/This post has finally been commandeered by guest blogger Don Bito/
Yeah, yeah, so I didn’t post for the past two Fridays. I was on VACATION, OKAY?!? I was too busy floating in the 85 degree dolphin-populated waters off the Savannah coast and gay bar hopping and drinking Sweetwater Blue, O’FRIGGIN’KAY? But now I’m back. *quiet sobbing*
And I don’t even want to talk about moving this past week except to say that I’m pretty sure I’m having pains in imaginary muscles right now. For instance, my glattulars are killing me. And also to say, R.I.P. 1722! We hardly knew ye. We never even got to set off fireworks on your roof! *quiet sobbing*
But all unnecessary back story aside, to atone for my bloggy sins this week I’ve decided to bring you a belated Independence Day post, featuring my top 5 favorite non-American (arguably) pop artists. Yeah, I’m not much of a patriot. So, in no particular order, here are five artists whose entire repertoire I could listen to on loop for weeks on end:
When I was a little kid growing up in a very small farm in Southern New Jersey, summers were very simple. They weren’t like the summers that the various Main Line kids I used to babysit have. Because these kids were born to parents with giant, paper calendars in their kitchens that graph out in ink the activities they’ve picked out for the little ones. Soccer. Violin. Reading lessons. Language school. Tap dancing. Ballet. Math camp. Summer camp. Activities, activities, activities. And when I used to babysit, I’d see the kids sigh and shake their heads in a manner too old for their age. They’d go to their parents with pleading eyes. “But I’m tired. Why can’t I just stay home?”
“Oh sweetie, you know you can’t do that! You don’t want to fall behind! Besides, mommy and dad have to work!” Nervous glance in my direction.
“But I’m tired!”
“I know, sweetie, why don’t you go watch your favorite Hannah Montana show, okay? I’ll get you some crackers.”
[Pouting.] “Okay.”
I always felt for my charges. Mini-adults whose every moment was accounted for. Those were the moments when I stopped being impressed by the mansions, the luxury SUVs and the designer suits…
My summers were a little different. My summers were about chores done early in the morning and late in the evening, so the sun’s rays wouldn’t get you. The chores? Weeding the one-acre garden my mother planted every summer. Sneaking peas and strawberries from the plants, hoping she wasn’t paying attention. She was, but she never minded. Picking hundreds of potato bugs off the potato plants with my cousins and then gleefully flushing them down the toilet. Washing the chickens’ water bowl with the garden hose and filling it with fresh, clean water. And after chores? Keep reading →
More than 60 campers from Northeast Philadelphia were turned away from a private swim club and left to wonder if their race was the reason.
“I heard this lady, she was like, ‘Uh, what are all these black kids doing here?’ She’s like, ‘I’m scared they might do something to my child,’” said camper Dymire Baylor.
The Creative Steps Day Camp paid more than $1900 to The Valley Swim Club. The Valley Swim Club is a private club that advertises open membership. But the campers’ first visit to the pool suggested otherwise.
“When the minority children got in the pool all of the Caucasian children immediately exited the pool,” Horace Gibson, parent of a day camp child, wrote in an email. “The pool attendants came and told the black children that they did not allow minorities in the club and needed the children to leave immediately.”
*Splutters. It’s bad enough that many of Philly’s public pools have closed down. Now they’re keeping urban kids (whose parents have paid for the privilege of using this pool) out of suburban pools as well? Ridiculous.
And the response from the club? Mind-boggling.
“There was concern that a lot of kids would change the complexion … and the atmosphere of the club,” John Duesler, President of The Valley Swim Club said in a statement.
I will always be grateful for my friend Phillybits for urging me to join Twitter. The response from my non-Twitter friends has been interesting, however. For the most part, they hate the idea of Twitter. They envision it as a humdrum version of Facebook where everyone elaborates on their breakfast/boring lives/etc. Well, it can be that too, but it can also be a fantastic conversation between fascinating people you would have never met in real life. Keep reading →
I came across this Wall Street article on men who wear skinny jeans. Reminded me of last week, when I found myself in a room full of skinny-jean men, half of whom were hobbling around. It make me wince. Yes, indeed:
Doug Black has found himself in a tight squeeze more times than he cares to remember. One day, he got caught in the rain without an umbrella and was unable to run. When his colleagues sat in a circle, the 23-year-old English teacher from Portland, Ore., couldn’t cross his legs. And when he tried to jaywalk, while in Beijing for work, he couldn’t hop the median divider with his friends.
“I had to walk half a mile down the street on my own to use the crosswalk,” he says.
His jeans were too tight. But he has no plans to buy a looser style. “Discomfort comes with the territory,” he says.
Yeah, so I fathomed as much. My little brother weighs some 20-odd pounds less than me. He wears skinny jeans. Jeans so tight and lean he has to buy them from the women’s section of a department store. Jeans that make me envious, because they’re a women’s size 00 and I can hardly get an ankle in one. But I can’t say skinny jeans on men do it for me. Keep reading →
The story of Zahra Saeed is intriguing. Former mortgage banker. Single mom. New Jersey resident. Pakistani American. Fashion designer. And now entrepreneur.
Amuses me how obsessed people are with her arranged marriage (or is it just me). Arranged marriage stories make for good marketing material. Especially when you’re selling exotic clothing. Okay, stop being so cynical.
“The only daughter of a wealthy Pakistani landowner, Saeed had three brothers and was treated like a princess. In her world, women didn’t work. As a child she traveled throughout Europe. Tailors came to the house to make the family’s clothing.
At 18, Saeed entered into an arranged marriage. After the birth of her first daughter, the family moved to Canada. Her second daughter was born, and they settled in Cherry Hill. Saeed’s husband bought her a BMW. She wanted for nothing.
“I was a true housewife,” Saeed said. “I cooked. I cleaned. I was quiet. I never worked. I didn’t drive on the highway at night.”
Then she and her husband split up when she was 25. She and her two children were on their own. Her family, including her ex-husband, doubted her ability to get a job, questioning why she would want to.”
Okay, so I’m in the middle of cementing my schedule at the WAA shelter. In honor of that, I thought I’d share my favorite song about domestic violence. (And it happens to be country, which is good, because I love country.) I always get a little teary around 1:25.
I had the opportunity to watch Confessions of a Shopaholic with my cousins during the Fourth of July weekend. (Note: it is the worst movie ever made. Do go not go out and rent it. ) In a nutshell, Rebecca Bloomwood is a woman with a spending problem that catches up with her. Now I read the book by Sophie Kinsella that the movie was based on quite some years ago. I’ve always hated the heroine. Rebecca has never resembled anything close to what me and my female peers aspire to be. In the movie, she’s the bumbling caricature of a writer. Think the loser version of Carrie Bradshaw. Her character is just as inane in the books. Still, the books are addictive, if only for the horror with which the reader must watch this accident-in-progress. (In later versions of the Shopaholic books, Rebecca marries a rich venture capitalist. Convenient.) The books are also compelling because they empathize with every twenty-something girl who has to make the choice between fiscally fiscal responsibility and fashion. The two are not always incompatible. But it’s easier to shop at Barneys, get highlights, etc if you have the money. (And how can one find a boyfriend without spending a little money? Don’t even get me started.) Keep reading →
Join me in welcoming the “Mad Foodie” to phillygrrl.com. He’s a foodie. He’s mad. That pretty much sums it up.
Let me lead this off with a brief aside: I’m a pretty angry person. About a lot of things. I don’t like the vast majority of people I see, and the rest of them have to be pretty darn awesome to fall into my good graces (you’re all reading this, so you’re OK). But there’s one person, above all others, that deserves not only my hatred, but, as far as I’m concerned, the hatred of all of humanity.
That man…
…is Bobby Flay.
I love cooking. I love food. I love to eat food that I cook. I love to eat food that other people cook. Hell, sometimes I even like to clean up the dishes afterwords. Because of this love of cooking, I idolize many so-called “celebrity chefs”: Gordon Ramsay, Anthony Bourdain, and Emeril Lagasse, just to name a few. But I have found no other chef more deserving of a slow, painful death than Bobby Flay. Keep reading →
Monday, July 6th marks viewers’ last chance to see Jonathan and Kimberly Stemler’s the little red string, a brilliant cluster of lanterns installed at Carlton Street between 11th and 12th Streets in Chinatown North.
To honor the little red string, the Asian Arts Initiative will host an evening of music, food and celebration under the lanterns on Monday, July 6th from 7:00 to 9:00 pm. Light refreshments will be provided. Entertainment will include live music by local guitar players Annie Seng, Owen Zhong, and others. Community members are encouraged to bring dishes to share in a potluck picnic and their own instruments and join in the jam session. The event is free and open to the public. Keep reading →
