Having spent 16 hours of my weekend in the car, I've soaked up my fair share of the top 40 hits that any radio station from here to Ohio has to offer. There are a few lines from the chorus of one particular song that are really sticking with me, and they're brought to you by Avicii--
So wake me up when it's all over
When I'm wiser and I'm older
All this time I was finding myself
And I didn't know I was lost
These four lines seemed quite appropriate, as I've been asking the question, "Who am I?" quite a bit lately - and for various reasons.
First, I've asked "Who am I?!" with absolute joy and utter shock at the power of my own determination in accomplishing my goal to run a 10k. I hardly recognize myself anymore, as the former #1 opponent of running is now putting in about 20 miles per week. I own sneakers that aren't manufactured by Nike. The sole playlist on my iPod contains only songs that are 128-140 beats per minute. I own a stopwatch. I eat complex carbs and lots of bananas. While writing this, someone posted a link to an article about running on my Facebook wall. And I don't skip workouts - because they're what I most look forward to. Who is this person? Where did she come from? When is she running a half-marathon? Can I be friends with her?
I've also mulled over and over and over the "Who am I?" question as I begin crafting personal and academic statements for my PhD applications. Quick aside for a life update: I'm applying to about seven programs. Said applications are due between December 1 and January 15. Seven essays to write for the first three programs, many of which require me to ask myself, "Who am I?" and articulate my response to this life-haunting question as succinctly as possible. How do I capture myself in 500 words or less? How do I distinguish myself from other applicants? What's worth reading? And is it inappropriate to mention my undying love for bacon and chili cheese coneys? (Sadly, I am fully aware that bacon and chili cheese coneys should not make the cut. If you have any suggestions about how I break the bad news to them, let me know. Maintaining those relationships is very important to me.)
And today, I had the awesome privilege of filling in for my professor, who's out of town, which meant lecturing to the full class of 90 students (typically, I teach 15-30 students, and only on Fridays). How appropriate that I would be lecturing on self-concept and identity construction amid my own incessant grappling with the big question: Who am I? Which reminds me to tell you that teaching is going really freaking well. In addition to my TA duties, I've been tutoring several students. If they had to describe to you who I am, they'd tell you that until I upgrade my phone to the 21st century, it doesn't even matter. They may provide a lot of unsolicited commentary on my life, but it provides really hilarious relief to my daily grind; I wouldn't trade them for the world (despite the fact that they've called me boring, a cartoon character, possibly crazy, and told me that my life doesn't seem real).
The first six weeks of my second year at Wake, as a whole, have left me asking, "Who am I?" on several occasions, as I simply feel like a totally different person compared to who I was last year. I know people. I walk across campus and wave to familiar faces rather than quietly encountering a sea of strange ones. Someone actually said to me, "You know EVERYONE!" My surroundings are familiar. I'm busy, but I haven't cried yet. I've allowed myself to have fun (and, at times, too much fun - which is SO MUCH FUN). I finally feel more like my old self, yet better and wiser than my old self.
I guess I woke up. And I guess you could say, "All this time I was finding myself, and I didn't know I was lost." Oh, thanks Avicii, you took the words right out of my mouth. Now, if I can put some words in Avicii's mouth, I think all of this means that who I am will always be a work in progress. And as long as there's always progress, I'll be a pretty happy camper. As a matter of fact, I might be so happy, so different, and so enlightened that I might actually enjoy camping by the time all is said and done.
Peace, love, and my dumbphone--
Emily
October 7, 2013
August 24, 2013
Ogres Are Like Onions
When it comes to siblings, some people are the youngest, some are the oldest, some are in the middle, and some don't have any at all. I'm fortunate to have a few, and, as I've mentioned previously, they're all pretty awesome. My "little" brother (quotation marks used around the descriptor, "little," as the young man was blessed with considerable assets in the size department), in particular, was the topic of conversation a few weeks ago. In an attempt to emphasize how much younger he is, I was struck with a memory: a memory of a simple, ordinary event in my life that I think encapsulates my relationship with my little brother very well.
It was a Friday night. Mom and Dad were out, and I was charged to babysit my little brother. Shrek had recently come out on video; it was THE must-see movie at the time, especially for someone my little brother's age, who was just a little guy when the movie was released. I was old enough to drive, and I remember taking him to rent the video and to pick out our own snacks for the night. We spread a blanket out on the living room floor and enjoyed the movie and our snacks like we were at a drive-in. Every bit of that evening seemed like such a luxury - like we were at the movies at home. Just Ben and me. Looking back, I don't really remember being upset that I had to sacrifice a Friday night to babysit him. That might be my rose-colored glasses speaking, but I'm fairly certain that I adored that "little guy" (again, little guy seems an inappropriate moniker for someone with whom I could share clothes when he was 7 and I was 14). In fact, I recall creating a video at the end of my senior year of high school, highlighting the most important parts of my life, in which I called him, "the sunshine of my life." Pretty sure I'm not exaggerating this time.
Somehow, since then, we've shared similar affinities - for music, movies, people, social issues, senses of humor, etc. Did our similarities grow out of moments like that? (Does he even remember that?) Which brings me back to the origin of the Shrek story: illustrating how much younger my little brother is. When you have a sibling that much younger, you not only FEEL like you have power in shaping who they become, but you're more AWARE of it. In retrospect, I see that my other siblings and I shaped each other - our experiences, our personalities, our sensibilities, our pet peeves (to reference an earlier post, again, sorry Erin) - but with Ben, there's an awareness that it's happening in REAL TIME. I wanted him to take advantage of every missed opportunity of my own, to learn from my mistakes, to learn from my successes, to heed my advice, and to have a life that was just as amazing as my own, if not better. Sometimes that annoyed him (remember your college search?). Sometimes it challenged and motivated him (let's talk about test scores and graduate school). Sometimes he didn't even know it was happening. Sometimes I didn't even know it was happening.
Although we're quite similar, I can't take much of the credit for who he is. Ultimately, he's pretty uniquely Ben. I've never known someone so academically-minded: from the chapter book he wrote as a pre-teen to the books on ancient Asian civilization that were on his Christmas lists as a teenager and the aspirations he has for his graduate studies. Not-so-secretly (at least now), I hope that my doctoral and his master's program bring us to the same institution... a girl can dream, right? The things he thinks about - well - I don't know if anyone else has the same thoughts. I've had the pleasure, the last few years, of sharing in his successes - which seem to crop up, left and right. He's an incredibly impressive young man. I cannot begin to express my admiration and pride in the young man he has become.
And as you can imagine, I'm a little verklempt at this point. Ben leaves TOMORROW for Japan, and I'm not with him to send him off. For the next four months, I hope he proves to be a giant among his peers - both in terms of physical stature and the quality of his character. If I've learned anything about him in his last 21 years on this earth, he'll do exactly that. Cheers to you, little brother! May your journey to the other side of the world only enrich the amazing and interesting life you already lead. I wish you safe travels, rich experiences, and an expedient return (for my sake, not yours; for you, I hope it feels like forever before you have to come back)! For the rest of you: if this ode to Ben has piqued your interest, you can read HIS blog too! It's just as funny and much more loquacious. Check out his adventures in Japan at theosakatriangle.blogspot.com
And to steal once more from Shrek because it seemed appropriate--
You're on your way...
Peace, love, and ogres--
EMILY
It was a Friday night. Mom and Dad were out, and I was charged to babysit my little brother. Shrek had recently come out on video; it was THE must-see movie at the time, especially for someone my little brother's age, who was just a little guy when the movie was released. I was old enough to drive, and I remember taking him to rent the video and to pick out our own snacks for the night. We spread a blanket out on the living room floor and enjoyed the movie and our snacks like we were at a drive-in. Every bit of that evening seemed like such a luxury - like we were at the movies at home. Just Ben and me. Looking back, I don't really remember being upset that I had to sacrifice a Friday night to babysit him. That might be my rose-colored glasses speaking, but I'm fairly certain that I adored that "little guy" (again, little guy seems an inappropriate moniker for someone with whom I could share clothes when he was 7 and I was 14). In fact, I recall creating a video at the end of my senior year of high school, highlighting the most important parts of my life, in which I called him, "the sunshine of my life." Pretty sure I'm not exaggerating this time.
Somehow, since then, we've shared similar affinities - for music, movies, people, social issues, senses of humor, etc. Did our similarities grow out of moments like that? (Does he even remember that?) Which brings me back to the origin of the Shrek story: illustrating how much younger my little brother is. When you have a sibling that much younger, you not only FEEL like you have power in shaping who they become, but you're more AWARE of it. In retrospect, I see that my other siblings and I shaped each other - our experiences, our personalities, our sensibilities, our pet peeves (to reference an earlier post, again, sorry Erin) - but with Ben, there's an awareness that it's happening in REAL TIME. I wanted him to take advantage of every missed opportunity of my own, to learn from my mistakes, to learn from my successes, to heed my advice, and to have a life that was just as amazing as my own, if not better. Sometimes that annoyed him (remember your college search?). Sometimes it challenged and motivated him (let's talk about test scores and graduate school). Sometimes he didn't even know it was happening. Sometimes I didn't even know it was happening.
Although we're quite similar, I can't take much of the credit for who he is. Ultimately, he's pretty uniquely Ben. I've never known someone so academically-minded: from the chapter book he wrote as a pre-teen to the books on ancient Asian civilization that were on his Christmas lists as a teenager and the aspirations he has for his graduate studies. Not-so-secretly (at least now), I hope that my doctoral and his master's program bring us to the same institution... a girl can dream, right? The things he thinks about - well - I don't know if anyone else has the same thoughts. I've had the pleasure, the last few years, of sharing in his successes - which seem to crop up, left and right. He's an incredibly impressive young man. I cannot begin to express my admiration and pride in the young man he has become.
And as you can imagine, I'm a little verklempt at this point. Ben leaves TOMORROW for Japan, and I'm not with him to send him off. For the next four months, I hope he proves to be a giant among his peers - both in terms of physical stature and the quality of his character. If I've learned anything about him in his last 21 years on this earth, he'll do exactly that. Cheers to you, little brother! May your journey to the other side of the world only enrich the amazing and interesting life you already lead. I wish you safe travels, rich experiences, and an expedient return (for my sake, not yours; for you, I hope it feels like forever before you have to come back)! For the rest of you: if this ode to Ben has piqued your interest, you can read HIS blog too! It's just as funny and much more loquacious. Check out his adventures in Japan at theosakatriangle.blogspot.com
And to steal once more from Shrek because it seemed appropriate--
You're on your way...
Peace, love, and ogres--
EMILY
July 23, 2013
Sometimes the Hardest Thing and the Right Thing AREN'T the Same
I was raised in a household in which we didn't take the easy way out of anything. If you could do it yourself, make it yourself, find it yourself, you did because the easy way was (and is) usually more expensive. Nearly all home improvements were of Dad's handywork. As kids, my siblings and I pulled our share of nails out of old two-by-fours so Dad could reuse the wood; that ALWAYS made for a fun Saturday afternoon (insert eye roll). Even something as simple as Hamburger Helper - I hadn't even seen a box or tried a bite of that stuff until I was in college. My mom made EVERYTHING from scratch. Mac and cheese from the box was a rarity. Clothes were made, patched, hemmed by Mom. If not, they probably came in big old boxes from one of my other cousins: hand-me-downs. Let me tell you: there was NOTHING more exciting than getting a big old box of clothes shipped from my cousin in North Carolina. It was like that part of the world held all new fashion treasures that West Central Ohio had yet to see. Going through those boxes was a dream. All that being said, taking the easy way is not really an option for a Buehler.
And this has surely carried through to my adulthood; it's certainly pervading my current situation. In three days, I will be moving for about the 12th time in the last 10 years. Yeah. Let that sink in for a moment: 12 times in 10 years. Now, the first 10 of those moves were either within the village of Ada, or they were back and forth between Ada and Anna; those moves were no big deal. About eight of them didn't really involve furniture, either. Fortunately for me, back then, I had lots of friends and family around to help. For my last three moves or so, in particular, I had my dear friend Z to help me, and this girl LOVES carrying heavy stuff. I've seen her tote a 36" TV - you know, one of the old ones that's just as deep as it is wide - across an intersection from one apartment to the next like it was a basket of laundry. She did it all just for some Padrone's pizza and my friendship (and don't even get me STARTED on the fact that I can't reward myself for ANYTHING with Padrone's anymore). Everyone should have a Z in his/her life (and if it's MY Z, you're even BETTER off, because she's amazing).
Okay, so we're about 60 hours from Emily's 12th move. Why another move? Why couldn't I just stay put for once? Well, I'm gaining a roommate in a few weeks, and we simply must have more than one bedroom (although if you know me well, you know where my real bedroom is and what my so-called "bedroom" is actually used for). This move won't be bad either. To give you an idea of how simple it will probably be - I can see my new apartment from the window of my current apartment; my stuff needs to go out, down one flight of stairs, across the parking lot about 20 yards, and up two flights of stairs to its new home. OF COURSE, my mind is programmed to do all of this the hard way. My thought process: "If I put in a few full days of my hardest work, I can do this all by myself. I'll just need help with the furniture." Chuckle. Just plain chuckle. Come on, chuckle with me, people.
At this point, I'd like to apologize if you're a close friend or family member. This do-it-yourself/do-it-the-hard-way mentality should only cause ME pain and suffering, not you. It's this sort of thought process that compels me to ask you if you can/will help me move, and I should NOT be asking you to help me lug a couch up two flights of stairs in the late July heat of North Carolina (especially if you're my even more stubborn and headstrong dad, who will probably never take the easy way out of anything). Thus, after the urging and advisement of various parties, I have chosen to take the EFFICIENT route: a crew of professional movers. Rationality has won this round (and charm won the second round, in which it got the moving company to knock a few dollars off their quote).
For the next 60 hours, then, I'm staring at a pretty bleak and lifeless apartment full of boxes, with which I was tempted to build a fort before I so eagerly filled them with all my possessions (you'll notice that I also took the easy route on the boxes - thank you, Home Depot). Things will be pretty calm until Friday, when I'm expecting a whole crew of people to get everything out of one apartment and into another within the course of one day: movers, the Internet guy, the washer/dryer guys, and my dear cousin, Stacie. And you know, it seems that she and I have come full circle: from big boxes of hand-me-downs shipped from her when I was a kid to the big boxes of my stuff that we'll transport this weekend. It's all about the boxes, baby. Maybe if this move goes super smooth, with little effort on Stacie's and my part, we can return to our childhood ways and make a fort out of the boxes after we unpack everything; now THAT might be one of the perks of efficiency.
As a final note, I hope the moving guys appreciate the ice cold Gatorade and nutritious granola bars I'm using as a sort of peace offering to them. It's no Padrone's pizza - that's for sure - but I think it'll do the trick.
Peace, love, and hand trucks--
Emily
And this has surely carried through to my adulthood; it's certainly pervading my current situation. In three days, I will be moving for about the 12th time in the last 10 years. Yeah. Let that sink in for a moment: 12 times in 10 years. Now, the first 10 of those moves were either within the village of Ada, or they were back and forth between Ada and Anna; those moves were no big deal. About eight of them didn't really involve furniture, either. Fortunately for me, back then, I had lots of friends and family around to help. For my last three moves or so, in particular, I had my dear friend Z to help me, and this girl LOVES carrying heavy stuff. I've seen her tote a 36" TV - you know, one of the old ones that's just as deep as it is wide - across an intersection from one apartment to the next like it was a basket of laundry. She did it all just for some Padrone's pizza and my friendship (and don't even get me STARTED on the fact that I can't reward myself for ANYTHING with Padrone's anymore). Everyone should have a Z in his/her life (and if it's MY Z, you're even BETTER off, because she's amazing).
Okay, so we're about 60 hours from Emily's 12th move. Why another move? Why couldn't I just stay put for once? Well, I'm gaining a roommate in a few weeks, and we simply must have more than one bedroom (although if you know me well, you know where my real bedroom is and what my so-called "bedroom" is actually used for). This move won't be bad either. To give you an idea of how simple it will probably be - I can see my new apartment from the window of my current apartment; my stuff needs to go out, down one flight of stairs, across the parking lot about 20 yards, and up two flights of stairs to its new home. OF COURSE, my mind is programmed to do all of this the hard way. My thought process: "If I put in a few full days of my hardest work, I can do this all by myself. I'll just need help with the furniture." Chuckle. Just plain chuckle. Come on, chuckle with me, people.
At this point, I'd like to apologize if you're a close friend or family member. This do-it-yourself/do-it-the-hard-way mentality should only cause ME pain and suffering, not you. It's this sort of thought process that compels me to ask you if you can/will help me move, and I should NOT be asking you to help me lug a couch up two flights of stairs in the late July heat of North Carolina (especially if you're my even more stubborn and headstrong dad, who will probably never take the easy way out of anything). Thus, after the urging and advisement of various parties, I have chosen to take the EFFICIENT route: a crew of professional movers. Rationality has won this round (and charm won the second round, in which it got the moving company to knock a few dollars off their quote).
For the next 60 hours, then, I'm staring at a pretty bleak and lifeless apartment full of boxes, with which I was tempted to build a fort before I so eagerly filled them with all my possessions (you'll notice that I also took the easy route on the boxes - thank you, Home Depot). Things will be pretty calm until Friday, when I'm expecting a whole crew of people to get everything out of one apartment and into another within the course of one day: movers, the Internet guy, the washer/dryer guys, and my dear cousin, Stacie. And you know, it seems that she and I have come full circle: from big boxes of hand-me-downs shipped from her when I was a kid to the big boxes of my stuff that we'll transport this weekend. It's all about the boxes, baby. Maybe if this move goes super smooth, with little effort on Stacie's and my part, we can return to our childhood ways and make a fort out of the boxes after we unpack everything; now THAT might be one of the perks of efficiency.As a final note, I hope the moving guys appreciate the ice cold Gatorade and nutritious granola bars I'm using as a sort of peace offering to them. It's no Padrone's pizza - that's for sure - but I think it'll do the trick.
Peace, love, and hand trucks--
Emily
July 16, 2013
Born to be Bad
My life is full of small victories. What I'm about to tell you is probably not a big deal to you, but it's quite an accomplishment for me: I ran a mile without stopping. TWICE. Now let me tell you - I toyed with the idea of telling you how many minutes I ran without stopping because the number of minutes is so large that you would think the distance I ran was at least double what I've told you, and I would, in turn, look way better. Sadly, I'm not very good at lying and self-deprecating humor is a strength of mine, so I'll let you bask in the hilarity that running a mile is a big deal for me.
Small victory aside, that running really sucked. I've said it once, and I'll say it again: some people are born to run, and some people are not. I first came to this conclusion in college, when I lived with distance runners who ran collegiate cross country and indoor/outdoor track; year-round runners - I mean, who does that? I will never forget when my roomie told me that if she didn't run, she would have a horrible day. She had to run to have a good day. My retort? The days I run are my worst days, and I have to avoid running to have a good day. That's when I decided that some people were simply MADE to run. I was not one of those people.
The number of times that I've tried to make myself into a good runner... well... I don't have enough fingers to count those times. And it's always you crazy runner people, who are BORN to run, who try to convince me that I can do it. Before you even THINK about posting a comment in here encouraging me that it's not impossible, you should think about taking another run instead (I can't think of a better threat than that). It's also you crazy runner people who indirectly continue to motivate me that I can do this - and no, I do not want to hear from you directly about it, so just shut it. No, no, no, it's not your face-to-face encouragement about running that keeps me coming back for another try, it's your gosh darn Facebook posts about it:
So here I am, a few weeks into a training program designed by my virtual running coach extraordinaire (shoutout to Dave Levy) with an immediate goal of running a 5k and an ultimate goal of running a 10k this fall. And let me tell you something: some people are born to run, and some people are not. I've never found it so difficult to sustain a run for a mile; I was born to be really bad at this, people. I know you can't tell by looking at me, but I'd much rather be in a weight room doing some strength training than this garbage. I'm more proud of the floor burns on my elbows from planks, my shaky jello legs after my leg workouts, and the calluses on my hands than I am of my running. As a matter of fact, I HOPE people notice the floor burns, sore muscles, and calluses because I'm so proud of them. When I'm running, I hope NO ONE notices me because I'm either A) panting like a dog on a hot day, B) embarrassed that I run at pretty much the slowest pace humanly possible, C) rolling my ankle on a stick in my path, or D) about to stop and walk. Who could be proud of any of that?
Nonetheless, I'm determined not to quit this time. I still hate it. I'm still horrible at it. I'd ask you to check in with me in another week or two to see if I've changed my tune, but, quite frankly, I don't want to rain on your "I love running" parade with the grim reality that some people are born to run and some aren't; I am NOT born to run. Thus, it will be a huge accomplishment if I make it to the end goal. I suppose I'll allow you to celebrate with me, if/when that day comes - because it will be a HUGE victory.
Peace, love, and side stitches--
Emily
Small victory aside, that running really sucked. I've said it once, and I'll say it again: some people are born to run, and some people are not. I first came to this conclusion in college, when I lived with distance runners who ran collegiate cross country and indoor/outdoor track; year-round runners - I mean, who does that? I will never forget when my roomie told me that if she didn't run, she would have a horrible day. She had to run to have a good day. My retort? The days I run are my worst days, and I have to avoid running to have a good day. That's when I decided that some people were simply MADE to run. I was not one of those people.
The number of times that I've tried to make myself into a good runner... well... I don't have enough fingers to count those times. And it's always you crazy runner people, who are BORN to run, who try to convince me that I can do it. Before you even THINK about posting a comment in here encouraging me that it's not impossible, you should think about taking another run instead (I can't think of a better threat than that). It's also you crazy runner people who indirectly continue to motivate me that I can do this - and no, I do not want to hear from you directly about it, so just shut it. No, no, no, it's not your face-to-face encouragement about running that keeps me coming back for another try, it's your gosh darn Facebook posts about it:
- "So and so finished way more miles than you can run at a pace double yours using Nike+/FitBit/MapMyRun/Blah Blah Whatever."
- "So and so just ran at least 1 mile for the last 70 million days. Reward? More freaking running!"
- "So and so just posted a photo to the album 'I ran a marathon, and you're still on the couch'"
- "So and so logged another awesome run that he/she really enjoyed - and you should just go cry in a corner."
So here I am, a few weeks into a training program designed by my virtual running coach extraordinaire (shoutout to Dave Levy) with an immediate goal of running a 5k and an ultimate goal of running a 10k this fall. And let me tell you something: some people are born to run, and some people are not. I've never found it so difficult to sustain a run for a mile; I was born to be really bad at this, people. I know you can't tell by looking at me, but I'd much rather be in a weight room doing some strength training than this garbage. I'm more proud of the floor burns on my elbows from planks, my shaky jello legs after my leg workouts, and the calluses on my hands than I am of my running. As a matter of fact, I HOPE people notice the floor burns, sore muscles, and calluses because I'm so proud of them. When I'm running, I hope NO ONE notices me because I'm either A) panting like a dog on a hot day, B) embarrassed that I run at pretty much the slowest pace humanly possible, C) rolling my ankle on a stick in my path, or D) about to stop and walk. Who could be proud of any of that?
Nonetheless, I'm determined not to quit this time. I still hate it. I'm still horrible at it. I'd ask you to check in with me in another week or two to see if I've changed my tune, but, quite frankly, I don't want to rain on your "I love running" parade with the grim reality that some people are born to run and some aren't; I am NOT born to run. Thus, it will be a huge accomplishment if I make it to the end goal. I suppose I'll allow you to celebrate with me, if/when that day comes - because it will be a HUGE victory.
Peace, love, and side stitches--
Emily
July 9, 2013
Try My Recipe for Sad Sap Stew
When you live in the same small town for years, you easily pass the same cars on the streets several times a day. There's lots of waving, as you can imagine - because, well, you know everybody. You begin to associate the cars you see in the distance with the people who drive them before you even see the faces of the drivers; you know who it is from afar. Bumper stickers, rear view mirror hang tags, license plates and plate holders all become like birthmarks - distinguishing features that assure you EXACTLY who is driving that mass-produced vehicle. As a matter of fact, I just saw on Facebook that one of my friends traded in her car, and my heart dropped: how will I possibly find her on the highway now without the distinctive Cincinnati Reds sticker that rode on the back bumper of her not-so-distinctive dark blue sedan?
I still pass cars on the streets here in Winston and think they're driven by people I know. Last night, for instance, I recognized the make and model of a car coming my way, it was the right color, I spotted the hang tag that looked like ONU's faculty/staff parking pass, and I was SURE it was one of my colleagues. My heart lifted with the feeling that I was about to pass someone I knew. (You know that feeling, right? That feeling that's so good that if they don't see you waving as you pass, you have to call them to exclaim, "I just passed you on XXX Road!") Then, I had to remind myself that I was in Winston, not in Ada. Let the bummer set in.
And this happens all the time. Not only with cars that I recognize, but with ANY car that's from Ohio. They're easy to spot, too; Ohio is one of the few states that requires front AND rear license plates, so that doubles the opportunities for me to spot an Ohio implant out here on the North Carolina asphalt. When I encounter a fellow Ohioan on my familiar routes here in Winston, I immediately feel a bond with them, and - like the creeper I am - I assume that they feel the same bond with me. I try to scope out the county number on their plate, guess what county that is (if I don't know it), and estimate the probability that I would actually know someone from that county. I secretly hope that we'll get stopped at the same light, lock eyes, and find an opportunity to roll down our windows and say, "O-H!", with the other responding, "I-O!", and drive off into the sunset, satisfied with our rendez-vous. It hasn't happened yet; although I have come THIS close to leaving a note on the windshield of a car with a "75" on the plate (Shelby County, for those of you who don't know), letting the driver know, "I'm from Anna! Nice to see your car out here!" Is that weird? That's weird, isn't it?
Anywho: the close call the other night - you know, sighting a familiar car only to remember that I'm not in a familiar place - reminded me of all the things that I'm missing; things that I've ever-so-recently been stewing over. Things like my dad's birthday and Fourth of July down at the pond (even though it was too rainy to go to the pond, so I didn't really miss anything). Things like the birthdays of EVERYONE in my family, for that matter (including the milestone 21st birthday of my little bro). Things like Easter, Labor Day, Memorial Day, a baby shower for one of my best friends, my 5-year college reunion, my 10-year high school reunion, a cousin's wedding... you get the picture. Yep, this all makes for a nice pot of stew. A nice pot of sad sap stew.
Don't worry, though - just because I live alone doesn't mean I have to eat that sad sap stew for a week straight. When it comes to metaphorical foods, I don't have to eat the same thing every day. Literal foods, on the other hand, well... let's just say it's a good thing that I like my meat loaf so much. In this extended metaphor, there are other dishes I can add into the mix. I'm proud to say that I'm consuming a healthy diet of missing home every now and then along with generous servings of really enjoying myself most of the time. I haven't missed EVERYTHING; I might be a little melodramatic on that point. And need I remind myself that I chose this? This is part of being independent. This is part of pursuing my goals. I can't help but miss things every once in a while.
So there you have it: strangers in unfamiliar cars with tags hanging from their rear view mirrors can make me miss home. You better keep those things away from me, if you know what's best for you.
Peace, love, and front license plates--
Emily
I still pass cars on the streets here in Winston and think they're driven by people I know. Last night, for instance, I recognized the make and model of a car coming my way, it was the right color, I spotted the hang tag that looked like ONU's faculty/staff parking pass, and I was SURE it was one of my colleagues. My heart lifted with the feeling that I was about to pass someone I knew. (You know that feeling, right? That feeling that's so good that if they don't see you waving as you pass, you have to call them to exclaim, "I just passed you on XXX Road!") Then, I had to remind myself that I was in Winston, not in Ada. Let the bummer set in.
And this happens all the time. Not only with cars that I recognize, but with ANY car that's from Ohio. They're easy to spot, too; Ohio is one of the few states that requires front AND rear license plates, so that doubles the opportunities for me to spot an Ohio implant out here on the North Carolina asphalt. When I encounter a fellow Ohioan on my familiar routes here in Winston, I immediately feel a bond with them, and - like the creeper I am - I assume that they feel the same bond with me. I try to scope out the county number on their plate, guess what county that is (if I don't know it), and estimate the probability that I would actually know someone from that county. I secretly hope that we'll get stopped at the same light, lock eyes, and find an opportunity to roll down our windows and say, "O-H!", with the other responding, "I-O!", and drive off into the sunset, satisfied with our rendez-vous. It hasn't happened yet; although I have come THIS close to leaving a note on the windshield of a car with a "75" on the plate (Shelby County, for those of you who don't know), letting the driver know, "I'm from Anna! Nice to see your car out here!" Is that weird? That's weird, isn't it?
Anywho: the close call the other night - you know, sighting a familiar car only to remember that I'm not in a familiar place - reminded me of all the things that I'm missing; things that I've ever-so-recently been stewing over. Things like my dad's birthday and Fourth of July down at the pond (even though it was too rainy to go to the pond, so I didn't really miss anything). Things like the birthdays of EVERYONE in my family, for that matter (including the milestone 21st birthday of my little bro). Things like Easter, Labor Day, Memorial Day, a baby shower for one of my best friends, my 5-year college reunion, my 10-year high school reunion, a cousin's wedding... you get the picture. Yep, this all makes for a nice pot of stew. A nice pot of sad sap stew.
Don't worry, though - just because I live alone doesn't mean I have to eat that sad sap stew for a week straight. When it comes to metaphorical foods, I don't have to eat the same thing every day. Literal foods, on the other hand, well... let's just say it's a good thing that I like my meat loaf so much. In this extended metaphor, there are other dishes I can add into the mix. I'm proud to say that I'm consuming a healthy diet of missing home every now and then along with generous servings of really enjoying myself most of the time. I haven't missed EVERYTHING; I might be a little melodramatic on that point. And need I remind myself that I chose this? This is part of being independent. This is part of pursuing my goals. I can't help but miss things every once in a while.
So there you have it: strangers in unfamiliar cars with tags hanging from their rear view mirrors can make me miss home. You better keep those things away from me, if you know what's best for you.
Peace, love, and front license plates--
Emily
June 27, 2013
Piling It Higher and Deeper
I haven't had a summer off in... probably more than 10 years. For the overachiever in me, wasted time is my worst enemy. For the secret, lazy slob in me, free time is the main ingredient in a recipe for disaster. What's that? You didn't know that I'm secretly a lazy slob? If you were my super organized, undiagnosed OCD sister and had to share a room with me for 16 years, you'd know better. Sorry Erin; so, so sorry... To appease the overachiever and avoid lazy slobbiness, I've commenced goal-setting for summer 2013!
The goal-setting was sparked by a few weeks volunteering with HOBY, where we encourage the setting of SMART goals (or SMA-ORT goals, depending on which HOBY dialect you speak). My first goal is directly related to HOBY, and it will take more than just the summer to accomplish: I intend to raise money to send ambassadors to HOBY. Prepare for me to knock on your metaphorical doors, asking for literal donations, because I believe that lack of funds should never be the reason that a school can't send a student to HOBY; the experience is simply too impactful for anyone to miss. Please don't send me money now; I'm waiting for the new fiscal year to commence fundraising. I'll gladly take your money in 2014: please and thanks.
Don't consider me completely selfless just yet, as the remainder of my goals are for myself. Yeah, not sugarcoating that at all. The next goal, I think I'll call the "piled higher and deeper" goal - to borrow a phrase from my grandma. This fall, I'll be applying to PhD programs, which means I need to spend my summer investigating programs and deciding wherein to apply. For those of you who don't know, this means four more years of school. And I couldn't be more freaking excited (I know, I'm weird).
In order to attain the piled higher and deeper goal, though, I need to finish my thesis first. Goal three then, is all about thesis prep. If I don't have anything better to do this summer, I may as well do some reading for my thesis, right? I might hate myself for this one, as I'll be spending all spring semester on my thesis, but... I have the time, so we're doing this.
And at this point, you probably think that I'm a glutton for punishment. Let me reassure you: I have included some fun goals that aren't academically related. There's the "go to the pool as much as possible" goal as well as the "train for a 10k" goal. In addition to that, I'm spending some time on writing - writing JUST for fun. Have I mentioned that I actually started writing a book? Yeah, it wasn't a joke. I've set a goal to write several chapters before the end of summer. What is the book about, you ask? It's a self-deprecating self-help book targeted at 30-year olds who have experienced disastrous yet hilarious dating lives. No, this is not a cry for you to set me up with your friends; although, if you did, it might beef up my chapter about friends who tried to set me up with people and how super-fail-awesome-horrible that was. In other news, this blog post is fodder for the chapter discussing reasons I might still be single: too focused on other things.
So here I am: at the helm of some pretty ambitious goals. I suppose if I post the goals here, I'll have people to keep me accountable by casually asking, "Oh hey, so how are those goals going?" I can't lie very well, so I should probably keep up with these goals in order to respond to questions like that. And when you do ask, I look forward to blowing your mind with my response.
Peace, love, and "more of the same"--
EMILY
The goal-setting was sparked by a few weeks volunteering with HOBY, where we encourage the setting of SMART goals (or SMA-ORT goals, depending on which HOBY dialect you speak). My first goal is directly related to HOBY, and it will take more than just the summer to accomplish: I intend to raise money to send ambassadors to HOBY. Prepare for me to knock on your metaphorical doors, asking for literal donations, because I believe that lack of funds should never be the reason that a school can't send a student to HOBY; the experience is simply too impactful for anyone to miss. Please don't send me money now; I'm waiting for the new fiscal year to commence fundraising. I'll gladly take your money in 2014: please and thanks.
Don't consider me completely selfless just yet, as the remainder of my goals are for myself. Yeah, not sugarcoating that at all. The next goal, I think I'll call the "piled higher and deeper" goal - to borrow a phrase from my grandma. This fall, I'll be applying to PhD programs, which means I need to spend my summer investigating programs and deciding wherein to apply. For those of you who don't know, this means four more years of school. And I couldn't be more freaking excited (I know, I'm weird).
In order to attain the piled higher and deeper goal, though, I need to finish my thesis first. Goal three then, is all about thesis prep. If I don't have anything better to do this summer, I may as well do some reading for my thesis, right? I might hate myself for this one, as I'll be spending all spring semester on my thesis, but... I have the time, so we're doing this.
And at this point, you probably think that I'm a glutton for punishment. Let me reassure you: I have included some fun goals that aren't academically related. There's the "go to the pool as much as possible" goal as well as the "train for a 10k" goal. In addition to that, I'm spending some time on writing - writing JUST for fun. Have I mentioned that I actually started writing a book? Yeah, it wasn't a joke. I've set a goal to write several chapters before the end of summer. What is the book about, you ask? It's a self-deprecating self-help book targeted at 30-year olds who have experienced disastrous yet hilarious dating lives. No, this is not a cry for you to set me up with your friends; although, if you did, it might beef up my chapter about friends who tried to set me up with people and how super-fail-awesome-horrible that was. In other news, this blog post is fodder for the chapter discussing reasons I might still be single: too focused on other things.
So here I am: at the helm of some pretty ambitious goals. I suppose if I post the goals here, I'll have people to keep me accountable by casually asking, "Oh hey, so how are those goals going?" I can't lie very well, so I should probably keep up with these goals in order to respond to questions like that. And when you do ask, I look forward to blowing your mind with my response.
Peace, love, and "more of the same"--
EMILY
June 2, 2013
A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss
It's not uncommon for me to put thousands of miles on my car in the course of a few weeks (although usually it was a rental car and I was traveling for work), so it's no surprise that I'll hit the mileage printed on my Jiffy Lube sticker within a month of my last oil change. As a matter of fact, by the time I finish my two-week trip back to Ohio, I will have seen nearly every corner of the state, which is just one more reason that I'm a little perturbed that gas is over 50 cents per gallon more than the price in North Carolina. Seriously...
My two-week adventure - brought to you by summer vacation - has taken me from Winston-Salem to Akron to Anna, and will continue from Anna to Cincinnati, Ada, Centerville, and Urbana before returning to Winston-Salem. If I had hit Toledo and Columbus, I might be able to make the map of my voyage look like I drew a star on a map of the great state of Ohio, the heart of it all. Instead, it looks like this:
In preparation for this trip, I packed just about everything but the kitchen sink. With two HOBY seminars, overnight stays in at least four different places, a concert, a baby shower, visits with friends, and all sorts of other stuff jammed into these two weeks, you never know what you'll need. Of course, my life is never a dull moment, and packing my car provided another glimpse into the idiot moments that punctuate my everday life. For example, I took a little car-packing break to take a shower and get ready to depart Friday morning. After a few hours indoors, I walked out my front door to embark on my journey only to find that I had left my car door open for the last two hours. Yep, that's right: car packed full of nearly all my worldly possessions, doors locked, with the back door wide open. Smooth move, ex-lax. At least that wasn't as bad as the time I left my front door open for a few days while traveling for work.
So here I am, at the beginning of two weeks in Ohio. I'm getting pretty good at this driving thing (I really, really think I was born to be a trucker), and my car is almost totally unpacked again (all doors closed - no worries). If you'd like to add to the fun, there are still a few minutes of those two weeks that are left unclaimed, and I'd love to pencil you in (although you might need to come to me). You can be sure that I'll be blogging vigorously through this time (which, in Emily terms, probably means about once a week), and you can bet that something ridiculous will probably happen to me during that time. It's never a dull moment.
Peace, love, and gas station loyalty cards--
Emily
My two-week adventure - brought to you by summer vacation - has taken me from Winston-Salem to Akron to Anna, and will continue from Anna to Cincinnati, Ada, Centerville, and Urbana before returning to Winston-Salem. If I had hit Toledo and Columbus, I might be able to make the map of my voyage look like I drew a star on a map of the great state of Ohio, the heart of it all. Instead, it looks like this:
In preparation for this trip, I packed just about everything but the kitchen sink. With two HOBY seminars, overnight stays in at least four different places, a concert, a baby shower, visits with friends, and all sorts of other stuff jammed into these two weeks, you never know what you'll need. Of course, my life is never a dull moment, and packing my car provided another glimpse into the idiot moments that punctuate my everday life. For example, I took a little car-packing break to take a shower and get ready to depart Friday morning. After a few hours indoors, I walked out my front door to embark on my journey only to find that I had left my car door open for the last two hours. Yep, that's right: car packed full of nearly all my worldly possessions, doors locked, with the back door wide open. Smooth move, ex-lax. At least that wasn't as bad as the time I left my front door open for a few days while traveling for work.
So here I am, at the beginning of two weeks in Ohio. I'm getting pretty good at this driving thing (I really, really think I was born to be a trucker), and my car is almost totally unpacked again (all doors closed - no worries). If you'd like to add to the fun, there are still a few minutes of those two weeks that are left unclaimed, and I'd love to pencil you in (although you might need to come to me). You can be sure that I'll be blogging vigorously through this time (which, in Emily terms, probably means about once a week), and you can bet that something ridiculous will probably happen to me during that time. It's never a dull moment.
Peace, love, and gas station loyalty cards--
Emily
May 17, 2013
Get Money, Get Paid.
There's something not quite right about being 28 years old and looking for a summer job. First off, if I had to show you how many years old I am, I would say, "this many," and show you all my fingers, all my toes, both arms, both legs, my eyeballs, and my ears. If I get much older, I will run out of body parts to show you how old I am. Secondly, I haven't needed a summer job since... 2006. All those numbers just don't add up to anything very special. Bottom line: it's not glamorous, but this is the life of an adult who chooses to go back to school and doesn't have summer classes. Silver lining: I feel like I'm 20 again, so I guess life could be worse.
As I peruse possible opportunities, I'd like to share some obscure and unique skills that I think I could bring to potential employers:
As I peruse possible opportunities, I'd like to share some obscure and unique skills that I think I could bring to potential employers:
- Starbucks barista: I will probably spell customers' names correctly on their cups. That's cool, right?
- Any retail job: I sold $50k/year college educations for five years; I think I got this.
- Bartending: Come on, I can make conversation with a rock - can you imagine the tips I'd make?!
- Truck driver: Besides the OBVIOUS lack of a CDL, I'm pretty sure that trucker blood runs through my veins. I have ample experience driving hundreds of miles in one day, and I LIKE it.
- Liberty Tax person: Of course there's a threat of heat exhaustion, but I think I would bring passersby much joy by dancing around in that Statue of Liberty costume. I might just be made for that exact job.
Okay, so maybe I've only scratched the surface of the necessary skill sets for these positions, but seriously - I need a freakin' job. Until I've secured a position, I think I'm going to start writing a book. For real. If it sucks, this is the last you'll hear of it. If it's awesome, I need to know if you know anything about publishing.
Peace, love, and minimum wage--
EMILY
May 13, 2013
We Are Family
Let me tell you something, people: there's nothing better in this world than family.
It's time to reflect as I enjoy the last day of a four-day trip back home - and it was one heck of a trip. Let's start from the very beginning (a very good place to start)...
I know I'm home when I finally find someone to sympathize with and participate in my cranky old lady tirades: my sister. There are all sorts of sayings about why God created sisters; my sister was created to listen to me rant - and to refrain from judging me about it. Sadly for her, she takes the brunt of ALL my whining, complaining, etc. Lucky for me, she doesn't think twice about telling me to shut it. And you don't disobey a command from Erin Buehler unless you want the death glare (and that'll shut you up right quick). Seriously, though, the best person to come home to is Erin Buehler, and I'm glad she was the first face I saw when I got home Thursday night.
Of course, one of the first places I like to visit when I'm home is the local watering hole. It makes for good quality time with my dad, I know I'll see an uncle or cousin or six, and I can always count on my childhood pal, TJ, to join me (And, seriously, what else do you do in a one-blinky-stoplight-town? Don't judge people; we don't have your fancy coffee shops or restaurants around these parts. There's nowhere else to convene.) Within two hours of arriving home on Thursday night, I finished a final paper and got my rear to the bar (oh yeah - in case you didn't know, my semester is over). Walking up to the entrance, I saw a dark silhouette making his way to his truck: it was my godfather and uncle, Crash. Like I said: I know I'll see an uncle EVERY TIME I go. It wasn't tough to convince him to join us inside, and by the end of the night, I had seen another uncle, been told I was the clone of my mother, and got a few free drinks from a man who's practically family - Pickles.
The next morning, I returned to Ada to visit my Weber Hall Family: the folks of admissions and financial aid at Ohio Northern University. Walking up to that building still makes the butterflies in my stomach really flutter. When I go back, it's like going home. I spent more than five years in that building and made one of my dearest friends within the first few months that I worked there. It was her last day on the job at ONU, and we celebrated with the whole "family" around the conference room table, enjoying the delicious eats of a classic Weber Hall carry-in. On Sunday, I returned to Ada to attend ONU's commencement. Many of my most favorite recruits were graduating, and for many of them, their families hold special places in my heart, too. I'll tell you what: if you want a job that is super rewarding, help students enroll in college. Four years later, they're walking across a stage, and you're all misty-eyed in the audience. Then, you meet up with them afterward only to find misty-eyed moms and dads who are so grateful for the little role you played in getting their sons and daughters to this day. And then the waterworks REALLY commence.
Friday night was an historic evening: all four Buehler siblings are over 21, and we enjoyed our first round of drinks together. If you've ever met all four of us, you know that we're all VERY different and also VERY similar. Andy claims to be the smartest (which, of course, came up on Friday night; yeah, yeah, you have the highest ACT score in the fam, and now my whole blogging public knows it. Congrats.), Erin is the sassiest (in a good way), Ben is actually the smartest (sorry, Andy, but, c'mon, the kid wrote a chapter book as an adolescent and is currently learning Japanese in preparation for his trip abroad - let's be real), and I'm the kookiest (and the only blonde). Our night ended at the local watering hole, at which there was one point in the evening when about 7 of the 10 people sitting at the bar were Buehlers. We saw uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbors from down the road, kids we used to babysit, people who used to babysit us: it was a good time.
I managed to see all my grandparents this weekend. If you ever wondered what makes me so "unique" (or whatever you call it), you should meet these folks. Grandpa Wolfe can spin a tale about his family that's longer than a summer day; he remembers details like it's nobody's business (so former coworkers: this is how I remembered all sorts of minutiae about my recruits). Grandma Wolfe is creative and industrious in her crafting creations; I can credit a lot of my own creativity to the craft projects I used to do with her. And Grandma Buehler is your typical, sweet Grandma whose kind and nurturing guise masks the sassy comments she'll make at you when you're playing a four-hour game of cards (which we did last night. Take note Stacie: FOUR HOURS on ONE GAME of Bitch. We need to create a correlation chart with variables of fun and hours played. We were definitely a few standard deviations from the mean on that one.)
So it's my last six hours in Ohio (for about a month), and I'm looking forward to lunch with my mom and a little reunion with two members of my HOBY family this afternoon. Family is everywhere people, and THEY contribute to who you are. There are little pieces of my parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends that shine in everything I do and everything I am. If you're one of these people, thanks for making me a better me. And thanks for making me cry while typing this (seriously, though, I cry about everything, so don't feel bad).
Peace, love, and do-re-mi--
Emily
It's time to reflect as I enjoy the last day of a four-day trip back home - and it was one heck of a trip. Let's start from the very beginning (a very good place to start)...
I know I'm home when I finally find someone to sympathize with and participate in my cranky old lady tirades: my sister. There are all sorts of sayings about why God created sisters; my sister was created to listen to me rant - and to refrain from judging me about it. Sadly for her, she takes the brunt of ALL my whining, complaining, etc. Lucky for me, she doesn't think twice about telling me to shut it. And you don't disobey a command from Erin Buehler unless you want the death glare (and that'll shut you up right quick). Seriously, though, the best person to come home to is Erin Buehler, and I'm glad she was the first face I saw when I got home Thursday night.
Of course, one of the first places I like to visit when I'm home is the local watering hole. It makes for good quality time with my dad, I know I'll see an uncle or cousin or six, and I can always count on my childhood pal, TJ, to join me (And, seriously, what else do you do in a one-blinky-stoplight-town? Don't judge people; we don't have your fancy coffee shops or restaurants around these parts. There's nowhere else to convene.) Within two hours of arriving home on Thursday night, I finished a final paper and got my rear to the bar (oh yeah - in case you didn't know, my semester is over). Walking up to the entrance, I saw a dark silhouette making his way to his truck: it was my godfather and uncle, Crash. Like I said: I know I'll see an uncle EVERY TIME I go. It wasn't tough to convince him to join us inside, and by the end of the night, I had seen another uncle, been told I was the clone of my mother, and got a few free drinks from a man who's practically family - Pickles.
The next morning, I returned to Ada to visit my Weber Hall Family: the folks of admissions and financial aid at Ohio Northern University. Walking up to that building still makes the butterflies in my stomach really flutter. When I go back, it's like going home. I spent more than five years in that building and made one of my dearest friends within the first few months that I worked there. It was her last day on the job at ONU, and we celebrated with the whole "family" around the conference room table, enjoying the delicious eats of a classic Weber Hall carry-in. On Sunday, I returned to Ada to attend ONU's commencement. Many of my most favorite recruits were graduating, and for many of them, their families hold special places in my heart, too. I'll tell you what: if you want a job that is super rewarding, help students enroll in college. Four years later, they're walking across a stage, and you're all misty-eyed in the audience. Then, you meet up with them afterward only to find misty-eyed moms and dads who are so grateful for the little role you played in getting their sons and daughters to this day. And then the waterworks REALLY commence.
Friday night was an historic evening: all four Buehler siblings are over 21, and we enjoyed our first round of drinks together. If you've ever met all four of us, you know that we're all VERY different and also VERY similar. Andy claims to be the smartest (which, of course, came up on Friday night; yeah, yeah, you have the highest ACT score in the fam, and now my whole blogging public knows it. Congrats.), Erin is the sassiest (in a good way), Ben is actually the smartest (sorry, Andy, but, c'mon, the kid wrote a chapter book as an adolescent and is currently learning Japanese in preparation for his trip abroad - let's be real), and I'm the kookiest (and the only blonde). Our night ended at the local watering hole, at which there was one point in the evening when about 7 of the 10 people sitting at the bar were Buehlers. We saw uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbors from down the road, kids we used to babysit, people who used to babysit us: it was a good time.
I managed to see all my grandparents this weekend. If you ever wondered what makes me so "unique" (or whatever you call it), you should meet these folks. Grandpa Wolfe can spin a tale about his family that's longer than a summer day; he remembers details like it's nobody's business (so former coworkers: this is how I remembered all sorts of minutiae about my recruits). Grandma Wolfe is creative and industrious in her crafting creations; I can credit a lot of my own creativity to the craft projects I used to do with her. And Grandma Buehler is your typical, sweet Grandma whose kind and nurturing guise masks the sassy comments she'll make at you when you're playing a four-hour game of cards (which we did last night. Take note Stacie: FOUR HOURS on ONE GAME of Bitch. We need to create a correlation chart with variables of fun and hours played. We were definitely a few standard deviations from the mean on that one.)
So it's my last six hours in Ohio (for about a month), and I'm looking forward to lunch with my mom and a little reunion with two members of my HOBY family this afternoon. Family is everywhere people, and THEY contribute to who you are. There are little pieces of my parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends that shine in everything I do and everything I am. If you're one of these people, thanks for making me a better me. And thanks for making me cry while typing this (seriously, though, I cry about everything, so don't feel bad).
Peace, love, and do-re-mi--
Emily
April 21, 2013
You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?
If you follow my blog closely (Mom), you may have noticed that I've been on hiatus for a few months. Well, folks, I simply lost my touch. I was uninspired. I couldn't think of anything funny to say (which is shocking because I'm the type of person who finds something as hapless as birds running to be funny). The magic was gone.
Everything I considered blogging about the last few months just sounded like whiny tripe. I fear that I'm turning into a cynical, judgmental, old woman (perhaps I was already there and never noticed). I have shaken my head, decrying "kids these day" so many times, I've nearly worn out the mechanism that allows my head to shake in the first place; it's like the "Guide" button on my Dish Network remote (you know what I'm talking about).
For instance, this morning, I got all fired up because I saw a FOURTH set of butt cheeks exposed on my short walk across campus. That's right: I have seen FOUR sets of butt cheeks in approximately 10 days. I'm not even OUTSIDE on campus that much, and that's nearly one butt cheek every day, which might be more than I see my own butt cheeks. No, Grandma, I was not being mooned like that time you and Grandpa stopped at a rest stop during a road trip and there was some wacky man bathing outdoors (is that the way the story goes?). These are young women whose shorts were SO short that I could see nearly two inches of butt cheek over that fold that distinguishes the leg from the butt. I recently learned that this is called "neathage." And no, these were not girls out at bars on the weekends. It was not Halloween. These were not volleyball players coming back from practice in their spandex short-shorts. These were young women walking to CLASS, in the middle of a WEEK, during the DAY time. Heavy, heavy, heavy sigh. Garrumph.
This is the kind of stuff I'm talking about: these are the rants that I nearly post on my blog every few days. How about the girl with a custom, monogrammed car cover for her VW Bug in the sophomore parking lot? Or the girls on the shuttle who didn't know what an urgent care was? And don't EVEN get me STARTED on black stretchy pants with cowboy boots! When did black spandex tights become acceptable to wear with any sort of top, not just workout tops? And you know what cowboy boots say to me, girls? They say FFA. They say 4H. They say farmer. My dad owns cowboy boots like the one's you're wearing. I've checked, and not many of you come from rural areas where the primary industry is agriculture.
Which leads me to ask: Is it happening? Is this how I know it's happening? Am I turning into a crotchety old lady? Is this it? Is this when the tides turn? Is there an elixir or a training or a self-help book to keep this from happening? I don't want to be judgmental. I know these girls are nice, intelligent, well-meaning girls, and I know that people have probably seen my butt cheeks on a few occasions (feel free to call me out in the comments; I know it's happened) and that I've made some questionable fad fashion choices (Hellooooo, do you remember gauchos pants?). Bottom line: I need help.
So until I have something nice to say, I guess I'll say nothing at all. I'm purposefully on the lookout for the good in humanity, which I guess is the second step of my 12-step program for CA - Cynics' Anonymous. But let's not skip step one:
Hi, my name is Emily, and I'm a cynic.
Peace, love, and those stupid cowboy boots (that I'll probably own in two months, anyway, and eat my words)--
Emily
Everything I considered blogging about the last few months just sounded like whiny tripe. I fear that I'm turning into a cynical, judgmental, old woman (perhaps I was already there and never noticed). I have shaken my head, decrying "kids these day" so many times, I've nearly worn out the mechanism that allows my head to shake in the first place; it's like the "Guide" button on my Dish Network remote (you know what I'm talking about).
For instance, this morning, I got all fired up because I saw a FOURTH set of butt cheeks exposed on my short walk across campus. That's right: I have seen FOUR sets of butt cheeks in approximately 10 days. I'm not even OUTSIDE on campus that much, and that's nearly one butt cheek every day, which might be more than I see my own butt cheeks. No, Grandma, I was not being mooned like that time you and Grandpa stopped at a rest stop during a road trip and there was some wacky man bathing outdoors (is that the way the story goes?). These are young women whose shorts were SO short that I could see nearly two inches of butt cheek over that fold that distinguishes the leg from the butt. I recently learned that this is called "neathage." And no, these were not girls out at bars on the weekends. It was not Halloween. These were not volleyball players coming back from practice in their spandex short-shorts. These were young women walking to CLASS, in the middle of a WEEK, during the DAY time. Heavy, heavy, heavy sigh. Garrumph.
This is the kind of stuff I'm talking about: these are the rants that I nearly post on my blog every few days. How about the girl with a custom, monogrammed car cover for her VW Bug in the sophomore parking lot? Or the girls on the shuttle who didn't know what an urgent care was? And don't EVEN get me STARTED on black stretchy pants with cowboy boots! When did black spandex tights become acceptable to wear with any sort of top, not just workout tops? And you know what cowboy boots say to me, girls? They say FFA. They say 4H. They say farmer. My dad owns cowboy boots like the one's you're wearing. I've checked, and not many of you come from rural areas where the primary industry is agriculture.
Which leads me to ask: Is it happening? Is this how I know it's happening? Am I turning into a crotchety old lady? Is this it? Is this when the tides turn? Is there an elixir or a training or a self-help book to keep this from happening? I don't want to be judgmental. I know these girls are nice, intelligent, well-meaning girls, and I know that people have probably seen my butt cheeks on a few occasions (feel free to call me out in the comments; I know it's happened) and that I've made some questionable fad fashion choices (Hellooooo, do you remember gauchos pants?). Bottom line: I need help.
So until I have something nice to say, I guess I'll say nothing at all. I'm purposefully on the lookout for the good in humanity, which I guess is the second step of my 12-step program for CA - Cynics' Anonymous. But let's not skip step one:
Hi, my name is Emily, and I'm a cynic.
Peace, love, and those stupid cowboy boots (that I'll probably own in two months, anyway, and eat my words)--
Emily
April 17, 2013
The Man, the Myth, the Legend
This is not the first time you've seen his name: Ron, the shuttle driver. He brightens up my morning, the shuttle ride isn't the same without him, and he is a top contender for my favorite person in Winston.
About a month ago, an opportunity presented itself to tell Ron my name. My sister had come to visit, she had ridden the shuttle a few times with me (an absolute MUST, if you're going to visit me), and after she left he asked me to remind him what my sister's name was. I think he and I both knew that this was his secret ploy to learn my name, and I was just fine with that. "Erin. So we're Erin and Emily, and people get our 'E' names confused all the time." I was so IN after that! The new morning greeting is now, "Well good mornin' Miss Emily!" And last week, as I departed the shuttle to start my school day, he said, "Don't let 'em getcha down today, Miss Emily!" And my world is now complete.
Honestly, I feel as though Ron could be one of my Buehler uncles. He used to drive semi-truck (he hauled diesel fuel), and he's from the sticks (which really sounds more like "the steeks" in Ron the shuttle driver speak). His backwoods North Carolina accent is so strong, he said, that he always makes his wife call to order food because he's afraid people won't be able to understand him. Speaking of his wife, Ron once said that when he first met his wife, he knew that he had to marry her because she was "cuter than a sack of puppies." Oh Ron...
What else do I know about my dear friend, Ron, you ask?
I think there's a moral to this story (because this is not just about stalking Ron, although I DID stalk him on Google images, the Wake Forest website, AND the faculty/staff directory to find a picture of him. Please note: he really doesn't look the same without his signature WF hat.). The moral of this story is that there are fantastic people inhabiting every corner of your life; they might be friends and family (and these people should be rather obvious to you), but they also might be your shuttle driver (not so obvious). People like Ron could fill a background role in my life: I could simply say the requisite "hello" and "thanks, have a good day" when I ride the shuttle and not take our conversations any further. Instead, my mornings and afternoons are brightened by a bald man from the backwoods, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I hope I brighten his day, too (because we all know how annoying it would be to sit quietly, overhearing the conversations between the freshman girls who are going to Whole Foods, the mall, tanning, and then dinner and just "CAN'T BELIEVE that ugly guy from the baseball team friended me on Facebook." Sigh. So glad I'm saving Ron from that for the 14 minutes per day that I'm on there).
Peace, love, and unlikely friendships--
Emily
About a month ago, an opportunity presented itself to tell Ron my name. My sister had come to visit, she had ridden the shuttle a few times with me (an absolute MUST, if you're going to visit me), and after she left he asked me to remind him what my sister's name was. I think he and I both knew that this was his secret ploy to learn my name, and I was just fine with that. "Erin. So we're Erin and Emily, and people get our 'E' names confused all the time." I was so IN after that! The new morning greeting is now, "Well good mornin' Miss Emily!" And last week, as I departed the shuttle to start my school day, he said, "Don't let 'em getcha down today, Miss Emily!" And my world is now complete.
Honestly, I feel as though Ron could be one of my Buehler uncles. He used to drive semi-truck (he hauled diesel fuel), and he's from the sticks (which really sounds more like "the steeks" in Ron the shuttle driver speak). His backwoods North Carolina accent is so strong, he said, that he always makes his wife call to order food because he's afraid people won't be able to understand him. Speaking of his wife, Ron once said that when he first met his wife, he knew that he had to marry her because she was "cuter than a sack of puppies." Oh Ron...
What else do I know about my dear friend, Ron, you ask?
- His wife is an occupational therapist, and she is as messy as I am
- Ron has self-proclaimed OCD and has been quoted as saying that he "might as well follow his wife around with a broom and dustpan"
- He has two sons - one a year older than me, one a year younger
- He knows when there are law students riding the shuttle (because I'm pretty sure he knows where all the regular riders get off and has asked us about our programs and life plans), and he'll let them off at an unscheduled stop in front of the law building so they don't have to make a long, uphill walk (which he often accompanies with a "The boss man's not in yet, I can let you off here")
- When Erin was visiting, she noticed that when Ron pulls up to the shuttle stop, he stops the bus right in front of me and not at the bus stop where all the other not-regular-riders wait.
- He and his wife are getting new carpet this week (why do I know these things?)
- He LOVES Pepsi and peanut butter/cheese crackers
- He has asked about Erin nearly EVERY DAY since she visited. One day, he asked about what she wants to do for a living, and after my response, he said, "She comes from good stock; she'll be fine." Oh Ron...
I think there's a moral to this story (because this is not just about stalking Ron, although I DID stalk him on Google images, the Wake Forest website, AND the faculty/staff directory to find a picture of him. Please note: he really doesn't look the same without his signature WF hat.). The moral of this story is that there are fantastic people inhabiting every corner of your life; they might be friends and family (and these people should be rather obvious to you), but they also might be your shuttle driver (not so obvious). People like Ron could fill a background role in my life: I could simply say the requisite "hello" and "thanks, have a good day" when I ride the shuttle and not take our conversations any further. Instead, my mornings and afternoons are brightened by a bald man from the backwoods, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I hope I brighten his day, too (because we all know how annoying it would be to sit quietly, overhearing the conversations between the freshman girls who are going to Whole Foods, the mall, tanning, and then dinner and just "CAN'T BELIEVE that ugly guy from the baseball team friended me on Facebook." Sigh. So glad I'm saving Ron from that for the 14 minutes per day that I'm on there).Peace, love, and unlikely friendships--
Emily
February 16, 2013
Freakout McStubborn
Today, I'd like to chat about two of the primary components of my personality: control freak and stressed out. If Control Freak and Stressed Out were the names of two celebrities who were dating, the tabloids would probably start calling them Freak-out. That's me: Freak-out. Let's see what freakout has been up to this week...
We'll begin with the stressed out half of Freak-out. I received an email a few weeks ago about a research study at the medical school about meditation and its impact on... something else. I really zoned out on the second half of the study's purpose because all I could think about was the meditation part. Meditation? Reducing something? Count me in.
It turns out that the second half of the study is about pain management. I'm a participant in a study on meditation and pain management. And there are at least three groups to which I could be assigned: meditation, topical lidocaine, or the control group. That gives me a 33% chance of being randomly assigned to the meditation group, in which I would learn how to meditate and hopefully I could break up with Stressed Out, forever ending the union of Stressed Out and Control Freak. I'll take my chance.
I'm in the lidocaine group. Nuts.
Nonetheless, the study is quite interesting, and I get to have two MRIs as part of it! (Speaking of which, I had my first MRI this week, and, sadly, the researcher did not exclaim, "WOW! This is the most AMAZING BRAIN we've EVER SEEN!" Even after I asked if it was the most amazing brain he'd ever seen.)
I reported for my first appointment this week at the hospital. Enter Control Freak, who decided she would rather drive to the hospital herself than take the free University shuttle to the hospital. Why? Because she felt as though driving herself would allow her more control - over when she got there, when she left, whether or not she picked up lunch along the way, how fast she got there, etc.
I arrived at the hospital at approximately 9:30 am. For 30 minutes, I drove in circles around the hospital trying to find the building where I was supposed to report. I had been told the road it was on, the building it was next to, and that there was a statue of Bowman Gray in front of the building. I drove in circles for 30 minutes, but darnit, I was in control.
Finally, I decided that I would enter one of the parking garages and that an attendant in the parking garage could help me find my way. Welp, automated entry to the parking garage does not provide the opportunity to speak to an attendant. Forge forward, control freak, you'll get there. That's okay, I remember which direction the street is (where that building is SUPPOSED to be, but I have yet to find it), so I'll just start walking and figure it out.
Walking. Walking. Walking. 25 minutes of walking. From one end of the hospital's campus to the other. I stopped at an information desk about 10 minutes into my walking. They knew where the Gray Building was, but they made it seem as though that is a building where I should NOT be going...
"What floor?"
"Well, I'm headed to 4087 Gray Building."
"I don't think that's a room number. I think that's the address for the building."
Shaking my head.
With map in hand, I headed to the Gray Building. After successfully making it to the Gray Building, I unsuccessfully tried to board an elevator and use the stairs. You might be wondering how that's possible. Well. Elevators are card access only, and to enter the stairwell was easy, but to exit the stairwell onto any of the floors required card access too. I made it to the fourth floor, but I could not escape the stairwell, so I headed back down to the first floor where the only door that I could open led me outside to a bed of pine needles. No sidewalk. No walkway. No dirt path. Pine needles. I drudged through damp, squishy pine needles to the front entrance of the Gray Building. And guess what? It was card access only too.
The good news is that I finally found the statue of Bowman Gray - you can't see it from the road. And I also found the building next to the Gray Building, which you also can't see from the road. Awesome.
Finally, I called a classmate to get the number of the research assistants for the study (you see, I do not have a smartphone and didn't have access to my emails with their contact info). I called the research assistants to apologize for being late - it's now 10:25 am - but I'm outside the building and can't figure out how to get in.
"Sorry, I don't really know how to give you directions to get here."
WHAT. I'm at the front entrance of the building. By the Bowman Gray statue, where you TOLD ME TO GO.
Did I mention it's lightly drizzling?
Long story short, I finally made it to my appointment - about 15 minutes late, after spending an hour trying to find the place. All because I didn't want to take the shuttle, WHICH I found out later would have dropped me off at the exact door where I needed to enter.
I'm headed back for my next appointment tomorrow. I'm driving myself. Because not only am I a stressed out, control freak, but I'm also stubborn, and by golly, I'm going to find my way to 4087 Gray Building if it's the last thing I do. New celebrity couple name: Freakout McStubborn. And perhaps, in a few years, I'll be Freakout McStubborn, PhD. We'll see.
Peace, love, and pine needles--
EMILY :)
January 23, 2013
Roll the Quad
Earlier in the fall, I found myself VERY perturbed by the Wake undergrad population - for many reasons (I mean, come on, I'm a grad student; isn't part of my job to look down my nose at undergrads?). For the purposes of this particular post, I was perturbed at them for their general lack of appreciation for the beautiful campus they inhabited. Empty beer cans are littered about the campus over the weekend, occasional vandalism pops up here and there, and they even TOILET PAPER the quad. Really? This place is GORGEOUS, and you are going to show that much disregard and disrespect for it? Eye roll. Pairing that with their incessant conversation about Whole Foods, shopping, vacation homes, and international travel leaves you with one thoroughly agitated Emily (stay tuned for a future vlog post imitating the conversations I overhear between undergrad girls on the shuttle: priceless). Have I mentioned the makes, models, and suggested retail prices of their cars? Yeah.
Well. It turns out that PART of the above equation is a gesture of school spirit: rolling the quad. As I followed a tour group across campus, on my way to class one day, I learned from the tour guide that rolling the quad is a Wake tradition. As she explained to the prospective students and parents the reason for the toilet paper all over the place - when a Wake sports team is victorious and the fans' enthusiasm boils over into post-game, the spectators "roll the quad" with toilet paper rolls. Students, faculty, parents, and other fans make their way to the north quad (I'm sure it has a name, but I'm a grad student and I don't know these things), and they celebrate.
Last night, Wake beat NC State (which is a HUGE deal because NC State is ranked top 25 - go Deacs). This morning, not only was I lucky enough to be the SOLE early bird rider with Ron on the shuttle (who is quickly becoming the person I talk to the most on a daily basis), but I was also lucky enough to snag a few shots of the quad before all the TP was cleaned up. Too bad the stuff didn't make it through the weekend, we might have seen some frozen TP!
Well. It turns out that PART of the above equation is a gesture of school spirit: rolling the quad. As I followed a tour group across campus, on my way to class one day, I learned from the tour guide that rolling the quad is a Wake tradition. As she explained to the prospective students and parents the reason for the toilet paper all over the place - when a Wake sports team is victorious and the fans' enthusiasm boils over into post-game, the spectators "roll the quad" with toilet paper rolls. Students, faculty, parents, and other fans make their way to the north quad (I'm sure it has a name, but I'm a grad student and I don't know these things), and they celebrate.
Peace, love, and a roll of toilet paper--
Emily
January 14, 2013
Yeah, You Really Got Me Now
So... classes start again on Wednesday, which is particularly unfortunate considering the fact that I was banking on the world ending over holiday break. Thanks a lot, Mayans. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad the world didn't end and all. Really, it's like we all got a second chance that we weren't supposed to get, SO I GUESS I'll take it and run with it. As a matter of fact, I think I'll use this second chance to work out a few kinks from last semester (you notice how I just managed to avoid using the term "New Year's Resolution"? Haha, cliche thwarted! Better luck next time.)
The kinks needing worked out can be summarized with two comments made to me in the last week:
The goal, then, is to get the nerd to relax. If you have any suggestions, I am enthusiastically accepting 3x5 notecards (unlined, white) with your recommendations written in blue or black ink at my North Carolina address. Please avoid cursive writing, and double-space. Also, any recommendations containing grammatical and/or spelling errors will be immediately discarded, as I do not take suggestions of this kind; how can I trust someone who doesn't even have a handle on the English language? I mean, really. I will review your suggestions every Wednesday evening, so plan to postmark by the Friday before. Ready? Set? Go!
Peace, love, and idiosyncrasies--
Emily
The kinks needing worked out can be summarized with two comments made to me in the last week:
- "Emily, do you ever relax?"
- "...and I mean this in the nicest way possible - she's nerdy like you - but that's a GOOD thing!"
The goal, then, is to get the nerd to relax. If you have any suggestions, I am enthusiastically accepting 3x5 notecards (unlined, white) with your recommendations written in blue or black ink at my North Carolina address. Please avoid cursive writing, and double-space. Also, any recommendations containing grammatical and/or spelling errors will be immediately discarded, as I do not take suggestions of this kind; how can I trust someone who doesn't even have a handle on the English language? I mean, really. I will review your suggestions every Wednesday evening, so plan to postmark by the Friday before. Ready? Set? Go!
Peace, love, and idiosyncrasies--
Emily
January 9, 2013
A Bittersweet Symphony, That's Life
After playing cards for a few hours at Grandma's (which is typical), Dad and I made our way home. However, on the way home, a beacon sounded in the sky... it made its mark known like Batman would in Gotham City. The Buehler Sign shone from Patrick's (the bar "uptown"). Inside awaited two uncles, a cousin, and a bartender whose farmland met with my grandpa's. He knew what was up.
Soon, I learned what it took to cut the head off a two-headed calf while it's still in the cow's womb. I learned about the finer points of giving mouth-to-mouth to a cow... or as much as Jason and I surmised (...about which Jason and I knew very little [and if you knew Jason, it would SHOCK you that Jason and I both knew very little about something]... but I had learned earlier in the week that he knew the steps to roast a pig; however, he did NOT know how to give mouth-to-mouth to a cow; we shared suppositions...). We got free fried bologna cubes from the bartender, and even the opportunity to take command of the remote control for the jukebox. Nearly everyone who walked in the door was a familiar face - not unusual - and that's a pretty nice luxury, if you ask me.
You know what else I learned? I learned that for men that talk a whole lot of game about floor joists and steer sales, feeding the hogs and roof trusses - these men cared a whole heck of a lot for Grandma and Grandpa Buehler. They worried about Grandma and they shared stories about Grandpa - two incredible people (although they would fight tooth and nail to declare that they are just two ORDINARY people).
Here's what I have to share of my memories...
- Grandma and Grandpa get up at 4 am so the newspaper delivery person doesn't think they're lazy. Yeah. That's right - they get up so the PAPERBOY doesn't think they're lazy... On Christmas Eve 2012, Grandpa slept in... until 4:30 am.
- Once upon a time, Andy, Mike, and Grandpa took the three-wheeler up the silage hill. Let's just say it didn't end well.
- Grandpa named his dog Newt after Newt Gingrich in the 90s, and I'll let you guess why - you have two options: 1) because he loved Newt Gingrich so much, or 2) because he thought as highly of Newt Gingrich as he thought of his farm dog that wasn't allowed to live in the house
- Grandpa spent quite a bit of his time in the Navy on the USS North Carolina.
- He used to call one of my boyfriends "the big Irishman" because it was difficult for him to keep track of the names of the boyfriends of his 17 granddaughters, as you can imagine.
- The last time my cousin, JR, was home from North Carolina, we were making small talk before heading out for the night when Grandpa said, "When I was your age, JR, I was putting knives in the bellies of Japs!" I guess that put our trip to the bar into perspective.
- Grandpa said he never had to worry because Grandma worried enough for the both of them. (Golly... I need someone like that.)
- On Christmas Eve, he was disappointed that more of the great-grandkids weren't there because he told me he had been practicing their names; 31 great-grandchildren's names are even more difficult to keep track of than the boyfriends' names of his granddaughters.
- One summer, I was serving weekday mass at church and needed a ride there. Grandpa drove me there every morning... going a cool 35 mph in a 55 mph zone. He WAS carrying precious cargo, after all.
- Grandpa told us a few weeks ago that he hadn't cooked in decades and he didn't know what he'd do without Grandma. Grandma said... that she'd make a whole lot of noise until she finally had to take a knife to a saucer in order to get Grandpa's attention that it was time for dinner. That wasn't enough, though. She would announce, "Master, dinner is served." When you're together 65 years, well...
- He was famous for his Gator rides around the pond.
- Grandpa was ALWAYS accused of cheating during card games (especially by Grandma), and he didn't have much to say about that, but the look on his face said it all.
- To split a cup of coffee, Grandma would drink from the cup with her right hand and Grandpa would flip it around and drink from the other side with his left hand. Fair is fair.
- I can't forget the smell of the soap he used and the snazzy sweatsuits he wore at night.
If you knew him well, you know he was quite a man - as Grandma said, he was a patient man and he was a good man, but we also know that he was clever, diligent, and kind. It's hard to even put words to the lessons that he taught us. We just are who we are because of him. In my lifetime, he was a man who spoke quietly, listened intently, and gave tremendously much... and I'm not sure that he even knew it.
Grandma was very decisive about his wishes to convey that he was "just an ordinary man," but I believe that if you look at what he left behind, you would declare it "extraordinary."
Here's to Roman George Buehler, my grandfather, and one heck of a man.
Peace, love, and family--
Emily
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