“Don’t you love farce? My fault, I fear. I thought that you’d want what I want, sorry, my dear. But where are the clowns, send in the clowns. Don’t bother, they’re here.” –Send in the Clowns, Stephen Sondheim
Earlier this week, the relationship I had been in for the past five months ended almost as suddenly as it began. Nearly six months after a text message arrived from a friend bearing a photo, some details, and an offer to set me up, the stranger who became one of my best friends and I parted ways. Once the shouting ended all that seemed left of the past five months were dashed hopes, lingering memories, and a lot of tears.
This was not my first breakup and at almost-34, there is a good chance that it will not be my last. There is the temptation, crouching at my door, to throw myself a massive, blow-out pity bash (where instead of champagne, the tears flow freely), when what I really need to do is stay on task and be present with my current grief: a relationship that brought me a lot of happiness, hope, and heartache is over and a good friendship may have permanently ended. While I’m hesitant to mine my life for content, part of my healing process this go-round has pushed me to ask the question: how do we break up well? Here are a few things I am trying out: Continue reading
Everyone who knows me knows I love carbs. But sometimes I like to play with my food and substitute veggies for starchy options. This week I used cauliflower to make “rice” and spaghetti squash to make “pasta.” To be clear, there is nothing wrong with whole grains like brown rice and whole-wheat pasta; in fact they are essential parts of a balanced diet. However, if you are trying to cut some calories out of your daily intake, this is a fun way to do it while still enjoying something yummy. This is also a great option for anyone who follows a diabetic meal plan or any anyone with Celiac Disease.
The first recipe is for Spaghetti Squash Pasta
I was 23–nearly 24–when I first moved into the second-floor walk-up on East 90th Street between Lexington and Park Avenues. I moved into the tiny, sundrenched bedroom in April 2005. It had taken nearly a week to paint the room because it had been particularly humid and rainy and the walls did not seem to dry. My best friend Sharon and I would meet after work to paint and order a half CPA (Chicken, Pesto, Artichoke), half Billy the Kid (goat cheese, pignoli, peppers) from the now-shuttered Pintaile’s Pizza on 91st and Madison. We would listen to a rotating mix of Joy Division, New Order, and Death Cab for Cutie’s Transatlanticism, which felt like the perfect soundtrack to that most existential of 20-somethings experience–the first apartment.
The apartment had not been renovated in probably 25 years. It was a railroad apartment–or a “walk through”–in which all the rooms were connected except for the kitchen, bathroom, and my bedroom. The kitchen floor was covered in a faded black linoleum with white marbling. The hallway leading from the kitchen to the rest of the apartment had floors that partially slanted. The doors to the living room–which was really more like a parlor in the old sense–were hanging off the hinges. There was hardly any furniture in the living room.
The place needed a lot of work. But when I visited it after responding to a Craigslist ad in March 2005, all I saw was cheap rent and the chance to live on the Upper East Side. The apartment came with two roommates–M, a then-25-year old woman who was supposedly working in real estate and K, a then-32-year old woman who was a struggling actress. By the time I moved out seven years later, I had had 12 roommates, four different jobs at five different places, two years of graduate school, one boyfriend (and several flings), and had gone from being an agnostic to working in the field of evangelism for my church. What I didn’t realize–like most 23-year-olds–was that I also needed a lot of work. And that apartment became the place where much of it was done. Continue reading
Stovepipe hat and beard
Second in POTUS fashion
to Taft’s buttless chaps
His log cabin house
Symbol of his humble roots;
Hatred of beavers
“Party of Lincoln”
Also champion of state’s rights.
Wait, how? Nevermind…
Our Tallest President, in Perspective
Six feet, four inches
Adjusted for inflation:
Mount Rushmore, to scale.
Let’s keep this short, guys.
Three minutes tops. And no, there
Will be no encore.
Lost election but
Won debate. Oh and later
(drops mic again)
Preserved the union
Greatest of all time.
(no mic drop big enough)