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November 30, 2005

In Which I Get All Original and Bitch About the Mall

For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to haul Clara "Blatant Consumerism" Jane to the Galleria. I blame Summer and her pretty new Anthropologie frock for this uncontrollable urge. Not that Anthropologie is open yet, but Urban Outfitters is. And while I hate their politics, I do so love to fondle their pretty, pretty fabrics. So off we went.

I'm not a big fan of shopping malls. I love to shop, but I prefer little one-of-a-kind shops, thrift stores, and the online realm. We won't talk about my little Target addiction. That's a story for another time. My trips to the mall are fairly rare. In fact, it had been over a month since I last set foot in a mall. And then it wasn't to shop; it was to interrogate Kara regarding her activities after my birthday party. She just happened to be trapped at the mall, so I had to go there for my questioning.

Malls after Thanksgiving? No, thank you. So it's really messed up that I felt the need to go today. At least it wasn't crowded. No, my beef has much more to do with mall planning.

First and foremost: I fucking hate department stores. Why do I hate department stores? Because I can't walk into one without immediately becoming hopelessly lost. I just know one of these days, closing time at Lord & Taylor is going to roll around, and a janitor will find me curled up in a puddle of my own urine under a rounder of clearanced Sigrid Olsen trousers, hungry and weeping because I've been lost under that rounder since half an hour after the mall opened.

Now, I have an amazing sense of direction. I never get lost. Well, rarely. But put me in a department store, and there's a chance I may never be heard from again. It's because department stores are designed to get you turned around. If you can't find you're way out, the logic goes, you'll spend more money.

Does this actually work? I mean, I can see how it might work if I happen to get so hopelessly lost that I have no choice than to take up permanent residence in a dressing room. Otherwise, I can pretty much guarantee that I'm pissed off enough about being lost that buying myself a pretty new purse ain't gonna fix it. And that's saying a lot, because pretty new purses have been known to work wonders for my disposition.

Second, while I don't expect the world to rearrange itself to accomodate my child's stroller, I'm still perturbed by how many stores arrange their crap in such a manner that it's impossible to maneuver a stroller through the store (Restoration Hardware, I'm talking to you). Because if I can't get my stroller past your intricate displays, there's no way a wheelchair can make it through.

I found this most disturbing at Baby Gap. That's right. I couldn't get my stroller (which is a bit on the small side) past the overwrought displays at Baby Gap. Does this stirke anyone else as being a poor business strategy?

And finally ...

The Galleria has been undergoing a large construction project, which includes replacing the mall's one elevator that isn't hidden in a department store (thus insuring my unfortunate disappearance). Again, not an issue for most people. Just those of us with strollers or wheelchairs. They were kind enough to post a lovely mural on the side of the construction project, apologizing for the inconvenience, which included a numbered lists of options in coping with the loss of the elevator.

I read the mural as I approached and I found myself saying, "Please don't suggest taking the stairs or escalator. Please don't suggest taking the stairs of escalator. Please don't let humanity be so far-gone and helpless that using the stairs or escalator has to be suggested on a large, professionally-designed mural when the elevator is broken."

1. Please considering using the stairs or escalator, located on either side of the elevator.

And that's why I threw myself down the elevator shaft today. Well, I would have, but my stroller wouldn't fit.

Posted by Robin at 09:27 PM | Comments (7)

November 29, 2005

On Catering

Tonight Clara "Bag Lady" Jane was sorting through one of the many purses I have scattered about the house and she found one of the many old shopping lists contained in my many old purses. I love old shopping lists, mine or those that get left behind in shopping carts. I love those little glimpses into my past and other peoples' lives.

Anyway, this was a good list, taking up a full sheet of notebook paper. Veggie lasagna with eggplant, squash, mushrooms, potatoes and peppers; Thai beef salad; quiche; cassoulet; smoked chicken with cucumber salad; tomato soup; chicken risotto and some chicken and squash concoction I can't recall.

It was the shopping list from when I was bidding on a catering job in June, 2003, shortly after I got pregnant with Clara Jane. I won the bid. For two and a half years, once a week I have made dinners to-go for several businesses.

Earlier today, before my kid found the creased and fading list, I decided it was time to leave this very job, effectively ending my professional cooking career.

It wasn't a sudden decision. For months, my contempt for this job has been growing for a myriad of reasons that all boil down to one thing: I'm not getting enough out of the job compared to what I put into it. It doesn't bring in enough money to make daycare worthwhile, so I have to work around Clara Jane's schedule, which means what should be a one-day-a-week job gets drug out over Sunday, Monday and Tuesday every week. It's an exhausting hassle that's leading to something I swore I would never let happen: it's making me dislike cooking.

The professional foodie biz was actually my second career. In my previous life I spent five years working in educational video production with a brief forray into commercial broadcasting. About two years into that part of my life, I was 23 years old and at a bit of a crossroads. I was up for a promotion. While I enjoyed what I was doing, I was starting to realize that it wasn't exactly what I envisioned doing for the rest of my professional life. I made a deal with myself: if I got the promotion, I'd stay put. If I didn't get the promotion, I was off to the Chef John Folse Culinary Institute in Thibodaux, Louisiana (hi, Jules).

I got the promotion.

Cooking wasn't something I'd ever thought about doing professionally. I didn't actually learn to cook until I was a sophomore in college, living in my first hovel swinging pad. Neverminid that, when I was ten years old I spent an unusual amount of time reading and clipping recipes. The desire to cook was always there, but I just never considered it as a career. I was a smart girl destined for college and Great Things. Cooking seemed entirely too vocational.

But then I found myself cooking all the time for my roommates, and eventually for myself. I'd cook even if I wasn't hungry, which meant a lot of leftovers went into the trash or got pawned off on my co-workers. And then there were the wonderful dinners with Big Daddy B. He'd bring the wine, I'd do the cooking and we'd both wind up happily drunk and full. Great nights. This was around the time of the promotion and the realization that I was incredibly happy in the kitchen.

Fast forward three years. I left my video production job and moved to St. Louis to be with B. Clean slate. I could do anything I wanted with my life, and I had every kind of support necessary from my cute-as-a-button B. While it wasn't the Culinary Institute of America, it was still culinary school, and I loved it.

By fall, 2001, I was finished with school and had landed my dream job - I had a regular column with a food magazine. Just a little local start-up with shitty pay and no benefits, but I loved it. It was the perfect combination of the two things I enjoyed most - writing and food. If they'd let me write the occasional music review, I probably would have paid them to work there.

Eventually the exposure from the column lead to the occasional arts center culinary teaching gig, which led to the occasional catering gig. By the time I got pregnant in May, 2003, I found myself with a growing, multifaceted business on my hands. And I loved it. I had it all figured out: once the baby was born I'd just plop her on my hip and keep cooking. As soon as she was big enough to hold a spoon, I was putting her to work. Child labor laws don't apply when it's your kid.

While I'm not a religious person, there's a saying I absolutely love: Want to make God laugh? Make a plan. God laughed so hard at my plan that I think he wet Himself a little.

I taught my last class in October, 2003, with my rival chef in attendance. That was enough to make me decide that teaching was going to fall by the wayside in light of parenthood.

After Clara Jane's birth, I couldn't wait to get back to the magazine and catering. Returning to work (figuratively, since all my work was done at home with Clara Jane by my side) was a way for me to grasp some tiny bit of what my life had been before the birth, the depression, the anxiety and the utterly useless and hopeless feelings that dominated my life as a mother.

Things didn't really change until the beginning of this year. First, I left my magazine job in a huff, a move which I haven't even slightly regretted.

Since then, I've been stewing (insert *snort* here) about catering. I haven't enjoyed it for a long. So much so that it's sucked a lot of the joy out of all the cooking I do. A few weeks ago, in a catering-related fit, I told B., "When I'm done with this shit, I'm never cooking again. From here on out this family eats nothing but frozen chicken enchiladas from Trader Joe's!" And I meant it.

For my birthday party last month I drove myself batshit trying to make the menu, a task I usually love. It was a miserable process. "Just serve frozen pizza!" Kara suggested. To which I said, "Um, hello. My name is Robin. You obviously have never met me before. I could have sworn we met in March of 2001. It was at the art museum, after I'd spent the entire morning cranking out homemade sausages."

(Really, Kara, did you know that? The day we met, I had spent the morning making homemade sausage. Spicy chicken sausage patties and bratwurst, if memory serves. They would have been tasty while we were waiting three hours in line.)

But I digress, as usual.

Cooking has given me so much pleasure of the years. It's comforted me. When I was hating my video production job, I'd go home and cook. When I moved to St. Louis and didn't know anyone but B. and honestly thought I might curl up and rot from lonliness, I found company in baking loaf afer loaf of homemade bread and teaching myself to can. When Clara Jane was a baby, I redeemed my breastfeeding failures by making all of her babyfood.

A few days before my thirtieth birthday, I catered a luncheon attended by a restaurant critic from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. The same person who fired the previous caterer. I spent most of the luncheon outside, pacing and making nervous phone calls to B. and my mom, terrified of what I'd face when I re-entered the dining room.

Eventually, I had to slip back in to survey the wreckage of the buffet: smoked chicken served on warm biscuits speckled with fresh sage and spicy mayonnaise I made from scratch, a field green salad with fresh figs, Maytag blue cheese, Missouri black walnuts and a maple vinaigrette, and a curried apple-butternut squash soup. As I quietly began to clear the remains, the critic noticed my presence, stopped the meeting and stood.

"Excuse me," she announced. "We need to take a moment to recognize the chef. Brava." She began to clap. "Brava!"

I stood there, surely red-faced and stunned as each person applauded my work. Ever the cynic, my first thought was that it was sarcasm on a rather grand scale. But it wasn't.

Minutes later, as the meeting broke up, the critic approached me, "That soup was sublime," she said. "I can usually place every flavor in a dish, but you've stumped me. What's your secret?" I simply smiled and thanked her, divulging nothing.

That was my culinary triumph, the moment when I proved to myself that I could do what I had set out to do. I'm sure that will remain one of the proudest moments of my life, and I'm so glad to have had that experience. And while I know that won't be happening again, as I leave yet another chapter of my life, it's not even slightly bittersweet. I haven't thought about that catering job in a long time, or how amazing it felt to get that level of recognition. Especially since I did it all by myself. I never had any employees during my brief catering career. It was all me. And I did it.

For dinner tonight, I tossed some frozen Cajun chicken kebobs from Target into a pan, tore up a head of Boston lettuce and whipped up a pseudo-Caesar dressing of commercially-made mayo, white balsamic vinegar, garlic, Parmeasan cheese and olive oil. And for the first time in ages, I lingered in my kitchen, inhaling the pungency of my dressing as it spun in my blender, amazed that just last night, while doing what I didn't realize would be my last catering job, I was mentally begging the universe for a break from the kitchen. Little did I know that quitting would immediately give it back to me. I have missed it.

Posted by Robin at 07:44 PM | Comments (7)

November 28, 2005

Hedonists

Know what I love about this time of year? It's not the togetherness, the merriness, the warm wonderful holiday glow crap. That, I'm not crazy about. What I love - really, really love? Pomegranates.

There are so many things I love just because of their sensuality. And yes, I'm talking about this because my mother is probably reading. Good yarn, wine, high-quality linens ... anything that gets the attention of at least two of my senses in a positive way? I'm hooked. And pomegranates are the ultimate - I love the way the look, their tart sweetness, the way they feel in my hands, tearing them apart, pulling the plump, sticky seeds from the flesh. Oh, and the feel of the seeds between my teeth! That soft cushion, the rush of juice, followed by the crunchy bit of seed. Pure bliss. I even love the shade of red-violet the juice leaves my hands.

Those instructions on the pomegranate website for their three-step no-mess method? What's the point? That takes all the fun out of the experience!

For Christmas, 2002, I got the brilliant idea to make homemade pomegranate jelly. We'd stopped in Chicago on our way home from visiting my in-laws at Thanksgiving, and we had dinner with a friend in the Indian/Pakistani district. After gorging ourselves on curry, B. and I held hands and walked the street, the air filled with the crisp chill of snow and the warmth of subcontinent spices. I was so enchanted with the neighborhood that when we left, I found myself with enough sari silk scraps to clothe half the extras in a Bollywood extravaganza and enough pomegranates to feed them. Two cases of pomegranates.

Oh, c'mon! They were 25 cents apiece! I was paying two dollars each in St. Louis. Even if I was deathly allergic to pomegranates, I would have bought at least a case at that low, low price.

I set to work making my jelly a few days after the Chicago visit. Just as I was starting, I got a call from my parents, informing me that their 12-year-old Lab, Mindy, had died unexpectedly that day. She was the last stray I drug home before graduating from high school, and I was heartbroken. I poured all of my grief into crushing the ever-living fuck out of every one of those pomegranate seeds. I crushed them in my fists, pounded them with a kitchen mallet, squashed them with a heavy rubber spatula. Granted, that's how I would have gone about extracting the juice from four dozen pomegranates even on a good day, but it just felt exceptionally comforting to engage in something so tactile, so violent on a day when I was so hurt and sad.

I wish I'd taken pictures of my kitchen after the jelly-making. My walls were a lovely pale yellow, my stove a gleaming white. By the time I was finished, it looked like something from one of those A&E true crime shows. If anyone had walked into my kitchen and learned of Mindy's demise, they would have assumed that I'd put her in a pot on the stove and boiled her until she exploded.

Suddenly, my newly-painted red kitchen seems pretty practical, doesn't it?

Anyway, long and pointless story short, I'm never making pomegranate jelly again. Next time I find myself in an Indian-Pakistani neighborhood, B. is allowed to throw a pomegranate at my head if I even think about buying them. We haven't devised a suitable punishment to prevent my sari silk remnent problem. But the jelly was really good.

A few days ago I bought the biggest, firmest pomegranate I could find with a plan in mind: Clara "Pom Pom" Jane and I will start a new holiday tradition in which we buy a pomegranate as big as her head, bust it open, tear it apart with our bare hands and luxuriate in all its pomminess. I cut into it tonight while B. was giving her a bath. When she came running from the bathroom, stark naked, it seemed like perfect pomegranate time.

I offered her a seed, which she placed on her tongue, face scrunched in skepticism. She removed it several times, rolled it around in her mouth, and tried to repeat the word "pomegranate" around its tartness. She quickly got bored and skuttled her naked butt to the living room.

But five minutes later she was back. The pomegranate's siren song, it's rich and deep. And for thirty minutes we sat, pulling the plump seeds from the flesh and lolling them in our mouths, our hands sticky and purple. Clara Jane's chin, chest and belly streaked with rivulets of juice.

"They just don't do anything for me," B. said, making a face after crunching a seed. "Have fun with the horrible diaper she's going to produce tomorrow. Ew. Seeds."

So I guess the pomegranates will just be a mother-daughter thing, a little bit of sensuous luxury we'll indulge every winter. And someday, she'll be big enough to take to Chicago and lug all those cases of poms to the car. I'll need my arms free for the sari silk scraps.

Posted by Robin at 08:48 PM | Comments (3)

A Message to My Mother

Dear Maxine,

I've accepted that I can't stop you from reading my blog. Really, there's nothing here that I don't tell you during our daily one-hour phone calls. The only real difference is I'm more pithy and eloquent here than I am at 8 a.m. on the phone. However, it still makes me feel a bit like I'm 14 and have busted you reading my diary. But that's the nature of this medium.

But the commenting ... it disturbs me. Deeply. At least make sure you're not posting your comments with my name. It confuses me.

I know it would not be fair to impart rules on the person who once passed me through her vagina that I wouldn't apply to the many strangers who are allowed to read about my life. However, if I feel any lines are being crossed, I reserve the right to immediately turn poppymom.com into a free sex blog, complete with photos, videos and pithy, eloquent descriptions of the things your son-in-law and I do.

Sincerely,
Your loving daughter

PS - Please send stuffing.

Posted by Robin at 05:33 PM | Comments (3)

November 27, 2005

Thankful for Normal

I'm thankful to be back home.

While our trip to Sedalia was excellent, I'm glad to be back home. The older I get, the more content I am to be in my house, with my family, my music, my computer, my animals and all my crap. Especially this new not-a-piece-of-crap that arrived while we were away. How did I live in a world without 30-second little cups of coffee at my fingertips, anyway?

So little to tell, which must mean it was a good holiday, right? We hung out at my parents' house yesterday, went out to dinner, played with the horses, dogs and kiddo. Good stuff. Woke up early this morning and hit the road.

In lieu of any real content, how about a few anecdotes from my child?

We're big fans of Boudreaux's Butt Paste for diaper rash. Not for any reason other than I thoroughly enjoy the name. Clara "Butt Paste" Jane learned about this stuff long ago and often talks about Butt Paste during diaper changes.

For the past few days she's had a stuffy nose, so we've been giving her regular hits of Vicks Vap-o-Rub. The other day she declared, "It's Butt Paste for my nose! I need Butt Paste in my nose!" To which I said, "Jesus Christ, Child! You are 21 months old; you're not supposed to possess logic of that nature!"

Unfortunately, she's an addict so all we hear is "I need Butt Paste in my nose!"

Well, that, and her new favorite song:

During this morning's drive home we stopped to replenish the gas tank and our coffee supplies. While getting into the truck I sloshed flaming-hot coffee on my hand. What do you do when you scald your hand with flaming-hot coffee? Why, you chant, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!", that's what!

And if Clara Jane is with you, you then listen to an angelic toddler voice chanting, "Fuck fuck fuck fuck ee-ey-ee-ey-oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck ee-eye-ee-ey-oh fuck fuck fuck ..." for two minutes straight.

I officially need to have my mouth stapled shut until my child is past the mimicking stage. Or until she's in college.

And now, pictures!



That's my little family - B., me and Clara Jane with her filthy, filthy mouth and her nose full of Butt Paste. I think we're going to use the photo for our Christmas cards this year, inscribed with her new little tune.

(Photo courtesy of The Cuz, whose mad professional photo skillz almost got us kicked out of the Missouri State Fairgrounds by a security guard who might possibly have attended the first MO State Fair.)

Posted by Robin at 04:49 PM | Comments (11)

November 25, 2005

Wild Night in the Wild West

My hometown, Sedalia, started out as a wild west town. By the turn of the 19th century it was a den of prostitution and brilliant, albeit syphillitic musical geniuses.

Things have slowed down a smidge since then.

Taking advantage of a rare night with a free babysitter at our disposal, B. and I hit the town. I guess "night" isn't the best term, since we left the house at three in the afternoon. The dating starts early in small town USA.

We started with coffee at the local coffeehouse, followed by Rent. Surprisingly, a film based on a Broadway musical about Manhattanite artists with AIDS wasn't in much demand in west-central Missouri. I think there were three other people in the theater with us.

The theater did add a nice bit of ambiance, though, by keeping it so fucking cold that I could really feel those heroin-withdrawl chills. I'm a warm-natured sweaty fat girl, and I have never been so thrilled to find last year's gloves in my coat pocket in my life.

As I mentioned last week, I'm not a big movie buff. This is just an odd spell where a slew of movies I'd like to see are being released. But I had myself a bit of a moment tonight.

We were driving to the movie theater, which was built long after I moved from Sedalia. I'd never been there. On the way, we drove past the old four-screen theater near the fairgrounds, the one that opened twenty years ago. I was in seventh grade, and going to the movies was just about the only thing a middle schooler could do for Friday and Saturday night entertainment. I was there nearly every weekend. Didn't matter what movie was playing. All that mattered was that I was with my friends and that my bangs were tall enough to block the view of the person unfortunate enough to have the seat behind me. Last time we drove past it, on Easter weekend, it was still open. But not anymore. And it made me a lot sadder than I ever expected, considering it's been a good ten years since I set foot in it.

The movie? Surprisingly good. I had low expectations, and they were far exceeded. I was hyper-critical during the first twenty minutes or so, before I told myself, "Okay, Dumbass. There's no way watching a movie is going to be like seeing the play from the third row, center, like you did five years ago. Get over it. Same story, different medium." I was just fine after that.

And yes, I felt mightily reaffirmed after the movie in the choice I made to follow my own artsy-fartsy path. I need that reminder occasionally, too.

After the movie we stood outside in the 40-degree chill to warm up from the meat locker before heading to dinner. How much do I love the fact that, parked next to us at the restaurant was a truck with not one, but two bumper stickers proclaiming the truck owners' love of mules? Mules rule! You just don't get that in the city. Nor do you get a dinner for two - fried chicken livers, catfish, homemade potato chips, slow-cooked green beans, salad, a burger, soup and beer for $30 after tip. In the city we also wouldn't have encountered an old high school friend of mine, Dizzy Dez, who plunked herself at our table, got in my face and declared, "I know who you are. It's you. I know it. You're Robin, aren't you?" Yep, still dizzy after all these years, and her hair's the biggest of them all.

Posted by Robin at 10:24 PM | Comments (3)

November 24, 2005

Thankfulness, Sedalia-Style

We've been in my hometown, Sedalia, for roughly nine hours and I have succeeded in my goal of eating one pound of my mom's cornbread dressing per hour. Because of this, I am thankful for sweatpants.

I'm also thankful that my mom and grandmother have finally reached a truce regarding the family's cornbread dressing recipe. For my entire life, every holiday they argue about the amount of sage to use in the dressing. Grandma always used a light hand, adding just the essence of sage. My mom always used enough sage to cleanse every house in the neighborhood of any pesky spirits.

Considering my grandmother died in 1991, this argument has been a bit one-side - and fucking creepy - for the past 14 years. That's why I'm thankful that this year, my mom finally got the idea to make half a pan of dressing in which she gently whispered, "There's sage in the house" to the cornbread, while using every sage leaf produced in the U.S.A. in the other half.

I'm thankful that the drive to Sedalia is only three hours. Had it been more than that, I would have thrown myself out of the truck while going 80 m.p.h. down the interstate to escape the two hours of whining that morphed into an hour of bloody-curdling screams. Over the river and through the woods to toddler hell we go!

After lunch (and the first two pounds of stuffing), B., my dad and The Cuz and I braved the frigid cold to play ball with my dad's dingo Australian Cattle Dog, Chigger, and The Cuz's new boxer, Mr. Rileypants Nonuts. I'm thankful that the police didn't drive by and arrest us on suspicion of hosting an illegal dogfight with a dingo and a pit bull. Because that's certainly what it looked like we were doing.

Even though I played softball for a decade - and played hard-throwing positions like third base, catcher while batting clean-up - that's no match for throwing a ball 8,492 times in the freezing cold for the dingo and faux pit bull. I'm thankful that rotator cuffs are among the handful of body parts that are replaceable.

I'm thankful for the first five pounds of stuffing. The other four pounds can rot in hell for all I care.

It's not a family gathering unless someone busts out the dominoes. When B. and I first met we thought it was pure serendipity that we both came from families of domino-players. In his family, though, they actually concentrate on the game. In my family, the game is secondary to whatever other chaos we can create. I'm thankful that today's domino game involved the dingo and faux pit bull fighting under the table. I'm also thankful both dogs probably gave themselves irrepairable brain damage by repeatedly pounding their skulls on the underside of the table hard enough to make the dominoes jump. I'm thankful that Clara "Oh oh domino" Jane spent the game sitting on the table, counting domino dots and not once mentioning the number four. She's well on her way to participating in the next thing for which I'm thankful ...

I'm thankful that every single person in my family shamelessly and unironically asks, "Hey! What does the 12 (or 10, 11, 13, 14 or 15) domino look like?", while another family member helpfully offers, "It's the one with 12 (or 10, 11, 13. 14 or 15) dots, Dumbass." In my family, we can't diffrentiate items numbering in the double-digits unless they're color-coded. Except for B. But he married into the family. Since he's good with numbers and shit, he keeps score. And still manages to lose almost every game.

I'm thankful that my codependent partner in crime is house/dog/catsitting for me. I'm even more thankful that she forgot to pack her pajamas, just because that information tickles me to no end.

We've already had Dad's annual Thanksgiving accident, and it didn't involve hunting rifles or chainsaws. About a month ago my dad purchased a sulky. That's a chariot-style horse cart, for the uninitiated, like me. Yesterday, he and the dingo took Bubba, the cart-pulling horse for a little sulky ride. Bubba got spooked and decided he wasn't feeling too sulky. I'm thankful that, while the sulky looks a bit like a big pile of toothpicks, Dad and Bubba made it through with just some scrapes and cuts. The dingo was unharmed. Unfortunately.

I'm thankful that another hour has passed and there's still more dressing in the fridge.


Posted by Robin at 09:25 PM | Comments (2)

November 22, 2005

Of Sweet Potatoes, Cool Whip, Beer, Buffalo Wing Pretzels and Urine

I don't have much to say today, because it was essentially a repeat of yesterday, minus the fun evening part. And I'm sure you're sick to death of the bitching, so I'm going to attempt to pull something out of my ass be positive.

Grocery shopping today: My odd little child spent the entire trip in the cart, clutching a giganourmous sweet potato, occasionally yelling, "Big hug!" and making out with it. People kept stopping to watch.

I have Cool Whip in my house. Why? Because people will be here this weekend who require Cool Whip. Do you know how much I have to love someone to buy Cool Whip for them? Do you? A lot.

While I enjoy the seasaonal Schlafly ESB Ale, a few moments ago I learned three items that don't cotton to taking a bath in the Schlafly ESB Ale:

While the keyboard and remote seem to have survived the direct beer hit, I'm concerned about the contribution. I mean, it seems a bit insensitive to send a contribution to a hunger charity that's going to reek of stale beer. The flavor dust from the buffalo wing-flavored pretzels that I spilled on it earlier probably won't win me any favor, either.

Tonight my child stood in the dining room, stark naked, loudly performing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider", complete with overwrought hand gestures. Then she marched herself offstage and urinated on the kitchen floor.

Thank you and goodnight!

Posted by Robin at 07:46 PM | Comments (13)

November 21, 2005

Working Off My Aggression and Shit

So, I was in a pretty foul frame of mind by the time B. arrived home at 5:00. Wait, that's not entirely honest. I was ready to fucking kill someone. Just one of those days where everything was an act of futility and frustration. In addition to my previous list of grievances:

-The bag I spent three months and $50 in yarn knitting? Finished it yesterday. All my crap falls out of it.

-Why is it that the wires in every single bra I own have decided to pop out of the fabric in the last week? If I had implants, they would be punctured and drained by now.

-The fake Tivo? Not the problem. Charter is still sending us a bad signal. Of course, the techs didn't find this out until they'd swapped out our old fake Tivo with a new one, thus losing all the stuff we'd recorded on the old one. Last night's Austin City Limits with The Killers and Spoon? Yeah, didn't really wanna see it that badly anyway. It's probably just as well, because, like last week's episode with Ben Folds and Ray LaMontagne, it probably didn't have any audio, anyway. And really, what's the point if there's no audio?

So, in summary: waited all day for people to come fix something that wasn't broken in the first place. Adding chain saw to shopping list.

By the time my usual parnter in crime, Billy the Kid arrived at my house, I was so fed up with Clara "Dustin Diamond as 'Screech'" Jane's eardrum-shattering whining, and so angry with B. for piddly crap I won't disclose, I had banished them to the basement. Don't worry - it's not too dungeony down there. I met Kara at the door and said, "Do you need to pee?"

"No," she said.

"Good. You're not coming in because that means I'll be in this house a few seconds longer and I need to go. Now. BRIAN!!! I'M LEAVING!!!!"

I'm not sure if he heard me, but I know all of my neighbors did.

We hit the neighborhood Thai hole-in-the-wall, where I drowned my anger in red curry - the angriest of the Thai curries - and Thai iced tea, which is far too pleasant and congenial to ever scream a farewell to her banished basement-dwelling spouse and offspring. And I was feeling much better after that. Good food, and a good friend willing to listen to me rant in public can go a long way.

As for the free sneak preview of Rent? No dice. They were turning people away by the time we got there. Not that we were too upset about this. I know I'll be seeing it again this weekend with B. (if I've let him out of the basement). We'd already decided that if we didn't get in, we'd go for coffee, which actually suit my mood much better.

Do you know what made me feel better than anything? As we were pulling out of the theater's parking lot, apropos of nothing, Kara announced what she'll be doing on Saturday. Again, I'm unable to give details, but suffice it to say that hearing her state her intentions outloud left me screaming and shrieking with a mix of joy churned with a tiny, itty bitty smidge of mortification.

Oh, and the yarn shopping. That made me joyful, too, but with a bit more mortification because shit, there are some ugly, scratchy yarns out there.

Kaldi's has their toasted chestnut coffee. It's impossible for me to feel anything bad when I have access to a toasted chestnut cafe au lait.

While hanging out at Kaldi's and imbibing in my favorite seasonal coffee beverage in the world, I took cameraphone photos of Kara's new hair, which I unsuccessfully tried to email to someone along with a rather randy message. Stupid phone. But that's okay; I still had half a cafe au lait and all was well.

Many more announcements of her weekend intentions. Much more screaming on my part. Yeah, I'm feeling much better.

Posted by Robin at 09:06 PM | Comments (6)

Do you hear snarling?

Yeah, that would be me.

I'm just irritated beyond all rationality today.

-Charter Cable is invited to pucker up and smooch my dimpled derriere. If you live in the St. Louis area and you have Charter, have you noticed how shitty the reception has been lately? The audio and video dropouts? Yeah, it's on their end and yeah, they know about it although they're playing dumb. I know this because of one very cool technician. If you're in St. Louis and are having these problems, call and bitch. They will credit your bill.

So, our cable has been a mess since early October. At this point there's also a problem with our fake Tivo. They were supposed to bring us a new one today, so we've been playing that stuck-at-home waiting game. And guess what? Not a word from them. None. Nada. Zip. Which means we'll likely be playing the same game tomorrow.

Why don't we have satellite? Because our neighbors have a big tree that blocks the signal. At this rate, I think purchasing a chain saw and taking down the tree myownself would be easier than dealing with Charter for one more minute.

-My child. She's cranky and off her nap schedule. Just shoot me in the motherfucking head.

-The conditon of my house. I try to keep my house livable. I do. But I'm not even going to tell you about the gunk I scrubbed out of my tub today. I think I'm going to start bathing with the garden hose in my backyard.

-That cranky child is refusing to nap.

-Gmail's being a whore today. And not in a good way.

-I think I'm going to have to remove my uterus, which is really going to make a big mess in the bathroom.

Posted by Robin at 04:02 PM | Comments (2)

November 19, 2005

I Keep My Eyes Wide Open All the Time

I take for granted the degree of weirdness in my life. When weird is normal, it's easy to forget that not everyone lives this way. There are plenty of people whose friends and family don't do weird-ass things and make weird-ass choices on a regular basis. I absolutely loved Karen's comment on "Tales Too Ticklish To Tell": "Holy shitballs. Do you just feed a different family member crack every day so you have something to blog about? Cuz this shit doens't just happen....or does it?"

Oh, it just happens. At least it does in my world.

Today I experienced something that, even with my lax standards of weird, qualifies as Pretty Fucking Weird Right There. It wasn't something that just happened; it was a planned outing with a friend. Which is why I can't tell you about it; it's 100% out of respect for her privacy. She did give me permission to write about today and put it in any future books I might author. So, if you really want to know what happened, buy the book.

Last night I cried to B., "My God! Do you realize what I'm doing tomorrow? Do you realize just how weird and funny and unusual the situation is??? AND DO YOU REALIZE IT'S KILLING ME THAT I CAN'T BLOG ABOUT IT?!?!?!?!"

Yeah, I know you're all going to accuse me of being a tease. I completely deserve that, but I'm not talking about this to be malicious to you, my kind and gentle readers. I just wanted you to know that I did something today that was very odd, very weird and very fun and I hate that I can't share it with you, because you would love it. You really would. Just know that the entire time I was in the bizarro world of weirdness, I was thinking of you.

I will give you a snip of conversation that occured during this afternoon's events:

Me: It's okay. Really. I'm sure you aren't the biggest freak she's met today.
The clerk: Whew. You have no idea. You have absolutely no idea.
Me: Shit. I knew we should have got here earlier!

(No commentary from my friend, who was too busy turning herself inside-out with mortification.)

Anyway ...

In more normal news, my regular partner in crime and the luminous PKB partook in a showing of Walk the Line. First and foremost, it lives up to the hype. Really, really excellent.

Now, I'm not exactly a movie buff. This is the third movie I've seen in the theater this year. I can't remember the last time I watched a movie at home that wasn't Napoleon Dynamite. Well, except for a few minutes of The Muppet Movie, which B. introduced to Clara "It's a frog! Ribbit! Ribbit!" Jane today. To get me to the movie theater, it had better be something I'm dying to see.

Have I told you of my intense passion for Johnny Cash? He's on the extremely short list of people I truly admire. A few weeks ago, while working on the book project, I spent an afternoon writing about why, exactly, he gets to me the way he does. I'd thought about including what I wrote in this entry, but I think I'll wait. You know, because I'm a tease. It's just a bit too intense for right now. Maybe tomorrow. Point being, I love Johnny. I know his story. And I was still impressed by the film.

Several things, though, were amiss:

1. Apparently, I'm not allowed to flip people off while riding in Kara's car. I don't know how she expects us to get anywhere on time if my freedom of expression is shackled in such an extreme manner.

2. Showing up to the 7:20 showing of a new release fifteen minutes before showtime? Not smart. All my fault, too. I take full responsibility for us having to sit two rows in front of the screen. This presented some problems. For one, sitting so close to the screen turns every trailer, with their super-rapid edits, into a thriller. I read Memoirs of a Geisha; I don't recall it being an action-adventure tale of Schwarzeneggerian proportions. But from what I could see of the super-close preview, I think Jackie Chan might be portraying Chiyo.

And let me tell you, Jennifer Anniston's permanently erect nipples? Up close and thirty feet tall? Scariest fucking thing I've ever seen in my life. It's like being under threat of a torpedo attack, I tell you.

It goes without saying that, while Reese Witherspoon did a great job of capturing the fiery yet loving spirit of June Carter, I'm going to have night terrors tonight, having spent two hours being terrorized by the up-close, gigantacized Witherspoon Chin of Disaster and Mayhem.

The perk of sitting so close: spending two hours feeling like maybe, possibly, I was lying under Joaquin -Johnny. That was fun, but made for a dangerous situation. The larger, older gentleman sitting next to me is terribly lucky that I kept enough of my swooning wits about me to stop myself from doing horrible, perverse things to his arm, which kept creeping into my personal space. "I'm so sorry, Sir. I thought you Joaquin-Johnny. Please, I insist on paying to have your shirt dry cleaned. Sorry about the humping."

Until tomorrow, lay off that whiskey and let that cocaine be.

Posted by Robin at 11:02 PM | Comments (5)

November 18, 2005

Opinions are like ...

I'm not getting along with my fellow humans today. In fact, I'm finding that a great many of them are pissing me the fuck off. Maybe it's the phase of the moon. Maybe it's the horrific things that are occurring in my uterus. Maybe it's the upcoming holiday stress. Whatever it is, I'm not sure if I'm the one who's going nuts or if it's the whole world around me.

I was talking to my mom, and somehow the topic of weight and food came up. After many, many years of bumping heads on these topics, my mom and I have made our peace, at least with each other.

Someone - I don't know who and I can't decide if I really want to know - recently told her, "You make sure Robin and B. aren't feeding Clara Jane junk food."

My mom explained that no, we're doing anything but. Clara Jane eats a very balanced diet with an "everything in moderation" philosophy. Very little processed food, no fast food, lots and lots of fresh fruit, whole grains, lean meats and veggies (which she's been shunning lately, but we're not giving up).

Apparently, this person had assumed that, since B. and I are fat, we eat nothing but shit. Of course! A fat person would never eat a vegetable! They live on Big Macs and Coke!

I'm hesitant to find out who this person is, because there's a good chance I wouldn't be able to resist beating the ever-living fuck out of her. Fat people have poor impulse control, you know.

My mom, bless her, told this person, "They don't keep junk food in the house. When I visit, I have to bring my own." Which is true. She spent a lot of time with us after Clara Jane was born. One night she declared, "You don't even have a damn saltine in this house, do you? No chips. No cookies. We've gotta go to Target first thing tomorrow. I'm starving!"

To which I probably said something like, "Eat a damn apple and get over it."

I'm not a health foodie. Not by a long shot. I like a little bit of everything. I've got my vices, that's for sure. I don't keep junk food in the house for a very simple reason - because we'll eat it. Out of sight, out of mind.

But it galls me to no end that someone can make such a huge judgement of me and my parenting - that I'm doing something harmful to my child's health - based solely on how I look.

Did this person take into account the year and a half of culinary training I've had? The four years I've spent writing about food? The three and a half years I've spent being paid to feed people healthy meals? The two years I spent teaching people - particularly kids - how to eat well?

Of course not. That would require some thought, which is a lot harder than making a snap judgement.

I'd love for this person to spend 24 hours with me. Let's see who has better eating habits.

Nevermind that she's putting my mother in charge of something that's not her responsibility.

Nevermind that the only time my child has eaten McDonald's or KFC have been while visiting my parents. Nevermind that her cookie consumption multiplies when she's with them. But that's fine. They're grandparents; I don't mind if they spoil her a bit. I'm not a total food Nazi, although I did ask them to never darken the door of McDonald's with my child again. It's bad enough that she recognizes that damn clown solely from underwriting promos on PBS. But I digress. Telling my parents to make sure we feed her right is like someone telling a heroin dealer, "Make sure your customer goes easy on the smack."

I'd like to think that my intense reaction to this is rooted in my current intra-uterine happenings, that it's just a bad case of the monthlys that's leading me to be so fucking angry about this. But obviously, a nerve has been struck.

Not long after this conversation, Clara Jane and I went out to lunch at my coffeehouse. At the table next to us was another mom with a little boy about a year older than Clara Jane. I've seen them in there several times, but we've never talked. While we waited for our lunches, the boy ate a chocolate chip cookie roughly the size of his face and drank half of a 12-ounce Sprite (clear cup - I could see). I'm not judging her; she's got every right to feed her kid whatever she wants. But dammit. God fucking dammit. My kid had the same lunch as hers - turkey sandwich with fruit salad, minus the cookie, substituting organic milk for the soda. And yet, if you put me beside the other mom, guess which one would be lectured on the most nutritious way to feed her kid.

It would be me. Because I'm fat and she's skinny. As I watched her kid drink his sugary soda and eat his pre-lunch cookie, a thought kept popping into my head: "She doesn't have to deal with the shit I'm dealing with right now."

Yeah, life ain't fair. The world ain't fair. I've accept that and can deal with it. Chances are the other mom has people criticizing her parenting skills for some reason just as stupid as the "fat parents = junk-food-eating kids" logic. Because that's the thing: it's always going to be something. There are always going to be people who take one tiny bit of information and assume they know the whole story, and what's best.

We have a name for those people: Fucking Idiots.

I'm at peace with my body. It's taken so many years, but I'm there. I know I'm doing the best with the cards I've been dealt and I don't waste my time pining for things to be different. I focus on living my life and making the best possible choices for our minds, bodies and souls. For the most part I'm perfectly fine with that and don't really care what anyone else thinks. Which is the real kicker in all of this: that I'm allowing an ill-informed, superficial false assumption to make me feel like shit.

Posted by Robin at 02:50 PM | Comments (15)

Friday Shuffle -

I haven't been awake for an hour, and already I'm annoyed. It's nothing big; just a collection of little things. My sinuses have gone crazy and I feel like my head is full of spackle. And trust me, but you don't even want to know what travesties are occuring in my uterus at the moment.

So, what do I do while I'm in a foul mood? Why, I read a bit of advice given on an online forum. Not advice given to me, which is what makes this even more obnoxious. It never ceases to amaze me how people can know just a teeny snippet of a situation, but pontificate on what one should do nonetheless. It's the tip of the iceberg, People, and you don't have the good sense or the investment to look below the water's surface.

Ugh.

What I need is a giant mug of wintry blend coffee, a dash of half and half, and a shuffle taken from my Party folder:

1. Walt Whitman's Niece - Billy Bragg w/ Wilco
2. Mirror in the Bathroom - English Beat
3. Candy Floss - Wilco
4. I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone - Sleater-Kinney
5. La La Love You - Pixies
6. Trip Through Your Wires - U2
7. War on War - Wilco
8. Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine - White Stripes
9. Neighborhood 3-Power Out - Arcade Fire
10. Dyslexic Heart - Paul Westerberg

I love you, shuffle. How can I be irritated when "Walt Whitman's Niece" is the first song I hear? It's impossible to be in a bad mood. But I can't tell which mooooood.

The fact that I was able to work the phrase, "No Sir. That was last week. This is blood," (thanks, Uterus!) into a conversation? Makes my day.

Posted by Robin at 08:18 AM | Comments (3)

November 17, 2005

Tales Too Ticklish to Tell

Apparently, I didn't take the dirty, filthy childrens book away from Clara Jane soon enough.

A bit of backstory: A friend of mine used to be in the, um, "marital aide" business. A few years ago she decided to give it up. Instead of having a big clearance sale, she made great big care packages for her friends. I innocently came home from class one day to find a giant box of battery-operated recreation sitting in a plain brown wrapper on my front porch.

You so wish you had friends like mine, don't you?

The package included two things I knew I would never, ever use. So vile and nasty and horrible were these "toys". They're not toys; they're torture devices. Torture devices that should be outlawed, I tell you.

If you think there is anything hot about feathered tickling devices, you are one sick motherfucker.

I have serious tickle issues. I absolutely cannot stand to be tickled. Don't even joke about it. If you act like you're going to tickle me, I will beat the ever-loving snot out of you. The threat of tickle-torture is the only thing that has every driven me to take a swing at anyone.

I'm sure this happened because, when I was really little, my sadistic 6-foot-tall aunt used to sit on me and tickle me until I'd pee my pants. "Oh, she loves it! She's laughing!"

Which reminds me: I need to punch her in the face when I see her next week, because I was never able to get in a good strike when I was a kid.

While there isn't a single part of my body that isn't ticklish, the worst of it is unfortunately concentrated between my belly button and knees. You can only imagine the problems this has caused. Oh, the guys I have smacked and/or kicked. I'm not into that. Really. It's just instinct. You go for a ticklish spot, and reflexes happen.

It does have its perks. I could probably beat the living hell out of any potential attackers without even thinking about it. And the ticklishness ensured absolutely no risk of an unwanted pregnancy during my teenage years. I eventually figured out that a little booze can go a long way in curing terminal ticklishness.

When I was ten or eleven, my mom was alterning a skirt for me. At one point she accidentally brushed the back of my knee and I fuckinig lost my shit. Every time she'd reach for me, I'd automatically rocket away from her, shrieking like a banshee.

"It's not too late to convert you to Catholicism," she told me. "We can get you all confirmed on time and maybe get you onto the fast track to a good nunnery."

Long story short: I probably should have mentioned all of this during my six-month stint in panic therapy.

Fast-forward to today. I was sitting at my desk while B. and Clara Jane played in our bedroom. I heard the pitter-pat of her footsteps running towards me and new words coming out of her mouth. Dreaded, awful, horrible words...

"Tickle Mama."

"TICKLE MAMA!"

"TICKLE MMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!"

I looked over my shoulder just in time to see my child, armed with a tickling sex toy in each hand, running towards me, feathers a-quiver.

I braced myself. Clenched my pelvic muscles tight to prevent any spontaneous bladder expulsions. Tightened my legs and arms in hopes that the instinct wouldn't send my limbs flailing akimbo at my sweet, small, sex-toy-armed child. Who will someday tell her panic therapist about this incident.

Posted by Robin at 05:13 PM | Comments (9)

November 16, 2005

Memory Lane ... What I Can Remember of It

I've been reminiscencing a bit lately. I've finally decided to do something about the 1,084 photos I've taken of my child over the past 21 months that have done nothing but sit on my hard drive. I haven't developed a single one. Not one. Why? Because I will lose them.

I don't really have an excuse for the hours and hours of mini DV tapes we've made of her in that time that are sitting in my desk drawer. That's just laziness.

Anyway, I've been sorting through these 1,084 photos, which is giving me the "Oh my God, how in the world is it that I have a child who's very nearly two years old?" Warning: cliche alert. It seems like just yesterday, and yet, it seems so long ago.

This was me two years ago this month:

You'll surely notice that I was sporting the official mom haircut. The one they make you get before you leave the hospital with your newborn. I got mine during my ultrasound a few weeks earlier.

Just for good measure:



Considering this view, it's rather surprising that I was such a collosal failure at breastfeeding. You'd think I could have put an end to world hunger with cleavage like that.

Where was I? Oh, right ... the whole pregnancy thing feels like it didn't happen, like I wasn't really there for nine months. Or for about nine months afterwards, for that matter. In fact, it's just been in the past few months that I've started feeling normal again. Like me. But with Clara Jane.

Pregnancy's a trippy place to be. I know women who loved nothing more than being pregnant. I didn't. I felt off-kilter the entire time. The physical changes, the feeling of not being in control of my body or my brain - I wasn't fond of it. Not to say that I didn't love feeling Clara Jane moving inside me. I loved how, as I was settling in to sleep every night, I could count on her doing some somersaults and high kicks. I could also count on her doing the same routine at 4 a.m. every single morning. She had a knack for punting my stomach, sending tidal waves of acid rocketing through my esophagus. How I managed to puke on my pillow only once during that time, I'll never know.

The weirdest thing about pregnancy wasn't the craziness with my body. It was the changes it made in my brain. The pregnancy depression and anxiety was bad and my God I'm fucking sick of talking about that so let's just acknowledge it existed and move on.

The real weirdness: I've always had a stunning memory for details. Ask me a date, and I can tell you what I did that exact day. What I wore, where I went, who I saw, what I ate. That's always been my parlor trick, this ability to recall every inconsequential detail of everything. I was virtually unbeatable at Trivial Pursuit because of this gift. Song lyrics? Play it once and I'll be able to recite it back for you.

There was about a two-week window between when I got pregnant and when I got the positive test. B. was the first to notice something was up, because I kept repeating stories to him. I'd call him at work to share an anecdote, only to repeat it when he got home. Of course, when he pointed this out to me, I threatened him with a tire iron.

That was another change: instead of being my usual delightfully acerbic self, I was homicidal.

There has been research that suggests women lose 20 i.q. points with each pregnancy. Of course, I can't remember where I heard that because all 20 of the points I lost were in the memory portion of my brain. I guess it's good they came from the part of my brain with an overabundance. If they came from the part of my brain that balances my bank account, we'd be living in a cardboard box right now.

The rambling point I'm making: I had memory issues which, thankfully, seem to be resolving, although there are huge chunks of my pregnancy and Clara Jane's first year that are simply gone from my mind. So many of those photos I have no memory of taking, or being in. It's a weird place for me, Memory Chick, to be.

So, it really cracks me up that tonight I drug my usual partner in crime into my little stumble down Memory Lane, and she had no recollection of this incident.

Shortly after those photos were taken, I popped. I mean, really popped. That's when my doctor and midwife started warning me that my child might take after her father, who was a member of The Ten Pound Mother-Ripping Newborn Club. My usual Rubenesque proportions shifted from looking like this Rubens and more like this one.

Kara and I were at my house, preparing for a little waddle through the mall. In the half an hour it took me to place my shoes on my watermelon-sized feet I told her, "I am no longer bending over. If anything belonging to me lands on the floor, well, it wasn't really mine to begin with." Being the true friend that she is, she promised to pick up anything that might slip from my fingers, which had turned into something resembling vegetarian corn dogs (the only thing I could eat at the time).

Fast-forward to West County Center a few hours later. Kara was in the restroom. My corn dog fingers and I were at the ATM, fumbling for cash. And because I'd declared I was no longer capable of bending over, you know what I did.

Come on, don't make me say it.

I dropped my ATM card. And you know, I really didn't want it back that badly. If it hand been stuck in a vegetarian corn dog, I might have been willing to manuever my child-girth around to retrieve it. But damn. It just wasn't worth it.

So I did want any exhausted, massive, heartburn-riddled pregnant woman would do. I put my swollen foot on the card and stood there in the middle of the busy mall walkway, waiting for Kara to pick it up. Which she did. It was easier to pick up the card than it would have been to pick me up. Because my center of gravity was so screwed, I surely would have fallen forward had I tried to lean forward. My gargantuan mom-boobs and belly probably would have crashed through the walkway, sending me careening down to the first level.

Well, maybe that wouldn't have happened, exactly. But I'm sure whatever really would have happened wouldn't have been much prettier.

So tonight, I was talking about this to Kara, and she had absolutely no recollection of it. No, she's not pregnant. But if her memory's this bad in a non-knocked-up state, can you imagine what she'll be like if she ever gets pregnant? It'll be nine months of "Who are you? Who am I? Why do I feel like I'm being kicked from the inside-out? Hey! Leave my ATM card alone! I'm sure I put it on the floor for a reason. Gimme a minute and I'll remember why. Um, can you tell me why is there liquid pouring out of my body?"

Yeah, I know, it took me forever to get to that lame-ass point. Really, I just wanted an excuse to post that photo of my tits.

Posted by Robin at 10:20 PM | Comments (9)

The Top Ten

Much like it was brought to my attention that my blog is mostly unsafe for work environments, it has also been brought to my attention that Kara and I were in sync with our bloggity lameless yesterday. Our blog block, if you will. What can I say? Told you we're codependent.

There's really not much going on right now. I can only talk about my child's overwhelming attributes so long before my entire readership starts gagging. Although I've gotta say, it cracks me up that she can count to ten but refuses to acknowledge the existance of the number four. Gets mad if we push the issue. Four sucks! Sucks!

I have nothing of import to bitch about, aside from a bit of road rage I witnessed yesterday that would have been hilarious had the rager not been completely fucking scary-crazy.

No big events on the agenda. This weekend, I'll be seeing Walk the Line. Monday night, it's a sneak peek of Rent. I'm keeping my expectations in check for that one because 1) plays don't always translate well to the screen, and 2) it's cool that they got the original cast, but aren't they all a bit, ahem, old to be playing those parts? We shall see.

Then we have the upcoming trip to ye olde hometown for Thanksgiving. I'm pretty sure things will be much more exciting at my house while I'm gone than they generally are when I'm here, and that's all I'm saying about that.

So, in light of my lack of interesting things to discuss, I'm going to phone it in and steal Kara's music schtick from yesterday. Codependent, I tell you.

I suck at lists of favorites. Absolutely suck at them, and will let the making of such a list take over my entire life. Seriously. Don't be surprised if it takes me a week to write this. By the time it's done, I'll be unbathed, hungry and more than a little delirious. It'll be fun.

In no particular order ...


And there you have it.

Posted by Robin at 10:43 AM | Comments (7)

November 15, 2005

Isolated Random Thoughts

Having another one of those days where I can't string two thoughts together, but there are many little things tripping through my brain. So you get a list.

1. Since it's chilly and stormy, I'm thrilled that I had the foresight to toss a pot roast, potatoes and carrots into my slow cooker last night. The downside: the smell is getting to me and I fear that I'll be gnawing on the area rug in the dining room out of delicious-smell-induced-hungry-delirium before the day is out.

2. My child is being cute enough of late to cause my ovaries to fling themselves from my body while they do that, "Use us! USE US!!!!" shrieking that got me into trouble 2.5 years ago in the first place. To wit: Today she asked me for a peanut butter sandwich. While I made the sandwich she stood beside me and said, "Thank you, Mama, for peanut butter sandwich." At which point one of my ovaries flung itself so hard that it landed on the bread and I had to start all over.

3. I've been informed that my blog isn't exactly work-friendly. Seeing as I've failed in this regard, I'm considering the pursuit of my true passion: medical porn.

4. I really want to purchase the domain name www.hotcodependentchubbychicks.com, but I'm not sure what I'll do with it. Aside from the medical porn, of course. I'm open to suggestions.

5. I don't really have a thing for medical porn. Really. I know people who might, though.

6. New Wilco live CD? Purchased. Lyrics to Misunderstood Shot in the Arm? Stuck in my head for the next two days.

7. Clara Jane took both of my hands yesterday, declared that I have "beautiful rings", then proceeded to kiss one of them. I was feeling all pontiffy, but then she stuck the stone up her nose. "Um, Kid? You're getting boogers on your inheritence. And my hand."

8. While the ovary sandwich, medical porn references and the diamond up my child's nose don't make me question my parenting skills, this does: what kind of mother has a 21-month-old child and allows the household milk supply to run out? That would be me. If guilt induced lactation, we wouldn't have a problem.

9. I'm in such an odd mood today. Storm's a-brewing. I blame the barometric pressure for both situations. I have no idea what barometric pressure is, but I'm sure it's at fault.

10. Anxiously awaiting to see what Google searches this post conjures.

Posted by Robin at 12:39 PM | Comments (6)

November 14, 2005

Second-Hand Kids Books

Clara "Bookworm" Jane's a reader. Well, she can't actually read yet but let me tell you, this kid loves books. Not surprising, since B. and I are big nerds and always consumed by a stack of books. I honestly think we could get rid of all of Clara Jane's toys, except for the books, and she wouldn't mind. Much.

Kara and Jess can vouch for my claims. They've both been trapped spent time with my child during three-hour road trips, catering to her demands to "Read a-read-a-read-a book. Again."

As a matter of fact, as I typed that Clara Jane came to me with her copy of Fox in Socks, open to this page:

Clocks on fox tick.
Clocks on Knox tock.
Six sick bricks tick.
Six sick chicks tock.

When we first started reading this particular book to her, this page always turned into an indavertant bit of porn involving women who have body parts you wouldn't expect women to possess.

Give us a break! It's a really hard tongue twister, especially for someone with an inborn potty mouth like mine.

Since Clara Jane plows through books so quickly, and she's read the entire board book collection from our neighborhood library, we've taken to buying large stacks of used books for her from Goodwill. It's the only way we can keep the supply steady with her demands. Besides, books get a little pricey, and we're probably going to have to start spending money on her college incidentals sooner than expected. Because of all the damn reading, my grandmother has predicted Clara Jane will graduate with her first degree at age 16. We're preparing in every way possible.

Problem is, many of the kid's books at Goodwill are there for a reason. Because they're horrible. Really, really bad. The worst? Big Silver Space Shuttle by Ken Wilson-Max. This book? It makes no sense whatsoever!!! I think it might have been written in another language, and our version possibly underwent several translations.

I cringe whenever I see this book in the current rotation. But Clara Jane loves it, so it stays. I just let her father read it to her. He used to work for NASA; maybe it makes sense to him. B. and Clara Jane are welcome to read the space shuttle book and massage their overgrown brains all they want. I'll be sitting on the bathroom floor, playing that game where your light matches and see how long you can hold them before they burn my fingers.

Today, she cornered me with the space shuttle book and her demand to read-a-read-a-read-a-book. Again. So I read it. And I discovered something ... something disturbing:


Hmm. That orbital maneuvering system looks familiar. Where have I seen that before? Oh, yeah ...

Right here, at this link that's probably borderline unsafe for your work environment, but a-ok for illustration in a children's book!

I'm taking this abhorrant book away from my child immediately. If anyone wants to behold this abomination, it'll be in my nightstand drawer. You know, for safekeeping.

Posted by Robin at 09:37 AM | Comments (8)

November 13, 2005

Why I Love Autumn


There was an autumn day in 2001 when things started to change, and I'm not just talking about the leaves on the 100-year-old oak tree in front of my house. I happened to walk by the living room window and caught a glimpse of my neighbor's yard. Her son and daughter-in-law were raking the leaves while their hoard of kids, three under the age of four, played. I sat on the windowseat, face pressed against the window for the better part of an hour, watching them as they wrestled and laughed in the crisp sunlit afternoon. I was so intent on my spying that I barely noticed when my ovaries threw themselves from my body and began shrieking, "Good God, Woman! Put us to use! We're shrivling up and dying in there! We've got work to do if you want to ever frolic in the leaves like that!"

I thought it was just a momentary thing, overcome by the sheer cuteness of a young, happy family spending a perfect afternoon in the leaves. And like all those occasional moments when my resolve to remain childless melted, I assumed the resolve would come back once I moved away from the damn window.

It did come back, but not fully. Those images stayed lodged in my head. Eleven months later, I was informed that I had one treatment option left and if it didn't work, I'd be facing a hysterectomy and my resolve was destroyed.

Of course, you know how this story ends. The treatment worked and eight months later I got pregnant with Clara Jane.

Today, another perfect autumn day. B. raked a mountain of leaves in our backyard while Clara Jane and I played in the sandbox. Once the mountain reached my waist I walked over and flung myself into the pile, flat on my back, B. and Clara Jane joining me. We burrowed. We flung armfuls of leaves into the sun. I asked B. if he remembered that day when we watched the neighbors playing in the leaves.

"I do," he said. "You've been waiting a long time to do this, haven't you?"

That's right. In all those years when I didn't think this was what I wanted, I was still waiting for this moment, the moment of pure happiness. I just didn't expect that moment to be when everything is dappled in chilly sun and I'm surrounded by the warmth of my daughter burying me in leaves while I hold my husband.

(Tons more photos of our day in the leaves here.)

Posted by Robin at 02:04 PM | Comments (8)

Not All Who Wander Are Lost

You must, must, must go read my pal Anne's new blog, "Are We There Yet?". I've known Anne for years and I'm absolutely thrilled that she's putting her atrociously funny wit to screen. Of course, I'm a little biased. I shared a room with her in Vegas last week. When I woke up Sunday morning to find that she'd already brought me a latte, I think I fell in love a little.

I'll let her speak for herself:

When I'm not making my poor kid learn the Napoleon Dynamite dance, or reading a book, or hugging a tree, or traveling to wildly exotic locales, or canoodling with my goofy-ass husband, I actually do work. I am the Communications Coordinator for a regional nutrition program for low-income and minority communities. Exciting, huh? It actually is a pretty cool job, especially since I only have to work half time. Which still leaves much time for making my child do ridiculous things. Or helping him learn to read. Whatever.

Posted by Robin at 10:04 AM | Comments (3)

November 12, 2005

Help me ...

You all know how much I love my friend Kara. Truly. B. understands that Kara and I are a package deal; you get one of us, you get the both of us and no, we won't have a pillow fight and videotape it for your (or anyone elses) amusement. Although if you want to imagine that, fine by us. Any strange men in Kara's life must realize this, too. Although I'm sure all the strange men in Kara's life have probably already noticed our rather unhealthy codependency. What can I say? We're girls. That's what girls do.

Today, these girls have been doing something different. These girls have realized that one of the girls has undergone massive changes in her life over recent months and needs to do some housekeeping, as it were. The other girl also has an unhealthy fixation with organizing other peoples' crap. Not her own crap, which is strewn about her house willy-nill. Basically, she's nosey, and concerned about the nagging dust-related cough that might possibly do her in.

So, these girls, at my insistance, are cleaning.

Sweet Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?

I'm currently imprisioned by a retaining wall constructed entirely of bottles of body lotion.

If Kara puts the blue contacts in one more time, I'm going to have to undergo treatment for night terrors because my God, they turn her into Snakelady.

And if she sprays one more bottle of God-awful musky perfume, we'll be cleaning up vomit. From both of us. Does perfume go bad? Apparently, the answer is yes.

It also causes delirium, so anyone who wants to see us take off our shirts and have a pillow fight best hurry up and get over here, because we're just delirious enough to do it!

So many empty shot glasses, and not a drop to drink. Unless she's got a bottle of hooch stashed under her bed that I haven't found yet. But if I do, it'll definitely be a naked pillowfight. We're gonna be a couple of dust-intoxicated drunken nude pillow cagefighters.

Posted by Robin at 06:06 PM | Comments (8)

November 11, 2005

Girl Stuff in a Guy's World

I can't remember how much I've talked about this, but a little over a month ago I was offered a regular column in a new(ish) local publication, the Arch City Chronicle. Of course, my immediate reaction is to not mention anything work-related on my blog because people lose jobs for shit like that. I keep having to remind myself that 1)my blog helped me get this job (with much thanks to Diatriber, and 2)the magazine has its own blog and is therefore rather blog-friendly.

So, anyway, I'm writing restaurant reviews for the print edition of the magazine. And yes, that's just as much fun as it sounds. Last night I got paid to go to Riley's Pub and eat pizza and drink beer with my editor, Kara and Tom. Nice work if you can get it.

The meeting with Tom was unexpected and cracked me up. He was there to take photos. I mentioned something about having a blog, and he asked for the name. I told him and saw the recognition wash over his face. It amazes me when that happens. Well, all three times it's happened. I think what surprises me even more is that all three times I've had my blog recognized in the offline world, it's been by men.

I'm amazed that men read this. I mean, isn't this one of those "mommy blogs" that only other mommies read? When I see a male name in the comments, more often than not it's spam. Although I do immensely enjoy the non-spam boys who comment.

I mentioned the blog in context of another project I haven't talked about much online. I'm currently in the process of doing some heavy editing of the first 15 months of the blog, turning it into something cohesive and hopefully publishable. If you've been reading since the beginning, you'll know that a great deal of what I wrote pertained to my adjustment to motherhood (which did not go smoothly), along with the post-partem depression and anxiety that damn near did me in. At which point my editor asked, "What, exactly, is post-partem depression? What causes it? You hear a lot about it, but not much about what it's really like."

Hm. My boss just asked me to tell him about the time I went plum stark raving nutters. This should be good for my career. So, over pizza and beer, let's talk about 32 hours of labor! And getting sliced and diced! And not being able to drag my crazy ass out of the chair!

Is it any wonder I'm such a successful career woman who commands the adoration of men everywhere?

Posted by Robin at 02:29 PM | Comments (3)

Friday Shuffle - The Neko Case is a Total Valley Girl Edition

The shuffle, it has a funny way of keying in on themes, don't you think?

1. Down in the Valley - Otis Redding
2. Everything Will be Alright - The Killers
3. (There Will be) Peace in the Valley - Johnny Cash
4. Right Now - Grey DeLisle
5. Jackie, Dressed in Cobras - New Pornographers (with Neko Case, in case you didn't know)
6. Supply and Demand - The Hives (which is funny, because we were just talking about them last night)
7. Runnin' Out of Fools - Neko Case
8. TV Party - Black Flag
9. Daddy's Cup - Drive-by Truckers
10. So Fast, So Numb - REM

Posted by Robin at 09:36 AM | Comments (7)

November 10, 2005

Random Acts of Posting

I'm feeling utterly scattered today, seeing as I'm still a bit laggy from the Vegas trip. Pardon my incoherance as I partake in a list of random happenings:

1. I got a little freaked out today while driving east on I-70 in St. Charles county a few miles from the airport. There were jet trails in the sky in the shape of a huge X. Now, call me paranoid, but when I look at the sky, I don't want to see a massive X. Maybe the pilots were making a little treasure map and indicating that our treasure is in heaven. Or something. Or maybe they were just trying to freak my paranoid shit out. If so, mission: accomplished.

2. Clara "Spoiled Rotten" Jane returned from a four-day stint with her grandparents yesterday. I'm pretty sure she grew six inches while she was gone. She's also sporting a fancy new attitude I can do without. When I picked her up at daycare today one of her teachers said, "She's got quite a different personality today. She's usually so easy-going but today she was, I don't know ... hard-headed." That's because she's had four days of doing whatever she damn well pleases. Granted, that's the way life should be at Mimi and Grandpa's house, but still. I'm also disturbed by the fact that all the stuff she brought back from my parents' house smells a bit like old people. My parents are too young to smell like old people. That's not supposed to start until they're, like, 60, right?

3. On Monday I bought four hanks of this yarn. I'm knitting a throw. It feels so good I'm having trouble resisting the urge to spread the yarn on the floor and frolic nude in it. If it wasn't so expensive, my will wouldn't be so strong.

4. Tonight I'm going to dinner with my editor. It's all business, of course, but I can't remember the last time I went out to dinner with a man who wasn't my husband. It's been nearly eight years, at least. It feels a little weird. I'm thinking about wearing sweat pants and an oversized Betty Boop t-shirt, just so I don't feel like I'm doing something wrong.

Of course, I'd have to go buy sweat pants and an oversized Betty Boop t-shirt, and I'm pretty sure I'll be struck down by lightening if I do.

5. I made a mix CD yesterday that is entirely too schmoopy. I'm not a schmoopy person, but thanks to a certain friend of mine I'm currently drowning in schmoop. If I voluntarily listen to Firecracker by Ryan Adams or I'm Gonna Make You Love Me by the Jayhawks one more time, I fear my cold, cold black heart will fill with blood, swell and burst all over the damn place. I'm trying to undo it with repeated listenings of Let it Bleed, but even that's striking me as exceptionally schmoopy these days.

6. On the plus side, all this schmoop made for a great birthday celebration for B. last night.

7. I overslept by almost an hour this morning. Not that this is related to the birthday celebration. Not in the slightest.

8. I'm so tired.

Posted by Robin at 03:34 PM | Comments (4)

November 09, 2005

36 Years Ago Today ...

B. came into the world, borne to a woman who may or may not have named him after Neil Diamond.

In spite of that, I fell in love with him anyway.

B., I love you. I love who you are. I love growing old with you and watching your soul emerge more with each passing year.

The fan club meeting is scheduled for 10 p.m.

Posted by Robin at 09:30 AM | Comments (8)

November 08, 2005

Forgotten Vegas Moments

Apparently, not enough brain cells survived the trip, because I forgot to mention several primo Vegas moments in yesterday's post. How did this come to my attention? During this conversation:

Me: Yeah, I had to go back to my blog and add my thoughts about The Edge. I guess I was so geeked that I had a better view of the show than Bobby Flay that I forgot.

B.: Bobby Flay? Better seats? What?

Me: Oh, come on! You haven't already forgotten that Bobby Flay and his wife were sitting behind me!

B.: Bobby Flay? Better seats? What?

Me: Shit. I can't remember what I told who. And you didn't read the blog today. How in the hell do you expect to have any clue what's going on around here if you don't read the damn blog?

B: Bobby Flay? Better seats? What?

Apparently what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas because I forgot to bring it home with me. I blame the shots of Hpnotiq. Tastes like grapefruit. Feels like early-onset senility.

Recovered Memory #1: Kim had an extra ticket to the show that she sold on Ebay. Since it was a last-minute deal, we had to meet the guy at the MGM to complete the transaction. We had a terrible time arranging a meeting place, and he was all kinds of snotty about it. And I'm thinking, "Dude, you're getting a good ticket to a show that's been sold out for nearly six months, and you're getting it at a discount. Get over yourself." While Kim navigated the parking garage, I manned the phone. In between getting pissy because we kept losing the cell phone signal, he did manage to say, "Well, you could just come up to my room and give it to me..."

Yeah. Right. I've been in Vegas a whopping 20 minutes at this point, and the first thing I'm going to do is traipse up to some stranger's hotel room. I mean, I'm sure it was all on the up-and-up, and there really aren't many good meeting places in the major hotel/casino/entertainment megaplexes. I'll be right there, Toots!

We finally met him in the lobby. He told us to look for a guy in sunglasses with a VIP lanyard. That should narrow it down to at least 50 other guys in the lobby. But really, he was easy to spot. Dorkitude of that caliber just stands out, even in a mob.

While Kim was completing the transaction, the guy looked at Kat, Anne and me. "I was at The Party last night," he said, showing the pass from The Party that hung around his neck. He flipped that pass to show another pass, from U2's 2001 tour marked with "Band Guest". "I was their special guest last time."

And here I missed my chance to go to his hotel room and demonstrate just how impressed I was.

Recovered Memory #2: The piercings! How could I forget the piercings?

No, there wasn't a point yesterday afternoon where I examined a part of my body and gasped, "Well, that didn't used to be bejeweled!" But that would have been pretty funny, wouldn't it?

Anne has always wanted a nose ring and decided that our trip to Vegas would be the perfect time to do it. Since I don't have a real job, there's nothing stopping me from piercing or inking any publically-displayed parts of my body so I thought, what the hell, I'll get mine pierced, too. If I don't like it, I can always take it out. At worst, it'll be a memorable experience that antibiotics should clear up in ten days. In true mob mentality, Kat decided that she'd finally get that belly button ring she's been coveting. Kim got piercer info from the concierge at Ceasars, but alas, our timing didn't work out.

Instead, in the wee hours of the morning after the show, Anne and I sat in our hotel room, contemplating a trip to a little place called Dead Presidents, open 24 hours on Industrial Drive. Sounds safe and clean, no? Maybe next time.

Recovered Memory #3: I almost fell 20 rows to my certain demise at the concert. Towards the end of the show I was standing there, engrossed, when I felt a massive cramp in my lower back, bad enough to buckle my knees. Luckily I was able to catch myself without hitting the floor (or the guy in front of me).

Wait ... that's not a cramp ... that's as human being. The woman behind me had rocketed over the back of my seat and plowed into me. Why? Because the guy behind her had done the same, creating a little bit of Arena Human Dominoes.

I don't think Bobby Flay instigated this, but it wouldn't surprise me if he did, smarmy little smug mealy-tomato-serving jerk.

Posted by Robin at 12:31 PM | Comments (4)

November 07, 2005

In the City of Blinding Light

Viva las Bono!

Friday: Arrived in Vegas in the early evening, greeted by the lovely Kim, Anne and Kat. We ran around the strip, destroyed a great deal of crustacians with dinner at Mandalay Bay. By the time I arrived, I was pretty tuckered out, so it was a short night.

My first impressions of Vegas: this is the most surreal place in the world. Everything is manufactured. Everything. I can't decide if that's good or bad. On one hand, a little fantasy and make-believe is a great thing, and this is a huge testament to the bredth of the human imagination. But on the other, it really does lack soul. If given the opportunity to spend, say, a week in Vegas, I'm pretty sure most of my time would be spent sitting on a bench, people-watching.

I was much more interested in seeing Kim, Anne and Kat than anything else, of course. Much talking. Much laughing. You know, doing the stuff girls do when they get together without spouses and kids. It was grand.

We stayed at the Sahara, which is one of the oldest hotel/casinos on the strip. Personally, that suited me just fine. It felt like old Vegas. Walking through the casino to our room, we passed a bandstand, draped in thick red velvet. A band, mostly older men with a younger Sinatra sound-alike vocalist performed, clad in tuxedos. That's what I wanted to see, just a hint of what used to be.

Saturday:Monorail passes purchased, we hit the strip. Spent some time at Paris, which I thoroughly loved. Then we headed for lunch at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill.

Now, you might recall that I'm not a fan of Mr. Flay. And apparently, neither are you people. But when Kim got us a lunch reservation at Mesa Grill, I didn't balk. In fact, I was excited and interested. Besides, with an abhorant personality like his, the food must be spectacular for him to be so successful, right?

When we finally found the restaurant, located in Ceasars Palace, it formed a circle with the Pussycat Dolls theater and Celine Dion's show.

A circle. Made of Carmen Elektra, Bobby Flay and Celine Dion?

I have entered one of the circles of Hell. It's the third or fouth, I'm not sure which.

(Sarcasm aside, I truly loved the experience. Really. Because my God, where else would that scenario happen, and how fun to be in it!)

Mesa Grill? Holy fuck. One of the best meals of my life. I knew I'd splurge on one excellent meal while in Vegas. I don't care about gambling. I'm not much of a shopper. But when given the opportunity, I have no qualms spending $50 on lunch, but it had better be so good that I need a shower afterwards. This qualified.

We started with an ahi tuna tartar. It was a little torte; a tortilla on the bottom, avocado relish in the middle, piled with dices of buttery raw tuna tossed with peppers. There was a little herb salad accompaniment and wasabi and ancho pepper dipping sauces. Beautiful and divine in every way.

I really put Mr. Flay's skills to the test (not that he was in the kitchen, of course; he probably hasn't been in a professional kitchen in years) by ordering Barbequed Lamb Cobb Salad. I'm not a fan of lamb. To me, it always tastes like feet. Dirty, icky feet. I was either giving him my ultimate test or setting him up to fail. He didn't. Field greens, avocados tossed with peppers, a smoky buttermilk dressing, rare chunks of lamb tenderloin with a spicy rub crisped around the edges and my beloved Cabrales cheese ... only the tomato was a bit mealy. Otherwise, wonderful, especially with an incredibly peppery glass of Zinfandel (vintage I sadly forgot to note).

For dessert we all shared a bit of warm pumpkin cake, topped with a spiced cream, surrounded by slivers of crisp sugared pear and fresh cranberries with a dollop of pear sorbet, and the best cup of coffee that's ever passed my lips.

Touche', Mr. Flay. You have won my fair favor.

Now, why did I go to Vegas again? Wasn't there a reason ... an impetus for this entire trip? Something we were committed to doing? Hmmm ...

Oh, yeah: those Irish lads with the guitars and stuff.

The show? Awesome. My seat for the show? Incredible. That was taken without a zoom lens. The setlist? Mind-blowing. "With or Without You". "One" with Mary J. Blige. "In a Little While" with that cute boy from The Killers. "Mysterious Ways". "The Fly", complete with mindblowing graphics that hit me at my core.

My one big moment was during "Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own", the song Bono wrote in tribute of his father. In the middle of the song he hits this soaring note, followed by the line "You're the reason why the opera is in me". It's both crushing in its grief and beautiful in its love. He was standing right in front of me at that point, and I sobbed. I wished Kara could have seen it, but was also glad that she didn't have to deal with the emotions it would have conjured. It was tough. Really tough.

It was an epiphany-free show. I made sure of that. I went with the intention of just having fun and feeling good. Mission: accomplished. Not that I turned my brain off. Not in the slightest. But this time around it wasn't about desperately grasping for a glimmer of hope. It was just reminders of just how good life is, how good love is. I spent a lot of the show thinking about B. and Clara Jane, missing them, loving them. Thinking about my friends, many who've been through immense amounts of shit lately, missing them, loving them. The missing wasn't even melancholy. I'm glad I have people in my life that I miss when they aren't there.

But it wasn't a show without a surreal moment, that's for sure. After Damien Marley's opening set, I was gawking around behind me, people-watching, when I spotted what might possibly be the cutest woman I've ever seen sitting four rows behind me. Everything about her exuded cuteness. I don't want to say gorgeous, because she wasn't Vegas gorgeous, which is just scary. She was the hottest girl-next-door in the world. Thoughts of changing teams started flickering through my brain, so sublime was the hotness. And she was wearing the most motherfucking massive diamond on her left hand. I caught myself staring, so I diverted my eyes to the person sitting to her left ... who happened to be ...

Bobby motherfucking Flay.

The cutest girl in the world? His wife, acotr Stephanie March. You know how celebs are rarely as attractive in person as they are on screen or in photos? She looks better in person. He, however, radiates lukewarm arrogance, as expected. I considered approaching him and saying, "Yo, Bastard! Your restaurant's serving mealy-ass tomatoes, and I totally wanna do your wife," but I make a point of not bothering the famous people on the rare occasions when I encounter them.

Edited to add: If there is a heaven and I somehow manage to find myself there someday, I hope to spend eternity on a cloud, with The Edge on the next cloud over, playing "Mysterious Ways" for eternity. Except for maybe a little "Bullet the Blue Sky" on my birthdays. Is it any wonder he married the belly dancer from the "Mysterious Ways" video? I'm sure they just spend their days with him playing that sexy, slinky riff while she shimmies. That, my friends, is love.

Sunday: Breakfast at the hotel with everyone, including Anne's husband and darling five-year-old son, Bean. I remember when Bean was born, weeks after I joined the Stonecutters. He was born about three months early and things were really touch-and-go. Not that any of this is evident now. He's tiny, but sharp, funny, agile and quick. I just wanted to stick my fingers in his long, fluffy hair and give him playful little ruffles all morning. Such a cutey!

Oh, the gambling? I only played (and lost) a dollar the entire time I was in Vegas. After the concert, though, Kat hit the casino. Played $5 and won $100. Not too shabby. After breakfast she cashed in her chips, then met me in the front lobby where I was visiting with one of Anne's friends. Kat held out her cupped hand. "Am I just naive, or is this what I think it is?" She held a chip, marked with the casino's name and $100.

"Looks pretty clear to me," I said, thinking the cashier had given her a chip instead of cash.

"I found it on the floor when I was walking back here."

And no, she wasn't being naive. It really was a $100 chip. Found on the floor. After cashing in $100 in winnings. Kat's had a rough go of it lately and really, if anyone deserves to trip over $100 chips, it's her.

Anne and company and Kat both hit the road for their long drives home, while Kim and I headed to the Bellagio. Gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous! We checked out the conservatory, which were decked out for autumn, complete with enormous blown-glass autumn leaves fluttering from the ceiling. We also took in the The Impressionist Landscape at the Gallery of Fine Art. Nice little exhibit and really, a welcome change of pace from all the lights, noise and make-believe. The more I learn about that era of art, the more I appreciate Renoir.

Finally, it was plane-time. I got to the airport early, caught up on the weekends of my spouse and usual partner in crime. The flight, of course, was a sell-out, full of people like myself who hadn't shifted gears from the intensity of Vegas to the blandness of the real world. It was crowded, loud and restless.

I sat by the window with an older woman beside me. Dressed in green camoflauge pants, an American flag leather jacket and a black felt fedora, she was missing a few teeth and smelled of stale alcohol. For about an hour, she leaned on my left arm, snoring.

As we walked down the jetway, almost 1 a.m. back in our real Midwestern world, a teenage boy caught up with her, shouting, "Mama, I ain't never sitting next to Tequila again! She talked the whole flight!"

It was good to see that at least a smidge of Vegas' surrealness was able to survive the bumpy flight.

Posted by Robin at 01:20 PM | Comments (7)

I'm home

I'm exhausted. News at 11. If I'm awake by then.

Vegas? Most surreal place in America. But fun. Lots and lots of fun.

Right. Sleep.

Posted by Robin at 01:21 AM | Comments (1)

November 04, 2005

Hunting Accidents

As some of you might recall, my dad had a quadriple bypass last February, which led to early retirement. No problems there; he's made an excellent recovery and is enjoying retired life. It's afforded him the time to partake in a lot of activities he enjoys that his previous job as Crazy Workaholic Man didn't allow. Like working with his horses. When he was much younger, Dad was quite the horseman, but that fell by the wayside with having a family and his duties as Crazy Workaholic Man. Two years ago, he purchased a quarter horse, Lexi, and has since acquired two more horses, Bubba and Chic. Bubba has been trained to pull a cart and Dad's all about giving horse cart rides.

This fall, Dad's going to revisit another old hobby that fell by the wayside through the years. For the first time since 1984, my dad is going deer hunting. Not only that, he's also planning to go hunting for wild boars in Oklahoma.

While I'm glad that my dad's finally learning to have some fun, I'm a bit concerned. You see, my dad? He's the most accident-prone person in the world.

I could use every single bit of space contained in this here blog, just telling stories of all the times my dad has hurt himself. And not just the usual klutzy trips and falls we all do. I'm talking about major, gonna-lose-a-limb type accidents.

Like the day before I left for college. He got stuck in a machine at the facotry where he worked. As in, he was inside the machine, fixing it. A machine that wasn't turned off. And it ate him, earning him a trip to the hospital once it spat him out.

My dad was born blind in his right eye, a condition that would lead most people to take special care to not do things that, oh, I don't know, might blind the good eye. Not Dad, who was once refinishing an antique cabinet with industrial-grade paint-stripper. Without goggles, of course. Turns out, when you throw a bottle of industrial grade paint-stipper at an antique cabinet, sometimes it splashes. And when you only have one good eye, Murphy's law dictates that it will splash into the one good eye.

My all-time favorite Dad accident happened the day after Thanksgiving two years ago. My mom, B. and I were at their house, waiting for Dad to take a break from building a horse fence at my grandparents' house so we could go out for lunch. I was six months pregnant at the time, and eating was the most important thing in my life, next to urinating every 15 minutes and sleeping in cat-like proportions. Anyone who interfered with my pursuit of these activities was subjected to my horrible wrath. You know, after lunch and a nap.

The phone rang, and I started waddling to find my shoes, knowing it was Dad, calling to tell us he was on his way to the restaurant. I was only half right. It was Dad, but there would be no lunch. Instead, there would be a trip to the ER. Seems he was holding a chain saw when he stopped to ponder ... something. He put his hands on his hips, forgetting that he had a running chain saw in one of those hands, and sawed through his thigh.

A month later, on Christmas day, his thigh was mostly healed. After the big family dinner, I hauled my car-sized pregnant gut outside to get some air, as temperatures above 60 degrees gave me the dry heaves at that point. One of Dad's horses was outside the pasture, tied to the fence. As I neared, she rared up on her back legs, flipped her head, snapped the wooded fence rail, and proceeded to run towards me, swinging the big, splintery tree-trunk-sized slab of wood as she went.

Ever see a fat woman, eight months pregnant with an exceptionally large child, running for her life from a horse, swinging half a fence abover her head? A few lucky people who happened to be driving down my parents road can say that they have.

So my dad, B. and my uncles had to do a little emergency fence repair. With the chain saw. Nothing happened with it this time, but damn if we weren't all waiting for Dad to saw through his other thigh.

This morning, I was talking to my mom. We talked about how we're glad that Dad's finding things to do with his friends that don't involve her. He tends to rely pretty heavily on my mom for entertainmet. Plus, we were all afraid that Crazy Workaholic Man wouldn't handle retirement well and we'd find him in his barn, scrawling, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" on the walls, shortly before hacking his way through the kitchen door with a pick ax and sneering, "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Johnny!"

Of course, if my dad tried to do that, he'd probably put his good eye out with the ax before getting the door properly hacked.

"I'm not crazy about him getting into guns," Mom said.

I told her that I wasn't either.

"But he does know what he's doing. He hunted for years before he stopped. He knows what he's doing," she said.

"Refresh my memory, Mom. How mady times has Dad shot himself while hunting?"

"Just the one time."

That's what I thought.

Posted by Robin at 09:55 AM | Comments (9)

Friday Shuffle - The U2 Takes Over the Blog Edition

All U2, all the time today.

1. Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out Of
2. Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me
3. Sunday Bloody Sunday (live in San Diego, Vertigo tour)
4. Stories for Boys
5. Where the Streets Have No Name (live in San Diego, Vertigo tour)
6. 11 O'Clock Tick Tock
7. Heartland
8. Acrobat
9. Beautiful Day
10. Grace

Until Monday ...

Posted by Robin at 08:46 AM | Comments (1)

November 03, 2005

Blessings Aren't Just for the Ones Who Kneel. Luckily.

I've got a bad habit of writing blog entries in my head. By the time I get a chance to actually write it, I'm tired of it, or have thought it to death. Such is the case today.

Every Thursday, Clara Jane goes to daycare and I go to the coffeehouse to work on an extended writing project. Some days, it goes really well and I come away feeling revived and like I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. Others, it's an exercise in frustration. The material's too hard to write. I'm unable to let go of the things from the rest of my life for those six hours and do what I want to do. Or maybe I'd just rather take my child-free time and go for a drive with the music turned up as loud as it'll go.

Today, it was all of the above. I left the coffeehouse two hours early and hit the road.

Tomorrow I'm getting on a plane to Las Vegas to see U2 with my friends Kim, Anne and Kat. It's a phenomenal situation, really. Kim lives near Vegas. Back in April she did a huge cross-country-and-back road trip. While she was gone, the Vegas U2 date was announced, tickets went on sale and sold out, much to her dismay. She spent a few days with me, and I helped her find a way to get tickets without bending over for a scalper. In return, she bought a ticket for me.

Have I mentioned that I have awesome friends? Because I do.

If you've been reading for any amount of time you know that I love U2. A lot. But with all the craziness of the past few months, I really haven't let myself get too excited about the Vegas show. It seemed so far off all along, and life kept intervening.

Today, when I hit the road instead of working, I put "How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb" on, turned it up full-blast and before Bono could get to catorce, I had my Concert Reality Check. The CRC, much like Interpretive Dance Girl, is a regular at just about every show I go to. Well, the big ones, at least. It's that moment, usually a day or two before the event, when it finally hits me that, hey! I'm going to Vegas to see U2 with Kim, Anne and Kat! And suddenly my life is filled with exclaimation points, italics and shrieking with glee. In this case, catorce sounded more like "CatorcAIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAW! I'm gonna see U2 in Vegas in two days!!!!!"

I do love that moment.

Right now, I need this moment.

I've seen U2 twice in the last four years. The first time was November, 2001. While standing on the floor, fifteen feet away from the stage, I had a moment where all the hurt, anger and fear spawned from 9/11, which I'd been forcing down for over two months, finally surfaced during "Sunday Bloody Sunday".

The last time, in Chicago six months ago, I was coming off one of the worst times in my life. I'd spent five months in therapy for anxiety and panic disorders that had dictated my life since I was a child not much older than my daughter. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. It involved putting myself nose-to-nose with every great hurt in my life, every nick in my emotional armour. I had to examine everything I hate about myself - my neediness, my ability to disconnect from anyone and anything, my body, my temper, my ability to turn away from anything remotely frightening. For months I not only wallowed in every single thing awful about myself (real and imagined), but picked those details apart. It was akin to taking one of those picks you use to get the meat out of a walnut and gouging away at my soul.

It was so bad that, for a great chunk of that time, I no longer wanted to continue living.

I had a plan. I knew how I was going to do it, end what I had grown to hate. I just didn't know when. I didn't know what, exactly, would be the final pain that would make me say, "Enough", but I was certain it was waiting around the corner, the one final despicable thing about myself that would solidify my belief that mine was not a life worth living.

I never found that one thing, because it doesn't exist. I didn't know that six months ago. I know now.

When I look back at 2005, I can see a calendar in which the entire month of April and been blackened with a Sharpie marker. The people closest to me seem to understand what I mean when I vaguely reference the month of April. It's my own little code word for, "You know, that month when I was really sad, really angry and really ready to bring things to a sudden halt, whether you like it or not because goddamn it, you're not the one living this pain so you don't get a motherfucking say in how I handle it."

When April was behind me, there was U2. If you were too lazy to read the "U2" link above, I'll summerize: I got a bunch of musical reminders that I can deal with those ugly things about myself and my life and I can make them good. And things got better.

In the months that have passed, things have fallen apart. Seeing so much human suffering; I don't know how I would have dealt with that before May. I honestly don't. I don't think I could have dealt with them. I think I would have stuffed them down and eventually imploded. It's happened before.

But things are different now. I've had several huge lessons in just how precious life is. It took the loss of thousands of people far away for me to see that. It took the loss of one person close to me for me to see that. I almost had to lose myself before I could see that. I get it. Lesson learned.

And my life is so much better for it. My relationships are better. The words "I love you", which used to be pried from my lips only with brute force, tend to slip out at will these days.

I also find myself with little patience when people who don't move when they need to. Life is short. Short and harsh. Kiss the girl. Write the book. Make the baby. Take the job. Quit the job. Jet off to Vegas with your friends for a concert because Jesus Christ, you might never get the opportunity again. It could be the best thing in your life. If things come crashing down, it might be the only thing in your life that makes it bearable to go on.

It's been a horrific year on the large scale and the small scale. Last night I just about gave myself whiplash from vigorously nodding while reading Joe. It's been a lousy year. Really lousy, and it needs to be laid to rest. Put out of its misery. Demolished. Unlike Joe, I'm not waiting until New Year's Eve to put the dog down. I'm doing it this weekend. U2 has been the balm for my soul before, and I know they will be again.

Posted by Robin at 07:11 PM | Comments (8)

November 02, 2005

Imprisioned

It's all toddler, all the time this week at poppymom.com.

Since Clara "Daylight Standard Time" Jane is awaking at the asscrack of dawn, thanks to that son of a bitch William Willett, may his mortal soul be burning in Hell, we headed to the zoo bright and early. Afterwards, we headed to Hartford Coffee for lunch and the three gallons of caffiene my body requires to function during Willett's Folly.

For my non-local readers, Hartford's a great idea. It's a snazzy little coffee house and cafe that opened the same month Clara Jane was born. Great coffee, great food and one of the most brilliant ideas a new mom ever heard - a big play area, surrounded by comfy couches. I was hooked.

I haven't been to Hartford much lately. For one thing, it's a bit of a haul from my house. Also, after my last visit, I had a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. Not from the coffee, though. The coffee's still great. My problem's more with the other patrons.

In case you were too lazy to click on the last link, I'll give you a quick run-down: something happens to me when I go to Hartford. Although I'm a rather large woman, with big boobs, big hair and a big, often bright red mouth, I become invisible when I'm there.

The play area is set up to facilitate community bonding-type stuff. You know, big couches, big tables to be shared, all that hippy crap. Which normally, I would like. I'm not a shy person. Not in the slightest. I talk to damn near everyone I encounter.

But not at Hartford.

Today I stood at the counter and ordered our lunch while Clara Jane headed to the play area. Another little blonde girl was there, and they checked each other out. The girls mom and I exchanged the usual "How old is your baby?" pleasantries, then went about our business.

While we waited for our food, Clara Jane played and I sat on the window seat, not saying a word. The other mom talked quietly with the little girl's fedora-wearing father. Pretty soon they wer joined by another young mom with another young daughter. They all talked while I sat, silently drinking my latte.

Our lunch came, so Clara Jane and I moved to the communcal table and ate. She wolfed down a few bites of sandwich and returned to playing. The other parents continued chatting, not paying much mind as their girls scaled the wooden high chairs like they were ladders.

I eavesdropped, of course. The lone mother complained that her father allowed the little girl to watch Nascar. "He's going to turn her into a Hoosier*," she said, whispering the last word like it was a profanity. The other parents complained that their parents occasionally gave their little girl Teddy Grahams at dinner.

These are the same people who, five minutes earlier, laughed when their daughter a