Honest Mistake

Today I answered the phone at my internship and introduced myself. I was then called Don. And still Fran Drescher is worse.

Growing Up On The Road

I've decided to switch gears on this blog post. It's not that nothing is happening in my life, in fact there is just far too much. Not really. But I am presenting you with a story from my past until I can get my present life in order to give you a proper blog post. Enjoy!

I was roadtripping with my mom to my grandmother's house when I was about 13 or so. I was in the transition stage between being promised (and being overly enthusiastic) about getting treats for the drive and being able to handle the manageable 2 hour drive without stopping. I over estimated my abilities and after an extra large soda, I had an overwhelming need to use the bathroom. We stopped at a gas station and I rushed to the bathroom. I had to begin to unbuttoning my pants as I ran through the store; this was an emergency! I busted the door open to the stall and noticed that some indecent person had not flushed. Despite the rush I was in to get to the bathroom, I refused to use the dirty stall. It was a matter of principle.

I stood outside the stalls waiting for the next available one, tapping my foot to distract myself from my fear that my bladder was dangerously close to exploding. Then from inside the stall I had just busted open came a young girl, no older than four, timidly creeping out of the stall. I had pinned the poor girl against the wall of the stall after she finished her business. This young girl had probably just overcome her fear of using the bathroom alone only to be traumatized by an aggressive swinging stall door. I could only imagine that she finished up, so proud of herself and as she reached for the handle to flush she was flung to the side of the stall, trapped between the door and connecting wall. I was so uncomfortable; I wasn’t sure whether I should apologize--would she understand my reasoning? Did she even know a person had pushed the door or did she think it was just part of going to the bathroom alone? Just part of growing up? Finally the next stall opened and a woman came out.

“How was it, Sara?” it was the girl’s mother, “did you remember to flush?” I was about to chime in that no, no, she had not remembered to flush. But then I decided that it might be because of me that Sara will never be able to use the bathroom alone again. Sorry lady, you’re going to be accompanying your daughter for a few more years and sorry, Sara. My bad.

The Name Game

My name, without sounding too negative, is stupid. Don’t get me wrong, I love the name Anna (that is “on-uh” not “anne-uh”). “On-uh” is a beautiful name, but it has the bad luck of coming second to its nasally sounding sister, “anne-uh”. For the purpose of clarity “on-uh” will be typed as Anna. And “anne-uh” will be typed as Fran Drescher for the duration of this post.

I don’t think I have ever been called Anna off the bat. I can confidently say this because I think if I were called Anna upon meeting someone for the first time I would marry that person. Be they male of female I would make that person mine. This person would already understand one of the biggest struggles in my life, clearly making our meeting fate. Never being called Anna off the bat is based on those who have seen my name in writing, not actually heard my name. Two assumptions come along with my name on paper. The first is that my name is Fran Drescher and the second is that I’m foreign. Just the look of my name, 4-letter first name, 4 letter last name, screams Norwegian. I’m not sure why, and I don’t care to argue with this, but it is distinctly un-American.

The struggle of having a constantly mispronounced name is a daily one. I have to make a decision of whom I am going to correct on the pronunciation of my name. I never correct deliverymen, professors, and most recently, job interviewers, because our relationship isn’t going to last longer than a few hours. (It is a sad, sad truth. Someone give me a job!) But this is a risk. Who is to say that I am going to meet someone, not correct them, and we wind up becoming good friends? At what point DO I correct them? A week into the friendship? After the toast is given to Fran Drescher and husband at my wedding? These are issues someone with a name like mine must sort through constantly.

There are three levels of the acceptableness for mispronouncing my name. The first, and most acceptable level is the mispronunciation of my name on paper. I get it, it’s confusing having a word spelled the same but pronounced differently. It only happens ALL the time in the English language (I’m going to read a book, I read a book; the monster lives! The monster saved our lives! Come on, people). The second level is being introduced to me verbally only to find yourself unable to suppress the urge to call me Fran Drescher. I also get it; Fran Drescher is a common name. But you don’t hear me calling you Bill when your name is Bob just because I have a friend named Bill. They are different words. The third level, and by far the least acceptable, is correcting me on the pronunciation of my own name.

One time I was picking up a bulk order of sneakers for my basketball team. I told the worker at Dick’s Sporting Goods that the order for 20 shoes was under the name Anna. He went to the back, looked and looked and came back saying he couldn’t find it. I said, shocked, “really? For Anna?” and he responded, as if he had experienced a revelation, “ohhhh, Fran Drescher”. He headed back to the storage room and came back with my 20 pairs of shoes. No. Not Fran Drescher. Anna. The name that I just told you. This happened on another occasion, very recently. I was out at USC with my friend and was introducing myself to a young gent. I said, “Hi, I’m Anna” and he responded just as the Dick’s Sporting Goods employee did, “ohhhh, Fran Drescher”. I’m not sure why the long “ohhh” must come before the correction of my name and it is always coupled with an understanding nod. It makes it seem like I’m not well and that calling myself Anna is equivalent to a side affect of Alzheimer’s. Ala, a grandfather says “the spaceship is taking me to the moon, but it’s monsoon season” and the caregiver responds, “ohhh, the shower”.

It’s hard being an Anna in a Fran Drescher world. It really is.

My 4th Roommate, Edward.

I’ve given myself the challenge of living a year in Los Angeles. That is not to say that I am giving myself a year to break into the industry and become a successful comedy writer or Tina Fey’s best friend (still not sure which I want more) because I know that is unrealistic. BUT that is to say that if I’m just not feelin’ it after a year I give myself permission to leave. But a year in LA is on the horizon!

I’m here right now on a summer sublease, so my entire living situation is temporary. A sublease can never really feel like “home”. There are still the signs of the previous owner everywhere. In my case that is the “These Are The Days of Our Lives” slideshow CD that is sitting in the living room, it is the blown up picture of all the original roommates together resting nicely in the corner, and it is the Edward Cullen (the main character from Twilight for my non-Tween audience) poster tacked on the inside of my closet door. Eddie sure gave me a fright when I first closed my closet door fully to change. And my body can’t compete with Bella’s so I always keep the door open now so that Ed can’t look at me with those piercing yellow-flamed vampire eyes. I’m aware that I could just take this poster down, but, like I said, everything is temporary and I feel like I’m overstepping my bounds by taking the poster down.

I’ve noticed that when things are temporary I lower my standards immensely. For example, I won’t change the light bulb in my bedroom that flashes like a strobe light constantly. I’ve had to thank God every night that I don’t have epilepsy and I also ask that I don’t get vertigo over the duration of this summer sublease. This laziness also explains why I have not bothered to get stoppers for the wheels on my bed frame. Every time I sit down on my bed it glides across the wood floor to a new location. If there is an earthquake I can leave it in Mother Nature’s hands to reorganize my room. Sometimes I think that if there is an earthquake while I'm laying in bed looking at my strobe light on the ceiling, the combination of a moving bed and aggressive flashing light would no doubt leave me disoriented and most likely violently ill. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take because obviously the inconvenience of getting stoppers and a new light bulb outweighs the potentially dangerous repercussions. OBVIOUSLY.

Tour Guiding

This weekend one of my very best friends came to visit me!! What's the point of making new friends when you can just have your old ones come visit you every few months? Sure there will be severe depression, anxiety and loneliness in between visits but making friends is hard. And having my already established friends save money and fly here is easy. With that aside it was so fun having Natalie here. We did what we do best which is eat, and spend the time in between eating thinking about where we are going to eat next. A perfect weekend.

It was interesting having a guest because I still have no idea what I'm doing here. I would ask Natalie everyday what we should do; I was hoping she had done her research and had a to-do list for us already planned out. But alas, she did not. We discovered the city together! The one thing we did not discover on this trip was the sun. That little guy didn't come out the whole weekend! I live close to the beach but we had to drive 25 minutes away from the ocean to see the sun or feel the heat. That just doesn't make sense. But the weekend was great, definitely one of the best. I can’t wait for my next visitors coming in July 21st. See look how much easier that is! No effort required.

Am I Over The Hill?

I have been having some difficulty in adjusting to life after college. It's not an easy transition. There are still so many things I'm unsure of. These include, but are not limited to, working long hours all day-how does this work, when does one nap? What do you talk about with your older co-workers if they are not fans of The Hills? And lastly, where does one buy wine that doesn't come in a box?
I loved pretty much everything about college, and thinking back on the past four years leaves me asking myself why I didn't fail some classes to keep my love affair with Boulder going strong? After 2 months of post-grad life, I have to admit that the wound is still fresh. That is why when I was asked about my summer plans "before school starts up again" by an unknown guy at a party, I choked back tears and admitted that I was a graduate. He followed this by telling me I was old-he did not say this in a joking manner. Now, being a graduate is offensive enough, but to be called old on top of that is down right slanderous. I didn't know whether I should be more upset that he thought I was old- 22 is a PRIME age- or if I should be more upset that I was so upset by this. That made me feel even older. Now I know how the cast of Sex and The City feel when the critics say their movie needs to speed up production before their faces show their true age. I have never felt SO in sync with Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. Stay strong, ladies! They can't keep us down!

USA USA USA

This weekend I celebrated the history of this country as any respectable American does... binge drinking. BUT drinking in red, white and blue which differs from my usual drinking routine. And I wouldn't call what we did binge drinking because Jason and I were on a mission to find friends. We had to be on top of our game. We went down to Hermosa beach with a girl I kind of know that basically has to be my friend because we are sorority sisters. I knew paying for friends for 4 years was worth it in the long run. Just kidding, sororities build leadership skills. And ya know, like, other stuff too. Anyway, this beach was packed and after a few hours one thing lead to another and let's just say events transpired. And by that I do mean there were legitimate number exchanges with potential friends! It was a successful day, and I have this beautiful country to thank. Thank god (or our founding fathers) alcohol is such an integral part of recognizing America.

Dr. Scholls Stole My Thunder!

I continue to excel at walking in this city, but this talent is really taking a toll on my knees. It's my own fault though, I have not been wearing my insoles when I walk these long distances. I don't want to brag, but I've had corrective footwear since before it was cool to have corrective footwear. Before Dr. Scholls was making a killing with his gellin' commercials, I was getting my foot plastered for personalized insoles to give my foot the false sense of an arch.
I know insoles are all the rave now, but when I was in middle school it was mortifying. Imagine a constant squeak coming each time you take a step. This was especially embarrassing when walking to the front of the class to turn in a quiz in complete silence. In middle school any squeak, or similar noise, is always assumed to be a fart. I constantly sounded like I was crop dusting the classroom.
When it became summer and everyone started wearing cute flip flops I had to wear ones that would still offer me some support. And since those cool Old Navy flip flops don't care about your arches, I was forced to wear Merrells. Which is what grandmothers wear. I looked like Robin Williams in "Jack", or at least my feet did. From calf down I looked a few years out of retirement. It is these painful memories that encourage me to not wear my insoles which in return gives me knee pain. It's a vicious cycle. Possibly after several years of therapy I will be able to embrace my arches again.