While she sings specifically about the existential questions of life– Why are we here? What will happen to us when we die?– and her willingness to succumb to the reality that she will never truly know, I have taken the title of the song as a personal challenge in all things.

I found myself one day thinking about the perfect mixed CD and how much this form of musical sharing means to me. I began to dissect what it is that makes a mix a good one. Song selection, balance, placement, subject matter… But then, it occurred to me: part of what makes a mix good is the magic behind it, the not knowing. So I guess I should just let the mystery be.

Now, three months away from my graduation from grad school, I find myself often asking the question, “What’s next?” and the planner in me is running around in circles with arms waving in the air and screaming. I have to know what is going to happen. There are so many questions left unanswered, but, almost as if mocking me, the one answer that remains constant is “Let the mystery be.”

Perhaps, just like the mixed CD, if I were ever to know what the future held, it would take away from the magic and wonder of it all. So I suppose I’ll choose to let the mystery be.

I have no explanation for myself.

But I’m too tired…

You probably didn’t notice, or maybe you did, but I haven’t been writing as frequently as the first half of this year and, I will tell you, it is with good reason. I have been ignoring real life messages to update the system (me!) and now there are like 32 that I have to do all at once. This is going to take some time and then I’ll have to reboot.

But this is the way it goes: We live, we do, we move, we change, and then our hearts have to catch up.

Here’s to updating and rebooting! And metaphors! And introverts! And exclamation points!

Today, I went to treat myself after officially finishing my summer session of classes. And for those of you who have never gotten a manicure, never seen someone getting one on television, or never even heard of one, the ladies, from time to time will make small talk with their customers. They usually ask about harmless things– if you live in the neighborhood, the weather and if they’re feeling daring, they may ask about a significant other.

I entertain this kind of talk. When she was singing the praises of Los Angeles weather over Chicago weather, I agreed both in my head and out loud. Then she went on to talk about how much fun Chicago is in the summertime. And once again, she, my head and my out loud all agreed.

But then things turned. Mistakenly boosted by the confidence of our empirically correct agreement on completely benign subjects, she began to take more risks.

She broached the subject of gentlemen and I was willing to gab, but words came out of her mouth that made me wish I had a friend with me to silently communicate with. In the absence of a friend, I am certain I made a face.

After professing her love of redheads, she went on to make sure that I knew that Irish and German men were players. “You know that, right?” She persisted after I interpreted her question as a rhetorical one and didn’t respond. “You know that, right?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” I respond. I wanted to define a stereotype for her and let her know that that wasn’t really one of them, that she had just made one up. But, recognizing that she has sharp objects and easy access to my cuticles and that I have not yet agreed on a price, I opt to claim ignorance.

But then, somehow the topic of the diversity in Chicago comes up and she starts to list the Asian cultures that are prominent in the city. And I have to preface this, for all my readers: I am White– half Polish and half other many different things. I grew up going to a diverse elementary school and high school in Los Angeles and I was raised (it takes a village, you know) with an appreciation for multiculturalism. Also for the rest of this story, it is important to note that my best friends through elementary school were Filipino and based on the experience of the culture I gained by being welcomed in by their family (my best friends were cousins), I LOVE Filipino culture. Like really love it, in case you didn’t know what all caps mean. Will extra letters help to clarify? Looooooove it. I learned more and more about Filipino culture as I got older, from friends in high school and in college. The food, the commitment to faith and family, and karaoke. What more could you ask for?

So she’s listing the different Asian cultures and then she gets to Filipino. Already, I do not appreciate her tone. Say it peppier, woman! It deserves cheerfulness. Then, leaving the potential to have misinterpreted her tone in the dust, she begins to badmouth the culture, the people and once again asks for my agreement, “You know, right?”

“No. That’s not right.”

Somehow she continues, ignoring the fact that I am not in agreement, not in my head, not out loud. (Still with sharp objects in hand and price undiscussed). I stopped listening as I tried desperately to plot a return to the benign… Tell me again what I should buy to make it through a Chicago winter…

She then says something disparaging about another culture that I don’t know very much about. And I say something about how I enjoy learning about other cultures and about the richness that this learning has added to my life and my understanding of the world.

This gets the message across that I am not her audience. Finally.

So what exactly is the lesson here?

That people are kind of ignorant? Well, I kind of knew that.

That disrespectful people make me upset? Knew that, too.

That it’s impossible to tell someone that they’re ignorant without insulting them, and sometimes saying what you mean is more important than whether or not they like you? Yeah, I think that’s the one.

But fair warning, they link to my blog at the bottom and if you’re not careful, you could find yourself in an endless cycle of clicking links.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Since then, I have been acutely aware of my relationship with flexibility and control. I know this much about myself– I like to know what to expect. Sure, I’m all for flexibility, but in order to be flexible, there has to be a plan to deviate from… right? Think of it in terms of physical flexibility: if we were all just blobs, no one would be flexible. It’s because we have arms and legs that typically move in certain ways, that we are able to define what flexible is.

But when you can’t relax your hand long enough for someone who you are paying to paint your fingernails to paint your fingernails, there’s a problem.

I have taken some baby steps in letting go of some control and my need to plan. Just a few weeks ago, a friend and I were arranging to meet up for drinks. We picked a day and then I got a text that asked if we could play the time by ear. My brain almost exploded. “Say yes. The answer to that question is yes…” I repeated as a mantra, trying, unsuccessfully, to convince myself that it was true. Then I remembered the manicure and the gentle nudging of the manicurist, “Let go…” (here, italics read as a whisper). With that, I reached a compromise. “Sure. Before or after dinner, though?” I replied. It was decided that we would meet up after dinner. Like I said, baby steps.

Back to the manicure, for it had one more lesson to impart. After he was done, I sat for just about as long as I could stand (Sat for just as long as I could stand? Who am I? Yogi Berra?) and then left with my friend to window shop at a few stores. A not-so-long story even shorter, my new manicure was pretty much ruined. Several of my newly painted fingernails bore smudges and ever-so-slight imprints of my other fingers’ fingerprints. Patience  is the other lesson here. Take your time, sit still, allow things to settle before moving onto the next thing. Nothing is going to run away from you.

Not even a full week later, I removed the polish from my fingers– a fresh start.

The moral of this manicure is:

Let go of control every once in a while and sit still for just a few minutes longer than you think you can.

The title for this post was taken from The Belle Brigade‘s song Where Not To Look For Freedom, one of my favorite songs these days.

At this time in my life, I have no one who depends on me for their life or or needs my support at all times– no people, no animals, no job and right now I’m off from school. So naturally I drove for five hours to Detroit, stayed for twelve, slept for six of those twelve, and then drove the five hours back to Chicago.

With friends from all over the country and who live all over the country, there are some things you just have to do. One friend visiting Chicago from LA, another mutual friend from Detroit was home and having an epic party to celebrate summertime… 1+1=2. It doesn’t take a mathematician.

Once we made it to Detroit, we called a cab to take us to an abandoned warehouse where our friend is having his party. There is no shortage of abandoned buildings in Detroit.  We give our cabbie the address and he responds, “Um. There’s something wrong with that address…”

With some requested clarification, it is revealed that we are going to one of the worst parts of Detroit. We assure him that in spite of appearances, we can hold our own and he reluctantly takes us. Mind you, this cab driver is also certifiably insane and a little mean. He is just saying things and laughing, probably making fun of us. I didn’t understand any of it, though I did laugh a couple of times. But it was at him, not with him. I coughed to try and cover it up, lest he think that I thought he was funny.

We finally get dropped off and he drives away uncertain that we won’t be murdered. (Sorry, Mom, I’m home safe and sound now). Our friend came out to meet us and gave us a tour of this warehouse. There were bowling pins set up, ten pins on each side and a football just sitting there. “It’s called fowling,” we are told. You take turns throwing the football at the pins opposite you, and the first team to knock them all down wins. It’s a movement that is going to sweep the nation. Mark my words.

A band played some songs and people danced, threw footballs at bowling pins and welcomed in the summer with open arms. I sat with my friend who made the drive from Chicago with me and asked, “Do you think we’ll remember this night?” And even though it was merely a hiccup as compared to the massive earthquake that life is, the answer is yes, I will remember. I will especially carry with me memories of the fowling, the friendship and the freedom from my trip to Detroit.

Okay now, it’s summer time. Let’s all watch The Sandlot, catch june bugs, and shoot fireworks!

Just this year, I bought my first brand new, never before used computer. Made it through undergrad and a few years of work on a new-in-2002, hand-me-down Dell laptop. Like a baby who is just building up its neck muscles, the screen of the laptop would wobble around if it was even slightly bumped. I worried that one day it would just break in half (unlike a baby). But I made it work and it lasted just about as long as I needed it to.

Anyway, my point is, I am a little behind the times, but I have always felt fairly competent operating new technologies. Apparently, I had not met my match yet.

I have never felt so much like Brendan Fraser in Encino Man (better than Pauly Shore, I suppose) as I did the other day trying to fill my cup at the soda fountain in Five Guys (a burger joint out here). There was just one (ONE!) spicket/spout/thing for liquid and ice to come out of. I filled my cup with ice since this was still done the way you would expect it to be. But then, I wanted a Cherry Coke.

There was a screen with all of the sodas that they offered on the front of the machine. My internal dialogue* went as follows:

*I know, dialogue is supposed to be for two people, but I was so conflicted!

Me: This looks like a touch screen, just try touching the Cherry Coke logo.

I touched the Cherry Coke logo. Nothing happened.

Me: Push it harder.

Me2: But what if it isn’t a touch screen? Then people will think you’re an idiot.

Me: They probably already do, just push it harder. Oh, look! There’s a metallic round button in the front that says “PUSH” on it! Push that!

I pushed the metallic round button and placed the cup, which, at this point, is filled with nothing except a little bit of ice and a lot of hope, under the spicket/spout/thing. Again, nothing. There was a group of people sitting and chatting who probably didn’t really care what I was up to, but there was this one dude who was sitting by himself. He was judging me and my ineptitude with 21st century soda fountain technology, I could feel it.

Me2: Maybe take a break, go sit down and wait until they call out your number and then try again, when you’re less panicked.

Me: Are you sure you don’t want to try just pushing both buttons, but just a little harder and more frequently? I mean, what if you go back and you still can’t do it?

Me2: Yeah. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to figure it out…

And I walked away. Without thinking, I went and sat far away from the machine with my ice cup, waiting for my number to be called. A group of people walked in after me. They ordered their food and made their way over to the soda fountain and without any trouble got their drinks.

Me: WTF!? I’m smart and capable! I should be able to do that!

Me2: I probably should have sat closer to the machine so I could see how other people made it work. And now it’s too late. I can’t creepily walk up behind them to spy on them and what sodas they choose and how they choose them, and it would be extra weird to ask them for their help.

Me: I know! I’ll discreetly ask the dude who gives me my food when they call my number. I’m sure it’s something simple that I’m missing and he could easily explain it.

I waited and then my number was called. I walked over grabbed my food and asked him.

Me (to him): (Trying to be cool) Hey, how does the soda machine work? I had some trouble with it earlier.

He started to walk out from behind the counter to meet me at the soda fountain.

Me: No! No! No! If you come around then whatever is left of my “cool” cover will be blown! I will look, unmistakably, like a complete idiot!

It was too late, he was already there.

Him: First you choose your drink.

He looks at me as if asking me a question.

Me (to him): Cherry Coke.

He touches the Cherry Coke logo, just as I had unsuccessfully tried to do before.

Me: It was a touch screen! I knew it! You should have pushed harder.

He grabbed my cup and put it under the spicket/spout/thing and pushed the metallic round button that said “PUSH” on it. And as if transported to the land of milk and honey, Cherry Coke started flowing. You would have thought that I would’ve been happy, but no. I took my Coke and my food and I ate and drank in shame. Technology had beat me, but I’ll be better armed for the next time.

Even Encino Man can “wheez the juice”…

For the record, this is not a good movie, but it’s the only thing 1992, Sean Astin, Brendan Fraser and and Pauly Shore have in common, as far as I know.

I just finished my first year of graduate school (hooray!) and had to spend some time in the library working on my final papers. One afternoon, I picked a spot that allows for a quiet library view of Downtown Chicago, one of my favorite views in this city. This time, however, my quiet view was made noisy by two chatty law students. I tried to tune them out as much as possible, to focus on my work, but I had to give up. I sat with my laptop opened, pretending to work, but listening to their conversation for a few minutes. This was a mistake. These two gentlemen spoke for ten minutes about this girl who one of them invited to study with them, mind you, this is following a fifteen minute conversation about their workout regimens.

Dude 1: Well, if she comes I’m leaving. I never get anything done when she’s here. She just takes out her laptop and talks the entire time.

The irony is oozing out of this statement.

Dude 2: How would you feel if you asked if you could study with me and I told you no? I don’t wanna be a dick.

Aww… he’s the nice guy.

Dude 1: I know you love me anyway, so it wouldn’t matter. But seriously, if she comes, I’m going up to the ninth floor.

There was a lull in their conversation and all of a sudden, words were coming out of my mouth.

Me: If there’s someone coming who is going to make you guys talk any more than you already are, then I am definitely out of here.

Dudes 1 and 2 (in unison): (momentary blank stare) Oh, sorry.

Silence

They were quiet for the rest of the time they were there and the girl never came. I was happy with the results, but I honestly surprised myself with my interjection. What’s happening? Is this growing up?

Nah, not yet. I still have that pack of unpopped popcorn on my bookshelf in my bedroom. But I am taking steps there; after all, I have since purchased a full-sized comforter.

After catching my breath and muttering something under it, people around me laughed. My teacher asked for clarification. I, very diplomatically like a big cry baby, explained my strong preference for individual papers. I can do group projects where tasks can be clearly split, but with a very antisocial combination of perfectionism and introversion, writing papers was essentially impossible for me to do in a group. The only other time I had to write a paper with another person, I was paired with a young man in a Philosophy class who was incredibly smart, but there was no indication that he had any kind of work ethic. I lied to him and told him that the paper was due a week before it was so that it would actually get finished in time for me to edit it all, relying on his slack-offery to know that he wouldn’t know the actual due date. Like anyone would have done, right? In spite of appearances, the point of this story is not to show you what a control freak I am, but to tell you that I know myself well enough to know that I work best alone, especially when it comes to the expression of ideas.

With all of the viral videos, NPR segments, articles (from very reliable sources) and TED talks on introversion and being alone that have made their way across my computer screen, I can’t help but think that there is a greater power out there who wants me to think about this.

This is the video that got me started mulling things over months ago:

For you extroverts out there, this is how I work– I saw this, I thought about it, I stored it away as something to think more about. Then I added to that thinking when I first heard about Susan Cain’s book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking on NPR and how she advocates for a cultural value of quietness and introversion. Most recently I heard Ms. Cain’s TED talk and thought to myself, “This is for me. She is advocating for ME!” Intermingled throughout this process, I read a number of articles on introversion and living and being alone which cited recent studies on the subject– some that supported it and some that warned against the inevitable loneliness. I allowed myself months and months to think about, revisit and rethink about it. And now I’m finally ready to talk about it. Introversion in action.

I have been conditioned through my education and work experiences to become more extroverted. Experience showed me that leadership positions were gained by extroverted people– I applied to be an Resident Advisor and an Orientation Leader in undergrad, but didn’t make it past the first round of interviews. For one thing, I don’t present as Ms. Personality in interviews, nor did I have the networking skills that come so naturally to an extrovert. As a young introvert, I was intimidated by the loud and busy staff people in the Student Life offices and normally steered clear of the whole office to protect my own sense of self. But through these experiences, I saw that extroversion was desired so I pushed myself outside of my comfort zone. I became a student leader in other areas, things that I was more passionate about, but still deferred to someone who wanted the spotlight more than I did or who was at least more comfortable with it.

One of the most poignant parts of Susan Cain’s TED talk is when she cites historical leaders who self- identified as introverts, “…Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, Gandhi… All these people described themselves as quiet, soft-spoken and even shy. And they all took the spotlight even though every bone in their bodies was telling them not to. And this turns out to have a special power all its own. People could feel that these leaders were at the helm, not because they enjoyed directing others and not out of the pleasure of being looked at, they were there because they had no choice– they were driven to do what they thought was right.” 

I am grateful for the experiences of pushing myself out of my comfort zone, trying new things, and interacting with different kinds of people; I have learned so much about the world and about myself that way. But I am ready now to return to where I started, harness my introversion and find the thing that is worth taking the spotlight for.

Until then, I’ll be in my room reading, listening, thinking and writing… and occasionally practicing guitar.

Not even this.

Given that I live my life with the assumption that everything means something, I stopped to take a picture and proceeded to think about this for the rest of my walk home.

Local, neighborhood establishments go out of business, snow melts, people die, friends move, babies are born, the sun rises, people get married, the moon wanes… the list continues and even it changes. And while everything around me changes, I am not unscathed. Things change and I am perpetually changed by those things. It’s hard to keep up with.

Impermanence either comes as a great relief or a great disappointment depending on your lot in life at any given point. To the person who wins a multi-million dollar lottery, thinking about the impermanence of it all is devastating. (“What do you mean I have to pay taxes on it?!”) But to the person who just lost their job, the knowledge that this way of being is not forever is exactly what they need to get out of bed in the morning. Regardless of whether the glass is half empty or full, even it is not forever. Someone eventually will dump its contents and load it in the dishwasher. Nothing is permanent.

Well, except maybe one thing.

Perhaps this makes me an idealist and completely impossible to relate to or to understand and maybe you’ll hate me for my endless silver linings and happy endings, but I believe in the permanence of Love. I’m not talking about the butterflies you feel at the onset of unexpected, yet welcome attention from someone of interest; those, as we all know, are of the utmost impermanence. Nor am I talking about the love of ice cream, or pizza, or Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate with toffee, walnuts and pecans, because so quickly food can turn on us– literally go bad, or add poundage, or, in excess, make us physically ill (we’ve all been there, it’s okay).

I love the English language in all its complexity, but one area where it fails us is Love. Only one word? Really?! A mother’s love for her child, a man’s love of chili dogs, a child’s love of their very first best friend, an academic’s love of knowledge, an athlete’s love for the game– these relationships, these connections are distinctly unique, and yet, we have just the one word.

There is a Love in this world that is beyond words. For some of us.

Steinbeck described it to his son in a letter, it is “an outpouring of everything good in you– of kindness, and consideration and respect– not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable… [it] can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.” (From Steinbeck: A Life in Letters edited by Elaine Steinbeck and Robert Wallsten). I want that… wisdom that I didn’t know I had. Then C.S. Lewis says, “Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.” (From his Answers to Questions on Christianity). A steady wish for my ultimate good? Yes, please.

Finally Archbishop Desmond Tutu has a lot of profound thoughts on the matter. Though he didn’t directly name Love here, he says, “We were made to enjoy music, to enjoy beautiful sunsets, to enjoy looking at the billows of the sea and to be thrilled with a rose that is bedecked with dew… Human beings are actually created for the transcendent, for the sublime, for the beautiful, for the truthful… and all of us are given the task of trying to make this world a little more hospitable to these beautiful things.” I mean, Love is implied, right?

This Love makes it easy for a simply good and true song written by a complete stranger to become a part of who I am. This Love makes me forgive, even though I want so badly to stay mad (y’know… to teach ‘em a lesson). This Love forces me to foolishly disregard practicalities and follow it into a field that promises financial instability (Social Work). This Love carries me through despair and grief; because of it I know human connection is possible. This Love fills me up at the sight of random and simple acts of kindness between humans. This Love is beyond my understanding, is stronger than I am, and has been and will be breathtakingly permanent.

That, and the internet. The internet is forever.

I woke up Monday morning to go to an internship interview. As I laid in bed, allowing myself the chance to get used to being awake again, I knew something was amiss. Writing it off to nerves and the chili nachos I had eaten the night before, I made my way to the bathroom to begin my morning routine. Then, in spite of how much I despise it and try to avoid it at all costs, I got sick. (Too much information? Sorry.)

Then I Googled “calling in sick to an interview” to see if anybody had ever written anything about this before. They hadn’t really. I found one Yahoo! answers or something of the like, but most of the stuff was about calling in “sick” to one job to interview for a new one. For the first time in a long time, Google failed me.

Plagued with the dilemma of calling in or not, I was stuck. Would they be willing to reschedule? Would they think me unreliable? I had no idea how many other applicants they had or what their flexibility was or if I would get sick again. After a couple of phone calls home to get some advice, the consensus was in– unless I felt  100% positive that I would puke all over the desk of my interviewer, I was going to that interview.

I went. The interview happened. I wasn’t my best, but I wasn’t my worst. (Don’t ask. I’m not ready to talk about my worst).

On my way home, after stopping for some Ginger Ale and Pepto Bismol, I found myself singing this song:

Often when I sing to myself, I don’t even realize that I’m doing it, let alone what song I’m singing. When I finally became conscious of the song that I was singing, I had to laugh a little. Something special had certainly happened that day, but I don’t know that I’d compare it to hitting only green lights.

___________________________________________________________

UPDATE: Green lights or none, I got the internship!

ANOTHER UPDATE: I will never eat chili nachos again.

1. So what? Who cares?

2. Everybody’s trying.

Short list, I know, but really that’s usually all it takes. That, and one of the dark chocolate bars from Trader Joe’s with toffee, walnuts, and pecans. You should probably go get one now. True story? I just bought one so that I could take a picture of it, put it on my blog, and then eat it.

This box is empty.

Generally speaking, I do not like working out. Never have. My high school cross country team would joke with our coach that we were the only team in the league that hated running. Really. It got to the point where she tried to convince some girls to quit the team and then on our bus ride to league finals led us in a prayer to St. Jude (the patron saint of lost causes). Thanks for the vote of confidence, coach!

I played basketball and softball throughout my youth. As evidenced by my senior year “Most Inspirational” award in softball, basketball was my sport. But once high school was over, my commitment to sports and exercise dwindled. I joined the crew team my first semester of college. I was in the best shape of my life that semester; I also ate more in that semester than every other semester of undergrad combined. Since then, I  have only motivated myself to get any exercise by spending money– social sports leagues, Groupon gym memberships (I would never pay a full-priced gym membership), and race registrations. Otherwise, working out is not really in the cards for me.

These are my DVDs. Some of them are still in plastic. I'll give you a hint, it's not When Harry Met Sally.

My roommates have, on several occasions, invited me to exercise with them.

“You going for a run?”

“Yeah. You wanna come?”

Without hesitation, “Nope.”

But I am a reasonable and educated person– I know it’ll all catch up to me (it already is), so I should change my attitude towards exercise. To that end, I just received a Groupon Goods order I made a few weeks ago– a yoga kit. Yoga and I have a sordid past. I have said many unkind things about it, and I am certain it talks about me behind my back. But I believe change is possible; yoga and I can get along.

The day it arrived I pulled everything out: mat, strap, resistance band, ball, and DVD. Not really sure what everything was or how it was used, specifically the resistance band (a long strip of bathing cap material), I popped in the DVD to find out and to try and follow along. As I attempted yoga, still a rocky relationship, I simultaneously was glad no one else was around and wished that someone was. Glad to be by myself because, well, this is just embarrassing. And wishing I had company because, well, this is just hilarious.

I swear to you, at one point the woman held her hands together and swung them up over her head, behind her back, and back under her feet, not entirely unlike King Louie in The Jungle Book (1:18).

Okay, so she didn’t actually use her arms as a jumprope, but she did get them just about halfway there. And I did try. And trying is half the battle.

Or is it knowing? …

Trying is three-quarters of the battle.

1. Put my clothes and shoes away at the end of the day.

2. Learn to play the guitar and then write a song (or do them simultaneously).

3. Devote more time to creativity.

My progress in short: 1) not good, 2) good, and 3) so good.

My progress in long:

1. This has always been a problem in my life. My college roommate can attest to the pile of not clean, but not really dirty clothes that lived on my bed during the day and on my desk chair during the night. So quickly after being clean, my room becomes cluttered by clothes and shoes. This has been a resolution for two years running and let’s just say I am still waiting for good habits to stick in this regard. Think good thoughts for me.

2. I am learning to play guitar and I am loving it. Please see My Newest Infatuation to learn about my adventures in guitaring. I’ve toyed around with some lyrics for a song, but am still completely unprepared to skillfully craft a tune to accompany my words. I’m getting there though.

and finally,

3. I have devoted my Sunday nights to creativity. This can include writing, painting, playing guitar, crafting, making mixed CDs, etc. I have mostly spent my creative time journaling and writing letters and blog posts. This has been a welcome addition in my life.

This year’s resolutions have been the most specific and doable than any year of resolutions to date. I am finding that this is the best way to make changes– through small, tangible and doable tasks. With every pair of shoes I take off and put away at the end of the day, my life is changing.

I can sit around with my cousins and siblings for hours, hearing stories from our Grandma and Grandpa’s backyard. Some of them I actually remember and others I only think I remember, but wasn’t actually there for. I remember them from hearing the stories told and retold– like the time Josh hit Bridget in the face during “Josh Ball”, a game he invented to be able to “legally” throw a ball at his younger cousins. Or the time Gabe and Chelsie covered themselves from head to toe in mud. Or the times (yes, there was more than one) Claire directed all of us in plays, some original, some adapted.

Nostalgia brings a bit of sadness because what once was is no more. But there is a happiness in it too– happiness that what was was at all. It’s a feeling that I crave. It’s why I love the VH1 series “I Love the 90′s”. It brings me back to what was, what made me laugh, what was important to me and it connects me to my peers because we all remember when… [Baby Jessica (not the 90's, but still), Mickey Mouse Club, Jordan Catellano, white Bronco]. Not that these things were important to me, but when I think of Jordan Catellano and how dreamy he was, it reminds me that I thought he was dreamy because my sister did, and I wanted to be like her. (Also, he really is dreamy– look at the face!) Thinking of the O.J. Simpson car chase transports me to the time my family moved into my Grandma’s house and there were 16 people in one house, four bedrooms and ONE bathroom! The best four months of my life!

Recently I have noticed that my desperate craving for nostalgia, however,  forces me out of the here and now in order to, as quickly as possible, store it away as a memory. Facebook statuses about what just went down, digital pictures to document experiences, and the constant quoting and recap of the funny things that happen. I try to create a memory before the experience is actually over.

On New Year’s Day, I sat with my family and we watched old home movies from when my dad, his siblings and their cousins were small, trying to identify which child was which. Earlier in the day, my Great Uncle, the resident videographer, went around with his camera and captured children playing, adults chatting, people waving and making funny faces at the camera and others running away from it. After we had watched all of the old home movies, we popped in the one from that same day. As we watched ourselves from earlier in the day, I laughed quietly at us, so anxious to have the memory stored so that we could retell it later.

Something I find myself nostalgic for is true nostalgia. Sitting down with my Grandma and her brother  a few years ago as they argued about the small details of stories from their childhood, I realized there was no Facebook or digital photography to document those details. It’s his memory against hers. And they remember those things because they want to remember the experience; they didn’t have the experience so that they could remember it. This is important, I think. It’s simplicity and it’s love. This is nostalgia.

As I focus some of my energy on dating, I find that my experiences dating and job searching are uncannily similar. Let me count the ways:

Please use the following as a translation from job searching language to dating language:

job: the dude

job description: his appearance (the details that you are able to judge preliminarily)

interview: date

resume: the circumstances under which you meet, as it relates to you (where, when, what you’re wearing, the exchange of information)

work: relationship

potential co-workers: his friends

1. The resume. Whether it’s through a mutual friend, randomly in a public setting (at a bar, coffee shop, beach, etc.), or through a dating website, you meet someone who piques your interest. That job description looks like it could be a good fit, their website is promising, they have pictures of smiling people. You like smiling people. You approach them, talk to them for a bit, adjusting your approach according to what you perceive they’re looking for. By the end of the conversation, they have basic information about you and perhaps your phone number- at the very least your name.

2. The scheduling of an interview and the preparation for it. Before the interview is scheduled there is always that waiting period of “Will they call?” Say they do, but sometimes they don’t, and you schedule a time and a place. Nerves are everywhere. You, or someone who loves you, might give you a bit of a pep talk beforehand. “You’re awesome. Be yourself and if he doesn’t like it, that’s his loss.” etc. etc. You look at the job description again (recall the things your friends have said about him) you re-examine your resume (what does he already know about you). Then you show up for the scheduled time in a carefully selected outfit. Maybe a little early.

3. The actual interview. Everything is so strategic and thought-out that it is difficult to be yourself. You answer his questions carefully so as not to reveal your insecurities, though they sneak out occasionally, sometimes often. You want to impress, but when it comes down to it, you don’t know them, so you can’t know what will impress them. You give them a little more information upon which you are asking them to judge you. Simultaneously, you are gathering information upon which to judge them. Maybe you’re not interested in what they could offer you.

4. Assessing interest. Are you excited about the prospect of seeing this person again? Would you truly enjoy coming into work every day? If the answer is no, you’re not interested. If that’s the case, you just hope and pray that they don’t call so you won’t have to reject someone, because turning down a job when you don’t have an alternative opportunity seems ill-advised (though it isn’t). If you are interested, thus begins the waiting.

4. The waiting and guessing and building up of hopes. Will they call? Will you get the job offer? Should I call them if I don’t hear by a certain point?

5. Say they do call (but sometimes they don’t) then the second interview– and they may bring in back-ups. You are interviewed by potential co-workers, if you like them and they like you- it’s a sealed deal.

But what if he doesn’t call and what if you don’t have a second interview?

6. The disappointment. You got your hopes up, started imagining yourself in that setting, in that work environment. Now you have to readjust and continue on your search.

The difference. Dating can be fun. Even if the dude doesn’t work out, not a good fit, you got to go out, do something out of the ordinary and meet someone new. But your livelihood depends on a job and a consistent paycheck. Your livelihood does not depend on dudes… thank goodness.

One of my most recent projects that my lack of full-time employment has directed me to is a program called the Homeless Service Registry. In homeless services in the past, the trend has been to provide services, substance abuse counseling, mental health diagnosis and treatment, etc. and then when an individual is stable, move them into housing. There is now a movement toward housing first and after an individual is housed will the supportive services begin. The Service Registry is the first step in providing housing first.

A group of volunteers and representatives from various agencies that serve the homeless population went out for three nights in a row, from 1 until 6 in the morning, waking up people sleeping on the streets, in their cars, on the beach to interview them. Questions about their health history, both physical and mental health, and about their history of substance abuse helped to assess their vulnerability, and identify those who would benefit most from being housed first. The interviewers also requested permission to take their photos after the interview was complete.

I was the administrative support on this project. It was my responsibility to input all the data gathered by the volunteers. I was also responsible for editing the pictures to make them a more reasonable size for the database. Over two-hundred surveys and photos later, I found myself almost completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of people homeless in this small area that we covered. And the sometimes angered, mostly tired and occasional smiling faces were etched in my memory.

A few days later, I rode my bike along the beach and as I rode, my eyes glanced over to a couple of guys playing guitar and banging on a drum. I recognized both of them. I continued to ride and happened upon another individual who I recognized by the sweater he was wearing. I will continue to see these familiar faces hanging out, blending in. And though I do not remember all of them with certainty, their faces will always be familiar.

When is a door not a door?

When it is ajar.

I assure you, there is no joke in that statement. I may have jobs and I am bringing in an income, but I worry about my future, my goals, and my debts on a daily basis. And the thought of sales tax and personal income tax increasing throws me into a minor panic every time it enters my mind.

The state of the economy paired with my illogical commitment to working in a field that will pay me nothing, led me to work multiple part-time jobs in local non-profits. I can appreciate the variety of work that I’m doing, in that it is allowing me the opportunity to meet lots of amazing people and helping me to discern what I like, what I don’t like, what I’m good at, and what I could use a little more practice in. The reality is it offers no medical insurance, no sick days, and no vacation time. With no insurance and no sick days available, I’m lucky I’m not Irish, and Murphy’s law doesn’t apply to Polish girls.

Though I’ve made some amount of commitment to the jobs that I have, and I was raised to honor commitment, I can’t help but let my mind wander into a future of full-time employment, medical coverage, and some amount of stability. There’s got to be a balance between doing what’s best for me and holding up my end of the bargain.