Spam boobs

I want to see an episode of Iron Chef where Spam is the secret ingredient.

Other than my boyfriend, the only people that currently know this blog exists are Fred and Fred. That's cool. I don't know if I want to alert anyone else to the existence of this blog now.

I'm tired of calling my boyfriend "my boyfriend" here. He was simply "D" on Diaryland. For now, I shall call him... The Man. Sensational name, eh?

The Red Sox lost with authority last night.

I fell asleep at 8:30 last night and slept until 8:20 this morning.

I made killer spaghetti sauce for lunch today. Well, neither of us died, so I suppose I shouldn't call it killer. It was wicked... Wicked good...

Today I added crushed red pepper flakes to my spaghetti sauce, which I haven't done in a long time. When I did I could distinctly hear my grandfather saying to me, "Atta girl!" He put red pepper flakes on everything. I miss Gramps.

I might take a picture of the leftover spaghetti sauce to push Fred-X over the edge and make him fly out for dinner. I think he and The Man would get along great! The only night that's not good is Thursday.

My mammogram/ultrasound isn't until the 18th, unless they get a cancellation between now and then. Keep your fingers crossed! When The Man and I were talking about it the other night, I told him if worse came to worse, whether now or down the road, and there was cancer and I ultimately had to have a mastectomy, that I could get implants and have porn chick boobs. That'd be cool. I could lay on my back and they'd still be nice and perky. Perky boobs are good.

Maybe the Iron Chefs could make Spam boobs.

Mmm... spam boobs.