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Flushing. But Not Another Post About Toilets.

***WARNING***  You probably shouldn’t read this post if you just ate.  Or are currently eating.  Or ever plan on eating again.  Thank you.

I’ve been hesitant to write this post this morning, not solely due to the grotesque nature of the topic, but because I have a rather large commitment happening tomorrow — nothing big, mind you — just a baby celebration I’m throwing for one of my best friends in the world and 30-40 of her closest friends — and I don’t want today’s subject to freak my friend — or the dear girls who are helping me organize the party — out.

So let me preface this by saying, I.  Will.  Be.  There.

My whole predicament started about a week ago when my dear neighbor (and she is a dear, dear neighbor) invited us over for dinner.  Fantastic!  Except when we arrived, she sounded terrible, and kept insisting the problem was her allergies.

Turns out, it wasn’t.

And apparently she must have licked all of my food, because I’m pretty sure I’m currently suffering from a wee bit of a cold.  I thought it might just be a false alarm and all I needed was a good night’s sleep last night, but that wasn’t in the cards because Capone decided he was going to be sick as well, and let’s just say that the nastiness coming out of his orifices was far worse than anything currently coming out of mine.

Ahem.

The bad news is it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.  The good news is I have a couple of cold remedies up my sleeve that, while I might be fairly drained during my prep work today, should hopefully fend this thing off long enough to ensure that I am a fully functioning team member tomorrow.

It’s important to remember that I am not a doctor.  Not even close.  But these are the steps I take whenever I have a cold, and they never seem to last as long as they do with other people:

1)  I know it sounds obvious, but I wash my hands ad nauseam when I have a cold.  Every time I blow my nose.  Right before I touch any food.  Any time I touch… anything.  All.  The.  Time.  To the point where they’re chapped and dry and it makes no sense applying lotion because I’m just going to be washing them again in a few minutes anyway.  This is not only for my benefit, but also for the people around me.

2)  I sneeze or cough into my shoulder — not my hands.  Think about it.  How much stuff do you touch with your shoulder?

3)  Switch out my toothbrush.  Just think of how many germs that bugger must be carrying.

4)  Vitamin C.  I load it up, baby.  Like 3 pills a day.

5)  And finally, my absolute savior, a sinus rinse.  Like I said, I’m no doctor, but not only do these puppies drain all of the gunky nastiness from my cold-riddled head, I do believe it also rinses out tons of germies that would otherwise still be swimming around wreaking havoc in there.

It consists of a simple plastic squirt bottle and some saline packets.

I warm up my water a bit — Just a bit!  You don’t want to boil your nostrils.

Add the saline…

And then squirt it on up.

Obviously, if you’re going to try this, you’ll want to refer to the directions.

Now.  I’m not going to lie and tell you this is a pleasant feeling.  Far from it.  You know how it feels when you jump into a pool and get water up your nose?  Well, it’s like that.  Because… you know… you’re squirting water up your nose.  But just like the uncomfortable pinch from a shot or a good ol’ eyebrow waxing, it’s a necessary discomfort that’s for our own good.  And, I’ve discovered that adjusting the direction of the spray (within the confines of your nostril, that is) can make a difference in just how uncomfortable it feels.

Plus, it’s kinda cool when the water — and other gunk — comes out the other side.

Just sayin’.

Don’t worry, I’ll spare you that picture.

I rinsed once this morning, and already I’m breathing easier and the elephant who’s taken up residence on my chest feels as though he’s losing weight.  So.  Fear not.  I’m doing everything in my power to not be an infectious germ farm come Saturday.  I will. not. let. this. win.

*Contrary to how it may appear, this post is NOT a paid advertisement for NeilMed Sinus Rinse.  That just happens to be the brand I picked up from the Walgreens, but I couldn’t care less which brand you use.  NeilMed did not pay me for this post.  Though if they wanted to, I could care which brand you use.

You Only Want Me For My Tartlets

I was kind of extra word babbly yesterday,  huh?  Sorry about that.  I can’t promise it won’t happen again, because I’m pretty sure it will.  But today I’ll keep it simple, because I have approximately 671 things I want to get done before Saturday, most of which pertain to Alaina’s upcoming baby shower party, and others for my own personal sanity.

I promised to share with you the absolute best party appetizer of all time — the thing that guarantees instant popularity at any function for the person who brings them.  They’re not fancy, and most “foodies” would cringe at their unapologetic use of dried herbs and pre-made biscuit dough, but for some reason, people just can’t get enough of ’em.  It is for these tasty little bites that I overcome my fear of refrigerated, popping biscuit tubes time and time again.

The recipe is called Bacon Tomato Tartlets, but you just might want to call them Tartlets in case you’re around anyone who has a fear of tomatoes or bacon.  Plus, “tartlets” is just fun to say.  Justin hates tomatoes, yet he would gobble up a whole batch of these if I let him.  And if you don’t like bacon, then I think you might have problems.

My fantastic neighbor gave me this recipe, and she got it from her fantastic friend, and I’m not sure where it originated before that.  I posted the recipe here on Tasty Kitchen, so go give me my first review if you make them!

But only if you think they’re good.

To make them, you will need:

  • 1 (12 oz.) can refrigerated, flaky biscuit dough (This HAS to be the flaky stuff.  You’ll see why in a sec.)
  • 6 strips of bacon, cooked and crumbled
  • 1 medium tomato, seeded and diced
  • 3 oz. Mozzarella cheese, shredded (I probably use more like 5 oz. when I’m guesstimating.)
  • 1/2 c. Hellmann’s Real Mayonnaise (I’m pretty sure this has to be Hellmann’s.  Don’t argue with me about this, and don’t you dare use that crap they call Miracle Whip.  The only miracle is that it doesn’t make me vomit.  You have been warned.)
  • 1 tsp. dried basil
  • 1 tsp. dried thyme
  • 1/2 tsp. dried oregano
  • 3/4 tsp. garlic salt

You can see I used 2 Roma tomatoes this time in lieu of 1 medium tomato.  Just go with what you have — the ingredients don’t need to be exact.

1)  Cook your bacon on the stove until crispy.  Even if you normally like chewy bacon, you have to remember that this isn’t about you right now — it’s about the tartlets.  And the tartlets need it crispy.  Just lay the bacon in a cool skillet (I love to use my cast iron grill pan), turn the heat to medium-high, and let it cook in its own grease for a bit.  When the bottom turns brown, flip and do the same to the other side.

mmm… bacon.

Once it’s cooked, crumble it up on a paper towel to soak up the grease.

2)  Mix all of the ingredients (except the biscuit dough) together in a bowl.

*TIP:  At this point you can cover and refrigerate the mixture for a day or two before preparing the tartlets if you don’t want to make everything the day you need them.

3)  Remove the biscuit dough from the refrigerator (this step is easier to do if the dough is cold), try not to jump out of your panties when you pop the tube open, and separate each biscuit into 3 layers.  This is why they need to be the flaky kind.

See how they separate naturally?

Spray a mini muffin tin with non-stick spray and use each 1/3 biscuit to line each muffin cup.  There will be enough for exactly 24 mini tarts.  Aka tartlets.  Why is that word so fun??

4)   Fill each biscuit cup with your filling mixture and bake at 350-degrees F for 10-12 minutes until the biscuits are lightly browned.

Some might poof up more than others, but it’s very likely no one will notice since they’ll be gone in approximately 4.8 seconds.

And everyone will be like, Where did that extremely popular person go who made those delicious tartlets?  I think those were like… the best tartlets I ever tasted in my life.  Go tartlets!  Tartlets.  Tartlets.  Tartlets.  Why is that word so awesome?

And you can just sit back and bask in the glory.

Just try not to eat them all before you leave the house.

It’s Okay to Be Yourself (As Long As Everyone Likes You)

I think it’s probably obvious by now that I’m a little ADD.  ADHD.  ABCDEFG.  Whatever.

For example, I meant to start writing this post an hour ago, but instead I got sidetracked by looking up furniture painting tutorials so I could paint my hand-built office desk, which made me realize that the office desk really shouldn’t be a priority when I still have to decide on a menu and make a bunch of decorations for this Saturday’s baby shower party, which led me to searching through recipes online while concocting a partial shopping list, which made me realize I hadn’t uploaded some food photos I took the other day, which made me remember I wanted to print some photos to send to some friends, which somehow led me to downloading free Photoshop actions off the internet and trying them out on the aforementioned photos.

And now I’m hungry.

And I forgot why I started writing this post.

Oh, yes.  My inability (or flat-out refusal?) to focus on any one topic for very long pretty much guarantees the completely random, fickle assortment of writing topics you find on this lil’ blog.  One day I might be lamenting about how I can’t find a job and nobody loves me, and the next I’m passing out recipes for hummus or posting pictures of my knife-wielding neighbor at her 2-year-old’s birthday party.

It’s crazy in here.

What it’s like inside my head during an office meeting.

And usually, once I post about something that’s been plaguing me, it gets moved into the digital archives of this blog and removed completely from my mind.  My little mind elves don’t have a file system — once an idea is made reality, they crumple up the evidence, throw it in a trash bin, light a match, and toss it in.  Then they dump the ashes out through my ear.  So usually, the only way I can remember what I was thinking about yesterday is to look at the blog.

But there is one thing recently that has stuck around in my mind, for one reason or another.  It’s my post from the other day about how I’ve grown more socially awkward as I age because I worry that people won’t like my real personality.  It generated some intriguing comments of agreement, and one in particular (thanks, Greg!) that hit a nerve, stating that children have the admirable quality of not really caring what adults or peers think about their personality — it just is.  So, why does it matter when we’re older?

Etiquette?  Politeness?

Sure, I guess.  Everyone should be nice to everyone, and blah, blah, blah.  But beyond that?  What factors stipulate how we should behave in polite society?  Why can’t I laugh — loudly — at a restaurant if someone says something deliberately funny?  Why does the sound of adult laughter so commonly generate irritated looks from people nearby?  (Obviously, I wouldn’t do this every 2 seconds and interrupt other people’s conversations, but once?  What’s the problem?)

It’s times like these when I’m glad I’m not single.  Single people have it rough out there right now.  In a society where you’re only expected to act a certain way so as to “not give off the wrong impression,” how is anyone supposed to make any sort of impression at all?

Enter my friend Maria, and her obviously charming and hilarious brother.  (I don’t remember her brother’s name, nor have I ever met him, but I’m sure he’s charming and hilarious.)

Maria is incredibly articulate and intelligent (just check out her blog, which she hasn’t updated in way too long), laid-back, a world-traveler, and stunningly gorgeous.  Yet.  She had a difficult time filling out her online dating profile to reflect any of her uniqueness beyond the whole, polite, standard online profile clichés.

(I hope she doesn’t get mad at me for posting this photo, but I had to get my point across — the girl shouldn’t need help filling out a profile.  By the way, she’s not Indian, but this photo was taken of her this year while she was in India studying yoga.)

So her brother took it upon himself to write one a little less… stuffy:

About Me:

If you’re looking for someone with the brain of a supermodel and the body of a scientist, look no further! Here I am.

My name is Maria, and I am a Japanese/Mexican exotic gourmet blend. Born of human parents, it would stand to reason that I, too, am human. But am I really? I don’t know. I might just be a cookie monster.

An exhaustive account of all the facets of my awesomeness would be impractical—nay, impossible—so here are the wave tops. I’ve spent a lot of time in South Africa rehabilitating orphaned baboons. Whoa! Did you just fall out of your seat because you are so amazed? Calm down, partner. I’m just getting warmed up here. So let’s see… I was once featured on the Animal Planet TV channel, so yes, I do consider myself a celebrity (very famous). I studied yoga in India. (Shout out to all my mad-smart Subcontinent homies!) I graduated from Chico State with a degree in something. I think it was anthropology or animals or multiplication or something weird like that. I once woke up while working in the Costa Rican jungle with a tarantula in my bed, and I didn’t even care. That’s right. I didn’t even care. I said “Hey, buddy.” It’s because I’m a world-class badass, and I knew that the tarantula would get the hell out of there once he recognized my face (very famous). Once when I was a teenager and I worked at a movie theater, Kevin Mitchell—the 1989 National League MVP (duh!), came up to buy some popcorn from me. I was like, “Hey, you were my favorite player when I was a kid.” He came back like he was all offended and said, “Were?” So I was like, “That’ll be $107, please.” I also know how to properly use a semicolon. If you are one of those unfortunate souls that didn’t already know that a semicolon is used to join two closely related independent clauses, then you disgust me and you deserve to be trapped in a forest for days on end with no one but a Bob Dylan-obsessed fan who insists on singing his entire anthology in an all-too-accurate impersonation. And not the funny kind of impersonation. The kind that makes your marrow ache. THAT kind.

What’s that you say? For the love of God, tell you more? Very well, I shall. You should know that I love cats. Baked, boiled, fried… it doesn’t matter to me. In fact, I have two cats, and they’re looking more and more delicious every day. Now you might think from what you’ve read so far that I’m an animal lover. Well don’t jump to conclusions, Hoppy Hopperson. I draw the line at hippopotamuses. They’re fat, surly, filthy creatures, and they have no business interfering with my happiness. If you happen to have a pet hippopotamus, I will not consider dating you. Also, you’re in violation of several city ordinances.

For Fun:

I teach yoga & do massage, so clearly I love violent movies & video games. I also love riding bicycles. I ride normal bikes, but eventually I’d like to purchase one of those bikes w the enormous front wheel and the tiny back wheel, a la 1882.

Favorite Hot Spots:

Locally I like Bidwell Park, T.Bar, and my backyard (and not just because of the underground dungeon, which is admittedly charming).

……….

Well?  Okay, so this is admittedly a little over-the-top, and Maria intends to take it down a notch to better reflect her slightly more reserved personality.  But you get the point, right?  Most people would be too afraid to post something like this because it might make them stand out.  It might turn people off.

But if this is who you are, and you’re trying to attract people to you, whether romantically or just friends in life, why would you want anyone who doesn’t like you?

I know this is way too long, and I apologize.  I meant to be finished with this 4 hours ago.  I guess my point is that I wish more people would just be real.  No more masks.  No more judging.  Just us.

And don’t worry — tomorrow will probably be a post about awesome little party appetizers or home office decor and I’ll have no clue why people are emailing me about the new Remove the Mask movement and how I can get involved, because my mind elves will have already dumped these ashes and moved on to tartlets and parsons desks.

My mind is exhausting.

…and the Husband Ran Away with the Toilet.

When I think about our huge guest bathroom remodel, my biggest regret is not buying a new toilet.  We replaced the old, yellowed seat, scrubbed out the inside with a pumice stone, and viola — the toilet looked new again.

Then it broke.  And still, it seemed the more economical decision was to replace the parts inside the tank that needed replacing.

Then something went wrong with the tank.  I’m not sure what, but it required the purchase of a new tank.

After that, the toilet decided it wanted to start flushing, on occasion, of its own accord.

And frankly, I was okay with that.  I mean… I only have so much energy to expend on a toilet, you know?

Then a couple of days ago, I noticed some type of store-bought packaging sitting in the bathroom with — you guessed it — toilet parts inside.  I guess some of my earth-friendly endeavors have worn off on Justin (or the water bill wore out his wallet), because he decided he no longer wanted our home graced with a ghost flushing toilet.

I thought it would be a quick job, but as is the case with all DIY projects, you have to account for the unexpected.

I try to do that, and I try to stay patient, but nothing — and I mean nothing — prepared me for the moment yesterday when Justin yelled from the bathroom, “Can you please open the door to the garage for me?”

Uh oh.

I walked over to the garage door and held it open butler-style, as my husband, arms encumbered with the disemboweled body of our porcelain God, ran past.

Apparently something was wrong with the way the toilet was screwed into the floor.

Apparently parts of our subfloor are now stripped.

Apparently this is going to be a much bigger job than we expected.

Apparently… toilets can also be metaphors for relationships. They’re always more work than you think, but worth the extra effort in the end.

Chatty Cathy — er — Katie

Is it just me, or do all people get more socially awkward as they age?

I’m pretty sure it’s just me.

It’s unfortunate, because it almost feels as though I’m rolling backwards through developmental stages.  I’m the mental — though certainly not physical — Benjamin Button.  It’s like I was born to mingle and network as a kid, when my mom would let me crash her social gatherings because I was such an adorable little adult, holding my own in conversations and, more often than not, hogging the spotlight with the only thing I really had going for me — my ability to talk.

And talk, I did.

But with time, it’s been brought to my attention on more than one occasion that chattiness becomes much less adorable as we get older.  Friends’ parents were always saying, “Katie, you’re too loud,” and people started worrying — justifiably — that I might say something inappropriate at a formal social gathering.  The very thing on which I’d learned to rely so heavily as a kid had turned into a liability.

Conversely, there are other times I’m told people want me present in certain situations to stimulate conversation.  When two different groups of people are brought together for an event — like a good friend’s parents and her soon-to-be in-laws, I’m brought in as the “ringer” whose sole purpose is to entertain via unrehearsed speech.  I suppose it’s because I’m not afraid to embarrass myself.  Or I understand that people are just people, and most of them have something they like to talk about.  I just have to find it and ensure them I won’t judge.

So sometimes I’m expected to talk, and other times I’m expected to shut up.  And these conflicting expectations have often been presented by the same people.

I’m still pretty confused about the whole thing.

As a result, I’ve started to feel all discombobulated when I’m thrown into a room with strangers.

Then yesterday happened.

Yesterday, I was not a great blogger.

Not just because I didn’t post anything, but because I didn’t take any pictures of the day’s events. Aside from the Annual 4th of July Parade, which is happening today, my neighborhood decided most of the night-time celebrations would happen last night, since most normal people — aside from those of us still somehow managing to leach off our marriage partners — have to go to work on Tuesday morning.

Except my husband.  Seriously.  If you want the type of job where you have the most days off ever, join the military.  Of course, the trade-off is that you don’t get to choose where you live and the government can send you into countries that tend to hate us whenever it wants, but vacation time is vacation time, amIright?

But back to the holiday festivities.  Justin and I decided to join my old manager from the bar and her son — Hey Danielle and Travis! — for some fun at our largest neighborhood lake.  We had a blast, but it did make me realize 2 things: Sun and beer don’t mix very well with me, and we really need to make friends with someone who owns a boat.  Boat friends are the best friends.

Then we headed back home so I could make some food to take to a party.  I did take pictures of the food, and it’s one of my absolute favorite party appetizer recipes in the history of ever, and I will be sharing it with you soon.

I was nervous about this party.  I’d been taking one of my dogs on our morning walk on Saturday, when I ran into some distant neighbors with whom we used to socialize a couple of years ago.  They live about a mile away, and we’d lost touch over time, not making the effort to walk further than “just down the street” to say hello.

They’re fantastic people.  They live right on the lake, and they have a boat.

Not that I would use them for their boat.

I don’t think.

They remembered my name, they said, because I’m the chatty one, but they couldn’t remember Justin’s.  I wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment.  But then they invited us to their party, which was going to have food, drinks, and live music.

Twist. My. Arm.

So we headed over last night, Justin toting our cooler of beverages and me armed with my favorite party appetizer ever.  I wasn’t sure how to behave since I knew virtually no one, so I figured I’d test the waters before committing to a personality.  We greeted our hosts, put our offerings on the food table, and plopped down on some lawn chairs to listen to the band.

When they finished the song they’d been playing when we arrived, I immediately started clapping and cheering.  Loudly.

I was the only one.

It became clear that they’d been playing for a bit with virtually zero audience appreciation when the lead singer gave me a big thumbs-up, an audible “thank-you” through the mic, and the base player mic-whispered, “tough crowd.”

They played another.  I clapped enthusiastically again, enticing a bit of accompaniment by some people nearby, and shouted, “You guys rock!”  A little fireball of a Mexican woman whom I later learned was named Carmen looked at me appreciatively and shouted, “Yeah they do!” before walking over to introduce herself.

Before long, people were approaching me asking if I’d made those delicious little appetizers.  And they weren’t afraid to talk to me because clearly, I wasn’t shy.  And I even decided to do a little professional networking while I was there, since the online job search has been getting me exactly nowhere, and it’s possible I have a lead or two there as well.

It wasn’t easy to put my fully outgoing persona back on for an evening after years of trying to suppress it into tolerable, toned-down submission.

But you know what I realized?  I think, for the most part, people like and appreciate the chatty Katie.  I know the band did.  The people who walked away with the promise of an appetizer recipe did.  And anyone who didn’t is probably a little too stuffy for my taste, anyway.  I’m friendly to everyone, and anyone can be my friend.

Is that really such a terrible thing?

I don’t like feeling socially awkward because I’m afraid to be myself.

It turns out in the end, a stranger at a party not liking me is far better than me not liking me.

You know?

…And then You Let the Flavors do a Happy Dance on your Tongue

I was going to lay out the office plans for you today (or lack thereof), so you could help me figure out what I should do in there.

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find the tape measure to draft a detailed scale drawing on graph paper (did I ever mention that I used to want to be an architect?), and a detailed drawing — to scale — is pretty much the only way I know how to do things.

If I don’t do it perfectly and to scale, accidents will happen.  Mistakes will be made.  Heads will roll, and the universe might implode.  And I’m pretty sure I don’t want that on my back.  So if the world really does end in 2012, it’s probably my fault because I still couldn’t find the tape measure.

So instead of all that, because I’m versatile, flexible, and easily adapt to obstacles (in case any potential employers are reading this), I’m going to share with you the most fantastically awesome recipe for hummus in the history of the universe.

What?  You don’t like hummus?  Hummus is only for hippies and Democrats?

Well that’s where you’re wrong, my friends.  This is an extra special spicy, smoky, chipotle hummus, and I dare you to not like it.  I tested some on Justin, who would normally prefer a more typical chip dip — you know, something less healthy — and he gobbled it up.  The flavors are a perfect meld of smoky chipotle and cumin combined with sweet sun-dried tomatoes and roasted red peppers. There’s just a hint of a spicy kick, which is perfect for me, but you could always add an extra chipotle pepper (or two) if you prefer more of a punch.

I’m keeping this on my personal list of simple food ideas to bring to a party that people will love and ask me for the recipe and ultimately fulfill my constant need for approval.

The original recipe is here, and I didn’t change it a bit.

To make it (and trust me, you should), you will need:

  • 2 (15.5 oz.) cans of garbanzo beans, also known as chickpeas, drained (I read that you could soak these in water and rub off the husks for a smoother hummus, but that sounds like an awful lot of work to me for the same flavor in the end.)
  • 1/2 cup water
  • 1/4 cup tahini (I know this sounds fancy, but it’s just a sesame seed paste — kind of like peanut butter — that makes hummus… hummus.  I can find it at my po-dunk grocery store, so I don’t think you’ll have any problems.)
  • 1/4 cup lemon juice
  • 2 tablespoons olive oil
  • 1 chipotle pepper in adobo sauce (You can find small cans of these in the Hispanic section of a regular grocery store.  You just use ONE pepper from the can for this recipe, unless you like things extra spicy.)
  • 2 cloves garlic
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons cumin
  • 1 (7 oz.) jar roasted red peppers, drained
  • 6 oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes, drained
  • 1/2 cup cilantro, chopped
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • Ground black pepper to taste

Whew!  I know that’s a lot, but all you basically do is throw everything in a food processor and blend, so it’s about as easy as it gets.  (Except in my case I don’t have a food processor, so I use my totally awesome hand blender… more on that in a hot second.)

Up front in the small plastic container is the chipotle peppers in adobo sauce.  I’d already opened the can to use a pepper for another recipe, hence the lack of original packaging.

1)  The original directions say to blend the first 8 ingredients, then add the sun-dried tomatoes, roasted red peppers, and cilantro and just coarsely blend so your hummus has chunks, but I blended everything completely because a) My hand blender doesn’t really give me a choice in the matter, and b) I prefer it that way.

Don’t get discouraged if you open your tahini and it has separated into a hard, pasty substance at the bottom and an oily substance at the top.  That’s perfectly normal.  Do your best to stir it together, and if all else fails, just fill your measuring cup with a little of the paste and a little of the oil.  It will come together when you blend the hummus.

So I threw the first 8 ingredients in a bowl, and used my super nifty immersion blender (aka. hand blender) to chop everything up:

Should I be worried that all of my pictures lately are insanely blurry and I don’t seem to notice until I transfer them to the computer?

Public Service Announcement:  If you don’t have one of these immersion blenders, you should probably get one.  They’re perfect for things like this or soup, where you want to blend a bunch of stuff together without actually transferring the ingredients from the bowl or the pot.  And your dishware stays protected because the blade is surrounded by metal (or in some cases plastic).

I’m glad I opted for this stainless steel Cuisinart Smart Stick (keep those dirty jokes to yourselves), because I don’t need to worry about any plastic melting if I use this in hot soup.

The hummus actually tasted pretty good at this point and I could’ve stopped there.  But I’m glad I didn’t.  I added the rest and then blended again.

It looks pretty when it’s done.  A red-ish hummus with flecks of green cilantro.

And it tastes like a party.

I like to eat it with pita chips, but it would work with veggies too, if you want to get extra healthy.

I think you should make it to celebrate the birth of our country this weekend.

I realize I probably should have transferred this to a pretty bowl for the final photo shoot, but I was kind of too busy eating it to care.

Just so you know, it’s perfectly acceptable to eat this for lunch 5 days in a row.

I hope.

Mischief of One Kind and Another

For someone who doesn’t technically have a job right now, I sure do feel busy.

It’s almost like looking for a job is a full-time job.

Except it’s not, at least for me, because I’m also up to my fake twitching eyeball in other projects.  For the blog alone, I owe you probably about 64 updates about what’s going on with our home changes, I’ve got some really fantastic recipes to share, and the consumption of the Spanish bottles of wine we brought home have inspired some really deep thoughts, like why was the Bachelorette so hung up on that Bentley guy (I mean his name is Bentley, for crying out loud), and I wonder how long I can get away with not removing the toenail polish I applied before leaving for Spain.

Apparently the answer is at least 5 weeks, because I only have about 40% coverage left per toe and I still haven’t fixed it.

So aside from all the blog posts gurgling around in my head, I have projects galore.  The office is still a work-in-progress, and hopefully I’ll have updates soon.  I’m applying for jobs.  I’m working on writing projects.  I’m one of the first few people getting to read my friend’s yet-unpublished novel.  And on top of all that, Alaina’s baby shower is in a mere week-and-a-half.

What’s that?  You didn’t know I was throwing a baby shower?

Let’s see… we all know I’m awkward around children, I’d probably make a terrible parent, and until recently I assumed a boppy was something teenagers took recreationally at raves.  So me throwing a baby shower makes perfect sense, right?

Lucky for me, Alaina doesn’t want just a baby shower.  She wants a baby party — complete with alcohol, drinking games, and… wait for it… boys.  See, just because she can’t drink, she doesn’t feel the need to punish everyone else.  Especially me.  And I’m also fortunate that a couple of her other dear friends are helping me out.

So this is pretty much what my world looks like right now:

(This last one actually has nothing to do with the baby shower.  It’s for a different project entirely, but I couldn’t resist.  You know I like to keep you guessing.)

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m pretty excited for this baby shower to happen.  Not to give anything away, but it’s probably going to involve a relay race with strollers and the chugging of White Russians from baby bottles.  The drink — not the people.

How twisted do you think I am?

Why You Should Either Pay Me to Collate or Contract Bird Flu. Or Both.

So.  This morning I had a revelation.

I know… you’re thinking, here we go.  She’s going to talk about one of those revelations again — it’ll be one of those posts where she makes some big declaration about how she’s finally going to get off her ass and start making changes and find her dream job and discover spiritual enlightenment, and blah, blah blah.

Seriously.  Can’t.  Wait.

Well, you’re in luck, because it IS one of those.  Kind of.  But not really.

Because I have to be realistic.  I’m realizing it’s kind of difficult to get off your ass and make your dream job happen if you don’t exactly know what it is or how to get started.  So, following that train of thought, I’ve been looking for an interim job — something to get me out of doing laundry every once-in-a-while and help me remember what it’s like to earn a paycheck.  Maybe an office clerk or a realtor’s assistant or something along those lines.

Because dammit, I would be good at that.

The problem is that at the moment, these jobs are few and far between.  And where they do exist, they’re highly competitive.  And for some reason, “Freelance Writer from Jan-July 2011” and “Hot Sauce Maker Extraordinaire from Sep-Nov 2010” don’t immediately present themselves as qualifying work experiences.

But that’s because they don’t know me.  If they’d just get to know me, they’d see how my life experience, combined of course with technical know-how, above-average literacy, and superb communication skills, would make me pretty much an awesome person to have as their right-hand-man.

Woman.

Whatever.

Unfortunately, the only jobs I’m finding listed along those lines turn out to be spammers — jackasses who solely exist in this world to prey upon people who are just looking for a decent break.

At least they give Karma something to do.

The good(?) news is that the 247 illegitimate employment responses I’ve received are making me reevaluate my entire find-something-to-keep-me-busy-and-pay-the-bills-so-I-can-structure-my-schedule-and-feel-less-guilty-about-not-working-and-just-find-time-to-write-on-the-side plan.

See, not too long ago, I whined about lack of signs showing me I was on the right path.  And, in effect, perhaps I was ignoring signs telling me I was on the wrong path.  But here’s the thing — It’s pretty impossible to ignore the fact that every single sign I receive about getting a crappy office job is telling me NOT to do it.  (Let’s just pretend the terrible economy and almost nonexistent job market has nothing to do with it, mmmkay?)

The sad fact is that when I’m honest with myself, one of those jobs would put me exactly back in the position I was in when I first flipped my lid, quit my job, and moved to Costa Rica.  And that really can’t be a healthy cycle to start over.

So.

Where does that leave me?

Well, I’m going to continue my quest for interim employment and keep my fingers crossed for something remotely stimulating, challenging, and worthwhile (perhaps an assistant to someone busy and interesting and trusting of my creative personality and the ways I can assist him/her in maintaining the status of being the type of person I’d like to become).

Because, hey — laundry is laundry and a paycheck is a paycheck.

But.  I can’t lose focus on my goal, which is writing.  Or travel.  Or both.

And for me, travel is like breathing – a bare necessity of life.

I kind of forgot where I was going with this, so I will end with two propositions:

1)  If you need an assistant — even a virtual one who can type, make phone calls, organize schedules, file, collate, fax and email, I’m your girl.  Oh, and I can also make really awesome flyers.  Because if you’re cool, you probably need someone who can make flyers.

2)  If you want to pay someone to travel to exotic places, take pictures and write back to you about all the exciting things I’m eating, drinking and doing because you’re curious about the world but terrified you might get stuck on a plane next to the most banal, talkative person in existence who also happens to have the bird flu and never washes his hands or covers his mouth when he sneezes, I am definitely your girl.

Because while I don’t particularly want to contract bird flu, I have a feeling that kind of job would be worth it.

So, so worth it.

Related Post: How to Land a Job as a Classy Hooker or Someone Who Gets to Look at Eddie Vedder’s Butt

Answers to your BURNING Questions (Pun Intended)

Sometimes I like to pretend that I’m more popular than I actually am.

You know, like if someone asks whether I can grab a drink next Saturday, I might tell her, “I think I’m available that night, but it seems like I remember there’s a possibility that I might have had something going on so I’ll check and get back to you.”

The problem is that people know me and know I’m not actually that popular, and inside I’m probably jumping at the chance to go out.  But I have to play it cool, you know, so I don’t scare away potential friends.

It’s kind of like when you’re playing the dating game and you don’t want to show your potential love interest you’re too interested, because displaying intense desire translates to desperate, which translates to if nobody else wants to date you, then why would I?, which translates to unattractive and undesirable candidate for courtship.

Which is complete BS if you ask me, because just because I’m eager to hang out with you doesn’t mean no one else wants to be friends with me.  There’s like… a whole waiting list of people who want to be friends with me.

And the cycle continues.

So.

Since I’ve gotten a couple of questions about things I’ve mentioned on the blog out of curiosity or my lackadaisical approach to follow-up, I’m going to pretend that I’ve received a whole slew of questions about issues I’ve failed to address, because I’m pretty sure you want to ask me these things, but you haven’t because you’re too scared to make contact or you don’t actually exist.

Here we go:

Why did I put the tick in vodka?  I honestly don’t know.  But something (a faded memory from something I read?  Instinct?  Complete irrationality caused by paralyzing fear?) told me it was the right thing to do.  I thought if I put it directly in the toilet, there was a possibility it could crawl out and take revenge.  But if I got it drunk first, it would obviously be too uncoordinated to swim.

Makes perfect sense.

How’s the office decorating project going?  Umm… I was decorating the office?  Oh, yeah.  Well, I did buy that desk from Overstock, and it’s awesome.  But that’s about as far as we got until I got home from the bar (the one where I work — not where I drink) at 3 a.m. on Sunday morning to discover this sitting in the garage:

It’s probably been too long for you to remember, but I was originally going to create an L-shaped desk with the one from Overstock as the short end, and then use an old door sitting on top of some filing cabinets for the long end.  However, Justin insisted on building the long part of the L to match the desk we purchased, and I was all “Yeah, okay that’s great — I can’t wait to have a desk that you made with your bare hands (har-har) in like a year since that’s how long it will probably take you to make it,” and then Sunday at 3 a.m. I had to pretty much stick my entire foot in my mouth and then my calf up to my frickin’ knee because I’ll be damned if that desk isn’t just the most perfect, coolest desk I have ever seen.

Now we just have to paint it, and Operation Office Decor will be back in full swing.

What?  You’re still working in a bar?  Haven’t you gotten a real job yet?  Oh you just had to go there, didn’t you?  As a matter of fact, Saturday night/Sunday morning, right before I had to stick my entire foot in my mouth because it turns out my husband is actually pretty awesome at building desks, I worked my last shift at the bar.

It was bittersweet.  Bitter because I worked with some pretty awesome people I really don’t want to lose track of, yet sweet because I’m pretty sure that’s the last time I’ll ever have to wait tables again.

Oh, and also bitter because I still haven’t found another job.  Even just one for a part-time office assistant.  The pickins are slim out there, people.  And I can’t count how many times the evil Craigslist has broken my heart by making me think someone was emailing me with an actual response but it was really just spam.

I mean, don’t get me wrong — I’m enjoying the fact that I can spend the entire day not wearing pants because I’m not required to physically interact with the outside world.  But sometimes?  Sometimes I want an excuse to wear pants.

Speaking of not wearing pants, you already revealed that you umm… revealed the “girls” at the beaches in Spain, but that wasn’t the real question — the question was, did you remember the SPF 100 for your nips?  (It wasn’t phrased exactly like this, but laxsupermom really did ask this question.  And I kind of love her for it.)

Oh, yes.  I had expressed concern, prior to our trip to Spain, about the very real possibility of experiencing nipple burnage on the nude beaches.  Well, I’m very happy to inform you that I did remember to wear sunscreen.  Almost every time.  Some general pinkness did occur in the overall vicinity one time due to carelessness, but overall, my first nude beach experience was a thrilling success.

Thank you for taking an interest in my precautionary measures for avoiding skin cancer and public boob itching unbecoming a young woman.

Your concern means the world to me.

You can all now go back to your regularly scheduled programs.

I’m Pretty Sure My Dog Tried to Drown Me and Other Reasons I Probably Should Never Be a Parent

While my sister was here for an impromptu visit last week, we quite frequently took our 4 — count ’em, four — combined mutts down to the lake near our house for some much-needed energy expenditure.  On their part, not ours.  Kelly and I were too busy downing Cazadores tequila and Squirts to expend any energy on much else.

(Oh, and I didn’t take any pictures while my sister was here because I’m a bad blogger.  Bad.)

Now, my dogs love the water.  They jump right in, splash around, dunk their heads beneath the surface to cool off, lap some up, etc.  But Kelly’s dogs?  Kelly’s dogs loooove the water.  The chocolate lab swims around in circles while the little dopey (but I still love him) rescue mutt swims along the shoreline like a damn little beaver, and I’m pretty sure he’s taunting my dogs about the fact that they don’t go past the spot where they can reach the lake bottom.

Finally, I’d decided I’d witnessed enough mediocrity from my children dogs.  I waded in to just below the hemline of my shorts (didn’t want any of that pesky capillary action to take hold if the bottom of my shorts got wet), and used my sweetest, most enticing voice to call Capone, who looked more intrigued than Mara about the idea of possibly leaving the safety of the shoreline.

This is Capone.

He came as far as his legs would reach the bottom and let out a small whimper.  So I extended my arms, smiled in encouragement, and said, “Swim, buddy!  You can do it!  Come to mama!”

And then he jumped.

Not a slight push off of the drop-off edge so he could paddle his way to me, but a flat-out LEAP from the water and straight into my waiting embrace.  The problem is that my embrace wasn’t expecting to have over 50 pounds of muscular, soaking wet canine come barreling into it, and I was knocked flat backwards into the water as said canine continued to panic and use my body as a gripping post to claw his way to the surface.

I only bled a little.

Kelly laughed a lot.

After that I decided that maybe it wasn’t worth it to try to teach Capone to swim.  Clearly, he wasn’t grasping the concept.  What I didn’t realize is that Capone isn’t a take-this-in-baby-steps type of dog.  If he’s going to do something, then he’s damn-well going to do it.

Fast-forward to yesterday’s walk.  I try to take each dog on a 2-mile loop every morning.  I don’t dare try to walk them both at once, and I let each of them off the leash for a bit at the lake so they can cool down.  When I let Capone off his leash yesterday, he chased a couple of ducks into the water.  Of course, he only pursued them as far as his legs would reach.  They taunted him just a few feet beyond the drop-off, quack-laughing and probably saying, “Whew!  Good thing that dog can’t swim!”

I watched him.

He watched the ducks.

Then he did something strange.  He looked at me and let out a frustrated whine.  And I’m not sure now, but I think I might’ve said something like, “Yeah… too bad you’re too much of a pussy to go after ’em.”

And that’s when he jumped.  Except this time, there was no one there to catch him.  Instinct immediately kicked in, and he paddled his little heart out after those ducks.  He wanted those ducks.  Surprised, the ducks kept swimming and flitting just feet outside his reach.  Further and further from the shore.

My pride was quickly replaced by panic as I realized my dog, who’d never swum before, was now about 50 yards off the shoreline.  I kicked off my shoes and socks and frantically waved and yelled from the water’s edge, yet I still didn’t go in after him.  Finally — finally — the ducks flew off, and suddenly Capone realized he was in the middle of the lake.  So he turned around and swam back.

The end.

I guess my point in telling you all this is to explain why I’d be an entirely inadequate mother.  Aside from the reasons I wrote about here.  I love my dogs.  And you can bet I would’ve gone in after Capone if I’d sensed he was in trouble.  But 50 yards is kind of a long way.  Not to mention calling him a pussy.  What kind of caretaker does that?

I’m also not very good at other mom stuff — especially the gross stuff.  Especially the gross stuff that involves bugs.

Like today, Mara had a tick.

This is Mara.

The tick was on her ear.  Now.  I don’t know anyone who particularly likes ticks, but they rank pretty high on my list of the most repulsive things I’ve ever seen in this world.  And I’ve seen quite a few things.

Unfortunately, I knew this probably couldn’t wait until Justin gets home from work.  So I gathered the necessary supplies and called my sweet, trusting pup over to me, tweezers in hand.

I’m pretty sure I heard it let out a faint bug scream as its body burst between my tweezers when I yanked it from my poor mutt’s ear and dropped it into a vat — okay it was a cup — of frigid vodka I’d poured from the bottle in the freezer.  (Okay, I poured it from one of 3 bottles in the freezer, but that’s not the point.)  The point is, I’m not 100% positive I got the entire head out, but I’m willing to let closer inspection wait until Justin gets home because right now I’m still trying to shake the feeling that I have ticks crawling up and down my back and maybe I should check in the mirror one more time and I’m not sure if I can ever drink out of that cup again and why the hell do they have to look like such scary little aliens???

Also, I’m not sure I should waste any more money on flea and tick medication, because if I still have to go through trauma like this, what is the point?

So.  Considering the fact that I’m lucky my dogs are even still alive at this point, I think actual motherhood might be out of the question.  Unless they start making kennels I can just put my baby in when I leave the house…

Wait, that’s not cool.  Not cool at all.