Happy is the heart of her that holds baby animals.
Absolutely captivated, I approached the snow leopard, meekly, reverently. The reception at the zoo had already fulfilled my needs of baby animal petting with the kangaroo, fox, and penguin. But here stood a keeper, inviting me to scoop up all four paws of this ball of fur. What me, the wedding photography coordinator? Hold that, one of three-thousand left in the world?! Fifteen seconds of pure ecstasy ensued. His purring in rhythm with my own, I forgot all the camera falls, late groomsmen, wardrobe malfunctions.
Chop chop, slather oil, sprinkle.
One can never have enough cheese. 375 F. Twenty-five-ish minutes.
Zucchini boats = showing off stellar squash!
What are you reading? asked my hairdresser.
A book on writing, said I, her last customer.
You’re reading about writing?
Yes, I smiled.
Sometimes people lose sight of themselves as they enter this cult known as tennis. Take my sixteen-year old brother. Western and Southern Open. Ran ahead of everyone, unwilling to miss any form of play that day. Rule number one of the whole thing–watch each stroke, mentally perform volleys, footwork, footwork!
Secondly, gawkers must sport preppy attire. Some went all out and donned their favorite players’ brands while others simply paired high socks with an everyday look. If you have a collar, pop it. If Federer practices on the warm-up court, pull out your iphone. If you are Federer, play while your tennis star wife cheers courtside. If you are his wife, show off your glitzy, ginormous watch.
Have you ever felt quite awake? Electrically so?
It would seem that my mind’s wires are less organized than America’s decrepit power grid. So along this mess of spaghetti-esque neurons, impulses come and go. Some are more blog-worthy than others. But if their conversation could be captured, it would sound something learnt first year of medical school and memorized for second year to be forgotten third year:
Fall 2011. Freezing.
I felt kinda bourgeoisie once again while visiting a famous southern chateau. Apparently, its architects and a twenty-seven year old Vanderbilt modeled the place after a chateau called Chambord, my old friend (on the right). On my turf and crowed with English speakers, Biltmore was as gorgeously breath-taking as its foreign counterpart.
Asheville, NC, transformed my family into a bunch of hipsters. At least for one night. Instead of driving straight through, we took a detour through this southern gem. Lots of dogs walking about, local shops, businesses boasting their eco-friendly or vegan or sustainable ways in every way. From googling you-know-you’re-a-hipster-when, I think my fam got pretty close.
We bought local. This lil Mast General Store has been around since 1883!
We listened to music no one’s heard of. Pritchard park had a fun little drum session attended by young kids, old kids, crew cuts, dread locks, everyone.
We accessorized. There were a ton of cute boutiques and bookstores!
We brought old places to life. This is one of the oldest malls in America (after store hours!)
We rolled with intellectuals.
We ate locally. Early Girl Eatery boasts a farm-to-table menu and has been featured in fun travel and food mags.
Here is some real food! Fried green tomato napoleon with herbed goat cheese and salsa on grits. Mmm.
Video games, mirrors, and doggies are just a few options for the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder. I received this mini-psych lesson at the pool. My uncle has a knack for meeting interesting people. Today was no different. Having chatted awhile on the stairs, he waved me over to make new friends. A fascinating conversation ensued with a psychiatric nurse who works at a veteran’s PTSD clinic.
So many questions.