I Hate Inappropriate Touchers

My sister in law came up with the concept of "F-Friday." She always has the best ideas. The kids think the "f" stands for "fun" or "free"; it actually stands for "F*&k It." Here's how it works: you have a bad day, which happens to be a Friday. You pick up your cell, probably while your kids are in the bathroom shaving each others eyebrows with your razor and using your expensive hair gel (by the bottle, bien sûr) to spike up their Faux Hawks, and start calling your friends, but only your fun friends. By the way, all of your friends should be fun, otherwise why are you still friends with them? They're sucking the life out of you and you're not getting any younger.

First, call the friends whose numbers you know by heart; they're usually your best friends. They'll start coming over around four, with kids, of course. Their spouses will wander in whenever they finish work or, in my husband's case, Friday afternoon tennis. You start pulling food out of the fridge. You start pouring drinks. You throw a bunch of chips, baby carrots, raisins, cocktail peanuts, radishes, whatever into an unbreakable serving dish. I love this wooden one, that my parents got as a wedding gift in the sixties and my mom thinks is tacky:


Look in the back of her cabinets. I bet your mom has one, too, unless you're one of my siblings. If you have sodas, now is the time to let the kids have them. High fructose corn syrup? Bring it! This is also a great time to use all those mismatched paper plates leftover from birthday parties.

F-Friday is B.Y.O.B., but you should also serve whatever is in your fridge (or freezer. Limoncello, anyone?) If the food runs out, get creative. Pull out that Pillsbury Crescent Roll dough and stuff it with bologna and red pepper (add a squirt of mustard for flavor). Take out the frozen waffles, top them with cheese or peanut butter, cut them up and stick toothpicks in them. Still got that weird jelly someone gave two Christmases ago? Serve it with Triscuits. If, by chance, you run out of food or alcohol, invite someone else and ask them to bring pizza and beer. If you don't know anyone else, order pizza and drink that leftover Scotch you bought for your mother in law. F-Friday is all about fun. But some people take it too far...

Which brings us to inappropriate touchers. A few years ago, we hosted an F-Friday and had a great time. It had gotten late, all remaining children were parked in front of the computer watching a movie (probably something wildly inappropriate, like Chariots of Fire, but they were too tired to care) and I was lazily cleaning up around the house.

I bent over to pick something up, perhaps a radish dipped in peanut butter, and felt a slap on my behind. I stood up, thinking it was my husband. I was irritated, because he knows that I hate, hate, hate being slapped on the behind, even on F-Friday. I should have given him more credit (I should always give him more credit, but that's a whole nother entry. Nother should be a word, which is also a whole nother entry). It was not my dear husband, but in fact someone else's husband (a husband who, incidentally, I wouldn't even have dated when I was single). When I stood up and turned around, he smiled vacantly and looked not quite at me, but in the general vicinity of my face. I'm a bit embarassed by this, but I didn't say a thing, just walked away and never spoke of it again. Well, that's not true, I told my husband and several of my girlfriends and now I'm blogging about it, but I didn't say anything to the perp.

As wise as I am, I actually wondered if I had done something to invite the slap. Were my jeans too tight? Probably, but my husband likes them that way. Was I wearing too much lipstick? Probably, but you have to allow for personal style; I even wear lipstick in an exercise class full of women. Was I too flirty? No. In fact, I barely said two words to this guy the whole night. I also felt sad for my friend. If A did something like that, I would be too embarrassed for words. I like parties and that's the kind of thing that gets you N.F.I.* for life.

Years later, I was telling the story to my friend M, who also happens to be our acupuncturist. Given my insecurity about the part I might have played, I'm not sure why I was telling him about it but, you know me, I'm not afraid to humiliate myself. He was totally shocked when I told him how I worried that it was somehow my fault. "Honestly," he said, "I'm no ass slapper, but if I was, of all of our friends, you'd be the last person I'd try it on. I would be really scared.**" And that, my friends, is the image I try to project - the kind of woman who instills fear into the meek hearts of surreptitious ass slappers. I feel better knowing that most people get it.

You know what else, it's high time we hosted another F-Friday. And guess who's N.F.I.?

*Not Effing Invited

** This was not exactly what he said. I don't remember exactly what he said, so I just made something up that sounded like what he said. It's my Blog, I can say what I want. Gosh!

My pocketbook.

Because this sort of thing is endlessly fascinating to some people, including me, I've decided to post pictures of my purse and what's in it, for your viewing pleasure.

This is the outside of the purse:

I really love it. I got it at Hayden-Harnett. Just so you know, I like all of their bags, so feel free to buy me one, no need to wait for a special occasion.

These were in the left, front pocket. As you will learn, I have an obsession with lip products. One of these is a free sample from Chanel that I may buy when it runs out. The other is a lip plumping product that tastes like cherry.

These were in the other front pocket, a coupon for ten percent off at a new shoe store in town and two quarters. I probably won't use the coupon, which expires in three days, but I won't throw it away.


In the side pocket, we find gum. I chew it constantly, which is why I need all the lip products, because I chew them off. I like Orbit, but I keep meaning to chew gum with Xylitol, to prevent cavities. I'm pretty old, though, and I don't have any cavities, so it's probably not going to happen now.

The other outside pocket just had some garbage. I didn't take a picture of that, but I threw it away. I usually keep my keys there, but I can't find them. At least now I know for sure that they aren't in my bag.

In the large inside pocket, I have these:

What you see: 3 (different!) Kiehl's Lip Balms, 2 M.A.C. lipsticks, 1 Clinique lipstick, 1 M.A.C. lip pencil, 1 Clinique double sided lip gloss (Freebie! Yes!), 1 M.A.C. pressed powder, 1 hair rubber band, 1 Band-Aid, 1 free sample of Kiehl's Baby Lotion, 1 free sample of Aveda lotion and 1 makeup mirror. In case you're counting, we're at ten for total lip products in my bag, eleven if you count the double gloss as two. When my Nana died, we were all at the house getting ready to go to church. As I'm sure she would have wanted it, we all went to apply lipstick before we left. I was the only one who had it available and I had seventeen products in my (much smaller) bag. Something for everyone.

There are three small pockets in the bag, contents as follows:

Another pack of Orbit, the frivolous Bubble Mint, and two Shout! stain remover wipes.

Middle pocket, baby shoes that no longer fit and iPod ear phones.

Last pocket, Homeopathic sinus tabs for babies, two five dollar Ben and Jerry's certificates that belong to the X-Man and a business card from a sales lady at Neiman Marcus who let me try on a Cartier Tank Française that I want and shouldn't get.


Now for the murky depths. First we have my blood pressure medication, some Chinese Nasal Tabs from my acupuncturist (I take a few in smoky bars when my nose starts to get stopped up. They totally work), a tiny hairbrush and a notepad with notes from the Yoga philosophy class I'm taking. I don't really understand the notes, but I think it's good for my Chi or something to carry them around.


Next up, we have deodorant (it's hot down here, y'all!), a schedule from the Yoga studio, coupons for sunscreen, and an invitation to the opening of Laroque (great new store in town!!)


Moving on. Here we have one red FiloFax, my wallet (which may have one more lip product, but I'm embarrassed to check) and my cell phone. I like to keep the phone at the bottom, so I can never find it when it rings. I think that gives me an air of mystery.


The next item is totally embarrassing and proof that I have no morals. It's a letter from the fine city of Alexandria, Virginia, informing me of the parking fine I incurred while visiting there last month. I didn't pay it because I thought maybe they wouldn't find me. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and I'm going to pay it now, with the twenty five dollar penalty.


Here we have the Room&Board Catalog and a back issue of Domino Magazine. Incidentally, I meant to pick up a different back issue that had an article on couches. I'm thinking about a new couch and I read these in the carpool line.



Last, but not least, because I refuse to carry a diaper bag (would you want Winnie the Pooh on your purse? Me either), we have one cloth diaper (an All-In-One for convenience while we're out), a plastic bag of wet washcloths and a Petit Bateau sleeveless onesie for emergencies. I love the onesie because Baby J's fat wittle arms look so cute in it. It looks fab with his tiny army pants.


And this, my friends, is the inside of the empty bag, right before I reloaded.

Was that good for you? I found it incredibly healing.

Namasté, y'all!

I Am So Cool! I'm Totally, Like, a BLOGGER!

And I know this because I got tagged by Meagan, whose blog, Equilibrium, I love. She also writes some great articles about parenting for national magazines and has a column in her own local paper, so I'm feeling smart by association.

So here it is:

First, the Rules:

1) Post these rules before you give your facts

2) List 8 random facts about yourself

3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) people and list their names, linking to them

4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they’ve been tagged

And now… my facts:

1) I was born in Bad Kreuznach, Germany, when my Dad was in the army.

2) I drive my dream car. I know this because my kids asked me what my dream car was and I couldn't think of anything I'd rather drive than my Toyota Highlander Hybrid. I still can't. That car is perfect.

3) I would love to have seven or eight kids, but only if we had at least two people working for us full time, a nanny and a housekeeper.

4) I had really easy recoveries from my C-sections, but I don't like to tell people that because I don't want to encourage them.

5) I'd like to have a surprise fortieth birthday party for my husband, but he has so many friends through work and tennis that I wouldn't know who to invite. It makes me feel like a bad wife that I haven't met a lot of his friends and I couldn't even tell you all of their names.

6) I have fantasies about having a beautiful and functional yard, entirely cared for by someone else. We have a much smaller yard than we used to, which is great. Much less guilt!

7) As you may have read on this blog, I see Botox as a step on the path to spiritual enlightenment.

8) I was able to blog as soon as I let go of the idea that what I wrote had to be interesting to read.

And I tag you:

Lisa

and

Robin

Quote of the day

Overheard at a chain bagel store, from a manager to a trainee:

"If it's a bagel with cream cheese on the side, it's still a cream cheese sandwich."

Good to know. And the follow-up:

"That's going to be on your test."

So don't forget.

Am I a Freak?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm living in some alternate universe. I think my tastes are pretty normal, but every television show I like gets canceled, I can never find the furniture I want and I have no desire to eat at Ruth's Chris Steak House. Oh yeah, I also hate camping, even with showers, so quit asking me. We camp at the damn Westin.

I know that other people find things to watch on television because they're always asking me if I've seen this or that commercial or if I watched some show or another. We don't have a television, not because of any moral superiority on our part, but because we couldn't stop watching it when we had one. And I found it boring then, too, but I watched it anyway. Sick, huh? A and I indulge our mostly unfulfilled addiction by ordering entire television shows on DVD. With the exception of Law and Order (wait - we liked the Trial By Jury version and that got canceled), everything we've loved has gotten canceled:

Freaks and Geeks
My So-Called Life
Undeclared
Arrested Development
Absolutely Fabulous (To be honest, only I like this one. Even the almost-as-odd-as-I am husband doesn't like it)

In a way, it's good that we like canceled shows, because they actually end, so we don't neglect the kids in our quest for more. But, we're always searching for the next fix. Weeds is a possibility, but we're not sold yet. And I hesitate to say it, because I don't want to be blamed when it suddenly ends, but we do like The Office.

It seems like every time I want something new for the house, I'm forced to find it online. Or, worse, it doesn't exist. I'm not handy or creative, so trying to make or build something that exists only in my head isn't an option. And even if I did make it, no one else would like it. I often have similar issues with clothes.

Oh yeah, I forgot this one. Two of the three priests who baptized our children left our church shortly after. The third guy is still there, but it's only been a couple of months, so we'll see if he makes it.

Although my freakishness isn't a new issue, I was contemplating it in light of the arrival of Ruth's Chris Steak House in my town, which you can read about in my local paper. I really like expensive stuff and, even though I'm making a real effort to shop locally, I'm not above chains, if they're good (Shout Out to Bruegger's Bagels, Starbucks, P.F. Chang's, Five Guys Burgers and Target.) Ruth's Chris is both expensive and a chain. My frustrated European husband swears that he hates chains, so it has the added bonus of totally irritating him if I want to go there. Alas, I do not.

I like things that are expensive, but only if they're good. I can't imagine that their steaks are better than the filet mignon I make at home (recipe later, and it's super easy, so keep reading.) Now, I'd probably be happy with the petit filet, because 8-10 ounces of meat is a bit much for me. But at Ruth's Chris, you pay 5-7 dollars for sides, too. So, if I wanted a petit filet (I'm guessing 5-6 ounces), asparagus, and a mixed green salad, it might cost about forty bucks (I'm not sure if they charge for salad dressing, but I guessed it would be included.) That's before drinks, which I like to order in excess. As an aside, I just tried to call them on my cell for an exact price and the message told me all lines were busy and I should call back later; love the personal touch.

According to the article in The State, one of the franchise owners said, “This is not a steak you can go get in a grocery store. It’s a superior product.” I think that Wil-Moore Farms, right near us in Lugoff, SC, provides pretty great beef. And I can get organic filets in a grocery store less than a mile from my house. I'd be surprised if Ruth's Chris' was better. But, what do I know? I apparently have freakish taste. Even though it's only a few miles from my house, I bet this restaurant is one of those places where after we left, one of us would ask, "Who were those people?" In a mid-size town like Columbia, you can't go to a restaurant (or even the beach) without seeing someone you know or recognize. At the beach, A is always asking me, "Do those people go to our church? They look familiar." The answer is usually yes, in part because, on really slow nights at home, we read through the church directory together and talk about peoples' pictures. Now you know how lame we are, probably because we don't have a t.v. to watch.

Even lowly Columbia has great restaurants, owned and operated by actual people we could actually meet. And when you go to a local restaurant, you don't always see the same thing. Both Terra and Motor Supply have a different menu every night and most local places have new specials regularly. If you know me, you know I like to eat food that's local and in season whenever possible. A big chain restaurant with an established menu can't offer that. And I know some people like routine and like to get the same thing, even when they're out of town. And good for them, but I just like good food.

In the interest of continuity, the restaurant runs a pretty strenuous training program for employees. Where's the fun in that? I don't want to be best friends with my waiter, but I like a little personality, and personalities are flawed. I've been to chains before where the service seemed too scripted and just plain cheesy, and not in an ironic way. I've been known to revel in bad service and even tip well for it. A and I have had more fun complaining about bad service (to each other! We're not assholes the "I need to see your manager, young lady" type) than appreciating really good service. Luckily, we think we're pretty funny, especially when we're being all negative and catty, in the privacy of our car, of course. We both agree that it's hilarious when a server mispronounces a foreign word. "Here's your roast beef. I'll be right back with your 'aw juice' " and "Soup of the day? It's 'de jawer' soup" come to mind.) I think Ruth's Chris might be too good for us to enjoy.

And three more picky little points:

1. The plates are 500°. I like my filet rare. Really rare. I used to order "slap it on the ass and put it on the plate," but sometimes that was overcooked. A 500° plate would overcook my steak.

2. In another article, an employee praised the franchise owners for their generosity, saying they offered rewards such as flat-screen t.v.s. It would compromise my morals to know that my waiter might be treating me well in order to get something that I consider a detriment to society. That's like telling me the staff gets paid in heroin. Or twinkies, bought in bulk from Wal-Mart.

3. I hate the name. I don't care about the story behind it. It sounds stupid.

So, if you made it this far, here's the filet recipe:

Use whatever size filet you want. I usually use 4-6 ounces.

In a big pan, melt some butter. Two or three pats, assuming you're cooking two steaks. In the butter, wilt a bunch of fresh baby spinach. I like the clamshell boxes from Earthbound Farms, but if you have local, great. I use one 5 ounce box for two steaks.

When the spinach is wilted, toss a little really good crumbled Gorgonzola or another blue cheese. I can't tell you how much, but it's less than you think, just enough to flavor the spinach. Let the cheese melt into the spinach and set that pan aside.

Now for the meat. Rub your filets with just a little bit of sea salt and pepper. Coat a grill pan with butter and sear the steaks on all sides to seal in the juices. Put the steaks, still in the grill pan, into a 450° oven and cook until they're as cooked as you want them to be. If you have a basic cookbook, you should be able to find a chart that tells you how long to cook something based on how done you want it and its size. You can probably find the information online, too. Or you can call me and I'll look it up for you. Don't feel bad about calling, either, I'll probably be glad to have an adult to talk to.

When your steaks are done, put a blob of the creamed spinach on a (slightly warmed, but not 500 freakin' degree) plate and put the steak on top of that. Now eat it.

This is so easy to do that I've actually made a single serving for lunch. When I do that, I cook the spinach in the grill pan, take it out (go ahead and put it on the plate) and stick the steak in the same pan. Because a lunch steak is small and I like them rare, I don't even put it in the oven; I do the whole thing on the stove. The single serving way also saves a pan, so you only have one to clean. Yay.

And that is why I will not be going to Ruth's Chris Steak House, but y'all have a great time if you go. And you can tell me all about it, especially if the food or service sucks.

Namasté, y'all!

Best Coconut Cake Ever

Okey-doke. Half a bottle (shared with A!) of the charmingly cheap Cristalino later, here's the recipe, with notes.

(My Paternal Grandmother's) Coconut Cake

Use 8" pans. I used 9" pans, on account of I just plumb didn't have 8" pans, but I wanted you to know the truth.

Cook one box of Duncan Heinz [sic]* yellow butter cake mix according to the directions. If you're checking this recipe on your Blackberry and you're at the store, make sure you have three eggs, a stick of butter and some Crisco, because the box calls for them.

Cool the cakes thoroughly. When cool, slice layers in half. Makes 4. I have to thank Grandmother here for doing the math: slicing two things in half does, in fact, make four. And I also want to say that, when she told me about the recipe, she told me that my Grandfather was the one with the idea to slice the layers in two, because it's better that way. He's been dead for only a few years and this struck me as really sweet. Yeah, I'm sentimental sometimes, and my Grandmother is one of my favorite people in the world, so there. As far as I can tell, she and my Grandfather had one of the best marriages in the world too, so I try to take notes.

Filling

8 ounces sour cream

1.5 cups sugar

4 packages frozen coconut (6 ounces) thawed (save 1/2 package for icing) Okay. This is embarrassing. I actually had no idea you could buy frozen coconut. Considering my love for frozen broccoli, you would think I would have known. Frozen coconut is the best thing ever. It isn't sweetened and you don't even have to go to the Fancy Mart to get it. It's right there next to the Cool Whip. Wow. You can teach a thirty four year old dog (almost seven in dog years!) new tricks.

1 teaspoon almond extract

Put Filling between three layers.

Ice fourth layer and whole cake with Extra Large tub Cool Whip and rest of coconut. Reserve a little coconut for top.

Keep refrigerated. Let sit overnight.

Now, I'm at the "sit overnight" stage, so I can't swear it'll turn out all right, but I think it's all good, except for one thing. I bought the Cool Whip in the frozen section and beat it with a fork to thaw it. I think it would've been prettier if I'd let it thaw in the fridge overnight before icing or if I'd just bought it thawed. I'm a Cool Whip novice. What can I say? And, as an aside, why does it gross me out when my mom freezes vegetable soup or spaghetti sauce in a used Cool Whip container? Used lime sherbet containers don't bother me in the least. Can't explain it.

Namasté, y'all!


*Tiny mistakes run in Dad's family. He insists on calling U-Haul "U_haul-Its." I don't even care any more. I gave up. And there's a restaurant in town that he calls "Tara's," which is fine, but the name of the restaurant is "Terra." It's a great place to eat, but let's chat about that another time, mmm'k?

Drinkin' and Bloggin'! Round Three! Ding!

A and I just had the greatest date ever. The babysitter came at 4 pm and we went to a two hour Yoga workshop about Vasistasana (that would be Side Plank for you non-Yogins). After that, we ate at Baan Sawan, the greatest Thai restaurant ever. And now it's only 8:30 and we're already home and the kids are pretty much ready for bed. A is walking Baby J around the block to get him to sleep and the X Man and I are watching "Napoleon Dynamite," one of our family favorites. And I'm still on the party train drinking the "Technically, I've had too much already, but it's only 8:30 so why stop now?" standby: Cristalino Brut. Try it. S'pretty-good-not-bad.

Later, I'm going to attempt to recreate my Grandmother's Famous (well, in our family) Coconut Cake. She gave me the recipe years ago and I never made it. Actually, I lost the recipe and had to ask her for it again. She's one of these totally organized people who never loses anything so, when she gave me the recipe, she no longer felt responsible for it and got rid of it; my grandmother is not a hoarder, so if she doesn't need it, it's out. However, because she is the Best Grandmother Ever, she somehow found it and gave it to me again. I promise not to lose it this time and, if I don't finish the bottle of Cristalino, I'll put the recipe on my Blaaaaaaaahg tonight, when I finish making it. I might have to put the recipe up tomorrow, maybe with pictures!

Naaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaasté,y'all!

Funny Kid

Something funny the X-Man (our six year old) said about Baby J's car seat, which is a hand me down from his brothers:

"I remember when I sat in that seat and it felt so good. And even though I never felt dinosaur skin, it felt like dinosaur skin. And it looks like dinosaur skin."

This is the same kid who once came running into the house to tell me, "MOM! I just heard a bird make a noise that a bird does not make!"

And after his first Yoga class the other day, he told me, "I was the only Yogi there. All the rest were Yoginis." For those of you who don't know, a Yogini is a female practioner of Yoga and a Yogi is male.

For some reason that kid just cracks me up. His older brother, O, once asked, "Why is X so funny? I don't know why I think so, but he just is."

And it's true. Just something in the delivery, I guess.

My Great Day

Ahhhh...back from a lovely day of shopping, eating and drinking in Charlotte with my sister in law, V. She's my favorite person in my husband's family, the only one he isn't related to by blood. And it's a good thing I like her so much, because I would have left him many times by now, but that might make things awkward between me and V. One of the main reasons I went was to use the incredibly generous gift certificate to Sur La Table that my friend the Lady M and her husband sent us after the last time they stayed here. I hope they understand that we like having them here so much that I'd let them move in (in exchange for light cleaning and child care, of course), but we can't keep letting them stay here if they're going to be so obscenely generous in their appreciation. It's embarassing. But not so embarrassing that I didn't skip into the store like a brand new, thus unjaded, stripper in a discount lingerie store. After obsessively browsing the Sur La Table website (it's like porn for me, I swear), I had a long list of stuff I wanted to look at and I couldn't wait to see it up close.

Soooooo...this is what I got:

A Lettuce knife. Yes, a lettuce knife. This was one of the things I grabbed just to get more stuff. And because I think it's cool. You can also cut brownies and cake with it, perfect for taking on picnics, because it's plastic. I think I could even take it on an airplane, which is good because I hate it when they serve uncut brownies on airplanes.
A Stainless Steel Pie Server. Because we eat a lot of quiche and I only have two pie servers, one rusted one with a plastic handle and one sterling one with a hollow handle, so it can't go in the dishwasher. Guess which one I threw out?
Ceramic Placecards. Which is a stupid name, because they aren't cards. I'd call them place markers and, screw it, because I'm going to use them as appetizer labels. You can write on them with a pen, which came with them (Yeah! Free pen!), and wipe them off, so you can use them again. If you're like me and tend to serve the same things, you might not even need to wipe them off between parties.
Nine Inch Shun Classic Granton Slicer. Awesome knives are awesome. Like, totally. And I bought this one to replace an Oxo Good Grip slicer I've had for years. I would have kept it, but the Good Grip handle rotted. Safety Tip: If you have to throw away a knife, wrap the blade in a lot of duct tape, so squirrels don't steal it and knife you for your nuts. And, drum roll please, the item I've been lusting after for years...
An Oxo Mandoline. I'll be able to make all kinds of cool stuff, like those little skinny carrot strips for California Rolls. And waffle fries! And Crinkle Cut Cucumbers! And Julienned Stuff! I bet you can't wait to come to my next party. Prepare to be AMAZED!

So what should I make for dinner tonight?

Namasté, y'all!

Yeah, I'm rockin' some Botox. (Alternate Title: Botox as a Path to Spiritual Enlightenment)

Botulism is to Botox as sewage is to purified water. So Botox is as good for you as purified spring water. How do you like that logic, huh? Botulism is all natural and Botox is a purified version of it, so it's all good.

I first got Botox before this study was published. The study suggests that Botox might help depressed patients. I have an "eleven" between my eyebrows,two lines that make me look worried or angry when I'm not. When I catch sight of the eleven, I immediately think I need to relax or get more sleep, even if I'm not tired and don't have a care in the world, which leads me to worry that I'm not taking care of myself. Sometimes, putting on lipstick and pinching my cheeks helps, but as I get older, those temporary fixes have lost their punch. The lipstick settles into the creases around my mouth and the pinched cheeks make me look kind of drunk.

Right before I got pregnant with Baby J, I had a miscarriage. Like most women, I felt sad, mostly for the simple reason that I really wanted a baby. All in all, I recovered pretty quickly. As I told my husband, the only thing that would make me feel one hundred percent better was getting pregnant again and having a baby, which I eventually did. But not before indulging my curiosity about that injectable purified toxin. I get acupuncture, and what is Botox but acupuncture with a kick? Kind of like washing down a Valium with a cup of Kava Kava tea. The lingering sadness from the miscarriage was deepening my eleven.

I'd already mentioned my interest in Botox to my dermatologist, the serene Dr L. , but I'd been too self conscious to spend the money. The miscarriage made me self-indulgent; around the same time, I bought myself a diamond pendant, without consulting my husband or thinking about it for longer than three minutes. A friend called me and asked if she could pick up my son from school, leaving me twenty minutes to kill before I had to pick up my other son. I was in front of a jewelry store, which struck me as a sign. Incidentally, it was the old-school, nice store where my Dad shops for Mom, so not my sort of place. When I pulled over and parked, I'm not sure I knew what I was going to do. I'm so not an impulse shopper; I obsess for weeks or months, wait for what I want to go on sale and sometimes change my mind at the last minute any way. I walked into the store, looked at four or five necklaces and picked my favorite and just...bought it. And that is the state of mind I was in when I made the appointment to get Botox.

When I first asked Dr L. if she did Botox, she smiled and answered, with a swirl of her finger, "All over my face!" She has a great sense of humor; you'd be surprised at how funny dermatology can be. She's one of those people that can make her post breast cancer reconstructive surgery sound like one of the most hilarious moments ever. I told her I was willing to spend about two hundred and fifty dollars on vanity and she said that would be plenty. She injected exactly two hundred and fifty dollars worth of high class, totally purified, all-natural toxin right into my forehead, told me to frown for an hour (apparently that helps it really get in there) and then enjoy my new look. It didn't hurt any more than acupuncture. In fact, Dr. L injected several units right into the Yintang point (right between the eyebrows), where acupuncturists insert needles to calm the mind. So there. Bye bye, eleven!

As I drove home, I frowned as hard as I could, as instructed, which didn't make me feel great. Apparently, the act of frowning can bring on a bad mood, just as smiling can bring on a good one. After my hour long frown fest was over, I relaxed, most notably in my forehead region. I tend to carry a lot of tension in my face and suddenly I...couldn't. I could still raise my eyebrows and furrow my brow, but the furrow didn't stay. I didn't even have to rub it to make it go away.

I didn't tell my husband I'd gotten the injections, although I'd mentioned I was thinking about it. He may not have heard, because he tends to tune out if I talk about shoes, furniture, beauty treatments, chick movies, people he doesn't think are cool, and so on. Over the next month or so, he commented more than once about how beautiful I looked. I think it was probably in response to my looking more relaxed and less pissed off at him.

And you know what else? A few days after the Botox, I GOT CARDED, for the first time in ten years. At a CHARITY event. No one got carded, not even the truly underage. I know it's ridiculous, but I really liked it. It was worth at least twenty five dollars of the two hundred and fifty.

I also noticed that any lingering malaise evaporated, along with its physical manifestation, my eleven. I no longer saw a sad, tired person in the mirror, so I no longer was a sad, tired person. It's true, what your mother said, if you act (or look!) like you're having a good time, you will!

I'm not so vain that I would inject myself with Botulism while pregnant (plus, I'm pretty sure Dr. L wouldn't do it), but now that I'm no longer host to the cutest baby ever, I've indulged once more. I went to a Yoga Philosophy, Pranayama and meditation class tonight. I usually have trouble relaxing, even at Yoga, but this time I was able to really let go. My thoughts didn't wander, I didn't fidget and I even stayed in a seated position while everyone else laid on their mats, because I was so comfortable. Perhaps I really did reach a new level of spiritual clarity. Or maybe it was the Botox.

Oh yeah, the reason I died my eyebrows last night was so if anyone notices my new look, I can attribute it to the eyebrows. Kind of pointless, though, since I just blaaaaaaaaaghed about the whole thing.

Namasté, y'all!

PSA

Don't die your eyebrows when you've been drinking. I keep doing it and it never works out, although this time is not so bad. There's a reason they're only supposed to sell these kits to professionals.

Tonight's Blaaaaaaahg entry is brought to you by Sumarocca Cava and the Phone Book, which Baby J is tearing apart while chanting, "No, no, no!"

My sister works at this restaurant in DC called Perry's. It's a rooftop place in Adams Morgan. Very cool. I was invited there recently as birth control for the staff; Baby J enjoyed a screaming, squirming fest while I ate alone, mostly with my hands. I let him crawl on the floor while I tossed bread at him and he smeared chewed bread all over the table. And splashed in my water, leaving chunks of bread in that, too. I did manage to shotgun a glass of the Bellenda Prosecco, which was quite tasty. Not exactly the picture of serene, hip motherhood. Chunky water aside, I had a great meal and fell in love with a quinoa salad that came with the grilled asparagus appetizer. I attempted to make it tonight for dinner and more or less succeeded.

Here it is:

First, make three cups of quinoa according to the directions on the package. My package said to bring one cup of quinoa and two cups of water to a boil and let them simmer for ten to fifteen minutes, or until the water is absorbed. At Perry's, the quinoa tasted better than that. My sister asked and it turns out that, after they boil it, they bake it to get it crispy and chewy. I spread my three cups of cooked quinoa on a cookie sheet, drizzled it with olive oil and cooked it at 450° for about 12 minutes. The pieces around the edges were starting to look toasty. I put the baked quinoa in a bowl, including scraping the chewy bits off the pan, because I like chewy bits.

Let the quinoa cool and add the following:

1/2 cup roasted red pepper, chopped (roast it yourself, buy the kind in the jar or - my favorite - buy a few slices from the olive bar thingy at your local Fancy Mart)

1/2 cup sliced dried apricots (do me a favor and make the special trip to the Fancy Mart for the unsulphured, unsweetened kind. They really are better.)

1/2 cup chopped black olives

1/4 cup chopped green onions (green part only, unless you like raw onions and want a kick. Frankly, they give me gas, so I stick with the green part. I've actually become one of those creepy old people who tells waiters, "I like them, but they don't like me!" in reference to raw onions. I need to stop doing that, because it's really vile.)

Stir it up and drizzle with more olive oil. Add salt if you must.

When you serve it, crumble a little bit of goat cheese on the top.

At Perry's, they serve it with grilled asparagus. I roasted my asparagus instead, because I'm lazy. I also served some roasted okra, because I had some, my kids love it and it's long and green, like asparagus.

I also added pine nuts for protein, because we ate the salad and veggies as a meal.

When we finished eating, I stirred the leftover crumbled goat cheese into the salad. Just so you know, bad idea. The quinoa sticks to the goat cheese and clumps. It looks like a bad appetizer from the seventies. It's too gunky and nowhere near as pretty, but it still tastes just fine.

E, if you're reading this, you'll have to ask the kitchen peeps at Perry's if I came close. And thank them for me, because I think I'm adding it to my party menu. It would be great as a side to grilled stuff or on it's own. For a luncheon, I'd add the pine nuts and serve it over mixed greens.

Namasté, y'all!

Wah.

I'm just going to have a little whine here, so carry on. Nothing to see!

You know a whine is going to be pretty pathetic when it starts with, "My house cleaners are coming today.." So...ahem...

My house cleaners are coming today, so I need to stay out of the house pretty much all day, even though they're only there for three or four hours. They never tell me when they're coming and every phone number they've given me is disconnected after I call it once. But they do a good job and they're nice, so what are you gonna' do? I had a great plan for today, by the way. But, as I should know (pounding head with fist), the best laid plans (and the best plans for gettin' laid..heheheh) can be destroyed in a moment by a baby, even a really cute one.

This morning, I had to teach two classes in a row. Baby J stayed in the gym nursery for those. You might want to punch me for this, but I like starting my day with an hour and a half of ab exercises. It makes me feel more comfortable for the rest of the day. After that, I planned to take Baby J to the drop in nursery across town so I could grab a quick solo lunch and blaaaaaaaahg. Long story short: Baby J fell asleep on the way to the nursery, so I decided to put him in the stroller and let him sleep while I ate in a coffee shop back across town and blaaaaaaaahged. I've done it before and it always works. He always stays asleep for at least an hour. I got him in the stroller, ordered my lunch and coffee, sat down and turned on the laptop and, no more than two seconds after my food arrived, I saw the kicking of little feet in the stroller. Little feet are cute, really cute, but not when I just want to eat! And at the top of the little feet, there's a cute fat body and sweaty little curly head that says, "No...nooooooo...nuh-no...naw" The random "nos" are Baby J's new experiment. He likes to say it in different tones of voice to see how it sounds, which doesn't bode well for the future. The "no" he left out was the primal scream, kicking myself in the head, punching the wall over my own stupidity- type "no" that was echoing in my head. But I digress...

So I gulped my lunch, cut my losses and decided to go for a walk with the Supreme Ruler. But I forgot that it sucks to drink hot coffee and push a stroller in hundred degree weather. So I looked at my watch (11:32 am and the drop in nursery closes at 1 pm), cut my losses again and drove Baby J to the nursery. Instead of the cool local coffee place (which I love because I worked there during the summers in high school and college), I could go to the chain bagel place with free WiFi and grab an hour. And a cookie, because I'd have to buy something and I'd already gone a little overboard on the coffee.

On the way, I called my husband, just to vent a little. Sometimes I get mad at him, because when he wants to do something self-indulgent, he can just cancel an appointment and do it; I have to really finesse it. And somehow, I think I feel guiltier for doing it. When he vents, I usually try to express sympathy. I even try to express it in a non-sarcastic way. I've quit saying, "Awwwwww...I hate it for ya'," because that doesn't sound all that nice. On the other hand, when I vent, he has to one up me. I think he (and, so I've heard, maybe a few other men) does it so I'll understand that he can't help, because his own life is so hard. When I called him today for a quickie (a quick whine - get your mind out of the gutter), his response was to tell me how hard his day was. I'm being genuine when I say that I do get that his day is hard. I do. But, at the moment, I couldn't feel all that sorry for somebody who has an awesome job and who was on his way to a solo lunch at one of my favorite places to do a little paper work. Granted, the paper work was preparation for a trial that started after lunch, but still. He chose the profession and can't even appreciate how lucky he is to get to have a fancy lunch as part of his work day. All he had to say was, "That sucks. I hope your day gets better." Then I would have been happy to listen to him talk about being nervous about the trial, but I don't even think he was nervous. I'm pretty sure he was desperate to think of something that would get him off the hook and that was the first thing that came into his head. Kind of like when I'm puking my guts out and sick as a dog and, to deflect any requests for help, he wanders around rubbing his stomach and saying, in a strained voice, "I think I might be getting a stomach bug, too." Oh yeah? Well, Show Me the Vomit!

And I got really pissed off when I came out of the nursery after dropping Baby J there and that jerk of a husband had left a really nice message apologizing. The audacity! He robbed me of my righteous anger! I hate it when that happens! As*hole.

So, here I am at the bagel store, with a big cup of water. The oatmeal raisin cookie's all gone, but it was pretty good. And I still have thirty minutes. Time for some shopping on the portable mall (aka the Laptop). Yay!

Please feel free to leave your own petty whine in the comments section or call me on my cell. I'll be out of the house for the rest of the day and most likely starved for adult company.

Namasté, y'all!

When O was a baby, I was an (almost) perfect parent. Ask my Grandmother, who'll back me up (PSA: If you have access, your children's Great Grandparents are the best. They not only think your kids are perfect, they think you are, too! Your own parents? Not so much.) I had all sorts of lofty aspirations. I planned to use my (still unused) Masters degree in Social Work to negotiate with my child, using my (well thought out and modulated) words, always. Eh.

I changed my mind early on and decided that occasionally yelling at kids is good for them. My husband grew up in a household where the family myth was that no one ever got angry. Which of course they did. A lot. When my husband and I went to a marriage counselor after the birth of our second child (wipe that smirk off your face - you'll need one, too - and, if you claim you don't, in the words of Nell Carter to her bathroom scale, "YOU A LI-AH!"), she quickly ascertained that I expressed my feelings (aka anger) a little too easily and my husband needed help expressing his. I was dismissed after a while and he still gets to go. I'm jealous, because a therapist is like a best friend that you pay, so you don't have to listen to their problems and you get to go on and on (and on) about your own. If I never get mad at my kids, they might grow up to be passive aggressive and infuriating to their spouses. And they'll get all the therapy time and their spouses won't get any. Just saying.

Anyhow, I do get mad at my kids. If I yell, I apologize. The times I've spanked them, I apologized, because (in my opinion, and no, I don't think you're evil if you do it and no, I don't want to discuss it) hitting of any kind is always wrong. Which doesn't mean I haven't done it, because I'm so far from perfect that perfect and I don't even shop at the same mall. I think that it's normal to lose one's temper from time to time. Everyone does it, but in different ways. I hope that I'm showing my children that, even though it's normal to lose your temper, that doesn't make it okay and you should apologize to the person who you hurt.

I love my mom's technique for ending a fight between kids and I use it when I need it. Now that I think about it, I may need to start using it for fights between adults and kids, too. Or adults and other adults (me and my dear husband, say). She would make us go sit in a room together until we got along. There were no instructions and there was no time limit. Just stay until you're done. My mom had three girls and only one boy. I have three boys, so I added one rule. I send them to their room and each boy has to stay on his own bed until they get along, so the peace talk doesn't degenerate into a WWF Smackdown reenactment. If they sit in silence for a while, fine. If they yell at each other for a while, fine, as long as I don't have to hear it. Same for temper tantrums, by the way. Go ahead and have one, but don't have it my (auditory or physical) personal space. I guess this is really a version of Time Out, although we've never called it that. I like the idea of not setting a time limit. I hope that'll help teach them to calm down on their own. Like all of my parenting, it's just an experiment, with no control group and more uncontrollable variables than I can count, so we'll see.

That's my ramble for today.

Namasté, y'all.

Quote of the Day:

You should always have good breath when you meet new friends.

Baby J has recently indicated to me that he would be much happier if I would take him to a room full of plastic toys and crackers a couple of times a week and leave him there for a few hours. He has exhausted all of the options I had for getting him off of my leg, so it's time.

For a while, he was happy in his bouncy seat. We loved that thing, because we could face it away from us (so he wouldn't know we were there, as long as we made no noise whatsoever. We got pretty good at miming, which was creepy) and take turns bouncing it with our feet until he fell asleep. It had the added bonus of being stylish, so made for some great photo ops. When he got sick of that, there was the play mat, that none of my other kids liked at all, so it was in great condition. Unfortunately, his romance with the play mat only lasted about three days.

During transition times (transitions from one Neglectomatic to another, that is), I've been known to resort to letting him sleep in the car. I know, I KNOW! They just came out with that study that says that sleeping in car seats kills, but he was exclusively breastfed (and would be still, if it weren't for the occasional snack), so doesn't that even things out? And the car seat is a really expensive one, so it must be safe, right? And I only did it a few times.

The high chair was a great option that lasted for a while. Putting snacks in front of kids will usually entertain them. I will admit to, on more than one occasion, giving him cookies with actual sugar to buy a few more precious moments of freedom. I've always said that I sympathize with Britney Spears; "But for the Grace of God Go I" and all that. I thought of her just yesterday, when I turned toward the sound of giggling to see Baby J perched with one leg in the high chair, one leg dangling over the edge and his hands gripping the armrest like a gymnast grips a balance beam. Since I was pretty sure he didn't have the skills to push up into a handstand, I made like one of those cops who talk people down off the ledge (or bridge or high diving board above a pool with no water) and approached him slowly and calmly, careful not to startle him. I spoke in a soothing voice as I approached, "Mommy's coming...goooooooood Baby J... doooooooon't move, sweetheart...Mommy's aaaaaaaalmost the--" And he leapt into my arms when I was about two feet away. I caught him, but just. And he was strapped into the high chair at the time. And I should have known he was going to jump because, in the words of Max Berman ("Best in Show"), "They all jump." So I feel for Britney (or I did. Now, maybe not so much. Maybe we all just need to accept that K-Fed is meant to be a Daddy. It's what he does best, n'est-ce pas?)

We've made various attempts to block exits from the kitchen, so he could crawl freely. We even put extremely high tech rubber bands on the cabinets to keep him from opening them. As an aside, I have to say that I think cabinet locks are usually unnecessary. If you have something truly toxic, it needs to be totally out of reach. As far as a baby just getting into your glass casserole dishes or whatever, the rubber bands seem to work fine. All three of my children, when confronted with the rubber bands, have tried a few times to get the cabinets open and quickly given up, accepting that they just don't open any more. We leave one or two un-rubber banded cabinets filled with plastic stuff that they can play with and that seems to be enough. Added bonus: the plastic "kid" cups and dishes are on their level, so when they get older, they can get their own drinks. And if you send your kids to Montessori School, they'll learn how to pour without spilling too much and wipe it up if they do. Worth every penny of private school tuition, I tell ya'. And goody for you if you have access to a public Montessori.

More and more desperate, we've resorted to things like leaving the shower on and letting him play in it. But, now he wants to stand up in there, so it's no longer an option. Letting him play with the camera charger was good for a few days, but that's over. Chewing on cotton balls was too much of a choking hazard and too disgusting to watch. His brothers and the Glorious S from next door (my Summer Saviour, the ever on-call babysitter) are going back to school on Monday and will no longer be available as paid entertainment.

Anyhow, these days, all bets are off and Baby J wants to be social. I now drink my morning coffee (and my increasingly frequent evening wine) on the floor, so I can play ball with him. Playing ball is good, because he stays at least three feet away from me and doesn't try to stick his cute but grubby little fingers in my drink. I need to keep a ball in the bathroom, because I'm tired of trying to go with little fingers wedged between the toilet seat and my bum. Right now, the only way to get him to stop doing that is to let him eat toilet paper, unused of course (just what kind of parent do you think I am?) And I don't want to play ball in the bathroom. It's just not relaxing and that's one of my happy places.

So, Monday morning, bright and early, Baby J and I have a date with S and her Baby S to go register the boys at the local drop-in nursery that served me well in the past. X loved it and so will Baby J. And my sisters and brother went there and they turned out just fine (or so I'll claim, just in case they're reading this) As he has indicated at the gym, he loves a big loud room filled with plastic toys and other monsters adorable children. And I can't wait to have coffee with S. I won't have to chug it so Baby J can play with the cup and I'll be able to form a complete sentence without stopping to chase a baby.

Namasté, y'all!

There are hazards to being a housewife. One of them is that, every time you meet someone new,they could turn out to be a whack job. I know this is true for non-housewives, too, but these particular nuts can be hard to identify until it's too late: they already know your address and phone number, and they aren't afraid to use them. Even more unfair, they can get your unlisted information from school handbooks, soccer parent lists or other unsuspecting parents. And people just give them the information, because they seem so innocent.

"Hey! Listen, I've been meaning to get in touch with you!," your potential new best friend says.

At this point, you should notice the awkward tone of voice, the manufactured enthusiasm and the snakes behind the eyes of the speaker. But you don't, because everyone knows that house wives are desperate for new friends, which is why we get targeted for this crap in the first place. You don't hear the Jaws music in the back of your mind either, because the sound of your kids fighting over a Skittle they found on the floor of the car drowns it out.

You eagerly respond, "Yeah? Great!" After all, your kids play soccer together and you and your husband have actually talked about that (seemingly) cool family that seems to have so much in common with you. You've chatted with them about how cool it is that you can walk or bike everywhere in your shared neighborhood. Like you and your spouse, they both went to college (bonus: and graduate school!) They occasionally swear, and don't cringe when you do. Later, you'll realize you were grasping at straws, but up until this moment, you think you have a lot in common. As you eagerly await a fabulous invitation that will surely be the beginning of a long and treasured friendship (maybe pizza with the kids! maybe a backyard cookout! with beer! something we'll always remember!), you fail to pick up on the subtle signals. In a split second, all your hopes are dashed and things get ugly.

"Yeah!" enthuses Potential New Friend. Here it comes. "I've been wanting to tell you about a business my friend from college has gotten into! She's gotten me started too! Blahblahblah! She's selling these amazing blahblahblah! Blah...Great Opportunity!...Making a Killing!...FROM HOME!...I thought of YOU, because...BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!"

You're frozen. No matter how many times it happens, you don't know what to say. In the words of British Pop Sensation Lily Allen:

You can't knock 'em out
You can't walk away
Try desperately to think of the politest way to say-
Get out my face!
Just leave me alone!

But you can't use the next line - "No, you can't have my number, 'cause I lost my phone" - because the nut already has your number (home and cell), your email address and your home address. They're all right there in the school handbook, available to any loon with kids that happen to go to your kid's school. And don't fool yourself. I don't care how fancy and progressive your kid's school is, these people can still sneak in. And they can look normal, even stylish, just like any other parent.

There are ways to make them go away. I could force them to listen to my entire Manifesto which describes why I am ethically, politically and socially opposed to multi-level marketing schemes. The Manifesto includes quotes from Betty Friedan, Naomi Wolf, Nora Ephron (The "Crazy Salad*" years) and others. The problem with the Manifesto, which I find hilarious, is that it has the potential to offend and alienate the freak. And the last thing I want to do is offend and alienate a freak who knows my children. I did it once and it wasn't pretty. I'll be happy to tell anyone who wants to know about it, but I'm not putting it here, because she might hunt me down and...try to get me to sell crap to my friends.

There's another common hazard of being a housewife that's annoying, but much less threatening. The perp can be identified almost immediately. I'm referring to the person who, upon receipt of a new email address, is compelled to send an email with some kind of you go, girl/you strong woman/you great friend theme. And pictures of kittens. I hate kittens. And I know y'all know this, but you do not need to forward that sh-- to find out if you have friends or not. I know I have friends, because we hang out and they don't try to sell me stuff. The emails may seem easy enough to delete, but don't ignore them completely. The could be a danger sign that a Multi-level Marketing Moment is just around the corner. Be prepared!

* Everyone should read "Crazy Salad." I found it at my Grandparents' beach condo when I was about 10 years old and read it immediately. I'm pretty sure that book made me the person I am today. No lie. It influenced everything from my political views to my sense of humor. Really. Read it.

Wow. My first actual request for a blog entry. The pressure is too much. I have a stomach ache, except for I don't, which is what I'm writing about.

My friend the Lady M and I were talking about how we eat, not necessarily what we eat, but how we get our food. Lady M and I were roommates back in the 90's, before we were married. Read that last sentence again and imagine me saying it to my kids. X immediately asked, "You and Lady M were married? I didn't know that." Which led to a conversation about same sex marriage and the different ways that same sex couples can become parents. Standard stuff for us. Anyhow, Lady M and I were not married, but we were roommates before she married Sir P of Italy and I married A of the Annoying Snorers. Lady M and I put quite a few miles on my awesome Toyota Corolla going through various drive-thru restaurants around town. We were partial to Burger King (Whopper Combo with cheese, no onions and a Diet Coke, please), but also got into Jalapeño Poppers at Sonic, Cajun Filet Biscuits at Bojangle's and the now defunct (sadly) McD.L.T. at McDonald's. Tasty, or so we thought at the time. I'm sure we ate other stuff, too, but I remember the fast food.

We had the potential to appreciate good food but, due to a lack of ability and total unwillingness, we didn't cook, which left us with restaurants, which we couldn't much afford, unless they were fast food. So, there you have it. Perhaps if we hadn't been so into the Vodka Tonics (ahhhhh...the days of counting straws to keep track of how many we had had...) we might have had the funds or the initiative to do better than burgers (or even to do better burgers), but that's neither here nor there.

In my mid-twenties, I started having children. I continued with my fast food habit (and lack of funds or initiative, but I did slow down on the Vodka Tonics and cigarettes). I remember driving around until O fell asleep, going through a drive-thru, and parking and reading People Magazine in the car and enjoying my Bag O' Grease while the innocent O slept. Good times.

My first step on the road to healthier eating came when the Innocent O was old enough to sit forward facing in his car seat and could recognize when we pulled up to a "Shrensh Shry Doh." In case you don't speak Cutie Patootie, that means French Fry Store, something O discovered on a road trip he and I made up the East coast all the way to Canada. I cringe thinking about it but, due to budgetary concerns and inability to pack food on my part, we ate at a lot of French Fry Stores along the way. O was just under a year old and french fries were one of the only things he could eat there without choking. Anyhow, when we got home, every time we'd pass a fast food place, he would point and yell, "Shrensh! Shry! Doh!" And I knew it had to end, so there was no more fast food when he was around, which was always.

For a while, I went to an extreme. We ate a lot of tasteless tofu and rice and beans themed meals. I did the dairy free thing, choking down unsweetened soy milk poured over unsweetened whole grain granola. I'm ashamed to admit that I made O's first birthday cake healthy. As I recall (or try not to), the icing was made from unsweetened goat's milk yogurt and the cake was...too gross to think about. He didn't eat it and it looked gross in pictures, because it was brown and slimy. I also didn't shy away from processed "health" food, like tofu hot dogs and soy cheese.

Although I'm not the first to make this observation, it bears repeating: Food, like sex, is something we need to survive, and it's a gift from God that they're both so enjoyable. No, I'm not saying you need to get laid or you'll die, dummy; sex is essential to the survival of the species. Duh. Sex, like food, can become tedious if you just use it on a basic level. Anyone who's ever tried really hard to get pregnant can tell you that sex can become a source of annoyance. In fact, our last child, who was conceived two months after a miscarriage and as a result of furious fertility charting, was conceived during a quickie after a fight. Because of the furious charting, I knew we needed to seal the deal that day, because it was Thanksgiving week and we hadn't had much time to... Anyhow, my husband wanted to go drink beer with his brother, leaving me alone in a houseful of dirty dishes and boys. I was maybe a little cranky and I said, "Fine! But you're not leaving until you have sex with me!" Which he did. Which ended the fight. Before he left, he very kindly brought me my book so I could read while I reclined on the bed with my legs in the air. Most guys would love a chick who insists on having sex with them before they go drink beer, but I digress.

So, food can be the same way. I had stopped looking at food as something good and it became a huge source of stress. I wanted everything we ate to be organic and dairy free. No Exceptions. Not even really good cheese or my precious Diet Coke. When I ate pizza, I'd feel guilty for days. After a while, self awareness kicked in and I realized that eating healthy to an extreme was no different from starving myself, which I did fairly regularly until I got pregnant with O. During my second pregnancy, in an attempt to avoid the problems I had in my first, I ate way too healthy. I think I had french fries once. I forced myself to eat vast quantities of (healthy, tasteless) protein, kale and this nasty stuff. I also drank some vile tea of vile herbs. Yuck. Thanks to the protein, I gained about 80 pounds and still had X early, not as early as O, but early enough. I was also miserable and spent most of my pregnancy thinking about food. I actually got sick of eating and cried thinking about having to eat more.

After that pregnancy, armed with the knowledge that perfect nutrition doesn't heal everything, I started to make changes. In the process, I realized what kind of hippy I really am. I'm the kind of hippy who drives a Hybrid car...with leather seats, a 6 CD changer and a sunroof. I shop local...at cool expensive little boutiques; thrift stores are for college kids. I love the outdoors...as long as someone's serving drinks and the bugs aren't too bad. I love "green" furniture...as long as it's super stylish, like my sideboard.

And I love healthy food, as long as it's good and a little bit sophisticated. I'm a Snob Hippy, and I'm totally okay with that. I'll even admit to irrationally reveling in being the first person I knew to have one of the new front-loading, energy-saving, wallet-busting washing machines. Which I use to launder my babies' one hundred percent cotton diapers. In your FACE! Ahem...sorry.

I had trouble losing weight after X was born and I actually went on Atkins for a while (well, my version, where white wine is included.) For me, the best thing about following the Atkins diet was how much I learned to love vegetables. Mixed greens became a staple. Turnip Raw Fries replaced regular. Mashed cauliflower with Wasabi replaced mashed potatoes. Fresh berries were the best treat around. Some people do Atkins and eat nothing but processed low-carb crap, bacon and cheese. I did it with fresh vegetables, fish and lean meat. I learned to make simple meals that tasted great. I came back to butter, really good, strong cheeses, and meat. Food was good.

Problem is, eating like that can get expensive, especially if you're trying to stick with organic. A friend and I were talking about nutrition one day and she said that my (ideal, not always realized) way of eating sounded in line with Slow Food, an organization filled with people like me. People who aren't ashamed to say, "Let's be kind to the environment and the animals in it. So we can continue to eat them." Eating local goods when possible is one way to do this. We love pork from Caw Caw Creek Farm, about an hour away from us. For the last few seasons, we've signed up for a share from a local CSA, Five Leaves Farm. When I shop at the grocery store, I look for local produce. We also buy local from this Farmers' Market, held twice a month at local restaurants. Often, we can find locally grown food that's organic too. And the less it has to travel (over distance or through middle men), the less it costs.

Another way I save money is by letting what's available dictate what we eat, instead of going to the store with a meal in mind. Things that are in season are less expensive (and usually taste better!), which is one reason I've posted recipes recently for eggplant, okra and tomatoes. Europeans, or so I'm told by my French mother in law, who's always happy to tell us how Europeans trump Americans, shop daily for their food. So do we, even though I'm half Winnsbar' and half Columbia. We even chose our neighborhood based on its proximity to good grocery stores and local businesses. Without using too much gas (sometimes I even walk, provided it isn't a hundred million freakin' degrees out), I can shop every day or every other day.

I think healthy eating is also about routine. For example, we can get local eggs at the Farmers' Market I mentioned earlier, but it only happens twice a month. So we buy two or three cartons of eggs each time, enough to last until the next time. Local eggs are fresher and keep a lot longer than the ones you buy in a regular grocery store, so there's no need to buy them too often. We also get meat there and freeze it.

The more you cook, the easier it is. As our family has grown, I've had to cook more, if only to avoid the last minute, unpleasant over-priced restaurant trips with screaming children. I've learned to simplify recipes, so I don't have to use a million pots or spend twenty minutes chopping stuff. I've learned when to use something pre-made (organic whole wheat pie crusts and these sauces, for example). When I buy ready made stuff, I read labels and make sure that the ingredients are the same that I'd use if I made it myself.

I also think you can gradually transform your usual meals into something better. Those Whoppers? Now we serve burgers, sometimes turkey, sometimes organic beef, but they're smaller than the Whopper. And we serve them with really good multi grain buns and a plate of things to pile on top: pineapple, red pepper, fresh (not pickled) jalapeño peppers, sliced avocado, mixed greens, vine ripe tomatoes, sprouts, red onion, and assorted kinds of cheese (swiss, havarti, blue, feta, whatever). As an homage to my dear Dr. Atkins, I often skip the bun and pile the whole mess on a bed of greens. The fries? We like thinly sliced (The Lovely Cuisinart saves time and slices super thin) roasted sweet potatoes, turnips, red potatoes and other root vegetables. Bonus points for adding curry, cumin and cayenne pepper to the olive oil before you drizzle it on the vegetables.

There are easy ways to make anything, it just takes practice. I've learned to make Thai Salad Rolls and Japanese Nori Rolls. The first time I made them, it was hard, but once I understood the steps and did it more often, it didn't seem any more complicated than making the great Southern Delicacy, the Green Bean Casserole, with canned soup and canned fried onions (or crumbled potato chips in a pinch). Bonus: my kids will eat anything I put inside either of those rolls, including vegetables galore.

As much as I like to eat fresh, there are some things that are just fine from frozen, including spinach, broccoli, corn and peas. I buy the organic kind and make sure there are no additives, but I flat out refuse to cut up and steam a head of broccoli. It's just a pain in the you know what and I end up throwing away the tough parts so it's expensive, too. And cutting it up is messy. I hate messy. After I had my third child, my mother in law came to stay. Some grandmothers are helpful. Some are not. My mother, if she came over right after you had a baby, would hold the baby and tell you to go take a shower. When you came out, she would have made the bed and washed the dishes. The baby would be clean, dry and asleep. My mother in law bought a head of broccoli and held the baby and made him cry. Every time we sat down to a lovingly prepared meal brought by one of our friends, she would bring up the damn head of broccoli. She would talk about how she knew I never used anything but frozen. She would talk about all the reasons I had for doing so. And she would lament that neither she nor I had thought to prepare the damn broccoli to go with the meal, which didn't really need the damn broccoli. But whatever. When she left, I limped out to the trash can and threw the damn broccoli away, in some pathetic act of passive aggression. And I hate to waste food, but, as my sister in law says, our mother in law really brings out the rebellious teenager in anyone.

I once thought of opening a consulting business. You give me a recipe or even a description of a meal you like, and I'll come up with a healthy, easy version. As a bonus, I might even come up with away for you to make enough to freeze for another day. I'm way too slack to run a business, but if anyone wants to send me a recipe, I'll do my best, for free. Then you can cook for me.

Incidentally, as anyone who reads this probably knows, my last pregnancy lasted the longest (37 weeks!) and resulted in the least weight gain (30 pounds!) and I ate pretty healthily, but didn't over think it. And I drank the occasional Diet Coke. Yum.

Namasté, y'all!

I'm going to Yoga this afternoon and we went out to eat last night, so I thought I'd make dinner ahead. I hate coming home from Yoga all blissed out and having to try to cook, which I enjoy, with hungry people clawing at me and punching each other, which I don't enjoy at all.

This recipe came from a recipe in a stupid book that I bought for a quarter at a library sale, "Eat Well, Lose Weight While Breastfeeding." Dumb title, dumb book. The author makes losing weight while breastfeeding way too complicated, outlining specific nutrients that you MUST HAVE! OR YOUR BABY WILL DIE! OR TURN OUT DUMB! OR HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR! She's also convinced that you should determine how much you eat based in part on how big your baby is. Which is dumb, because I'm pretty sure I needed to eat more or the same to feed my three and a half pound baby (who needed to eat all the time) as I did to feed my other two larger, but not as hungry babies. And I lost weight all three times, at more or less the same rate. Anyhow, I think new mothers have enough to worry about without calculating micrograms of vitamins and exact calorie requirements. Ladies, my advice is to eat what you need, eat whole foods and exercise as much as you can without being a nut about it. Not that you asked. And I wouldn't presume to tell you, because there's already enough unsolicited advice in the world for mothers. Just do your best. Or not.

So, the recipe in the book is for Salmon Croquettes, also pretty good, but not what I want right now. And they call for green peppers, which are vile, and some kind of yogurt and dill dip, which is one more step than I want to take. I need to write my recipe down, so I can get rid of the stupid book already. I've had it for 9 years and I only use one page of it. That page is really crusty, though, so I don't think I can donate the book. Not that I'd want to, because it sucks.

Crab Cakes

Into a bowl, dump the following:

1 pound of crab meat. I usually buy the reasonably fresh kind in a jar in the seafood section, but I've used fresh off the boat and I've used canned, and they're all good. I just go by my budget at the moment.

1/2 cup panko bread crumbs. Big shocker, I'm lazy and buy the kind from the store. You can make your own really easily, though, which I've done in a pinch, by throwing crackers or toast into a food processor. My mini food processor works great for this and it isn't a pain to clean. If you get the ones form the store, try to find some without gross stuff, like MSG, high fructose corn syrup or extreme amounts of salt.

1/4 cup mayonnaise. I like Duke's and you should, too.

About a half a cup green onions, chopped. Red onions or even yellow are good, too, but chop them really tiny.

About a half a cup of chopped red bell pepper. Yellow or orange is fine, too, but red is prettiest. The vile green ones are not allowed.

1 egg

One little glop of mustard (more than a teaspoon, less than a tablespoon) I like Dijon mustard, but any old mustard will do, unless it's something weird, like Tarragon mustard.

One little glop of hot pepper sauce. I think Tropical Pepper Company's Tico Papaya Curry is particularly good, but I don't really care what you use.

Blend everything together really well. Sprinkle about a quarter cup of breadcrumbs (add more as you need them) on a plate. Make balls with the crab mixture (whatever size you like. I make about 6 total, because we have this as a meal), roll each ball in the breadcrumbs and gently flatten it on a cookie sheet. Cook at 350 for about 15 minutes, longer if you like them crispy.

You could also fry them, but that's a lot messier.

I like to wear plastic gloves to finish mixing the stuff and to shape and roll the balls. It's less messy and the mixture holds together better than if you just mix it with a spoon.

If you're in the mood for crispy, greasy, thin crab cakes like you get in some seafood restaurants, these are not for you. They aren't fried, but they are super yummy. I like to serve them with Chipotle Dip from Rosewood Market, but they're good just sprinkled with lemon juice too.

Tonight, we're having them with roasted okra and eggplant. And maybe a salad. And a bottle of Sumarroca Cava.

Namasté, y'all.

Drinkin' and Bloggin' Part Deux:

Important Note: I've noticed that Blogger puts the time of your post as when you started it, not when you last worked on it. Just so no one thinks they need to call CPS, please understand that I started this early in the day and recommenced after a trip to the Hunter Gatherer. So, yeah, that's all. Carry on.

Most people nest during the last few months or weeks of pregnancy. Not me. I spend that last bit of time in denial about all the new stuff that will come with the new baby. I get the nesting and de-cluttering urge around the time the baby gets more independent, around his (nope, not being sexist, it's just that we only seem to produce boys) first birthday. Around his second birthday, I start thinking about a decorating scheme (ha!) and furniture for his room, because that's about the time that we get the uncontrollable urge for him to sleep somewhere other than our bed. I actually don't bother thinking of a decorating scheme (that I'll never get around to executing anyway), because the boys have developed their own style - a kind of Pokemon-baseball card- Lego-costume clothes-plastic toy-tiny car theme with art stuff-notebooks-random coins and stickers accents. And other sports stuff. And socks. And games and puzzles, the more pieces the better.

Anyhooooo...I don't like clutter. Unless it's mine, of course. I have clothes that I've owned for forever. For example, one of my favorite sweaters is a J. Crew turtleneck that my mom bought me, along with several other things that are long gone, right before my first year of boarding school. Uninspired hicks that we were (and are!), I'm pretty sure we chose J. Crew and L. L. Bean because those are the places we associated with New England boarding school types. We probably got our information from the Preppy Handbook. Hey, we did our best, so let it go. And the sweater is still cool. It's a (now) snug-fitting, olive green, cable knit, lambswool turtle neck. And I still love it - looks good with skinny jeans, wide leg jeans, any style skirt, yadda yadda yadda. So I can't let it go.

And I have a St. John long dress and matching jacket, that I have never worn, left over from my days in the Junior League. I was doing my required volunteer shift in the Second Look and a pile of clothes form a really old, dead Junior Leaguer with great taste and a lot of money to go with it came in. I snagged the St. John set right away, even though I sported a nose ring at the time, knowing I would wear it some day. I haven't worn it yet, but I bet it'll look great when I wear it to one of my grand children's weddings. I just hope they make a nice, stylish wheelchair or walker by then.

I've learned to hang on to clothes the hard way. When I was pregnant with my first child, I gave away piles and piles of clothes, some of them vintage, that I thought I would never possibly fit into again. After three children, I'm about the same size, although not quite the same shape (yeah, maybe I'm bragging a little, but I work hard, so bite me. I have very little to be proud of, so I grasp at what I have.) I remember sitting on the floor of my apartment (Hubby and I weren't quite living together then. We were married, but barely; the distant click of the shotgun could still be heard.) I was sniffling and stuffing seemingly impossibly small clothes into a bag destined for the Salvation Army. Huh. Now that I think about it, it was AmVets, because they pick up at your house and I've always been lazy. The point is, they're gone now and I wish they weren't. In particular, I miss a perfect pair of brown Levi's cords, obtained from an old room mate, and a turquoise, Chinese brocade dress, immortalized in a photo of me and some of my college friends on someone else's Facebook page:


I bought that dress in a thrift store for five dollars, before thrift became Vintage, and it looked like something Donna Reed would wear, but the fabric was awesome. In fact, if more people saved their clothes (MOM!), I could have saved $130 today, instead of buying a totally awesome dress from this local lady. Sorry, regret got the best of me and I was rambling...

My point is (wait? Do I have to have a point when I'm BUI*?) that I never throw way clothes, because you never know. But I do throw away toys, or give them away if they're worth giving. Today, in a de-cluttering frenzy, O and X and I did the Great Toy Purge of August 2007. My husband took Baby J on some kind of adventure and the big boys and I went into the Kids' Lounge with plastic bags and divided things into three categories: Keep, Give Away or Throw Away.

The Keep things went back, in an organized way of course, to the Kids' Lounge, and included things that they still played with or thought Baby J would enjoy soon enough. Which means that we kept Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders, which are the most boring games ever. The Give Away pile consisted of things that were fun, in working condition and totally replaceable. You see, I don't want to keep everything Baby J might play with, because if we did, we'd be forced to get more and more elaborate for his birthday and Christmas presents. As the oldest child, I do not think it's okay that the youngest, by virtue of being the youngest, should get the battery powered Cadillac Escalade, just because there is nothing left to give him. The Throw Away pile was made up of things that were totally destroyed and fast food giveaways.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I completely Jump the Shark. In addition to a couple bags of the boys' toys, I had a couple bags of my clothes, all ready to be dropped off at the thrift store. And the painters were still here. Some of the toys were pretty cool, including a Dora the Explorer matching game, totally intact. Some of the clothes were pretty cool, but too big (hey, I've had three kids - my sizes are all over the map!) or too absolutely-not-me (everyone makes mistakes!) I thought some of the guys painting might like the toys or the clothes (for their wives, not themselves, of course! Not that I would judge if they wanted the clothes for themselves, but none of them were small enough to fit them, okay?) I worked myself into a tizzy trying to figure out if they would be insulted if I offered the stuff to them. I hid in my closet (a walk-in, okay, so not as weird as it sounds) and called my husband to ask his opinion. He said, "Are you kidding? This is the kind of thing I call to ask you about." True. And my response is usually along the lines of "Be genuine and don't over think it." And think about what you would want if you were in the other person's place.

Well, as you might imagine, I would want to be offered the clothes. And even the toys. So I offered The Boss the bags. I told him we had done some de-cluttering and had some things that his guys, their wives or their kids might want, if they had any wives and kids, that is. So, did I do the right thing? Or not? Eh. I did my best, so there it is.

Namasté, y'all!

*Blogging Under the Influence. Did this really need a footnote? I guess I'm not giving you enough credit, 'cause I'm tipsy, so I assume everyone's as slow as I am.