Spam and eggs, redux

Subject line of a recent spam I received: "We are the experts in getting people laid!"

How does one become an expert in such a trade?

I'm a Product Ho!

Starting today, you can find me writing for Izzy's consumer site, Props & Pans. In my first outing, I test-drive the Schick Intuition razor. Check it out!

Pregnancy myths?

Extra hair on body: check. Stomach and arms seem to have been upholstered in blonde fur.
Excellent quality of hair on head: not so much. I hear that the scalp ceases to shed, causing the hair to look full and lustrous, but I am still losing the usual amount and clogging the drains. However, remaining hair is a grease factory.

First trimester nausea: no, thank jebus. Just a ridiculously keen sense of smell that leads me to a panicky belief that the cat poop in the litter box down the hall is actually on the floor to my immediate left.
Inexplicable throwing up a little in mouth: just started. What is that about?

Pregnancy glow: only when in a good mood or consuming ice cream or salty snacks. Which of course, I do only rarely, since I'm following the What To Expect diet. Ha ha ha ha ha. As if.
Pregnancy craziness: at raging PMS proportions and beyond. Oy, my poor husband.

Bigger butt: Alas, no. I am doomed to flat butted-ness, at least for now.
Bigger boobs: Hotcha! Oy, my lucky husband!*

Speaking of pregnancy, hop on over to check out my friend Stacey, who just gave birth to her daughter, the baby formerly known as Gordita! Congratulations!



* I keep reminding him that after the miracle of breastfeeding, the girls will resemble nothing so much as a tennis ball in a gym sock (seriously, I saw it described as such somewhere, and it stuck with me). But he is in denial and refuses that such a thing could ever happen. Reality check countdown begins ... now.

This is what twelve years of Catholic school does to a person

Booby: "What's the matter, honey?"

Me: "Oh, my stomach hurts a bit, that's all."

Booby: "It's not your, uh ... womb, is it?"

This won't win me any popularity contests, but ...

Let me put it right on the table: we all love Target. Their hip commercials, their great style, their low prices, the feeling we get that we're a little smarter than those down-at-heel Wal-Mart enthusiasts. It's all good, right? No. It's not all good. And here's why:

* Target is behind even Wal-Mart in phasing out PVC packaging and products. PVC contains a known carcinogen and is found in packaging, shower curtains, and even children's toys.

* Target uses sweatshop labor. Its Mossimo line is manufactured by, among others, factories in Jordan where the employees are paid only sporadically, wages are below minimum, sick days are not allowed, and workers are threatened with violence if production goals aren't met. We didn't let Kathie Lee slide on this one, so why should we let Target?

* Target has a history of trouble with the EEOC and the NAACP because of its treatment of African-Americans and people with disabilities. The NAACP has urged African-Americans to boycott the chain because of its refusal to hire black people for entry-level management positions in Wisconsin, and a lawsuit brought by the EEOC maintains that the big box store "routinely destroys the applications of African-Americans." A separate suit from the EEOC, settled for $95K, claims that an employee with MS was not allowed to transfer to another position within the store, and that information concerning said employee's condition was relayed to a prospective employer. Ouch!

All things considered, shopping at Target, though addictive, is a bad bet from a moral standpoint. I realize sometimes it's unavoidable - sometimes there is no other place to find something you need. The coffee table I'm sitting in front of right now is a Target find. But I know that I'll be severely limiting my shopping trips there from now on ... it just isn't worth the weight on my conscience.

Ouch!

Booby sent this to me today.

I asked him never to perpetrate something like this on me at my death, even if I deserve it (which I probably will).

How sharper than an serpent's tooth, indeed! I would LOVE to hear the backstory behind this one.

Courtesy of craphound.com.

The reluctant housewife

Fuck you, Comcast.

Strong words, I know. But if you'd spent the past week and a half unable to connect to most sites (such as Google, Yahoo, and even such rarefied corners of the web as the Organic Valley site), you'd be hatin' on Comcast, too.

Even Booby, who is quite the computer nerd, can't fix the problem here in house, so it looks like we're stuck until a) Comcast gets its shit together or b) we switch to another provider. The local competitor, RCN, has pricing that's a few dollars more, but it's starting to look miiiiighty attractive nowadays.

Enough boring connectivity stuff.

****

While I can't say that I really miss my job, I do miss the structure that work provided me. [The smallest violin in the world plays in the background.] I've found it somewhat difficult, thus far, to organize my day into anything resembling a schedule in which I accomplish the various things I really should be getting done. Usually, I manage one or two odious household chores, and then it's back to the TiVo. Pathetic, no? I mean, I've already had a two week "vacation," so it's probably time to cobble up a to-do list and get off my ever-widening ass.

In addition to the daily structure, I miss the convenience of being in the city for work. There were always a spare few minutes to return a library book or pick up my farm share after clocking out. I had plans to visit the local gelateria on a semi-regular basis, figuring that a bitter chocolate gelato craving isn't so bad, calorie-wise (and has the lovely texture of soft serve without the germs from the pump machine, best avoided during pregnancy). I have a craving for the pizza from the place across the street (I have conveniently forgotten the time I found a hair in my slice), and I'm pining for the cheesesteaks available up the street. The neighborhood here at home doesn't have these things, or even viable substitutes. Attending to what used to be everyday matters and errands now necessitates a lengthy trip on a subway car or (heaven forfend) car trip, which always feels like rush hour, even if it's only 3 p.m.

I'm sure that if I push myself just a little harder, I can consolidate my trips into town and make the most of them, and even force myself to clean my house a little bit every day.

I guess I just miss the feeling of having purpose and being "useful."