It’s been a quiet weekend. Well, not so much quiet as anti-social. I haven’t been out of my house, except to let the dogs in and out, since about 4 PM Friday. In that time, no one has been in my house except the three of us who officially live here. Unheard of! That’s probably why I’m wide awake at 2 AM, feeling a bit discombobulated.

I cut my finger on Saturday. Not while embarking on the cooking you can read about on that other blog. Nope. I cut it on the edge of a mirror while transporting homemade pho to my deep freeze. That’s about as exciting as things got.

We had a family event today, making homemade dog biscuits for the dear folks who’ve bought them to help the Greater Akron Humane Society.  By “family event”, I mean I turned on the mixer and delegated the other biscuit-making tasks to Brian and Clara Jane.

Speaking of Kristina, today was her birthday, so it seemed like a good idea to spend the day baking dog biscuits and knitting kitty toys for her fundraiser.  Clara Jane thought it would be a good time to favor us with a performance of one of Kristina’s favorite songs. I present to you, Clara Jane’s rendition of Wilco’s “Heavy Metal Drummer”.  I’m sure things will get more exciting on Tuesday, when she recreates this performance at her church-sponsored daycare. Enjoy!

• You order any homemade dog biscuits or cat toys yet to support the Greater Akron Humane Society? Best get on it. I’m baking treats on Sunday and knitting kitty dim sum as fast as I can.
• Speaking of cooking, OtherRobin and I are officially up and running with our cooking blog. It’s called Frigidare Pair. It’s not all fancy and shit. It’s fun cooking. Really. We’re writing bunches about batch cooking – making a ton of stuff at the same time and freezing it for later. We’re also going to write about our virgin foray into the world of community support agriculture via Fair Shares. But I don’t have to tell you all of these, because I’m repeating what I’ve already written at Frigidare Pair. So go read it over there.
• Now that I’m food blogging, do you know what I’m doing for dinner? Sending Brian out for Greek carryout. It’s similar to my first catering job, when I made a bunch of fancy hors d’oeurves and had Hamburger Helper and bagged salad for dinner.
• No wildness is on the agenda for this weekend. We’re in need of an easy-going weekend at home, being domestic. I’m cooking (and creating fodder for the new blog). If the weather cooperates we’ll also be doing some yardwork because I’ve been possessed by Satan and have decided to do a little gardening this year.
• Never fear, for there’s a new adventures on the horizon. Thursday morning I’m hopping a bus to Chicago for a long weekend. Wilco stuff will be involved. So will Ethiopian food, a slumber party, knitting, Neti pots, and shuffling around the great big city.

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A couple of bits of business before I tell you about the terror I’ve been unleashing on the world this week.

First, have you fed some dogs and cats yet? Kathie, Marianne, Pam and Allison have. What’s your excuse?

Second, I have been inundated with blog spam of late. Luckily, I’ve got a good spam-catcher. Unfortunately, it also catches messages for first-time commenters. If you’ve left your first comment recently and it hasn’t appeared in a prompt manner, it’s because I’m weeding through all the ads for litter boxes, fake designer handbags and garden fountains.

Third, Wilco just added a third St. Louis show. Not that this has to do with anything, aside from the fact that I’m reaching a level of excitement that might not be conducive to me doing anything else for the next two months.

Fourth, I’m on the verge of getting that food blog I’m doing with OtherRobin up and running. Hopefully by the end of today.

And now, that reign of terror I’m wielding. Don’t worry – it’s a fun reign of terror.

I had my annual physical yesterday. Since my panic and anxiety issues have decreased exponentially since the move last June, I haven’t seen my doctor in nearly a year. I think that might be a record. It seems that all of my parts are in good working order, (”What do you mean, you’re not having anymore kids? You’re going to let that perfectly good uterus go to waste after all the hard work I did to make it function? You bitch!” Not my doctor’s exact words, but not much of an exaggeration, either.) Even though the scales tipped at a number that the media would have you believe would leave me bedridden, suffering three heart attacks a day, and I have a condition that often causes uncontrollable weight gain, all of my systems are in good working order. We had a conversation that went something like this:

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Have you bought some doggy biscuits or kitty toys to support the Humane Society? Get on it. Am I going to nag you in every post I make between now and May 10th? You bet!

I’ve been wanting to blog all day, but haven’t had a chance, what with Easter festivities and liver rot and all. Now that the day’s almost over, some things have transpired that have cast a pallor over what I wanted to write about, making me wonder if it’s not possible to have a good old-fashioned party without someone getting all bent out of shape. I think not. Geez. People need to lighten up and have some damn fun, dammit.

So, I’m going to pretend the pallor doesn’t exist for a bit. Not to diminish it, but because I have faith that it’ll get worked out.

Last night we celebrated my dear friend Beqi’s birthday. Well, most of me celebrated. My liver and sense of shame wrote angry letters for me to read upon awakening in this morning. They, too, need to lighten the fuck up and quit being so damn defensive.

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If you’ve been reading for any length of time, you know certain things about me. You know I love Wilco, beer, dip, and knitting. You know that I have a big mouth. And you know that I love my friends and I love a good cause, and I’ll do nutty things to support both.

Kristina has been one of my bestest friends for a long time. The girl has been swamped of late. She’s in grad school, earning her masters in library and information science. She also works for the Humane Society of Greater Akron, and has adopted a big goober dog named Cosmo and a lovely retired greyhound named Gracie. She’s also got a super-close extended family and a sweet fiance named Drew. She’s a busy, busy one, this girl. She did take a break last fall to go see Wilco with me. Remember this?

Anyway, point is, I love Kristina a lot, and I’m so proud of her for all the stuff she’s done over the past few years. And I’m really excited about the next thing she’s doing. As busy as she is, she and Drew are walking in Bark in the Park to raise money for the horribly overcrowded, outdated shelter where she works, which doesn’t turn animals away.

Of course, I want to help, and if you were around for the Boob-Ha-Ha last summer, you know I like to find creative ways to help. Here’s what I’m gonna do: in honor of my peanut butter-thieving hound, Chloe, I’m going to be selling homemade peanut butter bone doggie treats. They’re $8 for a dozen, and every single penny of that will go to Bark in the Park. Eight dollars provides one day of food and shelter for a homeless animal.

If you’re a feline person, $8 will get you a pair of hand-knit catnip toys.

If you want to help the Humane Society of Greater Akron, provide your pup with some yummy, healthy treats, and force me to slave over a hot oven, drop me an email at poppymom@gmail.com before May 10th. I’ll tell you were to send payment and put Clara Jane to work start shuffling around my kitchen.

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I’ve got random, scattered things to tell, some that are too meaty for dots. So I’m just going to leap from topic to topic.

Guess who has pairs of tickets to both St. Louis Wilco shows already? That would be Brian and me! I’ve never had good luck with fan club presales, but we got doubly lucky this time. Thrilled? Beyond. Let me know if you’re going to the show because I intend to have the best time ever. You know you don’t want to miss that.

Peanut butter sandwiches are currently banned in my house. No, luckily, we’re not the victims of a horrible peanut allergy, thank God. We’re the victims of thieving hounds and reckless, wasteful children. Rather, one child – mine. Every morning, Clara Jane tells me she wants a peanut butter sandwich and an apple for breakfast. Every morning, I fix it. And damn near every morning, my Basset hound, Chloe, steals the fucking sandwich. On Monday, Clara Jane sat in one of her little chairs with her plate on her lap three hour after I made the sandwich. She started with the apple, which gave Chloe the opportunity to simply glide by and steal the sandwich in a maneuver so sleek it’s never been witnessed in the world of Basset hounds. These are not sleek, nimble animals. So, Clara Jane starts screaming for another sandwich. I managed to get her to ask nicely, which she did, only to resume screaming while I made sandwich #2. Gave it to the kid, who returned to her chair and, goddamn it, got bamboozled by the fucking dog a second time.

I went to culinary school. I owned a catering company. I wrote for a food magazine. I taught culinary classes. I refuse to make multiple peanut butter sandwiches a day for my damn dog.

Not that Clara Jane needs peanut butter. Not when she participated in three Easter egg hunts in a 30-hour period.

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It’s been a week of firsts around here. Clara Jane went to her first parade. We had our first family trip to the Lincoln Theater on Sunday to see “Horton Hears a Who”. I brokered my first real estate deal (not really). And today, Clara Jane had her first field trip, which also happened to be her first trip to a nursing home.As you can see, the excitement hung thick in the air:

We’ve had bad luck with this field trip from the get-go. Permission slips went out two weeks ago, when I changed Clara Jane’s school schedule to suit my concert-going needs. Since she wasn’t at school on her regular days, they forgot to get a permission slip to me until last week. No problem. It just meant that the first-come-first-served seating on the bus was filled by the time I returned the slip. No real biggie, as I intended to go with her. How could I miss my baby’s first field trip?

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Even though Clara Jane is over four years old, we’d never taken her to a parade until today. While living in St. Louis, it seemed like all of the parades were crazy zoos of drunken maniacs, a theory based on, well, nothing, since I’ve never actually been to a parade in St. Louis.

Truth is, I’m not a fan of parades, so I always find an excuse to get out of going to them.

But not today, by God! It’s not fair to deny my child the possibility of clown horror and getting her toes run over by drunk old men in little cars just because I don’t find it entertaining, right? Instead of braving the scary Land Beyond the River, where I’m pretty sure everyone is armed and has nothing in their bloodstreams except Bud Light, we opted for the sixth annual Prettytown St. Patrick’s Day parade.

How fun was it? So much damn fun that I got quoted in the local newspaper during one of my moments of crazy-enthusiastic civic pride. Clara Jane got quoted regarding her love of crap thrown from floats.

If you watch the video posted on the news story’s website, listen for the sound of some deranged woman shrieking, “Woooo! Thank you!” upon being tossed another strand of green beads. That crazy lady is me.

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• Don’t mind me. I’m in a blue funk. I think it’s hormonal, combined with spring fever, Spirited Child Syndrome, and being in food limbo. Nothing sounds good. So blah.
• I’m optimistic that this weekend might change that. Prettytown’s St. Pat’s parade is on Saturday. Later that night, friends are coming over. There might be a repeat of last weekend’s Juice Box Incident. Target has a line of juice boxes that they call “wine cube”. I think there was something wrong with it because after I drank it, I laughed until I couldn’t breathe, and then lost my glasses. I think we need to see if it was an isolated incident due to faulty juice manufacturing, or if I’m having some pleasant allergic reaction to the juice.
• I really put my foot in my mouth yesterday. I mean, worse than usual.
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I hate self-help books. Oh God, I hate hate hate hate them. Even moreso, I hate child psychology books, since I’m under the completely unfounded impression that such books prey on parental insecurities and turn many issues into “problems” that are merely “eccentricities.”

That having been said, last week I finally reached a breaking point. With Clara Jane sitting in the middle of the main aisle in the bookstore, refusing to budge until she finished the book she was reading, I darted into the parenting section and grabbed “Raising Your Spirited Child”. It seemed a bit more positive than the book beside it on the shelf: “Taming the Spirited Child”. They didn’t have any copies of “Breaking Your Spirited Child Like an Ill-Bred Quarter Horse.”

Before I had Clara Jane, I recall a friend of mine reading “Raising the Spirited Child”. I thought it was so cool, this idea of having a spirited child. That’s what I want! We’ve got spirit, yes we do! Spirit sounds like fun. Lively. Smart.

Turns out, “spirited” is just a euphemism for intense, loud, disagreeable, head-strong, stubborn, tantrumy, flicking little banshee-child.

See? I’ve already failed the first lesson in the book: change those negative adjectives into positives! Hm. Let’s try that.

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