If you ever want to celebrate October in a uniquely scrabblishous way, you know who to call!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Say what? NO WAY!
I know, I felt the SAME WAY when I found out that October is national Scrabble month! Time to reinstate a Sunday tradition of roaming the city with Scrabble board, bottle and wine key in tow. Cate and I played the other day and I got a whopping 36 points on 'chef'. Oh yea, scrabble bliss :)
If you ever want to celebrate October in a uniquely scrabblishous way, you know who to call!
If you ever want to celebrate October in a uniquely scrabblishous way, you know who to call!
keep in mind...
Some excerpts from one of my favorite blogs, Gimme Schelter...
If you were all alone in the universe with no one to talk to, no one with which to share the beauty of the stars, to laugh with, to touch, what would be your purpose in life? It is other life, it is love, which gives your life meaning. This is harmony. We must discover the joy of each other, the joy of challenge, the joy of growth.
-Mitsugi Saotome
“The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.”
-M. Scott Peck
Age makes the stakes higher. I’ve grown wise enough to know that 'Life', what the ancient yogi’s call 'Shakti', is like a great journalist, she doesn’t permit candy coated lies, game playing or masks, but seeks to expose genuine truth, no matter what. I guess that’s called wisdom. Wisdom knocks on doors until they open. Wisdom knows when to keep knocking and when to walk away.
- Jennifer Schelter
Need some cleansing? Space to exhale? I recommend the Yoga Schelter. Check it out, let me know what you think.
If you were all alone in the universe with no one to talk to, no one with which to share the beauty of the stars, to laugh with, to touch, what would be your purpose in life? It is other life, it is love, which gives your life meaning. This is harmony. We must discover the joy of each other, the joy of challenge, the joy of growth.
-Mitsugi Saotome
“The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.”
-M. Scott Peck
Age makes the stakes higher. I’ve grown wise enough to know that 'Life', what the ancient yogi’s call 'Shakti', is like a great journalist, she doesn’t permit candy coated lies, game playing or masks, but seeks to expose genuine truth, no matter what. I guess that’s called wisdom. Wisdom knocks on doors until they open. Wisdom knows when to keep knocking and when to walk away.
- Jennifer Schelter
Need some cleansing? Space to exhale? I recommend the Yoga Schelter. Check it out, let me know what you think.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Did the world run out of elbow room?
It’s getting harder and harder to find space in this wide open world. Half the problem is that it isn’t as wide open as we’d like to think. In a city with over 1.5 million people, you still run into the same faces. You have to avoid entire zip codes, bars, shows, and sub cars to really steer clear of the unwanted.
I’m wondering if there’s space for us all to stretch out and have…well, space. Space to feel safe, feel loved, feel adventurous, feel understood and fulfilled. It’s hard to imagine that all of this space needs equal room to stretch out either. That isn’t clear.
Maybe a model of a house would be a better visual. I, for one, need a big spacious living room, and a small comfortable, but safe bedroom. While some may need more space to be adventurous and understood, others may lack the space they need to feel safe and loved. To continue the thought, some need something baking in the oven while others would prefer a larger garden.
Here’s the question that leaves me stumped. If we don’t create a space where people can join us, can we really feel loved, understood and fulfilled? Or can we do it solo? Can we feel loved without someone holding us on a shitty day, understood unless we explain ourselves, or fulfilled if we exist in an empty room?
Recently I’ve been trying to cope with this stinging sensation in my chest. I’ve had some space revoked recently. It feels like I finally got my green card to my favorite private island with unlimited mojitos, only to find, upon arrival, deportation paperwork. Or like I’ve been patiently applying Neosporin to a cut only to break down and pick the scab.
When I was younger I feel on the steps of the rec center on the way to a gymnastics meet and tore my knee open. Sure it hurt like hell at the time, and was gushing blood, but I had adrenaline to help me cope. But when I picked that big ‘ol scab off it hurt more. Even the wind grazing the area hurt. Aren’t we told that if we pick at a scab it takes longer to heal?
We’d all like to believe that we don’t need emotions and the space to express them for functioning life. That all we need are the basics; food, water, shelter, air. But really, is our emotional life that disconnected from our physical life? Is it possible to have a muscle completely unscathed after a life of mixed emotions?
From what I’ve heard from the medicals in my life, it looks just like the pictures. But I’m sure if I ever stood above my exposed beating heart, it would probably look something similar to my right knee when I fell. Chock full of scraps and bruises, with a freshly picked scab.
Maybe it’s a life long dilemma, changes daily, or maintains consistency. I’m sure what fills and completes us will change as our needs change. Because sure, sometimes the proverbial pint of Ben and Jerry’s is the cure, and sometimes you want someone to hear you cry, but then there are unique moments when it’s just enough to hear yourself admit that you’re okay.
Without the shoulder, ice cream, or Neosporin. Alone, in your own space, with your very own scabbed, exposed, perfect heart.
I’m wondering if there’s space for us all to stretch out and have…well, space. Space to feel safe, feel loved, feel adventurous, feel understood and fulfilled. It’s hard to imagine that all of this space needs equal room to stretch out either. That isn’t clear.
Maybe a model of a house would be a better visual. I, for one, need a big spacious living room, and a small comfortable, but safe bedroom. While some may need more space to be adventurous and understood, others may lack the space they need to feel safe and loved. To continue the thought, some need something baking in the oven while others would prefer a larger garden.
Here’s the question that leaves me stumped. If we don’t create a space where people can join us, can we really feel loved, understood and fulfilled? Or can we do it solo? Can we feel loved without someone holding us on a shitty day, understood unless we explain ourselves, or fulfilled if we exist in an empty room?
Recently I’ve been trying to cope with this stinging sensation in my chest. I’ve had some space revoked recently. It feels like I finally got my green card to my favorite private island with unlimited mojitos, only to find, upon arrival, deportation paperwork. Or like I’ve been patiently applying Neosporin to a cut only to break down and pick the scab.
When I was younger I feel on the steps of the rec center on the way to a gymnastics meet and tore my knee open. Sure it hurt like hell at the time, and was gushing blood, but I had adrenaline to help me cope. But when I picked that big ‘ol scab off it hurt more. Even the wind grazing the area hurt. Aren’t we told that if we pick at a scab it takes longer to heal?
We’d all like to believe that we don’t need emotions and the space to express them for functioning life. That all we need are the basics; food, water, shelter, air. But really, is our emotional life that disconnected from our physical life? Is it possible to have a muscle completely unscathed after a life of mixed emotions?
From what I’ve heard from the medicals in my life, it looks just like the pictures. But I’m sure if I ever stood above my exposed beating heart, it would probably look something similar to my right knee when I fell. Chock full of scraps and bruises, with a freshly picked scab.
Maybe it’s a life long dilemma, changes daily, or maintains consistency. I’m sure what fills and completes us will change as our needs change. Because sure, sometimes the proverbial pint of Ben and Jerry’s is the cure, and sometimes you want someone to hear you cry, but then there are unique moments when it’s just enough to hear yourself admit that you’re okay.
Without the shoulder, ice cream, or Neosporin. Alone, in your own space, with your very own scabbed, exposed, perfect heart.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
notes in a bar
And in that moment
I heard my favorite song
(the one that makes my heart jump)
coincide with your voice,
and it made me love you more,
made me miss you,
made my heart and soul connect.
I heard my favorite song
(the one that makes my heart jump)
coincide with your voice,
and it made me love you more,
made me miss you,
made my heart and soul connect.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Can YOU type with 7 fingers?
I learned how to type when I was in the second grade. The computer teacher at my school was a nun, and all she taught was computers. If I had a brother in the room I could recall the name, but something that will always burn in the brain was this nuns thumbs...that and her old school Catholic teacher rhetoric (thou who disrespects thine nun computer lab shall be beaten with large wooden object).
So this nun. Back to her thumbs. I was sitting with friends today looking at dogs and their owners. After an owner has been with a dog for a while they start to look alike, and vice versa. I can see the logic in that argument; you spend enough time with anything, you become just like it..right? RIGHT. This nun had two thumbs in the shape of a space bar. I kid you not. The woman looked like a keyboard, and had a soul that mirrored cold plastic.
I mean, look at your thumb. Do you see your joint? Now imagine, rather than it pointing up, rotate that puppy 90 degrees. This was the hand of an evil nun. I digress...
We were told to pretend that we had oranges under our palms while we were typing. We also had typing tests where we had to close our eyes and type the alphabet (cruel and unusual punishment). Ironically my piano teacher, also a nun, told me the same thing. Obsession with citrus in the nunnery? I was thinking about these nuns today because I managed, in a moment of severe frustration, to give myself two papercuts, one on two consecutive fingers, with a postcard(holyshit ouch, that stuff isn't thin).
Papercuts really aren't supposed to make you think this much, honest. But I think we all become more aware of the functions of our body parts when they're injured. Like how you only really notice the top of your foot when you get a blister from new fipflops, and your scalp isn't really on the top of your priority list until you've dyed it an unnatural shade of purple. Again, I digress. I've spent the afternoon trying to type with 7 fingers, thinking about how Sister Mary IWillMAIMYouWithARulerIfYouFuckWithMyKeyboard would react to my poor typing skills.
Sometimes it takes a vice for us to appreciate normal operations, or to lose something, before we become aware of how wonderful it was. As I'm sitting here I'm getting frustrated as Fisher keeps kicking me with his back right foot. Both he and his brother are dreaming at the same time. Many times I've come home just too damn tired to take them out, annoyed that they're so filled with energy and I'm so filled with...not energy, but know that if I came home without their cold noses to greet me I would be beside myself.
Thanksgiving is coming right? Before we know it the leaves will be a huge heap on the ground, the trees will be bare and Philadelphia will be filled with ghosts walking around in black suits and hoodies. I want to get ready for Thanksgiving in a new way. Not by stalking and buying the largest frozen turkey that ACME will sell me, but really appreciating what I'm thankful for- like 10 fingers, and 10 toes, all in working order. I've got time to figure out the rest. In theory...
So this nun. Back to her thumbs. I was sitting with friends today looking at dogs and their owners. After an owner has been with a dog for a while they start to look alike, and vice versa. I can see the logic in that argument; you spend enough time with anything, you become just like it..right? RIGHT. This nun had two thumbs in the shape of a space bar. I kid you not. The woman looked like a keyboard, and had a soul that mirrored cold plastic.
I mean, look at your thumb. Do you see your joint? Now imagine, rather than it pointing up, rotate that puppy 90 degrees. This was the hand of an evil nun. I digress...
We were told to pretend that we had oranges under our palms while we were typing. We also had typing tests where we had to close our eyes and type the alphabet (cruel and unusual punishment). Ironically my piano teacher, also a nun, told me the same thing. Obsession with citrus in the nunnery? I was thinking about these nuns today because I managed, in a moment of severe frustration, to give myself two papercuts, one on two consecutive fingers, with a postcard(holyshit ouch, that stuff isn't thin).
Papercuts really aren't supposed to make you think this much, honest. But I think we all become more aware of the functions of our body parts when they're injured. Like how you only really notice the top of your foot when you get a blister from new fipflops, and your scalp isn't really on the top of your priority list until you've dyed it an unnatural shade of purple. Again, I digress. I've spent the afternoon trying to type with 7 fingers, thinking about how Sister Mary IWillMAIMYouWithARulerIfYouFuckWithMyKeyboard would react to my poor typing skills.
Sometimes it takes a vice for us to appreciate normal operations, or to lose something, before we become aware of how wonderful it was. As I'm sitting here I'm getting frustrated as Fisher keeps kicking me with his back right foot. Both he and his brother are dreaming at the same time. Many times I've come home just too damn tired to take them out, annoyed that they're so filled with energy and I'm so filled with...not energy, but know that if I came home without their cold noses to greet me I would be beside myself.
Thanksgiving is coming right? Before we know it the leaves will be a huge heap on the ground, the trees will be bare and Philadelphia will be filled with ghosts walking around in black suits and hoodies. I want to get ready for Thanksgiving in a new way. Not by stalking and buying the largest frozen turkey that ACME will sell me, but really appreciating what I'm thankful for- like 10 fingers, and 10 toes, all in working order. I've got time to figure out the rest. In theory...
Monday, October 6, 2008
"It's my happy-birthday-bergerac, -bononi, - budini!!"
At 12:30am a celebratory glass of Bergerac morphed into multiple glasses of (delicious) red wine in the rear mezz, as we lovingly refer to it, at Devils Alley with all of my fav's from the Alley crew.
"It's my happy birthday! It's my happy birthday bergerac, my happy birthday bonini, my happy birthday budini!!" In all honesty, by the time I got to the budini, things were full swing, impromptu birthday celebration.
I don't know if it was the wine or the fresh air, but after alley drinks, I really wanted to bike across town to my friend Johns roof deck. So off we went, on a very-much-WAY too tall Schwinn to 21st and South.
What a beautiful deck! Drinks were had, and Cate convinced a passerby to sing me happy birthday from the street. Not exactly Marylin or Barry, but sincere and wonderful. After walking two blocks not only was the celebration in full swing, but so were the spins. Somehow threw myself in the shower and crawled into bed.
The sweetie tells me that I didn't get home until 4....suspect?
I really do have the best friends in the world. And I don't just say that because they buy me great wine instead of shots of SoCo and Lime. It just works, without work. For instance, my best friend sent me a beautiful red pie plate and instant crust recipe this weekend. She's never forgotten my birthday, and to boot, she found a pie plate with my high school nickname (Emile, Emile, Smmmiillleeee!). What a perfect present!
I'm so lucky to have such great friends to celebrate the good times, and work through the sketchy times. Considering I'm always a half hour late, consistently forget to send belated birthday cards to friends, go Christmas shopping during "after Christmas sales", and notoriously forget to return voice mails, it's crazy to think that my friends stick around.
I think this calls for a 24th birthday resolution. Rather than a cane and pair of reading glasses to accompany my aging bones, I think I'll opt out for a calendar for my kitchen. Important dates will include birthdays, bills due, flee meds for all the boys in the arc, and of course, time for my partners in crime, Bergerac, Bonini, and Budini.
Thank you everyone for the birthday wishes; for unconditional, unfaltering love.
"It's my happy birthday! It's my happy birthday bergerac, my happy birthday bonini, my happy birthday budini!!" In all honesty, by the time I got to the budini, things were full swing, impromptu birthday celebration.
I don't know if it was the wine or the fresh air, but after alley drinks, I really wanted to bike across town to my friend Johns roof deck. So off we went, on a very-much-WAY too tall Schwinn to 21st and South.
What a beautiful deck! Drinks were had, and Cate convinced a passerby to sing me happy birthday from the street. Not exactly Marylin or Barry, but sincere and wonderful. After walking two blocks not only was the celebration in full swing, but so were the spins. Somehow threw myself in the shower and crawled into bed.
The sweetie tells me that I didn't get home until 4....suspect?
I really do have the best friends in the world. And I don't just say that because they buy me great wine instead of shots of SoCo and Lime. It just works, without work. For instance, my best friend sent me a beautiful red pie plate and instant crust recipe this weekend. She's never forgotten my birthday, and to boot, she found a pie plate with my high school nickname (Emile, Emile, Smmmiillleeee!). What a perfect present!
I'm so lucky to have such great friends to celebrate the good times, and work through the sketchy times. Considering I'm always a half hour late, consistently forget to send belated birthday cards to friends, go Christmas shopping during "after Christmas sales", and notoriously forget to return voice mails, it's crazy to think that my friends stick around.
I think this calls for a 24th birthday resolution. Rather than a cane and pair of reading glasses to accompany my aging bones, I think I'll opt out for a calendar for my kitchen. Important dates will include birthdays, bills due, flee meds for all the boys in the arc, and of course, time for my partners in crime, Bergerac, Bonini, and Budini.
Thank you everyone for the birthday wishes; for unconditional, unfaltering love.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Trading Breakfast
Yes, it's true. There comes a time in every womans life where you just have to count calories, exercise, and not become a blob of useless cellulite as you enter your 30's.
Okay, well maybe I'm not entering my 30's, but in a few days I will be in my mid 20s. Yes, you heard right, I'm switching over to the next age bracket, letting go of my early 20's charm, and taking hold of the gripping reality that is 24.
I'm starting with my diet. Mostly inspired by the up and coming nuptials of two very dear friends, Lana and Luke. They're both gorgeous, naturally, however, recently Lana has been doing crazy amazing things with her body, and (not that she was anything but drop dead gorgeous before), has become this leggy, long brown haired, tall, super model-person that makes me feel a little uncomfortable and blushy. All to prepare for the wedding.
So I've decided, rather than looking at her wedding photos for the rest of our lives (because, no, I'm not going anywhere), I would rather get in shape and look my best for her big day.
The beginning-
Naturally, I think the beginning of my diet should start with the beginning of my day. Tongue twister huh? I did some thinking about what it is that I'm eating when I'm half asleep, and let me tell you, sleep-eating is NOT good for you.
My favorite morning time treat (because anyone that has to be at an office at 8AM deserves a morning time treat just for waking up...right?) is an egg and cheese sandwich. There's this little cafe at the top of my street that makes killer sandwiches, always with extra cheese. Then I warm up next to a piping cup of coffee, with half and half, and sugar. Scrumptulecent.
So math. Is NOT our friend. I was adding things up, and found out that my egg and cheese sandwich, on the conservative side, totals 340 calories, and my cup of coffee, 75 calories. Making my breakfast treat, a wapping 415 calories. Holy shit!
I would like to introduce you to my new breakfast treat. I found it while shopping at Whole Foods and let me tell you my former breakfast treat has met.its.match!
I bring you "Rachel's Yogurt in Exotic Kiwi, Passion Fruit, Lime." So delicious, so tangy, so perfectly creamy, and only 150 calories and 2.5 grams of fat. Paired with my cup o'joe, sans cream and suger, weighing in at 5 calories, brings me to a new morning total of 155 calories :)
Dear Rachel, I love you. And so does my ass.
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