God of Small Things

Lately our church has gone through some difficult transition (again). Namely, our contemporary music director has left. This has inspired me to look (even more) at where I can find God's truth and beauty outside of church walls.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter; I'm sad. And I'm trying to reconcile the fact that even the church isn't free from weird drama and office politics.

Listening to the radio yesterday, I was struck by The Fray's new song: You Found Me. It's probably about a girl, but it starts like a modern day psalm.

I found God on the corner of 1st and Amistad
Where the West was all but won
All alone, smoking his last cigarette
I said, "Where've you been?"
He said, "Ask anything."
Where were you, when everything was falling apart.
All my days were spent by the telephone that never rang
And all I needed was a call that never came
To the corner of 1st and Amistad
Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me
Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait?
Where were you? Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me

I've been thinking a lot about trying to get high school students to look at pop culture with an ear tuned to God. I feel like his fingerprints are everywhere... especially in mediums where intense creativity is required.

Do any of you have suggestions about songs (or movie clips) that seem much more spiritual at second glance or closer inspection? I don't know where I'm going with this, but I want to do something with it... Here's the list I've come up with so far:

1. Believe by The Bravery
2. Everyday by Dave Matthews Band
3. Soul to Squeeze by The Red Hot Chili Peppers
4. Hurt by Nine Inch Nails/Johnny Cash

Feel free to leave a comment or shoot me an email. Thank you!

What the blog?

So last night was the Oscars. And I, for one, didn't have super high expectations. I was much more excited about eating pot roast (which my uncle cooked to perfection).

Perhaps it was unadulterated hunger (we didn't have dinner until 8:20 pm), but I absolutely loved this year's ceremony. I wasn't super into the hype or really paying attention to any pre-Oscar reporting. I didn't even realize Hugh Jackman was hosting until I saw him appear. But I thought the entire evening was so entertaining. And after it was over, I was left feeling like that was one of the most successful productions ever.

The whole night had a sort of vintage, throw-back vibe. Even the dresses & tuxedos seemed to mimic the 1950s "Old Hollywood" scene--with bow ties and ball gowns galore. The musical numbers were tasteful and hilarious. And it didn't feel like the host had to carry the whole damn show himself. This is the most star-studded night of the year; it makes sense that Hollywood's top talent would... well, perform. Right? Can we imagine a production of the Grammy's where nobody sings?

To me, it was obvious that we took a page from the Tony's playbook, (with surprise plants and surprise presenters!) and all I can say is THANK GOD. This is an evening to celebrate cinematic art and the people that make it possible. And I think this year's Oscars finally did just that. What better proof is there than the way each nominated actor was mentioned (and thanked!) before the announcement of the category's "best"? I'm not gonna lie--each of those presentations made me want to dust off my chops and become an actor again...

But I think Meryl Streep said it best earlier this year when she won the SAG award for her character in Doubt: "Women in the industry, nominated or not, should be proud of the work they did this year. Everybody wins when we get to play such parts."

Obviously this comment is geared toward a single gender, but I think it can be applied to all the films (and talent) that showed up this year--across all movie departments. When scripts get written, and budgets get approved, and stories get told, and actors get room, and directors get inspired, and producers get lost... we get a year like this. And it was truly a year to celebrate.

But, I was shocked to see how many people panned last night's affair. It's such a cliche to say that the Oscars are lame, long, and disappointing. But for an awards ceremony that totally reinvented itself last night (or rather, rediscovered what the night should be about), I'm thoroughly disappointed with the reviewers. Is it because Hollywood is ridiculously insecure--especially when compared with Broadway? Or is it something more?

I mean, let's face it. Most critics are wanna-be actors/writers/directors/fill-in-the-blanks themselves. And so it's easier to dis than criticize constructively (or own up to the fact that they couldn't do it better). But I'm going to paraphrase A. R. Rahman here (the man who won two Oscars for his music contributions to Slumdog Millionaire) in my opinion of Oscar Night 2009: If I have to choose between hate and love, I'll choose love.

Weird

Chris, unfortunately, got sick this weekend. Actually, that's not true. He got sick two weeks ago; got better last week; and then relapsed on Saturday. So, naturally, when Monday morning rolled around, guess who else started to feel achy and sniffly?

Me.

But I think the real indicator that I'm on my way to a potentially severe cold and/or sickness is the insane dream I had last night.

I was working the front gate of a mansion--checking packages and signing for deliveries. This usually isn't too difficult, but all of a sudden an enormous armored car showed up with a whopping 249 packages that needed to be signed and accounted for. They were all valuable pieces from an auction that the mansion owner had purchased; most of it was jewelry.

So, I start counting and labeling and sorting and what have you, when I see my coworker let about 100 packages through the gate--without counting or labeling.

"What are you doing?" I cry. "You can't just let them through."
She raised an eyebrow and then laughed.
"Did I not tell you? I only count and label for deliveries that are 5 packages or less. You know, as an exercise to pass the time. You don't have to do it for massive deliveries like this."

Because this was a dream, I have no idea how long I was working--or if I was happy or annoyed by this revelation. But I remember giving the driver permission to enter, and watching the enormous truck wind along the driveway and disappear.

All of a sudden I was transported to my mom's old suburban. The one she used to drive when I was in 8th grade. It was teal with grey interior.

Sitting in the front seat was my uncle Henry, who passed away when I was fourteen. I couldn't see who was driving. This is all I remember:

"Oh my god! What are you doing here?"
"I got some time to come back."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'd really like to see Aunt Betty."

Then the driver dropped me off outside my grandmother's house, who died in October of last year. Uncle Henry and Mom's teal suburban slowly drove away, and so I decided to enter the house. When I walked into her living room--there she was, clear as day.

"Oma?"
"Yes, schott. [This is a dutch term of endearment.] Have a seat."

I don't remember her exact words, but she proceeded to tell me that she'd been in Hell for 5 minutes. But she was out and really enjoying heaven.

Then I woke up.

I scare myself sometimes.

a New Year, a New Post

Alas and alack, I have some updates. Sorry for the delay.

As most of you know, America is in a Recession. That's Recession with a capitol 'R', meaning an actual Recession. This is not to be confused with recession, meaning a scare tactic used by people in politics to frighten their constituents into voting for/against said person/opponent.

I started to feel the first grumblings of this Recession when I was laid off at the end of June. At my new company (where I feel pieces of my soul die a little each day), we've already had two rounds of layoffs in the last 6 months. The latest occurred on January 19, 2009.

Yes, that was not only the day before Obama's historic inauguration, it was also Martin Luther King, Jr. Day--a holiday--and a Monday, to boot.

The worst part was that the HR manager didn't begin laying people off until around 10:30 am, which meant the unsuspecting souls (and roughly 10% of our office) who were let go, did between 2 and 3 hours of work before they were escorted out of the building. Escorted out of the building.

I didn't even know anything was going on until a friend of mine sent me a message on gchat:

"Are you still with the company?!" she wrote.
"WHAT? Yes--I think so. Are you? Are people getting laid off right now???" I replied.
"Yes! And Yes!" she typed.

This is how our company communicates important pieces of information.

To use a word from my former company's CEO, it's an "organic" way to do things. I don't know what organic means to you, but to me it means delicious fruit and vegetables that contain no preservatives. Synonym: natural. When used in the context of business, I think it means that higher ups would rather have people gossip and speculate than talk frankly with their staff.

Keep in mind, when I asked my boss what was going on she replied, "It's a layoff. You just have to get through it."

Which, of course, left me wondering if I was one of the people who'd be let go in the next hour.

To me, there is nothing natural about this type of behavior. Maybe it's because the big wigs are afraid of people going aggro. But if it were up to me, after I laid off 10% of my office, I would do everything I could to ensure the peace of mind of my remaining employees.

But, just like Michael Scott on last night's episode of The Office, I would have a really hard time handing over the client list of Prince Paper, too.

I guess Corporate America and I just don't see eye to eye. And in the wake of a staggering number of people on unemployment, I wonder who does.

Tony Blair on The Daily Show

Did you click on the title of this post? I sure hope so. Otherwise this entry will make no sense. It's a link to the second half of Tony Blair on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

Some facts to be aware of:

1. I am a Liberal Democrat.


2. When hearing George W. Bush speak, I often become embarrassed to be American.


3. I throw all of my support behind Barack Obama.


4. I've had dreams about being... more than friends with Jon Stewart. 

But listening to Tony Blair--former Prime Minister of England--speak about his relationship with W. and his reasons for going to war in Iraq, I get concerned. And not for the reasons you may think.

I want to trust my president. I want to believe that he is the best qualified individual for the job. I want to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he will act with the best interests of the country in mind. And I want to feel like we, as the American people, are all in this together.

When Tony Blair speaks about the insanely controversial topics listed in this video... I feel that. I trust that he knows more than me about these subjects. I believe he's making well-informed decisions. I know he's not only thinking of himself, but of the good of his country. And I start to think about how quickly I can renounce my citizenship and try to retain a British Visa.

This is the oppressive regime we broke away from over 200 years ago? Is it too late to say we're sorry?

What makes me concerned when I watch this video is that the policies Tony Blair outlines here are entirely in line with the Bush doctrine--a doctrine that I've come to know as the Guidebook for How to Make a Once-Great Nation Fall into an Irrevocable State of Disrepair.

So why is it that I can listen to Tony Blair and a.) not cringe nor b.) vehemently disagree?

My fear is that something is very wrong with our country--and it's bigger than the letter W. 

What good is democracy if our elections aren't about issues but popularity? If our political leanings don't have anything to do with individual thought and everything to do with mob mentalities? And if the leader of the free world (and the guy he's hired to take care of the money) don't have to be accountable anyone? 

Democracy. Ha. More like traveshamockery.

Red Light Rendezvous

I ran my first red light yesterday.

Well, OK. Not my first. But this was the first time I ran a red light and a camera flashed in my face.

Twice.

I was on my way to the gym, and normally, I'm not speeding to get there. But at the particular intersection I bolted through, if you get stuck, it feels like an eternity before you get a green light again. You try doing nothing for 3 minutes. It's hard. So, it's not that I was in a hurry so much as I was fighting against boredom.

In any case, I ran the damn light and felt incredibly guilty immediately afterward.

I skulked into the gym--confessing to the man behind the counter what I'd just done.

"Hi there," he said.
"Hi," I answered, handing over my card to get scanned.
"How are you doing tonight?" he asked, clearly just looking for small talk.
I erupt.
"Not great, actually. I just ran a red light. And I'm sure they took my picture. And I'm about 10 days away from having the accident I got into two years ago removed from my record--only I've messed it all up because of that stupid intersection about 2 blocks down."
"Oh, bummer," he replies.
"It is a bummer," I say.
He hands my card back.
"Well, have a nice workout," he smiles, obviously not wanting to engage me further.

Can you blame him?

So I do my little hour on the treadmill. There are signs posted everywhere that say the maximum time on cardiovascular machines is 30 minutes. But no one was waiting. And since I'd already broken the actual law, I had little to no trouble rationalizing my increasingly devient behavior.

After I was through I exited through the back and began my sojourn to the car. When I opened the door to the parking lot I saw three cop cars and 8 cops outside my gym.

Oh. My. God. I thought to myself. They're here for me.

I caught eyes with a few of them and they smiled. They made no movement toward me and they weren't waiting by my vehicle. Strange.

Just wait, I continued. When they see you get in the Cadillac, they'll ask why you were in such a rush that you felt the need to endanger the lives of everyone else at the intersection.

But they didn't.

I got into my car. I turned over the engine. I drove out of the parking lot. And the cops didn't care. I don't even think they noticed me.

I was safe.

But was the rest of Solana Beach?

Doubtful.

Afterall, there are maniacs like me roaming the streets--and the entire city police force is apparently on a perpetual coffee break in a gym parking lot.

A+

Being the kind of person that I am, it comes as no surprise that my blood type is A+. Coming from a girl who's self esteem is so wrapped up performance, I'd really expect nothing less of myself. Or my blood.

I didn't know my blood type until last week--when I decided to give blood for the first time in 6 years.

"Oh, it's been a while," said the nurse at the blood mobile.

"Yes, yes it has," I replied.

"Well, with such a drought between donations, this will be like your first time all over again."

She smiled sweetly and began gathering her supplies: needles, latex gloves, some tubing.

"You didn't faint did you?"

"Oh, God. No. I was fine. A little woozy. But nothing major."

"That's good. This mobile is too small to have people falling over."

(So much for the supposed sympathy that comes with being a first timer.)

"I don't think it should be a problem," I offered.

She smiled again and asked if my arm was comfortable.

I nodded yes, took a deep breath, and relaxed into the chair she'd prepared for me. As I did so, I noticed my arm would be more comfortable if it moved ever-so-slightly to the right. So I moved it. The nurse's back was turned. And it didn't seem like a big deal. Plus, I was giving my blood. I figured I should be as comfortable as possible.

With eyes in the back of her head and a sixth sense for any kind of limb activity, she turned around as if someone had spilled an entire IV of platelets.

"What are you doing?" she barked.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I'd be more comfortable like this."

(Why was I apologizing?)

"You can't just move your arm. Now I have to start over."

Start over?, I thought. But nothing's begun.

She then jammed me with a plastic needle cover. 

"What was that?" I cried.

"I have to do that so I know where your vein is," she said--defensively.

"I don't understand," I said, shaking my head. "Can't you see where my vein is? It's the blue thing underneath my impossibly white skin."

(OK. So I didn't actually say that. But that's what I thought.)

Eventually we got the kinks worked out, and she started to draw blood. 

I'll have you know that I was done donating in under 5 minutes. That's right. 1 pint in less than 300 seconds, despite the abuse from the RN on the mobile. Thank you very much. 

A+ is right.