Twenty-four years ago, on March 5, 1987, my brother, Stephen was born. I have often thought how convenient it would be to have an older brother, as the idea of hanging out with his friends and inadvertently falling in love with one appeals to me. Currently, I cannot justify dating a friend of my younger brother, Philip, even if they did recently come of legal age - I think I should at least wait until they can buy me drinks.
Stephen's story is one that portrays the faith, strength and unconditional love of my parents. It speaks to not only the mysterious ways in which God works, but also to His provision in times of desperation. His story, however, is not for me to tell. I have only the lingering memory of the night he died and his teddy bear to serve as reminders of Stephen's life. Had he been born a perfectly healthy boy, my parents may have decided that four children completed the Navatsyk household. As it was, they had two more, and while they were finally blessed with a boy, they also were blessed with me - admittedly, I am at times less of a blessing than others.
Family has been on my heart lately. Perhaps it is because I visited home last weekend, and immersing oneself in an environment after being away requires adjustments. More than that, though, I have discovered since leaving how valuable the support of family is, and the importance of having security in that. I would like to dedicate this small musing not to my older brother, although I know he strengthened my family in his short life, but to my three older sisters, who have undoubtedly strengthened my life.
In a family that spans fourteen years, relationships among siblings will inevitably look different. Being eleven years my elder, Julie and I were the most distant during childhood. Still, I have lovely memories of traveling to Chicago, decorating her condominium for the holidays, shopping on Michigan Avenue, and relaxing movie nights completed by vast amounts of chocolate and deep dish pizza.
I always looked to Gail, the self-proclaimed "socialite" for guidance in regards to boys, fashion, and eye makeup. I loved going shopping with her, following her around each store, holding prospective merchandise, and helping decide which items were most flattering. I sat on the kitchen counter weekday afternoons, listening intently to each nugget of high school drama she brought home. Indeed, I believe her tutelage proved effective, as I won best dressed in high school, had a boyfriend, and received multiple compliments on my eyes.
Lydia and I were the closest growing up. I joined her in many life stages, including her sixth grade rebel years which consisted of walking on our roof despite parental reprimands and listening to Alanis Morisette. Philip, Lydia and I had a multitude of adventures including bonding as Goobs (our exclusive family in the Figi islands), dance parties to Wyclef Jean, spending summer nights on Lydia's floor, and outrageous film production.
As the years have passed, my relationship with each of my sisters has evolved in its own way. Lydia and I remained close, and I went to her for comfort and wisdom in many situations. I looked forward to my trips to visit her in college, Washington D.C. and Philadelphia, as they were always full of laughter, silliness, reminiscing and new excursions. We have kept the Goob tradition alive and had a rooftop ceremony to knight Lydia's husband a Goob prior to their marriage.
When Gail graduated college, I was beginning high school. Soon after, she married her high school sweetheart and moved across town. The house in Burlington holds dear memories of watching the Bachelor, eating overly salted/buttered/cheesy popcorn while watching movies on their big screen, summer nights on the back patio, and pretty sundae bowls holding decadent treats. Since marriage, Gail has also brought two beautiful children into the world, and to be near home in their earliest years was a blessing I will always cherish. As I went to college and experienced the promising beginnings, turbulent roads, and sometimes heartbreaking ends of relationships, it was comforting to know I had a friend within forty minutes. The Hewitt house was a small oasis, whether I wanted to work out, play with my niece and nephew, or simply hang out on the couch and listen to Mitch berate the female tendencies of the conversation.
In the most recent years, Julie and I bridged the decade gap that separated us, as we found common ground in our love for traveling and marketing, as well as both being single. Two years ago, we took a small vacation to Mexico. Sitting at a French restaurant discussing life over a delicious three course meal, I saw our relationship really cross the line of the bond of sisterhood to become a dear friendship as well. She has been there to commiserate about boy troubles, advise me through the job hunting process, encourage me through various struggles with Christianity and chat about sophisticated, adult topics such as music, fine beer and college sports.
Despite our strong relationships, being the youngest of four girls, it is easy to see yourself in their shadows, to continually feel the need to prove that you are not merely the "little sister." The truth is, though, that I will always be the little sister.
More than that, I would not be where I am were it not for my three older sisters. Lydia's love for God and strong conviction inspire me to give myself to others and work to improve my own walk with the Lord. Her free spirit has always helped me embrace my inner-weirdo and be shamelessly unconventional at times. Gail's strength in her marriage and her sacrificial motherhood serves as an example of how a God-honoring family should look. Realizing the effort it requires may be part of the reason I am not currently married, although other factors such as my half-hearted hygiene and occasionally slacking appearance probably also contribute. Her guidance regarding relationships with others has prompted me to take a stand where otherwise I would have remained complacent. Gail's voice, as well as her husband's, is constantly in my head as I enter the weight room, tennis court or other fields of competition. Seeing Julie live away from home and answer to various family members about being single has given me strength to do the same. Her constant drive to rise above mediocrity in the workplace while doing what she loves gave me the boldness to pursue a career that may not ultimately bring me back to Chardon. I aspire to live with the confidence, passion and integrity which I have seen in their lives.
While it seems counter intuitive to me, maintaining close bonds with family requires effort. My sisters and I have vastly different personalities, and at times, relating with those differences strains the relationship. However, it is working through those issues that enables us to laugh together, cry together, and have honest discussions, knowing that, ultimately, they will only bring us closer.
My favorite memories will always be those spent with family, whether it is a night out, vacations, playing with the Hewitt children, or laughing at the kitchen table. Greater, still, are the memories of those moments where my family has been there to guide and challenge me. So, on this day, a day when family is always a bit closer to my heart, I would like to thank my three older sisters for their humor, graciousness, wisdom, and friendship.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Side View Mirrors
I am beginning a new segment to my semi-weekly blog: product brainstorming. If someone is intelligent enough to transform my million dollar ideas into reality, I will only demand 70% of royalties, a gracious negotiation. Today’s idea: tinted side view mirrors.
I was not privileged enough to have an SUV when I came of driving age. Interestingly enough, as time went on and my driving record developed, my father continually downgraded my leased vehicle. Initially, though, I had a four door coupe, the Nissan Maxima. The trend continued, and I currently drive a low-riding Pontiac G6, Maleek.
Before delving deeper into my latest product enhancement, I will answer two inevitable questions begged by the previous statement. The G6 is a two door, not a four door, although by no choice of my own. My father asked me which I would prefer, and while I contemplated which would be the more prudent choice for my future, he decided I should buy the two door. I am thankful for his initiative, as I do look fairly fly in a sports car.
As for the name: I recently decided I love that name, but realized that unless I procreate with a black man, I do not feel justified naming my baby boy Maleek. Following this logic, I need to purchase at least three more cars so I can name them Malachi, Jamal, and I-ea (pronounced eye-dash-ee-uh). I could also marry a black man. Regardless, since the most prestigious item I possess (next to my teal boots) is my vehicle, I decided to name it Maleek.
Maleek and I were chatting on my way home Sunday, when our conversation was rudely interrupted by a truck riding my bumper. Annoying? Yes. Cause for road rage? Perhaps. The worst part of our encounter was that due to his towering height, the headlights shone directly into the sideview mirrors, rendering Maleek temporarily blinded. No car should have to stare directly into the harmful fluorescent rays emitted by bullying vehicles. If it is possible to tint the rearview movie, heat my seats, and start my car from a mile away, surely someone can provide Maleek with necessary protection. This way, our discussion pertaining to the strategy of maintaining consistent, comfortable temperature in the car does not have to take a back seat to the burning of our retinas.
I was not privileged enough to have an SUV when I came of driving age. Interestingly enough, as time went on and my driving record developed, my father continually downgraded my leased vehicle. Initially, though, I had a four door coupe, the Nissan Maxima. The trend continued, and I currently drive a low-riding Pontiac G6, Maleek.
Before delving deeper into my latest product enhancement, I will answer two inevitable questions begged by the previous statement. The G6 is a two door, not a four door, although by no choice of my own. My father asked me which I would prefer, and while I contemplated which would be the more prudent choice for my future, he decided I should buy the two door. I am thankful for his initiative, as I do look fairly fly in a sports car.
As for the name: I recently decided I love that name, but realized that unless I procreate with a black man, I do not feel justified naming my baby boy Maleek. Following this logic, I need to purchase at least three more cars so I can name them Malachi, Jamal, and I-ea (pronounced eye-dash-ee-uh). I could also marry a black man. Regardless, since the most prestigious item I possess (next to my teal boots) is my vehicle, I decided to name it Maleek.
Maleek and I were chatting on my way home Sunday, when our conversation was rudely interrupted by a truck riding my bumper. Annoying? Yes. Cause for road rage? Perhaps. The worst part of our encounter was that due to his towering height, the headlights shone directly into the sideview mirrors, rendering Maleek temporarily blinded. No car should have to stare directly into the harmful fluorescent rays emitted by bullying vehicles. If it is possible to tint the rearview movie, heat my seats, and start my car from a mile away, surely someone can provide Maleek with necessary protection. This way, our discussion pertaining to the strategy of maintaining consistent, comfortable temperature in the car does not have to take a back seat to the burning of our retinas.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Stalk Me, Please
The other evening, I partook in what has become a common practice among children, adults, political activists, entrepreneurs, creepy guys in the weight room: Facebook stalking. Yes, I occasionally meander through the profiles of others, eager to find a juicy tidbit of gossip. However, since no one had compelling status updates or incriminating pictures posted, I stalked myself and found my information page to be very bland. To strangers and random acquaintances, I was merely a single girl who lived in Charlottesville, which does not satisfy the need to make a high school crush who happens upon your page regret turning you down eight years ago. Determined to resolve this issue, I summoned my sharpest wit and began.
Basic information: I could choose to hide my sex or put that I am interested in men, but I think my name indicates the answer to both. I chose to not display my year of birth because now, when I am ashamed to be 32, I do not have to remove the year conspicuously. Not everyone announces relationship status; I realize there are justifications for doing so, but I cannot help but think:
1) You are ashamed of being in a relationship,
2) You are ashamed of not being in a relationship, or
3) You are trying to maintain multiple relationships, or
4) You think your relationship status is an issue that only the selected worthy should know.
Whatever the reason of others, I am single.
About me: This is a crucial bit because if friends pa rousing do not click your info button, this quote will still be seen on the profile. I decided to keep mine as is: Life is short, but sweet for certain.
Profile picture: I have a job that allows me to work in bare feet, so I do not need to impress employers or appear professional. I am sporting a pimp hat, Mardi Gras beads and Shamrock pajama pants, singing. I think the picture highlights my character.
Featured people: I was tempted to add every family member, and one day I will dedicate an hour at work to select every cousin, aunt, uncle, sibling, creating the most epic featured people page Facebook has ever had to store.
Education and Work: Although I would typically have to enhance my job title, search market analyst is sophisticated. Under description I emphasized the ultimate goal global domination via search engines.
Ahhh philosophy; Facebook is getting deep. I try to stay as shallow as possible while briefly describing my life over cyberspace. I vacillate on whether or not to broadcast Christianity, and the decision is even harder now that the picture is a shepherd in terrible lighting. I think we should be able to replace the picture if we choose, in which case my Jesus would look a lot like Leonidas in 300. As it is, I claimed Christianity, and the next person who stalks me after a night out will know this... Perhaps I should now avoid getting too low on the dance floor. I do not put my political beliefs, mainly because I do not claim enough knowledge to defend them, and if I put that Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blond was my inspiration, people may not take me seriously.
Entertainment: When stalking others, musical interest is the first section I analyze as I see it as the greatest superficial window into the soul. I am by no means a musical expert, although those who know me will testify to my impeccable singing ability. However, I do appreciate tastes that span beyond the latest pop sensation, Justin Bieber. My favorite bands ranged from Rascall Flatts to the National to Iron & Wine to Tegan and Sara to Eminem.
If music is a window to the soul then movies are definitely a peephole. Judging my selection, I would pin myself as a hopelessly romantic, intense, funny, twisted nerd.
The next section is a recent addition to Facebook: Sports. Picking a favorite team was surprisingly difficult considering the amount of time I spend watching sports. I realized I cannot claim to be an avid fan of any team except Cleveland Browns, Indians, and Cavs - unfortunately for me. Listing favorite athletes, I simply put every quarterback I imagined myself marrying until Facebook said I had to stop. Probably just as well as my imagination began running away with me.
Finally: Activities. I love the enhancements on this section including description. For instance, I like eating, and I have the option to include with whom I enjoy eating and describing the process. I was tempted to write an elaborate play by play of my method of eating: the caressing of a burger, lightly licking all edges, and then shoving it as far into my mouth as I could. I decided against this.
There I am, in a cyberspace nutshell. What image do I portray? I do not know. However, I revisited my profile this past week and realized my privacy settings had all information blocked. Apparently all stalkers will only know I enjoy St. Patrick's Day, Mardi Gras, and pimp hats. I am okay with that.
Basic information: I could choose to hide my sex or put that I am interested in men, but I think my name indicates the answer to both. I chose to not display my year of birth because now, when I am ashamed to be 32, I do not have to remove the year conspicuously. Not everyone announces relationship status; I realize there are justifications for doing so, but I cannot help but think:
1) You are ashamed of being in a relationship,
2) You are ashamed of not being in a relationship, or
3) You are trying to maintain multiple relationships, or
4) You think your relationship status is an issue that only the selected worthy should know.
Whatever the reason of others, I am single.
About me: This is a crucial bit because if friends pa rousing do not click your info button, this quote will still be seen on the profile. I decided to keep mine as is: Life is short, but sweet for certain.
Profile picture: I have a job that allows me to work in bare feet, so I do not need to impress employers or appear professional. I am sporting a pimp hat, Mardi Gras beads and Shamrock pajama pants, singing. I think the picture highlights my character.
Featured people: I was tempted to add every family member, and one day I will dedicate an hour at work to select every cousin, aunt, uncle, sibling, creating the most epic featured people page Facebook has ever had to store.
Education and Work: Although I would typically have to enhance my job title, search market analyst is sophisticated. Under description I emphasized the ultimate goal global domination via search engines.
Ahhh philosophy; Facebook is getting deep. I try to stay as shallow as possible while briefly describing my life over cyberspace. I vacillate on whether or not to broadcast Christianity, and the decision is even harder now that the picture is a shepherd in terrible lighting. I think we should be able to replace the picture if we choose, in which case my Jesus would look a lot like Leonidas in 300. As it is, I claimed Christianity, and the next person who stalks me after a night out will know this... Perhaps I should now avoid getting too low on the dance floor. I do not put my political beliefs, mainly because I do not claim enough knowledge to defend them, and if I put that Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blond was my inspiration, people may not take me seriously.
Entertainment: When stalking others, musical interest is the first section I analyze as I see it as the greatest superficial window into the soul. I am by no means a musical expert, although those who know me will testify to my impeccable singing ability. However, I do appreciate tastes that span beyond the latest pop sensation, Justin Bieber. My favorite bands ranged from Rascall Flatts to the National to Iron & Wine to Tegan and Sara to Eminem.
If music is a window to the soul then movies are definitely a peephole. Judging my selection, I would pin myself as a hopelessly romantic, intense, funny, twisted nerd.
The next section is a recent addition to Facebook: Sports. Picking a favorite team was surprisingly difficult considering the amount of time I spend watching sports. I realized I cannot claim to be an avid fan of any team except Cleveland Browns, Indians, and Cavs - unfortunately for me. Listing favorite athletes, I simply put every quarterback I imagined myself marrying until Facebook said I had to stop. Probably just as well as my imagination began running away with me.
Finally: Activities. I love the enhancements on this section including description. For instance, I like eating, and I have the option to include with whom I enjoy eating and describing the process. I was tempted to write an elaborate play by play of my method of eating: the caressing of a burger, lightly licking all edges, and then shoving it as far into my mouth as I could. I decided against this.
There I am, in a cyberspace nutshell. What image do I portray? I do not know. However, I revisited my profile this past week and realized my privacy settings had all information blocked. Apparently all stalkers will only know I enjoy St. Patrick's Day, Mardi Gras, and pimp hats. I am okay with that.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
A Productive Week of Work
This week, work was productive on many levels. Prompted by a coworker, I scrubbed my coffee mug until it sparkled, and in doing so, killed any parasite colonies it may be harboring. Second, I created a spreadsheet charting the relative success of ACC, Big Ten, SEC, and Big East schools in basketball and football the past ten years. Although the Big Ten came in a disappointing third place, I did prove my point that they had the most even distribution of athletic ability between the two sports. Third, I used the term "granular" in a correspondence with a client, which I believe increases my credibility as an analyst by at least 22%.
My greatest success this week, however, was with regard to another client. To ensure the anonymity of the latest innocent target of my affections, I will be vague with details. I was introduced to him in October when his company was desperately seeking search engine advertising advice. He was given to me as a client, and we discussed the potential growth my consulting could earn his establishment. While chatting, however, I noticed his voice very nearly resembled that of a post pubescent boy. Upon further investigation, I discovered he was, in fact, only one year removed from college. I thought this interesting, but pursued it no further.
This week our communication began as it usually does as I sent him a weekly report, explaining the various fluctuations in performance. As the week progressed, we spent more time together as he spoke with various product managers within the company about our new offerings. I contributed little to these conversations after the initial introduction, but since it was an excuse to recline in a comfortable chair for an hour, I was more than willing to listen. Since I did not have an active role in the sales pitch, I was able to listen intently. After he incorporated both "pain in the ass" and "holy shit" on the calls, mentioned the fact that he started his business when he was eighteen, and made three references to buying flowers for his mother, I decided he must be worth pursuing. It was time to seriously commit to finding a picture. As is usually the case, persistence and the lack of privacy offered by the Internet led me to a photo, and I am happy to say, the CEO with money and ambition is not extremely hard on the eyes.
The question becomes, since I cannot impress him with my good looks, charming smile, and graceful stride, how can I woo him? Thankfully, my appeal lies not in appearances alone. Considering our communication occurs once a week over the phone and various times via email, I have some ideas. Initially, I considered simply causing his account many issues of concern in order to increase correspondence. However, for the sake of my job, I think it best to enhance, rather than increase.
First, I must write in a manner that sets me apart from others. I will begin with personal salutations such as, "I hope this Monday finds you well, (insert target's name)." I must fore go the consistent lowercase and two syllable words. Incorporating the terms bandwidth, heretofore, superfluous, and the like, certainly help, but I must avoid sounding pretentious. Perhaps sports idioms or references to my non-existent pick up truck and can of tobacco will accomplish this. I will depart with diversified farewells: best, regards, cheers, etc, which are personal, but by no means invasive to the client/analyst relationship.
While emails can have an impact, the most intimate time spent together is on the phone, and this is where I must focus my efforts. It is a difficult hurdle, as I am typically opposed to such exchanges due to the awkward pauses that occur when both parties speak simultaneously. Then, each wants to be polite and let the other begin; personally, I keep talking and wait for the other person to surrender the right to speak. However, with a client, this could be seen as disrespectful, so I must be sure he is finished before responding, while still avoiding the awkward pause. Further, I need to laugh heartily at his jokes about the nuances of business, but not so heartily my voice raises three octaves, which is a common occurrence. I need to say "ummm" and "like" less, and throw in a casual reference to my availability and love for the city in which he resides. Also, I can have no carbonation or fruit up to two hours prior to the call, for that causes acid build up which will inevitably lead to me excusing myself five times in one call.
Most importantly, I have to remind myself never to post this blog on Facebook under my information as a website. Should he ever have the complimentary desire to stalk me, I do not need him stumbling upon a link that will reveal my infatuation.
My greatest success this week, however, was with regard to another client. To ensure the anonymity of the latest innocent target of my affections, I will be vague with details. I was introduced to him in October when his company was desperately seeking search engine advertising advice. He was given to me as a client, and we discussed the potential growth my consulting could earn his establishment. While chatting, however, I noticed his voice very nearly resembled that of a post pubescent boy. Upon further investigation, I discovered he was, in fact, only one year removed from college. I thought this interesting, but pursued it no further.
This week our communication began as it usually does as I sent him a weekly report, explaining the various fluctuations in performance. As the week progressed, we spent more time together as he spoke with various product managers within the company about our new offerings. I contributed little to these conversations after the initial introduction, but since it was an excuse to recline in a comfortable chair for an hour, I was more than willing to listen. Since I did not have an active role in the sales pitch, I was able to listen intently. After he incorporated both "pain in the ass" and "holy shit" on the calls, mentioned the fact that he started his business when he was eighteen, and made three references to buying flowers for his mother, I decided he must be worth pursuing. It was time to seriously commit to finding a picture. As is usually the case, persistence and the lack of privacy offered by the Internet led me to a photo, and I am happy to say, the CEO with money and ambition is not extremely hard on the eyes.
The question becomes, since I cannot impress him with my good looks, charming smile, and graceful stride, how can I woo him? Thankfully, my appeal lies not in appearances alone. Considering our communication occurs once a week over the phone and various times via email, I have some ideas. Initially, I considered simply causing his account many issues of concern in order to increase correspondence. However, for the sake of my job, I think it best to enhance, rather than increase.
First, I must write in a manner that sets me apart from others. I will begin with personal salutations such as, "I hope this Monday finds you well, (insert target's name)." I must fore go the consistent lowercase and two syllable words. Incorporating the terms bandwidth, heretofore, superfluous, and the like, certainly help, but I must avoid sounding pretentious. Perhaps sports idioms or references to my non-existent pick up truck and can of tobacco will accomplish this. I will depart with diversified farewells: best, regards, cheers, etc, which are personal, but by no means invasive to the client/analyst relationship.
While emails can have an impact, the most intimate time spent together is on the phone, and this is where I must focus my efforts. It is a difficult hurdle, as I am typically opposed to such exchanges due to the awkward pauses that occur when both parties speak simultaneously. Then, each wants to be polite and let the other begin; personally, I keep talking and wait for the other person to surrender the right to speak. However, with a client, this could be seen as disrespectful, so I must be sure he is finished before responding, while still avoiding the awkward pause. Further, I need to laugh heartily at his jokes about the nuances of business, but not so heartily my voice raises three octaves, which is a common occurrence. I need to say "ummm" and "like" less, and throw in a casual reference to my availability and love for the city in which he resides. Also, I can have no carbonation or fruit up to two hours prior to the call, for that causes acid build up which will inevitably lead to me excusing myself five times in one call.
Most importantly, I have to remind myself never to post this blog on Facebook under my information as a website. Should he ever have the complimentary desire to stalk me, I do not need him stumbling upon a link that will reveal my infatuation.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
My Personal Mecca
Grocery shopping has always been a cathartic experience for me. I walk through the automatic doors as a Jedi walks into another dimension, entering a universe where the biggest obstacle is deciding the variety of peanut butter, chips, yogurt, or paper towels. With that said, I will not downplay the magnitude of such decisions, as the process often involves much analysis.
However, as of late, I have dreaded all errands, especially because we just received January's bills and a bit of my soul is lost with every swipe of my credit card. Additionally, I have yet to find a time when Charlottesville's grocery stores are not bustling with carts just wide enough to make maneuvering through the aisles impossible. This weekend, I am happy to say, our passion for one another was renewed, possibly even deepened.
I went to Barracks shopping center at 9 o'clock, early enough to justify a mocha. I approached the magic doors. My spirits warmed, I entered the store and my trip began as it always does, with an inward battle as to whether or not I should commit to eating more fruits and vegetables. About the time I decided to select a couple apples and peppers, the caffeine began circulating rapidly, and I decided to add another dimension to my mission - frugality. Determined to maximize my cost to produce efficiency, I began.
There are a couple strategic lessons I learned, and I think it would be to your benefit if I shared them.
First, green peppers are cheaper than red and orange, but it is not just because the unusual vegetable colors are aesthetically appealing in an otherwise bland salad. Green peppers are actually unripened and therefore have a longer shelf life, which makes them less desirable. With apples, however, I believe the price is based on the sexual association of the name, which is why I had to purchase the Granny Smith rather than the Golden Delicious.
B: Drink organic milk. The expiration date is always a month later than processed milk; plus, you can feel environmentally conscious.
Third, you can freeze almost anything. If the grocery store can sell you frozen vegetables, then you can certainly capitalize on the two for one packaged deli turkey deal and freeze one of the two.
D: Another step the grocers take to guide sojourners is marking each product with a per ounce/per each price. Therefore, the cereal companies who gradually shrink their boxes do not exploit the naive consumer. You do, however, have to squint to take advantage of said values, so it is probable that individuals do not expend that much energy.
There are, however, caveats to this helpful tip, which nearly cost me an extra ten cents. I was meandering through the laundry detergent section, and while two detergents were 16.7 cents per ounce, after further calculating, one was 16.76 cents. This is a genius move on the part of Tide, because if there is one lesson I learned from Office Space, it is that decimals matter. Additionally, if the product does not have a per ounce price, it is probably just too expensive to be sitting on my cupboard.
Finally - and I realize this may seem contradictory to my former point about cereal boxes - NEVER sacrifice price for quality on cereal. Every other item is negotiable, but on this point, there is no compromise. Cereal is the foundation of every day, and whether it is Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, or even that unusually healthy granola about which adults rave, it needs to be of the highest quality.
After I spent an hour wandering pointedly about the establishment, with the occasional mental lapse due to an inspiring song chosen by the highly esteemed grocery store DJs, I walked to the register, anxious to see my overall savings. Of course, I was also distracted by the multitude of candy, gadgets, and gismos near the register. After I added chap stick, gum, a cookies and cream bar, batteries, lighters and nail clippers, the clerk began tallying my merchandise.
I am happy to say I had final savings of twenty dollars. However, since most of the deals were two for one, I have to go eat my plethora of peppers, sausage, salmon, hummus and bread before my hard earned savings spoil.
However, as of late, I have dreaded all errands, especially because we just received January's bills and a bit of my soul is lost with every swipe of my credit card. Additionally, I have yet to find a time when Charlottesville's grocery stores are not bustling with carts just wide enough to make maneuvering through the aisles impossible. This weekend, I am happy to say, our passion for one another was renewed, possibly even deepened.
I went to Barracks shopping center at 9 o'clock, early enough to justify a mocha. I approached the magic doors. My spirits warmed, I entered the store and my trip began as it always does, with an inward battle as to whether or not I should commit to eating more fruits and vegetables. About the time I decided to select a couple apples and peppers, the caffeine began circulating rapidly, and I decided to add another dimension to my mission - frugality. Determined to maximize my cost to produce efficiency, I began.
There are a couple strategic lessons I learned, and I think it would be to your benefit if I shared them.
First, green peppers are cheaper than red and orange, but it is not just because the unusual vegetable colors are aesthetically appealing in an otherwise bland salad. Green peppers are actually unripened and therefore have a longer shelf life, which makes them less desirable. With apples, however, I believe the price is based on the sexual association of the name, which is why I had to purchase the Granny Smith rather than the Golden Delicious.
B: Drink organic milk. The expiration date is always a month later than processed milk; plus, you can feel environmentally conscious.
Third, you can freeze almost anything. If the grocery store can sell you frozen vegetables, then you can certainly capitalize on the two for one packaged deli turkey deal and freeze one of the two.
D: Another step the grocers take to guide sojourners is marking each product with a per ounce/per each price. Therefore, the cereal companies who gradually shrink their boxes do not exploit the naive consumer. You do, however, have to squint to take advantage of said values, so it is probable that individuals do not expend that much energy.
There are, however, caveats to this helpful tip, which nearly cost me an extra ten cents. I was meandering through the laundry detergent section, and while two detergents were 16.7 cents per ounce, after further calculating, one was 16.76 cents. This is a genius move on the part of Tide, because if there is one lesson I learned from Office Space, it is that decimals matter. Additionally, if the product does not have a per ounce price, it is probably just too expensive to be sitting on my cupboard.
Finally - and I realize this may seem contradictory to my former point about cereal boxes - NEVER sacrifice price for quality on cereal. Every other item is negotiable, but on this point, there is no compromise. Cereal is the foundation of every day, and whether it is Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, or even that unusually healthy granola about which adults rave, it needs to be of the highest quality.
After I spent an hour wandering pointedly about the establishment, with the occasional mental lapse due to an inspiring song chosen by the highly esteemed grocery store DJs, I walked to the register, anxious to see my overall savings. Of course, I was also distracted by the multitude of candy, gadgets, and gismos near the register. After I added chap stick, gum, a cookies and cream bar, batteries, lighters and nail clippers, the clerk began tallying my merchandise.
I am happy to say I had final savings of twenty dollars. However, since most of the deals were two for one, I have to go eat my plethora of peppers, sausage, salmon, hummus and bread before my hard earned savings spoil.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I Never Knew if it was the DMV or BMV
The answer is: both.
Readers, I warn you: this post is not for the faint of heart. I consider myself a perpetual optimist, able to find the proverbial light at the end of all tunnels and await the bountiful harvest after seasons of rain. In the depths of despair, a simple smile from a stranger will renew my spirit. However, there are some adversaries so cruel, even I cannot find a glimmer of hope. The adversary of which I speak is the DMV, and as the acronym indicates, this story has no happy ending.
A week and a half ago, I was having an innocent glass of wine with friends. My pants had no pockets, so logically, I stored my credit card and license in my leggings. Yes, a purse or wallet may seem more reasonable, but each has proven itself an inefficient means to secure valuables in the past. Upon returning home, I discovered my license had vanished, and after further investigatory efforts proved fatal, I had to face reality. To restore my identity, I would have to venture to the Department of Motor Vehicles, the very shadow of death.
Really, I have no reason to begrudge the DMV. Other than failing my driver's test two times, my interactions with the department have been brief and pleasant. They may have tellers who ask me if Cinco de Mayo is always on the fifth of May, but as a whole, the atmosphere is bearable.
Still, whenever I enter the DMV, I have the perpetual fear that I will walk up to the information desk, present my records, and be informed that I am actually an alien, at which point I will be deported to my home country. Certainly an adventure, and as I waited forty minutes to approach the Charlottesville information desk, I determined that were I sent back, I would introduce peanut butter cups and earn instant fame.
While the woman did not send me on the first flight out of the US, she did tell me that since I am not a resident of Virginia, I need proof that I had a license. And so we reach our catch 22. I need a new license to replace a lost license, but without this lost license, I cannot get a new license to replace it. Further, even if I have the license number, expiration date, date of issue, license class, birth certificate, passport, social security card, pay stub, car insurance, and five pictures of various relatives in my wallet, their computer system does not possess the technology to find my license. I find it hard to believe that in this age of technology, a computer capable of beating THE Ken Jennings in Jeopardy can be developed, but the DMV lingers in a relative stone age.
On second thought, I do not doubt it, especially after this experience. I tried to reason with the teller, who was probably used to victims such as I pleading their cases, as to how it is possible for the cops to look up my driving record, but impossible for the DMV. She told me police officers need the license as well, which begs the question, if I get pulled over in a state without a license, should they not arrest me for fear I am illegally behind the wheel? She told me I would be ticketed for not having a license were this the case, but if I live in another state and the DMVs that have my record do not communicate or have access to computer systems, how can the state of Ohio know that I have a ticket in Virginia? If this were reality, I could accept the minor inconveniences of replacing licenses for the benefit of those who avoid paying out of state tickets. As it is, the states communicate, because this has happened, and I have had to pay. The preceding thought process may have been excessive, but if you managed to follow, I think you can understand my frustration.
The teller certainly did- either that or she wanted me to shut up- but her only comfort was that the government was working on it. Good to know.
She did offer me an alternative solution, which was to present a copy of the abstract. I was aware of this option after my trip to the DMV last weekend, and had my unofficial abstract printed. Incidentally, this also made me aware of the fact that I will lose my license should I be ticketed in the next three months. That aside, the documentation was obviously not sufficient, and although it came directly from the website of the Ohio BMV (another nuance, some states have DMVs, while others have BMVs), I would need a hard copy that went through an obligatory fourteen day waiting period in order to be labeled "official."
She suggested I have the abstract faxed, at which point my eyes glistened for the first time throughout this ordeal. I called the Chardon License Bureau with high hopes, only to be redirected to the Columbus License Bureau, the only office with the authority to fax such important documents. I called once, twice, three times, but the line was busy, and with every beep, my spirits sunk. After twenty minutes of failed attempts, my name was called, and on the verge of tears, I approached the front desk and told the woman she could do nothing for me, other than explain to me why an office does not have call waiting or two phone lines in 2011. I exited the building, dejected and downtrodden, expressing my just frustration in a manner which made the man beside me chuckle. If he only knew...
If nothing else, this is another example of government inefficiency at its finest; the license bureaus will always be necessary and will always have a monopoly in the market for driving permissions. Therefore, they will consider making the system more efficient, as my tax dollars go to paying some girl in Ohio to respond to an online request for a copy of my driving record while she facebook chats her boyfriend on the other screen. Various information throughout the state systems will indeed come together, but only when it is convenient for them. Perhaps the office will look into that new-fangled commodity called the "hold" button, but talking to more than one person on the phone seems a bit ridiculous.
Meanwhile, I refuse to go through the permit process in Virginia for fear that I will actually fail the driver's test. Instead, my heart will jump every time I see sirens, knowing that while this town has multiple miscreants and deviants, the cops will prey on the poor girl from the Midwest who simply misplaced her license. I will drive around with my passport, birth certificate, and car insurance, hoping that the next cop who pulls me over will believe I have a license when he looks at all the concert tickets I have stored where my license once resided.
While this story has no tangible positive outcome, I find solace in the hope that an underage blond hair, blue eyed girl stumbled upon the license and is gallivanting gaily about Charlottesville bars. I suppose I am an eternal optimist, after all.
Readers, I warn you: this post is not for the faint of heart. I consider myself a perpetual optimist, able to find the proverbial light at the end of all tunnels and await the bountiful harvest after seasons of rain. In the depths of despair, a simple smile from a stranger will renew my spirit. However, there are some adversaries so cruel, even I cannot find a glimmer of hope. The adversary of which I speak is the DMV, and as the acronym indicates, this story has no happy ending.
A week and a half ago, I was having an innocent glass of wine with friends. My pants had no pockets, so logically, I stored my credit card and license in my leggings. Yes, a purse or wallet may seem more reasonable, but each has proven itself an inefficient means to secure valuables in the past. Upon returning home, I discovered my license had vanished, and after further investigatory efforts proved fatal, I had to face reality. To restore my identity, I would have to venture to the Department of Motor Vehicles, the very shadow of death.
Really, I have no reason to begrudge the DMV. Other than failing my driver's test two times, my interactions with the department have been brief and pleasant. They may have tellers who ask me if Cinco de Mayo is always on the fifth of May, but as a whole, the atmosphere is bearable.
Still, whenever I enter the DMV, I have the perpetual fear that I will walk up to the information desk, present my records, and be informed that I am actually an alien, at which point I will be deported to my home country. Certainly an adventure, and as I waited forty minutes to approach the Charlottesville information desk, I determined that were I sent back, I would introduce peanut butter cups and earn instant fame.
While the woman did not send me on the first flight out of the US, she did tell me that since I am not a resident of Virginia, I need proof that I had a license. And so we reach our catch 22. I need a new license to replace a lost license, but without this lost license, I cannot get a new license to replace it. Further, even if I have the license number, expiration date, date of issue, license class, birth certificate, passport, social security card, pay stub, car insurance, and five pictures of various relatives in my wallet, their computer system does not possess the technology to find my license. I find it hard to believe that in this age of technology, a computer capable of beating THE Ken Jennings in Jeopardy can be developed, but the DMV lingers in a relative stone age.
On second thought, I do not doubt it, especially after this experience. I tried to reason with the teller, who was probably used to victims such as I pleading their cases, as to how it is possible for the cops to look up my driving record, but impossible for the DMV. She told me police officers need the license as well, which begs the question, if I get pulled over in a state without a license, should they not arrest me for fear I am illegally behind the wheel? She told me I would be ticketed for not having a license were this the case, but if I live in another state and the DMVs that have my record do not communicate or have access to computer systems, how can the state of Ohio know that I have a ticket in Virginia? If this were reality, I could accept the minor inconveniences of replacing licenses for the benefit of those who avoid paying out of state tickets. As it is, the states communicate, because this has happened, and I have had to pay. The preceding thought process may have been excessive, but if you managed to follow, I think you can understand my frustration.
The teller certainly did- either that or she wanted me to shut up- but her only comfort was that the government was working on it. Good to know.
She did offer me an alternative solution, which was to present a copy of the abstract. I was aware of this option after my trip to the DMV last weekend, and had my unofficial abstract printed. Incidentally, this also made me aware of the fact that I will lose my license should I be ticketed in the next three months. That aside, the documentation was obviously not sufficient, and although it came directly from the website of the Ohio BMV (another nuance, some states have DMVs, while others have BMVs), I would need a hard copy that went through an obligatory fourteen day waiting period in order to be labeled "official."
She suggested I have the abstract faxed, at which point my eyes glistened for the first time throughout this ordeal. I called the Chardon License Bureau with high hopes, only to be redirected to the Columbus License Bureau, the only office with the authority to fax such important documents. I called once, twice, three times, but the line was busy, and with every beep, my spirits sunk. After twenty minutes of failed attempts, my name was called, and on the verge of tears, I approached the front desk and told the woman she could do nothing for me, other than explain to me why an office does not have call waiting or two phone lines in 2011. I exited the building, dejected and downtrodden, expressing my just frustration in a manner which made the man beside me chuckle. If he only knew...
If nothing else, this is another example of government inefficiency at its finest; the license bureaus will always be necessary and will always have a monopoly in the market for driving permissions. Therefore, they will consider making the system more efficient, as my tax dollars go to paying some girl in Ohio to respond to an online request for a copy of my driving record while she facebook chats her boyfriend on the other screen. Various information throughout the state systems will indeed come together, but only when it is convenient for them. Perhaps the office will look into that new-fangled commodity called the "hold" button, but talking to more than one person on the phone seems a bit ridiculous.
Meanwhile, I refuse to go through the permit process in Virginia for fear that I will actually fail the driver's test. Instead, my heart will jump every time I see sirens, knowing that while this town has multiple miscreants and deviants, the cops will prey on the poor girl from the Midwest who simply misplaced her license. I will drive around with my passport, birth certificate, and car insurance, hoping that the next cop who pulls me over will believe I have a license when he looks at all the concert tickets I have stored where my license once resided.
While this story has no tangible positive outcome, I find solace in the hope that an underage blond hair, blue eyed girl stumbled upon the license and is gallivanting gaily about Charlottesville bars. I suppose I am an eternal optimist, after all.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Son Really Does Improve Your Spirits
I have been very happy as of late. The reason may be that I rekindled my relationship with the weight room. The sight of men wearing my nephew's hand-me-down t-shirts and women doing their personal kickboxing in front of the entire aerobic area will always put a smile on my face. Not only have I made my gym membership valuable again, I began a mixed doubles winter league, where I apparently fit the description, "short and looks like she could run like the wind." Playing with the elderly is definitely an ego boost to which I could grow accustomed. To be fair, though, the competition is quite good, and my game is being forced to improve. The reason could also be that the sun actually shines between the months of December and April in Virginia, a natural phenomenon to anyone from Cleveland.
While all these aspects of my current state are great, I believe the source of my renewed vigor runs deeper. This past Sunday, I made my usual pact with God- if I should awake by the hour of ten, I would attend church. This may seem as though I am avoiding church, but this is not the case, for if I am to sleep uncharacteristically late, I assume it must be for the improvement of my overall well-being.
The past four months I have been attending various churches, trying to find a place that I can only describe as "right for me." Although this may be an obscure qualification, it is difficult seeking a church among so many that have similar values. Admittedly, the search has been less than rigorous, as I found it much akin to dating. Sure, every one seems nice and they all may have good intentions, but how do I know at what point to commit? I do not want to be too quick to judge, but I also do not want to dive in purely for the purpose of arbitrary involvement, as I know this will only lead to a dysfunctional relationship where neither party benefits.
So it was that on this particular Sunday that I awoke at a reasonable hour and ventured to Christ Community Church. It is difficult to articulate spiritual matters, and I am much better at conveying humiliating stories, so I will simply say I believe God showed me that I belonged there. I was welcomed by many strangers, and honestly, I have never been treated so kindly upon initial introductions in my life. The more people I met, the more connections I had, which is an act of Providence itself, as I have only lived here four months.
I am continually amazed at what the Lord is capable of doing when I lay down my pride and allow him to work. By no means do I think I have reached a point where I can settle or cease striving; in fact, I feel more strongly that I need to break down the many barriers I have built. I do believe, though, I have reached a point of significance. A point where I am not only open to being challenged, giving myself to others, and growing, but I also have a place to facilitate those desires. It is a very peaceful point.
While all these aspects of my current state are great, I believe the source of my renewed vigor runs deeper. This past Sunday, I made my usual pact with God- if I should awake by the hour of ten, I would attend church. This may seem as though I am avoiding church, but this is not the case, for if I am to sleep uncharacteristically late, I assume it must be for the improvement of my overall well-being.
The past four months I have been attending various churches, trying to find a place that I can only describe as "right for me." Although this may be an obscure qualification, it is difficult seeking a church among so many that have similar values. Admittedly, the search has been less than rigorous, as I found it much akin to dating. Sure, every one seems nice and they all may have good intentions, but how do I know at what point to commit? I do not want to be too quick to judge, but I also do not want to dive in purely for the purpose of arbitrary involvement, as I know this will only lead to a dysfunctional relationship where neither party benefits.
So it was that on this particular Sunday that I awoke at a reasonable hour and ventured to Christ Community Church. It is difficult to articulate spiritual matters, and I am much better at conveying humiliating stories, so I will simply say I believe God showed me that I belonged there. I was welcomed by many strangers, and honestly, I have never been treated so kindly upon initial introductions in my life. The more people I met, the more connections I had, which is an act of Providence itself, as I have only lived here four months.
I am continually amazed at what the Lord is capable of doing when I lay down my pride and allow him to work. By no means do I think I have reached a point where I can settle or cease striving; in fact, I feel more strongly that I need to break down the many barriers I have built. I do believe, though, I have reached a point of significance. A point where I am not only open to being challenged, giving myself to others, and growing, but I also have a place to facilitate those desires. It is a very peaceful point.
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