Packing up

I need to pack. I've just read my post from March 27. I was feeling stuck, then. I am stuck no more. I am definitely moving to the farm to work and live in a tent until the RV is renovated (she's back). The moving truck is reserved for June 27th (how's that for symmetry) and my gear has arrived. Honestly speaking, I feel like I'm swimming in molasses. I feel the urge to move, to pack, to do something and yet, this change is so huge that I don't know where to begin. I feel as though I'm going in circles. Which clothes do I take? How much food will I need? How will I store it? Where? Will I be able to load the truck, get it up north, unload it and turn it in to the rental shop in time? Do I need warmer clothes? Where am I doing laundry? I still need medium for the toilet and a gas canister for the stove. And a bike. I didn't worry so much when I was younger. I'm trying to recapture that part of my youth.

Behold the Throne!!!

Pieces do fall into place bit by bit as time goes on. The truck is reserved, storage is reserved, the tent is here and the portable loo and gas stove and water container and sleeping bag and boots and a few other odds and ends. Still, I'm not sure how everything will be set up. What happens when it rains? I do have a tarp for a ground cloth. There is so much to do. I am grading my students' final papers and project at the same time. I think I'll start with the clothing. Get everything out of my room and make final decisions about what goes with me and what goes to charity. So, this post is short and sweet. Heave ho!

Happy Lifestyle Purge: The Prequal

(Be sure to scroll down to my video at the end)

I spent the first three weeks of August visiting with my family in California. That visit was the first in a long time when I can remember actually, truly, genuinely relaxing. During the first week I woke up every morning and took a leisurely stroll down the stairs to find my parents in the kitchen preparing a scrumptious, nutritious, meat free, gluten free and dairy free breakfast.

Dad makes his famous nutty blueberry muffins

After breakfast, we took a nap.  Then we woke up and mom prepared a sumptuous lunch bursting with flavor, color, and nutrition.

Tofu in fresh tomato sauce with sauteed green beans, steamed black rice with lentils and a sweet squash mash

Creamed pumpkin and asparagus with black rice and lentils and soy mutton

My sister had her husband gave their two daughters puppies for their birthdays.  I had the profound pleasure of babysitting them. They usually came over after lunch. I did consider dognapping them.

Caramel and Bambi

I also got to visit with friends whom I had not seen in about twenty years. Amazingly, we seemed to pick up right where we had left off.

Early on Monday morning of the second week my dad woke me up to join him for a hike. This is a tradition between us; we always go hiking together when we are in California. We went hiking several times that week and I lost another five pounds. Here is a video I made of us hiking a couple of years ago. Altitude is an issue (I live at sea level and our California hometown is 1,160 feet above sea level). Also, I'm in much better shape now.

With nothing to do but sleep, eat nutritious food, drink plenty of water, exercise, visit with friends and pet puppies, I truly rested for the first time in ages.  

Now I had the mental space to spend lots of time thinking about how I wanted to organize the next steps of my Intentional Happiness Lifestyle design process. Paring down to 400 things is my most immediate and truly daunting goal. For months I have been mulling over how to begin.

I have a large storage room full of stuff to get rid of. That task hangs like a millstone around my neck. Happily, I found help and inspiration. I have become obsessed with Alejandra Costello's home organizing videos. Here is my favorite. It has revolutionized the way I organize my clothes. I shouldn't admit this but I watch this video whenever I feel stressed out or overwhelmed. Alejandra has this cheerful and calming manner about her that helps me relax.

I had been watching Alejandra's videos for a couple of months and all the tips I had picked up from her over that time suddenly came together; I knew what I needed to do! While I couldn't complete the storage job right away, I could take care of my room.

Oh, my room. My deep and shameful secret. Nothing felt more depressing than coming home each day to that disaster. I literally had to clear a path from my bed to the closet and on my bed I kept a space clear for me to sleep on. Otherwise I was totally surrounded by a mess. I would watch the television show Hoarders just to scare myself, imagining a pathetic future in which I would make the news after the firefighters had to dig me out.

It isn't a hoarding problem as much as it is a messy problem. My breakthrough came when I realized that the main issue was my desk and a storage bench I had placed in front of it. I had intended to use the bench as a seat that doubled as storage. Unfortunately, it was too low so actually sitting at the desk was truly uncomfortable. Additionally, the desk had no drawers and since I couldn't reach it very well (because the bench was in the way), I tended to just throw stuff on top if it. And so it piled up.

It is a pile up no more. Watch this video to see the improvement. I'm not quit finished. In a video about organizing closets Alejandra mentions how she switched from hanging her jeans to putting them in drawers and demonstrates how much more room that gave her (tons). So I still have to get drawers and those under the bed containers for the vacuum bags I store my off-season clothes in.  Still, there is much progress and I am very happy. Enjoy!

Full Speed Ahead!

Things are happening so fast now that I actually don't have time to blog about one thing before the next thing happens. It's funny. All that work in the beginning - the slow, slogging pace of it - and now, all of a sudden, all at once the dreams behind that work are coming true.

I have my New York State Driver license, the camper is insured, I have my Social Security card in my own name (a full two weeks early), and, yesterday, I got the camper registered.  I have plates!!!  It is a temporary registration; I have ten days to get the camper inspected.

Experience has taught me not to wait for anything and so I spent some time this afternoon dialing one number after the other, looking for an auto shop authorized to inspect vehicles for the DMV that also dealt with campers. I finally found someone on Long Island.

Now, to the average Californian, a two hour drive is nothing. The New Yorkers I've talked to all recoil in horror when I say that I'm taking my camper that far for service. I'm just exceedingly grateful to have found a place.

The plan is for me to get the camper from New Jersey in the morning and drive it to Long Island for this inspection. HA! Ok, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I am claiming power and success and calm for this trip. I will drive my 24' pookums over some bridge into New York and then find the Long Island Expressway without getting stuck under some low laying bridge, scalping my baby in the process. I will find the autobody shop and the inspection will go well.  No one will be harmed in the making of this production for Bach Rescue Pastilles are with me. This is a special occasion. Pray for everybody.

The Odyssey (Homer, eat your heart out)

On Tuesday, June 25, I left the DMV without a driver license yet again.  That disappointment balanced out Monday, a day of joy. The check I’d been waiting for to cover my summer expenses finally came and my driver license abstract arrived from California about three weeks early. GO CALI!!! I also developed an abscess near that tooth that had needed to come out for so long but that was fine.  Now I had the money to fix it.  That was Monday.  On Tuesday I decided to start with the DMV then go to the dentist. 

At the DMV I waited in a longish line before finally arriving at Window 5 and gleefully whipping out my driver abstract along with the other sixty million forms of identification I had gathered.  The clerk started to look through my documents: “Certificate of Naturalization, check, license abstract, check, social security card, che . . . hey, wait a minute, your names don’t match,” she said. My social security card still had my married name on it.

“I know,” I replied. “I’m also doing a name change.  See?” I pointed to my certificate of naturalization, my actual proof of birth as a citizen in this country, the document that should trump all documents, and it had my maiden name on it.  Then I whipped out a copy of the divorce decree that gave me back my maiden name.  She flipped through the pages. “This isn’t an original.” 

“I know . . . I can’t find the original,” I sighed, but I do have the original property settlement document and, see, they’re filed on the same day, by the same judge . . .” She was shaking her head.

"We can’t use this.”  My shoulders slumped.  “If your social security card matched your certificate of naturalization we could do it.”

Aha! I thought.  I had seen a sign for the Social Security Administration Office right next door.  This could be done. 

“So, I go next door?” I asked the clerk hopefully. 
“No,” she answered, “they’ve moved down town,” and she pulled out a map. My shoulders slumped further.  But, wait, the address was not difficult to get to. Fine.  I would go to the Social Security Office and get a card in my own name.  I gathered up the sixty million pieces of identification I had lain out on the counter and marched resolutely out the door. 

I am Zulu (well, Ndebele, really, but . . . details) and we are a tenacious people.  We did let the Brits and the Afrikaners walk all over us for a while (mainly because we are also an essentially polite people) but eventually they all discovered just how tenacious we are (Amandla!).  I would not be deterred.  

I slapped on my sunhat (did I mention that it was noontime and sizzling?) and walked the half block to the subway station.  I took the 4 train going down town.  I got off at Fulton Street and three blocks later I found William Street and the Social Security Administration office.  Inside the building, the sweetest man ever told me which floor to go to and I got on the elevator.  I couldn’t believe this.  I still had to go to the dentist. 

A security guard at the doorway to the waiting room handed me a number and a form to fill out.  They wanted my mother’s full name and both of my parents’ social security numbers. I called my mom who enjoyed a hearty laugh at my ridiculous tale of woe.  She was still chortling when my number was called over the intercom. I approached window 25 and went through the now ritualistic process of laying my identity out on the counter.

The young woman at the window looked at my documents.

“Your social doesn’t match your certificate of naturalization,” she said.  I let the crickets chirp for a moment and then said, “Yes.  I’m here to fix that,” and whipped out the divorce papers.  “This isn’t an original,” she said.” That again.  But I had a certificate of naturalization in my name issued by the USCIS – another federal agency. How could that not mean anything? 

She looked at the documents again.  “Do you have a passport?”  I’ll admit it.  I started to cry.  That question is pretty much guaranteed to reduce me to tears.  I am still very, very angry about how my passport got disappeared and I think I will be angry about it until I get it replaced.  I explained to the clerk what happened.  She nodded and then started typing something.  I wiped away tears and apologized and explained some more.  Soon she handed me a printout.  “Please verify the information here,” she said. She was going to do the change!

I started to read through the document.  My name was spelled correctly, my date of birth was fine, but for sex it said: “M”.  “Oh!” I giggled to the clerk, not wanting her to feel bad about her mistake, “I’m actually a girl!” I grinned broadly. She looked at the paper and then said, “Well, that’s how your record comes up in the system.” The crickets chirped again. 

“What?!”

“It must be a typo,” she said nonchalantly and I thought, "I am a man?"

The last time I had made any changes to my Social Security card was when I made that regretful decision about twelve years ago to go ahead and hyphenate my last name.  That meant that I had been a man for at least 12 years if not more.  With nothing to show for it! That’s what made me mad. Where were my privileges?! And my penis?! The clerk was speaking.

“Normally,” she said, it would take us two weeks to issue you a new card but now it is going to take us four weeks to verify your information.”  Oh, I couldn’t. Seriously. Another four weeks? Was I really going to wait another four weeks to get a driver license? I had been trying to get one for about a month-and –a-half and now I was being told that it would take another month? And I still had to go to the dentist. 

I handed the forms back to the clerk and was resigning myself to another long wait when I remembered: The divorce papers. I could still get an original copy of my divorce judgment. So resolved, I took a quick trip to the bathroom before heading to the dentist.  I was on the six train heading up to 23^rd street when I realized that I had left my sunhat in the bathroom.

In my state of relative penury my best choice for a dentist was a student.  I opted for NYU Dental School because I figured that, being close-ish to the Village, they would be less likely to be judgmental and arrogant. I had lived through a rather unpleasant experience at another dental school way uptown (which was an underlying reason for why it had taken me so long to get this tooth taken care of). I was right. Student Doctor Sharma was amazing. A quick x-ray confirmed that the tooth had to be extracted immediately.  He gave me an appointment for 9am the next day.  I went home.

The next morning, I arrived on time, and, soon after signing in, I met Student Doctor Manny.  He would be performing the extraction. He, too, was super friendly and stayed with me through the administrative process. After filling out the forms telling me that I could be maimed for life, he sat me in the chair and got to work.

First he numbed me really, really well. Then he picked up a medieval-looking instrument and grasped my tooth with it. Or something. I really couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it felt as though he might pull my entire maxilla apart. But I liked Student Doctor Manny and trusted him, so I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Ujjayi! 

After a while of tugging, Dr. Manny said, “I think I should get some help.”

“Ooohhhayy” I mumbled, praising him for his wisdom and wishing that I had wimped out and gotten the gas after all.

Student Doctor Manny brought reinforcements. I can’t lie. I felt relieved to see the shock of white hair and the crinkly bespectacled face of the supervising dental surgeon. He looked (and behaved) like he had been at this for quite a while. It took forty-five minutes of very determined tugging before the tooth finally gave up its perch. Dr. Spectacles put in two stitches and stuck some gauze between my teeth to help stop the bleeding. Student Doctor Manny stayed with me as I recovered and we chatted a bit (I figured out the mumble around the gauze thing and he somehow deciphered my muttering). Despite everything, it was the best trip to the dentist that I can remember, quite frankly. I didn’t want to leave. But I had to. I was determined: I would be a licensed New York State driver by the end of the day.

I took a swing by the Social Security Administration office where I retrieved my hat, hoping I wasn’t drooling while I got the sweetest greeting from the desk guard in the lobby. Then I headed for Newark via New Jersey Transit at Penn Station. At the Essex County Family Court building I entered what surely is a maze designed to experiment on the people who go there.

First I was directed to room 111 but I noticed a sign there saying that documents could be obtained on the 10^th floor. So I got up to the 10^th floor where I was given a form to fill out. After that I was sent back down to room 111 to pay for the documents. Then, with the receipt in hand, I was sent back up to the 10^th floor to retrieve the documents. Really. The clerk handed me the new originals and I flipped to the back page with the seal and stamp on it. 

On the day I got divorced, my attorney stood before the judge and read my social security number out to everyone in the court room and onto the record. The judge was as exasperated as I was. He admonished my attorney and ordered my social to be redacted. My original copy of the judgment indeed had my social quite blacked out.

Unfortunately, the judge’s copy, which the clerks in room 1068 used to create another original, only had my social scribbled out. Anyone could still read it. I asked the clerk at the window whether I could get it properly redacted.  “You’ll have to file a motion,” she said. 

Crickets.  This was now much too familiar.

 “What?” I asked, allowing the full measure of my incredulity to show as much as it could, considering that half of my face was still quite numb.

“Yes,” she said, “You’ll have to file a motion to amend the document.”

“But I’m not amending the document.”

“You’re making a change to the document.  You’re amending it.” Kafka, I thought, would be proud.

And then I thought, fine. This Zulu is ready. “How do I file a motion?” I asked.  The clerk handed me a packet. I glanced at the top page. $30.00. I looked at the clerk. I was starting not to care anymore, which isn’t good.

“Seriously,” I said, “I’m going to have to pay $30.00 so someone can use a marker to black out  . . . you can see that the judge intended . . . where’s the judge?” He had retired.  Whatever. I would find another judge. I stood there, contemplating how to storm this Bastille, when the clerk said, 

 “Ok.  I’ll ask my supervisor.” Some murmuring behind the door ensued and soon the clerk was back. Then another woman appeared at the door with the documents. “We blacked it out.”  She said. I called her an angel and meant it. Did everything have to be so hard?

Documents in hand, I got back on the train to New York City then took the subway uptown then switched to the bus to get to the DMV. At the DMV I waited in an hour-long line before arriving (again!) at window 5. I whipped out documents. I (in my mind) dared the clerk to tell me something was wrong.

“Your social and your diver license abstract don’t match,” she said.  “AHAAAA!” I crowed in my head as I pulled the original divorce document from the pile. “See!” I said and turned to the last page.  There was the seal and there were the judge’s words giving me back my name.  “Hmmm,” she said.  What HMMM!!!  HMMM???? There is no HMMMM! She started counting. 

Each document counts for a certain number of points.  The certificate of naturalization counts both for points and for proof of birth (since me standing there in front of the window isn’t sufficient . . . but, hey). After a few minutes of counting and recounting she finally said, “Ok.  I think this will work.” I refrained from weeping and shouting glory hallelujah – but just barely.  She told me to stand in front of the camera.  Thankfully the lidocaine from the extraction had worn off by this time. Still, I know I must look like hell in the picture but I don’t mind.  It is an accurate depiction of what I endured to get my license.

After I signed the signature card, the clerk put all my paperwork together and gave me a number.  I sat down to wait.  Another twenty minutes and I was called up to window 15 where I met Ms. Hung. “Your documents don’t match,” she said. If I didn’t like her droll manner (which I just knew hid a wicked sense of humor) I might have considered climbing over the counter and snatching her bald. Again I went through the dance of explaining. “Well, we have to issue you the driver license in this name,” and she pointed to the name on my California driver license abstract.  “But I’m trying to get rid of that name!” I wailed.  She looked at me as though I were a petulant child. “And then,” she said, peering at me over her glasses, “we will do the name change and issue you another license in the other name.”

You know what? I’m happy with the result.  Never mind the utter silliness of it all.  In two weeks, I will, once again, have a state-issued photo ID with my very own name on it. And, two weeks after that, I will be a woman again. Now I have to register the camper. Have mercy.

Snagged (again)

I'm waiting for my phone to finish charging before heading to the DMV. Again.  As I wait, I'm facing the very real possibility that my dreams of the RV life might be over! (For now).  To recap (do this slowly, I find it helps):

I need to register the camper.  To register the camper I must have 1) A New York State driver license and 2) Insurance on the camper.  Fine.  I'm heading out to get the driver license now.  Fingers crossed.

Part two . . . well now, therein lays the rub.  You see, there is front end damage on the camper.  Fine.  I am now learning that 1) Only certain insurance companies insure campers. And, 2) Nobody wants to insure a camper with damage on it.  Even for one day.  Without insurance, I can't register the camper.  Without registration I can't move the camper.  Without moving the camper, I can't get it fixed. Without registration and insurance I can't store it at the RV park with very reasonable rates (Did you read all that slowly?)

But I could get it towed!  (Never mind that the thing drives on its own, ok.) The first quote was  $250.00 (steep but do-able) plus $100.00/day storage.  Get out!  And the gentleman at the company I called couldn't think of anyone who could fix it. That freaked me out until a good friend pointed out that the Cruisemaster is really a van; I just needed someone who worked on vans. That calmed me down a little.

Unless I can find a way to get a one day permit to drive the camper to a location where I can store it for a reasonable price, I am facing the very difficult reality of having to junk my baby! This calls for ice cream. Except I'm lactose intolerant so I'm just going to think about ice cream.

I've Found My Thrill!

Home Sweet Home

I am so excited, I don't know where to start. At the beginning, perhaps? Sometime in March of this year I got this crazy notion to move into a bus and live a simplified life. After stumbling upon my first Skoolie conversion I went back and forth between buses, vans and campers.  I had settled on getting a van so that parking would be less of an issue.  I plan to stay in the New York area so that I can keep teaching.  I spent many, many hours late into the night searching eBay and Craigslist, dreaming and drooling over YouTube videos. I became obsessed with Econoline e450s. I learned to spot the difference between a Sprinter and a Transit (Mercedes and Ford respectively). I just knew that it would take me at least a year to be able to save up the five to seven thousand dollars I would need to purchase a van.

Then, about two weeks ago, another crazy notion popped into my head: Somebody is going to give me a van.

In the grand scheme of my crazy notions, this one was no crazier than the others.  I accepted it and kept on looking.  Then a camper, a class C listed at 23', caught my eye on eBay.  The starting bid was $100.00 and there was no reserve price. I could handle that. I decided what my top price would be (based on how much money I had managed to save by then) and started bidding in five dollar increments. I placed my first bid and immediately got notice that I had been outbid. Someone had set a higher maximum price.  I placed a few more bids then stopped. It was still more than a day before the auction's end and I didn't want to set off a bidding war.

The auction was set to end in the afternoon on May 12. That morning I checked the auction. The price had gone up to over $200.00. I put in a bid and (gasp!) got notice that mine was currently the winning bid!  I checked back an hour later and found that I had been outbid. Curses!

I was excited about the possibility of winning something that I could afford - even though it was the wrong thing!  I had been looking for a van, a Class B camper. This was a significantly bigger Class C RV. Where would I park?  Still, the chances of coming across a deal this good again . . . I couldn't rationally pass it up.  I placed another bid and won again. A few minutes later another bid came in. Now I knew that my counterpart was also bidding in very small increments and that those amounts ended in zero. I waited.

Fifteen minutes before the auction ended I decided to set my maximum price at $300.00.  No!  $305.00.   I sat and I waited, my eyes glued to the screen, watching the minutes tick by. At seven minutes before the deadline I placed my next bid and won. Again I waited, my heart pounding as though I were running a marathon. Nothing happened.  My counterpart was waiting, too.  At about three minutes before the auction ended I put in my maximum bid.  $305.00.  And I waited.  The eBay clock counted down the seconds and I watched, my heart thundering, my eyes riveted to the numbers ticking by.

Suddenly I saw the number of bids change. Twenty-six bids, twenty-seven bids. The clock ticked down to 60 seconds and more bids came in: Twenty-eight bids, then twenty-nine.  Bid thirty came in at 5 seconds before the deadline. Then the clock hit zero and a green bar appeared on my screen.  "You are the winner!" it said. I sat stunned and bug-eyed and paralyzed for a moment. My ploy worked!  I won! I had done it! What had I done? The price: $300.00.  Not free, exactly, but, considering my purchase, it was pretty darn close.

After about a full minute of stunned gaping, I dashed off a note to the seller:

Hi Rick*, my name is Bathabile and it looks like I've just purchased your RV! I'm really excited. May I send the payment tomorrow? Also, I live in NYC and will need to arrange for a place to keep the RV - especially while I renovate it. How long can it stay with you?

"It looks like I've just purchased your RV".  That was shock talking. I still wasn't entirely convinced. And what about the details? Would Rick expect me to take the van right away?  I decided to put worry aside. I wouldn't have won the van if it wasn't meant to happen and if it was meant to happen, then the parking situation would also get solved.

I was ready to pay for my purchase but discovered that the Rick had not provided an electronic option.  I had no idea how to pay for the van.  The instructions said to contact the seller. I had done that so I waited.  And waited.  And waited.

By the next morning I started to fear that, perhaps, Rick couldn't believe the price either. Maybe he was suffering seller's remorse. I had felt a little doubtful about this purchase the day before but now I was fully committed. I started having fantasies about decorating it and all the places we would go. He was going to sell me the camper, dammit!  So I called eBay.

It turns out that sales agreements on eBay are non-binding! Even though the auction was over and I was the winner, the seller was still free to back out of the deal (as was I). Who knew?! "But it's a contract," I wailed to the customer service representative on the phone.  I was ready, willing and able to make good on the deal. "How would you feel," the representative asked, "if your camper only sold for $300.00?" I was stunned.  Seriously?  "That's easy, set a reserve price!" I replied.  Thankfully, eBay has an option for sharing contact information with other members and so I sent a message to Rick with my phone number.  And I waited. I felt my initial excitement begin to seep from my heart and I started preparing myself to start the van search all over again.

Later that evening I finally got the email I was waiting for. It was Rick congratulating me on my purchase! He was going to sell me the camper! I literally jumped up and down. We arranged to meet the next day (Tuesday) so that I could give him the money and he could give me the title. I still couldn't believe it! Neither could a dear friend of mine who insisted on driving out to see the camper for himself.  Rick sounded a little amused but he agreed to meet my friend who ultimately confirmed that, yes, the camper did really exist, looked like the pictures, and yes it really did start.

Rick met me as we agreed. We ducked into a Starbucks where he wrote out a bill of sale and we both filled out the title document. I have ten days to register my new home. I'm looking for a place to park it.  I would appreciate any suggestions for a location that is in New Jersey but close to New York City without being outrageously expensive.

I don't have pictures quite yet. Look for another breathless update all about meeting my camper for the first time.  Would it be wrong to name her "Down by the River"?

*Rick isn't his real name. I don't (yet) have permission to reveal it.

Why am I doing this Part II (aka The Prey that Got Away)

I have written a blog post about intentional happiness lifestyle design.  That post presents one aspect of why I am making the lifestyle changes that I am. This post presents another aspect of my decision.

Do you remember The Social Contract? Jean-Jacque Rousseau? The treatise on the relationship between the people and the government? Rousseau focused on the sources of political authority which he credited to "the people" rather than to a monarch who ruled by so-called divine right. His work revolutionized politics in Europe and significantly influenced the American Revolution.

There is another sort of social contract that threads the fabric of every society. It is an economic contract. In the context of capitalist industrialized societies, that relationship mainly lays between corporations and people. Basically, the corporations (i.e. the shareholders) own the means of production (sound familiar?) and the workers produce the products. The corporations sell the products and (here is the social contract part) distribute the profits between themselves and the workers. The corporations have a vested interest in the welfare of the workers, the workers have a vested interest in the welfare of the corporations. That's how it is supposed to work.

Then there are the banks. The banks make it possible for the corporations and the people to conduct business: Purchase and sell assets, finance large investments, store their money, and so forth.

There are rules and regulations that govern the transactions within this economic contract. They are intended to curb excess, prevent abuse, and prosecute it when it does happen.

The United States enjoyed a period of relative prosperity during the Clinton Administration. This got certain people thinking, hey, there is no limit, let's milk this thing for all it is worth. So they got rid of the rules, went hog wild, and then, eventually, as should be expected, it all came crashing down.

My issue is this: in the aftermath, the corporations and the banks (well, the people who run them, really) have made no effort to uphold their end of the economic bargain. It is much worse than that. They have coerced ordinary citizens (via the government) to pay to fix the mess that they made. Below I have posted an excellent video made by the political economist (excellent combo) and Brown University professor, Mark Blyth that explains this all quite nicely. (By the way, I find his accent super sexy.)

In the beginning I totally accepted the financial crisis hype, believing that allowing the banks to fail would lead to unbridled disaster. I believed that the bank bailout was unavoidable and prudent. Perhaps it was. However, the aftermath is unconscionable and I find myself growing more unwilling to participate in this nonsense.

So, I ask myself, what can I do to make big banks and multi-national corporations irrelevant to my life?

For me the answer lays in arranging my life in a way that has as little to do with mass consumption as possible. So, in addition to changing my life for the sake of living in the now and maximizing my happiness, I am also minimizing the stranglehold that consumerism has had on my life.

Imagine being free from worrying about money and the constant, grinding, soul obliterating obsession with the means of obtaining it and, rather, having one's needs met via direct exchange with other human beings. Imagine a life where what the "too big to fail" banks do has minimal impact because money is not the central mode of exchange.

Again, I am not doing this because I don't believe in industry and the economies of scale. I am doing this because our banks and corporations have not only betrayed and abandoned us to the wolves, they have become the wolves and they are feeding on us. Many argue that they always have. Fine. Whatever the case, I choose to be the prey that got away.

 

How do I shelter myself Part II

I have found a new obsession. Vans! I'm learning about makes and models and histories all toward answering one question: Can I live in it?

My last blogpost was about my desire to live in a bus. That is so last week. In the interim, I have discovered VANS!!! A bus conversion can be expensive, finding a place to park the bus is a nagging issue, and I really need to get about making this lifestyle change as soon as possible.

As I bopped around the many delightful Youtube videos featuring bus conversions, I began to notice the videos featuring vans. I decided to check them out and discovered that, as a starter mobile home situation, vans are an excellent choice for me. They are much cheaper, parking is a much less daunting prospect, and I can get started on this next phase of my life much sooner.

I am relishing the reactions I get when I say that I intend to move into a van. On the one hand, there is guarded shock and dismay (guarded to avoid insulting me, I suppose, shock and dismay because, well, why would anyone (especially an Ivy League educated former Wall Street litigator) want to do that! unless she is flat broke, destitute, down-and-out, basically tragic. On the other hand I did get an enthusiastic, "Go for it" from my sister. She's awesome.

I am explaining why as I go along blogging. You will just have to keep reading (ha!). For now, I am saving my pennies and scoping vans.

Van scoping is such a stereotypically dude thing. I have long marveled at how the same man who will forget birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, taking out the trash and how to put dirty clothes in the hamper will remember twenty years worth of sports miscellanea and the specs of every vehicle in a parking lot. I'll admit, however, that, while part of me has always admired car expertise, I have never been inspired to develop it myself . . . until now.

I've always had a bit of the tomboy in me. I played full contact co-ed football in high school. We played pick-up games on the weekend. We wore no protective gear. I felt powerful; it was awesome. Now I feel as though I returning to my roots. That feels good.

I have started scoping out vans on the street, which can lead to some funny moments. Commercial van drivers tend to be men. Bored, perhaps, certainly virile. They see a woman staring in their direction with frank interest, they can't be blamed for believing that I'm checking them out. I'm not. I'm checking out their vans.

I've settled on two models that I like best. One is the Sprinter, the other is the Econoline. I have to laugh about the Sprinter because that choice is so typical for me. Put me in any store and, without fail, I will pick the most expensive item available. Shoes, bags, dresses, you name it, I'll find the most expensive one. Apparently my taste for luxury runs toward vans as well.

I first saw the Sprinter van in Harlem. I was walking home from my teaching gig when it came speeding past me like a sleek black cheetah. It stopped at a red light and I hurried toward it, desperate to see the make and model. The only thing I managed to make out before it zoomed off when the light turned green was an all-to-familiar trademark: Mercedez Benz. Seriously. I'm lusting for vans and I manage to set my sights on a Mercedes.

Soon I began to see these vans everywhere! I started to take pictures, giggling to myself about what passersby might have been thinking. It is New York City. Tourists are forever taking photos of all manner of things but, vans? Anyway, the day after I spotted my first Sprinter, I saw another one, same color, parked near Columbus Circle. So I took pictures. See! Ohhhh!!! Ahhhh!!!

 

Here are different angles of another Sprinter van. I prefer to sneak up on the vans and snap my shots while keeping a low profile.

I believe the last one might actually be a Ford Transit. I noticed the Sprinter because I had found a wonderfully well done Youtube video detailing how to convert a Ford Transit (similar body, less expensive, of course) into a camper. The video is below. One distinct advantage of a van like the Sprinter is that one can stand up inside. This is very important to me.

There are other vans that have more space. Specifically, the Ford Econoline has caught my eye. Now, I am a Ford skeptic. I remember learning, long ago, that Ford stands for Fix Or Repair Daily. Still . . . the space. . .  I have started seeing Econolines everywhere, too. After a bit of research, I've decided that I really like the E-350 series with the converted top. Last night, I saw a van that pretty well matches what I think I'll ultimately end up with. Here it is! (Ohhh!!! Ahhh!!!).

I took these pictures at night, guerilla stealth-style.

I can understand if you are still skeptical about whether or not this can work. What about the weather? What about the bathroom? Men tend to ask me the bathroom question much more than women do. Go figure. In my searching about, I happened across an amazing woman who calls herself Mocha Gypsy.  She hosts a delightful blog about her journey into becoming a van dweller (that's what it's called). Here is a link to Mocha Gypsy's blog; I think you'll enjoy it.

This is the video in which she explains the ingenious methods she uses to live comfortably in a van even during the Northeastern winter. Enjoy! I'm off to indulge in more van porn (yes, I said that).

This Intentional Happiness Lifestyle Design Thing

Some people do well living life without particular goals or a sense of purpose. I am not one of those people.  I have been making plans since I can remember.  At the start of every year in grade school I would inventory my clothes and create a chart detailing which outfits and hairstyles I would wear each day.  At the beginning of this year, I created a chart to detail what I would eat each day, making sure that each meal was based on the key ingredients in each week's grocery list. Each week of the month features a different vegetable and legume.

Fifteen years ago I created a seven year master plan that saw me through graduate school. And then things fell apart (the moral of the story being: Make longer master plans). Falling apart took three years (I'm stubborn) and I have spent the five years since then trying to figure out the meaning of life (and why everything happens in odd numbers of years).

When I picked up Tim Ferriss's book "The 4-Hour Work Week", I was married, had a house, a dog, a husband, his car, was paying two mortgages, and was a corporate law firm associate on Wall Street. Having a child was the next goal - just like it was supposed to be. Looking back, I see how I was following the rules that our society insists is the right one: Wait for happiness, plan for success. So there I was with all this success, a ton of responsibilities, not a lot of happiness, and this book that says, dump it all, be happy. I read the book eagerly then put it aside. It all sounded great but . . .

Life took care of all that stuff for me and now it is time for a new plan.  I've had five years to think about it and here is what I've come up with.  Rather than planning for success, I am planning to be happy. With every part of the plan, the central question for me is, will I be happy?

There are three major parts to the plan:

• How I shelter myself
• How I give and receive value
• How I care for my embodied Soul

How I shelter myself will likely be the most challenging aspect of this Intentional Happiness Lifestyle Design. It will take the most planning and take the longest to achieve so I'm starting with that.

A few weeks ago, I suddenly developed the urge to live on a bus. I can't remember exactly how it happened but I learned of people who have transformed buses into amazing living spaces.  It took another couple of weeks for me to understand why I feel so passionately about living on a bus.

Leaving my house is one of my least favorite things to do. I love to be at home. By myself. With a good book, or writing, or watching a movie.  At the same time, I adore traveling and exploring new places. Living on a bus allows me to travel and be at home at the same time! It is perfect!

Here is an example of a truly impressive bus conversion.  It's like the Taj Majal of buses.

There are other options. For example, check out this tiny house on wheels. What I love best about this video is hearing the home builder and owner, Dee Williams (who owns fewer than 400 things) talk about why she was inspired to live in a tiny house and what doing so does for her. Her explanation basically describes why this kind of living would contribute to my happiness. She is my hero!

I'm giving myself three years to achieve this goal. I need to raise money to build whatever it is I decide to build and find the expertise to help me do the work. That leads me to my upcoming blogpost: figuring out how to pay for this project!

P.S. No, this is not a three year plan. I've learned my lesson. There is actually a forty-year plan in the works. It involves splitting time between two different continents, becoming a farmer, having 100 children, and living in a hut. Yes. Really.