Human Sharks and Twittercorn.


And then I worked out like, once. And almost died. And then I ate some hot wings and drank a six-pack of beer and was like “Mmmm, Blue Moon forever.”

I’m not going to BlogHer this year, unfortunately. I had plans to go but they fell through and now I’m going to be spending the weekend avoiding all you BlogHer-goers on Twitter like the plague because I’m still a little bitter. I did, however, bring up the fact that those of us who are not going should have our own super awesome Twitter party and I even named it #TwitterCorn. So if you’re eating those sour grapes like I am, join us all weekend for #TwitterCorn. Come whenever. Pants are optional.

Um, anyway, back to being fat. I got to looking at pictures of myself the other night from three years ago when I was working out like, 6 days a week. Seriously. 6 days a frigging week and do you know why? Because I didn’t have a kid and I actually had free time and energy to do things in that free time. Now when I have free time, I sometimes suggest we take a walk. Downtown. To get some ice cream. Because that makes sense.

But I was looking at my smiling, skinny face and wishing I could go back in time and punch myself in it, because I thought I was still fat. If I could go back and say one thing to past-Natalie, it would be “Bitch, you think those thighs are jiggly now? Wait until you’ve carried a human being for nine months while sitting on your ass eating anything that came within biting range. THEN WE’LL TALK ABOUT FAT. Pregnant Natalie is kind of like a Great White shark. She will eat anything and everything. When you give birth to your daughter, they might also find a license plate.”

Okay so the license plate thing never happened but I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had. I was kind of like a vacuum. I don’t think I chewed or tasted my food while I was pregnant. I just sort of opened my mouth and things gravitated toward it. Come to think of it, I’m still kind of like a Great White shark. I still eat like that.

This post really is about making changes to the way I live my life, and the food I put in my mouth. I’m so busy, and I’m so tired at the end of the day I just want to quiet the snarling hunger-hole that is my stomach with whatever is nearby, which usually is some form of chicken nugget or pizza bite. The other night for dinner, I had some rotisserie chicken (no skin) and a leafy green salad with light dressing, carrots, and raw snap pea pods. I was like, “FUCK YEAH HEALTH! LIGHT FOOD! LEAFY GREENS! ANTIOXIDANTS!” and then around 9 P.M. my stomach was like “BITCH WHERE’S THE CAKE?” and I was like “No, stomach. No. You’re big enough.” and it was all, “DON’T SASS ME” and I cried and played some Lady GaGa really loudly which drowned out the sound of it screaming obscenities at me.

I used to know how to eat right, but I also used to have a lot more spare time to fix myself healthy things. I just have to find the balance, to adapt the healthy eating habits I know that I possess to my new, busy lifestyle.

It may be Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, but it’s time that this Great White Shark be put out of its misery. Fare thee well, hot wings and pizza. …………Maybe not like, total fare thee well. I mean, I could still have *a* hot wing, right?





Sausage and Peppers: A Cautionary Tale

I love Italian food. When my dad and stepmom come to visit, or we go up to see them, my dad always cooks us a big Italian dinner. His cooking is to die for. I look forward to it and crave it. He cooks spaghetti, makes his own sauce and salad dressing and the last time he was here he made us this chicken, potato, pepper and onion dish that was just so good it makes me drool just thinking about it. One of my favorite things he cooks is sausage and peppers.

Now, I am nowhere near the cook that my dad is and I haven’t gotten his recipes yet. While we were planning our meals last week, Josh suggested we make sausage and peppers. Brilliant! We headed off to the store to get our food for the week.

We grabbed some green pepper, an onion, a can of spaghetti sauce and headed for the sausage section (that sounds really dirty doesn’t it? Like not something you’d find at Wal-Mart so much as at one of those bookstores downtown) to peruse the selection of succulent meats. There was Polska Kielbasa, more Polska Kielbasa, hot sausage, regular sausage, but Italian sausage was nowhere to be found.

Me: So, I don’t see Italian sausage.
Josh: I’ll show you some Italian sausage. *wiggles eyebrows*
Me: You’re not Italian, shut up. Where’s the Italian sausage?
Josh: It’s here somewhere.
Me: I don’t think it is.
Josh: Well, we will find it at another store. We’ll go at some point this week and get some Italian sausage.
Me: NO. I’ll never get to the store, we’ll just get this normal sausage, it’ll be fine. *snatches the plain sausage up and throws it in the cart*
Josh: I’m telling you, you need Italian sausage.

So the other day I stayed home from work with Nellie and decided to make my delicious dish. I sliced up peppers and onions and threw them in the Crock Pot with the jar of spaghetti sauce. I cut the (Not Italian) sausage and tossed it in with my concoction. I drooled a little in anticipation of the delicious aroma that would soon be filling my house. I turned my Crock Pot on and went about my business.

When Josh got home later that afternoon he asked:

Josh: Mmm, what’s that smell?
Me: *arrogantly* THAT’S my delicious sausage, onion, and peppers. I’m going to make noodles to go with it.
Josh: *side-eye*

I made the noodles, mixed everything together and sat down to savor my delectable dish. I munched on a few tender peppers first, then a couple of onions. Finally, I snagged a piece of sausage with my fork and popped it into my mouth, chewing tentatively, waiting for my insistence that I didn’t need Italian sausage to be justified.

It tasted like a goddamned hot dog saturated in spaghetti sauce. It was horrible. The flavors clashed like polka dots and plaid. I chewed and chewed, making yummy noises as Josh watched. “How is it?” he asked. “Not bad!” I replied nonchalantly while inside, I was wondering how I could discreetly dispose of the sausage without him knowing. Josh took a bite to see for himself, chewed a few times and looked sideways at me.

Josh’s Eyes: …………………………….
Me: …………… It’s awful, isn’t it.
Josh’s Eyes: …………………………….

The spaghetti/pepper/onion/sauce combination was fine. Tasty, even. We picked around that sausage, avoiding it like it was contaminated with the bubonic plague. We declared that dinner a fail, and Josh did a really good job containing his smug victory in knowing that he was right, and I was wrong.

The moral of this story, boys and girls is that all sausages are not created equal. Not at all. Sometimes, you just have to have Italian sausage and nothing else will do.