A Tradition Unlike Any Other

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bagpipes Are Playing in My Backyard, and It Is Lovely

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Navatsyk Thighs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Small Tribute

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.