I like milestones. I like looking back and seeing just how far I’ve come.
Especially because this milestone. Yesterday was the one year anniversary of Mary Fran 3.0. It’s been 366 days since my shiny new cyborg parts.
But more importantly, it’s been just over two years since I took my first tentative steps into the world of dance.
This post is sure to get a little lengthy, I’m reflecting on what all my teachers have taught me in the past year. For the TL;DR version, just watch the video (after the break). Read more
(Forgive my attempt at a punny-headline…)
We all make resolutions and state our goals at the start of the year (even when we try to avoid the whole practice). There’s something so tempting about that start to the new year.
Two months ago, I decided that 2017 was going to be the year that I stopped wearing pants. Read more
This hell? One in a million.
Technically, it’s more like 26 in 100,000. (For reference: a disease or disorder is defined as rare in Europe when it affects fewer than 1 in 2000, in the USA when it affects fewer than 200,000 Americans at any given time).
I don’t know how to write about this disease without it sounding like a melodramatic Thought Catalog piece. A bit of pain. Some pithy statement about rarity and diamonds and blessings. Maybe a little angst (perhaps anger?). And ending with hope. Sometimes that hope is real, sometimes it feels a wee bit disingenuous. Today, February 28th, is Rare Disease Day, so please indulge me just a little.
These are turbulent times. I can’t look at the news or Facebook without discovering something new that makes my stomach churn or my heart sink. I read stories about power and privilege, most often highlighting not only their existence but of some new abuse. I see stories of men making lewd comments to women because they can and stories of immigrants being detained at airports despite having been given prior permission to arrive. I am reading about men deciding what women should do with their bodies and walls that will cost billions of dollars and increase hate.
All this pain and anxiety in the world is making every day a little grey. As rights and freedoms dissolve in front of my eyes, reality is zapping the joy from my soul. Read more
I’ve caught myself praying lately. I’ve caught myself crying. I’ve caught myself holding my breath.
And it is completely unrelated to anything related to the recent presidential election. Read more
One-derful Kitchen is a series of kitchen and grocery tips for those of you who find yourself making Single Lady Suppers (or other meals for one). It can be tough to shop for one when food is packaged for families. This is a series where I share tips and tricks to help you learn how to save money and reduce food waste from expiring or extra food.
I can’t be the only person that buys an onion for a recipe, uses half of it, puts the other half in the fridge and forget it is there for 2 weeks. (Maybe I sliced or diced a whole onion and only needed part…or I left half intact but every other time I cooked I needed a whole onion).
Or the only person who lives alone and doesn’t make a big batch of something to eat all week.
The stupid easy solution? Buy bagged onions. They’re often half the size (or less) of the onions you buy individually, making them just right for cooking 1-2 servings. Making a big batch of something? Just use 2 small onions in place of one large one.
Onions are one of the few things I don’t mind buying by the bag because they are used in my kitchen pretty regularly. Plus, they do have a relatively long shelf life, so for someone who cooks a few times a week will easily go through a bag before they go bad.
I had a pair of epically bad days. Self inflicted bad days – the worst kind of personal abuse. I’ve been unemployed for 6 weeks, and it really hit me like a kick in the gut. So I did what I normally do to get out of a funk. I made blondies and paella. I went to ballet. I took an epsom salt bath with some rose essential oil. I tried to go back to a favorite tap class I hadn’t been back to since surgery, at some point in that calls I lost all the feeling in my right foot again. And just like that, the thing that was supposed to lift me up, dragged me even farther down. Read more
This is the story behind the 54th poster in my Chronic Positivity Project, “Radiate Goodness.”
Those words. They were the closing sentence on a poignant post about the Pulse Nightclub shooting in June, and they’ve been stuck in my head ever since.
I can recall the first time I encountered terrorism. I was 16 and standing in front of a Monet painting at the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, absorbing all I could from each brush stroke. I was seeing what I couldn’t see in an art history book and I was in heaven. Out of nowhere, French police were herding museum visitors in lines to the exits as quietly as a building evacuation could be. We were speculating about fire drills or faulty fire alarms as we abandoned our tour and headed for the exits.
My French was good, but not good enough to understand everything that was being said around me. I was confused as were most of the guests. It wasn’t until we were outside that we finally heard what was happening – someone had called in a bomb threat to the museum.
No one used the T-word that day. There were no explosions. I had no idea what might have been. I was a teenager mad about about missing out.
Just over a year later, I watched in horror as planes flew into buildings. I sat on my porch with my family listening to fighter planes flying over head. I felt the world change around me. A day like that doesn’t just get brushed away. It was terrifying. It was overwhelmingly sad. And it keeps happening.
I’ve watched in horror as terrorists have brought guns to movie theaters and churches. I’ve been angry as they shot children and people out to celebrate. A hate monger is running for president. Hate seems to have bubbled up just about everywhere I look.
But if you look past the headlines, you can see healing. People offering to ride public transit with Muslim women in Australia. Counter-protesters with angel wings blocking the nonsense of the Westboro Baptist Church.
The point? In all this darkness, you need to be the light. Small, quiet gifts of hope add up and don’t cost a thing.
There’s something about handwriting to-dos and my calendar that I can’t seem to replicate with digital tools. Maybe it’s the designer in me longing for something tactile – you know like in the old days when we sketched before we moved to computers. Read more
Ah. Back to baking and it feels so good.
When I decided to discontinue frannycakes, I was disappointed that I hadn’t shared this recipe, especially because it is one of my most requested (and personal favorite) treats. Read more