The veganosity of this blog got to be too intense. Veganosity deserves it’s own venue. Go here! http://www.mywholedeal.com/
The veganosity of this blog got to be too intense. Veganosity deserves it’s own venue. Go here! http://www.mywholedeal.com/
I forgot about the joys of silken tofu. Usually I buy a bunch and leave it in the back of my fridge for months and months and months (which is heartless, but cool: the stuff has an incredibly long shelf-life.) Tonight I was grouchy with the munchkins and I felt the need to atone with brownies for the boys and brownie laced breastmilk for the girl. I think everyone went to bed lovin’ me again, because nummy brownies right all wrongs.
Silken tofu replaces eggs and fat and creates a loverly texture, so dense you will not miss the fat. And if you do, you are wrong. And I may fight you.
Look at this! 10 days ‘til Christmas and the bloody thing still doesn’t have a head! How can I be expected to blog when Mr. Snowman is without head?
Now, if someone had told me when I had the first kid that there were two more plotting conception up there, I definitely wouldn’t have spent three months hand-crafting him the sequined SantaKitty stocking of doom, because what I’ve done now is damned myself. If I don’t craft the other two rascals stockings of equal magnificence there will be ill feelings all around and they will probably start plotting against me and I don’t need the hassle.
What I do need is a little old lady who enjoys this shiz to come and hang out in my basement and get this done. If you have one to spare, please send her along post haste and if she could bring me some New York Seltzer while she’s at it, fantastic. I just can’t stop thinking about the stuff!
I have been a barely present presence on the Interweb this past week and a half. Turns out being one with the living has its perks too, but I think I’m done now. My half broken computer calls me hence.
What have I been up to?
I feel bad that the focus of this blog has shifted from complaining about my family to concentrate on vegan and sustainable living, so I’m starting a new project for the productive junk which will really allow me to get back to the heart of the matter on this space: how terrible everyone I am related to is.
Case in point:
I guess it is Christmas soon or something because apparently the 7 year old is in dire need of a red scarf and top hat by next Tuesday’s Holiday Concert Extravaganza (which is at 1:45 in the afternoon because most parents are unemployed and need something to get them out of the house midday, right? Also, does anyone else find it somewhat unreasonable to ask every family of a male child to produce a felt top-hat in the year 2009? Where the freak does one find a top hat? I went downtown, but there was no one who even vaguely resembled this guy to steal one off of:
Perhaps I’ll hit the business district this afternoon. There’s got to be a tycoon somewhere who’s willing to share).
So we stop at the playground in the midst of our shoppery to let the 2 year old run off some steam and I notice he has to pee. So I ask him, “Hey buddy, do you have to pee?” but he assures me, in no uncertain terms, that he does not need to pee and I am a huge asshole for even implying such a preposterous suggestion. I spend the next 10 minutes watching him tug mercilessly at his crotch and run in increasingly tiny circles until he is kind of hop spinning in place and giving me the finger every time I gently remind him it is time to visit the potty. I finally convince him to push his own stroller to Starbucks for an apple juice, because what the kid clearly needs at this point is more liquid.
As soon as the juice hits the little bugger’s lips, it’s go time. Now he has to pee and I better produce a potty quick and how could I possibly leave it to the last minute, have I no compassion? So I leave the 7 year old to ensure my soy chai latte is indeed “easy foam” and venture into the handicap bathroom because I truly believe that balancing a squirmy, 30 pound, 2 year old boy over a filthy, heppatitus infected public toilet whilst wearing a squirmy, 21 pound, 10 month old girl in a sling across your belly, all the while trying not to get completely soaked in urine, is a HUGE handicap.
All would have been fine if it was summer and he was sporting his requisite uniform of elastic waist shorts and dirty tank top. But, no, it’s winter, so he’s wearing like 16 t-shirts and his jeans with the fastener that looks like a regular button, but is actually this weird hook thing, but looks so much like a regular button that I fight with it at every bathroom visit because I have the memory of a goldfish these days. And his brand new winter coat: his puffy, fluffy winter coat with the cowboy pockets and super handy detachable hood.
Needless to say it is hard to get a grip on his pants anyway because at this point he has to pee so bad that being still is no longer an option. I am squatting on the aids-in-a-petri-dish floor, wrestling wads of used toilet paper out of the baby girl’s mouth while trying to tug the boy’s pants down without undoing them, all the while wondering if my friendly and eager-to-please 7 year old is being recruited into some sort of Starbucks based prostitution ring (don’t look so smug, they have those in the States too, you know!), but it is all for naught anyway because as soon as his little trouser snake sees the light of day, it is all over.
I hop back on my heels to protect the baby from the backsplash while still holding on to the boy’s hands, leaning him forward like my husband taught me (cuz I don’t have a wang, so I don’t know these tricks) to save his pants and shoes as much as possible.
But it just keeps coming and coming and I have to let go of his hands and take another step back or risk drowning my daughter and I in his steamy wake. “I have ax-nit on floor,” he whimpers, still unleashing a vicious stream at maximum velocity. There is so much pee that I don’t have time to marvel at how cute it is that he says “ax-nit” instead of “accident” and aren’t 2 year olds just darling? It is time to build a dam or risk seepage into Starbucks proper and that will never do. I begin throwing handfuls of paper towel at the puddle and, conscientious little planet saver that he is, the 2 year old immediately bends down, still peeing, mind you, and picks up a soggy mass and offers it to me. “Here Mommy. You drop.”
I swallow a scream, because the last thing I need is a helpful barista in the mix. “No, no touch! Yuck!” I hiss, sounding more evil than I intended, which scares him and he begins lurching towards me with a quivering lip, pants around his ankles, arms out in search of a comforting hug. He’s finally emptied out, so I coax him out of the puddle, try to keep his piss soaked mitts off his sister and begin the daunting task of pulling up the jeans from hell.
But it’s wicked slippery on that there floor.
I feel I need to make a slight digression here. I HATE PUBLIC WASHROOMS. Before having children, I would avoid them at all costs, holding my water for inordinate periods of time, becoming Queen of the Hover. I have nightmares about public washrooms, in which I have to pee so, so, so bad, but every stall door I open reveals a scene more horrifying than the last: pubies, poopies, icky-lady business as far as the eye can see. And we all know that H1N1 actually originated on a McDonald’s bathroom floor in Iowa. So you can understand why what happened next will haunt me until my dying day.
I am yanking up the boy’s jeans with my arms out as far as they’ll extend because I don’t want to germify the girl, but the pants still aren’t undone so it’s a tight squeeze and I don’t have a fantastic grip and his shoes are slippery with his own waste and the next thing I know the boy goes pitching forward and belly flops smack dab in the middle of the yellow pool of his own creation.
I freeze but for a second before the adrenaline kicks in and I have him by the back of his coat, like a hideous parody of a lifeguard frantically pulling my kin to safety. But his shoes keep slipping and I lose my hold—he’s falling again! With lightening fast reflexes I grasp his hood and then the unthinkable happens: one by one I hear the snaps that hold the stupid thing in place releasing and then he is gone, falling to his doom, doing the syphallus front crawl on the bathroom floor and all I have left of my beautiful son is his eerily hollow, unoccupied hood.
Sufficed to say, we did make it out of that bathroom, sans coat, sans dignity. The 7 year old was still there and if he joined some sort of cult in our absence, he’s not telling. Ironically, the first thing the 2 year old did upon emerging from the devastated bathroom was drop his apple juice all over the Starbucks floor. As the friendly barista promptly mopped up the innocuous yellow puddle while ordering my boy another drink, on the house, of course, she assured me that she mops up similar puddles at least 2-3 times a day. And, as I guided my harried clan out of her establishment, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of calm, knowing I ensured her yellow puddle quota would most definitely be met that day.
I expect mywholedeal.com to launch in the coming weeks, so check back often. In the meantime, I will be creating some guest posts for the amazing Vegansaurus and probably cleaning up a lot more pee.
Okay Blog. I will write you a bit, but then back to my book.
I never get the bloody Fast Reads from the bibliotheque because the only time I can read uninterrupted is in the bathroom and you can only pretend to go to the bathroom so many times a day before the family starts getting worried and then suspicious and then you have a 2 year old and a 7 year old sitting at your feet even when it’s the real deal and that’s just mentally scarring for everybody.
I also have a steadfast and elitist rule to avoid books that are movies at all costs, but the internets assured me that the author of this puppy was thoroughly peeved about the casting choices and the plot seemed intriguing, so I bit the bullet and now here I am, a mere 167 pages into the 541 page beast and only 4 days to go! $1.50/day if I don’t finish in time, oh the humanity!
As an aside, is there anyone who doesn’t find it humiliating to be seen reading a book with movie stars plastered across the cover? Probably. But you’re wrong not to be embarrassed. I am so judging you.
So I don’t feel like writing, I don’t feel like answering emails (even REALLY good ones that I am VERY excited about that I WILL acknowledge first thing in the morning’a’saurus) and I didn’t much feel like feeding my hungry family. But their grumbly-tumblys were interfering with my silent reading time, so I made them this. It is very fast. Make it when you want people to leave you alone.
And because I want my people to grow up big and strong, I also heated up some Yves Asian Ground Round and let the peeps make Asian-style tacos, which entails rolling said round up in lovely, crispy lettuce leaves.
Okay, this post for sure cost me like $3. I really must depart…NOW
For some reason it took me awhile to get on the natural cleaning bandwagon. I mean it’s not like I’m a real clean freak or anything (laundry’s cool once a month, no?), but when I do clean, I clean for keeps. Picture me 10 months pregnant bleaching the baseboards with a toothbrush—I’m that thorough. But kids lick everything, really just get right into the crevices with some deep tongue action every time you turn your head. When there’s 3 of them at it, you simply must resign yourself to believe we are symbiotic with dirt and the dried out piece of pear the baby is eating out of Raggedy Andy’s overalls is just nature’s own sweet gift.
Bottom line: bleach and the other thousands of harsh chemicals found in conventional cleaners will do way more damage to baby innards than a fuzzy pear or two could ever inflict. Rather than slowly poisoning your kin, try mixing together equal parts plain white vinegar and water in a spray bottle, which works to disinfect everything from mirrors, to counters, to toilets, tubs and floors. Extra tough stains? Sprinkle the mess with baking soda first and then spray the whole deal with your vinegar/water solution and scrub away. I’m not s-ing you people: this shiz even gets bright yellow baby back-side “magic” out of area rugs and it’s super fun watching it fizz.
Don’t enjoy the pickle-y smell? Try the anti-bacterial and sweet smelling lovlieness of essential oils: mix 2 cups water with 25 drops Tea Tree Oil and 25 drops of Lavender Oil for a more fragrant germ buster.
So stop letting those nasty bubbles check out your fancy bits-go natural instead.
Hiding from H1N1 has weakened our tender little immune systems and now the smallest of the people and I are wallowing in our own muccii.
Cooking sucks when you are sick. No matter how hard I try to make like a 2nd grader and hack into my elbow pit, I just know my family is getting a little bit of DNA with every bite. Not to mention that my spice to other ingredient ratio is completely out of whack on account of my having no discernible nostrils at the moment. I made Happy Herbivore’s African Kale and Yam Soup, but I made it spicy, like triple the chilli flakes and a hefty dose of Louisiana hot sauce spicy. Burn out your ear drums spicy. I thought it was perfect, ecstasy in a bowl, but I’m the only one who had seconds, so either the rest of my household is a bunch of pansies or I grossly miscalculated the difference between happy spice and scary spice.
Happy Spice does not wear leopard print wrestling boots, that’s how you can tell the difference.
At any rate, I’m staying out of the kitchen today, camping on the couch with the middle child and becoming one with Yo Gabba Gabba, the show that was made for the mushroom addict lurking deep inside all of us.
Now, somebody order me some Green Cuisine take-out…NOW!
Ridiculous, really, but I forgive it because it is such a dang tasty spread, yummy on crackers, pitas, veggies, toast, in sam-iches, you name it. Not cereal though, that would be disgusting.
I wanted fat free Baba Ganoush, because that’s how I roll, so I made some. And then I learned something, which is all we can really hope for, right?
I learned that, Baba Ganoush, unlike most things, improves with age. It does not become crotchety and scared of technology, telling the same stories thrice times an hour; instead it becomes more flavourful and delicious on sour dough rye toast.
*Use the rest of the head of garlic for tasty toasts: mash it up with some rosemary and rock salt to taste and spread it on your favourite crusty bread for a fat free take on traditionally fatty garlic bread.
Regretsy.com ate all my good intentions today.
I’m chortling, yes, chortling, out loud over here. Why are there so many handcrafted vaginas out there? I’m crafty—why have I not been informed of this trend?
Well, I’m on it now. It’s pancakes for breakfast tomorrow and we all know how creative I can get with the tail-end of the batter. A little shellac, and I’m good to go.