Search Me

Google has a site called Google Analytics that helps you track visitors to your blog or website. Basically, it tells you how many page hits you had and where the traffic is coming from (fb, google searches, etc.). I check it periodically to see what posts are the most popular and if my readers are returning readers or new.

It also shows what keywords were typed into the search engine that led someone to my site.

Not surprising the top keywords seem to be something along the lines of "the three bean salad blog" or "the three bean salad blogspot," however, there are a few that are a bit more interesting.

I am not sure what it says about the person doing the searching or the fact that there is actually "matching" content on my site, but here are a few of my favorites:

• jennifer garner "the balls"

• jelly sandals stink

• fat ass heaven

• ass dreams blogspot

• bird pampers

I am totally going to search for "ass dreams blogspot" right now.

When Mother Nature Shows You Her Teats

We went to a farm over the weekend.

A very cool, kinda-trendy farm that some of you may recognize from Season 5 of Top Chef. It was the kind of place that made you want to compost and use homemade soap wrapped in wax paper with a wee bit of twine, it made you want to eat soft cheeses off a slate board and gather Zinnias to put in mason jars on your picnic table while you sipped wine and tried to pretend that you couldn't hear your children screaming in the background.

Ah the simple life.

It is a great place for families and to say that the day was gloooorious would be an understatement. We met some great friends and signed the kids up for some egg gathering.

Since I hate birds, QT and I stayed outside the fence while the Ladies and their dad gathered up some farm-fresh eggs. We had to pay $10 per person to gather the eggs from the hen house, however, we didn't get to keep any of the eggs. I am pretty sure that violates some sort of child labor law, but as long as I didn't have to actually share space with any of the birds, I was content to observe the Ladies clutching their father's shoulders as they timidly reached into the nest boxes, while I swatted away bugs and wondered why I thought wearing flip-flops to a farm was a good idea.

The thing about farms, like zoos, is that nature is just right in your face. And with that comes questions. Questions that can't always be answered by Jesus or Magic.

When I told the Lady that we would be doing some egg gathering, she asked me if the eggs had chicks in them. I mumbled something about how there were no chicks in the eggs and tried to change the subject. Note to self: Google before you go.

I was relieved when the farm hand (a sprite, young lady is super tight pants) told the kids that all the chickens were hens and that none of the eggs contained chicks, because they hadn't been fertilized by a rooster. I was also relieved when the Ladies didn't ask me what fertilization was. They are well versed on how babies get out of a body, (why yes, the Little Lady did ask me if babies come out of a vagina in the dressing room at our old friend Old Navy, laughter from adjacent stalls followed) they still have no clue on how they get in.

Moving on.

Since it was a warm day the farm hand invited us all to observe the pigs getting sprayed with water so they could wallow in the mud and cool off.

These pigs were pretty big and I was grateful for the electric fence that separated us. What I wasn't so grateful for was the show they were about to give.

I could try to describe to you what it is like to be standing 4 feet from a group of pigs, with four curious kids under 5, when one of the pigs starts to pee and another one starts to drink it directly from the source.


Or I could just show you a photo.

Want to see? Of course you do. What? I already had the camera out.

This is mother nature at her finest. Do they make Purell for eyes?


As I snapped away with my camera to bring you a clear photo, we were told that there were piglets down a path in the woods. No need to say more. We stopped at the wash station at the bottom of the hill and tried to sanitize the hen stank from the hands of our children and started walking.

Piglets are so cute. Do you know what isn't so cute? The momma pig, with her engorged breasts, fighting for a bit of room to get at her rutabaga. I feel for you momma pig, it is hard to focus on you when there are so many mouths to feed. I especially felt your pain when I saw how heavy your teats hung on one side while the other side was shriveled and small. Oh the milk duds! The milk duds! It isn't often that you get hit with the hard reality of your life in a pig pen on an organic farm.

The day ended like most fun-filled family trips to the farm, with a few minutes in the overpriced gift shop ogling handmade crafts, while we fought the clock to get back home so my husband could get to his softball tournament, and the Lady screamed in the backseat about wanting to stop and see sheep, even though she could clearly see them out the window. There was me finally noticing the poo on my feet and daydreaming about planting organic vegetables that my children would gather and we would prepare on easy, summer afternoons, in the gloaming where the sky is golden and there is only one hour until bedtime.

Oh Mother Nature, you can flash me anytime.

On Books and Brats

I have terrible children.

They also may become those irritating tweens who swoon over boy-bands and follow Justin Bieber-like androgynous man-children with an intensity and fervor that is on one hand enviable (who doesn't need a little passion in their lives?), while at the same time, very, very sad.

All I wanted to do was bring the Ladies to Barnes and Noble and buy them some Shel Silverstein books.

All they wanted to do was run around the store at full-speed and perform "Call Me Maybe" on the stage that is set up in the children's section for story time.

I just wanted to introduce them to some poetry, read to them from actual children's literature rather than condensed novelizations of Disney movies or television shows.

I told them we were going for poetry. I told them they could pick out one additional book on their own.

They wanted 2-3 books each with titles such as--I kid you not--Barbie Loves Weddings, Barbie and the Fashion Fairytale, and Cherry Jam (A Strawberry Shortcake book).

Bringing the Ladies to a store releases some sort of inner antelope in them. It is like they are running for their lives on some African grassland, but in reality they are galloping down the aisles of the bookstore like they have just been released from a cage.

I don't know if it is just the excitement of being out of the house or if they are just trying to prove to the world that my parenting abilities are crap.

No one listens. Well, my kids don't listen. I am pretty sure everyone else in the store heard them singing "Call Me Maybe" and me in a half whisper/half scream trying to tell them to tone it down.

When I was finally able to corral those long-legged antelope-children and move towards the register with a copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends, a Pinkalicious compilation book, Cherry Jam, and the novelization of Barbie and the Mermaid,  a movie we have seen 8 jamillion times, I was ready to go.

The Ladies, however, were running the length of the checkout line, trying on reading glasses and informing me that even though we all went to the bathroom before we left that once again, I would have to brave the not-so-clean Barnes and Noble bathroom.

Before we could even make it to the bathroom though, we would have to get on the escalator. The Lady is afraid of escalators. I can't even begin to describe the escalator incidents/screaming/crying I have experienced in my life. I am thinking of penning a children's book about our adventures. Barbie and the Escalator Incident has a nice ring to it.

And finally, after drinking from the water fountain, touching entirely too many things in a public bathroom, singing top-40 hits, running like the wind and picking out dumbed-down versions of already dumb movies and TV shows that make me cringe and fear my daughters' tween/teen years will be filled with me having to attend pop concerts at sold-out venues while trying to suppress the urge to stab myself in the ear with a pair of scissors, we ventured out of the Barnes and Noble to find the last horse on our "Horsin' Around" adventure.

Oh Night Mare, in your pink nightgown and curlers in your hair, why didn't they make it clear that you were inside the mall and not outside of it like it looks on the map? We have been looking for you for weeks.

After we hugged you and the Little Lady said "I love you. You are so pink." We took the elevator down to the street, piled in the car, passed out our terrible books and went home.

When we got home the Ladies crawled into bed with me and snuggled as we read a little Shel Silverstein, a little Barbie and a little Cherry Jam.