tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582310500140932892024-03-13T19:43:51.320-04:00so you're new to bmoreMVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-76946301127545558952014-08-22T20:07:00.000-04:002014-08-22T20:07:21.234-04:00So you're leaving Baltimore.<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
I’ve wanted to officially retire this little blog for some time now. I fell out of the blogging habit after my Neighbor Incident of 2013™, then I moved, and then I started volunteering for this amazing group, <a href="http://upsettingrapeculture.com/">Force</a>. My blog time turned into volunteer time, and I have zero regrets. Then, this past June I accepted a job in DC and made the official move down in August. It all feels shockingly reminiscent to 2011 when I had just moved to Baltimore and abhorred it because it was anything but little Roanoke, VA with mountains galore.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baltimore: It'll Charm Your Pants Off</td></tr>
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DC is, it’s true, anything but Baltimore, MD. All those stupid lists and battles that have gone back and forth over the past year or so about who is better carry some truths to them. By “truths” I of course mean “gross generalizations and regional stereotypes,” but that’s neither here nor there. Yes, DC has politics, Big Historical Events and maddeningly high rent. Yes, Baltimore has an annual parade where kinetic sculptures are required to have a sock monkey affixed to them, along with an unbearably high murder rate and a great combination of city/small town feel. I’ve spent my first few weeks waxing poetic over Charm City – its people, its events, the way it made me realize that I went from hating it to adoring it much like a middle school crush fully realized.</div>
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Thank you, Baltimore, for three unbelievable years. Thank you for introducing me to wonderful people, for giving me a chance to write more, connecting me to groups doing powerful work. Thanks for introducing me to a great guy, one who truly is a keeper! Thanks for bringing Bubba out of his shell, for the runs around the Hopkins campus and up and down the Jones Falls trail. Thanks for Mondo Baltimore’s terrible movies each month, for Single Carrot Theater’s masterful shows, for Charmington’s lattes and Sweet 27’s cupcakes. Thanks for the number 3, 11 and 61 buses that could all get me home from downtown. Thanks for never kicking me off of the Hopkins shuttle. Thanks for Bocce in Fed Hill Park, for rock climbing out in Timonium, for O’s games, The Book Thing, happy hours at Peter’s Pourhouse, First Fridays, WTMD, WYPR, the Monument Lighting each December and for each and every plate of drunken noodles at Stang of Siam (and, this goes without saying, every bowl of pho from Mekong Delta). Thank you for the halal cart in front of the courthouse, and thanks for the $20 that day I came in for jury duty and never had to sit on a jury. Thanks for winning a Superbowl while I lived there!</div>
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But really. The people, Baltimore, the people. They are amazing and you better take damn good care of them, you hear?</div>
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DC will grow on me eventually, I’m sure. The lack of bad movie nights saddens me, as does the hour plus trek out the climbing gym. My initial impression is really just that everyone is competitive and everything is expensive. DC, I’m begging to be proven wrong here, so please help me out here!</div>
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I am no longer new to Baltimore. If you are, congratulations! You are luckier than you could ever have imagined. My biggest recommendation to you is to go out there and get involved. Baltimore has so much, <i>so much</i>, to choose from that you really have no excuse. Club sports, groups that meet at bars just to play board games, people that meet at bars just to play drinking games while watching atrocious movies, Bike Party, homebrews, volunteer gigs, stand-up shows, art shows, a festival purely for books, an amazing music scene and so much more. Go get out there, get involved, soak it up and don’t miss a minute. Who knows how long you’ll be lucky enough to call Baltimore home; don’t ever take the city for granted.</div>
MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-33689917052446355282013-09-22T18:07:00.002-04:002013-09-22T18:24:22.716-04:00An Open Letter to JHU UndergradsWelcome back to school! It's been a few weeks now, which means you're really into the swing of things. You've gotten a handle on your coursework for the semester, figured out a good shower schedule with the roommate(s), and learned how to not have your cellphone stolen out of your hand while you absentmindedly peruse Facebook at the shuttle stop.<br />
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As someone a few years ahead of you in the Game of Life, let me share some knowledge with you.<br />
<br />
Thursday is recycling day for the Homewood area, per the Department of Public Work's <a href="http://cityview.baltimorecity.gov/cv/map.aspx?question=19%20">website</a>. This means that you put your recyclables outside on Wednesday night or Thursday morning, and they either need to be in a recyclable container (paper bag, box, etc) or a useable container with you address. A plastic trashbag is not recyclable. A plastic trashbag full of sneakers without pairs are not recyclable, at least not in the way that a beer can is. Don't put all your beer cans in a plastic bag to be recycled. That does nothing for anyone. Also, why are you buying so much Miller High Life? This is Baltimore. Stick to '<a href="http://nationalbohemian.com/agegate/?backto=/&loopval=1">Boh</a>.<br />
<br />
For the love of all that is good and holy, please eat your pizza crusts so that my dog doesn't. I've already complained about chicken wings on the sidewalk, along with <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/12/pet-ownership-just-as-glamorous-as-you.html">other things</a> I've taken out of my dog's throat on walks. Since you've come back to town, though, there are more pizza crusts than pigeons.<br />
<br />
Not everything is worthy of a "WOOOOOOO." Starting around 8:00pm on Thursdays until at least midnight on Sundays, I live in fear of the "WOOOO." I hear the "WOO" when I shut my windows, run the Roomba, or do countless other things to drown you out. The other day, I heard a "WOO" over the flushing of my toilet, and wondered if you were cheering me on for my bathroom accomplishments. I understand that you're excited because you are free of parental supervision, but bring it down a "WOO" or two.<br />
<br />
Music can be equally as wonderful without having the bass as high as possible. I don't need my windows rattling.<br />
<br />
There is an unwritten rule here in Adultland (beyond regular vacuuming and being in bed by 11:00pm): if the line that separates your leg from your butt cheek is visible, your skirt/shorts/dress/romper/trashbag/gym sock you oiled yourself into is too short. This goes for both men and women. This is not a matter of saying, "You look like a hussy," this is a matter of not everyone wanting to see your butt cheek. Wear whatever you want, I don't really care. Just cover up your butt, especially when you're "WOO"ing about how cold it is outside.<br />
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You don't need to wear fake eyelashes on a Wednesday. No one needs to wear fake eyelashes on a Wednesday. Not even people in fashion shoots. Their stylists are all, "What? Are you crazy? It's WEDNESDAY." You're in your late teens/early 20s! This is your prime! Own it, without faking it. You have no need to!<br />
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It's taken me some time to get accustomed to your presence. It was a rough realization for me for the first two weeks, but I've warmed to you. You bring dollars for local businesses. You bring some diversity to the neighborhood. You raise Bubba's self esteem by regularly telling me that, "WOOO HE'S SO CUTE." You make me nostalgic for the years when my biggest concern was whether I'd get a burger at the dining hall, or a wrap from the pseudo-health-conscious stand in the gym. People looking to nab an iPhone from someone's hands will also more likely head towards you, the drunk guy walking into a pole, rather than me, the girl in her pajamas picking up dog poop.<br />
<br />
So thank you. But remember, please bring the "WOO"ing down a notch. Read the (incredibly simple) recycling rules; you're Hopkins students, you can handle it. Turn down your bass, cover your butt, and accept that you are beautiful at 20 and don't need any fake eyelashes yet. Be young and carefree, but not stupid. <br />
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Welcome (back) to Baltimore.<br />
Sincerely yours,<br />
Your Neighbor Who Really May Call the Cops if You Don't Turn Down Your BassMVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-17671684651237296542013-07-26T10:00:00.000-04:002013-07-26T16:16:24.101-04:00Bikes: The Ugly, the Bad, and the GoodThings have been busy. I moved, I wrote <a href="http://www.baltimorefishbowl.com/stories/no-more-i-refuse-on-the-failure-of-victim-services-in-baltimore/">this piece </a>for the Baltimore Fishbowl because I moved, and then it just got hot and I couldn't be bothered to do much beyond eat ice cream in front of my AC unit.<br />
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Way back in 2002, in between training for the upcoming high school cross country season and doing important teenage things like buying $4 flip flops from Old Navy, I somehow wound up signed up to do a bike tour across Maine, starting a little outside of Augusta. My travel companions and I were, somehow, going to bike 50-75 miles a day across the state of Maine for a week. It also bears noting that I was 14, and that my travel companions were my lifelong friend, Georgia, and my sister, who was all of 19 at the time.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2002: Georgia and I, Summer of the Car Smush</td></tr>
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I was down with biking, but I hadn't ever been<i> down with biking</i>. I was all about the gear shifters that twisted on your handlebars, and never went more than two miles around the perimeter of my parents' house. When Georgia and I knew we were going to do this bike trip, we began training. We'd bike <i>five</i> miles. To the nearest Starbucks, and get Frappucinos, because that's how 14 year old girls train. That being said, it's still more training than my sister did for this ride.<br />
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We drove up from Georgia's parents' house outside of Providence, and began to realize how woefully illprepared we were the first night, amongst hordes of fellow bikers, all middle aged, and all far more in shape than we were, (rightfully) laughing at my mountain bike.<br />
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The next day ended quickly. Within .7 miles of the trip, while we were still biking on the sidewalk of Rome, Maine, I got hit by a car while crossing a crosswalk when he had a red light. I could not have been going more than 2 miles an hour. He hit me, I went down, and I'm still not sure how, but the bike landed on top of me, and the pedal gauged my leg. My sister claims that's the day I began cursing like a sailor. 15 stitches later, and that was the end of the trip. We stupidly went camping that night, which could not have been good for my thrown-on-the-ground spine, and my sister washed my hair in the sink everyone washed their dishes in at the campground. It was a very glamorous time in my life. Somewhere on some 3X5 ultra glossy print from CVS, there's a great picture of the three of us at the beach, post accident. My sister has her eyes semi shut, Georgia is posing like a teen supermodel, and I'm sticking my leg out to the side at a weird angle while its wrapped in layer of gauze that we probably reapplied in the back of the 1994 Dodge Caravan we drove up to Maine in. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAaWaEQd6lE">Memories</a>. <br />
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I didn't touch bikes for a while. I was 21 before I got back on a bike again. I was 22 before I took one on the street, and even then, it was to get groceries in college and go maybe a half a mile, mainly on campus. The pedal going into my leg left me with a large scar that I was vainly self-conscious about throughout high school. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2005: The Leg Scar Remains <br />
(as does my inherent awkwardness)</td></tr>
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I still have this scar, although it's finally begun to fade. Frequent reactions include, "Ohmygosh you're bleeding!" or "What happened?!" The first allows me to pretend like I feel no pain, the second allows me a space in which I can create whatever convoluted story I feel is appropriate at the time. Bear mauling? Sure! Couldn't afford med school so I tested things on myself? Times are tough, makes sense.<br />
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When I moved here, I was still very much skeptical of bikes. And bikes in the city? Absolutely not. A friend of mine was pretty involved in Bike Party, though, and I got roped into volunteering. <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/11/bike-party.html">Bike Party</a> is wonderful. After a few months of haphazardly volunteering, I finally got myself on a bike and partook back in April. Bike Party is ideal for the faint-of-heart biker. You travel in a pack at an absurdly slow rate, and everyone around you is supportive. You have a space to become accustomed with biking <i>in</i> the street, but at 5 miles an hour with a huge crowd of happy bikers surrounding you. It was perfect for me.<br />
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After April's Bike Party (Prom-themed, so I wore my high school prom dress with leggings and tucked it into a fanny pack), I began to warm up to the idea of getting back on a bike. I bought myself a <a href="https://twitter.com/banksmv/status/333444891151593473/photo/1">1988 Schwinn Premis</a> off good 'ol Craigslist, and through the patience of various people, have begun biking again. Initially, just some short trips to the lakes or up through Roland Park, but as of last week, I am officially a bike commuter.<br />
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Biking to work is not nearly as atrocious as I'd imagined it would be, even with my old school downtube shifters. Gone are the days of walking a few blocks to the bus, to wait for the bus, to get off and wait for another bus, to walk a couple more blocks to the office. Biking time is the same as a (rare) good day bus commuting. I no longer have to wait for 30 minute increments for the next shuttle or Circulator to come find me. I no longer get drenched in sweat waiting to get home, I get drenched in sweat while actively getting home. It's wonderful. The 3 mile ride uphill going home isn't so wonderful, but the freedom from the stupid buses and shuttles most definitely is sweet enough to compensate.<br />
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So if you're new to Bmore, get out there on your bike! Just remember that you're also a vehicle of sorts, so you, too, should be following the rules of the road. Stop at stop signs, signal when you're turning, don't text - all those things that should be stupidly obvious, but aren't to so many. Wear your helmet, be aware of people opening their doors into you, and forever avoid paying for parking.<br />
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Happy biking!<br />
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MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-20262969004287960302013-06-20T16:09:00.000-04:002013-06-20T16:09:33.029-04:00Liebster Questions<br />
There's a handful of people out in the Baltimore Blogo/Twittersphere who've been nothing but wonderful to me. Mr. Chop over at <a href="http://thebaltimorechop.com/">The Baltimore Chop</a>, Evan over at <a href="http://citythatbreeds.com/">City That Breeds</a>, Ann Marie at <a href="http://www.letsgivepeasachance.com/">Let's Give Peas a Chance</a>, and many others. Ann Marie is always at the ready with an inspiring quote, a great book suggestion, and of course, a delicious recipe. She challenged me to answer the Liebster Questions (history <a href="http://sopphey.onimpression.com/2012/05/liebster-blog-award-origins.html">here</a>), which is essentially a get-to-know-other-awesome-bloggers, building-our-online-community type of thing. So, in the interest of building upon this already bountiful community, I've agreed to answer six questions of her choosing, and then must nominate other bloggers to answer six questions of my choosing. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm that androgynous child in <br />
what I <i>promise </i>is an elephant costume.</td></tr>
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<b>What is the last thing you do before you go to sleep each night?</b><br />
I love to read, and the periods of my life that are darkest are often also ones where I don't make time to unwind with a book at the end of the day. This is not an exaggeration - reading before bed keeps me calmer throughout the day. I hold myself accountable to (at least) one book a month, regardless of the fact that I often fall asleep about three pages into my bedtime reading.<br />
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<b>What is it that first prompted you to start blogging?</b><br />
I started blogging back in 2010 when I did AmeriCorps, at my first and most beloved blog, <a href="http://snootyonastipend.blogspot.com/">Snooty on a Stipend</a>. For a year, I religiously posted each week, with generally super mundane things. Documenting my year was a super cathartic experience, and every now and then, when I'm feeling nostalgic for life in the mountains on minimum wage, I'll reread those old posts. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">McAfee Knob, right outside of Salem, VA, <br />
is one of my favorite places on this planet.</td></tr>
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I started this blog after I had been in Baltimore for a few months and realized there was a wealth of information I would've loved to have those first few, overwhelming weeks. A sad part of me hoped (still hopes) that perhaps someone else who moves here with no friends and no prior knowledge of the city will find this and seek solace in the fact that Baltimore is incredible, predominantly because of the incredible people that inhabit it.<br />
<br />
<b>Who is your favorite Disney Princess?</b><br />
Am I allowed to say none? I have issues with Disney princesses. (#feminist) Because Belle is bookish, I'm inclined to say Belle, but she also was suffering some severe Stockholm Syndrome, so there's that. Ariel is insolent, Sleeping Beauty is just pretty and literally <i>lies there</i>. Snow White, also, falls asleep (dies, whatever), and has to have a man save her. Even Merida from <i>Brave</i> is rude to her mother. If forced to choose, I guess Jasmine's pretty sweet, or Tiana.<br />
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<b>When you're cooking for a special occasion, what's your go-to meal?</b><br />
If I'm cooking for a crowd, then black bean chili. It's vegan and gluten free, therefore accommodating to various diets, and made predominantly of things already in my pantry. If I'm trying to impress someone, probably paella. I've recently been practicing my omelet skills though, and breakfast can always be considered a special occasion. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photocredit: askgeorgie.com</td></tr>
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<b>What is your favorite pump-up song?</b><br />
This is something that changes regularly, but right now my pump-up song of choice is the opener of my Spotify playlist called "Clean Your Damn Apartment." Ever since that GIRLS episode where Hannah and Elijah are at the club, dancing their coked-up hearts out, Icona Pop's "I Love It" has been my pump-up song. It is great for helping one clean an apartment, or pack up an apartment, or likely for exercise, should you be the type of person who's into that kind of thing.<br />
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<b>What TV show do you wish never got cancelled?</b><br />
I LOVE some Frasier. I don't care that it makes me square, I honestly don't. Frasier was a great show full of great <a href="http://youtu.be/WJagAyCGZbg">scenes</a> and lines. "<i>Hail Corkmaster, the master of the cork. He knows which wine goes with fish or pork." </i><br />
(Also on this list: Wishbone, 30 Rock, Arrested Development)<br />
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I'm going to challenge....<br />
The Chop over at <a href="http://thebaltimorechop.com/">The Baltimore Chop</a> (I can hear you saying "No" already. C'mon. Peer pressure!)<br />
My anonymous friend from undergrad over at <span id="goog_442826284"></span><a href="http://bewhereyouare87.blogspot.com/">Be Where You Are</a><span id="goog_442826285"></span><br />
The lovely, one and only, <a href="http://charmcitycook.blogspot.com/">Charm City Cook</a><br />
Wonderful Brittany from <a href="http://navigatingthenuances.blogspot.com/">Navigating the Nuances</a><br />
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The six questions I have for you all are:<br />
1. Chunky or smooth peanut butter? Please justify your response. It's for science.<br />
2. What is your favorite place you've ever lived/visited?<br />
3. What's the worst job you've ever held?<br />
4. What were you like in 4th grade?<br />
5. Where do you buy your groceries, and why?<br />
6. What is your preferred brand/scent of handsoap?<br />
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Blog away!<br />
<br />MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-85902074372768222042013-06-10T09:30:00.000-04:002013-06-10T21:07:46.359-04:00Going Local - CSA GloryIt's been two months since I've posted - I know. I'm sorry. I have a list of excuses, none of which are interesting or justifiable. But I'd like to think that merely having a list is sufficient justification.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhscY8gV31FcnNMSLLWz4AJxhjnEyD_NkvEAOd_yJH2RKPw4q_-zvm8xD5_tzcj5tGqchBiXf_2aCGWudkGGHpq1vxsxPz9SWtH1jt6Kw0k_5BkI8NscIX5OLRRjcVHc0owTp9G0Qo4zNCg/s1600/veggies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhscY8gV31FcnNMSLLWz4AJxhjnEyD_NkvEAOd_yJH2RKPw4q_-zvm8xD5_tzcj5tGqchBiXf_2aCGWudkGGHpq1vxsxPz9SWtH1jt6Kw0k_5BkI8NscIX5OLRRjcVHc0owTp9G0Qo4zNCg/s1600/veggies.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stock photo because I've consumed too much <br />of my CSA for a photo do to the quantity justice.</td></tr>
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As spring transitions into summer, one of my favorite things is the wealth of produce variety that arises in the weekly market. Piles of potatoes morph into stockpiles of strawberries. First asparagus, then blueberries and peas, and the next thing you know squash is long gone and you get to enjoy colorful meals yet again. So long, beta carotene; I'll see you in the fall.<br />
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I love the new produce in the spring. It's what incentivized me to get out of bed and to the <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/07/baltimore-farmers-market.html">market</a> last year. This year, I can proudly say that, motivated largely by sloth, I have joined a CSA. The idea of supporting local farmers is something I've begun to feel quite strongly about. Not only are you helping your community, you're cutting down on your own carbon footprint by not buying strawberries from Chile in December. I like being able to go see where my food is grown, or in some cases, where my cows and pigs pasture. Why buy something that's traveled thousands of miles, was picked before it was ripe so it could ripen on a plane, as opposed to on the vine where that process should be happening? It just makes less sense to me. I'd rather pay the premium to help my local farmers and get guaranteed fresh, chemical free produce, and forgo a few meals out or a new pair of shoes. <br />
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I have been a member of the <a href="http://genuinefoodmd.com/CSA.html">Genuine Food</a> meat CSA since April. Vegetarians, I know you're disappointed in me. But you know what? I can't eat seitan, so get off my back. Once a month, I get 10lbs of pork and beef products, for an average of $7/lb. $7/lb, mind you, is a steal compared to what the equivalent of organic meat from Whole Foods would cost you. And, again, I've seen the cows. They chill in a pasture and have a pretty awesome life. It's a local farmer, and the cost of transporting the meat to Baltimore is far less than a grass fed cow coming to me from Argentina. What's not to love? <br />
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My veggie CSA also started last week. After much (some) research, I settled on <a href="http://www.onestrawfarm.com/">One Straw Farm</a>. I had first heard of them back in the fall of 2011 when I went to see a screening of<a href="http://cafeteriaman.com/"> Cafeteria Man</a>, and they were a member of the panel discussion that followed the film. <a href="http://charmcitycook.blogspot.com/">Charm City Cook</a> always tweets/blogs/instagrams her love for One Straw Farm, and various friends and colleagues had only good things to say. So from now until November, I'll enjoy 8 shares of local, organic goodness that I pick up weekly at Mill Valley General on 28th and Sisson.<br />
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So you're new to Bmore. You should at least consider signing up for a CSA. You're supporting your local farmers, keeping money in the community, helping the environment, and putting organic food in your system. Everyone wins.<br />
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For a list of other CSAs in the area, please go <a href="http://www.marylandagriculture.info/category_info.cfm?categoryid=46">here</a>.MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-81941748280808911642013-04-08T19:20:00.002-04:002013-04-08T19:20:32.926-04:00So You're a Glutard: Sweet 27<div>
Slightly over a year ago, I was diagnosed with a gluten intolerance. I tearfully bid goodbye to cakes, pasta, pretzels, pizza and all other deliciously wheaty treats. I feel lucky to not have full blown Celiac's disease, but it doesn't lessen the general annoyance of the gluten-free lifestyle. As a result, I cook for myself far more often than I go out to eat. Salads get tedious, and you just never known when a soup is thickened with flour or your bento box is doused in soy sauce instead of tamari. Twitter has been helpful, with various folks shooting their gluten free finds in my direction. Baltimore, though, is still woefully behind for those of us living the gluten-free lifestyle. I envy friends in New York and San Francisco with hoards of rice or corn-based options on every corner, and tell myself that it's only a matter of time until Baltimore joins their ranks. It's not to say Baltimore isn't trying - <a href="http://www.boppizza.com/">Brick Oven Pizza</a> in Fells Point offers a pretty solid gluten-free thin crust pizza, and <a href="http://www.woodberrykitchen.com/">Woodberry Kitchen</a> has an entire gluten-free menu and always bring me a gluten-free snack when everyone else orders the bakery tray. <a href="http://artifactcoffee.com/">Artifact Coffee</a> gave me a gluten-free scone once, and I'll never forget how exciting it was to enjoy a flaky, buttery baked good just like everybody else.</div>
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But there's one place in town that really looks out for us glutards - <a href="http://sweet27.com/">Sweet 27</a>. Located on 27th and Howard in Remington, Sweet 27 is where I go when I want something that truly is a baked good I am otherwise forbidden from consuming. Sweet 27 is where I go and know I can order <i>anything</i> off the menu and not suffer hazardous repercussions. I spent this past weekend out of town for the wedding of some dear friends, and rolled in this afternoon to an impressively empty fridge and a bellowing stomach. I high-tailed it to Sweet 27 where I was hooked up with a quality gluten-free pizza and was offered to have my cupcake while I waited for my pizza to cook (yes please and thank you). What may seem mundane to the majority of you was an adventure in magical baked good whimsy for me.</div>
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So you're new to Bmore, and also a fellow glutard? Get yourself to Sweet 27 and remember how glorious it can be to bite into a baked good that won't make you ill. </div>
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MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-6526783399263227082013-03-18T20:12:00.000-04:002013-03-19T14:20:59.862-04:00Gone too Soon: DionysusIf I were any good at poetry, an art form I admire but lack the patience to create, I'd compose an Ode to Dionysus.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You'll be sorely missed, Dionysus.</td></tr>
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For those of you unfamiliar with both the bar and the chain of events, allow me to explain. <br />
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Dionysus, nestled in between that pizza/liquor shop and a rowhouse at 8 E Preston St in Mt. Vernon/Midtown-Belvedere was a cozy little bar. It was no frills - some questionable looking sofas lived in the lower level, hard whiskey, good beers on tap, and staff that would strike up a bitingly sarcastic and lively conversation. For you House of Cards fans, if you look ever so slightly to the right of Zoe's apartment entrance, you'll note an orange awning. That orange awning was Dionysus. <br />
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Today, I discovered that Dionysus has closed. The Sun <a href="http://articles.baltimoresun.com/2013-03-11/entertainment/bal-dionysus-closes-in-midtownbelvedere-20130308_1_midtown-belvedere-dionysus-marquee-lounge">acknowledged</a> this on March 11th, but I just caught wind of the news today. It seems odd to be so glum about the closing of an otherwise forgettable bar, but Dionysus had so many things going for it. It wasn't trying to be a certain "type" of bar. It let Club Charles hold the trophy for quirky, and graciously bowed out so Brewer's could have the title of "brewpub." <br />
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Home is just a few blocks from Dionysus, and when I first moved, I often walked by with Bubba in a feeble attempt to socialize him with the clientele seated outside. I would go there by myself to have a drink and chat up a bartender - because when you're new to a city, you have no one else to talk to. My first friends, though they were short lived friendships that consisted solely of conversation over one drink, were at Dionysus. My first and only 'Boh on tap was at Dionysus, before discovering my gluten intolerance. The first terrible pick up line used on me in Baltimore was in front of Dionysus while walking Bubba; "Your fluttering lashes are derailing my train of thought." I had some awful dates there - one guy kept referring to me as "kid" because I was all of four years younger than him. I had some incredible laid-back weeknights of drinks with friends there. In less than two years, I have accumulated so many memories of a cozy hole-in-the-wall. In reading people's posts on their Facebook page expressing sadness about their closing, I learned that Dionysus had other levels. I never had any reason to go anywhere but downstairs, into the basement bar, where a friend for a night (in a non-suggestive way) always awaited. <br />
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Thank you, Dionysus, for being my first friend in the city. Thank you socializing my dog, for introducing me to terrible men, for always making my whisky-gingers and gin and tonics potent, and for chatting with a lonely Virginia transplant for her first few months in Baltimore. I'll miss you dearly. I'm so sad I was never able to have a farewell whiskey-ginger with you.<br />
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Cheers.MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-49505651880820842282013-03-11T22:07:00.001-04:002013-03-11T22:07:48.300-04:00Mondo Baltimore<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSRjxb8UM_UibLBnGNCvzXn0son-k1wKcc7REcnsBoJR8qcc7bpYoHLjYYgc2WH3KWv5JtiuwgEsisQsiN_NOQFcWVBVamR6NRBxPqFuT5YJTkg9SiHdtq-nPgW7TiISJlFXsAsw5RZZn/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSRjxb8UM_UibLBnGNCvzXn0son-k1wKcc7REcnsBoJR8qcc7bpYoHLjYYgc2WH3KWv5JtiuwgEsisQsiN_NOQFcWVBVamR6NRBxPqFuT5YJTkg9SiHdtq-nPgW7TiISJlFXsAsw5RZZn/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone needs some Mr. T on a big screen in their life</td></tr>
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There are few things more irritating to me than bloggers who go long lengths of time without posting, and then come back to apologize incessantly. The one thing that may irk me more are hypocrites and tonight, I am both. I'm so sorry. I could make excuses about poor time management, about working too many jobs in too little time, about my toilet exploding like a fountain yesterday, but it doesn't change the fact that I have dropped the ball.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hell, indeed, comes to Frogtown</td></tr>
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In one of my other lives, I highlight events for the<a href="http://www.baltimorefishbowl.com/"> Baltimore Fishbowl</a>. Because of this, I am perpetually aware of the ongoings in the city, no matter how bizarre. Let me tell you, though, that many of them are quite bizarre. One of my favorite finds in scouring local calendars and creeping on people's Facebook events has been Mondo Baltimore. On the first Thursday of each month, Mondo Baltimore commandeers the Wind Up Space and screens a particularly painful movie. Since my discovery of this wonderful concept, they've shown "Cool as Ice," Vanilla Ice's "Rebel Without a Cause" 1991 remake, Mr. T's "Greatest Man in the World," and just last week I was lucky enough to catch the incredibly atrocious "Hell Comes to Frogtown." <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4grXfYGC3prw4rfUGotQz3Brez6NNpRN9OX-cbUz9-brb1E_HM79Isuti_Z7LRgEjRzKOEBhJq4OfF0b9EX0DjwlKk0wr7QxpdWjfMlDyVxKtk-tlXb17NHCFB2ssnTSDffJu9hYY5hRj/s1600/photo+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4grXfYGC3prw4rfUGotQz3Brez6NNpRN9OX-cbUz9-brb1E_HM79Isuti_Z7LRgEjRzKOEBhJq4OfF0b9EX0DjwlKk0wr7QxpdWjfMlDyVxKtk-tlXb17NHCFB2ssnTSDffJu9hYY5hRj/s1600/photo+4.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was much, "YOU'RE DRUNK MOM, GO HOME"</td></tr>
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Not only are the movies so bad they're wonderful, the commentary is top-notch. It's like a live version of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mystery_Science_Theater_3000">MST3K</a> with quality heckling and mocking. Drinking game rules are placed around the bar, so you can follow along should you choose. For $2, you get unlimited popcorn and are entered into the nightly raffle. Gifts are often related to the movie, or are sometime just $25 to your bar tab. Trust me, if you go just once, it will instantly become tradition.MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-89370661053276791372013-02-04T20:32:00.001-05:002013-02-04T20:32:32.717-05:00Superbowl XLVIISo you're new to Bmore.<br />
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Congratulations! WE'RE SUPERBOWL XLVII CHAMPIONS.<br />
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You probably already knew this.<br />
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You probably heard the honking on the street well past 2:00a. You probably were stuck on I83N around 1:30a. You maybe climbed a tree to better loudly bang a lampost. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcazw5wsvwAt8bTO33SDYJrBBQauijJcOKCmU4uKIAtaaijj5IrFYwjWcblm1r2oxwQ6zKnX1aQD5Xm5GpnFk6TU9M0GaPTQP315Z_fBaaE6AptQUOUrt-G1k3rHkgdgk7O8pLjaKdx14c/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcazw5wsvwAt8bTO33SDYJrBBQauijJcOKCmU4uKIAtaaijj5IrFYwjWcblm1r2oxwQ6zKnX1aQD5Xm5GpnFk6TU9M0GaPTQP315Z_fBaaE6AptQUOUrt-G1k3rHkgdgk7O8pLjaKdx14c/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A joyous celebration on Charles Street</td></tr>
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Maybe you took your dog out to pee after the game, only to encounter a mob of people blocking Charles Street in celebration. Maybe you brought your dog into this mob and people took photos of him, holding up a paper mask of Ray Lewis to his face for their Instagram accounts. Maybe you, like me, climbed a fence-like object to get a better photo of this mob, only to split the crotch of your jeans. Everyone must sacrifice for the Superbowl, even my pants, along any semblance of class I may have previously had.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEcM2IqLMRX67OCUkFrpPA1MKd41RpOB46e14Fs9IGvN2L49-EC-oXcGJtWlJeKDa3IUqmeR3W1cTeHRxm9xesCEMa3Z_VVBaeaJNo-Q3o4PO9uo6UatH2Ye7rdBzTZprABeFII1HmiUS/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEcM2IqLMRX67OCUkFrpPA1MKd41RpOB46e14Fs9IGvN2L49-EC-oXcGJtWlJeKDa3IUqmeR3W1cTeHRxm9xesCEMa3Z_VVBaeaJNo-Q3o4PO9uo6UatH2Ye7rdBzTZprABeFII1HmiUS/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flacco may have a fold in his face, <br />but he doesn't care with that Lombardi trophy in his hand.</td></tr>
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Savor this week. Go to Royal Farms and pick up today's Baltimore Sun, because that's the most quintessentially Maryland way of doing it. Watch a John Water's movie, put Old Bay in everything you eat this week, and hook yourself up to an IV of 'Boh. Then sit back, and make fun of <a href="http://publicshaming.tumblr.com/post/42255574256/congratulations-to-the-baltimore-ravens-for#notes">these people</a> who don't know where Baltimore is, even with the assistance of Google. You know, you're proud, and you're CAW CAWing with the best of 'em. While you may not regularly be a big football fan, right now there is nothing but purple pulsing through your veins.MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-38829600562208670622013-01-27T17:36:00.000-05:002013-01-28T13:41:05.558-05:00Baltimore, Where Do You Get Your Brew?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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It takes a lot to persuade me to spend over $2 on a cup of coffee that I just as easily could have brewed at home. No, I don’t have an espresso machine. Yes, I use the wrong grounds for my French press, and no I do not care. I’m just not overly particular about my coffee, so spending large amounts of money on a cup of joe is hard to justify. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-VbdAy53zjQwnNwQ2s0BD3bNpLRNoZUmsiizF9Tmy-TFVBz-Cxh3VYTVkUlAkCGfJSEsimrOMZuXMM-rCsDN5VTuufgucl-CySWBcnV2lf5zGzuNKLDFoYpXV09mFxvr3F1n96VcEvKkD/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-VbdAy53zjQwnNwQ2s0BD3bNpLRNoZUmsiizF9Tmy-TFVBz-Cxh3VYTVkUlAkCGfJSEsimrOMZuXMM-rCsDN5VTuufgucl-CySWBcnV2lf5zGzuNKLDFoYpXV09mFxvr3F1n96VcEvKkD/s1600/photo.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Instagram makes my book and tea looks less like I'm procrastinating and more like I'm being artsy.</td></tr>
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There are days, though, where I go stir crazy in my apartment. Where if I sit on the sofa with the dog for one moment longer, I fear I’ll either lose my sanity. At times like this, it’s helpful to have somewhere to go. Sometimes, the best medicine for productivity is to be surrounded by other productive people. The motivation and inspiration do wonders.</div>
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I live within decent proximity to a Starbucks, but that’s not what I look for in a coffee shop. I want Macs littering the tabletops and fair trade coffee poured into mugs. Most importantly, I want my coffee size options to be “Small,” “Medium,” and “Large.”</div>
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At this moment, I am in the corner at Charmingtons (Remington - N. Howard and 26th) , willing myself to catch up on blogging and some other work that I’ve been putting off for far too long. The Wi Fi here is turned off each day from 11a-2p to accommodate for the lunch rush, which irritates some folks and warms the hearts of others. I find it refreshing, being able to be surrounded by the efficiency of others without the temptation of Facebook or Wikipedia. I’ve always been pleased with the coffee I’ve ordered here, and I hear wonders about their baked goods. Charmington’s is a hop away from Sweet 27, the gluten-free bakery, so I sometimes allow myself the decadence of a rarely-had cupcake on my way over.</div>
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Other area favorites for me include Milk and Honey and Artifact. Milk and Honey (Mount Vernon - Cathedral and W. Read St) is one of the few coffee shops in the heart of Mount Vernon, and I’m a big fan that they have a gluten-free baked good in house (yes, brownie, I’m talking about you). I sampled some of their sandwiches before going gluten-free, and they were delicious. The coffee isn’t much to write home about, but it provides the needed boost of caffeine in the right location. Word on the street is that Mount Vernon will be gaining a new coffee shop in the spring. Dooby’s Coffee is coming to 800 N. Charles St, referred to as a “coffee shop and then some” in <a href="http://www.baltimoresun.com/entertainment/dining/baltimore-diner-blog/bal-20121215-001,0,7405418.photo">this</a> Baltimore Sun piece. I don’t know much beyond that, but it does peak my interest each time I walk by.</div>
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I was actually introduced to Artifact by my brother who works in the coffee business. We stopped in on our drive up to Philly while I was suffering from the Ultra-Flu, Part I. I didn’t fully appreciate the atmosphere, as it was 8:00am and I was already delirious from a fever/DayQuil/cough drops. I couldn’t speak to their coffee at the time, because I drank a very strong Earl Grey to stay awake for the drive. I decided to give Artifact a second chance for the New Year, free of germs and meds. Now, I live under a rock and unknowingly decided to go the night of the Ravens/Broncos game. I was curious as to why the coffee shop was near empty, but the divey local corner bar across the street was bursting with yelling patrons in decked in purple. Context clues are glorious. As a result of the game being on, I had Artifact nearly to myself. The staff was incredibly pleasant and the coffee blew me away. I worked, distraction free, for hours, and was even allowed to choose which LPs would play for the rest of the evening, in order to cease bickering over Fleetwood Mac. </div>
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There are other coffee shops in this city, to be sure. There’s Spro on the Avenue in Hampden, LAMILL in Harbor East, of course Zeke’s, Peace & a Cup of Joe in Ridgley’s Delight, Red Emma’s in Mount Vernon (that I have shockingly yet to try) who will be moving to Station North soon, Carma’s in Charles Village, Patterson Perk by the park, and so many more. The thing is, at the rate it takes me to try coffee shops, I’ll be 80 and have just finished the above-mentioned list. Baltimore definitely has an array of coffee shops available; it’s just a matter of finding the right vibe in the right neighborhood for your liking. </div>
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<!--EndFragment-->MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-16279043762571535202013-01-13T17:34:00.000-05:002013-01-13T17:35:25.002-05:00Who You Gonna Call [in a non-emergency situation]? - The Many Uses of 3-1-1There comes a moment in every Baltimorean's life when you think, "I should probably inform the cops of what I just saw, but I don't think it's an emergency." You sit and ponder for a few minutes, potentially aghast depending on what you just saw, and either dial 911 or shrug and walk away, ignoring all civic obligation.<br />
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<a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-american-visionary-arts-museum.html">This past summer</a> when my sister came to visit, some lovely citizen decided to baptize me in the waters of Baltimore and broke into my car. Or, they broke my window, shuffled around my old receipts and broken FM adapter, only to decide there was nothing worth taking. I almost want to write a letter and tape it to my car:<br />
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<i>Dearest Potential Thief;</i><br />
<i>Some things of note in my car:</i><br />
<i>-Jumper cables. They're in the trunk. </i><br />
<i>-Resuable bags. </i><i>Enjoy the fun ones for wine - there should be two, allowing you to carry up to 12 bottles of your choosing! The other bags are great for grabbing produce from the market, or just saving some plastic trees at Safeway.</i><br />
<i>-Expired insurance cards in the glove compartment.</i><br />
<i>-My mother always taught me to save my gas receipts and write the mileage on the top of them, so you'll find those in the glove compartment, too. While you're there, please tell me what my MPG looks like. Highway vs city, if it's not too much of a pain.</i><br />
<i>-Gum wrappers and some bobby pins are in that little plastic thing next to the steering wheel. I recommend using the empty gum wrappers for blotting lipstick, in a pinch!</i><br />
<i>-The center console is where the good stuff is. There's a broken FM adapter, a finicky iPhone charger, and some epic cds from days past. Enjoy such gems as Hootie and the Blowfish, the soundtrack to Friends (each song ends in an audio snippet from the show!), some early 2000 salsa mix cds, and angsty high school mixes with The Smiths, Velvet Underground and Elliot Smith. You can't handle this level of emo, Potential Thief. If my Sopranos soundtrack cd is in there, please leave it. It's wonderful.</i><br />
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<i>I have no GPS and make a point of leaving nothing truly valuable in here. If you enjoy collecting dog fur, I point you in the direction of the backseat. If none of these things appeal to you, I implore you to move elsewhere and leave my windows intact.</i><br />
<i>Yours in legality,</i><br />
<i>MV</i><br />
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So I'm standing on the sidewalk, half shocked that my window is broken, half irritated that my morning market adventure is being delayed by this incredibly inconsiderate person. I call my friends to tell them my sister and I going to be late.<br />
"Did you call the cops?" they ask.<br />
"It's not an emergency. I can't justify calling 9-1-1 for them to come out to look at a ghetto Toyota with a broken window."<br />
"No, call 3-1-1. It's the nonemergency line."<br />
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I had no idea this was even a thing, so I call it. They ask me for my name, address, location of whatever it is I'm calling in, and tell me to sit tight until a cop arrives. He comes, looks bored out of his mind because documenting a broken window in Mount Vernon on a Sunday morning just isn't what he had in mind when he walked across the stage at the Police Academy, and hands me the necessary paperwork.<br />
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My window got replaced at no cost because my insurance is magical. I've changed none of my habits in terms of what I leave in my car, and I just acknowledge that when you park on the street, eventually someone will get bored and smash in your windows. It's how you learn to love those <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Baltimore%20Diamonds">Baltimore diamonds.</a><br />
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3-1-1 is so much more versatile than a broken window, though. A coworker of mine was telling me about the time she was walking her dog one morning, and found a dead body in the park. Ah, Baltimore. Nothing says, "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJR6my7A_Vk">Good morning, Baltimore</a>!" like a <a href="http://data.baltimoresun.com/homicides/">corpse</a>. My coworker went through the same thought process as I had. He was already dead, so it wasn't an emergency <i>per say</i>. The solution? 3-1-1! They told her they would send some cops over to investigate, and could determine the severity from there. Other times if you call 3-1-1, they'll make the executive decision that you are in fact in an emergency and transfer you over.<br />
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3-1-1 is magical. You never know when you'll need to report something suspicious, stolen, etc. Hopefully you never will, but for those "just-in-case" moments, 3-1-1 is there for you.<br />
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<i>Note: For all emergencies, please dial 9-1-1. If safety and lives are on the line, it is definitely an emergency.</i>MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-10496339717288659542013-01-10T21:00:00.000-05:002013-01-10T21:05:21.715-05:00Gather Baltimore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm a plant killer. The above is just one example of the tragedies plants endure under my care. When I was in college, Planty also survived a hurricane in a flooded garage, and I once left him outside in a snowstorm. He miraculously made it through the ledge-jumping tragedy, only to later reach a tragic end due to a lack of sunlight in my old apartment. My mother attempted to revive him, to no avail, and so he ended his four years on this planet. She graciously gave me one of her geranium's offspring, and thus Planty Jr was born. Planty Jr does best here in Baltimore when I forget to water him, which I do often. He keeps company with Unnamed Bushy Green Thing on my bookshelf, who also doesn't seem to mind that I ignore him quite often. They entertain one another.<br />
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I kill plants, but I love plants. It really is quite unfortunate. More than looking at plants, I love to eat plants. I have no yard, and the closest thing I have to outdoor space is half a fire escape I share with my neighbors. Except, my neighbors have a proper door out onto the fire escape and I have to climb over my bed and through my window onto mine. No plants live out there - they'd die (I already inadvertently killed a friend's plant out there). I wish that I not only were better with plants, but that I could sow seeds properly and grow myself some grub. Cultivating produce ensures a wonderful combination of food with the outdoors - two of my favorite things. Imagine my excitement at recieving the following message on Facebook last week: "wanna go pick some veggies for charity?"<br />
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And so I spent my Saturday gleaning vegetables with two of my favorite people in this city, and some complete strangers that included the hula hoop guy from the <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/07/baltimore-farmers-market.html">market</a>. We were picking with the great folks of <a href="http://www.gatherbaltimore.org/">Gather Baltimore</a>, one of the newest fellowships of the Open Society Institute - Baltimore. Gather Baltimore came into being around 2008, when Arthur Morgan began noticing how much food went to waste at the end of the day at the market downtown. He now makes the rounds to collect unsold produce that may not be in pristine condition, but is still wholly edible, and makes it available to those in financial distress in the community. <br />
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Now that the market is in it's off-season (I blinked back tears and have found temporary solace at the Waverly market on Saturdays), Gather Baltimore gleans veggies from local farms and sends them out. This week, I helped out Gather Baltimore at <a href="http://www.thezahradkafarm.com/">Zahradka Farm</a> in Essex, and had a lovely time. I was able to get my dose of vitamin D, chat with other volunteers about their favorite thing to do with an excess of turnips (Consensus says: stretch your mashed potatoes), and get down and dirty cutting some kale, mustard greens, and unearthing a plethora of turnips. I was able to get outdoor exposure, something I crave on the weekends, pretend like I grew all these things on my own, and spend time with awesome people for an even better cause.<br />
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So you're new to Bmore. Why not stick around a little later after the market and help pack up some excess produce, or lend a hand on a day of veggie gleaning? Fill some empty stomachs, prevent waste, and meet incredible, selfless people all in one fell swoop!MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-44191411847211078722013-01-06T22:10:00.001-05:002013-01-06T22:10:47.815-05:00Electronic Dumping GroundsAt some point in most people's lives, there's inevitable realization of, "Where on earth did this come from?" or, "Why do I own six broken vegetable peelers?" In my case, it seems to be that, along with historically having crappy vegetable peelers, I am regularly gifted unwanted televisions from friends. I'm not huge into TV, so I just can't justify spending money on a nice one. To me, a screen is a screen is a screen. I realize that's not true. I have spent time in front of nice TVs and I acknowledge there is a very real difference. It's just not a difference that I care that much about, and so I am gifted TVs by those who upgrade with more regularity. <br />
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My initial Baltimore TV was a hand-me-down from my AmeriCorps roommate. He had upgraded to a sexy flatscreen, and thus I inherited the 27-inch, junk-in-the-trunk beast that he had. It had temperamental input plugs that had to be secured with masking tape, and they often came undone mid-movie so you had to scramble to pause and retape. It was a bit of nuisance (friends would probably argue that it was more than a "bit"), but again, I just couldn't be bothered. One friend in particular could take it no more, and I was gifted yet another Badonkalicious television. It had a bigger, better screen, and most importantly, it had functioning inputs. <br />
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I rightfully retired the AmeriCorps hand-me-down, and found myself in the pesky predicament of having a TV I couldn't donate. Goodwill, Village Thrift, and essentially all thrift stores/donation locations, no longer accept old school TVs. The TV lived in a corner of my room for a few months, collecting dust and acting as an ad hoc corner table, until a friend asked me why I didn't take it to the dump. Aghast, I exclaimed, "You can't throw out old TVs just like that! Something something nature save the planet use reusable grocery bags and compost!" Lo and behold, Baltimore City has sanitation yards to help with this very predicament. I recommend the one in Remington at 2840 Sisson Street. With help, I loaded the voluptuous screen etc into my car, and left it in a nice heap of other discarded TVs to be recycled.<br />
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Now I find myself in this same situation all over again. My cousin upgraded his television and graciously has given me his old one. But I have this perfectly functional, curvy television, and no or need for two. If anyone needs a television, let me know. Otherwise, look for me at the Remington Sanitation Yard next Saturday! If you're new to the city and find yourself with an excess of stuff you can't get rid of any other way, I recommend you also make your way there.MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-29494308912356261272012-12-21T17:59:00.000-05:002012-12-21T18:00:51.596-05:00BoozeI’m not talking bars, today, internet. With Christmas just around the corner, and New Years on its heels, let’s get down to business. The holidays are stressful. It’s also cold. A good bottle of wine does wonders to counter both of those things, and also serves as an acceptable holiday gift. <br />
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Maryland has frustrating liquor laws, at least for those of us coming from states that aren't Pennsylvania. Wikipedia outlines them for the entirety of Maryland <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alcohol_laws_of_Maryland"><span class="s1">here</span></a>, but I’ll break down the city’s laws for you, beyond the obvious, “Don’t drink if you’re under 21 unless you’re under your parents’ roof with their consent,” “Don’t drink and drive,” and, “You can have alcohol if it’s a religious service and that’s how y’all roll.”</div>
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<li>You can’t buy alcohol at the grocery store (except for Eddie’s of Mt Vernon and Roland Park. Raise your hand if you know why, because I have no earthly clue).</li>
<li>Bars/taverns can’t sell you alcohol after 2am.</li>
<li>You can’t buy alcohol on Sundays, except for any Sunday that lands between Christmas and New Years. At least they’re not barbaric about it.</li>
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Many convenient places will tend to your boozy holiday needs. My corner store with it’s ever-changing hours and bullet-proof glass between you and the cashier is a lovely enough place to pick up a dry white wine for a risotto, assuming you can get there at one of the odd hours it’s open. I’ve walked by at 6:00p and it was shut, and walked by at 11:30p and it was open. I just don’t understand. You can also send your Western Union Money Order there if you need to! My brother bought a handle of Tanqueray there once for $30. These corner stores are incredibly hit or miss. I hate to admit that I’ve shelled out $12 for Bobby Mondavi when I desperately wanted to braise beef.</div>
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There’s a nice little shop on Charles St, <a href="http://www.spiritsofmtvernon.com/"><span class="s1">Spirits of Mount Vernon</span></a>, that has a far superior collection to your corner store. Everyone is incredibly helpful and friendly, and there’s a lovable ball of brown fur named Boris behind the counter who briefly sniffed Bubba once, thus solidifying their friendship until the end of time. Spirits of Mt Vernon helped me during Artscape when I needed wine but couldn’t escape my neighborhood. They helped me pick out a lovely sake for my wine club. The vibe is great, the staff is knowledgeable, and you don’t have to put your credit card in one of those swirly glass boxes so no one shoots anyone.</div>
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Hands down, though, my preferred place to stock up is <a href="http://www.the-wine-source.com/"><span class="s1">The Wine Source</span></a> in Hampden. Amy over at Charm City Cook wrote a pretty thorough <a href="http://charmcitycook.blogspot.com/2010/07/source-hon.html"><span class="s1">summary </span></a>about their glories back in January. The Wine Source has a selection of wines that makes me want to Scrooge McDuck into it all (replace money with wine, <a href="http://gifsoup.com/webroot/animatedgifs1/1338948_o.gif"><span class="s1">here</span></a>). They have liquor should you need or want it, gluten-free beer for those of us that can’t find it alongside Natty Boh at the above mentioned corner store, and an entire section devoted to cheese, chocolate and charcuterie. The Wine Source staff will help you find a wine to match your meal/mood in any price range, and don’t judge you when you bee-line directly for the discount wines. For reasons which I will never question, The Wine Source is also open on Sundays. They have extended holiday hours, because they know that many of us will underestimate just how much wine our families will drink. Just be sure to send out your designated driver to pick up the emergency bottles, please. Or call a cab. (Arrow Cabs: 410-261-1000)</div>
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I’ll be making a stop on my way home for the holidays to ensure there is a proper amount of wine and bubbly for both Christmas and New Years. </div>
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So you’re new to Mobtown and need to beef up your bar. Hit up Spirits of Mt Vernon or The Wine Source, or take your chances at the local corner store. You decide!</div>
MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-11011516659939628052012-12-09T22:15:00.001-05:002012-12-09T22:35:53.313-05:00A Hapsburg Palace Adventure<i>This is a personal story, from far before my move to Baltimore. If the oversharing of personal details makes you even vaguely uncomfortable or the use of a word beyond "damn" is not your cup of tea, I suggest you go back to Facebook or Twitter, or wherever you may have come here from. If this has not deterred you, read on, and enjoy one of my most absurd moments.</i><br />
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There comes a point in many a middle class college student’s life where they are bitten by the study-abroad bug. Professors and parents persuade you that a few months of heavy drinking in a foreign country will broaden your world view and do minimal harm to your liver. While my semester in Spain is now but a far-off, distant memory, it did help me expand my horizons past that of a sheltered American student while teaching me the classic Spanish tradition of combining coca cola with my red wine. </div>
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A friend of mine, Reyna, had taken off the same week from classes as I, since we both had visitors in town; her sister and my college boyfriend. We had coordinated to return to Salamanca together from the Madrid airport after dropping off our loved ones. I was not at my best - I was feeling ill and was a mascara-running-down-my-face emotional wreck from saying goodbye to my boyfriend. Reyna tried to lift my spirits through a stop for breakfast, since food usually could be guaranteed to lift my spirits. A coffee, baguette with some jamon, a Spanish equivalent of what I believed to be Tums later, and I was still feeling grey. As in, my innards felt the sensory equivalent of my complexion. Reyna tried a new approach – why not make a stop at two historical Spanish landmarks on our way home? El Escorial is a massive Hapsburg palace, and El Valle de los Caidos is Franco’s monument to those who died in the Spanish Civil War, and consequently his final resting place. Both were on our way home, and she sold me on the carpe-diem nature of the adventure, indigestion and runny mascara be damned. </div>
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We pulled into the small town where El Escorial is located, and I was struck with how this amazing palace dominated the entire city, much like how the Roman aqueduct is what dominates Segovia, or how indigestion was dominating my innards. I stopped for a ginger ale, took another Spanish Tums and didn’t even question what Reyna handed me from a Ziploc bag of pills which she later assured me was heartburn medication. I was here, I was going to see this palace.</div>
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I hobbled through the gardens, taking pictures so I could recall the beauty later, my inner torment distracting me from the moment. There were views of the rolling countryside framed by a majestic monument, a serene reflecting pool. I spent much of the time sitting on a wall, telling myself that I couldn’t just swing by Hapsburg palaces in my daily life, and that, hey! Mind over matter! Stop being a weakling. Appreciate this.</div>
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After my pep talk with myself and my stomach, we joined a tour group inside. With every new notable bedroom, historic hallway and servants quarters we entered, my issues became more serious. Instead of loud stomach equivalents of a serenade, my auditory offerings to the tour took on a more gaseous nature. Every step I took produced a high-decibel toot that, try though I may, I could not disguise.</div>
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Reyna, myself, our tour guide, and large tour group stepped into the expansive dining hall to learn about all the banquets and royalty that had enjoyed the now painfully empty, echoing space, over many generations. My stomach offered a low-rumble preamble, and I gulped. I gulped hoping to calm my stomach, and I gulped because I knew what was coming was going to be severe. I began to sweat and I’m sure the grey drained out of my face.</div>
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I couldn’t stop it; there was no way. I knew it was coming, but it was beyond my control. It began in my throat and reverberated down to my stomach, through my intestines, and then… it ripped. It ripped loudly, in this empty, echoing, expansive dining hall where royalty had feasted hundreds of years prior. Before I could be properly ashamed of myself, I froze.</div>
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I hadn’t just farted in the Hapsburg dining hall. This wasn’t just any fart. This was tangible. The tour had frozen. All eyes were on me, and all I could bother my mind with was the state of my pants. Reyna leaned in to me and whispered.</div>
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“……..are you… alright?”</div>
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“I think, no, I know, I need to run to the restroom. I’ll catch up.”</div>
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I fled to the restroom to do damage control. The situation was, expectedly, bad. This being a Spanish restroom, there was naturally no toilet paper to be found. In my few months in this country, I had learned to always carry some tissues with me for just this sort of emergency, but as Murphy’s Law would have it, I was unprepared. </div>
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“Shit,” I thought, in all the applicable ways.</div>
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Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I did what anyone in my circumstances would have done. I gathered all the receipts from my wallet and got creative. Once I had the circumstances under control, I thoroughly washed my hands and splashed water on my face, not caring that it would drip down and have to air dry. You reach a point where you just stop caring, and that point is definitely any point after you’ve shit your pants.</div>
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I spent the remainder of the tour hovering around the back of the group. I couldn’t focus; all I could think about was the fact that my pants were a mess, that I probably had a very high fever, and that I had sharted in the dining hall of past royals. Shame had washed over me, like the plebeian American I was.</div>
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Once the tour was completed, Reyna and I got back in the car. She turned to me,</div>
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“We don’t have to go to El Valle, you know,” she assured me. “If you’re not feeling up to it, we can just go back home.”</div>
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What could possibly happen that would be more mortifying than what already had gone down? No. I would be a hero. We would power on.</div>
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“No, no no I’ll be fine. Let’s go. Carpe diem and all that.”</div>
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“Alright, if you’re sure…”</div>
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El Valle de los Caidos is eerie. Built under the guise of a monument, it’s really just an elaborate tomb for Franco that he designed. From afar, the giant cross can be seen rising out of the rockface of the mountains. Creepy though it may be, it truly is a sight to behold.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Valle de los Caidos</td></tr>
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As we drove up the mountain, I knew I was going to have to attend to matters before entering the church/shrine/tomb. We parked the car and I saw a don jon at the corner of the parking lot. I asked Reyna to pop the trunk, and I dug through the week’s worth of dirty clothes that were with me. I pulled out the least offensive pair of used undergarments and headed to the plastic restroom.</div>
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The church was fascinating, the Spanish countryside on the drive home was lovely and idyllic, reminiscent of Cervantes’ Don Quijote. To this day, it was possibly the most ridiculous day of my life - I had desecrated a royal palace, among other choice milestones of the trip. Finally crawling under my sheets, defeated by the day, I closed my eyes knowing I had left my mark on Spain. </div>
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My ruined underwear was lying where it belonged – in a don jon by Franco’s tomb.</div>
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.4815344240050763" style="font-weight: normal;"></b>MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-24044383415640351682012-12-03T20:13:00.001-05:002012-12-09T22:47:20.600-05:00Pet Ownership: just as glamorous as you think it isI am, as you are likely well aware, a pet owner. I am a proud crazy-dog-mother to a lovable, stubborn and cheerfully chubby basset hound mutt named Bubba. I adopted Bubba two weeks before moving to Baltimore from a shelter in Southwest Virginia where he'd been for six months. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bubba (aka: Sir Bubbakins, Little Man, Bubs, The Bubster, El Bubbisito)</td></tr>
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The local indie station where I'd lived highlighted local pets each week, and I heard about him months before I adopted him. Upon learning I was going to move, I went by purely out of curiosity to see if he was still there. "I'm just going to look," I told myself. And then I walked out with a dog.<br />
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When I adopted him, he wasn't the most social creature. He'd been in the shelter six months because he growled and/or snarled at all children and men. He was definitely abused before I got him. The shelter was so thrilled that he didn't pee on me or growl, and that I didn't have kids, that they practically threw him at me. He was, they guessed, about four years old, and they had no idea what his background looked like. Bubba had been days from being put down at a high-kill shelter before being taken in by the no-kill shelter in which I found him.<br />
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He's my little shadow. He waits outside the bathroom door when I shower. He whines (apparently) when I go to take out the trash and recycling. He's a clingy momma's boy, but he's my clingy momma's boy. Bubba has been greatly socialized, no longer growls at children or men, and has a soft spot for belly rubs. My landlord, being amazing, has no pet fee. No monthly deposit, no one-time chunk of change. He and the maintenance man know and love Bubba.<br />
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When I first moved, Bubba was my only friend in the city. He was the only reason I left my apartment, because I didn't want him peeing inside. He was acclimating to the new surroundings just as much as I was. It's his fault that I've had terrible dog-related pick up lines used on me and that people sometimes break out into, "He ain't nothing but a hound dawwwwg!" when we walk by. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The King of Mt Vernon claims his territory</td></tr>
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There are some things about being a pet owner in a city that I hadn't fully anticipated.<br />
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<b>Walks</b><br />
I knew dogs had to be walked. Exercise and whatnot. Sure, I can walk a dog. But when the dog has no yard to claim as his territory, the dog has to be walked so it can do its business. This is common sense, and I knew this, but I didn't <i>know</i> it. I didn't know what a walk in a hurricane was like until Bubba. I didn't know what walking a dog in a snowstorm at 2am when you booked it back from a Friday night in Annapolis on a highway with poor road conditions was until Bubba. I didn't know what sleeping through your alarm and choosing a dog not peeing in your apartment over a shower was like until Bubba. Little dude <i>needs </i>to be walked. It's gotten to the point where he associates walks with going to the bathroom, and doesn't understand at my folks' place that he can attend to his needs in the backyard.<br />
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<b>Food</b><br />
Dogs EAT. I grew up with a dog, so this is another one I knew, but Bubba puts his food AWAY. He inhales his kibble and anything that falls on my floor doesn't last an instant. We've had to practice portion control since the vet sent us home with a "Chubby Chart," commonly referred to as the, "Your Pet is Fat You Ought to be Ashamed of Yourself, You Terrible Excuse for a Responsible Pet Owner" Chart. It's Weight Watchers for dogs and, as you can see, has a picture of the world's saddest bulldog in front of an empty bowl of food. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Chubby Chart is real</td></tr>
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<b>Dangers</b><br />
But what is a dog mom to do when her pet has an insatiable appetite? He ate all his food that <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/10/camping-at-assateague.html">one time we went camping</a>. He eats kale and celery that falls on the floor. He's tried to eat poo on the sidewalk on more than one occasion, and I have pulled so many chicken wings/pizza crusts/fritos/etc out of his throat while on walks, that it doesn't even phase me anymore.<br />
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Except for today. Today it phased me. Usually I can tell exactly what particular piece of discarded waste I'm fishing out of Bubba's esophagus, to the tune of, "This is cheaper than asking the vet to do it." It's gross, but I shake it off, remind myself that I just picked up his poo with a baggie, and wash my hands in hot water with dish soap when I get home. No biggie. Today while casting my reel down my dog's throat, I caught the offending snack. And then I jolted back, inadvertently smacking the top of Bubba's mouth with a hell of a lot more force than intended. Here is where, if you're squeamish, you stop reading. Things are going to get nasty.<br />
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Bubba starts choking on the sidewalk, and I tell myself to suck it up, because I'll be damned if I'm going to drop money at the vet just so THEY can stick their hands down my dog's throat. No, no I've got this. So, in the midst of heavy rush-hour traffic, with the eyes of every motorist on Charles Street trying to get to 83 on me, I went back in while they watched my dog gag and what looked like an abusive pet owner inflicting horrific pain upon him. I wrapped my hand around something smushy. Not smushy like a turd, but smushy like it had once been alive.<br />
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Bubba has sniffed dead things before - birds that have fallen to their demise from nests, cockroaches, and the like. Today, though, as I reeled in my catch, I threw a dead mouse on the sidewalk. I cursed. I shook. I looked like a crazy lady. Bubba wagged his tail and went in for more, until I dragged him away. Upon our return home, I vigorously washed my hands in dish soap, and upon learning I didn't own any rubbing alcohol, doused my hands in nail polish remover.<br />
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<b>So you're new to Baltimore, and own a dog.</b><br />
People here are gross. There are trashcans galore in Mount Vernon, but no one seems to use them. There's a tree on my block that has coffee grounds on it every morning (a caffeinated pick-me-up for the dog, naturally), sometimes you see a used condom or, my favorite, a bag of dog poo all but two feet from the trashcan. Come ON Baltimore. I already have to watch for dead rodents, don't make me watch for your chicken bones, your pizza crusts, your general filth. Walk the two blocks to the closest trashcan, and THROW IT OUT so I don't have to FISH IT OUT OF MY DOG.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A peaceful snuggle, post-snack walk.</td></tr>
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<i>Postscript</i><br />
<i>I am honored to say I was a guest blogger over at the lovely Anne Marie's <u><a href="http://letsgivepeasachance.blogspot.com/">Let's Give Peas a Chance</a>,</u> which won the Mobbie for Best Food Blog, this past weekend. You can check out my risotto recipe over <a href="http://letsgivepeasachance.blogspot.com/2012/12/kale-mushroom-sage-risotto.html">here</a>.<br />Also, I'm incredibly excited to announce that I've begun a Craigslist column over with the hilarious <a href="http://citythatbreeds.com/">City That Breeds</a>, Mobbie award winner of Best Humor Blog since 2008. Go <a href="http://citythatbreeds.com/2012/12/presenting-the-best-missed-connections/">here</a> to see last week's best Missed Connections.</i>MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-41722058270758616152012-11-29T17:58:00.000-05:002012-11-29T17:58:37.285-05:00Bike Party!Let's say, hypothetically, that you like bikes. Bikes are convenient forms of transportation, they're great for your health, and the people that ride them are generally pretty awesome. I don't bike, but I have <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/11/where-to-live-tangential-discussion-of.html">professed my love</a> for them and the people that ride them. In this hypothetical where you love bikes, you also want to meet the awesome people that ride them. It would be ideal if you could perhaps even bike <i>with</i> these awesome people.<br />
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Enter <a href="http://baltimorebikeparty.com/">Bike Party</a>. The Baltimore Bike Party meets on the last Friday of every month at the Washington Monument in Mount Vernon. The group gathers at 7:00p and hits the streets of Baltimore on a pre-determined, 10 to 15 mile route by 7:30p. Afterwards, the bikers gather for a post-ride party for good food, good beer, good camaraderie, and good times. In October, the ride was attended by 1,300 bikers, the largest group ride on the east coast. <br />
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This month, Bike Party is pajama-themed. Show up this Friday in your best pjs to the monument at 7:00p with your bike, bells and whistles, and get ready to meet some awesome fellow-bikers. For more information, check out their <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/173813992756556/">Facebook page</a> or email them at <a href="http://baltimorebikeparty@gmail.com./">baltimorebikeparty@gmail.com.</a> I'm debating whether or not to force myself onto a bike this Friday, or just volunteer for the after-party. This month, the ride will end at Pratt Street Ale House by Camden Yards. I am down for anything that supports my wearing elastic-waist pants on a Friday night, because I'm a classy lady. MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-24525511131274592552012-11-24T15:11:00.002-05:002012-11-24T15:11:41.436-05:00All Aboard: A Nondenominational Light Show and Train Display in Montgomery CountyI grew up with model trains. I associate them with the holidays, with tiny ceramic Christmas villages, and sweeping away avalanches of pine needles from train tracks. The migraine that results from the scent of artificial smoke takes me back to the days of candles, nativity scenes, garlands, and egg nog. <br />
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My father was raised on <a href="http://www.lionel.com/">Lionel</a> trains, and therefore so were my siblings and I. I love that we were, I love that we don't put presents under the tree because then we'd be placing barriers to the train's route. We are no longer allowed to gift my father ceramic houses for the village, because at some point the village began to morph into a metropolis much larger than our living room could handle. <br />
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As a family, we've partaken in an array of train-themed activities. Train shows, train rides in the midwest with questionable food carts that made me ill as a child, train rides in the Adirondack Mountains where we had to carry canoes and there was many a raised voice. I most vividly recall various adventures to a train store somewhere in Maryland (I have no idea where) that sold collectible trains alongside shotguns. Because, why not? It's the epitome of one-stop-shopping.<br />
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A day or two before I left to see my family for Thanksgiving, I was at home, delirious with a cold, hopped up on DayQuil and dousing my tea in a solid amount of Jameson after 6pm. I received an email from my father that succinctly read:<br />
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"Suggest we have family time this Friday here:</div>
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<span class="s1"><a href="http://www.montgomeryparks.org/brookside/winter_display.shtm">http://www.montgomeryparks.org/brookside/winter_display.shtm</a> "<br /><br />I was assured a light show of sorts, along with a large-scale (G-scale) train display. I have done light shows in my past; the one in <a href="http://www.nvrpa.org/park/bull_run_festival_of_lights">Manassas</a> is practically tradition at this point. You pay money, you sit in your car like good Americans, and enjoy drive-thru holiday festivities like you're ordering a Big Mac. Santa, elves, reindeer, snowmen and toy soldiers are lit up with thousands of tiny light bulbs and move around, ensuring that everyone at the local gas and electric company has a very merry Christmas, indeed.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">G-Scale Train Display</td></tr>
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About 30 miles from my folks' place in Virginia, and a solid 30 or so from Baltimore, are Montgomery County's Brookside Gardens. Imagine my surprise when, as soon as one pays, you have to park. <span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Why are we parking?" asked all the ladies in the car, "Don't we just drive through the light show?"</span><br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">"No," my patient father asked, "I think we have to walk through this one."</span></div>
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A collective groan emitted from the car. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfqV0XxghxTqtRbXHnCQcb91kSUbHH7rWblUXe6oDqxVm58VtPISErkJzeu306mm3onr-_mNJZTTj5fr2NPcg9LAKAEgJO7aF7Dvr9Uc66heejnzmjvIMS8jnw-2GE3NKgr-1almKWsz3/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfqV0XxghxTqtRbXHnCQcb91kSUbHH7rWblUXe6oDqxVm58VtPISErkJzeu306mm3onr-_mNJZTTj5fr2NPcg9LAKAEgJO7aF7Dvr9Uc66heejnzmjvIMS8jnw-2GE3NKgr-1almKWsz3/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gay pride? Rainbow connection? <br />Wizard of Oz? You decide!</td></tr>
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The entrance to the walk-through holiday light show was ... a caterpillar. We're talking Absolem from Alice in Wonderland here, except possibly more trippy, if that's at all possible. He is also the caterpillar you have to walk through in reverse to exit, which made me feel like I was a human colonoscopy for the guy. Why it was a caterpillar and not, say, a train or a reindeer or what have you, I couldn't say. I mistakenly assumed that, "Holiday Light Show" implied all of those various holiday cliches we've come to love and/or abhor over the years.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No holiday is complete without the Festive Sea Creature.</td></tr>
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As the walk continued, I became more perplexed, as did my family. There were orange lights around, a lit up figurine that could have been a gardner but resembled a grave-digger, and the whole thing just reeked of "Haunted House" more than "Holiday Extravaganza." There was a rainbow, along with a raincloud and what was trying to be a recording of thunder but bore more resemblance to a low growl. Later, we saw a kangaroo, giraffe, lochness monster, two dolphins, swans that I thought were wonton soup spoons, a beehive (that totally looked like a basketball hoop) and a frog. I found the entire experience oddly disorienting and perplexing. How was this holiday themed? Why were there so many orange lights? Why did part of it, as my sister noted, look like a cheap beachfront resort? In the attempt to be nondenominational, it was just weird. <br /><br />The train display in the greenhouse was lovely, albeit also a little weird. Less weird in comparison to the confusing light show outside, but I didn't get why Woody and Buzz Lightyear were in a town with Disney princesses and some random sunbathing girls. I maybe was looking for a congruent theme where none was to be found. The trains themselves were wonderful, and it was adorable to see the faces of the small children, in complete awe of the entire thing. I bet they didn't think twice about the odd characters in the train's town. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
If you're new to Bmore and want to see a train/light show combination, but are just completely sick of the holidays, this is the one for you. Only $25/car. Make the hike out to Montgomery county, and you won't have to suffer the sight of a single snowflake. If you want something slightly more holiday-themed and much more convenient, sit tight for an update on <a href="http://christmasstreet.com/">Christmas Street</a> in Hampden.</div>
MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-44276912288287044482012-11-18T16:46:00.001-05:002012-11-18T16:49:16.620-05:00Duckpin Bowling: A Baltimore PasttimeAnything related to sports or general athleticism never has been and never will be up my alley. I've written about this in <a href="http://snootyonastipend.blogspot.com/2011/06/sports-why-i-suck-at-them-and-ones-i.html">other places</a>, but it bears repeating. It's not that I'm against fitness or some good 'ol fashioned athletic competition, it truly is that I'm just bad at it. I'm bad at all of it. I hike because it takes serious skill to mess up walking, even though I managed that back in September when I sprained my ankle on an eight-mile solo hike in the rain in the Blue Ridge. Safety first, everyone.<br />
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Scrabble, proudly singing all the lyrics to R. Kelly's "Remix to Ignition," and eating are all forms of competition I can get behind. A trifecta of the aforementioned would equate to something that resembles my nirvana. When I'm feeling particularly limber and in-shape, I'll try putt putt or bowling. </div>
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Baltimore is home to Duckpin bowling. Wikipedia informed me that other locations claim to be the founders of duckpin, but I'm standing with Baltimore on this one. The best place, hands down, for duckpin bowling in the city is the <a href="http://www.pattersonbowl.com/">Patterson Bowling Center</a>. It's a wonderful dive of a place where you BYOB and occasionally have to precariously walk down the gutters to retrieve your balls that haven't quite made it back to you. The bathroom stall doesn't lock and sometimes you get to bowl an extra frame because the computer just didn't pick up your last one. It is one of the best places in the city.</div>
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If you like fancy bowling with bells and whistles, definitely keep going. If you're all about old-fashioned, shoe-spraying, grease on your hands from the never-cleaned balls while you enjoy the well-priced beverage of your choosing that you brought (gluten-free beer from the Wine Source, since you asked), Patterson Bowling Center is the place for you. It is, in fact, the oldest operating duckpin alley in the country!</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietwQLODMcf6OM2IhOrasne5r8SBnVPRTWd_CrrZxo_DZfAjAc1E64fBIH3S6FUSEr3me3SrUaLLLo1lsPtjN5NYN4CEvIwSvey0-0pQPJ7EjDHqX_ZmW9v-Ec1Wrj5emKQ7bjlsrT9M8g/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietwQLODMcf6OM2IhOrasne5r8SBnVPRTWd_CrrZxo_DZfAjAc1E64fBIH3S6FUSEr3me3SrUaLLLo1lsPtjN5NYN4CEvIwSvey0-0pQPJ7EjDHqX_ZmW9v-Ec1Wrj5emKQ7bjlsrT9M8g/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Important pointers provided for free.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
I went this past Friday night, stopping at <a href="http://www.johnnyrads.com/JohnnyRads/JohnnyRads.html">Johnny Rad's</a> for dinner. One of the folks in our party was a duckpin novice, and while we were giving him the rundown of all the glories that awaited him across the street, our server goes, "Are you going to Patterson Lanes? I LOVE THAT PLACE."</div>
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Everyone loves duckpin. Don't you love duckpin? You should love duckpin, and if you don't, it must be because you have yet to go. So call ahead and reserve your lanes at Patterson Bowling Center. I promise you the battle for parking by the park is absolutely worth it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdx_-Ec-0-TF0XDkL7GQu04KPD-Jjh3u93ZzVIy5xQxKjoE4xj382BAPPPBicU19lYIHZtV1Zjg7VyGxja4v6L0wYjLxTzOWsOn33h_Cbtr4RHPQfnFNgCLeNkk8Amo2MXSmtAihmwRrL/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdx_-Ec-0-TF0XDkL7GQu04KPD-Jjh3u93ZzVIy5xQxKjoE4xj382BAPPPBicU19lYIHZtV1Zjg7VyGxja4v6L0wYjLxTzOWsOn33h_Cbtr4RHPQfnFNgCLeNkk8Amo2MXSmtAihmwRrL/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends taking their duckpin seriously. Duckpin is no joking matter.</td></tr>
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MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-38794870356754472832012-11-13T22:34:00.000-05:002012-11-13T22:34:24.250-05:00Where to Live: A Tangential Discussion of Neighborhoods and Later I Mention Bikes For Some ReasonOne of the biggest hurdles I encountered before I even moved here was where to look for housing. I knew absolutely nothing about this city beyond the aquarium, and was relying on what <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baltimore#Neighborhoods">Wikipedia</a> had to say. This conveniently pointed me away from the Bayview region, but didn't give me any idea of the difference between the ones I could seriously consider. Having lived here for a bit now, I know the differences are vast. I just needed someone to tell me. A friend of a friend from many lifetimes ago lived in the city and suggested her neighborhood to me. That is the very anticlimactic story of how I ended up in lovely Mount Vernon - someone I hadn't spoken to in years said, "I like it!" and that was good enough for me. Luckily, she's a great person with wonderful taste, and I love it here. While I appreciate and love the appeal of other neighborhoods in this city, I am proud to be a Mount Vernonite and have no plans of changing that anytime soon.<br />
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If you're new to Bmore and know little about this city, know this: Neighborhoods are a big deal. This city is essentially comprised of a ton of small towns within an incredibly close vicinity. Hampden has its quirks and hipsters, Highlandtown has a large concentration of latinos. Station North has the artsy hipsters and MICA kids (look mom, I made a synonym!) and your frattier post-college scenes are more likely to be found in Canton, Fells Point and Federal Hill. I feel like I've shared this link on every possible social media site, but I wish I had <a href="http://i.imgur.com/kSVMQ.jpg">this</a> map when I first got here. I can't accredit who made it, but I found it via the amazing <a href="http://citythatbreeds.com/">City That Breeds</a>.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/ff/Washington_Monument,_Baltimore,_MD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/ff/Washington_Monument,_Baltimore,_MD.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington Monument in Mount Vernon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Think about what you enjoy, where you are in life, how close you want to be to your office, your price range, what proximity you prefer to be to violent murders, etc. What I love about Mount Vernon that I can walk to museums, an array of great bars, have access to a <a href="http://www.charmcitycirculator.com/">free bus</a>, and regularly decide to be lazy and not go to <a href="http://www.charmcityyoga.com/">yoga</a>, but know I have the option if I want to! <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/07/artscape.html">Artscape</a> is right outside my door, I can walk to the massive <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/07/baltimore-farmers-market.html">Farmer's Market</a> (no, you can't make me shut up about the market. My love will not be silenced!), I can hop on a Bolt Bus to New York or nab Amtrak to anywhere I don't feel like taking my car.</div>
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<b>The cons. </b></div>
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Street parking is horrible. Well, it's not horrible per say, there is available parking. The consequences of street parking aren't lovely. My poor little car has had it rough since moving here. It's been scratched up, dented, broken into, knicked, bumped and bruised. I've only gotten one parking ticket, but I know others who have had it far worse. Baltimore does not mess around with its parking, and I'm fairly certain this is because they need to find creative ways to pay for our newfound <a href="http://www.baltimorebrew.com/2012/11/12/new-water-main-break-floods-at-madison-street-beneath-i-83/">inundation</a>. </div>
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I dislike that the only grocery store is Eddie's of Mount Vernon, and that it took me MONTHS to discover it. Eddie's, while wonderful, convenient and sells wine and beer which is a rarity in Maryland grocery stores, is expensive for what they're selling you. I have purchased more last-minute produce of questionable quality for far more than I should've paid for than I care to admit. Look, a girl can't make a lemon torte without a lemon, okay?</div>
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My Mount Vernon complaints become null and void when one introduces a bike into the mix. With a bike, I could get to other stores more easily and not have to worry about losing my awesome parking spot. I could join the <a href="http://baltimorebikeparty.com/">Bike Party</a> every month for more than just their after-party, and not have to feel guilty about regularly skipping yoga, because my transportation would also be my exercise! Alas, bikes are not presently in the cards for me for unexciting reasons, but you should get one! Cut back on emissions, get fit, make fun friends, don't buy overpriced, under ripe lemons.</div>
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So you're new to Bmore? Research neighborhoods! Make a pros and cons list, know your price range, and find people on Twitter/the Blogosphere to ask. LiveBaltimore has a thorough <a href="http://www.livebaltimore.com/neighborhoods/list/">list</a>, but I personally found it a little overwhelming when I first started the hunt. Just stay calm, research and ask questions. The best way to get to know these neighborhoods is to talk to the people that live in them. The people make up the neighborhoods and help shape them into the communities they are today.</div>
MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-53024926100887522422012-11-06T18:26:00.000-05:002012-11-06T18:28:34.510-05:00VotingUnless you live under a rock and don't have a killer router getting you wifi, you know it's election day! I've always been one of those people who's obnoxious about getting out the vote. I have a tshirt from the 2008 elections that I wore the entire day that says something akin to, "HEY, VOTE!" in slightly more campaign-like, yet nonpartisan, terminology. <br />
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I woke up this morning with a spring in my step, excited to vote in yet another historic election. Steve Inskeep was talking about 2-hour waits in Florida. Friends in Virginia were noting at least 45 minute-long waits at 7am. I made sure to pack a book and some snacks for what I assumed would be a lengthy line later in the day.<br />
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Growing up, my father always volunteered at the polling stations. I remember walking to the local public elementary school with my mother to deliver him lunch. This is where I'd vote in high school, and where I cast my primary vote for the 2008 elections. I've voted absentee for president and governor, all from the great state of Virginia.<br />
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It should be noted that the only reason I'm a registered MD voter is because I needed a MD license to get a city parking permit, and figured, "What the hell?"<br />
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My polling place here in Baltimore... is a public housing unit. Gone are the days of shiny elementary schools paid for with tax dollars. Gone are the lines of people with their $12 sandwiches and Coach bags. Everyone in Northern Virginia seemed to treat voting like a chore, whereas here everyone seemed excited to vote. All those around me seemed so gracious for this great right, that they treated like the privilege it is. It was such a diverse group of Marylanders, all coming together to play a roll in this democratic system. Because I'm getting way too preachy and "Hooray for America!", I'll just note that my friend told me today, "I just wanted to moonwalk out of the polling place, I was so excited. I didn't, because I don't know how to moonwalk." It should also be mentioned that my wait was maybe ten minutes. No books or snacks were needed.<br />
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So you're new to Bmore - I sure hope you registered to vote. I hope you looked for your polling place in any of the fantastic locations (<a href="https://www.google.com/elections/ed/us/vote">here</a>, <a href="http://www.barackobama.com/">here</a>, <a href="http://www.mittromney.com/states">here</a>, or my favorite (NSFW), <a href="http://yourfuckingpollingplace.com/">here</a>). I hope you read up on all the issues, all the candidates, and I hope you made an informed decision. I hope you realize the significance of your decisions on local issues, from the Dream Act to Prop 6 to the casinos in Prop 7.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs4pRiha39UTdClzC-yxgkvGvohcjZEPT_O9XPtkO8t6DaPYBQQpF1sqhImISHpS421RtD9HwOuxtH3ftnAc9tfSmyGBez8zPOUAYQ-fNh8Wp91_gqeOO5tET2JYV73IM_MtkpwW_oOHhT/s1600/vote!.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs4pRiha39UTdClzC-yxgkvGvohcjZEPT_O9XPtkO8t6DaPYBQQpF1sqhImISHpS421RtD9HwOuxtH3ftnAc9tfSmyGBez8zPOUAYQ-fNh8Wp91_gqeOO5tET2JYV73IM_MtkpwW_oOHhT/s1600/vote!.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Most of all, I hope you made sure you got a sticker. Mine is being worn with pride on a dorky vest by a patient basset. We'll be watching the results come in with good friends at their house, ready to celebrate (or get super glum. Results TBD).<br />
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Don't forget that it's still not too late to cast your (DAILY) ballot for So You're New to Bmore in the <a href="http://data.baltimoresun.com/mobbies/2012/voting/">2012 Mobbies</a>! Keep the votes coming in until Friday!MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-61514752865517321482012-11-01T20:04:00.000-04:002012-11-01T20:10:23.548-04:00Who Wore It Best? ... and other, far more important, thingsThe past week has been a whirlwind of activity. Sadly, if you're here for an extensive(ish) write-up of something new to do in the city because you just moved here, I cannot do much for you beyond send you <a href="http://events.baltimorefishbowl.com/">here</a>. You can thank me for the intro to the Fishbowl later. <br />
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While yesterday may have been Halloween, I spent it inside, working, and marathoning Freaks and Geeks on Netflix. I celebrated Halloween (and my birthday!) last weekend, never once allowing myself the opportunity to sleep in. That's for the youngins, right? I spent Friday night setting up for and later attending (and judging phenomenal costumes) the <a href="http://baltimorebikeparty.com/">Baltimore Bike Party</a>'s after-party (and after the party? The<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O29YcBHpH5E"> hotel lobby</a>) at Union Craft Brewery on Clipper Mill. <br />
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Saturday I went for another <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/09/oregon-ridge.html">hike</a>, this time to Loch Raven, with two friends and the dog. Loch Raven was phenomenal, incredibly scenic, and the perfect fall hike to view the foliage before it all got ravaged off branches when Sandy came to town. Little guy romped off his leash the entire five or six (purely a guesstimate here, as none of Loch Raven's trails are blazed or anything) mile hike, with only one near-submersion into the lake. Success!<br />
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That night was another Halloween party, but at a friend's house in York, PA. Sunday morning was the <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/07/baltimore-farmers-market.html">market</a> (of course) and my birthday shindig where my wonderful <a href="http://battermatters.blogspot.com/">friend</a> provided me with gluten-free belgian waffle sundaes and great people came up/down/over/preposition for good times.<br />
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Then it was Hurricane time. Sunday night, I hunkered down with the dog, Netflix, two random gallons of water, my parent's pilfered camping lantern, a constantly refreshing twitter feed, and every item in my kitchen that I could possibly remember existed, being thrown into a curry dish. Mmmm... curried can opener.<br />
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This unnecessarily lengthy intro was to set the stage for what occurred. After a busy, tiring weekend, Sandy came in and created the hype of Frankenstorm. Baltimore shut down. My office was closed (telecommuting!), public transit stopped running, my corner store pulled down its metal entry way blocking thing, ensuring that my wine stash was my wine stash, and there would be absolutely NO supplementing it. Sandy was Serious.<br />
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Do you know what happens to people who spend entire days indoors, save for walking a dog in hurricane? People who neurotically check their windows for leaks, with good reason, neurotically change the sopping towels on their windows, and engineer umbrellas to block the leaking rain from splashing onto you/your furniture/your electronics? They go stir-crazy. I worked, yes, but I also made scones. And roasted my first chicken (with pomegrante seeds! and help! because nice people help you roast chickens in hurricanes!). I also.... I also considered making a "Who Wore It Best?" for Bubba and I.<br />
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Yes.<br />
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I became that crazy woman who lives alone and has a creepy relationship with her pet.<br />
That being said, you know you're curious.<br />
"Who wore what best, MV?" you're asking. "Why are you being so cryptic, MV?" you ask. "No, I really don't care, MV. Please stop," you implore.<br />
Excellent questions.<br />
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I bring you two images:<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXdBo9TU65dglwR1c4i-PhDh0e0XHL-dZejOXNtwHi4bQ_CgDGnuJx3LYX_PENVV71WaglovNB4zEYyc60Yv4GygpqtYx5pInYBt8uO0SgPISJmijBLAsvNxW8sSpyxFwIuoywcVjr2dEo/s1600/bubba.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXdBo9TU65dglwR1c4i-PhDh0e0XHL-dZejOXNtwHi4bQ_CgDGnuJx3LYX_PENVV71WaglovNB4zEYyc60Yv4GygpqtYx5pInYBt8uO0SgPISJmijBLAsvNxW8sSpyxFwIuoywcVjr2dEo/s320/bubba.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibit A</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPx6rl1He9_m0cfe4SOspXkmaPy8w0audkl2Sx6ZfydLpNXsV6KKrYrUgDMl5sNIVr_kVaHu1mHcJEyJGAHH1WI5z87KEky5t1JOCqg-Z-P6OltZ0rcD4yL-sD8BH9af9s7hKw89Rd0LX/s1600/hot+dog.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPx6rl1He9_m0cfe4SOspXkmaPy8w0audkl2Sx6ZfydLpNXsV6KKrYrUgDMl5sNIVr_kVaHu1mHcJEyJGAHH1WI5z87KEky5t1JOCqg-Z-P6OltZ0rcD4yL-sD8BH9af9s7hKw89Rd0LX/s320/hot+dog.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibit B</td></tr>
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Sound off in the comments on who makes a better hotdog, and don't let the presence of relish and extra toppings sway you one way or the other! I tried to make you folks a handy poll, but it kept linking to what I think is the equivalent of a Polish Etsy.<br />
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Finally, and arguably far more important than the fact that my dog and I both wore hot dog costumes this October, dear, amazing, witty and informative <a href="http://thebaltimorechop.com/">Baltimore Chop</a> apparently nominated me for two <a href="http://data.baltimoresun.com/mobbies/2012/voting/">Mobbies</a>, or Maryland's Outstanding Blogs. I am <strike>embarrassed because I don't do well with compliments</strike> flattered, and torn between urging you to vote daily for me or daily for the Chop. (Lucky you! You can vote for both!) I really am so grateful for how much everyone in Baltimore has made me feel so very welcome in the past year, even the twitter and blogospheres. For those of you who know me, I'm constantly talking up the Chop and how he helped me get acquainted to this city when I first relocated, and even more so, how he keeps me up to date on wonderful things each day. Good 'ol buddy <a href="http://navigatingthenuances.blogspot.com/2012/10/window-dressing.html">Clube</a> can attest to this.<br />
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This really serves as a great incentive for me to keep better tabs on this little blog, and not go so long between updates. I was so much better at being a consistent blogger when I was in AmeriCorps, so hopefully now I'll get myself back into the swing of things. I'm still in shock that I'm up there with the likes of the Chop, City that Breeds, Charm City Cook, Pigtown Designs, the Fishbowl, etc etc. Amazed, and again, flattered. So, go! <a href="http://data.baltimoresun.com/mobbies/2012/voting/">Vote</a>!MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-88205065835653382572012-10-23T20:39:00.000-04:002012-10-23T20:47:41.719-04:00Camping at Assateague<br />
<div class="p1">
A few months ago, I decided I wanted to go camping. Not real backpacking, poop-in-the-woods camping, although I would love to do that if I could find a willing partner and a trusty frame pack. What I had in mind was the camping of my youth - car camping. </div>
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As a child, when most families would load up into their sporty Dodge Caravan with a tv in the ceiling to spend a weekend in a multi-roomed mansion at the Outer Banks with a pool and hot tub, my father would pile the five of us and the dog into our mid-80’s Taurus station wagon (lovingly referred to as “The Hearse” and later, “The Clunker”) and caravan us eight hours north to the Adirondacks for two weeks where we’d live out of those multi-room, multi-family tents and eat spam out of a cooler. Our pool was the lake adjacent to our campsite, our hot tub the shallow area where our family beagle would pee out of fear of water. It was all quite exotic.</div>
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I remember canoeing a lot, I remember hiking, and I remember sitting around picnic table, bored out of my mind, tired of playing the same three card games with my brother and sister hour after hour, day after day. I remember being fairly miserable, but I remember it so very fondly. Miserable in that way that most things are miserable when you’re a pre-teen, not legitimately miserable.</div>
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When I gchatted a dear friend a few weeks ago, “I wanna go camping,” this is precisely what I had in mind. I wanted to store snacks in the trunk of a car, I wanted to tie a dog to a tree and watch them get stuck, I wanted to make marshmallow torches and I wanted a toilet with toilet paper within a decent vicinity. My friend was game, and created the facebook event.</div>
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The other weekend, I took off a Friday from work and went camping in Assateague with two dear friends and Bubba. I sang unnecessary car solos, which sadly did not include Phil Colins this time around, I snacked, and I generally was just presumably irritating to travel with. </div>
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“Guys, guys I dropped my thimble!” </div>
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“MV, why are you sewing in the car?”</div>
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“Otherwise I never will! Is my thimble under your seat?”</div>
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After reveling in the beauty of the Ranger’s Station, and Bubba claiming stake to a post by peeing on it, we were off to find our campsite. Enroute, we had our first horse sighting, which led the three of us to simultaneously exclaim, “PONY!” Fact: after three days, the horses become far less exciting and endearing. We pitched our tent, and I set up my parents’ glorious 1981 camping stove while the fire was started by much more competent people than myself. After a satisfying meal of brats and potatoes, we came to an unfortunate realization. Camping in October, while assuredly rids you of the pesky Assateague mosquitos that everyone curses, is quite frigid at night. As the sun went down, so did the mercury in our hypothetical thermometer (read: iPhone). I was layered up, ready to fight the oncoming gusts of wind. Soon, I looked at Bubba tied up to the tree, curled in a ball, shaking. My maternal pet guilt kicked in, and I asked my friend if I could put Bubba in the car to fight off the wind until, at least, we went to sleep.</div>
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It got cold, the fire died out, and like on all good camping trips, we were in tent/sleeping bag by 9:30p or so. I had fished the dog out of the car and had unsuccessfully tried to use his little sausage-shaped body for heat, and gave up when I received a swift back paw to the lower intestines. I fitfully fell asleep with the wind threatening to collapse our cloth structure upon us and the dog pacing around nervously. </div>
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I woke at first to the unmistakable sound of my dear little basset throwing up. I fumbled for my glasses, and once on, I realized that clear vision does one no good in the dark. I fumbled for my flashlight and by the time I illuminated the region where the noise was coming from, Bubba had gotten around to cleaning up his own mess. Worried, confused and cold, I shut my eyes to try for sleep.</div>
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Within what seems like minutes, I heard a muffled thumping on the ground by my head. I put my towel-sweatshirt-backpack-pile-turned-pillow over my head and willed myself to fall into a REM cycle. Almost instantaneously, I heard the neighing. Cute ponies, no more. They had morphed into, as my friends would later call them, Nocturnal Hellspawn. Jekyll and Hyde style, these seemingly peaceful and nonchalant creatures during the day become attention-whores and evil doers once night sets. The thumping and neighing, in tandem with the high winds and nervous, whining dog, ensured a night of, at best, fitful sleep ahead of me. </div>
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“Get back to nature!” I had told myself. “You love the outdoors!” was my mantra.</div>
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I do love the outdoors, and I did need to get back to nature, but at the moment I wanted nothing more than a mattress and soundproof walls.</div>
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Eventually, my mind began wandering. It was windy. Did we put the tailgating chairs back in the car? Would they blow into the tent and rip it, so the ponies could get in and eat my dog? (While my mind was creating such logical hypotheticals, my friend later told me she feared we would all be trampled in our sleep. This is only implausible to me, because I don't think any of us were asleep.) I could take it no more; I got up and left the tent to face the wind, the upright chairs, and the horses.</div>
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Keychain flashlight in hand, I spotted them. The two chairs were next to the firepit, completely upright, threatening to be blown into my standing form. Horses, from what I could see, were nowhere in sight. </div>
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Luckily, I smelled it before I saw it. Right in front of the tent, right below where my foot was hovering for my first step down, was the world’s largest, most hay-filled horse turd ever seen. I stepped around it, feeling a little like Kim Possible, probably resembling something more like a drunken sorority girl on an icy sidewalk. Once I got the chairs folded up and secured next to a tree, I got back into the tent for the remainder of the night’s terrible excuse for sleep.</div>
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I gave up once the sun began to greet the morn. I informed Bubba that I had been cold and he had failed at his pet duties of keeping me toasty, and that now we were going to go for an early, cold walk before breakfast.</div>
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I’m not sure what time it was. Perhaps six or seven. The morning was beautiful, and even my grumpy, sleep-deprived self could not help but acknowledge the serenity of the sunrise over a calm bay. Feeling a little more optimistic about life and the outdoors in general, we returned to the campsite so Bubba could enjoy his morning kibble.</div>
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I unlocked the car and searched. I found the bag his food had been in, but it was empty. I felt like a resident of Whoville on Christmas morning; the remnants of it were there, but not the goods themselves. Except, while there is more to Christmas than gifts, but there isn’t more to a dog meal than kibble. We had no one to join hands with around a tree and sing a festive song. I was completely perplexed. The food had been there last night when I fed him. How did it disappear? Did the horses somehow get into the car and JUST eat the bag of dog kibble, leaving the marshmallows, the sausages, the rice, the apples, the oatmeal? At that hour, with as little sleep as I had had, that was the most logical explanation I could think of. It also solidified my belief that the horses were in fact evil, and not to be trusted. The signs in the bathrooms warning me of the dangers of wild horses and how they can bite you only further confirmed my suspicions.</div>
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When my two friends awoke, I brought up the Mystery of the Missing Kibble, equal parts concerned and excited about the prospect of Nancy Drewing it up on my camping trip. I wanted to pin down the misfit pony and make him admit to his wrongdoings. He’d talk. Oh, he’d talk.</div>
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“Didn’t you put Bubba in the car last night?”</div>
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“Yeah, so? It was cold.”</div>
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“Right. But. You put him right next to his kibble.”</div>
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“No, you’re not saying...”</div>
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“MV. Bubba ate all his food for the weekend.”</div>
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“But.”</div>
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“You know I’m right.”</div>
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“But that’s six cups of dog food.”</div>
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“MV, he ate it all.”</div>
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I looked at him, tied to the tree, sitting up, tail thumping, making direct eye contact with me. His tail was saying, “I’M OUTSIDE, THERE ARE LOTS OF SMELLS! DID YOU SEE THAT MASSIVE HORSE TURD? I LIKE PEEING ON THINGS!” but his eyes were saying, “Silly human, now you’ll have to feed me your food. This was my plan along.”</div>
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The rest of the weekend was lovely. We kayaked, hiked, hunted wayward frisbees out of trees, made obscene amounts of food, ate shared meals out of a pot to avoid having extra dishes, played card games, and made Bubba potatoes and fried rice. While I kayaked, my friend got to run after Bubba who was not okay with Lady-Who-Feeds-Me venturing off into the water on a piece of plastic. This apparently ended in his cell phone getting run over. I have good friends.</div>
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It was my first foray into camping on the Eastern Shore, and I do not expect it to be my last. If you’re new to Bmore, go camping in Assateague! I recommend the fall to avoid what I hear are horrific mosquitos, but bundle up, bring earplugs for when you sleep, and keep your pet’s food in an airtight, pet-tight container. You also need to be okay with semi-hygienic circumstances, as the showers are circumspect and the bathrooms only have crappy hand sanitizer and no soap. Definitely not a deal-breaker for me, but definitely a deal-breaker for some.</div>
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Happy camping!</div>
MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-38471888704737150392012-10-21T22:56:00.003-04:002012-10-21T22:56:35.690-04:00So You're FROM Bmore: A Who's Who of Notable Residents
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Life has indeed become incredibly hectic as of late, so I do apologize for my disappearance. If you are indeed new to Bmore, at the rate I’m updating, you’re likely to learn the majority of this information on your own, and for that I am sorry.</div>
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So we’ve accepted that you’re new to Bmore.</div>
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Do you know about the awesome people that are from here?</div>
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Ira Glass, who accompanies me via podcast every Monday while I prepare dinner, is from outside this fair city. I tell myself that one day he’ll pop into Paper Moon while I’m there and do a local version of his episode “24 Hours at the Golden Apple” entitled, “24 Trippy Hours at the Paper Moon.”</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture makes me want to give Ira a big hug and have some coffee with him. Source: http://gothamist.com/attachments/nyc_arts_john/Ira%20Glass.jpg</td></tr>
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Phillip Glass, brilliant composer, is also from Baltimore, which makes sense since family stays together and all that jazz.</div>
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Michael Phelps, world-record holder for most Olympic medals <i>ever</i> won. In the history of the Olympics. That’s a big deal.</div>
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Edgar Allen Poe. Sure, he was born in Boston and lived a good while in Richmond, but he died in our gutters. We have his grave and the house where he penned so many historical words, so I say it’s fair game to call dibs.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The original Baltimore Hipster, Dan Deacon.<br />Source: http://exclaim.ca/images/deacon1.jpg</td></tr>
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Dan Deacon, kind of a big deal on the electronic music scene, hails from Charm City. On his new album, America, he has a song entitled, “Guildford Ave Bridge” which makes me smile. He considers this wonderfully decrepit bridge to be just as worthy of homage as our country’s larger, more well-known landmarks. </div>
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Tori Amos was raised here, Spiro Agnew lived in Baltimore before heading below the beltway to be Nixon’s VP. David Bryne, who was a songwriter for the Talking Heads, is from Charm City. Tom Clancy, author extraordinaire, and Brian Dannelly, director of Weeds, both are Baltimoreans at heart.</div>
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Wonderful, still notable, fictional characters are from Baltimore. Dr. Gregory House got his MD from Johns Hopkins, Elaine Bennet from Seinfeld is from Towson and a diehard O’s fan. </div>
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Frederick Douglas, Antonion Freeman, Billie Holiday, Henrietta Lacks. Thurgood Marshall, Bessie Moses, Ogden Nash, Nancy Pelosi. Cal Ripken Jr., Mike Rowe, Babe Ruth, Pat Sajak (!!), Elizabeth Ann Seton, Tupac lived on Greenmont Ave for two years when he went to the Baltimore School of the Arts, where Jada Pinkett Smith is also a notable alum. David Simon, Upton Sinclair, Sisqo (!), Gertrude Stein (! for different reasons!), John Waters, Montel Williams, and Oprah even worked here briefly. </div>
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The list goes on and on, and the details get better and better. The fact of the matter is Baltimore has bred some awfully talented individuals. If you’re new, you are now among the rankings! Congratulations, you now live in the same region that Pat Sajak hails from. That’s rubbing elbows with some seriously big folks.</div>
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Next up: where to camp and how to avoid stepping in horse turds first thing in the morning!</div>
MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-558231050014093289.post-10231586766353555472012-09-16T15:17:00.000-04:002012-09-16T15:20:31.362-04:00Oregon RidgeTo say I am not an athletic person would be a gross understatement. I learned early on that sports were only fun if you had a chance of winning, and as a person with zero athletic prowess, sports were miserable for me. I would sit on the sidelines at little league soccer games, praying my coach wouldn't put me in, so that I could continue to sit on the sidelines and eat orange slices. Why the other kids even wanted to leave the oranges was always beyond me. There are, however, physical pastimes I will partake in A) for my health and B) because I do enjoy them. These include occasionally going to yoga, walking home for work/the farmer's market, and hiking. If I can force myself to walk home from work at least three times during the week, I give myself a large pat on the back and then cook myself some bacon. <br />
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Having lived in the Blue Ridge, I have high hiking standards. I expect panoramic views of valleys with only a farmhouse or a silo. I expect at least a four mile hike up that includes some semblance of rock climbing. It's almost as though, because I don't really exercise at all, that I want to push myself more when I hike. When I moved to Baltimore, I assumed hiking was off my list of physical pastimes, and I would have to start counting taking the stairs up to my apartment as exercise (I definitely do this in the winter).<br />
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Today is a beautiful day. It's about 73 degrees outsides, there are scattered clouds, and I couldn't spend it indoors. At least not all of it. After the <a href="http://soyourenewtobmore.blogspot.com/2012/07/baltimore-farmers-market.html">market</a>, I put some snacks and water in my daypack, and Bubba and I headed north on 83 to <a href="http://www.oregonridge.org/">Oregon Ridge Park</a>. I have no idea where we hiked or what trails we took. I took one glimpse at the map that said the longest hike was 1.6 miles, and immediately decided we'd just wing it instead and get some more distance in. This is a decision that was much better for me and far worse for a dog with tiny, stubby little legs.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not pictured: my shooing the dog away from eating dirt.</td></tr>
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Oregon Ridge was busy today, presumably on account of it being a perfect Sunday. We ran into many a couple, family or solo hiker on the trails. There were people on the beach at the lake, a million folks having picnics by the stage, and many dogs to intimidate Bubba through the entire place. It was lovely, though. The two overlooks we came across weren't quite as majestic as the ones in the Blue Ridge, but that is to be expected. They were lovely in their own right.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">True majesty is a basset hound.</td></tr>
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These trails are not demanding. I saw plenty of children on them, not remotely struggling. Bubba maneuvered the trails fine - he just struggled with the distance I forced upon him. Lesson of the day: when I hike without a dog, I move twice as fast. We were still able to stop on the old ski slope and enjoy some sunshine, snacks and a book.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An eerily empty lake: the telltale sign that it's no longer summer. </td></tr>
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So if you're new to Bmore and itching for some nature beyond the concrete jungle, head north on 83 to Oregon Ridge. Be sure to bring a picnic to enjoy by the lake, and a swimsuit, if it's that kind of weather.MVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07024688724339836944noreply@blogger.com0