Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Four-Wheel Drive?

Photo source

About three weeks before the first big snowfall, a wholly terrifying CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK began thunderously beating from my front axle. I pulled into the nearest parking lot (coincidentally, my favorite coffee shop) and called Mr. Wright, sobbing hysterically. He agreed to meet me, but wouldn’t arrive for about two hours.

I enjoyed a soy mocha while chatting with my barista pal, who was actually happy my car was kaput, because she hadn’t seen me in months due to some silly determination on my part not to spend a quarter of the family grocery budget on caffeinated beverages with enough calories to solve the world hunger problem.

Three mochas and ten bathroom breaks later, Mr. Wright arrived to rescue me. Or, at least, give me a ride. If he could fix or diagnose the car, I’d take it as a bonus. Plus, I was out of cash, and as spun out as a washer full of pantyhose. Mr. Wright started the car, threw it into reverse, backed up to the rhythm of CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK, and pulled back into the parking space.

“It’s making a lot of noise,” he said.

“Really? I didn’t hear a thing. Actually, how did you know I was here? Did you hear my synapses buzzing, from the caffeine?” I countered. “Of course it’s making a lot of noise! That’s why I called you.”

My husband gave an indignant sniff, then bent down and looked under the rig. I always sort of laugh when he does that. The thing is, he has no idea what he’s looking for—like when I walk into the laundry room and push a couple buttons or turn a dial on the washer or dryer. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but figure if I tinker around until the thing starts, the clothes might get clean. Or dry.

Mr. Wright walked around the car, peered under the other side, rubbed his chin and said, “Well, you got me.”

“Yeah, I know. And sometimes, I wish I’d accepted Mr. Goodwrench’s proposal. Then I’d have him, right now.”

He got back in the car, started it, and asked, “Why are you driving around in four-wheel drive?” I heard a soft click, and Mr. Wright backed the car up—with absolutely no sound but the tire rubber on pavement.

“That’s amazing!” I cried, and showered my husband with the appropriate number of “it’s so sexy when you fix things” remarks. The problem, he explained, must have been something wonky in the hub, making noise when the four-wheel drive was engaged.

When the Snowpacolypse hit, the only operational function on my big, heavy rig was rear-wheel drive, due to a crazy-high estimate from the mechanic and a crazy-low balance in the checking account. Why can’t those of us who need snow tires and chains every year file our taxes a few months early, to get those returns in time for winter vehicle maintenance? I’m going to write a letter to my Congressman.

There were a few scary slips, one embarrassing failure to get up my own driveway, and one miracle. Oh, yes—there was a miracle.

Mr. Wright had to drive me to Target to get a pair of snow boots for Curlytop because they were on a fabulous sale, and I was too chicken to drive. As we exited the parking lot, we saw a small car high-centered on the berm between lanes on the avenue. “I have a tow strap,” said Mr. Wright. “Let’s pull them out.”

“Are you crazy? Our four-wheel drive doesn’t work! We’ll get ourselves stuck, trying to pull them out, and you’ll cause an accident and we’ll die, making it impossible for me to punish you for weeks over insisting on such a stupid idea. No way!”

After the tow strap was hooked to both vehicles, Mr. Wright flipped the dial to four-wheel drive and started to pull. The CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK returned. The small car stayed high-centered, and the front of our rig was sliding on the ice, threatening to enter the next lane of traffic. Mr. Wright pressed down the accelerator, and the small car dismounted the berm.

The car’s driver and passengers gave hearty thanks to Mr. Wright, and we drove away. In four-wheel drive. Without a single clunk. The force of tugging the small car off the berm forced the hub to lock in.

Guess how many “it’s so sexy when you fix things” that cost me.

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RE: My R.S.V.P. to Your B.B.Q.

Photo source

God bless my well-meaning friends and family members, who make every effort to include my vegan-principled diet when planning their summer parties! Still, though I’ve been vegan for about 15 years, some of them still don’t quite “get” it.

So, this year, I’m writing an open letter, on behalf of myself and vegans everywhere, to help those who sincerely want to feed us.

Dear Loved One,

Thank you so much for the invitation to your party! I appreciate your thoughtfulness and your desire to include me, and after careful consideration, I’ve decided to accept. This year, however, I’ll be making some changes.

As much fun as I’m sure it will be to see an entire pig roasted on a spit, I think I’ll bring my own vegan Italian sausages to roast over the fire—the same variety I brought last year. Remember, the ones you said weren’t fit for your dog to eat? After watching your sweet canine choke down a pile of his own droppings, I consider your endorsement one of highest praise and quality.

Speaking of those vegan sausages, should you be compelled to insist upon cooking them yourself, may I ask, once again, that you not do so on the same burger-grease-dripping grill as last year? Also, if your children truly do prefer eight-for-a-dollar pig-part hot dogs, would you mind not feeding my two-dollar specialty sausages to them?

Are you planning any dishes this year which don’t include bacon? I’ve never actually seen crumbled bacon used as a staple ingredient, but maybe it’s a regional thing I don’t quite have a grasp on.

The “rabbit food” you pointed me to last year was actually a Caesar salad, filled with cheese and anchovy dressing (and bacon!). May I offer to bring a green salad this year, with almonds for protein?

That reminds me… I checked again, and chicken still isn’t vegetarian nor vegan this year, though you’re absolutely welcome to continue to suggest it is again, along with cheese, sour cream, and tuna fish.

Though the idea of digging in to your grandmother’s mayonnaise-based potato salad (with bacon!) is appealing, after it’s had a couple hours to “cure” in the sun, I believe I’ll bring a three-bean salad to share with those who may have an aversion to food poisoning.

It’s a mystery to me how flavored collagen from bones and hooves, tossed into a bowl with sugared fluid from bovine mammary glands, with a can of syrup-packed pineapple chunks passes for a “fruit salad,” but may I bring a fruit salad that is actually made entirely of fruit? I can’t promise that fabulous curdling effect after it warms up, but perhaps you’ll forgive my culinary ineptitude.

Is there really a good reason to slather butter on every vegetable before it’s served? Corn on the cob is delightful when served slippery, and it collects the gnats better that way, too, but could you set aside an unbuttered cob for the girl who clearly has no taste? I’d appreciate it, ever so much.

While I’m sure pork and beans (with a cube of bacon fat!) out of a can are top-notch picnic food, would you mind terribly if I brought some homemade baked beans, made with espresso and top-shelf bourbon to share? I’m sure you can pick some bacon out of the antipasto to throw in there, if your guests find it lacking.

I so look forward to your event, and hope to enjoy with much gusto and without gastrointestinal distress. Can’t wait to see you!

Your Vegan Friend,
Sexy Vegan Mama

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There's a Reason Agents Get 15 Percent

So, you’ve written a book. Congratulations! That’s the easy part.

Now, get ready to find an agent. I like to think there are three primary methods of securing an agent:

1. The Set-Up. You know someone who knows someone who met someone who had the business card of an agent. Or, you are fortunate enough to know an author who has an agent and is willing to recommend your manuscript to his agent.
2. The Blind Date. You perform Internet searches into the wee hours of the morning, reading agent profiles and sending queries to those you feel a connection to. After a few rejections, you lower your standards. Your new mandate becomes the ability to fog a mirror.
3. The Destined Deal. By luck, you’re seated next to an agent on an airplane or an agent trips over your laptop cord as you pound the keys in a coffee shop. A conversation about your manuscript ensues, and the agent produces a contract from his briefcase, ready for your signature.

Your agent’s job is finding a publisher for your book, and getting you the best advance and royalties possible. The agent takes a hefty chunk, but you don’t care. She’s worked hard, pimping your manuscript. You’re a grateful little book hooker, and your book gets published.

If you can’t find a book pimp of your very own, there are other ways to get your tome off your hard drive and into the hands of your adoring fans:

1. Compete for Publication. Some publishing houses run contests which award winners with publication. Contests may or may not charge entrants a reading fee, and may or may not offer a cash advance upon acceptance of the winner’s manuscript. Publishers don’t like to take chances; they want to print books that will sell. If your book is atypical in genre, length or style, you’re not likely to find yourself among the finalists.
2. Go to the Source. Most large publishing houses don’t accept queries from writers. Instead, they rely on agents to prescreen manuscripts and submit only the best. Remember, in publishing, “best” means most marketable with highest sales potential. Some smaller presses will entertain queries from authors and negotiate contracts directly with writers. Since small presses have small budgets, an author may get little to no advance and a small royalty per book sold.
3. Do-It-Your-Damn-Self. The stigma of self-publishing is actually relatively new, and already fading. Margaret Atwood, Zane Grey, Benjamin Franklin, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain and Edgar Allan Poe are just a few authors who self-published. For a modern-day self-publishing success story, one need only look as far as The Shack by William P. Young, which has sold millions of copies and spent over 100 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list.

I chose Publishing Option 3 for my first book, Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House. That means I have no publisher to market my book, plan a book tour, or provide promotional materials. I know absolutely nothing about any of those tasks. I’m learning as I go.

If you’re lucky enough to secure an agent, and that agent manages to place your book with a publisher, or if you find your way into a publisher’s heart on your own, it will be someone’s job to send copies of your book to important people in the world for reviews.

Should you choose Publishing Option 3, plan to go into the world to find important people on your own. Beg them to review your book. Offer to babysit their kids or weed their gardens. Get them drunk, take photos of them shaking their groove thangs, and promise not to post the pictures on Facebook if they’ll write a review.

Call any relatives within a 200-mile radius and ask if they know a local business owner willing to host a book signing. Ask how many people they can con into showing up at the local self-serve pet wash for an event titled, “Books, Bubbles and Bones.” Voila! A book tour.

Speaking of book tours, I’m hoping you’ll all show up at Riverwalk Books on Friday, June 18th, at 7:00 p.m. for my very first book signing. Can’t make it? You can still order signed copies right here, on my website. Did I mention they make great Father’s Day gifts?

Would you care to review the photos I’m preparing to upload to Facebook before deciding on your purchase?

Vegan Double Chocolate Chai Cake (Recipe)

I've had many requests for my prized vegan cake recipes from fellow vegans - and from friends who are looking for cholesterol-free desserts. Did you check your calendar today? Because today's the day I'm going to give away my top-secret recipe for my never-fail Vegan Double Chocolate Chai Cake!

This recipe makes one tall, decadent 8-9" round:

1 2/3 c. all-purpose flour
1 c. packed brown sugar or evaporated cane juice crystals
1/4 c. cocoa powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 1/2 t. loose chai tea
1 c. water
1/3 c. olive or canola oil
1 t. apple cider vinegar
1 t. vanilla

1/2 c. dairy-free chocolate chips (Did you know Kroger Value Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips are dairy-free and amazingly cheap? I get them at Fred Meyer!)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large mixing bowl, combine dry ingredients and mix. Add wet ingredients and beat on high with mixer for 2 minutes or beat 150 strokes by hand.

Pour into greased 8-9" round cake pan. (Note: I cut a circle of wax paper and place it in the bottom of the pan to help it come out of the pan easily. I highly recommend you do so, too. This recipe doesn't have any eggs to bind it, so the wax paper helps the bottom of the cake stay together when it's warm.) Sprinkle chocolate chips over top of batter before placing in oven.

Bake for 35-40 minutes, or until the cake begins to pull away from the sides of the pan and a toothpick inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean.

Let cool in pan for 15 minutes, then turn out onto a cooling rack. Wait another 15 minutes, then turn right-side up onto a pretty plate.

This sweet cake needs no frosting, but you may dust with powdered sugar, if desired.

Photo: Snugglebug and Curlytop love helping make this cake. They ALMOST get as many chocolate chips on the cake as they do in their mouths!

Another Friend, Another Book

Have I mentioned recently that I have some amazingly talented friends?

I've known Craig Boehman for thirteen years. He introduced me to some of my favorite poets and was one of my first readers for Miranda Writes. Craig has embraced the self-publishing movement, and I applaud him, especially since I can't seem to get Miranda off my computer and into your hot little hands. I can't help but do him a proper and recommend his books.

His most recent volume of poetry is a 50-page collection titled I Broke Up with My Haiku. I got to advise on the cover design! Support your local indie bookstore by ordering through Indiebound with the link below, which will direct you by ZIP code to the indie store nearest you.

I Broke Up with My Haiku

Craig's first volume isn't available through Indiebound, but it is available through Amazon. As you know, I ALWAYS recommend supporting your local economy and independent book sellers when at all possible. If Wolf Gin Sonnets becomes available through Indiebound, I will update this link.

Wolf Gin Sonnets

Also, you can check him out on Myspace for awesome spoken word and music!

Someday, I Won't Be Here To...

Dear Mr. Wright and kids:

In the event of my untimely demise or incapacitation, I am leaving the following list of instructions. Put them in a safe place - you'll need them.

1. The toilet paper roll is held in place by a spindle. When one roll is empty, you may replace it with a full roll by firmly grasping one end of the spring-loaded spindle between your thumb and forefinger, then pulling toward the center of the spindle. Once free, remove empty toilet paper roll, then replace with full roll. To put spindle back in place, follow above directions in reverse.

2. The stovetop may and should be cleaned. To accomplish this mysterious task, allow cooktop to cool (this is important, lest you burn your fingers and have to look for the aloe vera gel - and we all know Mom is the only one who can find it). Then, use a damp sponge to wipe away spills and food particles. Repeat as necessary.

3. To clear cutting board of bread crumbs, use a clean sponge, a paper towel, a washcloth, or even your hand. The important thing is that you do it.

4. Bread will dry out if the bag is not closed properly. For this reason, bags of bread are sold with a handy closing device called a twist-tie. The twist-tie doesn't cost extra; it's thrown in as a free accessory. USE IT.

5. Dumping clean clothes on the floor tends to make them dirty much more quickly. Some genius, way back in history, created a wondrous device called a "dresser." It has miraculous little things inside it called "drawers." You will find that clothes stay cleaner much longer when placed inside these strange "drawers." To use: Firmly grasp knob on outside of drawer. Pull knob toward you, thus opening drawer. Place folded clothes (see Appendix A for instructions on how to fold clothes) inside drawer. Gently push drawer closed. Slamming drawers has never been proven to help them stay shut.

6. A stick of margarine will, by its very nature, collect bread crumbs. May I suggest using a butter knife to slice off the amount of margarine needed, instead of stabbing or scraping at random parts of the stick, smearing on toast, and going in for another scrape, leaving crumbs embedded in the cube?

7. Getting dirty dishes to the kitchen may sound like an insurmountable task, but I will try to explain it in elementary steps. First, grasp plate, bowl or glass in hand. Next, lift the item. That's right - just pick it up. Good! Now, turn your body in the direction of the kitchen, and begin walking. Continue until you reach the kitchen (see map, attached). Finally, place dishes in sink. For the advanced, an attempt at rinsing dishes may be made.

8. You're just going to have to accept that when I'm gone, there will be no one to stay up all night baking cookies for the bake sale you forgot to tell me about until bedtime. There's just no way around that. I have, however, drawn a map to the nearest bakery (attached).

9. Go ahead and pour those last few drops of milk out of the jug and put "milk" on the shopping list. No one is going to yell at you.

10. Using a snowshovel and rake to shove everything from your bedroom floor into the closet is not the same as cleaning your room. Along the same line, cramming every available space in the house full of stuff is not the same as being organized. Find a place for everything, and keep it there.

I know it will be hard to go on without me, dear husband and children, but rest assured that I am in a much, MUCH better place.

Love,

Mom


Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/urbanwoodswalker/ / CC BY-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/designpackaging/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/indieman/ / CC BY 2.0

All the Wright Moves

The homeschooling next-door neighbors with six kids and the homeschooling family across the street with six kids laid hands on the huge trailer attached to our Suburban. They prayed for our safety, and thanked the Lord that we were leaving.

Our northern Snohomish County community was nice enough, but we really were the freaks of the neighborhood. Back then, we only had five kids; all of our neighbors had six. We were irresponsible enough to send our kids to public school; our neighbors all homeschooled.

We were preparing to move to the Lake Chelan Valley, and I was protesting the entire plan. No one could understand my resistance, and many asked, “Isn’t your whole family there?” as if that weren’t enough reason for my unwillingness to return.

The truth was, I had a bad feeling about the move. When Murphy penned his famous law, I suspect he had our future move in mind.

Our new house didn’t close in time, but summer soccer practice started right on schedule. That meant getting up with Princess at 3:00 a.m. every weekday morning, making a pot of coffee and driving over Stevens Pass to get to practice in Chelan by 7:00 a.m. There were still a lot of things to be done at the old house before our renters arrived, so after practice we drove three hours home, where I boxed and scrubbed and wallpapered and painted until I fell unconscious.

Our renters couldn’t delay their move-in date, and we had to start moving things out of the house before we actually had a new home to move them into. Mr. Wright rented a storage unit in Chelan and borrowed a friend’s pickup truck to haul boxes and bins over during his inter-county trips between his new office and home.

During a late-night trip over the mountains, Mr. Wright was involved in an accident when another driver fell asleep at the wheel. He wasn’t terribly hurt, but I used the incident as further proof that we shouldn’t be moving.

I was frustrated at having to move everything twice; once into the storage unit, and again into our new house when – and if – it ever closed. Fortunately, someone broke the padlock on the unit and relieved us of many of our possessions, so there wasn’t quite so much to move in the end.

Two days before the renters were due I sat, teary-eyed, in the middle of the living room floor, a gallon of sand-colored paint spilled on the carpet in front of me. I’d only meant to touch up the window sills.

We loaded the last of the boxes into the huge trailer, only to realize there was too much weight, and the tires were beginning to flatten with the pressure. Mr. Wright pulled furniture and bins out, rearranging them, until the weight was more evenly distributed and not directly over the tires.

“The trailer’s too heavy,” I said. “We’re either going to wreck our transmission, bust a tire, or make it on sheer faith.” I called the homeschoolers. Everyone laid hands on the trailer and the Suburban, asking God to provide us with safe travels and mechanical miracles.

We cleared the top of Stevens Pass just after dark. It was all downhill from there, as they say. At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Wright glanced in his side mirror to see a wheel spinning down the road. It passed, crossed in front of us and came to a smashing halt against the guardrail.

“You don’t think…” I began, as Mr. Wright pulled over to the side of the road. I never did finish the sentence. I didn’t have to. We both knew where the wheel had come from.

As we approached the back of the trailer, it was clear that one of the center wheels had come off. We both broke into hysteric, unrestrained laughter that lasted far too long. (Think Tom Hanks in “The Money Pit,” when the bathtub falls through the floor.)

When he could manage words, Mr. Wright took my hand and said, “Let’s go find the lug nuts, Babe,” and we walked and walked up the highway, flashlights piercing the darkness.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rooreynolds/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Mommy Masochism: Piece of Cake?

What kind of an insomnia-plagued masochist would work through the night, forgoing sleep and the promise of sweet dreams, baking and decorating custom cakes for four children who probably aren’t as interested in the cakes’ appearance as in the cakes’ taste?

A mother; that’s what kind of masochist.

The closure of Beebe Bridge delayed the birthday celebrations for Curlytop, who turned four on August 19th; Pepper, who turned thirteen on September 3rd; and Snugglebug, who turned three on September 13th. After more than three years, the adoptions for Curlytop and Snugglebug finalized on September 22nd, and Pockets turned 15 the day after.

Clearly, a party of epic proportions was in order, once the bridge reopened and all our beloved friends and family were able to reach our home with minimal inconvenience.We decided on a Saturday, so as not to interfere with Pockets’s football games on Fridays. Pepper, of course, wanted a slumber party. How could we deny her? A girl only turns thirteen once, and if she wishes to celebrate by having seventeen girls stay the night, so be it.

I stocked my pantry with flour, sugar, food coloring, sugar, cocoa powder, and more sugar. My plan was to bake the cakes during the day on Friday, and decorate them Friday night. Of course, my plan failed to allocate time for the appointments I’d scheduled on Friday and the football game that night. As a result, I started baking at around 10:30 p.m.

Curlytop and Snugglebug each needed a birthday cake, of course, as did Pepper and Pockets. What about the adoption? Surely we needed a cake to celebrate the adoption! That’s how I found myself, at 4:00 a.m., baking a fifth cake and mixing up ten pounds or so of vegan “buttercream” frosting.

Curse my vegan principles, which prevent me from using a standard cake mix and canned frosting! After all, why spend all night making cakes I can’t eat?

Deciding on the decoration for Pockets’s cake was a no-brainer: football, of course. I dyed a batch of frosting green, fashioned goal posts out of pipe cleaners, and placed a small toy football in the center. Done!

Pepper plays volleyball, but I had no idea how to draw a volleyball, let alone frost one. In a stroke of brilliance, I mixed two more cakes at 4:15, planning a glorious tower of alternating chocolate and vanilla layers, with strawberry filling and raspberry frosting, with rosebuds creeping from the bottom to the top of the third layer. It took about three hours, and the resulting creation looked not unlike a matrimonial monstrosity.

(Indeed, upon seeing the finished product, one of Pepper’s friends exclaimed, “I want my wedding cake to look just like that!”)

Okay. Maybe I got carried away.

Determined to keep things simple for the “adoption cake,” I brainstormed what I could do with the heart-shaped strawberry cake I’d baked. I mean, a heart is just a heart, right? What can a person do with a heart? Unless…

I turned the cake upside-down, placing the point upward. Two hours later, two chubby-cheeked princesses with pointed hats meeting at the tip of the heart, complete with trailing satin ribbons, resided on top of the cake.

(I have a step-by-step how-to with photos for this cake here)

By 9:30 a.m., the sun was glaring in my kitchen window. The kids were up. Mr. Wright was up. Me? I was on my seventh cup of coffee, covered in flour, with two more cakes to frost and quite a few clumps of frosting in my hair. I covered the two small star-shaped cakes for Curlytop and Snugglebug with pink frosting, piped their names on top, and collapsed into bed.

It’s inevitable that, when I decorate custom cakes for my kids, some party guest will ask me if I’d be willing to make the cake for their kid’s birthday.

Yeah, right.

This special kind of self-torture is something I only perform for my own kids, thank you very much.

By the way, can anyone tell me how long leftover cake can be frozen? Or rent me some freezer space?

The Gonzo Mama Guest-Blogs at LipstickDaily.com!

I can't believe they asked me back!

Kate and Elaine, mamas extraordinaire, actually allowed me to wax poetic (pun intended) about my ongoing frustration with leg hair removal on their awesome site, LipstickDaily.com.

Read all about it, leave a comment, and tell 'em The Mama sent you! Go read my post, "Stubble Trouble," then click around on LipstickDaily... I promise you'll laugh!

Recession Got You Down? The Gonzo Mama's Do-It-Your-Damn-Self Guide to Couture

My friends over at LipstickDaily.com are much more in tune with the season’s hot, must-have fashion elements, for some reason. Maybe because, unlike me, Kate and Elaine actually have jobs which call for a style of dress that does not include pajama pants, kids’ t-shirts and ball caps.

Maybe because, unlike me, Kate and Elaine have jobs, period.

Kate’s post, “The ‘It’ Shoe for Summer 2009,” featured, in all its glory, a gorgeous Prada sandal with a cork platform and a darling bow. I suggested that, given the recession, I might just hot-glue some wine corks to the bottom of last summer’s flip-flops (incidentally, the recession has not affected the influx of new wine corks into my home).

In the spirit of adding some glam while tightening the belt – so to speak – I am attempting the following alternatives to selling off one of my seven darlings (who all dress better than I do, by the way) to finance my image update:

1. Instead of this Fendi keychain, I will be commandeering my cat’s identification tag, adding a dab of superglue, and affixing an artfully folded gum wrapper. Photo taken from thisnext.com.


2. Instead of this Marc by Marc Jacobs belt, my luggage strap will be doing double duty. Photo from Teen Vogue



3. Instead of this 3.1 Phillip Lim dress, I will be stapling my café curtains around my body... somewhat artfully. Photo taken from theinsider.com

4. Instead of this trendy, fur-trimmed coat by Versace, I will be bedecking my bathrobe with remnants of shag carpet, left over from the last time my husband’s office was redecorated. Yeah, it’s been that long. Photo taken from kaboodle.com



It’s tough staying at the height of fashion on a budget. The nation is, after all, in the throes of economic crisis; and my family is no exception. Think about it… my husband is married to a woman who relies on print media to pay the bills.

Are you reading this on the Internet?!

Shame on you, taking food out of the mouths of seven children, and depriving their mama of her Prada platforms! Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.