Super Saturday Suppers the A Day Late and a Carbohydrate Short Edition

It's not Saturday, and it won't be Saturday all day today, but here I am posting a Super Saturday Supper recipe on top of a Weekly Winners post.  I have an excellent excuse...I re started a diet two weeks ago.

Do you know when you start that low-carb diet, how they tell you to lay off the booze for a while?  Do you know why?  It's not because booze is packed with sugar, it's because proteins do not absorb vodka as well as a bowl of pasta would, and if you decide to sit down with a good movie and a rather large glass full of your favorite cocktail, you probably won't remember much between your third slurp, the bird's eye view of your toilet, and your pillow.

However, being O+, I function much better in life if I drop the carbs.  Too bad I'd rather have mashed potatoes than oxygen.  Sucks to be me, yo.  But when I stepped on the scale two Sundays ago, a year and a half after rocking some very hot size 4 jeans and saw 160?  I decided to break up with Ding Dongs.

So, here I sit, down 10 pounds already, watching JFK on the tv (45 years already?  Dag) trying really hard to will myself out of a wicked hangover, and posting this a day late.  Maybe I should get to that already, huh?

Chicken Parmesan is my mostest favoritest dinner in the whole freaking world.  Not so totally compatible with a low carb diet, though, unless you tweak it a bit.  You dredge chicken breasts pounded thin (or sliced in half through the middle, I'm lazy) in eggs and flour.



Normally, you'd also dredge them through breadcrumbs, but I had to leave out the bread crumbs *sob* so I subbed them with grated parm (just the Kraft stuff), salt and pepper, and extra basil and oregano.



By the way, it's really nice to hide yourself little messages in your kitchen that will totally crack you up when you stumble on them later.



You fry those chicken breasts in a pan with hot olive oil until they are JUST done, no more than that.  After that, you load the chicken breasts into a 9X13 glass pan, pile them up with marinara and cheese (I use that 4 cheese Italian pre-grated blend, also lazy)



and bake them until the cheese is really melted and a little brown on top, maybe 10 minutes?  Since I'm on that stupid diet, I didn't make the pot of pasta I'd usually throw under the chicken before I served it, I just made green beans instead.  And you know what?



It kicked ASS.  See all Lotus' Weekly Winners here, and all the Super Saturday Suppers recipes here.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers

67 years ago today, a baby girl was born in Zanesville, Ohio, who would change my whole life.  See, that girl would grow up to be a college student who met a football player, and they totally did it.  Three times, in fact.  And thanks to her, I have someone to talk shit about on my blog.

My husband is really great.  I'm just going to say that now and get it out of the way so he doesn't kill me when he reads this.

That motherfucker never buys me flowers.  EVER.  I mean, come on.  Three of your spawn carved their initials in the walls of my uterus, homie.  Would it kill you to throw a rose my way once in a while?

He's going to say, "Shut up, ho, I totally give you flowers."  And I'm going to follow that with a, "Whatever, hosehead."  It's not that he doesn't ever, really, I guess.  It's just that his delivery is all wrong.

Example:  Pick a Valentine's Day, any Valentine's Day.  The routine is he gets up, has some coffee, opens the fridge, says, "Oh crap, we're low on milk!  I'll be right back!", hops in the car and comes home an hour later from Safeway with the very last flower arrangement they had crammed in the back of the cooler right next to the milk, which consists of one near-frozen rose, about 8 tons of baby's breath, and some asparagus because someone bought all the bamboo stalks.  But at least he tried.

But there was this one year, and oh lord, he actually outdid himself.  He came home from work the night before my birthday with ohmygod this bouquet of flowers.  I can't even tell you the flowers.  The thing was bigger than my torso (no small feat).  There were lilies and roses and shit I ain't nevah seen before.  It was actually arranged. The vase was this ginormous round glass bowl, so you could see all the stalks.  It was To. Die. For.  I don't think I have ever loved a gift more from him.  Like, I called his MOTHER to tell her about it, that's how happy I was.  Like, I'm pretty sure I had sex with him because of it, too.  THAT GOOD.

For a few days, I was totally thrilled.  I suppose I harped on it a little too much, made too big a deal out of it, was too happy that he'd totally wasted what was obviously a buttload of money on me, because he started trying to disclaimer it, like he was hurt that I was so overly happy about one bouquet of flowers or something.  He'd start in with, "Well, I just grabbed it fr..." SHUT UP, DUDE.  Do NOT ruin this for me.  A bit later he'd say, "It's just some stupid thing I.." UH UH.  No you don't, fool.  He kept it up until one moment, when I didn't catch him in time, and what does that moron blurt out?

"It was JUST a left-over bouquet from a function at work, that's all!"

Oh, no he didn't.  He did not tell me that he grabbed something off a table at work and gave it to me as my gift, did he?  Yes, yes he did.  That was information I could have gone my WHOLE LIFE not knowing.  Talk about a buzz kill, yo.  I'm pretty sure I un-had sex with him that night.

Point is, though he totally provides for my every need, buys me awesome Christmas gifts, gave me a shiny new laptop just because, and does not throw anything at me when he has to spend his one day a week off washing the laundry I was too busy blogging to get to, he sucks at flowers.  And flowers are the key to any woman's heart, I don't care who tells you what.  Diamonds are for cutting glass, that's it.

There's more, but it's at my review blog, and I'm all about giving you the option to pass on that, so follow if you like, don't if you don't, but I actually have a little something to give away, in case you're interested.  And no nudity this time, sorry.  Or you're welcome, depending.

How Much Would You Like To Bet My Laundry Doesn't Actually Get Up And Wash Itself Soon?

I am posting to say I'm not posting.  Because that makes loads of sense.

I just got kind of busy, what with this new thing I have going on the side:

Blog Nosh Magazine Channel Editor



Guess who gets to do something with all those political posts that she's way too afraid to mention here finally?  ME, that's who.  The whole Blog Nosh thing is like, well, it's an online magazine, sure, but my job is to post other people's stuff.  It's a mix of all those great posts people write and not enough people ever get to read.

I don't have any of the posts I've chosen for publication up yet, but I will soon.  They're chillaxin' in the queue.  In the meantime, there's a buttload of awesomeness over there, so go.  Scoot. There's nothing happening here today.  And if you just so happen to know of some really mind blowing political posts, yours or someone else's, totally send me the link, yo.

Wasted Potential, I Tell You What, Man.

Okay, so a CT scan is NOTHING like the Google search hits told me it would be.  There are no bindings, leather or otherwise.  There are no large, burly people.  It doesn't feel even moderately dangerous.  No one yells at you to lay there and take it.  Marylin Manson is not bumping through the stereo in a dimly lit room, there isn't even any lub....

*ahem*

I had a totally freaking coronary about the fact that I had no sitter for my kids.  My neighbor had agreed to be "on call" for my 10 year old, and he agreed to be paid $5 to watch his sister while I was gone.  Now, I'm a pretty crappy mom, but I haven't sunk that low just yet.  Yet.

So everyone piled in the car with every toy we could cram into a Dora backpack, and off we went to explore the wonders of the Canadian Waiting Room System.  Where there were toys, other people, and a wheelchair.  Yep, they would be just fine.

So, they called me back and thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster I didn't bother wearing my sexy underwear, because this is what they handed me to put on.



When they say that one size fits all, they're not kidding.  I could have put everyone in those pants.  Hey, did you know that 90% of the time, if you hover over my pictures, a love letter appears?  Try it, you'll like it.

And then, the moment of truth.  Also called, the moment I chickened out and could not bring myself to ask for permission to take pictures.  Because I try not to be a freak.  In real life.  Bygones.  I climbed onto the table and they slid me into the donut thing that had a shocking lack of powdered sugar on it anywhere, and we began.

You know in that movie Contact, when they finally build the secret alien swirling vortex thing, and Jodi Foster climbs inside of it and it's all whooooop....whoooop....whoooop until it starts spinning really fast and going whoopwhoopwhoopwhoopwhoop then the walls drip away and she is shot headfirst through what I imagine is an exact replica of the inside of Andrew Lloyd Webber's penis and then she lands in the middle of a Monet painting, on crack, and her dead father is there to greet her or something and then it's back through the Amazing Technocolor Dream Urethra and *poof*?  No one saw a thing but her?

Yeah, it was nothing like that.  Except the whooping.  There was a lot of that.  And they did make me keep my hands over my head the whole time (and Ms. Changes Pants While Driving?  SO loving you for the heads up on the pit shave before I left.  Really.  Excellent tip) There were also laser targets pointing right at my happy trail, which just made me mad on seven different levels, and a sticker over a small window on the very front of the machine that read, "Laser Lights.  Do NOT Look Here."

Oh, those people have GOT to be kidding me.  There is no possible way I could have looked at anything else.  And if little mutant babies start growing in my eyeballs, I'm totally billing them for the eye-epidural someone is going to have to invent and administer to my eyeballs upon delivery.

And then it was over.  In four minutes, start to finish.  Now, I have certainly had dates that lasted less time than that, but I think I just expected more, you know?  Some sort of pomp, followed by the slightest bit of circumstance?  Nope, nothing.  I asked the tech if we could do it again 10 more times, so I could milk the silence for all it was worth, and she said no.  Meanie.  There were more patients to be seen and a waiting room full of people to save from my toddler who had just stopped howling about the time I stepped out of the tube of doom.

On a happy note, I did remember halfway through the CT Scan that I was awfully happy it wasn't an MRI, because I just don't think my IUD and those magnets would care much about all that flesh standing inbetween their love.  So at least I had that going for me.

Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

I am all about a little well-placed bondage.

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There's no decent or moral way to segue out of that, so I'll spare you, sufficed to say that I am more than capable of staying absolutely still when necessity dictates it so.  Usually.  Only when it's awesome.

What's not awesome is having some unknown thing totally freaking wrong with you.  I have seen SO MANY doctors trying to figure out what the hell is causing certain parts of my body to wage global-thermo-nuclear-warfare on certain other parts of my body, and none of them have found anything wrong with me.  So I decided to up the ante.  I found A) a good doctor who B) actually asks a question on occasion.  And unlike the 8,327 other doctors who all took enough of my sacred blood out of me with their sharp, pointy needles and their rubber bands to keep all your precious Twilight characters quite youthful and angsty for sequels to come, this one said, "Hey, let's have a look-see at your spine!"

See, my back is NOT awesome.  My back is trying to audition for Cirque De Soliel without the rest of me.  My back wants to be the next Hot Wheels Christmas season racetrack.  My back can bite me.  When I was in 4th grade and they did those spine checks that they do at school, well, they did at MY school, shut up, they threw around words like 'scoliosis' and 'that's not going to be fun later'.  The last time I had x-rays on my spine, 10 years ago, my chiropractor said, "Um, okay.  We'll be seeing a LOT of you for the next rest of your life."  And then I heard the sound of a very distinct "Cha-ching!"  I would have kept seeing him, because god knows he helped, but I never could get over the fact that every time I was within 20 feet of him, all I could think was SERIAL KILLER TOE SUCKING LIVER EATER.  Which is really not cool when he's got your neck in his creepy hands.  Good thing I was 80 pounds overweight in the not-hot way or I know I'd be living in his ice box right now.  I don't like to be cold, yo.  Or dead.

The point is that my the bones in my cervical spine (neck) curve the wrong way, that the middle of my spine is (or was, last time we checked) spinning around like a drunk ballerina, and 10 years ago, my lumbar vertebrae (lower spine) had condensed themselves down from many to one, just like the borg.  Awesome.

I spend a lot of time being fairly uncomfortable in various places.  Ibuprofen is my BFF.  It gets much worse when it's that time of the month, which has sent me and a mess of doctors on an endometriosis goose-chase, with the end result being a very conclusive Maybe.  But today at 4:30, I get to harness all of my pent up bad girl bondage diggin' aggression on one of these babies:



Yeah, that's not hot.  That's all the "Don't you move a damn muscle" and "bossy people in uniform" without the snuggle and the smoke after.  I am actually completely nervous about the whole thing, which is odd only because I have had 2 full, long, glorious months to get used to the idea (God bless you, Canadian Health Care system.)  That?  Does not look fun.  That looks like less fun than driving through the Holland Tunnel, and the last time I drove through the Holland Tunnel, I spent the whole time throwing up in the paper bag I was supposed to be hyperventilating into.  And I doubt they'll let me take pictures, which means it won't even be fun for you.

Wanna know what totally does rock about it?  That my husband about did a cartwheel when I told him this was happening, not because his wife might finally be able to shut the fuck up already with her whining find out why she hurts all the time, but because he thought for one fleeting moment that they'd make me remove my nosering that I've never taken out, and don't even know how to, before they put me in that big, sci-fi nightmare, living casket thing.

And he was SO wrong.  Haha, sucka.