it means the sea life

Aug 22, 2014 / 12,097 notes
Aug 22, 2014 / 387 notes

afistfullofbolts:

oregon.

© affob 2014

I am dying to ride somewhere cold, with tall trees and foggy mornings. 
Aug 22, 2014 / 278 notes

I am dying to ride somewhere cold, with tall trees and foggy mornings. 

(via tougherthantimber)

Aug 21, 2014 / 176 notes

food52:

No beef about it.

Read more: Karen Weinberg’s Lamb Burgers with Tzatziki and Arugula on Food52.

cheeseandsarcasm:

Flawless logic.

OMG I absolutely despise when people judge my eating choices out loud. 
Aug 21, 2014 / 11 notes

cheeseandsarcasm:

Flawless logic.

OMG I absolutely despise when people judge my eating choices out loud. 

Aug 21, 2014 / 31,541 notes
graceinfood:

recipe here

Is this a novel concept Internet? This is the only way I know how to eat hot dogs.. and I’ve been eating hot dogs my entire life
Aug 21, 2014 / 32 notes

graceinfood:

recipe here

Is this a novel concept Internet? This is the only way I know how to eat hot dogs.. and I’ve been eating hot dogs my entire life

Aug 21, 2014 / 1 note

Hate that I have to write “hahaha” after something I feel strong about to avoid coming off as an asshole.

Every introvert alive knows the exquisite pleasure of stepping from the clamor of a party into the bathroom and closing the door.
Sophia Dembling - The Introvert’s Way: Living a Quiet Life in a Noisy World (via mustangblood)

(via lostinamerica)

Aug 21, 2014 / 35,213 notes

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be.  (via oliviacirce)

When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.

(via bookoisseur)

I’m really glad I read that.

(via selfesteampunk)

Between Ferguson, Robin Williams, and Lauren Bacall, I am a teary mess.

This made me cry for good reasons, so I thought I should share. 

(via aclikeslater)

(via umcanyounot)

Aug 20, 2014 / 221,534 notes