annaclaireeddington

Forget February- May must be the month of Cupid. It seems like every time I log into Facebook I see a new sparkly ring and a caption saying “at last!” or “he did it!” or “engaged!” (as you can see, these are very clever titles). I’ll admit to a little jealousy that all these people are finding their “Happily Ever After” so soon in life, but I will also admit that I’m pretty sure that I am nowhere near being ready to be married. I really liked painting my bathroom purple. I kind of love just eating popcorn for dinner. And to a certain degree I still think boys have cooties. But you know, I didn’t need to see all my friends getting married to know that. I just needed to look at my garden.

My 5×5 foot garden plot at the 15th Street Community Garden is my very favorite part of my Little Rock Life. You think I’m joking, but I’m not. In my book, it is a legitimate miracle to put a little brown nugget in the ground, pour a bit of water on it, and have food. Actually, it’s a lot like those MREs that are vacuum packed… but instead of a pizza from a bag you get a squash on a vine. I’m telling you, its a miracle! I can grow so much food with so very little effort, and I feel pretty much like a bad a** when I stop by my garden after work and can literally pick my own dinner. There I am, in my work clothes and a smile, just dumping water onto my herbs and maters and squash and kale, thinking about life and where I’m going to go on a bike ride and if Melanie has cleaned our kitchen and what I have to do at work the next day… and before you know it, I’ve almost drowned my garden! This has happened several times. More often than that, though, I FORGET to water it. Well, not so much forget as think, “hey, its Friday, lets hit the road since we don’t have any responsibilities until 8am Monday!” And then my friend Jenn, who has the other side of my plot, will text me and say “girl, your squash are about to fall off the vine” or “that garden’s lookin thirsty- I’ll throw some water your way” and I’ll realize that I DO have a responsibility!

As you can see, I’m transfixed by this hose nozzle… not the watering of the garden process

My garden is like my spouse/child/pet that I am supposed to take care of, and I keep forgetting! Jenn is a real adult with a husband and a kid and some pets, so her garden requires the least of her time… but even so, she doesn’t run away and forget to take care of it (in fact, Melanie and I are dog sitting for her this weekend, and we will probably water her garden too). Unlike Jenn, I am a negligent mother! I set Mr. Wiggles (my dear turtle) free after a 3 day companionship because he stunk. I let some of my lettuce bolt because I was too careless to read up on when to pick leafy greens. I allowed one squash to grow to over a foot long just so I could show it off (it was inedible at that point, by the way). If I cannot be trusted with a terrapin and 25 sq feet of garden, how can I be trusted to pick up someone’s laundry or share a bank account or eventually raise a child?!?!?

This particular squash weighs two pounds and is over a foot long. And inedible.

And I guess that’s the whole point- one day I probably will be a real adult, but for now I am really okay playing in the dirt by myself. And I have learned from my mistakes in that garden. I will never again plant five squash plants in a five foot row- I have way too much squash, and everything else in the garden is being attached by its mutant branches (if this were a parable, I would say I’d learned to give people their space). Next time, I won’t forget to put a tomato cage around a tomato plant when it first starts to grow- who knew tomatoes needed so much support, and grew so quickly? (or: give people the support they need, even if they don’t know they need it). I won’t try planting mint without first putting it in a pot- it has spread like a plague (I really don’t know where the human translation is here). And I will share. All of my lettuce was ready to be harvested AT ONCE. Same with the basil and the squash and the mint. And instead of sharing it, I let it go to seed or to waste. And you know, I guess that’s what really told me that I’m not ready to be married- I tend to forget to share. But the good news is that I’m learning lessons from my garden.

Conveniently, spending time with Melanie has made those lessons more realistic. She and I make pretty good companions, I think we take quite good care of each other, and it is AWESOME to have someone to go camping with who also will get your headlights fixed while you’re at work (seriously, she is #1 sister). It’s especially nice to be reminded that one day (far, far away) I will probably be able to share a bathroom with someone I love, the same kind of person who will be okay eating my mutant squash and remembering to feed the turtle (and children).

For the last 18 years or so, I have welcomed the palpable heat of May with open arms- SUMMER WAS HERE! So what if a mere eight minutes outdoors gave you skin damage for life? I couldn’t have cared less about the sweltering heat because I could be inside… or outside… or in a pool… or on a mountain…or in a different country… basically I could just be wherever I wanted, because summer meant summer break. Three months of time that was mine, all mine.

In my opinion, the worst part about being a adult is that you don’t get a summer break unless you’re a) a teacher (you get a full summer but you really don’t make enough to be extravagant) b) a consultant (you don’t get a full summer, but you make enough money to enjoy the long vacation you’ve earned) or c) on a gap year (which means your whole year has been a summer, and therefore I despise you. Yes I’m talking to you Clayton Thomas, Emma Din, Alex Lee, Katie Frayler, Hogan Medlin, Martina Scheuermann, all Backroads friends, etc).

On the flip side, the best part is that you get so used to the blue-white pallor that your skin acquires from sitting in front of a computer in a windowless office that each weekend FEELS like a mini-vacation!

My sister Melanie is spending about a month in this bustling metropolis of Little Rock. She’s living in my small (okay, miniscule) 1-bedroom (1-bed) apartment and doing odd-jobs around town during the week while on the weekend we have all the time in the world to entertain each other. Mel is a welcome addition to my life. It also doesn’t hurt that I find her hilarious and she often cleans my kitchen while I’m at work. So with our first big 3-day weekend stretching out before our eyes, Melanie and I got to listing off all of the things we could do over Memorial Day.

1)      Sky dive (vetoed out of poverty and fear)

2)      Float the Buffalo (vetoed because there is less water in the river than was in my shower this morning)

3)      Go to Fayetteville (vetoed because the thought of a good college town still makes me sad)

4)      Camp at one of the lakes around here (SUCCESS)

With no real summer break to speak of, this was our big vacation! So Saturday morning we packed up like the rugged outdoorswomen that we are- Mel took the top off her Jeep, I dug out the tent, fishing pole, sunscreen, and beer and off we went on a grand adventure! Oh god, we were just so excited- this was summer vacation!! Hair whipping in the wind, Mumford & Sons blasting on the radio, we pulled into Lake Catherine State Park with the highest of hopes. And then we found our spot, and all hope was lost.

The lakefront spot that the slightly awkward park ranger had so cautiously signed over to us was, in fact, in the middle of a trailer park. While it was a little weird to be the only non-motorhomed residents of Camping Area B, it was only strike one, and a minor one at that. Mel and I still had our buzz going, and we hadn’t even started on the beer. We sent up our tent, tossed in the sleeping bags, popped open the folding chairs and sat back to enjoy the view. The view included: one dead fish, three rather overweight rednecks sitting in the mud, a boat docked to the pier that stuck out from our spot (this boat was home to a mother whose children all must have been deaf by the amount of noise she made for every.single.command) and last, but not least, a power plant.

Strike two, and more powerful (get it? Power plant?) than the first, but we were still on-board with the whole camping excursion. And then Uncle Steve called and saved us from rushing out of Lake Catherine State Park at that exact moment.

“Hey, wanna go take the boat out with us on Lake DeGray?”

Uh, yes, more than anything that I have ever wanted in my life.

“Do you think Mel will mind leaving the camp site?”

I just have a feeling she won’t.

“Well come on!”

So, with spirits soaring yet again, Mel and I met up with Uncle Steve and Aunt Vanna and our cousins Sam and Sarah (who, as a side note, just graduated second in her class from Benton High School and delivered the welcome and prayer at graduation. She is awesome). And we had a blast! Things couldn’t get better!

But then, in a weird and twisted way, they did. Mel and I made it back to camp, I cooked rice and beans and veggie patties (all delicious, and I felt like a grill master), we drank margaritas and Melanie jumped onto an enormous raft in the middle of the night. And despite the noise and light pollution (and, of course, REAL pollution) coming from across the lake, we fell asleep feeling like real adventurers.

I don’t know many adventurers, but those that I do know probably don’t often wake up to the combined chorus of revving Harley engines, 6 yappy dogs and two children crying… at 7am… at 90 degrees. Not to be discouraged, I started another fire in an attempt to cook what turned into a congealed mess of eggs… I mean really, we just couldn’t win. There was more heat cooking the eggs from above than below. There were babies crying everywhere. There were people walking through our campsite in camo jorts alone. There was a Harley convention. And there was STILL a power plant across the lake from us! And I told Mel that I wanted to go home. Strike three.

So, with all her younger sister patience, Melanie took care of it. She got us a mini-refund and a camping spot in the primitive campground (no electricity, bathrooms, or rednecks). She brought me an ice cream Snickers (which, I admit, is all I really wanted). And she discovered a six-mile hike in the woods that ended up taking most of our day and energy, but which we rewarded ourselves for with a PIZZA!

So I admit, maybe we’re not the most outdoorsy woodswomen of the world. And I admit that the real highlight of the weekend was witnessing a dyed-in-the-wool Mexican baptismal ceremony IN LAKE CATHERINE. Not on the beach. Not on the picnic pavilion. IN the lake. And I admit that yesterday we left a perfectly good beach on Memorial Day to head home, with the roof of the Jeep firmly in place, where we sat in the air conditioning and ate real food. And that’s when the adult version of myself realized that just like other, more elaborate summer breaks, this time was mine, all mine.

So, I guess summer break HAS arrived, after all.

It’s mid-February, and that can only mean one thing for a south Louisiana native- Mardi Gras time. And Mardi Gras time can only mean one thing for a south Louisiana Catholic- Lent. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Lent, its kind of like a 40-day New Year’s Resolution period involving God, lots of fish eating and a great amount of guilt. This year instead of my usual carbohydrate sacrifice I’ve decided to give up complaining and replacing the time I’d usually spend in a whiney state with general openmindedness. Let me explain…

Being new to a city means constantly putting yourself on the line. It’s YOUR job to initiate friendships, dinner dates, and the like. But if you’ll consider my Little Rock friend-making history (please refer to the stalker story), you’ll understand that friend making here was a little like shock therapy. So when Amy asked if I was up for not one, but TWO Super Bowl parties, I was torn- I HAD to say yes, I had to. This girl had taken me under her wing, introduced me to all her friends, and is someone I genuinely enjoy hanging out with. But she wanted me to go and MEET people, people who would undoubtedly be weirdos since I seem to attract an inordinate number of them (with obvious exceptions to that rule). After trying all my cards (including “maybe we can bring two cars” so that I could bail when things started getting awkward), I got my act together, picked Amy up, and faced the biggest night in sports at series of parties.

I was in the process of shoving a Velveeta-laden chip into my mouth when the owner of the house and host of the first party tried to initiate conversation. Being the genteel southern lady that Sharon Eddington taught me to be, I smiled demurely and chewed and chewed and chewed in an attempt to be friendly without speaking with my mouth full. But it took so long that the guy excused himself and I didn’t learn his name. I was a little bewildered- did I have cheese smeared on my face? That does happen more often than I’d like to admit… And that’s when it dawned on me- if you are sitting by the food table, you are the boss of social interaction. People are bound to approach you (who doesn’t love free food?), but you can pick and choose who you want to converse with by the simple use of food props.

The amount of conversation I had was inversely proportional to the amount of food I shoveled into my mouth while I manned the snack table. That guy has been making eyes at me all evening and it coming over here now… whoops, guess I need a mini egg roll. That girl is married and therefore not current friendship material… its about time for another pita chip with hummus. Hey, that guy seems nice, maybe I can smile without food in my mouth and he’ll join me…

I had a genuinely nice time with Amy at our two parties (I usually have a really good time with Amy and the friends she’s introduced me to), but when I got home I was struck by how desperately I didn’t want to go to work in the morning. It could be any job in the whole world and I wouldn’t have wanted to go, and so I called and whined to my mother. And I did it again the next day, and the next, until eventually I had convinced myself that my life as an employed young adult in a new city is significantly harder than anyone elses, and complaining was the best way to fix it.

Last night I celebrated Valentine’s Day the way all girls should- with a Zumba class followed by beers and trivia with friends (you heard me correctly- friends). None of the ladies I went out with were single, but this “Girls Night Out” was devoid of men except for our gossip about them. And while we laughed and I heard their stories, I realized that all the complaining I had been doing is the only thing they knew about me and that despite how friendly they had all been, I was still a complainer about friends. This is about the same time that the nice Super Bowl party guy visited our table (my mouth was full, but completely on accident, so I waved). And in a moment of clarity that one can really only get after two beers and extensive gossip, I decided to give up complaining for lent. And I’m very excited to see where this might bring me.

Then again, lent doesn’t start for another week…

There aren’t too many things that can scare you out of enjoying your new home more than a stalker. Despite the fact that I’ve painted my bathroom (a lovely shade of purple per the urging of my mother and youngest sister) and cozied up to my kitchen, I have been feeling less than in love with my apartment because of my “stalker.”

Two weeks ago I was pulling open the big glass door in my lobby when it swung open behind me. Turning around I came face to face with a smiling guy that I had seen in my yoga class, just minutes earlier. Being desperate for friends and in dire need of some kind of conversation that didnt involve the office, I happily stuck out my hand and introduced myself to “Michael.” We walked up the stairs together and I opened the door to my second floor just in time to hear clog-clad feet clammering up the stairs. My neighbor Paula ushered me onto my floor and abruptly questioned “Who is that?”

Um, Michael?

“Michael who? Do you know him?”

Um, not really, he was in my yoga class just now…

“Well, he followed you home. I saw him walking up our hill and he ran across the parking lot to you.”

Oh, well, uh, he seemed okay to me… “

“Anna Claire, I am a psych nurse, and that is not a nice guy. And I know every single person who lives in this complex and he isn’t one of them. BE. CAREFUL.”

As I mumbled my “yes ma’ams” and shuffled into my apartment, I couldnt help but think how lucky I was that I had a neighbor who was looking out for me…  but also how “off” my assessment of this new friend was. I went about my daily business, but the next few days did catch me checking over my shoulder and wondering “what if.”

Five days later I saw him walking towards me in the parking lot at 8am. I PANICKED! WHAT WAS HE DOING IN THIS PARKING LOT AT 8AM, RIGHT AS I WAS LEAVING, IF HE DIDNT LIVE HERE!??! I thought he had my apartment bugged. I thought he was going to follow me to work. I thought I was going to DIE. I called my dad, I called Paula, and I called the police. I told everyone in my office and raised the alarm JUST IN CASE. Finally, I called the main office at my apartment. And after all my explaining, all my freaking out, it turns out that “Michael” actually is Michael, a very normal boy who lives on the floor above me and is in nursing school here and who, once my office manager told him I thought he was stalking me, was (of course) WILDLY embarrassed, but mainly confused.

So yes, the girl who is fishing for friends filed a police report on her first potential friend and told everyone in Little Rock about it.

So I asked for his number (who’s the stalker now?) to call and beg forgiveness. In keeping with the hilarity of the day, Michael couldn’t have been friendlier about the situation, even offering to play pool in our lobby with me. Three missed attempts later, we finally made it to the pool table last night and ended up having the best conversation I’ve had in Little Rock. Michael is a yoga teacher and a recent transplant to Little Rock who is just as friendless as I am, and we could not be more grateful for our much-needed and serendipitous friendship.

Yesterday was the best day I’ve had in Little Rock. To be fair, though, it wasn’t going to take TOO much for a day to earn that title, but making a friend on the same day that I first truly enjoyed my job was an easy sell. The role of “Social Media Specialist” has undergone an epic number of transformations ranging from desk-chained slave to Allen’s personal shadow to flower arranging model to writer (the last of which is, of course, my favorite). Despite the constant changes that are a part of my day-to-day “adult life,” and despite the fact that I am still rather “friendless,” I really have been blessed with the people in my office. Mary Ellen, my boss, has set me up with young professionals and offered to be my “go-to gal” as I get my feet on the ground. Gerry, our executive producer, and Chip, our stylist, have both taken me aside to explain the best way to navigate the waters of a live production company and a feisty crew. Bill, a fellow Catholic, has sent dozens of ideas my way on how to get involved in Little Rock, Laura, Allen’s personal assistant, and John, our company’s president, have offered words of wisdom and support while I try to define my role in the company, and my dear friend Grace- my office mate- has basically adopted me. So its not fair to say I don’t have friends- I HAVE friends, and I am really lucky that they are as caring as they are because they make going to an office every day far less dreadful than I expected it would be.

So I guess the life lesson in this is that you can find friends in the weirdest places. If you had told me that I would have no friends my age in Little Rock after a month of trying, I would have seriously reconsidered moving here. But if you would have told me that I would have met a fellow 2011 UNC Alum (which I have), hung out with my UNC buddy Will (which I have), bonded with my cousins and loved living alone (which I have, and do), I would have happily admitted that yes, you can find friends in the weirdest places.

After all, I live in an apartment where the median age is 65 and my closest friend is my stalker…