Unintentionally Hilarious Things From This Week's Protests

Thing one:





Scholiast: “n. a commentator on ancient or classical literature”

Thing two:

Um, who are the Morans? I think my parents' next-door neighbors last name is Moran, but I'm pretty sure one of them is a retired teacher and the other is a research scientist.

Oh well, whatever. Yeah, Morans! Get a brain! And Go!

Thing three: For the record, "teabagging" means something else. And I'm pretty sure that Republicans don't do it. Unless you're Senator Larry Craig. But I couldn't find a picture of that. Also, this is a family establishment, you sicko.

Y'know what? I'm starting to think the Republican party doesn't even need an opposition party. They're doing just fine on their own. Also, they're practically writing the jokes for me.

My Child's Genitals Are Not Up For Discussion

So mostly I talk about silly stuff my kid or my husband says, or something funny I saw on the internet, or something I'm eating (or would like to eat.) Occasionally I get a little maudlin and talk about politics or something else that I take seriously, usually in regards to how it relates to me or my family.

This is a little bit like that. But not really. But sort of. I'm deadly fucking serious right now.

There is a lot of talk out there on the internet about circumcision, especially among parents or about-to-be parents. Especially right now, in light of the Momversation webcasts.

I would like to go on the record and say that I think all of the participants made excellent points. I think some of them made them in ways that left something to be desired, but people have strong points of view on circumcision. I understand and respect that.

However, some of the commenters on some of the participants' sites have left a bad taste in my mouth. Because I left the last comment on Mighty Girl's blog before she closed the comments, I am concerned that a lot of wind might blow in this direction, so I would like to fully articulate my position on the subject.

• I have a son, so obviously, the topic of circumcision has come up between my husband and I.
• I am pregnant again, and for that reason, I anticpate that the subject will come up again.
• Male circumcision is a personal choice, typically made by a parent or parents.
• Male circumcision is not the same as female circumcision, also known as female genital mutilation. They are comparing apples to oranges.
• My son's penis is the business of expressly no one but myself, his father, and his pediatrician, should need arise.

For the record, I very much resent on the behalf of parents who have made or will make the decision to circumcise their sons the implication that female genital mutilation is comparable.

Here are some facts about this practice:

Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) is the partial or total removal of the female external genitalia. External genitals include the clitoris, labia, mons pubis (the fatty tissue over the pubic bone), and the urethral and vaginal openings. (Source: World Health Organization, 1995. "Female Genital Mutilation: Report of a WHO Technical Working Group". )

The practice of FGM is often called "female circumcision" (FC), implying that it is similar to male circumcision. However, the degree of cutting is much more extensive, often impairing a woman's sexual and reproductive functions. (Source: Toubia, N., 1993. "Female Genital Mutilation: A Call for Global Action." New York: Women, Ink)

Female Genital Mutilation is practiced globally.

FGM is practiced in at least 26 of 43 African countries; the prevalence varies from 98 percent in Somalia to 5 percent in Zaire. A review of country-specific demographic and health surveys shows FGM prevalence rates of 97 percent in Egypt, 94.5 percent in Eritrea, 93.7 percent in Mali, 89.2 percent in Sudan, and 43.4 percent in the Central African Republic.

FGM is also found among some ethnic groups in Oman, the United Arab Emirates, and Yemen, as well as in parts of India, Indonesia, and Malaysia. (Source: Toubia, N., 1993.)

FGM has become an important issue in Australia, Canada, England, France, and the United States due to the continuation of the practice by immigrants from countries where FGM is common. (Source: Ibid.)

In 1995 the World Health Organization classified FGM into four broad categories. They are as follows:

Type 1
Excision (removal) of the clitoral hood with or without removal of part or all of the clitoris.

Type 2
Removal of the clitoris together with part or all of the labia minora.

Type 3 (infibulation)
Removal of part or all of the external genitalia (clitoris, labia minora, and labia majora) and stitching and/or narrowing of the vaginal opening leaving a small hole for urine and menstrual flow.

Type 4 (unclassified)
All other operations on the female genitalia, including:

• Pricking, piercing, stretching, or incision of the clitoris and/or labia;
• Cauterization by burning the clitoris and surrounding tissues;
• Incisions to the vaginal wall;
• Scraping (angurya cuts) or cutting (gishiri cuts) of the vagina and surrounding tissues; and
• Introduction of corrosive substances or herbs into the vagina.

Type I and Type II operations account for 85 percent of all FGM. Type III (infibulation) is common in Djibouti, Somalia and Sudan and in parts of Egypt, Ethiopia, Kenya, Mali, Mauritania, Niger, Nigeria, and Senegal.

Complications arising from FGM are frequent and often serious.

The highest maternal and infant mortality rates are in FGM-practicing regions.

The actual number of girls who die as a result of FGM is not known. However, in areas in the Sudan where antibiotics are not available, it is estimated that one-third of the girls undergoing FGM will die.

Conservative estimates suggest that more than one million women in Centrafrican Republic (CAR), Egypt, and Eritrea, the only countries where such data is available, experienced adverse health effects from FGM.

One quarter of women in CAR and 1/5 of women in Eritrea reported FGM-related complications.

Where medical facilities are ill-equipped, emergencies arising from the practice cannot be treated. Thus, a child who develops uncontrolled bleeding or infection after FGM may die within hours.

Immediate physical symptoms may include the following:

Intense pain and/or hemorrhage that can lead to shock during and after the procedure. A 1985 Sierra Leone study found that nearly 97 percent of the 269 women interviewed experienced intense pain during and after FGM, and more than 13 percent went into shock.

Hemorrhage can also lead to anemia.

Wound infection, including tetanus. A survey in a clinic outside of Freetown (Sierra Leone) showed that of 100 girls who had FGM, 1 died and 12 required hospitalization. Of the 12 hospitalized, 10 suffered from bleeding and 5 from tetanus. Tetanus is fatal in 50 to 60 percent of all cases.

Damage to adjoining organs from the use of blunt instruments by unskilled operators. According to a 1993 nationwide study in the Sudan, this occurs approximately 0.3 percent of the time.

Urine retention from swelling and/or blockage of the urethra.

Sound pleasant? Not so much.

Let's talk about male circumcision now.

Male circumcision is the removal of some or all of the foreskin (prepuce) from the penis. The word "circumcision" comes from Latin circum (meaning "around") and cædere (meaning "to cut").

This is an operation as old as mankind, highlighted today by Jewish and Muslim tradition in which all males are typically circumcised as a part of their faith and culture. It is performed worldwide by many tribes and cultures as an initiation rite and, despite some aggressive opposition, it is routinely done at birth for the majority of boys in the USA as well as many in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, South Africa and much of the English speaking world. Overall it is estimated that a quarter of the male population is circumcised - about 750 million males.

Benefits to circumcision:

(I freely acknowledge that this information is appended from a source who is pro-circumcision. Not being in posession of a penis of my own, I have to rely on secondary sources.)

1. Many older men, who have bladder or prostate gland problems, also develop difficulties with their foreskins due to their surgeon's handling, cleaning, and using instruments. Some of these patients will need circumcising.

2. Some older men develop cancer of the penis - about 1 in 1000 - fairly rare, but tragic if you or your son are in that small statistic. Infant circumcision gives almost 100% protection, and young adult circumcision also gives a large degree of protection.

3. Cancer of the cervix in women is due to the Human Papilloma Virus. It thrives under and on the foreskin from where it can be transmitted during intercourse. An article in the British Medical Journal in April 2002 suggested that at least 20% of cancer of the cervix would be avoided if all men were circumcised.

4. Protection against HIV and AIDS. Another British Medical Journal article in May 2000 suggested that circumcised men are 8 times less likely to contract the HIV virus.

5. As with HIV, so some protection exists against other sexually transmitted infections. Accordingly, if a condom splits or comes off, there is some protection for the couple.

6. Lots of men, and their partners, prefer the appearance of their penis after circumcision, It is odor-free, it feels cleaner, and they enjoy better sex. Awareness of a good body image is a very important factor in building self confidence.

7. Balanitis is an unpleasant, often recurring, inflammation of the glans. It is quite common and can be prevented by circumcision.

8 Urinary tract infections sometimes occur in babies and can be quite serious. Circumcision in infancy makes it 10 times less likely.

In comparison, the WHO and every other recognized health, human rights, and civil rights organization who have addressed it have acknowledged that there are few, if any, health or social benefits to FGM, and the drawbacks are numerous and severe.

I am aware that a cost-benefit analysis when it comes to circumcision is not necessarily appropriate. Lots of people have very strong feelings one way or another, which, as I said before, I understand and respect. However, let me say that the research that I've seen against circumcision mostly deals with the fact that it is unnecessary.

At this point, I would like to make something perfectly clear, so sit down, put away your righteous indignation, and listen very carefully, because I am going to say this probably multiple times before anyone listens to me. You can save yourself some time by catching on right now.

Circumcise your son, don't circumcise him. Do it as an infant, do it as a child, let him make the decision for himself later on as an adult. Do it for medical reasons or social reasons or religious reasons. I honestly don't give a tiny rat's ass about your kid's schwantz. I have enough to do, teaching my own son responsible penis usage, without worrying about yours.

One of the things that has truly shocked me as a parent is other parents' willingness to mind my business for me. I would never be so presumptuous as to inquire about a stranger's intent to circumcise their child, or not; and yet I was asked by no fewer than six when I was pregnant and when my son was an infant.

I politely declined to answer that question, the reason being that I certainly hope no one is discussing my genitals with strangers behind my back, and I think it's an inappropriate topic of conversation. Max may have that conversation with anyone whom he chooses to once he is old enough to do so appropriately, at which point, it will no longer be my business.

I don't care whether your son is circumcised. Please don't ask me whether mine is. It's not your business.

As Maggie points out in the Momversation video, why is it so necessary for people to convince others that they are wrong in order to believe that they, themselves, are right? The tenor of this discussion has gotten way, way, way out of hand and I am insulted on behalf of people who have the temerity to make their own decisions.

Do not tell me how to raise my child. Do not tell me he is too young for potty training or too old to be wearing diapers. Do not tell me why I should have nursed Max longer or gone back to work sooner. I am a full-grown adult, and I will handle that decision for myself. Please feel free to do the same for your child. I will do you the small courtesy of not judging you.

And finally: I welcome vigorous discussion and debate on the topic, but one thing I will not change my mind about is that my son's penis is his business, not yours. By all means, let's talk about it, a lot, but you won't change my mind on that topic. Also, I won't tell you you're wrong, even if I disagree with you, but you also won't change my mind on the fact that circumcision and female genital mutilation are, in fact, not the same thing. Let's just assume that I'm actually quite bright and don't try.

I am an Ugly Person, and Also, I Have a Flat Face.

Max is sick. He's a kid in pre-school, and his father is a public school teacher, so virtually every bug that occurs in nature enters our house. He is relatively seldom sick, too. He's only ever had one stomach bug, and he gets the occasional cold, but I've never seen him the way he was this weekend.

His fever never went below 100, and most of the time it was more like 103. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't drink, cried with no provocation, and mostly, wanted to lie on the couch. And we're not talking about a kid who's normally low-energy, even when he's sick.

Yesterday afternoon, he looked like a deflated balloon. He had slept most of the day, and I hadn't gotten him to eat more than a couple of bites of a popsicle all day. His fever was hovering around 103.8 when I gave into my fear mid-afternoon and told Dan that we needed to go to the Emergency Room.

I am not that mother. Hospitals are where sick people go, usually to get sicker. I don't race him off to the E.R. at the drop of a hat. However, we had several factors working against us. The first was simply his condition. There is a significant difference between Sick Max and Healthy Max, and the difference is obvious. I don't see Sick Max often at all, and this is what I was looking at today. He was sick, getting worse, I'd tried to help him for two days now, and nothing was helping. The second factor was where we are and when it is: it's three days before the Inauguration, in a suburb of Washington D.C. On Monday and Tuesday, if we needed an emergency room, it is very unlikely that we'd have one available to us.

I wrapped him up in a blanket, carried him to the car, and we drove him to the Emergency Room, which is only about eight blocks away. We registered in the E.R. and sat down to wait with him.

A few minutes ago, a very strange-looking man came staggering in the door. After registering, loudly, he came staggering across the room. He said something to Max, I don't remember what, but it was off-putting, and I wanted him to go away. Max gazed at the creepy guy uneasily. "He's sick," I told the creepy guy as icily as I could possibly muster. "Please leave him alone."

He did not do so. He continued to harass us while Max became more and more agitated by the man. Eventually, he took off his sunglasses to show us his face that had quite obviously been crushed by something--a hammer, by the looks of it. Finally, I told Creepy Guy to leave us alone or I would ask someone to call security.

He did not leave us alone. "There's a man over there that won't leave us alone," I said as loudly as I could to the registration desk. I didn't want him to miss who it was that was telling on him. "Could you please alert security that we're being harassed?"

They did so, immediately. This caused quite an interesting scene which, at this point, was mostly amusing to Dan and I. At one point, Creepy Guy announced loudly that he didn't have nothin' to say to them white people. Dan burst out laughing. "Why can't I just be 'that asshole?'" he asked. "Why do we have to be 'them white people?'"

At some point, they convinced him that he would have to be quiet, stop attempting to engage other patients in conversation, and generally reign himself in, or he would be forcibly removed. This was the point at which he stood up, pointed at me, said, "You know what? You ugly. You an ugly person. You and your flat face."

I started to laugh. "Did he say my face was flat," I asked Dan, "or fat?"

Dan was laughing too. "I think he said flat," he said.

"I was just wondering because the second one is sort of true," I said, "but the first one is just weird."

Creepy Guy, who was almost visibly under the influence of some sort of mystery cocktail of substances, went outside at this point, pulled a navel orange from his pocket, and appeared to engage it in a conversation of some kind. At that point, we were called back into the triage area.

Two very capable women quickly assessed Max, weighed him, took a short medical history, discovered that his temperature was now 103.9, his pulse was 178, nearly sixty beats a minute faster than a healthy 3-year-old, and began to work with a sense of urgency to which I am not accustomed to seeing here in the D.C. area, and certainly not in an emergency room. One of them got on the phone. "I have a baby here with a fever of 103.9," she said to whomever was on the other end of the phone. We were whisked through a back door and into the Emergency Ward, a series of three-sided cubicles arranged around a central nurse's station.

We'd not been there fifteen seconds before a nurse whisked in with a digital thermometer in her hand. "I need his shirt off," she said crisply. "His pants too, please." She took a rectal temperature, which I found unpleasant, although I'm sure not nearly so much as Max did.

104.1 now. She patted Max gently on the leg. "We're gonna make you feel better, buddy," she said to him. She took me aside. "He's gonna need an IV," she said. "There's really no option at this point."

"That's fine," I said. "Do it." We were left alone for a minute again, and Dan and I stared at each other. "I'll bet you all the money in my wallet against all the money in your wallet that his doctor is the guy talking to his orange out in front of the Emergency Room entrance," I said to him.

"No bet," Dan said.

His doctor was actually a calm, slender, silver-haired gentleman in a blue button-down shirt and khakis. He was kind and thorough and very gentle with Max, and moved fast. Max claimed that nothing hurt as the doctor prodded and poked at him, and the doctor seemed very concerned. He pulled me aside as well, and said, "Well, I don't like what I'm seeing. His temperature is very concerning to us." I nodded wordlessly. "Let's get that under control and we'll see what happens next. At this point, we start to worry about seizures."

Max was naked, laid out flat on the hospital bed, too scared to cry, whimpering in fear as the nurse, who could not possibly have been doing a better job, showed him exactly what she was going to do to him on his teddy bear. "I'm going to put this piece of rubber around your arm, just like the bear," she said, tying on the tournequet. "Then this little needle is going to stick you just for a minute, and then come right back out, and you'll have tube in your arm. It won't hurt at all once the tube is there."

"Look, Max," I showed him my insulin pump. "Just like Mom's tube." He was not consoled by this information.

Max held Dan's hand with one hand, my hand with the other. A nurse's aide held him down, although he was almost too weak at this point to struggle. He shrieked in terror, and then as she withdrew the needle and taped the IV in place, he calmed to a whimper again. She worked quickly, as quickly as I've ever seen anyone move, taking several tubes of blood, blood cultures, taping a plastic urine culture collection bag in place, the whole time talking to Max to keep him as calm as possible. "I'm giving him heparin in this IV," she said to me as she injected it. "It's an anti-coagulent, which-"

"I'm familiar," I said.

There were ice packs, and cold drinks, and more Motrin, and more Tylenol, and more tears and whimpering. Max still wouldn't drink, and they came and put an IV bag on. Slowly, Max began to look less like a deflated balloon and more like my boy again. He drank a few sips of the apple juice that they brought him and held a graham cracker in his hand, although he didn't eat it. He was dozing off.

His fever was falling, enough that they let us put a blanket over him. His arm hurt and he was crying, but he was also singing. He sang "You Are My Sunshine" to the nurse, whom he was charming thoroughly.

The doctor came in with the results from the labs. "These are largely inconclusive," he said. "His white blood count is borderline-high, which is indicative of an infection, but we don't really know what kind. How does he seem to be doing?"

"Our car got stolen," Max told him. It's a story he's told everyone he's seen since it actually happened. "It got crashed into a gate."

The doctor looked nonplussed. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "When was this?"

"This morning," Max said, at the same time as Dan and I both said "December."

"Okay," said the doctor. "Let's watch him a little longer."

Throughout the evening, Max repeated this story to everyone he saw, every time he saw them. At one point, the doctor asked if he'd been perseverating on the car being stolen before he got sick, or if this was possibly an effect of the fever. I am almost positive that he was joking.

Max's heart rate was falling from the 170's, where it had been when we came in, to the 140's, to as low as 129 as he dozed between seeing nurses and doctors. It wasn't low enough for the ER doctor, nor for the on-call pediatrician who was checking in with us too. I was listening to the two of them outside the cubicle, saying things to each other like "spinal tap" and "chest x-ray" and I wanted to cry. I would have changed places with him in a heartbeat.

In the end, they sent us home in the middle of the night, without a spinal tap or a chest x-ray or anything else that was scary for any of us. Max felt better, not much better, but better. His heart rate was down to the 130's, which they were more comfortable with, but not really comfortable. His temperature was down, but not normal. Overall, they were convinced that he didn't have pneumonia or meningitis, that he had a viral infection of some kind, that he was uncomfortable but no longer dangerously dehydrated or feverish. "Keep pushing the fluids," the doctor said. "That's going to make the difference betweeen whether he stays home or comes back here in a couple of days.

He still doesn't want to eat or drink, but he's eating and drinking more. He still has a fever, but it's not out of control like it was. He's testy and uncomfortable, but he doesn't look like roadkill like he did yesterday.

It's been a bad weekend, mostly for Max, and maybe a little for a guy with a crushed head, who may still be having a conversation with an orange outside Laurel Regional Hospital's Emergency Room.

Repelled, and yet a Little Curious

Best Google Search term ever:

"Dog Elephantitis."

Whoever you are, I hope you found what you were looking for.

A Tale of Too Stupid

First of all, go and read this post. Then come back.

The upshot is that this mother, in her nightly struggle to get her pre-school-aged daughter to bed and to sleep, in her frustration, wondered aloud via Twitter if it would be acceptable to smother her daughter in order to get her to stay in bed. A woman who follows her on Twitter, who clearly doesn't know her, her morbid sense of humor, or the deep and abiding love for her child that is so obvious to anyone with the common sense God gave pistachio nuts, found this tweet to be objectionable.

Shortly afterwards, the police appeared at her door. At 11 o'clock at night, this woman had to show them her sleeping child in order to prove that she hadn't murdered her own daughter.

I am totally dumbstruck by the ardent stupidity of this entire situation. I am absolutely horrified for this woman, and so sorry for the mortification and abject humiliation she must be feeling.

Dan is a teacher, as are several of our closest friends. They are all required by law and their jobs, not to mention simple human decency and civility, to report suspected physical, emotional, verbal, and sexual abuse of all children they come in contact with. In a thousand years, I cannot imagine anyone legitimately interpreting what this woman was saying as a threat of actual child endangerment.

Not a month ago, I threatened to tape Max in a box with a couple bottles of water and a couple of sandwiches and Fed-Ex him to my parents. Did any of you--seriously, anybody at all--interpret that as something I would publicly brag about doing, let alone actually do? Even for a minute? Did anybody sit down and give it any thought at all, whether that was something I was capable of?

Honest to God, I know my readership isn't enormous or anything, but really--anybody?

People don't brag about murdering their children on Twitter before they actually go and do it, for fucking Christ's sake! Especially not rational, sane, loving parents--as this blogger clearly and obviously is. People abuse children secretly, then they bury the body, or burn it, or chop it into pieces and stow it in their freezer! They don't write about what they're doing on the internet--especially before they do it. Come the fuck on.

That's the point. I've admitted my parenting shortfalls right here on this blog--a year ago, when Max was biting, I admitted to biting him back once. I admitted how terrible it made me feel to have physically done something that made him cry. I've admitted that I'm not the most patient parent on this earth, that I have a tendency to tune him out when I'm deeply involved in something else. Does that qualify as child neglect in somebody's mind? Quick--call child protective services.

This is busybodying run totally amok. This is a woman with not enough to do (and there's a link to her blog at the first link; I won't link to her because, frankly, I don't think she deserves the traffic) and too much time on her hands and too little to think about. I won't go so far as to call her stupid or ignorant, because name-calling is a little inane even in a case like this, but really, I'm starting to think that there ought to be a common sense or I.Q. prerequisite in order to connect to the internet, if for no other reason than to protect us normal, sane, rational human beings.

Dear Comcast: Suck It.

Remember when you sent me a flier for high speed internet access, and I agreed to it, and went to Best Buy, which I cheerfully loathe, and bought all the wireless stuff, and paid like $200 for it, and then the high speed internet access you gave me didn't work for like six months?

And when I called and complained that the high speed internet access I was paying like $48 a month for didn't work, you asked me "Is your computer on?"

And when you sent me another flier for digital cable at some kind of outrageous discount, with a year of free HBO, and I stupidly agreed, it took you, like, three weeks to get a tech out there to set it up? And the digital cable box didn't work? And he didn't have another one? And he'd be right back? And then he didn't come back for three weeks?

And then when I got my first bill, and the outrageous discount mysteriously was missing, and that free year of HBO was actually a free six months, except we'd already had your high speed internet service, so I actually didn't qualify for free HBO at all? But you couldn't take it off my service, because blah blah Comcast blah?

Remember?

Yeah, that was fun and games compared to after we moved. When your tech came out to transfer our service and tried to shake us down for an $85 "transfer fee?" Payable in cash only? Hilarious!

When our cable stopped working a month after moving in, and I took a day off work to be there when the tech showed up, and he came almost three hours late, and I had the temerity to complain, and his response was, "Why? You making me breakfast?" So funny!

Yeah, guess what? You're not going to get my $140 a month anymore for your barely-functioning service.

Verizon, which I'm not stupid enough to think won't suck too, has guaranteed the price and services in writing, offered me a free DVR, and thrown in home phone service for less each month than I was paying for digital cable and high speed internet.

So Comcast, for the last time, I bid you a fond adieu. Suck it.

Molly

I'm About to Say the F-Word. Like, a Lot.

Remember that time that our car was towed? That was a really bad day, I'll tell you.

Yeah, today is worse.

It started out the same: Dan walked out the door, keys in hand, looked around, and said, "Where is our car?"

This time, though, I knew something was really wrong, not just a mis-read tag.

I called 911. They sent a cop to our house. The cop called in the tag and VIN number. We waited.

The call came back: our car was impounded last night after being involved in a hit-and-run accident, crashed into a fence around the corner from our home. It was at a local impound lot. The cop's supervisor came over too to get a written report and let us know what we should do.

I called the insurance company. They're sending out an insurance adjuster.

I am seriously going to need some therapy and medication. I really am. I am in a state of advanced shock where I can't fully comprehend what is happening, and yet I am totally unable to avoid dealing with any of this. I know lots of people have their cars stolen, and yet, I feel so totally overwhelmed and overcome by all of this that I am unable to process any of it. On top of everything, I feel so completely violated. I have never been the victim of a crime of this particular tenor before, and I honestly don't think I would feel worse if I'd been gang-raped in the back of my stolen, most-likely totalled car.

Dan and I are sitting around, listing things to be grateful for: no one was hurt. The car had over 100,000 miles on it. The gas tank was almost empty. We weren't carjacked. Max wasn't in the car at the time.

But for fucking Christ's sake, I don't feel grateful. I don't feel fucking lucky. I feel fucked over. I'm supremely pissed. I feel like I'm in an out-of-control downward spiral and I don't know what the fucking hell to do about it. I am a blazing hormonal mess and totally unable to cope with any of this with anything other than forward motion.

Stay tuned.

According To Dan: Two Mentions of his Testicles in One Day has to be an All-Time Bad Taste Record for Me

Dan, rubbing his face: Man, I need to shave something fierce.

Molly: How about a bobcat?

Dan: How about my testicles? Hah, walked right into that, didn't you?

NaBloPoMo Day 23: Surrender

Want to know what today has been like at Chez Nonhipster?

Imagine that I'm a cat in a box, and my son is a bulldog.

Ready?



That is what my day has been like.

NaBloPoMo Day 15: Of Interest

I wrote some stuff here awhile ago of really no consequence at all about my first boyfriend, who later became a rock star, demonstrating that I am kind of a dumbass and really had no kind of good judgement, like, at all, and I've since then just gotten rid of it, because while I'm not really that embarassed by my lack of good judgement as a teenager, I do feel like sort of a dumbass for bragging about going at it with a talented but very awkward, sort of weird, kind of monomaniacal guy who later turned out to be moderately famous. Well, not bragging so much as just putting it out there. Anyway.

I am totally horrified by the passage of Proposition 8 in California, even almost two weeks after the fact, to the point where it's hard for me to wrap my brain around it. Seriously, I can't believe we're still in this place where people are still so threatened by the idea of two people who genuinely love and care about each other so much that they want it to matter, no matter the persuasion.

I'm horrified by the idea that legalizing marriage for people of the same gender is still a point of contention at all, to be honest. You know, I'm a grownup and I can acknowledge that there are plenty of points of view that can be recognized as perfectly valid, but is this not something that we've dealt with before? I'm busy and I'm not doing any research, but are there still states in the country where interracial marriage is still illegal? There aren't, are there? I can't believe we haven't moved past any of this yet.

Is this really still a topic that needs to be addressed, because to me it seems blatantly obvious, and I'm known for being annoyingly prone to arguing both sides of any given topic, but I've got nothing to say on the other end of this. When you offer something to one group of people, no questions asked, and deny it to another group, equally qualified in every way, you're doing a disservice to everyone.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, to be lost in embracing the differences between people, in celebrating people who are different and the differences as well. We are all better, richer, more whole, smarter, more grounded, kinder, less likely to hurt people intentionally, and less tolerant of people and things that do, when we do.

This is exactly why I stopped going to church, why I stopped embracing religion and started relying on my own judgement of what spirituality really means: there are way, way, way too many people who use their beliefs to draw a line in the sand. I think sometimes that when God sees what goes on in his name, it makes him/her throw up. I can't stomach the people who draw attention to their piety and use it as justification to exclude and hurt people.

Defeating Proposition 8 wasn't about religion, or tradition, or legality. It was about a level playing field. I thought that's what America was supposed to have, a level playing field. Recognizing same-sex marriage doesn't devalue straight marriage. It doesn't encourage people who aren't gay to become gay--that notion is so absurd to me that I am stunned that people are still putting it out there. It doesn't do anything but open a door that should be open already. And I am blazing pissed that as a nation, we're still fighting this fight, and losing.

NaBloPoMo Day 13: What Does The Rest Of The Recipe Look Like?

Tonight on the way to my knitting group, I was listening to our local talk radio station, and there was a commercial on. I thought it was for one of those fake "Italian" restaurants, like Olive Garden or something, because they were describing the simmering of the tomatoes, onions, garlic, and celery, the perfectly-prepared pasta, the fresh loaves of bread straight from the oven.

There could be something to this, I was thinking. This is actually making me hungry.

The commercial continued (and I'm paraphrasing here): this family-style Italian home-made goodness is brought to you by fertilizer.

"..." I thought.

The commercial went on to talk about how everything we eat is all thanks to fertilizer, and how great fertilizer is, and let's all go to Lowe's right now and buy some fertilizer, and eat it straight from the bag with a spoon.

But the crowning glory was the closing line, which had so much resonance that I actually sent it to myself in a text message so that I could come home and write this.

Fertilizer: It's life's main ingredient.

I've often thought so myself, but I don't tend to espouse a view like that in a forum as popular as local radio.

It could be worse, I suppose. Just tack it into some other popular advertising slogans and see what you get:

Fertilizer: It's what's for dinner.

What happens in fertilizer stays in fertilizer.

Fertilizer: It's finger-lickin' good.

Fertilizer: It keeps going, and going, and going...

Fertilizer: Because I'm worth it.

It could most definitely be worse.

NaBloPoMo Day 10: Dream Injury

Saturday night, I had a dream that I was teaching Max how to ski. It's what I used to do--teach skiing. The pay was bad, but I mostly did it for the cute-boy potential and the free season pass. I learned how to ski when I was right around Max's age. My mother tells a story about me at age three skiing full-speed down the bunny hill, singing "Joy to the World" at full volume: the Three Dog Night version, not the Christmas carol.

Sunday morning, before I even got out of bed, I noticed my left knee, which has always been my "good" knee, not that either are terrific after 30 years of skiing, was stiff, and a little swollen. When I got up, it felt sore, and wobbly, and unstable--the way it would after an ACL tear.

It now hurts pretty significantly--enough that I'm considering taking something stronger than a couple of Tylenol. To be honest, the whole leg hurts, the way it would if I were injured, trying to ignore it, and injuring it more significantly in doing so.

Here's the thing: I haven't done anything to injure it. I've barely been out of the house all weekend.

Does anyone have any theories as to how I may have injured myself in my sleep without waking myself up?

How About DEADMOM?

Thanks, Google, for once again freaking me right the eff out.

How did Luke Wingo Die in The Prince of Tides? He was shot by Green Berets who were sent to the town to find him after he made some threats against the government, which had torn down his hometown to build a nuclear power plant. Of course, you could just re-read the book, but why? I just ruined the ending for you.

The Rock is Cooking's Mother I have to say, I am not sure what we're referring to here. If you mean Dwayne Johnson's mother, she's from royal Samoan lineage, but I can't seem to find a picture of her. If you're refering to just some random mother, cooking rock, allow me to suggest that a more apt Google search might be "Crack Whore Mom."

"I Hated Pan's Labrynth" Me too.

What Can I Knit For A Wedding Present? Depends. I am really liking organic cotton/linen washcloths with a monogrammed initial knit into them. They are quick to knit up and they're surprisingly beautiful and they last forever and just get softer and softer every time you use them. I am also a big fan of an afghan, although you really have to like someone a lot, because enough decent yarn for a whole afghan is, like, a pretty sizable investment. A woman who comes to my knitting group on Wednesday nights had friends who recently got married and she knitted them each a sweater and the bride's sweater was the most gorgeous winter-white wool cabled aran thing I think I've ever seen, it really was, and if your friends are sweater people, this makes a beautiful and deeply appreciated gift, particularly if they've been together awhile and already have lots of dishes and silverware. If you really are just friends with the bride and you're significantly more talented than me, you might think about doing a lacy wedding wrap or shawl in the palest blue you can find, and then it's her "something blue" and also her "something new." I have just reconnected with a friend from elementary school who is getting married in December and am already thinking about what might suit her. Along these lines, Trina and Gerry's wedding gift still isn't done, because I never ever knit just one thing at a time, but it is really almost finished and I can't wait to show you pictures.

My schedule is full, my schedule is tight I'm sorry, should I be thinking of a word that rhymes with "tight" to end this little poem with? Because that's not really what we do here.

Things a Woman Should Master Theoretical physics. Macroeconomics. Writing a sincere and gracious thank-you note. Picking out wines and beers. How to give a blow job. I may have just crossed a line; I'm just saying, these are things people appreciate.

Son flirts with Mom in the car Oedipus complex on wheels.

And the big winner:

Vanity plate ideas for mom who passed away Why does she need a vanity plate? She's not still driving, is she, for God sake?

According To Dan: In A Previous Life He Was A TV Executive

Dan: What are you watching?

Molly: "Jo and Slade: Date my Ex."

Dan: Why don't they just call that show "Pimp My Leftovers?"

Molly: Not long enough?

Dan: How about "Shit, I Hit That?"

M'mm Good, M'mm Good...

Over the summer, while Dan has been at home with Max and I've been at work, we've gotten into the habit of grocery shopping on Monday nights after I get home. The grocery store is relatively uncrowded and Max needs to get out of the house.

Tonight I witnessed one of the truly most appalling displays of rudeness I think I've ever seen. As Dan and I were coming out of the grocery store, right in front of us, a woman had stopped her car, one of those giant Dodge Whatchamacallit station wagons, partially angled back toward an occupied parking spot. She had gotten out of her car, and she was clearly toward the end of a pregnancy with what I can only hope was twins.

As we were walking towards the parking lot, she started calling to a man who we couldn't see from where we were standing, because he hadn't gotten out of his car yet. "Excuse me, sir?" she called. "Sir? I was backing into that spot. Sir? Sir?"

I will be the first to admit that I don't understand the phenomena of backing into parking spots, which is all the rage here. I have never backed into a parking spot in my life unless I was stalking some boy and thought I might have to make a quick getaway. And yet, probably fifty times since we moved to Maryland, I've been following someone through a crowded parking lot and been just about to drop to my knees in gratitude as they passed the one last unoccupied spot in the entire lot without pulling in, only to have them stop short, and have to slam on my brakes to keep from hitting them as they throw their car into reverse and back into the spot that I thought they were passing up.

The man who she was calling to was a middle-aged white man, driving a big grey Mercury sedan. He waved cheerfully at her, as though she was commenting on what a blue sky and fresh breeze was blowing today, calmly ignoring her and went stalking into the store, right past Dan and I. She shook her head, stuffed herself back into her car, and took the next available spot, which was easily another hundred yards out in the lot, as opposed to the spot that Old Fart appropriated for his own use, which was the second spot in the lot.

I was totally outraged on this woman's behalf. "Cocksucker," is what I said, plenty loud enough for the old fart to hear me, and glaring openly in his direction.

Dan is always horrified when I become openly profane and confrontational, but he didn't seem like the type to follow a thirty-something yuppie woman and soundly kick her ass in front of her husband and three-year-old son. Nevertheless, he shushed me with the consternation that I've come to fully expect from my husband.

As I continued to rage against middle-aged white men everywhere (I can't remember what exactly I said, but the name John McCain and the term "ignorant-ass John Birch Society member" may have been mentioned more than once) while we put groceries in the car, Dan snickered to himself. "Too bad Campbell's not here," he said.

"Who's Campbell?" I said, pausing in my red-faced rant against Republicans and Other Bad People.

"He's this guy I knew growing up," he said. Dan grew up in a northern Michigan town on Lake Michigan which grew from about 8,000 year-round residents to about 80,000 tourists every summer, famously snarling traffic, crowding sidewalks and beaches, and in general, lacking in courtesy or couth of any kind, earning the nickname "fudgies" for the massive quantities of fudge that they bought and consumed. "Campbell used to carry a bottle of pee in his car. And any time a fudgie would cut him off in traffic, he would follow them and wait until they parked their car and walked away, and then he'd pour the pee all over the inside of their car."

It was, as you might anticipate, the first time that I regretted not having a bottle of pee in my minivan, and that I didn't even have to go a little bit, as I did notice that Old Fart had unwisely left his window open. I briefly contemplated dropping a couple of eggs through the window, but Dan, in his infinite wisdom and as the better person and party-pooper in this relationship, wouldn't hear of it.

In the time that it took us to load up our groceries, for me to load Max into his car seat, and for Dan to return the cart, Old Fart came out with his Evil Cocktail Mix or his loaf of Craphole Bread or whatever he went in for and got into his car. I backed out of my parking spot and blocked him into his. "Molly," Dan said in his best I'm-Warning-You voice.

I waved cheerfully at Old Fart. He waved cheerfully back, clearly not recognizing me as the person who'd called him a cocksucker not five minutes earlier. I rolled down my window, and he did the same. "Hey Asshole," I called. "God saw you take that parking spot." The smile fell off his face. "And He thinks your car is ugly."

I drove off feeling vindicated, despite the fact that I hadn't come up with anything better than my ka-ka-head poo-poo-face school of insult-hurling.

But as God is my witness, I'm going to get a funnel and an old 2-liter bottle. And Campbell is going to be my new role model in childish revenge schemes carried out on other people's behalf.

Dear Comcast Cable:

To: Comcast
From: Molly
Re: Two Small Points of Order

1. You cannot tune into OnDemand New Cars and "Literally" take a test drive. If you were "literally" taking a test drive, you would be IN A CAR, not on your living room couch with your remote in your hand. That is what literally means, you bunch of illiterate goobs. Your commercial does absolutely nothing in regards to making me want to buy a car. It makes me want to pour myself a stiff drink, dump out the drink, and eat the glass.

2. Your tech who came to my house yesterday arrived nearly an hour late. When I pointed that out to him, he said, "So? Were you making me breakfast?" I did not answer that question before I told him to get out of my house. The answer was no. I was not making him breakfast. And the next time you send one of your smelly, ignorant, ankle-tether-wearing degenerate techs to my house and they arrive so much as two minutes after the appointment time or wise off to me, ever fucking again, please let them know that they can anticipate being followed down the stairs by every piece of Comcast equipment in my posession, including the THREE cable boxes that have stopped working in the year and a half that I've had Comcast Digital Cable, as I will throw them off the deck at his head. So Help Me God.

Yours very truly,

That Woman Who's Angry Every Single Time I Call

Why I'm Broke, Probably

Tomorrow, I start a financial remodel of most of my life. Last week, I looked over my checking account statement from last month, and nearly had a heart attack: in a month, I spent over $700 on groceries, eating out, and lunch at work, just on that one card--that doesn't even include what I might have spent on those things on any of my other cards. Ouch.

Groceries are the least of my problems. I budget about $150 a week for groceries, and most often I come in well under that, unless there's some kind of special meal coming up. Tonight, for example, I discovered that the Safeway around the corner from my house is going to stop carrying sugar-free Kool-Aid. Horrified to find their entire stock of Sugar-free Kool-Aid on the clearance rack, I bought it all--45 boxes--for $1 a box. I also complained to the manager of the store, who told me that there wasn't much he could do about it. Shmuck.

Also not the problem: Dan. He packs his lunches, and takes salad with chicken breasts and whole-wheat pasta tossed in. His lunches are a grand total of about $3 a day.

Max's daycare provides lunch for him. Have I happened to mention how much I love Max's daycare? She is a licensed home daycare, she's got years of experience and four kids of her own. There's no TV, she has a curriculum and planned activities every day, and Max gets a healthy breakfast, lunch, and two snacks a day. Not only that, but he's treated like a part of her family, and he loves it so much there he practically jumps out of the moving car when we pull into her driveway. All of this for $135 a week! Anyway, Max's breakfast and lunch is included in the daycare cost, so he's not the problem.

The problem is me: I go to work incredibly early in the morning and work next door to a Giant--it's too easy for me to pick up something for breakfast, run back across the street to hit the salad bar at lunch, and avail myself of the chilled sodas in the coolers near the checkout lane. There goes $10 a day, easy.

So, I am going to be attempting to plug the leak. Here are the rules:

$30 a week for lunches and breakfasts.
I'll carry my lunch at least two days a week. (Dammit, I hate carrying my lunch.)
Dan and I will not go out more than twice in a week, including Friday night, which is our regular night, and our weekend breakfasts at Eastern Market (I will really miss that.)
More water, less soda, and I'll buy a case of Diet Coke and drink those, rather than purchasing 20-ounce sodas for $1.39 each.
No more than one Starbucks a week (Dammit again!)
I will post what I spend every day, so that you will all help me be accountable.

Any other suggestions?

The Leap Day Roundup

I knew a guy in high school who was born on February 29, 1976. He only had a birthday every 4 years. So wherever you are, Jason What's-His-Face, happy 8th birthday. Hope you get that 10-speed.

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In honor of leap day, here is my post full of things that I didn't think of myself, favorite new places on the internet, questions I've recently been asked, and other randomness. I am reserving this one day every four years to fail to think for myself.

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Watching an episode from Season 3 of "The West Wing" last night, probably one of my favorite quotes ever:

Leo: It was a screwup, but I love how he just ran full speed at it. Bam! It's like, there's a Sam Seaborn-shaped hole in the wall.

Aaron Sorkin: greatest TV writer ever.

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A Twitter by Mighty Girl's Maggie Mason: "BABYBOI plate and "I've got piercings in places you'd love to lick" license frame suggest that aging is gonna be hard on you."

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Dan and I are in a mighty battle with our weight, which has collectively become a little out of control. I have lost 8 pounds; Dan has lost an inch and a half from his waist, but after seeing the food porn at Sunday Night Dinner, I think we'd give it all up for that spicy, totally greasy Thai wide rice noodle dish that I can't think of the name of at the moment.

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Imaginary notes to your kid and from your kid to you: At Yummy Mummy Cooks Gourmet and Finslippy. If Max were going to leave me a note it would say, "FYI: Anything I liked last week, I now hate. You are a terrible mother. Never talk to me again. Love, Max."

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The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks made me put my head down on my desk and laugh so hard that I cried this week. There is very little that I like more than a grammar Nazi.

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Tertia at So Close frequently speaks publicly about her journey through infertility to motherhood. This week she wrote a little about bedside manner and how medical professionals can better meet patients' needs. As a sufferer of a chronic illness and secondary infertility, I really appreciate the comments of her readers.

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I hope that Sarah of Sarah and the Goon Squad doesn't mind me stealing her Leap Day Pop Culture survey, but she would have made an outstanding MTV reporter. Her questions are great ones. They are as follows:

1) What is the last movie you saw in a theater? Was it good?

2) What is your favorite tv show?

3) What is the last album you bought (or stole from the internet, or burned from a friend) that you loved?

4) If you were in charge of People Magazine’s Sexiest Person Alive, who would win?

5) Who is your favorite artist? (Like art artist)

6) What is your favorite musical/opera/play?

7) What do you think is the worst song ever recorded?

Leave your answers in the comments.

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I am so weary of hearing about the dangers of aspartame. Let me throw something out there for you, people: I am diabetic. I would rather be temporarily cranky from aspartame than permanently dead from kidney failure. Sugar may occur in nature, but insulin does not occur in my pancreas, so stop telling me what to eat or I will ritually destroy myself before your very eyes. Additionally, aspartame breaks down in digestion into naturally-occurring substances, and recent studies show that cancer may be hereditary in lab rats. So, thanks for your input, but as it turns out, you know less about my endocrine system than I do, so go away.

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Does Christian Siriano know how he comes across on TV? I feel like I'm trying to peel, slice, and eat a bag of limes every time he talks. If only somebody would give me a large bottle of tequila to go with the limes, and also to ease the pain every time he calls something "fierce."

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If you have favorite recipes or food that you don't have a recipe for but you still love, email me and I'll talk it up on A Year In The Kitchen. Along those lines, here's a recipe for a Leap Year Cocktail, apparently conceived for a 1928 leap day celebration in London.

2 oz gin (I'd go with Beefeaters on this one)
½ oz sweet vermouth
½ oz Grand Marnier
¼ oz fresh lemon juice

Shake above ingredients with ice, and strain into a chilled cocktail glass,
then garnish with a lemon twist, just so.

Just so? Pip pip, old chum.

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Does anyone have a Leap Day tradition? I think I should start one, but what should it be? A leap or jump of some kind seems appropriate, but what? And keep in mind that I am not that coordinated, nor am I looking to break a bone or anything.

The Politics of Food

(Cross-posted at A Year In The Kitchen.)

Let me just say that I'm a political person. I follow politics. I am interested in politics. I pay attention to politics. I think politics are important and interesting.

A British chef and cookbook author who I mostly think is full of shit, however, thinks that cooks (and celebrity chefs in particular) should stay out of politics.

Delia Brown, I'll keep food out of politics when politics stay out of my food.

There was a great deal of discussion at Mark Bittman's blog Bitten yesterday about how poor people eat poorly (nutrition-wise, that is) due mostly to ignorance. I would just like to say that while this may not be the medium to get political, I am offended on the behalf of poor people living in cities everywhere.

The comments on the blog ranged from "These poor people should plant a garden and grow their own vegetables, eat less meat and poultry, and stop eating so much processed junk! We should educate poor people everywhere as to why their health is bad, their children are failing in school, and their communities are in ruins!" to "The cultural bias of poor people is to eat large amounts of bad-quality, badly prepared, unhealthy food. There's nothing that can be done for people who don't know any different."

I am horrified by the ignorant, elitist, stereotyping nature of these comments, as I feel quite certain that none of the commenters have any idea what it's like to be poor in the inner city.

Poor people don't eat junk food because they love to eat junk food. Poor people eat junk food because junk food is what's available to them and they don't get a lot of say in what is ultimately on their table at the end of the day.

If you don't think that there's any conceivable way that could be true, let me give you a snapshot of what it's like to be poor in Washington D.C.

You probably are the single head of a household in a family of three or four, and you're probably female. You probably work at least two jobs, one at $9-10 an hour, the other at $7. You probably live in Southeast, an area of the city that is frequently compared to certain parts of Atlanta, Detroit, and South-Central Los Angeles for its rates of poverty and crime, in a one-bedroom apartment. Chances are, you rely on Section 8 vouchers to help you pay your rent, and chances are, that is not the only form of public assistance that you recieve. You might be helping to support one of your parents, or a sibling. You're probably paying at least something for daycare, but you get some assistance from vouchers as well. Maybe you have a sister who watches your kids at night, or a parent.

You probably rely on public transportation, because you've never owned a car or learned to drive. In your neighborhood, there are probably a dozen carryout restaurants and at least that many convenience and liquor stores. There are check-cashing services, and maybe payday advance outlets. There might be a bank. There is no grocery store.

Let me say that again. There is no grocery store in your neighborhood. There isn't one within walking distance. You have to take two buses to get to the nearest grocery store, and walk 3/4 of a mile. On a Saturday, your only day to shop, it might take you an hour to get there if the buses run on schedule. An hour there, an hour to shop, and an hour home.

Remember, you are poor, so you're probably not in the best of health. Hypertension? Probably. Type II diabetes? Possibly. That mile and a half you walk round-trip to get to and from the grocery store is a major effort for you, especially in the winter, when it might be icy, or in the summer, when it's most definitely hot and humid.

But you have two or three kids to feed, and most of your food budget comes from WIC or other public assistance. The convenience stores in your neighborhood don't accept food stamps or Bridge cards, and even if they did, that pound of bananas that cost $.49 at Save-A-Lot? They're $1.89 in your neighborhood. A gallon of milk costs $2.99 at Shoppers; Joe's Convenience Store has that same gallon of milk priced at $4.19. A small can of vegetables is $1.49, but in your neighborhood, there isn't anyplace to buy fresh vegetables. And you have to pay cash.

So you might shop once a week at one of the bigger discount grocery chains, making that walk with your kids and your folding grocery cart, then taking the two buses. Say you've got two kids to feed for a week, plus yourself. Your kids qualify for free breakfasts and lunches at school (and don't even get me started on the quality and nutrition available in school lunches), and you carry your lunch and eat dinner at work (your second job is probably in food service somewhere), that's two breakfasts times three people (6), five lunches times one (5) and two lunches times three (6), five dinners times two people (10) and two dinners times three (6). That's 33 meals and no snacks. Count on ten bags of groceries.

So are you buying organic carrots for $3.99 a pound? Local produce at three times the cost of commercially-farmed? Of course you're not! Produce is expensive, and heavy, and doesn't stretch very far, even if there's anything like that available in the grocery store where you shop. This isn't Trader Joe's. Plus, your kids might not eat it, and that's a waste. So you're buying potatoes and rice and pasta and dried beans, maybe some canned veggies, fruit, peanut butter and jelly, cheaper cuts of chicken and meat. You might have an hour or two at home in the evenings to feed your kids before you go off to your second job, so things like TV dinners and frozen pizzas and lasagnas are quick and your kids like them. The WIC nurse says that your kids need dairy products for calcium, so it's milk and cheese and eggs and maybe yogurt. White bread, because it's cheaper. Individual bags of chips for snacks, maybe Fruit Rollups, maybe Kool-Aid or off-brand sodas. Sugar, flour, and other staples.

You've got a grocery cart which carries three or four bags of your heaviest groceries. Some grocery stores have riders out front--unauthorized taxi services that will take home shoppers and their groceries for money, usually in the $10 range. You need your $10 though, so you're taking the bus. Your oldest kid carries a couple bags, your youngest might carry a bag for you too. That leaves you pushing or pulling your cart and carrying the last three bags as well.

The bus is late. Hope it's not summer, because if it is, you're sitting in the sun with all that food--chicken, meat, milk, cheese, eggs, frozen food. It's all going bad while you wait.

Could you bake your own bread? Sure, maybe you'll get time for that someday, but not this week. Could you grow your own vegetables? Where? The fire escape? You don't have a yard.

I'm not making this stuff up or exaggerating; this is modern hunting and gathering for poor urban families where I live. Of course poor people eat junk food! Of course they're not in good health. Of course their kids don't do well in school. Of course this lifestyle contributes to a cycle of poverty that is hurting millions of people every day in very profound ways.

Food isn't like driving a nice car or having high-speed internet access. Think about how you would feel about your kids going to bed hungry at night, or being contacted by their teacher because they're falling asleep in class. Just think about how helpless you would feel at having to choose between keeping a roof over their heads or giving them the basic nutrition that they need to break this impossibly ugly cycle of poverty and dispair.

I shop at a comfortable suburban grocery store and I seldom worry about the cost of my food. I know what to give my husband and my son and myself and how to prepare it to keep all of us healthy and functioning at optimal, and I don't have to make impossible choices like keeping the lights on or keeping my kid from being too hungry to concentrate. I have the opportunity to shop for locally-produced, sustainably grown goods and organic vegetables, fruit, and meat, and as often as I can, I take advantage of it.

But this stupid goddamn elitist attitude of bragging about where our food comes from and then looking down our noses at people who genuinely don't have the luxury of making the choices that I make is absolutely the worst, stupidest, most ass-backward form of knee-jerk liberalism anywhere. It's bad, and not in a good way. It's unproductive. It's biased and sad.

And I see so much of it in reading about food. The nerve of chastizing people who struggle every month to feed their kids and keep the lights on and the roof over their heads for not owning a bread machine with which to bake their own bread or a yard in which to grow their own vegetables is staggering to me. Practically demanding that poor people cease eating meat left me speechless.

I think we should have a real discussion about the politics of food in America's poorest communities, but I think that when the focus of this discussion is about why America's poorest communities aren't growing their own microgreens or baking their own bread, we are missing the point so massively that it makes me sick. I want to talk about why there aren't incentives for major grocery stores to move into neighborhoods where accessability to fresh, affordable food is a major roadblock. I want to talk about the correlation between food and education, especially early childhood education. I want to talk about why people whose food budget exceeds $1200 a month think it's okay to tell someone who doesn't own a car that they shouldn't eat junk food and only does so because that person is stupid.

I want people to understand something about modern poverty: the solutions to this problem aren't fixed by organics. They're fixed by understanding what the problem really is.

So far, the people who are doing virtually all of the talking don't seem to be able to wrap their heads around it.

According to Dan: Vanity Plate, Route 1 College Park, Last Night

Dan: "Do you think they're talking about Jesus?"

Molly: "Maybe it's a woman, and her husband died and she got a big insurance payout."

Dan: "Maybe it's an excuse for why the driver is driving so incredibly slow."

Molly: "Her husband probably has one that says 'He is Risen.'"

Dan: "Or maybe, 'She Died.'"