The Girl in the Firehouse




That almost sounds like a catchy name for a book, "the girl in the firehouse". Hen in the rooster's yard, cow in the bullpen, kitten in the puppy mill, however you sketch it, it comes down to this: I am, and have been for several years, out of place in respect to my line of work and gender.

Obviously, I'm not alone in this. There are plenty, plenty, plenty women out there who are the only female in the office. I'm just one of many. But still, even knowing that, it's a challenge sometimes to make sure I'm not snubbed or ignored. Where do I work? I'll give you a hint:

I'm not a firefighter, no. But I do share the same space as them. I'm an emergency planner (aka the person that makes the plans for when EVERYTHING goes wrong. You want to be my friend. Trust me.).

I love my work. My boss in phenomenal, supportive, and encouraging. He is a blessing, really. Every project I have come to him with, he's given me the full go ahead and lets me do my own thing, which is how I work best. But sometimes there are challenges.

For instance, when I first arrived, one of the volunteers asked if I was the new secretary. My Lt turned around and snapped at him as soon as I was out of the room, informing the volunteer I was the planner. I'm not recognized at many meetings outside of what I present, and I'm not voluntarily included in discussions. I push, I talk, I bribe with food, and I try to get them to relax. After a few months now, most of the crew feels comfortable enough to joke around me and I have slowly earned their respect. But it's hard won, and difficult to watch a new recruit walk in off the street and be instantly welcomed into the fold instead of going to the lengths that I did to get them to even swear around me (they still excuse themselves, which I have gotten used to and now find endearing).

But not all of my training and work takes place here. State wide trainings throw me into the mix with a variety of people, many of whom are highly experienced in the field, egotistical very confident in their opinions, and unyielding. Some of the guys though are more traditional then others, though. To the point where I have been slapped on the butt, had comments made about my chest being used as rescue apparatus, and being teased about being the only girl present in the room/company/etc. It's difficult. But I love this work. It's incredibly rewarding. And to be lucky enough to meet people like my boss and others who have supported me along the way is well worth it. I love my work. I just wish that the guys would realize that it doesn't matter what kind of chromosomes you have in an emergency situation. It matters how intelligent, prepared, and on your game you are. And, ladies and gentlemen, I've got game.

City of Brotherly Love, Sweet History, and Great Eats

Living around a historical city, or just a city in general, sometimes makes me forget how privileged I am sometimes. It also makes me forget how jaded I am to high gas prices, expensive hotels and food, aggressive drivers, and bad neighborhoods. But, one takes the good with the bad.

This past weekend was spent re-exploring, re-examining, and re-experiencing the city and all it has to offer. I love Philadelphia, although parts of it I could live without. My boyfriend has only ever seen the Art Museum and Chinatown, so we decided to look around the more notable places in the area. Bring on the pictures!

 The Senate. Or what used to be the Senate. George Washington was sworn in in this VERY ROOM! (Let the high-pitched historical squee-ing begin.) And Adams, dear, dear, Adams. He was here too. Oh, John and Abagail, I want to model my romance after yours. (If you have never read the correspondances between the husband and wife, I suggest you do so at some point in the future. Romantic? Yes. Political? Oh yes. More than wonderful? By far!)

The Room. You know which one I'm talking 'bout. That awesome, sweet room where they debated, yelled, whispered, and compromised to bring us (drumroll please) the Constitution!

 

And then we took a break for some lunchage at Square Peg. If you're ever in the area looking for an awesome, funky, delicious, and unique dining experience: head here. Run. Do not walk. It's that good.

Warning: Serious nomiture ahead.

To start: Shrimp chips (which I had never had and turned out to be weirdly salty) tossed with fried baby tako (octopus), and melt-in-your-mouth calimari (which I actually tried). It came with this dipping sauce that I had to resist drinking. Think thousand island kicked up a notch in flavor and creaminess.

On to the entrees! He got cheesesteak pot pie, and could barely finish it. Kind of a one-of-a-kind Philadelphia experience.

I on the other hand opted for spicy falafel with lentil hummus, weirdly not quite pickled veggies, and chilled grilled cauliflower that was out of this world.

 

 

Drinks? I had a ginger Arnold Palmer (half lemonade, half ice tea), and he had a Yards (good choice, considering the city).

 

We went off then to explore Walnut Street and browse shops in which we could never afford anything (a fun past time of mine - I like to recreate the styles later from Target, JoAnn's, or other more affordable cheaper source).

Eventually we drove to the airport and then the most favorite part of the entire visit occured (nothing dirty, I promise). I parked between buildings so we could see the sky, and we reclined the front seats so I could put my head on his shoulder. We just relaxed, sometimes say something, but more often just enjoying being together. It's so rare we get these moments, and I love them. We're so foten off to the next adventure, which I absolutely LOVE, but sometimes, yeah, it's nice just to be together.

Until then, mon coeur!

Sewing and Recycling

When I was much, much younger, my mother taught me how to sew. She is a WONDERFUL seamstress, and I grew up in her creations. Just about everything I owned/loved was made by her. I like to think of her as a modern pioneer-woman: she quilts, cans, gardens, composts, paints, and I'm pretty sure if she ended up in the middle of the woods, the whole place would be turned into a working farm with an azalea-lined cottage in the middle by the end of the day. I, on the other hand, am not blessed with her green thumb. Or her patience. Or her sewing ability. But lately I've taken up the sewing machine again as I find myself with things I want to repurpose. Like this little project: Fleece Blanket to Jacket Fleece is expensive. Pricey enough that I don't want to experiment with it, although I drooled over some of the patterns. And then I found the blanket. Poor, rejected blanket that had the cutest pattern on it! Monsters on one side, turquoise on the other. I had to mess with it. So I took an old sweatshirt pattern and cut out a general idea of what I wanted...and then kept cutting.

I added cuffs on the sleeves, split it up the center, decided I wanted a hood and pockets, and a giant button in the middle. And I tried it on - it was HUGE. Lesson 1: You can always make it smaller. I pinned and sewed and by the end of the day had something fun to show for it:

Silly? Yes! Fun? Definitely! And since then, I've added a chunky zipper up the middle and kept the button (I really like that button). And, as I'm sure you have noticed from the on-going terrible quality of my pictures, I don't have a real camera persay. I use my old phone as a point and shoot, and this results in not-so-great shots. But, I am taking pictures! And sharing them! Which means I'm meeting another one of my goals. Score!

Small Town Sunday

Living a hour outside a major city has its advantages: you don't have to deal with excessive traffic, you see a few more stars, and you're just close enough that if you feel so inclined to go out and have fun, it's not that difficult. But being fifteen or sixteen in this same town was miserable. There was "nothing to do" every weekend, and my friends and I had to get creative. Yesterday my BFF and I had a nostalgic day. Sleeping in late from a party-hard Saturday night, I got up and met her at the local dinner. Five dollars for a huge omlette? Uh, yes please. We chowed down, then proceeded to spend two hours just talking. Yup, this was a typical weekend in high school. Though admittedly, we probably would have arrived at said diner a lot later than we did this weekend, and stayed later, most likely drinking a pot and a half of coffee, being loud, and checking out the other tables. There would be glares from other patrons.

But then after that, we headed off to Q-Mart. Ah, Q-Mart: small town paradise for the weird and out of place. Think of a flea market meets knock off goods meets a Made-in- China mumbo jumble of things. It reminds me of "Portobello Road" from Bedknobs and Broomsticks, with a lot more pickup trucks and missing teeth.

But it's one of the few places we can still find nickel candy and candy cigarettes, sorts Runts and chewing gum we know is illegal for its addictive properties. There's leather shops, furniture stores, jewelry, meat counters, and, our favorite, the ice cream stand with real Hershey's Cotton Candy ice cream. It's a little scoop of ecstasy. Oh! And just about everything here is cash only. It's the perfect palce to budget: you enter with ten bucks, and anything that costs over that, you're not buying. Hence why most things you find there are never more than six or seven dollars.

Sure, the shopping is good, but the people watching is even better. Hipsters, grandmas with bumper stickers on their walkers, guys with really big speakers in a super tint car… you find everyone at Q-Mart. It's pretty amazing. Not bad for a small-town Sunday!

A Hair-raising update (hahaha)

So I went to get my hair done yesterday, as I mentioned in the previous post, and told them I wanted to go back to as close to my natural color as they could get me. I really thought it wouldn't be too bad: I had a good inch and a half of uncolored roots to match a swatch to, and my hairdresser in this area always told me he had been dying hair for twenty years. Don't get me wrong, when he dyed my hair red, it was great. Color was perfect for my skin tone and he was very accomadating to my nutso schedule (though was always hard to get ahold of - when a customer calls you, word to the wise, don't wait three days before calling them back). I thought this would be similar. He told me he would lift the color using an ammonia free system, which is great. I hate damaging my hair excessively. SO he went at it. And, at the end of two hours of lifting and tinting and washing and conditioning... my hair looks just about exactly the same. ::deep breaths:: Yeah, I don't mind having my hair different and wold colors, but when I have to pay for two hours of nothingness, I get a tid bit frustrated. Hair is no where near natural color. I'm just a slightly duller color of red-brown. (For those familiar with hair color, I'm a six, this is an eight.)And I can even still see my roots! Very frustrated, I paid, was polite (that's right! Stop Snarking in action!), and vowed to find another color artist.

I loved my salon person in Pittsburgh. Seriously. Capristo is AMAZING. I have actually waited until I'm going back out that way to get my hair done. Sarah is my lady/homegirl/fabulously talented and sarcastic brush-weilding heroine. But, in all truth, I work primarily with guys at the fire house who if I showed up with purple hair might ask me if I lost weight, or did something a little different with my eyebrows. I love them, wholly and completely, but I'm not so sure they'd actually notice anything different! I'll be sure to take pictures of the hair later and post them next to the original hair color so you can see the "difference"! ;)