Tag Archives: vivian

Paleo vegetarian serves up a lot of BS

by viv sade

I have a friend who is a vegetarian, which is Latin for plantslayer. is-3

Between her and me — a 10-year gluten-free freak, which is Latin for painintheass — going to a restaurant is a big deal for us and an ordeal for the waitress.

We tip well. We have to, otherwise there would be toenails and saliva and god knows what else in our vegetable-oil-sauted-organic-gluten-free-tofu-steaks.

My friend— uh, let’s call her Becky — (NOTE: all names similar to or the exact same as my real friends are purely coincidental) — not only avoids all meat, but inquires as to whether or not the food is prepared with any animal products, such as a chicken stock base.  That’s too much work for me. Being gluten free is like following a paleo (think: Caveman) diet. This is Indiana. Throw a half a cow on a platter and call it a day. Double-deep fry a stick of butter in pig fat and I’m good to go.is-5

Becky is not a vegetarian because she loves animals. She is a vegetarian because she hates plants.

I’ve never been able to diet and I suck at exercising. The second I think “D-I-E-T,” I crave a triple Big Mac with double bacon. And, I get enough exercise just pushing my luck.

I know people who swear by the Atkins Diet and have lost a tremendous amount of weight, which is nothing short of a miracle. I mean, geesh, have you seen what those people eat?!is-1

Daily Atkins Menu

Breakfast: Deep fried sow, scrambled eggs in heavy cream sauce and a dozen cheese sticks

A.M. snack: Four pounds of bacon and a wheel of Colby with whipped cream

Lunch: Two lambs, three ducks and a partridge in a pear tree

P.M. snack: Pork crackling nachos with whale blubber and ostrich egg and butter salsa

Dinner: A black Angus steer and two cheesecakes with pork rind crusts

Bedtime snack: Elk pate′ and two 24-inch cheese crust pizzas topped with hamburger, ham, pepperoni, sausage, a triple layer of  mozarella and a large bowl of whipping creamis-2

Atkins followers are single-handedly to blame for the extinction of the animal species.

I have to admit, at recent dinner parties I have been serving Atkins-type meals. My plan is to fatten up everyone else around me so that I will look thinner.

This is not hard to do when one considers that the casket adds 165 pounds to the ones who have keeled over with a heart attack.

 

 

 

Soothing bubble bath turns into incinerating mambo dance of death

After living 12 years in a home that did not have a tub, only a shower, we moved into a residence a few months ago that – oh my god – had a tub.

But, I usually habitually jumped in the shower and never gave the tub a second thought. I forgot I had a tub, even as I stood in it to take a shower.

Last weekend, while watching a movie where the female lead took a bubble bath surrounded by candles and sipped on a glass of wine as she soaked, I had an epiphany.

“Hey, I’ve got a tub! And I’ve got wine!”

Unfortunately, I also have ADD, which I forget to calculate into any speculative life skills operations.

It’s simple math.

One tub full of sudsy water + 5 lit candles + 3 glasses of wine + polycomposite plastic + ADD = Slippery Brains and Bath on Fire

Anyway, I was so excited at the prospect, I did not notice that the woman in the movie was in a very expensive, spa-type tub with a wide berth of marble enclosing three sides – perfect for setting candles and glasses of wine.

I have a narrow ledge around a polycomposite tub and enclosure with a plastic shower curtain liner hanging in close proximity.

(I’ve been working a long time to work polycomposite into a column.)

I started the water, adding a generous amount of bubbly.

I took a sip of wine.

I lit the candles.

I took off my clothes.

I had another sip of wine.

I took the shower curtain and liner and hung them on the door hook soon after I smelled something strange and the liner appeared extremely warm to the touch.

I took a big swallow of wine.

Wow. Something smelled toxic. I checked the shower curtain again and the toilet and under the sink.

Nothing.

I put cleansing cream on my face.

My white blood cells were dying. What was that smell?

OMG. I was out of wine.

I threw a towel around my torso and traipsed to the kitchen to reload.

I told my husband something stunk as I walked back to the bathroom. He agreed.

Back in the bathroom, I removed the towel.

I took a big gulp of wine.

I looked in the mirror to remove the face cream.

I saw flames a foot high behind me in the mirror.

I screamed.

It was coming from one of the lit candles I had set in the molded tub shelf that was meant for soap and other bath necessities which, I’m assuming, did not mean candles.

A THICK plexiglass bar – meant to hold washcloths – was less than two inches from the burning wick.

As the bar melted and dripped into the burning candle, it created shooting shards of fire. The smell was reminiscent of my childhood when the neighbor used to burn old tires in his back yard and stink up the entire town.

It was in an age before awareness of “carbon footprints.”

But, even then, my mother knew. She would make my brothers and me come into the house and then tell us not to breathe.

I violently smacked the candle into the bubble bath, slopping burning wax all over the tub walls and my BARE limbs.

I flopped around the bathroom, doing the naked, over-the-hill-woman-on-fire dance – painful and unattractive.

The candle was immediately extinguished, although the bar was black and dripping and would be warm to the touch an hour later.

I power-downed the glass of wine.

And then, I took a shower.

And no one is the wiser . . .