Drop It Like It's Hot

Remember when I wrote that super long post about names and what's in a name and how my cars have always lived up to their names and then I ended the post with saying we had named our new car Ghetto Baby?

Well. We made the right choice. Our car is a thug.

Just last week after church Tad and I were at the local Dunkin' Donuts, enjoying our coffee and sweets when I happened to glance at Ghetto Baby sitting in the parking lot.

And wouldn't you know it. The temporary license plate was gone. Gone. As though Ghetto Baby was all, "I ain't be needin' this! What you think I am? I'm'a bust a cap in the Piggs a try to get at me!"

"Oh no," was our obvious reaction. And then, "What are we going to do?"

Clearly, the plate had blown away on the way to or from church. So clearly it lay beside the highway. 5, maybe 10 miles out. Which meant clearly we were stuck. On a Sunday. With no license plate. On the other side of town.

Carefully, cautiously, we made our way home, feeling like fugitives on the run. I went as back-roads as I could, trying to keep cars behind me at all times so that OTHER cars, COP cars couldn't claim the spot. When we did finally pass a cop (it was inevitable, if you knew the roads we took and also where we were headed), he, thankfully, was too busy chatting on his cell phone to notice.

So, we made it. Safe and sound. And our little Ghetto Baby was able to get his thrills in for the time being.

Or her thrills. (We kind of think it's asexual).

What can I say? It ain't easy being gangsta.

Around the Fort: Michoacanas

I love new things. New places. New experiences. I'm the ultimate experimenter. The one who grabs at each new Pringles flavor as soon as it hits the shelf. The type who never buys the same shampoo twice. Or toothpaste. Or hair spray. The sort who, when coming across a crowd-pleasing recipe, will toss it out in place of something else. Something different. Untried.

So how do I explain that I've been in Fort Wayne for 7.5 years, but have yet to experience all those nooks and crannies I've been eyeballing from the comfort of my car?

I don't. I simply make way for reformation. (

My friend Cassie and I have constructed a running list of all the places and things we want to do, see, experience and taste before the end of the summer. And while it's growing larger by the day, I cannot tell you how liberating and exciting it is to actually begin to EXPERIENCE the things I've always thought I'd one day get around to doing. But knew I wouldn't.

And yet, here we are.

I present my first review:

Michoacanas (I think)

Off of Wells Street, across from the very popular Hyde Bros. Bookstore, is a new-ish Mexican establishment called Michoacanas. I think. (This place is so authentically Mexican, in its decor, atmosphere, food, advertisements, that we honestly couldn't pinpoint its exact name. But still, I'm confident in saying it's Michoacanas. I think.)


Upon entering, we were met with a number of handmade ice cream choices. From their window advertisements, I gathered this was their specialty. But still, Cassie and I were there for more than a bit of sugar. We were there for food! There's just something about un-Americanized foreign food that gets me singing. Maybe it's the experience. Or the surprise. Or the taste. Maybe it's just the fact that is food. But I was really excited about this one.

And nervous. The menu on the wall to the left of the ice cream stand was entirely in Spanish. So, we stood there for a few seconds, making out the few words that we knew, like "pollo" and "taco" and "queso", but, we were soon saved. The girl behind the counter whipped out menus (with English translation). (She was just a teen, too, so there wasn't any problem with translation stuff).

We both ordered chicken burritos and milkshakes. Large milkshakes, mind you. Because we're Americans. And because they didn't accept plastic for orders less than $10.

And then the girl asked us if we wanted cinnamon on our milkshakes. And like true sports, we said yes. In both my vanilla and Cassie's strawberry shakes. Cinnamon.


The food was quite good. Even the cinnamon vanilla milkshake (although it kind of tasted like rice pudding). The burrito was far less greasy than the Chipotle/Qdoba burritos I'm used to. And they didn't seem to skimp on ingredients. I detected fresh avocado. Real chicken. And homemade tortillas. So that was a huge win.

Then, when we were halfway done, an employee from Cebolla's (another Mexican place) came in. And before we knew it, it was bustling with activity. And we were the only whities.

And that's when we knew we'd hit the jackpot for authenticity. It was beautiful.

Before we left, an older lady who had been working in the kitchen made us sample some of the ice cream, and let me tell you ... I could definitely go for some of that when summer hits!

Michoacanas
Mmm Factor: MMMM (4 of 5 Mmms)
Atmosphere: 4.5 of 5 (for make me feel we were truly in Mexico, sans the heat)
Authenticity: 5 of 5 (for cultural-ness)
Overall Experience: 4 of 5

My Pocketbook

Colleen over at Designing dna tagged me in this fun little game where we show who we are ... through our possessions.

So, with no further adieu, I present the contents of my purse:

You are all so very lucky that I happen to be carrying the purse with the LEAST AMOUNT OF JUNK INSIDE. And while I could bore everyone with an endless photo stream of all the loose receipts and business cards and papers that float around in my OTHER purses, I figured the few odd items in my current bag would create enough amusement.

Even if they require some explanations.


A. Wilton Mint Crunch Sprinkles (because I took them to a friend's house to make mint brownies which were amazing and haven't thought to put them away)
B. An envelope that includes my entire identity (because we just got a new insurance plan at work and I needed to fill a bunch of stuff out)
C. Checkbook (because sometimes I need to write checks)
D. Bare Minerals Lip Gloss in Rose (because I got it for free when I bought some of my wedding make up from Ulta and I always think I'll wear it even though I never do. Ever)
E. Cell phone (an Env2 or however it's spelled)
F. Dunkin' Donuts (because I run on Dunkin')
G. A Turkish coin purse (because it makes me feel cultured when I use it)
H. A wallet (because I need something else to hold all the cards I don't use ever)
I. A scissors (can't remember how that got there...but I was quite happy to discover its existence after thinking it had vanished for eternity)
J. A cigarette case from Forever 21 (because I just couldn't find anything else as awesome looking to hold my camera)

Tagging:
All the ladies (or men) who read this blog every now and then and have blogs, Flickr accounts, or something similar of their own AND who also carry purses.

I'm talking about you, Meghan! And you, Katie! And you, Sara!
And the rest of you who read this blog under the cover nightfall ... it's time to show yourself!

Real Potential

Overheard at the gym:

"Some people work at places where you can't come in with a hangover, man. Yeah! Some people . . . you can't even come in with a hangover!"

Best State Ever!!!

There's nothing weirder than watching television when suddenly a commercial comes on that you swear is showing a shot of dolphins in your home state.

Followed by a skyscraper that has a glass box jutting out of its side -- that you swear is in your home state.

Followed by buffalo that you admit could be in your home state.

Followed by an Abraham Lincoln nose that you're convinced is in your home state.

Followed by a gorgeous cave that you've heard is in your home state.

Followed by a skyline that you KNOW is in your home state.

Followed by an announcer who says:

Mile after Magnificent Mile. EnjoyIllinois.com

And then you realize that you have just witnessed a tourism commercial.
You've seen them all your life. But they've always been for Alaska. Or the Dakotas. Or Wisconsin.

But now you've seen one for your home. Or, what was your home for the majority of your life. Before you moved to a state that assumes everyone has heard of a particular movie even though everyone, especially you, has not.


And it makes you a bit proud when you realize that your state looks way way way awesomer than all the other states. Combined.

Though you may be a bit biased.

A Show of Hands

Anybody else hang their wrinkly clothes up in the bathroom right before they shower so that the steam effect will de-wrinkle them? Any takes? Anybody?

A Lot of Rambling Just to Say I DON'T WANT TO DO MY TAXES

There is no easy way to broach this subject. No way of getting around looking like an irresponsible freak. Yet, I believe this is something we need to discuss. Because I have only recently uncovered my fear of filling out forms, and I'd just like to take some time to talk about it. It's only after talking that the healing can begin, right?

So a few months back Tad and I bought a KitchenAid Mixer. It was a big purchase, but we knew it would get used (a lot) and we ran into a very nice deal. Something like a 20% off coupon plus a $30 mail-in rebate. Score! So, we bought it.

And the days turned to weeks and suddenly the rebate had expired without us cashing in. I, of course, get blamed for this (though I am not the only one who knows how to address an envelope), but pshhh. What does it matter. It's just $30, right?

Then, at the end of last year, we were to use up all the money in our Flexible Spending Account, otherwise it would be eaten by the mean and evil insurance company. So, I stocked up on ibuprofen and Maalox and even bought a brace for Tad's wrist (for work).

And the days turned to weeks which turned to months and now I'm not sure if my claims notice will get there in time.

Most recently, tax season looms. Now, I have been historically terrible at taxes. I swear if I ever get promoted to some big-time government position, WATCH OUT TABLOIDS AND FOX NEWS, because I will definitely cause some hefty scandal with all my tax evasions and form FAILS and lies! Oh, the lies I will tell as I deny that I know anything about messing up my taxes...oh, the lies.

But anyway, the days will turn to weeks and before we know it it will be April 14 and I'll be scrambling to make copies of our W2's and figure out how in the world I'm supposed to PAY TAXES ON MY BUSINESS (????), and I'll get it in just before the Post Office closes on April 15 with my fingers crossed and my prayer going something like, "God, please make it just as hard for the IRS people to get a hold of us in our apartment as it is for the UPS guy to deliver a package. Amen."

So all this to say that I believe I have a deep-seated fear of forms and form-filling-out-ness. ESPECIALLY when it involves numbers. There's just something about it...something about how you have to be exactly right. No room for error. No chance you can just 'make it up'. That totally irks me. Because I was not a math/science kid in school. I didn't know the perfectly right answers. I just knew answers that sounded good. Knew how to make them sound good.

Which is how I got 6 out of 8 points on this one Physical Geography question in college that had like three different things you were supposed to do to indicate air and wind and high pressure on a US map and all I did was put an "H" on Chicago. Didn't even touch the other components of the question.

My reasoning? It was my favorite city.
The truth? Chicago happens to be a main area of high pressure air currents (or something like that).

See? I prefer flying by the seat of my pants. None of this black and white/right and wrong garbage. None of these forms with numbers.

Why can't taxes include a written essay?

What's in a Name?

There is this belief that parents doom their children to lives of success or failure based on what they choose to name them. Classic, simple names, such as Henry, Richard and Alice, bring about possible CEO-awesomeness and a life of yachts and time shares. While oddly-spelled and experimental names, such as Jaedon and Leesa and Stone, are more likely to produce fast food cashiers and women of the night.

Not sure if I buy into the whole name=future thing (I'm thinking it's probably more like socioeconomic status=name=future), but I must admit, I've seen some curious happenings.

Point and case . . . my cars.

I named my first car, a fully loaded 1990 Audi 100, Fitzgerald. Partly for the author. And partly because I like the way it sounds. But mostly because no other name would do. He was Fitzgerald and that was that.

And he lived up to his name.

That car was the grumpiest, most temperamental old man I have ever known. One example of his complete difficultness: Fitz simply would not start. Sure, he needed some work done and yeah I was getting ready to get rid of him, but out of nowhere, the car refused to cooperate. So, I let him sit for three months and then I called the junkyard to have them come and take him away. And what happened? He started right up. Yup. As though nothing was wrong. HE STARTED UP FOR THE GUY WHO WAS GOING TO TURN HIM IN TO A MILLION PIECES. It was as if he wanted to die and end his miserable existence. Or at least get under my skin one last time.

Sheesh.

So then my next car, a 1997 Volkswagon Jetta GLX VR6, I named Mary Jane.

And, as luck would have it, she turned in to a junkie. She was a repair-addict and really liked frequenting the shops of various mechanics in the area.

Good riddance.

So, when Tad and I named our new (to us) car, we took all of this in to consideration.

Ok, no we didn't.

We named it whatever the heck seemed right.

We named it Ghetto Baby.

Pictures to come.