Hello old friend. It has indeed been a bit of time since last we spoke, and for that, I apologize. I hope our relationship is strong enough for you to trust that though I was not in constant communication, you were on my mind. As is always the case with kindred spirits of this nature, I will pick up where we left off.
I would be lying if I said the last three months have not felt flustered. I am in the unique position of having the freedom to base decisions on no one but myself. I find this both liberating and daunting - especially daunting. For instance, I applied for a job in Columbus but then panicked when they called for a second interview, because what if I actually got the job and had to make a decision? My head then spirals into a pros/cons/what ifs list and is vacillating between two choices not yet before me. What if I have to move? Would the job be worth it? I do love Columbus. And I know people there. But I know people in Charlottesville, too. And I like them. Why did I apply? It is at this point that I remind myself to breathe deeply and trust that the appropriate doors will be open or slammed in my face. My biggest con, by the way, would be I just bought a new bed and if I have to purchase another damn bed, I will be quite upset. Four beds in four years is just excessive.
I do know that I would like to be employed at a marketing capacity come September. I have deeply enjoyed my time at Commonwealth and would consider continuing on a part time basis. The job does present challenges from time to time. This past week I won a free drink and a 3 liter bottle of rose based on various competitions. As far as analytical challenges, though, my greatest intellectual stimulation this week was estimating the number of strikeouts Joe Dimaggio had throughout his career. I nailed it and received a free cookie.
I am definitely creating opportunities for mental stimulation. I read Atlas Shrugged and came away a stronger defendant of the free market without losing my personal morality. I have also been conducting research. I have a chart comparing the prices, ambiance, and menu options of three coffee shops within walking distance of my apartment. I also am doing a small project regarding the correlation of the attention I receive as a brunette versus blonde. I am particularly fascinated by the difference observed in those of African decent. In Cleveland, it seemed the color of hair and size of one's backside were strongly correlated to the amount of advances. I am finding that said advances have not diminished in Charlottesville since changing my hair color. In my research, I have also found that arm definition is another determining factor. This is why one conducts research after all - to discover new nuances in trends.
I am also creating goals for myself. I finally saw Eric Church in concert. I have been tirelessly perfecting my tan. Putting together lots of furniture. I signed up to take the GMAT as it seems logical in the case I do not receive a job to drop a hundo grand on furthering my education.
So there you have it. Three months in a nutshell. In the coming weeks I will go into deeper detail, relaying humorous dating anecdotes, encounters with interesting people, the different mentality of 9 to 5ers and restaurant folk, the similarity between Lebron winning a championship and my ex getting engaged. For now, though, it was good to speak again.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
On the Hunt
For a job, that is.
Segment one. Possibly the only segment, or possibly one of ten. I will warn you, should the number reach ten, that entry has potential to be a bit downtrodden in tone. Sitting unbathed on my porch at 2 o'clock on a Thursday, garbed in sweatpants, I anticipate this segment will be light, untainted by numerous rejections.
It was a month ago that I walked into an annual evaluation and told my supervisors I was considering leaving with a minor contingency plan. I am currently following that contingency plan, working at a restaurant as I seek the next step to what I still anticipate will be an illustrious career. At the crux of my decision to quit was a desire for different intellectual stimulation and creative challenges.
To be fair, I am learning a great deal working at a restaurant. My knowledge of fine wines is increasing exponentially, I know the difference between a cordial and an aperitif, and the other day I learned the most effective ways to get high using ketamine, a cat tranquilizer. While serving tables is an excellent interim job, I do not want the wheels in this big head to clog, nor do I want to become complacent and accustomed to sleeping until eleven o'clock and showering at three - incidentally, I am finding this to be an appealing trap. When I encounter a challenging job, then, I must apply.
This particular opportunity was presented to me by a co-worker upon learning of my departure. A friend had contacted him that very day regarding a position matching many of my desired criteria. Providencial timing? Perhaps. Or perhaps it is ironic timing, a cruel setup for shattered hope. Regardless, one must still act, and this brings me to the topic of today's post - applications.
I applied for two positions my senior year of college, so my encounters with the mundane process are quite limited. After revisiting it the past couple days, I have a comment or two regarding the required fields, questions, etc., and they are haphazardly, but hopefully coherently, documented below.
Segment 1 of 8 - Holy cheese! There are eight sections not including my cover letter, references, or resume. The first section was pertinent information such as address, phone number, license number, social security number, blood type, credit card number. And now they can steal my identity.
Segment 2 of 8 - Is my degree a bachelor of arts or a bachelor of science? Should I get invited for an interview at the University, I will brush up on the difference between the two degrees.
Segment 3 of 8- I spent an inordinate amount of time meticulously choosing the wording, font, spacing, sizing of my resume to most effectively relay my work history. It then is reduced to a fill-in-the-blank worksheet, where I literally copy and paste everything from my resume to the list of past employments. I did, however, add one additional position I held in high school so as to feel the twenty minutes was not an absolute exercise of redundancy.
Segment 4 of 8 - Titled "Other trainings, workshops, accomplishments." Is winning best dressed my senior year of high school a legitimate accolade? Because I believe it is. In all seriousness, though, I did put running a marathon as an accomplishment.
Segment 5 of 8 - Felonies, misdemeanors, and moving traffic violations. HAH! First of all, of what importance is it to you if I have an engine not built for modern speed limits? I only went back three years for the sake of space and made sure to emphasize the speed. Two tickets for 37 in a 25 and one for 85 in a 70 is hardly a reason to not employ me.
Segment 5 of 8 - References. Because there are so many people who think highly of me, I had a particular amount of trouble narrowing this list to three. I decided it wise to include my college marketing professor, but felt a tinge of guilt emailing her for the first time in two years merely to request a recommendation.
Segment 6 of 8 - Here, I face a moral dilemma. The question posed: "Do you have 4-7 years of experience?" Even including my junior year Integrated Marketing course, I cannot with good conscience answer yes. When speaking with the man hiring for the position, he said this would be quite alright as long as experiences thus far were strong. I tried avoiding the question by filling in the no response bubble, but it forced me to commit. I answered no.
Segments 7 and 8 were simply checking a box or two and hitting submit. I attached my resume rendered superfluous, list of references, a beautifully architected cover letter and hit complete application. Upon doing so, I received an email saying I did not meet the minimum requirements for the position and wishing me well in future endeavors.
All hope is not lost for this particular application, although seeing the automated response did hurt my soul a bit. I feel it would be much more time efficient if someone gave me the job I wanted and allowed me to rise to the occasion. Alas, this is not how the bureaucratic* world in which we live operates, and so I will continue spending my morning/afternoons in sweats, finding addresses of past employers, telephone numbers of people I have not contacted in years, and weighing the odds of reference's reliability. For now, I desperately need to shower.
*I do not know what "bureaucratic" means, but I really like the word.
Segment one. Possibly the only segment, or possibly one of ten. I will warn you, should the number reach ten, that entry has potential to be a bit downtrodden in tone. Sitting unbathed on my porch at 2 o'clock on a Thursday, garbed in sweatpants, I anticipate this segment will be light, untainted by numerous rejections.
It was a month ago that I walked into an annual evaluation and told my supervisors I was considering leaving with a minor contingency plan. I am currently following that contingency plan, working at a restaurant as I seek the next step to what I still anticipate will be an illustrious career. At the crux of my decision to quit was a desire for different intellectual stimulation and creative challenges.
To be fair, I am learning a great deal working at a restaurant. My knowledge of fine wines is increasing exponentially, I know the difference between a cordial and an aperitif, and the other day I learned the most effective ways to get high using ketamine, a cat tranquilizer. While serving tables is an excellent interim job, I do not want the wheels in this big head to clog, nor do I want to become complacent and accustomed to sleeping until eleven o'clock and showering at three - incidentally, I am finding this to be an appealing trap. When I encounter a challenging job, then, I must apply.
This particular opportunity was presented to me by a co-worker upon learning of my departure. A friend had contacted him that very day regarding a position matching many of my desired criteria. Providencial timing? Perhaps. Or perhaps it is ironic timing, a cruel setup for shattered hope. Regardless, one must still act, and this brings me to the topic of today's post - applications.
I applied for two positions my senior year of college, so my encounters with the mundane process are quite limited. After revisiting it the past couple days, I have a comment or two regarding the required fields, questions, etc., and they are haphazardly, but hopefully coherently, documented below.
Segment 1 of 8 - Holy cheese! There are eight sections not including my cover letter, references, or resume. The first section was pertinent information such as address, phone number, license number, social security number, blood type, credit card number. And now they can steal my identity.
Segment 2 of 8 - Is my degree a bachelor of arts or a bachelor of science? Should I get invited for an interview at the University, I will brush up on the difference between the two degrees.
Segment 3 of 8- I spent an inordinate amount of time meticulously choosing the wording, font, spacing, sizing of my resume to most effectively relay my work history. It then is reduced to a fill-in-the-blank worksheet, where I literally copy and paste everything from my resume to the list of past employments. I did, however, add one additional position I held in high school so as to feel the twenty minutes was not an absolute exercise of redundancy.
Segment 4 of 8 - Titled "Other trainings, workshops, accomplishments." Is winning best dressed my senior year of high school a legitimate accolade? Because I believe it is. In all seriousness, though, I did put running a marathon as an accomplishment.
Segment 5 of 8 - Felonies, misdemeanors, and moving traffic violations. HAH! First of all, of what importance is it to you if I have an engine not built for modern speed limits? I only went back three years for the sake of space and made sure to emphasize the speed. Two tickets for 37 in a 25 and one for 85 in a 70 is hardly a reason to not employ me.
Segment 5 of 8 - References. Because there are so many people who think highly of me, I had a particular amount of trouble narrowing this list to three. I decided it wise to include my college marketing professor, but felt a tinge of guilt emailing her for the first time in two years merely to request a recommendation.
Segment 6 of 8 - Here, I face a moral dilemma. The question posed: "Do you have 4-7 years of experience?" Even including my junior year Integrated Marketing course, I cannot with good conscience answer yes. When speaking with the man hiring for the position, he said this would be quite alright as long as experiences thus far were strong. I tried avoiding the question by filling in the no response bubble, but it forced me to commit. I answered no.
Segments 7 and 8 were simply checking a box or two and hitting submit. I attached my resume rendered superfluous, list of references, a beautifully architected cover letter and hit complete application. Upon doing so, I received an email saying I did not meet the minimum requirements for the position and wishing me well in future endeavors.
All hope is not lost for this particular application, although seeing the automated response did hurt my soul a bit. I feel it would be much more time efficient if someone gave me the job I wanted and allowed me to rise to the occasion. Alas, this is not how the bureaucratic* world in which we live operates, and so I will continue spending my morning/afternoons in sweats, finding addresses of past employers, telephone numbers of people I have not contacted in years, and weighing the odds of reference's reliability. For now, I desperately need to shower.
*I do not know what "bureaucratic" means, but I really like the word.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
C-ville - Phase Two
Fair warning to all reading: I have just finished my second helping of frozen yogurt, the yuppy version of ice cream, and have been imagining myself on tour with Luke Bryan all week. This may be a bit more internalized than some posts. Proceed at your own risk.
I had a plan once. I was seventeen and entering college. My high school sweetheart and I had just rekindled our mildly tumultuous relationship, and this time, it was different. I loved him, he loved me, and we were going to be together. We were young and in many ways naive. But for a fleeting moment, that decision was real.
Our relationship followed the path of many first loves in that at some point, we realized we needed to experience the world, discover who we were outside of one another. Perhaps that exploration would bring us together, although we knew our paths would more than likely grow further apart until we were but distant memories faintly harkened by a particular song.
Indeed, our paths led us different directions. I would be lying if I said I did not have a moment of sweet nostalgia every time I hear "When the Stars Go Blue", but he is not what I miss. Our relationship was wonderful in its time, and I have been more than happy to leave it at that for many years. I do, on occasions such as these, post froyo and ensconced in country music, miss that brief period during which I had a succinct vision of what life would be.
Now I simply ask, "What is a five year plan and does anyone actually complete one?" Five years ago, I had a plan to go the whole nine yards with a young man. Three years ago, I anticipated getting a job in Cleveland and hopefully still living the small town dream with some lucky man to be determined. Instead, I was prompted to move to a foreign city for a job with a thriving marketing company. I had learned my lesson, though, and was going to be very conservative with this timeline. I would be satisfied envisioning myself at the company for two years - no guy in the equation, just working toward the top of the marketing world and enjoying my early twenties. The job was ideal. It was in my field of interest, office dress code included jeans, and the employees were young.
Last Friday, I quit. Reasons were plenty, but the most pressing was that of God's prompting. It was clear and unavoidable, and ironically, it was twenty months from my date of hire - not twenty-four as planned.
I am making a deliberate decision to let go of plans, as they seem often to go awry. I do struggle with the idea that in six months, when I am tired of serving at a restaurant and juggling whatever other part time gig I find, I will wonder what the next step is. When people appear to be following the illusive road of upper middle class idealism, I am guilty of momentary envy.
Mostly, though, I feel liberation and hope. Liberation from the burden of having to know where I will be in five years, next year, or even next month; hope that while I have absolutely no idea what God has planned for me, He does, and He will bring it to fruition despite my many attempts to seize control. And throughout that mess of a process, He will find a way to work through me and touch someone's life, if only in a small way.
I had a plan once. I was seventeen and entering college. My high school sweetheart and I had just rekindled our mildly tumultuous relationship, and this time, it was different. I loved him, he loved me, and we were going to be together. We were young and in many ways naive. But for a fleeting moment, that decision was real.
Our relationship followed the path of many first loves in that at some point, we realized we needed to experience the world, discover who we were outside of one another. Perhaps that exploration would bring us together, although we knew our paths would more than likely grow further apart until we were but distant memories faintly harkened by a particular song.
Indeed, our paths led us different directions. I would be lying if I said I did not have a moment of sweet nostalgia every time I hear "When the Stars Go Blue", but he is not what I miss. Our relationship was wonderful in its time, and I have been more than happy to leave it at that for many years. I do, on occasions such as these, post froyo and ensconced in country music, miss that brief period during which I had a succinct vision of what life would be.
Now I simply ask, "What is a five year plan and does anyone actually complete one?" Five years ago, I had a plan to go the whole nine yards with a young man. Three years ago, I anticipated getting a job in Cleveland and hopefully still living the small town dream with some lucky man to be determined. Instead, I was prompted to move to a foreign city for a job with a thriving marketing company. I had learned my lesson, though, and was going to be very conservative with this timeline. I would be satisfied envisioning myself at the company for two years - no guy in the equation, just working toward the top of the marketing world and enjoying my early twenties. The job was ideal. It was in my field of interest, office dress code included jeans, and the employees were young.
Last Friday, I quit. Reasons were plenty, but the most pressing was that of God's prompting. It was clear and unavoidable, and ironically, it was twenty months from my date of hire - not twenty-four as planned.
I am making a deliberate decision to let go of plans, as they seem often to go awry. I do struggle with the idea that in six months, when I am tired of serving at a restaurant and juggling whatever other part time gig I find, I will wonder what the next step is. When people appear to be following the illusive road of upper middle class idealism, I am guilty of momentary envy.
Mostly, though, I feel liberation and hope. Liberation from the burden of having to know where I will be in five years, next year, or even next month; hope that while I have absolutely no idea what God has planned for me, He does, and He will bring it to fruition despite my many attempts to seize control. And throughout that mess of a process, He will find a way to work through me and touch someone's life, if only in a small way.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Grandpa Tippit
My muse prompted me to write the other day. (Yes, I have recently acquired a muse, but that is for another post.) He told me to write about an eccentric fellow of whom I once spoke, my grandfather. He was intrigued by this man who came to Christmas dinners in red and green plaid pants and a ridiculous Christmas tie, and he encouraged me to record my first memory of him.
Truth be told, he is not the only one intrigued by Grandpa Tippit, as he was an enigma even to his own grandchildren - or at least this one.
To the ear of an eight year old girl, the man was a myth. He was quoted as proclaiming, "C students rule the world." I had very little idea of how he earned his millions; I vaguely remember medical supplies mentioned a time or two, perhaps insurance. I heard legend of his first intimidating meeting with my father. Dad knocked on the door of the mansion in his beater with a One Way Jesus shirt to match his shaggy hair and cut-off jorts. Grandpa answered - and if I am imagining this correctly, he was wearing a suit and a glass of vodka. Dad offered his praises on the small castle, and in a very austere and self-assured tone, Grandpa replied, "We like it." He was extremely attentive to to table manners, and even made one cousin cry because she did not hold her fork correctly. According to hearsay.
If I could offer counsel to my eight-year-old self, I would tell her to stop being so self-absorbed and cherish the times I spent with my grandparents and those who gave so much for me. I do find comfort in the fact that while I do not have many succinct memories of us, some of my fondest childhood memories were provided by his generosity. Cruising around on a golf cart for hours, trips to Disney World, summer dinners provided by Tony Roma's, Christmas envelops filled with veritable treasures.
I did have one clear memory of Grandpa. He had been sick for quite some time, and my family was visiting my grandparents in Florida. We went out to dinner, and although I do not remember a bit of the meal, I do remember dessert. Because of a choking incident (another G-Tip legend), Grandpa chewed very slowly, no matter the food. This particular evening, he ordered mint chocolate chip ice cream. I watched him take every bite deliberately, slowly. We finished our dessert, the check came, payment went, the check returned. And Grandpa ate. I thought surely he must tire of the ingesting process, especially when Grandma arose and walked to the exit. But Grandpa ate. I will be darned if he left a bite of ice cream in that bowl, even as Grandma grabbed his arm, dragging him out the door.
It is silly sometimes, the memories we have. Perhaps it would be preferable to have a memory of him bouncing me on his lap, playing catch or giving a touching speech, but I like this one. This memory assures me that my grandfather and I could certainly bond over at least one mutual character trait - an unwavering devotion to dessert.
Truth be told, he is not the only one intrigued by Grandpa Tippit, as he was an enigma even to his own grandchildren - or at least this one.
To the ear of an eight year old girl, the man was a myth. He was quoted as proclaiming, "C students rule the world." I had very little idea of how he earned his millions; I vaguely remember medical supplies mentioned a time or two, perhaps insurance. I heard legend of his first intimidating meeting with my father. Dad knocked on the door of the mansion in his beater with a One Way Jesus shirt to match his shaggy hair and cut-off jorts. Grandpa answered - and if I am imagining this correctly, he was wearing a suit and a glass of vodka. Dad offered his praises on the small castle, and in a very austere and self-assured tone, Grandpa replied, "We like it." He was extremely attentive to to table manners, and even made one cousin cry because she did not hold her fork correctly. According to hearsay.
If I could offer counsel to my eight-year-old self, I would tell her to stop being so self-absorbed and cherish the times I spent with my grandparents and those who gave so much for me. I do find comfort in the fact that while I do not have many succinct memories of us, some of my fondest childhood memories were provided by his generosity. Cruising around on a golf cart for hours, trips to Disney World, summer dinners provided by Tony Roma's, Christmas envelops filled with veritable treasures.
I did have one clear memory of Grandpa. He had been sick for quite some time, and my family was visiting my grandparents in Florida. We went out to dinner, and although I do not remember a bit of the meal, I do remember dessert. Because of a choking incident (another G-Tip legend), Grandpa chewed very slowly, no matter the food. This particular evening, he ordered mint chocolate chip ice cream. I watched him take every bite deliberately, slowly. We finished our dessert, the check came, payment went, the check returned. And Grandpa ate. I thought surely he must tire of the ingesting process, especially when Grandma arose and walked to the exit. But Grandpa ate. I will be darned if he left a bite of ice cream in that bowl, even as Grandma grabbed his arm, dragging him out the door.
It is silly sometimes, the memories we have. Perhaps it would be preferable to have a memory of him bouncing me on his lap, playing catch or giving a touching speech, but I like this one. This memory assures me that my grandfather and I could certainly bond over at least one mutual character trait - an unwavering devotion to dessert.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
A New Segment - RAMD
I may have been ripped off. I am not sure, because I will not compare prices for fear of that sickly feeling festering in my stomach. But I have strong suspicions. This segment of "Reasons Anna Misses Daddy (RAMD)" can be ultimately traced to the annoying protrusion of a street curb. Every time I leave my apartment complex and turn right, I have to take extreme measures to avoid said curb, causing potential danger should there be oncoming traffic. After an intense tradeoff analysis, I determined it best to pretend both the curb and the massive bump I felt while making the turn were nonexistent. One con not factored in the analysis - turning in this manner apparently wears the tread*, inevitably leading to a flat tire. I may have reconsidered had I known this, but as it is, I took that turn especially hard Wednesday morning, at which point Maleek's** hind leg crumpled.
After apologizing profusely to Maleek and promising I would begin heeding his moans and groans, I took the vehicle to Sears Auto, recommended by a friend. I will digress for a moment to insert a sports analogy. Every athlete has encountered the ultimate competitive challenge, a proverbial Goliath. For whatever reason, be it the myth of unconquerable strength, confident demeanor of the opposition, or past encounters resulting in defeat, you approach the field battling discouragement. There are two paths the athlete can take:
1) Rise above the mentality that proclaims the challenge too great, the disadvantages insurmountable, and hold your head high as you compete, embracing the results with pride, whether in victory or defeat.
2) Curl up in the fetal position.
I am ashamed to say I did not even consider Path One and walked into the Auto Center already defeated. I plea that I was neither in the physical, mental, nor emotional state to defeat such a foe.
First - Physical. Clearly, a short blonde with soft features and petite build will always lose to a burly salesman on paper. On a typical day, I would be able to muster a valiant fight and at the very least feign understanding of basic mechanical terminology. However, I had just finished a long run; I was withered, famished, and a bit hazy.
Second - Mental state. Thoughts of sandwiches, ice cream, and a hot shower consumed my mind. Any measure taken to hasten my communion with these three was well worth the price.
And third - Emotional state. I had an exceptionally strong yearning to be in Ohio due to the week's events, only intensified by the nostalgic and sentimental tunes chosen by the country radio station. Needless to say, when the salesman told me he also grew up in small town Ohio and, "the Blue Ridge Mountains are nice and the skies are blue, but something about crossing the river just makes you feel home," I nearly broke down at the counter. At this point, all my defenses were down. He suggested an appropriate set of tires and I accepted the offer without question - after all, he is from Ohio and would not lead me astray. When I paid for the repair two hours later than projected, I gave him a riveting review and rolled away.
Here I am, at the end of my segment, tires purchased and Maleek healed, and I think, what message do I want to leave with the reader, other than I wish I had a travel-size dad by my side in such situations? To begin, I will avoid looking at my credit card statement for the next month and will pretend there is a noticeable difference between the old and new tires.
More important, though, is this: at a point when I felt alone in my longing for the humble roots of Ohio, someone was sent to sympathize. It was amazing how comforted I felt following a five minute conversation about high school football and proper punishment for any Ohio traitor who chooses to attend Michigan. Even if he did sell me tires that were only beneficial when navigating the Siberian tundra, I do not mind. Although I will never see him again, I had found a kindred spirit when I needed one most. That was worth the trip.
*What is tread?
**If you do not know who Maleek is, you need to read my blog more.
... For those of you who did not think I was capable of incorporating a near emotional breakdown with a trip to the mechanic, I am.
After apologizing profusely to Maleek and promising I would begin heeding his moans and groans, I took the vehicle to Sears Auto, recommended by a friend. I will digress for a moment to insert a sports analogy. Every athlete has encountered the ultimate competitive challenge, a proverbial Goliath. For whatever reason, be it the myth of unconquerable strength, confident demeanor of the opposition, or past encounters resulting in defeat, you approach the field battling discouragement. There are two paths the athlete can take:
1) Rise above the mentality that proclaims the challenge too great, the disadvantages insurmountable, and hold your head high as you compete, embracing the results with pride, whether in victory or defeat.
2) Curl up in the fetal position.
I am ashamed to say I did not even consider Path One and walked into the Auto Center already defeated. I plea that I was neither in the physical, mental, nor emotional state to defeat such a foe.
First - Physical. Clearly, a short blonde with soft features and petite build will always lose to a burly salesman on paper. On a typical day, I would be able to muster a valiant fight and at the very least feign understanding of basic mechanical terminology. However, I had just finished a long run; I was withered, famished, and a bit hazy.
Second - Mental state. Thoughts of sandwiches, ice cream, and a hot shower consumed my mind. Any measure taken to hasten my communion with these three was well worth the price.
And third - Emotional state. I had an exceptionally strong yearning to be in Ohio due to the week's events, only intensified by the nostalgic and sentimental tunes chosen by the country radio station. Needless to say, when the salesman told me he also grew up in small town Ohio and, "the Blue Ridge Mountains are nice and the skies are blue, but something about crossing the river just makes you feel home," I nearly broke down at the counter. At this point, all my defenses were down. He suggested an appropriate set of tires and I accepted the offer without question - after all, he is from Ohio and would not lead me astray. When I paid for the repair two hours later than projected, I gave him a riveting review and rolled away.
Here I am, at the end of my segment, tires purchased and Maleek healed, and I think, what message do I want to leave with the reader, other than I wish I had a travel-size dad by my side in such situations? To begin, I will avoid looking at my credit card statement for the next month and will pretend there is a noticeable difference between the old and new tires.
More important, though, is this: at a point when I felt alone in my longing for the humble roots of Ohio, someone was sent to sympathize. It was amazing how comforted I felt following a five minute conversation about high school football and proper punishment for any Ohio traitor who chooses to attend Michigan. Even if he did sell me tires that were only beneficial when navigating the Siberian tundra, I do not mind. Although I will never see him again, I had found a kindred spirit when I needed one most. That was worth the trip.
*What is tread?
**If you do not know who Maleek is, you need to read my blog more.
... For those of you who did not think I was capable of incorporating a near emotional breakdown with a trip to the mechanic, I am.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Home
I have begun writing this post no fewer than ten times over the past year, and each time, I fail to adequately articulate my sentiments. Since leaving the quintessential small town of Chardon, Ohio, I have been ridiculed on a number of occasions for my Northeast Ohio roots. My voice raises a few octaves as I staunchly defend my state, city, and town, but I have yet to fully convey the reasons for my unwavering loyalty. In the wake of recent tragedy, and since I cannot be present at either vigils or memorials, I am making a feeble attempt to do so.
As I scanned CNN, Fox, and Facebook throughout the workday, I initially did not feel justified in losing my appetite or shedding tears at my desk. Though I had countless connections to those involved in the tragedy, I did not personally know the victims. I cannot fathom what the victims' closest friends and family are experiencing and the scars that will remain. At the same time, this act of unadulterated evil stole from a town not only three citizens, but also its innocence - and my heart aches not only for the families directly affected, but also for the town of Chardon - my home.
The shooter attended my alma mater. Chardon High School will always hold a dear place in my heart, as I believe high school does for most adults. The sounds of a marching band on a crisp Friday night, girls proudly sporting the jerseys of their sweetheart, the best cafeteria breakfasts in the state, a gravel parking lot filled with vehicles buried in snow. These were certain certainties that carried us from year to year. For many, it was a relatively carefree time to cultivate lasting relationships. We experienced tastes of love and joy, disappointment and failure within its walls.
For me, the school did more than simply provide a safe haven where I could enjoy sweet adolescence; it also helped sculpt - and continues to sculpt - the person I would become. While other parents chose to pay exorbitant amounts of money, sending their children to highly esteemed private schools, we entered an environment every day that was, in some regards, at a disadvantage.
As a graduate of Chardon High School, I would never claim that. I looked forward to classes taught by Mr. Ricci and Mr. Brown, as I was guaranteed a satisfying sarcastic banter upon entering their classrooms, just before they reviewed complicated math theorems until we all grasped the concepts. When I was not discussing the latest NBA acquisitions in Mr. Snyder's English class, I was learning values such as leadership and personal motivation. Mrs. Rohr taught chemistry with an enthusiasm that was contagious and pushed me to excel where I would have chosen mediocrity. I saw a passion and love for their careers that I aim to mirror in all my pursuits. More than that, I saw their character when relating to the students, the manner in which they served each of us, and their dedication to providing the best possible learning environment. I would never consider trading those relationships for a $60,000 education.
The grandparents of the shooter went to my church. Of the 20 - 30 families attending, about ten fathers owned their own businesses; they worked extremely hard to build a better life for their children, and at the same time, instilled values of gratitude, sacrifice and unconditional love. One would have never guessed the amount of success represented during the Sunday service held in a middle school cafeteria as families gathered in jeans and flannels.
The shooter was a member of my community. Although it is easy to take for granted, my gratitude and appreciation for the spirit of Chardon has grown incredibly since moving. It is one not of pretension, entitlement, or superiority, but of acceptance, hard work, and humility. Yes, I see glimpses of that same spirit from time to time, but it is rare. How privileged I was to be surrounded by these values during a simple trip to the grocery store.
There will undoubtedly be flaws, but I grew up in a place that addressed those flaws and overcame rather than hiding them for reputation's sake. Even in the past 36 hours, the response of individuals, the police force, administrators and the community demonstrates this commitment to confrontation.
I refuse to believe that this was the result of a broken school system or community, because I am a product of that school system and community. I do believe the coming weeks and months will be a true testimony to the fortitude of a town that was only known for its excessive snow fall and divine maple syrup until now.
During that time, I will begin by sending thank you notes to those teachers who did influence my life, and encourage them that their labor is not in vain. I will then pray - for the families and close friends of those victims, as well as students conflicted by the harsh reality of evil. For those related to the shooter, for the shooter. And I will pray for the local authorities, administrators and community leaders as they look for solutions to restore a sobered town, a town I will always be proud to call my home.
As I scanned CNN, Fox, and Facebook throughout the workday, I initially did not feel justified in losing my appetite or shedding tears at my desk. Though I had countless connections to those involved in the tragedy, I did not personally know the victims. I cannot fathom what the victims' closest friends and family are experiencing and the scars that will remain. At the same time, this act of unadulterated evil stole from a town not only three citizens, but also its innocence - and my heart aches not only for the families directly affected, but also for the town of Chardon - my home.
The shooter attended my alma mater. Chardon High School will always hold a dear place in my heart, as I believe high school does for most adults. The sounds of a marching band on a crisp Friday night, girls proudly sporting the jerseys of their sweetheart, the best cafeteria breakfasts in the state, a gravel parking lot filled with vehicles buried in snow. These were certain certainties that carried us from year to year. For many, it was a relatively carefree time to cultivate lasting relationships. We experienced tastes of love and joy, disappointment and failure within its walls.
For me, the school did more than simply provide a safe haven where I could enjoy sweet adolescence; it also helped sculpt - and continues to sculpt - the person I would become. While other parents chose to pay exorbitant amounts of money, sending their children to highly esteemed private schools, we entered an environment every day that was, in some regards, at a disadvantage.
As a graduate of Chardon High School, I would never claim that. I looked forward to classes taught by Mr. Ricci and Mr. Brown, as I was guaranteed a satisfying sarcastic banter upon entering their classrooms, just before they reviewed complicated math theorems until we all grasped the concepts. When I was not discussing the latest NBA acquisitions in Mr. Snyder's English class, I was learning values such as leadership and personal motivation. Mrs. Rohr taught chemistry with an enthusiasm that was contagious and pushed me to excel where I would have chosen mediocrity. I saw a passion and love for their careers that I aim to mirror in all my pursuits. More than that, I saw their character when relating to the students, the manner in which they served each of us, and their dedication to providing the best possible learning environment. I would never consider trading those relationships for a $60,000 education.
The grandparents of the shooter went to my church. Of the 20 - 30 families attending, about ten fathers owned their own businesses; they worked extremely hard to build a better life for their children, and at the same time, instilled values of gratitude, sacrifice and unconditional love. One would have never guessed the amount of success represented during the Sunday service held in a middle school cafeteria as families gathered in jeans and flannels.
The shooter was a member of my community. Although it is easy to take for granted, my gratitude and appreciation for the spirit of Chardon has grown incredibly since moving. It is one not of pretension, entitlement, or superiority, but of acceptance, hard work, and humility. Yes, I see glimpses of that same spirit from time to time, but it is rare. How privileged I was to be surrounded by these values during a simple trip to the grocery store.
There will undoubtedly be flaws, but I grew up in a place that addressed those flaws and overcame rather than hiding them for reputation's sake. Even in the past 36 hours, the response of individuals, the police force, administrators and the community demonstrates this commitment to confrontation.
I refuse to believe that this was the result of a broken school system or community, because I am a product of that school system and community. I do believe the coming weeks and months will be a true testimony to the fortitude of a town that was only known for its excessive snow fall and divine maple syrup until now.
During that time, I will begin by sending thank you notes to those teachers who did influence my life, and encourage them that their labor is not in vain. I will then pray - for the families and close friends of those victims, as well as students conflicted by the harsh reality of evil. For those related to the shooter, for the shooter. And I will pray for the local authorities, administrators and community leaders as they look for solutions to restore a sobered town, a town I will always be proud to call my home.
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