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October 31, 2005

A Scary Story for Halloween, Involving Cemetaries & Sexy Stranded Teenagers

In honor of Halloween, I'm going to dredge up one of my favorite stories from my past. It's a story I've told many times, and have written many times. But I love it, so if you're heard it before, that's just too damn bad.

The summer before I turned 16, my parents bought an old Queen Anne farmhouse, surrounded by cornfields, on the edge of my little hometown. It was a beautiful old house, but with its secrets and ghosts. My grandmother grew up a few blocks away. The first time she ever saw a firetruck, it was putting out a fire at the house my parents eventually purchased. She was five; it was 1920. Crawling through the attic, we could still see the charred footprint of that fire.

Behind the house stood a delapidated chicken house with rotting wooden pallets for flooring. While tearing out the pallets, my father found a buried white dress, tattered and worn from years of being under a thin layer of dirt.

"That probably belonged to the farmer's daughter," my mom pondered. "Definitely. It belonged to his beloved only daughter, and was to be worn on her wedding day. Oh it was going to be beautiful. But then, his daughter sullied herself with the hoodlum boy up the road. And she would never be able to wear her beautiful white dress. So distraught were her parents that they buried her alive in the chicken coop in the dress." She shot me a stern look, "Remember that story when you start dating. Got it?"

I got it. Not that I had plans to do anything. At that point the primary excitement in my life involved walking three blocks down the road to Crown Hill Cemetary with my friends, trying to scare each other.

One late summer night my friend Big Daddy B and I went to the graveyard. As the hot August sun set, we ran between the gravestones, hiding behind trees, leaping at each other and shrieking.

We stood on tip-toes, peaking into the mausoleum windows and I thought, "I have to do something to scare Big Daddy before he scares me." I lept at him, grabbing his shirt and screaming bloody murder, laughing as he launched himself backwards off the steps.

The months passed. In October I got my driver's license and a 1980 Ford Mustang with a carburator that routinely fell off, and a knack for eating alternaters. Weekends were spent cruising the strip. Big Daddy B and our other friends would pile into my tiny car and zip up and down highway 65, turning around in the McDonald's parking lot and praying that the carburator wouldn't crap out at the spot where highways 65 and 50 intersect.

Now, I know I posed this as a Halloween story, but it doesn't actually take place on Halloween. Like I said, months passed, and all was well. That is, until February.

February in small-town Missouri is a brutal time for young, restless souls. Dark and chilled, with the occasional 50-degree day to tease the senses before being plunged back into winter. For a 16-year-old and her 15-year-old cohorts, it's damn near unbearable.

One Sunday in late February, when the ground was mucky and thick from the first thaw of the year, Big Daddy B and I laid around my parents' house until, tired of our complaints of malaise and boredom, my mother sent us across town to pick up pizza for dinner.

It only took ten minutes to drive from my parents' house on the far eastern outskirts of town to the pizza joint on the far west end of town, and the route took us by our mutual friend Tate's house. Hoping that Tate might have the magic formula to ease our boredom, we stopped at his house and begged him to join us.

We were nearly home, the pizzas cooling in the hatchback of my car, when we drove past the cemetary. "Have you ever taken Tate to the cemetary," Big Daddy B asked.

"I haven't," I replied.

"We should take him to the cemetary. You know, just take a quick spin through and then go to your house."

Tate leaned forward from the backseat. "Isn't it illegal to be in a cemetary after dark?"

It was. The previous spring, rumors abounded that the kids who wore head-to-toe black and listened to The Smiths had been sacrificing animals in the cemetaries. Therefore, the local police force, which didn't have much to do in the first place, began diligent patrols of the cemetaries and The Ruins.

"Oh, we'll just be in for a minute," I said, whipping the Mustang into the nearest entrance.

Slowly, I drove to the back of the cemetary, the full moon casting the shadows of the 100-year-old oak trees across our path. The surface of the lake in the children's graveyard shimmered, cold enough to steal the breath of whoever might enter.

The street lights faded in the distance as we reached the back of the cemetary, where the thin road twisted into a worn dirt path. "We should head back. There's nothing else and the pizza's getting cold," I said as I kept driving. Instead of turning around the way we had come, I intended to curve, driving in an arc and exiting the cemetary at the end opposite of where we entered. I'd walked the cemetary so many times during daylight; I knew where the path led.

Only I wasn't on the right path. Because of the dark, and being distracted by the giggling boys in my car, I had taken a different path, one that ended.

A path that ended directly in the pile of dirt, displaced from the freshly-dug graves.

The body of the Mustang lurched forward while the wheels spun deep into the wet, gluey mud, gears grinding as I slammed the accelerator hard. I opened the door and stepped out, my feet sinking past my ankles in the spackle of mud. I lifted my right foot, and the mud issued a great slurp, sucking the white canvas Ked off my sockless foot. "We're stuck," I announced. "And I'm half-barefooted."

For the first half hour, we alternated between trying to lift and push the car out of the muck, and sitting in the car, laughing at our predicament. Really, we weren't worried. We didn't know how we were going to get out, but we took for granted that we would. The Magic Mustang Mud Removal Fairy would be arriving shortly, right?

She didn't arrive.

"We need some traction under the wheels," Big Daddy B said. "What do you have in the car that could be used for traction?"

"Well, there's the pizza boxes. Not really an option since my parents are expecting the pizzas," I explained, glossing over the fact that they were expecting the pizzas about an hour ago. "And there's a vinyl copy of the Godspell soundtrack."

When stuck in the mud with two young men from the drama department, using the Godspell soundtrack for traction simply isn't an option. Desperate times call for desperate measures, but they weren't that desperate yet.

I thought about Tim, the cross-country runner who was friends with Tate's older brother. Tim lived in the house next to the cemetary entrance we'd used. I'd been watching him since we moved in, watching as he'd jog around the curve in front of our house, leading to the expanse of cornfield-draped country road. I'd been looking for a way to meet him, but was too shy to leave my perch on the front porch and introduce myself.

"Hey Tate," I ventured. "You know Tim, right? Maybe he could help us?"

"I don't know him that well. Let's get some sticks and shove them under the back tires," he said. And with that, he and Big Daddy B went to the nearest tree and forraged.

The hours passed, and the car didn't budge. We could have walked to my parents' house. It would have taken ten minutes. But it wasn't an option.

"I think they might bury me in the chicken coop if I screw up," I said. Three hours after we lodged the car into the grave dirt, I was still convinced that perhaps my parents wouldn't know something had gone awry, so deep and strong is the ignorance of youth.

We sat in the car, headlights burning, listening to the radio, still hopeful but tired. Big Daddy B sang along with Debbie Gibson (Shut up. It was 1989. You liked her, too, and you know it.) while we considered what to do next.

Abruptly, he stopped part-way through the second verse of Foolish Beat. "Oh shit," he said. "I just saw a cop." He switched off the radio. "Turn off the headlights so he won't see us!"

And with that, the pressure, exhaustion and cold finally wore me down. "I'm not turning the headlights off. If you think we're in trouble now, just think how bad it would be if we got hit by a police car! Besides, I'm cold and tired. I just want to go home."

"Hey, your uncle just died, right?" Tate said. "He's buried here, isn't he? We can tell him that we came to visit your uncle and took a wrong turn!"

"No way he'll buy that," I said, getting out of the car and waving my arms towards the glowing headlights.

As I began to walk towards the car, I summoned the tears, knowing that a good cry is a good indicator of remorse, a sign that we're not Goth kids out listening to The Cure while skinning cats. We're just normal kids, albeit slightly shoeless and muddy, who listen to Debbie Gibson and show tunes about Jesus, who took a wrong turn.

I stood in front of the glow of the headlights, tears streaming down my wind-chapped face, the near-freezing ground biting into my bare foot, arms up in surrender.

"Good evening, Miss," the officer said as he exited his car. "Did anyone ever tell you that you can't go four-wheelin' in a Mustang?"

All my stories and excuses left me and I stood there, jaw agape, as the officer laughed. "It's okay, but you need to get out of here."

"We can't. Stuck," I stammered.

"That's what I was afraid of. I wish I could tow you out, I really do. But I could get in really big trouble. Now, I know you live near here. I can give you a ride home, or you can walk. Whichever you want."

"My shoe. I only have one."

"Come on, then. I'll give you a ride. It's okay. But your friends have to stay here."

I climbed into the squad car and this time, the tears were real. They weren't summoned for effect. They were summoned from fear and shame.

"It's okay, really," the officer kept repeating.

"You don't understand," I hiccupped. "My ... dad ... is ... going ... to ... kill ... me..." I didn't mention the part about burying me in the chicken house, but I probably should have. Seeing as how the officer was making my life easier, telling him where he could find my mortal remains would have been the least I could do.

"Sweetheart, if this is the worst thing you do, your parents will be very lucky. This is nothing. Really. Will it help if I come in with you?"

"No!" I bellowed through my runny nose. "No!"

"Well, if you change your mind, I will," he said as we pulled into the long, arching driveway. He pulled to a stop by the gate, and I sat motionless.

"Maybe it will help if you come with me." Surely they won't get the shovel and start digging the hole with an officer of the law watching.

The officer stood silently on the back steps as I walked into the kitchen, his eyes never leaving my back. I took a deep breath and quickly decided how to handle the situation. I would make light, act like it was no big deal. "Hey Mom? Dad? We've got a little problem."

"Where have you been?" my mom yelled from their bedroom, where they watched television everynight.

"Well, it's funny. Um, there's a cop here."

And with that I watched in horror as my father came running from the bedroom, stocking feet sliding across the linoleum as a struggled to get his footing.

"It's okay, really," I burbled. "We - Big Daddy B, Tate and me - we decided to take a quick drive through the cemetary and my car's stuck. It's nothing. The officer said so. It's fine. We just have to get my car. And the boys."

And for the first time in my life, my father was silent. The officer said I had to ride with my father to the cemetary. Instead of the yelling and screaming I anticipated, nothing. Just silence.

Because he was trying to remember where, exactly, he left his shovel, for he had a hole to dig. In the chicken coop.

When we arrived at the scene of the crime, Big Daddy B and Tate were backed up to the tree where earlier they had scrounged for traction-bearing sticks and twigs. They stood in the spotlights of five police cars, held captive by half of the town's police force.

Eventually, my car was freed by my uncle, who happened to have a tow truck. I drove the boys home, and they both offered me safe haven, but I didn't accept, knowing that if I stayed away, it would just give my parents time to dig a deeper hole for me in the chicken coop. I drove across town alone, still wearing one shoe, in my mud-cocooned car with the bad carburator that threatened to slide off at the intersection of highways 65 and 50.

When I walked into the kitchen, following the trail of mud I'd left earlier, I didn't make any faux calm announcements of my arrival. I slipped in silently, but they knew I was back, and they called me to their bedroom.

Without word, I sat at my mother's desk, twisting a dirt-encrusted lock of my hair, hair that normally stood as high and proud as the Aquanet would allow, but now drooped under the weight of filth and misery. I waited for the punishment to rain down on me. I waited for the white dress I would never wear - because I was soiled, soiled and filthy - to be presented to me for my burial.

"We want you to know," my mother began, "that you're a great kid, and we're proud of you."

"So it's going to be really hard to stick me in that shallow grave?"

"What? No. You're grounded, that's a given. But if this is the worst thing you do, then we're really lucky."

"Oh. Good. Thank you. Yeah. Thanks," I said, the weight of the dirt easing. For the first time in hours, I inhaled a breath that didn't stink of cold, damp earth.

"But do anything else, and it's the coop for you."

And that, my friends, was the worst thing I ever did. Well, until they tore down that damned coop, anyway.

Posted by Robin at 10:02 PM | Comments (8)

October 30, 2005

For all of those who poo-poo'd the idea of me making Clara Jane's Halloween costume:

Suck.


On.


It.

The pity party has morphed into a Halloween party. I'm still feeling a bit stung, but nothing a little candy corn won't fix.

I will be the first to admit that it would have been a hell of a lot easier to go to Target. But would my child's vocabulary have been enriched and expanded that way? I don't think so. Whereas, by sewing her costume, she's learned all sorts of colorful phrases. Why, just this afternoon she could be heard yelling, "Piece of shit!" shortly after I christened my older-than-me sewing machine by that name. And not long after that she uttered a lovely, "Goddammit!" when the dog licked her face.

Education like that ain't store-bought, my friends.

I had some concerns about the hood portion of her costume. For one thing, I was in the middle of making the hood when my sewing machine decided to crap out. This was mere hours before we were to be at the zoo and I announced, "Fuck it! She doesn't need the damn hat!" Which my child echoed, "Fuck it! Damn hat!"

B. jumped in and managed to finish the hat in time. But there was another concern. It seems that the hat, once constructed, could pass for the regulation headgear of a certain Southern men's social club/cross-burning organization. To whit:

"For God's sake, don't anyone remove the body of her costume without taking the hat off first!" I repeatedly told B. and my parents as we wrangled her into the suit on the tailgate of Dad's truck.

"God's sake!" Clara Jane chirped.

I was able to get over my morose, self-pitying frame of mind before we were even into the zoo. My little candy corn strutted across the parking lot, shouting, "Hello!" and waving to every costumed kid we encountered. "Pumpkins are everywhere!" she shrieked as we walked through the zoo, arms flung wide. "Pumpkins are everywhere!" She was so happy, and I was so happy that she wasn't testing her new sewing vocabulary by yelling, "Goddamn pumpkins are motherfucking everywhere!"

She rode the carousel twice, the first time atop a big gorilla. As she and B. were leaving, she announced that she wanted to ride the elephant. So she rode the elephant, all smiles and giggles. Much different than her last carousel ride, a year ago today, in which she screamed her head off. It's a good thing she didn't have her sewing vocabulary then, because my granny was there. And I'm currently in trouble with my granny because I said fuck on a photo of Murphy.

As we were leaving the zoo, the rain poured down. Still in her costume, Clara Jane stoppped to look towards the sky, raised her arms and laughed, "It's raining! It's raining!" And you know what? No matter how shitty things are, it's impossible to not see your little girl, squealing with delight at the cold October rain, and maintain any coldness in your heart.

Next up: learn to craft without cussing so that two months from now she's not singing, "O Christmas tree. O motherfucking goddamn asshole Christmas tree. How fucking lovely are your whorehopping branches."

Posted by Robin at 09:29 PM | Comments (16)

The pity party continues

Ugh.

I fucking hate feeling like this.

I feel like I give a lot to others. And I'd like to think I don't expect anything in return.

But really, I do. And that makes me feel sick.

I'm just so tired of feeling like I'm constantly putting myself out there, constantly denying myself because other people need me, only to feel unappreciated and like shit if I even slightly screw up, say the wrong thing, or God forbid, demand something for myself.

I'm sick to death of trying to express my love to people who are incapable of doing the same. Because it's hard. It might make them feel vulnerable.

Damn right it's hard. If it wasn't I wouldn't feel this way. And hell yes it makes one feel vulnerable. If it didn't, I wouldn't feel this way.

For Halloween this year? I'm going as a martyr. Seems to suit the mood.

Posted by Robin at 11:06 AM | Comments (5)

October 29, 2005

Some days

I'm reminded that, fundamentally, I'm just not very good at interacting with the other humans.

Posted by Robin at 10:40 PM | Comments (3)

October 28, 2005

Friday Shuffle: The 40 Years Ago Today Edition

Workers placed the keystone in the top of the Gateway Arch on October 28, 1965.

Happy Archiversary, St. Louis. Now, shuffle.

1. One More Dub - The Clash
2. It's Summertime - Flaming Lips
3. Alone Together - The Strokes
4. Deep Red Bells - Neko Case
5. Cherish - Nina Simone
6. Busted - Johnny Cash
7. I Don't Want to Love You (But I Do) - Kelly Willis
8. Kids Don't Follow - The Replacements
9. Chin Up, Cheer Up - Ryan Adams
10. Something so Right - Paul Simon

Monumental, no?

Posted by Robin at 11:53 AM | Comments (1)

October 27, 2005

Mushy

I've never been a romantic. Really, all that mushy crap makes my skin crawl. I think it was a cruel trick of the universe that I gave birth to my daughter the day after Valentine's Day. Not sure why the universe wants her to suffer for my distaste of all things cutesy-utesy, but whoever said life's fair, right?

Lately, though, I'm mush. I'm jello. Moreso than I was when I was in the first throes of my relationship with B. (or any other relationship, for that matter). Why?

Because one of my friends is teetering on the verge of that big romantic abyss.

In watching things play out with her, I keep getting flashes of what it was like seven and a half years ago, the last time I was in her position.

The first date: We'd been talking for a month. It was Memorial Day and on the spur of the moment, I decided to come to St. Louis. I called him and said, "I'll be in your neck of the woods. If you want to get together, great. If not, no biggie."

We spent ten hours together that day.

The first kiss: During that date we were driving through the Central West End. The day was gorgeous - sun shining, warm breeze coming through the car windows. We were sitting at a stoplight at the corner of Lindell and Kingshighway when I turned to B. and said, "So, are you ever going to kiss me?"

His face turned crimson as he smiled and leaned towards me. "You got red lipstick all over me," he laughed as we parted and the light changed.

The first full night together: It was the following weekend at my apartment in Columbia. We had dinner at my favorite winery, overlooking the Missouri River from a bluff at sunset. Soft-shell crabs with lavender-scented creme brulee for dessert. I had a terrible cold, and I also felt like we were moving too fast, so nothing happened that night. We just slept spooned together.

When I knew I was ten off-ramps beyond the point of no return: Sitting in his apartment the day of our first date, freaking out because his brother and his brother's creepy girlfriend had shown up, unannounced, and didn't have the social graces to realize they were interrupting. I was thinking about leaving, just getting up and walking out the door, when I looked at B. and saw the look in his eyes, the look that said, "For the love of God, I am so sorry." And something in my brain said, "Don't leave. You're going to marry this guy."

Was it love at first sight? No. But deep down, I knew there was something different and that my life was going to drastically change.

I had made a rule three months before I met B.: I was going to take a break from dating for six months. I was coming off several years of really bad behavior. Lots of fun, but upon turning 25 I had realized that the good times weren't doing me much good in the long run. I decided I was done, at least for awhile. No dating. No sex. No making out. No nothing.

I spent the first three months of our relationship telling B. that we weren't dating, because that violated my rule.

My friend? She had a similar rule in effect. We talked about the rule last night, and how it seems silly on the surface. But really, I think our silly rules forced both of us to really think about the guys involved, what was at stake, and what we wanted.

I've told these stories about the beginning of our relationship so many times that they roll out of my mouth without their meaning registering in my brain. They're just tales that make up the quilt of my life, things that happened in the past, feelings that have long since morphed into something different. They've manifested in getting dinner on the table, raising our daughter, and making sure the cable bill gets paid. Not exactly the type of stuff that causes that tickle deep in the belly that runs electricity to every finger and toe.

Watching my friend fall makes me miss falling.

I fell in love with B. a second time, in the days after Clara Jane's birth. She was several days old, and I was completely shredded from the experience. Physically, I was destroyed. Emotionally, I had never felt more vulnerable . And I had never felt more protected than I did when B. was taking charge at the hospital.

My memories of the hospital are sketchy, but I will never forget one particular night ... Clara Jane was sleeping, all the visitors were gone, and the nurses were letting me be, for once. I remember crying to B., clinging to him. I had never wanted another human being to be so physically close to me in my life. I promised him at that moment that things would be different when we left the hospital. I was going to be more loving, more giving, more expressive with him. I wasn't going to continue being mired in the banalities of life.

That leaf stayed turned for about 48 hours. Not because I didn't want to do as I'd said, but because life ran over me. We let life run over us.

I don't know what's going to happen with my friend. I don't know if this is just a passing fancy or if this is her B. Hell, part of the time I'm not even sure what the future holds for my relationship. The past year and a half have been anything but mushy. I've spent a lot of that time wondering if our marriage was going to survive, and convinced that the answer was no. There were times when I was sure I didn't want it to survive.

And now we're watching my friend, remembering how sweet that first tumble was. But it's also a reminder that we'll never have that again. I'm sure that's what brings many relationships to an end, the whole "I love you but I'm not 'in love' with you." Which is bullshit. Like I said, I'm not a romantic. As great as that 'in love' feeling is, it can't sustain a relationship.

I had a thought a few weeks ago: B. and I are in an established relationship. We've been through hell and back a few times. We've fought, we've loved, we know each other backwards and forwards. There's no risk. Which sounds boring.

But you know what? There's no risk. I know I'm not going to get hurt. He knows he's not going to get hurt. So what's stopping us from falling whenever we want? I can throw myself off the roof with the confidence that he'll be standing below to catch me.

Posted by Robin at 05:21 PM | Comments (10)

October 26, 2005

An Additional Halloween Costume Note

Candy corn-colored felt will turn the plate of a too-hot iron into candy corn-colors.

In addition, melted candy corn-colored felt? Almost as sticky as real melted candy corn.

Posted by Robin at 02:43 PM | Comments (6)

October 25, 2005

Good Intentions

I have a plan. Clara "Tricks" Jane didn't dress up for Halloween last year, because 1) she was only eight months old and couldn't be bothered to tell us what she wanted to be, and 2) I was too busy having panic attacks to decide for her.

Things are much better this year. I've got it all planned out and we're going to have the best Halloween ever. Wanna see the plan? Of course you do.

Sept. 13th: Successfully sew a bunch of 4" quilt squares into a shape roughly resembling a twin-sized quilt. Get all full of myself, convinced I know how to sew and buy this pattern:

Besides, I've got six weeks until Halloween, ample time to learn the intricacies of seamstressing.

Sept. 13th - Oct. 7th: Place pattern in storage container with other forgotten sewing notions. Forget.

Oct. 8th: Corner wriggling, screaming child. You know, the one who goes ballistic during every pediatrician visit when they try to measure her head? Yeah, that kid. Measure her for costume. Debate merits of duct taping the child to the floor to prevent injuries to both parties.

Oct. 9th, noonish: Hobble around the hell that is Wal-Mart with an injured ankle. Purchase candy corn-colored felt.

Oct. 9th, oneish: Realize forgot to purchase padding for costume.

Oct. 13th: Purchase padding. Add to forgotten container with pattern and candy corn-colored felt.

Oct. 24th: Sick realization that Halloween is a week away. Have forgotten location of forgotten storage container. Locate container. Place on dining room table. Forget.

Oct. 25th, oneish: Ponder working on costume while child naps. Ponder for a full hour, until child wakes up way too early from nap.

Oct. 25th, sevenish: Complain to blogosphere about how costume ain't gonna make itself.

Oct. 25th, seven-nineteenish: Contemplate distaste for the word "blogosphere", as well as dislike of candy corn. And circus peanuts.

Oct. 26th: Blow off costume-making in favor of dinner with friend.

Oct. 27th: Repeat.

Oct. 28th: Panic. Frantically begin work on costume. Forget how to use scissors. Stab self in the left hand.

Oct. 29th: Repeat. Stab self in the right hand.

Oct. 30th: Give up. Let the child go to Boo in the Zoo dressed like this:

When people inquire about her costume, tell them she's going as a half-naked damn dirty hippie.

Oct. 31st: Too cold to be a half-naked damn dirty hippie. Construct hump to place on child's back. When people inquire about her costume, tell them she's going as Riff-Raff from Rocky Horror Picture Show. To whit:

Clara Jane's natural hairdo:

Commercially-available Riff-Raff wig that we won't need to purchase, thanks to Mother Nature:

Nov. 1: Eat clearanced fun-sized Snickers bar. Throw sewing machine from roof.

Posted by Robin at 06:57 PM | Comments (14)

October 24, 2005

Post-Birthday Bliss

This is the last post regarding my birthday, I promise. I tried to find a way to work "post-coital" into "post-birthday", but it just didn't work. Besides, I think I've used the phrase "post-coital" three times already today, and if you're not a sex therapist there's probably a limit on how many times one can use that phrase in a day without getting beaten. At least, there should be.

Before the party, as before most gatherings, I threw together a little iTunes playlist for the night, consisting of over nine hours of music. I thought that was a bit excessive when I tossed it together, but by the time the slumber party portion of the evening began, we'd made a full musical loop. Now, I can't stop listening to it. Not like there's anything new on it; it's all stuff that was already in my library. I'm just really digging it. Likewise, I'm digging the little mix I gave out for party favors.*

And in final party news, apparently I have really good-looking friends. For the past two days I've been inundated with emails peppered with, "Oh, she's so cute!" "Oh my God, he's hot!" Who knew? We're like Studio 5-fricking-4 over here. Apparently I even had some rockin' hair going on by the end of the night. You know, once it was molded into place because I kept spilling apple martini on my hand, then running it through my hair.

I have never felt more like Paris Hilton in my entire life.

*You want the track list, don't you? It's a very loosely age-related little collection. Enjoy.

1. This Will Be Our Year - OK Go
2. To Be Young (is to be sad, is to be high) - Ryan Adams
3. Mother's Little Helper - Rolling Stones
4. Evil - Interpol
5. Bastards of Young - Replacements
6. Growing Up - Bruce Springsteen
7. The Bucket - Kings of Leon
8. The Sound of Settling - Death Cab for Cutie
9. Beautiful Child - Rufus Wainwright
10. The Hardest Button to Button - White Stripes
11. When You Wake Up Feeling Old - Wilco
12. The World at Large - Modest Mouse
13. The Idea of Growing Old - The Features**
14. The Good Life - Weezer
15. In These Shoes? - Kirsty MacColl
16. Big Girls are Best - U2
17. I Burn Today - Frank Black
18. Rockin' the Suburbs - Ben Folds
19. Ob-La-De, Ob-La-Da - Beatles
20. Rock n' Roll Lifestyle - Cake

**This song kinda makes me fall for B. all over again.

Posted by Robin at 09:13 PM | Comments (6)

October 23, 2005

Good Things about 33

33 1/3 record albums.

The "33" on the bottles of my beloved Rolling Rock.

Likewise 1933 was the year Prohibition ended.

33 degrees - one degree above freezing. Cold enough to make me happy. Warm enough to prevent me from busting my ass on the sidewalk.

33 miles from my current house to this one, which I would love to call home by the time I turn 34.

Things I've Enjoyed so Far About Being 33

Having Ketel One apple martinis poured down my gullet by Stacey. My liver and I are no longer on speaking terms.

Fondling Beth's gorgeous hand-knit sweater.

Picking Angie's brain about the publishing biz.

Discussing the immense fear of producing baby #2 with the other Angie. Not that the other Angie and I are planning to reproduce together. We're not. I didn't get that drunk.

Making out a little with Mindy's gorgeous little dog. Yeah, that's totally sick, but I only did it because her dog (on the left) looks a lot like Anderson Cooper.

Commiserating with Jane about the new guy at our coffeehouse, who doesn't understand the concepts of "gift certificates" and "dozen".

Seeing Chris for the first time in a year and a half. He was here maybe ten minutes before he was doing illegal things on my computer. It's good that in a world of change, some things remain constant.

The way PKB kept pouncing on Kara.

Attempting to knock the little spikes out of Joe's hair with wads of gift wrap. He's never going to want to come back to my house, and I can't say I blame him.

The lovely hand gesture Kara flung over her should in my general direction as she stomped off to bed.

The birthday gift I got from B. I ain't saying anything else other than I'm not talkin' about my newly-painted kitchen this time.

The birthday was tragedy-free and great fun. I can't remember ever feeling this great on Oct. 23rd. And that's even with all those appletinis.

Posted by Robin at 01:17 PM | Comments (15)

October 22, 2005

More birthday goodess

Did you know I have a birthday twin? Well, I do. She's the good twin, seeing as she's a doctor and I'm a professional loudmouth slack.

You know what makes for a happy birthday? Finding the Bono edition of Rolling Stone in today's mail, full of 16 pages of Bonoey goodness.

Posted by Robin at 02:45 PM | Comments (2)

It's October 22

...which usually means I'm dour and awful. But guess what.

I'm in a good mood. Happy, even.

I'm thankful that I have an awesome family and fabulous friends.

I got carded last night for the second time in a week.

Yep, 33's pretty darn good so far.

Posted by Robin at 12:54 PM | Comments (9)

October 21, 2005

Friday Shuffle - The Completely Irritated Edition

First we'll shuffle my myriad list of irritations, then we'll shuffle the iTunes.

1. The audio and video drop-outs on my Tivo, rendering every program unwatchable. The cable company can't fix it until next Friday. (But they are giving us a 2-week credit on our bill.)

2. I'll be 33 years old tomorrow and my chin has become a large zit ranch.

3. Have I mentioned that I hate my birthday?

4. My grandmother died 14 years ago today.

5. Cranky, cranky child.

6. Public spelling and grammar corrections. I was briefly friends with the most self-loathing person in the world. The one thing that made her feel better: publically correcting spelling, grammar and pronunciation. She was bilingual, which made her twice as obnoxious.

7. I left a bag in Peoria containing Clara "Fusspot" Jane's favorite babydoll, my favorite pink t-shirt and a bunch of curry crisps Sal brought me from London. No one can find it.

8. Certain people who live in this house participating in a certain incommunicado behavior that drives me up the motherfucking wall.

9. I develop a cough every year that lasts through October until Thanksgiving. It's an unproductive, completely frivilous cough that makes me sound like I need an iron lung.

10. I should be in Cabo right now, celebrating the union of my pal Big Daddy B. and his partner Gabe. Instead, I'm in cloudy, rainy Missouri with my whiny child, my chin zits, my birthday dread and my bad spelling.

And now, the soundtrack...

1. Crucify - Tori Amos
2. Josephine - Tori Amos

(You know you're having a rough day when Tori shows up twice in a row.)

3. Very Ape - Nirvana
4. Four Kicks - Kings of Leon
5. Don't Know When But a Day is Gonna Come - Bright Eyes
6. Fly Me to the Moon - Frank Sinatra
7. Pepita - Calexico
8. Waiting to Derail - Whiskeytown
9. Cornflake Girl - Tori Amos (Really. It's a very bad day.)
10. Guantanamere - Celia Cruz

Posted by Robin at 09:01 AM | Comments (4)

October 20, 2005

Why I Wish Target Had Self-Checkout

Because I really don't like to make eye contact with the person who's ringing up my condoms and Boudreaux's Butt Paste.

And yet, I have no problem telling you people about buying condoms and Boudreaux's Butt Paste. Hmm.

Posted by Robin at 04:02 PM | Comments (3)

October 19, 2005

Code Red

As predicted, the flu bug is a particularly weak one. It strikes rapidly, then wimpers in the corner for a day or two, it seems. Clara "van Winkle" Jane seems to be back to normal, aside from adopting an extended sleep schedule. She's currently at 13 hours and counting.

I'm feeling much better. My digestive system is no longer using extreme hostility to evict anything that dares enter its realm. In fact, it's currently begging for friends. "Please coffee," it whines, "please come. Sit with me. We'll talk. I'll give you a hug. It'll be keen. I won't throw you across the room again, I promise. And hey - bring your friend jelly donut with you, won't you?"

It's silly to say that I hate being sick. I mean, who doesn't hate being sick? Oh, wait... nevermind. Just forget I said that, okay? I've had enough of being laid-up in the past ten days to last me a whole year, as far as I'm concerned. I've got things to do!

For my birthday, B. finally - finally - finished painting my kitchen, and it's given me the urge to clean my entire house top-to-bottom, an activity I started on Monday before my digestive system went AWOL.

Let me tell you about this paint job: From the day we moved into our house in early 1999, we have lived by one solid rule: no colorless rooms. Ever. We started with bright pastels, which isn't nearly as awful as it sounds. Think Fiestaware Three years later, I decided we needed a change. Our pale blue with teal trim living room became a deep jewel-toned aquamarine with bright white trime. The light teal with pale blue trim dining room transformed into a rich eggplant-purple with bright white trim. And my kitchen? It's lemony-yellow walls with deep teal trim were to become a bright, pure red and bright white.

I bought the paint for the kitchen in January, 2003 and we immediately set to work.

Did you know that red is the hardest color to paint because it takes around 80 coats for it to cover anything?

Did you also know that trying to cover deep teal paint with red paint is almost as easy a bleeding enough blood to paint a kitchen red?

After several cabinet doors, which became a quarter of an inch deeper, thanks to the 800 layers of paint, we got frustrated and quit. During this phase of unfinished kitchen moping, we accepted the fact that we were going to have to start all over, this time using a heavy-duty primer in order to make the red work. And to throw another monkey wrench into the plan, I got pregnant.

One weekend that August, when I was around three months pregnant, I went out of town for the weekend. When I returned, I was thrilled to see that half my kitchen had been transformed into red and white goodness. It's lovely, really. Sleek white walls with bright red cabinet doors. I adored it.

That was the last painting that occured in my kitchen. It was like a set of railroad tracks ran through the middle of the room. On one side of the tracks, we have a gorgeous, well-maintained, tasteful room. On the other, ghetto.

A few weeks ago we were at an arts fair and I was wistfully fondling a pair of Allison's potholders, wanting to buy a pair but knowing that the thugs on the ghetto side of the kitchen would just steal them. Then it hit me: I've got a birthday coming up. I'm leaving town and taking Clara Jane with me the weekend before said birthday. B. doesn't have enough to do with his time. "Oh, B.," I called. "I know what I want for my birthday. I want to come home from Peoria and find a newly painted kitchen." For motivation. I bought a pair of potholders. Red and black potholders, which I hung over the stove in the ghetto to remind him.

I came home from Peoria and what did I find? A newly red and white kitchen! And it's gorgeous, I tell you. Gorgeous! Save for one cabinet door and drawer front, who keep balking at this whole "kitchen gentrification" program. They'd like to keep their crack house, thank you very much.

The side of the kitchen that was painted two years ago, the snobby fucking bastards.

The newly gentrified side of the kitchen, with its lone ghetto hold-out in the bottom left corner, just waiting to cut you when you sneak out for a midnight snack.

Posted by Robin at 08:56 AM | Comments (11)

October 18, 2005

Diseased

If you read about the traveling vomitorium, you might have wondered what, exactly, caused Clara "Urp!" Jane to puke her way across five central Illinois counties. That's because I didn't know. I thought that maybe, since she'd coughed a bit, that she gagged on a bit of snot. That would be my fault. My gag reflex is non-existant. It's not unusual for me to throw up a little if I get too enthusiastic about brushing my tongue. So, maybe the kid has inherited this delightful quirk from me.

There was a horrifying moment during the drive - actually, the whole drive was horrifying, but this part was extra-horrifying - when I was on the phone with my mom and she declared that it sounded like carsickness. I get carsick. Kara gets carsick. If Clara Jane gets carsick, too? That means we're trapped in a vehicle with three people who blow chunks just by merit of being in a vehicle!!!. Suddenly, abandoning the truck on the side of the road and walking the 100 miles from Springfield, Illinois to St. Louis, just because there would be no vomit seems like a fine idea. Road kill, yes, but no vomit.

Now I know it wasn't carsickness or stray phlegm that caused Sunday's Festivale de Regurge'. I knew at precisely 5:27 p.m. last night. I had been tired and cranky, so I banished Clara Jane and B. from the house. I braised myself in an exceptionally long, hot shower then retired to the couch. I had just finished a bowl of Cheerios when it hit me. Hit me hard, straight in the gut, like a 100 megaton whole-grain bomb.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have the flu.

I spent the night in fevered sleep, awaking only so my body could expell every single item that has entered it in the past three days. The worst seems to have passed. Now, I'm just hungry, tired and dehydrated. My hands have turned into camel humps, storing every bit of moisture in my body. And boy, if the colors aren't lovely. That whole lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of liquid, fevered delirium? It's better than drugs, my friends. Better than drugs.

Let's hope this is the bad birthday mojo for this year, and that it'll pass quickly.

Posted by Robin at 10:13 AM | Comments (6)

October 16, 2005

Welcome to the Traveling Vomitorium, Serving Central Illinois!

Clara "Chunky-Style Milk" and I have made it home from our foray into the rural wildnerness near Peoria, Illinois. And wild, it was.

Friday, we hit the road with Jess. Let me tell you something about Jess. I didn't know this, even though I've known Jess quite a long time, but Jess is a diety. A diety. To toddlers. My toddler, in particular.

All weekend, anytime Jess would float into Clara Jane's line of vision, my child would drop whatever she was doing, her face turning slack and dreamy, index finger extended in awe while whispering, "It's Jessssssssss. Jessssssssssss." Clara Jane would then proceed to climb all over Jess, kiss her and demand to hear The Word read by her god's own voice.

It made the three-hour drive much easier, that's for sure.

Friday night was Stonecutter Insanity at Cyn's gorgeous house. Sal was there, all the way from England. Sarah was there, all the way from the other side of town. Beege was there from Minnesota with a slight side-trip to Wisconsin. We also had two Canadians and representatives from South Carolina, Texas, Minnesota, Motown, California. And, of course, Jess is from Oregon. And I'm from Missouri. But we've established that. Anyway, out of that hugely varied group, there were only three people I hadn't previously met. Told you the Stonecutters were different from your typical online group.

After the bruhaha died down, a handful of us spent some time visiting after the babies were in bed for the night. While Jess doesn't have kids, Beege has a daughter who's two weeks older than Clara Jane, and Cyn has a son ten months younger than her. Of course, most of the conversation, with much apologies to Jess, involved topics like contractions, vaginal rips and passing large blood clots. I'm sorry.

The other moms talked about how quickly and easily they took to motherhood. I didn't. Even though I wanted to have a baby, I felt like I had to be drug into motherhood kicking and screaming. Not that I didn't love Clara Jane from the moment she was born. Or the moment I found out I was pregnant. Or even before I got pregnant. I did. I just didn't adjust well. It's just now, after 20 months of parenthood, that it's starting to feel right and normal for me.

Until this trip, I had never spent more than 12 hours alone with my daughter. While I can't remember those few occasions we were together that long, I recall most of them ending with me meeting B. at the door when he arrived home and handing Clara Jane to him as I sprinted out the door. Does that make me feel like less of a mother? Hell yes.

Friday night Clara Jane and I both had some sleep issues, which led to some antisocial behavior on Saturday since she desperately needed to nap. We bailed on the outing to Cyn's shop and lunch in favor of having a well-rested child at the hog roast, instead of an exhausted child who, in a fit of rage, might start shoving people into the bonfire while growling, "Back off, Bitch!"

Speaking of hog roasts, what fun! You know, I'm from midwestern farm stock. For my birthday when I was a kid we used to set a big bonfire for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows, followed by a big creepy ride through the woods in a hay wagon. While I'm all city girl now, my country genes still managed to find their way to my daughter, who shoveled pork into her mouth by the fistfuls, had barbeque beans stuck to her sleeve all the way up to her armpit, and followed dinner by getting on the table (in the barn) and having a little country hoedown.

There was a ceremony after dinner. I'm not into ceremonies. My own wedding was barely a ceremony. It was just an excuse to hang out by the cornfield and eat barbeque in my bare feet with 120 family members and friends. Time spent in ceremonies is time I'd rather spend talking and laughing with my pals.

But we had a ceremony after dinner. And like the country gene, Clara Jane also got my anti-ceremony gene. While everyone else was solmenly contemplating the bond of our group, she was shrieking, "Let's go home! Ready skeady go go go! Let's go home!". Except when she was yelling, "It's funny! It's funny, Mama!" during the particularly serious passages.

And this is why we don't go to church.

Because of the sleep issues the previous night, we shared a hotel room with my local pal Stacey, who made the trip on Saturday with her 5-year-old daughter C. and Kara. Our girls adore each other, and I had fun snuggling in bed with both kiddos, trying to explain to C. why they were inflating a duck with an air compressor on Iron Chef America. I told her they were making duck balloons; I don't think she bought it.

We got a great night's sleep and were up and ready for breakfast bright and early. I used the last baby wipe in my pack with Clara Jane's morning diaper, so we took off a bit early to make a Wal-Mart run before meeting everyone else. We got our wipes and were on our way out when out of nowhere, Clara Jane coughed twice, looked at me with absolute horror, and launched roughly two cups of fetid milk vomit down her front and over the cart handle onto my shoe.

You know that pecorino cheese I was crowing about a few days ago? I am so over it, because all that puke? It smelled just like the cheese. I never understood why my mom has always wretched at the mere mention of parmesan cheese, uttering, "Oh God, no ... baby puke ... no." Now, I understand. I understand all to well. This house will be a Velveeta house from now on.

So there we are, standing in the meat department of the Pekin, Illinois Wal-Mart Supercenter. One of us has a lapful of vomit. The other, a shoeful. And I'm frozen. I have absolutely no idea which way to go while Clara Jane cries and the other shoppers dodge us, apparently hard-of-smelling and unaware of the vomit bomb that has detonated. Do I abandon my cart and get my kid to the bathroom and clean her up? No, because then I'll have to carry her outside naked and it's a little too chilly to be outside naked. Do I abandon the cart and take her to the truck to change her clothes? No, because I need the wipes - that's the whole reason why we're spewing all over Wal-Mart in the first place.

Ultimately, I decided screw it. We need wipes to remedy this situation. And since I'm not willing - and wasn't carrying a big enough purse - to steal the wipes, we were just going to have to brave the check-out and hope that a vomit chain-reaction didn't start from the stench.

By this time the puking had stopped and Clara Jane was her usual self. A little listless and tired, but not upset. I changed her clothes and cleaned her, and we headed to breakfast. And again my brain raced, clueless on what to do. I should just start the three-hour drive home. But I don't want to be on the road in the middle of nowhere with a sick baby. Kara's coming with us. Should I feed the kid? What if there's a second, Nagasaki-style vomit bomb in the bombay, just waiting to unleash it's terror at Bob Evans? I decided the time at the restaurant might be a good idea, as it would give me a chance to make sure she wasn't seriously ill before we were in the middle of nowhere and unable to find a hospital.

She refused to sit in a seat at the restaurant. She refused to sit on my lap. I could only hold her. So we sat at the end of the table against the wall, and she lay against my chest, unfevered but exhausted. She'd perk up, then press her face back into my skin. And when Jess came to the table, Clara Jane found the strength to genuflect and chant her words of worship and praise. When breakfast came, she refused the bland pancakes and lunged straight for the bacon. I conceded her one piece, along with sips of apple juice, knowing that I was probably making a big mistake.

I was making a big mistake. An hour into the drive, Clara Jane had just woken up from a nap and was playing with her Leap Pad when Little Man hit Nagasaki.

"Dude, did she eat onions?" Kara asked, holding a transluscent white regurgitated former food item up for me to inspect. We were at a truck stop and she was cleaning the puke out of the carseat while I put Clara Jane into the only clean clothes she had left - a pair of fleece Teletubbies jammies.

"She didn't have onions, and she picks onions out of her food. I think that's bacon fat," I said, mentally adding all the cured pork products to my list of foods whose smells now activate my gag reflex.

Cleaned, we got back on the road. The third, much smaller bomb arrived half an hour later. Since we were out of clean clothes, we kept driving. She dozed the final hour and we arrived home. Once there, she was her usual self. Happy and excited, but tired. She dozed most of the afternoon. Threw up one more time, but eventually ate some crackers and Cheerios, washed down with Pedialyte.

Generally after these gatherings I'm filled with stories of the people I met and the hijinx. But not this time. While it was great to see everyone and I had fun, the weekend was really about Clara Jane and me. I did it. I was her only available parent for three days, and we went through something incredibly unfun with the lack of sleep and exhaustion. But we survived and even had a great time despite the problems.

I also found myself able to make sacrifices - and I hate to even use that word, but I can't think of a better one - for my daughter. Yes, it would have been nice to go shopping and have lunch with the rest of the group, but bowing out for my daughter's sake felt right and good. When people would lunge to take her from my arms, shrieking, "Oh! Let me hold her!", it felt good and right to take the step back and politely refuse.

It felt good and right to snuggle in a hotel bed with my sleeping girl. To change every diaper. To feed her every meal. All without help. Because now I know I can do it. I've questioned and doubted my parenting ability since her disasterously bad birth. For the first time, I'm not questioning anymore.

If that means spending my weekend bonding with my daughter and identifying vomited food particles with Kara, well, that's not a bad life. Not bad at all. Anything else that comes along is cake.

Although I'll miss the bacon and cheese, though. I'll miss it a lot.

Posted by Robin at 06:22 PM | Comments (12)

October 13, 2005

Pluck You

As promised, I hauled my shaggy, shaggy eyebrows and my Fu-Manchuesque chin to the salon today and paid somebody to rip the hairs from the face part of my head.

Let me repeat...

I paid someone to rip the motherfucking hair from my face.

Let me tell you, that is some hurting shit.

I have the utmost respect for the people who have chosen to dedicate their lives to making us kinky-headed, hirsute, pasty-fleshed, dimpled-assed behemouths palatable for the general public. And to lie me down on a comfy massage table, blindfold me lay a warm lavender-scented cloth over my eyes, and tell me what a beautiful brow I have in the process? My God, you are an angel.

That having been said, I had a weird thought while I was lying on that table, having my face plucked clean like a fancy hairless cat. What leads someone to be a professional plucker? I know the obvious connection: perfect career for someone who couldn't quite cut it in the dominatrix/pain infliction field. But that's far too simple and demeaning.

And then I had another thought. I know someone - and I think we all know someone like this - who cannot keep her hands off the grossest, most awful things the human body produces. This person I know, I have seen her thrill in squeezing of blackheads that don't belong to her. Got a sunburn? Call her when you start peeling, because she really wants to be the one to grab that wrinkle of dead skin at your waist and carefully pull it until it reaches your neck in one full sheet.

While she has made a successful career for herself in a field that doesn't involve pus and plucking, I think she might have missed her calling, a line of work that would truly fulfill her. She could have made a fortune with a pair of tweezer and a vat of hot wax.

I think my plucker might have been able to read these thoughts while she worked. And while I didn't mean them in a malicious manner at all, I think she might have taken them as they weren't intended.

This is my newly-shaped brow:

Lovely, no?

Look closely at the far left edge of my brow.

Now, look at the far right edge of the right eyebrow:

My eyebrows, they are to the extreme. I rock the mike like a vandal. Light up the stage and wax my brow like a candle.

Posted by Robin at 11:06 PM | Comments (7)

October 12, 2005

Minutia

Now that I've typed the title, I'm not sure how to spell "minutia". Minutea? Boring-ass piddly crap? Yeah, that's it.

I'm thinking about getting my eyebrows waxed tomorrow. Now that my ankle is back to its original lemon-sized proportions, and the menstrual cramps that have been tearing through my midsection like a buzzsaw have all passed, I find that I'm not experiencing enough physical suffering to accomodate the degree of complaining I wish to do. Bring on the molten wax and the ripping strips!

If there is a cheese finer than pecorino, I think I would die of bliss if it passed my lips.

I've been listening to one of Kara's mixes in my truck. It contain's "Hungry, So Angry" by The Monks. I'm convinced it's a song about hypoglycemia. Have some pecorino and cheer up, Little '80s Dude.

Clara "My Mother is Mind-Numbingly Dull" Jane didn't sprout any Swedes from her face today. It was a good day.

I got carded yesterday while buying a 12-pack of Boulevard for this weekend's Stonecutters gathering. Carded. While not wearing makeup. Eleven days before my 33rd birthday. I think that might be the happiest moment of my life. Unless I get carded next year.

This might be my final dispatch for awhile. Tomorrow's my low-tech writing day, followed by dinner with Kara and Jess. Friday, I'll be hitting the road with Jess and Clara Jane, not returning until Sunday. Aren't you glad I made my last post a good one?

Posted by Robin at 09:44 PM | Comments (6)

October 11, 2005

Swedish Meatballs

I was thrilled when I read this news story yesterday about how a bunch of pediatricians are debunking the myths regarding what foods babies should have first. When Clara "Gourmand" Jane first started solid foods, I skipped the rice cereal and jarred mush. For one thing, Clara Jane has been constipated since the day she was born. Rice? That's one of the foods that brings diarrhea to a halt. Giving rice to a constipated baby seemed a little nuts to me. I might as well have gotten in her little moonpie face and cackled, "Bwahahahahaha!!!! You're never going to poop again, Little Girl!" So we went straight to white peaches, which were locally in season at the time. A month later, the kid was chowing on smoked pork, and we haven't looked back.

She loves Vietnamese food. Thai food. Mexican food. She dips everything in salsa. Hey - she's getting lots of veggies that way! Chinese food. Scottish food; last week we discovered that Clara Jane totally digs the haggis. We've gotten a lot of odd looks at the various ethnic restaurants we've tried. To which B. and I say, "Guess what. Babies in Vietnam? They eat Vietnamese food everyday! And those kids in Mexico? They eat Mexican food everyday!"

Why am I bringing this up? I'm not sure. Other than I don't do much bragging about my child on this blog, so I thought I'd gloat about her a bit.

Today we had lunch at the kiddo's current favorite place, Qdoba. Forget the plain cheese quesadillas for my kid. She's all about the soft taco with spicy shredded beef and salsa verde. So happy the taco makes her that she must stand in the booth while she eats! And dance! There must be dancing to convey the joy that is the soft taco with spicy shredded beef and salsa verde!

My apologies to the employee charged with cleaning our booth when we were finished. While my child didn't fling the contents of her taco all over the floor, booth and table, she did throw a bit of shredded beef, which stuck to the window. I intended to remove it myself, I really did, but I got distracted.

How did I get distracted? By my dancing carnivore pepperhead child, that's how. When ABBA's "Dancing Queen" comes on at Qdoba, apparently it's the signal for all dancing carnivore pepperhead children to stand on the booth, spinning and twirling a' la Bernadette Bassenger. But with the twirling, there comes a great risk. And that risk brings with it the chance that the dancing carnivore pepperhead child might get dizzy and fall, cracking her forehead on the edge of the table.

First rule of dining in public: the quickest way to end a perfectly wonderful dance routine is to face-plant on the table. Trust your mother on this one, Child, for she knows.

The big Swedish meatball that's sprouted from Clara Jane's forehead? I call it Bjorn.

Posted by Robin at 02:16 PM | Comments (11)

October 10, 2005

Oh, Sweet Lord, the Boredom!

It's all or nothing around here, People.

My ankle? Still swollen to citrus-fruit-proportions, but now it's more in the tangelo range instead of grapefruit, so that's good. Sore, but improving. I can walk without clinging, Spiderman-like, to the wall. Now I just lurch around the house like the undead.

I also seem to have contracted Liver's Revenge - a nasty cough that develops when one's liver is perturbed and gets the lungs in cahoots on its revenge plans.

I'll tell you a sick little secret: I used to like being sick. I loved having an excuse to do absolutely nothing. The opportunity to spend a day lying in bed, watching crappy talk shows, reading, and snoozing was worth the price of a headache cough or, perhaps, even a little dry heaving.

I don't feel that way anymore. For the past two days I have stayed in my pajamas, neglected my basic hygeine, and catnapped, all in the name of "getting better". And while my physical health has improved, I am so ever-loving bored I can't hardly stand myself.

That will change shortly, I'm sure. Jess arrives on Thursday. Friday we're heading to Cyn and Sara's for a big Stonecutters gathering, which also features - but isn't limited to - Sal, Kara and Beege.

And a week after that? I'll be turning 33. As some of you may be aware, I have birthday issues. Specifically, I have really bad birthdays. My long streak of birthday bad luck began when my mother went into labor with me during my uncle's wake. My previous 32 birthdays have included four deaths, two dead pets, a car wreck, a bout of pneumonia, an ugly break-up, two instances of friend drama, a couple of years of parental drama, and enough neuroses and anxiety attacks to keep a good shrink bogged in paperwork for years. And that's just what it says on the invitation for the party I'm throwing on my birthday. That's right - my birthday, the day I usually reserve for sitting in my closet, listening to Pink Floyd and weeping*, this year is going to be spent with my friends, at my house. Which means this will be the year my house bursts into flames with all my friends in it. And that is anything but boring.

*I would never actually spend my birthday sitting in the closet, listening to Pink Floyd and weeping. I fucking hate Pink Floyd. I would listen to Gwar.

Posted by Robin at 05:55 PM | Comments (10)

October 09, 2005

You Take the Good, You Take the Bad

You take the both and there you have my Saturday.

The good: Kara, Angie and I made a little trip to Gordon's Stoplight Diner, est. 1948, for Jumbo Burgers. That would be a crispy little grilled burger swimming in grilled onions, barbeque sauce and slaw. And yes, it's just as delightful as it sounds. I'd eat another one for lunch today, if I had one.

The bad: While I was perched on a stool at the counter, I had my right ankle cocked at a weird angle. When we were ready to leave, I thought, "Hmm, it seems my foot has fallen asleep. Oh well. Feet fall asleep. No big deal." I jumped off the stool and started to the cash register, only to have my entire foot go numb.

Well, numb until the seering black pain of my ankle ligament twisting brought an end to the blissfully unaware numbness.

Yelling "Oh shit!" in the middle of a tiny small-town diner where many little old ladies are enjoying their onion rings? Probably not a good way to entice the diner to send a regular supply of Jumbo Burgers to my doorstep an hour away.

The good: After lunch I had a meeting with the editor of the new print edition of Arch City Chronicle. You see, they have hired me to write restaurant reviews for them. So go subscribe, okay?

Anyway, we were meeting at a local coffeehouse to discuss the particulars. Very cool. Totally different than my last professional magazine writing experience, which makes me very happy.

Over the past few weeks I've emailed with the editor and sent quite a few clips of my writing, but I never mentioned my blog. I mean, if you were trying to get a job, would you send the URL to your expletive-filled verbal vomitting recepticle? Of course not. But someone directed him to my blog.

"And you still want to hire me? Really?" I asked.

I present to you, the opposite of "dooced". I have been "poppied" - hired because of my blog.

The bad: Of course, I was a bit off-kilter when I arrived at the coffeehouse. I had just driven 45 minutes with a very sore ankle, and I was facing, essentially, a job interview, even though I'd already been offered the job. The coffeehouse is in a residential neighborhood with off-street parking. I arrived just in time for my meeting, parked, and hobbled to the meeting spot.

I had been at the coffeehouse for the exact amount of time it takes to make a latte - five minutes, tops - when a man stuck his head in the door and annouced, "Does someone here drive a green Ford truck?" I immediately stepped up and said that I do. "It's blocking my driveway."

I apologized profusely and immediately - immediately - darted out the door to fix the situation. I admitted that I made a stupid, careless mistake by accidentally blocking three feet of his driveway, and hopped fast to rectify the situation. All while the offended party stood in his yard, snarking, "You can't tell me that you didn't notice you parked in front of my driveway. Surely you're not that stupid."

He continued slinging insults my way the whole time I was moving my truck until finally, I got out of my truck, stood in the middle of the street and screamed, "I am so, so, so sorry for the awful, horrific mild inconvenience I have thrust upon you. I hope to God you're able to recover from my terrible oversight!" before storming back to the coffeehouse.

Well, storming back as well as my grapefruit-sized ankle would allow. The guy wasn't even going anywhere, nor did he have someone trying to park in his driveway.

And can I just say that I really hate myself when someone's being an asshole and I can't resist the urge to stoop to his level? I would have loved to have done some awful things to this guy. I really would have. And that makes me feel sick.

I just don't get people. I really don't. Yeah, I know I'd be pissed if someone blocked my driveway. It's happened before. I also know that when I ask the person to move the car and they're apologetic and willing to do so, I don't stand in my yard and hurl insults at the person.

So, good: awesome lunch with great friends, and a fab new job.

And bad: I can't walk and my faith in humanity has taken another blow.

Seems like a fair trade-off.

Posted by Robin at 11:52 AM | Comments (10)

October 08, 2005

A Message From My Liver

Dear Robin:

It's been almost 33 years since we began our relationship, and most of that time has been been excellent. Well, except for 1992-1997, when you had the mistaken idea that tequila packaged in plastic bottles, Old Crow bourbon, and Jello shots were good ideas. There have been occasional missteps along the way. Like when your favorite bar closed a few years ago. You polished off that bottle of gin, then threw yourself across the bar to give the bartender a farewell salute neither he nor your husband quite expected. Not one of your finer moments. And quite frankly, I don't care that it was really expensive, small-batch imported gin, made with the finest of juniper berries. By the time it gets to me, I'm going to treat it the same way I treated the $4 Old Crow. Livers are notoriously fair and do not discriminate based on race, color, creed or price. I don't care if it's moonshine in a Mason jar or a $240 bottle of Balvenie 25-year-old single-malt Scotch. Drink enough of either, and I'll make sure it's nothing more than a big pile of biley goo that'll make you wish you were never born.

You've been exceptionally good to me for the past few years. Maybe it's because you're now in your 30s and have learned to exercise restraint while respecting your body. Perhaps motherhood has enlightened you to the importance of not behaving like a sailor on shore leave. As your liver, I want you to know that I whole-heartedly appreciate the level of care and love you have used in caring for me over the past few years.

That having been said, I think we need to have a talk. I'm tired, Robin. So very, very tired. I know you haven't done anything excessive. A couple of beers and a splash of bourbon during the course of a three and a half concert last night? Fine. But tonight? Tonight was too much. First you punish me with a flaming hot chile-encrusted beef dish at Pho Grand. But then ... then ... you just had to go to Absolutli Goosed. You just had to, didn't you?

Why do you hate me, Robin? Really. Why? What have I ever done to you?

Three cocktails. I know, it's not that excessive. You've done much worse. But after last night? I'm tired, Robin. So very, very tired. You wouldn't force your 80-yeara-old grandfather to run a marathon, would you? Of course not! So why do you expect me to work so hard, after all the years of service I've given you?

And don't think I can be appeased with frozen four-cheese pizza snarfed down at midnight. I'm not one of your low-class friends who gets excited over a three-pound tub of Laffy Taffy or a $1.50 package of tuna curry. I can't be bought with greasy, protein-laden processed foods. Oh, you can try, but I'll have the final say in this situation. This, I promise you.

I hear a nasty rumor that you have intentions of further abusing me with greasy diner food in roughly twelve hours. I just don't understand it. If I had a heart, you surely would have broken it by now.

Please, Robin. Handle me with care and love. I promise I'll make it worth your while. However, if you choose to continue on this path you have recently chosen, I'll make you feel like I'm trying to escape the prison of your body with a pick ax and a sledge hammer.

Your faithful liver,
Liver

PS - Your kidneys would like to have a word with you about the four cups of coffee and two large lattes you consumed yesterday. However, they are not as articulate as me. They're just floating in your lower back, giving you the finger.

Posted by Robin at 12:03 AM | Comments (9)

October 07, 2005

Friday Shuffle - The Small Town Edition

I had two small town moments yesterday:

First - I was doing my usual Thursday thing, which involves dropping Clara "Cougar Mellencamp" Jane at daycare, then spending the day at my favorite coffeehouse, writing until my fingers bleed. I do so love my Thursdays.

Yesterday was even better. I was going into writing hour #5 when the cute little Thursday barista started jumping up and down and squealing, "Parade! Parade!" before bolting out the door. Oddly enough, she makes a mean espresso, but doesn't consume it. And yet she bounces around like a cranked-up spider monkey. I love her.

Because of her tendancy for drama and excitment, I thought maybe she thought the traffic lined up at the stoplight up the block. But no, there really was a parade marching up the street, complete with 76 trombones and coronets, cheerleaders, tractors and girls with tiaras in convertables.

One of the owners and I joined the barista on the sidewalk. The owner is also an elementary school teacher, and many of the high schoolers in the parade had been through her class. There were a lot of happy screams of, "Hey! Mrs. H!", followed by showers of Tootsie Rolls and Laffy Taffy. Then there were the gruff, slightly hostiles screams of, "Hey! Mrs. H!", followed by rocket-launched candy that might have taken her head off had she not stepped aside. Instead, the candy slammed into the plate glass window (which was recently replaced after someone threw a chair through it).

"Hey, Mrs. H.," I said. "There goes your window again."

"Shut up!" And then she slammed my knuckles with a ruler.

Watching the parade was one of those weird moments, where it doesn't feel like I'm in a major metro area. I'm a smalltown girl, born and bred in a town with a population just under 20,000. The parade made me feel like I was back there. It was sweet.

It was also funny to see the junior class with their Italian-themed float, blasting "Chatahoochie" by Alan Jackson.

That night, Kara and I ventured to the New Pornographers show. She's already reviewed the show, along with the few witty things I had to say, so I won't repeat. I will say that I had a moment during the show when it hit me: when I was a kid, growing up in that small town, one of the things I dreamed about was so simple: going to concerts. Something so simple, something I take for granted because it's such a routine thing in my life, and yet that was one of my childhood dreams. Wow. Dreams really do come true.

And right now, I'm dreaming about a shuffle. And dancing.

1. Comparison - Nina Simone
2. Dance Song '97 - Sleater-Kinney
3. Pounding - The Doves
4. Standing in the Shower Thinking - Jane's Addiction
5. The Day John Henry Died - Drive-By Truckers
6. No Expectations - Rolling Stones
7. At the Foot of Canal Street - Cowboy Mouth
8. Indianapolis - Bottle Rockets
9. Take Me Down to the Hospital - The Replacements
10. I'm a King Bee - Slim Harpo

Posted by Robin at 03:47 PM | Comments (1)

October 05, 2005

B.'s Fashion Corner

Every weekday for over five years, B. has spent 80 minutes a day - 40 minutes each way - riding the city bus and train to work and back. So many perks to public transportation: we were able to eliminate one of our vehicles, it's cheap, it's good for the environment, and it provides B. with some extra time to snooze or read, activities that are frowned upon while driving. Of course, it also provides him the opportunity to have fellow passengers remove his monthly Metro card from the book he's got propped on his chest while he's asleep. But that's only happened once.

My favorite part about B.'s public transporatation usage, though, isn't economical or environmental in nature. It's purely aesthetic. You see, some days B. comes home with fashion advice he has culled from his fellow passengers. Today, I'm thrilled to report, is one of those days.

"I saw this woman on the train," he said. "Built a little bigger than you. She was wearing one of those white things that are off-the-shoulder ... I don't know what they're called. But it was off the shoulder. I was behind her and I could tell that the fabric was sort of see-through ... sort of ... made from mottled, see-thruy stuff. And when she turned around, it was really obvious that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her boobs were about a foot long and down to here," he motions to his waist. "She could have put one over each shoulder."

This is why I don't buy fashion magazines. I don't have to, for I have the best, most comprehensive fashion resource sleeping next to me every night. Bet you didn't know that the B. stands for Blackwell, did you?

Posted by Robin at 04:56 PM | Comments (6)

October 04, 2005

The One Where I Get Branded as Unamerican and Get a Boot in My Ass

I fucking hate professional sports.

There. I said it. And I mean it. I hate professional sports.

This wasn't always the case. When I was a kid, I was completely obsessed with baseball and loved my Kansas City Royals with a passion and fervor most seven-year old girls reserve for Barbie and My Little Pony. Not me. I was too busy worshipping at the alter of George Brett.

That love began to die on October 22, 1980. My mom woke me up on that day of my eighth birthday to inform me that, as I peacefully slept with the knowledge that all was good and fair in my little world, the New York Yankees had beat my beloved Royals in the final game of the 1980 World Series.

A part of me began to wither and die that morning. The part of me that gives a shit about professional sports. It's never been revived.

Now, this doesn't mean that I have anything against people who do like professional sports. For the most part, anyway. I have plenty of loved ones and people I admire who dig sports, and their status as sports fans doesn't affect my love and admiration for them one bit.

That being said, I totally live in the wrong city. St. Louis, with it's Major League Baseball team, its minor league baseball team, its other minor league baseball team, its NFL franchise and its pro hockey team. It's sports overload, and it's often more than I can take.

Back in 2000, the Cardinals made the playoffs, which created a scheduling situation in which the baseball Cardinals, football Rams and hockey Blues had home games on the same Saturday. If the hardcore fans planned properly, it was possible to make every game.

I spent the weekend at home, frantically trying to find a doctor who would provide me with a BuSpar IV drip on the off chance that I had to leave my house and venture downtown for any reason. The only other time I was that desperate to remain as far away from the city limits was when the Pope came to town.

A few years ago I was spending a lot of time at a diner in my neighborhood. So much so that I knew everyone who worked there. One day, pre-Clara Jane, I was perched on a stool at the counter during the lunch rush. It was crowded, and I noticed my diner buddies were all pretty quiet and frantic. I assumed it was because of the lunch rush and paid no mind to the flutter of activity until my friend T. turned from the grill and whispered to me, "Don't look, but Jim Edmonds is sitting right behind you!"

"Who?" I asked around a mouthful of cheeseburger.

"Jim Edmonds!" she hissed.

"Who's that?"

"You don't know who Jim Edmonds is?"

"Should I?"

"How long have you lived in St. Louis?"

"Four years. Who's Jim Edmonds?"

"Shhhhhhhhh! He'll hear you!"

"Why should I care if he hears me when I don't know who the hell he is?"

So I didn't know that Jim Edmonds was the Hot Shot du Jour for the Cardinals. So what? Does that mean I should worry about being asked to move? Does that make me a bad citizen? Should I really have been that worried about my baseball-obsessed diner friends slipping something bad into my food because of my lack of local hero worship?

I saw Mr. Edmonds many, many more times after that, but never felt the need to pester him for an autograph. If it was local music heros Chuck Berry or Jeff Tweedy, I can promise you I would have been falling over myself for the opportunity to make an ass of myself. Baseball players? Not so much. I did enjoy watching others utililizing their own ass-making opportunities in the presence of Jim. It was routine for the staff to not tell new dishwashers (they had a new one every two weeks or so) that Jim was a regular. Just let them walk out of the kitchen one day to lay eyes on Big Jim and watch the clean plates fly right out of their arms. That never got old. Ever.

But today ... I had a work committment which led me into downtown this afternoon. I thought I'd be finished by the time today's Cardinals playoff game ended. Wrong. As I was coming off the highway, I spotted it. A sea of red. From the helicopters flying overhead, it probably looked like there had been a massive Hawaiian Punch spill covering much of the downtown area. A punch spill that rapidly surrounded my truck, swallowing me and my child. And suddenly, I felt the wrath of every Jim Edmonds fan I laughed at for acting stupid at the diner. For every snicker and guffaw, for all the shit I gave waitress L. for the gushing "I just love baseball and Jim Edmonds!" interview she gave a local reporter, for every new dishwasher who wet his pants with joy while I pointed and howled ... I felt their anger and their rage, my friends. I felt it. It was so close, I could smell it. It smelled like stale Budweiser and pork steaks.

Pro sports? Hate 'em. Sports fan? Fear 'em. Ticket to Siberia? Purchased.

Posted by Robin at 06:56 PM | Comments (13)

October 03, 2005

Tired.

I've been having major sleep issues lately. More specifically, a series of troubling emails this weekend that all landed in my mailbox in the wee hours kept me from getting enough sleep. Five hours of shut-eye coupled with the energy I spent ponder what in the hell my in-laws were doing in the bathroom together in the middle of the afternoon wears a girl out.

I'm a night owl, and I rarely darken the door of my bedroom before 11:30, no matter how tired I am. But last night I went to bed at 8 PM with intentions of doing a little reading until a respectable bedtime. That ended at 8:22 PM, when I startled awake with my book flattened on my face. I admitted defeat, rolled over, and remained out cold for 12 hours.

And yet, I'm completely exhausted right now. The only reason I'm writing this is because I'm too tired to get out of my desk chair and go to bed, and I've read everything of interest on the 'net. But if I remain in this chair without doing something, I'll once again be slumped, chin on my chest, and snoring in about twenty seconds.

Posted by Robin at 09:22 PM | Comments (6)

October 02, 2005

Quick & Painless

Wow.

They're gone.

The inlaws, they have come and gone.

I was engaged in a phone conversation with my beloved and ass-kicking pal, PKB, when I watched my inlaws enter the bathroom together and close the door. I, of course, ran to the other side of the house for fear of hearing ... hell, I don't know. I don't want to know. But they emerged and told us they had other pastures to visit.

And now I'll always wonder what transpired in the bathroom to merit such a hasty exit.

Posted by Robin at 04:09 PM | Comments (9)

October 01, 2005

In-Lawlessness, Day One

My in-laws were supposed to arrive at our house around nine-ish Saturday morning. The showed up at 6:45 on Friday night.

Luckily, we weren't home at the time. And since they don't have cell phones, we couldn't reach them at the casino. B. settled for leaving a message at their motel, telling them to arrive at our house around 9-ish Saturday morning

8 AM. B. nudged me awake. I was nowhere near ready to be awake. I had sleep issues last night, and was just hitting my REM stride when the nudge came. I staggered to the bathroom, where I promptly resumed dozing on a perch that was never intended for dozing. Outside the bathroom, I could hear Clara Jane's first stirrings, and B. entering her room, whispering his morning hellos ...

...which were punctuated with the bombastic trill of the doorbell, shrieking just outside Clara Jane's room, followed by the idiot dogs, leaping into action to protect! The! House! From! The! Doorbell!

8 AM. Naked and asleep on the toilet. They're here.

Eventually Clara Jane found her way into her high chair, and I sat beside her, pretending to feed her breakfast when she can feed herself just fine. I just needed some time for the coffee to hit my system. And that's when the flash erupted. Like I'm Britney fucking Spears, feeding my spawn at 8:12 AM on a Saturday morning. Except Britney looks slightly less homeless than I did at the time in my holey yoga pants, worn-thin maternity t-shirt, pendulous braless tits, bird's nest hair and eyes encrustulated with eye boogers.

"What are you doing?" I asked, but I was so incoherant that it probably sounds more like, "Please, kick me in the groin. I like it."

"I have so many photos of Clara Jane, but I don't have any of the two of you together," my MIL explained. "Smile!" *poof*

Great. Just great. I can already imagine how this is going to transpire. Next time my in-laws get together with the rest of the extended family, they'll pull out the photos of their trip to St. Louis to visit "the kids". Oh, look! There's Clara Jane at the pumpkin patch. How sweet! And there she is, hugging Chloe the Basset hound. Aw! A baby and a Basset hound - it's insulin shock printed on Kodak paper! And here ... here's Clara Jane, sharing a pear and some Cheerios with a homeless lady who wandered into her house. She muttered something about the hurting, the hurting and the voices. We didn't catch her name, so we just call her Vera.

For the record, we spent eight hours with them. The only time I was photographed was when I was half-asleep with starlings nesting in my hair and breasts resting quietly on my knees. Also for the record, I did eventually put on a bra, but the rest of my look remained for the duration of the day.

Once I finally got my bearings, I decided to show my MIL the proofs for Clara Jane's 18-month photos, which I got yesterday. In the last photo, I pointed out that Clara Jane's disassembling the wicker chaise lounge. Really, she'd just pulled a few strands of wicker loose, but I like the idea of my child taking apart the furniture while she's having her portrait taken.

"When my dad was demented, he used to tear apart furniture, too. He didn't know where he was or what he was doing. That was right before he died," said my MIL.

To which I replied, "Hi. My name is Vera. Would you like to borrow some of my brain pills?"

(Rough morning aside, we actually had a pretty good day. Having the little whirling dirvish really eases a lot of the social pressure. I even had a conversation with my FIL. A conversation! An exchange of ideas! In which both people talk and listen! That's never happened! We talked about vegetables and concluded that yes, they are good.)

Posted by Robin at 11:33 PM | Comments (6)