Didn't know I was a fan of cross-stitch? Well, normally my art tastes are of the more modern variety. But for a good cause, I will shell out all kinds of outrageous cash, via Sky King's credit card.
What color frame would you use?
Mmmmm, pie.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Just When I Thought I Was Done Decorating...
I bid on this amazing cross-stitch the other day. It was donated to Band Back Together, and, being a giver, I knew I had to help.
Didn't know I was a fan of cross-stitch? Well, normally my art tastes are of the more modern variety. But for a good cause, I will shell out all kinds of outrageous cash, via Sky King's credit card.
What color frame would you use?
Mmmmm, pie.
Didn't know I was a fan of cross-stitch? Well, normally my art tastes are of the more modern variety. But for a good cause, I will shell out all kinds of outrageous cash, via Sky King's credit card.
What color frame would you use?
Mmmmm, pie.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Ensenada TaCoMa, The Thrilling Conclusion
For the first part of the story, visit here.
It was back to the joy-ride that is driving in Mexico. We meandered closer to the pinata and sombrero stalls, and my heart returned to a normal beat (normally I'm not this much of a chicken shit. But when tourists in cruise ports get robbed of their cash and passports, a paranoid bitch like me starts paying attention) I may be a thug-life motherfucker, but I'm not loca en la cabeza.
We pulled up to a structure that seemed to be missing the front wall*. Sky King's eyes lit up like a street hooker at an antibiotic sale. We walked in and went up to the counter of Taqueria la Comadre-there were simmering pots of yumminess as far as the eye could see, too many condiments sitting at room temperature to count, and the hygiene was definitely suspect-the proprietor spoke only Spanish--Bingo!
First up-3 tacos for him (asada, mole', and carnitas) and two for me (carnitas and mole'). The mole' (moe-lay) was chocolatey and gooey--cooked with chicken. I had never had a chocolate mole' before, and was excited. It was rich and flavorful. The carnitas was also gooey-wet and drippy rather than a drier carnita. Both were absolutely amazing. The asada was great, as well.
I was happy, satisfied, and proud of myself for embarking on a Taco Adventure with my husband. I figured we were good. Maybe a few more shops full of crap I didn't need, maybe a dollar margarita or five, then back to the ship.
How wrong I was. These tacos were just the tip of the taco burg.
It was two more stops before we really got into an appropriate taco seeking groove. First, we were all rookied out--order tacos, shovel tacos in, speak amongst ourselves, establish a direction to walk. By the 8th taco, we got smart. We started asking people where they ate. This became our new mantra....:::gobble, gobble, gobble, "excuse me, when you aren't eating these tacos, where do you go?", schlep, schlep, schlep, order, repeat:::
Next up on the Uh-Mazing Top 5 Tacos was Garibaldi's. We each had a single carnitas taco--we had finally realized this day was limited tummy space, and had decided to pace ourselves. While we waited, we watched Sky King's dream girl handcraft tortillas (fucking whore, I could have slapped the tortillas out of her). We received the carnitas tacos-they were a more traditional carnitas--slow-roasted then fried, to crisp some of the meat. The flavor was incredible-not too salty, the perfect hint of orange. Topped with pico do gallo, cilantro and onion, and we were conflicted. The first round of tacos were amazing and moist, saucy and bursting with flavor. But these were great in a different way. Alan, the owner--came over, and asked how they were, curious that we only had one apiece. We explained our mission, and he sent us to our next location, a sports bar up the way.
The next round of tacos were good-but we had had better-in the last 20 minutes. So it was one last stop, as the sun was setting and the town was becoming deserted of our cruising compadres.
Our last stop was Taqueria Mexico Lindo. This place was good. Not great (hell, our sample size was LARGE), but they get a special mention or two. The first, they carry Negro Modelo, which in Sky King's book gets major beer bonus points. Next, in the middle of our gluttonous scarf-a-rama, a mother with two young children came in to beg-her daughter was tugging on clothing, saying, "por favor?", and asking for a taco. The owner threw a tortilla on the grill, heated it, and handed it to her in a paper wrapper. The family walked away sharing the tortilla, but not before Sky King emptied his pockets into the little girl's hands-I think this was one of our biggest expenses-and worth every penny. Seeing a local businessperson show kindness to this family warmed our hearts--many of the local merchants looked at anyone begging with disdain, so it was especially nice to see an owner treat her and her family with respect.
The skies were darkening, our stomachs were ready to burst, and the scene of abject poverty threw a wet blanket on our taco extravaganza, so it was time to walk off some of the wonderful food.
Expanding waistlines and uncontrollable burping were the least of our concerns-each stomach rumble was a potentially explosive shabart. We had to move quick. We managed to find our original shuttle driver, who regaled in our tale of outlandish American gluttony.
The nextmorning day, we woke up full. Foggy-brained, but full. And excreting chile and cilantro from our pores.
*For reference, all of these locations are in the main tourist-y area, I believe the street has "Primero" in the name. The owners were all incredibly friendly, about half spoke English quite well, and they all appreciated our need to find massive amounts of authentic tacos.
It was back to the joy-ride that is driving in Mexico. We meandered closer to the pinata and sombrero stalls, and my heart returned to a normal beat (normally I'm not this much of a chicken shit. But when tourists in cruise ports get robbed of their cash and passports, a paranoid bitch like me starts paying attention) I may be a thug-life motherfucker, but I'm not loca en la cabeza.
We pulled up to a structure that seemed to be missing the front wall*. Sky King's eyes lit up like a street hooker at an antibiotic sale. We walked in and went up to the counter of Taqueria la Comadre-there were simmering pots of yumminess as far as the eye could see, too many condiments sitting at room temperature to count, and the hygiene was definitely suspect-the proprietor spoke only Spanish--Bingo!
First up-3 tacos for him (asada, mole', and carnitas) and two for me (carnitas and mole'). The mole' (moe-lay) was chocolatey and gooey--cooked with chicken. I had never had a chocolate mole' before, and was excited. It was rich and flavorful. The carnitas was also gooey-wet and drippy rather than a drier carnita. Both were absolutely amazing. The asada was great, as well.
I was happy, satisfied, and proud of myself for embarking on a Taco Adventure with my husband. I figured we were good. Maybe a few more shops full of crap I didn't need, maybe a dollar margarita or five, then back to the ship.
How wrong I was. These tacos were just the tip of the taco burg.
It was two more stops before we really got into an appropriate taco seeking groove. First, we were all rookied out--order tacos, shovel tacos in, speak amongst ourselves, establish a direction to walk. By the 8th taco, we got smart. We started asking people where they ate. This became our new mantra....:::gobble, gobble, gobble, "excuse me, when you aren't eating these tacos, where do you go?", schlep, schlep, schlep, order, repeat:::
Next up on the Uh-Mazing Top 5 Tacos was Garibaldi's. We each had a single carnitas taco--we had finally realized this day was limited tummy space, and had decided to pace ourselves. While we waited, we watched Sky King's dream girl handcraft tortillas (fucking whore, I could have slapped the tortillas out of her). We received the carnitas tacos-they were a more traditional carnitas--slow-roasted then fried, to crisp some of the meat. The flavor was incredible-not too salty, the perfect hint of orange. Topped with pico do gallo, cilantro and onion, and we were conflicted. The first round of tacos were amazing and moist, saucy and bursting with flavor. But these were great in a different way. Alan, the owner--came over, and asked how they were, curious that we only had one apiece. We explained our mission, and he sent us to our next location, a sports bar up the way.
The next round of tacos were good-but we had had better-in the last 20 minutes. So it was one last stop, as the sun was setting and the town was becoming deserted of our cruising compadres.
Our last stop was Taqueria Mexico Lindo. This place was good. Not great (hell, our sample size was LARGE), but they get a special mention or two. The first, they carry Negro Modelo, which in Sky King's book gets major beer bonus points. Next, in the middle of our gluttonous scarf-a-rama, a mother with two young children came in to beg-her daughter was tugging on clothing, saying, "por favor?", and asking for a taco. The owner threw a tortilla on the grill, heated it, and handed it to her in a paper wrapper. The family walked away sharing the tortilla, but not before Sky King emptied his pockets into the little girl's hands-I think this was one of our biggest expenses-and worth every penny. Seeing a local businessperson show kindness to this family warmed our hearts--many of the local merchants looked at anyone begging with disdain, so it was especially nice to see an owner treat her and her family with respect.
The skies were darkening, our stomachs were ready to burst, and the scene of abject poverty threw a wet blanket on our taco extravaganza, so it was time to walk off some of the wonderful food.
Expanding waistlines and uncontrollable burping were the least of our concerns-each stomach rumble was a potentially explosive shabart. We had to move quick. We managed to find our original shuttle driver, who regaled in our tale of outlandish American gluttony.
The next
*For reference, all of these locations are in the main tourist-y area, I believe the street has "Primero" in the name. The owners were all incredibly friendly, about half spoke English quite well, and they all appreciated our need to find massive amounts of authentic tacos.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
And Yet, I Still Speak to my Mother
Way back when I was a wee little 6 year old, I wasn't this outgoing social joy than I am now. Hard to believe, but true.
In fact, Share Day was filled with apprehension. I wanted so badly to have an amazing "share", and I would scour my room for the perfect item. It had to be unique, yet awesome. Thought-provoking yet not too perplexing. Individual, but not too out-of-the-box. You know, like a large collection of scratch 'n sniff stickers, or a toy kitten that had a corded remote. Maybe the kitten would even mew every 5 steps. Or something else equally epic.
This particular Share Day, I had struggled with my choice. Nothing seemed good enough. To top it off, I was running late-likely my mom was ruing the day she made me, while trying to brush the tangles out of my tender scalp.
So there I am, sitting in a line, waiting for my turn. I have a strange ceramic frog with variegated paint. Truly, I had dug to the bottom of the "Share" barrel for this one. I have no idea what I was thinking: this frog wasn't going to help my social status. I was on social thin ice as it was. Especially after that whole one-pair-of-left-handed-scissors-debacle. :::deep sigh:::
This is why this next part is so truly heartbreaking-I was already facing a stunted social life between the fight for the scissors and my stupid ceramic frog. I'm fairly certain I was intending on lying about the story behind the frog, as I have no idea how it came into my possession. My spiel would likely include "it's very special to me", and "it's a ceramic frog from my Grandma", and "it's green. And brown." Truly poetic gold.
Apparently, the age of 6 is rife with all kinds of social rules, most of them imaginary, and residing in only my head. One of them is letting people know you have bodily functions. Like, you know, using the bathroom.
So there I am, holding my frog, sitting 4th in cue. I'm sittingIndian Style Criss Cross Applesauce (sorry, that's what we called it in the 70's), waiting. I have jammed my heel into my hoohaw, fighting the inevitable. I'm doing the potty dance while sitting, which is unbelievably difficult, but necessary.
Then, it's my turn. I slide into the Teacher Chair.
Me: So, this is my frog. It's really special. It's brown and green. Umm, that's about....
Bratty little bitch: Where did you get it?
Me: From my Aunt. Or Grandma. So, ummmm...I guess that's it...
Some other little whorebag: Do you have any other frogs?
Me: No.
Shithead: Is it your favorite ceramic animal?
Me: Yes.
Fuckwit with a lisp: Is there anything written on the bottom?
Me: No.
Kid that smells like old cheese: What did you name it?
Me: WTF is your problem???
Me: :::dribble, dribble, dribble::: I unleashed my entire bladder. In front of the whole class. On the Teacher Chair. Slowly, because I'm still in denial that it's even happening.
The rest of the day is a blur, and I have psychologically blocked it. However, the next morning? Clear as a fucking bell.
Me: I don't feel well.
Mom: You don't seem to have a fever...
Me: It's my stomach.
Mom: Oh. Wait, I know what's going on here. Sweetie, no one is going to even remember yesterday, I promise.
Me: (imagine overly dramatic whiny high pitched complaining-I know it's a stretch) Yes they will!!! They will tease me, and it will ruin my life!!!!
Mom: Now, stop that right now, Missy. You need to stop being so dramatic. They will not even remember, and finish getting ready, you are going to be late.
Me: :::scowl:::
...later that morning...
WHOLE CLASS: OH, LOOK!!! Here comes Potty Pants!!! Potty Pants, Potty Pants, stinky dinky Potty Pants!!!! Bahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!
I still can't believe my mom lied to me with a straight face. And I still can't believe I believed her.
In fact, Share Day was filled with apprehension. I wanted so badly to have an amazing "share", and I would scour my room for the perfect item. It had to be unique, yet awesome. Thought-provoking yet not too perplexing. Individual, but not too out-of-the-box. You know, like a large collection of scratch 'n sniff stickers, or a toy kitten that had a corded remote. Maybe the kitten would even mew every 5 steps. Or something else equally epic.
This particular Share Day, I had struggled with my choice. Nothing seemed good enough. To top it off, I was running late-likely my mom was ruing the day she made me, while trying to brush the tangles out of my tender scalp.
So there I am, sitting in a line, waiting for my turn. I have a strange ceramic frog with variegated paint. Truly, I had dug to the bottom of the "Share" barrel for this one. I have no idea what I was thinking: this frog wasn't going to help my social status. I was on social thin ice as it was. Especially after that whole one-pair-of-left-handed-scissors-debacle. :::deep sigh:::
This is why this next part is so truly heartbreaking-I was already facing a stunted social life between the fight for the scissors and my stupid ceramic frog. I'm fairly certain I was intending on lying about the story behind the frog, as I have no idea how it came into my possession. My spiel would likely include "it's very special to me", and "it's a ceramic frog from my Grandma", and "it's green. And brown." Truly poetic gold.
Apparently, the age of 6 is rife with all kinds of social rules, most of them imaginary, and residing in only my head. One of them is letting people know you have bodily functions. Like, you know, using the bathroom.
So there I am, holding my frog, sitting 4th in cue. I'm sitting
Then, it's my turn. I slide into the Teacher Chair.
Me: So, this is my frog. It's really special. It's brown and green. Umm, that's about....
Bratty little bitch: Where did you get it?
Me: From my Aunt. Or Grandma. So, ummmm...I guess that's it...
Some other little whorebag: Do you have any other frogs?
Me: No.
Shithead: Is it your favorite ceramic animal?
Me: Yes.
Fuckwit with a lisp: Is there anything written on the bottom?
Me: No.
Kid that smells like old cheese: What did you name it?
Me: :::dribble, dribble, dribble::: I unleashed my entire bladder. In front of the whole class. On the Teacher Chair. Slowly, because I'm still in denial that it's even happening.
The rest of the day is a blur, and I have psychologically blocked it. However, the next morning? Clear as a fucking bell.
Me: I don't feel well.
Mom: You don't seem to have a fever...
Me: It's my stomach.
Mom: Oh. Wait, I know what's going on here. Sweetie, no one is going to even remember yesterday, I promise.
Me: (imagine overly dramatic whiny high pitched complaining-I know it's a stretch) Yes they will!!! They will tease me, and it will ruin my life!!!!
Mom: Now, stop that right now, Missy. You need to stop being so dramatic. They will not even remember, and finish getting ready, you are going to be late.
Me: :::scowl:::
...later that morning...
WHOLE CLASS: OH, LOOK!!! Here comes Potty Pants!!! Potty Pants, Potty Pants, stinky dinky Potty Pants!!!! Bahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!
I still can't believe my mom lied to me with a straight face. And I still can't believe I believed her.
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