Last January, my brother-in-law (we’ll call him Corrado), asked our family to run the relay in the KeyBank Vermont City Marathon. OinkDaddy, an optimist and a member of the 26.2 club, was all for it. The other four family members whom Corrado approached were less enthusiastic, including me. 

I am not a runner. At best, I’m a shuffler. I can appreciate that lots of people get jazzed about hitting the pavement; I’m just not one of them. OinkDaddy, on the other hand, is at least conversant in fartleks, Kcals and energy goos. When he signed up to run his first marathon, Large was still rockin’ a stroller; OinkDaddy ran his third marathon six months after Medium was born. Come to think of it, when Corrado started running, his twin girls were a month shy of their one year anniversary. Hmmm. I smell a social research project: Is there something about babies that inspires men to become long-distance runners? But I digress.

The KeyBank Vermont City Marathon is a huge event in Burlington, Vt., traditionally held over the Memorial Day weekend. It’s an inspiring, uplifting, sweaty spectacle. I’ve spent quite a few mornings in May ogling exhausted-yet-determined people ascending Battery Street Hill to the rhythmic thumping of Taiko drummers. Each time, I’ve been so impressed that I’ve uttered the words, “I should do that,” only to have my motivation disappear faster than my kids’ Easter candy.

KBVCM relay teams are selected by lottery in February and are notoriously difficult to get. I never thought we’d get in, so it was quite a shock to hear that we were lottery winners. What were the odds? And more importantly, in the cosmic way of things, might this have reduced our chances of winning PowerBall?

OinkDaddy and Corrado gave me inspiring pep-talks, “You can do it!” “Stick with the training program. You’re going to be great!” “Go slow; just keep running!” The week after I received the “good” news, I hauled my butt around the track 12 times. I walked more than I ran. An old hamstring injury flared up. Ignoring it proved unsuccessful. With trepidation, I made my first-ever appointment for physical therapy. I don’t know why I waited so long. My physical therapist, Kim Ellsworth at Essex Aquatic and Rehab Center, was (and is!) awesome and had me up and running in a jiffy. I could have saved myself weeks of pain if I had seen her sooner. Therapy behind me, muscles and ligaments and tendons strengthened, I bought new Brooks running shoes and ran 3x/week for two whole weeks. And then I kinda…just…stopped running.

One reason I don’t care for running is that I’m not good at it. I never have been. I run like a duck. My knees are knocked slightly from doing w-sits as a child (Mom, you were right. If only I had sat criss-cross, apple-sauce!), thus, the lower half of my legs swing out as I run and the outside edge of my foot strikes the ground first. It’s not very efficient. Or comfortable. As far as exercise goes, I much prefer practicing Tae Kwon Do or going to a Les Mills Body Combat class (where a different Kim kicks my ass). I find running monotonous; minute after minute, mile after mile of the same forward motion. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s like being in labor all over again.

Mid-April, I got my poop together and started to train semi-seriously. Running outside helped motivate me to run farther. I ran two miles, then pushed myself to run three. I continued my cross-training workouts and a couple of times I ran with a friend who is so fit she bounds along Gazelle-like, talking continuously, while I huff and puff and nod occasionally. I welcome any distractions from my screaming quads.

Two weekends ago, I ran with Corrado. He generously let me set the pace (my pace is off his by a good three minutes), and for the first time since high school, I completed a five mile run. Huzzah! In spite of the fact that I’m not setting any speed records (11-minute miles, hello?), I trumpeted my accomplishment far and wide.

I’m now cautiously optimistic that I’ll be able to complete my leg of the relay without expiring on the trail. Look for me. I’ll be the one in a red Team Deep Fried Bacon high-performance t-shirt stumbling over the finish line. Don’t be offended if I don’t stop to chat. I’ll be headed for the beer tent.

Things I’ve Learned About Running

• Eat breakfast or be prepared to bonk
• Run un-caffeinated or get the trots
• Good sneakers really do make a world of difference
• Injuries will not go away on their own; go to physical therapy
• When doing crunches off the track at the gym, face the same direction as the runners lest they get an eyeful of sweaty underwear
  
• My brother-in-law not only runs faster than I do, but he writes faster too. Check out his fitness related blog and be amazed by how many calories he can consume.

The marathon is coming. Bring it, baby.

In the spirit of the award season, I’m honored and pleased to announce that OINKtales was named by Alison over at The Other Winnie Cooper as being an Awesome Blog and Darla of She’s a Maineiac as being a Stylish Blogger. Thank you both! OINKtales is grateful to accept your awards and wants to reward your kindness by reciprocating. You are both awesome and stylish bloggers too!

And while I am truly flattered to receive these awards, my cynical side is clamoring for satisfaction. I have to make the following observation: Blog awards are the new chain letters. Do you remember being a kid and getting that hand-written note from your cousin that promised if you mailed a sheet of stickers to some unknown person on a list and then copied the note exactly and forwarded it to twelve of your friends and family, you’d end up getting reams of stickers? Did you ever get any? Do you want to guess whether I did?

In college, I did do a lingerie chain (new, not used!) and it was moderately successful (I got a whopping three pairs of undies this way) and within the last couple of years, I bought into the Facebook chain where you announce random facts about yourself (being petrified by the idea that vampires might actually exist is my #25). But overall, I have broken more chains than I have extended them, for which I understand that I have been penalized a lifetime of bad luck.

Be that as it may, I’ve decided not to break this chain. Mostly because I respect both Alison and Darla immensely and who am I kidding? No matter how you look at it, these awards are compliments. (Would you be surprised if I told you that I have a hard time accepting compliments?)

So here we go: The requirements for accepting these awards are to link back to the awarders, list seven things about yourself, and then pass the award on to other worthy bloggers. I’m supposed to list fifteen but I don’t follow directions well.

Seven Things You Don’t Know About Me:

I don’t like to talk about myself. So ironic, since I can blog about intimate things in my life (tampons of preference, hello?) but when I am in a group – and sometimes even one-on-one – I tend to downplay my accomplishments and make light of things that are important to me. Any couch psychologists out there?

I think kids are disgusting. But they’re like pets. When they’re yours, you love them even when they’re disgusting.

Every day, I consider going back to my old job. Or trying to. It’s not like they’re saving one for me (wouldn’t that be nice?).

Every day, I daydream about winning the lottery. Although I’d take less than a million, it’d be hard to accomplish the basics with less than that. Lest you think I am greedy, consider that I have three children to put through college and probably, grad school.

I am an escapist reader and my favorite genre is young adult fiction a la The Hunger Games, The Golden Compass, and anything with Potter in the title.

I have two belly buttons. At least, it looks like I do. This is what comes of keeping one’s belly button ring in when one was hugely pregnant. Not. Pretty.

And though this last bit I suspect you already know, I’m including it anyway, if only to end this list: My family means everything to me.

Now, to my list of awesome/stylish blogs. I personally know some of these people, some I met (or am just stalking) in the blogosphere. I recommend you check them all out:

Other Awesome/Stylish Blogs:

OINKdaddy. My better, happier half’s observations on our life.

Push the Envelope. Watch it Bend. A brand-new running/fitness blog authored by my uber-fit brother-in-law (an OINK to follow on this one).

She Rides, I Pay. For funny, horsey folks.

My Topography. Beautiful. Lyrical. Words and pictures.

Saying YES 2 boys and Life. Humorous, homesteading, homeschooling mom.

The Ramblings. Prolific blogger whose hilarious descriptions strike a chord with many.

Scary Mommy. Blogging maven who has never heard of me but who is laugh out loud funny and who has her own scary mommy society (it has an eight-week waiting list!).

Theta Mom. Another blogger who has never heard of me but who, like Scary Mommy, started her own blogging community and is highly supportive of other bloggers.

And of course, the aforementioned She’s a Maineiac, a new blogging friend who writes about the loopy world of a desperate Maine housewife, and The Other Winnie Cooper, one of my BFF’s who considered participating in the underwear chain and who is now the larger-than-life voice of a 12 pound shih-tzu.

Happy linking everyone! Now, to find my Roberto Cavalli knock-off for the red carpet…

“But where do you get your clothes?” she asked.

I pushed my pink, twisted bandana headband from my forehead to the top of my head before I answered, “Uh, from Ames.”

Now, my standard uniform is jeans with a sweater. Old, broken-in jeans with machine washable sweaters. I reside in a world lightyears away from couture and a distant cry from even prêt-à-porter lines. In spite of this and my fashion apathy, I do occasionally wander through websites that cater to women who think nothing of dropping $1K on a pair of shoes that remind them of Carrie Bradshaw. And this is what they’re selling:

C’mon people. Really? Weren’t these ensembles in fashion when Kurt Cobain was alive? Who brought plaid shirts back? I wore a vest and gray leggings in the early 90s. And I had a black zippered mini-skirt from Express that I practically wore out. Not that I would (could!) wear them now. If I had them, which I don’t. So, who is wearing these clothes? Better question: Who is BUYING these clothes?

I don’t have the answers but I think Olivia Newton John wants her blue jumpsuit back.

We were on vacation with my husband’s family—his parents, brother, sister-in-law and their two children, K and G (ages six and three), as well as his 85-year-old grandmother whom the kids call G.G. (Great-Grammie). We were missing only my husband’s sister and her family and – there is no way to write this without the words dripping with irony – my husband.

Small, Medium and Large’s first ocean experience was idyllic. We spent the afternoon under the sun, jumping waves, squealing over seaweed and selecting the smoothest pebbles to bring home. More than once I wished my husband was there with us (he was arriving the following evening) to see the kids at their carefree, fun-loving best.

Fast forward a few hours. I have lugged all the beach toys, rocks (did I call them pebbles?), blankets, towels and coolers back to our motel room, made all the kids shower and change, rinsed and wrung out four bathing suits, cleaned the cooler and found dry clothes for myself. I am exhausted and so are the kids. Unfortunately, when my kids reach exhaustion they refuse to allow themselves to feel tired. Instead, they push themselves to that level beyond exhaustion – super-hyper-drive-your-mother-crazy-energizer-bunny-stage. They are entertaining themselves by bouncing off the walls. Literally. It is 7:30 p.m. and we haven’t eaten dinner.

My sister-in-law drops by our room to invite us to go with the rest of the family and dine in town. At a restaurant. After telling her that is sheer madness, I politely decline—opting for what I hope will be a lesser form of torture: a visit to the grocery store.

Our drive to the store is blessedly quick. Once I have located the entrance (on the far side of the building from where we have parked), we troop in. I hand Liam a basket and take one for myself. At first, we navigate the aisles like a school of fish; as a group, we dart in for tasty bites and shy away from oncoming predators. But by the time we reach the bread aisle, our school has disbanded. We look less like fish and more like an ineffective cowboy with a poorly managed cattle herd. I yell at the rogues and attempt to head them off at the pass. More than once, I wish I had a cattle prod.

We reach the checkout counter where a bored teenager with heavy eye-liner scans our groceries. I have over-estimated stuff to buy and there is no bagger so I do it myself. After we make it through the exit, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s then that I hear a noise. Nora has dropped her new flip-flops. I freeze. And it dawns on me.

“Did we pay for those flip-flops?

She is silent.

“Nora! Did those flip-flops make it onto the checkout belt?”

She shakes her head vigorously. Her eyes well with tears. “I forgot!”

The bags I am hefting suddenly feel heavier. I close my eyes. For an instant, I consider just continuing on, going back to the motel. But I can’t. I will not intentionally set my six year old on the road that could end with her crafting a shank out of a cafeteria utensil. This is one of those “teachable moments” the parenting experts are always on about. Damn them.

“C’mon everybody. We have to go back inside.” I herd the kids back toward the doors we just exited. They start an ascending chorus of “Whys” and “Do we have tos?” but they are stumbling in the right direction. A young couple stares at us wide-eyed as we pass them on their way out of the store. I think to myself that we are a walking advertisement for birth control.

The doors close behind us. I can see our cashier just beyond the next set of doors. But they remain closed. We are trapped in this glass box until someone leaves the store.

Liam notices that we are being captured on the security camera’s monitor and begins doing the “butt dance.” Nora and Henry drop their bags and begin shaking their butts at the camera too. They are hilarious. I am nigh hysterical. Suddenly, the doors hiss open and the group of German exchange students that had been testing Axe deodorant sprays in aisle seven are standing on the other side. I stop telling my kids to stop and stride purposefully through the cloud of pheromones. Small, Medium and Large follow me meekly.

The flip-flops make a smacking sound when I slap them on the conveyer belt. “We forgot to pay for these.”

The cashier shrugs, scans the tag and says, “That will be two dollars and seventeen cents.” I hand her the money silently.

She is handing me my change when Liam leans forward. “You really ought to tighten up your security. I mean, my sister walked right out of here and there weren’t any bells or anything.”

So, he learned something. Too bad it wasn’t the lesson I was trying to teach.

Is there anyone out there who considers time to be a fluid, relaxed space? Time is compressed in my world. I think I must orbit a black hole that peels time from me second by second. I start most days with: Oh please, let me sleep just five more minutes! And end with: Is that the 11 o’clock news? The moments in-between are filled with quick assessments: Is it possible to retrieve Nora from school, snack her, make it through eight traffic lights, get her skates laced and her onto the ice in less than 20 minutes? Can I make it to Lowe’s, the grocery store, the post office and the bank in the hour before the kids get home? If school started 10 minutes ago and I drive 60 miles per hour, will he be more than 15 minutes late?

When I posted last, we had just adopted Paco. In the weeks that followed, we packed and then demolished our kitchen, learned that Paco likes to mark, bought a new dishwasher, met with Liam’s math teacher, ordered replacement parts for the stove after the microwave accidentally fell on it, borrowed a dog crate, primed and painted part of the upstairs of our friends’ house, attended seven other meetings at two schools, tested for a red belt, scheduled and rescheduled appointments to get our hair cut, helped organize a night of silent and live auctions, hand-washed dishes in bins in the bathtub, had two field trips, got our hair cut, connected the replacement parts for the stove, competed in one Tae Kwon Do tournament, dealt with a temporary kitchen sink, bought gifts for four birthday parties-went to three, hosted one, primed and painted the backsplash, walls and ceiling, stopped using the dog crate, oversaw the installation of new cabinets and countertop, made fruitless calls to seven home improvement stores looking for oil-rubbed bronze sink drains, bought white sink drains, dyed Easter eggs at our friends’ house and…finally…unpacked the kitchen.

Poor dog. He had no idea what he was in for when we walked into his life.

**

Before demo, our kitchen had brown ceramic floor tiles, yellow laminate counters, oak and pressboard cabinets whose shelves sometimes tipped, a tiled backsplash with brown grout and a too-large peninsula that trapped guests in one half of the room or the other when I opened the refrigerator.

Demo was pretty satisfying:

And now, I am thrilled to have cherry cabinets, seamless hi-mac countertops, drawers that glide open and close softly, an extra deep sink and a super-quiet dishwasher. Floors and backsplash to be installed later this year. A big thank you to all our friends who lent expertise, muscle and fun to this project. You know we couldn’t have done it without you!

It’s not often that someone confuses me with another mom. Just one of the advantages of being Korean and living in the whitest state in the Union.

Today, however, there were two of us Korean moms in the library at the same time. And not only that – we were together! The novelty of it all.

“You need to make sure Audrey* picks up her snack,” the librarian said to me sternly.

“Wh – at?” I said, confusedly, while looking around for Audrey’s mom who was sitting just out of earshot.

“She didn’t pick up her snack. We want all the kids to learn to pick up after themselves.” Sniffing, she walked away.

Now, I suppose I could have run after her and politely (or not so politely) informed her that if she wanted something cleaned up she was welcome to do it herself or I could have invited her to communicate her concerns directly with Audrey or Audrey’s mom.

But I didn’t.

Henry and I had come to the library to meet Audrey and her mom. I like them both very much. I like books. In fact, I like my local library.

And so, I asked Audrey to return with me to the children’s section. Together, we discarded the abandoned paper towel, muffin wrapper and cup and then went to find our people.

A little while later, I let my child approach the circulation desk by himself with the books he wanted to borrow.

“What’s your name?” the librarian asked him.

“Henry,” he announced proudly.

“Henry,” she repeated. “Henry, what’s your last name again?”

“It’s [OINK],” I said, coming over and putting my arm around his shoulders. “My son’s last name is [OINK].”

“Oh,” she said, blinking at me. “That’s right. You’re Mary. Should I put his books under your name?”

That’s right.

*Not her real name.

Even her teeth are impatient.

When she ran over to me this morning with her face alight and bottom lip pulled out, I was relieved.

Tonight, there was no fussing about bedtime. Nora was more than happy to go upstairs, get into her pajamas and brush the rest of her teeth. After I wrestled Small out of his day clothes and into clean Dr. Denton’s, I went to find her. She was sitting on her bed, silently caressing the milky white tooth in her hand.

“Don’t put it under your pillow loose. It’ll get lost.”

Nora gave me her standard response – a headshake in lieu of words.

I persisted. “Really, sweetheart. Use the little jar you had it in. Put the tooth in the jar and the jar under your pillow.”

She stared at the floor.

This was going to be an issue.

“How about if you use this box?” Now I was pleading with her.

“No, Mommy.” Her voice was quiet, but firm.

“A plastic bag?”

“No, Mommy.”

“Honey, the tooth fairy works on a very tight schedule. If you leave it loose under your pillow, it could get lost. And if she can’t find it, she won’t leave you any money.”

“I don’t care if I get money, Mommy.”

Apparently, she’s no capitalist. This argument would have worked on her big brother. How was I going to get her to help me? I sat next to her on the bed. She peered at me through her curtain of wispy, brown hair.

“Are you sure?” I gentled my tone. “Why don’t you put it in a box? Otherwise, she might not find it.”

“No, Mommy. She will.” She nodded earnestly. Her confidence in her fairy was unshakable. “She will,” she said with certainty.

And so, the tooth was placed under her pillow—unfettered and naked—directly on the sheet. The lovely multicolored floral patterned sheet with the white background.

God help me.  I may need the Rock.

With a heavy sigh, I reach for the following:

Wool socks
Long underwear
Ski pants
Parka
Fleece hat
Insulated gloves
Boots
Snow shovel
Ladder

Oh, the joys of being at home during the day.

“Nora, I’m going out onto the roof. You know the drill, right?” I say, my hand on the doorknob.

“Yes!” she yells from inside the hastily constructed “fort” in our family room. “No! Wait!” She sticks her head out. “I forget. If you fall off, do I call 911 or am I supposed to check on you first?”

You’ve gotta really love Vermont to live here in the winter.

The irony is with my two left feet, I cannot dance, and when I do sing, it’s painful for me as well as everyone within earshot. Lest you think I am exaggerating, I introduce Exhibit A:

Exhibit A:
Growing up, unless it was Christmas, the music on our stereo was classical. Once, when my mother was out of the house, my father unearthed an old Beach Boys’ album. My sister and I very nearly went into shock. Consequently, I still can’t tell you the names of popular songs or identify the artists who are singing them.

Ha! you say. That isn’t so bad.

Oh no? Let’s talk about Exhibit B:

Exhibit B:
In college, I got a “C” in the jazz class I took as an elective. It was one of the classes where you only needed to show up in order to get an “A.” Well, I showed up. But I couldn’t dance.

Really, is it any wonder that I like old musicals? The people in them look happy–even when they’re sad–and they move around effortlessly in these spectacularly choreographed dance sequences in time to beautiful music.

Watching these movies is such an enjoyable experience for me that I force myself to overlook the sexist and racist overtones. These are things I never noticed as a kid. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers? It seemed totally normal for the brothers to kidnap girls and cart them off to a remote cabin in the woods. Daddy Long Legs? Fred Astaire had 30 years on Leslie Caron, but what’s age got to do with it? South Pacific? When Lieutenant Cable refuses to marry the little island girl because of the color of her skin, my heart still breaks.

I try to be careful about my selections (none of the aforementioned classics have made the cut as yet) and I add color commentary to the movies when I watch them with the kids (See, Professor Higgins helped turn Eliza into a princess but SHE was the one who did all the work!). It’s probably useless but it makes me feel better.

It was family movie night. Sick to death of animated talking cars, rats and fairies, I campaigned for something different.

“Do we want to watch the movie about the little orphan boy or the little orphan girl?”

“Boy!” shouted the boys.

“Girl!” said Nora simultaneously.

“We’re always going to be outnumbered in our family, Nora,” I said ruefully. “My vote is for Annie too.”

But the majority rules and Oliver Twist it was.

Even in middle-class American society, violence is everywhere; my kids have not been immune. They play lego video games (the players don’t die, per se, they’re disassembled), watch violence in sports, hear about it on the radio and see it on the news. It isn’t that I thought the kids were desensitized to death but I wasn’t prepared for their reaction to the brutality perpetrated by Bill. Honestly, I had forgotten that Bill kills Nancy.

Howls. Horror. Tears. They mourned Nancy’s loss and were outraged by Bill’s cruelty. Henry alone was blissfully ignorant. Being barely awake had dimmed his view of the scene unfolding on our TV screen. Unfortunately, it did not protect him from witnessing his brother and sister’s scene in the living room.

I guess I should be grateful that my kids have sympathetic souls – that their innocence still blooms. Still, I can’t help but wonder how they will possibly survive real life when they react this strongly to life in technicolor.

Everybody’s doing it, so why shouldn’t I?

Here are some of my favorite oinks from the last seven months (can you believe it’s been seven months?!). Maybe you’ve read them before. But, maybe not. I encourage you to read them. Again, if necessary. You’ll enjoy. I promise.

In closing, THANK YOU for coming on this ride with me. Keep the laughs going and the comments flowing. My best to you and yours for a happy and healthy 2010!

Peace and love,
Mary

Anatomy 101
Posted May 30, 2009
A short discussion about the birds and the bees.

Farewell Pepe Le Pew
Posted August 15, 2009
Standing trial after running over a small woodland creature.

The Secret of the Pork
Posted October 13, 2009
Why Small doesn’t know where bacon comes from.

Daddy Does
Posted October 30, 2009
Appreciation for my husband’s way of doing things.

H1N1 Hysteria
Posted November 16, 2009
Hell hath no fury like a surprised five-year-old.

Come Fly With Me
Posted September 22, 2009
My personal favorite.

Want more?  Check out my Oldies But Goodies page.  Then come back tomorrow night for an all new oink!

The funny thing is, I love the holidays. I love the twinkly white lights, the tangible greetings from family and friends delivered right to our mailbox, the all Christmas music radio station (Bing Crosby, Vince Guaraldi and last but not least, Jon Bon Jovi’s Please Come Home for Christmas).

I tend to be more thankful at this time of year than at any other.

My kids are out-of-their-minds excited for Christmas; they decorated the house with gusto, happily picked out presents to give to each other and our family members, reminded me that it is tradition to put the tree in the corner of the room—NOT in front of the window. While I know that somewhere in their consciousness lurks the understanding that this holiday is about more than Santa Claus (unlike me, they are semi-regular church-goers), it is not often that that knowledge is exposed.

A case in point: Let’s flashback to five years ago. Nora was an infant and Liam was four years old. Henry was but a twinkle in my husband’s…eye. Overwhelmed by dirty diapers and a dearth of much-needed sleep, I came downstairs with the baby to find an empty house. I searched for Liam, who should have been happily ensconced in front of the TV, for five long minutes. On the brink of insanity, I happened to look outside. At the end of our driveway, stood a small, snow-covered figure with a bucket and a bell. Ripping open the front door, I shouted, “Liam! Get in here, this instant!”

Reluctantly, he trudged back up the hill with his bucket.

“What were you thinking, mister?”

“Nana told me never to pass someone with a bell without giving them money. I rang the bell, but no one stopped.” He was both wet and disappointed.

“Oh, buddy. What were you going to do with the donations?”

“Well, you won’t buy me that Star Wars blaster, so I’m gonna buy it myself.”

Obviously, this prompted a long conversation (alright, I’ll call a spade a spade—it was a lecture) about the Salvation Army, people’s basic needs and our family’s commitment to charitable giving, which has been repeated on multiple occasions over the years and augmented with both planned and random acts of kindness. Still, I wasn’t sure that any of the kids were getting the big picture.

And then between the blank stares and shrugged shoulders, I glimpsed a ray of light.

We were, as usual, running behind schedule. The kids missed the school bus so I dispersed them—Medium first, then Small, and finally, Large.

Liam trudged toward the double doors of the middle school, munching on toast and hefting an enormous backpack. Without warning, he spun around and headed back to the car. I put my window down. “What did you forget?”

“My money.”

I was immediately suspicious. “What are you bringing money to school for?”

He met my skepticism with righteous indignation. “I’m helping buy a turkey for a needy family. Do you think five dollars is enough?”

A buried memory of an e-newsletter burbled to the surface of my mind. I was speechless. Not only had he remembered the food drive without any parental reminders, but he was using his own savings to participate.

It was my tiny miracle.

Happy holidays, everyone.

The irony?  This place is my local health food store.

Is lard better for you if it is locally made?  Discuss…