A while back, a friend asked on her blog, for people to list their favorite body part. We love to pick apart our bodies and find the major and minor flaws that make us a real human being. I thought it was a great post from my friend, but I never personally accepted the challenge.
I’m not a petite girl. I was born tall like my dad, and curvy like my mom, and my step-dad worked solid muscle into the mix. I tend to get most compliments on my body when I’m at the gym, or out hiking, biking, or being active. Somehow, normal clothes mask my best features. What looks sexy curvy and strong in a swimming suit looks fat in a sweater. What looks powerful and sleek in shorts looks…well, I don’t even try to wear jeans…Am I the only woman in America who feels more comfortable nude than clothed? Why did Lucifer have to tell Adam and Eve they were naked?
However, there are some compliments no woman likes to hear, not matter how honest and sincere they may be. Thursday night while at the gym, I was working in leg lifts with a small Brazilian man. He was lifting 150 lb, me 50 lb. He was helping me re-weight the machine and he says “You have such strong legs.” With a lascivious smile and then proceeded to watch me with my 12 rep set. The rest of the evening he followed me around the gym. (Which is also why I never talk, or make eye contact, with anyone at the gym!) On Friday, as I was walking through the Public Gardens, two men walked past me and one said “I love your big beautiful legs!” Okay, seriously, the words ‘love’ and ‘beautiful’ do not override the word ‘big’ here.
I do like my legs because they carry me here and there and hold me up and they are strong. But I think my favorite things about me that are also big, are my heart and my brain. Unfortuantly, I can't really take a photo of those things. Sorry.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Feasting
I recently read an essay from Krista Bremer titled “My accidental Jihad” in which the author describes the lesson’s she learns during her husband’s observance of Ramadan. As she is coming to terms with the natural human tendency towards selfishness, she wonders “Is love an endless feast, or is it what people manage to serve each other when their cupboards are bare?”
The statement first hit my heart where I had to honestly acknowledge that a few of my friends that I have been frustrated with have fed me over and over, even though their cupboards were wiped clean. And I know that I do not. I hoard. I have little stashes and pockets of me saved away from everyone.
After I mulled that realization over for awhile, I started thinking how this concept applies to not only our relationships with ourself, and with other people, but with things such as work, school, hobbies, etc. Am I pursuing dreams in my life that I can continue to serve even when my cupboards are bare? Elder Oaks Sunday afternoon talk also talked about this: There is good, better and best. Work towards the best thing.
I habitually pursue things that weren’t as important to me for lack of courage. But all those things I’ve worked towards aren’t necessarily things that I will be able to serve when I am empty. There is too much going out and not enough coming in. And I don’t mean enough “ME” time. I am selfish or self preserving enough to demand that, but I don’t have enough important nourishment coming in to sustain me.
Safety is Wonder Bread and a glass of water.
The statement first hit my heart where I had to honestly acknowledge that a few of my friends that I have been frustrated with have fed me over and over, even though their cupboards were wiped clean. And I know that I do not. I hoard. I have little stashes and pockets of me saved away from everyone.
After I mulled that realization over for awhile, I started thinking how this concept applies to not only our relationships with ourself, and with other people, but with things such as work, school, hobbies, etc. Am I pursuing dreams in my life that I can continue to serve even when my cupboards are bare? Elder Oaks Sunday afternoon talk also talked about this: There is good, better and best. Work towards the best thing.
I habitually pursue things that weren’t as important to me for lack of courage. But all those things I’ve worked towards aren’t necessarily things that I will be able to serve when I am empty. There is too much going out and not enough coming in. And I don’t mean enough “ME” time. I am selfish or self preserving enough to demand that, but I don’t have enough important nourishment coming in to sustain me.
Safety is Wonder Bread and a glass of water.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
look-a-like. or not.
Way back in the early days of Julia Roberts, I had people say I looked like her. I think mostly because of my big mouth. According to this nifty system, these are 8 celebrities I look like now. Somehow I'm mostly Asian....The only one I mostly agree with is Jamie Lynn Spears and I'm not so sure how pleased I am that I look like the Spears girls. But I don't know I am from Shreveport LA. Maybe we're cousins?
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Your A Nation
There are a *few* things I'm obsessive about; gum, popcorn, vegetables and water. Lots and lots and lots of water. Every once in a while I’ll measure how much I drink, and it’s around four gallons a day. It’s excessive, I know, but I can’t help myself! I love the wet clear liquidity of it. I swear I can feel my blood cells plump up after a tall glass of water.
The down side to all this water consumption is the water expulsion. As noted in previous post, I love to go walking and hiking. Unfortunately, I can’t go hiking for more than two hours without needing to go to pee.
Most often I go hiking with my backpack, if nothing else to hold an extra pack of gum and my wallet incase I want to run an errand on the way home. Today, however, I wanted to be light and mobile, and left the pack at home. There was one errand on my way, and I tucked my Bank of America card into the little pocket on the inside of my running shorts.
It was a beautiful hike along a new rocky trail. I would climb to a little summit and look out on the view with the city in the distance and the Snoopy clouds in the sky. Down I would go, jumping from rock to tree root, swinging down the path, running with the red dragon flies. After an hour, the path forked. I could access the gravel road that would lead me out of the Fells and back home, or I could continue on for a while. I chose to continue on, but with each passing step and jump, I felt that it wasn’t the right choice and decided to turn around and take the shorter route.
As nature would have it, I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it another hour back home with out visiting a nice big tree or boulder. I sat my walkman down and found a little place off the trail. The hike home would be much more comfortable now.
Two miles later, three blocks from my house, I realized that my Bank of America card was no longer in my short pocket. For an instance I thought “I’ll just call it in lost and have it replaced.” But I believe if you break it you fix it, lose it, find it. I had to at least attempt at retracing my steps to try to find it.
I casually scanned the mile long stretch of sidewalk but I knew it wouldn’t be there. I was confident that it had flipped out of my pocket during my haste in lowering and pulling back up my shorts, way back deep in the trail. While my bladder may fail me, the endurance of my legs walking, the earnestness of following my conviction, and pure faith led me to the very spot the card laid. I knew that I would find it, but it’s still a miracle. One little golden leaf colored 2 inch card in a 25,000 acre leaf covered land.
So the moral of the story is, drinking water will give you soft skin, and leave your bank card at home when going hiking.
The down side to all this water consumption is the water expulsion. As noted in previous post, I love to go walking and hiking. Unfortunately, I can’t go hiking for more than two hours without needing to go to pee.
Most often I go hiking with my backpack, if nothing else to hold an extra pack of gum and my wallet incase I want to run an errand on the way home. Today, however, I wanted to be light and mobile, and left the pack at home. There was one errand on my way, and I tucked my Bank of America card into the little pocket on the inside of my running shorts.
It was a beautiful hike along a new rocky trail. I would climb to a little summit and look out on the view with the city in the distance and the Snoopy clouds in the sky. Down I would go, jumping from rock to tree root, swinging down the path, running with the red dragon flies. After an hour, the path forked. I could access the gravel road that would lead me out of the Fells and back home, or I could continue on for a while. I chose to continue on, but with each passing step and jump, I felt that it wasn’t the right choice and decided to turn around and take the shorter route.
As nature would have it, I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it another hour back home with out visiting a nice big tree or boulder. I sat my walkman down and found a little place off the trail. The hike home would be much more comfortable now.
Two miles later, three blocks from my house, I realized that my Bank of America card was no longer in my short pocket. For an instance I thought “I’ll just call it in lost and have it replaced.” But I believe if you break it you fix it, lose it, find it. I had to at least attempt at retracing my steps to try to find it.
I casually scanned the mile long stretch of sidewalk but I knew it wouldn’t be there. I was confident that it had flipped out of my pocket during my haste in lowering and pulling back up my shorts, way back deep in the trail. While my bladder may fail me, the endurance of my legs walking, the earnestness of following my conviction, and pure faith led me to the very spot the card laid. I knew that I would find it, but it’s still a miracle. One little golden leaf colored 2 inch card in a 25,000 acre leaf covered land.
So the moral of the story is, drinking water will give you soft skin, and leave your bank card at home when going hiking.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Vacation
I finally took a few days off from work to go on a mini-New England vacation. Thursday and Friday were a wash with the rain, but Saturday I made it to a kayak tour with the North Shore Kayak in Rockport, MA.Oddly enough Merritt and Bryan showed up a the exact same place to go on the exact same tour! Small World!
Here, Merritt and I are modeling the latest in PDF wear.
The kayaks in wait.
On the way to the island.
waves in RI. (and my foot. I don't know how I didn't notice that when I was taking the picture.)
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Feminism...or...My Most Unpopular Post To-date
This entry is in response to my friend’s recent post on feminism (under Family Law). Let me first start by clearing up a few misconceptions people have of me. 1) I am not a vegetarian, 2) to the best of my understanding I am not a democrat, 3) I am not rebellious, and 4) I am not a feminist. Perhaps I’m just a very lucky person, and have always done what I wanted to do, and not really ever worried about if it was gender appropriate. I love dresses more than I like pants, but I like climbing trees more than playing with dolls. I went to finishing school and was in beauty pageants as a young girl, but bought a motorcycle at 16. I’m going kayaking on Saturday, and cooking dinner for friends on Sunday. I didn’t feel like any of the choices on the “Are you a feminist?” quiz fit me, and here are my lengthy reasons why:
Women should be economically and socially independent. They shouldn’t rely on men to take care of them: A PERSON should know who they are and what makes them tick. A PERSON should know where money is coming from and where money is going and how. I think it’s healthy if a PERSON has a friend or two outside of the family, and their own hobbies. I don’t think it’s right for a woman to expect, or solicit, nice expensive gifts and dinners and such, but in raising a family, I think it is best for one person to be earning an income and one person to be running the household. Both responsibilities are equally hard and equally rewarding and equally important. Just different.
There is no such thing as a “man’s job.” It is wrong for men to be given preference for any job position, even if women traditionally aren’t in that field: growing up I WISHED my dad thought there were ‘men’ jobs and ‘womens’ jobs! I can think of a few jobs, that the average man can do better than the average woman. If I were trapped in a burning house, I would prefer a 6’0” muscular man to carry me out of the 3rd floor, than a 5’6” fit woman. A woman can breast feed, a man can’t. But for most working positions, I think regardless of your gender, race, or religion we should be treated fairly and equitably.
Men and women should be held to the same sexual standards. If men can sleep around without judgment, women should be able to do the same: I don’t think MEN should sleep around! How ‘bout we ALL practice a little sexual monogamy?
Women should take an equal role in dating. Women should ask out people they are interested in and take their turn in paying: Okay, so this one I strongly agree with, and have practiced in the past, and know from sad experience that even though I AGREE with this one, it doesn’t work. At all.
Women should accept their bodies as they are. Women should not have to conform to wacky beauty ideals: I also agree with this one, but maybe not in the way that I’ve heard some women put it. I think we should care about how our bodies work and how healthy we are. I work out every day. I eat a well-balanced diet, and try to get the right amount of sleep. I’m pretty amazed at how my body works; my fingers, my legs, the inside and the out. But yes, it is frustrating when you are 5’9”, wear a size 8, and because you have a C cup, the guy you are dating tells you that women with large breast are fat because breast are just fat cells. And it is frustrating that women at work spend $250 on a hair cut and color, get manicures every week, and spend a fortune on cloths and shoes and are treated more ‘professionally’ than me who is a bit more frugal than all that.
Women should have the right to choose any path in life – from being a stay at home mom to a Fortune 500 CEO: You bet, everyone should have the right to choose their own path. Each choice does have a purpose, a blessing and a consequence. It just seems to me that women who choose one path are pretty nasty to women who choose a different one.
Women should have legal, easy access to all types of birth control – including the morning after pill: Again, yes, I agree that women should have access to birth control, but I just wish women and men made different moral judgments on the sex end of the issue.
All in all, I usually find gender discussions, more about trying to find loop holes for morality, rather than helping people, men and women, find true peace and meaning in their lives.
Women should be economically and socially independent. They shouldn’t rely on men to take care of them: A PERSON should know who they are and what makes them tick. A PERSON should know where money is coming from and where money is going and how. I think it’s healthy if a PERSON has a friend or two outside of the family, and their own hobbies. I don’t think it’s right for a woman to expect, or solicit, nice expensive gifts and dinners and such, but in raising a family, I think it is best for one person to be earning an income and one person to be running the household. Both responsibilities are equally hard and equally rewarding and equally important. Just different.
There is no such thing as a “man’s job.” It is wrong for men to be given preference for any job position, even if women traditionally aren’t in that field: growing up I WISHED my dad thought there were ‘men’ jobs and ‘womens’ jobs! I can think of a few jobs, that the average man can do better than the average woman. If I were trapped in a burning house, I would prefer a 6’0” muscular man to carry me out of the 3rd floor, than a 5’6” fit woman. A woman can breast feed, a man can’t. But for most working positions, I think regardless of your gender, race, or religion we should be treated fairly and equitably.
Men and women should be held to the same sexual standards. If men can sleep around without judgment, women should be able to do the same: I don’t think MEN should sleep around! How ‘bout we ALL practice a little sexual monogamy?
Women should take an equal role in dating. Women should ask out people they are interested in and take their turn in paying: Okay, so this one I strongly agree with, and have practiced in the past, and know from sad experience that even though I AGREE with this one, it doesn’t work. At all.
Women should accept their bodies as they are. Women should not have to conform to wacky beauty ideals: I also agree with this one, but maybe not in the way that I’ve heard some women put it. I think we should care about how our bodies work and how healthy we are. I work out every day. I eat a well-balanced diet, and try to get the right amount of sleep. I’m pretty amazed at how my body works; my fingers, my legs, the inside and the out. But yes, it is frustrating when you are 5’9”, wear a size 8, and because you have a C cup, the guy you are dating tells you that women with large breast are fat because breast are just fat cells. And it is frustrating that women at work spend $250 on a hair cut and color, get manicures every week, and spend a fortune on cloths and shoes and are treated more ‘professionally’ than me who is a bit more frugal than all that.
Women should have the right to choose any path in life – from being a stay at home mom to a Fortune 500 CEO: You bet, everyone should have the right to choose their own path. Each choice does have a purpose, a blessing and a consequence. It just seems to me that women who choose one path are pretty nasty to women who choose a different one.
Women should have legal, easy access to all types of birth control – including the morning after pill: Again, yes, I agree that women should have access to birth control, but I just wish women and men made different moral judgments on the sex end of the issue.
All in all, I usually find gender discussions, more about trying to find loop holes for morality, rather than helping people, men and women, find true peace and meaning in their lives.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Sabbath Day
I have found the perfect pre-church Sunday activity for me. Each Sunday morning I walk up to Fellsmere Park with an empty garbage sack, pair of dish gloves and a nice piece of classical music. I know others do not understand what drives me to do these things, but I wish they could feel what peace and happiness I feel in picking up garbage.
As a visitor to the park I am greeted by the early morning sunshine, the sound of the lapping Fellsmere pond and little ducks quacking their hello’s and how are you doings. Old Asian men and women swing their arms and backs in invigorating exercise and smile and say Hi with a polite nod. Frisky little dogs are out taking their morning romp. And I, picking up a few pieces of plastic bags, bottles, and Dunkin Donuts Styrofoam cups get to be a part of that. There is a purpose and a direction that I feel. And a pleasure in knowing that I am helping take care of the Earth. And a connection to other people.
I've been told that it’s working and not keeping the Sabbath day holy, but to me it feels holy and peaceful.
The only thing I can’t figure out is how the majority of the trash winds up in the brambles. Is that where people discard it, thinking that no one else will see it? Is it where the wind blows the unanchored cup? Yes, it’s in the thick of the brambles that I am always trying to tear away a plastic bag from the unyielding thorny bush.
I wonder how much I am like the thorny bush that refuses to let go of the garbage, or how much I am like the garbage that without weight and substance can be tossed and blown about? But mostly I think I am me, a steward over the park who takes joy in its existence and lends a helping hand.
As a visitor to the park I am greeted by the early morning sunshine, the sound of the lapping Fellsmere pond and little ducks quacking their hello’s and how are you doings. Old Asian men and women swing their arms and backs in invigorating exercise and smile and say Hi with a polite nod. Frisky little dogs are out taking their morning romp. And I, picking up a few pieces of plastic bags, bottles, and Dunkin Donuts Styrofoam cups get to be a part of that. There is a purpose and a direction that I feel. And a pleasure in knowing that I am helping take care of the Earth. And a connection to other people.
I've been told that it’s working and not keeping the Sabbath day holy, but to me it feels holy and peaceful.
The only thing I can’t figure out is how the majority of the trash winds up in the brambles. Is that where people discard it, thinking that no one else will see it? Is it where the wind blows the unanchored cup? Yes, it’s in the thick of the brambles that I am always trying to tear away a plastic bag from the unyielding thorny bush.
I wonder how much I am like the thorny bush that refuses to let go of the garbage, or how much I am like the garbage that without weight and substance can be tossed and blown about? But mostly I think I am me, a steward over the park who takes joy in its existence and lends a helping hand.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Drugs
Lately, I find that the open use of drugs is becoming more and more acceptable and it makes my stomach turn. I am fearful of it as I would be rushing into a burning building. I want to stay as far away from it as possible and can’t possibly understand why anyone else is standing up close roasting marshmallows on the open flame.
I have always had this aversion to drugs. In fourth grade I read a book called Go Ask Alice. This book shook me to my core and I read it over and over. There was something similar in where me and my sister had come from, and where we could end up and it terrorized me. More than the Edgar Allen Poe book I got for Christmas the same year. So while my sister took a somewhat less traumatic path down ‘Alice’s’ road, I have stood firm and resolute against drugs and anyone who uses them. But they are everywhere.
I boarded the Blue line today to go see the sand sculptures at Revere Beach. The train was packed with a mixture of airport passengers and beach goers, three of which were stoned out of their mind. I sat a few seats up and across from them and watched in morbid fascination. They looked the very part that you expect drug users to look. Snaggled tooth and crazy snake eyes, mouth gaping open and delayed motions. When one woman would try to look up and focus, tremors raced through my body. I felt as if I were sitting with the devil himself.
At one point the man dropped a pill on the floor and it rolled between me and a young guy sitting across from me. The man teetered over to grab it off the sticky dirty floor of the subway car and popped it into his mouth. And they talked about their kids. They were somebody’s parents!
So it can almost be easy to be repulsed by this kind of drug user. But what about my co-workers who openly talk about smoking pot? Or getting wasted the night before? Or how about an article I just read from a journalist who went to a famous celebrity party and talked candidly about how everyone, EVERYONE does drugs? The article made me want to boycott movies for the rest of my life except movies are my drug.
And mostly it just makes me so, so, sad. I love having the control to move my fingers and talk and think clearly and to sleep and wake according to a natural rhythm. I can’t imagine taking something that takes that away from me.
I will never be curious to try drugs, but I am curious to know why others use them. I’m also curious to know why any adult thought these books were appropriate for a 4th grader.?.
I have always had this aversion to drugs. In fourth grade I read a book called Go Ask Alice. This book shook me to my core and I read it over and over. There was something similar in where me and my sister had come from, and where we could end up and it terrorized me. More than the Edgar Allen Poe book I got for Christmas the same year. So while my sister took a somewhat less traumatic path down ‘Alice’s’ road, I have stood firm and resolute against drugs and anyone who uses them. But they are everywhere.
I boarded the Blue line today to go see the sand sculptures at Revere Beach. The train was packed with a mixture of airport passengers and beach goers, three of which were stoned out of their mind. I sat a few seats up and across from them and watched in morbid fascination. They looked the very part that you expect drug users to look. Snaggled tooth and crazy snake eyes, mouth gaping open and delayed motions. When one woman would try to look up and focus, tremors raced through my body. I felt as if I were sitting with the devil himself.
At one point the man dropped a pill on the floor and it rolled between me and a young guy sitting across from me. The man teetered over to grab it off the sticky dirty floor of the subway car and popped it into his mouth. And they talked about their kids. They were somebody’s parents!
So it can almost be easy to be repulsed by this kind of drug user. But what about my co-workers who openly talk about smoking pot? Or getting wasted the night before? Or how about an article I just read from a journalist who went to a famous celebrity party and talked candidly about how everyone, EVERYONE does drugs? The article made me want to boycott movies for the rest of my life except movies are my drug.
And mostly it just makes me so, so, sad. I love having the control to move my fingers and talk and think clearly and to sleep and wake according to a natural rhythm. I can’t imagine taking something that takes that away from me.
I will never be curious to try drugs, but I am curious to know why others use them. I’m also curious to know why any adult thought these books were appropriate for a 4th grader.?.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
My Happy Place
There is something about an animal that makes my heart happy and puts a smile on my face. It can be the wide long space between two big eyes on the nose of a cow, the spunky frolic of a spring lamb, or a cat’s paw curled over the eyes during a nap, and almost everything about a dog.
Tuesday was a windy day in Boston. Women walking down the sidewalk had to walk with hands holding down summer skirts, stray Metro newspapers blew in circles, eyes squinted against blowing sand, and one man kited down Boylston with a homemade sail attached to a skateboard. It was no tropical storm on the horizon, but just a summer wind blowing through town.
Walking past the held down skirts, swirling newspapers and avoiding the parasailing skateboard, I passed by a man walking a dog. It was a shaggy sort of dog like an English sheepdog. Shorn down in the spring, his growing coat was blowing in the wind. He had the look of a dog sticking his head out a moving car window. Eyes squinting with a happy look, a grin on the face, fur blowing back in the breeze. He trotted down the sidewalk like a Muppet on a field trip.
A few stressful situations into the week, I tried to find my happy place. Meditate. Focus. Relax. With out provocation, the image of the breezy Boylston street dog pops into my mind and I instantly smile. Disarming who ever was on the other side of the stressing situation. Oh, if only I could pet that dog!
Tuesday was a windy day in Boston. Women walking down the sidewalk had to walk with hands holding down summer skirts, stray Metro newspapers blew in circles, eyes squinted against blowing sand, and one man kited down Boylston with a homemade sail attached to a skateboard. It was no tropical storm on the horizon, but just a summer wind blowing through town.
Walking past the held down skirts, swirling newspapers and avoiding the parasailing skateboard, I passed by a man walking a dog. It was a shaggy sort of dog like an English sheepdog. Shorn down in the spring, his growing coat was blowing in the wind. He had the look of a dog sticking his head out a moving car window. Eyes squinting with a happy look, a grin on the face, fur blowing back in the breeze. He trotted down the sidewalk like a Muppet on a field trip.
A few stressful situations into the week, I tried to find my happy place. Meditate. Focus. Relax. With out provocation, the image of the breezy Boylston street dog pops into my mind and I instantly smile. Disarming who ever was on the other side of the stressing situation. Oh, if only I could pet that dog!
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Lucious Letters
You know how most people send out complaint letters? Not me, I love sending out Thank You letters. Aside from a letter to Hersey's, I usually get a nice letter or something back. My latest is Stoneyfield Farms. I sent a letter a few weeks ago, and just recieved a cute little package of stuff today.
June 19, 2007
Stonyfield Farm
Ten Burton Drive
Londonderry, NH 03053
Dear Stonyfield Farm,
Just a quick note from an extremely satisfied consumer! I love your yogurt!
I only started eating yogurt a year ago. I’ve never really liked dairy products and much to my farming family’s chagrin, became a dedicated soy-milk drinker. However, news article after article kept advocating the benefits of yogurt eating, so I decided to give it another try. I bought every kind of yogurt the super-market carried: Colombo, Yoplait, Dannon, non-descript store-brand, European style, Greek Style, and Stonyfield Farm®. Guess who the winner was? Stonyfield. And me.
Now yogurt isn’t something to just quickly swallow to get my live acidophilus, but it’s something to enjoy! My particular favorite is Luscious Lemon. I love Luscious Lemon so much that I’m actually glad it only comes in the small 8 oz size. It forces me into portion control. It is the perfect combination between sweet and tangy, creamy and juicy. Yummmmm.
I also love that Stonyfield Farm is organic and gives back to the community and environment. I’ve been such a fan of Stonyfield that I’ve managed to switch two roommates, a friend, and a few co-workers onto your products. (Of course, now I have to mark my container so that no one steals it.)
Thank you to you and your cows.
June 19, 2007
Stonyfield Farm
Ten Burton Drive
Londonderry, NH 03053
Dear Stonyfield Farm,
Just a quick note from an extremely satisfied consumer! I love your yogurt!
I only started eating yogurt a year ago. I’ve never really liked dairy products and much to my farming family’s chagrin, became a dedicated soy-milk drinker. However, news article after article kept advocating the benefits of yogurt eating, so I decided to give it another try. I bought every kind of yogurt the super-market carried: Colombo, Yoplait, Dannon, non-descript store-brand, European style, Greek Style, and Stonyfield Farm®. Guess who the winner was? Stonyfield. And me.
Now yogurt isn’t something to just quickly swallow to get my live acidophilus, but it’s something to enjoy! My particular favorite is Luscious Lemon. I love Luscious Lemon so much that I’m actually glad it only comes in the small 8 oz size. It forces me into portion control. It is the perfect combination between sweet and tangy, creamy and juicy. Yummmmm.
I also love that Stonyfield Farm is organic and gives back to the community and environment. I’ve been such a fan of Stonyfield that I’ve managed to switch two roommates, a friend, and a few co-workers onto your products. (Of course, now I have to mark my container so that no one steals it.)
Thank you to you and your cows.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
How Hugging Dreams Work
Our freedom depended on the performance of the monkey. Each team of two was given a monkey to train and perform. If the performance was good enough, we were set free. If not, I don’t know. Everyone took to training their monkey. The little guys had chains tightly around their necks, being taught to do tricks and beg and being punished if they failed to comprehend. All except their little monkey.
Sam was the coldest human of the group, but he taught his monkey. Not like an animal, but like a child, a friend. While others were teaching them the typical three ring circus tricks, Sam taught his little monkey how to ice skate. And they skated and skated and Sam was on his hands and knees on the cold ice going over the routine again and again and again.
Performance night, the woman and Sam and the monkey are in their ring. From the beginning they realize that the opening act is flawed. It’s too small and intimate for the crowd and judges to see. They do their best, but halfway through, Sam at the farthest corner, the monkey is ripped off stage by the judges and the music is stopped.
The woman said something to the judge and Sam approached. Sam asked the woman what she said, and she looked at Sam with teary eyes and said “I asked if the monkey would be okay”. They hugged. The two previous strangers, man and woman, embraced as two lovers in condolences. Heads buried into necks, she utters “I love you” and he nods his head in agreement.
Leaving the dressing room, the woman packs her makeup into her case. As she grabbed the open compact, she thought she saw a reflection of the man she once wanted to love.
Analyze that Jung! Sometimes much goes on, and sometimes it’s very quick, but always, somehow, it’s the hug, the embrace, that stays with my mind and my skin through out the day.
Sam was the coldest human of the group, but he taught his monkey. Not like an animal, but like a child, a friend. While others were teaching them the typical three ring circus tricks, Sam taught his little monkey how to ice skate. And they skated and skated and Sam was on his hands and knees on the cold ice going over the routine again and again and again.
Performance night, the woman and Sam and the monkey are in their ring. From the beginning they realize that the opening act is flawed. It’s too small and intimate for the crowd and judges to see. They do their best, but halfway through, Sam at the farthest corner, the monkey is ripped off stage by the judges and the music is stopped.
The woman said something to the judge and Sam approached. Sam asked the woman what she said, and she looked at Sam with teary eyes and said “I asked if the monkey would be okay”. They hugged. The two previous strangers, man and woman, embraced as two lovers in condolences. Heads buried into necks, she utters “I love you” and he nods his head in agreement.
Leaving the dressing room, the woman packs her makeup into her case. As she grabbed the open compact, she thought she saw a reflection of the man she once wanted to love.
Analyze that Jung! Sometimes much goes on, and sometimes it’s very quick, but always, somehow, it’s the hug, the embrace, that stays with my mind and my skin through out the day.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Corinthians
There is a grab-bag of personalities in my office. I genuinely like them all, though sometimes I want to wring a neck or two. I can think of one or two traits from each that I would like to incorporate into my own self. The most important one is the most genuine Christ-like behavior that I see on a daily basis. My 30 year-old co-worker Paul* is truly amazing in his complete unflappable ability to always be friendly, kind, considerate, and thinking of others. I’ve never heard him utter a swear word, never participates in gossip, and always tries to think the best of each person he meets.
He and his wife married ten years ago, lived overseas as a young Christian missionary couple, directed a youth program for seven years, came back to the states, to attend graduate school, both have a great sense of humor and style, love their families, etc. Truly a life to be envious of.
A few months ago, I noticed that Paul wasn’t as cheerful as usual and was missing work a lot. I know he has a small medical condition and asked some of our co-workers if everything was okay with him. It’s been such a subtle difference they didn’t know anything was wrong.
Today I mentioned something or other to him about his family, and he was very silent for a moment before he explained to me that he recently got a divorce. I was so very, very surprised and saddened by it, that I actually started to cry. He was so kind, but honest about the situation. “Some days its not so hard, and some days it really is.”
As I was walking home this evening I was thinking of a recent passage I came across in 2 Corinthians 4: 8-9: “We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed but not in despair; Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.” In the mortal plane of our existence we each will have big and small trials and test of faith and courage. We do become perplexed. Why did this pain happen? Why did that event take place? We do feel persecuted. Why did my boss criticize my performance? Why did an old friend lash out at me? We are troubled on every side: Will I have a job in this economy? Will my husband/brother/friend come back from the war? Yet in spite of our fears, we go on because we are not distressed nor in despair nor destroyed.
I know I feel this great strength of courage in me, but I’m not sure that I always exhibit it on the outside. But Paul, he has taught me again today, what it means to walk in hope and faith and joy in the light of Christ.
He and his wife married ten years ago, lived overseas as a young Christian missionary couple, directed a youth program for seven years, came back to the states, to attend graduate school, both have a great sense of humor and style, love their families, etc. Truly a life to be envious of.
A few months ago, I noticed that Paul wasn’t as cheerful as usual and was missing work a lot. I know he has a small medical condition and asked some of our co-workers if everything was okay with him. It’s been such a subtle difference they didn’t know anything was wrong.
Today I mentioned something or other to him about his family, and he was very silent for a moment before he explained to me that he recently got a divorce. I was so very, very surprised and saddened by it, that I actually started to cry. He was so kind, but honest about the situation. “Some days its not so hard, and some days it really is.”
As I was walking home this evening I was thinking of a recent passage I came across in 2 Corinthians 4: 8-9: “We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed but not in despair; Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.” In the mortal plane of our existence we each will have big and small trials and test of faith and courage. We do become perplexed. Why did this pain happen? Why did that event take place? We do feel persecuted. Why did my boss criticize my performance? Why did an old friend lash out at me? We are troubled on every side: Will I have a job in this economy? Will my husband/brother/friend come back from the war? Yet in spite of our fears, we go on because we are not distressed nor in despair nor destroyed.
I know I feel this great strength of courage in me, but I’m not sure that I always exhibit it on the outside. But Paul, he has taught me again today, what it means to walk in hope and faith and joy in the light of Christ.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
My Two Dads
I have two fathers, both very different than each other. No, not like the cheesy sitcom where one was an accountant(?) and one was an artist and we lived in a cool loft in New York. I have the first father, who gave me his brown eyes, long limbs, optimism and silliness, his creative geniuses and wander lust. My second father gave me his last name, discipline, structure and dedication to long hard work.
We called them both ‘Daddy’ which never seemed to confuse the siblings, parents or grandparents, but has been a constant source of confusion when telling stories at dinner parties. There never seemed to be much competition between the two for our affection or for being the REAL Dad. The first was happy to let the second cover the financial and disciplinary responsibilities of parenthood and the second was happy to let the first take care of the long creative talks.
Father number one is Dennis. I think if he were a young man today, he’d be a metro-sexual. He was an expert angler, but was somewhat prissy. He studied psychology, was a DJ through college, wrote romance novels under a feminine identity, had several patents, and several more mistresses, and paid most of his bills as an independent mudlogger. He was the best harmonica player I’ve ever heard, better than Toots, and had a gentle soothing voice like Dean Martin.
Most of my memories about my dad involved being in a row boat in the swampy bayous, going to arcades, eating corn dogs (it was his specialty), living in air-stream trailers across the country, and playing the moon when he would sing I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. He once convinced me that the Denny’s restaurant was his, and that alligators would eat me if I stuck my hand in the water at Liberty Park. In Salt Lake City. UT. I believed him on both accounts until I was older and realized Denny’s was a chain and we just ate there because he couldn’t cook anything but corn dogs, and alligators don’t live in Utah. He was a gentle gregarious but unguided man who passed away a loan pauper.
Father number two is Raymond. He was definitely not prissy. He was a man’s man. A Louis Lamore man. The oldest of four hilly-billy boys trying to raise four girls and a dainty boy. (We probably considered him to be dainty because he did seem frail with his small little body and white hair and blue eyes and his inability to exist without being glued to our mother’s side. But he grew up to get a third degree black belt in Kempo. I wonder if it has anything to do with us putting dresses and make-up on him?) Raymond was a tough and rough man. Not one for open affection or words, but he was perhaps one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known. He worked hard and honestly, was truthful, and raised countless number of other men’s children.
It was a difficult relationship for him and me. I wanted to play the violin and write poetry and wear pretty pink silk dresses and have all the farm animals be my pets. He wanted to teach us how to work on cars and weld and build fences and haul hay. I was an emotional gentle-hearted strange child, unlike his first children or my siblings or his brothers and their kids or the neighbors down the road. But he held to being my dad to the end.
He had more energy than ten normal men. He worked overseas mostly. Month on/month off, and the month off was never off for us. It meant being up before the sun, and to bed longer after sun down. And when we did play, it was too was always active. Once we all went to play tennis, five kids on one side, him running around the court in cowboy boots on the other.
Our greatest bonding moments came when I decided at 16, out on my own, that I wanted a motorcycle. My Dennis- dad had sent me a few hundred dollars I wanted to buy either a motorcycle or xylophones. (This is why children should not be given large sums of money.) Raymond-dad was elated, took me bike shopping and pushed me around the parking lot of the dealership like a dad and daughter on a bicycle without training wheels.
I didn’t have much opportunity to talk with him over the years. My mother and he had long ago separated. I lived several states away, and he wasn’t one much for letters or phone calls. A few years ago he became terminally ill. I went to stay at the hospital for a few days. He told me in one conversation that he never worries about me because he knows I’ll always think things through before deciding to do something. I wish I could capture how important and meaningful that statement was to me.
As I would rub his feet, callous thick from years of being free and outside, I hoped his bedridden stay in the hospital wouldn’t be that long. It was almost a year. I felt much more peace at his passing, than at my first father’s. Selfishly, I’m happy that now free of his mortal body and bounds of geography, he can watch over me and see the child he shaped into a young woman and feel proud and know that he did a really good job.
I have two fathers, and I am a perfect mix of both. Long limbed, brown-eyed, gregarious and eccentric, hard-working and structured. And in my own nature I do think things through and still chase after impracticalities like motorcycles and xylophones.
We called them both ‘Daddy’ which never seemed to confuse the siblings, parents or grandparents, but has been a constant source of confusion when telling stories at dinner parties. There never seemed to be much competition between the two for our affection or for being the REAL Dad. The first was happy to let the second cover the financial and disciplinary responsibilities of parenthood and the second was happy to let the first take care of the long creative talks.
Father number one is Dennis. I think if he were a young man today, he’d be a metro-sexual. He was an expert angler, but was somewhat prissy. He studied psychology, was a DJ through college, wrote romance novels under a feminine identity, had several patents, and several more mistresses, and paid most of his bills as an independent mudlogger. He was the best harmonica player I’ve ever heard, better than Toots, and had a gentle soothing voice like Dean Martin.
Most of my memories about my dad involved being in a row boat in the swampy bayous, going to arcades, eating corn dogs (it was his specialty), living in air-stream trailers across the country, and playing the moon when he would sing I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. He once convinced me that the Denny’s restaurant was his, and that alligators would eat me if I stuck my hand in the water at Liberty Park. In Salt Lake City. UT. I believed him on both accounts until I was older and realized Denny’s was a chain and we just ate there because he couldn’t cook anything but corn dogs, and alligators don’t live in Utah. He was a gentle gregarious but unguided man who passed away a loan pauper.
Father number two is Raymond. He was definitely not prissy. He was a man’s man. A Louis Lamore man. The oldest of four hilly-billy boys trying to raise four girls and a dainty boy. (We probably considered him to be dainty because he did seem frail with his small little body and white hair and blue eyes and his inability to exist without being glued to our mother’s side. But he grew up to get a third degree black belt in Kempo. I wonder if it has anything to do with us putting dresses and make-up on him?) Raymond was a tough and rough man. Not one for open affection or words, but he was perhaps one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known. He worked hard and honestly, was truthful, and raised countless number of other men’s children.
It was a difficult relationship for him and me. I wanted to play the violin and write poetry and wear pretty pink silk dresses and have all the farm animals be my pets. He wanted to teach us how to work on cars and weld and build fences and haul hay. I was an emotional gentle-hearted strange child, unlike his first children or my siblings or his brothers and their kids or the neighbors down the road. But he held to being my dad to the end.
He had more energy than ten normal men. He worked overseas mostly. Month on/month off, and the month off was never off for us. It meant being up before the sun, and to bed longer after sun down. And when we did play, it was too was always active. Once we all went to play tennis, five kids on one side, him running around the court in cowboy boots on the other.
Our greatest bonding moments came when I decided at 16, out on my own, that I wanted a motorcycle. My Dennis- dad had sent me a few hundred dollars I wanted to buy either a motorcycle or xylophones. (This is why children should not be given large sums of money.) Raymond-dad was elated, took me bike shopping and pushed me around the parking lot of the dealership like a dad and daughter on a bicycle without training wheels.
I didn’t have much opportunity to talk with him over the years. My mother and he had long ago separated. I lived several states away, and he wasn’t one much for letters or phone calls. A few years ago he became terminally ill. I went to stay at the hospital for a few days. He told me in one conversation that he never worries about me because he knows I’ll always think things through before deciding to do something. I wish I could capture how important and meaningful that statement was to me.
As I would rub his feet, callous thick from years of being free and outside, I hoped his bedridden stay in the hospital wouldn’t be that long. It was almost a year. I felt much more peace at his passing, than at my first father’s. Selfishly, I’m happy that now free of his mortal body and bounds of geography, he can watch over me and see the child he shaped into a young woman and feel proud and know that he did a really good job.
I have two fathers, and I am a perfect mix of both. Long limbed, brown-eyed, gregarious and eccentric, hard-working and structured. And in my own nature I do think things through and still chase after impracticalities like motorcycles and xylophones.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Dream #2
Another dream came true this week; a different type of dream this time. I started Grad school! I have been toying with the idea off and on for sometime, but never could commit to the direction I wanted to take. And watching friends suffer through the pain of changed academic dreams encouraged procrastination.
Several years ago, I really started to flesh out my ideas on community development. The first plans were grand and optimistic and a tiny bit socialist. Have you ever wanted to own an entire town? I used to fantasize about this as a little girl playing with my stagecoach cowboy set (I don’t know if my parents bought me these types of toys or if I inherited them, but I actually really enjoyed that stagecoach cowboy set.) I would set up the stores and saloons and have my stagecoach drop off passengers and they all had very exciting lives and lived in many different places. As an adult my town wouldn’t have welfare, gangs, child abuse or crime. Everyone would learn how to read, and use a computer, and go off to the big city and use all the skills they learned in my town.
Last year, I took a new position in my company and reoriented myself back into financial planning. It’s not a ‘sexy’ job, but I’m good at it, and I really feel like I am helping people with something that is important in their lives. Money. With this new job I started restructuring my DREAM socialist plan, into a REAL capitalist plan. Money. I understand it and I understand how it controls and affects our lives. We live in a country where the gap is growing between those who have it and those who don’t. I can’t give it to those who don’t have it, but I can help them understand how to use what they have to their advantage and maybe making the playing field a little more even for a few hundred people here and there.
Now that I have a REAL and completely doable plan in place, it’s time for Grad School. And while all my fellow class mates are shaking in their boots at the capstone thesis project, I’m eagerly looking forward to it. For the next two years I will squeeze out every opportunity for focused learning and application on financial planning, community development, and business management and then, then, to put passion into print for an honest-to-goodness workable financial planning business for low-income community. Without becoming low-income myself.
Several years ago, I really started to flesh out my ideas on community development. The first plans were grand and optimistic and a tiny bit socialist. Have you ever wanted to own an entire town? I used to fantasize about this as a little girl playing with my stagecoach cowboy set (I don’t know if my parents bought me these types of toys or if I inherited them, but I actually really enjoyed that stagecoach cowboy set.) I would set up the stores and saloons and have my stagecoach drop off passengers and they all had very exciting lives and lived in many different places. As an adult my town wouldn’t have welfare, gangs, child abuse or crime. Everyone would learn how to read, and use a computer, and go off to the big city and use all the skills they learned in my town.
Last year, I took a new position in my company and reoriented myself back into financial planning. It’s not a ‘sexy’ job, but I’m good at it, and I really feel like I am helping people with something that is important in their lives. Money. With this new job I started restructuring my DREAM socialist plan, into a REAL capitalist plan. Money. I understand it and I understand how it controls and affects our lives. We live in a country where the gap is growing between those who have it and those who don’t. I can’t give it to those who don’t have it, but I can help them understand how to use what they have to their advantage and maybe making the playing field a little more even for a few hundred people here and there.
Now that I have a REAL and completely doable plan in place, it’s time for Grad School. And while all my fellow class mates are shaking in their boots at the capstone thesis project, I’m eagerly looking forward to it. For the next two years I will squeeze out every opportunity for focused learning and application on financial planning, community development, and business management and then, then, to put passion into print for an honest-to-goodness workable financial planning business for low-income community. Without becoming low-income myself.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Dream #1
I am an active and vivid dreamer. They range from painful and weird like last week dreaming that I was growing another toe out of the bottom of my foot (it’s so painful to the ‘memory’ of my foot that I can’t go into further detail.), to sweet and amorous with lots of hugs and kisses (I hug a LOT of men in my dreams.) to structural psychosis (houses and buildings which according to Jung means how we view ourselves.) Rarely do I have foretelling dreams. (I once dreamt about the Apocalypse and it seemed very real, but that was a long time ago and obviously hasn’t come true yet.)
Several months ago, the treasurer to the Promise of the Holy Church* met with me to work on their account. I have been eager to get in touch with him since, but did not have his contact information. Last night, I awoke around 2:00 a.m. with one phrase running through my mind Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church. I tossed and turned and plumped my pillow and just as I was about to fall asleep the chanting would begin again Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church. I would plump the pillow again and flail on my other side and tell myself that nothing could be done in the middle of the night. Again my eyelids grew heavy and sleep was about to take-over... Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church.
If I knew the pass-code to our office building I probably would have gone to work at 2:30 in the morning just to be done with this chanting spurred by the dream. Finally, 5:30 a.m. came and I had slept, for now I had to wake. A little bleary eyed and groggy I was ready for a new day. Off to work, normal day.
3:00 p.m. this afternoon, a colleague of mine came into my office. “Heidi, some guy is here about his account and I’m wondering if you can help him?”
“Sure. What’s the account?”
“Promise of the Holy Church”
Readers, I kid you not. My heart stopped, a cold wave of ice passed through my stomach and a little sweat stood out on my arms. They are very nice clients and I looked forward to meeting with them again, but the uncanny likelihood of him showing in my office today frightened me. I felt as if my chanting had willed him to me.
After our meeting I did tell him that I had a dream about his account last night. I’m sure he thought I was being funny, but he played along and said “I hope you dreamt we made millions of dollars.”
Tonight I’m going to see if chanting Keanu Reeves name can command him into my office tomorrow.
*not the actual name of the client, but similar in nature.
Several months ago, the treasurer to the Promise of the Holy Church* met with me to work on their account. I have been eager to get in touch with him since, but did not have his contact information. Last night, I awoke around 2:00 a.m. with one phrase running through my mind Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church. I tossed and turned and plumped my pillow and just as I was about to fall asleep the chanting would begin again Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church. I would plump the pillow again and flail on my other side and tell myself that nothing could be done in the middle of the night. Again my eyelids grew heavy and sleep was about to take-over... Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church-Promise-of-the-Holy-Church.
If I knew the pass-code to our office building I probably would have gone to work at 2:30 in the morning just to be done with this chanting spurred by the dream. Finally, 5:30 a.m. came and I had slept, for now I had to wake. A little bleary eyed and groggy I was ready for a new day. Off to work, normal day.
3:00 p.m. this afternoon, a colleague of mine came into my office. “Heidi, some guy is here about his account and I’m wondering if you can help him?”
“Sure. What’s the account?”
“Promise of the Holy Church”
Readers, I kid you not. My heart stopped, a cold wave of ice passed through my stomach and a little sweat stood out on my arms. They are very nice clients and I looked forward to meeting with them again, but the uncanny likelihood of him showing in my office today frightened me. I felt as if my chanting had willed him to me.
After our meeting I did tell him that I had a dream about his account last night. I’m sure he thought I was being funny, but he played along and said “I hope you dreamt we made millions of dollars.”
Tonight I’m going to see if chanting Keanu Reeves name can command him into my office tomorrow.
*not the actual name of the client, but similar in nature.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
I'll Take Manhattan
No longer in chronological order, but no less important, the rest of our time in NYC was great. The weather was a cool 72 degrees with slight cloud coverage but never any rain, the natives seemed in a very friendly mood, and neither of us was murdered, ran over, pick-pocketed, or any other horrible tragedy Law & Order puts into my head. Though I thought we were going to be swindled out of $40 cash from each of us.
The tourist breakdown is as follows:
Lodging – We stayed at an inexpensive place just a few blocks from the temple. For $100 a night we had twin beds decorated with coconut trees and pineapple, a small air conditioner that actually worked, fresh towels and soap, and a roll of toilet paper a piece. The two bathrooms down the hall were communal and you had to remember to bring your tp along with you. The communal bathrooms also afforded me a ‘lovely’ view of a pasty-white 20 something year old man coming out of his shower.
The hotel was both a rent by night, or extended stay. One such permanent guest on our floor kept his door ajar while he chanted Native American songs. I’m part Native American so I know his chanting was benign like “keep the rain away” instead of anything sinister like “plunder the tourist at the end of the hall.
Honestly, I would recommend the place to anyone and plan to use it again for future visits. However, keep in mind, deep inside of me is a Beat Poet who would love to live in on the edge of all that is good, safe and clean for a month or two.
The Show – Our original plan was to see Romeo & Juliet in the park. The price was right with in our budget (free) but the show was postponed for the night due to the previous day’s rain. We wandered up and down Broadway and the area looking for a show to see that wouldn’t break the bank. As we stepped outside of the Times Square information area a portly man with a blue t-shirt, lanyard and a clipboard of flyers summoned us to him. He had the perfect deal in town for an award winning show called the Altar Boyz. The show sounded fun, but I was concerned with just handing over cold-cash to this stranger. I invited my friend to step into my office on the side of the street.
“how do we know he’s for real?”
“It never would have crossed my mind that he isn’t”
After a few if-then questions and answers with one-another, we approached the portly man, bought what I hoped to be tickets and dashed off to the theatre to confirm. Hooray for honest people! He was legit, we got really good seats, and the show was Phenomenal! I mean, really, really freaking hilariously great! Go see this show. No blog entry will capture how much fun this musical is!
The Eats - Tuesday night we had dinner at Le Bonne Souppe. It was listed in my NY guide book, so we assumed it would be a touristy restaurant and had low expectations. Fortunately for our travelogue, it is not a touristy place and worthy of great expectations. Aside from a British couple four seats down from us, all other diners seemed to live, work, eat, and play in the city, the staff and owner had perfect French accents, and the food was decently flavorful without being heavy, and the chocolate mousse…Oh, the chocolate mousse was perfectly chocolatly and mousseie. Wednesday night’s dinner was aboard Fung Wah.
The Sights - What little time we had left was mostly spent in lines to get to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. We weren’t early enough to get the pass to go into Lady Liberty, but I spent enough time in Major McMac in my childhood that I can guess what it’s like in the Statue.
We did walk around the Ellis Island Museum for a short bit. It was very moving and I wish we had been able to spend more time inside, but I was concerned about the growing line to the ferry and rushed us along.
The tourist breakdown is as follows:
Lodging – We stayed at an inexpensive place just a few blocks from the temple. For $100 a night we had twin beds decorated with coconut trees and pineapple, a small air conditioner that actually worked, fresh towels and soap, and a roll of toilet paper a piece. The two bathrooms down the hall were communal and you had to remember to bring your tp along with you. The communal bathrooms also afforded me a ‘lovely’ view of a pasty-white 20 something year old man coming out of his shower.
The hotel was both a rent by night, or extended stay. One such permanent guest on our floor kept his door ajar while he chanted Native American songs. I’m part Native American so I know his chanting was benign like “keep the rain away” instead of anything sinister like “plunder the tourist at the end of the hall.
Honestly, I would recommend the place to anyone and plan to use it again for future visits. However, keep in mind, deep inside of me is a Beat Poet who would love to live in on the edge of all that is good, safe and clean for a month or two.
The Show – Our original plan was to see Romeo & Juliet in the park. The price was right with in our budget (free) but the show was postponed for the night due to the previous day’s rain. We wandered up and down Broadway and the area looking for a show to see that wouldn’t break the bank. As we stepped outside of the Times Square information area a portly man with a blue t-shirt, lanyard and a clipboard of flyers summoned us to him. He had the perfect deal in town for an award winning show called the Altar Boyz. The show sounded fun, but I was concerned with just handing over cold-cash to this stranger. I invited my friend to step into my office on the side of the street.
“how do we know he’s for real?”
“It never would have crossed my mind that he isn’t”
After a few if-then questions and answers with one-another, we approached the portly man, bought what I hoped to be tickets and dashed off to the theatre to confirm. Hooray for honest people! He was legit, we got really good seats, and the show was Phenomenal! I mean, really, really freaking hilariously great! Go see this show. No blog entry will capture how much fun this musical is!
The Eats - Tuesday night we had dinner at Le Bonne Souppe. It was listed in my NY guide book, so we assumed it would be a touristy restaurant and had low expectations. Fortunately for our travelogue, it is not a touristy place and worthy of great expectations. Aside from a British couple four seats down from us, all other diners seemed to live, work, eat, and play in the city, the staff and owner had perfect French accents, and the food was decently flavorful without being heavy, and the chocolate mousse…Oh, the chocolate mousse was perfectly chocolatly and mousseie. Wednesday night’s dinner was aboard Fung Wah.
The Sights - What little time we had left was mostly spent in lines to get to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. We weren’t early enough to get the pass to go into Lady Liberty, but I spent enough time in Major McMac in my childhood that I can guess what it’s like in the Statue.
We did walk around the Ellis Island Museum for a short bit. It was very moving and I wish we had been able to spend more time inside, but I was concerned about the growing line to the ferry and rushed us along.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Serendipity
Since the impressionable age of four, I have always loved books. First it was Dick and Jane and Spot, and then came the December Dog, on to Where the Red Fern Grows, to Travels with Charlie. Oh, and I guess hundreds and hundreds of books without dogs in between. I’ll even admit that I do judge a book by its cover, a person by their books, and a town by their bookstores.
So it is that while in NYC my friend and I went to visit The Strand bookstore where they boast of 18 miles of new and used books. My mission was to replace a lost copy of Letters of E.B. White. On the fourth rung of a utility latter, I found him on the very top shelf along with a few other collections. I bought three, leaving the rest. (These are no thin children books, but thick heavy volumes containing years of essays.)
A block or two away from the bookstore, we were waiting for the light to change, talking about White. I say “Strunk & White; Elements of Style is one of my favorite books.” My friend say’s “I’ve never heard of it”. The light turned green and we started to cross the road. An old grey pony-tailed man with thick glasses and a bow tie steps out with us and said “Honey, to some of us it’s still the Bible. When I die, the Chicago Manual Style will be no where to be found except maybe the trash.”
He followed us along the sidewalk chatting away with us, telling us more about White and said “his step-son is still something of a big deal here in NY.”
“Oh, I don’t think I know who he is.”
“He writes baseball commentary, but he’s a bitter unpleasant man”
“Well, no wonder. If he’s writing baseball commentary in NYC, then he’s not writing about the Red Sox. I’m from Boston and that’s the only team worth writing about.” Now, I don’t know why I say this other than to be a brat. I don’t follow baseball, and while its fun to root for the Red Sox, I’m not a die hard fan, and I know full well that I am just throwing gas on a Yankee/Red Sox fire. Luckily for us he said “Ah, I’m from RI. The Pawtucket Sox is real baseball.” And he continued chatting along. We ditched him at the roasted nut stand.
The next day my friend and I go to the Coop in Boston. (Pre fire-in-the-garbage-can episode.) As I’m trolling along the center aisle on the way to the checkout stand I pick up a book titled Let Me Finish. It has an enchanting cover with four boys dashing through a snow covered park somewhere in a city. I turn it over to read the back cover. “In this acclaimed autobiography (okay, usually love autobiographies) Roger Angell (name doesn’t ring a bell) take an unsentimental look at his early days as a boy growing up in New York (cool. I’m in the mood to delve into NY stories) with a remarkable father; a mother, Katherine White (wait a minute. I know that name...) who was a founding editor of The New Yorker; and a famous stepfather, the writer E.B.White. (aaaaaaa...) What on earth are the odds of that happening? Less the 24 hours ago a strange man in a strange city was telling me about another stranger and shortly thereafter, without searching, his autobiography winds up in my hands?
Of course I bought the book! I’ll let you know how it turns out. By-the-way, even though The Elements of Style is one of my top favorite books, I am no grammarian.
So it is that while in NYC my friend and I went to visit The Strand bookstore where they boast of 18 miles of new and used books. My mission was to replace a lost copy of Letters of E.B. White. On the fourth rung of a utility latter, I found him on the very top shelf along with a few other collections. I bought three, leaving the rest. (These are no thin children books, but thick heavy volumes containing years of essays.)
A block or two away from the bookstore, we were waiting for the light to change, talking about White. I say “Strunk & White; Elements of Style is one of my favorite books.” My friend say’s “I’ve never heard of it”. The light turned green and we started to cross the road. An old grey pony-tailed man with thick glasses and a bow tie steps out with us and said “Honey, to some of us it’s still the Bible. When I die, the Chicago Manual Style will be no where to be found except maybe the trash.”
He followed us along the sidewalk chatting away with us, telling us more about White and said “his step-son is still something of a big deal here in NY.”
“Oh, I don’t think I know who he is.”
“He writes baseball commentary, but he’s a bitter unpleasant man”
“Well, no wonder. If he’s writing baseball commentary in NYC, then he’s not writing about the Red Sox. I’m from Boston and that’s the only team worth writing about.” Now, I don’t know why I say this other than to be a brat. I don’t follow baseball, and while its fun to root for the Red Sox, I’m not a die hard fan, and I know full well that I am just throwing gas on a Yankee/Red Sox fire. Luckily for us he said “Ah, I’m from RI. The Pawtucket Sox is real baseball.” And he continued chatting along. We ditched him at the roasted nut stand.
The next day my friend and I go to the Coop in Boston. (Pre fire-in-the-garbage-can episode.) As I’m trolling along the center aisle on the way to the checkout stand I pick up a book titled Let Me Finish. It has an enchanting cover with four boys dashing through a snow covered park somewhere in a city. I turn it over to read the back cover. “In this acclaimed autobiography (okay, usually love autobiographies) Roger Angell (name doesn’t ring a bell) take an unsentimental look at his early days as a boy growing up in New York (cool. I’m in the mood to delve into NY stories) with a remarkable father; a mother, Katherine White (wait a minute. I know that name...) who was a founding editor of The New Yorker; and a famous stepfather, the writer E.B.White. (aaaaaaa...) What on earth are the odds of that happening? Less the 24 hours ago a strange man in a strange city was telling me about another stranger and shortly thereafter, without searching, his autobiography winds up in my hands?
Of course I bought the book! I’ll let you know how it turns out. By-the-way, even though The Elements of Style is one of my top favorite books, I am no grammarian.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires
I love walking. LOVE walking. There are lots of reasons I walk. Yeah, it’s great exercise and it doesn’t pollute the environment, I get time to myself to think about things, clear my head, listen to music, etc. But the greatest thing about walking is the many opportunities I get to play Mini –Heroine. Like the time I plucked a small child from the gnashing teeth of the escalator (I did not save the shoe), or the time I helped a man carry a few of his six bags of luggage to the T stop, or helping the old man who picks up trash along the Salt & Pepper bridge while he walks home (see, others have found the joy of mini-heroism too), or just general holding doors open for mothers and baby-strollers, or just saying “hi” to the old man who sits on the porch everyday. I can’t describe it, but I suggest trying it the next time you’re out for a walk and you’ll know how fun it is.
My latest cape-donning crusade was last night in Harvard SQ. My friend and I had come out of the Co-op and was just walking along the sidewalk trying to avoid all the fresh graduates and their parents while we tried to discuss plans for dinner. I noticed a strong stream of smoke coming from the waste can on the sidewalk. We walked over to peer over the sides to see if there was actually a fire, or perhaps if a rat was lounging back having an after-dinner cigarette.
I could see the glowing edges of several pieces of paper and knew that it was going to ignite soon. I dashed into the gourmet chocolate and deli store and asked the young kid behind the counter if I could get a glass of water for the ignited garbage can. He excitedly looked out the window and grabbed a near-empty tub of Thousand Island dressing. He was trying to wash out the dressing to get me water, but I said the dressing isn’t flammable just give me the water.
An older woman came from behind the counter and with her thick East Boston accent started yelling about kids and the things they do. Just as she was approaching me to get to the door, and the counter kid was handing me the bucket, another older ‘woman’ came in to also demand a bail of water. ‘She’ (a very deep voiced ‘She’) grabbed the bucket of Thousand Island Water from my hands and went out side to put out the fire.
I dejectedly walked back to my friend who was waiting on the sidewalk. That was MY fire to put out!
Oh well. I haven’t had any mini-heroine opportunities yet today. Maybe I’ll go for another walk!
My latest cape-donning crusade was last night in Harvard SQ. My friend and I had come out of the Co-op and was just walking along the sidewalk trying to avoid all the fresh graduates and their parents while we tried to discuss plans for dinner. I noticed a strong stream of smoke coming from the waste can on the sidewalk. We walked over to peer over the sides to see if there was actually a fire, or perhaps if a rat was lounging back having an after-dinner cigarette.
I could see the glowing edges of several pieces of paper and knew that it was going to ignite soon. I dashed into the gourmet chocolate and deli store and asked the young kid behind the counter if I could get a glass of water for the ignited garbage can. He excitedly looked out the window and grabbed a near-empty tub of Thousand Island dressing. He was trying to wash out the dressing to get me water, but I said the dressing isn’t flammable just give me the water.
An older woman came from behind the counter and with her thick East Boston accent started yelling about kids and the things they do. Just as she was approaching me to get to the door, and the counter kid was handing me the bucket, another older ‘woman’ came in to also demand a bail of water. ‘She’ (a very deep voiced ‘She’) grabbed the bucket of Thousand Island Water from my hands and went out side to put out the fire.
I dejectedly walked back to my friend who was waiting on the sidewalk. That was MY fire to put out!
Oh well. I haven’t had any mini-heroine opportunities yet today. Maybe I’ll go for another walk!
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Everybody Fung Wah Tonight
I just got back home from a quick, but very fun, trip to New York City. A NY trip isn’t a trip without some sort of Fung Wah story. After sprinting a mile through the crowded sidewalk of Canal Street, with fifty pound bags on our back, we made it to the 5:30 p.m. train. I was delighted thinking we’d make it back to Boston earlier, not really thinking of the millions of people in their cars wanting to get home from work at about that same time. It was a longer than usual trip back to town.
Fortunately, there was just enough room on the bus that those who wanted their own seat could sit alone. Some I wish would have sat alone. To my left was a very hairy-legged girl, who cast evil dagger eyes at me as I ate my murdered-meat sandwich (turkey and swiss), and her elfish boyfriend. They alternated between hushed arguing and kissing and reading their own books and arguing about why the one is reading a book instead of talking and then more kissing.
After the rest stop, the elf-boy took the outside seat where I was privileged to the perfect side row seating to his theatrical crying. Yes crying. The Chinatown bus from New York is not the place for tears and sentimentality. I think the gist of the arguing and tears was the lack of direction in the elf-boy’s life and how the hairy-legged girl was only trying to help him achieve his dreams. I’m not entirely sure as I really did try to read my newly purchased book.
And I say this as one who has a tatoo: Why do some people respect the body of a cow, more than thier own?
Fortunately, there was just enough room on the bus that those who wanted their own seat could sit alone. Some I wish would have sat alone. To my left was a very hairy-legged girl, who cast evil dagger eyes at me as I ate my murdered-meat sandwich (turkey and swiss), and her elfish boyfriend. They alternated between hushed arguing and kissing and reading their own books and arguing about why the one is reading a book instead of talking and then more kissing.
After the rest stop, the elf-boy took the outside seat where I was privileged to the perfect side row seating to his theatrical crying. Yes crying. The Chinatown bus from New York is not the place for tears and sentimentality. I think the gist of the arguing and tears was the lack of direction in the elf-boy’s life and how the hairy-legged girl was only trying to help him achieve his dreams. I’m not entirely sure as I really did try to read my newly purchased book.
And I say this as one who has a tatoo: Why do some people respect the body of a cow, more than thier own?
Monday, June 4, 2007
Peer Pressure
I am not one to give into peer pressure. In fact, in the most non-rebellious way possible, when pressure is placed on me I will generally do the complete opposite. In some situations this has served me well: I’ve never had a desire to drink, smoke, do drugs, and other trappings of “c’mon, everyone else does it. It’s no big deal.” Other times, well, yeah, sometimes it does get me into trouble in ways that I don’t need to describe to the whole free world, but mostly, I kind of wind up missing out on things that are the basic norms of culture. Like my refusal to watch Star Wars, or buy a cell phone. (Not to worry, I’ve had a cell phone for a few years, and my roommates made me sit down and watch all the Star War movies two years ago.)
But I am here today to say I am caving into the peer pressure to start a blog. Really, everyone IS doing it, and they seem to be really enjoying it, and with certain amount of decorum, it is no big deal. I’ve been devoted to my friend’s blog for the past year, and with her blog came another and another and another and without a TV in the house, I needed entertaining serials to keep track of, and have finally decided to add mine to the mix.
This blog will probably be mostly updates on weather, frogs, birds, dogs, the dandelion looking flower in my back yard that isn’t a dandelion (I won’t go into too much detail regarding a lone cannabis stalk growing back there) and those sorts of things, mixed in with thoughts on consumerism, spirituality, economics, and frustrations and hopes in trying to make a positive impact on the society around me. And maybe a few photographs because I finally broke down and bought a digital camera.
But I am here today to say I am caving into the peer pressure to start a blog. Really, everyone IS doing it, and they seem to be really enjoying it, and with certain amount of decorum, it is no big deal. I’ve been devoted to my friend’s blog for the past year, and with her blog came another and another and another and without a TV in the house, I needed entertaining serials to keep track of, and have finally decided to add mine to the mix.
This blog will probably be mostly updates on weather, frogs, birds, dogs, the dandelion looking flower in my back yard that isn’t a dandelion (I won’t go into too much detail regarding a lone cannabis stalk growing back there) and those sorts of things, mixed in with thoughts on consumerism, spirituality, economics, and frustrations and hopes in trying to make a positive impact on the society around me. And maybe a few photographs because I finally broke down and bought a digital camera.
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