Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, dogs and cats, big news: Irish Gumbo is expanding.
Is it a web portal of my own? Is it the burgeoning of a publishing empire? Is it the long awaited launch to fulfill my dream of owning a company that corners the market on t-shirts with snarky or ironic or just plain odd slogans and fake advertisements?
Sadly, no. What is expanding...is mah belleh.
I have noticed more than once in the past two weeks, that some of my shirts and some of my pants are now bit more taut than usual when I put them on. One of the shirts, a sort of shiny wine-colored number that I've been wearing for a few years, now gaps out at the buttonhole closest to my waist when I sit. This perturbs me.
I am fortunate to have a metabolism and body type that, while not exactly svelte, I have not had to fight to keep from becoming too heavy for my own good. In general my health has been pretty good considering that I do not get enough proper exercise* to stay toned up and fit. So in general, I've managed to squeak by on the maintenance side of things.
But, now? Perhaps I need to reconsider. Exercise will have to brought on board. Diet and nutrition will have to be improved**. I will have to find a way to tame the cravings for le cuisine junque to go away, as my appetite for the salty-chippy-cheesy snacks has been fierce lately, and I think it is beginning to take its toll. Also (and this could be really tough) I need to cut back on my indulgence in sandwiches of the Italian cold-cut variety. I loves me a hoagie, no doubt.
I have also been possessed of an increased appetite in recent weeks, something I don't have a good explanation for at the moment. I feel most days like I may not be eating enough, as my trade deficit with the company snack box would seem to indicate. I need to get a handle on this soon, though, or there will definitely be handles on me...love handles.
And I'm not convinced anyone wants to see that on the Gumbo!
*Unless you count running around the office like my hair was on fire.
**Try as I might, I cannot figure out a way to get Doritos and potato chips to be defined as 'pasta or grain'. Damnit.
Showing posts with label smackin' the cucumber. Show all posts
Showing posts with label smackin' the cucumber. Show all posts
02 September 2011
28 December 2010
But True Happiness Comes With A Side of Mash
Sometimes, these things write themselves. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and those undecided, I pass along to you The Secret, courtesy of g.oog.le targeted ads in my sidebar:
Perhaps I'll change my handle to Irish Bangers...
Perhaps I'll change my handle to Irish Bangers...
09 April 2009
Mr. Johnson, I’m Afraid We’re Going to Have to Let You Go
(I knew when I asked my pal Idiot Boy to bless me with a guest post, I could count on it to be funny, sharply observant and almost certain to involve the word "johnson". And my faith was rewarded! Behold, a keen little essay on Things We Dudes Don't Really Want To Talk About. Trust me, you'll laugh! - Irish Gumbo)
I have a physical exam scheduled for Tuesday of next week and I’m dreading it. Nothing good can come from a physical and the staff at the Doctor’s office does everything they can to prove to you this fact from the second you walk in the door. Everything from the 27 page sign-in forms, to the glacial pace at which the 13 patients waiting ahead of you are called, to the long wait in the chilly exam room when all you have on is a paper dress (open at the back), and the finger up the ass “prostate exam”, are all designed to remind you a visit to the Doctor’s office is but a sampling of hell.
That’s all horrible enough, but what I’m really concerned about is what the Doctor will tell me. He’s going to say I have high-cholesterol and high-blood-pressure. I know he will tell me this because it is the same thing he told me the last 3 times I have had exams. And, I know this time, he is going to very strongly suggest I start a treatment program which involves exercise (ugh), consuming a diet of hog-fuel, cardboard and broccoli (ugh!), and certain medications (UGH!).
I can get past the exercise and the fiber intake for the high-cholesterol; it’s the drugs for the high-blood-pressure that have me freaking-out. A friend of mine, who suffers from the same condition, has told me that his medications leave him…somewhat lacking…in the libido department. Worse, he actually has trouble, um….getting the bread to rise…on the rare occasions he finds himself even remotely interested in sex.
Upon hearing of this news, I immediately Googled up articles on high-blood- pressure meds and, what Doctors refer to as “Erectile Dysfunction”, or what I like to call, “The Death of Meaning and Purpose”. As it turns out, my fears are well founded. Apparently these “medicines”, while great at lowering blood pressure, also reduce blood flow to Mr. Johnson and therein lies the lack-of-rub.
This begs a fucking serious philosophical question (or is it a serious philosophical fucking question?) to whit:
Is there a point to living longer if you can’t continue to employ Mr. Johnson in the capacity for which he was hired?
Well, my wife thinks so.
“What do you think?” I asked. “According to the information, I’ll be less stiff than a garden hose on a hot summer day”.
“Wouldn’t you rather be alive?”
“Uh, no, I wouldn’t”.
“If you ask me, it’s a small price to pay”. She chuckled, then turned and walked away. I’m pretty- sure I heard her humming “Zippity-Do-Dah” as she left for the store (she said she needed to get some “D” batteries). Sometimes that woman can be just cruel.
So, I guess I’ll take the medication because, I “want” to be around to watch my son get married, and I am “looking forward” to playing with my grandkids, and I “hope” to escort my wife into her golden years, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…
That’s all horrible enough, but what I’m really concerned about is what the Doctor will tell me. He’s going to say I have high-cholesterol and high-blood-pressure. I know he will tell me this because it is the same thing he told me the last 3 times I have had exams. And, I know this time, he is going to very strongly suggest I start a treatment program which involves exercise (ugh), consuming a diet of hog-fuel, cardboard and broccoli (ugh!), and certain medications (UGH!).
I can get past the exercise and the fiber intake for the high-cholesterol; it’s the drugs for the high-blood-pressure that have me freaking-out. A friend of mine, who suffers from the same condition, has told me that his medications leave him…somewhat lacking…in the libido department. Worse, he actually has trouble, um….getting the bread to rise…on the rare occasions he finds himself even remotely interested in sex.
Upon hearing of this news, I immediately Googled up articles on high-blood- pressure meds and, what Doctors refer to as “Erectile Dysfunction”, or what I like to call, “The Death of Meaning and Purpose”. As it turns out, my fears are well founded. Apparently these “medicines”, while great at lowering blood pressure, also reduce blood flow to Mr. Johnson and therein lies the lack-of-rub.
This begs a fucking serious philosophical question (or is it a serious philosophical fucking question?) to whit:
Is there a point to living longer if you can’t continue to employ Mr. Johnson in the capacity for which he was hired?
Well, my wife thinks so.
“What do you think?” I asked. “According to the information, I’ll be less stiff than a garden hose on a hot summer day”.
“Wouldn’t you rather be alive?”
“Uh, no, I wouldn’t”.
“If you ask me, it’s a small price to pay”. She chuckled, then turned and walked away. I’m pretty- sure I heard her humming “Zippity-Do-Dah” as she left for the store (she said she needed to get some “D” batteries). Sometimes that woman can be just cruel.
So, I guess I’ll take the medication because, I “want” to be around to watch my son get married, and I am “looking forward” to playing with my grandkids, and I “hope” to escort my wife into her golden years, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…
05 January 2009
Smack My Cucumber Bitch Up
As often happens, when I get the idea of something in my head, whether it be a word, an idea, a song, they stay there for days or weeks. Circling around and around until I DO something with them. In this case, I couldn’t take it any longer. The only way to get rid of the ideas was to write about it. So I present to you, for your edification and delight, this following amuse bouche for the mind. Enjoy!
On the road back home, from Virginia to Maryland:
It’s Daddy’s turn to pick the satellite radio station, so we are listening to Lithium XM54, all the greatest of ‘90’s alternative and such. There was a lot of good stuff playing, Wee Lass was quiet, and I was starting to drift off. The volume was up, because Wee Lass frequently asks us to ‘turn a’up louder!’. There had been some U2, some Nirvana. Then a song comes on that I hadn’t heard in a long time. I smiled at the opening chords, couldn’t quite remember the name. I said, sleepily, ‘Haven’t heard this in forever!’
From the back seat: “Daddy, what’s this song?”
I opened my left eye to look at the console. The Spouse was looking at it too. She looked at me, I looked at her. (Dim recollection that Wee Lass is starting to know words) Our hands were a blur trying to reach the channel button. Fortunately, XM Kids is on preset.
“I don’t know, sweet pea. Hey, Imagination Movers!”
Wee Lass smiles, and looks content.
That was close. The song? “Smack My Bitch Up” by Prodigy*:
Lying in bed, at home, a few nights later. In a rare moment of quiet repose, I am reading, really reading a genuine BOOK. This is one of the things that I treasure, I love to read and have ever since I learned how. In recent years, I have developed an obsession with food and cooking. Not just the pretty pictures of things I want other people to make for me, but information and recipes that I want to learn and make for myself. A recent thread I have been following is Chinese cooking. Not American Chinese, but authentic Chinese. The stuff that Chinese people living in China make for themselves. One of the best Western interpreters of the vast array of Chinese food that exists is Fuschia Dunlop, a Londoner who lived in, reported from, and trained in China for many years. She has a number of books published, one a memoir and one called Land of Plenty, which is on Sichuanese cooking. ‘Land of Plenty’ is excellent, I was cooking stuff out of it soon after I finished it. The one I am reading on this particular night is on Hunanese cooking, called The Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook. It is off to a good start, I’m diggin’ it:
Me: ….HA!
The Spouse: (politely ignoring me)
Me: ….HA!
The Spouse: (sighs) What?
Me: This recipe. It’s for something called ‘Smacked Cucumbers’. That sounds cool!
The Spouse: Smacked cucumbers? Ouch.
Me: Yeah, they call it that because before you marinate the cukes, you ‘smack’ them hard with the side of a cleaver, until they split and get all jagged. That way, they absorb the flavors better before you cook them! Awesome!
The Spouse: I ain’t eating any smacked cucumbers. Weirdo.
A day or so later, I had a really bizarre dream. I was standing in a kitchen, chopping up stuff. There was some music playing, and someone turned it up really loud. Guess what song it was? I looked down to find myself smacking the hell out of a big pile of cucumbers, and shouting “Smack my bitch up!” along with the song. The other people in the kitchen just stared at me.
Happy eating, comrades!
*I linked to the ‘nicer’ video clip for this song, because the ‘banned’ version was just scary. And nasty. I don’t rattle that easy, but still…I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. You may want to compare for the sake of curiosity, but you have been warned. ;)
On the road back home, from Virginia to Maryland:
It’s Daddy’s turn to pick the satellite radio station, so we are listening to Lithium XM54, all the greatest of ‘90’s alternative and such. There was a lot of good stuff playing, Wee Lass was quiet, and I was starting to drift off. The volume was up, because Wee Lass frequently asks us to ‘turn a’up louder!’. There had been some U2, some Nirvana. Then a song comes on that I hadn’t heard in a long time. I smiled at the opening chords, couldn’t quite remember the name. I said, sleepily, ‘Haven’t heard this in forever!’
From the back seat: “Daddy, what’s this song?”
I opened my left eye to look at the console. The Spouse was looking at it too. She looked at me, I looked at her. (Dim recollection that Wee Lass is starting to know words) Our hands were a blur trying to reach the channel button. Fortunately, XM Kids is on preset.
“I don’t know, sweet pea. Hey, Imagination Movers!”
Wee Lass smiles, and looks content.
That was close. The song? “Smack My Bitch Up” by Prodigy*:
Lying in bed, at home, a few nights later. In a rare moment of quiet repose, I am reading, really reading a genuine BOOK. This is one of the things that I treasure, I love to read and have ever since I learned how. In recent years, I have developed an obsession with food and cooking. Not just the pretty pictures of things I want other people to make for me, but information and recipes that I want to learn and make for myself. A recent thread I have been following is Chinese cooking. Not American Chinese, but authentic Chinese. The stuff that Chinese people living in China make for themselves. One of the best Western interpreters of the vast array of Chinese food that exists is Fuschia Dunlop, a Londoner who lived in, reported from, and trained in China for many years. She has a number of books published, one a memoir and one called Land of Plenty, which is on Sichuanese cooking. ‘Land of Plenty’ is excellent, I was cooking stuff out of it soon after I finished it. The one I am reading on this particular night is on Hunanese cooking, called The Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook. It is off to a good start, I’m diggin’ it:
Me: ….HA!
The Spouse: (politely ignoring me)
Me: ….HA!
The Spouse: (sighs) What?
Me: This recipe. It’s for something called ‘Smacked Cucumbers’. That sounds cool!
The Spouse: Smacked cucumbers? Ouch.
Me: Yeah, they call it that because before you marinate the cukes, you ‘smack’ them hard with the side of a cleaver, until they split and get all jagged. That way, they absorb the flavors better before you cook them! Awesome!
The Spouse: I ain’t eating any smacked cucumbers. Weirdo.
A day or so later, I had a really bizarre dream. I was standing in a kitchen, chopping up stuff. There was some music playing, and someone turned it up really loud. Guess what song it was? I looked down to find myself smacking the hell out of a big pile of cucumbers, and shouting “Smack my bitch up!” along with the song. The other people in the kitchen just stared at me.
Happy eating, comrades!
*I linked to the ‘nicer’ video clip for this song, because the ‘banned’ version was just scary. And nasty. I don’t rattle that easy, but still…I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. You may want to compare for the sake of curiosity, but you have been warned. ;)
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