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  1. The (Priceless?) Magic of Disney

    May 10, 2010 by Wendy

    Last week, we went to Disneyland, where Little Miss experienced what had to be, so far, the best day of her whole 4-year-old life. Or so I thought.

    Like just about every other little girl around this age, she is deeply entrenched in the “princess” phase, her room overflowing with Disney princess Barbie dolls, plush Disney dolls, princess costumes, hair accessories, sheets, etc.

    Although this wasn’t her first Disneyland trip, it would be the first she would really remember, and we wanted to make it extra memorable. So prior to the trip, I booked her a surprise appointment at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique, an adorable little salon and gift shop (of course!) located within the iconic Sleeping Beauty Castle.

    On the morning of the appointment, she had no idea what was in store for her, other than that there was a surprise and that she got to wear her pink fairy costume into the park that day.

    When we arrived and checked her in, I explained to her what was going to happen. I’m not even sure it registered with her, as she was pretty enthralled with her surroundings. (Picture the Disney Store on steriods—well, female hormones, I guess, as it was a sea of pink and jewels and princess everything.) Here’s how happy such a store makes a man, especially a father of three daughters:

    DSCN3523

    As soon as Little Miss got seated into her salon chair, the “fairy godmothers”  began bustling about her, applying makeup, styling her hair, sprinkling her with “pixie dust,” affixing cotton-candy-colored extensions (her choice) and placing a giant jeweled ring on her finger:

    DSCN3528

    DSCN3529

    DSCN3548

    DSCN3546

    She loved it, as the rest of us watched the transformation from a bench meant for the admirers. Though her “stepsisters” (as the Disneyland photographer called them) were happy for her, they seemed a little bored and anxious to hit the big-girl rides:

    sisterts

    When she was all made up, sprayed and glittered, the “fairy godmothers” unveiled the mirror, which was hidden during the process. The look on her face when she first saw her princess-ified self was priceless:

    first look

    Afterward, while she and the rest of the family went on Dumbo, one of her favorite rides, I stood in line for more than an hour at the Princess Fantasy Faire, where some of the A-list princesses are on hand for a private meet and greet. This was the moment she had been waiting for, and they arrived from the unexplainable mass chaos of the Dumbo line just in time:

    Ariel

    DSCN3577

    DSCN3581

    She was so happy and giddy and delighted, exactly what any little girl in her Disney Princess light-up shoes would be. The day was certain to be imprinted in her memory forever. Or so I thought.

    Later that night, as we sat on the crowded sidewalk awaiting the fireworks show, I asked her if it was the best day of her life.

    “Yes,” she replied, with that sweet, dreamy look on her face, no doubt recalling the events of the day.

    And then, she leaned out of her stroller with outstretched arms, and said, “Mommy?”

    “Yes?” I said.

    “Thank you for that frozen strawberry lemonade you bought me today,” she said as she hugged me tightly.

    Wow. That’s what she remembered from the day? I didn’t even need to say anything, as Twin A’s response said it all:

    “Do you know how much money you could’ve saved?” she said to us, between peals of laughter. “How much was that lemonade, like $3.75? You could’ve just spent $3.75 and she’d be just as happy!”

    As if that weren’t bad enough, when the trip was over and we asked her what her favorite ride was, she said “the carousel.”

    The carousel? We could just go to our local mall and ride that for a $1 token!

    Still, I prefer to look at it this way:

    • Daily admission to Disneyland: $62.
    • Salon makeover at Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique: $55-ish.
    • Frozen strawberry lemonade: $3.75.
    • The look on her face all day long: Priceless.

    Which just goes to prove, you can’t put a price on the magic of Disney.

    Well, not until the Disney Visa statements start rolling in, that is.


  2. 19 Years!

    April 27, 2010 by Wendy

    Today on this day, 19 years ago—19 years!—I married my best friend. I know that sounds all corny and cliched, but it’s the truth. If we weren’t best friends, 19 years would probably feel like a lot longer time than it has.

    wedding

    April 27, 1991, a very windy day. Everyone told us the wind meant "luck." I guess they were right!

    beach

    Nineteen years and three kids later...what work?

    When I say it out loud, 19 years seems like a long time. And then when you add in the additional five years we were together before that, well, 24 years is practically a lifetime. And actually, it is more than half of our lifetimes. But the awesome thing is, it doesn’t feel like it. Not at all. In fact, last week I called to make dinner reservations for during our upcoming trip to Disneyland. The Disney “cast member” asked me if we were celebrating anything special. Because this trip is kind of our anniversary celebration (even though we presented it to the girls in a “golden egg” on Easter), I said, “Well, it’s our anniversary.” When she asked how long, I was all tongue-tied, since at the moment I was more concerned with whether Princess Tiana and Ariel (Little Miss’ favorite princesses) would be making an appearance at our meal.

    “Ummmm, 17 years?” I said.

    “Wow, that’s the longest time I’ve heard anyone say all day! Congratulations!” she said in that Disney way. But then as she started asking me for more information about our stay, I could tell she was writing all this down and I started wondering if 17 years was the right answer.

    “Wait, hang on, sorry, I think it’s actually 18 years,” I said, thinking how embarrassing that would be if they gave us something like  a cake or a button with “Happy 17 Years!” on it and the ever-precise BK would be like, “What? Seventeen years??? Where’d they get that?”

    “Oh, OK, let me change that,” she said. “Wow, 18 years!”

    But that still didn’t sound right to me, so—and I’m embarrassed to admit this—I grabbed a pencil and quickly did the math: 2010 minus 1991=19. Oops. But now I felt too silly to tell the Disney lady, lest she might think, “What’s wrong with this chick? She doesn’t even know how long she’s been married?”

    After I hung up the phone, it bothered me that “19 years” didn’t just roll of my tongue easily. Because that’s kind of a big deal these days. Did it just get lost in the day-to-day-life-with-three-kids shuffle?  I mean, I knew our anniversary was coming up, I just didn’t think about which one it was.

    You know how they say it should be marriage first, kids second? We’re not good at that. We agree with the theory; we just don’t put it into practice often enough. (Uh, hello, we’re celebrating our anniversary in Disneyland! What does that say?) Our kids, as good and awesome as they are, saturate us. Our conversations tend to get interrupted a lot, to the point where most of them usually end with one of us saying in exasperation, “Forget it. I’ll catch up with you later.” We just figure this is the way it’s supposed to be during this phase of our lives.

    I did fess up my mistake to BK later. He thought it was funny. He knows how I am with numbers and years.

    But here’s what I realized: The reason it didn’t roll of my tongue because it doesn’t feel like 19 years.

    I’ve always thought it was kind of weird when people say “Congratulations!” on anniversaries, and I hesitate to even write it in other couples’ anniversary cards. Because it’s like, “Congratulations on making it through this terribly difficult time called marriage,” or like, “Wow, you did it!” as if they climbed Mount Kilimanjaro or something. But I think that’s just because I take our relatively easy marriage for granted, although less so lately as a lot of our peers are either divorced by now or close to it, or even on their second marriages.

    I wholeheartedly concur that a successful marriage is an accomplishment, and people say it is work. But we’ve always said that we don’t really get that “work” part. I guess we’re just lucky that way. Either that, or the “work” just feels natural to us and we don’t even notice we’re “working on” our marriage. Most of the time.

    Of course there have been—and are—times where I’ll think, “Ohhhh, OK, now I get it. This is what they mean when they say marriage takes work.” Usually, those are the times when we just can’t agree on something, or he drives me so crazy with his kitchen-equipment rules, or the guy-like lack of sensitivity he can demonstrate, or his 6th-grade-boy sense of humor.

    But that’s another post, and today is our anniversary, and this is about the many things I love about my friend, whom I first saw on the school bus mid-semester of our junior year in high school and thought, “Who’s the new kid with the wet hair and the dorky black soccer shoes?” And I should’ve known what I was in for when he walked into my computer class later that day, and trying to be nice, I said, “Oh, are you in this class?” And he stopped in his tracks, looked himself up and down and said, “Well, I’m standing in here, so uh, yeah, that would indicate that I am.”

    Some things never change: Fast-forward 24 years to just the other night when I asked him to take a look at the malfunctioning vacuum cleaner, and he came in from the garage lugging his huge toolbox. Hoping it was just going to be a simple fix, I said, “Oh, no! It’s something that needs the toolbox?” And he said, “Well, it needs tools, and they’re in a box, so yes, it’s something that needs the toolbox.” That kind of thing, I knew I signed up for when I married him 19 years ago. What I didn’t know was:

    • That he would become the support system I never knew I needed, providing calmness and strength where I lack it.
    • That he would compliment me almost every day, even though I’m the worst person in the world at taking compliments.
    • That he would make me laugh at least twice every day.
    • That he would love to argue with me and consider it a sport or a hobby. He. Loves. To. Argue. Loves it. Me, not so much. But it happens. The other night, we were “loudly discussing” what Disneyland rides were appropriate for Little Miss, regardless of whether she meets height requirement. One of us wants to force her onto the loud, dark, scary, twisty rides, one of us does not. We were trying to iron all this out ahead of time in order to avoid “loudly discussing” it while in the “happiest place on Earth.” It turned into what I thought was a big argument, but to him, it was “our goals-alignment meeting.”
    • That whenever the radio is on, we will randomly sing the exact same part of a song at the exact same time, and that will be the only part we sang.
    • That he would support and encourage me in everything I do.
    • That he would continue to be the smartest person I know, who can have an intelligent discussion with anyone about anything, whether it’s politics or foreign policy, or the physics behind gymnastics, or the science of cooking and nutrition or what does Randy mean when he says “pitchy” on American Idol.
    • That he can fix anything, whether a vehicle, a vacuum cleaner or a virus on the computer.
    • That he would love me through thick and thin, and trust me, I have my “thick” times.
    • That he would take serious pleasure in making me an iced espresso every morning. When I gave up caffeine almost three months ago, he felt like something was missing from his morning so he developed a new caffeine-free version of an a.m. drink for me.
    • That he’s game for almost anything anytime, and will even do a Jillian Michaels workout or a yoga DVD with me at midnight if I ask him to.
    • That we truly enjoy just hanging out with each other, even if we’re just watching Sober House or The Amazing Race together. Which, by the way, we still want to try out for. The Amazing Race, not Sober House, that is.
    • That we would be fiercely competitive with each other about everything. It kills me to admit that he usually wins, but I will never let him forget that I once beat him in a swimming race and I think I can still beat him in one-one-basketball. (But not H-O-R-S-E.)
    • That no matter what he has going on, he puts family first. Like on Sunday, when he woke up early and made breakfast with the girls, worked in the yard/garden, grilled a salmon to take to his under-the-weather parents on their anniversary, put a turkey breast on the rotisserie for our dinner, helped Twin A with her math, helped Twin B make an electric paper-airplane launcher, helped Little Miss master the monkey bars, then wrapped up his night by doing some “work” work into the wee hours. (By the way, bringing the salmon to his parents was my idea. Not that we’re competing for credit.)
    • That he would become almost as germophobic as I am, therefore never raising an eyebrow at my ample supply of wipes, sanitizers and sprays at any given time, and he doesn’t say a thing when the minute we check into a hotel room, out comes the Lysol and the Ziploc for the remote. In fact, he appreciates this about me, and where others find me annoying, he finds me “endearing.” Sweet.
    • And most important of all, that he would be the father that he is to our daughters. I always knew that he loved kids, that he was good with them, and that he could be like a kid himself, so I had no doubt he’d be a great dad. But he has more than met that expectation, from the time our girls were infants and we didn’t know what the heck we were doing, to now during the mixed bag of preschool/preteen years. I think the two older ones already see how lucky they are, and to Little Miss, well, he’s her prince.

    Those are just some of the reasons why 19 years just doesn’t feel like 19 years. And if someone ever asks me what’s the secret to a happy marriage—which, come to think of it, no one ever does—I would say it’s to marry your friend. Especially if he happens to be good-looking. And even if he’s a smartass.

    Happy Anniversary to you, my amazing husband. I know you don’t like that word “amazing,” but for you, I reserve the right to use it. You earn it every day.

    —S.P.


  3. Tweedle-Duh!

    April 13, 2010 by Wendy

    The other day, the girls were invited to an Alice in Wonderland-themed birthday party. The invitation read, “Please come dressed as your favorite character from Alice in Wonderland or wear a crazy hat.” What will they wear, I wondered, thinking they can’t be Alice because where in the world am I going to find a Size 10-12 blue pinafore dress? Johnny Depp’s Mad Hatter required way too much makeup, the Cheshire cat required too much thought and creativity. What to do, what to do, I thought for days. I happened to mention it to one of my girlfriends, and just like that, she came up with the brilliant-but-no-brainer idea of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Well, duh! Why didn’t I think of that? Was there a more perfect idea for twins? (Even though Tweedle-One-of-Them told me that Tweedledee and Tweedledum aren’t really even twins at all. Hmm, that’s curious.)

    I threw the idea out to them and they loved it, so we hastily (as in, the night before) gathered whatever we could find around the house to assemble a somewhat presentable costume: striped shirts, pillows for stuffing, old suspenders borrowed from my dad, baseball hats and homemade bowties. There was no time to make that propeller thing for the hats, and at the last minute, I slapped Post-its on them labeled “Tweedledee” and “Tweedledum.” In case no one knew who they were:

    tweedleWhen we learned they’d be going to the theater to see the movie, we made the outfits “convertible” in case no one else dressed up. (These are pre-teen girls were talking about, after all.) All they had to do was remove the pillows (which would actually be comfy in the theater), take off the suspenders and hat and they’d look pretty normal. Well, normal kids wearing their parents’ T-shirts, but whatever.

    As it turned out, most of the other girls did either dress up or wear a crazy hat, but on the way to the theater, Tweedledum said her collar was itching or choking her so she unstuffed herself in the car . So Tweedledee followed suit, saying, “It would have been silly for me to walk into the movie just being Tweedledee with no Tweedledum.”

    I heard they had a great time. And they weren’t even late.


  4. In Sickness and in Hell

    March 22, 2010 by Wendy

    On Friday, my sister went back home to Michigan after a three-week stay at our house. Saying goodbye at the airport was hard for all of us, but probably most so for poor Little Miss, who was her shadow for the entire three weeks. Even when my poor sister was deathly ill in the bathroom, Little Miss was camped outside the door, asking what she was doing and when she was going to be done.

    I will not go into further detail here about my sister’s illness that required a bathroom, in order to spare any fellow emetophobes (people like me who have an intense, irrational fear or anxiety pertaining to vomiting).

    Anyone who knows me well knows that I am emetophobia personified. I can’t be around it, can’t feel like it, can’t see it, and I’m even having a hard time writing about it right now. In fact—and I don’t mean this to sound as awful as it’s going to—this phobia made me hesitant to even have kids in the first place because:

    1. Pregnancy means “morning sickness” and pregnant women are notorious for vomiting.
    2. Kids puke.

    I am a firm believer in the saying, “God never gives you more than what He thinks you can handle,” because God has shown me that He. Knows. I. Can’t. Handle. It. That’s why He allowed me to have morning-sickness-free pregnancies (even with twin girls, who supposedly are the culprits behind more morning sickness than boys, because of the extra hormones). Also by the grace of God, my kids don’t get sick like that very often. (Knock on wood. No, really, please find some wood and knock on it.)

    My mom always said, “Don’t worry, that’ll go away as soon as you have kids because you’ll be forced to deal with it.” Well, she was only right about the “forced to deal with it” part. And she couldn’t have been more wrong about the going away part. It has not gone away one bit. The best way I can think to describe it is that when someone vomits, to me, it’s exactly like witnessing a bad car accident. I get all shaky and upset and traumatized, but you also kind of can’t turn away. Especially not when you’re the only one on the scene and have to help your child. (Blech!)

    But perhaps even worse than the vomiting itself is the anticipation of it. All any one of my daughters have to do is say, “Mommy, I feel like…” and my heart starts racing, even if the sentence is completed with “going to the park,” or “I want something sweet.” Recently, Little Miss went through an entire week of saying the dreaded “I feel like I’m going to throw up” at least 10 times a day. At first, I thought she was really sick, and then after a few days of this with no, um, visible results, I started researching everything from gluten intolerance to various diseases involving the gastrointestinal system. It got to the point where she just carried a bucket with her. I still don’t know what the deal was there, but her sisters and father all thought it was for attention. This is what the week looked like:

    Don't worry, nothing ever came out.

    Don't worry, nothing ever came out.

    I was on edge all week, and I think I lost five pounds, because whenever anyone is sick in the house, everyone goes on the B.R.A.T. (bananas, rice, applesauce and toast) diet, and I go on the Survivor starvation diet.

    I have had this phobia for as long as I can remember. The only thing I can trace it back to is one time when I was about 5 or 6, my parents used to force us to eat liver on Tuesdays. (Why on Tuesdays, I don’t know, but Tuesdays meant liver and onions, just like Fridays meant fish sticks.) Well, of course, we hated it, and one time my older sister was trying to get it down and she gagged it back up into her blue Tupperware cup, right there at the table. I think that’s what kicked it off for me. It was either that or the time when a kid in my sister’s 1st grade class threw up Fruit Loops on the carpet during circle time. I wasn’t even there; I just heard about it and that was enough for me. I also never ate Fruit Loops because of it.

    And although I am blessed with the fact that I don’t do it that often myself (again, knock on some wood NOW), growing up, my two sisters seemed to quite often, which is why I always kept a Sony Walkman by my bed to block the noises of it anytime they were sick in the night. And if I ever saw a pile of it at school or anywhere (and you always knew that’s what it was when the janitors covered it with that sawdust stuff), I’d be shaking and upset for the rest of the day, and wondering who did it and why and where they are now. It’s still like that to this day.

    If anyone around us has been sick, they’re going to be interviewed about it by me, and then we steer clear of them for at least a week. This is one reason why we will never go on a cruise again (too much norovirus!) or go to Mexico (too big of a risk with the drinking water and getting a parasite). And if I or anyone in the household has been sick, whatever was eaten prior to the episode is not cooked or consumed again. Ever. This is why we will never again have Cornish hens or pork tenderloin, and why I haven’t had a chicken chimichanga since college after a very bad bout of food poisoning.

    By now, you should be getting the idea how deeply this phobia runs. And before you think I’m off my nut, or that I need some serious help, it’s really no different than other more “normal” phobias people have, like of spiders or heights or birds. This is just my “thing.” And I realize it’s really annoying to other people, especially when they feel sick around me. My younger sister and I have an understanding. Her fear is kidnappers and murderers, and if I happen to be around her when she or any of her kids are feeling ill and I get annoyingly anxious, I tell her, “Picture if you’re stuck in a room with killers and kidnappers. That’s what I feel like right now.” Then she totally gets it and just sighs heavily at me.

    For some reason, whenever someone who knows me really well has been around a public vomiting episode, they always feel the need to tell me. If my mom or my sister starts a conversation with me by saying, “Oh, guess what happened, you would’ve died…” I already know it’s going to involve vomiting and I say, “Who threw up?”

    And now going back to why I was writing this post in the first place: After we dropped off my still-not-feeling-well sister at the airport, I needed to stop at the mall for a couple of things and decided that a stop at the Disney Store was in order to cheer up Little Miss. She had been wanting “the squishy Princess Tiana” for a long, long time, and I decided this would be a good time to get it for her. It made her very happy:

    Princess Tiana to the rescue.

    Princess Tiana to the rescue.

    Well, little did we know that the Tiana she selected had a little stomach bug going on. When we got in the car, Little Miss kept saying how she couldn’t wait to get home so she could “play doctor” with Tiana because she was sick. I didn’t know how “sick” she was until we got home and Little Miss said, “I didn’t want to tell you but Tiana was throwing up in the car all the way home.”

    Oh, I love an imaginative child, but really, couldn’t Tiana just have a cold?

    Of course, my mind starts racing that maybe it’s actually Little Miss who doesn’t feel well, and even though I try to conceal my phobia from my children, they pick up on things and maybe she thinks she can’t tell me. So I say, “Well, do you feel OK?” and she says, “Yeah, but Tiana doesn’t and she needs a doctor.” All night and into the next day, we had to hear all the fine details of Tiana’s illness. “She has a fever now,” or “She says her stomach hurts,” were common phrases.

    The next evening, we were going out to dinner, and as were leaving (Tiana in tow, of course), Little Miss ran back inside, saying, “Oh, I need to bring her a bucket in case she throws up in the car again.”

    Oh, brother. It’s not enough we have to bring a doll to the restaurant, but now we have to haul a vomit bucket along, too?

    She emerged from her bedroom, carrying a little blow-up pool belonging to Polly Pocket. And here she was,  putting it to use:

    It must've been the frog legs she ate.

    It must've been the frog legs she ate.

    In the car, she kept shoving the pool/bucket at her poor older sisters, saying, “Clean up her sick!” or “Open the window and dump out her sick!” Of course, they patiently played along and I tried to ignore it, silently wondering why  Tiana couldn’t just need a Kleenex or some Tylenol or something less gross like that.

    Fortunately, Tiana is all better now. As for my sister, we don’t know yet until she goes to the doctor tomorrow. Surprisingly, I didn’t freak out too badly about her being sick around me, probably because we didn’t think it was a virus or anything contagious, as she has had these episodes before due to having a lot of scar tissue in her guts from previous surgeries. However, it wasn’t pleasant for either one of us. I felt so bad for her, and I said to her a few times, “There’s nothing worse than being sick away from home…oh, wait, yes there is—being sick at my house.”

    In between her moaning, I did hear her saying more than a few times, “Of all places to be sick.”

    Still, even she said I handled it amazingly well. I didn’t bug her about if/when she was going to be sick next. I brought her crackers and Gatorade and fixed her chicken soup and responded to every request that she’d text me from across the house.

    And, unbeknownst to her, I sanitized like an OCD germophobe. (I said like one.) The TV remote, the phone, the blankets, the bathroom, the air. Oust and Purell were my BFFs all week long.

    And luckily, no one else has been sick. Well, except for Tiana.

    Knock on wood. Real wood, and knock hard. Thanks.


  5. Who Needs Sitcoms When You’ve Got Kids?

    February 17, 2010 by Wendy

    Two days ago, on our way back from a dentist appointment for all three girls, I broke the news to Twin B that she might have to have a couple of teeth removed. Trying to make it not seem so bad—but stopping short of calling it having them “wiggled,” as the dentist put it—I said, “It won’t be bad, and you’ll get laughing gas and everything!”

    “Oh, I’ve had that, it’s so cool!” said Twin A.

    “I’ve had it, too!” piped up Little Miss.

    “No you haven’t!” argued Twin A. “You’ve never had laughing gas!”

    Her genius retort: “Yes I have! Sometimes when I laugh real hard, a biiiiig gas comes out. That’s laughing gas!”

    Some sitcom writer should steal that line.

    But perhaps even more charming was the fact that this particular day happened to be President’s Day. Little Miss had been so excited about it in the days leading up to it. I had no idea why, seeing as she’s not in school yet so it wasn’t a “day off” for her. But I soon figured it out after she woke up all excited and asked where her presents were.

    She thought it was “Presents Day.”

    Boy, was she disappointed.

    It reminded me of a time back when her older sisters were 2 and we dropped them off at my parents’ so we could go vote in the 2000 presidential election. I said, “Grandma and Grandpa are going to watch you so that Poppy and I can go vote for president.”

    Twin A said, “You are going on a boat for presents? OK!”

    Come to think of it, we might as well have taken a boat to the polling place, seeing as that was the year of all those ballot miscounts in Florida (remember the year of the “hanging chad?”) and it was days before we even knew who won.

    Then that reminded me of another time when the twins were around 2 and just starting to talk a lot, but not yet saying all their consonants. Especially when it mattered, like this: We were in a checkout line at a store, where a man ahead of us had a giant tattoo of the American flag on his cheek. Noticing this, Twin B says quite loudly, “Yat man yooks yike a FAG!”

    The man, wearing a wife beater that fully exposed his rather large arms covered in many more tattoos, turned around and looked at us and…laughed. Phew! He walked out the door and toward a huge Harley in the parking lot. I’m pretty sure he was not what Twin B thought he looked like. Not at all.

    With kids like these, it’s no wonder we don’t really watch sitcoms anymore. We don’t need to. But that doesn’t mean we don’t miss the good ole days when Thursday nights meant Seinfeld and Friends. Even our kids couldn’t compete with them.


  6. Real Fooled?

    February 2, 2010 by Wendy

    Last weekend, the family settled on the couch for “Movie Night,” one of our favorite traditions. Our (well, my) movie pick? Food, Inc., a documentary that “lifts the veil on our nation’s food industry, exposing the highly mechanized underbelly that has been hidden from the American consumer with the consent of our government’s regulatory agencies, USDA and FDA.”

    Sounds like a scary movie, right? It was. The night before, BK and I had watched Paranormal Activity, supposedly the scariest movie since The Exorcist, but Food, Inc. was way scarier. And there weren’t even any ghosts.

    What was scary was the revelation of how much our government really does control the food industry, and the creepy ways our food is grown (or, more like, made) to be so cheap, fast and easy. One revelation the documentary illustrates is how, thanks to government subsidies, it’s cheaper to feed a family from the drive-through lane at McDonald’s rather than from the checkout lane at the grocery store. But perhaps most horrifying of all were the images of the inhumane treatment of animals.

    Let’s just say that 10 minutes into the film, Twin A decided to become a vegan, Twin B was stunned into silence, and Little Miss was crying—no, sobbing—at the sight of little chicks being thrown down a metal chute, each one being bonked in the head with a stamper.

    We had to stop the DVD and explain to her what was happening, me silently berating myself for not previewing the film first. Within a few minutes, her tears had dried and she said, “Look, they’re having fun going down the slides; that looks like fun, right?”

    “Yeah, it’s a fun slide,” we all chimed in with nervous glances at each other. But then in the next scene, those chicks became chickens, and that neck-holding/head-chopping device didn’t look like any slide I’ve seen, so I covered her eyes. And I wanted to cover my own.

    But that’s exactly the problem: Many of us are covering our eyes to where our food is really coming from and how it’s produced. Food, Inc. is a real eye-opener to what’s behind America’s mass production of food, as are several books on the topic, including four bestsellers by Michael Pollan, as well as Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation, Nina Planck’s Real Food: What to Eat and Why, and even the slightly less scholarly but still informative Skinny Bitch by Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin.

    We’re healthy eaters. Right?

    In my years as a grown-up, I’ve always considered myself a healthy eater and cook. (I say “as a grown-up,” because like just about every child of the ’70s and ’80s, I had my share of Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, Hamburger Helper and fluorescent foods like Cheetos and Kool-Aid.) But those days are long gone, though the awesome figure they gave me sure isn’t! :D

    I’ve made sure to do my best to pass on the importance of making healthy food choices to our daughters from the start, from making my own baby food for them, to today making sure they have a fruit and a vegetable at nearly every meal. (And yet, somehow, Little Miss is so anti-veggie that she gags at the smell of broccoli. I have to be sneaky with her.)

    We are big label readers. Not so much for the things like fat, sugar and carbohydrates content, although obviously that’s important too, but for what’s actually in the food. You won’t find many things in our kitchen with a giant paragraph of ingredients on the label. We avoid anything with the words “partially hydrogenated,” “high fructose corn syrup,” “monosodium glutamate,” “autolyzed yeast extract,” or really anything we can’t pronounce. And this goes for not just what we put in our bodies, but on them, like lotions, sunscreens, makeup and shampoos, but that’s harder to do. (Hey, I never said I wasn’t vain.)

    Some hard-core “real food” fanatics would say I shouldn’t even be buying anything with a label on it in the first place. Ha! I say. You try doing that with a busy household and two preteen girls and a preschooler. Things like frozen waffles, bottled juices and Goldfish crackers are way too convenient to eschew.

    We eat organic and locally-grown food when we can (I heart you, Whole Foods!), drink only organic or at least hormone- and antibiotic-free milk (depending on which is cheapest that week), avoid processed foods and preservatives, eat only nitrate-free deli meats, eat tons of probiotic cultures in various forms, eat whole-grain everything always, and 90 percent of our meals are home-cooked and home-eaten. We can count on one hand the times we’ve eaten at McDonald’s or Taco Bell. If we get a craving for that kind of food, we go to In-N-Out Burger or Chipotle, where at least it’s fresh and real.

    I’ll admit I do like me a Diet Coke every now and then, but my new favorite afternoon pick-me-up is a cup of green tea sweetened with a splash of agave nectar. The girls rarely drink soda, but when they do it’s usually Hansen’s all-natural. And BK does like his daily espresso (OK, so do I), but the beans he grinds are usually organic.

    We even grow some of our own foods, which it turns out you actually can do in the desert:

    broccoliOur beautiful broccoli stalk. Can’t wait to steam this!
    lemons

    Is there a fruit more versatile than lemons? You can make lemonade, stuff them into a bird, squeeze them onto fish, bake them into treats, even lighten your hair and freckles and clean with them!

    oranges

    Blood oranges. Ugly name, beautiful fruit. The birds think so, too, thus the netting.

    parsley

    What would we do without parsley?

    rosemary

    Or rosemary, my focaccia staple?

    pomegranate

    This sad thing doesn't look like much, but it's a dormant pomegranate tree.

    fig

    This fig tree is also taking it's winter nap. But oh, you should see the figs it gives us for a few weeks each year!

    lavendar

    I know this lavendar isn't a food but it's pretty and it smells like a spa.

    Room for improvement

    OK, so all that being said about how healthily we eat and cook, I know I could do better. Way better. While my kids don’t eat Oreos, Pop-Tarts or Easy Mac, I do buy them the knockoff versions from Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s, which are sweetened with cane juice syrup and organic honey, or flavored with organic sea salt instead of who-knows-what. But in the back of my mind—like in the way back of it—I know that sugar is sugar, and just because it’s a healthier version, it’s still sugar that, like anything, in excess is bad. I know the yogurts I buy are loaded with sugar, especially the “yogurt in a tube” that Michael Pollan says our great-grandmothers would be appalled at and think were toothpaste. In fact, Pollan has a simple rule: “Don’t eat anything your great grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food.”

    So am I fooling myself that I’m feeding my family healthy foods?

    I substitute ground turkey for ground beef in most recipes, but where did that turkey come from? And what’s been added to it? We don’t eat a lot of red meat, and when we do, we often spring for the organic version. Those cows may have been fed organic corn, but that’s the thing: They should have been fed grass, as nature intended, not corn.

    I can’t even begin to cover what Michael Pollan says about that in his books, and in the Food, Inc. documentary.

    I will, however, sum up a few of his points that really resonated with me and made me realize that I could be doing better to feed my family healthily, and that I need to delve deeper into my understanding of where our food really comes from and what’s been done to it:

    • It’s no surprise that the way Americans eat has changed drastically over the past 50 years. But it was rather surprising to learn that in the 1970s, the top five beef packers controlled only about 25 percent of the market. Today, the top four beef producers control more than 80 percent.
    • Despite the fact that there are tens of thousands of products on grocery-store shelves, it’s really only a handful of companies that manufacture and distribute these products. That’s a lot of control in a little bit of companies.
    • Today’s technology has allowed a way for chickens to grow from chick to chicken dinner in 49 days instead of the three months that nature intended. That’s just creepy. The documentary makes that point even clearer by showing thousands of drugged-up chickens crowded into a darkened feed lot, some unable to walk or stand because their bodies can’t keep up with the fast growth pace. That’s what happens when the goal of the food industry is “faster, fatter, bigger, cheaper.”
    • The government subsidizes the corn, soy and wheat products that are the backbone of the fast-food industry, but do nothing to subsidize fresh produce.
    • We Americans spend about 9 percent of our income on food (our high grocery bills disagree with that, though) and more than twice that on health care. It was the other way around 50 years ago.

    Of course, food-industry executives say the documentary was biased and misleading, but those same people also declined to be interviewed for the movie. If they had nothing to hide, why not face the cameras?

    “Vote with your fork!”

    But the bigger question is, what can we do about this clearly unhealthy “fatter, faster, bigger, cheaper” mentality of food production?

    Well, we can “vote with our forks,” as Pollan says. What he means by this is that instead of buying our foods from the supermarket (a “treacherous, confusing landscape,” as he calls it), we should buy sustainable, in-season produce and meat that’s been humanely treated from local growers.

    Sure, that’s easier for him to say than it is for a lot of us, seeing as he lives in farm-rich, fertile Northern California, and oh, being that he’s a four-time best-selling author, I think he can afford the extra expense.

    And it is expensive. Everyone knows that organic is usually more expensive than conventionally grown foods at the grocery store. And for months now, I’ve have an order sheet on my desk for a local farm that sells and delivers real meat from a real farm. The problem is, the cuts of meat and the chickens are smaller than the fatties we’re used to, and they’re more expensive. Plus, they’re frozen since the rancher needs to travel quite a distance to the delivery points.

    And these are exactly the problems that we need to fix! First, we need to eat less meat and change our mentality that meat must be the star at the dinner table. That would make it easier to swallow the expense of meat, just like in the olden days when meat was a treat. Second, we need to stop rewarding the feed-lot meat producers who are shooting up the cows and chickens with hormones and antibiotics and then packing who-knows-what into those styrofoam containers, and instead reward these local farmers and ranchers who are doing it right.

    So as I’m watching Food, Inc., I’m agreeing with and being enlightened by most of what’s being said. But my question was, how? How in the world, especially in this economy, are enough people going to “vote with their forks three times a day” to make a difference? Isn’t it easier to just sit complacently on the couch, eating a $1.59 bag of chips and drinking a 50-cent can of soda, growing more obese and risking diabetes by the day? Yes, it is easier and cheaper than driving to a farmer’s market or a Whole Foods and coming up with a creative way of putting that food into a decent, nutritious meal.

    Sadly, many people just can’t afford the expense or the time to do that. I am fortunate that I can afford to make the time to do it, and as far as the expense, we make food shopping a priority item in the budget. To make up for it, we give up other areas of luxury, such as dining out. Usually, all of us would much rather eat at home anyway, so it works out. (Except on those nights when I don’t feel like cooking.)

    After watching the documentary, I thought about a few things we personally could do differently, but that’s just five people. Still, I find it hard to imagine that anyone could watch this without making even just a few little changes, but this wasn’t exactly an Avatar-like blockbuster film that packed the theaters before its DVD release. In order to make a big enough difference, it needed to reach more people, I thought.

    The “O Factor”

    And then…

    A few days after watching the DVD, I heard a promo for Oprah’s upcoming shows. Michael Pollan was coming on her show on Wednesday and they were going to discuss the documentary! The first thing I did was email my friend Sonya, who with her blog, her book recommendations and her creative ways of getting around her family’s food allergies is the one who nudged me to look deeper into this “real food” thing in the first place.  The second thing I did was set my DVR to record the show.

    This is exactly what was needed! We all know what happens when O endorses a book (immediate bestseller!), a product (can’t find it in stores once it’s been on Oprah), or, oh yeah, a president. Yes, her power is annoying to some, but dang is it ever effective. (By the way, if anyone knows Oprah, please forward her a link to my blog!) :D

    On the show, she let Pollan do most of the talking. That was probably by design, seeing as the last time she disparaged the beef industry, she ended up fighting (and winning) a major lawsuit. Though she made it clear she wasn’t telling anyone what they should do, she declared that she is going to make more conscious food decisions.

    Now for her, that probably means she’s going to tell her personal chefs to seek out local growers and non-feed-lot-type farms that raise animals more humanely. But the rest of us have to do that legwork on our own.

    Still, her proclamation will collect a lot of followers and that’s a start. If more people start seeking out better, more humane and healthier ways to eat, the good stuff might become more plentiful, more easily accessible and less expensive, and people will stop rewarding the companies that produce the bad, cheap, fake stuff. Eventually.

    Most of what Pollan said on the show was a repeat of the documentary, but a couple of things stood out for me:

    • One was that Oprah asked my same question: “How do we feed America without mass producing? It’s the American way!” Unfortunately, Pollan didn’t really answer the question, but rather said that it can be done, and that if we can figure out a way to re-engineer the chicken, we can figure out a way.
    • The other was that he stated another one of his rules: “Eat all the junk food you want, as long as you make it yourself.”

    Yes! I can do that! I do do that. If we have french fries, cake, cookies or brownies in the house, they’re homemade. I’m so proud that the other day when the girls were at my sister-in-law’s for a sleepover, she made them cupcakes. “Are these from a box mix?” they asked. “And is this frosting canned?” They know the difference between homemade and store-bought, and they much prefer the former, so I must be doing something right, even if some of these treats are loaded with sugar and shortening, right? Sometimes I subsitute applesauce for oil and I usually use whole-wheat flour in place of white.

    “Eat food, not too much, mostly plants”

    Pollan’s most prevalent rule is one that is so basic and so simple, but yet, not that easy to do: “Eat food, not too much, mostly plants.” Why is that not as easy as it sounds?

    For me, for us, it’s a matter of habit. Most of our dinners have always been centered around a meat as the main dish. This meat is almost always chicken breasts or turkey, rarely beef, sometimes fish and never pork. (We’re not Jewish, I just get sick every time I eat pork for some reason.) The chicken is usually an organic, antibiotic- and hormone-free one from Trader Joe’s but I have no idea what it was fed or if it lived on a pasture or in a dark cage. We’ve already started eating less meat, getting our protein from other sources like beans and eggs. But did the chickens that laid those eggs eat grass and bugs along with their grains like they should, or were they fed genetically modified corn and meat by-products? This is the kind of thing I need to look into more.

    We do eat a lot of fruits and vegetables, but it’s way easier to buy them from a grocery store rather than trek out to a farmer’s market, and they often don’t taste very good and sometimes look “fake” and all oiled up with who-knows-what.

    These are all areas where I know I can do better, but I’m just not sure exactly how.

    A way to grow

    And then, just like that, good ole Sonya tells me about an eCourse her friend and “real food” mentor Wardeh Harmon is about to teach on exactly this topic. Wardeh has a great website called Gnowfglins, which is an acronym for God’s Natural, Organic, Whole Foods, Grown Locally, In Season. That pretty much sums up what her site is all about, but don’t let that short description fool you. There’s a lot, lot of information there, and the best thing is, she wants to share all that she has learned and gathered about this way of cooking and eating during the past six years in a five-month eCourse she is offering.

    This just might be what I need. She says that what she and her family thought was a healthy way of eating six years ago is very different from how they eat now. That’s about where I am right now: I think we’re eating healthily and I think we’re making a lot of healthy choices, and I try to stay educated on the latest health information. But I know I could do better.

    I make a lot of our breads from scratch (with a bread machine, don’t be too impressed), I make a lot of homemade soups and stocks, and lately, with our eat-less-meat philosophy, I’ve been soaking and cooking a lot of dried beans (using a Crock-Pot).

    But what I don’t do is sprout the grains for the breads or grind my own flour, I don’t make my own water kefir (huh?), I don’t make my own cheese and I don’t know how to naturally pickle foods. And apparently, there’s a whole method to soaking beans and cooking a chicken and making chicken stock that I don’t know about. These are all things Wardeh plans to teach in the eCourse. She’s offering the course on a private website complete with all the multimedia lesson materials and a members-only forum for $27 per month. Right now, she’s offering a giveaway of the course that’s worth a $135 value.

    I’m not sure that I will incorporate everything she’ll be teaching into my daily cooking, and I’m not even sure yet why I should, but now that my eyes are open to the creepy, shady ways of the food industry, my mind is also open. I’m willing to learn and try something new. After all, I recently tried kombucha tea and didn’t like it at all. But the point is, I tried it. And now I want to try some new cooking methods, and maybe you would, too.

    If so, check out her website. She seems super cool and wise.

    I want to be super cool and wise, too, which is why I want to take the course. Well, that and I want my family to eat even more healthily than I thought we already did.


  7. Welcome to Hollywood?

    January 28, 2010 by Wendy

    Yesterday, Little Miss asked me if she can try out for American Idol when she gets bigger. I told her, of course, if that’s what she wants to do. (And if it’s still on the air when that time comes.)

    Last night, she asked her father the same question. I think he gave her about the same answer I did.

    This morning, she picked out her audition outfit:

    photo

    Welcome to Hollywood? Not if I can help it!


  8. I Am So Done with You, Half-Pint!

    January 28, 2010 by Wendy

    Recently, I went on a little spree of reading autobiographies. I shouldn’t have done that.

    You see, two of them were the memoirs of two of my favorite childhood heroines: Laura Ingalls and Marcia Brady. (Don’t judge my 11-year-old intellect here. Anne Frank and Nancy Drew were also my heroines.)

    Every little girl (at least the ones I rolled with back then) wanted to be Half-Pint. She was so feisty, so adventurous and she didn’t take crap from anybody. Plus, she was all freckly cute, even with those buck teeth of hers. I wished I had brown hair and freckles. The braids I could do, but they were blond. And I only had three freckles on my nose from the sun. And I didn’t have buck teeth, but I did have big, crooked teeth with a gap.

    And Marcia. What girl growing up in the 70s didn’t want to be Marcia? What girl didn’t brush her hair in the mirror 100 times each night, just trying to get it half as shiny and straight as Marcia’s? She was like the Jennifer Aniston of our day. Even when she went through her dorky stage, with her braces and facial moles, she was still pretty and popular, despite that tearful breakdown in the mirror one day, screaming, “I’m ugly! I’m ugly! UGLY!!!” Marcia, you were never ugly, even when you got that football thrown in your face. (So there, Harvey Klinger and Doug Simpson!)

    Childhood heroines amassed during your formative years tend to follow you into adulthood, I guess. (Which is why I’m glad my girls have never really latched on to Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus.) So when the autobiographies of two of my heroines came out, of course I was going to read them.

    But I sort of wish I hadn’t. Reading these books has shattered my image of both of them, and with that, a little bit of my childhood innocence.

    First, I read Maureen McCormick’s Here’s the Story: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice.

    51p+IZh61xL._SS500_

    Of course, I knew what was coming, from all the press she did preceding its release. I knew she had a cocaine issue and a drinking problem, and of course, I knew that she and Greg had a little thing going during filming back then, having previously read Greg’s own memoirs, Growing Up Brady. (Did I mention I was a Brady Bunch fan?)

    Reading about how imperfect her family life really was, and how it (and/or her sudden but pretty shortlived fame) led her down all sorts of very un-Marcia-like paths was certainly interesting, but not a fun read by any means. I didn’t enjoy reading about my calm, cool, pretty and popular heroine lying in bed for days strung out on cocaine. I didn’t enjoy reading about her promiscuity (and not just with Greg; I wish) or her desperation to revive her sinking career. (A country singer, really Marcia?)

    It really took away a tiny part of my childhood. I know, no one is as perfect as they seem (except for the Bradys), but I think some of those childhood fantasies should remain as just that. You start reading biographies and you’re messing with your memories that should maybe be left innocent and intact.

    After I got over that hot mess, I delved into Melissa Gilbert’s Prairie Tale:

    51PlgTX-s0L._SS500_

    This one was even worse for me, because when I was younger, when I wasn’t busy trying to be Nancy Drew, I wanted to be like Laura.

    But after reading her book, I couldn’t stand her. She came across as so full of herself and seemed to think she was a bigger star than she really was. After Little House, I don’t recall her ever starring in anything but a bunch of Lifetime movies (which I don’t watch). I know from reading her book that she did go on to do a lot of movies, just not a lot that I (or anyone but the Lifetime crowd) ever saw. (Except for the Helen Keller movie that was supposed to have re-energized her career.)

    But you would think she were of Julia Roberts or Meryl Streep caliber by the way she dropped celebrity names throughout the book, and on a first-name basis like the reader was supposed to know who she meant: “Marty” (Martin Sheen), “Tom” (Cruise), “George” (Clooney, duh) and, get this, “Bill” (Clinton)!

    Sure, she was well-connected, as her father was in show business with the big-time names of that generation. But I don’t think she ever got as famous as she wanted, or as famous as the people she surrounded herself with were (especially the “Brat Pack” of the ’80s, including Rob Lowe), and she came across as jealous, resentful and even vengeful at times.

    I admit, it was interesting to read about her complicated years-long relationship with Rob Lowe, seeing as I had the biggest crush on him all through high school (who didn’t?) and I still have a little crush on him as Governor McCallister on one of my favorite shows, Brothers and Sisters. It was sad to read about how he dumped her just before their wedding, and about how she had a miscarriage with their baby.

    But I would’ve liked to read more about her days on Little House on the Prairie. I did learn that she and Mary Ingalls (Melissa Sue Anderson) didn’t get along, but that she was BFFs with Nellie Oleson (Alison Arngrim). I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Mary always did seem like a stuck-up crab, even before she went blind. And Nellie, well, she cracked me up.  Strangely, she barely even mentioned Ma Ingalls.

    mary-ingalls-in-dress

    Mary Ingalls.

    Unknown

    Nellie Oleson.

    Obviously, one person she did talk about a lot throughout the book was Michael Landon, my beloved Pa Ingalls. Just look at that man:

    images

    To me, he embodied everything a man should be. And I’m so thankful I married a man like him. A man who can be sensitive but who can also fix and build things, oh, and fight off the Injuns once in a while. I often say that BK is my “Pa Ingalls.” (I think my sisters just threw up a little.)

    But then Laura—I mean, Melissa—had to ruin that, too.

    In her book, she refers countlessly to his drinking ways, his volatile temper, his signature scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

    Yuck. Thanks a lot, Half-Pint. I’m sure he and his family appreciate that portrait you painted of him as he lies in his grave.

    R.I.P., Pa.

    Of course, I didn’t expect this book to be all about life on the Little House set. But I also didn’t expect it to be bragging proudly about her promiscuity. (She was a bigger skank than Marcia, by the way. Those buck teeth sure didn’t stop her from getting any action.)

    I don’t mean to be so judgmental of her; I just don’t like her anymore after reading this book. It’s not because of the things she did. Obviously, everyone makes mistakes and it’s especially difficult when it’s done publicly. Some might say  say she is brave to tell her story, sordid parts and all. (Maybe, but she’s also getting paid a lot to tell it.) What I found off-putting was her snarky attitude and her overabundance of self-esteem that permeates the book.

    Making it even worse was her use of foul language throughout the book. It’s one thing if you talk that way, but entirely another to write that way. It’s not like it’s something that accidentally slips or is used without thinking. When you’re writing a book, obviously every word is more carefully thought out and then goes through multiple editors before it’s published. (Unlike blog writing, by the way.) I mean come on, using the “F” word as an adjective every few pages? She’s an actress; she is supposed to be more creative than that.

    Plus, Half-Pint isn’t supposed to be dropping F-bombs.

    Now if Chelsea Handler wants to use it in her books (yes, I’ve read a couple, so what, I love her, she’s funny) , that’s another thing. It’s part of her shtick.

    Now that my childhood innocence has been ripped away, I think I’ll take a break from reading autobiographies. Well, maybe after I read Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue. I don’t think reading her book is  going to shatter any images of her for me. Sadly, she’s already done a pretty good job of that herself. Or maybe it’s the media that has. We’ll see after I read the book.

    And then I’m done with autobiographies for a while, at least until a good one comes out. (But at the moment, I can’t think of anyone whose I would be interested in reading.) You certainly won’t catch me reading Mackenzie Phillips’ recent release (too gross!), nor her co-star Valerie Bertinelli’s.

    I’m pretty sure even Screech from Saved by the Bell has written an autobiography. I can’t imagine anyone would care much to read his, even when his show was in its fluorescent-clothes-and-mall-bangs heyday.

    Now I promise, that was the first and last time Screech will ever be mentioned on this blog.


  9. Recall Panic

    January 20, 2010 by Wendy

    Another day, another recall. Every day it seems, there’s another recall and for some reason lately, it always seems to be something that we have in our possession.

    Today, it’s Graco strollers. I’m not so freaked out about that one, even though I’m pretty sure the stroller I have is one of the models being recalled due to finger amputations and lacerations. We don’t use the stroller very much anymore, so I’m not going to freak out about it. Plus, vomiting is not listed as one of the dangers, which, as anyone who knows me, knows that is my biggest phobia in life. (Another post, another time.)

    It was a different story last week with the whole Tylenol/Motrin/Benadryl recall issued by Johnson & Johnson. People were vomiting from taking Tylenol! That’s all I needed to hear to get me in full panic/research mode. We have a lot of Tylenol products in our medicine cabinets. Thankfully, we don’t take it a lot (well, I do) but when it comes to bringing down a fever, it’s a miracle. I have no idea how it works, but it does.

    Ironically, I was actually looking up how much Tylenol it takes to damage your liver (as I probably take it more than I should to manage my headaches) at the exact moment when an email from my dad with a link to the recall story dinged in my mailbox. Isn’t that ironic? Or is it coincidental? I don’t know, BK is always pointing out my improper use of the terms interchangeably, but let’s not worry about that now.

    So back to my recall panic. The word “recall” always perks up my ears and sends me immediately to the computer to research it (especially when vomiting is a side effect), and then to my medicine cabinets/pantry/garage/kids’ rooms or wherever the offending product may be lurking. So here’s what my desktop looked like last week:

    drugs

    There I was, typing every lot number into the site’s search box to see if it had been recalled. Of course, this was after opening every bottle first and taking a whiff to see if I could detect the “moldy smell” that was being reported as the hallmark of these tainted products.

    “Does this smell moldy to you?” I asked BK with each bottle opening. “They need to define ‘moldy’ better. What’s ‘moldy?’ Or is it mildew? I don’t know if I’ve ever smelled mold before. This smells kind of chemical-ly, is that mold?” I asked, I guess to no one in particular since no one answered me.

    Come to think of it, I pulled out a lot of drugs from the medicine cabinet that day. And that was only from the kids’ bathroom. I didn’t even do ours yet. (Hmm, could this ample supply be the reason for my need to Google “acetaminophen and liver damage” that day?)

    My friend Candi can so relate to this, but I’ll bet she has me beat in the arsenal of meds she’d be able to haul out of her cabinets. She was out of town for the weekend so I couldn’t call her and share my panic about whether I’ve given my kids these tainted medicines, seeing as they’ve been on store shelves for two years, according to some of the articles I read.

    When I read the side effects of ingesting these moldy meds—nausea, vomiting, diarrhea—I thought back to the times my kids did vomit after I gave them a dose of these meds. Exactly twice, but I think one had swine flu that may have caused it, and the other time was more like three years ago. Did I poison them? Is it already too late? Has damage been done? All this went through my mind as I typed in those lot numbers.

    None of them came up as the offenders, but how do I know they’ve all been tested? How do I know the company is telling the public everything? How do I know the site information is accurate?

    Sometimes it’s so hard to live with myself.

    When a product has been recalled, it’s pretty much banned for life in our house. (Just like if I or one of the kids vomits, whatever was last eaten is never to be eaten again, i.e., pork tenderloin, chicken chimichangas, Cornish hens, etc. But like I said, another post another time.) I still can’t bring myself to buy fresh spinach, I freak out if someone puts alfalfa sprouts on my sandwich at a restaurant, and the recent peanut butter recall? That was the worst.

    That was a particularly busy day, and I had grabbed a few packs of those Austin peanut butter crackers for the girls and I to snack on while we were at some practice or a game. That night on the news, I heard “peanut butter recall” and waited for the brands to be announced.

    Oh, good, it was just the industrial kind used in schools and hospitals, and my kids never buy school lunches so I figured I was in the clear.

    Until they said it’s also sold in Keebler-brand cracker products. I knew ours were Austin, sold in that huge box at Costco, so I thought we were OK. But then during a commercial break, I decided to double-check and walked into the pantry.

    There, in small print on the box, it said, “distributed by Kellogg’s.” It might as well have said “Danger: Contains deadly arsenic. Do not consume.”

    Of course, I freaked, and it went something like this:

    Me: “The girls and I ATE those TODAY!”

    BK: “So?”

    Me: “So, they might have salmonella in them!”

    BK: “Oh, the chances the ones you had are tainted are so miniscule, and then even if they were, you won’t get sick.”

    I’m so not like him.

    Already feeling nauseous, I immediately consulted my BFF Google to find out what to expect if you’ve ingested Keebler crackers. My research indicated that the incubation period of this salmonella contracted from the peanut butter was 1-5 days. Those five days were the worst. It was the only time I envied people whose kids had a peanut allergy, because they certainly didn’t have anything to worry about with this particular recall. I was on high alert for the onset of any symptoms from any of us, and when we all came through without as much as a single stomachache, we celebrated on Day 6. No, we really did. I think we toasted at dinner. (Well, I did. No one else really seemed concerned.)

    I’m still stressing about the recent recall of cheap children’s jewelry imported from China and sold at Claire’s because it contains toxic cadmium and lead, because, well, I have twin tweens! Are there any tweens who don’t covet that cheap stuff from Claire’s? Their jewelry boxes are loaded with the stuff!

    Here’s what BK says about that: “Oh, I’m sure it’s fine, as long as they’re not putting it in their mouths, which I don’t think they are at this point.”

    “No, it’s even if it touches their skin!” I say, adding “Clean out girls’ jewelry boxes” to my to-do list.

    This is almost as bad as the whole Polly Pocket recall a couple years ago, after which we decided to just throw everything away if it said “Made in China.” We didn’t though, once we realized that would be enough stuff to furnish two entire toy aisles at Target, and poor Little Miss’ toybox would be empty!

    What isn’t made in China? Didn’t Walmart once have that campaign touting that everything they sell is made in the USA? What happened to that? I’m pretty sure most of their inventory comes from China. A lot of it has that “Made in China” smell.

    And there is a definite smell. A few years ago when I was hosting Thanksgiving, I bought a set of chargers from Costco, and was so proud of my Martha Stewarty table. But when we all sat down, everyone kept saying, “What’s that smell?” and “I smell gasoline.” After we figured out it was the chargers—which sure enough, had a “Made in China” sticker on the bottom—we discarded them immediately. The table was less pretty, but it sure was nice to smell stuffing and turkey rather than bug spray and petroleum. From then on, I’ve been able to detect that smell, whether it’s on a toy or even a pack of stickers or greeting cards.

    But now I’ve got more lot numbers to type into drug-recall site. If you want to join me, you can find it at the McNeil Consumer Healthcare site. If anything, it’s a good excuse to clean out your medicine cabinet anyway. I actually found some nasal spray that expired in 2004 and some Nyquil from the 1900s. Well, it was only 1998, but I wouldn’t risk it. It might cause vomiting.


  10. “Why are our kids are so weird?”

    January 19, 2010 by Wendy

    OK, this little story is too bizarre to not blog about.

    So, first, a little background:

    I hate scorpions. Hate them. Like, when I see them in the house, I want to call them names. (Well, I do call them names, but only when no one else is around, and I’m not afraid to admit that I have, on occasion, flipped them off.) Luckily, we rarely get them in the house, but when we do, it’s an event. Out come the camera, a jar to put it in, and of course, the shrieks and screams. (My younger sister hates them too, so whenever we get them in our houses, we always send each other a picture, I don’t know why.)

    So the other day, right after BK got home from work and was being followed by the incessantly chatty Twin A telling him about her day, she was standing with him at the bathroom sink when she noticed it. A big, fat scorpion, right where I would be standing brushing my teeth just a few hours later.

    We hadn’t seen one in a long time, and ironically, the day before, my mother-in-law gave me a bottle of her homemade anti-scorpion spray, a concoction of boiled orange oil or something. I just sprayed our exterior doorways with it that day, so either it doesn’t work or it drove them in.

    So Twin A ran and got me out of the kitchen, I got the camera, Twin B got the Flip cam. For perspective, I found a nearby quarter and gingerly threw it down next to the little jerk (that’s one of my nice names) and took this picture:

    quarter

    I’m not sure what’s grosser—the scorpion or the hair all over the bathroom floor I noticed in this close-up photo. (I vacuumed the next day.) Anyway, my hero BK bravely slapped an empty peanut butter jar over it (we save them for this very reason) and then slid a piece of paper underneath that before flipping it over. He’s an expert at this technique. I am not. Once, when he wasn’t home, I found one crawling up the wall of the girls’ playroom—the ones that can climb walls, by the the way, are the most deadly, venomous bark scorpion. I got as far as putting the jar over it but didn’t think ahead about bringing a piece of paper or cardboard with me, and it took about 15 minutes for one of the girls to locate one, and then I got too scared to pull the jar off the wall. After about a half-hour of this, my arm was aching and shaking so badly that I just had to make myself do it. No more than 5 minutes later, BK walked in the door. Of course, I acted all brave and like it was no big deal when I told him what just happened.

    OK, so back to the other night, and here’s where it gets weird. He puts it in the jar, puts a lid on it and Little Miss wants to hold it.

    “Ewwww!” the twins and I say in unison. Making it worse, she was in shorts and had no qualms about holding the thing against her bare legs:

    holding

    I know it was in a jar, but still. That was just creepy. She just kept staring at it and talking to it, even though I kept saying, “Ewww, put that down! Take it outside!” as I’m trying to make dinner amid the chaos. The weird thing is, well, besides the fact that our daughter was talking to a scorpion, that the girl enthralled with it is our  girliest girl. She’s all about princesses, Barbies, hairstyles and beautiful singers, not deadly, venomous desert creatures! This is the girl who screams and turns ghostly white if a fly lands on her arm or there’s a spider in her bathroom.

    Later that night, the twins and I were snuggled up on the couch watching American Idol. For some reason, Little Miss thinks that I am her sole property and no one but her should be sitting next to me. So she starts with the sad protruding bottom lip, then the tears, and then “Why are you guys sitting by Mommy? I get to sit next to Mommy!”

    “I don’t see the girls all day long,” I said. “You get me all to yourself all day, so now it’s their turn,” I say.

    Then the crying really starts, making us miss half the “Pants on the Ground” song.

    I call BK into the room and ask him to sit with her, telling her, “Poppy wants to sit with you, he hasn’t seen you all day!”

    He scooped her up and started playing with her, but she wasn’t having it. She got up, took one longing glance at the girls and I on the couch, and then took off. A minute later, she came wandering back in, sad-faced and sniffly—with the scorpion jar cradled in her arm. She hopped back up into BK’s lap, sniffling and hugging that jar like it was a teddy bear.

    It was all so disturbing yet hilarious yet crazy yet heartbreakingly sad all at the same time. “That’s soooo pathetic!” I said, as the twins and BK were practically convulsing with hysterical laughter. I wish I had snapped a picture, but I was just too weirded out to think about getting the camera.

    By the next day, Little Miss gave it a name: Scorpia, and declared it a girl. When it came time to go pick up the twins from school, Little Miss insisted that Scorpia come along for the ride.

    “NO WAY!” was my first response. The thought of driving around with that thing gave me the heebie-jeebies.

    “But Scorpia is my friend, and I will be sad to leave her home all alone,” she pleaded with her sweet big blue eyes.

    “Fine,” I agreed, super reluctantly. That sweet face makes me such a pushover.

    I screwed the lid onto that peanut butter jar as tightly as I could and handed it to her. “Do NOT, under any cirucmstances, loosen this lid, and don’t shake it around,” I told her sternly, although why I cared if it got shaken up, I don’t know.

    “OK, but can you carry her because I have my Barbie and I can’t carry her, too,” said Little Miss as we walked out to the garage.

    “Fine,” I again said in my exasperated tone.

    I buckled her (the child, not Scorpia) into her seat and handed her the jar for our journey.

    Then she says, “Can you take her up front with you because my Barbie will be scared of her and I don’t want her to be scared, so you should bring her up front with you, OK?”

    You’ve got to be kidding me.

    “Fine,” I said, setting the jar into the console next to the drink-holder cups, hoping that it wouldn’t roll onto my flip-flopped feet and freak me out while I was driving.

    When I got to the school pickup line, I texted BK, “OK, we need a dog. The scorpion now has a name and someone insisted we bring her to pickup.” I attached this picture:

    scorpia car

    I could not believe I was driving around with a scorpion in my car. Scorpia, by the way, was looking a little sluggish in her airtight jar. But I gave her a shake, and yep, she was still alive. Dang.

    Later that night, the girls were watching Mulan, and this is how I found Little Miss:

    buddies

    “Why are our kids so weird?” I whispered to BK as I pointed her out. (We say this kind of a lot. He just said it on Sunday at church, when we noticed that Twin B had a stack of coins all bundled up in yarn to put in the collection basket. When I nudged BK and pointed it out, he whispered, “Why are our kids so weird?”)

    When I told my mom the scorpion story, she said, “You guys need a dog.” It’s true, we do need a dog, and we’ve been in discussions about it for the past two years, but that’s an entirely different blog post.

    Later that night, I noticed that Scorpia had been placed on one of the walls in the dining room. She had become part of the decor, right along with our granite and Venetian plaster. Everyone is going to want to jump on this trend:

    decor

    “Um, that’s not staying there,” I said when I noticed. But then when I gave the jar another shake, I also noticed that Scorpia didn’t react. Scorpia had passed.

    “Good, now can we throw her away?” I said, probably a little too callously.

    “No!” shouted an on-the-verge-of-tears Little Miss. “Can we bury her in the back yard?”

    “Oh, sure, because I have nothing better to do than to have a scorpion funeral,” I said.

    “Can we? Can we have a funior for her? What’s a funior?” said Little Miss.

    That was four days ago. She still has not been properly interred. Garbage day is Monday.

    I’m thinking services will be held Monday courtesy of Waste Management. In lieu of flowers, we are accepting donations of  jars.