Much to the initial surprise of many of my followers, I have quite the rural past which I have freely shared on this blog. These anecdotes have detailed my time spent working on a farm, throwing knives, and failing to emulate the murderer of Bambi’s mother. Basically, I haven’t always been the somewhat polished, dirt-averse individual most of my readers have come to know and tolerate, and today I’m going to add fuel to that fire by describing my time as a horse owner.
Disclaimer: This post is not going to be as soothing as The Great British Baking Show, so if you’re looking for that genre, I’d suggest heading over to Netflix for your dose of accented people trying their hands at baking. Once you’re done there, be sure to come back here for your fix of a non-accented person attempting to make an Americanized version of iconic baked goods.
If you’ve read my blog as far back as 2017, you’ll know I haven’t had the best of luck when it comes to getting my hair cut. Most notoriously was the disastrous haircut that spawned memorable lines like “…raking through my hair with the ferocity of a recently scorned girlfriend shredding her ex-boyfriend’s letter jacket” and “budget haircuts, like back-alley lobotomies, should be avoided at all costs.” If you can’t tell from reading those dramatic gems, I desperately hoped my terrible haircutting experiences were over. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.
It was a night like so many others in that I decided to kill some time by shopping with my sister, Abby. I had only been back in Western New York for a few days and was working hard to readjust to the slower pace of a rural town. In such a place, a fantastic way to spend an evening is to go to the nearest Walmart or Target.
As I drove a moving truck full of my belongings across the Florida state line today, I couldn’t help but reflect on the past year and the lessons it taught me. So not wanting to be selfish by keeping those to myself, I’ve decided to share them with you.
After graduating from college, I began work as an admissions counselor at my alma mater, and let me tell you, I tackled that job with all the gusto of a My Strange Addiction subject devouring a box of dryer sheets. I knew it was a blessing that I had gotten the job, and I wanted to do my absolute best. The problem is that although I am quite gregarious, I am not a natural-born salesman, which makes it pretty difficult to convince people to choose your school over the myriad of other options they have.
Like Walt Disney Studios releasing a beloved classic from its vault in the early 2000s, I decided I would bless my loyal readers with a blast from the past photo of me circa January 2012.
Target. What do you picture when you hear that word? A store celebrating holidays months before they arrive? Stylish mothers surrounded by Hearth & Hand products worshipping an effigy of Joanna Gaines? I’ll tell you what I picture: a nearly empty store giving off some intense Left Behind vibes.
This week, in between sweating profusely in 90-degree weather, I began to brace myself for the oncoming cold front that was rapidly gaining traction on Florida news stations. It seemed that every TV I saw featured graphs showing a digital blue layer moving across the state to signify the oncoming cold front that was sure to shock state residents as it moved eastward.
“…You have no sense of fashion…”
“I think that depends on…”
“No, no, that wasn’t a question.”
Last month found me relating to this iconic scene from The Devil Wears Prada on a personal level. I had flown to Tampa Bay, Florida for an interview to be the Executive Assistant to Amanda, the founder of a wildly successful fitness company. And even though there were no demeaning looks or Pellegrino bottles, the entire experience felt like something from a movie.