I swear, some days living in this house is like living in an asylum. Karis is the patient with multiple personality disorder. One minute she is sweet and cuddly, the next she is a venom spewing harpy.

I can’t really blame her – she gets it from her mother.

Meanwhile, I am forever nurse Ratched. The bad guy. The rule enforcer. Being the boss sucks.

Brecken is the patient that lives to please… as long as you don’t mess with his stuff. MY cars! MY mama! MY daddy! MY juice! His vocabulary has increased one hundred fold for the sole purpose of being able to declare objects HIS.

I love my kids, and even enjoy spending chaotic days with them in our own little psychiatric ward. Some days, however, I would like to be voluntarily admitted, and medicated, so I could have a day off from being in charge.

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I never went to my prom. I’m not devastated about that fact. It wasn’t because I wasn’t asked, or couldn’t afford to go. I just wasn’t in to the whole school dance thing.

The first time my high school boyfriend got up enough nerve to ask me out, it was to his homecoming dance. I remember it clearly. He was a dead ringer for Keanu Reeves (hot Keanu, not strangely bearded Keanu). He was a black leather jacket wearing, red mustang driving, smoke like James Dean kind of guy. But he wasn’t a “bad boy”. Quite the contrary, he was sweet and shy. I met him through my step-sister, and knew he liked me, but I was unprepared for him to ask me to his homecoming dance.

Keanu: Would you like to go to homecoming with me?

Me: God no!

His face became a sickly mixture of mortification and confusion.

Me: Oh, I’m not saying I don’t want to go out! I just don’t want to go to homecoming. Let’s definitely do something else though.

And so we did. Specifically we went to see Forest Gump, ate at a retro diner, and played pool. We were together the remainder of our high school days, and on into a bit of college, but we never once attended a high school dance.

Jesse is attending a black tie charity gala next week – which means *I* am attending a black tie charity gala next week, unless he has a mistress to take in my place, and frankly, there is no way that man has time for a mistress. This will be my first official black tie event if you don’t count weddings and the occasional movie premiere.

I thought I had the perfect dress for such an occasion. Alas, I have not worn said dress since before baby number two came along. I poured myself into the low cut evening gown and appraised myself in the mirror. Jesse was in the shower at the time, and could hear me rustling around on the other side of the curtain.

Good lord.

What?

Let’s just say it’s a good thing this dress is cut on the bias, and therefore stretchy.

You bought that dress when you were pregnant with Karis. Isn’t it like, way big?

It’s a size 4. Bastard.

I guess my age is starting to catch up with me. I was chatting with an old college buddy of mine the other day, and when I mentioned my ever expanding waist line, he admitted to having the same problem. We came to the conclusion that we are simply getting fat and old. Well. Not I, dammit! I will not go quietly into the night. I will rage against the dying of my slim figure.

That being said, I have some cardio to go do. I refuse to spend money on a new, larger dress, so you may all look forward to upcoming pictures of me sucking it all in in my old black dress. Maybe I’ll buy a girdle…

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This is going to be a post about girl parts, and PMS, and all that good stuff, so if you aren’t fascinated with the topic, feel free to move along.

I am not usually one to use medication. If I have a headache, or sore muscles, I usually just whine about it, and mope around. It’s really quite charming, I assure you. I don’t think my liver will rot and die if I pop an ibuprofen or two, I just don’t have the desire to eat pills. (unless the pills are chocolate – then we’ll talk.)

I am in that lucky group of women that enjoy obvious symptoms in the days before they get their period. My personal symptoms include, but are not limited to:

• BLOATING
• irritability
• hormone induced acne
• cravings for sweet things (Damn you, Cadbury Creme Eggs!)
• constipation
• BLOATING
• irritability

and

• BLOATING

(Okay, to be fair, with the exception of BLOATING, I have all of those symptoms no matter what time of the month it is.)

The whole bloating thing is verging on ridiculous. I retain a good 5 pounds of water. 5 POUNDS.

In a fit of frustrated, bloated indignation, I decided to try Midol. Midol is supposed to be a magic little pill that helps relieve PMS symptoms. They claim to address cramps, bloating, fatigue, backaches and headaches specifically. They do this with a combination of ibuprofen, caffeine, and a diuretic.

I’m not a coffee drinker. Yes, I eat an exorbitant amount of chocolate, but other than that, I don’t really come into contact with much caffeine in my daily life. 2 Midol caplets later, I am amped up like a tweaker, cleaning the house, and talking faster than an auctioneer. I took the recommended dose late morning, and was still wide awake come 1:30AM, watching House Hunters, and fighting the urge to do lunges.

I can’t say that I recommend Midol to anyone, however, if you find yourself curious about a drug, I recommend checking it out with your doctor first, and maybe noting the side effects and precautionary statements found on the drug’s website. I found Midol’s information to be very helpful. Here are some screen captures from their site:

Yes, by all means, ask your doctor before using this MENSTRUAL MEDICATION if your PROSTATE GLAND is enlarged.

If you are PREGNANT and MENSTRUATING at the same time, maybe check with your doctor rather than taking a few Midol, hmmm?

You would think a drug company would be more careful with their copy. I know, I know, you gotta cover your ass these days, and put certain cautions on certain drugs. However, in this instance I think it makes Midol look sloppy to be cautioning men and pregnant women on their PMS drug copy. Just sayin’.

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This recipe goes out to all you vegan bastards out there. For those of you meat lovin’ non-vegans, shut the hell up and try something new for a change.

What you’ll need:

1/2 a red bell pepper

1/2 a yellow bell pepper

1/2 a green bell pepper (Optional. Some people think green bell peppers suck. If you are one of those people, don’t use them.)

1/4 a head of cabbage. Yes, cabbage smells like carnival people. Work through this.

2 avocado. Is the plural of avocado “avocados” or is it like deer? Who gives a shit. Make sure you have 2 of ‘em.

3 scallions

Rice paper

Soba noodles

3 or 4 grated carrots

This is what a package of rice paper looks like.

Cut the peppers, cabbage, avocado, and scallions into very thin strips. If you are a master, knife wielding psychopath, this should be an easy task for you. If you are like me, and have crappy, dull knives, and the coordination of a recent stroke victim, this may prove a bit of a challenge. Just do your best, and get them as thin as you can. Playa.

If you have as much as I have in this picture, you made too damn much.

About half this amount should be fine.

Boil, drain, and rinse the Soba noodles as instructed on the packaging.

Dip a sheet of rice paper in very warm water for a few seconds, until it loses just a bit of its stiffness.

Pile noodles, a slice of each color pepper, a pinch of carrots, a pinch of cabbage, a sprinkling of scallions, and a sliver of avocado onto the soggy rice paper. Roll it up like a burrito, tucking the sides in so the shit doesn’t fall out and get everywhere. If you have not yet mastered the art of rolling a burrito, smack your mother, because she damn well should have taught you that valuable skill by now.

If you live with young kids that are still in the I’m-a-picky-little-shit phase of childhood, I find wrapping up a portion of Soba noodles with two pepper slivers and a piece of cabbage works well, as long as you provide them with teriyaki sauce for dipping.

Now for the dipping sauce:

1 lemon

1 lime

2 cloves of garlic

a splash of rice wine

4 splashes of soy sauce

Squeeze the shit out of the lemon and lime. I use a lemon squeeze for this task. Don’t worry, the citrus wont feel a thing, as citrus fruit are lacking in any form of central nervous system. If you’re still bothered by the seeming violence of all that squeezing, do a few extra minutes of yoga or something. Isn’t that how you vegans unwind?

Mince the garlic and toss it into the citrus juices.

Add your splashes of wine and soy sauce.

1 package of Soba noodles will make around 20 to 22 rolls. Depending on why you’re eating, it should take between 4 and 8 rolls to fill you up. (Emotional eaters trying to fill a void because their daddy never told them he loved them, could easily down 8 of these suckers before moving on to dessert. An average, bitter, house wife, who is tired of cooking, will be full after 4 rolls.)

Ok, Assholes, there you have it – a vegan meal that doesn’t suck. This recipe is perfect for young hipsters that live in an outer burrow of Manhattan that wishes it was Manhattan, throwing a dinner party in their postage stamp sized flat. Hang up a few paper lanterns from Ikea, use some dishes with an Asian flare, and you’ve got yourself an honest-to-goodness-go-to-hell theme party!

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…or the public school system. Really it’s a combination of the two, isn’t it?

Read to your children, people! Read to them, and instill an early love of reading in them. That way, by the time they are old enough to be in a relationship, or in this case, old enough to be getting out of a relationship, they will be sufficiently literate to get their point across in a clear, articulate manner.

(Or don’t. This shit is HILARIOUS.)

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The award winning documantary Food Inc. will be streaming in its entirety on PBS.org until April 29, 2010. This movie is a must see. Knowledge is power. You have the right to know where your food comes from.

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Being a child of the 80′s, I had conservation drilled into me not only by my school teachers, but also by my father. I think the most commonly heard phrase uttered by my father was, “Why is the door open?! What, are we trying to heat the whole neighborhood!?”. That was followed closely by the standard, “When you leave a room, TURN THE LIGHTS OFF. I’m not made of money.”

Yes, my dad was more concerned with our electric bill than he was the planet, but the result was the same: We were conscious of our energy consumption.

To this day, I get nervous and twitchy if I see someone leave the water on while brushing their teeth, or washing their hands.

I also still experience a jolt of shock (and let’s be honest, judgment) when I see someone blatantly not recycling. *cough* My awful neighbors *cough*

I love that being green has finally become fashionable. I just hope it’s not too little, too late.

Happy Earth Day, Internet. Every little bit helps.

This was put togetther by the Mother Nature Network.

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Karis and Brecken take great joy in abusing my small digital camera. They both know how to turn it on, and how to take a picture. (They are still working on the whole aiming thing)

For the most part, Karis likes to take pictures of the t.v. screen, or her dolls all lined up. She also likes to take pictures of Brecken. While he refuses to let me get a shot of him, he’ll ham it up for Karis. So frustrating.

Brecken smiling as Karis shoves a camera in his face.

Sometimes her composition blows me away. She consistently takes interesting shots, so I don’t think it’s always random luck.

My keyboard is at her eye level. I love this shot.

Brecken is never one to be outdone. Here is a series of self portraits. He was thrilled with these. After each shot he would turn the camera over to see the pic in the display window. Each time the image popped up he would giggle maniacally, and turn the camera over to take another picture.

My childrens’ affinity for snapping pics isn’t always witnessed firsthand. Many times I have been clicking through the photos on my camera, when I come across a series of random, bizzare shots, featuring a favorite toy, or a half eaten pile of Cheerios. I love those little surprises. They always make me smile.

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I try not to be too preachy on this blog. (Emphasis on TRY) I know the fastest way to get me to tune you out, is for you to start waxing poetic about a subject I am already familiar with, or have no interest in. I get it.

Lately I have been finding it harder and harder not to share certain pieces of information with you, Internet. I know I am teetering precariously on the edge of being written off as one of those crazy, tree hugging, cow lovin’, hippies. Just bear with me, please.

I have recently become obsessed with the horrors of factory farming. Factory farming is nothing new. They haven’t started torturing animals in a new, even more reprehensible way than they were ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. So why am I so upset about it these days? I can’t pinpoint why. I think it has to do with my having recently made an embarrassingly obvious connection. I have been supporting factory farming.

I’ve lived in farm country. I’ve attended livestock auctions. I’ve seen how the industry treats the new born calves that they have no use for. I used to call them the “throw away babies”. Every week we would go down to the auction and try to buy as many throw away babies as we could. I was trying to save them from the fate that awaited them in veil crates.

Most of the throw away babies we brought home, died. They had never been given the chance to drink even one sip of their mothers anti-body rich colostrum, and they would contract milk fever, and waste away. Eventually we adopted an old cow named Granny. She was sweet tempered, and happily fostered two throw away babies at a time.

This is Happy. I saved him before we found Granny. He was one of the few calves to live to be a healthy adult. You can see his umbilical cord still hanging from his abdomen in this pic. I think he was a full day old when I got him. I think he managed to sneak a nurse or two in before they took him from his mother.

I’m rambling off topic here. Back to my shameful support of factory farming:

I knew the horrors of livestock auctions. I knew the filth of feed lots. While I didn’t know as much as I know now about such torture chambers as gestation crates and farrowing pens, I did know that grim, dark things happened to the creatures that eventually ended up in someone’s McDonald’s breakfast sausage. So how could I continue to eat meat? Easy. In my denial rich brain, the animals that came from factory farms ended up at fast food chains, and in the bargain bins at ghetto supermarkets. NOT at the grocery store where *I* shopped. I had gotten so used to seeing cattle grazing in fields, and piglets rooting around in mud puddles, that I had assumed factory farming was the exception, rather than the rule.

Only recently have I opened my eyes to the fact that factory farming – and all the horrors it entails – is in fact THE RULE. MOST of the meat you will come into contact with will have come from a factory farm via a dirty slaughter house. I say “most”, but in truth, depending on your life style, and where you tend to shop for groceries, you may be able to amend that “most” to “all”.

There are such gut-wrenching atrocities committed at these facilities, that my brain couldn’t fathom the factory farming system to be the norm of the meat industry. I didn’t eat at fast food restaurants, and I only bought high end meat cuts. Everyone knows the high end stuff comes from the well treated animals, right? Oh, and I DID eat at In-N-Out. I’ll go so far as to say I worshiped at the alter that was a #2 with onions and a pink lemonade. Their meat was different than, say, McDonald’s. Well, yes, it was. They only bought certain parts of the cow, but that cow was still tortured for most of its life, and slaughtered in the same filthy slaughter house that sells to other fast food chains. So no more In-N-Out for me.

At this point in my life I am mostly vegetarian. I still eat eggs from the farmer’s market, and I still drink milk from a local micro-mooery. I also feed my family the occasional chicken from the Amish farm down the road, and I don’t know what Jesse would do if I were to stop buying his locatelli Parmesan cheese – are they nice to sheep in Italy? Probably not. So we are quite a ways away from being vegan. (Or even vegetarian if you consider our occasional chicken consumption.)

I understand how hard it is to give up something you have done your whole life. Meat is like a drug in that it can have the same allure and power over you that a drug can – if you let it. I find I can’t eat meat anymore if I don’t know exactly where it came from. And I  mean exactly. I had to research the Amish farm and check it out, before I could stomach buying a chicken breast from them.

Internet, factory farming is not justifiable. No matter how delicious that steak. With every bite you take, you are saying, “It is ok to force a living creature to endure unspeakable acts for my pleasure.” Just because we may not like the truth, it doesn’t make it any less true.

Thank you for reading this far. If you would like to know more about the meat industry, what you are putting into your body, and how it ended up on your plate, you can check out these sites:

Food Inc

Earthlings

The Cove

More than a hybrid

This was supposed to be an upbeat post about meeting Gene Baur of Farm Sanctuary. I will save that story for another day. Probably tomorrow, so anyone I haven’t scared off yet, will see Gene’s book at the top of the post, and chalk me up to being a misplaced, granola eating, Birkenstock wearing extremist. (Hi Dad.)

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For those of you whom I  like to refer to as my more dedicated stalkers – you know, the ones that have read the “about” page on this here blog – you may recall my claim to have worn a single pair of sneakers for an entire year.

You can imagine a sneaker worthy of such love/abuse would surely have to be comfortable. You would be right!

Behold, the Saucony Cambridge.

Obviously this isn’t a picture of the actual sneakers I wore. My beloved sneakers are considerably the worse for wear, and I will spare you a current photo of them, so we may remember them the way they were. They would want it that way.

I had thought Saucony had decided to stop making the Cambridge style of shoe. I was greatly disheartened, and drowned my sorrows in a large chocolate milkshake or seven. Sighing dramatically, I begrudgingly bought a pair of Pumas. To be fair, the Pumas did a pretty good job of being my regularly abused shoe, but they lacked the staying power of my beloved Sauconys.

Imagine my delight at finding the Cambridge still in production! Not only did I immediately buy two pair, (God I love knowing a shoe so well, you can buy it over THE INTERNET and KNOW it will fit!!) I also bought a pair from their vegan line. So far, so good! They are comfy and cruelty free. Win win.

Nothing makes this girl’s wide, cumbersome feetsies happier than a pair of their favorite sneakers.

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