One my Thanksgiving drive to Springfield (from my parent's current home farther South) I heard Diddy's "Coming Home" and laughed at the cheesiness of it all. This was likely because I was by myself in a car for three hours.
Then a DJ talked about "revertigo." It is basically the experience of regressing in age based on circumstance. For example, when a 20-something goes home to his parents' over the holidays he may stay in his childhood bedroom, sleep in his old bed, see high school friends. For this brief time, we transport ourselves into a past moment as if we can pick up life right where we left it. My Wednesday before Thanksgiving was no exception as I cheerfully hugged the people that have defined my best memories for the greater part of the last decade. Throughout the good and the not-so-good, I embrace these friendships more than any others.
Surprisingly, Southern Illinois brings on these feelings of revertigo more than Springfield. Southern Illinois was a weird time in my life. At 18, I graduated high school and was ready to start college at a school where I knew no one. I chose this last part for myself, to be different from my peers, and take a risk. Even for someone who was familiar with being the "new kid," I was terrified. Then, my parents packed up our lives and moved three hours south from the city where I called home for 18 years (outside of a two year stint in Missouri). Three weeks before I left for St. Louis, "my parent's house" was not my own. Labor Day weekend I came home from college and drove two miles past the new neighborhood. I stopped in a parking lot and cried at the overwhelming feelings of being in too many new places at once. I missed my old life.
Somehow, that experience shaped me stronger than I would ever imagine. I waitressed and made a small fortune for a 19-year-old living with her parents, made mistakes, hung out with people I definitely shouldn't have, "posted up" and ate Wendy's after work, dated boys with trucks AND camouflage (sometimes even together). I went through a couple phases of bad friends and worse boys, until I finally found own niche. I became close with girls from college whom also called the area home, found Jamie as she always made me laugh and became a sweet hearted partner in crime, indulged in $3 pitcher nights every Wednesday, and enjoyed a July 4th scavenger hunt and picnic I will never forget. Through it all, I became closer with my family as those three were the only constant in this whole strange situation.
So when I was driving down Route 13 on my way to Carbondale, listening to "Dirt Road Anthem," I experienced the ultimate revertigo. It brought back memories of being 20 years old with few cares in the world other than living from Cracker Barrel paycheck to paycheck, driving my boyfriend's beat up pick up truck with Jamie as we sang along to whatever radio station we could find during the most fun scavenger hunt of our lives.
Now when I go back to "my parent's house" (as I call it now), it's all different. My close friends, the one from college, aren't there and we've all moved on from that life. I let some friendships fall through the cracks and wonder how their lives evolved. Oddly enough, the moving experience I once described as "one of the worst things to ever happen to me" turned out to be one of the best. It made me grow up and redefine myself, leading to some of the most genuinely happy experiences I could find.
Showing posts with label My family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My family. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
0
Past & Permanence
Lately I have entertained the idea of doing something unthinkable. I mentioned running a half marathon was unthinkable? This is worse. Way worse.
I'm entertaining the idea of inking myself. A tattoo. Seven little letters in script, either on my foot or on my rib cage below my left armpit. Hidden but there.
An Italian phrase: Mai Soli.
There is a part of me talking myself out of doing something as "yucky" as branding myself.
This permanent reminder would be for the memory of four people, one of whom is "still kicking" in her own words. My grandparents. Four people for whom I am forever grateful, even as I live most of my life without them. They deserve a little introduction, shall we?
-------------
On the paternal side we have Cleo and Helen. Cleo's family moved in across the street from Helen's, just as he arrived home from a tour in Burma during World War II. The moment Helen saw him she told her mother, "I'm going to marry him." Her mom said she was crazy but Helen won. The family moved, Grandpa went to work, Grandma took care of their small family of one girl and one boy. My dad's parents are the reason Florida is still a favorite vacation spot. They went almost every year, my dad as a boy sticking his head out the window and avoiding the backlash of Grandpa's unfiltered cigarettes.
My grandparents were my buddies and we always visited on Fridays. There were Grandpa's stories of a heroic, protagonistic bobcat stuck in a tree. The cat would stay in a tree because Grandpa couldn't think of what to do with him. The Irish style hats he wore although he wasn't Irish. How much he hated books on tape, because he loved to read but lost most of his eyesight before I was born. The way he and my grandma loved each other when she called him "honey bunny." How my grandma crumbled when he passed away, but not without an admirable fight.
My grandma is still alive and with higher than satisfactory blood pressure, through all her medical issues. She is much tinier than she was, she talks about the past, and there is not one day I am around her that she doesn't discuss her bowels. Grandma is a much different person than the days of crossword puzzles, Limited Too trips, and watching "Walker, Texas Ranger." On our past vacation she forgot how me and my brother are related. I cried for twenty miles. Then I remember her as she was, not as she is, and love her unconditionally for it.
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My maternal grandparents, Jim and Kay (or James and Clara to outsiders), were depression era babies from rural, Central Illinois. German Catholic families with lots of children and even more farm land. They grew up close to one another but I don't recall how they met. Like all good American boys, Jim enlisted in World War II. He asked Kay to marry him and she responded with a "no." The possibility of being a widow in her late teens was too frightening. So when Jim came back, two torpedoed ships later, she said yes.
Fast forward six children (number six being mom, the first and only girl) and ten grandchildren later, then I'm in the picture. Grandma's puzzle and Yahtzee! buddy; she even taught me to cheat at solitaire. A lifelong Cubs fan, she taught me to not be a Cubs fan. ("They're horrible!") Her ruffle collared shirts and dangling pearl earrings. Grandpa's well-kept Buick which he drove to pick us up from school, never a minute late. Grandpa's pressed plaid shirts, thick rimmed glasses. My younger brother's little legs on their long walks, as he kept us with his 6'2" grandpa. Dinners at 5 p.m. with pudding for dinner. A large scale fifty year wedding anniversary surrounded by lifelong friends and family.
Watching my grandpa pass away from colon cancer that had taken over his body. Grandma joining him suddenly, less than a couple years later.
-------------
My children won't know their great-grandparents as I do. They will be figments of their active imaginations. No more real than characters in short stories; whom mommy visits at Camp Butler National Cemetery when she is in her hometown.
So for all that, the question of adding a permanent ink to my body continues.
Mai Soli means "Never Alone."
I'm entertaining the idea of inking myself. A tattoo. Seven little letters in script, either on my foot or on my rib cage below my left armpit. Hidden but there.
An Italian phrase: Mai Soli.
There is a part of me talking myself out of doing something as "yucky" as branding myself.
This permanent reminder would be for the memory of four people, one of whom is "still kicking" in her own words. My grandparents. Four people for whom I am forever grateful, even as I live most of my life without them. They deserve a little introduction, shall we?
-------------
On the paternal side we have Cleo and Helen. Cleo's family moved in across the street from Helen's, just as he arrived home from a tour in Burma during World War II. The moment Helen saw him she told her mother, "I'm going to marry him." Her mom said she was crazy but Helen won. The family moved, Grandpa went to work, Grandma took care of their small family of one girl and one boy. My dad's parents are the reason Florida is still a favorite vacation spot. They went almost every year, my dad as a boy sticking his head out the window and avoiding the backlash of Grandpa's unfiltered cigarettes.
My grandparents were my buddies and we always visited on Fridays. There were Grandpa's stories of a heroic, protagonistic bobcat stuck in a tree. The cat would stay in a tree because Grandpa couldn't think of what to do with him. The Irish style hats he wore although he wasn't Irish. How much he hated books on tape, because he loved to read but lost most of his eyesight before I was born. The way he and my grandma loved each other when she called him "honey bunny." How my grandma crumbled when he passed away, but not without an admirable fight.
My grandma is still alive and with higher than satisfactory blood pressure, through all her medical issues. She is much tinier than she was, she talks about the past, and there is not one day I am around her that she doesn't discuss her bowels. Grandma is a much different person than the days of crossword puzzles, Limited Too trips, and watching "Walker, Texas Ranger." On our past vacation she forgot how me and my brother are related. I cried for twenty miles. Then I remember her as she was, not as she is, and love her unconditionally for it.
-------------
My maternal grandparents, Jim and Kay (or James and Clara to outsiders), were depression era babies from rural, Central Illinois. German Catholic families with lots of children and even more farm land. They grew up close to one another but I don't recall how they met. Like all good American boys, Jim enlisted in World War II. He asked Kay to marry him and she responded with a "no." The possibility of being a widow in her late teens was too frightening. So when Jim came back, two torpedoed ships later, she said yes.
Fast forward six children (number six being mom, the first and only girl) and ten grandchildren later, then I'm in the picture. Grandma's puzzle and Yahtzee! buddy; she even taught me to cheat at solitaire. A lifelong Cubs fan, she taught me to not be a Cubs fan. ("They're horrible!") Her ruffle collared shirts and dangling pearl earrings. Grandpa's well-kept Buick which he drove to pick us up from school, never a minute late. Grandpa's pressed plaid shirts, thick rimmed glasses. My younger brother's little legs on their long walks, as he kept us with his 6'2" grandpa. Dinners at 5 p.m. with pudding for dinner. A large scale fifty year wedding anniversary surrounded by lifelong friends and family.
Watching my grandpa pass away from colon cancer that had taken over his body. Grandma joining him suddenly, less than a couple years later.
-------------
My children won't know their great-grandparents as I do. They will be figments of their active imaginations. No more real than characters in short stories; whom mommy visits at Camp Butler National Cemetery when she is in her hometown.
So for all that, the question of adding a permanent ink to my body continues.
Mai Soli means "Never Alone."
In the middle is me, grandma Kay, and grandpa Jim standing behind us.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
0
"Uh, closed? They don't close Florida."
Clark Griswold said it best when he went berserk on the way to Wally World.
Family road trips are so Americana I can't believe Toby Keith hasn't written an anthem about them. They stir up good memories, like when the family rented a RV stocked with Grandpa's Miller Lite, and the downright awful, like driving through Atlanta's 1996 Olympics opening ceremonies. Ever since that debacle, we have flown the friendly skies.
Today, my luck has run out.
Now I'm somewhere in Kentucky, listening to my mom sing "Venus" by Bahamarama writing by the light of cell phone. But I'm keeping my head in the game because:
1.) My positioning the reject car allows me to tweet enough to humor Ryan...and whoever else sees my pain
2.) We're coming up on Nashville, one of my favorite cities, and worth staying awake another hour
3.) Tomorrow I will be on a beach. I won't be building oily sandcastles or cleaning duckies, like last year's agenda, but can enjoy the vacation that environmental protection allows. Last August I was a little skeptical; this year I'm really excited. Am I getting older?
#VoylesVacation
"This is no longer a vacation. This is a quest. A quest for fun."So today, following the commencement of my little brother, Voyles family road trip 2011 has began. (Go Ryan!) With the Nissan Altima as our noble steed, I feel in slightly better company than the Griswolds. Thankfully, I don't see Grandma pulling at Aunt Edna and kicking the bucket en route. What I can expect is priceless one-liners muttered in the front seat, including the most recent gem, "my feet are hot."
Family road trips are so Americana I can't believe Toby Keith hasn't written an anthem about them. They stir up good memories, like when the family rented a RV stocked with Grandpa's Miller Lite, and the downright awful, like driving through Atlanta's 1996 Olympics opening ceremonies. Ever since that debacle, we have flown the friendly skies.
Today, my luck has run out.
Now I'm somewhere in Kentucky, listening to my mom sing "Venus" by Bahamarama writing by the light of cell phone. But I'm keeping my head in the game because:
1.) My positioning the reject car allows me to tweet enough to humor Ryan...and whoever else sees my pain
2.) We're coming up on Nashville, one of my favorite cities, and worth staying awake another hour
3.) Tomorrow I will be on a beach. I won't be building oily sandcastles or cleaning duckies, like last year's agenda, but can enjoy the vacation that environmental protection allows. Last August I was a little skeptical; this year I'm really excited. Am I getting older?
#VoylesVacation
Monday, April 25, 2011
0
#WillandKateSuperFan
In an effort to be appropriate at 9:30 a.m. Easter mass I stayed in Saturday night. Due to the lack of Saturday night programming, and I'm using that as an excuse, I was sucked in to the William & Kate movie on Lifetime. So terrifically lame and I already regret typing this, but looks like I'm not the only one in my family.
Good work Dad.
Good work Dad.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
0
"May the Road Rise Up to Meet You, May the Wind Be Ever at Your Back..."
Last fall, my brother began dabbling in the fairly safe hobby of photography. When I mentioned this to a friend (and, either good or bad, don't remember who it was) he/she said, "well, that's easy. Anybody can do it."
Incredibly ignorant comment.
True, anyone can take a picture in a world of $100 click-and-shoot Kodak cameras from the Wal-Mart photo department. Some people might even be able to take good pictures in this manner. A vacation sunset, a pouncing tiger at a zoo, a plane in flight. But, asking three people to stand in front of an awkward landscape and "say cheese!" isn't photography. Ryan, in his limited time behind the lens, works on the art of telling stories and, while he is in the amateur stages, he is already developing an eye for capturing what the rest of us don't see.
To caveat all this, Ryan is the more creative of the Voyles children. At seven he wanted to be video game designer and filled sketch books with pictures frowned upon by his educators. In third grade he went a little more safe and started learning the tromboner (can't help myself) and developed more musical talent in junior high on the electric and acoustic guitar. Every Saturday, Dad and I would walk around the mall for an hour and half waiting for him to finish his lessons at Samuel Muisc. Within months, he taught himself to play Nirvana, Metallica and a medley of music outside the listening realm of a typical 12-year-old. Thanks to him, and his ear for music that isn't crap, my iPod has developed nicely.
Already a talented student journalist, now he is dabbling in the visual realm. Today he told me, over Gchat, "want me to tell you something that may freak the family out? Don't worry, it's not me coming out of the closet. I think it would be really interesting to be a photographer in a war-torn country." I went through initial shock, googled Libya and sent a devastating report of journalists that just yesterday were just martyred for their craft. While it's just a thought in the mind of a 22-year-old with a graduation date three weeks from Saturday, it's a more realistic concept for someone like him. Not only is he the more talented of the siblings, he is also more brave than I am in his desire to take on risks. I find myself more tied down, more grounded, but missing out? Not sure, but he shouldn't accept less than the best.
I found this comment following the report mentioned in the above paragraph.
Ryan's response, "that's a great comment, sums up everything perfectly. But that's what I'm thinking though; maybe I could be one of those people out there telling these stories."
Brave, crazy, I'm not sure which. Whatever path he goes, from the safe to the not-so-safe I am just a proud big sister wanting little Ry Man to follow his aspirations.
I love you!
Incredibly ignorant comment.
True, anyone can take a picture in a world of $100 click-and-shoot Kodak cameras from the Wal-Mart photo department. Some people might even be able to take good pictures in this manner. A vacation sunset, a pouncing tiger at a zoo, a plane in flight. But, asking three people to stand in front of an awkward landscape and "say cheese!" isn't photography. Ryan, in his limited time behind the lens, works on the art of telling stories and, while he is in the amateur stages, he is already developing an eye for capturing what the rest of us don't see.
To caveat all this, Ryan is the more creative of the Voyles children. At seven he wanted to be video game designer and filled sketch books with pictures frowned upon by his educators. In third grade he went a little more safe and started learning the tromboner (can't help myself) and developed more musical talent in junior high on the electric and acoustic guitar. Every Saturday, Dad and I would walk around the mall for an hour and half waiting for him to finish his lessons at Samuel Muisc. Within months, he taught himself to play Nirvana, Metallica and a medley of music outside the listening realm of a typical 12-year-old. Thanks to him, and his ear for music that isn't crap, my iPod has developed nicely.
Already a talented student journalist, now he is dabbling in the visual realm. Today he told me, over Gchat, "want me to tell you something that may freak the family out? Don't worry, it's not me coming out of the closet. I think it would be really interesting to be a photographer in a war-torn country." I went through initial shock, googled Libya and sent a devastating report of journalists that just yesterday were just martyred for their craft. While it's just a thought in the mind of a 22-year-old with a graduation date three weeks from Saturday, it's a more realistic concept for someone like him. Not only is he the more talented of the siblings, he is also more brave than I am in his desire to take on risks. I find myself more tied down, more grounded, but missing out? Not sure, but he shouldn't accept less than the best.
I found this comment following the report mentioned in the above paragraph.
"This is utterly tragic, shattering news. These men are the best of the best, they are the eyes and ears and memories and consciences of democracy; they are at the highest pinnacle of photojournalism. This is a terrible day for all of us, and for our country, and for the profession of journalism. As I said elsewhere-- 'the eye of an artist, the responsibility of a journalist, and the raw courage of an infantryman.' I am so sad. We are all bereft. I wish their families well...and their colleagues safety." - John Rudoff; Portland, Ore.
Ryan's response, "that's a great comment, sums up everything perfectly. But that's what I'm thinking though; maybe I could be one of those people out there telling these stories."
Brave, crazy, I'm not sure which. Whatever path he goes, from the safe to the not-so-safe I am just a proud big sister wanting little Ry Man to follow his aspirations.
I love you!
Tranny Prep.
The Wrestler.
This picture added solely because of the conversation below.
Yours truly: These people are the epitome of southern Illinois class. Especially the tattooed hooligan in the front row.
Ryan: She was clearly drunk and out of control when I was there
Yours truly: She looks like she sobered up a bit.
"Better get used to these bars, kid" - Marty McFly
"Better get used to these bars, kid" - Marty McFly
Ryan: Nice use of the quote, sistah
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
0
Daddy's Girl
I was talking to a friend the other day about our favorite Super Bowl commercials in the last few years and immediately thought of the Google commercial, "Parisian Love." Throughout all the commotion of the game, I was overwhelmed by the subtle romance held in the patient construction of words with a light musical overlay. Today I searched for the commercial and came across Google Search Stories, a hub for users to generate their own stories. These serve as small reminders of how technology improves our lives and changes our relationships with others. I stumbled across this little gem and dedicate to my papa, who is holed up in an airport hotel in St. Louis braving out the snowpocalypse. Although we didn't have gchat and laptop cameras, when I was a tot brushing my teeth in Little Mermaid PJs, this video still takes me back.
Love you Dad!
"I've watched this video like 3 times, then I wrote about it. That's what I do with things that I don't want to disappear." Thanks Ryan for calling this one out!
Love you Dad!
"I've watched this video like 3 times, then I wrote about it. That's what I do with things that I don't want to disappear." Thanks Ryan for calling this one out!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
0
"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out Kid!"
The casual traveler at the airport wears a camo hat over his ratty pony tail and a "Property of the North Pole" t-shirt. Yes it's here! Happy holidays everyone.
This year I'm traveling at 600 mph somewhere over Kentucky using wifi on my phone type device. Oh technology!
I am almost finished with holiday travel. Suprisingly, the Atlanta airport went smoothly with only one mental outburst of "TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES. HOLY SHIT, TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES. DON'T ASK WHY! WHO ASKS WHY?!" and so forth. Hours of early arrival means I was willing to trek a mile to terminal B if only to use my Starbucks gift card, resulting in caffeine jitters and a heightened heart beat.
The holidays are a funny thing. At no other point in the year are people willing to lug Uncle Joe's new espresso machine out the front door, through federally mandated security on a continental adventure. We will get together as families to celebrate new engagements and baked goods, maybe even the birth of Jesus Christ. If I'm lucky, after lunch I will crush my relatives in Catch Phrase and other word related type games. (I think this will be another blog post as I'm feeling particularly assonine about it.)
Then there will be other holiday traditions I truly cherish. Grandma's mumbling of "this could be my last Christmas" which, after 14 years, actually holds some merit this time around. Christmas mass with whoever I can coax to join me. And my mom's family's talks of get togethers and "this is so fun, we should do it more often." This never, ever happens but it's a nice thought. My girlfriends and I maintain a tradition of drinking in a parents' basement on Christmas night then following it up with "brunch" at Olive Garden in the following days. We resonate class.
At some point Dad and I will reaccount the Christmas Eve, a few years ago, when we found God en route to Walgreens. Do not doubt faith when, on the way to buy your mother a snuggie because she "really wants one!" that a gigantic Ford pickup will skid on ice at 40 mph and stop abrupdtly six inches away from the front left tail light of our stationery Altima. Between sobbing, the "F word," and dry heaving I prayer. We went to Christmas mass that year and Mom still got her Snuggie.
As the plane approaches its descent over central Illinois I am excited for what this year will bring. For all those holiday traditions new and old, discovered and forgotten. In the words of my brother, when I asked him what he wanted for Christmas, "I'm content."
Happy Holidays everyone!
This year I'm traveling at 600 mph somewhere over Kentucky using wifi on my phone type device. Oh technology!
I am almost finished with holiday travel. Suprisingly, the Atlanta airport went smoothly with only one mental outburst of "TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES. HOLY SHIT, TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES. DON'T ASK WHY! WHO ASKS WHY?!" and so forth. Hours of early arrival means I was willing to trek a mile to terminal B if only to use my Starbucks gift card, resulting in caffeine jitters and a heightened heart beat.
The holidays are a funny thing. At no other point in the year are people willing to lug Uncle Joe's new espresso machine out the front door, through federally mandated security on a continental adventure. We will get together as families to celebrate new engagements and baked goods, maybe even the birth of Jesus Christ. If I'm lucky, after lunch I will crush my relatives in Catch Phrase and other word related type games. (I think this will be another blog post as I'm feeling particularly assonine about it.)
Then there will be other holiday traditions I truly cherish. Grandma's mumbling of "this could be my last Christmas" which, after 14 years, actually holds some merit this time around. Christmas mass with whoever I can coax to join me. And my mom's family's talks of get togethers and "this is so fun, we should do it more often." This never, ever happens but it's a nice thought. My girlfriends and I maintain a tradition of drinking in a parents' basement on Christmas night then following it up with "brunch" at Olive Garden in the following days. We resonate class.
At some point Dad and I will reaccount the Christmas Eve, a few years ago, when we found God en route to Walgreens. Do not doubt faith when, on the way to buy your mother a snuggie because she "really wants one!" that a gigantic Ford pickup will skid on ice at 40 mph and stop abrupdtly six inches away from the front left tail light of our stationery Altima. Between sobbing, the "F word," and dry heaving I prayer. We went to Christmas mass that year and Mom still got her Snuggie.
As the plane approaches its descent over central Illinois I am excited for what this year will bring. For all those holiday traditions new and old, discovered and forgotten. In the words of my brother, when I asked him what he wanted for Christmas, "I'm content."
Happy Holidays everyone!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
0
My 4th Grade Style Essay on Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Today is a day to share with loved ones, even if those loved ones are in manic depression because they just sat in a car together all day.
Thanksgiving is a day to eat turkey until it hurts and blame tryptophan on your inability to stay awake when talking to relatives about politics.
Thanksgiving is a day to be thankful for my family and, when the weekend is over, be fortunate that they live five hours away from me.
Thanksgiving is a day to eat turkey until it hurts and blame tryptophan on your inability to stay awake when talking to relatives about politics.
Thanksgiving is a day to be thankful for my family and, when the weekend is over, be fortunate that they live five hours away from me.
Thanksgiving is a day to wake up at 9 a.m., nevermind that you went to bed at 3 a.m., to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Then discover it was way more magical as child and, in atypical fashion, that Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira are awkward.
Now it's time to clean the apartment because, as of twenty minutes ago, I decided to host my family.
Here's to a Thanksgiving day full of prayers.
Monday, August 16, 2010
0
Hands down, summer is my favorite season. My birthday falls at the end of June which, in childhood, limited me from bringing treats to the classroom but gave great bliss from three school free months. Even now, as I spend approximately 40 hours a week craning my neck just to look out the office's windows, summer is still my favorite. I realize I have not posted anything of concrete substance on this blog in weeks but, frankly, life is full of more important things at the moment. Specifically, weddings of friends and family, lazy days spent on the lake and utilizing my PTO.
Last week, I went on a family vacation to Gulf Shores, Ala. which I previously referenced here. Our first family vacation in four years considering we are a tad limited with an 81-year-old Grandma in tote. "I'm going to Gulf Shores," I told people. "Nothing extravagant."
But I regress, the best part about the trip is that we didn't really do "anything." The whole week I left the condo complex twice, once for a heavily stocked Wal-Mart trip and another for a seafood dinner out with the family and a 35 hole mini-golf special. (Yes, we ripped off Adventure Island and I take the credit.) Other than that, most of our time was spent rotating between the beach, outdoor pool and indoor pool. For dinners we grilled and I took pride in actually creating recipes from Real Simple. (For reference the steak skewers are divine, substitute red peppers and add cooked shrimp. Do not substitute mint for basil on the melon dessert.) My brother and I drank Coronas and White Russians on the balcony, Dad and I held spontaneous dance parties, and my only real moments of solitude came from body boarding due to high tide.
After five days, I came to the realization that sometimes I don't need anything extravagant to be happy. Sometimes I feel stuck in this weird limbo of life. Am I happy at my job? Why do people I know from high school and college keep getting engaged or having babies? Can I go home for the weekend, even though my parents live six hours away? Why do I spend a mortgage payment in rent? Then I pushed those thoughts away because, frankly, I was on vacation and there are miles of beach to be walked upon and a Nerf football to toss.
I don't have all the answers and refuse to stress myself out discovering them. Until they come to premonition I will keep finding happiness in the little things, like consecutive hole-in-ones in Pirate Adventure Mini Golf.
Dog Days of Summer
Youth is in a grand flush, like the hot days of ending summer; and pleasant dreams thrall your spirit, like the smoky atmosphere that bathes the landscape of an August day. - Donald G. Mitchell
Hands down, summer is my favorite season. My birthday falls at the end of June which, in childhood, limited me from bringing treats to the classroom but gave great bliss from three school free months. Even now, as I spend approximately 40 hours a week craning my neck just to look out the office's windows, summer is still my favorite. I realize I have not posted anything of concrete substance on this blog in weeks but, frankly, life is full of more important things at the moment. Specifically, weddings of friends and family, lazy days spent on the lake and utilizing my PTO.
Last week, I went on a family vacation to Gulf Shores, Ala. which I previously referenced here. Our first family vacation in four years considering we are a tad limited with an 81-year-old Grandma in tote. "I'm going to Gulf Shores," I told people. "Nothing extravagant."
But I regress, the best part about the trip is that we didn't really do "anything." The whole week I left the condo complex twice, once for a heavily stocked Wal-Mart trip and another for a seafood dinner out with the family and a 35 hole mini-golf special. (Yes, we ripped off Adventure Island and I take the credit.) Other than that, most of our time was spent rotating between the beach, outdoor pool and indoor pool. For dinners we grilled and I took pride in actually creating recipes from Real Simple. (For reference the steak skewers are divine, substitute red peppers and add cooked shrimp. Do not substitute mint for basil on the melon dessert.) My brother and I drank Coronas and White Russians on the balcony, Dad and I held spontaneous dance parties, and my only real moments of solitude came from body boarding due to high tide.
After five days, I came to the realization that sometimes I don't need anything extravagant to be happy. Sometimes I feel stuck in this weird limbo of life. Am I happy at my job? Why do people I know from high school and college keep getting engaged or having babies? Can I go home for the weekend, even though my parents live six hours away? Why do I spend a mortgage payment in rent? Then I pushed those thoughts away because, frankly, I was on vacation and there are miles of beach to be walked upon and a Nerf football to toss.
I don't have all the answers and refuse to stress myself out discovering them. Until they come to premonition I will keep finding happiness in the little things, like consecutive hole-in-ones in Pirate Adventure Mini Golf.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
0
Holiday Rooooooad
Next month I am going on vacation to Gulf Shores, Ala. with my family. Don't get too excited. We lack the ability to travel to far off lands full of novelty and wonder because of my grandma, as she will be partaking in our trip. I was back and forth on whether to go on this trip until, while at breaking point last week at work, my dad sent me a incredibly non-PC e-mail. It lightened my mood and made me realize that I need a vacation.
Now what to do, what to do? I am a water person and my family really isn't (mostly because my parents are chubby and did not wish to be "those people" who flap cellulite legs all over the water park).
So far my vacation ideas are:
More ideas welcome!
Now what to do, what to do? I am a water person and my family really isn't (mostly because my parents are chubby and did not wish to be "those people" who flap cellulite legs all over the water park).
So far my vacation ideas are:
- Torment Grammy
- Buy a a wiffle ball set, necessities for sand castle building, and a 24-pack while my brother and I get loaded and pretend we're on spring break
- Finally learn how to play Gin Rummy and all those other games mom rambles about
- Build a sandcastle out of dirtied sand complete with an oil moat and set that bad boy on fire
- Clean duckies
More ideas welcome!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
0
My dog has Twitter, therefore she is better than your dog
On Twitter, I must approve of any follower request. The idea of a stranger reading my thoughts is nothing short of creepy. Under all circumstances, we should limit the number of creeps in our life.
The other day I approved a follow request from Cher. The dog, not the singer. Cher is my family's pup, an eight-old-year German Shepherd/Chow mix we rescued from a shelter in 2004. She was around two at the time, hence her name stuck. What was once a sad, scared little thing is now a tomboy diva whom has amazing hair, enjoys a romp in the park, and enjoys life with her head propped on the armrest of the leather couch.
Like all delusional dog owners, I believe Cher has people thoughts. Her intelligence and actions are borderline human and her actions exceed those of her peers. (Especially this yippy neighborhood dog named Jade; she deserves a swift punt.) Cher knows when I'm coming home to visit, when someone is sad, or that Grandma is bat shit crazy and to approach accordingly. Unfortunately, she can't speak.
UNTIL NOW.
A little big ago, I read about this thing called puppy tweets. This waste of cash device snaps to a dog's collar to "read" their emotions and spew out messages like, "I bit my tail. Ow!" or "I'm bored, come home!" As if the twitter world wasn't crammed with stupid junk already. How many days can Justin Bieber possibly one of the most important things in the world? But the best part about puppy tweets is that I don't even have to know about this device because my dog is better than yours.
Cher Voyles is blessed to take on the qualities on her owners (minus mom) and her peers (minus Gary the cat). Her insights into the household are witty, charming and full of snappy bitchiness. She is, after all, a female dog. Cher doesn't need a freakin' collar tag. My dog saves money to buy an iPad! So go follow my dog, she doesn't mind.
Twitter.com/CherVoy
You're welcome.
The other day I approved a follow request from Cher. The dog, not the singer. Cher is my family's pup, an eight-old-year German Shepherd/Chow mix we rescued from a shelter in 2004. She was around two at the time, hence her name stuck. What was once a sad, scared little thing is now a tomboy diva whom has amazing hair, enjoys a romp in the park, and enjoys life with her head propped on the armrest of the leather couch.
Like all delusional dog owners, I believe Cher has people thoughts. Her intelligence and actions are borderline human and her actions exceed those of her peers. (Especially this yippy neighborhood dog named Jade; she deserves a swift punt.) Cher knows when I'm coming home to visit, when someone is sad, or that Grandma is bat shit crazy and to approach accordingly. Unfortunately, she can't speak.
UNTIL NOW.
A little big ago, I read about this thing called puppy tweets. This waste of cash device snaps to a dog's collar to "read" their emotions and spew out messages like, "I bit my tail. Ow!" or "I'm bored, come home!" As if the twitter world wasn't crammed with stupid junk already. How many days can Justin Bieber possibly one of the most important things in the world? But the best part about puppy tweets is that I don't even have to know about this device because my dog is better than yours.
Cher Voyles is blessed to take on the qualities on her owners (minus mom) and her peers (minus Gary the cat). Her insights into the household are witty, charming and full of snappy bitchiness. She is, after all, a female dog. Cher doesn't need a freakin' collar tag. My dog saves money to buy an iPad! So go follow my dog, she doesn't mind.
Twitter.com/CherVoy
You're welcome.
The best dog. Ever.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
0
This is Why I Blog (sung to the tune of MIMS)
Growing up, I always had a diary. It's unfortunate that most of those (and there are many) are incomplete. My fascination with the diary was inspired by the 1964 novel, "Harriet the Spy" by Louise Fitzhugh - the worn out paperback still sits on my bookshelf. I would start these memoirs for summer vacations and new school years alike. Now, when I see the blank pages I wonder just what happened. Where did I go? How did I feel? I must have been enjoying myself at least. According to the scribbles and loopy lettering, an 11-year-old me enjoyed traveling around the Midwest with family, had crushes on boys who fell off the radar a a week later, and surrounded herself the best friends EVER. I can't help but feel nostalgic, even tearful, when I see notes about being lonely after moving away from my hometown or the passing of my amazing grandparents.
When I went home for the holidays Ryan and I found a Babysitter's Club Little Sister (ladies, you know what this is) "Memory Scrapbook." I was around seven or eight when I filled out the pages, mostly fill-in-the-black sentences containing profound statements such as:
My favorite lunch at school is good.
The school carnival was fun.
It's the last day of school! This summer I will miss the girls. I will not miss the boys.
So now I'm an "adult" by society standards with a grown up, 21st century version of a diary. You're reading it. Unlike the lock and key books of my younger years I chose to make this one public. It's more censored and a lot more expressive. I don't talk about my daily life or one topic and, honestly, and it has relatively no direction whatsoever.
I love it that way.
One of the amazing aspects of blogs is the sheer mass of them out there. Some blogs probably have not been touched in years, others only center around specific moments or aspects of a person's life. I think I started one about studying abroad, I don't really remember. People write about new members of the family, big moves across the country and a particular hobby that they want to share with anyone willing to give them 33 seconds. Either way, writings belong to one person and nobody else. A writing can be shared, discarded or forgotten; either way, it always belongs to the author.
I'm simply here because I love to write. I live in an age of mass expression but where the sheer volume of voices silences many who open their mouths. So whoever reads this blog, thank you for supporting me doing what I love. Plus, I hope I can make you think or laugh on occasion. Would I write if I had zero followers and nobody cared? Absolutely.
But I love you anyway.
When I went home for the holidays Ryan and I found a Babysitter's Club Little Sister (ladies, you know what this is) "Memory Scrapbook." I was around seven or eight when I filled out the pages, mostly fill-in-the-black sentences containing profound statements such as:
My favorite lunch at school is good.
The school carnival was fun.
It's the last day of school! This summer I will miss the girls. I will not miss the boys.
So now I'm an "adult" by society standards with a grown up, 21st century version of a diary. You're reading it. Unlike the lock and key books of my younger years I chose to make this one public. It's more censored and a lot more expressive. I don't talk about my daily life or one topic and, honestly, and it has relatively no direction whatsoever.
I love it that way.
One of the amazing aspects of blogs is the sheer mass of them out there. Some blogs probably have not been touched in years, others only center around specific moments or aspects of a person's life. I think I started one about studying abroad, I don't really remember. People write about new members of the family, big moves across the country and a particular hobby that they want to share with anyone willing to give them 33 seconds. Either way, writings belong to one person and nobody else. A writing can be shared, discarded or forgotten; either way, it always belongs to the author.
I'm simply here because I love to write. I live in an age of mass expression but where the sheer volume of voices silences many who open their mouths. So whoever reads this blog, thank you for supporting me doing what I love. Plus, I hope I can make you think or laugh on occasion. Would I write if I had zero followers and nobody cared? Absolutely.
But I love you anyway.
Monday, November 30, 2009
0
What I'm Thankful For
Back to the grind! I hate that term. Only 3.2 weeks of work until Christmas break.
For realsies though, it's almost December and this morning I accepted the fact that a cold Chicago winter is inevitable. As if there is any other kind. In reflection of the holiday, here is a list of things I am thankful for in somewhat of an order. Family first, then everything else!
The end.
For realsies though, it's almost December and this morning I accepted the fact that a cold Chicago winter is inevitable. As if there is any other kind. In reflection of the holiday, here is a list of things I am thankful for in somewhat of an order. Family first, then everything else!
- Being my Dad's sidekick when I am home. Sporting events, Wal-Mart three times in one day, Cracker Barrel? Works for me and padre.
- My brother and the next Peter Gammons, Ryan! (Please see resemblance below.) I imagine Ryan will age better than Peter but that's neither here nor there. Catch his front page story, here SIU Daily Egyptian
- That after viewing the effects of my mom taking vitamins I decided they all negate each other and, in conclusion, cause unnecessary napping.
- Casey, the boyfriend. I forgot him in the first publish of this post. We spend a solid amount of our time making fun of strangers...and each other. When he buys me flowers for the second time (ever) I might buy him a helicopter.
- Returning to Chicago after a long train ride and riding in the cab home. Seeing the lights of the city and personally being part of the skyline is an outstanding experience.
- On the Chicago note, not being a Bears fan. For real, they are awful.
- To piggyback off THAT, not being a Cubs fan. Go Cardinals! Less than 100 days until pitchers and catchers report. My winters are so lonely.
- Lady Gaga. "If I'm a guy and I think Lady Gaga is incredibly talented, am I gay?" The answer is no.
- Kitten Mittens
- Glee and 30 Rock. I, like, really enjoy those shows.
- Being incredibly better looking than the mutants that shop in Southern Illinois at 5 a.m. on Black Friday. Straight from Dante's seventh ring of HELL, they resembled Sloth from the Goonies. I will not stand in line with these freaks for a $79 Blu-Ray player.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
0
Although she will never read this because of her lack of interwebs skills, props to my mother [woman in the Snuggie or "Marsha" for short] for attempting to scare the living shit out of me today.
Let's start. Beginning Monday, my health took a turn for the decline.
• Monday, approximately 12 p.m.: "Why does my throat hurt? I feel tired."
• Monday, approximately 9 p.m., Job #2: "I can't talk to my tables anymore. I hope they don't need anything because I'm losing my voice. No, I will not go through my complimentary samples of wine spiel."
• Tuesday, 4 a.m.: "Oh god, I'm dead. I'm dying. Sleeping vertical. Keep coughing. Ah. Sentences with no nouns."
• Tuesday, 4 a.m. t 7:30 a.m.: I wake up every 10 minutes dreaming of detrimental illness.
• Tuesday, appx. 11 a.m.: Convo with the Marsha.
Me: "Ya, my throat is really killing me. It burns my throat to talk so I'm staying home."
Mom: "Ok, well call me if you get bored and just want to talk."
Me: "..."
• Tuesday, normal work hours: Consisted of me sleeping 14 hours and sitting on the couch. Life is boring at home. Except...
Positive: CSI, Law & Order, and other various crime shows are on all day.
Negative: I now fear I will fall victim to a serial killer walking home from job #2. Unfortunately, my demise will end with some sort of assault and a Jane Doe case only to be solved in 2019. Because of the endless commercials I've seen for the movie '2012' my case will never be solved. Awesome!
Now my Wednesday consists of coming to work two hours late, catching up on e-mails and wondering why the cell phone bill wasn't paid. Then I receive the call from Marsha.
If you know me, you know I love my mom but we are very...different. A different world would be fair, maybe one where she doesn't giggle so much and wear jeans every day. Today though, she called "just to see how you're doing!" The call ended with her practically in tears describing the effects of swine flu and early detection.
God bless the woman, but she's a nurse of over 25 years. Every time my brother or I falls ill she acts like we're victims of the bubonic plague.
Mom: "I [sob] just want you to be careful!"
Me: "Mom, do you talk to your patients like this?"
Mom: "Can you [sob] avoid public transportation?"
Me: "What? Mom, are you serious? No."
At this point, I do not have the swine. If I do, I will keep you updated. Maybe Marsha will make me a caringbridge.com blog.
"MOM, are you SERIOUS?"
Although she will never read this because of her lack of interwebs skills, props to my mother [woman in the Snuggie or "Marsha" for short] for attempting to scare the living shit out of me today.Let's start. Beginning Monday, my health took a turn for the decline.
• Monday, approximately 12 p.m.: "Why does my throat hurt? I feel tired."
• Monday, approximately 9 p.m., Job #2: "I can't talk to my tables anymore. I hope they don't need anything because I'm losing my voice. No, I will not go through my complimentary samples of wine spiel."
• Tuesday, 4 a.m.: "Oh god, I'm dead. I'm dying. Sleeping vertical. Keep coughing. Ah. Sentences with no nouns."
• Tuesday, 4 a.m. t 7:30 a.m.: I wake up every 10 minutes dreaming of detrimental illness.
• Tuesday, appx. 11 a.m.: Convo with the Marsha.
Me: "Ya, my throat is really killing me. It burns my throat to talk so I'm staying home."
Mom: "Ok, well call me if you get bored and just want to talk."
Me: "..."
• Tuesday, normal work hours: Consisted of me sleeping 14 hours and sitting on the couch. Life is boring at home. Except...
Positive: CSI, Law & Order, and other various crime shows are on all day.
Negative: I now fear I will fall victim to a serial killer walking home from job #2. Unfortunately, my demise will end with some sort of assault and a Jane Doe case only to be solved in 2019. Because of the endless commercials I've seen for the movie '2012' my case will never be solved. Awesome!
Now my Wednesday consists of coming to work two hours late, catching up on e-mails and wondering why the cell phone bill wasn't paid. Then I receive the call from Marsha.
If you know me, you know I love my mom but we are very...different. A different world would be fair, maybe one where she doesn't giggle so much and wear jeans every day. Today though, she called "just to see how you're doing!" The call ended with her practically in tears describing the effects of swine flu and early detection.
God bless the woman, but she's a nurse of over 25 years. Every time my brother or I falls ill she acts like we're victims of the bubonic plague.
Mom: "I [sob] just want you to be careful!"
Me: "Mom, do you talk to your patients like this?"
Mom: "Can you [sob] avoid public transportation?"
Me: "What? Mom, are you serious? No."
At this point, I do not have the swine. If I do, I will keep you updated. Maybe Marsha will make me a caringbridge.com blog.
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