It's not STALKING, it's Monitoring

I feel the need to set the record straight. Kelly and I do not stalk, we monitor. Just because we happen to be home a lot due to hit-or-miss employment, and just because we happen to like to look outside a lot when we're perched at the internet-stealing window and just because we happen to have theories about the goings-on of our across-the-street neighbors who might be drug dealers we've decided because of all the random visits they receive from a lot of different people at all times of the day and just because we happen to jump up and look out the peep hole in the front door to catch a glimpse of the new neighbor upstairs or the other neighbor who is apparently a cop (and apparently cute!)and just because we happen to think setting up a survelliance camera near the trash bins (becuase everyone HAS to throw their trash away sometime) to see said neighbors does not make us stalkers. We are simply interested citizens who spend any given amount of time monitoring the activity within our area. Let the record be straightened.

Keeping it Human

The human body has long been likened to a machine. A brilliant, self-sustaining machine in which each part contributes to the functioning of another part, and so on. Just the other day, I used the image of a engine to create an analogy for the seventh graders to help them understand calories as fuel and the car’s output. Biology was my second favorite subject in high school, because I LOVED learning about cells and body systems. I was enamored with the complexity of these miniscule microcosms and the way in which they worked together and relied on each other.

Unlike a machine, however, the body can “fix” itself. We fall down and get a cut, and clotting cells rush to the area, as well as red blood cells to fill the clot and white blood cells to kill the intruding bacteria. The mouth comes equipped with two sets of teeth to better suit our growing and hygiene. The heart reacts within milliseconds to danger as a result of a rush of adrenaline causing us to run fast or duck low, all senses on high-alert, blood pumping furiously.

Like a machine, the body can break down beyond its own self-repair. It cannot maintain its own homeostasis when disease takes over. When injuries are so great that a system cannot function, which causes trauma to the other systems. At these times, we rely on actual machines, to breathe for us, to reroute and clean our blood, to provide the correct hormones or neurotransmitters or to provide those electrical signals to get our hearts going again.

The concept of medicine has become a very sterile force over the decades of research and developing methodologies. We have the newest sonograms to see the very deepest of our inside parts to the 4th dimension (apparently, the 3rd just wasn’t enough). We can have open-heart surgery without even opening the chest. We can correct an abnormality in the heart of an unborn baby. We put blood into a microscope and it tells us things about that blood. It’s easy to lose the human aspect of this human “machine.”

I gave blood today. The American Red Cross’ promotional posters inform me that with my measly one-pint donation, I can save up to seven lives. There is something about blood, actual human blood that cannot be replicated by a machine, and medicine must rely on it. My offering of humanity is a force that will preserve another’s experience of their own humanity.

Yes, the body is a machine. My system will have replaced all the platelets, plasma and red blood cells in about two weeks. My nervous system registered pain when I got suck by that huge, scary needle, and my adrenaline got my heart going just a wee bit more which increased the pressure on my arm cuff so that my hand got a little tingly. I will have a tiny scab where the clotting factors rushed to the rescue, and I will have a bruise from the moments before those factors could fill the hole in my vein.

But beyond the discomfort, beyond the fear and pain, I have contributed my humanity to preserve seven others’ beautifully intricate machines.

"She had lost the great arrogant years in the life of a pretty girl"

Here we go again...another Valentine's day, another decision to make. In my typical tendency to defy the "norm," I wasn't going to comment on Valentine's Day. I wasn't even going to be even the slightest bit bitter about being single and all. For whatever reason, last year I LOVED Valentine's Day...I felt so optimistic and even excited for the day, though I had no romantic prospects whatsoever. This year I find myself ambivalent. But I'm commenting, contrary to my normal behavior.

The quote, "She had lost the great arrogant years in the life of a pretty girl" came from F.Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night, and it has really stuck with me. I was journalling some thoughts that have been circulating my mind for several weeks now, and thought they'd make a satisfactorily non-traditional Valentine's rant. This will sound very arrogant. You've been warned.

It is an enormous disappointment to the Pretty Girl to learn that there is someone for everyone. Every person is beautiful to someone and we're not just talking about a mother's love here. Because everyone can be beautiful, there is nothing special in being beautiful. Nothing unique. Nothing that will cause the uncomfortably gorgeous, green-eyed Irishman to put down his guitar and take the Pretty Girl into his arms for a lifetime.

So what is the Pretty Girl to do? Develop character. After all, it's always the quirky-best-friend girl who puts on an incredible dress and wins her best friend's heart. But again, anyone can do that. Nothing particularly unique there.

So what is the Pretty, Quirky and Fun Girl to do? Well, she's to go on with her life, making choices on how she will live. She will enter a new job, she will travel to another country and fall helplessly in love with a local, learn his language and live a culturally shared bliss, peppered with the humorous side stories of miscommunications and cultural faux pas. But how likely is that to actually happen? I mean, it does, every day, but the Pretty, Quirky and Fun girl can't go overseas with that possibility as an eventuality.

So what is the Pretty, Quirky and Fun, Culturally Interested Girl to do? She could become bitter. She could resign herself to a life of Sisterhood, feeding the orphans and denying her own hunger for love and relationship. She could learn the hard walk of self-reliance, learning to lean only on herself and to become emotionally detached and distrusting of love and armorous intent. That is, until the patient, blue-eyed 6'2" heart of gold breaks her from her tough outer shell and releases her into a world of comfort and happiness and trust. But when the Girl only has one life...a numbered number of days, why spend those miserable?

So what is the Pretty, Quirky and Fun, Culturally Interested, Emotionally Unfulfilled Girl to do?

Turn off the tv. Stop frequenting the dollar theatre for Irish brogue. Live. Because it's likely to be better than what Hollywood produces. Love. And continue to dream.

Always, continue to dream.

Music is my life

I've always thought it'd make me a bit of a poser to make the aforementioned statement. I have NO rhythm. Seriously. I've gone to some steps/weights classes at my gym and I'm convinced I'm there for comic effect as I flail my arms a half second after my instructor and have to skip steps to get caught up. And during my beloved spinning classes, a new song will come on and the instructor will tell us to match our pace to the beat of the song...I get there and can hold it for about ten seconds, then it's gone again. Oh, and clapping along during a song in contemporary worship. Nope. I can either sing, OR clap. My concentration is fully occupied by sticking to the rhythm, and I prefer to sing, not that my voice is much of an improvement over my rhythm, of course. For instance, my tonality is questionable, and I can't hear parts.

Thus, to say that "music is my life," doesn't seem to quite fit. But I assure you, it's true. Ever since I was a kid, and we'd play those "Which would you rather" games, and when the question was "Be blind or deaf?" I always picked blind because I couldn't imagine not being able to listen to music. If there is nothing else I can take with me, electronics-wise, into the Peace Corps, it will be my iPod.

Taking into account my complete inability to be a creator of said music, or to improve others' experience of music, I've always been completely AMAZED by those who can, in face, produce or enhance musical experiences. Those people get major gold stars in my book. Lyricists, especially, rock my small world with their ability to take my heart and mind to places my heart and mind didn't know before. And the sound of it...the rise that makes me happy, the lethargy that makes me contemplative, the thump-thump beat that makes me dance like white girl skinny...did I mention that I can't dance, either?

Music, is, my life. Kelly laughed at me last night when, after getting home from seeing "P.S. I Love You" at the dollar theatre for the second night in a row, I immediately logged into iTunes and bought the album. I think her exact words were, "You're unemployed and you won't even buy groceries, but you'll buy music."

I've been playing the album all day. :)

It's how us unemployed roll

So, Kell and I are unemployed. Still. There are only so many hours in a day a girl can walk up and down the street with her ideals and a resume and get rejected time after time...so, said girl must find other things to occupy all the other hours.

Firstly, sleep in. A lot. Maybe til 10 one day, 11 the next. BUT, make sure to MOVE YOUR CAR ON STREETSWEEPING DAYS. That's from 9:00-11:00. You CAN go back to sleep, though.

Secondly, you're poor, so figure out some free things to do. Walking is free. One day, I said to Kelly, "Kelly, what should we do today?" "Not sure. What do you want to do?" "Let's go for a walk." "Ok." So, we went for a walk. We walked to the Queen Mary. We browsed a Borders and read the books for free, then left. Three hours later, we got home. Then we took naps because we were tired. ;)

Another free thing to do is go to museums on their "Free" days. The Long Beach Museum of Contemporary Art has "Free Fridays," so guess what Kelly and I are doing later? We're walking to the museum. We will browse said art pieces, then walk home.

Thirdly, FIND INTERNET. We've discovered that at the public library down the road, there are computers hooked up to the internet. So, we walk. Panera is also AMAZING and offers free internet...I buy a cup of coffee for $1.80 and sit for three hours and have 4-5 refills. Yep. Now, chat to everyone who is at work and trying to be productive. Distract them. Annoy them. Discuss truly significant things like whether a truck's emergency brake will light up all the tail lights or not.

Fourthly, this will not last forever. Try to enjoy it. Rock bottom is VERY far away, and there are a lot of people who would catch you before that ever really became an issue anyway.

A few words of caution:
Beware of watching too many seasons in a row of a particular show that you happen to love. You will cry when bad stuff happens to these people who have magically become your family and you will forget that they are not real.

Ice cream will begin to sound like a good idea for lunch. Remember, you will eat a lot, being near the kitchen and all and not having anything else to do. Counter this by running, walking, biking, etc-ing. Plus, those are FREE activities! :)



Any other ideas of what the unemployed might try? Hopefully, we're running out of time as said "schedule-ey free" girls!

"I am" who I want to be

Lately I've been thinking about the definition of self. Perhaps the fact that we seek the conclusion to the ethereal "I am" statement is one of the things that makes us most human. And truly, this concept is everywhere...movies, tv, music...we are all seeking its end.

I have turned in a LOT of resumes and applications in the last few weeks, and have been on several interviews. Interviews are a lot like first dates, I'm thinking, because both require you to define yourself. "See, this is who I am here, here and here, and this is what I do to shape the world around me." During dates, we are trying to see if who we are aligns closely enough to our date's taste and personality, and during interviews, we are trying to convince our potential employer that who we are will benefit his or her company.

High school brings the greatest conflict in self-definition for many, and then college, and then it keeps going. And re-definition should always continue, I assert, because we're always changing. The guy, Peck, who wrote a book called The Road Less Traveled, offers us the image of our personalized "maps." Maps of who we think we are, how we see our world, how we interact with our world, how we see others in our world, and where we are going based on the terrain as we see it. As each new experience happens, we re-shape our maps. Maps have keys, indicate mountains, capitals and other landmarks, and offer a traveler a perspective of where they've been and how they might proceed. So, what does your "map" look like? Who are you?

In my "I am" existentiality, I realised I don't know. I really identified with Kristin Armstrong's final line in her recent blog, "you are still, and always, a runner." This lady who has no idea who I am boosted my confidence in my flagging fitness routine. I just watched the movie, "The Holiday," and the old movie writer tells Kate Winslet's character that she should be the leading lady in her life, not the best friend. And Carrie's character in "Sex and the City" has in several instances said, "That's just me."

These things I identify with because they offer hope that there is a place, an actual finality in self-discovery...but I'm beginning to think that it's a false hope. Well, a mis-directed hope. Because we don't ever stop filling in the "I am" blank. And for me, I feel like I don't know who I am. I am a runner, yes. I am a friend, sister, daughter, granddaughter. I am a traveler. I am a renter. I am someone who dances her hip hop in the car. I am a reader. I am a cheese-lover. I am both leading lady AND best friend.

But on deeper levels, I am unsure. Couldn't the definition of self include, or perhaps, be superseded by who we desire to be? I WANT to be a writer. I WANT deeper faith. I WANT deeper relationships. I want someone to tell me that if he wrote my theme song, he'd use all the best notes (also from "The Holiday"). I want to understand God and his role in my life and my role in his world better. I want to be a treasured friend, sister, daughter, granddaughter, woman. I want to be an excellent teacher. I want to love. Perhaps if we stop with "I am," we lose the significance of our maps. How can we continue to change them if we already are? Can we start off a date with, "Well, here's who I hope to be..." Can we connect with each other in that way, or is it more of a "map" thing? And what if we never become those things we want to be? Do we never achieve the "I am?" Is that perhaps the point? Many of the things I want to be and I'm sure many others also seek do not have finish lines. It isn't possible, I think, to have "enough" faith. To be an excellent teacher. To laugh off the insignificant things and focus on the all-important LOVING.

So IS there hope? Absolutely. Do I know who I am? Nope. I know where I've been, though, and I'm adjusting the key in the "Legend" box at the bottom of my map...adding a new road here, a different tint to the hill there. The legends to our lives. The unattainable outcome, the perpetual search. The life, boots on, and the end, love had, and done.