Poppy Mom

Todays Molly Hatchet final score

Total number of sorely disappointed people who came to my blog because MSN's search engine said I had Molly Hatchet information: 473

It's Wendy's birthday!

That's right! Today my cuz, my raison de blog, turns 27. Let's ignore the fact that I'm a smidge mortified by this, because I clearly remember Wendy's first day in our family, which means I. am. old. Regardless, she wants one thing for her birthday and you people can help. Yes, even you Molly Hatchet fans.

This summer Wendy's walking 60 miles in three days to raise money for breast cancer. In lieu of fabulous birthday gifts, she wants nothing more than to reach her goal of $2,100 in donations. She's almost 1/4 of the way there.

Give Wendy a gift, which is also a gift to everyone with boobies. Go donate!

If you are the owner of a pair of boobies, I think you should donate your bra size. That's what I'm going to do, because that's the type of thing that would crack Wendy up. If I can spare $46 from the Massive Boulder Holder Bra Fund, you little gals can certainly toss in $34, don't you think?

Friday shuffle - sorry, no Molly Hatchet

Today's shuffle:

Heaven Can't Wait - The Real Tuesday Weld
You Send Me - Sam Cooke
Women & Men - They Might be Giants
Chickamauga - Uncle Tupelo
They're Blind - The Replacements
I Think I'll Just Stay Here & Drink - Merle Haggard
Seasons of Love - Rent Soundtrack
Vibrate - Outkast
At Least That's What You Said (live) - Wilco
Mahgeetah - My Morning Jacket

Not a hatchet in sight. Not even an ax.

To all the Molly Hatchet fans...

My apologies. Several hundred of you have found my blog while searching MSN for Molly Hatchet info. I have none, other than a blurb about the lead singer's death. And that's not even really news. That's about the eerie coincidence of rock stars dying while my friend is visiting me from Cleveland.

Sorry for your loss. Carry on.

Sticking it to The Man

So, we all know gas prices are insane. Big surprise. I live in a neighborhood that, while being part of a metro area, contains absolutely nothing in the way of shopping, save for a grocery store and lots of Old Man Bars. In order for me to get most of the provisions and little extras that make my life happier, I have to drive.

You know I ventured out today, just to get the few things that I can't buy online. Because I have decided to buy damn near everthing online so as to not give my money to The Man for gas. It's economical, too. Shipping charges are less than what it would cost me in gas to sit at the 45 stoplights in my neighborhood.

So far it's working really well. On Monday I forced B. to make a couple of purchases for himself. I literally had to hold the credit card to his neck and draw a little blood, since he never buys anything for himself. Soon, he'll find the Spiderman 2 DVD and two schlocky sci-fi paperbacks in the mailbox. In a show of solidarity I bought Crossing California for myself.

Last night I stuck it to The Man buy buying this awesome shirt and a few more pairs of underdrawers. I had a coupon. I love sticking it to The Man even more when it's a good value.

I forgot to mention: After I bought my shirt I totally stuck it to The Man by purchasing CDs by independent recording artists Controller Controller and Q and not U. I also purchased a book for Clara Jane.

As I mentioned earlier, I purchased some yarn today, because I like waste. I bought five different colors for The Project. Got home, consulted the pattern, and discovered that I'm two colors short. So I ordered it. The shipping charges are less than the amount I would spend in gas if I drove to get it. There was also a coupon involved.

The Man? He's totally stuck right now. Stuck and bleeding in my driveway. Maybe I'll get 1-800-GOT-JUNK to come get him.

Down Time

Wow. What a week. First I was in my hometown. Then Kristina was here. After lots of activity, I always look forward to a bit of down time, but then when I get the down time, I freak out because I'm no good at dealing with down time.

You know what's worse than down time? A 13-month-old cutting molars during down time.

Really, though, today was good. Clara "Bicuspids" Jane and I decide to throw off the shackles of healthy eating and headed out for some international cuisine. The bicuspids came in quite handy for devouring all but three bites of a grilled cheese sandwich and a couple of French fries.

We did a little shopping, and I once again forgot to buy toothpaste. You'd think all the tooth-related whining would have reminded me, but it didn't.

A sidenote: do you know what I love about St. Pat's Day? I have a green truck, which means I can usually get it washed for free on St. Pat's Day. Some years, that's the only time the poor thing gets a bath. Since the weather is glorious today, my truck is now clean until next year.

Since the carwash brushes scared the crap out of Bicuspids, I decided to try another first with her, figuring it would cheer her up. And if it didn't, well, she was already pissed off, so what's a little more anger to the mix. We made a stop at the park on the way home, and my big girl took her first ride on a swing. Well, her first ride on a non-battery-powered baby swing.

Holy crap, why weren't we doing this every single day? The crankiness vanished! Teething pain? Totally forgotten! Giggles and laughter and snorting - she was so happy she snorted, for God's sake! - and squeals of glee!

Considering I played on my swingset until I was well past puberty and big/strong enough to tip it over by myself, I shouldn't be surprised that my kid was highly impressed by the swinging phenomenon.

And now she's sleeping off her swinger's high. I'm about to attempt some knitting. Because you know what I need? A few more unfinished projects with massive knitting errors. Big tangled wads of yarn from unravelled projects are good, too. I don't have nearly enough of that so I'd better get busy.

Street Fighing Princess

Yes, yet another concert recap. I told Kristina that I thought my show-going days would come to an end with parenthood. Apparently and happily, I was wrong.

Last night it was Interpol at The Pageant with Kristina, Kara and Holley. Opening act? Q and not U, a quirky little trio headed by what might possibly be a Hobbit. I noticed that his guitar wires kept him out of range of the other band members. Probably to prevent him from injuring them with his tiny flailing limbs. I thoroughly enjoyed them.

We were right by the stage. Not on the floor; we're not completely sick bastards. I got my fill of slam dancing on Sunday. Not that Interpol is much of a slam band, but c'mon. This is St. Louis. We're so starved for culture that I've seen people slamming at Jimmy Buffett shows. Our seats were right at the edge of the pit. And while the concert was entertaining, we got some extra bang for our entertainment buck, thanks to the caged animals people on the floor before us between the opening act and Interpol.

First, we have the Federlines. Well, it wasn't really Kev and Brit. They were much younger. But she did have a piece of red yarn tied to her wrist and he was wearing a trucker hat that had possibly been drug behind a real truck at some point. Boy, do the Federlines love each other, and do they ever want the world to know it. The making ot - oh, the making out! The passion! The lust! It simply couldn't be contained by our social mores! Their love knows no bounds! Not even the bounds of good taste and dignity!

"I bet you five bucks she's gonna blow him," I told Kristina.

Five minutes later, I get a nudge. "She's kneeling!"

Yep, right there in front of us. Kev even had his ass against the toe of Kristina's Doc Marten. Why she didn't kick, I'll never know.

Also in front of us, we had The Princess. Early twenties, fuzzy pink sweater, clinging to her boyfriend, with a plastic toy tiara, complete with light-up blinking heart, perched on her head.

Now, I'm not anti-tiara. I have many friends who get a kick out of the whole tiara/boa/princess/diva/goddess stuff. And that's fine. These friends all have a sense of humor and are delightful people to be around.

This princess, not so much. For someone wearing a plastic toy tiara, complete with light-up blinking heart, she was pretty fucking surly.

Maybe it's just me, but if you wear a plastic toy tiara, complete with light-up blinking heart in public, you'd better be willing to laugh about it. Unless the tiara has been perched on your head as a result of a terrilbe accident with a soldering iron at your fifth birthday party. Otherwise, lighten up - you're wearing a damn toy on your head.

While the Princess and her boyfriend struggled to make the blinking lights work, Kristina said to me, "Anyone that wears anything that blinks needs to have her fucking ass beat."

Apparently, this offended the Princess, who snidely thanked Kristina.

"C'mon. Let's take it outside," Kristina offered.

Throughout Interpol's set, I couldn't help but wonder if the Princess was going to confront Kristina after the show. Maybe roll up the sleeves of her fuzzy pink sweater, armed with a tiara in each hand, gouging wildly and screaming, "You fuck with the tiara, you fuck with me, Bitch!"

Actually, she probably would have taken one look at Kristina, Kara, Holley and me and pissed her pants in fear, which might have shorted out the light and caused a nasty shock. Either way.

The Angel of Death Strikes Again

I know you've all been waiting for this. It's the last full day of Kristina's visit and she hadn't killed anyone yet.

I read the news today, oh boy ...

Molly Hatchet Lead Singer Dies at 53

Letting the Angel of Death sleep in my basement? Now that's what I call flirting with disaster, my friends.

Speaking of flirting with disaster, or at least extreme danger, The Angel and I joined Holley at the Creepy Crawl Sunday night to witness Death From Above 1979 and opening act Controller Controller, who rocked my damn face off.

The Angel fo Death had a slight ... incident at the Creepy Crawl. She came back to the bathroom with a bloody finger, gashed on the lock on the bathroom door. Since I had taken the clean diaper out of my purse (since it's damn near impossible to rock hardcore with a clean diaper in your purse), I could only offer her a reciept to use as a tournequette. The Creepy Crawl ain't just a seedy punk club in St. Louis; it's also the name of the disease you get by slicing your finger in the bathroom. Exena's pretty sure that her finger has the clap.

Between Exena's case of Finger Clap, someone in front of us spewed some mystery fluid on us. And I got pelted with ice thrown into the audience by Controller Controller's flu-ridden drummer. There was discussion of stopping for a triple tetnus shot before the post-concert Del Taco run.

Speaking of Del Taco, we made a friend at the drive-thru. It's not everyday you make friends at the drive-thru. As we pulled in, a rather well-kept looking man greeted us at the speaker.

"Excuse me," he asked as I rolled down my window. "Is this an '02 F-150?"

"Uh, no. Huh?" I was confused. Wouldn't you be?

He went on to tell us that he's a grant writer in town on business from Alabama, and the fuel pump on his 2002 F-150 had died. The truck was being repaired, and he was stranded in St. Louis without a credit card and only 20 someodd bucks in cash. Someone had offered to drive him up to Troy for $50, a bargain compared to what a cab would cost. He was humiliated and tired, and needing another $23 to get back to Troy.

Huh?

I have a policy - I don't give money to panhandlers. If they're hungry, I'll gladly buy them food. I donate money to America's Second Harvest (and you should, too). I try to donate my cooking skills to homeless organizations whenever possible. But I don't give my cash to someone who claims to be hungry, won't accept food, and is probably spending my cash on crack. Sorry. Not gonna happen.

I gave him $2. Exena gave him a little cash, too.

Why did I do this? His story seemed somewhat legit. Unusual, but somewhat fesable. Did I waive my rule because he didn't look like a junkie? Because he was coherant? I don't know. It bugs me. I really do hope he was on the up and up and we were able to help someone who really needed the assistance.

And if he wasn't on the up and up, then karma will intervene and he'll get the Finger Clap from the Angel of Death.

Why didn't you remind me to pick up Kristina?

Why?

Lucky for you I remember to pick her up all on my own. She arrived yesterday.

Much giggling and hysterical laughter occured while dinnerinig with Kristina, Holley and Kara. "Napoleon Dynamite" was watched ... again. So were several Tivo'd eps of "Austin City Limits" and "Aqua Teen Hungerforce".

Today? I was going to have people over for lunch, but decided I'm far too tired of doing stuff to bother with cooking, so we're all going out.

Tonight? Death From Above 1979.

I've had a massive headache in my forehead for the past two days. It's either from furrowing my brow or it's a stroke. B. asked me if it changes when I push on it. It does. He thinks that's a sign that I'm not, like, gonna die and stuff. Let's hope he's right.

The late Friday shuffle

I was shuffle-less until I arrived back home 20 mintues ago. I know you just couldn't wait any longer for my shuffle, so here it is:

Rock n' Roll Lifestyle - Cake
The Hexx - Pavement
Nanny Nanny Boo Boo - Le Tigre
My Winding Wheel - Ryan Adams
I Dig Chicks! - Jonah Jones
Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
Cuban Pete - Tito Puente
The Name of This Thing is Not Love - Elvis Costello & the Imposters
Sylvia Plath - Ryan Adams
Personal Jesus - Johnny Cash

Hometown Yarn, Hot Rods and Psychotherapy, LLC

It turns out, you can buy some pretty decent yarn at an auto body repair shop. Who knew?

I went in search of yarn yesterday and was afraid I’d have to resort to *gasp* Wal-Mart, since there’s not much else in my hometown. But I did a little digging and found mention of a yarn shop not far from my parents’ house.

“Oh, yeah. That’s new.” My mom said. “It’s in the same building as an auto body shop, I think.”

I found the location and sure enough, cars everywhere. I remember taking my old 1980 Mustang with the crap carburetor to the mechanic across the street many times. There were two signs on the metal building – one for the yarn shop and one for the auto body shop.

I opened the door and was greeted with the fumes of car paint. Blinded by the bright afternoon sun, all I saw inside was a guy with a blow torch, attacking some sheet metal. I quickly shut the door, tucked my Nursery Knits book under my arm, and started around the corner to see if I could find the mystery entrance to the yarn shop.

“Can I help you?” Blow Torch Guy yelled after me.

“Uh …. Yarn shop? Is there one? Here?”

“Yeah! C’mon in!”

Sure enough, once I got inside, I saw a few shelves in a corner, stocked with maybe fifty varieties of yarn and a few books. A huge loom, full of royal purple fiber stood next to a cherry red Chevy Bel-Air. Next to a primered hot rod sat a woman, surrounded by artwork on the walls and knitting works in progress.

Not only had I walked into the Twilight Zone, I’d also walked into the place where XX and XY chromosomes collade and beat the living snot out of traditional gender roles. It’s an interesting place to be, really.

I wound up buying four skeins of gorgeous imported cotton in bright orange and a shade of red identical to the Bel-Air, a pattern for a shopping bag, some circular needles and a set of bamboo needles I need for another project, which were about $2 less than I would have paid in St. Louis.

As I expected, the two business owners are a couple. They’ve only been together for a year, and she moved to my hometown from Kansas City seven months ago. She’s an award-winning fiber artist who was more than willing to whip out the scrapbook with newspaper clippings and photos of her past glories.

She’s also pretty lonely, being new to a town where everyone’s family has known everyone else’s family for about two hundred years.

Now, I don’t know what it is about me. Maybe everyone is like this, I don’t know. But for whatever reason, it seems like I can get people to disclose their entire life stories, even the really ugly parts, without really trying.

I once had a cashier tell me the sordid details of her divorce in the time it took to ring up my eight items or less.

Maybe I just have a friendly face. Or maybe it’s because I’m not shy and I’ll talk to anyone. I don’t know. All I know is I was at the yarn shop/auto body shop for two hours, and only about fifteen minutes of that time was spent on anything knitting-related.

The owner showed me her scrapbook. She told me about her first marriage to a controlling firefighter who dictated everything she ate, wore, who she saw and where she went. She mentioned her childhood abuse.

She talked about the nervous breakdown she had that led to her divorce. The years of eating disorders and depression. Her bi-polar disorder.

That struck a nerve. A great big nerve.

A little background: I haven’t talked to one of my oldest friends in two years. Two years next week, as a matter of fact. We had been friends since second grade. Through our adult life I’ve watched her struggle with a severe bi-polar disorder that has completely debilated her. It finally got to the point where I had to cut her out of my life unless she got the proper treatment and did the things she needed to do to get well.

When I first walked into the shop, the owner told me that I looked just like an old friend of hers that she hadn’t seen in years. “If you had blue eyes, you could be her twin,” she told me several times during our visit.

When she mentioned her manic-depression, I told her a little about my friend, and how I had ended our friendship.

“I think that’s what happened with my friend, the one who looks like you,” she said. The tears barely balanced on her eyelashes. “I think she just got sick of dealing with it.”

I was just about as uncomfortable as a patron of a yarn shop/auto body shop can possibly be.

“You know,” I hesitated, “When I ended our friendship, it wasn’t just because I was sick of it. I felt like I done had all I could do. And I felt like I was doing more harm than good. She was counting on me to make things better. And I tried to make things all better. But I can’t.” I caught my breath as she watched.

“She had to learn how to take care of herself,” she said.

“Yeah. She wasn’t learning how to do that, when I was always there to pick up the pieces and tell her she’d be okay. I had to leave so that she could learn to do that.”

“I never looked at it that way,” she said. “I never thought it could be anything other than something’s wrong with me.”

“Chances are,” I said, “It has more to do with your friend’s own shortcomings, and her own feelings of being unable to help, and the uselessness that brings. Her absence probably has more to do with herself than it does with you. I know that’s what happened in my case.”

“I never thought of that,” she said.

Maybe it’s the paint fumes talking, but I hadn’t thought of that until just then, either.

While I throw a ball to a dingo

My mom's birthday shopping for her best friend's birthday. Clara Jane? Napping. Dad just spent half an hour on the phone with a buddy of his in Bristol, Tennessee, discussing how his boss is the kind of guy whose head he would have stuck in a toilet when he was in high school. And I'm sitting here, mindlessly throwing a slobbery tennis ball for the dingo, who never. gets. tired. ever., instead of driving to KC. Which is fine. I would have loved to see the non-emailing. Big Daddy B. today, but the weather's crappy and I'm tired. I'm also wondering if the subject of my April article is ever going to finish answering my interview questions, as I'm several days past deadline. No vacation for me, no sir.

I will be escaping to a local yarn shop as soon as my mom returns from her shopping mission, though. The yarn shop is in an auto body shop, but then again, aren't all great yarn shops?

The train ride was great. Clara "Hobocamp" Jane absolutely loved it. She sat in her very own seat with a view of the Missouri River, with her very own tray table full of books and Cheerios. She spent a good portion of the trip standing in her seat, hands pressed against the window, jumping and squealing in delight.

There was one incident. There was so much to see and so much excitment that she fought the urge to nap until it was too late. Then she screamed and cried the cry of the damned. You know the one, complete with tears, snot, drool and sweat, all while frantically doing the sign for "sleep" with both hands. I finally threw a blanket over her head and she promptly passed out. The same trick works with Murphy.

We shared half of the train trip with a bunch of teenage girls from an organization I won't name. Let's just say that the Village People sang about them. The organization, not the girls. The Village People never sang about girls. I'm not mentioning the organization by name because if I can't say anything nice I'd rather it not show up on a search engine. Suffice it to say that these girls and their handlers were r.u.d.e. rude. While boarding the train, did they offer any help to me while I struggled with baby, stroller, suitcase and messenger bag? Nope. In fact, they shoved me. While I wrangled all my crap, the conductor asked their adult-leader-type person if she needed any help. "Well, I do, but we're not allowed to accept help," she said.

Now, wouldn't a simple "No, thank you," been a better answer, instead of tossing some self-pity into the mix? And apparently this anti-helping policy applies to offering it, too.

But that's not what really bugged me. We were on the same train car as them. During the trip several of them came stomping down the aisle. Clara Jane got so excited, social butterfly that she is. I was holding her, and she flashed her biggest, happiest grin at the girls. Did any of them so much as acknowledge her? Nope. Now, it might be just me, feeling disgruntled from my first experience of seeing the smile fall from my child's face because she was passed by without so much as a glance, but it doesn't seem to me that those girls were putting Christian principles into practice in a way that builds healthy spirit, mind and body for all, now, does it?

And some of them laughed when Clara Jane had her napless meltdown. There's a special place in hell for people who do that.

Luckily, the uppity girls left in Jefferson City and were replaced by a pack of Cub Scouts. Even while running up and down the aisles as 10-yhear-old caffiene-fueled boys are wont to do, they still had better manners than the girls and their leaders.

My mom called my cell phone towards the end of the trip. "Amtrak's website says your 15 minutes away. Where are you?"

I looked out the window. "Someplace with absolutely no light. It's not Jeff. City."

"Well, I'll leave for the station in a bit." And then we were disconnected just as the conductor came along to inform me that we had just entered my hometown.

I called my mom and she answered the phone with, "Oh my God! Is that your train I hear?"

"Why, yes it is!"

She was just pulling out of the driveway and claims to have rounded one of the corners on two wheels. I bet she also took Dad's truck on a couple of sweet jumps, but she doesn't want to seem a braggart.

The train station in my hometown isn't so much a station as a big slab of poorly lit concrete in the worst part of town. When my mom arrived, Clara Jane and I were standing exactly where the conductor had dropped my luggage, far from the one light in the parking lot, feeling a smidge bit stranded.

And yet, I had absolutely no desire to stagger around on the train tracks.

Tomorrow afternoon, we board again. This time I know where to sit to get the best view of the scenery, and how to get Clara "Hulk" Jane to take a nap before she gets angrysleepy. You wouldn't like her when she's angrysleepy. And this time, I'm bringing a pea shooter to use on any young mens Christan association members who piss me off or laugh at my kid. We'll just see how much fun it is to stay at their place when that happens, now, won't we?

Rethinking this Amtrak thing

This is the train we'll be on today.

I don't know what concerns me more: the fact that the train I'll be on today hit someone yesterday (although the odds of something bad happening on this trip have exponentially decreased), or the fact that we're going to a town where people amble down the train tracks at will.

Choo choo

This afternoon, Clara "Tank Engine" Jane and I will embark on a new adventure: we're going to travel to my hometown via Amtrak.

I've got high hopes for this trip. It'll be three hours to hang out with my kiddo. We'll be traveling through some beautiful terrain. My ticket was a mere $14. No way I could drive to my hometown for that.

My concerns: I get violent motion sick if I'm not behing the wheel. And Clara Jane likes to scream a lot.

After today, Amtrak might finally give up the ghost and decide it's not worth it anymore.

I go out so you don't have to

If you see me in public and I'm not actively engaged in conversation, be warned. I am listening to you. And I'll probably make fun of you later. Case in point:

Tonight I was standing in line outside Mississippi Nights for the Kings of Leon show. Behind me, three young men. I didn't bother to take a look at them, but I can take a guess at what they looked like: early to mid twenties, baseball caps, and just enough facial hair and/or body jewelry to appear edgy without being scary.

For the sake of convenience, I will refer to them as Dude 1, Dude 2 and Dude 3. The numbers are arbitrary, because, for our purposes, they three dudes are pretty much interchangeable.

Dude 1: I'm cold.

Dude 2: It's not that bad out here.

Dude 1: I don't care. I'm freezing.

Dude 3: You need a big puffy down vest like the one Danny Wuerffel wore the day he won the Heisman Trophy. Remember that? Was it 1996? '97?

Dude 2: It was '96. I remember that vest.

Oh, but that was just the beginning, my friends. Eventually the topic changed from sports and fabulous fashion to music.

Dude 1: That dude looks like the lead singer of Beck.

Dude 2: You dumbass! Beck isn't a band. Beck's the dude.

Dude 1: Really?

Dude 2: Yeah. That's like saying that he's the lead singer of Prince. Or that she's the lead singer of Madonna.

Dude 3: Prince is his first name. What's Beck's first name?

Dude 2: I dunno, but it sure ain't Jeff.

Dude 1: Is Madonna her first or last name?

Dude 2: I dunno. I like Beck, though.

(All the while I valiantly fought the urge to turn around and scream, "It's Hansen! His name is Beck Hansen! And Madonna's name is Madonna Ciccione ... or something like that, I forget. But Beck's last name is Hansen!" I'm glad I didn't, though, because Holley pointed out that they would have thought Beck was a member of Hanson, leading to a long night of mind-numbing confusion. Besides, they'd already given me a headache that required bourbon.)

Opening act The Features? Fantastic. Kings of Leon? Awesome. Catch them at your cozy and smoky neighborhood music club before they go on the road with U2 next month and become horrifically famous. Because they will.

And because it wouldn't be a concert without her, Interpretive Dance Girl was spotted several rows in front of us, to the left. I think she might be a charter member of The Happy Hands Club. I wouldn't be surprised if she made out with Dude 2 in the ally after the show.

That's gonna hurt tomorrow

I just fell out of my chair.

For a fall, it was rather graceful. I guess I leaned forward a bit too far while sitting too close to the edge. The chair started rolling backwards, and I started rolling forwards, and then I took a little nap and the next thing I knew I was in a heap on the floor with my neck severely tilted to the right, my ankle severely tilted to the left, and the muscles on my left side uncoiled like a Slinky that's been pulled by a couple of broncos playing tug o'war.

I'm not sure how I'm going to rock my ass off at the Kings of Leon show tomorrow night, what with the crick in my neck, the crick in my side, the crick in my ankle and the underdrawers I'll have pulled up to my chin. Although, considering how sore I'll probably be, I should probably exchange the underdrawers for a truss. Once I have the truss, I'm positive I'll be able to rock out. Hard.

Week*yawn*end

Not much to report this weekend, which I suppose is good. It hasn't exactly been a calm, relaxing weekend but I haven't punched any bedroom furniture or been a feaured guest on "Cops".

I did something much fun on Saturday. I'll give you a hint what it involved -

On my honor I will try:
To serve God and my country,
To help people at all times
And learn to make two kinds of lasagna from some weird chick we
met while knitting stuff for the Humane Society.

Back in January I went to a thing sponsored by the St. Louis Knitters Guild. They had invited knitters - including people who wanted some free knitting lessons - to knit little rugs to put in the pet cages at the Humane Society. I found myself seated next to several Girl Scouts and their troop leaders, none of them knitters. Since the guild members were a bit overwhelmed by the turn-out, I offered up my mad stitch bvjb nuvjkujbykQAAQWAA`````````````wrffffffft3t5r3ww3333333333131yu4eu4redu74desssikkkkkkkk ki7o97u607876dbnn65rtbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjfrxdt4hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhEErRRwfqr3 sehye7waehhhhhhhhi

Uh sorry about that. Clara "Interruptus" Jane wanted to add her take on this anecdote. As I was saying...

I offered my mad stitch skillz to the scouts that day and wound up having a good time. Before I left I gave my business card to their troop leader and told her that, if the girls were interested in cooking lessons I'd be thrilled to teach. I haven't taught any proper cooking classes in a year and a half and I've had the itch to do so.

So, for the past two months we've been planning a cooking class for the girls. I did my best to put it off until March in hopes that, even though I made it clear that I was teaching on a non-pay basis, that they might see to tipping the instructor with, oh, a case of Tagalongs, perhaps?

Since these were older Girl Scouts - 8th grade - the troop was pretty small. Seems that, as the girls get older, they lose interest. Having only made it to the Brownie level, I can understand. There were only three girls in yesterday's class, but that was fine by me. I'm used to wrangling 10-15 knife-wielding, flame-throwing 'tweens from my former teaching gig. A trio of well-mannered, well-behaved Girl Scouts was almost as sweet and refreshing as a Thin Mint.

That's why I feel like I've got nothing to post. I was expecting the pandemonium that's accompanied my previous experiences with kids in the kitchen. Totally not the case yesterday. This kids were so good that I felt like I was being a bad influence simply by being in their presence.

They made a traditional meat lasagna and a vegetarian spinach-pesto lasagna. Why lasagna? Because they wanted something that could be frozen, then defrosted on Thursday and served to those less fortunate at one of the girl's church.

I didn't get paid in cookies, but they did insist on slipping $40 into my purse. Think about that next time you talk about how bad kids are today.

Speaking of bad kids, B. just got off the phone with Good Cop. I feel a little better on that front. On Friday night The Plaintiff was in her backyard, cooking something on the grill. B. was in our yard with our dogs. I said, rather loudly, ""I wonder if she knows that possum's much better when it's fried. It gets all tough if you cook it on the grill!" I don't think she heard me. It's probably for behavior like that that I never made it beyond Brownie Scout.

Clara Jane has a couple of new skillz, aside from frantic typing. She has learned to dance her diapered ass off to the banjo music from her Fridge Farm (also known as Baby's First Genetic Experiment Lab, since it encourages Baby to put the front half of animals paired with the back half of other animals while it chirps, "A Horsepig? That's silly!".) This proves that my Hee-Haw genes are overriding Brian's rhythmless Oof-Da Yoopers genes. My child will never cook possum on the grill; she'll fry it up proper. Since she's getting so much experience in genetic mutations, it'll probably be a PossumSquirrel. That's silly! And she'll probably get kicked out of Scouts because of her mother.

It seems that my child has an empathetic streak. She senses that everyone in the house and the entire neighborhood hates Murphy, our retarded, ill-bred foxhound and the reason for the neighbor feudin'. Today, Murphy was on the couch, moping as the unpopular kids are wont to do. Clara Jane went up to Murph, laid her head on the couch beside Murphy's, and proceeded to give her a giant smooch on the nose, followed by much giggling. Now, Murphy's been giving Clara Jane kissing sniper attacks for months, but this was the first time we've seen Clara Jane initiate the smooching. Awwwwww, how cute! Clara Jane now has dog germs!

I finally watched Napoleon Dynamite last night. While I found the talk of delicious bass, being online talking to hot chicks all day, and such utterly hilarious, it was the tetherball scenes that just about led me to another laughing-induced black-out. I want a tetherball set more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

The llama was pretty fucking hilarious, too. But then again, I think llamas are always pretty fucking hilarious. Probably because one made a pass at Grandpa Chuck way back when.

And finally, do you recall a story I posted back in September, shortly before Kristina's last visit, about how she visited when I was six weeks pregnant and I forgot to pick her up at the airport? She's coming to visit next week. Got it written on my calendar and everything. Tuesday, March 15th - Kristina , with a line drawn through all the days until her departure on Saturday, March 19th. I'm all prepared! I don't leave my friends stranded at the airport. No siree. Well, not more than once, anyway.

Yesterday, Kristina emailed me and made a comment about how she has found the perfect gift for me and I only have one week to wallow in the suspense.

A week? But ... hmmm ... my calendar says that Kristina's not going to be here until a week and three days from now.

"I think I've got the wrong dates in mind for Kristina's
visit," I said to Brian, to which he replied, "Do us all a favor. Check RIGHT NOW!"

I checked. And once again, I had the wrong dates for a visit from Kristina. She'll be arriving next Saturday, leaving on Wednesday. Shoot me a reminder to pick her ass up, ok?

It's Friday night and I want to tell you about my underdrawers.

Warning: If you're one of the readers who regularly sees me in person, you might want to stop reading. If you digest the information in this post, there's a good chance that, while you enjoy my company, you won't want to make eye contact or look at me at all because you won't be able to stop picturing me in a girdle.

I've been open about the fact that I'm fat. And I'm cool with that, for the most part. But there's a problem. A problem that I blame 100% on my daughter, Clara "Musclewrecker" Jane. You see, when Musclewrecker entered the world, she did so via emergency C-section. A very fast C-section. Where the drugs wore off halfway through. And they left my gut hanging open while the new round of drugs took effect. And then I got an infection. A big infection. That lasted a long time. Not that I'm still whining about it a year after the fact. Or remembering that, this time last year, the possibility of my uterus making an escape via the gaping, weeping hole in my abdomen seemed very likely.

So these muscles that were turned into an exit ramp no longer work. Oh, they try to support my belly, the way they were supposed to, but it's sort of like sticking a wad of Silly Putty to the ceiling and expecting it to hold your luggage. Unsightly? Yes. Painful? Quite often.

As much as it pained me to admit, I recently accepted the fact that the time had come for a support garment. Not this, thank God, as I'm claustrophobic. If the close-quarters panic didn't kill me, the severed arteries in my thighs surely would. I was thinking something more along the lines of this, or maybe this. But I just couldn't get my head wrapped around the thought of spending over $20 for fabric that covers my bare ass. Well, unless it has special features that would ensure my perpetual happiness and satisfaction, which these do not.

So, while making a trip to the evil empire, where karma intervened and I locked my keys in my truck, I purchased an $8.94 Wal-Mart version of the $20 underdrawers that might prevent my unsupported innards from falling out.

The next day, I decided to test drive my new drawers, imagining a non-achy, less jiggly belly.

They were tight. Real tight. But I expected that. They've got to be tight to be supportive, right?

I couldn't wiggle my way into them while standing, so I sat on the edge of the bed. I pulled and pulled on the underdrawers, and they didn't budge past my thighs. I pulled so hard, and the underdrawers resisted so strongly, that my hand flew off the Spandex, causing me to punch my dresser.

So I laid down on the bed, thinking I could wiggle my way into them. But when I fell back onto the bed, I smacked the back of my head on a basket of laundry with such force that I almost couldn't scream, "Fuck!" before dizziness set in.

I admitted defeat, waddled my way into a standing position, and tried to remove the underdrawers from my thighs. Where they were stuck. So I hollered for B. to fire up the circular saw and get me the hell out of the damn things before gangrene set into my feet.

Just for a point of comparison, I held the offending underdrawers up to a pair of my regular undies, which were easily three inches larger. I did a little more research and found that the measurements that constitute a size, well, I'm not telling you what size they are. I still have a tiny smidge of dignity. The measurements listed on the tag of my Spandex circus tent death grip underdrawers was the same as a size 14 in other brands.

A 14.

Any woman who's a size 14 and found herself buying underdrawers in my size would probably either burst into flames in outrage, melt into a puddle of despair, or immediately develop an eating disorder, and I wouldn't blame her one bit. I had a similar reaction when, at the end of my pregnancy, I found out that my size DD boobs suddenly required an H-cup.

Upon further reading, I saw a message on the tag of my underdrawers, right above the faulty size information. Not satisfied? Mail us your drawers and we'll send you some money!

Tonight, I got an extra-large manilla envelope and stuffed it with a terse letter and my thigh-choking size 14 bondage gear.

It's Friday night and I'm mailing my underdrawers to strangers.

I also sprung for two pairs of the $20 drawers today. Not only did they comfortably slide into position, but when I put my jeans on over them, they damn near fell off. And we can all rest easy with the knowledge that my $20 underdrawers will keep my innards where they belong, safe and sound.

Friday Shuffle

You know the rules. Fire up your music player of choice. Put it on shuffle. Tell us the first ten songs.

Drive You Home - Garbage
Alex Chilton - The Replacements
St. Thomas - Sonny Rollins
Within Your Reach - The Replacements
Lover Come Back to Me - Ella Fitzgerald
I Can't Stand It - Wilco
White Man in Hammersmith Palais - The Clash
Always Wanting You - Merle Haggard
A Get Together to Tear it Apart - The Hives
Where Are My Panties? - Outkast

I think the multiple 'mats tracks appeared as a cosmic reminder that I probably won't be going to the Paul Westerberg show in Columbia tomorrow. That's right. Give that knife a little twist, why don't ya?

As for "Where Are My Panties?", I think I'm going to adopt that as my theme song.

Hillbilly News of the Day

It's been quiet here in the Redneck Jungle, thank the lord.

But that's not 100% good. I mean, while I'm enjoying the peace, I still hunger for redneck news. I hunger! For more!

And by God, B. has delivered.

"Hey. Where's Halfway, Missouri?" my Michigan-native spouse asked.

"I dunno," I said, shoveling another handful of Cheerios fried in butter with tons of salt into my mouth. "Probably southern." I wiped my greasy hand on my holey sweatpant leg and opened Mapquest. "Yup. It's near Humansville. I got kin in Humansville."

"There's an entire family of human cannonballers in Halfway. The daughter's a beast."

Halfway, Missouri, pop. 176, and at least four of them are human cannonballs. Well, at least four at the time they shot the video. The number might be lower now. Or higher. According to the human cannonballing experts on Discovery Channel, the cannonballing bug is contagious.

Do you know how badly I want to get a cannon, aim it at the neighbor's house, and shoot myself out of it, just to really give them something to bitch about? Do you?

I promise, you have no idea.

Hello!

Clara "Secretary of the Year" Jane has a new trick.

After my therapy session, which the secretary attended because B. had to work, in which she screamed and yelled as if we were putting her through regression therapy, we checked out a little neighborhood coffeehouse near my head doc's office. Lovely little place. I hope they let us come back sometime, but I'm having my doubts.

I sat in a booth and drank my latte while Clara Jane sat on the table, slugging back some milk, pausing only to scream, "Hello!" every time the phone rang. Which it did. A lot. Riiiiiiiiing. Huwwo! Riiiiiiiiiing. Huwwo!

And that's all I have to report today. Crazy, ain't it? No police. No court. No nervous breakdowns. Just my kid hollering "Huwwo!". I know my boring days aren't necessarily the best for you, my readers, but dammit if I don't like them. A lot.

Dualing Banjos, Day II

Can you believe this shit with my neighbor gets even deeper?

Today B. called S. She lives down the street from us and works at City Hall. Last night B. very aptly described S. like this: "It's like we're all trapped in a bad sitcom and S. is the one character that has a clue." Kind of like Mrs. Garrett on The Facts of Life", only with a blonde mullet.

When B. told Mrs. Garrett that the prosector recommended that I work with our councilman on this matter, Mrs. Garrett laughed. Out loud. Apparently, the prosecutor is also pals with the councilman, who is definitely pals with the drunken retarded redneck neighbor plaintiff.

But, always wise and full of good advice, Mrs. Garrett gave B. some hints on how to deal with this. She pointed out that we are just a few houses away from being in a different district and we might be able to work with the councilwoman from our neighboring district. But she quickly changed her mind on that suggestion when she remembered that these two councilpeople hate each other. Contacting Councilwoman might make matters even worse.

Plan B: there's one cop on our town's police force who isn't completely clueless. In fact, he's rather nice and knows that the drunken retarded redneck neighbor plaintiff is, in Mrs. Garrett's terms, "a lying bitch". Apparently, she has quite a reputation with our police force. Good Cop is on duty Friday night, and Mrs. Garrett suggested that we have him stop by our house so we can get some input from him.

You know, I often think about how, when I was a kid, I dreamed of being a novelist. I've made several attempts at this dream, but always get stuck and feel I have nothing to write about. Then I look around and think, "Holy fuck. I can't make this shit up. This is better than "Peyton Place", and bordering on the "Desperate Housewives" level of audacity!"

B. and I had been talking about moving out of the Redneck Jungle and into the city anyway. We were thinking that, by the end of 2005, our finances would be such that we could move without any financial burden. That also would give us time to finish a few lingering house projects that would increase our sale price. That plan has been expediated. I picked B. up from work today and we drove around the neighborhood where we want to live, the one filled with rambling old houses, rainbow flags, "No Blood for Oil" signs in yards, coffeehouse on the corner, martini bar down the block. I'm in that area often, and always on the lookout for For Sale signs. Today, it seemed like the number of houses for sale had exploded. Tons and tons of houses with signs, and "coming soon" for sale signs. I generally don't believe in signs, but I'm really hoping this is one. A sign of something good, I mean. I do believe in for sale signs. I also believe that there will be one in front of my crapshack very, very soon.

The latest Stonecutter blogger...

They just keep coming out of the woodwork! Cyn has decided to go public with her blog. Go read her. Now. She's super-fun! New mama to a darling little boy. Owner of an upscale consignment store. What's not to love?

I hate my town

St. Louis is a city of neighborhoods and suburbs. The neighborhood part, I can handle. Neighborhoods in the city are great. What I can't stand is the fact that, outside the city limits there are roughly 3,472 individual townships that comprise a good portion of the city, most of them with populations under 6,000. You get all the bad things about living in the city - traffic, noise, high prices, crumbling infrastructure, along with all the bad things of being in a small town - nosey neighbors, Barney Fife patrolling the streets with his one bullet tucked safely in his pocket, small-town politics.

I live in one of these little townships. Population, just over 4000. And tonight I got to witness the bi-weekly spectacle that is municipal court, thanks to the stupid trumped-up ticket initiated by my perpetually drunk neighbor. My good neighbor, Boy's Mom, had a ticket for the same charge. She appeared in court two weeks ago and pled not guilty. She had to reappear tonight for trial and I was summoned as a witness. How convenient, since tonight was my initial court date to pleed not fucking guilty.

I've never been to court. Ever. The closest I've ever come was when I've gotten the occasional speeding ticket and then I send an attorney. Well, all two times in my life when that's been applicable, I've sent an attorney. I had no idea what to expect tonight. In fact, I was in a bit of a panic this afternoon because Clara "Judge Wapner" Jane's lack-of-nap schedule hadn't allowed me a chance to take a shower and wash my hair. I managed to eek out a quicky hair-washing while she screamed at the side of the tub.

Turns out, I really had nothing to worry about, as my hair was easily the cleanest in the courtroom, although the judge was sporting a pompador a la Lee Mace from the world-famous Lee Mace's Ozark Opry.

Since I've never been in court, maybe you can answer me this: do judges usually wear large diamond-studded pinky rings on both hands?

Anyway, the last time I saw this much acid washed denim I was doing the Cabbage Patch to "Get Out of My Dreams, Get Into My Car" in my high school cafeteria at the '88 Informal Spring Homecoming Dance. I figured that all that acid probably ate through the last of the denim sometime around 1994, but it turns out that in my little township, the acid never, ever destroys the denim. Must be because we're encased in a bubble of jet exhaust from the nearby international airport, which also causes extensive brain damage.

And here I had taken the time to bathe, wash my hair, put it in an updo, brush my teeth - with toothpaste, not gin, use deodorant - not gin, put on makeup, for God's sake, and wear real pants (not jeans) and a shirt with actual buttons on it. Shit. Half of my fellow defendents were wearing sweatpants. I can say without hesitation, doubt or vanity that I was the cleanest, best-dressed person in the room.

Since I was one of the last ones on the docket, I was treated to a parade of people in court for driving without a front license plate. Dude, there are some states where everyone drives without a front license plate! I wonder if those states have laws where they drag you to court if you have a license plate on the front of your car. If not, how do they make any money? There were also lots of tickets for people driving 32 in a 20 m.p.h zone. Amazing how they all hit 32 m.p.h. on the dot, ain't it?

When Lee Mace called my name, I pled not guilty and was sent to a corral to meet with the prosecutor. I got lucky in that he's a dog person and has owned hounds in the past. He's familiar with their noise. Basically, I'm on dog probation for a year. If we let our dogs out at night, we have to go with them, which we basically do, anyway. I expressed my concern about the drunken retarded redneck neighbor plaintiff claiming that my dogs were barking at times when they're not even outside. He suggested that I speak with my councilperson, who can act as a mediator.

Sounds fair enough, right?

Here's where it gets completely fucked up.

I left the court room to pay my court costs. Not thrilled about that, but hell, it's over and done. Or so I thought.

I just got off the phone with Boy's Mom. Since our cases were so similar, I was relieved of my duties from testifying in Boy's Mom's case. The drunken retarded redneck neighbor plaintiff was there for Boy's Mom's trial ... along with her pal, our councilman. Great. He's going to be a fair mediator, don't you think? The drunken retarded redneck neighbor plaintiff dropped the charges against Boy's Mom.

After the trial, the drunken retarded redneck neighbor plaintiff told Boy's Mom that she didn't have a problem with them, that she has a "vendetta" against me. Why? Because the day the charges were issued, the drunken retarded redneck neighbor plaintiff's idiot son was shooting his paintball gun over the fence, into our backyard. I didn't see it, but Boy's Mom did, and she called the police. The drunken retarded redneck neighbor plaintiff is under the impression that I called the police, so she's "out to get" me.

Fuck.

I'm fucked. I share a fence with a fucking drunken psychopath who's now admitted she's out to get me.

My dogs are inside, and that's where they're going to stay. Privacy fence is going to be built this weekend. I'm so freaked out that I'm seriously considering looking into a restraining order. And for what? Because she thinks my dogs bark all night.

MY DOGS ARE IN THE MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE EVERY GODDAMN NIGHT, SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR BESIDE MY FUCKING BED!

Anyone wanna buy a house? Cheap?