David Lebovitz the cause of my bulging left breast?

I visited the vag doc recently for my regular poke-about. I asked him if it were possible that the hovering ring in my woohoo was the cause of my heaving bosom, and would you believe he said (something to the effect of) "Possibly, but perhaps if you didn't sample everything you posted on Facebook, you might not have this problem." Phhh, I say.
 

Who is Oscar Lipp?

Surprisingly, and much to my father's dismay, there has been no gossip surrounding our engagement announcement in the AJN last week. It was a given that Oscar's name would appear alongside my parents. My brother was momentarily disappointed that the miniature schnauzer copped a guernsey and he did not, but as Oscar's age is more that of a father, then a brother, and it would probably cost another $100 to get Andrew a mention as well, he quickly built a bridge.

We expected some controversy to arise due to the format of the names. For those not close to the family, one could well have assumed that dad had remarried a bloke named Oscar. Or perhaps mum and dad were in a three-way relationship with Oscar, although I'm tipping my parents would not be that adventurous. Perhaps dad was not in fact my real father and this Oscar bloke had appeared out of nowhere after a) stalking my cooking on Facebook and gagging for a good feed b) hearing the joyous news and wanting to be part of my life again or c) spotting my big mouth on the Digital Folk website and wanting a web banner made on the cheap.

Alas, there has been no speculation. Zero. I can only assume that Oscar's turtle-neck jumpers and his very bad breath has brought him widespread fame or alternatively, people care more about the departures page.

Otherwise known as 'The Muff Girl'.

Rocked up at Nike yesterday with Marty to present a couple of projects and learned that my client has been referring to me (I can only assume affectionately) as 'The Muff Girl', because I generally rock up to meetings with my fluffy ear muffs on. 

Upon discovering this, my frontal lobe took over and relaunched a convo we left off about 2 months ago (which Marty had not been privy to), something to do with a failed Brazilian wax in Portugal back in '02...which then moved on to me going to Vietnam next week and having to shuffle about my wax appointments and go 8 weeks rather than 5 without a prune...and then onto some detail around my overgrown shrubbery causing me spacial relation issues resulting in me banging my va-gin into the middle bathroom drawer as well as two table corners (FYI in Polish, a 'cunt' is a corner of a table) all in the space of one week. 

Marty was mortified, even though it was he who told me earlier in the week that the reason i formed such great relationships with clients was because i shared the interesting bits of my personal life with them and others could learn from my peoples skills. Anyhoo, the clients were quiet amused AND have another project for us. Nice work dirt-bag.

Compost muffins. A real struggle for me.

Insane week so far. Still undecided whether insane in a good way or bad way. 

For some reason, probably fatigue, my tolerance for retards (as in stupid people, not people with legitimate medical issues) and fat people (weight issues brought on by drinking regular coke and inhaling trans-fatty foods, as opposed to evil thyroids or pregnancy, although on occasion there is a cross-over...) has been nil.

In the waiting room this morning, a woman with three bellies, sweat oozing out between the folds, decides to sit next to/on top of me, despite there being about 15 vacant chairs.I was repulsed. And because the doctor was running 45 mins late (despite mine apparently being the first appointment of the day) I had to sit next to her for an extended period of time. 

Fortunately my attention was diverted by a message from Emily who was so kind to remind me that it was actually Brendan's birthday today and i'd better get my shit together and sort him out a baked birthday delight, as he'd feel neglected if I didn't (I bake things for all special occasions at work). The easiest thing i could think of was banana choc-chip muffins, but in my current sensitive state, I wasn't sure i'd be able to cope with the disgusting smell of the peels. Gross. They make me dry vom nearly every time. At work recently, the boys sellotaped a really black peel to the underside of my desk without my knowledge. I could well have institutionalized that day.

Anyhoo, I rushed home, armed with ripe bananas, put on my onion goggles (which for some reason i though would help me handle the situation,) blocked my nose and peeled and mashed at a pace you could not imagine. I then double-bagged the garbage bin, took it straight to the big bins and baked my acclaimed muffins, which were naturally a huge hit.

I think banana peels, amongst a whole heap of other things, will have to make an appearance in my new year resolutions next year. 

Sweet or savoury?

If I didn't know better i'd guess that this delight (at the back of my fridge) was a giant raspberry with dollops of vanilla frosting, however i do recall having excess beetroot for my candied walnut salad at a dinner party about a month ago...

Value all round.

Not only can i get my 60 pack of Kleenex extra thick toilet tissue, but now (should i need it) Costco also stocks double packs of pregnancy tests. Toot toot.

Soft prawn tacos with coleslaw, avocado and coriander

Amazing. You must try this one.

Serves me right for eating the Maltesers that were meant to be for the decoration. Bad Nickers.

Happy Fathers Day Daps.

A fraction of our 1 year anniversary shop at Costco.

Bribery.

After the Cookies & Cream Cheesecakes surprise in WIP last week, I'm expecting a whole heap of briefs to come in from the lovely folk at The Age.

I'm a bad social drinker, but some wheat beer with my chops goes down ok.

I am beyond unsophisticated when it comes to social drinks. 

I don't do coffee. An ex-boyfriend tried to make me like it many years back by forcing espressos loaded with sugar down my throat. He thought if he did this enough, I would learn to tolerate it. He also thought he'd stomp on my foot one time to prove that my toe wasn't broken - part of his 'Learn to Tolerate Domestic Violence' campaign, I suppose. Very innovative diagnostic skills for a med student...He was a dick.

And ever since the 1st time i got drunk on Stronbow's and $2 champagne at the after-party for Chess the musical in year 10, and woke up covered head-to-toe in vomit (of which i couldn't be sure was mine or a collaborative effort) I can't face beer, wine or champagne. They all taste the same. Although, dessert wine is different. I can inhale the stuff. It tastes more like Ribena than alcohol.

Last night, we got back into our Nordic cooking with Jane Lawson's 'Veal Cutlets with Wheat Beer Sauce and Vegetable Strudel'. The strudel was impeccable thanks to Don's superior puff pastry handling skills (under Jess's watchful eye) and although I did neglect to season the vegetables during the process (small oversight), we resolved the issue during post production. The combination of Hoegaarden, raisins and honey in the sauce was so phenomenal that I didn't even get one flashback of the spew chunks lodged between my way too shameless adolescent cleavage 15 years ago. 

If fancy juniper berries, beetroot and caraway seeds, you should really get your hands on this book.

 

Oink. Delicious.

"Maaaa"

People generally greet each other with a 'hi' or 'hello'. In our family, we say "g'day" with a "baaa" or a "bleat". This derived from the peculiar barking noise "be be grrr" my dad used to make when imitating the miniature Schnauzer.

The "baaa" era came to be due to the residual effect my mum's Polish soup had on those (particularly within our household) who had yet to develop the barley/bean/lentil/cabbage enzymes. When dad got a wind of this, he thought the obvious way to exchange greetings and mock our ever-present flatulence issue was the same way methane-producers of the world would address each other, with a "baaa".

This salutation further matured (after all, adults making animal noises at each other both in person and on the phone is so mature) when dad discovered that Don's parents had pet sheep that looked like goats. Now, much to my mother's embarrassment and the general confusion of those within earshot, greetings in public places are randomly generated barnyard sounds interchanged with the odd "Hi there".

Having run out of back-up lamb one weekend, and not being so keen to try Massaman dog, the next obvious option was goat. We found the Railway Goat Curry in the Gourmet Traveller  Best-Ever Chefs' Recipes mag, bought a big leg of goat, whipped up some scrumptious ghee-ful pilaf and "Voilà", or rather "Maaaa".

 

The salt drenching can continue. Phew.

PT said to go the Wagyu Burger at Cafe Vue, so we did. I thought $15 was a touch pricey but my lordy lord...this humble fare was delicious and surprisingly filling too. The home made tomato sauce came in a cute little juice bottle and was so tasty, I practically inhaled the stuff and the chips were perfect; good portion, perfectly seasoned and cute presentation. Domus and I had been concerned of late that either a) Melbourne restaurants had really dropped the ball or b) we'd screwed up our palettes from salt-overload, but i'm pleased to say that Cafe Vue and their lovely staff (who don't have botox smiles plastered to their face or feel the need to refill your water between sips like the waiters at Pan Asia) have revived my Melbourne-dining-libido. Many thanks.

Sometimes the vessels mum uses for her care packages puts me off my food.

Maybe she's afraid she'll wee on me.

The lady next to me in RPM never her turns her freaking dial. I'm trying to figure her out. Maybe she has no muscles in her legs or butt? Perhaps she's incontinent and afraid she'll wet herself (and myself) if her resistance is up too high and she has to exert herself? If this is the case than I suppose I can excuse her, but she should really let me know so I don't disrespect her the way I do now. Seriously, where does she get off dressing like a cyclist when she rides like a pussy? Perhaps getting off is in fact her mission. With the resistance so low, she's bouncing about in her seat so much she surely gets off at least 3 times in a 45 minute session. I'm going to listen out for the squeal tomorrow morning. She'd better wipe her seat good and proper at the end of the class.

Hummingbird cake.

Recipe

Pre and post gym breakfast.

Love having a cupcaker best friend who has her annual sabbatical in Austin. Breakfast #1 this morning was a new Sugadeaux flavour experiment and post-pump breakfast #2, whilst playing with brand spanking new Wacom tablet which made the experience all the more delectable, was crunchy salty sweet Prezel m&m's. Packet says one serve is 17 units, but they say that this contains less than 2% of the recommended daily nutrient intake. Does this mean i need 850 m&m's for a decent daily diet? Please advise.

Poh pancake fail.

I don't claim to be a Masterchef but i do pride myself on making my dishes look like the pic in the recipe. Hell, I won't even attempt to use recipes without visual accompaniments as a) there's no real challenge and b) if it tastes like poo, you can't say "Oh well, it tasted like balls but at least it looked the picture". 

A year after Poh smacked together her Chicken Rendang with Coconut Lace Pancakes i thought i'd give it a crack. The chicken was OK. Significantly better on the 2nd day as one would expect with a curry but my cross-hatch autistic excuse for a pancake just did not work. I can't even liken it to anything. Well, maybe play-dough. Tasted and looked similar, one might say. Granted we didn't have the milk carton (we use 2 liter plastic bottles) but we devised a very clever substitute using one of those Chinese takeaway rice containers (like the ones that were found to be used in those string of public transport terrorist attacks in London) with a very small pouring hole in the side, which by laws of physics, should've worked perfectly, alas, we failed.

Thankfully we had foresight enough not to invite cronies round for dinner and embarrass ourselves, and instead gobbled down our mess while watching Walter cook up a perfect batch of Crystal Meth in one of the last Breaking Bad's for season 3.