing a celebrity.

I remember the first “real” celebrity I saw when I first moved to Los Angeles… I walked into a coffee shop in Brentwood Village and there, sitting at a table in the back, was Goldie Hawn and her daughter Kate Hudson. I nudged my husband in the ribs, tilted my head in their direction, and finally said, “two o’clock”… because my husband was just not getting it.

Over the next half-hour I found many reasons to look casually in their direction, and then quickly divert my eyes when Goldie’s met mine.

I’ll admit it… I was intrigued.

As my husband and I drank our “skinny” lattes, I wondered aloud, “Why do I care that I am seeing Goldie Hawn?” “What about my own life is lacking when I get excited about seeing Goldie Hawn at a coffee shop in Brentwood?” “What makes these two people more important than anyone else?” I was asking some hard questions.

And then I came up with some answers.

I care that I am seeing Goldie Hawn because she reminds me of a film  that makes me sentimental about a particular time of my life. (Overboard was my Citizen Kane.)

No, I didn’t have a lot going on, and yes, it would have been a great story to tell my mom (instead of the usual stories of failure), but I should stop staring at Goldie Hawn and analyzing her sandwich choice (tuna on cranberry walnut??????) and just let her live her life. (No, but really, tuna with the sweetness of cranberry? and then nuts?)

And finally, these two people are not more important than anyone else. Goldie, Kate and the thousands of other people that are famous for being on TV or throwing a ball around, are just people, and people are all just human beings, and human beings are all just members of the homo sapien family, and comprised of approximately 100 trillion cells. We all sleep, we all dream. We all want to be loved.

We are all the same. (Except some of us are rich and on TV, obvs.)

(Full disclosure: I did get weirdly excited in my body when I met Larry David.)

 

 

 

The Auction (and Viewing)

So I was in London last week.

I was on a train, reading a newspaper, and in that newpaper was an article about Sting and Trudie having an auction at Christie’s… “Queen Anne’s Gate: Works from the Art Collection of Sting & Trudie Styler.”

Apparently Sting and Trudie Styler wanted to “have a refresh of their London flat” and were selling 200 lots, which included tables, chairs, lamps, coffee tables, and assorted works of art, including a Picasso plate expected to “fetch” between £1200-1400.

Before I go any futher, I should tell you a little bit about Sting and Trudie Styler… But to be honest, I don’t know a lot about them. I do know that Sting is/was a singer, and he possibly plays an instrument (piano? guitar?), and that Trudie is his wife. I also know that Trudie was on an episode of Friends where Phoebe pretended to be Ross’ son’s other mom in order to meet Sting and attend his concert (it didn’t work), and I also know that they engage in tantric love-making sessions that last up to 12 hours (don’t ask me how I know that).

12 hours…

So I’m reading about Sting and Trudie Styler’s auction, and I’m thinking to myself… “I should go to that auction” because when else would I ever have an opportunity to buy a Picasso plate for between £1200-1400 that once belonged to Sting and Trudie Styler?

A little more about the Picasso plate… it was one of an edition of 25, and it was a plate (that pretty much covers it).

The infamous Picasso plate

I nudged my husband, showed him the article and asked him if I could go to the auction and buy a Picasso plate. My husband, who is nearly always very agreeable, said “yeah, sure.”

It makes a lot of sense (and it takes a lot of cents… zing) to buy a Picasso plate… Picasso is a fairly well-known artist, and so I figured it was probably a pretty good investment. But then again, it’s just a plate, isn’t it? And I’ve broken at least 10-15 of those washing up.

I told my husband I’d be careful with it (I wouldn’t use it in the microwave) and I would put it in a cupboard for safe keeping, and we’d just sit and wait for the value to increase.

You know in cartoons how a light bulb shows up over a character’s head when they have a good idea… That’s how I felt… This Picasso plate was an opportunity… To own a Picasso plate.

The auction was on a Wednesday, and there was a “viewing” at Christie’s the Sunday through Tuesday, so I’m thinking to myself… “I should go to that viewing.”

So I went to the viewing.

I decided to take along a friend (“Jam”) because I wanted to pretend that I had “people”… because people who go to viewings at Christie’s have “people.”

As we strode into Christie’s, we walked with purpose, our heads held high* because that’s how a person who obviously doesn’t belong somewhere gets through security. I spotted the signs for Sting and Trudie Styler’s auction upstairs and quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor.

As Jam and I entered the room, we immediately began doing the things that people do when they are looking at things like art or modern furniture – folding your arms across your chest, furrowing your brow, tapping your lip with your forefinger and saying “interesting,” when it obviously isn’t.

We looked around the room, and noticed something… We were surrounded by old, white snobs. In fact, they were some of the oldest, whitest snobs I had ever encountered in my whole life… All Barbour and noses in the air.

We began poking our heads in the various rooms, occasionally breaking into spontaneous fits of laughter about the absurdity of it all. I mean, who would have ever thought that a woman named “Jam” and I would be rummaging through Sting and Trudie Styler’s old tat on a Monday morning half-cut on breakfast cocktails? (To be fair this is not far off most Mondays.)

Anyway, I was surveying a room when I saw it… the Picasso plate.

I went over to get a better look at the plate, and a Christie’s representative sidled up beside me. I thought we were going to be chastised and asked to leave (Jam is half-Indian and this crowd was as white as they come), but instead she asked if I wanted to see the “condition report.” I shook my head “no,” not wanting to speak and give my stock away.

We then watched as an old, white snob sat her fat, white butt on a gray, velvet sofa (lot #46). I gasped, waiting for security to swoop in to remove her and her butt… But they didn’t swoop. I leaned over to Jam and whispered, “here’s where I sit on Sting and Trudie Styler’s sofa.” And that’s when I dared to sit my own fat, white butt on Sting and Trudie Styler’s sofa… And you know what? It felt like sitting on a marshmallow wrapped up in heaven.

Jam and I left that viewing older, wiser, whiter, snobbier… having sat on Sting and Trudie Styler’s sofa.

When Wednesday finally rolled around (two days later, as Wednesday’s tend to do), I didn’t attend the auction.

Yes, buying a Picasso plate would have probably been a great investment, and I could tell people I have a Picasso plate without lying about having a Picasso plate**, but to be honest I did not relish (mmmm relish) hanging out with a gaggle of old, white snobs for one more of my mere five days in London.

Turns out the plate went for £5600.

Marshmellowy goodness

+++

* I always walk into buildings with purpose and with my head held high.

** I’ve only done this four times before.

The Smoker

So, I’m walking down the street, minding my own business, drinking a smoothie that I just purchased from the aptly named “Da Juice Bar”, and I get that thing where the fruit is sort of tart/sweet/acidic and I start coughing a little.

This was not a big cough. In fact, “cough” might not be the right word for it… It was more like a vocal throat tickle, or maybe an ahem. It can best be described as: an audible clearing of my larynx. No big deal.

What I didn’t realize was that while I was walking down the street (minding my own business, drinking a smoothie) a Smoker was walking in the opposite direction.

The Smoker passed me as I audibly cleared my larynx.

She was female (as you may have expected), past her prime, pale, thin, sickly (as you may have expected), and she looked like life had dealt her a bad hand (assorted low cards and a few jokers).

She was smoking (as you may have expected) but I’m not one to judge.

I mean, yes, smoking is disgusting and it will definitely kill you and others around you, and it’s a huge waste of money, as well as a huge burden on society as a whole what with the second-hand smoke, ozone, tar pits, etc.… But as I mentioned previously, I’m not one to judge.

Live and let live… That’s what I always say (unless I’m talking about spiders).

So (as I mentioned), I’m walking down the street (minding my own business, drinking a smoothie, clearing my larynx) when I hear these two words:

“Real subtle!”

I turn around (because that’s what I do when people make a noise that I don’t expect and I want to see where it’s coming from), and I see that the Smoker has also turned around, and she is glaring at me.

I’m like, “huh?”

And she’s like, “Uh huh.” Her teeth were bared, her eyebrows were arched, and her cigarette was dangling from her sagging lips. It wasn’t a good look.

And of course, I would have liked to explain that I was not making an audible, judgmental statement on her choice to inhale toxic chemicals. I was just drinking a smoothie and had a little tickle, and I just needed to clear my larynx.

But then she was gone.

People sure get hyper about stupid stuff… Don’t be one of them.

The Interview

No, not the one with the Vampire, or the one where Barbara Walters made Ringo Starr cry when she brought up the death of John Lennon (Note to self: If you ever meet Ringo Starr – ixnay on the ohnjay ennonlay)…

I’m taking about a particular interview that I had several years ago… An interview that will go down as the worst interview… of all time.

And saying that it was the worst interview of all time is really saying something… because I’ve had a lot of bad interviews… (it’s also saying something because I’m making a statement).

There was the one where I wore my “lucky blouse” which had a button issue… in that the buttons refused to stay shut, and I may have (I did) flashed my “brassiere” to the Receptionist and the Human Resources Manager… which is super awkward when you’re interviewing for a job at a church…

Saying that, somehow I’ve managed to get all the jobs that I’ve interviewed for… including the one at the church (Luckily, I was wearing a conservative “brassiere” that day).

I’ve also been accepted into most* programs that I’ve interviewed for…

(And yes, I really do like ellipsis… those series of dots that indicate a leading statement… those ones… just there.)

Now the reason for the * back there… I’ve been accepted into most* programs, but not all programs…

There is one program at one school that did not think I would make an ideal candidate…

The program? A Master’s degree in Creative Writing. 

The school? You may have heard of it… it’s the oldest and most prestigious educational institution in the English-speaking world? It’s called Oxford. Ring any bells?

So I applied to Oxford… and after they carefully considered my application, I was invited to have a telephone interview. The date and time were set weeks in advance.

I started to get excited… I started visualising how I would traipse** around Oxford with a heaving book bag and self-satisfied smile… and how proud my mom and dad would be, and how they would finally have a chance to brag about me (because to be honest I’ve not done much to merit much bragging).

Anyway, long story short… three days before the telephone interview I had to have emergency surgery because they thought that I had a tumor behind my eye (I didn’t).

They sent me home with 11 stitches across my eyelid, and several prescriptions… Vikes, Oxy, Blues, French Fries, Tranqs, Beans, Kicker, Percs… And while I’m definitely not condoning the recreational use of these prescription drugs, I will say that if you do have a surgery and use them responsibly, they are pretty f*%$ing awesome.

I spent the next few days as high as a kite.

Then, on Monday morning… the phone rang.

Oh snap.

The interview.

You know, the one with Oxford University with regard to your application.

Yeah… that one.

I took the phone receiver, and I tried my best to ignore the large purple dinosaur that was flipping pancakes in my kitchen (mmmm… pancakes!) and I carried on with the interview…

I have no idea what was said, how it was said, or the language in which it was said. 

I do know that a very*** short time later I received an email from Oxford University stating that my application had been “unsuccessful”.

Sure, I was initially disappointed… Oxford University has a fairly decent reputation as far as post-secondary learning institutions go, and I had really hoped to traipse…

But then I thought about what a stuffy old institution Oxford was, and how I’m really the opposite of stuffy (I’m extremely breezy and informal), and then I was okay with it…

Oh, I also swallowed another Kicker, which may have helped.

~ 

EPILOGUE: I ended up moving to England, and took a Screenwriting program through the University of Oxford’s Department for Continuing Education, which looks good on a resume, but is really not the “Oxford” Oxford.

A few weeks later I had an interview with the University of London that went much better… and guess what? I ended up with a Master’s degree (with distinction!) in Creative Writing.

So suck it Oxford.

____________________________________________________________________________

* Not all, but most

** Because one does not “walk” when one attends Oxford

*** Like, very… Like, within an hour

The Third Best Day Ever!

I said it before, and I’ll say it again…

If my husband asks… the “Best Day Ever” was definitely our wedding day… the day we got married, and expressed our love and lifelong commitment to each other by exchanging vows and rings in the presence of friends, family and our MAKER.

Uh huh.

Sure.

And, if my husband asks… the “Second Best Day Ever” was definitely Roald Dahl Day… when I went to Roald Dahl’s Gispy house (!!!), and I toured the grounds, and I peeked inside his writing hut (!!!), and I held his ball of solid candy wrappers (!!!), and I went inside INSIDE Danny’s caravan (!!!), and I sat in the Wonkamobile (!!!), and I met Roald’s son Theo and his widow Liccy (!!!), and then I purchased some first-edition books from his private collection (!!!), which Liccy signed for me (!!!).

I have let my husband continue to think that our wedding day is in the top spot, but we all know the truth… The “Best Day Ever” was definitely Roald Dahl Day, and our wedding day is a close (yet very distant) second.

The “Third Best Day Ever” has been up for grabs for a long time now. It was a close call… between weddings, vacations, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, the birth of our nieces and nephew…

Today… it has been decided (after mulling it over for at least 20 minutes)!

[cue music]

And the award for the “Third Best Day Ever” goes to…

[drum roll] …if you insist.

[opening envelope]

Gruyères!

 

You know who you are… you wonderfully Swiss, medieval mountain town in the canton of Fribourg… known for your cheese and the Battle of Morat!

Gruyères has been awarded the coveted award for “Third Best Day Ever” (aka, “the Oscar of days”) because of it’s lasting impression!

We visited Gruyères in November 2012 with my parents. We knew it would be great… but I don’t think any of us realized that it would be that great.

There were fun and amusing cut-outs with which to take fun (and amusing) photos with!

There was a factory that made Gruyères cheese! We went on a tour and we were given samples!

There was fondue (moitié–moitié) that was quite simply put, “off the chain”.

There was a beautiful castle… which was the site of the Battle of Morat and a pretty sweet fortification!

There were quaint little shops and cobble stone streets.

There was a rainbow!

There were snow-capped mountains!

There was a vending machine that sold Gruyères cheese!!!!!

We were like, “WHAT.” and the vending machine was like, “YEAH.”

And that’s why…Gruyères is the “Second Best Day Ever”… which unfortunately displaces our wedding day.

Just so we’re all clear…

BEST DAYS EVER:

1. Roald Dahl Day.

2. Gruyères (Gruyères “came up the rear” to claim the second spot… Sorry “wedding day”).

3. Wedding Day*.

*Unless my husband asks…

 

 

The Game

Last year whilst vacationing in the Rhine Valley, we came upon a flea market in the small town of Boppard. They were selling the usual what-nots, hoo-dads, and thing-a-ma-jiggers, and I wasn’t at all interested.

You see, I consider myself a minimalist. I like order and purpose, and hardwood floors. I don’t like clutter or crap, or people who litter (it’s unrelated – but still very true).

I grew up in a house that was definitely not minimalist. I think the best way to describe it would be… the exact and polar opposite of minimalism. My parents were/are collectors and loved/love garage sales. I did not – and do not – share their enthusiasm.

So, when we came upon the flea market in Boppard, I was quite happy to pass it by, and go on my merry way (I was feeling quite merry that day) and possibly have another glass of Riesling (because dang, they do make a good Riesling in the Rhine Valley).

Then I heard something that would change my life FOREVER… “Mankomania!”

I looked over at my dear, dear husband thinking he had come up with yet another clever nickname for me, using my unusual surname… as though Spanky Manky, Hanky Panky Manky, The Mankanator, The Manx, Monkey Manky and “My Manky wife” weren’t enough.

Then I saw what he held in his hands…

Mankomania… the game!

We obviously had to buy it (for two euros). I might be an minimalist, but I’m not insane.

 

 

The Story

If I tell you this story, please don’t judge me. Please don’t make an assessment about my overall character on this singular story, okay?

Remember: It was just a one-time thing.

I’m actually a very nice person (ask my mom). I have my flaws (who doesn’t?). My niceness should not be overshadowed by this particular occurrence.

I do plenty of nice things. Plenty (like, a lot). I do nice things almost every single day. I have taken the time to list them here (for your convenience, and reference).

Nice things Kim does almost every day:

– volunteering

– buying taquitos for 7-11 employees

– buying sandwiches for lonely truck drivers

– giving gently used clothing to charity

– putting pennies in “give a penny, take a penny” trays

– complimenting people after a haircut

– complimenting people after a teeth-whitening

– complimenting people after they have obviously been “toning up”

– hugging people when it’s obvious they need a hug

– laughing at people’s bad jokes (someone has to)

So, just because I wished harm on someone while flying over the Atlantic, it doesn’t mean that I’m a bad person, right?

Right? (I feel like you’re not totally in agreement with me here.)

Okay, I should explain.

I love Iceland. It’s so green and lush and volcanic and fun. In 2003 I had the opportunity to visit this Nordic gem of a country. It was my first trip to Europe and I can honestly say that it changed my life. I walked around with wide eyes… taking in the architecture, the geography, the people. I went to a grocery store in Reykjavik at 2 a.m. and the sun was still shining! I took a bath in geothermal waters! I ate a puffin!

(That’s the back-story. It’s important to know because it will give you some idea about why I wished harm on an ailing, old, Japanese man on a transcontinental flight.)

So, we’re flying from Los Angeles to London and I’m standing in the galley of the plane doing some light stretching (to avoid getting blood clots) and I overhear the flight attendants saying something about a man in seat 38B who was “not doing very well”.

And, of course I’m extremely sympathetic (but that’s just me – caring, compassionate, loving… and also: charming, vivacious, charismatic, resourceful, gracious, generous, kind, good-humored and humble).

Then I heard a flight attendant say that the pilot was determining whether the man’s condition was serious enough to make an emergency landing… and that we were very near Iceland.

I thought to myself… “Self, if the man was a teeny, tiny bit worse off, perhaps the pilot would determine that we should make an emergency landing in Iceland.”

So… (yeah)… I wished a little harm on him (just a teeny, tiny bit).

I mean, he was already “not doing very well”. 

And sure, I had my own selfish reasons for wanting to make an emergency landing in Iceland (the Blue Lagoon, Skyr yogurt), but my genuine concern for the man’s health was definitely my primary motivation.

And, because the man’s health was my primary motivation, I wasn’t at all disappointed* when the man made a full recovery, and we landed at London Heathrow as scheduled.

***

*maybe just a teeny, tiny bit

 

The Trip

I’m not talking about the kind of trip where you drink a tincture and come away with a new sense of purpose and understanding.

Wait.

On the kind of trip I’m talking about, you do occasionally drink tea and have a good old catch up with a loved one, where you might hit on some interesting topics, which may in turn give you new insight into a situation.

But I’m definitely not talking about the kind of trip where you go up into the clouds and see your ancestors.

Okay, wait.

On the kind of trip I’m talking about, you do get on a plane and you do go up in the clouds (as planes travel at approx.. 10,000 feet), and you are likely to see relatives, and some of them might be elderly.

But I’m definitely not talking about the kind of trip where you feel crazy for 8-12 hours.

Okay, wait. Now it’s getting weird.

On the kind of trip I’m taking about, you do occasionally attend a large gathering that may last the better part of a day, and you may drink a lot of soda and eat a lot of Red Vines, and because you already have hyperglycemia, you go slightly berserk.

Okay, yeah.

So the type of trip I’m talking about is actually very similar to the kind taken by Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters.

A visit “home” can definitely feel like a drug-fueled trip (not that I would know – however I have done extensive research on Wikipedia, etc.).

There is a lot of talking, and crying, and hugging, and sleeping wherever, and saying, “I love you man”, and also (occasionally) taking drugs (like Tylenol) because sleeping on their sofa bed has left you with a crick in your neck.

But, it’s all worth it.

…The trip home. Not a drug-fueled trip, obviously. A drug-fueled trip can have devastating effects on your physical and mental health.

But then again, so can a trip home.

The Handful

My poor parents…

They had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they decided to procreate for the second time.

Their first child (my sister, Michelle) was a calm, quiet child (I’m assuming this, as she is currently a fairly calm, quiet adult, and she looks very calm and quiet in old photos).

They probably wanted a second child to give Michelle a sister and (possibly) to give themselves another opportunity to eat birthday cake during the year. Because while cake generally tastes very good at any time of year, there is something about birthday cake that I can’t put my finger on. It might be the candle wax melting into the icing?

I digress.

I’ll bet my parents thought that both of their offspring would be calm, quiet and well-behaved children.

Let’s just say… it was not so.

I was a challenge. I was feisty, lively, scrappy. I would say inappropriate things at inappropriate moments. I regularly challenged boundaries and authority. I was not calm, or quiet (and definitely not well-behaved).

Some people blame parents for their children’s behavior. I don’t think Stan and Linda are to blame. (My mom possibly consumed too much Red #40 dye while I was in the womb, but we’ll never know for sure).

They are lovely people that tried their best. I was just a handful.

*

Case in point:

A few months ago my mom was going through their attic and came across a folder of my old drawings, notes, and schoolwork. She found a particularly intriguing letter from my childhood that I have transcribed (verbatim), for your convenience…

Bye!

Dear Mom and Dad, 

I’m tired of getting blamed, spanked, kicked, pinched, scratched at bitten. (all from Michelle) 

So i’ve decided I running away! I’ve taken everything I want! 

Bye! Love Kim xoxo

Tell Grandma and Grandpa Bye! 

Here’s an idea where i’ll be!

(For their convenience, I thoughtfully included a detailed map of my location – near a shrub, between the Watt’s and Hesketh’s.)

If you find this letter Aug 19-21

23 i’ll be leaving that spot!

I don’t remember if I actually followed through on my plans, but I do remember living with my parents until I went to college – so I guess everything turned out okay in the end – for me, not for my parents – they had to suffer through it until I turned 18.

God bless them!

The letter

Kim, aged 7