The tacos dreams are made of

I have never been to Mexico.

Well, Mexico proper. I've been to Tijuana. But I'm not sure that counts, plus I don't like to think about it because those memories inevitably just glom together into a mess of confused 14 year old after being propositioned in an alley emotion.

But I love Mexican food.

It's truly unfortunate then, that I live in Calgary, which is a barren wasteland of Mexican food delights. We have some high-gloss tex-mex eateries- like Julio's Barrio and Chilis and Avocado Grill, but they don't scratch my itch.

We have some smaller family-run restaurants that are more authentic, but difficult to get to, out of my price range or open sporadically.

But last night Gary and I tried out a new place that opened on 17th Avenue. Los Chilitos Taco and Tequila House opened a few months ago. We were on our way to grab dinner at Moxies when we took a detour and decided to try something different.

I am so glad we did.

The restaurant is small, with a handful of tables in two small rooms. It's a bit sparsely decorated, but feels warm and a mix of blind daters, families and groups of studenty-looking people were scattered about.

While the portions were small, the prices were right. My steak burrito with rice and beans was nicely spicy, tender, juicy and delicious for $12.95, as was Gary's taco platter. We shared a flan for desert and with two sodas, our total was under $40.

My one gripe, other than small portion sized entrees? No free chips and salsa.

We left satisfied, but not stuffed. Next time we go back - and there absolutely will be a next time - I think we'll order an appetizer to share. And perhaps peruse the tequila menu.

Ole!

I wish...

I wish it would snow.

I wish Gary would let me put up a Christmas tree.

I wish we actually had room for a Christmas tree.

I wish I wasn't so rational and understanding and willing to make this Christmas tree related compromise.

I wish playing Rock Band didn't give me so much wrist pain.

I wish I could curl up between the words on the pages of the book I'm currently reading, swathed in woolens and flannels and dusty lace. I wish I was damp to the bone, toes clutching a hot water bottle. I wish I could steep tea properly and owned a cameo brooch. I wish I lived in a faux-Victorian London fairyland.

I wish Colin Firth was there, too.

ROOKIE!

Today I'm in Vancouver to see the Royal Winnipeg Ballet's Moulin Rouge. We're presenting this show in Calgary and Edmonton in a few months so I'm here to see what we bought so I can turn around and sell it to the likes of you! (ticketsmakegreatchristmasgiftsbuythemforyourlovedonestoday!!!)

I used to travel a lot for work. Once upon a time I had this swishy job that I hated. I hated it, I hated the work I did, I hated the company, I hated myself, I was miserable and then, surprise, I was laid off. Ultimately, the only good thing to come out of the whole experience was the knowledge that the Arts world is where I belong. And Platinum Status with the Fairmont Hotel's President's Club.

And a really firm grasp on business travel survival strategies.

But anyway. Here I am, in Vancouver, where I've been dozens of times, walking up and down the street I used to, swishing around in the puddles, hauling out my business lady luggage, strategic packing tactics and sturdy, yet sexy walking appropriate shoes.

And then, I totally forgot a coat. And an umbrella. And some anti-frizz cream for my hair.

I am wet, I am frizzy, I am cold and I am cranky.

These, my friends, are rookie business travel mistakes. And I'm no rookie.

On the upside, I totally remembered my very best push-up bra and cocktail attire, so Vancouver: be prepared to meet my cleavage.

Same ending

A few years ago I bought a book called Pretty Little Mistakes. It's a choose-your-own-adventure story for adults- this fascinated me, because I loved those books as a kid. I trot it out every couple months when I'm looking for something to kill time, but don't want to invest in a novel.

Last night I was at a photo shoot and flipping through the book. The back cover tells me that over 150 different endings are possible, and to be choose wisely. Horrible things happen in this story, but great plot lines exist, too.

Every single time I've read this book, every single decision I've made- from whether to go to art school or travel Europe, get married, join a cult, kill my rapist or have a Lesbian affair- the end is always the same:

I die.

Lately I've been struggling with decision making. I am capable of making decisions. I'm quite good at it, actually. But recent events at work and play make me doubt myself and my judgment. I've wavered back and forth, concerned that I'm not doing the right thing, or that I thought I'd done the right thing but it's now become apparent that it is in fact, the wrong thing. I'm losing sleep over the small choices, because I believe it's never one big mistake that causes life to go awry, but a string of small bad decisions.

But hell. If no matter what I decide to do, I'm going to die at the end of the story- why sweat the details?

Climbin' the corporate step stool

I don't usually blog about work, but I kind of want to brag a little bit so I hope you'll forgive me.

Today it was announced at work so I can officially share that I was promoted! Hoo-rah! Now I have a "Manager of..." title and will have a direct report. Which means that I'm supposed to be a Grown Up Lady who is in control of her business.

This also means no more jeans and ponytails at the office.

Which is a bummer. I was really getting used to not wearing pantyhose and high heels everyday.

This is my problem, folks. I can do casual. I can do business appropriate (actually the official dress code at a former job). I totally fail at business casual, even more so considering I work in a "creative field". Okay, I work in the Arts. So nothing sexy like advertising going on over here...

Any of my fashionable hard-workin' lady/man (I don't exclude) friends have any opinions about rocking out jeans and a ponytail/clipped up hair do while still looking all professional, respectable, funky, grown-up lady like? because I'd love to hear them!

I'd, uh, also like to be comfortable and able to get dressed in like, 10 minutes, if possible.

Red cup!

image
Starbucks released their seasonal holiday drinks yesterday. I'm sipping my first Gingerbread Latte of the year, only to discover with disappointment that I'm finding it too sweet. Christmas is ruined.

I Hate/Love Adult Ballet Class, or, How to Humiliate a Megan

Adult Ballet class is not easy, people. I hate it. I have a new love for ballet, an incredible respect for people who do it, but seriously. I hate Monday nights from 7-8:15.

The first time Gary held my hand was on our fourth date. (How gentlemanly!) Remind me to someday tell you the horrifying tale of our first kiss. Because let me tell you, it's a miracle he even called me again, let alone that we're still dating and share a postal code.

So anyway. On that magical fourth date evening, the first words out of his mouth upon clasping my hand were, "ooh, clammy hands."

This is relevant because last night, I was forced against my will to HOLD HANDS with another woman over the age of 20 and SKIP.

Did I mention that we are encouraged to wear tights and leotards?*

And the whole time, running through my head was:

pointedfeetbackstraighttummyinbumtightOHMYGODSWEATYPALMSpointedfeet

Adult ballet is HARD, people. Not only because it requires grace, class, and elegance, but also because it makes you want to die on the inside.

*tease. I wear yoga pants. But I get glares from Miss Ballet Instructor, who is alarmingly scary and I might actually consider the leotard and tights combo to avoid any further scorn.

AND ANOTHER THING!

Dear Facebook,

Please stop prompting me to "reconnect" with ex-boyfriends. Um, thanks for the daily reminder of my youthful stupidity?

Hugs and kisses,

Megan

Things that Chap my Hide: November 2 Edition

This morning I reveled in the joy of the end of Daylight Savings time and actually responded to my alarm clock, getting out of bed at an appropriate time.

I leisurely had breakfast, did up my hair, put on makeup, even dressed myself in an outfit with coordinating accessories. It was going to be a good day!

Then I got ready to leave our apartment and noticed, on my way out the door, that I had a giant run in my tights. We're talkin' knee to ankle. Brand new tights. Why do I even bother?!

I hate you, tights, for making me scramble to choose a different outfit, fussing up my hair and making me miss the early bus. I arrived not early to work, looking mussed and haggard, as always. Thanks. A LOT.

Secondly, what is it with me and bringing random cans to work for lunch? Last week I brought a can of fruit cocktail. To work. For lunch. This is not an appropriate lunch. Today at least I have a can of soup. But that's it. Grumble.

Thirdly, the sound of the printer at work is driving me crazy, but everyone else has either a) deserted us for greener less insane pastures or b) has the H1N1 and is too sick to come to work. Dang you all.

I'm the Marquess of Grumpsalot today, peoples. And I'm wearing cheap synthetic new shoes from Payless that are blistering my tiniest toes juuuust in time for my ballet class tonight.