Monday, October 7, 2013

The Most Expensive Banana Never Eaten

A thirteen hour flight must be tackled with strategy.

1) Passport. After the dreadful displacement of 2011, I am so paranoid about losing my passport, I highly doubt it will reoccur. I routinely place it in the smallest pocket of my luggage and transport said luggage to my vehicle only upon the day of departure. Idiot proof - or at least Anna proof.

2) Clothes. The outfit must be the ideal balance between comfort and adjustable temperature, one difficult to strike. Sneaks are obvious, paired with calf length leggings, stretchy enough to reach my ankles should the plane ac blow vigorously. Clothing the upper body requires a bit more tact. I begin with a shelf bra tank top, knowing all to well the grating nature of under wire. Since society demands a certain level of discreteness, I layer a loose tank top to hide potential protrusions. The sweatshirt is a zip-up for ease of removal, and my look is completed with a loose head band to keep hair at bay while not tugging follicles.

3) Appropriate level of exhaustion. I begin the morning with a vigorous workout, spend four hours at the office and drive to Dulles. I entertain myself the first leg of the journey with John Grisham's latest work, knowing I can not concede to the seduction of sleep. Further, my final flight coincides with a bedtime of one o'clock in the morning, well past my usual time of retirement.

4) Food and water - yes, even the bare essentials require a systematic approach. I choose not to risk the entrance of foreign substances into my digestive track when the only place of relief is a 1'x 2' box that smells either sterile or foul. I have a simple sandwich and banana for dinner. Prior to boarding my marathon flight, I buy a two liter water, easily transferable to my own dispenser, to avoid dehydration. Although I plan on sleeping through this entire flight, I need to be prepared for an onset of insatiable hunger. I choose a granola bar, dried fruit and a banana (which I have trouble justifying because I already had one banana), pay the reasonable price of twenty dollars, and meander confidently aboard.

5) Generally I have no issue sleeping in any position amidst copious amount of noise, as numerous professors can attest. Leaving nothing to chance, however, it is time for the piece de resistance - pharmaceudicals. I swallow half a sleeping pill as instructed by a friend, curl into a cozy ball and enter blissful rest.

After ten hours of sleep, I awake with only three hours remaining. Those passed quite smoothly with a cup of coffee and an omelet. Despite my aversion to airline food, I find the odds of infecting eggs is quite slim so I partake. The fleeting thought of a banana passes through my conscience but makes a quick exit.

The plane lands at 6:55 AM New Zealand time, and I disembark with a spring in my step, knowing I had conquered the travel woes of others with ease. I even have the mental wherewithal to buy alcohol at the duty free shop. There is a deal on the desired rum, 2 for $69, a veritable steal. My spirits heighten.

I continue on my trek to customs, disregarding the sign prompting me to rid myself of all biohazards, focused on an exhilerating destination. I smile widely at the agent, knowing my vacation is within reach, and when asked about the food I claimed, I reassure him it is merely granola bars for my sister. All processed. Nothing fresh.

I place each bag on the conveyor belt for x-rays, including my purse, which I consider odd since it has already been through a security check point in America. The yellow satchel comes through the machine, and the following exchange ensues.

Agent: Is this yours?
Me: Yes

Agent: You are aware of all contents of your purse?
Me: Yes
My head: What if the sleeping pill is actually illegal? Should I confess it?

Agent: Your customs sheet is correct?
Me: Yes
My head: Why do they make me fill this sheet out when I first am roused? Alright, I will come clean regarding the half sleeping pill.

Me: I do have a pill in there.
My head: I hope this does not parallel Brokedown Palace, landing me in a New Zealand prison the remainder of my life. What could be in there? Perhaps the family man playing tetris beside me was not as innocent as he seemed.

Agent (pulling out a banana that is now passed ripe): Please come with me.
Me (rolling my eyes): You have got to be kidding me.

Agent: This is a biohazard.
My head: Your face is a biohazard.
Me: I bought this at a Starbuck's, I forgot about it, please have mercy on me.

Agent: Please read this.

I read and am informed I owe the small fine of $400, the tinge of which was lessened slightly upon realizing that was only about $340 US dollars.

Me: Do you enjoy doing this?
My head: Do you realize you are only in this position because you could never be a cop, or even a traffic cop? There are real criminals out there and you are enacting a sick power trip on an innocent, health conscience girl. You are adopted and your parents do not even love you.

Silence.

Me: Sugar.

I am happy to assure you New Zealand has been compensating for this rude welcoming with wine, food and gorgeous scenery. As for my relationship with the banana, I had a nibble of a friend's yesterday. Though I have faith our fire will be rekindled, it will certainly take time to heal the wound inflicted by the most expensive banana never eaten.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Three Years!

Hey there, friend. I just group skyped with my sisters for the first time, and it was fantastic. There are a lot of wonderful people in my life, but I do not think I will ever laugh as hard with anyone else.

You know what's crazy? Tomorrow marks my three year anniversary in Charlottesville. I thought I would let you know, as I plan on celebrating so will be unable to offer a provocative reflection the day of. I know you will miss my pontifications, but fear not, there will be more wistful musings in the coming weeks - I can feel it. For now, I will give you some brief life updates since last we spoke.

I was recently promoted which is a testament to God's faithfulness; I sincerely appreciate the path he lay for me thus far, and am excited to continue walking it purposefully. I am also hoping this position will eventually give me the authority to restructure our bathrooms. Corporate bathrooms should be a place of solace and relaxation, but because of cultural stigmas associated with certain matters, it can become an uncomfortable burden a worker should not have to bare. My solution is threefold:

1) Doors extending to the floor to hide incriminating feet
2) Soothing music, easily accessible via iPod, to ease the employee's disposition
3) Varied paint and tile colors, further contributing to the overall ambiance

Even if this authority is not granted, I see myself growing abundantly.

Speaking of God, I have been considering the human body lately. Mainly, just my eyelids. I would like to suggest they be fashioned a bit thicker, so when I lay down for a nap, it is not interrupted by a momentary white flash across my television screen.

Also related to the new job, I have officially turned in my server's apron... for now. We have a deep, passionate history, and I am extremely sad to bid that part of my life a temporary adieu, but for the sake of mental stamina, it is necessary.

This past weekend I was acting coordinator for a friend's wedding. It was my first Virginia wedding, and as suspected, the vineyard views were simply breathtaking, although I was reminded that I cry more during sporting events than I do at weddings. My favorite part was probably having the opportunity to greet guests and encourage them to "enjoy the nuptuals." I also caught the bouquet, but this does not fit with my four year plan. Why four years, you ask? In four years, my niece and nephew will be of perfect ring bearer and flower girl age. That's all. I do know should I ever saunter down the aisle, I will be wearing a huge smile and will give my dad a very large hug.

I have a new temporary goal: spur the NSA to knock on my apartment door after generating suspicion. More to come on my progress.

I know this post is super disjointed, but I did not want to neglect you in the midst of the chaos that is the end of summer. I will offer more cohesive thoughts soon.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Lessons from a Protein Shake

I have resolved to remove processed sugar and alcohol from my diet this week, imposing a more regimented self discipline than the usual, "only eat half a bag of Powerberries*." Protein shakes are a great supplement because they

1) Contain, you guessed it, protein, which aids in the post workout recovery process and
2) Taste like a milkshake when I close my eyes and dream

I prepared said indulgence last night and, lacking motivation, did not rinse the cup. Tonight I revisited the vessel with the same lackluster mentality but realized it must be cleaned. Unfortunately, the residue had settled, rendering the scrubbing process infinitely more irritating. I experienced the same frustration when I cleaned my bathroom Sunday after no less than three three months. I now understand the reasoning behind my mother's once a week cleaning schedule.

So how do we apply this lesson to life as a whole? Maybe it is to clean more often, although I highly doubt I will touch my bathroom in the next month. As I begrudged the residue for accumulating, I realized it was not the residue's fault but rather my neglect. Often, we tarry out of laziness, be it in commitments, patterns of behavior or any other aspect of daily life. This only exacerbates inward conflicts, and by not confronting these immediately, we passively permit them to become a larger nuisance than necessary. Clean out the filth at the onset, and one will have a much cleaner kitchen.

The thought of the evening is brought to you courtesy of an out-of-the-apartment room mate and a perfect summer night on a patio. The last two posts portray an attempt at insightful perception, so I promise the next post will be about something silly.

*If you know not the power of these morsels, do yourself a favor and pick up a bag from Trader Joe's. They may change your life.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Embracing Square One

Hello, square one, we meet again. I will warn you, I have also met with a glass of wine and five episodes of Scrubs this evening. That show always draws a tear or two to my eyes, so yes, you may expect an introverted pontification. Possibly a tangent as well.

My sister had a child recently, Mabel Josephine. The child is absolutely darling, and I expect she will emulate her mother's joyous spirit. Consistent with her nature, Lydia already has an abundance of nicknames for the child, her current being Zupertine. I think this sounds like an empire, probably because the pronunciation is akin to Byzantine, applicable because Mabel exudes stoic regalia. Upon questioning the nickname, Lydia informed me that this is one of many the child will receive. This is simply her 'Zupertine Phase.' But of course.

Lydia has always amplified the significance of phases; when I was in high school, she suggested wearing different perfumes so as to harken memories when that scent and I met again. Indeed, every time I smell Angel, I still remember sitting in the gym on a Tuesday morning in an oversized Bowling Green hoodie. I love it.

Let's bring it back. While Lydia's parenting technique may result in Mabel's response to a plethora of obscure references, it leads me to my thought of the evening. Life is full of phases, beginnings and ends. Whether in work, school, relationships or hobbies, very few aspects of our lives remain constant. For instance, I had a month stint where I was determined to be a history buff, which was quickly severed by the realization of reading required to be a history buff. Recognizing the fleeting nature of phases allows one to first fully appreciate certain certainties. More importantly, it allows one to glean insights from each phase that will further empower you in the next.

No nickname will be worthless. No perfume's scent will fall on hollow nostrils. No phase is without purpose. And each square one is different than the previous, so approach it as such, with vigor renewed by increased experience.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

O, Life, You So Silly

This entry is brought to you by Anna's admitted senioritus and lack of workload due to a boss on paternity leave. I will refrain from my thoughts on this Communist concept and instead address another relevant topic - final day numero dos.

My favorite blogging feature is the right sidebar, as it allows me to revisit past posts and subsequently that point in life. I vividly remember state of mind, setting and at times even clothing worn - a safe default image is sweatpants. There are certain posts I thoroughly enjoy reading since I shamelessly throw myself into hysterical fits, while others conjure the difficult memories related to why I wrote as I did. Regardless the associated emotions, I find it beneficial to reflect on how one may have changed or grown over time, and blogging offers a tangible way to do so.

Congruently, here's a fun game: "Where was I a year ago?" I will play.

Some things will never change. A year ago, I referenced an insatiable craving for ice cream and elation at the prospect of Luke Bryan sweeping me off my feet. A girl can continue to dream, although I will not limit myself to Luke. I would take any rugged country boy with toned arms and a sexy voice.

Outside my fantasies and related to reality, I was transferring my responsibilities at RKG to fellow employees, as my last day was April 13th. I am currently transferring my responsibilities to fellow employees at Musictoday as my last day is today. I will be returning to RKG the 23rd of April. As an objective spectator, this begs the question, "Was it worth leaving?"

I did not use the time in an exotic manner, backpacking Europe or saving Arctic seals. Heck, I did not even go on vacation. The foundation of my illustrious career would appear stronger had I remained; I would be a few rungs higher on the proverbial corporate ladder. I could have foregone emotional breakdowns in the Commonwealth employee bathroom, questioning my choice to be a college graduate waiting tables, and I may have avoided certain pitfalls associated with a search for security.

Still, the answer to the posed question is, "Definitely." The past year seemed simultaneously spastic and deliberate. The world offers a multitude of opportunities for a single, capable lady in her mid-twenties. I battled, and still battle, the persistent ache to be settled, but never to settle. I struggled with the cognitive dissonance between an innate desire for black and white paths and the freedom to, in the distinguished words of Miss Frizzle, "take chances, make mistakes, and get messy." In working through those sentiments, I built valued relationships that would not exist had I remained curled in the comfort of employment. I was forced to confront weaknesses and insecurities, and though I did not emerge unscathed, I emerged with a stronger sense of self. Most importantly, my appreciation for absolute dependence on God to handle life's details grew incredibly.

Ironically enough, He brought me full circle, and I could not be more excited. I will return to a workplace with a great reputation, exceptional management, genius IT department, and coworkers I have missed seeing on a daily basis. I am confident I will grow in ways not previously available. More than that, I can do so while living in a city that I have intentionally made my home.

Where will I be next April? Probably pining over Luke Bryan. Definitely infatuated with ice cream. Rigid, Type A and romantic, Type B mindsets will dwell in a state of controlled juxtaposition. Beyond that, I trust I will be where God leads. I am decidedly content with knowing only that.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

The Ultimate High

Forgive me. I am on an unapologetic tennis high. Unfortunately, I am also on my lunch break, so this will have to be quick.

You are losing 4-5, 0-30. You step back, taking a brief reprieve to breath deeply and gather composure. It is futile to dwell on the unforced errors, winners or mental lapses that brought you to this point. You are here, and you have two options: to fold or to fight. For the true competitor, there is no choice. You not only must fight, but you must fight harder than your opponent, want it more than your opponent and dig deeper than your opponent. You must forget the debilitating heat, screaming muscles, glaring sunlight and relentless wind to execute one more ground stroke, rush the net one more time and scramble for one more ball.

You step to the line, poised to receive serve. You make eye contact with the nemesis across the net. You reach into the inner most chambers of your will as you stare mercilessly into the innermost chambers of theirs. In that moment, the scoreboard holds no significance. You know who will rise.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Dear Fashion Square Mall

Define Yourself.

Sincerely,
Disoriented Consumers Holding the Experience to a Higher Standard, or Any Standard for that Matter


A trip to the mall was once an excursion, a noteworthy event. My mother, sisters and I made the forty five minute trek to Beachwood Place, a bona fide Jerusalem for the avid shopper. Faces beamed as we stepped outside, greeted by the sweet smell of commerce. The following hours were spent meandering from store to store, perusing the latest trends, deciding which items were essential to the enhancement of our wardrobes and which could be sacrificed. Such intense commitment required sustenance, provided by the upscale food court. There are two places where I assume calories are non-existent, a mall food court and an airport, so additional stops by Auntie Anne’s, Cheryl & Co and Godiva were always a must. As we ate, consulted with one another and danced to the stores’ melodies, the years between us dissipated. Costs incurred were well hidden by Mother, and I left a bit more of a lady than at the day’s onset.

Fifteen years later, my sentiments toward shopping are not the same. There are viable reasons as to why this is the case.

1) I am now spending money, and with each swipe of the credit card, my soul grieves. Further, online shopping substantiates the stance, "full retail is for suckers."
2) I am no longer ten and my body no longer shapeless. Apparently there are no phantom calories. I find myself trying on five different shirts, each revealing a different layer I would prefer non existent.
3)The shopping provided by Charlottesville's main venue leaves much to be desired. The topic upon which I will expound in the ensuing diatribe...

I get it – Charlottesville is diverse, but as Seth Godin reiterates, you cannot please everyone. Pick your audience and focus. Fashion Square Mall houses the most incongruent assortment of stores, and I have no idea to whom they are catering. Lane Bryant beside J.Crew, Payless beside Nine West, Sephora beside Lids, J.Crew beside the Buckle. Is it targeting trashy teenagers, yuppie yo-pros, slightly overweight middle-aged women, wannabe gangsters? Add Urban Outfitters for the hipsters and the schizophrenic style spectrum is complete.

The ultimate offender is Coach, and worse, the sales personnel who believe they are too good for the mall's clientele. Maybe you should not park your store next to Body Central. This is not Rodeo Drive. Yes, I am bitter. The last time I entered, the saleswoman looked me up and down; noticing my ten dollar bag and workout attire, she coyly asked, “Are you looking to replace your current purse?” The tone said, "I have to be polite because you are human, but you will never be worthy of Coach."

It is times such as these I want to drop $300 to spite the judgmental tone. Then I remember my policy, "Do not overpay for articles produced by Malaysian children toiling in textile factories." Perhaps if I were treated with a bit of respect, I could be assuaged to overlook said policy; with that attitude, however, I will simply bum my mother’s hand-me-down clutches, totes, satchels, cross bodies - what happened to the days of yore when a purse was all a woman carried? Seemingly hypocritical, but I must adhere to my primary policy: "Do not refuse free articles, even if produced by Malaysian children toiling in textile factories. Common courtesy to the giver."

Despite my aversion, unavoidable purchases made a recent trip to this den of disparity necessary. The soles of my shoes were worn, my mascara was crumbling, and my powder had lost its luster. These are not exciting items but essentials that would be eternally replenished in an ideal world. Alas, we live in a fallen world, so off to the mall I begrudgingly drove.

The experience did not revolutionize my opinion. Fashion Square Mall did not spontaneously sprout a second floor, securing a claim to legitimacy. The food court was still sub par and the layout still confusing. I could not tell if people were there to shop, exercise, steal bras or nap.

I put these ponderings aside as I had to find new tennis shoes, a frightening transition. I have been a loyal supporter of Asics for years, but upon joining Crossfit, I was told it would behoove me to find soleless shoes. Fitting, as I consider the membership dues are a bit soulless as well.

The Finish Line salesman was quite friendly and humored me after I mistook my left foot for my right. Spirits were further buoyed when I happened upon an over sized UVA zip-up hoodie, the perfect replacement for my brother-in-law's sweatshirt I regret discarding. A zip-up hoodie is less committal than a pullover and does not dishevel hair in the garbing process. When paired with a slimming tank top and zipped just low enough to reveal tasteful cleave, it implies, "I am low maintenance, but still sexy." All this for only $15 - what a treat!

I was even mildly entertained listening to the Lancome cosmetic artist's feeble attempt to communicate with the group of male Asian tourists seeking lotion*.

When the flustered woman was ready, I bought the most expensive mascara with the vibrating brush for two reasons:

1) Just as all cookies are better double stuffed, so all mechanisms are better vibrating

2) The crafty sales department of Lancome realized that if they set the monetary limit for a free gift slightly higher than average retail, people will upgrade or purchase two items. You win, Lancome. Thirty-six dollars for luscious lashes.

I acquired my goods with relative ease and a faint hint of enjoyment. Perhaps not all experiences need to be grandiose and memorable. We still parted ways on a note of disappointment, as not even the Japanese eatery had samples to satisfy my growing hunger pangs. Until next time, FSM, stay mediocre.

*They obviously had cameras around their necks.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Feliz Cumpleanos, Mi Hermano Mayor

Today is Stephen's birthday. Although he was only present the three years prior to my full cerebrum development, I will always have a unique connection with my brother. A piece of me feels indebted to Stephen; his time was spent in suffering, but my parents continued to have children, despite/because of his cruel disability. After he died, we frequented the cemetery, appropriately placed behind the little league baseball field, each year. From time to time, mainly when I was feeling particularly contemplative, I stopped by Stephen's grave. I talked about sports, recent drama, what I imagined his character to be as well as the development of my own.

I visited Stephen the night before moving to Virginia. The graveyard exuded an eerie peace, and the country air penetrated my bones as I lay gazing toward the vast, flickering canvas above. Our conversation began with me asking how things were going, if the food was as tasty as the DQ Blizzard I just ate, and if he was playing lots of baseball. I never expected a response, but I wanted him to know I cared. I then continued to reveal my fears about the upcoming transition. It was easy to convey excitement about experiencing the world from a fresh perspective to others, but really, I was petrified. What if the unknown pummeled me to the ground? What if I failed and disappointed? More than anything, how could I survive so distant from family, the unbreakable relationships on which I depended my entire life?

Today, I will take a bit of time to document the conversation were I bundled by his grave, soaking in the sweet serenity of knowing he is in a place where his agony has ceased.



Hi Stephen. You would be 26 today. While we had our tiffs during adolescence, we are quite close, our conversations riddled with sarcasm and innuendos. I imagine you a quietly successful business man, focused on finance. Soft spoken but strong, mild-tempered but fiercely witty. Striking in a suit. You have a fiance, who I was a bit skeptical about at the onset, but has grown quite lovely in my eyes. You stayed near family.

Cleveland sports are as hopeless as ever, however the Browns will keep the same starting quarterback next year which is more than a small miracle. Ohio State is also promising to have an excellent football season under the leadership of Urban Meyer. He coached Mitch, you know. You would have gotten along quite nicely with Mitch. He is an excellent fit for our family, and I am glad he married Gail.

I still miss you. I miss everyone. Man, I miss everyone so much it hurts sometimes.

Then I consider what has blessed me where I am. I miss Sunday waffles with real maple syrup and whipped cream followed by an afternoon nap serenaded by Dad's snoring, but look forward to a lazy brunch with friends, discussing everything from politics* to personal history to outlandish tales from the night prior. I miss breakfast bar conversations with Aunt Jill and Tasha until the wee hours of the morning, but I cherish the time my roommate, friends and I have spent gathered around our counter top. I miss our younger cousins, but have the opportunity to act as close kin for a small group of high school girls each Thursday. No one can replace Grandma, but I thoroughly enjoy chats with John the maintenance man who constantly reminisces on his glory days, Al from the gym who speaks of his travels with his wife, and Ken and Sherry, my recently retired neighbors whose love for one another is palpable. Though I cannot lay my head in our sister's lap after a particularly hard week, I can sit for hours with those closest to me, talking through pervasive mental blocks that can hinder growth if allowed to fester. I have found guys nearly as immature and humorous as Phil with whom I can banter; some even have comparably sized hearts. I miss the immense love of Mom and Dad, and to be honest, I have not found much close to that. I do, however, have those in my life who will stand by my side and give me a very large hug when needed most.

Indeed, Stephen, the longer I am away, the more I realize nothing will ever replace home - and I would not want it to. In that, there are those relationships that are strong, stable and fulfilling when given the opportunity and investment. That is deeply comforting.

Thank you, so much, for fighting four and a half long years. I hope you are proud of me, big brother.

*The extent of my contribution to such topics is what I inadvertently heard on the morning talk show that interrupted my music.

Friday, February 22, 2013

Powerful Beyond Measure - but Still Apparel Handicapped

I'm not going to lie - I have been feeling atop my proverbial game as of late. Life is quite busy, but I am handling incoming pressures with relative ease. I am performing well at work, continuing commitments, fancying friends, and rocking workouts. I am, in the inspirational words of Lauren Valentine, "Powerful beyond measure." It is times like these that God in his infinite wisdom takes a brief moment to toss me from my mental horse. For some reason, he sees fit to use my wardrobe.

Yesterday, though still riding the high of encouraging circumstances, I was tired. I left for work at 6 o'clock due to my car parked in a time sensitive spot*, grabbing workout clothes as I exited the apartment. I looked at the posted workout prior to leaving and was aware dead lifts were involved. The lower half of my legs already have bruises from rope climbs, sporadic knee push ups and failing to clear the jump rope. Since I do not want to appear a poster child for roommate abuse, I chose my trusty JCU tennis sweatpants to shield my chins.

The day proceeded, and I arrived at the gym, ready to dispel any frustrations by means of vigorous sweat. We began with handstands. Each time I approach the wall, I envision my legs kicking toward it as my body loses all sense of awareness and hands collapse, landing my head on the concrete floor - or the wall moves, resulting in the same pain. No, neither has happened in the gym's history, but surely I would pop that cherry. I am happy to say I conquered this fear and kicked my legs into a balanced handstand hold assisted by the reliable wall. I was even mildly impressed with my stamina throughout our box jump workout despite mental and physical exhaustion.

Onward! Changing lives*. This is a commitment I have rekindled in 2013 and am very glad to have done so. Tonight was a unique occasion as it was the only night since the club's inception we have had a man join. A pastor was speaking to the girls about the significance of Communion.

The gentleman arrived, and we gathered on the cozy couch, ready to glean insight from his knowledge. As I placed my hand on my cross-legged lap, I realized my finger was not resting on my sweat pants, but rather inside them. Indeed, there was a gaping hole where the inseam should ideally be stitched. I gasped in horror and laughed in amusement when the girls told me they had already noticed the hole, and I considered the number of times my legs had been separated as I stretched, kicked into handstands and bent over to complete dead lifts.

I do not know if anyone else noticed the inappropriately placed chasm; I am quite positive the pastor did. Whoever reads this post also knows, but as I ironically observed regarding another's embarrassing moment yesterday, "These gems are not funny unless shared with someone."

*I have taken to parking in time sensitive spots to spur my sleepy body into action. This sometimes proves effective and sometimes results in a twenty dollar parking ticket.

*A high school girl's youth group for those of you who do not religiously follow my blog.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

My Favorite Mardi Gras

Ash Wednesday was always an intriguing phenomenon to me. Having been raised in a Christian home, I saw value in observing Easter and Good Friday, but secretly assumed most sporting an ash laden forehead attended the Catholic service because doing so was a valid dismissal from fourth period*. For forty days thereafter, I would intermittently hear groanings regarding the disciplinary challenge of Lent. I do not want to make light of this and have a great amount of respect for people improving their relationship with God by means of fasting. In fact, I participated in Lent my freshman year of college. Confession: I gave up ice cream with the thought that I could shed superfluous pounds but caved less than a week into the season when Ben and Jerry's Half-baked pint beckoned.

It was not until my sophomore year of college that I was introduced to a Catholic tradition I could readily understand and embrace: Fat Tuesday. My roommate, Kate, had returned from studying abroad and joined me in our second floor Miller dorm. We met through tennis the year prior, and since neither of us had a roommate come that critical time housing decisions must be ascertained, we chose to live together. Although I missed the luxury of capering about the dorm nude, I was glad for her company second semester.

In early February, Kate shared with me the glorious traditions of Fat Tuesday. I was familiar with Mardi Gras beads, purple yellow, green, and Cajun style food, but she told me of others. The king cake housing a hidden, lucky baby Jesus. Okay, so the main tradition was king cake, but one cannot underestimate the power of dessert. In an ongoing effort to avoid any amount of work, we decided our dorm would host a Mardi Gras gala, and following another mildly exerting tennis practice, we gathered the necessary accessories.

1) King Cake. Unfortunately, the grocers had sold all variations thereof; not to be discouraged, we bought a pack of cinnamon rolls, a bit of frosting, and sprinkles.
2)Libations. Kate had recently tried coconut rum and sprite; since I was still bumming legal alcohol (in responsible quantities) from adults, I did not dispute. Plus, I consider myself an equal opportunist regarding mixed drinks.
3) Refreshments. In an effort to be outlandishly sophisticated, we provided an assortment of cheese, crackers and fruit.
4)Decorations. Absconded from the cafeteria.

The evening's festivities commenced in our 15' x 20' room, hosting an intimate gathering, involving singing, dancing, and telling ourselves we would not eat another piece of king cake - then doing so. We would work off at least a tenth of the calories in tomorrow's lackadaisical tennis practice - the other 90% would be worked off on Malloy's dance floor*. Per usual, the night ended with us roaming to the university cafe, displaying our extremely bubbly selves to the more responsible parties of JCU.

It was by no means epic, nor did it possess the adventuresome qualities of other tales Kate and I enjoyed together*. But every Mardi Gras, I reminisce with the palatable taste of nostalgia. My introduction to King Cake is definitely a factor, but more than that, the day reminds me of Kate. Had we met at a random party or in passing through a mutual friend, we most likely would not have been instant kindred spirits. Because we met through an intimate setting forcing relationships that may not have otherwise blossomed, we bonded often over the frustrating politics of collegiate athletics. Still, it was not until our arrangement of convenience that we truly got to know one another, and I am so blessed to have had that opportunity.

For many, college years were insouciant, spent frolicking within an unrealistic social bubble, shielded from cruel realities. Kate was dealt circumstances few could handle with similar grace and maturity during this time. She was nurturing when others needed comfort, forgetting her own needs, but strong and fiery when disrespected. Her honesty with herself and others helped me address confrontation in my own life. Her laugh was contagious, whether it was in response to an outrageous story, a silly song, or an awkward encounter, all of which were plentiful in our cozy space.

It has been years since we lived together, and entirely too long since we have spoken. As with many relationships, time and distance make communication sparse. She still inspires me, though. After a particularly long day, I hear her voice reminding me that, "if she did not know where I was, she stepped outside our room and could reliably hear my voice echoing in song throughout the dorm halls." I then force myself to sing whatever melody comes to mind en route the apartment door, smiling. If she could smile so exuberantly through those years, I certainly could smile despite the real world's minor inconveniences. And every Mardi Gras, I fondly remember a wonderful friend.

*If I wanted to skip school, my mother simply wrote a note explaining I did not feel well - because who really feels well when they wake up at six o'clock?

**At least by me. Kate would probably do Pilates or yoga.

***This means I did not disappear.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

The Year of the Fruit Salad

Literally. In an effort to improve company camaraderie and team solidarity*, the merchandising department of Musictoday has instituted Friday breakfast club. Though I have yet to cook, I thoroughly enjoy beginning my morning with scrumptious treats. Last Friday, a co-worker's wife* prepared quiche, breakfast pizza, and a fruit salad. I noticed on my hourly trips to the bathroom one fruit was not diminishing in proportion to the others. I am sure we all know what this is - honeydew. No one has a strong yearning for the melon, but it is fairly inexpensive and enhances the size, ensuring its position as merely a placeholder in an otherwise satisfying salad.

I then indulged in a moment of self pity, lamenting the month of January which has been the honeydew of my year, mainly because I have spent most of it creating and re-creating annual reports a midst the usual workload. Naturally, I intermittently extended this metaphor to encapsulate the entire year. And here I am.

Before I begin presenting each month and its corresponding fruit, it is critical to understand that location does have a sizable impact on perspective. April, for example, has been my honeydew for years; the moment you cautiously believe winter is at its end, Chardon gets a four foot sleet storm on April 26. In Charlottesville, this is not so, rendering April a bit more tasty.

Honeydew - January, obviously. It is dark, cold, and I am skidding down a sharp descent from holiday highs, realizing those Christmas ales and cookies did, in fact, go to my hips. I think I can take a deep breath since Q4 has ended, but then clients want to know how they performed in Q4, rendering my workload doubled. The national championship is a slightly redeeming factor, but since college football refuses to instill a playoff system, these have been anti-climactic as of late. College basketball is not yet in the prime of its season, and while NFL playoffs are entertaining, there is always a tinge of remorse that the Browns fell short yet again. The only juice in this month is that men stroll the streets donning pea coats, scarves and beanies*. Fine, you can stay.

Cantaloupe - How did you weasel your way into the salad? Consistent with my thoughts on January are my thoughts on February. It is still cold and still dark. The year end reports are not completed, and deadlines are steadily creeping. Sports are still pretty uneventful, although there is the occasional top ten match up. I have not celebrated Valentine's Day since 2005, so the idea of chocolate, flowers, or a fine meal do not brighten my spirits any more than they do on a normal day. Since you are so short, you are a bit more tolerable than January, but overall, the salad would not miss you.

Blueberries - The hidden gem within the salad. March, though not a boisterous part of the year, adds much flavor in small doses. St. Patrick's Day. Although I did not fully appreciate its implications until attending an Irish Catholic university, I now eagerly embrace the holiday. Spring arrives March 20 and warm days are speckled throughout the month, foreshadowing weather to come. Most importantly, it is March Madness. Ten days of unadulterated passion and competition interspersed throughout the month adding a pop of flavor to the year.

Grapes - Affordable, simple, tasty. April is not a flashy month. There are no guaranteed vacation days, and it is not reliably warm or sunny. Yet, the tastes of spring are palpable. Blossoming flowers and the gracious spirit of Easter signify new beginnings. It is not quite the sweetness of a berry, but has much more flavor than melon, making it a lovely accoutrement.

Pineapple - The most refreshing accessory of the salad. May is a lovely transition between spring and summer. We have not yet reached the sweltering heat, but the chilly rainy days are far behind. After months without a government holiday, we take a day to memorialize those who have served - and cook burgers and drink beer. It is the beginning of summer concerts - and the marathon of NBA playoffs*.

Blackberries - Delicious, but get stuck in your teeth. One is capitalizing upon the long days and warm nights throughout June. It seems harmless to indulge in late night patio libations or midweek concerts. With that pleasure comes the risk of those nights getting stuck in your teeth, lingering as you struggle to recover from physical and mental exhaustion.


Pear - When ripe, the juiciest of the fruits. July has a lot of potential, which it may or may not fulfill. The month can be very disappointing should the heat be too sweltering. It is also an ideal time for trips to the beach, exotic vacations and backyard BBQs. If you cut the month of July correctly, it will be quite satisfying.

Kiwi - When I was younger, my mother would cut kiwis in half, the skin acting as a small bowl. August, I would be okay if you were cut in half. I no longer relish the dogged days and am tired of wearing only tank tops as these do not offer much wardrobe versatility. The long days and longer nights are beginning to wear on me, and the sports world is fairly inactive, save a PGA golf tournament, preseason football, and the never ending baseball season. Also, I am running out of fruits and this one needs to be used.

Watermelon - An essential element of a fruit salad; arguably, it's foundation. September has always been the foundation of my year - after all, it is the month marking my birth. Crisp winds and changing seasons offer fresh outlooks on the year. Sounds of collegiate bands fill sports bars, pumpkin lattes and muffins become a staple at coffee shops, and I am able to once again utilize different styles, be it loose layers or form fitting jeans complimented by boots. I could eat September all day and never tire of it.

Apple - In a bowl of soft, juicy textures, these add a welcome crunch. First, October is a prime month for apple picking, so the association is natural. It also harkens thoughts of hikes through crunching leaves and the great array of colors both above and below. As all colors of apples are delicious, so a clear and overcast day can be equally enjoyable.

Bananas - Help balance the flavor. November is a very cozy month and one of my favorites. It is not overtly sweet, but Thanksgiving certainly adds the perfect hint of sugar. I am not compelled to go out every night and am satisfied cuddling with a blanket, watching college football as cold winds bellow outside. Bananas are the one fruit that can be tasty rotten or ripe; similarly, I do not mind terrible weather in November, as I have not yet grown tired of the shorter days and nippy nights.

Strawberries - The most decadent in flavor. December is decidedly the richest month. Swanky holiday parties, glitz and glam, luxurious meals and desserts, hemorrhaging money for siblings' gifts. It is certainly delicious, but one is glad there are other flavors to balance the extravagance of the season.

This post stretched my creativity as I went through the months. January was such an obvious honeydew, but the others were not so apparent. Hopefully my office does not start doing lunch, because then I will have to compare the days of the week to sandwich elements. Wednesday would be lettuce...

*I did not need to use both terms, but I cannot turn down an opportunity to incorporate corporate jargon.

*I point out that his wife cooked to defend the fact that I have yet to bring in breakfast. If I had a wife cooking for me, I would be more than happy to provide breakfast every week. Heck, I would do it twice a week.

*Obviously the beanie is not always worn in congruence with the pea coat and scarf. Sometimes, a beanie is better suited for a hooded sweatshirt. Sophisticated, educated adult vs snugly, burly athlete.

*But seriously, Noah took less time to build an ark.

Sunday, January 27, 2013

A Glimpse of Greatness

Timing is everything. I think he was too young. And we were excited - ooo how excited we were. It began as merely a crush. We admired from afar his physique, his strength, his passion. We were guarded as past relationships had taught us the painful consequences of misplaced hope. Over time, it became apparent our union would be a reality, and our cautious optimism quickly transformed into reckless enthusiasm. Certainly, he had the power to heal our wounds, and this would not end in disappointment. I believe initially he was as captivated by the prospect as we.

The honeymoon period was pure bliss, a veritable slam dunk in the game of romance. There was an undeniable connection. He was all we expected him to be, knowing when to assist or take charge and always willing to revisit the drawing boards to perfect our relationship. We linked arms proudly and defended him when others attacked his character and will. Perhaps we were blissfully naive, but we believed this would blossom and flourish.

For awhile, it did. I will not be so blind as to say there were never problems. He did not always approve of those we brought into his life, though we did all within our power to satisfy his needs. He failed us from time to time, but this was merely the ebb and flow of maturing that would ultimately lead to that for which we had both been longing.


Then it happened. Perhaps he was tired as expectations were too high. Perhaps the pressure of lifting us from a state of mediocrity was too heavy a load to bear. We did have a tendency to be quite cold, and we certainly could never be the glamorous partner he desired. Regardless his reasons, he shut down. The ball was in his court, and rather than risking failure, he stood with callous indifference at the key's apex.

His manner of rejection was smug, juvenile and harsh. It was not satisfactory to merely leave us; he made a spectacle, broadcasting to the world he was moving on while we remained, hopes shattered yet again.

Our time together is now a bittersweet memory, fading with each passing season. We have opened ourselves to others, recognizing we are in no state to sacrifice unbridled support in the same manner. He has moved on and now shares with another what we so desperately coveted. It is difficult to merely observe his successes, as the vengeful side of one's soul seeks vindication after such a cruel display of disrespect.

The sting of an additional scar may never completely subside. The resounding what ifs may forever haunt our thoughts: what if we had met later in his life; what if those random cards often dictating unanticipated outcomes had fallen differently; what if he had stayed? Or what if he came back?

One cannot dwell on those thoughts but must live in the present. Presently, he has silenced his critics, and while we were not able to share in the bounty, we were a pivotal stepping stone. I believe we all experience a small sense of pride witnessing the champion he has become and like to think his experience and failure with us molded him into the man he is. Arguably the greatest to have ever played the game.

Monday, January 21, 2013

The Boylan Burger: Culinary Empowerment

First, I would like you to pronounce culinary as such: q-linary. My first night of training at Commonwealth, the waitress introduced herself as the "guide to this evening's q-linary adventure." I think it adds a funky terminological twist.

Second, thank you for bearing with me through my latest introspective post. I discovered a contributing factor to the emotions spawning that post this morning. It was the same reason I spent most of last week glaring at co-workers during the day and relegated to my couch in the evening, craving all things edible. Today, I am going to remind you and myself I am able to write about casual experiences by relaying thoughts of a particular step in last week's quest for palette satiation.

Saturday evening, a friend and I ventured to the Corner to indulge in burgers, beer, and basketball. Boylan Heights is by far the best place to do so, as there are plenty of televisions, affordable yet tasty draft selections and waitresses donning Catholic school girl outfits complimented by glasses that may or may not be necessary. The most attractive aspect of the establishment, however, is this: the build your own burger menu.

Boylan Heights is certainly not the first to incorporate interaction beyond the standard, "May I take your order?". Buffets have been a staple in casinos for years. Omelet, nacho and salad bars have become popular in hotels, wedding receptions and Ruby Tuesday's. Fondue restaurants invite the guest to cook their own meats and control the chocolate ratio of a dipped strawberry. While these options are tasty and somewhat liberating for the diner, the build your own burger menu has three characteristics that I believe make it the preferred model for self-driven dining experiences.



1) The process involves little movement or effort. In the above scenarios, the guest is required to actively participate, walking from station to station and weighing the benefits of various courses. In the case of a buffet, the variety of cuisine can be overwhelming. One is always at risk of reaching the desired station only to find the food is near the bottom but not to the point of replenishment. Further, one cannot choose the ingredients of the cuisine. One is able to do so in the case of an omelet/salad/nacho bar but still must leave the comfort of the table, bumping elbows to attain the proper accoutrements.

While remaining seated throughout the fondue experience, one must cook meat to the proper temperature. As you know, I have been expanding my expertise in the kitchen, but I know my limitations. I do not take the texture of red meat lightly and prefer to leave the responsibility of cooking that meat in the deft hands of a professional.

What little work the build your own burger requires arguably enhances the experience. All I must do to indicate the desired ingredients is fill in bubbles. Each time I do so, I remember the simple days of college exams for which the extent of my preparation was twenty minutes. The beauty of this particular process is there is no wrong answer and I can drink a beer while doing so.

2) The guest has control of the ingredients, offering the ultimate culinary empowerment. Outside the limitations inherent to any kitchen, I am able to create whatever burger I would like. In a world where much is out of my control, it is lovely to sit at a table and know that if I do not want a tomato on my burger, the waitress will not look at me as though I am insulting the chef who so meticulously decided a tomato belongs on all burgers. I do not like tomatoes, no matter the spices incorporated. I just don't.

Each chef is able to expand the creative palette, choosing complimentary flavors, and each has a different strategy to do so. My friend and I both knew this would take a bit of time, so we put our conversation aside and began with basics. Red meat was an easy choice, and since this meal was decidedly indulgent, I chose the wheat bun as opposed to a burger bowl.

I believe the sauce sets the ultimate theme as cheese chosen to nestle between the bun will certainly differ if the sauce is pesto as opposed to buffalo. Of course, certain cheeses are so potent they may not require a sauce - goat cheese being one of them. I could fore go the sauce in efforts to cut superfluous calories but as previously stated - "decidedly indulgent."

I opted for sriracha mayo - hot. This theme may develop as the burger evolves, but it is best to begin simple. Spicy jack is an obvious cheese as it adds spice to the heat. I then venture to the right half of the page for additional vegetation. Grilled onions are a must. I cannot tolerate raw onions, but throw a little oil on them and they add the perfect crunch without an overpowering flavor. Jalapenos are an option, and once I have committed to the bubble, I realize my burger is becoming quite fiery. I continually vacillate regarding the value of lettuce, but in this case, it adds texture and a bit of relief for my tongue. A calculated decision, indeed.

It is then I look to the fancier fare section. Though avocado is $1.00 extra, it completes a perfectly balanced "Hawaiian flare*" burger; I am unopposed to the charge. At the end of the twenty minutes spent contemplating the perfect burger, I am ready to send my veritable masterpiece to the kitchen. I sip my Scrimshaw in satisfaction.

3) This is the most important aspect: after all the mental energy expended, the CHEF will view MY creation. I often imagine the reaction when the sheet is passed through the threshold. It parallels Ralphie's expectation of his teacher's response to the Red Ryder BB Gun essay. The chef will look at the masterful combination of flavors and textures and see it as truly inspired. There will be moans among staff as they imagine the burger melting in their mouths. Perhaps it will even be a special in coming months.

In reality, the cooks prepare my burger the same monotonous way every other custom burger is prepared, but I prefer the romanticized version - surprising, I know. Regardless of their reaction, the burger is placed before me. My mouth waters at every bite, and at the close of the meal, I leave with a full tummy and sense of accomplishment. O Boylan, you have satiated me on so many levels.

*Because it is hot with a cool breeze

As a side note, I began to calculate the number of burger combinations one could create. The starting point is approximately this:

4 burger options
4 bun options
10 cheeses
10 sauces
15 additions (up to three on a burger)
5 fancier fare

Unfortunately, I have been thrown off by the up to three option. There would be 15 ways to choose one, I believe 105 way to choose two, but I get hung up on the three. I want to say there are 475 ways. If so, then there are 595 for the additions to be combined. If one assumes you need to pick from each section, the math is easy. 8000*595. But then... what if someone does not want fancier far. Then we multiply 595*1600. No sauce - 595*800. No cheese - 595*800. No sauce or fancier fare - 595*160. No cheese or fancier fare - 595*160. No cheese or sauce - 595*80. No cheese, sauce, fancier fare - 595*16. No additions - 8000. No additions or cheese - 800. No additions or sauce - 800. No additions or fancier fare - 1600. No additions, cheese, sauce - 80. No additions, cheese, fancier fare - 160. No additions, sauce, fancier fare - 160. So our final calculation is something like...

8000*595 + 595*1600 + 2(595*800) + 2(595*160) + 595*80 + 595*16 + 8000 + 2(800) + 1600 + 2(160) + 80

6,923,120

Of course, it is only an approximation because I do not have the exact number in each section. Admittedly I probably spent too much time on that. And I probably missed something. But I had today half off and needed a mental challenge.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

On Moving Forward

I have a confession. I have been avoiding you. Many times in the past six months I have thought about you. I consider telling you of Friday night exploits, new goals of becoming a master chef or random considerations - such as commentary on NFL announcers or the male sport with the finest comprehensive physique.

I visit posts and remember days of old when I felt comfortable sharing my thoughts, both intimate and shallow. A time or two I even began writing. Each time, I stopped, not because I do not care about you, but because I want to be open, even vulnerable with you and the five people who shuffle through my posts. While said topics would elicit a chuckle, they are not truly on my heart. I come to you, hoping by the end of my rambling, I will have articulated that which I have been been scared to write for some time.

As we have discussed ad nauseum, this chapter removed from lifetime comforts and those I hold dear has at times been lonely, frustrating and stressful, which I definitely expected. I did not expect that after two and a half years, it would remain hard. More than that, I realize evermore the difficulty of maintaining one's integrity and priorities when others are questioning not only you, but also themselves.

If I am utterly honest with myself - which is always difficult - I have suppressed my values and ignored my priorities because settling is easy. Steps toward improvement are followed by steps (sometimes leaps) backward. But if one does not move forward, there will not be the disappointment of digression.

I am not speaking of my illustrious career, social life or even my fitness, because those have been thriving - relatively speaking. I started a new job where I am able to make an impact on the company in ways not possible at my past job. I stroll the downtown mall, engaging in casual (but always entertaining) conversations with fellow restaurant employees, my adopted grandparents, Ken and Sherry, or the random friend whose name I cannot remember. As the father of a middle school classmate once observed: "She's a hoot." It was true at age ten, and it still accurately depicts my personality. I joined a gym in August and due to exorbitant fees, I frequent the establishment at least four times a week.

Yes, these are tangible improvements and offer a positive sense of stability, but I have never desired definition from them - other than in my biceps and calves. From where then, do I acquire my identity?

Last year, my grandma celebrated her 85th birthday. Although she was disappointed to enter a surprise party rather than the silent auction promised her, she humored the family. Many spoke of her caring spirit, sacrificial heart and sarcastic wit; she in turn relayed a silly anecdote. When I expressed my gratitude and admiration, her story was a bit different, and for that I am flattered and grateful.

I was two, and Grandma was babysitting my mentally retarded brother, Stephen, and me. He was a year older than I but his bodily functions had barely developed. Apparently I had a bowl of Fruit Loops and while Grandma was in the kitchen, began feeding them to Stephen. Grandma returned to a coughing grandson and a granddaughter who merely wanted another to experience what she was so blessed to have.

The love one shares with others may be brutally rebuffed; they may not have the capacity to return in kind. It may also be accepted in fullness and joy. Regardless the reception, all shallow encounters will fade, but what I have invested in others will remain - even if it is a mere seed planted in a genuine conversation.

My decision to move to Charlottesville and that to quit my job were based on a belief that God called me to do so. Both forced me out of my comfort zone; admittedly, I have bemoaned that fact and questioned its purpose. Had I stayed in Chardon, I would have been comfortable. Had my first job gone as I foresaw, I would have been comfortable. Heck, if some guy had decided I was the greatest thing since any treat wrapped in bacon and I had returned the compliment, I would have been comfortable. God has used this experience to continually remind me He is the only source of true comfort and fulfillment. Apart from Him, there is a void that cannot be filled through any amount of extracurricular activity.

I was in a similar place last year - and the year before, and the year before. Funny how our flaws seem to be cyclical. Each time, I stepped forward. These steps were followed by backward bounds and a time when I did not move for fear of failure. I am going to step forward again in the love of One who has been waiting for me to come to a place of complete surrender - a place where I am willing to admit that I cannot do this of my own power, no matter my resolution.

Per usual, I am not entirely sure what I am trying to say, but I believe it is something like this: I do not know God's ultimate purpose in bringing me to Charlottesville or how long I will remain; I suppose I may never fully understand. I do know that wherever I am, if I am not sharing the love so graciously given me and cultivating my relationship with Him, I am wasted.

And I promise... the next post will be dedicated to the outfits on Sunday NFL countdown. Or Lebron James. Or cheese. I do really like cheese.