A Little Help Here?

Dear Body,

I thought we were friends. I mean, I know that we've had our ups and downs over the years - you gave me an annoyingly sensitive stomach, but I suspect that's probably because I decided you needed an eating disorder for a few years. I got saddled with an anxiety problem, but I blame that mostly on genetics. You gave me crappy skin, but made up for it with really shiny hair. I will probably never have lovely nails, but I have cute boobs. You even allowed me to eat whatever I wanted for most of my teens and twenties, and so when you decided that a high metabolism wasn't in the cards for me anymore, I obliged you by exercising and eating right and lost the 15 (or 20) pounds that living in New Orleans for 3 years gave me. We were cool, Body, and I kept exercising and eating right because, well, it was only fair. So, Body, allow me to kindly ask: what the fuck? Where exactly do you get off adding ten of those pounds back without even asking? It's not like I did anything to deserve this. Maybe I didn't work out quite as much and maybe I wasn't as diligent about the calories, but that's only because I have things to do, dammit, and it's not like I went on a binging spree. But fine, I stepped it back up again, and...nothing. That seems a little unfair. Because, really, it's not as though I enjoy working out 7 days a week. I don't like counting calories and feeling vaguely hungry and cranky all day, but I do it because I thought we had a deal. You know what I mean - I work hard, you cooperate. It's a pretty simple equation. It's not like I expected results right away either. I bought special DVDs and I took measurements and I didn't even rely only on the scale, because that thing is damnably unreliable, and I even restricted my little check-ins to once per week, and still...nothing. And now I am in a bad mood every day because my clothes don't fight me properly and there is nothing pleasant about plump, and I am about done with being little Ms. Nice Girl. So, sack up, beeyotch, because I'm getting a little sick of this nonsense.

XOXO,
The Rest of Me

Misspent Youth

I just overheard a most disturbing conversation outside of my building. A girl said that Jared Leto once touched her boob. Apparently her mother approved of this encounter, as she approved of the arrest of said girl's boyfriend. Apparently her mother is also a binge drinker and a pothead (not my own judgmental conclusion, but one gained from further eavesdropping). She looked exactly like a skinnier, trashier version of Jenny Humphrey (which is tough to do, as Little J is so bleached and trashy and racooned eyed that she is practically Courtney Love, but less awesomely insane), and probably doesn't even know that Jared Leto was once Jordan Catalano before he went all emo and became addicted to guyliner. I fear for the future of our species.

A Fun Blog and A Random Thought

First up, fun blog:

I feel it's my duty to alert all two of my readers (hi!) to a blog that I love (LOVE), missdoxie.com. I got the address from another blog a while ago and promptly read about five years of entries. It's written by an Atlanta attorney who is hilarious. Seriously, I laugh like an idiot every time that I read her stories, and sometimes it's really touching and I almost shed a tear except that I'm usually at work and that is inappropriate and pansy-like. She doesn't update very much anymore - only once or twice in the past year or so - but she has archives going back to 2004, and I am not ashamed to say that I've read them all, some several times. Said archives have gotten me through any number of mind numbingly boring doc review hours, while quite possibly convincing my office mate that I am crazy. Most days when I first started reading went much like this:

Me: click, click, click, next. Click, click, click, next. Heh. Hehehehe. Heeee.
Office Mate: strange look in my direction.
Me: click, click, click, next. Click, click, click, next. Ahahahaha. Hee. Hee. Catches breath. Snort.
Office Mate: What are you doing over there?
Me: Oh, it's just this site I'm reading. Cackle, hehehehe, hee. Giggles silently while trying to maintain composure.
Office Mate: shakes head at seemingly crazy coworker.

And on and on and on. For like, days. It's okay though, because he's a really loud breather and I am thus not apologetic for my silent, shaking, giggling fits. Anyways, go read it. You will thank me, in between fits of hysterical laughter.

And now, Random Thought:

My blog title is seriously misleading. I picked it out when I was in this serious Lady Gaga phase and it sounded fun at the time, but it in no way reflects my life. My last blog title at least made sense, especially if you took Business Enterprises with me first year. This one makes no sense at all. Not only have I succeeded in playing out every Gaga song that I own to the point that I now skip them on my iPod, but my life in no way resembles a Glamour Show, at midnight or any other time. In fact, my life is really, shockingly normal and not very glamorous at all. Full disclosure and all. So it may change at some point (again), but I'm not especially creative and I can't think of anything better at the moment, so for now you can just imagine that I'm glitter-studded and partying into the wee hours and we'll leave it at that.

Gooping It Up

I have a shameful confession. I can't decide if it's worse than that time that I made a picture of Megan Fox my desktop background after deciding that, actually, she was awesome in Jennifer's Body and I thereafter forgave her for saying the most ridiculous things ever. Actually, nothing is that shameful. Anyway.

So, um, I've been reading Gwyneth Paltrow's newsletter, GOOP, which I have previously scoffed at on more than one occasion. It started innocently enough: I was at work one day and I came across this article in which one person attempted to live according to GOOP for 30 days, including the crazy detox, and then I found another similar article and another and I was really bored so I just kept reading and eventually I just decided to go directly to the source. And I liked it, so much so that it is now delivered to my inbox at semi-regular intervals and I get all excited about it, much like I get excited about facebook notifications or actual emails written by friends rather than listserves.

And now that I've admitted that...it certainly is rather silly, like the issue in which she suggested Christmas presents and included things like an Hermes watch "for her" and a Mulberry weekend bag "for him." So, yes, it may be totally frivilous on occasion, because who but a celebrity jets off to Morocco for the weekend and then writes about it as though us normal folk will someday think "Hey, I'm feeling restless. Lemme check out what Gwyneth has to say about Morocco while I'm packing for a little jaunt"? Hint: the answer is no one. But! It's also like getting this sort of goofy advice from your somewhat flaky but incredibly well-meaning friend who really wants you to have fun in Morocco and thinks that you deserve an Hermes watch for Christmas. And on occasion, there are some bits that normal people without rockstar husbands and an Oscar can use, like her playlists for a spring party compiled by various celebrities and the reading lists that she occasionally writes up. Most recently, there was an issue devoted to recipes and an interview with Jaime Oliver (think whatever you like of his show - I haven't watched it - but he can still cook) that has really easy recipes for different salad dressings and a Moroccan stewed fish recipe that I made just the other day that came out great.

See? Yummy. And, even though I am nearly incapable of taking good pictures of my food, it mostly looks like it's supposed to. Plus, it only took about 20 minutes, including shrimp peeling, which is always a plus in my book. Boyfriend and I were both pleased with the result, and though he initially smirked a bit at the source, the next night he asked if we were going to have more of "that actress's salad dressing."

Pasta with Tomato Pesto

This past week was hot. Like, really summery 90 degrees HOT. I'm definitely a summer person, and as much as I love such temperatures outside by the pool or inside with the A/C on, I do not love it in April when the building hasn't turned on the A/C yet. Thus, most of the week was spent remaining as stationary as possible so as not to sweat to death and finding things to cook that wouldn't further overheat me. Enter this tomato pesto recipe that I make about once a week during the spring and summer months. The original recipe is from an issue of Women's Health that I bought about two years ago, so it's also healthy and under 500 calories per serving, if you care about that sort of thing. Normally I serve it hot, but it tasted just as good cooled after rinsing the noodles under cold water. So, without further ado:

Pasta with Tomato Pesto

3/4 lb penne pasta
1/2 lb (about 4) ripe Roma or plum tomatoes
8-10 large, fresh basil leaves
2 Tbsp unsalted roasted almonds
1-2 large garlic cloves, crushed and peeled
1/4-1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
1/4 tsp coarse sea salt or kosher salt
1/4 c extra-virgin olive oil
Grated parmesan for topping

1. Boil pasta. Obviously. If you don't want anything hot to pass your lips, rinse the pasta under cold water when you're done.
2. For the pesto, cut tomatoes into large chunks and place in the food processor with basil leaves. Follow with the almonds, garlic, red pepper, and salt and pulse until finely blended.
3. To add the olive oil: most food processors have a feed tube at the top with a little cup thingy that fits into it (what the heck is that called?). Most little cup thingies have little holes on the bottom that, if filled with olive oil, will allow it to drip in slowly while blending so that mixture emulsifies properly. If yours has a holey cup thingie, use it. If not, just pour it all in and blend. There, how technical of me.
4. Combine pesto and pasta. Top with parmesan. Eat. See? That was simple. And healthy. And will not cause you to overheat and become even more cranky and sweaty while making dinner. Awesome.

That Went Well

So far, the so-called Kind Experiment has not been very nice to me. First I was all set to get started when my job went on a two-week hiatus (side note, screw that. Only fun for people who are salaried) and it turns out that vegan-type food is tres expensive. Just the not-sugar sweeteners alone probably would've cost $30, which is a lot when you consider the price of a simple bag of sugar. So I delayed, but then I decided I would just start out easy. I would pick two recipes that used minimal ingredients, some of which I already had, and serve with a side salad. Simple.

Total. Kitchen. Meltdown.

The sauces were going okay, but I made the mistake of subbing a different sweetener for one and it just tasted wrong, so I threw it out. Then I was baking my tofu and it stayed resolutely jiggly despite 45 minutes in the oven. Okay, fine. It will surely crisp up when I fry it. Except I never got to that part. First, I decided to fry my black bean croquettes. They won't fry. Instead, they foam up all over the place and fall apart in the oil, which begins smoking madly and frothing like I'd dumped soap in the pan. So I used the rest of my oil, and the same effing thing kept happening, completely blackening my pretty silver pan.

That's when the, um, rage blackout began. The kitchen was filling with smoke because of my ill-advised frying and practically asphyxiating me, the stupid croquettes were falling apart all over the place. I had no more oil. I smelled like fryer smoke. The tofu wasn't enough for dinner by itself and my sauce was already in the bin, and I sort of lost it. I yelled at the stove. I yelled at the frying pan. I yelled at the cookbook, and vegans in general, and at the boyfriend for suggesting that things would be fine. I then yelled at him for suggesting that I order the pizza and made him do it instead, and then yelled about having to go pick it up, and in the generally lunatic-heavy atmosphere he ordered a vegetarian pizza forgetting that I hate both olives and green peppers. So then I was mad about that, except I couldn't be mad at him because the fiasco was of my own making. Not a good night, all totaled.

So, I guess maybe I'll just have to try that again later. Maybe next time I'll go with something that doesn't involve frying, just cooking, and doesn't involve interesting sweeteners. I would also like to point out while we're here that I am generally a nonconfrontational, non-screaming, fairly normal person. There is just something about kitchen disasters. I do not weather them well. Me + kitchen disaster = totally unhinged. Or, put another way...vegans: 1, me: 0. Possibly -10 for psychotic behavior. Ahem. Kind indeed.