So…. I’m still playing around with ideas for this blog (can I call this a “website”? “Blog” is still so WEIRD ahhh). At first I wanted a theme to my writing madness, but then I think I would be limiting myself as to what I want to write about.  Instead, I’m going to embrace the randomness.  Yesterday was a post about the oil crisis in Nigeria.  The day before, visiting Grandma.  A couple weeks ago? Cleaning out my room.  10 months ago?  Eatings grits in Nashville, TN.  And today?

What I ate for breakfast.  

I know, right? Sorta lame.  But you chose to read this, not me.  

Incase you were wondering, I usually start off my mornings with CNN and coffee.  And it’s always hot coffee. Always.  Even if it is 100 degrees outside, there is something to say about slowly sipping on my Adirondack Mtn Loon Mug (i know) while watching more exposed pictures of Weiner, rather than blazing through a glass of iced coffee that I can top off in about twelve seconds.  

In any case, hot coffee must equal cold breakfast, or else I’ll start sweating buckets before I even go out for a run.  And since I have an undying love for oatmeal, I found a way to still enjoy it in the summer months.  Alas: overnight oats.

 So kids, this is the deal.  This bowl of oats was soaked overnight with equal parts milk and yogurt, cinnamon, flax seeds, and strawberries & banana slices.  By the next morning, the rolled oats have soaked up all the liquids and flavor, and BAM…creamy, cold, oatmeal heaven. Seriously. Try it!  I even will give you a recipe!

 Overnight Oats:

1/3 cup rolled oats

1/3 cup milk

1/3 cup greek yogurt

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tbsp flax seeds

1/2 banana, sliced

Combine in bowl. Stir. Place saran wrap on top of bowl and stick in the fridge.  Go to bed. Wake up. Eat with hot coffee–your body temperature will be balanced. 

You can also play around with this recipe!  I use flavored greek yogurt for extra sweetness; use plain and add honey.  Throw in blueberries.  Coconut.  Peanut butter. Cocoa powder.  Almonds.  Almond milk.  Do whatever, I totally support you. 

Let’s just say that frustation with oil companies should go beyond high gas prices.  I just finished reading the novel Little Bee, which is what inspired me to write this post.  I could talk about this topic for days (I wrote a 15 pg paper on it), but I’ll keep this as compact as possible, hopefully just informing or engaging anyone who wants to learn more.  

Know more about what?  The oil crisis in Nigeria.

Little Bee is a story about a Nigerian girl running away from death– from  militia that came to destroy her oil-laden village. And while this is a novel, stories like Little Bee’s have and are continuing to happen.  US oil companies have given an enormous amount of money to Nigerian government officials to “evacuate” people from their villages in order to drill for oil: the Nigerian government has nothing to say for their acts of rape, murder, and expolusion in order to “quiet down” the peoples of the Niger Delta in order to drill into the ground; Shell has softly admitted that their blind eye has been a “less than perfect” attribute.

Who is to blame? Anyone? Everyone?  How can any Nigerian, let alone human rape or kill another, no matter what monetary value?  Isn’t there a better solution to drilling oil than to murder thousands? And how can US oil companies see what’s happening but play the ignorance card? When it has been reported that Chevron-marked helicopters are carrying Nigerian military that open fire upon protestors, how do you react when you’re filling up at your own Chevron? How can you?

This may be hard to wrap your head around, so think of it like this: imagine someone telling you they are burning down your whole neighborhood–houses, roads, everything–and you just have to leave, empty handed. Right then and there.  You of course want to protest, but would be raped or murdered for doing so. And if you see others being raped or murdered, you become a witness, so you are chased down until you are also killed so you cannot tell your story.

And there are these white gods on the sidelines, just watching. 

 I am no expert, and am only relaying what I’ve read and researched. The oil wars are extremely involved, dealing with federalism, colonization, ethnicity, poverty, international relations, money, and power.  The list can go on and on.

But for now, pick up Little Bee for an lighter-introduction to what’s been going on.  Or watch the award-winning documentary, Drilling and Killing by Amy Goodman, Jeremy Scahill and Dred Scott Keyes.  And while you’re at it, watch this video, which talks about the envionmental impact of the drilling:

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I also found time to go to the beach, where I properly walked past the public section and pretended I was a member o the Four Seasons Resort.  I was happily equipped with a cushioned recliner, hors d’oeurves, a bar with discounted cocktails, and an empty beach.  It wasn’t until the bill came and I had to “simply” sign my room # that I realized I would be caught.  I smiled and asked if I could pay cash, and ran out of there as fast as I could.

With my free time (which was sure a plenty) I managed to read 1 1/2 books, take on the heat with a couple of runs, and become one shade closer to becoming African. One day.  Until then, remember to call your Grandmothers, revel in the fact that you’re young and spry, and please, just don’t retire in Florida.

I love you, G.

The other day, I woke up in my brother’s apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  When I went outside, I realized what a beautiful day it was.  A silky blue blanket wrapped itself around the city skyscapers, the sun warmed the sidewalk, and a slight breeze kept me comfortable.

And at that moment, I was relieved that I was leaving the city and going home.

There is this ongoing battle in my mind as to whether or not I love New York City.  My appreciation for it comes in waves; some days I am enamored by the architecture, the people, the culture (you wont find African masks in Northport).  And other days the smells, the concrete, and the crowds overwhelm me, and I wonder why does anyone want to live here?  

I do have fun in the city. The day before I took the train over to the East Village and grabbed lunch with my best friend Danielle. She’s getting her Master’s at NYU, so we met at Union Square, walked south toward her campus, and enjoyed some sandwhiches and great conversation along the way. It was a beautiful day, and I took a pleasant stroll around Washington Square Park before heading back to Brooklyn after she left for class. I wrote at the dog park in McCarren Park, laid in the grass while watching a mean game of kickball, and discovered one of Williamsburg’s best-kept secrets: $3 falafal sandwhiches. Big Tree had its first show at Pete’s Candy Store on Lorimer that evening, so the rest of my night involved friends, music, and a lot of whiskey. Yet I woke up that next morning in Greenpoint, and I felt weird. Blame it on the hangover, but I began wondering what I really enjoy so much about the city.

I usually find myself resorting to its parks, because that’s the closest thing I’ll get to real nature.  Yet the parks (to me, atleast) are just a great way for the city to convince its patrons that you’re not actually stuck in a sea of concrete.  The nature in NYC isn’t natural, and while I appreciate its existence, I’d chose The Adirondack Park over McCarren any single day.


Would Central Park be as loved if it was plopped in the middle of the Colorado Rockies?  Or does its appreciation only exist because of relation?  (Thank God I can escape the shops on Madison and Lex and retreat to the Reservoir; hoooray for patches of green so I can picnic with my $7 wheatgrass smoothie and $3 hotdog).  Am I being unfair for scoffing at every tree and bush that is strategically planted in the parks? Perhaps. And maybe then its hypocritcal to have such profound resepect for our national parks, which have only been succumed to tree cutting and human pollution for the creation of roads and an outpour of tourism.


Or maybe I’m just not a city girl.  I walked out of Jim’s apartment in Greenpoint and couldn’t wait to seize the day on Long Island (I know, right?)  But I went home, put on my sneakers, and ran for an hour.  I ran past the sailboats bobbing in the harbor and the lawnmowers humming on their lawns.  I looked up and saw that same silky blue blanket which looked remarkably larger–finally free to stretch itself over the surface of the earth.