I had two moments yesterday that have verified my love of Prettytown:

1. The downtown fountain’s finally on!
2. While visiting the bathroom at the downtown local cafe, the little old lady exiting with me told me to have a nice day. That’s saying something, when two strangers can share a tiny, two-stall bathroom and wish each other well at the end of the experience. I’ve never had that occur anywhere else.

Something I didn’t particularly enjoy yesterday: being left in charge of a preschool class against my will. Clara Jane’s Tuesday teacher is eight months pregnant, and I totally understand that she’s going to be taking days off. No problem there. I don’t mind substitute teachers, and I appreciate the fact that it can take a certain degree of coordinating to get the teacher where she needs to be. I’m ultimately a patient person, believe it or not.

What I don’t appreciate is being the first people in the classroom, settling in to read a book to my always-distraught child, and having the other parents dump their kids in the room and leave. I am not paid to be here! And if I wanted to take care of six kids, I would have created six kids by now. For nearly 10 minutes, I read books to the kids (which started out as reading a book to my kid) while parents shoved their kids into the classroom and bailed without uttering one word to me.

It’s not that they thought I was the teacher. Every single one of the parents involved sees me dropping off and picking up my kid at least once a week. I know this is a small, relatively safe town, but I can’t imagine just leaving my kid in a classroom that doesn’t contain the person I am 100% sure is going to be her teacher for the day.

I’ll be having a word with the director at pick-up this afternoon, since I couldn’t catch her yesterday. And from now on I’m coming equipped with a lesson plan. It’s going to consist of teaching the kids to sing “Another Brick in the Wall” while reenacting the video. Or teaching them to say, “Goddamn, Mom! What the fuck’s your problem, going off and leaving me with a motherfucking stranger like that? Are you intellectually ill-equipped or just an asshole?”

Now that I have that out of my system, you probably want to hear about Alton Brown, and why he yelled at me on Sunday, don’t you?

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The Poppymom family has opted to welcome the first temperate days of spring by developing Lung Crud. We’re all three in various stages of hacking, coughing, wheezing nightmareland. For three straight nights, I have woken myself with my own wheezing. Now, I’ve got a long, long history of upper respiratory issues that date back to early childhood, but I’ve never woken myself up wheezing. I can only describe it as feeling like things are percolating in my throat and upper chest, and I can hear it echoing around my skull.

Clara Jane and Brian have milder versions. She’s improving. He’s threatening to break out the bourbon and burn out the crud before it grows. “I see what you’re doing and I don’t wanna do it!” Smart boy, that one. I wish I’d thought to partake in the mark o’ the maker a few nights ago. Maybe that’s why Clara Jane’s mainly limited her crude to a runny nose; all those Manhattans she drinks.

So what’s the best thing for a family with a possible case of BRLC (Bourbon-Resistant Lung Crud) to do? Why, go to Meredith Pudding’s birthday party and infect everyone else! Considering it was at a bouncey equipment facility, I’m assuming that either the place is hosed down with Lysol every 45 minutes, or is a total petri dish that renders children immune to all strains of everything. I know I felt better while I was there. Maybe that’s because it was fun and there was cake.

Clara Jane and I didn’t leave the house on Friday, and that never happens. It wasn’t just the lung crud, but my truck was in the shop. I could have picked it up but frankly, didn’t feel like it. Instead we did Productive Mother-Daughter Activities like planting flowers (and coughing), stuffing catnip toys (and coughing), throwing polyfil batting all over the basement (and coughing) and peeing on the floor (and coughing).

Actually, Clara Jane only did the last one. I haven’t coughed to the point of peeing myself, but I am concerned about the condition of some of my right-side ribs. I think they might not be attached to anything anymore.

So I’m shuffling (and coughing). I’m also trying to get the hang of all this extra blogging. I honestly can’t remember if I mentioned this, but I’m now blogging at Mad About Martha and on several sites on the Well Fed Network. My first piece is up at Well Fed’s cookbook/magazine/recipe site, Paper Palate. I’ve submitted pieces to MAM and Kids Cuisine. And if I manage to keep my lungs down, I should have more submitted to Growers & Grocers and A Nice Cuppa. Oh, and that other food blog I started. And yes, it’s going to take me some time to strike a balance with all these new writing projects. Tomorrow, I’m going on assignment to hear Alton Brown talk about his new book, Feasting on Asphalt: The River Run. I don’t want to infect Alton; I love Alton. If I was going to pass along the crud, I’d much rather do so when Bobby Flay’s in town in a few weeks. But that would be meaning in his presence and once was enough, thanks. For his sake I hope Alton brings bourbon.

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• I have a beast that moved into my chest last night. It’s 80 degrees outside and I’m coughing like it’s January. My usual October cough didn’t happen last year; I guess it was simply running six months late.
• My lord, this child … I don’t want to complain about her. I don’t. But my God. On Monday we made what I thought would be a fun afternoon outing to Eckert’s Farm. We shared a lovely lunch at their restaurant, bought some locally-grown pork chops at their store, had a screaming hissy meltdown fit in the parking lot because someone dropped a penny under the truck and someone’s mother refused to shimmy under said truck and fetch the penny, and then bought some herb plants in their garden center while someone screamed and cried. The latter would be her, not me, but believe me, I wanted to. On the plus side, I think I understand those people who get married, have kids, and suddenly take up gardening after a lifetime of wimpering when their hands get dirty. When you’re that frustrated and angry, it helps to take a big fucking spike and destroy the roots of a decade’s worth of dead autumn mums.
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• And who said anger couldn’t be pretty, productive, and environmentally-friendly?
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I vaguely remember my first concert. I was about Clara Jane’s age and my parents took me to see some country line-up at the Missouri State Fair. I know Roy Clark was involved. I think Dolly Parton was, too, but that might just be wishful thinking/false remembering on my part.

A few years later they took me to see Emmylou Harris. I didn’t care much at the time but damn if I wouldn’t pay top dollar to see her now.

I’m ashamed to admit the first concert I went to of my own volition. Mr. Mister.

Shut up. It was 1986 and if you were 13 years old and a band that cute came to the state fair in your podunk town, you would have went, too.

I hope Clara Jane remembers her first concert. It was Saturday, which happened to be my new favorite holiday – National Record Store Day!  Did you celebrate? I certainly hope so because in a lot of ways, it’s better than Christmas. You see, on National Record Store Day, St. Gunter Glieben Glauchen Globen rewards all the good music nerds who spend money at their struggling independent record store of choice with large goodie bags of sampler CDs, free music magazines and, in my case, a snazzy 8″x10″ art print of Bob Dylan. If you’re really good, you might to rock your face off to some live in-store performances.

But like with all holidays, it’s really for the children, which might explain why Euclid Records turned into Middle-Aged Hipster Romper Room in time for the 12:00 performance of The Bottle Rockets.

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It helps if you start by having poop-related snafus throughout the week.

Earthquakes don’t help. I slept through the first one, at 4:30 AM. Brian and Clara Jane didn’t. She didn’t throw a fit. It wasn’t until later in the day, when she was behaving as if all the blood in her body was running backwards and on fire that I thought to ask, “Hey. Did you feel your bed shake last night?” Sure enough, she did. A friend of mine in San Fransisco pointed out that a 5.2 ain’t too shabby. And yet, I slept through it, if that tells you how out of it I am. I did feel the 10:15 4.6 aftershock. That was fun. I was composing an email to my friend Kim (well, one of the Kims. There are many of them. This one lives in Chicago.). We were discussing how we felt like we’d missed out by sleeping through the earthquake and I swear, no sooner did the words leave my fingers than my chair started doing the hula. I hadn’t had my Klonopin yet, so it wasn’t as much fun as it should have been.

I’m a little convinced that, since this quake was on a little faultline that connects to the New Madrid faultline, that this is just a warm-up before the earth eats us as the main entree for its Memorial Day picnic. I mean, it’s the Midwest. We probably taste like hot dogs.

Another sign that the End Times might be here – I have a mystical creature combo running amok in my house.

Costume courtesy of my friend Mary and her daughter Alice, who has outgrown the unicornpegasus outfit and replaced it with a tiger outfit.

Clara Jane and Alice spent yesterday at Cooperella, taking turns pretending to be dogs and dog-walkers. Occasionally blind dog-walkers who run into doors. Or walkers who hail cabs. Sometimes the unicornpegasus was involved.

I don’t understand children at all.

Because of the dog-playing and the earthquake, I’ve had two Uncle Tupelo songs stuck in my head all day: New Madrid and their cover of Iggy Pop’s “I Wanna be Your Dog”.

Clara Jane informed me today, apropos of nothing, that she loves me, but she loves Daddy much better. I cried. Then I postponed lunch to drown my misery in a white chocolate mocha while Clara Jane cried because I was crying. The truck might as well have had, “Hey Earth! Swallow us, already!” soaped onto the windows.

Things that made Clara Jane cry today:

• Me crying because I’ve devoted the past five years of my life to her only to be informed I’m second fiddle.
• Not getting a gecko made from recycled newspaper at World Market. I asked her if she wanted it. She declined. Then she screamed and sobbed when it didn’t come home with us.
• Dropping her cup of water on the truck floor.
• Not being allowed to listen to “Radar Gun” 3o minutes straight like she did yesterday.
• The suggestion that perhaps she’d feel less piqued if she partook in a brief nap.

Things that made me cry today:

• Clara Jane

I have been on the couch, in the same position, for three hours. Only my fingers are capable of shuffling at this point. Perhaps the earth will shake me upstairs to my bed sometime tonight.

Oh, and if “New Madrid” appears on the shuffle, I’m going into apocalypse prep mode.

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Yep, the title pretty much says it all. Crap. On my wall.

Tonight my naked child scratched her butt, inspected her fingers, curled her lip and rubbed her fingers on the living room wall. Since I was suffering from a headache and had gone mostly blind, I only knew something was wrong by the scream Brian emitted. It wasn’t much different than the scream he emitted that one time Chloe the Basset was dragging her ass on the floor, drug it across his foot, and left a brown streak.

The child dug poop out of her butt and wiped it on the living room wall.

I don’t suppose this would be a good time to mention that today I learned I’ll be contributing to two websites – Mad About Martha and The Well Fed Network, would it? At least I’ll have editors on those sites who will put an end to my recent poop posting parade.

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You might not know this, unless you know me personally, but Brian has worked for one of the world’s largest pet food companies for almost eight years. Just found out yesterday that he’s finally getting a long-awaited promotion, matter of fact. And yet, despite the abundance of employee-discount high-grade dog food and bags and bags and bags of free dog treats Brian brings home, you’d think these two idiot-hounds of ours never get fed a proper meal.

Awhile back I wrote about how Chloe, the Basset hound, has been stealing Clara Jane’s peanut butter sandwiches. That’s been curtailed. Now, I feed Clara Jane breakfasts that the dogs don’t like, like watermelon and Beggin’ Strips. Kids don’t k know it’s not bacon! Although this one bad dog habit’s been broken, others remain.

Brian, Clara Jane and I spent some time in the backyard tonight. Judging from the fecal matter in our yard, you’d think our dogs subsist on nothing but Hershey’s Kisses (Murphy) and pet-friendly cat litter pellets (Chloe). Four piles of twisted little Hershey’s Kisses wrappers in my backyard. Tons of turds, studded with pet-friendly cat litter pellets. Considering that some of them were more pellet than poop, I have a feeling Chloe wasn’t feeling too friendly towards them when they came out. And yet, she keeps raiding the litter box despite the elaborate barricades Brian keeps creating.

Today, I came home to find the last 2/3 of a tube of Girl Scout Do-Si-Do cookies stolen and eaten. At least they weren’t chocolate.

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I’m not doing two dot-posts in a row, although this is going to be a dot-post without the dots. It’s been a disjointed kind of weekend.

Curse you, May 10th. So many things are happening in St. Louis that weekend, and I keep saying no because we’ll be going to my hometown for Mother’s Day. But now there’s an offer I can’t refuse on behalf of my daughter. Dan Zanes, who she loves like I love Wilco, will finally be coming to St. Louis. Today, I figure out a way to take her to see him while spending the weekend in my hometown. Got a cloner I can borrow? No longer an issue, as both shows are already sold out, goddammit. I should check these things before I go on crazy wild goose chases to make plans.

Speaking of Clara Jane, why won’t she sleep later than 7 AM? This is getting quite old. This weekend has, blessedly, been somewhat more peaceful than the rest of the week has been. We were at the bookstore on Friday, and she was acting like one of the apocalypse horsemen. While I issued orders through gritted teeth, one of the sweet storytime ladies patted me on the shoulder and said, “You are so patient with her.” I said, “Thank you, but I don’t feel very patient right now.” I guess the fact that my behavior appears patient is more important than the fact that I can feel my brain melting from the white heat of the impatience that dwells within me. Perhaps I’m doing something right.

Then again, I’ve felt like hell all weekend. I think I have repressed impatience poisoning.

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• After last week’s fun in Chicago, I’ve had trouble readjusting to civilian life.
• Did I mention that I took Megabus for  my Chicago travels? I’d do it again. My only complaint: the driver on Sunday was about the same age as my grandfather. Not that I’m ageist; I’m thrilled that there’s a company willing to give octogenarians the opportunity to make money while seeing the country from the open road. Wait – no, I’m not thrilled about that part. Ultimately I felt bad for the guy. He was a frail little club-footed guy who missed all of the downtown St. Louis exits. Usually you have to pay airline prices for travel excitement of that level.
• Speaking of which, I bought plane tickets to Detroit this week to visit Sal in June.
• Clara Jane’s been utterly psychotic this week. Blah blah blah. Motherhood’s hard. That pretty much sums it up.
• I went to a craft salon at Cooperella tonight. While that sounds like an opportunity to get popsicle sticks glued into my hair, it wasn’t. More of a chance to hang with other crafty types over food and coffee, make stuff, talk, and have a good time.
• I finished reading Richard Russo’s Bridge of Sighs last night. When I grow up I want to live in a Richard Russo novel.
• I’ve got about a bazillion dog biscuits and cat toys to make for you people who’ve purchased them to benefit the Greater Akron Humane Society. But you can still order. I’ll get them finished. Eventually.
• Murphy smiles when you buy dog biscuits.
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• Brian moved nearly 10,000 music files from my old PC to my MacBook last week, which means we might get a proper shuffle, at long last. I’ve also been on a total CD buying binge. If you like to rock out hardcore, go get The Whigs.

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That’s right. Chicago is but a memory. Unlike my last entry, I’m sitting in a St. Louis Bread Co. in downtown Prettytown, which is a different planet than a Starbucks in downtown Chicago. Not in a bad way, though. I enjoy eavesdropping on old men more than I enjoy eavesdropping on guys in power suits. The Chicago Starbucks also didn’t have a patron in her seventies, decked in a puffy silver lame’ down jacket with rhinestones pinned throughout her platinum bouffant. Some things, you just can’t get in the big city.

I’m not sure what the deal is with old women in Prettytown and the lame’, but I like it. I hope to someday be a part of the Old Lady Lame’ Krewe. They should have a float in all the local parades.

Anyway, Chicago. What a hugely fun and soul-reviving weekend! I didn’t decide to make the trip until a week before, and I’m so glad I did. Any time spent with Kate is time well-spent. She’s got this crazy calming effect on me; I just feel completely relaxed in her presence, even when she’s yelling at traffic or the White Sox.

I think we managed to squeeze all of my favorite things into the brief trip. There was shitloads of coffee, including a trip to Metropolis and a bag of their Spice Island beans from my friend Kim. There was tons of excellent food, which I’ve already written about elsewhere. We did some yarning at the most excellent Loopy Yarns in the South Loop. Fun neighborhood, and way fun yarn shop. I wanted to stay all night and hang out with the staff. I scored some Flat Foot and Koigu sock yarns which I can’t get in St. Louis.

And, of course, there was Wilco stuff. When isn’t there?

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