Fat Fingers. Flat Tires

Doors are weapons. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise. On Monday night my poor right index and middle fingers fell victim to a heavy door being swung open as they reached to grab the handle on the otherwise. The collision let my poor digits bruised, battered, and the size of a 300 lb. man's.

I arrived home that evening to find the sweet fella waiting to tend to my injury with Rice Krispy Treats and Diet Dr. Pepper (he knows the way to my heart, I tell ya). When I stepped out of my car to give him a hug we both heard a steady and distinct hissing sound coming from behind me. Sure enough my car's front tire was slowly pancaking.

Never fear, of course, for the strapping lad expertly and deftly switched out that flat for a shiny, new one - not a new flat... a brand new tire. Quite an eventful night to be sure, but it's never ever dull around these parts.

Zoo Sunday

When you work for a church it's pretty rare that your weekends are free, but this past weekend I was blessed with an open Sunday. I worked our worship experiences on Saturday night but was able to sleep in and enjoy my Sunday. Typically I arise at 4:30 each Sunday morning to be at my campus by 5:15, so waking up after the sun was a welcome change.

I wasn't really sure how I would cope with the empty hours. I was afraid that by lunchtime I'd be rocking in a corner from the lack of activity. Instead, the sweet fella decided to take his Sunday off too, and we spent a glorious day of togetherness.

We both slept in, and he headed my way for a breakfast/brunch of chocolate chip pancakes, strawberries, cheesy eggs and my attempt at making coffee. I loathe coffee, the fella loves it, so I decided to try my hand at brewing a pot. What came out was pure sludge, but he claimed it was exactly how he likes it and drank it anyway - stray grounds and all.

After a leisurely meal, we headed about an hour and a half south and spent the afternoon at the Riverbanks Zoo. I have been dying to go to the zoo forever, and this trip was perfection. The weather was warm and a bit overcast, and we spent several hours wandering from exhibit to exhibit. I really couldn't have imagined a better trip. The time in the car was filled with singing, laughter and conversation, and really added an extra layer of enjoyment to the day. He forgot his camera, and mine was officially dead, so we purchased a disposable one (I can't wait to get those shots back) and snapped a few on my phone. I wish we had better mementos of the field trip, but these will have to do. If you follow me on Twitter, you probably rethought that decision as I tweeted picture after picture of #zoosunday.




When we rolled back into Charlotte, we got spruced up (again, no pictures... le sigh) and went to an exquisite dinner at Ruth's Chris. Starting with sweet chili calamari, petite filet for me, ribeye for him and shared sweet potato casserole and sauteed mushrooms, luscious and perfection are really the only words to describe the meal.

I feel so blessed that someone would go so out of the way to make me feel pampered and appreciated, and the fella managed just that. I'm beyond excited about where this relationship is headed. I've gotta good one.

As Good As It Gets

Y'all. My job? Wow. The things I get to do are just mind boggling. Please sock me in the face if I ever complain. Last night our worship team had a live recording for their upcoming worship CD and DVD. To say that it shook the house would be an extreme understatement. I just kept looking around and pinching myself that I get paid to produce these types of events. If you need a little musical inspiration or encouragement, please hop on iTunes and check them out as soon as possible.

Party Pooper

Someone is attacking me with crap.

Seriously.

Someone is continually leaving me gifts of feces. I can't seem to understand why I've been blessed with such presents of friendship, but quite frankly, it's worn out its (non existent) welcome.

It started with bags of crap (Crapbags) and as of this morning has evolved into poo. on. my. door. unbagged. smeared. disgrossting. I just seriously don't understand why this is happening or who's doing it, but I'm about to catch that joker brown handed and make him/her pay. Dearly. Crappily.

Accidentally In Like

So it seems that I have unintentionally narrowed my list of suitors from three until roughly one. And I also don't feel exceedingly alarmed at this result. Here's what I'd been working with.

The Pilot - sweet, handsome, generous guy. Potentially homo- or a-sexual. We've been spending time together since Thanksgiving, and he's yet to so much as hold my hand (although one night after a margarita or two, I guess he was feeling frisky and planted a big ole smooch on my cheek). He flies a lot, so he isn't in town often but asks me on great dates whenever he is. However, I think he will land safely (har har) in the friends zone.
The Chemist - funny, witty, tall, cute, albeit geeky chemistry professor with a penchant for velcro orthotics. I've enjoyed my time with him, but clearly the velcro has repelled former paramours, and he is overly enthusiastic for some lovin'. Purely the opposite of the Pilot, as it so happens, and also a major turn off for this girl. He's being shelved for now.
The Chef - I don't even really like that classification for him, but since everyone else is being categorized by occupation, that's what it will be for now. This fella has emerged from the pack as a reluctant front runner. When we first started fraternizing, I expressed bluntly that I had no desire to be interested in him. He'd dated several girls from church, and I didn't want to be another underline in his Bible, so to speak. He respected that, and thusly we began spending time together. And then more time together. And then he started winning out when I had multiple offers for dates. So without meaning to - in fact, actually meaning to do the complete opposite - I've fallen in like with The Chef. Funny, sarcastic, smart, driven, and kind, it appears that he's won out.

Sproutin' Flavor

Anytime I blog about food I'm surprised that I don't do it more often. I love cooking. I love baking. I do both frequently, but rarely do I record my ventures here. I love cooking produce and seafood, in particular. My most recent obsession happens to be Brussels sprout. If you follow me on Twitter you'll see that I devote at least one tweet a week to this magical vegetable, and I truly believe that I have perfected the art of cooking these mini-cabbage delights.

As a church staff we recently (as in today) completed a five day juice (consuming juice and water only) fast in celebration of what the Lord has done through our church in the past five years (11,000+ salvations... unbelievable) and to develop a spirit of expectancy of what He will do in the next five. I was surprised that I didn't have more trouble on the fast. A self-confessed caffeine addict, I only experienced one caffeine headache despite dropping that habit cold turkey on day 1. I was not nearly as hungry as I expected I'd be, but what I missed the actual action of eating. And I discovered that I got really tired of sweet, fruity flavors really quickly. I didn't crave anything in particular... except these sprouts of goodness. I can't explain to you how badly at the end of day 2 I wanted just a bite of a Brussels sprout.

I hadn't grown up eating these sprouts. My mom abhorred them as a child and didn't make them for us. I just assumed I'd hate them because common kid-speak would advise that they were disgusting, and my mom's distaste for them only cemented that idea. A few months ago after tapping out the different ways I could eat asparagus, zucchini, squash, and broccoli, I happened upon a lovely little bag of Brussels sprouts in Harris Teeter and decided to give them a whirl. Try them. I promise you will not be disappointed. I just made up this recipe on the fly, but I'm thrilled with the results.

Roasted Brussels sprouts:
Chop tough ends off of Brussels sprouts then slice in half. Place all sprouts in an oven-safe casserole dish. Drizzle with olive oil. Coat with liberal amount of white balsamic vinegar (this is the secret, in my opinion. I think regular balsamic vinegar would be too strong, but the white is sheer perfection and gives them the ideal bite. I tend to put a lot on mine, but do it to taste). Sprinkle with black pepper and Tony Chachere's cajun seasoning (the other secret ingredient. I adore Tony's and put it on e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g). Top with liberal amount of coarse sea salt and one thin pat of butter (optional... I make them with and without butter and can't usually tell a difference. I think the butter just adds a nice finishing note). Place in 350 degree oven for about 20 minutes or until centers of sprouts are softened. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and enjoy.

Seriously, I'm drooling for these right now. I eat them almost daily and could really go for a big ole bowl as I type. It's 9:54 a.m.

Stinger

This morning I hopped in the shower as I do every morning. I felt my foot hit something almost papery and assumed it was a Band-Aid that had washed off the previous day (clearly I love leaving trash in my shower). All of a sudden I felt a pain coursing through my foot. Looking down I realized I had managed to step directly onto a wasp, which was now violently attacking my ring toe. I shook it off and down the drain, but really? Who else does that happen to? My foot is now swollen, and my leg is partially numb. I kind of feel like Macaulay Culkin in My Girl. Let's hope my ending is a little less tragic. The Vadas in my life need me.

Called Out!

Today I got called out by my sweet friend The Shabby Princess. She totally held me accountable for not having updated this little cobwebbed corner since January 2nd. That is pretty ridiculous.

So here's what's been going on with me: lots of work and little downtime. And I don't mind one bit. Not one tiny bit! Y'all, I am in love with my new job. It's intense and overwhelming and tough, but I'm thriving in the environment. Being able to work in an insanely creative environment with fantastic people bringing glory to God? I mean, it's phenomenal.

My dating life hasn't been all that shabby either. I've been spending time The Pilot, The Chemist, The Cook and a few others who haven't been given nicknames as of yet. Nothing significant but lovely nonetheless.

Life is just all around good right now, but I can't help but feel some days like a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper that some jerk cashier leaves on the rotating belt so that when it reaches the end it falls over. When you open it, it fizzes out and then falls flat. I am certainly full of bubbles these days, but I can help but let the excitement fizz out and feel a little flat. Does that make sense or just whiny? And is this the worst comeback post ever? More than likely. Buuuut it's what I've got tonight.

How to Make an Entrance

Following an incredible week of Christmas worship experiences at work, the staff of Elevation was given the week after Christmas off. It was so nice to just unwind and relax and decompress. After spending a few days at home being lazier than lazy, I jetted to New York to spend time with The Supermodel and ring in the new year in the city. I'll post pictures and a more comprehensive recap this week, but the trip up there was just much too exciting to share.

I arrived at the Charlotte-Douglas airport with little trouble. Checked in, checked my bag, made through the metal detector. Following my body scan, however, I was pulled aside and asked if I had anything concealed in my left pocket. Immediately I reached in to grab the bobby pins hiding inside. "No! Do not touch your pocket!" my TSA comrade demanded. I explained that I merely had some hair accessories in there, and she let me slowly and cautiously pull them out to show her. "Because you set off our system," she explained, "I will need to search your lower body thoroughly." She made hand motions as to what that would entail, and she was right. It was thorough. I passed.

Following that nerve-jangling ordeal I made a pitstop at the airport bar for a quick libation before boarding my flight. A woman came and sat next to me at the bar with her book Emotional Unavailability and How to Combat It. She was clearly battling it with some strong liquor. I quickly finished my beverage and dashed over to my gate to board.

I'm generally not one to chat with my airplane seat mate, but on this flight I befriended my neighbor - a cinematographer who not only has a documentary currently on the Oscar short list, but also worked on The City. He educated me on both honor killing in Iraq and what Whitney Port is really like (thumbs up). As we were chatting, I noticed the man sitting in front of me starting to get a bit agitated. Before I knew it he had turned around and begun angrily telling us off in a mix of Russian and broken English. From what I gathered, apparently we were disrupting him. A flight attendant intervened to calm Stalin down, and normalcy resumed.

After landing at LaGuardia my bladder decided it was past due for a potty break, so on my way to baggage claim I pit-stopped at the ladies' room. When I got to baggage claim I made a quick search for my phone and realized that it was nowhere on my person. Frantically I dashed back to the bathroom hoping I had simply left it on the counter when I washed my hands. It was nowhere to be seen, so I peeked into the stall I had exited, and sitting daintily at the bottom of the toilet bowl, covered in commode water was my phone. I plucked it out, and miracle of miracles it worked! For precisely 30 seconds. Then it gave up life and died. Excellent start to the journey.

After gathering my bag, I headed out to grab a taxi. On previous visits I've used a car service, which is less expensive and more convenient than a cab, but with the holiday and a slew of reidrected flights, the company was sold out. I figured it would be no problem to just hail a taxi and make it to The Supermodel's apartment. As would be my luck, however, the cab line wrapped around the building, and we were informed to expect to wait for hours. Panic started to set in as I realized I had a dead phone, no transportation and no way to let my hosts know I would be delayed.

My eyes settled on a city bus, and I assumed my best option would be to take the bus to a stop and catch a cab there to hop over to the Upper East Side. I entered the first bus armed with cash and was told Metro Card or change only. I traded several bills for approximately $2 worth of change with a sweet homeless woman who directed me to the proper bus line. As it happened I was still short on change, but between my flustered movements, incessant chattering and huge suitcase, the driver told me I was fine and insisted I just go ahead and get on.

As we started moving on the overly crowded vehicle, I realized I had no idea where to get off or even what I was doing. I befriended a very competent (almost frightfully so) 12 year old who happened to be a bus regular. She told me that lots of people she knew use the Astoria Boulevard stop. As soon as I reached that one I knew it wasn't for me. The next stop was 125th & Lexington. "LEXINGTON!" I thought excitedly. I know that avenue, so it must be a good choice. Yeah. Not so much. Unless you can picture me in Harlem after dark. Let's just say that I received lots of helpful offers from the neighborhood crowd.

Finally, an unmarked car pulled up and offered me a ride. I was dubious of whether or not it was actually a taxi, so I requested to see his registration, and he obliged. Although I saw it, I'm still not positive. He charged me an arm and a leg, but deposited me safely on the Upper East Side. It only took me two and half hours and a few gray hairs, but where would the fun be in making it easy, right?

The Punchline

This morning I received a text message from my friend The Joker announcing that he's seeing someone. And, as it so happens, that someone is not me. He declares that he loves spending time with and talking to me and would love to continue doing just that, but he wanted to be honest and upfront about the situation.

So. There's that.

I'm definitely bummed, but I completely respect him for just telling me. He didn't owe me that, and he wasn't obligated to give an explanation. I applaud him for being a truly good guy. Now on to the next!

On deck? The Pilot. A sweet, handsome, Southern gentleman a couple of years older than me who went to Auburn and flies corporate jets for a living. We've done coffee and lunch and tonight is the natural next step... dinner. Cheesecake Factory. I'm pretty excited. I was also pretty excited when he asked me to fly with him on a private jet he was piloting to New York on Sunday, but alas, snow and wind made me nervous, and I declined. I felt like I'd turned down an opportunity to star in my very own Bachelor episode, so hopefully he'll bring a rose tonight to get me back in the game.

In other news, I hate roses.