Well thank the lord that’s over.

Today’s Clara Jane’s first full day of first grade. She’s going back to school minus several inches of hair and a prominent tooth, but with the knowledge of what it’s like to spend the night at the zoo, catch a big channel catfish, make Girl Scout-approved bee traps in the woods, the wisdom of the first Ramona book, a new baby cousin (and that babies are rather dull and sound like chickens when they scream),  a smidge of OCD caused by the uber-reorganization of her belongings, a new feline friend who’s an enemy to cicadas, and the knowledge of what a baby tiger feels like.

So we had a pretty good summer, really. When I wasn’t imploding from the stress of trying to maintain my school year work schedule without the benefit of school to raise my child.

She doesn’t look any worse for wear, does she?

Ah, routine. You were my enemy for so long. But now, you are my best friend because I can foresee more writing and less chainsaw-juggling in my near future.

A long time ago I decided this is a blog in which I write. Not a photo blog. But dammit, I’m busy, lazy, and have knitting I’d rather do than tell you about all my summer adventures.

But I want to share the summer adventures, too. So here’s the quick version.

Gordo’s still settling in.

Who am I kidding? Gordo settled in about 10 minutes after he arrived. He’s taken over. Romi, our old cat still isn’t amused, especially since Gordo’s decided they’re going to play, whether she likes it or not. This means he chases her while she imitates a deflating balloon on a rampage.

He also loves the dogs. A little too much. Brian’s busted him snuggled face-to-face, legs entwined, with Murphy.

As for Chloe, Gordo has special feelings for her. He expresses them by wrapping his front legs around Chloe’s shoulders and chewing her head.

Sometimes he headbutts her in the face.

Occasionally he tries to sleep with her. Which is funny because Chloe has pissed off every dog she knows by snuggling.

She’s not amused by Gordo.

Also? Gordo plans to eradicate our house of all drinking straws.

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That’s what I’m doing. Last week I saw Hole and Lady Gaga and I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the whole dual spectacle.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll have it figured out. I’m pretty sure the secret of the universe lies in those two events. I just can’t see it yet through all the black eyeliner that refuses to wash off.

I am not a gardener. While I come from a family of gardeners, and my in-laws damn near have a vegetable farm, I accepted long ago that I am not of the same ilk.

Many years ago, in my first apartment, I attempted a container garden of herbs, peppers, and tomatoes. By mid-July, when it should have been raging, I was told that it looked like Anne Rice’s garden.

This was 1995 or 1996, and thus, relevant and funny. Vampires are better at keeping things alive than I am. Ha ha ha.

A few summers later, one of Brian’s aunts gave us a massive ton of clippings from her spectacular garden as a wedding gift, to start our own garden.

The plants survived the drive to St. Louis from upper Michigan. They did not survive Chloe the Basset Hound.

Did you know “basset” is French for “wee elephant”? Because that’s what the garden looked like an hour after I planted it. Like elephants had paid a visit to suburban St. Louis County and ravaged a 3 foot by 3 foot patch of my yard.

Which is just as well. Between St. Louis’ August heat, our solid-packed river bluff clay and limestone soil, and The Plantpire LeStat, they really didn’t stand a chance.

So I gave up, and have been fine with this. But this spring, Clara Jane decided she wanted to garden. Read the rest of this entry

For years I’ve said no more pets. At one point in time – from February until December in 2004 – we had two dogs, two cats, and a kid.

Coincidence that this coincided with the most debilitating panic attacks of my life? Not at all.

I love animals, and I’m all for rescuing animals in need. I support my local Humane Society, and try to do the same with my dear friend Kristina’s place of employment. If there’s an animal in need, we try to help. Like two weeks ago when our neighbor found a cute little pup about to get nailed on the four-way street. There was a time when I would have said, “Dog in danger and no owner? My dog now!”

I have since grown a brain and realized this is not always the best thing to do. Sometimes it’s best to spread the word and make sure the dog goes to a good home that isn’t mine.

My pets are mighty well-loved, but there are a lot of them. And getting each one involved a special trip to hell. To whit: Read the rest of this entry

I learned a long, long time ago to never blog while angry, depressed, or upset in any way. Cathartic as it may be, it’s not worth dealing with those who can’t handle, you know, emotions.

However, if I postpone blogging until I’m not angry, depressed, or upset, there’s a good chance I won’t write anything until school begins again.

Clara Jane spent the first week of break visiting my parents, where she frolicked and played and lost teeth.

Not only that, but when the Tooth Faerie leaves both cash and the tooth when she visits Mimi and Grandpa’s house! It’s a magical world out there in western Missouri.

Different story in western Illinois. I should have known on Sunday evening, when Clara Jane’s hand fell asleep and she uttered, “Stupid gravity. I’m gonna kick your ass,” that we might be in for a trying week.

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Today’s Clara Jane’s last full day of kindergarten.

I know. I can’t wrap my head around that. Not only the fact that it was seven years ago this week that I got knocked up after a night of rib-eating and beer-drinking – although I can’t wrap my head around that, either – but I’m also freaking out because good God, there’s a lot of events at the end of the school year, just when I’m frantically trying to get ahead on work stuff.

Today was the awards ceremony for kindergarteners though second graders at Clara Jane’s school. I went, hoping that perhaps since she was one of two kindergarteners allowed into the first grade advanced reading program a semester before everyone else that perhaps she and her reading overachieving pal might get some special recognition.

They didn’t.

Really, I’m fine with this. Kids don’t need awards for everything. My kid in particular doesn’t need the self-esteem boost. But if they could see what I’m seeing at my house, perhaps they’d recognize just how advanced she is.

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Mayday was nearly a month ago. How much have I written here since then? Not as much as I’d hoped. Life intervenes and exhausts. A rundown with some bad iPhone photography? Sure. Why not?

Two weeks ago, unaccustomed to my new, much smaller vehicle, I slammed my forehead into the door frame while doing the so-tasking job of exiting my car. I’ve had a concussion, and I’m sure this wasn’t another one. When I had a real concussion after hitting my temple, I drove myself to work and didn’t remember how I got there. When I got home Kurt Cobain had died and I made my unlicensed roommate drive me to the emergency room.

This was different. This didn’t alter my reality. It just hurt like grim death and left me with a goose egg and a bruise above my left eye. It still hurts when I poke myself in the head. Which I do more than I realized.

The concussion didn’t hurt nearly as bad for as long, and offered the side effect of slightly altering reality. This just sucked.

The day before I injured myself, my hound dog Chloe turned 13.

She celebrated by browsing the dental treats at Petsmart and scaring the fuck out of the adoptable cats.

I’m pleased to report that, even though I’m prone to panic attacks caused by the knowledge that my pets will die someday, I’ve handled Chloe’s entrance into her teens quite well. It helps that she tries to kill Murphy at least once a day. Today, she did it three times.

Murphy can’t wait for Chloe to keel.

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Oh come on. Did you think I was really going to write on Mother’s Day? I barely breathed on Mother’s Day, except to gather oxygen required to give orders to Brian and Clara Jane.

Such as, “That’ll be bacon, a two-egg omelet with sauted mushroom, onions – red onions, garlic, and Maytag blue cheese. Oh, and bacon-chocolate chip pancakes. And simmer those strawberries while you’re at it. More coffee. More!”

And, “No, you can’t watch ‘The Electric Company’ for the 36th time. It’s my trashy TV day and I need to spend some time with Oprah and Rielle Hunter because what fun is Mother’s Day if I can’t heap judgment and knit? You’ll understand someday, Child. Go play in the dirt.”

As I said a few days ago, this is the first Mother’s Day in which I’ve been able to sit back and be spoiled.  Usually we’re in Sedalia with my family. We’re doing Mother’s Day when we’re in town for my cousin’s baby shower in two weeks, so it’s not like I’m piling the benign neglect on my elders.

Although this probably should have been the year I went home for Mother’s Day, as we had a little health scare with Granny Viv last month. After having some pre-cancerous skin cells removed, she got a call from the doctor’s office that only said her blood work was irregular and they’d scheduled an appointment with an oncologist two weeks later.

My, but that’s a helpful phone call, isn’t it? Especially in a family where panic is a favorite way to pass the time.

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This is Little Lulu. She’s one of my favorite things. I got her last year from my friend Alecia, who makes fantastic dias de los muertos art. I fell in love with Little Lulu the first time I saw her. Not surprising, as I love circus fat ladies.

Historically, circus fat ladies tended to have polycystic ovarian syndrome, which I have. It makes you fat. It makes you hairy. It makes you infertile. It makes you a little crazy. Yep, that’s the circus ladies. I’ve always felt an kinship with them. At the very least, if I start feeling down on myself I can think about what it was like 100 years ago to have this condition. Yeah, sometimes I have a hard time finding clothes that suit my taste and look decent on me. Yes, there were some unfounded infertility fears before Clara Jane was born. Yes, I have a touch of the crazy but we’ve done a good job of keeping it under control by managing the PCOS hormone imbalance. But at least  now, I can lead a normal life.

Our society may be obsessed with beauty, but at least those of us with such a condition aren’t relegated to being freaks. And that’s because circus fat ladies who consented to medical testing that led to the discovery, and eventually the treatments, for PCOS. I feel like I owe them a debt of gratitude for the lives they lived and what they sacrificed so that me and other women with PCOS can at least have a chance.

That just leaves the hairy part. That’s the only part that I still have issue with. Call it what it is – the one physical trait I haven’t come to terms with. No matter how much of a feminist I am. No matter how high my self-esteem is. No matter how badass I am, I fear I will always be preoccupied with the hair on my lip and chin.

And again, I’m lucky. My hirsutism isn’t very extreme. Nothing a little weekly maintenance can’t cover. I think. One of my paranoias is that it’s far worse than I realize and perhaps I’m walking around with a giant black beard on my neck wattle.

But that’s all going to change soon. Yep. I’m having some cosmetic procedures.

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