I can't wait to get a bike! So this will happen!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Happiness Comes from Within
This weekend was my first anniversary with the hubs. For weeks I researched our long weekend road trip to upstate NY and I found several day dream worthy destinations. I looked into small B&B's, big resorts, small rentals, yoga classes, wine tours, just about anything you can think of for a fun filled romantic weekend as reasonably boring adults. I fantasized about a wildly romantic and classically American road trip, driving through fields of golden hay, hair blowing in the wind, driving some old red hot rod. Probably wearing something adorably tweed and J.Crew-ish. Possibly wearing red lipstick. Effortlessly cool.
Problem is, money is tight right now and frankly we couldn't afford it. After a final hour or two of feverishly researching the cheapest accommodations known to man, (Sleeping in the car, anyone?) I admitted to myself that my dream anniversary weekend wasn't meant to be. I very ungraciously threw a few things, told my husband to and I quote "pull some money out of your ass," and eventually started developing Romantic Anniversary Weekend plan B. Or plan G rather. Let's be honest.
It's so hard to accept and still be truly happy when your life is not what you want. I'm a big girl, I realize that in life, you don't always get what you want. After many tough lessons I certainly know for sure that you don't always get what you want. I also realize that I have lovely family, friends, my health, a job that I love, and that all things considered, life is peachy. But that doesn't make the everyday struggle to feel happy, powerful or fulfilled any easier.
Turns out, we picked a few fun things to entertain us on our little staycation. We got massages, rented movies, cooked dinner. Most importantly we talked a lot, laughed a lot. We took naps, played tennis, painted, and spent time just being us. The kind of real me that doesn't have to wear J.Crew on vacation to be happy.
Problem is, money is tight right now and frankly we couldn't afford it. After a final hour or two of feverishly researching the cheapest accommodations known to man, (Sleeping in the car, anyone?) I admitted to myself that my dream anniversary weekend wasn't meant to be. I very ungraciously threw a few things, told my husband to and I quote "pull some money out of your ass," and eventually started developing Romantic Anniversary Weekend plan B. Or plan G rather. Let's be honest.
It's so hard to accept and still be truly happy when your life is not what you want. I'm a big girl, I realize that in life, you don't always get what you want. After many tough lessons I certainly know for sure that you don't always get what you want. I also realize that I have lovely family, friends, my health, a job that I love, and that all things considered, life is peachy. But that doesn't make the everyday struggle to feel happy, powerful or fulfilled any easier.
Turns out, we picked a few fun things to entertain us on our little staycation. We got massages, rented movies, cooked dinner. Most importantly we talked a lot, laughed a lot. We took naps, played tennis, painted, and spent time just being us. The kind of real me that doesn't have to wear J.Crew on vacation to be happy.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Quiet, Loud and Soft
Quiet
Is happiness
Felt in the breeze of a clear and colorful autumn
Sweet in my mouth
Ears tired from so many smiles
And the world is a warm green and blue
Dashing through days and lingering in nighttime
A warm hand a hot heart a calming/peaceful mind
Where time is a song
Of birds and rain
Loud
Is sadness
Pounding hot in my ears
Like the unforgiving burden of sorrow
Where earlobes are stiff – sour with the world’s anger
And the heart is heavy
Dis-empowering the uncertain mind
Soft
Is a feeling
That lives only in me – with passion and will
Breathing changing emotion
Invisible to the world
Transforming from words
Into thoughts, eyes, dreams, and life
I become you
A transitory part of an enormous story
A syllable; a thousand parts of a whole
My feeling is me
A hot bubbly beautiful soul
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Local Union Chumps Protesting Milkboy in Ardmore
This winter Milkboy has been picketed almost daily by The Carpenters Union, who are protesting work being done at a new Milkboy location currently under construction at 11th and Chestnut. The two blank faced stooges refuse to conversate (Me no talka! Me want paycheck!) but are distributing materials which states their case.
According to the flier, the union is shaming the MilkBoy for using contractors that are “contributing to the destruction of area wage and benefit standards of the community by paying its employees substantially less than those rates established by members of the Metropolitan Regional Council of Carpenters.” Translation, they hired a contractor who was willing to accept less than the "union wage." This is the reason construction costs are so darn high that small businesses can't afford the expansion they want and that local economies need. This is the union wage that funds a billion dollar investment portfolio, owns a 38% stake in Philadelphia Media Holdings, (the company that owns The Philadelphia Inquirer, Daily News and Philly.com.)
The union efforts to thwart Milkboys business is clearly futile, they're always packed. The food and music are fab and it seems the pro-union message couldn't resonate less with the young creative types who hang here. In my stops at Milkboy, I've chatted with Tommy and found him kind, well spoken and easy going. To my inquiry about the folks outside, he explained the situation, shared frustraions but was calm and even sympathetic to his opposors. He told me he even offered the union protestors some hot coffee on a particularly cold day to which they refused. It is winter, and they're standing outside with a sign all day. Bravo Tommy.
Monday, January 17, 2011
On the 33
On the 33, I rode through the streets of my home, Philadelphia, stared out smudged windows and examined unfamiliar faces. I remember a few individuals who were regular riders whom I had the pleasure of getting to know, not well enough to know their first name, but with whom I had a familiar friendliness I would like to think is uncommon on most public transportation systems. My 15-20 minute ride was a perfect amount of time to reflect on my day or worry about and hope for a different tomorrow. Frequently I arrived at my destination with tales from my commute. Usually displaying either shock by a typical display of urban blight or warmed by the completely unimportant but beautiful display of unique, comforting often bizarre human behaviors.
Many faces on the bus were black or brown, many were shades of tan, olive and some white. Much of the experience was entirely mundane on these rides on the Septa bus route 33, up from Penns Landing, all the way down Market St. making a right on 19th and up north through Fairmount to 33rd and Vengango. The electric voice meant for reminding travlers of the route final destination, still rings in my mind. A robotic, "Thir-ty-third and Ven-aango," a place somewhere in North Philly I might never see and don't pretend to understand.We rode together, sharing nothing if not the same breathing space, a seat, a pole to hang on to during a particularly jerky stop. A quiet moment in our busy days. At some point these folks I rode the bus with, silently and without their knowledge, became my people.
They taught me lessons about the commonalities of strangers, and powerful glimpses into lives very different from my own. Sometime after seeing one too many care worn single mothers, being sat on, having countless anonymous crotches and mid sections walk by, rear ends backing up into me, elbows jutting out, people yacking too loudly into their cell phone, joyful chance encounters of old friends, little independent old ladies out shopping did their lives and struggled infiltrate my soul. My heart broke for them. Hoped for them. Felt the daily struggle of making do with them.
There were intimate moments shared, beyond maneuvering a sweaty hand through droves of other different colored hands, clamoring for an inch of real estate on the grip pole or hanging bar. I remember laughing with a pretty light skinned black girl, her hands overwhelmed with shopping bags, about the delightful indulgence of retail therapy. We both craved those new clothes, our updated and fashionable version of our young selves. I remember the frantic, desperate and angry pleas of an overwhelmed mother calming her rambunctious toddler. A little too roughly shoving with demands for him to "quit whining and act right." Sometimes there were threats of physical violence to these children that still haunt me. The child's eyes wide with youth, potential, innocence, their short legs dangling off the seat. They were the cutest, the most well behaved little kids, the ones with the frustrated single, working two jobs, going to school, trying to do the right thing even with the challenges, too young mommies.
Sometimes a care worn mom would yell too loud, push too hard, grab too tight, and the whole bus would hold its breath. I used to make silly faces at the wee ones, using my signature (my old touch my nose and stick my tongue out routine,) hoping to bring some laughter into what seemed like a rough day. I loved seeing the feircely independent older ladies out and about doing their thing. Curiousity got the better of me, and I would let myself wonder what their lives were like, how many grandchildren they had, what funny or heartbreaking tales they had to tell. So many life lessons were learned in these tiny powerful moments. I'll never forget my people on the 33!
Many faces on the bus were black or brown, many were shades of tan, olive and some white. Much of the experience was entirely mundane on these rides on the Septa bus route 33, up from Penns Landing, all the way down Market St. making a right on 19th and up north through Fairmount to 33rd and Vengango. The electric voice meant for reminding travlers of the route final destination, still rings in my mind. A robotic, "Thir-ty-third and Ven-aango," a place somewhere in North Philly I might never see and don't pretend to understand.We rode together, sharing nothing if not the same breathing space, a seat, a pole to hang on to during a particularly jerky stop. A quiet moment in our busy days. At some point these folks I rode the bus with, silently and without their knowledge, became my people.
They taught me lessons about the commonalities of strangers, and powerful glimpses into lives very different from my own. Sometime after seeing one too many care worn single mothers, being sat on, having countless anonymous crotches and mid sections walk by, rear ends backing up into me, elbows jutting out, people yacking too loudly into their cell phone, joyful chance encounters of old friends, little independent old ladies out shopping did their lives and struggled infiltrate my soul. My heart broke for them. Hoped for them. Felt the daily struggle of making do with them.
There were intimate moments shared, beyond maneuvering a sweaty hand through droves of other different colored hands, clamoring for an inch of real estate on the grip pole or hanging bar. I remember laughing with a pretty light skinned black girl, her hands overwhelmed with shopping bags, about the delightful indulgence of retail therapy. We both craved those new clothes, our updated and fashionable version of our young selves. I remember the frantic, desperate and angry pleas of an overwhelmed mother calming her rambunctious toddler. A little too roughly shoving with demands for him to "quit whining and act right." Sometimes there were threats of physical violence to these children that still haunt me. The child's eyes wide with youth, potential, innocence, their short legs dangling off the seat. They were the cutest, the most well behaved little kids, the ones with the frustrated single, working two jobs, going to school, trying to do the right thing even with the challenges, too young mommies.
Sometimes a care worn mom would yell too loud, push too hard, grab too tight, and the whole bus would hold its breath. I used to make silly faces at the wee ones, using my signature (my old touch my nose and stick my tongue out routine,) hoping to bring some laughter into what seemed like a rough day. I loved seeing the feircely independent older ladies out and about doing their thing. Curiousity got the better of me, and I would let myself wonder what their lives were like, how many grandchildren they had, what funny or heartbreaking tales they had to tell. So many life lessons were learned in these tiny powerful moments. I'll never forget my people on the 33!
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Delicioso!!
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| Lots of fresh veggies!! |
So on days when I'm lacking culinary creativity and find myself tempted to pop in a frozen pizza, this is a perfect option to cook something in only a few short steps and still feel amazing!
These are three superb ingredients that are perfectly versatile in any meal.
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| I buy the spinach either in a bag of the large tub. I'd prefer to get the unbagged version (which requires mindful prewashing) but this is a nice shortcut. |
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| Saute it up in my wok, drizzle a bit of olive oil, fresh chopped garlic. |
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| Deliciously nutritious lentils. These take a while to cook, approx 45 min. so leave some time! |
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| Add a layer of chickpeas! |
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| Top with your sauteed spinach, sprinkle some feta and voila! YUM!! |
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