Thanksgivingthat'sover

Or, The Crazy-Eyed Peacock Octo-Turkey Bandit Finds a Home

So. Thanksgiving happened. Time to put the food where my braggy mouth is. Photos, confessions, and plenty o' dorkwads, ahoy!

 

If there's anything better than homemade piecrust, it's husbandmade homemade piecrust.

I asked Jason to provide a recipe, and he said it's something like this one, only different, and he went on and on about the importance of apple choices and using the perfect variety and his various tweaks to the topping (oatmeal) but you know, he wasn't 100% happy with the topping this year because it was a too crunchy and NEXT YEAR he's going to try such and such and zzzzzzzzz.

All I know is: Make your own. Not sharing. Goway.

Same goes for the stuffing. I mean, we barely have enough for two people here. BARELY.

 

Cauliflower and broccoli, pre-cheesified. This concludes the healthy portion of our meal.

OMG! The sweet potatoes don't have a serving spoon! Don't take a photo yet! People will think we are savages! Good thing I spent no less than five whole minutes combing through our leftover sage for a single perfectly shaped and photogenic leaf to put on top of them! I think I may have just singlehandedly saved Thanksgiving.

And now, I must talk about the turkey. Which, for all of my Big Talk about my thumpingly good track record with Thanksgiving turkeys, turned out HORRIBLY. Like, the worst turkey ever. Two reasons, only one of which was kind of my fault, but NOT REALLY.

1) Despite ordering our turkey directly from a local farm like every year, we figured we'd save ourselves a trip to the actual farm and arranged to pick it up at the farmer's market. Unfortunately, we didn't realize that D.C. law meant that the turkey HAD to arrive at the market frozen, no matter what. And once you've tasted the difference between a frozen bird and a never-frozen fresh one, well...you become a Turkey Snob, is what happens.

2) AND despite making approximately five separate grocery store runs throughout the week, we* forgot to pick up another turkey essential: the little plastic pop-up timer doohickey thing. Our turkey didn't come with one and of course, our back-up fancy digital probe thermometer chose Thursday OF ALL DAYS to malfunction and we completely overcooked the stupid thing, torn between the 10-minutes-per-pound-math and the alarmingly low temperature reading. We opted to maybe not risk salmonella. Result: dry, shoe-leather turkey that I actively despised and spent most of the meal complaining about.

Oh wait, and also, 3) maybe: We** also forgot to buy more aluminum foil, leading to a panicked discovery mid-cooking when it was time to tent the bird and oh shit! We have no foil! Quick, raid the leftovers in the fridge and cobble together not-quite-enough from some pizza slices and Indian food delivery. While that probably wasn't the WORST thing to happen to the turkey, it certainly didn't help.

But, still. The side dishes were amazing, the wine was...present and plentiful and Jason managed to make a fairly outstanding turkey salad out of the ruined bird AND we still were able to make enough turkey stock to see us through the next year. Liquid gold, as it is known around these parts, guaranteed to camouflage mediocre recipes and cooking skillz for MONTHS.

Plus I also finally found a use for all those extra breastmilk storage bags I had lying around.

Now, who wants to come over for dinner?

EVERYBODY SMILE AND REFRAIN FROM DIVING HEADFIRST INTO THE NEAREST CASSEROLE DISH UNTIL AFTER THE FLASH GOES OFF.

*Jason did the shopping.

**Although as the person responsible for making up the shopping list, I am fully aware of who is the true guilty party. Clearly, it's the Shopping List iPhone app. Way to almost ruin Thanksgiving, TECHNOLOGY.

Beautiful Plumage

Noah's school was thoughtful enough to provide a timely craft this week, in the form of this tasteful, understated centerpiece:

 

I feel like it's either going to take a candy-colored shit on the table or hold us up at gunpoint for some stuffing.

***

Have I told you that Thanksgiving is pretty much my favorite holiday ever? While it used to be the thing I barely tolerated as a kid, a stupid holiday with no presents or candy, it's now BY FAR the best day of the year. I spend the day awash in butter and heavy cream and carbohydrates and the first bottle of wine gets opened at 11:30 in the morning because I need to "deglaze" a "pan." Plus, not to brag or anything, I make a fucking amazing turkey. The secret is basting with my secret basting baste of awesome every 10-15 minutes or so, and really the only hard part about that is not drinking all the melted butter directly. Some is okay. I mean, it is a special occasion.

Also on the menu this year: roasted elephant garlic with French baguette, assorted fancy cheeses, Jason's mushroom, leek and challah bread stuffing that is pretty much the reason I married him, mashed sweet potatoes with orange, a broccoli and cauliflower gratin that does absolutely UNSPEAKABLE things to the vegetables, and some kind of apple crumb-top pie that somehow managed to survive a full 12 hours last year before we all ate the rest of it for breakfast the next morning.

(I should probably clarify that yeah, it's totally just the two of us, plus the kids. If we are lucky, Noah might eat the crunchy burned bits off the edge of some stuffing, although I worry that Ezra might SERIOUSLY cramp our style and put quite a dent in our coveted stash of delicious leftovers.)

Anyway. I am jazzed. I am antsy. I keep going to the basement to coo at our very-recently-murdered turkey and out to the garden to talk shit to the heads of cauliflower. YOUR HOURS ARE NUMBERED, BITCHES. IMMA GONNA FUCK YOU UP WITH SO MUCH CHEESE YOU'RA GONNA THINK YOU CAME FROM A COW. 

(I wonder why none of the neighbors asked us about our plans for the holidays? Hmm.)

 

The Crazy-Eyed Peacock Octo-Turkey Bandit hopes you have a wonderful Thanksgiving! I do too, but, you know. Stay away from my house. I have no food for you. All for me. NOM NOM NOM, etc.

Things Nobody Tells You: Four-Year-Old Edition

1) Learning to properly blow one's own nose is, in fact, a highly advanced skill. If you are able to blow your own nose, congratulations! You've accomplished something with your life after all.

2) Even AFTER one has learned and is perfectly capable of blowing one's own nose, it may take even longer before one has figured out that one SHOULD blow one's own nose, rather than sniff sniff snort snorting snot up through one's nasal cavities ALL THE LIVE-LONG DAY.

3) When one DOES opt to sniff sniff snort snort all the cotton-picking live-long mother-loving day and night, despite MUCH PLEADING AND PROMPTING from one's loving, concerned mother, one might eventually get sick to one's stomach and vomit.

4) A lot. A surprising, alarming lot.

5) Usually at 4 am, or so.

6) Maybe again at 5 am, on the sheets that you just changed, or in the wastebasket.

7) Incidentally, wicker wastebaskets are a poor, poor choice for a child's room.

8) Also, if you type the word "wastebasket" enough times it stops looking like a real word. Like you're referring to tissues as "noseblankets" or "snotwrappers" or something.

9) Anyway.

10) There will also be zero fever or any other signs of illness.

11) Which become obvious exactly two minutes AFTER one calls the bus depot and school to inform them that your poor sick child will not be attending school that day, as he is too busy consuming two bowls of Cheerios, a waffle and two fruit smoothies right before running laps at top speed around the living room while singing the Imagination Movers' theme song.

12) Then it all might happen again a week later.

13) At 3 in the morning, you can pretty much swear that you totally read an article once that said <EXACT THING YOU ARE CURRENTLY DEALING WITH> was one of the first symptoms of childhood cancer.

14) Google is open 24 hours. Also: IT'S MUCUS. BLOW YOUR NOSE. LAND SAKES ALIVE.

15)  If your child insists on taking non-traditional toys to bed to cuddle with, consider yourself lucky. It's way easier to clean vomit off a Candy Land board game than a plush teddy bear. Also: NICE AIM, KID.

Let's Sit Down & Throw Some Words at the Screen For Awhile

Oh hi, this is me, typing with no head. It blew off. Or up. I don't know. I don't remember. Your head is where you keep your memory. All I know is that one day I looked around and realized that I have an freaking buttload of deadlines and work obligations every day and two very high maintenance children who want love and attention and someone to keep the little one from drinking dish detergent or slamming his fingers in drawers or...or...oh HELL, he's got the adjustable-blade slicer from the kitchen. Again. Today. 

Head. BOOM! Just like that.

Wut?

Hilariously, optimistically, I placed an ad for a part-time mother's helper-type person about three weeks ago. And I got a ton of interest and applications and promises of never-ending love and devotion to my children, at least for 10 hours a week, as it seems This Fucking Economy has left a bazillion previously-out-of-our-price-range, actual-real-professional nannies unemployed around here, so they're all promising stuff like cooking meals and housekeeping and taking my baby to the ART MUSEUM, or something. Teaching him German. Handicrafts. I'm like: Or you could just keep his hands out of the toilets, more or less. I'm fine with that too.

And yet I have not actually contacted anyone to move forward with the whole screening/interviewing/hiring process, because I am trapped in an endless vicious cycle of deadlines, work obligations, two very high maintenance children, a blog audience that starts looking at me bug-eyed and impatient if I go more than three days without updating because UR BLOG SUX NAO. So I've determined that what I ACTUALLY need is to hire someone to hire the babysitter for me. Are you interested? I will pay you in harried weeping. 

 

Moooommm, I set the living room on fire again. Just FYIIIIII.

ANYWAY. Sorry. That was a boring and whiny-sounding story. I'm not doing too well as a Headless Neckstump, I guess. Oh, hey! Squirrel! And! We went to Pennsylvania this weekend for my dad's birthday party. His 80th birthday party. If you've read along for any stretch of time, at least long enough to know that my dad has nearly died like, oh, four dozen separate times, over half of which occurred this year alone, I hope you will join me in an appreciative FUCK YEAH to that.

<here is where I would insert a totally kick-ass photo of my dad holding my boys, or maybe one of the two of us, or maybe one of just him, looking healthy and vibrant, laughing at his party, surrounded by his friends, looking more like himself than he has in over a year>

<here are some crickets instead, because I did not take a single actual photo all weekend, except for that last one I just described, but that actually only exists in my head, from memory>

<and I've already discussed The Thing With My Head, Which Is Gone>

<crickets>

The weirdest part of the weekend was at one point realizing that I was absolutely surrounded by my parents' friends -- all people I've met before, but whom I ONLY know in the context of hospital waiting rooms. They're the ones who show up to visit with my mom while we pace the hallways, stare at the vending machines, grimace over cafeteria coffee. They come in, make jokes, cheerfully compliment to view from my dad's window, even if it's mostly of the hospital parking lot. They offer rides and food for my mom, and for me, big warm hugs that I accept in a stiffened panic. One friend showed me photos of a three-month-old Ezra he still had on his camera phone, snapped last January in yet another hospital room, right before my dad's heart surgery. My parents' next-door neighbor was there, a woman I've probably spoken a dozen words with, even though I know she's the rock who keeps my parents' grass mowed, plants watered and mail collected whenever crisis hits.

I chatted politely with them all, flushing whenever another nice older lady or man told me how gorgeous the boys were, and how lovely I looked. I wondered if I really did look different to them from the usual drawn, worried hospital version who had driven in after midnight the night before. One woman looked across the room at my dad and burst into tears, overwhelmed by exactly what we were all thinking. I can't believe he's still here. I'm so glad he's still here.

I didn't know what else to do, so I hugged her and thanked her. For what? She asked.

Oh, goodness. Where to even start?

And This Was BEFORE They Handed Out the Vibrating Pens

I just got back from a parents' workshop thing at Noah's school. And it was a very useful workshop, really, about how to encourage fine and gross motor development through toys and play at home. I was especially pleased to learn that I can totally do all of Noah's Christmas shopping at the $5-and-under store, along with like, some bubble wrap. The problem started when one of the therapists demonstrated a toy hanging from a doorway, designed to turn a regular balloon into a sturdier punching bag. Another parent requested the brand name, which was Balzac.

"I guess they mean like, ballsack," she said, kindly providing us with a handy mnemonic device, while jiggling the thing idly in the palm of her hand. I choked on the inside of my lung, briefly, before clearing my throat and muttering apologies for startling the grown-ups.

Then we moved on to wheelbarrow walking. A very helpful handout was provided.

DM me if you want to buy the TV rights...

Oh my God!

You guys!

In between all the craziness of...uh...sleeping and eating and taking like, THREE WHOLE SHOWERS IN FIVE DAYS, I completely forgot to tell you about the most exciting thing to happen to me ever in my whole life:

 

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

PHHHHHHFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTBBBBBB!

...is pretty much what I said when I got the notification on my phone, right before involuntarily flinging the thing upward, like it was on fire (VOLCANO FIRE), where it collided with ceiling of my car, teaching us all an important lesson about Checking Twitter DMs While Driving, i.e. Don't Do It, It Could Be A Celebrity.

I drove home with this huge dorky grin on my face, composing hypothetical replies in my head that included the somewhat embarrassing factoid that I was a devoted Reading Rainbow watcher until the age of 12, maybe 13, SHUT UP YOU, and that I record the show for Noah whenever our PBS station decides to air it, and that a rerun this past summer was about composting and I sat there watching it BY MYSELF, with GREAT INTEREST, shouting to Jason in the next room about how we were TOTALLY gonna plant us some potato chunks in our backyard this year, because one potato turns into like, 45 potatoes according to Reading Rainbow, and think of how much money we'd save on potatoes? MILLIONS, probably. Also, yes. Reading was more of a strong point for me than math, as a child. Or ever.

Obviously, I planned on...editing all that down once I got home. Into one concise, non-crazy-fangirl reply, embodying both the reverence a Really Important Childhood Idol deserves with the grown-up understanding that we're all just regular people and stuff. 

Then I call Jason and screamed into his voice mail: I JUST GOT DM'D BY GEORDI LAFORGE. JEALOUS MUCH?

(For the record, he SO WAS.)

Then I loaded up TweetDeck to actually compose my masterful reply and found that I couldn't. Because LeVar Burton doesn't actually follow me, because I am endlessly baffled by the Direct Messaging Rules of Twitter, always asking people to DM me and then they're all: I can't, Dipshit.

So I thought...well, maybe he plans to follow me and just hasn't gotten around to it. I should wait a couple hours and see what happens. Play it cool. Yes. I am cooooool.

Of course, he didn't follow me, because...why would he? I am a terrible Twitterer. Tweeter? Twit? I would probably use it solely to keep the world abreast of my children's bowel movements, if I could. I mean, I'm aware that I could, I just often forget that Twitter even exists for days at a time, while everybody else seems so much more...into it and plugged into the whole concept and @ @ @ RT RT #hashtagcakes.

My point is, Twitter makes me feel patently uncool, and we all know that my fragile vagina flower ego simply cannot handle that. So, when faced with the LeVar Burton Direct Message Quandary of Doom, I opted to simply ignore Twitter for a few days until it came to its senses and LET ME SEND LEVAR BURTON A DIRECT MESSAGE, DAMMIT.

Then Jason asked me why I didn't like, just thank LeVar Burton for his message on Regular Twitter, talking to him like everybody else does. And I fretted about that, because you know, he sent the message awhile ago, so I felt WEIRD bringing it up, plus wouldn't that seem kind of obnoxious, like I was BRAGGING to everybody else that OH HAI, LeVar Burton sent me a DM and not you, let's all bask in how AWESOME I AM?

Jason: Seriously, do you not get how Twitter works AT ALL?

Amy: Not really.  But remember that time you asked me what the hell "RT" meant? I totally knew the answer to that one.

@LeVarBurton: *is just really wishing Amy had just sent the danged public tweet because OH YEAH, a whole blog entry about this is soooooo much less creepy*

Anyway. I'm writing this because today TweetDeck crashed and I opted to go crazy old school, using Twitter dot com...where I suddenly discovered that I do indeed have the option to reply to LeVar Burton's Direct Message, even though he doesn't follow me. And that I could have replied to him ALL THIS TIME. ALL ALONG, I had the power. And then I went back to TweetDeck to yell at it, maybe kick it a little bit...and discovered that I actually could reply there too, but I'd simply been looking for the wrong icon:

 

In my head, the lack of a little arrow box in the top left corner meant I couldn't reply. I checked the little gear wheel setting and all the little drop-down menus, but for some reason, THE BOX WITH THE ENVELOPE, THE ONE THAT SAYS "DIRECT MESSAGE LEVARBURTON" WHEN YOU PUT YOUR MOUSE OVER IT, never once came to my attention.

No. Seriously. This is the dumbest thing I have ever done. I admit that. Worse than getting off the train in Newark. Worse than the Not-Pregnant Mistaken-Identity Lady. It's failing at TWITTER. Topped off with a bonus of it involving a VERY MEANINGFUL CELEBRITY CHILDHOOD ICON.

But what could I possibly say at this point, because I would feel the need to explain WHY I hadn't replied earlier, which was so RUDE of me, because Oh Em Eff Gee, he's LeVar Burton and he took the time to cure me of a lifelong phobia and I couldn't even be bothered to come up with a single 140-character reply? Like, I don't know: "THANK YOU." That's only like, 34 characters, or something.

Clearly, my only real option was to turn to my blog and 1) tell you guys about what a freaking dumbass I am (again) (some more) (six bloggy years and counting!) and 2) go ahead and completely freak poor LeVar Burton out and get myself blocked on Twitter for the very first time.

So it is written, indeed.

Blah Blah Zah Zah

Listen, we're kind of busy over here today, but Zah really wanted to say hi.

 

HI.

 

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII.

 

I have four whole molars now. JELUS?

 

Oh, he also wanted to write a comment about the terribly underwhelming final three Project Runway designers. While he appreciates Althea trying to design roomy pants for the bulky-cloth-diaper set, he thinks her technical skills are lacking. I might let him write the finale recap for me this week. 

 

And why are they all so afraid of prints? Rescue vehicles are so hot this season.

 

Anyway! That's really all he wanted to say. Besides his favorite word ever: ALLDUN. We're ALLDUN with this. There is no more food on his tray and that is sad because it's ALLDUN. From his crib, mournfully, in the morning: ALLLLLLDUN!! Leave the room and YOU are ALLDUN. He is ALLDUN with you now!  ALLDUN, sir. I SAID ALLDUN.

Life in Color

Honestly, he's done it for as long as I can remember -- as soon as Noah had the vocabulary down, he described songs in terms of color. One day he asked for the "yellow song," and sobbed while I offered up track after incorrect track of Raffi and Dan Zanes, desperately trying to figure out what the hell song he was talking about. A song about rainbows? That paint-mixing song from Blue's Clues? Big Bird? I finally gave up, assuming it was probably some blasted Moose and Zee segment from TV with a yellow background or yellow flower or something similarly random.

Then, later: a scary movie theme. Violins in minor key. Ominous timpanis. His eyes grew large and he fled the room. "NO RED SONG," he said. "OFF. NO."

For awhile, we assumed he was assigning colors in lieu of how the song made him feel. Yellow = happy songs, red = angry, scary. Then came pink songs and purple songs. And he learned how to express how he was feeling with real words, but the color thing persisted. I cycle through my iPod or the radio pre-sets in the car and he regularly makes his requests from the backseat. "No, Mommy," he says politely and articulately, "I want the yellow song."

Once a song has a stated color, it never changes. Yellow songs tend to be upbeat, playful. Most children's music, Jack Johnson. Although his current radio favorite, You're Gonna Go Far, Kid by The Offspring, is also a yellow song. Red songs are usually in a minor key, or somewhat dramatic sounding. Classical music, the theme from The Incredibles. Anything with a strong bass line or heavily orchestrated with woodwinds and strings is either purple or pink. Everything from The White Stripes to Coldplay to Beyonce has been lumped into the purple/pink realm. 

Songs are never green and only rarely blue. Some songs don't have a color, Mommy. I mean, God. 

Sometimes I catch him squinting, idly attempting to pinch or swat at the area in front of his face. 

He is left-handed. He has a near-photographic memory for things he hears, and near-perfect pitch when he sings. I am officially pretty sure we can add synesthesia to our list of Quirks That Make You Go Hmmm.

It seems both entirely logical and yet grossly unfair for a kid who already struggles with ordering and processing his senses to be given the added complication of synesthesia.  His teachers and therapists (all of whom I've had to educate on my theory; most of whom seem to think I'm talking New Age psychobabble nonsense) report that as noise levels go up, Noah's coping skills go down. He hides, he covers his ears, he wanders around in circles or becomes utterly fixated on a soothing, repetitive task. Amateur singing, whether by me or a teacher or anyone without a record deal, pretty much always drives him bonkers. "STOP!" he shouts. "YOU DON'T. YOU CAN'T." Certain music has the opposite effect -- simple piano music soothes and centers him, though so far his perfectionist nature has kept from experimenting very much on his own keyboard.

And yet, when I read about it, and about all the amazing musicians and artists and great thinkers who have had variations of synesthesia and used it as a gift, an enhancement, a privilege to see the world in a completely different way than the rest of us, I can't help but be more than a little impressed at just how much wonderfully mysterious potential is inside that quirky little brain.

More From the Mail Bag. Or Comment Bag. Whatever.

Hmm, okay. So yesterday's post was kind a of preachy "we're all fucked and going to die" thing, wasn't it? Let's change the subject. More topics and questions posed by you, the people:

From Danielle:

I remember you mentioned doing the 30 day shred a while ago.. How did that work out? Did you stick with it for 30 days? Did you do it more than once a day? Have your abs been shredded?? Should I try it? Would you ever even in a million years consider posting a before and after pic? Am I being way too forward??

My all-time record is doing it once a day, every day, for a week. Then maybe once every other day. Then there was something on TV that I really wanted to see and I decided I needed new sneakers but never bought new sneakers because sneakers cost money that could otherwise be spent on more wine. In other words, I've failed each and every time I've committed to the workout, for no other reason than the fact that I am one lazy ass motherfucker. It's a short workout, it's diabolically effective (seriously, the difference in your energy/endurance/strength between day one and day four and five is insane)...and yet. Couch. Mmmm, couch. I love you, couch!

From Kathlyn:

How did you pick your kids names? And what are your grammar pet peeves (if you have any)?  (I have my own, but am still awful with certain rules - just tried to figure out if it should be "kids names" or "kids' names" and failed miserably. MS degree = worth NOTHING!!!)  OR are there any grammar rules/spelling rules/etc can you never remember??

Both of the boys' names are from the Old Testament, which for whatever reason was the only source of names that Jason and I could agree on. Neither of us are much for the uber-modern off-the-wall names, but while I preferred classic names that have simply fallen out of recent favor, Jason liked boring names that all belonged to jackasses I went to high school with. While neither of us are actively religious anymore, we both found we had a high amount of nostalgia for the names we grew up listening to in Sunday School, and I was pretty hellbent on finding names that didn't have an obvious nickname that would eventually be pointless to fight. Noah was perfect.

Ezra was our number-one pick from pretty much the beginning (I especially loved it because of the literary connotations: Ezra Pound and Ezra Jack Keats, and because it seemed unlikely to rocket up in the top 10 like Noah did), but we did alternately take turns panicking over the idea of it being too weird. (Even though it's a freaking BOOK of the BIBLE, and not some random name we picked out of a endless genealogy list or something, like Heppiziah begat Harppiziah begat Asghdkvoieofjdlasiah. But most people aren't familiar with the lesser-known book names.) Even after announcing his name, we almost backtracked when he was three days old and almost wrote Elijah on the birth certificate, after two separate people heard the name and assumed he was a girl. (Ironically, Jason wanted to name the baby Ezra either way, boy or girl, because he is a filthy name poacher who leaves zero good names for boys.) (We've met at least three girl Noahs already. If the "old men with long white beards" names aren't safe, the world has truly gone mad.) Anyway, we obviously stuck with our first choice and the Mighty Ez is here to stay. ZAH!

Middle names: Corbin is the Latin version of my maiden name, and Harrington is Jason's mother's maiden name. And with that, we're officially out of decent family names. It's all Elmers and Mortimers and Ediths after that.

As for grammar pet peeves, the misplaced plural/possessive apostrophe drives me BATSHIT. Jesus Lord God. Here, people, IT'S EASY:

RIGHT: I don't like blogs because I don't think bloggers are good writers.

WRONG: I don't like blog's because I don't think blogger's are good writer's.

RIGHT: I cannot stand that blogger's overuse of the caps lock key.

WRONG: I cannot stand that bloggers overuse of the cap's lock key.

Got it? Good. Please don't ever do it again.

That said, I have always struggled with the "i before e except after c" rule, and totally have to pause and recite the rhyme and squint at the word for awhile. And usually the word is "piece." I don't know why, but I always, ALWAYS type "peice" the first time and have to correct myself. Oh, and correct use of lie/lay/lying. Trips me up all the damn time.

From Bliz:

I always love a good embarrassing puberty story...

Oh, God. Okay. So at some point in early high school I realized that my boobs were probably never going to...you know...BLOOM. I was quite...small. ("WAS." HA HA. HAAAA.) So I did what every hugely insecure girl does at one point or another: I bought a ridiculously padded push-up bra and stuffed it with tissues.

The problem was that, since I didn't exactly have much money and I didn't want my mom to know I was buying lacy devil black underthings, I bought my ridiculously padded push-up bra at, like, TJ Maxx or something. It was an IRREGULAR ridiculously padded push-up bra. It hooked in the front and sat like four inches of rigid boob armor under my clothes, and the front hook had this bad habit of coming undone.

Now, most women, after realizing that a bra has a tendency to UNHOOK ITSELF, would maybe think: I should not wear this bra anymore. I should return it. Or throw it out. Something, anything, other than wearing this bra out in public in front of people.

Me: But it adds TWO WHOLE CUP SIZES. Three, if you add tissues! I will wear it and just like...not move my arms much.

Wait, sudden backstory! I was also -- Oh, God -- a total drama nerd and was part of this church acting troupe that specialized in Abstinence Sketches. Seriously. Everything we ever did was all about Sex, and the Not Having It. We performed for youth groups and churches and occasionally a public school would have us visit their sex ed class and talk about how pointless it was to use condoms and birth control because of the failure rates. Don't even BOTHER, man. Abstinence! Jazz hands! We were "directed" by some grad student from Princeton who was really into avant garde theater, so most of the sketches were like, waaaay symbolic and shit, involving people tying red strings to each other's wrists to represent your emotional and physical tie to everybody you ever had sex with, and by the end of the show we were all twisted up in the strings and couldn't move and one time I had to pretend that the string strangled me and I died. Of premarital sex and disease and a broken heart and probably a back alley abortion. ANYWAY. IT WAS DEEP. ALSO CO-ED.

Since avant garde abstinence theater troupes are like, totally the place to land yourself a totally not-gay boyfriend, I had a crush on one of my fellow actors. I don't remember anything about him except that his father sold Amway. And the time that we were talking after rehearsal (IN THE CHURCH, IN FRONT OF JESUS) and I was telling him a story and made some kind of big, swooping arm gesture...

...and my factory-second push-up bra unhooked, sending the four-inch molded cups flying into my armpits, and when I frantically snapped my arms back down and folded them desperately across my chest, praying to Jesus that I looked somewhat natural and that he hadn't noticed, mentally repenting for the sin of vanity and secular underwear...

...all the tissues fell out of my shirt and landed on the floor. 

Yeah, he noticed. A little bit. There's just no coming back from that one, you guys.

In Which a Good 75% of You Will Glaze Over By Paragraph Four

Since you guys proposed SO MANY awesome topics yesterday Tuesday, I shall continue to mine them for awhile, or at least until something actually important happens in real life that requires a veryimportantblogupdate!, and no, I'm not counting last night's Tuesday night's all-night preschooler-puke-a-thon. (He's just fine now, of course, which is good because we are plum out of clean sheets.)

From Cagey:

I have been reading The Unhealthy Truth and seem to remember you mentioning it on one of your Advice columns. The book is blowing me away and I am shocked at how few folks realize how food can really affect us - say, Red #40 for example.

I was wondering your thoughts on this and if you have seen whether certain things affect Noah. For example, artificial colorings are the devil now in our house because my son flips his lid every time he has them. And this is the same kid who can eat ice cream and go right to bed! For him, Red #40 is like main-lining a bit heroin.

Yep. I did write about this book, mere HOURS after I'd finished reading it, while I was freshly seething with rage. I have since gone back and re-read sections and pondered it some more and guess what! I AM STILL ANGRY.

(Hold on, 'cuz it's about to get screedy and caps-locky up in here.)

(I mean, more so than usual. And about other things besides an overflowing coffeemaker, or something.)

For the record, I am not a big conspiracy theorist. I am more of skeptic than a believer, and while I certainly gotten crunchier in recent years with the cloth diapers and homemade baby food and all, I still am a BIGFAN! of things like modern medicine and scientific advancements. I'm allergic to most antibiotics -- HIGHLY SO -- thus personally have always had to depend on alternative treatments for myself, and I'm not trigger-happy with the prescriptions when it comes to the kids. But both of the boys have gotten both seasonal and H1N1 flu shots this year and I would jab 'em in the arm again in a heartbeat. We fully vaccinate, falling on the "debunked" side of the vaccine/autism fence, although I think the chicken pox one is bullshit. (I never had it, and have to depend on the half-assed, temporary protection of the vaccine myself. Glad it exists; disagree that it belongs on the childhood schedule; worry about kids not getting their boosters and getting sick as adults.) I've seen the Feingolding gone amok at Noah's school, am a bit weary of suddenly every problem in the world being blamed on yeast and gluten, though I have nothing but sympathy for parents and child dealing with honest-to-God allergies and am extremely careful about sending Noah to school with clean peanut-butter-residue-free hands and non-triggering snacks, and would hope others would do the same for us. So basically, I was expecting to agree with some of what this book has to say...but also to roll my eyes at a lot of it too.

My eyes bugged out of my head, but they sure didn't roll. I'm not going to get into all of it -- the genetic engineering and corn refiners and the FDA's refusal to protect us from stuff that's long since been banned or flagged as dangerous overseas (soy baby formula, anyone?) -- but seriously, IS GAH HEAD EXPLODING TIME NOW.

Anyway, the whole artificial coloring thing. Yes, they affect Noah big time. They are banned in our home. Red 40 and Yellow 5 are just like...I don't know. Tiny seismic earthquakes through his neurological system. Artificial flavorings, too. He gets hopped up and agitated...while also weirdly shutting down at the same time. Loss of eye contact, anxiety, tantrums. He defaults back to echolaic speech or just goes silent. Anecdotal? Coincidental? Totally, sure, maybe. But it's so fucking scary, you guys. So why even argue, when it's a pretty safe assumption that Red 40 and Yellow 5 are two little things that we can all live without just fine?

And they are in EVERYTHING. It doesn't have to be garishly candy-coated. It's stuff that should technically, be healthy. Yogurts. Granola bars. Fruit snacks. Boxed cake mixes (seriously, why the FUCK does a CHOCOLATE CAKE need both red and yellow food dyes?). Toothpastes, kiddie vitamins and cold medicines. It's BULLSHIT, trying to shop at a "regular" grocery store when you need to avoid this stuff, even more so when (like us) you've also cut out high-fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated oils for various other Frankenfood reasons.

We're lucky that we live in an area where Whole Foods is about as common as any grocery store, along with Trader Joe's and several year-round farmer's markets where we buy pretty much everything from produce to grains to meats and fish. (Up where my parents live, you either live on one fancy organic aisle at the Acme or drive close to an hour to the nearest Whole Foods in New Jersey.) We're also very lucky that we can afford to shun the processed foods and eat organic, local, humane, sustainable and all those other hippie food buzzwords. I'll sacrifice plenty of other columns in our budget before I cut food corners, particularly for the kids. (She says while wondering if it's too early to switch from coffee to Coke. And fun-sized Snickers.)

And it took us a long time to get fully here, by the way. Hell, we potty-trained with M&Ms, fed Noah Flintstones vitamins, brushed his teeth with sparkly blue Disney-branded toothpaste. It really wasn't until we stopped giving him anything artificial that we really saw how little it takes to really affect him, be it candy or fast food chocolate milk or a fruit-flavored Triaminic strip. We don't deny him the occasional treat or get hysterical if friends or family offer him something we wouldn't necessarily feed him at home...we just sort of know what we're in for and up our focus on the rest of his diet for a day or two.

If you are unsure of how or where to start, The Unhealthy Truth is a great book for this as well -- at least after scaring the pants off you the author devotes a chapter on how to prioritize your grocery list and budget, taking baby steps to avoid the "worst" things and slowly get your kids to accept healthier versions without feeling like you've just ripped the rug out from under them and clobbered them with a Deprivation Hippie Stick.

Anyway. I actually wrote the bulk of this entry yesterday, right before my parent-teacher conference at the public school program. And finally, OH GOD FINALLY, I got to sit there in front of a team of teachers who had nothing but lovely, wonderful things to say about my child. What a delight and a joy he is, how smart and funny he is, and how much progress he's already making. I'm certainly not all, "OH, IT'S ALL BECAUSE WE THREW OUT HALF OF HIS HALLOWEEN CANDY. ARE BEST PARENTS EVER."

In the grand scheme of things, it's admittedly a tiny part of the puzzle. Though WOW, did I ever have a lot to say about it.

In other news, Noah is kicking ass at school. And I'm committing that phrase to published type: NOAH IS KICKING ASS AT SCHOOL. We celebrated by not coming right home so I could sit around and finish this entry. I hope you understand. It's been a long time coming.