Happy Halloween!

more animals

Reason #4,550,298 to move to Canada

We need some of this over here.

My schedule

This is getting ridiculous. Last night I took a slow bus (as in even slower than the 147!) so that it would take me longer to get home. Then I got off the bus and walked for over an hour so that it would take me longer to get home. Then I stopped for tea so that it would take me... you get the picture.

And then when my little bird called (THANK YOU FOR CALLING!) I totally went all ravenous snow leopard meets unsuspecting hiker on her because she had the gall - THE GALL I TELL YOU - to ask me how I was doing. Nice. Real nice.

So I'm thinking that I need a schedule to help me make it through this two week slog. If you have ideas, PLEASE send them my way. I promise not to respond by ripping out your carotid artery, but I can't help it if I get a little edgy. I've been edgy since Tuesday. It is a way of life for me now.

Today: Ugly Betty & Grey's Anatomy, DUH. But I'll be 86ing the Jizake. Dammit.

Tomorrow: Knit night. I kinda feel like I should be doing something Halloweeny, but doesn't that involve bars?

Saturday: Green city market, the golf range, and thrift storing for baby stuff. Cleaning out and decrapping my kitchen. Netflix.

Sunday: On with the decrapping, maybe brunch with a friend, definitely a long walk. Maybe the Art Institute or the Field Museum?

What do you do when you are waiting?!?! WHAT DO YOU DO!?!?! For the love of all things good and holy, I DON'T EVEN HAVE ANY MORE COBWEBS! And what the hell was I thinking, cleaning out and decrapping my closets over the past few months? That, my friends, is a serious case of Bad Planning.

Giving it a rest

My dear readers are probably ready to gouge their eyes out if they see one more post giving entirely too much information about my reproductive organs and their functioning. I have to admit that I'm feeling pretty one dimensional right now, and its getting on my nerves, too. Especially because I won't know if I'm pregnant for a whopping 2 weeks. Well, actually another 12 days, and maybe 11 if you figure that I was inseminated in the morning, and I'm told that I can start peeing on various things in about 10 days because hey those First Response tests are mighty powerful, but who is obsessing?! Not me, oh no. I'd never do anything like obsess over baby making.

So I'm going to post on other topics this week, in the hopes of calming my frazzled nerves without alcohol. [Good lord, I miss cocktails.] In the interim, though, I keep picturing a fertilized egg making its way through my fallopian tubes and hearing this song in my head:



And am I the only one who misses the Smurfs on Saturday morning?

Meet my Fertility Socks

My friend Kristy is the world's greatest knitter. Seriously. I'm in awe of her ability to whip up something fantastic from what is essentially a long piece of string. YAY Kristy!

And I admit I'm a little jealous. Just as crochet lends itself well to certain projects, such as lace scarves and girly girly winter hats, some things only look good when knit. Like socks. And its not that there aren't crocheted sock patterns available. There are lots out on the public internets. But... well, they suck. So I don't get to make socks. So I'm a little jealous.

Which is why Kristy is even more amazing: She makes socks for me, and that makes her the bestest knitter in the whole universe. I mean, who else would be awesome enough to make me Fertility Socks? And yes, Internet, my Fertility Socks must be capitalized, they are that fantabulous, OMG.

I have worn the Socks for every ultrasound, every injection, and, of course, to the insemination. Although... I fear I may be getting a little codependent on my them. I've had nightmares where I start to undress from the waist down and AHHHHH I forgot the Socks at home! But then, each time when I woke up in a cold sweat, I felt relief. Because those were only dreams. No way would anything so horrendous as forgetting the Fertility Socks ever happen in real life, no way. I'd never leave my JuJu at home.

A pep talk of another kind

Hey AJ!

Welcome to my uterus, AJ! Boy oh boy have the girls and I been waiting for you - all 13 million of you. And it hasn't been the kind of waiting where we could sit around and eat bonbons all day, oh no. It was the kind of waiting that involved speculums (speculi?), various strangers staring into my vagina muttering such quotables as, "Hmmmm, I've never seen that before" and drugs that made me worry about spontaneous combustion. There were lots and lots of drugs, actually, and some even required injection. Which I had to do myself.

So you see, AJ, there has been quite a buildup to your entrance on the scene. It hasn't been easy, and it hasn't been the kind of thing that I'd like to repeat next month, thank you very much. This little chat could go on forever - there is so much I want to say to you! - but it can all be summed up in a few words:

SWIM! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, SWIM!!!

You, my squiggly friend, are on a mission. You must seek out that magnificent egg that Freyja so painstakingly provided, and you must do this with speed and determination. Don't get to know your fellow swimmers. Don't get all chatty or social. They are your competitors and you must leave them in awe of your speed and agility. Be the Speedy Gonzalez of jizz, the Michael Phelps of spooge.

If you see a light, do not get all, Hey! Look at the pretty bright shiny! NO! Do NOT swim into the light. You have a mission to fulfill and you MUST REMAIN FOCUSED. There is an egg somewhere in all those twisty turny bits, and it is your goal to find it and release your genetic material. Yes, I know its dark in there. I know its hard to see, and believe me, you aren't the first to request a map of my reproductive organs. Do not get discouraged. Your mate is in there somewhere, waiting for you. Go find her. Now.

Make me proud, little wormy squirmy. Make me proud.

A pep talk for a slow bloomer

Hey Freyja,

I hear you've been awful busy this month, what with sprouting FIVE - count 'em, FIVE - follicles. And one of those looks to be big enough to burst. Good work, you indefatigable reproductive organ! I for one want to stand on a stage and sing your praises to the world. Freyja, it looks like this month it will be you, and only you, who releases her fruit to the world in the hopes of multiplying. Congratulations on a job well done.

I know it has been a rough road this month, and you have been a real trooper through it all. The Clomid sucked for both of us, me with the hot flashes and you with all those follicles growing all over you. And the ultrasounds haven't been a cakewalk, either, what with the technicians making discouraging comments about you before we'd even had our morning coffee. But you have been a tough old gonad, flourishing despite all the chemicals and sonic waves and negativity that I and various well-paid strangers have thrown at you. I'm so proud of you, Freyja!

And I'm sorry that I doubted you. I'm sorry that, in what can only be described as a moment of impatience and weakness, I dared to question your dedication to the job at hand. It must have been a teensy bit demotivating for you, my darling reproductive organ, when I bent my head and yelled, "You are not on vacation! We are not in the Bahamas so GET TO WORK DAMMIT!" in the middle of a crowded restaurant. While yes, I did mean it at the time, and we really aren't in the Bahamas (although it would be nice, wouldn't it?), I do apologize for vocalizing my frustrations in such an excruciatingly public manner. You are right, these are private matters. So what if my cycle is now going into its SEVENTH week? I see now that I should have had more faith in you and that saying, "Perfection takes time."

But there is still more work to be done. You can't rest just yet, my little estrogen-producing friend. I know you are tired, and sore, and I know that you are under enormous pressure. (The bloating is killing me, too!) But you can get through this. I believe in you. Just a couple of millimeters more, and that ovum will triumphantly spring forth from her ovarian confines and meet her match (please?). And then, my gonady goodness, you will get nine whole months of the Bahamas. I promise.

Well, maybe not the Bahamas, exactly, but you won't be expected to do anything, you know what I mean?

Screw the Mopey Meter

I have a cold. And I came to work. Why? Because 1 out of 4 on the Mopey Meter doesn't a sick day make:

Fever: Nope
Nausea: Nope again
Hours spent paying homage to the porcelain god: Zip
Apparent size of my head: 8,000 pounds and expanding

Alas, today's case is, technically, not enough to eschew the Real World.

Well, except for that last one. It would seem that the my sinuses have suspended my ability to function in normal society. So I'm going home. Because I just can't cope. Everything is moving too quickly and I'm barely able to keep my eyes open and my ears tickle and my bones ache and people are talking at me - TALKING AT ME - and all I hear is ARGLE BARGLE BARGLE. DEAR GOD MAKE THEM SHUT UP. MAKE THEM ALL SHUT UP.

My teeth hurt.

So, readers, seeing as how this is flu season (but I have a cold, not the flu), I thought I'd share with you the only thing I can eat/drink when I feel even a little sick. Its a cure all, I swear it.

Chicken Soup for the Mopey Soul

Chicken stock (do yourself a favor and get the good stuff)
Ginger slices
Lemon slices with the peel
Shredded chicken, if you can stand it
Soup nuts (I'm Jewish, remember?)
Mint leaves (fresh, of course)

Simmer the first 4 ingredients until it smells and tastes the way you like. Be careful with the lemon - too much can be too much. And be sure to get organic, at least the lemons. The lemon oil is REALLY good for you, but if you don't get organic then all those pesticides will mean you can't simmer the lemon with the peel on. Add the mint and soup nuts when you drink it.

Did any of that make sense? I'm going home. My teeth hurt.

On choosing sperm, part 1

And on it goes.

What has surprised me most about this hop/skip/jump/slow hormonal trudge down fertility lane is that I have absolutely no control over pretty much anything. My insurance decided if they will pay or not based on whether or not the state makes them. The doctors tell me when to spread 'em, and I'm all, Is this good enough, or would you like me to dislocate a few joints? I will if you want me to. The nurses tell me when to insert A into B, and I guess in a few days they'll really insert A into B, if you know what I mean. See? No control.

The truth is, the only real control I had was in choosing the sperm. It was actually pretty disturbing the first time around. You see, there is an ugly side, a very ugly side, to the sperm trade. And trust me, it is an entire industry, an industry that is governed by greed, not held accountable to anyone, and allows - no, ecourages - pasty-faced sociopaths to "donate" for eleven years, all while posting to several sites about the merits of eugenics. EEK!

I'll open that can of worms in another post, but for starters, I want to make a few things clear:

* I choose sperm banks wisely. I choose one that is ethical. The bank I used seriously limits the number of children per donor, and is very open with information.

* I also choose the right donor. Yes, I wanted a PhD from Harvard (and, um... Noc, there isn't a premium for Harvard but there is a hefty PhD surcharge), but I decided good health and a willing to be known donor were more important criteria.

I made my choices based on (drum roll please) the thoughts of donor-concieved children and adults. I'm really grateful for their generosity in sharing their opinions and experiences with me, and I'm grateful that a very special Yahoo! group existed and allowed me to post my questions. I read, re-read and re-re-re-re-read their impassioned emails, and choose a donor and bank which would have been acceptable to these people. Because none of this is really about me, you know? The getting pregnant part is about doctors and nurses and ultrasound techs and fertility cocktails and fertility socks and Porgy the Pregnancy Pig and my girly parts and I'm just sorta doing what everyone tells me I should do. At least for now, my experiences are dictated by others, and I'm not doing all this for the experience.

I'm in it for a family. The baby, the life that is going to be created out of all this: That is what this journey is about. And it was so frustrating to me two years ago, you know? Because I knew then - and know now - that the decisions I make will affect the child for the rest of his or her or their life or lives. [T: Working real hard on that grammar, you betcha.] So I made a good choice. I'm comfortable with it, and I hope my child(ren) will be, too.

More on swimmers later. And Porgy and fertility socks and fertility cocktails and a bunch of other random stuff.

But the tea was really good

About a year ago, I went out for the initial tea/coffee get-to-know you first date with a guy I met online (if you can even call tea a date). He was tall and handsome and boyishly charming and he had lots of (his own!) hair and I admit that I was interested.

Regrettably, he thought I was icky. Because I barbeque small woodland creatures for fun and profit. Isn't that always how it works? But seriously, no big deal, I moved on. And quickly - at the time I was on the dating highway, operating under the mistaken assumption that somewhere in the quantity of men I was meeting I'd actually find quality. HA!

But... The guy kept calling me. Mind you, he didn't want to venture out into the scary Real World with this ickster and her shish-ka-bunnies, no way. Rather, I got the distinct impression that his long hauls out into the 'burbs were a bit too quiet for his liking. The only time he ever called was while he was driving, and I imagined that my conversation was his way of mitigating the silence. Scrolling through his iPhone, if he came to the S's and noone else was home, BINGO, I would hear from him, you betcha. Flattering, really.

Eventually he couldn't procrastinate an actual date/outing/in-person conversation any longer, and he gave a very polite, very cordial Speech. I was impressed, and gave a slightly customized version of the Speech right back. It was amicable.

Fast forward through several months and a few seasons. I haven't thought about him in forever, and I certainly wasn't thinking of him when I blogged about my vagina. But, um, readers: Do you think it is a coincidence that the day I wrote this post he called? Or do I have a tea-drinking, iPhone-scrolling, boyishly charming reader with a full head of hair who is all Hey! I wonder if her vagina is icky, too?

And DJS (the middle was James, right? Something like one of the kings of England, right?), if you are reading this: No. Just no.

At a hair band concert

E: How's the Mullet Count going?

FatChick: You know, I'm a little disappointed. I've only seen one quasi-mullet, and it looked more like a grown out mohawk.... See the lead singer? He's like every guy I slept with in college.

E: Go ask him if he'll sell you a vial of himself. He might. Who knows, he could be the donor you bought.

FC: You know, when I think of all the sperm I wasted in college, it makes me a little ill. Had I known how expensive it is, I would have put my freezer to good use.

E: Um... I don't think it works that way.

On whale babies and pencil pushing approvers

And this is where I back up a little.

As I've written about before, the medical community has, in general, been quite pessimistic about my trip down fertility lane. My favorite was Dr. D., who told me to forget it because I'm fat. Her professional opinion was that no child should have to be born to a fat mother because that would be a humiliating disadvantage in life.

Most other doctors are concerned about my weight, but for medical reasons. They recognize that there are additional risks for big girls and their babies, but that given the right planning and care, mama and baby should be fine. These days its the rare occasion when I have to remind a doctor or nurse that whales have babies, too. (And I know all about whale babies because I saw one at an aquarium once.)

But I digress.

Two years ago, when I first went to see a reproductive endocrinologist (RE), I saw Dr. B. She was amazing and wonderful and I highly recommend her. At the time, I was new to this whole single mom by choice thing, and was more than a little overwhelmed by all the tests, the drugs, the poking and prodding. I knew I could get through it, perhaps without my dignity, but I could do it and would create a family and the world would be filled with daffodils and butterflies and cute little bunnies. I didn't realize all the hoops and hurdles.

The first hurdle continues to be the insurance. Who knew that you'd have to sacrifice a goat in order to get fertility treatments approved? I'm one of the lucky ones: I live in Illinois. Here in the Land of Lincoln fertility treatments are state mandated, so we rock. Still, the insurance companies can - and boy oh boy they will - deny you if you didn't seranade the moon in exactly the right tone and pitch. On every step of this mama trail, four differnent REs have told me, "There is no way your insurance will cover this."

At first I blamed my fat. I thought that these smug baby-making wizards were secretly hoping that the insurace would not approve my treatments so that no baby would ever develop in my fat womb. I know its paranoid and irrational, but Dr. D's comment freakin stung. For a while I really did believe that I didn't deserve to be a mom, that I didn't deserve a family. Its amazing, how one nasty comment can sum up and solidify all these fears, you know? It was like I had this whole room filled to bursting with self-loathing, and Dr. D's comment just kinda shut and locked that door. I festered for quite a while, and every time someone said, "Your insurance isn't going to cover this," I heard, "You are waaaaaaaay too huge to be a mother."

But eventually I got over it. Fat acceptance blogs have helped. This blog has helped. Speaking to friends, family and other single moms has helped. And now when someone is all down on the Blue Cross Blue Shield bastards, I don't translate that as judgment or commentary. It has nothing to do with ulterior motives or my flab. It's about the REs' and nurses' past experiences with my insurance. And when they go on and on, I think to myself, "Well, we'll just wait and see. After the decision comes through that magic fax machine, then - and only then - will I sing."

And you know what, Internet? I've been doing a hell of a lot of singing lately. Because my insurance HAS APPROVED MY CYCLE! Can you believe that? The nurse who gave me this fantastic news told me that she was, quite frankly, shocked. Apparently, this same company denied three other women (who had more possible anatomies) this week. I feel sad for the other women, and I've said a quiet prayer for them, but ultimately I'm ecstatic for me.

It's real! It's really real!!!

As always, more on this later...

In which I continue the VJJ discussion

Yes, my VJJ (I love Grey's Anatomy) has caused me all kinds of embarrassment at the gyno's, and until this past Monday I thought that my annual pap smear would be the one truly shit day of the year. Boy was I wrong.

On Monday of last week, I had to endure the torture of an HSG test. For all those blissfully unaware, let me tell you that should YOUR vagina be sized or shaped like anything other than a Humvee's garage, then you never ever ever want one of those tests. Trust me on this one, FatChick won't lie to you. The MALE doctor spent over an hour jabbing foreign objects where God never intended (and I think my spleen ruptured a little) before finally writing, "Anatomically Impossible" on my chart. He didn't care that I offered to stand on my head or do jumping jacks (I've been told that jumping jacks can help, I don't know why). He just gave up. Damn that quitter!

And in case you are really unaware, then let me clue you in: In order for my insurance to cover my fertility treatments, I had been told that the effin HSG test was mandatory. I was told that there was no way, not a single way, that the insurance would cover my insemination cycle if I didn't get that damn HSG test done. Do you think I wanted a room full of people to get all up close and personal with my up close and personal? Hell no. Do you think that I relished the thought of dye being forced - FORCED - into my fallopian tubes? Uh… are you C R A Z Y? I did it for the insurance. I put myself through over an hour of pain and humiliation in the hope that someone somewhere would hit the Approved button. So that I wouldn't go bankrupt making a baby.

When my anatomy proved impossible, this Fat Chick was not happy. No, not at all.

More on this later.

The letter J

The letter for today, kids, is J.



J is a very special letter. J is for jury, which can acquit you if you knock over a gas station. It is also for jack-o-lantern, which is one of the many special happities of October. And J is also a shape. It is the shape of technologically inferior (vintage?) snorkels and not totally unlike the shape of a horn.

Sadly, J is also the shape of my vagina.

Now, normally I wouldn't throw that out to the public internets. I mean, I'm sure Ms. Manners has expressly stated somewhere that the shape of one's VJJ is not suitable cocktail conversation. (Cocktails, anyone? Anyone knocking one back right now? Then don't read this because I will continue to blather on about my VJJ.) And, truth be told, its not something that I care very much about on the average Monday.

Except a visit to the gyno usually isn't on an average Monday. It's a sucky, prepare-to-be-accosted-by-a-duck's-bill Monday. And if you have my gyno, then she very well may SCREAM into a crowded hallway, "HEY! GLORIA! Go get the big speculum… The BIG speculu- no, not that one, the REALLY BIG SPECULUM! She's got a long one! And bring the halogen li- HALOGEN LIGHTS! It's dark in there and I ca- CAN'T FIND HER CERVIX." I think Sarah Palin heard her in her energy producing state, you betcha.

You know that sheet they give you for modesty? That flimsy thing? I use it to cover my face. Every time. I figure I'm fine with the world seeing my special-private-no-no place. I just don't want anyone to recognize it as being mine.

More on this later.

In case you need a laugh

I remember clothes shopping with my mother. Rarely a pleasant endeavor, one could always be sure of two things: My mother would make a bee-line for the plaid, and I'd howl in despair. It was like she had this preternatural ability to FIND THE PLAID in any store, and hoo boy you could count on her to insist - INSIST I tell you! - that the plaid be polyester. Because God forbid there would be ironing involved in the morning routine.

So, for all my readers who were similarly victimized by petroleum byproducts and flared anything, I give you something to make you laugh. Or cry. Be sure to read the commentary:

Sear's 1973 Catalogue

My kind of town

This is one of the many reasons I'm proud of Chicago. Yes, we have our faults, but at least some of our politicians have the moral fortitude (and yes I did just refer to morals) to stand up and do what is right. Or stop doing what is blatantly wrong.

YAY DART!

Stuporstitious

In addition to my growing phobia of man made carcino... I mean, chemicals in the products I use, I have found that this whole baby making adventure has brought out several other wierdnesses that were previously active only in my subconsciousness. And its causing difficulties.

I got into a spat - not necessarily an argument and certainly not a heated exchange - with my beloved Aunt because she told me that she wants me to wait to have kids. I didn't speak to her for over a week, but we finally cleared the air (and it was killing me). It wasn't that we disagreed (that's like breathing for us), and her disagreement with my choice is totally separate from her ability and desire to support and love me (I'm her darling neice, after all!).

It was what the unbelieving would call superstition. Stating (loudly) that I'm making a mistake was sending energy out into the universe, negative energy that I really believe could affect my chances of knocking myself up. I have made it pretty well known to friends, too, that they aren't allowed to speak of the M word around me (and I'm not talking about marriage here, either).

And I'm looking for omens all over the place. Aunt Flo arrived the same day as AJ. Is that a good sign? I refuse to buy any baby gear that is built for a specific number of children, because that might invite ill fortune. A friend made me fertility socks (handmade socks! YAY!) and I am so wearing them on I-day. For JHC's sake, I even bought a nazar. And I wear it.

Am I crazy? I guess the answer depends on who you ask - for more reasons than I can list here. But I do believe in ill fortune, in auspicious and inauspicious behavior, and the power of the subconscious mind and forces that Western science doesn't recognize or validate. In a way, I feel a teensy embarrassed, what with being a Modern Woman and all. However, at the end of the day, I say go with what works. Or helps. Or at least doesn't hurt.

Commuting with the easily amused

Last night on the ride home it was raining. Inside the bus. There were people almost, but not quite, dismembering each other with their open umbrellas as the bus barreled through construction on Lake Shore Drive. The casualty rate was low because we city folk are able to predict when the bus will lurch and cover our vulnerable bits seconds before disaster strikes. I had a seat, so I was all, HA! I'll just sit here and crochet while you all are blinded by raingear. Sucks to be you!

[You may be wondering about the riders' fates, as an open umbrella indoors is such an invitation to the Bad JuJu Monster. But when you are riding on what is essentially Swiss cheese on wheels you are not technically inside, you know? Like, a donut doesn't have an inside or outside the hole, know what I mean?]

So this morning I took a look out my window and given that it was raining outside my home, I assumed that it would also be raining inside the bus. It was a safe assumption, and based on that assumption, I choose to ride the El. Usually there aren't climate issues in the train, although Eau du CTA can reach lethal levels after a certain dew point. So with my free latte card in hand and a quick offering to whatever deities govern commuters, I headed to the neighborhood coffee shop and then the El.

I haven't ridden the train to work for a long, long time. Like, years. And my morning ride on the bus is usually with a select group of people just like me: We leave our house at exactly 7:20 AM bleary eyed and with coffee death gripped. These people know me. They know that I prefer the seat closest to the door, that I prefer flip-flops to shoes (even in February), that I carry too many bags and that I crochet.

This last point is important. While people are especially interested when I'm making something recognizable and/or with beautifully colored yarn, usually they just kinda regard me as That Woman Who Knits. They leave me alone. They don't stare. They don't ask questions. And they don't change seats to be near me so that they can stare better and ask more questions.

On the train… not so much. I felt like The Morning Entertainment, and I wasn't even mumbling incoherently to myself or arguing with the troop of singing potatoes sitting next to me. I swear it. All I was doing was crocheting a flower for a hat I finished last night, and people were all, Hey, what's she doing? That woman over there? I think I'll switch seats to talk to her. Because she looks like she could use some company now that the sun has risen, and my, that yarn has me all of a tither with questions. Like, does it come in orange? And why all the colors on one ball? How do you pronounce skein? And is that some special form of knitting, with only one stick? And do you ever sell what you make? How long does it take to crochet a sweater? And I've been wondering forever, do dolphins have nipples?

And Internet, you'll be proud of me. I wanted to explain that I crochet on my commute so that I can INSULATE MYSELF FROM AWKWARD SOCIAL INTERACTIONS WITH STRANGERS but instead I encouraged a couple of women to take lessons, and I even showed them how to make a double crochet stitch. Consider it my little nicety for the week.

Ok, month.

In which I use up my daily allotment of punctuation

According to the FedEx tracker, AJ HAS LANDED!!!! AJ is in Chicago!!!

Welcome to Chicago, AJ! May your time in my wonderful city prove fruitful! YAY AJ!!!

On turning 34

Holy schmoley, what a difference a year makes. I guess you could say I took last year's pledge seriously... and haven't had but a few moments to rest since then. I'm proud of myself.

And I thought about listing my accomplishments, or at least congratulating myself publicly... but that might result in my poor readers dying a senseless death caused by reading minutia. Why should I use boredom as a weapon? Against my readers? Whom I appreciate?!

Nope, since that won't do, I decided that I would use this post more constructively. I thought I'd share a little wisdom that I've gained over the past 12 months.

Never trust a web site developer.
If he gives you a timeline - and by all means, get a timeline - make sure to include the price of a tattoo artist into the bid. Then, hire said artist to tattoo all deadlines and deliverables onto the web site developers ass. Maybe later, while he's having your shoe surgically removed from his colon, he'll see the tattoo and begin to understand why your foot got there.

Coffee grinders have their limitations.
I have two coffee grinders. Well, perhaps its more accurate to say that I had two. One was for coffee, and the other was for spices. Internet, there is nothing more wonderful than freshly roasted and ground cinnamon. You should try it. And afterwards, whatever you do, DO NOT try to use your lovely spice grinder to make cinnamon-spiced peanut butter. It won't end well.

Keep the homestead clean.
Remember how we were told to always wear clean underwear because we might get into an accident? Keeping the house clean - or at least in a state somewhat resembling tidy - is kinda like that. You never know when a pipe will burst and half the city of Chicago will be standing in your hallway, not even trying to hide their looks of slightly disgusted surprise while simultaneously sawing holes through your bathroom and kitchen walls. Trust me on this one: If you keep your place clean, then Murphy's Law states you'll never have to deal with your sink in your living room and your toilet in the hallway.

My new favorite website

Every day brings me closer to starting a family. I've even decided to buy a calendar so that I can mark off the days and milestones. Its all so exciting - my first thought when I wake up is "X days until Aunt Flo comes to town!" (And this is the first time in my life that I've looked forward to that.) My last thought before drifting off into lala land is "Whoo hoo! When I wake up, I'll be one day closer to..." And so it goes.

It would seem, however, that I am also getting wierder by the day. Maybe I'm simply reverting to my hippie high school ways? I don't use plastic anymore because of the chemicals, my hair is constantly oily because I don't want to shampoo with sodium laurel sulfate (and the Jason brand just doesn't do the trick), and I really do read the labels now. And I don't eat what I can't pronounce. I'm even wary of commercially prepared non-organic yarn. I mean, have you seen what they do to those poor sheep? ATROCIOUS.

So I'll bet you can imagine my delight when I found Local Harvest. Isn't it FANTASTIC? Who knew that there were so many options for buying local, organic items near my home? I don't even have to own a car to support family farms! So many problems solved: I may be able to afford that free range turkey after all, and I can buy local, organic fiber for my crochet obsession - something I've been tossing around in my head.

File Local Harvest under the "Good" category. I just love the public internets sometimes, you know? This is a site that has solved two dilemmas simply by virtue of its existence. First, it is helping family farms to expand their markets, a challenge for small producers, and second, it is helping consumers like me, who would very much like to support small farms and who would like to purchase organic, but who have access issues. FANFREAKINGTASTIC!