jMcJohnson

to really want these to be my next pair of glasses?

They’re bold, but something about them just feels right. What do you think?

For as easily bored and annoyingly mercurial as I can be (sometimes) no one loves routine and order more than I do. I have often thought that my dream job would be working the night shift at a supermarket; restocking all the shelves and facing all the product so that when you stood at the end of the row, you would see all the different cans and jars and boxes each in their rightful place, standing at attention with no pesky gaps or holes. Regardless of what kind of damage the 2-for-1 specials or the five year olds or the clumsy stoners did to the shelves you could rest assured that as the lights went out on each aisle, all would be right again and ready for the morning; just like yesterday and the day before. No permanent damage had been done.

Just the thought of that fills me with a contented satisfaction that is not as readily available in my non-supermarket world.

Due to my love of the usual I have found myself frequently getting left behind by some of life’s little (and big) bumps in the road. Dwelling on things I have no control over, worrying as if it were a physical action, creating new endings in my mind to stories that have already been told. Wanting and trying to fix-whether the problem is myself (my favorite DIY project) or someone else. All my life I have heard quite a lot of “move on” and “just get over it” and most of the time it’s true. But it is a slow process for me. I linger over the said and the unsaid, the what-if, the potential of a miracle (or a disaster.) I have a hard time taking situations at face value. I am all about “reading into” situations, words, people. Things morph and move and change and while others seem to glide through it (or do their figuring alone) I come to a dead stop until I can figure a way to fix it, to resist adapting to it, to wonder that endless (sometimes answer-less) question…why?

So what’s a recovering routine-junkie to do? The answer I suppose lies in loving the flux. Embracing the unknown. I suppose I just have to find a way to re-set myself at the end of each day, and realize that if I am missing a jar of spaghetti sauce in the grocery store aisle that is my heart; if everything does not look perfect and flawless and familiar, that it’s fine, it’s ok, I can still sleep. I don’t have to be afraid.

I can navigate that new terrain tomorrow.

We had an amazing weekend seeing about a million friends. This weekend I:
-Attended a baby shower for my lovely glow-y pregnant friend
-Ate barbeque twice
-Saw a Martin Sexton concert (more on that later)
-Missed seeing Jen B. at Howl at the Moon (darn!)
-Slept about nine hours in three days
-Had an upstairs water leak partially flood our back porch/kitchen
-Saw a couple co-workers party like rock stars
-Ate maybe the best cake I have ever had
-Had my hair styled by four little girls
-Drove to Olathe in crazy snow/ice
-Got sassed by a cop
-Have (possibly) permanent nerve damage in my toe from wearing high heeled boots for 13 hours
-Witnessed my cat having a stuck turd and wiping his butt all over my apartment
-Went to bed one night without showering (first time in maybe a year)
-Went to bed at 9 PM on Sunday night

And I took exactly ZERO pictures of it all. I lived it instead of trying to preserve it, and that was great.

Here’s to getting back to normal!

Last night I had a realization. I had felt this coming for a while now, but I had really just never let myself admit it. It dawned on me that I can’t keep denying my feelings anymore, life is too short.

Last night, at El Maguey, I realized I am that person.

That person who likes fajitas.

Seriously! I have NEVER ordered them at a restaurant before, and last night I had a weird hankering for them AND they were on sale for $8.99 (proof that God wanted me to try, and subsequently love, fajitas)

I always secretly felt that people who order fajitas were attention seekers. Seriously, how many times have you been at a Mexican restaurant when the the guy with the oven mitt holding the crackling, sizzling, steamy plate heaped with smoking meat and vegetables comes busting out of the kitchen and all eyes follow the hot plate to the table and everyone thinks, “Oh, so THAT’S the guys who ordered the fajitas” and the guy thinks, “Oh, there are MY FAJITAS” and then the waiter says, “Be careful, hot plate,” as if there was any question of that after hearing the sizzle and smelling the smoke?
(On a side note, why can’t they just put the fajita guts on a regular plate? Is it not finished cooking or something? Do they cook it directly on that little silver skillet-thing? Or it it just the FAJITA DRAMA that the people like? My vote is the latter.)

Well last night, that steamy, sizzly plate came out of the kitchen FOR ME, and I am never going back to regular, non-dramatic Mexican food again. The meat was smoky, and cooked to perfection with a generous assortment of peppers, onions and tomatoes. I didn’t even bother with stuffing the little lame-ass tortillas, I just ate the meat RIGHT OFF THE SKILLET. I am that hard core. As I surveyed the restaurant, I could see that clearly everyone was impressed with my meal, but no one more than me.

Call me a drama queen, call me a tostada traitor, call me what you will. But the next time you hear the sizzle and see the smoke, you can bet that skillet is headed my way.

Viva fajitas!