Kera Chronicles

Soul sister where you least expect

2011-12-30T04:26:59Z

So if you don't know by now, I've moved by to the town where my now-fiance (eek!) lives. I blame the move and the new job for my lack of words on this here blog. And to my readers-- you know, all five of you-- I apologize. But I can't go on talking about my new life without telling this story. It inspired and surprised me when it happened, and I've been meaning to tell you.

I have this friend in the town I used to work in. She's kind, gentle and is concerned about her future, much like me. I can go a whole year without seeing her, but we hit it off at our next meeting like it's nothing. Oddly enough, she's 45 years older than me. Let me explain.

Carol and I met about six months after I moved to Illinois. She was the "newcomer lady." She owned her own business in the town I used to live in for more than 20 years that involved her welcoming "newcomers" to the neighborhood with a gift basket filled with goodies from local businesses. She was also a part-time nurse at a nursing home before she retired this summer.

She read my column in the newspaper I wrote for and sought me out to give me a basket. And we hit it off right away. I ended up writing a story about her (not surprising, huh?). After the story, we met up one time for lunch. And then, being the social butterfly she is, I would bump into her every few months when I covered social gatherings for the newspaper.

She's thin, drives a minivan and keeps her hair its natural color white. She doesn't try to look younger than she is, but her cheerful demeanor expels a youthful glow when she smiles that is not common in women pushing 70. She keeps a photo of her cat on her cell phone. And she texts, too.

Her husband died a few years ago. The only time I can see her age is when she talks about him because she gets a very sad look-- like she's searching through time for his face, laugh and smell. I don't ask about that subject.

She and I met for supper in late October, after I got the new job and only had a week left at my old job. It was more than a year since I met her for lunch, but only a few months since I last spoke with her since she attended a city-wide picnic I covered. I shared the story of my engagement with her (see below if you missed it. It's a good one!), showing her photos on my cell phone. I told her about my new job and lack of wedding-planning. She told me about her son, her recent retirement and her new kitten.

Then the subject turned serious. She said she was considering moving closer to her son or brother. In Illinois, she is completely away from her close family. And at 69, she's concerned about her future. Now that she's retired, she wants to move somewhere where she can enjoy her time. And more importantly, she wants to make this decision while she still can-- before it's too late.

"In 11 years, I'll be 80," she told me during our two-and-a-half hour dinner. "I mean my God, 80. I don't feel 11 years away from 80."

That's when I realized, her perception of 11 years is so far away from my perception of 11 years. Eleven years ago, I was practically HALF my age. Eleven years from now, my life will be much different from it is now-- still married with hopefully (God bless) children. I have no idea where I will be or what I will be doing. During the next 11 years will be the start of my adult life.

But for her, 11 years from now will be the start of the end of her life, and she knows it. The woman moves very well, can drive, doesn't wear glasses and is a quiet charismatic, but she knows that 11 years from now she won't be the same. Considering the rate she's going, she most likely won't be in poor health, but she's worried about her mobility and her mind. She's lived through six 11-year periods. I barely reached two.

She asked me, in the most sincere and wide eyes, if I thought she was making the right decision to move closer to her family. We weighed the pros and cons. I stressed how smart I thought it was for her to be making this decision for herself. My mom worked as a home health nurse, and I've seen how families think they're doing the best for their loved one when in fact they're making it worse. She is a smart lady and will do what is best.

Her son lives in California, but it's too expensive to live there. A plus is that she could spend more time with her grandchildren, but she admitted that she doesn't live for her grandchildren like other women her age do-- she has her own life. We settled on Her brother who lives in Iowa where his grown children are.

So anyhoo, walking away from that dinner, I was amazed at how easy it was to talk to her and how meaningful it was to share stories with her. She never, ever, offers me advice I don't ask for. She never makes me feel as though I'm a child (although, we're more of the age range of a grandmother and granddaughter. But my grandmother is more than 14 years older than she is, so she can be like my cool great-aunt.) We listen to each other. We laugh with each other. And we communicate honestly and openly-- which is hard to come by no matter the age.

It really doesn't matter how old you are or when you find each other. Your soul sister/brother is out there. You may have already found her, or you might have a dozen. The point is that it's never to late to connect with someone. Because that, my friends, is what life is meant for-- impacting others, and hopefully letting others inspire you.

Listings

2011-08-30T04:21:44Z

I'm taking a trick from my friend Kelli and making a easy-to-write list of things I like or don't like about my life right now. In case you cared. But since you're reading this, you must.

Cool things

Long weekends with Rayce
Water parks
Homemade ice cream
Summer dresses
French braids
Archer (it’s freakin hilarious)
Charity classical music concerts
New clothes that don’t cost me anything (thank you Rayce)
New workout shoes (from Rayce)
New workouts (bodyrock.tv)
High-fives for liking Cowboy Bebop (from a coworker)
Getting lost in the diamond on my left hand

Uncool things

Learning how unaware you are of friends’ lives
Learning how unaware you are of current events
Job search
Anxiously waiting
Biting my fingernails (it’s a horrible habit I have)
Meatless Seattle Sutton Monday meals (the food I get changed their menu to include it’s three-day Monday pick up plan as the “vegetarian” option… It’ll change in January and is probably better for me, but damnit to hell)
Realizing I don’t have any water in my apartment after the local grocery store closed
Akward families

The Proposal

2011-08-02T06:40:05Z

It was just another day at the beach for me. Rayce woke me up the day after our five-year anniversary with a smile on his face. He rubbed my back, like he always does to coax me out of sleep. I opened my eyes to sunlight streaming through the French doors directly in front of my bed. I smiled at him, sat up and looked straight out of the doors to the beach that lay outside. We were on vacation with his family in Gulf Shores, Ala., and it was time to drink some French vanilla coffee.

The day before, like I said, was our five-year anniversary. I woke him up that morning in the room across a living area from mine. We didn’t share the same room when we stayed with his family, because we’re not married. We didn’t do much the day of our anniversary, since it was the first full-fledge sunny day at the beach after one day of straight rain and then cloudy skies. Rayce and I hung out at the beach the entire day with his family. We held hands; we even walked down the beach to look at the fancy houses in a gated community just passed the 11-room rental beach house in which we were staying.

That night, Rayce and I dined out at a restaurant in Orange Beach. I love his family, but it was nice to just be with him for a little while. That night, I begged him to spend the night in my room since it was our five-year anniversary and his family would never know. He told me it was against the rules, so I went to bed while he stayed up and talked with his cousins. I didn’t mind that much, because I love him.

But all that was on Tuesday, our anniversary. On Wednesday, July 20, 2011, the day after our anniversary, my vacation took a drastic turn which sent me on a roller coaster of emotion, because of which I couldn’t be happier.

After I ate some breakfast casserole his family made, I took my French vanilla coffee to the porch swing. The days prior, Rayce and I sat out on the second-story swing to read the news on our phones, while I finished my second cup of coffee. The swing faced the road and was outside of Rayce’s bedroom, which he shared with his male cousin and his cousin’s golfing buddy. I told him on this day that if he asked me to marry him within the next year, we could share a bedroom on the next family vacation. He laughed, and I didn’t mind because I love him.

We made it out to the beach around 10:30 a.m., which we discovered was a little too early because the breeze hadn’t kicked in. I wore my new Victoria Secret bikini, which I only bought because I thought it would make my boobs look good—which it did. It’s the only bikini I own with sequence on it. It’s a light turquoise color, and I deemed it my Princess Jasmine if-she-was-a-stripper bikini.

I wanted more of a tan, so I sat my beach chair out in the sun, while Rayce lounged underneath an umbrella. I downed a bottle of water, and he went through two beers. I was pretty eager to go on our walk, which we determined we’d do every day to get some exercise, because I thought it would help cool me off. I didn’t want to get in the water, because I worked so hard earlier coating myself in SPF 30 sunscreen. I asked Rayce a few times if he was ready to go on our walk, and he told me later. But I didn’t mind, because I love him.

***If you’re in a hurry, this part can be skipped. It just shines a little light on our relationship***

Almost to noon, Rayce walked back up to the beach house to use the bathroom, and he told me we would go on our walk when he returned. I fell into sort of a heat-induced coma at this point. I heard his mother’s cell phone go off a few times, but didn’t think much about it because I was too hot. I was too busy fighting the urge to pee, configuring in my head if I could hold it until after our walk or not.

I turned and asked his mother how long she thought it took her son to pee, because I was ready to go on our walk. She laughed; his cousins didn’t. The three of them—two cousins and his sister all in the early to late ‘20s—hadn’t spoken to me much the previous three days at the beach. I spent three solid years with his younger cousin and sister, and I couldn’t figure out why they were acting so distant. Whatever.

When Rayce returned, I informed him that I had to use the bathroom because he took so long. When I was walking back to the door after leaving the bathroom, I eyed a banana. I figured—well he made me wait, so he can wait a little while. I took my time eating the banana in the kitchen, while talking to his grandmother about my bikini.

When I returned to the beach, Rayce was already standing and pointed in the direction we walked the two previous days. I told him maybe we should walk in the other direction to see the other part of the beach. He said he likes to look at the big fancy beach houses, because he likes to dream. He also jokingly accused me of going “number two” because I took so long in the house. But I didn’t mind, because I love him.

Rayce stood closer to the water and took my left hand. He told me as we started our walk that we didn’t hold hands enough the day before on our anniversary. I said “Hell yes, you didn’t hold my hand enough.” I’m pretty sure I did a little skip as I said it, too.

***People in a hurry, continue reading here***

As we walked past the big beach houses in the gated-community, we talked about what we liked or didn’t like about each one. There were about 10 beach-facing houses we evaluated. We agreed on the one with a greenish Spanish-tiled roof and a large bay window as our favorite. After the last house, the beach turns into a wildlife sanctuary. A little barbed wire fence expands the length of the sanctuary, of which we walked a good ways past. We saw a snorkeler who was meandering his way in the same direction as us just a few feet into the water. Rayce seemed very annoyed by his presence.

Because the wildlife sanctuary was behind us, there were a bunch of heron birds, some as tall as to my shoulder, watching for fish as the waves came in. I found these creatures very distracting, as I was both fascinated by them and scared of them. Rayce said he’d protect me if one would come after me, which I thought was cute. Rayce spotted a log and suggested we sit and rest there. I thought that was a splendid idea, that way I could get better pictures of the herons.

The day before when Rayce and I took our walk down the beach, I collected a few seashells. When we were sitting on the log, he spotted a shell right behind him he thought I’d like. I mean, sure it was in good condition—not too broken or anything—but even with it sitting halfway in the sand, I could tell it didn’t have anything special to it. I need a wow-factor, some kind of cool design or odd coloring, to pick up a shell. So I told him I didn’t want it. He kept egging on, like “Are you sure?” I didn’t mind, because I love him. But I didn’t take the shell.

Then he turns around and points out a cork sticking out of the sand near where the non-impressive shell was.

Oh my God, I completely nerded-out at this point. I got so excited that we found a bottle buried in the sand—just like in the movies! After I dug it out with my hands, I even took a picture of it. I saw there was a little note inside and thought “Oh boy, it’s going to be a letter, and we’re going to respond to the letter and bury it back!”

I told Rayce maybe we should wait to open it at the beach house so we could share the surprise with his family. He said it could be a love letter or something not meant for us, so we should open it there and return it if needed. I was too excited to argue. And I didn’t mind, because I love him.

He opened the bottle for me, because I couldn’t get it open. When I had the little rolled-up note in my hand, I remember laughing while saying, “Oh my God, look! Psh, someone burned the edges to make it look old. But clearly it’s not old because it’s wrapped up with a bread twist-tie.” I’m a little bitch sometimes.

I was confused when I first opened the note, because I was expecting a letter format. But it wasn’t. It was a few sentences written in seemingly familiar hand-writing which read, “Five years ago, I was hopelessly trying to figure out how to ask you out. Now for the past few months, I’ve been going crazy waiting to ask you this…”

The first thing that popped into my head as I was reading the note was, “That’s weird. Somebody’s trying to ask someone out on the freakin beach.” When I turned to express that thought to Rayce, he was down on one knee with a little black box in his hand.

He could see my deer-in-headlight eyes through my sunglasses. For a split second, I remember thinking, “That better not be earrings in that box!” He then asked, “Kera, will you marry me?” as he opened the box to reveal a ring.

My heart started racing, completely shocked at what was taking place.

“Er… Are you serious?” were the first words that came out of my mouth. Yes, when being proposed to by the man I love, I say that. Mais jamais.

He goes, “Don’t I look serious?” And then I really looked at the ring, a marquee-cut yellow gold diamond ring. Mind you, we hadn’t previously looked at rings, but I made it quite clear since the spring what I wanted—a marquee-cut diamond in yellow gold; not a three-stone ring, but not a solitaire.

I stared with my mouth open and started crying and laughing.

He goes, “Well, you need to answer my question.”

And I yelled, “Yes, yes, yes! I’ll marry you!”

We hugged, kissed, and I brushed the sand off of my hands in order for him to put the ring on, which fit perfectly. We then sat and discussed whether or not we were ready for this, how he couldn’t wait for me to find a job in Bloomington and how he’s been scheming since the fall of last year. He had the ring since March. He asked my for my parents’ permission to marry me when he went down to Louisiana by himself at the beginning of May for a friend’s wedding. My family had to keep it a secret when I visited them at the end of May for my birthday.

Everyone at the beach house knew. EVERYONE, which explains why his cousins and sister weren’t really talking to me—they didn’t want to let it slip! His mom’s phone kept ringing because the people in the house kept asking questions, and they were trying to coordinate our walk with unannounced visitors. He got up at 6 a.m. to write the note; his stepdad burned the edges, and he and his mom buried the bottle that morning. We walked down the beach the day before so he could scout-out a spot and get me used to taking mid-day beach walks.

I tried to contain my composure as we walked back to the beach house. I kept thinking, “I’m engaged!”

Yea, that composure—I totally lost it as soon as we stepped through the beach house doors and everyone yelled in celebration. Rayce’s mom came up and hugged me and I cried, hard. I showed the ring to his family and we took a few pictures, even though I knew I looked like a hot-mess with my red nose, puffy eyes and falling-apart braid. Then Rayce reminded me I needed to call my mom, because she knew to expect a call after 1 p.m.

I could barely work my touch-screen phone because my hands were shaking so much. I called my mom and it just kept ringing. I said out loud, “C’mon Rita Mae,” while thinking, “This is a very important call. Pick up the phone!” and not looking forward to having to explain the whole experience over the phone.

Just as I was getting impatient, my mother, father and sister rounded the corner of the kitchen. My mouth dropped open. God damn it, he did it again.

I cried for what seemed like a thousand times more as I hugged my family, who traveled from Louisiana in secret that morning to share in my engagement. Rayce was scheming with my sister, Jena, to make it happen. Rayce’s dad even showed up!

I reread the note for everybody to hear, but I got choked up when I read the second sentence, to which I informed them through my tears, “Oh, you can read it.” I called my friends to tell them the news before they saw Rayce’s cousins’ posts on Facebook.

And that’s it. We had our engagement party later that evening. My parents stayed at the beach house over night and left the following evening after spending time on the beach, watching Jena and me parasail and eating ice cream. Jena stayed with me until Saturday, when we left for Illinois and his family drove back to Louisiana.

Since that day, I’ve been in awe of Rayce and the amount of effort he put into the proposal. He takes great care of the things he loves, which is evident by this story. I knew he loved me, but that proposal showed the extent of that love, which I am honored to have, and how far he’ll go to prove that love through time and effort. I never thought a man could love me that much.

I gotta tell you, I notice everything I do with my left hand now because of the ring. I find myself staring into it at times, amazed that he kept it from me for so long in order to give it to me at just the right moment. It’s the most perfect ring I never imagined owning. It doesn’t get caught in my hair when I run my hands through it, which I do often. It’s pretty noticeable, but classy. And it’s beautiful, like his love for me.

We don’t have a date set (I don’t even know what season I want to get married in). We don’t know where the ceremony will be (somewhere in Louisiana, but our families are three hours away from each other, which could be troublesome). Regardless of our current cluelessness, I’m sure it’s going to be a great, surprise-filled journey together.

Which I don’t mind, because I love him.

Daydream

2011-04-28T01:54:00Z

Think of the sun warming your face, and smile

When a light breeze would catch you by surprise

Sweat running down your back

And you didn’t mind because it was summer.

The thoughts weave in and out of your day

You retreat to them as you stare out the window

Like returning to a former lover

Comforting and familiar

An escape from your own bitterness

But the sun is a tease

Of reminder of what could be, but is not

Your eyes narrow as you exit your thoughts

What the fuck, it’s almost May

And flannel sheets are still on the bed

GTFO Russia

2011-04-27T04:32:00Z

Yea, Russian spammers somehow found my blog. I know you're out there. And I will destroy you, blocking one IP address at a time if I have to.

So get ready.

Allergy culprit identified

2011-04-21T05:09:00Z

This opinion column was published by my employer and can be found at http://www.ottawadelivered.com/story.cfm?id=6105. I'm only posting it because I find it amusing, allergy season is right around the corner, and I'm too lazy to post an original blog entry. So enjoy.

I am seriously allergic to my entire home-state of Louisiana. Every time I visit my parents, I end up sneezing and sniffling up a storm. I’m allergic to one of the most common trees in Louisiana (pine); the most common grass everywhere (crab); and the most common household allergen (dust). I was fine with constantly battling snot as a child because that’s all I knew. But now that the Illinois’ fall and winter seasons have me, for the most part, sneeze-free, I’m very fond of it.

I need you to understand that I was a very sick child growing up. In daycare, I’d watch the other kids play in the grass while I sat under a tree. I carried a nebulizer to school with me. I took allergy shots once a week for five years.

My mom, a nurse, is the sole reason I was never hospitalized for my asthma or allergies. She’s also the reason I’ve never slept in a tent. And the reason I developed a taste aversion to grape and cherry flavors thanks to ingesting large amounts of Dimetapp and cough syrup in my youth. Well, it’s not her fault. I blame dust.

So a break from the constant sneezing and sniffling was a God-send when I moved to Illinois.

But last summer, there was definitely something in Illinois I was allergic to. June and July had me constantly sneezing, and to make matters worse, I didn’t know the culprit. The last allergy test I had was 20 years ago, and they tested me for Louisiana trees, grass and most common allergens. When I moved to Illinois, it introduced completely foreign allergens to my system.

I met with an allergist last Friday to conduct an allergy test and refill my asthma inhalers. Along with all the other things I already knew I was allergic to — blue and crab grass, cats and dogs, dust mites, ragweed and mold — there was a new item to add to my allergy list. Want to guess what it was?

Wait for it … Wait for it …

Corn pollen.

That’s right. I’m allergic to corn pollen.

My initial reaction to this news was a very Homer Simpson-like “Doh!” to the thought of moving to a state completely COVERED in corn without realizing I was allergic to its pollen.

But with all things considered, I only have two months of concern in Illinois, whereas I had 12 months in Louisiana. And now I at least know what affects me during the summer. Unfortunately, there is absolutely no way to avoid it. I can just stare out at the endless fields of corn through my car window when I’m driving thinking, “I know you’re out there. But this year, I’m ready.”

Armed with two fresh respiratory inhalers, a prescription nasal spray and over-the-counter antihistamines, I can face this summer with my head held high, and hopefully with less tissues.

But on the bright side, I am now officially out of the running to be our unofficial OD Corn Editor. It’s hard to be the editor of something you’re allergic to. Too bad, so sad.

***Photos stolen from Google

The old Britney Spears

2011-04-12T03:56:00Z

I'm listening to an old Britney Spears CD, reminiscing about how awesome she used to be. This video makes it worse. Sure she was slutty, but she danced her fucking ass off and I respected her for that.

Now there's no real reason to respect this weak version of what was.

Sinking Ship

2011-04-01T18:16:00Z

*** It's April now, even though it's still cold. The following poem has absolutely nothing to do with my current romantic relationship. But if you've spoken to me recently, then you know where this is coming from. ***

Do you ever feel like you’re on a sinking ship
With your hands so sweaty it’s hard to grip
Onto the things that used to make you smile
When you think back to those moments every once in a while.

Do you ever feel like you’re on a sinking ship
With your back broken and your arms limp
From carrying the weight that you believed in so much
But was easily broken by a foreign touch.

Do you ever feel like you’re on a sinking ship
With your heart bursting and about to rip
Out the memories that you hold so dear
But all that’s left is an impending fear

Do you ever feel like you’re on a sinking ship
With the words “I love you” strung across your lips
Because what you worked so hard for is near its end
And it’ll soon be just a memory of a long-lost friend.

Snow, it’s time to go

2011-02-25T03:44:00Z

I very much dislike snow.

Now, I say this at the end of February with the understanding that if today was the beginning of December, I’d be singing a different tune. Because yea, sure—at the beginning of this winter I thought, “Oh, this really isn’t bad. I can handle it. Piece of cake.”

I was wrong. It was not easy. And it was not a piece of cake. It is the end of February, and I fucking hate snow.

My reason for this blog post is because of the stress I’ve induced today. It really wasn’t bad, actually. In fact, it hasn’t even snowed… Yet.

You see, we had more than five inches of snow hit us on the very first weekend of December. Oh, it was so pretty, and I was so excited. I felt prepared and ready. I was actually praying for snow so that I may send out my Christmas cards with pictures of my boyfriend and me in the snow.

And we got it, fast. That was the night I slid into another person’s garage when trying to take a curve on the way to my boyfriend’s house. It was scary how fast the snow was coming down and sticking to the road. I will never forget that feeling of “Oh shit, fuck! Fuck, FUCK!”

The snow hit faster than Rayce and I had ever seen! But, luckily it came on a Friday night, and we just staying in all weekend, gawking in amazement. Then we took our Christmas card picture with the beautiful white snow behind us.

Sha. We were so naïve.

Then it snowed twice a week for the next two months. I mean, I was actually able to come home once during the week and every weekend (thank God, because I may have lost my sanity), but it has definitely been a pain in the ass. It’d be like two to six inches every week.

Now take in mind, last winter really wasn’t that bad. It was hella-cold, but it snowed like once every two weeks. Psh, that was nothing compared to this.

And then… Oh, the doozy happened. Snowpocalypse 2011 hit Illinois on the first few days of February. I mean when Jim Cantore from the Weather Channel is about an hour away from you, you know it’s going to get bad. I covered the blizzard for the newspaper I work for, reported from home, took photos around my neighborhood. All that jazz. It was fun, looking back on it.

And then it hasn’t snowed since. The two feet of snow that accumulated in a few hours took three weeks to melt and dissipate. And this evening called for five inches of snow.

This five inches of snow stressed me out because I had an evening interview, which was supposed to be right when the snow would hit. So the thought of being on the road right when the snow starts to stick reminded me of my “Oh shit, fuck! Fuck, FUCK!” incident.

But, low and fucking behold, it still hasn’t snowed.

That’s another thing I hate about snow, besides it just being a big fucking mess—It’s sneaky. You don’t hear it when it’s falling. It makes everything very quiet outside. Cars are muted (mostly because they’re going slower), people are quiet (b/c they’re cold and need to indoors), and the birds and insects aren’t out. So, everything just goes eerily quiet.

It’s pretty to watch snow fall, just as long as you don’t have to go very far (in a little car with “all season tires,” like mine). Because it's not fun.

So because it’s the end of February (two blizzards, thunder snow and countless snow showers later) and I haven’t seen the sun in four days, I can honestly say that I’m ready for winter to be over.

Wake me when it’s April.

***Photos by me

My 2011 bucket list

2011-02-22T03:17:00Z

In case you don’t already know, I made my friends’ Valentine’s Day card this year. I spent about six hours in a span of two day pouring all of my creativity into the cards, and I’m very proud of them. But most of you don’t know why.

For the New Year that just passed, instead of creating resolutions that I’d never stick to or personality goals that I use as a cop-out, I made a bucket list. My list consists of five very seemingly average things that I have never done but I have made a goal to do this year. Most of these came out of a conversation with a co-worker, Greta.

Here is what I wrote about it in the Jan. 6 edition of Ottawa Delivered.

“1. Sleep in a tent — I had very bad allergies as a child and my mom was a nurse, so I’ve never slept outside in a tent or at an overnight camp. Plus, my dad is not a Boy Scout or a hunter, and neither is my boyfriend. Maybe my boyfriend and I will attempt an overnight stay in one of the many local parks, but I doubt it. So I plan to buy a tent and set it up in the back yard. Hey, I’m all for baby steps.

2. Dye Easter eggs — Greta was shocked when I let this one slip. My parents aren’t crafty and as said before, were not into holidays. So Greta invited me to her mother-daughter tradition of Easter-egg dying in April this year. Bring it on Mrs. Lieske, I’m a fast learner.

3. Make my own Valentine’s Day cards — I don’t think this one is very shocking. My valentines in school were all store-bought. But I made my own Christmas cards this year, so why not tackle the holiday I despise the most for the sake of tackling a resolution?

4. Utilize a public laundromat — Another one that surprised Greta. Excuse me for always having access to a clothes washer and dryer. Technically, my apartment even has a washer and dryer on site that is shared among eight apartment residents, but I’ll let Greta take me to the one she goes to. It’s called staff bonding. That’s how we roll.

5. Ice skate — I’m not sure how I missed this one, honestly. My friends had ice-skating parties when I grew up, but I always seemed to miss them. But since I now live in the frozen north, I’m pretty sure I can’t get away this one for very long.”

So, the goal of my Valentines-making-adventure was to create childish-looking Valentines to make up for never making them in school. Just for the record, my “Dinosaurs” Valentine’s Day cards were a hit in school, even if they came from Eckerds (pre CVS Pharmacy where I grew up).

I wrote an original poem that was hand-written on each of the 10 cards to express my feelings towards the holiday. “Roses are red, violets are blue. It’s Valentine’s Day … Whooptie-freakin-do. Because just once a year is really not the way. So I hope you know I love you, each and every day.”

Yea, I think they’re bad ass, and I’m pretty proud of them.

Another of my resolutions goals that I can scratch off the list is visiting a laundromat. I went with Greta two weeks ago and documented our adventure. It wasn’t that exciting. It was really cold that day, and we were both bitching about work. But I can say I’ve been to one now, and that’s all I wanted.

That’s all. Nothing fancy.

***Photos by me

Celebration of life and what most likely will be

2011-01-23T06:03:00Z

During my work week, reporting whatever is thrown at me, I’m put in some pretty awkward or otherwise uncomfortable situations if it wasn’t for my sense of humor. And Friday was a doozy, but luckily it involved the demographic I’m oddly comfortable with thanks to the years I tagged along with my mother during her home health nursing visits.

I’m talking about old people. I get along really well with old people.

Now if you’re reading this at the age of 50 or 60-something and are starting to get offended by my 20-something-year-old babble, cool you’re fucking jets. I attended a birthday party for a 104-year-old and a 106-year old. I can call them old.

I was invited to the party, held at one of the nursing homes in the town I work in, as a member of the local media to highlight the special occasion. Among the two century-plus January birthday residents were other residents who were 90 or older present to partake in the festivities.

The residents enjoyed sweets—cake, chocolate covered strawberries, donut holes— and were entertained by the local middle school choir (which was actually much better than what you are thinking of right now). Some chatted with visiting relatives, while others snoozed in their wheelchairs. One 90-year-old woman with a mustache told me how she would much rather a sandwich than cake, because she was really hungry. Another had to wipe the drool from her mouth every time she formed the letter “s.”

One woman and I had a make-believe conversation, as I struggled to ask for her name since she was in the background of one of my photos. I didn’t understand what she was saying, and it was pretty obvious that she had no idea what I was talking about. But we held hands and smiled at each other for about a minute, exchanging dialog that neither of us understood.

When the nurse stepped in to help, she asked me, “Are you alright?”

I answered, “Oh yea, we’re fine. We’re just having a pretend conversation.”

I did not find humor in these occurrences at the time, and I still don’t (well, it was funny when the make-believe conversation lady spit her tongue at me. I laughed). I’m just trying to paint a scene for you.

But what I did find hilarious and inspiring was one 90-plus-year-old lady who was happily making train sounds. She wasn’t making them to herself. She wasn’t sitting quietly letting conversations go on around her.

No. She had something to tell you. And she told everyone, “The train in Naplate goes woo-wooo every night!”

This lady—who was very little with no teeth and sat in a bed-like wheelchair to accommodate her crippling body—belted “woooo-woooooooooooo” and she didn’t care what you thought.

I’d also like to point out that the 104-year-old man and the 106-year-old woman were very coherent. They knew what was going on, they’d answer your questions and reflected on their lives (but neither one could hear worth a damn).

If I had the opportunity to choose which of the extremes I’d like to be if I mature beyond 90 years, of course I’d chose the sharp-as-a-tack, walks-around-the-nursing-home-for-exercise, out-lived-both-of-her-husbands 106-year-old woman.

But something tells me that I’ll probably end up like the woman yelling “wooo-wooo” in the corner to anyone who will listen. And I hope when that day comes, a silly camera-wielding reporter will make the same horn-pulling gestures I did to acknowledge that someone did listen.

***Photos aquired from Google

Chronicles of Kera

2010-12-31T04:55:00Z

Oh my God, there really are Chronicles of Kera, except the "Kera" isn't referring to me. It's about a planet of dominant female aliens.

Fuck yea.

The power of a hot-ham-and-cheese sandwich

2010-12-29T05:29:00Z

There are a few food items that take me back to my childhood the instant they hit my pallet—Fago Red Pop, a crunchy sandwich (a ham sandwich with Lays barbeque chips inside), Werther's original hard candies and a hot-ham-and-cheese sandwich grilled in a frying pan. And tonight, I had my first hot-ham-and-cheese sandwich in more than three years, and DAMN it was good! It took me back, way back.

But what’s weird is that I’ve just been back. I just got back from going back, so to speak. I returned to Illinois yesterday from a week-long visit to my parents’ house in Louisiana. I got my fill of my mom’s cooking (okra gumbo, vegetable soup with ground meat, gumbo sausage and stuffed chickens from a Cajun meat market), enjoyed the Louisiana 50s-70s “winter” weather, visited old friends, cuddled with my parents’ dogs and sneezed, a lot. I was driven and drove down the roads I know so well. I stared out of the car windows a lot, engraving the site of flat land, old crawfish ponds and egrets in my mind’s eye.

So why a childhood favorite the second night I’m back in Illinois? Well for one, I’m broke and ham, cheese, bread and butter is affordable. And two, I did it in the name of reflection.

This time of year, as we close the 2010 chapter of our lives and are looking ahead to 2011, it’s natural to look back at what was and how it’s changed. This time last year, I was scared to death of the winter weather because it was so foreign to me. This year I have more confidence, but I’m still an anxiety-case when driving in the snow due to a recent uncontrollable slide after taking a curve too fast that put me in a neighboring house’s driveway (hopefully the car behind me thought that house was mine, because it was just by dumb luck that I missed the mailbox and street light). This time last year Rayce and I were ok, but had no clue how much better and happy we could be. This time last year I was nervous every time I had a cover story to write. Now I write with more confidence with the knowledge that I can do it, no matter what.

And while I did have a great time in Louisiana, and now I get jealous when I see my friends getting together without me on Facebook (because I know how much fun it is to spend time with them, specifically when alcohol is involved), I know that I’m better where I am. Sitting in my chilly one-bedroom apartment in the town I work in, listening to my mom’s Eagles CD, eating cold popcorn. Because I’m happy.

My alternative most like would be to be in Lafayette getting drunk with my old high school friends (which is so much fun), but without Rayce (a man who loves me more than I thought was possible) and working at the Daily Advertiser newspaper thinking that’s the way journalism is supposed to be ( and I now know it’s not.) I’m on my own here, building a life with Rayce. And I like it that way.

But it’s always nice to be reminded of where I came from. So I will retreat to my mental images of Louisiana on the nights that my feet just can’t get warm and will break out a hot-ham-and-cheese just for the hell of it.

***Photo by me

Christmas Time's A’Comin

2010-11-30T06:13:00Z

I’m really not a Christmasy person. No really, I’m not. I’ve decorated a Christmas tree MAYBE 10 times in my 23 years of life. My mom once handed me and my sister’s unwrapped gifts out of a black trash bag. On Christmas Day, it is tradition in my family to stay in your pajamas.

Plus, I want to punch the radio stations in the face that play nothing but Christmas music starting the day after Thanksgiving. I’m allergic to pine trees. I hate eggnog. I’ve never been kissed under mistletoe (Rayce, get to work on that).

And even last year, Rayce and I didn’t have a wisp of Christmas in the house—mostly b/c his grandmother tried to force it on us when she visited last October and Rayce was against it, full throttle. I mean, we were going down to Louisiana the entire week of Christmas and just really didn’t want to put the effort into it.

So even with my unChristmasy self, when Rayce offered to buy a Christmas tree this year, I got kind of excited.

Rayce, like he always does, went all out on the Christmas tree because there are tall ceilings in his house (and he has this “go big or go home” mentality). We put it together, decorated it, and even got lighted garland (his idea) to string on the rail along the stairs. It’s so adorable, and it made me so ridiculously happy. I felt like a little fucking kid. I mean, I was like literally jumping up and down in anticipation of decorating the tree.

Examples of my change of heart towards Christmas this year: I’ve gotten all of my Christmas shopping done (with a few exceptions, but I know WHAT I’m getting. Just not able to get them yet). I’m actually EXCITED for the impending first snow. I made Christmas cards this year (seriously) and I plan to attach (to the inside of the cards) a photo of Rayce and I in the snow. I asked my mom for Sammy Kershaw’s “Christmas Times A’Comin” CD.

Yea, it’s that bad.

I mean, I remember making big to-dos about the holiday when I was in elementary school. But then my grandmother tried to die on Christmas day (which was also her birthday) three years in a row. And then one year in middle school a lot of stuff happened and we didn’t even put up a Christmas tree and that trend just stuck.

Then my parents bought a tree with colored fiber optics that was really too pretty to decorate. So we didn’t. Looking back on it, I really hate that fucking tree. It’s like a half-ass attempt at Christmas—plug it in, light it up, sit back and relax. Merry whatever.

My last years in high school, we didn’t even bother decorating at all. Then I got to college where my sister and I would attempt holiday cheer around the trailer we shared together. And you’d think living in the City of Lights that’s famous for its Christmas lights displays would put you in the Christmas mood—but it’s hard to get your cheer on in Louisiana 60-degree weather.

So this year I’m taking Christmas with a new stride. The living room is decorated, my Sammy Kershaw CD is in the mail and the first snow is only about a week away.

Now if I can only manage to make a decent center arrangement on the dining room table, I’d be all set. (For some reason, I don’t do well with table arrangements.)

Wish me luck!

***Photos by me

The buggy incident

2010-10-31T04:09:00Z

I forgot to tell you about this pretty significant event that occurred right after Rayce and my two-hour Sonic visit with Kelli and Bryant.

After we said our goodbyes, I had to pee so bad that Rayce and I decided to use the bathroom in the Wal-Mart directly across the street before we left for home. The bathrooms in the back of Wal-Marts are usually the cleanest.

Right after Rayce parked his car and turned off the engine in the Wal-Mart parking lot, I noticed a shopping cart being pushed by the strong wind heading directly toward the front passenger side of Rayce’s car.

Now stop. Before I tell you the actions that followed that brief moment, let me first tell you about Rayce and his car.

I remember when I first pulled into the parking lot on my first date with Rayce, the first thing I noticed was his truck. It was nice. It was clean. It was lowered. He had fancy wheels.

I thought, “Oh no, he’s a truck guy.”

And I was right.

Rayce read truck magazines. He was a member of an online truck forum. He researched ways to properly clean his truck so not to scratch it. He had a closet (and still does) devoted to his truck’s cleaning supplies. He bought a buffer (and uses it about twice a year) to polish away any scratches in the truck’s paint. He avoided puddles in a parking lot if he just washed his truck. He and his dad performed all the maintenance and alterations to his truck (more male bonding). He parks in freakin bum-fucked Egypt everywhere we go (so careless idiots don’t put a door into it or rub their purses on it). He bought a supercharger for his truck (that was very expensive) that only lasted 6 months. He bought 22-inch wheels for the truck (that were very expensive) that he has yet to sell. He’s only raced with me in the truck once (and that’s all it took for him to never do that with me in the vehicle ever again).

Luckily he’s not an asshole-y truck guy. He wouldn’t put tacky shit on his truck and brag about it. He wouldn’t egg-on a race with someone (everyone did it to him. No seriously, they would). He wouldn’t cruise around town in his “cool truck.”

His care for vehicles is obvious, but when you really get down to it—he takes care of what’s important to him. Any large investment, even the dehumidifier for the basement, he takes time to research online to find exactly what he wants. His CDs and cell phone have no scratches on them. He washes his bedsheets every week. He takes his shoes off at the door. (All of these traits will make him an excellent husband)

So, when it was time for him to purchase his own vehicle and sell his beloved truck that his father gave to him, he—like he always does—researched. He found the one vehicle that he was totally ga-ga for and can recite every detail about it, from where it came from, its engine power, its gas mileage and why the window controls are in the center instead of on the door (and since I’m his girlfriend, so can I). His Halo and Xbox accounts are named after it. When introduced to neighbors, he was referred to as “the guy with the black car,” to a nodding response of “Ohhh, yea.”

So this beloved car, that he purchased with his own money and has cared for through the winter (even though it killed him to drive it with all the salt on the roads), was in danger. A torpedo was in the water, and it was a wind-propelled Wal-Mart buggy aimed right at us.

I saw it first, heading directly at me in the front passenger seat. I gasped, “Oh no!” My protection instincts took over. With reflexes like a fucking ninja, I opened the door as quickly as I could and tried to put myself between the buggy and Rayce’s four-wheeled darling. I held out my hands to take the blow of the shopping cart as it speeded its way to impact. I managed to stop it right before it hit the opened door. My right hand hurt from the force.

And that was it. I laughed about how close of a call that was and walked the buggy back to the cart-rack so it wouldn’t get caught again in the wind.

When I get back to the car to get my purse, Rayce is standing by his car with the driver’s door still open. He says four words that made me feel like the best girlfriend in the world.

“You are fucking awesome.”

The look on his face was priceless. He was impressed/shocked/happy/excited. He told me (and I truly believe him) that he never loved me as much as he did in that moment. He wanted to buy me something.

It’s crazy the things that you love about a person. I don’t love the fact that Rayce makes me walk such a long ways because he parks so far from the door. I don’t love having to talk him out of buying something for his car (which I do far less now than I did back when he had his truck). I don’t love when it takes him all weekend to detail his car.

But I do respect him for it. It’s who he is, and he will never change. All I can do is support him, because I love him and know how important it is to him.

I will gladly step in front of 500 shopping carts in order to keep him happy.

Photo crasher of the night

2010-10-27T03:51:00Z

This was taken at an story assignment I went to tonight at the library. No little girl, I'm not taking a photo of you, but thanks for ruining my photo (where I was trying to capture the fact that a lot of kids were there).

Little douche.

Visitors

2010-10-24T21:39:00Z

***Since my friend Kelli informed me that putting up an article I wrote for work doesn't count as a blog entry, I'm writing this one. Plus, reading her blog made me realize how much mine sucks in comparison. I need to get more on the ball.***

My boyfriend and I have had a number of visitors over the fall. Some might consider this strange, but fall is seriously a high demand season for our family and friends. See, in Louisiana, where all of our visitors are from, there really isn't a fall. It goes from hot to cold so quickly that all the leaves just turn brown and die in November-December. I never really considered the fact that Louisiana doesn't truly have seasons. It's like I knew we didn't, but because that's all I've ever known it never bothered me.

But now that Rayce and I live in a place that has a fall, it's really the only time we have visitors. His dad came up at the end of August, at the peak of Louisiana's summer right when it starts cooling off here. Rayce always finds a project for him and his dad to do when the man is up here. It's how they bond or something.

Then we had my mom and sister at the end of September. Now this was very special to me, because my family only saw a little bit of Bloomington over a year ago when they first dropped me off in Illinois. They never saw the town that I work and live in (half the week). It's a very cute town, with lots of issues and nice people. So on the Friday of their visit, I took my mom and sister to my new town for them to meet the people I work with and see my small apartment. It was nice for them to see where I spend my days, since it's hard to describe how much corn there really is through the phone. Central Illinois-- you seriously can't get away from it.

It was also felt good to have them in my element. Have them walk where I walk and breathe the air I breathe. It's important to me.

Two weeks later, Rayce's mom, sister and grandmother came up for a visit. That was lots of fun and a relief to Rayce's pocketbook since they pay for everything when they're here. Rayce spent a day with them without me, b/c I was still working, which I always prefer so they have family-time. I know they love me and all, but I still think it's important for him to spend time with them without me. We went to Chicago, walked around a state park, went out to eat at nice restaurants, and mostly just laughed together. I love that.

This weekend, Rayce and I drove to an Indiana Sonic to visit my friend Kelli (the one referenced above) and her fiancee Bryant. Kelli lives in Ohio, so we both drove to meet in Indiana. Unfortunately, I forgot about the time change, and it ended up being farther for them than us, and the trip was just not planned well. BUT I did get to spend a good two and a half hours with my former college roommate, and it was nice to share work stories and again, laugh together. We'll do it again next spring/early summer and hopefully we'll work out the kinks .

Then (yea, I'm still not done) my friend Leigh and her husband Eric are driving up to spend the weekend with Rayce and me. I'm so excited to have them here! They're Rayce and my "couple friends," since we do things as couples. We have the weekend planned out to involve Bloomington, Chicago and Ottawa. It's gonna be busy, but I'm most looking forward to talking with them. We never seem to run out of things to talk to them about. Also, it'll be nice for them to see Rayce and I in our natural environment (sounds funny when I say it like that). I mean, this is our life together. I tell Leigh about it all the time, and it'll be great for her to see and feel it.

After that, Rayce and I get a break. In between work and visitors, we've been booked every weekend since the end of September. While I love my visitors, I also miss our lazy weekends together. But the winter's coming, and we're wimps to the cold, so I'm sure we'll be shutins once again. We just need to figure out what TV series to watch on Netflix to take up our weekends. Last winter was Lost. We need a new one this time around.

I'll take suggestions if you have them. For now, that is all.

The value of humor and anti-‘trollop' Halloween costumes

2010-10-22T18:51:00Z

I wrote this for the newspaper I work for, Ottawa Delivered. This does belong to them, but as long as I say that it's there's, it's ok. I just thought it would be helpful to some of my friends that read my blog. Enjoy!

The sexy bumble bee, sexy plumber, sexy barbarian, sexy mental patient—it gets pretty ridiculous around Halloween. Especially since the definition of sexy in this case requires lots of cleavage and little to no skirt. Besides the obvious tongue-in-cheek, there is no real humor or creativity in these ridiculous female-targeted getups.

A guy can where a bright orange shirt and track pants, lie on the ground and claim to be a speed bump. It’s creative and freakin’ hilarious. But if a woman tries to do that, the perception is “What’s wrong with you?”

That’s why it’s most important as a woman to balance humor and creativity with sex appeal. The idea is to be funny while still physically attractive, but not skanky.

Here are my top five anti-trollop costume ideas. I’ve come up with these on my own, stole from friends or while researching for this column. Unfortunately, I haven’t tried these out personally, but they’re on my list of things to wear for future Halloweens.

1. Hot dog: I’m most proud of this one, because it’s 100-percent me. Basically, dress really sexy—not slutty—and put on a dog mask. I have a mask that only covers part of my face, with attached ears. Use a name tag for the slow people at the party, so you don’t have to repeat “I’m a hot dog” 100 times.

2. Roller Derby Girl: In honor of the new Illinois Valley Vixens Roller Derby League, breakout those Barbie roller skates, put on fishnet tights and a cut-up T-shirt. Use make-up to create bruises, a black eye and black-out teeth just for fun.

3. Big Alice: You could use the “sexy Alice” costume or find a nice blue dress with a black ribbon. Get a cardboard box to draw a house on and cut head and arm holes in the box. Put it over your Alice costume, but be sure the box is big enough to get in and out of comfortably since you most likely won’t wear it all night. Don’t forget a cupcake that says “Eat Me.” You’ll be sure to get a good laugh and even better pictures.

4. Superhero: Find a really stretchy child-size superhero costumes at Wal-Mart, cut the costumes neck and head part off and then manipulated the top to create a halter. Put on the mask and karate-chop the villains in the room.

5. Trophy wife: The dress is entirely up to you. But the main idea is to have big hair, lots of makeup, jewelry and a martini glass. Then smile really big in all photos, photo-crashing as much as you can. Incorporating a trophy is entirely up to you.

To the anti-slutty Halloween dressers, I hope this helps. May we cherish our brains and sense of humor by not exploiting our bodies this Halloween, because we’re cooler than that.

***Photos stolen from Google and my friend's FB profile

Noticing the growth

2010-09-02T05:06:00Z

I’ve been working for a new media company here in Illinois for a year now. We celebrated our 1-year anniversary newspaper last week. We’ve definitely come a long way in a year.

I’ve joked about it with a few people, reminding them that this time last year I was still trying to convince people I was real. But I was reminded of what it felt like to be the inexperience, unknown, new guy tonight, and how I am perceived by others.

Tonight I attended the rehearsal of the high school’s mock “Dancing with the Stars” event. Last year was their first year putting this on, and it was the first big event I covered at the high school (pre- teacher strike.) So what’s cool about this event is that I can actually use photos saved from the event last year for the preview article now this year—something I’ve never been able to do before since everything we covered was new to us.

I was approached by the same ladies I interviewed last year about the event. (Sadly, I don’t remember their names )Both of them were happy for me for how far I and my publication have come. They reminisced about how uncertain they were about me last year, having only first met me and unsure of what paper I was representing b/c we were so new.

“At first we were like, who is that? What paper is she from?” the first lady said.

“And look at you now. You’re everywhere!” the second said.

I remember the second lady from the high school superintendent’s wake last year (the one that killed himself during the teacher strike I covered. Click here for that crazy story ). I was trying to work up the courage to approach the coffin, which surprised me by being open. I felt extreme guilt for having to cover his funeral the next day. Tears were running down my face, as I stood by the door trying to catch my shit. The lady approached me to thank me for the fair and balanced coverage I was producing about the strike. That caught me off-guard, and I thanked her in a cracked voice.

It’s little run-ins with people like that which have helped me understand my impact on this community. And for these ladies to approach me tonight and hug me for simply being happy for my growth over the past year is incredible.

***Photos by me from last year's "Dancing with the Stars" event

Piece of their childhood

2010-08-18T03:19:00Z

Ok, so you wanna know something weird that happened to me today? Of course you do. Why else would you be reading this crap?

Today I covered the local high school’s freshmen orientation. The high school in the town I work in is pretty huge on my standards—1,500 kids. The students come from the surrounding grade schools—like about four or five.

Well all last year, I covered those grade schools and inadvertently learned who would make up this year’s freshmen high school class. Today when the kids were running around trying to find their classrooms or participating in the team-building exercise, I’d recognize a few and think, “Hey he came from Wallace” or “That’s the big kid from Shepherd,” or “I think she was in St. Columba last year.”

Honestly, I didn’t see much of the freshmen class last year—I saw more of the seniors and juniors b/c of the teacher strike I covered. But when covering grade schools like high schools, the older ones usually do the most. So I was exposed to last year’s eighth graders, who now make up this year’s ninth graders.

This weirded me out because, 1. I know these kids. I know he’s a smart one because he’s the spelling bee champion or took part in one of the academic teams last year. I know he or she likes math, lives in the city or out in the country or plays a certain sport.

2. They didn’t belong there. It’s like my mind knows what to expect when I enter a high school (hormones) or when I enter a middle school (awkwardness). I was caught off guard to see these faces in the high school terrain.

3. I’m going to see these kids grow up, and I’m going to grow with them. These are the students I captured during the last year of their middle school careers, which in my opinion is the last time a kid can really shine the brightest before being dimmed by their peers (which they normally get out of hopefully by the end of college). This is before the pressures of high school get to them to conform and give in. I get to watch these kids go through the tests of high school, and I’m sure the ones that stand out to me from last year will inevitably be highlighted again in the future.

So in that way, it’s really exciting. I know a little piece of these kids’ childhoods, that maybe they themselves won’t remember later. And that’s cool.

p.s. The water park was a freakin blast this past weekend, in case you were wondering

***Photo by me