Mean Girl to the Rescue!

Rich man's family

2009-05-18T18:29:00.005-04:00

Huh, so what do you know, it's been almost a year since I posted anything new. However, I have a good excuse:
We call her Pigeon. 8.64 lbs of pure love, birthed a mere 34 minutes after arrival at the hospital. Birth story coming soon.

About this time last year, I was probably weaning Woogie, who was 14 months old then and who had begun biting my nips and laughing uproariously at each feeding. You know how they say breastfeeding is an inefficient method of birth control? Well, they lied (at least in my case), BUT you damn skippy better have the Mirena ready to roll when you stop, because it took *one cycle* for me to get pregnant again. This, after various drugs of the swallowable and injectable variety, endless charting, two failed IUIs and innumerable vials of blood taken from me over a 15-month period of time before my first pregnancy.

You can imagine my shock when I went to my fertility doctor to discuss "working on" a second baby and was told told, "Hey, surprise! You're already 5 1/2 weeks pregnant." My uterus has been kick-started, big time.

If you plant it, they will come

2008-06-10T16:08:00.002-04:00

One thing I promised myself that having a child wasn't going to take away from me was my voracious reading habit, and I'm happy to say, I'm still reading a LOT. Blogging, not so much, but what can a girl do? Blogging occasionally seems to be how it'll go for me.

Booby and I dismantled our veggie square foot garden this year, because we put our little house up for sale, and we figured that an additional parking space would be more attractive than 6 feet of garden space surrounded by red bricks. As a result, both of us are feeling garden withdrawal, and plotting our future house purchase with special attention to The New Garden (did you know that some boros will give you trees for your yard - for FREE?).

I've also been reading a lot to get myself set up for the next place. On the bedside table this month: Bringing Nature Home: How Native Plants Sustain Wildlife in Our Gardens, by Douglas W. Tallamy, who lives in Southeastern PA, just like I do. This book is a very interesting read. It makes the case that if we plant native plants in our suburban gardens, rather than alien ornamentals, we'll have a thriving insect community, which will then support and sustain other wildlife who will eat those insects. It's a pretty simple theory, but clearly a workable one.

Before I started this book, it had occurred to me that picking all the aphids from my roses wasn't going to leave much for the ladybugs who lunch on them, and I did manage to restrain myself from hosing them off of my milkweeds, since those plants exist only to be chomped by monarch butterfly larvae, anyway. We've been trained to remove all bugs from the garden, so just leaving it all be and let it exist as its own balanced ecosystem might make your fingers itch - though the rewards will be great if you do. Example: last year, our garden was enough of a pest palace that not one, not two, but five praying mantises (manti?) left egg cases behind (possibly after mating and then chewing their men's heads off post-coitally). I was fortunate enough to be outside shortly after one of the egg-cases, or oothecae, delivered its precious cargo into the world. I have never seen so many tiny, freaky little praying mantises. They were everywhere, just hanging out, and some of them stuck around for several days (Booby has photos here). Safe to say that if we didn't have a few native plants providing food for the mantises, I wouldn't have seen those babies sunning themselves on my false dragonhead.

Tallamy also includes an appendix with lists of appropriate plants for your region. Since no one, not even the most dedicated entomologist, has ever listed which insects eat which plants (in full), this is not as simple as it sounds, so he has concentrated on the plant species favored by butterflies, moths and their larvae for each region, including information on which natives provide food for the most species, so you can get the most bang for your buck (or for your foraging trouble, since you can easily find many native seeds on your local wooded hiking trail). The idea here is that these insects are a particular favorite of nesting birds to feed their young (even herbivorous birds will feed exclusively protein-rich bugs to their nestlings), and thus bring birds (and bats!) to your yard, and keep the whole system in balance.

I have a few natives in my garden, particularly in the shady parts, but I have to admit that I had been remiss - I had three patches of alien, potentially invasive honeysuckle in there, due to my fondness for nice-smelling flowers. These plants are often seen colonizing vacant lots and slowly taking over trees, kudzu-like, until there's nothing left but a massive pile of vines. Birds disperse the plants by eating and then pooping the seeds, but insects ignore them and it's easy for them to take over. Now my garden is non-native honeysuckle-free (except for some shrubs whose berries are ignored by the birds anyway), and the garden at my next house will (eventually) be as native as I can stand for it to be, though it might mean chopping down a Norway maple or two.

If you're interested in planting natives and need a source in your state, you can find one here.

How is your gardening going this year?

Bobby Dunbar

2008-05-15T23:41:00.003-04:00

It's been forever, I know. I've been chasing after a 13-month old (!) who started walking some time before Easter, and dammit, I just been tired. There's no N on my keyboard (forcibly removed by aforementioned 13-month old). We're trying to get our ducks in a row to sell our house in a craptacular sellers' market. Life goes on.

In the meantime, check out this story from This American Life. It had us spellbound one Sunday as we drove around attending open houses a few suburbs down the Blue Route. If you're a mother, you'll find it absolutely heartbreaking. If you're not, you'll probably still find it heartbreaking (but maybe to a lesser extent). This story is one of the reasons why my husband has a big ole man crush on Ira Glass.

So I married a cat hurter-er

2008-01-07T16:00:00.000-05:00

The scene: bedtime, in the bedroom. The fattest cat, HIM (between 18-20 lbs.!), jumps into my spot in the bed about 1.2 femtoseconds after I vacate it to go brush my teeth. Since this is a cat who is too fat to clean his own ass properly (earning him the nickname "A.J.," for "Ass Juice"), I am less than thrilled by this phenomenon, which occurs multiple times per night.

Upon my return, I try to slide him from the bed gently onto the floor, mindful of his bum leg. His not inconsiderable belly sloshes around a bit, but he has somehow melded himself onto the bed. I have no choice but to pick him up and drop him onto the floor, and he lands, - you guessed it - right on the stump. Limping, hissing, and reproachful looks back ensue as he hobbles out of the room, and I'm struck with intense guilt. Booby comforts me.

"Oh, don't worry about it, honey. He's fine," he says. "I do terrible things to the cats all the time."

Why can't we have an amusing LOLcat, instead?

Set your blenders to stun. I mean, puree.

2007-12-31T09:55:00.000-05:00

Because I am one of those not-trusting-in-big-corporations types of people, when it came time to start feeding my kid solids, I knew I would, at the very least, attempt to make his food. Izzy is the one who pointed out the stupidity of Gerber manufacturing organic baby food and then packaging it in polycarbonate plastic (and I wrote them an aggrieved email asking them why, and they swear that the plastic they use is not polycarbonate. But isn't that what #7 plastic IS? I welcome your enlightenment, dear readers). There is always Earth's Best organic baby food - I trust them far more than, say, Beech Nut - but mah gawd, the expense! So I had to try to make my own. And it was a lot easier than you'd think.

Basically, if you want to do it without a book of recipes, you can just peel (you can leave summer squash, figs and other thin-skinned items unpeeled, if organic) whatever fruits and/or veggies you have around, cut them into a 1/2" dice, plop them in a pot and cover them with water. Then bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and simmer for 20 minutes. Transfer the whole contents of the pot to the blender (being careful not to splash hot food on yourself), and puree, pushing the solid pieces to the bottom to ensure even texture. Then pour into sterilized, empty baby food jars (the dishwasher is hot enough to sterilize, or use your baby's bottle sterilizer), or use whatever sterilized glass jars you have, from jam, or salsa, or whatever. Leave to cool for maybe half an hour (so the glass doesn't break from the temp change of the fridge), pop into the refrigerator, and you're done. Seriously. That's it. If you can cook for yourself, you can cook for your baby.

If you want to get fancier, or need ideas for what foods go together best, there are two excellent books I recommend. The first is nice and simple, has a number of great recipes, and is available on Amazon (I got it through interlibrary loan, though, and so could you): Blender Baby Food by Nicole Young, who seems to be a blender aficionado (her other books are blender recipe books). Her measurements are precise and all the recipes I tried worked, quickly and easily.

The second one, I liked so much I bought it new: Cathe Olson's Simply Natural Baby Food.
The recipes are simple, yet unusual enough for a jaded toddler's interest, and she has wonderful information about making sure your baby gets the best nutrition possible, using ingredients like nutritional yeast and seaweed (although I had a hell of a time finding the many varieties of seaweed she suggests, even at my beloved H-Mart), and suggesting alternatives to salt, like Bragg's amino acids. I got the sense that Cather really knows her shit, and I really love her sidebars filled with tips and tricks. She gives equal time to vegetarian options, but doesn't make you feel like a villain if you choose to feed your baby protein in meat form. Cathe even has a blog, which is right up my alley with its information on BPA-lined formula cans and Monsanto-engineered GMO sugar (coming soon to a Kellogg's cereal near you!).

There are many, many other baby food cookbooks out there, and each has its own spin, usually written by a professional baby food cook who has her own business (who knew there was such a thing?). It's worth noting that virtually all of these promote the importance of organic produce for babies, since their little systems are tiny enough to be easily overloaded by the chemicals found on conventional produce. If you're interested in making your own food, why not get whatever cookbook is available at your local library and take the recipes for a test drive first? Making your own baby food might not be the right choice for you, but if it is, the sense of accomplishment is surprisingly great. Plus, you get to smile beatifically as you say, "Why, yes, I do make little Junior's food!" while you enjoy an inner smug moment. Or maybe that's just me ...

On the road to being bitch-and-moan-free

2007-11-28T20:37:00.001-05:00

Top 10 Reasons Why I Haven't Posted

1. 2 separate contractors to complete one job over a period of 8 weeks (was supposed to take one week to drywall over hideous paneling and finish off the edges).

2. And now we have to paint a 22' x 16' room. Le sigh.

3. 3 large pieces of furniture arrived just a little too soon and now we have to paint around them. Booby blames me.

4. 4th large piece of furniture is being picked up tomorrow. Booby officially hates me.

5. Have I mentioned we are putting our house on the market in the Spring? Hence this flurry of home improvement activity.

6. Oh, and looking at houses to buy elsewhere on weekends. Like the huge money pit that we'd really like to buy, but are all too aware would cause our divorce. Jesus, we can't even handle a one-room remodel, let alone 8 rooms and a carriage house (even though I really, really want a carriage house).

7. 2 colds caught in a space of 3 weeks. Most recent cold lasted 3 weeks (and lingers still!) and was notable for the dry, racking cough it produced. I slept in the spare bedroom (in a not-so-roomy twin) for several nights, often with a cranky 7-month-old who backslid on his sleep training.

8. Rampant eBay addiction has worsened with the onset of the holiday season. Pathetic, I know.

9. Lack of quality sleep causing me to stumble around house with baby in tow, moaning "Braaaaaains!" That whole "sleep when your baby sleeps" thing only works if you aren't expected to do anything else, like laundry, or cleaning the house, or brushing your teeth.

10. Would you believe that after the Great Flea Roundup of Summer '07, we had the Great Indian Mealmoth Massacre of Fall '07? They wouldn't. Stop. Appearing. Even after I cleaned out every single frigging cabinet in my house (I found cocoons everywhere, including in packages of tea bags. It was awful.), until Booby discovered that they were laying eggs in the lid of the food scrap bin we kept in the kitchen. Needless to say, the food scrap bin has been relocated to the outdoors. Yes, I revel in moth death. Some of God's creatures are just too annoying once they have colonized all of one's foodstuffs.

And now my silly rant is over. The end.

There was a lit-tle Spanish flea ...

2007-09-25T12:21:00.000-04:00

You know what sucks? Having a cat who escapes for a day and then returns home with fleas. What sucks more is not realizing there is a sizable flea population until it's kind of serious and you, the humans, are being bitten. The suckiest thing is when the treatment you buy for the cats (all of them, because of course if one has them, they all do) doesn't work even a little bit (damn you, Hartz!), and then the flea foggers you set off don't work (double damn you!), and then even Frontline doesn't kill ALL of the fleas, and when you come back from your weekend visiting your in-laws at the shore so you don't breathe in toxic fumes, your bedroom is so overrun with fleas that you have to go check in to the fucking Hilton.

I've had an exterminator in twice in the past two weeks to spray chemicals in my house. If I am resorting to chemicals, you know this shit is serious.

And did I mention I had some sort of Indian meal moth infestation in my kitchen at the same time? That was fun, too. I haven't traced the source exactly, but they seemed to be everywhere. It probably didn't help that Booby left an open package of pancake mix in the cupboard, or that my mother gifted me with a package of cookies from a discount store (both were full of little teeny moth cocoons). Are you feeling itchy yet?

I promise I'm not actually a filthy pig. It's just that bugs are conspiring against me. Or something.

So that's why I haven't been around, or been in touch with anyone, or leaving comments on anyone's blogs. I have been so busy cleaning out my cupboards, vacuuming every day, changing my sheets umpteen times, and laundering every item in my closets in hot water that I have barely had time to think, let alone do anything more mentally strenuous than check my email.

As I told Booby, the upside here is that we were forced to clean the whole house, together, which is something we had been fighting about daily. Nothing like a new baby to corral your energy away from housekeeping. I rounded up 30 bags of stuff to give to the Salvation Army, and now all my towels fit in the closet they call home (after having been laundered in plenty of hot water, of course).

I also made up a chore chart, much to Booby's chagrin, although his chores are fairly minimal since he's the breadwinner while I'm home with the baby. I have to earn my keep! Ha ha. Actually, I thought there would be a revolt if I placed too many chores on his shoulders, so I gave him only a few hard ones. My hope is that these chores will become second nature. And then you can all ask me for my recipe in Stepford Husband-making.

Rooting for the little guy

2007-09-07T11:52:00.000-04:00

I recently read Barbara Kingsolver's new non-fiction book called Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, about her family's decision to leave the Southwest and go live on a Virginia farm, eat locally exclusively, and raise chickens and turkeys. Oh, man, it was awesome. I'm not generally a non-fiction fan, but this was interesting (and inspiring) reading, and it might be for you, too, if you're a big food nerd like me.

Now, I'm not about to go live on a farm (though I won't pretend that it's not something that Booby and I have discussed at great length -- the stumbling block right now is the lack of high-speed internet available in rural areas, which would prevent him from working from home), but that book renewed my interest in having a real vegetable garden that works for me on a year-round basis. And that means fall planting.

Fall planting means garlic, delicious anti-vampire food that it is. According to Ms. Kingsolver, there are bazillions more varieties of garlic in this world than you'd ever see in the supermarket, being that such varieties are grown for their ability to travel well. I would lament for the poor, lost varieties of produce that we'll never get back again, but that's another post, and I'd rather focus on the exciting world of heirloom seeds and the like.

You may not know this (I didn't), but the chances are good that your faithful old seed company is either owned or supplied by corporate giant Monsanto. Yeah, the same Monsanto who gave us rGBH, which is partially responsible for our lowered resistance to bacteria and the early puberty of millions of little girls, is now the largest seed corporation in the WORLD. I don't want to give them my money, I want them to go pound sand, as my dad would say. So I had to do a little research and find some little seed companies.

My travels led me to a nice list at Casaubon's Book. Sharon has put together a thoughtful list of seed companies and some warnings about the more popular ones. She mentions checking out Dave's Garden to see who owns what, but I didn't see any mention of Monsanto there. In fact, I couldn't find a complete list of exactly which seed companies Monsanto owns anywhere, not even on their website. However, when you're blogging while your baby sleeps, time is of the essence, and maybe someone does have a list somewhere. Anyway, further trawling revealed another nice list of organic seed sources, listed by state (always good to buy local when you can). I'd figured I could buy from Burpee (local to me, and a trusted name), but it seems that though they are independently owned, they are supplied, in part, by a Monsanto-owned company.

I also remembered hearing about a rare seed catalog on You Bet Your Garden on NPR sometime last year. That's where I found J.L. Hudson, Seedsman. You can order their print catalog, but as I recall, there are no pictures in it, so it's probably best to just order online and save a tree. I couldn't find any garlic there, and it occurred to me that garlic is maybe best grown from the bulb, so off I went to Fedco, notable because they ceased business with Seminis Seeds after that company was bought by Monsanto (unlike Burpee). That's my kind of company. Sadly, Fedco stopped selling garlic bulbs on August 31st. What was a lazy gardener to do?

Keep googling, apparently. I quickly found Southern Exposure Seed Exchange, which supplies heirloom organic garlic packages, one of which is listed as a "beginner" set for $11. I also found Hood River Garlic, which is certified by Oregon Tilth, and seemed to have a larger variety. It also seemed that "seed" in reference to garlic does in fact refer to bulbs. Duh. I have bought packages of onion seed before, so I assumed that "seed" meant seed, you know? Ah well, live and learn. I opted for the Susanville softneck variety, because softnecks are apparently easier to grow, and it stores for a long time. I was sorely tempted by the Chesnock Red, because it's hot and Georgian and the flavor is supposed to be wonderful, but I figured I'd start small (and easy).

My garlic bought, I can now think about clearing up the remains of my veggie garden, which is still producing a few measly tomatoes. The cucumber plant seems to be pulling a Lazarus, and the eggplant suddenly has a profusion of purple flowers (each one with a thin black spike near the stem, as I found out the hard way). Now, on to winter sowing ...

The BFF

2007-08-07T13:04:00.000-04:00

As in, Breast Feeding Fan. I am one. And, hey, has anyone heard about this whole New York hospital formula "controversy"? Check it out here.

If you don't feel like clicking, here's the gist: "New York City's hospitals have banned infant formula from their gift bags for new mothers — a policy that they hope will encourage nursing and healthier babies." Pretty simple, right? Instead of getting a formula goodie bag, new mothers will get a goodie bag with a breast-milk bottle cooler, disposable nursing pads, breast-feeding tips and a baby T-shirt with the slogan, "I Eat at Mom's."

Any new mother who wants formula has only to ask for it. And yet, Susan Donaldson James, author of this article for ABC News, refers to The World Alliance for Breastfeeding Action's slogan, " "Save 1 million babies beginning with one action," as "rhetoric that fuels the great divide between those who choose breast-feeding as a maternal mission and those who opt for bottle-feeding, feeling guilty and inadequate." Hmmm. Susan, I think you might be projecting a little, here. And aren't journalists supposed to be unbiased? This isn't an op-ed piece, after all.

But what really pisses me off is this TV segment hosted by none other than everyone's favorite mommy-basher, Meredith Vieira*. I don't know which woman pisses me off more, Meredith, for heading up this piece (among her other mommy-bashing pieces), or Dr. Nancy Snyderman, who puts the Men vs. Women spin on this so-called controversy. Because everyone knows that women can't be politicians! Tee hee, math is hard! She also has the flaming nerve to suggest that women of color who live in the city have an insufficient support network to allow breastfeeding to go smoothly. Dr. Snyderman, I hope you enjoy the check that the formula companies gave you, because it seems to me that a bigger concern for poor women in the city, whether they are of color or not, is the COST of formula. Also, families of color are known for having excellent support networks, at least in my experience.

Please note that I am not, Not, NOT knocking women who use formula. Hell, I use formula sometimes. And for some women, breastfeeding just doesn't work. But for the vast majority of women, breastfeeding is a viable and wonderful (and inexpensive) method of feeding their babies. I have long been gung-ho on breastfeeding, but after initially being prevented from breastfeeding my son in the hospital, and having formula at the ready at all times while we were hospitalized, I found the prospect of breastfeeding successfully really, really daunting. It didn't help that every single nurse in the maternity ward pushed formula on me, and one or two even wanted to see the evidence that we had fed him formula (open formula container, etc.). Nibbler wasn't a great nurser at the start, and the nurses had me feeling guilty (and inadequate, perhaps just like Susan Donaldson James) that I wasn't providing a steady spigot of breast milk, despite the fact that my milk hadn't yet come in. I can only imagine how much easier and how less daunting the whole thing might have been if I had been encouraged from the start by more than one person on staff (who was a lactation consultant and a dream come true).

I love how this is being lumped in with "Nanny Culture," i.e. the whole anti-smoking, no trans fats thing that's happening now. It's irritating because there is still plenty of choice allowed here. This is something that promotes health in a way that is completely positive; the only negative is less cash in Nestle's pocket. Perhaps Big Formula (hee!) should hire Rick Berman, who recently appeared on 60 Minutes, decrying "Nanny Culture." His fascinating interview can be read here.

Hey, if they're willing to pay him, I bet he could do a bang-up job making people feel like they're being lied to, and that they should just give up and bottle feed.

Happy Breastfeeding Week!

*Via International Breastfeeding Symbol blog.

Dear Clive Owen:

2007-07-20T13:14:00.000-04:00

I like you. Really, I do. You're pretty much the only actor I have any remote interest in, especially since Ralph Fiennes has revealed himself to be some sort of sex addict. You were so great in those BMW films on TV and the internets. I loved you in Croupier, as the assassin in The Bourne Identity, the filthy bank robber in Inside Man and the guy in that movie where you live out in the woods but return to your former criminal ways to avenge your brother, played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, after he gets ass-raped and kills himself. I forgive you for making that stupid Jennifer Aniston movie (she is so not hot enough for you), and that Julia Roberts movie I didn't see (ditto) and I'll even overlook your blinding white teeth in The Children of Men (are those veneers, or did you just get them whitened? So needless - you were hardly a candidate for The Big Book of British Smiles).
But what I cannot forgive, sir, is you shilling for Lancome.

Do you need the cash? Really? Because IMDb lists a lot of new projects on your resume. And -- don't take this the wrong way -- but you're hardly men's cologne ad material, are you? When I think men's cologne, I think of those Davidoff Cool Water guys (although I see that Sawyer from Lost is one of those guys now, and that's a whole other story of inappropriate hawking). Or maybe an Acqua di Gio guy, since I can't find any ads that don't have Sawyer in them. Anyhoo, my point is, you're not pretty enough to be a cologne guy - you're rugged. You're supposed to smell like pine trees (preferably from cleaning my kitchen floor), or woodsmoke or something. Maybe of gun powder, or hot steel from sharpening knives. If you smell like anything that isn't those things, it should be your deodorant, or perhaps the Irish Spring you used in the shower. But a guy who spent a week in a bank vault isn't a guy who cares about cologne.

And, yes, I realize that Clive Owen isn't actually that guy. But still.

In closing, Clive Owen, you are no longer my movie boyfriend. You are on notice, and within a hair's-breadth of being dead to me. We won't even discuss the fact that Lancome is not cruelty-free.

Regretfully,

Mrs. Harridan

Crazy plant lady

2007-06-19T15:19:00.000-04:00

As some of you know, I'm an avid gardener. Having a kid has definitely put a crimp in that hobby, but I haven't given up the ghost just yet. The plan for this year was to have even more edible stuff to offset our CSA veggies. It worked out more that we tried some different stuff rather than MORE stuff, but hey. What are you gonna do, right?

The garden plot in May. It's since exploded a bit more. This year, we're doing brussels sprouts (I thought I was picking up a flat of broccoli. Booby is less than enthused), red leaf lettuce, spinach (already gone to flower - better planning next year, I hope), various tomatoes, cukes, one pepper, and yellow and green squash. We also bought one melon plant, which was quickly shaded by a massive raspberry bush, and one eggplant, which has a pretty purple flower and that I expect will die (but you never know).

Strawberry plants. These tend to get eaten by the birds, so we've bought bird netting that I am, so far, too lazy to put up.

The aforementioned raspberry cane. We've had maybe one "harvest," which consists of one of us going out and eating the ripe berries off the bush. Delicious! I had about three of these on my cereal this morning.

Yellow squash. We've had a little trouble with blossom-end rot, but overall these are a much greater success than they were last year (when they mostly just rotted). We have tons of blossoms, so I'm guardedly hopeful.

And finally, a non-vegetable feature. This is dranunculus vulgaris, purported to stink like rotting flesh. I had thought it was like the one I saw on an episode of CSI, but that one is much smellier, apparently. The reality? The day it bloomed, I smelled something that was kind of like a bag of garbage left in the sun. Nothing too awful, no rotting meat or anything (though it was well-attended by blowflies). Of course, I have a lot of fragrant plants that smell good that may have offset this one. Still, an interesting showpiece for the flower garden, and the smell only lasts a day.

Boobiefest (not Boobyfest, though he's cool, too)

2007-06-18T17:58:00.000-04:00

I've been breastfeeding Nibbler pretty much since he was born. I was very gung-ho about the whole endeavor, but I'll tell you, it hasn't been easy. I've discovered a few things over the past nine weeks:

drugs designed to increase your supply will sometimes make your boobs leak so much, you'll think your baby has peed the bed five times over.

fenugreek makes your pits smell like maple syrup (but unappetizingly so).

sometimes, neither boob will make your baby happy, and this is why we have the third boob, commonly known as the pacifier.

while breastfeeding is convenient in the middle of the night, your husband can never really help out with it (rubbing your back as you hoist your kid up on your chest for the 5th time doesn't count). You may resent this despite your best intentions, if you're me.

the trade-off for not getting help in the wee hours can be that Daddy fields all poopy diapers.

There's nothing like a little side-lying nursing to make you feel like Fluffy, in a box under the stairs.

Breastfeeding depletes estrogen, which leads to a lack of interest in reconvening the procedure*. This is tantamount to a divorce decree in these parts; times have been tough since Nibbler's arrival. But he's getting all his nutrients.

Pumping makes me think I need to switch to soymilk if this is what is done to cows all damn day long.

Cats seem to like stepping on babies who are chillin' breastside on the Boppy pillow. Yowch!

*Never fear, the procedure has been reconvened and who knows, maybe Nibbler will have himself a sister someday after Mommy stops screaming in pain. Kidding!

Me on TV, and my hair

2007-06-08T06:02:00.000-04:00

Here's the link to the story about SOAM. I said a lot more than what they aired, so please, internets, don't hate on me for my brief comment taken out of context. I was just trying to be honest.

Oh, and that's my belly in the story, too.

Melissa commented that my hair looks darker than in my photo (which was taken almost exactly 2 years ago): true enough. When I began dyeing my hair with pure henna, the results were a little more flamingly red than I cared for, so now I put in a dollop of pure indigo, which gives a darker (and hopefully more natural) tone. I do miss my blondey-red, but it's harder to achieve with henna, at least until I go a bit grayer, which shouldn't be long. The darker tone blends in more when I neglect to dye my hair for 3 months, too.

Remembah my name

2007-06-04T20:06:00.000-04:00

Hey, remember how I was interviewed by the local news for a piece on Shape of a Mother?
Well, it's finally airing. If you live in the Delaware Valley of Pennsylvania, you can see it on CBS 3 on Thursday on the 11 o'clock news. After it airs, a link to the story is going up on their website; once that happens, I'll post a link (if it's not too embarrassing and I don't look too much like an ass, that is).

Jury is still out on whether I will actually send photos to Shape of a Mother, as I ended up with a few small stretch marks in my 40th week (shazbot! I was so close), and I am totally fucking vain.

Little Bun becomes ...

2007-05-24T14:10:00.000-04:00

Nibbler. Because he's done baking, he's not a bun in the oven any more. And if anyone is unfamiliar with Nibbler on Futurama:

Granted, my kid doesn't have fangs, and sports a mere pair of eyes (no cape, either, but perhaps later). But from a breastfeeding mother's P.O.V., Nibbler is an appropriate nom de blog.

What does he really look like, these days, you ask?

Part the third: the ickiest of the NICU

2007-05-20T12:11:00.001-04:00

When my son was spirited away, it was done by the head neonatal nurse, Mary Anne. She had entered the room after being summoned by my midwife when the baby's heartrate began to fluctuate and/or disappear from hearing. I was dimly aware of her presence behind my left shoulder, but she felt like nothing so much as a cigar store Indian or somewhat lifelike mannequin in my primal birthing state. However, she became much more real to me after she prevented my son from leaving the NICU. At first we were told he'd be returned to us after "an hour or two," once they'd made sure he was OK. His initial APGAR score was a bit low; the second was in normal range, but the blue hue of his arms, legs and lips had them concerned. I had wanted to breastfeed him within an hour (two at the latest), so their time frame was all right with me. What I didn't know was that the NICU's time frame promises are pretty much always bullshit.

About an hour after the birth, I was readied for a short journey to the Maternity Ward to start recuperating in earnest: I was given a haphazard wipedown (much needed after the placenta incident, which had left me awash in blood right down to my toes), and my crotch was outfitted with a coldpack, a belt-ready maxi pad, and a huge disposable seat pad, which was folded in thirds and intended to catch the copious flow of junk from my insides. All these accouterments were stuffed into a lovely pair of stretchy nylon boy shorts. Good times! Then I was wheeled down to my new room (getting up out of the bed was no picnic, I assure you), where Booby took me down to the NICU to see our boy.

That's when we found out that he wouldn't be back with us in "an hour or two." He was fine, but he wouldn't be coming out until "later that afternoon." He'd had some fluid in his lungs (which he'd horked up), and he'd had acidosis due to the stress of his birth: part of the reason it took him so long to come out was that my pelvis is small and strangely-shaped, kind of like an upside down V (thanks, Mom!), resulting in a lack of oxygen to the baby. He was on a glucose drip to get him hydrated. Blood tests were being done, and he had band-aids all over his heels from being stuck with needles. All the machines that go ping were there, going ping. There is no more upsetting sight than that of your kid in an isolette, even when you've been assured that he's fine, because if he were fine, would he be in an isolette, for crissakes?! Better safe than sorry was the motto of the day, it seemed. But the nurse in charge of him (not Mary Anne, who was mysteriously unavailable) allowed me to try to nurse the baby, at least, and get some bonding time in.

After that, we slept. Glorious, glorious sleep. Sleep, I love you.

The baby didn't come out by late afternoon, and we were told more tests had to be done - one at 12 hours post partum. He'd be with us at 8. We were also told that I wasn't allowed to nurse him, as per Mary Anne. The lactation consultant I spoke with didn't see anything wrong with this, nor did she think I should bother pumping (!). No reason given, and a fight ready to erupt between us and them because they were so concerned about his fluid intake and were itching to give him formula. We had to repeatedly instruct the staff (shift by shift) not to give the baby formula or a pacifier, because Mary Anne refused to pass the message on (I don't blame the staff - how were they to know if she didn't tell them?). At 8 we went back to the NICU, only to find out he was staying overnight. Thank God, the night nurse allowed me to breastfeed, hold him as long as I liked, and agreed to cut his IV at midnight so he might actually be interested in feeding the next morning.

We finally got our hands on him at 10 a.m. Looking back, I understand why they wanted to observe him, but I do wish they had communicated to us why a bit more, and come to us with information rather than forcing us to track them down and drag it from them.* I found that I easily let them do what they wanted without questioning them, and that surprised me - Booby was the one who pushed for more information and pushed for our son's release, and I love him for it.

*The whole experience made me wonder how Christian Scientists actually manage to refuse medical treatment for their kids without the NICU running roughshod over them. Do they arrive at the hospital with an ACLU lawyer, or what?

Part the second, Labor & Delivery

2007-05-18T13:59:00.000-04:00

Once we arrived at the hospital, I was in a bit of a fugue state. Booby pulled the car up into the emergency parking area, and off we went. Thankfully, we were preregistered, but I still had to sit at a little kiosk and hand over my insurance card and sign some stuff. Fun to do when you're gasping in pain and hardly able to walk! Thank the lord for bureaucracy.

Our midwife was there with a wheelchair for me to ride in. I'd heard a story about a laboring woman who was freaked out by the wheelchair; it took away all her I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-ness and she went up to L&D and got an epidural, toot de suite. But that wheelchair was to me like an oasis in the desert. Seriously, there was no way I could've walked anywhere beyond the front doors in the state I was in.

Once we got upstairs, it was kind of eerie. We were the only ones delivering that night, so it was very quiet, and our midwife, doula and nursing staff just set to the tasks of preparing for the birth. Booby was bringing all our stuff upstairs (note to self: pack lighter for next birth), and there I was, sitting there like tits on a log, doing nothing. But that didn't last long.

I labored, all told, for about ten hours, which really isn't that long compared to most first-timers. Most of us have been regaled with stories of 22-, 36-, or 44-hour labors. My hat goes off to those poor souls, because my ten hours felt like a hundred. And yet, even immediately after, I had forgotten huge swatches of time.

The doula asked me if I wanted to walk around a bit. I don't remember actually telling her no, but I made no moves to get up. The only way I was walking was if someone phoned in a bomb threat. Shortly thereafter, they began to set up the Aqua Doula*, or birthing tub, a device for which I am eternally grateful. My prenatal yoga instructor once referred to the tub as the "natural woman's epidural," and now I know why. The level of instant relief that came from getting into the tub was amazing. Without it, I would have been a screaming wreck.

I labored in the tub for several hours, with Booby giving me drinks of orange Recharge and offering me the food I had assumed I'd want to eat. I was too nauseated for food, though, and I knew that throwing up was coming soon and would signal transition, when things would get even shittier. Eventually, I did hork up my dinner (and may I say that emesis bowls are waaaay too small for anyone vomiting more than a dainty mouthful of bile?), and I guess it wasn't long after that that I felt a popping sensation inside me that was my water breaking.

Every fifteen minutes or so, my midwife would use the underwater Doppler to check the baby's heartbeat. I suppose I was pretty out of it, because I was knocked for a loop when she told me I was going to have to get out of the tub. "What?!" I said. And then I cried, for the first of many times. I remember her saying that the baby's heart rate had slowed again, but later I found out that she hadn't been able to get a heartbeat at all, and kept me in the tub until it was clear that we were going to have to make a change in strategy in order to keep labor going at a good pace and protect the baby from distress. But let me tell you, getting out of a nice, warm tub and into a cold hospital room while laboring is one of the crappiest things I've ever had to do. The second crappiest? Having to labor on my back in a hospital bed, which was at the top of my list of things I didn't want to do, ever.

Anyway, labor on the bed I did. Also on the toilet (which was very successful, if a bit ... strange). It's incredible how one's inhibitions go out the window while in labor. I was naked as a jaybird the entire time (I'd brought a bikini top to wear in the tub, but abandoned it after realizing that my ribcage was far too big to accommodate the top being fastened), and I was pretty impervious to the presence of nurses, midwife, doula and husband seeing me what was undoubtedly my worst physical manifestation, ever. I didn't even care about pooping in front of God and everyone, and that was something I had cared deeply about in the months leading up to that point. The only thing that annoyed me while I was in this "pushing" zone (aside from the pain, of course) was the fact that the nurses had become a 2-person cheerleading team after I got on the bed. I don't like being told what to do at the best of times, and being forcefully exhorted by two strangers to do something that I was already painfully aware I was supposed to do was just infuriating. Hey, I wanted to scream back at them. This isn't a basketball game! Just leave me the fuck alone and shut up. Those bitches were harshing my mellow (I never said a thing out loud, of course, but I felt so remorseful about my nasty thoughts that I actually apologized to one of the nurses afterward).

The distressing thing was, I had no impetus to push. I'd expected a primal urge to kick in and my body to take charge and, well, git 'er done, as it had with the contractions. But instead I just felt an uncomfortable fullness, with no urge to bear down at all. Instead, I pushed with each contraction, at times weeping, at other times just making a ridiculous boo-hooing noise without any tears. I was mightily upset that it felt like nothing was happening - I wanted progress that was inwardly measurable so I could feel empowered to keep going. Finally, my midwife said she saw the head. My doula gave me a hemp scarf to "play"tug-of-war on with her and make the pushes more effective, since the baby's head was popping out and then sliding back up. "Don't you want to see your baby's fuzzy head?" my midwife asked? Well, sure I did! I was just too tired to do the work required to get aforementioned head out to where I could see it. "Isn't there anything else we can do to get this over?" I asked. She pretended she didn't know what I meant. "Nope, you just gotta push, baby," she said.

The next thing I knew, the baby was crowning, and she was inviting me to touch Little Bun's head. I'd figured that this would be the thing that kept me going and made the end seem near and the whole endeavor wonderfully real. Instead, it was deeply alarming - babies' heads are made of plates that shift over top of one another in order to get the skull through the birth canal, and the result is a very spongy-feeling head. I felt like I was touching my unborn child's raw brain, and it was unsettling. Fortunately, I had the awareness to refuse her offer of a mirror so I could see the baby crowning. That might have sent me reeling.

After three hours of pushing, on all fours, on my back, and twice, excruciatingly, on my side, finally I was able to push hard enough to get the baby's head out. This is the part where most women tear. Luckily for me, my midwife instructed Booby to put the web of his thumb over my perineum to prevent tearing, and damned if it didn't work! At that point I was ready to rest anyway, because the contraction that I had pushed through was over, and I waited until the next one to push again and get the shoulders out. "Ring of fire" is an apt description of how it feels to push a baby's noggin out of your chocha, but I remember thinking that it wasn't as bad as I'd expected. Don't get me wrong - it hurt like a motherfucker - but it wasn't the pass-out level agony I'd been expecting. Then, suddenly, as I pushed again, the shoulders and the whole baby came flopping out, and the nurses flipped him up onto my chest.

"It's a boy," I noted, feeling very far away, as I saw my fuzzy-headed baby. It was now 7:05 a.m. Booby cut the cord, which was very deteriorated, thin in some places to the point of breakage. The nurses were rubbing the baby furiously with towels. His lips were blue. Uh-oh. That quickly he was whisked away to a table alongside the bed, where he was APGAR'd and weighed, then wrapped like a teeny burrito. Someone put him on my chest again, and we looked into each other's eyes for a full minute. His were navy blue and bottomless. This baby was one old soul. Then my midwife started rooting around in my uterus, because my placenta had broken off from the cord and was marooned up there, and it hurt so much I told them to take the baby wherever it was he needed to go, which was the NICU. At that point, Booby took over baby tracking, because I was in no shape.

Having the placenta manually pulled from my uterus was the most painful part of the whole night, probably because I had expected it to just slide right out like a large but flexible water balloon. Instead I was treated to repeated maulings in my uterine cavity by my midwife, who was so intent on her task that I only found out later that if any sizable part of the placenta was left inside, I'd have to have it surgically removed - kind of a bummer for someone who just delivered a baby drug-free to have to go under anesthetic to have a lump of tissue removed. Out it came, and went into a hazmat bucket so we could bring it home and bury it under our maple tree (I know, I'm a dirty hippie). I had one stitch for a tear on my nethers, but my perineum, as I said, didn't tear at all.

7 lbs., 2 oz. ~ 21" long ~ 7:05 a.m. ~ April 11, 2007

Tomorrow: The Aftermath: Why Does the Neonatal Nurse Hate Us So?

* The Aqua Doula at the hospital resembled nothing so much as a life-size version of the Mattel Barbie Pool Party my mother bought for me at a yard sale when I was a little unfeminist slip of a girl.

Holy shit, I had a baby!

2007-05-17T17:46:00.000-04:00

I know, I know, I've been gone for like, 6 weeks. But hey, now I have a baby to show for all my trouble! Here's what happened (warning: I am about to make up for my absence with a very, very long-winded account of my birth experience; you have been warned).

PART I: The Nonstop Excitement of Pre-Labor,

On April 10th, my due date, I had a regular midwife appointment. Booby stayed home sick from work, and as I left, he asked if I wanted him to come with. "Nah," I said. "It's a routine appointment, I'll almost certainly deliver late, and anyway, you're sick." Imagine my surprise when the midwife tried to get the baby's heartbeat on the Doppler and it was way, way too slow!

She stripped my membranes (a procedure I had been dreading, but wasn't actually that bad), and the baby's heart rate picked right up. "I tickled his head!" she told me. Nonetheless, we had to be sure that there wasn't a problem, so off to the hospital I went. On the way, I called Booby, told him to be calm and stay home, and instructed him to call our doula, who is a model of patience and a font of information. He did, and she offered to meet me at the hospital, which was awesome.

I was given a non-stress test and an ultrasound, which showed that the baby was fine and had plenty of amniotic fluid to swim in. A doctor came by and confirmed what the techs had already told me, and when I told him what had happened at the midwife's office, he smirkily suggested that she had actually picked up my heartbeat on the doppler. "Actually," I said, "She was careful to take my pulse at the same time so we knew that it wasn't mine she was picking up." He ignored me and asserted something about only being able to be sure about such things by using the machine that goes ping. Douche.

Meanwhile, I'd turned my cell phone off since we were in the hospital, surrounded by illustrated signs admonishing me to do so. Booby had called about eleventy-hundred times and showed up with our hospital bags and (bless him) our cooler full of "delivery room" food (I was insistent about being allowed to eat and drink while laboring), having been driven over by his brother's wife (bless her). Too bad it was time to go home! But we stopped for lunch in Mount Airy on the way home, where I started having contractions. Hmm, maybe we weren't going home after all!

Actually, the contractions weren't too bad, and I had been well-schooled on the importance of waiting until active labor to hie off to the hospital. It seems that the earlier one arrives, the greater the odds of undergoing a medical intervention: not what we were after with this attempt at a non-medicalized birth (though, admittedly, I figured myself to be a wimp about preventable pain, and I saw an epidural in my future). So we trundled off home, where Booby napped and I showered, juuust in case we wound up back at the hospital, where I would doubtless remain unwashed for hours, perhaps days. Ick.

The contractions were fairly regular all afternoon, and neither showering nor lying down nor walking around made them stop. Apparently, I really was in labor. I called work to let them know I wouldn't be in that day. They assured me that I should stay away, as they weren't interested in delivering a baby in the library that day. The contractions started getting intense, and Booby had me sit on the birth ball, which did NOTHING. We went for a walk around the block (I still thought that maybe this was false labor, and I just needed to walk some more to make the contractions stop). The pain got bad enough that we cut the walk short, but the best part of the stroll was meeting up with our neighbor's Siberian husky, who is very friendly and sweet. For some reason, petting the dog during a contraction really alleviated the pain (or distracted me like nothing else, I'm still not sure). It worked pretty well at home, petting one of the cats, too - perhaps this is another good alternative to drugs during labor? Maybe only for a home birth. What didn't work was pretty much anything Booby did to make me feel better. The contractions escalated too fast for him to feel very helpful, just overwhelmed. It was wonderful to have him there, being calm, but the physical things we were told to do in birth class to help with pain (slow dancing, pressing on my hips, etc.) were pretty ineffective.

At 8:30 p.m., we decided to call the doula, so she could come over and start coaching me. She didn't pick up. After another hour, things were pretty haywire. I don't remember a whole lot of what happened, except that I was on the bed on all fours, and things weren't pretty. It's hard to describe labor pain, except to say this: it really makes you aware that we're basically animals. "Primal" is a good word for the feeling it gave me.

We finally called the doula a second time, and she had me go through a contraction while on the phone with her. I could still kind of talk, and the ability to talk through the pain is an indication of the severity of the pain/progress of the labor. So, she seemed to think it was still early for the hospital yet (much to my dismay). "Call me in ten minutes or in two hours," she breezed. "I'm going to go to sleep right now so I'm ready no matter what." At the mention of a two hour wait, I felt near to tears.

After another hour, it was about 11:00 p.m. I was now unable to speak during a contraction; all I could manage was animalistic moaning and keening. Booby took charge and called our midwife, who listened to me contract, also. "Can we go to the hospital now?" I asked. "Sure!" she said, and laughed when I replied, weakly, "Really?" She's a bit more easygoing than the doula, it seems. I felt near to tears again, but this time with relief. We decided to call the doula from the car so she couldn't talk us out of going to the hospital. Slowly, we made our way to the car to make the 20-minute trip, which I remember pretty well, especially the part where we started riding on the road that had been corduroyed mere days before in anticipation of repaving. Ouch! and Fuck! That wasn't that way the last time we drove this way!

Next installment: Labor and Delivery, or, Yes, Virginia, Reflux Lasts All the Way Up Until the Baby Comes Out

Also: photos!

The last of the red hot belly shots

2007-03-28T21:44:00.000-04:00

I'm now at a point where I'm pretty uncomfortable. I'm not as big as some women get, but I sure do feel big for me, since I'm a relatively small person (I tend to seem taller than I actually am).

I'm supposed to do a TV interview next week for a local news station about Shape of a Mother. I'll try to let you guys know when it's on, and whoever is local can tune in if you so desire. All I know about it is that I'll be talking about pregnant womens' fears and perceptions about their bodies and what they worry/hope will happen to them, attractiveness-wise, postpartum. Aaaaand I have to show my bloated, distended stomach. Much as I'm doing here. But here I feel like I have more control - lawd only knows what could happen in the editing room, am I right?

I'm at 38 weeks as of yesterday. Two more weeks till zero hour, unless Little Bun decides it's time to exit sooner. I'd prefer later to sooner, so I can get some things done, like cleaning the house, meeting with a contractor who's supposed to saw down my kitchen cabinets to fit in an over-the-range microwave, and getting all my baby shower loot off my dining room table and into some semblance of order. Oh, and napping.

I seem to be getting to be more of a shameless hussy the longer this process goes on. Three shots of me wearing panties, and two with a bra? Speaking of bras, I must be dropping at least slightly, as bras are not quite as tortuous as they've been for the past several weeks. Huzzah!

Here's a closeup of the distended belly (sorry for the blur):

If you discern any red marks, please note it's from my obsessive scratching, not stretch marks. So far, I am stretch mark free (thank you, genetics fairy), but who knows - I hear sometimes they crop up in the breastfeeding portion of the activities.

I finally took out the belly ring, as it was infected and no amount of TLC was making it get better. The skin was just stretched too tight, and it had nowhere to go. If I had been a better planner, I'd've gotten myself a plastic spacer to hold the hole open, but by the time I got around to researching that, the hole was stretched so tight, it was almost flat. Maybe I'll get it re-pierced later on down the line, or maybe this is the end of my crazy pierced lady days (sob!). My midwife has been calling me a "secret goth" because one would never guess that Marian the Librarian me would ever have a pierced anything. In the meantime, the hole is still pretty red and nasty looking (though no longer infected or crusty). Hopefully it'll heal and not scar.

And, last but not least, what Booby considers to be the most important photos, the ones of HIM the cat testing the new Hotsling we bought. I like the Baby Bjorn, but Booby wants the kid to smother in the forest of his chest hair. The sling is nice and simple, looks like it'll be easy to wash, and seems to be a good fit - even for a 21 lb. cat. Note to self: launder Hotsling to remove swaths of blond cat fur ...

This time, it's props

2007-03-07T19:39:00.000-05:00

I have a new post up at Props and Pans. Go check it out!

Your daily serving of product review

2007-03-05T14:37:00.000-05:00

I've been on a roll with the product reviews in the last couple of weeks. This time we have Fiber One Chewy Bars, oats & chocolate flavor. They have 9g of fiber, which is about 35% of the daily recommended serving (but this varies by gender and age). Let's break this down:

Pros:

These bars are lot moister than most "nutritious" bars, though of course the level of nutrition is debatable (see below). I normally eat Kashi bars because of the benefits of whole grains, but I have to admit that those things make one's mouth feel like the Sahara in July.
It was nice to taste the oats in the bar, and even the taste of the salt came through, which might sound gross, but was pleasant.
I think these are slightly helpful in greasing your inner wheels, so to speak, but as a pregnant woman who is ingesting a prenatal vitamin, as well as extra iron to stave off RLS, I need more than a fiber bar. I need a nuclear-grade psyllium husk/Colace cocktail. But for one day, they did an OK job. Booby ate two bars and he was happy with his results.

Cons:

What is "confectioner's shellac," anyway?
What is high maltose corn syrup, anyway?
Hmmm, I already know what high fructose corn syrup is. Ecchh.
Palm kernel oil, a cheap cooking oil that's probably going to become very popular for biodiesel, is probably the culprit of these bars' 1.5g of saturated (bad) fat.
Almost too chocolately (I know, is there such a thing?) - do I really need a zigzag ribbon of chocolate icing over the top of the bar AND a metric ton of chocolate chips? Likely not.

In short, these Chewy Fiber Bars are definitely NOT an "all the time" food. (warning: audio)
Perhaps the better choice would be a Gnu Flavor & Fiber bar (which I would be happy to test and review on this blog, hint hint, Gnu Foods). 12g of fiber and no HFCS. Kinda pricey, though ($1.99 aq bar? Say it ain't so, Gnu!).

Marian the ... desk clerk

2007-03-05T13:40:00.000-05:00

So, the job I had blogged about a couple of weeks ago? I got it! So now I can tell you about it: it's at a library, so it's perfect for me, as I am a total book nerd. In fact, I've worked in publishing for the past ten years except for a one-year stint at an insurance company and a two-month stint at the Worst Job Ever. In high school, we were made to take a standardized career aptitude test, and my #1 career, according to the test, was librarian. Unfortunately, at that point in time, I was convinced I wanted to wear all black and be a designer, and that librarians wore tweed, sensible shoes, cat-eye glasses and their hair scraped back into severe buns. So I didn't listen to the siren song of the CAT test results (although I did take note, because I remembered reading somewhere that Morrissey had once dreamed of being a librarian. And I loooooooved Morrissey).

There are still some scheduling details to be worked out, as the job offered (I interviewed for two different available positions) is one that is more focused on weekday hours. My new boss has said that we can finesse the details of my schedule after I deliver, and my mother has offered to come and mind the Bun one day a week (or possibly more if needed, but I don't want to tire her out).

This week I do training a couple hours a day (for which I am being paid - yay!), and so far the only bummer is that I have to pony up for my own background checks that say I am not a sex offender, since I will have access to children through the children's library. It's only twenty clams, so whatever (and my email subscription to Family Watchdog has clued me in to the many, many sex offenders in my area, including one on my street. Have I mentioned that we're looking to move in the next year or so?). The nice thing is that although there is a lot to learn and memorize (who knew checking out books for patrons would be so complicated?), it's understood that such memorization will take time and practice, and I am viewed as already being ahead of the game because I've worked so extensively with books (and the charming public, although my special training with drunken louts culled from three years of retail experience on South Street probably won't need to be put to use. I hope.)

Probably the hardest part will be making through the entire day while wearing a bra and not eating every twenty minutes. Wish me luck.

Image courtesy of http://www.librarian-image.net/.

Keri ... is so very

2007-02-26T15:12:00.000-05:00

I was sent some Keri moisturizer to try and review. For those of you who don't already know, I loves me some free stuff. So, of course, I am all over any opportunities to try new stuff for free.

I had high hopes for a kinder, more natural version of Keri, since their big push is for their shea butter formula. Shea butter is, according to Ideal Bite, predominantly produced without pesticides. Wow, a naturally organic ingredient - I was psyched.

The shea butter formula smells really nice, and absorbs quickly into the skin (more on that in a minute). The lotion itself, however, is a little thin. I'm probably used to the JASON cocoa butter I've been using to prevent stretch marks, which is a much thicker, more buttery texture. Regular lotions can seem wimpy and thin in comparison. But the lotion does seem to work well - I have fairly dry skin on my legs, which I vainly shave even in the winter (stubble drives me nuts), and a couple days' use has kept the skin on my legs from being flaky or itchy. Pregnancy has given me all sorts of weird rashes, too, and the Keri keeps the rashes down (as do the other lotions I have been using to stay moisturized).

Now on to the absorption issue: while it's great that then lotion absorbs well (after all, who wants slick, sticky skin that needs to air dry? Bleah), the problem is what's IN the lotion, absorbing into your skin, namely two kinds of parabens, which are linked to breast cancer.
Additionally, the lotion contains 3 varieties of polyethylene glycol, which has been linked to leukemia, breast and uterine cancers. Now on to iodopropynyl butylcarbamate, which is potentially linked to infertility, is a liver/gastrointestinal toxicant, and a neurotoxin. Yipes.

One nice thing about the ingredients is that Keri lists the scientific name of the natural ingredients and then advises the consumer of what it is, say, shea butter (unsurprisingly), sunflower seed oil, or aloe leaf juice.

The aloe leaf juice is also found in the regular Keri lotion, which has the same consistency as the shea butter formula, but doesn't smell as nice - it has more of a regular "lotion" smell. Not unpleasant, just not as nice as the shea butter.

The verdict: Keri is so very ... on the right track with the shea butter, but about the same as other mainstream moisturizers when it comes to potentially toxic ingredients. Parabens are no longer on my skin's menu, so I won't be using Keri in the future. For people who are OK with these sorts of ingredients, Keri is a fine choice, as it moisturizes nicely and smells good. The choice is up to you, of course. Happy moisturizing!

Son of more fun with search tags

2007-02-23T00:19:00.000-05:00

Haven't checked the search tags in awhile, so I went over to Sitemeter to see what pulled in the surfers this week.

That damn Fergie-peed-her-pants photo is very popular, especially in France and Venezuela. Probably about 15 searches led folks to that photo and my remarkably restrained (it seems to me now) comments about her. Look, I'm sure Fergie's a lovely girl. A lovely, ex-meth junkie, drag-queen-looking, ridden hard and put away wet girl. I guess I'm just tired of seeing her face everywhere. She's not particularly pretty, and she's not particularly talented. And she can't spell "duchess." And she PEED her PANTS ONSTAGE. Enough already. It's time for her to go away.
how to induce miscarriage: Oy. I don't recall writing a how-to on the subject. I knew a girl in college who threw herself down a flight of stairs to make that happen (didn't work, nor did copious amounts of drugs and booze). How about you go and have a chat with a Planned Parenthood counselor? It'll do you a world of good and help you make an informed decision.
Glad I'm single: This is where quotation marks come in handy, because I'm on the glad I'm NOT single train. This search came in from someone's phone, oddly enough, so either they were killing time while on a bad blind date, or they needed immediate shoring up from other happy singletons.
Virago girl karate: A virago is generally a spiteful, venomous woman (sounds familiar ...). It's also a type of motorcycle, if I am not mistaken. Adding "girl" in there is just redundant, and what karate has to do with any of it, I have no idea.
REALdoll Mignon: Do they have names for specific models? I'm trying to imagine the real Mignon agreeing to have herself cast for a RealDoll and it's freaking me out (I can easily imagine her punching the requestor in the nuts, though - she's a tough woman).

Vampire baby

2007-02-22T23:59:00.000-05:00

So a few nights ago, Booby and I were driving to the Home Depot to buy light bulbs (apparently you can't get compact fluorescent bulbs in the supermarket - what's up with that?) and a new gas range and over-the-range microwave (which I'll be swooning over early next week. Have I mentioned my 30-year old Caloric range which heats to about 200 degrees higher than what it's set for? PA law requires that houses be sold with a range included, and my seller went and got the range from his aged mother's house or something.).

But anyway. God, this pregnancy brain thing is for real, isn't it? I am all over the place.

So, in the car, I was telling him all the things I wanted to get done before Little Bun arrives. I'm not in full nesting mode yet, but I have Plans. There's a lot of shit to be done, and he hasn't quite made the connection that we will not feel like doing any of it once we have a screaming child to deal with. Now is the time to pull the (very sharp) carpet staples out of the stairs, you know? Not when the baby is actually crawling on said stairs and gouging his or her face on unpulled staples.

"And," I told him, "I would like to start making some meals ahead and freezing them, like Stacey did. That way I won't have to cook!" I was psyched for this idea. We could have lasagne. Or chicken pot pie. Or whatever! Whatever my hand touches when I open the freezer! He didn't agree.

"God, you are making more work for yourself than you need to with this whole baby thing. You act like it's going to be so hard! So demanding of us physically that we won't want to get up and do anything! Next, you're going to tell me that all that stuff we learned about breastfeeding in the birth class wasn't important, because, Oh, didn't I tell you, it turns out the baby is going to suck blood directly from your veins! Yeah, the baby needs your blood, but that's OK, right? You can spare that, sure! Just attach the baby right to your jugular using the football hold and a sling, and then you can even move around. It's so simple!"

When he puts it that way, I guess this baby thing will actually be a breeze (HA!). Although it might turn out that I like to sleep more than I would mind having blood sucked out of my veins ... It's a toss-up.