Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Nips Navs*

It was a cold November day, and another fall sports season had passed, my final one as a Hilltopper. That night was the semiannual sports awards ceremony, an opportunity to showcase one's stellar accomplishments in the competitive arena to the entirety of the Chardon High School athletic community. The most important part of this ceremony - the outfit. As a strong candidate in the senior best-dressed preliminaries, I had a reputation to continually cultivate, and this decision was not one to be taken lightly.

Unfortunately, my appearance was having an unusually rough day. My hair was falling haphazardly, and I had a large zit on my left cheek resembling a small volcano. As any competitor knows, one cannot cower in the face of such adversity. Following my afternoon workout, I showered and surveyed my options for the evening. I had plenty of short skirts and fancy dresses, but my theme for the evening was simple, classy, sophisticated. I chose an asymmetrical black skirt that hit beneath the knees, lined tastefully with glitter. I paired it with a shimmery, light blue cowl-neck top and black boots. In order to combat my unruly hair, I finished the look with a flowered clip. The outfit covered approximately 87% of my body while subtly calling the attention of spectators.

There was but one problem. The shirt was a bit tight, and the lines of a bra could be seen. After standing in front of my mirror for two minutes, I decided it best to go without. After all, the school gymnasium was always stifling so I would not have to worry about potential hardening, and it would be embarrassing to stand in front of hundreds of people with my bra line apparent to all. I strutted out the door in my pink and gold coat, certain my outfit would proclaim, "This young lady's athletic prowess is matched only by her style."

For some reason, even though you spent every day with these peers, the awards ceremony was a big deal. Athletes, usually dawning jeans and a t-shirt were instead wearing suits, dresses, and the occasional pant suit (a fashion trend which I will never embrace). Because they fell short of the playoffs and did not have practice that night, even the football players were able to grace us with their presence, looking exceptional as always. Rather than sweat, the gymnasium smelled of cologne and perfume. Proud parents and siblings filled the upper tiers of the bleachers, and as I walked to a seat amongst my teammates, I realized the side door had been opened to encourage air circulation. Hoping this would not be problematic, I did not remove my coat, and the ceremony began.

As I listened to the athletic director pontificate over the importance of athletics and the fortitude we all exemplified, I realized the cold was penetrating my coat. Indeed, it was spreading throughout my body; I had goose bumps, and there was one part of my body which was a cause for particular concern - my nipples. I did not have much time to worry as it was time for the first set of awards, honoring four year varsity letter winners. I certainly could not walk down with my coat on, so I removed it, walked confidently to the podium, received my award, and took my place next to the other lettermen, attempting to hide the offensive display. The massive zit on my face was the least of my worries, and I do not believe "classy", "subtle", or "sophisticated" were anywhere in the audience's minds. We were able to return to our seats, and having a resilient personality familiar with utter humiliation, I was only mildly mortified.

Realizing this problem was not going to subside on its own, I did what I could. I began rubbing as discreetly as possible, attempting to warm the area and alleviate the hardening. In retrospect, this may have been counterproductive, since the rubbing was also stimulating said area. Regardless, the hardening remained. And so my name was called again - for first team all conference, for sportsmanship, for conference MVP (an award my overzealous coach had simply created, and I desperately wish she had not). Finally, the night was over.

My mom casually mentioned the fashion faux pas, but the subject was left at that - until the following day. Fifth period, I entered the cafeteria to be greeted by a host of football players shouting, "What's up, Nips Navs?" I forget my response, although I can imagine the hue of my face was a bit redder than usual, and I probably laughed, because there is nothing else to do in such situations. Comments were made by young gentlemen that I will refrain from posting to avoid offending the readership. My mother bemoaned the fact that this happened despite her parenting. My brother-in-law informed me a fellow coach had declared, "If I ever let my daughter walk out of the house like that, slap me" upon seeing me. The spectacle was immortalized through parents' home videos. And I still occasionally answer to the nickname Nips Navs at a local bar.

Why am I writing about this, over five years later? It is a cold December day, and the company Christmas party is this evening. It is an opportunity to peak through the window of co-worker's lives outside of the office. As I will not have a gorgeous gentleman adorning my arm and have recently attempted to reestablish my reputation of best dressed, the most important aspect of this evening - the outfit. This morning, I looked in my closet to find an outfit representing the epitome of sophistication. One option was a hand-me-down dress from my chic sister. I tried it on and realized that a bra would not work well as the dress would not fully cover it. I stood in front of mirror for two minutes, contemplating possible routes my evening wear could take. Then I took the dress off and moved on to my next option. Everyone, I am maturing.

*I apologize for the title, but I promise it is appropriate. And it probably caught your attention.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Thursday Nights

Well, dear blog, apart from a silly story about the loss of sunglasses, it has been awhile since last we spoke. Of course life has been filled with embarrassing moments and humorous anecdotes you would enjoy, but I have not been inspired to write. The truth is, the past couple months have been scattered.

For some time, I have looked at my life in year time frames, and points of progress throughout said year. The year 2010 was a good one - I graduated, dominated my puny Division III tennis conference, coached tennis in Europe - I even beat a video game completely unassisted, a lifetime goal of mine.

The month of August marked my one year anniversary in Charlottesville, and during that time, progress was not as evident as a goal oriented girl may like. Admittedly, part of the problem may have been the lack of orientation of goals. The mere act of surviving the transition from the life of a student near her family to the life of a professional apart from them was a personal feat. However, a year into establishing myself in a new state, that no longer sufficed. I craved significant life changes so when I talked to family members during the holidays, my answer to the classic question, "What are you doing with yourself?" would exude sophistication and maturity.

I pursued professional and personal advancement, and, measurably speaking, fell short. Although disappointed, I was able to rebound, as I do believe that while doors may be closed, windows are usually cracked; I just always hope these windows are on the first floor and do not have screens. What affected me more was the growing resistance that seemed to be palpable every Thursday night. I have referred jokingly to the youth group with which I assist as "Changing Lives." A humorous exaggeration emphasizing my impact, perhaps, but since moving, this has been the one area of involvement I never doubted. And I had begun doubting. The girls did not seem as responsive, and other factors in my life were affecting my patience during each meeting. I questioned my disciplinary methods, as well as the example I was setting. In other arenas, I could accept failure; however, the weekly frustration in an area I was quite sure God wanted me was beginning to weigh heavily on my heart.

During my vacation and the weeks following, I have been convicted. In my relatively short stage of extreme self pity and angst, the proverbial depths of despair (which for me, merely means I no longer engage in five minute conversations with cashiers), I focused only on perceived problems and failed to appreciate the strong relationships cultivated throughout my time in Charlottesville. I was reminded of the strength of one such relationship this weekend.

Since beginning to work with the Charlottesville Abundant Life program, in an environment where girls do not automatically trust their leaders, one young lady took a particular fancy to me. The past eleven months, we have spent many nights sitting in her driveway, talking about everything from food to boys to high school girls to work. This Friday, I was finally able to have the sleep over I had been promising.

We ordered takeout Chinese and our favorite frozen yogurt. I picked up a couple Christmas movies, and we headed back for a lovely evening in front of the Christmas tree. We watched Home Alone 2, both in hysterics when Marv was electrocuted, happily eating our sundaes. Upon the movies end, I put in Elf, only to realize it was a blu-ray and my ten dollar DVD player was not going to facilitate the viewing. And so we sat. And she began talking - about everything and anything, asking me questions and divulging her unusually perceptive thoughts on the world in which she lived. I responded with the wisest words I could muster, attempting to empathize and provide guidance, as was usually the case. And as usual, I sat there wondering if she realized the extent to which I admired her strength.

When I was sixteen, the largest tragedy I faced was failing my driver's test twice (perhaps a foreshadowing of things to come). My sheltered youth in white suburbia pales in comparison to the trials she has weathered, yet, she neither pities herself nor makes excuses. Rather, she is constantly examining herself and those around her, telling me ways her actions may not be pleasing to God. In a culture where it is normal to find security in the loose arms of a male, she stands her ground firmly, although she readily admits it is a struggle. She is not afraid to admit her insecurities, while I have to force myself to say that yes, I do sometimes wish I were as skinny as I was in high school. She is transparent, removing all walls, despite the differences others may see between our worlds.

The trait I appreciate most, however, is her love. She constantly lets me know how much she cares about me and how grateful she is to have me in her life. This is a boost to my ego, yes, but more importantly, it gives me hope. For it is during those times when I question life the most that she says, in an unusually quiet and simple manner, "Maybe God brought you here to be my mentor," or, "Maybe you don't have a boyfriend so you can hang out with me more." It is in those moments that I know I need her as much as she needs me.

Monday, August 8, 2011

WOD - Unrequited

Unrequited: Not reciprocated or returned in kind.
example: His unrequited love for dogs drove him to the point of madness, as all canines seemed to loath his presence.

The bear cave's most recent ritual is the word of the day (W.O.D.). Since the bulletin board no longer recounts my dating adventures, it has become an outlet to improve vocabulary on a daily basis. The focus of today's entry: unrequited.
We will revisit the theme: Anna's hopeless crushes on RKG counterparts who are leaving town, but first, we will talk about a boy.

I was a junior in college, skipping blissfully along in my own little world, when I met a boy. The majority of bonding was done in the cafeteria, and while this may seem insignificant, much can be learned about a person through observing his choice in meals, his methods of chewing, and how long he remains in the cafeteria. This particular gent ate only the finest cafeteria food, chewed quietly, and shared my affinity for spending hours discussing movies, sports, or the test for which I was inevitably not studying over a meal. After weeks of shameless flirting, he casually asked for my number and my Friday evening plans. As is the case with college dating, he was not trying to take me to dinner, but perhaps I would like to hang out with him and his friends. When the time came to engineer my evening, I did not accept his invitation. Instead, I informed him I was going to be with some guy friends, and while he was more than welcome to come, it would probably be a sausage fest. Dating tip #27: when trying to kindle a romance, do not tell the pursued you are ditching him for a multitude of other dudes.

Perhaps we could have moved past this. However, the next night, when we met at a toga party (I realize this theme does not exactly scream lasting romance), I again spent the majority of my night entertaining everyone except him, and this time, dancing was involved. Needless to say, I lost whatever classy reputation our afternoons telling inappropriate jokes had established.

We still saw each other and were always friendly, even sharing the occasional laugh. Because our relationship never began, I was able to continue my daily routines relatively undisrupted, although I did have to change my lunch partner. Still, it bothered me, and the boy with whom I shared many silly moments years ago comes to mind from time to time. The root of dissatisfaction is not that I am not with him, madly in love and living the small town dream, but rather the reason this alternate reality never had a chance. There are many factors in such situations, both internal and external, known and unknown. To me, the one most apparent was fear. Fear of failure, fear of leaving a world of certain certainties for one with unpredictable outcomes, fear of feelings unrequited.

What seems like a small lifetime later, these fears have not evaporated. They may have intensified as stakes become higher and I become increasingly accustomed to operating independent of others. Unfortunately, fear seems to be an ever-present pest, casting shadows of doubt and questioning the strength of my will. As years pass, I am more aware of its threatening nature and the attitude with which I approach situations that expose my fears, some small and some potentially crippling. Enter, hopeless crush.

To my credit, this crush had a slightly more legitimate basis than the first. I could delve into extensive detail about formations of feelings, as well as their progression, but I believe that would be straying from the topic at hand. For all intents and purposes, just know feelings were lingering, and despite numerous personal pep talks, refused to dissipate.

After months of suppressing my tongue, the time came for him to leave our small town of Charlottesville and move on with his life, at which point, I could do the same. There was one problem with this: I would not continue my daily routines without at least a tinge of regret. Yes, I would be happy, and I would certainly continue enjoying life, but from time to time, I would remember this boy and wonder what the outcome could have been had I confronted my fears. Just once.

Standing outside his apartment complex for approximately twenty minutes, looking mildly creepy and sweating profusely, I desperately tried to convince myself the matter was best left alone. After all, I realized the most likely outcome was not what my dignity hoped it would be. If I said nothing and simply returned to work, my pride would be untarnished and my heart left completely in tact. But he would not know. As anticipated, knocking on the door was difficult, and forming coherent sentences was petrifying. Perhaps my method was a bit unorthodox, even extreme and arguably silly, but I mustered the courage to say those things that needed to be heard. If not for him, for me. After doing so, I walked away, feeling a small weight removed from my shoulders.

He has since moved, and my life continues undisturbed; there is but one difference. I know while the fear of change, rejection, and complete vulnerability will never disappear, I was able to confront it and embrace my feelings. Even if they were unrequited.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Brain vs. Brawn


A contrast as old as time itself. In fact, I believe the fatal tension between Cain and Abel stemmed from Abel's inherited wisdom, as opposed to Cain's inherited strength. (To clarify, these traits were inherited from Eve and Adam, respectively.) Jealous because a mutual lady of interest preferred Abel's intelligence, Cain brutally murdered his brother. I may have the facts a bit muddled, but the point is clear. Women often argue which is the more desirable trait. However, males do not make the same judgments when discussing women. In the conversations I have been privileged enough to join, most of the comparison is between butt and boobs, although there is the occasional consideration of the value between brain vs. beauty. As a step toward equalizing the sexes and eliminating yet another form of discrimination, this post is dedicated to the argument of brain vs. brawn as it refers to women. Namely, myself.

I hate assembling furniture. I get absolutely no satisfaction from the process. This disdain for such tasks comes as no surprise, because in my household, the local construction company was called to change a light bulb. Unfortunately, it often conflicts with my overriding sense of frugality when it comes to items not adorning my body. White glove delivery is typically reserved for those who are willing to pay the extra $300 for an already overpriced piece of wood, and I panic about whether I am obligated to tip the delivery men, offer them a drink, take them to dinner, marry them... It all is quite overwhelming.

These sentiments lead to a purchase that inevitably compels me to manual labor. In and of itself, I am not opposed to the effort involved in assembling furniture. It is following directions and putting screws in the correct (or incorrect) holes that often plagues the process and renders me yelling at my backwards chair.

I was faced with such a situation a couple weeks ago, as my roommate and I purchased a patio set from Ikea. The price was unbeatable; however, like all of Ikea's furniture, it requires assembly. I was feeling particular motivated and decided to use my lunch break to complete the finishing touch on our new apartment. The table was fairly simple, as it only had four legs and two beams in the middle. The beams were a bit tricky, but after twenty minutes, it was erect and stable. I tackled the bench next, and despite initial panic from the seven pages of directions, I began my work. The time came to attach the back of the bench to the sides. I lined up the holes on both pieces, inserted the screw of correct length, and twisted the screwdriver. The screws did not seem to be cooperating and the awkwardly sized driver was certainly not helping matters. Not to be bested, I forced those little suckers into submission and left my lunch break with a mostly assembled bench.

I was unable to finish my masterpiece, as vacation was upon me. When I returned, I was greeted by a beautiful patio set, completed by my roommate. Apparently, I had complicated the process by inserting the screws into the wrong side of the hole. Cindy, being a problem solver, took the bench to a local hardware store so the screws could be removed and the appropriate ones acquired. After a moment or two of working on the bench, the store employee, who I imagine to have the build of a stereotypical carpenter, asked in disbelief if my roommate had actually inserted these screws. Upon hearing that it was me, he stated, "She must be incredibly strong, because there is no way a girl should have been able to insert these. I cannot get them out."

The question is gentlemen, would you prefer brains or brawn?

Friday, June 24, 2011

Business Class Bum

There are many ways to judge an airport, one of them being the availability of wireless Internet. I often ponder if the proceeds of such outrageous charges go to the wireless provider or the airport, because I am not one to misdirect disdain. Although Cleveland has free wireless, many airports use Boingo and charge seven dollars for what is typically thirty solid minutes of Internet time. As a product offering, I suppose highlighting the competitive message of "free wireless" draws attention to the lack of other services, such as flights. Perhaps it is not economically wise for airports to offer guests free wireless. After all, the airport food and beverages are so cheap, and a business must generate money somehow.

Well, Dulles airport does not have wireless. Since I arrived five hours before my flight (I was not about to take any risks), I could not check in for another two hours and was forced to find other means of entertainment. During this time, the airport once again amazed me. As I was sitting, a family of four passed. One of the boys was wearing a UVA shirt, and the family was indeed from Charlottesville. We then compared travel sob stories; though I lost more money, their cancellations may be more unfortunate as the situation is out of their control.

I then decided to purchase an airport bargain burger for only $15. By this point, my stomach had eased a bit. I say a bit because the family of four had informed me the flight was overbooked by thirty people, and I had yet to receive confirmation of my seat. Until 6:45, however, I had no option besides eating and drinking. As is my custom at airports, I sat at the bar and began chatting with the gentlemen to my left who happened to live in the same city as my sister, Julie.

After solid conversation and a delicious turkey burger, the moment of truth had come. I approached the desk timidly, deciding that Air France definitely has the prettiest flight attendants with the sexiest accents. Prepared for an ironic twist of fate that landed me back in Charlottesville within four hours, I let go of my passport. After being scanned, it appeared to be processing smoothly. She did not tell me I was on standby; in fact, she told me I was flying business. My jaw dropped, or more like drooped, as my body is rapidly approaching a coma like state and any rapid movement of my muscles has ceased.

Perhaps the customer service rep had mercy on me, or perhaps it was a clerical error. Per usual, I find it is best not to consider the reasons behind circumstances, good or bad.

Which lands me here. Relaxing in the Air France business class lounge in sweats with a free Vodka tonic and chocolate cake, dropping eaves on fellow elitists speaking with beautiful accents, and using all the free wireless I fancy. I am also without my fourteen kilo carry-on; due to recently achieved superior status, all such petty fees are waived. Unfortunate cirumstances: still zero. Anna: two.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Passport

Once again, we meet in the throws of a transportation dilemma. This incident, however, can not be blamed on the airlines, although the flight may have been delayed last night. I would not know, because I was not there. For at eleven thirty, while my flight to Scandinavian bliss was departing, I was dancing away my angst in a bed of mulch. I will explain.

At this year's annual Tippit Christmas gathering, I was talking with my cousin, Scott, about visiting him in Chicago. He casually offered the alternative of traveling with him around Europe, as he would be working in a Copenhagen lab. Despite the nerdy implications of a Materials Science Ph.D., Scott is quite entertaining, and I pounced on the idea. The past six months, I have been anxiously awaiting gallivanting about the Baltic together, soaking in the fine European culture of beer, music, and skinny jeans. Anticipation heightened when I learned we would be accompanied by four of his grad school buddies in Copenhagen. What is better than one geek, you ask? Five.

As usual, this week has been extremely busy between work, dominating rec league softball, and tennis with the elderly. Despite constant activity, I had efficiently packed all travel necessities by Wednesday night - so efficient I would not need to pay the egregious checked baggage fees. Thursday morning, I readied myself to knot the loose ends at work and arrive two hours prior to my departure time. I checked my glove compartment box, where my ID had been only days earlier, to ensure it was still present. Upon looking, my heart sank. The passport was gone. Of course, I examined every crevice of my car, ransacked my 6 X 6 apartment and overturned my mattress. But I knew.

Why was my passport in the glove compartment box and where did it go? The answer to the first question can be traced to a thought process including, "I will keep it here, that way I will not forget it when I go to the airport." The second question will remain unanswered. It could have happened in one of my frequent sleep walking bouts of overly efficient cleaning or it could have been the hand of God. Maleek* could have eaten it. He has been prone to binge eating as of late, a problem of which the mechanics warned me. I should have paid the $500 they estimated as a precautionary measure.

Regardless the whereabouts of my passport, I am still in Virginia rather than Denmark. The story is not hopeless, though. After a mild emotional breakdown (for which I later apologized to my roommate's dog), I gathered my wits, looked unfortunate circumstances square in the eyes and said "Bring it on." It so happens that if you are willing to pay enough, you can get the government document of your choice.

The rest of my workday was quite hectic. I called various passport expediting locations. I first asked if passport agencies were run similar to the ER, in which case an individual with a severed arm (me) would take precedence. Not so. I then asked if I could present a notarized copy of my passport at the ticket gate. The representative scoffed and reprimanded me for leaving my passport in the car. After numerous fights with automated answering system, I reached a company with humans. This proved to make a difference, as they had no problem scheduling an eight o'clock appointment. Great! I have identification.

Next, I had to change my flight. This process was made more difficult when my phone died mid-conversation with Delta. I repeated the process through the automated system, wondering if they would have sent me to a representative earlier had I claimed I was a participant in the Sky Miles program. Still, Delta customer service impressed me. I was only transferred twice, and while on hold, I managed to add a few negative keywords to my client's account. Again, I relayed my confirmation number, stumbling through the letter U. U as in ummmm... uncle? Not many words start with U. The ladies were quite intent on finding the cheapest rip-off available, and they were gracious enough to waive the cancellation fee, a mere fraction of the total cost.

About the time my flight had been successfully changed, I began to fill out my paperwork, went to CVS to get my photos, and forced myself to eat chocolate covered raisins. These have become my latest office snack room addiction, however after the amount of money just dropped, I had very little appetite.

I had accepted the fact that I was not going to be on a plane. I had but one option - join my coworkers at Biltmore, the Thursday night venue of choice. At this point, all I could do was sip a beverage, take a breath, and laugh. The alternative was crying, and I had definitely reached my tear quota for the day.

I do not know what I would have missed in Copenhagen this evening, but I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, Virginia summer air, and, as always, a dance session in the bed of plants. The night concluded, and I drove home with enough time for a two hour power nap.

This morning, I rolled out of bed at four o'clock, hopped in my car, reviewed my documents for the fiftieth time, and headed to D.C., my navigational arch nemesis. The drive was relatively simple with only an occasional hiccup in traffic. Constantly reminding myself to breath and pray, I arrived with plenty of time to spare and parked. As I strolled down 17th Street NW**, I knew if a gang decided to rob me, they would be hitting the small-time street crime jackpot. With one swipe of a purse, they would have every document ever asserting my identity, as well as a towel used to wash my face in the Caribou bathroom and a chocolate chip muffin that sounded like a fantastic breakfast last night.

Thankfully, I made it to the IAG office without encountering hoodlums. I even stopped to take a picture of the Washington monument with my 12x zoom camera I bought specifically for my upcoming trip. If nothing else, there will be pictures documenting my pursuit of passport.

It is now twenty six hours since I first realized the passport was missing. I drove three hours. I spent an exorbitant amount of money that if I actually tallied, might make me puke. I raced down a cab, yelling at myself, "How badly do you want this, Anna?!?", as my arms flailed. I made friends with two cab drivers, one who spoke of his time served, another who shared my frustration with terrible drivers. I helped Asian tourists successfully navigate their way to the Natural History Museum. And I handed the IAG client services personnel a manila envelop with seven stamps saying I was Anna and I can travel abroad. I also received a parking ticket.

I have done what I can. The matter is now in the hands of God and the state department. I trust God, and I am surprisingly optimistic regarding the state department. Should all go smoothly, I will be checking in at seven o'clock this evening, Delta flight 2473 en route Kastrup Airport via Charles de Gaul. And I will be avoiding the checked baggage fee. Unfortunate circumstances: 0. Anna: 1.

*Maleek is the name of my vehicle, which has received two compliments in the past two weeks
* D.C. is divided into quadrants. Should you be driving unawares, this will be detrimental to reaching your destination

Monday, May 30, 2011

In the Airport, Again

The conversation to my left is super intense. I sat down with a wholesome sandwich which will hopefully put me in a food coma on my upcoming flight, when two guys, late twenties, asked to sit at the table to my right. They may have caught me picking my nose.

The ensuing conversation was therapeutic in nature, during which Gentlemen 1 encouraged Gentlemen 2 to press through life's crap, drop alcohol because he is beyond that life stage, and not be afraid to fail. And, WOAH!, he is telling his companion to stay in Vegas. Call the woman who offered you a job and STAY! I feel inspired. Maybe I'll stay... I hear dancers make good money.

The past year, I have spent much time alone in airports. While I enjoy sharing memories and experiences with those closest to me, there is a liberating aspect of being one among millions. If there is one place capable of shrinking you to that infinitesimal size, it is Las Vegas. I wandered the strip for eight hours today, attempting to absorb all of its grandeur. Indeed, there was much to absorb. Bums used various tactics to obtain money. Drop dead gorgeous women flaunted their flawless bodies arm in arm with equally beautiful men. Drunk girls linked arms and stumbled down the boulevard. Elderly married couples stood hand in hand, waiting for the famous Bellagio fountain to spout.

In situations such as these, you find that while you are one among millions, so are those around you. In that, there is a common bond. When in the company of loved ones, this faint bond is often ignored, because the other is so strong. However, when alone, you are able to appreciate this bond, as it is all you have. I find myself saying hi to the Starbuck's worker when I may not have, or engaging in conversation when I otherwise would be chatting with a close friend.

And these conversations are sometimes my favorite. I talked to a very efficient flight attendant, and he told me the scope of his capabilities. He was able to service fifty seats in thirty minutes, as he was the best in the business. In his words, he "turned it on and turned it up." I had a lovely conversation with my cab driver en route the airport, which opened with him guessing I was from Ohio. Apparently, my laid back attitude and lack of accent were strong indications. Even as I was writing this, the gentlemen to my right broke conversation and we were able to discuss issues deeper than the Indians. When it was over, I bid them farewell with a "God bless."

Friday, May 27, 2011

The Butterfly Effect

I was just told that our flight is in the air, but since the runway has been shortened, it may not be able to land. There are a few obvious observations and questions prompted from this knowledge.

Observation – Aviation will never rise above Mother Nature.

1) From where is this plane coming? Presumably, it is approaching Charlottesville from another location, but arrival time depends on the city - Charlotte, D.C., Philly. On second thought, those are the only options, so I suppose the difference is negligible.
2) Why is the runway shortened due to rain? I understand that precipitation would render the path slick, but I would also imagine the whole runway would be slick, not just one section. Unless one section has superior drainage, in which case, why were the engineers not capable of designing a runway with adequate drainage throughout? The engineers probably did not come from UVA.
3) I think Charlottesville airport is one of the few airports worldwide that has a Christian radio station entertaining its guests. Irrelevant, but an interesting note, and I think it keeps the collective helpless at ease.
4) Perhaps the greatest question is why would I, the shameless skeptic of air travel, think it was a good idea to schedule a flight to Las Vegas at 5:45 on a Friday night? Had all gone smoothly, I would land in Sin City at 9:30. Late, yes, especially because that is 12:30 EST and I worked out at 6 this morning, but completely manageable. As it is, the earliest I will arrive is midnight, meaning I will either need a large power nap on the flight or a large vodka on the rocks.

For now, however, all I can do is sit. As others scurry around, frantically hoping to find arrangements, I relax. Perhaps it is because I just received an automated call from US Airways stating my flight to Vegas does not leave until 9:50.

A greater influence on my mood is belief in the butterfly effect, which is stronger than my frustration with air travel. Call it Divine intervention, chance, fate, or the hand of God, but there are times when a series of seemingly insignificant occurrences lead you to an unintended experience. This experience can be life changing or simply put a smile on your face, but you know it was not of your own making. As a believer in the hand of God, these little happenings impact me, if only because they offer the hope of Someone greater than I considering my well-being.

I had one of these experiences recently, and if I had to pin the causes, they would be my pesky obligation to follow through on commitments, desire to lend a helping hand, and food. (Obviously, food was going to be involved. It always is.)

Wednesday, I was feeling drained, mentally and physically. Apparently, after eighteen years of shutting down come mid-May, my brain and body were not prepared to press on through the summer months. This did not change the fact that we had a softball game, and while every inch of my body wanted to spend the evening on my couch, my spirit of team solidarity would not allow me to do so. I arrived at the game minutes before we sang the national anthem - just kidding, there is no singing of the national anthem in rec league, but that would be awesome - to find one of our players needed a ride home after the game.

No one was leaping at the opportunity, so I offered my taxi services. The game was brutal, although I blame our mercy rule defeat on lack of chemistry due to players being called from the minors on a minute's notice. Afterward, Andy and I hopped in my car, and during the drive across town, I noticed Fry Spring's Pizza Station. This restaurant is city-renowned for pizza, and since I was going to Vegas in two days, I had been battling the insatiable craving for grease and chocolate all week. White flag held high, I entered the bar in my navy shorts and navy t-shirt. The look was accentuated by a sweaty pony tail. I promptly sat at the bar, ordered a Diet Coke, and focused my full attention on the menu. Within moments, a young gentleman asked if the seat beside me was taken. I graciously indicated the chair was vacant.

Having him on my left was much preferable to the old gentleman on my right, who I knew was just itching to tell me about the ‘79 Eastern Conference Finals.
PanAm (explanation of nickname to come later) and I engaged in the standard small talk subjects, such as jobs, college, Mike Brown becoming the head coach of the Lakers. This was fortunate for the kitchen staff, because my pizza took an inordinate amount of time. Eventually it did come, and with it, my departure.

PanAm requested my number, and when he called to give me his, I asked his last name. Afterwards I thought it may have sounded a bit stalkerish, but really I just like having an organized contacts list. Since I did have his name, though, I decided to Google him as any normal girl would. It just so happens he is quite the wrestler, placing seventh in Division I, winning a bronze medal in the Pan American games. I felt comforted that he would not be overly intimidated by my illustrious collegiate tennis career.

So here I am, finishing this entry during my layover, where I was just informed the flight has been delayed yet again, landing in Vegas at one o’clock in the morning. Perhaps I should have taken an earlier flight. Perhaps I should have used my vacation days a bit more wisely. Perhaps I should not have gone. I think that is what life is, though. Occasionally, it may be impulsive, it may be falling into temptation, it may be acting in a way others would not. In spite of this, the hand of God has placed me where I am. In an airport. At 10:15 on a Friday night. Having spent forty dollars on a Pepsi. But, hey, PanAm just texted.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Temporarily Off the Wagon

Or is it on the wagon?

Regardless the correct idiomatic expression, my position relative to the wagon was altered over the weekend. The influences blazing my wayward path - my cousin Tasha and her husband Andy. They followed through on their promise to visit, and the trip could not have come at a better time. My new roommate and I were moving the furniture into our apartment, which I conveniently forgot to mention during their planning process. Obviously, Andy's hardworking spirit would feel obligated to help, and obviously, I would stand at the base of the stairs and act as moral support. Hidden motives aside, I was abundantly grateful for their company.

Since we grew up ten minutes from one another and she is only a month and a day older than I, my relationship with Tasha has been akin to that of sisters, minus the bickering regarding who gets to shower first. We spent summer days frolicking about my grandma's backyard and summer nights talking into the wee hours of the morning, eating ice cream and watching movies. Whether it was balancing on stilts for 100 laps around my basement, playing dress up, or riding bikes through the neighborhood, being around Natasha was natural. Through middle school, we experienced many adolescent crushes, heartbreaks, and petty problems together. Although we both went to different schools and led separate lives, we never lost our childhood friendship.

The summer before our junior year of high school, I was experiencing boy issues yet again, and Natasha was telling me of her friend's brother, a cute incoming freshman. Of course I laughed at her prospective boy toy, but she defended him by saying he was old for his grade and "very mature." Plus, there is a negatively correlated "cuteness to age" dating scale. The cuter the prospect, the younger he can be.* Even during these initial butterfly stages of the courtship, I could see the qualities that drew Natasha to Andy - mainly, he played football.

Natasha was vindicated, and since they began dating seven years ago, the two have been inseparable. Selfishly, I am most grateful that despite their blossoming love, my relationship with Natasha never changed. Rather, Andy was able to immediately mold himself into a tight knit friendship without altering a single dynamic. He joined in our laughing, eating, bursting into spontaneous song, and occasionally, even dancing.

Throughout college, Natasha and I spent many nights chatting around Aunt Jill's counter top. During those conversations, in between bites of whatever goodies the Ziegler family had whipped together, we released every frustration, hope, doubt, or dream we had. Not once during these hormone driven vent sessions did Natasha's devotion to Andy waver. Further, in all my time spent with the two of them, I have only seen them grow closer.

Three years ago, we began the treasured tradition of sharing Valentine's Day dinner. Each year, our tricycle rolls to a different restaurant for a lovely evening. I tell them of my childish adventures like flashing children or losing my shoe in a cupboard, and they tell me of their increasingly adult life issues like mortgages and graduate programs. Honestly, the thought of bringing a fourth has never occurred to me, as our chemistry is too sacred to risk disruption. Due to my geographic location, I was unable to join them for Valentine's Day dinner this year. While I hate breaking tradition, I am glad I had them to myself this entire weekend.

In twenty two years, the only aspect of Natasha that has changed is her bossy behavior. As children, she insisted that the "guest picked"; now, I am quite sure she would have been married in jeans for lack of dress had I not been in the store with her. Our time spent together was no different than any other childhood memory, except that I had to choose every activity from where we should visit to when they should brush their teeth. We had a nice Mexican dinner during which I spilled salsa all over my jeans, laughed our way through a chick flick, satisfied our cravings for frozen yogurt (which is healthier than ice cream - being adults we must consider the consequences of such indulgences), complained about various people in our separate lives. I even introduced them to the greatness of Nutella and McDonald's French Vanilla cappuccinos. Driving in the car, belting country music, I was taken back to my senior year of high school, post Mike break-up #4. The three of us took a trip to Taco Bell and sat in the parking lot singing Carrie Underwood at the top of our lungs. Just as I had felt during an insignificant moment five years ago, the closeness I have with Natasha and Andy comforted me in the midst of life's uncertainty.

I began this entry referring to my hiatus from the three week alcohol hiatus. Yes, I did drink with them. In fact, I may have gotten a bit tipsy off the four shot glasses we imbibed at the Carter Mountain wine tasting (although I was definitely not impacted as severely as Natasha, whose innate aversion to beverages of any sort renders her tolerance quite pitiful). I feel no guilt regarding this hiatus; in the case of Tash and Andy, I can feel comfortable doing most anything.

They left on Sunday, and with them left a bit of that coveted comfort. Determined, as always, to confront said lack of comfort, I called weight room boy to give the situation another chance - I say situation because while I do not expect this to develop into a dating relationship, I must also remain open to friendships. We watched three quarters of the Bulls/Heat game, and perhaps it is unfair of me to judge in such a way, but the time was a bit disappointing after my weekend. Of course, he was against the staunch competition of summer volleyball, hours of laughter (whose initial roots could only be identified 30% of the time), years of dessert table gatherings, and a lifetime accumulation of memories. The poor guy never stood a chance.

*The granular results of this scientific study are pending.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

A Mother's Love

I feel as though much time has passed since we last spoke. In reality, it has only been a week, but a very noteworthy week. Since I am without wireless due to a miscommunication with Comcast and am staunchly opposed to cheating the office time clock, I have been unable to write - much to my dismay. Sitting barefoot at my desk, listening to a Pandora station that is perfect besides the occasional overplayed DMB song, I believe this is the time to post a personal tribute.

Two weeks ago was Mother's Day. Although I would love to purchase my mother an inspired gift every opportunity that approaches, I find it stressful to choose a gift three times a year. Of course I appreciate all she has done for me, but to display that affection on Mother's Day, her birthday, and Christmas requires much creativity. I attribute this occasional lack of effort to my first grade teacher, who thought it was a good idea to mention our mother's negative qualities in honor of Mother's Day. Needless to say, my mother was sent into a tizzy of tears, and I have subconsciously questioned every gift thereafter. This year, I went home for the weekend and was more than happy to grant her request of cleaning my room in lieu of a present.

Early last week, Mom called and told me she wanted to help as I was moving across town. Of course there was no obligation to do so, but she assured me she wanted to make the eight hour drive. I was relieved once I began packing; as is my tendency, I had seriously underestimated my belongings.

Friday afternoon Mom texted me, telling me she was stuck in traffic but near Charlottesville. Just as well because I had arrived at work later than intended. I called when I left and was surprised to hear her suggest we begin the moving process immediately. Spurred by her motivated spirit, I agreed, and by seven o'clock, we were done for the evening.

We ate a lovely dinner, and upon returning to my apartment, realized I had no toilet paper. This required a trip to Target, which began with the necessity of toilet paper, and ended with two carts of necessities for the kitchen, bathroom, cleaning cupboard (my mother may be naively optimistic that I am as dedicated to cleaning as she). Mom was coughing the entire time, but this did not hinder her drive to equip me with the essentials of life on my own. It was ten o'clock by the time we again returned to my house and began unloading the car. My first trip into the house, I spotted a bug creeping along the floor. Disgusted, I decided that closing the door nearly all the way was the perfect way to inhibit such creatures from entering. In retrospect, this was probably not the most sensible solution, since the screen door was adequate protection from outdoor pests. However, it seemed logical at the time.

I am not sure if it was the wind, my unknown strength, or the hand of God, but moments after I had left the apartment to bring in another load of goodies, Mom asked for the keys to unlock the door. There is a simple solution; unfortunately, this solution lay inside the locked apartment with the keys to my car and the other house. We looked at each other and reacted in the most appropriate way - laughter. Then we wondered how I was going to get into the apartment when my roommate was four hours away. Or how I was going to let the cable guy in the following day. Or what I was going to wear for the next two days (although, obviously, this was the least of my concerns).

As Providence would have it, after an hour of phone calls and a trip to the police station, we reached a locksmith. He unlocked my door at midnight, and I decided if this online advertising career does not pan out, I am becoming a locksmith, as he was paid eighty dollars for no more than thirty seconds of labor. Mother and I said good night and both slept very heavily.

The rest of the weekend Mom spent buzzing around, doing everything from organizing my kitchen to researching coffee tables. She befriended my new neighbor and learned more about him in twenty minutes then I would have in days. She even flashed a smile and asked for him to help move boxes. She took my old roommates and I for a delicious dinner to thank them for welcoming me to a new city.

As I encounter others and hear of experiences with parents, I become increasingly grateful for my mother's love and loyalty to her husband and family. I consider myself blessed that I cannot remember a negative word my mother has spoken about my father. (My dad may insist there are none to be spoken, but I am quite sure there are a few.)

While I have no children of my own, I can imagine being a mother is a thankless task at times. Raising five extremely different children must be more than trying. Yet, my mother rarely shows fatigue or weakness. Through tennis matches, heartbreaks, life decisions, petty problems, she has been supportive. More than that, she has felt the joy, sorrow and frustration with me. I have always respected her for many reasons, but as I get older, the extent of her grace and love continues to astound me. It was most apparent this weekend. I hope that I can someday care about others as strongly as she cares about those she barely knows, honor my husband as she honors my dad, and love one child with the strength and selflessness she has shown to each of hers - so much so that I do not call my daughter an idiot when she locks us out of her apartment.

I am quite sure I will never be able to repay her for the sacrifices she makes on a daily basis, but perhaps a proper Mother's Day present is a start. Right now, though, I have to start planning for her birthday present.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Starting with Sprinkles


Monday was a big day for RKG. Furthering our quest for global search domination, we recruited a treasonous Google employee. After the accolades preceding his arrival, I expected him to approach the building in a limousine or on a white steed. Although he did not make a glorious entrance, we were treated to a free lunch at the Hibachi Grille Buffet in his honor. The company also had an ice cream social on the front lawn; if this is the only way in which his employment benefits the company, I will be satisfied. Not only did I get free Ben & Jerry's, I also had another idea for an inspiring innovation. (As with all enhancements, the aforementioned allocations of profits still apply.)

One of the most crucial and underrated aspects of nachos is accoutrement distribution. While bar nachos may have all the essentials (beef, cheese, sour cream, jalapenos, beans, salsa, guacamole), if you reach the bottom of the pile to find bare tortilla chips, the dish is a disappointment. Similarly, should the chips be soaked and soggy, one cannot be satisfied.

If we apply the lesson learned from nachos to sundaes, we can take our ice cream experience to new levels. It has come to my attention in recent weeks that not everyone is aware of the strategic approach required to assemble a sundae worthy of the dessert connoisseur's palette. Like any culinary art, though, there is a process that includes pairing toppings, calculating ratios, and placing ingredients appropriately. Just as coconut and peanut butter should not be blended in a bowl, too much brownie will overpower the flavor of cookie dough ice cream, robbing taste buds of potential pleasure.

As everyone should, at this point, recognize and appreciate the necessity of flavor throughout experience, I will now revolutionize indulgence.

Soft serve ice cream cones. Dipped in sprinkles. Dipped in nuts. Dipped in fudge. First lick. Delicious. Second lick. Delectable. Third lick. Mildly depressing. Why?

Because the pretty sprinkles that once adorned the outer edges are no more. Yes, the vanilla ice cream is still tasty, but licks 3 - 20 feel naked. Unfulfilling. Perhaps, you think, there would be a way to prolong the enjoyment of licks one and two, but apart from intense tongue maneuvering, it cannot be done. Even then, few tongues have the agility and strength, making such aspirations nearly impossible to attain. Until now.

I propose a very basic spout that shoots through the middle of soft serve machines. There will also be a compartment in which you pour the topping of choice, be it nuts, sprinkles, or any other yummy morsels your tummy craves. Ideally, there will be an alternate tube that holds fudge, caramel, and the like, but my mental schematics have yet to formulate that function. For now, know that not only will those sprinkles be distributed evenly, enabling you to lick at whatever angle you prefer, but they will not lose their consistency because they were added to the ice cream seconds before.

According to Google, product distribution is one of the four P's I was taught in marketing courses. As innovators, though, I believe we should focus on distribution within the products before we focus on distribution of the products. Starting with sprinkles.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Take It to the Back of the Bus

Disclaimer: I realize this statement symbolizes the racial and cultural bias that has plagued America throughout history. I in no way mean to downplay this in my post.

Unfortunately, I was not aware of the historical significance of this statement until I heard it referenced in a rap song. I believe this is a greater testament to the private school education system than my dependence on hip hop for history lessons. Regardless, when my sister explained the racial implications of the chorus line, my initial reaction was that Rosa Parks was clearly missing the distinct advantages held by those seats.

When I stepped onto my bus at the ungodly hour of 6:30 and Mr. Lowe said in a jolly voice it was the elementary students' turn to sit in the back of the bus, I smiled with glee. This meant a half hour of bouncing to the ceiling every time we drove over a pebble. It meant being able to look forward and observe the behavior of the high schoolers, giving us a sense of superiority. Most exciting was the opportunity to look through the escape door and communicate with drivers behind us. We waved, performed hand puppet plays, and wrote signs. To be honest, I have no idea what those signs said, but I am quite sure they were witty and in no way offensive. In my six years of riding the bus, however, I never witnessed the scene that twenty middle school baseball players had the privilege of seeing this past week.

As with most of my stories that involve clothing mishaps, there is a very logical thought process that lands me in a terribly awkward situation. I am glad I have the opportunity to articulate this process, as normally, the situation ends with my family asking "What were you thinking?" without me getting a chance to explain what I was actually thinking.

In this case, there are three crucial bits of character to note:

1) I tend to overbook my schedule
2) Time efficiency is an overarching goal in daily activities
3) I am not as cautious when changing clothes as some, and more importantly, I never foresee this leading to humiliation

The potential consequences of referenced character traits manifest themselves nicely in the following anecdote. This past Thursday, I left work and squeezed in an intense workout prior to Changing Lives (or volunteering, but I believe this has a more austere connotation). I left the gym with a spring in my step as I always do after a solid session of lifting to intense music and gazing at beautiful men. Unfortunately, due to time constraints, it was difficult to change into more appropriate attire between functions. The most effective way to do so was using my car as a dressing room which has been my custom since the age of sixteen.

I was sitting at a light, listening to Jack Johnson and pondering which look I preferred on guys whilst working out:

- Baggy sweat pants and wifebeater/tight Under Armour shirt accentuating the biceps
- Knee length shorts and pit-stained t-shirt
- Below the knee shorts and tastefully cut-off tee

when it occurred to me this would be the perfect time to change my shirt. I briefly surveyed the surrounding vehicles. On my left there was a car whose driver, geometrically speaking, was not at an angle conducive to viewing. On my right there was no one. In front of me, there was a bus, but the time was six o'clock; the bus was most likely returning from its after school routes. If the driver behind me happened to catch a glimpse of my sports bra as I changed, so be it. We are all vehicle-operating adults.

I took off my sweaty t-shirt and searched for its alternate. The sleeves were awry, and cowl necks never cease to confuse me. As I fumbled with the shirt, I looked to make sure the light was still red and, in doing so, realized that ten heads had popped up liked daisies from the back seats of the bus. Apparently, the bus was not empty but was transporting a team of middle school baseball players. (I assume they were middle school students because high school boys are a little too close to my age for this story to be innocently cute, and I assume they were baseball players because of the caps.) My shirt finally on, I spent the next fifteen seconds attempting to avoid eye contact with the continuously growing number of googly-eyed heads, and I spent the following thirty seconds embracing the situation and returning their waves with a dashing smile. I imagine my waves were quite similar to those of Kate Middleton the following morning.

Finally, the light turned green, and we eventually parted ways. I am not sure if it was the seventh or eighth grade boys' turn to claim the coveted position on the bus. Whoever it was, they hit the backseat jackpot.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

A Broken Woman

Last year, I took a wrong turn in Cleveland, landing myself in what can only be described as an inner city street gathering where I maneuvered myself through hundreds of people slamming on my car doors at three o'clock in the morning. I have wasted no less than two tanks of gas since moving, as I take the most inefficient routes to every location in Charlottesville. Last month, I nearly severed a friendship out of frustration, as I repeatedly explained to Matt that I was on the corner of 4th and O Street. Unaware that Washington was divided into four quadrants, I was alone in the SW ghetto of D.C., when I needed to be in NW suburbia. One hour later, I arrived at my destination.

Still, I refuse to get a GPS. Perhaps it is because I cling to my non existent innate sense of direction. It is certainly not a factor of pride, because I have no shame asking directions. I believe, ultimately, it is cheapness, and the fear that if I did get a GPS, I might become best friends with Genovieve (her name, obviously) or force her to be my therapist. Tonight, however, I am a broken woman.

After a lovely Easter Feaster in Philadelphia with my sister, Maleek and I began the journey home with a stomach full of delicious lamb and a travel mug full of coffee. I cruised through Dover and Baltimore, bopping along to classic road trip tunes. As I drove through D.C. on 95, I began to question my mental atlas, as I was not recognizing landmarks, and I was quite sure I had never crossed a drawbridge. At some point, I remember there being a 495, however, the only signs I saw pointed to 495 North; plus, I was on an interstate that included the number 95, and I was bearing South. How far off course could I be?

This question would be answered two hours later, when I realized I was twenty minutes outside of Richmond and would have to backtrack no less than fifty miles to arrive home. Thankfully for my sanity, the highway speed limit was recently increased to 70, meaning I could easily justify doing 80. The dashboard thermometer read 78 degrees, and the wind blew through my hair as I allowed David Gray to soothe my soul. Even now, my spirits were high.

It was not until I realized the coffee/water combo had taken affect that my trip took a turn for the worse. Due to past experiences (if I was technological enough to use hyperlink, I would link this to a previous post), I am very attentive to bodily beckonings, so I entered the nearest gas station. I wish it were a Speedway, Exxon, or WaWa, as I find their facilities to be the most respectable, but at this point, I could not be particular.

The bathroom was occupied, a common problem with single stall restrooms, and one I was prepared to endure. I was not, however, ready for the sequence of events that followed.

As I waited, a man approached the bathroom with his son and daughter. The young boy entered the bathroom with his father, and the little girl joined the woman currently using the ladies room. Although becoming desperate, I resisted the urge to seize the child away from the door and tell her to wait in line. I only caught a glimpse of the mother, but I believe she was Latino. Through deductive reasoning, I concluded that the family went to the mother's side for Easter dinner. Rather than the traditional American honey-baked ham and deviled eggs, they ate a medley of refried beans, spicy guacamole, and overly seasoned rice which the Caucasian stomachs could not tolerate.

By this time, the line had grown. As we stood, waiting for the family to finish, I heard the paper towel lever and was thankful I would be able to finally use the bathroom. Instead, I heard the lever pulled again, and after the tenth time, the noise had what I imagine to be similar effects of Chinese water torture. Crank, crank, rip. Crank, crank, rip. Again. And again. I am quite convinced the mother and daughter were bathing themselves, although I would not stay long enough to find out.

The young boy had emerged from the men's room. Even he was becoming worried, realizing she was using an incessant amount of paper towels. When he called through the door to see if his mother was okay, she responded she was simply drying her hands. Her hands were either very large are very furry. As I analyzed the situation to determine which was the case, the dad was finished, and at such times, the gender on the door cannot inhibit one from the task at hand. Thankfully, I made it out alive, but that is the only credit I can attribute to this experience. I hope the same was true for the mother and daughter still occupying the bathroom.

While this may not be directly linked to my lack of directional savvy, I have never encountered such problems in the Speedway on 29. Regardless, it has put me over the edge, and if anyone would like to give me a GPS free of charge, I will gladly accept.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

"Compete"

It was the second match of my senior tennis season, and we were playing Oberlin College. My dad was one of the five spectators in attendance, not only because he loved watching his daughter, but also because he loved reminding me that he was still on the university wall for his superb baseball skills. Whatever the true reason for making the journey, I was glad for his support. Since he dubbed me "Novocaine Navatsyk" after a four hour marathon match in high school, he was the fan I appreciated most. His unavoidable tendency to coach never failed to motivate. Throughout the match, his intensity encouraged me, and after a tough loss, the pillow like texture of his embrace comforted me.

I had lost a close first set, 5-7, and was down 1-4 in the second*. As we switched sides, I sat on the bench, inwardly pontificating the unfortunate situation that lay before me, as well as behind me. To be fair, my complaints were not unwarranted, and even as I wrote this, I began a ten paragraph rant about the sorry excuse John Carroll tennis was for a varsity sport.

I will spare exhaustive details and give a brief overview of college tennis during my tenure. I experienced four different coaches, and with that came the necessity to prove myself repeatedly. Even when I did accomplish this in my eyes, basic actions like beating an opponent one on one did not prove I was good enough. I worked out according to my own regiment, as none was planned by a coach. While this may have served me well, making me an instant hit in the weight room as I was the only girl doing squats, dead lifts and bench presses alone, I would have appreciated any sense of team solidarity cultivated in the gym. If I wanted to improve my tennis game, I needed to play beyond the hours with our coach, as practices often consisted of standing in a line of ten, hitting one ball every five minutes. The off court bonding of the girls was absent at times, for reasons that were not always the fault of teammates. However, it was difficult in early years to play on a team that seemed disconnected. Beyond that, attempting to act as captain and coach in the absence of structure within the program required maintaining a difficult balance.

I sat on that bench, tired of the seemingly wasted effort, and tired of tennis.

Walking to the deuce side to return serve, my steps were slow as I slumped to take position. I was trying desperately to convince myself I wanted to win. Voices in my head were overwhelming, declaring my college tennis career hopeless, exclaiming I had worked hard for yet another season of mediocrity and excusing my foreseeable loss with the lack of preparation in the off season. Then came another voice. It was simple, and it was strong. "Compete," my dad shouted deeply, as he sauntered along the fence.

With this simple word came so many more rushing through my head. The past three years were not relevant to the next point. More than that, nothing was relevant to the next point. Frustrations, doubts and disappointments had no bearing on whether my opponent's serve would land inside the box. Confusion that surrounded upcoming decisions and mundane everyday worries did not dictate whether my return was a down the line winner or sailed to the fence. On the court, there was only my opponent, the ball and my will to win. The ball did not take pity on me for my struggles, nor did it care about my excuses.

How should I respond? The answer was clear: Compete.


As I took steps creeping from the baseline into the court, I remembered why I loved the game. Once again, I felt the desire to play with the passion I had shown six years before on those same courts. As I swung at each shot, a bit of angst was lifted and replaced with the pure enjoyment I gleaned from tennis. I began singing, "yea buddy, rolling like a big shot," to myself as I danced a jig between points.

I do not think any amount of words can convey the power of sports to someone who has never competed. Tennis is a sport that I absolutely love, and at times, absolutely hate. I get a natural high after beating an apparent Goliath, and my greatest disappointments are matches in which I am conquered. Despite this mix of emotions, tennis has been the one constant in the vacillating pendulum of life.

When I reflect on my ten-plus years of playing, however, it is not the victories that have impacted me most, although those certainly make the celebrations more enjoyable. I go back to a mixed doubles loss in a tiebreak at team tennis nationals, and I go back to an 0 and 0 loss at the state divisional final. I go back to my loss in a third set tiebreak on this particular day, after rallying to win the second. In each instance, I left the court heartbroken, but knowing I had competed without excuse.

I still play tennis in two leagues and during every match, I hear voices. Whether it is the voice of my annoying high school coach telling me to "watch the alleys", the voice of my pro telling me to reach just one more ball after ten hours of tennis in the blistering summer sun, the voice of my father, or the voice of Dorrough, I am driven to leave everything on the court. And after a tough loss, I still crave a comforting hug from my dad.

* I apologize in advance for those reading who do not understand tennis scoring; for the sake of simplicity, just know the higher the number, the more favorable your position

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Sunday Dinners



Tuesday nights have become one of my favorite evenings in Charlottesvile. No, I am not dancing on tables* or watching sports, two of my greatest passions. Instead, I meet with girls from local churches for a couple hours of chatting, commiserating, and mentally justifying the fifth cookie I eat. It has been one of the greatest blessings since I moved, as week after week, I covet their love and friendship more. While reading and digesting passages of Scripture or books, we are able to challenge one another, encourage one another or be slightly overwhelmed together.

This past week, we broke from the usual routine of delving into Scripture and instead, simply relaxed. After catching up on the week’s activities, Dorothy suggested we describe childhood meals. Answering this would be no problem, and perhaps I could make it through one Bible study without flirting with an emotional breakdown. Alas, my anecdotes rarely go as planned.

I spent every Sunday evening of childhood at my grandparents**. I anxiously awaited my parents at the bottom of our stairs around five o'clock, as I knew we were running late. Indeed, when we arrived at 5:05, someone reprimanded the family for tardiness. After saying hello, I was again scolded for stealing a Reese's cup before dinner. Definitely worth it.

As I stepped sheepishly into the adjacent dining room, barefoot so as not to stain the carpet, I beheld the veritable smorgasbord Grandma had prepared for family. Like ravenous animals, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and significant others filled their plates with spaghetti, hamburgers or beef. Of course, one optimistic aunt always brought salad, but we did not bother with unnecessary greens. Unless it was deep fried cauliflower or scalloped potatoes, vegetation was a means to the end of a balanced diet, which one does not consider on Sundays.

The adults had their tables and as children, we had ours. Of course, the children's table emptied much quicker than the adults', as we were anxious to frolic. We swung on the tire, teased the neighbor's dog, played a game of tag, or climbed the tree. Every backyard should have a tree with branches perfectly spaced apart so a child can accomplish reaching the top, and in doing so, prove to themselves that they are capable of making that climb, metaphorically relating to the obstacles of life. Grandma, however, did not appreciate the tree on this deeper level. She constantly yelled at us, as only grandmas can, warning of the dangers of falling and breaking legs. In the winter months, we kept ourselves occupied with school, which I believe was merely an excuse for the elder cousins to boss the younger around, and candy poker, which I often lost because tootsie rolls are irresistible.

Sometimes, I would sneak to the adult table, acting as the "little piggie with big ears." Around that table, discussion and outrageous laughter flourished. Aunt Jill made fun of Dad, and Mother immediately jumped to his defense. My cousins discussed their "big kid" problems, aunts picked out the best coupons from the paper and someone demanded that a child do the dishes so Grandma did not have to. In the middle of the table, there was always dessert. Brownies, cheesecake, peanut butter cups, apple pie - since there were roughly thirty of us, there was always a birthday to celebrate. The list of baked goods is endless, and my extensive palette for sweets can be credited to a family who loved sugar - so much so I have witnessed physical fights over gobs. Although in my opinion the cinnamon roll is the pastry worth a punch, it is nonetheless enjoyable to watch two forty year old women go at it for chocolate cakes filled with an insufficient amount of frosting. (To be fair, my motto in life is, "Everything is better double-stuffed", so the correct cake to frosting ratio is debatable.)

The most impacting memories of that small house, however, came in a more intimate setting. When I was near the age of eight, Grandpa was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Before that point, I remember him sitting in the garage on a summer day, drinking a beer and laughing heartily, his plump belly bouncing. I loved Pappy's hugs just as I love my father's.

After he was diagnosed and as his condition worsened, my father took us down on a nightly basis. My older sisters had school, jobs, and friends, but I was fortunate enough to have no care in the world greater than the choice between playing PIG or knockout. Therefore, my nights were quite available, and I spent many of them repeating a routine I still cherish. We watched Wheel of Fortune followed by Jeopardy, and Grandma rarely failed to outperform the WoF contestants. After those programs, there was usually an Indians game, murder show or Lifetime movie to view. Sometimes we would listen to old time country music and do a small version of the twist, Grandma’s specialty. Grandpa lay on the couch and a box of nuts sat on the side table, as my father and he shared a mutual love for salty cashews. He also had a neat device that broadcast the communications of local policemen, and his ears perked each time it began to beep. Grandma always sat at the end of the couch, ready to tend to his every need, be it pills, water, or assistance using the bathroom. She loved him.

More than that, he loved her, and he loved us. I could hear it when he chuckled weakly at the silly jokes I made. I could feel it in his feeble hug when we embraced every night upon our departure. But most apparently, I could see it in his frail body. As he lay on his back, I saw bent knees too small for the frame of a coal miner. His arms were perpetually every shade of purple, blue and black from the multiple IVs that kept him alive. Grandpa clung to life as long as he could for his wife, his children and his grandchildren.

One night, we were watching television, and although I cannot quite remember, I would bet the discussion revolved around a ref's bad call, crazy politicians, or a local Chardon family. I looked at Dad, sitting on the recliner, and a tear was rolling down his face. It was the first time I saw Dad cry. I would see it again when he baptized Grandpa using a cup of sink water in the presence of the whole family and again when he held me on his lap the morning Grandpa passed.

Looking back, I have a better understanding of those tears and why they were shed. It is the same reason Grandma still gets a small glimmer in her eye anytime she talks about Grandpa and the Jive, the way he preferred his eggs prepared or "quitting" him multiple times. My grandpa loved, and in that love, he sacrificed. I am grateful that I was able to experience a taste of that love. More than that, I am grateful his love has lived on in his son and his wife, who continued to have the family over every Sunday for dinner at 5 (5:05 for the Navatsyks.)

*Keep reading, as some day, I will explain my theory as to how Bible studies and dancing on tables do not have to be mutually exclusive in one's life.

** Keep reading, as some day, I will write about my immense adoration and respect for the love and strength of Grandma.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

A Tradition Unlike Any Other


Timeless sophistication. The epitome of class. Announcers with foreign accents. Amateurs baptized by fire as they compete against experienced virtuosos. The drives down the middle of the fairway, the cheers and gasps from spectators, the clutch putts. The Nike dry-fit adorning extremely fit individuals. Awful hat lines at the trophy presentation. The Green Jacket.

The Masters conjures many inspirational stories to mind when it returns annually to Augusta. For me, watching the Masters brings back sweet nostalgia of golfing with my dad. Some of my finest childhood memories came on the links of Chardon Lakes and Sandridge. Summer nights were spent accompanying my father as he searched for the key to golf - which he found at least five times, and then inevitably lost. My brother, sister and I would act as his caddies, raking sand traps, holding the flag hole marker, bending down on one knee, Jack Nicklaus style, to judge the slope of the green and better advise him on putting. He was even gracious enough to use the iron we determined most appropriate after looking at the sprinkler heads for yardage. Johnny Schmoker was Dad's fictitious companion on the course who consistently shot bogeys. If Dad was having a particularly off day, Johnny Schmoker would be busy with his girlfriend or other social engagements.

Earlier years were spent on the public golf course; however, with the announcement of a private golf club came anxious anticipation. After a round of golf, we would drive to the site of the new course and admire as our Jerusalem came to fruition. When it was finally finished, Sandridge Golf Club was nothing short of incredible. Standing at the first tee, watching my dad swing his inaugural mulligan, we were transported to another place. A place where every breath was fresh, the only sound was the club striking the ball, and green ensconced us. We were certainly no longer in Chardon.

I wish I could say that I accurately represented golf's classy tradition, but as we know, the elusive standard of class is harder to reach for some. When I was seventeen, I pleaded with my father to go golfing Easter Sunday, as the weather was gorgeous - sadly, an anomaly for Chardon in April. After much convincing, we headed to the links with my siblings and brother-in-law. The course began the usual way: we negotiated who would drive the cart, praised my father when his fairway shot landed on the green, "dancing like a Mexican jumping bean." (This saying never seemed strange to me, but five years later, I still have no idea what a Mexican jumping bean is. I do know they dance.)

Around hole four, my bladder began to sharply exclaim that it required attending to. It is true that I have been known to do so in less than socially acceptable places, but I would never defile the sacred Sandridge golf course. Unfortunately, there were no bathrooms within this Pebble Beach-esque paradise, so I pressed onward, doing the occasional jig in hopes the pangs would subside.

It was at hole seven, after my father had sunk an impeccable putt and was outplaying Johnny Schmoker, that any attempts to uphold the classy reputation of golf was thwarted beyond repair. The fresh spring air quickened my step to the cart, and as I skipped to my destination, I tripped and fell. Not only did I lose control of my balance, but also of all bodily functions. There I lay, curled in the fetal position, my pants soaked with urine for once one loses control of the bladder, it is nearly impossible to retrieve. Lydia ran to see if I was seriously injured. My body was only a bit sore, but as usual, my dignity took the hardest blow.

As is the case with all of my humiliations, I gleaned a positive life lesson from having to walk the remainder of the course with stained pants. I learned that while golf is touted as a sophisticated sport, it is still a sport. Those playing, watching, or assisting are still human and do not exude this sophistication at all times. Tiger Woods may have cheated on his wife - arguably a classless maneuver. However, I pissed my pants on the golf course, so who am I to judge him? Plus, when I see him flaunting the Sunday red and aggressive fist pump, perhaps the most motivating and intimidating expression of confidence in all sports, I cannot help but want him to rise to uphold the tradition unlike any other, which is simply golf.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Bagpipes Are Playing in My Backyard, and It Is Lovely

As I lounged about my house yesterday, I determined this afternoon would be the perfect time to write. The national championship game was not until nine, the weather forecast was impeccable, and I was finally feeling rested. This morning, while at the gym, I was asked out by a black prison security guard who was no less than two and a half times my size. A perfect entry topic, indeed, and even more appropriate following the analysis of my butt and thighs.

Further, I could discuss the tactics and strategy of weight room stalking and help hundreds of gawking gentlemen land the girl of their dreams on the elliptical to their left. I say gentlemen because I believe it is unfair to judge in this situation. If a guy approached a girl anywhere else, aside from perhaps Victoria's Secret or a construction site, it would not be considered creepy. However, because sweat is involved, said suitor is assumed to be perverted. Such judgment is completely unwarranted, I feel, especially since if you go to the weight room on a consistent basis, you could see each other for one hour a day. If I spend 8% of my waking hours around another, how can I be upset if he asks me out, when a random guy at a bar would ask me home when the only words I have spoken to him were "thank you for spilling beer on my shirt." This is not to say that I will not reject your proposal, as I did this morning. Actually, I told him I would go to lunch with him if I saw him in the weight room again. Thus begins my eight month hiatus of going to the gym - I say eight months because if I have not been on at least one successful date in eight months, I will gladly accept his invitation to dine.

After work, however, I had little desire to address my weight room romance in today's entry. Believe it or not, I could have written more about the subject were it my actual topic of discussion. Anyways, I opened my email this afternoon and found an announcement of the death of a former classmate. Though we were merely acquaintances, we shared the scholarly bond of the marketing major. We had the occasional friendly chat and wished each other happy birthday on Facebook. So perhaps the fact that her life was tragically cut short because of a skiing accident should not affect me; yet, it does.

Since moving, this has been an adventure all my own, cultivated by my independent personality. In many ways, this is great and undoubtedly lends itself to humorous and exciting escapades. For instance, this weekend I befriended an entire men's softball team at a bar. We danced on picnic tables, they bought me drinks that were spilled because I kept putting them on the table/dance floor, and we chatted about sophisticated topics such as how beautiful I thought Mark Wahlberg was in the Departed... and Shooter... and the Fighter. At the end of the night, though, I bid them adieu and did not give them my number, though they asked. After all, it would be silly to think we would meet again.

You are most likely wondering how my rodeo dancing at a bar relates to a young woman's life being ended much too soon. I looked on her Facebook wall, and it was crowded with comments about the love, joy and happiness Andrea brought to people's lives. She clearly impacted those close to her and even those who entered her life only briefly. She will undoubtedly be missed by many.

Perhaps the two incidents are not related in the slightest, but perhaps they are. I think we are supposed to impact others and allow them to impact us on all of our adventures. To what extent I have impacted others, I do not know, but I do know I would be lucky if the guys from the weekend - or even my weight room suitor - remembered anything more than the awesome trench coat or my impeccable form while squatting. (To clarify, I was squatting in the weight room, not the bar.) I suppose what I am saying, in a most round about way, is that I think we all have both the ability and desire to impact the lives of others but do not do so because we are too scared, tired or lazy. Many times, giving ourselves to others leads to disappointment, rejection or failed relationships. Ultimately, though, it is definitely more fulfilling than a lonely adventure.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

The Navatsyk Thighs

"Did you want them that big? Your thighs, I mean," a good friend asked three years ago. The Navatsyk thighs are both an ethnic blessing and curse that have followed me since sophomore year of college - incidentally, the same time I discovered the satisfaction of late night pints (both ice cream and beer). Earlier this year, when I claimed they were a hereditary trait, a guy asked if Polish people really had big thighs. I was taken aback, because I have never had to defend my thighs but rather accept them for what they are - sixteen inches of sweet, muscular girth. After this week, I am assured my thighs are not the problem, but rather the guys questioning their legitimacy.

For those of you who avidly follow my blog, anxiously awaiting each new post, you will remember that I struggle with the idea of volunteering. This sentiment is probably attributable to my capitalist mindset that requires a tangible result to imply success - namely, a pay check. In my defense, since I worked most of my life, I have never had ample time to fully commit to a certain organization, especially if I was dedicated myself to other extracurriculars, ie Thursday nights on Coventry.

Although I moved to Virginia for a job, ultimately, I know that was simply a means to bring me here. The Lord has other purposes, which I am attempting to navigate throughout my transition. One of these purposes, I believe, is volunteering. Around the turn of the new year, I applied to an organization that focuses on the underprivileged of Charlottesville. The programs reach out to inner city youth through tutoring, after school programs and small youth groups.

I am happy to say I have been an active volunteer for nearly two months. Each Thursday, three other leaders and I gather a group of 10-15 high school girls, eat dinner, share a brief message, and facilitate a craft or game. When I began, one of the leaders warned me of the degree of difficulty and commitment. Because of their background, she said, the girls do not trust easily and may take some time before they welcome you.

As it is, I sometimes wish the girls would be a bit less open with me. Perhaps it is my bubbly, somewhat flaky personality, my loud laugh, or my affinity for dancing in the car, but whatever the reason, they feel comfortable discussing serious issues with me. I believe that everyone can relate through common human experiences such as joy, insecurities, struggles, and hope. In the case of high school girls, boys consume the majority of these thoughts, although the trend does not seem to change much with age.

In my attempt to counsel the girls, I am very open about my shortcomings, with the hope that by seeing others embrace and work through imperfections, they can do the same. I exchange letters with one girl each week, and since she is currently struggling with that horribly awkward stage of transitioning into high school and dealing with boys, I commiserate.

This past Thursday, Mirakle offered me encouragement in her letter, stating that a man would one day love me for who I am because I have everything a guy could want. What qualities are those? She listed a couple generic qualities such as my humor, beauty, and character. Specifically, though, my desirable qualities are my "ghetto booty, thick thighs, and I got it all in the right places."

Needless to say, I am seriously reconsidering my strategy on pursuing guys. I may be able to name my child Maleek, after all.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

A Small Tribute

Twenty-four years ago, on March 5, 1987, my brother, Stephen was born. I have often thought how convenient it would be to have an older brother, as the idea of hanging out with his friends and inadvertently falling in love with one appeals to me. Currently, I cannot justify dating a friend of my younger brother, Philip, even if they did recently come of legal age - I think I should at least wait until they can buy me drinks.

Stephen's story is one that portrays the faith, strength and unconditional love of my parents. It speaks to not only the mysterious ways in which God works, but also to His provision in times of desperation. His story, however, is not for me to tell. I have only the lingering memory of the night he died and his teddy bear to serve as reminders of Stephen's life. Had he been born a perfectly healthy boy, my parents may have decided that four children completed the Navatsyk household. As it was, they had two more, and while they were finally blessed with a boy, they also were blessed with me - admittedly, I am at times less of a blessing than others.

Family has been on my heart lately. Perhaps it is because I visited home last weekend, and immersing oneself in an environment after being away requires adjustments. More than that, though, I have discovered since leaving how valuable the support of family is, and the importance of having security in that. I would like to dedicate this small musing not to my older brother, although I know he strengthened my family in his short life, but to my three older sisters, who have undoubtedly strengthened my life.

In a family that spans fourteen years, relationships among siblings will inevitably look different. Being eleven years my elder, Julie and I were the most distant during childhood. Still, I have lovely memories of traveling to Chicago, decorating her condominium for the holidays, shopping on Michigan Avenue, and relaxing movie nights completed by vast amounts of chocolate and deep dish pizza.

I always looked to Gail, the self-proclaimed "socialite" for guidance in regards to boys, fashion, and eye makeup. I loved going shopping with her, following her around each store, holding prospective merchandise, and helping decide which items were most flattering. I sat on the kitchen counter weekday afternoons, listening intently to each nugget of high school drama she brought home. Indeed, I believe her tutelage proved effective, as I won best dressed in high school, had a boyfriend, and received multiple compliments on my eyes.

Lydia and I were the closest growing up. I joined her in many life stages, including her sixth grade rebel years which consisted of walking on our roof despite parental reprimands and listening to Alanis Morisette. Philip, Lydia and I had a multitude of adventures including bonding as Goobs (our exclusive family in the Figi islands), dance parties to Wyclef Jean, spending summer nights on Lydia's floor, and outrageous film production.

As the years have passed, my relationship with each of my sisters has evolved in its own way. Lydia and I remained close, and I went to her for comfort and wisdom in many situations. I looked forward to my trips to visit her in college, Washington D.C. and Philadelphia, as they were always full of laughter, silliness, reminiscing and new excursions. We have kept the Goob tradition alive and had a rooftop ceremony to knight Lydia's husband a Goob prior to their marriage.

When Gail graduated college, I was beginning high school. Soon after, she married her high school sweetheart and moved across town. The house in Burlington holds dear memories of watching the Bachelor, eating overly salted/buttered/cheesy popcorn while watching movies on their big screen, summer nights on the back patio, and pretty sundae bowls holding decadent treats. Since marriage, Gail has also brought two beautiful children into the world, and to be near home in their earliest years was a blessing I will always cherish. As I went to college and experienced the promising beginnings, turbulent roads, and sometimes heartbreaking ends of relationships, it was comforting to know I had a friend within forty minutes. The Hewitt house was a small oasis, whether I wanted to work out, play with my niece and nephew, or simply hang out on the couch and listen to Mitch berate the female tendencies of the conversation.

In the most recent years, Julie and I bridged the decade gap that separated us, as we found common ground in our love for traveling and marketing, as well as both being single. Two years ago, we took a small vacation to Mexico. Sitting at a French restaurant discussing life over a delicious three course meal, I saw our relationship really cross the line of the bond of sisterhood to become a dear friendship as well. She has been there to commiserate about boy troubles, advise me through the job hunting process, encourage me through various struggles with Christianity and chat about sophisticated, adult topics such as music, fine beer and college sports.

Despite our strong relationships, being the youngest of four girls, it is easy to see yourself in their shadows, to continually feel the need to prove that you are not merely the "little sister." The truth is, though, that I will always be the little sister.

More than that, I would not be where I am were it not for my three older sisters. Lydia's love for God and strong conviction inspire me to give myself to others and work to improve my own walk with the Lord. Her free spirit has always helped me embrace my inner-weirdo and be shamelessly unconventional at times. Gail's strength in her marriage and her sacrificial motherhood serves as an example of how a God-honoring family should look. Realizing the effort it requires may be part of the reason I am not currently married, although other factors such as my half-hearted hygiene and occasionally slacking appearance probably also contribute. Her guidance regarding relationships with others has prompted me to take a stand where otherwise I would have remained complacent. Gail's voice, as well as her husband's, is constantly in my head as I enter the weight room, tennis court or other fields of competition. Seeing Julie live away from home and answer to various family members about being single has given me strength to do the same. Her constant drive to rise above mediocrity in the workplace while doing what she loves gave me the boldness to pursue a career that may not ultimately bring me back to Chardon. I aspire to live with the confidence, passion and integrity which I have seen in their lives.

While it seems counter intuitive to me, maintaining close bonds with family requires effort. My sisters and I have vastly different personalities, and at times, relating with those differences strains the relationship. However, it is working through those issues that enables us to laugh together, cry together, and have honest discussions, knowing that, ultimately, they will only bring us closer.

My favorite memories will always be those spent with family, whether it is a night out, vacations, playing with the Hewitt children, or laughing at the kitchen table. Greater, still, are the memories of those moments where my family has been there to guide and challenge me. So, on this day, a day when family is always a bit closer to my heart, I would like to thank my three older sisters for their humor, graciousness, wisdom, and friendship.