Thursday's Life Goals

These aren't just for Thursday, but I need to get around to them eventually.

1. Pay off credit cards

2. Write for an hour a day

3. Stop going on Petfinder . Seriously. Stop.

Things that will prevent me from reaching these goals:

1. I like buying new clothes.

2. I'm easily distracted-(shiny object anyone?)

3. I want to rescue every shelter dog in the entire world. 

Side note: check out the advice column I wrote for Brite Girl ! (I know, I know, me giving advice is like the blind leading the blind.)

Have a Haughty Thursday!

Another Thimble of Bourbon, Please

I usually avoid festivals/craft fairs/Civil War reenactments of any sort, mostly because: 

1) I enjoy sitting down

2) I like the shade

3) I don't particularly care for large crowds of people (probably because I don't particularly care for most people)

Adrienne, Amy and I sitting in the shade. I whine, I get my way. Simple as that. 

Luckily, my dear friend/social coordinator Amy promised that not only would last weekend's Beer, Bourbon, and Barbeque festival here in Charlotte be free of sweaty rednecks/creepy cat quilts/men dressed as Confederate soldiers, but my ticket got me unlimited (you guessed it) beer, bourbon, and BBQ all day. (Come to think of it, Amy would have made a great Phi Mu social chair, since she bases our weekend festivities on wherever there are handsome men and flowing drinks.)

For her, I made an exception. Simply because:

1) I like beer

2) I like bourbon

3) I liked BBQ-until I participated in the day's pig races. After that I liked mac n' cheese. What kind of sick person has pigs racing around for cheese doodles while their kin are being served on a bun next to them at a BBQ festival? 

Hell, I'd run that fast for a cheese doodle too.

Less haunting were the billy goat races. Upon seeing said billy goats, my glamourous, Charlotte debutante of a roommate confessed that, at the age of 6, she had owned a billy goat named (drum roll please)...Billy Bob. (How long did that take you to come up with Elise? Days? Weeks even?) 

After five minutes on the hot asphalt I'd had about enough of barnyard shenanigans and was ready for a drink in the thimble sized glass they gave us upon arrival. Luckily for me, the Jameson & Ginger line was empty while the line of people waiting for some nasty pomegranate beer juice wound around the tent. I would have mocked and cajoled the men waiting for a shot of warm, berry beer, but I was too busy getting refills since all those suckers were in the other line. 

My fellow Florida alum Adrienne and I noticed there seemed to be a lot of FSU fans in the crowd. 100% wore tank tops. 100% had man boobs that would have spilled out of my bra. Sick.

I also discovered my new lover, Bourbon Sweet Tea. (I never thought I could love anything as much as sweet tea vodka..sniff.) I sampled two different brands, and by "sampled" I mean I suggested to the bartender that she just hand me the whole bottle to save herself the trouble of pouring me teeny tiny little glasses of it. She wouldn't listen, even after I coughed up a few George Washington's to put in her tip jar. 

I thought it was much more flavorful than sweet tea vodka, which tends to taste watered down to me no matter how I drink it. 

The two brands I tried were:

Firefly Sweet Tea Bourbon  

and 

Jeremiah Weed Sweet Tea Bourban 

Once it gets to be summertime, I'm going to make myself an awesome drink using this:

Haughty Arnold Palmer

(You should probably just go ahead and make a double recipe for yourself)

1.5 oz Sweet Tea Bourbon

3 oz lemonade

Serve ice, stir, you get picture. 

What tops the day's events better than cole slaw on your BBQ sandwich? My friend P Tuns calling as soon as I'd left the festival, where he'd decided to take a "quick nap in the bushes". When awaking from said nap, he'd found himself still drunk, disoriented, and alone, but apparently coherent enough to call and bum a ride from his neighbor.  Oh well. I got some Chik-fil-a waffle fries in exchange for a ride home. 

P.S. Unlike Carolina Cup, I only had to buy one ticket this time! 

P.P.S. Rest in Peace, Billy Bob. Turns out you didn't go live on another farm after all. 

Haughty Hosts Book Club

Book club contains a trifecta of my favorite things: reading, talking, and drinking. A lot.

Plus, except for the month you have to host, it’s free wine and food all the time! (Even better is when other members get pregnant. More wine for me!) 

This month's read: The Memory Keeper’s Daughter…a hauntingly beautiful tale of a family torn apart by a secret, blah blah blah...enough of that. Most of us didn’t even read the book. One member even tried to cheat by watching the movie, and then realized she had accidentally watched The Time Traveler's Wife. No biggie. 

Since I was the Haughty Hostess with the Mostess this month, I also had to cook. (Cooking only happens about once a month at my home, probably because it always involves the smoke alarm going off.)  Since I only know how to cook fajitas (and by "cook fajitas" I mean "brown some ground turkey and put it in a wrap"), I had to make some phone calls. Thankfully my Haughty Mama came through, as always. Her advice: skip cooking dinner for the masses and instead serve heavy hors d'oeuvres. 

FYI, saying you are serving "tapas" sounds a lot better than "I kind of forgot I had to feed ya'll until 10pm last night, so here are some chips and dip."

Black Bean and Corn Salsa
This salsa turns out so pretty it deserves to be served in a clear bowl.

2 15 oz. cans of black beans, rinsed and drained
One medium package frozen corn kernals, prepared
2 red or yellow bell peppers, seeded and chopped
1 bunch finely chopped cilantro
1 avocado, peeled, pitted, and diced
One packet Good Seasons Italian dressing, prepared


Mix beans, corn, and peppers together in large bowl. Add cilantro and avocado. Stir in Italian dressing, stick it in the fridge, and let it chill/marinate/do its thing for a few hours (if you can wait that long). Serve with tortilla chips. A spoon works, too. 


"Haught" Artichoke Dip
This is one of Haughty Mama's classic recipes. For all 24 years I have been on the planet, she has taken it to every dinner party and social function she has ever been invited to-even if food wasn't being served. It's so easy, and "real fattin'', so the masses love it. You will too.

Image courtesy of ashleyhinson.kcrg.com My serving dishes are NOT pretty enough to take a picture. 
2 15 oz. cans artichoke hearts (not marinated), drained and chopped
2 cups mayonnaise 
2 cups Parmesan cheese


This is where it gets easy: put all three ingredients in a big bowl and stir it around for a bit. Put it in a baking dish, sprinkle with paprika, and bake at 350 until brown on top (15-20 minutes). Serve with Tricuits. (Not those Thin-Crisps, the real thing.)

I also had some olives, cheese, fruit, and a Lemon Meringue pie made by my dear friend Sara Lee.It was all so easy, I had to put an apron on and rub some flour on my face to make it look like I'd been slaving away all day. (The I knew the plan had gone sour when Elise asked "why do you have flour on your face? You aren't even baking.") Oh well. The beads of sweat were real.

Since it's book club and we can't get too crazy before everyone has to drive home and go to work in the morning, we drank wine spritzers (plus Pinot Grigio and Merlot were 2/$8 at Harris Teeter).

Rioja Libres
According to my well-traveled roommate Elise, this drink is super popular in Spain. Some consider it a lazy-man's Sangria. I consider it awesome.

3/4 cup red wine

1/4 cup of Coke or Coke Zero (and no, Pepsi isn't the same)
Serve over lots of ice, and add some fruit if you really want to make it like Sangria.


White Wine Spritzer
1/2 cup club soda
1 cup white wine
Add a lemon or lime as a garnish and serve over ice. 

Real Housewives of New York: In Ten Words or Less

Let's face it: this season of RHONY has lost it's...whatever it had before that made it so awesome. Gone are days spent lounging in the Hamptons with witty one liners by Bethanny. In their place is a never ending cat fight regarding things that happened last season. I think I may have fallen asleep during this episode for a minute or two and woken up when a commercial came on.  Nonetheless, I remain a devoted follower. At least we have Sonja now to breathe in some new life. In ten words or less, here's my review of this week's episode:

Jill: Not buying your book since you make someone cry every episode. (Ok that was 11 words. Nobody's perfect.) 

Luann: Croate = most horrible looking man I've ever seen. Up chuck. 

Bethanny: Maybe next time save the crying for off-camera. 

Ramona: Your eyes only popped once! 

Alex: Get it girl!  

Kelly: Wow, that speech at the Gotham party. Pulitzer worthy. Not.

Sonja: You get better and better every episode.  

Carolina Cup 2010-Who is Mike Scott?

Adrienne and I @ Cup 2010

Few things make me happier than an excuse to wear Lilly. So when I was told that Carolina Cup would basically be one large Lilly-loving, seersucker-wearing frat fest (wasn't there a horse race thrown in somewhere?) I was on it like myself a fat kid on a cupcake. 

9:45 AM:  Halfway to Camden, SC from Charlotte I realized my Cup ticket that I had anxiously awaited in the mail was still sitting on my kitchen counter. Instead of sympathy, my fellow passengers were quick to point out the extent of my stupidity. ( I think "sucks for you" was one of the kinder sentiments.) It was the perfect time to start drinking.

10:10 AM: We drive onto the field. I fork over $45. For a ticket I have already purchased. 

10:30 AM: We arrive at our tent and begin setting up. By "setting up" I mean I sat in the backseat with the heater on while the boys lifted kegs, set up tables, and arranged sandwich platters. They wouldn't even bring me a sandwich when I cracked the window and shouted for "sustenance". Rude. 

10:59 AM: Most of our tent's patrons have arrived. Someone whispers that the boys forgot the mixers. We have cases of Aristocrat vodka and nothing to mix with them but our own saliva. This will not do. 

11:00 AM: Time for a plan. A plan that involves something other than straight grain alcohol burning my esophagus. 

11:01 PM: Four of us decide to take matters into our own hands. Noticing that surrounding tents not only have full bars overflowing with spirits (and mixers), but live bands, dancefloors, and other accoutrements, we realize we need an "in". Every tent has plenty of Lilly-clad ladies. How can we get them to not only pay attention to us but provide us with the sustenance that we so desperately seek?

11:04 PM: Getting distracted, I shout "Look, I'm BLOSSOM!" Every time the brim of my hat blows back in the wind. People stop laughing after the first time, but I will not be silenced.  

Some people just can't appreciate a good Blossom reference.

11:06 PM: Amy (thankfully) tells me to shut up and get focused.  

11:07 AM: I suggest we come up with an imaginary person to ask for at each tent as a way to make conversation. 

11:08 AM: I decide that this imaginary person's name is Mike Scott. Generic, but I actually know someone named Mike Scott, plus I watch The Office. We're covered. 

11:10 AM: First attempt at The Plan. 

Sample conversation:

Me to random frat boy: "Hey, is Mike Scott here?"

Random frat boy: (Scratching head) "Hmmm...Mike Scott....Mike Scott."

Me: (Gathering data based on school colors and fraternity letters) "Well, you are a (insert frat) at (insert Southern school) right?"

Random frat guy: "Yea."

Me: "That is SO WEIRD. He said he'd be right here! I can't believe it."

After less than a minute of my blabbering on and on the guys would get confused and just point us to the bar. 

Score. 

12:30 PM: Back to the home tent to dig into those sandwich platters. 

12:43 PM: Keefer gets invited to a wristband only tent. Despite being a firstborn child I am a :

1) follower, and 

2) have jealousy issues 

so I naturally have to follow her to try and obtain a wristband. I don't, but I'm able to shovel a few pigs in a blanket and pizza bites into my mouth before I am kindly asked to leave. To which I say, if you are going to go through the trouble of have wristbands you might as well go through the trouble of having quiche. Or a grill. Pizza bites? Puh-lease. 

2:35 PM: On one of our many "fraps" (frat + lap = ...you get it) we stop and make conversation with a nice group of gentleman. (One of them was in a seersucker suit. I couldn't resist). 

2:43 PM: Seersucker suit gentleman and I are making pleasant conversation when he asks if we can "go somewhere more private". I laugh, realize he's not joking, and then have to pretend I was coughing to cover myself. 

Me: (Still laughing/choking): We're in a field. The only place that's private are the porta-potties. 

Seersucker: Whatever works. 

Realizing that's my cue, I give Keefer the signal (aka me yelling "ABORT!") and we literally take off running back to our tent. Did I mention that right before the porta-potty suggestion, Seersucker told me he was 20? 

Amy, Keefer, Me, and Adrienne with some new fratty friends

4:35 PM: Still recovering from the porta-potty incident, we have returned to our tent to replenish with sandwiches, corn hole, and men who are legally able to drink. Might as well end on a high note. 

Dear Carolina Cup 2010,

You are the best thing that ever happened to me. Can't wait to do it again. Minus any conversation involving porta-potties. 

Sincerely, 

Ensley

So long, 2009 (No seriously, it was soooo looong.)

Ah, 2009. You heartbreaker you.

As I sit in my Charlotte apartment with sun blazing through my windows, I think of the New York apartment in which I began this year: a dark, first floor walk up with a gorgeous view of a brick wall. Based on the amount of light coming through the windows, I couldn’t ever tell whether it was day or night without checking a clock. Nonetheless, I joyfully trudged through snow and sleet to get to my magazine internship, where my work involved grueling days of discussing Real Housewives of Orange County with the creative director on beauty shoots, picking up cupcakes to go meet Zac Efron, or scooping books, makeup, and clothes galore off of the freebie table. (I think I may have made some copies at one time or another as well.)

I imagined a life in which I teetered on stilettos as the beauty editor at a women’s magazine, yelled at underlings, and became the close confidante of the editor in chief. Maybe I could have even done some Today Show appearances showcasing new beauty trends. (What can I say? The camera loves my face. Plus, I have a knack for discussing current events. Like the latest episode of Real Housewives.)

While I didn’t get offered a position at said magazine, I did get offered an art assistant position at some teenybopper (imagine Tiger Beat) magazine. They wanted to pay me $10/hr and were located about thirty minutes outside of the city in New Jersey. During the interview, they flat out told me that “this isn’t a job for someone who is trying to support themselves.”

NEWSFLASH: if I didn’t have to support myself, I wouldn't get a job. I would be perfectly fine living a life of leisure like they do on Real Housewives. Did I mention this job was in New Jersey? Decision made.

Somehow, during all of this, I had begun to think that New York wasn’t for me. (Shocker.) The horrible weather, shoebox apartments, and job offers from New Jersey had started to wear me down. I was tired of ambulance sirens, heat emanating off of the concrete, and people. People are everywhere in New York. They are pushed up next to you in the subway, brushing past you in stores, and cutting in front of you on the sidewalk. They talk loudly on their cell phones, sing along to their ipods, or sometimes just carry on conversations with themselves.

I realized I wanted more out of life than a fancy job title and a closet full of designer clothes. (Not that I had either of those, but obviously that’s where I was headed.) New Yorkers live to work, but I wanted to work to live. I wanted a job and a life that had a sense of purpose, whatever that entailed.

So I made the leap of faith to head back below the Mason-Dixon line to Charlotte, a city I had spent the past four summers living and working in. I sublet my apartment, bought a car, and headed south. Three weeks later, I had a job as a kindergarten Montessori teacher. Three weeks. A few days later, my lovely friend Elise and I found a gorgeous two bedroom apartment (pool views! washer and dryer included!) for which a I pay about a third of what I did in NYC.

These days, instead of getting calls from creative directors, I get kids coming up to me on the playground yelling “Miss Ensley, I just farted and a little bit of poop came out in my pants!” Hmmm.

I also get storytime, naptime, and little hands that magically find their way into mine while walking down the hallway.

Ah, 2009. You taught me to be more open minded and to never say never. Within twelve months, you had given me everything I thought I had always wanted-internships, a big city, a new boyfriend-but I realized that just because it seems perfect doesn’t mean it’s a good fit. It took me finding out what I don’t want to be (a waitress, an angry New Yorker) in order to find out what it was I really wanted, which is everything I have now.

Happy 2010. Carpe diem.

It's Not Me, It's You

I definitely didn’t see this coming. After nine months together, I just broke up with someone tall, dark, and handsome, who I've had a crush on since I was a teenager. He's rich, thrilling, lives to work and never sleeps. For a while, I thought he was The One.

I just broke up with New York City.

I thought we would be the perfect match. When we first got together, it was the middle of winter, so I assumed any problems we had would only get better come spring. As summer showed up, he made promises of sunny days and better jobs. Instead, he was rainy, cold, and miserable most of the time. He was distant and didn’t seem to care whether I was stuck at home waiting for him to cheer up, and he certainly didn’t follow through with the promise of a job. He caused fights between my friends and I. Plus, I thought he smelled like garbage and urine. (Hey, pheromones are pheromones.) I waited for things to get better. They didn’t.

New York, if you were a real boy, I would have soooo broken up with you before graduation.

I’ve learned that maybe relationships that seem perfect from a distance aren’t always so great when seen up close. Before New York, I thought happiness meant sky-high heels and fancy Meatpacking clubs. Turns out I’d rather be in flip-flops with a sweating Bud Light in my hand any day of the week. Life is what you make it. (Apparently, I make it country.)

Like all breakups that are meant to be, I feel nostalgic about the good times and am trying to iron over the bad. I feel inspired and new and more like me than I have in a very long time. I know there is a better fit out there for me somewhere, and I’m excited to find it.

And if I never hear the wail of a siren again, it will be too soon.