excellent plan

bath laundry combo
plus the grass gets a big drink
it’s a win-win-win!

After a day of lasagna, mac and cheese, a variety of yummy ADD-inducing-colored candy, guacamole and some mango juice, the wee-er one’s new shirt is looking mighty fine. The wee-one’s shirt is not faring much better and he didn’t even "eat" the lasagna.

So what’s a tired mommy to do?

I’ll tell you what.

Put some goggles on the kids, turn on the backyard sprinkler, fill their water guns with Spray n’ Wash, and sit back with a cold drink – watching from the safety of the kitchen window, of course.

Did I actually do this? Nah. Did I seriously contemplate it? You bet. Instead, my loving spouse has been coerced into laundry duty. It might not be as fun as watching the kids shoot corrosive detergent onto each other, but it’s still pretty satisfying.

Ah, Sunday. The surprises you bring are always highly anticipated.

it’s time to get things started

pigs and frogs and bears
rats and dogs and fuzzy things
no show can beat it

The family has been hunkered by the warming glow of the TV watching hours of the Muppet Show for the past few days. I really had forgotten how amazing that show was. Funny for the kids, funny for the grown-ups, funny for the weirdos, funny for everyone!

Why aren’t there shows like this anymore? It’s a variety show that’s smart. There’s nothing dirty or gross or foul, just good fun. And I know I sound dangerously close to one of those people who are like "TV is the devil! Wholesome family shit is where it’s at!" and you know that’s not me. But I do admit that at 7pm on a Sunday night it would be nice to sit down with the wee one and watch a modern version of the Muppet Show. The Muppets wouldn’t complete by blowing flames out their asses. They wouldn’t eat animal testicles. They wouldn’t purposely be bad singers and insulting. There would be no judging at all!

I guess if they had Muppets on the Daily Show, we’d be almost there, but even so… not the same. The Muppets are not educational. They are weird and pretty much a-political. I love them.

Where can I find the 21st century version of Marvin Suggs and the Muppaphones?


Animal, Vegetable, Migraine

focusing panic
on something I can control
why not make it food?

I am probably the last person in the world to read Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I’m only on page 50 or so, but already it is freaking me out. I think it’s freaking me out in a good way, but the verdict is still out on that.

So far it has me convinced that Big Corn is just as evil (if not more evil) than Big Oil. It has me feeling guilty for not having insisted that we start our garden this spring (though, admittedly, with 100-plus-degree days for most of June [ARGH!] the garden would be fried by now). It also has me kicking myself for sleeping late on Saturdays and always missing the farmer’s market down the street. Must. Start. Waking. Up. Earlier.

Around this time last year (or was it later? It was later in the summer, I think) a friend of mine and I went in together on a weekly box of locally grown fruits and veggies. We split up the box, oohed and ahhed over the fun and weird stuff and then promptly never ate anything in it. Well, I can’t speak for her, but WE didn’t eat much of it. Watermelon? Yes. Funky japanese eggplant? Nope. We stopped getting the boxes and splitting them when there was a warning about black widows hitching a ride in them. Spiders + wasting food = back to frozen Amy’s mac and cheese.

(On a completely different tangent, the splitting of the local box didn’t last, but the friendship did. Back then we were awkward book group buddies and now we are awkward best buddies! There’s nothing like uneaten red okra, a fear of deadly spiders, and crazy ass two-year-olds to bond two women instantly. And now she’s going to want me to stop blogging like this and getting publicly misty so I will quit it.)

ANYWAY, this book. This book makes me want to split the local box again,  excepting the spiders, of course. It makes me want to join a CSA and learn more about the Ark of Taste (not a religious group desperate to promote decency and ban TV, like it sounds).

It makes me want to buy a garage freezer and half of a locally pastured, grass-fed cow and have a stash of healthy meat for a year.

But then I remember I don’t really cook that much or that well. And then I notice that I am eating a bag of cool ranch Doritos (chock full of MSG, by the way. When did they start doing that?!). And then I realize I am accidentally smearing the cool ranch finger funk on the pages of the book as I hungrily read about heirloom vegetables.

And I think, who are you kidding, crazy lady? Do you think Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies are locally harvested? Do you think CSAs deliver complete frozen meals? And what about the wee one? He still mainly subsists on peanut butter and pizza pockets (at least they are organic). Are you willing to starve him to death to stick it to Big Corn?

My answer is, of course, sure!

No, no, I jest. My answer is hell no. I can’t starve the wee one. I can’t give up brownies. (This is a fucking fuck of a pregnancy, y’all, mama has to hold on to whatever she can). But on the other hand, am I willing to try and make a real dinner with real food a couple of times a week? Maybe. Am I game for trying to assemble a salad made of local, or relatively local ingredients? Sure.

Maybe Big Corn and Big Oil will feel nary a tickle on their ass from my plans here, but that’s OK. Can it hurt to try to buy more local produce and meats? Hopefully not. I mean, last year my attempt at eating local produce was a huge flameout, but I ended up with a spectacular friend in the process. So why not let Barbara Kingsolver seep into my psyche a little and give me something to obsess over for a little while? Worst case is that I support some local farmers without actually eating or cooking what I buy. (Well, worst case would be contracting food poisoning and dying, I guess. But local is supposed to help guard against that, right?). Best case is that I learn some new recipes and start eating beets again.

Now maybe I should read more of the book. Who knows what will happen in the next 50 pages. Maybe I will want to move to Appalachia and grow chard. Maybe I will side with Big Corn and start bathing in high fructose corn syrup. My moods are very unpredictible these days.

I will set my alarm for Saturday, though. Who knows what kind of brownies you can rustle up at a farmer’s market. I’m certainly game to find out.


paranoid person
should have faith and think good thoughts
but panic’s easy

For some reason I have gotten myself in a tizzy about my water breaking early. I don’t know why this suddenly feels like an imminent danger to me. In my other two pregnancies my water didn’t break until the doctor did it for me, but now I am completely paranoid and almost convinced it’s going to happen any second now. At 19 weeks, that would not be a good thing to happen.

So I thought I’d blog about it, and by calling out my fears publicly, and looking irrational and crazy, I will somehow be able to jinx it from happening.

I am just disturbed by this feeling of Imminent Doom that I have. The single artery umbilical cord only worries me a little bit, the clot is no fun and keeps me worried, but right now I’m not thinking about it. I am all-consumed with worry about finding myself in a puddle of amniotic fluid at any moment. Why is this worry hitting me like this? Why does it feel like more of a prediction than a stupid worrywart thing? Can I blame hormones for making me crazy?

Is it November yet?

You guys…

Who dresses Mary Murphy? Seriously. She was dressed like the interior decoration of Ray Liotta’s house in Goodfellas.

Also, how awesome is Cat? Fixing errant toes and towering over the dancers like a pretty, gracious giant.

Love this show. And I’m not ashamed to admit it.


Airheads and Laffy Taffy are not the same thing. Airheads are, in fact, gritty and weird, while Laffy Taffy is smooth and wonderful and horribly hard to find anywhere.


Airheads = bad
Laffy Taffy = good

That is all.

look at me

cushioned fake leather
caresses giant hiney
well, not THAT giant

I am sitting at my desk (!) going over the copyedits to my manuscript (!) that were just overnighted to me (!). I feel fancy and professional and like a real writer. Fun!

I kind of have to pretend that I understand what all of the proofreading marks mean, though. But that’s OK. It gives me that familiar poser feeling. I don’t know what I’d do without it.

You know what’s awesome? That it takes at least three people, overnight delivery, a black pen, a red pen, a green sharpie, and return delivery to determine that a doorframe has to have an indentation and not a divot, because a divot is technically a piece of turf.

There is nothing better than being a writer. And I’m not being sarcastic at all.