Mean Girl to the Rescue!

Castor oil is your friend! Sometimes.

2009-05-30T08:44:00.007-04:00

For anyone who might be interested, what follows is the birth story of my second (and hopefully, last) child. It's not the roller coaster tour-de-force of the first birth story, but it may bring hope to anyone who worries that her second labor experience will be longer, more raw and more painful than her first.

I was due on April 25th, but there was an expectation that the date of actual delivery would be quite fluid, given that I'd had no idea I was preggo, and couldn't provide anyone with anything but the vaguest idea of when my last (first!) period had been. Sigh. I used to be organized, once. Anyway, I'd thought I'd go early, but instead I was late. After 3 days, I called my wonderful midwife and made an appointment.

"We'll make arrangements for postdate testing," she said, referring to the fun of sitting still in a reclining seat while the baby's movements are charted and amniotic fluid levels checked. The idea of doing this while wrangling a 2-year old was not attractive.
"Or," she said musingly, "you could spur labor on by taking a dose of castor oil. That's what I did with my second kid. Just take it on an empty stomach and you won't spend the whole day pooping. Oh, and feel free to go into labor in the meantime."

Normally, I'm all for things running their natural course, but I felt huge. I had gained 40 lbs. and we had just moved into a new fixer-upper house 3 weeks prior. Before that, we'd spent 3 months living with my parents in their townhouse. My big kid, now 2, had transitioned into a big boy bed, was talking a mile a minute and had begun potty training during that time. I can honestly say that 2 days in the hospital seemed like a pretty sweet vacation. Sad, huh?

The following day, down to the CVS I went with my empty stomach, after packing Woogie off to my SIL (a wondrous saint of a woman who has babysat him on the regular since we moved, allowing me to do things like, say, sleep). Then I drove to Wendy's to procure myself a Frosty, on the advice of Booby's coworker, whose wife mixed her castor oil into one prior to ingestion (the stuff is naaaasty). In my haste/Frosty lust, I drove too close to the drive-thru window and snapped the rearview mirror clean off the car. But it was totally worth it. I had a major Frosty addiction this pregnancy, and let me tell you, I indulged.

After a couple of hours and no fireworks, I figured nothing was going to happen, so I ate a late lunch. One hour later, well, let's just say the fireworks began. The whole idea behind taking castor oil is that you'll get a raging case of the trots, and the contractions of your bowel will instigate contractions of your uterus, and labor will begin. Most of what I read online said it's a bum steer, but people, I am here to tell you it is not.

At 4:30 p.m., I called Booby to tell him to come home - just in case, and anyway I was stuck to the toilet so he needed to come parent our toddler. At 6:30 p.m., I was having regular, but not too painful contractions. At 8:30, they started to intensify a little, and I was glad that Booby had forced me to call my folks so they'd come get Woogie and spare him the sight of his mommy in active labor. By 9, my water had broken (me: "My water just broke!" Booby: "No it didn't!" Apparently, he expected a tsunami) and we were en route to the hospital. VERY INTENSE. Very fast. Still, I was fastidious enough to have changed underwear (a pointless endeavor, and difficult to manage while contracting) and be sitting on a towel (far less pointless).

Part II coming when I have a little more "me time." God willing.

Rich man's family

2009-05-18T18:29:00.005-04:00

Huh, so what do you know, it's been almost a year since I posted anything new. However, I have a good excuse:
We call her Pigeon. 8.64 lbs of pure love, birthed a mere 34 minutes after arrival at the hospital. Birth story coming soon.

About this time last year, I was probably weaning Woogie, who was 14 months old then and who had begun biting my nips and laughing uproariously at each feeding. You know how they say breastfeeding is an inefficient method of birth control? Well, they lied (at least in my case), BUT you damn skippy better have the Mirena ready to roll when you stop, because it took *one cycle* for me to get pregnant again. This, after various drugs of the swallowable and injectable variety, endless charting, two failed IUIs and innumerable vials of blood taken from me over a 15-month period of time before my first pregnancy.

You can imagine my shock when I went to my fertility doctor to discuss "working on" a second baby and was told told, "Hey, surprise! You're already 5 1/2 weeks pregnant." My uterus has been kick-started, big time.

If you plant it, they will come

2008-06-10T16:08:00.002-04:00

One thing I promised myself that having a child wasn't going to take away from me was my voracious reading habit, and I'm happy to say, I'm still reading a LOT. Blogging, not so much, but what can a girl do? Blogging occasionally seems to be how it'll go for me.

Booby and I dismantled our veggie square foot garden this year, because we put our little house up for sale, and we figured that an additional parking space would be more attractive than 6 feet of garden space surrounded by red bricks. As a result, both of us are feeling garden withdrawal, and plotting our future house purchase with special attention to The New Garden (did you know that some boros will give you trees for your yard - for FREE?).

I've also been reading a lot to get myself set up for the next place. On the bedside table this month: Bringing Nature Home: How Native Plants Sustain Wildlife in Our Gardens, by Douglas W. Tallamy, who lives in Southeastern PA, just like I do. This book is a very interesting read. It makes the case that if we plant native plants in our suburban gardens, rather than alien ornamentals, we'll have a thriving insect community, which will then support and sustain other wildlife who will eat those insects. It's a pretty simple theory, but clearly a workable one.

Before I started this book, it had occurred to me that picking all the aphids from my roses wasn't going to leave much for the ladybugs who lunch on them, and I did manage to restrain myself from hosing them off of my milkweeds, since those plants exist only to be chomped by monarch butterfly larvae, anyway. We've been trained to remove all bugs from the garden, so just leaving it all be and let it exist as its own balanced ecosystem might make your fingers itch - though the rewards will be great if you do. Example: last year, our garden was enough of a pest palace that not one, not two, but five praying mantises (manti?) left egg cases behind (possibly after mating and then chewing their men's heads off post-coitally). I was fortunate enough to be outside shortly after one of the egg-cases, or oothecae, delivered its precious cargo into the world. I have never seen so many tiny, freaky little praying mantises. They were everywhere, just hanging out, and some of them stuck around for several days (Booby has photos here). Safe to say that if we didn't have a few native plants providing food for the mantises, I wouldn't have seen those babies sunning themselves on my false dragonhead.

Tallamy also includes an appendix with lists of appropriate plants for your region. Since no one, not even the most dedicated entomologist, has ever listed which insects eat which plants (in full), this is not as simple as it sounds, so he has concentrated on the plant species favored by butterflies, moths and their larvae for each region, including information on which natives provide food for the most species, so you can get the most bang for your buck (or for your foraging trouble, since you can easily find many native seeds on your local wooded hiking trail). The idea here is that these insects are a particular favorite of nesting birds to feed their young (even herbivorous birds will feed exclusively protein-rich bugs to their nestlings), and thus bring birds (and bats!) to your yard, and keep the whole system in balance.

I have a few natives in my garden, particularly in the shady parts, but I have to admit that I had been remiss - I had three patches of alien, potentially invasive honeysuckle in there, due to my fondness for nice-smelling flowers. These plants are often seen colonizing vacant lots and slowly taking over trees, kudzu-like, until there's nothing left but a massive pile of vines. Birds disperse the plants by eating and then pooping the seeds, but insects ignore them and it's easy for them to take over. Now my garden is non-native honeysuckle-free (except for some shrubs whose berries are ignored by the birds anyway), and the garden at my next house will (eventually) be as native as I can stand for it to be, though it might mean chopping down a Norway maple or two.

If you're interested in planting natives and need a source in your state, you can find one here.

How is your gardening going this year?

Bobby Dunbar

2008-05-15T23:41:00.003-04:00

It's been forever, I know. I've been chasing after a 13-month old (!) who started walking some time before Easter, and dammit, I just been tired. There's no N on my keyboard (forcibly removed by aforementioned 13-month old). We're trying to get our ducks in a row to sell our house in a craptacular sellers' market. Life goes on.

In the meantime, check out this story from This American Life. It had us spellbound one Sunday as we drove around attending open houses a few suburbs down the Blue Route. If you're a mother, you'll find it absolutely heartbreaking. If you're not, you'll probably still find it heartbreaking (but maybe to a lesser extent). This story is one of the reasons why my husband has a big ole man crush on Ira Glass.

So I married a cat hurter-er

2008-01-07T16:00:00.000-05:00

The scene: bedtime, in the bedroom. The fattest cat, HIM (between 18-20 lbs.!), jumps into my spot in the bed about 1.2 femtoseconds after I vacate it to go brush my teeth. Since this is a cat who is too fat to clean his own ass properly (earning him the nickname "A.J.," for "Ass Juice"), I am less than thrilled by this phenomenon, which occurs multiple times per night.

Upon my return, I try to slide him from the bed gently onto the floor, mindful of his bum leg. His not inconsiderable belly sloshes around a bit, but he has somehow melded himself onto the bed. I have no choice but to pick him up and drop him onto the floor, and he lands, - you guessed it - right on the stump. Limping, hissing, and reproachful looks back ensue as he hobbles out of the room, and I'm struck with intense guilt. Booby comforts me.

"Oh, don't worry about it, honey. He's fine," he says. "I do terrible things to the cats all the time."

Why can't we have an amusing LOLcat, instead?

Set your blenders to stun. I mean, puree.

2007-12-31T09:55:00.000-05:00

Because I am one of those not-trusting-in-big-corporations types of people, when it came time to start feeding my kid solids, I knew I would, at the very least, attempt to make his food. Izzy is the one who pointed out the stupidity of Gerber manufacturing organic baby food and then packaging it in polycarbonate plastic (and I wrote them an aggrieved email asking them why, and they swear that the plastic they use is not polycarbonate. But isn't that what #7 plastic IS? I welcome your enlightenment, dear readers). There is always Earth's Best organic baby food - I trust them far more than, say, Beech Nut - but mah gawd, the expense! So I had to try to make my own. And it was a lot easier than you'd think.

Basically, if you want to do it without a book of recipes, you can just peel (you can leave summer squash, figs and other thin-skinned items unpeeled, if organic) whatever fruits and/or veggies you have around, cut them into a 1/2" dice, plop them in a pot and cover them with water. Then bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and simmer for 20 minutes. Transfer the whole contents of the pot to the blender (being careful not to splash hot food on yourself), and puree, pushing the solid pieces to the bottom to ensure even texture. Then pour into sterilized, empty baby food jars (the dishwasher is hot enough to sterilize, or use your baby's bottle sterilizer), or use whatever sterilized glass jars you have, from jam, or salsa, or whatever. Leave to cool for maybe half an hour (so the glass doesn't break from the temp change of the fridge), pop into the refrigerator, and you're done. Seriously. That's it. If you can cook for yourself, you can cook for your baby.

If you want to get fancier, or need ideas for what foods go together best, there are two excellent books I recommend. The first is nice and simple, has a number of great recipes, and is available on Amazon (I got it through interlibrary loan, though, and so could you): Blender Baby Food by Nicole Young, who seems to be a blender aficionado (her other books are blender recipe books). Her measurements are precise and all the recipes I tried worked, quickly and easily.

The second one, I liked so much I bought it new: Cathe Olson's Simply Natural Baby Food.
The recipes are simple, yet unusual enough for a jaded toddler's interest, and she has wonderful information about making sure your baby gets the best nutrition possible, using ingredients like nutritional yeast and seaweed (although I had a hell of a time finding the many varieties of seaweed she suggests, even at my beloved H-Mart), and suggesting alternatives to salt, like Bragg's amino acids. I got the sense that Cather really knows her shit, and I really love her sidebars filled with tips and tricks. She gives equal time to vegetarian options, but doesn't make you feel like a villain if you choose to feed your baby protein in meat form. Cathe even has a blog, which is right up my alley with its information on BPA-lined formula cans and Monsanto-engineered GMO sugar (coming soon to a Kellogg's cereal near you!).

There are many, many other baby food cookbooks out there, and each has its own spin, usually written by a professional baby food cook who has her own business (who knew there was such a thing?). It's worth noting that virtually all of these promote the importance of organic produce for babies, since their little systems are tiny enough to be easily overloaded by the chemicals found on conventional produce. If you're interested in making your own food, why not get whatever cookbook is available at your local library and take the recipes for a test drive first? Making your own baby food might not be the right choice for you, but if it is, the sense of accomplishment is surprisingly great. Plus, you get to smile beatifically as you say, "Why, yes, I do make little Junior's food!" while you enjoy an inner smug moment. Or maybe that's just me ...

On the road to being bitch-and-moan-free

2007-11-28T20:37:00.001-05:00

Top 10 Reasons Why I Haven't Posted

1. 2 separate contractors to complete one job over a period of 8 weeks (was supposed to take one week to drywall over hideous paneling and finish off the edges).

2. And now we have to paint a 22' x 16' room. Le sigh.

3. 3 large pieces of furniture arrived just a little too soon and now we have to paint around them. Booby blames me.

4. 4th large piece of furniture is being picked up tomorrow. Booby officially hates me.

5. Have I mentioned we are putting our house on the market in the Spring? Hence this flurry of home improvement activity.

6. Oh, and looking at houses to buy elsewhere on weekends. Like the huge money pit that we'd really like to buy, but are all too aware would cause our divorce. Jesus, we can't even handle a one-room remodel, let alone 8 rooms and a carriage house (even though I really, really want a carriage house).

7. 2 colds caught in a space of 3 weeks. Most recent cold lasted 3 weeks (and lingers still!) and was notable for the dry, racking cough it produced. I slept in the spare bedroom (in a not-so-roomy twin) for several nights, often with a cranky 7-month-old who backslid on his sleep training.

8. Rampant eBay addiction has worsened with the onset of the holiday season. Pathetic, I know.

9. Lack of quality sleep causing me to stumble around house with baby in tow, moaning "Braaaaaains!" That whole "sleep when your baby sleeps" thing only works if you aren't expected to do anything else, like laundry, or cleaning the house, or brushing your teeth.

10. Would you believe that after the Great Flea Roundup of Summer '07, we had the Great Indian Mealmoth Massacre of Fall '07? They wouldn't. Stop. Appearing. Even after I cleaned out every single frigging cabinet in my house (I found cocoons everywhere, including in packages of tea bags. It was awful.), until Booby discovered that they were laying eggs in the lid of the food scrap bin we kept in the kitchen. Needless to say, the food scrap bin has been relocated to the outdoors. Yes, I revel in moth death. Some of God's creatures are just too annoying once they have colonized all of one's foodstuffs.

And now my silly rant is over. The end.

There was a lit-tle Spanish flea ...

2007-09-25T12:21:00.000-04:00

You know what sucks? Having a cat who escapes for a day and then returns home with fleas. What sucks more is not realizing there is a sizable flea population until it's kind of serious and you, the humans, are being bitten. The suckiest thing is when the treatment you buy for the cats (all of them, because of course if one has them, they all do) doesn't work even a little bit (damn you, Hartz!), and then the flea foggers you set off don't work (double damn you!), and then even Frontline doesn't kill ALL of the fleas, and when you come back from your weekend visiting your in-laws at the shore so you don't breathe in toxic fumes, your bedroom is so overrun with fleas that you have to go check in to the fucking Hilton.

I've had an exterminator in twice in the past two weeks to spray chemicals in my house. If I am resorting to chemicals, you know this shit is serious.

And did I mention I had some sort of Indian meal moth infestation in my kitchen at the same time? That was fun, too. I haven't traced the source exactly, but they seemed to be everywhere. It probably didn't help that Booby left an open package of pancake mix in the cupboard, or that my mother gifted me with a package of cookies from a discount store (both were full of little teeny moth cocoons). Are you feeling itchy yet?

I promise I'm not actually a filthy pig. It's just that bugs are conspiring against me. Or something.

So that's why I haven't been around, or been in touch with anyone, or leaving comments on anyone's blogs. I have been so busy cleaning out my cupboards, vacuuming every day, changing my sheets umpteen times, and laundering every item in my closets in hot water that I have barely had time to think, let alone do anything more mentally strenuous than check my email.

As I told Booby, the upside here is that we were forced to clean the whole house, together, which is something we had been fighting about daily. Nothing like a new baby to corral your energy away from housekeeping. I rounded up 30 bags of stuff to give to the Salvation Army, and now all my towels fit in the closet they call home (after having been laundered in plenty of hot water, of course).

I also made up a chore chart, much to Booby's chagrin, although his chores are fairly minimal since he's the breadwinner while I'm home with the baby. I have to earn my keep! Ha ha. Actually, I thought there would be a revolt if I placed too many chores on his shoulders, so I gave him only a few hard ones. My hope is that these chores will become second nature. And then you can all ask me for my recipe in Stepford Husband-making.

Rooting for the little guy

2007-09-07T11:52:00.000-04:00

I recently read Barbara Kingsolver's new non-fiction book called Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, about her family's decision to leave the Southwest and go live on a Virginia farm, eat locally exclusively, and raise chickens and turkeys. Oh, man, it was awesome. I'm not generally a non-fiction fan, but this was interesting (and inspiring) reading, and it might be for you, too, if you're a big food nerd like me.

Now, I'm not about to go live on a farm (though I won't pretend that it's not something that Booby and I have discussed at great length -- the stumbling block right now is the lack of high-speed internet available in rural areas, which would prevent him from working from home), but that book renewed my interest in having a real vegetable garden that works for me on a year-round basis. And that means fall planting.

Fall planting means garlic, delicious anti-vampire food that it is. According to Ms. Kingsolver, there are bazillions more varieties of garlic in this world than you'd ever see in the supermarket, being that such varieties are grown for their ability to travel well. I would lament for the poor, lost varieties of produce that we'll never get back again, but that's another post, and I'd rather focus on the exciting world of heirloom seeds and the like.

You may not know this (I didn't), but the chances are good that your faithful old seed company is either owned or supplied by corporate giant Monsanto. Yeah, the same Monsanto who gave us rGBH, which is partially responsible for our lowered resistance to bacteria and the early puberty of millions of little girls, is now the largest seed corporation in the WORLD. I don't want to give them my money, I want them to go pound sand, as my dad would say. So I had to do a little research and find some little seed companies.

My travels led me to a nice list at Casaubon's Book. Sharon has put together a thoughtful list of seed companies and some warnings about the more popular ones. She mentions checking out Dave's Garden to see who owns what, but I didn't see any mention of Monsanto there. In fact, I couldn't find a complete list of exactly which seed companies Monsanto owns anywhere, not even on their website. However, when you're blogging while your baby sleeps, time is of the essence, and maybe someone does have a list somewhere. Anyway, further trawling revealed another nice list of organic seed sources, listed by state (always good to buy local when you can). I'd figured I could buy from Burpee (local to me, and a trusted name), but it seems that though they are independently owned, they are supplied, in part, by a Monsanto-owned company.

I also remembered hearing about a rare seed catalog on You Bet Your Garden on NPR sometime last year. That's where I found J.L. Hudson, Seedsman. You can order their print catalog, but as I recall, there are no pictures in it, so it's probably best to just order online and save a tree. I couldn't find any garlic there, and it occurred to me that garlic is maybe best grown from the bulb, so off I went to Fedco, notable because they ceased business with Seminis Seeds after that company was bought by Monsanto (unlike Burpee). That's my kind of company. Sadly, Fedco stopped selling garlic bulbs on August 31st. What was a lazy gardener to do?

Keep googling, apparently. I quickly found Southern Exposure Seed Exchange, which supplies heirloom organic garlic packages, one of which is listed as a "beginner" set for $11. I also found Hood River Garlic, which is certified by Oregon Tilth, and seemed to have a larger variety. It also seemed that "seed" in reference to garlic does in fact refer to bulbs. Duh. I have bought packages of onion seed before, so I assumed that "seed" meant seed, you know? Ah well, live and learn. I opted for the Susanville softneck variety, because softnecks are apparently easier to grow, and it stores for a long time. I was sorely tempted by the Chesnock Red, because it's hot and Georgian and the flavor is supposed to be wonderful, but I figured I'd start small (and easy).

My garlic bought, I can now think about clearing up the remains of my veggie garden, which is still producing a few measly tomatoes. The cucumber plant seems to be pulling a Lazarus, and the eggplant suddenly has a profusion of purple flowers (each one with a thin black spike near the stem, as I found out the hard way). Now, on to winter sowing ...

The BFF

2007-08-07T13:04:00.000-04:00

As in, Breast Feeding Fan. I am one. And, hey, has anyone heard about this whole New York hospital formula "controversy"? Check it out here.

If you don't feel like clicking, here's the gist: "New York City's hospitals have banned infant formula from their gift bags for new mothers — a policy that they hope will encourage nursing and healthier babies." Pretty simple, right? Instead of getting a formula goodie bag, new mothers will get a goodie bag with a breast-milk bottle cooler, disposable nursing pads, breast-feeding tips and a baby T-shirt with the slogan, "I Eat at Mom's."

Any new mother who wants formula has only to ask for it. And yet, Susan Donaldson James, author of this article for ABC News, refers to The World Alliance for Breastfeeding Action's slogan, " "Save 1 million babies beginning with one action," as "rhetoric that fuels the great divide between those who choose breast-feeding as a maternal mission and those who opt for bottle-feeding, feeling guilty and inadequate." Hmmm. Susan, I think you might be projecting a little, here. And aren't journalists supposed to be unbiased? This isn't an op-ed piece, after all.

But what really pisses me off is this TV segment hosted by none other than everyone's favorite mommy-basher, Meredith Vieira*. I don't know which woman pisses me off more, Meredith, for heading up this piece (among her other mommy-bashing pieces), or Dr. Nancy Snyderman, who puts the Men vs. Women spin on this so-called controversy. Because everyone knows that women can't be politicians! Tee hee, math is hard! She also has the flaming nerve to suggest that women of color who live in the city have an insufficient support network to allow breastfeeding to go smoothly. Dr. Snyderman, I hope you enjoy the check that the formula companies gave you, because it seems to me that a bigger concern for poor women in the city, whether they are of color or not, is the COST of formula. Also, families of color are known for having excellent support networks, at least in my experience.

Please note that I am not, Not, NOT knocking women who use formula. Hell, I use formula sometimes. And for some women, breastfeeding just doesn't work. But for the vast majority of women, breastfeeding is a viable and wonderful (and inexpensive) method of feeding their babies. I have long been gung-ho on breastfeeding, but after initially being prevented from breastfeeding my son in the hospital, and having formula at the ready at all times while we were hospitalized, I found the prospect of breastfeeding successfully really, really daunting. It didn't help that every single nurse in the maternity ward pushed formula on me, and one or two even wanted to see the evidence that we had fed him formula (open formula container, etc.). Nibbler wasn't a great nurser at the start, and the nurses had me feeling guilty (and inadequate, perhaps just like Susan Donaldson James) that I wasn't providing a steady spigot of breast milk, despite the fact that my milk hadn't yet come in. I can only imagine how much easier and how less daunting the whole thing might have been if I had been encouraged from the start by more than one person on staff (who was a lactation consultant and a dream come true).

I love how this is being lumped in with "Nanny Culture," i.e. the whole anti-smoking, no trans fats thing that's happening now. It's irritating because there is still plenty of choice allowed here. This is something that promotes health in a way that is completely positive; the only negative is less cash in Nestle's pocket. Perhaps Big Formula (hee!) should hire Rick Berman, who recently appeared on 60 Minutes, decrying "Nanny Culture." His fascinating interview can be read here.

Hey, if they're willing to pay him, I bet he could do a bang-up job making people feel like they're being lied to, and that they should just give up and bottle feed.

Happy Breastfeeding Week!

*Via International Breastfeeding Symbol blog.

Dear Clive Owen:

2007-07-20T13:14:00.000-04:00

I like you. Really, I do. You're pretty much the only actor I have any remote interest in, especially since Ralph Fiennes has revealed himself to be some sort of sex addict. You were so great in those BMW films on TV and the internets. I loved you in Croupier, as the assassin in The Bourne Identity, the filthy bank robber in Inside Man and the guy in that movie where you live out in the woods but return to your former criminal ways to avenge your brother, played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, after he gets ass-raped and kills himself. I forgive you for making that stupid Jennifer Aniston movie (she is so not hot enough for you), and that Julia Roberts movie I didn't see (ditto) and I'll even overlook your blinding white teeth in The Children of Men (are those veneers, or did you just get them whitened? So needless - you were hardly a candidate for The Big Book of British Smiles).
But what I cannot forgive, sir, is you shilling for Lancome.

Do you need the cash? Really? Because IMDb lists a lot of new projects on your resume. And -- don't take this the wrong way -- but you're hardly men's cologne ad material, are you? When I think men's cologne, I think of those Davidoff Cool Water guys (although I see that Sawyer from Lost is one of those guys now, and that's a whole other story of inappropriate hawking). Or maybe an Acqua di Gio guy, since I can't find any ads that don't have Sawyer in them. Anyhoo, my point is, you're not pretty enough to be a cologne guy - you're rugged. You're supposed to smell like pine trees (preferably from cleaning my kitchen floor), or woodsmoke or something. Maybe of gun powder, or hot steel from sharpening knives. If you smell like anything that isn't those things, it should be your deodorant, or perhaps the Irish Spring you used in the shower. But a guy who spent a week in a bank vault isn't a guy who cares about cologne.

And, yes, I realize that Clive Owen isn't actually that guy. But still.

In closing, Clive Owen, you are no longer my movie boyfriend. You are on notice, and within a hair's-breadth of being dead to me. We won't even discuss the fact that Lancome is not cruelty-free.

Regretfully,

Mrs. Harridan

Crazy plant lady

2007-06-19T15:19:00.000-04:00

As some of you know, I'm an avid gardener. Having a kid has definitely put a crimp in that hobby, but I haven't given up the ghost just yet. The plan for this year was to have even more edible stuff to offset our CSA veggies. It worked out more that we tried some different stuff rather than MORE stuff, but hey. What are you gonna do, right?

The garden plot in May. It's since exploded a bit more. This year, we're doing brussels sprouts (I thought I was picking up a flat of broccoli. Booby is less than enthused), red leaf lettuce, spinach (already gone to flower - better planning next year, I hope), various tomatoes, cukes, one pepper, and yellow and green squash. We also bought one melon plant, which was quickly shaded by a massive raspberry bush, and one eggplant, which has a pretty purple flower and that I expect will die (but you never know).

Strawberry plants. These tend to get eaten by the birds, so we've bought bird netting that I am, so far, too lazy to put up.

The aforementioned raspberry cane. We've had maybe one "harvest," which consists of one of us going out and eating the ripe berries off the bush. Delicious! I had about three of these on my cereal this morning.

Yellow squash. We've had a little trouble with blossom-end rot, but overall these are a much greater success than they were last year (when they mostly just rotted). We have tons of blossoms, so I'm guardedly hopeful.

And finally, a non-vegetable feature. This is dranunculus vulgaris, purported to stink like rotting flesh. I had thought it was like the one I saw on an episode of CSI, but that one is much smellier, apparently. The reality? The day it bloomed, I smelled something that was kind of like a bag of garbage left in the sun. Nothing too awful, no rotting meat or anything (though it was well-attended by blowflies). Of course, I have a lot of fragrant plants that smell good that may have offset this one. Still, an interesting showpiece for the flower garden, and the smell only lasts a day.

Boobiefest (not Boobyfest, though he's cool, too)

2007-06-18T17:58:00.000-04:00

I've been breastfeeding Nibbler pretty much since he was born. I was very gung-ho about the whole endeavor, but I'll tell you, it hasn't been easy. I've discovered a few things over the past nine weeks:

drugs designed to increase your supply will sometimes make your boobs leak so much, you'll think your baby has peed the bed five times over.

fenugreek makes your pits smell like maple syrup (but unappetizingly so).

sometimes, neither boob will make your baby happy, and this is why we have the third boob, commonly known as the pacifier.

while breastfeeding is convenient in the middle of the night, your husband can never really help out with it (rubbing your back as you hoist your kid up on your chest for the 5th time doesn't count). You may resent this despite your best intentions, if you're me.

the trade-off for not getting help in the wee hours can be that Daddy fields all poopy diapers.

There's nothing like a little side-lying nursing to make you feel like Fluffy, in a box under the stairs.

Breastfeeding depletes estrogen, which leads to a lack of interest in reconvening the procedure*. This is tantamount to a divorce decree in these parts; times have been tough since Nibbler's arrival. But he's getting all his nutrients.

Pumping makes me think I need to switch to soymilk if this is what is done to cows all damn day long.

Cats seem to like stepping on babies who are chillin' breastside on the Boppy pillow. Yowch!

*Never fear, the procedure has been reconvened and who knows, maybe Nibbler will have himself a sister someday after Mommy stops screaming in pain. Kidding!

Me on TV, and my hair

2007-06-08T06:02:00.000-04:00

Here's the link to the story about SOAM. I said a lot more than what they aired, so please, internets, don't hate on me for my brief comment taken out of context. I was just trying to be honest.

Oh, and that's my belly in the story, too.

Melissa commented that my hair looks darker than in my photo (which was taken almost exactly 2 years ago): true enough. When I began dyeing my hair with pure henna, the results were a little more flamingly red than I cared for, so now I put in a dollop of pure indigo, which gives a darker (and hopefully more natural) tone. I do miss my blondey-red, but it's harder to achieve with henna, at least until I go a bit grayer, which shouldn't be long. The darker tone blends in more when I neglect to dye my hair for 3 months, too.

Remembah my name

2007-06-04T20:06:00.000-04:00

Hey, remember how I was interviewed by the local news for a piece on Shape of a Mother?
Well, it's finally airing. If you live in the Delaware Valley of Pennsylvania, you can see it on CBS 3 on Thursday on the 11 o'clock news. After it airs, a link to the story is going up on their website; once that happens, I'll post a link (if it's not too embarrassing and I don't look too much like an ass, that is).

Jury is still out on whether I will actually send photos to Shape of a Mother, as I ended up with a few small stretch marks in my 40th week (shazbot! I was so close), and I am totally fucking vain.

Little Bun becomes ...

2007-05-24T14:10:00.000-04:00

Nibbler. Because he's done baking, he's not a bun in the oven any more. And if anyone is unfamiliar with Nibbler on Futurama:

Granted, my kid doesn't have fangs, and sports a mere pair of eyes (no cape, either, but perhaps later). But from a breastfeeding mother's P.O.V., Nibbler is an appropriate nom de blog.

What does he really look like, these days, you ask?

Part the third: the ickiest of the NICU

2007-05-20T12:11:00.001-04:00

When my son was spirited away, it was done by the head neonatal nurse, Mary Anne. She had entered the room after being summoned by my midwife when the baby's heartrate began to fluctuate and/or disappear from hearing. I was dimly aware of her presence behind my left shoulder, but she felt like nothing so much as a cigar store Indian or somewhat lifelike mannequin in my primal birthing state. However, she became much more real to me after she prevented my son from leaving the NICU. At first we were told he'd be returned to us after "an hour or two," once they'd made sure he was OK. His initial APGAR score was a bit low; the second was in normal range, but the blue hue of his arms, legs and lips had them concerned. I had wanted to breastfeed him within an hour (two at the latest), so their time frame was all right with me. What I didn't know was that the NICU's time frame promises are pretty much always bullshit.

About an hour after the birth, I was readied for a short journey to the Maternity Ward to start recuperating in earnest: I was given a haphazard wipedown (much needed after the placenta incident, which had left me awash in blood right down to my toes), and my crotch was outfitted with a coldpack, a belt-ready maxi pad, and a huge disposable seat pad, which was folded in thirds and intended to catch the copious flow of junk from my insides. All these accouterments were stuffed into a lovely pair of stretchy nylon boy shorts. Good times! Then I was wheeled down to my new room (getting up out of the bed was no picnic, I assure you), where Booby took me down to the NICU to see our boy.

That's when we found out that he wouldn't be back with us in "an hour or two." He was fine, but he wouldn't be coming out until "later that afternoon." He'd had some fluid in his lungs (which he'd horked up), and he'd had acidosis due to the stress of his birth: part of the reason it took him so long to come out was that my pelvis is small and strangely-shaped, kind of like an upside down V (thanks, Mom!), resulting in a lack of oxygen to the baby. He was on a glucose drip to get him hydrated. Blood tests were being done, and he had band-aids all over his heels from being stuck with needles. All the machines that go ping were there, going ping. There is no more upsetting sight than that of your kid in an isolette, even when you've been assured that he's fine, because if he were fine, would he be in an isolette, for crissakes?! Better safe than sorry was the motto of the day, it seemed. But the nurse in charge of him (not Mary Anne, who was mysteriously unavailable) allowed me to try to nurse the baby, at least, and get some bonding time in.

After that, we slept. Glorious, glorious sleep. Sleep, I love you.

The baby didn't come out by late afternoon, and we were told more tests had to be done - one at 12 hours post partum. He'd be with us at 8. We were also told that I wasn't allowed to nurse him, as per Mary Anne. The lactation consultant I spoke with didn't see anything wrong with this, nor did she think I should bother pumping (!). No reason given, and a fight ready to erupt between us and them because they were so concerned about his fluid intake and were itching to give him formula. We had to repeatedly instruct the staff (shift by shift) not to give the baby formula or a pacifier, because Mary Anne refused to pass the message on (I don't blame the staff - how were they to know if she didn't tell them?). At 8 we went back to the NICU, only to find out he was staying overnight. Thank God, the night nurse allowed me to breastfeed, hold him as long as I liked, and agreed to cut his IV at midnight so he might actually be interested in feeding the next morning.

We finally got our hands on him at 10 a.m. Looking back, I understand why they wanted to observe him, but I do wish they had communicated to us why a bit more, and come to us with information rather than forcing us to track them down and drag it from them.* I found that I easily let them do what they wanted without questioning them, and that surprised me - Booby was the one who pushed for more information and pushed for our son's release, and I love him for it.

*The whole experience made me wonder how Christian Scientists actually manage to refuse medical treatment for their kids without the NICU running roughshod over them. Do they arrive at the hospital with an ACLU lawyer, or what?

Part the second, Labor & Delivery

2007-05-18T13:59:00.000-04:00

Once we arrived at the hospital, I was in a bit of a fugue state. Booby pulled the car up into the emergency parking area, and off we went. Thankfully, we were preregistered, but I still had to sit at a little kiosk and hand over my insurance card and sign some stuff. Fun to do when you're gasping in pain and hardly able to walk! Thank the lord for bureaucracy.

Our midwife was there with a wheelchair for me to ride in. I'd heard a story about a laboring woman who was freaked out by the wheelchair; it took away all her I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-ness and she went up to L&D and got an epidural, toot de suite. But that wheelchair was to me like an oasis in the desert. Seriously, there was no way I could've walked anywhere beyond the front doors in the state I was in.

Once we got upstairs, it was kind of eerie. We were the only ones delivering that night, so it was very quiet, and our midwife, doula and nursing staff just set to the tasks of preparing for the birth. Booby was bringing all our stuff upstairs (note to self: pack lighter for next birth), and there I was, sitting there like tits on a log, doing nothing. But that didn't last long.

I labored, all told, for about ten hours, which really isn't that long compared to most first-timers. Most of us have been regaled with stories of 22-, 36-, or 44-hour labors. My hat goes off to those poor souls, because my ten hours felt like a hundred. And yet, even immediately after, I had forgotten huge swatches of time.

The doula asked me if I wanted to walk around a bit. I don't remember actually telling her no, but I made no moves to get up. The only way I was walking was if someone phoned in a bomb threat. Shortly thereafter, they began to set up the Aqua Doula*, or birthing tub, a device for which I am eternally grateful. My prenatal yoga instructor once referred to the tub as the "natural woman's epidural," and now I know why. The level of instant relief that came from getting into the tub was amazing. Without it, I would have been a screaming wreck.

I labored in the tub for several hours, with Booby giving me drinks of orange Recharge and offering me the food I had assumed I'd want to eat. I was too nauseated for food, though, and I knew that throwing up was coming soon and would signal transition, when things would get even shittier. Eventually, I did hork up my dinner (and may I say that emesis bowls are waaaay too small for anyone vomiting more than a dainty mouthful of bile?), and I guess it wasn't long after that that I felt a popping sensation inside me that was my water breaking.

Every fifteen minutes or so, my midwife would use the underwater Doppler to check the baby's heartbeat. I suppose I was pretty out of it, because I was knocked for a loop when she told me I was going to have to get out of the tub. "What?!" I said. And then I cried, for the first of many times. I remember her saying that the baby's heart rate had slowed again, but later I found out that she hadn't been able to get a heartbeat at all, and kept me in the tub until it was clear that we were going to have to make a change in strategy in order to keep labor going at a good pace and protect the baby from distress. But let me tell you, getting out of a nice, warm tub and into a cold hospital room while laboring is one of the crappiest things I've ever had to do. The second crappiest? Having to labor on my back in a hospital bed, which was at the top of my list of things I didn't want to do, ever.

Anyway, labor on the bed I did. Also on the toilet (which was very successful, if a bit ... strange). It's incredible how one's inhibitions go out the window while in labor. I was naked as a jaybird the entire time (I'd brought a bikini top to wear in the tub, but abandoned it after realizing that my ribcage was far too big to accommodate the top being fastened), and I was pretty impervious to the presence of nurses, midwife, doula and husband seeing me what was undoubtedly my worst physical manifestation, ever. I didn't even care about pooping in front of God and everyone, and that was something I had cared deeply about in the months leading up to that point. The only thing that annoyed me while I was in this "pushing" zone (aside from the pain, of course) was the fact that the nurses had become a 2-person cheerleading team after I got on the bed. I don't like being told what to do at the best of times, and being forcefully exhorted by two strangers to do something that I was already painfully aware I was supposed to do was just infuriating. Hey, I wanted to scream back at them. This isn't a basketball game! Just leave me the fuck alone and shut up. Those bitches were harshing my mellow (I never said a thing out loud, of course, but I felt so remorseful about my nasty thoughts that I actually apologized to one of the nurses afterward).

The distressing thing was, I had no impetus to push. I'd expected a primal urge to kick in and my body to take charge and, well, git 'er done, as it had with the contractions. But instead I just felt an uncomfortable fullness, with no urge to bear down at all. Instead, I pushed with each contraction, at times weeping, at other times just making a ridiculous boo-hooing noise without any tears. I was mightily upset that it felt like nothing was happening - I wanted progress that was inwardly measurable so I could feel empowered to keep going. Finally, my midwife said she saw the head. My doula gave me a hemp scarf to "play"tug-of-war on with her and make the pushes more effective, since the baby's head was popping out and then sliding back up. "Don't you want to see your baby's fuzzy head?" my midwife asked? Well, sure I did! I was just too tired to do the work required to get aforementioned head out to where I could see it. "Isn't there anything else we can do to get this over?" I asked. She pretended she didn't know what I meant. "Nope, you just gotta push, baby," she said.

The next thing I knew, the baby was crowning, and she was inviting me to touch Little Bun's head. I'd figured that this would be the thing that kept me going and made the end seem near and the whole endeavor wonderfully real. Instead, it was deeply alarming - babies' heads are made of plates that shift over top of one another in order to get the skull through the birth canal, and the result is a very spongy-feeling head. I felt like I was touching my unborn child's raw brain, and it was unsettling. Fortunately, I had the awareness to refuse her offer of a mirror so I could see the baby crowning. That might have sent me reeling.

After three hours of pushing, on all fours, on my back, and twice, excruciatingly, on my side, finally I was able to push hard enough to get the baby's head out. This is the part where most women tear. Luckily for me, my midwife instructed Booby to put the web of his thumb over my perineum to prevent tearing, and damned if it didn't work! At that point I was ready to rest anyway, because the contraction that I had pushed through was over, and I waited until the next one to push again and get the shoulders out. "Ring of fire" is an apt description of how it feels to push a baby's noggin out of your chocha, but I remember thinking that it wasn't as bad as I'd expected. Don't get me wrong - it hurt like a motherfucker - but it wasn't the pass-out level agony I'd been expecting. Then, suddenly, as I pushed again, the shoulders and the whole baby came flopping out, and the nurses flipped him up onto my chest.

"It's a boy," I noted, feeling very far away, as I saw my fuzzy-headed baby. It was now 7:05 a.m. Booby cut the cord, which was very deteriorated, thin in some places to the point of breakage. The nurses were rubbing the baby furiously with towels. His lips were blue. Uh-oh. That quickly he was whisked away to a table alongside the bed, where he was APGAR'd and weighed, then wrapped like a teeny burrito. Someone put him on my chest again, and we looked into each other's eyes for a full minute. His were navy blue and bottomless. This baby was one old soul. Then my midwife started rooting around in my uterus, because my placenta had broken off from the cord and was marooned up there, and it hurt so much I told them to take the baby wherever it was he needed to go, which was the NICU. At that point, Booby took over baby tracking, because I was in no shape.

Having the placenta manually pulled from my uterus was the most painful part of the whole night, probably because I had expected it to just slide right out like a large but flexible water balloon. Instead I was treated to repeated maulings in my uterine cavity by my midwife, who was so intent on her task that I only found out later that if any sizable part of the placenta was left inside, I'd have to have it surgically removed - kind of a bummer for someone who just delivered a baby drug-free to have to go under anesthetic to have a lump of tissue removed. Out it came, and went into a hazmat bucket so we could bring it home and bury it under our maple tree (I know, I'm a dirty hippie). I had one stitch for a tear on my nethers, but my perineum, as I said, didn't tear at all.

7 lbs., 2 oz. ~ 21" long ~ 7:05 a.m. ~ April 11, 2007

Tomorrow: The Aftermath: Why Does the Neonatal Nurse Hate Us So?

* The Aqua Doula at the hospital resembled nothing so much as a life-size version of the Mattel Barbie Pool Party my mother bought for me at a yard sale when I was a little unfeminist slip of a girl.

Holy shit, I had a baby!

2007-05-17T17:46:00.000-04:00

I know, I know, I've been gone for like, 6 weeks. But hey, now I have a baby to show for all my trouble! Here's what happened (warning: I am about to make up for my absence with a very, very long-winded account of my birth experience; you have been warned).

PART I: The Nonstop Excitement of Pre-Labor,

On April 10th, my due date, I had a regular midwife appointment. Booby stayed home sick from work, and as I left, he asked if I wanted him to come with. "Nah," I said. "It's a routine appointment, I'll almost certainly deliver late, and anyway, you're sick." Imagine my surprise when the midwife tried to get the baby's heartbeat on the Doppler and it was way, way too slow!

She stripped my membranes (a procedure I had been dreading, but wasn't actually that bad), and the baby's heart rate picked right up. "I tickled his head!" she told me. Nonetheless, we had to be sure that there wasn't a problem, so off to the hospital I went. On the way, I called Booby, told him to be calm and stay home, and instructed him to call our doula, who is a model of patience and a font of information. He did, and she offered to meet me at the hospital, which was awesome.

I was given a non-stress test and an ultrasound, which showed that the baby was fine and had plenty of amniotic fluid to swim in. A doctor came by and confirmed what the techs had already told me, and when I told him what had happened at the midwife's office, he smirkily suggested that she had actually picked up my heartbeat on the doppler. "Actually," I said, "She was careful to take my pulse at the same time so we knew that it wasn't mine she was picking up." He ignored me and asserted something about only being able to be sure about such things by using the machine that goes ping. Douche.

Meanwhile, I'd turned my cell phone off since we were in the hospital, surrounded by illustrated signs admonishing me to do so. Booby had called about eleventy-hundred times and showed up with our hospital bags and (bless him) our cooler full of "delivery room" food (I was insistent about being allowed to eat and drink while laboring), having been driven over by his brother's wife (bless her). Too bad it was time to go home! But we stopped for lunch in Mount Airy on the way home, where I started having contractions. Hmm, maybe we weren't going home after all!

Actually, the contractions weren't too bad, and I had been well-schooled on the importance of waiting until active labor to hie off to the hospital. It seems that the earlier one arrives, the greater the odds of undergoing a medical intervention: not what we were after with this attempt at a non-medicalized birth (though, admittedly, I figured myself to be a wimp about preventable pain, and I saw an epidural in my future). So we trundled off home, where Booby napped and I showered, juuust in case we wound up back at the hospital, where I would doubtless remain unwashed for hours, perhaps days. Ick.

The contractions were fairly regular all afternoon, and neither showering nor lying down nor walking around made them stop. Apparently, I really was in labor. I called work to let them know I wouldn't be in that day. They assured me that I should stay away, as they weren't interested in delivering a baby in the library that day. The contractions started getting intense, and Booby had me sit on the birth ball, which did NOTHING. We went for a walk around the block (I still thought that maybe this was false labor, and I just needed to walk some more to make the contractions stop). The pain got bad enough that we cut the walk short, but the best part of the stroll was meeting up with our neighbor's Siberian husky, who is very friendly and sweet. For some reason, petting the dog during a contraction really alleviated the pain (or distracted me like nothing else, I'm still not sure). It worked pretty well at home, petting one of the cats, too - perhaps this is another good alternative to drugs during labor? Maybe only for a home birth. What didn't work was pretty much anything Booby did to make me feel better. The contractions escalated too fast for him to feel very helpful, just overwhelmed. It was wonderful to have him there, being calm, but the physical things we were told to do in birth class to help with pain (slow dancing, pressing on my hips, etc.) were pretty ineffective.

At 8:30 p.m., we decided to call the doula, so she could come over and start coaching me. She didn't pick up. After another hour, things were pretty haywire. I don't remember a whole lot of what happened, except that I was on the bed on all fours, and things weren't pretty. It's hard to describe labor pain, except to say this: it really makes you aware that we're basically animals. "Primal" is a good word for the feeling it gave me.

We finally called the doula a second time, and she had me go through a contraction while on the phone with her. I could still kind of talk, and the ability to talk through the pain is an indication of the severity of the pain/progress of the labor. So, she seemed to think it was still early for the hospital yet (much to my dismay). "Call me in ten minutes or in two hours," she breezed. "I'm going to go to sleep right now so I'm ready no matter what." At the mention of a two hour wait, I felt near to tears.

After another hour, it was about 11:00 p.m. I was now unable to speak during a contraction; all I could manage was animalistic moaning and keening. Booby took charge and called our midwife, who listened to me contract, also. "Can we go to the hospital now?" I asked. "Sure!" she said, and laughed when I replied, weakly, "Really?" She's a bit more easygoing than the doula, it seems. I felt near to tears again, but this time with relief. We decided to call the doula from the car so she couldn't talk us out of going to the hospital. Slowly, we made our way to the car to make the 20-minute trip, which I remember pretty well, especially the part where we started riding on the road that had been corduroyed mere days before in anticipation of repaving. Ouch! and Fuck! That wasn't that way the last time we drove this way!

Next installment: Labor and Delivery, or, Yes, Virginia, Reflux Lasts All the Way Up Until the Baby Comes Out

Also: photos!

The last of the red hot belly shots

2007-03-28T21:44:00.000-04:00

I'm now at a point where I'm pretty uncomfortable. I'm not as big as some women get, but I sure do feel big for me, since I'm a relatively small person (I tend to seem taller than I actually am).

I'm supposed to do a TV interview next week for a local news station about Shape of a Mother. I'll try to let you guys know when it's on, and whoever is local can tune in if you so desire. All I know about it is that I'll be talking about pregnant womens' fears and perceptions about their bodies and what they worry/hope will happen to them, attractiveness-wise, postpartum. Aaaaand I have to show my bloated, distended stomach. Much as I'm doing here. But here I feel like I have more control - lawd only knows what could happen in the editing room, am I right?

I'm at 38 weeks as of yesterday. Two more weeks till zero hour, unless Little Bun decides it's time to exit sooner. I'd prefer later to sooner, so I can get some things done, like cleaning the house, meeting with a contractor who's supposed to saw down my kitchen cabinets to fit in an over-the-range microwave, and getting all my baby shower loot off my dining room table and into some semblance of order. Oh, and napping.

I seem to be getting to be more of a shameless hussy the longer this process goes on. Three shots of me wearing panties, and two with a bra? Speaking of bras, I must be dropping at least slightly, as bras are not quite as tortuous as they've been for the past several weeks. Huzzah!

Here's a closeup of the distended belly (sorry for the blur):

If you discern any red marks, please note it's from my obsessive scratching, not stretch marks. So far, I am stretch mark free (thank you, genetics fairy), but who knows - I hear sometimes they crop up in the breastfeeding portion of the activities.

I finally took out the belly ring, as it was infected and no amount of TLC was making it get better. The skin was just stretched too tight, and it had nowhere to go. If I had been a better planner, I'd've gotten myself a plastic spacer to hold the hole open, but by the time I got around to researching that, the hole was stretched so tight, it was almost flat. Maybe I'll get it re-pierced later on down the line, or maybe this is the end of my crazy pierced lady days (sob!). My midwife has been calling me a "secret goth" because one would never guess that Marian the Librarian me would ever have a pierced anything. In the meantime, the hole is still pretty red and nasty looking (though no longer infected or crusty). Hopefully it'll heal and not scar.

And, last but not least, what Booby considers to be the most important photos, the ones of HIM the cat testing the new Hotsling we bought. I like the Baby Bjorn, but Booby wants the kid to smother in the forest of his chest hair. The sling is nice and simple, looks like it'll be easy to wash, and seems to be a good fit - even for a 21 lb. cat. Note to self: launder Hotsling to remove swaths of blond cat fur ...

This time, it's props

2007-03-07T19:39:00.000-05:00

I have a new post up at Props and Pans. Go check it out!

Your daily serving of product review

2007-03-05T14:37:00.000-05:00

I've been on a roll with the product reviews in the last couple of weeks. This time we have Fiber One Chewy Bars, oats & chocolate flavor. They have 9g of fiber, which is about 35% of the daily recommended serving (but this varies by gender and age). Let's break this down:

Pros:

These bars are lot moister than most "nutritious" bars, though of course the level of nutrition is debatable (see below). I normally eat Kashi bars because of the benefits of whole grains, but I have to admit that those things make one's mouth feel like the Sahara in July.
It was nice to taste the oats in the bar, and even the taste of the salt came through, which might sound gross, but was pleasant.
I think these are slightly helpful in greasing your inner wheels, so to speak, but as a pregnant woman who is ingesting a prenatal vitamin, as well as extra iron to stave off RLS, I need more than a fiber bar. I need a nuclear-grade psyllium husk/Colace cocktail. But for one day, they did an OK job. Booby ate two bars and he was happy with his results.

Cons:

What is "confectioner's shellac," anyway?
What is high maltose corn syrup, anyway?
Hmmm, I already know what high fructose corn syrup is. Ecchh.
Palm kernel oil, a cheap cooking oil that's probably going to become very popular for biodiesel, is probably the culprit of these bars' 1.5g of saturated (bad) fat.
Almost too chocolately (I know, is there such a thing?) - do I really need a zigzag ribbon of chocolate icing over the top of the bar AND a metric ton of chocolate chips? Likely not.

In short, these Chewy Fiber Bars are definitely NOT an "all the time" food. (warning: audio)
Perhaps the better choice would be a Gnu Flavor & Fiber bar (which I would be happy to test and review on this blog, hint hint, Gnu Foods). 12g of fiber and no HFCS. Kinda pricey, though ($1.99 aq bar? Say it ain't so, Gnu!).

Marian the ... desk clerk

2007-03-05T13:40:00.000-05:00

So, the job I had blogged about a couple of weeks ago? I got it! So now I can tell you about it: it's at a library, so it's perfect for me, as I am a total book nerd. In fact, I've worked in publishing for the past ten years except for a one-year stint at an insurance company and a two-month stint at the Worst Job Ever. In high school, we were made to take a standardized career aptitude test, and my #1 career, according to the test, was librarian. Unfortunately, at that point in time, I was convinced I wanted to wear all black and be a designer, and that librarians wore tweed, sensible shoes, cat-eye glasses and their hair scraped back into severe buns. So I didn't listen to the siren song of the CAT test results (although I did take note, because I remembered reading somewhere that Morrissey had once dreamed of being a librarian. And I loooooooved Morrissey).

There are still some scheduling details to be worked out, as the job offered (I interviewed for two different available positions) is one that is more focused on weekday hours. My new boss has said that we can finesse the details of my schedule after I deliver, and my mother has offered to come and mind the Bun one day a week (or possibly more if needed, but I don't want to tire her out).

This week I do training a couple hours a day (for which I am being paid - yay!), and so far the only bummer is that I have to pony up for my own background checks that say I am not a sex offender, since I will have access to children through the children's library. It's only twenty clams, so whatever (and my email subscription to Family Watchdog has clued me in to the many, many sex offenders in my area, including one on my street. Have I mentioned that we're looking to move in the next year or so?). The nice thing is that although there is a lot to learn and memorize (who knew checking out books for patrons would be so complicated?), it's understood that such memorization will take time and practice, and I am viewed as already being ahead of the game because I've worked so extensively with books (and the charming public, although my special training with drunken louts culled from three years of retail experience on South Street probably won't need to be put to use. I hope.)

Probably the hardest part will be making through the entire day while wearing a bra and not eating every twenty minutes. Wish me luck.

Image courtesy of http://www.librarian-image.net/.

Keri ... is so very

2007-02-26T15:12:00.000-05:00

I was sent some Keri moisturizer to try and review. For those of you who don't already know, I loves me some free stuff. So, of course, I am all over any opportunities to try new stuff for free.

I had high hopes for a kinder, more natural version of Keri, since their big push is for their shea butter formula. Shea butter is, according to Ideal Bite, predominantly produced without pesticides. Wow, a naturally organic ingredient - I was psyched.

The shea butter formula smells really nice, and absorbs quickly into the skin (more on that in a minute). The lotion itself, however, is a little thin. I'm probably used to the JASON cocoa butter I've been using to prevent stretch marks, which is a much thicker, more buttery texture. Regular lotions can seem wimpy and thin in comparison. But the lotion does seem to work well - I have fairly dry skin on my legs, which I vainly shave even in the winter (stubble drives me nuts), and a couple days' use has kept the skin on my legs from being flaky or itchy. Pregnancy has given me all sorts of weird rashes, too, and the Keri keeps the rashes down (as do the other lotions I have been using to stay moisturized).

Now on to the absorption issue: while it's great that then lotion absorbs well (after all, who wants slick, sticky skin that needs to air dry? Bleah), the problem is what's IN the lotion, absorbing into your skin, namely two kinds of parabens, which are linked to breast cancer.
Additionally, the lotion contains 3 varieties of polyethylene glycol, which has been linked to leukemia, breast and uterine cancers. Now on to iodopropynyl butylcarbamate, which is potentially linked to infertility, is a liver/gastrointestinal toxicant, and a neurotoxin. Yipes.

One nice thing about the ingredients is that Keri lists the scientific name of the natural ingredients and then advises the consumer of what it is, say, shea butter (unsurprisingly), sunflower seed oil, or aloe leaf juice.

The aloe leaf juice is also found in the regular Keri lotion, which has the same consistency as the shea butter formula, but doesn't smell as nice - it has more of a regular "lotion" smell. Not unpleasant, just not as nice as the shea butter.

The verdict: Keri is so very ... on the right track with the shea butter, but about the same as other mainstream moisturizers when it comes to potentially toxic ingredients. Parabens are no longer on my skin's menu, so I won't be using Keri in the future. For people who are OK with these sorts of ingredients, Keri is a fine choice, as it moisturizes nicely and smells good. The choice is up to you, of course. Happy moisturizing!

Son of more fun with search tags

2007-02-23T00:19:00.000-05:00

Haven't checked the search tags in awhile, so I went over to Sitemeter to see what pulled in the surfers this week.

That damn Fergie-peed-her-pants photo is very popular, especially in France and Venezuela. Probably about 15 searches led folks to that photo and my remarkably restrained (it seems to me now) comments about her. Look, I'm sure Fergie's a lovely girl. A lovely, ex-meth junkie, drag-queen-looking, ridden hard and put away wet girl. I guess I'm just tired of seeing her face everywhere. She's not particularly pretty, and she's not particularly talented. And she can't spell "duchess." And she PEED her PANTS ONSTAGE. Enough already. It's time for her to go away.
how to induce miscarriage: Oy. I don't recall writing a how-to on the subject. I knew a girl in college who threw herself down a flight of stairs to make that happen (didn't work, nor did copious amounts of drugs and booze). How about you go and have a chat with a Planned Parenthood counselor? It'll do you a world of good and help you make an informed decision.
Glad I'm single: This is where quotation marks come in handy, because I'm on the glad I'm NOT single train. This search came in from someone's phone, oddly enough, so either they were killing time while on a bad blind date, or they needed immediate shoring up from other happy singletons.
Virago girl karate: A virago is generally a spiteful, venomous woman (sounds familiar ...). It's also a type of motorcycle, if I am not mistaken. Adding "girl" in there is just redundant, and what karate has to do with any of it, I have no idea.
REALdoll Mignon: Do they have names for specific models? I'm trying to imagine the real Mignon agreeing to have herself cast for a RealDoll and it's freaking me out (I can easily imagine her punching the requestor in the nuts, though - she's a tough woman).

Vampire baby

2007-02-22T23:59:00.000-05:00

So a few nights ago, Booby and I were driving to the Home Depot to buy light bulbs (apparently you can't get compact fluorescent bulbs in the supermarket - what's up with that?) and a new gas range and over-the-range microwave (which I'll be swooning over early next week. Have I mentioned my 30-year old Caloric range which heats to about 200 degrees higher than what it's set for? PA law requires that houses be sold with a range included, and my seller went and got the range from his aged mother's house or something.).

But anyway. God, this pregnancy brain thing is for real, isn't it? I am all over the place.

So, in the car, I was telling him all the things I wanted to get done before Little Bun arrives. I'm not in full nesting mode yet, but I have Plans. There's a lot of shit to be done, and he hasn't quite made the connection that we will not feel like doing any of it once we have a screaming child to deal with. Now is the time to pull the (very sharp) carpet staples out of the stairs, you know? Not when the baby is actually crawling on said stairs and gouging his or her face on unpulled staples.

"And," I told him, "I would like to start making some meals ahead and freezing them, like Stacey did. That way I won't have to cook!" I was psyched for this idea. We could have lasagne. Or chicken pot pie. Or whatever! Whatever my hand touches when I open the freezer! He didn't agree.

"God, you are making more work for yourself than you need to with this whole baby thing. You act like it's going to be so hard! So demanding of us physically that we won't want to get up and do anything! Next, you're going to tell me that all that stuff we learned about breastfeeding in the birth class wasn't important, because, Oh, didn't I tell you, it turns out the baby is going to suck blood directly from your veins! Yeah, the baby needs your blood, but that's OK, right? You can spare that, sure! Just attach the baby right to your jugular using the football hold and a sling, and then you can even move around. It's so simple!"

When he puts it that way, I guess this baby thing will actually be a breeze (HA!). Although it might turn out that I like to sleep more than I would mind having blood sucked out of my veins ... It's a toss-up.

Various and sundry

2007-02-22T21:01:00.000-05:00

Booby is on a business trip in Atlantic City and is staying at the Borgata tonight. It makes me nostalgic for all the ridiculous, yet very fun, business trips I took to Vegas back in the day. I kind of wish I were there to play video poker and drink vodka (not that I even could do that in my present condition). Oh, and eat in Wolfgang Puck's restaurant, where my friend Ris cooks. But instead, I'll settle for eating a fuss-free meal (salad and leftover potatoes) and having the teensy, double bed all to myself (along with the three cats, who are certain to all cluster on it with me). Small pleasures.

Every night, between 7 - 9 p.m., my bra starts driving me nuts, I think because my belly is sitting so high up. Even buying another round of larger, better-fitting bras hasn't helped. So now there's a small pile of bras on the hope chest in the living room, where I toss 'em after I do the shoot-bra-out-the-shirtsleeve trick. HIM the cat has been sleeping on top of them.

I was just getting into prenatal yoga when last week there was a snowstorm and everything was closed. Then, this week, I have had a cold for about a week and am doing all kinds of attractive sniffling, throat-clearing and snot-hawking. Hott! Hopefully next week I'll get back on track, since I paid for 5 classes and have attended only 2 as of press time.

I had a job interview on Tuesday. What sort of crazy person applies for a job when she's 33 weeks pregnant? Me! It's only a part time position with a concentration on evenings/weekends (i.e. perfect for post-partum, husband fill-in time), and they didn't seem too freaked out by the fact I'm pregnant. I'm supposed to hear back by early next week, and then I'll be able to tell you more, once the potential for jinxing has passed. If I get the job, it would be perfect for me, both from a time perspective and as far as being something I am well-suited to.

This post is making me realize my life is incredibly dull. Sigh.

My midwife told me I should "eat more chips, or something," and I decided to take her advice to heart. I've been eating cookies, goat cheese (pasteurized, natch), TONS of ice cream (Booby brought home 4 pints of Ben & Jerry's on Valentine's Day; we have 1/3 pint left), chocolate chiffon cake my mother made, Utz salt & pepper chips ... let's just say I've been over-indulgent. My only attempt at control is to eat a piece of fruit before moving on to something fattening to chomp on, but it seems my stomach has plenty of room for junk food AND healthy stuff. Strange, since there seems to be very little room for other organs like, say, my lungs, which I consider slightly more important.

And, in conclusion:

Still no stretch marks! I don't know whether to thank JASON Naturals cocoa butter or my own genetics, which for once have come through with something positive rather than the usual migraines/post-menopausal depression/cancer/et cetera. On the minus side, the heartburn is back, kept at bay with papaya tablets and CVS brand Mylanta (mmmm, cherries and chalk, two great tastes that taste great together. Or not.).

Belly shots!

2007-01-31T14:51:00.000-05:00

30 weeks! As you can see, I'm carrying everything out in front, and am consequently assless. Flat Ass Syndrome runs in my family, and I'm terrified that this is the beginning of it for me. Lunges, here I come (in 3 months or so). Please ignore my unbrushed hair (and unmade bed - I am a slob).

Maternity jeans: fashion or torture device? In this case, both. I learned awhile back that panel jeans just make me look like I have the world's saggiest crotch (hott!), so the stretchy waist works best, though I spend half my day hiking the waistband up. Thank god for Goodwill (and their awesome half price Saturday that just passed). Eight items of maternity clothing for a paltry 20 clams.

You also might notice that the belly ring remains. Every time I went to the OB, one of the doctors would say, "That thing is going to have to come out." Once I asked why, and the response was, "You can't wear that in to surgery!" Seemed reasonable until the penny dropped and I realized I had no intention of having surgery just to give birth (barring an emergency, of course). When I started meeting with doulas, one of them suggested switching to a midwife, and so I did. Vive le difference! Though it's not an option for anyone having a higher-risk pregnancy, midwifery is the best choice for me, and I hadn't thought of it previously because I didn't think I would be allowed drugs (I was wrong). Obstetricians would do well to take some cues from midwifery and treat pregnancy and labor as natural processes rather than medical conditions to be "treated," as if they were diseases. And let their patients keep their damn navel rings in if they want to. End rant.

***

Heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped coach me through my mom thing. It's all good now (after a few more cranky emails and, yes, me apologizing), and we've even been chatting online a bit. Progress is being made.

Have bun, will waddle

2007-01-15T22:06:00.000-05:00

As of this week, I'm seven months pregnant, a fact that kind of astounds me. There are days when this pregnancy feels endless, and days when I feel like even though I do want it to end, I'll miss it when it does. I don't usually feel like I've gotten that big (my in-laws seemed almost disappointed at my lack of hugeness when I saw them at Christmas), although I certainly feel rather large and ungainly.

Booby has been very supportive of my changing shape, cheering me on with positive comments every time I announce a weight gain (I've gained about seventeen pounds, give or take, so far). But I did catch him on the phone with one of his buddies, announcing, "Yeah, she's pretty much graduated to the waddling stage at this point."

It's a good thing he makes up for cracks like that by taking me to see chickens in the wild.

JC and the Boyz

2007-01-14T17:04:00.000-05:00

I've been dragging my husband to mass of late, in an effort to get our names in the rollbooks of our friendly neighborhood Catholic Church so we don't hit a wall when it gets to be baby-baptizin' time (I'm already a registered parishioner, but I didn't actually step foot into the place until a few months back). Step 2 is tossing money into said church's coffers (in the form of a check from our joint account in the specially-mailed church envelopes, which also bear my name). Step 3 is for advanced players only: stick around until the priests get to the vestibule and then do some glad-handing (I only followed through on that one on Christmas Eve).

Today, the gospel told the story of the Wedding Feast of Caana, wherein Jesus turns water into wine at his mother's urging. For once, the sermon was actually about the gospel (as opposed to suggesting that we ignore science in favor of religion, one of the more memorable sermons of recent weeks. Why can't we credit both, Father? Sheesh.). The priest made a big point of letting us know that first of all, Jesus was OK with people having a good time, hence his water-into-wine trick. Because wine is fun (can't argue with that)! Then, he coyly suggested that the reason there was a wine shortage was because the Apostles drank too much (oh, the laughter!), but he quickly assured us that the Apostles were, indeed, invited to the celebration.

Afterward, as Booby and I sat down to breakfast at our favorite ex-pat Irish caff, we discussed the oddness of the priest's declarations. I mentioned that I'd never heard anyone so specifically point out that all the Apostles were invited to this wedding, and really, now, who invites a woman, her son, and his twelve buddies?

"Well, honey," Booby reasoned, "Clearly, the Apostles were Jesus's entourage. You don't get Vincent Chase to come to your party without inviting Turtle and Johnny Drama."

Friends in need

2006-12-11T12:19:00.000-05:00

Tammie beat me to the punch and nominated our good friend Arabella for the Support a Mom contest at The Mom Trap.

If you are so inclined, hop on over and cast your vote for Arabella. She's pregnant with twin boys after a long bout with infertility that included surgery, and went through four months of severe morning sickness. Even now, she has to take daily injections in her belly to keep the pregnancy healthy. She deserves a break!

All you have to do is leave your comment to say who you're voting for. What could be simpler?

Holiday fun with pets, 2006 Edition

2006-12-10T12:07:00.000-05:00

It's time, once again, for torturing animals by dressing them up as reindeer.

Oh, how they hate it.

One of our three cats actually doesn't mind being dressed up. She was our Christmas card star player last year, as the only one who would wear a Santa hat without looking like she would rather take a trip to an abbatoir. But, really, where's the fun in dressing up a compliant cat?

Round 2 was taking photos of the cat with the bum leg (see far left).

Because around here, we think it's amusing to make fun of cripples.*

Booby really wanted to use one of these "foot" photos as a card this year, but I worried that people who don't know about HIM the cat's missing foot would think we were sickos. Like, that we had chopped off a misbehaving cat's foot ourselves and then showed everyone via our holiday cards. Or something.

Round 3 was "Frolicking with Frosty and Santa," but Blogger won't let me upload any for photos. Fuckers. If anyone wants to see those, I'll post them in the next couple of days.

*Not really. Also, no cats were harmed in this photo extravaganza: HIM had that foot problem when we got him from the pound, and the vet thinks he was born with it. He uses it as an "asset" with the ladies (and men, and anyone else who gets near enough to molest).

Feelin' froggy

2006-12-10T11:57:00.000-05:00

The Bun has been doing karate from within lately (though it doesn't hurt yet), and I try to get Booby to catch some of it. Lately, I can even see little bumps on my belly as s/he lands and especially high kick.

Yesterday, the kicking started as we were sitting on the couch, resting in between household chores. "Hey, take a look," I said, pulling up my shirt so he could see. Nothing happened. The kicking stopped as quickly as it had begun. Booby placed his hand on my belly, but all was quiet.

He looked at me for a second, and then grinned.

"You have the WB Frog in your uterus, honey!"

Unburn my heart, say tomatoes love me again

2006-12-04T12:01:00.000-05:00

This past week marked the beginning of my trials with heartburn. This is an ailment I've had only a few times before, for short periods of time, so having it all day, every day was a nasty wake-up call for me to change my eating habits.

Sadly, it appears that most everything I like to eat causes heartburn. EVEN THE FRUITS AND VEGETABLES:

Food Group	Foods To Avoid
Fruit	• Orange juice • Lemon • Lemonade • Grapefruit juice • Cranberry juice • Tomato
Vegetables	• Mashed potatoes • French fries • Onion, raw
Meat	• Ground beef, chuck • Marbled sirloin • Chicken nuggets • Buffalo wings
Dairy	• Sour cream • Milk shake • Ice cream • Cottage cheese, regular
Grains	• Macaroni and cheese • Spaghetti with sauce
Beverages	• Liquor • Wine • Coffee, decaffeinated or regular • Tea, decaffeinated or regular
Fats / Oils	• Salad dressing, creamy • Salad dressing, oil & vinegar
Sweets / Desserts	• Butter cookie, high-fat • Brownie • Chocolate • Doughnut • Corn chips • Potato chips, regular

Now, we've already ascertained that I am not following the What to Expect diet of tears and suffering (I met with a doula this weekend who told me to throw that book away, and I felt vindicated). But I am trying to stick to a basic regimen of a certain number of daily servings of calcium-rich food, fruits/veggies, whole grains, etc.

I ask you, how am I supposed to enjoy a salad without dressing?
And if I choose lowfat dressing, then how am I going to get some good fats into my system from the olive or canola oil?
And how am I going to break my dependence on tomatoes in their many forms?
I honestly don't know. All I know is, TUMS don't work, which must be why they're the recommended antacid for pregnant women. The other "remedy" is to sleep with a wedge under one's head (or under the bed itself) to keep stomach acid from bubbling up past the esophagus too easily. Unfortunately, this latter remedy also creates a situation in which I find it impossible to sleep alongside my husband.

Annoyingly, the list of foods that have little potential to cause heartburn includes goat or feta cheese, which pregnant women are not supposed to have due to the risk of listeria. Hot dogs may be consumed "with discretion," but they're a bad idea because of the nitrates they contain (as are sausages and bacon, which I can't seem to wean myself off of).

With that, I'm off to enjoy a slice of dry whole wheat toast with a scrambled egg white and a side of mineral water while sitting propped up by a study pillow. Please, try not to be too jealous.

Some random pregnancy fears

2006-11-28T16:57:00.000-05:00

Or, Why I am not a good candidate for natural childbirth, in no particular order:

1. Hemorrhoids (this one may have materialized. Ick.)
a) Carrying an inflatable donut with me everywhere
2. Episiotomy and its attendant horrors, such as ...
a) Having to pee standing in the shower
b) Weeks of caaaaareful walking. The only thing that tempers this fear somewhat is the knowledge that the perineal/genital area heals very quickly. With piercing comes knowledge!
3. NOT having an episiotomy and tearing instead (see 2.a)
4. Copious hair loss
a) My post-partum sister-in-law just clued me into this one
5. Installing the baby's carseat
6. Cats pooping/peeing in the crib
a) Or falling into an unloved-pet depression once the nonstop love they're showered with is transferred onto a tiny, screaming human
7. Lochia, which my pregnancy freakout books describe as lasting from two to six weeks. SIX WEEKS of heavy bleeding! Mothers, please tell me this isn't as bad as it sounds. Please?
8. Stretch marks (shallow, I know)
9. C-section (why, oh why have I been watching "Babies: Special Delivery"?)
10. Cracked nips (cream recommendations welcome!)
a) Being unable to breastfeed. I don't trust what's in baby formula, because I am a paranoid freak. Luckily, organic formula does exist.

***

This week, Little Bun has become quite mobile, executing kicks to such an extent that now Booby can feel them if he gets his hand on my belly fast enough. Bedtime seems to be the most active time.

Fare the well, Betty Crocker* and Sonny, the Cocoa Puffs bird (sob!)

2006-11-28T16:47:00.000-05:00

Dear General Mills,

While your commitment to whole grains in your products is impressive, I was saddened to hear of your similar commitment to GMOs. I was also distressed to see that commitment presented alongside the names of your "natural" product lines such as 8th Continent and Cascadian Farms. My understanding is that an organic certification is unrelated to a non-GMO promise. Because of your policies regarding GMOs (and your relentless marketing of GMO foods to children, for which you should be especially ashamed), I will no longer purchase your products. I hope that someday soon, you realize that you are alienating educated consumers and harming the families of your loyal customers, and you will then make the changes necessary to promote healthier food to them.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Harridan

* Betty can bite me, as I made brownies from my own mix today (just add 2 (omega 3-fortified) eggs, vanilla extract and chocolate syrup!), with the delicious and healthy extras of almond butter, almond meal and a little bit of flaxseed. It's a delicious omega-3 dream for a girl who doesn't much like fish.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2006-11-22T13:51:00.000-05:00

I am busily cooking today, although we'll be trekking out to the far 'burbs to see my family tomorrow. My mother's birthday invariably falls during Thanksgiving week, and she holds no quarter for those of her children who are not found in attendance on Thanksgiving Day to pay her the tribute she is due -- in person, if you please.

A friend of mine once said that my mother could have a rabid gay following if she were famous, and I think that this imperious behavior of hers only serves to underline that notion. She has quite the Joan Crawford streak.

Anyhoo, I managed to make a green bean casserole without using French's onions (tools of the trans-fat devil, and owned by corporate giant Reckitt Benckiser) and Campbell's soup, instead using Trader Joe's fried onions with no trans fat (I love you, Trader Joe's) and Health Valley cream of celery soup (I don't go in for mushrooms. Or GMOs).

I'm also making pigs in a blanket, because it's the only appetizer anyone ever has interest in at these family shindigs, aside from shrimp. I used to make all kinds of elaborate finger food that only my sisters and I would eat, while all the men in the family demolished the pigs, upbraiding me for not having made more once they ran out. So now I just make those (although this year, they're getting nice kosher turkey franks inside -- shhh!). I'm toying with the idea of making hummus, because who doesn't love hummus? And I have those cute little mini-pitas for dipping. Plus, it's so easy: dump a can of chickpeas into the blender, stir in some tahini and garlic, and off you go!

Finally, I am taking Izzy's advice and making pumpkin chocolate cheesecake. My one sister always makes homemade pies (including my Lithuanian grandmother's specialty, chocolate meringue; it is to die for), but they go fast, and a nice, rich cheesecake is just the thing for a post-Thanksgiving breakfast, don't you think?

Since I was thinking about which corporate giants owned which little organic companies this week, I was pleased to see a list from Seventh Generation detailing this info. Has anyone else noticed that it can be downright impossible to find who the parent company is on packages from, say, Cascadian Farms (owned by General Mills) or Back to Nature (owned by Kraft/Philip Morris)? I think they don't want us to know.

For any curious folk reading, here is the list:

• Adams Baking is owned by Charter Baking Co.
• After the Fall is owned by Smuckers
• Arrowhead Mills is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Back to Nature is owned by Kraft, which is owned by Philip Morris
• Ben & Jerry's is owned by Unilever
• Boca Burgers are owned by Kraft Foods which is owned by Philip Morris.
• Burt’s Bees is owned by AEA Investors
• Cascadian Farms is owned by Small Planet Foods, which is owned by General Mills.
• Celestial Seasonings is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• DeBoles is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Earth's Best is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Garden of Eatin' is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Health Valley is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Horizon Organic is owned by Dean Foods
• Jason's Natural Cosmetics is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Kashi is owned by Kellogg.
• Lightlife (purveyors of Gimme Lean, Smart Dogs, Foney Boloney, and Smart Deli Slices) is owned by ConAgra
• Morningstar Farms is owned by Kellogg
• Mountain Sun is owned by Walnut Acres, which is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Muir Glen is owned by Small Planet Foods, which is owned by General Mills.
• Nantucket Nectars is owned by Cadbury Schweppes
• Nile Spice is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Odwalla Juice is owned by Coca-Cola.
• Organic Cow of Vermont is owned by Horizon, which is owned by Dean Foods
• Rudy’s Organic Bakery is owned by Charter Baking Co.
• R.W. Knudsen is owned by Smuckers
• Imagine Foods (Rice Dream) is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Santa Cruz Organics is owned by Smuckers
• Seeds of Change is owned by M&M Mars Candy.
• Simply Asian is owned by McCormack & Co.
• Spectrum Organics is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Stonyfield Farm is owned by Danone
• Terra Chips is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Thai Kitchen is owned by McCormack & Co.
• Tom's of Maine is owned by Colgate
• Tostitas Organic is owned by Pepsi
• The Vermont Bread Company is owned by Charter Baking Co.
• Walnut Acres is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Westbrae Natural is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• Westsoy is owned by the Hain Celestial Food Group
• White Wave (makers of Silk Soy Milk) is owned Dean Foods
• Worthington Foods is owned by Kellogg
• Yves Veggie Cuisine is owned by Hain Celestial Food Group

I have a confession to make:

2006-11-16T15:21:00.000-05:00

I hated Borat.

I kind of knew I would. Booby spent I don't know how long infusing his brain with Da Ali G Show when they ran a marathon of it on HBO recently, and when I came into the room, I could stand about 10 minutes of it before I pleaded with him to turn it off. So I had an inkling that I wouldn't think it was the Best Movie EVAR!!! or anything.

The whole thing seemed pretty mean-spirited to me. Borat is a nasty man in so many unfunny ways: he objectifies women, he smashes up a small antique store (but not until we're informed that the proprietor is selling Confederate merchandise, so I guess that makes it OK), and he is patently awful to the sweetest little Jewish couple who own a B&B where he and his handler stay the night.

I recently listened to a discussion of the movie on NPR that touched on the anti-Semitism that's fairly rampant throughout the film. Apparently, this isn't meant to be offensive, rather, it's supposed to skewer some people's absurd perceptions of Jews (for example, that they're evil money-grubbers with horns. Yes, horns.). I don't know if the film really does that, though. A lot of the people in the audience were confused by this portrayal, so I don't know if they got the joke. They laughed, but it was confused laughter. There was a lot of that going around - laughter borne of confusion and the knowledge that this was supposed to be funny, so we should laugh, right?

I laughed maybe two or three times. The rest of the theatre was in an uproar.

There was also a lot of misogyny, which I expected, because we all know that women are fair game, and that this is a movie essentially designed for men. And there was a painful storyline in which Borat quests to travel to Hollywood so he can marry Pamela Anderson. I think that might have worked better if it were still 1993 and Pammy were still relevant.

The thing that surprises me most is that every review of this movie has given it five stars. FIVE STARS. Like it's a masterwork or something. I can see why people find it humorous, and I'm aware that I'm in the minority (a minority that is likely being accused of having its panties on too tight), but five stars? Come on.

Am I the only one who didn't enjoy this movie? What did you guys think?

Props & Pans

2006-11-16T11:26:00.000-05:00

I have another post up at Props & Pans today. Check it out!

Almost halfway there

2006-11-15T23:00:00.000-05:00

I've been relatively mum on the subject of my pregnancy, partly because I didn't want it to become a pregnancy blog, and partly because I felt really, really nervous and upset about being 35 and spawning (thanks, genetic counselors!). In fact, I was mistakenly given a quad screen blood test when I was only supposed to have an AFP (which determines the likelihood of spina bifida), and ended up getting a positive for Down Syndrome. The percentage of me actually having a chromosomally abnormal child? About three quarters of a percent. And this is a test that is less accurate than a previous test I was given, and also has a much higher false positive rate. This week, I had a Level II ultrasound in which everything looked absolutely fine, and now I feel much better and more positive about everything.

Booby thinks that the whole genetic counseling bit is a huge racket to "sell" amniocentesis (or, rather, he just corrected me, "They are trafficking in uncertainty."), and even suggested that the counselors receive a kickback or have a quota for the procedure. I don't want to think that's true, but considering that a similar "selling" of mammography has overtaken this country (as I think I mentioned in my breast cancer post), I wouldn't be surprised. Medicine is a big business, and the idea that this genetic counseling company (they are basically consultants for hospitals, not employees of the hospital itself) can promise you certainty is, I'm sure, a huge selling point for many expectant mothers/parents.

But anyway. The point here is that I feel OK about it all now, and the Little Bun (whose sex we have elected not to discover; thank you, my patient husband) has been doing all kinds of acrobatics in the oven of my uterus, which is kind of thrilling. We got to see feet and hands (and fingers and toes, all accounted for) and a spine and brain measurements and all that good stuff. As I approach the relative milestone of 20 weeks, it's nice to feel a little more excited and less apprehensive about all this -- at least until the idea of labor and delivery begins to haunt my psyche.

And now, a shot of the belly. Looks bigger in real life, but only in the last week or so have people begun asking me if I'm pregnant (and then only when I'm wearing something form-fitting).

Spam and eggs, redux

2006-10-30T14:50:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-10-30T14:48:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-10-23T12:39:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-23T12:37:00.000-04:00

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 ...

2006-10-05T09:55:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-10-02T18:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-02T17:16:00.000-04:00

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."

The galloping of a hundred tiny horses

2006-09-28T10:54:00.000-04:00

I haven't written all that much about my long-awaited pregnancy, partly out of a concern that this will become a pregnancy blog (and if I do that, will someone tell me, so I can put all that stuff in a different, preggo-only space?), and partly out of a concern that I would miscarry at any given second. See, I told you I'm a pessimist.

Last night, we had our second visit to the OB. It was relatively brief: get weighed, pee in a cup, etc. The highlight was finally hearing our baby's heartbeat. 164 bpm, which I am hoping means a girl (modern folk wisdom says that 140 bpm or above indicates a female, but I'll settle for ten fingers, ten toes, and full mental capacity. Oh, and not ugly, God willing).

According to the 20 books I have on the subject of pregnancy, hearing the heartbeat pretty much cements things. It's unusual to miscarry after that (or after 12-13 weeks along), although, of course, not unheard of. But that 10% or so statistic which gets tossed around lowers considerably after that point.

My next set of worries will be going in for genetic counseling and hearing about the odds of having a baby with birth defects, which will be especially fun since mine is technically a high risk pregnancy due to my "advanced maternal age" of 35.

Booby had the sudden realization last night as we drove home that these worries are just the beginning. "After the birth, I'll be worrying about crib death," he mused.

"Yeah, and just wait till the kid gets to venture out in the real world, where there are so many factors beyond our control."

Parents tell you that everything changes after you have a child, and I have an intellectual sense of what that will be like. But, doubtless, there's no way to fully understand the actual feeling until you're really, truly a mother or father.

Of laziness and baby animals

2006-09-28T10:13:00.000-04:00

I know, I've been lax about updating, and I have no excuse, because I'm here, at home, assing around. On the plus side, I've made a few batches of chicken stock, have made my husband's lunch every morning (before crawling back to bed for another hour), and even baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (Mark Bittman lied - you can use the quick oats in his recipe, and the world will continue to turn on its axis).

Let me tell you what I did a couple weeks ago:

Rescued a baby squirrel. Cute, huh? I was walking back home from a thrilling trip to the mailbox when I happened upon this wee fellow (it was a boy, I checked) lying in the middle of the sidewalk. After a moment's hesitation (if I left him there and went to get an oven mitt so I didn't get scratched, would he be gone upon my return?) I scooped him up and brought him home. He just laid in my hands, eyes open, but unmoving. The little guy was pretty sluggish. He needed help.

As I walked up to my house, my neighbor's kid trilled out, "Excuse me! I think you have my squirrel!" Oy.

"Your squirrel?" I asked.

After further questioning, she revealed that she had found the squirrel a few blocks away, and was planning to keep it. As a pet. He was on the sidewalk because she had been carrying him in a flowerpot and then dropped him without realizing it. Oh, no no no no no no.

I told her that I was going to take him to an animal refuge where they could care for a wild baby squirrel properly. He wasn't meant to live in a cage indoors. She wasn't happy about that. "Could I keep him in a cage, outside?" I told her no, it was illegal. I haven't been able to find the section of the code of the Pennsylvania Fish & Game Commission that says that specifically, but it's a safe bet. Plus, I was willing to bet that her mom wouldn't be too desirous of a squirrel as a pet, anyway. I left her pondering the legality of squirrel ownership and took the baby inside.

After getting Baby Squirrel wrapped in a hand towel (he had claws, but they weren't very sharp yet, still, better safe than sorry), I spent a few minutes on the interwebs and tracked down a wildlife refuge. The cats, amazingly, were curious, but didn't act like they were hungry for a squirrel sandwich. I guess their sense of smell isn't so acute. I was able to drive him right over and they took him off my hands (I'd been entertaining the thought of keeping him myself, even though it would be wrong. He was awfully cute) and popped him into an incubator so he would be warm.

Booby was gutted that a baby squirrel had been in the house and already gone before he had a chance to see it, but the pictures helped soothe him.

What do you want first, the good news or the bad?

2006-09-15T10:47:00.000-04:00

Me, I'm a pessimist. So I always choose to hear the bad news first:

I got laid off on Wednesday.

That was kind of a huge surprise. Also a surprise was being hustled out of the building like a criminal, with barely time to close down my computer and grab my purse. Ah, this modern world we live in!

Since I worked in a department consisting of two people who did approximately the same exact job, and I had about two years' seniority over my colleague who didn't get laid off, and I was told that I wasn't being laid off due to my performance, I can only assume that it's because I have a uterus and not a penis that this layoff occurred.

Speaking of uteruses, now that I've been laid off, I can share the good news with you, at last:

I'm almost 11 weeks pregnant.

I didn't want to say anything on the actual blog, because some of my ex-coworkers read it occasionally. And I didn't want management to know and use it against me (ho, ho! Now I wish they had known, so I'd still have a job). And I didn't want to have to tell my entire workplace if anything went wrong, though I guess I wouldn't have any problem at all telling the world via blog. By the way, if I know you in real life and haven't told you, I'm sorry. I think there's one or two people who I haven't gotten in touch with just yet.

Anyhoo.

The weird thing about this is that my friends who were trying to get pregnant at the same time I was are all pregnant, too. Within a week or two of each other. It must be something in that Savannah water.

So, I guess the timing of my career blowout isn't so bad. I'm supposed to be taking it easy after having had some spotting in week 8, and needless to say, I haven't really had the energy to do much around the house in my off-hours (which have consisted of furious calorie intake to combat nausea, zoning out in front of bad TV, and sleeping).

And now, I think I need some salt & vinegar chips (potato chips contain folic acid!), and some quality time watching TiVo'd episodes of Flip That House while lounging on the couch.

Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated

2006-09-08T11:09:00.000-04:00

But I don't blame you for thinking I might have shuffled off this mortal coil. I have been L-A-Z-Y, but, even more sadly, my life has been quintesentially boring. I have stuff I would love to talk about here, but I just can't right now.

So here's what I've been doing:

Celebrating my 35th birthday in late August (yes, I am a Leo), and receiving a salad spinner from both Booby and my mom (I got other stuff, too, never fear)
Celebrating Booby's birthday (he turned 33; still a young pup)
Going to the Jersey shore over "Ernesto" weekend
Getting my hair cut, twice, and not really liking it much either time
Failing to adequately water my vegetable garden and then witnessing it wither into dry, brown sticks (goodbye, tomatoes)
Getting a new dishwasher
Getting a new mattress (will the excitement never end?!)
Obsessively watching Project Runway
Avoiding cleaning with all my might (that one wasn't really hard, and I still did some laundry and cooked the occasional meal)

Beyond that, life has been very sedate and sedentary. I'm feeling pretty peevish about the state of my coiffure, so another cut 'n' style is in my near future (in the 100-degree heat, it seemed like a good idea to chop 4 inches off of it. Now? Not so much).

I also have BIG plans this weekend to start using pure henna to retain that copper penny red hair that is my trademark. Farewell, Wella #145, Titian Red Blonde! I've refrained from dyeing for the last 7 weeks so as to leach as many chemicals out of my hair to better prep it for this new method, and now I have an attractive reverse skunk stripe down the middle of my scalp (true to form, Booby didn't even notice).

If anyone is interested in the results available from using pure henna (not to be confused with the henna generally available at, say, Sally Beauty Supply, which will eff your ess up if your hair is already chemically dyed), you can go here. I ordered my henna from here (before I found the first, US-based site), and that site was enlightening for the information about chemical dyes provided. Nothing says directly that the PPD in chemical hair dye is carcinogenic, but since I am cutting down on chemicals in most other areas of my life, a natural hair dye can't hurt. The nicest thing about it seems to be that I can use whatever natural ingredients I like to alter the color (lemon or lime juice, paprika, even herbal tea), and I can add small amounts of essential oil to make the henna smell nicer (that's something you certainly can't do with commercial hair dye), as apparently, henna has a very earthy, haylike scent. The only drag about using it is that I'll have to wait several hours after mixing the color for the dye to release (or I can leave it on the unlit stove and hope that speeds the process) and I will have to leave it on my head for about 2 hours.

Wish me luck!

Egg salad-y

2006-08-15T14:40:00.000-04:00

Although I know there's a huge contingent of folks who loathe mayonnaise, I have to admit I love it. I just saw something on npr.com about the anniversary of the creation of mayonnaise.

Occasionally, I get severe cravings for mayonnaise-laced food items. Often in the form of egg salad. When I was young and poor, I worked in a bookstore, and I photocopied recipes that sounded good to me from the cookbooks we stocked (retail consumers, know this: books you buy have had several lives before they go home with you. Just ask any ex-bookstore employee who accidentally left a coffee ring on a bestseller he signed out of the store's "lending library."). One of those recipes was from one of those Silver Palate cookbooks (I think), and is easily the most wonderful egg salad recipe known to man, containing dill, red onions, dijon mustard, mayo and sour cream. (If anyone wants to recipe, you can email me. I would've posted it here, but I can't find it online. Oh, the humanity!) But wait! I just found it. Egg salad lovers, rejoice.

See the Food section of NPR for more cool articles.

One and done

2006-08-09T11:54:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I was chatting with my mother about my fertility stuff, and she told me how great it would be if I got pregnant with twins (I had mentioned Arabella's good news to her previously), because then I could be all done and not have to get pregnant again. Something about this assumption that I would, naturally, go for a second child if I didn't get a twofer on the first pregnancy rankled me a bit.

"Well," I said, "I might be all done after the first one, you know."

"Take it from an only child: you do not want to have just one."

"You mean, the only child wouldn't want to be on her own."

"Well, yes. I was so lonely as a little girl ..."

Now, keep in mind, my mother grew up constantly surrounded by all manner of cousins on both my grandfather's and my grandmother's side. Additionally, her mother endured several miscarriages and an infant daughter who died shortly after delivery before my mother was born. Possibly, this is where some of the fertility issues that my sister (who suffered a number of miscarriages) and I have dealt with.

My mother never had a problem with fertility. Her friends called her "Fertile Myrtle." I have three sisters and a brother, with barely a pause between them until the 8-year gap between my youngest sister and myself. Chalk it up to Catholicism (and its then-attendant lack of birth control), or to a little girl who wanted a passel of kids because she herself had been all alone. Maybe a bit of both.

My POV is that of the would-be mother who has already struggled with infertility for 15 months. Will I even want to go through this a second time if I get pregnant for a first? Maybe one baby will be all I can handle. Maybe, one baby will be all I need. I don't want to feel emotionally blackmailed into trying for a second baby before the first one is even a reality.

My mother opined for a little while about her lot in life as a variant on the theme of the Little Match Girl (I kid, I kid, but she does draw a sad little portrait of herself), and then told me about overhearing a conversation between her parents when she was about 12 years old. Her mother mentioned an operation she could have gotten that would have enabled her to carry more children successfully. A family friend had had it done and bore four children. My mother felt a little angry that her mother hadn't had the procedure done and given her a little brother or sister, but she never asked her about what she had overheard, even as an adult. At the time of this overheard discussion, my garndmother was 37, and my grandfather would be dead within four years of a freak heart attack at 48. I can't help but think that their having only one child was something of a blessing in that situation, especially as the Great Depresion was not long over, although obviously, I'd never wish fertility issues like those on my grandmother.

"But, Mom," I reasoned with her, "You've never experienced infertility. You don't know what it feels like to lose a baby. What if the operation hadn't worked? What if she continued to miscarry, or worse? You really can't imagine how draining it is, physically and emotionally, to keep trying." She conceded this was true, and we ended the conversation there.

Is it wrong of me to think of doing "one and done"? Am I being just as selfish as I thought my mother was yesterday? All I know is that I can't decide such things this far in advance. There's no point until I'm further along this road so I can see exactly where it might take me.

Good lord, I'm glad I'm not single.

2006-08-03T17:39:00.000-04:00

From the Annals of Asshattery: this guy met a girl online, took her out (he paid for their dinner), and, when she didn't call him after 2 1/2 weeks, he emailed her to DUN HER FOR HER HALF OF THE RESTAURANT BILL.

Check it out here and here (and be sure to listen to the voicemail in the latter link that he leaves this poor woman that goes on and on and on ...)

Linky linky

2006-08-03T10:25:00.000-04:00

I just have to link you guys to this awesome blog: The Shape of a Mother. If you're a mother, or even if you're trying to get pregnant, these images will amaze you. These women are very brave, and very beautiful. I hope I'm able to show myself and my body some of that same love after I deliver a child. Thanks to Tits McGee, whose link on her very thoughtful post today led me to this awesome site.

Also, because I'm food obsessed these days (sorry, I'll try to steer it towards showing you what I've cooked, instead, once this heat wave blows over. For the past two nights I have dined on cereal with bananas, and half an egg salad sandwich, respectively. It's too goddamned hot to cook) I am linking you to a list of products that contain genetically modified organisms. If you have questions about why genetically engineered food, sometimes called Frankenfood, is not good, look here. And you can find more info here. In any case, I think you'll be surprised at how many of the products we use contain GMOs.

Eat your veggies

2006-08-01T14:19:00.000-04:00

I remember when I first became aware that there was a suggested amount of fruit and veg one was meant to ingest each day in order to maintain health and wellness. If I remember correctly, about three was the suggested number of servings recommended for the average human, according to the Food Pyramid. Apparently I am recalling wrongly, however, because a quick glance at the old Pyramid (circa 1992) says 3-5 veggies and 2-4 fruits. It's probably just that, in 1992, I was 21, and had perhaps two nickels to rub together. I bought a lot more in the way of Cocoa Puffs than vegetables (and even then, it was probably limited to iceberg lettuce and the occasional tomato). But rest assured, I always had money for beer!

Now the standard is 5-a-day. The government, probably a bit alarmed at the obesity epidemic, is pushing 5-a-day pretty hard, which is good. I've mocked them a bit in the past for caving in to pressure brought to bear by the Cattlemen's Association and the Dairy Council, but I suppose anything that pushes the importance of physical activity combined with healthy eating (or a start towards it) can't be all bad. I won't even touch the race angle covered in the link to the Dairy article, although it's worth mentioning that the Pyramid recommends lactose-free dairy products to those who are intolerant, but also fails to mention other foods high in calcium. One thing I do like about the Pyramid site is that it allows you to list what you've eaten throughout the day and then have the site analyze if you're getting your recommended allowances. Great stuff for a little food nazi like me.

If you're feeling special, you can aim for 7-9 a day. Ironically, men, who seem to me to be less interested in eating vegetables (I blame those Hungry Man commercials), are the ones who should be eating 9 servings.

My total for today: 3 servings, soon to be 4 if I eat the withered peach that's been sitting on my desk for 4 days. Plus Veggie Booty (with spinach and kale!), but I'm pretty sure that doesn't count, right?

While we're on the subject of controlling one's health via diet, has anyone else become addicted to Honey, We're Killing the Kids? Oh, my stars - that show is like crack cocaine, but probably the worst thing is, it makes me feel really smug. Booby can't stand it; he finds it depressing and manipulative. But I sort of enjoy the uplifting feeling at the end, when the family is, after 3 weeks, actually managing to change their physical destinies and eat right and exercise. One thing I don't get: why do they always recommend the most disgusting recipes that are the most likely to turn off the family? Last week, Dr. Hark decided to make the family's menu very seafood-centric, in spite of the fact that the husband hates seafood. There was a big scene of the mother buying fresh squid and ooging out. I think it'd be better to start 'em off slow: a piece of lean roasted chicken with no skin, a couple of servings of veggies, one starch, plus a salad and a reasonable dessert. I think they do it to show everyone gagging over the healthy food.

Ode to Arabella

2006-07-29T12:12:00.000-04:00

I recently got called out by Mignon on taking too long of a hiatus between blog posts, so I'm shaking the dust off my keyboard to bring you an ode to Arabella in photographic essay form.

Arabella and I are friends in real life, though we met online, and she has quickly become a close friend because we have so much in common. She has a sweet, generous nature (though she is FAR less mean than I), and she recently proved it to me by sending me a care package.

Inside was a nice letter ("Happy Summer!" proclaims the envelope), a book about a drag queen and his crack whore boyfriend (fascinating stuff, and a good read), some cute worry dolls, a gorgeous eyeshadow duo in a compact, fancy tea bags (how I love tea!), and cool postcards with a bitchy, Anne Taintor-style '50s theme. I am all about the reimagined, bitchy '50s.

The best part was the cool blue clutch bag that she made for me with her own two hands. There really is nothing like a handmade gift. It's something I can never provide for myself (I am craft-impaired; a knitting class I took ended in tears of rage and frustration), and Arabella is just so damn GOOD at it. She assures me that there are plenty of tears of rage when she sews, too, but I never see that part, so I'll imagine her in a rocking chair in a sunny room, sewing while humming to herself.

Thanks for being such a good friend, A. And anyone who hasn't been over to her blog should pop on by and congratulate her on her good news!

Anyone else get one of these?

2006-07-11T17:22:00.000-04:00

Dear Mean Girl,

My name is Cynthia Bane, and I am an assistant professor of psychology at Wartburg College in Waverly, Iowa (http://www.wartburg.edu/socsci/faculty.html). This summer, two undergraduate psychology majors, Nicole Erspamer and Lia Kampman, and I are conducting research on female weblog authors and their online and "real life" friendships. We hope that you will consider participating in the study.

The study consists of a survey that takes 30-40 minutes to complete. In addition, if you were to decide to participate in the study, we would examine entries from your weblog to analyze how frequently you post entries, how many comments you receive, and the topics you discuss in your weblog. All of your survey responses and the results of our content analysis of your weblog would be confidential. Even if you do not regularly post entries on your blog, we welcome you to participate; we are interested in the opinions of a variety of bloggers.

If you choose to participate, you will be entered in a drawing for one of five $20.00 Amazon.com gift certificates.

If you are interested in finding out more about the study, please direct your web browser to the following link: https://www.psychdata.com/s.asp?SID=119103

If you have any questions about the study, please respond to this e-mail message or contact me at the e-mail address listed below.

If you know of other women weblog authors who are between the ages of 22 and 45 who might like to participate in this study, please feel free to forward this e-mail message to them.

Sincerely,
Cynthia MH Bane, Ph.D.
Assistant Professor of Psychology
Department of Social Sciences
Wartburg College
Waverly, IA 50677
cynthia.bane@wartburg.edu

Phone: 319-352-8313

I am an old hand at surveys. But if I'm going to invest 40 minutes of my time, I think I want more than just a shot at a gift certificate. Still, I can't say I'm not intrigued. If you've received one of these missives, do tell, and let me know if you're going to participate. I'm strongly considering it just for life experience.

Irony does not live here

2006-07-11T14:18:00.000-04:00

My husband just IM'd me this little gem.

When referring to the killing of her child she said: "I am totally psyched for this abortion!"

This person doesn't understand that The Onion isn't for real. (Shakes head sadly) Luckily, his comments aren't moderated, and three hundred some people have now schooled him on the error of his ways:

I'm pro life, but sweet Jesus you're an idiot. For your next post, how about a passionate speech on the need to immediately free Prince Albert from the can?

Read it and freak

2006-07-11T12:25:00.000-04:00

As I may have mentioned, my mom is a breast cancer survivor - she's been cancer-free coming up on 15 years in January. I am always amazed at her resilience and at how brave she was, having her breast removed and reconstructed all in one long, arduous procedure. I know she worried about dying, and worried that she would never feel the same about herself ever again.

There was no prior history of breast cancer in my family (we're all big heart disease freaks instead), but the doctors seemed to think that one reason why the tumor began to grow with any speed was on account of the hormone-replacement therapy my mother was on to combat severe hot flashes and other menopausal nastiness. HRT has since been linked to cancer. Despite this connection, you still see Philly's own Patti LaBelle in TV commercials shilling Prempro, although she says she no longer endorses the drug. Guess they got her bound in a contract. I wonder if she still cashes their checks?

The lack of a family history of breast cancer is starting to make sense now that bisphenol-A, in low doses in childhood has been linked to breast cancer later in life. That means juice in shatterproof plastic bottles, tomatoes in cans lined with BPA (to extend shelf life) and your kids' plastic toys. A legislative effort to nix some of these chemicals from children's toys failed last week after industry scientists argued there was no cause for concern.

Also, those life-saving mammograms? Dose you with radiation and can cause more harm than help, especially with the program of early detection that's been pushed so hard. I remembered reading something about AstraZeneca piloting an "Early Detection is Your Best Prevention" program (a phrase that doesn't even make sense, because how can you prevent cancer when it's already been detected?) while also manufacturing cancer-causing pesticides. Gee, I wonder who's profiting from encouraging women to have an annual mammogram from age 40 in order to detect their cancer early? Astrazeneca also bankrolled Breast Cancer Awareness Month in 1984, a PR coup that's still going strong. AZ's cancer drug, Tamoxifen (which my mother took for five years) is the bestselling cancer drug in the world, though they've ceased to manufacture it under its brand name, Novaldex, as of last month. It is still widely available as a generic.

What can you do? To get started, you can go here (warning, PDF), scroll down to the second page, and read the six ways to reduce your exposure to carcinogens. You might not be able to undo what you were exposed to in your childhood, but you can fight the good fight in your adult life, if nothing else. And it certainly doesn't hurt to perform monthly (or even semi-regular) self-exams - after all, 40% of breast cancer is detected by women or their partners. Making these a regular habit and avoiding mammograms until after 50 should help keep you and your breasts out of radiation's reach.

In which I see the light at the end of the tunnel

2006-07-10T17:37:00.000-04:00

My husband and I, we fight a little. This past week, we fought a lot. But by Friday, the smoke had started to clear.

Friday afternoon phone conversation. I had the afternoon off, while Booby worked till his usual time.

Him: So, what have you done all afternoon?
Me: Read, gardened, went to the Reading Terminal Market. [Pause.] Plotted your death.
Him (laughing): THAT'S a blog post!

I married Fred Astaire

2006-07-10T17:32:00.000-04:00

Booby mentioned to me recently that I had neglected an important piece of information in this post about how I'm his beard or he's my merkin, that being this quote:

"I think if I had it all to do over again, I'd learn to tap dance."

There you have it.

Colcannon

2006-07-10T17:19:00.000-04:00

For anyone wanting to try that Colcannon recipe, here it is:

Colcannon
4 lbs. russet potatoes, peeled, cut into 1 1/2-inch pieces
1 (11/2-lb.) cabbage, thinly sliced
1 1/4 C. water
1 C. milk
1 bunch green onions, chopped
3/4 C. unsalted butter, at room temperature
chopped fresh chives or green onion tops
salt and pepper, to taste

Cook potatoes in large pot of boiling salted water until tender. Drain. Return potatoes to pot and mash coarsely. Set aside.Combine cabbage and water in large, heavy skillet. Boil until almost all liquid evaporates, tossing cabbage frequently, about 15 minutes. Mix cabbage into mashed potatoes.Combine milk, green onions and 1/2 cup butter in heavy, medium-size saucepan. Bring to boil, stirring to melt butter. Pour over potato mixture and stir to combine. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Mound mashed potatoes in bowl. Make a well in center. Place remaining 1/4 cup butter in well. Sprinkle with chives and serve.

The eye of the needle

2006-07-10T16:36:00.000-04:00

This weekend, I started using Follistim as part of my ongoing infertility treatment. It's the next logical step in my therapy, but I can't say I was thrilled with the idea of jamming a needle into my thigh (or belly fat - I am spoiled for choice here). My favorite phlebotomist, D, ran me through the steps at my last appointment ("Oh, it's easy. You just put it in, dial to this number like this, and zap!"). The drug is administered using an epi-pen, which can be dialed to the correct dosage advised by your friendly fertility specialist. My doctor keeps telling me I'm a "cheap date," so I didn't need much, and I got her assurance that the sample pack she gifted me with would be sufficient to do the job.

Unfortunately, Dr. H was mistaken, and today I'm 50 units short of my dosage. Fortunately, I administer my dosage at the same time each evening at her behest, so I was able to call in, have her phone in my scrip, and pick it up at the nearby pharmacy, which specializes in obscure fertility drugs. My insurance doesn't cover these drugs (surprise!), so they put me on some kind of discount program that (according to them) saves me 30%. Booby checked last night online and the MSRP was a little bit shy of $1,200. My price today? A mere $412 and change. Now that's value! An added bonus is that this pharmacy also carries some of my favorite nostalgia food: Peggy Lawton cookies in Butter Crunch flavor. I paid sixty cents to be gastronomically transported back to my parochial high school cafeteria, which is also a pretty good value, considering my lack of a Way-Back Machine.

Oh, and for anyone who's curious, the needle in the epi-pen is long(ish), but not painful. I had to remove myself from the company of my squeamish husband in order to get the job done, because in his presence I was saying things like, "Wow, this needle is a lot bigger than I thought," and waching the light glint off the tip. Once by myself in the bathroom, I had no trouble sticking a hunk of metal (in truth, the needle is really very fine) into my thigh (the belly just seemed too ... vulnerable), and felt next to nothing. It was slightly more painful coming out, but completely manageable.

One more shot to go, and then I reward myself. Or perhaps I just won't mentally castigate myself for buying, among other things, a pair of glittery slippers from Old Navy on Friday for a pittance of $5.99 on sale (I got mine in blue, though).

Green-eyed bitch

2006-07-05T16:11:00.000-04:00

I have long had a struggle with jealousy. I'm not sure when it started, or why. I don't have a huge history of being cheated on by boyfriends (though it has happened occasionally, to be sure). I just have a really hyperactive imagination. In the Catholic tradition of blaming folk for sins ruminated on, but not necessarily acted on, I worry, endlessly, about the possibility of my loved one entertaining lewd thoughts about someone other than me.

I have a distinct memory of a boyfriend admitting to kissing a female coworker at an apres-work happy hour. It happened before he and I started dating, and he even went about setting the female office mate in question with a close friend. But the thought of this kiss tortured me. I wasn't sure if I desperately wished I had never been told of it, or if I would rather know every gory detail. If someone had offered me a Zapruder-style film of the event, I would've watched it until my eyes bled. I was afraid to ask for more information, and so I worried myself sick (sometimes literally) thinking about it. It didn't help matters when, after he and I broke up, he dated her for a time. It really didn't help when I found out about it after he and I went out on a tentative get-back-together date, and we had to change plans to hang out at his apartment after he pulled his car in only to discover her car parked in the lot. Coming back from that relationship cliff was pretty tough, and I never felt completely trusting around him again.

Early on in my relationship with Booby, there was a woman he knew, a stringy blonde, who seemed to crop up everywhere. She worked in the same building as he did, and would ask him to lunch. She was friends with some of the same people from his callow youth and had plenty of hilarious stories to share with him from those times. She had dated the ex of a female friend of his, and in doing so had temporarily ensnarled herself in a sort of hipster soap opera drama. Booby would go to hang out with guy friends and then I would find out later that she had been there, too. I heard her name for what felt like every day for several months. She "really, really couldn't wait to meet [me]," but when she did, she gave me a perfunctory "hello," and then snubbed me. We would go out to meet friends and suddenly boop! she would stride through the door, the only other female in the group, but no one's girlfriend. I felt left out and ill-at-ease, even though I trusted Booby more than I'd ever trusted anyone. I got pretty upset about it. I felt like history was going to repeat itself, and I would eventually run into my ex-Booby on the street and he would tell me all about how he was moving into a great, hip rowhome in an edgy neighborhood with Stringy Blonde and their two dogs with bandanas tied around their adorable, scruffy necks.

I told my future husband of this fear. We fought about it. He told me I was silly, and he didn't like the constraint I was putting on him. I think maybe a lamp got broken. But he took care not to socialize with her since it upset me so much. She moved across the country or something, and that was that.

Now I find I'm having this problem in a more theoretical way. There is no Stringy Blonde popping up at odd intervals. All of my husband's colleagues are lovely and friendly. But lately, I worry, groundlessly. I know my husband would never, ever leave me. But I worry about what would happen if he wanted to.

I'm pretty sure these feelings directly correlate to my ingestion of medication meant to suppress ovulation through the use of hormones. Because of this treatment, I've had about a month's worth of PMS, symptoms rolling together week after week like rocks down a hill, injuring anyone who gets in their path. I have not been easy to live with, but I am trying not to allow my brain to make me sick with worry over things that won't ever happen, or even be considered as a possibility.

Search terms, part 157

2006-07-05T16:05:00.000-04:00

Skateboard girls
Peed her pants on MTV: Was it Fergie? I'm pretty sure that's her thing.
Dressed up cats: I can provide those. Also, look here.
Gyno exam
Drunk girl: I guess I should be happy it didn't say something about following drunk girls home. Someone I went to college with used to do that. Loohooooser.
"get these motherfucking snakes off this motherfucking plane": I still can't wait to see this.
Rescue Me Denis Leary misogyny: Ugh. Just ugh.
kretschmer's granola: I use the wheat germ in baked goods. Good stuff.
what does it mean to blow in a girls ear: All I know is, it drives my husband insane when I do that to him. Not in a good way. And not that he's a girl. Just a tap-dancin' fool.
where can I buy fingerless gloves in Upper Darby: Nowhere, but you used to be able to get them in Northeast Philly at Warrior. Which is now, apparently, strictly a piercing shop. Oh well.

In which I am virtuous

2006-07-05T15:04:00.000-04:00

I ate a shit ton of crappy foods this holiday weekend (cake, beer, wine, more beer, water ice, a very juicy burger, fries, steak, etc.), and about 2 pieces of fruit. So today, I had to come back into the fold by eating:

a Trader Joe's peanut butter granola bar
homemade Colcannon, with fresh potatoes, fresh cabbage and butter
a salad with 2 kinds of organic lettuce, organic raspberries, organic onion, a slightly underripe tomato from my garden (photos of the ripe ones coming soon!) and homemade vinaigrette
a homemade brownie (not really "healthy," but at least lacking high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated whatever whatever)
a big chunk of seedless watermelon

I've become a huge Trader Joe's fan in the past month. Their fruit isn't so great, but I have a couple of good sources for nice fruit in the city already, anyway. Where they do excel is in their selection of cheeses (mmm, delicious herbed chevre for a mere $2.99!), snacky things (I am fully addicted to their pita chips and honey sesame sticks), and packaged nuts (try the chili lime Thai peanuts or the Mediterranean almonds). They also have these great prepackaged Indian meals. I know, it sounds awful, and like processed food. But I checked the ingredients and it's on the up and up. We have thus far enjoyed Dal Makhani and Madras Lentils, both over rice with a little ear of corn and a salad. It comes in a boil-in foil bag, so it's great for when you don't want to cook. AND TJ's also has frozen naan, which is way better than the pita bread that seems to be ever-present in regular markets, but lacks the authenticity and bubbly crackliness of the naan you get in an Indian restaurant. Two minutes in a hot oven and you're ready to roll.

A walk in the park

2006-07-05T14:23:00.000-04:00

Overheard touron conversation in the park in Philly's historic district this afternoon:

Little girl, age 8 or so, observing sparrow hopping on ground: Oh no! That little bird can't fly! We have to help it!

Parents, siblings: Oh, sure it can fly, Sophia! It's fine. Really. It's fine.

Father: And if it can't fly, then it'll learn, or ... somebody else will eat it.

Fine time to teach your kid about Nature, Red In Tooth And Claw, pops. Maybe next you can take her to snake-feeding time at the zoo.

I hope that little girl grows up to be a vet.

Adventures in TV viewing

2006-06-26T17:48:00.000-04:00

Most hideous things on TV this past week:

Next: an MTV dating/game show program, in which, from what I ws able to tell, one sneering young man auditions several girls in the role of "girlfriend" by making them do embarrassing, stupid things (which they go alog with willingly), and then he rejects them once he tires of humiliating them. Then he chooses a winner based completely on who he finds the hottest.

Rescue Me: I have been a fan of this show since its beginning. I love me some Denis Leary (inexplicably), and I was able to put aside the rampant misogyny of the show in the name of entertainment and gritty reality. But this last episode, in which Leary's character rapes his estranged wife, and she enjoys it, really has me questioning whether I want to continue to watch this program. What's the message here, that raping your wife isn't really rape, or that if there are feelings between two people, rape will be enjoyable? I feel confident that neither of those is true, don't you?

The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency: I also love Janice, but I admit that she is much better in small, controlled doses. Also, I'm pretty sure she's not very smart. But I am not cancelling my season pass on TiVo just yet. That bitch is batshit crazy, and I can't look away.

Take Home Chef: I had high hopes for this show, in which a professional chef accosts people in the supermarket and connives to help them cook a very special gourmet meal for their loved ones with his help. The chef, Curtis, is like Rod Stewart on crank: all hair, accent, and hoop earring, and there was a lot of Ferris Bueller-style camera mugging. Also, I think I saw some eye makeup on him. I'm sure he's a lovely person and an accomplished chef, but I can't help but think he was chosen for the accent and the physical package. Meh. I got about ten minutes in and then switched off.

Clearly, I need to read more and start avoiding the boob tube.

More fun with search tags

2006-06-25T17:13:00.000-04:00

As I've probably mentioned before, most of the search tags that lead people to me have a variation (unsurprisingly) on the phrase "mean girl," such as "how to be a mean girl" (watch and learn, suckas!), but every so often I get a good crop of weird ones. Here's the latest:

my wife peed during her gyno exam I don't know about your wife, but my doctor makes me "void my bladder" prior to my exam, so I kind of can't relate to this one.
lee press on nails old commercial Oh, those were the best! Did I link to them somewhere? I especially liked the "active length" ones, where it showed the manicured hands typing or dialing a rotary phone. My friend J used to know a woman who couldn't take heavy secretarial jobs because of her nails. She always had a job where there was no typing that couldn't be done with the eraser-end of a pencil.
what does IM'd you mean in dating? Hmmm, good question. Usually, it means some little spark of interest, but it could also mean s-t-a-l-k-e-r, especially if you didn't give out your IM handle. Proceed with caution.
My ex call me to say he was sorry for the way things ended, does this mean he wants me back? No. It means he wants to get temporarily back into your pants. Next!
+"sodium stearoyl lactylate" +headache Yeah, that's the shit they put in the fake coffee creamer. It probably does give you headaches.
peed pants This one's a late add; the person was led unsupectingly to this page by a one-two punch of #1 and #4. And while I have many stories of pants being peed in, I decline to share them here.

Who let the merkin out?

2006-06-22T16:36:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, Booby and I went to see his goddaughter in a dance recital, in which she, her cousin, and many other tiny little girls were dressed up as puppy dogs, complete with sequined "ears" attached to a headband. They danced (mostly hopped around wildly) to a medley of "How Much is That Doggie in the Window/Who Let the Dogs Out?" One little girl's headband/ears were hanging on by a prayer through all the bopping and thrashing, and she didn't care a whit. My niece, on the other hand, was visibly perturbed and I could see her restraining herself from righting the headpiece. She's a little Virgo girl, and a proper little madam. It was stinkin' adorable.

Of course, attending such a performance means sitting through all the other performances, which are mostly teenaged girls dressed in ridiculous (and often quite unforgiving) costumes, gallumphing around the stage under hot lights to themes of either "The '40s" (Capone, Hot Jazz) or "Hip-Hop" (Hit The Floor, The Timberlin [sic] Dance).

It wasn't my favorite way to spend a Friday night, but it wasn't too bad, overall. Booby is, oddly enough, a big fan of this sort of thing. He was teased mercilessly by his friends for liking Chicago (I am no fan of musicals and even I liked Chicago, though I did feel a little manipulated into liking it). As we walked to our car after the recital was over, he talked about the show, and then broke out with "God, I am so gay." (You see what teasing at the hands of heterosexual men does? As if we all shouldn't be a little gayer!) We joked about his unusual enjoyment of musicals for a few moments (he's about as un-metrosexual as a man can be in every other regard), and then he delivered the piece de resistance: "I'll be your merkin, honey." Awww, that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me. Except I think you mean that I'm your beard.

Garden, June 2006

2006-06-21T22:00:00.000-04:00

The broccoli has been harvested several times, and I'm letting a stalk or two go to seed (maybe I'll get volunteer seedlings next year, who knows?), the red leaf lettuce desperately needs to be cut back so it can start growing from the bottom up (it's gotten rather bitter, too; next year I'll try to trade a couple of plants away), and there are 19 tomato plants (apparently, the layer of compost we set down had a seed or ten).

Not as visible are the strawberries (Booby re-broke the pot I had previously broken and mended, and now they're looking a bit sad), zucchini, several varieties of peppers, climbing string beans, peas, cucumbers, raspberries and two pumpkins (these have a couple of blossoms, but no fruit has started yet).

And it takes remarkably little work - mostly just regular watering and the occasional herbicide application. Neato!

Garden, April 2006

2006-06-21T21:57:00.000-04:00

A trip to Home Depot yielded a six pack of broccoli plants, a six pack of red leaf lettuce plants, and we stuck in a smattering of toamtoes, which mostly died off because it was just too damn early for them to survive.

Still more food nerdery

2006-06-21T14:59:00.000-04:00

In April I discussed how I was going to participate in local community-supported agriculture this summer, and yesterday I brought home my first veggies (I could've opted for fruit and egg shares, too, but the fruit isn't organic, and the eggs make it difficult to carry everything home easily, plus I can get organic brown eggs for the same price at the market).

There was a bit of confusion initially, as I had intended on being part of the buying club and not the farm share, but it soon became evident that the buying club was an afterthought for this group. Different farms participate in different share programs, based on proximity, I guess, so this was a farm that was new to me. Luckily, a quick email got me in touch with someone who coordinates the whoile shebang, and I got a pro-rated partial share for the season, even though I was joining late (and they were technically full up).

It was totally worth it! My haul this week was "Farmer's Choice," and consisted of the following:

Garlic scapes. I know, what? In short, they are the flower stalks of garlic plants, and you can use them much as you would chives or onion tops. You can also make them into a pretty green pesto. Cool!
Red leaf lettuce. I'm already growing this in my garden plot, but that's OK, because it's delicious.
Yellow/green squash. Perfect for stir-fries, or tossing with a little rotini in a bechamel sauce. Mmmm.
Shelling peas. The peas are tiny and perfect, probably what Le Sueur petite peas look like before they can them and ruin them forever by immersing them in salted water and corporate evil.
Cabbage. This, I have no idea what to do with. I welcome suggestions. I hate cole slaw. There may be a foray into Colcannon in my future.
Arugula. I am going to be making some really good salads. Perhaps I'll bring salad for lunch every day, since I'm still obsessing over the whole 5 servings of fresh fruit/veg per day thing. And now I've just freaked myself out by finding this 5-9 a day site. Ugh. My total for today, so far, is only two: a banana and a plumcot (which are surprisingly tart and delicious). Looks like I'm having a salad at dinner, too.

Next week, I get to choose my own stuff instead of being left at the mercy of the farmer. I'm going to get pattypan squash, green snap beans, more peas, "summer crisp" lettuce, and a lemon basil plant (since I killed all of mine that I started from seed).

Oh, and check this out, it's a handy wallet-sized guide to the fruits and vegetables that have the highest concentration of pesticides, and the ones that have the least. Worry no more about buying that non-organic ear of corn or bunch of asparagus.

What are your favorite summer foods?

Open Letters to Annoying Folk

2006-06-20T14:11:00.000-04:00

Dear Chinese Restaurant at The Mall,

You caught me at a weak moment; it was raining, I was hungry. You had impressed me in the past with your $1.50 won ton soup. But that bundle of deep-friend gristle, breading and bone you call "Sesame Chicken" is an abomination. I had to throw it in the bin. Also, you may have put me off fried rice for keeps. I've had gruel that was more flavorful.

Regretfully,

Mrs. Harridan

***

Dear Ride The Ducks,

Aren't obnoxious tourists bad enough? Why must you make them even more obnoxious? You make my lunch hour so much less pleasant. Your riders sit on the street and eat nasty cheesesteaks while waiting to board you. And the quacking - O! the quacking! When I sleep at night, I dream of incessant, urgent quacking and smell a plume of exhaust. Please, please go away.

Angrily,

Mrs. Harridan

***

Dear People with Fancy Cellphone Earpieces,

If you make eye contact with me while talking on your little earpiece like a Secret Service agent, I can't help but think you're speaking to me. Stop it, already. You don't look cool. Save that shit for when you're in the car and really need to be handsfree.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Harridan

***

Am I the only one who's a bit freaked out about They Might Be Giants doing commercials for Dunkin Donuts? I'm not sure whether it makes me like Dunkin Donuts more, or TMBG less. Your thoughts?

Oh, the humanity

2006-06-19T17:06:00.000-04:00

Value City announces recall of blow dart guns (warning, PDF). Apparently, those things are dangerous! Who'da thunk it?

How green was my valley?

2006-06-14T12:08:00.000-04:00

I always plan on doing product reviews and recommendations on this blog, and then time gets away from me, or I start obsessing over something, or whatever. But I recently came across this site, Ideal Bite, courtesy of ClubMom, of all things (though this particular section is written by Sweetney, so I guess I shouldn't turn up my nose - could it be that ClubMom is cool now, despite (or because of?) Andrew Shue, who will forever be Billy from Melrose Place to me, slouched in a doorway, eating an apple (seriously, he was always doing that in that show. I think Papa Spelling felt it conveyed naivete or something.)?

But anyway.

Ideal Bite is a pretty compelling read to a big natural-products-and-ideas whore like me, and it's put together by two women who seem to be alarmingly normal. This is a site for people who need to take baby steps to being green. Women who love their products. People who love food. I immediately signed up for their tips email. And started reading about how most shampoos contain all kinds of shit you don't want touching your body. Oy.
So now I want to buy Surya hair products. They even have henna, which, if it works out, I may switch to permanently and kill my association with Titian Red Blonde. I also have a hankering for Lush's Karma Komba solid shampoo bar, which is the same scent as my favorite perfume.

I already knew about the whole deodorant thing (i.e., the aluminum, the parabens, the Alzheimer's, the cancer, the death and destruction), but I felt like a product recommendation would be a good thing, since a few of the organic ones I've tried made me, uh, still smell. So after I'm done with my Yves Rocher Hammamelis deodorant, I'm going to try Lush's Fuwari (Note to Japanese customers; if we've accidentally insulted you with one of our deodorant bars, we apologize. I love that.). Doesn't it sound delicious?

Just in time for my trip to Savannah, I made the switch to an organic sunscreen. Alba Hawaiian SPF 30 (I'm really, really pale; in fact, I normally use SPF 45) has a nice, non-greasy texture and smells lovely. And no breakouts! UPDATE: I had thought that this was paraben-free, but my eyes deceived me: it contains Methyl/Propylparaben. Ugh. Parabens are linked to breast cancer, because they are able to be absorbed through the skin and to bind to the body's estrogen-receptors, where they can encourage breast cancer cell growth. I have since written Alba asking them for a refund and entreating them to desist using parabens in their products. Strangely enough, they have a chemical-free sunscreen, also, which does not contain parabens.

If you're curious as to why you should change personal care products to something a little more environmentally sound, or maybe fretful that your shampoo might not be treating you right, chemical-wise, you can go to Skin Deep, where you can look up your favorite products and even submit the ones not listed for review to see how they fare. **Check the comments for a lengthy dicussion of cleaning and personal product alternatives, too!**

God, I could yap about this stuff all day.

I know I won't be able to completely give up fragrance in my products, but I can change the source of the fragrance in my products to a more natural one. Arabella just sent me a link on how to make your own lotions, so maybe that can be my summertime project.

What project do you have on tap for this summer?

Finally, a prince

2006-06-12T17:21:00.001-04:00

I am an extremely lucky woman to have found the one thing I never thought would come my way - a wonderful, loving husband. I've kissed a lot of frogs in my time, including:

The boyfriend who would booty call me at 10 p.m. on a school night, then have me make him pasta with Tabasco sauce.
The not-very-serious boyfriend who made snide fun of me for having a subscription to US Magazine rather than, say, the New Yorker or something, then took a copy of it up to the bathroom with him while he took care of business.
The boyfriend who told me he loved me one day and then broke up with me the very next day.
The boyfriend who left me a sinkful of dirty dishes to come home to after taking care of my cats while I was on a business trip.
The boyfriend who blogged about me in alarming detail after a night together, whilst dating a half a dozen other women simultaneously, then posted an open letter to me on his blog, requesting that I cease to read it (that's why there's password protection, genius. Also, you spelled the title of your blog incorrectly {snicker}).
The boyfriend who participated in a live-action role-playing game in which he was a vampire.
The boyfriend who had RAGE tattooed across his midsection in Gothic script (that one didn't last long, thankfully).
The boyfriend who didn't have a checking account until I took him by the hand to the bank and made him open one.
The boyfriend who wouldn't use the word goodbye, because it was "too cliche."
The boyfriend who bought me an expensive boombox after I found his cache of sexually-explicit letters from his good friend's wife ("Nothing happened! I swear!").

As of Saturday, I have been married for a year, and Booby showered me with love and affection in the following forms:

wedding cake and sparkling apple cider for breakfast in bed (a non-alcoholic beverage early in the morning is the best bet, especially if you're me and have recently suffered from the annual bout of drinking-to-excess-itis, or, the Oh, You Damn Fool, Don't You Know Five Drinks Is Too Many?! Flu).
a very cool clock radio with a dock for either my iPod or his iPod Shuffle, which also allows the iPod to be charged as it's docked.
a trip to see the Andrew Wyeth exhibit at PMA.
breakfast at the Morning Glory after yet another IUI (now with more cramping!).

Baby, me luvs you. Squirrel + Nut 4-EVA.

Southern charms

2006-06-12T16:01:00.000-04:00

After getting not one but two emails from people politely inquiring whether or not I was dead, I figured I'd better get my ass back in gear and start blogging again. Thanks, Pugawug and Tits McGee, for lighting a fire under my tuchas. I needed that. And you are both so sweet!

So, let me tell you about my B-List Blogger trip! I won't be able to do it the justice it was given here, here, here and here, but you'll almost definitely hear more about cranky air travel people, because I'm negative like that.

First off, I can't say enough good things about my fellow B-Listers. After missing a connecting flight from Atlanta to Savannah, Arabella proved to be a delightful travel companion, even in the most awful circumstances (not to mention quite feisty when arguing with Air Tran reps). Air Tran changed the departure time of our flight three times, threatened to change the gate (which boasted the smallest gate waiting area EVAR, so that we had to wait in the gate across the aisle), and finally called for boarding without the benefit of a microphone. When all was said and done, 6 passengers, including us, did not make it on the plane, and there was none of that last minute, "Passenger Mrs. Harridan please report to Gate C16 for boarding." We ended up having to go and grouse to Air Tran (after the initial shock of actually having missed the flight wore off), and they were, shall we say, none too helpful. An hour and several angry powwows later, we successfully hit them up for a voucher for an overnight stay at a down-at-heel airport hotel, which was so nondescript that I can't even remember which chain it was(despite its "charming New Orleans-style courtyard" and yards of plastic houseplants).

Arabella remained a trooper throughout, watching Iron Chef America on TV with me and offering me perfume to combat that not-so-fresh feeling (almost all of our toiletries made it to Savannah without us, annoyingly). She even carried on a friendly conversation with a fellow hotel guest who chatted with us about how she believed that the Holocaust really did happen, no matter what her skinhead ex-boyfriend might think. Additionally, even though (or perhaps because) Arabella and I have met a number of times now, and I consider her my close friend, I feel it necessary to broadcast to the blogosphere what a cool person she is, despite her insistence to the contrary. Believe me, World Wide Internet, she is the bee's knees: a very precise, neat person who didn't think it at all weird that I told her which hook I had hung my towel on, and, in fact, was just as anal retentive as I am about that kind of thing. There was no fighting over who gets the little hotel toiletries, because we both packed enough to keep a set of ground troops clean and smelling delicious. Every time she and I get together, we find that we have more things in common, while being rather empirically different sorts of people. We're a good mix. It's refreshing to find that sort of thing.

Much has been said about Teebs' clear skin and gorgeous curls, and it's all true. She has a very contagious sense of fun and is so seemingly carefree - while I was worried about parading around the hotel in my bathing suit as we prepared to sneak into the hotel pool after-hours, she actually tied a kicky sarong around her waist and slung her bath towel over her shoulders without a second thought. "I figure it's better to ask forgiveness than permission," she said, and I internally vowed to try to adopt that attitude more often.

Wordgirl was the first person I talked to on the phone before we arrived, and it's always a fun game to reconcile a person's voice to her face. She sounded just as she is on her blog: confident, open, and just a little bit sly, like she has a joke that she's going to let you in on once she sees you. I know she was worried about being the "old lady" of the group, but I imagine the others would agree with me that the age difference went completely unnoticed. I have a sister her age, and while I love my sister, Wordgirl is far more interesting (sorry, A, if you ever read this). And where Wordgirl goes, controversial topics of conversation follow. I hadn't realized how much I miss talking about big issues in an informed, intelligent way with informed, intelligent people (and it's partly my own fault for making US Magazine and America's Next Top Model too large a part of my life). Oh, and did I mention she's a totally foxy, tall blonde?

Mignon is the sort of person who makes you feel completely comfortable and as if you've known her for years. She has a fascinating personal history, and she seems like the sort of woman who masters everything she tries to do, whether it's writing or engineering or anything in between. To me, a person who always did well with words but was useless with figures, this constitutes a miracle and makes me unspeakably jealous, but of course Mignon is so sweet, it's impossible to feel really green at her. Another great thing about her is that she's completely unself-conscious, going around singing in her fabulous, gravelly rock chick voice (and doing impressions on request).

When I started blogging, I felt sort of isolated in my personal life - I was at a point where, finally, I had a healthy romantic relationship at the center of my life, but my relationships with female friends were suffering. I have a few close friends, but they're scattered in various cities, and in various stages of life (which can make getting together difficult). Now, thanks to connections made by simple fate, it would seem, I have four women friends to whom I feel closely connected, and whose ideas and stories I can read on an almost daily basis. Thank you, Interweb. I can't wait for next year's B-List get together (and we've already begun planning). Here's to many more!

Six Weird Things From My Childhood

2006-06-09T11:48:00.000-04:00

Fraulein N, fellow Philly Girl, tagged me for this meme. And she's cool, so how can I refuse? Plus, I was a pretty weird kid.

A Trusting Soul
I had a group of friends who were all two years older, and I trusted them implicitly. Naturally, they took advantage of this, as kids do. Kids are evil. They told me they were witches (!!) and various other (very obvious, I think now) lies. And I believed them! Every word! Once I realized what big liars they were, I made it a point not to be so gullible anymore, and I've stuck with it. It took my husband years to get me to trust him.

Young Lurve
The first boy I ever had a crush on was in kindergarten, and was called Bruce. I liked him for no other reason than he had a really awesome Spider-man sweatshirt. He was otherwise a troll, but I was willing to overlook that on account of the shirt.

In first grade, I got my first kiss (no tongue, it was Catholic school, after all, and I was very naive 'n' innocent, anyway) from Stephen T., who later dumped me for a girl who smelled like fried food, but not before he and his friend Ricky entertained some other girls and myself by waggling their little weenies at us in class and comparing them to the (female, nun) principal's head. Oy.

Screw You, Fred
When I was about five, my mother would sit me down in front of the TV to watch Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. What kid didn't like Mr. Rogers? Well, me. I didn't. He sang the little song about how special we were to him, and I would talk back to the TV: "I am NOT special!" My mother thought this was high comedy.

Of course, now I love Mr. Rogers, even without the benefit of Henrietta Pussycat. He was awesome.

Double Plus Ungood
My older brother wanted a baby brother so much that he cried when I was born (he was the only boy). He made up for it by taking me under his wing and making me a nasty little tomboy. Many are the photos I have of myself taken with his Brownie camera, dressed in ice hockey gear, riding a skateboard, or made over into various altar egos at Halloween. When he wasn't forming me into a boy, my brother was torturing me in the ways that only an older brother can: merciless tickling, flinging foodstuffs at my head, pretending that there was something scary at the window behind me, and waking me by pouring a glass of cold water over my head. Good times.

Here's Where It Starts Getting Really Weird
For some unknown reason, as six year old, I insisted on putting on a sweater, hat and mittens when going to bed. My sisters and brother, who are all considerably older than I am, thought this was ridiculous (and rightly so!), but my mother humored me. Hey, if it got me to go to bed, she wasn't going to complain (need I mention I was the baby of the family?). I would remove the outerwear in my sleep and wake up in my pajams the next morning, just like a normal kid.

And Now, The Piece de Resistance
When I was about 7, I would leave the room, pull my shirt backwards over my head to simulate hair, and re-enter the room, transformed into my altar ego, "Vicky." Vicky was a well-behaved child who would swoop in to save the day by putting away all the toys that Mrs. Harridan had left lying around. "Oh, Vicky," my mother and grandmother, who lived with us, would exclaim. It's so nice to see you here, cleaning up!" Then they would ask Vicky about herself. All I revealed was that Vicky's mother's name was Zelda. I think, at the time, these were the two most exotic-sounding, and therefore attractive names to my young ears. Then Vicky would leave just as quickly as she had come, and I would put my shirt back on, right side in, and come back to admire her handiwork.

Please do not call the men in the white coats. With my luck, I'll have a daughter just like me.

I'm tagging anyone out there who has writer's block and needs a kickstart.

District of Booblumbia

2006-05-22T15:05:00.000-04:00

Our trip to D.C. was fun, in large part due to the fact that we treated it as a weekend getaway rather than a shit!-I-have-to-work-and-pay-my-own-way kind of a thing (though the latter was what it really amounted to). My husband, the illustrious Booby*, made last-minute hotel arrangements in a relatively swanky chain located in D.C.'s gayborhood, drove us down on Friday night, took me for noshies and malt/hop-based beverages at the Brickskeller, took me for brunch at Afterwords, and, and, AND even walked me to the building I had to get to for work purposes on Saturday afternoon. I swear, for as much as he gets on my nerves, I do love that man, and I understand that I am a lucky woman to have found someone so sweet and so impervious to my rages. Not that those happen often, ha ha!**

Anyhoo, our late-night stop at the 'Skeller found us practically begging the waitstaff to bring us drinks, until finally Booby went and fetched from the bar. "Well, OK," said the barman, "But for the next round, you gotta order from the waitress!" No shit, dude, and don't you think we would've if she would come within ten feet of us? Also, thanks for realizing that you overcharged us by like, $15 for that heffeweissen. Luckily, a very sweet, but very drunk girl at the adjacent table came over to chat with me while Booby was at the bar, and she steered me to the correct waitron, whom I then cornered and menaced (well, really I just asked her for menus. But I only didn't menace her so she wouldn't loogie in my food). Sweet drunk girl then bought us a round of lemon drops as an apology for waving her butt in our faces while doing some booze-fueled country line dancing (she was quite talented; she had on high heeled boots and she didn't miss a step). She then asked if we were on our first date (ha!), asked when we were having kids (I decided to forgive her this faux pas, for how could she know this is a bad thing to ask? Aren't I magnanimous?), and told us she was an aerospace engineer. Booby didn't believe her, but she seemed sincere to me. And then, we had to wait so freakin' long for the chicken fingers I'd ordered that we got them for free (and they were delicious, because we were like starved hyenas in the Serengeti by the time they arrived. I even ate them with BBQ sauce, and I hate that stuff (I'd rather honey mustard, if you please).

Saturday we did the brunch thing, as referenced above, and I ask you, O Denizens of Our Capitol (or frequent visitors), what is up with the bad service in eateries? We asked for cream for our coffees about 4 times and never got it, plus the food arrived kind of cold. But whatevs, I had a good time anyway, and by some miracle I didn't think twice about it and skipped along my merry way (I was wearing new pants that I liked and looked good in, which sometimes make all the difference, really).

So now my complainy rant is over, even though for all my complaining I had a wonderful time. I hope you all had a fun weekend, the details of which I can read about in your blogs today!

*and likely reason for some of the pervier search strings that lead people here, although an innocent reference to "happy endings" in a recent meme brought someone Harridan-ward, looking for a "masseuse" in the area. Sorry I couldn't help you, dude. Might I suggest a RealDoll?

**Lies. I am on a near-constant PMS rotation, who am I kidding?

May 24

2006-05-19T15:00:00.000-04:00

You may have seen me reference my bipolar ex-boyfriend, P, here and there on this blog. He committed suicide almost 6 years ago, and this May he would have turned 36. Until I met my husband (otherwise known as the most patient man on earth), he was one of the few people, and certainly the only man, whom I felt understood me.

P and I met in February 1993. My friend Frau Doktor and I went dancing at a club called The Bank, which had been, naturally, a bank before it became a dance club. It was my favorite club at the time. She was dating her now-husband and I was living with my then-boyfriend, much to my parents' dismay. I was working a retail job after having dropped out of college, and they felt (perhaps rightly so) that my life was going nowhere fast. Moving in with J.D. didn't help the matter.

P had dated a co-worker of mine from a bookstore job I'd held perhaps a year earlier. She was a sweet Southern girl with a drinking problem who felt trapped in her relationship with her live-in boyfriend, Vidar (I think he was Swedish). When she told me P's name, I realized he was the former basketball hero of my parochial high school alma mater - his name was gold in my neighborhood. She and P ended up having a bad breakup, but she stayed with Vidar, probably because he had money. So I knew who he was when I saw him smile at me that night. I suggested to Frau Doktor that she flirt with him, since he was the sort of handsome that you see in Ralph Lauren ads. She laughed; she was happy with her boyfriend, but she agreed that anyone would think he was attractive. The next thing I knew, P had grabbed her and asked her to bring me over to talk to him. He didn't remember me, but I didn't mind, and we talked about movies, saying we should get together to see Mike Leigh's Naked. My boyfriend was the furthest thing from my mind.

"Fast" girl that I was then, I looked up his number in the phone book and left him a message a few days later. I'd given him my work number, but I was terrified he wouldn't call. That was how the relationship started; I have no one to blame but myself.

I ended things with J.D. about a month later, and dated P for the next 9 months, moving home with my parents (who still weren't happy with me, exactly, but thrilled that I had begun to date a nice Irish Catholic boy from the neighborhood). P's mother was slowly dying of cancer (though we didn't know then that she would die), and mine had been a breast cancer survivor for a year, so we bonded over that and many other things we had in common. I felt nervous, but happy in his presence. I didn't quite understand why someone like him wanted to be with someone like me, but I was happy he did.

I'm not really sure where things started to fall apart, or why he started exhibiting strange behavior - he became intolerably moody, and would vacillate between needing lots of space to "think," and coming to my house or calling very late at night, insistent on seeing or talking to me. I was fairly unconcerned with what I should be getting out of the relationship. My whole mindset was that this was the person I was Meant To Be With, and I would do anything to keep him happy, even if it meant subverting what I wanted out of a partnership. He decided that we saw too much of each other because of his "gluttonous" tendencies, and that he was was miserable if he wasn't able to see me every day. Things devolved quickly from there, and he dumped me, apparently to remove the source of the problem.

Every once in awhile, I'd see P on the street while I was walking somewhere. He had a habit of turning up like a bad penny every couple of months. No matter who I dated, I still felt like I was in love with him and always would be. It all seemed very star-crossed at the time. When I did see him, I was rendered nearly incapable of functioning, such was my emotional upset. It was not a good way to be. I gradually got over it, as more and more time elapsed between sightings, and eventually I reached a point where seeing him just made me feel a bit odd. I still felt overly fond of him, but it was less crippling.

Perhaps eight years after our initial relationship, we ran into one another on the street and got to chatting. I felt proud of myself for being able to do this, stand in the street with my ex who had decimated me, nattering about work and what was new. I had missed him as a person after having made him into some kind of runaway Golem, feeding off my romantic despair. He was still frighteningly smart, and having dated any number of dumb guys in the interim, I enjoyed the witty conversation I was able to have with him, which is probably what led to my dating him again.

This time, it was tougher. Gone were the issues with having to see me every day, but there was a very high level of commitment there that I couldn't match. I was gun-shy, terrified of having my heart broken a second time. When he revealed to me that he thought he had a chemical imbalance that led to acute depression, I wanted to help, but there was little I could do, except talk to him, and encourage him to talk to his family and continue to see a therapist and take medication. From that point on I felt as if I were the only person keeping him anchored, and I wasn't able to do a very good job of it. He went from delirious happiness and gregariousness to dark depressions in which he wouldn't leave his apartment for days. I felt more and more stifled, and poorly-suited to helping him get better. I recognize now that his behavior was classically bipolar, but he was not being treated for it. I tried to get him to discuss the possibility with his therapist, but he didn't agree that manic depression was his problem, so he refused. I got a call from an ex-boyfriend wanting me back, and used it as the excuse I felt I needed to bow out of the relationship, an act that makes me burn with shame when I recall it now. A day or two later, I received a very long email from P, advising me that I would soon be hearing about his untimely demise, and that I could go ahead and blame myself for having caused it through my pretense of caring, my callous betrayal. I called my parents and had them contact his father so he couldn't actually hurt himself, and he was placed in care at a facility not long after.

I didn't hear from him for a several months after that. Occasionally we IM'd or emailed one another, and he told me about how he had tried to cut his wrists and wore sweat bands constantly to cover the scars. I shouldn't worry, though, he said, he was doing well, and he knew better than to do anything like that again. I told him to call me if he ever felt like it was going to happen again, and he promised he would.

In September of 2000, we met up for an afternoon as friends, over Labor Day weekend. We had a nice time, just chatting away and having lunch together. He had put on some weight from the anti-depressants he was on. He wanted to tell me about why he had attempted suicide, but when I turned to listen to his story, he clammed up. I tried a few times to get him to talk to me, and then dedcided that he would tell me later, when he was ready. We sat in silence for a little while, and then he left. I never saw or spoke to him again.

A week or so later, I got a call from Frau Doktor while I was at work.
"They prayed for P at mass this past weekend," she said. "But, the thing is, they prayed for him as one of the recently deceased."
"Oh, there must be some mistake. I'll call the church and find out what the deal is."

It wasn't a mistake. P had carefully taken everything out of his wallet except for his ID and a note indicating that his uncle (a police officer) was to be contacted, and stacked it all on top of his coffee table. He didn't leave a suicide note. Then he walked to the train station that was about a block from his apartment, and jumped in front of the last scheduled train of the night.

***

If you have a friend or family member you think might be bipolar, please be a better friend to him than I was to P. Contact the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance and get help. Not a day goes by that I don't wish I had.

Everybody else is doing it, so why can't I?

2006-05-19T10:24:00.000-04:00

My search tags for this blog for the past couple of weeks are thus:

"max loads" supplement volume mobility (from Australia, that one)
Grand Funk (from Peru! Who knew that Grand Funk Railroad had a following there?)
Trashy Girls Next Store (my first thought was, Shouldn't that be "next door"? But now I think it'd be a great name for a thrift boutique)
dogs sperms shots (I'm ... speechless. Who would want to see that?)
america's next top model joanie's heart necklace (I was more impressed with those massive chandelier earrings she wore at final panel)
plants from pineapple crowns (Mine are still alive, incredibly)
asian big booby movies (are there such things? I guess if there's a website for dog sperm, there's one for this, too)

In other news, my gardening is going swimmingly. We've already harvested 3 radishes (those things are great; they make you feel like an accomplished gardener with very little work because they grow so quickly and easily), 6 broccoli crowns, and several huge red oak lettuce leaves (which are a little bitter, but not bad). I'm hopeful for an eventual harvest of strawberries, raspberries, several varieties of tomato, cucumbers, peas and a few different types of pepper (never mind the fact that we still have frozen peppers from last year). I have a couple pumpkin plants in the ground, but they're not thriving, so I won't hold out hope for their survival.

Booby and I are off to D.C. this weekend for a little work/play combo, so maybe that will inspire a photo post, or something. I've been something of a little crabapple lately, wanting only to sit and sulk or stand outside picking aphids off my roses. All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl, and this little trip might be a good kick-in-the-pants for my psyche.

Have a wonderful weekend, everyone.

WHO will be eliminated tonight?

2006-05-12T14:15:00.000-04:00

I don't know if many of you have seen Rich's America's Next Top Model recaps at Four Four, but if you haven't, you really should. His posts usually make my Friday, and I end up doing the furtive giggle-snort in my cube.

You can read all his recaps here (and he includes sound files of each week's "Tyraisms," which any habitual watcher of the show will recognize as Tyra's bizarre turns of phrase), and share in the joy of Jade eviscerating the English language, Joanie's tooth woes, and Danielle's general awesomeness (but don't blame me if you pee yourself laughing). It seems clear from the previews of next week's show that the continued discussion of Danielle's accent foreshadows (like a large blunt instrument) that she's getting the axe after royally flubbing a fake Cover Girl commercial, but damn! I'll be sorry to see her go.

But please, lord, don't let Jade win. That's all I ask.

Twenty questions and then some

2006-05-11T15:59:00.000-04:00

I've been tagged by Teebs who was tagged by Schmutzie, and since they are both on my reading roster I feel compelled to do this little (or not so little) MeMe.

1. First name? Who wants to know?
2. Were you named after anyone? Nope; my mom had names picked out for us which had nothing to do with relatives. Only my brother was named after anyone (my father). My name was going to be Peter if I were a boy. My youngest sister was going to be Roger.
3. Do you wish on stars? Maybe when I was young and less cynical.
4. When did you last cry? Sunday night, surreptitiously, as my husband slept unawares. I cry like a faucet these days.
5. Do you like your handwriting? I rather do, and I was often asked by classmates to fake excuse notes and signatures for them in grade school.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat? Turkey or ham (shredded, not thick sliced and in a gelatinous roll ... eurgh) and not without cheese.
7. When is your birthday? August 1971. I'm a Leo.
8. What is your most embarrassing cd? I have a lot of CD upgrades from my high school cassette tape angst days, hence, the collection includes Depeche Mode, That Petrol Emotion, and more Smiths than is strictly necessary.
9. If you were another person would you be friends with you? No, I would think I was too mean. Probably because I am too mean. I am nice to my friends, though.
10. Do you have a journal? I keep a sporadic paper journal in the form of a black marble composition book. I haven't touched it in probably a year. There was a traumatic experience once where an ex snooped in all my old journals, and then demanded I trash them. Like a fool, I complied, and have been sorry ever since.
12. Would you bungee jump? Probably not unless there was monetary compensation.
13. What is your favorite cereal? Cocoa Puffs. I'm cuckoo for 'em.
14. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Yeah, because I double-knot the laces, and untying makes it a lot easier to get them back on.
15. Do you think that you are strong? Strong like bull.
16. What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Graham Slam by Turkey Hill.
17. Shoe Size? 8 or 8 1/2. Really, I should be taller with such giant dogs as those. Thank god for heels.
18. Red or pink? Equal parts both, which is probably a mistake with red hair. So much for being goth.
19. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? I have a very hairy neck. That's this week's thing. Next week it'll be something else. There's a laundry list of things, all the time.
20. Who do you miss the most? My ex-boyfriend/good pal who committed suicide 5 1/2 years ago.
21. Do you want everyone you send this to to send it back? Only if they feel like it.
22. What color pants and shoes are you wearing? Sort of a dusty aqua pair of pants from Ann Taylor Loft that I got for super-cheap at an outlet mall, and black Cloud 9 flip-flops.
23. Last thing you ate? A turkey and brie flatbread sandwich and kettle chips.
24. What are you listening to right now? I can't seem to stop listening obsessively to Shake the Sheets by Ted Leo, my rock star boyfriend.
25. If you were a crayon what color would you be? Midnight Blue. Sing it, Lou Gramm.
26. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? The nice girl who took my anniversary dinner reservation at Django.
27. Fingers or toes? Definitely fingers. All my toes, save for the baby toe, are the same length. But I try to keep my fingernails in good nick.
28. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? Eyes, fingernails (can't stand long/dirty fingernails).
29. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yes. She's a good egg.
30. Favorite Drink? I like the fancy, flavored iced teas. Mandarin orange. Plum. Lemon Zinger. Boozewise, I like a nice Hoegaarden or Berliner weisse. Did I spell those right?
31. Favorite Sport? uh ...
32. Hair Color? Titian red blonde (just like Nancy Drew!).
33. Favorite office supply item? Sharpies. Especially in the new pastel colors.
34. Do you wear contacts? Unfortunately, yes.
35. Favorite Food? Mashed potatoes 'n' gravy, with a biscuit.
36. Last Movie You Watched? Friends With Money by Nicole Holofcener
37. Favorite Day Of The Year? My birthday is usually a good one.
38. Scary Movies Or Happy Endings? Happy Endings. But not at the massage parlor.
39. Summer or winter? Summer.
40. Hugs or Kisses? Sure
41. Favorite dessert? Creme brulee. Or Tiramisu. Funny, I would've thought something chocolate, but it's not.
42. What's On Your Mouse Pad? The moon.
43. What Did You Watch Last night on TV? America's Next Top Model and Lost.
44. Favorite Smells? Chocolate chip cookies, rain, Lush Karma perfume, my husband's aftershave.
45. Favorite Sounds? thunderstorms, Emma the cat whisper-meowing
46. Stones or Beatles? Stones via Liz Phair filter.
47. What's the furthest you've been from home? Ireland
48. What books are you reading? Garnet Hill by Denise Mina, and, for trashy nonsense, Size 12 is Not Fat by Meg Cabot.

I'm tagging ... let's see, Arabella, Sassypants, and Tits McGee. Have at it, ladies!

Here's to good friends

2006-05-08T14:38:00.000-04:00

My husband has lots of friends. They're pretty nice folks. JG deejayed our wedding reception and is a real sweetheart, usually the first person I think of when I meet a single girl who would benefit from meeting a nice guy.
Robb is a solid citizen who races bikes and has a toddler who is the subject of many of her proud papa's photos. Rick is a quiet fellow who takes great pictures and adopted a kitten named Sanchez from us (and then paid $2500 to save the cat after the damn fool thing jumped into thin air and broke his leg in eleventy places).

But I think my favorite of Booby's friends is Big Pugawug (so-called not because she is a large person, but to distinguish her from her adorable offspring, Pugawug), who is not only a nice person with an interesting blog of her family's daily life (with lots of photos!), but who also was sweet enough to send me a care package when I was feeling down. She knows I enjoy gardening, and so she sent me a HUGE packet of purple poppy seeds from her own garden, plus several cuttings of succulent plants to be rooted and grown as houseplants (I could summer them outside, too, and prettify my porch). I was really touched by the gesture.

Now I owe her a care package since she helped pull me out of my funk, so if she's reading, she should expect a little something in the mail in the coming week ... perhaps of the seed, cutting and bound printed matter variety.

For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.

2006-05-08T13:27:00.000-04:00

Booby and I went to H-Mart, a new Asian supermarket, this past weekend. Our area has a pretty vital Koreatown happening, as well as many South Asian immigrants in residence, so there are lots of little cornershops featuring interesting foodstuffs and Bollywood movies (and the regular supermarkets even have a decent selection of international foods beyond Goya and La Choy). H-Mart is the only market in our immediate area that has fresh produce, several fast food restaurants, frozen food (including cheese and corn flavored ice cream and red bean popsicles), fresh bakery goods, fresh seafood ... the works.

We erred on the side of not buying too much, and Booby has photographed out modest haul here. Best items so far? The Suntory lemon drink (a less sweet, slightly fizzy lemonade) and the Vegetable Snack (sort of like Funyuns, but less gross, and lighter). Not pictured: a six pack of long green hot pepper plants which have since been planted, a pineapple, and a package of Asian pears. I'll try to take some garden photos this week to show what we've been up to (sadly, the cats ate many of our seedlings while we were away last weekend; Bailey has been extra sweet and cuddly to me since then, as if she senses that I would like to smack her furry head, with its walnut-sized brain).

I can't wait to go back and get some more stuff!

Pink is the new ... um. Wait a second.

2006-05-08T12:30:00.000-04:00

I had to have beta blood taken this morning, and to reward myself I bought two things: a sausage, egg 'n' cheese on an English muffin at the local Dunkin Donuts, and a Kuhn Rikon Vase Grinder. Ooooh, pitty. I broke my old pepper mill some months ago, and decided that I deserved a fancy, pink, thirty-dollar grinder (plus I had some Coinstar Amazon dollars to put toward my purchase). I also bought myself pretty underwear yesterday in anticipation of being told that I am, yet again, not pregnant this week, after my beta results come back from the lab. Consumer goods quiet my nerves.

Speaking of significant pink, if you haven't already donated a bit of (tax-deductible) cash to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation's Race for the Cure, you should. My oldest sister, Lisa, does the race every year on Mother's Day, along with her good friend, who is a survivor. My mom is also a survivor (13 years this past December), so I try to support the cause whenever possible. If you want to donate to my sister's team (Pixie's Pack), please click here.

You knew it was gonna happen ...

2006-05-03T16:18:00.000-04:00

Someone actually got to my blog using the following search string:

"max loads" Dietary Supplement

The best news? I'm the third site in the serach. YEAH!
My name is now forever entwined with Max Loads.

I couldn't be prouder. Snif!

Bridesmaidzillas

2006-05-02T13:08:00.000-04:00

Strap in, peeps, this is a long one. But it's gossip-licious about people you don't know! Photos TK if I find any that are actually in focus.

So this past weekend, my dear friend M got married. I was fortunate enough to be one of her bridesmaids (or shall I say "attendants," as "bridesmatron" would really be more accurate, but that word is kind of ugly). Little did I know that my duties would include corralling all the other bridemaids (except for the Matron of Honor, who is the bride's sister, and needed no instruction from me, needless to say).

But first, some details: Bride and Groom had been dating for 6 years, so the joy at this long-awaited celebration was pretty profound. It was a big, beautiful, spectacular Italian wedding. Amazingly, I'd never been to one of those, but it wasn't too dissimilar to the average spectacular Irish wedding, so I felt right at home. The ceremony was lovely, with lots of personal touches, such as the bride's niece playing Let There Be Peace on Earth on the piano by the altar, and various nephews acting as ushers and ringbearers (thank god the rings were safely in the best man's jacket, is all I'm saying).

The reception was a few hours after the Mass (that extra time was spent taking photos; falling on my mother with thanks after she brought us shawls, because it was freezing in New Jersey on Saturday; waiting for more pictures to be taken; repinning my hair; and finally, drinking champagne and eating Wheat Thins on a trolley car while driving to an outdoor park to have more photos taken), and took place at the Trump Marina. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of The Donald, but he was not amongst the hoi polloi, all of whom were smoking and drinking with abandon. The reception was also lovely, and only slightly marred by the fact that the trip to the ladies' room took one alongside a Hooters' which always seemed to have a large group of young men in the booth nearest the large windows that looked out onto the main drag of the casino. If I weren't already married, I feel sure I could have had a date or ten that night.

So let's get to the Bratty Bridesmaids:

C and B came with C's parents, after B flew in from Texas to Connecticut, where C lives. The two drove to Philly to meet C's parents with the notion that all would travel and room together (parents in one suite, girls in another). Unfortunately, the parents refused at the last minute, and when I met everyone at the nail salon, B had made arrangements at a Comfort Inn 40 minutes away, and had no transport. I ended up having her stay with me at my folks' house. Thanks, C's parents! You totally suck!

Fast forward to the Rehearsal Dinner, where bridesmaid T tells me that I should put on 10 lbs. or so if I want to get pregnant. Several times. Without being asked for her opinion. Sigh. Once we got home (Booby had joined us at this point), T calls me to talk smack on the other bridesmaids. "Aren't you talking to this person at 8 a.m. tomorrow?" Booby asked. "Get off the phone already." I couldn't fault his logic.

The ceremony itself went off without a hitch, except that the wedding party was asked to approach the altar whether they were receiving communion or not. The non-Catholics were not feeling that at all. B later told me that C was saying things like, "That's not my God," and looking everywhere in the pews for a Bible (I have no clue why, but as she's Jewish, I am pretty sure she wasn't looking for the Good News of Jesus Christ. Not that I am, either, and I'm nominally Catholic). Being in the front row afforded me the perfect seat to observe everyone taking Communion, even the non-Catholics, who seemed to think it was some kind of special candy being given out to those who had mastered the sit-stand-kneel marathon that is a wedding Mass.

At the reception, B endeared herself to no one by demanding that the bride's brother-in-law fetch her "diamonds my daddy gave me" (actually heart-shaped diamond necklace, not the velvet bag of family jewels one might expect from such wording) AND her special pituitary gland medication (and anti-deprerssants)<--no, really! from his car, which was valet-parked. Brother-in-law was feeling no pain, bride's sister told B to hold on a minute as she herded 3 children and drunk husband, B pitched fit. Will someone tell me why you would ever leave diamonds and regimented drugs in someone else's car at a wedding?

Meanwhile, there was one Single Male guest, with whom the bride had tried to fix up almost the entire female contingent of the wedding party at one time or another. The most recent victim, T, had been on 2 dates with him, declined to sleep with him, and never heard from him again. But her interest reared up once she saw him dancing with a woman from his table, whom she immediately declared to be both fatter and uglier than herself. She also insisted that I find out from the bride who this brazen hussy was (I demurred). Instead we went to "visit" my husband (while reconnoitering), who was seated at the same table. Later, I chatted with the brazen hussy herself (amazingly, I refrained from calling her a Whore of Babylon), where I discovered she was a sweet-natured cousin of the bride with no interest in the single man (I conspiratorially told her I thought he was a bit of a player, and she nodded knowingly. No flies on her).

Not to be outdone, C's mother, who has never been drunk, expressed concern at her daughter's having imbibed several rounds of shots (in C's defense, she was a happy drunk). C ignored her and cozied up to best man's 20 year old son (did I mention C was feeling spinsterish since she was 31 and unmarried?). She soon ditched him to change into street clothes and take up with Single Player Guy, causing an embolism in T's emotional cortex. C's mother appeared and gave C a stern talking-to about spinsters and alcohol abuse, or somesuch, and then C and Single Guy disappeared, never to be seen again that evening (C claims that they went to play roulette and "nothing happened." But when they left, they appeared to be in search of an empty broom closet, if you know what I mean).

To top it all off? C was pissed at us for not being around when she finally got done "playing roulette," so she made up a lame excuse about having to leave early and not take B to the airport. So Booby and I made sure B got on a flight to Texas with a mere 10 minutes to spare. Let's just say that I learned a lot about talking people into letting me butt in line that day. I'm still amazed she made it onto the plane.

And I can't wait to dish all this gossip with my newlywed friend upon her return from Honeymoonsville, since I tried so hard to shield her from it on Saturday.

Green apples, eh?

2006-04-26T12:30:00.000-04:00

I just have to share the spam I just got on my work account with you guys. Mostly I get boring spam, but this one is almost poetic.

I gotta tell you something. Some years ago I used to watch porno often. I always admired those guys cumming. They splashed out so much sperm on their girls, it looked so cool, so manlike.

Now I have a girlfriend.. but quantity of my sperm was so scanty, that I felt ill at ease.
I was advised to eat green apples but even this didn't help.

A month ago I was hanging around at the bar with my best friend. And he said that I should try MAX LOADS. Well, - I thought, - sounds interesting.

Next day I came to know that it was really a highly effective all-natural dietary supplement,
which not only increases the sperm volume but also improves the sperm quality and the mobility of spermatozoa.
Having ordered and tried I was shocked how cool it was.
I'd even say, it changed my life. I'm happy. I even became a better lover, knowing how it all would end.

God only knows what's going to show up on my referring stats after this one. That'll be another blog post.

In which my heart grows two sizes

2006-04-25T21:58:00.000-04:00

My internet pal, Tits McGee, was kind enough to send me something super-cool in the mail. I sent her a jar of hot pepper jelly a week or so back, after she jokingly said I should send her some for her birthday come Fall. And hot damn if she didn't turn that shit right around and send me something back! I have to say, it really made my day.

Here is the package, carefully wrapped and sent the quick way.

Here is the opening of the package, stage one (I used to be one of those kids who tears the paper off presents and flings it with glee, but in my dotage I've become one of those annoying slooowww openers of items, not to mention a saver of pretty giftwrap. I about drove the folks at my wedding showers nuts. I was insistent that I would line my drawers with the paper, though of course I haven't yet. Too l-a-z-y.)

And inside that cute little tissue paper envelope with a baby Easter egg on it? BUNNIES! According to Tits, the bunnies are a sort of fetility good luck charm used by her and her sister-in-law. Within six weeks of obtaining the bunnies, she was preggo. And since I am already wearing a Saint Gerard medal in order to spook God into zapping me with child, why not add to the superstition? The bunnies are resting comfortably at my bedside on the window sill, away from the madding crowd of the kitchen and the furious paws of Bailey the cat.

Thank you, Tits! I am very, very touched. And my stony heart doesn't thaw too easily these days, so this is quite a coup.

People, people who hate people

2006-04-25T15:05:00.000-04:00

I was just reading Melissa's comments on hating the general public and their assy ways, and it struck me that I should take a moment to share my most recent people-hating experience, mostly because I back-talked a guy in the supermarket, for once, rather than letting him be rude to me without a churlish response.

I was in my local grocery store, returning my glass milk bottle for a $1.75 deposit and waiting for the tall, heavyset man in front of me (and his shopping cart) to pass through the aisle and out the other side, where he could go down the back aisle and exit the store. He had been waiting for a new "Fresh Club" card, and had already asked repeatedly about getting a card for his wife (oh my God, someone is chained to you for life, sir?) and grunted in dismay that the check cashing privileges were for employees only (though, in fairness, that fact was not evident on the form).

But anyhoo, he didn't sally forth to the back aisle when he was through, he did a little shimmy with his cart, trying to squeeze past it and advancing towards me. There were people behind me, too. Was he going to squeeze past all of us?

"Are you looking to get out?" I enquired of him.
He stopped shimmying for a second. "Well, hmmmm ... I don't know yet. I guess ... I am." The shimmying recommenced.
I stared at him for a second, waiting for him to say something, anything else. But that was it.
"'Excuse me' works," I shot at him, as I stepped to the side. He and his cart bobbled past me without a word, or even a dirty look. Sheesh. People need to learn the Supermarket Code of Behavior.

Truthiness

2006-04-20T14:04:00.000-04:00

So, yesterday Booby and I went to New York to see a taping of The Colbert Report. I know a few of you out there are fans, so I thought I'd recap the glorious event. In the grand TV Guide tradition, I thought it might best be summed up by "Cheers" and "Jeers."

CHEERS to Arabella and her husband, who cheerfully agreed to accompany us to the show after Booby's friend had to bag out last-minute.

JEERS to the asinine P.A. who refused to let Arabella join her husband, Booby, and myself in line at two minutes after six (the line closed at six; her train sat at a platform for several minutes, rendering her a little late). Way to be drunk with power and fuck up my outing with my friends, sister. Our friends had to miss the show and go home and hang a lamp instead of hanging out with us.

CHEERS to getting a seat in the second row, right alongside the little hallway from whence Mr. Colbert emerges. He's not as boyish as he looks on TV, ladies. But he did wear a nice suit.

JEERS to the five frat boys who repeatedly shouted WOOOOOOO!!!, YEAH!!!, DUDE!!! and WE LOVE YOU STEPHEN, at the very top of their beer 'n' whiskey soaked lungs. Seriously, do you need to bring a fifth of rotgut into the taping of a TV show?

CHEERS to the coffee place two blocks away whose delicious vanilla latte provided the caffeine necessary to free me from the bondage of my aching head after three acetaminophen and two advils failed as I stood in line.

JEERS to being made to wait in an anteroom of the studio for half an hour, where we all had to stand, and the only entertainment was Jeopardy! with the sound turned off and scathing people-watching/commentary (if you're me).

JEERS to the strangely surrendered Caitlin Flanagan, Stephen's guest last night. I haven't read Ms. Flanagan's book or her articles. In fact, bad feminist that I am, I hadn't even heard of her until yesterday. After seeing her odd performance on The Colbert Report, though, I am a little curious about her. Stephen tried to play off like she was kidding along with him when he addressed the crowd after the show, but I have to say, she seemed rather fervently serious while he was being sarcastic and playful. Maybe I'm suddenly a poor judge of sarcastic tone. And don't get me started about a writer who claims to be a stay-at-home mom (because she only writes while the kids are at school). I'd love to hear what everyone else thinks about this woman.

Fun Fact 1: "Bobby the Cameraman" isn't really a cameraman. He's Eric Drysdale, one of the show's writers. Ahh, all my illusions have been shattered.

Fun Fact 2: The crowd was warmed up by comedian Drew Fraser for half an hour before the show began. He was OK, and even rather funny at times. He also complimented my engagement ring, oddly enough, as he stood next to my seat when taping began.

Stephen Colbert to audience member who admitted, during the Q&A session prior to the show's beginning, to missing some of the shows: "There's the door, motherfucker."

P.A. to audience before she let us into the studio: "We really, really want you to clap and scream and yell while you're in there, OK, you guys? Stephen really feeds off your energy." That made me feel like he was going to suck out my life force and leave my corporeal body a dry, dead husk, but whatever.

**Update** Here's a link to a great story about Caitlin Flanagan in Elle magazine (Elle? Who knew?). After reading it, I'm pretty sure Ms. Flanagan is a hypocrite.

God Mocks Me

2006-04-12T15:54:00.000-04:00

Number of women affiliated with my workplace who are currently pregnant: 5
Number of women in my in-law family who are currently pregnant: 3
Number of friends who are currently pregnant: 1 (Congratulations, Stacey!)
Number of conversations I have about my own infertility each week with various people: at least 3
Number of times people with young children have sat next to me in the park this week: 3, and the week's only halfway done

Needless to say, the IUI I had two weeks ago wasn't a smashing success. I've crawled into a little hole and I might not be out again for awhile, until something happens to cheer me up. Luckily, the days are getting longer and warmer, so it probably won't be too long.

Keeping up the bad work

2006-04-07T11:21:00.000-04:00

Work has been kicking my ass, and as much as I would really, really like to talk about that, I don't wish to be fired or sued for slander (libel? I always forget which is which), so instead I'll tell you a story about a past job that was one of the most awful professional experiences of my life.

Several years ago, I was working as an event planner of sorts for a small start-up that found itself in financial hot water, and I was laid off that December (while my dim but bouncy coworker, over whom I had seniority, finagled a job in another department). I had loved this job more than any other I'd had, and I was very distressed; my boss was great, my commute was great, my pay was decent, and I liked the work. I had endless visions of eating macaroni and cheese and ramen for dinner every night as I struggled to survive on minimal unemployment checks. Panic was setting in. I felt all itchy. Clearly, I had to get another job, and fast.

I then remembered an Association Management company my sister had worked for about 10 years before. It had been her last job before she got pregnant and she ended up never returning, but I knew she had freelanced for them a bit, and that she had really enjoyed the job. The work entailed a lot of travel and attention to detail, just the sort of thing I was used to. I sent them my resume and mentioned my sister's name in my cover letter. I got a call soon after, interviewed and accepted the job, along with a sweet little pay raise.

My first clue that something was rotten in Denmark was the conversation I had with the woman I was replacing.
"Why are you leaving?" I asked her, while she was showing me where all the files was stored.
"I have a better opportunity at [Competitor Management Firm], but ... well, I might as well tell you that Jon has something to do with it." Jon was the guy I was to be working directly under.

You know it's bad when this is happening on your first day of work.

She went on to tell me some stories about Jon's poor sense of humor, his insistence on discussing religion (he was an Orthodox Jew), his tendency to micromanage. He can't be that bad, can he? I thought. She mentioned her coworker, who had deliberately transferred to another department to escape Jon. Maybe they're just really sensitive, I told myself.

OH, HOW WRONG I WAS. Jon discussed his dietary requirements with me. We had the option of eating a catered lunch*, for which we paid a monthly stipend, and he informed me whenever the food wasn't Kosher, also giving me a detailed explanation of Kosher law. He also operated under the assumption than anyone who was Jewish also kept Kosher.
He mentioned that one of the associations we worked with sent us a fresh evergreen wreath every Christmas, and then invited me to take possession of it when it next arrived (it was then January, mind you, I had worked there for about a week), since he was Jewish. He repeated this offer about every two weeks.

He regularly took medication for allergies in an ostentatious, slurping display which left drool on his chin. He discussed his ingrown toenail to anyone who had the misfortune to pass by, and even removed his shoe and sock to examine and tend to it. Sadly for me, my desk was about 5 feet away from his.

He reamed me out for being five minutes late on ONE occasion, and then two days later showed up twenty minutes late because he was dropping his daughter off at nursery school.

He eavesdropped on my personal phone conversations (which were few, believe me) and then fake-jokingly discussed them with me. This was especially nasty because the call in question had been about a current relationship. I remember standing next to my desk, saying, "You listened to my phone call?"
His reply? "I couldn't help but overhear you!" I had spoken in relatively hushed tones because we worked in an open-plan office which was basically a converted house.

It was not unusual for him to pop up over my shoulder as I worked so he could second-guess everything I was doing, from menu-planning ("You can't have bacon in the hors d'ouvres!") to faxing ("Are you sure you're using the correct codes?"), sometimes even going so far as to take the work away from me and redo it himself. He was the very definition of micro-management.

Finally, in a bid to keep him from looking over my shoulder every five minutes, I asked that my desk be turned around so that I faced out from my cube instead of in. This was a major undertaking, because it had to be approved by the powers that be, and then planned out and a date scheduled (for turning a desk! It had seemed simple enough to me). I suffered some more at Jon's hands, until at last my desk was turned.

Wouldn't you know that the next week I got another (really good) job offer? I can't tell you the soaring feeling of freedom I experienced when I wordlessly placed my resignation letter in Jon's in-tray, two months after starting the job.

*We were encouraged to spend our paltry 45-minute lunch hour (business hours began at 8:45 a.m., too, so they squeeeezed an extra half hour out of us - sneaky, huh?) in the wood-paneled lunch room, so we could "network" with our coworkers. Most of my coworkers were middle-aged and boring, and talked about their boring kids all the time (keep in mind, I was under 30 when I had this job, which may account for my poor attitude, but these people really were pretty lifeless). If I brought my lunch, it was a Big Event, and everyone would ask me what it was and how did I cook it. If I brought a book and tried to read, they would ask me about the book. Was it a good one? Who wrote it? What's it about? Eventually, I gave up and started eating at my desk, becuase I am a misanthrope, apparently. Shocking, no?

2006-04-04T16:17:00.000-04:00

Does anyone know how to determine what are "good" levels of estrogen and progesterone for two weeks post-IUI? I have been scouring the internet to no avail. The doctor gave me numbers and, of course, I wish to obsess over them.

Grand Funk Railroad

2006-04-03T15:54:00.000-04:00

I've been in a rather long funk lately, not dissimilar to the funks you've probably seen all over the Blogosphere, and largely owing to the misery of an interminable winter. But now, it would seem that Spring has sprung, and so I must dust off my more cheerful self and force her to come out of hibernation. She's kicking and struggling all the way.

One way I've been trying to embrace the better weather is by gardening. At long last, we had decent enough weather for me to go out and dig in the dirt without 3 layers on. The orders I'd placed many months ago for bulbs and plants arrived within days of one another and forced me to deal with them. In the last week, I've planted muscari, "Black satin" viola and ranunculus (I've never been able to get them to grow, and I just found out you're supposed to soak the corms first, too late for this planting unless I dig 'em up), and held myself in check at Lowe's long enough to buy only a strawberry jar, 9 red leaf lettuce plants, 6 broccoli plants, and a "lemon boy" tomato plant. I know, buying the plants is cheating, but my seed starting has gotten off to a rocky beginning. I am having measured success with zucchini (damn, those things grow quickly!), cauliflower, cerinthe, and the Mr. Stripey, Brandywine, pink cherry, and regular cherry varieties of tomatoes (plus some roma tomato seedlings my cousin-in-law gifted me with). I failed miserably with pumpkin (absolutely ZERO seedlings! And the seeds are not old), radish (they grew faster than I could pot them up individually, also I am totally lazy), cucumber (only one sprouted, and I killed it with my love, evidently), and broccoli (hence the plants I bought). I'm still waiting on my seedlings from half a dozen of hot and sweet peppers (we are fans of hot food in this house, plus I want to try my hand at making hot pepper/fruit jelly this Fall). I also planted a mammoth (so-called, I reserve my assessment until I see the results) red raspberry, which I am hoping like hell the starlings don't get to. I've attempted these before and they've always been eaten by the birds - I guess this is the year I buy netting to keep them off.

I figure this is the best way to ensure a steady supply of organic produce for the season. The second-best way is a membership in the Red Earth Farm buying club. I've written about buying clubs before, and I have immensely enjoyed my participation in the Winter Harvest program I participated in this year (I'm now hooked on blue and brown eggs -- pretty! and Booby is addicted to apple snitz). My pal Tony has also written about getting a regular delivery of organic fresh produce, and he includes a link to Local Harvest, which will show you which farmers' markets, co-ops, and even online stores are available to you, nationwide. Score! I probably linked to this before, but what the hell, I think it's so cool.

Snakes! On a plane!

2006-03-30T14:51:00.000-05:00

I first heard about the upcoming movie Snakes on a Plane because I religiously read the imdb.com gossip page. "Wow," I thought, "Can it get any better than Samuel L. Jackson on a plane with a big bunch of snakes? I have to see that!" I especially loved that Sam insisted that the movie remain entitled Snakes on a Plane. The man gets it.

Since then, the thing has become a phenomenon. Everyone on the interwebs is talking about this movie. I read somewhere that they were adding a line to Sam's dialogue (ostensibly to get a PG-13 rating): "We need to get these motherfucking snakes off this motherfucking plane!" You can see a clip here.

I am so there.

Image courtesy of some dude.

Pu$$y update

2006-03-30T09:26:00.000-05:00

Has anyone else using blogger noticed that there's a BIG change in the options? Suddenly I have far fewer icons (what, I don't get to change the font color anymore?), and I don't see HTML until the damn post is published. Blogger, I hate you, I fucking hate you! P.S. Page me later.

Anyhoo, so little Mr. Clyde has a new home. Friends of my friend Ai Li, who is a Crazy Cat Lady like me, recently had their older female cat roll a seven. They wanted their next cat to be a boy, and this is where Clyde comes in. Unfortunately, the husband is out of work, so Booby and I are out of pocket for the vet bills we incurred. Of course, the important thing is that Clyde (now "Elliot") has a loving home. I've already received a progress report, which amazingly didn't include distress at his tendency to knock over plants, complain loudly for food at 4 a.m., or insistent clawing and kneading of one's breasts. There was, however, mention of him finding his way to the top of a very tall chest of drawers. That's my boy!

I miss him quite a bit, though, and I'd really like to get into fostering homeless cats for shelters. Has anyone done this before? Am I crazy? I await your advice and insight.

Meanwhile, my "special needs" cat, Emma, endeared herself to me by shitting in her kitty apartment in such a way that it looked like she spun around like a dervish while evacuating her bowels. And then she wiped her widdle paws all over the (white) radiator cover, the little sweetheart. Poor Booby had to clean it all up and give her a very thorough bath because I'm not allowed to touch cat poo for fear of contracting toxoplasmosis. His rewards will be great for that one. An extra helping of white rice (sadly, this would be a wonderful reward for him, as its lack of health benefits means I have taken it off the menu, and he adores it)!

Anyone else have pet tales of woe? I know all you dog owners probably have a million and one!