Oh, hi there. So, it seems as though I have grossly neglected my faltering attempt at maintaining a blog for a while now. What can I say, life kinda got in the way. After what has been an interesting first half of the year, I have found myself becoming more and more homesick. My initial excitement of moving to a new place and starting a new life has faded into an increasing longing for my city, my family, my friends, the rain...my comfort zone. I desperately miss greenery, culture, mouth-watering food, Friday crawfish boils, Sunday bar-be-cues, and so much more...so much so that I find myself complaining about everything that Vegas lacks, rather than enjoying what it does have to offer.
Aside from the fact that Vegas and New Orleans are both 24-hour cities that offer a plethora of entertainment and dining options, that's pretty much where the similarities end. I have said for a while that I often feel like a fish out of water out here - literally feeling like it's too dry to breathe, but what I keep forgetting is that was supposed to be part of this "adventure," discovering something completely different, subjecting myself to everything that is outside of my so-called comfort zone - and that's why I have decided to <try> to live my life with a new motto: Carpe Diem!
Of course, I can't expect the desert, or the entire West Coast for that matter, to be anything like New Orleans, and isn't that the beauty of it? Despite my seeming inability to find time to accomplish many of my loft goals (like learning to play the piano, losing 10 pounds, getting to the gym more often, learning a foreign language...you get the point,) I have decided that one thing I am determined to do while living in Las Vegas is to enjoy this region, rather than constantly longing for what I left.
It may come as a shock to some, but Vegas actually does offer a lot more than gambling: rock climbing in Red Rock Canyon, boating and swimming at Lake Mead, Hiking at Mt. Charleston, and much more. On top of that, other options are merely a 3-4 hour drive away.
The most ironic twist to this entire situation is that, prior to relocating to Vegas, my dream vacation was Vegas - even more so that Italy and France (which are my 2nd and 3rd most coveted vacations!) I guess that any place can get old quickly...if you let it! Every time I visit home, I regret all the things that we didn't do to enjoy the city on the days when we laid around feeling lazy, claiming there was nothing to do. There is always something to do - you just have to get out and DO IT! So, Carpe Diem, my friends. I know that I'll return to the city I love some day, but for now, I'm going to make the best of the city that I currently call home.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Sunday, July 24, 2011
You know life's gotten too busy...
...when a few months go by and you realize that you have completely forgotten that you have a blog - one that you started with full intentions of updating on a regular basis. Somewhere around mid to late March, days began to fly by and weeks seemed to mesh together. A few visits from out-of-town guests, a few visits to out-of-town friends and family, and a new job later, I realized that I've completely missed out on the first half of summer. As August rapidly approaches, I sit here with my usual pale white skin (mission to get a gorgeous bronze tan = epic fail!), under-eye circles, and a headache, and wonder at what point do we stop living life to it's fullest and resign to becoming a slave to the expected normalcy of adulthood?
Perhaps it's the long-distance move that has suddenly made me so fond of my pre-adulthood memories, but lately, all I want to do is scream "I DON'T WANNA GROW UP, DON'T WANNA GROW UP!" I find myself longing for those lazy days of summer, where the most stressful thing on your mind was whether or not you'd finish the summer reading list before the first day of school. It's funny how the simplest things are the ones that stand out when you look back. Realizing that your fingers are stained purple from picking blackberries all morning, feeling sticky from head to toe after climbing to the top of the fig tree to reach the ripest fruit, smelling the freshly cut grass as you roll down the levee - laughing the whole way down, lying on the backyard swing while listening to the birds happily singing, stealing a taste of the fresh plums that grew on the tree in the backyard - these are the memories that stand out the most. I'm not sure what it is about growing older that makes us somehow forget to enjoy the simple things in life - the things that effortlessly bring a smile to your face, but as I get older and the summers seem to come and go faster - and seem far less exciting while they're here - it's those simple things that I long for the most, that I would gladly trade a week's pay in return for a week's worth of simple, care-free indulgence.
Perhaps I'm rebelling against the fact that the big 3-0 is now less than two months away and yet I sometimes already feel older than that, but I think that Peter Pan was seriously on to something. Sure, I may have to get older, but there's nothing wrong with being a child at heart. So what if I get the urge to run through the sprinklers every time they spring to life in the backyard? So what if my greatest joy on a hot day is a double-scoop of cookies & cream ice cream in a waffle cone? So what if I occasionally still have the urge to push-start the grocery basket and ride it through the parking lot? And, so what if, at almost 30, I haven't gotten it all figured out yet. Life is a journey to be enjoyed and, while care-free months off for the majority of summertime are not exactly a privilege to be enjoyed by most adults, that doesn't mean that we can't still partake in the simple goodness that summertime offers. I think William W. Purkey said it best when he said "You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching, Love like you'll never be hurt, Sing like there's nobody listening,
And live like it's heaven on earth." It may take some letting go to do so, but I certainly intend to try!
Perhaps it's the long-distance move that has suddenly made me so fond of my pre-adulthood memories, but lately, all I want to do is scream "I DON'T WANNA GROW UP, DON'T WANNA GROW UP!" I find myself longing for those lazy days of summer, where the most stressful thing on your mind was whether or not you'd finish the summer reading list before the first day of school. It's funny how the simplest things are the ones that stand out when you look back. Realizing that your fingers are stained purple from picking blackberries all morning, feeling sticky from head to toe after climbing to the top of the fig tree to reach the ripest fruit, smelling the freshly cut grass as you roll down the levee - laughing the whole way down, lying on the backyard swing while listening to the birds happily singing, stealing a taste of the fresh plums that grew on the tree in the backyard - these are the memories that stand out the most. I'm not sure what it is about growing older that makes us somehow forget to enjoy the simple things in life - the things that effortlessly bring a smile to your face, but as I get older and the summers seem to come and go faster - and seem far less exciting while they're here - it's those simple things that I long for the most, that I would gladly trade a week's pay in return for a week's worth of simple, care-free indulgence.
Perhaps I'm rebelling against the fact that the big 3-0 is now less than two months away and yet I sometimes already feel older than that, but I think that Peter Pan was seriously on to something. Sure, I may have to get older, but there's nothing wrong with being a child at heart. So what if I get the urge to run through the sprinklers every time they spring to life in the backyard? So what if my greatest joy on a hot day is a double-scoop of cookies & cream ice cream in a waffle cone? So what if I occasionally still have the urge to push-start the grocery basket and ride it through the parking lot? And, so what if, at almost 30, I haven't gotten it all figured out yet. Life is a journey to be enjoyed and, while care-free months off for the majority of summertime are not exactly a privilege to be enjoyed by most adults, that doesn't mean that we can't still partake in the simple goodness that summertime offers. I think William W. Purkey said it best when he said "You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching, Love like you'll never be hurt, Sing like there's nobody listening,
And live like it's heaven on earth." It may take some letting go to do so, but I certainly intend to try!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
I've experienced the "generation gap" as the old one...
...and I don't think I like it. Maybe I should rewind and explain. Like most women and gay men on earth, I really enjoy shopping, it resides at the top of my list of things that I love, right along with food, fine wine, and the smell of fresh clean sheets. My husband, on the other hand, would rather sit on hot coals while watching a Twilight marathon than have to peruse the mall and, God forbid, actually try on clothes. So, last week when he told me that we needed to go to the mall because he really needed new jeans, my inner fashion diva did a cartwheel and a quick little cheer – I had a reason to go shopping and it wasn't even my idea! Here's the thing, in order to keep the hubby from giving up on shopping like an addict gives up on sobriety, I had to stay focused - constantly remind him that lack of success in one store doesn't mean that he won't find a good pair of jeans, it just meant that we had to press on with our search. Shopping isn't a sprint, it's a marathon.
Shopping with a man means going into stores that you usually wouldn't browse on your own, which also means noticing trends that you normally ignore, but after spending a considerable amount of time in stores where the majority of the sales associates are males between the ages of, oh, say 16-24, I began to realize that either I'm way off on what is stylish, or I'm just getting old, and I'm pretty sure that the second explanation is the more plausible one.
This revelation first came to me when stepping into the dreaded Abercrombie & Fitch - a store that I usually avoid like the plague because it annoys me just to walk past it, so I've always assumed that actually entering the place would be as enjoyable as jumping off of a bridge, but after repeated attempts to find a decent pair of jeans with no success, we were getting desperate - and desperate times call for desperate measures. After immediately realizing that the combination of extremely loud, awful music and potent musky cologne would indeed make this place the least enjoyable store in which I've ever shopped, we headed for men's jeans, where we were met by an 18ish year old guy wearing a shirt that he must have swiped from his 10 year-old brother's closet and pants that he could only have borrowed from his girlfriend. His hair was clearly inspired by DJ Pauly D (that's the Jersey Shore guy, right?) After warding him off, saying we were just browsing, the hubby grabbed a few pairs of jeans and headed to the fitting room, where we were met by another employee who clearly thought of Justin Bieber as his style idol. After a few minutes in the fitting room, the hubby came out rolling his eyes, muttering something about "damn TAPS" (to those of you who don't share the hubby's lingo, that would be "tight ass pants") and we moved on. A quick peak in Hollister told us that it was clearly just Abercrombie & Fitch's evil plan to dominate the mall by creating identical stores under another name, so we skipped that fiasco.
The next few stops on the mission highlighted a whole other gag-inducing style which I can only assume is referred to as "emo." You know the look - dark greasy hair brushed into the eyes, guy liner, trying their best to look depressed even though they have everything they could ever want, they just think it makes them look cool. I prefer to call this "pop gothic." And I blame the whole situation on Pete Wentz.
Eventually, we did find jeans for the hubby, at Express Men – why we didn't go here first, I'll never know, but I all I could think as the day went on is how do young girls find these looks attractive? I don't think that I'm so old that I'm out of touch with reality, but if I were 15 again and this was the pool that I had to choose from, I think I'd either remain boyfriend-less or consider switching to the other team. I'm kind of glad that I don't have children yet, especially ones that are tweens or teens, because I'd like to believe that I'd be an open-minded parent who lets my children make their own decisions, but if I had a son that dressed like that, I'd have to tell him to man up, shave his head and force him to wear khakis and polos for a month just to prove a point. I swear, I think I actually prefer the "baggy jeans with the underwear hanging out" look to the "Justin Bieber meets Marilyn Manson" look.
So, to conclude, either the younger generation needs to get another style icon and quick, or I just need to accept the fact that I'm officially in the "older generation" and realize that I may never again find the trends of those younger than me to be cute or fashionable. But, the day that I start complaining about those "damn youngsters," someone please slap me. Thank you!
Shopping with a man means going into stores that you usually wouldn't browse on your own, which also means noticing trends that you normally ignore, but after spending a considerable amount of time in stores where the majority of the sales associates are males between the ages of, oh, say 16-24, I began to realize that either I'm way off on what is stylish, or I'm just getting old, and I'm pretty sure that the second explanation is the more plausible one.
This revelation first came to me when stepping into the dreaded Abercrombie & Fitch - a store that I usually avoid like the plague because it annoys me just to walk past it, so I've always assumed that actually entering the place would be as enjoyable as jumping off of a bridge, but after repeated attempts to find a decent pair of jeans with no success, we were getting desperate - and desperate times call for desperate measures. After immediately realizing that the combination of extremely loud, awful music and potent musky cologne would indeed make this place the least enjoyable store in which I've ever shopped, we headed for men's jeans, where we were met by an 18ish year old guy wearing a shirt that he must have swiped from his 10 year-old brother's closet and pants that he could only have borrowed from his girlfriend. His hair was clearly inspired by DJ Pauly D (that's the Jersey Shore guy, right?) After warding him off, saying we were just browsing, the hubby grabbed a few pairs of jeans and headed to the fitting room, where we were met by another employee who clearly thought of Justin Bieber as his style idol. After a few minutes in the fitting room, the hubby came out rolling his eyes, muttering something about "damn TAPS" (to those of you who don't share the hubby's lingo, that would be "tight ass pants") and we moved on. A quick peak in Hollister told us that it was clearly just Abercrombie & Fitch's evil plan to dominate the mall by creating identical stores under another name, so we skipped that fiasco.
 |
| I think this is what they were aspiring to...my hopes for the future generation were just flushed down the toilet. |
The next few stops on the mission highlighted a whole other gag-inducing style which I can only assume is referred to as "emo." You know the look - dark greasy hair brushed into the eyes, guy liner, trying their best to look depressed even though they have everything they could ever want, they just think it makes them look cool. I prefer to call this "pop gothic." And I blame the whole situation on Pete Wentz.
 |
| Sorry, you get no street cred for trying too hard...just sayin'! |
So, to conclude, either the younger generation needs to get another style icon and quick, or I just need to accept the fact that I'm officially in the "older generation" and realize that I may never again find the trends of those younger than me to be cute or fashionable. But, the day that I start complaining about those "damn youngsters," someone please slap me. Thank you!
Monday, January 24, 2011
What's as much fun as packing for a trip?
Maybe getting your dress stuck in the door of a moving car and having to run in heels to keep up with it to prevent impending doom? Or being forced to gorge yourself with a food that you absolutely despise for an extended period of time? Or maybe having your face pounded in by a mixed martial arts fighter? If you haven't yet caught on, it's pretty safe to assume that packing is one of my least favorite activities in the world to do.
This all started when we decided to go home for a week to celebrate the hubby's 30th birthday with family and friends. Is there really a better way to welcome the forth decade of your life than to spend a completely relaxed week filled with good friends, good food, and good music? Probably not. The thing is, when you are unsure of exactly what activities will fill the days and nights of your trip, and you're going back to a place where the only thing more unpredictable than the weather is the amount of weight that you'll put on by the time you return home (thanks to the amazing food that you can't find anywhere else,) it becomes very difficult to choose an appropriate wardrobe to bring. Add to that the fact that your one carry-on item must be replaced by your 13 pound spoiled rotten Maltese, which means you are allowed a total of two bags under 50 pounds, and the dilemma is further exaccerbated.
So, this little situation is what led to me sitting on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by a mass of chaos that can only be described as looking as if my closet threw up. After remaining stuck in the cycle of packing, unpacking, reconfiguring what I can bring, repacking, weighing the suitcases, realizing I'm still over on weight limit <sanity pizza break> figuring what outfits can be reworked and what jeans can be worn twice, sadly narrowing shoe selection to only two pairs of black boots (one which will be worn on the flight, how's that for space saving!), two pairs of heels, one pair of tennis shoes, and two pairs of sandals, and repacking - again, I have finally managed to get my two suitcases to right below their maximum weight limit, which, to me, feels like completing a freaking marathon - in record time (and by that, I mean taking longer than it's ever taken anyone else to complete.)
Ok, so I have to admit that I have the slightest touch of OCD (hold the laughter,) which is probably a huge contributing factor to my packing-induced mania. The hubby initially thought that my stress over packing was funny, and that it seemed far more complicated than it should be, but that was over 24 hours ago. Now, I'm pretty sure he just thinks it's ridiculous. He's completely given up on our night out at the movies in lieu of watching a Cops marathon, which I'm sure he's not terribly torn up about. But I have to admit that even I am a bit aggravated with myself at this point. Because, truth be told, it really should not be this difficult. It seems so much easier for a guy to pack: a few pairs of jeans, a few t-shirts, a sweater or two, a jacket, underwear, socks, shoes: done. If something gets worn twice or even three times, so be it. At least that's my hubby's attitude. So, why isn't it that easy for me? Two words: Anal Retentive! As I just mentioned, I am definitely OCD, or, as a friend's mother once put it, I have "CDO - I have to put the letters in the right order." I have to agree, I guess I'm a little obsessed with perfection, and I have no problem with admitting it because clearly it's true, and looking back on the last 24 hours (or the last 24 years) I have to have a good laugh at myself.
So, to end this little poke at my obsessive, anal retentive, can't make a decision self, all I have to say is that the weather better be relatively mild back home, and we can only go out someplace really nice once. Other than that, let's keep it relatively casual - because if I have to shop for new clothes while I'm home, my only option will be to either ship them back to Vegas or leave them behind :(
This all started when we decided to go home for a week to celebrate the hubby's 30th birthday with family and friends. Is there really a better way to welcome the forth decade of your life than to spend a completely relaxed week filled with good friends, good food, and good music? Probably not. The thing is, when you are unsure of exactly what activities will fill the days and nights of your trip, and you're going back to a place where the only thing more unpredictable than the weather is the amount of weight that you'll put on by the time you return home (thanks to the amazing food that you can't find anywhere else,) it becomes very difficult to choose an appropriate wardrobe to bring. Add to that the fact that your one carry-on item must be replaced by your 13 pound spoiled rotten Maltese, which means you are allowed a total of two bags under 50 pounds, and the dilemma is further exaccerbated.
So, this little situation is what led to me sitting on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by a mass of chaos that can only be described as looking as if my closet threw up. After remaining stuck in the cycle of packing, unpacking, reconfiguring what I can bring, repacking, weighing the suitcases, realizing I'm still over on weight limit <sanity pizza break> figuring what outfits can be reworked and what jeans can be worn twice, sadly narrowing shoe selection to only two pairs of black boots (one which will be worn on the flight, how's that for space saving!), two pairs of heels, one pair of tennis shoes, and two pairs of sandals, and repacking - again, I have finally managed to get my two suitcases to right below their maximum weight limit, which, to me, feels like completing a freaking marathon - in record time (and by that, I mean taking longer than it's ever taken anyone else to complete.)
Ok, so I have to admit that I have the slightest touch of OCD (hold the laughter,) which is probably a huge contributing factor to my packing-induced mania. The hubby initially thought that my stress over packing was funny, and that it seemed far more complicated than it should be, but that was over 24 hours ago. Now, I'm pretty sure he just thinks it's ridiculous. He's completely given up on our night out at the movies in lieu of watching a Cops marathon, which I'm sure he's not terribly torn up about. But I have to admit that even I am a bit aggravated with myself at this point. Because, truth be told, it really should not be this difficult. It seems so much easier for a guy to pack: a few pairs of jeans, a few t-shirts, a sweater or two, a jacket, underwear, socks, shoes: done. If something gets worn twice or even three times, so be it. At least that's my hubby's attitude. So, why isn't it that easy for me? Two words: Anal Retentive! As I just mentioned, I am definitely OCD, or, as a friend's mother once put it, I have "CDO - I have to put the letters in the right order." I have to agree, I guess I'm a little obsessed with perfection, and I have no problem with admitting it because clearly it's true, and looking back on the last 24 hours (or the last 24 years) I have to have a good laugh at myself.
So, to end this little poke at my obsessive, anal retentive, can't make a decision self, all I have to say is that the weather better be relatively mild back home, and we can only go out someplace really nice once. Other than that, let's keep it relatively casual - because if I have to shop for new clothes while I'm home, my only option will be to either ship them back to Vegas or leave them behind :(
Monday, January 3, 2011
It's 2011? Did I sleep through 2010?
I've always heard that, as you get older, the years go by faster. Given that I blinked and damn near missed 2010, I'm guessing it's true. 2010 was a completely insane, unsettled year, and is mostly a blur. So with the beginning of 2011 here, the last year of my 20's <pouting>, I have decided that I will push myself to actually achieve the goals that I have successfully put off nearly every year since I began making resolutions, and to achieve them before I hit 30. Those goals would be:
-Get in better shape (no eye-rolling, I'm really going to do it this year!)
-Learn to play the piano. I can play a mean Mary Had a Little Lamb, but since I'm not six years old, no one's impressed.
-Volunteer more – or, to be honest, just plain volunteer, period.
-Get a hobby. Painting? Sewing? Photography? I'm not really sure yet, but I'll let you know when I figure it out.
-Learn a foreign language – probably Spanish...or Italian if that will convince the hubby to take me to Italy.)
-Finally print the six or so years-worth of digital photos that I have saved on the computer and organize them into albums.
I initially was extremely motivated to acheive my little list of 2011 to-dos. How hard can it be? Right? Well, the minute my plane left New Orleans the day after Christmas, I already felt that motivation draining away. Maybe it's because my motivation was already being replaced by homesickness, or because I managed to pick up what I can only describe as the NOLA sludge (because I seem to come down with it everytime I've visited a quarter bar since I left) while I was home – sinus infection, cough, clogged ears, sore throat – you get the pic. Maybe it's because the energy of being surrounded by family and friends while I was home was quickly replaced with quiet day-to-day life when I got home, or because I spent New Year's Eve sick on the couch watching everyone else having a blast (I know it's supposed to be fun, it at the time, it really felt like rubbing-it-in)? Regardless of the reason, the fact is that I suddenly didn't feel so motivated anymore.
Just when I was wallowing in my self-inflicted homesick, stuffy-headed, motivation lacking misery, something happened that completely changed my mood: It started snowing!
Given that I lived through Snowmageddon, snow should not be something that excites me. But this is snow in the desert - one of the hottest places in the US, and here we are, covered in a blanket of white, fluffy smile-inducing, giggle-inciting snow. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. After the bizarre excitement subsided, I had that AH HA! moment, where I felt like a new-age freak waiting for a sign. I should always expect the unexpected. The last thing I expected was to actually get blanketed by snow in the desert. I thought that I surely left that behind when I left DC. So, after having a moment of feeling like a kid again, I sit here suddenly feeling excited to go after my list again...as soon as I can completely shake the sludge. And come September, when I bid farewell to my 20's and set forth on the journey into the fourth decade of my life, I will do so with six-pack abs and wearing my original self-designed and sewn clothes. And when my adoring husband compliments me on my amazing achievement as a pianist, I will simply reply "Grazie, amore mio" and he will be so impressed, he'll book our Italy trip on the spot. And, when I wake up from that amazing dream, I'll hit the gym and head to Children's Hospital to fulfill my volunteering resolution. I may be motivated, but I'm not unrealistic :) Happy New Year my friends!
-Get in better shape (no eye-rolling, I'm really going to do it this year!)
-Learn to play the piano. I can play a mean Mary Had a Little Lamb, but since I'm not six years old, no one's impressed.
-Volunteer more – or, to be honest, just plain volunteer, period.
-Get a hobby. Painting? Sewing? Photography? I'm not really sure yet, but I'll let you know when I figure it out.
-Learn a foreign language – probably Spanish...or Italian if that will convince the hubby to take me to Italy.)
-Finally print the six or so years-worth of digital photos that I have saved on the computer and organize them into albums.
I initially was extremely motivated to acheive my little list of 2011 to-dos. How hard can it be? Right? Well, the minute my plane left New Orleans the day after Christmas, I already felt that motivation draining away. Maybe it's because my motivation was already being replaced by homesickness, or because I managed to pick up what I can only describe as the NOLA sludge (because I seem to come down with it everytime I've visited a quarter bar since I left) while I was home – sinus infection, cough, clogged ears, sore throat – you get the pic. Maybe it's because the energy of being surrounded by family and friends while I was home was quickly replaced with quiet day-to-day life when I got home, or because I spent New Year's Eve sick on the couch watching everyone else having a blast (I know it's supposed to be fun, it at the time, it really felt like rubbing-it-in)? Regardless of the reason, the fact is that I suddenly didn't feel so motivated anymore.
Just when I was wallowing in my self-inflicted homesick, stuffy-headed, motivation lacking misery, something happened that completely changed my mood: It started snowing!
 |
| If it can snow in the desert, surely I can learn to play piano! |
Given that I lived through Snowmageddon, snow should not be something that excites me. But this is snow in the desert - one of the hottest places in the US, and here we are, covered in a blanket of white, fluffy smile-inducing, giggle-inciting snow. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. After the bizarre excitement subsided, I had that AH HA! moment, where I felt like a new-age freak waiting for a sign. I should always expect the unexpected. The last thing I expected was to actually get blanketed by snow in the desert. I thought that I surely left that behind when I left DC. So, after having a moment of feeling like a kid again, I sit here suddenly feeling excited to go after my list again...as soon as I can completely shake the sludge. And come September, when I bid farewell to my 20's and set forth on the journey into the fourth decade of my life, I will do so with six-pack abs and wearing my original self-designed and sewn clothes. And when my adoring husband compliments me on my amazing achievement as a pianist, I will simply reply "Grazie, amore mio" and he will be so impressed, he'll book our Italy trip on the spot. And, when I wake up from that amazing dream, I'll hit the gym and head to Children's Hospital to fulfill my volunteering resolution. I may be motivated, but I'm not unrealistic :) Happy New Year my friends!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
I'm pretty sure that pizza was created by the devil
...and if that is indeed the case, then clearly I'm going to hell. Despite my best attempts at maintaining a healthy diet so that I can lose oh, say, six pounds or so, I seem to be eating more junk than ever. And, it's not just pizza, it's fried chicken fingers, french fries, Mexican food (aka cheese & garnishments,) steak (and I'm not a meat-eater) and sweets, sweets, and more sweets.
I'm not sure what it is about this time of the year that makes my arteries scream "hurt me" and my waistband cry "uncle" but I completely lose self-control when it comes to food around the holidays. Maybe it is stress, the fact that I really have no time to cook a decent meal, or maybe it's the desire for comfort food when I'm missing home (not sure why it's called comfort food since it will inevitably cause heartburn, bloating, and the need to unbutton your pants to make it through the day,) but come November, I become a garbage disposal. I might as well have a flashing sign over my head that reads "deposit junk food here." And to make it worse, as the time nears to actually go home for Christmas, I find that my list of "to do while I'm home" activities is basically filled only with the places that I want to eat...and, of course, a few places that I'd like to throw back a few libations :) I'm pretty sure that fried oysters, crawfish fettuccine, fried okra and beignets won't exactly put me back on track to svelte-land, but apparently, I don't really care. Because the fact is, that I clearly have no resistance to temptation and, at this time of the year, it's not a weakness that I'm willing to fight.
So, though I am likely not on track to be the skinny, tone girl that I keep envisioning in my daydreams...I am one thing: content. Because a perfect body may be ideal, but a hot piece of pizza and a raspberry cheesecake are bliss.
 |
| Yeah, stress, that's my excuse! |
I'm not sure what it is about this time of the year that makes my arteries scream "hurt me" and my waistband cry "uncle" but I completely lose self-control when it comes to food around the holidays. Maybe it is stress, the fact that I really have no time to cook a decent meal, or maybe it's the desire for comfort food when I'm missing home (not sure why it's called comfort food since it will inevitably cause heartburn, bloating, and the need to unbutton your pants to make it through the day,) but come November, I become a garbage disposal. I might as well have a flashing sign over my head that reads "deposit junk food here." And to make it worse, as the time nears to actually go home for Christmas, I find that my list of "to do while I'm home" activities is basically filled only with the places that I want to eat...and, of course, a few places that I'd like to throw back a few libations :) I'm pretty sure that fried oysters, crawfish fettuccine, fried okra and beignets won't exactly put me back on track to svelte-land, but apparently, I don't really care. Because the fact is, that I clearly have no resistance to temptation and, at this time of the year, it's not a weakness that I'm willing to fight.
So, though I am likely not on track to be the skinny, tone girl that I keep envisioning in my daydreams...I am one thing: content. Because a perfect body may be ideal, but a hot piece of pizza and a raspberry cheesecake are bliss.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Breaking tradition
Ah, the holidays, the most wonderful time of the year. The air is crisp, holiday decor is splayed about, and the mall has officially turned into the city zoo. This is by far my favorite time of the year. I am a complete sucker for the holidays. Starting around mid November, I morph into a ridiculously giddy, overly generous freak that can't get enough holiday music, watches overly sappy Christmas specials that would normally illicit my most exaggerated eye-rolls, bakes like Betty Crocker has possessed my soul, and can think of nothing more exciting than spending evenings searching for elaborate Christmas displays to enjoy.
My hubby falls on the opposite end of the spectrum. His holiday anticipation is fueled less by the excitement of holiday feasts, decorations, and presents, and more by the onset of hunting season. Nothing makes him happier than the idea of sitting in a wooden box in frigid temperatures in hopes of bringing home his prized 8 point and an ice chest full of venison roasts. I'm pretty sure that festive lights and Christmas carols excite him about as much as hunting excites me (which, for clarification, is about as exciting as gouging my eyes out with a blunt tip of a pencil,) but most of the time, he does entertain my antics.
So, since we celebrated an early Thanksgiving with our family this year, allowing me my fill of turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and other fat-filled side dishes that make my mouth water in pleasure and my arteries beg for mercy, I agreed when my hubby suggested that we enjoy a feast of Mexican food for Thanksgiving, because - surprise, surprise - he hates turkey and stuffing!
Replacing my roasted turkey and pumpkin pie with chili rellenos, black bean chili and smores was just the first of many traditions to be broken this holiday season. My traditional Thanksgiving night Chrstimas tree decorating was foiled this year since my pre-lit tree has apparently become handicapped. Since it looked completely ridiculous to leave a partially lit, partially dark tree standing in my living room, we decided to just take the tree down and buy a new one after Christmas. Bummer (to me anyway, my hubby seems more than a little bit tickled.) The next day, I found that my black Friday shopping, which is normally a cherished day-long race to get the best deals possible (and one that my hubby thinks should be avoided like the plague,) just felt depressing when I was the only member of my team fighting the crowd, so I gave up and headed home. A visit to the Holiday cactus botanical gardens at Ethel M Chocolate factory was a festive and fun replacement for NOLA's "Celebration in the Oaks," and my hubby even happily accompanied me to this event (it didn't hurt that there was candy involved.) But when I couldn't top off my evening with beignets and cafe au lait, it just felt incomplete.
So, after a week of breaking traditions, I've realized something quite striking. The saying is true "There's no place like home for the holidays." It's obvious that everyone celebrates the holidays a bit different, but to me, NOLA will always do it best. So, to my friends and family at home, may your turducken be hot, and your seafood fresh (and oil-free!) May your eggnog be spiked and your cajun kringles be warm. And, should you stop by Cafe du Monde to indulge in those little pillows of powdered sugar covered goodness that we call beignets, make sure to have an extra for me!
My hubby falls on the opposite end of the spectrum. His holiday anticipation is fueled less by the excitement of holiday feasts, decorations, and presents, and more by the onset of hunting season. Nothing makes him happier than the idea of sitting in a wooden box in frigid temperatures in hopes of bringing home his prized 8 point and an ice chest full of venison roasts. I'm pretty sure that festive lights and Christmas carols excite him about as much as hunting excites me (which, for clarification, is about as exciting as gouging my eyes out with a blunt tip of a pencil,) but most of the time, he does entertain my antics.
So, since we celebrated an early Thanksgiving with our family this year, allowing me my fill of turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and other fat-filled side dishes that make my mouth water in pleasure and my arteries beg for mercy, I agreed when my hubby suggested that we enjoy a feast of Mexican food for Thanksgiving, because - surprise, surprise - he hates turkey and stuffing!
 |
| Chili rellenos - because clearly I missed the memo that Thanksgiving is a Mexican holiday. |
Replacing my roasted turkey and pumpkin pie with chili rellenos, black bean chili and smores was just the first of many traditions to be broken this holiday season. My traditional Thanksgiving night Chrstimas tree decorating was foiled this year since my pre-lit tree has apparently become handicapped. Since it looked completely ridiculous to leave a partially lit, partially dark tree standing in my living room, we decided to just take the tree down and buy a new one after Christmas. Bummer (to me anyway, my hubby seems more than a little bit tickled.) The next day, I found that my black Friday shopping, which is normally a cherished day-long race to get the best deals possible (and one that my hubby thinks should be avoided like the plague,) just felt depressing when I was the only member of my team fighting the crowd, so I gave up and headed home. A visit to the Holiday cactus botanical gardens at Ethel M Chocolate factory was a festive and fun replacement for NOLA's "Celebration in the Oaks," and my hubby even happily accompanied me to this event (it didn't hurt that there was candy involved.) But when I couldn't top off my evening with beignets and cafe au lait, it just felt incomplete.
So, after a week of breaking traditions, I've realized something quite striking. The saying is true "There's no place like home for the holidays." It's obvious that everyone celebrates the holidays a bit different, but to me, NOLA will always do it best. So, to my friends and family at home, may your turducken be hot, and your seafood fresh (and oil-free!) May your eggnog be spiked and your cajun kringles be warm. And, should you stop by Cafe du Monde to indulge in those little pillows of powdered sugar covered goodness that we call beignets, make sure to have an extra for me!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Pet peeves will be the death of me
For the most part, I like to think that I'm a pretty easy-going kinda gal. I'm relatively easy to please and get along with most everyone that I meet, so long as they have at least some semblance of a sense of humor. But every now and then, I start to realize that I have a relatively long list of things that really get under my skin - things that make me wish it were legal to slap the stupid out of people when necessary. I can't say that it's just an intolerance for ignorance - it goes beyond that. I think it's more of an intolerance for the fake, unnecessary, and inconsiderate...and impatience definitely fuels a lot of the peeves on my list.
Realizing that this runs the risk of being the longest post in blog history, I'm only going to stick to the top 5 things that make me realize that I should really thank God that spontaneous combustion due to irritation overload is not really possible.
5. Personalized license plates. Wow. You really spent precious brain cells coming up with the plate that reads "VETYNICE" for your corvette. As if you didn't already look like a loser driving your yellow convertible advertisement for your midlife crisis. Oh, and "SPOILD1," good luck getting out of a traffic ticket given the fact that you're making it known that you're in desperate need of a reality check.
4. Wearing entirely inappropriate attire Ladies:just because it zips, doesn't mean it fits. If your end result resembles an overly stuffed sausage, go up a size. And I should never, ever have to fear getting a sneak peak of your unmentionables. If it's that short, or low cut, you shouldn't leave home in it. Finally, if the heels are so high that you can't walk without assistance, don't wear them. If you forego this advice, you deserve the butt busting fall that's sure to come. And for you guys out there, pull up your damn pants! It is not, I repeat, NOT sexy to see your underwear hanging out of your pants. Isn't it counterproductive to have to hold up your pants the whole time you're trying to walk?
3. Driving under the speed limit in the passing lane. Need I say more? Vehicles should come equipped with mini front-loading missle launchers for situations such as this.
2. Blowing your nose at the dinner table. Because nothing makes my meal more enjoyable than hearing someone expelling snot from their nose.
1. Skipping hand washing after using the bathroom. This peeve has to be universal, right? I've seen it way too often. How disgusting are you that you don't wash your hands after using the potty? I don't care how many woven layers your TP has, you're not going to convince me that your hands are completely clean after you wipe! Perhaps you missed the lessons in hygiene that the rest of the population manage to pay attention to. But I swear, next time I catch one of you filthy germ-carrying pests, I will follow you out of the bathroom and announce your faux pas loudly to everyone in earshot. Because humiliation is definitely the best way to permanently ingrain something into someone's conscious.
Those being put out there, I have to give brief mention to the runner-ups for my list of most annoying pet peeves, which include smoking immediately outside the doors of a non-smoking establishment, wearing so much cologne that my nasal membranes go into attack mode before I even spot you, fake tanning until you're orange (because skin cancer is so sexy,) parking in handicapped spots when you're clearly not handicapped, and using foul language loudly in public (because you're classy like that.)
I could go on and on, but those are the peeves that top my list. I would like to think that they are completely reasonable. What are your top five?
Realizing that this runs the risk of being the longest post in blog history, I'm only going to stick to the top 5 things that make me realize that I should really thank God that spontaneous combustion due to irritation overload is not really possible.
5. Personalized license plates. Wow. You really spent precious brain cells coming up with the plate that reads "VETYNICE" for your corvette. As if you didn't already look like a loser driving your yellow convertible advertisement for your midlife crisis. Oh, and "SPOILD1," good luck getting out of a traffic ticket given the fact that you're making it known that you're in desperate need of a reality check.
4. Wearing entirely inappropriate attire Ladies:just because it zips, doesn't mean it fits. If your end result resembles an overly stuffed sausage, go up a size. And I should never, ever have to fear getting a sneak peak of your unmentionables. If it's that short, or low cut, you shouldn't leave home in it. Finally, if the heels are so high that you can't walk without assistance, don't wear them. If you forego this advice, you deserve the butt busting fall that's sure to come. And for you guys out there, pull up your damn pants! It is not, I repeat, NOT sexy to see your underwear hanging out of your pants. Isn't it counterproductive to have to hold up your pants the whole time you're trying to walk?
3. Driving under the speed limit in the passing lane. Need I say more? Vehicles should come equipped with mini front-loading missle launchers for situations such as this.
2. Blowing your nose at the dinner table. Because nothing makes my meal more enjoyable than hearing someone expelling snot from their nose.
1. Skipping hand washing after using the bathroom. This peeve has to be universal, right? I've seen it way too often. How disgusting are you that you don't wash your hands after using the potty? I don't care how many woven layers your TP has, you're not going to convince me that your hands are completely clean after you wipe! Perhaps you missed the lessons in hygiene that the rest of the population manage to pay attention to. But I swear, next time I catch one of you filthy germ-carrying pests, I will follow you out of the bathroom and announce your faux pas loudly to everyone in earshot. Because humiliation is definitely the best way to permanently ingrain something into someone's conscious.
Those being put out there, I have to give brief mention to the runner-ups for my list of most annoying pet peeves, which include smoking immediately outside the doors of a non-smoking establishment, wearing so much cologne that my nasal membranes go into attack mode before I even spot you, fake tanning until you're orange (because skin cancer is so sexy,) parking in handicapped spots when you're clearly not handicapped, and using foul language loudly in public (because you're classy like that.)
I could go on and on, but those are the peeves that top my list. I would like to think that they are completely reasonable. What are your top five?
Monday, November 22, 2010
Soul Food in Sin City...
...sucks! That's right. In this no holds barred city, where you can find some of the best entertainment in the country, where everything is "bigger and better," where the most talented, world renowned chefs have set up suite, you'll find that it's easy to stumble across fabulous cuisine - unless, of course, you are hoping to find a hot, spicy, overly rich dish that can only be properly finished by wiping your plate with a thick slice of hot french bread and downing an alka-selser shot to prevent the burning fire of hell that's sure to replace that happy, satiated feeling in your tummy that is merely a prelude of the repercussions to come.
I've given several "genuine southern food" establishments a chance since I've landed in this soul-less city, and time and time again, I have felt the same way when I've plunged my fork into the sure-to-be amazing dish that sat in front of me - meh. Until this past Saturday, I've left the wanna-be dining establishments thinking "close, but no dice." The underwhelming meals have either been too bland, too runny (southern sauces should be thick and creamy), or just completely off the mark from the dishes they are supposed to resemble.
Bland attempts aside, most of the "southern" dishes that I've encountered here in the valley have been tolerable. That is, until I found a lovely little place (of which I will withhold the name) this past weekend, that not only claims to be a genuine Louisiana kitchen, but that is also supposedly owned by a family from New Orleans. Sure that I had found the place where I'd hit the southern food jackpot, the hubby and I decided to play the game of chance and give it a shot...and as usually happens in Vegas, the house had the last laugh and we left $60 in the hole and feeling a bit nauseous. The only word that keeps running through my mind: FAIL!!
That being said, I figured that I could provide some of you wanna-bes out there with a few bits of knowledge that are invaluable when claiming to offer "genuine southern food':
1. It is NEVER too spicy.
2. Catfish should not be chewy. Please don't make me question the origin of what I'm actually eating.
3. Yes, diners can tell the difference between frozen and fresh shrimp.
4. Four fried oysters on french bread does not equate to a stuffed po-boy. Perhaps a definition may help: Stuffed: completely full, tightly crammed, crammed with food. Get it now?
5. Though they are called grits, they should not taste as though they are composed of sandpaper.
6. I would actually like to find some crab in my crab cakes, or else, please call them breadcrumb cakes.
7. BBQ shrimp should be served in a bowl with lots of sauce and french bread for dipping, the shrimp are usually still in their shell. Shrimp creole is served over rice, shrimp are usually de-shelled. Get the difference? Perhaps you can adjust your menu now, as there is clearly some confusion.
8. Gumbo should not be the consistency of Jello pudding.
9. When making bread pudding, add some moisture to that day-old bread. The bread pudding itself should never taste day-old. And if you claim to have a rum or whisky sauce over it, then I expect to taste the alcohol in the sauce. Please don't tease.
10. And, last but not least, don't be so damn stingy! If you've ever actually eaten at a genuine southern restaurant, you'll realize that we like to eat...a lot! There is a reason that New Orleans is a fat city - it's because the food is so good that you can't get enough of it. So, please give me more than 5 tiny shrimp over half a scoop of rice. And please, give me the whole fillet of the fish, not three tiny little ends that you cut up. And, if you say there's chicken or sausage in my gumbo, then I damn well better find at least one piece of each when I'm eating it. Get the picture? Maybe you realize your food is so crappy that people won't want to eat much of it. But if that's the case, then why even bother to serve the crap?
So, next time you're in Vegas, I highly recommend that you try one of the amazing steak restaurants out here (N9NE is my favorite,) or one of the great American West Coast Restaurants (Vintner Grill is amazing,) the Indian food out here is to die for (try Ghandi, you won't regret it,) but please, don't roll your dice on the "Southern Food" restaurants. All of the libations you can handle will not be enough to drown what is sure to be a sub-par experience. The saying might be "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," but the dining experiences at the local southern restaurant wanna-bes have surely been ones that I hope to forget.
I've given several "genuine southern food" establishments a chance since I've landed in this soul-less city, and time and time again, I have felt the same way when I've plunged my fork into the sure-to-be amazing dish that sat in front of me - meh. Until this past Saturday, I've left the wanna-be dining establishments thinking "close, but no dice." The underwhelming meals have either been too bland, too runny (southern sauces should be thick and creamy), or just completely off the mark from the dishes they are supposed to resemble.
Bland attempts aside, most of the "southern" dishes that I've encountered here in the valley have been tolerable. That is, until I found a lovely little place (of which I will withhold the name) this past weekend, that not only claims to be a genuine Louisiana kitchen, but that is also supposedly owned by a family from New Orleans. Sure that I had found the place where I'd hit the southern food jackpot, the hubby and I decided to play the game of chance and give it a shot...and as usually happens in Vegas, the house had the last laugh and we left $60 in the hole and feeling a bit nauseous. The only word that keeps running through my mind: FAIL!!
That being said, I figured that I could provide some of you wanna-bes out there with a few bits of knowledge that are invaluable when claiming to offer "genuine southern food':
1. It is NEVER too spicy.
2. Catfish should not be chewy. Please don't make me question the origin of what I'm actually eating.
3. Yes, diners can tell the difference between frozen and fresh shrimp.
4. Four fried oysters on french bread does not equate to a stuffed po-boy. Perhaps a definition may help: Stuffed: completely full, tightly crammed, crammed with food. Get it now?
5. Though they are called grits, they should not taste as though they are composed of sandpaper.
6. I would actually like to find some crab in my crab cakes, or else, please call them breadcrumb cakes.
7. BBQ shrimp should be served in a bowl with lots of sauce and french bread for dipping, the shrimp are usually still in their shell. Shrimp creole is served over rice, shrimp are usually de-shelled. Get the difference? Perhaps you can adjust your menu now, as there is clearly some confusion.
8. Gumbo should not be the consistency of Jello pudding.
9. When making bread pudding, add some moisture to that day-old bread. The bread pudding itself should never taste day-old. And if you claim to have a rum or whisky sauce over it, then I expect to taste the alcohol in the sauce. Please don't tease.
10. And, last but not least, don't be so damn stingy! If you've ever actually eaten at a genuine southern restaurant, you'll realize that we like to eat...a lot! There is a reason that New Orleans is a fat city - it's because the food is so good that you can't get enough of it. So, please give me more than 5 tiny shrimp over half a scoop of rice. And please, give me the whole fillet of the fish, not three tiny little ends that you cut up. And, if you say there's chicken or sausage in my gumbo, then I damn well better find at least one piece of each when I'm eating it. Get the picture? Maybe you realize your food is so crappy that people won't want to eat much of it. But if that's the case, then why even bother to serve the crap?
So, next time you're in Vegas, I highly recommend that you try one of the amazing steak restaurants out here (N9NE is my favorite,) or one of the great American West Coast Restaurants (Vintner Grill is amazing,) the Indian food out here is to die for (try Ghandi, you won't regret it,) but please, don't roll your dice on the "Southern Food" restaurants. All of the libations you can handle will not be enough to drown what is sure to be a sub-par experience. The saying might be "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," but the dining experiences at the local southern restaurant wanna-bes have surely been ones that I hope to forget.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Who'd a thunk it?
At the urging of my fabulous, yet exasperating friend (you know who you are, and I love you dearly,) I've finally actually started the blog that I have procrastinated over for the past 11 months. But, before I launch into what's sure to be a string of snarky commentary about myself and pretty much everything and anything that I encounter on a daily basis, I guess I should start with some background about what motivated me to start this in the first place.
It's been an interesting year, to say the least. After spending my entire life in New Orleans, the hot, humid, mosquito infested drinking town that I love more than any place in the world, I packed my bags last January and set off on what has been quite a journey.
First stop: Hell. Or at least that's where I thought I hand landed. After a 17 hour drive up the east coast, I found myself in the sleepy little town of Linthicum Heights, MD. I was always led to believe that Hell is a hot place - you know the stories: flames of hell, hot coals, yadda, yadda. Well, my friends, we've all been mislead. Hell is a place where I experienced "Snowmageddon." Where it is so freaking cold that you feel like mother nature is sandblasting your face and your joints literally freeze in place. Being snowed in used to sound fun, well, it sucks! Being stuck in a 400 sq. ft apartment with no tv at all for a week makes one completely understand how Jack Nicholson went crazy in "The Shining." And, timing was so convenient, given that the blizzard of the decade chose Superbowl Sunday - the year the Saints actually made it - to make its theatrics known! Let's just say that the long walk in the snow over a bridge to the nearest Ruby Tuesdays to watch the game was completely worth it. Don't get me wrong, MD did have it's redeeming qualities. Annapolis is a fun little town and it was nice to see D.C. up close and personal, but I'm not exactly begging to go back anytime soon.
A four month stint in MD and a 36 hour drive later, I finally made it to my desert oasis: Fabulous Las Vegas! Or, as I like to think of it, the glitzier, drier West Coast New Orleans. Well, sort of. The heat was a more than welcome embrace, but I've learned a few lessons over the last 6 months: dive bar attire is apparently not appropriate for pretty much any place out here - unless you want to fit in with the homeless population (who are surprisingly creative with their signs,) I apparently have an accent (which I genuinely never suspected,) and survival skills are required in the desert, which include: drink a ridiculous amount of water or constantly resemble a dried out raisin, buy lotion in bulk to prevent a striking resemblance to Ashy Larry, and stock up on saline spray to prevent the amazingly dramatic nosebleed that I experienced on what was supposed to be my first "big" night out on the town. Who ever would have thought that one could miss humidity?
So, Vegas is now the home to this Southern girl, and I must admit, I think I'm going to love it here. Even if I'm the only one with a Southern accent, and without a ridiculously fancy car - Ferraris and Lamborghinis are overrated :)
It's been an interesting year, to say the least. After spending my entire life in New Orleans, the hot, humid, mosquito infested drinking town that I love more than any place in the world, I packed my bags last January and set off on what has been quite a journey.
First stop: Hell. Or at least that's where I thought I hand landed. After a 17 hour drive up the east coast, I found myself in the sleepy little town of Linthicum Heights, MD. I was always led to believe that Hell is a hot place - you know the stories: flames of hell, hot coals, yadda, yadda. Well, my friends, we've all been mislead. Hell is a place where I experienced "Snowmageddon." Where it is so freaking cold that you feel like mother nature is sandblasting your face and your joints literally freeze in place. Being snowed in used to sound fun, well, it sucks! Being stuck in a 400 sq. ft apartment with no tv at all for a week makes one completely understand how Jack Nicholson went crazy in "The Shining." And, timing was so convenient, given that the blizzard of the decade chose Superbowl Sunday - the year the Saints actually made it - to make its theatrics known! Let's just say that the long walk in the snow over a bridge to the nearest Ruby Tuesdays to watch the game was completely worth it. Don't get me wrong, MD did have it's redeeming qualities. Annapolis is a fun little town and it was nice to see D.C. up close and personal, but I'm not exactly begging to go back anytime soon.
A four month stint in MD and a 36 hour drive later, I finally made it to my desert oasis: Fabulous Las Vegas! Or, as I like to think of it, the glitzier, drier West Coast New Orleans. Well, sort of. The heat was a more than welcome embrace, but I've learned a few lessons over the last 6 months: dive bar attire is apparently not appropriate for pretty much any place out here - unless you want to fit in with the homeless population (who are surprisingly creative with their signs,) I apparently have an accent (which I genuinely never suspected,) and survival skills are required in the desert, which include: drink a ridiculous amount of water or constantly resemble a dried out raisin, buy lotion in bulk to prevent a striking resemblance to Ashy Larry, and stock up on saline spray to prevent the amazingly dramatic nosebleed that I experienced on what was supposed to be my first "big" night out on the town. Who ever would have thought that one could miss humidity?
So, Vegas is now the home to this Southern girl, and I must admit, I think I'm going to love it here. Even if I'm the only one with a Southern accent, and without a ridiculously fancy car - Ferraris and Lamborghinis are overrated :)
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