Day 305-- Line-dancing and cowboy boots at the beach

Tonight I was a part of the cheese and went line-dancing.  A co-worker of mine practically lives at this country bar in San Diego where all of the wannabe cowboys and real military men in town hang out.  She's a part of the dance team and tonight was the group's performance.  I've been meaning to try out the place for awhile and it's rather, well, well it's just a nice thing to support people.    

Her show's been among the gossip at work.  Everyone thinks she's a tad cheesy and slightly annoying but with a heart of gold.  I've been doing a lot of pre-damage control of the possible jokes about her (she used to get picked on more often and mocked) by being sincerely proud of her and making everyone remember what it was like back in the day with dance classes and other things.  Wistful, not cruel.  And for a minute there two other co-workers were going to join me.

I slipped into a cute navy/white striped dress with black flats and made a point to be adorable (and do more pre-damage control) when I asked my co-workers before I left, "Look I'm cute!" in which they teased and laugh.  Last time I looked cute and simply was they talked mad shit behind my back because I'm skinny and get hit on the most at work and got all uppity about it.  Girls are fucking weird.  

I got there just in time for her show, and yes it was cheesy, but it was fun too.  It was to "Footloose" with tons of coordinated clapping and big show smiles, but a real sincerely that the group was having a good time and loved their cowboy boots and shiny shirts (girls) and flannel (guys).  

I was miffed though not surprised that my other co-workers didn't show up, and I grew increasingly annoyed that my boyfriend was not answering his phone or responding to his text. I had told him it would probably be a girls thing but he asked for me to call when I got off work, which I did, and invited him.  I even offered to pay the cover if that was the problem.  No response.

My co-worker finished her dance and was sweaty, cheerful, and in need of a drink.  I thought it was tad silly she was so nervous over something like line-dancing, but that's me just being an asshole. I took dance lessons for 7 years and definitely remember having anxiety attacks (literally) before the shows.  

Anyway, I was really proud of her and was thoroughly enjoying myself.  It's definitely its own niche.  Cowboys in a beach town, and the kind of crowd that has cowgirls all in pretty boots, military guys looking proud, bacholorettte party girls with cupcakes and little stress, dough-faced boys with charming confidence, those seasoned older women and men who have a home in this club too.  The lights aren't dimmed too much, and not a lot of people are drinking things besides water and bottles of cheap beer.  There's a genuineness there, and everyone is up for dancing those cheesy dances, because cheesy dances are a blast, and it feels amazing for a whole bar to move around and laugh together at their errors and, what was that word everyone said, embellishments? 

My co-worker taught me some line dancing which I picked up quickly and had a ball, and her friends taught me the two-step which I was awful at, haha.  I went around the dance floor a few times and laughed the whole time in glee when I'd get it right (or didn't).

And I liked it there.  I liked seeing her happy.  I liked the vibe of familiarity of the place.  I like how everyone felt like themselves there and no creepers in sight or overly prissy girls who just sit there like normal bars. 

I should have stayed longer.  I really should have. True fun always happens the longer you linger--or at least a good story to tell the next day.

Rule ##: Stay an hour later than you feel comfortable with. 

But I left at 9pm anyway.  My co-worker and her one girl friend were drifting away to dance, and the guys at the table were beginning to get a little too attentive to me.  If my co-workers had come I would have stayed longer.  If my boyfriend had showed up I would have stayed longer.  He really is a Mr. Big sometimes in being such an anti-social ass but charming one-on-one. And if they has showed up or he had showed up I would have gotten my White Russian I've been craving these past two weeks.

But I'm glad I was there for the time I was there.  It was a real good time to see her perform and that look on her face of being so...grateful her friends showed up and loved her and supported her was worth it.  Plus line-dancing, while a little silly, really is a damn good time and much better than a real club wearing stilettos you can't dance in, surrounded by people who don't know each other, and filled with guy who just want to bang you and leave you.  Much better than that.  

And I feel a little like a loser on a Saturday night by myself eating M&Ms about to go to bed before midnight because of work at 7am tomorrow, and still no word from the boyfriend.  I'm really not sure if I should be pissed or worried.  Or the usual both.  (sigh)

Day 303-- The "mad ones", dirt, and licorice sticks

On the maple wood dresser there's a tissue box next to a Costco-size bin of licorice sticks, and a soup bowl emptied of its morning cereal, and a battery temporarily taken out of a fire alarm detector, and bank statements hiding off in the back near the book spines.

So many books.  Bonk, Let's Go Europe, Better, Brave New World, The Red Queen, Protect Our Privacy, a few math text books, Sperm Wars, The Catcher in the Rye, The Origins of Species, Reffer Madness, Doubt, The Blank Slate, One Nation Under Debt, my Tennessee Williams plays, and I Am a Strange Loop among about 300 others.

As I type on the laptop on the matching maple wood computer desk there lies neon green headphones, my open tin of black olives, video game strategies, sunglasses, an ipod, and crumbs from a breakfast bar.  It's a cozy place to stay the night with worn fleece blankets and incense ash.

He insists on keeping the bathroom window open despite the cold and I can hear the loud drunk laughter from the neighbor's house and how I was just there with her dirty floor, her painted walls of orange and asparagus green, the funky street-punk-art framed above grummy couches, the weed in jars, the beer bottles, and one white cat.  

I'm thinking about the On the Road trailer and that quote, "people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..."

I think back on the movies I adore like Into the Wild and Girl, Interrupted, and I wonder if in fact I'm living a type of life.

Not many people can say they spent their first year after college in a beach town, where the ocean was down the street and the people all had tan skin with long hair, and drunk loud laughs.  And dating one of those broke shaggy blond stoner types with good looks and charming ways.  Working that crappy job and eating poptarts as meals, and sometimes running for no reason, and laughing for no reason, and being so poetic about the state of the world in its nakedness, and the underrated passion of simply being happy.

I'm not someone who graduated college and started a 9-5 life.  And maybe I'm drifting towards that with each fight about wanting less flaky friends, wanting him to get a good job, and me perusing career website every few weeks.  It's like an itch in the spine I can ignore as long as I'm flying kites and spending lazy mornings in messy rooms and a shared cup of too-sweet coffee.

I guess I'm wondering what all of this writing will read back as.  What will I, as a blog character read as?  Annoying, self-indulgent, lost, philosophical?  What will my relationship read as?  Annoying, unhealthy, realistic, happy, romantic?  Because things get lost in writing.

Writing tends to focus only on the extremes of a mood.  I write about the funny part of the day, or the shitty thing that happened and in my writing I'm usually the victim or the hero or the bemused observer.  But what about when I'm utterly boring and watching CSI reruns on Hulu, or taking forever in the grocery store trying to balance the price of cereal vs the prize inside (if any prize these days).  I write about my relationship's fights or passions or conversations, but what about the little things I can't quite write about accurately, like the feel of a day's stubble on his face or when he mocks dances in the car to a chick song to make me laugh or how I fit into the nook of him as we watch a Bill Maher Real Time episode.  

And in my own room I have three glass candle holders all smudged with vanilla wax.  And a red hairdryer that folds on its handle. And a black peace sign end table with a lamp with no lamp shade on top, and a surrendering plastic Christmas tree in pieces near my laundry basket in the closet.  I have a bottle of iron vitamins next to some sea shells and a few quarters next to a deodorant stick.  And my diploma is crooked in its frame but I like it that way because I feel like it 'says something.'

I know with precise accuracy that I will miss all of this one day.  And I know, with full confidence, that one day I will question if leaving this lifestyle was worth the price of ambition and wealth.  The thing is, I suppose, that I'm not one of the mad ones.  In many ways I'm an average girl with average wants, and this was my chance to do something a little different, to be mad for just a little while.  To get tan and broke and loud and happy. Until whatever comes.

O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world!
That has such people in't!

~Shakespeare's The Tempest, Act V, Scene I

Day 300-- Drip

Rain fits perfectly with my mood today

Day 298 -- Happy Saturday morning

Happy Saturday morning, everyone!  I'm feeling rather relaxed, awake, fed, stretched, warm, and ready for a day of work.  Work, by the way, has been pretty good lately.  There was a contest to get the most member sign-ups for the reward of a Starbucks gift card.  I won it by like 27 to 2. Then the stats came out for January and whereas most people got about 2-4 sign-ups and the Member Ambassador got 11, I got 42.  Yeah, 42 during one month.  So I won a national prize of a free hotel night stay.  Plus I won another $10 for getting someone to get a credit card.  

Cha-ching!  

Anyway, it's a good morning.  Here's my groove, and the song my boyfriend sent me a few days ago

Day 296-- Pupusas and cop cars, or, you know, Wednesday.

You know it's a good evening when it begins with pupusas and ends in cop cars.

As I've written before, I love our local farmers market every Wednesday and purposely worked a 7am shift to make it in time.  I really do need to go on a shopping spree there at least once, for usually the only thing I buy there is dinner, and it would be nice to finally support a vendor's jams or pesto, or fresh breads, or watercolor prints.

My boyfriend met me there and I treated us to a Mexican food vendor with a long line and 1 guy taking orders and 1 woman with oily hands handling the dough and making the pupusas on a long flat grill on the sidewalk. I've never had  pupusas before, but the smell was so enchanting that I instantly regretted that my latin food group consists of nothing but standard nachos/burritos/and tacos.  I ordered a carnita pupusa with a coke (which came in a legit Coca cola bottle with real sugar), and he ordered a carne asada burrito. We sat in the dark straw chairs near the tables and a baby stroller but no one came to kick us out of "their spot" as we greedily ate the delicious fried bread and salts.  

Back at his house and I was reading Physics in the 18th Century (I'm a nerd) drinking tea as he was reading various Google news articles about the election and economy ect  when we heard several crashes, shouts, and the worst squeal of metal on tires.

The whole street was outside--along with the reckless cop car who raced down the street like it was 405 instead of a neighborhood.  As the crowd got bigger so did the word of mouth of what had transpired.  Our alcoholic neighbor in the apartment next door was driving drunk and as he turn down his/our street he hit 5-6 cars before a group of people who were yelling at him to stop opened the car door and pulled his keys out.  

Luckily no one was hurt but the shouting and video-taping on phones and the general mob that happens after such an event were still raging long after the fact.

It was still the hot story this morning as I sat in the sun on the porch outside munching on nachos as the neighbors and friends re-enacted the whole thing and spewing out the groupthink consensus (though highly accurate) that he had it coming, that he's an asshole, and you shouldn't drive drunk.  His girlfriend/wife who appears to be on some sort of drug as well keeps defending him and arguing with people that he has a heart problem.  That may be true, but the smell of booze and his behavior and history and the police arresting him rather than taking him to a hospital kinda refutes her claim that he wasn't his fault.  We may not know the whole story, but the general hype and news around these parts is that the drunk had it coming and thank God no one was hurt, the asshole.

And then the neighbors got their surfboards and their dogs and life is normal again.  Just an average crazy Wednesday night and Thursday morning at the beach, haha.

Day 293 (b) -- Conspiracy theorists and cello-playing linguists

I realize that I haven't talked about my roommates ever, and that's because I rarely talk to them.  But I figure it's as good as any to introduce us weird band of conspiracy theorists and cello-playing linguists. 

1.) The deadlocked 'I'm Not a Racist, I'm Not a Conspiracy Theorist' racist conspiracy theorist:  

This girl and I have had about 4 conversations in the entire 5 months I've lived here, and I haven't seen her since the end of January (today is March 17th).  The conversations I have had with her have included: (1) her telling me all about the shit-town she grew up in in New York, which had terrible weather all of the time and almost all of her ex-friends from high school are now meth-heads, (2) how she's not a racist, but after working at a homeless shelter she can't stand black people and thinks that they'll all opportunists [this doesn't include our black roommate, apparently], (3) we got to talking about our first memories and one of my mine was the TWA Flight 800 disaster.  She was at the beach when it happened and remembered the boom, and she's convinced that there is a hidden missile site near there and accidentally shot the plane down, and (4) her last roommate stole a fellow roommate's cat who was mistreating the animal, but once she noticed that her cat was stolen she called the police and it was an open case until they showed up to take the cat back.

Also, the last time I talked to The deadlocked 'I'm Not a Racist, I'm Not a Conspiracy Theorist' racist conspiracy theorist was when she got fired from her job (as a waitress at Dave and Busters) because they accused her of being drunk on the job, and she went to get a breathalyzer test to prove that she was not drinking.  She was just upset that a dear friend died at a young age of a heartache a few days early. Oh, and she also put a note near the sink that they found cholera in the water system of San Diego so boil all water.  No one did dishes for a week until a different roommate did them all and put up a note that said, 'We all need to pitch in with dishes!"

2.) Miss Priss: 

Now, I thought that I'd get along with Miss Priss when I first met her because she was interning at NBC and she bartended, and I was interning at a book publisher and bartended at work like once a week.  Well, she's one of those types who's aghast that I've never spent New Years in Tahoe because 'That's the place to be', plus she's one of those girls who wears tight white clothes most of the time with pricy boots, and uses the condescending word "hun" way too much.  The only people who should use the word 'hun' are either country folks, or people who work in breakfast diners--or does that make me prissy too?

3.) Lavender Brown: 

I call her Lavender Brown because she looks just like Lavender Brown from Harry Potter.  True story, aside from when I signed the lease papers I never saw her again until like 3 months later and I was literally confused over who the fuck was this girl in my kitchen.  Didn't recognize her at all.

She went to Northern Arizona University but dropped out, and now works at a music tutoring place.  She speaks in this tiny voice like she's always talking to a small child, and yet is the most popular in the house because she has friends in her room all the time.  A pink room with a daybed, by the way.  Those creep me out if you're over the age of 12.

4.) The Cellist/Linguist who doesn't have a clue:  

I first met the cellist when she interviewed for the newly opened room at my boyfriend's house.  We all thought she was too quiet and shy, and not the right fit for a social stoner house.  We were right.  She is quiet and to herself, and also a bit dim.  She was a cellist for awhile there but suddenly decided to change majors to linguists and become a translator and travel the world instead.  So she's currently learning Spanish in her junior year of college at the expensive UCSD.  She's such a complete idiot.  You don't have to waste money on college to become a translator and only people with years of experience will get hired.  All of her friends are Rosetta Stone people she talks to online, and will knock on my door to ask me to explain random words like 'bow-legged', and 'driver' (as in, the mechanical part).

5.) The Air Force Girl with the curly blonde hair: 

I talk to her the most, though she has a non-personality.  She's a smoker and I usually come home during her last drag of the night.  She was in the air force for a few years but has no opinion about it, and is now in community college for a major she has no opinion about besides vague interest (graphic design), and works as a receptionist which she kinda likes but isn't thoroughly excited about it either.  Most of conversations are one-sided as she doesn't talk much and stares a me blankly waiting for me to talk.  

But I do make her laugh.  I tell her stories about the hotel I work at, like bartending and this week getting told to move to Minnesota to do stand-up comedy and record my voice for NPR.  Really?  Really.  I also made her laugh about how I don't have a tv so when I see a commercial I'm extremely gullible.  Like when my boyfriend was on the phone for an hour so I was watching the Discovery Channel with commercials and now I suddenly want pancake mix, Clorex wipes, and a Dyson vacuum cleaner.  She joked back that Dyson are supposed to be pretty good at $500 a pop. I mocked the commercial by standing up and doing a fake presentation of new ball-pivot Dyson vacuum.  She was laughing and laughing, and since I was up I did my impression of when I went to the Mexican grocery store (it's cheaper) and how a little boy kept throwing a ball down the aisle and hitting my legs (intentionally?).  She and I are on the same page about the futility of college without experience and yet it's just in our conditioning to want to get more education.

So those are the girls I live with.  Oh craigslist.

293-- Warning shots

Warning shots have been fired.  I'm raging pissed and I'm severely doubtful that it's salvageable.  Not. happy.  Disappointed.  Repulsed.  But I'm not sad yet, and when that happens...well...then I guess it's too late.

Day 289-- "Concrete Wall"

I'm digging this song today.

Day 287-- Chicken wings and watermelon slices recipe

Prologue:

A few weeks ago my bf and I were on the prowl for a late-night dinner, going up and down the streets of the neighboring town.  We settled on this wing place which looked like a bad idea from the start, with its bright colors, high school football team atmosphere-- plus it was about a block away from a strip club.  

Surprise surprise, the food was awful.  My wings were coated in this orange dripping goo which tasted like some unnatural paste you've had in your cupboard for 6 years.  Hell, even the breadstick was wack, as it was some microwaved bread sprayed with wet butter and garlic taste.  I vowed I would make my own, and a much much better variety. 

Ingredients:

21/4 pounds of chicken wings

1/2 teaspoon of salt

1/2 teaspoon of pepper

1 teaspoon of cayenne pepper

1 cup of chili sauce (mild, spicy; whatever you fancy)

Directions:

1. Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.  If the tips haven't been cut from your wings, go ahead and either slice them off with a knife or cut the tips with kitchen scissors. Wash off the wings with cold water.

They should look like this in oven

2. Sprinkle a nice amount of black pepper and a few dashes of salt over the wings and rub the spices into the meat.  Sprinkle a generous amount of cayenne pepper over the wings and rub into the meat as well.

3. Line a cookie sheet with aluminum foil and place all of the wings on top.  Bake for about 20 minutes until the wings are golden.  Flip the wings over and bake for another 20-30 minutes until that side is golden brown as well.

4. Once you've pulled the wings out, drizzle with the chili sauce to get them soaked.  Wait about 1-2 minutes for the wings to absorb the sauce, and done

Review:

Wings are SO MUCH BETTER homemade, as agreed upon by the members of the house and their happy sauced finger tips and lips. Here's the thing about chicken: you need to be patient with it.  I have no idea why a steak can cook in 15 minutes and chicken takes 45, but that's life, and if you're cooking wings tonight make sure you start them before you get hungry (say around 5pm).  I served mine with watermelon slices and homemade potato skins.

Day 286-- Pam Anderson, Gwen Stefani, Russell Brand, and a playboy bunny enter a room...

Pamala Anderson, Gwen Stefani, Russell Brand, and a playboy bunny enter a room...

With 90s house music blaring, The Canadian, The Dietitian, the bf and I got ready for a party up in San Diego.  Now, I hate to stereotype, but I've liked just about every hairdresser I've ever met, and Mona, with her vibrant hair, tons of make-up, quick laugh, and warm personality is no exception.  Mona is a cousin of one of the neighbors and invited us to her welcome home party for her sailor husband (they're both 24ish, btw). 

The theme was a costume party, and if you think that sailors and costumes don't mix, well, stay tuned.

Mona asked my bf to dress up like Russell Brand like he had two Halloweens ago.  He still has all of the stuff--skull rings, leather bracelet, black fedora, a black pinstripe suit shirt, plus my on-loan skinny pants and my eye liner. He bought some black spray paint for his long golden hair and done!

The Dietitian was at a loss of what to wear so she looked around her room and found some pink boxers, loose boy jeans, a tank top, wrist warmers, and with some Rite-Aid sticky jewels on her forehead and flat stomach she was Gwen Stefani.

The Canadian has her trucker hat that says CANADA, so with some heels, short shorts, black marker to look like a barbed wire tattoo, a white shirt, and some balloons bought at Rite-Aid with the balloon ties moved to the front to look like nibbles, Pam Anderson was born.

I had been Katy Perry to the bf's Russell Brand, but since they're now divorced it was better to look for a different costume.  My sexy book costume from Halloween was too tame, all of the sheets were too long for a toga, and so in the aisles of Rite-Aid I found some bunny ears.  In my house I already had heels, fishnets, a blue corset, black short shorts, and some blue nail polish and the playboy bunny look was complete. 

We danced around the house as they took shots to pre-party, and we pumped outside around 10 for the ride there.  Admittedly we were more than curious how it would turn out.  The beach culture and the military culture don't always mix.

And wouldn't you know it, there were about 20 sailors and their girlfriends/wives and only two of them had on costumes.  Like I learned in going to a party school, when being outrageous and standing out, do it big and do it sexy.  Who the fuck cares?  Be the life of the party.

For the most part, everyone was pretty nice.  It took awhile to break the ice, but the conversations were mellow once people opened up.  There were tons of mixed drinks and techno in the background, plus a fire pit in the backyard.

And I like Mona's husband.  He was polite and funny, with a cigarette always dipped in his mouth like a commercial, and a plate of hot dogs he made for all of us.

We stayed until about 1am when the booze was starting to get too heavy.  While most of the night was spent chatting with people and casualness, my boyfriend was getting made fun a little too much, and with a slight argument over a pocket knife, and a few too many "faggot"s spewed out (I haven't heard that word since my freshmen year in high school), and it was getting pretty obvious that us in our fake boobs, lingerie, and fedora hat were becoming more out of place.  

The general consensuses on the ride home was that it felt really good to get out of our comfort zone and be in a different scene and a different part of town, but with some annoyance and embarrassment that it was a costume party and we were the only ones all dressed up.  It's kinda like that scene in Legally Blonde when she shows up for a party and feels like an idiot for being the only one in costume.  Like I told them, "You know, I don't really give a fuck.  Because I can guarantee you they'll remember us but we won't remember them." The Canadian/Pam Anderson laughed, "You know, I had this guy who came up to me and said, 'For the life of me I can't remember your name but I can't help but stare at your boobs." Isn't it something that even when boobs are egregiously fake that they'll still attract aroused attraction?  

And so we were home, and us two rock stars and two porn stars played hacky sack with one of Pam's balloon boobs.   A good night.

Day 281-- Trip to Seattle?

This pretty much explains my thought process

What this is trying to say is:

1.) I'm thinking about taking a trip to Seattle where Amazon Publishing and the University of Washington are located.

and 

2.) I don't know how to draw an airplane. 

Day 280-- The aggrevation of a piece of shit computer

Well, I only have about [feels bottom of laptop] maybe 7-8 minutes left before my computer shuts off on itself.  Fucking thing is on its last days.  I think the fans are broken, and the power cord hasn't been working properly for about two weeks.   I just ordered a new power cord for $8 on Amazon to try and make this thing last me until at least August when all of the good back-to-school sales start up.  I mean, it might work.  Or it might be a hardware problem and I simply need a new computer.  I do need one, but I would prefer to get one on sale or with a little somethin' somethin' extra included like they do for back-to-school, or Black Friday, or Christmas time sales.  

I dunno.  It was a piece of shit when I got it, it's been a piece of shit every time it's crashed, and now in its last days/months it's a piece of shit on its deathbed.  Such a huge aggravation since on a cold day like today I was planning on spending a few hours online looking for jobs, making a cd mix, finishing some letters, and watching a movie.   Fucking computer.  

Day 279-- Gringo chicken enchiladas

Prologue: 

I'm beginning to form a theory that maybe I'm not necessarily a picky eater like everyone thinks, but rather, I just don't like how restaurants prepare certain foods.  For instance, I've never liked soup that much, but once I started making my own I now suddenly do like soup.  So maybe what I don't like is canned, over-processed, or siiting-in-the-back-kitchen-for-6-hours soup.

And I have never liked enchiladas.  I've always found them to be way too saucy with not enough chicken, and the chicken that was featured was the fatty parts of the meat.  So when I got this weird craving for enchiladas I decided to make them my own my way, granted, the "gringo" way.  Gringo= Spanish slang to denote American foreigners--usually meant negatively but is used in SoCal with affection ex. the Dos Gringos restaurant chain.

As a gringo, I don't really like corn tortillas.  Sure, I'll use them for quesadillas if they're the only things in the refrigerator, but as a whole I just prefer flour.  Also, for this recipe I didn't use chipotle peppers because I'm a wimp, and I used black olives because they're yummy.  All that said, here it is:

Gringo Chicken Enchiladas

Prep time: 15 minutes

Cook time: 30 minutes

Total time: 45ish minutes

Ingredients

3 tablespoon olive oil

1 rotisserie chicken 

salt and pepper

2 teaspoon garlic powder

1 red onion chopped

2 cloves of garlic

1 can of corn (low sodium)

5 canned whole green chilies, seeded

1 can chopped tomatoes

10-15 flour tortillas

1 packet of enchilada sauce (which will call for one 6oz can of tomato paste+ water)

1 cup of colby jack cheese

1 small can of sliced black olives drained

garnish, cilantro leaves or salsa

Directions

1.) Dice up your red onion and your garlic if you buy them whole (I always buy minced garlic in those small jars. 1/2 a teaspoon = 1 garlic clove).  Heat up a large pot and drizzle in about 2 teaspoons of the olive oil.  Pour in your diced onions and garlic, stirring occasionally so they cook, not burn.

2.) While those two things cook, use your hands to shred your rotisserie chicken into tiny strips.  Sprinkle the strips with the garlic powder, salt, and pepper

3.) Take your green chiles out of the can, de-seed them, and dice them up.  Open your can of corn and drain.  Open your can of olives and drain.  Open up your can of diced tomatoes, but don't drain.  Add the chiles, chicken, tomatoes, corn, olives, and the last tablespoon of olive oil to the pot and stir.

4.) Heat up your oven to 350 degrees.  Follow the directions of your enchilada sauce packet.  Mine called for medium sauce pot and required bring to boil 3 cups of water, one 6oz can of tomato paste, and the packet mix.  Once it boils, bring it down to low temperature for about 10 minutes so it can thicken.  

5.) While you're waiting for the enchilada sauce to thicken, grate your cheese for about 1 cup's worth.  You can also pull out your flour tortillas, cover them with a damp paper towel, and stick them in the microwave for about 30 seconds to make them more pliable.

6.) Pull out a medium size glass baking dish.  Fill it with half of the enchilada sauce.  Now take a tortilla and dip into the sauce to get the entire thing coated.  Fill the sauced tortilla with a good helping of the chicken/pepper/corn/olives/tomato mix.  Roll up and place the tortilla seem down in the baking dish.  Repeat for the rest of the tortillas until all of them are tightly packed in there.   Sprinkle with your cheese and extra olives if you wish.

7.) Bake for about 10 minutes, or until the cheese is golden.  Take out and garnish with some cilantro or salsa.  Done!

Review

Funny how people always seem wake up, come home, or suddenly get really hungry right as something is coming out of the oven, haha.  It was a bit hit actually.  "Why can't Mexican food taste like this when I order it?" said The Canadian, and the rest of the house quickly ate up the rest.

It's a perfect dish to mix things up from too many pasta and hamburger nights, and for all of the ingredients listed, it's really not that much of a chore as long as you have a can opener and your finger tips. If you like real Mexican food, you'll probably hate this dish.  But if you like cooking from a 3rd generation Mexican/Portuguese whose Spanish is limited to "hola" "buen", and "pulga" then this is the dish for you.  Happy cooking!

Day 279-- Flying kites and the happiness of wet sand

New Years Resolution #19: Fly a kite.  Done. :)

Hello, Saturday and 75+ degrees outside at the beach for the kite festival.

We woke up around 9:30 at my place and started laughing about my boyfriend's drunk antics during the night.  He gets drunk maybe twice a year and last night was a real beauty when around 3am he got lost in my roommate's bathroom down the hall and almost locked himself inside by accident.  We were laughing so hard tears leaked out.

Finally around 11 we were ready to walk down to the kite festival.  I had purposefully requested today off work just so I could cross #19 off of my list of things to do, and what a perfect day for it.  It was definitely more kid-friendly with all of the games and puppets and mini rides, and I wasn't sure if I had the guts to make my own kite along with the kiddies.

But first breakfast and my absolute favorite hole-in-the-wall bakery in town which is simply called Donuts (which are only 70¢ by the way).  We got bagels with cream cheese and some milk, and sat at one of the few tables near the ice machine.  My boyfriend looked about ready to either fall asleep on the table or throw up on it so he politely decided it was best for him to go home for a nap and recovery.

So I finished my everything bagel and headed to Rite Aid to buy a kite.  I admit I felt a little silly in line as the clerk gave me an odd eye as if to say, 'Aren't you a little old for this?'.  Well, fuck her!  I bought my cheap owl kite and headed off to the beach.

Do you want to know what's funny?  When I got to the beach I was slightly confused on why it was so busy on "my" beach.  Duh, it's Spring Break.  Most people have to spend tons of money on gas to drive here or fly here and stay at hotels and stuff.  I live down the street from the ocean.  Pretty fucking cool!

And so I tried to fly my kite like the lady next to me.  We were both on top of the sand mountains the lifeguards create to cut down on the wind.  I would get air for about 30 seconds before the inevitable crash, though in all fairness, there was very little wind at the time and everyone was having trouble.

So I walked to my boyfriend's house for a few hours and made plans for an enchiladas dinner, plus groceries for the week.  I'm so tired of us being malnourished and only eating 1-2 meals a day, and with all of the bonuses I've won over the past week it was worthy of a food splurge.  

On my walk back home I decided to hit the sand mountains one last time, and was quickly disappointed that my kite would only fly for less than a minute.  Than stupidity finally hit me and I realized that my string should be tied to the flap on top of the kite instead of in the middle of the stick on the underbelly.  I made the fix and it soared.

I was so giddy I starting singing, "Let's Go Fly a Kite" from Mary Poppins--albeit, away from anyone who might have heard me.  Resolution done!  

My neighborhood

And in an ironic moment an old friend texted me about Portland and more good reviews on it.  When I wrote to her a month ago I was more gun-hoe about moving to Oregon for the trees and protest but since then things have...shifted.  I think it was when I visited Arizona and I realized that hey, I have a pretty good life in San Diego and while I'm still figuring out what exactly I want to do as a career and waiting for the job market to pick back up, it's pretty cool to be figuring it out while doing some once-in-a-lifetime beach living.  

And more than that, there isn't a deadline.  And that's a concept I've only now understood.  There is no deadline anymore, there is no graduation anymore.  There is only life.  And what kind of life do we want?

A week ago I was driving home when it hit me, "I live here.  I am a San Diegan."  Or maybe it was when I got my CA license a few weeks ago.  And I definitely know it was when I took my AZ friend's advice to live like I live in California and be open to the future, because living in a suitcase was making me miserable.

I realize that this change may seem sudden, or a surrender, or a 'choosing a guy over me'.  But really, I'm happy.  It's 46 degrees in Portland today.  And here I was on a Saturday afternoon, a simple walk to the beautiful Pacific ocean with the hippies and the dreadlocks, and preparing to make some yummy enchiladas after a wonderful round of sex, and flying a kite for the hell of it, and you just can't beat California.  You can't.  You can't beat the happiness of this relaxed lifestyle the first year post-college.  And look, it's not forever.  I'm not buying a house here or getting married or making roots.  I'm just living.  And after being blue and stressed and severely disappointed with myself these past few months it's really nice to be happy.

My part of town

After waking up alone 97% of the time in college due to my relationship being long-distance, it makes me happy to wake up to his handsome face and sandy blond hair as he makes fun of me for being a bed hog.  After getting anxiety attacks for being in the vast empty dead desert it makes me happy to walk outside and see the ocean.  After 16 years of tests, and essays, it makes me happy to have absolute free time.  And sex.  I will be writing an entry all about female sexuality this week, but for now let me say the gist: people have sex.  

Woman have sex.  But because it isn't talked about, it's become taboo and viciously attacked socially and politically.  We need to make information on sex less invisible to ensure our rights to chose sex and information to have good sex.  Pleasure is important.  Pleasure is a part of our reality, and it's certainly a part of mine in this post-college life, along with chocolate chip scones and wet sand on bare feet.

Speaking of which, I got my boyfriend to come join me in flying my kite.  Funny how a guy seems to know all about aerodynamics as the kite is flying...until it crashes [laughs].  We had a really good time out there watching the little plastic owl fly and trying not to crash on any people when the winds changed.


I'll talk more about enchiladas in my next entry, but let me say, Food 4 Less is my new favorite store.  I got a sack of potatoes for less than $2.  And I bought a watermelon for about $2.50.  Plus some spices for $0.89, and grapes for about $4.  More happiness!  

And what a perfect time to talk to S----.  We've been playing phone tag for weeks and in one of the last time we spoke she was having some drama with people and fighting the cold of the East Coast, and I was at my lowest low in being unhappy about work and my boyfriend being shady about his near-unemployement with the market being shut down and I truly wanted to leave California.  In this conversation she sounded great.  There's a love interest peeking on the horizon and she's actually really happy living in her town for now.  I told her about how the bf has been much more open with me about his work declining and the side jobs he's been taking to make ends meat, and being more open in general about our mutual poorness.  Plus work's been better and I look for new work every week. And as cheesy as it sounds, maybe what I want to do just isn't around yet.  Maybe that writing/social activist/feminist/creative/publishing/communications thing isn't quite there yet, or maybe I'm just not there yet.  But for now, it's ok.  

We talked about how we're out of the "blue stage", that cliff right after college when your life is shit because you realize you're not as important or talented as you think.  But then you accept what you are.  And you make plans to grow.  And you become happy and open for the things to come.

And so I'm happy.  It's not perfection, and I do wish that my career was in a better state. But you know what, I flew a muthafuckin kite on a beautiful day in a gorgeous city I live in, with someone who loves me and I love back, and well, I could end this entry by telling you that as I was driving at sunset with the palm trees in the window Coldplay's "Paradise" came on.  But I don't think you'd quite believe me. :)