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August 31, 2005
Mid-week Updates
Just a quick round-up:
Clara Jane's recovering from her ear infection, but not before passing it to me. I'm not sure which one of us is whinier.
Kara's mom? Not much new news.
People keep coming here via searchs for "Quintron Katrina". Sorry, but I've got nothing, aside from bad-mouthing his cohort Miss Pussycat's puppet show last week, for which I now feel guilty.
Tomorrow's supposed to be Clara Jane's daycare day and my writing day. I don't know if it's going to happen. She's well enough that they would let her in to daycare, but unless she gets past some of the emotional fragility, I don't know if she'll last. Likewise, unless I get past some of my emotional fragility, I don't know if I'll last in public. On the flipside, I think we both desperately need a change of scenery. She hasn't been out of the house since Saturday and the cabin fever's wearing on her.
My mom's having her sinuses hosed out tomorrow. Considering the way the week's gone, I'm not thrilled that anyone I know might be undergoing any medical procedures.
I'm knitting a sock.
Posted by Robin at 07:28 PM | Comments (0)
August 30, 2005
The Absentee Blogger
Kara's mom has taken a turn for the worse. Clara Jane's suffering through her first ear infection. I haven't slept in two days. Expect me to be out of pocket for a bit.
Do something good in the world right now, because the world sure could use it. Give a few bucks to America's Second Harvest Hurricane Katrina Fund or National Stroke Association on behalf of Kara's mom.
The only way to overcome devastation is to counter it with love and generosity.
Posted by Robin at 12:06 PM | Comments (1)
August 29, 2005
Hurricane Katrina Hunger Relief
Take a peek to the right and you'll see a link to America's Second Harvest, my favorite charity that works to make sure as many Americans as possible don't go hungry. They've started efforts to provide food for the victims of Hurricane Katrina, with 100% of donations going directly to help the people who have lost everything.
Give 'em a few bucks.
More info from their current press release follows:
America's Second Harvest - The Nation's Food Bank Network is activating our disaster response plan in order to help provide the basics for victims of the storm: Food. Water. Toiletries.
Right now we are working with FEMA to move supplies to the affected areas. Our Network Members are supporting the victims by providing groceries from their shelves and staff support for food banks near the affected areas. We work in tandem with other disaster-relief charities by using our distribution network to form a steady flow of supplies.
As of this writing we are:
-Expecting that at least 10 food banks covering three states and related agencies will be hit by the hurricane today
-Securing additional warehouse space
-Coordinating transportation of food to victims
-Preparing to assist our affected Member food banks in resuming and maintaining operations
-Securing additional donations of food to serve the immediate demands of local residents
We can't do any of this critical work without your help. Click Here to donate to our disaster-relief efforts. 100% of your gift will go directly to support victims of Hurricane Katrina.
We'll be sending more updates as we monitor the situation and its impact. We expect to be in emergency mode for several weeks (possibly even months), so thanks in advance for any support you can offer.
Sincerely,
Robert Forney
President and CEO
America's Second Harvest - The Nation's Food Bank Network
Posted by Robin at 09:22 PM | Comments (2)
Hope
Any other time in my life, when people around me are suffering and catastrophes that affect millions of people are afoot, I would find myself entertaining apocolyptic thoughts. And that's still happening, but do you know what gives me a sign that everything will eventually be ok? The sight of an 18-month-old with a massively snotty nose, toddling around the house while wearing an adult-sized ballcap featuring the image of a disembowled Kenny from "South Park".
Posted by Robin at 10:29 AM | Comments (6)
August 28, 2005
Enough With the Surrealism Already
It's been a weird weekend.
First, the insanity on FP's blog had me all kinds of upset on Friday night.
Then, Saturday brought news of Kara's mom's sudden illness, which had me even more kinds of upset.
Today, Clara Jane's sick. Nothing serious, just some sniffles, but enough to make her really cranky. B. and I have fought all day.
And now I don't want to go to bed, because I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning and hear that New Orleans is gone. I've been reading far too much worst-case scenario journalism and it's fucking with me. I feel like I did in the weeks after 9/11, when I dreaded going to sleep every night, just because I dreaded waking up to unthinkable news.
I have no coherant or cohesive thoughts on any of these matters. I just felt like mentioning that I am worn out. I want normal back.
Posted by Robin at 11:34 PM | Comments (3)
August 27, 2005
Dixie Tagged!
I haven't done a meme in awhile. And for some reason, I haven't been getting my RSS feed to Dixie's blog, so I had no idea I'd been tagged until now.
10 years ago: I was just out of college and about to land my first full-time "real" job.
5 years ago: I was starting my third semester of culinary school and getting ready to celebrate my first wedding anniversary with a big weekend in Memphis.
1 year ago: I was still in the throes of post-partum depression.
Yesterday: I fed the largest, most agressive koi I have ever seen in my life.
Tomorrow: is a mystery. I have no plans whatsoever.
5 snacks I enjoy: cheese, lattes, cereal, chips and salsa, popcorn
5 bands/singers that I know the lyrics of MOST of their songs: U2, White Stripes, Bruce Springsteen, The Replacements, Red Hot Chili Peppers
5 things I would do with $100,000,000: Pay off debt, buy a house, college fund of my kiddo, start a charitable foundation (something that feeds kids), and have the fat suctioned out of my body
5 locations I'd like to run away to: northern California, New Orleans, New York, Provence, London
5 bad habits I have: Procrastination, staying in my pajamas all day, impulse buying, excessive use of profanities, snoozing the alarm clock
5 things I like doing: knitting, reading, writing, entertaining, playing with Clara Jane
5 things I would never wear: fake hair, belly shirts, hip-hugger pants, stretch pants, t-shirts with cartoon characters on them worn in a non-ironic manner.
5 TV shows I like: Gilmore Girls, Seinfeld, King of the Hill, Intervention, No Reservations
5 movies I like: Napoleon Dynamite ... I am so not a movie person because I'm totally drawing a blank here.
5 famous people I'd like to meet: Oprah Winfrey, Bono, Bill Clinton, Bruce Springsteen, Elvis
5 biggest joys at the moment: Clara Jane, writing, B., feeding people, Chloe
5 favorite toys: computer, TiVo, knitting needles, books, notebooks
5 bloggers tagged (if they made it this far & if you feel like it): I don't tag.
Posted by Robin at 09:33 AM | Comments (3)
August 26, 2005
If There is a Sin, Then There is a Sinner Too
As you might have heard, I saw the White Stripes on Wednesday. This wasn't my first WS show, but it was certainly different from my past experiences. For one thing, this time around I wasn't six weeks pregnant and experiencing the violent mood swings and profuse vomiting and narcolepsy that plagued me throughout the summer of 2003. Secondly, this time we were spared opening act Mr. Quintron and Miss Pussycat. Musically, they were interesting, and catchy enough that I occasionally, apropo of nothing, get a particular bit of one of their songs stuck in my head. But they had to go and ruin it all by ending their set with an acid-fueled jack-knifed truck wreck of a puppet show - a goddamn puppet show - that drug on and on and on with its convuluted "plot" and chantings of "Miniature magical horses! Miniature magical horses!"
I swear to God, open a concert by any other band with that crap, and the roadies would be washing miniature magical horse guts off the stage with a firehose. You don't see that shit when you see Motorhead.
I wasn't pregnant when the concert tickets went on sale, so it seemed perfectly logical to buy tickets for the St. Louis and Kansas City shows. Kristina bought a plane ticket to St. Louis, and the plan was to drive to Kansas City for the Saturday night show, spend some time playing in KC, then amble back to St. Louis for Monday's show. The tickets were general admission at small venues, and we had every intention of getting in line early so we could nab a spot right against the stage because, well, Jack White doesn't wear underwear.
The plan didn't include wearing a pair of very sweaty anti-nausea wristbands and worrying about destroying my child's eardrums by standing next to the biggest speaker stack in the house, even though she didn't even have a real head yet, much less ears. But that's how things happen, right?
We abbreviated our Kansas City trip, since my pregnancy-induced need to sleep 18 hours a day and eat during the remaining six made it difficult to drive across the state in a safe and efficient manner. Instead, we drove to my parents' house the day before the show, where I was able to get my required sleep. Then we rushed to KC and had just enough time to peek inside the American Jazz Museum and snarf down some barbeque while I repeatedly screamed, "Fetus needs BEEF!!!!" before hustling to the show.
Which was incredible. Seriously. One of my best concert experiences ever. Not that I remember much of it, aside from "Miniature magical horses! Miniature magical horses!", trying to not vomit my burnt ends, and fretting over my child's unformed ears.
We ambled back to my parents' house that night, where I slept for another 18 hours, then eventually made our way back to St. Louis.
The show here wasn't quite as great. For one thing, there were no burnt ends and the fetus was ANGRY!!! at the lack of BEEF!!! There were also some major tech problems during the show. Jack was agitated, but not nearly as much as the crowd. Once again we were in the pit, next to the stage, surrounded by throngs of 14-year-old boys who were just beginning to realize that maybe they, too, should be ANGRY!!! at the lack of BEEF!!! or something. Or maybe it was the puppet show that set them on edge, I don't know. Regardless, we were pushed and crushed in the throng. At the beginning of "The Hardest Button to Button", the young chap behind me decided to place his hands on my shoulders so he could propel himself off the floor in rhythm to the guitar's pulsations.
When Kristina and I decided we'd had enough of the insanity, my hormone-addled mind saw absolutely nothing wrong with looking that youngster in the eye before slamming the open palm of my hand into the center of his face. Luckily, he was too stunned from being smacked by a thirtysomething pregnant woman to use his adolescent rage against me and I made a clean escape.
The other weirdness with the show ... I had made the mistake a few months earlier of setting up Kristina with one of B.'s good friends, Spanker. You know how you can be friends with someone, and he can be a great person, but then you find out how he is in a romantic relationship and you're shocked to find out that he's really kind of an ass? Well, that pretty much sums it up. Without going into too much detail, there had been a great deal of drama concerning this coupling.
Let me just put it this way: forget spaying and neutering your pets. Sometimes you should spay and neuter your friends.
Spanker was looking to make a booty call, but he had to go through me. He was going to be at the concert, and B. warned him, "Dude, just leave Robin alone. Don't call her phone to talk to Kristina. Seriously. The pregnancy hormones are bad. She's been peeling shards of lead paint off the walls with her bare fingers and muttering about shoving the peelings into several of your favorite sphincters. Don't call her."
So what did he do? He started calling me between set, when I was at the apex of my "Miniature magical horses! Miniature magical horses!" progesterone-fueled rage. I could see him in the balcony, waving down to me as he called. Twice. I didn't answer either time and turned my phone off. I am not Kristina's pimp. Don't call me.
Long story short, things eventually came to an end with Kristina and Spanker. I urged B. to not let my anger influence him, for I was pregnant and my emotions were powered solely by the fact that there was never, ever enough sleep or beef to satisfy the fetus. He needed to maintain his friendship with Spanker. They had been friends long before us girls came in and messed things up.
That didn't happen. I think the differences in their lifestyles - Spanker was out macking on hot babes at the trendiest of clubs every night, while B. was at home, flinging hunks of raw beef my way and washing the barnicles off the underside of my massively pregnant gut - was the nail in the coffin. That, and Spanker was afraid of me.
On Tuesday, the day before the most recent White Stripes show, I guess I had Spanker on the brain, thinking back to my last White Stripes adventure. B., Clara Jane and I were having dinner at a Thai restaurant down the street from the venue where that show took place, and I asked B. if he'd heard from Spanker recently. The last he had heard was last fall when we both recieved a mass email announcing that Spanker had bought a house with his girlfriend
Wednesday afternoon, B. and I were having our usual midday phone conversation. "You will never guess who I heard from today."
Um, Spanker? Because, you know, I have that power, summoning the unwanted simply by mentioning their names aloud.
Actually, I wouldn't say "unwanted", because I always felt bad that B. and Spanker's friendship had faltered and I've always felt a little responsible for it. Had I not played pimp cupid ... had I not been such a bitch to him (even though he deserved it for the way he treated Kristina) ...
B. got an email from Spanker Wednesday morning, announcing his pending nuptuals. He's getting married in late April and wants B. in the wedding party. Instead of going out every night, he's spending his evenings at home, caring for his 5-year-old future stepson while his fiance' works.
When B. and Spanker used to get together, it usually involved a lot of alcohol. Now they're talking about visiting at home some evening while the children play. And where will I be? Probably at some show, crowing about the underwear-free rock star and punching young hoodlums in the face.
Oh, yeah ... Wednesday's show. Awesome. Not a puppet to be found. We had incredible seats - front row, center in the mezzanine. Kara gave a much more detailed account, along with a link to the local newspaper review. McDao also has a review, and Summer's review includes a couple of sweet, arty b&W cameraphone shots for her penis-viewing perch near the stage. Holley, however, didn't have a damn thing to say about the show, even though she was there and kept touching me the entire time.
Posted by Robin at 08:42 PM | Comments (5)
Friday Shuffle - The White Stripesless Edition
No time for concert reviews, but always time for a shuffle...
1. Pea - Red Hot Chili Peppers
2. There'll Be No Teardrops Tonight - Hank Williams
3. What's the Frequency, Kenneth? - REM
4. Your Sweet Voice - Matthew Sweet
5. We Call Them Pirates Here - Mark Mothersbaugh (yet another appearance from "The Life Aquatic" soundtrack)_
6. Mack the Knife - Bobby Darrin
7. Glorious Day - Weezer
8. Date with the Night - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
9. Different World - INXS
10. Glory - Liz Phair
Posted by Robin at 03:05 PM | Comments (0)
August 25, 2005
I Can Tell That We Are Going to be Friends
Despite the title, this isn't about last night's show. I'm too beat to string those thoughts together yet. No, this is about my child, Clara "Big Girl" Jane.
Today was her first day of daycare. She's only going one day a week, so it's not like our lives are going to be completely different. Just Thursday will be different. Even though I knew she would love the change of scenery, the kids and the new environment, I was still worried. What if she hates it? What if she's scared? What if they don't take care of her the way I take care of her? This morning, waiting for time to take her, I had to keep a pep talk on loop in my head: "Don't back out. Take her. We both need this. Don't back out. Take her. We both need this."
We arrived at the church where the daycare is located a bit late. She held my hand as we walked through the lobby, stopping to watch the other late stragglers. She didn't cling or beg for me to hold her. She walked, so brave and ready.
When we walked into the room she immediately ran to the middle of the room, filled with kids and toys, completely forgetting I was there. I took care of business with one of her teachers and moved to the door. Clara Jane glanced at me as I was leaving, then turned back to what she was doing. I waited outside the room, listening to see if she would cry when she realized I was gone. Nothing.
I darted down the deserted hall, hoping to make it to the restroom without encountering anyone before the tears in my burning red eyes started to fall. I passed an older lady, a church employee, who simply smiled and nodded, used to seeing teary-eyed mothers beating hasty retreats to the ladies room after leaving their babies for the first time.
As I stood in the stall of the bathroom, pressing a wad of toilet paper under my eye to keep my mascara from streaking down my face, the loop in my head changed: "She's a big girl. She's such a big girl. She's a big girl. She's such a big girl. She's big enough to not need me for everything."
There have been so many milestones in the 18 months of Clara Jane's life, and with each one I've passingly thought, "Oh, she's growing up." But today, for the first time, I saw that she really is an independent person, not an appendage of me. She can walk away from me and make it on her own. I didn't feel sad or snubbed. What I felt was overwhelming pride and joy.
Okay, maybe I felt a little sad that, officially, she's no longer a baby. She's all kid.
Once I pulled myself together I headed for the neighborhood coffeehouse. While making chit-chat with the owner I told her that I'll be there every Thursday. She empathized with the first day of daycare blues and made it known I was welcome to spend as much time there as I wanted. For three and a half hours, I worked on the various "real" writing projects I have in the works. I didn't mope or feel sorry for myself. I worked. And it felt great.
When I picked Clara Jane up at 3, she squealed, "Mama! Mama! Mama! Ready skeady go go go!", our vernacular for "let's blow this joint" that I've said to her since our very first solo outings when she was a newborn. Her teacher approached me as I scooped Clara Jane into my arms. "She is such a talker," she said. "Does she have older siblings?" I told her no, that she's just language advanced and speaks on the level of a two and a half year-old. That's just her.
The teacher went on to say that Clara Jane was happy and active all day. She ate a good lunch and snack, had a 90-minute nap, and even did a bit of macaroni art. She got excited about the cows and pigs in one of the stories they read. I didn't have to be there to know what she did. "It's a cow! Moooooooooooooo!!!" and "It's a piggie!" exclaimed while pushing her nose into a pig-snout with her index finger.
And yet, I'm a little sad I didn't see if myself, but happy that Clara Jane now has something that's all hers. Her school. Her teachers. Her friends. Her life.
Posted by Robin at 10:35 PM | Comments (12)
August 24, 2005
"Hey B.," I said, on my way out the door to meet Kara and Holley for tonight's White Stripes show. "Here's the camera. Take a picture of me so you'll have a recent one to give to the media when I disappear because I'm clinging to the wheel axle of the band's bus."
I think almost every photo of me that's appeared on my blog has lacked any portion of my head above my upper lip.
I don't know what I was thinking when I did my hair tonight. I really don't. It looks like I was thinking, "You know, my super-wide hips, large belly, clunky Amishesque shoes and mannish hands don't provide the highest degree of schoolmarmishness. I know! I'll get all Menonnite on my hair!" And yet, I don't recall those thoughts going through my head. In fact, my thoughts were more along the lines of, "Gee, last time I saw the White Stripes, Jack wasn't wearing any underwear."
More tomorrow, probably not until the evening the middle of the night, since my parents will be in town and my child is starting daycare. I'm supposed to spend the day writing. Real writing. Writing I hope to someday sell. Anyone who can spare a laptop for this endeavor will get ample heaps of thanks and praise in the books' acknowledgements.
Posted by Robin at 11:24 PM | Comments (13)
August 23, 2005
Dear Ikea:
Please send us a longer couch.
Thank you,
Murphy and Chloe
Posted by Robin at 01:23 PM | Comments (3)
August 22, 2005
Tales From the Weekend
Yes, I do realize I've been most neglectful in my blogging duties. And I realize that's in extremely poor taste, after making all you people come out of the woodwork last week. What can I say? It's late August. Everything sucks in late August. After a stretch of busy weekends, we finally had one with absolutely no plans (except for one). I took advantage of the opportunity to nurse my intense malaise with extreme inertia.
Would you like to hear how that went? Of course you do.
Thursday, while not technically the weekend, was the start of the fun. Clara "Lazy Pants" Jane and I headed across the river to Belleville to finally pay a visit to my recently-relocated pals Mary, Bob and their darling 13-month-old munchkin. You remember Mary and Bob - they were my neighbors ten years ago and just moved back to the area. Mary and I spent the afternoon playing catch-up while our girls ran amok. Much fun was had by all.
Friday, Angie and her girls came over for lunch. Again with the fun and running amok, which was followed by Lazy Pants' 18-month doctor visit.
Ask me how old my child weighs. Go on. Ask.
The answer? I don't fucking know, because she threw a stiff-legged, limb-flailing, abduction-screaming hissyfit and refused to stay on the scale!
Obviously, she's healthy. An unhealthy kid wouldn't be able to launch herself over my head in effort to escape the clutches of the scale. Granted, there might be some issues with the kid's emotional health, but physically, she's fine.
Saturday, my entire family finally got out of our pajamas sometime around 4 PM and went in search of all you can eat Vietnamese food. Which we found rather quickly. Good thing, because if it had required an intense hunt, we would have gone hungry, such was the extreme depth of our slothiness.
The food? Excellent, as always. But the musical selections ... questionable. They were really dragging the bottom of the barrel, with double-plays by Cher ("Halfbreed", followed by "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves"), Tony Orlando & Dawn ("Knock Three Times" paired with "Tie a Yellow Ribbon"), and The Carpenters ("Top of the World", along with a rarely-heard cover of "Jambalaya". And let me tell you, it's rarely-heard for a reason). It was a bit surreal, and I think I watched too many Vietnam War movies during my formative years. You know how every movie of that genre has a scene where happy Americans are enjoying R&R in Hanoi while happy music from home always plays in the background, and it's always a sign that one of the soldiers is gonna die? With all the sunny, chirpy early-'70s lite A.M. everything's-fine-nothing's-wrong tunage, I kept halfway expecting Charlie to come busting through the plate glass windows. It wrecks havoc on one's digestion, that's for sure.
But that's not the worst. How bad is it that one song - one trite, awful, cloyingly bad song - when played in a Vietnamese restaurant, can conjure up every terrible, vile stereotype about Asian food? When that song is "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo, it makes me look at my spring rolls a little differently, which is then followed by an overwhelming wave of white guilt and shame.
Songs about dogs played in an Asian restaurant in this uber-white area of the Midwest? Bad. But not the worst. No, there's one song that should never, ever cross the speakers in an Asian restaurant...
Towards the end of our meal, when the opening strains of "Kung-Fu Fighting" began, I excused myself from the table, walked into the kitchen, apologized for my country, and wrote each restaurant employee a check for $25 before gathering my child and husband - both who were doing karate-chops at the table - and went home in disgrace.
(OK, so I didn't go to the kitchen and write checks, but I did shake my head in disbelief a lot while hissing at B. and Clara "Hanoi" Jane to cut it the fuck out with the faux-fu, already.)
Speaking of being a disgrace ...
Sunday night Holley and I headed to the scenic employees parking lot at Harrah's to see Loretta Lynn. Going into the show, I was curious as to how much of the crowd would be young hipsters brought to Loretta via her collaboration with White Stripe/next babydaddy Jack White and how many would be old hillbillies. Holley and I obviously fall somewhere in the middle of that continuum.
Holley arrived a few minutes before me and informed me that, per her observations, the old hillbillies where far and away the bulk of the crowd.
I hate to admit it, but The Pill, which was so revolutionary and controversial when Loretta recorded it, loses a bit of its political punch when there are only six women in the audience who haven't entered menopause.
One of the night's big surprises - Interpretive Dance Girl™ was there! For those of you who might be a bit new to these parts, Interpretive Dance Girl™, or IDG™ as she's often called, is a friend of mine who always - always shows up at every single concert I attend. She stands in front of me, arms and legs akimbo, so moved by the power of the music that she must DANCE! Usually after a great deal of ALCOHOL! She waves! She sways! She shimmies! She commits moves that, once she sobers up, she will swear she didn't commit. Oh, but she did. And she always did right in front of me.
Last night's IDG™ probably hasn't been called a "girl" in at least five decades, and I think her outer casing was made entirely of Naugahyde™. And not the kind of Naugahyde™ used on an indoor couch, either. This was Naugahyde™ that's on the couch you keep in your front yard.
If you've never had a couch - Naugahyde™ or other - in your front yard, I'm betting you've never been to a Loretta Lynn concert in a casino parking lot, either.
Anyway, IDG™ did not disappoint, although her age was showing. She only danced for a few songs before being escorted out by her gray-haired, wife-beater-bedecked partner, whom she leaned on heavily. Probably because all that alcohol leeched the calcium from her leathery bones a long, long time ago. They might have required a stop at the hipbreak station on their way out.
As for Loretta, she was exceptional. Her voice - amazing. One of the greatest voices I've ever heard live. Her dress - sparkly. And big. Even way back in General Admissionville, we could see how sparkly and big it was. People on the space station could see how sparkly and big it was.
I'd always heard that she can be a bit ... erratic. Had I not known that, I might have thought that she's starting to go senile. For starters, she took requests from the audience. Sometimes she knew the songs. Sometimes she didn't. She yammered and yapped and bitched about how hot it was, wearing that sparkly (and big) dress, which probably weighed more than her tour bus, in the 90-degree heat. It was refreshing to see a celebrity, nee icon, who obviously doesn't employ a handler who tells her what to say and how to act.
The only low-point of the show came during the next-to-last song, Tex Ritter's God Bless America Again, a song that's fine in and of itself. But when the bass-throated guitarist added a spoken-word verse about needing prayer in school and the Bible in the classroom, everyone around us - even those with walkers, who Holley accused of being big fakers - went wild.
"They're on to us. We're going to be hung in liberal effigy from the light scaffolding!" I told her.
"I hate America now," she replied. "I loved America when Bill Clinton was president."
"Shut up! They're out for blood! They can sniff out liberals like us!"
Fortunately for us, there was a guy a few rows ahead of us how happened to be brown. Racial profiling trumps political profiling everytime, so we were able to escape under cover of night before our lovely concert experience, where we got to see one of our musical heros, ended with us being strung up like the traitors we are.
Later, in the parking lot, I approach that poor Middle Eastern fellow, apologized for my country and wrote him a check for $25. It was the least I could do.
Posted by Robin at 02:26 PM | Comments (14)
August 19, 2005
Friday Shuffle - The Screaming in the Night Edition
That pretty much sums up this week. Clara "Night Terror" Jane has woken up, screaming her head off, for the past three nights in a row. Poor kid. Poor parents. Let's see if the shuffle provides something to soothe her troubled toddler mind...
1. Tonight the Heartache's on Me - Dixie Chicks
2. You're No Good - Linda Ronstadt
3. St. Expediate - Grant-Lee Phillips
4. The Good Night Waltz - Dan Zanes
5. Cure for Pain - Morphine
6. Happy Birthday - Pizzicato Five
7. Margaret - Jill Sobule
8. Parade - Garbage
9. Faded Love - Patsy Cline
10. Unchained - Johnny Cash
#4 soothes the child. #5 soothes the mama. Had #9 been "Sweet Dreams", I'd be forced to think that the ghost of Patsy Cline might be looking over us, protecting us, and guiding us through the night.
Posted by Robin at 10:53 AM | Comments (1)
August 17, 2005
Second Floor - Ladies Lingerie, Housewares, Snot-Nosed Brats
Do you remember the days of the department store elevator operator? You'd step into the elevator and a kindly uniformed man would wish you good day, push the button for your floor, and inform you of the goods on each floor as the elevator stopped. Remember?
Yeah, me either. Before my time. But today, I thought maybe I was getting a taste of yesteryear's gentility.
Clara "Discriminating Shopper" and I paid a visit to the mall today, in search of new shoes, since her feet are growing three inches a day. We entered the mall through the basement level of Dillards and went straight to the elevator. I only use this particular Dillards for its covered parking and elevator after a bad customer service incident. Anyway ...
When the elevator doors opened, we were faced with two young ruffins, around 9 or 10 years of age. Old enough to be unattended in public, but young enough to wreck absolute havock when someone is stupid enough to leave them unattended in public.
"Which floor, Ma'am?" the freckle-faced redhead half of the ruffian dou asked. "Top or medium?"
"Um, either. Medium. I mean, middle." I giggled nervously. "We just want to be out of the basement."
"Very well," the swarthy, gangly partner added, pressing the button for the medium middle floor. "Doing some shopping today?"
"Yes. Shoes. We're buying shoes." The elevator arrived at the floor. "Thanks," I said, pushing her stroller through the door.
As we walked away, the elevator door began to wheeze closed and I heard Young Master Elevator Elevator Operator call after us in a snarl, "Thanks for the tip!"
Posted by Robin at 05:37 PM | Comments (7)
Porn & Fireworks
Thanks so much for indulging my ego yesterday. It was much-needed. I have the nasty habit of occasionally thinking, "Goddammit, I write my ass off for two measly comments. Ingrates!" And then I remember: "Hey. I'm not doing this for pats on the back and such. And if I start doing this for pats on the back, it'll suck for everyone." So, apologies for the whining. But I'm glad I did it because I love seeing who crawls out of the woodwork.
Kim: I had no idea you were reading! That makes me happy!
Dixie: You can always send me love. And absinthe pralines.
Andrea: Hey! You! Good to see you!
Lin: No cleaning lady. Just me and my dishpan hands.
Mina: Yeah, you're a lurker. If I haven't heard from you in, oh, a month or two, you return to your lurker status. Didn't you read the rules? Oh, wait ... there are no rules. Never mind!
Haus: I took a peek at your blog last night. You grew up in the opposite direction from KC than me. Did that make sense?
Ragged: Wow. I'm the inspiration.
Miss Banshee: I'm working on getting the archives back up. They'll be gradually appearing. And if they don't, feel free to give me a nudge.
Big Daddy B: You missed your chance to see my tits nine years ago, and I can guarantee I will not be drinking enough tequila to return to that condition anytime in this lifetime.
And everyone else: I love you and want to have your babies. And if you get me drunk enough, I promise I'll show you my boobs.
Now back to regular bidness...
We made it home from KC relatively unscathed. I'm a bit sad that Kara and I drove all the way across the Big MO just to go to Barnes & Noble and Target. But, it was the massive four-story Barnes & Noble on the lovely Country Club Plaza, which had the new issues of Brain, Child and Paste that I haven't been able to find in St. Louis. And the Target was actually a
Clara "Thank God I'm a Country Girl" Jane enjoyed her trip to Mimi and Papa's. We met them at the closest interstate exit to my hometown, an exit where the only businesses are a year-round fireworks stand and a porn superstore. And you know that, as soon as the child was out of the car, Kara had to go buy some M-80s and a few issues of Spank Weekly. No, not really. But she did want some fireworks. But who doesn't?
On our way back to St. Louis, we stopped in my hometown to get Clara Jane, since my truck was already full of porn and fireworks. Kara has now experienced The Wrath of the Wild Dingo, who attached himself to her before she was out of the truck. She also got to meet a load of my relatives. My aunt and uncle are in the finishing stages of building a new house down the road from my parents, so we paid them a little visit.
Before I go any further, let me tell you a bit about one of my aunts. She's not good with haircolor. Not good at all. She tends to grab whatever dye catches her fancy. You know how the instructions tell you to discard any unused portion of the hair dye? She doesn't. When she has enough dye, she mixes them all together and uses that. Why yes, she is that cheap. Her hair color rarely veers into the Manic Panic hues (unfortunately - that would be so rockin'). Instead, it's always a different shade of not-found-in-nature brown. Sometimes with green overtones. Sometimes purplish. Occasionally ashen. The only constant: it's bad.
When Kara and I pulled into the driveway of the new house (built by the hair-aunt's sister) and in the distance I saw a woman with slightly brassy white hair. Who is this? One of the new neighbors? A stray little old woman who's wandered away from her home? Wait ... no.
That can't be. That's not my aunt.
Um, wait. Yeah. It is my aunt.
What the hell?
Did she get frightened or struck by lightening?
Oh crap! She sees us. Must ... close ... unhinged ... jaw ... and ... pretend ... nothing's ... wrong.
Goddammit, why didn't Mom warn me about this? Thank God and Super Target that we saw her from a distance, giving me time to adjust and accept the albino possum that has died on my aunt's head.
I don't think I was successful in conversing with my aunt without staring at the white-blonde atrocity perched on her head. Luckily, she's pretty oblivious. This is the same aunt who thinks my husband Brian's name is Byron, and seven years of being corrected hasn't changed that. So I doubt she noticed that I was staring at her head and weeping.
When we were leaving, I immediately called my mom. "Why in the hell didn't you tell me about her hair? Why? I needed some warning for that!"
"Well, it's better than all those shades of brown she usually has," Mom said.
No. The brown was ugly, but it never struck anyone blind. My eyes hurt. I don't think I want to see ever again after seeing that.
And now you understand why I have been feeling so touchy lately.
Posted by Robin at 10:13 AM | Comments (11)
August 16, 2005
I give and give and give ...
...but do I get anything in return? Of course not.
I'm feeling a bit discouraged and blah, so I thought it might be a good time to have a Delurking Day. Unless you're one of the dumbasses doing searches for naked pictures, or you're my mom. If that's the case, I'd rather just pretend you're not here. Otherwise, here's your chance to say hello.
C'mon. I worked hard to clean this joint up for you. The very least you can do is acknowledge my existance.
Posted by Robin at 02:24 PM | Comments (48)
August 13, 2005
On the Corner of 18th and Vine
I grew up about an hour and a half from Kansas City, and made frequent trips to the city. It dictated my idea of what a city should be. Everything from shopping at Independence Center, to riding roller coasters at Worlds of Fun, to admiring the Christmas lights and eating cheese popcorn from Topsy's while admiring the Christmas lights on the Country Club Plaza, delicate snowflakes sparkling on my chubby cheese-smeared cheeks.
When I was in high school (and a nerd) I spent many weekends at high schools in the Kansas City area, kicking ass and taking names at speech and debate tournaments, my fellow geeks happy and basking in victory's sweet, sweet glow.
When I was in college (and not a nerd), Kansas City was a spur-of-the-moment road trip destination, with new adventures just waiting behind every corner. I abandoned the suburban shopping areas and attractions of my youth in favor of smokey bars and barbeque joints, romance and shenanigans mine for the taking. When my friend Big Daddy B moved to Kansas City after college, I discovered an underground world of hidden delights - a world of exotic food and beverage, gender-benders and sexual escapades.
A few weeks ago, after seeing Ben Folds open for Weezer, Kara and I decided we needed to make a little road trip to see Ben and our beloved Rufus Wainwright and KC's newest concert venue, City Market.
This morning we strapped Clara "Crazy Little Woman" Jane into her carseat and hit the road. We dumped the kiddo with my parents and high-tailed it to The City, free of all obligations. Fun and mystery, my friends. Fun and mystery!
The rain began as soon as we crossed into the suburbs on the eastern edge of Jackson County. This was no ordinary rain, either. This was the kind of rain that leads extremist voice-hearing types to buy all the lumber at their neighborhood Home Depot and start ark construction.
By the time we reached the city, the rain had not abated, and my head was about to explode from straining to see the cars ahead of me, when I could barely see past the nose of my truck. I bailed onto the surface streets, relying solely on my memories and keen sense of direction (Really, I do have a keen sense of direction. Peachy-keen, even.). We eventually found our way to the hotel (overlooking gorgeous spires of Bartle Hall, then to dinner (burnt ends at Arthur Bryant's). We briefly considered skipping the concert - did I mention that the venue was outside? But upon watching a little local news and the skies, we threw caution to the wind and give it a go.
We arrived at 6:30, just when the doors were supposed to open. And we waited. First, we waited in the street. Yes, the middle of the street. Which wasn't closed to traffic. We all lined up in the eastbound lane of 5th Street, watching the cars squeeze past, while the nearby sidewalk remained empty. Why did we stand in the street? I'm not sure. Apparently, the person in line who was responsible for the difficult decision of where to place the line - an awning-covered sidewalk or a busy city street - has some rather poor decision-making skills. So in the street, we stood.
And stood.
And stood.
The rain continued. Not a deluge like earlier. Just a light, trickling rain. You know. The kind they use on war prisoners to make them talk.
Finally, after 45 minutes, a City Market employee - the first one we'd seen all night - appeared to announce that the doors would be opening in five minutes.
Half an hour later ...
We were still standing in line, growing slowly soggier, but at least the line had moved to the sidewalk. The crowd was getting restless and agitated. I started having fears of a concert riot, but then I remembered who we were seeing. Ben and Rufus fans in a riot? It would probably be a bunch of hair-pulling and bitch-slapping, which doesn't do anyone any good. I suggested getting a big singalong of "Song for the Dumped" (Give me my money back/Give me my money back/You bitch), but realized that was just about as dorky and ineffective as a slap-fight.
An hour after the employee told us the doors were opening, we still hadn't moved nor had we seen any other employees. Kara and I decided we'd had enough. We were exhausted, damp and not wild about investing the rest of our night in a concert that may or may not happen. So we bailed. And on our way out, we saw the rest of the line. Blocks and blocks and blocks of would-be concert-goers, snaking around the buildings. Like they were refugees lined up for bowls of rice. We passed on girl, completely delerious (from booze or the wait, I'm not sure). Poor kid. Whatever she had done to cause her condition, I was pretty sure she'd be hurting badly by the time she got to the show. If she got to the show.
At this point I remembered how all those Kansas City trips of my past turned out. Frozen to the bone from schlepping around the Plaza in the snow. Missing prom to go lose at a debate tournament. Changing my clothes in the QuikTrip bathroom after sneaking out of Temporary Boyfriend du Jour's apartment in the middle of the night before he had a chance to wake up. Having a 6'3" drag queen rub my boobs and ask me if they ever itch ("No," I replied. "But mine aren't glued to thick, furry chest hair. But thanks for asking!"). Those trips never turned out quite how I expected, nor did I ever remember them as they happened. But they're good memories nonetheless, in all their sketchy splendor.
While we drove from City Market, past Westport, through Crown Center and down to the Plaza, I kept interrupting the conversation with yet another KC anecdote from my past.
How did tonight end? With a decaf latte and some bookshopping at the Plaza's huge Barnes & Noble, followed by a hot shower and room service chicken tenders and spinach-artichoke dip. Tomorrow, we'll explore a little more before heading to my hometown to fetch my kid. Good conversation, good food, and a good little escape from the everyday.
Or, I might wind up watching someone get flogged at the Dixie Belle and then leave my underwear in the QuikTrip bathroom. Either way...
Posted by Robin at 11:32 PM | Comments (3)
August 12, 2005
Friday Shuffle - The Quiet and Sucky Edition
Yeah, I've been quiet. And no, I haven't been busy with the task of extracting more food products from my child's orifices. There's just not much good to say right now. And if one can't say anything nice, then one should just shut up and shuffle...
1. Fuck & Run - Liz Phair
2. Loquasto International Film Festival (Score) - Mark Mothersbaugh
3. Numb - U2
4. All for Swinging You Around - New Pornographers
5. Century - Paul Westerberg
6. Dark Lands - The Jesus & Mary Chain
7. Lonley Girls - Lucinda Williams
8. Only Flower in My Bed - Soledad Brothers
9. Making Out - No Doubt
10. Downbound Train - Bruce Springsteen
Wow. That one's pretty dark. Except for that irritating No Doubt song. Let's all imagine the other artists ganging up on the naked guy from No Doubt and beating the fuck out of him. There. Now wasn't that cathartic?
Posted by Robin at 09:51 AM | Comments (2)
August 09, 2005
Pea-Picking
When I was being an evil child, my mom used to tell me that she hoped that I would someday have ___ number of children who acted just like me. The number fluctuated depending on the magnitude of my sin. For not cleaning my room, it was 2, maybe 3. Mouthing off, somewhere around a 6. Getting my 1980 Ford Mustang stuck in the mud at cemetary after dark with my two gay boyfriends and being brought home by the cops, 17 kids.
So far Mom's threats have backfired because A) I'm almost 33 years old and have only one kid, and B) that kid is perfect.
Until today.
This afternoon I made Clara "Good and Light" Jane a lunch of all-natural peanut butter on preservative-free whole-grain bread with an organic banana, hormone- and antibiotic-free milk and organic freeze-dried peas. See? That's why she acts so much better than I ever did. It's because she eats a varied diet of good, healthy natural foods, while I subsisted on a diet of Velveeta and Kool-Aid with Sweetn'low.
Anyway, she devoured her sandwich and banana, then turned her attention to the peas. They're crunchy little nuggets, easily pulverized to dust by a single press of a toddler's finger, but most days, like today, she's perfectly happy to eat them.
Or so I thought.
I turned my back for a minute. Maybe two minutes, tops. When I looked back, Clara Jane had finished her peas and was smiling a huge, happy grin at me.
But her nose ... why are her nostrils green? And round?
Like two perfectly-fitted decorative orbs, a dried pea perched just inside each of my child's nostrils. I swear, the kid knew when I made this realization, because she started laughing like a loon.
Great Mom, I thought. This is where it begins. This is payback for that time when I was about 18 months old and filled my nose with peas and fried potatoes. What's next? The living room furniture covered with powder?
With the slightly-long fingernail of my pinky, I easily popped the pea out of her right nostril and her laughing stopped. By the time I popped the pea out of the left one, Clara Jane had moved into a full-on panicked wail completely with flailing arms fighting to keep me away.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Are you that upset about losing your peas? Geez. We're having Mexican food tonight. You'll be able to shove pinto beans up your nose soon enough. Chill."
It was then that she threw her head back in rage and I saw it. My child, she has turned her nose into a pea-loaded Pez dispenser. In the depths of each nostril, way up by the bridge of her little pug nose, I could see two more peas.
I went left, taking the back of her head in one hand while I tried to get my pinky up her left nostril, doing battle with the waving, shoving toddler arms all the while. Seems it was at this point that Clara Jane decided that she's not fond of having things shoved up her nose. Regardless, I managed to extract Pea #3.
I took her out of her high chair and tried to hold her face-down in hopes that gravity, along with the snot that accompanies panicked crying jags, would help things move along. She fought to sit upright. When I did manage to get my finger up her nose - I HAD MY FINGER UP ANOTHER HUMAN BEING'S NOSE, PEOPLE!!! - I made a terrible discovery: because of the volume of wet crying snot behind the remaining pea, it was rehydrating and expanding.
I grabbed the phone and called my mom to see what she did in this situation. Of course, I got no answer. I'm pretty sure her Mother ESP had informed her of my peril and she was sitting at home, listening to the phone ring and laughing.
Not knowing what else to do, I carried Clara Jane, who by now was about three miles past hysterical and had entered the realm of the shrieking trembles, across the kitchen. I'm not sure where I was going. To the bathroom to get the tweezers? To the closet to get the vaccum cleaner? I don't know. But it doesn't matter because she gave a giant honking snort, shooting the snot-drenched pea out her nose to the floor, where I promptly stepped on it with my bare foot.
After the whole ordeal was over, I did manage to get in touch with my mom. When I did the pea-shoving trick, she was getting me dressed to take me to the hospital when I sneezed a snoutful peas and fried potatoes all over her.
Today, I have passed my snotty pea-sneezed torch to the next generation. And for that, I fear for my future.
Posted by Robin at 05:32 PM | Comments (20)
August 08, 2005
The One Where I Bore the Internet to Death
Before I get started, who's the person in Green Ridge, using Charter, who keeps making lots and lots of daily visits to this-here blog? You're welcome to visit anytime you want, as often as you want but I gotta say, you're creeping me out a little.
There. Moving on...
I'm a little brain-dead today. We had a full weekend, with my parents paying us a brief visit. Saturday, we hung out in their hotel. Clara "Overnighter" Jane was supposed to crash with them, but decided she was having none of that. Her current lack of a consistant sleep schedule is just about to push me over the edge. "Hey! Lookit! From now on I'm going to take one giant three-hour nap every afternoon! Isn't that great? You like that, Ma? You do? It makes you happy? Well, then, I think I'll switch back - two arbitrary naps a day for me! Bwahahaha!"
You know, if prisoners want to really get to their guards, all they would have to do is suddenly and often change their sleep patterns. That alone would be enough to create a level of paranoia within the guards that they would be so busy freaking out about heavy blog traffic from a town with a population of 445 that the prisoners could easily escape unnoticed.
Anyway, the weekend. Right.
On Sunday, after The Great Nap Rescheduler decided to zonk out from 10 AM - noon, we eventually made our way to Purina Farms. That is, after replacing our truck's battery. Seems I was distracted enough from the erratic nap patterns that, when we came home Saturday night, I didn't realize that I'd left something on in my truck, thus killing my elderly battery. Is there a better time to have the battery die than when my car-fixing father happens to be in the same driveway? I think not.
The farm? Great fun. Clara Jane mooed and neighed and quacked and baahed with all her favorite livestock, and she was over the moon about the herds of dogs and cats.
The weekend wore me out, though. As I sit here, after eight hours of sleep, several caffeinated beverages and and hour and a half of lounging time while the kiddo napped, I still feel like my muscles have atrophied, along with my brain. Sleep? I'll take four more hours, please.
A respite is on the way, though. I've bit the bullet. As of Aug. 25th, Clara Jane will be toddling off to day care once a week. The time while she's at day care will not be used to run errands, clean house, or fart around. After I drop her off, I'll walk myself the two blocks to the nearest coffeehouse, where I will spend the day writing. Which seems like a silly goal at the moment, since I'm so brain-muddled that I can't string together a pithy and interesting blog entry.
Am I freaked out about putting her in day care? A little. Do I feel guilty about it? You bet. Am I questioning whether I'm doing the right thing? Not at all. She will love the time with other kids. And I need to do this for myself. Because if I don't, I'm going to complete my metamorphis into a paranoid slug.
Posted by Robin at 01:06 PM | Comments (8)
August 05, 2005
Mama Snark
I had a moment today that illustrated to me just how mean I'm becoming, and how easily it would be to turn into one of those snarky women who lords motherhood over others.
Some background: There's a local chef I absolutely, positively cannot stand. Why? Because she's a snarky-ass competitve bitch, that's why. She's a bitter, bitter woman. We used to teach culinary classes at the same arts center, and I once offered to help her with a project after she spent a few days sweet-talking me. As soon as I agreed, she turned into Control Freakasaurus. She went from kissing my ass to yelling at me in less than 24 hours, so I politely told her I wouldn't be able to help and bailed. That was over three years ago, and she still holds a grudge. Luckily, I rarely see this woman. But when I do I'm either greeted with a backhanded compliment or I'm ignored. I usually prefer the latter.
The last time I spoke with her was when I was pregnant. I was five months pregnant and teaching my last class. She decided to sit in on my class, unannounced and unenrolled. Oh, and she also decided to show up 90 minutes early. She sat in the kitchen while I did my prep work, asking thinly-veiled contemptuous questions:
"Why are you sitting to do your prep?" she asked, as if she was my boss and it was any of her business.
"Doctor's orders," I replied, not even turning to face her as I worked. "I'm supposed to limit my time on my feet, so I'm saving it for the three-hour class." I sunk my 10-inch knife through a big, stinky onion, dreaming that it was her head.
"Well, you're not that far along. You're only five months," she snorted.
I thanked her for her educated medical opinion and threw a pot of boiling water on her crotch. Unfortunately, she recovered enough to spend the rest of the classtime correcting me with incorrect information, gossiping and giggling with the center's director, passing out business cards for her catering company and loudly referring to her assistant as "that little Chinese Jew-girl".
Anyway, that has nothing to do with what happened today; it's just an illustration of the type of person we're dealing with.
I saw her at Target today, but I don't think she saw me. If she did, she didn't acknowledge me, which is fine. She's been known to do that before, like last year when I saw her at a local farmer's market. I was visiting a vendor friend of mine, who was later bombarded with questions by the chef regarding me and my presence. In my head, though, I imagined what I would say if she plastered that fake smile on her face and said hello today.
I imagined saying, "Oh, I'm not teaching anymore, and rarely catering. I left the magazine. It all just seems so frivilous, making overpriced, fancy food when compared to nurturing this seed I have so lovingly sown."
I would flutter my eyelashes as a flock of tiny doves lifted my rosy-cheeked cherub from the shopping cart. My full, motherly breasts would commence lactating from the sheer parental glee of it all.
"I'm sure you understand, don't you? No, wait - I'm so sorry. You're not a mother, are you? Well, it's never too late. I mean, you're only in your early fifties; you can adopt. What? You're only 43? Oh, my mistake. Toodles!"
Clara Jane and I would be whisked away on a plush Oriental rug, carried aloft by a band of friendly forest animals, the air beneth our asses as we drifted through the check-out and into a world filled with familial bliss.
My second option was to just look her in the eye and say, "Holy crap, Chef You are a total motherfucking bitch." And you know what? I was 100% prepared to say that, and a bit disappointed that the opportunity didn't arise. Granted, no wildlife would have been involved, but I think that would have been a fair trade for seeing the look on her face.
Posted by Robin at 03:19 PM | Comments (5)
August 04, 2005
Friday Shuffle - The Not Friday For Another Eight Minutes Edition
If I got up right now and did my pre-bed rituals, it would actually be Friday by the time I return to my computer. But I know that if I get up, there's no way I'm coming back, and for some reason I don't want to wait ... for our lives to be over ... I want to know right now ...
When Paula Cole lyrics start slipping out, it's definitely past my bedtime. Or I've had far too much bourbon. Regardless, here's the shuffle.
(You know the rules. Put Ye Olde MP3 Player on shuffle and admit to the first ten musical atrocities that appear.)
1. A Place to Fall Apart - Merle Haggard
2. Mint Car - The Cure (Merle is gonna crack a beer bottle over Robert Smith's fluffy little head.)
3. Midnight Show - The Killers
4. Hole in My Pocket - Sheryl Crow
5. Tamara - The Eyeliners
6. Don't Be Cruel - Brian Ferry
7. Intergalactic - Beastie Boys
8. Centre for Holy Wars - The New Pornographers
9. No Mermaid - Sinead Lohan
10. It's a Dirty Job But Somebody's Got to Do It - The Real Tuesday Weld
Will this week's shuffle make a kerfluffle with a national publication like last week's? We can only hope because my God, I thrive on the attention. I really do.
Posted by Robin at 11:51 PM | Comments (0)
Overheard at the mall
Clara "Mallrat" Jane and I were sitting on a couch at the mall, enjoying some beverages (milk for her, a Venti percent almond latte for me) when a guy sitting near us hollered, "Hey! You hung up on me! I'm trying to talk to you!" into a nearby store.
To which I responded, "Dude, if you're close enough to yell at the person, why the hell are you calling them in the first place? Save your cell phone minutes, because it's only a matter of time before you need to call the EMTs because you've got your head stuck in something because, you know, you're really not very bright."
Ok, that last part didn't happen. At least, not out loud. But wouldn't it have been funny if it had? He probably would have chased me, and he would have caught me since I only run when I'm being chased, and I never get chased. He probably would have fallen over my slow, slow ass and gotten his head stuck in one of the mall's potted plants. And then who'd be crying about those wasted cell phone minutes, huh?
Posted by Robin at 06:29 PM | Comments (2)
August 03, 2005
Weirdo.
Let's reassess the things that were sucking on Tuesday, shall we?
1. Cell phone camera? Still dead.
2. Television? Also dead. Replaced with smaller TV that used to live in B.'s office. Colors much brighter.
3. I put my knitting future in the hands of fate. I decided to visit a little yarn shop and if they happened to have Mango Moon yarn, it would be A Sign that I was meant to make this bag while sitting at a coffeehouse with other people who knit. Lo and behold, they not only had the yarn, but I practically tripped over it when I walked into the shop. Purchased yarn, but didn't make it to knitting. Stayed home and fought with spouse instead. Contemplated knitting a lovely sari-silk noose.
4. Child-free days? Still not happening next week. Parents, who were going to take child, will visit this weekend instead.
5. Haven't moved. Still here. On the upside, haven't launched grenades at neighbors despite the fact that one of them used a jigsaw to cut a sunroof in his car yesterday afternoon.
6. Groceries! There are groceries! I put on my clothes and bought some damn food. Family no longer required to subsist on nacho crumbs from last weekend.
7. Throat feels better. Screaming no longer working. Have resorted to expressing frustration via interpretive dance.
To stop my incessant whining, people keep asking me questions.
Marybeth asked me to name ten songs that I'm currently digging. Here they are, in no paricular order:
Burn For You by INXS, thanks to Rock Star: INXS. I don't recall any of the losers contestants doing this song yet, but it was always one of my favorite INXS songs, at a time when they were my favorite group. So, I've been listening to this/muttering it under my breath of late.
Four Kicks by Kings of Leon, for no reason other than 1) it rocks, and 2) I've been in a rather angry state of mind lately, and nothing goes with an angry state of mind quite like a song about brawling.
Annie Waits by Ben Folds. I'm on a huge Ben kick, as Kara and I will be roadtripping to KC in a week and a half to see Mr. Folds and Mr. Wainwright. Poppy waits, Poppy waits, Poppy waits, for the concert...
I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone by Sleater-Kinney. Again with the anger and the concert plans.
Grits Ain't Groceries by Little Milton, upon hearing about his unfortunate stroke.
Honestly, I can't come up with ten right now. I've been too preoccupied and distracted. So, it's on to Dixie, who wants to know about my idiosyncrasies. Actually, she just wants to know about five of them, because Lord knows if I listed them all, we'd be here for days.
1. I have a thing about the hairless part of the nose on any animal and always have. I love it! When I encounter a cat or dog, as soon as I'm confident the animal isn't going to rip my face off, my fingers make a beeline for that smooth little cold, wet nose. I like 'em dry, too.
2. When I was little, I got the usual story that, if I made an ugly face it would freeze. Unlike most people, I believed this until I was far too old and educated to believe such crap. But to this day, when I go to sleep, I make sure my face isn't smooshed so it won't freeze that way while I sleep. Go ahead and laugh. I'm 32 and I don't have a single wrinkle.
3. I actually thought about writing about this last week, but decided to keep the crazy contained, but here it is: I'm not afraid of bridges or heights, but looking at photos of really big structures freaks my shit out ... and I love it! One night last week, right before bed I found myself totally sucked into looking at bridge photos and was completely freaked out by the Millau Viaduct in France. And yet I couldn't stop looking!!!! Even though I knew I would have nightmares about that behemouth, I just kept looking for more and more photos of big, creepy bridges. I literally get dizzy looking at those photos but my God, I love it. For the most part, though, being in the presence of bridges and big structures doesn't bother me much. For example, I've been across the massive Mackinac Bridge numerous times and it doesn't bother me at all. But to look at photos of it ... whoa. It just about makes me lose a little bit of my bladder control.
4. When I eat candies with different colors, like Skittles, M&Ms or SweeTarts, I have to divide them up by color. I'll whittle away at each color pile until there is the same number of candies per color. Once they all have the same number, I eat my least favorite first, saving the best for last. Orange is always, always last.
5. This one's from B.: There's a drive-thru coffee joint I frequent. They always put a sticker over the sippy part of the drink lid, and I always put the sticker on my dashboard. It's my trophy shelf.
Posted by Robin at 11:55 PM | Comments (18)
Baby Photo Insanity
Clara "Second Cuz" Jane is totally in l-u-v with The Cuz, who took a billion photos of her during her weekend visit.
If you're not moved by the tremendous chip-and-salsa-dunking photos, you have a heart of pure, black coal.
Posted by Robin at 12:19 AM | Comments (3)
August 02, 2005
Things that Suck
1. The camera on my cell phone was rendered useless by a $1 leaky sippy cup.
2. Our TV passed away this morning.
3. So many goddamn unfinished knitting projects, and not one is portable enough to take to my knitting group tonight. Unless I magically find a wheelbarrow that can transport this shit, I guess I won't be going.
4. The three child-free days I'd counted on having next week? Not happening.
5. I still live in this neighborhood.
6. There are no groceries in the house, and I'm still in my pajamas.
7. Throat hurts from screaming with frustration into pillows all day, since B. is away from his desk all day and unavailable to listen to my screaming.
Posted by Robin at 01:54 PM | Comments (5)
August 01, 2005
Neighborhood Woes, Pt. II: It's All Wendy's Fault
The recent spate of neighbor problems shouldn't surprise me, and Saturday morning I realize what, exactly was causing the problem: my cousin Wendy was coming for a weekend visit. You see, everytime Wendy visits, something happens. I don't know if there's something about her aura that sets my neighborhood into a state of unbalance, or if my neighbors just want to impress her. Either way, when Wendy's here, weird shit follows.
In July, 2000, Wendy's car was robbed during a visit. The thieves got away with 100 fine CDs that included New Kids on the Block, Ricky Martin, and a choice MC Hammer/Vanilla Ice combo greatest hits collection, purchased in a gas station in rural Kansas. But don't worry - the insurance settlement allowed Wendy to obtain another copy of this rare gem.
Last September, Wendy was in for a treat - standing on my front porch, watching the victim of a beer bottle smash to the head being carted away in an ambulence while police aprehended my shirtless (of course) neighbor who, apparently, was wielding the bottle.
This time, the festivites started a few hours before Wendy's Saturday morning arrival.
Friday night, the thumping bass was back, this time audible in the back of our house at 12:30 PM. After several calls to the cops, who did nothing, B. got out of bed, put on some pants, and went to crack some skulls politely ask the neighbors to cut it out.
Much to his surprise, the noise wasn't coming from The Suicide House. This time, it was coming from The Dunebuggy House.
The Dunebuggy House sits at the end of our street. The owners, who are grandparents, have a large garage where dunebuggies are built 24 hours a day/7 days a week, so important is the dune buggy to modern life in a midwestern duneless city. I'm not sure how the owner manages his hectic, all-night dunebuggy-building schedule. I think it's by consuming a steady diet of Aldi's store-brand cola and methamphetamine.
When the owner saw B. approaching the garage, where the music - described by B. as simply, "metal" - he knew what the problem was. And he informed B. that we would have to take it up with the local cops because, as he put it, as long as he can here the football games from the high school one mile up the road, he's legally allowed to play his music as loud as he wants, as late as he wants.
I know. I don't follow that logic, either. All I know is, that's the most assholish logic I have ever heard in my life.
I got five blissfully restorative hours of sleep, because we all know the sleep of the enraged is the most restful of all sleep. Wait, no, it isn't. It's about the same as getting no damn sleep at all. Especially when I awoke at 8 AM the following morning with yet more music blasting outside my house.
I guess my next-door neighbor is feeling a bit left out. The neighbors across the street have the sweet ride with a speakerbox that can shake houses halfway down the block, and his neighbors to the west are legally allowed to blast their Molly Hatchet into the wee hours from their rockin' stereo system. But it's just sad to see him, in his driveway with the doors flung open on his tiny blue Cavalier, local radio ads blasting but not quite loud enough to cover the ding-ding-ding of the open car doors.
But just because it's a little sad doesn't mean I don't want to park my truck in the area of the street that connects these three houses and blast a little (or a lot of) Sex Pistols at, oh, five AM. I'm sure that's within my legal rights, right?
With all the neighbor misbehavior, I was a smidge worried about having company on Saturday night. Then I remembered that the company was Kara, Angie and Holley, who enjoy spectacle just as much as Wendy, B. and me.
While we were consuming our nachos - and I must say, they were really good nachos, as the lone toilet in my house has overflowed twice today - Angie happened to look out the living room window. "You're neighbor, she's wearing these really tight ... jodhpurs ... or something. My God! These are the tightest pants I've ever seen!"
And with that we all crowded around the window and saw this staring back at us:
It's a damn good thing none of the neighbors had their music cranked up, because the seismic waves would have blown those stressed-out pants - are they even pants, or are they possibly Underalls with a shirt tucked into them? - right off her body, so pushed to the breaking point was this fabric.
My neighbor didn't notice the crowd of six faces mashed against the window, nor did she hear the howels of hysterical laughter coming from our open front door. If she did, it didn't deter her from continuing her yardwork. Here, she organizes her carport:
And here she really tests the strength and durability of her tight, tight pants:
It takes a courageous woman to wear pants so tight that they create not one, not two, but three - three cameltoes in public. But to wear those pants and BEND OVER??? Sweet Jesus, this is a new level of bravery, one that I will hopefully never, ever know personally. Because really, I don't want a bunch of nacho-eaters to know my genitals that personally.
The photos are of poor quality, I know. For one, Wendy was trying to be stealthy while she took them, lest my neighbor become enraged and bust out of those pants, Incredible Hulk-style. But also because, well, it's really hard to take a decent photo when you're laughing so hard you can't stand.
Since these pants left absolutely nothing to the imagination - not the shape and terrain of buttocks, external genitalia, or equally abuse wedgied underpants, we have dubbed this look the 360-Degree Cameltoe.
When we move - and oh, we will be moving - Wendy is not invited to our new house. Ever.
Posted by Robin at 12:14 AM | Comments (10)