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.

A twoooo ves-sel cord…

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip
That started with a lack of pills
And a "don’t worry" quip.
The results have been a surprise each day,
With previa, clots and more.
And just today we saw ourselves
A two vessel cord, a two vessel cord.
The mind, it started acting up,
Worst sce-nar-i-os were tossed,
If not for the courage of the fearless doc
The sanity would be lost, the sanity would be lost.
The trip is a never-ending one, exhausting ever more
With Wee-er One
The Wee One too,
The mystery babe and his cord,
The stuuuuuupid dog
The daddy-o and Kari Anne,
Here all crashed on the floooor.

Martha Stewart’s black cookbook

too much time to think
can’t blame it on alcohol
brain is fritzing out

I was falling asleep last night and I found myself in that hazy limbo of awake dreaming. I wasn’t quite asleep because I was consciously thinking about how cool my idea was, and yet I wasn’t quite awake because now I can’t remember much of what was going on, other than a few ridiculous details.

Basically, in my half comatose state I had some kind of brilliant idea for a blog post. It had something to do with a secret Martha Stewart cookbook called the Black Cookbook. This "Black Cookbook" is something akin to the black Amex, though now I can’t remember why I thought it was such a great idea.

Maybe there are only a dozen Martha Stewart black cookbooks around, and these cookbooks have magical recipes in them that will entice super picky children to eat anything. Or maybe it is a cookbook with recipes in it for gold encrusted hamburgers and pearl dust pudding and other outrageously expensive things. Beats me.

I like the idea of a secret cookbook, though. I’ll never be able to qualify for a black amex, so why not a super fancy cookbook?

The thing is, though, I don’t cook anything. I think I have gone just a little bit crazy. And maybe I should not eat my weight in Skittles before I go to bed.


railroad spikes in ears
carving out my eye with spoon
more fun than Star Trek

I would like to take a moment to pause from my usual whining about feeling sick and panicking about Mystery Baby and general freaking out about how the wee-er one treats me like an abusive boyfriend treats his girlfriend (thanks to Tina Fey for that analogy).

I want to pause so that I can tell you how much, how incredibly, palpably much I HATE STAR TREK ENTERPRISE. The other Star Treks? Eh, I could take ’em or leave ’em. The Next Generation wasn’t too bad and I’ve been known to watch Janeway kick some ass late at night. But holy shit, Enterprise? With Scott Bakula? IT MAKES ME CRAZY. It is SO BAD. I mean, it’s so bad you can’t even make fun of it. It’s so bad it offends me that the Star Trek creators thought they could get away with it. It’s so bad that the idea that the Star Trek creators DID get away with it makes me want to hunt them down and strap them to chairs and force them to watch this poopy crap non-stop until they admit they took advantage of hapless Trekkies everywhere.

My husband, of course, loves this show. He watches it all the time. It is all over the TiVo, like a plague of sores that won’t heal.

Now, I am not a person to attack TV. I love TV. Even bad TV. Farmer Wants a Wife? Stupid, kind of offensive, great fodder for The Soup, and whatever. Tila Tequila, or whoever she is? Don’t care. But this shit? This Enterprise show? It makes me hate people. It makes me (gasp!) hate TV.

Couldn’t. Hate. It. More.

And it’s on right now. So I am listening to the Dead Milkmen and grimacing and wondering how my husband can stand this show. How can he stand it? HOW? It is a mystery. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, swallowed by a giant space horse and crapped out all over my TV screen.

such an old lady

exciting morning
guys with grillz performed magic
carpet is so clean!

I shouldn’t admit to this, but wow! Dudes came today and cleaned the downstairs carpet. All of the mysterious black spots and yogurt stains and spat out cheerios are gone. Gone! The dog pee stains remain (alas) but I can pretend to overlook them while the rest of the carpet looks so shiny and new.

So, Guys With Gold Teeth (who made the wee-er one furrow her brow, point to their mouths and say quizzically "teef? teef?"), thanks for cleaning up my family’s filth. You rock.

By the way, GWGT? What does your schedule look like for next week? I’m sure we will have destroyed all your handywork waaaay before then. Maybe I could get you on a retainer.

Guys? Hello? Why are you running away so fast?

9 years!

look where we are now
less freedom but more freedom
just like we like it

Nine years. Two kids. A Wednesday night. No big anniversary plans here – surprise!

I’ve had fun scanning in some pictures this morning, though. I usually don’t post things like this, so forgive me… I just can’t get over how fresh-faced and young we were! I feel so… weathered… now.



the news


I do not have appendicitis


I seem to be having a week long panic attack centered in my stomach


No one has a fever and the wee one is back at school


I have lost an entire week of editing


It is Friday


Monday is three days away


I slept until 8:45 this morning, and so did the wee-er one


The wee-er one will not nap


Someone searched for my blog using the terms "amy winehouse separated at birth camel"


I just realized Amy Winehouse does look a little bit like a camel


The Texas primary might actually be of some importance this year


I haven’t re-registered to vote since the move


There is no ice storm


It won’t stop raining


I am wearing a soft purple t-shirt


It has mac and cheese all over it




Unable to figure out how to end this post

This is what happens

escape hoi polloi
stay at home and yet stay smart
failed experiment

In a misguided effort to become more pretentious and possibly better
read, I got a subscription to Harper’s magazine. I just tried to read
some of it, and damn. Translated Nazi discussions from a prison camp, a
possibly non-fiction dialogue written in the 1940s about a stillbirth
(and other terrible, hush-hush things happening at the hands of questionable nuns), a story about a town with a full sewer system ("full" as in overflowing gunk into people’s backyards, requiring everyone to
have a septic system even though they live in the town-proper), and on and on.

Do people think writing has to be staggeringly depressing to be
edifying? Even the funny David Foster Wallace excerpt was about
a creepy baby repeatedly described as "fierce-looking."

Am I smarter now? More pretentious? Does the postman think highly of me as he delivers my Harpers? Will my friends be impressed if they see a copy of the magazine scattered across my floor? "Oh, your baby destroys Harpers… mine just demolishes Real Simple."

I’m going to guess the answer to the above questions is an emphatic No.

I’m also going to guess that I’ll be sticking to my Entertainment Weekly from now on.

Hoi Polloi unite!


This is an open letter to the person (you know who you are) who has gotten me hooked on watching QVC:

I will get you.

It will be when you least expect it.

I will pop your Quacker Factory cherry with a handsome sweater set. Or I will get your kids hooked on pretzel-wrapped hot dogs. Maybe I’ll use a multi-faceted nut wrench in some nefarious way. Don’t even get me started on the animal print tweezers.

All I’m saying is that you better watch your back. I have nine seasons of the X-Files just looking, looking for a new convert. Especially the episode with Burt Reynolds.

You think Chuck Woolery slinging socks is bad? Just wait until you’re knee deep in alien-human hybrid mythology and you call me crying about what’s going to happen now that the X-Files have been shut down.

Just wait.

quack, quack,