Archive for November, 2010
When does Googling medical information lead to good things? Never! Almost never! I’m sure someone, somewhere has a story about how Google saved their life, but I will argue that in the VAST MAJORITY OF CASES, it leads to nothing more than horrifying misdiagnosis and panic. When I was pregnant with Sam, I was ordered to stay off the internet, and I mostly succeeded, but apparently when not faced with something very limited in scope and/or specific directives, I am free to my own completely insane devices.
I mean, it’s ALWAYS something awful. ALWAYS. I posted about this phenomenon on Twitter and was regaled with stories from people who self-diagnosed with MULTIPLE forms of cancer, brain tumors and the inevitable need for tissue and/or organ transplants, all of which are unnecessary.
The question is why? Why do we do this to ourselves? WHY? It’s like we have some kind of amnesia after every Google Incident. We KNOW better. AND YET WE DO IT, OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Expecting a different result!
It is the very definition of insanity. Get all the (totally out of context) information you can! Pretend you’re a doctor! Like, seriously, sometimes I actually believe I AM A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL because of Google.
I’ve considered going to nursing school on multiple occasions throughout my life, but the more this goes on, the more I think that’s probably a Very Bad Idea. Best go back to become a therapist instead. Helping profession, with less potential for hypochondriacal crazymaking.
Onward! While I’m normally loath to bring up dreams, I have to tell you that in the last few weeks, mine have been BIZARRE and kind of disturbing. That one-off incident where I dreamed I was having triplets aside (I COULD SEE THREE PAIRS OF FEET STICKING THROUGH MY BELLY), I’ve been consistently dreaming about absolutely losing my shit and SCREAMING at someone. Like, SCREAMING, in a completely out of control manner, and it’s strangely cathartic, until I have to deal with the consequences. Once, it was Meg Whitman, another it was the OB who failed to diagnose my TRIPLETS, despite the presence of THREE PAIRS OF FEET, and I wake up sweating, exhausted from the effort of screaming (SCAH-REEMING) at whoever it is I’m lashing out towards.
It’s … what IS that? I am many things, but for better for worse, I am not particularly non-confrontational. In fact, I am rather confrontational when I have to be (though I hope not egregiously so). I’m not exactly fraught with pent-up anger over here — if I have a problem with someone or something, I will usually address it directly. But apparently in my dreams, I would prefer to address it MORE DIRECTLY and VERY LOUDLY and all screamy and sweaty-like. To people like Meg Whitman.
Thanksgiving was effing CHAOS, with twelve adults, seven kids, three dogs and a lot of yelling just to be heard. I kept forgetting to get up to drink water, and so had approximately eleven beers delivered to me, plus wine and other sundry alcoholic bits, and these unfortunately served as my only source of hydration for the ENTIRE DAY. For the first time in YEARS, was painfully hungover the next day, when I demanded that Adam get up with Sam at the last minute (it wasn’t his day, and yes, we alternate like civilized people), and slept until 11 a.m. like some kind of Black Friday teenager. That was a bit blissful. Well, minus the hangover.
And OH, our holiday bliss continues with the annual Rubinfest for Hannukah this weekend. There are flights booked, cars rented and DVD players that, oh my God, had better start CHARGING, or I am going to COME UNDONE. Because I’m sorry, no, no I cannot handle a toddler on a plane who has not been properly anesthetized using the power of Muno and DJ Lance Rock.
I hope your Thanksgiving was rad.
*Feist. And probably one of the few alcoholic drinks I didn’t consider consuming on Thanksgiving.
November 29th, 2010
So Adam had this Foot Thing, and it started out as a relatively familiar and minor Foot Thing involving pain and some kind of leg-crossing nerve thing he does when he codes (which I guess, as a VP-type, isn’t something you do all the time anymore, I don’t know), and he’s been coding a lot, and suddenly BADOW!, the guy can’t even WALK, and he gets up around 10 p.m. Friday night and his leg looked like it was about to EXPLODE and I … I kind of flipped my lid. I was all stormy and crazy and texting Megan that my husband was going to DIE OF A BLOOD CLOT if I didn’t get him to the hospital STAT and then I stormed into the bedroom and announced that he had TWO CHOICES, mister. I could CALL AN AMBULANCE or I could wake the baby and DRIVE HIM TO THE ER RIGHT NOW.
(I was a little crazy. I tend to get worked up about his health, and I don’t know WHY. I am solely responsible for sending him to the hospital at least three times. If we really want to dig deep, I think it’s because my (step) mom’s first husband died, leaving her a widow to a small kid, and … well, she’s made it through more than you can imagine (more than THAT, even) and she’s kind of amazing, but it still gets me, knowing it happened to her and really, the person you should pity is Adam, for he reaps the consequences.)
We talked it out, he talked me off the ledge and we went Saturday morning and it turns out, no one was dying, it was only a pinched nerve. But I’l tell you, the three hours we all spent in the ER were AWESOME.
So, ah, you know how people say that first children are a little like pancakes, in that you screw the first one up so badly that by the time the second one comes around, you end up with a much fluffier version that is probably easier to digest? Or spend time with? Or something? (This metaphor really isn’t working, is it?)
Our first child is our dog. And yes, I realize — FULLY REALIZE — how absurd that sounds, but let me tell you, we fucked this one up GOOD. If Sunny is a pancake, then she is a burnt disc of inedible, but lovable, proportions. Odd-shaped and unevenly cooked, and much more of a pain in the ass than it seems like she’s worth, and yet we soldier on, day after day, because we love her to pieces, and that’s just what you DO when you screw up so bad. You just live with your burnt, inedible consequences, I guess, and go hungry.
(Can you believe I’m totally sober writing this? Because I kind of can’t. This is like the rambling manifesto of the Krusteaz founder, after he’s knocked back a few Bud Lights.)
Sunny has never slept in our bed. Yes, this may seem cruel to some, but it’s not for lack of trying. She cannot — CANNOT — make it through the night in our bed. She gets too excited, and no one sleeps, least of all her, and while she can spend the entirety of the next day snoring on the couch (her usual pastime), the rest of us must soldier on with our days, despite having not slept a wink the night before, thanks to a panting wet snout snuffling around our eyeballs at 2, 3, 4 and 5 a.m. The digging usually happens on the half-hour, so the pattern is wet snuffling, digging, wet snuffling, digging, with some aimless wandering on our bodies mixed in there from time to time. There is no actual sleeping done by the dog OR the people in the bed. It is worse than having a newborn, and people, I know of bad newborns.
Besides, she LOVES her crate, which we must gingerly place her in each night after a bedtime ritual that is almost as complex as our not-yet-two-year-old DAUGHTER. (It involves her resting her head on our shoulder and demanding kisses and rubs in a very specific order, followed by the words, “Night, night, Sunny.” Otherwise, she WILL NOT GO TO BED.) (I CANNOT BELIEVE I JUST ADMITTED THAT TO THE INTERNET.)
You see how we messed this up, yes? YOU SEE?
(Side note: Sam can’t sleep in our bed either for the same reasons. Ever since she became attached to her crib, she thinks of our bed as PARTY TIME! and even when we WANT her to sleep with us, she cannot, although the consequences are far more irritating than a wet snout in the ear, let me tell you.)
Until we actually shut the lights, however, Sunny snuggles in our bed, either chewing a bone or catching up on her rest (a girl’s gotta get her nineteen hours in!), and though she’s been going to bed quite happily around 10:30 or 11 (after her proper night-nights), around 1 a.m., she’s been WAILING and CRYING and then, when I panic and take her out to see if she had to go to the bathroom, realizing that HO HO, no — she was demanding to come into bed with us, where she pulls the wet snout/dig pattern ALL NIGHT LONG and OH MY GOD ARE YOU SERIOUS, WE ARE SO VERY TIRED.
All this is how I ended up putting her in her crate and soothing her every five, ten and then fifteen minutes, until finally, extinction.
And though I joked about it earlier, I didn’t realize until I actually did it that I had to, oh my God, FERBERIZE MY DOG. WHAT THE EFF. Like, I used a combination of CIO methods from him AND Weissbluth. HAHAHA. AM PATHETIC.
It worked. She sleeps through the night now. I’m totally calling Dr. Ferber to see if he’ll add a canine chapter in there.
Thus endeth the lamest post ever, but look, it’s Thanksgiving week, I spent the weekend in the ER with a man who could hardly WALK and I’m just LUCKY WE ARE ALL ALIVE.
PS, did you know that I’m everywhere but here on Mondays? Every other Monday, I’m at Draft Day Suit, and every SINGLE Monday, I am at Food Lush and Style Lush, where I am an editor also. I am the worst at adding buttons and/or an about page because I keep telling myself that I’m going to redesign the site, but OH LOOK. WE ARE STILL HERE IN THE SAME DESIGN I HAD IN 2005. TWO THOUSAND FIVE. THAT IS THE LAST TIME I REDESIGNED THIS THING.
November 22nd, 2010
I’m picking winners for the Glee contest over the weekend, so it’s officially closed as of noon EST Friday. I know, longest contest in the history of ever, but between NAPOCALYPSE! and a mysterious tantruming child and bone-crushing exhaustion, it was the best I could do. Late, shmate! Extra days to enter, I say!
Speaking of, I mentioned I signed on to do another Smart Pop book, and this time it’s on … Friday Night Lights, which, if you didn’t know, is the best show on television, and better (worse?), I’m writing about Tami and Eric and I feel this enormous responsibility, because how great are Tami and Eric? SO GREAT. And it’s the last season, and I’m kind of devastated about it.
In other news, if you’ll indulge me a vent for a moment, oh my LANDS, child, the ATTITUDE. The tantrums! THE ALMOST-TWOS. It is simultaneously face-melting in its agony and positively GUT-BUSTING in its hilarity. The tiny, impotent fury! The screaming! The kicking! All because I wouldn’t put Yo Gabba Gabba on DEMAND. No, child. No. You do not get to sit on your ass and demand Yo Gabba Gabba JUST BECAUSE and when I say NO, throw yourself on the ground like I have just announced that the elves are coming for your brains! And your ears! And MAYBE YOUR OVARIES! TO EAT THEM!
No. Oh my God, no, kid, GO PLAY WITH YOUR TOYS. Here, let me help you. But also, HAHAHAHA, oh my God, please kill me while I die of laughter and hysteria and also, tears. Tonight, when I left for my haircut, she chased me to the door screaming, and then when I left, threw herself on the ground in a puddle, kicking and screaming, until Daddy came over to rescue her, offer her a visit to her buddies in her bedroom and VOILA! perfect child for the rest of the evening.
They save this shit for US. THE MOTHERS. BECAUSE THEY WANT US TO SUFFER.
Meanwhile, for your moment of pre-weekend schmoop, I have to tell you that I have the best friends. I am lucky and positively gobsmacked at my good fortune, and I wish everyone could have friends like mine. The kind who will come to your house even though it’s currently a shithole and you won’t even care that the recycling is on the counter in a big-ass plastic bag (next to a pizza box), because they won’t judge you, or even notice. Friends whose cabinets you can just root through when your kid is hungry without having to go through the awkward I-forgot-a-snack-I’m-so-sorry dance. The kind you can send random, non-sensical texts to about maybe watching your kid while you drive your husband to the hospital because he thinks he broke his foot (who the fuck knows … he opted not to go), and they’ll say yes without even hesitating, and then an hour later, you won’t even feel stupid when you tell them you can’t be the one to drive the kids to the museum tomorrow because, actually, your car smells like old cheese and we will all die of asphyxiation before we even get on the highway.
It’s just nice, and adds a really cozy layer of security to life, and though it was important to me before, I find that it’s even more critical now that I have Sam. I have sanity in the form of other moms who are not just other moms, but like, um, family ( one of whom some of you know) and I tell you, I don’t measure my life by many common indicators of success, but in this respect, I honestly feel like I won the lottery.
And finally, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIFT GUIDE? My God, this thing is awesome. It’s AWESOME. 125 gifts under $25, done by the queen of gift-giving at Style Lush, Elizabeth. GOOD gifts. GREAT gifts. GIFTS YOU WANT TO BUY YOURSELF.
*MGMT on effing Yo Gabba Gabba
November 18th, 2010
Sam’s started singing, and while that seems painfully mundane and boring to the outsider — and it probably is — it was a crazy hilarious revelation yesterday when I realized that her off-key nonsensical warbling was her best imitation of what she hears me (HAHHAHAHA), and let’s face it, the Fresh Beat Band, do every day. Yesterday, she wandered around the living room, clad only in a diaper, yelling in a strange, entirely out of tune sort of whale-like voice, and I realized, based on her movements, what she was doing. “Adam I … I think she’s … she’s … SINGING?!”
And I’ll be damned, she is. She sang the whole way to BJ’s this afternoon after I piled her into the car to break up the NAPOCALYPSE! which seems to happen every afternoon after naptime, at least the last three days. NAPOCALYPSE! is a horrible phenomenon and involves whining, crying, screaming, demands to be held! Put down! Held! Put down! Picked up! Milk! No Milk! WOE IS ME! NAPOCALYPSE!
NAPOCALYPSE! started on Friday, when we set out on a four-hour journey to my parents’ cabin in the wilds of Pennsylvania (the nearest metropolis is … Scranton). Sam’s a great sleeper, but she is only a great sleeper when she is in the presence of a crib — any crib will do, and no thank you, not a pack ‘n play, A CRIB — but put her in a car or an adult bed and she’s USELESS. Kid needs her space, her crib, her buddies, her sound soother and a car seat ain’t gonna cut it. She woke up after 45 minutes to NAPOCALYPSE! which required us to pull over and ply her with Munchkins. Honestly, I’d have given her a fucking PONY at that point, so I don’t even feel bad about giving her Munchkins to feel better, so long as the face-melting screams stopped.
We had a great weekend with my parents, though too short, and by Sunday, we were on the road again and NAPOCALYPSE! struck again, and would you believe we had a three-day driving journey scheduled for early December and within two hours of arriving home, the joint terror of NAPOCALYPSE! had us booking FLIGHTS, despite the fact that we wanted to save the money?
The power of NAPOCALYPSE! is so great, it can make reasonable people spend hundreds of dollars on ponies, flights and Munchkins.
Speaking of milk (what? Way up there!), I noticed that this morning’s coffee dollop was tasting a little … well, especially milky, but chalked it up to the fact that when milk goes bad, YOU KNOW IT IS BAD. Well, it turns out that’s completely wrong, because one trip to the store later, I poured Sam a
glass sippy cup, took a test swig and realized, HA HA! My morning coffee milk (two cups, thanks!) was beyond bad, and YUMMO, who’s ready to come over for a healthy serving of factory-farmed dairy! (OMG JUST KIDDING CRAZY DAIRY PEOPLE)
And finally, two things, only vaguely related, that I CANNOT get out of my head, so here, have them, gross as they are:
1) The degree to which Sam not only notices EVERYTHING I do, but imitates it, seems to know no bounds. Last week, I caught her exiting the laundry room with a roll of toilet paper between her legs, as she attempted to use it to wipe her girly bits through her leggings and diaper. She was WIPING! And … what?! Worse! WORSE! Today she picked up one of those ClearBlue Easy fertility monitor pee sticks, OPENED IT UP, and pretended to pee on it for a solid ten minutes. She even put the cap on it when she was “finished.”
OMG WTF JESUS
(Yes, I’m tracking, yes, I want another baby at some point, this should not be a surprise … right?)
2) Speaking of pee, I love asparagus, but seriously.
Aaaand, that’s all I got, unless you’re expecting an email from me, to which I say I am getting there, but this weekend, and MY TERRIFYINGLY DIRTY HOUSE, put me a tad behind. Did I mention my house is TERRIFYING? Well, it is. TERRIFYING.
*Rockwell. Did he … ever do anything else?
November 15th, 2010
First of all, we had a real heart-stopping moment when Alert Reader Sabrina mentioned that she hasn’t been able to find Take 5 candy bars anywhere for like, AN ENTIRE YEAR, which sent me into such a tailspin that I not only checked Hershey’s website, but I stupidly CALLED THEM, just to make sure, and lo, they are, it just turns out they aren’t a Reese’s-branded product and ergo, would not be in any Reese’s variety packs. This is stupid, because it CONTAINS peanut butter, and for the love of Jebus, does Hershey’s make anything with peanut butter that isn’t Reese’s branded? What is this shit?
Related: Growing up in PA, I often went to Hershey Park. Yes, the town really does smell like chocolate. You should go there. Also, stop by the pretzel factory and make your own pretzels. I think there’s one in Intercourse. Or maybe Hanover. Obviously I’m very specific with my memories here.
Secondly, this isn’t really a post, since I’m over at Jennie’s today (Thursday) for her Real Marriages series, talking about how I sometimes pick a fight about stuff I don’t care about because someone else said I should care. There are Rocky quotes.
Separately, but not, it’s funny, Jennie and Mike have a great relationship, and that’s completely obvious when you hang out with them, so her Real Marriages series kind of makes me laugh in a way, because she could write the whole thing and it would say, “It’s great. We fight, but we love. We are normal and happy. The end.” There are some people, I think, who you just GET why their spouse loves them so, and why turning their head would be nearly impossible. Jennie is one of those people. She’s warm and funny and a little quirky in the best, most endearing way, and she just stands out in a way that someone like Gisele Bundchen and her preachy, bland personality never will, and it’s just like, well, yeah. Good luck, ladies, getting Mike to look away from that one, because she’s super-special. Not that anyone is trying or that Mike would or anything, and oh dear, what started as a compliment has taken A VERY WRONG TURN, but hey! I’m in too deep! MAYDAY!
(Separately: I love Mike, too. A lot. Hi, Mike!)
And finally, did I tell you guys that the new Smart Pop Glee book is out? Well, it is. Filled with Glee! I actually think it’s one of my favorite Smart Pop titles as a whole, so I hope you get it, read it and enjoy it. Just in time for this bizarre second season, am I right? (WILL SCHUESTER, YOU SUCK) My essay is the free one on Smart Pop this week, and Maria Melee has an essay in there, too, and she is basically formed of awesome. I’m giving away two (2) copies to two readers, so leave me a comment saying “Glee me!” if you want in. If you want to comment, but don’t, just don’t say “GLEE ME!”
I’ve also been asked to contribute to an upcoming book on what is perhaps my all-time favorite show on television (yes, even more than True Blood), on a topic I cannot believe I’ve been trusted with, and I’ll tell you more later, but for now, let me just say: OMG and also HOLY CRAP and a little, NERVOUS TUMMY up in here.
*Katy Perry, and the only part of this week’s Glee that I enjoyed, sadly. The rest was a lot of screaming at the TV. Screaming! LOUDLY.
November 10th, 2010
Once in a while, it hits me anew that I’m a parent, and I’m not sure how to explain it any better than, well, that’s what it is. I wake up every day and do this, of course, but sometimes I’ll look at Sam — this tiny, relatively new face who is now as recognizable as my own reflection — and think, holy cow, I’m this kid’s mother. Whoa.
It happens in small increments, I think, this whole parenthood thing. You get a baby who is a completely unfamiliar person, and though you love them to a terrifying degree for some totally inexplicable reason (because, after all, they are a stranger), it’s more like taking care of an extremely demanding and annoying pet for a (long) while there. A newborn is kind of the way I would envision a life-size amoeba to be — all formless and tender-skinned, squashy, blob-like and too easily broken. It seems ridiculous to me, on an evolutionary level, that most animals give birth to creatures who are capable of moving independently, whereas we basically give birth to a fetus. A needy, frustrating, somewhat joyless fetus.
I mean, I was joyful and thrilled, of course (that is when I wasn’t contemplating how I could check myself into an institution because of The Screaming), but it’s nothing compared to the person I live with now, and I think that, above all, is what might make any subsequent children more frustrating. I know how good it can get, and I know there’s a person inside of those tiny things waiting to blossom, but in the meantime, I’ll be stuck with something more appropriate for tucking away in my pouch, if only I were a damn marsupial.
I’m not sure one gets many opportunities to wish they were a kangaroo, but believe me, dealing with a newborn is one of those times.
But now! Ho! Man, life is on one of those sweet streaks, where even the worst days aren’t that bad, and not even the return of eastern standard time (WHY WHY WHY) can dampen the unflagging joy that flies through the house on a daily basis. There are kisses (“Mmmmmwah!”) and hugs and leading me around the house by the hand. We color, we write in notebooks, she sits and reads her books to herself for long periods of time, she washes her hands in her play kitchen and proudly announces, “CLEAN!” while waving her sticky hands in the air. The dog is god, second only to DJ Lance, and a bad mood can be lifted by reminding Sam that doggy is over there, and wouldn’t doggy like to be petted? As she snuggles with Sunny, she laughs that desperate, near-tears laugh of someone who thought the world was ending, but realized they’d been given a reprieve, maybe by a last-minute astroid destruction manned by Bruce Willis.
And the evenings, oh, the evenings. She comes alive in the evenings, once the witching hour has passed, and her world lights up in technicolor when Daddy walks through the door. She runs through the house screaming at the top of her lungs, “DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!” and leaps on top of him, hugging him so tightly that it’s as if she thought he’d left that morning, never to return. She often gives him the same treatment after he exits the shower in the morning, although she’d seen him not ten minutes prior. And then, for a glorious hour before she heads to bed, they play. He tickles, she laughs. They catch up on their days, and his responses to her gibberish make me wish their conversations were real and that she understood what he was saying, because man, I married a funny dude. They dance — or rather, sometimes we all dance, throwing any concerns of our own self-consciousness to the wind as we rock out, for the millionth time, to “Loco Legs,” as sung by the interminably cheerful Fresh Beat Band. This family’s got loco legs, let me tell you.
I know we lived without her. I know we had more than a decade together, including five or six wonderful years of marriage — years of building a solid foundation that made this life, this incredibly sweet, sweet life, exactly what it is today. I know that I wouldn’t change a second of our lives together to this point, and that it was worth it, it was all so worth it, but hell if I can remember it with any detail, because this; this is precisely where we are, and it is exactly where we should be.
*Jesus Jones OR Fatboy Slim
November 8th, 2010
Oh let’s kick it old-school with some bullet points that have nothing to do with one another, so holla!
– Because we were out trick or treating for far longer than we anticipated, and hell if either of us was going to miss taking Sam, we missed the hosting part of trick or treating and received approximately five kids over the course of the remaining hour. This is fine, although my sister warned me in a dire tone that this is generally bad form and we will eventually pay for it with, I don’t know, teenagers with eggs or angry parents or something that involves toilet paper. I don’t know. What is not fine is the amount of Twix, Snickers and miscellaneous Reese’s products I have in my possession, and is why, for the last
two three days, my lunch has consisted of two mini Twix, a Snickers and a small bowl of canned beets (for fiber and vitamins and … I don’t know).
Speaking of Twix, there is only one way to eat it, which is to gnaw of the caramel, then eat the cookie separately, and I will not be told otherwise. What I will NOT tolerate, however, is the Reese’s Fast Break, which is seriously lacking in crunchy texture (WHY SO MUCH NOUGAT?), and I am terribly disappointed, for I got them mixed up with the Take 5, featuring delightfully crunchy, salty pretzels and you know what, Reese’s? I call bullshit on your variety bag, for there were no Take 5 bars. Bull. Shit.
I will also say that Adam worked from home today, and around 3 p.m., very gently asked how much candy, exactly, I was consuming, because it sure seemed like he heard the crinkle of a wrapper approximately every five minutes. Which: busted. It’s not really lunch if it lasts all day and involves nothing more than chocolate and beets.
– In the vein of Stuff No One Told Me About Birthing A Child, I’ll tell you that since having Samantha, I’ve had zero menstrual cramps. NOT A ONE. Okay, fine maybe half a one, but it wasn’t even worth getting off my duff to get some Tylenol, much less anything with punch. This is a tremendous contrast to the backbreaking, debilitating cramps I experienced before getting pregnant, and that includes after my thyroid levels were regulated (hypothyroidism can cause HORRID menstrual cramps) and I tell you this only because I’m constantly regaling you with tales of horror about THE VAGINA THAT ATE MANHATTAN, but really, there are upsides, for some of us, from this whole birthing kids thing. Besides the actual kid, I mean.
– The new TV fall lineup is truly wretched. Nothing new has piqued my interest. NOTHING. I’ve got three episodes of The Event on my DVR, and I’ve had ZERO motivation to watch any of them, and it just … well, it makes me sad.
– Did I tell you guys I live ten minutes from Shaq? And that in an effort to show Jennie and Mike his house, we ended up FULLY IN HIS DRIVEWAY, which is not something you expect when arriving to spy at a celebrity’s house?
– Did I tell you guys Jennie and I (and a bunch of kickass writers) are now doing Food Lush? Well, if I didn’t, I failed. It’s great, and is designed to be recipes and food-related stuff for normal people who don’t feel like making bastilla from scratch and sure as SHIT don’t have the budget or time to agonize over every little thing. I will say with a mixture of pride and bitterness that this post from Sarah is the reason why I spent the majority of naptime wrestling with an eleven-pound PORK LOIN purchased for $18 a BJ’s, but let me tell you, I got four big tenderloin cuts, four thick pork chops and a giant pile of bits to use for the Crock Pot, and it all works out to less than $1 per serving, including lunches and leftovers and holy cow, you guys, I RIPPED THE SHIT OUT OF THAT PORK LIKE I THOUGHT I WAS ON TOP CHEF OR SOMETHING.
That’s all I got. Pork, chocolate and menstruation.
*Yeah Yeah Yeahs
November 3rd, 2010