When I was a kid I used to stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself trying to picture what I would look like when I was older. I started doing this when I was about ten years old, usually in the bathroom of Washington Elementary School with a giant hallway pass in one hand and a tube of Bonne Bell lipgloss in the other.

I saw a lot of things in that mirror: a tan and lithe cheerleader, a beautiful and funny actress, an award winning newscaster, a Solid Gold Dancer.
I did not see eight fabulous years of marriage with this guy who still makes me get butterflies in my stomach from time to time and who makes me laugh on a daily basis and who gave me two gorgeous sons.

Happy Anniversary, Cat! It may not be what I envisioned for myself when I was a kid (far less glittery spandex for one), but this life with you is pretty wonderful. I love you!

From Very Good Taste via Melle.

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:
1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding (I have no idea what this is but I think I probably want to cross it out.)
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin (Wait. Is this clay? If it is then I do not want to eat it, thank you.)
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

I was filling up my gas tank when I heard, “Excuse me, ma’am?” Ma’am. Ugh. I felt old before I even looked up to see who was talking to me. It was a young man, tall and thin, wearing an Independent t-shirt. I was feeling older by the minute.

He looked like a nice kid so I responded. I thought maybe I had a taillight out or something. He pointed across the island to white car with a girl sitting in the driver’s seat. “We’re out of gas. Do you have any change or….” He trailed off, already expecting my answer because, based on the look on his face, I’m betting he’d been there for awhile and heard “no” several times. I was paying with a debit card and told him as much. He thanked me and walked away. As I stood there pumping gas I heard him approach a few more people, always getting the same answer. No.

By the time my tank was full he was sitting in the passenger seat of the white car looking dejected. The girl looked like she was searching for coins in the ashtray and under the seat. In that moment I seemed to be looking both backwards and forwards in time. I remembered the time my friend and I had driven out of town without parental permission only to run low on gas. We stood outside a Denny’s for a couple of hours begging for coins until we had enough to get home. It was embarrassing and nerve wracking. I knew how they must have been feeling. I also kept looking at my two small sons in the back seat and thinking that, if those were my kids, I would hope someone would help them get home.

So I got in the car and started digging through my purse until I found a $5 I had stashed away and then I pulled up beside them. There was something in his face that reminded me of Dax and something in his demeanor that reminded me of Devin and as he took the money from me I felt relieved. I think he was expecting it to be a dollar and when he saw it was five he said, “Are you sure?” I assured him that I was and told him I’d been there before myself and wished him luck.

I guess no matter how independent you think you are you can always use a little help from someone who understands.

For as long as I can remember I have always had a song in my head.

Not one particular song, mind you. It changes all the time. It is like my brain is an iPod with unlimited storage. And, like my own iPod, there are some shamefully embarrassing songs on the playlist.

Right now? As I type this? Jolene. If you are an American Idol fan you may remember when Brooke White sang it during Dolly Parton week. The version in my head is Olivia Newton John’s from the Come on Over album.

Shut up. It’s not my fault. My mom was a huge fan of ONJ when I was a kid. She had all her albums and we listened to them while cleaning the house. I’d be dusting the macrame plant hangers while singing, “You could have your choice of men but I could never love again. He’s the only one for me, Jolene”.

I think my internal iPod is trying to tell me something and, since macrame plant hangers are difficult to find these days, I can only assume it wants me to clean the house.

“Your beauty is beyond compare
With flaming locks of auburn hair
With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green
Your smile is like a breath of spring
Your voice is soft like summer rain
And I cannot compete with you, jolene”

I’ll bet ol’ Jolene has a housekeeper, too.

As soon as I returned to work I found myself wondering, just how long does it take a dead moth to decompose?

See, workplace has kindly blocked one of the conference rooms for nursing moms to get their pump on. This is a very cool thing because it means I don’t have to shack up in the bathroom or my car. You would think that the fact that I and another mom are in and out of there at least twice a day apiece with our tell-tale Breast Pump Bags (and the contents of those bags are far from quiet) would let folks in on the fact that that particular room was not meant for meetings. If that didn’t do it, maybe the sign right outside the door that says LACTATION ROOM would be a good indicator. And if you missed all of this indications that maybe the large sign on the conference room table that reads, “WELCOME TO THE LACTATION ROOM” with a list of guidelines for use of the room would finally bring you ’round. And while you would think this has nothing at all to do with the decomposition of a dead moth, remember it because it will be important later.

Ok, so on the third day of me juggling this room with the one other nursing mom (ONM) and the six or so IT guys who are obviously unclear on the concept I noticed a dead moth on the floor. As I sat there impersonating a dairy cow I thought that maybe I should pick it up and give it a proper burial. One befitting a moth. You know, dump it in the garbage. But there is no garbage can in The Lactation Room so I left it there thinking the janitorial staff would take care of it that night.

That was a Wednesday and by Friday he was still there. In the exact same place. That’s at least EIGHT of us who had been in and out of that room on multiple occasions and not one of us could be bothered to dispose of the dead moth. But surely the janitorial staff would take care of it over the weekend, right? At the very least he’d be vacuumed up with all the other detritus scattered across our three story office building.

On Monday he was still there. I decided to give him a name (Steve) and to definitely keep any part of my skin from touching the floor that is clearly never EVER vacuumed. I started to wonder if maybe I was imagining Steve. Maybe he was the personification (mothification) of my apathy. Moths are known to be sturdy creatures, resistant to pesticides, attracted to light. But here was Steve: dead. Maybe he died of sorrow after becoming trapped in an office building never to breath fresh air again. Maybe he idiotically ran head first into the window repeatedly. Maybe he starved to death because he was too apathetic to search out some grub. I don’t know. And, sorry Steve, but I don’t care. Remember me? The one who couldn’t be bothered to find a garbage can for your corpse?

This last week it had finally become a bit of a joke. I mean, this is five weeks now of sharing a room with ONM, several clueless developers, and Steve. Even the janitorial staff were ignoring Steve, if not the entire room.

I thought of leaving a note on the whiteboard: “Hey, can one of you manly IT guys get rid of the dead moth on the floor?”

I thought of putting one of those big, orange BASURA (trash) stickers on him but Steve was too small. Besides, if I had the energy to track down one of those stickers I would just dispose of him myself. Also? I figured the janitorial staff was equally apathetic so I doubted that would help matters at all.

I thought of just waiting to see if he would eventually turn to dust.

I did none of those things but yesterday, when I went in for my morning pumping session, Steve was gone. I have no idea what happened to him. I suppose I could ask one of the guys or ONM.

But, really, I just can’t be bothered.

On my way to the bookstore today I drove behind a large SUV with a bumper sticker on it that said, “Save a life. Adopt a headless pet.” Sooo weird, right? Because I’m thinking if said pet is headless the whole “save a life” thing is moot.

The driver was heading to my same destination and I was thrilled when I got to park right next to them because I couldn’t wait to see what sort of person was touting headless critters as pets. I was expecting young parents who used to be hardcore punk rockers or extremely melancholy goths with a very sick sense of humor. Or maybe someone with a headless dachshund, you never know. The world is an awesome and strange place. But then while I was moving Devin into the stroller I got a closer look and saw that the bumper sticker actually advised adopting a HOMELESS pet.

Well, that makes a lot more sense. Far less interesting, though.

Then when we were leaving I walked by an older woman sitting in her car struggling with one of those portable oxygen tanks. She looked like she was having trouble getting the breathing tube placed properly in her nose. There were others in the car with her, perhaps her own grown children, and I found myself wondering why nobody was helping her. A man was putting something in the trunk and then he walked to her side of the car and opened the door. I thought to myself, about time someone helped that poor woman.

By the time I got Devin back in the car and returned the stroller to the trunk the woman had gotten out of the car and it was abundantly clear why no one had been helping her: She hadn’t been struggling to get the tube IN, she was pulling it out so she could smoke.

I hoped that my eyes were playing tricks on me again and, like the headless pets bumper sticker, I just wasn’t seeing reality. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. I watched as she stumped out the cigarette, struggled back into the car and began hooking herself back up to the device that keeps her alive.

For now.

Time for a confession.

I kinda sorta used to make fun of people who make their own baby food. Nothing big, mind you, just a slight eye roll accompanied by some snarky remarks about them being stinky hippies. Or something. I mean, who MAKES their own baby food when there is a whole entire aisle full of it at the grocery store? Sheesh.

I’m sure you can guess where this is going. I started Devin on solid food a few weeks ago and everything he’s eaten so far was made by me in my own kitchen. I? I have become a stinky hippie. Oh, it is true. Just look in my garage and you will see a Prius. I’m two shakes of a lambs tail away from using that weird crystal deodorant and refusing to shave my armpits.

I gotta say that making baby food is pretty damn easy. Seriously. And it is much cheaper than buying pre-made stuff in jars (stuff that I am not entirely certain of its contents). And today it got even easier because my cousin bought me this awesome Beaba Babycook from Williams Sonoma.

And now I’m feeling less “stinky hippie” and more “gourmet Frenchie”. It is sooo easy to do that I make a whole heap o’ food today in about thirty minutes and that includes all the chopping which I’m sure someone who actually, y’know cooks from time to time would be able to do much quicker.

Yeah, did I not mention that part? The not cooking? Let me just say that cooking is something at which I do not excel. I can bake like nobody’s business and I am a veritable champ at eating but I’m not a very good cook. Mostly, I think, because I am lazy. But also because both my three-year-old son and my thirty-eight-year-old husband are extraordinarily picky eaters and nothing sucks more than slaving over a meal only to have noses turned up because it is not in the shape of a nugget or can not be served over white rice.

Making homemade baby food has made me also want to cook more meals for the non-baby denizens of the house. Last week I made a yummy dish of brown rice, chicken, and dried cherries. This week I’m going to attempt to make Jambalaya. I can make a really good turkey chili and a “not bad” lasagna. I also make some pretty good (and completely non-authentic) enchiladas. The more I think about it, I guess I can cook. I just don’t really want to. Or at least I didn’t want to until now.

Now if only Williams Sonoma would create some appliance that would allow me to quickly and nearly effortlessly make delicious and healthy meals that do not need to be pureed.

Lately I’ve been having trouble focusing on anything of importance. You know, things like work or whether or not the dishes in the dishwasher are clean or dirty or where my car keys are or what I should cook for dinner. The side effect of this seems to be that I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about ridiculous things that have nothing whatsoever to do with anything remotely relevant.

For example, what is up with Dora’s head? It is HUUUUGE. It is also sort of shaped like a football. Diego is supposed to be her cousin but his head is pretty normal. Well, y’know, for a cartoon character.

Cat tried to tell me it was her haircut. As if Dora just got the wrong ‘do for her facial shape. The facial shape of GIANT ENORMOUS FOOTBALL.

The point (yes, there is one) of this ramble is that if you are trying to talk to me about who I intend to vote for or how I feel about the decline of the dollar or where I left the mail after I brought it in? I am likely singing in my head, “They say a man should always dress for the job he wants. So why am I dressed up like a pirate in this restaurant?”

But if you want to discuss freaky things about children’s television programming I’m totally on board.

My oldest son is almost four. If you are at all familiar with this age then you know that a small person so afflicted can be a delightful melange of humor and Hell Beast wrapped up in an adorable, sweet, affectionate, EVIL package. To combat the constant challenges and frustrations my boy keeps tossing our way, my husband and I decided we needed a much better plan of attack than just hating those moments with the white hot intensity of the sun but throwing our hands up in surrender and/or hiding in the closet and weeping.

Enter The Incentive Plan.

Here’s how it works: Dax earns money when he does not make us want to claw our own eyeballs out with frustration what he is supposed to do. Specifically, we give him a penny for doing the things we’ve identified as his responsibilities. He then trades those in for privileges which, for him, means time to watch television or play video games. Right now he’s happily watching a movie it took him all week to earn.

It is a new plan and I guess we’ll see how it works. I can say that bedtimes have been a lot less stressful even though he’s not getting to sleep any earlier. Everyone in the house is more relaxed and happy. Based on early reviews I’d have to give this plan two enthusiastic thumbs up. And, just think, for JUST PENNIES A DAY!

Of course if he knew that these pennies we are giving him were actually worth less than a piece of lint He might take issue with it but that’s a lesson for another day.

Swiped from Mo.

1. Put your iTunes, Windows Media Player, etc. on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS.

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF?
Too Much Passion

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Trouble

WHAT IS LIFE’S PURPOSE?
World In Motion

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Joining You

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Ruined in a Day

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Hey Jack Kerouac

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
The Distance

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
You and Me and the Bottle Makes 3 Tonight

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Tomorrow She Goes Away

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
With Plenty of Money and You

WHAT SONG WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR WEDDING?
Froggie Went a Courtin’

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Stripped

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST??
Fire and Rain

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR?
Who Can it be Now?

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Everlasting Love

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Somebody Put Something in My Drink