Moratorium lifted

I have broken the same big toe four times. 

Incident #1:
It is the night my sister is born.  My parents are at the hospital, and we are being (loosely) supervised by a babysitter.  My two older brothers and I decide to play a brilliant game wherein two of us stand on a blanket and the other pulls it out from under us.  Levi and I stand on the blanket.  Silas pulls it out from under us.  Levi's knee lands on my big toe.  I find out the hard way that there is nothing a doctor can do for a broken toe.  My lifelong hatred of socks begins.

Incident #2:
I am fourteen.  Silas pisses me off to the point of violence, as he is wont to do in these days.  I kick him as hard as I can in the shin.  My kicking form is not ideal, and the toe is broken once more.  My anger is not assuaged. 

Incident #3:
The place is Karuizawa.  Prayer conference, which is the best one because it's short enough that they don't bother planning a kids program.  We play floor hockey in the gym all day, and for some reason I am the only one not wearing shoes (possible influence of sock hatred).  My toe gets stepped on by a shoe-wearing boy and is broken for the third time.

Incident #4:
We are camping.  This really can't be classified as an incident, but more of an inevitability considering the weakened state of my toe.  I stand the wrong way on a rock and break my toe again.

I have since managed not to revisit this toe-breaking tradition, but sometimes that ache is still there on days when it rains or when the seasons change.  I fear that this saga is not over, as only two of my brothers have broken my toe with their knees, and I must now watch out for the third. 

Stay tuned for my next blog, in which I further explore clumsiness in general in search for a cure.

On memories and sheep

Turns out counting sheep isn't as easy as it sounds.  The other night I laid in bed with a thousand thoughts running through my jet-lagged brain, trying to think of a way to distract myself long enough for sleep to kick in.  I thought to myself of how in children's books and in movies, people count sheep, and figured giving that a try couldn't hurt.  This, my friends, is not the simple task one would imagine it to be.  I remembered you're supposed to count sheep jumping over a fence, but in my mind it was a bridge.   And then my ridiculous brain starts having the following conversation with itself:

"Isn't that bridge supposed to be a fence?  And if there's a bridge over a river, can't the sheep just walk across it instead of jump?  Where are all these sheep coming from?  Oh no, now they're coming too fast for me to count them all.  I think I just saw a fox in there.  Does this actually work for anyone?"

Eventually I gave up and decided I need to hire someone to travel with me full time and sing me lullabies.  Like Josh Groban.  Or Rufus Wainwright.  Or the guy from Aqualung.

__________________________________________________________

On a much more somber note, I was thinking about the complexities of life and death recently.  Or actually, the not-so-complexities.  The relentlessness and unfairness of time and age.  I had the opportunity to visit my grandfather the other day for the first time in years.  Grandpa has dementia, and doesn't remember who I am.  This in itself is sad, but what really breaks my heart is that he doesn't even know all of who HE is.  My grandpa was intelligent, active, loved to tell jokes, and was always singing, not to mention was a respected missionary and theological professor for many years.  Where is the joy in life when you've lost your sense of self that is so closely wrapped up in your memories?  Say you do figure it out one day--there's no guarantee you'll remember it the next.

This got me thinking about the verse in the Bible about the wages of sin being death (bear with me, this jump will make sense in a minute).  I tend to think of death as the moment you exhale that last breath, and you cease to be, at least in this dimension.  But I can see now that death is in every moment.  Each moment to moment that the LIFE in us is gradually diminished.  That last breath is just the final spark being extinguished.  Every instant of aging is the slow process of death.
    Don't worry, people.  I'm not going to end this on that depressing note, so keep reading, lest any of you walk away to go find a bottle of pills (or a bottle of gin).  There's another half of that Bible verse I was thinking about--the gift of God is eternal life.  Each day draws us closer to eternity.  I guess the beauty of this is that as our bodies and minds endure the gravitational pull towards eternal death, our souls are being drawn towards life.  In my mind I see it as a chart, which I tried to draw for those of us who are more visual:

I am hopeful in my belief that Grandpa's soul is being perfected, even as his memories are lost.  I can't wait for the day I can talk to him again when he will be the full person that he is. 

this may be the one we've been waiting for

I've been blessed to be able to be in Karuizawa, Japan for a week and a half right now.  It's been AMAZING.  This just happens to be not only the town I was born in, but also where I spent my first year of life and many summer days throughout the rest of my life. 

Since this is my absolute favorite place to run in the whole world, I'm using this week as a little kick-start to getting back into fighting shape.  Between chronic pain from a knee injury, adjusting to a new job and a new city, and a crazy schedule that makes me ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS choose sleep over exercise, I've been on a bit of a fitness hiatus.  The tricky bits about getting back into running are that 1. running isn't really all that fun until a couple weeks in when you no longer feel like you're about to die, 2. running with a bad knee is a delicate process, and 3. bad running form leads to further injury.  Case in point on that last one--during my run the other day, I somehow managed to kick myself in the ankle (yes, kicked myself, you read it right), causing it to bleed.  The even more embarrassing thing about this is that I saw the blood first and couldn't figure out where the cut came from until the second time I kicked myself in the same spot.  At least I wasn't running fast enough for that to cause a full-on face-plant.  And thus starts my most recent running saga.

By the way, if anyone wants to experience the carnage up close, I'm planning to run a 5K race soon, hopefully in September or October, so come run with me :)

but I'm always on the run

There's something to be said for good ol' rest.  It's pretty great to have my brain in one place for a few days, considering the last several months have been nothing but ping-ponging from New York to LA to San Francisco (oh yeah, and everywhere in between when I'm actually working).  I haven't had a proper night's sleep in weeks, thanks to Restless Legs Syndrome and trying to keep everything straight as I move my residence as well as my work base.  I've decided there are few things more anxiety-inducing than a constant feeling of I-think-I-might-be-forgetting-something-important. 

Anyhow, lessons learned in recent days:
1. RLS is a bitch when you're in Queens and you can't go running at midnight on the track at your perfectly safe, Christian college.
2. It's pretty hard to buy a car when you don't have a car.  Think about it. 
3. You can break a plastic lawn chair in two to make two plastic lawn chairs and seat two people.
4. Only one person will be comfortable.
5. Easy Mac and tortilla chips make for a perfectly acceptable dinner.
6. Three breweries and two wineries in one week does not make you an alcoholic (or that's what I keep telling myself).
7. Having a sense of direction is more like rolling your tongue than tying your shoes--you can't learn it.  You either have the ability or you don't.
8. I seem to attract people who are directionally-challenged.
9. Regressing back to childhood habits when with your family is a very real problem.  On an unrelated note, I can still sing man-opera and get stuck talking with about five different accents at once.
10. The people you make time for when you have no time are the ones who matter.

Yeah.  Not the most profound list, but it's my blog, and I can write whatever I want. 

P.S. If someone could google whether it's illegal to throw something off the balcony of the 35th floor of a hotel or not, that'd be super.

I've got some real estate here in my bag

It seems summer has come to New York City, and it's arrived in full force.  I'm sitting in my living room with the fan on high, shades closed, ice bag on my neck, as few clothes as possible, trying to sit completely still.  I went for a run earlier and nearly died of heat exhaustion after just fifteen minutes. 

This weather reminds me of when I first moved to New York, almost a year ago now.  Seven of us from flight attendant training were sharing a dingy room at the Newark Howard Johnson for two weeks until our apartment lease started.  It was communal living then, hard core.  Two double beds meant if it was your turn to sleep in a bed at all, you were sharing it with whoever happened to be there.  Male, female, snorer, kicker, whoever.  And if you got the floor, you got stepped on by whoever had the 5am sign-in at JFK and had to leave at 2am.  Suitcases were EVERYWHERE, uniforms hung wet and wrinkly on hangers on any available makeshift hook.  Toiletries covered every inch of the bathroom sink, and there was no way to know which towel was yours, so you just felt around for the driest one you could find.  We had only two keys to share between the seven of us, so we had to come back after a trip and just hope someone else was there.  We ended up telling the front desk we'd "lost our key" multiple times.  I'm pretty sure they were onto our hippy-commune setup. 

On the day we left, only four of us were available, so we rented a car and lugged all the suitcases into the trunk and backseat--anywhere we could fit them.  Wifey--the youngest of us--braved New York traffic until we made it to our third story walk-up apartment.  And in that blazing heat, we heaved every last suitcase up three flights of stairs into this very apartment, though at the time it was entirely unfurnished.  Almost a year later, most of us have already moved out, and are getting ready to go on to the next chapter of our lives.  For a year, we were family--at training, at the HoJo, in New York.  We're at the end of an era, my loves.  On to another year of successes and failures and laughter and tears.  And lots and lots of wine.

Would you like cream and sugar with your panic attack?

I first noticed Zachary as we were taxiing on the runway, about to take off from Detroit to Minneapolis.  I was sitting on the front jumpseat of a 737 facing first class, and he was sitting in the first row of economy, on the aisle.  He was staring at me with this panicked look in his eyes, and at first I couldn't tell that he was trying to get my attention.  He finally raised his hand, so I walked over to him, hoping this wasn't going to be some crazy emergency.

"I think I'm having a panic attack.  Do you think I could get a drink or something?"

I told him I couldn't get him a drink right then since we were about to take off.  He looked nervous and a bit sweaty, and I started racking my brain trying to think back to my psychology classes and what to do if someone's having a panic attack.  I asked him if he wanted to breathe into a paper bag (always a solid solution).  He said no, he just wanted a drink.  As we talked a bit more, he told me he just got out of rehab for alcoholism and meth amphetamines. 

"Well now I really can't get you a drink."

I asked him if he had anything with him to do, because sometimes a distraction is the best way to get your mind off of your anxiety.  He said his iPod had died, and he couldn't focus on his book.  I ended up offering him my iPod, feeling slightly embarrassed that country, Billy Joel, and the Backstreet Boys may not exactly be to his liking.  In any case, he thanked me and said he would be fine (he gave the iPod back as soon as we got up in the air, go figure).  I told him to let me know if there was anything else I could do to help.  There was an elderly couple sitting next to him who overheard our exchange, and the husband kindly started chatting with Zachary, trying to keep his mind off of takeoff.  As I went back to my jumpseat, he kept shooting pleading looks my way, and I tried to just smile at him, because what more could I do? 

Throughout the short flight, I continued to check on him, and he seemed to be hanging in there, although I could tell he was still on edge.  He kept writing in a little notebook with a skinny Sharpie, and I hoped that was keeping him occupied.  Part of the way through the flight, a doctor on board stopped me in the aisle and said he had overheard what had happened, and volunteered to switch seats with the elderly gentleman so he could help keep Zachary calm.  This seemed to work, and every time I walked by, Zachary and the doctor seemed to be deep in conversation. 

After landing, as everyone deplaned, Zachary came over and thanked me.  I put my hand on his shoulder, wished him good luck, and told him he would be fine (as if I knew).  He walked off the plane, and I just hoped that he had someone to meet him at the airport. 

As the doctor passed by me on his way off the plane, I thanked him for all his help.  All he said was,

"You really made an impression on him.  He said he would marry you."

I walked back past Zachary's seat to get my suitcase, and saw a skinny Sharpie on the seat.  I picked it up and put it in my pocket.

A letter to the city of angels

Oh, Los Angeles. When I first moved here six and a half years ago, I loathed you. I despised your smog, your traffic, your graffiti, and your awful public transportation system. You, in turn, scoffed at my curly red hair, my pale skin, and my aversion to wearing bright colors. We've had our difficulties over the years, but we've come to know and accept each other's quirks and idiosyncrasies. I learned your freeways like the back of my hand, and your sunshine put color in my cheeks and brought joy to my soul. Your traffic became a time of solace, where I could listen to music or make faces at the people in the cars around me. Your smog became just an indication of the borders of the place I tentatively called home.

And then I left you for the hustle and bustle of New York. On my first day there, someone told me I looked "way too approachable for Queens." Everyone there was busy and rude. The street smelled of trash and exhaust from the subways. And then the day came when a rat scurried past my feet on the sidewalk, and a crazy man started following me home from the bus stop (turns out I AM too approachable for Queens). And the worst thing of all was that I had to try three different grocery stores before I found one that carried corn tortillas.

So now I come back to visit you, L.A., and your deliciously thick smog says, "Welcome back, Emma," in its raspy, throaty vibrato. On the train there's a man carrying what I think is a hammer but what turns out to be a collapsible cane (I wouldn't have questioned it even if it was a hammer). There's a girl who can't be more than thirteen with tattoos all over her bare arms and stomach (Does she have parents? And WHERE does she get the money?). A woman with sideburns tells her kid to "SIT DOWN" for the fifth time. But L.A, your strange citizens on this train are endearing to me, rather than repulsive.

Even though "home" will always be Nagano, Japan, you've managed to carve out a little space for yourself in my heart. Someday I'll drive your streets again, Los Angeles. And we'll play our little car flirting games, and go get tacos on Tuesdays, and watch the sun set over the Pacific. I promise.

Thoughts from the open sky

There are moments when I hate my job. It drains me physically and emotionally. It provides no sense of stability. I'm often away from family and friends. I seem to live outside the boundaries of what is considered "real life." I live in the transient; I live the journey, in the most literal sense. But on nights like tonight, while my passengers sleep, and I get to savor a moment looking out at the city lights down below, I realize, I LOVE my job. I hope it never ceases to hit me how small things look from high up. How our entire lives, every little detail that seems so huge in the moment is part of a bigger picture. We're insignificant from way up here, but for some reason we matter. All we are is dust, if not for the breath of God coursing through us.

One of my favorite things about my best friend is that she sees the strange, quirky qualities in every person and appreciates them for it. I tend to feel critical towards those who stray from what is socially normal and acceptable, but she seeks these weirdos out and finds them lovable. This has always inspired me, and has challenged me to see people through the eyes of someone more compassionate and accepting. It's a gift to see beauty in all things, and to protect our sense of wonder. So much around us is reduced to dollars and minutes. We are self-absorbed. We are caught up in things that will mean nothing tomorrow, next year, or at the end of our lives.

So these are my challenges to myself:
-Never lose my sense of wonder.
-Look for the beauty in people.
-Remember that nothing lasts forever, so discern what to cherish in the moment and what to discard as a waste of my time and effort.
-Learn how to converse with children (backstory on this one: there was a little girl traveling on my flight today whose mother had just died. She was flying on an airplane for the first time in her life, completely alone, going to see her birth father whom she had never met. She had the sweetest spirit, and I felt lucky to have been able to hopefully help her through her flight, even if it was just in the smallest way).
-Work hard, play harder.
-Take risks--I never regret the things I've done, just the things I didn't have the guts to do.

I tend to oscillate between being sarcastic and jaded to the core, and being deeply touched by the complexities of life and beauty. The thoughtful side of me feels like it tried pretty hard to limit the cheesiness, but the jaded side is still totally grossed out by this post. Just had to add that caveat. Gotta be true to yourself and all that. Never fear, jaded side, you will rise again as soon as the next passenger in a fur coat refuses to check her Louis Vuitton luggage and proceeds to demand a "sparkling water with just a splash of cranberry juice and a slice of lime." Never fear.

Go ahead and vomit from all this optimism

After a LONG hiatus, I've decided. I just can't not run. If my knee is going to hurt almost everyday anyway, I want there to be a damn good reason for it. In that spirit, and armed with my knee brace, I've run three times this week, takin' it slow and steady. Maybe I'll be able to check "half marathon" and "marathon" off my bucket list after all. Keeping my fingers crossed that my knee doesn't get worse (in fact it'd be great if it got BETTER).

I read a book recently that had a section talking about letting yourself pursue the things you love. You don't have to pare down your hobbies just because you feel guilty for not spending time broadening your horizons. While I do believe in the importance of trying new things and constantly growing as a person, I agree that there's nothing wrong with getting lost in something makes your soul content. Try something at least once, give it a chance, but if you hate it, why waste your time waiting for it to grow on you when you are passionate about something else? For me, this means pursuing running (no matter how slow), books, more books, travel, exploring, food, collecting random information, psychology, and art. What are these things for you? In addition, I'm hoping to broaden my horizons within these interests. Maybe for me this means running a 5k soon, being more disciplined about writing regularly, or taking an art class. Those things will take me outside of my comfort zone but in directions I'm interested in.

There's something beautiful about people being enthusiastic about things they love, even when it's something others may ridicule (e.g. my love for the Backstreet Boys). Judy Garland said to "Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else." So go ahead and be proud of your Star Wars figurines or your John Travolta dance skills (Siobhan Stewart). Okay, I'm done being sappy and inspirational now. Merry December 17th.

Cheese and the nature of goodbyes

Sometimes you say goodbye to something or someone in your life, and it feels equivalent to trimming your hair. It's a big "good riddance!" to those nasty split ends, your hair is lighter, healthier, and even looks better. You might even say you feel revived, inspired to make other good changes in your life. Those tangled masses were weighing you down and keeping you from your full potential. You don't even know why you held on to them for so long. I recently said a goodbye like this.

On the other hand, some goodbyes are like breaking off the best relationship you ever had because you know you're just not going the same direction in life. You'll always think of them fondly, you'll miss them, you'll wish you could've stayed friends but you know it never would've worked to only see them in that capacity. I am currently undertaking such a goodbye. I've recently subscribed to a fitness program especially for flight crew members, aimed at helping us stay healthy in the midst of crazy hours, lack of sleep, and inconsistent access to healthy food. This program suggests (or more like strongly recommends) cutting out cheese. I don't know about you, but it's hard for me to imagine a life without cheese. I'm experiencing a bit of the grieving process, thinking back on all the good times cheese and I had together (cue slow-motion montage of me looking at a slice of brie with a glass of wine in my hand, me asking for pepperjack at Subway, me putting fresh mozzarella in my pasta, with some kind of cheesy love song as background music. Ha, cheesy love song, that was totally unplanned). Cheese, maybe a few pounds down the road, our timing will be better and we'll be reunited.

Until then, I may end up rebounding with Nutella. Forgot to forbid that, didn't you, Cabincrewfitness.com??

Only in dreams

I keep having dreams about Robert Downey Jr. Last night's was actually pretty long and involved. I bumped into him at the airport (literally). He was trying to propose to some girl he didn't even know, and with a pinky ring at that. He dropped the ring and I picked it up for him, and we were instant BFFs. Then he missed his train, so I had to help him get to where ever he was going. I made fun of him for having such an old computer (who brings a desktop with them on an airplane? And especially this one?), and for wearing a pinky ring. He let me try it on, which was cool. He ended up spending the weekend at my house, and when he had to leave, I tried to wash all of his dirty tupperware for him, but I only got halfway through because we were going to be late. You'd think RDJ would have enough money to throw out tupperware when he travels. Then we got to the airport and said good bye, knowing we'd never see each other again. And that's the story of how I spent the weekend with my friend Robert.

This got me thinking about how I wish there was a way to record dreams, and decide before you sleep which one you want to watch. Not every night, because everyone needs a little novelty in their life, but as someone who doesn't have good dreams very often, it'd be nice to get a break every now and then. They can track a lot of things in the brain now, so it'll be interesting to see how far technology takes us as far as mind-reading goes. Somehow it'd be nice to know that nothing can really penetrate the mind so much so that we lose all privacy, which I guess negates my Dream DVR idea.

Completely off-topic: I've decided that many New Yorkers are perpetually hungover. More on that theory later when my parents stop reading my blog, ha!

Emma and Emma's day of fun

Sometimes alone time drags me into the depths of nothingness and I start to feel like a puddle of oozing mulch that's slowly melting into the floor. In other words, gross. And other days, it all just comes together, and Emma and I have a fabulous time. Today was one of those days. Let me share with you some highlights:

-I have thus far completed seven out of the thirteen items on my to do list (one of which I've decided to put off until a later date. Who really needs clean laundry, anyway?)
-There is a beautiful old Catholic church in my neighborhood that I love to walk by. It makes me feel like I live in Europe (actually, I don't know how old it is--it could've been built last year, but I like to think it's old).
-When it's raining, and you walk under an umbrella, and then it gets really windy, your hair swirls around like you're a witch in the middle of a particularly evil spell. It's quite an extraordinary experience.
-Speaking of umbrellas and wind, I'm about to add to my bucket list that I want to be walking with an umbrella and have it spontaneously turn inside out, like in the movies.
-Bookstores make me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and it makes me a little sad that I'm contemplating buying a Kindle.
-Today as I walked past Starbucks, there was a man sitting by himself inside the window. He was on the phone. I decided to give him some intense eye contact because I think it's funny to trick people into thinking they've just had a special moment with a stranger. In my imagination, he'd be thinking, "What if she was the ONE?" and freaking out about his impending marriage.
-I got caught up in a lover's quarrel on my way home, which involved the guy saying to the girl, referring to me, "If you don't believe me, ask HER! She's been walking right behind us!" I felt strangely powerful, and also really uncomfortable.

And now I am home, sitting on my cheap Walmart couch, staring at our beautiful new rug which my roommate and I hauled home from the rug store down the street amid a barrage of amazed stares (flight attendant uniforms? Check. High heels? Check. Starbucks coffee? Check. Enormous rolled up carpet slung under our arms and suspended between us? Ch....what??). It's rainy and gray outside, and it's beautiful. It's a beautiful day.

How Not To Piss Off Your Flight Attendant

Here are a few tips for the next time you fly:

1. If you have a smaller piece of luggage (maybe like the one "personal item" you're allowed in addition to your carry-on), if at all possible, just put it under your seat. This especially applies to purses, laptop cases, briefcases, and that plastic bag with your leftovers in it from last night's restaurant.

2. If you can manage to never have odd-sized luggage, that'd be great. And by that I mean suitcases that are kind of long and flat, but which don't really provide any space-saving advantage when put in an overhead bin, backpacks with hats/blankets/enormous hiking boots strapped to the outsides of them, sombreros (I can't make this stuff up), and empty cardboard boxes (again, I can't make this stuff up).

3. If you have a book/laptop/jacket/anything else you might need in the middle of the flight, please DO get it out during those two and half hours you were twiddling your thumbs on that uncomfortable bench at the gate--don't wait until you're in the aisle with thirty people behind you.

4. If you've brought a jacket or suit coat, try to slide it on top of your suitcase in the overhead bin, or just fold it neatly and put it under your seat. For the love of God, do NOT take up half of a bin by laying it flat and lengthwise across it.

5. This one's just a travel tip--pack in such a way that your bag isn't stuffed full and you have to sit on it to get it to close. Especially if you plan on getting your book/laptop/jacket/anything else you might need in the middle of the flight out of it while standing in the aisle. This also cuts down on the four smaller bags of souvenirs that you could've fit inside your one big bag had you not brought that sombrero that you knew you wouldn't wear. Sidenote: never use the expander zipper on a carry-on, and still expect to fit it into a regular-sized overhead bin. Because c'mon, you don't want to be that embarrassed idiot pulling your dirty underwear out of your bag just so you can undo the expander.

6. This one is especially to the ladies--if you can't lift your bag yourself, then you shouldn't have put so much in it. Also, if YOU can't lift it without hurting yourself, then neither can your flight attendant. You packed it--you lift it. This of course excludes children, pregnant mothers, those with injuries, and the elderly.

7. If you're going to fish for a free drink, do it by being genuinely nice to your flight attendant. Also, have your credit card already out so it's not obvious that you were just trying to get a free drink out of us.

8. Do continue to compliment us and be in awe of the fact that we can walk up and down those tiny aisles in four-inch heels while the airplane is already moving.

9. Understand that it's not MY fault that God decided to generate a hailstorm in the middle of September and you might just miss your connecting flight. It is also not my fault that your bag is definitely not carry-on size, didn't fit in the bin, and now we have to check it. Also, in general, I have no idea why we've been sitting on the runway for an hour and a half either, and cussing me out will not get us there faster, it will just get you kicked off the plane.

10. Finally, if it's a 45 minute flight, don't ask for three beverages. Also, it takes forever for the foam on Diet Coke to fizz down, so feel free to just ask for the whole can and save us the hassle of waiting 20 minutes until you've got your full cup.

I assure you that following these simple guidelines will make your next trip SO much more pleasant. That's right, you're welcome. Now go explore, you little explorers. :)

Home

I'm sitting here typing profusely then deleting profusely everything I type as I try to come up with something profound about this subject that has been on my mind so often these days. Home. Belonging. Connecting. Meaning something.

This new direction in my life has taken me on many adventures and granted me the opportunity to meet so many new people and experience so many things (one of which involved having a homeless man in Denver yell, "GO LONG!" then proceed to chuck a bottle at my head). While I wouldn't trade the glamour of sleeping on an airline blanket on the floor of my unfurnished apartment, eating stale cheerios with no milk because it's gone sour while I was away on a trip, and sitting on the edge of my bathtub soaking my feet because I'm standing in heels for 12 hours, I am trying to navigate the reality of this kind of existence, knowing that if I don't make some sense of it, I'll get lost in it. The truth is, most of the time, no one in my life ever really knows where I am. When I have time off on a layover, it's with a crew that I will likely never see again after this trip. When I go back to my crash pad, I'm lucky if I can catch up with one or two roommates who I haven't seen in a good two weeks. When I finally make it back to LA, it's to friends and family who have lives of their own that I try to squeeze a bit of catching up into.

Not to say that I don't love what I do. I'm not complaining. This is an opportunity that I never would've passed up, regardless of these complications. The trick is to figure out how to accept that this isn't just a job, it's a lifestyle. I have to create little pockets of "home" where I can. I have to appreciate that I'm able to see loved ones who are normally far away. I have to embrace my independence, while still striving to stay connected with those I love and miss. I have to be intentional about taking care of myself, because I can't rely on good habits and a regular routine.

So there you go, some recent thoughts out of Emma Cole's head. P.S. If anyone would like to text me daily and remind me to take my multivitamin, I'm now accepting volunteers.

Greetings, loved ones. Let's take a journey...

It's crazy to think about how perspective changes everything. Everything. Have you ever seen a peacock from the back? Not that it doesn't look sort of interesting, but it's NOTHING compared to the beauty that you see from the front. Maybe you need to walk around a situation to see the beauty in it. Just think about THAT for thirty seconds. By the way, someday I will get this tattooed on my back (okay, probably not, but my shadow archetype wants to).

Today it's hitting me, once again, how the little things really are the big things. It's not the big moments in life that make your whole life worth living. They do provide highlights, and you may always look back and remember them the most distinctly, but what makes your day-to-day existence worthwhile? Figure out what cultivates that inner calm and surround yourself with those things. There will always be more than enough negativity to deal with, so stop waiting for the next big moment and start stringing together as many little moments as you can. In fact, maybe sometimes you can try to BE a little moment for someone else. Yes, go be little rays of sunshine (some of you won't need to try as hard, since you tend to blind people with your...we'll call it "radiance," *ahem* Siobhan Stewart). Happy Hump Day, everyone.

I've recently realized a life goal of mine. First, I need to memorize and learn the words to every song in existence. Second, I need to learn to read lips. Ultimately, I hope to be able to look at people driving next to me and always know what song they're singing in their cars.

Several days ago, I saw the Google Maps car (okay, probably not the Google Maps car, but one of them anyway). This made me wonder how one manages to get the job of Google Maps Car Driver. Although, as I was looking for a picture of the Google Maps car, I came across this, and in between fits of laughter (yes, I know it's insensitive to the poor deer), have decided that this career path may not be for me. Having my driving blunders semi-permanently recorded for all the world to see isn't very appealing. Sidenote: I just realized that I could possibly be on Google Maps now, which is less than exciting considering people will start finding out about all my shortcuts.

Siobhan Stewart, since this is primarily how we communicate out feelings about each other, I have to tell you that I refuse to erase your number out of my cell phone, though I'm actually causing myself more pain, considering how often I am reminded of the fact that I can't text you absurd things at all hours of the day. Please come back to me.

Well, I'm back on the job hunt again, and as I read description after description of what qualifications employers are looking for, specifically in terms of personality traits, I am disappointed. I just read an article about how it's getting more and more uncomfortable to be an introvert in America, and I must say that the job market certainly reflects this unfortunate truth. Every other employer wants someone who's a "team player, enthusiastic, energetic, outgoing personality," blah blah blah. Not that introverts can't be good team players. But I think we have a lot of other valuable qualities. Why is it that no one is looking for an employee who is "independent, polite, efficient, can mind their own damn business"? Again, this is not to say that extroverts cannot be all of these things as well, just that you'll never see this particular combination in a job description. Introverts are neither unfriendly nor do they have bad people skills, but including "outgoing personality" in a job description would imply otherwise.

Done with rant. Back to job applications. I should probably remove "stays on task" from my resume.

where did my walls go?

I just realized today that no one took seriously my Facebook plea for donations for a new laptop. I would literally take $5 right now. On second thought, perhaps I should invest in some kind of insurance for the accident prone, on the off chance that someone is foolish enough to start THAT company. Semi-related: I promised Jo that I'd blog about my laundry basket incident. Pretty much, I accidentally stepped in a laundry basket. At the time it was hilarious. I guess you had to be there.

Lessons learned and general observations for the day:
1. It's generally better to keep your mouth shut.
2. Sometimes I wish I could put my life in the freezer when it gets too scary.
3. Misery can be pervasive, and good is not always present--sometimes you have to create it.
4. Dog gates in doorways do not combine well with sleep-walking.
5. If possible, it's always better to sit outside.
6. I'm beginning to confuse reality with dreams I've had.
7. It's okay to avoid creepers.
8. It's generally better to keep your mouth shut.
9. Pretending a burnt grilled cheese sandwich "tastes like camping food" really doesn't help.
10. Ten is just a more complete number.

Hi blog buddy Sho (did I ever tell you that Sho was the name of my first crush?).

Mama Pajama got half her neck burned to a crisp.

I am efficient so that I can be lazy.

Burnt orange Range Rovers and tourists who think they can direct traffic are all on my hit list now.

Dogs are not allowed to bark, but twenty people can get away with running their mouths right outside my bedroom window on my one day off.

Migrating futons. Velociraptors. Jeff Goldblum.

Tandem bikes are almost not worth the trouble, but they keep you young.

Crayons and margaritas are the best combination.

When you're in a creek at night, EVERYthing that brushes by you is a snake.

My retirement will consist of southern accents, canes, and lawn chairs.

According to my nightmares, I am incapable of love, but my love for cheese grows daily.

There have been recent complaints about my nearly month-long hiatus. Let me start by saying that I have no major injuries to report. It's possible that they were source of my inspiration, thus, the hiatus. However, to appease my dear older brother, here are three embarrassing incidents, as well as a recent concern of mine, to hold you over until inspiration returns.

First, my younger brother and I were driving back to Tokyo from the mountains, and, finally making it to the tollbooth in Tokyo, we prepared to pay the toll (as you do at a tollbooth). Mishap substep #1: pull in too far away from the booth, poor man has to reach half his body out to take my ticket. Mishap substep #2: cannot find correct change, but somehow it seems incredibly crucial at the time to use up as many coins as possible. Drop half of said coins all over car floor. Mission accomplished. Mishap substep #3: drop a coin in the chasm between my car and the window. Poor man has to come out of the booth to pick it up. Mishap substep #4 (the finale): try to hand poor man the rest of the change and experience an awkward fumble wherein the man drops all the coins and has to pick them all back up again, then hurries back to his booth hoping that when he turns around I'll be gone.

Second, while eating dinner with my family tonight, my father mentioned some recent flooding in what I thought he said was Oklahoma. I had no idea why he would mention this, and then proceed to talk about rivers rising and nearly flooding bike paths, as though this was at all relevant to any of us (and really, out of all the states, Oklahoma?). Not that it's not important to be aware of current events, but bike paths in Oklahoma just seemed a little too specific. In any case, I decided this might be an appropriate time to belt out that song from the musical...you know the song. Luckily, someone asked my dad why it was flooding in Yokohama, just seconds before I would have started singing and thoroughly confused everyone at the table. So maybe that wasn't an embarrassing incident. More like a fortunate sidestepping of such an incident.

Third, whilst playing a game of hearts with my mother and siblings, someone says something funny and I let out a laugh unlike any you've ever heard before. It's the kind of laugh with different pitches, and the "ha ha's" are maniacally close together, and while you're laughing, in your head you're thinking, "WHAT is this NOISE coming out of me?" The worst part is, you can't just end the laugh and move on. You know it's echoing in everyone's heads.

Finally, my recent concern. For whatever reason, I have begun to lose a lot of hair. Perhaps I have a condition, or maybe the world is trying to restore equilibrium, since I probably have more hair than most. I need to get in touch with Locks of Love so I can donate all the hair I'm losing. And while I'm at it, maybe I should order a wig myself. If anyone has any inkling of why this may be happening to me, I would love to know. Preferably before I start getting patchy, or have to fashion a comb-over.