I got a Cuisinart for Christmas, and I am pumped because I can finally make my own tasty paleo balls*. Excited to pop its cherry, I assembled it last Saturday, only to find I could not turn it on. After some yelling and slapping, I returned the machine to the shelf for the safety of us both. Last night, a friend helped me position all pieces appropriately to engage the engine. I put the ingredients into the container, only to find the blade was too high and pulverized but a quarter of my cashews. Feeling helpless, I resorted to the Cuisinart DVD to instruct me. As I watched, I could not decide what saddened me more: that I prioritized a domestic machine over clothes and frivolous accessories for Christmas, that said machine came with an instructional DVD, or that I needed to watch the instructional DVD. I did know this: eighteen year old Anna did not predict this scenario.
Of course, being self sufficient and independent is rewarding in its own rite, but there are times, such as when I peruse my credit card statement or scan my mental list of errands, that I covet the days when the fridge was always full, the household heat did not depend on me and my parents handled gifting obligations.
In the spirit of Christmas and my current annoyance with adulthood, I offer the below summary of my time post-college graduation. Feel free to sing it to the tune of the jingle; I think it works.
12 oil changes. Bearable if they did not inevitably lead to a discovered issue that must be fixed immediately: worn brakes, worn tread, flat tire, a unicorn poking holes in my exhaust pipe.
11 coupled cousins.* I have twelve cousins. I could swap single stories with the sixteen year old, but I fear he actually has a girlfriend that has yet to make an appearance at holiday dinners.
10 wasted milk jugs.* More generally, pounds of wasted produce, meat and treats. Entering the grocery store with healthy intentions and decadent cravings is a dangerous combination. I purchase vegetables which shrivel from neglect, a box of cookies that eventually go stale because I ate one and then remembered my healthy intentions, and a carton of whole milk from which I drank only a cup.
9 weddings of friends. And associated costs. The gifts, travel, classy outfit in case the groomsmen are worth a second look.* I realize this is actually not an absurd number, and that is somewhat intentional. I like to skate the peripheral of intimate relationships so people do not feel obligated to invite me. Some may be offended if they are cut from the invitee list, but I consider it money in my pocket. Just kidding. Kind of.
8 bills a month. At a minimum. When did running water, Internet and heat become commodities?
7 cop encounters. This is not much different from pre-adulthood, though I no longer can use my father's legal prowess as a crutch.
6 travel mishaps. Whether it is losing a passport, missing a flight, or dealing with inclement weather, rarely does a vacation proceed without hiccups. I look around for someone to handle logistics but see only my twenty pounds of carry-on luggage I must now haul about the airport because I refuse to check bags.
5 full-time jobs. Or more appropriately, full time job transitions. Do the math. It can be tiring.
4 living quarters. With each move comes the necessary steps: purge your belongings only to buy new belongings, pack and transport, change your address, organize billing, tell yourself you are never moving again. Repeat.
3 purchased beds. In college, I used my hard earned waitressing money to buy a white oak bed and perfectly balanced mattress. They were left in Cleveland as it was a hassle to rent a UHaul. Bitter toward the lost investment, I bought a sorry excuse for a mattress assuming I would leave Charlottesville soon enough. Four years later, I was still here and desperate for a restful night's sleep. I am planning for the third mattress to last longer than the other two.
2 GMAT tests. Scheduled but not taken. Yes, that is money flushed, but it seems when I schedule the test, I immediately get a new job (see number 5) and do not have the time to focus on studying. I am currently studying but am not scheduling the test until a week prior.
1 Day until I see mom.
And just for funsies -
0 - times I have gone to the dentist.
Anna's sidenotes...
*Google them if you have not heard of them. Also, Blogger marks paleo as spelled incorrectly. It's time Blogger brushed up on its yuppie health trends.
*This is on my dad's side only for the sake of the song. I begin to get overwhelmed factoring in my mother's side.
*Approximation. The only approximation in the song.
*They aren't.
Friday, December 19, 2014
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Stay Very Classy, CVS
Disclaimer: CVS is a fine establishment catering to many needs for many people. Sometimes, though, it is really easy to hate.
For the most part, I consider myself even-tempered. We all have sins which ail us most, but anger is not the worst of mine. I rarely become indignant over small issues*, and my disposition does not sway often from its laid back standard... And then I enter CVS.
The spurring factor is usually something along the lines of, I put my laundry into the machine only to realize the detergent is bone dry. After a five minute internal argument about whether or not water alone has the same effect, I decide to make the trip. Besides, there are a couple other items I could use. I walk past a wall of smoke and wait for the person exiting through the right door, because even though they have two doors, they only choose to unlock one. The lighting is sterile, and the music uninviting. I do not grab a basket, because frankly, I judge people carrying baskets in CVS. Who does more than a quick desperation run to CVS? I begin my trip by grabbing a sparkling water to reward myself for the harrowing journey I know will ensue.
As I go through the items on my mental list, half I should not actually need. I am replacing my sunglasses for the third time this year. I left my toothbrush at home and have been relying on my index finger and heavy amounts of mouthwash the past four days. My razor head broke and I am verging on neanderthal status. I lost all but one of the 100 bobby pins I bought three months ago. How did I lose 100 bobby pins in 90 days? I don't know, but thinking about it makes me more upset.
I need a razor. They lock their razors. What do they think they are selling? Cole Haan leather jackets? I am sure there is a valid reason for this, but I think that speaks further to the quality of their clientele. I spend five minutes searching for assistance, and they spend five minutes searching for their manager, because apparently the key to the razors is like the key to that broad's chastity belt in the Steve Martin classic, The Three Musketeers.
After a couple miscellaneous, impulsive grabs, I meander by the feminine care aisle, and Godiva's finest chocolates tempt me. I see what you are doing, CVS, and I do not approve. I am having a rough week which has just worsened upon entering your store. How dare you exploit my fragile state. I continue onward, savoring the small victory.
Entering the detergent aisle, I realize my hands are quite full and I must settle for the liquid detergent rather than those neat little gel caps as it is the only one that will fit into my tetrissed* tower of goods.
Goods acquired, it is now checkout time. Though I could pay at the pharmacy, they always glare when they realize I do not have to pick up a prescription, as if they are so much better than me on their two foot pedestal. So smug. I choose to check out at the front of the store, where the line has inevitably grown from 0 to 15 since I began my journey. Three consecutive patrons insist on finding perfect change. One individual argues because the Snickers' bag had a two for one sign underneath it, and I want to tell them this could be a sign they do not need the second bag of Snickers. Instead, I contemplate the over/under on the number of days before I "accidentally" eat all 100 gummy vitamins I am about to buy. I settle on 11, and pinch two bags of $1 gummy worms between my free fingers to keep the vitamins safe.
The manager finally decides it's appropriate to open the third register, and some sneakster attempts to bypass everyone and create a new line at said register. He feigns ignorance when I call him out. I am now losing feeling in my fingers.
As the individual in front of me takes fifty seconds locating their CVS card - as if they did not know they would be asked - I glance at the magazine covers. Taylor Swift Could Be a Victoria's Secret Model. Really? We get it, T Swift, you're not seventeen anymore. You have blossomed from a cute mouse to a hot mouse.
Doh! Look what this has come to. I am projecting my disgust at this situation on a perfectly hard-working artist. My snideness is not just. As I reprimand myself, it is my turn.
My cashier is friendly, although I have to inform her that the gummy vitamins were indeed two for one, because that is $20 I am not wasting. While she is double checking, I turn to those behind me and apologize. I feel their burning gazes. Upon paying, I receive a mile long receipt with coupons that expire within three days. Do you really think I want to make this trip within three days?
Though I had resolved beforehand to turn around after my purchase and use the coupons immediately, I find myself all but sprinting for the nearest exit. Ahhh fresh air! I open my sparkling water to quench my thirst, and as the shaken beverage sprays all over me, I remember I needed toothpaste.
*NCAA football's total lack of a logical playoff system is not a small thing.
*Yes, I just created and used tetris in its adjective form.
For the most part, I consider myself even-tempered. We all have sins which ail us most, but anger is not the worst of mine. I rarely become indignant over small issues*, and my disposition does not sway often from its laid back standard... And then I enter CVS.
The spurring factor is usually something along the lines of, I put my laundry into the machine only to realize the detergent is bone dry. After a five minute internal argument about whether or not water alone has the same effect, I decide to make the trip. Besides, there are a couple other items I could use. I walk past a wall of smoke and wait for the person exiting through the right door, because even though they have two doors, they only choose to unlock one. The lighting is sterile, and the music uninviting. I do not grab a basket, because frankly, I judge people carrying baskets in CVS. Who does more than a quick desperation run to CVS? I begin my trip by grabbing a sparkling water to reward myself for the harrowing journey I know will ensue.
As I go through the items on my mental list, half I should not actually need. I am replacing my sunglasses for the third time this year. I left my toothbrush at home and have been relying on my index finger and heavy amounts of mouthwash the past four days. My razor head broke and I am verging on neanderthal status. I lost all but one of the 100 bobby pins I bought three months ago. How did I lose 100 bobby pins in 90 days? I don't know, but thinking about it makes me more upset.
I need a razor. They lock their razors. What do they think they are selling? Cole Haan leather jackets? I am sure there is a valid reason for this, but I think that speaks further to the quality of their clientele. I spend five minutes searching for assistance, and they spend five minutes searching for their manager, because apparently the key to the razors is like the key to that broad's chastity belt in the Steve Martin classic, The Three Musketeers.
After a couple miscellaneous, impulsive grabs, I meander by the feminine care aisle, and Godiva's finest chocolates tempt me. I see what you are doing, CVS, and I do not approve. I am having a rough week which has just worsened upon entering your store. How dare you exploit my fragile state. I continue onward, savoring the small victory.
Entering the detergent aisle, I realize my hands are quite full and I must settle for the liquid detergent rather than those neat little gel caps as it is the only one that will fit into my tetrissed* tower of goods.
Goods acquired, it is now checkout time. Though I could pay at the pharmacy, they always glare when they realize I do not have to pick up a prescription, as if they are so much better than me on their two foot pedestal. So smug. I choose to check out at the front of the store, where the line has inevitably grown from 0 to 15 since I began my journey. Three consecutive patrons insist on finding perfect change. One individual argues because the Snickers' bag had a two for one sign underneath it, and I want to tell them this could be a sign they do not need the second bag of Snickers. Instead, I contemplate the over/under on the number of days before I "accidentally" eat all 100 gummy vitamins I am about to buy. I settle on 11, and pinch two bags of $1 gummy worms between my free fingers to keep the vitamins safe.
The manager finally decides it's appropriate to open the third register, and some sneakster attempts to bypass everyone and create a new line at said register. He feigns ignorance when I call him out. I am now losing feeling in my fingers.
As the individual in front of me takes fifty seconds locating their CVS card - as if they did not know they would be asked - I glance at the magazine covers. Taylor Swift Could Be a Victoria's Secret Model. Really? We get it, T Swift, you're not seventeen anymore. You have blossomed from a cute mouse to a hot mouse.
Doh! Look what this has come to. I am projecting my disgust at this situation on a perfectly hard-working artist. My snideness is not just. As I reprimand myself, it is my turn.
My cashier is friendly, although I have to inform her that the gummy vitamins were indeed two for one, because that is $20 I am not wasting. While she is double checking, I turn to those behind me and apologize. I feel their burning gazes. Upon paying, I receive a mile long receipt with coupons that expire within three days. Do you really think I want to make this trip within three days?
Though I had resolved beforehand to turn around after my purchase and use the coupons immediately, I find myself all but sprinting for the nearest exit. Ahhh fresh air! I open my sparkling water to quench my thirst, and as the shaken beverage sprays all over me, I remember I needed toothpaste.
*NCAA football's total lack of a logical playoff system is not a small thing.
*Yes, I just created and used tetris in its adjective form.
Monday, December 1, 2014
On Caring and Failing
It would be easier not to care. Or to simply blame the harsh elements, the exhausting week, the obnoxious grunting. Your calf is a bit tight, and you can't seem to shake the headache. Besides, the empty stands certainly would not hold a quick loss against you.
Sitting on the bench after game five changeover, you know one thing is certain: this will be a grind. It will come down to who wants it more. Those hours spent training laid the foundation for these defining matches, but now, it is a battle of will. After only thirty minutes of play, you know what the next 2 - 3 hours will entail.
You must capitalize when momentum shifts your way and minimize the damage when it favors your opponent. There is no teammate to redeem your mistakes, no ref to validate your call. You must play each point individually, forgetting about the prior, not thinking about the next, because that moment is the only one you can control. You must silence the voices screaming you are not strong enough, quick enough, smooth enough. Even then, you could lose.
And failure sucks. It sucks to lay everything on the line and to fall short. To look around and know that you were the only one who could swing the outcome, and you did not.
So you savor a sweet gulp of water, walk deliberately to the line, and you compete. Because failure sucks. But it is so much better than not caring.
Sitting on the bench after game five changeover, you know one thing is certain: this will be a grind. It will come down to who wants it more. Those hours spent training laid the foundation for these defining matches, but now, it is a battle of will. After only thirty minutes of play, you know what the next 2 - 3 hours will entail.
You must capitalize when momentum shifts your way and minimize the damage when it favors your opponent. There is no teammate to redeem your mistakes, no ref to validate your call. You must play each point individually, forgetting about the prior, not thinking about the next, because that moment is the only one you can control. You must silence the voices screaming you are not strong enough, quick enough, smooth enough. Even then, you could lose.
And failure sucks. It sucks to lay everything on the line and to fall short. To look around and know that you were the only one who could swing the outcome, and you did not.
So you savor a sweet gulp of water, walk deliberately to the line, and you compete. Because failure sucks. But it is so much better than not caring.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Anna Inc., Since 2014
As you know, the current stage of my illustrious career involves a position at a tech start-up. I have learned a lot, and there are both aspects I really enjoy as well as challenges I would rather not encounter. Being so close to the founding of a company prompted me to consider what the focus of my hypothetical business would be. I recorded the results of my brainstorming, obviously trusting that if you hijack one of these gems, you will pay me royalties.
Restaurant, obviously. I hesitate to share them on a public forum, though, because every time I speak of filling holes in the Charlottesville food spectrum, they get filled. Sports bar on the downtown mall - Citizens*. Bakery serving beer with ESPN - Paradox Pastry. Mediterranean overpriced, medium plates style - Parallel 38. What's left? I have a couple ideas: Everything but Dinner, serving bread, appetizers and desserts, Anna's Abbey, because America needs more abbeys and it is alliteration, or All My Favorite Things, where I have baked goods, ice cream, chocolate, beer, wine, burgers, sports, pizza.
Pimp my religious head garb (originally pimp my yamaka)
I have to credit a Bar mitzvah I attended when I was fifteen for this idea. Indeed, the entrepreneurial wheels were turning at a young age. As I listened to the Rabbi* welcome the boy into manhood in a language I could not understand, I decided the ceremony needed a bit more flare, starting with the yamaka. There lies an untapped fashion market. There is obviously the solemn yamaka to be worn on the holiest of occasions, but then there are the athletic, extravagant, casual yamakas. Support your city's sports team with a logo on your yamaka. Show your chic sense of fashion with a houndstooth or burberry yamaka. Keep your head a little warmer with a flannel yamaka. It does not end there. I will also pimp turbans and berqas. Eventually, this will lead to peace in the Middle East because all will realize that while there are religious differences, everyone wants a banging headpiece. Then I win the Nobel piece prize. You're welcome world.
SafeSocks
I have no foundation here; I just want to stop losing my socks to the laundry cycle. Someone solve this problem.
Find-a-friend*
Because finding friends as an adult is hard. Arguably more difficult - and annoying - than finding a date.* And this is coming from a highly extroverted, involved person. You have to set expectations, avoid coming on too strong, contain your outrageous sense of humor until you know they can handle it. When do you exchange numbers? What is the natural follow up if you do hang out? Do you text them that you had a good time, plan for the next hang sesh, or play it cool? Though this would not answer all these questions, it would ease the pain of meeting like-minded people also seeking friendship.
The Ultimate Fantasy League
Why limit the fun to one season? Challenge your friends year round. Imagine it: Your roster could include Marshawn Lynch, Miguel Cabrera, Sidney Crosby and Lebron James*. It gets real in December when you have hockey, football and basketball in full force. Kiss productivity goodbye. Scoring system to be determined.
1800brewski
CEO strategy #37. Take someone's successful idea and copy it. 1800flowers. Why should females be the only people receiving mail-order gifts en masse? Further, what if the woman would prefer a six pack of IPAs and some tasty spiced almonds to flowers and chocolate? Enter... 1800brewski. The service that delivers everything from the ultimate microbrew package to the Nascar package containing Bud Light, PBR and Miller High Life. Send to your loved one for Father's Day, Valentine's Day, or just because you know they are in desperate need of hoppy comfort. Pair the beer with a fine cut of meat, savory nuts or indulgent chocolate - because some people still want the chocolate. I'm sure there are logistical differences between shipping alcohol and flowers, but if they can have a beer of the month club, this sort of service has to be feasible. Not a beer connoisseur? 1800wineluv* and 1800coktail are on the horizon.
Boom. Make it rain.
* I realize this was a no-brainer.
* This is different then apps like Friendster because it matches you with some cool mathematical formula.
* In my case, finding a date is harder.
* Of course my rosters going to include Lebron.
* I wanted to make 1800redwine, but I could not think of a seven letter phrasing for white wine. Ugh.
Restaurant, obviously. I hesitate to share them on a public forum, though, because every time I speak of filling holes in the Charlottesville food spectrum, they get filled. Sports bar on the downtown mall - Citizens*. Bakery serving beer with ESPN - Paradox Pastry. Mediterranean overpriced, medium plates style - Parallel 38. What's left? I have a couple ideas: Everything but Dinner, serving bread, appetizers and desserts, Anna's Abbey, because America needs more abbeys and it is alliteration, or All My Favorite Things, where I have baked goods, ice cream, chocolate, beer, wine, burgers, sports, pizza.
Pimp my religious head garb (originally pimp my yamaka)
I have to credit a Bar mitzvah I attended when I was fifteen for this idea. Indeed, the entrepreneurial wheels were turning at a young age. As I listened to the Rabbi* welcome the boy into manhood in a language I could not understand, I decided the ceremony needed a bit more flare, starting with the yamaka. There lies an untapped fashion market. There is obviously the solemn yamaka to be worn on the holiest of occasions, but then there are the athletic, extravagant, casual yamakas. Support your city's sports team with a logo on your yamaka. Show your chic sense of fashion with a houndstooth or burberry yamaka. Keep your head a little warmer with a flannel yamaka. It does not end there. I will also pimp turbans and berqas. Eventually, this will lead to peace in the Middle East because all will realize that while there are religious differences, everyone wants a banging headpiece. Then I win the Nobel piece prize. You're welcome world.
SafeSocks
I have no foundation here; I just want to stop losing my socks to the laundry cycle. Someone solve this problem.
Find-a-friend*
Because finding friends as an adult is hard. Arguably more difficult - and annoying - than finding a date.* And this is coming from a highly extroverted, involved person. You have to set expectations, avoid coming on too strong, contain your outrageous sense of humor until you know they can handle it. When do you exchange numbers? What is the natural follow up if you do hang out? Do you text them that you had a good time, plan for the next hang sesh, or play it cool? Though this would not answer all these questions, it would ease the pain of meeting like-minded people also seeking friendship.
The Ultimate Fantasy League
Why limit the fun to one season? Challenge your friends year round. Imagine it: Your roster could include Marshawn Lynch, Miguel Cabrera, Sidney Crosby and Lebron James*. It gets real in December when you have hockey, football and basketball in full force. Kiss productivity goodbye. Scoring system to be determined.
1800brewski
CEO strategy #37. Take someone's successful idea and copy it. 1800flowers. Why should females be the only people receiving mail-order gifts en masse? Further, what if the woman would prefer a six pack of IPAs and some tasty spiced almonds to flowers and chocolate? Enter... 1800brewski. The service that delivers everything from the ultimate microbrew package to the Nascar package containing Bud Light, PBR and Miller High Life. Send to your loved one for Father's Day, Valentine's Day, or just because you know they are in desperate need of hoppy comfort. Pair the beer with a fine cut of meat, savory nuts or indulgent chocolate - because some people still want the chocolate. I'm sure there are logistical differences between shipping alcohol and flowers, but if they can have a beer of the month club, this sort of service has to be feasible. Not a beer connoisseur? 1800wineluv* and 1800coktail are on the horizon.
Boom. Make it rain.
* I realize this was a no-brainer.
* This is different then apps like Friendster because it matches you with some cool mathematical formula.
* In my case, finding a date is harder.
* Of course my rosters going to include Lebron.
* I wanted to make 1800redwine, but I could not think of a seven letter phrasing for white wine. Ugh.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
Dear Grandma, You Are a Great Namesake
Foreword: Like many in my family, my grandma is strong-willed and does not suffer from a lack of confidence. This may inflate her ego a bit, but I am willing to do that, because heck, it's the truth.
I have been grasping fruitlessly at inspiration lately. A lot of ideas are bopping around, but nothing has structural significance. Today, as I was reading old blog posts, indulging in my own wit and rhetoric, it struck. Years ago, I wrote a tribute to my grandfather and alluded to a future post portraying my grandmother. I have yet to write that. After all, how do I package twenty six years experiencing her greatness into one post and hope to do her any justice? As I reminisced about my Grandpa's death, though, I think I got some valuable material. So here goes.
I did not cry when Grandpa died. Maybe a tear or two, but nothing substantial. Of course I was sad, but I was young, and his death had been expected for some time. He was no longer in pain, and I was able to miss a couple days of school. Plus, besides the usual Thanksgiving feast that year, family friends baked some very yummy condolence treats. I vividly remember eating approximately half a Texas sheet cake, acknowledging that at the very least, Texas had made one valuable contribution to society.
The night of his calling hours, I dressed in black, stood in line, kissed him, and returned to my seat next to Lydia. Even then, the sadness seemed distant. Then Grandma said her last goodbye. She bent over the casket, shakily hugged him and wept as she kissed him one last time. Seeing her raw emotion evoked my own. She had just lost the person she loved most in the world, her teenage sweetheart. They had grown up together, experienced war, the birth of children and the loss of a child together. They had moved homes and jobs, built a strong family and laughed with them. Now he was gone. Even at the age of twelve, I had a small sense of the incredible pain and loneliness she must have felt, and I cried for her.
What most exemplifies Grandma's character, though, is the months following Grandpa's death. Nothing changed. We still had dinner every Sunday and the occasional grandchildren sleepover. She laughed, danced, and made absolutely ridiculous jokes at the expense of those who were not as witty as she*. She still gave the same feisty response to a politician she did not approve of or a ref who made a bad call. She still tightly embraced each of us when we left and told us to be safe and how much she loved us. I know she hurt, and once in a while, you could hear it in her fading voice or see it in a glimmering gaze, but that never affected how she selflessly cared for everyone around her. She was a rock.
And she still is. My aunts continue to call her multiple times a week, and my dad continues to visit her almost daily. She claims it is because he needs his afternoon nap, but I know it is because of his love and respect for her.
Gram's is always one of my first stops on a visit home. I'm sure to have a hungry stomach, because I know she will offer me some sort of goodie. We will talk about my job, and she will tell me I should move back home. I will defend myself by saying I am able to have so many different experiences and do good, but a part of me wants nothing more than to stay within the safety of her couch forever. She will tell me how my generation doesn't appreciate anything, doesn't know what it is like to come from nothing, to have to scrounge to support your family and find unity in destitution. I will staunchly defend my generation, saying that we are not all lazy, entitled souls who expect everything handed to us. Yet, I know she speaks some truth*.
They don't make them like you anymore, Grandma. My life and the lives of your four children, seventeen grandchildren, and eighteen* great grandchildren, would be so much less beautiful without you as their foundation. You have done the name Anna proud.
*Sometimes this was because they were merely children, but they were not exempt.
*Even in saying this, I will still staunchly defend my generation the next time I see her.
*Maybe, who knows? Is Annie pregnant again?
I have been grasping fruitlessly at inspiration lately. A lot of ideas are bopping around, but nothing has structural significance. Today, as I was reading old blog posts, indulging in my own wit and rhetoric, it struck. Years ago, I wrote a tribute to my grandfather and alluded to a future post portraying my grandmother. I have yet to write that. After all, how do I package twenty six years experiencing her greatness into one post and hope to do her any justice? As I reminisced about my Grandpa's death, though, I think I got some valuable material. So here goes.
I did not cry when Grandpa died. Maybe a tear or two, but nothing substantial. Of course I was sad, but I was young, and his death had been expected for some time. He was no longer in pain, and I was able to miss a couple days of school. Plus, besides the usual Thanksgiving feast that year, family friends baked some very yummy condolence treats. I vividly remember eating approximately half a Texas sheet cake, acknowledging that at the very least, Texas had made one valuable contribution to society.
The night of his calling hours, I dressed in black, stood in line, kissed him, and returned to my seat next to Lydia. Even then, the sadness seemed distant. Then Grandma said her last goodbye. She bent over the casket, shakily hugged him and wept as she kissed him one last time. Seeing her raw emotion evoked my own. She had just lost the person she loved most in the world, her teenage sweetheart. They had grown up together, experienced war, the birth of children and the loss of a child together. They had moved homes and jobs, built a strong family and laughed with them. Now he was gone. Even at the age of twelve, I had a small sense of the incredible pain and loneliness she must have felt, and I cried for her.
What most exemplifies Grandma's character, though, is the months following Grandpa's death. Nothing changed. We still had dinner every Sunday and the occasional grandchildren sleepover. She laughed, danced, and made absolutely ridiculous jokes at the expense of those who were not as witty as she*. She still gave the same feisty response to a politician she did not approve of or a ref who made a bad call. She still tightly embraced each of us when we left and told us to be safe and how much she loved us. I know she hurt, and once in a while, you could hear it in her fading voice or see it in a glimmering gaze, but that never affected how she selflessly cared for everyone around her. She was a rock.
And she still is. My aunts continue to call her multiple times a week, and my dad continues to visit her almost daily. She claims it is because he needs his afternoon nap, but I know it is because of his love and respect for her.
Gram's is always one of my first stops on a visit home. I'm sure to have a hungry stomach, because I know she will offer me some sort of goodie. We will talk about my job, and she will tell me I should move back home. I will defend myself by saying I am able to have so many different experiences and do good, but a part of me wants nothing more than to stay within the safety of her couch forever. She will tell me how my generation doesn't appreciate anything, doesn't know what it is like to come from nothing, to have to scrounge to support your family and find unity in destitution. I will staunchly defend my generation, saying that we are not all lazy, entitled souls who expect everything handed to us. Yet, I know she speaks some truth*.
They don't make them like you anymore, Grandma. My life and the lives of your four children, seventeen grandchildren, and eighteen* great grandchildren, would be so much less beautiful without you as their foundation. You have done the name Anna proud.
*Sometimes this was because they were merely children, but they were not exempt.
*Even in saying this, I will still staunchly defend my generation the next time I see her.
*Maybe, who knows? Is Annie pregnant again?
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
26 Thoughts and One to Grow On
First, some things you may not know about me
1) I am seriously weary of people who do not appreciate Seinfeld's humor.
2) I know six programming languages. I don't know how to use them, but I know they exist.
3) I am extremely possessive of my desserts.
4) I use only my index finger when typing with my left hand. This was news to me when I discovered it three months ago. I do not know if this has always been the case, but I can't seem to change it.
5) Ice cream burps are my fave, followed closely by doughnut and guacamole burps. If you have never had a delicious burp, I pity you. It's a non-caloric treat.
6) I had no front tooth for four years. And rocked that look every minute.
Things I ponder
7) Is the speed limit really being enforced by aircraft?
8) How much money do grocery stores lose from people mislabeling their produce during self checkout? Is it worth the money they save in staffing?
9) At what level of static does the average American change the radio station?
10) Why does every oil change turn into a $300 excursion?
11) Is it socially acceptable to pluck one's eyebrows at an ATM? Those mirrors have the most incredible lighting.
12) How many malicious workers shake carbonated beverages before stocking them and get silent satisfaction knowing they exploded all over someone?
Pet Peeves
13) Excessive hash-tagging. If you can't make your point in six hash-tags, it's not worth making.
14) Anyone who says they know what it is like to be a Cleveland fan because they have one mediocre team. O, I'm sorry, Detroit, the Lions are terrible? I seem to remember the Pistons and Tigers winning championships in the past ten years. Your sports history is not as tragic. Don't take that from us.
15) People who say they love summer then complain about the heat.
16) Business emails beginning with, "I just wanted to reach out." Obviously. That is implied by you sending me an email. Tell me something I don't know like, "I had no desire to reach out, but my boss is going to throw a fit if I do not."
Random thoughts:
17) This is post number 69. Well, kind of. There are a couple drafts included in the count, but I am not deleting them so this can be 69.
18) I am getting my car inspected today. It expired last September.
19) Chipotle. I just think about Chipotle a lot.
20) Occasionally I remember it is not a dream; Lebron has returned and, realistically, Cleveland could win a championship in my lifetime. Then I smile. Then the Browns lose.
21) I think my neck is generally sore from balancing and supporting my big head.
22) One should always buy hoodies two sizes too large. They are not meant to be flattering. They are meant to be comfortable.
Things I spend too much time pondering
23) Cider vs IPA: Crisp, light, refreshing vs hoppy, heavy, and rich. Both so good once they hit your lips. Bahhh. Give me both.
24) How much money does the Smoked BBQ truck man make? And why did Zocalo stop having dance parties?
25) Hypothetical hubby - professional country star vs tennis player: Rugged, strong, American vs suave, smooth, sensational. And both so good once they hit your lips*. Bahhh. Give me both. And Mark Wahlberg.
26) Could I make a living being a socialite?
Finally, one to grow on.
*In my head
1) I am seriously weary of people who do not appreciate Seinfeld's humor.
2) I know six programming languages. I don't know how to use them, but I know they exist.
3) I am extremely possessive of my desserts.
4) I use only my index finger when typing with my left hand. This was news to me when I discovered it three months ago. I do not know if this has always been the case, but I can't seem to change it.
5) Ice cream burps are my fave, followed closely by doughnut and guacamole burps. If you have never had a delicious burp, I pity you. It's a non-caloric treat.
6) I had no front tooth for four years. And rocked that look every minute.
7) Is the speed limit really being enforced by aircraft?
8) How much money do grocery stores lose from people mislabeling their produce during self checkout? Is it worth the money they save in staffing?
9) At what level of static does the average American change the radio station?
10) Why does every oil change turn into a $300 excursion?
11) Is it socially acceptable to pluck one's eyebrows at an ATM? Those mirrors have the most incredible lighting.
12) How many malicious workers shake carbonated beverages before stocking them and get silent satisfaction knowing they exploded all over someone?
Pet Peeves
13) Excessive hash-tagging. If you can't make your point in six hash-tags, it's not worth making.
14) Anyone who says they know what it is like to be a Cleveland fan because they have one mediocre team. O, I'm sorry, Detroit, the Lions are terrible? I seem to remember the Pistons and Tigers winning championships in the past ten years. Your sports history is not as tragic. Don't take that from us.
15) People who say they love summer then complain about the heat.
16) Business emails beginning with, "I just wanted to reach out." Obviously. That is implied by you sending me an email. Tell me something I don't know like, "I had no desire to reach out, but my boss is going to throw a fit if I do not."
Random thoughts:
17) This is post number 69. Well, kind of. There are a couple drafts included in the count, but I am not deleting them so this can be 69.
18) I am getting my car inspected today. It expired last September.
19) Chipotle. I just think about Chipotle a lot.
20) Occasionally I remember it is not a dream; Lebron has returned and, realistically, Cleveland could win a championship in my lifetime. Then I smile. Then the Browns lose.
21) I think my neck is generally sore from balancing and supporting my big head.
22) One should always buy hoodies two sizes too large. They are not meant to be flattering. They are meant to be comfortable.
Things I spend too much time pondering
23) Cider vs IPA: Crisp, light, refreshing vs hoppy, heavy, and rich. Both so good once they hit your lips. Bahhh. Give me both.
24) How much money does the Smoked BBQ truck man make? And why did Zocalo stop having dance parties?
25) Hypothetical hubby - professional country star vs tennis player: Rugged, strong, American vs suave, smooth, sensational. And both so good once they hit your lips*. Bahhh. Give me both. And Mark Wahlberg.
26) Could I make a living being a socialite?
Finally, one to grow on.
*In my head
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
The Boys of Fall
Tonight is the first evening with Internet in my new apartment. Yes, I moved over a month ago, but apparently a modem requires a router to receive WiFi, and apparently an extender is not the same as a router. Ahh, technicalities. It seemed appropriate I stop by since I have been absent the past few weeks. I missed you, and returning feels like a nice, big hug. The fall air is creeping through my window, country music is playing softly, and I am feeling nostalgic. Perhaps it is because I heard Kenny Chesney's Boys of Fall this afternoon, but I cannot help but be whisked back to Friday nights in a small town.
For as long as I can remember, high school football was as much a part of life as church or Sunday dinners. My father was a coach, and fall evenings were spent calculating computer points*, dissecting the classic wing-t offense or bemoaning the fact that Catholic schools did not have to pull talent from within their district. We went to every game, and when my grandpa became too sick to make it inside the stadium, I sat with him and my grandma to watch from their car. They had priority seating because my father led the effort to build a new stadium.
The Hilltoppers were good. We won state in '94. My sisters' boyfriend, now husband and Chardon's head coach, led us to a state berth in '98, where we were beat with a hook and ladder. My heart still sinks slightly envisioning the play. I watched the cute football players and pretty girls who seemed so mature and imagined what it was like to be that old.
In my head, each season began the same way. The sky was a billowing gray with hints of sun, and the invigorating fall air penetrated your core with hopes of victory. The stands filled with fans in jerseys; the infamous superfans carried the ever-classy blow horns. The student section assembled, led by mascots in ridiculous attire. Some were there to watch and some were there to socialize, but all of Topper land was there.
Every team was undefeated, and last year meant nothing. The players lined up behind the fence and clapped their ritualistic beat, one that is engrained in my memory. Excitement and anticipation mounted as they rushed the field and tore through the tarp for the first time. This was when the Hilltoppers collected on months of hard work. From kickoff until the clock struck zero, the only play that mattered was the next.
The season was always an emotional roller coaster. The eight minute drives, the quarterback on the keeper, the missed block and subsequent sack. The interceptions, fumble recoveries and touchdowns. You were lost in the moment, but in a different way than collegiate or pro, because these were your childhood play dates, the sons of your closest friend or your grandson. They were your study hall buddies, the class clowns or fellow nerds, your boyfriend. And you wanted them to win.
But why? Why did people travel hours to see a game and weather rain, sleet and snow? Why did people come long after their children had graduated? Why did you get butterflies when it was 3rd and long and we were down by 6?
High school football represents something. It is pure. It can be a sign of strength and normalcy after tragedy. There is a comfort in knowing that amidst outside turmoil, the game is constant. A touchdown is always six points, a false start is always a five yard loss, and despite possibly questionable refs, the scoreboard never lies. The boys play with an innocent and unadulterated passion. They are not yet tainted by the world around them, but, rather, are maturing before your eyes. Most of all, it represents a community and family that is able to put their differences aside for a season and stand behind one group of young men.
I was very close with many on the football team. Time has increased the distance between us, but with a simple song, I hear the stadium chants, feel the nervous excitement and smell the musty post-game locker room. Though I cannot say for certain, I believe with each new autumn, they smell the crisp air and are taken back, if only momentarily, to a time when they were the boys of fall.
*The mathematical basis of making the playoffs determined by the caliber of team you played, but also the caliber of teams they played.
For as long as I can remember, high school football was as much a part of life as church or Sunday dinners. My father was a coach, and fall evenings were spent calculating computer points*, dissecting the classic wing-t offense or bemoaning the fact that Catholic schools did not have to pull talent from within their district. We went to every game, and when my grandpa became too sick to make it inside the stadium, I sat with him and my grandma to watch from their car. They had priority seating because my father led the effort to build a new stadium.
The Hilltoppers were good. We won state in '94. My sisters' boyfriend, now husband and Chardon's head coach, led us to a state berth in '98, where we were beat with a hook and ladder. My heart still sinks slightly envisioning the play. I watched the cute football players and pretty girls who seemed so mature and imagined what it was like to be that old.
In my head, each season began the same way. The sky was a billowing gray with hints of sun, and the invigorating fall air penetrated your core with hopes of victory. The stands filled with fans in jerseys; the infamous superfans carried the ever-classy blow horns. The student section assembled, led by mascots in ridiculous attire. Some were there to watch and some were there to socialize, but all of Topper land was there.
Every team was undefeated, and last year meant nothing. The players lined up behind the fence and clapped their ritualistic beat, one that is engrained in my memory. Excitement and anticipation mounted as they rushed the field and tore through the tarp for the first time. This was when the Hilltoppers collected on months of hard work. From kickoff until the clock struck zero, the only play that mattered was the next.
The season was always an emotional roller coaster. The eight minute drives, the quarterback on the keeper, the missed block and subsequent sack. The interceptions, fumble recoveries and touchdowns. You were lost in the moment, but in a different way than collegiate or pro, because these were your childhood play dates, the sons of your closest friend or your grandson. They were your study hall buddies, the class clowns or fellow nerds, your boyfriend. And you wanted them to win.
But why? Why did people travel hours to see a game and weather rain, sleet and snow? Why did people come long after their children had graduated? Why did you get butterflies when it was 3rd and long and we were down by 6?
High school football represents something. It is pure. It can be a sign of strength and normalcy after tragedy. There is a comfort in knowing that amidst outside turmoil, the game is constant. A touchdown is always six points, a false start is always a five yard loss, and despite possibly questionable refs, the scoreboard never lies. The boys play with an innocent and unadulterated passion. They are not yet tainted by the world around them, but, rather, are maturing before your eyes. Most of all, it represents a community and family that is able to put their differences aside for a season and stand behind one group of young men.
I was very close with many on the football team. Time has increased the distance between us, but with a simple song, I hear the stadium chants, feel the nervous excitement and smell the musty post-game locker room. Though I cannot say for certain, I believe with each new autumn, they smell the crisp air and are taken back, if only momentarily, to a time when they were the boys of fall.
*The mathematical basis of making the playoffs determined by the caliber of team you played, but also the caliber of teams they played.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
To Jules and Jerms - Congrats!
My least favorite part of having three older sisters is the four mothers during adolescent years. My favorite part of having three older sisters is after getting over myself and realizing they are right 96.3% of the time, I have four role models.
I look up to each of them for different reasons, but since my life situation is most similar to Julie's, I have looked to her especially in navigating (or not navigating) the ubiquitous world of dating.
Being single is difficult sometimes.* Aside from a natural desire for the intimacy and support found with another, one has to deal with single members of the opposite sex. There is also the occasional ignoramus* who asks, "Why is a sweet, smart girl like you still single?" as if being with someone validates you and a decent looking, well-adjusted woman should surely be in a relationship at this point. I think the question is supposed to be flattering, but a word to everyone - it is not. Really? How am I supposed to respond to that?
When I am particularly craving a relationship similar to the marriages of Gail and Lydia, I think about Julie. I go back to a conversation we had in which she openly discussed a difficult breakup she had been through in her early twenties. Those around her told her that someone better would come along, and at a certain point, in something close to her words, "she had to let that idea go and embrace that someone may or may not come. And she would be happy either way."
It is very easy to stake a portion of your self worth in relationships. Julie did not. She used that time to travel and develop her career. She cultivated so many close friendships, evidenced by the nearly 450 likes on the engagement announcement, an unheard of number outside the world of celebrities. She started life in a new country, maintaining her values through hardships. And years later, in a manner she likely would not have outlined, someone did come along.
I am thrilled for Julie and Jeromy. To Jeromy, you are a wonderful man and bring a lot to the veritable Thanksgiving feast that is the Navatsyk table. Welcome. To Julie, I am glad there is a man in your life to share in your laughter and love. Though I do not always acknowledge it and at times resist it, your consistent encouragement and guidance have helped me define myself. Thank you for setting such a strong example for your little sis.
*I recognize being in a relationship is also difficult sometimes. And other times, they are both easy. For instance, it is super easy to book myself vacations on a whim when single.
*Perhaps ignoramus is a bit harsh, but I really do not like the question.
I look up to each of them for different reasons, but since my life situation is most similar to Julie's, I have looked to her especially in navigating (or not navigating) the ubiquitous world of dating.
Being single is difficult sometimes.* Aside from a natural desire for the intimacy and support found with another, one has to deal with single members of the opposite sex. There is also the occasional ignoramus* who asks, "Why is a sweet, smart girl like you still single?" as if being with someone validates you and a decent looking, well-adjusted woman should surely be in a relationship at this point. I think the question is supposed to be flattering, but a word to everyone - it is not. Really? How am I supposed to respond to that?
When I am particularly craving a relationship similar to the marriages of Gail and Lydia, I think about Julie. I go back to a conversation we had in which she openly discussed a difficult breakup she had been through in her early twenties. Those around her told her that someone better would come along, and at a certain point, in something close to her words, "she had to let that idea go and embrace that someone may or may not come. And she would be happy either way."
It is very easy to stake a portion of your self worth in relationships. Julie did not. She used that time to travel and develop her career. She cultivated so many close friendships, evidenced by the nearly 450 likes on the engagement announcement, an unheard of number outside the world of celebrities. She started life in a new country, maintaining her values through hardships. And years later, in a manner she likely would not have outlined, someone did come along.
I am thrilled for Julie and Jeromy. To Jeromy, you are a wonderful man and bring a lot to the veritable Thanksgiving feast that is the Navatsyk table. Welcome. To Julie, I am glad there is a man in your life to share in your laughter and love. Though I do not always acknowledge it and at times resist it, your consistent encouragement and guidance have helped me define myself. Thank you for setting such a strong example for your little sis.
*I recognize being in a relationship is also difficult sometimes. And other times, they are both easy. For instance, it is super easy to book myself vacations on a whim when single.
*Perhaps ignoramus is a bit harsh, but I really do not like the question.
Monday, July 28, 2014
The Crossfit Total
I know. Two posts in one week; this is unheard of and verging on indulgent. I was considering going to see "Wish I was Here" this evening and fantasizing about Zach Braff - though not really, his thighs are smaller than mine, but I love his quirky personality - but decided it was just too pretty a night to waste in a theater. Given the nature of my previous post, this entry had to be light. I began considering those aspects of life that make me most happy and realized that for all my musings and rantings, I had yet to write about Crossfit.
This is not without reason. After all, with little exception, every article takes one of two stances - Crossfit causes obscure and unnecessary injuries or it revolutionizes your fitness. So what do I have to say? Both. And then, naturally, something more.
I have been injured since joining Crossfit. My callouses broke and the Neosporin stung. I got a rash from excessive thigh chaffage, and rope climbs occasionally give me questionable burns. Every time I do double-unders, I fear kegel exercises will not suffice in containing all within my bladder.* That's not an injury, but it is a nuisance and makes me want to curse at the guy telling me to do faster double-unders. He has no idea.
Honestly, my body has responded extremely well to the programming. The nagging injuries I had in my knee and ankle have dissipated. Even had they not, I would not blame Crossfit. I would blame aging, old fashioned bad luck and my tendency to push myself beyond my limits.
I also claim in a most uncultly manner that Crossfit has revolutionized my fitness. My previous background was nearly fifteen years of tennis, and I have always craved the rush of competition. I was on the court or in the weight room at least five times a week, often more. My coaches, family and a handful of weight room stalkers can attest to my tenacity and dedication. When tennis ended, I maintained my gym routine with similar vigor, but I was not making gains.
Tonight, we recorded the Crossfit Total, your combined max back squat, deadlift and shoulder press. My total was 490 pounds. We performed this same routine in October 2012, and my total was 379. The scoreboard does not lie, mis amigos. I am markedly stronger**, and my speed, agility and stamina have improved as well.
More relevant than either of these is how the gym facilitates continual improvement. It fosters a casually unpretentious and driven community, no matter your skill level. When I first entered, the mechanics of Olympic lifting were completely foreign, and my kettle bell swing was as coordinated as Peyton Manning's dance moves.
It challenges me to leave my comfort zone and learn new movements, attack my lifts and actually talk to the other members.*** The coaches' enthusiasm to instruct and depth of knowledge motivate me to move with increased efficiency and safety. Their consistent support spurs me to work harder and with purpose. Rather than blaring my headphones as I enter, I look forward to authentic conversation with those whose friendship extends beyond the gym.
Fitness was such a huge part of my development growing up; it does not surprise me that it remains so. I am grateful to have happened upon a gym with such a solid core. Now if only Zach Braff would join and get thicker thighs, we could make that fantasy a reality.
* I definitely just scared some people who have never experienced double-unders and gave credence to the stance that Crossfitters are crazy. But I thought it was funny.
** Fear not, I do not look like a muscular lug and still look good in a little blue dress.
*** They probably wish they could get me to shut up now.
This is not without reason. After all, with little exception, every article takes one of two stances - Crossfit causes obscure and unnecessary injuries or it revolutionizes your fitness. So what do I have to say? Both. And then, naturally, something more.
I have been injured since joining Crossfit. My callouses broke and the Neosporin stung. I got a rash from excessive thigh chaffage, and rope climbs occasionally give me questionable burns. Every time I do double-unders, I fear kegel exercises will not suffice in containing all within my bladder.* That's not an injury, but it is a nuisance and makes me want to curse at the guy telling me to do faster double-unders. He has no idea.
Honestly, my body has responded extremely well to the programming. The nagging injuries I had in my knee and ankle have dissipated. Even had they not, I would not blame Crossfit. I would blame aging, old fashioned bad luck and my tendency to push myself beyond my limits.
I also claim in a most uncultly manner that Crossfit has revolutionized my fitness. My previous background was nearly fifteen years of tennis, and I have always craved the rush of competition. I was on the court or in the weight room at least five times a week, often more. My coaches, family and a handful of weight room stalkers can attest to my tenacity and dedication. When tennis ended, I maintained my gym routine with similar vigor, but I was not making gains.
Tonight, we recorded the Crossfit Total, your combined max back squat, deadlift and shoulder press. My total was 490 pounds. We performed this same routine in October 2012, and my total was 379. The scoreboard does not lie, mis amigos. I am markedly stronger**, and my speed, agility and stamina have improved as well.
More relevant than either of these is how the gym facilitates continual improvement. It fosters a casually unpretentious and driven community, no matter your skill level. When I first entered, the mechanics of Olympic lifting were completely foreign, and my kettle bell swing was as coordinated as Peyton Manning's dance moves.
It challenges me to leave my comfort zone and learn new movements, attack my lifts and actually talk to the other members.*** The coaches' enthusiasm to instruct and depth of knowledge motivate me to move with increased efficiency and safety. Their consistent support spurs me to work harder and with purpose. Rather than blaring my headphones as I enter, I look forward to authentic conversation with those whose friendship extends beyond the gym.
Fitness was such a huge part of my development growing up; it does not surprise me that it remains so. I am grateful to have happened upon a gym with such a solid core. Now if only Zach Braff would join and get thicker thighs, we could make that fantasy a reality.
* I definitely just scared some people who have never experienced double-unders and gave credence to the stance that Crossfitters are crazy. But I thought it was funny.
** Fear not, I do not look like a muscular lug and still look good in a little blue dress.
*** They probably wish they could get me to shut up now.
Friday, July 25, 2014
On Being Lonely
It's a funny thing, loneliness. I have experienced it during numerous stages at various levels since moving, but I was not anticipating this last bout. Indeed, I am very blessed to have such a strong community in Charlottesville and incredible support in family, but apparently that is not immunizing. It is a quiet loneliness, spurred by various factors, but those really do not matter. What matters is how one confronts it, so I will offer nuggets I have gathered from family, friends and personal exposure. It is certainly not fool proof, but perhaps someone will appreciate another's experience. Plus, that nagging voice compelling me to write will not shut up. Sometimes, I think writing gives the feeling an element of tangibility, for better or worse.
A) Acknowledge the feeling, but do not indulge it. One is entitled to emotions, and they are not crazy. Give them their time, but no more. Perhaps you need a good cry, an IPA, an extravagant sundae or a really long chatsky with a friend. Have that. Then continue.
2) Seek comfort in the right places. There are a lot of easy, immediate sources, but they are also fleeting and unfulfilling. Be cognizant of your motives.
Thirdly) Adjust expectations. Your closest friend has a boyfriend and spends time cultivating that relationship. The job comes with different challenges than you expected. The people you left behind go on living their lives without you. That is natural, and if your stability hinges on these outside factors, you will inevitably be disappointed.
Cuatro) Be thankful. I am grateful for the kindness of others and the strong relationships formed when you allow yourself to be open, and even more so for a family so strong, I still miss them so much.
E) Look at yourself, and be completely honest. At the end of the day, you are only in control of your attitude and actions. Decide what you need to do, and do it intently. For me, answers have ranged from forming new bonds and breaking old ones, to physical outlets to cutting unhealthy habits or thought patterns. Most recently, the answer has been, "be content to go on quietly." Honestly, this is the hardest answer yet because I am an active person, but trusting God to work has been a neat challenge. Slightly annoying, but neat.
6) Then... Get outside yourself, and gain perspective. When I first moved to Charlottesville and in one of our many conversations, my mother told me to volunteer. That was not what selfish post-grad Anna wanted to hear. I wanted pity, but instead I got practical advice.* Incidentally, I started volunteering and have been working with a group of high school girls the past four years, facilitating their growth into young women. Seeing their lives offers a humbling perspective to the blessings in my own life.
It is so easy to be consumed with ourselves and forget that we are not the only ones facing struggles. We begin to compare ourselves to others, the most dangerous and fruitless of slopes. The one lesson that has resounded especially during the past couple months is that everyone has difficulties*; those can be used to help others face them down the road.
Finally) Decide to be happy; smile when you would rather not. Sometimes, life's just hard, for no real reason at all, but in the illustrious words of Jimmy Doogan, "The hard is what makes it great." Yep, I just quoted Remember the Titans and A League of Their Own in one sentence. Dad would be proud.
I hope this does not sound soap boxy. If it did, though, you probably would not have made it to this point. I have a sense this bout is drawing to a close, but for now, thanks for listening.
*Written with the caveat that I do not always follow my own advice.
*I love you, Mom.
*Of course, not everyone blabs about them on the Internet.
A) Acknowledge the feeling, but do not indulge it. One is entitled to emotions, and they are not crazy. Give them their time, but no more. Perhaps you need a good cry, an IPA, an extravagant sundae or a really long chatsky with a friend. Have that. Then continue.
2) Seek comfort in the right places. There are a lot of easy, immediate sources, but they are also fleeting and unfulfilling. Be cognizant of your motives.
Thirdly) Adjust expectations. Your closest friend has a boyfriend and spends time cultivating that relationship. The job comes with different challenges than you expected. The people you left behind go on living their lives without you. That is natural, and if your stability hinges on these outside factors, you will inevitably be disappointed.
Cuatro) Be thankful. I am grateful for the kindness of others and the strong relationships formed when you allow yourself to be open, and even more so for a family so strong, I still miss them so much.
E) Look at yourself, and be completely honest. At the end of the day, you are only in control of your attitude and actions. Decide what you need to do, and do it intently. For me, answers have ranged from forming new bonds and breaking old ones, to physical outlets to cutting unhealthy habits or thought patterns. Most recently, the answer has been, "be content to go on quietly." Honestly, this is the hardest answer yet because I am an active person, but trusting God to work has been a neat challenge. Slightly annoying, but neat.
6) Then... Get outside yourself, and gain perspective. When I first moved to Charlottesville and in one of our many conversations, my mother told me to volunteer. That was not what selfish post-grad Anna wanted to hear. I wanted pity, but instead I got practical advice.* Incidentally, I started volunteering and have been working with a group of high school girls the past four years, facilitating their growth into young women. Seeing their lives offers a humbling perspective to the blessings in my own life.
It is so easy to be consumed with ourselves and forget that we are not the only ones facing struggles. We begin to compare ourselves to others, the most dangerous and fruitless of slopes. The one lesson that has resounded especially during the past couple months is that everyone has difficulties*; those can be used to help others face them down the road.
Finally) Decide to be happy; smile when you would rather not. Sometimes, life's just hard, for no real reason at all, but in the illustrious words of Jimmy Doogan, "The hard is what makes it great." Yep, I just quoted Remember the Titans and A League of Their Own in one sentence. Dad would be proud.
I hope this does not sound soap boxy. If it did, though, you probably would not have made it to this point. I have a sense this bout is drawing to a close, but for now, thanks for listening.
*Written with the caveat that I do not always follow my own advice.
*I love you, Mom.
*Of course, not everyone blabs about them on the Internet.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Thank you, Friend.
"Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man who trusts in Him!" Psalm 34:8. My mom has a verse for each of her children, and that is mine.
I have been mulling this post over more than most. It began as a tribute to this blog being a vehicle of vulnerability the past four years, but I knew I could not tell the small story of this blog without recognizing God. Yikes. Avid followers certainly have heard mention of God, but it does not make the public confession less intimidating. It is easy to casually acknowledge the existence of a higher being, but to claim He is actively working in your life is bold. Readers may consider me foolish and silly or worse, roll their eyes, thinking, "Dancing Anna at two o'clock on a Saturday night does not scream Christianity.*" It is certainly comfortable to tell stories of awkward moments or random musings, both of which are all too real. This is real, too, though, and it would be a disservice to all parties for me to write only about what I felt was safe.
From a young age, I was taught the practicality of God. A common mantra of my church's leaders was, "We believe this because it works." Not because it is easy or lavish, but because God's power and presence is undeniable. The underlying caveat of this is that it does not always work within the confines of your desires, and thus ensues the battle of will versus surrender. I have fought this battle numerous times, and upon reflection, find that only when I relinquish an arrogant insistence on self-reliance do I find myself fully aware of God's intricate planning.
For the sake of relative brevity*, we will begin this account at the turn of the New Year. I took a short online marketing course instructed by Seth Godin, my favorite of marketing gurus, and a simple seed was planted: I want to create. I did not know how, when or what. I was by no means unhappy in my current position but recognized that while I was contributing, I was not creating, and while my career trajectory could lead to the upper echelons of middle management, that would not ultimately satisfy me. I assumed God would call me to act upon this seed at some point in the distant future, especially because quitting a job twice in two years could be considered resume suicide. Wrong again, Anna. Have I not learned this lesson before?
At the beginning of last month, I felt a bit stagnate so shifted focus to adjusting aspects of life within my control. The first was fitness. My need to justify the exorbitant price of Crossfit already compels me to work out five times a week, so I began eating strict paleo, anticipating an improvement in performance. The second was stimulating my mind in a productive manner; I registered for the GMAT, knowing the scores last five years and business school could be an option. Of course, I would rather bypass the debt associated with obtaining an MBA, but studying for the test keeps doors open and is a better use of my spare time than eating bacon and watching the entirety of The Wire. Arguably.
As far as aspects outside my control, I made a concerted effort to earnestly give those to God. I prayed God would show me what was next in His plan while opening my heart to all possibilities, no matter the discomfort they may bring - though I prefered He did not call me to a convent, because abstaining from all forms of alcohol, though tolerable, was proving a bit difficult.
The final weekend of April, my pastor spoke of God using an act most personal to Peter, fishing, to reach him. He then encouraged us to pray for a similar revelation, and so I did. Later that week, I received an email asking if I had interest in a position at a local start-up. The position entailed various admin, personnel and ad hoc duties; it also offered the opportunity to help build their marketing program. Immediately, I got butterflies - the ones you get before a rival tennis match that scream, "This is it." When we met to discuss the position, I received a compliment that ranks in the top three of all time - it may even surpass Sam Bradford telling me he liked my hat at Foxfield 2012. They read my blog and were impressed with my style and flow.* Indeed, God used my most personal act, my writing, as a means to reveal Himself.
God is neat. I say neat for two reasons. It has a slightly juvenile connotation, and God's manner of working evokes a child-like sense of wonderment in me. A liquor poured neat is pure and smooth, unadulterated by opulent embellishments. At first glance, it may seem as though this came lavishly out of the blue, but it did not. Among other practical factors such as the company's need for personnel and my qualifications, it stemmed from a consistent effort to be authentic. When I began writing, I did not anticipate the journey leading anywhere in particular. I wrote when I felt ridiculous, sad, nostalgic or simply for the discipline of writing. I occasionally tracked my dashboard* to see how many times my blog had been viewed, allowing myself to wonder who may be reading and how my writing may affect them. Whenever I wrote, I held true to my promise that it would be honest, and God used that in a manner I had not considered.
There have been plenty of times the past four years I have given situations to God and he has closed doors that I, in my finite wisdom, would have preferred open. Retrospectively, I am always grateful He did. I am genuinely pumped for what lies ahead, as it is an opportunity to work hard, learn, create and make an impact.
I have other seeds: I want to live in a city and Spanish speaking country; I want to travel to Eastern Europe, attend every tennis grand slam; I want to be CMO, own a restaurant; I want to get married, coach college tennis, compete in an Ironman. I do not know if all or none of these will come to fruition, but I do know that refusing to settle means change will be an inevitable part of life. The comfort that God is real and He works makes those transitions exhilarating rather than daunting.
So, yes, I thank you for being a means of sincerity and personal growth. More than that, I thank God for working in a way that is so unmistakably relevant to me, I would be foolish not to follow.
*Of course I do not always behave like Christ. Hence, the need for Christ.
*Am I ever actually brief?
*Bahhh I have style and flow!
*And then got sad when I realized I was tracking my own pageviews.
I have been mulling this post over more than most. It began as a tribute to this blog being a vehicle of vulnerability the past four years, but I knew I could not tell the small story of this blog without recognizing God. Yikes. Avid followers certainly have heard mention of God, but it does not make the public confession less intimidating. It is easy to casually acknowledge the existence of a higher being, but to claim He is actively working in your life is bold. Readers may consider me foolish and silly or worse, roll their eyes, thinking, "Dancing Anna at two o'clock on a Saturday night does not scream Christianity.*" It is certainly comfortable to tell stories of awkward moments or random musings, both of which are all too real. This is real, too, though, and it would be a disservice to all parties for me to write only about what I felt was safe.
From a young age, I was taught the practicality of God. A common mantra of my church's leaders was, "We believe this because it works." Not because it is easy or lavish, but because God's power and presence is undeniable. The underlying caveat of this is that it does not always work within the confines of your desires, and thus ensues the battle of will versus surrender. I have fought this battle numerous times, and upon reflection, find that only when I relinquish an arrogant insistence on self-reliance do I find myself fully aware of God's intricate planning.
For the sake of relative brevity*, we will begin this account at the turn of the New Year. I took a short online marketing course instructed by Seth Godin, my favorite of marketing gurus, and a simple seed was planted: I want to create. I did not know how, when or what. I was by no means unhappy in my current position but recognized that while I was contributing, I was not creating, and while my career trajectory could lead to the upper echelons of middle management, that would not ultimately satisfy me. I assumed God would call me to act upon this seed at some point in the distant future, especially because quitting a job twice in two years could be considered resume suicide. Wrong again, Anna. Have I not learned this lesson before?
At the beginning of last month, I felt a bit stagnate so shifted focus to adjusting aspects of life within my control. The first was fitness. My need to justify the exorbitant price of Crossfit already compels me to work out five times a week, so I began eating strict paleo, anticipating an improvement in performance. The second was stimulating my mind in a productive manner; I registered for the GMAT, knowing the scores last five years and business school could be an option. Of course, I would rather bypass the debt associated with obtaining an MBA, but studying for the test keeps doors open and is a better use of my spare time than eating bacon and watching the entirety of The Wire. Arguably.
As far as aspects outside my control, I made a concerted effort to earnestly give those to God. I prayed God would show me what was next in His plan while opening my heart to all possibilities, no matter the discomfort they may bring - though I prefered He did not call me to a convent, because abstaining from all forms of alcohol, though tolerable, was proving a bit difficult.
The final weekend of April, my pastor spoke of God using an act most personal to Peter, fishing, to reach him. He then encouraged us to pray for a similar revelation, and so I did. Later that week, I received an email asking if I had interest in a position at a local start-up. The position entailed various admin, personnel and ad hoc duties; it also offered the opportunity to help build their marketing program. Immediately, I got butterflies - the ones you get before a rival tennis match that scream, "This is it." When we met to discuss the position, I received a compliment that ranks in the top three of all time - it may even surpass Sam Bradford telling me he liked my hat at Foxfield 2012. They read my blog and were impressed with my style and flow.* Indeed, God used my most personal act, my writing, as a means to reveal Himself.
God is neat. I say neat for two reasons. It has a slightly juvenile connotation, and God's manner of working evokes a child-like sense of wonderment in me. A liquor poured neat is pure and smooth, unadulterated by opulent embellishments. At first glance, it may seem as though this came lavishly out of the blue, but it did not. Among other practical factors such as the company's need for personnel and my qualifications, it stemmed from a consistent effort to be authentic. When I began writing, I did not anticipate the journey leading anywhere in particular. I wrote when I felt ridiculous, sad, nostalgic or simply for the discipline of writing. I occasionally tracked my dashboard* to see how many times my blog had been viewed, allowing myself to wonder who may be reading and how my writing may affect them. Whenever I wrote, I held true to my promise that it would be honest, and God used that in a manner I had not considered.
There have been plenty of times the past four years I have given situations to God and he has closed doors that I, in my finite wisdom, would have preferred open. Retrospectively, I am always grateful He did. I am genuinely pumped for what lies ahead, as it is an opportunity to work hard, learn, create and make an impact.
I have other seeds: I want to live in a city and Spanish speaking country; I want to travel to Eastern Europe, attend every tennis grand slam; I want to be CMO, own a restaurant; I want to get married, coach college tennis, compete in an Ironman. I do not know if all or none of these will come to fruition, but I do know that refusing to settle means change will be an inevitable part of life. The comfort that God is real and He works makes those transitions exhilarating rather than daunting.
So, yes, I thank you for being a means of sincerity and personal growth. More than that, I thank God for working in a way that is so unmistakably relevant to me, I would be foolish not to follow.
*Of course I do not always behave like Christ. Hence, the need for Christ.
*Am I ever actually brief?
*Bahhh I have style and flow!
*And then got sad when I realized I was tracking my own pageviews.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Superlatives: A Tale of Tickets
"You gotta be kidding me!" My father moaned indignantly as the sirens glared in his rearview mirror. "This guy's got nothing better to do than sit there and pull me over. Kids, put on your seat belts." We knew the routine. While he may have been "going with the flow of traffic" and "his car was not made to go 35", within five minutes, Dad would receive a ticket, and the cop would be one closer to his quota. That is, after all, the only reason they gave tickets - that and money.
I inherited numerous favorable qualities from my father: love for Big Ten sports, Eastern European facial features, the ability to throw myself into a fit of laughter. I am not saying aggressive driving is unfavorable, but as evidenced by the following superlatives list chronicling my tickets, there has been an undeniable cost.
1. Most related to Zoolander. I turned left. At age sixteen, I nannied infant triplets five nights a week, possibly my most stressful job to date. I rarely enjoyed a night out, and when I did, there was a 40% chance I would break down because the radio played a sad song. This particular Saturday, my family was going to an Italian restaurant promising bread assortments, hearty pasta and rich desserts. I rushed from the children after their evening feeding and proceeded to gorge myself to the point of needing to unbutton my pants. Feeling a bit over satiated and exhausted, I drove about the massive parking lot, and upon finding an exit, realized I could not turn left. My destination was to the left. Were I to obey, I would have to U-turn or pull into a driveway and turn around, a far more dangerous alternative than turning left onto the temporarily abandoned road. I made the logical turn, and with that, sirens flared. My natural state was one on the verge of tears, yet I could muster nothing but resigned, slightly perturbed compliance when the cop asked for my information. I did not even have the presence of mind to zip my pants. After he left, I wept uncontrollably for ten minutes, not realizing this was merely the first in a saga of hopeless encounters accentuating the moral juxtaposition of assuming responsibility for my actions while seriously questioning the legitimacy of the rules which I was breaking.
2. Most bland. 67 in a 55. The cop was uninteresting, the circumstances were ordinary. It was your basic interaction where I accepted the consequences of my actions.
3. Most likely to get dismissed due to seduction. When I say seduction, I mean I had just worked a double at the Cheesecake Factory and had removed the sweaty polo, leaving only a camisole. There was probably hot fudge in my ponytail which may have been sexy. I was not dismissed. 75 in a 60. Classic speed trap. Yet another victim fell to the 5 mph differential between counties.
4. Most bizarre. Turning right. Near my alma mater, there is a street. There is no stop sign prior to said street, but there is a sign that says No Right Turn (6 AM - 6 PM). Cars park along the street leading to this sign, so it did not become visible until I was turning. When the cop pulled me over, he informed me the residents "had been complaining a lot about the excessive turning." This is not beyond belief, as the University Heights residents sometimes forgot they lived near a University. However, logic would follow that if there is no right turn from the North, there would be no left turn allowed from the South, but that is not the case. Cars can turn left onto the street all day. Seriously? I can't make this stuff up.
5. Most honest mistake. I turned right at a red light. Sirens flared. There was a sign that said No Turn on Red (School Days Only), but it was a snow day, so surely the caveat prevailed. He was not pulling me over for turning right, but rather a license plate eight months past expiration. "Interesting", I told him. "I was not aware they expired." This did not elicit sympathy, and I cannot say I blame the man. I blame the government for creating yet another annual fee.
6. Double Whammy. 37 in a 25 and no license plate. The irony of this particular ticket is that I received it in Euclid, Ohio. For those who are not well acquainted with the Cleveland suburb, it is home to numerous miscreants and deviants. Yet, of course, the cops preyed on the girl whose foot got a little heavy as she listened to T.I. The cop was also kind enough to point out my lack of front license plate. I tried to tell him that drilling holes into the front bumper ruined the aesthetics of the vehicle, but he did not appreciate the fact that both the license plate and my insurance card were in my dad's office. Two tickets. Two hundred fifty dollars.
7. Biggest plea for mercy. 87 in a 65. I was returning from an interview in Charlottesville earlier that day where I solved problems on the dry erase board in front of the CEO. I had tennis practice at six o'clock the next morning, and my bed beckoned aggressively. I momentarily lost myself in a T.I. song, and before I realized my speed, the cop had clocked me. The Ohio turnpike has no excuse for not raising the speed limit on a three lane highway void of hills and curves, but now was not the time for arguing. I tried to plead my case when he approached the vehicle, to which he replied, "Do you know how fast you were going? 87 in a 65. I am going to write you a ticket." He turned, and I leaned in desperation, pleading, "Pleeeease have mercy on me." He answered, "87 is really fast," and wrote me a two hundred dollar ticket.
8. Most attributable to my car. 37 in a 25. Fun fact about this ticket: I interviewed on this day as well, so perhaps there is a causal relationship between the two. I was driving home from tennis practice and stopped at a red light, I knew this particular light took an eternity, so I put the car in park and reflected on my interview responses. Looking up, I saw the light had turned green, and knowing the short window in which to make my move, I jerked the car in gear and stepped on the gas. Two seconds later the cop I had mentally noted on my way to tennis turned on the sirens. He had been anxiously waiting in a residential driveway. Questionable, to say the least.
9. Most legit. 77 in a 65. Ohio turnpike. I still hold my aforementioned grievances with the turnpike, but foolish is the one who makes the same mistake twice.
10. Most hopeful. In the spirit of optimism, I will end on a positive interaction. When the officer approached my window, I immediately confessed, "I have a terrible record, sir, but I cannot afford another ticket." He replied, "Yes, it is pretty bad," and graciously granted me a warning.
Interestingly enough, I never lost my license. While I partially blame my record on an inherited love for speed, my father's involvement with the court system also allowed me to get a few reduced to very expensive parking tickets with an exorbitant court fee.
I am happy to say I have been clean for two and a half years, save the occasional parking ticket. I walk to work and no longer live amongst the pettiest cops in the force. When I do go on road trips, I listen to audio books, a more soothing alternative to T.I. and the Ohio turnpike increased the speed limit to 70. Should I get pulled over again, though, I am prepared to contend that Maleek's engine was simply not built for the confines stipulated by the rules of the road. It would be an insult to the Pontiac engineers.
I inherited numerous favorable qualities from my father: love for Big Ten sports, Eastern European facial features, the ability to throw myself into a fit of laughter. I am not saying aggressive driving is unfavorable, but as evidenced by the following superlatives list chronicling my tickets, there has been an undeniable cost.
1. Most related to Zoolander. I turned left. At age sixteen, I nannied infant triplets five nights a week, possibly my most stressful job to date. I rarely enjoyed a night out, and when I did, there was a 40% chance I would break down because the radio played a sad song. This particular Saturday, my family was going to an Italian restaurant promising bread assortments, hearty pasta and rich desserts. I rushed from the children after their evening feeding and proceeded to gorge myself to the point of needing to unbutton my pants. Feeling a bit over satiated and exhausted, I drove about the massive parking lot, and upon finding an exit, realized I could not turn left. My destination was to the left. Were I to obey, I would have to U-turn or pull into a driveway and turn around, a far more dangerous alternative than turning left onto the temporarily abandoned road. I made the logical turn, and with that, sirens flared. My natural state was one on the verge of tears, yet I could muster nothing but resigned, slightly perturbed compliance when the cop asked for my information. I did not even have the presence of mind to zip my pants. After he left, I wept uncontrollably for ten minutes, not realizing this was merely the first in a saga of hopeless encounters accentuating the moral juxtaposition of assuming responsibility for my actions while seriously questioning the legitimacy of the rules which I was breaking.
2. Most bland. 67 in a 55. The cop was uninteresting, the circumstances were ordinary. It was your basic interaction where I accepted the consequences of my actions.
3. Most likely to get dismissed due to seduction. When I say seduction, I mean I had just worked a double at the Cheesecake Factory and had removed the sweaty polo, leaving only a camisole. There was probably hot fudge in my ponytail which may have been sexy. I was not dismissed. 75 in a 60. Classic speed trap. Yet another victim fell to the 5 mph differential between counties.
4. Most bizarre. Turning right. Near my alma mater, there is a street. There is no stop sign prior to said street, but there is a sign that says No Right Turn (6 AM - 6 PM). Cars park along the street leading to this sign, so it did not become visible until I was turning. When the cop pulled me over, he informed me the residents "had been complaining a lot about the excessive turning." This is not beyond belief, as the University Heights residents sometimes forgot they lived near a University. However, logic would follow that if there is no right turn from the North, there would be no left turn allowed from the South, but that is not the case. Cars can turn left onto the street all day. Seriously? I can't make this stuff up.
5. Most honest mistake. I turned right at a red light. Sirens flared. There was a sign that said No Turn on Red (School Days Only), but it was a snow day, so surely the caveat prevailed. He was not pulling me over for turning right, but rather a license plate eight months past expiration. "Interesting", I told him. "I was not aware they expired." This did not elicit sympathy, and I cannot say I blame the man. I blame the government for creating yet another annual fee.
6. Double Whammy. 37 in a 25 and no license plate. The irony of this particular ticket is that I received it in Euclid, Ohio. For those who are not well acquainted with the Cleveland suburb, it is home to numerous miscreants and deviants. Yet, of course, the cops preyed on the girl whose foot got a little heavy as she listened to T.I. The cop was also kind enough to point out my lack of front license plate. I tried to tell him that drilling holes into the front bumper ruined the aesthetics of the vehicle, but he did not appreciate the fact that both the license plate and my insurance card were in my dad's office. Two tickets. Two hundred fifty dollars.
7. Biggest plea for mercy. 87 in a 65. I was returning from an interview in Charlottesville earlier that day where I solved problems on the dry erase board in front of the CEO. I had tennis practice at six o'clock the next morning, and my bed beckoned aggressively. I momentarily lost myself in a T.I. song, and before I realized my speed, the cop had clocked me. The Ohio turnpike has no excuse for not raising the speed limit on a three lane highway void of hills and curves, but now was not the time for arguing. I tried to plead my case when he approached the vehicle, to which he replied, "Do you know how fast you were going? 87 in a 65. I am going to write you a ticket." He turned, and I leaned in desperation, pleading, "Pleeeease have mercy on me." He answered, "87 is really fast," and wrote me a two hundred dollar ticket.
8. Most attributable to my car. 37 in a 25. Fun fact about this ticket: I interviewed on this day as well, so perhaps there is a causal relationship between the two. I was driving home from tennis practice and stopped at a red light, I knew this particular light took an eternity, so I put the car in park and reflected on my interview responses. Looking up, I saw the light had turned green, and knowing the short window in which to make my move, I jerked the car in gear and stepped on the gas. Two seconds later the cop I had mentally noted on my way to tennis turned on the sirens. He had been anxiously waiting in a residential driveway. Questionable, to say the least.
9. Most legit. 77 in a 65. Ohio turnpike. I still hold my aforementioned grievances with the turnpike, but foolish is the one who makes the same mistake twice.
10. Most hopeful. In the spirit of optimism, I will end on a positive interaction. When the officer approached my window, I immediately confessed, "I have a terrible record, sir, but I cannot afford another ticket." He replied, "Yes, it is pretty bad," and graciously granted me a warning.
Interestingly enough, I never lost my license. While I partially blame my record on an inherited love for speed, my father's involvement with the court system also allowed me to get a few reduced to very expensive parking tickets with an exorbitant court fee.
I am happy to say I have been clean for two and a half years, save the occasional parking ticket. I walk to work and no longer live amongst the pettiest cops in the force. When I do go on road trips, I listen to audio books, a more soothing alternative to T.I. and the Ohio turnpike increased the speed limit to 70. Should I get pulled over again, though, I am prepared to contend that Maleek's engine was simply not built for the confines stipulated by the rules of the road. It would be an insult to the Pontiac engineers.
Monday, March 24, 2014
What Do You Do When You Have Writer's Block?
You write, of course. It is indeed a worthy exercise. I will attribute my lack of inspiration to increased communication in other aspects of life, namely work. Believe it or not, I have a limit to the amount of talking/writing I can do, and that capacity seems to have been stretched as of late. Perhaps it is the seemingly endless winter. Living in Cleveland, I was mentally prepared for the season stretching thru the ides of May, but my expectations have definitely shifted in the past four years. I am tired of sweaters, sweatpants and a full hamper after only four days.
Speaking of hampers, I am attempting to perfect my laundry system. So as not to overwhelm myself, I switched from a "do two loads of laundry because you are getting weird looks from people in the gym" to "do a casual load every 4 - 5 days." By casual I mean I wash the clothes in the evening, put them in the dryer the following morning, and fold them upon returning home from work. Stretching the task over a 24 hour period and lessening the load makes it much less daunting, though I may be using a bit more water. To offset this indulgence, I now follow the recommended detergent measurement. I realized my extra splash for good measure is actually wasting valuable cents so have discontinued the process. I also adjusted my expectations regarding matching socks. If I happen to retain all socks after a load of laundry, I am thrilled, but the loss causes me little mental anguish.
The same is true of the Buckeyes fate in the tournament; alas, they were ousted the first round, but now I can watch the remainder unfettered by emotional attachment. Indeed, much of the weekend was spent imbibing the sweet competitive spirit that is exuberant announcers, bodies on the floor and cameras focused entirely too much on crying fans. I remember the days of yore when CBS had sole rights to the tournament. All games were broadcast in a glorious cluster of mayhem on Sunday. We sneaked into the high school library to catch the closing seconds of first round action, I had massive crushes on the beautiful men. The network had not yet introduced that annoying camera angle that films from the opposite end of the court that causes dizziness. Don't get me wrong, I still thoroughly enjoyed my viewing experience. I just could not stay awake for the games on Sunday, had to work through the Duke loss and realized the beautiful boys may be out of age range. Maybe. I am still holding out for Aaron Craft.
I have not written much, but there is a theme, and that is adjusting expectations. Certainly, you should work to maximize potential concerning those matters within your control, but for those outside your control, expect less, whether that is the weather, laundry* or your favorite team**. Sometimes, you even have to lower expectations for yourself, knowing that while this may not be your best work, the practice is at times more beneficial then rigorous insistence on perfection.
* No, I do not believe I have control over whether or not the socks that entered the washer will also exit the dryer.
** Being from Cleveland, Ohio, it is very easy to expect less from sports teams.
Speaking of hampers, I am attempting to perfect my laundry system. So as not to overwhelm myself, I switched from a "do two loads of laundry because you are getting weird looks from people in the gym" to "do a casual load every 4 - 5 days." By casual I mean I wash the clothes in the evening, put them in the dryer the following morning, and fold them upon returning home from work. Stretching the task over a 24 hour period and lessening the load makes it much less daunting, though I may be using a bit more water. To offset this indulgence, I now follow the recommended detergent measurement. I realized my extra splash for good measure is actually wasting valuable cents so have discontinued the process. I also adjusted my expectations regarding matching socks. If I happen to retain all socks after a load of laundry, I am thrilled, but the loss causes me little mental anguish.
The same is true of the Buckeyes fate in the tournament; alas, they were ousted the first round, but now I can watch the remainder unfettered by emotional attachment. Indeed, much of the weekend was spent imbibing the sweet competitive spirit that is exuberant announcers, bodies on the floor and cameras focused entirely too much on crying fans. I remember the days of yore when CBS had sole rights to the tournament. All games were broadcast in a glorious cluster of mayhem on Sunday. We sneaked into the high school library to catch the closing seconds of first round action, I had massive crushes on the beautiful men. The network had not yet introduced that annoying camera angle that films from the opposite end of the court that causes dizziness. Don't get me wrong, I still thoroughly enjoyed my viewing experience. I just could not stay awake for the games on Sunday, had to work through the Duke loss and realized the beautiful boys may be out of age range. Maybe. I am still holding out for Aaron Craft.
I have not written much, but there is a theme, and that is adjusting expectations. Certainly, you should work to maximize potential concerning those matters within your control, but for those outside your control, expect less, whether that is the weather, laundry* or your favorite team**. Sometimes, you even have to lower expectations for yourself, knowing that while this may not be your best work, the practice is at times more beneficial then rigorous insistence on perfection.
* No, I do not believe I have control over whether or not the socks that entered the washer will also exit the dryer.
** Being from Cleveland, Ohio, it is very easy to expect less from sports teams.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Top Ten Countdown - Momma and Poppa Navs Edition
This week, my parents are celebrating their 37th wedding anniversary, an amazing picture of deliberate love. They came from very different backgrounds. Dad was the son of a Pennsylvania coal miner and Mom the daughter of a wealthy man whose means of income is still a bit of a mystery to me. When my grandfather first met Dad, hippie hair flowing, donning cut off shorts and a Jesus shirt, he was more than a little skeptical, but Mom and Dad were never skeptical.
Their love is steadfast. Each morning, they proclaim the same series of Bible verses and pray for their children. Throughout my childhood, they repeated much on a regular basis; as years pass and I am confronted with increasingly significant situations, I am thankful to have these nuggets for immediate application. In honor of them and the love for Sportscenter instilled by Dad, below are the top ten quotes I could not forget if I tried:
10. "I am fearfully and wonderfully made." This is extremely important for any teenage girl to remember and remains especially helpful on those mornings when I have three zits, droopy eyes and an extra bubbly butt.
9. "It's simple. There are four ways of spending money." What is the most inefficient way? Spending other people's money on other people, because you do not care about the quality or the price. This has been my economic stance for twenty years and will continue to be for the next twenty years. Yes, I was introduced to Milton Friedman's philosophy at age five.
8. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." This is usually followed by a deep breath and an action I could not do of my own will.
7. "Compete." Every point. Never leave a situation knowing you could have given more. My father's finest piece of coaching.
6. "People are idiots." This explains a lot of otherwise perplexing issues.
5. "Ideas have consequences." Guard your thought life, and purge poisonous thoughts before they ensnare you. Also, do not not be a communist, as that idea has extremely negative consequence.
4. "The greater the risk, the greater the reward." You are entitled to nothing and will not achieve great success within your comfort zone.
3. "Love is a decision, not an emotion." It is not flashy, but it is real, and it works.
2. "Be a leader, not a follower. The head and not the tail. A thermostat not a thermometer." This is their prayer for us every morning and each time we enter a new stage in our lives.
1. "God has not given me the spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind." I recited this when I was six after a bad dream, twenty one moving to a new city, twenty three quitting my job, and every time I enter an uncomfortable social situation. Fear is crippling. But power, love, and a sound mind - these are liberating.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for deciding to love one another for the remainder of your lives and to love and support your children with vigor. Thank you for exemplifying sacrifice and unwavering faith in a beautiful manner. Most of all, thank you for laying a firm foundation that continually drives me to improve. I am incredibly grateful to be your daughter.
Their love is steadfast. Each morning, they proclaim the same series of Bible verses and pray for their children. Throughout my childhood, they repeated much on a regular basis; as years pass and I am confronted with increasingly significant situations, I am thankful to have these nuggets for immediate application. In honor of them and the love for Sportscenter instilled by Dad, below are the top ten quotes I could not forget if I tried:
10. "I am fearfully and wonderfully made." This is extremely important for any teenage girl to remember and remains especially helpful on those mornings when I have three zits, droopy eyes and an extra bubbly butt.
9. "It's simple. There are four ways of spending money." What is the most inefficient way? Spending other people's money on other people, because you do not care about the quality or the price. This has been my economic stance for twenty years and will continue to be for the next twenty years. Yes, I was introduced to Milton Friedman's philosophy at age five.
8. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." This is usually followed by a deep breath and an action I could not do of my own will.
7. "Compete." Every point. Never leave a situation knowing you could have given more. My father's finest piece of coaching.
6. "People are idiots." This explains a lot of otherwise perplexing issues.
5. "Ideas have consequences." Guard your thought life, and purge poisonous thoughts before they ensnare you. Also, do not not be a communist, as that idea has extremely negative consequence.
4. "The greater the risk, the greater the reward." You are entitled to nothing and will not achieve great success within your comfort zone.
3. "Love is a decision, not an emotion." It is not flashy, but it is real, and it works.
2. "Be a leader, not a follower. The head and not the tail. A thermostat not a thermometer." This is their prayer for us every morning and each time we enter a new stage in our lives.
1. "God has not given me the spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind." I recited this when I was six after a bad dream, twenty one moving to a new city, twenty three quitting my job, and every time I enter an uncomfortable social situation. Fear is crippling. But power, love, and a sound mind - these are liberating.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for deciding to love one another for the remainder of your lives and to love and support your children with vigor. Thank you for exemplifying sacrifice and unwavering faith in a beautiful manner. Most of all, thank you for laying a firm foundation that continually drives me to improve. I am incredibly grateful to be your daughter.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
On Conquering the New Year
The turn of the new year marks a time for reflection and resolutions. Obviously, I plan to have taken over the world by the age of thirty but recognize this does not happen without intermediate improvements. Before carefully considering the necessary steps this year, let us honor a few highlights from 2013:
1) Feats of food: Chugged a mug of cheese, caught a cupcake in my mouth.
2) Beat the company co-founder in tennis.
3) Went the entire year without being pulled over for speeding. I got pulled over for swerving, lack of license plates and incorrect registration stickers*. But not speeding.
4) Discovered a new perfume, arguably more attractive than my ten year staple scent.
5) Did not take one picture with my hand on my hip, the most common of female poses.
It is clear 2013 was a success, but I think it important to look expectantly toward the future rather than rest on my laurels. As I set goals for myself, I keep in mind the rule of SMART: Such Magnificence Always Requires Tweaking. Below are the few I deemed most pertinent:
1) Make she a prude. Restore her dignity. This is an initiative originating in 2013 to be pursued with increased vigor this year. The proverbial she, in "That's what she said" is constantly degrading herself, further encouraging the objectification of women. I plan to change this perception by having her reference restraint. "Do not go there." "Closed for the evening." "Stop." Etc.
2) Invent. I am currently inclined to create an electric shock device I can place on the small of my back to fend off overzealous pursuers. There are two people allowed to touch that region. Me, when I have an itch or want to draw attention to my chest in an awkward manner, and my imaginary masseuse. Not you, idiot at the bar who thinks our mutual interest in IPAs is a green light for this presumptuous and possessive gesture. ZAP.
3) Make one full Epicurious meal. I will dice, mince, julienne, grate. I will whisk the butter, zest the orange. I will even traverse Thailand to acquire the random spice that I cannot pronounce, tastes similar to cayenne pepper, but apparently takes the meal to an entirely different level.
4) Separate the chaff. Literally. I will venture to a field, gather grains and remove the glumes. Perhaps this will be on the same journey to find the aforementioned spice.
5) Rock a toothpick. It is in my blood; my dad constantly carried toothpicks until they were replaced by his pocket dental utensil, but I want to keep this old school. I picked up mint flavored toothpicks the other day and decided they are going to be my new prop. Providential timing, as my look was flirting with stagnation. I have not yet decided whether to introduce the toothpick to all aspects of my life or merely relevant social situations. Wherever I decide, the benefits are undeniable: it exudes provocative mystery, acts as a conversation piece, entertains me when I find my company bland; plus, it can be used as a weapon should someone pester me. Poke, poke.
6) Go to the dentist as I have not been in four years. Gasp. Relax. I can predict what they are going to say: "Your bottom teeth, the ones that no one sees, are a bit out of alignment, you have potential for a cavity to develop ten years from now, and if your mouth shrinks, you will not have room for your wisdom teeth. We recommend you take action immediately. Also, you should floss more." Never mind, I am taking this one off this list.
7) Perfect the ampersand. Though my chicken scratch penmanship mirrors that of an eight year old boy, I pride myself on exquisite symbols. I have beautiful tildes, appropriately spaced ellipsis and seductive curly brackets, but my ampersand leaves much to be desired.
8) Stop being awkward around Spanish speaking workers. I am a friendly person and generally engage all building employees in passing conversation. When interacting with Hispanic workers, however, my thought process goes something like this: "English or Spanish? I want to be considerate. Look to the floor while you decide. I do not want to assume they know English and have them flounder in conversation, but my Spanish is sub-par. If I start an actual conversation with them in Spanish, I will surely flounder. Ahhh we made eye contact." Then: "Hola. Como esta? Me llamo Anna. Me gusta queso. Adios!" Sheepishly be on my way...
In all seriousness, I do have goals for 2014 relating to my career, relationships, and physical prowess. I believe there is incredible merit in deliberately deciding directional focus*. If I reveal my focus in these areas, however, another may steal my insights and take over the world before me. I am certainly not about to give all that up on the Internet. That's what she said.
* Apparently, there is no month 15.
* As well as cool alliteration.
1) Feats of food: Chugged a mug of cheese, caught a cupcake in my mouth.
2) Beat the company co-founder in tennis.
3) Went the entire year without being pulled over for speeding. I got pulled over for swerving, lack of license plates and incorrect registration stickers*. But not speeding.
4) Discovered a new perfume, arguably more attractive than my ten year staple scent.
5) Did not take one picture with my hand on my hip, the most common of female poses.
It is clear 2013 was a success, but I think it important to look expectantly toward the future rather than rest on my laurels. As I set goals for myself, I keep in mind the rule of SMART: Such Magnificence Always Requires Tweaking. Below are the few I deemed most pertinent:
1) Make she a prude. Restore her dignity. This is an initiative originating in 2013 to be pursued with increased vigor this year. The proverbial she, in "That's what she said" is constantly degrading herself, further encouraging the objectification of women. I plan to change this perception by having her reference restraint. "Do not go there." "Closed for the evening." "Stop." Etc.
2) Invent. I am currently inclined to create an electric shock device I can place on the small of my back to fend off overzealous pursuers. There are two people allowed to touch that region. Me, when I have an itch or want to draw attention to my chest in an awkward manner, and my imaginary masseuse. Not you, idiot at the bar who thinks our mutual interest in IPAs is a green light for this presumptuous and possessive gesture. ZAP.
3) Make one full Epicurious meal. I will dice, mince, julienne, grate. I will whisk the butter, zest the orange. I will even traverse Thailand to acquire the random spice that I cannot pronounce, tastes similar to cayenne pepper, but apparently takes the meal to an entirely different level.
4) Separate the chaff. Literally. I will venture to a field, gather grains and remove the glumes. Perhaps this will be on the same journey to find the aforementioned spice.
6) Go to the dentist as I have not been in four years. Gasp. Relax. I can predict what they are going to say: "Your bottom teeth, the ones that no one sees, are a bit out of alignment, you have potential for a cavity to develop ten years from now, and if your mouth shrinks, you will not have room for your wisdom teeth. We recommend you take action immediately. Also, you should floss more." Never mind, I am taking this one off this list.
7) Perfect the ampersand. Though my chicken scratch penmanship mirrors that of an eight year old boy, I pride myself on exquisite symbols. I have beautiful tildes, appropriately spaced ellipsis and seductive curly brackets, but my ampersand leaves much to be desired.
8) Stop being awkward around Spanish speaking workers. I am a friendly person and generally engage all building employees in passing conversation. When interacting with Hispanic workers, however, my thought process goes something like this: "English or Spanish? I want to be considerate. Look to the floor while you decide. I do not want to assume they know English and have them flounder in conversation, but my Spanish is sub-par. If I start an actual conversation with them in Spanish, I will surely flounder. Ahhh we made eye contact." Then: "Hola. Como esta? Me llamo Anna. Me gusta queso. Adios!" Sheepishly be on my way...
In all seriousness, I do have goals for 2014 relating to my career, relationships, and physical prowess. I believe there is incredible merit in deliberately deciding directional focus*. If I reveal my focus in these areas, however, another may steal my insights and take over the world before me. I am certainly not about to give all that up on the Internet. That's what she said.
* Apparently, there is no month 15.
* As well as cool alliteration.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
6 Thoughts Regarding the Latrine
Lists seem to be the latest attention grabber. Thank you, Buzzfeed.
The list speaks to those driven by checking item after item, eliciting a feeling of success. Getting through point two is far more satisfying than paragraph two. Plus, there is a definite end which encourages the reader to press onward. I wonder if there are studies regarding the effectiveness of the number vs word in the title or which number draws the largest crowd. Maybe people are attracted to sleek numbers like 11 or 14, or maybe ones with healthy curves are more inviting - 23, 36 and the like. Research pending.
The whole idea of the list seems a bit too structured for me, but perhaps it will increase my already booming readership.
I have a lot of thoughts regarding public bathrooms, likely because much of my solid thinking occurs in the stall. It is a space of sweet solace from the hustle and bustle of online marketing, and due to the approximate six liters I drink per work day, I frequent it more than most. I think it a shame to keep profound nuggets confined to the latrine, and so I will share.
1) There are two types of people in the world. Those who avoid a dirty stall in disgust and those who remedy the problem. No one enjoys turning into a stall with a soiled toilet, whatever its contents, but rather than simply walking away, some choose to flush the toilet, sparing others from the site. If you do not make the two second sacrifice, the duty falls to another. With the exception of a legitimately clogged toilet, I encourage all to take this small step toward benefiting society.
2) There are three types of people in the world. Those who immediately ask for assistance in finding the bathroom, those who survey the landscape and seek guidance only if necessary and those who stubbornly wander aimlessly into the kitchen because they are too proud to ask directions. As a waitress at a restaurant with only one logical path to the restroom, I tired from those tapping my arm as I balance five martinis, inquiring of the bathroom's location in a panicked tone. I am not asking you to walk through a veritable maze to reach the restroom, but when the bar is in front of you, and the outdoors is to your right and behind you, common sense leads you on a leisurely, logistically certain stroll to your left. Godspeed, friend.
3) Once I find my way to public restrooms, I do not want to figure out which door I am to enter. Restaurants, hotels, bars: use your creativity to improve the overall ambiance, not to leave me guessing whether I am a horse or steer, chicken or rooster, queso or quesa. It can leave one quite confused.
4) I contend the bathroom is the cleanest space in the workplace. My office mates have the habit of walking around bare foot, but when venturing to the bathroom, most everyone wears shoes. I understand the negative stigma society places on the bathroom, and call me a hippie, but I have no problem going to the bathroom sans shoes if I am meandering about the office in that manner. After all, the bathroom is thoroughly Lysoled and disinfected every evening, whereas the carpet is vacuumed once a week. Even then, the fibers could be harboring countless germs. The potential of stepping in something unsavory is a defense for shoes, but since we are not at a dingy bar on a Friday night, the chances of this are slim to none. There are also those that say walking bare foot is disgusting at all times, and to that I offer a nod of acknowledgment.
5) I do not think automatic sinks are that neat. You cannot control the water temperature. I have been told all my life I am supposed to sing 'Happy Birthday' as I thoroughly scrub my hands under warm water, but since I have no control over temperature, the water is cold by the end of the first line. And the germs live on. I leave the bathroom with dirtier hands than bare feet.
6) Were I to be given the responsibility of office renovation, my highest priority would be the bathroom because of its level of intimacy. I have an ultimate vision of marble floors, granite counter tops, floor length skinny mirrors and a small waterfall. At the very least, I recommend stall doors extending to the floor, soothing music transporting one to the Enchanted Forest and a painted wall. I vacillate as to the color, but it definitely needs to exude serenity, so perhaps a taupe or mauve. The bathroom must be a place of refuge, not one of self conscience inhibitions.
Next time, please join me for 14 reasons why I am a better driver than 85% of Charlottesville.
The list speaks to those driven by checking item after item, eliciting a feeling of success. Getting through point two is far more satisfying than paragraph two. Plus, there is a definite end which encourages the reader to press onward. I wonder if there are studies regarding the effectiveness of the number vs word in the title or which number draws the largest crowd. Maybe people are attracted to sleek numbers like 11 or 14, or maybe ones with healthy curves are more inviting - 23, 36 and the like. Research pending.
The whole idea of the list seems a bit too structured for me, but perhaps it will increase my already booming readership.
I have a lot of thoughts regarding public bathrooms, likely because much of my solid thinking occurs in the stall. It is a space of sweet solace from the hustle and bustle of online marketing, and due to the approximate six liters I drink per work day, I frequent it more than most. I think it a shame to keep profound nuggets confined to the latrine, and so I will share.
1) There are two types of people in the world. Those who avoid a dirty stall in disgust and those who remedy the problem. No one enjoys turning into a stall with a soiled toilet, whatever its contents, but rather than simply walking away, some choose to flush the toilet, sparing others from the site. If you do not make the two second sacrifice, the duty falls to another. With the exception of a legitimately clogged toilet, I encourage all to take this small step toward benefiting society.
2) There are three types of people in the world. Those who immediately ask for assistance in finding the bathroom, those who survey the landscape and seek guidance only if necessary and those who stubbornly wander aimlessly into the kitchen because they are too proud to ask directions. As a waitress at a restaurant with only one logical path to the restroom, I tired from those tapping my arm as I balance five martinis, inquiring of the bathroom's location in a panicked tone. I am not asking you to walk through a veritable maze to reach the restroom, but when the bar is in front of you, and the outdoors is to your right and behind you, common sense leads you on a leisurely, logistically certain stroll to your left. Godspeed, friend.
3) Once I find my way to public restrooms, I do not want to figure out which door I am to enter. Restaurants, hotels, bars: use your creativity to improve the overall ambiance, not to leave me guessing whether I am a horse or steer, chicken or rooster, queso or quesa. It can leave one quite confused.
4) I contend the bathroom is the cleanest space in the workplace. My office mates have the habit of walking around bare foot, but when venturing to the bathroom, most everyone wears shoes. I understand the negative stigma society places on the bathroom, and call me a hippie, but I have no problem going to the bathroom sans shoes if I am meandering about the office in that manner. After all, the bathroom is thoroughly Lysoled and disinfected every evening, whereas the carpet is vacuumed once a week. Even then, the fibers could be harboring countless germs. The potential of stepping in something unsavory is a defense for shoes, but since we are not at a dingy bar on a Friday night, the chances of this are slim to none. There are also those that say walking bare foot is disgusting at all times, and to that I offer a nod of acknowledgment.
5) I do not think automatic sinks are that neat. You cannot control the water temperature. I have been told all my life I am supposed to sing 'Happy Birthday' as I thoroughly scrub my hands under warm water, but since I have no control over temperature, the water is cold by the end of the first line. And the germs live on. I leave the bathroom with dirtier hands than bare feet.
6) Were I to be given the responsibility of office renovation, my highest priority would be the bathroom because of its level of intimacy. I have an ultimate vision of marble floors, granite counter tops, floor length skinny mirrors and a small waterfall. At the very least, I recommend stall doors extending to the floor, soothing music transporting one to the Enchanted Forest and a painted wall. I vacillate as to the color, but it definitely needs to exude serenity, so perhaps a taupe or mauve. The bathroom must be a place of refuge, not one of self conscience inhibitions.
Next time, please join me for 14 reasons why I am a better driver than 85% of Charlottesville.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
