oh please.

I read Alice in Wonderland, an article in the National Review Online by Julie Gunlock where she whines and complains about organic food being too blahblahblahwhinecry, and also she mercilessly mocks Alice Waters, a world-renowned chef and outspoken supporter of farmer's markets, the slow food movement and sustainable agriculture.

And guess what?  Julie Gunlock doesn't even have her own Wikipedia page, that's what.  That's how not seriously she should be taken.  Sure, I don't have my own Wikipedia page but I'm totally on that and have paid some kid from down the street fifty bucks to add me to Wiki either.

Snarkiness aside, or not, because I can't guarantee the I have my big girl pants on today, the article is so politically charged that is probably only has merit in the Big Agriculture Lobbyists break room, or possibly out back where the smokers hang out.

Let's introduce Ms. Gunlock to my friend, the CSA.

Ms. Gunlock, Community Supported Agriculture.

Community Supported Agriculture, this is Ms. Gunlock.

(This is where Ms. Gunlock squints up one eye and raises her eyebrow sort of bitchily and sticks out her pretty pretty princess hand.  And then CSA shakes her hand like a big boy and she feels slightly uncomfortable because her carpal tunnel from writing such decidedly mindless drivel is bothering her today.)

Community Supported Agriculture is a program, for lack of a better word, where you can buy a share of the farm.  What you get is fresh-picked produce, some CSAs offer meat, eggs and milk in addition to produce, for the duration of the growing season.

What, Ms. Gunlock?  You live in the city, no the suburbs?  Well you, too can join a CSA.  Many CSAs around the country offer delivery services to the non-farming areas.   My CSA is located between Buffalo and Rochester, and has drop-off sites in both cities.  In addition, some churches and neighborhood groups have joined together and carpool to pick up the week's produce at the farm.

And our CSA?  Costs less than $15 a week.  For organically grown produce.  I'm not even kidding you.  And some weeks?  We really have to work to eat all the veggies we are given.    

Sure, if the growing season was cut short, or if there was a drought, or flood, or other act of God, we wouldn't get as much food each week.  That's a chance you have to take with farming.

But.

I know the farmer who grows the food I feed my family.  (His name is Mike.  Hi, Mike!)

I can ask him any question I have about how he grows my food, and he answers me.

I can even ask him for suggestions about my home garden, and he's happy to help.

I can walk through the fields where my food is growing.

Even with the new food labeling laws in place, I have no idea where in California the strawberries at the store come from.  I don't know who has touched them, or how many times they have been sprayed with pesticides.  People = live creatures.  Pesticides = killing live creatures Pesticides = bad.

I admit I do not feed my family organic products only.  Because sometimes eating organic is more expensive.  In my experience, organic is not always more expensive, in fact, there are instances where it is more affordable than non-organic.

But.

If a person's only experience with purchasing organic foods is in Whole Foods, or in a specialty natural food store, or in the organic section of the local supermarket, they are most likely paying a lot of money.

Think outside the store.  Do a little research.

And for flip's sake.  Do not mock people who believe that it's important to talk about where our food comes from.*  There are people who have never seen a farm.  There are people who have only ever been to the grocery store and have never considered all the work it took to get that food into the store.  

And also for flip's sake.  Check out Local Harvest to find a CSA in your community.  For all you locals, join Porter Farms.  You can thank me later.

*Instead, make fun of whiny people.

it's real.

One day, when Miss O was about seven months old, I left her with Uncle Benna for the day. I packed up all my clothes in laundry baskets, put gas in my car, and drove away. 

I wasn't going anywhere in particular, but I needed to go.

I was suffocating and stressed and a miserable wreck. And nobody knew. If they did know, they sure didn't say anything to me. I felt broken and alone, an unpleasant cocktail of postpartum depression and birth control.

And for sure I didn't say anything. On one hand, I like to be in control. It was more than I could handle to mention that I just couldn't handle any more of anything. On the other hand, I was crippled physically and emotionally. I couldn't describe how I was feeling, I had no words at all.

I drove around in my loaded-to-the-gills minivan all day. I considered visiting a friend in Cleveland, but the thought of driving there--a trip I had made hundreds of times--terrified me.

So I went to garage sales.

I realize that makes no sense.

I did go home later that day, and I remember clearly the look on The Mister's face when I pulled in the driveway, a mixture of relief and she's-gone-off-the-deep-end-don't-let-her-know-how-crazy-you-think-she-is.

I had a pretty firm grasp on how crazy I was.

I stopped the birth control pill, and that helped enormously. Eventually things seemed to even out.

I hit another rocky patch after Wee Man was born, fortunately we were on the look out for The Crazies to return. I had a back-up plan in place just in case things started to get out of hand. People were keeping an eye on me for signs that I was reaching my limit. So even though the postpartum zombie came back to bite me again, it wasn't as bad with the safety net.

Things weren't bad at all after HB was born, other than the not sleeping at night thing he had working. Fortunately, that cleared up after eleven long months.

And now Sweets is here. I could tell this was going to be tough. Back in December I started to lose it. And he wasn't even born yet.

So I went on the Keep It Together Pills, and they've been simply lovely. Meaning, I have been lovely. I check with The Mister to make sure I'm really and truly as lovely as I think I am, because my Pamela Barometer doesn't always match up with other people's Pamela Barometer. And despite having to live with me, he does tell the truth.

Also, for the record, I was totally kidding about being mad at him for shattering my life the French Press. I felt like you all might have been concerned for him, and I want to assure you that his life is not in jeopardy. I actually had him read that post before I posted it to make sure it was all right with him. And it was. He even laughed.

Back to the story about Whack Job Me. Because it's my blog, and I can make it all about me if'n I wanna. That's why.

Where was I? Right. The Keep It Together Pills.

They're not as effective now as they were in December. And this is stressing us all out. My fuse is shorter, my house is messier, our diet includes a whole lot more empty calories than usual, I'm a little less nice... and each of those statements is in the running for Understatement Of The Year.

Why am I bringing this up? Aside from the obvious It's My Blog And I Can Make It All About Me If'n I Wanna? I know I'm not the only one. But I only know that because I've been through this tunnel before. And the first two times I was in this here tunnel, I didn't know that I wasn't alone.

It's just that the tunnel can be so dark that you can't see the other mamas who are standing right next to you. We're all holding our breath in here. That's why it's so quiet. And our hearts are all beating so loudly in our ears that we can't hear the shuffling feet and the dripping tears of the other mamas in the tunnel.

We are all there, together. Don't forget.

prom-a-palooza

It's the Bloggy Prom Weekend, hosted by the lovely Jen from Blissfully Caffeinated and The Stiletto Mom from, uh, well, The Stiletto Mom.  I love obvious.  It keeps me from having to understand irony.

Today I'm turning the clock back fourteen years.

Excuse me for a minute whilst I have a heart attack and a stroke and count my grey hairs...







That was an awful minute for me just then.  And all of you older folks :cough:Stiletto:cough: just shut up and pat me on the back in an understanding fashion.

I went to the Junior/Senior Prom my senior year of high school with Seth.  It was the Junior/Senior prom because my high school was not large.  It was, and still is, very small.  In fact, the town where I grew up has more cows than people.  MANY MORE COWS.  And yet?  I've never been cow-tipping.  But I'd sure like to watch cow-tipping.

Seth was a very exciting boyfriend for a number of reasons.

1. He was from another school district.
2. He was a colossal flirt.
3. He wanted to get in my pants.  Bad.  

I'll skip right to the end for you, so I don't keep you all waiting.  At my graduation party, Uncle IKnowThings, my oldest brother who is younger than me but remarkably everyone who meets him believes him to be much older than me (heehee), took Master Seth to the basement of our house and showed him the gun cabinet.  He told Master Seth to choose the gun he'd like to be shot with, if he ever showed up again, or touched me, or continued to see me.

At least that's the story that Uncle IKnowThings likes to tell, but somehow didn't relate the story to me until years later.  We were reminiscing, and I wondered why Seth seemed to drop off the face of the earth.  Uncle IKnowThings 'fessed up.

Anyway, here we are, in all of our resplendant prom-ish glory:

I am pretty sure it's the sun here,
but I recall he scowled quite a lot.
And because I was young and innocent,
I thought he was wicked hot.

It's pure poetry here.

The "Look At Us Being Super Fab Next To The Old-Timey Car" pose.
Except nobody said Old-Timey in 1995.
Or Super Fab.
Those were the days.

Because we were SENIORS
(WOO HOO!!! SENIORS RULE!!!),
we traveled in style.
*****OR*****
we were all such abominable drivers, 
our parents were happy to chip in for a limo.
We didn't even consume naughty beverages.
In the limo.

The requisite garter picture.
That's me in the middle.
I swear to the Almighty, I HAD to put
that thing a-waaaaayyyy up there.
The slit on my dress was high.
And I have a long torso.
Which that made the slit even higher than intended.
I was NOT allowed to be a whore in high school.
Honest.
Also, I'm curious.
Is it just New York schools that have the prom garter thing?
Or do other places have this odd custom?

We went to a restaurant on Lake Ontario (far, far away) for a fancy dinner, and then rode in style back to our school to dance the night away.  Afterwards we went to a fantastic party at Jamie and TJ's house straight home to bed like good little children.  It was tons of fun.

Be sure to head over to Blissfully Caffeinated and The Stiletto Mom to check those hawt babes out.  If you want to join up with the Prom-A-Palooza Tour, leave a comment on either of their posts.

Check you later.  I've gotta go blast some Journey.

qype dot com.

I love London, England.  The Mister and I went there on our honeymoon, three weeks after we were married, in December of 2001.  It was amazing.  The sights, the people, the shopping… the pubs.  It was only eight short years ago, but back then, I could put the pints away.

 

The most difficult part of visiting London was deciding what to do and where to go.  We wanted the fish and chips, but where is the best place to get that?  We wanted to hit the really traditional pubs, but we had no idea which ones were not to miss.

 

Enter Qype.  If only Qype had been around back then.  Qype is a review site for restaurants, pubs, arts and entertainment, health and beauty establishments, night clubs and other London events.  And oh my word, it is easy to use.  Simply click on the category you are interested in to peruse your options, or use the search feature and you’ll be provided with a list of options to suit your preferences.  For example, if you search “pubs London”, you’ll get a list of 5577.  Imagine the pub crawl you could have with that many pubs… you’d be busy for the rest of your life, or at least the next fifteen years.  From there you can narrow your search, if you were not interested in sorting through that many options.  If you’re looking to eat out every night for the next 30 years, you could work your way through the 12,877 restaurants listed when you search ‘restaurants London’.  So many options, so little time!

 

Qype is a great site for all you Londoners out there who are looking for something new to try, and also for tourists who want to be assured of the true London experience.  The next time you want to go out on the town, be sure you consult Qype to find the perfect event!

you really ought to know

A little quick business: Don't forget to leave a comment on my birthday post. For every comment, I'm giving $1 to Jenn at Breed 'Em and Weep. AND!!!! One of my lovely readers who wishes to remain anonymous, has promised to match what I donate for the number of comments. SO GO COMMENT!!!

************************

I woke up to a wet-mouthed HB talking loudly in my face. Right in my face. MAMA!!! Da sun is up and it is good MORNING! GET UP!!!! I!!! AAAAAMMMMM!!!! HUUUUUUNNNNNGRYYYYYYY!!!!!

I considered his logic. Yes, I am the mama. Yes, the sun was up. Yes, I was pretty sure he was hungry. But good morning? I was not convinced.

You see, something has been really wrong in my life and I've been just way to upset to even bring it up. It's hard to pick up the pieces from shattering events... I believe I am suffering from PTBFPD*.

This latest episode of PTBFPD* was brought on by The Mister. I don't really talk about our marriage here, but with the whole Jon & Kate media frenzy going on right now, I wanted to put this out there first, before he can get a word in edgewise. Because it's totally working for Kate.

Anyway, I just wanted to assure you that The Mister's actions have not yet risen to the level of DEAL-BREAKER, but there most certainly is something going on, and being the sort of call-it-as-I-see-it girl I am, I'm going to call it out here.

I am, once again, suffering from Post Traumatic Broken French Press Disorder. Did you miss the first time he broke my French Press? You probably did, most of you weren't around then.

But now it's happened again. And don't tell me that because the length of time in between breakages was SO LONG that both breakages were accidental. Because I see a pattern here. He broke it. And then he broke it again.

He's jealous. I just know it.

Men, really, if your wife had a boyfriend, wouldn't you smash him to bits? Don't deny it, well, unless you don't like your wife, or if you were the one who set them up.

That is just what he's doing. He's trying to keep us apart. He thinks... well, to be honest, I don't know what he thinks. Because let me tell you, Mister The Mister, I will just go and BUY ANOTHER BOYFRIEND. That's what I'll do. And I'll buy another and another... Go ahead, keep smashing them, just try to keep us apart. It will never work. NEVER!!!

That being said, it's costing you about $15 every time you put a hit on my boyfriend. So maybe you could find another way to keep us apart. I'd supply you with a list of suggestions, but, well, I'm not going to do that. You're clever, you can figure it out on your own.

Oh, and while I'm at it, I really do appreciate the compost-taking-out that you did last night, but that was the leftover SCRUMPTIOUS BIRTHDAY SALAD that I was going to eat until my farts smelled of ginger and cilantro I was tired of it. I'm really working on not being a petty pissant graciousness and forgiveness, so I'm only going to dutch oven you once or fifteen times every night for the rest of the week going to just let this one go.

*Post Traumatic Broken French Press Disorder

it's my birthday so you had all better show up with some good cake. presents are good, too.

Today I am 32.

I will cuddle in bed with my boys and nurse my littlest one 9,325 times, or all day, whichever comes first.  I will probably wash my face, most definitely put my contacts on my eyeballs, wake up my daughter and get her ready for school.  I will watch the boys not eat breakfast yet again, and I will drink coffee until I feel like stopping.

I will eat lunch with friends and we will squee over pregnant bellies and watch our short people run around my back yard and throw sand at each other.  I will yell at any person, short or tall, who walks on my vegetable garden.

I will nap with my boys, and if the weather cooperates, we will take a walk to the school to fetch my girl at the end of the school day.  And we will eat popscicles and go to the playground.

We will eat dinner with my mother and The Mister's parents, maybe his brother... homemade pasta and sauce, salad, and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.  And maybe, just maybe, there will be presents.

We will put the short people to bed, and maybe they will stay there.

***********

The first blog I ever read was written by Catherine Newman, an author from New England. She blogged at BabyCenter, and then at Wondertime, and now you can find her here.  I loved her blog so much, The Mister bought me a copy of her book Waiting for Birdy for Christmas or our anniversary, or because it was Tuesday or something.

All that to tell you that the SECOND blog I ever read was Breed 'Em And Weep.   And there is no other bit of writing I look forward to more, other than the 10 day forecast on The Weather Channel, but that's for an entirely different reason.  Jenn Mattern is an amazing writer, and I just can't even tell you how much amazing she has going on because she is just that awesome.

She's been having a wicked time of things lately, mothering her beautiful daughters while battling the polar bear disease and unemployment and dealing with an enormous loss... and her roof sucks.

Anyway.  See all those ads I have rocking over there?  On the right?  And at the bottom of the page?  And at the ends of posts?  Give 'em a little click.  We'll call it Operation Sucky Roofs Suck.  I will send all of my ad money for the first half of the year to Jenn.  That sounds really exciting, but anybody with ads knows that is not huge.  So, to up the ante a little, I will PayPal Jenn one dollar for every comment you leave between now and Friday (05/15, at 11:59 p.m.), up to $125, because that is what we can afford this month.  And she can put it toward her roof fund. 

Because it's MY birthday, and I get to do what I want, that's why.  

So if you are checking me out in a reader, click through and then click an ad or two, and be sure to leave a comment!

(I should mention that I am totally stealing this idea from Ree at The Hotfessional.  It was her birthday last week, and she's donating her ad money, too.)

notice to my brothers: gratuitous use of the word vagina.

It's well after nine o'clock.  

The baby has been firmly attached to the creamery all. day. long.   And he is finally taking a nap asleep for the night (think positive, Pamela...).

And by asleep for the night I mean I will awaken only momentarily a maximum of three times between now and 6:30 (when the big boys jump on my head) to roll over and suckle mah babeh. Moving on.

Today I have eaten like a moron. Three cups of coffee for breakfast. Two cookies at 11:00. A box of Kraft SuperExtraStupidFatty Creamy Macaroni and Cheese. Also one large handful of baby carrots, but those don't even matter because by this point there's just no use. There was some snacking that happened, but to be honest, I have no idea what I ate. I did make a healthy dinner: homemade refried beans (from dry beans, too!) and guacamole (also from scratch). Some people had burritos, the rest of us ate it with blue corn tortilla chips. And half of a store-bought marble cake with white frosting and hot pink flowers moving on. That's right, people, moving on, there's nothing to see here except a bunch of crumbs on the keyboard and a smudge of hot pink frosting on the corner of my mouth.

Also, because my life is totally lacking in the Excitement and Special Effects Department, I had an ultrasound today. Pick your slack jaws up off the floor, NO I AM NOT PREGNANT ALREADY AND BANISH THE THOUGHT WHILE YOU'RE AT IT. There has been some really very terrible cramping. Please recall that I did have a baby six weeks ago, and I still remember the really very terrible pains from that event, and notice I am using the verysame vocabulary to describe both events. I'm doing that on purpose. Mah Midwife thinks I may have some intrauterine stowaways, and so I had to have an ultrasound. And no, I haven't heard what, if anything, is in there, but I'll keep you posted if it's something that is related to Excitement and Special Effects.

So I had an ultrasound.

And then I had a transvaginal ultrasound. Which should be more appropriately titled, The Here, Sweetcakes, Let Me Stick My Enormous Picture Wand Up Your Hoo-Ha So I Can Get A Better Look At Your Ovaries.

Except I had to *ahem* place the picture wand for her. Also? The technician said Beautiful as she watched me do it.

Say it with me people: AWKWARD!

There has been a lot of transvaginal viewing by members of the local hospital staff, but none of them, to their credit, called my vagina beautiful. And yes, while I'm at it, I might just write them a thank you letter for not openly ogling my Special Parts. As we tell the children, Your private parts are special for you. They're not special for everybody.

Seriously, I'm sure my vagina's just as much of a looker as anybody else's. I am not a vaginal expert, and I haven't done any research, or spent a lot any time looking at p0rn lately ever, but complimenting it? Really? That's a bit much.

I suppose I could have misunderstood her. Maybe she was just admiring my uterus.