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the everyman memoirs

The official blog of author Tali Nay.
OCT
08

The Apartment

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Let's talk about the apartment. Which won't take long. Because this is New York. Where else can you pay such an obscene amount of money for such a small space? Lest you remind me that I signed up for this, rest assured I'm not complaining. Quite the contrary. I love being so contained. There's so much less to keep track of. To worry about. To lose. To clean.

Not to say there aren't adjustments to be made. Namely, the noises. Again, I'm not complaining, because strangely, being so aware of my neighbors is almost comforting. I spent many a night in my spacious (meaning way more space than one person needs) Cleveland house feeling spooked due to my utter aloneness. Of course, the downside is it means that silence is, well, rare. And, hence, treasured. I try and write a few words in those moments, and with my deskside window overlooking a garden two floors below, it's enough to make up for the fact that I will be awakened at 2 AM by my neighbor's TV and that when the man across the hall draws a bath, I will hear every splash. (Bathroom sounds carry in particular, and hopefully everyone on the third floor has already forgotten that I got carried away last night myself and started singing West Side Story.)

I'll get the hang of it. Hopefully before I get to On the Town.

 

 

OCT
04

Three Bucks, Two Bags, One Me

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Ok, so it was more like 3 bags (plus a backpack and my cat), but I arrived in NYC this week, this time to stay. You could say it's been a long time coming. You could say it's risky. Or crazy. You could say any number of things and you'd probably be right. Because I have no idea what this city holds for me. And between all the noises from the neighbors, the outlandish produce prices (I've decided to cut out all produce in order to keep my Brazilian waxes...stay tuned for a future post entitled From the Desk of the Clinically Malnourished but Smooth), and the overall comprehension of living here being very different than vacationing here, this will certainly be an adjustment. But it has been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember, so while I don't know how things will ultimately shake out, what I do know is that I can see the Empire State Building anytime I want. And sometimes, like tonight, that is enough.

 

OCT
02

For Cleveland

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Yesterday was a big day for me. I left a city I loved. I know there are many who have put in much more time in much grander cities, but the thing about my six years on the great Cuyahoga is that Cleveland gets under your skin. Into your pores. It starts to grow roots inside you, even if your roots already exist somewhere else.

I'd never had my own city before Cleveland. I grew up somewhere, went to school somewhere, but neither of those were really my own. And think about that for a minute. A girl from small-town west coast. Far from home, didn't know a soul, no experience driving in snow. I felt like I had every reason to hate it. To want out. Not to say there weren't moments when I did (like how about every moment of this past winter), but what I wasn't expecting was this alarmingly fierce sense of loyalty that would develop in relatively short order. I mean, when you see montages of your city displayed on the jumbotron prior to sporting events and they give you goosebumps, you know it's got a hold on you.

I'll spare you the sap by simply saying that I'm pretty sure I will always feel like a Clevelander. I think when you leave a big enough piece of yourself behind, that can't be helped. Cleveland. The place where I became an author, an aunt; the place where I fell in love, then fell apart; the place where I discovered yoga, adopted my cat. It's the place that first made me feel like I was my own person; that my life was mine to make. It's a realization I now take with me to a new city, where a whole host of new opportunities, experiences, and (inevitably) mistakes await me. I'm looking unequivocally forward, but if I occasionally stop to look over my shoulder, I pray you'll indulge me. If you'd ever lived in Cleveland, you'd understand why I'll never completely let it go.

 

 

SEP
26

Less > More

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So, I'm reading a book right now called The Joy of Less. I'd lump it into a "tell me something I don't know" kind of book (full of principles such as "when one comes in, one goes out," and "narrow it down"...these are not earth-shattering concepts) if not for the fact that absolutely nobody is actually living this way. We get it; we can read a book like this and know we are the guilty ones for having so much crap we don't need--don't even use--yet what we cannot seem to do is get rid of it. The crap.

I'm using crap as a general term here, but the teensy bit of heartburn I feel as I sell, toss, or give away upwards of 90% of what I own is that my stuff is, in fact, not crap. My stuff is nice. So shouldn't I keep it? Don't I deserve to keep it? Haven't I worked hard to get to a point where my house is full of these nice things? While I'm sure there will be a moment after the move where I look around and say, "What happened to all my stuff?" and perhaps even shed a tear or two over being so stripped of belongings, my mantra through all of this is, "Something is only useful if it's being used." And most of my stuff is not. 

And let's also not forget that our stuff doesn't define us. Which can seem counter-intuitive. Because I can point to almost everything in my house and tell you a story about how it came to be mine. And there's a lot of life woven into these stories. Some of these stories are so significant to me that parting with the item will simply not be an option at this point, and that's OK. My point is simply that we must never get confused about what actually constitutes a life, and we must always remember that experiences trump possessions any day. And my hunch is that owning less actually facilitates more in terms of experiences. We have more room in our lives, in every sense of the word. That is what I'm looking forward to most.

SEP
19

How to Move a Cat

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I know, I know, there are certainly more important (and time-consuming) aspects of this move, namely the gargantuan task of getting rid of 90% of my possessions, but as the only living thing I am responsible for other than myself, Clementine is very much on my mind as I plan this move. And I'd like to not only get her there, but get her there in such a way that does not cause her to be scarred for life...or crap repeatedly in her pet carrier.

So, naturally, I'm going to drug her.

I have secured the necessary pills from the vet, have an airline-approved pet carrier on the way, and got her a little collar and pet tag in case she manages to slip out the apartment door and ends up wandering the streets of Manhattan.

New York will be an interesting experience for both of us. Not only because we will both surely pine for all the square footage we have enjoyed in Cleveland, but also because we have never slept in the same room. She goes nutso at night, bringing me her toys, jumping on my feet, basically doing whatever she can to demand my attention. So I close my bedroom door every night. Something you can't do when you live in a studio apartment. Lord help us.

SEP
15

One Way Ticket

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I've been traveling for the past 10 days, most of it in Chicago for work. Delightful city, maybe I'll post a few pics of the sightseeing I did, although it pretty much all involves me eating. And then eating more. Followed closely by more eating. Prior to Chicago, I did sneak in another short NYC trip. By now this is no surprise, surely. I did this in July, too. Also in April. And all the other times before that. What made this trip different--what I hadn't done on any other prior NYC trip--was that I signed a lease.

And so the next few weeks on this blog will be full of my moving preparations (chaotic) and goodbyes to the great, great city of Cleveland (weepy), a city in which I will leave a surprisingly big piece of myself and my heart. More on that later. For now let me leave you with images of possibility and new adventure, city lights and subway stations. If these images also contain a microscopic living space, much less disposable income, and uncertainty about things such as future plans, again, we'll get to that later. I've got boxes to pack.

 

SEP
04

They Called the Wind Mariah

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I should have taken this picture. I've been dreaming for months about taking this picture. I flew to Denver this past weekend and then drove to Colorado Springs to attend the Colorado Balloon Classic and take this picture. And yet, I did not take this picture. I did not, in fact, take *any* pictures. 

Not really sure why I latched onto this event when I first heard about it, but I guess the idea of seeing all that color sail away in the early morning sky struck me as, for lack of a better word, special; cathartic in some way. I felt an urgency to be there and see it, which is why I think I was more disappointed than any of the kids in attendance when both the night and morning launches were cancelled on account of wind. That's right, folks. Zero balloons. That's how many I saw. 

I'd be lying if I said I didn't mourn the balloons a little. I'd looked forward to seeing them for so long, and it's not the kind of experience you can get another chance at very often. But life is life, and weather is fickle. And I was still able to drive through the trees and mountains of Colorado, stare Pike's Peak and Castle Rock head on, and sit on a hillside overlooking the empty patch of sky that would have been filled with hot air balloons had Mother Nature dealt a slightly more calming hand that day.

For some reason what came to mind was the time a friend asked me--directly following the Oregon Ducks' 2012 Rose Bowl win, which of course was directly following their national championship loss-- to pick which outcome I preferred in general: a Rose Bowl win or a BCS loss. My first instinct was to say the win, because, hey, I'm no fool. But I told him I'd rather make it to the Big Game and lose, and I stand by that. Because we don't always get what we want, the stars don't always align in our favor, but I find there is satisfaction in being there anyway. Even if you lose. Even if you see zero balloons. It's enough to know that had the fates allowed, you would have been been on hand to witness something great.

AUG
26

Like Father, Like Son. Like Brother.

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There’s a part in Jeweled where I mention my brother’s wedding. How at the time, he being so much younger than me, there was a part of me that was sad about him passing me up in terms of major life milestones. It’s just not something I had ever pictured happening, him getting married first. Of course, now he’s been married for almost 6 years. (Me, still single.) And this past week he became a father. Talk about major life milestones.

It’s not sadness I feel this time at having once again been passed up, but it does make me think. And not just about my dwindling egg count. No, I’ve been thinking a lot about my brother. And every time I’ve heard him say “my son” this week, it’s like I hallucinate back to a much earlier time in our lives. Quite frankly, I don’t know where the time has gone. I don’t know how it is that back then has become so long ago; so far-removed. It’s not that I want it back, not exactly, because I think it’s kind of nice as we’ve all settled into adulthood, become Real People. But for my brother, his new arrival does mean a permanent pivoting. Toward the future and his new family. It’s wonderful and I wouldn’t have it any other way. And yet. I think I’ll miss those over-the-shoulder glances he used to throw my way, toward the homebird nest and our idyllic childhood. Something tells me he won’t be looking back quite as often now.

(And as long as I’m reminiscing about years gone by, let me say, and I can’t stress enough how crucial this is, that I also don’t know how the corners of my eyes have gotten so wrinkly lately. Should I be doing something about this?)

AUG
22

Ambidextrous

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I am a left-handed person. Not one of my primary identifiers, surely, and really not something that comes up often in conversation. The only time I feel particularly reminded of my handedness is when I'm using one of those desks with the little built-in tables, which were all made for right-handed people. Or cutting something with scissors, which were also all apparently made for right-handed people. Or when I'm, say, in a gem identification class and the instructor asks the lefties to identify themselves so she can switch our microscopes to the other side of our work stations.

Admittedly, this made me nervous. See, the way it works in gemology is you're supposed to hold the tweezers (which hold the stone) in your non-dominant hand as you examine the stone under the microscope so that your dominant hand can be taking notes on the stone as you observe it. Except how many of you would feel comfortable, steady, and not-at-all concerned about holding things like diamonds in somewhat percarious positions with your non-dominant hand? I'm no fool.

But after a week of doing just that, I'm kind of--gasp--used to it. I realized last night over dinner, reading Truman Capote's iconic novella over a plate of enchiladas, that my fork was in my right hand. I finished my meal the way a person who has just learned to walk might savor the wonderment of an appendage once seemingly useless now having been transformed into something not only useful, but strong.

Which is a fitting metaphor for how I feel leaving the gemology classroom today. I've learned more than I thought possible in a week's time. I've gone from being intimidated to being what feels awfully close to confident in my ability to one day master the art (science?) of identifying gemstones. Many more stones to go, but I'm looking forward to it. My left hand is already jealous.

 

AUG
19

After All

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Anyone who recognizes this picture is my kind of people. It's on the outside of the Small World ride at Disneyland, which is where I spent last weekend. I waited in line to see the princesses, got my face painted, and flew my Dumbo car at its full height while beating away the calls of reality with a stick. (More posts on this topic to follow...)

Small World isn't my favorite ride (although it does provide a few glorious minutes of air-conditioned sit-down time), but I always feel a certain amount of tenderness toward it because I remember my dad once remarking to me that he particularly liked it. Last time I was there I took a picture of the outside of it all lit up and sent it to him. It really is neat once the sun goes down and all at once about a billion lights come on and everyone standing in line gasps in unison. This past weekend I outdid myself. While sitting through my second Small World go-round of the day (it was hot, okay?), I thought about dear old dad and how much it would lift his spirits if I sent him not a picture, but a video from the actual ride itself. I filmed several minutes and sent him the longest of all the clips.

When I spoke to Dad and asked him if the clip made his day, he laughed in the sort of way that means, "Are you serious?" Yes folks. It turns out that my dad actually hates the Small World ride, and he thought all of my Small World pictures and videos to him over the years were a joke. He thought it was funny. And that the video goes on and on made it seem even funnier. Whereas I thought I was being thoughtful. And that the video goes on and on made it seem even more thoughtful. To quote Flight of the Conchords, what a hilarious misunderstanding. It's a good thing I didn't buy him a souvenir shirt. Although part of me wonders how long I would have gone on in this manner and had no idea...

AUG
14

The Jewelry Effect

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It doesn't have a great effect on book sales, I can tell you that. In fact, full disclosure, it's a bit discouraging how much more difficult it is to sell Jeweled than Schooled. Especially when very close to all people who I've heard from who have read both say they actually like Jeweled better. (Even the San Francisco Review liked it better. See this post:The 5-star Book Review ) But out in the world, to the general public, convincing them to read a book that looks every bit like it will be entirely about jewelry is not easy. Even trying to describe Jeweled has me fumbling over my words. You just can't sum it up as concisely (or as universally relatably) as a book about school. Let's try it, shall we?

It's my life in jewelry.

It's life from the eyes of a jewelry lover.

It's a look at the jewelry industry through the eyes of a jewelry lover.

It's a look at life, love, and family through a series of stories and reflections about jewelry and the impact it has on all of us.

It's a series of stories about jewelry and the effect it has on life, love, and family.

The life, love, and family is sort of what gets lost here when I find myself explaining to people what Jeweled is about. Remember, that's what one of my early readers called me up about as soon as he'd finished reading...that the back of the book did nothing to capture the true sentiment of the book, which is actually about life and love.

Still, I like Jeweled better. If for no other reason than it is much more unique to me and my life and passion. I mean, how often do you meet a girl who throws jewelry-themed parties where the guests are forced to play matching games involving diamond cuts? (And how often does said girl become secretly appalled when all of the guests positively *suck* at this game? I mean, what self-respecting adult woman doesn't know that April's birthstone is the diamond? Or that the skinny, football-shaped cut is called a marquise?) Next time, they should read up beforehand. I know just the book.

 

AUG
10

Half of Me

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In an effort to simplify and downsize my life, I've begun going through my belongings. You know the drill. Saving this, chucking that. It's a process I haven't done to this extent in the entire six years I've lived in this house. Needless to say, I've accumulated a lot of crap. OK, it's not crap. Well, some of it is crap. But mostly it's just stuff that when push comes to shove (or when the day comes that I need to fit myself and my life into a much smaller space...), I can do without.

What has surprised me though about this summer's possession slim-down is how much I own that did not come from these six years. How much of it precedes my time in Cleveland, and by quite a bit, too. Like the Birkenstocks* I bought when I was in junior high. I didn't have a lot of cool brand-name stuff back then, and my parents would never have bought me Birkenstocks, so if I wanted them (and I did, badly), it was up to me to come up with the money. The Birkenstocks--a funky pattern of blue and pink and orange and still in great shape after costing me an at-the-time small fortune of $80 back in 1996--I am getting rid of, and while I am logical enough to let the fact that I haven't worn them in years win out, I do feel a pang of loss at the thought of giving them up. Because they remind me of a much younger me and, more importantly, the feeling I had while walking home from the bus stop that first day with them. I was wearing the Birkenstocks with a pair of black Nike socks (also new) pulled up almost to my knees. A look that, believe me, was as amazing as it sounds. And to the tune of Gershwin's "I Got Rhythm," the little song I made up as I approached my house was: "I got Birkenstocks, I got Nike socks..."

Something I will never get rid of is the picture at the top of this post, which sits framed on my bedside table even today. A teenager when it was taken, it struck me this week while sorting things into various piles of crap that I am exactly twice as old now as I was in this picture. Which makes this half my life ago. Half my life. From my seat as a well-educated adult out living life, making choices, and pursuing dreams, it's sometimes hard to believe that my life as a kid at home with my siblings was only half my life ago. How different our phases of life are. How far away they can seem, even though we can recall the most trivial details as if they were yesterday (such as my Birkenstock memory). And how much we collect along the way.

*Keep in mind that in the Pacific Northwest, Birkenstocks are considered the "it" footwear brand. At least they were in the 1990s.

AUG
06

The 5-star Book Review

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I confess I was really hoping the San Francisco Review would give me 5 stars for Jeweled. Of course, you never think it's going to happen. Just like you never think people--any people--are really going to like your book as much as you do. But hearing from the SF review this week, seeing those 5 little stars, reading the review prior to it being put into their publication, it's been a huge pick-me-up. Not that I needed one or am feeling down these days, it's just nice to be reminded that maybe you really did write a good book. And maybe peope other than your friends and family think so, too. Let me just leave you with this little gem:

..."Although Jeweled is the sincere and outspoken retelling of Nay's jeweled experiences, her stories invoke the humanness in all of us. Truly a fun and totally engaging read from cover to cover."

Now if that doesn't just warm an author's heart, I don't know what will. Besides, like, selling a ton of books. That would warm my heart, too.

 

AUG
03

Back to School

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Inside this backpack are the school supplies needed for a girl about to enter the fifth grade. Actually, I can be more specific than that. I can tell you that it contains 24 pencils and a case to put them in. Colored pencils, markers, 2 boxes of crayons. 6 folders of assorted colors, 4 wide-ruled subject notebooks, 2 composition notebooks. Should I go on? Yes, I can tell you exactly what is in this backpack. What I can't tell you is when exactly it was that school supplies lists got so long. Or why on earth every single kid needs to be contributing 4 dry erase markers to their collective classroom supply. Same thing with ziplocs, Band-Aids, tissues, and hand sanitizer. And a full ream of copy paper? From every student? It's just matter of time before students are asked to supply their own desks.

I don't remember my mom ever working from a list. If she did, I don't remember ever seeing this list. I mostly remember it being sort of up to us and our own deductive logic skills to figure a kid should probably show up to school with some pencils and paper and a backpack to carry them in. I suppose there had to have been a list, or else how would Mom have known when to start mixing in gadgets such as protractors, compasses, and graphing calculators? At any rate, I'm glad the soon-to-be fifth grader who will be receiving this backpack can bypass the list and simply show up at school ready to rock. And I hope she likes purple.

JUL
29

The Poster-Size Boyfriend Picture Fiasco

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Whenever I see people post pictures of themselves looking totally cute, I roll my eyes. It’s so tacky. Anyone who wants people to see them looking totally cute seems like they have something to prove. Or an ulterior self-serving motive.

It reminds me of the time a couple Christmases ago when I wanted to give my boyfriend a framed picture of me to keep on his desk at the office. Of course what started in my mind as a simple 4x6 ultimately turned into something the size of a small poster; a collage of our travels with a picture of me in the center--black and white, slight smile, wind blowing in my hair. It really didn’t occur to me that the now gargantuan thing wouldn’t be feasible to display at work until he told me it wouldn’t be feasible to display at work. I had to settle for the top of the stairs in his house. Which is the moment I realized my motive had more to do with the foot traffic the picture would get at his office, and people being reminded of this solid, witty, and at times (like the time in that photo) adorable presence in his life. The only person who ever saw the picture at the top of his stairs was me, and what good did it do to look at an adorable picture of myself?

Which brings me back to my original beef. And as for the picture on today’s post, I got nothin'. No explanation except that I've been in NYC the past several days, and to me this picture sums up how I feel about NYC, and how much a part of it I feel when I’m there. The buildings, the bakeries, the history, the hubbub. The taxis, the subways, the street signs. It just makes me happy, and so does this picture. (It also makes me look totally cute. Deal with it. Besides, it could be worse. It could be poster size and displayed on your office wall.)

JUL
26

The Thing You Should Never Forget to Pack

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Like an idiot I got on a plane to NYC yesterday with not a single book in tow. Who does that? Let me rephrase. What author does that? I mean, what would I read while eating breakfast at a tucked away cafe where someone famous probably once had breakfast? Or while sitting in Central Park listening to the serenade of the sax man? Or while on the Brooklyn-bound 4 train?

So that's why my first stop upon arrival was Barnes & Noble. I've come all the way to NYC to...buy a book? Then I had breakfast at a tucked away cafe and sat in Central Park. The sax man was playing 'Moon River', which seemed appropriate given that the book I had bought was Breakfast at Tiffany's. My huckleberry friend, indeed. As I sat listening and reading, there was an ant crawling up my back that I could not find, but then again, no moment is perfect. No packing job either.

JUL
22

Why I Miss Carrie Bradshaw

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Are there certain TV shows you’ll watch the reruns of no matter how many times you may have seen the episode before? I’m going to trust that no matter who you are, the answer is yes. There’s always That One Show. For me there are a handful that I’ll sit and chuckle at all these years later, but the one that most often has me sitting through seasons past is Sex and the City.

It’s a show I miss terribly. It’s not the sex. It’s not even the city. OK, maybe it’s a little bit the city, but mostly it’s Carrie Bradshaw and her literary musings about life and love…and being a singleton. Seriously, and I’m not making this up, I feel like I learned a lot from Carrie. Or maybe it’s just that so much of what she said rings true with me. And maybe I’m revealing too much about myself (or maybe it’s just that what I’m revealing is pathetic), but little Carrie snippets come to mind all the time as I go about my life. Most recently during an elevator chat with some co-workers about all the money I shell out as a single, childless person for wedding and baby gifts for other people. It’s not that I mind it, because I quite enjoy giving and celebrating the happiness of others, but as Carrie points out (remember the episode where she registers at Manolo Blahnik…for herself) life as a single girl doesn’t present any opportunities for your friends to repay the favor.

And so this is all to say that if this past weekend found me getting sucked into the SATC marathon on E! (it did), don’t be alarmed. If I come back and watch the DVRed final two episodes again before the week is out (I will), don’t even worry about it. If doing either of these things makes me cry even one time (it does), promise you won’t think me any less of a competent professional. Deal?

JUL
17

The Traveling Salesman Problem

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As a person somewhat prone to annoying things like worrying, perfectionism, and overanalyzing (and also as a person who has seen If/Then), I’m fascinated by the traveling salesman problem, which has to do with determining the best way to make a series of deliveries or stops. I’m by no means a savant for college addresses, commencement or otherwise, but I came across one given last year that opens with this very dilemma, and the mathematician speaker pointed out just how quickly actually determining the “best” option becomes impossible.

With 3 stops, a salesman has only 6 possible routes. Pretty easy to identify the best, shortest one. With 4 stops, we’re up to 24. With 5, we’re all the way up to 120. By the time you reach 10 stops, we’re almost unbelievably up to 3,628,800 possible routes, and with 20 stops, that jumps to 2,432,902,008,176,640,000, a number of options that even if you had a computer analyzing at a rate of 1 Billion routes per second, it would still take 72 years to check them all.

OK, so maybe there aren’t *that* many possible paths we can take in our lives, but I do think we get hung up too often on wanting to determine the “best” path. The best option. The scenario, the job, the city, the spouse, the ultimate combination of circumstances that would be better than all others. What this address did was remind me that it’s simply impossible to know if the decisions you are making, the life you are choosing, is the one that would make you happier than any other. You can do your homework, sure, and you can make some educated guesses based on what you know about yourself and the thing you are choosing. But after that, it’s nothing more than the proverbial leap, and if you spend too long trying to guarantee you are making the “best” decision, you’ll paralyze yourself into doing nothing. Ever. And you’ll regret your lack of action.

Think back to your bible study days on this one, but remember the parable of the talents? The speaker of this same college address tied in this story rather ingeniously by reminding the students that the servant who (literally) buried his talent was cast out. Banished. Sent to hell. Or whatever. The point is, even though he didn’t lose a single cent of that money, the bigger thing at play is that he didn’t even try to do anything with it, so afraid he was of losing it. See, it doesn’t really come down to whether or not we screw up, but life has more to do with us actually doing something, regardless of whether or not what we did was the best possible thing we could have done.

We’ll simply never know what the Best Possible Thing is, so that thing you’ve been wanting to do, that thing you’ve been looking into, that thing you feel like a crazy person for trying even though it’s all you can think about, I say do it.

It’s either that or wait 72 years for the computer to figure it out for you.

Your move.

JUL
15

The Contest

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It's that time of year again, folks. And I can't believe it's this far into the summer without me mentioning the annual Nay Family Summer reading contest (see: Summer Side Job).

Of course, for all the stacks of to-read books I always have on hand, I'm a bit embarassed to admit I'm only on my second book of the summer, and we're already over halfway through. Pretty sure my 5-year-old nephew is going to beat me on nothing but Horton Hears a Who.

Maybe I'll rally. Maybe I'll come down with mono and spend the entire month of August in bed. One can only hope.

 

 

JUL
11

Post Script

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Remember how I said I wasn't sure I wanted him back? Well something about seeing the James jerseys around town, the non-stop chatter and speculation, the various "come home" pleas, Michael Symon's promise of an LBJ burger. Something about all of this made me start hoping in spite of myself. Such that when I heard the news today (I was half naked in an Anthropologie dressing room, by the way, and simply *had* to refresh my phone in case the announcement had been made since my previous check a little while before), I could not stop smiling.

This city loved him so much, and it seems we still do. It seems *I* still do. And considering we (myself included) were the very ones who flocked to the Q when the Heat were in town simply so we could boo every time he had the ball--and he has the ball a lot--this is part confusing, part sickening, but mostly I think it is hopeful. To know that we--all of us, LeBron included--can get over ourselves and move on. Move forward. Move up. Move home. Goodbye, #1 lottery pick. See you never.