Well the guys got home from Richmond fairly early on Sunday, and they were so glad to be home - it didn't hurt that I had picked up a couple of awesome pizzas from Piccola Italia's the night before. Once you reheat them in the oven on a pizza stone, its an instant hot lunch! Needless to say, they were starving - a condition that, I hear, only gets worse as they head into the teen years - why did I want them to have healthy appetites again?!

I'm trying to make better food choices for us, so we head into Raleigh once a week to hit the Whole Foods store for hormone-free milk, cage-free, all natural eggs, butter, chicken, veggies (all organic or all natural), etc. Its worth the 25 minute trek, because not only is the food better for us, but its cheaper than the regular stuff in the regular grocery store. I love Whole Foods!

Here, the Bohemian (left) and the Professor (right) are caught in mid-ennui in the lucious produce section. I am over to the left, out of the picture, stocking up on Nittany Apples - an incredibly hard, not-too-sweet, kind of pear-ish apple from West Virginia that is only around for a few weeks in November, and only at my beloved WF. (Photo by Big Gorilla Man)

I asked Big Gorilla Man (a term used with love, by the by) to shoot a few casual shots while we were at the store; sort of a slice of life kind of vignette. Here I am in my favorite section of all: the cheese section. A moment of reverent silence, please...........

Right after he took this picture, some guy came up to him and told him that you can't take pictures in the WF.

What?

Do we look like infiltrators from Piggly Wiggly, trying to scam a few secret pics of their store, in an effort to compete? Do infiltrators generally take kids with them on their infiltrating missions? My mind was teeming with questions- It also interrupted my profound and deeply spiritual reverie of cheese tasting, and there were some pretty good cheeses to nibble. I am surprised that the Bohemian isn't in this shot - he lives to go to the cheese section, so he can try all the samples. (he's getting a pretty sophisticated palate for cheese in the process)

Just a bit of silliness, really, the whole No-Photos thing, but it IS Cary that we were shopping in - the land of Insane Uber People, whose immaculate kitchens are never used for cooking, everything can be resolved with throwing a tantrum, and who cannot get off of their cell phones long enough to inter-relate with the world right under their noses. There is a saying around these parts about the canker-sore that is Cary (Center for All Relocated Yankees, and it ain't no joke, chile) - Find A Cure For Cary - I hear there were even bumperstickers available at one time. Unfortunately, there hasn't been a cure discovered yet.

It isn't that folks around here don't like outsiders - hell, I'm from NY (though we moved down here before the dinosaurs were extinct). It has more to do with moving in and, instead of embracing the place and culture you have moved to, trying to recreate the ugly urbanism that you left, replete with the ugly manners.(and yes, I am using the word Ugly in its finest colloquial form - ie; "ya'll are acting UGLY!")

OK, I have potentially stirred up the hornet's nest for the day - my work is done here!

Later, Ya'll!

The Random Autumnal Ramblings of A Mad Woman

First, I would like to thank both The Queen of Shake-Shake and Oh, the Joys for stopping by, reading my little ole blog and leaving a comment. I feel like I'm somebody now! I have been reading both of their blogs for about three or four months now, and consider them to be my inspiration to get out there and write. Thank you both so much! (and now I have to sniffle and blow my nose)

The aforementioned injured cat, Rikki, is feeling a bit better as the week presses on, though he is QUITE irritated at being held hostage indoors. Recalling the Queen's comments about one of her cats behaving inappropriately, in regards to personal hygiene and the litter box, I am desperately hoping that a) Rikki can't read and thus get ideas, b) that he won't independently consider piddling in corners an option. Once he goes there, the rest will surely follow and it will be mass anarchy of the Furry Herd.

Now that October is halfway through and it has finally gotten to where it feels like Fall, I can turn my mind to the yearly pumpkin portrait. Ever since my oldest was a tiny baby, we have taken the kids to our local pumpkin patch, or the Farmers' Market to record the season. The first picture we ever took was this one, of the Professor at two months old:

Pretty darn funny looking, but cute. He pretty much still makes this face, especially when I try and make him eat carrots. Then there was a year at the Farmer's Market, with the fabulous artificial chicken in the foreground to add that special touch. Unfortunately, this is what we affectionately refer to as " Dad's style", where the subjects are always squinting into the light. Any picture my father ever took of us looks just like this: Ah, genetics in motion! And finally, the pumpkin portrait of 2006. Gone are the days of the chubby little cheeks and palpable sweetness, regardless of the poor composition. The Professor is obviously NOT interested in saying "cheese", he doesn't even like cheese, mom. Luckily, in this shot, you can't see the crest of hair that is perpetually standing up. The Bohemian, his younger brother, is a born ham-a-saurus, though his mother dresses him funny. I'm just be thankful he isn't excavating a nasal cavity in this shot: This year's shot will up and coming soon. I haven't gone to buy any pumpkins because the weather has been too warm - I have no desire to dig the guts out of a rotten pumpkin - but All Hallows will be upon us soon, so I guess I have to succumb and go.

We saw some really neat pumpkins online last year that gave us our inspiration for the carnage below, and I ask you: what little boy doesn't love vomit as a theme?! Can we live up to last year's grossness? Should we? Do I really have a choice in the matter? (Well, actually I do, seeing as how I am the fastest carver in the west, or something like that. I feel like I should spit a toothpick out of my mouth, shift my rifle to the other shoulder, and mumble, "I reckon so..." Ah, Clint, I love you!)