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Really, I Blog To Make My Friends Feel Like G-List Celebrities.

Oh, and also because it’s like this journal where I can expose all of my innards to the outside world.

Sometimes I have to think really long and hard about the serious things I want to post — things like my quarter-life crisis and joblessness and depression and wanderlust — but I can also track certain life milestones, recipes I like, little things I’ve accomplished around the house, and random thoughts I have.

For example, it’s my day off today, and this morning I’ve already been very productive.  I took each of my mutts for a dip in the lake (without getting attacked by dogs that resemble mop heads or pushed ass-backwards into the water); I caught up on some light blog reading; I tried cyber stalking my little sister’s new boyfriend, but apparently the man is like a steel vault; I ate a piece of toast with some of this fantastic Vintage Bee creamed honey (3rd down on the page) that I acquired from a wine-tasting festival this summer (I know — I couldn’t believe I bought something besides wine either); and I also ate 4 bites of cold, leftover crispy burrito from last night — straight from the fridge.

Hey, if I want to eat cold leftovers for breakfast, that’s my prerogative.

Plus, all this baby talk has made me crave burritos.

Plus, they go really well with coffee.

And you don’t discover these things until you experiment a little.

So, are you interested in making your own burritos so you can eat them cold with a warm cup of coffee?  I’m going to assume you answered yes, since I really wouldn’t understand the alternative.

I got the recipe from a site called Mel’s Kitchen Cafe.  She actually calls them “Crispy Southwest Chicken Wraps,” but I tend to think “burrito” is a better word, since “wrap” makes me think of whole-wheat or sundried tomato tortillas with turkey, avocado, sprouts, and other things you might eat when you want to feel healthy.  But burritos?  Burritos make me think of beans, rice, southwest seasonings, roasted chicken and sour cream — warm things that fill my belly and make me smile.

And that’s exactly what these puppies do.

To make them, you will need:

  • 1 cup cooked rice (I used brown basmati, but really you could use whatever you have lying around)
  • 1 cup cooked, shredded chicken (I bought one of those roasted chickens from the grocery store, since Justin likes to use the leftovers to make chicken salad for lunches. Plus, I’m lazy.)
  • 1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
  • 1 green onion, diced
  • 1/2 red bell pepper, diced
  • 1/4 cup cilantro, chopped
  • Juice from 1 lime
  • 1/2 Tablespoon chili powder
  • 1 teaspoon ground cumin
  • 1/2 teaspoon garlic salt
  • 2 cups shredded cheese (like Mel, I used cheddar and monterey jack)
  • Sour cream (Mel says this is optional, I say it’s not. Though I’m not sure I’d win if we had a street fight over it because while I might be scrappy, she has 4 sons.)
  • Tortillas! This recipe will fill about 6 “burrito size” tortillas. (Totally forgot these on the list when I first wrote the post — thanks, Katie!)

The awesome thing about this recipe is that as long as you have the rice and seasonings, you can really play with the other ingredients as much as you want.

As per usual, especially with any type of taco/wrap recipe for some reason, my photos of the end product are terrible.  One problem is that I don’t have time to cook when it’s light outside.  So, I’d highly recommend visiting Mel’s Kitchen Cafe if you want to see the deliciousness that really comes out of this in the end.

1) Start cooking your rice.  While that’s happening, chop up the green onion, 1/2 of a bell pepper, and 1/4 cup of cilantro.

Go ahead and grate the cheese at this point, too.

Cooking is all about time management.

And wine drinking.

But mostly time management.

2)  Once the rice is finished cooking, stick it in a bowl and add all of the remaining ingredients except the cheese, sour cream, and torillas.

1/2 Tablespoon of chili powder…

1 teaspoon of cumin…

1/2 teaspoon of garlic salt…

Lime juice… this is ESSENTIAL.  Don’t leave this out!

Mix…

Chicken…

Normally, this is where you would add the black beans.  Unless, of course, you set them in the sink to drain after rinsing and completely forgot about them until after your first batch of burritos was already cooked.  Then you would need to add them to whatever filling you have left.  Oops.

3)  Layer the cheese on a tortilla, then give it a couple dollops of sour cream (do NOT skip the sour cream!), then add the filling mixture.

4)  Roll ’em on up, then coat the burritos with cooking spray and cook for a few minutes per side in a skillet that you preheated over medium heat.

They should get nice, goldeny, and crisp.  And messy.

Give ’em a little poorly placed cilantro hat if you want to get fancy.

Sure, they’re not as adorable as baby burritos, but you can eat them, which makes them even better than a baby burrito in my humble opinion.

Meh… okay.  It’s a toss-up.

A Domestiphobe’s Tips for Throwing a Budget Shindig. Because You Can’t Fake Success.

Yesterday, we opened the windows.

Sure, it was still probably 90-degrees out in the afternoon, but the nights have been decidedly brisker, it’s taking quite a bit longer for the heat to get uncomfortable during the day, and we just couldn’t help it.  We wanted fresh air.  The house has been taking on the stale, ice-box smell that happens when it’s been breathing processed air for too long, and I’m sure our lungs were doing the same.

We made it until about 5:00, which is when we decided that a sweat-soaking-into-the-sofa smell would be far worse than stale icebox.  Oh, the problems of the lower-middle class…

Speaking of lower-middle class problems, I feel exhausted from the sheer number of parties I’ve thrown this summer.  Okay, so it was only 2 parties and a couple of get-together celebrations, but for someone as decidedly un-Martha as myself, it felt like a lot.

On the plus side, I’ve managed to maintain a modicum of sanity by avoiding — at all costs — actually hosting the largest of these parties at my own house.  The baby hot tub bash was held at the guest of honor’s house (I know — it’s a good thing Martha doesn’t read this blog — she would roll over in her grave.  If, you know, she were dead.  Which she’s not.  And that’s a very good thing.).

See, Alaina lives about an hour away from me, and it just made more sense to have it where all of her friends live.  Not to mention the fact that her lakeside setting was pretty picturesque.

No real babies were harmed during the party.

My husband’s intimate graduation party lunch was at a restaurant downtown, followed by an unforgettable steak dinner on our back deck.

And, if we’re going to be honest, that’s really my favorite kind of party.  Just a few close friends, amazing food, and wine to suit the occasion.  Which is pretty much any wine.  Any wine you like.

But sometimes, you can’t get away with just an intimate gathering.  Sometimes the occasion — or in this case, tradition — calls for something a little bigger.  See, this has been a pretty big year for Justin.  Not only did he graduate from college, but he made his next rank in the Air Force.  And, as is custom for Air Force promotions, the addition of a stripe called for — nay, required — a celebratory shindig.

Fortunately for his domestiphobic wife, my husband wanted the party at our neighborhood’s lake, which saved me the huge hassle of trying to make our house guest-worthy.  And not just regular guests, but higher ranking “superior” type guests who, even though they try their damnedest to put on an air of casualness in off-duty, lighthearted social settings, still make me nervous that I’m going to say or do or think the wrong thing in my liberal/hippie fashion that would land Justin on some type of unmentionable blacklist for people of uniform.

And we wouldn’t want that.

So I donned my party planning hat for the third time this summer and went in search of an affordable way to host the festivities without breaking the bank.

Fortunately, I didn’t really need to do as much work as I expected due to a few key people:  My friend Danielle and the ladies behind the deli counter where I shopped.  I’m sworn to secrecy about the place, since technically they cost their store money by talking me out of the over-priced sandwich and cookie platters in lieu of a DIY quick assembly that ended up looking great and saved me mucho dinero.

Anyway.  I’ll spare you the wordy details since, as per usual for a semi-stressful event, I neglected to take pictures.  Seriously bad blogger.

But I do want to share a couple of quick tips if you ever find yourself needing to throw a casual, budget-friendly party for 20-30 people and you don’t want to cook.  Because while I might not be able to fake a thriving, lucrative and successful writing career, I learned I can certainly pull together a successful gathering on a dime.

I get by with a little help from my friends.

1)  Have a good friend to help you the day of the party.  I don’t know what I would’ve done without Danielle, who picked up last-minute items from the store and assembled 45 mini-sandwiches and overall kept me laughing and at ease throughout the morning (as opposed to becoming a discombobulated wreck of a stressball).

2)  Don’t splurge on the “fancy” party trays when you can make your own for a fraction of the cost.  The awesome deli ladies let me in on their secrets — buy as many little Hawaiian rolls as you need, plus one slice of meat per sandwich.  I wanted to make 45 sandwiches, so I bought 25 slices of turkey and 20 slices of ham.  I also bought 20 slices of cheese which, when split in half, covered 40 sandwiches.  (Who knew sandwich assembly was so math intensive?)  One slice of meat and cheese was plenty for each tiny roll.

The morning of the party, Danielle assembled the meat, cheese and buns on tray, then filled another tray with lettuce, sliced tomatoes, sliced cucumbers, and sliced onions.  Provide condiments on the side, and viola!  People can create their own little sandwiches to their taste.  The deli ladies were even kind enough to give me one of their plastic lidded trays for free.  I also bought a bunch of cookies and put them on another tray.  Add chips and a couple of sides from generous friends (thanks Christie for the pasta salad and baked beans!), and people will have plenty to munch on throughout the day.

3)  Kegs are overrated.  What?  You heard me.  They’re expensive and you usually need to order them a week or two in advance, and who’s coordinated enough to do that?  Actually, the lady at the military liquor store was kind enough to talk me out of buying one pricey keg and instead buy a variety of beer bottles to put in coolers.  Not only would people have a choice of beverage, but any leftovers (there weren’t any) wouldn’t go to waste.

Seriously, have you ever heard of more helpful store people?  I wanted to leap over their respective meat-and-liquor-laden counters and give them the most heartfelt, squishiest hugs of their lives.

And I’m not really a hugger.

4)  Make a special drink just for yourself (and your helpers).  Whether it’s alcoholic or not, you deserve something apart from what you’re serving the masses.  Don’t ask me why, but it just feels good.  In this case, it was basil-infused peach sangria.

Don’t worry.

The recipe is a-comin’.  And it couldn’t be easier.

Because It’s Fun Looking Inside Other People’s Houses. Admit It.

Awhile back I mentioned that I had applied for a blogging gig on a popular environmentally conscious style and design blog known as Re-Nest, which is a part of an even more popular style and design blog known as Apartment Therapy.  Though I made it to the “finals” and they used one of my two submissions — sans compensation — on the site, I never heard anything back about the job.  All  I can figure is a) I didn’t get it, or b) There never really was a gig and they just wanted free posts.

But I’m not bitter or anything.

Ahem.

Anyway, the job posting was brought to my attention by a friend with whom I used to work on the Army installation.  Jaime is pretty much awesome.  First, because she gave me a lead on a job.  Second, because she has chickens.  And third, because she invited me up to her amazing home for a day to take photos for my Re-Nest submission and introduced me to her friend Matt who also invited me to his stunning duplex to take photos.

This is not Matt.  This is one of Jaime’s chickens.

I will eventually share the photos of Matt’s place on here in case you didn’t get a chance to check them out on Re-Nest, but I thought I’d take this opportunity to show you Jaime’s house since frankly, it’s cool and it deserves to be online.  Even if it’s just on my lil ol’ blog as opposed to Apartment Therapy.

I’m just going to say it — Jaime’s style is, for the most part, the polar opposite of mine.  Meaning she has some.

Her house is a contemporary ranch, and her decor style is the perfect complement — minimal and uncomplicated with surprisingly quirky industrial inspiration and retro throwbacks.  (Her wall-to-wall curtain rods are actually just re-purposed metal conduit.  Clever, no?)

Yep.  It’s a far cry from the cozy and cluttered old-world, craftsmany style I consistently seem to be drawn to (scroll down to the bottom of this post for examples, and go check out this post to find out your style — apparently I’m a Swank Aesthete with a drinking problem).

If I could only choose one word to describe her place, it would be “airy.”

The wall of glass sliding doors overlooking her wooded lot, the breezy curtains, the wood floors — it’s like a day spa in there.  No wonder she calls it her sanctuary.

My house is not a sanctuary.

Although, Jaime and I do have some things in common.  We both think long and hard before making a purchase.  If we buy something, often times thrifted, we know we’re in it for the long haul — we’re not just buying things to fill up space.  Also, we’d both rather hang art than kitsch.

Plus, did I mention she has chickens?

Okay, I don’t have chickens, but I’d like to have chickens.

I think.

But I can’t afford the swanky diggs.

(I hate to admit it, but her chickens’ home might be nicer than mine.)

The chicken coop.

Nice, huh?  It’s not quite as fancy as this one I stumbled across the other day, but it’s definitely better than a Motel 6.

I realize this is a little different from my usual banter, but I couldn’t let these photos go wasted on my hard drive.  Thanks Jaime, for letting me into your home!  And if you notice one of your chickens is missing, it’s not because I stuffed one into my purse before I left.

Fresh eggs for breakfast, anyone?

Maybe if Babies came with a Jar of Kalamatas and a 6-pack, then I’d Want One?

So I told myself I was going to start writing fewer, but more thought-out blog posts per week.  You know, instead of just vomiting whatever comes up with my morning coffee, I’d come up with a concise subject, write a draft, take and edit some relevant photos, edit the draft, and post a nicely polished final product.

What ended up happening is the idea of putting thought into my blog posts absolutely paralyzed me with fear and I ended up writing nothing.  Nothing at all.

What is wrong with me?

Speaking of all that is not right with my head, I realize my life is entering a fairly big transition stage.  See, it seems like a huge part of life in my 20’s has been about weddings — planning bridal showers and bachelorettes, buying dresses I’ll only wear once, clapping as Justin does the worm on the ballroom floor while all of the middle-aged women stand in line to dance with him, toasting good friends and laughing at the fact that we’ve grown up so much since college and then stopping, awestruck, when we realize that all of this is really happening.

Me in my wedding dress circa 2006.

Justin doing the worm at my best friend’s wedding.

But now?

Now the wedding invitations are slimming out and new announcements are coming.

Announcements with big, round bellies and feathery storks and registries that force me to go to uncomfortable places like Toys R Us and Gymboree instead of fun places like Target and Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Instead of conjuring thoughts of delectably intricate fondant-covered cakes and sparkling glasses of champagne, they conjure images of enduring blindfolded baby food tastings and stimulating conversations about nipple shields.  (Unless, of course, the invitation is for a baby hot tub party.  Unfortunately, this evolution might be a slow process.)

And I always thought that these things were okay, I guess, as long as they were happening to other people.

What I didn’t know is that they’d start happening to all other people.

First, my cousin brought a gorgeous little daughter Emma into the world.  Then my sister-in-law countered with my so-adorable-it-hurts-a-little pudgesicle of a nephew, Jack.  Then one of Justin’s cousins had one.  Then my friend Alaina.  And now one of Justin’s other cousins is about to pop.  And my next door neighbor is starting to show.  And other friends are getting or thinking about getting knocked up left and right.

It’s starting to seem like everywhere I turn, women are gulping down this Kool-aid like it’s their job, and it’s making the walls feel all foreboding like they’re closing in around me and there’s all this pressure of people saying, When’s it going to be your turn?  Or, Don’t worry — you’re next!

Except really, there’s not any pressure at all.

And I think there must be something wrong in my head, because at almost-29-years-old, shouldn’t I be feeling pressure?

When I look at this picture I took yesterday of my husband holding my friend’s new baby, shouldn’t my ovaries start tapping impatiently on my uterine wall, asking “knock, knock, is this apartment still vacant?”

But they don’t.

It’s like my ovaries packed up and vacated the premises years ago, thinking there’s no point in doing all this yearning work if I don’t even care.

The thing is, I like babies.

But I mostly like holding them for a bit, smelling them a little, carrying them around like overstuffed baby burritos and dressing them in silly hats, and then I like giving them back to their parents.

So I can go get a real burrito.

I like looking at them through a lens and watching them change and documenting facial expressions and using these images to find ways to make their parents happy.

To help them capture the gamut.

Peaceful baby.

Cooing baby.

Umm… NOT peaceful baby.

And it’s at about this time when I think, man it would be nice to be sipping from a glass of beer or wine while reading a book at a cafe in Malaga right now.

With olives.  Lots of olives.

Don’t judge me.  It’s how I feel.

And that, I’m pretty sure, is the surefire sign that sometime in the wee hours of a restless night, the elves (I told you about those here and here) put me together all discombobulated-like and forgot to reattach a screw that was supposed to stimulate the part of me that would take one look at those last 2 photos and choose, without a second’s doubt or hesitation, the baby over the beer.

I mean, look at her.

I know that I love that baby.  I love that she’s now a part of our group, and I can honestly say that given the choice, I wouldn’t go back to the time B.B.  Before Baby.

I love her for what she means to my friends.  I love her for the way her tiny fingers clench around my pointer when I hold her.  I love her for the things I might get to teach her and the things she’s most definitely going to teach me.  I love that I am going to get to spoil the ever-loving crap out of her.

And, I especially love that when that crap does come out of her, I’m not the one who has to clean it up.

Does that make me weird?

Probably.  Or maybe it’s just a sign that I’m not intended to procreate.  That maybe it’s a good thing there’s only one of me.  Besides, I can’t mess up what I don’t even have, right?

Right.

I can’t say I will feel like this forever.

Maybe there will be a day when I’ll be holding Myra and I won’t want to give her back.  Not ever.

If that happens, I might have to quit the blog because it would be kind of hard to keep this up while on the run for baby-napping.

But we’ll worry about that when and if the time comes, yes?

Work is Tough, and I Can’t Even Eat a Baby Burrito

Here’s my dilemma.

Alpha and the Underdog are currently sucking the very lifeforce out of me.  At least, that’s how it seems.

Which is why I haven’t really been writing in this blog.  I feel as though I don’t have much to write about, unless it’s to bitch about work.  It’s not that I’m not doing anything else — it’s just that work, especially if it’s a poor working environment, tends to get the best of me when things aren’t running smoothly.

And things are not running smoothly.

Believe it or not, it’s the Underdog who’s been getting on my nerves lately, even more than our bipolar Alpha.  Apparently the Underdog has forgotten that she had a hand in hiring a perfectly capable, competent person to do her marketing.

Through recent collaboration with the Underdog, I’ve learned that one of the worst feelings ever is that nausea that swells up from your stomach and into your throat when a “superior” speaks to you as though you’re a 2-year-old who just attempted to eat your own toes just because you stepped in a puddle of melted chocolate, and you can’t say anything in an attempt to prove otherwise — that you’re actually very knowledgeable about these things she’s trying to show you and in fact might know more about it than she does, because then she becomes indignant that a mere hourly employee dares to think she might know more about a piece of computer software than a licensed  professional.

I mean, jeez.  It’s not like her license is in Professional Flyer Creation.  It’s Real Estate.

Give me a break.

I will feel awful if Alpha and the Underdog ever discover this blog, probably because I’d no longer have a job, but seriously.

Also, there’s this whole eviction thing.

I know that people cannot expect to live in someone else’s home for free.

I know this.

But I honestly don’t think there will ever be a part of me that finds joy in eviction.

Alpha has tried to teach it to me — this glee she experiences when she gets to kick someone out of a property — but it’s just not in me.  That is the type of mentality that fits someone who used to throw rocks at homeless people in high school.

Not me.

I’m sure there is a certain shell one would have to build in order to do property management long-term.  It’s not for the weak of heart.  And some people will say anything to live somewhere for free.  So, for the sake of a homeowner who needs rent to pay his or her mortgage, I can stay tough.  I can evict.

But I’m never — ever — going to like it.

The thing is, there are aspects about this job I could really learn to love.  But, I need a role model I can respect and who respects me in return.

Is that too much to ask?

Apparently.

Fortunately, the real boss should be back soon, and I’m thinking things will be more pleasant after that.

Aside from all of that, the news is good.  The office is progressing, albeit slowly.  Also, I’m an aunt.

Well, not a real aunt, but a kind-of-sort-of pseudo aunt because my best friend in the world, the one who let her friends throw her a baby hot tub party, finally had her baby.

In a bed, not a hot tub.

Sorry for the blurry face — I was excited and apparently unable to operate my camera.

And, her husband already knows how to swaddle her because of the relay race, I’m pretty sure.

How to swaddle a fake baby.

How to swaddle a real baby.  Like a baby burrito.

Except you should never eat a real baby.

No matter how much you might want to.

So, how are all of you?  I’ll admit I felt a little rejected when almost no one responded to my chick flick post from the weekend.  But then I realized with all the chick flick talk and the baby talk, you might feel like I’m going all soft on you and am going to start giving tutorials on how to hug babies and why it’s okay to wear footsie PJ’s while watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek, and I just want to assure you that’s not the case.

And if it is, you have my permission to feel very, very sorry for me.

A Domestiphobe’s Top 3 Underrated Chick Flicks of All Time (Or at Least What I Could Think of During 5 Minutes of Brainstorming)

I’m sitting in the middle of the sofa, sandwiched by a couple of warm, sleeping pups, while the roof of my front porch makes scary, creaking sounds outside of the window behind my back.  Lucky for me, that’s the worst I’m experiencing of this hurricane, which is fantastic, considering my hurricane preparation consisted of getting out of bed twice in the middle of the night — first to fill 3 pitchers with tap water in case the water went out (which it did during my first hurricane experience back in Georgia), and second to grab a flashlight in case the power went out (which it also did during my first hurricane experience back in Georgia).

I didn’t even know if the flashlight worked, but I didn’t dare try because, upon ultimately discovering its failure to bring light during my nearly sleepless night, I knew I would only get depressed at my inability to prepare.  You would think that after living in south Georgia during the infamous hurricane season of 2005, I would know how to go out and purchase the basics, like jugs of water, flashlight batteries, and ice cream I’d be forced to eat if the power went out.

Darn.

But let’s face it — in a true emergency, I would be the girl knocking on your door, half-starved and begging for a sip of water or even a bit of dental floss from your undoubtedly pimped-out emergency kit.

Trust me, that visual would probably be funny if it weren’t so… true.

Anyway.

The good thing about being on the outskirts of a hurricane or in the midst of any good storm is that it’s pretty much the only occasion during which I allow myself to just stop.  The only time I allow myself to just relax without constantly berating myself for not working on some kind of project.  It’s probably the only time I can sit through an entire movie outside of the theater, and in this case, several.

I enjoy plenty of action movies and comedies given the right combination of mood and film, but when my husband is out of town, I go full-blown girl up in here.  I’m not going to lie to make myself sound cooler — I like my chick flicks.  And, while the obvious choices are movies that apparently give women unrealistic expectations about love like The Notebook, P.S. I Love You, and Love Actually, I especially like chick flicks that, while inspiring warm, loving feelings of chocolate pudding romance and silly female antics, also have a worn, crusty edge of realism — that fight against the perception that

life is about looking for a “soul mate,” and is instead about fully loving and appreciating the souls in life whom you make your mates.

Unfortunately, these types of movies often tend to get overlooked for the aforementioned obvious choices.  So here, for your reading pleasure, are a Domestiphobe’s

Top 3 Underrated Chick Flicks of All Time (Or at Least What I Could Think of During 5 Minutes of Brainstorming):

3) A Lot Like Love

It’s silly, it’s quirky, and if you can deal with the fact that it has a cheesy guitar solo that I happen to love, it’s fairly realistic when it comes to assessing personality types and priorities when it comes to love, career, and expectations for both.  What else can I say?  I dig it.

2) Definitely, Maybe

Okay.  I will admit the premise sounds a little creepy when I explain the movie revolves around a dad explaining to his daughter how he met her mother and making her guess which, out of the 3 women he describes, is the woman he went on to marry, make a baby with, and then divorce.  But for some reason it’s not.  It’s touching.  The running themes, of course, are how life doesn’t always work out the way you plan, relationships are complicated and have good aspects as well as bad, and there are many types of people in the world who can make you happy for different reasons.

1) Vicky, Christina, Barcelona

I’m just going to say it.  It’s a Woody Allen film.  Whew.  Now that that uncomfortable bit is out of the way, I can talk about the movie.  It follows two young women on their extended trip to Spain.  They’re friends, but have quite the opposite perceptions of “love,” and what they want out of it.  While Vicky takes the more practical stance on relationships, feeling love should be stable, reliable, and treated like an investment on which the makings of a long and content marriage can be built, Christina finds that excitement, exploration of the depths of the unknown, and most important, passion, are the true ingredients of what make love — and any relationship — worthwhile.

Complete with gems like, “only unfulfilled love can be romantic,” the sheer genius of the writing lies in the fact that the true, complicated, and never fully understood desires of women are captured in both Vicky and Christina.  While each of us may lean more towards one or the other, there’s no denying the fact that we all want fireworks, and we all want stability.  The trick might just be finding both.  Add to that a beautiful soundtrack of Spanish guitar, lots of Spanish wine, and an intriguing love uh… pentagon, and you have the makings of a sharp, intellectual chick flick that, if you let it, will make you want to introduce more passion into your life while appreciating the simplicity of a comfortable romance.

And P.S., for any guys out there who’ve made it this far through this post, there is also a kissing scene between Scarlett Johansson and Penelope Cruz.  You’re welcome.

I’ll tell you one thing — it really, really makes me want to go back to Spain, where the pace is easy and wine is a lunchtime staple.

I kind of think that’s the way I’m supposed to live.

How about you?  Know of some underrated chick flicks I should try?  How about movies that inspire you to live a different kind of life?  And the biggie:  Whether you’re a guy or a girl in Barcelona or elsewhere, are you more of a Vicky?  Or more Christina?

Every Room Has An Unshaven Armpit. Here’s Mine.

I know, I’ve kind of been MIA lately.

But I have an excuse.

Several, actually.

Remember when I showed you my nice, newly built desk that’s all pristine and clean and fantastic?

Well.  That’s all fine and dandy, but the other side of the room — the side I was too embarrassed to show you — has been looking like this:

Oh, the shame.  If the desk side of the room were the pretty face with fresh makeup and whitened teeth, this side would be the armpit.

It’s the unshaven armpit of my office.

It didn’t look like this due to laziness.

Okay, part of it was due to laziness.

But mostly, it’s my indecision that’s the cause of the hold-up once again.

I’ve definitely decided to paint the bookshelves white.  I’ve definitely (kind-of-sort-of-I-think) decided to stain the long wall shelves that will go above the long part of the desk a dark-ish color.  Although, I’ve since read that pine doesn’t like to stain dark very well, so now I’m considering painting them once again.

I also love this rug and want to have its babies:

Company C Tapestry Rug

“Tapestry” by Company C.  See it on my Pinterest page.

I could use something like this to cover up the horribly old and stained carpet in the office, but the more I look at it, I actually kind of want this for my kitchen.

And that doesn’t really matter because it is so far out of any rug budget we’d have if we actually had a rug budget, that I probably can’t afford to even look at it, let alone visualize it in any of my rooms.  So if you’re aware of a good knockoff or know how to knockoff any of the multiple online stores that carry it and get away with it, please let me know.

Anyway.  The good news is that I’ve at least managed to tackle some of that organizational nightmare that’s going on in that corner.  The bad news is that I don’t have time to show you right now because they don’t seem to like it when I show up to work looking like someone who woke up terrified in the middle of the night because her husband’s work pager was going off and now has to deal with the fact that he’s leaving town when there’s a hurricane coming our way.

But that’s another story.

Obviously I’ll need something to keep me busy this weekend, so let me know if you have any more office ideas!

There’s a Reason You Can’t Have 2 Alphas. No One Likes to Clean Up Blood.

For the past 5 years, the closest I’ve ever come to a hostile working environment is the time, only a couple of months ago, that I went all Office Space on my home printer and accidentally-on-purpose dropped it in a childish fit of frustration at its apparent refusal to do its job.

We haven’t spoken since.

Looking back, I realize I’ve been very fortunate.  Aside from one boss of questionable moral character and another with questionable people skills whatsoever, I’ve had some pretty fantastic co-workers throughout my adult working life.  (I say “adult working life” because we can’t even begin to explore the smorgasbord of bona fide taxed jobs I’ve carried since I was 15-years-old and literally flipping burgers at an ever-classy A&W Root Beer/gas station combo.)

Not the exact one where I worked, but you get the idea.

It started with my first “real” post-college job doing GIS (i.e. “making maps”) for engineers in an environmental consulting company, complete with the extra-private, 6-foot cubicle walls to ensure maximum productivity with minimum person-to-person interaction and an hour and 20 minute commute each way, and then continued when I moved on to working in GIS and then sustainability programs for the U.S. Army in an office full of mostly women — amazing women and one guy — surrounded by a world full of men and politics and acronyms and things that exploded and made the walls shake.  It even continued when I reverted back to waitressing in a bar where I worked only for shoddy tips and the occasional bounced paycheck and where I mopped floors for free.

Throughout the history of these endeavors, my co-workers have always made the job, no matter how mundane, interesting and worthwhile.  They understood the fact that we were all in this together.  They joked, they laughed, and they didn’t mind when I launched the random stress ball over opaque and foreboding cubicle fortress walls.

They were good times.

But apparently, times are a-changin’.

At the risk of someone discovering me and subsequently finding myself dooced, I have to say — things at my new job are not so easygoing.  Imagine 3 women working together in a 6′ x 6′ closet, trying to be productive and answering phone calls and pretending to be tech savvy, all while the big boss is away for an extended stint in the Reserves.  Then imagine that 2 of those women can’t stand each other, and the third — that would be me — was only just brought in as extra help and currently feels like the knotted sock her dogs like to pull taut between them with clamped and barred teeth.

Only more uncomfortable.

On the one hand, we have the fiercely strong and independent Alpha Female, who territorially stands her forged piece of ground, the boarders carved deep into the earth with her constant pacing and panting and paranoia.  Judge her as we might, the pack can’t help but admire the Alpha for her undying loyalty and self-assurance.

Drawing by: Beeju

On the other hand, we have the timid-yet-determined Under Dog, the one who knows she was brought in to be the boss, knows she has to strategically yet tactfully put the Alpha in her place, and knows that in any good plot line, the underdog wins.  The pack likes the Under Dog.  We know she can bring good things to us.  But we’re afraid to show our faltering faith in the Alpha.

Drawing by: Beeju

And then there’s me.  What role do I play in this little saga?

So far, all I can figure is I’m just the one who cleans up their shit.

And for right now, I’m thinking that’s the best place to be.

Happy Monday!

The Momentum of Mediocrity — My Race Against Life

I’m going to be honest for a second. (I mean, when am I not?)

I’m tired.

And there’s not even any real reason for me to be tired.

It’s like I try so hard to be all these things — independent career type person, decent wife, acceptable cook, counselor to friends and family, responsible dog owner, assistant property manager/marketing person, knowledgeable DIY project-doer, good speller (pretending I didn’t have to look up the word “knowledgeable”), writer, extrovert, smiley, computer-savvy, photographer, compassionate, professional, on top of things — all these things that I know I can be, but not necessarily without practice.  And almost definitely not all at once.  And it’s sucking the life right out of me.

And I don’t even have kids.

But maybe that IS life, you know?  Feeling crazy all the time.  Fortunately, I’d like to think that if I’m aware of my craziness, I can’t possibly be insane.

Comforting, no?

I can’t describe what has been making me crazy.  It’s been happening for over a year now.  I keep waiting for it to go away, or for it to magically resolve itself, or for a sign to drop down from the heavens, grab me by the shoulders with iron fists, and literally steer me in the direction I’m supposed to go.

Just like in the movies.

There’s a silly movie from 1994 called “Don Juan DeMarco” with a young Johnny Depp who thinks he’s the actual Don Juan of yore — celebrated lover of women and passionate pursuer of life.

Until recently, I hadn’t seen it in years.  But Justin was bored one night without our cable, and I had taken a moments pause from my manic pursuance of one project and then another, so we streamed it from Netflix.  We made it a good hour into the movie before I ran off to do something else.  This is not uncommon.

Anyway.

Marlon Brando plays Depp’s psychiatrist, who initially is cockily confident that he can “cure” young “Don Juan’s” delusional illness in the 10 days before his retirement.  Instead, he finds himself getting swept up in Don’s tale of adventure, love, and sex.  Then one night, in bed, Brando confesses to his wife his fear of getting swept up in the “momentum of mediocrity.”

And that, I think, is one of my greatest fears — getting so caught up with life’s little distractions, that I forget to enjoy it.  Or worse, worrying so much about how to enjoy it, or how I’m not enjoying it, that I let it pass.  Brief.  Unnoticed.

So, how do I do this?

When I head to my job tomorrow and have to call people because their rent is 21 days overdue or a contractor decided that painting a room with primer only and slopping it over the switch plate covers is acceptable (puh-lease, like I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to painting a room); when I realize my one and only work skirt isn’t clean because I blogged instead of doing laundry tonight; when I remember it’s Friday and I still haven’t picked my home project to complete over the weekend; when I take a breath and realize the photographer I assisted at the wedding shoot last Saturday still hasn’t given me any feedback about my photos; when my friend Alaina calls and tells me her baby is on its way and our lives as we know them are about to change forever; how do I do this?

How do I live in this moment without continuously counting down until the next?

I firmly believe that there is a disconnected wire somewhere inside this screwball brain of mine that makes me think these daily things — these things that make up life — are just the build-up to what I’m really supposed to be doing.

That, at nearly 29-years-old, my life hasn’t even started yet.

Well, I’m here to tell myself that’s about the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.

That doesn’t necessarily mean I should ignore the feeling that I could be doing something more.  But it does mean that I shouldn’t be wishing for days to pass by more quickly so I can get to the good stuff.

The good stuff is turtle cheesecake in the break room at lunch.

Wet puppy noses.

Dinner on the deck.

Goodnight kisses.

New life.

Why would I want those things to pass by more quickly?

Such is the bane of the “right-brained curse”, as one of my favorite bloggers, Brittany from Blunt Delivery would put it.

I hate my restlessness.  And I love it.

And, until I figure out how to beat the momentum of mediocrity, I’m afraid I will never be able to rest.

That’s just kind of… sad.

Tastes Like Chicken. Only Better.

So the thing I’m beginning to learn about cooking is, it has a flow.

Like the progression of a really good date from the opening of the car door, to the perfect restaurant ambiance, to the nice, slow dance of the will-we-or-won’t-we first kiss, it’s all about timing.

Perfect, delectable, I-can’t-believe-it-worked-out-like-that timing.

As with any true Domestiphobe, sometimes my timing is spot-on (because I’m a perfectionist), and other times it’s… not.

And I’m just going to say, the dinner I made last night was tricky to time.  It was one of those simple meals that looks fancy and feels like it should take a while to make, but is actually deceivingly quick to come together.  Too quick.  Like, twenty-minutes-before-Justin-gets-home quick.

Oops.

So, I’m going to share in mostly blurry photos, to the best of my ability, the sequence in which this simple-yet-fancy-looking-and-tasting dinner should be prepared.  But you should probably start preparing it only about 15 minutes before you’re actually ready to eat it.

Consider yourself warned.

I made this fancy, schmancy halibut picatta with capers (from A Sweet Pea Chef — her photography is amaaaazing).  Halibut picatta is like the chicken picatta you see at restaurants, except with halibut.  Which is a fish.  A delicious fish.  But, truth be told, it’s pretty expensive.  At least around these parts.  So when I make this recipe again, I will likely use a less expensive white fish, like tilapia or cod.  However, if you’re dealing with someone who’s picky about seafood tasting like seafood, I’d recommend  the halibut.  Because it’s meaty, like chicken.  Except it’s fish.

I varied from the original recipe only slightly, because I was impatient and ended up cooking frozen halibut fillets instead of thawed fillets.  I’ll let you know where the change-up happens.

Before you can begin the first date flow process of preparing this recipe, you need to assemble your cast of characters.  I don’t just do this for blogging purposes — it really does make it easier to jive in the kitchen when everything is ready at your fingertips.  You will need:

  • 1 Bunch Fresh Asparagus
  • 2 whole 6-ounce Halibut Fillets, Skinned (I used a package of frozen, boneless fillets)
  • 1 Tablespoon Olive Oil
  • 2 Tablespoons Unsalted Butter, Divided
  • 3 cloves Garlic, Chopped
  • ½ cup Dry White Wine (I just used a cheapo, open bottle of chardonnay)
  • 2 Tablespoons Capers
  • ½ whole Fresh Lemon, Zest And Juice
  • 1 Tablespoon Fresh Italian Parsley, Chopped
  • Kosher Salt To Taste
  • Ground Black Pepper To Taste

Now, for the flow.

Get about 1/2 cup of water boiling in a pot on the stove.  You’ll be using this to steam the asparagus.

Also, in a separate non-stick skillet, add 1 tablespoon of butter and 1 tablespoon of olive oil.  Turn the heat to medium-high and let the butter melt (watch it so it doesn’t burn).

While you’re kind of watching your butter, quickly chop off the tough, thick ends of the asparagus.  Just don’t chop off your fingers because you’re too busy watching the butter.  You’d regret that.

If the butter has melted, go ahead and plop your 2 halibut fillets into the pan.  Whether you’re using thawed or frozen fillets, you want to brown this first side for about 3 minutes.  Sprinkle a little salt and pepper over the top.

If the water in the pot is boiling, go ahead and add the asparagus.  Turn the heat down to low, close the lid tightly, and let the asparagus steam for 7-10 minutes.  Set a timer if you’re easily distracted.

Once the halibut has cooked for 3 minutes, flip ’em over.  They should be lightly browned on the first side.  Now.  Here’s where I differ because my fillets were frozen.  If you’re using thawed fillets, just cook them for about another 3 minutes on the flip side.  If you’re using frozen fillets, stick a lid on the pan, turn the heat down to medium or medium-low (still watching to make sure the butter doesn’t burn), and cook for 6-7 minutes until tender and flaky.

Using a lid on frozen fillets will help them cook through.  You could use a much smaller pan that this — unfortunately, this is the only non-stick pan I have with a lid.

While the fish finishes cooking, chop the garlic, parsley, and zest 1/2 the lemon.

Let’s take a moment to appreciate that super cute curl of smoke above the pan, shall we?

Who knew steam could be cute?

When the fish is cooked, set the fillets aside on a plate.  Turn your heat back up in your butter/oil pan, and add the chopped garlic.  Let it sizzle for about a minute — it will smell heavenly.

Then pour in about 1/2 cup of white wine.

Aren’t you proud I didn’t pour it directly from my glass this time?

Turn the heat to medium and let everything reduce for 5-10 minutes.  Now would probably be a good time to check your asparagus.  When you remove the lid, you’ll notice it’s turned this amazing, vibrant shade of green.

Use a fork and bite into one.  If it’s still super crunchy, put the lid back on and give it a few more minutes.  If it’s steamed to the consistency you like, remove the pot from the heat and push the lid slightly to the side to keep them warm.

Meanwhile, back in the pan, you can turn off the heat.  Add your remaining tablespoon of butter and lemon zest…

…juice from 1/2 a lemon…

…2 tablespoons of capers (you can find jars of these little green ball things near the pickles at the grocery store)…

…and tablespoon (or so) of chopped parsley.

Stir everything together until the butter has melted.  Now would be a good time to taste it.  If it tastes super lemony, add a bit more butter.  If you’d like more lemon flavor, use the other half of your lemon for more juice.  Sprinkle in a bit of salt and pepper as well.

To make this look super fancy, just lay a bunch of asparagus on a plate, top with a halibut fillet, then spoon your sauce over the top.

Notice you can add a couple of lemon slices to make it look not just fancy, but fancy schmancy.

I’d say this is the perfect thing for a Domestiphobe to serve if you’re looking to impress someone, because it’s a lot easier to make than it looks.

And we kind of thrive on that sort of thing.

Just don’t — you know — serve it 20 minutes before that someone gets home.

I’m pretty sure I make these mistakes so you can learn from them.  It gives me purpose.

And so, it turns out, does halibut.