If anyone still reads this...another cultually exciting day in North Philadelphia

 
 After an anything-but-blissful morning, causing myself physical and emotional pain with a bassoon, and forgetting both my wallet and keys in my apartment I had had about enough.  Ready to collapse into the fetal position on our industrial (and surely bacteria ridden) couch, as I opened the door - leaning on it to open due to a lack of motivation and energy - I was enveloped in a cloud of fumes that could have only come from freshly baked cookies.  Had I closed my eyes I could have believed I was sitting in my Gramma's house on Christmas Eve.  I could feel the stress melt away. Thank God for cookies and baking. And my room mate thanks God for me - because she can't bake worth a damn. 

Halfway through making a second batch of buttercream icing, we ran out of powdered sugar. Oh, we also ran out of milk and eggs. Easy solution since we live next to a grocery store. Call me a woman, I love going grocery shopping. It's therapeutic. Grocery shopping in here in North Philly usually gives me the same happy satisfied feelings inside..but a little different. This is after all, the city of brotherly love. Take that as you will, it's true. My cultural experience of the day occurred as I walked past a Muslim man on my way to Fresh Grocer. At 4:30 on the dot I saw him roll out a rug and begin to pray. I always knew Muslims prayed 5 times a day, but growing up in a tiny rural town I had only ever knows a couple Muslim kids who were not very strict in their practice. Perhaps the best word to describe my situation there is intrigued. I think I might take a Muslim culture study for my religion GenEd...
Sauntering down the fruit aisle, I stop to look at the strawberry prices.  Here at good ol' FroGro produce, especially fruit, is overpriced. "$2.99". No strawberries today. The middle aged woman next to me had a similar reaction to my own, shaking her head as she picked up apples instead. I recommend she go to the Italian Market where I buy them at about fifty cents a box. She thanked me, but explained she didn't drive and traveling by subway was difficult for her at the age of eighty-one. WHAT? "Ma'am, you're not 81, you can't be," "I swear I am!" she replied adamantly. 
I swear black people don't age.
The rest of my adventure in FroGro was pretty ordinary. Oh, except for the guy with a handgun shoved obviously in the side of his waistband. Isn't it called a concealed weapons permit? (Keepin' it classy I see...keepin' it classy.) Laden down with groceries (there was a sale on soy milk), I hobbled outside with the plastic bags digging into my hands when I heard "HEY MA YOU NEED HELP WITH THEM BAGS?" You get used to this after a while, and learn to not look and just keep walking. Even though I did want to yell back "DO I LOOK LIKE YOUR MAMA?" Three steps. "HEY BABY GIRL YOU NEED SOME HELP?" Step, step, step, step. 
I got home just in time to save my room mate's latest batch of cookies. Now I'm here with her, her male friend from some physics class, and my man, getting down with some Latin tunes. My life - North Philly style.
 Eso Ehh - Alexis y Fido