Poppy Mom

Bad day, okay day

It's been a rough one here, Folks, so excuse me if I'm not my usual chipper self.

Very long day. This week, I have been gradually weening myself from my delightful breast pump. A quick review: Clara Jane ran in terror - well, she didn't run, but if her newborn legs could have carried her, she would have - from my gigantic ta-tas coming at her tiny head, so we were never successful in breastfeeding. But I'm stubborn, and I wanted her to have breastmilk. For the past 4.5 months, I've spent at least an hour a day, often more, attached to this milking torture devise.

In recent weeks, as Clara "HUNGRY!" Jane has become a more voracious eater, I haven't been able to keep up. One day last week, it hit me: I'm done. I knew that I would know when the time was right to stop this infernal pumping. As much as I would have liked to quit cold turkey, I did the right thing. I've gradually been decreasing my pumping time. I am glad to say that I haven't stuck any parts of my body into a vaccum in two days.

One problem: nobody tells women about the hormone effects that go along with bringing an end to lactation. A couple of my friends gave me a heads-up last week, luckily. It still wasn't enough, though. Today, the excess progesterone in my body declared war on my brain.

The troops are currently regrouping. As it stands, my brain is currently winning, but only slightly. Lots of little brain cell soldiers were severely wounded in action today.

I wonder how crushed-up Prozac capsules would taste sprinkled on ice cream?

And poor Clara Jane - she was so cranky today. The child refused to take a nap. Before it was all said and done, we were both exhausted and completely cried out. And yet, we're still awake.

Before I completely slammed into the hormone brick wall, I noticed some things amiss with my thought process. It probably didn't help that I had changed my shirt three times before noon. Since Clara Jane was insisting on being held, I was in the line of fire everytime she spit up. Hormonal and reeking of baby puke. Always a good look for any glowing new mom.

During one of her fussy spells, we were rocking in the living room. I turned the TV to Noggin, in hopes that the noise from the kiddie shows would distract her. I don't think she noticed, but they certainly distracted me.

A word of advice to my fellow girl-type people: Don't watch "Blues Clues" when you're on the verge of a hormonal breakdown. Just don't.

For starters, I got entirely too excited when I solved one of the little puzzles. I have an IQ that the tests claim is over 140. At least, that was before the hormones starting kicking the shit out of my brain. How low do those points have to drop when solving a Blue's Clues puzzle makes you feel like a genius?

I was so proud, and then so sad.

And then things got really weird. Definitely hormone-weird.

Now, I think we can all agree that Steve is cute in an impish, virginal sorta way, possibly with a brooding, slightly rumpled indie-rock hottie trapped inside.

Today, thanks to my hormones, I see Steve in a whole new light. And my friends, the lightbulb shining that light could use some Windex, because it's dirrrrrrrrrrrrrrty!

How is a hormone-addled mom supposed to take it when Steve says, "I bet she'd use that paw later."

Oh yeah, she will!

Or, "It has a circle at the end and long lines down the side."

Yes, sir! I'll just bet it does.

Steve does little drawings of the clues. A penis-shaped paper towl tube. A vaguely vaginal tissue box holder.

Add some talking inanimate objects to the mix, and a woman's brain is weakened enough for the hormone troops to strike. And strike, they did.

Yes, sir.

Blog Stuff and Baby Update

Today has been pretty routine. No hair traumas, no major hissy fits from the child or her mother. So, I thought I'd take care of a little official blog bidness.

First and foremost, much love to Matilda444, who has made an ultra-generous donation to America's Second Harvest via Project Blog. Matilda's donation will make it possible for food banks to distribute 750 meals to people in need. Matilda, you rock! Thank you!

I'm going to add a new little feature to the sidebar. Since I do a lot of recipe development, I'm going to start posting links to some of my stuff. Good practice for getting my ass in gear and finally writing that cookbook I've been talking about for years.

Now, on the some Clara Jane news.

Peaches. Oh, for the love of organic white peaches! That's what this child of mine is eating with absolute frenzy. Our first foray into homemade baby food has gone wonderfully well. Since Saturday she's been getting pureed white peaches twice a day. We don't have any good messy-baby photos, because she doesn't spit them out. She loves them. She now even recognizes her little purple baby bowl. When she sees it, she goes nuts.

Today, she was rolling on the living room floor and noticed the empty bowl a few feet away from her. Clara "Peaches" Jane rolled onto her side and proceeded to scooch to the bowl. Child, you're only 4.5 months old! Slow the frick down! I think her new friend Narnia "Most Mobile 6-month-old Ever" Hope might be a bad influence on my child. It was after watching Narnia crawling and pulling herself up that Clara "Copycat" Jane started getting these ideas.

Slow down!!

I might be posting from prison tomorrow night. One of B.'s friends, who I will only refer to as "Spanker", will be paying us a visit. I have issues with Spanker. I set Spanker up with one of my best friends last year. Because, having known Spanker for 5 years, I thought he was a good guy.

You know how to make a good guy turn into a total monkey-spank? Fix him up with one of your best friends. Ghandi probably would have sprouted horns and eaten meat if some chick had fixed him up with one of her best friends.

I've managed to avoid seeing him for over a year. A big part of me would like to not be here tomorrow. But there's the sick part of me that's greatly looking forward to unnerving Spanker. I'm not going to do anything mean. I'm just going to be quiet. Very quiet. It scares the hell out of people when I'm quiet, since it's such a rare occurance.

And if I snap and do something mean, I'm sure they'll let my baby visit me in the hoosgow on Mother's Day and my birthday.

If you want to be in my good graces ...

... and I know you do, you'll go, post-haste, and start reading the blog of my dear friend Exena. She's new to this, but she's a kick-ass writer. Very funny and insightful. She's been keeping me entertained and giving me lots to think about for almost four years. Go. Read. Now.

And while you're at it, go see Kara. That funny and insightful stuff I said about Exena? Applies to Kara, too.

If you like me, you're gonna just love my friends. Friends are for sharing. I'm sharing mine. With you. Today.

Now, let's all hold hands and sing "We Are the World". After you go read, or course.

The Summer of the Lone Pigtail

I've got a serious hair problem. Or maybe it's a serious mental health problem. Most likely, it's both.

I love wearing my hair in pigtails. No, I'm not 7; I'm almost 32. Nothing screams "retarded adolesence" like a woman in her 30s, with a chld of her own, sporting Shirley Temple-style pigtails on either side of her head. I'm sure I look like a dork; I do have mirrors in my house, after all.

But I really don't care. My hair's too short in the front for a single ponytail, and I don't like the severe instant-facelift look. My hair's shoulder-length, naturally curly, and so damn thick that I could clean my brush and knit a sweater, if I knew how to knit. And when it's June in St. Louis, and the temps and humidity are on the rise, the hair has got to go.

No, cutting it short isn't an option. That's against my religious beliefs. And no, I'm not Pentecostal. I belong to The Church of Too Damn Lazy to Get My Hair Trimmed Every Month.

This morning, I was rushing to get bathed, toothbrushed, deodoranted, dressed, and pigtailed in the five minutes when Clara "Hair-Don't" Jane was willing to tolerate not being the center of the universe.

I was too slow.

She started fussing right before I began work on the pigtails. Instead of stopping, placating her, and resuming, I hurridly slopped together the 'tails. So what if they're crooked? I'm a 31-year-old with pigtails, for God's sake. Dignity went out the window long, long ago.

We went about our day. Visited some friends, paid a visit to B. at work, did some shopping. About mid-afternoon my too-short bangs were escaping from the 'tails. I pulled the right pigtail free from its elastic and redid it. Then I tried to pull the left one free.

I tried.

And I tried.

And then I started to panic.

You know, no matter how hard one pulls and tugs on an elastic that's got a big frizzy curl wrapped around it, it's not going to budge. It's just going to get tighter and tighter and tighter, until there's one whole lock of hair permanently attached to said elastic.

Maybe this is a good thing, this hair elastic that's currently welded to my head. I mean, I spend a lot of time searching for hair elastics, since I tend to leave them all over the house. Now, as long is it's stuck in my hair, at least I'll always know where I can find one!

Sadly, this isn't the first time my hair has gone all boa constrictor on me. In the summer of '95, I got lucky in that my natural hairstyle - wildly curly and untamable - was en vogue. To celebrate this, I stopped brushing my hair. I washed and conditioned regularly, and let it air-dry, resulting in a head full of flowing, thick, just-out-of-bed rumpled curls.

And then the dreadlock formed.

It started slightly to the left of the crown of my head, where the hair elastic is currently residing indefinitely. Overnight - I swear, it wasn't there when I went to bed - this lock of hair turned on me. The hairs spent the entire night, winding over and over and over until in the morning, I had a solitary dread snaking down my back.

Now, what the hell do you do with one dread? I sported it for several weeks, for lack of any ideas short of shaving it off the back of my head.

You'd think I would learn to not tempt the hair-devils. Here I find myself, nines years older but apparently not any wiser, with yet another unwanted hair-appendage jutting from the back of my head. Last time, it eventually took two hours and an entire bottle of conditioner to remedy the situation. This time, I've got a better idea.

Someone give me some scissors.

Clara Jane's Finishing School for Girls

Clara Jane's Guide to Dinner Party Etiquette

1. When your guests arrive at your home for dinner, it's best to present a casual, relaxed image. Passed out cold across Father's chest on the couch works nicely.

2. Offer your guest (in our example, Miss Narnia Hope) the use of your quilt on the living room floor. Have plenty of extra blankets on hand just in case your guest is 6 weeks more advanced than you and needs the extra cushioning when she crashes into the hardwood floor.

3. It's impolite to not join your guests at the dinnertable. Scream loudly so that they won't miss your presence.

4. When your father brings you to the table, where he will eat with one hand while holding you with the other, it's polite to let your guests know that you have already eaten. This can be accomplished by spitting up pureed peaches and formula down your father's shirt.

5. When communicating with your dinner party peers, it's impolite to interrupt. Establish a reparte' in the conversation. Wait your turn. Once your guest stops screaming, feel free to interject with your own screaming. Likewise, your peer should feel free to respond once you cease screaming. After all, witty conversation is all about give and take.

6. All good things must come to an end, and eventually your guests will be leaving. This is a sad moment. Let your guests know that you are sad to see them depart. You can best accomplish this by flinging your arms as wide as they'll go and screaming with such force that your tiny little bald head looks like a large beet that's about to explode.

Robin, Clara "Emily Post" Jane, Matt, and Narnia Hope

Friday miscellany

Lots of rambling little thoughts going through my head today.

1. Well, Arnold, it looks like you put on your ass-hat before you went to work today. I hope a big dog bites you.

2. Did anyone hear the interview between our president (*weep*) and a reporter for RTE, a television network in Ireland? You can read about it here, but it really needs to be heard to get the full cringe-worthy effect, un-spun effect. CNN and Air America Radio have been playing it. Oh boy. To hear this interview, it seems like our country is being led (if you can call it that) by a petulant 16-year-old boy who's pissed off because you won't let him borrow your bitchin' Camero.

3. I guess I'm feeling all political today because I watched Michael Moore's The Big One last night, along with his post-Cannes press conference about Fahrenheit 9/11. I'm so about-to-pop-out-of-my-skin excited about this movie. My goal is to get a baby-sitter and see it before it becomes an historical documentary, since I doubt if they'll be showing it at a Crybaby Matinee anytime soon.

Swirling around the less political portion of my brain:

3. Much thanks to Rev. Matt, Ms. Grits and my anonymous donor for their generous contributions to Project Blog. The contributions from these fine souls will help America's Second Harvest distribute 600 meals to people in need. 600 meals! How many people have you fed today?

4. Clara "Hulk Hogan" Jane had her 4-month check-up today. She's 24 inches long and 14.5 pounds. And strong. She bench-pressed her pediatrician. Granted, the doc iis pretty skinny, but still ... Hulk is progressing wonderfully and - joy of joys - we can start solid food ASAP! I am so excited about this. No jarred food for my child. Nope. I'm making her food. Don't get too impressed; it's not like it's hard to moosh a banana. We'll be starting with pears, peaches or plums tomorrow, depending on what looks good at Clayton Farmer's Market tomorrow morning.

And finally, odd thoughts I entertained, inspired by drivers I encountered today.

5. I have a message for the woman from Illinois who was driving her Pontiac south on 270, going 50 mph in the center lane while reading and making notes on a legal pad that she had propped on the steering wheel: you're not prepared for wherever it is you're going. You're not going to be prepared by the time you get there, no matter how slowly you drive and how much you scribble. But since you seem to be such an effecient multi-tasker, let's see if you can drive while reading, writing, and swerving to dodge the poopy diaper I'm about to throw at your windshield.

6. I get a bit cranky when I see old men with bumper stickers proclaiming their opinions on abortion. Doesn't matter which side of the issue. If you can sprout a uterus and grow a person in it, then I'll consider your opinion on how said uterus should be treated. Go on. I'm waiting.

7. A big tanker truck drove past me. On the side it said, "Beat on tanker only with rubber hammers." OK! That really sounded like fun, this beating on a big tanker with a rubber hammer. I got a little giggly thinking about it. I envisioned the hammer to be one of those squeaky rubber hammers. Then I pictured all of my goofy friends, lined up with brightly-colored squeaky hammers, beating on a tanker. And that thought made my day much brighter.

And you haven't donated because...?

Aren't you even the slightest bit panicked?

I mean, there's less than a month.

Less than a month!

And you still haven't signed up to sponsor me in Project Blog? C'mon! Time's running out! Get on that horse and ride it, already!

Christy, Wendy and Kara have all signed up to help me raise a bunch of money for America's Second Harvest. They rock! You want to be like Christy, Wendy and Kara, right?

Sure you do!

Sponsor.

Now.

Thank you.

I feel so alone

Clara "Snoozy" Jane and I are trying something different today. Usually, if she takes an afternoon nap, she does so in her swing or, preferrably (to her), in my arms. While I do love holding my child and snuggling, and I realize that the time she'll be small enough to do this is woefully short, sometimes it's difficult to spend several hours a day holding her. Mommy has other things to do. Like relax her knotted back muscles. Or go pee-pee in the potty like a big girl.

Today, after she fell asleep in my arms, I decided to try the sane thing - I put her in her crib. Lo and behold, there she naps! And has napped for 90 minutes. Hallelujah! The child can nap on a mattress instead of my engorged boobs and survive! I feel so free, yet so alone. I mean, she's on the other side of the house. It's not like I've got the baby monitor smooshed against my ear, cranked up full blast so I can count every single breath. I wouldn't do that. That would be crazy.

Hold on ... my shoulder's cramping from keeping the monitor in place while I type. Must adjust.

I think she learned these new napping skills while having a fine lunch with the lovely little MC, child of Fluid Pudding. MC and CJ happily leaned towards each other, drooling, smiling and exchanging baby-being tips. That must be the baby version of shaking hands, the drooling. While they leaned and drooled, I dined with Ms. Pudding and Mae Midwest. Two weeks in the blogging world, and I'm already dining with blog royalty while our babies drool on each other.

And here I thought no one would be reading me for months. Color me touched and honored. I just hope I was able to snow them so they didn't notice that I'm really a big dork with spit-up on my shoulder, my bra strap hanging out, and pizza crumbs down the front of my shirt, making the previously-mentioned boobs engorged and itchy. I'm sure they're frantically posting on their blogs right now about what a polite and elegant dinner guest I am.

Did you realize that pacifier-slurping, when amplified through a cheap baby monitor cranked up to full blast, sounds a lot like someone walking across wet concrete while wearing suction cup shoes? Ponder that one while I quietly revel in the joy of my crib-napping wunderkind.

Unwittingly unwitty

I'm feeling rather tired and blah tonight. Last night was a late one, and today was filled with catering and a semi-fussy child. She has been banished to the dungeon, er, basement with her father for a bit so I can finally listen to the new Wilco CD uninterrupted. I'm thoroughly digging on "Spiders (Kidspeak)". It's so loose that it makes my neck muscles want to stop working, which could save me a lot of money on massage therapists.

There is nothing in the world quite as pitiful as watching a one-toothed cat trying to eat a large piece of chicken. Trust me, I saw it today. Pitiful, but funny. I had to reward her for her valient effort, so I cut up the chicken for her before she could choke on it.

Clara Jane rolled onto her stomach for the first time yesterday. She was on her quilt on the floor, and I turned my back for a second. Of course, that's when she did it, so I didn't get to see it. I certainly heard it. Apparently, Clara Jane heard through the baby grapevine that being on one's tummy causes babies to grow up to listen to Celine Dion and wear Lycra bike shorts in public, so she screamed and screamed and screamed. And continued to scream long after I picked her up, so horrible was her fear of what being a tummy-dweller might do to her.

I've deciding that crawling is highly over-rated. I'm sure she'll have no trouble learning to crab-walk, and I know she'll be happy about never having to face the dire consequences of tummy time.

I'm missing the Rufus Wainwright show at the Fox tonight. I guess I could have gone, but I didn't feel like sharing Rufus with Ben Folds and Guster. What the hell is a Guster, anyway? Wasn't that a model of vehicle made by Dodge in the late '70s? Anyway, I'm missing Rufus, which makes me a bit sad. Last time he was in town, I missed him because of being c-sectioned, infected and lactating. I just realized - as of this week, it's been a year since I've been to a concert. A whole year. Jesus. I guess this parenthood business really is turning me into an old person, er, adult.

Great. Now I'm depressed.

Greetings from the 10th circle of Hell!

I've had this theory for several years about the city of Milwaukee. It goes something like this:

People who are too wretched to be damned to hell are sent to spend eternity in Milwaukee.

Now, before you throw your Miller Lite bottles at me, let me just say that I base this on one measly trip to Milwaukee in which I spent most of my time totally lost, following roads that inexplicably dead-ended on railroad tracks. I'm sure there are many fine points of Milwaukee of which I'm ignorant. I will say that they have a swell art museum, which put on an amazing Georgia O'Keefe show in 2001.

Since my tainted (*snort* - I said "taint") Milwaukee trip, I've taken great delight in making fun of the city. Along with my previously-mentioned insult, I also like to refer to it as The 9th Circle of Hell. Unoriginal, but oh well.

Tonight, I was reading the news and I saw this headling: Milwaukee Ranks Poorly in Quality of Life.

And I laughed. See? I was right! The damned are condemned to Milwaukee, I tell ya!

Then I read the article.

Seems that a study by the State University of New York claims that Milwaukee has " the second greatest disparity in quality of life among the nation's 100 largest cities..."

...second only to St. Louis.

I'll shut up and take my Miller Lite Bottle Bashing now, please.

A ghost is born

The title? An homage to the new Wilco CD that was released today. I was going to wait a few weeks to buy it, but I'm weak. I wish I could have gone to the listening party at Saratoga Lanes. If anyone went, please tell me about it so I can live vicariously.

I was out and about last night, though. After spending the day with my poor teething, constipated child, I needed a little Momma Mental Health Time. At that point I was so worn that going to an album release party didn't sound like fun at all. I was much more interested in taking a long drive around the city. I made a big loop, starting at 270 & Rock Road, heading south to 44, taking 44 to 55, then hitting 70 to 170. At dusk, there's almost no traffic, and the weather was perfect for opening the windows. It's been a long time since I let the wind whip through my truck while drive a wee bit too fast and singing along with The Clash. If all frustrated parents were able to take an hour or two to do this, I think there would be many more happy families.

Today has been much better. I got lots and lots of orders for tomorrow's dinner-to-go (including one via this blog - thanks, Beth! ), which always makes me happy. Clara Jane was much happier today and was all a-twitter about going to Sam's and Global Foods. She always seems to get as much of a kick out of Global as I do, although I get more enjoyment out of their selection of gen-u-ine British Cadbury chocolate. You do know that British Cadbury is far superior to American Cadbury, right? And you know that you can get it at Global, right? I knew you were smart like that!

A British Cadbury Whole Nut bar, a new Wilco CD, a non-constipated baby, happy work stuff ... yep, it's pretty good today. Pretty good, indeed.

A little too appropriate

I nabbed this from Amytart.

Tidbits from today that make me question my mothering abilities

1. The crying. Oh lord, the constant, inconsolable crying. And Clara "Calamity" Jane's been fussy, too.

2. There's a large, stinky Basset hound sleeping on the baby sling that I left on the floor. Don't worry - I took the baby out first.

3. My child's poop is blue. Babies aren't supposed to poop blue, right? My big concern is that it's ruining my strong, deep affection for blue cheese with every diaper I change.

4. There isn't a clean bottle in my house. None. Zilch. Every single one of them is dirty. If Calamity gets hungry, she's just going to have to learn to breastfeed once and for all, instead of exercising the luxury of having fresh-squeezed breastmilk in a clean bottle.

5. Calamity is more interested in watching TV than in playing with me. I figured I'd get at least 6 months with her before the media got its stranglehold.

6. While watching Food TV, she coos and gurgles at Rachel Ray of "30-Minute Meals". I think she realizes that Rachel is a far perkier chef than me, who probably doesn't have a rival chef, and therefore she wishes to be Rachel's child.

7. Calamity has screamed and cried all day. Until she finally made me break down and cry. Then she laughed. I didn't think she'd start doing that until at least puberty.

8. There's more breastmilk clinging to the top of my pajamas (which I'm still wearing, of course) than there is in any of the empty, dirty bottles. Maybe I can just ring my shirt into her hungry little bird-mouth at her next meal.

We have a pediatrician appointment on Friday. Obviously, I've got some major issues to discuss with that woman.

For Brian, on his first Father's Day

Brian & Clara Jane, 2.15.04

Brian, thank you for understanding when I changed my mind and decided that I really did want to have children.

Thank you for going to every single doctor's appointment with me while I was pregnant.

Thank you for tolerating the pregnancy-induced whining, tears, and fury and for never making me feel like there was something wrong with me.

Thank you for staying beside me through 34 hours of labor, a nasty c-section, and all the ugliness that followed. It takes a big man to not flinch through some of the things you had to see occuring to my body.

Thank you for getting me out of the chair on the most frightening day of my life. And thank you for dragging me out of the metaphorical chair when I haven't been able to get out of it myself.

Thank you for getting up with Clara Jane every single night of her life, just so I might sleep.

Thank you for all the times you've risked the ire of your nutcase boss so you could be here when Clara Jane and I needed you.

Thank you for every dirty diaper you've changed.

Thank you for sharing your big blue eyes and white-blonde hair with our beautiful daughter.

Thank you for making her laugh and soothing her cries.

Thank you for making me laugh and soothing my cries.

Thank you for being strong during this past year, when we went through more joy and fear than either of us every imagined.

Thank you for loving Clara Jane and me.

Happy Father's Day

Brian & Clara Jane, 6.19.04

How to spend the most gloriously beautiful day of the year

Today was a rare day is this part of the world. Clear sky. No humidity. Temperatures in the 70s. Even though B. and I had declared that we would spend the day at home, catching up on stuff, around 1:30 I changed my mind. It would be criminal to do things that needed to be done on such a beautiful day. Being the drill sargent that I am, I started whipping the troops into gear. Get that baby ready! Get yourself ready! I'm hitting the shower! Hup two three four!

I took my shower and was ready to go. I just needed to clothe my naked body. I went into the bedroom to fetch my jeans and a t-shirt and what did I find? B. and Clara Jane, stretched out across the width of the bed, playing. Not ready to go. I prepared to give them another round of marching orders but you know, they looked mighty comfy. I guess a little 10-minute siesta wouldn't hurt anything. I stretched out with them for a sweet little family moment.

Four hours later, I woke up.

Bye bye beautiful day. Hello insomnia-ridden night.

Cancel the stoning. I'm feeling much better now

Ah, yes. The blissful glories of a theraputic massage. Even though hot rocks weren't involved, I had a divine 1-hour, baby-free massage at Yoga Doc in beautiful downtown Kirkwood. Donna who works at Yoga Doc is my new best friend. Not just because she gave me one hell of a massage, but because she touched my bare butt and didn't snicker.

I love her.

There's a knot in the middle of my back that's so big that, if a massage therapist is ever able to unkink it, all of my limbs are guaranteed to fall of. Donna tried, though. She really did.

While the pummelling was happening, B. and Clara Jane strolled around downtown and purchased one of my favorite goodies - chocolate-covered strawberries from Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate. We picked up a bottle of Cava (that's Spanish sparkling wine), so it looks like I'll be having bubbly, berries, and sex for dinner.

After my blissful afternoon, I came home to this news: Charges Against Winona Ryder Reduced.

Thank you, Jesus!

Ah, I think I just felt the knot in my back loosen ever-so-slightly in joy.

Why I need a motherphucking massage, dammit

I need a massage. Badly. Not one of those sissy frou-frou "spa massages" where someone smears oil on my back. I need a real massage, preferably one in which heavy items are whacked into my shoulders blade, beating the knots in my muscles into wimpering submission. And it's stressing me out. Either that, or I'm stressed out, which is causing my back to holler like a hound dog under a truck's front wheels. Actually, there are many reasons for my back malady. They include:

-having a little child who believes in her tiny little heart that she will immeditely die of neglect if she's not held at least 20 hours a day.

-Spending a chunk of that time dancing in circles around my house to "Shaky Puddin' by The Soledad Brothers until we're both ready to puke.

-lugging around perpetually engorged boobs that were breaking my back long before I got pregnant.

-spending at least an hour a day hunched over a Medela breast pump (moo.)

But just try getting a massage when keeping banker's hours, which I'm essentially doing, since I won't take Clara Jane to a massage appointment. Oh, there are therapists who will make house calls, but why in the hell would I want a massage in my house? Yeah, that would work. We can set up the massage table in my cramped living room where I can listen to B. watching the same episode of "Stargate SG-1" over and over (as best as I can tell, there's only one episode of the show). We can just park Clara Jane under the face hole in the massage table so that I'm not out of her sight and will be able to fulfill my re-binkying duties. Whiney, The One-Toothed Wonder, can perch on my ass while my hounds jump and claw at ther massage therapist. Throw in a few phone calls from my mom, and drop-ins from my neighbor's 8-year-old son and you've got the ultimate in relaxation. And forget that New Age music crap. The sounds of my neighbors running their dune buggy up and down my street will lull me into a state of nirvana, I'm sure.

Lucky me, B. is able to take off work a few hours early today, so he's going to be in charge of Clara "I will not be ignored" Jane while I hopefully get someone to pound the hell out of my back. If I wasn't ready for a massge before, I certainly am now. Apparently, one must be a rock star in order to get a last-minute massage appointment in this town. And speaking of rocks, that's what I want - a hot stone therapy massage. I found a therapist in St. Charles last night who does this for a mere $55/hour. So, I dropped her an email. Alas, her daughter has a dance rehersal this afternoon, so she's not working.

Well, my daughter has a hissy fit scheduled for this afternoon and you don't see me taking off work for the occasion.

This morning, I resumed my search online. Now, can someone answer me this: why, oh why, have salons and day spas not discovered the wonder and magic that is the internet? These businesses have woefully few websites. And quite frankly, I'm not going to make an appointment unless I know how much it's going to cost, and I don't have all day to call every salon and day spa in town. Not unless they'd like to listen to Clara Jane screaming through the phone, and I prefer to save The Screaming Time for phone calls to bill collectors and insurance agencies.

I found a few local salons with websites, so I quickly tried to call during the 15 minutes The Scream Queen was dozing.

"Salon de Blah Blah. May I please put you on hold?"

Um, do I actually have a choice in the matter. No, dammit! No, you may not put me on hold!

She put me on hold, where I listened to the Muzak version of "Broken Wings" by Mr. Mister in its entirity. It's not a whole lot different than the original version. My waiting was rewarded by being told that, no, that would not have me today.

Fine.

Spa Blah Blah didn't have any openings, either. I mean, honestly! Don't these people leave blanks on their schedules for emergencies? And this is an emergency, dammit! If I don't get a massage today, I'm gonna be throwing hot stones at someone!

I did manage to get an appointment for a plain ol' regular massage. There will be no flinging of hot rocks at my bare flesh today. Just a good pummelling, I hope.

Project Blog - A Tutorial

"Why, Poppy," two of my friends have said, "We would love to sponsor you in Project Blog and help you raise a stupendous amount of cash for America's Second Harvest so that not so many people are forced to go hungry. However, we know not how to sign up for this sponsorship. Please guide us, O Giver of Chow."

Here's how you do it:

1. Go to www.project-blog.org.

2. On the left side, there's a link called "create an account". Click on it and fill out the required info. Do whatever they tell you to do.

3. Once you're registered, go back to the main page and log in.

4. Once your'e successfully logged in click on "sponsor a blogger" on the left-hand side.

5. You'll get a list of all the participate blogs. Click on the white circle to the left of mine (or whoever you'd like to sponsor). Scroll to the bottom and click the "sponsor" button.

6. Enter the amount you'll donate if/when I complete this crazy feat.

7. Tell all your friends and associates to come sponsor me.

Voila! You can now be proud of yourself for not only giving money to a great cause, but also for mastering a new technical skill. Congratulations!

Guess who did some work today?

It's me. :)

After struggling all week to find a baby-free hour or two, I finally got my summer meals-to-go menus in order. Here's what we've got:

Crispy Sauted Tilapia (That's a fish.)
Gazpacho (That's a cold soup.)
Grilled corn with Herb Butter (That's, well, that's corn.)

Pork Loin with Lemon-Thyme Cream Sauce
Lemon-Herb Risotto
Spinach Salad with Sesame-Scallion Vinaigrette

Smoked Brisket ('cause I'm a KC BBQ kinda gal.)
BBQ Beans (Not of the Van De Kamp variety. I'd rather cut off my finger with the sharp edge from the can's lid.)
Tomato & Basil Salad

Chicken Burgers on Foccacia with all the trimmings
Roasted Garlic Potato Salad
Apple Slaw (Since there's a smidge of ground apple in the burgers.)

Thai Chicken Salad
Sesame Noodles

Sound yummy and summery? Anyone wanna place an order? I've got a kid to put through college, ya know, and she ain't gonna get there if you keep hitting the damn drive-thru for dinner every night. So c'mon. Pay up!

Ask yourself this

Why haven't you signed up to sponsor me in Project Blog to help me raise money for America's Second Harvest?

Why?

Thursday, oh Thursday

Here's hoping today is better than yesterday. Clara "Screamy" Jane was a total pill yesterday. Lots and lots of screaming and crying. And she was pretty crabby, too. Seriously, I had a few moments yesterday where I honestly had to wonder if I'm cut out for this motherhood business. But today's looking better. She's swinging. She's babbling. She's been dancing to a little vintage AC/DC. All's well.

I still haven't done my menus. Here's the deal - I have a bi-weekly catering gig with a daycare center. Every other Wednesday I provide yummy carry-out dinners that the parents pick up when they fetch their kiddos at the end of the day. It's gotta be stuff that's healthy (as in, minimally processed and very fresh), travels well, and is easy to reheat. I do my menus seasonally, and last week I completed the spring menu. I need to get the summer menus to the center no later than tomorrow morning and I haven't had a spare moment to come up with anything. Got any ideas? Wanna order a few meals on Wednesday? I deliver to downtown St. Louis.

The only thing I can think of is cornmeal-crusted sauted tilapia fillets, possibly on a bed of spaghetti squash primavera. That'll make the low-carbers happy.

I've been doing this blog business for a week, and I must say I'm so surprised by it. I figured I'd be typing into thin air for a long time. I'm stunned at how many hits I've been getting, and not just from people who have to read me, like my cousin Wendy, my friend kara and my favorite blogless multiple personality disorder patient Mrs. Ed O'Brien/Exena/K-Dawg/XXXtina. Thanks so much to everyone who has linked/blogrolled/otherwise mentioned me!

And with that I'm off to bathe myself, bathe my child, pay a visit to Target (They haven't seen me since Friday and are probably worried), and sip a latte at Hartford Coffee. O, what a day what a day!

Wake me -wake me - wake me up -up-up before you go-go-go-go-go-go-go

You know what's annoying? It's annoying when you're listening to Air America, which you rely on for your daily dose of intelligent talk sprinkled with snortingly funny humor, and your streaming audio connection isn't quite up to par. This is what I've been listening to all morning:

"Did you read the Washington-ington-ington-ington Post yesterday?"

"Sean Hannity-nity-nity-nity lies and has phone sex -onesex-onesex-onesex with his receptionist."

"Regime change -imecha-imecha-imcha begins at home."

To improve these skips, add some baby whining in the background. We might be on to a new musical phenomena - mixing Liquid Compass Audio farts with the drone of a teething 4-month-old. Before you know it all the hip club kids will be dancing to it. Mark my words.

Speaking of music ...

I finally found somebody who can tolerate my singing! And yes, it's Clara "Check That Baby's Hearing" Jane! This morning, we spent a fair amount of time singing 'Strangers in the Night", the scat version that's nothing but "do-be-do-be-dos", because I can't remember the words. Clara absolutely adored this, and I'd like to think that the 3-hour crying fit that followed was because she was so distraught that I had stopped my melodic do-be-do-be-dos.

I love music, but I can't sing. I can't play any instruments. And did I mentioned that I really can't sing? When I was in 6th grade, my best friend and I got laughed off the stage at the school's talent show while doing our rendition of Wham's "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go", complete with our fantastic jitterbug dance stylings. Oh, shut up. It was 1985. You loved that song and you know it. I just hope you were smart enough to not profess your love of this song in front of your fellow 6th-graders, a bunch of mean 7th and 8th-graders, their equally mean parents, your really mean teachers, and the wicked school principal, who I'm sure was laughing loudest.

So, I don't sing when others can hear me. I'm even a little shy about singing to Clara Jane. But she seemed to enjoy it today. Before she started screaming.

It's not possible for a 4-month old to be really mean and laugh at her momma, is it?

On my child turning 1/3 of a year old

Clara Jane was born 4 months ago today, so I thought I'd celebrate by first allowing her to chew on my finger, and then posting some photos of her.

The finger-chewing.



Followed by some sitting.



Chewing and sitting are hard work. Must snooze.

Why my office is such a disaster: a circular explaination

My office is a wreck. It's bad. Not, like, health code violation/condemnation bad. It's a cluttered wreck. Books everywhere. Several baby blankets on the floor. A pile of finished scrapbook pages, feeling rather scrappy because they haven't found a scrapbook to call their home. Magazines. Lots and lots of magazines. Martha Stewart keeps sending me free magazines, like I'm on her jury or something, and they're all piled on my desk. Mardii Gras beads - I didn't even go to Mardi Gras this year. I was too busy being c-sectioned, infected and lactating that week. Junk mail of the snail variety that keeps leaving slimy trails everywhere.

Confidintial to the creature who pooped in my office today: I may not know who you are, but I have it narrowed down to five suspects. I know where you are, and I know where your Dog Chow/Cat Chow/Cheetos are located, so you'd be wise to take a whiff before you dig in. You're not the only one who knows how to leave poo-gifts.

Anyway, the clutter is really getting to me. The poop is gone, though. But the clutter remains. And I've figured out the root of this clutter problem:

I have about a trillion CDs, and there's no good way to store them. I don't like CD holders - they take up too much space which I don't have (because if I had CD holders taking up all my space, there would be no room on my floor for important things, like Mardi Gras beads). I have several CD folders, but I always forget my CDs are in there and in wind up never listening to them. So, I have CDs all over creation.

However, in order to clean, I need music.

But I can't find any good music, because it's scattered among the clutter.

See where the problem lies?

No words ... there are no words.

Today I was browsing the archives of the fabulous Fluid Pudding and I struck pure comedy gold in the form of Weight Watchers recipe cards from 1974. It's delightfully similar to The Gallery of Regrettable Food, better known as The Funniest Thing. Ever.

I guess the cards are from the pre-points system Weight Watchers, when they helped people lose weight by threatening to feed them nothing but Mackerelly for the first two weeks of the program, thus completely destroying the will to eat. Eventually, these tactics led to the liquid diet fad of the late '70s.

(Yes, I know many of you are coming from Fluid Pudding - good lord, that sounds dirty! - and probably saw this link ages ago. I never claimed to be up-to-date, trendy, and "with it".)

Fussy momma

I wonder ... when I scream and cry at the top of my lungs, why doesn't anyone bring me what I need? A beer and a Buspar.

I'm fussy today. And no, it's not because of my lack of medication. I finally got off my Prozac-deprived ass and went to the pharmacy. Feeling muuuuuuch better now. Except I'm tired. And my back hurts from wearing Clara "Anvil" Jane in a sling for most of yesterday. And my sinuses are bothering me. And I have no motivation to work on my menus today. And it's hot. And I'm annoying myself by the overuse of the word "and".

I hate being whiny. Sometimes it's unavoidable, but for the most part I know I'm being self-indulgent and childish. That's Clara Jane's job, not mine.

So, help me out here. Get me out of "fussy momma" mode. Tell me something high-larious, or give me a Tony Robbins-esque pep talk so I can get the gumption to kick your ass.

Tidbits from Monday

1. My Soulard Market article is finished and in the hands of my editor. Thanks to all for giving me thoughts of iced pig (bad) and mini-donuts (good). Next month's topic: Andrea's Steak Sauce. Start preparing your comments now.

2. I've got to go to the pharmacy today and pick up my drugs. I've been without my PCOS drugs and my Prozac for almost a week now. Many reasons why, most of them involving the child that's currently sleeping in a sling around my neck. It doesn't help that I refuse to use a pharmacy where I can buy a ham while I'm waiting for my prescription to get filled. Last time I went to a place like that, I came home with someone else's anti-psychosis drugs. Or maybe that was intended to be a sample pack for me. I'm betting the psychosis patient didn't get much use out of my progesterone, seeing as he was a crazy man and all. Either way, I like my lil' mom n' pop pharmacy, even if their hours are shorter than the local one-stop behemouth.

3. What's with all the flinging, Clara Jane? My child has discovered the fun and pleasure of throwing her little body every which way, and she managed to scare the crap out of me this morning. I was carrying her down the hall when she suddenly bent backwards so fast and severely that I expected to hear her little spine snap. Honey don't do that to Momma when she hasn't had her medication! She found the whole situation to be great fun, which means I've now entered that phase of motherhood in which all of my waking thoughts revolve around preventing my child from finding new and creative ways to snap herself in two.

4. Why haven't you signed up to sponsor me in Project Blog? Is it because you don't love me, or because you don't want to spend a measely few bucks to help America's Second Harvest feed some hungry people? And why haven't you signed up to participate? Are you a wuss or something? Can't handle a little bit of 24-hour blogging? If you're in St. Louis and you participate, who knows? Maybe I'll organize a little St. Louis Project Blog slumber party or something.

5. I have an unbelievably free week. I need to make some catering menus (which I'll tell you about later, when I don't have a child dangling in a sling around my neck). Otherwise, I'm free. If you haven't seen me or Clara "Flinger" Jane in awhile, this would be a good week to drag our asses out of the house.

Happy Monday! *shudder* Did I just say that? Damn! I've gotta get to the pharmacy and get that Prozac before I snap in two.

Here comes a regular

Before I moved to St. Louis in '99, I spent eight years in Columbia, Missouri. Eight fabulous years, and I hated to leave. In the time I lived there, I became a bit of a fixture at Ernie's, an old 1930s-era diner in downtown. It was the perfect place to go for a hungover breakfast, or to sit for hours, drinking cup after cup of strong black coffee while I scribbled away in a notebook. Sometimes the counter in that dark, smoky diner felt more like home than whatever apartment I was renting.

When I moved, Ernie's was one of the first things that I painfully missed about my old life. It wasn't until 2002 that B. and I found a diner that even came close to matching the essence of Ernie's - the Formica counter, the chrome, the smoke, the striaght-up black coffee, simple food that was simply great, and a staff that embraced us as family shortly after our first few visits. Once I found my diner, I finally started to feel at home in this city.

No, I'm not going to mention the name of this establishment, which is odd for me. Their website isn't listed in the "Noshing" section, either. I've been a massive advocate for this little restaurant over the past two years. I have drug most of my friends and family there, and I'm always telling people, "Go there. It's great. You'll love it." But not this time. Why? Because I'm going to bad-mouth them.

Things have changed, and I don't like it one bit.

The food's still great. The quality of the restaurant's still great. I'd still recommend them to just about anyone who's looking for a yummy, classic breakfast or a fabulous cheeseburger. I lived on them while pregnant with Clara "Cheeseburger with Onions, Pickles, and Mustard" Jane. The problem isn't with anything restaurant-related.

Being a regular is wonderful. The old "Cheers" cliche really does apply - "Where everybody knows your name". There's a lot to be said for that. These people and businesses can become as much a part of our lives as our family and friends. In the weeks after Cheeseburger's birth, when the post-partum depression and panic attacks threatened to snap what was left of my brain, I could go to the diner and my mind was taken away. I found myself surrounded by people I saw everyday, who knew how I liked my eggs and when I needed a coffee refill. I spent hours at that counter, Cheeseburger dozing in her carseat beside me, trying to bring my feet and soul back to Planet Earth when it felt like the rest of my life was somewhere floating in space with no oxygen.

But there are perils that come with being a regular. Where are the lines between business and pleasure? It would be great if real life was like "Cheers", where Norm goes years without paying his bar tab. But that's not reality. As I business owner, I can empathize with the need to make money. And maybe that's what makes me a not-so-profitable business owner - I don't have a problem with working for free for my friends.

No, I don't expect free food from my diner, nor do I expect to be able to run a tab for years that eventually rivals the amount of my student loans. I just wish the line between business and friendship didn't exist. Because, the fact is, I know too much about the behind-the-scenes of my diner. I know who's fighting with whom, and why. And likewise, they know all of my business, too. We've crossed that line from wonderfully comfortable to too-much-info.

B. and I became friends with a couple that works th grill at the diner. One-half of that partnership has finally gotten fed up and left the business to pursue a different avenue. And that's great - I'm thrilled for her and I know she'll do great and be very happy in her new vocation. But sadly, this also signals a change. Like any restaurant - or group of friend, or family, or any community, for that matter - flux happens. And in this case, I'm not liking it one bit. I want my old home back.

I haven't been frequenting the diner nearly as much as I was. For awhile, I was going every single day. So, maybe my angst is fueled by my body's depleted bacon fat reserves and the solution to my problem would be to go more often. But somehow, I doubt it. If I were to do that, while my bacon fat levels would return to their normal, healthy level, I know I would just get more tightly wound into the diner's microcosm, and I know that's not what I need.

I need to open my own diner. Or have bacon delivered directly to my door. Anyone know of a good bacon delivery service?

Hey St. Louis-ites! Gimme your opinion on Soulard Market!

I figure that, since I should do some work this weekend, it might be a good idea to combine working and blogging. If you're from St. Louis, you can help me out.

I write a monthly column for Sauce Magazine. You know, that snazzy little newspaper that you can pick up for free in restaurants, bars and unique shops that tells you all about eating, drinking and living well in our fair city. That's the one. I'm the keeper of the "Provisions" column. Every month I focus on a local business that sells food and cooking-related goodies, or local food producers.

For the July issue, I've been assigned to write about Soulard Market, which won Best Farmer's Market in our recent readers poll. Now, what can be said about this institution that hasn't already been said? Got an opinion about the place? An anecdote about a particularly interesting trip to the market? Whatever it is, let me know and you just might wind up in my article. All I'll need is your first and last name. If you don't want to post that info in the comments area, just email it to me at robin at poppymom.com.

My deadline is Monday at noon, so your deadline is midnight tonight. So c'mon and tell me those tales!

Wanted: One Skirt

Skirt, how I covet thee. I had the chance to purchase you at Torrid in Detroit three weeks ago. No, I said. I'll wait until I'm in St. Louis, when I can get my Frequent Torrid Whore card back from kara and save a measley 15% on you. You'll wait. I know you'll be there for me when I'm ready for you.

What a fool I am. I should have swept you into my arms when I had the chance, 15% be damned, damned I say! For today, when I finally came for you, you were gone.

But I did get this awesome little sweater, so screw you, damn poppy-print skirt. Screw you! You had a chance to live in my closet with the poppy-print dress I bought in 2001 and never wore, and you missed it, you fool!

(Jesus Christ, I need to get out of the house and away from the kid a bit more often. You know you're overdue for some grown-up time when you start talking to clothing like a woman scorned.)

The stink of desperation & letting your little light shine

Britney's coming soon to a Dillard's near you, and I have two questions;

#1 - Why is this news worthy of front-page status? Aren't we, like, in a war, or something?

and

#2 - What, praytell, will Britney's eau du toilet smell like? Is it possible to bottle the stink of desperation and trying too hard? So, tell me, what do you think this might smell like? I'm smelling stale sweat, ciggies, and that vaguely been-screwing-around-but-haven't-had-a-bath aroma, blended with a slight touch of Love's Baby Soft.

And speaking of Love ... Somebody keep the flashlights away from this woman!

Oh, for the love of Nirvana, Courtney, what the fuck is wrong with you? I used to absolutely adore you. You were cool. You were righteous. You were fighting the good fight. Courteny, honey, a little piece of advice: QUIT THROWING HEAVY SHIT AT PEOPLE! Unless, of course, you enjoy spending time in jail and court. Do you? Is that what it is?

Good lord, I need to take a shower after reading this tripe.

Well buddy, when I die throw my body in the back...

...and drive me to Newark in my Cadillac.

(Oh, how I would love to see this exhibit.)

One year ago

This afternoon while changing the daily Diaper o' Doom , a realization popped into my head. One year ago - Wednesday, June 11th, 2003, around 4 p.m., I found out Clara Jane was on her way.

Well, I didn't find out for sure. I had peed on the stick a few hours earlier and it was negative. Because I'm a slob, I left the test sitting on the bathroom counter, instead of tossing it into the trash. When I wandered into the bathroom later, I could oh-so-faintly see a second line. B. was skeptical, and I knew that tests that were more than an hour old weren't trustworthy, but I just knew.

I knew the previous Friday. Driving up I-270 in a spontaneous summer thunderstorm, I was singing along to Loves Me Like a Rock by Paul Simon when it hit me. Square in the throat, like a snowball on that hot, rainy day.

Oh my momma loves me
She loves me
She get down on her knees and hug me
Oh she loves me like a rock
She rocks me like the rock of ages
She loves me
She loves me loves me loves me loves me.

It's cheesy. It's corny. I mean, it's a great song, but for it to stop me cold on a busy highway, to hit me so hard that I almost had to pull over and catch my breath. To leave me driving through the rain and my own tears

I wasn't supposed to be able to get pregnant. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, which is the prime cause of female infertility. My mother had it, and only had one child. My grandmother had it, and managed to have two before having a hysterectomy at age 25. My great-aunt had her uterus removed at age 16. It's completely absurd to say that infertility runs in our family, but it does. There hadn't been a baby born in our family since 1981.

B. and I had only been trying to get pregnant for four months when it happened. My doctor and midwife were more than willing to start fertility treatments, but I wanted to wait. Glad I did! As fertile as I wound up being, I probably would be making headlines right now in the Weekly World News with my octuplets, had I went for the treatments.

In the week following our discovery, I went into a complete panic. I had spent so much time wondering how I was going to deal with not being able to get pregnant that I had made no allocations for how I was going to deal with getting pregnant.

When I panic, I fixate on my 16-year-old cat, Whiney. I was convinced that she was going to die because I was pregnant. It didn't help that in the days following the positive pregnancy tests, Whiney decided to hack up enough hairballs to make a coat for one of those hideous bald cats. Of course, Whiney was fine. She's still alive, still stealing loaves of bread, and still instilling fear in our dogs with her one remaining tooth. But at the time, I just knew that my pregnancy was The End for my cat, who had been my "baby" during those long years of living alone. I felt like I wouldn't be capable of having both my beloved cat and my baby, that there wasn't enough in me. Or that she would simply curl up and die from neglect once she ceased being the center of my universe. Shows how much I know.

A year ago today, Clara Jane was a faint pink line on a plastic stick and a heart full of fear and bewilderment. Today, she's chubby thighs, glass-shattering shrieks of joy, toothless smiles, wisps of fine strawberry blonde hair, tear-streaked cheeks, and wiggly little monkey toes. She's a little person who knows me. She's a little person who's quickly becoming a bigger person who, before long, I'll be able to get on my knees and hug.

Salad is healthful

Spinach Salad.

Gotta love a salad dressing that has brown sugar, bacon fat and beer.

Jammies!

That's what I exclaim whenever we dress Clara "Moonpie" Jane for bed. "Jammies!" Actually, it's more like, "Djammmmmmmmmies!", and I use a rather deranged, high-pitched tone to say it. I'm trying to get her excited about the fact that lounging about in one's pajamas is about as good as it gets.

It's almost 10:30 a.m., and Moonpie and I are still in our jammies!

This isn't good.

I set a goal for us shortly after my little Moonpie's arrival - no matter what, I will take a shower, brush my teeth & hair and have us both in real clothes every single morning. That way, no matter how much I feel like I'm running in reverse, at least I will feel like I accomplished something in the course of the day.

I've since realized that there are some days when one must make difficult choices about where to spend ones limited energy. Today, the choice was between getting dressed, or making coffee.

Coffee won, obviously.

On Wednesday, the ugly choice was between putting on lipstick or brushing my hair before making a catering delivery. I went with the lipstick, hoping that I looked pleasantly rumpled.

Who am I kidding? I looked like a tired mom in desperate need of a nap, a shower, a brush and a tissue so she could wipe the red lipstick smudges off her teeth.

It's not that parenting a 4-month-old takes a lot of time. Moonpie's generally content to hang out in her swing and watch while I partake in basic hygeine and maintenance-related activities.

It's definitely an energy issue. In order to get dressed I would have to get off my ass and track down my clothes. There are several possible locations:

-one of the baskets of clean laundry taking up my entire living room floor.
-in the dryer in the basement
-in the washer in the basement, growing mildew
-piled on the bathroom floor
-piled on the bedroom floor
-being slept on by one of the dogs

I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and wise!

And I pity any girl who isn't me tonight!

Jammies!

"I was born with music inside me." Ray Charles

Ray Charles has died.

Not much to say about this. He was an amazing artist who was a true innovator in American music. He led a brilliant life that deserves celebration.

Bravo, Ray. You done good with your life. You really did.

Poppy's Salsa #3

Every year I develop a new salsa recipe, usually in the middle of the summer when I can get fresh tomatoes and peppers. I'm early this year, since I needed the salsa for a catering job. I haven't had a chance to alter the recipe for a small batch, so make this if you've got a crowd of salsa-hungry beasts to feed. Here 'tis:

Poppy's Roasted Tomato & Chipotle Salsa

2 pounds grape or Santa tomatoes
3 red bell peppers, roughly chopped
6 cloves garlic, smashed
1 Vidalia onion, roughly chopped
1 bunch cilantro, chopped
3 canned chipotle peppers in adoboe sauce (more or less to taste)
juice of 2 limes
1 tablespoon honey
1/2 tablespoon salt

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Spread tomatoes in a single layer on a sheet pan. Roast tomatoes 20 minutes or until they're starting to wrinkle.

2. Combine all ingredients in a large bowl. Place half of the mixture in a food processor. Pulse to your desired consistancy (I like mine like I like my men - a little on the chunk side).

3. Shovel into face with tortilla chips.

Makes approximately 20 servings.

Introduction of a Wilted Poppymom

All this time I've been wanting a blog, and now I don't have a damn thing to say.

I'm Poppymom. Or Poppy. Or Robin. Or Hey, you've got your shirt on inside-out. I answer to all of the above these days.

I'm 31, married to B. for almost five years, and we have a daughter, Clara Jane, who will be four months old in six days. To say that I'm still adjusting to motherhood would be like saying ... hell, I don't know what it would be like saying. I'm too damn tired to come up with an analogy. I love my daughter. I love motherhood. I don't love the fact that it's turned my brain to sludge.

I own a teeny, tiny little catering company. As in, I'm the only person who works for the company. I'm having to learn how to cook with a baby on my hip these days. As soon as the kid can hold a spoon, I'm putting her to work. Child labor laws don't apply when it's your kid. I checked.

I also write for a local (Saint Louis) food magazine. They want me to use more quotes in my articles.

Sometimes I teach cooking classe at a local arts center. Well, I did. The last time I taught a class, I was five months pregnant and a rival chef (yes, I have a rival chef) got snarky because I was sitting to do my prep work. You don't tell a woman who's five months pregnant that she shouldn't be sitting. You especially don't say this to a woman who's five months pregnant and holding a 12" chef's knife in her hand. So, I probably won't be teaching there anymore. They haven't asked me, and I haven't offered.

I'm a big ol' music geek. White Stripes. U2. Johnny Cash. Weezer. Rufus Wainwright. Ryan Adams. The Clash. REM. Replacements. Ramones. Liz Phair. Tori Amos. Beastie Boys. I listen to just about anything. I do stupid things in the name of concerts. Like camping out on the sidewalk for 13 hours in sub-freezing temps and sleet to get a spot near the stage at a U2 show. Or being in the pit by the stage at two White Stripes shows, where stupid 14-year-old boys used me as a pummel horse, while I was six weeks pregnant. I'm too old for this shit, but I've accepted the fact that I'm never going to outgrow my groupiness. And I'm cool with that. I'll just have to take my daughter with me when I'm camping out for tickets in the future. I hear U2's going on tour again soon. Surely there's room for Clara Jane's pack n' play on the floor by the stage. Bono's got babies - he'll understand.

I live in a 1930s bungalow in a neighborhood that was recently voted #2 in "White Trash Ghettos Quarterly" poll of the best neighborhood for fixing cars after midnight. I like to consider myself to be somewhat of a hip urbanite. Living in this neighborhood keeps me in touch with my roots. We've been in a constant state of repair since we moved in over five years ago. My latest house-related injury: I cut my toe on a large screw sticking out from the floor. The previous owners enjoyed driving screws into the hardwood floors. A lot. This was obviously done in the days before drugs for obsessive-compulsive disorder where developed. There's no other excuse for the number of screws in my hardwood floor.

I don't even want to get into discussing my pets right now. They stole a loaf of rye bread and ate the entire thing today so I'm not speaking to or about them.

I like roadtrips, loud music, drag queens, diners, Clara Jane's early-morning giggle fits, Food TV, making fun of VH1 Classics, Memphis, trucks, monkies, chi-chi hotels, lawn art, bleu cheese and my family.

I loathe flying, Neil Diamond, drama queens, theme restaurants, Clara Jane's diapers after eating nothing but formula while visiting her grandparents for three days, most television, Milwaukee, those Honda Element thingies, snakes, camping, perfectly manicured lawns, goat cheese and my husband's family.

Welcome to my world.