Moving Day!

That's right, everyone, I'm outta here!

It's been real, blogspot, but I need my space. My own space. And now I finally have it.

My own space is right here! It's a work in progress right now, but I have BIG plans for its future.

Come visit me!

And come follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest (give me your e-mail address if you want an invitation!), and StumbleUpon!

Hooray! I'm so ready for this new chapter of life!

Rummage through Rubbish

When I was about 7 years old, I told my mother I wanted to be a garbage collector. When she asked me why, I told her it was because I wanted to be the first person who got to see all the cool stuff people threw out.

She makes fun of me for it to this day.

I wanted to be a lot of things as I grew up; I was totally not one of those kids who knew their dream career by the time they were expelled from their mother's womb. I know plenty of those, and I always felt like there was something wrong with me because for the longest time I just had no freaking clue what I wanted to do or be. Nothing ever felt right.

I wanted to be a math teacher, an English teacher, a history teacher, a garbage collector, a massage therapist, a stay-at-home mother, the President, a Spanish teacher, a writer, a Giordano's dancer, and, of course, a nurse.

I'm not sure I've ever admitted this to anyone, but it was Dr. Jon Dorian and the staff of Sacred Heart Hospital that made me want to go into medicine.

That's right. Scrubs.

I got into the classes - high school A&P, biology, organic chemistry, A&P in college...I love it. I adore it. Every second of it. I can't explain the draw, but I can't avoid it. There is nothing in the world more fascinating to me than A&P and medicine.

Fast forward through my CNA classes, my nineteenth birthday (finding out I was pregnant with Logan), working from 3 - 6 months pregnant, giving birth during a blizzard, then going back to work and back to school.

And there it is. Even writing about it, it's the exact same feeling. It's a sickening anxiety that starts just below my ribs and tightens every muscle as it creeps upward and finally just sits like lead right above my collarbone and makes it hard to breathe.

I am not a fan of leaving my son for long days of school and work. Just thinking about it is terrifying to me. I hate it. And I go back to working, at least two and up to four, eight-hour days per week on August 10.

For the last 5 years, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. Eventually I wanted to get my Doctorate of Nurse Practice. There would be no stopping me.

About a month ago, I wrote about how I wanted A Thing.

I still want A Thing. Because all of a sudden, I have no idea what my Thing is anymore.

I feel like I should still want the BSN and the DNP and the six-figure salary that comes with having a jillion letters behind my name...but what does that mean for Logan? Where does that put him between now and when he starts going to school? And even then, who is he going to come home to?

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

If I plow through school I'll be leaving my son with babysitters and relatives and (oh my gosh I can't even imagine this one right now) day care providers. Sure, I'll be successful and I'll have a career and a degree and nice high earning potential and blah blah blah, but...who's raising my child then?

But...if school goes slower or I have another child in the next couple years (which, as many know, may not even be medically possible for us) or choose something, anything besides nursing, I know there are plenty of people out there who will think I'm taking the "easy" way out. And, of course, I'll wonder, What if?


What the heck is my Thing now? What am I supposed to do?

I guess if all else fails, I can just be a garbage collector.

This. This is Marriage.

I miscarried a baby at 10 weeks in May.
The nurse who did my discharge paperwork at the hospital wasn't kidding when she said I'd "have some really intense mood swings" in the aftermath. Things at home are still recovering.

Not to mention Andy and I were together a year, got pregnant, lived together, had a baby, then got married.
We did it all backwards. So. There's that bonus.

We've now been married 9 1/2 months. We're still working out what it means to be sort-of-newlyweds and parents AND living farther away from my parents (our strongest supporters) than we ever have. It's complicated, to say the least.

I found this song (and I don't even remember how) when we were planning the wedding. I cry every single time I hear it, and the more I listen, the more I realize that it's truly marriage. Like...it's the way marriage really, actually works.

I may have been married less than a year, but Andy and I have been through a lot, so I think maybe I know a little of what I'm talking about. It sure as heck hasn't been a 9 1/2-month honeymoon.

So here it is. Please listen to it (through the link), because it's a thousand times better when you actually hear it.

Jaosn Mraz,  Beautiful Mess

You got the best of both worlds
You're the kind of girl who can take down a man and lift him back up again
You are strong, but you're needy
Humble but you're greedy

Based on your body language and shoddy cursive I've been reading
Your style is quite selective, but your mind is rather reckless
Well, I guess it just suggests that this is just what happiness is

Hey, what a beautiful mess this is
It's like picking up trash in dresses

Well, it kind of hurts when the kind of words you write
Kind of turn themselves into knives
And don't mind my nerve, you can call it fiction
'Cause I like being submerged in your contradictions, dear
'Cause here we are

Here we are

Although you are biased, I love your advice
Your comebacks, they're quick and probably have to do with your insecurities
There's no shame in being crazy
Depending on how you take these words
They're paraphrasing this relationship we're staging

And it's a beautiful mess, yes it is
It's like we're picking up trash in dresses

Well, it kind of hurts when the kind of words you say
Kind of turn themselves into blades 
And the kind and courteous is a life, I've heard
But it's nice to say that we played in the dirt
'Cause here...here we are

Here we are...

We're still here

And what a beautiful mess it is
It's like taking a guess when the only answer is yes

And through timeless words and priceless pictures
We'll fly like birds, not of this earth
And tides, they turn and hearts, disfigure
But that's no concern when we're wounded together
And we tore our dresses and stained our shirts
But it's nice today


Oh, the wait was so worth it.

Buffalo Chicken Fingers

So I don't think there's any secret that I like my food really spicy...all the time. I think half my tweets (limited though they are at this point) are about how much I like spicy food.

Last night, there was a Man vs. Food marathon on the Travel Channel. I watched until my eyes bled. Adam Richman is a HUMAN GARBAGE DISPOSAL. Seriously?! Seven pounds of Italian food in ninety minutes?!


Anyway, in one episode, he was re-doing his very first spicy challenge thing, because the first time he tried it, he couldn't get past the first bite. Holy. Crap.

Before I was pregnant, I could pretty much Hoover any spicy foodstuff I wanted. I'm not kidding, I ate a salsa called "Baptism of Fire" when I was ten years old. I don't know what was in it, but my dad said his coworkers couldn't even handle a pinky-tip-dip of the stuff. I loved it.

Then when Logan screwed up the level of every single hormone in my body, the fluctuation managed to make my taste buds betray me in the worst possible way: I hated spicy food. I couldn't handle a jalapeno. Heck, I couldn't even handle On the Border's "forgive us for taking forty-five minutes to make your food" time-waster salsa. It was pure palate devastation.

FINALLY, though, now that my son is seventeen months old, I not only like spicy food again, I crave it. I desire it the way Snooki desires one of those nasty, orange, steroid-filled guidos.

Guys, I put cayenne pepper and hot sauce in that chicken and dumpling soup from last night. WHO DOES THAT?!

So, the combination of my insatiable need for spicy things and watching Adam Richman devour pounds of straight chili extract and ghost peppers drove me to do this tonight, at 9:30 pm. Enjoy. Recreate. Give me your input and variations.

Homemade Buffalo Chicken Fingers


Ingredients:
Vegetable oil
3 chicken breasts, thawed
1 1/2 c. flour
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp chili powder
1 tsp crushed red pepper
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp lemon juice + milk (2% or whole) or cream to equal 1 cup.*
1/2 - 3/4 c. flour
1 tsp hot sauce
1 bottle Frank's RedHot Original Buffalo sauce

*or 1 c. buttermilk

Directions:
1. Fill a 2- or 3-quart pot halfway with vegetable oil, cover, and set to medium heat.
     IMPORTANT: Once the oil comes to a boil, be sure to keep something in the pot to keep the temperature from getting too high. It will start a fire, and I speak from experience. I recommend chopping up a potato and dropping the pieces in, because by the end you'll have buffalo chicken AND fries. And that's never a bad thing.

2. In a large bowl, mix together 1 1/2 c. flour and all the dry spices. Whisk them all together.

3. In another bowl, mix together the milk and lemon juice and let it sit for about 5 minutes. This acts like buttermilk. I don't know about any of you, but I'm way more likely to find milk and lemon juice in my fridge than buttermilk.

4. After the milk and lemon juice have sat for five minutes or so, add the hot sauce and flour until the consistency is about the same as that of paint (my husband gave me that...he's the imagery master). We stirred in an extra few shakes of cayenne and chili powder. Like I've mentioned about five thousand times...we like spicy.

5. Trim the fat off the chicken breasts and slice them into chicken-finger-sized strips. I didn't measure because I figure most of you have had a chicken strip before and know the size you prefer.

6. Coat the strips in the buttermilk/flour batter, then dredge each in the flour and spice mixture. 

7. Place the strips in the oil (the fries should be done by now), but try to only cook one breast at a time. The strips will cook quicker and more evenly.

8. Pull them out when they look like this on the outside:

and are appropriately cooked through on the inside.

9. Take the chicken out and place on a dish lined with a layer or two of paper towels, to let the oil drain off, then transfer to a large bowl for coating with buffalo sauce.

10. Dump a whole mess of buffalo sauce all over the chicken strips and "toss" until they're well coated.

Serve with bleu cheese dressing and an icy cold beer.

Ahhhhh...that's the good stuff.

Do you have a cool variation on buffalo wings? I'd love to hear it!

Thanks for reading!

I'm Not This Weird in Real Life, Maybe

I thought of something the other day.

I'm really, super, without a doubt, completely and totally awkward. And, you know, there are so many people who are totally aware of their awkwardness, but they OWN it (but not like Oprah...I can't even look at the word "own" in all caps now without getting annoyed that she bought out my favorite channel EVER), which makes it less awkward and just way endearing instead. Then they're just comfortable to be around, because you can always count on them to blurt out whatever they're thinking, or to spill the coffee, or trip on the escalator, or ask that lady when she's due, but it turns out she's not pregnant, she just has that very unfortunate body shape.

I am what I think is the worst kind of awkward. I end up sounding like a jerk A LOT and I end up looking very smug VERY OFTEN and I look like an idiot THE MAJORITY OF THE TIME because, well, somehow I missed that part of growing up where you learn how to interact with humans in a way that doesn't make you look ridiculous and douchey. 

For example, about a week ago, I was called to the Springs to fill in for three days at my old job, because technically I'm still employed at that company. My client's aunt and two cousins had just moved into her apartment, and they were there for my whole first 10 1/2 hour shift. They moved from a Spanish-speaking country, and although the aunt knew English just fine, her two kids only knew a few phrases.

First, my client's younger sister had picked about four movies for us to watch...and they were all Disney princess movies. Finally, I forced her to let one of her cousins (a boy) pick a movie. He was laughing when she got mad that he picked Cars and said, "She only wants to watch movies with princesses in them," except he said it in Spanish, and I'VE TAKEN OVER 4 YEARS OF SPANISH AND I KNEW EXACTLY WHAT HE SAID, but instead of responding with, "Well, she chose The Incredibles, and that one doesn't have a princess in it," (which I ABSOLUTELY know enough Spanish to say!!) I nodded and laughed like a huge idiot who, I'm sure, he assumed was just pretending to know what he was saying. 

People, this was not an isolated incident. This went on for THREE 10-1/2-HOUR DAYS. I completely understood the gist of absolutely everything they said, and I could have responded every single time, and I would have been understood with the four-plus years of Spanish I've had and a few "charades"-type gestures. But what did I do? I sat and nodded and laughed at the appropriate times, and otherwise stayed absolutely silent, except for the time when the older cousin was trying to tell me "I don't want my brother to be picking her up too much because he has a cold (or a cough, I couldn't tell which he was pantomiming)" and I was an idiot and all I could freaking say was, "toz?" (Spanish for "cough"). 

Brilliant, Kristen, just brilliant.

There are also the incidents (which are far too numerous to count) where I pass someone on the street or alone in a hallway or something, and the person smiles at me and says, "Hi!" and I do this weird little corner-of-the-mouth twitch and grunt out something that kind of sounds like "hi," but is mostly not even close to being a word at all. I then avert my eyes very quickly and either chew on my cheek or pretend to be getting a text.

I picture it in my head, and I look like some junkie who hates interacting with humans. All twitchy and shifty. 

AND THEN there are the super fun times where I talk to someone who isn't way super close to me, like commenting on their picture or status or something on Facebook, and then I get this anxiety like, OMG I'm sure they totally don't want to talk to me and they're insulted that someone like me would dare to talk to them on the largest social networking site out right now (you have a way to go, Google+...you have a way to go) even though they agreed to be my friend, I mean how dare I initiate conversation, I've only known her for five years...

Wah, wah, wah, anxiety, insecurity, self-consciousness...

Basically, I feel like, with the exception of maybe a dozen people (out of the 260 ish friends on my Facebook)...

If I talk to you, you probably don't want to talk to me, and I'm probably bothering you, and I'm really sorry, but deep down it'd just be cool to have you as a friend, but I'm sure you don't want to be my friend, I mean look at you, you have like 3,941,983 friends on here, so why would you want to take time to be friends with me, but that profile picture you just put up is super cute and how do you get your hair to do that, because I really wish mine could look like that, I'm totally not saying I want to be like you cuz that'd be weird, I just really like your hair, and I'M NOT STALKING YOU, I PROMISE I'M A COMPLETELY NORMAL PERSON, I JUST HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO INTERACT WITH HUMAN BEINGS WITHOUT BEING REALLY ANNOYING APPARENTLY.

...be my friend?