With the risk of someone Google searching me, printing out Mapquest directions to where I live and placing an order on EBay for super strong rope, duct tape, and a nice rusty shovel, I'm going to talk about my full, obnoxious name. Anastasia Marie Gedda-Shaheen. Fun fact: my name is the same length as the alphabet. Now, I know that if by chance any of you reading this don't already know me then you may be pronouncing with a obscure accent and some misplaced emphasis on almost every syllable. It's just Ann-uh-stay-sh-uh Muh-ree (that ones easy but typing phonetically is too fun!) Jet-uh Shu-he-n.
I've always felt very weird about my name. As a kid it was because I wanted to just be one of the boys so when someone said my full name all I could hear was "Hey super girly girl! You should be wearing a dress! Don't you wanna go play with Barbies and make-up and stuff?" I especially despised when people assumed they could call me Anna. I'm not even gonna start on the frequency of that occurance because I could write a trilogy about it. Thankfully, my Dad's affinity for unique names got me the nickname Stasia instead. I never introduced myself as Stasia, but my friends would eventually pick up on it from my family and when their tongues started to get exhausted after spitting out so many syllables just to get my attention they adopted it themselves. These uneasy feelings about a name that stuck out— quit literally when seen on a class list— followed me through middle school and high school when all I wanted was to fit in. But by senior year, I was relatively well known in my small class so I didn't have to deal with the awkward name situation unless we had a substitute teacher. It didn't bother me then though because the whole class would laugh at them with me for saying it weird. (Side note: mad respect to anyone that has ever been a substitute teacher, that job sucks on so many levels.) As a freshmen in college everyone I encounter is new which means all my childhood insecurities have been coming back to suck all of the juice out of my adolescent ego that has shriveled up like an emptied Caprisun as a result.
For my first class as a college student I walked in with the goal of making a cool calm and collected impression on my new peers. To combat my non-existant fashion sense, I went to all of my classes wearing an outfit that had at one point in the past been approved by one of my sisters, right down to how I was wearing my shoes. Provided with one of those chair-desk combos, the desk space smaller than my notebook, I try sit like a normal, dignified, adult-type person in furniture made for a hobbit. Actually I bet a hobbit wouldn't even feel uncomfortable in one of these desks. So I adjust myself to a tolerable position and resist fidgeting around and screaming about the madness of a society that expects people to get an education while trapped in a slave chair.At this point I'm real confident that I'm already acing this cool person impression.
Then my Professor introduces himself and announces he is going to take role. He goes through the list of mostly very normal names like Mike, Christina, Alexis and such. By this time my cool person act has slipped my mind and I am now slouching in my chair and shaking all my nervous energy out through my frantically bopping right leg. My professors steady progression through the list of students is interrupted when he lets out a soft and quick sigh of defeat then calls out, "Uh... Aun-A-sTa-see-A Ged-duh ShA-neen?" Everyone looks around for a victorian era princess dressed in a hoop-skirt dress, overflowing with ruffles, waiving her silk-gloved hand smoothly through the air, acknowledging the peasants and mocking them with her intricately styled hair topped with a petite triara that emphasizes her level of eccentric extravagance.
Instead a hand reluctantly pops out from the crowd of curious faces and claims that name as her own. Unfortunately that hand belonged to me. And even more unfortunately that hand was attached to my arm, which was attached to a body that supported a very embarrassed head. I felt a sense of urgency to correct him, making me nervous, which always translates into my speech as unnatural rises and falls of pitch and entire sentences disappearing in tense a slur. I corrected his pronunciation, feeling like a Snooty McTooty. I tried to ensure that no one thought I was a weird person that would berate a person for saying my name wrong by announcing, "Its really not that fancy I swear! Its just like normal. I don't know..." I got a few sympathy laughs. I'm not even sure there is such thing as a sympathy laugh, but I spent the next 20 minutes convincing myself that it was to ease my bruised ego.
Luckily, being at a new school has given me the chance to practice introducing myself. Since every person I run into here is new, I get a chance to try out telling people my name without acting like I'm scared of it. I give my self a pep talk once a day or so and convince myself that my name will only be as weird to others as I make it. This is a great example of how I like to deal with my problems: I lie to myself until it becomes true. I'm quite a convincing liar. I probably lying to myself right now about being a good liar. Let that one fester in your brain and hatch little baby thoughts of speculation! Eventually, after I've worked through my issues, my name won't be so detrimental to me in social situations, but according to my communication professor its gonna be a huge barrier in my career. So since my parents gave me a freaky name, they shouldn't be surprised when they end up with a freaky, basement dwelling daughter that had to move back in because employers were afraid of her name.
My roommate just asked me if blogging about my name wasn't a bit narcissistic. To that I responded, "Isn't just blogging by itself already narcissistic?" Also I find it kind of ironic how I just wrote about how uncomfortable I am talking about myself to a big group of people and put it on the internet where potentially millions of people could see it. Realistically though I know that people reading this probably know me anyways so maybe that's why I have no qualms about it. I can't think of a cohesive, silly, or meaningful way to end this post. Feel free to draw your own conclusions.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
When I'm walking & someone is going the same way I race them because the only way I can win races is if they don't know its happening.
Turning left at the end of path to my the doors of my dorm, I adjust the straps on my bulging backpack. I look all the way down the sidewalk and I spot a girl about 50 feet in front of me. I squint through my smudged glasses to size her up. She's about 5' 3" with short legs, wearing booty shorts and flip flops. The way she's staggering down the hill, roughly pulled down by the force of gravity rather than pushing herself with the force of her own legs, reminds me of this episode of some wilderness survival show I saw on Animal Planet where they show how the best thing to do when being chased by a bear is to run downhill because their short legs can't handle the incline. Or maybe it was to hide in a tree. I can't be sure, but I know that my predatory instincts have kicked in as I prepare to chase after easy prey. Actually I like to think My Lebanese lineage gives me a huge advantage on inclined surfaces considering that my people were made for walking up and down dunes all day, but I have no evidence to back that up.
You may question my ethics because I choose to prey on the weak, but thats probably because you don't know what I have to work with. To start with I was cursed with a relentless competitiveness that only reinforces my belief that the universe is a prankster with a twisted sense of humor because the only thing I have to show for it is my Class Klutz trophy. I've also had a lifetime of being picked in gym when the only other kids left were prematurely sweating from the mere idea of exercise and that perpetually scared looking girl who stands completely still in the middle of the court during dodgeball. And to top it all of I've got these gangly legs that betray my every command—the way the look and move makes it seem like I stole them right out from under Bambi before he even taught them how to work right.
After years of overestimating my physical capabilities I've come to accept that I have to rework my approach in order satisfy my competitive nature. If I'm racing someone who has no clue that they are being mercilessly defeated then there's no way I can lose. You may assume that the win is not as satisfying. Your assumption is correct. Its equivalent to when I'm at a restaurant and I order a Coke and the waitress asks me if Pepsi is okay. I just want to stomp my feet, muster up the yellow belt I earned for one year of karate in fifth grade to chop a chair in half, then flip the table over and scream, "Of course its not okay! If you ask for a fries at McDonalds and they offer you leaves of dead grass would you think that was okay?! If you go to the dentist and you're waiting for your complimentary and toy toothbrush and they offer you a root canal instead would you feel like thats okay?! No! Its very not okay at all! Now kindly bring me what I asked for." But I don't because the waitress didn't make the decision to have second rate sewage instead of the liquid form of love and happiness, and no amount of rage at my misfortune will change the circumstances, so I politely smile and tell her a Pepsi will be fine. Its not as good but I take what I can get.
After coming to terms with the fact that my disobedient limbs are probably permanent—and giving up on my attempts to grow muscle by looking in the mirror, clamping my eyes real tight then wishing real hard and hoping when I opened my eyes I'd be checking out a body that just sprint off the pages of Fitness Magazine—I turned to my imagination, the one place where I have complete control of everything. So as I approach the squat girl, unaware that she's now my opponent, I look at the sidewalk cracks rolling swiftly beneath my feet and enjoy the illusion of speed. I hear the "flip-flop" of her flip flops getting louder as I get closer. I appreciate how properly her shoes were named, but I note the superiority of my sensible footwear, my super crispy Nike's that my Mom bought me with the hope that with such nice tennis shoes I would be inspired to work out all the time. I picture each stride as powerful and impressive as Usain Bolt's. The cars that whiz by become cheers from adoring fans, ready to shower me with love and flowers. They are preparing to release dove's at the finish line because they believe in my insane skills so unconditionally. My opponent glances back in my direction. I smell her fear like a shark—or a snake or whatever animal has the ability to do that. She's got no chance now. I'm three feet away and I'm metaphorically on fire, but I'm sweating as if it was literal. I slow slightly to calmly pass her inches before she reaches the crosswalk to give off an I-dont-even-give-a-fuck-I'm-used-to-winning vibe. The doves fly above me and lift the beauty of my victory high into the heavens as I bask in my glory at the edge of the sidewalk and wait for the traffic to clear. I scoff at the poor soul I left in the dust. "Haha, what a sucker," I brag to myself. I look both ways and see no contender willing to step up and challenge me, so I strut across the street, my chest puffed up because even the air in my lungs feels like its laced with pure, undiluted awesomeness.
You may question my ethics because I choose to prey on the weak, but thats probably because you don't know what I have to work with. To start with I was cursed with a relentless competitiveness that only reinforces my belief that the universe is a prankster with a twisted sense of humor because the only thing I have to show for it is my Class Klutz trophy. I've also had a lifetime of being picked in gym when the only other kids left were prematurely sweating from the mere idea of exercise and that perpetually scared looking girl who stands completely still in the middle of the court during dodgeball. And to top it all of I've got these gangly legs that betray my every command—the way the look and move makes it seem like I stole them right out from under Bambi before he even taught them how to work right.
After years of overestimating my physical capabilities I've come to accept that I have to rework my approach in order satisfy my competitive nature. If I'm racing someone who has no clue that they are being mercilessly defeated then there's no way I can lose. You may assume that the win is not as satisfying. Your assumption is correct. Its equivalent to when I'm at a restaurant and I order a Coke and the waitress asks me if Pepsi is okay. I just want to stomp my feet, muster up the yellow belt I earned for one year of karate in fifth grade to chop a chair in half, then flip the table over and scream, "Of course its not okay! If you ask for a fries at McDonalds and they offer you leaves of dead grass would you think that was okay?! If you go to the dentist and you're waiting for your complimentary and toy toothbrush and they offer you a root canal instead would you feel like thats okay?! No! Its very not okay at all! Now kindly bring me what I asked for." But I don't because the waitress didn't make the decision to have second rate sewage instead of the liquid form of love and happiness, and no amount of rage at my misfortune will change the circumstances, so I politely smile and tell her a Pepsi will be fine. Its not as good but I take what I can get.
After coming to terms with the fact that my disobedient limbs are probably permanent—and giving up on my attempts to grow muscle by looking in the mirror, clamping my eyes real tight then wishing real hard and hoping when I opened my eyes I'd be checking out a body that just sprint off the pages of Fitness Magazine—I turned to my imagination, the one place where I have complete control of everything. So as I approach the squat girl, unaware that she's now my opponent, I look at the sidewalk cracks rolling swiftly beneath my feet and enjoy the illusion of speed. I hear the "flip-flop" of her flip flops getting louder as I get closer. I appreciate how properly her shoes were named, but I note the superiority of my sensible footwear, my super crispy Nike's that my Mom bought me with the hope that with such nice tennis shoes I would be inspired to work out all the time. I picture each stride as powerful and impressive as Usain Bolt's. The cars that whiz by become cheers from adoring fans, ready to shower me with love and flowers. They are preparing to release dove's at the finish line because they believe in my insane skills so unconditionally. My opponent glances back in my direction. I smell her fear like a shark—or a snake or whatever animal has the ability to do that. She's got no chance now. I'm three feet away and I'm metaphorically on fire, but I'm sweating as if it was literal. I slow slightly to calmly pass her inches before she reaches the crosswalk to give off an I-dont-even-give-a-fuck-I'm-used-to-winning vibe. The doves fly above me and lift the beauty of my victory high into the heavens as I bask in my glory at the edge of the sidewalk and wait for the traffic to clear. I scoff at the poor soul I left in the dust. "Haha, what a sucker," I brag to myself. I look both ways and see no contender willing to step up and challenge me, so I strut across the street, my chest puffed up because even the air in my lungs feels like its laced with pure, undiluted awesomeness.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
#thingsthatmakemecry getting a free hot dog and only being able to eat half of it before accidentally dropping it in the dirt.
After spending three hours at the Library studying my subjects super studiously I felt, as my good friend Pooh Bear might say, a "grumbly in my tumbly." Compelled by my never ending, hormone induced hunger I rushed out of the Library towards the cafeteria, desperate to subdue the burning in my stomach. I was mentally preparing myself for the treacherous walk I was about to embark on when all of a sudden an angelic voice sang out, "Free food at Sangren!" As a personal policy, I never ever ever ever reject free food. I mean, how disheartened would you be if you took the time to get food prepared for people and no one wanted it? If anything I am preforming an act of kindness by paying these wonderful people a compliment.
An immediate B-line towards the doors of Sangren, one of the few buildings I know how to find on campus, took me to The Promise Land. Some may have looked upon the folding tables sloppily piled with hot dogs, popcorn, cookies, and cotton candy with a bit of suspicion, but I just trusted the good of humanity... and my previous knowledge that hot dogs come already cooked so you can't get food poisoning from them so there was little risk.
With pity for those walking by, rejecting the free food for some reason incomprehensible to me, I waited in line patiently for my freshly reheated hot dog. By the time I got far enough in line to attack the food table I was so giddy I couldn't stand still. I quickly scooped up my hot dog and spurted some ketchup on it. Following the slow, side-stepping line of tired college students, I hastily grabbed a bag of popcorn, a couple cookies and a water bottle. With all my goodies cradled in the nooks of my scrawny arms I trotted away.
I walked about 50 feet with a huge grin on my face before I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. I reflexively squeezed all of the things I was holding. With my eyes closed I awaited the soft thump of a small object, but heard nothing. "Holy shit," I thought "that was really close. I should put some of this stuff in my backpack so that doesn't happen again." Snickering quietly at my close call, I slung my bag around my shoulder, plopped it on the cement right where I was and packed away my popcorn (the cookie and cotton candy had already been sucked up by this weird vacuum thing on my face). "Wow, I'm so smart. I'm on my A-game today," I bragged to myself about myself in my head.
My ketchup smothered hot dog in hand, I celebrated my small victory with a pompous walk back towards my dorm. I felt like the coolest kid in the whole wide world for the next minute and a half. I took about four bites of my hot dog, each one dripping with sweet, fruity ketchup and oozing with steamy grease from who-knows-what animal combination. Then I dropped it face down in the dirt. No dramatic fall. No outside force of evil. No logical reason. One second my hand was an inch from my face, full of deliciousness and the next second my hot dog decided to kill itself and jumped out of my hand. Maybe he had some serious issues or maybe he just didn't want to be eaten. I'll never know. All I do know is as I looked down upon my lifeless hot dog, I felt as if the god of hot dogs woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. "Why? Why did this have to happen? I didn't do anything wrong!" I shouted at the god of hot dogs as the rain began to down pour suddenly and I fell to my knees. "Whhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!?" I screamed to the heavens.
Actually I just walked back to my dorm with my shoulders a slumped from more than just my 100 ton backpack. I fail to understand why I couldn't have just been happy with the first half of the free hot dog at the time. I mean looking back on it with a full stomach I'm satisfied and happy I even had four bites. I think that losing something is usually twice as terrible as gaining something is wonderful. Although I didn't actually sob and crumple into a heap of limbs in the rain, the only thing stopping me was that I knew I had to be a grown up and bottle up my feelings for later. Oh and the fact that my life is not a movie where the weather constantly remains sympathetic to my feelings. Despite this tragic event, I still maintain the policy of never ever ever passing up free food. I think it's more worthwhile to take a chance with a free hot dog, even if chances are it will end up breaking my heart by committing suicide.
An immediate B-line towards the doors of Sangren, one of the few buildings I know how to find on campus, took me to The Promise Land. Some may have looked upon the folding tables sloppily piled with hot dogs, popcorn, cookies, and cotton candy with a bit of suspicion, but I just trusted the good of humanity... and my previous knowledge that hot dogs come already cooked so you can't get food poisoning from them so there was little risk.
With pity for those walking by, rejecting the free food for some reason incomprehensible to me, I waited in line patiently for my freshly reheated hot dog. By the time I got far enough in line to attack the food table I was so giddy I couldn't stand still. I quickly scooped up my hot dog and spurted some ketchup on it. Following the slow, side-stepping line of tired college students, I hastily grabbed a bag of popcorn, a couple cookies and a water bottle. With all my goodies cradled in the nooks of my scrawny arms I trotted away.
I walked about 50 feet with a huge grin on my face before I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. I reflexively squeezed all of the things I was holding. With my eyes closed I awaited the soft thump of a small object, but heard nothing. "Holy shit," I thought "that was really close. I should put some of this stuff in my backpack so that doesn't happen again." Snickering quietly at my close call, I slung my bag around my shoulder, plopped it on the cement right where I was and packed away my popcorn (the cookie and cotton candy had already been sucked up by this weird vacuum thing on my face). "Wow, I'm so smart. I'm on my A-game today," I bragged to myself about myself in my head.
My ketchup smothered hot dog in hand, I celebrated my small victory with a pompous walk back towards my dorm. I felt like the coolest kid in the whole wide world for the next minute and a half. I took about four bites of my hot dog, each one dripping with sweet, fruity ketchup and oozing with steamy grease from who-knows-what animal combination. Then I dropped it face down in the dirt. No dramatic fall. No outside force of evil. No logical reason. One second my hand was an inch from my face, full of deliciousness and the next second my hot dog decided to kill itself and jumped out of my hand. Maybe he had some serious issues or maybe he just didn't want to be eaten. I'll never know. All I do know is as I looked down upon my lifeless hot dog, I felt as if the god of hot dogs woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. "Why? Why did this have to happen? I didn't do anything wrong!" I shouted at the god of hot dogs as the rain began to down pour suddenly and I fell to my knees. "Whhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!?" I screamed to the heavens.
Actually I just walked back to my dorm with my shoulders a slumped from more than just my 100 ton backpack. I fail to understand why I couldn't have just been happy with the first half of the free hot dog at the time. I mean looking back on it with a full stomach I'm satisfied and happy I even had four bites. I think that losing something is usually twice as terrible as gaining something is wonderful. Although I didn't actually sob and crumple into a heap of limbs in the rain, the only thing stopping me was that I knew I had to be a grown up and bottle up my feelings for later. Oh and the fact that my life is not a movie where the weather constantly remains sympathetic to my feelings. Despite this tragic event, I still maintain the policy of never ever ever passing up free food. I think it's more worthwhile to take a chance with a free hot dog, even if chances are it will end up breaking my heart by committing suicide.
The Heroic Tale of Hildalgo
There is this brilliant girl I know named Hildalgo (name changed for safety reasons since I'm now an internet celebrity) and she happens to like me enough to be one of my very best friends. Hildalgo started a blog recently so I looked it up. I didn't even read it at first. I was just impressed she had one and told her I was jealous of her blog and I wish I had something to write about. She told me she didn't have anything to write about and then pointed out that her first post was about broccoli. Hildalgo told me how easy and noncommittal having a blog really was — I'm a college student so both those words are music to my ears. Still i had no idea what to write about. I complained for minute or two and somewhere in my whining she picked up on my saying "I'm only good at Twitter." Hildalgo gathered up her wisdom, insight, bravery, courage, good looks, and common sense to formulate a fantastic plan. Once she finished calculating and hypothesizing and theorizing she proclaimed, "You could just like take your tweets and expand them." It was positively pure poetry, people. (<-- That's called alliteration, isn't it so much fun?)
I often have trouble trying to fit all of my thoughts into 140 characters anyways, so this is a perfect jumping off point to get me writing complete and coherent pieces. I've already got the idea in my head, something interesting to talk about and maybe even an entertaining observation. So from here on out, my blog posts will feature a tweet from yours truly, an explanation about the tweet, my thoughts about the tweet, other things semi-related to tweet, and more things I feel like sharing. I promise I'm not in love with myself. I'm just a damn good Tweeter. Well interwebers, that is the end of "The Heroic Tale of Hildalgo," or more dully put: how I decided to start a blog and where I got the idea from. I'm basically a big giant copy-cat thriving off the genius of others.
Thanks Hildalgo!
Hildago's blog http://justhannahdotrose.blogspot.com/
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