southphillysilly

Today I am writing my thesis (and a blog post, evidently). I submitted a piece to my advisor last month called “New, New Hurricanes,” which is the successor of “New Hurricanes” which was the successor of  ”Hurricanes.” (Here’s a tip– if you can’t decide on a title, there’s a good chance you have no idea what you are writing about.)

Yes, of course, of course. The essay details my experiences with hurricanes as I grew up on the coast of Georgia. But all my readers so far are unsatisfied– they ask, what is the piece really about?

All three drafts of this bohemoth have left me unsatisfied. None of the stories I’ve tried feel like the real story to me. I’ve tried centralizing one of half a dozen threads… corporations exploiting those in crisis, how suspension of the norm brings a family together, hurricane season culture…. but nothing feels right.

The whole process– staring, highlighting, scratching out, tearing up– reminds me of Lent, the six-week season in the Christian church calendar that precedes Easter. My faith community is focusing on disentangling ourselves this Lent– taking a long, slow look at those patterns that keep us from God, from each other, and our true selves. We do a lot of staring, observing, a lot of scratching out trusting that when God’s light shines on our sin, we’ll be redeemed.

Honestly? Both the writing and Lent can get tiresome. Developing the “third eye”–that perspective you need to tell a good story, or see yourself more clearly– is hard work. Anyone who tries is going to get exhausted. So I’m tired. But at least I’m trying.

Another day, another internship. Yes, I am still working my way through the ranks of unpaid bitches in Philadelphia, hoping that one day I will land a job getting paid to write. In the meantime, I am thoroughly enjoying my volunteer hours. I have landed this semester at First Person Arts– a nonprofit that makes my heart sing. Dreams come true!

I will try my best to stay faithful to my roots, southphillysilly, throughout the internship. *fingers crossed*

___________________

Here I am taking a sophisticated detour through City Hall on the way to get coffee before work this morning.

And here I am, taken by surprise, in my cubicle at the office.

Ahh… an office building! A door man! A water cooler!

A great Friday.

Due to an unusual turn of events (four items on our calendars were canceled), Howard and I both had last night free. We made pizza and took advantage of one of our favorite things to do in the city– see a movie at the Ritz. There are three different Ritz theatres in the Old City section of Philadelphia and they consistently show good movies, including the lesser-known movies of the day. We go to the Ritz almost exclusively on Wednesday nights, since the Ritz runs a $6.50 special. Woo hoo! Newlyweds can feel metropolitan on the cheap!

Howard wanted to see “Celeste and Jesse Forever,” but from the previews I thought it looked an awful lot like their new marriage wasn’t going to make it. Howard! I whined. Do you really want to watch a movie about divorce? We just got married!

[you can click on the link below to watch the trailer]

Celeste and Jesse Forever

I didn’t think I could bear to watch a young, hopeful couple begin to argue and contemplate divorce. The synapses in my brain would go berserk, making connections and feeling doomed. We argue about those things! That’s how we met! Oh my gosh, Howard has a sweater like that!

I read about someone recently who had a similar problem, a priest, actually. “He cancelled his subscription to the New York Times because he felt the endless stories about war, crime, power games, and political manipulation only disturbed his mind and heart and prevented him from meditation and prayer.” (Nouwen, Reaching Out)

Anyone else avoid things that might “disturb their mind?”

Nouwen has a suggestion for us pain-avoiders: If we practice solitude, if we develop a real spiritual life, then we are able to embrace the pain and disquiet of the world, including all its bombs and break-ups. Everything that transpires can become part of our contemplation and meditation, even beckoning us into a more deep and free response, beyond the shallows in which fear exists.

I decided to face my fear of Celeste and Jesse. I insisted that H. and I go to the movies– not just because I love H and his desire to see a reduced-price flick– but because I want to exist in the depths, beyond the shadows, with Jesus.

Pardon the absence, y’all.

Howard and I got hitched

Our (large) wedding party

Me and my main squeeze

Some of our signature dance moves

Leaving the reception!

And then we moved into the Breeze. (one of many Philly neighborhoods)

These days we are adjusting and enjoying married life.

I cooked breakfast this morning– grits and eggs. H. ate them all, God bless him, even though I over salted the grits. So far in this partnership, I’ve been the cooker of dishes and he’s been the cleaner of dishes. I let him chop and stir and set the table, but by and large my preoccupation with creative control has extended into the kitchen and I jealously guard my territory. I go grocery shopping, I hold the grocery money, I plan the meals, etc. etc. There is a small part of me that resents how traditional that is, how predictable, how statistical, even. According to a survey done in the UK in 2005, women spend twice as much time as men in the kitchen every day (54 minutes compared to 27). Across the board, women spend more time contributing to the running of the household, the most significant difference being in the “Cleaning, Tidying” category– a dizzying 34 minute difference, almost four times the amount that men spend spiff-ing up the place.

Let’s be perfectly clear– there’s nothing wrong with the way that Howard does any of the household chores. I just don’t like the way he does it, and I am particular about domestic everything. I like my bed made a certain way, my grits a certain thickness, a certain degree of mayonnaise on my sandwiches at lunch.  So… since I want all these things so certain… I make the bed, I make the breakfast, and I do all our meal-planning.

Are other women hogging the executive decisions in their household?

Times are changing. Folks my age are getting married later and later in life or not at all. Same-sex households are becoming more common. Women are working full-time and living alone. And by and large, men are adapting quite well to these changes. Blogs are popping up all over the world wide web that cater to the growing number of men present in the kitchen for a variety of reasons, like Food Republic, which was founded on the premise that “guys everywhere are putting food at the center of their lives like never before” and the intriguing, Cook to Bang with its straightforward subtitle, “Recipes to get you laid.”

In fact, researchers who conducted the UK survey referenced earlier coined the term, “gastrosexual,” when referring to upwardly mobile masculine men ages 25-44. Young men are getting in the kitchen more and more, and though the difference in the division  of household labor along gender lines is still significant, the gap is closing all the time. Men seem to be voluntarily taking a bigger role in the household– and enjoying it.

All that said to say, maybe I’d like the way Howard made the grits… if I made some room at the stove.

The only way to eat a melon is with a spoon. Take half of the melon to your bedroom and eat it at your desk while you write, pausing mid-sentence to dig the spoon in once again and round it like a full moon through the chilled, pink flesh of the watermelon.

Ashley Way’s grandma taught me how to eat a melon when I was in the 3rd grade. For breakfast she would drag a watermelon in from the garden and whack it in two with a large butcher knife. Ashley and I sat in our jammies at the table, waiting patiently for our melon half to be set before us. Once grandma taught us how to scoop she left us alone, which was standard. She gave us all kinds of space in  which to eat melons, practice dance routines, and watch R-rated movies. She even plopped down beside us one night to watch “Silence of the Lambs.” Part way through I asked if we could shut all the blinds in the house, I was afraid someone was watching. That must have reminded her she was the adult; she turned off the television– “Alright, alright, I think we’ve seen enough of that.” I feigned disappointment.

You’ll pay $7 right now for a smallish watermelon at Whole Foods on South Street. (I just broke my $10 bill to buy one.) These melons were shipped from God-knows where, since local melons won’t be in their prime time until August. Judge me if you like– it was an impulse move. But as I sit here munching on my melon, I know no regret.

P.S. The mealticket internship is wrapping up… Southphillysilly is back !!!