Ablative of Manner

30 days of yoga and the elephant upstairs

2010-09-15T16:31:00.013-04:00

In my last post, I mentioned that I'm in the midst of a little 30 day yoga challenge/adventure. I've practiced yoga for about 4 years now on a kiiinnnd of regular basis (I was in college. Nothing is visited on a regular basis in college except for naptime, bars and a nacho buffet).

When I first started practicing, I played it safe with basic yoga poses and feigned a general grasp of the terminology (uttanasan? isn't that the name of those cookies at ikea?). Then, thanks to my ever-on-the-cutting-edge-of-being-a-cool-20-something hermana-in-law, I began Bikram Yoga (yoga performed in a 100 + degree room. At once completely awesome and completely, utterly insane). After really getting hooked, I went on to take a college course in yoga to learn the methods behind the practice and really explore it on a more serious level. Yeah, the big time.

So despite keeping yoga as a real hobby and love for a few years now, I recently decided that my habit of doing yoga on a varying schedule-- sometimes as much as 5 times a week or as little as a few times a month--- was not quite achieving optimal yogi benefits. Yoga is best when practiced with regularity, and your butt looks better when yoga is best practiced.

Therefore, 30 days of yoga is the remedy for a) my inconsistent commitment and b) junk in the trunk.

Aside from de- b'donking one's booty, yoga is beneficial for a number of reasons. First, it's great for physical health- stretching your muscles, waking up your joints, lengthening your spine and getting your blood flowing. Also, it's good for mental health- great for gaining energy when you are feeling blue, or for calming your head when you need to settle down because you REALLY WANT TO BE STARK COUNTY TREASURE AND REALLY WANT TO MAKE SURE THAT THEY CAN HEAR YOU IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM.

While Phil D. may not be interested in either apologizing for his tone OR doing any yoga, I am certainly enjoying my little 30 day endeavor. As with most things that I attempt to do for longer than 12 minutes, it's been hard for me to stick to the real routine of getting at least a 40 minute practice each day. Between traveling to NC, job hunting, taking a few day-trips and trying to catch up on LOST 6 years after the rest of the world (again, I was in college. Very busy. Nacho buffets aren't gonna eat themselves, guys.) , I'm pretty pressed for time. However, I'm trying my best to stick to the plan-- at least 40 minutes of real, focused yoga practice each day.

So far, the results are positive. By day 5, I was holding crow for at least 35 seconds straight without weeping. By day 9, I could feel my posture getting better. Physically, the results are coming in at a great pace. Mentally...eh... not so much.

My BF lives in an apartment with incredible views of the NC mountains, a pool and even a garbage disposal (so fun! you can grind anything in that sink!) However, with the view, pool and entertainment also comes... neighbors.

Upstairs neighbors.

Who apparently like to wear shoes made of lead.

Originally, we were annoyed with the clammering, pounding footsteps above us 24/7. Whilst trying to enjoy an evening IPA and watch a little House Hunters International (I know, so hip. we're basically the JayZ and Beyonce of western NC.), we wondered aloud what could be going on upstairs-- is she running from an attacker? Is she practicing walking in stilts? Is Michael Flatley prepared for the dance-off of his life? Cuz she's ready to bring it. Now, it's still annoying, but also kind of a fun sleuth-game.

Often, when John gets home from work, I greet him with my daily list of hypotheses about the noise:

She's broken both legs and is on crutches! And she weighs 400 pounds!

She has dogs! Many, many cooped-up dogs who don't bark but love to chase each other all day.

She's a break-dancer!

She's Frankenstein.

Despite my big bang theories, an answer remains elusive. But one thing is for sure; when trying to get a little yoga-centered, namaste-relaxed, it is not helpful to have the cast of Stomp rehearsing above you. Talk about a yogi challenge: finding peace in a tough moment. While the physical benefits of my practice roll in, a slew of bad words, frustrated sighs and angry argghhs roll off my tongue. So much for inner om-shanti-shanti.

But I'm continuing on, half-way to the end of my goal and hopefully nearing some acceptance of our upstairs-neighbor's cacophony.

Who knows, maybe she is in the midst of a 30 day "rent a fun-bounce for my apartment" challenge.

New Name, Same Lame Jokes

2010-09-11T17:54:00.007-04:00

Well hello there! Thought I had forgotten about this blog? Never.

Though I've been away for a while now, it has only been a result of minor things like a) trying to graduate college b) trying to assimilate back into real life after spending 4 years in a place called Happy Valley c) Verizon took forever to fix our internet connection this summer.

But I'm back yet again, and this time with a new name.

Ablative of Separation: out! old news! So 2009!

Ablative of Manner: In! Hip! Easier to spell!

To refresh your memory (though I probably don't need to because you mega-fans always remember what I write), Ab.of Sep. came about when all of my dear friends left the country in 2009 to study abroad. Feeling the distance, I named my blog A of S, which is a term that comes from Latin and blah blah blah, boring cocktail party talk, blah blah... it made sense at the time becasue, you know, I was separated from them.

But now, 1.5 years later, oh-S0-much has changed. My friends returned to the states, senior year came and went, and here we are. College is done and the feelings of separation I once felt for a brief semester are now simply a reality of post-grad life. So rather than be forever lonesome missing my peeps, I have (with my newly acquired diploma and the obvious maturity that comes immediately in tow) adopted a new way of living and thus a new title for blogging- Ablative of Manner. Ablative of Manner is another Latin grammatical phrase that basically just defines the way in which something is done. ahem, The Manner. Therefore, Ablative of Manner is my new blog name, a name that reflects another reality of post-grad life: I'm learning quickly that I can't specifically direct whats going to happen in my life, but I can at least choose the manner in which I do things. So there, as cheesy as it sounds, is the creative juice behind the new name change. Se Fin.

Alright, well, lets not beat around the bush. New graduate, new life, new job... right?

Player, please.

Not for lack of effort, Man has not landed a job in her first few months with a BA in her possession. Resumes have been mailed, interviews have been conducted, but paychecks remain elusive.

**Let me be real wichu for a minute: Here's how I feel about graduating at this time in the world: The economy is suffering, so I can't say I didn't see this trouble coming. BUT, Things could be far worse. I certainly don't plan to turn this blog into an ode to my underused talents, my untapped potential, my sad regrets about majoring in English-- all that noise is a waste of time and type, I say. Being in my situation and trying to write a blog about how tough post-grad life can be is like having a distant uncle pass away and then attempting to write a book that parallels Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking-- yes, life isn't perfect right now, but it's certainly not impossible. I'm fortunate to have had a great summer internship and to have a family that doesn't mind me sticking around for a while--and it's only a matter of time before one of the 5000 resumes I send out ends up in the right hands (right?).**

I'm getting tired of seeing people blog about how tough things are right now. I'd rather talk about interesting things. Like Wautauga County.

What's that you say? You've never heard of Wautauga County, North Carolina? Pshh, you guys are so lame. Wautauga is where it's at. And by "it", I mean swimming holes. Or bears. Or banjos. Or my boyfriend.

My boyfriend- who for privacy's sake we'll call John- has lived in western North Carolina for officially 3 months now. After a year of dating long distance, John and I decided to become complete masochists and keep dating while he relocated to the mountains of NC for a job. Since then, I've fiddled with the idea of joining him in NC, trying my hand at the job market down south while the job market up North fails to pony up.

My first impressions of John's new hood were not necessarily promising. When job hunting, I came across ads that said things like "need help barreling hay" and "wanted: diabetic shoe fitter" or "associate biscuit maker". Not quite what I had in mind. However, the mountain views, 60 degree days, and eastern barbeque have been winning me over, and I am currently settling in for a job-hunt-while-getting- acquainted-with-appalachia-and-biscuit-gravy visit. So here I go, enjoying some long-overdue quality time with my better half (better in regards to science, being on time, reaching things on tall shelves and doing the dishes) and working hard to find some hard work (well, appropriately challenging, at least).

For now, the job hunt will take priority in my days, followed closely by my goal of doing 30 days of yoga in a row ( on day 11 now! an attempt to give myself some structure and commitment in a time of little responsibilities and zero structure. plus i can no longer reach my toes when tying my shoes. yikes.), and trying to get my bf to eat something other than bacon and cheese-- a job in itself, I argue.

Yes, a jam-packed schedule , as you can see.

So, there's the low-down on my life now. In sum: Here sits Man Gaverbo, holding crow pose in the mountains of north carolina, strategizing how to sneak turkey bacon into the pig bacon package without anyone noticing.... stay tuned.

In Which Man Misguidedly Plans to Flirt with HR Managers...

2010-03-23T20:44:00.010-04:00

Hey Team,

It's been a while. Let's do a quick catch-up: senior year, job search, swine flu, Bud Select raised its price, I got a haircut at one point but you can't tell anymore. But enough about me, lets talk about life.

You know those times in your life when you are very nervous or anxious about a certain event? Lets say a first date, or an interview, or maybe a time when your boss is signing a historic document and you're so excited you just can't help but drop a specific kind of bomb on national Tv?

Well, I'm coming upon a lot of those times in my life. First interviews, last exams, first linked In accounts, last Meal Plan accounts. I have many exciting firsts and a few anxious lasts coming up in the weeks ahead, so I've been steeling myself against the nerves and aiming to try a new way of coping (though I really dont see whats wrong with my usual methods .)

I've been reading a ton of blogs/articles/tweets about how to deal with the stress of nerves and how to cast yourself in a good light on the outside, even when the inside is nothing but a jumble of fear/anxiety/is-there-something-in-my-teeth/self consciousness.

In regards to job interviews, many advice columns tell me to remain calm-- be yourself, be confident, take control of your situation and give off an air of warm, enthusiastic charm. Many pros state this exact point (easy to grasp, logical, I follow...) , and then sum it up with a statement that, in the mind of Man Gaverbo, makes a sharp left turn, then a quick U-turn, then ollie's off the curb and goes a rogue Mach-3 over a city block : "Act the way you act on a first date-Show off your best qualities and be confident. An interview is a lot like a date."

Chickawhaat?

Alright, I understand the general theory behind this idea.The theoretical Man gaverbo, on a first date, would be funny, intelligent, engaged, and happy to partake in a good give-and-take situation. However, I am woman whose life has never, for a single minute, followed theory. My most recent experience with a first date went as follows:

Man, in an incredibly characteristic show of tardiness, leaves her house at 6pm for a 6pm date across town.

Man sits in traffic and wonders to herself why she is rushing to a date with a blonde guy. Yeah, a blonde. Man decides to pick up a bottle of wine. Make it two.

Man arrives to house of blonde guy one hour late. (But has two bottles of wine, so, you know, call it even.)

Man realizes that blonde guy has been meticulously deveining shrimp for her dinner.

Man tells blonde guy, regretfully, she is allergic to shrimp. Strike two,Man.

Man and blonde guy awkwardly laugh off the food faux pas. As soon as the laughter cedes, Man is struck by the sudden realization that she has nothing to say to this Blonde stranger.

Man's fear of silence is quickly molified by the fact that Blonde guy won't stop talking.

Man sits for roughly an hour while blonde guy talks about the following topics:

Cancer cells, Outter space, Washing dishes.

Man thanks herself for having the foresight to buy 2 bottles.

Man, in an effort to toss her hat into the ring of 'people who get to talk on this date', mentions that she got a manicure for the first time recently (man has a good,witty story to go along with this newly suggested topic)

Blonde guy interrupts Man's sentence by saying that he doesnt like it when girls pay too much attention to their looks.

Man stops talking. Oh hey there, second bottle.

Night falls, date progresses, curfew appears, end in sight.

Blonde guy walks Man to her car, attempts to kiss her on the cheek.

Man turns so quickly on her heels that she suspects her left ankle is now broken but has no time to waste in her mad dash to the drivers seat and away from the blonde guy.

If my interviews followed theory, and were thusly similar to a first date, my appointment would consist of awkward silences, monologues on the capabilities of NASA, and a foot injury.

HOWEVER, I understand the point these advisors try to make. Sometimes, nerves are hard to overcome. Sometimes, situations are just awkward and uncomfortable. Sometimes, we place so much emphasis and value on one meeting or event that it becomes bigger than we are. In those times, you need to check yourself: the moment will pass, the nerves will settle. The point is to keep calm- and the best way to do that is by keeping things in perspective.

So my method for all of these upcoming, nerve-inducing events (interviews, graduating, facing all those numbers that come before " % interest" on my salliemae reminders,etc) is to simply keep it in perspective. Remember that, even if you make a fool of yourself, you can always make up for it later- life gives us plenty of chances to screw up and plenty of chances to try again.

My best motivation for perhaps taking this advice, treating these interviews like a first date?
The Blonde guy, the chatterbox with a talent for insulting a person without losing a beat, turned out to be not so bad. He may not have had the best first-date review, but I've been dating him for 9 months now and no longer require 2 bottles of wine to get his jokes.

Yours,
Man

Thinking Out Loud

2010-02-04T12:07:00.005-05:00

Please Bear with me as I Gripe a Little Here:

Recently, I've been doing a lot of thinking about my generation, my peers, and myself. Perhaps because this is my final semester of college and all eyes are set on "the future", I have begun to take a hard look at what I've witnessed and experienced in the past few years. Moreover, I've spent a lot of time thinking about my peers and myself as what we are to others-- a demographic, a group, an "18-24" aged box on surveys, a generation that future generations will study, examine, and potentially fear (just as the general sentiment towards babyboomers is currently "oh no, those guys? the billions of people with billions of siblings, all waiting to eat up my paycheck and demolish my hopes of ever retiring?)

So far, I don't like what I see.

Last semester, I was fortunate enough to take a class that is consitently voted Penn State's top 'course to take before you graduate'. It isn't a business course, it isn't a writing course, it isn't a technology seminar-- it's a low level sociology class. Soc 005: Social Problems. The class is taught by Professor Frank Clemente, 2 sections a year, filled to the brim with about 700 students per section. There is always a rush to sign up for the course and always a waiting list of hopeful underclassmen aching to hear his lectures.

The course is basically a semester of storytelling. Professor Clemente teaches life lessons, like the importance of intervening in times of trouble, the importance of being loyal to old friends, and the importance of finding a good person to love and Never, ever letting her go- all through stories about his life.
Sure, it is not your typical class, but it is easily one of the best things I will take away from Penn State.
Professor Clemente grew up in Pittsburgh, just like I did, and my parents did, and my grandparents did. He lived in a very tight-knit neighborhood, was raised by a tight-knit family, just like I did, and my parents did, and my grandparents did. His stories not only struck me because of their importance, truth, and humor, but also because I could personally connect to so much of what he was saying.

Of all the great points Professor Clemente made last fall ( Respect yourself, don't shy away from following your dreams, or- my favorite- "for every dumb-shit guy there is a dumb-shit girl: your goal should be to make sure they find eachother and leave the rest of us alone."), the words that struck me hardest came at the end of the semester.

Prof. C was explaining his fears/expectations of the future, and noted that America was soon going to change in large ways. He told us that America used to be the most powerful country in the world, because if we went to war, we were likely going to win. Now, however, we have maintained that same mentality of great infalibility, without maintaining the true capability-- in other words, we still talk the talk, but can't necessarily walk the walk. Why is this? In his words :
" The past generations, your grandparents and great-grandparents, had no fear, no softness, no entitlement-- they were born into fire."

Professor Clemente was speaking literally-- our grandfathers worked in the steel mills, the factories, on railroads, and in underground mines. Our grandmothers and greatgrandmothers raised families on pennies, washed clothes in buckets of water and soap, and made cakes from scratch (what,no slice and bake?).

And here, only a few generations down the line, everything is different.

I know, I'm making an obvious point. Sure, the world has changed since the 1920s, 1950s, even 1980s. Of course our lifestyles and job options and career paths are grossly different from that of our greatgrandparents. But so too has our mentality changed. Our outlook on our work, our priorities, and ourselves, have changed in ways that are ultimately defeating.

My grandparents worked in the steel mills, on railroads, fought fires and fought in wars. Sure, nothing paid well, nothing required 10 years of schooling or put their names on a fancy business card. But the work came with dignity, and their effort came from pride.

Some call this group "the greatest generation", a generation that was born into fire.
What will people call our generation?
"The Cell Phone Generation" is one name I've heard. "Gen Millenium" is another.
After looking around these past few months, I'd call us the Generation of Entitlement.
Sure, most adolescents and early adults are a little spoiled. A little near-sighted. A little naive.

But at what point does a little bit of spoiling turn into a whole lotta selfish?

I see students who appear personally offended when Professors ask them to write 6 page essays. I see students who are stunned by the idea that low-pay, entry level jobs expect hardwork and effort.
I see students who are terribly inconvenienced by the meetings they are asked to attend, the activities they are asked to participate in, the enthusiasm they are asked to show-- in volunteer organizations.

Very,very,very few of us will ever work in a mine. I know, despite the total mystery of my future career path, that I will never see the inside of a steel mill or have to carry an axe into a burning building in order to put food on the table.

Every responsibility has its annoyances. Every job has its work. Every day has its challenge.
But in those responsibilities, those jobs, those days, we could all do well to show a little gratitude.
Moms and Dads are being laid-off of work, Policemen are facing pay cuts, adulthood isn't easy right now.

The least that we can do, as a group of young adults joining the rest of the world, is be a little grateful. Be a little bit more mature. Recognize that working, especially in these times, is a privalege. Being entitled to money, attention, or simply just expecting the easy road in life will only lead to a hard reality later down the line.

I have a roommate who has an ungodly amount of work to do, basically every day. She studies for most hours of each day, barely ever misses class, and owns books that weigh more than my leg. Even when things do not go her way, I have never heard her blame anyone but herself. I have never seen her be cynical, never watched her give up, and never known her to be anything but grateful for her opportunities and determined in her goals.

Maybe she was just fortunately raised by good parents. Maybe she just happens to have a down-home, southern way of putting up and shutting up. But whatever it is, I'm thankful to be around her and have some faith restored in the way our generation could turn out.

I suppose this is where I should sum-up my Rant. I suppose this is where I should make a bold condemnation of my generation or propose a great overhaul of attitude.

My mom, though a very tiny woman, is tougher and more hard working than anyone I have ever met. If I found out that she did infact moonlight as a Steel Mill worker, I would not be that suprised. She could probably sum up this large gripe and teach us all a good lesson. But I don't think I'm qualified for that. Today, I totally lost my cool while waiting for my email to load. I am not the picture of maturity and selflessness. But I am working on it. I'm trying my best to be grateful, to be mature, to be patient, and to take pride in my work, no matter the task. I'm also now more excited than ever before to join the workforce. Sure, a year from now I will probably be longing for a break from my 9 to 5, no naps-between-meetings life, but all-in-all I am thrilled to join the big-kid world. I am thrilled to grow up a little, to make my own money---- no, to Earn my own money, and hone some skills in the meantime. Whether I find myself editing some magazines, reviewing some books, filling out spreadsheets, or filling up coffee mugs, I'm ready to do the best I can with whatever I am given.

Until later,
Man

HBD, USA. Now with Afterword!

2009-12-03T16:13:00.002-05:00

::(Editor'sNote: The following entry was originally posted on July 4th, as an ode to America and a short, teasing monograph of my brother Pete and his gf, Laly. The post was temporarily disabled (html? codes? monetizing? i get lost...) at some point in July, but today it is back--- with an added afterword! Pete and his gf have more recently become Pete and his WIFE, so read on for some updates and general hilarity. Best, MG.)::

Today is America's Birthday.

I think it is safe to bet that, after many years, the USofA is kinda getting tired of the old "HotDogs-Hamburgers-Fireworks-And-DUI"celebratory tradition. Someday soon, I would like all of us to mix things up and plan a Roast to celebrate America. We can hit her with some zany jokes that poke fun at all the flaws of this 200+year old lady. Something along the lines of "Hey, Land of the free, everybody knows that you are totally flaky. You change the price of stamps more than Lindsay Lohan changes her hair color!" (ZING!)

(Ok, I need time to think of some better jokes. In the patriotic words of George Washington, "Topical satire, much like the Revolution, cannot be rushed. Haters to the Europe." )

This 4th of July is just one of the many celebrations that have been abounding over at the Gaverbo house recently.

More specifically, we are currently undergoing Wedding-Palooza, an event during which all things bridal are enforced, I mean bestowed, upon us. Just last week, I hosted a Bridal Shower in honor of my almost-sister-in-law, Senorita Naggy Fernandez. I call her Naggy because her hobbies include a) being all up in my grill and b) having opinions about the things she observes when up in said grill. Don't get me wrong, her interest in my life is generally helpful and born of genuine concern for my finanical/physical/wine-drinking betterment, but the nickname "Senorita Concerned-for-my-Wellbeing Fernandez" just doesn't have the same ring to it.

SPEAKING of rings, Naggy happens to wear a ring given to her by my big brother, Dr. Intrusive, Esquire.
Dr. Intrusive, Esquire, much like his betrothed, is a very supportive guy.
(I mean this literally. His head could be mistaken for a full moon, and his shoulders must work overtime to support that noggin. Pete can't nod in agreement with anything, because doing so would make him fall to the ground. Also, he disagrees with everything anyone says that doesn't include the words "Pete" and "awesome", so he generally just doesn't nod.)
Dr. Intrusive, Esquire, just graduated Law school and is currently studying for the Bar Exam. Though his schedule is packed, big brother still finds time to come home every night and "check in" on me. By this, I mean that Pete has decided to prepare for his Lawyer-days by grilling me as though I am on the stand in a really scary legal-type-scenerio. I now find myself choosing my words verrrry carefully, as it seems that anything I say or do really WILL be held against me in a court of law-- or mom's kitchen, as it were.

Despite these generally inexcusable flaws, Sra. Naggy and Intrusive,Esq. are not half bad. They typically treat me pretty well and are much better than other couples that one might encounter, such as Professor Disinterested and Captain Aloof. I imagine that they would not be fun to hang with.

Anyway, though Wedding Palooza can be tiring at times, the lovely couple is, admittedly, worth the trouble. It was around this time last year that the two were getting together after a brief separation period that followed a temporary reconcilliation that followed an utterly confusing near decade long courtship. When asked when he first fell in love with Naggy, Intrusive said "when I met her". I say, he had a very interesting way of showing it. I guess, if I have learned anything from these two, it is that they each have unique ways of "keepin on", but, in the end, they "get 'er done'. (Naggy's down-home, folksy way of talking is really rubbing off on me.)

So, happy birthday to America, and happy TWELVE weeks until wedding day to the happy couple.

Freedom aint free,
Man Gaverbo

December 3, 2009

Well, time does fly, doesn't it?

Since the composition of my HBD,USA post, America has added a few more months to her years, and Dr. Instrusive and Sra. Naggy have added a few more rings to their fingers. (NB: by rings, i mean BLINGS. Naggy's rock is the size of an acorn afixed to a softball. Yowza.)

A few months ago, the gaverbos headed south to a foreign country called Puerto Rico to attend a wedding that was pretty much the dopest event since the nuptials of J.Lo and her scary vampire-looking husband, Mark Anthony. (Seriously, married in the same catherdral and reception at the same hotel!! I'm just waiting for Laly to simultaneously release an album, a perfume, and a line of booty shorts.Puerto Rican chica see, Puerto Rican chica do.)

The wedding took place on a blamy night in late September, full of toasts and polyglots and Earth,Wind,&Fire songs. It was awesome to see my big brother and new big sis look so very lovely, very overheated, and very happy together.

Woops, I mean here.

Since that time, I have traded my sandals for rainboots, springing back into action in good old Center County, PA. With the semester now winding down, the past few months seem like nothing but a blur of weddings (big ups to my cousin Jean and her new Hubby, Chris, whose wedding last week was my 2nd of 3 appearances as a bridesmaid this season. Great wedding, very great couple.)

Now I am faced with only 2 weeks of work until HoLiDaY bReAk 09, wherein this heroine will sleep late, eat big, and attempt to buy Christmas gifts for friends, family, and boyfriend with a combined budget of 18 dollars. How will she do it? Where will she shop? Does her boo enjoy Macaroni Frames and Coupons for one hour of "Annie Time"? Will her new sister, who happens to be her gift-receiver in the family grab bag, enjoy her mix tape and Penn State mug? Will her roommates like their 'free hugs'? We will have to wait and see.

With any luck, my gift giving will measure up to the shopping abilities of my boyfriend, who picked up this little treasure while in Portland last weekend:

Apparently, Beer socks are a girls best friend.

That is all for now, hang tight and stay warm!

An Open Letter

2009-09-10T15:50:00.002-04:00

To: The Uni Mart Lady, et al
From: Man Gaverbo, on behalf of a silent many
Re: Hatin'

Dear Lady,

I get it. You hate me. There is something about my round face and stupid glasses that makes you want to stare me down until I burst into flames or get a particularly insidious form of H1N1.
Over the past 3 years or so, I have patronized your business on a frequent basis. By patronize, I mean to say that I have stopped off at your little corner store to trade some Diet Dr. Pepper for some cash. However, it is apparent to me that by 'patronize', you think I mean 'come to kill your children and steal your identity and make your life utterly unlivable until you one day decide to end it, alone and childless and poor.'
I assume this because your demeanor towards me is befitting of someone in this type of situation. Sometimes, when shopping along the far wall of your store, looking for aforementioned Diet Pepper, MD, I am afraid to fully turn my back to you, and instead stand slightly sideways, preparing to dodge any mean stares, punches, or bullets that you may send in my immediate direction. It is not an exaggeration when I say that you are so mean to me that I sometimes leave your lil' mart on the verge of tears, wondering through my Catholic guilty what I could have done to upset you to such an amazing degree. I realize that your job is less than glamorous, and that working a small store that is open late in a college town is not quite a utopic dream, but, please, please, quit hating me so hard. I have tried for a long time to overlook your death-glares and hum quietly to myself in order to better ignore the distinct growl that comes from within your pursed, angry, old lady lips when I browse the cookie aisle. But in this, my senior year, I am officially putting my foot down (indirectly, through a blog that you, and countless others, will never read.)

I get it. You hate me.

You need to turn the page, woman. You need to turn this page in your big cannon of hatin', and just move on to the chapter where you accept that the real reason that you are angry is because McLanahans gets way more business and has way better hours and way more fun things for employees to look at while I browse the cookie aisle. I am not the reason that you are angry, so you need to step off and move on.

While you move on, bring the lady from the coffee place at the HUB. Yeah, you know the lady that I am talking about. I think she is your sister. I have thought about it long and hard, and decided that you must be related, and that, together, you suffered a terrible childhood during which your parents were eaten by lions. Your adoptive foster mom had a thing for show tunes and disney soundtracks, which she would play at all hours of the day while she drank heavily and forced you to reenact scenes in british accents. The catch was, her favorite show was the Lion King, and for obvious reasons you two were really sensitive about the whole lion-eating-mom&dad-thing, so you hated reenacting it. And when you finally protested, vocalizing your utter hatred of J.T.T's young Simba and challenging the accuracy of Pumba's Hakuna Matata myth, she sent you off to live in Center County PA, where you could only find work at small shops, and had to spend your day serving, ironically, Lion fans.

That is the rationalization I have had in my mind for 3 years now, Lady at the Hub Coffee Place.

But no more.

The truth is out. You are just down right CRABBY. Really, lady, I KNOW that you know who I am. I am the girl who, for over 2 years, has been the first student to arrive at your shop 3 mornings a week. I am the girl who, among a group of tall, sandwich-obsessed, sleepy-eyed boys, emerges from the radio station directly across from you around 7:30am and orders a coffee. I never wear disguises, I rarely change my hair style, and I am always about 1/3 the height of the boys who are with me. And yet, you act as though we are strangers... strangers who hate eachother with the heat of a million tall coffees. When I greet you with a "good morning", you can do little else but stare at me with a look that says "i swear to god if you say one more word I'll come at your with a razor blade."

You need to cool down. My mother raised me to be a polite girl, and to always respect the workers who are just doin' their thing from day to day. For this reason, despite your unending sass, I have continued to be nice to you. I smile, I ask polite questions (how are you? did you have trouble getting here in the snow? where did you get that lovely visor with the coffee mug printed on it?) and yet I get nothing. Doing mama proud, I have tried my best to overlook your rudeness, even when you give me a plain bagel instead of a blueberry bagel and refuse to exchange it, claiming that it IS the bagel I ordered and "sometimes there just aint too many blueberries in 'em."
I bite my curse-word-laden tongue when you tell me "we're out of ice" as the worker standing 3 feet behind you fills a cup with cubes of frozen water that could otherwise be referred to as 'ice'. I smile politely and move on with my day, thinking of your sad childhood amongst the crazy lady and assume that possibly she also had a penchant for ballads from "Annie", and therefore it is my name, and not me, that you hate. Such an explanation would be acceptable.

Until now.

Lady, say hello. Smile, just a teeeeny bit. Acknowledge the clear sound of the ice machine rumbling behind you and indulge me. I know that your job is not awesome. College kids are actually some of the most obnoxious people on the face of the planet. They are kind of like middle schoolers.... but worse, because, they have credit cards and fake IDs and favorite types of coffee. So, when you face them, the are generally greedy and hung over and very picky about their soy decaf mocha whatevers. And working a cash register is lame. I know, from personal experience, that retail and whatnot is just down right painful. I myself have experienced the idiocy of customers who cannot function as independent adults and thus blame it on the cashier when they purchase a coffee maker instead of a tea pot. (True Story.)
I have experienced people who try repeatedly to buy cigarettes and candy bars with food stamps and, when told that it is not legal to do so, throw the pack of cigarettes at me and call me a string of precisely chosen mean words.
I have experienced customers who purchase Slushies from a machine that is NOT turned on, and thus dispenses only a minor amount of residual sludge and sugar water that fills their cup barely 1/8 of the way to the top, only to try and RETURN the drink for a full refund five minutes later.

People can just be unbelievable.

But, rather than hate all over everyone, you could, perhaps, let it go. Moreover, you could Appreciate the customers who politely ask how you are, or try to act friendly, or smile, or just breathe in your general area. Sure, sometimes we have the audacity to ask for a small cup of ice to cool down the coffee. But maybe you could take a bit of advice from me and the 290849189753874729085 other people who have ever been in your position. Stop hating. A job has its ups and downs. Sometimes people yell at you and throw cigarettes, sometimes people forget their wallets in the car, sometimes people order bagels WITH fruit baked into them. But maybe you should appreciate the ones who don't, or be grateful for the customers that put a tip in your jar, or thank you for your service, or wander up from the pharmacy department to share some M&Ms with you. Whatever the case may be, take it from me, a seasoned retail worker of 2 months; the customer isn't always right, but they ain't always wrong, neither.

College, Chapter Four

2009-08-19T15:51:00.014-04:00

I am composing a new entry, and so it is safe to assume that I currently have at least a dozen very important tasks to finish. It seems that my last post was published sometime back in June, when I still felt the pressure of the job searching, gym visiting, society joining obligations in my life. Feeling said pressure, I of course chose to blog rather than to bite the bullet and get things done and done.

Post that post, summer really set in. I worked from time to time, worked out from time to very rare time, and only joined society when the words "free" and "sample" were dangled out at the local Costco. My surrender to a summer of extreme relaxation resulted in few posts and a near disappearance of Man Gaverbo.

But now she's back! Cue wild anticipation.

So, I'm a senior now (well, techincally still a Junior in terms of credit-level... seems that leaving 2 weeks prior to finals stunts your gpa and matriculation pattern just ever-so-much... but that is neither here nor there).

Three years down in Happy Valley and only one single, 9 month stint left. One more homecoming, one more THON, and only a dozen or so all-nighters. I'll try not to be preemptively nostalgic, but I do have to admit that time flies when you are having the kind of fun that you may not remember specifically, but always remember in vague relapses and suprise bruises.

Anyway, I'm getting off track now. Let's take a look at some new things in my life, shall we?
First off, I've got new digs this year-- grown up digs. As in, I have my own room and I don't have to sneak my Bud Select past any RAs.

202 Bjt, the homestead, is looking excessively fashionable, thanks to my roommate Ryan. Ryan has pimped us out in a way that Xzibit would only think of in his wildest, grill covered, loud speaking, kind-of-endearing-but-mostly-just -shouting- a-lot-at-the-screen, dreams.

In my living room, I have a tv that I refuse to turn on. I refuse because I am convinced that the thing actually cost more than my 7th grade braces (big ups, Dr. Shnorkian, what what holler back expander bands). I'm not too up on the Tv lingo--- because I still prefer to gather around a large am radio and listen to spooky stories about the reds bombing us---but, if forced to guesstimate, I would say that the screen measures about 100 million inches by several stories tall. The picture on our jumbo screen is as sharp as my dazzling wit, and the sound that surrounds all ears in the vacinity is clearer than invisilign on its first day of alignment. With such chic,decorative decor'tronics (electronics that are pretty), I find it best to stay in my room amongst my glorified-calculator-of-a-laptop and my glorified-walkie-talkie-of-a-phone and hope that the sound of Halo Wars is only a game and not a real outbreak of warfare in the common room.

Beyond the decor'tronics, the trappings of 202 bjt have taught me some new life lessons.
I apparently used to live in the dark ages of refrigeration. I was under the silly, simple impression that a full refrigerator/freezer utility was enough to satisfy and satiate an apartment of 4 people. BOY, was I wrong.

As it turns out, the appropriate number of refrigeration devices for an apartment whose membership weighs roughly 550 pounds combined is not One, not two, not five, but SIX.
We have six refrigerators.

Yes, they are not ALL full sized. But, nonetheless, if the power went out in all of the other apartments on the floor except for ours, we could harbor all of the potentially-spoiled food that our floormates would seek to salvage. This kind of luxary is great, because there are simply times when the 35 foot walk to the kitchen is too much to bare. In those moments, I'm grateful for the 3 refrigerators that fill the space inbetween myself and my distant, elusive, kitchen refrigerator. Big ups to last-years tenant for leaving a pretty little fridge behind!

Even better is the cast of roommates filling the pimped out pimp house. Brian, my friend despite owning skinny jeans, fills up a room with his own knack for pairing greens and browns and fem-rock without losing an emo beat. Ryan, as previously mentioned, has decked out our a.p.t. with p.h.a.t. stuff and somehow still finds time to introduce me to new, intellectual jams.

But best of all is our new addition, a lady from down south, with charm, pizzazzzz, and an unnecessarily large supply of Hello Kitty merchandise, Xtina Dangerang.

Dangerang signed on to live with us without truly getting to know B-ri, Ry-ry, or myself, I-I, and therefore is suffering a sad reality check in this, our first week of cohabitation. Xtina, or as I like to call her, Mulan, resembles the Yellow Power Ranger, except with less violence and background music accompanying her most of the time. While I sound mildly (read: incredibly) rude and offensive, I should say that I really respect Xtina for her willingness to take a joke. Also, I am grateful for her ability to protect us with a swift roundhouse kick to any Putty that we may encounter in day to day life.

The homefront is definitely solid and chic, and thus Man finds herself with little to fret over. Aside from my impending, crippling debt and the distinct liklihood of running the 5th-year-senior-victory-lap in 2010/2011, all is well at mg's blogspot. The summer of relaxation has almost officially come to a close, leaving bits of a farmers tan and a few blog-worthy stories in its path (hey, are you an english major? have you taken courses fully dedicated to inventing bland/universal/trite personifications of the seasons?)

For now, the stories will have to wait. I will invariably be disclosing my tales from behind the cash register at one of Americas most beloved retail pharmacies, most of which contain a) language unsuitable for children b) throwing of toothpaste/cigarettes/Tastycakes c) a sweet polyester blue shirt, worn by yours truly.

Also, if there is time, I will possibly get around to telling you some summer dating stories that consist of a) vomit b) vomit c) the loss of all dignity or power in a new relationship when vomiting enters the picture.

Until then, I hope each of you enjoys these last days of Summer. Wear sunscreen!

Yours, Man

Enough about me, ENFP

2009-06-09T18:20:00.015-04:00

Before I begin my post today, I want to apologize to anyone who regarded my last entry as rude, insensitive, or incorrect. If John and Kate read this blog (which I assume they do), I apologize for my accusation about your daughter. I was wrong.

Clearly, JOEL and his selfishness are at fault for the dissolution of Gosselin marriage.

I'm glad we cleared that up.

Anway, on to more important things.

As of late, I have had ample time to do absolutely nothing. Sounds great, right? Eh, not so much. Today is roughly day 35 of SummerOhNine and already I am a little (a lot) stir crazy. Im trying to do as Shery Crowl advises and soak up the sun, but Pittsburgh is somewhat fickle with sunlight and my dematologist recommends spf 25 and shade. So instead, I'm doing as Oprah advises, and getting to know myself. "Live your best life", she tells us. "Done and Done,Oprah," I reply.

(I have to admit that I am a little suspicious of her recently, though. O says that drinking tons of green tea will help you lose 15 pounds in a snap. Warm Tea? No more treadmill? Not falling for that one, homegirl.)

So I set off to get to know myself and thus find my best life.As it turns out, I'm really quite dull at the moment. While I love a little me time, after a while, I start to wonder what good it is to "live my best life" without having anyone around to be like "whoa, anne, your life is the best right now- you are like a short, white, irish version of Oprah."

I'm all for self-fullfillment, but if O gets Gail King and Dr. Oz and Rachel Ray, I should have my own posse too, right? Right.

So how does one find her best life and then collect her awesome, best life gang (BLG)? I say, start at the very beginning. Figure out who you are and what you want.

And How do I do this? How do I find the answers to life's most endless, philosophical, esoteric, infinitely sought questions?

Google it.

I typed something brilliant, along the lines of "learn about me or whatever" into Google and got this little nugget. It's a shorter version of the Myers Briggs Personality test. Go take it. Seriously. TonsOfFun. Do it now.

I should say that I don't generally buy into the rigidity of personality tests. I think that people, just being people, go through phases and moods and 'growth periods' (big ups to Psych 101 prof) that impact our personalities. But the MB test takes all those variables into account and tries to deliver a fairly accurate 'diagnosis' of personalities. There are something like 16 different personality types, and each diagnosis really just explains how a person might socialize/approach issues/ interact with others.

This isn't some A type vs. B type test, where the results are like "hey man, you are a typeB. High five! you are the life of the party but also you are unemployed, superficial, and all your cousins think you are an alcoholic based on your behavior at family reunions." Or "Good afternoon, type A personality, you are extremely dull. However, your 401k is rock solid and you have quite impeccable hygine. Cheerio." (all type A personalities are also british)

My point is, MB just don't play it like that.

According to the test, I am an ENFP, and, while I was unsurprised by the results, I felt very humbly put in my place as I read about all of the quirky (read: stupid. you are an idiot, you dumb ENFP) things that I do.

For example, one thing I read said "ENFP's who find themselves in a situation where they are unable to discover and enjoy new people and things tend to get whiny. Really whiny. "

...gulp...

guilty.

I will probably throw myself on the ground and bemoan every part of my existence if I am bored with my life for more than a week or so. But the thing is, I have always known that, and I just FIGURED that everyone would be like "Oh, Annie is laying on the ground whining about Lord knows what, so I just need to tell her a joke or kick her or something and she will probably get distracted and stop whining and be better tomorrow." Some personalities, without consciously trying, just jive well with that. My friend Ryan, when I whine, tells me that he understands that it must be really hard to be a fat girl with no friends and bad fashion sense and that I should probably just end my life. And it makes me laugh and then I'm fine! The end!

But some people don't get it. They just stare at me with a horrible look. And, to that, I say "what's his problem?" That is where this test comes in handy!

The results explain the strengths and weaknesses of different typers and the ways in which each type can work to understand the others. I can see that some types perceive this 'quirk' as the most terrible, horrible action ever and don't understand that I am just acting dramatic for the sake of having SOMETHING to do when I'm otherwise unoccupied. So, Anne, you should learn to tone it down. Epiphannie!

Very helpful in general, I'd say, as self improvement is a good thing. Plus, if you know the "type" of your friends/family it is super entertaining to read all of the information about "how type x and type y interact"... sometimes eerily accurate, always very amusing, often extremely helpful.

Of course, reading about my flaws or failings did not awaken some incredible new reality in my head, where I saw the light and decided to change all of my habits (sorry Oprah, I don't feel like living my best life too soon. I feel like bloggin' and eating some cheese cubes.)

I still will probably always run late for appointments, I still will always get restless easily, and I will always be inclined to have muscle tension and headaches (no, really, the test said so. It is written. Step off, self diagnosis haters.) However, I AM now more aware of how others may perceive my traits, and how I should perceieve the habits of others.

As for my BLG, my posse, my crew? I like my friends that I have now, so I will probably keep them around. And hopefully knowing a lil bit more about myself will help me understand them a lil bit mo', too. Of course, I will still continue to petition for new members into my BLG, such as the 3 best friends I have always wished for: Mindy Kaling, Kelly Ripa, and Kelly Ripa's Husband, Mark Consuelos. I will write an entry sometime soon that explains why I feel that these 3 people, plus man gaverbo, could make an absolutely fantastic four. But until then, I recommend to all of you, my friends, go find your best life. Or at least one that suits you for today, if you are an ENFP and thats how you roll.

Right quick

2009-06-05T19:29:00.006-04:00

I just want to know which one of the "8" caused John and Kate's marriage to crumble.
Was it Alexis?

I bet it was Alexis.

.

Puns.

2009-05-25T20:08:00.009-04:00

After nine days of nonstop babysitting, I'm leaving behind my mommy lifestyle and returning to my super fly gangsta lifestyle. And by gangsta lifestyle, I mean blogging and watching House marathons ( it's Scurvy you guys!!! What a crazy twist! Push ten CCs of Orange Juice!).

Though playing Mom to a family of 5 for the past week was fun and heartwarming, I'm quite content to be off the clock now. I can take a shower without little fists knocking on the door, I only have to watch Dora the Explorer if I want to (si, a veces), and this morning when I slammed my elbow into the wall, I said "Shit" and didn't have to follow up with "Don't Ever Repeat That!"

Kids are great, but I'm sure I need some more time before I've got my own little bundles of peanut-buttery-handed joy. I'm happy just keeping up with my own peanutbuttery hands, thankyouverymuch.

*********
Anyway, today is Memorial Day. In my book (or blog, as it were), that's the official start of Summer 09. The outlook for the summer is bright, though so far things have gotten off to a slightly bumpy start for 2 reasons:

1)Fashion-Wise, you may remember me reporting/lamenting the popular stylistic chernobal that is Maxi-Dresses. I thought that these curtains-turned apparel were the worst thing we would see.

Until I saw rompers.

Okay, Maxi Dresses make us all look like Pregnant Gypsies.

Stores like American Apparel apparently (apparel-ently?) want all women to look like members of the Cirque De Sole squad.

And now, most fashion outlets want us ladies to look like babies. Very tall babies that wear one-piece outfits with booties that look as though we are rocking some Pampers.

Oh, America, what have we gotten ourselves into? I know the economy is bad, but that is no excuse to run to your nearest swap of fabric and make yourself look as absurd as possible.

2) Swine Flu.
(I know, I know- TheSwineFlu should come before TheRompers as the number one downer of Summer OhNine. Whatever. Turn the page.)

All I want to say about Swine Flu is one quick thing:

Everyone wants a cure for this flu. The world agrees that it blows, and it needs to get gone. But we all need to stop focusing on the negative and look at the unbelievably positive, awesome opportunity to create a pun-tastic name for the cure to Swine Flu.

That name is...

Drumroll...

The Oinkment!!

If you have Swine Flu, you need an Oinkment.
It will cure you AND make you giggle. Win Win!

I totally want the Surgeon General to announce that we are on the brink of finding an Oinkment. I want Mehmet Oz to explain to millions of American Women that the Oinkment will not only cure Swine Flu but also help you lose weight and gain energy. I want CNN's medical experts to look seriously into the camera and say "We huffed, we puffed, and we blew that house down. Those pigs won't stand a chance against our Oinkment."

...This is how I presume the medical industry works.

Annnyway, those are my two thoughts for this, the first day of Summer O9.
That, and that I want to start a show on NPR called "Morning Addition", wherein basic Math problems are broadcast across America. I thought of it while running yesterday and laughed so hard that I had to stop for a break. Then I realized how incredibly lame I am and ran some tough hills. Gotta look good in those Rompers!

By Anny other name

2009-05-18T11:33:00.004-04:00

I’m coming off the DL.
DL, here, could be interpreted as Down Low or Disabled List—either will suffice, both are true.

For the past few weeks I’ve taken a sabbatical from pretty much my entire existence. But now I’m back and ready for action. I bet you all thought I got too cool for this nonsense and went on to bigger, better, more succinct things --like Twitter.
The answer is yes AND no. I have, to be fair, started to tweet my little heart out, but rest assured that I have gotten neither too cool nor too abbreviated for this here blog. While I’m off thefacebook and on to the twitter, I won’t desert my number one stunna’, ab.of.sep

I began the blog as a way to keep in touch/keep up with all my amigos studying in Ecuador, Chile, Ireland, Spain, France, Italy, Scotland, & Australia (pheww. So well-traveled, you guys! ). But now they are all on their way BACK to the Land of the Free, the big mac, the 24 hour walmart super center, and an extreme distaste for Taxation without representation. We don’t mess with that noise.

I find myself, thus, with a question of purpose—Should I keep blogging? Do I have any more reason to feel the separation and broadcast it online? Do I have anything left to say? How do I get the damn links to open up in new windows already?

For a while, I thought that the blog had perhaps run its course. I didn’t have all that much to say, and I was really preoccupied with watching teen cribs and trying to pretend that I don’t have a thesis to propose. But then, like an adorable scene from an adorable Meg Ryan movie, an adorable thing happened.

(Cue music)
I was going about my business, spending a nice little morning full of Annie-Time in Philadelphia whilst visiting the sister. It was terribly rainy but not terribly enough to divert my usual coffee-with- a- bagel- and- diet- coke craving upon wakeup. So I headed off to head off the hunger and spend some quality time with my breakfast and me.

Not all that adorable yet, but I’m getting there, so hold your horse power.

A few hours later, back in my sister’s new house, I took a break from organizing her bookshelves to use the bathroom-(big ups to Al Roker and the lady from real simple magazine for showing me the “hot new tips’ for bookshelf tidying” on the today show. I had no idea I was shelving all wrong all this time.)
While washing my hands, I plotted out my afternoon-- I would finish up in the house, make a trip to the library, and then head to town to the meet with sister. Nowhere in my interior plan-making monologue did I say “oh, also, I will get locked in this bathroom for about 30 to 45 minutes”.

But, as the saying goes, life happens when we are busy making other plans that don’t involve getting trapped in small spaces.

The doorknob would not turn. Not even a little. The door wasn’t locked, but it was on lockdown.
I didn’t panic. In fact, I didn’t get upset at all. I considered my other exit : a window that led to a small patch of grass two flights below—womp womp0- and moved on to plan B: engaging the doorknob in an epic battle.

As background, you should know that my sister just moved into this house on Friday. She spent the weekend in Pittsburgh, bringing her time in the house to a grand total of 10 hours. Also, she has 3 roommates whom she basically does not know at all. Moreover, I got to the house around 11 Sunday night, met one roommate, and went to bed, so no one even really knew I was there.

My option of breaking through the door with my brute force was not quite an option. I didn’t want to spend the day hanging out in the bathtub, but I also didn’t want my first impression upon the roommates to be ‘that weird girl that broke our bathroom door”. I therefore had to apply as much pressure as I could to open the stubborn door without doing any damage to it.

Conundrum!

So I did what I usually do when caught in this type of sticky situation: I had a good laugh. The prospect of being trapped was not too great, but the prospect of having one of the roommates come home and awkwardly ask through the door “who are you and why did you lock yourself in my bathroom?” was decidedly more un-great. So I guffawed a bit at the funny-cuz-it’s-sad sitch and thought that this was just the sort of clumsy story that I would want to share with my jet setting friends. I started to feel a little sad, a little separated, and a little frustrated that I couldn’t layout the door with a fierce roundhouse kick to its paneling.

This is where it got adorable and I thought of my little bloggy.

As I rummaged through the drawers of the bathroom, looking for some tools (yes, tools. I was going to build my way out of the room.) I thought “hmm, perhaps I will blog about this, and broadcast my never-ending bad luck to the world. But probably not- it’s really not that eventful…”

Just then, I dug my hand into my pocket (thinking very literally and looking for a handy pocket knife, in its natural habitat) and pulled out a slip of paper. Looking to see what it was, I found that it was my receipt from the above-mentioned breakfast (see, it wasn’t just a random tangent).

The receipt had my name printed on the top.
Oh, wait, did I say my name?
Oh, my mistake.
It did not say “Annie”, or even “Anne”.
Nope, it said “Anny”.

What. The.Hell.Food.Service.Industry.

Maybe it wasn’t quite the caliber of being mistaken for a woman named Man, but the stupidity of the cognomen confusion was enough to bring me back to earth and back to Man Gaverbo. Annie, spelled with a Y? Oh playa please, I know that Y can sometimes be a vowel but it can definitely NOT sometimes be "ie".

I have never been mistaken for a person with an interesting or difficult name, yet somehow, again and again, people just get it oh-so-wrong. But I like it. And if this were an adorable Meg Ryan movie, that would have been the moment when the adorable protagonist, caught up in her distracting life, her attention turned away from everything she THOUGHT she should be focused on, got an adorable little bop on the head. An adorable bop to remind her of someone or something that she stopped thinking of. An adorable Epiphany.
Maybe it wasn’t so profound, but this was my epiphany.

My epiphAnny. Yes. How damn adorable is that?

Maybe my button nose is not quite the button nose of Meg Ryan, but the broken knob stopped me in the midst of my million-mile- an –hour- plan- making-marathon, and the little receipt made me think of my itty bitty blog. I like sharing my daily epiphAnnys with anyone who cares to listen. Even if it is just my mom, and she only reads the blog to make sure that the tuition money going towards a degree in English is doing its job.

Whatever the case may be, I’m back. Same name, same place, and maybe a little less separation anxiety! Who knows what adorable stories and puns I will encounter next?

Holy Cow, Holy Week!

2009-04-09T01:20:00.004-04:00

Being that I have a group project due in 12 hours that is worth 30% of my term grade, I have made the command decision to blog. Productivity? Not in this economy. Bloggin' while munching on some Poptarts? Yes, We Can. You see: it's all about progressive thinking.

AnnieWay, let's begin by giving props where props are due.
This week's Props go to:

1) Jewish People.
Passover has begun! The holy days commemorating God sparing the Hebrews when he killed the first born of Egypt, the Exodus, and the liberation of the Israelites from slavery. Source: Wikipedia, the Bible, my Jewish Studies Seminar (but not really), and an office clip that is largely unrelated to this point I am making.
I first learned about Passover from an episode of Rugrats (I believe it was titled "The Rugrats Passover Special", cryptically enough). So, Any religious holiday that is good enough for Tommy Pickles is certainly good enough for me. I wish all of my Jewish readers a great Passover. Now if only Doug would make a Holy Thursday special, I could die a happy woman.

**Also, on the Rugrats note, I should mention that I have been listening to this song all week. And now you will be, too.**

2) The Working Poor
When I say props to the working poor, I mean props to me and my friend, B-Town O'Wowy. B-Town and I, as of Monday, had a combined 30 dollars in our PNC bank accounts. As of today, B-Town is offish a member of the American Working Poor (zero bucks). I am dozens of rungs above her on the economic ladder, coming in with a resounding 19 dollars in my bank account and $1.17 left on my meal plan. At this point, I'm thinking of just buying Google or building a hotel made of diamonds or something. Oprah should watch her back.

Bridget and I have totally embraced our pauper-hood by ceasing to shower and eating every meal as though it is our last (read: over-eating followed by subsequent food -coma -naps and general regret, guilt, and inevitably fruitless reevaluations of our lifestyle). Also, we have taken to eating only the most low-brow of foods, such as my prefered beverage , "Clear Choice sparkling water beverage", which costs 79 cents and tastes kind of like a very watered down freeze pop with a little bit of carbonation thrown in. For 79 cents, it cannot be beat! Plus, I am a notoriously indecisive shopper who can spend easily 20 minutes in front of a display of beverages and never make a choice. Thus, "CLEAR CHOICE" beverage makes it easy for me. There IS no guess work! The choice is Clear! It's right there on the bottle. Thanks, God, America, and Cott Beverages Inc of Tampa, Florida, for all that you do.

For her part, B-Town spends a good amount of time hooking herself up with some free foods, thanks to her woman-about-campus status. Also, she will not shy away from partaking in one or nine servings of Fruit By the Foot and munching on some PopTarts (Pauper tarts??) whenever she can. If homegirl were not a vegetarian, I swear she would have KFC buckets o' chicken with her todos los dias. Don't get me wrong, B-Town is stunning and gracious and smart. But, in our newfound Working Poor Phase, we are going big or going home(less).

And when I say going big, I literally mean physically big. I read once that the American poor are some of the most obese poor people in the world. This fact surprised me, and I recall stroking my chin inquisitively as I posited that the assertion seemed counterintuitive. However, now finding myself in their shoes, I can attest to the fact that having very little money sends you into a freaking CrAzY don't- know- where-my- next- meal- will- come- from- quick!- eat-everything- in -sight- all the time-with -little- regard- for- anything- else- Panic.
This brush with poverty, if nothing else, has taught me some lessons in portion control. Namely, four bagels a day is quite enough, and ben and jerry's new cheesecake ice cream really DOES taste like a spoonful of pure butter. And eating something that tastes exactly like a spoonful of butter is pretty much the same as eating a spoonful of butter. Bad News. Put the Ice Cream down and walk quickly to your nearest treadmill.

At least, if forced to sell my jackets for beer money, my butter-induced burliness will keep me warm! So props to Butter, too!

3) My final Props goes to my Mom, who locked her keys in her car today. "Oh no," she said while chatting with me on the phone, "darn it, I locked the keys in the car. Annie, could you call dad and ask him to call me?"

....?

....Props to my mom for being a completely brilliant, loving, hilarious woman who still has NO grasp of telephone technology. I know I sound like I am teasing her (and yeah, I am) but Mom recently had me write down a series of phone numbers that she needed, so that she could carry the list with her, with her cell phone in tow, in case she needed to make a call.

List of Contacts installed directly into the cell phone? What??? What is this, The FUTURE or something??

Props to Mom, for learning all about cell phone contact lists, for staying calm as she realized her car-key-blunder, and for being an all-around awesome lady.

And PROPS to all you readers! Happy Holy Week (except for Friday, that one's a glum one.)

Until Later,
mg

Quick post about Nothing.

2009-03-29T15:06:00.015-04:00

Totally unrelated preface to this blog:

My friend Mike is in Galway right now, where I was GOING to be this semester, before I pulled a classic Man-Gaverbo-Knee-Jerk-Reaction-Move and started a THON org despite the fact that i had no idea what that even entailed, and then rejected my Ireland study abroad offer before it even was really offered to me. I think I made the right choice, though, because THON was great, and I'm having a lot of my own "life lessons/experiences" here in the valley, AND sometimes Mike posts little blog entries of his own that make me want to vom.

Exhibit A.

As I signed in today to type a lil som'in som'in here, my blogspot page informed me that Mike had just updated--- A little post all about him and his super cute gf and their amazing fun love in Ireland. Screw you, Mike and Sarah. I hope you both get stolen by leprechauns in the emerald isle.

Jk Jk Jk. you two are tres adorable. I'm glad you are having an awesome time and being super cute 2gether. Great post, Michael.

Anyyway, on to my point.

Did you ever see the edited-for-tv version of "I know what you did last summer", starring J.Love.Hew, Freddy. P.Jr, Sarah.Mich.Gel., and Ryan Phillipe (what the hell, Ryan, get a third name already, ya noob.)?

Well, if you did, you would know that the film is a) amazing. b) ahead of it's time. c) littered with curse words and cool, youth-type lingo. In the edited version, the characters' voices are dubbed over many,many times due to all the swearing. And it is hilarious.

Let me just say, I think that gratuitous, unnecessary, out-of-context cursing is the tops. Absolutely the highest form of comedy, aside from falling down a flight of stairs or talking sandwiches. So the constant swearing in I.K.W.Y.D.L.S just delights me. Even better, in the edited version, producers used a phrase to cover their assphalts on network tv that absolutely tickles me--- "Stuff you." Instead of using the f-bomb, the writers came up with a clever little saying ("Stuff You!"), which gets shouted many, many times in the film. It is great. Such rage and passion: "Stuff you, man!!" Just try it. No, really. Shout it. If you dont shout it out now, I say to you: Stuff you!

... Really lets out all the emotion. phew. Talk about verbal catharsis.

Anyway, "Stuff You" is my thought of the day.
Homework? Stuff you. Summer Internships? Stuff you. Taxidermy? Stuff you. (get it? Zing!)

Stuff all that noise that makes errrybody so worried and nervous and panic-y.
Stuff you, Ryan Phillipe, for only having two names, and for cheating on Reese Witherspoon.
Stuff you, PNC, for telling me that I have only 30 dollars in my bank account (I accept no responsibility for that fact. Upon learning about my meager account balance, I immediately suspected government/financial institute conspiracy. No joke.)

Stuff you, stress.
I read recently that the average American College-Aged Woman has the same stress level as the Average Psychiatric Patient did 50 years ago. Whoa. That is evidence enough for me to kick back, quit my worryin, and say stuff you to my psych-ward-psyche.

I say, emphatically, "Stuff you, stuffin' stuff!"
And so should you, readers. So should you.

(You will never look at stuffing the same way again.)

Okay that's all.
MG.

What's in a PsudoName?

2009-03-23T22:35:00.004-04:00

I realize that I'm a terrible updater when it comes to this Blogging thing, so please forgive me for the delays between posts. To all of you crazy fans who connnstantly pester me about my updates: thanks for the love, but please -stay out my bidness. I will blog when it feels right. You can't rush these things- there is an art to blog posts. Like the art of cooking. Or making things out of perler beads. Just can't rush it, and that is that. (Side note: Boom. Thanks to the link, you now want to take up the craft of perler beading and make a masterpiece of your own.)

I have recently had a few people ask me about my pseudonym, Man Gaverbo.
"What's that??," you say, "Man Gaverbo IS NOT your real name? I never could have guessed!"
(Okay, I know, No one is actually saying that. If you honestly think my name is Man Gaverbo, stop reading my blog and go buy a baby name book. If "Man" is in there, I will give you 100 dollars and a free Luna Bar.)

But many of you might be saying "Yeah, Anne, what's the deal with that weirdo name?"
Well, allow me to tell you.

It alllll started about 6 years ago, when my sister was attending one of her (yeah, one of them) highschools. She transferred in as a Junior, and, despite the fact that my mom was an Alum, my brothers had gone to the brother-school of said hs, and our name is VERY simple to spell/type/pronounce, the school just got it flat-out-wrong. You would have thought that a family's surname would be important to have correct on the record. You would have thought that a very old, reputable educational institution would at least double check to make sure that the name on file matched the name on every other single piece of paper that verified a student's identity. But, it did not. Instead, my parents, throughout the school year, received emails, letters, campaign solicitations, and, best of all, tuition bills, addressed to MaryJean and Dave Gaverbo. Nope, not Havern. Gaverbo.

Upon receiving each of these things, my mom would happily announce that, as she was, in fact, NOT MaryJean Gaverbo, she clearly was not responsible for the document and was free to dispose of it at her leisure. She did note, however, that she was sure that the real MaryJean Gaverbo was likely a cool woman and wished her the very best in life.

The best part of all of this was the fact that my sister was still known, in person and on the record, as Meg Havern. So, if ever a time came for Meg's name to be announced in the crowd (which happened a few times, cuz she is like super popular and cool.), the speaker would say "Megan Havern and her parents, MaryJean and Dave Gaverbo." As though my parents, at her birth, decided to give her a cool, original name, like Havern, instead of their own name, Gaverbo. Alright, Unnamed Highschool. You take the cake on being totally stupz.

I got an unending kick out of that surname mix up (surname surprise?) and, from then forth, have used it as a pseudonym that my good friends have now taken as a full-on petname. I get called Gaverbo as often as I get called Annie. Or Sugarpie. So, you can see how often that is.

So, where does Man come from??

Well, that is a more recent development. About a year ago, I was meeting my BFFFFFF4aeaeaeaeae, Rusty, for a lovely little breakfast date at my fave Pittsburgh diner. I arrived first (srsly, the first and last time that has ever.ever.ever.happened) and tried to make a reservation with the hostess. Now, it was a Sunday morning at a very quaint (read: teeny), crowded, hoppin' diner, so I actually had trouble getting physically near the hostess. I had to shout through the crowd of loitering customers,kids, and grannies "Table for two, please!!", to which she shouted back "Two?? Okay, Name please??", to which I, of course, said "Annie!".

"What??"
"Annie!"
"I'm sorry?"
"Anne."
"Dan?"
"ANNE."
"Man. Okay, Man. It'll be about ten minutes."

....I wasn't sure if I had heard her correctly, but I WAS sure that no one would actually look at me and think "she looks like either a Dan or a Man. Maybe a Katie. Probably Man, though."

I let it slide after a confused moment, and greeted my super tall best friend as he arrived and waited with me in the crowd. After a few minutes, the hostess yelled out, "PARTY OF TWO. MAN. MAN, PARTY OF TWO!" And I, of course, interrupted Rusty's sentence by throwing my hand into the crowded air and saying "Yep, over here!"

Naturally, my oft-befuddled friend was confused by this. "What did she just say?" He asked as we moved towards the tables.
"Man." I replied. "She thinks my name is Man."

"Why would you tell her that your name is Man?"

...I'm glad that my best-friend-forevah thinks so highly of me that he assumes, if someone mistakenly calls me by an absurd name, it is not a mix-up, a case of being misheard, or even a case of being a stupid idiot. It is, rather, presumably MY doing, because I apparently like to tell people that my name is not any respectable or normal name, but instead a Noun. And an inapplicable noun, at that!

From then forth, Man became a nickname. When merged with my pseudo-surname, Man Gaverbo was born. The name-child of a lazy secretary and a hearing-impaired waitress, Man Gaverbo now blogs for your pleasure and looks super fly while doin it.

So, there you go, the story of MG.
Hope this clears up the confusion and allows you all to sleep just a little better tonight.

I'll be back soon with updates of the State College scene. I know you are all dying to know whats the buzz at the HUB.

Until later,
MG

Reunited, and I don't hear anyone complaining...

2009-03-16T19:44:00.003-04:00

Oh man, Readers, I have been M.I.A. for too long. Of course, dozens upon dozens of distressed fans have been pleading for an update- as exhibited by the kind of desperate Instant Message I received this evening:

bodboy*** : you know i have to say: for the most part, I tend to see most blogs as little more than painful exercises in self-delusional narcissism
bodboy*** : there is no "but" coming, yours adheres to that trend.

Wowzer. With that kind of confidence boost, how could I not rush off to the nearest Laptop and post up a lil blog entry for the masses? And away we go...

Alright, so, my observations on life in the present.

1) Media/ Entertainment
That fancy title is my way to segue into a rant against a movie called "He's Just Not That Into You". Alright, let us begin. I should admit that I have not seen the movie, per se, but I am opposed to it on principle. Said principle being that... you know, we ladies... we know we is crazy. We get it. We're kind of emotional at times, we are a little impetuous, and sometimes logic doesn't guide every single solitary move that we make. But guess what-- boys are just stupid. I'm not saying that boys are lame-o and girls are awesome, but I am saying that people are human, and since the dawn of man, ladies and lads have been butting heads and confusing the bejeeezus out of eachother. And that's that. We can write a million books and adapt them into a million movies, but at the end of the day- folks is folks. Women meet men and hope that they are as wonderful as we (the ladies) dream them up to be. Men meet women and think that they are pretty and then go eat sandwiches and play Madden and fall asleep. Eventually, if the stars align, the ladies learn a little patience, and the men somehow find the time to put on their manpants. Thereafter, a relationship blossoms. Sure, there is way, way more to it- every couple has its own facets, its own story, its own ups and downs that they work out together. But, overall, I just feel that I don't need to spend 2 hours watching a film that explains that women are a lil nutty and men are kind of slow and annoying. I sound as though I'm generalizing to a terrible degree- and perhaps I am. But my point is: Yes, there are telltale signs that men are uninterested in women. And there are certain things that women do that confuse men and possibly hinder their own best interest. But I don't think that a certain list of rules applies to all cases. And I know from those closest to my heart, that love is very messy and silly and there are a lot of missteps and fumbles on the way to happiness. While it is good to learn to keep your chin up and brush your shoulders off when things don't go your way, a book/movie like that just ends up pigeon-hole-ing (word? possibly?) a whole mess of people. So, I say, while I understand the motive of the plot-- to teach people how to handle the world of love-- has its good intentions, the rules ain't always meant to be followed. And you never know what is what. He might be into you, afterall.

2)Finance.
Yes, I'm totally going to post a blurb about finances.
Has anyone heard about the economic Chernobyl that is apparently going on right now? Yeah, I know, it is wild, right? Aside from the fact that you can now begin most sentences with the phrase "well, in this economy..." and then follow it up with a completely unrelated clause (which is awesome and hilarious and never ever ever gets old), the whole dead-economy thing kinda blows. I, for one, have no understanding of finances. I still confuse nickels and quarters sometimes. But, if I may posit my own opinion here (which I totally can because it's my blog and no one else has the password), I say that the answer to our problem is simple: We should simply convert all currency to a more heavy product. Like, physically heavier, bigger, and awkward to carry around. I, for one, would hate to carry around rock-like dollar bills made of lead and needles. Therefore, I would only carry like, a couple at a time, and would thusly be a better spender. If all of us had to carry really obnoxious currency--- possibly smelly 5 dollar bills, or 20s covered in never-drying-glue and feathers--- we would all be more conscious of our spending. Eventually, somehow, this would evolve to settling the severe debt we are finding ourselves in, and even out the whole darn mess. Fiscal crisis? Averted. You're welcome, President Obama.
--This message brought to you by the mind of a Liberal Arts Student--

3) Fashion.
I'll give you all some pointers to dress like me. Step one: Buy 19 black sweaters, some nice trouser-cut jeans, and a cute pair of rain boots. Top of with a red cape-coat. The end.

But actually, fashion is on the mind because I am going to a semi-formal this weekend (updates to come later), and I've been hunting around for a bomb . com dress to wear. As explained so eloquently in the above blurb, money is a little tight right now. So I'm looking for something in the range of $1-$30. I hit up some shops during last week's spring break, and was, quite frankly, terrified by some of the things I saw. Apparently, for spring oh nine, it is stylish for women to dress like pregnant gypsies. (My apologies to any pregnant gypsies who read my blog.)
Okay, I don't know how many ladies out there are reading this blog, but, if you are a reader who happens to fall under the height of 5'4, you know that these dresses are a strict No. Even for the taller girls, these tents-turned-tentdresses are kind of awkward and unshapely and make you look a bit homeless. But for the shorties among us, these things make us look down right CrAzY. Boxy and overly swathed and kind of like the way a little toddler looks when she wraps a blanket around her to play dress up. The only saving grace of these "maxi dresses" (their invented title, not mine) is that they can cover up a little pot-belly if need be, and they could save your life by providing warmth and shelter if you find yourself lost in the wilderness overnight. Also, they probably make for great bedding if you need an entire set of fitted and loose sheets. Beyond that, I don't understand their purpose. But they are all the rage for spring 09, so look for these babies on the street. There will most likely be women wearing them, but you wont see them behind the draping reems of ugly.

Alright, world, that's all I've got for you now. But I'll be back soon for an update or two. Stay awesome.
Man

Midterms and Alcoholism

2009-03-03T11:54:00.004-05:00

As if facebooking, IMing, chatting, texting, napping, and 50 cent Tatertots at redifer were not already enough to distract me from being a productive citizen, this little bloggy has officially become my #1 way to completely put off any and all work that I have to do.

This week is the last week before SpRiNg bReAk 0hhh NiNe-where things will be getting all brands of Crazy. As such, my professors collectively decided to schedule exams, project proposals, etc in the next 3 days. Thanks, guys. But of course, rather than work, I am just blogging and mentally prepping myself to go out into the blistering cold of the S.C. to eat some more tots.

Currently in my dorm, someone is using a jackhammer. No, forrealz tho. A jackhammer. I have no clue why. All I know is that the level of noise being produced down the hall is actually scary and is totally forcing me to blast my new fave song (now soon to be yours, too) super loud. If the powers that be wanna interrupt midday nap time to do some construction, K. Clarkz has the pipes to compete with their hullabaloo. Similarly, speaking of hullabaloo, tomfoolery, and general shanANNIEgins (get it?), this weekend was State Pattys Day.

"What," you may ask yourself, "the eff is State Pattys Day?" Well, I will tell you.

State Patty's day, originating in the spring of 2007, is a student-founded, beer-fueled holiday held the weekend prior to Saint Patricks Day each year. Instituted as a challenge to the University bigwigs who planned spring break to coincide with St.Patricks day (so as to avoid the increase in arrests, hospital visits, and other things that grab life by the horns and say " i dare you"), the holiday was accepted by bars in the area, which agreed to open at 6 am (the economy aint dead, yo.) and satiate our thirst all day long. Now in its third year, State Pattys Day is like Christmas in March. Or February, as it were.

I love State Patty's day. It proves that people, when working together for a greater cause, can achieve anything-- even the advent of a holiday. Also, it gets the student population up and out of bed early (gotta hit those pubs before noon), and I look really good in green.

I'm not a huge drinker. No, seriously, I'm not. Stop laughing. My mom reads this blog.

Anyway, I'm not a huge drinker, but I am a big fan of daytime drinking. I love it because you drink for a while in the afternoon, have a delicious dinner, take a nap (possibly on the floor under a coffee table... possibly), and then wake up in time for a nice movie in the late evening. You have done all that crazy kid stuff early enough in the day to still get a good night of sleep, and you wake up feeling refreshed. Nothing better. My name is Man Gaverbo and I approve this day-drinking message.

My parents are probably so pleased by that last paragraph. I can just imagine the pride. (NB: mom&dad, i danced in THON last weekend, raised 20,000 bucks for cancer, have a 4.0 in my major, and have never gotten arrested. keep your eyes on the positive)

So anyhoo, this weekend was a great success. Lots of fun times, good friends, and the wearin' of the green. A great warm-up lap for the real St. Patricks Day, which I will celebrate on March 17th with the rest of the world (shortly after my celebration on March 15th in Pgh with my brothers) So here's to the irish, st. patrick, and religious holidays that somehow morph into Thrice-yearly binges. Erin go Bragh!

Finally, I leave you with this thought:

Would the premise of this video be completely and utterly unthinkable if it were released today? Seriously--- CALLING from a club? Oh BsB, you are soooo 1999. Get a texting plan, already.

Until next time,
M.G.

Limpin' all over the worlddd

2009-02-26T12:19:00.004-05:00

Apparently the reading world is demanding a new blog post. I have never been one to disappoint the reading world, so here we are.

I assume this thought has been keeping you all awake at night for the past 6 days or so:
"What is new with Annie? How was THON? Is she ready for Lent? How does she keep her hair so soft and sweet smelling?"

Well, I will tell you: 1) Tons of things are new 2)THON was bangerang, 3) Ready? pshh. Lent 09 best be ready for ME, and 4) Herbal Essences (white nectarine and pink coral flower, obvi.)

Allow me to elaborate. First the big thing:
THON 09 was the craziest experience of my life. Too many details to recall, but the main hallmark of the weekend was that, around 1 am on Sat morning ( 7 hours in, 39 hours left on my feet), I started to vom with all my might. I continued to vom until Saturday evening. After a couple hours of said vom'n, I went to the EMTs to make sure I wasn't going to die. They asked me to sit down. I said no. They told me that I needed to take a break, nap, and refuel a little. I said playa please, ain't gonna happen. They gave me two tums. I politely ate them and immediately yacked into the garbage can nearby. At this point my relationship with the EMT was a little rocky.Eventually they told me that, medically speaking, I could not continue THON-ing because I could not hold food or water down, and could not possibly stand for 40 more hours without any sustenance. I said 'watch me fools' . I finally sat down on Sunday at 4:00 pm with 700 fellow dancers, an empty belly, and 7.49 Million Dollars raised for Pediatric Cancer. Best weekend of my life. Thanks to everyone who helped me out, hugged me, and did not eat food around me.

School:
When I am not blogging, THONing, or napping, I sometimes go to school at Penn State. As an English major, I have an inherent disposition to think that class is silly and 'below' me. However, I do go to classes and perform the typical student-y activities: I join in on discussions, I take notes, I pretend to importantly rifle through my purse when the prof asks a question to which I don't know the answer, and I silently judge everyone around me when they say stupid things. I am pretty much the picture of achievment .

Otherwise:

Last week when I was home I got a full body massage. It felt great and was ubbbber relaxing with all the soft light and weirdo tribal music that somehow is supposed to calm the listener but really just seems like a portent of impending facepaint and battle cries. The only thing was, my masseuse was a strong lady, and she was really gunning for some of my muscles. As a result, I had a good amount of bruises afterwards, and still can feel a little twinge in my back--- not from standing on my feet for 2 straight days, but, rather, from laying on a scented pillow for 60 minutes. Something is amiss... But still, I highhhly recommend a massage to anyone who has not had one yet. Big ups to Kathleen for treating me!

Today at 4am, my friend Tom and I took our friend Gabe to the airport. Gabe is going to a "Multi-Cultural Engineer Convention" in California. ... I know, I know. Nerd-fest 09. Gabe was so excited that he pretty much did not sleep and had me iron all his clothes to look "extra business professional", as he put it. (This, Ironing, is the boys benefit of living on a co-ed floor. This is the girls burden of both living on a co-ed floor and having a mother who is obsessive about Ironing, and thus never able to allow a boy to go out without first Ironing his entire outfit. Socks included. But I digress...) When we dropped him off, I felt like a mama sending her kid off to a super geeky summer camp, all proud but also secretly hoping that he doesn't grow up to be someone who collects stamps and has every season of American Idol on dvd. ---To spare him any embarassment, and assure you that I am a nice friend, Gabe is super smart, will probably work for NASA and looks like this. Kind of.---
Anyway, my point of this story is to tell you what I learned in my late night outing: Center County PA, though beautiful, is freakin scary at night.
I'm from the city. I like lights, and people, and noise, and signs of life. I do not like fields, and darkness, and poorly lit country roads on which these people hang out. Driving home, I decided not to tell Tom that I was pretty sure we were both about to get abducted, and instead allowed him to talk about his diet plan (bulimia, i think it was) while I silently considered the best escape route if trouble and/or a wild animal were to find us.

Don't get me wrong, the view was actually really pretty: lots of mountain-y slopes and some nice touches of fog here and there. It is always nice to see the surrounding area, outside of campus, and have a little fieldtrip. But hopefully our next fieldtrip will take us to more populated areas- like a museum, or the 24 hour State College Walmart that, by the by, is easily 9 times the size of the airport. I'm just sayin.

Anyway, that is my life for now. Some dancin, some vom'n, some country livin. All punctuated by a lot of limping, which explains the title of this little post. I hope that all of you who made it out to THON this weekend had an awesome time. Big Shout Out to K.Stew, who turned 21 this weekend and is probably showing Quito how Reading, PA likes the party.

Okay, readers, stay awesome.
-afh

The Wheels on the Bus

2009-02-17T18:37:00.002-05:00

I was going to write a long entry about my experience on a GreyHound Bus this weekend. But after thinking it over, I decided I don't want to relive it. Bottom line:
If you drive a GreyHound for a living, it should be obvious that the stars aren't quite aligned for your fortunes. Moreover, if you drive a GreyHound Bus and said bus runs over 2 hours late, blows out a tire, runs out of gas, and gets parked at a minimart somewhere in rural PA for a few extra hours while your passengers contemplate suicide,homicide, and busdrivercide, here is a tip: Do Not Buy 65 Dollars worth of Lottery Tickets. You Will Not Win Any Money and You will probably get a papercut while attempting to scratch off the non-winning ticket. Today is not your day. You are wearing a variation on this and drinking a Super Slurpy from a no-name gas station. Put the Lotto Tix down and go buy a Newspaper.

The preceding message was my internal monologue as I watched my bus driver buy over 60 dollars worth of lottery tickets this weekend. Yes, I was one of the angry passengers contemplating how best to end my misery as I snacked on some stale SunChips and stared off into the bright lights of a nearby Motel 6.

That is how I spent Friday.

I will update soon with some good stories about my life- but until then, contemplate this thought with me:

If you read a self help book, written by another human being for the purpose of aiding you- are you not defeating your own purpose? Also, is this video not the best thing ever made by God or man?

L8R,
afh

I got the shakes, man.

2009-02-12T12:23:00.005-05:00

OMG you guys, I haven't posted in over a week. Well, actually, I did post a lil' entry yesterday, but thanks to the fact that I am a blogging N00B, I deleted it somehow. Great tech skills, Havern.

Since I last posted, a tiny little thing happened- I got chosen as a dancer for THON! This means, for those of you not in the know, that I will be participating in a no-sittin', no-sleepin', no-foolin' 46 hour dance marathon next weekend- all for lil' kids with cancer. I'm extremely excited (my formal apology goes out to Echo House of Atherton Hall, the residents of which had to endure my excited yelling/laughter/jumping up and down around 2 am last Wednesday) and I'm really pumped to see how the weekend plays out. I won't bore you with all the million details/thoughts/anxieties/ anticipations I have, but I will share this:

I am officially a drug addict. My drug? Caffeine.

Most of you know that I consume around 4 cups of coffee on an average day, plus a good amount of diet coke/diet mt. dew, to boot. For THON weekend, dancers are not allowed to have ANY caffeine-- so, thusly, I've had to cut out the 'feine for the past week or so.

I want to die.

I know that sounds like a really dramatic statement, and somewhat selfish considering that I am doing this all as a sacrifice to sick little babies who can't even hang out with their peeps on the playground, let alone enjoy a coffee at the local cafe. But, to be completely honest, I want to just roll over and succomb to death.

I sleep about 11 hours each night now. I nap for about 3 to 5 hours each day. I officially have the stamina of a 3 week old infant. To be fair, I have not had any headaches or real physical pains from the withdrawl--- but I also am usually unconscious, so maybe I do get headaches and just don't notice. Whatever the case, it is pretty much comical to see me try and overcome the addiction. I'm hopeful that I will beat the beast by THON...We shall see.

Also, I have had to cut out bad foods (not so hard, I'm a pretty good eater) and drinking (whaaa?) in preparation for the event. This has been okay with me, except for the fact that the day before I got chosen as a dancer, I discovered one of the greatest things ever given to man by God:

Bud Select 24 oz cans for $1.20 at Sharkies Beer Distributor.

My excitement over this discovery rivaled my excitement over the announcement of THON dancers. (Kidding, Kidding... kind of.) Bud Select is delcious. I'm just gonna say it. It is delicious, and it cools you off on a hot summer day... It costs 1 dollar and two dimes for 24 ounces. For a poor college student who only really requires a few beers to be satifsfied, that is like the equivalent of the feeling you get in 3rd grade when the weather gets nice and the teacher's like "hey kids, we are going to skip Spelling today and go outside for some fun. Also, dress down day tomorrow". Freakin' PaNdAmOnIuM.

I spotted the extra-tall cans on the top shelf, quickly called for the doorman to help me retrieve them (just cuz I'm of-age don't mean I'm of-height) and purchased 8. Thats like, 16 beers. For 10 dollars. And they taste good. Pphheewww. Life is good.

So all in all, the past week has brought good things, both charitable and alcoholic. Also, I'm going home this weekend to get some good R&R, so life is the tops as of now. I'll hit this blog up again soon, sorry for the long delay of updates into my life--- clearly my days are fast paced, edge-of-your-seat, thrillers. If any more beer goes on sale or if I have a weird dream or something, I'll be sure to give you a breaking news report.

Until then.
<3 Man

Love, Martyrdom, and Pancakes

2009-02-04T17:36:00.007-05:00

For those of you who haven't been to CVS in the pastmonth (which is unexcusable), please be informed that Valentine's Day is coming up soon. My friend Bridget calls V-Day "Singles Awareness Day", but I choose to more optimistically refer to it as "Act Fierce like Beyonce Day". I plan on embracing my single-lady-status by spending the holiday doing all the awesome things that us independent people can do: Paying for my own meals, talking to my mom on the phone, hanging out with my friends, and changing my Facebook "looking for" option to 'Networking'.

BAM. Totally Fierce.

Don't get me wrong, I am not one of those "Valentines Day is just a creation of Hallmark and candy companies, preying upon consumers to exploit romance and make a few extra million dollars" people. Rather, I just choose to observe the holiday for what it really is- the commemoration of the death of Valentine of Rome, a Roman priest who suffered martyrdom around 269 AD. Naturally. What better reason to say I Love You than in memoriam of a person killed for his beliefs? Moreover, what better reason to act Fierce Like Beyonce than in memoriam of a badass who looked his oppressors in the eye and said "Bring It."?

I'm glad we all agree.

Also, before I really get ahead of myself, I want to give props to another February Holiday that has already passed us by: Ground Hog's Day.
Ground Hog's Day is just about one of the most American things in America. February 2nd presents us all with an opportunity to head to a small town in Pennsylvania, drink in a Walmart parking lot, and watch a rodent obstruct a small patch of sunlight from the ground. I am never more proud to be from Pennsylvania than when I can correct the out-of-staters who mispronounce Punxsutawney. (check it: I can even spell it.) And I am never more proud to be an American than when I think of Ground Hog's Day. - And also when Denny's gives out free Grand Slam Breakfasts ALL DAY.- What a country.

Finally, I want to say thanks to everyone who has given me props on this little blog I've started. I am glad that people are enjoying the nonsense that I am posting, and if you are not enjoying it, then I suggest you go read, like, this stuff, because you are clearly not on my level. (That is just a joke because my level is somewhere around this and also that book is profound.)

Alright, I'm off to grab some delicious dinner and try not to blow away in yet another State College flash blizzard.

<3 Man

Post Script

2009-02-02T11:36:00.003-05:00

Last night I got a voicemail from my mom that went something like this:
"Hi honey. Um, I read your blog and, though it is great, um, perhaps you shouldn't refer to Laly as a, um, 'green card hungry foreigner'. That's just what I'm thinking..."

Okay, Mom, seriously, for the last time: Stop trying to be all up in my Bidness.

I don't make the rules of Blogging, I just follow them- and the cardinal rule of blogging is to be honest. Also, to post bangerang links. But mainly it is to be honest, never hold back, spit the truth, drop a knowledge bomb on the readers, and preach. So what I say cannot be taken back.

However, the cardinal rule of listening to/ reading anything that Man Gaverbo ever says or types is: do not actually count it as a legitimate thought or argument. If you have been following this blog, you can see that I am mostly concerned with discussing frivolities and dispensing my opinions on pointless topics or observations. So when I paint my gorgeous almost-sister-in-law in a slightly negative light, maybe by saying she doesn't habla or by telling everyone that she is a greeter at Walmart, please be assured that I am only kidding. It is like a family-hazing thing. She actually has a great command of the language and happens to be a science nerd Pharmacist at America's favorite drug store. So if mi hermano's chica is reading this, please be aware that I only tease because I love. You are totally welcome to join the Havern-Sister posse, consisting of me and my big sister.

On the Interweb- Make sure you click on the links, son.

2009-02-01T13:08:00.000-05:00

Last night I was told by my friend Ryan that this blog is boring. I was inititally upset by his remark, but then I remembered that my other friend Ryan recently told me that I am too emotional, so I put down the folding chair that I was about to break against his skull and apologized for my uncoolness. Also, my friend Brian did not necessarily agree with Ryan1, so I will take the comment as only constructive criticism. Moreover, I realized that I am friends with too many people whose names rhyme. (NB: Ryan 1 should not be confused with Ryan 2, nor should either be confused with Ryan 3, whose number is in my phone, though I don't have the slightest clue how that happened or who that man is.)

So I've decided to make my blog more exciting/ readable for Ryan and his critical eye. "But Annie," you ask, "how could you possibly add to the already delightful reading experience of this weblog?" I answer you this: Bullet Points.

Things I find funny on the internet:
*If you Google "Annie Blog", you are presented with results that include: a financial advice blog, an animal lovers blog, and a blog written by a woman with agorophobia. I find this ironic. Not only have I lost my PNC card 3 times in the past 8 months (and thusly had no access to my ballin' 325 dollar account), I also have a general disinterest/dislike for animals and a general love for being around lots of people. You could say I have agorophobiaphobia- the fear of being afraid of being around people. Or you could just say I am a friendly. Or c'est la vie. My point is, these people who go by my name are majorly unlike me. I just wonder which of us is most like our true namesake.

*I recently got a personal invitation to compete in College Humor's "Hottest College Girl" Contest. This is downright hilarious. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be all self-depricating and humble. But those of you who know me know that I am not one of the Hot college biddies that strutt around campus rocking a tan and listening to Shontelle. Rather, I consistently glow in a nice shade of casper-white, have a blog based off of a Latin pun, and am frequently mistaken for the President of a Middle School Student Council. I was told that my name was thrown into the hat based on the 'hottness' of the photo that accompanied the two articles I submitted (for a class. Not my decision.) and the 'positive response' to my journalistic hilarity. All I can say to this is that I am flattered. I can't wait to send them footage of my most recent hottie behavior (when I was up in the club, actin' up, cuz I could care less what you think.)

*This website: http://www.clubtrillion.blogspot.com/. I have nothing to say about it except that it is the best thing ever and I can't wait until Mark Titus and I settle down and have a dozen average-height'd babies. I hope he sees this and quickly agrees-- particularly after reading the above bullet point, which exhibits the fact that I am irresistable.

*This blog post: http://www.davidmedinaphotography.com/wblog/2009/01/13/lalymar-peter-engagement-shoot/. It features my brother and his lovely fiancee in San Juan Puerto Rico, takin glamour shots for their upcoming Wedding. Do not get me wrong, I love my brother and his lady very dearly. (So much so that I have stopped referring to her as 'that greencard-hungry foreigner' and begun to make eye contact with her from time to time). But if any of you have siblings, you understand that looking at stunning/serious photos of said sibling is very comical. Especially when it is your older brother, whom you generally envision as looking this way. But my brother is one of the 3 people who reads this blog, so i wanted to give him a shout out and display his bangerang-ness to the world. Also, shout out and Props to David Medina Photography of San Juan, which is obviously outstanding.

Okay, there are my funny internet findings of late. Hopefully the bullet-points helped ease the pain of reading sequential paragraphs, Ryan 1.

Oh and PS- Pittsburgh is in the Super Bowl and the Eagles are not.

Love and Love,
Annie

Espanol Uno

2009-01-28T13:27:00.001-05:00

There is something about me that gravitates towards spanish language enthusiasts. Or perhaps spanish language enthusiasts are simply drawn to me in large numbers, making them spanish- language-and-Annie-Havern-enthusiasts. However it happens, my point is, I am pretty much constantly surrounded by people who enjoy learning/speaking Espanol. My two old roommies are currently in Ecuador tearing up Quito in a foreign tongue, my new roommate is a Spanish major, and my THON co-chair/lifepartner is constantly emailing me en espanol (which defeats the purpose of the email. if I cannot read it, why did you send it?Ay, dios mio!). Also, I'm pretty sure the 5 year old that I babysit for is secretly bi-lingual and just isn't telling anyone.

So now, after spending some time picking up some bits and pieces of the language, I am finally biting the Degree-Audit-Bullet that is my graduation requirement and taking Espanol Uno. I have previously enrolled in and taken the first week of Spanish 001 THREE times in my college career. I sign up, I go to class, and then proceed to throw myself around in dramatic fits of agony as I am forced to sit through 50 minutes of "En Espanol, two Ls put together make a "ya" sound. Can we all make that sound together?"--to which most of the class responds by doing nothing, while a few people comply and mutter 'ya', and one or two students, somehow, say "LLaaa". Cue Annie rolling her eyes, sighing loudly, and mentally preparing to click "Adjust course Schedule" once again on ELION. Hasta luego, required language credits.

Every semester for the past 3 semesters I have gone through the same process. It is practically a tradition now, just something I dabble in from time to time. Much like my tradition of being a vegetarian or sometimes being employed- it doesn't last long, but I keep coming back to it out of curiosity.

But this semester I am taking Espanol once and for all! I have bought the book, labled a binder, and am ready to rock and roll my Rs. (check it- linguistic pun). However, despite my resolve to stay in the class, this chica is not too thrilled as of yet. Today's class consisted almost entirely of discussing the fact that the 'J' in 'Julio' is pronounced like an 'H'. Mindblowing, I know. I will fully admit that I do not really hablo, and I am in Spanish One for a reason. However, despite my neophyte status in the language, pronunciation is one field in which I am pretty solid. This is entirely thanks to a) hearing a lot of people speaking spanish around me and b) shakira. As I displayed to my THON org members this weekend on our canning trip, I am a dead ringer for Shakira voice-double, and, if you close your eyes when I sing "Underneath your Clothes" (which I forced them to do), it is impossible to tell whether or not the real Shakira is performing right there in your midst. If they did not look up to me in awe and admire me for all of my talents before, they surely do now.

Annie-way, I'm getting off track now. Despite my ability to practically shapeshift into an international superstar, I still find myself kickin it in the lowly world of Spanish One, embarking on the first of Three required Spanish courses--a journey that will likely resemble the trajectory of the Mighty Ducks Movie Series. I anticipate that Spanish Two will offer a variety of hilarious zamboni pranks, knuckle pucks, and Gunner Stahhl. This will be followed by a somewhat disappointing semester of Spanish 3, at which point I, like Joshua Jackson, will come to the realization that I should move on to bigger and better things, specifically involving James Van der Beek and Paula Cole ballads.

Until then, I am geared up to shine like a star in my new class, displaying my Anne-tastic Shakira impression from time to time and, if the class is lucky, perhaps gifting them with the Mother of all mind-blowers, my famous "Shakira having a conversation with Sarah Palin" impression. My act has been known to please crowds and warm hearts world-over, and I have always considered crowd-pleasin' to be my vocation, so any performance of said impression is really a service to the community. I'm like the Mother Theresa of topical satire.

Now I'm off to the gym for a little cardio sesh. I encourage all of you to watch this video and be inspired by the bumpin beats and sick nasty rhymes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=guh06NPgNmQ

Lovin you so hard,
Man

Wipe Out

2009-01-27T13:55:00.001-05:00

Today I did something that is not entirely uncommon for myself, but nonetheless preferably avoided and generally lame.

I was leaving Redifer after lunch, sporting my snow kicks and carrying my ubiquitous Peet's Coffee, heading back to my room for some pre-class book skimming. While the inches of snow that have coated the H.V. for the past few weeks are finally melting away, some sneaky little patches of super frozen stale snow are still lurking around the sidewalk. (I guess they call that ice. but it's not quite ice, it's a weird pseudo-ice. I will stick to calling it super frozen stale snow.)

O'course, my biddy little self unsurprisingly hit that s.f.s.s. at a weird angle as I attempted to walk down some stairs, and proceeded to wipe out with the force of a dump truck. Well, an adorable dump truck in a pink trench coat. Let's get something straight-- my history of falling, tripping, slidding, etc, while painful, has been a sort of life-training for me. I have nearly mastered the art of falling on my face and making it look not entirely douchey. One positive element of being polly pocket sized is that my body is very compact, so when I meet the s.f.s.s, I can snap into my teeny mode and hit the pavement with a little less burliness/grunting than would the average burly grunting co-ed (of whom there are more than one would suspect).

**disclaimer: I am not tootin' my own horn here, claiming to be the picture of gracefulness/womanly ways. This is evidenced by the fact that I had just come from lunch with Brian, where he ate a deliciously fresh salad- which he made and packed for himself- as I ate a salad that, once purchased, was promptly topped with fries and chased with a coke and 2 poptarts.**

This particular fall is only the latest in my long line of face-plants. Primary among them being the Infamous Treadmill Debacle of 2003, featuring yours truly smacking Face- 2 -Floor whilst cruising the treadmil on her first day of crew season. It was cool, though, because my bat-ass insane coach proceeded to have everyone on the team hug me after I got back on my feet , in order to make me feel better.
Ah, yes, that is not mortifying in the least.
...Or at least that's what I assume my therapist will probably one day tell me.

So anyway, after hitting the pavement with as much femininity as I could muster, I decided to just kick it there on the steps and take a minute to collect myself. Or maybe I was just waiting/hoping for concerned passers-by to start a slow clap, willing me to get up off the s.f.s.s. and seize the Hell out of my afternoon Religious Studies Seminar. (Check it: Unintentional spiritual pun!)
Whatever my purpose, I was not on the ground for more than a few moments before the hand of a stranger reached out to help me up, as he told me,
"Dayumm girl, you gotta check yo'self."
"Thanks, yeah, totally, I'm totally gonna check myself. Thanks," I responded as he pulled me to my feet and walked away.
Check myself? Um, you check yourself, bro'seph. I got enough people checkin me out already. Snap!

I didn't actually say that last part, but I thought it really loud in my head.

And I was happy to see that, as I boasted before, my face-plant skillz left me without any damages to either 1) my clothes and 2) my body (probably more important than the former, i know, but honestly, that pink coat is cute. )

So rest assured, Man Gaverbo is still in one piece, still super fly, and endlessly improving upon the skills of falling on her Assphalt. (That is not a swear, Mom, it is a play on words.)

Alright, that's my story of the day that you all missed out on. You could see the real-time, 3-D retelling of that remarkable event, if only you had not stupidly chosen to go live on a mountain or in an irish pub or at some artsy cafe in paris.

<3
M.G.

Too Many Stories for One Mind to Contain

2009-01-26T12:45:00.000-05:00

Hi readers! I've decided to create this blog for a variety of purposes. First, all of my friends are blogging from far off countries and I am a notorious follower of the in-crowd (which, in case you were wondering, consists entirely of my friend-base, because they are the state college elite.) Second, following the mass exodus from America that the aformentioned in-crowd enacted a few weeks ago, I find myself emailing, facebooking, and IMing my requisite 4,000 stories per day- *those who know me know that this is not an understatement of my anecdoting skills*- and, quite frankly, I'm exhausted. I think I'm getting carpal tunnel. It has literally been, like, 20 days since everyone left. So at this rate my hands will look like little Benjamin Button hands by Spring Break--which will totally throw off the beach body that I will obviously be sporting.

I chose to name my little blog "Ablative of Separation" because it is a good way to incorporate both a) my love of latin and b) the fact that everyone I know has up and left me on a mountain in Center County Pa, and I am a notorious baby when it comes to separation anxiety. The actual Latin grammatical term and use of "Ablative of Separation" has nothing to do with this blog. So don't go thinking that you will learn anything from this page. If that's what you are thinking, cut it out. Right now.

I'm adjusting pretty well to the new "I don't have any friends, so I think I'll just take a nap here in the lobby of my dorm and then cruise over to the HUB for some Panda and a follow-up-nap" lifestyle. Since my old roommies left me for the semester, I have a new roommate and, after some room re'rangin, a new bed. Well, an old bed that is new to me. It is Nikki's old bed, and despite the fact that I have slept there for 2 weeks now, I still wake up every morning and immediately think "What's going on?! Why am I in Nik's bed?! Where the hell is Nikki?" I then snap out of my momentary panic, but I can't help but feel like I am somehow displacing her. Also, my new roommie doesn't make my (read: Nikki's) bed after I hurriedly rush off to my show in the morning. So I come home and am silently indignant about her failure to do so, thinking "what the eff? doesn't she know that my bed isn't going to make itself? Someone really needs to get on that."

I am also adjusting to my new course schedule. I am notoriously bad at missing classes and failing to buy any textbooks/materials that are required of me. These qualities (shout out, Mom and Dad! the perfect biological combination of forgetfulness and disinterest= Annie) inevitably hinder my first few weeks of each semester, during which time I do a lot of napping, eating, and checking Elion for my class schedule. Each schedule review is promptly followed by a round of "hmm. didn't know i had that class today, either. woops. well, can't win 'em all." And then I hit up the HUB for a public nap session. However, when I do somehow find myself in the right place at the right time, I am pleased to get introduced to all of my new classmates. My favorite thus far is the group of girls in my technical writing class who seamlessly redirect all conversation concerning issues of grammar back to a discussion of Anna Nicole Smith's E! True Hollywood Story. I kid you not, the woman's biographical expose` comes up at LEAST once each class. I would normally detest these students with every fiber of my being and stare them down with the fire of a thousand Hibachi grills, if it weren't for the boys of the class, who are actually worse. I swear to you, they each wear at least two garmets of camoflauge and some kind of shirt featuring deer/bears/huntable wildlife in every class. I don't even know where you would buy that apparel, though I imagine that it is sold along side Tractors and some kind of Meat Grinder. I'm just sayin. And so, that course is pretty much lost upon me because I spend much of the hour staring at the antlers on their hats and wondering if they,too, are silently judging me and my cardigan.

That is basically how my life-cookie is crumbling these days. I'll be back now and again to update the reading world on my daily encounters with State College's fine woodsman and Anna Nicole historians. I have plenty more to say, so here's hoping that I can keep the carpal tunnel to a minimum... and finally get around to buying that webcam so I can Skype you all like a fiend.

Stay warm (or cool, if you are in South America.),
<3 An