Musings of the Fat and Sober, Vol. 4

Cross posted today at Salt and Nectar.

Well, I am officially in the home stretch. 35 weeks down, which means this kid can safely arrive in as few as 2 weeks (and in less than 6, if it knows what's good for it.) It also means that this is my last Fat & Sober post, so I'm feeling a little nostalgic.

Here are some things I will not miss:
1. Needing two hands and the support of a wall to put on my underwear, pants, or anything else going on the lower half of my body.
2. The double bathroom trips. I'm already one with a small bladder, so I'm used to frequent potty breaks. But what is with the mandatory second trip 5 minutes later? Every. Freaking. Time.
3. Non-underwire bras. The baby hates underwire (as in, jab, jab, jab, jab all the live long day), so for the sake of my rib cage, I switched to the less supportive non-underwire route. I have a feeling this will not be the last concession I make for this child.

I felt this was an opportune time to point out that for the first time in my life, I now look down and see something other than my boobs. It's kind of exciting. And I obviously mean my belly. Ramona is always there.

4. Fetus-safe eating. I would like my first meal post birth to be spicy tuna rolls, a turkey sandwich, and a dirty gin martini. I will have a bottle of Shiraz for dessert. Whoever brings me this meal wins.
5. Posterior Pelvic Pain. It would be swell if my left ass cheek didn't hurt every time I do anything other than sit still or lie flat on my back. Speaking of…
6. Sleeping on my sides. See also: numb shoulders, ankle cramps, and sore hips.
7. The taste of Tums.
8. Flossing my teeth and spitting out enough blood to make it look like I just lost a fight to a hockey player.
9. The gas. Seriously. Like we need another excuse to be compared to blimps.
10. The (unsolicited) opinions; even the genuinely helpful ones. They just get old.

Oh, you have a name suggestion? I'll bet it's what we'll pick, then. I should have an epidural? I already decided I don't want one...Yes, I'm totally serious. I need a bassinet? But we have a crib, like, 10 feet from our bedroom. No, we're definitely not co-sleeping. We already co-sleep with the cats, and that's precisely why we know we don't want to.

Wait, seriously, mom? I shouldn't listen to rap because babies in utero don't like it? I just...I just don't have words sometimes. I know you all love us and are very well intentioned here, but Hubby and I are in agreement on our decisions, and he's the only other one who legitimately gets a say here. Even about Jay-Z (who, obviously, will also not be consulted for baby name opinions.)

And the things I will:
1. Feeling it move inside me. Even the karate kicks when I'm trying to fall asleep. Seriously. It's amazing.
2. Not having to suck in my stomach for photos.
3. Ummm.

Let's circle back to this whole naming issue. I've decided this is definitely one part of having a baby that would be easier if I were single. (It would also be helpful if all of my favorite girl names weren't currently in the top 10 baby names this year. I refuse to have my child known as Olivia H. or Ava#4 her whole life.) After many lists, much discussion, a lot of "ew, realllly's?" and about 3 mind-changes, we've come to an agreement on a girl's name. It's a good adult name, easily shortened to make an adorable kid-friendly name, and the middle name is in honor of Hubby's maternal grandmother. Done and done.

But as we were stupidly gung-ho on not finding out the sex, we've also got to decide on a boy's name. And this is proving to be impossible. We had decided on one, much to my mother's chagrin...

Mama: Any decisions on names?
Me: I think we're going with Ezra Jack.
Mama: (Loooong, painful pause.) Can I call him Jack?
Me: Noo, but you can call him Ezra.
Mama: But...what will you call him when he's little?
Me: We were thinking...Ezra?

And then my FIL convinced the hubby that we needed David as a middle name (blah, blah, family tradition). Ezra, which Hubby loves, is one thing. Ezra David, however, is another...we are not bible people. Like, at all. And now we're back at square one. At least we have a middle name?

I'm not that old, right? I mean, 19 year old moms get joint pain, too, right? Right??

As I was bitching to the hubby about how annoying it is to have to slow down and do everything old lady style, he gave me a shrug and, without even looking up from his Words with Friends game, said, "It's ok. You're not in a hurry."

...Oh. I guess...I'm not...am I? Huh. I mean, why should I be in a hurry to get out of bed at 2am? Why do I need to literally hop out of my car when I'm just going to the grocery store? Does taking the stairs two at a time really make a difference when I'm heading into work? There's one flight. And this is why this man balances me. He can state the obvious and completely floor me with his brilliance. (Plus, I'm biased and a little bit stupid right now.)

That said, my chiropractor rules. I spent almost three weeks in agony, hardly able to walk, with a shooting pain in my butt every time I took a step, twisted, sat down, or generally used my pelvic/hip joint for anything. In other words, it was constant. And the only thing nearly as annoying as the pain was the involuntary grunting. Sitting down—ooof. Turning over in bed—hrrrrughhh. Every step—mmph. Seriously, it was annoying even me.

My doctor basically told me to get over it-it was common, and while, yes, it sucks, it will go away and nothing will help it. So I tried my chiropractor, and boom. I'm walking again, which I pointed out gleefully to the hubby last night. His response? "You're a lot quieter, too!"

But pain, annoyances, sacrifices and grossness aside, I know I've had it pretty darn easy. Pregnancy is not fun, and so many of my friends and family members have had it a whole lot worse. And all of them would do it again (or already did it again.) It's 40 weeks of our lives. It's an experience I'm glad I've had. I'm sure in 4 weeks I'll be to the JUSTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTTTTTT stage, but for now, I'm ready for this baby to come when it's ready. Even if I'm still not sure I'll ever be.

So wish me luck! The Sarahs have asked me to share my sleep-deprived, clueless good, bad, and ugly experiences as a first time mom, so you'll be hearing from me soon. Until then, thanks for all the support, comments, and for listening to me bitch the last nine months.

XOXO, Pammy

Musings of the Fat and Sober, Vol. 3

Cross posted at Salt & Nectar today.

I would like to open this edition of preggo bitching with an apology. To every pregnant woman to whom I have ever used the phrase, "Honey, you're not fat, you're pregnant!" I offer my sincere apologies. While I completely meant it when it was said, I now see your point. Because while, yes, I am pregnant, I am also fat(ter). Abdomen gain? Mostly baby. Boob gain? Toss up. But thigh gain? Ass? Arms? Fat. Fat. Faaaat.

And please don't start in with me here about how they are all interconnected. Blah, blah, blah. I'm pregnant and I'm fat. Yes, there is no escaping it, but that doesn't make it untrue. I'm still not big enough to be obvious, so I know people often assume I'm just getting pudgy. You're welcome to ignore me when I bitch that I'm fat. And you are even more welcome to tell me I look great. But only if you mean it.

This is my trick. I wear stripes because it actually makes me look pregnant, even though we all know they do nothing flattering for the figure. Hence why it's best to ignore me when I say I look fat. This is preggo logic, people.

I am so over old wives tales and half-facts. Oh, you've heard I shouldn't get massages? Can't have my hair done? Should get rid of my cats? I have one thing to say: I am the research queen, damnit, so if you've heard this "fact," I guarantee I have also heard it. If I'm doing it anyway, it means I have considered it, debunked it (or determined what about it is unsafe/should be avoided), and moved on. Also, it is none of your effing business, especially when we don't know each other. But thanks for looking out. Really. XO.

Oh, and old wives tales go the other way, too, btw. Cocoa butter, shea, etc. etc. don't help stretch marks. You get them or you don't. It's a medical, genetic-based fact. That's not to say I'm not rubbing it on every morning anyway (I'm dry, ok?), but it's still just a story. Just like me having acne doesn't make it a girl. Even though everyone other than my grocery store checker has decided that it does.

Speaking of, no, we are not finding out the sex. No, I don't care what it is. I really, honestly don't. I promise. And I find it a little disturbing that you think I should be hoping for one over the other. Talk about your kid entering the world with a 50% chance of already disappointing you. They have their whole lives to do that.

I am crazy jealous of my cats. Not only do they just get to lounge around all day, they get to be comfortable while doing it. (Especially Ramona. She's got this on lock.)

See, I am a back sleeper. When that fails, I'm a stomach sleeper. Seeing that I can't do either anymore basically means sleeping is no longer fun. Well, I can lay on my stomach, but if you've ever tried to lie on a soccer ball, you know why this isn't happening. Back sleeping is out per doc's orders. Something about the weight of my engorged uterus and cutting off circulation to myself and the baby...I wasn't really listening; I was busy catching up on sleep with my eyes open. I have more and more in common with my Greta everyday.

Seriously, she sat like this without moving for like 5 minutes. She is amazing. And now I am done with my cats for this edition.

So I'm stuck on my sides. Which I hate. My shoulders fall asleep more easily than I do, and pregnancy hip pain has commenced in full effect, so my body pillow and I (see below) spend a lot of time flipping during the night. And when I'm not super gracefully using my entire body weight to attempt to turn over in one swift action, (side note: SO glad we sprung for the King bed last year. And that he can sleep through anything.) I'm getting up to pee. Every. Two. Hours. My under-eye circles have never looked so good, let me tell you.

In awesome news, however, my knees no longer hurt. I can sit on the toilet without whimpering again! (Yay!) I can do lunges again! (Yay? And also, "again?")

What is with the blood coming out of my nose? I'm not 8, and I don't play soccer. That's who gets nosebleeds, right? I feel like every nosebleed depicted on tv is an 8 year old in cleats. And I never played, which I'm certain is why I never have had one. Anyway, blood streaming out of nose at 6:30am is strange enough. Explaining to my husband that it's perfectly normal is even stranger.

And now, a few words of advice:

Rethink the Brazilian wax. The first few preg-waxes (ew, that's a terrible word) weren't bad—no worse than usual, which I normally handle like a champ. I'd been warned that it would be more painful "during this special time," so I'd left the salon all high and mighty. Hurt?? Ha! Not me! Best pregnancy ever! And then 19 weeks hit, and oh. my. god. I was squealing wincing so much my waxer (of two years) actually giggled at me. And then told me I was crazy, confessing that she never had the guts to do it while she was pregnant. NOW she tells me...

You know that show you love that makes you cry? Stop watching it. Mine happens to be Grey's Anatomy-I'm currently trying to catch up on last season, so I've been watching several at a time on Netflix. Hubby doesn't understand why "that stupid show is even still on," which meant he was more than happy to oblige when I told him to put me on Grey's restriction. (Of course, he came home the next night to find me crying into the couch pillow again.) Seriously, though. The baby needs fluids. Sobbing inconsolably about how Mandy Moore diiiiiiiieeed just means you're tempting dehydration.

Buy the body pillow. And get a cute cover for it, while you're at it. It's going to be your best (and most intimate, it works best all tucked in between your legs) friend for months, so you may as well treat it as such. I haven't caved and sprung for an expensive one yet—I'm thinking the Snoogle—but I feel the time is fast approaching. These hips are seriously hurting.

No joke—it's enormous, and a little like having a threesome every night. (I guess?) I feel like I should name it, or at least buy it breakfast in the morning.

What about you all? Any nighttime pregnancy remedies/pillow brands, etc. you want to throw my way? My sanity thanks you in advance.

When I am hungry, your job is to feed me.

So I've stopped being hungry alllll the time, which is good, except that my brain is still used to eating every 2 hours and I find myself fighting myself from eating when I'm not the least bit hungry. (Because I'm not eating, say, an apple. I'm eating entire boxes of Hot Tamales. The baby likes cinnamon, damnit.)

When I AM hungry, however, it means I need to eat. And I need to eat now. (Some of my girlfriends have referred to this pregnancy side effect as 'being so hungry I would eat my own arm.')

I refer to this as pure hunger insanity. Case Study time:

Last night, around 6:30pm. At 5:30, Hubby had asked if I was ready for dinner. I replied, "yes." He laughed and replied that he had actually said, "What time will you be ready for dinner?" Either way, he got the point. Or so I thought.

Hubby: Ok, so what do you want to eat?
Pammy: I don't know. Food. I'm hungry. I told you an hour ago I was hungry. But I don't want Red Lobster. All I will eat there are the biscuits.
H: (Pouts, as he has been talking about Endless Shrimp for 3 days) Fine. I'll go with Scott...so what DO you want.
P: Siiiigh. Basque? I want bread. Somewhere with bread. Benjy's? BJ's? I'm into B words today. Pick one. Feed me.

I finish putting makeup on. Hubby goes into the bedroom, comes out in sweat shorts.

P: ...Or you could get dressed because I AM HUNGRY.
H: Whaaat. You don't look good either, what if we just get drive through?
P: ......I don't LOOK GOOD? What the...?
H: Siigh. You know what I mean.

I do. I've got a cold and am currently kind of a snot monster. Hence why I put on extra mascara and concealer, but WHATEVER.

P: What kind of drive through?
H: Leo's? (One of those awesomely ridiculous burger/greek/mexican/etc. places)
P: Whatever. Just.feed.me.
H: You want to eat there?
P: Oh, god no. They play religious music in there. Drive through takes forever, but at least I don't have to hear Jesus Effing Loves Me while I eat.
H: Fair enough.

At Leo's, which has the largest drive through menu ever, btw.

P: Ok, I want mushrooms. And taquitos. And a green salad.
H: AND mushrooms?
P: YES, AND mushrooms…oh, fuck, just get me a chicken salad.
H: You don't want taqu—
P: IT'S FINE JUST ORDER.

He orders, remembering, as always, that I don't want croutons or cheese. Which reminds me that I want some damn bread and therefore kind of DO want croutons, but I decide to shut up about it. We pull forward.

P: Oh, crap, they have taco salads. I want that. Do you think we can change it?
H: Really?
P: Yes, really. I didn't SEE it before.

We pull up to the window, where we wait. And wait, way too long to change the order.

P: Gah. So much for my taco salad. This is dumb. And I still want bread.
Most Patient Husband Ever: They have toast, want me to ask for toast?
P: I don't want it toasted.
H: Just bread.
P: Just bread. Maybe they have dinner rolls?
H: Good call, they have to. I'll ask.

And then we wait some more.
Guy comes to the window, Hubby asks if they have dinner rolls.

Guy: How many do you want?
H: Babe?
P: Two.
H: Two.
Guy: Ok, I'll charge you 50 cents, cool?
H: Yep, great.

I do a happy little bread dance in my seat.
And then we wait. Some more.

Guy comes to the window with rolls, and my heart leaps.

Guy: You want these now or in the bag?
H: No, in the bag is fine.

Window closes, he disappears again.
I stare at my husband, mouth dropped. He stares back as it slowly occurs to him why I'm giving him the deathstare.

P: Are you.Fucking.KIDDING ME? Did that JUST HAPPEN??
H: What…but…seriously?
P: OH MY GOD!!

And then the tears come. I fight them off, but they are definitely there.
(He is trying SO hard not to laugh at me at this point, which reminds me that I made a good marital decision after all.)

And so we wait. I pout and make little whining comments about how close the bread is to me and I can seeeee it from my seat and what is taking soooo long and OMG if they forget to put my bread in the bag I will cut someone, and he acts like I'm not being a complete psychopath.

And then there is food.

P: Bag. Give.

The dinner roll"s", by the way, are just one small roll cut into two pieces. And toasted.

H: Those look good.
P: Do you want a bite?
H: No, babe, you eat it.
P: You can have a bite…baaaabe! Not THAT big a bite! (as I literally pull it OUT of his mouth to control his portion size.)

We pull onto the street as I finish chewing the second one.

H: Did you just…?
P: Um, yeah, they're gone. They were tiny. I told you I wanted bread, damnit.

Oh, and the Parm won.

Shocking, I know.

But I did stuff the chicken with fresh mozzarella and basil leaves, sprinkled them with salt and Italian bread crumbs, then cooked them for 8 min a side in a bit of chicken broth and a dash of balsamic. Covered with marinara (with a dash of balsamic in there, as well) and a few more slices of cheese and basil strips, then covered and let steam over low about 5 minutes til sauce was hot and cheese was melted.

And then served, obviously, over pasta.

It's only right to labor for Labor Day.

Wasn't I just talking about dishes? It's only 10:45 in the morning, and I have already done dishes three times. Which can only mean that we're about to do some eating today. (Well, and that we didn't finish them from dinner last night-but that was only the first round.)

Luckily, Ramona was there to help.

That's where she has to be when dishes are being done. It's really convenient and helpful, as you can imagine.

But while she wasn't underfoot, I chopped and stirred and cooked and boiled. And with quite the results, I'm hoping.

Hubby asked for muffins, which means I need to stop baking...it's giving him ideas.

But add in some scrambled eggs (with red onion, tomato and jack cheese), and you've got quite a Sunday morning breakfast.

I also have a BBQ this afternoon, so I offered to bring potato salad-I'm supposed to avoid mayo-based salads that aren't 100% refrigerated (blah, blah salmonella), so I made my mayo-free version (just added a bit of dried thyme this time, which was a good call).

Plus, I love the rainbow of veggies in this one. A lot of chopping, yes, but so pretty and so good.

And with that, I'm getting out of the kitchen and into the pool.

Happy long weekend! Eat well!

Ridiculous things preggos do, Vol. 1

I'm not a superstitious person. When we found out we were pregnant, the first thing hubby did was run back inside the bar and tell his boys (Um, yes, I told him in a bar parking lot. I figured if Pam and Jim could get engaged at a gas station, it wasn't the worst thing to have to do). Which was fine with me; boys don't typically sit around gossiping about who's expecting next and when...but I still made sure they all knew we were keeping it quiet.

We decided to wait until 9 weeks to tell our parents (after our first official doctor's appointment...uh, yeah, that didn't go so well. There was one mom in particular—cough,ma,cough—who was not so happy about the fact that I didn't call her the second I peed on the stick), and then gradually let people know as we crept to that all-important end of the first trimester.

In the meantime, however, I've been keeping track of some of the weirder things this whole experience has caused my body and brain to go through. You experienced mommies are either giggling at my naivete here or nodding in agreement...those of you who have The Great Hormone Shift ahead of you, however...heh. Just. You. Wait. It's been pretty easy, really...as long as I keep saltines and Wint-o-Green life savers around, I've kept any nausea in check, and the only other things that have been tormenting me are the acne (what, am I 14 again?) and the massively sore boobs. Don't hug me, btw. I'll cry.

So here are a few other gems I noted in my first trimester...

I am thirsty all. the. time. Every time I get up (usually to pee), I find myself in the fridge looking longingly at the Sierra Nevada and the three bottles of white wine I bought ONE WEEK before the booze-ban began, and annoyingly reaching for whatever cold, non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated beverage is in front of me instead, forgetting every time that I already HAVE a drink waiting for me.


Yep. All full.

I cannot make a decision. I generally know what I want for dinner well in advance. Today, around 2pm, I decided I wanted macaroni salad. Went to the store, boiled eggs and pasta, chopped tomatoes, celery and onion, mixed, and promptly decided I'd rather have Cream of Mushroom soup. From a can. It's 104 degrees outside.

Oh, and then I burned it. And ate it anyway.

Hormones. One afternoon I burst into tears because hubby was being an annoying back-seat driver (ok, he said one small yet unnecessary thing). Burst. Into. Tears. He soon after texted me to apologize "for being a dick," and I apologized for being a hormonal wreck. My husband is not a dick. I however, am a hormonal wreck. Siiigh.

Cravings. I want carbs, and I want them all. the. time. Bagel for breakfast? Check. Sandwich for lunch? Yep. Pasta for dinner? Um, definitely. It's so bad I told Hubby that the freaking Olive Garden sounded great. Even saying it made me shutter, and writing it is no better. I hate the O.G...As the great Anthony Bourdain recently put it, "I can't drive past a Chili's or an Olive Garden and not boil with rage."

I am with you. It's just wrong. But I would still give anything for some salad and breadsticks right now. Like, a barrel of them. And then I want to stop at the Tutti Frutti afterward and serve myself a gigantor Banana fro-yo with raspberries. I need this to happen.

And last, but not least, Booze. I like to drink. This is not new information...I'm quite vocal about this fact. This is also why the couples we regularly hang out knew we were expecting before we even had to tell them..."Pam. Why aren't you drinking...Oh, crap, you're knocked up!"

Sigh. Yep. Guilty.

Yes, I miss my booze. I've given up on the idea of vodka and gin martinis (I just realized last night that by not drinking, I'm saving hundreds—hundreds!—of olives from a sad and lonely death via consumption) and I'm not wanting beer in particular, but wine—particularly when I'm craving steak—that I miss. Enough so that I committed the ultimate boozer sin...I bought some non-alcoholic stuff to try.

I'd looked this brand up before I plunked down the cash for it (it's like six bucks, not the point), cause I was afraid it was just going to be bottled grape juice, which would be a complete waste of my time, money, and taste buds.

Verdict? It might be passable if you're used to $3.00 Merlot.


Otherwise, skip it. I'm just happy to have made it to the second trimester...cause damnit, I'm ready to have a glass of wine. You wanna argue with a pregnant lady about that? Bring it. I've got stats, damnit. And they are in my favor, and in favor of some Pinot Noir. Which (a littttle bit of) will go just wonderfully with my Chicken Parmesan tonight, thankyouverymuch.

Let's just hope Hubby agrees. He's been on board so far, as in, "Damnit, Pam, you can make it 3 more weeks!" everytime I whine, But I just want a litttttle glass...it's done developing!!! His reasoning is that our baby is "special" and therefore takes longer to be perfected. I think that's obviously some sort of jab at my family's genetics, but I'm a little hormonally oversensitive right now...

I apparently have no idea what season it is.

How did summer just HIT? Holy crap, it's beautiful, then the next day it's warm, then the next day it's so hot all I want to do is stand in my sprinklers (Um, I actually did that today. And it was all I had hoped it would be). It was over 100 again today, which means I am hot. and sweaty. and miserable. It's like, salad and popsicle weather-something light and cold and easy to make. So what did my brain become utterly fixated on for dinner? Soup, of course. And I'm not talking, like, broth. I'm talking full on, hearty, cheesy broccoli ridiculousness.

At least it was easy to make, which was especially nice since I'd never attempted broccoli soup before. And it's low fat, compared to what it could have been. Plus, I got to use my red Kampot pepper for the first time. Look how gorgeous this stuff is!! I'm sure white pepper would have been a better fit, since it's spicier, but this stuff is damn purdy, and that counts for something in my world.

So here you go. Pump up the a/c and then get cooking. Or save it til you actually need to be warmed up...in the meantime, I'm off to take another cold shower.


Cheesy Broccoli Soup
cooking spray
one medium onion, chopped small
4 cloves garlic, minced
8-10 baby carrots, thinly sliced
medium sized broccoli head, trimmed and cut into bite sized pieces (including the stalk part)
3.5 cups broth (I used beef, but only because I was out of chicken)
2.5 cups 1% milk
a little less than 1/2 cup flour
8oz shredded 2% cheddar
1/2 tsp fresh pepper
couple dashes Tabasco
salt to taste (only if needed)

Heat stockpot over medium high, coat with cooking spray. Saute onions and garlic until soft. Add broth and broccoli and carrots, bring to a boil, and simmer for about 10 minutes.

Pour milk in medium bowl, and whisk in the flour. Add slowly to broth mixture, and continue stirring for about 5 minutes. The soup should thicken just a bit. If you've got an immersion blender, stick it in for a minute, but not enough to blend it completely smooth-you want some broccoli chunks in there still. (Or maybe you don't, in which case, blend away.) Otherwise, you can blend it in batches in a blender, or leave it chunky, either way.

Over very low heat, stir in cheese and pepper until all is melted. Serve hot.

About 1460 total calories per recipe. (If 4 servings, 365 cals each, if 6 servings, 244 cals each)

I have no more excuses.

I've been busy.
I've been up-to-here in work and free-lance.
I dealt with turning 30 (Which wasn't a big deal til, like, the day of, but still).
I've been re-watching the entire series of My So-Called Life on Netflix On-Demand (even a better deal now that I cut us down to only 2 DVDs at a time...sigh. Who am I kidding...I've been watching this for the same reason at 30 that I did at 13...as Hubby says, "Oh, there's your Jared Leto..." And, BTW....he's 40 this year. Just saying.*)
I've been admiring (and driving) my new grown-up car.
I had a graduation party to put together for the hubby.
And I find myself more often dealing with one awesome (yet FAT and who sometimes claws the sofa) cat and one increasingly difficult adolescent (who yowls and mews every second she's not getting her way) cat.

What I haven't been doing? Cooking...well, I've been cooking, but I haven't been cooking anything new. Which gets rather boring. And so it's time to start. While I'm at it, I'm going to start writing. And, as I proved earlier, I am going to start reading.

Or I'm at least going to try my damndest...cause I just remembered we just got a new thing to distract me with.


Crap.

*I'm writing this while watching the episode when Rayanne sleeps with Jordan. Ab-solute. heart. break. Also, Rickie's semi-homelessness=*tear*...And NO wonder I've been trying to figure out who Meredith Gray's dad is all this time...Sharon's mom turns out to be the creepiest mom ever on Big Love...And I still love the Krakow-fro. Siiigh, I love this show.

New Year's cleaning time

What I really want (and by want, I obviously mean need) to clean today is my house. But as I'm in bed with the flu (again, damn you flu shot!!) I'm going to settle for cleaning out my phone instead.

My photo album on my phone is utterly ridiculous. It basically goes food, cat, food, food, food, cat, food, human, food...you follow me here. And the last few months of 2010 were crazy for us, so only a small number of these pics actually got blogged about, and there's no way for me to catch up now...so here's my solution.

As always, if something catches your eye, let me know and the recipe is yours. So here we go. Out with the old, so they say...here's a bit of what you missed.












We both know I have more, but I'm tired of photoshopping and this is making me hungry. So as of today, I am moving forward. No more 2010 food. Tonight, I'm going to attempt to get up and cooking, cause I want to try a Moroccan beef tagine. If it's worth it, I'll be posting. If not, the inevitable photo I take before digging in is going bye-bye. Cause really...I need more humans in my photo album.

-posted out of laziness from my iPhone.

Two things. Well, kinda three. Plus.

One.
For all you Kern County kids that read, I'd like to ask a favor: Don't request "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake." Just made my infinitely slow way through "Love in the Time of Cholera," and now have only three days to read the entire book. If no one wants it, I can renew. Otherwise, I pay a fee. And I don't do late fees...it's the #1 reason I switched from Blockbuster to Netflix. I tried to read it all today, but before I started, vacuuming, freelance jobs, room re-organizing, cooking, and general time wasting happened...Instead, I'm on pg. 11.

Two.
I'm not above shameless self promotion. If any of you live in town or are visiting/passing through Bakersfield and need a bit of, um, tidying up, call my girl Leah. You will not regret it. www.brazilianwaxboutique.com
Yes, I designed her site. And am a client. Web is not my first talent, but I can make it happen. But no lie, she's amazing. Call her. And if you need design stuff-brochures, cards, ads, web, call me. Message me or comment me for rates/info.

Three.
Do you guys listen to Ingrid Michaelson? If not...if you're a Grey's Anatomy fan, change your answer right now. She pretty much dominates their soundtrack. Look her up. You won't regret it. (She's kept me company all night tonight, as she does about 3 days a week at work). Chill, honest, sweet, fun. Love her.

Three.2

Ah, progress.

I know I can be overambitious...

But this...damn near ridiculous.


I have three weeks. Wish me luck.

-posted out of laziness from my iPhone.

Crazy cat lady, party of one.

This collection has two names
(hubby and I each had good arguments, so it's a draw):
look how cute my cat is and look how lame my wife is. Whatever. I was bored.











She really doesn't do much other than this save for about a half hour of playing a day. Well, and she eats. Which means she gets along just fine around here.

-posted out of laziness from my iPhone.

You know you're a fatkid when...

Not only does my husband have an awesome job with awesome coworkers and an awesome boss, but they also get treated to awesome summers. I mean, half days every Friday and frequent "team-building" activities like ball games and wine-tasting tours? Awesome. So why am I not teeming with jealousy? Cause they get to bring their wives.

Which means I get to be his plus-one at the Dodgers/Cubs game tonight (should be interesting, since I have no feelings one way or another about the Cubs and pretty much despise the Dodgers). I may have (drunkenly) volunteered to be DD tonight for a car full of handsome hot messes, but one giant detail makes up for that:

Our seats are in the All-You-Can-Eat Pavilion. That's right. Cause the only thing that can make up for not drinking beer at a ball game is unlimited Dodger Dogs, nachos, and diet coke.

Gross. Awesome. Ridiculous. And if I'm not mauled by obnoxious Dodger fans for wearing a Yankees hat, I'll no doubt have pics to prove it.

Pineapple Party!

I love themed parties. Well, more specifically, theme parties where I don't have to dress up. I hate that. (Yes, baby sis, you throw a great theme party. I forgive you cause Mad Men makes for a better outfit than, say, the 80s.)

But the best themed parties (hang on, is it theme parties? Themed parties? Parties with a theme? I'm exhausted. Help, please.)are the ones where people have to potluck to said theme. Countries, types of food, time of day, whatever. (Totally includes brunch, by the way.)

So when the hubby, a couple of his coworkers and I decided to watch Pineapple Express together Friday night, we figured we'd do it right and make it a pineapple party.

I got over-excited (pineapple steak kebobs*, pineapple fried rice (see below), pineapple (two) and a coconut (why not)) but so did they...case in point:


Um, awesome. That's a cup, and we will be using them again...plus fancy pineapple straws, Malibu, orange crush (to mix), wine, beer, and utterly ridiculously hilarious conversation...y'all are invited back anytime.

Pineapple Shrimp Fried Rice
1 cup white or jasmine rice, cooked according to directions and cooled
Can of pineapple chunks, drained
Small handful cilantro, chopped
Sriracha
Chili oil
About a pound of raw shrimp, peeled and deveined
Peanut oil
3 or 4 cloves garlic
One large shallot, halved and sliced thinly
About 1-2 tsp brown sugar
About 3 tbsp fish sauce
About 2 tbsp terriyaki sauce
About 2 tbsp low sodium soy sauce (sub all soy sauce if you don't have terriyaki)

Mix cilantro, pineapple, and a large squirt sriracha (less or more, it's spicy and you can always add more), set aside.

Heat a tbsp or so of chili oil (or canola) in wok or large sauté pan. Sauté shrimp about 4 minutes or until cooked (will turn white). Remove from pan and keep warm.

Heat a tbsp or so of peanut oil, and sauté garlic and shallot about 2 minutes. Add rice, brown sugar, fish, terriyaki and soy sauces. Mix gently til well combined. Add shrimp, continue stir frying til hot. Fold in cilantro/pineapple mix.

*Leftover cooked Soy Vay marinated steak with mushrooms, shallots, red bell pepper, pineapple and cherry tomato kebobs, btw, make for surprisingly good salad two days later over romaine and with lite blue cheese dressing.

Hubby gets the genius award for this one. Yum.


-posted out of laziness from my iPhone.

It's settled, I'm an inspiration.

Which is fabulous, in case that wasn't clear.

I love, love, love when people tell me they tried something because of me. Or ask me for food advice because they're incredibly picky and need ideas (Mrs. Allen, I'm talking to you). Or when old friends tell me their husbands read me regularly cause they find me funny. Or, even better, when they dedicate blogs to me.

You guys are awesome. Just wanted you to know.

It's an obsession, pho sure.

I cannot stop eating pho.

It was bad enough when I was just hitting Saigon for chicken pho every week or two. But then a new place opened across the street from my office a couple weeks ago...trouble. Cause now everytime I go there (it's called Pho Hut, and their logo seriously looks like Pizza Hut's, which annoys me to no end) I feel guilty for not going to Saigon, so I go there like 3 days later, and then the next week I'm too lazy to go far, so Pho Hut happens...it's a vicious cycle, really.

And honestly, I don't care for Pho Hut's pho ga (chicken), cause they use dark meat and breast with skin...ugh. Not for me. But their beef pho is great. As is their tofu pho, which I tried today for the first time. Tons of veggies and some not quite distinguishable...meat?...accompany the tofu chunks, which was a nice change of pace.


So I really do have good reason to frequent both spots. And do, obviously. But holy crap, it's a lot of food from either place. And I end up killing it every.single.time.

So it always amuses me that the hubby seems to think if I have pho on a, say, Tuesday, I won't want it again on Friday for our weekly lunch date. Wrong. I'm a pho machine, baby. Bring it on.

Ridiculous.

We are so moving back to the beach.

Last night the hubby rather impatiently pointed out that I have yet to write about our excursion last weekend...which tells me he wants to relive it already. And since this trip was more booze based than food based, being hungover from St. Paddy's Day seems the appropriate time to write...so here we go.

During our Snoop-guided drive over, we stopped in Avila Beach at the recommendation of my hair colorist—she promised the seafood at the restaurant at the end of the pier was worth the detour. As we walked to the end of the pier, however, we weren't quite sure what we'd gotten ourselves into...the "restaurant" was disturbingly reminiscent of a huge metal shack. So we looked at each other, got over it, and walked inside.

Nothing spectacular about the inside of the Olde Port Inn...it's the views that matter, and the fact that their tables are basically glass tubes that let you look down into the water below you. Very cool. So after we awwwed about the family of sea otters playing right in front of us, and oooohed about the specials (100% crab meat crab cakes), we sat back and realized vacation had begun.

And what a way to start. The crab cakes were a.maz.ing, as was the mixed seafood grill and the crab and shrimp salad (the bill was not...must begin asking how much specials are instead of immediately ordering out of excitement). We will totally go back there. When we're rich.

Once we checked into the hotel a little later, we somehow came to the conclusion that the best way to hang out in downtown SLO is by bar...so one overpriced cab ride later, the impromptu pub crawl began...at like 2pm.

Pammy H. Pub Crawl Rules:
Must sit at bar.
Must order one drink, but no more than three.
Water is mandatory after two drinks.
Each bar must somehow be documented.

Let me tell you...the hubby and I are troopers. As the night, err, day, progressed, my handwriting got more and more illegible, so here's where I think we went:
Black Sheep Bar & Grill
Bull's Tavern
Downtown Brewing Company (where we convinced the bartender to sell us an empty growler as a souvenir)
Frog & Peach
One World Wines (cause why wouldn't we go wine tasting after 4 bars? Hello, the South American wines came with empanadas.)
Buffalo Bar & Grill
China Buffet (because after 6 bars at 8pm, there was no point in going somewhere good. We did not sit at the bar. But we did have a beer.)
McLintocks
And all was finished off at the hotel bar. Ask nicely and one day I'll show you the flip videos from that stop. The poor bartender didn't know what hit her.

Somehow we managed to get up in the morning (with some help from the Hangover Gods-Bud Light Cheladas are magical), and headed back to Big Sky restaurant for a late breakfast. I was dying to try their pozole, which was gorgeous (the poached egg weirded me out cause I don't really do yolk, but it looked pretty) and deliciously spicy.

After walking around downtown and the San Luis Obispo Mission, we finished our trip in Pismo Beach. We hit up Brad's restaurant for clam chowder...and as we know, I can't pass up shrimp cocktail, so we killed one of those, too. After a long walk on the beach (which ended up with us getting trapped in the RV camping ground...don't ask), our happy tummies and sandy feet reluctantly headed home.

Sigh. Til next time...