A Cat that Plays Fetch

18 years ago, a very eager four-year-old me kicked excitedly in the backseat.  Where are we going?  Mom and dad smiled at each other, some secret destination in mind.  We arrived at the Atlanta Humane Society.  After much joking from my father, I was convinced I was getting a fish.  Lucky for me, they had something slightly fluffier (and far less boring) in mind. 

We open the door to a room full of kittens tucked away in their cages.  And I could have my pick.  Whichever I wanted.  Now a four-year-old’s over enthusiasm was enough to put the fear of God into them.   As an only child, my parents thought I needed a pet to keep me a little less lonely.  The situation might have seemed hopeless until one shaky little kitten was put on the floor.  Rather than clawing to anything it could gets its hands on in protest, she walked right up to me.  She was the one.  

We went through the adoption process and it came down to name.  My first suggestion was Spot, until mom and dad gently noted that there was not a single spot on her.  Fluffy?  Too generic.  I looked around the room, clearly in need of inspiration.  The Humane Society poster donned the adjacent wall with a picture of a great big heart.  Heart!  I exclaimed.  My mind could not be changed.  “I love her, so her name has to be Heart!”  Well what monster is going to deny the logic of a toddler?  Heart it was.  They put her in her little box that said "I’m going home!" and that’s exactly where we brought her. 

(Though I do not think we ever called her by her actual name.) Heart quickly be came Hearty, Hearty-girl, Heartskies, or the more creative Scooby, Stoops, and Hearty-Pa-Tar-Tar. 

From me forcing her to spend hours with me in the laundry room playing “school” to dressing her up in the most stylish of doll fashions, Heart was a trooper.  One of her favorite pastimes was letting me push her in baby doll strollers.  Truly, her life was charmed.  One of the things Hearty became most known for (among anyone who would listen) was her love of playing fetch.  We would notice my little watercolor paintbrushes started to disappear.  And the culprit?  One mischevious baby panther.  We would  let her stalk one of those devilish paintbrushes, give it a toss and let her thunderbolt after it.  Then she would prance back with her kill in her mouth, hanging out like a long cigarette. 

She was right at home atop of dad’s (or “Gampy” to her) chest.  He would snooze in the recliner and she would settle on his belly, paws outstretched and knead his neck like a ball of dough.  Or the way she would squeeze in beside Gammy in the armchair.  No room?  No problem.  She’ll make it.  Or the way she would let me lay my head on her and just purr away.  She had an affinity for space heaters, sunny spots on the carpet, dollops of whipped cream, and baskets that she overflowed from. 

The past year our once fat and happy cat wasn’t so fat anymore.  She didn’t go leaping in the direction of paintbrushes.  It was understood.  She was getting older. 

Every Christmas picture was like an “I Spy” book trying to find the hiding cat among the ribbons and paper.  She smushed her body into a little basket shaped like a sled and would let her head just hang over the side.

This Chrismas, there was no little silhouette sleeping under the tree.  No lazy little body sprawled in front of the space heater.  We have an empty sleigh basket.  We have a piece of ceramic with a tiny paw print. 

One might say black cats aren’t very lucky, but I would argue that a life of 18 years isn’t too bad, and she battled that tumor as best as her little body could.  If you are going to have a pet, you should love it.  It should be part of the family.  And Hearty-girl definitely was.  If all dogs go to heaven, then I’m quite certain that very special kitty cats do, too.  

Dawg Days

I have officially ended my junior year in college.  Which means next year is the final round -- senior year.  As cliché as it is, I am in shock as to how incredibly fast these three years have flown by.  They say time flies when you are having fun, though, and I can honestly say my time so far at the University of Georgia has been the best compilation of experiences of my young life for a myriad of reasons.  Now, this is not to say it has been all fun.  I have also been pushed harder than I ever have, coming into my own and excelling not only as a student, but also as a young professional.  I have had to deal with classes I was not the least bit interested in (I’m looking at you, Marine Biology), had tests and projects scheduled on every day of any given week, and I have had to go outside of my comfort zone, outside of my bubble, and learn about the world around me.  I’ve both made mistakes and had to deal with the mistakes of others.  But college is a learning experience in its entirety, from the lectures to the relationships we foster.

UGA is so much more than just a college.  Yes, it is an institution of higher education, but it has also become my second home.  It’s the littlest occurrences that make me love and appreciate every day I am on that campus. 

It’s seeing the campus transform on a game day.  Standing in Sanford Stadium and being one drop in the sea of red and black.  Circling your fist overhead and yelling out as the whole stadium echoes its bellowing “Gooooo dawgs! Sic em! Woof woof woof!  (Spelled out, the onomatopoeia doesn’t have quite the same effect…)  It’s wearing those black cowboy boots and red sundress, proudly donning a [insert sorority name] loves the Dawgs pin.  That’s because it’s not just a game, it’s a culture.  That’s why people say they are so excited for game days, rather than the game itself.  If it were all about the game I’d be in big trouble.  (Offense, defense, touch down…that’s it, right?)  No matter where you are from, what your major is, or what year you are, we are all united by the pride of the Bulldawg Nation, and that’s amazing.

Game day is such a small part of the UGA experience, though.  It’s carefully side-stepping to avoid falling victim to the curse that looms under the curve of the Arch.  Ringing the victory bell with so much more power than you realize you possess that it lifts you right off the ground.  It’s having a splash in the fountain to culminate a 21^st birthday celebration. Taking a shortcut (which is usually never shorter) just to pass through the Founder’s Garden when the flowers are in full bloom on a sunny spring day. 

It’s walking the streets of downtown under twinkling Christmas lights.   It’s watching bike racers fly by so quickly on Twilight that you can’t even capture a picture. It’s becoming a total foodie when it comes to Athens cuisine.  (Might I recommend the spinach dip filled bread bowl goodness that is Speakeasy?)  Window- shopping in the boutiques, fully knowing you will never find the time to come back and go shopping.  It’s going to the hole-in-the wall places to hear your friend tell a few jokes.  Going across the train tracks to find a forgotten rope swing. 

It’s running into someone you know every day, along with meeting someone new every day.  Walking down Milledge and seeing the freshly painted banners adorn the Antebellum style Greek Houses.  Standing in the nosebleed section just to see your favorite country artist perform in the first ever concert at Sanford Stadium.  It’s knowing that even though I am only one of 35,000 students at this university, somehow, in some small way, I am now a part of this institution’s history and legacy.  At least, that’s what I’d like to think.

All of these things and more are Athens.  There is a cheesy canvas on Pinterest that says: Athens, a place that gets into your blood and stays forever.  Despite, perhaps, it likely applies to every other college town in the country, I believe that it holds true for Athens.  That's why they call it the Classic City.  Classic.  Timeless.  Tradition.

I look now to my senior year and think about how there are so many more things I want to do in my remaining time here.  So many more things I want to learn and experience.  But I realize that even if I had 5 more years (or 10, or 20), I would never be able to do everything Athens has to offer.  After all, isn’t that what keeps alums coming back year after year?   They want to see one more game, enjoy one more beer downtown, and walk through North Campus one more time.  It’s because Athens has gotten in their blood.  And stayed. 

Mid-College Crisis

I recently tackled one of the more unsettling experiences of my young-adult life.  That’s right.  I faced my mid-college crisis.  We all have one at some point.  I remember back in the day... a whole three years ago...  I was a wide-eyed freshman, blissfully unaware of the sense of responsibility and looming awareness of adulthood waiting to snatch me with their snarly claws just around the corner of Junior year. 

For those who have experienced said mid-college crisis, you know the cracks in the once indestructible façade of confidence.  You know the dimming glimmer of telling people you are a  _______ major and wondering if you even like the way it sounds when you say it out loud.  For those who have not experienced the crisis… you will.  Sooner or later.  Allow me to soften the blow a bit by having you take an exclusive sneak peak into my glass case of emotion.  Now, the mind of a third year student in this tumultuous stage is like a pinball machine, darting from one place to another, dashing against obstacles, and exploding with sudden bursts of light and bell sounds.  Bear with me.  The cliff notes version went a bit like this: 

I am a Junior in college.  I am a JUNIOR in COLLEGE.  I am 21 years old.  I remember when 21 used to seem so old.  It’s not old right?  Nah, I’m super young.  Oh my gosh.  I was a junior in high school 4 years ago.  Yeah, I’m way old. That was four years ago?! Ok.  Composure. 

I just thought I would have accomplished so much more by now.  Done so much more.  Seen things.  Known things.  Do I know anything?  Anything at all?  Quick!  Think of something you know. 

My brain is an empty vat of nothing.

I have so much that I want to do and so little time to do it.  Only a year and a half left.  Life will officially end on graduation day.  So long to my joy.  Buhbye to my youth.   I will have to leave behind my scholastic comfort zone in order to get a real job.  A job.  Not a summer job or a part-time job or I’ll house/pet/baby sit and call it a job-job.  A real-life, grown-up job.  

How can I have a profession?  I have no skills.  Can I do anything?  I can whistle.  That won’t help with anything.  I could become a YouTube sensation?  I won’t completely rule that out.

I don’t even have an internship.  That’s a big buzzword, isn’t it?  The almighty internship.  Dang it. I should probably start applying for some internships. 

Wait.  Is this even what I want to do with my life?  I always thought it was, but now I am not so sure.  I feel like I lack passion.  I should be passionate about my career.  I should be barely able to sleep because I am so excited to hop out of my bed and skip merrily to work the next day, stopping in the middle of the street to raise my fists to the heavens in ecstatic triumph, “Hello, world! I love my job!” 

That’s it.  I am running away to Disney World. 

Man, when I get a job, that means I will have to actually make a living to sustain myself.  I am going to have to do without a lot of things.  As in, a lot of nice things.  As in, I might be homeless.  Can I balance a checkbook?  Can I live off of lean cuisines the rest of my existence?

Stop.  (Hammer time.)

I can’t think of anything else that could suit me more than my major.

I have really great friends and family that support me with anything.

I have made amazing memories.  And still have the rest of my life to make more!

I am my own biggest critic.

One day at a time.

Breathe.

Breathe again.

One more time for good measure.

Do not fret, my collegiate peers.  We can do anything—including survive the stage of panic that is the inevitable mid-college crisis. 

Be Here Now

It certainly has been a while since writing.  Over a whole semester’s worth of activities have passed and I have not been able to put my sarcastic and flowery spin on it.  This year school has seemed to consume my time more than usual, which, for anyone who knows me, is saying a lot.  Oh, gone are the days of when a “paper” meant three paragraphs on what you did over [insert season] break.  Now are the days of writing an eight page researcher’s profile on my personal paradigms and theories on interpersonal communication.  At school, we do not have any time to slow down—no time to even realize we are tired.  Go, go, go is the mentality.  At home, it all catches up to you and you find yourself rolling out of bed at 1:00 in the afternoon. The rest of the holidays having been equal part eating, equal part burning it off, I found myself with time (yes actual true time) to think about things. 

This just shows a grave problem that I do not believe I face alone.  I have not been slowing down long enough to really “be” in these moments.  Sure, I am busy.  We all get busy.  But at what price?  Sometimes it takes stepping back for a minute and allow ourselves to see the picture as a whole.  I know I am certainly guilty of taking a quick mental picture, only to get lost in the memory card which is our minds, revisited briefly, and eventually erased to make room for other, more current activities.  My resolution (one month late) is to try and do a better job of appreciating all the little things, as cliché as it may sound.   My favorite acting teacher once told me, that in life we have to remember 3 simple words: “Be here now.”  Sounds easy enough, but not always the case for someone like me, who tends to think 10 steps ahead.  Be here. Now. That’s what I intend to do. 

Bingo was the Game-o

I must admit that my post-Spain summer adventures have paled in comparison.  As I sit here reflecting back on my summer, I can’t even believe I spent a whole month living in another country.  It feels like a lifetime ago I was meandering the streets of Madrid.  What was the next phase of summer?  That would involve sand and a body of water, of course.

My family and I took our annual trip to Surfside Beach, a tradition we have had every year since I was born.  This is where grandma lives and it feels like a second home.  While it is ever growing, it is nestled about 30 minutes from the redneck riviera of the better known Myrtle Beach, where the joy of summer is found in the fresh paint of a henna tattoo and pair of booty shorts with YOLO across the back. 

To me, nothing says summer like the charm of Oceanside Village—walking toes deep in the water to the garden city pier, a cone of Painter’s cake batter ice cream melting onto my hand, watching the people ride by on golf carts from grandma’s front porch, and last but not least, BINGO.   Now, this is not what the average person my age would consider something even associated with their life, let alone their summer, but I have been playing with my grandma every year since I was little.  It’s her way of “showing me off” as she says. Grandma watched my card like a hawk (along with her three), should I forget to mark that last wild number.  To a kid, playing with ink dobbers and eagerly anticipating the chance of a cash prize given primarily in quarters had a lot more glitter.  In all honesty, it stopped being fun about six years ago, when I was old enough to drive the golf cart by myself. Oh, sweet freedom at the age of 15, cruising about a gated community in my electrically powered hot rod.   

There is monotony in the pattern of one lettered number after another. There is frustration of getting down to one number, only to hear someone call “Bingo” who has won three times already.  So, why do I go?  For those four hours (No, seriously, it is four hours long) I am making someone special to me happy.  Sure, I could think of one hundred other things I would rather be doing, but all of them pale in comparison to making my Grandma happy. It is something unique and special that I can do with my grandma that is all our own.  I have come to appreciate it all the more, considering this is one of the few things that she really can do anymore.   I get to talk with her friends as we all share stories.  I get to look at photos of their families.  I feel my cheeks get pink when grandma shows them all of mine.

Now, these stories I have long since memorized.  I know her friends by name, even though as the years pass they begin to re-introduce themselves more and more.  Despite my growing up, BINGO is a constant.  Now I am the one taking a casual glance over to Grandma’s card, should she forget to mark one of those wild numbers.   

El Fin

It was the trip I had been waiting for my whole life. A bit dramatic?  Maybe, but its better than “the dawn of time.”  Ever since I even heard of the concept of study abroad I knew that Spain was going to be my destination.  1) I could practice my Spanish by means of immersion. 2) It is in Europe… and I had never been to Europe.  Done and done.  And, after so much eager anticipation, just like that, the three and a half weeks were over in the blink of an eye.  Looking back, it was a whirlwind of people, places, and language.  It is as if each day runs into the other, lacking a finite beginning and end.  I have to look at the journey as a whole, then focus on individual experiences in isolation in order to wrap my head around it.  I can’t believe all I have seen in such a short amount of time.  Of course, I would have loved to stay longer.  However, I was glad to be coming home.  I was starting to miss things like air conditioning.  And the food.  Oh, and my family. 

In addition to Madrid, I also visited Toledo, Segovia, Salamanca, Córdoba, and El Escorial.  We were busy!  Let’s recap a bit: I have been to a packed stadium soccer game and witnessed history as Real Madrid won their 32^nd Championship victory.  I dined in the world’s oldest restaurant. (Er… at least attempted to.)  I ascended the tower of a castle. I perused the Royal Palace. I observed timeless pieces in the Museo del Prado.  I saw the resting place of Spanish royalty.   I watched a flamenco espactáculo done to Carmen.  I even took a Flamenco class! Travis and I (the dancing rock stars/sinverguenzas) gave the famous dance our own attempt.  In my brain, I did fabulous.  I brought the dancing to the discotecas, something unlike anything in Athens.  The best was our last night all together there at a place called Moon Dance.  Which, for the life of me, I could never get right.  (Moonlight/ Moonshine/ Moonbeam…?)  I saw Madrid from above in a cable car overlooking the city.  I scoured the racks of some of the cutest stores I have ever seen. I got to see Zac Efron speak Spanish.  Might not have been in person, and it might not have really been his voice.  Minor details.  I met students from all over Europe.  I was humbled by ornate cathedrals.  I was serenaded by a tuna in the plaza of Spain’s “college town.” I saw beauty all around me.  It was in the form of the amazing architecture, the hilltop views, the delightful parks, even the charming little alleyways.   This is all just to name a few…

If I had to say what I miss most, it would be strolling through the park or chilling in front of a café.  This may not sound very exciting, but it was these simple, easygoing moments, in which I had no commitments or places to go, I could talk and relax and just enjoy the easygoing lifestyle that is Spain.   I made some great friends, and it was enjoying their company that made it all the better.  The experience simply would not be the same without their humor and inside jokes, which for some reason were just not as funny to anyone else.  I look forward to many more adventures with them upon returning to Athens.  One person I certainly miss is my “madre” (my Spanish caregiver)  She treated us so wonderfully, and I am thankful I have a place to stay when I go back.  (That’s right not if.)    For me, I know this was just the beginning.  Sin duda, era una experiencia inolvidable.  Without a doubt, it was an unforgettable experience.  I look at leaving not as an “adios” but more of an “hasta luego.”

Here, There, Everywhere

We took an excursion to Córdoba, in the southern province of Andalucia.  We had the whole day basically to explore.  The main feature was the Mesquita.   This was a hybrid of a mosque and cathedral in design.  You first step in to the courtyard full of perfectly lined green trees.  In the center lies a little fountain and water feature.  Legend says if you drink from the fountain you will find your true love.  Well, I imagine you might find your true love to be a doctor, as he treats you from the bacterial disease you are sure to contract from drinking this water.  I am obviously a hopeless romantic.

 Of all of the cathedrals we have seen on the trip, this one had to be my favorite.  It was completely different architecturally from anything I had seen.  The  rounded arches were distinctly Arab in design.  It was very interesting to see the contrast in architecture being definitive of a mosque, but including stained glass windows.  Column after column supported rows of these red striped stone arches.  In the center, it opens up into a strikingly beautiful center of worship, as standard in most cathedrals.  It was a central hub of light and brightness with the painted murals, dome top, and sun-reflecting gold designs. 

After the Mesquita we ventured around.   Further along the cobblestone street, was a black gated area with an imposing tall statue. Stepping into the gates and walking around the structure, we had a beautiful view across a large bridge.  I enjoyed how the style of the city was a delightfully ironic mix of Arabic and Medieval design.  We casually strolled along the bridge, looking out over the river. Off in the distance, were the dilapidated remains of stone towers, now overgrown with winding ivy.  At the end of the long bridge was a castle-like stone building, which we mistook to be the fortress of Alcazar.  Upon getting there, we realized that that would be all the way back on the other side.  But from this point, we were able to get a lovely city view, with the bell tower and dome-like tower of the cathedral/mosque marking the highest points.  When we finally did find Alcazar, we found that it was not free for students, as we had previously thought. We looked at the ancient stone wall and figured that if you have seen one medieval fortress you have seen them all, right?  That money could be put to better use on some much needed helado in the 95 degree weather. 

Outside of the city, we waited for our train in a little park, which proved to be one of the more interesting people watching experiences in my life.  Why?  One crazy family.  All of the children were running around sans pants and underwear.  Oh don’t worry.  They still had their shirts on.  Better, right?  They were bathing in this public fountain.  I’m not sure what it was about the fountains in this place, but they have to know this is not the best water for drinking/bathing/frolicking.  Now you might be thinking that’s not that bad.  Kids will be kids, right?  Wrong.  One peed.  Right there.  Peed.  So... that is not “normal” or “okay.”  The thing was, this seemed to phase no one but the group of melting Americans in the park.  There was no hiding our staring.  What they consider acceptable, I consider ultimate verguenza.  Too bad that had to be our parting view of such a beautiful city.

The other trip we took that week was to Escorial.  How do you get there, you ask?  Oh, why you just take a leisurely stroll up this hill that goes up in a 90-degree angle and you will be there in half an hour.  At least it was a workout. When we finally reached the top, we had arrived at the Monasterio, a former palace-turned-monastery.  Upon going in, I was underwhelmed.  It was about as exciting as one would expect a monastery to be.  Walking through was a series of interesting transitions:  from a dungeon, then a museum, and then a catacomb.  Allow me to explain. 

At the base level, it was nothing but cold stone.  I was fearful this was going to be the whole thing until we moved up to the next floors.  There, the walls were covered in variously sized and shaped framed pictures, both religious art and portraits of royalty.  In looking, I honestly could not believe it had been a palace.  It just lacked the ornate detail of the palaces we had previously seen.  (Obviously I was becoming a castle snob.)  It was after many winding staircases that we made our way to why the Monasterio is so famous.  It is the resting place of Spanish royalty.  The Pantheon is a circular room within the monastery, and all along the walls are the caskets of kings and queens.  Though chilling, I have to admit it was interesting and eerily beautiful.  Hoping things might perk up a bit we went down the next corridor, only to find tomb after tomb after tomb.  There was an area for princes, princesses, children, and the family of the king.  Needless to say I was not expecting this.  Angel statues guarded over the marble sepulchers.  Some looked so real I was convinced one was going to punch me in the face.  (Flashback to the legend in Toledo.) 

After emerging from the land of the dead we made our way to the cathedral in the palace, rivaling in size to the other cathedrals we have seen.  It is hard to put into perspective the sheer magnitude of this palace to include all of these features, and we had not even seen half of it.  Not to mention all of the secret passageways.   Okay, I do not actually know that to be fact, but it just seemed like the kind of place that would be filled with mysterious little hideaways.  Maybe I have just seen too many movies.  And after we had looked at the Monasterio, it was all down hill from there…