Such are the perks of being one of my secret society friends. You should all be so lucky. *hmph*

The remainder of Father's Day was low-key. Lunch out, followed by lounging at Starbucks.

Today, I finally went to Crate & Barrel and returned the glass pitcher that cracked when I poured freshly-brewed (and still hot) iced tea into it. Since it had been in my truck's floorboard for a month, I figured I was pushing my luck. Heat cracks in a glass pitcher are easy to explain. Glass pitcher shattered because pitcher bounced around the car after hitting speed bump at 40 mph, not quite as easy to explain.

After the pitcher was returned, we all curled up in the corner and died a slow, withering death from boredom.

Posted by Robin at 09:32 PM | Comments (5)

June 19, 2005

Happy Father's Day, B.

Clara "Daddy's Girl" Jane and I love you very much.

(Clara Jane later celebrated the holiday by smacking B. in the right testicle with a board book.)

Posted by Robin at 09:48 AM | Comments (6)

June 18, 2005

Concerting

White Stripes tickets: purchased. And damn good ones, I might add. First row of the mezzanine. Not a single person blocking my 5'3" view. Oh yeah. Granted, last time I was close enough to tell that Jack White doesn't wear underwear and he veers severely to the left. But such closeness comes with a high pricetag. And that pricetag involves being used at a pummel horse by angry 14-year-old boys, one who wound up getting smacked in the face by me. I blame the pregnancy hormones. And speaking of 14-year-old boys ...

Weezer/Ben Folds tickets: procured. They're pretty good seats, too. I hadn't really planned on seeing Weezer this time around. I haven't listened to the new CD and I've heard some not-great reviews from people whose musical opinions I respect. But last time I saw Weezer in 2001, the entire row in front of us was filled with the geekiest little middle school boys I've ever seen. They were so happy, and having so much fun. It filled my heart with joy, seeing them so happy in light of getting their asses kicked daily at school. Because, let's face it, these boys were getting their asses kicked daily at school. I just wanted to bake homemade cookies for them and reassure them that even though they were dorky, they would be a-ok in the long run. And then, during "Surf Wax America", they went all Lord of the Flies and scared the crap out of me. Their shirts came off, the dancing turned frantic, and I was looking for the nearest emergency exit, because if they started painting their faces with bodily fluids, my ass was going to be gone. Do you think I'd pass up a chance to experience that again? Hardly.

Springsteen tickets: still figuring out the details. Have one week to finalize unusual concert-attendance plans.

U2 in Vegas - not until November. The ticket's a gift from my friend Kim, and I'll be going with some of my "Stonecutter" friends. Not only will I be seeing U2, but I'll be seeing them at a fabulous venue, but I'll be losing my Vegas virginity. That's right - I have never been to Vegas. And as if all that's not enough, Howie Mandel is also going to be performing at the same casino! Not that I have any desire to see him. I've just wanted to pop that goddamn glove for the past two decades. This might finally be my chance.

U2 in St. Louis - If I don't remember to pay her for my ticket Holley will send her thugs to kneecap me.

Black Keys - Totally forgot about them until Kara reminded me today. I like it when two people make a lot of noise, so count me in.

Posted by Robin at 03:04 PM | Comments (2)

June 17, 2005

Corporate shill

This morning I watched my Tivo'd episode of "30 Days" while Clara "Supersize Me" Jane napped. In case you're unaware: it's a new show from the guy who did the movie Supersize Me. Each episode he puts himself in someone else's shoes for thirty days to see how other people live. The first episode, he and his fiance try to live on two minimum wage jobs for a month. Good stuff. You should check it out. Entertaining, yet very informative and infuriatiing. It's a big reminder of just how screwed up our values as a country often are.

That being said, how awful is it that anytime I see anything with Morgan Spurlock, the creator of the show and Supersize Me, I get a jones for McDonald's fries like you wouldn't believe? Seriously. After watching the one-hour show today, which had absolutely nothing to do with McD.'s, I think I would have traded both of my dogs for an order of fries. I don't think that was Spurlock's intent.

Another thing: when the show ended and I turned on live TV, it was the local news, where the top story wasn't about the local grocery store manager who quite bravely foiled an armed robber, but instead about the potential sale of the local hockey team. Great. I just spent an hour being reminded how many people in our fair land are barely scrimping by, with lives where things like health care are luxuries, and what's the next thing I hear? Woe for the team owners because they lost 60 million dollars on the team over the past two years.

Sixty fucking million dollars? Jesus Christ, do you know how much rice and beans that would buy? Do you? Because I don't and I'd really like to know, just so I can be really, really sickened about where money goes. And that doesn't even count the money the team owner's daughter spent to buy her way through college.

Pardon me. I just vomited a little.

Stuff like this has always pissed me off, but now that our money is finally getting in order, it absolutely infuriates me. It really does. So many people go without, while so many people waste so much.

And I'm guilty of it, too. I made yet another trip to Wal-Mart today, which I should mention is where the owner of the hockey team and the cheat daughter made their fortune - and it sure as hell wasn't by stocking shelves or ringing out customers. That's two trips in two days. Three trips in two weeks, along with two Target trips this week. The reason for so many trips? My own poor planning.

I could make yet another trip to Wal-Mart, because I sure could use some anti-nausea drugs right now.

So, now what? Back on the bandwagon. Time to get back to staying the hell out of stores except for necessities. I don't need more crap. And I'll bet you don't, either.

Feed people!

Posted by Robin at 07:42 PM | Comments (0)

June 16, 2005

Friday Shuffle - The Mostly Thursday Edition

Since I'm still awake and all...

1. Burning Love - Elvis
2. Heaven is a Truck - Pavement
3. Quand Vous Mourez des non Amours - Rufus Wainwright
4. Last Call - Outkast
5. Animal Boy - The Ramones
6. Flyaway - Joan Osbourne
7. Now I Wonder - Paul Westerberg
8. Happiness is a Warm Gun - Tori Amos (which I never listen to, since I was listening to it when I heard about the first plane hitting the World Trade Center, so let's just skip this track, shall we?)
9. Five Would Grow and One Was Dead - The Mars Volta
10. Outdone - Uncle Tupelo

Posted by Robin at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)

Seriously. Where are my panties?

There's a shopping center about thirty minutes from my house, out in the suburban land of $800,000 homes in subdivisions with names like Apaloosa Trails, Wild Horse Babbling Brook, and Big Ol' Expensive Feedbag. I hate that I make so many trips to this shopping center, but I've got to admit there is such convinence in these suburban sprawls. Target and Trader Joe's are there, along with any other gigantic eyesore box store I might possibly need. So, in the name of convinence and not driving all over hell and creation, I find myself at this shopping center on a regular basis.

Yesterday I went with intentions of going to Target, Trader Joe's, and Michaels. Unfortunately, while paying at Target, I discovered that I had left my debit card at home. I wrote a check - did I mention that most of the checks in my checkbook are glued together and smell like rotten milk from a sippy cup incident? - and we headed home.

Once I got home I realized I'd forgotten half the items on my list, since I hadn't actually taken the time to make a list. So once again, Clara "Repeat" Jane and I found ourselves at this shopping center today in hopes of doing what we didn't do yesterday.

We went to Wal-Mart, since I was hoping I could get the yarn I needed there and eliminate the trip to Michaels. No such luck. And Repeat was distraught at being in Wal-Mart. Actually, I think it has more to do with the four incisors that have been trying to cut through her gums for the past seven months than it had to do with her feelings of dejection and hypocrisy at giving our money to the Evil Empire. Either way, she was a wreck.

And I wasn't doing much better. Remember that period business I mentioned yesterday? Well, not only does PCOS mean periods that go on vacation for months on end, and periods that prattle on and on and on for weeks, but sometimes PCOS means periods that stop and start more than Toyota in a traffic jam. Since all signs indicated that my period had stopped, I didn't take exteme precautions, if you know what I mean, but I did go prepared with the necessary tools in case my period decided to hit the shoulder and gun it.

Which is exactly what happened in the pool aisle. Clara Jane was melting down because, as best as I can decifer from her communications, she really doesn't want a wading pool. There I was, holding my screaming child, bouncing her up and down when it happened. Like a stuck pig, People.

We quickly finished our shopping and headed to the restroom with the cart. The plan: push the cart into the handicapped stall, take care of business, then leave. Simple, right?

Not when the toilet in the handicapped stall is broken, as proclaimed a sign taped to the stall door. Granted, I didn't need the toilet, but apparently they saw the need to lock the stall door. You know, just in case someone with the handicap of illiteracy tried to use the broken toilet.

Panic building, I parked the cart in front of a stall where I could see Clara Jane through the crack in the stall door. Bad, I know. But don't think I wouldn't come running out of that stall with my bloody pants around my ankles and garout anyone who tried to take my child. Not that she realized this. My disappearance set her into a screaming fit of seismic proportions. Earth moved. Warnings were issued. People were evacuated to other Wal-Marts.

I fumbled with the tampon, all the while calling, "It's ok, Clara Jane. I'm right here, Babe. I'll be right out. It's ok," all while thinking, "It's not ok. It's not ok. Holy God, it's so not ok right now!!!"

By this time I had broken out in a sweat because 1)that's what fat girls do in June and 2)I was freaking the fuck out. Do you know what happens when you try to pull up a pair of high-waisted Spandex suck-it-in fat girl underpants while sweaty? THEY DON'T MOTHERFUCKING BUDGE!!! In fact, they roll into a tight wad -hence the phrase "panties in a wad" - and dig into one's thigh fat and hang on for dear life.

I pulled and tugged and yanked with all my strength, frantically calling to my child that it was all ok. Really. It's ok. I'm just bare-assed and bleeding, but it's all a-ok! Oh, and did I mention there were other people in the bathroom? There were. None of them said anything. Because really, would you talk to the crazy lady in the Wal-Mart restroom? No. You would do your business as fast as possible and bolt out without washing your hands because frankly, a little pee on your fingers is probably safer than making eye contact with the crazy lady in the Wal-Mart restroom.

Finally, I pulled hard enough that my underpants finally moved. Rocketed, really. Whatever. As long as they were up, that's all I cared about ... until I felt the draft. On my crotch.

You see, the high-waisted Spandex suck-it-in fat girl underpants have a snap crotch. You know, so the wearer can take care of business without having the panties-in-a-wad situation I was currently facing. Had I remembered the snaps, I obviously wouldn't have been in such peril.

Actually, I would have been in such peril, because the snaps are teeny-tiny. We're talking the size of a pinhead, and for once I'm not exaggerating. If I could contort myself into the position required to snap these tiny buttons on my crotch, chances are I wouldn't require high-waisted Spandex suck-it-in fat girl underpants.

So I did the only thing I could - I took off my pants and underpants so I could snap them, all while reassuring Clara Jane that everything's peachy! Just peachy!

"Do you need some help?" someone from outside the stall asked.

"No! Everything's peachy!" I cried back.

The woman started talking to Clara Jane, reassuring her that everything was fine, and aren't you a sweet girl? And look at your shoes! Aren't they cute? To which Clara Jane responded by FREAKING THE FUCK OUT!!! Which prompted the woman to just talk more.

I could see the look on Clara Jane's face in the crack fo the door, and she looked terrified. "Um ma'am?" I said. "You're scaring her." I braced myself for her response, knowing that this could very well be the exact moment when I would have to bust through that stall door, bare-assed and bleeding, and administer that garouting if that woman didn't properly respond.

Lucky for her, she apologized and left, and Clara Jane promptly calmed down.

By now my underpants were snapped and back on, but once again twisted and stuck around my thighs, and I was seriously entertaning throughts of going commando, which isn't exactly the best way to wear a pair of light khaki linen pants. But what else could I do? I struggled for a few more minutes and then realized I had snapped the snaps in the wrong way, creating underpants infinity. So, once again, the underpants come off, get resnapped, miraculously slide right into place, although I put them on with such force I gave myself a massive wedgie. Like I cared at that point. I just wanted out of that bathroom.

Once again, we went all the way back to this shopping center, only to go to one store, because do you think we were in any position to go elsewhere after waging the underpants war? Even if we were, we didn't have anyplace to put any other purchases. The handle on my truck's tailgate, B. informed me last night, was broken but usable. For him, perhaps. Do you think I could get it open, after what I had just been through? I mean, honestly - do you think a woman who can't put on her goddamn underpants on the first try can manage to open a broken tailgate? Of course not.

And that is why I sat in the parking lot and cried today.

Posted by Robin at 02:45 PM | Comments (13)

June 15, 2005

A little segment I like to call "Passagaes"

Ok, not really.

About a month ago you might recall I posted praise to the powers that be that Clara "Scooter" Jane was finally walking. Well, I never followed up to tell you that it was a bit of a false alarm. Since then she's walked no more than two steps at a time, no more than three times a day. Oh sure, she can scale the back of the couch like nobody's business, and if we were to turn her loose on a rock climbing wall, we'd have to pay somebody to get her down because there's no way my fat ass is climbing up the damn thing to get her from the very top, where she would be perched within two minutes, I'm sure.

Today, Clara Jane turns 16 months old. In exactly 10 minutes, it will be exactly 16 months since my belly was slashed and I had a human being ripped from it. Meaning, at this exact moment 16 months ago, I was sadly passed the point of extreme elation brought on by the C-section drugs and the holy terror of HOLY SHIT!!! I CAN'T BREATHE AND THEY'RE ABOUT TO SLASH MY BELLY AND YANK A PERSON OUT OF IT!!! A PERSON WHO'S GOING TO BE REALLY FUCKING PISSED OFF!!!!

So it only seems fitting that something clicked in my child's head today. I think it happened shortly after her morning nap, while she was lying in her crib, quietly contemplating life ... or standing in her crib, shrieking while slamming her stuffed elephant against the bars as hard as she could. During this time of quiet contemplation/elephant abuse, she must have said, "Clara "Me" Jane, you are 16 months old now. Get off your knees, already!"

Not ten minutes after I got her out of her crib, I looked up and said, "My lord, there's a midget in my house running towards me! No, wait - that's my child. Walking. On her own. And more than two steps at a time!" She toddled the five feet from the kitchen to my desk in the dining room. She threw a ball across the kitchen, then chased it. Then she nudged the ball across the kitchen with her foot, following it. Then she used her little rocking chair to attempt to climb onto the top of the dining room table because you can make the mountain goat walk upright, but you'll never stop the mountain goat from climbing the furniture. Never.

In the course of calling everyone related to me to tell them the good news, I spoke with my grandpa Chuck, a man of few words (but most of them are humorous and/or absurd). "Good thing," he said. "I looked at buying her an electric wheelchair yesterday. Guess I don't have to now." Damn straight, Chuck.

All of this walking business has got me a bit nostalgic. I've been terrible at keeping a baby book for Clara Jane. I figure, this blog is her baby book. But I know there's a lot of stuff - the little day-to-day things - that have already gotten lost in the cracks of my memory. So I thought that I would make a list here of things I don't want to forget, and I want her to know about someday:

• When she was really tiny, she would jerk her arms around all willy-nill. B. and I likened it to kung-fu fighting. Occasionally, we'd sing the song to her.
• She spent almost every morning of the first three months of her life snoozing in her baby carrier on the counter at Olivette Diner while I spent an hour or two drowning my post-partum depression in cup after cup of coffee while shooting the shit with the old guys who hung out there. Once, they offered me a bunch of breastfeeding advice.
• Walking around Whole Foods with her cuddled against me in her Baby Bjorn, intently watching all the produce when she happened to be awake.
• The way her left eye kept wanting to cross all the time.
• How cranky she'd get if the house was quiet, and how really loud music always soothed her. Such a mama's girl.
• The magical way she had of not just spitting up on me, but always managing to spit up down the neckline of my shirt onto my boobs. I know she didn't want to eat from them but Jesus, she didn't have to puke on them all the damn time. I got the message loud and clear without the vomit, thankyouverymuch.
• Leaves blowing on the trees were the most fascinating things in the world. We would lie on the bed, looking out the window at the trees, and I would recite the lyrics to "What a Wonderful World". Not so much for her benefit, but to remind myself.

There are so many more things, and the list of forgotten bits will just get bigger as she gets older. We'll forget more than we remember. It's only been seven months, but I can barely remember what it was like when she couldn't crawl to me. Soon, I won't be able to remember the sound of her hands and knees slapping the floor, and the wiggle of that diapered butt and she scoots across the house.

Posted by Robin at 04:25 PM | Comments (2)

June 14, 2005

Mofo

Yep, I'm just that boring this week. I figure you have no interest in tubs of couscous salad, or the fact that B. has the sniffles and I have my period for the first time in I don't know how long (thanks, PCOS!).

I could tell you that B. rearranged our bedroom on Sunday, and the accumulated six years of dust behind the dressers is probably why he feels like shit. But the new arrangement is so wonderful that I now have a little crush on my bedroom. Everytime I walk past the bedroom door and see our bed facing me, open and inviting, I get a little tingly and long to take a nap.

Then there's the fact that I'll be buying White Stripes and Springsteen tickets in the next two weeks, since my favorite artists are rewarding my devotion by emptying my bank account in one fell swoop. I could be buying Weezer/Ben Folds tickets, too, but I've got to draw the line somewhere. At least the Nine Inch Nails show that was announced this week is happening on a weekend I'll be out of town, so I won't have to sell plasma to buy diapers.

But that's really all the excitment that's happening this week. I want to talk to you about something. Some of you are here and you really shouldn't be.

That's right. I'm talking to you, the hounds who are looking for hot mamas. You know who you are, looking for women of child-bearing age who might get a little freaky and take photos to share with you.

What I'm trying to say is, zip up your pants and move along Oedipus. There's nothing for you here.

For some reason - probably because of the word "mom" in my URL and my prolific and liberal use of the word "fuck" - I get a lot of hits from people looking for mothers having relations. Most of these searchs originate from MSN's search engine, where I seem to be quite popular.

Since I'm a mother and I have loads of spare time for activities such as bon-bon consumption, soap opera viewing, and backward cowgirl humping, I used some of that time today to do a little data collection. Out of 100 random hits on my blog today, here are examples of things searchers were hoping to find at poppymom.com, along with my site's rank in that search:

Well, I do need to finance the upcoming concert deluge ...
mom needs cash - #3
mom for cash sex - #1

Virginia Woolf was so right.
my mom room - #2

A little sex ed lesson: if she's a mom, chances are likely this isn't her first time. You didn't get here by stork, Dumbass.
first time sex and mom - #5

Odd Asian condiments, anyone?
mom cock - #1

What my child will no doubt be calling me in 12 years.
fucking mom - #2

Ok, this one's not about cooch, but I thought I'd offer some motherly advice: maybe you shouldn't work in an office.
how to fight sleep in office - #7

I do and do and do for you kids, and this is the thanks I get? You're going to miss me when I'm dead. You'll see.
mom doing sex - #1

For the pet-lovers.
mom fucking our dog - #1

Surely you can be more creative than this. You're a smart boy. You're just not trying hard enough.
mom sex - #8
mom sex story - #4
mom sex photo - #1

I also took a few minutes to run these search phrases through Google, and guess what I found? PORN!! Not one single link to poppymom.com. So, a word to the horny: quit using MSN for your websearches.

Sure, I know that by posting these search phrases, I'm just inviting more little pervs into sore and sorry disappointment by leading them on a wild goose chase through tales of non-sleeping babies and grocery shopping. Let it be a lesson to them to use a decent search engine.

Trust me. A mother knows.

Posted by Robin at 08:59 PM | Comments (7)

June 12, 2005

Creative

A list of things I have made today:

-Couscous salad (couscous, chickpeas, feta, scallions with a lemon vinaigrette) for 20.

-Cherry tomatoes and red onions in basil vinaigrette for 20.

-Nice with the neighbors, despite being horribly tired and crabby.

-The front left side of the hoodie I'm knitting for Clara "Naps All Day Because She Wakes Up at Fucking Dawn" Jane. Photo uploaded to the Knitting section.

-Thai green curry chicken for dinner.

-Giggles over my fellow sleep-starved mumma Sal and her confusion in the comments of my last post. Poor girl. We'll sleep again someday, I'm sure.

Posted by Robin at 05:24 PM | Comments (5)

early

I'd like to think that if my neighbors realized how close I am to motherfucking snapping, and how thin the thread holding my mental health together really is, they wouldn't leave their dog outside all night, where he barks his goddamn head off until we let him into our house, since they're not home, where he will keep me awake until 2:30 a.m. with all his motherfucking pacing, whiny and attempts to eat my cat. After all, if he's going to keep me awake all motherfucking night, I'd rather he do it in my house, instead of in my yard where my other motherfucking neighbor can and will all the cops on us for having a noisy motherfucking dog who's not even ours.

I'd also like to think that if my daughter realized how close I am to motherfucking snapping she wouldn't wake up at 6 a.m. on the morning after Neighbor's Dog-Wrangling Night.

I called the neighbor repeatedly last night, leaving messages for them to call as soon as they got home so they could take their motherfucking dog home. They didn't. So when Clara Jane woke us up at the asscrack of dawn and the motherfucking neighbor's dog was still in my house, I thought, "The neighbor's car better not be parked in front of their house, and they better be motherfucking bleeding on the side of a motherfucking road somewhere." Not that I was wishing this on them, just that that is the only excuse for their negligent dog and Robin behavior that I was willing to accept. Not the case. Car's home.

Bet the motherfuckers are sleeping. Bet the motherfuckers, who's son spends every weekend with his grandma, had a motherfucking good time last night doing grown-up things, while I spent my motherfucking Saturday night having dinner out with a shrieking child, followed by a trip to the mall where we could walk around and see other young parents with shrieking children, parents looking dazed and like they could use a motherfucking drink because shit, when did walking around the mall with a stroller become a big, fun way to spend a motherfucking Saturday night?

And my motherfucking neighbors, without a care in the goddamn world because they know we don't have a social life, that we'll just be sitting at home anyway with our child, so we'll take care of the motherfucking dog they didn't bother to put in their house, where he would be dry and fed, because we always take care of their motherfucking dog without being asked, are sleeping it off all snug in their motherfucking bed in a room without a pacing motherfucking dog and a shrieking child. Why? Because we're good people, and good people are easy to take advantage of.

Apparently, being a good person doesn't entitle one to a motherfucking night's sleep that lasts more than four motherfucking hours.

I'm so motherfucking sick of being good people, but I'm too motherfucking tired right now to be bad people.

Posted by Robin at 06:53 AM | Comments (10)

June 11, 2005

Snazzy new feature

This is for the knitters. I've added a new thingie on my sidebar (that thing to the right, where I telling what I'm doing with my vast free time) that will feature my current knitting project. I don't write much about my knitting, because in most cases it would just be line after miserable line of obscenities. So instead I'll just post G-rated photographic evidence of what I'm stitching.

Posted by Robin at 01:24 PM | Comments (2)

June 10, 2005

Sweet vacation destination

After lunch at Fitz's with Kara, Clara "Greyhound" Jane and I attempted to pay a visit to my boyfriend Trader Joe.

Note that I said attempted. When we pulled into the always-crowded parking lot I said, "Say Trader Joe, what's that big bus doing in front of you? Please tell me it's not in front of you, that it's actually in front of Petsmart or Beauty First. Please?"

But no. There was a tour bus parked practically on the sidwalk in front of Trader Joe's, and old people were coming out of it like clowns out of a Volkswagen, only slower. We sat there in traffic, watching as one after another they streamed off the bus and into the store.

Now, this particular Trader Joe's is a bit on the small side. Even at the slow times, it's still pretty crowded, to the point where it's not unusual to have to wait for people to clear the way in front of the cheese counter.

Can you imagine such a situation with a store full of tourists?

You know I think Trader Joe is pretty rockin' and hot, to the point where I'm considering calling myself Trader Ho. And I do haul most of my out-of-town guests there. My mom requires a Trader Joe's fix everytime she visits because she's the lone provider of Just the Clusters in my hometown. If she comes to St. Louis and returns home without enough Just the Clusters to last the population for my hometown for a month, there is hell to pay, Mister. Hell. To. Pay.

Who knew the whole town could have just chartered a bus and rode three hours to pay Trader Joe a visit themselves?

I mean, it's not like there aren't some cool stuff for traveling retirees to see in our fair city. The Gateway Arch, of course. And the Cathedral Basilica, with the world's largest collection of mosaic art. Or Forest Park, home of the 1904 World's Fair and some great, world-class museums. The New York Yankees are playing here this weekend for the first time in 40 years, and probably for the last time before Busch Stadium is imploded this fall.

But I guess when you're a retiree on a budget, all of that pales at the opportunity to purchase cases of Three Buck Chuck.

Suddenly, it all makes sense.

Posted by Robin at 05:35 PM | Comments (7)

This is our new American Idol?

I just read this, because I am a glutton for punishment and love the feeling of my eyes burning in their sockets:

"I'm from Oklahoma and grew up listening to country music. I think it's the most cheerful music," said (Carrie Underwood)the 22-year-old singer.

Cheerful?

Cheerful?!?!?!

Let's make a list of some cheerful country songs, shall we?

The Man in Black by Johnny Cash

He Stopped Loving Her Today by Geroge Jones

Flowers on the Wall by the Statler Brothers

Lovesick Blues by Hank Williams

Crazy by Patsy Cline, written by Willie Nelson who gave us that party song Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.

Fist City b Loretta Lynn

Jolene by Dolly Parton, as well as Coat of Many Colors, which drives a motherfucking stake through my cold, black heart every fucking time I hear it because goddamn, that baby was poor and those rat bastard kids fucking teased her! Teased like a big ol' blonde wig because she was poor!

Just about everything written by that tear-jerking son of a bitch Alan Jackson.

CHEERFUL?!?!?!?!?!?!? I'm cheerful enough to open a damn vein.

Of course, this is discounting the truly sad and depressng songs, like everything recorded by Toby Keith and Shania Twain.

Edited to add... So, after I posted this I went to change my panties, because the pair I was wearing were bunched beyond all recognition and usefulness, when something occured to me: the country song Carrie Underwood repeatedly performed on American Idol was Martina McBride's Independence Day, a song about a drunk who beats the shit out of his wife, who in turn goes all Farrah Fawcett/Burning Bed on his ass and burns the motherfucking house down! The song's from the perspective of the delightful couple's daughter, who winds up in the county home because Daddy's dead and Mama's a firebug, probably living out her days in Leavenworth Penitentiary, just like my grandma's first husband, who was also a firebug. He didn't torch the family home with anyone in it; he just burned his pickle factory in LaMonte, Missouri, for the insurance money. Which still isn't exactly cheerful, but at least the kids didn't get carted off. Now that would be a cheerful country song.

Posted by Robin at 09:49 AM | Comments (6)

Friday Shuffle - The Seedy Edition

Here's the junk...

1. The Mercy Seat - Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds
2. Muhammad My Friend - Tori Amos
3. Apple Blossom - the White Stripes
4. Women's Prison - Loretta Lynn
5. Subterranean Homesick Blues - Bob Dylan
6. Seed 2.0 - the Roots f/ Cody Chestnutt
7. Higher Ground - Red Hot Chili Peppers
8. Warm Beer & Women - Tom Waits
9. Frontin' - Jamie Cullum (which I still haven't listened to)
10. I Never Picked Cotton - Johnny Cash

Posted by Robin at 08:14 AM | Comments (1)

June 09, 2005

And they all lived happily ever after

The article that has been giving me fits all week? Completed.

Dinner? Cooked by me, not Sonic. And delicious.

Dinner dishes? Being washed.

Trash? Going outside as I type.

Non-sleeping child? Currently sleeping like a baby. A good baby.

Tongue burn wound? Healing nicely.

Bottle of Cock™ spotted on the shelves at Global Foods? Photographed, but wisely not purchased.

Lunch tomorrow? With Kara.

Life is, dare I say it? Returning to normal.

Posted by Robin at 09:28 PM | Comments (1)

Dumb

What is it that makes me think it's a good idea to take a piece of food that's burning my fingers and pop it into my mouth? Since when is my tongue flame-retardant?

Posted by Robin at 06:46 PM | Comments (2)

What's that flushing sound?

Things are a bit better today, in that Clara "Shriekmaster 4000" slept through the night and is currently napping.

The night before last, though, it was bad. I know, it's not the end of the world to have a sleepless night because of an upset child. What made it bad was my reaction. I just couldn't handle it. I didn't want to handle it. And so often - at least for me - having an inconsolable child is a big, huge physical reminder of my inadequacies.

I grew up in a loving family, but one in which being perfect was highly important. Failure was never much of an option. Often, if I was confused and asked for help, it was greeted with a sneer, or a snide, "You know better than that." Well, no, maybe I didn't know better than that. I was a kid. Granted, I was a precocious, gifted kid, but a kid nonetheless.

It didn't take long for me to realize that asking questions, asking for help, or admitting any weakness were not good ideas. If I felt bad because I couldn't do something or didn't know something, I would just feel worse when I asked and got rebuffed.

Voicing an opinion? That was generally met with, "You think you're so smart, don't you?" Well, now that you mention it, not really. So I learned to bend myself into agreement, just to keep the peace and what self-esteem I had left.

Saying that something hurt, physically or emotionally? "You're not hurt." So I forgot how to acknowledge pain and eventually began to see any pain I felt as being a figment of my overactive imagination.

So, for most of my life I have avoided asking questions, asking for help, voicing a differing opinion, or speaking up when I'm hurt. And boy, has it served me well. That behavior helped me flunk out of college. It helped me screw up my finances because, oddly enough, if you ignore the bills they don't go away. It helped me damn near destroy my health, leading me to wait years to consult doctors on some pretty serious problems. Friendships? When someone I love hurts me, let's just ignore them and hope they go away.

And that's how you cook up a big ol' steaming batch of panic disorder with agorophobia. It's not just about being afraid to leave the house. I don't have that problem. It's about being terrified of situations that might be painful or embarrassing, and doing whatever it takes to avoid such situations at all costs.

I drew a little graph to explain it all:

Obviously, I have no fear of bad Photoshopping.

Everything starts at the first dot - the excitment of going away to college, the rush of a new friend. But as soon as the honeymoon is over, most people reach out for a little assistance. Not me. I start to slip. The slip becomes a free-fall, which ends with a crash into the ground, followed by a slide into a gigantic toilet. And that's pretty much the story of my life.

But the thing with being a parent ... I can't employ this behavior. They have a name for that behavior in parenting - it's called child neglect. This is one of the many thoughts that never flickered in my mind until after my daughter arrived. There is no escaping. It's one thing for me to destory my education and career ambitions, my credit rating, my relationships and my health in the name of this disease. But to sacrifice my child to this disease - it's not even an option.

Problem is, I don't even know where to begin. On Tuesday night, when she was screaming and sobbing, and B. was doing his best to calm her, I couldn't pull myself out of bed. I laid there, half awake and half asleep, with a lifetime of fear and failure acutely pummelling the shit out of me, so engrained into who I am that I'm incapable of seeing how anything in my life can ever be different.

Don't tell me that I'm wrong when I say that I think I'm a horrible parent and a horrible person, because I'm incapable of believing it. Don't contradict my beliefs about myself, because it just means that you're not hearing what I'm trying to tell you. And what I'm trying to tell you is that I'm overcoming a lifetime of messages I took to heart when I was very young that have become my reality, my life. Contradictions can't scrub clean the three decades of plaque that have grown in my brain. It's just another way of telling me that what I'm feeling is wrong, and that's how this mess got started in the first place.

Posted by Robin at 10:22 AM | Comments (9)

June 08, 2005

Who needs sleep?

So, apparently Clara "Insomniac" Jane no longer requires sleep. Waking up in the middle of the night and screaming for an hour? That's A-ok in her book. Shrieking through any attempt at a nap? Fun! That business about toddlers needing 11 hours of sleep a night and 1-3 hours of naps a day? Totally doesn't apply to her.

If I have to live through one more day of this, I'm going to rip my hair out and shove it into my goddamn ears.

And my poor husband, having to deal with her crying through the night last night, and then having to listen to me sobbing into the daylight hours because I CAN'T FUCKING STAND THIS AND IT'S DRIVING ME FUCKING CRAZY!!!! If you're the praying type, say one for him because he's living in a war zone and the enemy is sleep. And the enemy is kicking our sorry asses, my friends.

You know those people who consider their pets to be their children? Yeah, well, cats and dogs sleep 18 hours a day without all the shrieking and screaming, so they can just suck on it.

Posted by Robin at 05:21 PM | Comments (6)

Photo meme

I have absolutely nothing good to say today. At least, nothing I feel like sharing with the class, because I'm pretty sure you don't want to read my whining.

I am, however, having fun with this little meme I found at Stacey's.

Directions:

Go to Google and click on the “Images” link. Type in the following and post the first (or your favorite) picture the search engine finds.

- The name of the town where you grew up
- The name of the town where you live now
- Your name
- Your Grandmother’s name (yeah, I know you probably had 2 (or more); just pick one)
- Your favorite food
- Your favorite drink
- Your favorite song
- Your favorite smell

My images:

My quaint and pretty little hometown's downtown.

Where I live.

My name. (And you were expecting a damn bird, weren't you?

Granny

Favorite food

Favorite beverage - a super-venti, please.b (Lynn's Paradise Cafe in Louisville is awesome.)

Favorite song - one of them, at least.

Favorite smell

Posted by Robin at 01:30 PM | Comments (5)

June 07, 2005

Just in case I get quiet...

...it's because I'm having Hell Week. I've got a super-short deadline for the magazine. Reader's Poll edition is no fun. I'll be spending the next three days chasing interviews and trying to write a coherant column if I get lucky and manage to get decent interviews.

Catering today. Always makes for stress.

My child is starting to do scary toddler things. Today I stepped out of the room to brush my teeth, leaving her to in the care of "Teletubbies". They're like crack cocaine in this house. That's why we went to the coffeehouse yesterday; I was sick of Clara "Tubbyhead" Jane bringing me the remote and shrieking, "Tubbies! Tubbies!"

Anyway, I'd left her to get a fix. No sooner was I out of the room, I heard what sounded like someone pounding on the window. Not possible, since our house is built into a hill and our main living area is technically the second story. Our windows can't be reached from the outside without a ladder.

They can, however, be reached from the inside by a toddler - who still can't walk and can't quite figure out the sippy cup, mind you - who has pushed her rocking chair to the window and is pounding on it with two fistfuls of Legos.

Turns out, television really is a crappy babysitter.

There's some other crap going on. Not as bad as it was a few weeks ago, but ... stressful. I haven't had a panic attack since January, but I've had a few little ones this week. Not good. So if I don't write much, it's because I'm busy grinding my teeth down to dust.

Or my anxiety might just lead me to getting all manic and prolific on your asses. Who knows?

Posted by Robin at 01:27 PM | Comments (2)

June 06, 2005

Classy Ladies

When one has a garage sale and is selling purses, one should be careful to remove all old items from the purses. Like the reciepts from a "marital aid" party attended two years prior. Lest one should come home to a phone message from Jane, the purse's new owner, saying, "Um, do you want the reciept for your sex gadgets back?"

Okay, she was much more discreet and polite than that. I'm just glad the purse went to someone I know who was willing to make that call. And destroy the evidence.

My daughter, it seems, is taking after me.

We spent the afternoon at Hartford Coffee, where she got into the whole boho coffeehouse vibe right away:

Nothing like whiling the afternoon away at the coffeehouse in a comfy chair, with a good book and a sippy cup of espresso.

This shot was taken before Clara "Hoochie" Jane made friends with two little boys. Jess, an older man at 2.5 years, and Ian, a cradle-robbee at 14 months, were all set to do my child's bidding. She may look calm and quiet in that photo, but don't be fooled. Five minutes later she was standing on that chair, leg flung over the back of it, barking orders to the boys. They brought her great riches in toys and books, bowing at her feet (with only one shoe, since she took the other off and flung it) while she squawked, shrieked, and laughed the most manical laugh known to the pre-pre-school set.

Demure and classy, we ain't.

Posted by Robin at 06:10 PM | Comments (5)

June 05, 2005

If you're not watching this, you're an idiot

Normally I try to leave my latest pop culture obsessions to the sidebar, but this one ... this one needs to be sung from the rooftops.

You have to watch "Dan Finnerty & the Dan Band: I Am Woman". If you don't watch it, or if you watch it and don't like it, there's no way I can be friends with you. You'll be dead to me. Dead!

It's a one-hour concert. Three guys - rather manly men at that - giving their renditions of girly songs like "Total Eclipse of the Heart", "Shoop", etc. There are Wilson Phillips covers. There are profanities. There are pelvic thrusts. There are sweat rags. There are wet pants from the hysterical laughter at my house.

Posted by Robin at 11:18 AM | Comments (4)

Why I should not not allowed to tinker with html at 10 a.m. on Sunday

...because I'm completely incompetant.

I was doing a bit of rearranging on the sidebar, as I often do, and somehow managed to accidentally delete something important. I have no idea what.

Goddamnmotherfuckingsonofagoddamnbitch!

[edited to add] Crisis fixed. Whew. I can go back to being braindead.

Posted by Robin at 10:43 AM | Comments (0)

June 04, 2005

Embarrassing Purchases

I had to make a late-evening run to Wal-Mart. Why Wal-Mart instead of Target? Because I felt the need to go someplace where they have those snazzy little self check-out lanes.

I had to buy yeast infection medication.

But that's not embarrassing. The occasional itching and burning is a perfectly natural occurance and the female genitals are not to be shamed. Oh no.

What's embarrassing: I was purchasing the yeast infection medication for my dog.

My Basset hound Chloe has a yeast infection in her ear. Now, I know it's highly unlikely that someone at Wal-Mart is going to approach me, look in my cart and say, "Hey! You've got the cooch-rot!", requiring me to explain that no, I don't have the cooch-rot; my dog has the cooch-rot in her ears, which would lead to a discussion on how she got the cooch-rot in her ear. She got it because she's a Basset hound and they tend to get the cooch-rot in their ears, but try explaining that to some goon at Wal-Mart on a Saturday night who's probably thinking that I'm doing horrible, horrible things with those big floppy ears that have caused the cooch-rot.

While I was browsing with a box of hair dye hiding the cooch-rot ointment, I saw something that would be even more embarrassing to purchase. It was on prominent display in the middle of the aisle, an entire shelf of bullet-shaped pastel containers. A new shower gel, perhaps? Maybe lotion? I looked closer.

It was cooch skin conditioner!

The above link is to drugstore.com, where they prominently display the question, "Why shop at drugstore.com?" I think the answer is obvious: Because I don't want the people at Wal-Mart to know that the skin on my cooch is totally unconditioned with rough patches similar to the ones on my elbows.

I'll just end this nightmarish cooch-related post with one last horrifying item for purchase. I talked to my mom tonight. She and my father are staying on the 19th floor of a hotel in downtown Denver with a lovely view of the state capitol building. During their drive to Denver from Alamosa, they stopped at several rummage sales. At one particular sale, they found a "Personal Douche and Enema Kit".

"Once it's been in the rummage sale, it ain't personal anymore," my dad said.

Posted by Robin at 09:51 PM | Comments (4)

Listening to...

Get Behind Me Satan.

Not that I can tell you how incredible it is. Too busy listening. Shhhh. Be quiet. I'm busy rocking out.

Posted by Robin at 04:18 PM | Comments (1)

Book tag!

It's about damn time someone tagged me for this one. Thanks Jodi!

1. how many books do you own?
Not as many as I did two weeks ago, since I just did a big book purge. Several hundred, probably. I try not to hang onto books because I might re-read them. When I do that, I tend to not acquire new books or branch out in my reading. If I keep a book, it's because it means something to me.

2. what is the last book that you bought?
Hm. It's been awhile since I bought a book, since I've become a huge fan of my local library. I last checked out the previously-mentioned 40 Watts from Nowhere and Mail by Mameve Medwed. I bought another Baby Einstein book for Clara Jane the other day. Does that count?

3. what is the last book you read?
The last book I finished was I Love Everybody (and Other Atrocious Lies) by Laurie Notaro. I'm currently reading 40 Watts from Nowhere by Sue Carpenter (linked on the sidebar).

4.name five six books that mean a lot to you.

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein: I first read these poems when I was in third grade, and that's when I started to notice how many ways there are to play with language and find new ways to express ideas. I re-read it last year to Clara Jane when she was a mere speck of a baby and was amazed at how it all came back to me.

The Color Purple by Alice Walker: Few books have moved me the way this one does. Historically, it's a story that needed to be told, because so many stories like it have been lost. But Walker's writing - just amazing. Her characters are so real. I can't even describe it.

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver: For many of the same reasons I love The Color Purple. A few years ago I had to read Heart of Darkness - again - for yet another lit. class. Afterwards, I decided to re-read The Poisonwood Bible, since they both take place in the same part of the world, but in different centuries and with different circumstances. And yet, the humanity is so similar.

Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells. Not because of its literary value. Truthfully, I think it's a pretty poorly-written book, although I enjoyed the characters and the stories. Despite my strong desire to edit it every time I've read it, something touched me with this book. For one, it prompted me to start dealing with some of my childhood stuff. And for another, when I moved to St. Louis and only knew one person, it was a web community built around this book that kept me from going batshit crazy from lonliness. Yes, that would be the oft-mentioned "Stonecutters".

In honor of Jodi, there is no five. And in honor of my laziness, there is no six.

now “tag” five six individuals to provide their own lists.
I'm pretty much the last person in the hemisphere to do this one, so no tagging.

Posted by Robin at 02:37 PM | Comments (0)

June 03, 2005

When worlds collide

This afternoon Clara "So very Confused" Jane and I were at Whole Foods on our weekly hippie-dippie grocery run, where we buy such things as hippie-dippie anti-corporate soda, hippie-dippie Green Goddess Organic Ravioli, and hippie-dippie freeze-dried veggies that I give my daughter instead of cookies.

And what was playing on the store's PA while I searched for worm holes on the organic apples? Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red White and Blue.

I have never been so confused in my entire life. I almost sat down in the tofu and cried.

Posted by Robin at 03:04 PM | Comments (3)

Cheerface

I swore I wasn't going to watch "Sports Kids Moms & Dads", but hell, I'm weak. We all know that. So I'm watching. It's all Oprah's fault. First she made me feel frumpy, and then she suckered me into this other show when she had several of the moms & dads on her show a few days ago.

One of the families featured includes a 9-year-old girl who's a cheerleader with a positively psychotic mother who places way too much importance on the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

Now, I'm not going to argue about the validity of cheerleading as a sport. Cheerleaders perform fetes of physicaly strength that I'll never be able to do. I can't even get my wedding ring pulled past my second knuckle, so far be it for me to pass judgement on someone who can do a double herky with a backflip and a twist of lime on the rocks. It definitely takes talent, skill, and tons of hard work to perform that way.

That being said, what the hell is up with their faces?

It's not just this particular little girl. It's all of the cheerleaders. Before a competition, the coaches tell the girls, "It's not cute unless they see your faces! Show 'em some attitude! Show 'em some spunk!" And immediately the cheerleaders start jerking their heads from side to side, puffing out their cheeks like high-stepping bullfrogs, making giant O's with their mouths, contorting their faces into pained grimaces, puckering their mouths, all while twitching and jerking.

If they're trying to intimidate the other team, it's working because I gotta say, those faces scared the shit out of me! I was afraid I was on the verge of having my ass jazz-handed to me on a platter. A very, very large platter.

I also couldn't help but wonder if maybe Bravo isn't telling us everything, that maybe these are cheer competitions for ... you know ... slower kids. All that facial ticking and jerking makes it look like some motor development skills support might be in order.

Cheerleading coaches, what up? What's wrong with just a simple, pretty smile, is all I'm saying.

And don't even get me started on 9-year-olds in heavy glitter eyeshadow.

Posted by Robin at 10:32 AM | Comments (8)

Friday Shuffle - The Too Lame for a Name Edition

I just really can't think of anything clever right now:

1. That'll be Me - Kelly Willis
2. Into the Fire - Bruce Springsteen
3. Hard Working Man - Brooks & Dunn
4. In the Shelter - Jimmy Buffett
5. Sgt. Pepper's Lonley Hearts Club Band (reprise) - The Beatles
6. That Night - Rufus Wainwright
7. The United Colors of West LA - Henry Rollins
8. New York New York - Frank Sinatra
9. Precious - The Pretenders
10. Bruised Broken Beaten - Controller Controller

Posted by Robin at 09:42 AM | Comments (2)

June 02, 2005

Perchance to dream

I've never been a good sleeper. Ever. My mom has often said that they weren't going to have a second child until I was sleeping through the night. By the time that happened, her uterus had rotted and required removing.

I go through rare spells when I'm capable of going to bed at a decent hour and fall asleep in a timely manner, sleeping until eight or so hours have passed and arising refreshed. It's happened five or six times in my life.

Most of the time, I fight sleep like the most valient of four-year-olds, afraid that if I go to sleep, I'll miss something cool. During the worst times with my panic disorder, I was afraid to go to sleep because of things that would happen out of my control while I was unconscious. I was afraid of what I would have to face in the morning, afraid of being jarred awake by a dreaded phone call or knock on the door, because good news never comes calling during sleeping hours. While I fought sleep in some vain effort to wrangle some sort of control over my universe, I simultaneously longed for it. Longed for sleep's power to make my world stop, to remove me from the constant anxiety and worry, to slow my pounding heart.

These days, with the panic problems becoming a thing of the past, I fight sleep because those last hours of the night, when my husband and daughter have gone to sleep, are the only hours I get by myself. I may be tired, but at least I'm alone, which I crave.

Last night was rough. I made myself go to bed at 12:30 a.m., even though I would have loved to remain on the couch, bleery-eyed and working on my latest knitting project while everyone slept. But it had been a long day, and I knew that today would be even longer if I didn't do what I was supposed to do.

The pain hit me two hours later, shooting through the muscles in my left shoulder blade, wrapping around my shoulder and squeezing until my arm and hand were both numb and fiery with pain. I fought waking up and giving in to the pain. I fought it so hard that my half-asleep dream turned to images of me, fighting an animal-machine monster with iron jaws gnawing my arm. I don't know how much time it took me to decide that facing the pain was less frightening than facing the rest of the dream.

I shook my husband awake with my good arm, pleading for him to wake up enough to knead the knotted muscles. He obliged, mumbling in his sleep. He dug his thumbs into the sheet of hard muscles at the base of my neck, muttering, "It feels like there should be a ... door ... here." When I asked what he was talking about, he mumbled something that was more snore than words.

The muscles loosened slightly, enough that I could get somewhat comfortable in my achy exhaustion. I laid there, awake, listening to my dog as she kicked at an itchy ear, listening to the hum of my husband's CPAP machine, listening to my own stuffy-nosed breathing, and definitely not sleeping. Our cluttered bedroom, with piles of books on every surface, the box of discarded dishes by the door, the smelly, snoring dogs, the sheets that need to be changed and the down comforter that needs to be replaced. No wonder I never sleep.

Half awake and all exhausted, I caught myself thinking about the best night's sleep I ever had. It seems absurd, to remember just one night of perfect sleep, but wouldn't someone who's eaten nothing but junk food remember that one perfect dinner at The French Laundry?

It was three years ago this month, before parenthood, when I took for granted that I could get a phone call at 8 a.m. (one of the few times good news has called early) and be on the road to Memphis two hours later. My friend's 12-year-old son had spent several weeks in suburban Memphis, visiting his grandmother. He had called his mom the night before, asking her to pick him up a week early; he was homesick.

It's four hours straight down I-55 from St. Louis to Memphis, a drive I've made so many times, but never to pick up a homesick child. My Memphis trips tend towards excessive drinking, excessive eating, and excessive sleep deprivation. When in Memphis, my insomnia has always been my friend. I can operate on two or three hours a night when I'm in that city without feeling so much as tug of sleepiness. It's adrenaline borne of being in a city that feels so much like home, but isn't, and knowing that in my limited time I have to get a fix that will last.

I was recovering from a strong bout of summer bronchitis with a cough that would keep me out of the smokey bars this time around. Just along for the ride, I mainly went because, one, I don't pass up a trip to Memphis, even if it's only overnight, and two, to reconnect with my friend. We had gone through a spell of not being friends, which ended three months prior with the news that someone she loved dearly had committed suicide. She was still deep in grief, and the four hour drive to Memphis would be a chance for her to talk, to maybe let go of some of the pain.

The legs of the trip and the grief-talk were interspersed with stops at thrift stores and Duckie's, a roadside gas station/gift shop outside New Madrid, Missouri. They sell bags of souvenir cotton bolls and mural-sized Elvis and Last Supper tapestries, just in case the slowed-down accent that appeared an hour earlier in Cape Girardeau wasn't enough of a sign that we had crossed the line from the lower reaches of the midwest into the upper reaches of the south. The Mason-Dixon had been crossed.

This is earthquake country, sharing a name with the New Madrid faultline that cuts through the area and caused the largest earthquake in the continental U.S. back in 1811. I came away from Duckie's with a sign, taped to the ladies room mirror, that read, "Hey kids! Become a Certified Fault Finder! Ask us how!". If ever there was a perfect job description for me, there it is. I didn't ask for more details, so I guess I'm just a Fault Finder, not certified; I just took the sign.

We arrived at my friend's moms home in suburban Bartlett, Tennessee in the hot late afternoon, a world away from the life by the Mississippi River that usually brings me to Memphis. This was the home made by an upstanding Southern lady, lush yet comfortable, filled with tasteful art and comfortable chairs. Her backyard, a jungle of sculpted flowerbeds, blooming in the misty June humidity - everything warm, dewy and fragrant. A small stream trickled through the middle of the yard, barely visible behind a screen of rosebushes from where we sat on the screened-in porch, under a slow-turning ceiling fan, sprawled on white wicker chairs while eating salt water taffy my friend's son had brought back from Biloxi.

We went to a nondescript chain restaurant for dinner, since it was close to the house, then returned for an early night. My friend insisted that I take the spare room while she and her son shared a futon in the office. Southern hospitality - I wish the rest of the world was like that, but I always feel awkward accepting it.

The spare room was small and white with a plump full-size bed covered with a quilt, pale and soft from years of wear and laundering. On the dresser, photos of their recently-lost loved one with her children in brass frames. I took a cool shower to rinse away the June heat and the road trip, slipped into my yoga pants and an old t-shirt and tucked into the bed with my book.

The sheets were even softer than the quilt. Old but not worn with touches of hand-embroidered lace at the edges, it had been decades since they were last crisp. Instead, they were light and delicate, soft as fresh-washed skin and just as warm. I sunk into a pile of down feather pillows and snuggled under the quilt, since I had turned the ceiling fan to its highest setting. The only thing better than a great sleep is a great sleep in a cool room.

I didn't fight sleep, and it didn't fight me. It arrived natural and easy. When I awoke in the warm glow of pre-dawn and slipped out of bed to make a trip to the bathroom, it wasn't an annoyance. It was a blessing, because I got the pleasure of falling asleep in that bed a second time, stretched out as long as possible, arms spread, taking up as much of that plush real estate as possible.

All those years that I cursed sleeping alone. All those times I shared beds with guys I would have been better off without, without any appreciation for the beauty and pleasure of having a bed to myself, of sleeping with the sound of no breath but my own. Sleeping alone is the only time we are truly by ourselves, oblivious to the world around us and temporarily immune to its trappings.

The second time I awoke, it was near 9 a.m. and my friend heard my stirrings. She and her family are "bed people". During family get-togethers, everyone winds up piled on a bed, lazing about and just being close to each other, concepts that are foreign in my family. Many afternoons I've spent at her house, stretched across the expanse of her king-size bed, wrapped in a blanket while watching afternoon talk shows, snuggling with her kids, simply being. So I wasn't one bit surprised when she opened the door to my room and climbed onto the bed with me. As perfect as the solitude of the previous night's sleep was, it was made even better by the presence of a friend.

We ate breakfast on the back porch, gathered her son's belongings, and made one brief trip downtown at Tater Red's. My friend needed voodoo supplies, and I needed an unlicensed, illegal German Elvis-esque doll for my dashboard. Even with the unclouded sun reflected off Beale Streets asphalt and the triple-digit temperature, I felt better than I had in ages. My linger cough was gone. My eyes, rested. Every muscle in my body limber and compliant instead of screaming in exhausted protest as I pushed them. I was rested. It took a spontaneous road trip to Memphis and a night on old southern linens to do it, but it worked. And on nights like last night, when the chaos of my day invades my night, I long for that bed, that house, and that solitude.

Tiny illegal German Elvis and me, hitting the road in Memphis again, searching for some pork butt and a good place to sleep.

Posted by Robin at 11:44 AM | Comments (5)

3 Ninjas

I had a bad sleep night last night. Really bad. Clara Jane had some stomach problems, which led to much screaming and crying of "Mama! Daddy!", which absolutely broke my heart and made me cry.

She finally went to bed, and I got a few hours of sleep before waking up in excrutiating pain. Excruciating. Every now and then I get these wicked pains at night. The muscles in my shoulder blade seize, cutting off the blood supply to my hand, which feels like it's being squished in a vice. It hurts. Bad. And last night's episode was one of the worst. B. woke up and tried to help ease the muscles. But by then, I was awake.

Awake to listen to my Basset hound, Chloe, as she attempted to tunnel through her flappy ear with her hind foot. Flap flap flap. I felt like I was trying to sleep under a sailboat's sail on a really windy night.

I moved to the couch, but could still hear the flappy. I moved to the basement in the spare bedroom, which didn't work because someone forgot to close the bedroom door, giving my cat Romi free reign to shed and puke unrestrained to her hearts content.

It was a short, annoying night. There was also a spontaneous nosebleed thrown in for good measure.

After a night like this, can you imagine turning on the morning news and the first story you see is about three people dressed as ninjas robbing a local Walgreens.

Ninjas. Damn.

And in case you haven't noticed, I've added Google Ads to my site. Not so much out of whoring, but so I don't have to buy a ninja outfit. Give a click, wouldya?

Posted by Robin at 08:35 AM | Comments (2)

June 01, 2005

It's amazing I'm able to make friends at all with these mad social skillz

This morning Clara "River's Edge" Jane and I met some of our friends at the zoo. This is a group of women - four of us - that I met on Babycenter when we were all pregnant. We all have daughters born within ten days of each other.

One of the moms moved to St. Louis from Detroit during her pregnancy, and unfortunately (for the rest of us - I think she's glad about the situation) her family is moving back to Detroit next week. So, we all got together for one last outing this morning.

But that's neither here nor there, really.

The kids were having a snack break, and us moms - as moms are wont to do - were comparing teething horror stories. I participated in the following exchange:

Angie: When does teething end?
Me (perplexed): Uh .... when they get all their teeth?

I am so smooth.

(Hi Angie! I told you I would be blogging that!)

Clara "I Dig Hippos" Jane and me. I was standing on my foot, instead of gnawing on it, for once.

Posted by Robin at 04:00 PM | Comments (6)