Poppy Mom

The downside of being an adult

On Sept. 13th Ryan Adams is playing The Blue Note in my old stomping grounds, Columbia, Missouri.

On Sept.l 14th, Wilco is playing The Blue Note. Did I mention that The Blue Note is my all-time favorite music venue, ever?

See that photo at the top of the page? The one of me (far right) with my pals Sandy, Rufus Wainwright, and Kara? Taken outside The Blue Note.

In the eight years I lived in Columbia, I made oh-so-many trips to St. Louis and Kansas City for concerts. Since I moved to St. Louis, it seems that all the shows I want to see are in Columbia.

Putting these two shows during the week? Mean.

Putting these two shows during the middle of the week, two hours away from me? Cruel.

Putting these two shows during the middle of the week, two hours away from me, when I'm 31 years old and responsible for Clara "Groupie" Jane? Fucking evil.

This is a test of the Poppymom Maturity System. Concert promoters in your area are conducting this test to see if Poppy is capable of remaining true to her adult responsibilities without throwing a mega-awesome temper tantrum that would cause her dogs to piddle on the floor from fear. Had this been an actual emergency, Poppy would be pulled over, somewhere on I-70, for driving 90 m.p.h. in an attempt to get to The Blue Note in time for sound check, when Ryan might not be completely stoned.

An assessment

Since I'm very sleepy, I thought I'd do a little assessing of what's making me happy and what's irritating me these days.

On the happy side:
-Cute little spiky baby teeth
-"Beavis & Butthead" reruns on MTV2.
-Gary's "Knitting Bee" mix CD.
-Cleveland's Honey Hot Wings from Whole Foods
-Sofia Minis - cute little pink cans of the most delicate and dainty sparkling wine with a Capri Sun-esque little straw. Little + Cute = Marketing Gold
-Murphy the Squirrelhound, who I'm finding rather endearing these days.
-Borrowing B.'s work laptop and blogging from the couch.

Don't get on my bad side:
-Kristina's stupid cat, Wolfie. I wish he'd get his ass home and quit making Kristina sad and worried.
-Post-partum depression and anxiety. It sucks. It sucks even more that it's so misunderstood and still shrouded in so much shame.
-People at Whole Foods cutting others off in the parking lot. You're a pretty big asshole for someone who shops at such a hippy-dippy store.
-People who drive around the Whole Foods parking lot in a full-size Hummer, flying a regulation-sized American flag.
-Ugly campaign advertising.
-Requiring a hazmat suit everytime I hold Clara "Upchuck" Jane.
-Murphy the Squirrelhound, who just farted with such a vengence that my throat is closing.

Clara Jane's admirer

My child, Clara "Hottie" Jane, has an admirer.

Boy is almost 8. Or almost 9. I forget. He lives next door to us. He looks like a mini-me version of Rivers Cuomo from Weezer.

The teachers have labled Boy as being ADHD and "slow". Do they still call kids slow? In my neighborhood, they do.

I think these teachers are a bit "slow", because Boy is one smooth talkin' little man. And he has eyes for my daughter.

We have to be very careful to keep our doors locked. Not just because life in the Redneck Jungle is harsh. I mean, we would be heartbroken if hillbillies broke in and stole our homemade wine and Nascar collectibles (shut up - I have items that fit both descriptions). Our main concern, though, is Boy, who has a tendency to just wander into our house.

"Where's The Baby?" he asks as he cases my house. I'm not sure that he knows her name. "Can I play with the Baby? Can I hold The Baby?"

In turn, Hottie adores her boy admirer. He makes her all swoony and gassy. Well, it's probably the acorn squash that makes her gassy. I hope so. If she gets the machine gunner farts everytime she gets around a boy she admires, we're going to be in for one hell of an adolesence.

We've had to talk to Boy's mom, because he tends to stop by in the evening, after Clara Jane has taken her hot self to bed. She tries to keep him under control. She really does. It's not so easy when you're mom to Boy - Evil Genius. Sometimes he sneeks under her radar. Like tonight.

Boy doesn't knock on our door. He doesn't ring the doorbell. Rather, he lays on the doorbell. I swear, he brings a stepstool with him so he can climb high enough to plant his shoulder against the bell. It's much less tiring on his finger that way.

Our doorbell echos. If Boy's having a particularly ringy night, we can be hearing that damn bell well into the wee hours.

He was having a ringy night tonight, right as B. was trying to get Hottie to please please please go to sleep. I sprinted through the house with Murphy the Squirrelhound firmly wedged between my ankles to prevent her from fleeing to her freedom when I opened the front door.

There stood Boy, shoulder against the doorbell and a newspaper in his hand. A newspaper that has been slowly decomposing for several months in the scraggly shrubs in front of our house that deter thieves from stealing our homemade wine and Nascar collectibles.

"Here. I brought your newspaper to you," he said, removing his shoulder from the doorbell and planting it into my gut as he pushed his way inside. "Where's The Baby?"

It took some work, but I finally made him realize that we just couldn't disturb his lil' gal, who hasn't slept in roughly 72 hours.

"If you come by before 7 tomorrow night, you can play with her," I said as he trudged off the porch.

"I didn't come to play. I was just bringing you your paper."

Aw.

Loop de Loop

What's wrong? Do you people not love me anymore? Has my novelty worn off? You've all been so quiet.

I feel so alone.

Clara "Hipster" Jane and I finally made our trip to The Loop. First, we went to Iron Age for Baby's First Tattoo. Then it was of to the tobaccoist shop for Baby's First Smokes. After that we headed to Sunshine Daydream for Baby's First Box to Keep Her Weed In, then to Vintage Vinyl for Baby's First Gwar CD.

OK, that's not entirely true. Except for Vintage Vinyl, and that was more for my own benefit.

Hipster is going through a new phase. It's the "If I Let Mama Out of My Sight I'll Die!" phase.

Yes, we've entered the stalker phase.

In an attempt to drive my child absolutely insane with longing for me, I escaped the house last night to participate in a bit of theraputic knitting. Lovely little coffee house in Chesterfield, complete with a fireplace. Excellent company, although I probably talked everyone's ear off. It probably wasn't a good idea to scream like my daughter whenever my stitch partners left the table for the restroom. I'm just exceptionally needy right now (see first paragraph).

Did I accomplish any knitting? Of course not. I did a lot of casting on, a few stitches, many realizations that I cast on way, way, way too tight, followed by lots of ripping out of stitches. Basically, I made really curly yarn. But that's fine. I'm not actually working on a project. I'm just practicing.

Music geek that I am, I absolutely love that one of my knitting companions brought a wonderful mix CD. Perfect for knitting. And bopping around to some mid-'90s Pavement goodness. I like knitting to Rasputina, although they're dark enough that they kinda make me want to use my needles as weapons. In a good way.

I'm lunching with ladies tomorrow. I'm just a social gypsy moth this week. Very in-demand by my public. Just ask the Hipster.

*yawn*

I'm so boring today.

My back isn't quite as sore as it was, so I haven't needed to be rolled like the buttery little tart that I am.

The insurance adjuster finally came over to assess the damage I did to my truck when I crashed it a few weeks ago. Usually, such meetings provide lots of comedy gold. No such luck today. The adjuster was pleasant.

How dull.

Clara "Beet Head" Jane has been a bit of a pill. Very cranky, with much screaming. Nap. Scream. Nap. Scream. Nap. Scream. I had intended to take her to The Loop. We were going to walk around, soaking up the unseasonably lovely weather, hit a few funky little shops and maybe enjoy a latte at Meshuggah.

No such luck. After Hissy Fit #8, Beet Head has collapsed in angry exhaustion and is taking an earlier-than-usual siesta.

*sigh*

Motherhood is oh-so-very exciting today.

Project Blog update

For all of my wonderful, delightful sponsors: I'll be getting donations instructions to you in the next few days, once I get the info from Project Blog. In the meantime, don't forget to send your address to me so I can get your PBS totebags in the mail!

Something's cookin' in my bedroom

And it's me.

Just in case any of you ever stop by Chez Poppy and take a peek in my bedroom (Please, don't. It's an unliveable disaster area. I'm always surprised when B. and I wake up, alive and well, every morning, when by all accounts we should have been crushed in our sleep under the weight of the books, clothes, and dust bunnies precariously balanced on every available surface).

Uh, where was I? Oh, yeah. The rolling pin.

Don't be surprised to see a rolling pin on the dresser.

Not just any rolling pin. A French rolling pin.

Oooh.

La.

La.

French kiss. French maid's costume. French Tickler. French rolling pin. It's French! It must be sexy!

Trust me. It's not.

Why am I keeping the tools of my trade in the boudoir, you ask? It's because I have a geriatric back. I'm pretty sure that a 31-year-old gal, such as myself, shouldn't have rolls of knotted muscles all through her back that resemble speed bumps. But I do.

Yes, I need a deep tissue massage. I need a weekly deep tissue massage. Would you like to be the one to foot the bill, making this possible? I didn't think so.

These are muscle knots that defy massage, anyway. They defy Advil, yoga, hot showers, heating pads and wishful thinking.

B., used to live with two chiropractic students. Since they often practiced on him, he considers himself to be semi-well-versed in the art and science of Back Speed Bump Removal. That's good enough for me.

"Roll my back, Baby," I tell him when I'm feeling all that tension. "Take me to the bedroom and roll my geriatric, speed bump-covered back all night long!"

And that's what he does. He takes that saucey little French rolling pin and rolls me like I'm a buttery slice of pastry dough.

Oh yeah. That's what I'm talkin' about.

We're so hot and sexy around here at Chez Poppy. So very hot, indeed.

Good morning

I've slept. I'm rested. I'm bathed.

Much, much thanks to everyone who helped.

Thanks to Kara for coming over with junk food sustinance and entertainment.

Thanks to B. for putting up with this craziness.

Thanks to Wendy and Brent for making Project Blog happen.

Thanks to all my sponsors. Huge, huge thanks to my sponsors. We raised $355! I'm hoping you'll overlook the little two-hour nap I took and fulfill your pledges. Why punish hungry people for my wimpiness?

Thanks to Mae (and all of her alter egos), Fluid Pudding for giving me fun and silly questions and tasks to keep my creativity flowing.

Thanks to everyone who left comments or PMed me during the long, so very long day.

Y'all rock!

I'm oddly awake. Two hour illegal nap during blog time, a three-hour post-blogging snooze. Five hours of sleep. That's a normal night for me. I've got the urge to do something creative that doesn't require sitting in front of a computer.

Maybe I'll finally paint those photo frames for Clara "Where's My Mommy" Jane's room. Or get my desk moved to the dining room. Perhaps I'll sort through the shelves of "antiques".

Who am I kidding? I'm going to lay on the couch, watch a day's worth of E, eat Cheetos and snore with my eyes open.

Ta da!

...and to all a goodnight!

Almost there

!!!

Clara Jane's awake. The sun is coming up. It's almost over.

Things I was going to do during Project Blog

-knit

-finish reading that damn Harry Potter book

-stay awake

-clean my house

-give myself a pedicure

Things I accomplished:

none of the above.

Jonny Quest cartoon hell

Did you know that if you stay up late enough - or awaken early enough - you can relive your childhood with old cartoons? It's true. "Jonny Quest" is on right now,.

God, I hated this shit when it was new.

No wonder our generation's fucked up. We had cartoons with people firing massive guns at each other. That can't be good.

Suddenly I don't feel so bad about letting Clara "Royale with Cheese" Jane watch Pulp Fiction.

The bitter stench of failure

So, my power nap was a bit too powerful.

This is some hard shit, People. When did you last try to be witty for 24 straight hours? Huh?

Kara didn't wake me up when I nodded off. How could she? She was passed out in the big red armchair.

But I'm back. I'm here. And I won't leave you. Not for another 90 minutes, at least.

Power nap

It's time for one. Let's see if I wake up in time for my next post.

Thoughts on "Toxic" by Britney Spears

Kara has some questions about this video, all of which I think have rather obvious answers.

- Why doesn't her flinging hair set off the laser security system?

-What's the point of showing Stewardess Britney's underwear at the beginning?

-When she pours the poison into the guy's mouth and kisses him, wouldn't get swallow some of the poison, too?

She asks this because these elements don't make the video realistic.
You try staying up this late and coming up with witty things to say ad we'll see how well you do. You'll result to ponderous Britney discussions, too.

Bonus question: Why do girls willfully do the "Girls Gone Wild" videos? The answer is two-fold -

up-front cash

booze

When Kara gets tired, she has questions.

Quite Possibly the Most Fucked Up Mix CD Ever

Kara and I decided to make a mix CD. Sort of a word association thingie. Here are the rather odd results.

If it Makes You Happy - Sheryl Crow
Hate to Say I Told You So - The Hives
Porcelain - Moby
Welfare Music - Bottle Rockets
Stupid Girl - Garbage
Portland, Ore. - Loretta Lynn and my next baby's daddy, Jack White
Superfreak - Rick James
I Put a Spell on You - Screamin' Jay Hawkins
Beautiful People - Marilyn Manson
Cruel to be Kind - Nick Lowe
Chop Suey - System of a Down
Bull in the Heather - Sonic Youth
Sugar High - Coyote Shivers
Gary's got a Boner - The Replacements
Girlfriend in a Coma - The Smiths
November Spawned a Monster - Morrissey
Church of the Poison Mind - Culture Club
Oceans Breathes Salty - Modest Mouse
Take Your Mama - Scissor Sisters
Lost in the Supermarket - The Clash

The madness continues

And yet, it's a very calm, boring form of madness.

Madness has never made me so sleepy.

Absolutely nothing has happened

Kara is forcing me to watch Kim Possible.

I did a little window shopping at Old Navy. Hooray for the new Old Navy plus size department! Another option for us fat girls. I wrote them a bitchy letter a few years ago about their lack of plus sizes, so I like to think this new line is because of my bitchy fat ass.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzsnortzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzsnortzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...zzzzzzzzzzzz..zzz

Stupid shit we did when we were little

Inspired by Beavis & Butthead.

I used to lick 9-volt batteries. The only reason I don't do that now is because I don't know where we keep the 9-volts.

Kara used to set fire to hairspray.

What stupid shit did you do as a child?

Licorice knitted edible underwear

Discuss.

Change of scene

My butt couldn't handle the dining room chair anymore. I've moved to the living room and my hubby's laptop. I don't have AIM on this machine, so no more chatting.

I'm on my comfy couch, soon to be in my comfy pajamas. We're officially tucked in for the long haul.

No sleep til Brooklyn, people! No sleep til Brooklyn.

Questions from BEnji, er, Mae

Yeah, that's right. You're busted. I finally got off my lazy ass and checked the IP addresses.

But that's ok. I admire your creative. And for that, I will use your latest questions to fuel this post.

PS What is Clara Jane doing during this?

Right now, she's sleeping. She's been a peach today. She's taken a couple of naps and has done a lot of giggling. Very good baby day. I spent a lot of time bouncing on my knee.

What is B doing?

He's hung out with Clara Jane, ran a few errands, and did some big cleaning in the living room and kitchen. He also rearranged the living room furniture. Now he's setting up the laptop for me.

Is he staying up with you?

Nope. He gets to sleep through the night, for once.

Who is going to keep you company at 3am?

Kara's here! She brought a ton of junk food, too. She's feeding me Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookies and telling me about a funny Arby's commercial she heard on the radio. We're watching "School of Rock", and I'm sure some VH1 Classic will be utilized tonight.

Whee!

BEnji! BEnji!

Sweet puppy, settle down! Lick your nutsack, if that will soothe you. I accidentally forgot to answer your question, seeing as I'm tired and starting to get a bit delirious at the thought of doig this for another .... how many hours? Oh, I've lost count.

To answer your question, there really aren't any culinary-related insults. Because, BEnji, when you work you work in a field that requires the use of 10-inch knives and flames, people tend to behave.

OK, not really. Chefs are some of the most poorly behaved people you'll ever met. Again, because of the knives.

That's what it's all about. Really.

Now I have a few questions

What is Fluid Pudding?

How did the pudding go from its traditional custard form to fluid?

Oh thank heaven for Fluid Pudding!

Fluid Pudding has given me something to talk about!

Also, who would you rather be--Jessica Simpson or Mandy Moore? Why?

Jessica. If must feel good to be that dumb. No worries. No cares. $700 underwear. I could live like that.

Also, who would you rather kiss--Ben Affleck or Matt Damon? Why?
Matt. I would have said Ben, but considering he's slept with J.Lo., and considering how many people she's slept with, well ... I don't think my immune system is up to that.

And another thing--were you ever a girl scout, and will you encourage Clara "On My Honor, I Will Try to Serve God, My Country, and Mankind, and to Live by the Girl Scout Law" Jane to join up?

I was a Brownie Scout, briefly. Our troop leader sucked, never got my badges to me, and skipped town.

I'll encourage Clara "OMHIWTTSGMCAMATLBTGSL" Jane to join Girl Scouts, but for the cookies and only for the cookies.

That's a perk of having a daughter I hadn't realized before now. Once a year, it'll be like living with a Tagalongs vending machine.

The wall

...has been hit.

It's official. I've run out of things to talk about. Never thought I'd live to see the day, but I have.

Sodi-YUM!

Dinner's over. Eh. I cheated and used frozen biscuits, instead of making them from scratch like I normally do. Not a good move. Did you know that sodium has a flavor? And it tastes like Pillsbury frozen biscuits.

If I keel over with a heart attack tonight, it's not from the caffeine. It'll definitely be from the biscuits.

I'm getting sleepy.

Hey baby!

Half
Way
There!!!

We're up to $350! That's 5250 meals for America's Second Harvest!

It's not too late to sponsor. C'mon! I need the motivation to keep going. If you haven't sponosored, please do so. I'll love you forever if you do. Go to Project Blog and give give give!

Dinner's on!

Well, not really. It's in progress. Biscuits & gravy won, although I like Mae's suggestion of crablegs and escargot.

Kara's on her way!

I'm off to call my mama. She needs her daily Clara Jane update.

B.'s epiphany

My husband had an epiphany today.

"You know how, when you're in college, you only clean when you've got people coming over? I had an epiphany today. I realized that I wanted to clean because I didn't want to live in filth!"

I think we're going to start a fortune cookie company. I'll make the cookies. He'll write the fortunes. Our lawyer will file our bankrupcy papers.

Feed me!

I'm trying to decide what to make for dinner. And you, intrepid readers, can help! Vote! Tell me what I should make. Here are the options:

- homemade mac & cheese

- sausage & cheese omelet

- biscuits & gravy

All will be served with a salad, of course. I'm not a Neanderthal.

So, place your vote before 6 pm! I'm getting hungry!

A word from Clara Jane

hjbbbbbg/'/.bhfjpvkvkvlkppfllllllllllpkdkmls[';dl;kljkj mmvc,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,vkb[p;iufrfropgfopffdjojdkkkkkvkjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjddoooooikcuiiiiuuuuujdejunhhdiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiijhbgnttcop[ ,, l;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;cp

(p.s. - did you know that i have feet?)

Whew! Clean!

And just in time, too. I'm still all pinky and moist from my shower. Does that excite you? I thought so.

Since I'm not in his way and I'm too distracted to bark orders, B. has rearranged the living room. And I like it! Wonder of wonders. Now, we just need to figure out a way to get my big-ass antique Steelcase desk from The Room Formerly Known as My Office to the dining room.

My fans have asked more questions.

Hal has two questions.

Can you sample my salsa and tell me why it tastes like feet?

It's because you're soaking your feet in it. While the lime juice is good for softening callouses, it should be used straight.

Who is your favorite commentator on, “I love the 90s?” Tell me it’s not that Michael Ian Black guy. He gets all the hot chicks.

Hal, Hal, Sweetie. I love you both equally. In fact, I have often entertained ideas of being the meat in a Hal & MIB sammie. Interested? Gimme a ring-a-ding-ding.

Fluid Pudding writes:

The ice cream man is here. Shall I get a bomb pop in honor of our president, a push-up in honor of my underwear, or just a simple Lick o' the Knees?

Do they have anything with gumball eyeballs? I love gumball eyeballs.

Also, don't you wish you were a bit drunk?

Dear, I always wish I were a bit drunk.

Can we expect drunkem entries as the hours pass?

Alas, no. In my post-baby state, I am a lush. Booze makes me sleep. I must stay awake! Stay awake for Project Blog!

Can you tell my baby to stop crying?!

Stop crying, Meredith.

Who wants to come to a Project Blog slumber party?

Kara might be coming over, too. And bringing food!

So, c'mon! Who wants to come over for a little all-night blogging and diaper-a-rama?

Clean! Clean!

My dining room is clean! Well, mostly.

My fan might be coming over to stalk, er, visit. I'd hate for her to have to hide in the bushes. I like to invite my stalkers in for a beverage. Maybe some fish.

Next goal: clean myself.

Mo' money!

Muchas thanks to our latest anonymous donor!

And for everyone who's donated, don't forget to send me your snail mail addy! I've got a shitload of PBS totebags to give you!

Haven't pledged yet? It's not too late! Project Blog.

Why do I live near the airport?

Mae, Rev. Matt and Narnia Hope went to the airport today.

Did they stop by and say hello to me, even though I'm less than a mile away?

No.

Annie went to the airport today.

Did she stop by and say hello to me?

No.

Why the hell do I live near the airport if nobody's going to come say hello when they have to dump someone at the airport?

That's ok. My house is messy and I'm unbathed. If you'd dropped by, I probably wouldn't have answered the door, anyway. Considering that the last time I answered the door today I was met by two earnest young people wanting to give me God's word, I don't think I'll be answering the door. Period. Ever.

On another subject, I just discovered a new show that I love. Party Starters. I think this show needs a token straight girl host. I know just the 'hag for them.

A meme! A meme!

I got this from Welfare Queen. I love her name. It reminds me of Festus, Missouri's finest sons, The Bottle Rockets.

1. WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR BEDROOM WALLS? Red with khaki undertones. Looks like the staff of a Target store blew up.

2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? See left.

3. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? I have a trackball.

4. FAVORITE BOARD GAME? Trivial Pursuit

5. FAVORITE MAGAZINE? Bon Appetit.

6. FAVORITE SMELL? As long as it's not a dirty diaper, I'm happy.

7. FAVORITE COLOR? dark purple

8. LEAST FAVORITE COLOR? brown

9. HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE YOUR ANSWERING MACHINE PICKS UP? I'm a caller i.d. whore.

10. MOST IMPORTANT MATERIAL THING IN MY LIFE? Computer

11. FAVORITE FLAVOR OF ICE CREAM? peanut butter chocolate

12. DO YOU BREAK THE SPEED LIMIT DAILY? duh

13. DO YOU HAVE A STUFFED ANIMAL IN YOUR ROOM SOMEWHERE? nope

14. STORMS - COOL OR SCARY? cool

15. FAVORITE DRINK? wine

16. WHEN IS YOUR BIRTHDAY? Oct. 22

17. FAVORITE VEGETABLES? leafy green lettuces

18. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB, WHAT WOULD IT BE? editor-at-large for a food magazine.

19. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY COLOR HAIR, WHAT WOULD IT BE? red

20. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE? yep

21. TOP THREE FAVORITE MOVIES (IN ORDER)? Honestly, I don't have favorite movies.

22. DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FINGERS ON THE RIGHT KEYS? yep

23. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED? cats

24. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER? 33.3

25. FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH ON TV & IN PERSON? auto racing for both

26. WHAT IS YOUR SINGLE BIGGEST FEAR? loss

27. FAVORITE CD OF ALL TIME & RIGHT NOW? all-time? U2's "The Joshua Tree". Currently, Modest Mouse's "Good News for People Who Love Bad News"

28. FAVORITE TV SHOW OF ALL TIME & RIGHT NOW? all-time? "The Simpsons" currently? "The Brini Maxwell Show"

29. HAMBURGERS OR HOT DOGS? both

30. THE COOLEST PLACES YOU'VE EVER BEEN? Memphis, New Orleans, Chicago

31. WHAT WALLPAPER AND/OR SCREENSAVER IS ON YOUR COMPUTER RIGHT NOW? wallpaper: a photo of my hubby and child. No screensaver.

32. DOES MCDONALD'S SKIMP ON YOUR FRIES & DO YOU CARE? They better not! That's the only reason I go to McDevil's.

33. FAVORITE CHAIN RESTAURANT(s)? Not a big fan of chains. I do like Uno's, though.

34. IF YOU HAVE A BOY (OR HAVE ANOTHER BOY) WHAT WOULD YOU NAME HIM? Charles

35. IF YOU COULD LEARN TO PLAY ONE INSTRUMENT OVERNIGHT, WHAT WOULD IT BE? guitar

Poetry, by request

Another reader writes and asks, "In haiku form, can you tell us your all-time favorite item to cook?"

Since there are many things I like to cook, under different circumstances, I have composed several haiku.

Biscuits and gravy
While watching Nascar races.
Such a hillbilly.

Bottles of salsa
Canned by me in the summer.
Enough for End Times.

Oh salad dressings
Wishbone, be damned. Mine are
So, so much better.

Opal's bread pudding
Recipe pried from her with
Much force and begging.

Damn gumbo ya-ya
Thirty minutes of roux burns.
Only for loved ones.

Granny's fried chicken.
Served raw to my in-laws once.
Yeah, salmonella!

Also, "Have you ever written a limerick about pancakes? Do you want to?"

Do I want to? Hell, yeah, I want to!

There once was a girl named Poppy
Whose pancakes turned out floppy.
She went to the diner.
Their pancakes were finer
And filled with pecans so choppy.

Project Blog plug

A very intepeid reader has asked how I found out about Project Blog and what other charities I work with. Well, since you asked ...

I found out about Project Blog via my cousin Wendy. She's one of the organizers and, since she oh-so-graciously hosts my blog and reposts by style sheet when I delete it, I felt that participating was the least I could do.

Being a chef, hunger relief is a big passion of mine. That's why I chose America's Second Harvest as my charity. We live in the richest nation in the world, and yet an astounding number of people - especially children - go hungry everyday. My life's work involves keeping people fed, and I feel like I have an obligation to use my skills to help feed people who might go without otherwise.

I've done some work with Family Haven, a Salvation Army homeless facility in St. Louis. Not as much work as I'd like, though.

I love teaching kids to cook. Someday, I'd love to teach cooking classes to kids i need, giving them alternatives to the unhealthy processed-food diets that rob kids of their health and their money.

Oh, and I'm also the sister city leader for Mothers Opposing Bush, but that's not a charity. That's a PAC.

Oh! Oh! Fan mail!

An intrepid reader would like to know about the day I found out I was pregnant and how I told B. Well, since you asked ...

My period was supposed to start on June 6th. Since I've never had a regular period in my life, I wasn't surprised when it didn't arrive. Regardless, something felt different.

That day, I was driving along I-270, listening to The Paul Simon Collection. When Loves Me Like a Rock came on, I became so overwhelmed that I almost had to pull over. Shaking, heart racing, tears ... overcome with joy and fear. I knew.

That was a Friday. I waited until Tuesday to take a pregnancy test. Negative.

I took another one on Wednesday afternoon. Also negative.

For whatever reason (that reason being that I'm a slob), I left the test on the bathroom counter. When B. got home from work a few hours later, I told him about the negative test. Went back to the bathroom and, lo and behold, there was a very pale, faint, almost imaginary second pink line.

I knew that a test that was over an hour old was untrustworthy, but still I knew. I told B., and he opted to be cautiously optimistic.

The next morning, we woke up extra-early and I immediately took yet another test. This time, there was no question. Bright pink line. Positive.

The rest of the day is a total blur. So surreal and unexpected. Even though we'd been "trying" to get pregnant for 4 months, we didn't expect it to actually happen. Since I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, we believed that my chances of getting pregnant were slim-to-none.

So much for that theory. :)

We went to breakfast at our favorite diner to celebrate, and of course, I couldn't keep my big mouth shut. I made the big announcement and wound up leaving with a big sign stuck to my back that read "bun in the oven" for the whole world to know.

We have music!

I still haven't drug my CD collection out of the pit better known as My Former Office. Instead, I've dipped into the 3000+ MP3s on my computer (all legally ripped from CDs I purchased, of course). We're venturing into the land of The Pixies. Clara "Debaser" Jane digs The Pixies. I was going to write about that last week, but got sidetracked. She immediately starts bopping around when I play them. I'm considering taking her to see them on their reunion tour.

The current Pixies playlist:

Here Comes Your Man
La La Love You
Head On
The Sad Punk
Alex Eiffel
Debaser
Monkey Gone to Heaven
hidden track from Surfer Rosa
Palace of the Brine
Subbacultcha
Motorway to Rosewell
Letter to Memphis

Yes, it's a tad bit heavy on tracks from their final (?) album. Not their best, but I have lots of good memories associated with that one. It was released during my freshman year of college, which was The Year Music Was Mind-Blowing. That would be 1991, to all of you non-music geeks.

During my senior year of high school I was at a speech tournament (shut up - you were dorky in high school, too) with some dumb little freshman who kept bragging about listening to alternative music. At one point she put her stretchy elastic headband across her forehead and asked, "Do I look like someone who listens to The Pixies"?

No. You look like a 15-year-old debate nerd.

Baby's first hickey

So, Clara "Snoozing for Mama" Jane just woke up. As always, I covered her little cheeks with smooches, sneaking in a few little cheek-sucks.

If anyone had told me, pre-parenthood, that it's normal for a parent to want to shove her child's entire head into her mouth from love, I probably would have called the authorities.

I think I might have sucked a tiny bit too hard.

It looks like I might have given her a hickey.

Aw, it's the milestones that make parenthood so rewarding and worthwhile.

Preparing for the End Times.

Wanna see what I did last night?

Yeah, that's right. I put up 13 pints of homemade salsa. I also stuck 20-odd ears of sweet corn in the freezer. Why? There are several possible explainatios:

1. I'm 75, lived through the Great Depression, and refuse to let anything go to waste.

2. I'm a wingnut and am preparing for the End Times. I've got a fallout shelter filled to the gills with homemade salsa and cartons of smokes.

3. I like to suffer, and there's no better way to do so than by adding more heat and humidity into the air, which is exactly what canning does.

Actually, I did it because I love having all those pretty jars of yummy summer goodness lined up on my shelves in the middle of winter. Of course, I'm such a packrat that I don't actually allow anyone to eat the salsa. If you eat it, we'll run out, and then what will we do? Huh? If we run out of salsa, that means they've won!

Donation update

With all of your help, we've hit $320! That means America's Second Harvest will be able to distribute 4800 meals with our funds. Woooo-hoooo!

Thanks to Jodi and my most recent anonymous donor for their recent contributions.

It's not too late to sponsor. Just go to Project Blog, create an account, and be generous. Also, pay a visit to some of the other blogging souls who are participating today.

Bury me

I'm late, I know. I've been on the phone with my beloved Kicking Bear. Her darling 5-year-old son Baylor is in a wedding today. Of course, he's the ring bearer.

At the end of the rehersal last night, when the preacher asked if anyone had any questions about the ceremony, Baylor raised his hand.

"Excuse me, Sir," he said. "Where am I supposed to bury the rings?"

Today's other goal - Operation Clean

I'm such a clutterbug. Or clutterbutt. Whatever. I have too much junk scattered about my house, and quite frankly, my house is too small for that.

So, since I'm stuck at home today, and I have an extra set of hands (B.) to managed Clara "Cranky Like My Mama" Jane, I'm going to embark on Operation Clean.

I would post photos of my progress but I'm too lazy (er, embarrassed) to do so.

My goals today:

-get all the junk off the dining room floor.

-remove all traces of cat hair from the living room, even if it means setting the cats free.

-getting rid of that ... odor ... on the couch, even if it means setting Chloe the Odormaker free.

Hm. Seems like the solution to my mess problem boils down to getting rid of my pets. Maybe that's not a bad idea. At least the corn is gone, so the cats have been forced to stop Corn God Vomit Sacrifice Festival 2004.

Gimme your housekeeping tips. I want to be all Susy Homemaker.

Coffee + bran muffins = bathroom blogging!

Well, not yet. I'm just questioning my judgement on my breakfast choice - a huge honey bran muffin and two big latte mugs of kidney-shredding coffee goodness.

Note to B. - either run the ethernet cable to the bathroom, or get our wireless network set up ASAP.

Kiss my ass

I nabbed this from Annie. She going to the airport today. I wonder if she realizes she's spitting distance from The House That Blog Built, aka Chez Poppy.

congratulations. you are the kiss my ass happy
bunny. You don't care about anyone or anything.
You must be so proud


which happy bunny are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Pretty good, considering that's exactly what I told a cop to do earlier this week.

I forgot to mention, I do have AIM up and running today. Say hello to my cranky ass at brassmonkeymom.

Rocking the Galapagos Islands

I just read a wonderful article in the new issue of Rolling Stone about a Brazilian photographer who's done an amazing photo essay on the Galapagos Islands. Breath-taking photos. I want to post a link to them, but I haven't found them on the RS website yet.

What I did find, was a great photo gallery of The Clash. I know my fellow Clash devotee Exena Humpamonkey will be checking in. Go look at the pretty pictures, XXX! They'll make you happy!

One of my plans today was to go through my CD collection and listen to some of the forgotten gems that have gotten buried. Also a good excuse to organize my desperately messy CD collection. So far, that hasn't happen. I'm listening to Air America Radio's replay of last week's shows. I figure, if I'm going to be nailed to my computer all day I might as well be agitated.

Project Blog's first casualty

No, I'm not bailing out just yet.

B. takes Zoloft. Not for any mental ailment, mind you. He just takes it to make me happy.

He hasn't taken his pill for the day yet.

He's singing.

He's singing the "lyrics" "doop-de-doop-de-doo".

He must die.

Let the party begin!

OK, so we're not off to the greatest start. I've been awake since 4 a.m. with a backache.

In the history books, when they talking about Project Blog 2004, I'll forever be known as The Cranky One.

13.5 hours to go...

You might notice a change in my blogroll. For this weekend, it'll just be listing bloggers who are sponsoring me in Project Blog. They're good people. Visit them.

T minus 21 hours and counting!

That's right, dear ones. It's almost time for Project Blog! Starting at 7 a.m. CDT tomorrow, I'll be awake for 24 hours, updating my blog every 30 minutes. Last time I stayed up all night and worked that hard, I produced a child. This time, my efforts will be for America's Second Harvest.

So far your pledges have raised $255. Do you know how many meals that will help Second Harvest distribute? 3825!

As thanks to those who've pledged, I've got some little goodies, as promised. Please send me your snail mail addys so I can get those PBS tote bags to you.

If you haven't sponsored me yet, what the hell's your problem? If you can't spare $5 to help the hungry, well, I just don't know what to do with you. You're better than that, aren't you? I know you are, so prove it!

Make sure to pay me a visit tomorrow. Some things you're guaranteed to experience here tomorrow:

-A new masthead every hour. That's 24 mastheads, People. All designed by me. You like gimmicks, don't you?

-Chatting! I'm normally not a messaging type girl, but I'll have AIM up for the entirity of Project Blog. So, come say hello to brassmonkeymom.

-The slow but inevitable meltdown as the carpal tunnel-ridden nerves in my hands turn to dust before your very eyes!

So what are you waiting for? Sponsor! Then come see the festivities tomorrow!

And if you really love me, you'll bring me a latte during this madness.

Beets: The Pros and Cons

Pro:
Beets are healthful.
Beets are tasty.
Beets are a pretty reddish-purple. I like purple. I like red.

Cons:
Beets can be smeared all over an infant's body.
Beets stain.
Beets are the same color coming out as they are going in, regardless of which exit they're using.
Beets can make a normally sweet, adorable child look like someone who's just used her two new teeth to bite the face off of a prison guard.

Tell me Clarice, are the lambs still screaming?

Today's nuggets

And I'm not talking about those fancy new all white meat McNuggets. I'm talking more about ... oh, insert your own piece of scattalogical humor here. I'm too tired to think of some for you.

First, a transcript of the conversation I had with a police officer this morning:

Officer - Do you know why I pulled you over?

Me: I have no fucking idea, but I have a hunch it has something to do with you being a giant turd.

Officer - You ran that last stop sign.

Me: Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you happen to be a blind turd.

Officer: You braked, but continued to roll through the intersection.

Me: Look, I saw three of your breathern issuing tickets in this neighborhood. Your supervisor just cruised by. I know what you're doing. You're having a pissing contest to see which (insert po-dunk St. Louis County township) officer can write the most tickets.

Officer: I"ll need your license and proof of insurance.

Me: Seriously. Are you on drugs? Sometimes bad moonshine can affect vision. You should be really careful with that shit that you and your cronies are making behind the station.

(Officer disappears for roughly 45 minutes.)

Me: Nice to see you again. What were you doing? Watching cop porn? You're awfully slow. You might want to see a doctor about that.

Officer: Your court date appears on the ticket. I need you sign on this line. Signing is not an admission of guilt.

Me: Are you sure you want me to use this ink pen? Seeing the magnitude of my imagined offense, wouldn't you prefer it if I signed in my own blood?

Officer: No.

Me: Oh, c'mon! I've already got a little cut on my finger.

Officer: Just sign the damn thing.

Me: Y'know, the shaved head business doesn't work nearly as well on you as it does Andy the Waiter. On him, it makes me want to rip my clothes off. On you, if makes me fear the rise of Aryan Nation.

Officer: Drive safely.

Me: Kiss my ass.

(Okay, so that's not exactly how it went. I did tell him to kiss my ass as he was walking back to his car. It was under my breath, but I did have the window down. I'm not totally gutless.)

As for my other problem today, can someone answer me this? What the hell is the deal with cats and corn?

Yesterday I purchased a case of fresh corn. That's 50 ears, still in the shucks. After I used what I needed for catering, I stashed the other ears of corn in a shopping bag with plans to shuck and freeze them tomorrow. I'm handy like that.

One problem: my two cats, Lardetta and Old Whore, will not stay out of the damn corn. Apparently, they're both suffering from severe corn shuck depletion, which kills cats by the thousands every single day.

These cats are too stupid to find their food dish every morning, even though their food dish has resided in the exact same spot for over five years. But when corn is involved, they suddenly develop Super Feline Powers. They also forget their mutual animosity, which allows them to work together in the difficult task of opening the door to the pantry, knocking over the bag o' corn, and grazing upon it like a couple of abandoned donkies.

Do you know what happens when cats eat green things, like corn shucks?

They puke.

Oh, sweet Jebus, they puke.

I'm going to have to get some rubber boots to wade through the rivers of corn-husk-infused cat puke that have taken over my home. I'm afraid that the amounts of puke are so massive that we won't be able to control them before Clara "ack" Jane starts crawling.

I'm starting to hope that corn husks are poisonous. I really am.

Any other creature, once exposed to a substance that causes prolific vomiting, will make all effort to avoid said substance. I have avoided tequila since 1996 when, after one particularly blurry night, I awoke to find vomit in my house that I couldn't account for.

Cats don't operate in that manner. If they did, we wouldn't have a card table propped against the pantry door with two desperate cats clawing at it to get to the beloved, life-giving, corn.

Corn uber allas, the cats cry.

I think I'm going to take B. up on his offer to install a drain in the middle of the floor so we can just hose this place down as needed.

Project Blog - Another Ode in Haiku

I just love Stacey.
She donated fifteen bucks.
Please buy her a beer.

Oh, Fluid Pudding
Knit on with your bad-ass self.
She donated, too.

You want to be cool.
Sponsor me in Project Blog
Help lots of others.

If you don't sponsor.
Blocking your IP address.
No more Poppymom.

Okay, just kidding.
I'll just call you a cheap ass
Embarrass you much.

I'll stop the haiku
When you donate a few bucks
To Second Harvest

Saturday's the day.
Blogging for 24 hours.
You will help, won't you?

Seriously. Make the haikus stop. Sponsor. Now. Time's a-wastin'!

"Andy" - an ode in haiku to a waiter

Andy, oh Andy
You brought me a burrito
Nachos rule! They rule!!

Andy with big green eyes.
My daughter could eat you up.
So could her mama.

Clean-shaven Andy
I want to rub salsa
All over your head.

Houston, we have a tooth!

Clara "Fang" Jane sprouted her first tooth last night.

Lower front right. It's not even visible yet, but damn, if it's not a sharp little bugger.

Fang's being her usual trooper self, hardly fussing at all.

I'm so excited. Such a big milestone. But I'm really going to miss that big, drunken toothless grin of hers.

Is that a baby on your breast or are you just happy to see me?

In the past few weeks I’ve read some really thought-provoking blogs about breastfeeding. Dooce started a bit of a firestorm in a post regarding how she was going to have to wean her daughter earlier than she’d like. The discussion moved to Chez Miscarriage when some lunatic attempted to badger the author to horse-whip Dooce for the early weening.

In the course of reading the fallout I happened upon a fabulous entry by Selkie that asks a question I honestly wish more lactation consultants/volunteers/nurses would ask would-be nursing moms: “What's happening with these unhappy mothers who feel like they were blasted by the Wicked Witch of the Breast?”

Well, I’m here to answer. I can’t answer for everyone who’s had a bad breastfeeding experience; I can only answer for myself.

Some background: I had every intention of breastfeeding Clara Jane. B. and I took the classes and read the books. I practiced holds. I had visions during my pregnancy of gazing at my newborn daughter, suckling in the middle of the night. Just the two of us, bonding and nourished. I couldn’t wait. Nothing could stop me, no matter how difficult it was. No matter how bloody my nipples became. I was going to be – dum dum da dum – Attachment Parenting Goddess!

I labored for over 34 hours before undergoing an emergency C-section. Clara Jane had swallowed meconium during the latter stages of labor, so she was whisked away to NICU as soon as she was born. Thank God, she was fine, but it was six hours before I got to see her. So much for my plans to feed her as soon as she was born.

By the time I first laid hands on my daughter I had been awake for well over 40 hours and had undergone the most physically and emotionally painful event of my life.

For the record, here’s how La Leche League has to say about post-cesarean nursing:

You may find that your body is tender at the site of the incision and that you cannot move and change positions as easily as usual.

Tender?

Tender?!?!

I had a five inch incision that cut through skin, my abdominal muscles and a major organ. Five months after Clara Jane’s birth, my body is tender. In the days that followed her birth, it was the most searing, white-hot pain I’ve ever experienced.

This kind of sugar-coating runs rampant in caring for pregnant women and new mothers. “You’ll feel a little pressure.” It’s a human head pressing on a cervix – that’s more than a little pressure. “Your breasts might feel a little over-full if you’re engorged. Engorged like a water balloon filled to bursting. “You might experience the baby blues…” which could very well turn into a depression that leaves Mom unable to move from her chair, unable to unfix her eyes from the wall, and unable to respond to her child’s cries.

To anyone providing care to new moms or pregnant women, please give it to us straight. Be honest with us. We’re big girls; we can take it. Don’t just tell us how wonderful pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding and parenting can be. Also give us fair warning of what complications we might expect. The shock at just how bad it could be destroyed what morale I had left.

Also, recognize that not every woman is going to be able to breastfeed. Just like not every woman is able to get pregnant, not every woman is going to be able to perform this normal, natural function. In the past, this inability was a death sentence for the child. At least today we have an alternative.

I was unable to breastfeed. I feel at fault for a great deal of this. I feel like I didn’t try hard enough, even though I did everything I could.

The breastfeeding support in the hospital was abhorrent. I delivered in a hospital that has one of the best obstetric units in the region. Even so, I was stunned at the conflicting, inconsistent care I received.

The nurse who finally brought me my daughter six hours after her birth handed her to me and left the room. As she was walking out I told her that I needed help breastfeeding. She kept walking. She repeated this performance four hours later when she brought my daughter for her second feeding. When she asked if Clara Jane had nursed, I told her that I had no idea, since I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

“Well, I’ll have to give her a bottle then.”

Over 40 hours with no sleep. Pumped full of painkillers. Passing blood clots the size of a softball. And now I have to fight a nurse who isn’t willing to provide any breastfeedng support at all?

Pardon me, but how in the fuck is anyone supposed to be able to do that? Is this a test to see just how willing and able a new mom is to fight for her child?

I fought. Clara Jane didn’t get the bottle. Then I cried for a few hours.

That nurse was one extreme. The other extreme were the nurses who held my child and my breast. They did all the work. I just lay there and lactated. They gave me no instruction on how to hold her, how to help her latch on. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.” I got the feeling that if they could have acted as wet nurses, they would have.

I had 20 other nurses in the course of my stay that fell somewhere along the continuum. Some were excellent. Some were terrible.

This hospital delivers hundreds of babies a month. They have two lactation consultants on staff. These consultants are stretched so thinly that patients have to set up appointments with them, and then they’re lucky if they can get 10 minutes of instruction.

In the end, I gave up. I spent $65 a month on a Medela breast pump rental, and for over four months I spent 1-3 hours a day attached to this machine, gulping fenugreek tea by the quart, devoting my life to making breastmilk for my child. The irony of this? My husband works for a company that makes formula. Formula, for us, is free. And yet, that doesn’t stop the dirty looks I would get in public when I’d whip out a bottle for Clara Jane. So many times I wanted to scream, “It’s breast milk! I’m not poisoning my child, even though you think I am!”

Breastfeeding fans kept egging me to keep trying.

Formula fans kept telling me to give it up.

Granted, I rarely do what anyone tells me to do, but it gets exhausting, listening to everyone tell me what I “should” do. It really does.

The worst part of this was the unsolicited advice. Yes, I tried nipple shields. Yes, I contacted La Leche. Yes, I took the classes. Yes, I tried the football hold. And yes, I get defensive when you run through the list of the basic breastfeeding advice. I get defensive when you assume that I haven’t done everything in my power to give my child the best, or that I haven’t done my homework on the matter.

No matter how hard I try, and no matter how healthy my baby is, it’s difficult to not feel like a failure. Talking to women who get that misty, far-off look in their eyes while glowing about the joy they get from looking down at a milky smile attached to her nipple is painful. Like telling someone with paralyzed legs how wonderful it is to run.

Our sense of womanhood is linked to our abilities to reproduce and feed our children. When those seemingly basic functions fail us, it can leave us feeling wounded and bitter, like we’ve been cheated.

I know so many women who wanted to breastfeed and weren’t able to do so. Instead of admitting that they tried and failed, they say that they chose to not breastfeed. It’s only later, when they feel safe, that they can admit that they tried and failed. The level of guilt and embarrassment is sickening. I never knew this existed until I found myself in the same position.

So, that’s why I felt like I was blasted by the Wicked Witch of the Breast. I think this long-winded rant boils down to a few very basic points:

1. Show compassion. A new mom is in the most vulnerable position of her life, at best. Be conscious of her fear. Watch your words, because they are so powerful.
2. Be realistic. This isn’t the time for rainbows and fluffy clouds. Be honest with the new mom. Brutally honest, if need be.
3. Never assume. Just because a mom isn’t breastfeeding doesn’t mean that she didn’t want to with all her heart. Don’t assume that she doesn’t know the benefits. Don’t assume that she hasn’t done everything in her power.
4. Realize this isn’t a black and white issue. It’s not just breastfeeding vs. formula. There can be shades of gray between. I was a shade of gray, with my bastardized way of delivery breastmilk to my daughter, and because of this there was no support. As far as I can tell, I’m the only mom in the history of the world to feed my child the way I did.

Selkie, you’ve done something I’ve never seen done by a breastfeeding professional: you asked this question. For that, I thank you. That’s a start. If more breastfeeding and nursing professionals (who are stretched woefully thin because of the disaster that is our healthcare system, but that’s another rant) would show the interest and concern that you’ve shown, many of this problems would be solved.

Whatcha gonna have for dinner on Wednesday?

Don't have an answer to that question? I can help!

Yes my friends, it's time for the bi-weekly Meals-to-Go! This week's menu is oh-so yummy. I'm doing crispy sesame tilapia - mild white fish breaded with white cornmeal and sesame seeds, then lightly sauted in a smidge of olive oil. On the side, fresh gazpacho made with just-picked tomatoes from Hartke Nursery and fire-grilled fresh corn with herb butter. Yum!

Are you in St. Louis and hungry? Email me at robin@poppymom(dot)com for prices (They're cheap. Really.) and details.

Much, much to say today, but little time to say it. B. and Clara "Geek Girl" Jane will be having their usual Monday night Stargate-a-thon, so I'll be back with some ramblings about breastfeeding, post-partum depression and stuff that all the cool mama-type bloggers have been discussing of late.

Happy birthday Bubba

My mom's throwing a birthday party today.

For her horse.

She's making Equine Birthday Cake for Bubba, the equine in question. She's making people-cake for the humans in attendance.

She's bought Bubba a party hat to wear. I'm sure it'll make a delicious compliment to his cake.

I haven't talked much about my family, except for last week's blowout. This horse birthday party, though, is a much better representation of my goofy-ass family. I'm sure Wendy will agree.

My dad grew up on a farm, where he raised, broke, and showed horses. When he married my mom, they moved to town. He left his horses on his parents' farm, which they sold five years later. Dad was horse-less for the next 26 years.

Last year, he started kicking around the idea of getting a horse. It was a pipe dream. Out of boredom one day, he talked Mom into going with him to see a quarter horse that was for sale.

Dad rode the horse while Mom waited. Dad briefly talked to the horses owner.

"She's ours! I bought her!"

Now, I've had some pretty insane impulse purchases in my time. The tiny diamond pendant at JC Penney when I was in college. Some really kick-ass purses. Shoes. Oh, lord, the uncomfortable but adorable shoes I've bought and never worn! Plastic-bottle tequila. An antique vibrator (in pink, not the aquamarine in the photo).

I used to get in trouble for brining home stray cats and dogs. And here he comes, bringing home a stray horse.

Dad, my uncles, my male cousins and a few of Dad's buddies quickly constructed a horse fence. My parents do have a little bit of land and a barn, so it's not like this horse was going to have to hang out on the patio until they found a place to put it.

Again, I got in trouble for adopting my basset hound, Chloe, before we had a chance to construct a fence. I'd just like for this double standard to be noted. Thank you.

But it didn't stop there. Dad's new horse was lonely. Psychotic lonely. She would prance and show off for her imaginary friend (better known as her reflection in the barn window). Now, it's not good to have 900 pounds of lonely psychosis penned by a hastily-made fence. Something had to be done.

That's when Alice arrived.

Alice, the quarter horse of my dad's pal Chris.

Alice, the pregnant quarter horse.

Alice wasn't supposed to get knocked up. She had been pastured with a young male horse whose testicles hadn't decended.

So, in a matter of two weeks, my parents had gone from a normal menagerie that consisted of a neurotic Lab named Rhonda, to being both a horsey loony bin and a home for wayward horse-girls and their bastard colts.

Now, through all of this, my mother was none too happy. This is "Mom, It Followed Me Home" syndrome gone totally overboard.

Mom was pissed

Until one July morning, when she looked out her kitchen window and saw this.

Thus Alice begat Bubba.

Did I mention that Mom once made my stand on the back porch for an inordinate amount of time late one night when I showed up, past curfew, with a tiny stray kitten I'd saved? I didn't? Well, I'd just like that to be noted.

My mom doesn't ride. She has no intention of riding. She fully admits that Clara "Equus" Jane will ride Bubba before she does. Bubba, in all his stallion glory, is, for all intents and purposes, a 500-pound yard dog.

She won't admit it, but I know she'd let him hang out in the house if she could.

Did I mention that one of these wild horse-beasts chased me when I was 7 months pregnant? Chased my fat pregnant ass across the driveway while swinging a broken board from her neck.

So, today's Bubba's birthday party, complete with horsey-cake, people cake, a bbq, party hats and pony rides. Yes, they rented a pony for Bubba and his horse-friends to ride.

OK, not really. But there will be horseback riding, I'm sure. Just don't expect Mom or Bubba to participate.

Happy birthday, Bubba, you big wild stallion. Here's a raw carrot and an apple chip.

A few more bits from today

Wanna see my darling politi-baby and spouse? Here.

My neighbors have been having a bbq this evening on their front stoop. Much beer has been consumed. I don't have a problem with this. I like beer. I'm a little concerned about the very-pregnant woman who's had a bottle of beer in her hand all night, though.

At one point during this shin-dig, a truck with the back end full of tires pulled up and stayed awhile. I thought we might have a good old-fashioned tire fire for roasting weinies and marshmallows. Alas, it didn't happen.

Drunken pregnant lady was quite interested in truck o' tires.

I got hit on today, which I'm not used to. The guy who did it was real slick, too, lemme tell you. He was working at the gas station where I was buying gas. I paid with my debit card before pumping (huh huh). Why did I pay inside? Because the stupid pay-at-pump thingie kept telling me to go see the cashier.

I think it was all a ploy to get me inside.

After he ran my card he said, "Do you want your receipt now, or will you come back for it when you're finished?"

Hmm. Yeah. I'd love to make a special trip to get a piece of paper from you.

"I'll take it now, please."

"You mean you won't come back and see me? I won't get to see you again today?"

B. asked me if this fella had more teeth or fingers. I'm guessing the latter.

Sadly, this isn't the first time I've been hit on by creepy gas station guys. Nor is it the second time. Or third.

I knit. Did you know that I knit? Well, I do. I've been knitting for a long time. At least an hour.

Do you know who else knits? Fluid Pudding knits. I have taken up knitting to be more like her. I want to be her Secret Knitting Crush, just to make everyone jealous of us and the knotty love we're going to share.

Heh. "Knotty". Knitting. Knitting is just carefully-constructed knots. Get it?

I've been awake since 5:30 a.m. Obviously, I'm delirious with sleep deprivation. Just warming up for next week's Project Blog. You've sponsored me, right? No? Well, I'm going to go to bed, and when I wake up I'll see that you've sponsored me, right? Of course I will.

Happy 28th birthday to Kicking Bear!

Yeah, she's turning 28 today and she has a 14-year-old son (my boyfriend, Lance).

Yeah, we're both from the Ozarks.

Got a problem with that?

Coffee and politics

The first-ever Poppymom-held political event was a huge success! If you made it to Hartford Coffee today, much thanks!

Our turn-out was fabulous! Really surprised me, since this event was planned so quickly. We had lots of people who specifically came out to see us, and a lot of folks who just happened by and stopped to see what was up. So many cool people! Everyone from soccer moms to grannies to radicals to kids.

Oh, the kids! There was one family with three daughters. The oldest was 16ish. Their mom is very politically involved and she's raised some incredible girls. I hope Clara "Pawn of the Liberal Media" Jane is that confident and personable when she's a teen. They all bought t-shirts and were begging their mom to buy this. She chickened out, so I bought it for myself.

There was another little girl who wandered in with her mom. The girl was 9 1/2 years old and wearing a Kerry button. She absolutely loved the shirts, especially this (which I bought for B.). This is a reproduction of the conversation I overheard:

Girl: I really like this one. How much is it?
Mom: It's $20.
Girl: Oh. I only have $10 of my allowece left.
Mom: If you really want it, I'll spot you the other $10.
Girl: *ponders*
Mom: Sometimes when you really believe in something, you have to be willing to make sacrifices to help that cause.
Girl: *brightening* OK! I'll buy it!

Valerie loaded the little girl with a ton of Kerry/Edwards stickers, since she's throwing a Kids for Kerry party. I asked her where she got her cool Kerry button. "I got it when I went to see him speak in Quincy, Illinois. It was so great!"

I think she has a little bit of a crush on Kerry, but that's ok. She knows more about the issues than I do, so she's allowed to be a bit doe-eyed.

Caitlin and Valerie, the gals from Clothing of the American Mind are my new heros. Love them! The are working so, so hard. If I'd been in an RV for the past eight days, driving cross-country and trying to convince the masses that Bush is bad, I would be pretty damn cranky. They weren't. They were tired, but so enthusiastic and passionate about what they're doing.

We had some dessenters. Two guys were sitting at a corner table on the patio, watching our little event. Both pro-Bush and Republican. I heard lots of rumblings about our "propaganda". Whatever. There was another guy present, a college student, who was undecided but leaning towards voting for Bush. Instead of sitting in the corner, mumbling, he started a dialogue (dear lord, look how liberal I am, using phrases like "started a dialogue") with Caitlin, Val, and a few others. They talked for the better part of an hour. Civily. Openly. Honestly.

A civil political conversation about dissenting points of view? That's possible? Apparntly so!

I bought this in blue and green for Clara "Pawn" Jane. It matched her binky. She was quite the bell of the ball, expressing her opinion by blowing raspberries at anyone who passed into her line of vision. Again, I must say that I have the most laid-back kid in the world. She spent almost four hours in the middle of all the hub-bub, wide awake and happy as can be. How did I get so lucky?

She's napping, finally. I think I might join her.

It's just that simple!

Geez.

Mention the name of an old friend that you haven't seen or heard from in nearly five years.

An hour later, a mysterious stranger provides a link to said friend.

Less than two hour later, emailing with long-lost friend.

Wow. It's just that simple!

I was thinking about this, and my whiny little entry from earlier today. Out of all those friends that have come and gone, I only mentioned one by name. I could have mentioned any of them. I knew, though, that if I mentioned names, there was a chance that someone would get Google-happy and find me.

Quite frankly, out of all those lost friends, there was only one that I really would have liked to have heard from. The thought of making contact with any of the others makes me want to go sit on my roof so that, one, they might not see me, and two, I would have better aim at them when I start flinging rocks their way.

Time filters. There's nothing melancholy about that.

It's been a good day. Clara "Visa" Jane and I did some shopping. Mainly, we purchased Missouri goodies to give to our Clothing of the American Mind visitors. A bottle of wine from Mt. Pleasant Winery in Augusta, cookies from Dad's, yummy Black Habit - blackberry jam with hot peppers and black walnuts - from A Taste of the Kingdom, breadsticks from Companion Baking and some cheese made by a little old lady in the Ozarks who raises the cows, feeds the cows, milks the cows and makes the cheese all by herself.

I love my locally-made products. I found all of these goodies at Missouri Mercantile. Great store. Go there.

I also bought some books for myself. I've decided to take up knitting and digital scrapbooking in my ample spare time.

I saw the funniest damn license plate today. "Oh-Face". If you've seen Office Space, you know why this is so funny that it almost caused me to have another wreck.

Obviously, someone at the DMV hasn't see Office Space, or they never would have let that one through.

You know what I'm talking about. Oh! Oh! Oh!

Shifts & changes

Finally! A chance to entertain some deep thoughts while Clara "I Have Feet" Jane dozes.

You know how some people are seriel monogomists? They jump from one long-term relationship to the next to the next etc.? In my old age, I'm realizing I'm that way with friends.

Every four years or so, there seems to be a shift in my group of friends. Or, rather, I change groups of friends. (Don't worry Kara and Kristina - you're not getting rid of me that easily.) It runs parallel with the major shifts in my life.

Within a few years of graduating high school, I was only in touch with 2, maybe 3, of my high school friends.

I couldn't tell you what became of any of the people I was friends with in college. Granted, my perpetually drunken state in college prevented me from learning most of their names in the first place.

The friends of my early 20s, pre-B.? Long gone, except for one.

The people who stood with me at my wedding in '99? I email with one of them every now and then. Like, twice a year. How sad is this - you know when I last saw or spoke with my "maid" of honor?

On my wedding day.

No, we didn't have an ugly catfight during the reception over the color and cut of an ugly maid of honor dress. I didn't make him wear a dress, being that he's male and all. He did offer to wear a pink prom gown for the occasion, which was nice of him.

At the end of the reception, we hugged and made tentative plans to see a play in St. Louis the following February. I called. I emailed. Nada.

If anyone has seen Brian Henke, tell him to please call his friend Robin. She misses him. He was last seen at the Dixie Belle in Kansas City, MO, downing whiskey sours and squealing like a little girl everytime he got his ass grabbed.

It's time for another shift. I've been a part of a community for over four years. I'm feeling the disconnect happening once again. I can't figure out if they're sick of me, if I'm sick of them, or if the general shifts in the universe has fragmented the foundation.

Sure, I've made some wonderful friends who will hopefully hang around through the shuffle. I hope so. I'll do whatever I can to maintain those friendships. Considering my past, though, I'm not terribly hopeful.

But on the flipside, I've got new friends. New friends excite me. It's a rush not dissimilar from having a crush that starts to form into something mutual. Finding out all about someone new. Getting their appreciation for who I am before my "quirkiness" turns into "neurosis".

As I get older, I'm more concerned with having a feeling of permanence. If not for me, then for my daughter. I don't want her childhood to be filled with people who are in her life for a few years and then disappear. Before and during my pregnancy, I ended a few friendships because I didn't want my child to have to deal with those people.

I just have to figure out how to not be one of those people.

I met a group of women on Baby Center when I was pregnant. They live in St. Louis and we all four had daughters between Feb. 11 - 19. I have these visions of Clara Jane becoming friends with these other girls. I imagine them growing into a girl gang, going through all their big life momets together.

Lost teeth (although they all need to grow some first)
First crushes
First periods
Graduation and college
Weddings
Their own babies

And they'll be able to say; "Those girls? Oh, I've been friends with them since I was born. Literally. Our moms used go to Chuck E. Cheese together when they were pregnant with us."

Because that's what I've always wanted.

This is turning a bit whinier than I expected. I have some wonderful friends, I really do. Friends I can count on, who I know I'll most likely be friends with 20 years from now. I guess I should consider myself lucky. Does everyone have that? I honestly don't know.

Maybe I'm just a little melancholy, feeling older and missing the friendships that ran so deep at one time or another, only to slip beneath the current.

Or maybe I'm just missing laughing at Brian Henke getting his drunken ass slapped at the Dixie Bell.

Titles are for sissies

Actually, I'm just too tired to come up with a good title. And I don't feel good. I woke up with a sore throat this morning. Since my allergies have been crazy lately, I figured it was my sinuses blowing off some steam. As the day progressed, my right ear has joined my throat in the Pain Factory. Then the body aches arrived. I hope they're my garden-variety baby-hauling muscle aches.

Oh please oh please oh please oh please don't let me get sick! Please?

Granted, I'm feeling better than I was this time 5 months ago when Clara "8 pounds 12.5 ounces" Jane had just entered the world. Yep, my baby's 5 months old today.

How the fuck did that happen? I've only been pregnant for a week or so.

And so that's it. I might be getting sick for my first big political function. My baby's a month older. I'm tired.

Political Stuff

Let's welcome the Clothing of the American Mind road trip crew to St. Louis and raise some cash to help Mothers Opposing Bush!

Place: Hartford Coffee Co.
3974 Hartford Street (Two blocks south of Arsenal at Tower Grove Park. Shop is located on the corner of Rogers & Hartford.), St. Louis, MO

When: Saturday, July 17th, 10 a.m. - 12 noon

Clothing of the American Mind sells incredibly witty anti-Bush t-shirts. They're traveling cross-country in a RV to raise awareness, register voters and help grassroots anti-Bush groups raise funds. They have a documentary crew with them who are making a film about the people who are working so hard for change in this election year.

Mothers Opposing Bush is a non-partisan organization with a brand-new chapter in St. Louis. As mothers, our top priority is protecting the people we love, and providing them with a secure foundation. To achieve that goal, our maternal instincts are telling us we need a new president. We're working to educate the public on why change is so necessary, and get the vote out in November.

Hartford Coffee Co. is a locally owned, independent coffee house with a great family-friendly environment, so bring the kids!

© 2004 MOBorg, Inc. Box 2111, Annapolis, Maryland, 21404-2111. All rights reserved.
Paid for by MOBorg, Inc. Not Authorized by any Candidate or Candidate's Committee.
Contributions or gifts to MOBorg are not tax deductible.

Bloggus Interruptus

For over 24 hours I've been writing a blog entry in my head, but everytime I sit down to write it, I get interrupted. I'm also oddly agitated today. Far more than usual, which is saying something.

I so don't want to post yet another whiny crappy-day rant. I've got much cooler things to say. I really do. Hopefully later tonight.

B. is home early today. Why? Oh, he's decided to become a man of leisure and only work half-days from now on so he can spend his afternoons on the couch with me, where we eat sherbet out of a big plastic tub and watch our stories on TV.

No, that's not it. He's home because our washing machine is in a persistat vegitative state. It made horrible thumping and grinding noises last night while it was washing poop off Clara "Crappy" Jane's bouncy seat cover. Granted, if someone put that crap-covered thing in me, I'd protest, too.

The washing machine, I'm convinced, has poop poisoning.

B. took the machine apart and located the problem - a piece of the bouncy seat cover had gotten wedged in the machine. It's been removed, and once B. gets off his ass and puts away the sherbet, we'll find out if the machine has been resusitated or if we're gonna pull the plug.

I'm coming to you from my dining room, insead of my office. The pile of old soda cans and empty Cheez-It boxes beside my chair has finally become a health hazard, so we moved my computer. The office door is now closed and we are never to speak of it again. When guests are here and they ask, "Where does that door lead?" we will have them escorted out of the house and will never invite them back. Of course, who would want to pay a second visit to the house with The Cheez-It Burial Room?

I have better things to do than throw away empty cracker boxes and soda cans. I have a political organization to run! That's right - the St. Louis chapter of Mothers Opposing Bush will be gathering Saturday morning. Where? I'm not sure yet. What time? Don't know that, either.

I am such a leader!

Actually, this is the deal: I got an email this morning from Clothing of the American Mind. They're a snazzy little non-profit group that makes really cool political t-shirts. They're doing a cross-country road trip and making a documentary about grass-roots political groups. Since they're going to be in St. Louis overnight on Friday, they want to do breakfast with the Mothers Opposing Bush.

At this point I'm planning on making a bunch of muffins to sell with the funds going to MOB. COTAM is going to sell t-shirts and give the profits to MOB. Much fun and merrimet will ensue. I'm just waiting for them to tell me what time so I can secure a location.

Everyone's welcome to come! I'll post the rest of the info once we figure out what the hell we're doing.

Oh, and I also invited them to park their 30+ foot RV in our 20+ foot driveway and spend the night. Just as long as they promise to not empty their toilet into our washing machine. Again, washing machines hate poop.

I guess I should tell B. that we might have guests on Friday. Although there's a value to him arriving home to find an Airstream in the drive and two strangers on the couch, eating his sherbet.

(Incidentally, I don't know what the hell is the deal with me and sherbet today. I can't remember the last time I had sherbet in the house. I don't think I've ever seen B. eat sherbet. I think I just like saying sherbet. Told you I was agitated.)

Wow. It only took me two hours to write this entry. I wonder how long it would have taken for me to write something meaningful?

On the 11th day of Project Blog...

Poppy gave to me ...
dinner!

If you live or work in St. Louis, I've got a deal for you!

The next St. Louisan who pledges $35 to me in Project Blog will get two servings of a delicious dinner from my catering company, delivered!

You can claim your chow on Wednesday, July 21st, when I'm serving crispy sesame tilapia, gazpacho and roasted corn with herb butter. If that's not your thing, you can wait until Wednesday, Aug. 4th when I'm serving smoked brisket, BBQ beans and tomato-basil salad.

Your donation will help America's Second Harvest put meals on the tables of people in need, and I'd like to thank you by putting a meal on your table.

Once you pledge, drop me an email at robin at poppymom.com so I'll be able to tell who bid first.

New recipes posted!

At the request of i.e. and Annie D., I've posted recipes from last night's dinner in the recipes section. Green Beans au Gratin and Ribeyes with Gorgonzola Mushroom Sauce.

And yes, I do take for granted that everyone knows how to make carmelized onions. It's just like when B. assumes everyone knows the same computer junk he knows, and he can't understand it when I start throwing books at his head and crying while he's telling me about his latest project. So, occasionally I need a kick to remind me to write these things down. I do want to write a cookbook one of these days, and this is good practice.

Speaking of food, much thanks to Kathy for her $10 Project Blog sponsorship! Since she was the first to sponsor after yesterday's post, she'll be getting the CD and a jar of salsa.

And I've told her to not share either with you until you sponsor me!

The cobbler's children have no shoes

OK, there's been some concern expressed about my recent eating habits. Or lack thereof. I'm trying something today: I'm going to eat a little something every two hours, just so I don't wind up shivering in an Air Supply frenzy like I did yesterday. So far today, so good. I've had a bowl of cereal (no prizes for B. this time), followed a few hours later by a peach. And now I'm noshing on a turkey & cheddar sandwich with spicy brown mustard on whole-grain bread.

Yes, I had my killer cup of coffee this morning (made in an old Chemex B. bought at a thrift store for a quarter, and using Alton Brown's kidney-shredding brew method.). I'm covinced I would drop dead without that moring fuel. However, I made it to 10 AM before cracking open a diet Vanilla Pepsi.

I love to cook. I do it professionally. Sometimes I even do it at home. I made a fabulous dinner last night: pan-seared ribeyes with a sauce of white wine, gorgonzola dolce and mushrooms. Very classic, very French method. It was a dinner worth the price of a year and a half of culinary school tuition. On the side, some of my mom's home-grown green beans with carmelized Vidalia onions and a light sprinkling of Parmesan-Reggiano.

Tonight, it's crispy sesame tilapia and lightly roasted sweet baby beets (also from Mom's garden) with fresh herbs.

The night after that? It might be Hamburger Helper and a bag of salad.

I love my work, but I don't want to do it all the time. B. is a software and hardware guy, so you might be surprised that my computer was originally built in 1997, before I even met B. If you look closely at my posts, you might notice some n-related typos. That's because my N key doesn't work. Oh, if you could see all the backspacing I do to replace errant Ns! I just did it three times while trying to type "errant".

You don't even want to see the Apple computer that lives under our basement stairs. It has a non-functioning N key, too. A pterodactyl ate it.

Anyway, don't worry about me. I'm eating. Mostly because Clara "Xanax" Jane took a big, long nap this morning! She's well-fed, much moreso than her parents. Last night I steamed some of the green beans for her and served them up pureed. Oh, what joy and delight there is in green beans! Yummy! Delicious! More!

And put more laughing gas in them! After eating her wonderous green beans, my child laughed! Not just one of those happy little baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahs that I call a laugh. But a real, huhuhuhuhuhuhuh laugh. She sounds like Butthead, but around here that's considered a perk.

I'm well-fed. My baby's well-fed. We're laughing. We have caffiene. All is well.

12 days until Project Blog

On the 12th day of Project Blog my readers gave to me...

A $10 pledge to help America's Second Harvest

And I, in turn, gave that lucky donor a copy of the "Aunt Judi's Kitchen Blues" CD along with a jar of my utterly divine homemade salsa.

Next person to sponsor gets the goodies! Need help? Sposorship directions are here

And speaking of sposors, lots of thanks to Sara and Sally for their sponsorships last week! Sal doesn't even live in the U.S., and yet she's going to help provide 225 meals for hungry Americans. What's your excuse?

(For the record, Sara's a farmer, which means she feeds hungry Americans everyday. Her donation's going to provide an addition 150 meals.)

Why is it that I don't weigh 100 pounds?

This has been my day:

6 AM - Alarm goes off. Cat plants herself on top of my head. Obviously, I can't get up. I have a cat on my head.

6:35 - Husband removes cat from my head, so I'm up.

6:36-7:00 - Shower, gulp an oversized latte mug of coffee. Strong coffee. Black. No sugar. Swallow raspberry yogurt directly from container.

7:00-8:30 - Act as entertainment center for Clara "I'm Bored" Jane.

8:31 - 8:31:16 - Throw on clothes. Realize jeans are ones worn yesterday. Too late to remedy situation.

8:31:17 - 9:00 - Gather child, child's acoutrements, and self for running errands.

9:01 - 9:02 - Perform contortion act that's now required for getting into my truck, since the driver's side door doesn't open and the center-seat console doesn't flip up.

9:03-noon - Run errands. Save $10 with coupons. Elated at my coupon uber-coolness.

11:05 - Wonder why in the hell Morrissey's new video is being shown on all the TVs in Wal-Mart's electronics department.

11:06 Wonder why in the hell Air Supply is being played on the p.a. system.

11:07 - Realize that this musical bastardization must mean that Kristina has somehow managed a hostile take-over of the company. Suddenly, I don't feel so guilty about shopping at Wal-Mart if Kristina's in charge.

12:01 - Realize there is no such thing as coupon uber-coolness, just tightwad dorkiness.

12:10 - Perform strategic vehicle exit plan at crowded gas station.

12:11 - Ask the guy in the Beemer at the next pump what his problem is, hasn't he ever seen a fat girl squeeze out of the opposite door of a mashed-up truck.

1:00 - Arrive back home. Attacked by wild dingos who are dying to go outside.

1:03 - Diet Coke #1

1:00 - 2:00 - Clara Jane Scream Time!

1:10 - Diet Coke #2

2:00 - 2:30 - Carefully-worded phone call with mom.

2:30 - 2:33 - Slam side of head into hard-wood floor. Repeatedly.

2:34 - Diet Coke #3.

2:35 - Realize haven't consumed anything but four caffeinated beverages and a tiny thing of yogurt since waking over 8 hour ago. Eat a handful of reduced-fat Triscuits with hand that's not covered with spit-up.

2:36 - 3:00 - Try to convince Clara "Naps are for Babies" Jane that dingos only eat babies who refuse to take naps.

3:00 - She sleeps!

3:00 - 3:20 - Sit on the floor in the corner of the bathroom, involuntarily shaking from caffeine poisoning and dangerously low blood sugar while singing All Out of Love over and over and over.

Being 14 was never this much fun

On Saturday I got a reminder that I am no longer a kid. Nor am I even in my 20s. And yet, I still find myself hanging out in a parking lot with a trio of 14-year-olds farting around on a skateboard.

My dear friend Kicking Bear has two sons. The eldest, Lance, is the coolest guy in the world. Period. Don't bother trying to be cooler than Lance. You'll fail. Lance is cute. He's smart. He plays football and is a skate punk. Lance just bought his first electric guitar. Lance was wearing a Doors t-shirt yesterday. Lance loves my baby and his 5-year-old brother. He calls me Aunt Poppy and, if I have to carry something, he insists on doing it for me without being asked. Lance sat with me seven days after I had my baby when I thought my insides were falling out of my c-section incision, and he didn't complain once.

Yesterday, Lance called to invite me to Ted Drewes to share a malt with two straws. Seriously. Is that not the sweetest damn thing?

"We'll be just like Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky!"

Um, Lance, I hope you mean because of our age difference. Anything beyond that and we're getting into pervy turf.

Of course, I accepted, after I asked my husband if he would take care of Clara "Love Child" Jane while I had my date.

I joined Lance, his mom, and his pals Andy and Jen for a little thrift store shopping. My beau purchased a trucker cap, made back when we just called them caps. He also bought a pair of crutches because they were only 90 cents.

Evetually, I found myself in the thrift store parking lot with the minors while KB finished shopping.

I watched them gabbing on their tiny cell phones. Did I even have a phone in my room when I was 14? I think I was still using the avocado green rotary dial that hung in our kitchen.

I admired Lance's shiny new black guitar. I also admired his latest collection of skateboard and bike-related scars, gashes, scabs and bruises. I shouldn't be impressed by those. I'm a mother. I'm supposed to be appalled at anything that brings potential harm to children. So, don't tell Child Protective Services that I really was impressed, ok?

I was even involved in a tiny skateboarding incident while standing in the thrift store parking lot with my new young hoodlum posse. Jen, a sweet little girl with blonde curls and pink braces on her teeth, was testing her balance on the board.

"You're gonna fall," Lance and Andy kept saying.

"No I'm not!" she said, holding on to Lance's shoulders.

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not!"

"Um, Jen," I said, trying to find a way to not be an old-fart killjoy. "I think they're going to make sure that you fall."

And, of course, she fell. Well, almost. She lost her balance and landed on her feet, the skateboard shooting out from under her and nailing me in the shin.

I probably should have grounded them, but I thought it was pretty funny. It didn't hurt. Well, not much. And we did have a set of 90 cent crutches, just in case.

We then headed to Ted Drewes for yummy frozen custard, and then to Old Navy. Well, KB and I went to Old Navy to scrounge the clearance. Lance, Jen and Andy went to Barnes and Noble. The kids. A bookstore. Voluntarily. I fainted in a pile of $9 graphic tees when KB told me.

And Jen ...man, I've got to give this girl credit. On the surface she looks like a cute, giggly little girly-girl who probably likes Hillary Duff. But she's a field hockey player. And she hangs out with this pack of scabby, scarred boys. Voluntarily. And she holds her own. And she loves it.

Jen's a girl who "gets" it. She obviously adores Lance and Andy - as friends - but also has the fundamental knowledge that's essential for any woman to survive:

Boys are often dumb. Sometimes you've got to throw rocks at them.

While wedged in the backseat between the boys, Jen rolled her eyes. "They're text messaging each other," she said in exasperation.

She had no qualms about telling one of the boys that his feet stank. Badly. Repeatedly. I think she even issued some mighty big threats of meelee that was going to ensue if the stank-footed one didn't put his shoes on, pronto.

Yep, Jen's gonna be ok. So are Lance and Andy. As long as whatever was causing that foot death stench doesn't spread to a vital organ.

I had fun. And I'm not too worried about the future. I just hope I raise a daughter who's that confident and comfortable in her own skin.

Although I hope Clara "Bam Margera" Jane's a bit better on a 'board. I probably won't take being whacked in the knee as well when I'm 45 as I did yesterday.

I'll give you a CD...

...if you can name the artist and the song which is referenced in my snazzy new masthead.

(Star and Exena, you don't get to play because I know you know the answer and I'll probably give you the CD even if you don't.)

We now return you to our regularly-scheduled funfest. This has been a test of the Poppy Emergecy System.

I'm feeling much better now.

I just talked to my mom, like nothing ever happened. I see we're going to take my family's usual route, the "pretend this never happened" route. Quite frankly, that's fine with me. If the past few days have taught me anything it's that my parents' view of my childhood is vastly different from mine. No amount of talk is going to change that. They did the best they could with the tools they had. Time for me to deal and get on with my life, knowing that I have better tools for raising my child because of my experiences.

Kicking Bear's coming over right now to take me to Ted Drewes Frozen Custard. Have I mentioned just how much I love Kicking Bear?

Not that I need frozen custard. B., Clara "Egghead" Jane and I just returned from a late breakfast at a lovely little dive called Tony's in Bridgeton. Definitely not to be cofused with Tony's. What makes the two Tonys different? One has a burnt orange counter and homemade pie. One doesn't.

The Tony's we visited proclaims to serve the biggest omelets in Missouri. So, we ordered omelets. B. had the Denver and I had the ham & cheese. Egghead is watching her cholesterol, so she opted for the fried pork tenderloin sandwich with extra mayo.

Good omelets, but they didn't look much bigger than the 3-egg omelets I've eaten elsewhere. However, halfway through this omelet, my throat closed, my heart started pounding and my left arm went totally numb.

"How many eggs are in this bad boy?" I asked the waitress. I didn't catch her name, but I'm pretty sure it was Madge.

"Somewhere between eight and ten. Want some more coffee?"

Sure, why not? The caffeine will increase my heart rate, which will shove that cholesterol right through my arteries, right?

Seriously, good omelet. Deadly, but good.

Week from Hell? Oh, I'd say so.

I've calmed down a bit.

First, my apologies for the archaic message below. I really needed to get that out of my system, but ultimately decided it best to not leave my ugly rant for all the innernet to read. If you'd like to see the post, drop me a line and I'll send it to you. Basically, it goes like this:

My father can be great. He can be generous, loving, funny and child-like. My father can also be a rat bastard. He can be stubborn, impatient, closed-minded, a bully and, on a few occasions that will haunt me always, violent.

I see his traits in myself. Both the good and the bad. I've recently noticed some of the bad ones sneaking into my parenting style. Scared me. Unfortunately, this coincided with a visit from my parents, in which my father was being his usual cantankerous self. Which, apparently, is all in my head. He seems to think that he's a fucking ray of sunshine 24/7.

Obviously, we disagree.

And yet, there's never been anyone in this world I've wanted to please the way I want to please him. But I never can. That's the bottom line. I can't please him. It has nothing to do with who I am. It has to do with his standards and his ideas of what's right and what's wrong.

I feel like a petulant 17-year-old. That's how he treats me, and I fall right into it.

I hated myself when I was 17. Why in the hell do I let myself get dragged back there so easily?

But there I go, airing dirty laundry again.

If anything, this has made me realize even moreso what kind of parent I want to be to Clara Jane.

I don't want her to ever fear me.

I don't want her to think she has to be just like me.

I don't want her to think that I won't love her if she makes mistakes.

I want her to know that she can disagree with me, and I can disagree with her.

I want her to know that it's never, ever OK for someone to lay a hand on her in anger. There's nothing she could do that would deserve such treatment.

Things I will never, ever say to my child. If I do, I want someone to shoot me dead:

You think you're smarter than me, don't you? Well, you're not.

Quit crying. You're fine.

Quit being so dramatic.

You're not hurt.

Because how in the hell can I know if she's not hurt? Hurt isn't always visible. Sometimes the people who are the funniest, with the biggest smiles and most musical laughs can feel like they're dying inside. Laughter can be the only thing holding that person together.

So, let's review my week:

Sunday: Redneck neighbors kept my child awake most of the night with their own shock & awe spectacle in the street.

Monday - Kara had to navigate The Great Tsunami, which scared me.

Tuesday - Crashed. My. Fucking. Truck.

Wednesday - Well, Wednesday was good. Catering went very well. Discovered Iron Barley, home of tremendously good eats in Carondolet. There was a big goof on the part of biggest catering client, but she fixed things. And I had a Sno Cone, which helps a lot of things.

Thursday - Screamed at my child, faced some childhood demons, and cried until I thought my head would burst.

Friday - Said some things that are quite possibly the coffin nails in my relationship with my parents.

Who wants a beer bong for supper?

Cycles

Sorry, but I decided that this was too personal. Thanks for your comments, though. They helped.

She's asleep! She's asleep!

I guess Clara "Exceptionally Gifted Reader" Jane reads Mama's blog, because she's now dozing away in her crib. Thank you, Jebus!

And what am I doing, now that she's finally napping? Am I bathing? No. Cleaning? No. Eating? Well, I did have a carton of blueberry yogurt and a diet Cherry Coke. But no, I'm not doing any of the things I should be doing. Instead, I'm farting around. After the week I've had, though, I think I deserve it, don't you?

I'm probably going to have to take B. a change of pants this afternoon once he reads thisand pees himself with excitment.

I nabbed this from Ms. Grits. My results probably explain why I'm so damn frazzled these days:

Wackiness: 72/100
Rationality: 50/100
Constructiveness: 72/100
Leadership: 54/100

In any event, you have buckets of charisma and a natural skill for making people open up. Your greatest asset is an ability to make progress while keeping the peace.

It doesn't mention anything about how someone as unbathed as myself can be so charismatic, but it does explain why cashiers often open up and tell me their life stories while ringing up my groceries.

Things I'm sick of

I'm sick of ...

-having to change my shirt 4 times a day because Clara "Upchuck" Jane has impeccable aim when she spits up.

-feeling like eating breakfast before noon is a major accomplishment.

-being achy.

-anticipating my parents' visit (they'll be here in 4 hours) and planning the meltdown I'm going to have when they comment on the three dresses on the armchair, pile of dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, cat hair on the couch, and my unbathed state.

I think my meltdown is going to go something like this: "How many diapers have you changed, wrecks have you had, people have you fed, political advocates have you emailed, sno cone kingpins have you interviewed, times have you been puked on this week?", followed by great big gulping sobs.

(My answers to these questions: dear God I've lost count, 1, 37, 34, 2 if they would bother to respond to my god damn email, dear God that's like couting how many breaths I've taken. )

-being sleepy.

-this motherhood business being so much harder than I ever dreamed.

Just so I'm not a total pessimist, a list of impending things that are keeping me sane:

-My child has to fall asleep sometime.

-She's having a slumber party with Meme and PawPaw tonight. Let them deal with her sleepy, cranky ass.

-Fahrenheit 9/11. Tonight. Finally.

-She's going to go to college eventually. God help her roommate.

Sleepy, achy, unclean, hungry, and well behind on everything I need/want to do.

-

Doesn't anyone wanna know how my housekey got mangled?

Thanks, everyone, for the well-wishes and concern regarding yesterday's unfortunate run-in. Clara "Survivor" Jane and I are doing well. She doesn't seem to have any effects from the wreck. I'm pretty stiff and sore, but that's to be expected.

As far as wrecks go, this one was almost pleasant. Well, except for the crashing. And the $500 deductable.

I was going east on Manchester and traffic was stop-and-go because of another wreck. A really bad one. Someone had flipped an SUV. Many of the stop lights were out because of Monday's storm, which made things worse.

Traffic finally seemed to start moving, just as Clara Jane started getting fussy. I diverted my attention from the road for a second - if that. The truck in front of my stopped and then so did I. Suddenly. With a lot of crunching and use of the F word.

Because of the other big wreck, the firefighters were at my truck within a minute. I was still thinking, "Oh, I can stop in time. I'm not going to hit that white truck," as they were opening the passenger door, asking me if I was ok, and checking on Clara Jane. Her response: immediately stop screaming and commence smiling and gooing at the cute firefighter. Save it for the cop, Kid. I've got a ticket to weasel out of.

The firefighters said she looked fine, but offered the services of an EMT. Of course, I accepted. Clara Jane got the all-clear. I crawled out the passenger side of my truck, changed the kiddo's diaper, and we checked out the damage. Luckily, it's all superficial. The bumper looks like hell, obviously. The hood's a bit buckled, and there are some cracks in the grill and headlights. The driver side door won't open because everything's shifted. Everything's fix-able, and I can still drive my truck.

And let me tell you, when you're driving a large truck with a completely destroyed front end, people get the hell out of your way. Fast. This part of the wreck, I"m not minding so much.

The cop was really sweet. Poor guy was worn out. In the few minutes it took to make the statement about my wreck, he got two more calls about other wrecks. So, if you're in the vicinity of Glendale, Missouri, in the near future, be nice to the cops. They've had a rough week.

While I was talking to the cop I noticed that the guy I'd hit was gone. Apparently there was no damage to his truck, since the bumper absorbed most of the shock. He was fine and didn't want to file a claim against my insurance or press charges.

I'm the luckiest girl in the whole U.S.A.

I didn't even get a ticket.

I still feel like an idiot, though, and I know I will for a long time.

It makes me queasy when I think that my inattention could have hurt anyone, especially this little child who depends on me to keep her out of harm's way.

I failed her yesterday.

So, everyone, don't be like me. Keep your heads out of your asses and be safe.

Oh, and make sure those car seats are in properly. We had Clara Jane's fitted by our neighborhood fire department to ensure that everything was correct. It took 10 minutes. Yesterday, I was more thankful for those 10 minutes we spent in January, getting that seat fixed, than I've ever been for any tiny amount of time. It's a free service offered in most communities, and it probably prevented my child from being seriously injured yesterday.

If you have a car seat, call your fire department and have them make sure everything's a-ok. Quick, free, easy. Do it.

How was my day? Oh, I'll show you.

This twisted hunk of metal ...

...is what remains of my housekey after the deadbolt assaulted it.

This twisted hunk of metal ...

...is what remains of my truck after I hit another truck while gawking at another accident.

Clara "Crash" Jane is fine. She smiled and giggled while the EMT was inspecting her. I've got a bruise on my belly and a massively bruised ego. Oh, and I've got a case of boy-I-sure-am-a-crappy-mom-to-be-such-a-shitty-driver-with-my-baby-in-the-car. I hear the recovery period for this condition takes about three or four lifetimes. I'm sure I'll be just fine then.

Somewhere in my soul, there's always rock and roll

I didn't spend much time around any form of media today, since Kara and I spent the day gallavanting around town in celebration of her 29th birthday. So, I don't know how much coverage today's special anniversary received.

On July 5th, 1954, Elvis recorded That's Alright, Mama at Sun Studio in Memphis, Tennessee. This wasn't the cartooishly bloated, drugged-out, spangled Elvis many of us grew up with. It wasn't the cheesy B-movie actor of the '60s. It wasn't even the handsome young man whose face graces the walls of every faux '50s diner.

This Elvis was real. A 19-year-old boy who dyed his black, drove a truck for an electrical company and played his guitar and sang on the steps of the tenament apartment he shared with his parents. A boy whose shyness often buried his talent.

July 5th wasn't intended to be a special day. Elvis was cutting some tracks at Sun, with owner Sam Phillips at the board and two session musicians in the studio with him. After recording a few uneventful country songs and a few standards, the four men were taking a break when the musicians started jamming. What happened, in this unplanned, unorchestrated moment, was "That's Alright Mama".

These things can't be planned. They just happen. They happen when people are being true to themselves and honoring their talents. It was only when Elvis stopped trying to fit the mold of what a singer was supposed to be that pop culture as it was known experienced a seismic shift.

What would our world be if that serendipitous jam session hadn't occured? If Sam Phillips had blown it off, instead of taking a chance and putting the jams to tape, and then vinyl? Small, gut decisions can change the world.

I love Memphis. Just typing those words, the longing washes over me. There's something about being in Memphis that makes me feel whole. I fit into a cozy little nook when I'm in that city. I've never lived there, but it always feels like home as soon as I cross the Hernando de Soto bridge across the Mississippi River, out of Arkansas and right into the heart of downtown.

I've made lots of road trips to Memphis. It's a perfect drive from St. Louis. About four hours long - enough time to thoroughly enjoy to drive, short enough to end before boredom and road-weariness begin.

Two years ago, I made that drive with my two best friends, Kristina and Kara. We were also joined by Kristina's friend Sarah. In Memphis we were joined by my old friend Su and a friend of mine who is old, Mary.

The occasion - my impending 30th birthday. For four days we were going to fill ourselves with as much music and beer as possible.

And that's exactly what we did. But it wasn't just a weekend of debauchery and tourism. Nestled in the middle of all the fun and decadence was a shining, spiritual moment.

I'm not a terribly spiritual person. I take most things at face value. But I'm also not one to ignore my instincts. I recognize when something within my soul is moved, and I have tremendous respect for anything that can cause such an occurance.

I've bee to Sun Studios several times, and it has never ceased to move me.

Being there with some of the people I love most, who get it - that's a once-in-a-lifetime event.

The five of us were standing in the studio after the official tour had ended, giddy just from standing in the same spot where so many greats had done some of their greatest works. Johnny Cash recorded "I Walk the Line" in that tiny room. Jerry Lee recorded "Great Balls of Fire". Rockabilly was born when Carl Perkins created "Blue Suede Shoes". One tiny room, where the ceiling tiles are swollen from years of leaky pipes.

There are ghosts in that room. Kara, Kristina and I have talked about this occasionally since that trip. Go to Graceland, and you won't feel Elvis' presence. He is at Sun. So is Carl. And Roy Orbison. That day in October, 2002, I felt Johnny Cash while I stood there, a presence that broke my heart. I wasn't ready to feel him while I stood in that room.

Eleven months later, he was gone, preceeded a few months by Sam Phillips.

The creators are leaving us. Nevermind the fates of those who inspired the greats. The sharecroppers children busking on Beale Street. The hillbilly singers. The poor dirtfarmers singing hymns in backwoods country churches all through the south. The misfits, the ones who didn't stand a chance because they were the wrong color, or lived in the wrong part of town, or had the wrong parents, or didn't have enough money. Nevermind the women. How many poor Southern housewives had voices that rang clear and sharp in church choirs or while scrubbing someone else's floors, voices never to be heard?

Elvis got lucky. He got lucky in that he found a man - Sam Phillips - who was willing to give him a chance and support his unique voice.

I got lucky. I've got dear friends who also feel those ghosts. Kara, Kristina and I have been discussing a return trip to Memphis this fall. Another pilgrimage. This time, Sarah, Su and Mary won't be with us. Sarah and Kristina drifted apart. Su and I, after two decades of stormy friendship fueled by bi-polar disorder, parted company a few months after the trip, once and for all. Mary ... Mary's still around. She's a generation older than us. Her rock & roll ghosts outnumber ours. Mary's presence that weekend was a gift that I can't imagine we'd be lucky enough to receive twice.

But the heart is still there. It's there in the mountains of mix CDs Kristina, Kara and I create for each other. It's in our shared anticipation of album releases, upcoming tours, exciting new bands and the treasures from the past that we're continually discovering.

So much has changed in a year and a half. I'm a parent now. Kara and Kristina have moved on to completely different places than where they were when we last went to Memphis. And yet, through these changes, the soul remains unchanged. We still carry these ghosts. Carry them gladly and happily. They're a part of us and they're always with us, connecting us.

Sun Girls, from left: Mary, Sarah, Su, Kristina and Kara
Outside Sun Studios
Memphis, Tennessee
October, 2002

Last call for Wednesday's dinner!

Yo! St. Louis! If you'd like to order Wednesday's dinner from me, please let me know by noon on Tuesday. This week's selection: pork loin with lemon-thyme cream sauce, lemon-herb risotto and spinach salad with sesame-scallion vinaigrette.

Insanely cheap prices for insanely yummy & fresh food, brought to you! Drop me an email at robin at poppymom.com if you'd like more info.

A letter to my neighbor

Dear Neighbor:

I know we've never met. I admit, I am a tad bit intimidated by the barrels of empty beercans and the Confederate flag you are using as a curtain. That is hardly an excuse for me being an unfriendly neighbor who couldn't be bothered to welcome you to our block upon your arrival last year.

I have not made a good impression on you, I know, and for this, I apologize.

Now that we've mended fences and the slate has been wiped clean, I've got an honest, heartfelt message for you, on the night in which we celebrate our country's independence. American to American. A message that will hopefully set the tone for the rest of our time as neighbors:

I hope you blow one of your remaining fingers off with the fucking M-80s you're exploding in your backyard, you wayward drunken hillbilly pyromanic goat-loving bastard.

Neighborly yours,
Poppy

How are you celebrating your independence?

I usually try to keep mum on all topics political. I hate political arguments and the judgements that go along with them. I hate that so many of us (and I'm guilty of it, too) make snap judgements on others based solely on their political party allegiances. So, I tend to just quietly stick to my beliefs and hope that everyone else does, too.

However, I'm not happy with the state of the world or our country. I could do some Bush-bashing, but I won't. I think it has more to do with having a child, which has opened my eyes. I know what kind of world I want my child to have, and I'm willing to fight for it.

When I was trying to get pregnant, I was ovulating the day we went to war in Iraqi. I remember sitting on the couch, after doing what needed to be done to attempt to get pregnant, watching the news reports and saying to B., "What in the hell are we doing? Do we really want to bring a child into this world?"

I don't agree with this war, and I hate that so many of our troops are being put in harm's way for questionable means with no end in sight. The idea I'm about to state isn't original. I think it was planted in my head by listening to Morning Sedition on Air America Radio. Wherever it came from, it put a lot of things in perspective. Regardless of your political beliefs and party affiliations, it's hard to disagree with this:

This war is about bringing democracy to a former dictatorship. How can we do that when so many people in our own country take our own democracy, indepence and freedom for granted?

In 2000 only 51.3% of Americans over the age of 18 (the legal voting age) bothered to cast a ballot. Barely half of the country took the miniscule amount of time to exercise the primary action that makes us a democracy.

It's called "exercising your right to vote" for a reason. You know what happens when you don't exercise a muscle? It gets weak. Go long enough without exercise, and it will atrophy. The same goes for our right to vote. If we don't exercise that right, it will grow weak. How can we expect to install a democratic governement elsewhere in the world if our own democracy is growing weaker and weaker from our own apathy?

Yesterday, I volunteered to become a Sister City Chapter Leader for Mothers Opposing Bush. Yes, this is obviously a partisan group. If you're interested in joining, great. If you don't oppose Bush, fine. That's what's great about this country - we get to disagree with our government and with each other as loudly as we want. However, if you disagree with my views, don't argue with me about them. Instead, use that time and energy to get out and volunteer for a group that supports your views and raises voter awareness.

I love this country. I love my freedoms. I want to keep them, and I'm willing to work for them. You should be, too.

The joys of being married to an 8-year-old engineer

The other day I purchased a box of Tony's Cinnamon Krunchers cereal. I had several reasons for this purchase:

1. I eat an insane amount of cereal.
2. I had a $1 off coupon.
3. I can't resist when words that are spelled with a C substitute a K. It's just so much wackier that way.
4. There was a cool Spiderman web-launcher bracelet toy as a prize in the box, and I knew my 8-year-old husband would just love it.

(For the record, my husband isn't 8. He's 34. He just happens to have a great deal in common with 8-year-old boys. Fascination with superheros, a love of toys and comic books, and a deep-rooted fear of girls and the cooties they carry.)

This morning, he finally noticed the grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-eat prize on the unopened cereal box. He stood in the dining room, contemplating.

"B.," I said, "You're thinking about ripping open that box and digging for the toy, aren't you?"

He didn't even look up from the box. "Yeah."

He refrained, instead taking a moment to read the back of the box and learn more about the wonderful prize contained within.

"The battery and lightbulb can't be changed? What a rip-off! They only last for 25 hours!"

"Sweetheart, you're 8. Your attention span isn't nearly long enough. You'll lose interest in the toy long before that."

"Oh, no I won't! And I'm an engineer. I'll make it last longer than 25 hours! I'll figure out a way to plug it into the wall and make it work!"

So, in about 27 hours, when my house burns to the ground, charring our bodies beyond recogition, would someone please tell the arson inspection crew that it really was an accident, caused by a Spiderman cereal box prize that someone attempted to convert to a 220? Thanks.

The one in which the poppy becomes so enraged that her head shoots away from her neck like a bottlerocket

Maybe it's the heat. Or the impending holiday weekend. Or the barometric pressure, which just caused the atmosphere to implode into a sudden thunderstorm. Whatever it is, I am pissed off today, and I'm not the only one. And I've got a few things to say to some people.

To my daughter: I understand that you are a baby, and that babies often spit up. I also empathize with the fact that you have little control over this activity. However, if you could find a way, sometime before the end of the day, to cease puking down my shirt every single time I pick you up, it would be most appreciated.

To the lady who held the door for me at Michael's in Des Peres as I exited with my screaming child: Thank you. Thank you for taking a few seconds and a smidge of energy to give a flustered mom a hand. A lot of people could take lessons from you.

To the person who designed the bathrooms at West County Center : Would it have killed you to put the changing table in the main part of the bathroom, instead of creating a changing table/handicap stall ghetto?

To the employee of Manchu Wok at West County Center who jumped in front of me and my child and nabbed the handicap stall, even though you're obviously not handicapped, and even though there were five other stalls available, thus leaving my child to sit in a poopy diaper for a lot longer than she needed to: I hope you get a blistery, oozing fryer burn.

To the the employee of The Children's Place who said "Oopsie!" when a shopping bag fell off my shoulder, instead of helping me pick it up while I juggled my child, diaper bag and other shopping bags: I hope Clara "Upchuck" Jane pukes on you instead of me next time.

To the guy in the Honda Civic hatchback with the huge-ass muffler: No matter how big and loud the muffler is, it won't change the fact that it's a Honda Civic hatchback.

To the stupid-ass bitch in a big ol' SUV on Lindbergh who not only wouldn't let me into her lane (even though I was blinking) but also parked herself in my blindspot and laughed when I asked to get in: I won't repeat the horribly derogatory female-anatomy slang that I used to address you. I'll just say that I'm surprised that you looked so shocked to be addressed by that term. Considering your rude driving behavior, I would think that you hear that term on a regular basis. Oh, and by the way, here's a poopy diaper on the windshield for you.

To the St. Louis city road crews: If you're going to close all of the downtown exits, wouldn't it be a good idea to post the sign a little earlier than one-half of a mile before the last open exit? Something to consider.

To the smirking slow-poke who waltzed in front of my truck: Walk a little bit slower, and my foot just might slip and knock that smirk right off your face. If you think you're slow now, oh, just you wait!

To the fellow at Shop n' Save who opted to have his daughter stand on the Krispy Kreme display and climb into the cart instead of lifting her in: I hope you get doughnut poisoning.

To the other fellow at Shop n' Save who saw fit to stand in front of one of the self-check-out lanes while gabbing on his cell phone, thus making the lane inaccessable: I hope you, also, get doughnut poisoning.

And finally, to my brain: I apologize. It'll get better soon, I promise.

Progesterone: 2
Brain: 1

Sno Cones, Pork Loin, & Feeding the World

Sno Cones? Why, that's my topic for the August issue of Sauce. Specifically, I'm writing about St. Louis-based Rio Syrups, maker of about a zillion sno cone flavorings. Are you from St. Louis and do you have something to say about sno cones? Well, say it to me! I just might include your quotes in my article.

Pork loin? That's what I'm making for my Wednesday meals-to-go catering gig. Yes, you can take home a lovely meal of pork loin with lemon-thyme cream sauce, lemon-herb risotto, and spinach salad with sesame-scallion vinaigrette. As always, everything's made from scratch, fresh. Sound yummy? Think you'd like to feed this to your family and/or friends on Wednesday, July 7th? Live in St. Louis? Drop m a line or leave a comment and I'll set you up.

Now that I've worked on feeding St. Louis sno cones and pork chops, it's time to work on feeding the rest of the country. Have you signed up to sponsor me in Project Blog, where I'll be typing my chubby fingers to the bone on July 24th in benefit of America's Second Harvest? And if you're a blogger, why haven't you signed up to participate? C'mon! It'll be fun!

My dear friend Kicking Bear from the woods of Illinois even signed up to sponsor me. In her honor, I'd like to entertain you with a song:

K is for the kicking of asses that she does.
I is for the idosyncracies that we share.
C is for the cute sunglasses she always wears.
K is for more kicking! She really does kick ass, you guys.
I is for the ... dammit, why could't you pick a name with fewer Ks and Is?
N is for the neatness she bestowed upon my dirty bathroom when I was too c-sectioned, infected and lactating to clean it myself.
G is for gee, she sure is a hoot!

B is for the beautiful, fabulous boys that she's raised (Hi Lance & Bay!)
E is for everything that she's done for me and every time she's made me laugh and every time she's made me feel like royalty.
A is for all the love she gives
R is for the Rolling Rock that she drank while she made my gnarly feet look lovely when I was knocked up.

Now, don't you want to be like Kicking Bear, whose contribution will help distribute 300 meals to people in need? Of course you do! So, grab a bottle of Rolling Rock, a bottle of hot pink nail polish and sponsor me in Project Blog!

(Pssst! Can't figure out how to sign up? No problem! Just click here and I'll tell you all about it.)

Dispatch From the Hormonal War Front

It's day two of Operation Lactating Eagle, and so far so good. I'm doing much better than I was yesterday. Granted, that can change faster than you can say "nipple cream". But for now, I'm taking advantage of the balance.

It helps that Clara "Naps are for Babies" Jane is currently zonked in her crib like a sailor on the third day of shore leave.

But there are still some hormonal issues. They're trying to blindside me with a stealthy, sweaty weapon: Food TV's Tyler "Sweaty Boy" Florence. Have you ever noticed how much that guy sweats? Damn! If B. even dared to come near me while that sweaty, I'd probably send him to the showers. But on Tyler Florence .... whoa, boy. Bring it on.

So this morning, I was watching Sweaty Boy on Food 911, and I noticed something: everything Sweaty Boy says is dirty. Just filthy, deliciously dirty. Or maybe it's just my hormones. Whatever it is, I decided to keep track of all the inadvertant porn that dribbled from that man's sexy mouth. Now, you look at the list and tell me if it's just me, or if this man is simply sex in a skillet:

-"If it's not juicy enough..." (Oh, Sweaty Boy, it's plenty juicy. Plenty.)

-"Christine loves a big juicy plate of prime rib." (And Poppy loves a big, juicy plate of you, Sweaty Boy.)

(At this point, while discussing a too-rare prime rib, he mooed. He. Fucking. Mooed. Like a big ol' steer looking to mate.)

-"We're looking for the big eye." (Hmmm ... I think I know where we might find it.")

-"I like the roasteed bone flavor." (Not as much as I do, my sweaty friend. Not as much as I.)

-"We've got a lot of meat to season." (Yes, sir!)

-"Grab this end right here and strip it." (Whatever you want, my sweet, sweaty, sweaty man.)

-"Put it on top of this and rub. Not a gentle rub. I'm talking a good massage." (Yes, yes sir!)

(And this was all before the first commercial break.)

-"It looks like a big piece of ginger and it's hot" (Oh, I'm sure it is.)

-"Always taste as you go." (I do, Tyler. I certainly do.)

(He growled. He. Fucking. Growled. But that was nothing. While teaching his pupil the fine art of flipping the contents of a saute pan, he began to pant, "Oh! Oh! Oh oh oh oh oh oh! She's flipping!" And flip, I did.)

-"Turn the heat off so it creams out."

That was all I could take. The hormones have won this battle. After fifteen minutes of Sweaty Boy's oh-so-filthy little mouth, I gave in.

I fetched a quart of Udderly Truffle ice cream, parked my sweaty ass on the living room floor, and dug in.

Progesterone - 1
Brain - 1