February 25, 2014 § 2 Comments
February 19, 2014 § 1 Comment
Giving yourself some well-desrved personal time is the best way to get through a busy week, no? I spent my morning wondering why it was so bright in my apartment, walking out into the sunniest weather we’ve had in a while, and studying at Black Tap Coffee. If you live in Charleston, how could you not want to spend all mornings tucked away on Beaufain Street basking in all that natural light? It’s a terrific shop that we’re very lucky to have. I usually order a pot of tea or pour-over coffee, but this morning I tried the brown sugar latte and may never go back. While biking to my 10am after, I had to make a serious effort to not turn around. Thanks Black Tap for reminding me that even Wednesday mornings can feel like Sundays.
February 17, 2014 § Leave a comment
Even thought George Washington was born on the 22nd, his birthday is celebrated on the third monday of February under the vague national holiday, President’s Day. The day used to remind me of the men leading our lil’ country. Now, it reminds me of one person: my mother. Here’s why…
In high school, I was a little bit obsessed with the U.S. Presidents. I’m not sure how it happened, when it started, or what fueled it (jk-I do know because I’m still a little bit of a freak when it comes to that group of guys). Anyway, senior year my mom and I decided to take a day trip to D.C. for the February occasion. We went to a handful of museums, bused our way to Mount Vernon, took a selfie near the Lincoln Memorial, and ate hot dogs on the street. Cue Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day.”
I’m not sure what proves a mother’s love, but waiting in line for events they have very little to no interest for is definitely part of it. My mom is especially good at this. She has walked, trudged, and snoozed through countless exhibits, museums, and streets that mean very little to her besides the fact that I’m walking next to her, pamphlets in pockets and camera ready. She fell asleep in the Louve, if that paints any sort of picture.
So when we were blissfully strolling the rooms of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate (Rooms I still dream about, by the way. The walls were kelly green. KELLY GREEN.), she was happy and eager to take a later flight home. What could go wrong?
Things went wrong. Our flight out of Reagan cancelled and Dulles seemed to be separated from us at an ocean’s length. Somewhere on the outskirts of downtown, we waited with a tote full of souvenirs for a bus that never came. The last flight of the night was leaving very, very soon. It was dark and cold and there was nobody on the street until a white truck stopped in front of us. My mom told me to get in the car.
I’m not sure if I’ve made it clear just how extemporaneous my mother is. By her standards, getting into a stranger’s car in a major city isn’t too crazy. She once swapped shirts with someone at a Pokémon convention after my brother, Ben, fell in love with a graphic-t that was not for sale. She is velocity in human form. She is efficient. I did what my mother told me to do.
We got in the truck and two men drove us to the Dulles airport. The men spoke in broken English, said they were from Iraq and that they’d been living in D.C. for a few years. Early on, the man in the passenger seat reached for a paper napkin and held it over the lower half of his face for the remainder of the hour long drive. When my mom asked if he had a cold, he whispered that he did not. It was a long drive, but she talked to the men as if we had known them our whole lives, offered them everything we could give them, and thanked them probably a hundred times.
Even with the help of the mysterious men, we didn’t make the flight. We slept on the floor at the gate, frozen in our day clothes, waiting for the sun or at least the metal bars of the closed Subway to rise. Only after we settled into the abandoned gate did she admit, surrounded by a empty rows of synthetic-leather chairs, that it was maybe not her best parenting moment. I disagree.
Not sure what you’re doing for Presidents Day, but I’m thinking of the ways we grow- from colonies to a country, from daughter to mother, from one phase to another (Ben isn’t a child anymore, but he’ll always covet a good Pokémon graphic-t). I quit receiving notifications from my U.S. Presidential Quotes App, so I think I can say that my Presidents obsession is nearly over. I’m not boarding a plane or punching subway tickets today, but that doesn’t mean I’m stationary.
Happy Presidents Day!
February 14, 2014 § 2 Comments
Something I don’t understand is the gang-up on Valentine’s Day. Maybe I’m just surrounded by people in their twenties, eye rolling and mumbling whatevers under their breath, but for the most part (single or not) Valentines Day has always been a reminder of all the different kinds of love I see all around me. How could you roll your eyes at that? What’s up with that? What’s up with that?
Maybe I just got lucky, but I feel lucky every single time this month rolls around. Since I was a girl, I have been showered with sweetness on February 14th. The majority of said sweetness received has been far from romantic. Sure there were small steps toward chivalry- like when the cutest boy at Springfield Elementary came into the building baring a giant teddy bear with my name on it (Figuratively. Although my name embroidered would have been special, too.) or when someone gave me a bunch of unripe bananas (the only way to eat them) and both were enough to make the holiday worth celebrating on subsequent, lonelier years. Years where I found myself sitting on my bedroom floor, making myself sick with chocolate and playing Nintendo 64 (which I’m pretty sure happened like, three years in a row). Or the time I spent the entire day crying to my mom after seeing my “first love” give someone else the love I wanted to throw on him or beat into him using a baseball bat. Love does that to people. Truth is, I had had hundreds of loves by the time I met someone of the opposite sex who’d hold my hand or teach me how to be interested in shared things.
Real love, I’d learn (Who am I kidding? Am still learning.) is the kind that shows up on less charming months, that is exists and it is too big to dwell on one day that just happens to be internationally recognized.
Regardless, it’s nice to have an excuse to send people packages and handwritten letters. Which is why this year, I’m especially grateful. Grateful for a family whose love never stops showing up in boxes on my door step from the other side of the country (thanks Auntie Lisa) or in my text message inbox. Grateful for the girls I know who go the extra mile to make others feel loved, always (in Clemson, in Columbia, in Charleston, in Charlotte, in Raleigh (ok just Marissa in Raleigh, but still). Grateful for a florist at the end of my street whose flowers are being sent out right now to unexpected girlfriends and wives and daughters. Grateful for a relationship that sprang up during a not so great time about a year ago and proved itself to be lasting- a relationship that is the best kind of exhausting and teaches me big and small things (i.e., how to make distance work or how to stay up until 3am & then have a good attitude carrying equipment to the car). Grateful that the older I get, the more I love and love and love.
So whatever it is that you do love- whether that’s a person, a pet, a pair of shoes, so be it- love the shit out of it. Think about it on a daily basis and forget everything else.
-E (aka Cupid’s #1 Fan)
February 6, 2014 § 1 Comment
Heres the thing, I’ve had a busy
week three years. Quite often, my mornings are cut extremely short. [Side note: I have had a busy week according to my standards of what feels busy for me. I, in no way, have had a busy week compared to a lot of other people I know, let alone the raging, crazy busy people elsewhere (I.e., those running around,crying, freezing and starving for New York Fashion Week or like, any of the Olympic athletes). So, take my excuse as being busy with a grain of salt. When I say that I’ve been busy, I’ve really just been tired and unable to lay around the way I like to lay around. Even so, when I have had an especially busy week, like this one, only the little and best thing keep me going. Which brings me to what this post is all about: love and goodness.
One of best friends recently started making her own hemp milk. It did not come from her body, if you’re wondering. It came from her Vitamix. Which, she would probably agree, only has one flaw being that it cannot speak to her in the way that Joaquin Phoenix’s operating system could in the movie Her. She’s wildly and passionately in love with it and uses it daily. So naturally, when she said she had made milk with her blender, I wasn’t surprised. I was curious. I’m no milk connoisseur, but I do have three varities in my fridge usually (almond, coconut, soy) and I had never tasted hemp milk before. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the best milk ever:
I wanted to drink it forever. Read about how she made it here.
After staying up ’til the wee hours of the morning studying, but mostly asking each other what the hell we we’re doing with our sweet, easy, precious lives which are, according to us, being bullied by the looming threat of post-grad life, it was some sort of blessing to oversleep, miss my 9am math class, and spend extra time talking and eating breakfast in the same apartment Logan has lived in since I met her three years ago. [Side note #2: the same apartment that housed me while I missed my very first college class, also math, after throwing up flavored vodka on her suede couch the night before. I make good impressions.]
Moral of the post: when the going gets tough, bike on over to a friends house and let them let you ignore your obligations. Ask for a drink. Even if its milk, it should still be strong enough.
February 4, 2014 § Leave a comment