Food Friday, Figuratively Speaking

Since I’m such a procrastinator, I thought I’d give you two Food Fridays for the price of one…even though I didn’t eat either dish on a Friday and this post isn’t going up on a Friday.  Such a rule breaker, I am.

It Figures

Last Thursday, TopChef, Partner in Snoring Crimes, and I enjoyed an absolutely lovely day on Coronado Island across the bay from San Diego.  After taking a long leisurely walk through town during which we snapped pictures, enjoyed a sprinkler shower, and plotted our BlogHer schedules, we stopped at Candelas on the Bay, a restaurant that specializes in the “Mexico City” style of cuisine.  Considering my experience of Mexican restaurants is limited to Chi Chi’s and Chipotle, I can’t really tell you what the “Mexican City” style of cuisine means.  But, I was ready to give it a go.  And because I’m a mature 32 year old woman, I didn’t even look at the menu before we went in to to see if I would like anything.  I was gonna take a chance.

My big chance – Pollo al Chipotle.  Pollo is basically the only Spanish word that I know, even if I don’t pronounce it right.  So, yeah, I totally chickened out and ordered…the chicken.  Now, why didn’t I order the 101 other options that would’ve been new and different?  It boils down to practicality, really.  I knew that there was a very real chance that I wouldn’t get dinner – there was swag to collect that night – and a hungry Denise quickly turns into a hangry Denise.  I wanted to make sure that I ordered something that I knew I’d like and I'd actually eat, especially to ward off any possible mood swings. 

The presentation of the meal was exquisite.  Upscale restaurants really know how to plate their entrees!  The chicken, stuffed with mozzarella and spinach, was beautifully covered in a chipotle sauce and topped with some weird green stuff.  Being the mature 32 year old woman that I am, I quickly scraped the icky green stuff off the chicken and dug in.  And boy was that chicken delicious!  So juicy and tasty with a little kick paired perfectly with –

“You’re not going to eat your figs?”  That was TopChef from across the table. 

That’s what that green stuff was?  Figs?  Well, well, well.  Figs are edible?  And not just in Fig Newtons, which I must now admit, I’ve never eaten either.

Okay, okay, mature 32 year old woman who is trying new foods speared a fig onto her fork, put it in her mouth, and chewed.

“They’re sweet!” I exclaimed.

TopChef informed me with, I think, a bit of amusement that yes, indeed they were sweet.  Figs are fruit after all.  Yeah, I didn't know that either.     

Those figs were pretty darn delicious.  And totally undeserving of being pushed off to the side of the plate.  I needed that reminder - don't just push something to the side without trying it first because chances are, you're going to enjoy it.   

I ate the figs.  But I couldn't do the black beans.

It’s All Greek to Me

Today, my mom and I went to a little restaurant not far from where I live.  It’s called the Hickory Ridge Grill and was I thought a little place that you could get burgers and other general fare.  Boy was I wrong!  It serves Ameri-terranean cuisine; American food with a Mediterranean flaire, served with Greek hospitality.  While the food was great, I want to give major props to the wait staff…they were amazing and so nice.  When you experience great service at a restaurant, it makes the entire meal that much better.  I'll definitely be going back; the service alone warrants a return trip. 

I decided to order something that I couldn’t pronounce - pollo, just kidding!  I got the pastichio.  Basically, it’s Greek lasagna with pasta and ground beef topped with a béchamel sauce.  Not very adventurous, after all – heck, I’ve not only eaten lasagna, I’ve cooked it (shocking, I know)!  It was super yummy although not exactly new for me...but can I get a little credit for not ordering the burger?!

It's a Boy!

No, no, no, I’m not still gushing over the hot salsa dancer.  Although, have I mentioned how awesome that was?  I’m about to tell you about another boy.  Now, what I’m about to tell you may land me in swag jail, so, you know, if you want to start taking up a collection for my bail money, that’d be great. 

First, let me tell you about women bloggers.  We’re intelligent; we’re serious; we’re funny; we’re thought provoking; and boy, do we have a way with words.  We’re a force to be reckoned with.  We are influential.  One of the stats that was mentioned (I’m pretty sure I got this right) was that 80% of women would buy something that they read about on a blog.  So, no wonder major brands flock to conferences and give out free stuff.  I mean, in one night, I got colored pens (3M), a birdhouse kit (Lowes), a sausage croissant sandwich (Jimmy Dean), Smurf figurines (McDonald’s), and, well a lot of other stuff.

I think one of the biggest forces in the blogosphere may be moms who blog.   I’m going to try not to call them mommy bloggers anymore because I met tons of ladies this weekend who are moms blogging about lots more than their kids.  Moms who blog are using their voices to do all sorts of cool things from advocating for kids with special needs to promoting healthy living and everything else in between.  And if you’re a mom who blogs, you get the best swag at conferences (Toys.  Lots of toys!)

My pals – moms who blog – got invited to a swag suite filled with kid-centric swag.  I made the walk over with them and had a choice – sit outside and wait for them or try to get in.  It was amazingly easy to get in.  (Do you have that bail money collected yet?)  As we stood in line, TopChef told me that they might ask about my kids so I’d better invent one fast.   

After about one minute of labor, little Luke bounced into the world.  He just turned two in May and we were beginning to potty-train him but he was stubborn, just like his father.  Maybe I started potty-training too soon?  He liked trains and wanted to be Batman for Halloween.

ImagaLuke was so easy.  I totally skipped over that whole infancy phase and I didn’t have to worry about cutting those tiny little baby nails, I didn't have to worry about supporting his little baby neck so his little baby head didn’t pop off, and best of all, I didn’t have to change any diapers (which is good because I’ve never changed a diaper in my life and I wasn’t gonna start with my imaginary son, or um, anytime soon.  Just putting that out there.)  ImagaLuke was also laid-back, always ate his dinner, and never, ever threw a temper tantrum.  What a good little imaginary boy he was!

Don’t get me wrong.  Even though I was a fake mom, I worried about ImagaLuke.  As I picked up a small toy, I worried that ImagaLuke might put it in his mouth and choke on it and…crap, I don’t know the Heimlich and I certainly don’t want to do what my mother did to me when I was choking on something; when I ate a sample of vitamins, I realized that ImagaLuke should probably take vitamins and eat fruits and vegetables and other healthy things and wow, that could be a problem with a mom like me; when I was given a cool, awesome thermometer, it dawned on me that if ImagaLuke was sick, I was the one who had to take care of him even if I was sick too and what if his father was out salsa dancing with other ladies and I didn’t get a nap or a shower* or…okay, a little overboard right there.     

The swag was nice and all but being a mom to an imaginary boy was hard! 

For right now, I’m content with just being friends with moms and moms who blog.  Especially if they get me into the cool swag suites. 

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All the swag I got from this particular suite was either given to my moms who blog friends or will be donated to Toys for Tots. 

*There’s one thing that’s always worried me about motherhood.  Showers.  Not the ones where you get presents but the ones where you get clean.  My childless friends and I discussed this at the beach.  We all like long showers but can moms take long showers when they’ve got kids on the loose in the house?  At our first breakfast in San Diego, I asked my moms who blog pals and they assured me that yes, you can take a long shower when you have kids.  Whew.  And thanks to my new friend, Partner in Snoring Crimes, I know where to put the kids so they don’t, like, burn the house down when you’re in your 20 minute shower!    

Dancing Queen

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  
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So, a couple of interesting things happened to me at BlogHer. 

The first happened on Friday morning at the Newbie Breakfast.  Out of over 3,600 bloggers, I met someone who graduated from my high school two years before me.  She told me that she saw me at the 5K and she thought that I looked familiar.  I don’t like when I look familiar.  Brown hair, brown eyed girls are a dime a dozen.  I want to look just like them.  Boring brown hair, brown eyed girls who kinda fade into the background and who don’t look different from all the other brown hair, brown eyed girls in the world.   And who sure as hell doesn’t look familiar to you.  But you know what?  I decided to change my overly sensitive reaction.  Yep, I’m familiar alright.  I’m not just your average run-of-the mill brown hair, brown eyed girl…I can’t fade into the background; heck, I don't want to fade into the background anymore.  Yeah, I stick out a little from all the rest.  But, do you know what that means?  I’m memorable, damn it!    

So, this encounter with my fellow brown hair, brown eyed high school alumna (who I confess wasn’t familiar to me at all) brought memories of high school flooding back. 

Ahh, high school.  High school was where I perfected the “everything is great!” façade.  I was happy, smiley Denise.  The nice girl with the disturbing number of over-sized tee-shirts.  That style choice sure took a long time to grow out of! (Anyone?  Anyone at all?  Okay, no more jokes for you!) 

I was always happy, smiley Denise.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror in the girls’ bathroom because, well, her face wasn’t worth primping or preening over.  Happy, smiley Denise who knew what hallways to avoid so she didn't have to hear the mean taunts and rude comments.  Happy, smiley Denise who loved to dance but who didn’t get asked to dances because girls like her didn’t get asked.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t feel worthy of being asked to the dance. 

That’s not to say that happy, smiley Denise didn’t go to dances.  Oh no.  My friends and I hit them all up, except for Prom, but we had other plans.  When we went to the dances, we danced together as a group.  There was never any boy asks girl, boy puts hands on girl's hips, twirl, twirl, dip, dip, kinda dancing.  At least, for me.  But that was okay, really.  Besides, that kind of dancing is how babies get made.      

I liked to dance.  I still like to dance.  Nowadays, my dancing takes place in my car (I’m a great driver’s seat dancer), my cubicle, my kitchen, Aisle 3 in the Safeway.  Usually, by myself.  Actually, that could explain the curious glances I get in Aisle 3.  Awkward.  I dance because it’s fun and I like it and if there’s music playing, I like to get my groove on.  I’m totally cool with getting that groove on without a partner.  Although, every once in a while, I think it would be nice to dance with someone.  Well, as long as no babies get made. 

On Saturday night, my pals and I went to the Latina Social Fiesta party.  They hired smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers to entertain the crowd.  I was content to stand to the side, shaking my booty, swaying from side to side as I munched on an empanada and a quasi fish taco and watch as the smoking hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers pulled women from the crowd to dance because, you see, girls like me may go to the dance but we don’t get asked to dance.  

As one of the smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers approached us, my naughty friends strongly encouraged him to lead me to the dance floor.  So there I was being pushed and pulled (for future reference, it’s physically impossible to dig your feet into a concrete floor) into the center of the dance floor. 

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  Oh my gosh.  A real live boy is dancing with me.  Me!!

Under the stars in San Diego, I danced with a smokin hot, sexy as hell guy who put his hands on my hips and twirled me around and dipped me and led me in the salsa.  It was absolutely magnificent.  And no babies got made!   

Happy, smiley high school Denise?  She was totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  She just didn’t know it. 

Happy, smiley, salsa dancing Denise?  I'm totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  I know it.  And I believe it.    

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As far as I’m concerned Goal 6 has been accomplished.  It wasn’t the right song and my partner wasn't wearing cowboy boots but I danced the salsa under the stars in San Diego with a real live boy!  That deserves a spot on the Goal Board. 

Connections

On Wednesday, I headed to BlogHer'11.  My friends and I flew into Nashville where we had a connecting flight to San Diego.  Luckily, there was plenty of time to spare between the flights and we didn't have any problems making our connection...because missing it would've been annoying.
  
On the flight to San Diego, I sat next to a nice young girl named Brielle.  We started talking and I found out all sorts of things about her.  She's 17 and lives in Nashville with her mom and grandparents.  She has two little half-siblings who call her Big Sissy.  She starts her senior year on Tuesday but she's going in on Monday to help the underclassmen.  She took in a stray cat a few years ago, she has five house plants, and she reads the Bible.  She was flying to San Diego to catch a connecting flight to Sacramento.  I'll never know how Brielle's trip to Sacramento was and I'll never find out what college she picks or anything else about her because our paths will surely never cross again...but for a few hours last Wednesday, we made a connection, fleeting as it was.

When I arrived at BlogHer, I found out that this conference is all about connecting.  Connecting with brands to get swag (because yes, this borderline hoarder needs free crap like a hole in the head!); connecting with fellow bloggers as you lamely tell them that your blog is about your life (yep, because the other 3,599 write about the same thing!); connecting with strangers at lunch because they just had to sit at your table where all you wanted to do was eat in peace so you could pick all the lunchmeat off the roll without feeling like a freak or a four year old; connecting with bloggers in lectures in which you learned about connecting with readers.  It was  a heckuva lotta connecting.  It was so exhausting that by the end of the day, the only thing that I wanted to connect with was my bed.  Snoring be damned.  

I'm actually not the best at making connections with people.  On the surface, yeah, sure.  I'm  the gal everyone knows and waves to and who seems like a jolly good time.  But the honest to goodness, trust you enough to let you in, trust you enough to let you see me, the real Denise...that's been a work in progress.  This year has been a turning point for me.  Maybe it's the blog, maybe it's the quieting of all the voices in my head (except the ones who speak up on nights when I eat Oreos too late), maybe it's something that even I can't explain, but this year, I've started making those connections.  There are people in my life who I know I can count on, the ones who I trust enough to give my spare house key to, the ones who I can invite over without caring that I didn't clean up all the clutter, and the ones who I can call or text or Facebook about whatever crazy thought crosses my mind.  They're my connections;  they're my friends.  And boy, am I glad that I didn't miss out on them.           

So, go out and make connections.  Maybe even play Connect Four.  Whatever.  Just don't miss any more connections.

Sweet Dreams or Not

When I was in Seattle this past April, I woke up one morning with a worrisome thought.  As we sat on our hotel beds watching the early morning Seattle news, I looked over at my mother and asked, “Mom, will anyone ever love me?”

My mother’s heard this song a million times.  “Of course,” she replied, her voice filled with the maternal assurance that she’s developed over 35 years of mothering.

“Will anyone ever love me even though I snore?”

Same song, different verse. 

My mom looked down at the ear plugs on the nightstand that separated our beds and said, “Sure.”

Yep, that was reassuring. 

I snore.  And not like the snoring when you think, aww, that’s kinda cute.  Nope.  My snoring has been described as sounding a lot like a foghorn.  It’s enough to scare small children and sweet old ladies and, if I ever fell asleep in a cemetery, my snoring might even wake the dead.  I’ve actually never heard myself snore – is that even possible?  I don’t know, I take my hearing aid out when I sleep so if I’m noisy, I don’t hear myself.  See, there are some perks to being hearing impaired.  That said, I have heard my brother snore…and if I sound anything like him, well, I’m in trouble.  I was staying at his house one night, sleeping on the couch in his living room.  When I woke up the next morning, I heard this awful motor sound that seemed to be shaking the house. I thought his heater was about to explode or something.  I used my superhero investigative powers to figure out where the sound was coming from…turns out, it was coming from the second floor where my brother was sound asleep, snoring away.   

It’s something that I worry about.  I mean, I don’t lie awake at night worrying about it – because I’m too busy snoring – but I do worry a little.  Like, what if I finally meet Mr. Right Cowboy and he comes home after a long day on the range and makes us dinner and then wants to grab some shut-eye.  But he can’t get any sleep because I’m, you know, snoring.  When do couples start talking about these kinds of things?  On the first date?  Date 10?  Date 25?  Maybe I’m stressing about it too much. 

Why am I stressing about it?  Well, because I’m going to BlogHer this week and I’m sharing a hotel room with another blogger.  We work together but don’t know each other super well, I mean we can ride the elevator together without that weird awkward elevator silence but if I had to put her in one of my Google+ circles, it would either be in Work People, Acquaintances, Friends of Friends, Bloggers…gosh, I need to re-evaluate my circles.  Anyway, we’re sharing a room and I’m a little nervous that a) she won’t get any sleep for the four nights we’re in San Diego because I snore; b) I won’t get any sleep for the four nights we’re in San Diego because I’ll try to stay awake all four nights just so I don’t disturb her; c) I’ll meet Mr. Right Sailor (since I don’t think cowboys are hanging out in San Diego) and…yeah, well, it’s a long-shot so I won’t even worry about c.

Oh well.  Maybe I should just stop worrying altogether.  I mean there are worse things than snoring, right?  Like…morning breath. 

Oh geez.  Don’t even get me started worrying about my morning breath.

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Stay tuned to read about my adventures at BlogHer 2011.  And to find out if my snoring keeps 3,000 conference attendees awake!