some assembly required.

The phone has rung three times, and no one is answering.

One more.

“Hey, baby.”

I need you to come home.

“Right now? What’s wrong?”

Can you start driving now?

“Jessica, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

No. It’s an emergency.

I can hear the springs on the couch as he sits up. “Jessica.”

I can’t put this shelf together by myself… I can’t even get it upstairs.

“Jessica.”

I don’t even know if I can get it out of my car.

“Jessica.”

I…

“Jessica.”

What?

“Do I have to explain to you what constitutes an emergency?”

Do I have to explain to you what constitutes an emergency?

“I’m not driving three hours to put together a shelf.”

If you drive fast, it won’t take three hours.

“Jessica.”

Nick, the box is huge. It’s a foot longer than me. It weighs 57 pounds.

“Fifty seven pounds? What kind of shelving did you buy?”

It’s from Ikea.

“Please tell me you didn’t… how did you get it into your car?”

I shoved it in there.

“Jessica.”

You’re saying my name a lot. That doesn’t get you here to help me get this shelving in or put it together.

“Jessica.”

Okay.

“I cannot – I will not – drive back to help you put shelving together. Just wait until your dad gets home.”

But I want to bring it in now, so he doesn’t have to do it later.

“I’m sure he’d rather help you bring it in than find you laying on the floor of the garage with a fifty seven pound shelf on top of you. Fifty se… geez, Jess. How’d you know it weighed that much anyway?”

It says so on the box.

“Well, at least they warn you.”

Are you on your way?

“Jessica.”

You’re not on your way.

“No.”

I’m going to have to do this by myself.

He’s sighing. “Unless you want to wait for your dad, which you refuse to do, yes. You’re going to have to do this by yourself.”

Fine.

“Fine. I love you.”

I love you.

I can’t figure out how to get the six and a half foot box out of my car. I’m beginning to wonder how I got it in in the first place. I can’t do this. I need two people. Or two mobile… somethings. I will be one something, and a rolling chair will be my other something. But a rolling chair can’t get the stupid shelf out of the car.

I push, I pull, I shove and practically scream at the stupid box until it budges. It moves an inch. I need more than an inch to get it out of the car, through the garage, upstairs, and assembled.

It’s out, half on the rolling chair, half in my arms. I push, it falls. This repeats itself for quite some time.

In the house.

I stand the massive box on its end and concoct a plan to flip it over on itself onto another stair, and repeat until it lands in the loft. The first attempt at this fails miserably as the end slides off the appointed stair and down to the very floor from which I started. Plan B ensues. I hold one end of the box and walk the other end up the stairs, praying it doesn’t slip and crush me. I’m going to die.

Finally the box has been moved up sixteen stairs and a landing. I call Nick.

It’s upstairs.

“Are you all right?”

No. Whomever put this in the “self-service” section of the store, I’m going to find and kill with a stud finder.

“You know a stud finder isn’t like a nail gun, Jess. You can’t kill someone with it… you’d have better luck punching them.”

Maybe you can’t kill someone with it… Blunt force trauma.

“Jessica.”

Okay.

“I’m proud of you for dragging that whole thing in by yourself.”

What else am I going to do when you refuse to help me?

“Jessica.”

Thank you.

out of words.

“This Present Moment” by Jill Carattini

We are profoundly unaware of the present. That is, the here and now, the place that we always are, is the place that we are least likely to see for what it fully is. Blaise Pascal, though living four centuries ago, keenly diagnosed this human condition. In his work, Pensees, meaning “thoughts,” he masterfully articulates our seeming lack of interest in the present.

Writes Pascal, Let each one examine his thoughts, and he will find them all occupied with the past and the future. We scarcely ever think of the present; and if we think of it, it is only to take light from it to arrange the future. The present is never our end. The past and the present are our means; the future alone is our end. So we never live, but we hope to live; and, as we are always preparing to be happy, it is inevitable we should never be so. That is a powerful proclamation, isn’t it? The present is never our end.

If this is true, Pascal’s dour thought is worth examining. Though we hope and toil for life, we never really live. And indeed, looking back many of us can recall a squandered time, a time we wish we were more fully attentive, more fully present. Truly, the now of life is far more significant than we often realize.

In the play Our Town, Thornton Wilder brilliantly depicts the magnitude of the present, the fullness of each moment amidst the fleeting nature of time in our lives. Emily, a young mother who died in childbirth, is given the opportunity to go back and observe a single day in her life. She is advised to choose an “ordinary” day, for even the least important day will be important enough, the dead remind her. True enough, Emily chooses a day and quickly finds herself overwhelmed by it. Her ensuing lines are fascinating. “I can’t go on. It goes so fast… I didn’t realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back-up the hill-to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look.” “Goodbye, Goodbye, world. Mama and Papa. Goodbye clocks ticking… and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths… and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.” Upon returning Emily wonders if anyone ever realizes life while they live it-life as it is, “every, every minute.” The response she receives is pointed. “No… The saints and poets, maybe they do some.” (Footnote 1: As quoted by Barry Morrow in Heaven Observed (Colorado Springs: NavPress, 2001), 321.)

The image is powerful and the lesson clear. And where this is a fitting reminder to seize each day, we should ask why the present brims with significance, lest it lead us to the Epicurean’s philosophy, observed by King Solomon, cautioned against by Jesus, noted by Dave Matthews, and largely embraced today: Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die. (Footnote 2: Ecclesiastes 8:15, Luke 12:13-21) It is written on our hearts that the present holds much more still.

C.S. Lewis once asked, “Where, except in the present, can the Eternal be met?” This is why the present is so profoundly important. You see, God is always nearest to us “now.” Where Jesus says, “Follow me.” Where He pleads, “Come to me,” there is urgency and immediacy in his voice. Now is where He asks us to draw near; now is when we must decide to follow or not to follow; now is where we rejoice in this day that He hath made. So indeed, seize the day, for the promises of the One who came in the fullness of time are boldly written upon every moment.

More for me than anything.

eights.

I would be sitting in bed as per usual typing up the fascinating incidents that constitute my day, but as I went to pull up my laptop to write this, I realized that it is sitting forlornly in my car. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

So now I’m plugging out the fascinating incidents that constituted my day on an incredibly noisy keyboard in the wide open loft. Not that you’re concerned about the location from which all these majestic thoughts pour, for all you know I’m in the Swiss Alps contemplating flowers. (I’m not.)

I was everything to everyone at work today, making the most of my multi-tasking abilities. I sorted shirts, moved jeans, re and disassembled tables, ran the fits and was a cashier. I felt a little like a superhero, flying around the store with my boots and grandpa cardigan. I steamed shirts, took a survey for my boss, and ran go-backs… and got off an hour late. Hatred. I had told the family I would be meeting them at the exact time I was walking out the doors of my “office”. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I call Dad.

I’ll be late.

“How late? Five minutes late or fifteen minutes late?”

Fifteen minutes late. I’m idealistic.

The long line at the stoplight should have been clue enough, but nothing can crush my high spirits. I am off work, good songs are on the iPod. I round the bend to merge onto That Highway, and a wall of brake lights shatters my idealism like a bug on a windshield. It does not pay to be idealistic. Being idealistic at rush hour makes you the bug.

I search frantically for the AM radio station Dad claims as a reliable traffic monitor. “Always on the 8’s, Jessica.” Every day, Traffic on the Eights. They promise. One station with this promise is playing the Boston Red Sox v. the Rangers, the other is a monotoned conservative talk radio host droning on about who will be President. I bounce between the baseball and the conservative until the clock hits a six, and then toggle quickly to see which will be the first to bless me with the sound of a Traffic ‘Copter and the latest update on why I will be late for dinner with my family. The eights pass. One station talks of Josh Hamilton and makes me think of Nick (who is also at the restaurant, waiting), the other monotone man has increased his tempo to chant for the Republican party. This entire time, with the toggles, the radio, the baseball and the conservative, I have been stopping and going along the equally depressing frontage road.

I toggle through two sets of eights. Those liars.

the birds.

On days when I don’t have to, I don’t enjoy waking up early. Take today for example: I woke up at noon, excusing the late awakening by telling myself that it won’t be long before I don’t have any weekday mornings to sleep in on. So this early afternoon as I was sitting downstairs watching some pointless t.v. show and eating cereal, I looked up at the (shockingly) cloudy sky and saw about thirty Alfred Hitchcock-esque swirling objects in the air.

Bats don’t fly in the daytime, do they?

I went out back and looked up at the sky, and this is what I saw:

All those blurry black specks? Birds. Sparrows. Squeaking, screeching, birds, flying in erratic patterns, circling my backyard. I went out front, and the birds were only circling my backyard, only in the backyard. Darn it.

Maybe it was the unusual quantity of bugs that live in the woods behind us, maybe this happens every weekday and I just don’t see it because I’m already up and moving by noon. Whatever it was, I’d never seen The Birds in person before. And given my slightly paranoid, worst-case-scenario personality problem, I started envisioning broken windows, my inability to scream, the things people would say. “She was just going outside to see what was going on.” “Stupid. Who doesn’t know that they’re supposed to stay indoors when that happens?” “The last thing she had to eat before she was attacked by the crazy sparrows was Froot Loops.” “Seriously? She’s 22 and she still eats Froot Loops?”

They’re gone now, but what a weird way to start off a Monday.

Olympics

I never thought I’d find the source of inspiration for this blog from Michael Kors, but he said it best Wednesday night during the new episode of Project Runway:

“Olympians are the closest things to superheroes we’ve got.”

I don’t know if I have adequate words to describe the men’s 4×100 relay this evening… “wow” should say a lot.

I scream for football, I yell my lungs out for hockey, but I haven’t seriously cheered for the Olympics since Kerri Strug made one of the most awesome landings I’ve ever seen on one leg. Maybe it’s the (deserving) hype surrounding Michael Phelps, maybe it’s the sheer brute force of an individual’s strength and willpower. Maybe it’s the comment by Bernard: “The Americans?” Bernard said. “We will smash them.” that heightened the level of intensity tonight. I’m not sure what it was, but the race I saw this evening was one of the most thrilling I’ve ever witnessed. Superhuman.

Phelps started off the race, providing Garret Weber-Gale with a barely second place position entering the second stretch. Weber-Gale traded off to Cullen Jones, who then handed off to Jason Lezak. The U.S. had been trailing the French ever so slightly since the start of the race, and then, in the last lap, Lezak (literally) kicked it into high gear, exploding with a burst of speed. As his French competitor tightened up, Lezak lengthened his body and grabbed first place and the gold medal.

We all had been sitting on the very edge of our seats, cheering on Lezak, and when we saw the “1-USA” come across the lane we’d been cheering for all evening, we all screamed, pumped our fists in the air and felt like we too had won something.

Michael Phelps

The Olympics are a celebration, an enthusiastic celebration, of our humanity. At the end of the day, at the end of the race, at the end of the competition, we are all human. Regardless of our skin color, our heritage, our country we choose to represent, we are all fundamentally the same. Go world.

happy saturday.

I’m not sure what you expect from me by reading this blog. Maybe you expect daily funnies, extremely accurate sociological insight (because let’s be honest, I have 18 hours of it that constitute a minor). Maybe you expect fascinating quips about every day life, a weight-loss frustration journal, or maybe you want to know what it’s like to have a long-term long distance relationship. Maybe you’re expecting me to cure your boredom.

The problem is, I get a little bored myself. Here’s an excerpt from my weekend to prove that I’m at a sincerely critically low level of writing material:

Today, I got up at what I consider to be the crack of dawn (about 7am) for the third day in a row, and hauled my unhappy little self over to work. After a two-hour conversation with my boss yesterday about how I am now off my trial period and will be getting a raise, but still need to shape up and meet her expectations unlike I’m doing now, I feel a massive amount of pressure to be unnaturally energized and cheerful. I did something that I hate to do and pulled through McDonald’s to try and get my day started with an Egg McMuffin and OJ. And then that wasn’t enough to get the day going. So I stopped by another corporate giant and ordered a Macchiatto with an extra shot of espresso, but that extra shot didn’t end up in there. Jerks.

I tried all day to meet (really, to exceed) my boss’ standards. Unfortunately, it was my own darn fault that I got about 3.5 hours of sleep, and the energy level that is required of a Fashion Expert in a top 18 store wasn’t there. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. I ended the work day forty five minutes later than I was scheduled to, and decided I was in the need for some food, pronto. I had nasty tacos from the weird little place upstairs whose guacamole tasted like salty jalapeños. Happiness did not abound this late afternoon. I sat in the food court, alone, reading my book which I am determined to finish despite the fact that it makes me feel like I’m better off beating my head against a wall. Finish what you start.

The drive home took forever, mostly because I didn’t feel like going twenty over the speed limit and only went ten over (I was one of the slower drivers out there this afternoon), resulting in glares from other speed demons.

Getting home was refreshing. Sometimes it’s nice to walk into an empty house, knowing that you have a few hours to yourself. So I puttered around, watched some t.v., ate Froot Loops and then decided to be productive by baking cookies.

So as I write this, I’m dancing around my kitchen to music I would never let you know is on my iPod, baking cookies for absolutely no reason in the world. I don’t have the answers to the energy crisis, I don’t know whether or not to end the war in Iraq… hey, I don’t even know if this will cure your boredom. I sure hope it helped.

quit.

“Could you stop that?”

Stop what?

“That jiggling, bouncing thing you’re doing with your foot.”

Fine.

“It’s just a little distracting.”

If we weren’t sitting still on 75 in traffic, you’d have more things to pay attention to.

“Really, Jess?”

Really. I’m sorry.

A few minutes pass, and I’m uncomfortable. Bouncing ensues.

“Jess.”

What?

“I asked you to stop, please. You’re driving me crazy.”

Better than the no driving at all whatsoever we’re doing right now.

“No, no it’s not.”

I’m just uncomfortable.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it right now.”

I am perfectly aware of that.

“For crying out loud, Jessica.”

Sorry. Sorry.

“You have absolutely no patience.”

There’s nothing worse than telling a person who has no patience that they have no patience. I promise you, we’re fully aware of it.

Thanks, that’s helpful. Tell me again something that’s wrong with me.

“Well, you pick fights like this one.”

I know. I know. I’m sorry.

dreams

Let me start by saying that I did not forsake blogging (for a week) intentionally. I’ve been on a beach, getting sunburned, so now I can come home with a marvelous tan and a head full of new world views.

Right.

Dido (yes, Dido) sings a song titled “Sand in My Shoes”, which starts out with a line I sing inside my head almost every time I come home from a trip:

“Two weeks away feels like the whole world should have changed,

But I’m home now, and things still look the same.”

For those of you who disconnected with me when I mentioned Dido, please don’t discontinue reading.

I’m very much like those two lines in that song. I can’t help it. It’s not that I think D will change into some megaplex in the sky in the short span of time I spent laying on the beach, it’s just that in my dreams, things change at a quicker rate than they do here. So in the wake of a week of relaxation and rejuvenation, I’m thinking about dreams.

My nightly dreams are completely absurd. My daydreams are completely unrealistic. What my life ends up being then, is a strained (strained as in you would strain water from spaghetti noodles, not strained as in a tension headache), watered down combination of what can be manufactured from unrealistic, absurd notions. This is how I end up with ambitions of being a writer. *insert sympathy laughs here*

This past week as I was trying to figure out how to body surf without water going up my nose, I had a revelation. A while back, Jeff led ALC in a new vision statement: DREAM. With the vision statement we were all given a semi-transparent/opaque rubber bracelet, with DREAM on one side and ALC on the other. Think the Livestrong bracelets. Same idea. I’ll be incredibly honest: I hadn’t taken the bracelet off until this weekend. This past week as I swam in the ocean, all the gross little particles that float around in there and subsequently went up my nose as I attempted to float on my back attached themselves to my DREAM bracelet, turning it a very disgusting shade of yellowy brown. Off came the bracelet, on came revelation. I started thinking of dirty dreams.

I have not lost my mind.

Our dreams, once out of our minds and muddled by our attempts to make them come true become dirty. We mess them up with our mistakes, we trash the beautiful dream we had for our lives by going about trying to make it true in the worst ways. Our pretty crystalline dreams which we would have given our last breath to hold in our hands become these gross, yellowy brown messes that we don’t really want to show the world because well, they’re gross.

I’m not ashamed of any of my dreams for my life, I’m ashamed of my failures to make them come true. I’ve thought of being a D.A., a teacher, a marine biologist, a fashion editor, a buyer for a fashion company, and so many more… all things that as of right now, I’ve failed miserably at making come true.

My dreams are dirty. They’re no longer a pretty, semi-transparent, opaque whiteish color, but instead some entangled mess I don’t have any desire to deal with. So what happens to that yucky dream?

“What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?”

-Langston Hughes-

As I continue to wallow in the misery of “I have no idea what to do with my life”, perfectly good dreams sit in a pile, dingy and unwanted because of their dingyness.

The revelation I stumbled across was that when God says He makes everything new, He means everything. That includes the dreams I managed to muck up, the opportunities I missed. So I’m handing things over as best I can and letting Him clean up my dreams with some of His own.

Oh and by the way, Jeff, I’m going to need a new DREAM bracelet.

warning: abrasive.

I was walking out out to my car today with an armful of groceries. My feet hurt. I was tired, frustrated and suffering from one of my usual migraines. The heat beating off the pavement was making everything worse.

Then I heard two heavy truck doors slam back against the cab, and a guy who I would be scared to have yelling at me started yelling at the other guy who had climbed out of the driver’s side door. “You know what? You ******* need to change your ******* attitude! You’re making everybody crazy with your ******* bad attitude all the ******* time!”

I was not in the mood for that many *’s. And then my brain started going, kicking into “how can I use this for material?” mode, worsening the headache.

See, I have this threshold, which runs in the family. After I wake up, after I get off work, and after I get home, I have a threshold of time I need to go through before I’m ready to deal with any situations or problems. To do this, I’ll drive home in silence, give off the “leave me alone, can’t you see I just woke up” vibe, etc. These guys, both of whom seemed to have pretty bad attitudes, yelling about having bad attitudes, invaded that threshold. So did the thoughts that follow.

Our society is all about Political Correctness. We censor the way we think, speak, breathe and live for the comfort of others – and I’m not saying that that’s all bad. But this afternoon in the heat and frustration I realized how much better off I would have been at a few certain junctures in my life if someone had yelled at me to check my attitude.

Better yet, if I had said it to myself.

It’s short tonight, y’all. I’m tired and I need to wake up early in the morning so I can actually accomplish a few things before I fly down the highway to work. Happy Friday.

unbelievable.