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March 31, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Neighbor War Edition

It's the end of March, which means it's election time in my neck of the woods. As many of you know, St. Louis is made up of a lot of tiny municipalities, each with their own governments. This way, we can experience the delights of urban living, what with the pollution, traffic, overcrowding, noise, and crime, without giving up the cronyism and backbiting of small-town politics.

My municipality has a population just under 5000. It's less than a square mile. And yet, every other spring it turns into a hotbed of political insanity as the councilpeople come up for election. That's nothing compared to the years when the mayor's up for election.

While campaign signs have been popping up for a few weeks, today marked the beginning of the real campaigning. Now, I've lived in several towns in my time, and this is the only one where the primary means of campaigning involves sending letters - often anonymously - to all the constituants.

Personally, I love this method of campaigning. In most towns, you have to actually get to know people in order to be privy to the gossip and dirty laundry. In my town, I can find that dirty laundry camped out in my very own mailbox. Praise Jesus for the first amendment!

There were two letters today. The first, from a candidate for the council seat. He's lived here since 1969 and raised his children here. He probably shouldn't have mentioned that all of his kids bailed out of this township, but I'm not his campaign manager so what do I care? His entire family belongs to the Assemblies of God church. He mentions several times that he's "a leader (not a follower)". He's his "own man and make[s] decisions the way I see them (not to please someone else.)" He realizes he's "obligated to the people who elect me (my constituents)." He likes parenthesis as much as I like quotation marks.

The second letter's from a concerned resident who's not actually running for office. He just wants to share some "truths" with us:

1. Candidate #1 of the previous letter lies. A lot. And he's been voted out of office twice, because we all know that he lies.

2. Another candidate - he neglects to tell us what office this one's running for - has also been repeatedly voted out of office, apparently because he harbors an unhealthy obsession with the state of local trash cans. Specifically, he likes to fine people for not having a lid on their trash cans, even if that lid was stolen by local thugs and someone's so busy writing letters that he doesn't have time to buy a new lid. *hrmph*

I do have to give the letter-writer some credit; he included his name and phone number. That's rather gutsy. Or stupid. You be the judge, based on this little neighborhood nugget:

When I blogged about '80s Lady a few days ago, I didn't think it was necessary to mention that her husband is our councilman. He's our councilman, and he's got a bone to pick with Dunebuggy McDrinksalot. I don't know what caused this riff, as I haven't gotten the anonymous letter explaining the situation. All I know is, the councilman somehow pulled some strings, and now Duney Mac's house, which sits on a corner, is surrounded by "No Parking" signs. Four of 'em. Not around any of the neighboring houses, which routinely cause more parking problems. Nope. You can park on any street in our town, but you can't park on the street in front of Duney Mac's house, not even if you're Duney Mac himself.

I'm really not sure who to root for in this feud. On the one hand, I hate blatant abuses of political power. On the other, I love anything that fucks with Duney. I guess the best I can hope for is a big ol' duel in the middle of the street. When it happens, I'll be blasting this shuffle from the windows while I watch:

1. Don't Lose Your Head - INXS
2. Whatcha Gonna Do? - Cowboy Mouth
3. I'm Gone - Dolly Parton
4. Mirror in the Bathroom - English Beat
5. One Chance - Modest Mouse
6. The Lengths - Black Keys
7. Ruby Tuesday - Rolling Stones
8. Tennessee Waltz - Patty Page
9. Hound Dog - Elvis
10. In the Garage - Weezer (in honor of Duney Mac, of course)

Posted by Robin at 07:42 PM | Comments (4)

March 29, 2006

Honk if You're ...

When I was a kid I dreamt of having a car covered in bumper stickers. I wanted the world to know everything about me, based on the extensive decorations on my vehicle. I wasn't going to limit myself to the bumper. Oh no. There were so many stickers that expressed who I was as a human being that they would be plastered on every available fender and window. Obviously, I had this dream before I learned to drive and realized that 1) one has to be able to actually see out of the windows, and 2)while there may be plenty of available real estate on the sides, front, and top of the vehicle, no one can actually read what you put there, so what's the point.

I still like bumper stickers, although I'm over the idea of covering my car with them. I like getting little glimpses into the personalities of other drivers. Besides, without bumper stickers, how would I be able to decide if the person who just cut me off did so because s/he's rightfully preoccupied with solving the world's problems, or if s/he's just an asshole who hates humanity? I need bumper stickers in order to make the kinds of snap judgements that get me through a typical day on the streets.

I have a few stickers on my truck - two liberal-leaning leftovers from the 2004 election, and three small Nascar numbers. My reasons for these stickers are threefold:

1) I like to think that the combination of progressive politics and stock cars might give people pause for thought. "She's obviously one of them liberals, but ... but ... but she's an Earnhardt fan? Marge! Bring me some Goody's! I've got myself a brainache trying to reconcile this sit-e-ation! I think my world just imploded."

2)I know at least one person who uses my bumper stickers as a means of telling if I'm at a particular location. There are lots of green trucks out there, but how many have that boho-hillbilly sticker combo. Just one, my friends. Likewise, I do the same with my friends. Which reminds me ... to my friend who drives a green Mitsubishi Outlander with Big Lebowski and shamrock stickers on the back window - if you were driving south through the tunnel at 12:40 this afternoon, I was behind you. If not, I hope the cops find your stolen car.

3) I'm too lazy to remove them.

Last spring, someone took offense at my bumper stickers and called me a terrorist. Today, though, I had a much more pleasant communique-via-bumper-stickers.

Clara Jane and I were driving to lunch and I noticed we were coming up on a large truck covered with bumper stickers and those ribbon-shaped magnet thingies. I rolled my eyes because, if years of bumper-sticker-based snap judgements has taught me anything, it's that such vehicles are usually driven by people who not only don't share my views, but who keep a Sharpie and some blank paper handy while driving so that they can personally let me know that we don't share similar views. I was wrong this time. As I got closer, I found that the back of the truck was covered with a mix of pro-labor, pro-troops, pro-ITMFA paraphenalia. As I passed, I took a gander at the driver, who happened to be a rather handsome, older, beared gray-haired gentleman. I smiled to myself, happy to be sharing the road with such a like-minded thinker and supporter of the working class.

As I was driving, I glanced in the rear-view mirror and noticed that the gentleman had caught up to me and was, ahem, checking out my rear end. On my truck. Geez. I could tell he was admiring my stickers, and I sighed with the glow of comradere, wishing we could pull over and sing a verse of People Have the Power.

The next red light had two left-turn lanes. I took the right one and noticed that my new friend pulled up on my left. I was so caught up in the glow of our newfound love that it wasn't until the light turned green that I noticed he'd rolled down his passenger side window and was frantically trying to get my attention as I zipped away. So I slowed, rolled down my window, and waited for what I knew was coming ...

"Hey! Where'd you get that MOB sticker? I love it!" he shouted as we impeded traffic*. I shouted the URL to him, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure we didn't have a fleet of anti-union Fundamentalist truckers behind us, preparing to interrupt our little lovefest by plowing the fuck over us.

Here's where any conservatives who are reading are allowed to say, "Gee whiz, liberals sure can be dumb." That's okay. As we went our seperate ways, he flashed a mile-wide grin and a peace sign, and for a brief second, I felt less alone.

*In all seriousness, we were the only vehicles in the area. Had we been in even a tiny bit of traffic, I never would have carried on such a conversation. Unsafe. Duh.

Posted by Robin at 07:41 PM | Comments (17)

March 28, 2006

Idiots Vomiting in the '80s. In China.

This made my day. While reading the stats for my blog, I discovered that a Chinese search engine returns a photo of my dogs if one searches for the word "idiot".

By that token, I wonder if a search for "weird vomit" would return a photo of my cat. As you might recall, earlier this month my cat Romi performed the oddest vomiting acrobatics I've ever seen. She almost topped herself last night.

It all started around midnight-thirty last night. B. and I were reading in bed when Romi let out a few yowls to let us know that all's well, nothing to worry about, she captured the intruder that was sure to kill us all in our sleep. She came sauntering in with a little black beetly-crickety thing dangling out of her mouth. Never much in the way of manners, she proceded to eat the bug in front of us, not once offering to share.

After she finished eating her prey, Romi joined us in bed, nestling into B.'s pillow. In no time at all, I caught her licking her lips, panic creeping into her eyes. Yar she blows. Bug-chunks, that is.

We ran her off the bed and she vanished, only the siren song of her bug-hacking remained, echoing through the house. So here we are, quarter til one in the morning. B.'s looking for a cat and I'm looking for puke. Both were located. The bug remains are still unaccounted for.

Have I told you about my neighbor, '80s Lady?

Of course I have, but since it's been awhile, let me refresh your memory.

One early morning back in, oh, let's say 2001, I was driving out of my neighborhood, probably on my way to culinary school. I'm pretty sure that's the only place I've gone in the past seven years that required me to leave my house before 7:30 AM. Early enough for the neighborhood kiddies to be out, waiting for the schoolbus.

I sat at the stop sign by the nearest bus stop, teaming with elementary schoolers and their moms, when I saw her. I furrowed my brow as I gawked, thinking, "What's the date? Is it Halloween? Shit. It's Halloween. I forgot to buy candy. Okay. Gotta stop by Walgreens between classes and buy candy. Hmmm ... little bitty Snickers bars. I love Halloween. Wait. It's February. Why is that woman in costume?"

This woman was wearing one of those padded ski vests. You remember, they were actually coats, but the sleeves had zippers so that they could be removed. Frostbitten arms were all the rage in 1982. Under the vest peeked knee-length gym pants. Of the Spandex variety. In electric blue. Had I been driving past, and not offered the gawker's luxury of a stop sign, I might have thought that some mean kid had stripped her naked and covered her flesh with shiny blue duct tape. On her feet? White high-top Reeboks, the ones with the two Velcro straps around the ankles.

And her head ... oh, her head. The glory of her platinum-blonde tresses, cascaded in a flat-ironed sheet down her back. But how can a woman of such obvious athletic inclination manage such a mane? The solution is two-fold: First, cut the top and front of the mane into three-inch spikes. Second, sport an Olivia Newton-John - inspired headband across the forehead region.

In fact, looking at that photo, I think I've seen my neighbor - forever to be known as, obviously, '80s Lady - wearing that same outfit. Every time I've seen this woman, she's been wearing one relic or another. And I can't help but wonder several things:

1. Has she not looked at another human being in the past 20 years?

2. Why do her clothes look so new? I'm wearing a pair of jeans that are at least six months younger than my child, and they're sporting patches on the inner thighs and a safety pin-reinforced zipper. How is it that this woman has an entire wardrobe older than college graduates that looks brand-new, and I can't keep my jeans from falling off my lower body in desert-island-refugee-style rags after a mere 17 months of wear? It's not like I'm wearing them while digging ditches or getting physical.

Perhaps '80s Lady is simply an ultra-trendy menopausal woman and she's buying her clothes at the chic juniors boutiques, where the '80s are hip and cool again.

What's all this about? Well, I was forced to make a stop at my neighborhood Wal-Mart today. I'd rather dress like '80s Lady than go to Wal-Mart, and I'd rather dress like '80s Lady with a rat tail than go to the Wal-Mart in my neighborhood. On the plus side, I found a home Brazilian wax kit in the clearance aisle.

I also found something else at Wal-Mart. While I was standing before the display of anti-snot agents, I felt something bearing down on my heels with such a force that I jumped away, just in time to feel the breeze circulated by '80s Lady as she zoomed past me.

Turns out all that Spandex, the Reeboks and that aerodynamic 'do makes her really, really fast. I think she might have been attempting to reach 88 mph so that her flux capacitor would send her back in time to be among her own. But since I slowed her down, she settled for browsing the bunion remedies instead.

Posted by Robin at 07:20 PM | Comments (6)

March 27, 2006

Monday's Little Tiny Nuggets

It's taken me nearly an hour to post, and because of an gangly pinky fingernail I just deleted everything I've written. Fucking Windows keyboard.

Posted by Robin at 05:15 PM | Comments (6)

March 25, 2006

In Which My Lovely Weekend Plans are Foiled by Snot

I'm so disappointed.

This weekend was going to be great. A friend of mine that I haven't seen in nearly four years is in town, and last night a gaggle of us headed to the Cowboy Mouth show. I'd been feeling a little off-kilter all day, but once inside the smokey, airless club it hit me. Snot. A massive, giant headful of snot, seeping into my ears and every other available pathway out of my head. It was like the snot all showed up for some huge Lollapalooza-like festival in my head, only to find out that Yanni was the headlining act, thus leading to a mass exodus and, well, I think that's enough of that similie.

I bailed out of the show, and what would have been a lovely night with my pals in a lovely hotel, because the snot wanted to go home, drink hot tea, and sleep. I tried to ignore it, but the snot rioted like a bunch of drunk frat boys fed up with paying $5/bottle for water.

I'm not sure where the snot-as-music-festival similies are coming from. I blame the snot. And the lack of oxygen to my brain caused by the snot. The handful of ibuprofen, multiple forms of Zicam, mentholated cough drops and mass amounts of sugared tea probably aren't doing my coherency skills any favors, either.

I've been sick all winter, and I'm fed the fuck up. I'm sick of having a headful of snot. I'm sick of wiping snot off my child. I'm sick of listening to B. hork snot. And I'm really sick of typing the word snot, so I'm just going to stop. Now.

Snot.

GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE MUCUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There. I feel better. Although in rereading that, I should be glad that I just have plain ol' head thatwordi'mnotsayingagain instead of asshole mucus. Right. Stopping now.

Cold drugs are fun, especially when mixed. I've got sort of a Zicam casserole roasting away in my system. And while I'm still stuffed up, I'm gradually becoming so loopy that I just don't give a shit anymore. Who needs breathing when you're packing such a sweet buzz?

Before the slime attack, my pals and I were hanging out at my place yesterday afternoon. One of them mentioned something that I agreed with whole-heartedly: She told us about a conversation she had with a co-worker about pet peeves. Co-worker said something to the extent of, "I'm bothered by people who have no ability to rally." Word. As my friend put it, "If you're out with me and at 10:30 you're whining about being tired and needing to go home, well, you better get over it because I'm not done having a good time and you're going with me."

Last night, I was unable to rally. Not even beer could save me. Not. Even. Beer.

So today, I'm preparing to rally. I've slept. Not as much as I would have liked, but more than I have in awhile. I've medicated. Extensively. I'm working on accepting the underwater-floating feeling in my ears, the pressure behind my eyes, the lack of alertness. People pay good money to feel like this, and I'm getting the luxury of feeling this way for free!!! And without all the potential damage to my DNA to boot. B. and Clara Jane are out, fetching me chicken soup from Pumpernickle's. Rally. I'm going to rally. I'm going to do this. There may not be another concert tonight, but there's still time to hang with my friends. Rally! Rally! Rally!

I was talking to another friend (Yes, all my friends are nameless, since none of the ones I'm talking about have blogs. Besides, I can't remember any of their names right now anyway.) earlier this week about getting old, and how we just can't go like we did when we were in our 20s. I had bronchitis for all of winter semester when I was a freshman in college. But damn if I let that stop me. Granted, with all the Robitussin I had in my system, it generally just took one alcoholic beverage to land me snoring on the floor. Sleep is good for you when you're sick. Even if it's sleep on a stinky frat house couch, which probably explains why I was so sick for so long.

At this point I figure, I feel like hell anyway. I can either feel like hell in my sweatpants on the couch, or I can feel like hell at a bar with my friends. I'm opting for the latter, as I've had plenty of the former in recent weeks. Don't worry - I'll have someone in the group write down what happens because even if I don't drink, I'm sure I won't remember.

Rally! Rally! Rally! Rally 'round the Zicam! Rally 'round the Robitussin! Rally 'round the big snoring heap on the floor!

Snot.

Posted by Robin at 11:48 AM | Comments (14)

March 23, 2006

Everyone Loves Baby Horses!

I have nothing of import to post. You don't want to hear about my day. Trust me. You don't want to hear about the hissy fit Clara Jane threw when I refused to let her listen to Wilco's War on War for an 18th time in a row today. I mean, that's enough to put a dent in even my deep, abiding love for all things Wilco.

You also don't want to hear about the fit she threw because I had the audacity to first give her purple Play-Doh, and then orange Play-Doh, instead of the green Play-Doh she required to live.

And you really don't want to hear about the screaming that occured by multiple people when she slammed two of her fingers in one of my desk drawers.

You know what makes everything better? Pictures of baby horses.






Yeah, I ran like that a few hours after I gave birth. You know I did.

Because I'm an only child - or because my parents aren't right in the head, I'm not sure which - our pets were always referred to as being my siblings. So this baby horse is my new brother. By that accord, his parents are my sister and other brother, which means my family is far too Ozarkean for its own good. But that would explain some of the troubles they're having with this new little guy. His mother - my sister, the horse - is having nursing issues. Having been through breastfeeding hell two years ago, I find myself offering advice. To a horse.

I refuse to rent her a breast pump. I've gotta draw the line somewhere.

Also, to no one's surprise, the little guy was born on Wednesday, which means his name is supposed to be Ditzy Little Obnoxious Eighth Grader, after my cousin's child who shares the horse's birthday. I'm going to call him Obnoxy for short.

Posted by Robin at 10:31 PM | Comments (14)

March 21, 2006

More Boobies!

Remember when I auctioned a really snazzy boobie-bedecked scarf a few weeks ago? Well, I'm doing it again!

The background: My cousins Wendy rocks all that is rocking and is participating in The Breast Cancer 3 Day, in which she'll walk 60 miles in three days to raise money for The Susan G. Komen Foundation.

I'm much better at sitting on my ass than I am at walking great distances, what with my poor little flat feet. So, to do my part, I'm knitting five of Jillian Moreno's fabuloso boobie scarves. Jillian's also got a book coming out called Big Girl Knits that I want with every fiber of my being.

Get it? Knitting? Yarn? Fiber? Yeah, well, look at my boobies:

The details: You can own this scarf, knit by my very own little hands. The auction begins immediately (10 PM central standard time on Tuesday, March 21) and will end in 24 hours (10 PM central standard time on Wednesday, March 22). Bidding starts at $30. Place your bids in the comments and specifically state that you're bidding and what amount. Make sure you leave your email address!

Once bidding has ended, the winner will make a pledge directly through Wendy's 3-Day page. Donate the money in honor of "boobie scarf". You won't send me any money. You won't send Wendy any money. And you should be glad, because if you send us money, we'll probably use it to buy beer. We won't see your credit card number, either.

100% of the auction amount will go to the 3-Day. I'm covering all the expenses for the scarf, and I'll even pay for the shipping, overseas included.

Once the winner has donated, she needs to email me with a shipping address. Boobies will be on the way post-haste.

Now, for the goodies on the scarf. It's 4.5 inches wide by 44 inches long and covered with glorious, nippled 3-D boobies. For you yarn nerds, I used Queensland Collection Kathmandu Aran Tweed yarn in ... I think it was called Celery, but I lost the lables. It's a gorgeous celery green with little bits of brown and light green tweeded in. This might be the softest yarn I've ever felt. It's 85% merino, 10% silk and 5% cashmere. It feels like loooooooooooove. It's warm without being too heavy.

Thanks in advance for bidding. Feel free to link back to this. The more the merrier. And because you're all so great, here's some more boob pictures:





If you'd like to see the last satisfied customer, pay Jodi a visit.

Now, bid!

Posted by Robin at 09:56 PM | Comments (15)

March 20, 2006

The Best Life Never Leaves Your Lungs

After a much-too-long hiatus, you people get to read some concert-related drivel from me! It's been three months since I last set foot in a concert venue. But you'll hear about that later. First there's the last bit of in-law mess to clean up.

Despite the snarky nature of these visits, I've never had an argument with my in-laws. They don't argue. Ask B. He's never seen them fight. They have two methods of dealing: 1) they pretend they don't hear dissent, or 2) they respond to dissent as passive-aggressively as they can.

That being said, we came closer to blows on Sunday than we have ever come. We get a little closer each visit, and at the rate we're going, we might actually have a real-life argument sometime around September of 2018.

We had a good plan for Sunday morning. A really, really good plan. Since their hotel was halfway between our house and my beloved coffeehouse, we were going to pick them up and go to breakfast. Afterwards, when we drove by the hotel, we'd drop them off. They would check out and join us at our house for the rest of the afternoon. Convenient and energy-conservative, no?

B. got in touch with them before we left the house. Slight change of plans. They wanted B. and his dad to ride in their car, while MIL would join Clara Jane and me in the truck.

That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Wasteful and completely unnecessary. Nevermind that, if left alone with my MIL, I'm bound to either say nothing at all, or say everything. I'm not ready to participate in either option.

Did I mention that this is ridiculous? All of this fuss and plan-changing for a five-minute car ride. Just get in the truck and shut the hell up.

B. did not appreciate my distaste for this idea, but as we left the house, he said he'd deal with it.

Remember the lavishing of praise I gave B. on Saturday night? Well, because of the actions I'm about to describe, I can safely say that Steak and a BJ Day will never be an issue in this house. I've decided we're going vegetarian. Some of us are going very, very vegetarian.

B.'s method of "dealing with the situation" involved getting out of the truck and into his parents' car, but not before holding the door open so his mother could join me.

It had occured to me that perhaps MIL wanted to get me alone so we could have a talk about the shaky state of our "relationship". Honestly, I would have preferred that. I would love the opportunity to say, "Yeah, I don't get you, and I know you don't get me. Let's quit pretending that we do and at least show that we can appreciate our differences instead of acting like they don't exist." Not that case. Instead, I got what I knew I would get: my MIL, sitting in the passenger seat, staring at me, blank smile on her face, waiting.

Waiting, for what? Entertainment? Do you want me to do a trick? No, I know what you want. You want me to talk. You want me to start a conversation because you're too emotionally chicken shit to risk opening your mouth and revealing anything about yourself.

In my recent angsty moments, I've bitched a lot about being sick to death of being the person in many of my relationships who's expected to do the stuff that the other person deems too scary or hard. Being that person has worn me out, and I'm trying to not do that. I promised myself that, with this in-law visit, I wasn't going to be that person. If she wants to talk to me, let her talk. I'll participate. But I'm not going to be the one who racks her brain for something to talk about, maintains the conversation, and is expected to give of herself while the other person takes it all in. No more.

So after hello, I initiated no conversation. MIL's conversational contribution consisted of, "I really like Clara Jane's sippy cup. Life was so hard raising kids 30 years ago without them."

By the time arrived at the coffeehouse, I was so mad I would have gladly poured scalding-hot espresso into my husband's pants. This rage was exasperated by his lack of attention to the table arrangements, which left me sitting at a little table with Clara Jane, all by ourselves.

Granted, everyone was probably happier that way.

For the ride home, we returned to our respective vehicles. B. had informed him mom that he should ride with me because we were "bickering". "I don't complain about your parents!" he said, to which I replied, "That's because my parents think you hung the moon and stars. When have my parents ever criticized you for anything? Have they criticized your housekeeping? Your roll in our household? Your weight? Did my parents tell you, when you were eight months pregnant with their grandchild, that you should go on the Atkin diet?" The list goes on and on. The fact is, my parents have taken the time to get to know B. They appreciate him for who he is, even though they don't have much in common with him. They've made an emotional investment in him. He doesn't complain about my parents because how do you complain about people who treat you like that?

Needless to say, the next few hours at hour house aren't at risk of being labeled Party of the Year. I mentioned on Saturday that Clara Jane makes a great buffer, but I'm going to retract that. It would be different if they'd play with her, interact with her. But they don't. At least, not much. They might show her how to make a little snake with Play-Doh, or move a few of her dolls around, but otherwise, they just stand back and stare, waiting for her to entertain them. Maybe if they get too close, interact too much, they might get too emotionally attached. Emotions are hard.

I don't want my daughter to carry the emotional load of her relationship with her grandparents. That's not fair to her. But it might explain why she sobbed like her heart was breaking Saturday night when she pooped in the potty for the first time, terrified that she'd done something wrong. And why she had a repeat performance a few hours later when she stepped on the dog's foot. And the next day when she was brushing the cat, who hissed at her. Clara Jane tends to be a little emotionally sensitive, but this weekend, it was in overdrive.

The in-laws left at Clara Jane's naptime. In parting MIL said, "Clara needs a nap break. B. needs a break, too. And Robin needs an in-law break," all said with a tooth-grinding smile, knowing full well that I wouldn't react as she was walking out the door.

I had no idea how I was going to coordinate my Wilco committment with the in-law committment, whether I'd be skating in at the last minute because they either wouldn't let me get away, or because I'd thrown myself under a moving truck, or if I'd be so desperate for escape that I'd show up insanely early. It was the latter, which is good. I got there at 5:30 - I normally get to shows at this venue at 6:30 and always wind up with great seats. The crowd was so big that the bar was already full, relegating me to standing in line outside. And let me tell you, I have never been so excited at the prospect of being on my feet, by myself in a crowd, in 45-degree temperatures. Pure bliss! I popped in my earbuds, cranked the iPod to Kicking Television and went to my happy place.

Despite the crowd, I managed to nab pretty good seats. Allison caught up with me shortly thereafter. Are you reading her blog? You need to be reading her blog. Instead of the usual blog-fodder, she's posting entries from her junior high diary, circa 1987. Anyway, there was good company, good beer, and a good opening act whose name escapes me. They were the fourth band I've seen in a year with only two members - White Stripes, Black Keys, and Death From Above 1979 being the others. The guitar-and-drums thing has really taken off, and I'm continually surprised at how many different sounds can come from such a scant combination.

Wilco. Oh, Wilco. You take my angst and anger and rage and turn it into something lovely and pure. I could go all music geek on you and extoll the rarities they played last night, but I'll spare you, since I know many of you either 1) don't like Wilco (blasphem!), or 2) have no idea who in the hell I'm talking about. If you don't fall into those categories and want more show-related details, drop me a line. I think I've gotten most of the post-show bliss out of my system with my similarly-inclined nerds. One of them even coined the term "I just puked from jealousy" in regards to the show. It was just that good.

I do have to mention a few highlights, though. They performed Kingpin, which was a wonderful surprise. However, these lyrics -

I wanna be your kingpin
Living in Pekin
I wanna be your bigwig
Living in Pekin

I got the flu and away I flew
NYC, pediate blue
Dimetapp and spinal tap
City maps and hand claps

now and forever will remind me of that time when Clara Jane covered me, herself, the cart, and the floor of the Pekin, Illinois Walmart Supercenter meat department in vomit. Therefore, I laughed through the whole song. While I would love for Jeff to be my kingpin, there's no way we can live in Pekin, because I'm pretty sure they won't let me or my vile child back into the Wal-Mart. These are the thoughts I entertain after a beer and a half and two days with my in-laws.

The first song of the first encore got me, too: Passenger Side, from their first album. Very unexpected, and it sent me hurtling back to my last year of college, when it came out. Back then, Wilco was just this twangy little band from Belleville with that guy from Uncle Tupelo, who spent a lot of time playing shows in my town. Boy, has that band changed. Have I changed. This band has grown up with me. I treasure what we were in 1995, but damn, I love where we've all ended up.

From there, an even bigger surprise: New Madrid, from Jeff's Uncle Tupelo days, a song I never thought I'd see him perform live again. Once again, the nostalgia hit. The song talks about Dr. Iben Browning's prediction that a catastrophic earthquake would occur in southern Missouri on December 3, 1990. I remember the day well. I was a senior in high school, and spent the day at a debate tournament in Kansas City. Tournaments usually had a theme that dictated decorations and such, and that particular school had an earthquake theme.

Beyond that, I love the image of walking to the fountain, hand-in-arm while the world falls apart. The fountain referenced is located in Jeff's hometown of Belleville, Illinois, and it's located near the neighborhood B. and I plan to call "home" by this time next year. As I stood there last night, stupid grin plastered across my face, a question popped into my head that's been popping in since we started talking about moving to Belleville last spring: am I so stupid that I want to move to a town because one of my favorite musicians is from there?

No, I know I'm not. I want to move there because it's a small town near St. Louis with Metrolink train access to the city. It has a thriving little downtown, lots of independent businesses, a great annual art show, fabulous old houses that cost 1/3 of what comparable houses cost on this side of the Mississippi, a good school system, and all those other reasons that make a town desirable. It's just an added perk that the town Clara Jane will consider her hometown has such a good song written about it, with images of the landmarks that'll populate her childhood. The songs about her current hometown leave a bit to be desired.

After a weekend of spent with people - myself included - who spent most of their energy surpressing their emotions, it was great to be at a show where so many people were just plain happy. Wilco puts on a hell of a hometown show, and the audience was thrilled. I got a kick out of the college boys in front of us. At first I feared they'd be the usual band of dorks, showing up at the "in" show just to get drunk and say they were there. Not the case. They knew the words to every song, new and old. When the collective roar went up at the beginning of California Stars, these boys squealed like little girls and hugged each other, like they were welcoming an old friend back to the fold. Once they settled down, they stood in a row with arms either linked, or slung over the shoulders of their buddies, swaying and singing, not concerned with being embarrassed or getting hurt. They let the moment touch their hearts, and they gloriously and publically revelled in it.

The world might be a better place if we all did that a little more often.

Posted by Robin at 03:14 PM | Comments (9)

March 18, 2006

If You Like Your Other Son So Much ...

I'm so tired. I think it's because my brain is exhausted, both from the amount of knowledge imparted on me by my father-in-law, and from all the times I slammed my head into the hardwood floor.

The thing is, I'm an idiot. My dear, darling spouse gave me an out. You see, he's been letting my in-laws believe that I have plans for the entire weekend, which isn't entirely true. I've got plans for Sunday evening involving a Wilco concert and an attempt to wedge my head into a bottle of Ketel 1.

About a month ago, B. warned me that his parents wanted to visit sometime in March or April. We discussed that March wasn't the best choice, since I already had non-negotiable plans during two weekends. Besides, April would give us more time to prepare, which means it would give us enough time to score enough horse tranquilizers to keep me under control during their visit.

Not two hours later, B.'s mom called, and I had the following conversation with her:

MIL: Did B. tell you that we'd like to come visit?

Me: Why yes, he did.

MIL: He said you were busy during several weekends in March. Which ones?

Me: The weekends of the 17th and the 24th.

MIL: Oh. We wanted to visit during the weekend of the 17th.

Me: Well, I'm sorry.

(Silence, in which my brain shrieked, "Why the hell can't she just fucking say, 'We'd like to come down the weekend of the 17th?' Is that so damn hard? Why does everything have to be a game of 20 Questions with this woman?")

MIL: (heaving a sigh so large that it probably knocked a foot of snow off their roof) Well, we really need to come down in March because by April our weather will be getting good and we don't want to come to Missouri when our weather's good ... we want TO ... COME ... IN ... MARCH ... BECAUSE ... WE ....*sigh* ... MUSTGETOUTOFTHECOLDANDSNOWANDBLAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH.......

I don't know what followed, because at that point, I only heard a few small, high-frequency blips. My dogs, however, started howling and running headlong into the living room wall.

Once the dogs passed out from their concussions, I said, "Well, um, sorry."

"Well ... do you mind if we come down and not see you?"

Here's where the urge to tell her that nothing would please me more became so overwhelming that I had to administer the first self-induced head trauma of the spring '06 in-law visit.

"No. Fine. Good. Yeah. Sure. Here. Talk to your son."

Obviously, this was shaping up to be a fine visit from the get-go.

There has been one improvement. You see, my in-laws don't know how to tell time. Well, actually, they probably understand the concept and practice, but they have something against it. "We'll be there sometime after 10 AM" usually means, "We'll be on your doorstep at 7:38 AM, and will be perplexed when we find you in your pajamas. Why don't you act more happy to see us?" This time, B. talked them into using this frightening, contempt-worthy instrument called a telephone, so they might alert us to their arrival. And it worked! They called at a time that B. told them was acceptable - 8:40 AM - thus insuring that the one photo they take of me during their visit isn't one in which I'm in my pajamas, braless, with Medusa hair. No, the one photo of me from this visit involves me venting my rage on some unfortunate carrots with a 12" chef knife.

Anyway, back to why I'm an idiot. B. reminded me last night that his parents were under the impression that I was going to be busy all weekend, and he didn't say anything to correct this, giving me an out if I needed it. If they became too much, all I had to do was say, "So sorry, but I'm late. See ya!" and flee! I could flee at my own will! My husband is the best! Tell me again - when is Steak and BJ Day, because we are gonna have ourselves a celebration this year!

So why is it that, when my MIL walked in and asked, "So, what are you doing today?" I stupidly answered, "Oh, I don't know. B.'s the one making the plans."

She looked at me, confused, and said, "I thought you had plans today."

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Considering that she seemed rather disappointed that I no longer had imaginary plans, I figured it was just as well that I hang around them, my delightful personality making their visit bright and lovely. And by "delightful personality", I mean "constant scowling presence".

I've decided I'm going to play a new little game everytime I see my in-laws. Whenever they talk in wistful tones about B.'s younger brother, I'm doing a shot. This insures that, in a typical two-day visit, I'll have a sackful of hatemail from my liver halfway through the second day.

B.'s brother is a physicist, almost two years younger than B. He moved to Europe - first Germany, then Portugal, and soon to Austria - on our one-month wedding anniversary. I love my BIL, primarily because he choses to live on another continent. Believe me, it's better for everyone this way.

This is the guy who showed up in the middle of my first date with B., sat not five feet from me, staring at me without saying a word for over half an hour while his scary girlfriend tried to force-feed me spinach lasagna. "You should eat it! It was made by real Italians!" As creepy as they were both acting, I wouldn't have been surprised if the lasagna had been made from real Italians. Needless to say, that first impression stuck.

My MIL, she cannot shut up about her youngest son, not even in the presence of her none-too-shabby eldest son. "Do you remember how M. would rub the back of your head after you'd get your hair cut?" she sighed at my FIL today, apropos of nothing.

"Do you remember when M. was four and he told us he wanted to be a palentologist when he grew up? Later he said he wanted to be a scientist. He didn't want to limit himself."

On and on and on it went. I'm sorry I didn't come up with my game idea sooner. If I had, by lunchtime today I would have been staring at my burrito, slack-jawed, possibly drooling, and uttering one of my all-time favorite sentences: "Duuuuuuuuuuuuude. I have no idea what I'm eating!"

It's all well and good that she's ever the proud and loving mother to M. I can understand that completely. But Jesus. Don't prattle on about the fabulousness of one child, sharing all the tales of his childhood precociousness when you've got another son sitting right there! You know, the son who's not an ego maniac. The one who's brilliant and successful in his own right, but has struggled his entire life to feel like he's good, worthy and smart. The son who worked for motherfucking NASA, for shit sake. Maybe it would do him some good to hear how smart and cute he was when he was little. Or to hear stories about him that don't embarrass him, because those are the only stories she ever tells. Over and over, every visit, the stories that make B. blush and make me sad that she refuses to show the same pride in him as she does M.

I'd like to think that, perhaps, when she's around M. (which isn't often; he rarely comes stateside and they've never went to visit him), that she regales him with stories of B.'s greatness and knocks him down with his own embarrassing stories. But I've seen them together, and I know that's not the case. It makes me want to punch her in the gut. Not that it would do any good, not with that damn fanny pack she wears all the time.

This makes me feel better: back in 1990, my family was vacationing in Niagara Falls. I was 17, and none-too-thrilled that my mom had jumped on the fanny pack bandwagon. Granted, that wasn't the most embarrassing thing Mom ever wore on vacation. That honor goes to the condor shit hat she wore in New Mexico three years prior.

We were having dinner at Pizza Hut and while my mom was at the salad bar a couple of young fellows walked by her and she overheard one of them saying, "What the hell is that thing? A cyst?" To which we all - my mother included - laughed so hard that we probably burst any real cysts residing in any of our bodies.

I can't imagine my MIL laughing like that if someone refered to her fanny pack as a cyst. Still, every time I see that fanny pack I hear the words, "What the hell is that? A cyst?", and I thank my lucky stars that I come from a family whose collective sense of humor is much larger than its sense of shame.

Otherwise, the day was fine. Clara Jane, as I've said before, makes a great buffer. We always have something to talk about. I also kept myself busy making dinner and knitting while we "visited", which is really just sitting around while my FIL tells us how the world is, was, and should be. Obviously, partaking in a hobby during these interludes is wise. I finished the second boobie scarf. The auction will hopefully start Monday, so get those bidding fingers fired up.

I do have to say, one thing in particular cracks me up about the boobie scarves. When I've shown them to women, they always have to look for a second before they realize it's boobies. Men, though, they know. I was on the opposite side of the room from my FIL with the scarf piled in my lap. He stopped talking - a miracle in and of itself - and said, "What is that? It looks like boobs!"

Settled down there, Cowboy.

Posted by Robin at 09:07 PM | Comments (7)

March 17, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Erin Go Blah Edition

Yeah, it's St. Pat's. I'm not Irish, so I'm not doing anything special. It irks the hell out of me when people hijack holidays that are important to cultures and use them as an excuse to drink and be assholes. Me, I need no excuse for either activity.

The in-law countdown has begun. Not familiar with my in-laws? You can get some background here. Their last visit is documented here. Considering that I'm still enjoying my misanthropic phase, there's a good chance I just might go off this weekend. Probably not. I might slip and tell B. "Boy, your mama sure did a number on you!" in front of them, but they'll probably pretend they didn't hear it, chosing to exact their revenge in a more passive-aggressive manner. Maybe they'll take more braless, birdsnest-hair, first-thing-in-the-morning photos of me to share with all the family back in Michigan.

I've spent the day cooking in preparation for their visit. I stuffed some pork, which makes me feel better. How can you not feel good when you've been stuffing pork all afternoon? The stuffing's green, since it's loaded with spinach, so let's just call that my homage to the holiday and leave it at that.

Have I mentioned that we're awaiting a blessed arrival? My parents' horses, Lexi and Bubba, are due to become parents any day now. My parents were hoping Lexi would foal today so they could name the baby Pattycake. I was hoping for an Ides of March colt named Julian, but that didn't happen, obviously.

My stupid cousin insists that if the horse is born on Wednesday, they must name it after her daughter, since that's her birthday. But I don't think Ditzy Little Obnoxious Eighth Grader has the right ring to it. By that token, if it's born tomorrow, we must name it Two Dolla in honor of Wendy's birthday. And if it's born on Sunday, we'll name it Sunday! Or March 20th if it's born on Monday!

All this naming fuss over a horse whose daddy's name is Bubba. We've obviously been drinking too much green beer.

Beatrice is ready for her first shuffle. I promise I'll do a shot* for every Irish artist:

1. When I Look at the World - U2
2. Sent for You Yesterday and Here YOu Come Today - Count Basie & His Orchestra
3.Death Letter - Cassandra Wilson
4. Teenage Dope Fiend - Flickerstick
5. Corner Soul - the Clash
6. Tightly - Neko Case
7. Mint Car - The Cure
8. You Could Have it So Much Better - Franz Ferdinand
9. Take the Fifth - Spoon
10. You Trip Me Up - The Jesus and Mary Chain

*That'll be one lone shot consumed during the Wilco show Sunday night with Allison. I'm thinking I should also drink in honor of all the Scottish bands - all two of 'em - in the shuffle. And in honor of baby horses, and in-laws, and misanthropes everywhere!

Posted by Robin at 03:41 PM | Comments (3)

March 16, 2006

My Day, Chunky-Style

I'm too tired to string together real paragraphs, and don't have anything particularly paragraph-worthy. So you're getting dots. Dig in!

Posted by Robin at 08:50 PM | Comments (7)

March 15, 2006

The Naughty Nunu and Dirty, Filthy Po

Yep, I'm still glad Clara Jane's home. Life feels normal and right again. She's developed a fixation on the Beatles' "Come Together" and keeps trying to do John Lennon's opening vocal effect, which rocks my socks off. She's also taken up yogurt painting, and covering the bathroom floor with half a bottle of baby shampoo, but I'm still freaked out enough by the tornados that I was able to maintain my composure in light of old flattop's antics.

I'm thanking my lucky stars that we're only experiencing a little vandalism, considering the horrible, sleazy tripe she's been watching. If this isn't proof that the Republicans are right and PBS is evil, I don't know what is.

Allow me to present to you the taxpayer-supported pornography masquarading as the Teletubbies...

While I could have provided better quality images with, say, a video capture card, I opted to go the simple route and just photograph the wretched images. Besides, the little black bar from the video roll accents just how dirty and filthy it is.

Warning: what follows is not appropriate for children, or their overly immature parents.


While Po lolls on the bed at left, Nunu enters. Nunu's got needs. Powerful, sucking needs.


Nunu's engorged and hot, ready for his sweet, sweet Po.


Not wasting a second, Nunu jumps straight to the goods, schnurffling Po's ... what the hell is that, anyway? Um, tubbie? Nunu can't get enough of that sweet, sweet screen.


SWEET JESUS! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? SEX AND THE TUBBIES?? My eyes. Oh, God. My eyes. And I think my vagina just grew shut.


I don't care what that rat bastard Dipsy tells you, Po. Doing that does not maintain your virginity. Stop it. Stop it right now.


Who knew animated vaccum cleaners made O-faces?


Oh, now that's just kinky and sick. Sick!


That's it. There's gonna be tubby custard all over that floor. We're going to see that floor under a blacklight on 60 Minutes one of these days, and it's going to look like the bedspread of room 164 of the Salina, Kansas Super 8, mark my word.


That's it, Po. Show him where to put it and what to do with it.


It's not all smut and slime. Po and the nunu share a tender moment. Either that, or Po's humping him. I don't know. I had to turn it off at this point.

I have never wanted to die as badly as I want to having watched this with my child.

Posted by Robin at 08:31 PM | Comments (13)

March 14, 2006

Emotional Housekeeping

Here was my horoscope for today:

Your emotions are stretched as far as they can go and your thoughts are running helter-skelter all over the map. Still, you hold on to your enthusiasm, even if you haven't reached your destination. However, there is no payoff in being overly self-critical. Even if the possibilities are overwhelming, cautiously set another round of goals.

Darn tootin'.

Clara Jane's back home from her visit to Tornado Alley. I have never in my life been so happy to see her, except for that time, when I was in labor for 32 hours and she was whisked off to NICU for, oh, six hours, without me. While I was nervous on Sunday, the full force of it hit me once she was back. I've forced myself to stay busy tonight to spare her from being smothered by the sudden overprotectiveness that has come over me.

I'm still doing some emotional housekeeping, and I'm sure I will be for awhile. Today I caught myself getting worked up regarding some people I'm not fond of. Ridiculous! If I'm not fond of these people, and there isn't something binding me to them - bloodlines or a paycheck, for instance - then why the hell am I wasting my time on them? No more.

I got conked on the head with a big light bulb the other day: I make friends easily, but I suck at keeping them. At first the thought depressed me, but now, not so much. Maybe it's because my adult life has been in constant upheaval. Or not, because really, show me a 33-year-old who hasn't been in upheaval for roughly 15 years. There aren't many.

Maybe I'm not willing or able to make myself vulnerable enough to build the kind of bond that lasts. Or maybe I make friends with poeople who don't have that skill.

Maybe I'm just an asshole.

Whatever the reason, I catch myself getting annoyed with people and then with myself, but the annoyance goes away rather quickly. There's an upside to all of this that's making it a lot better: it's bringing me closer to B. and Clara Jane. Maybe I've spent all this time trying desperately to cultivate friendships so I can have emotional connections, support, and all that other chick lit crap, when really, I've already got it right under my roof.

I'm also realizing that I've got that connection and support - cheesy as this is going to sound - within myself. You're going to laugh when I tell you this, because it sounds so silly, but buying that damn iPod was one of the smartest things I've ever done.

I know I've mentioned before that, when I was a kid, I spent hours and hours sitting on our front porch swing with my Walkman and a huge stack of cassette tapes. I could sit on that swing, zoned, lost in my music, for days if they'd let me. If the weather was bad, I'd sit on the edge of my bed, unconsciously bouncing to the beat. I was always getting in trouble for wearing out mattresses and banging the porch swing into the side of the house. I couldn't help it; I'd get so lost in what I was listening to that I would be completely ignorant to what I was doing outside of my headphones.

B. and I spent last Saturday night in a hotel downtown. We sat on the cushy king-size bed and played hand after hand of 3-13 while we watched the lightening and rain from the 15th floor. Around 11 PM, B. went on a wild goose chase for a pizza (don't ask), leaving me in the room with my iPod for half an hour. I set it to shuffle, and the first song to play was the nine-plus-minute live version of Bruce Springsteen's Rosalita (Come Out Tonight). Oh, how the side of my parents' house suffered because of that song! I haven't heard it in years, but it was always one of my favorite Springsteen songs when I was heavily into my headphones.

By the time the second verse started I was bouncing on the bed, my cheeks hurting from the smile on my face while I gently bounced along. By the time I got to the line about papa saying he knows that I don't have any money, there were tears in my eyes. I felt like I'd come home.

So this is what it feels like to be me. I'd forgotten.

It felt great, returning to this piece of myself that had been gone for so long. I didn't realize I had lost it; I thought that piece of me lived on with my general music geekitude, but I was wrong. That's only a tiny part of it.

As great and whole as I felt in those moments, it was nothing compared to the horrible crash that happened later that night. I didn't expect the frailty that would come with it, not until I found myself in that big hotel bed at 3 AM, sobbing with such a force that my eyes remained swollen well into Monday. I'm still not sure what brought it on, whether it was for the lost innocence or the found innocence. It felt like grief, like I'd lost something, although I'm not sure what. I think maybe I was grieving because I'm once again changing and in upheaval. Even though I know I need to leave things and people behind and I know it's for the best, it's still hard to admit that things didn't work the way I'd hoped, that I failed, that people I loved failed, and that I'm once again entering unchartered territory.

Even though the terrain is new, Bruce will still be with me. But this time, so will B. and Clara Jane, and for the first time in my life, I'm sure I'll do just fine.

Posted by Robin at 10:53 PM | Comments (8)

March 12, 2006

Gimme Shelter

I'm sitting here with my new iPod on shuffle, and the first song to come up? Gimme Shelter:

Oh, a storm is threat’ning
My very life today
If I don’t get some shelter
Oh yeah, I’m gonna fade away

Despite the fact that, an hour ago, I was organizing my music and thought, "Gee, I'm in the mood for some classic Stones. Maybe I'll listen to Let it Bleed while I'm writing tomorrow," this really isn't the song I want to hear right now. Even though it gets more ominous after that first verse, any mention of storms puts me further on edge tonight. I was thrilled when the iPod shuffled on to a little lighthearted Skeeter Davis.

This is the scene in my hometown, Sedalia, tonight, and it's not over. Just as one tornado warning lifts, another twister is sighted. It's bad enough that most of my family's there, but tonight, Clara Jane is there, too. She's sick of being hauled to the basement, and the sight of all my mom's home-canned green beans lining the cellar shelves is making her hungry, I'm told. For entertainment, she's been hauling my old Easter basket around, but even that's losing its charm as she gets further from her bedtime.

When the first tornado siren sounded this afternoon, she asked my mom, "What's that? I like it!"

You'll get over that soon, Kiddo. Trust me. Few sounds chill me to my core like that wail. It sounds like doom to me.

It's a common sound in this part of the world in the springtime, the low rumbling howl of the sirens. Sometimes you have to listen hard to hear them over the roar of the wind and claps of thunder. Other times, they blow when the sky's bright and calm. Only the pale green aura that surrounds everything indicates that it's not a mistake or a test. Those are the worst, because of the reminder of how quickly fate can fall out of the sky and blow lives apart.

A tornado hit Sedalia the spring of 1977 when I was four years old. I'd been excited that day, because Mom had been doing laundry in the basement and she was letting me come downstairs with her to help. When the sirens blew in the middle of the afternoon and she hustled me down the steep wood stairs to the concrete slab basement, I thought it was merely time to put the wet clothes in the dryer again. Instead, she directed me to a concrete-ensconced crawlspace, padded with blankets and pillows that we pulled over our heads.

My dad was a truck driver for a dairy, and he was on the road that day. While my mom and I sat in our cubby, I remember her telling me that we needed to pray for Dad to come home safe. Prayer wasn't a regular event in our house, aside from the usual "now I lay me down to sleep" and "God is great, God is good" childhood graces. Asking God to bring my dad home was new and terrifying.

I remember the roar of the wind, sounding like a giant truck engine surrounding the house. And then silence.

We emerged from the basement and our house was intact. So were the houses surrounding ours. Most of the damage had occured on the northwestern end of town, where the expensive new subdivisions had been built. Houses looked like their lids had been removed like those of tin cans of green beans. Fallen trees blocked the streets, their scattered leaves looking like a green autumn. The old drive-in movie theater was destroyed. The factory where my dad eventually worked for over twenty years was heavily damaged.

I sat in the backseat of my grandma's yellow Volkswagon Beatle, surveying the wreckage of the only place in the world I really knew while my mom and grandma sobbed in the front seat.

We were lucky. Everyone we knew and loved, including my dad, were fine, losing nothing more than some shingles and a few trees. A story floated around for years that a dog in one of the subdivisions was picked up by the storm, which set him down several miles away at the state fairgrounds, where he promptly took a large dump upon terra firma. Whether that really happened or not, I don't know. Sedalia recovered, and has since gone on to survive several other direct twister assaults.

Things are different now. B. and I were shopping when my mom called my cell phone after today's first storm. "Just wanted to catch you before you saw the news and panicked. There was a tornado and everyone's okay."

When we got home a few hours later, the helicopter news footage from Sedalia was already on the local news. I squinted while I watched, trying to see if I recognized any of the destroyed houses. I didn't. During the other storms, my mom and I kept in touch. While they were in the basement without news access, I called with storm updates from the Weather Channel. When we weren't talking, I sat glued to the motion weather maps, watching the giant red splotches of storm as they headed towards Sedalia, grabbing my phone when the spot moved past that dot on the map to make sure they got through it.

I can fill myself with information, presented in an unbiased, non-panicked tidy little animated box. I can plug a zip code into a website and find out exactly where a tornado was spotted minutes earlier, and I can go to a map site and see exactly how far it is from my parents' house, where my baby's trying to sleep. Then I can make a phone call that doesn't require possibly downed lines to make sure everyone's okay the minute it's over. Those endless hours of waiting to see if someone's going to come home have shrunk to seconds. But it doesn't make the fear any less. It just means that I might get hit with unthinkable news faster than we did thirty years ago.

All day I've been thinking about how I hate that Clara Jane's going through these storms, and that she wasn't safe in St. Louis with us. But now, the worst is probably past them. We're the ones who might be facing the same storms, only in the middle of the night. Suddenly, I'm glad she's not here. I'm glad we won't have to wake her at 3 a.m. to make that fast, frantic rush to the basement, half-asleep and bewildered, exhausted from trying to sleep and listen for those sirens at the same time.

I think all of my people in Sedalia have been accounted for, but I'm wondering who was killed, and who's lost. I'm wondering what local sights that I'm so used to seeing have been reduced to haystacks of shattered wood. I'm wondering what we're in for tonight. I'm wondering if Clara Jane was as scared as I was thirty years ago, and if she's wondering when her mom and dad are coming home.

Posted by Robin at 09:52 PM | Comments (12)

March 10, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Welcome Home Beatrice Edition



This is Beatrice. She and her fat-ass 60GB hard drive have come to live with me, and I can't stop licking her.

Turns out, my early mid-life crisis can be cured with material goods. All it took was a black 60-gig iPod and a shirt that's far too sexy for the likes of me that I purchased anyway.
Beatrice would like to shuffle for you, but she's busy getting hammered, what with the synching and all. She'll be all ready to shuffle next week, unless I've worn her out by then. Or accidentally flung her across my truck, like I did about ten seconds after I took that photo.

In the meantime, my computer, Ye Olde Pantyblaster 3000, will shuffle off into the sunset.

1. God - Tori Amos
2. Satellite - The Replacements
3. Silence - Delirium & Sarah McLachlan
4. I'm Only Sleeping - The Beatles
5. America - West Side Story Original Cast Recording
6. Longview - Green Day
7. The Nurse - White Stripes
8. Radio Friendly Unit Shifter - Nirvana
9. Kern River - Merle Haggard
10. The End of Medicine - The New Pornographers

I don't really understand the need to name electronics, and I generally don't participate in such, but then again I just wrote an entire blog entry referring to my iPod as a human being. At the Apple store, I referred to it as my second-born. Obviously, I have gone stupid, and I'm okay with that, as I now won't be able to hear it when people call me stupid.

We've already fallen into a new pattern in our household, thanks to Beatrice. Now, all requests that I'm not fond of are answered as such:

B: Will you watch (insert name of movie I'm not interested in here) with me?
Me: Sure. You don't mind if I wear my earbuds while we watch, do you?

B: Will you (insert name of household task I don't wish to perform here)?
Me: Sure. You don't mind if I wear my earbuds while I scrub, do you?

B: Will you (insert name of sexual act I don't really want to do)?
Me: Sure. You don't mind if I wear my earbuds while I ....

You get the picture.

Posted by Robin at 09:16 PM | Comments (8)

March 09, 2006

The Book That Never Will Be

The good news: Clara Jane's non-napping daycare delimma has been solved. Today, the director proposed that we move Clara Jane to the next level. Even though she'll be 6 months younger than the youngest kid in the next class, they think she's ready. A part of the problem seems to be that she's getting bored with her current class. So, not only is the problem solved, but I get to have that "heh - my kid's skipping a grade" gloatfest.

The bad news: This writing business? Sucks. Shall we replay the past four weeks? On Feb. 16, I was writing crap that wasn't fit to decorate a roll of Charmin, so I called it quits. The next week I couldn't get my shit together. Last week, I was too busy watching my stomach lining exit my body to write. And then there's today.

I got off to a great start with the news of Clara Jane's class advancement. I'd been concerned that I was going to bump heads with the director, which would have me in a non-writing tizz all day. Once I knew that fear would go unfulfilled, I figured I was in for a great writing day.

Here's the problem, though. I don't know how to shut my mouth. I've got this great coffeehouse I love, but so do a lot of other people. Most Thursdays, I know at least half the people there at any given time. You know verbose I am? Well, I'm like that in person, too. A motor mouth, as I have been called by my family since I was, well, fetal, I think. So, Thomas stops by the table, and we chat for a few minutes. Christine comes by, and we gab for a bit. Then Thomas' 4-year-son stops by to draw pictures with me and talk about his new baby sister. Oh, and there's that guy I met two weeks ago, when I was spying on his laptop screen and gave him a job lead similar to the monster.com ad he was reading. And hey! There's Jane! I'll just smile and wave. Or, we can chat for a bit. Hey there, look at the time. We've been talking for three and a half hours. I've written less than two pages, and I've essentially paid for a day of daycare so I can run my mouth for hours without being hindered by my child.

The sick feeling hit my gut around 1:45 this afternoon, when I realized I had written less than two pages in the four hours I'd been there. If I'm not running my mouth, I can usually knock out 12-15 pages in that amount of time. What the fuck am I doing? If I was working a "real" job and I spent the entire day running my mouth and doing 11% of the work I know I'm capable of doing, I'd be in serious trouble. Doing that four weeks in a row, and I would fire my own sorry ass.

I've come to a frightening realization over the past week and a half, and today drove it home: although I fancy myself a free spirit who doesn't care what others think, I somehow spend a stupid amount of time and energy trying to please others via conversation. Being the social butterfly to every semi-familiar face when I know I should be working. Taking time away from my family and myself so I can pounce on emails or the phone, answering whenever anyone beckons, taking care of whatever the mailer or caller needs, taking care of them before I take care of myself. And for what? So I can wind up feeling used, neglected, and completely strung out, all because I make myself entirely too available.

Two weeks ago today, I talked so much that, by 11 PM, I literally had no voice left. I could muster a slight croak, and that was it. I chit-chatted with one of Clara Jane's teachers for 15 minutes when I dropped her off. Gabbed with everyone at the coffeehouse. Called my mom. Called B. Called my mom again. Butted in to give a job lead to that guy at the coffeehouse, and wound up visiting off an on for a few hours. Talked to Clara Jane's other teacher for 15 minutes when I picked her up. Went to dinner with Angela. Came home and returned a call to my neighbor, which drug on for over two hours.

I talked until I felt like my throat was bloody and I don't remember a goddamn thing I said. I doubt if anyone else does, either. I'm starting to think that the only way for me to find my real voice, and really use it, is for me to snip my fucking vocal cords.

So, I've spent my evening trying to figure out why I do this to myself, why I'm sabotaging my writing, particularly, in favor of running my fucking mouth. I don't have any definitive answers, just more tidbits that make me so angry and disappointed in myself.

When I was a kid, I loved being alone. My favorite thing in the world was to hole up in my room with my books, records and typewriter. I did two things in that room: I created, and I absorbed. I was voracious with my music and books, loving nothing more than getting lost in the worlds they created, then working to create my own worlds. I started writing my own novel when I was in fifth grade, and I made a surprising amount of progress.

But being a 10-year-old hermit is frowned upon, and I was highly encouraged to be social. I understand this, and I am thankful that my parents didn't allow me to turn into that pasty kid who doesn't know how to interact with the other humans. But I think I overdid it. I went too far in the other direction, allowed myself to become too gregarious. I've always loved the attention I've gotten from my personality, people calling me things like vivacious, sparkly, bright, friendly. Who wouldn't love being called those things. But the thing is, by going too far into this social realm, I inadvertantly created a world I don't think I belong in. A world where I don't know how to say no. Don't know how to balance my need to take care of myself, and my need to take care of everyone else.

It's a sick feeling, realizing that I've let my need for attention, and my need to be noticed, stomp the fuck out of the introverted person I naturally was. Now, I want both - the attention, the love, the friends, but also the solitude and the company of myself. I don't know how to balance the two, to the point where I feel like I've completely forgotten how to make that connection with myself. I'm too busy looking around the room to make sure I'm not snubbing anyone, only to realize that I'm snubbing myself.

I've let this need to please come before my husband and my child. I've let it come between me and my writing. I've given my ability to make people happy the power to make me miserable. Or maybe I'm using it as a buffer between myself and fulfillment. It's a cushy little pillow that protects me from the intensity of success and the power of the incredible love of my family. If I feel the greatness of the love and the success, I won't be able to stand it if I lose them. So instead, I forge these passing little bonds, things to distract me from what's really important, feeding on people telling me how generous I am, how they can't thank me enough as they take what I offer, leaving me wondering where's my share, too stupid to understand that I willingly gave it away.

This must change, and it must change now.

Posted by Robin at 05:32 PM | Comments (13)

March 08, 2006

Happy International Women's Day!

Here's a lovely way to celebrate.

Do you think that guy is ever going to get laid, ever ever again, for the rest of his life? Sadly, he probably will. *sigh*

Dude, I know you're young and all, but hear me out on this one: if you're so intent on not knocking someone up, you do have several birth control options you're free to exercise, all of which are cheaper than $500/month child support payments.

I'm just amazed by the stupidity I've witnessed in the news today, when you take that dork into consideration with the three church-burning morons.

Couple these incidents, along with some things I've been pondering over the past week and a half involving some people in my life, and I really wonder whatever happened to personal responsibility.

Anyway ...

Call me an old cynic, but unless the person you're screwing gives you proof that they are lacking either a uterus or testicles, it's wise to assume there's at least some chance a pregnancy might occur. I'm sure the friend of mine who was recently impregnated by her twice-vasectamied spouse might agree.

Hello. My name is Robin. In September, 2002, my uterus was trying to fall out. Not condusive to baby-making. By the way, have you met my daughter?

If his ex-girlfriend, did indeed "trick" him into fathering a child, shame on her for making it that much more difficult for women who are dealing with deadbeat-dad situations.

I'm just sick to death of people not learning how to be responsible, or being unwilling to be responsible for themselves and their actions.

Yeah, it's been that kind of day around here. Clara Jane and I didn't leave the house, and I've had entirely too much time to do laundry and ponder the human condition. I've come to the conclusion that some people could really use a trip through the spin cycle to knock some sense into them.

It's also, apparently, Be Nasty Day, according to my new favorite crafty site, The AntiCraft. Blargh.

You know I rarely do memes. Well, today I'm making an exception. I'm cranky, and I've got no real material, since nobody in my house has bothered to projectile vomit or shit on the floor today. Ingrates. So, I'm borrowing this from my friend Dixie, and I know she won't mind if I forget to return it.

Pick a musical group. Answer the questions with a song title from that group.

Since Dixie made a point of going beyond the usual suspects, I'm going to leave it to fate. I just brought up iTunes, and shuffled. Lo and behold, the first band to shuffle up? The Replacements. I couldn't have picked better myself. Except most of you probably won't get the connections, because we 'Mats fans? We're a small little cluster of music geeks. So be it. I know at least three readers who'll get it.

1. Are you male or female? I could say I'm Androngynous, but my boobs are too big for that. So let's just say I'm Another Girl, Another Planet.
2. Describe yourself: Left of the Dial
3. How do some people feel about you? Darlin' One. Hey, it said some people, not all people.
4. How do you feel about yourself? Achin' to Be
5. Describe current relationship with boyfriend/girlfriend: Can't Hardly Wait
6. Describe where you want to be: Happy Town
7. Describe how you live: I Will Dare
8. Describe how you love: One Wink at a Time
9. What would you ask for if you had just one wish? Beer for Breakfast
10. Share a few words of wisdom: Kids Don't Follow
11. Now say goodbye: Take Me Down to the Hospital

Posted by Robin at 08:35 PM | Comments (6)

March 07, 2006

Deep Thoughts and Bodily Fluids - A Little Something for Everyone

Which do you want first? Of course, the poop...

As of 6:24 PM today, Tuesday, March 7, in the year of our lord 2006, I hereby declare that no one in this house is allowed to perform any bodily functions until they learn how to do it right.

Last night, B. noticed that Clara Jane had a smidge of diaper rash, so he let her run around the house bare-assed for awhile. This is what we call Danger Baby. I think you probably know why, and I'm pretty sure you know where this is going.

"Oh my God! She's crapping on the floor!" B. yelled, jumping up and sprinting away from my desk, where Clara Jane was squatting, doing what I can only assume was her best imitation of a bear in the woods. He recovered, cleaned it up, and once again fell into shock as Clara Jane ran across the kitchen, a giant turd falling out of the hem of her shirt.

Once all the poop was removed, B. removed Clara Jane to the bath. Once out, she was standing on one of the dining room chairs, still naked. "What's all that water on the chair?" B. asked. "Did that drip off of her from the bath?"

Sure, Honey. You just keep telling yourself that while I disinfect this chair on which we sit while we consume food, for it is covered with urine.

Fast forward to bedtime. I was reading, while my cat, Romi the Motherfucking Lardass, attempted to settle her girth onto my girth, which is sort of like balancing a ping-pong ball on top of a basketball. As she settled, I noticed something. Under her tail. Oh God.

I shoved her towards B., flung a box of tissues at him and requested that he please remove the renegade dingleberry (which, size-wise, was really more of a dinglepear) from her ass.

Once the poop was out of our bed, we sat there, catching our breath, both silently pondering the horror of possibly rolling onto the renegade dinglepear in the night. Romi, in her shame, perched on the edge of B.'s nightstand, looking straight ahead, obviously trying to regain her nobility in light of having, essentially, crapped her pants in front of us. I watched her profile as she sat, unflinching, lost in the thoughts of her shame. She opened her mouth, I presumed to speak of her mortification and sorrow at the frightening end of the evening. And from her mouth, as she emitted a delicated hack, came rocketing ... what? A loogie? Projectile vomit? Jet-powered hairball? I'm not sure. All I know is I watched in what felt like slow-motion as this item came hurtling out of her gullet and across the room. Had the dogs been sleeping in their beds four feet away, they would have thought all their dreams had come true and cat vomit had started raining from the heavens.

I somehow managed to sleep, even with this animal, who had sprung leaks from both ends, slept near my pillow. Clara Jane woke me up before 7 AM. Although I wasn't thrilled with this situation, I took advantage of it. Got us dressed and out the door by 9 so we could go for coffee and chocolate milk, followed by a trip to Whole Foods. I needed probiotics, as my digestive system is still reeling from last week's flu. I won't be giving you details, because I prefer for the rest of the world to believe that I don't poop. However, I'm pretty sure Romi has posted all the details over on Live Journal.

I love Whole Foods, but I don't get there very often. Unless I go early in the morning, it's a madhouse and it makes me want to run over people in the parking lot, which doesn't quite work with Whole Foods' earth-friendly vibe. So we just don't go, unless it's a day like today, where the planets align with my ailing intestines and the child in my house who is suddenly operating on Rooster Central Time.

Two years ago, I was also going to Whole Foods for probiotics. Clara Jane was almost a month old and I was still sick. When I left the hospital, my doctor said my C-section incision looked like it wanted to get infected. She sent me home with a prescription for Keflex. Four days later, I awoke with my clothing saturated in liquid that had burst from the incision. It looked like the tail of my shirt and my underwear had been dunked four inches in a washtub.

In the weeks that followed, I was prescribed every antibiotic known to western medicine, or so it felt. Several times a day I sat on the toilet while B. alternated hot compresses and peroxide-soaked cloths on my incision, which continued to bleed and weep. I went to my doctor's office several times a week, always on the verge of being admitted to the infectious disease unit. The infection didn't budge.

Despite the infection, I was able to go out. As long as I took painkillers and wore elastic wasitbands, I could try to get on with my life, which now contained a tiny little girl and a weeping wound. That was good, I thought, because I had other health issues at hand. Whenever I was left at home with Clara Jane, I would panic. Paralyzing, life-controlling panic that left me huddled on the couch, sobbing, for hours on end. Every morning, Clara Jane and I would drive B. to the train station, then we'd go to the diner for a long breakfast. She'd sleep on the counter in her car seat while I ate my egg sandwich and drank cup after cup of coffee. Perched on a swiveling stool at the counter, my incision didn't hurt quite as much.

When we'd leave the diner, I'd have to find someplace else for us to pass a few hours, and Whole Foods was an appealing option. I'd put Clara Jane into her Baby Bjorn and we'd stroll through the store. If she was awake, she'd gaze at the colors and lights in the produce department. I'd take my time walking down the aisles, maybe buying something to drink or a snack. Lunch from the salad bar, if it was a particularly long visit, as a lot of them were. Sometimes I'd sit in the dining area with a notebook and write, if Clara Jane was willing to snooze on my chest.

When it came time to pay, I always tried to get the same cashier. I don't remember her name, but she was in her early 20s, chubby, ring through the divit between her lower lip and her chin, and hair color that varied between hot pink and burgundy from week-to-week. I could always count on her for a little small talk, and to fawn over Clara Jane. She always projected a bit of happiness, and helped ease my loneliness.

Eventually, it was a trip to Whole Foods that finally brought down the infection. My friend Jackie, a homeopathic therapist in Great Britain, suggested several formulas that tend to help surgical infections, along with an arnica ointment. Within a week, the infection was mostly gone, and I was downing probiotics, trying to get everything back in order.

As I walked through Whole Foods early this morning, I thought about those mornings two years ago, and the tiny baby who snoozed on my chest as I browsed. Today, she pointed at items in the produce department, yelling out the names of fruits and veggies. She demanded samples from the cheese and potato chip departments, and mooed at the cow artwork on the organic dairy products. While gazing into the meat case, I heard someone say, "Hey! It's you! I haven't seen you in ages! Oh my God, your baby's grown!" I looked up, and there was my cashier, this time with fading blue hair and a blood-smeared white coat, working behind the meat counter. "She's gorgeous!"

I thanked her, and we made idle chit-chat for a bit. I found myself wanting to tell her that I'm fine. I'm well. Missing some vital flora, perhaps, but otherwise, so good that an early-morning trip to the hippie store is now fun, not a lifeline.

Posted by Robin at 07:24 PM | Comments (13)

March 06, 2006

The Return of Boy

If you've been reading my blog from its inception, perhaps you've wondered what became of Boy, our 10-year-old Clara Jane-admiring neighbor. Oh, he's still around, doing stuff and being 10 and all. I'm just better at avoiding him than I used to be.

Not the case today. He rang the doorbell this afternoon.

"Is B. here?"

"Nope," I said. "But he'll be here in about ten minutes."

He silently waved a booklet at me through the screen door, looking expectant. "Um, yeah. Ten minutes. You ... you got a book there, uh, do you?" He waved it again. "Oh. Cub Scouts fundraiser. Gotcha." I opened the screen and he handed me the booklet.

"You pick two circles, scratch them off, give me that amount of money and take the coupons," he explained. "My dog was humping your dog yesterday."

"I didn't think they taught you about that stuff until Webelos." I handed him $3, which I would have rather used to buy a box of Tagalongs instead of a coupon for a free 6" Blimpie sub. But a Girl Scout probably wouldn't have given me the dog nookie update, so I guess we're even.

Posted by Robin at 06:29 PM | Comments (7)

Waiting for the Fairies to Show Up

We're going to leave the house today. Really. I know it's 10 a.m., and we're both still in our pajamas, and we have to be home no later than 12:30 so I can be the Nap Nazi. But really! We're going to leave the house! I'm just waiting for the magic fairies to show up, clothe us, bathe us, and fantastically transport us to a mall with a candle store. In the meantime ...

Posted by Robin at 09:54 AM | Comments (5)

March 05, 2006

Frugal

The outpouring of love and concern during my recent unfortunate absence is staggering, really. Much heartfelt gratitude to those of you who emailed or called to express concern. All three of you.

I did a lot of thinking over the past few days, because what else was I going to do between hours of coma-like sleep and innard-escape episodes? A girl can only stare at the weave of the fabric on her pillowcase for so long before before something goes traipsing across the fevered expanse of her brain. Really, this was a good time for me to get solidly nailed by the flu bug that's been floating through my system for weeks, because I had a lot of things in my head that needed organizing. Granted, I would have preferred to do the mental housekeeping without the 1:30 A.M. Screaming Devil-Pukes, but oh well.

The first one big thought thing is good. Really good. March 10th is a magic day. It's the day that B. and I will finally become financially solid. Not rich. Sweet lord, no. But some things have aligned, and suffice it to say that we're going to see several large debts shimmy into the sweet, sweet black. "Goodbye, Motherfuckers!" you'll hear us cackle, waving title deeds wildly in the air.

This has been a long, long time coming. We live pretty frugally, really, and I've come accustomed to the odd looks, even eye-rolling, that comes with it. I get asked all the time why I don't have an iPod or a laptop, or why, until recently, I used a five-year-old digital camera that used floppy disks for memory. Because new toys cost this thing called money, that's why. If we hate our neighborhood, why don't we just move? Becuase, like the toys, it requires that money thing once again. That's also why I patch my jeans, buy most of my daughter's clothes from Target clearance, only cut my hair two, maybe three times a year, own one six-year-old vehicle, cook most of our meals from scratch, utilize the hell out of our incredible local library system, and haul ass to get to the zoo early in the morning before they start charging admission for the good parts.

B. and I made some decisions about seven years ago that led to this way of life. They weren't bad decisions; they were smart decisions made because we'd learned from the bad decisions we made before we met each other:

1)When I moved to St. Louis, I didn't want to continue with my previous career. I was so incredibly lucky that B. was willing and able to support us while I went to culinary school (and paid for it in full), started my company (with no loans), wrote, had Clara Jane, quit my regular writing job, and closed my company. We would have been richer, financially, had I stayed in my career, but the rest of our lives wouldn't have been as happy. If that means living down the street from the dune buggies, so be it.

2)We opted to buy a house we could actually afford, instead of one that made us look good. If that means we have more used car lots than Starbucks drive-thrus in our neighborhood, so be it.

3)No matter how badly we wanted something, over the past five years if we couldn't pay in cash, we didn't get it. No new debt. In five years. Yeah, it would be nice to have a laptop of my own instead of occasionally borrowing B.'s work one, but guess what? It hasn't killed me. Didn't even injure me.

This is starting to sound like some Suze Orman financial lecture, and that's not what I want. I'm not qualified to write that, not by a long shot. I'm just trying to say that, after all these years of sacrificing instant gratification, we're about to reap the benefits. From this vantage point, I can honestly say that I'm glad we chose this particular path because, let me tell you, it feels good. What we have is ours. We paid for it. Our mamas and daddies didn't pay for it. The bank didn't pay for it. We did it. We earned it. We deserve it. That feels better than any cute $50 shirt purchased on a whim ever felt.

The funny thing is, in the past week B. and I have both had several attacks each where we've panicked about money. Thoughts of, oh God, what if we made a mistake? What if there's some big bill we forgot? My stupid cousin lost her house a few months ago because she's an idiot and forgot about her mortgage, even though they lived in that house for 15 years. Seriously. Forgot the fucking mortgage. We don't have any mortgages we're not aware of, do we? No? Are you sure? We're relishing this last little bit of paycheck-to-paycheck adrenaline before it - God willing - becomes a thing of the past, something we look back on as a part of our salad days dues-paying.

I was emailing a friend last night, and I wrote about paying a visit to my neighborhood Aldi's last week. I hadn't been there since last September. In fact, I'd forgotten about that incident, the little family in front of me who couldn't pay for their groceries. But it came rushing back to me in the store last week. As I looked around at my fellow shoppers, filling their carts with 25-cent cans of soup, this thought crossed my mind: "After this week, I never have to set foot in this store again."

And I stopped cold. I don't want to be that person. I don't ever want to think that, because my wallet's a little cushier, I can buy the priviledge of not seeing poverty. I don't ever want to forget what it feels like to watch a family putting back food for their child because they can't afford it. I don't want to forget what it feels like to give the grocery bags I brought from home to the elderly woman in line behind me so that she won't have to spend money on her own. I don't ever want to take my lucky, blessed situation for granted. To do so would be a disgrace to people whose situations aren't as good, and a disgrace to the work B. and I have done to get where we are.

It's funny how this - I hate to say sudden, because it's not sudden; it just feels sudden after years of gradual progress - financial solidity is changing the way I look at everything in my life, especially people. I'm suddenly seeing parallels in how people treat money and other people. When I was broke, I was always more than willing to fling money I didn't have around for friends and acquaintences, or on crap for myself that I really didn't need. It wasn't until this afternoon that I understood why - so I would at least look like I had money. Likewise, I threw my affection around. Dated guys I probably wouldn't have dated otherwise, stayed in sick friendships, and spent of myself until my soul was broke. But the more love I show, the more likely people will believe that I'm loved in return. The more likely I am to believe it myself.

Hello. I'm that friend that you call when you need a place to crash. Or need to rant. Or to be entertained and amused. Or need a recipe, a restaurant recommendation, tickets to a concert or a housesitter. I'm the one who'll lend you books, lend you time, lend you money for lunch. I'm the one you call in the middle of the night because you know she'll answer the phone, no matter how late it is, the one who will open her entire thorax for you, if it might make you feel better about yourself or give you a chuckle.

I'm that friend who fell off the face of the world and you didn't notice until you needed something.

My financial frugality served me well. Now it's time to start exercising some emotional frugality. Stop shoving 20s down the pants of disinterested strippers, and invest them in those who will give me a real return.

Posted by Robin at 08:30 PM | Comments (18)