A Study In Perspective

If you get a chance to visit the Hirshhorn Museum in DC before the end of February, I highly recommend doing so. One of their current exhibitions features a fascinating contemporary artist and social activist by the name of Ai Weiwei. I am by no means knowledgeable about art, but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t appreciate a giant cube filled with lights and sparkly glass crystals.

While it’s not necessarily the main attraction, Weiwei’s black-and-white photography lines the walls of the exhibit. One series of photos in particular amused and intrigued me. “A Study In Perspective” documents Weiwei giving the finger to a variety of international landmarks. I imagine the reason for these photos most likely stems from his disgruntled opinions about government.

The Eiffel Tower, the Mona Lisa, you name it, Ai Weiwei probably gave it the finger.

Mr. Weiwei, if you’re reading, I understand your need to flip the bird to the world sometimes.

A couple things have happened recently that have left me feeling not so festive this holiday season. The first of these being that I got dumped. Straight-up, knocked-on-my-ass, dumped. For fear of getting overly personal, I’ll just make a few statements on the subject. For one, I can now empathize with all of you that have had your heart broken. And for those of you who haven’t, consider yourself lucky because it sucks. A lot.

Not even a week into my wallowing, I watched the events of the Sandy Hook Elementary massacre unfold and was overwhelmed. I think about the families who will be spending the holidays grieving over their lost child and it breaks my heart into a million shards. I am deeply saddened for everyone involved and I am concerned for our country.

This tragedy offered a timely study in perspective for me. That being, the perspective of sadness. I didn’t lose a loved one to a mentally-unstable gunman this year. I didn’t lose my home and all my possessions in a devastating natural disaster either. For that, I am fortunate. Being rejected, in any sense, hurts. But when the dust settles, you move on, this time a bit smarter and a bit stronger. The individuals and families effected by the events of Sandy Hook, Aurora, or Hurricane Sandy (to name a few) won’t simply “move on” and may never find peace. That is real sadness. And for that, I am eternally sorry.

I know this somber post isn’t exactly my style. Just remember to keep it all in perspective. Merry Christmas, friends.

Love, Claire

Summer of Claire

I have this vivid memory of driving away from my high school after the last exam of junior year. I was 17, newly-licensed, and almost a senior. Cuing up something seasonally appropriate like Pinback’s Summer in Abaddon in my CD player, I waited to turn on the road leading away from the school. When I finally picked up speed, the passenger in the car in front of me rolled down their window and tossed out a stack of white notecards. While I don’t condone littering by any means, I couldn’t help but think how perfectly this notecard confetti marked the beginning of three glorious months of freedom.

It’s a bit saddening to think how summers will never be what they used to as a student. Now it’s just the usual 9-5 with a sweatier commute. My first summer out of college passed nearly unnoticed during a frantic attempt to find a job while desperately trying to earn money as a part-timer. After a fairly miserable winter, I vowed to myself that this summer would be better. Taking a note from the book of George Costanza, I was determined to have myself a “Summer of Claire.” It was time to stop agonizing over my job search and saving every last dollar in favor of having some fun and adventures. At risk of writing the longest blog in the history of blogs, I will limit my summer recap to ten of my favorite moments. Here they are, in no particular order:

• Nearly finishing the famed “Vermonster” with the help of eight others after touring the Ben & Jerry’s factory in Waterbury, Vermont. That is, 20 scoops of ice cream, hot fudge, banana, cookies, brownies, + toppings. Despite having two marathoners and a number of serious eaters in our group, we had to throw in our spoons; it was just too gross.

Vermonster carnage.

• Fitting ten adults into a standard-sized hot tub in the Outer Banks.

Room for one more!

Note the color of the water the following day.

• Tubing down the Lehigh River in my great state of Pennsylvania. The river treated us to the perfect ratio relaxing float to harrowing rapids.
• Visiting the nation’s capital for the first time and being delightfully surprised to find it cleaner and more manageable than NYC, yet still brimming with culture and unlimited delicious eateries.
• Watching a crazy, sudden storm from a friend’s apartment in Arlington, Virginia. The wind and rain sweeping through the dark streets made for a surreal, ocean-like view. And I lived to tell about it.
• Successfully running at least one mile everyday from Memorial Day to July 4th for the Runner’s World Running Streak challenge. Eighty-five miles in 38 days, to be exact.
• Sitting in a shallow creek and drinking beers with an excellent group of people on a farm in Lexington, Virginia.

Nothing like a good ol’ fashion river sit.

• Watching the sunset over Philly during an outdoor Sigur Rós concert. Someone in the crowd set a floating lantern into flight at dusk and a girl next to us sobbed for the entire show for reasons ranging from strong emotion to rum and coke. PURE MAGIC.
• Eating the best slice of pizza I’ve ever had at Pizza Suprema in NYC on 31st & 8th Ave. (thank you, Slice Harvester).
• Realizing the guy I liked, liked me back when he asked to hold my hand during an episode of Breaking Bad. We are now dating and half of these moments include his delightful presence.

I am pleased to say Summer of Claire was both a wild success and an important lesson in growing up. Summer may no longer begin with a last bell and fluttering flash cards, but the freedom is still there it you choose to acknowledge it.

Finding My Mantra

This Memorial Day weekend in Burlington, Vermont, I watched a friend run her eighth marathon (she’s going for all 50 states). When questioned about where she gets her motivation during the toughest miles, she revealed her marathon mantra to be: “I’m crazy jacked, I’m a bad motherf—ker.” This got me thinking that everyone should have a mantra this awesome, for daily life. For some, like my marathoner friend, it will be a reminder that you rule at what you do. For others, say my yogi parents, it will be a gentle, yet resounding “om.” Whatever it may be, as long as it moves you physically or mentally.

The quest to find a personal mantra required a few days of what I like to think was deep thought and soul searching. In reality, it was asking myself more meaningful questions than, “If I was 13, who would I have the biggest crush on in One Direction?” (Definitely Zayn). Instead, I forced myself to think about my beliefs. For one, I believe in equal parts work and fun. But I do not believe in cliches, so “Work hard, play hard” would simply not do. No, I needed something that meant more.

Eventually, my subconscious spit out a memory of a yoga session with an instructor named Pat Laster. I met Pat in 2007 and she was incredibly spry for the age of 82. She passed in early 2011, but inspired everyone she met and taught. Pat ended each class with a memorable quote or small bit of wisdom, of which she had a lot. One in particular stuck with me, a quote I later discovered was from Oscar Wilde:

“Everything in moderation, including moderation.”

Brief yet deep, wise yet witty, it’s really quite perfect. It is what I believe in and strive to achieve. “Everything in moderation” is by no means an easy or fun mantra to live by in itself. It is a daily struggle to control such joys of life as eating, drinking, spending, sleeping, and surfing the internet, to name a few. In turn, we must also worry if we’re getting enough. Am I drinking enough water? Am I running enough miles? Wait, or am I running too many miles? Moderation is exhausting.

This is why I love this quote so much. The second half negates the first and says “to hell!” with moderation. While my health and wellness are of the utmost importance, I also like to live a little. So yes, maybe I will just re-read every entry in Suri Cruise’s Burnbook instead of job searching. Oh, and Mexi night, you say? Perhaps I will eat an entire basket of chips, three tacos, and a side of Spanish rice. Then I will order a second margarita. And with it, I will cheers Pat Laster up in the high heavens.

All for me.

Freeing Myself From Facebook

At the time I joined Facebook in 2006, there was no newsfeed or ads, let alone a chat feature, timeline, or apps. I was a senior in high school and spent the majority of my internet time selecting the perfect Myspace background. But Facebook was so very “mature college student” and I wanted to be a part of it all. The following spring, I talked to my future roommate for the first time via Facebook. The profile photo of her vacuuming while wearing a Santa beard assured me we were going to get along just fine.

Much like twin XL sheets, ramen noodles, and a favorite pen, Facebook became an integral part of my college experience. It allowed me to keep tabs on my high school scene while connecting with new friends. Cute guy in 2A? Forget it, he’s still dating his high school girlfriend (like that’s going to last). With event invites, I rarely had to ask the question “What’s going on this weekend?” And it had practical purposes as well, like setting up group meetings and browsing used textbooks in the marketplace. In this way, my Facebook and I shared a healthy relationship.

Like most relationships, however, we hit rough patches. On multiple occasions, it distracted me from my studies to the point where I needed to have a friend change my password. I developed a mild hatred for the people who posted pointless statuses. I felt creepy knowing too much about a person through Facebook and then talking to them IRL. Yet, I kept going back for more. I was stuck in a technology loop (see below).

With the impending switch to the timeline format and a general, mounting annoyance with the site, enough was enough. Three months ago, I saved my favorite Facebook photos to my laptop and up and deactivated my profile. It was one of the best decisions I’ve made lately; strangely liberating. Granted, I’ve found numerous other ways to be unproductive on the internet, but I do tweet, blog, and email more. I no longer know who’s newly dating/pregnant/engaged, but I’m sure to find out eventually and be genuinely surprised/happy/pretend happy for them. My friends act like it’s an inconvenience to text me the date and time of their party, but it’s not like I missed an event yet because I didn’t get the Facebook invite. Real friends have your phone number, email address, and home address. They know how to get in touch with you.

If, like me, you don’t use Facebook for your job and find yourself rolling your eyes at who-said-what on the site, just get rid of it. You won’t miss it, trust me. Free yourselves, my friends!

My Extended Resume Part 4: Life in the Pit

Fresh out of my first year at James Madison, I was pumped to apply my collegiate knowledge while earning good money at a respectable job during the summer of 2008. Little did I know that these two goals are mutually exclusive for a wide-eyed 19-year-old. I applied to multiple internship programs and quickly found my efforts to be in vain. I didn’t even have enough experience to work for someone for free yet. Seeing as I wasn’t going to gain relevant job experience, I figured I’d at least make some cash. This is how I ended up working at a barbecue joint.

This HAS to be photoshopped.

At this point, you’re probably wondering if I actively seek out jobs that require me to constantly smell of meat. The answer is no; these jobs fall into my lap. In this case, my neighbor bought into a popular BBQ franchise and opened one of the first restaurants in the area. He offered me a job and since it was already late June at the time and I was still jobless, I gladly accepted.

Donning the company-mandated polo, black pants, and khaki hat, I stood in front of the register on my first day and gritted my teeth behind a feigned smile. I asked customers questions such as “Would you like a one-, two-, or three-meat platter?” and explained the difference between the baked potato and the baked potato casserole (mashed potatoes + bacon + cheese). After my high-school aged coworkers proved themselves capable on the register, I was moved into the kitchen and worked “Expo,” a restaurant term short for “expedite.” Basically, I checked to make sure the orders were correct before they were sent out and it was glorious because I didn’t have to interact with hangry customers.

My Extended Resume Part 3: Seasonal Employment

Ah, the holidays. That wonderful time of year when my favorite activities such as devouring desserts and napping for hours are highly encouraged. Maybe it’s my Pennsylvanian upbringing, but I find a certain magic in traipsing through a muddy field and hacking down a Christmas tree with my family each holiday season. This is why I originally agreed to apply for a seasonal job at a Christmas tree farm with my brother, Paul, during his winter break from college.

Compared to my other off-the-resume jobs, the tree farm was one of the more pleasant experiences. And in jobs like these, it rules to be a girl. While my brother did manly tasks like haul and bail trees for customers in the frigid cold, I managed the gift shop and craft room. When I wasn’t working the register, I decorated wreathes and crafted bows until my fingers bled from twisting wire. It was only necessary to leave the warmth to gather Fraiser branches for swags or snag a brownie from the snack stand.

A lovely swag, but needs more glitter by my standards

The snack stand, along with a kitchen and several banquet rooms, were located across the lot from the gift shop in the “chalet.” A dinner theater owned by a separate company operated out one of the banquet rooms. While my coworkers at the farm were all quite nice, the dinner theater folk were downright unpleasant and I’ll never understand their resentment. They hated when we hosted “Breakfast With Santa” on Saturdays in the chalet. I’m convinced we had the best Santa in all the land and there they were, hating on him because we didn’t vacuum well enough afterward. Well, BAH HUMBUG, dinner thespians.

Along with the best Santa ever, there were a few great characters at the tree farm. I worked in the gift shop with an expert crafter named “Kandy,” while Paul tended to the fields with a man we nicknamed “Concolor-Eyed Brian.” We secretly dubbed him this for three reasons: 1. There were two Brians so there was a need to distinguish, 2. We sold a type of tree at the farm called “Concolor,” which is known for it’s two-tone coloring, and 3. Concolor-Eyed Brian had two different colored eyes. The owners of the farm were a baby-voiced woman and her completely exhausted husband who would leave the farm to work a nightshift at another job. I don’t think the man slept more than 3 hours at a time.

Paul and I worked three seasons at the tree farm before the owners sold it (and hopefully got some sleep). By that time though, we much preferred time off during the holidays anyway. The job gave me a newfound appreciation for seasonal workers and I make sure to be a good customer when everyone else is near out of their minds when Christmas shopping. And if needed, I can make one hell of a decorative holiday basket.

My Extended Resume Part 2: Bacon Asphyxiation

People are often baffled by the fact that I don’t especially love bacon. It’s not an full-on hatred—I’ll politely nibble on it if it is served to me—but you’ll never find me sizzling up a pan of it early Sunday morning. No, I’m not an animal rights activist or even a vegetarian. In fact, I used to like bacon. Until I worked at a diner.

I ended my stint as a cashier in late 2005 after being offered a job as a hostess at a newly-renovated diner for $7.00/hour. My main responsibilities were to greet and seat customers when they arrived and pay their bill at the register before they left. I would also serve beverages and clear tables if the waitresses were preoccupied. It all seemed fairly straightforward when it was explained to me.

Enter: Droves of customers needing to be seated and served by a gang of clueless, 17- and 18-year-old employees such as myself.

No one knows what they’re doing at a new restaurant. Upon opening, seemingly simple tasks became 10x more difficult with hangry patrons shooting death glares. Orders were incorrect and waitresses were “double sat,” meaning they were given two new tables at once – an inexcusable hostess offense. We were a joke next to the headset-wearing waitstaff of say, an Applebee’s. But Applebee’s food sucks regardless of an organized staff and I’m pleased to say we eventually found cohesion.

The greatest part of working at a restaurant is that you’ll never leave hungry. For every hour of work at the diner, employees received 50 cents off a meal at the end of their shift. After devouring my usual $3.50 plate of scrambled eggs and homefries smothered in Heintz ketchup, I would return home with an inescapable bacon-scented cloud trailing close behind. It was deep in my clothes and hair and while a shower and a load of laundry helped, I constantly smelled it. Every time I put on my coat, I caught a waft of bacon blanketing around me. Opening my purse I would often think “Good god, did someone sneak a strip in here too? Enough was enough.

No, thank you.

Go ahead and argue that I am missing out on one of the world’s greatest foods. I’m ok with that. I will gladly keep you company while you eat an entire plate of it. Just know that afterward, I will be airing out my clothing and suppressing memories of my diner days.

My Extended Resume Part 1: Paper or Plastic?

It pains me now to think about how excited I was to begin working a real job. I’d like to return to 2005 as my 23-year-old self and violently shake teenage me by the shoulders while simultaneously shouting “Will you RELAX? You are going to spend THE REST OF YOUR LIFE working. Now go lounge by a pool and read Harry Potter.” But after several years of baby-sitting, lawn-mowing and tutoring, I wanted nothing more than a set schedule and a paycheck.

My friend Casey had scored a job at a local grocery store and encouraged me to apply in hopes we’d each receive the $50 recruit-a-friend bonus. After a few in-person follow-ups to “check on the status of my application,” I was given my first official job as a cashier. On my first day (of the rest of my life, if you will), I was handed my name tag and a lightly-stained blue smock and watched VHS tapes on subjects such as workplace safety and sexual harassment. And just like that, I was qualified to work a register, interact with customers and handle money.

It wasn’t long before I mastered the art of cashiering. I memorized the codes of nearly all produce, a few of which still stick with me today. Bananas? 4011. Lemons? 4033. I also learned to bag groceries like a pro. Paper is great for economically bagging boxed goods, but the serrated edges of the bags were sure to wreak havoc on the hands and arms. However, I would have filled 100 paper bags with a smile on my face in favor of working during what was simply referred to as “Meat Week.” On this particular week, it seemed as though the most poorly-packaged of the raw meats were deeply discounted. Pounds of ground beef, whole pork butts and slimy trays of chicken glided down my register belt and reached me in puddles of their own juices. I suspect Meat Week may have been a ploy to get employees to wash their hands and smocks more often.

Whoever bagged this is an idiot.

I can’t complain though; it was a decent first job. I earned slightly more than minimum wage at the time: initially $6.00/hour, later increased to $6.15/hour after surpassing my three-month employment. I worked at the store for about five months, while Casey lasted something like four years. The store has since been renovated and changed names and the cashiers now wear red vests. Casey and I, however, are still waiting for our $50 bonuses.

My Extended Resume: A Blog Mini-Series

Job searching ain’t easy these days, therefore I’ve spent a great deal of time agonizing over my resume. There isn’t a margin, indent or word on that page that hasn’t been stared at for many minutes. It’s got me thinking; a funny thing, a resume. A single, well-organized page to make yourself look as employable as possible. In a sense, it’s not nearly enough for anyone. But I am really quite glad that a resume for a person of my qualifications is typically limited to one page. At this point in my life, it’s enough to make me look legitimate.

Imagine if you were required to list every job you’ve ever worked. I would end up presenting HR with a strange compilation spanning a variety of fields. Sometimes though, I wish I could slip in those character-building job descriptions on a separate sheet of non-fancy paper to prove, among other things, versatility. The skills I learned working at places such as the local grocery store, a christmas tree farm and a sloppy barbecue joint don’t exactly transfer to many other jobs. They did, however, teach me patience and dignity. Not to mention, I came out with hard-earned cash and a number of funny experiences.

Allow me to share with you the jobs that didn’t quite make it to my resume in the next several entries. A blog mini-series, if you will. My extended resume, uncut and uncensored.

My First Marriage

Did I scare you just now? Thinking I’d gone off and eloped without telling anyone? Don’t panic! This is a post about my first friend to be married. Amanda, whom I met at college, and her now-husband Matt tied the knot this past September in beautiful Lexington, Virginia. And everything about it was just perfect. Here’s why:

• First and foremost, Amanda and Matt genuinely belong together. They are both incredibly kind, creative and not to mention, hilarious people. I always imagined it would be strange when my friends started getting married, but this is all quite natural.

Newlyweds, Matt & Amanda

• My first friend wedding also happened to be my first bridal party debut. As the maid of honor, I had no idea what to expect and even scoured The Knot for my MOH responsibilities. I found that my main job was basically to keep the bride happy, which was an exceedingly easy task with Amanda. I mean, she bought the second dress she tried on. Amanda appeared to enjoy every moment of the wedding weekend. Case in point, moments before we were about the leave for the church, the bridesmaids watched in horror as Amanda, in her white, satin dress with delicate detailing, snacked on chips and salsa in the kitchen.

• The bridesmaids dresses flattered all five of us fair maids and are definitely re-wearable. We were also given the freedom to choose our own shoes, accessories, and hairstyle.