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September 30, 2005
The Rebel's Child Rebels
This afternoon B., Clara "Drum Circler" Jane, Kara and I hit the very beginning of the annual Loop in Motion Arts Festival. Originally I was just going to meet Allison* for coffee and quilt fabric delivery (we're still making quilts for the hurricane evacuees). But I don't go anywhere without my own personal circus parade, thus the summoning of my entourage.
*Go visit Allison tomorrow. She's by the drum circle, in front of Mama's Coal Pot. Buy some of her cute potholders, baby hats, aprons, baby quilts and/or scarves, as she would like to quit her day job and sew full-time. I scored a purse, a set of potholders and a hat for Clara Jane with near-naked ladies on it.
For those of you not familiar with the St. Louis area, the Loop is a stretch of town near Washington University that all the media refers to as "hip" and "funky". Let me repeat: Allison is by the drum circle. As in, a big, raised concrete circle where people come to bang drums. Loudly. With maximum reverberation from the surrounding brick buildings. I think that explains a bunch, don't you?
We had our first sign of trouble upon arrival, when Clara Jane became intranced with a group of hacky sack dorks. I thought it was just sweet childhood innocence, a small child entranced by a ball. But then Kara pointed out that if I didn't turn my child away, I was in danger of having to rescue her from a Spin Doctors concert.
That's all I needed to hear. I moved her stroller so she couldn't see them anymore. But that was fine with her, because a singer/guitarist was setting up on the drum circle.
Oh, she is so my chid. She leaned her elbows on the circle, entranced with the musician, shouting "Hooray!" and clapping her little chubby hands after each song. At one point she lifted her shirt; a little too much like her old lady, if you ask me. But that wasn't the worst of it.
Several songs into the set, it happened. My child - who I labored for over 32 hours before undergoing an emergency C-section, followed by an infection that almost landed me in the infectious disease ward ... and did I mention the six months I spent with my tits in a breast pump because she refused to breastfeed? - my child pulled away from the drum circle, raised her arms into the air, swaying as her knees bobbed, completely enraptured in the music.
My child, she is Interpretive Dance Girl™.
I always wondered how I would deal if there was something "different" about my child. I always thought - knew - that I would love her, uniquenesses and all, no matter how socially inacceptable they might be. But this ... this ... a line has been crossed.
I'll try to accept her as she is, even if her future will be spent in a wispy little dress, swaying, arms akimbo, blocking the view of the concert-goers behind her. I'll find a way to cope, and I'll love her nonetheless.
But if she decides to go on tour with the String Cheese Incident, I'm totally going to disown her.
Posted by Robin at 10:01 PM | Comments (8)
Friday Shuffle - The Something to Cry About Edition
Dear Melissa Etheridge and George Canyon:
Please, cut it out, already. Just stop. This is ridiculous. A faint-hearted crybaby girl like me can only take so much, and I have taken enough, Mr. and Ms. I have taken enough from both of you.
First, Ms. Etheridge, you had to go and perform your new song I Run For Life on Oprah yesterday. I was making a big pot of chili when I watched, and let me tell you, I salted that chili with my tears, your gut-wrencher. Not only that, but because you were on the show with a guy who was born without arms and legs who wrestles and plays football, I'm now having major delusions of grandeur and planning to do the Twin Cities Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk next summer. When my feet fall off after walking 60 miles*, I'll be FedExing their bloody, tattered remains to you.
*I don't expect my feet to fall off after 60 miles. I expect them to go somewhere around mile 24.
And Mr. Canyon ... Mr. Canyon ... I hadn't even heard of you until ten minutes ago. You were performing on a local morning news show. I wouldn't have paid you any mind, except I overheard that you're performing at the National SHARE Memorial Walk, which raises awareness for miscarriage and infant loss, in St. Louis this weekend. As I watched my little blonde 19-month tornado destroying my living room, you performed My Name, and once again I found myself sobbing into a food and beverage vessel. Coffee doesn't need salt, you Canuck soul-crusher! And ... and ... as for you local news day-ruiners, I never would have been subjected to THE SADDEST SONG EVER WRITTEN, had you not allowed George to bring his heart-smooshing (albeit very pretty and touching) song to the viewing public.
Here's the goddamn shuffle. Please let there be some Pantera because if I cry anymore, I'm going to be nothing more than a giant wrinkled, red Craisin
1. Gimme a Sign - Ryan Adams
2. Distant Fingers - Patti Smith
3. Hello Dolly - Louis Armstrong
4. Mystery Hours - The New Pornographers
5. Little Sister - Queens of the Stone Age
6. Let's Go Away for Awhile - Beach Boys
7. Untouchable - Garbage
8. Nothing as it Seems - Pearl Jam
9. I'm in Love with My Car - Queen
10. Underneath it All - No Doubt
Posted by Robin at 08:53 AM | Comments (6)
September 29, 2005
Mind Games and Peer Pressure
When my idiot dogs Murphy and Chloe go outside at night, we typically have a problem. One of them will rapidly come in when called, while the other goes on Dog Patrol. "This is my yard. I must protect it. I cannot protect it from the house. You - go back inside and leave me to my duties. And doodie."
This causes a problem, as 1) we prefer for both dogs to be inside before we go to bed, and 2) we don't want to get arrested or shot.
After many (okay, two, but damn if it doesn't feel much, much longer) years of trying to get our four-legged fucktards to get their crapping schedules coordinated, B. has devised a solution. And surprise of surprises, it actually works.
"Did you know that dogs fall for mind games and peer pressure?" he asked one night about a week ago.
Now, "mind games" presumes that there's a mind to play with. Apparently, B. has not met our dogs, who still look for ice cream in the middle of the kitchen floor because once, about a year ago, I dropped a big scoop of chocolate-almond and by God, there was ice cream! Falling from the sky! And it landed right there! And it might happen again! Maybe! You never know! What's ice cream?
Chloe's still looking for noodles under the kick plate of the cabinet by the stove because she found one, once, shortly after we acquired her in June, 1999.
And yet, B.'s tactic works. It goes something like this:
1. Stand at backdoor and summon idiot dogs.
2. When first idiot dog arrives, loudly heap praise, even if idiot dog is covered with fecal matter and has recently devoured a fake Christmas tree she found in the neighbors' trash.
3. When praise is being administered, second idiot dog will come flying out of nowhere, burglers be damned, to get her share of the praise.
Next experiment: use dog peer pressure to encourage them to drink beer.
Posted by Robin at 11:15 PM | Comments (2)
A New Level of Dull
Kara and I have been emailing back and forth all evening, trying to force Google Mail into giving us interesting ads.
The trick, it seems, is to carry on a conversation regarding how much you hate the ads and hope they don't give you any.
Boring? Yes. But after the way the past six weeks or so have been, it's happy, welcome boring.
Posted by Robin at 10:17 PM | Comments (0)
September 28, 2005
If Ignorance is Bliss, We Must be in a Joyful Place
I'm people-weary. Really. Yesterday was a big exercise in watching people show their asses, and not in a good way.
I'm fat. I've always been bigger than the norm. Currently much bigger than the norm. Like most people who are fat, I got there via multiple paths: an unlucky roll of the genetic dice, not building healthy eating habits until well into adulthood, a lifelong bout with panic disorder that led me to medicate in the easiest way possible (food) and an interest/talent in the culinary world.
I'll bet those of you who aren't fat have your own vices and issues. They're just not as visible as mine.
And since we all have our issues, it amazes me that there's such a high degree of hatred towards fat and fat people. I'm lucky. I may wear a size 26/28, but I don't seem to get a lot of the bullshit that other fat people get. My loved ones don't nag about losing weight (although it took years to get to that point). Strangers often make eye contact with me and smile. When I make the occasional trip to my local Vietnamese buffett, the owner doesn't run, screaming, "Oh my God! She's gonna eat it all! Nooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!"
The flipside to this peaceful fat existance is that examples of hatred, or even disapproval, towards fat people come as a real shock when I see them. Everything from Melissa's frank discussion of her husband's disappointment that she's not the size four he married, to a rant that has since been deleted on a little-read local blog that included an all-caps declaration of, "Oh my God! I hate obese people!", and continued into hate-filled spewing regarding the morbidly obese.
As if anyone chooses to be over 300 pounds.
What got me about Melissa's piece was how there are so many people in our country for whom 40 pounds is the difference between feeling loved and desired by a spouse, or feeling like absolute shit about yourself. Forty pounds. Four bags of flour on a body that has carried and delivered babies and maintained a home for her family.
What got me about the other post - the author attempted to express outrage that at a statement by a morbidly obese woman who had talked about never having experienced the feeling of hunger when so many people in our country go without. I asked what the author has personally done to remedy the problem of hunger in our country. Has she spent any time at the St. Louis Food Bank or St. Patrick Center? How much money has her family given to America's Second Harvest? Has she ever spent time teaching a person in need to cook, so that person might be able to feed himself? These questions weren't answered before the post was removed.
I wasn't going to tell this story. When this happened on Monday night, I swore that I wasn't going to broadcast it to the world, because ... I don't even want to say why. It's not something I'm ashamed of. It's not something I'm proud of. I did something that just seemed like the right thing to do, that does not deserve praise or a pat on the back. So keep that shit to yourselves, ok? Because I think I need to write about this in light of recent readings.
Regular readers know I often joke about living in the Redneck Jungle. My neighborhood isn't monied. Not at all. It's working-class, which is how B. and I both grew up. It's not destitute, but there are plenty of people here who are doing their best to just get by.
I was at one of my neighborhood grocery stores Monday evening during the going-home-from-work rush. It was crowded, and everyone was impatient to finish their shopping and go home. I kept encountering a couple, about my age, and their little boy. The adults were just your normal, run-of-the-mill people, just like you see everywhere. Nothing exceptional about them. Their little boy, a tow-head blond about six years old, happy and excited. While his parents were deciding what kind of chicken to buy, he exuberantly told them about how he had the best chicken ever!!!! at school a few days before, followed by a detailed list of food he loves. Just another high-energy, extremely happy little boy, enduring the grocery chores.
They were at the check-out with their full cart when I got in line. I unloaded my purchases and went into a line-waiting daze - a luxury I don't often get to enjoy since I usually have Clara Jane with me when I shop. Some time passed, and I came out of my daze to realize things weren't moving along as they should. The couple with the little boy were pulling groceries out of their cart and having them removed from their bill.
They couldn't pay for their food.
Goddammit, was my first thought. Why the hell didn't they keep track of how much money they had and how much they were spending? They could have saved time and the humiliation of having a crowded grocery store know that they can't pay for food.
They could have saved me the discomfort of having to watch their humiliation play out in public.
Second thought, as I looked around and saw the angry, impatient expressions on the faces of the other shoppers in line - expressions that were probably no different than the one I wore: Oh, get over yourselves. You're at a cheap, bag-your-own grocery store in a working-class neighborhood. You've probably gotten to the register and realized you didn't have enough money for your purchases, so get off your fucking high horse and have some empathy.
I've gotten to the register without enough money. I've had times when a bagged iceburg lettuce salad seemed like I luxury I couldn't afford.
The father, sensing the anger and impatience of the held-up line, kept loudly offering apologies. His wife's faced was softly contorted into what at first glance looks like a smile, but is actually every face muscle straining to stop the tears.
Their little boy sat on the bagging counter, alone, probably not aware of exactly what was happening. But his exuberance was gone. He sat quietly, eyes cast to the floor, waiting more patiently for his parents than any of the adults in line behind them.
It's always the healthy food that goes first. The whole-grain cereals and the gallon of milk. The fresh vegetables. My ire rose again, seeing the nutritious food being returned while a box of brownies remained in the cart.
But goddammit, after going through this public humiliation, that kid deserves a fucking brownie. Which is one of the way kids turn into fat adults - they feel bad, and food makes them feel better.
Here's a thought: instead of medicating with food, we actually get off our asses and do something to make people feel better? Help them feel worthy? Because guess what? There but for the grace of God go I, which is rapidly becoming a phrase I'm living my life by.
Before you say, "They need to manage your money better and quit buying junk food," like I did, ask yourself: how many paychecks do you have to lose before you find yourself holding up the line at Aldi's because you can't pay your grocery bill? I'll bet for most of you, the number is low enough to humble you.
My number was.
When it was my turn to check out, I surveyed the discarded food that remained from the couple. A stock person had returned most of it, but some of the fresh vegetables remained - a bag of salad, a dry pint of grape tomatoes, and an 8-pack of frozen ears of corn. Quietly, I told the cashier, "I want those veggies. Add them to my order."
I didn't want to draw attention to myself, and I especially didn't want to draw attention to the family. They'd had more than their share of attention for one day. In a perfect world I would have bought the veggies and slipped them into their cart unnoticed while they bagged their groceries, walking out the door before they could know who did it. I didn't want them to feel obligated to thank me. I just wanted them to have their vegetables.
But this isn't a perfect world. It's flawed, just like every single one of us. Most of the time we're too busy being pissed off and ranting about those flaws to see that they often hold the beauty of the human experience.
The couple was almost finished bagging their groceries, and I was afraid I wouldn't have a chance to get the veggies to them before they left. As soon as the cashier placed them in my cart, I grabbed them, clumsily hopped around my cart to theirs, and dropped the veggies in, just as they turned around to see me. Their jaws dropped, and I moved back to my place at the card reader, eyes downcast, trying to finish my transaction under the stunned eyes of the cashier, the couple, and the other people in line. I said nothing.
Had my heart not been pounding in my ears and my mind doing cartwheels, I would have just taken my purchases to my car without bagging them. But I couldn't get my thoughts together. I paid, and looked for a spot at the bagging counter. The only one available was next to the couple. I moved to it, still not making eye contact. Still wanting to save all of us from the storm of emotions that might happen if our eyes locked and we acknowledged what just happened.
I didn't want them to see any trace of the anger and pity I felt while standing in that line, before I got some fucking sense and realized that they didn't need anger or pity. They needed compassion and empathy.
The woman came towards me without a word and stretched her arms wide. The wane, forced smile crumbled with a tremble of her lower lip as I walked into her embrace.
"Thank you," she said as both of our tears started to flow. "Thank you."
"We've all been there," I said. "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
And you know what? It is okay. It's okay to fail. We all do. And at some point, we all fail publically. But it's just one moment. One moment in a lifetime, as fleeting as the moments of brilliance and joy. One moment that can turn us around for a lifetime.
We broke the embrace and returned to bagging our groceries. I was gathering my composure when she returned, arms outstretched again. "This one's from my husband and my son. Thank you," she said as she hugged me again. And my composure was gone at the mention of her son. Completely gone as my heart broke, right there at the Aldi's bagging counter.
"I'm a mom, too. I know."
I was unable to feed my daughter at one point, under different circumstances. When she was born, we couldn't get the breastfeeding thing to work at all. She spent her first four days without food, losing over ten percent of her body weight before I was informed by a doctor that I had failed. I failed my daughter and she was starving. That feeling - that feeling that comes with knowing that I could not provide my child with her most basic need, was the most horrifying, humbling, feeling of failure I've ever experienced. It's a feeling that made me absolutely hate myself for a very long time. Even though I knew I had done everything I could.
In the parking lot, the family was parked on the opposite side. The father waved to me and yelled a thank-you. "I see your halo shining," he added.
"Oh, I don't have a halo. Trust me. I don't," I said as I closed the door to my truck. A halo would indicate 100% good. And I'm not. I felt the impatience and anger when I realized what was going on at the front of the line. I felt the pity.
I felt the hate. Because you know what? It's really, really easy to hate. It's super-simple to sit down and rant about how you hate obese people, or poor people, or stupid people. It's the easiest thing in the world.
Love is hard.
On Monday night, it would have been so easy for me to have stuck with those initial feelings. Had I stuck with them, I wouldn't have found myself hugging a stranger at the bagging counter at Aldi's. I wouldn't have sat in the parking lot, with my head on my steering wheel, sobbing harder than I have in months. I wouldn't have had images of that family in my head while I tried to fall asleep for the past two nights, wondering what else they need. I wouldn't be kicking myself because I probably could have done more.
I wouldn't be sitting here, sobbing as I write, had I acted with the hatred and indifference that is the easy way out.
Most decisions we make in a typical day do boil down to a simple choice: do I act out of love, or do I act out of indifference (at best) or abject, self-admitted hatred (at worst).
You know what? Buy me some fucking Kleenex because I'm going to act out of love. Even if it makes me feel like a scab picked raw and bloody.
Posted by Robin at 08:25 AM | Comments (37)
September 26, 2005
The Parental Parade
It's the first day I've had alone, in my house, in I don't recall how long. My parents and grandparents were in town this weekend, and they kidnapped Clara "Hillbilly" Jane when they returned home yesterday. The ransom note said they'll return her to an area Cracker Barrel location as long as I show up with a case of unmarked bills and a quart of corn likker on Wednesday. In the meantime, I'm enjoying sitting on my ass, sleeping, and not watching anything involving adults wearing costumes. The ability to turn up The Distillers without worrying about damaging someone's little eardrums is nice, too.
This weekend, we'll be entertaining more parents, the ones belonging to B. I haven't talked about them much because 1) I've only seen them once since I started my blog and 2)If you can't say anything nice ...
I can sum up my relationship with them with one concise sentence: I just don't get them! We're cut from completely different bolts of fabric. We have nothing in common except for B., and that only goes so far.
They're very quiet, plain, no-nonsense people. And I'm a loud-mouthed, obnoxious moron. They spend a lot of time giving me funny looks. I spend a lot of time banging my head on the floor and wimpering. It makes for some long visits on the rare occasions when we see them.
Because I'm feeling lazy, but also in preparation for this weekend's visit, I'm going to share with you some past encounters I've had with my inlaws. These tales illustrate not only how odd they are, but just how bad of a daughter-in-law I am. Enjoy.
When they visited us...
1. At least they didn’t show up two hours early, like they normally do. They were only 30 minutes early this time. Good thing, because if they’d been standing on my front porch at 8:30 this morning, they would have stood there until I was good and ready to let them in (which means they’d still be standing out there).
Brian and I haven’t seen his parents in eight months. They haven’t set foot in our home in over a year. I expected them to divvy out hugs when they walked in the door.
Thankfully, that didn’t happen.
No, they couldn’t hug us because they had something much more exciting in store. Something wild and wonderful and a little bit dangerous…
No, that’s not it.
What they actually had for us, was trash.
Two Bart Simpson toys they’d found in their yard, hermetically sealed in a Ziploc sandwich bag.
They were just so damn excited; they had to dig the Barts out of their bag before they were all the way in the house.
“When your friends with kids visit, they’ll have something to play with.”
Yep. Trash.
2. After lunch, we went to the Missouri Botanical Gardens. My favorite parts were when B. and I were able to wander away from his parents. It was difficult, though. Seems they were under the impression that the Botanical Gardens is actually a wild, untamed forest with unthinkable dangers lurking at every fork in the path. That must be why we had to have a discussion at each fork about which direction to go.
When we arrived at the gardens and faced the first fork, my mother-in-law, panicked, said, “Do we have a plan? What’s the plan?”
The plan is to leisurely wander along the paths and see some damn plants. Is that enough of a plan for you?
Apparently not.
3. If I ever hear my mother-in-law say the words “erogenous zone” ever again, I swear to God I will get my pinking shears and cut her tongue out myself.
4. I spent a year and a half in culinary school.
I am a culinary professional. People pay me to give them advice on food and beverages.
Some of them even pay me to feed them.
I’ve visited almost every winery in the state of Missouri over the past four years.
I’ve drunk enough wine in my adult life to kill a 3000-pound rhino (and I don’t even know if rhinos get that big – I’m probably just an exaggerating drunk.).
Did you know that my father-in-law knows more about wine than me?
He does.
He knows that no wine grapes grow in Missouri.
Absolutely none.
Tomorrow I’m going to send him to Augusta, Hermann, St. James, Rocheport, Hartsburg, Lone Jack and Lee’s Summit, so he can alert all those vineyard owners to this little-known fact and they can stop wasting their time farming imaginary grapes.
5. My mother-in-law has made a list of CDs she’d like for Christmas.
I stopped reading it after I got to the tenth Neil Diamond one.
Ten Neil Diamond CDs? What’s the point? Aren’t they all the same? How many copies of “Forever in Blue Jeans” does one woman need?
Don’t answer that, Kara.
B.'s middle name is Neil. I don't think this is a coincidence. I really don't.
7. Farting.
I am so sick of hearing farting.
My father-in-law doesn’t even try to hide it.
Nor does he laugh and draw attention to it.
He just sits there on a wooden chair and lets ‘er rip.
Doesn’t even let it stop his droning.
8. I learned something else from my father-in-law today.
I didn’t know that all the salvage yards were owned by “The Jews” until he told me.
How lucky I am to be privy to such enlightenment.
When we visited them ...
1. My MIL has made a new decorative addition to our room. A 4’ x 5’ block of cork has been attached to the wall above the bed. On the cork, pinned with red thumbtacks (to match the curtains and bedspread) are our wedding pictures. No frames, just thumb-tacked, expensive, professional wedding photos, including those of my grandparents and parents. No way am I ever going to have sex in that bed again. Not with Granny starring down from under that thumb-tack. Beside the photos are my first three issues of the magazine that employs me, dangling from single thumb tacks.
For some reason, this shrine creeped the hell out of me.
2. When you haven’t seen your parents in six months, where does the conversation go? I seriously want to know this. Because in the first hour we spent with my in-laws, they talked about gambling. I know that when I haven’t seen loved ones in half a year, the very first thing I want to do is tell the delicate intricacies of every single slot machine I’ve ever played.
I used to think that playing the slots was the most boring thing in the world. I was wrong. It’s much, much worse to spend an hour listening to someone tell you about playing the slots.
3. In the middle of Thanksgiving afternoon, B. and I slipped off to our room to have a little nap. Seriously, that was our intent, and we did doze for about thirty minutes.
Remember how I said there was no way I’d be able to ever have sex under that thumb-tacked picture of Granny? Well … by many definitions (including Bill Clinton’s), we didn’t have sex under Granny’s picture. We stayed clothed. Mostly. We did do a few things that would probably send Granny straight into the intensive care unit, though.
I guess this is a good time to tell you about one of my MIL’s bad habits. When she wants to enter a room, she knocks twice as she’s opening the door.
I think we might have broken her of that habit.
You’d think that the mother of two boys would have learned a long time ago to never, ever barge into one of her sons’ closed bedroom doors. I’m considering this a long-over due lesson that I needed to give her.
Did I learn a lesson about locking doors? Oh, hell yeah!
4. At breakfast the next day, I heard the most frightening thing I’ve ever heard in my life. While we were eating, one of my MIL's elderly friends came into the restaurant. She was seated at a table about 20 feet from us, so I waved at her. My MIL said, “Oh, she can’t see you. Her vision is so bad, and she has no depth perception or peripheral vision.”
Five minutes later, my FIL started talking about some recent car trouble this friend had been experiencing. Uh, excuse me? Car trouble? The woman can’t see a large redheaded woman frantically waving at her 20 feet across a well-lit restaurant in broad daylight. The only car trouble I can imagine would involve this woman getting behind the wheel.
5. We spent two evenings playing Mah-Jong in my in-laws, and I was reminded why, several years ago, I promised myself I’d never play games with my MIL again. She’s a sore loser. And a sore winner. And so rules-obsessed that you can’t crack a smile unless it says so in the rule book. Nonetheless, I like Mah-Jong, so it wasn’t too bad … until the second night.
The more we played, the more points I gained, and the further behind MIL fell, and the crankier she got. She would hover over the discarded tiles so she could snatch them before anyone else could see them. She would interrupt the game and spend chunks of time dissecting rules when they didn’t go her way. And then she got down-right mean.
During the game on the first night - my first time playing Mah-Jong, I misunderstood one of the rules, which caused some confusion. No big deal, really On the second night, as her crankiness was cresting, we found ourselves in a similar situation. As I made my move she said, under her breath, “Well, here comes more confusion,” and sighed really hard.
In my best Missourah twang I loudly said, “I may be jus’ a dumb ol’ hillbilly, but I think I got them rules down-pat now!” Made my play, won the round, and moved on.
By the end of the game, I was ahead of everyone by several hundred points. She was in last place. It’s funny how being a sore loser/winner is contagious, though. After the game I had an overwhelming urge to do the Bob n’ Weave in her face and yell, “Yeah, buddy! I kicked your ass at Mah-Jong and did filthy things with your son under your roof! Choke on it!”
But I didn’t. I don't say a lot of things during these visits. I just keep my mouth shut and let the bile build, only to spew it on my unsuspecting friends afterwards.
Consider yourself warned.
Posted by Robin at 07:13 PM | Comments (16)
September 24, 2005
I am called Super Fantastic! I drink Schampus with salmon fish!
In a soaring attempt to return to some sembalence of our normal existances, Kara and I went to last night's Franz Ferdinand show, as we'd been planning to do for several months.
While we hadn't planned to go with our occasional show cohort Holley, there she was, standing at the end of the line when we arrived, waiting for her friend H. And there they were again when I returned from the bar in search of Kara. I didn't see Kara, so I assumed she was in the restroom (which is usually a correct assumption; I have measuring spoons larger than that girl's bladder). I joined Holley and H. and eventually began to wonder if maybe I should check on Kara, as she was gone an exceptionally long time.
"Um, were you planning on telling me that you were sitting up here?" she asked when she finally got to the table. Which was in the area where we always sit at The Pageant.
"No Kara. I was going to run and hide when I saw you come out of the bathroom."
"I wasn't in the bathroom. I was sitting down there," she said, pointing to the level below us. I'm pretty sure she uttered the word "dumbass" at the end of that sentence, but I can't be sure.
Chalk my inattention up to my pursuit of this weekend's goals. You see, my parents and grandparents are in town, because my mom didn't bother to ask if I might have plans before making their plans. Regardless, they insist on staying at a hotel for two nights with my child, and then taking her home with them until Wednesday. Considering the difficulties of the past month, I think a little break is a fine idea. It will give me an opportunity to pursue two goals that are difficult with a 19-month in tow. Those goals are:
1. Pursuing my freelance writing opportunities Sleeping
-and-
2. Partaking in autumnal housekeeping Drinking bourbon.
I began working on #2 upon arriving at the Pageant, long before I left Kara sitting by herself. Blame the bourbon.
I partially blame the bourbon for the intense, stomach-mangling rage I felt towards the first opening band, Cut Copy. Be warned: their website is just as annoying as the band.
These words should never, ever be spoken from a concert stage:
"This song is about dreams. And dancing."
Yeah, well, that's the kind of dancing I see in my nightmares and it makes me wanna cut you, you motherfucker.
God, they sucked.
Shortly after Cut Copy was finished inflicting their dancing dreaming torture on us, we were approached by a guy who'd been sitting a few tables away. I'd noticed him earlier and thought he looked familiar, but couldn't pinpoint why (bourbon).
"Excuse me," he asked a little nervously. "Are you StL Bloggers?"
I didn't hear the initial question because I was running my mouth (bourbon). But I eventually shut up and looked at the guy. "Hey! It's Hot Out Herre!" Not that I could have called him by his first name, which he'd just used to introduce himself (Mike) or even his online moniker (DJ Early Bird) because I'm a dork (I'd like to blame the bourbon, but we all know I'd be just as inept had the bourbon not been present.).
In case you're looking for some actual music content in this recap, you might as well leave and go read Mike's preview of show that appeared in the St. Louis and KC alternative weeklies this week.
I was excited, though, because his blog was the first local blog I started reading shortly before I started my own last year. He and his wife Callie have a little girl who's a few months younger than Clara "Maker's Mark" Jane. We only talked for a few minutes, since he was saving a seat for Callie, who's six months pregnant (brave). Kara and I pondered how he knew who we were. I figured it was because I had been loudly telling H. a few of my tales that I have posted on my blog (bourbon).
After the second opening act, Kara and I paid a visit to Mike and Callie, which included us asking how he recognized us. Because of our Flickr photos. Duh. To my defense, I didn't realize Mike ever read my blog. And to his credit, he recognized me while I was wearing a rather modest t-shirt, considering that the only photo I've put of myself on Flickr was 2/3 cleavage and 1/3 forehead.
Speaking of cleavage, it takes exactly five gin and tonics for someone at our table to disclose that she once frolicked topless at a topless beach with her male companion and two friends, who she really hasn't been friends with since that day.
"That's because, by exposing The Girls™, you achieved a level of intimacy that usually requires years and years of friendship to build," I explained (bourbon). "There was nowhere left to go after that."
Can you imagine what that friendship-ending letter would look like?
Dear Jane,
You have been a wonderful friend. We've had some good times. However, you have seen my tits in a situation in which I was not bleeding and in need of a tourniquette. I'm afraid this is the end of the road for us.
Good luck with your future friendship endeavors. Please keep your shirt on,
Me and The Girls™
Somewhere in the midst of this gin and bourbon disclosure, Pretty Girls Make Graves did their set. I'm not sure why this was necessary. It really wasn't. I mean, if I wanted to hear excessive whining, I would have stayed home with my daughter. Really. PGMG's lead singer, Andrea Zollo, has a fairly deep speaking voice. Last year I downloaded one of their albums. While I only listened to it once or twice, I remembered her vocals to be rather alto-y. But last night - holy crap. She must have needed a nap or a sippy cup because she whined every single word that she sang. A high-pitched, not-getting-her-way whine.
And it made me angry. Very, very angry (bourbon).
Despite the opening act suckassedness, Franz Ferdinand was great. I wasn't expecting much, since they've got a fairly small library, and they're so light and fluffy. But you know, I was in need of some light and fluffy fun, and they provided. Just a damn fun band to watch, and they sounded great. They didn't whine at all. Not once.
Interpretive Dance Girl™ was there, of course, but she wasn't sitting in our section. She was all the way up in the balcony. We watched as she encountered some guy who apparently fell under the spell of her jerky, arms-akimbo interpretive dance siren song, and she was rapidly transformed from Interpretive Dance Girl™ to Spontaneous Makeout Girl™.
There was also a woman a few rows in front of us who kept pointing skyward. I don't know what was up with all the pointing. Cut Copy kept pointing, which pissed me off (bourbon). That whiny bitch from Pretty Girls Make Graves kept pointing which really pissed me off (bourbon). Even the Franz Ferdinand guys patook in a bit of pointing. And of course, at our table, we all pointed at each other. Because we're rude. And 3/4 of us were drinking. But this woman in front of us was pointing skyward in a manner reminescent of a tent revival.
"She's pointing to God," Holley said.
"Yeah, well, she's so into it that I'm a little afraid she's gonna pull some snakes. 'Praise Jesus! I call the big one Franz!'". (bourbon)
But the real interpretive dancing occured in the row in front of us and was committed by a gaggle of ... men.
Now, I don't want to engage in unfair stereotypes and prejudice, but I wouldn't have been one bit surprised to see Greek letters seared into the skin on their asses from their days of being paddled as pledges. And I'll leave it at that.
I also won't pretend that I understand men. I don't. I don't even understand the one I married, and I spend a good portion of my time asking him to repeat himself in a manner that my mind can grasp. I don't understand women for that matter, either, but that's beside the point.
What I really don't understand is the concert behavior of guys of this nature. They're as ever-present at shows as Interpretive Dance Girl™. In fact, they're often accompanied by Interpretive Dance Girl™. Last night's group consisted of six guys in polo shirts with the collars turned up, and two drunk blonde girls, sucking on cigarettes but never inhaling (Bud Light).
The boys, they do get excited. Oh, the air-drumming! The air-guitaring! The air-accordianing! And the high-fiving that they did after a particularly blistering air-bass lick!
And they danced! Lord, how they danced - manic and sloppy, with moves borrowed from a hockey brawl (vodka and Red Bull).
"See that one?" Holley said, pointing to the particularly enthusiastic guy in a striped polo who was so overcome with joy that he was starting to look for someone to head-butt. "I'll bet his favorite song is 'Michael',"
And sure enough, when that anthem of boy-on-boy dancing on the dancefloors like beautiful dance whores opened the encore, the dudes in front of us were on their feet, fists pumping the air. But a few of them did feel the need to go fondle their blonde girls during the song. You know. Because they're not queer or nothing.
I came home and partook in a bit of post-midnight-hour emailing that probably shouldn't have occured (bourbon), then settled in for a restful night's sleep (bourbon). Today, it was lunch with the family. This evening will involved playing dominoes and eating fried chicken with my parents and tee-totalling grandparents. Shirts will be kept on and bourbon will not be involved.
Posted by Robin at 02:02 PM | Comments (10)
September 23, 2005
Toddler Internment Camp: A Review of a Month in the Hole
It's been a month since Clara "Rebel Girl" Jane started her once-weekly visit to daycare. Let's take a look at how that month as progressed, shall we?
Week 1: Did cartwheels with glee at prospect of spending a day away from me in a plastic-filled room. The downside: brought home Daycareus Nastigermyitis, which brought our entire household to a crashing, snotty hault when all three of us got raging sick. House threatened with condemnation due to excessive number of snotty Kleenex within.
Week 2: Sprints away from me in utter, unabated anti-mother joy when we arrive. Ninety minutes later, I'm called to retrieve her because her screaming is so intense it's a violation of the Geneva Convention; she's trampling all over the human rights of the other kids by inflicting scream torture on them. Stop by coffeehouse for a cookie, where I'm reduced to a sobbing, snotty disaster because Carole King's "You've Got a Friend" is playing. Start making plans for a really painful demise for Ms. King while envisioning what her kinky, curly head will look like mounted on my living room wall.
Week 3: Do not go quietly into that good daycare center, Child. No. Instead, scream like you're stuck in a wheat thrasher while attempting to pull my leg from my hip socket. Teacher forced to perform surgical procedure to remove child from my person. Teacher not paid nearly enough for this shit. Neither am I, come to think of it.
Week 4: Knowing that my child is of a delicate nature, the teachers are proactive, making sure there's an episode of "Teletubbies" playing when we arrive. The screaming commences, but she doesn't repeat her baby octopus leg-suction routine. When I leave, she's crying, but sitting her her teacher's lap, glaring at me. "That's fine, Former Mom. Leave. Go on. Go live your free-wheelin' jacked-up life, eating cookies and drinking espresso at the goddamn coffee house. See if I care. I'm Miss Michelle's baby now, bitch."
Week 5: Clara Jane has an exceptionally large vocabulary; she's about a year ahead of the average on language skills. Still, she doesn't have the skills to express her her more complex feelings in words, so she had to rely on facial expressions. And her face had this to say:
"No!!!! Oh my God, No! You are not abandoning me at this toddler internment camp again! No!!!! They make me eat rat droppings and watch "Barney" and I'm not going, Mom! I'm not!"
And then she ran out of facial expressions and commenced the usual screaming, which continued when we got to her classroom, where she promptly ran to play with her friends - still crying, occasionally shooting me the stink-eye, which is facial expression for, "I hope you burn your tongue on your latte, you fucking whore."
The word on the cell block is, she calmed down quickly and had a good day. Although there was a situation at lunch in which she stole her teacher's lunch and refused to give up the grapes. And she made a shiv during arts and crafts time. But she didn't scream nearly as much, so no one really cared that she might cut them. Because the cut's better than the scream.
That kid's gonna be ok. Just don't let her corner you.
Posted by Robin at 09:56 AM | Comments (8)
Friday Shuffle - The Viva Las Bono Edition
Shuffle 'em if you got 'em...
1. I'm Gone - Dolly Parton
2. Guantanamera - Celia Cruz (I was once bullied by a mariachi in a Mexican restaurant because I refused to sing this song with him because 1) I don't sing in public, and 2) my Spanish doesn't go beyond the names of the food items that were in front of me and getting cold because I was too busy being bullied by a mariachi to eat. So I sang, and he got mad when I fucked up.)
3. Passive Manipulation - White Stripes
4. Sweet Rosalyn - Sheryl Crow
5. Move Your Feet - Junior Senior
6. The Fly - U2
7. Discoheque - U2
8. Lotus - REM
9. Sharks - Morphine
10. Cassandra Gemini- A. Tarantism - The Mars Volta
Nice to see U2 heavily represented, as yesterday I purchased my plane tickets to see them six weeks from now in Vegas. Bono + Vegas = spectacle-lover's dream come dream. And let me tell you, no one loves a good spectacle as much as me. No one.
Posted by Robin at 09:18 AM | Comments (1)
September 20, 2005
I Ain't Nothing But Comfort and Love, Baby
As many of you know, my friend Kara lost her mom, Claudia, on Friday, three weeks after suffering a stroke.
This is new territory for me. I have several friends whose parents have died, but in all those cases, it was before I met them. This is the first time a close friend has lost a parent during our friendship. I'm suddenly feeling terribly adult. Even moreso than when I got married or had Clara Jane.
It would be easy to be morose, but I'm not going to do that. For one thing, when I cry, Kara screams at me to stop crying, and I'm sort of afraid she's going to tell me that she'll give me something to cry about if I'm not careful. Besides, Claudia had a fabulous sense of humor. When I think about her, I always see and hear her laughing. I know she appreciated my sense of humor; she told me so on numerous occasions. That's why I think she's probably somewhere, getting a kick out of the completely bumbling, dork-ass way I have dealt with her passing. And I'm pretty sure she'd like for the rest of the world to have a good laugh at my expense.
Keep in mind that this is a woman whose memorial sermon liberally poked fun at Kara, and it'll make my behavior seem a tad less abhorant.
Friday morning, Clara Jane and I were at the zoo when I got the call from Kara that I had been dreading. She'd been called home from work to be with her mom during her final hours. I had been expecting the call, based on an email I had received earlier from Kara, but it was still a jolt. I sat on the nearest bench, with Clara Jane yammering at the nearby ducks and the zoo train's whistle shrieking a few feet away while I fumbled with my cell phone to call my mom.
In my defense I was 1) distraught, and 2) couldn't hear a damn thing for all the background noise. I could hear enough to know that my call had been answered.
"Hey," I said, "I just talked to Kara. Her mom's dying. She's gone home from work to be with her."
"Yeah, I know. I'm Kara." I think she might have called me dumbass under her breath, but like I said, it was loud. But yes, instead of calling my mom to share the news, I called Kara. You know, just in case she had forgotten that her mother was dying.
I'm here to comfort, you know.
Later that afternoon, she called within minutes of her mom's passing to let me know that she was gone. I was sitting at my desk, crying with her (while being admonished to stop crying) when my child walked past, shrieking, "I WALKING WALKING WALKING WALKING WALKING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Dear God! What is your child yelling?" Kara asked.
"Words of comfort, my friend. Words of comfort," I lied.
I managed to get through Saturday and Sunday without any moments of assholery, but apparently I was saving up for the funeral itself.
I rushed into the funeral home yesterday afternoon after a long drive on a mostly-empty gas tank (because I'm a poor planner). I was a nervous wreck, having not been to a funeral since 1991 and having no idea what to expect and mortally afraid of acting in an inappropriate manner (which I'm sure you realize is a totally rational fear for me).
The first people I encountered was a group of older men, sitting in the lobby, visiting quietly. I noticed Kara's father in the group and began grappling with what to do. Do I burst into the middle of their conversation and offer my sympathy? Do I just pass through quietly, nodding hello? Am I 100% sure that's really Kara's dad? I mean, it's been awhile since I've seen him ... of course it's Kara's dad!
I edged to the group and stood before him. "Hey," I said. "How are you doing?"
He nodded. "I'm ok. I'm ok."
"Here - stand up and give me a hug," I demanded. "C'mon," I stretched my arms and leaned towards him. He stood, and we hugged. Hugged for quite a long time. A bit too long, really. When we finally parted, I asked where I might find Kara, and he pointed me towards the chapel, which was through a second lobby.
The second lobby contained the guestbook, and while I signed it, I noticed a fellow standing nearby, coming towards me.
Shit.
Oh holy fucking shit.
And the thought going through my head: "If Kara's dad is walking towards me right now, who in the hell did I just drag out of his chair and force into an inappropriately long embrace?"
This is why I'm not a hugger, People!
After repeating my condolence performance with Kara's real father and not some random funeral home stranger, I went into the chapel and found Kara, her friend Valentina, and Joe. I just barged into the group, blabbering about how I'm hugging random old men for an inappropriate long time and all of Jefferson County probably thinks I'm a Funeral Slut who goes around to funeral homes, rubbing against anyone who might be bereaved in exchange for ... *shudder*.
"I take it this is Robin?" Joe asked once I finally shut my mouth.
Not only am I a comfort and a pillar of support, but I make a beautiful first impression. Just as the guy in the lobby.
Posted by Robin at 02:19 PM | Comments (24)
September 16, 2005
Friday Shuffle - The Meercat Edition
Clara "Timon and Pumba" Jane and I spent the first half of the day shuffling around the zoo, which has exhausted her. She's currently shuffling around her crib while I shuffle with the ol' iTunes...
1. Regrets - Ben Folds Five
2. Rah! Rah! Replica - Bikini Kill
3. Jeepers Creepers - Count Basie and Tony Bennett
4. Doughnut Song - Tori Amos
5. Son of a Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield
6. All Your Way - Morphine
7. Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
8. Cars & Guitars - Tori Amos
9. Swinging Doors - Merle Haggard
10. Blood Roses - Tori Amos
Damn. Lots of Tori. The shuffle, it is wise and knows my favorite Toriphile, Kara, really needs a boost today.
Posted by Robin at 02:15 PM | Comments (1)
September 15, 2005
The Shit List & The Love List
I'm in a good mood today. Really. I know, I know - it's been awhile since that happened. I'll share with you some of the things that are aiding my mood. But because I'm all about balance, I'm also going to bitch.
I will not, however, be making another pie chart. Do you know how much work that takes?
Giving the love to: St. Patrick's Center. I'm not Catholic. I'm barely even Christian. I'm all heathen, baby, but that didn't stop me from spending my day at St. Pat's in their Hurricane Katrina Assistance Center. Wow. Just ... wow. It's quite an operation they've got. Basically, they're helping people from the gulf coast who've decided to relocate to St. Louis. And they still need lots of volunteers and donations, so if you live here, get off your ass and help them!!!
I've done volunteer work here and there, and I can say that this is the best-run operation I've seen. Considering this is a unit that has been whipped up fast during a crisis, even more impresive.
What did I do? I worked at the phone bank, answering and making calls. Most of the calls I got were from people wanting to help, including a beauty school that's offering free services to hurricane survivors, and an elementary school that wants to "adopt" some kids and get them set up with clothes.
The calls I made were to people who have contacted Catholic Charities with housing opportunities, which brings me to ...
I shit on: stupid greedy dumbasses who contact Catholic Charities to "offer" apartments and houses at full rent to people who have lost everything. We're looking to help hurricane survivors, not give you free advertising, so don't fucking act aghast when I ask you if you'll be offering free rent, Bitch. And don't give me this, "I don't want no one who's gonna not pay the rent" shit, either. This especially goes to the owner of the shithole motel who so graciously "offered" to rent Trashy rooms to survivors for $60 + tax per night. Unless you're going to actually give people something, DON'T FUCKING WASTE THE TIME OF PEOPLE WHO ARE TRYING TO DO SOME GOOD!
More love to: St. Patrick. I'm not sure what he's the patron saint of, other than Ireland. But I guess that makes him lucky because let me tell you, I coasted in there on fumes (because I'm a poor planner). And I kid you not, while I was in the building someone deposited a gas station next to where I parked, which I swear wasn't there when I arrived. And my parking? Illegal. But didn't get ticketed. Thanks Pat. You rock. Tell Bono I said hi.
And a big pantload to: Sally Mae student loans. B. contacted them awhile back to rework how much he pays them every month. They offered him a forebearance. He explained that he was pretty sure he didn't have any forebearances left. They insisted he did. He even yelled at them that he didn't have any forbearances. They threatened to break his jaw with brass knuckles if he didn't apply for one. So he did. Several other conversations have transpired with Sally Mae. And he has repeatedly told them, "I'm sure I don't have any forebearances." And they have said, "Shove you payment up your ass, Bitch, and take the fucking forbearance."
This evening, he got a phone call from Sally Mae and she's all, "Where my money, Bitch?" And B.'s like, "It's up my ass, where you told me to put it for the past month." And they're like, "No, Ho. You ain't got forbearance. We didn't tell you shit. Pay us."
But a great big snuggle to: Clara "Fragile" Jane's day care teachers. They know she's a bit delicate, so they had a "Teletubbies" video all cued up for her arrival because they know the love and comfort she finds in Laa-Laa.
And a stinky diaper to toss at: KETC, our local PBS affiliate. They don't answer their hate mail. Why am I sending them hate mail? Because every three months during pledge time, they pre-empt Sesame Street with shit like Michael Flatley: Celtic Tiger. I mean, holy fuck, PBS! Not only is my child furious because she's not getting her post-nap Elmo fix, but now she requires post-traumatic stress disorder therapy because she's far to young to be exposed to horrors like this.
My daughter's innocence is gone, my friends, and KETC owes her big-time. And they better pray to God that I don't develop my mother's spastic colon because oh boy, if I do, they're gonna pay.
Posted by Robin at 07:05 PM | Comments (8)
September 13, 2005
I Gots Nothing, People
I don't know why I'm so damn boring these days. Believe me, I'm sick to death of it myself. The malaise, it is intense, my friends.
If I was feeling more ambitious, I'd get all USA Today on your asses and make a pie chart, but the malaise ... Oh, what the hell. Maybe this will perk me up.
The following is a pie chart depicting how I've been spending my time of late:
As you can see, I just don't have time to write. I mean, I could sacrifice some of my rocking out hardcore time, but if I did that, I probably wouldn't have anything to write about. Besides, if I cut back on the rocking out hardcore, the time spent weeping would increase and I still wouldn't find myself with time to blog.
It's a precarious balance I've constructed, as I'm sure you're well aware.
Posted by Robin at 07:59 PM | Comments (10)
September 11, 2005
Playing Catch-Up
So why the hell have I been so lax lately, anyway? Hm? What's that about?
1) I can only say so much about the state of the world, and I think I've pretty much met my quota.
2) I can only whine so much, and I think I've met my quota.
What are my other excuses?
As you might have gathered from my last post, I've been sick. I still am sick. Just when I think I've got it kicked, I get sick again. Clara "Amoxicillan" Jane seems to have inherited by yo-yo illness habits, too. To wit: nearly two weeks ago, she was diagnosed with an ear infection. Got better. Then spent a day vomiting. Recovered. And then Friday, she was showing signs that the ear infection hadn't gone away. Now she's on the rebound again.
This child has never been sick in her life, save for a few sniffly days here and there. The ear infection developed shortly after her first day of daycare. I just don't get it. It's not like her daycare is squalid. All I can fathom is, those daycare germs must be something else if they're able to paralyze an entire household for the better part of two weeks after mere hours of exposure.
Wiping snot - mine and hers - takes up 3/4 of my waking hours. So what am I doing with the other 1/4 of that time, huh? Playing motherfucking tiddlywinks?
Yeah, pretty much.
Last week I developed an unholy obsession with Diner Dash. It's a wee video game in which the player earns points by seating customers, taking their orders, serving their food, and cleaning up after them, often becoming the target of their ire.
After spending many, many hours glued to this game, I had a revealation: I used to get paid to wait tables, and it sucked. That's why I no longer get paid to wait tables. So, why in the hell am I spending my free time playing a game - without pay or tips - that replicates the exact reasons why I decided to no longer wait tables in the first place??? This is why I've never had much luck finding video games I enjoy: most of them involve activities that I wouldn't want to do in real life, so why in the hell would I want to pretend to do them?
I've been knitting. I'm almost finished with my Unbiased sari-silk purse. I've also cast on and ripped out the same pair of socks 27 times, at last count. To my credit, I've only thrown the ball of sock yarn across the room while screaming obscenities twice.
I'm also quilting. Sort of. I've cut about 3864 quilt squares, and Allison sent me home with a big stack of squares to sew into my first quilt top. These are the quilts for Quilters Comfort America; they'll be given to hurricane evacuess.
Speaking of cool ways to help, one of my favorite music venues, Mississippi Nights, is doing a music drive. They're collecting CDs, players, headphones and batteries to be distributed to the evacuees in St. Louis. Bring in ten CDs, and they'll give you a voucher worth up to $20 towards any Mississippi Nights show for the rest of the year. Since there are some great shows on the schedule, this is some excellent instant karma.
Also, you might notice that I added a link to my Friendster profile in the upper right corner of the main page. Just so you know.
And that's it. Just rambling.
Posted by Robin at 08:22 PM | Comments (4)
September 09, 2005
Britney Spears is a Stupid Twat
Before I start pissing and moaning, I must - must - rail on this, which I found at E! Online:
MOMMY DEAREST: Britney Spears telling Elle magazine that being pregnant is "mind-blowing" but "therapeutic." The star also said that she hopes to have a C-section, as she doesn't want to go through the pain of giving birth.
Britney, you are a stupid fucking little twat. Seriously. I can't think of a better way to say it. Well, I can, but the word I have in mind is vile, begins with C, and I only allow myself to use it once a year and I've already used my 2005 allotment.
I hope Britney remember this when they stick a big ol' catheter up her cooch to drain the piss out of her bladder. And when her C-section incision feels like it's about to burst into flames. And when she's passing blood clots bigger than softballs. Because that's what happens when they slice open your muscles and uterus, then you sit around for a day while the blood pools in your body. It's gotta go somewhere, Toots.
Yep, that's so much less painful than a vaginal birth. I'll tell ya, I would have taken the pain of a vaginal birth instead of the pain I've had in my C-section incision every single day for almost 19 months.
And most importantly, I hope Britney's post C-section gut, with its flabby, useless abdominal muscles hangs low enough to block any view we might ever have of her crotch ever, ever again.
Do I sound angry today? Really? Oopsie. My bad.
I'm beat. Really, really beat. And I feel guilty bitching about being beat with so much shit going on in the world right now. So I'm obviously choosing to aim my bile at Britney.
Want a run-down of the past two weeks?
Sat., Aug. 27 - Kara's mom suffers stroke.
Sun., Aug. 28 - Huge, possible marriage-altering fight with B. that's still not resolved and won't be for awhile.
Mon., Aug. 29 - Hurricane Katrina.
Tue., Aug. 30 - Clara Jane develops raging ear infection.
Thur., Sept. 1 - My mom goes in for surgery on her sinuses.
Fri., Sept. 2 - Beloved family patriarch, Chuck, was sent the the emergency room late Thursday night. In hospital for observation until Saturday. Chuck's got a strangulated hernia. Requires surgery once holiday weekend passes.
Sat., Sept. 3 - While B. is away, Clara Jane begins vomiting. Vomits a record seven times in two hours. All but two of those vomits are on my person.
Sun., Sept. 4 - Reprocution of being vomited on repeatedly: child passes virus on to me. Sick.
Mon., Sept. 5 - Still sick.
Tue., Sept. 6 - Whole family sick.
Wed., Sept. 7 - Sick? Us? You better believe it. Manage to hang out with Mindy at the uber-cool house of the uber-cool Allison, owner of uber-cool Squaresville. Cut billions of quilt squares to be used in quilts for hurricane victims.
Thur., Sept. 8 - Chuck's hernia surgery. He's doing fine. But hey, he's almost 81 years old. Any surgery's going to be pretty serious.
Fri., Sept. 9 - Try to run errands with mostly-well and fanatically whiny child. Get five minutes into Target run when she starts bellowing, "I go sleep! I go sleep!" Rush through shopping, skip grocery store, break speed of sound to place child in bed, only to have her not go to sleep for another two hours. Once child is asleep, find Britney and perform C-section myself.
Posted by Robin at 03:10 PM | Comments (17)
Friday Shuffle - The Wayward Blogger Edition
Forgive me readers, for I have ignored...
I'll post this weekend. Promise. Until then, shuffle:
1. Julie's in the Drug Squad - The Clash
2. Feed of Man - Billy Bragg & Wilco
3. La La Love You - Pixies
4. Natasha - Rufus Wainwright
5. End of the Line - Concrete Blonde
6. Fernando - ABBA
7. Disappear - REM
8. The Playboy Mansion - U2
9. Bad - Kirsty MacColl
10. Bowl of Oranges - Bright Eyes
One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just doesn't belong. One of these things is very, very Swedish ...
Posted by Robin at 10:35 AM | Comments (4)
September 05, 2005
There But for the Grace of God
Anything I write is going to amount to a big pile of gooey nothing. Seriously.
Still reeling from the tragedies of the past week, like just about everyone. I think I mentioned awhile back that I spend way too much time pondering the whys of the universe - why are we are? What's it all for? Does anything really matter? Why do we have such an immense drive for survival? How do I find meaning in this world? How important is each individual person?
Very important, it turns out, and I hate that it took so much pain and anguish for others for me to see that. Between the horror on the gulf coast and seeing so many lives lost and forever changed, and seeing how suddenly Kara and her family had their lives change by her mom's sudden illness and the grief it's brought, it's been a much-needed kick in the head for me and a reminder.
Just being is enough. Just being a good person is enough. Just being a good person who acts on that inherant goodness? That's what will save the world.
I have a friend from Louisiana and has lived all but three years of her life near New Orleans. She and one of her old friends used to go to Central Market, buy olives, and then sit together while spitting the pits. Something so simple and seemingly unimportant, but that's what builds the character of a place and the people from there. Through disaster and bureaucracy, tragedy and red tape, it's the two old friends, snacking on a locale delicacy and acting silly - that's the fabric of our society.
That love and joy is enough. Without it, we'd all be shooting each other in the streets.
There but for the grace of God go all of us. Hurricanes don't happen everywhere, but you just never know. Floods, tornados, earthquakes, drought - they all happen here.
In 1993 I spent six weeks with my basement bedroom ankle-deep in flood water. The night before the Missouri River crested in Jefferson City, my roommate and I made a stupid, spontaneous road trip. We lived 30 minutes north in Columbia and often made late-night runs. We would hang out at the fountain behind the capitol building, where it wasn't unusual to find stoners playing guitar. Once, another friend of mine tossed me into the fountain and I had to make the traditional post-capitol trip to Dunkin' Donuts soaking wet and stinking of bleach. Much to my surprise, Carl - the guy who worked the Dunkin'Dontus third shift by himself and had a real dislike for humans - didn't throw my giggling, soggy ass out without my coffee and glazed donuts holes.
But the night the river crested, there was none of that. The town was silent. It seemed wrong to eat donuts. So there we were, at midnight, standing a block down the bluff from the capitol building with water that wasn't supposed to be there lapping at our toes. We took a few photos, got in the car, and drove home. As we left the city the river was starting to seep onto the highway. By the time we got home, the highway behind us had been closed.
That flood was devastating, but it's nothing compared to what's happening on the gulf coast. There were loses, but not at that extreme magnitude. But you know what? If the flood happened to claim Carl from Dunkin' Donuts, I would have been devastated. Not because we had some close relationship. Our interactions consisted of Carl making the donuts, my friends and I buying the donuts, Carl yelling at us, and me stealing coffee cups and attempting to throw pennies down his exposed asscrack everytime he bent down in front of us. But if he had died in the flood, it would have been a loss. He was a thread in the fabric of that summer and those late-night trips, an essential part of my memories, the memories of the people who were my friends at the time, and who knows who else.
Six years ago today, B. and I stood on the front porch of my parents' old house and exchanged wedding vows. I wore a simple dress made by my grandma. My friend Rusty, who had just been ordained as a Methodist minister, nervously performed the ceremony while my friend Big Daddy B. held onto my veil - borrowed from my mother-in-law - because it threatened to blow away in the gusty wind. Afterwards, we took to the backyard, surrounded by the ghosts of the summer's corn crop in the surrounding fields. Barefoot, I traipsed from table to table, talking to 120 people who loved us enough to be there. Many stayed until well past dark, which we hadn't expected from our afternoon wedding. We eventually moved the party inside, where my Basset hound Chloe stuck her head in a 30-gallon vat of barbequed beans and had quite a snack.
Just a few weeks prior to that wonderful day, an estimated 30,000 people died in an earthquake in Izmit, Turkey. Do you remember that? 100,000 apartments were lost and 4000 buildings collapsed. $18 billion dollars in damages set the economy back an estimated 15 years. Do you remember that?
I barely do. It's a footnote in my wedding book on the "Recent Events" page. Even the Wikipedia entry is scant. All of that destruction and loss, and it's a sidenote.
I don't know and I don't have any suggestions. We can't enrobe ourselves in the tragedies and make them the sole focus of our lives. But how is it that they become so minute once the big picture unfurls over the years? How many Carls and olive pit-spitters were lost in Izmit in August, 1999, and do the people they casually passed in their lives remember them? I'll bet they do. Hell, I haven't seen Carl since 1998 and I'm still talking about him. Just by virtue of yelling at my stupid friend who had the audacity to ask if he could write a check for a $2.97 order at Dunkin' Donuts, Carl left a sugary, angry handprint that I'll always cherish. Not as much as my family and friends, but cherish nonetheless, because he was there, and he was.
Posted by Robin at 07:09 PM | Comments (9)
September 02, 2005
A Way for Crafty Types to Help
Thanks to Steph for sending this my way. I wish I knew how to quilt, but since I'm clueless, I'll at least share the info:
QUILTERS COMFORT AMERICA is the collection of quilts ofall kinds to be distributed to the refugees here in Houston so that they have something soft to sleep on instead of the hard concrete floors of the temporary shelters and something warm to cover up with against the chill of otherwise welcome air-conditioning (we've been in the 90s and 100s for weeks now). Many of us have unfinished projects filling our closets and cupboards. Get out one of those projects--twin size preferred but no smaller than baby quilt size, please--and finish it up for this. Use lightweight batting--do whatever binding is the quickest, even a close zigzag stitch. You don't have to quilt it--tie it! If you have only small projects, add borders. Think about a mother lying on the floor cradling her baby--that's the size quilt we need to provide. These quilts are not meant to be heirlooms, although they will probably be treasured for many years s a symbol of the caring of strangers. Tie them, machine quilt them, work in a group with your friends and finish several on an assembly line, do whatever it takes to get these finished quickly. THE NEED FOR THESE QUILTS IS RIGHT NOW! If you already have some finished pieces that you don't have plans for, send them too, asl ong as they are no smaller than baby quilt size. If you are a professional, you may have sample quilts that have become shop-worn or faded but are still clean and very usable in an emergency--send them!--we are IN an emergency! Be sure to put a label on the back of your quilt or sign it with a kind thought and your name and date. Every piece will go to a refugee family driven from their homes by the hurricane. To participate in QUILTERS COMFORT AMERICA, send an email to exec5@quilts.com (subject line: COMFORT AMERICA) to let us know how many quilts you are sending. That will help us help the Red Cross in its planning. Please do not expect a confirmation that your quilt has been received or any kind of nice thank-you. Sometimes we just have to do things because they are the RIGHT things to do--this is one of those times. People need help...the kind of help WE can give. Use this address to send your quilt/s: COMFORT AMERICA PROJECT c/o International Festival 7660 Woodway, Suite 550 Houston, TX 77063 Please note: for security, do NOT use the word 'quilt' ANYWHERE in your address label! many of us have also amassed linen closets full of old but completely usable sheets--perhaps a size you no longer use, or juvenile prints that your college age kids don't like anymore. Clean sheets and blankets are also most welcome to QUILTERS COMFORT AMERICA. Naturally, everything should be clean and fresh. These folks have lived with enough mud and dirt to last them the rest of their lives--let's give them a clean bed to rest in. Please note that we cannot use fabric, patterns, scraps, etc. Quilt Festival will serve as the collection point for these quilts, and we will deliver them DAILY to the American Red Cross staffing the refugee centers in Houston, where they will be distributed by the Red Cross volunteers. Because we are right herein Houston where more than 10,000 of the refugees will be, we can make a difference RIGHT NOW...if you'll help. Time is critical--the need is NOW! People are arriving by the hour, children are bedding down on the cold concrete, bedding is needed by people of all ages who have lost everything in this horrible storm. Please help if you can. If you live in or around Houston, you are welcome to hand deliver your donations to us. Our address is 7660 Woodway, Suite 550, Houston 77063. You can find it on Mapquest. Please note that this is one block of Woodway that runs perpendicular to all the rest of Woodway. Thanks to everyone! QUILTERS COMFORT AMERICA. Karey Patterson Bresenhan Director, International Quilt Festival--Houston and Chicago
Posted by Robin at 02:34 PM | Comments (3)
Friday Shuffle - The Please Let There Be Something Not Depressing Edition
I just deleted the shuffle and won't be posting it today. Too many of the songs were too reminiscent of what's going on. Out of 6500 songs, you'd think I'd be able to shuffle ten songs that don't include references to drowning, natural disasters, murder and pain. You'd think that, but you'd be wrong.
I was hoping for something that would get At the Foot of Canal Street out of my head. It's been lodged there all week, and it breaks my heart and makes me cry.
I couldn't sleep last night. The insomnia's been creeping in all week. It happens whenever something traumatic happens. When my panic disorder was at its worst, the insomnia happened all the time. I'm torn. Being agoraphobic and avoidant, I want to stay away from anything scary. Like CNN's website. But I'm afraid of what I'll find when I return if I stay away from CNN's website. It's the shock and surprise that scares me most. So, I stay glued.
Yesterday I realized that the information I was reading on CNN regarding the hurricane was the same information that had been up all day. Nothing new had happened. The only thing new was the headline and photo, which fooled my brain into thinking new breaking developments were happening when really, they weren't. I found myself stuck in that miserable loop where I was reading the same news story over and over, but processing it as if it were new.
I didn't do this after 9/11. For one thing, I took a handful of Tylenol PM before bed every night for two weeks, whether I needed them or not. I'm a total lightweight when it comes to any medication with "drowsy" as a side effect. Two Tylenol PM, and I don't function for a good 12 hours. I was taking more than that in the days following the terrorist attacks, so I effectively spent those weeks living inside a big medication prophylatic where nothing could touch me. I eased out of it slowly as I was able to digest what was happening.
I can't do that this time because 1) I have a child who needs me to be somewhat alert and 2) drugs are bad, mkay.
The other difference: after 9/11 I avoided news sources and spent two weeks watching a steady diet of "Spongebob Squarepants" and nothing but. I made the mistake of watching "Behind the Music" featuring Blind Melon. The lead singer's death was the first thing to make me cry that week, the first thing I allowed to cut through the numbness.
So I didn't sleep last night and because I'm needy, B. didn't either. He spent several hours lying in bed with me, trying to reassure me that this isn't the Biblical apocolypse, that bad things have always happened. He sited the many and myriad examples of good in the world, and how that good completely stomps the hell out of the wanderinig bands of armed marauders who've taken over New Orleans.
Logically, I know he's right. Emotionally, not so much.
I'm watching the local news right now. I shouldn't be. B. told me that I need to take a day off from the news, and he's right, but I'm not. The absurdity just kills me. Like just now, they were cutting to commercial. "The very fabric of society is breaking down in New Orleans as mob mentality takes over. And guess who's turning 75 on the comic page this weekend!" How can we wrap our heads around this? In less than a week what was once a cultured, functioning city has completely broken down. And hey! Good news in the funny papers! All in the same breath, without a hint of irony.
It feels like the world should stop, but that's what scares me most - that it will.
And now the news is repeating stories I've already heard, and I'm making them new all over again. Even though Clara Jane's still asleep, I'm turning on "Sesame Street" and leaving it there indefinitely.
Posted by Robin at 07:24 AM | Comments (8)
September 01, 2005
How to Break My Heart
As if it's not in shards already, after the events of the past five days...
I dropped Clara Jane off at daycare today, and she was more than happy to go. In fact, I wasn't moving fast enough when we were leaving the house, forcing her to stand by the front door while chanting, "Ready skeady go go go go go go go!!!"
When we pulled onto the sidestreet by the daycare facility, she started squealing, "Babies! Babies!" Good, good ... she remembers last week and is happy. This is a cake walk, I tell ya. A cake walk!
Took her to her room, where she hit the floor running to play with the other kids. I slipped out the door without incident.
Ninty minutes later, my cell phone rang. She's been screaming for an hour. I beat feet to the center and picked her up.
As soon as she got settled into her carseat, the screaming stopped and she announced, "I want a cookie!" And because I'm weak, I took her to the coffeehouse, where I bought a scone for us to share and a second cup of hot tea for myself, since I had to chug the second one in order to fetch her.
I sat down at the table, gave Clara Jane her first bite of scone, and then heard what was playing on the sound system...
"You just call out my name
And you know, wherever I am
I'll come running to see you again."
Fucking bitch Carole King.
So, if you happened to be in a coffeehouse today where an 18-month-old was happily noshing a scone while her rather frail and frazzled mother sobbed, that was me. Sorry.
Posted by Robin at 03:02 PM | Comments (9)
A Challenge
I'm feeling pretty helpless, like so many others, watching the situation along the gulf coast, and I'm trying to find as many ways to help as possible. So, I'm going to issue a challenge. If you make a donation to America's Second Harvest or Red Cross, forward your reciept to me at poppymom @ gmail . com (delete any delicate info, please) and your mailing address, and I'll send you a little something. Even if you only donate $5. I figure, there's around 200 people a day who read this. If everyone give $5, that's $1000. Of course, give more if you can.
Also, not a challenge per se, but an idea. A friend of mine in Shreveport has taken in some pets from her local shelter who have been left homeless by the storm. This got me thinking - there are a lot of animals in shelters because of this tragedy. I know I've got a bunch of knitters who read. This is what I'm thinking - get your knitting pals together and have an evening of knitting pet squares - just simple, cheap acrylic (must be washable) squares that animal shelters can place in the cages. If my friend gets the info to me, and there is a need for this, I'm planning to harrass all my local knitting friends to come over one night next week to knit pet pads and eat gumbo.
Posted by Robin at 12:45 PM | Comments (4)