You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Family’ tag.
My mother has always claimed to have one of those faces. Something about it, perhaps caring, understanding, sweet, but whatever it is, random people do love to appraoch her and tell her their life story. In supermarkets, in communities, at work, no one likes anything better than reeling off their problems and highlights to Annette Stewart. And she’s not the only one. My aunts and sister are plagued by the same problem, which although for the most part is an indifferent affair, can at times be altogether withering.
I, on the other hand, have never had to deal with this, per se. Admittedly, I never have too much trouble making friends because people tend to gravitate towards me rather than vice versa, but I suppose I do give off a rather cold exterior to people outside my circle. My relative shyness makes for little conversation with new people and the headphones permanently affixed to my ears during any journey means the only sound I have to listen to on the bus is Broadway showtunes.
So, today was a bit of a change. Too tired to go look for my iPod, I high tailed it to bus without it (and got only got charged for a child ticket. Bus driver just assumed. Come get me CIE.) Nothing unusual, sitting on my own as is the norm. Then around Tutorial (for those not familiar with Limerick, this is two stops from the terminal) an elderly lady moved seats and carefully settled herself next to me. Had I my iPod with me, I would have probably turned up the Wicked soundtrack a little louder.
Then, from random comments (from her) and awkward replies (from me) a conversation sprung. About Limerick and cycling and the priests in Pallaskenry. She told me stories of biking twelve miles to get to the Savoy, where she and her friends knew the waitress, who would give them a veritable feast before heading to the movies on the floor below. She reminded me of my Nana telling us stories of back in the day when my sister and I were only young uns.
So maybe I do have one of those faces.
Although considering last night, the ultimate of creepy drunk guys decided to hang out with us for a sold hour and a half before I had him kicked out for smoking inside, maybe having one of those faces isn’t always such a good thing. 
I have lived a mere (almost) 19 years so far in my life. Those years have been ravaged with the ups and downs and inbetweens of being a kid, being a teenager and for the last few months, learning to be an adult. It should be said that my mother is absolutely amazing and shares many of the same attributes as my father, but sometimes it is all about being daddy’s little girl.
My dad is the person who let me sing into his microphone stand in the hall at two years of age, who played the guitar and taught me the words to “Don’t Look Back In Anger” and advised me to buy CDs over cassette tapes, seeing as I loved singing along with the leaflet words so much. These days, he is the one who lets me use all his hi-tech equipment without complaint, buys me business cards, and lets me sing my little heart out on stage without a second thought.
My dad is the person who shows us pictures from the 70s and 80s (courtesy of an old Dairy Milk Box,) introduced me to Duran Duran and Eurythmics by playing recorded radio shows in the car on the way to Spanish Point and Kilkee, regaled us with stories of interrailing and turnpike-jumping and recounted the wonders of the Acme Clothing Company.
My dad has only yelled at me like 4 times in my entire life (and in retrospect I totally deserved it.) He taught me the importanced of correctly folded towels and a well ironed shirt. I learned to respect a good work ethic and a broad (seemingly limitless) knowledge, and I strive to develop these things to even half the extent of him.
Because of him, I have never felt bad about dressing differently, wanting a tattoo or staying home from Mass. Because of him, I felt no qualms about starting a blog. Whether it was seeing dressed like Freddie Mercury or his encouragement that I could sing “The Sun Has Got His Hat On” in a pub as a child, I have never felt fear or shame or embarrassment on stage.
When I was away, my Dad would bring himself and my mom the almost two hour trip down to my house when I called up in tears. He fully supported me the day he drove me home for good. Weeks later, when I just wanted to die, he hugged me and watched old movies about Jerome Kern until I felt ok.
My mom once told me that, when I was first born, my dad would just stare at me for hours, as if my existence were something completely amazing. But then, he’s that kind of person who makes you think that maybe existence can be amazing.
Every year leading up to 14th, off I would spout about corporate sellouts and deragotory use of loce to make money etc etc in the lonely girl spiel. And I still think that old Valentine’s Day is a company created excuse to fill the lull between Christmas and Easter. But deep down, like every other teenage girl, I wanted someone to go on a date with, to make a stupid card for, to give a festive hug to. And it was much easier to mask this behind a blanket of disdain than admit it.
This year is different. For the first time ever, I have absolutely no desire to be anything but single. I still adore romance, love being in love and think it is epicly sweet to see some couples (you know, the non-disgusting-PDA type) do as they do. But I also love my annual Anti-VDay Single Ladies dinner (boyfriendless chinese food since 2008.) I love my 4.75 mile run this morning, not having to worry about meeting up with anyone afterwards. And I love that there is a man who will always love me and make an awesome three course meal for his women (thanks Daddy!)
So happy VDay Kids. Make it a good ‘un.
I was younger than I am now. Somewhere between Communion and Confirmation for sure, but my concept of time is simply atrocious. It was summertime (or some non-school/holiday time) and my Dad was working as a courier by day, driving up and down the country, returning people their lost luggage and delivering to CUH amongst other places. Frequently, he made deliveries to Killarney.
As the oldest, I was the first to go on these “runs” with Dad. Into the van, we made our way to Shannon Airport (to collect the cargo) before setting off. Occasionally, we went to Cork or maybe even Galway, but often our destination was the hour and a half or so to Killarney. Part of the ritual was the lunch stop to the service station, as Dad filled the tank, and I selected my sandwich (turkey, lettuce and a whole lot of potato salad was my usual.) We would share the Coke.
If there was time, and there frequently was, we would make a stop at Killarney Outlet Centre. To me, this was the highlight of the day. What did this centre have, only a factory priced bookstore. My mother would often wonder why I came home armed with reduced priced non-fiction and shiny, new stationery.
The journey home was always longer, partly due to the pitstop, mainly due to Dad’s favourite driving practice “Let’s find a new way home” This involved me making a choice between two roads on the road map and Dad using his directional intuition until the buildings of Limerick City once again reared their heads. For all my effort, I was rewarded €2 (or it could have been £1. Concept of time, people.) which I had often already spent in the bookshop.
Since then, Killarney has continued to be a source of happy memories. It is the site of my first date, my first espresso, my first kiss in the rain. It is my stopover on the way to Kells and my BFF, Sinead, in the summer. Whilst you can hardly describe it as a shopping hotspot (try Cork or Dublin) it does hold a very nice Penneys. More importantly than the Penney’s is the atmosphere. I am in love with the park, the playground, the thickets of trees, the castle which I never quite made it to thanks to the rain.
I want to see that castle some day.
Instead of looking on in shame and disgust at your Chandler-style dancing whilst singing “Acceptable In The 80s”…
Your Dad happily joins in.
I made it 4 days binge free. And now after Wednesday’s giant fail and the futility of yesterday, I am starting again. I feel very Alcoholics Anonymous about the recovery process in the last day – namely, taking day one at a time and more importantly, coming to the conclusion that it may not be possible to eliminate the binge eating habit without the persistant thoughts that I need to be lighter. Don’t get me wrong, I have gotten much better at fighting the urge to restrict. That is really not an issue anymore. But I hated when I hit 8 and a half stone. I hated even more when I hit 9, and subsequently 9 and a half stone. My perception of myself has at this point become so blurred that I can no longer remember what I was like at any previous weight, be it large or small. So from the fit of my jeans I am telling myself that I am a different 9 and a half stone than I was last time. I stronger, more muscular, healthier nine and a half stone. I am hoping that this is the truth and not just my brain trying to protect me.
I’m not going to lie: this is far from an easy post to write, so unsurprisingly, its coherence is shaky and ommissions are frequent, with many a detail undocumented. But I’m going to write it and become accountable and responsible and all that jazz that comes with being a grown up. In many ways, 2010 was the worst year of my life. And yet, some of the most amazing times I have experienced have occured in the last 12 months. How I saw things during the year was altogether very dependent on how half-full or half-empty I was seeing the glass on any given day.
I’ve been told I have bad coping skills. I think I’ll agree. When it came to my first breakup, I was fine for a week before I went a day without much food, almost fainted off a bike in spinning class and cried all the way home. On top of this, I sat the HPAT, the most terrifying test I have done to date. I prepped for my Leaving Cert by studying from the moment I came home until bed time (with breaks for Grey’s Anatomy.) I was violently ill multiple times, including before my Chemistry exam and at Oxegen. Poor mom had to to listen to me bawl about how much I hated 6th Year many a time. I was a flaming disgrace at Mardi Gras. I had a few run ins with the boy of the aforementioned break up. I ate until I wanted to vomit and then I ate some more. I went without food and ran. I was completely overwhelmed by Medicine and left. I went from around 135lbs to 104lbs in 9 months. I have had days when I have wanted to do nothing but stay in bed. I hit rock bottom in Cork, summarised by an expensive ready meal.
But on the other hand…
I had the greatest school days of my life with the best friends ever. I turned 18. I started singing with Dad in the pub. I got 590 points in my Leaving Cert. I had X Factor nights. I had an epic time in summer camp. I spent a lovely three months with the only boy to every treat me nicely, and am luckily still his friend. I went out on the town – and to the Coach. I got Medicine – and in dropping out, realised what I actually want to do with my life. I finally got the courage to say that I needed to get help and I am finally working on getting healthy. Sinead introduced me to the most beautiful place in Ireland – and taught me to fish. I found yoga – saving my life one asana at a time. I gave up caffeine and alcohol. I found a doctor who just seems to get me. I came home. I made excellent friends in my brief time in UCC. I had the opportunity to tutor and teach. I found inspiration and support through blogging, books and the people around me.
2010 was hard. And I’m not writing this for pity or advice or what have you. 2011 could be just as difficult but by writing all this down, I can try and make sure I don’t let things get that bad again. I have to keep reminding myself that it was worth it. I am on the road to being physically and mentally stronger than I have ever been. I am learning to get my priorities straight. I am learning to exercise for fun, not calories, and am rediscovering food, fun and being social. I want 2011 to be the year I run 10k, the year I climb a mountain, the year I find balance, the year I face my demons, the year I accept things for what they are, the year to find a happy weight, the year to learn the things I love, the year I undo seven years of bad habits and take responsibilty, the year I open up and the year I show my family and friends how much I appreciate them.
2011 is the year to build some character and bang out the goods.
I’ll keep you posted kids.
It is apparently impossible to make even the slightest of turns at this time of year without being harassed, either through the internet or print media, to change one’s sinful and damaging ways. A plethora of information on how to quit smoking, lose weight, run 5 marathons and create world peace seems increasingly inevitable to invade the consciousness. And whilst promoting all these wonderful things is equally as wonderful as their respective results, it is all a little absurd. Let’s take weight loss.
I’d assume about 75% of people, in between their third helping of turkey and ham and the obligatory half bottle of wine at some point between Christmas Eve and New Year’s day, waylay any possible guilt with the simple phrase “I’ll lose it in the New Year.” Then January 1st hits, the house is stocked with Weight Watchers and Slimfast, the gym membership securely attained and the resolution of two simple words “Lose Weight” firmly embedded in one’s mind. That new diet plan to lose 20 lbs in two weeks, or whatever other unfathomable promise was floating around in any other number of magazines, has been memorised and intention is set. Surely this is enough.
It is also around this time of year that I start avoiding the gym. Claustrophobically full, it is too easy to get frustrated with the ones strolling along for twenty minutes before stuffing themselves with Cadbury’s finest (assured that they have indeed burnt all the necessary calories) or even easier to become overwhelmed with discomfort, unease and terror as some or other first timer boots a treadmill up to 14kmh and you wait for the sickening moment where they go flying and you simultaneously forget all your first aid training. Luckily, most people have given up by February and the gym resumes its usual atmosphere.
I seem unreasonably harsh and judgemental, an embodiment of Ms. Listen-to-Me McHolier-Than-Thou. Don’t worry, I am still the neurotic chocoholic up-and-down mess you all know and love (who herself wouldn’t hurt from a few changes this season) but I just find the entire concept of New Year’s Resolutions just a tad pointless. There is a reason why resolutions don’t last – they are vague, impulsive, non-commital and entirely dependant on the New Year to make a start. And just as quickly as one embarks on a new endeavour, something or other takes precedent and all good deeds fade away as quickly as the December frost. I mean, really, if something is that important, why wait until January to start? Goals such as losing weight and quitting smoking and what have you are lifestyle changes, not short lived fads to be played around with for 6 weeks before reverting back to your old ways. So this January, don’t think up some random resolution to “Get Firmer* in 4 Weeks” or vaguely “Learn a musical instrument.” Set a goal, be specific, make a plan and commit!
My Goals For 2011
- Be Kinder To Myself – this involves maintaining a healthy weight (without binge or starve,) getting enough exercise (without killing myself) and getting a serious hold on nasties like fat talk and body checks. Here’s to a healthy 2011!
- Run the 10K in the Great Limerick Run – Pa is supposed to do this with me (He traded off doing a mini-triathlon with him, which I also have to see to believe.) If not, I always have my sexy new micoach pacer.
- Climb Croagh Patrick – Supposed to do this last summer but didn’t. I figure I just need to nag Dad back into the gym with me. Hint hint.
- See more of family and friends – I actually go months without seeing some people. That is just not right. And I am aware that this has that horrible vagueness which I was talking about. But I can’t seem to be more specific…
- Get my music act together. This involves making a set list, getting that set list to a performable standard, convincing someone to hire me and getting some well needed experience. I will post as this progresses.
- Blog/Journal/Meditate at least twice a week – I will do this if it kills me. For it is good for my soul.
What are your goals for the new year?
*As a sidenote, I hate, loath and despise the word “firmer” for a reason I can’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps it has something to do with a seemingly healthier approach to the more controversial “skinny” without the rather negative model-diet connotations. But in the context of January’s obsession with losing pounds and inches, its essentially the same insane message of thin=happy. Make health your goal people.
**As a second sidenote, the ridiculous and self indulgent pomposity of the writing today comes to you courtesy of Kate: Obsessively reading Stephen Fry’s Autobiography for the last seven days.
Worry. Nausea. Fear.
Family. Chips. Hot Water Bottle.
Anna. Megan. Jenny. Sca. GHD Curls.
Clancy. Squashing 6 people illegally into a 5 seater. Awesome speaker specs fresh from LeSAD.
The Old Cres. Cheap Drinks. Packed Bathrooms.
Dancing 90. Excellent playlists. Looking like an explorer (In a good way.)
Best Friend. Hugs. 18 kisses (for Steve.)
More Dancing. Frienassaince. Talking to people I haven’t seen in years.
Making plans that might never come true. Over-dancing guy. Hauntiness near our bags (shudder.)
Cheap taxi home. Pizza (Ryvita for me.) Late night X Factor.
Hot Chocolate. More Sca. Bed with make up still on.
That is what makes for an epic night.
My voice died. I tried CPR, the paddles, everything. Except shutting up. Maybe that deserves a go. In any case, I can’t go to Season’s Greetings tonight, which is disappointing as it is always a highlight of choir and I have been in it for the last 2 years. But I would have to hit several high A’s if I went, and I am not even thinking about an A until next week.
This said, I still proceed to hang out with Dad as he learns Nella Fantasia. What started out with helping him pronounce Italian quickly became us jamming out a harmony so we can duet and scare people in the pub. Needless to say, the vocal cords aren’t happy.
As it’s coming to the end of 2010, expect a post soon about what I learned this year and any resolutions I may attempt. Lame, I know. I was going to write it now. But I thought at this side of Christmas it would be even lamer. 2010 was one of the best and worst years of my life in many ways, so a look back will be interesting.
In the meantime, I decided to set some really really easy December goals to keep some ounce of motivation in me. I have three, one a week until New Year’s Eve. And the overall goal is to either journal or blog as I go. But that’s just a hope.
Week 1: Drink 8 glasses of water a day (I am bad for drinking anything but tea. And this way, my skin will be nice and clear and kidneys good and hydrated.)
Week 2: Meditate once a day (My mind is going 90 pretty much all the time. And for anyone unfamiliar with the irishism, going 90 means going really, really fast and all over the place. [It can always mean mad in a good way e.g. the craic was 90 = it was tremendous fun])
Week 3: Cut out (or at least reduce) the processede sugar in my diet (I sugar crash a lot. And then I get upset.)
Over and out, compadres.
It was a good day. Between my first run after the bad knee (best 15 minutes of the last 2 weeks. Short but awesome.) and the consistent layer of sparling snow, making even mundane suburbia a little beautiful, I was all ready to get in the Christmas spirit. In accordance with Farmer’s Day (well… the day of the immaculate conception. But I’m a heathen.) we got festive and decorated. Little Sister and I were up at the crack of dawn (well… that’s a lie. I was up. But I decided breakfast and yoga were far more important. Then banking and Centra. But after that.) and off to cleaning we went. We were a flurry of lifting, sorting, tidying, dusting and sweeping. I even moved couches instead of just going around them. The house was ready.
Next came the trip to the attic. Dad took the lead, for as we all know, a woman’s place is not in the attic. A woman’s place is holding the ladder and then catching the very heavy boxes only to leave them drop clunkily to the floor. Which totally didn’t happen to me…
Amidst frustrating fairy lights, a plethora of Santa hats and many a candle holding decoration, it was done. And I have the pictures to prove it.
Behold, the goth tree. It’s essentially a spiral of darkness. Finally, internet proof to my friends that my family promotes black christmas trees. That’s how we roll.
Aforementioned candle holders.
The haunted crib. See that angel? For years, Dad claimed it just flew off at im. We laughed. Suuuuuuuure, Dad. Until it happened to me today. This is what I get for all my talk of “evolution.”
The cute, non-haunted crib.
Snowman the first.
Snowman the second.
Snowman the third, happily hanging out on the stereo. We like snowmen.
Mom’s doll. She has had this doll for 20 years and continues to be her favourite christmas item. She may love it more than me. And yes, the eyes are drawn on with a biro.
Me, chilling in my santa hat. I’m aware of the state I’m in. I wasn’t leaving the house. I swear, how I survived the first 17 years of my life without boy’s fatmans, I’ll never know.
Trifecta of bears!
Yet more snowmen!
Very precariously placed on the windowsill.
The christmas bears of my childhood. Decorations may come and go, gifts may be forgotten, but the bears will remain. The bears will return.
Happy december!
X
