Kettlegate 2014

My ibu forgot a kettle that she left on I the kitchen & it burned the entire thing.My host sister came running to the front, gripping my hand urgently like I’d somehow get lost,to show me the burnt rubber handle detached from the smoking metal body in the middle of the backyard. You would’ve thought it was a holy burning bush the way she acted.

Now, it’s all my host family can talk about for the past three weeks. It’s become such a hot topic that I’ve been calling it “Kettlegate 2014”. Now the charred handle lies in the middle of the yard like the remnants of an elephant graveyard. Even the four new kittens and their wide curious eyes can’t top Kettlegate 2014. It’s unstoppable.


Generation Y


It takes a million milli-seconds to douse a fire set before your lifetime.
It rebuilds like an on-coming storm, overwhelming fear. Tragedy, mistakes, and hesitation over-power the timidity of fear.
Here we see again, like an old dance, once standing on our fathers toes to learn the moves,
We stand up and reach out proud & tall, Expectations breaching the clouds, beaming through like sun rays.
When it hits our faces, we smile, teeth white, in neat secure rows, defying what we’ve been told because in that moment we have a happiness we’ve never had before. This is not 9-year-old-watching-saturday-morning-cartoons happiness, this is a new kind we’ve made. Because we face this oncoming storm, waiting with the expectation of coming out on the other side.
While they’re walking, counting their pace,
We run ahead, around, and fly skywards, wind whipping around our faces.
We know we won’t crash and burn like the people before, because our hearts are more aware of their room to love, to conquer the unconquerable, to understand what others didn’t try to understand. This fuels us: this untapped potential.


My Naturally Curly Hair in Indonesia

My biggest concern (Like, my top priority…honestly, maybe my only concern because I’m a “smart cookie”) was hair care while living abroad. Like, I know that “I am not my hair”, but my hair has really become an extension of my identity. It’s amazing, it’s like play-doh, a free form of expression, in any form. So, thank the heavens for the internet and my sisters because ,without them, I’d be running around with unhealthy, brittle hair. Here are the two things I’ve learned so far:

  1. I absolutely LOVE coconut oil. It smells heavenly, it’s versatile and keeps my hair from dry-land.
  2. 2. Bobbi-pins are my life and I have not found them in Indonesia, yet.

    So, what are we gonna take away from this, boys n’ girls? This: I really like hair (:

    Which, I guess I could have just said from the beginning.

    TIP: Always carry 2-3 bobbi-pins with you.

Holding Bobbi-pins LIKE A BOSS



New baby rabbit (2 months old) in my family. They gave her an name that I’ve completely forgotten, so I just call her Cornbread McCuddly. She’ll grow to be the size of a small adult cat by the time she’s 6 months! Cornbread will feel right at home with the 15plus chickens, the 7plus songbirds, and the lizards that are there whether I want them or not. Welcome to the family!

I totally don’t want to be one of those people who say “Awkward”, BUT…

This is just a quick story about how I ruined a stranger’s day:

So I was in Whole foods yesterday, standing in the dairy/cereal/everything aisle watching this guy with a thick handle bar mustache (A product of No Shave November/Awesome lifestyle choice)  decide between two similar brands of Almond Milk for about 10 minutes . I mean, who wouldn’t enjoy watching it? It was literally fascinating watching him  furrow his brow, weigh and ,yes!, sniff the cartons of milk in both hands. I felt like I was in a Natural Food Store Zoo. minding my own business. All of a sudden, this guy zooms past me like he is in desperate need for organic yogurt and he slips on NOTHING (nothing was there) and falls on his gluteus maximus.

Believe me, I’ve been this person sooo many times it’s ridiculous. It was like he was a cartoon character who just slipped on a banana and was seeing stars. Of course a chuckle started to build up, but I still moved to help him. When I helped him to get up, I seriously have no idea how, but I accidentally punched him in the chest, sending him back to the floors. I guess my gripping was wrong or something, but my tiny fist (I have small hands) somehow came in contact with his chest. It really was an accident.

So I started to say “OHMIGOD! I’m so sorry…Are you Okay?” and then he said “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Sherlock”.

Then, naturally I said “You’re Welcome” because I cannot read sarcasm.

I swear this isn’t a moment out of a sitcom, but as soon as he got up and started angrily walking away, a bag of granola flew from a top shelf and landed on his head. He threw his hands up.

He grabbed his yogurt on his way out.

I had to immediately leave the aisle before I brought him anymore bad luck or started laughing like an idiot.

I actually forgot what I came in the store for after that. I wanted to buy him a “sorry about punching you” cake, but he disappeared.

I really hope his day turned around and I hope he laughs today.

Bouncy Room

             My Parents owned an impossibly high and wide bed. To my nine year old eyes, the wide bed was like King Arthur’s bouncy castle, it was magnificently sprawled across the small Master bedroom, filling the entire room and leaving little room on either side. The room was the bed. My parents’ bed was my place of refuge. It bore the perfect ratio between comfort and substance that my bunk-bed would never accomplish. Who needs a floor with space when you can bounce, roll, and flip to where you need to go? I would scramble onto the foot of the bed, my sisters squeezing on either side of me, and prop my head in my hands. We’d stretch as far as our limbs could go in our limited bubbles. We would watch movies on my Parent’s tiny TV in our t-shirts and eat Orville Redenbacher’s Popcorn with extra butter. We’d spend hours watching Aladdin, Belle, and Hercules in a world we conceived in our minds existed somewhere. My Parent’s room was where my family and I would sing together because the walls of the room emphasized our harmony. My Parents’ room was also where my sisters and I would listen, on edge, to Daddy talk about his adventures as a Corrections Officer. My sister Alleyah was always the first to slickly swipe Daddy’s glowing handcuffs and leisurely cuff and un-cuff her hands while he told us his story of the day.

        Daddy would come home exhausted, looking as if he had never had an ounce of sleep in his life. When he kicked off his shoes and flopped down at the head of the bed, a sudden animated spirit would revive him from his restlessly dormant state and give us our news for the day. We would hear about men who taunted guards, men who fought other men, and men who were just plain insane. We would hear about the crimes they committed and the crazy things that some inmates did to pass the time. The rise and fall of his voice matched the motions of his hands as he gestured the story into life, ushering the story from his mind before our eyes. He would censor the stories, shielding our eyes from the severity of life outside and behind brick walls. Although I was attentive to the stories, I mostly looked forward to Daddy’s animated face and his booming laugh that erupted from his belly and seemed to interrupt him mid-word.

Even Saturdays, when I often tested the strength of the soles of my bare feet on the earth of our back yard, I could hear Daddy’s laughter fill the universe. In me, it confirmed and ingrained a feeling of place. Here, wrapped in the arms of apple and pear trees, away from the rowdy, intrusive Brinkley Road, I was safe to do anything. I knew where I was in my family. I was the eldest of four kids in a family of six. I was my sister’s adventure doctor and my baby brother’s diaper changer. I was my Father’s little girl and I was my Mother’s diary of secrets. All that mattered was where I stood among the most important people in my life.

      The grass in our yard was green and full of rabbit holes. My sisters and I would carefully run around, being careful to land our feet like astronauts on the moon. The holes led to the unexpected, and in our minds, either led to a twisted ankle or a trip to China. The trees that surrounded us bore a story themselves. The previous owners were an old married couple who planted their own food and were married for a lifetime. They had been the original owners of the brick rambler and raised a family in my home. I often wondered if their kids ever climbed the trees their parents grew or peeled the bark off the base of the apple trees as I would often do.

       The yard was electrified with lively fireflies at night in the summer. I felt as if these bugs had invaded the solitude of our open yard, disturbing an unspoken balance. Although I was logical and knew that the living light bulbs could not harm me, I never approached them without a pair of gloves and a jar. When I encased them in the glass, I was not filled with some awe-inspired feeling of wonderment. I was glad I trapped the “bugs that won’t stop following me.” I fell asleep in comfort knowing that the Lightning bug inmates couldn’t harm me or my family with no way of escape. I was the unspoken family guard. 




You don’t need a lot to go anywhere. All I took was a toothbrush.

My sisters and I traveled 998 miles over the past two days. Up and down the East Coast. We drove down to North Carolina from Maryland, then all the way up to New Jersey. I bought a MONKEY MUG.

Monkey Mug!


Sleeping in the car and driving ANYWHERE was the most exciting thing I’ve done in a while. We took the back roads through Pennsylvania, Delaware, and North Carolina. It was a wonderful experience. We drove for hours, stopping anywhere that was interesting and Sang with the windows down. We listened to EVERYTHING.

I know this sounds cliche, but the wind blowing through your hair is liberating. the winding roads. the sun. the rain. laughter.

It was an adventure. I would suggest a random Road trip to anyone (: