Life of Annie

The ventures of a 24-year old lady's semi-adult life as she pretends (sometimes terribly) that she has it all together.

[elizabethanneblack]

Snow, Baked Brie and Lots of Root Veggies: Two Weeks in Review

Check out these cuties snuggling. I love how much they love each other.

Hello!

The last two weeks have been a bit of a doozy, so I haven’t gotten a chance to sit down and put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) until now. It’s nearing the end of January which means I don’t have much time left in Atlanta. I’ve been working hard on finding my next move, and hopefully I’ll have something to tell everyone soon. My time here has taught me so, so much on independence, friendship and what hard work means and for that I am forever grateful for my experience in this city. Atlanta is truly a special place and if anyone has a reason to move here, I highly recommend it. 

But anyways, this past weekend I was pretty much been sequestered in my apartment because the unthinkable happened, and we got (maybe) an inch of snow! As a Floridian, I was beyond excited. I’ve only seen snow a handful of times, so this required sending a reaction video to my family and close friends. Since I appreciate anyone who reads this, here’s the little ( slightly embarrassing) video in all of my child-like exuberance. I felt a little bit like Taylor Swift when she used to win all those awards and couldn’t keep her mouth closed, and a little bit like a 4-year old at Disney for the first time. 

I spent the entire weekend watching Making a Murderer, which means I’ll spend way too much time this week reading think pieces about the Avery case. I want him to be innocent, I really do. But I have no clue if he really is. No one really does, right? Hopefully with all this public support for the guy, his case will eventually be reopened. 

As for my recipes these past two weeks, I tried a crockpot meal and a treat for watching The Bachelor with some lady friends. Week Two was a root veggie soup. I found multiple recipes on Pinterest and made my own creation. Mine had sweet potatoes, butternut squash, potatoes, carrots, onions, chicken stock, fresh sage, a bay leaf and water. It was glorious! I learned that butternut squash look like a character in Veggie Tales. See below for proof:

Thanks to my sister for pointing that out via a (stupid) veggie selfie that I sent-- with a toddler and a 4-month old she could probably make a kiddie reference out of just about anything these days. Side note: Having your sister/best friend/fellow kitchen adventurer 3000+ miles away sucks. Just saying.

As for the baked Brie, I found heaven in a cheese dish. This was also a Pinterest find, where if you search "Baked Brie” you’ll find several varieties to choose from. I used two rounds of goat cheese Brie, Pillsbury Croissant Rounds (I mean to buy the real croissants but I picked up the wrong tube) and raspberry preserves. I basically layered the cheese and raspberry preserves and then wrapped it up with the Croissant dough and stuck it in the oven for a while. I have no idea how long I cooked it. Bear with me please, food blogging is a new thing for me! With a little bit of practice, this could be a beautiful little appetizer for any event. With no practice, it was the perfect (messy) cheese party for a few ladies in their early 20′s to dig into while picking apart every character on The Bachelor. Next time I make this, you’ll definitely be getting a photo. Don’t you even worry.

We’re now in Week 4 of my New Years Goal of a new recipe every week, and I haven’t decided yet what I want to make. I was debating something with chicken, which will be a serious challenge for me. I’ve always had an aversion to cooking raw meat. That leads to a lot of vegetarian dishes at home, which I enjoy. I do have a tendency to make things harder on myself however, so prepare for a chicken spectacle this coming week.

Stay warm, friends!

[elizabethanneblack]

An apple (crumble) a day keeps the doctor away

It actually doesn’t. But wouldn’t it be a dream to eat it every single day? I’m afraid that I’ll be making this more than I’d like to admit. It’s spectacular.

Yes, everyone. The first recipe of the year is here! 

This week, I decided to make apple crumble. Or crisp. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think they are the same thing with two different names. Anyway, my sister made one of these last week when I was in Canada. She just whipped it out like it was the easiest thing in the world, so naturally I had to try it out.

Turns out it was a little harder than expected. First of all, my kitchenware was NOT ready for baking. Luckily a short(ish) trip to IKEA fixed that. I left with a new ceramic baking dish, a pairing knife, a cutting board and a whole lot of other stuff that are not relevant to this cooking adventure. But hey. When you see big candles for under three dollars and a throw blanket for under four, can you really blame a girl? My bank account is lucky I didn’t buy everything I needed wanted.

The next step was to buy the ingredients. Another lesson learned, this frozen pizza and ramen princess didn’t have any flour, sugar, or really anything that a food blogger (that’s what I am now, right?) should have in her arsenal. 

As for the recipe, I read a few of them on Pinterest and realized they all kind of consisted of variations of the same thing (flour, butter, oats, apples of your choice, brown sugar, white sugar, cinnamon), so I picked one to base it off of and into the kitchen I went. 

I lied. Actually, I prepped the apples while sitting at my coffee table watching the Bachelor. But you know, whatever.

I mixed up the topping, popped the whole thing in the oven for 30-ish minutes and hoped for the best. 

It. Was. So. Good. Like, SO good. The apples were soft, the topping was crunchy and almost like sweet granola. With a dollop of vanilla ice cream, it was downright blissful. I ate way too much, but thankfully it’s mostly(?) apples. That means it’s healthy... right? Don’t answer that.

Here is what I learned with week one’s recipe:

Rolled oats are just regular oats. You probably won’t find anything actually called rolled oats, so just buy Quakers and don’t waste your time wondering about it. 

Buying a new cutting board may make you feel more like an adult than anything. Not in the, “wow I’m so old I hate this I must be boring” way, but in the “I value the things I purchase so I am happy about this new possession and will take good care of it” kind of way. 

Cutting apples with a brand new knife is unbelievably therapeutic. Having a good knife is important for this process.

Apples can be cut all the way down to the core. This is probably obvious, but I’ve always been nervous about cutting too far because of the seeds having arsenic or whatever.

Not all recipes have to be followed perfectly. I threw some honey on my apples before I scooped on the topping mix, and the flavors really blended together. 

So far, my goals for this year are off to a good start. I started working on my planner today, got new stationary, and am planning on cleaning my car out tomorrow. Unless it’s 32 degrees again, then I will wait ‘til it’s not absolutely freezing. I even cleaned my apartment yesterday and put together a pretty ceiling lamp (that I put together! Boo yah, IKEA) for over my bed. All I have to do now is find a job! That’s the easiest part, right?

Ha. 

In other news, Wild Nothing put out a new song a few days ago and it’s wondrous. Take a listen, you won’t regret it. 

Cheers--

[elizabethanneblack]

Stop Hating on New Years

All week, I’ve been seeing posts on social media about how you shouldn’t “reinvent” yourself for the New Year. “Stop acting like you need to change yourself for New Years Day. It’s just another day, and you can change any day,” these slightly-snarky posts declare. But you know what? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make things a little bit different in the new year.

 I love January 1st.

Personally, I think it’s a great day to re-evaluate where you are in your life. Yes, you could do this any day. I’m fully aware. But I think there’s something a little bit magical about the start of a new year. It’s full of possibility. I felt this bizarre sense of excited anticipation this morning as I thought about what could be in my near future, and so I wanted to make a physical list of goals for 2016. What better way to make sure they are followed through than by making them public? 

In 2015, I graduated college, managed a radio station, dealt with depression and OCD, became a freelance writer, moved to Atlanta and had the most fulfilling internship I could have ever imagined. I got a new cat, went camping and hiking, learned that I had hypothyroidism, and read more than I probably read in the past four years combined. 2015 was a year of discovery, a year of excitement, a year of disappointment. But every ounce was worth it. 

2016 will be my best year yet. I can feel it. Without further ado, here are my (terribly handwritten) goals for 2016.

 Ignore the fact that I still write like I’m in middle school. 

Big girl job: After three internships, two jobs in the field, and several decent bylines under my belt, I am finally confident (and excited) to take my first step towards a career. 

Pretty apartment: I’ve been dreaming of having an aesthetically pleasing apartment for what seems like forever, and with my current lease ending in February, it’s totally doable now. 

Day planner: I want to be more organized. I have a bad habit of trying to remember everything in my head, so I am throwing it back to my college days and buying a day planner so my type-A anxiety can be subsided.

New recipes: Why not give myself a challenge this year? One new recipe a week, which I’ll catalogue in a recipe tin. (Unless they are failures

Keep car clean: I have a terrible notoriety for having a messy car. This is something that my parents grounded me for too many times to count, and at 24, I still haven’t learned. So, I’m making it a goal to have a tidy car.

Write letters: My best friend moved to Germany. My sister lives in Canada. Writing letters is an art, and I mean, who doesn’t like getting physical mail? It’s time that we start it up again and stop communicating only via the internet.

DIY as much as possible: Life is expensive. I am terrible at wanting to make my own things, whether it be bath bombs, furniture, art, etc, and following through with it. This year, it’ll be different. To have a pretty apartment on an almost nothing budget, I’m going to have to get crafty. 

The best part of having a blog is keeping yourself accountable with what you say you’re going to do. So I suppose you all should look forward to recipe mess-ups and craft failures, because I’m sure those are coming your way.

Happy 2016, everyone. 

[elizabethanneblack]

Thoughts on 24

It’s December 29th, and I am sitting in the loft of my brother-in-law’s parents’ home in the quaint seaside town of Sidney, British Columbia. I flew in two days ago and (successfully) surprised my older sister after a full day of four airports and eight hours of air time. Despite a major lack of sleep and a crying baby on the longest flight, it was completely worth it.

My sister moved up to Canada four or five years ago with her (Canadian) husband, Alastair. We’ll be heading to Vancouver on Wednesday where they live with their two little babies. For the past two days, I’ve been helping out with the baby ladies, carrying the 3 month-old around while the 2 1/2 year old sings quietly to herself on the floor.

Unlike most people, I don’t want kids.

It’s exhausting just watching my sister and her husband chase around the girls, one of them bursting into tears because she needs to be held while the other is mad that whichever family member has been deemed unworthy that day is sitting too close to her in the dining room. Don’t get me wrong, I love my nieces. I just don’t want any children of my own. I’d like to be married, yes, but I’d rather be married, have a couple of cats and dogs and call it a day.  I am, however excited to watch my nieces grow and pamper them with cute clothes and treats. I hope that when they are old enough they will take trips to visit me, and I can be the “cool aunt” that they brag about to their friends.

After a trip to the (five pin?) bowling alley on a family outing tonight, my sister and I were talking about my recent age of 24. It’s been only 25 days now, and already 23 feels like ages ago.

60 years ago, being single at 24 would have been considered a faux pas. My grandparents were married at 18 and had two children by the time they were my age. The median age to get married in 1950 for ladies was 20.3 years. At 20, I was completely unsure what to do with my life and though in the middle of a long-term relationship, nowhere near ready to get married. At 24, I am (for the most part) sure what I want to do with my life, but the thought of marriage for me right now is still laughable. Despite the fact that I am not in a relationship or even dating, if I were I really think I would feel pretty close to the same way.

If you’re already married and 24 or younger, that’s fabulous. I applaud you for your (hopefully) mature look at life, your stability and finding the one so early. If you’re not married, that’s great too.

We are young. Now is the time to really put yourself first. It’s easier to do that when you’re the only one you have to care for. I’d much rather have an aesthetically-pleasing apartment and a career at this point in life than a husband, so I’m going to stick to that first. Maybe after my apartment looks the way I want it too and I’m working a real big-girl job, maybe then will I be ready to think about dating and finding a husband. Until then, you’ll find me job hunting and constantly working on finding my dream apartment.

Cheers--

[elizabethanneblack]

Why words mean almost nothing

The above drawing is how I felt when I realized words are meaningless most of the time. (It’s actually from some EP sent to my work, but I think it fits.)

Roughly 75% of my day has been spent in bed. Mostly due to the fact that the sun set in Atlanta at 5:45 pm (Daylight Savings, you’re dumb), and partly because last night was Halloween and I was out later than I’d like to admit. I dressed as Rosie the Riveter, also known as the costume that means you procrastinated about what to wear for Halloween for much too long. High-waisted jeans, a chambray button up, a bandana and the quintessential ‘40′s make-up, and voilá. You have yourself Rosie. 

Anyway, I had a fun time last night. I’ve found a great group of ladies up here for friends, and Atlanta is feeling more and more like home each day. But today’s topic isn’t what I’m doing socially, it’s about words.

There’s a song by Sufjan Stevens called Futile Devices. I had never really listened to The Age of Adz because I’ve always been a little wary of Sufjan trying out something more experimental, but I found a video of him performing this song for WNYC (New York’s NPR-affiliate) and I fell in love with the lyrics. “Words are futile devices.” The song ends rather abruptly, and I think that’s important. Ignore the pun since we’re talking about music, but those four words really struck a chord with me. Here’s the video I am talking about:

Words are very much in fact futile devices. 

Why is that, you ask? Because we use them everyday without caring if they are true or not. In relationships, in work, in friendships, in anything. Words aren’t meant to be futile, they are meant to be something of value. When someone tells me something, I want it to mean something. I want to hold on to that word, phrase, sentence, whatever it is, and bask in its’ meaning. If someone tells me something just because they think it’s what I want to hear, I’d rather them just not speak to me. Keep it simple. Life is short, and we don’t have time to lie to each other. Mean it, or don’t say anything at all. 

I used to be trusting of everyone but now I trust (almost) no one. I wish it were different, I really do. However, if there is one thing I’ve learned in this lifetime, it’s that people will say anything to get what they want. There are really, really good people out there who don’t do this. But there are plenty of really, really bad people at the same time who do. Cut those people out of your life. Anyone who lies to you for their advantage, regardless of it being something big or small, isn’t worth your time or effort. Think about your words. What you say matters as long as they are true. 

Happy November, friends. We’ve now entered into my absolute favorite two months of the year. 

[elizabethanneblack]

Playing pretend at 23

Look at me being all adult and professional. Things aren’t always as they appear, my friends.

A wise lady once said that “adult” is not just a noun, but a verb. This woman wrote a particularly blunt but hilarious book called Adulting, where she gives tips and tricks on how to be an grown up and for the most part just kick ass at life. I’m working on a long-term story where I read several of these “how to be an adult” books to determine if they are worth it, and believe it or not-- some of these millennial “get your booty in gear” books are working, and working well. 

However, I’ll admit it. Most days I feel like I am playing pretend at being a grown up. It feels like a game of make believe, and I’m living in this weird dream world where my faking it is actually making it. 

Sometimes (a lot of the time) I feel absolutely crazy and think my life is a complete and total mess. This usually spirals into either an existential “do I have a purpose in life?” crisis, or straight into shaking it off with dancing around my apartment to loud music. (Sorry neighbors.) I know this for certain-- hardly any of us millennial types have our lives together. But that’s totally okay. 

This strange phenomenon has been happening in my life recently where I am no longer the one seeking advice, I’m now the one doling it out. This isn’t me giving it out unsolicited, I’m literally being asked to give suggestions on what to do when it comes to work, school, and love, as if I’m this wise guru full of sage knowledge.

This is flattering and baffling at the same time. 

It’s wonderful that quite a few people seem to think I have my life together. It’s great, really, that it appears that way. But in reality, it’s far from it. Most people don’t want to admit that, but I tend to think that flaws are what make us unique. I, just like you, am very flawed. 

I don’t have it all figured out. I have some things figured out, like how to grocery shop on a budget, how to be the best intern ever (I am on my 3rd one, after all), how to have a decent face of makeup in less than 10 minutes, and how to be a great friend. I have figured out the importance of keeping my mental health in check, that I need to have extra hair brushes, tooth brushes, and mascara because I will without-a-doubt lose them at some point, and I’m really good at making effective lists (and for the most part, following them through). 

But like Newton’s third law, for every thing I’ve reached “expert” level, there is something I am nearly clueless about. I am not great with saving money, am not the best at keeping up with my laundry, and will admit sometimes I don’t wash my face at night out of pure laziness. I have been known to leave leftovers in the fridge for too long, and am not the world’s best driver. 

Regardless-- it’s all fine by me. For everything I’m bad at, there is something I’m great at. And luckily, things I suck at tend to make excellent stories. I don’t think anyone has it all figured out, but we are all on the same journey in trying to understand as much as we can before our stories are written and our life adventure comes to a close. 

As for our millennial generation, we’re stuck right now between “adults” (thirty-somethings who seem to have it all) and teenagers (kids who seem to have nothing). We are in a rut, but know that this is more than likely temporary. Sometimes people say we are lost, but I disagree. We aren’t. We’re just exploring. We’ll all figure it out eventually, and in the meantime, at least we all have each other to rely on. They say patience is a virtue. I say it’s a necessary part of maturity. 

In day-to-day news, I bought new bed sheets and a new box of colored pencils. I also drank one too many mango & jalapeño margaritas. Here’s a song I had somewhat of an ethereal awakening to last week --

Hope your weekend was lovely, readers.

[elizabethanneblack]

Defining a Brain Crush

Reading about a brain crush in my old apartment, the one and only Walter Cronkite.

The first time I think I ever used the term “brain crush”, I was sitting in my friend Hurley’s cute little beach apartment a few years back, having a total heart-to-heart. As an English major, Hurley was interested in the lit class I was taking, so I started telling her about it. My professor looked vaguely like Breaking Bad’s Walter White, but with a strange dangly earring in one ear. He was noticeably tall, sat cross-legged on the desk during lectures, and sometimes would get so excited by our class discussions that he would bounce around the room in an almost maniacal fury. 

This was one of my favorite classes in college, despite the fact that it was my second time taking it because I was (very) lazy during my first two years. It wasn’t because of the lesson plan, it was because I was completely captivated by this distinguished, eccentric professor. Every word that came out of his mouth I hung on to for what felt like an eternity, until I’d get lost in my thoughts and realized he had moved on to a completely different topic. It was a never-ending cycle, and in that class of mostly freshman who didn’t care, everyday I felt he was talking directly to me. In some cases he was, as I usually was the only one raising my hand to add to the discussion.

“Oh my GOD. I have such a brain crush on him,” I told Hurley in an almost flustered state.

She said she’d never heard that term before, and I wondered briefly if I had made it up. I felt a sense of pride for the term in that moment, but I know that it’s probably (definitely) been used before. 

I have a lot of brain crushes. They aren’t romantic crushes by any means, but a very, very strong attraction to someone’s mind and how they process information. My brain crushes are the type of people who I would do just about anything to chat with for hours over a coffee or a glass of wine. I just want to know what goes in in their head, what drives them to be how they are. Brain crushes can be people you know in real life or people you wish you knew, for example-- my #1 brain crush is Sufjan Stevens. The man is brilliant. I also have a major brain crush on Lauren Mayberry of Chvrches. She’s also a girl crush (also not romantic by any means), which Hurley (my friend previously mentioned, if you’ve already forgotten) has a wonderful series on in a magazine from back home. 

I suppose being attracted to intelligence can also be a romantic attraction, but I don’t believe in every case it is. For it to be a real crush, there also needs to be the want for an emotional connection and (generally) a physical attraction. For a brain crush, it’s just a want to understand someone’s thoughts and understand their intelligence. 

Brain crushes come and go depending on where my life is at the time. Currently it’s Alex Church (who I have a total schoolgirl-esque crush on as well-- the man is a total dreamboat). He’s the singer/songwriter for Sea Wolf, and his lyrics destroy me. As a writer, I try to pay close attention to how words work within musical structure. Alex Church has a way of twisting these complicated emotions into the simplest of songs and I want to know how he does that. It doesn’t take too many words for him to let his listeners know exactly what he’s feeling. I think that is absolutely beautiful, and I envy him. Totally crushing right now just thinking about it. 

Brain crushes are my favorite types of crush. They aren’t messy because there is no emotional attachment (it’s not romantic!), and you can’t really be denied or turned away because it may just be the highest form of flattery for someone. Instead of fretting over a romantic crush, develop a brain crush on someone and learn as much as you can from them. It’s a wonderful source of inspiration.

Happy Friday, friends. May your weekends be full of rest and refreshments. Here’s an acoustic performance of “Middle Distance Runner” by Sea Wolf, so you can see exactly what I’m talking about. 

[elizabethanneblack]

A Question of Honesty

Today, something rare happened. I got that strange, rapid, lightning bolt-sense of inspiration that doesn’t come very often. It took me by surprise and obviously I couldn’t ignore it. I was sitting at work on my first cup of coffee, not quite awake yet, complaining with my fellow interns about our mutual lack of sleep last night. I figured it was probably time to actually start working, so I threw on my headphones and thought of what I wanted to listen to. I settled on Father John Misty, the Baltimore-raised folk singer and former Fleet Foxes drummer.

 My first experience with Father John Misty was in my college radio days, when we added the song “True Affection” from his latest album to rotation. I loved that song but didn’t really pay much attention to the artist until recently. I realized I had only seen Father John Misty play live once while on family vacation in Arizona. It wasn’t live in person (only in my dreams I suppose), but it was the live broadcast of this past years’ Coachella. I searched Youtube for him, hoping to find perhaps a KEXP or Tiny Desk show. I stumbled upon “Bored in the USA” from a CBC set with just a couple of dozen people in the audience, and clicked the little play triangle. 

I couldn’t handle it. 

This performance, for some reason, completely took me aback. He is so raw, so real, not holding back in the least bit. I was smitten. Not by Father John Misty’s looks (though let’s be serious, he’s an attractive dude), but by his sincerity. It’s apparent in the lyrics, in his body language, in his delivery, he means this song. This isn’t an act, this isn’t just something to appease the small crowd. He’s as authentic as it gets. Authenticity, honesty, sincerity; these are things I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. 

As a writer, I sometimes have to wonder to myself, how much is too much? When do you draw the line, where is is that you have to tell yourself to stop? I want the readers of my published work to know the real me. I don’t want to hide behind this façade of “cool”, but at the same time, I don’t want to share my deepest, darkest secrets. Not because they are even that interesting (in fact, I’ve been told before that I am kind of boring), but because there’s no element of surprise if you know everything up front. How are we to be honest about ourselves, without giving ourselves completely away? 

 I really think my generation has become better at lying than any other age group because of our social media accounts. We put the best version of ourselves out there, and we hide behind it. It’s almost as if we are engineered to falsify who we truly are. I can almost guarantee everyone out there has liked something on social media just because they were trying to dazzle others. Since we’re being completely honest here, I’ve totally done it. I’ve had a crush on someone, or wanted to be accepted into a certain group, and literally had to Google what they were talking about so I could comment something that sounded intelligent and sincere. I am definitely a supporter of “fake it ‘til you make it”, but let’s be real. You can’t fake who you are to impress others if you want whatever it is, a relationship, a friendship, a business deal, to work.

If you’re finding you have to lie about your interests or fake excitement over another’s passions, you’re not being fair to yourself or to anyone else. Honesty is important, and it’s something I think everyone takes for granted at one time or another. Maybe if we were as raw as Father John Misty is in the performance above, we wouldn’t have to deal with the emotional pain that comes with not being ourselves. My favorite people are the ones who are confident enough in themselves that they really don’t care what people think. If everyone was like that, I think everyone would be a teeny bit happier. 

As for being honest about ourselves without giving ourselves completely away, keep some things private. It’s fun to keep people guessing.

Happy Wednesday, friends. 

[elizabethanneblack]

je suis toute seule, et ça c’est exactement que je voudrais maintenent.

I am all alone, and that is exactly what I want right now.

On most nights, if I haven’t decided to go out for coffee or a glass of wine somewhere, I take long walks on the Beltline. For those of you not familiar with Atlanta, the Beltline is a massive walkway around several parts of town with beautiful art and the occasional street musician. It has trails for walking, biking, and running, and links key neighborhoods together without ever having to get in your car. Several bars and restaurants have opened on the Beltline, so it makes for a nice walk day or night, with friends or alone.  

These walks for me start around 7:00, and last until I either feel I should go home for safety reasons (if it’s not the weekend, it’s pretty empty after 8:30 or so and hey-- i’m a single lady who a thief would probably laugh at if he saw my so-called self-protection skills), or until I get tired. Most days, I just want to keep walking forever. 

I’ll admit it. I haven’t made the biggest effort to make close friends here, outside of people I intern with. Don’t get me wrong, I have made acquaintances. My fellow interns have become wonderful friends, and I get to spend all day with them five days a week. Other than that, I really don’t know how long I will be in Atlanta, because after Paste, I could be going anywhere. That in itself is scary and exciting, but that’s for another time. I suppose I don’t want to become too attached to people here, because what if I move at the end of the year to the Pacific Northwest, or to Denver, or to North Carolina? Atlanta feels temporary for me until I know for sure if I am staying here. (If that’s the case, I already have the most gorgeous 1920′s apartment with floor to ceiling windows picked out.) When I know for sure, I will make more friends. 

 I visited Jacksonville this past weekend, and my mom asked me if I missed my friends down there. The answer is absolutely. Of course I miss my friends. But I don’t miss them enough to abandon what I am trying to do up here, and they completely understand that. I talk to most of them several times a day, and we make sure to visit each other often. In today’s social media-heavy world, it honestly doesn’t feel like I am that far away. 

Learning to be okay alone forces you to actually spend time on yourself, which is something a lot of people fail to do.

Take yourself out of your comfort zone-- all of a sudden things are weird and you have to learn to cope. But learning to cope is the fun part. You get to give yourself all the attention, because there’s no one there to distract you. 

There is a difference, however between secluding yourself from others, and being okay in being alone. A psychiatrist I once saw told me that people struggling with depression tend to isolate themselves, which is clearly not a good thing. In prison, people are put into isolation as punishment. When someone does that to his or herself by never leaving their home or bedroom, he (or she) is punishing his or herself, probably without even knowing it. Being alone in your thoughts and your thoughts alone is not an ideal way to spend long periods of time. 

What I am really talking about is being okay in going solo. I love being by myself on my walks, because I can do what I want, go as far as I want, and so forth. I love sitting at coffee shops working alone, because there is always someone there you could really strike up a meaningful conversation with. A book I am reading said that when people see you out alone, they aren’t really paying attention to you. You probably think they are saying, “Wow. Look at that sad girl who’s all by herself on a Friday night. Doesn’t she have friends?” When they are probably thinking, “Wow. That girl is here alone, and she’s having fun. I’m bored with the people I’m with. Maybe I should have come alone. That would have been better anyway.” 

I had this dream the other night where I was proposed to. I said yes (more so out of guilt than want), and spent the entire dream practically in cold sweats thinking of ways to get out of it without having to be a 23-year-old divorcée. This was probably due to who I was apparently marrying-- a boy I dated for a long time who is a wonderful human, but doesn’t have any of the same life goals as I do. Regardless, if that doesn’t show my stubborn independence, I don’t think anything will. 

I suggest everyone should start doing things by themselves every now and then. You’d be surprised how freeing it is to sit somewhere and eat lunch by yourself, surrounded by people you’ve never met. And if you think it sounds boring, just think of the people watching. I’ve seen some pretty ridiculous stuff. 

One day I won’t want to be alone, but for now, this is remarkably pleasant.

This is a song by Deer Tick, one of my current obsessions, called Mirror Walls. I adore this song, and wanted to share it with you all. 

[elizabethanneblack]

Separating Emotion from Journalism

Yesterday, I read an incredible piece of work that a woman who I see as a role model posted on Facebook. It’s here if you’re interested, but the long-story-short version of the article is that journalism, particularly commercial TV journalism, is ugly-- but necessarily so. To my knowledge and practice, it most certainly can be, but I am thankful there are people out there that are excellent at their jobs as reporters. We have to go back in time about five years to get to my point. 

Enter the scene, freshman Annie. Hair dyed to a color where black and brown blurred together. Black eyeliner, dark eye shadow, and a penchant for vintage dresses and skinny jeans.  

For me, college wasn’t as easy as I would have liked. The first two years, I struggled for quite some time to find what I wanted to do. International Studies, Advertising, and the possibility of Art History and Graphic Design were intriguing to me, but I never felt that drive you get when you know you’re doing what you are meant to. I was bitter with my parents for not letting me go to school for my passion (ballet), and was going through a rough time emotionally. There were some family troubles, some boy troubles, and some personal troubles that I just didn’t want to deal with. I didn’t care about my classes, didn’t care about my friends, and spent a good deal of time in bed. 

There was one time in particular where I vividly remember my closest friend at the time, a wonderful boy named Mark, storming in to my dorm room, ripping my comforter off of me, and demanding, “No. Annie. Get OUT OF BED. Seriously, it’s been like, two days. GET UP.” I grumbled a string of words that weren’t especially ladylike, but Mark didn’t give up. He yanked me out of bed, told me to get dressed, and off we went. 

Here is a typically ridiculous photo of Mark and myself at age 18 or 19. 

We would spend most of our days taking photos on our Macbooks, harmonizing to Ingrid Michaelson and calling each other up at 1 AM to go down to a private, ocean-front backyard in Ponte Vedra, where I’d cry about whatever was bugging me and he would say something silly to make it all better. Mark is a spectacular human being, and he worked very hard to get where he is now. He’s still very close to my heart. 

Anyway, my freshman year of college I almost dropped out. I hated what I was doing. I hated all of my classes (except for History of Rock & Roll), hated everyone at school, and didn’t get along with my roommate. I prepared a speech for my parents, sat them down at California Pizza Kitchen, looked them square in the eyes and said, “I want to drop out and go to the community college until I know what I want to do.” 

I am so thankful they said no.

Eventually, in year three of school, I found journalism. And let me tell you, I caught the feels. I loved everything about it. The storytelling, the visuals, the cameras, the editing, the magic of piecing together a story from near nothing just based on a tip or a question. It’s wonderful. 

I guess you could say that I found what I was searching so desperately for. That purpose, that drive, that ambition. I used to spend countless hours in front of the television watching 24-hour news. I wanted to be CNN’s Brooke Baldwin. She was beautiful, smart, and didn’t take attitude from people. She was my biggest role model for a long time. 

Here she is, shaking Wolf Blitzer’s hand like it’s no big deal. Granted they work together, but even just thinking about meeting Mr. Blitzer makes me nervous. 

I thought I wanted to be a television journalist. I began getting involved in everything available at my university, from a tiny online-only morning show to eventually becoming the news director at UNF Student Media, the Spinnaker, a place where I grew into who I am today. From then I jumped around positions, finally finding my place as the station manager for the LP-FM radio station, Spinnaker Radio. (There will be a post devoted to just that, I promise.) On top of the extra curricular, I worked hard in my classes, was considered one of the top students in the program in my year, was selected to anchor the UNF-affiliated show on the CW Network and completed an entertainment and a news internship at two of Jacksonville’s top radio stations. 

 I had what is generally described as a wake-up call. 

Once while I was finishing up a work day at the Spinnaker in Spring of 2014, I discovered something very crucial. I learned that I couldn’t separate my emotions from the uglier parts of the field, and therefore would never really be capable of being a (good) commercial television reporter. I did still pursue the dream, until I realized it was possible to stay in journalism without having to do the ugly parts. 

I was video director at the Spinnaker at the time and we had breaking news. A track athlete committed suicide. It was towards the end of the semester so none of my videographers were around, therefore I had to cut and post the video of this young man. A smart, talented, loved young man who hurt so badly that he ended his life. And here I was, just doing my job as a student journalist, cutting together clips of the empty stretcher rolling into the dorm building, and the no-longer-empty stretcher rolling out of the building with this man’s lifeless body underneath a white sheet. It broke my heart to watch the stretcher get shoved, almost carelessly, into the back of a medical van. This was someone’s son, someone’s friend, possibly someone’s boyfriend. And there I was, editing the video so we as journalists could share the story (graphic images included) with the entire student body. 

I didn’t want to do that part of the trade ever again.

My heart is in news and sharing information, but I can’t tell a story like a suicide without getting my emotions involved. I am the type of person who will cry at just about anything. I’ve bawled my eyes out at this video of a man playing music for his cows, and the first time I watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s I almost lost my mind when Cat gets thrown out of the cab.

Commercial television journalism isn’t for me. I am completely okay with that today, but it took some time. I know there are many, many skilled and talented journalists out there than can choke back the tears and deliver the story as what it is. Sometimes there are hard facts to report, but unfortunately, that’s how it has to be. Some stories can’t be told without the ugly details. 

Journalism is still what I am passionate about, but now I write about music, food and lifestyle. It’s still journalism, and it’s still important, and to be honest, it’s much more my speed anyhow.

Happy Friday, readers. 

[elizabethanneblack]

Beauty in Simplicity

This weekend I visited my hometown for one of my best friends’ birthdays. I got to see some of my closest friends and do things I used to do daily, as well as visit a few places of which I wasn’t even aware existed in Jacksonville with newcomers in my life. Due to my car breaking down, I attempted to make the trek back to Atlanta more than once. I ended up being stuck in Florida for two days longer than I anticipated, but being back in a familiar place was welcoming and despite the requisite frustration, I didn’t mind one bit. 

On my second (and successful) attempt back up the interstate to Atlanta, I had a very long time to think. Atlanta is a good five hours away from Jacksonville. Between singing along to Mama Cass and enjoying the gorgeous skies, I thought. Not about anything in particular, I just let my mind wander. I don’t think I’ve ever used that phrase, “I thought” without “....about so-and-so” afterwards. It’s kind of refreshing just to use your brain in the way it was intended, rather than in the way life forces you to, where you are constantly refreshing your list of things to do, what to remember, how to fix a terrible problem, et cetera. When it gets down to it, to think is a verb, and just as you don’t have to eat about, run about, laugh about, etc., you can really just think without having to explain yourself. That’s beautiful to me. I think. Je pense. 

It’s simplicity, really. This sentence is fairly redundant, but when things are simple, things are how they are meant to be. There is no grey area, no game, no wishy-washiness or feeling of uncertainty. As someone with an almost-constant nervousness, it’s the moments where I can look at something and know immediately how I feel or what I want to do that are the moments that matter most. 

My senior year of high school, I knew I wanted to pick a quote for the yearbook about simplicity. I ended up choosing a Jon Foreman line-- “It's a great thing to see the strength of simplicity.”

 I didn’t know at the time why it was so meaningful, and looking back I’m sure it was because I was going through an existential “let’s love all things in nature” phase due to a new found love for Emerson and Thoreau. I remember thinking to my teenaged self, “It’s beautiful that they had such appreciation for something so plain.” I was inherently jealous, because at age eighteen my life was far from simple. Between boys and applying for college and being a bit (okay, more than a bit of) a brat towards my parents, I longed for something easy. Simplicity is still my goal but now it’s completely different. Getting older does that to you. It’s that whole idea we all kind of forget about, the idea of maturing. When I was eighteen, I loved simplicity because it was a state of mind. Today, it’s a part of everything I want. 

Simplicity lacks anxiety. It lacks fear, it lacks longing for something you shouldn’t be longing for. Simplicity allows love to flourish. It’s about trust, about loyalty, about openness. It’s about knowing what you want, and not letting anything distract you.

My best friend and I were chatting over coffee yesterday before I left town about something terribly hurtful a boy said to her recently. That single sentence uttered from his dastardly lips caused a waterfall, but my best friend (a brave, beautiful, inquisitive feminist) sopped up both the salty tears and the destructive words in one easy motion . She told me, in the simplest way possible, “If he can’t handle that, I can’t do anything about it. He doesn’t have to be able to handle it. I can find someone that is able.” 

We were talking about something unchangeable in the most literal sense, and her matter-of-fact attitude made me realize: once we figure out that it’s easier to cut ties than try to mend what shouldn’t have been in the first place; in relationships, in jobs, in anything-- life gets simple. It’s at that point where we have the choice to make life harder or easier. Yes, sometimes things are worth fighting for. But things that are real, things that matter to your inner core, those things shouldn’t be hard. There comes a time when life just clicks, and that’s when you should be paying attention. Those are the moments when simplicity becomes real. 

Back to Jon Foreman, I had completely forgotten I had a total brain-crush on the Switchfoot frontman when he started releasing solo stuff in 2008. One song in particular, which ironically, is about the simplest love in existence.

Until next time, my loves. 

[elizabethanneblack]

On Adjusting and Love

Hello, darling readers.

Today is a warm day in Atlanta. Much warmer than I’d expect for late September. Still, compared to the humid and seemingly never-ending Florida summer, this warm day is bearable. As you can see in the photo, I am treating myself to an apple turnover, a coffee and a new book.

Tomorrow marks my one month of living here. It’s been a huge learning experience, but as I am getting used to living alone and starting anew, I am embracing and enjoying the acclimation. It gave, and continues to give me the realization of how stagnant my life was just a short while ago. Despite my recent graduation, I was stuck in the same patterns I was used to while I was still in school. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed these patterns. I loved my job. I liked going to the same bars all the time where everyone knew me and I felt included in any conversation. I liked the neighborhood I lived in for two and a half years. I liked going to dollar pizza and wine night every Thursday, running in to people I’ve known for years everyday and being able to go hang out with my parents whenever I wanted. I’m very routine-oriented. Having the same thing to do every single day was completely in my comfort zone.

But change is what I was looking for, and change is what I desperately needed. 

One of my best friends has a saying she uses pretty frequently. “Everything worth doing is worth overdoing.” Usually I have one or two things that defy that statement (such as drinking too much, speeding more than 10 or 15 miles over the limit, etc.), but in this case, her little mantra works. 

I am overdoing change in the best way possible. I’ve volunteered to do every assignment possible at my internship, started afresh on my apartment decór and adopted a new cat to be friends with Biscuit, my deaf and chubby hunk of joy. I’ve stopped eating meat, started going on frequent walks and am working on changing my cleaning habits. Most of all, I am learning to actually love myself as a person, for what really may be the first time. 

An ex-boyfriend of mine used to say that you can’t love someone else until you love yourself, and while I disagree with this statement (I can attest that I have loved others without really loving myself), I agree with a slight modification. I don’t believe you can love another properly (that being healthily and unconditionally) without loving who you are. Yes, I have loved, but the way I loved was sacrificing what I enjoyed and aspired for for others. I stayed in relationships because I was terrified of being alone, because I knew the second it was over I would have to start focusing on my own wants and needs. No longer could I substitute mine with someone else’s. 

A very close friend says that my lack of self-serving is both my best and worst quality. Historically, I have been guilty of making myself miserable because I wanted someone else to be happy. This is the biggest thing I am adjusting to up here, much surprise to me with everything else going on. I am learning to do things that make me feel good, whether it’s staying in for the night with a few glasses of Shiraz and a face mask or starting to take aerial silks classes (which I am starting next month). In order to love yourself, you have to accept that not everything you do is going to make someone else happy. For me, that’s been hard. But I know that eventually I will get to love someone else again and make whoever he is happier than anyone ever has, and I’ll do it right because I will have learned to love myself as well. 

It’s an adjustment, but I am perfectly content to take one day at a time. 

[elizabethanneblack]

How Belle & Sebastian taught me what it is to be cool

Greetings, dear readers. This is a long one, so I apologize.

I spent a good chunk of this past weekend trying to figure out how I was going to format this blog. I have a tendency to get very lost in my thoughts, so between thinking about what kind of sauce I wanted to buy next at Trader Joe’s (I decided on their version of the Goddess dressing, and I am not disappointed. It’s delicious!) and pondering if my cat, Biscuit, needs a cat-brother or sister (still debating whether there are more pros or cons to this one), I decided I wouldn’t pigeon-hole every single one of my posts into the same format. 

This is very typical of my thought-process. Waste a ton of time coming up with solutions, and then decide at the last minute to go in the complete opposite direction. Classic Annie.

Anyways, I hope my format of no format isn’t too hard to follow. If I want to share a recipe with you that I have tried and loved (or tried and hated! That’s probably more entertaining), I’m going to do so. If I want to share a video that I am proud of working on, then that’s what I’ll be blogging about. You get the idea, yes? Great. Moving on.

Anyways, today’s topic is how Belle & Sebastian, the Scottish indie favorite, made me realize what it is to be cool. I’ll begin with some background.

(Imagine the “thinking about a time where something important happened” transition in bad made-for-TV movies where reality wobbles into a memory.)

The scene begins in 2005 or so, a time when the Kardashians were a couple of years away from taking over reality TV, Destiny’s Child broke up, and George W. Bush was our nation’s fearless leader. I was a 13 or 14-year old dance major at a competitive arts school, and was definitely not one of the cool kids. It was my first experience with mean girls (thanks for calling me a giraffe, ladies! Really original material about someone being tall for their age), my first experience at not understanding something at school (goodbye, dreams of anything math-related), and the first time I felt seriously inadequate.

I had my feelings hurt a lot during these years. I was a ballet dancer in a predominantly modern-oriented program, and was intimidated by just about everyone. It didn’t help that I was isolated even farther by being one of only 30 or so of the so-called “bright minds of tomorrow” in the Gifted program, of which only 4 or 5 of us were dance majors. 

Being in Gifted was a problem when it came to making friends in the dance program, but otherwise it was a Godsend. I made some wonderful friends, quite of few that I still share close friendships with today. With the Gifted kids, I could be who I really was-- the “crazy friend”, as one of my best friends’ moms described me not too long ago at a dinner party. To this well-meaning mother, this meant I was that one friend who was usually in trouble with her parents, was into “weird” (AKA not mainstream) things that her daughter hadn’t ever heard of, and had the tendency to do or say things that most wouldn’t dare for fear of embarrassment. 

I was kind of a total weirdo, but that was okay with me. In fact, it still is today.

Here’s the story (this is where the “a-ha!” moment came in to play):

There was a girl at school with a made-up name (I kid you not, she told everyone she told her mom she wanted to be called this and apparently her mom went through with it), and she was effortlessly cool. She was the breed of cool that I could have only dreamed of at that age. Constantly ahead of the trend, she shopped at thrift stores, wore black eyeliner, and didn’t give two damns about what people thought of her. I wanted to be exactly like her. She ended up dating my middle school dream boy (which was my first experience with rejection! How fun), was talented in more areas than I could count, and listened to music we all imagined was made up because our 7th-grade minds were incapable of comprehending the band names she’d carelessly throw around. 

I vividly remember this one time in particular where we were hanging out with a mutual friend and walked to Starbucks for frappuccinos (it was 2005, don’t judge me). The college-aged, handsome and bearded barista boy was in awe of made-up-name girl’s t-shirt, a screen print of a Neutral Milk Hotel logo. 

“You’re much too young to know who they are,” he said.

Made-up-name girl flipped her hair and shrugged it off in a way that said, “I’m cooler than you, barista boy, and I am 12.” 

I knew at that moment I wanted to know exactly what she was listening to. 

One band that she was really into was Belle & Sebastian, who I grew immediately fond to. A few songs off of their Dear Catastrophe Waitress album in particular were my favorites.

Flash forward to senior year of high school. Now as a transfer student to a private Catholic school where I was not preppy, wealthy, or involved in school sports, I was once again an outsider. 

The summer before my senior year, the film (500) Days of Summer was released. If you haven’t seen the movie (which you really should-- it’s wonderful), the character Summer (played by Zooey Deschanel) uses a Belle & Sebastian line as her senior quote. When I have bangs (as I did my senior year), I bear a pretty strong resemblance to Zooey Deschanel. For some reason, that made me feel really attached to her character. This character attachment resurged my interest in Belle & Sebastian, which had died down a bit due to my newfound loves for more out-there groups like Animal Collective. I wanted to be like Summer, despite her short-comings as a model girlfriend. I realized I identified Belle & Sebastian with being cool-- something I seemed to be constantly falling short of.

And now to the final flash forward.

My senior year of college, my love for indie music got the best of me and I worked at the student-run radio station. By the end of my time there, I had been promoted to station manager where I got to run the station to my liking. In January, we were sent a copy of Girls in Peacetime Want to Dance, the 9th studio album of Belle & Sebastian. To say I was excited was an understatement. Here I was, in charge of something that is traditionally where the “cool kids” hang out (according to every college movie ever, anyway), and Belle & Sebastian had once again stumbled into my existence. Had I finally made it? Was I cool? 

We added the single “The Party Line” to rotation. For some reason, this run-in with the band was different. No longer did I feel insecure or intimidated. I’m not entirely sure what changed, but I felt like myself for the first time in a really long time. I was going through a pretty rough time at that point in my life and “The Party Line” made me want to dance and jump on the sofa in our station lounge. I was genuinely happy with who I was. I felt completely free for the first time in what felt like forever. 

I didn’t have to try to be cool anymore. I realized then and there that being cool isn’t what it’s all about. 

It’s about being yourself and owning it. The more you want to be like someone else, the farther you get from finding yourself and who you are truly supposed to be. You can strive for something as much as you want, but it’s never going to happen until you let it happen naturally. I am the only Annie Black that is exactly like me, so I might as well embrace it. 

And for that, I owe it all to Belle & Sebastian. 

Correction: I wasn’t kidding about being bad at math. I was 13 or 14 in 2005, not 12 or 13.

[elizabethanneblack]

An Introduction

Hello, readers of my new and silly blog. I know what you are probably thinking. “Wow. Another self-obsessed, WASP-y girl who thinks we actually care what she has to say and thinks she is different than every other girl out there.”

I know there are a lot of those lovely girls (who I have nothing against, trust me) out there, but that isn’t me.

Yes, I do hope you read this. I would like to think I will put effort into every post, considering I am a bit of a perfectionist. I have started a number of blogs, and all of them have failed miserably because –plot twist–, I gave up on them. But this time, it’s different. I’m not doing this because I want tons of followers. I don’t expect hundreds of readers, comments or shares. I get enough of that at my internship at a pretty big online publication. In fact, I don’t really expect anything. I just started this blog to document my life because I am at a sort of tipping point, I suppose. I recently graduated college, moved to a much larger city than the one I lived in for the last 23 years and left a lot behind, both physically and emotionally. I’m at the point of my life where I have no clue where my life is headed. Will I have to go back home to Florida and back to what I worked so hard to leave behind? Will I live here in Atlanta for a while? Will I move elsewhere? There is no way to know what lies ahead, so I guess I will write about it when it happens. And you… if there even is a you– you can read it if you’d like.

My name is Annie. I have a degree in Electronic Media, I grew up as a classically trained Ballerina, am currently undertaking a self-challenge to be a vegetarian, and am not really sure what to think about the oxford comma.

Welcome to my life.