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May 27, 2006

For your holiday weekend

If you're weekend isn't good enough to make you wanna dance like this, then you did something wrong.

C'mon! Let's all do the Baby Pizza Dance!

Posted by Robin at 09:43 AM | Comments (17)

May 26, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Panic! In the Shuffle Edition

Long-time readers of this blog might recall that I've had quite a history with panic attack and anxiety disorders. If you'd like to familiarize yourself with that period of my life, feel free to read any of the archives from June, 2004 - April, 2005. Although I'm not sure why anyone would want to do that. Unless you like reading about people losing their minds over things like, oh, I don't know, cats and shit.

It's been well over a year since I had a panic attack. I still get anxious, but I've accepted that I'm just anxious by nature. As long as my anxiety isn't dictating my life, I can deal with it. Add to my long list of quirks and idiosyncracies.

Of course, from the start I've been concerned that Clara Jane might follow in my panicky path. There's been research that kids born to anxious, panicky mothers pick up the stress hormones in utero, giving them a predisposition to their own panic and anxiety problems. Thanks, Media! That news makes it so much easier for a panicked pregnant lady to relax! So far, Clara Jane's been pretty easy-going and down-right fearless.

Until today.

Allow me to digress momentarily. I'm no longer fond of my new haircut. Seems that once it de-Mary-Tyler-Moore'd itself, it decided to go-completely-psycho. The back and sides are large enough to be used as a nest for a renegade family of homeless possums. And the bangs ... don't even talk to me about the bangs. Too short and the razor-cut ends - I'm not exaggerating - flip straight up. I look like I have little arrows on my forehead, pointing the way to the entrance to Chez Possumhovel.

I'm not a fan of using tools and potions to make my hair do things it's not going to do naturally. It's too much work and, well, you know what they say about trying to fool Mother Nature. Besides, I have weird hair that doesn't respond to most tools and potions. It's really, really thick and naturally wavy, but baby-fine. On the rare occasion that I can find barrettes that are strong enough to handle the sheer quantity of my hair, chances are they're going to slide right out due to the complete lack of texture.

The whole reason why I picked this haircut is because it should have worked with my natural hair. It worked with the waves and my lack of texture. But then my "stylist" had to get all happy with the razor. Not happy. Not happy at all.

Since I'm a proponent of finding hairstyles that agree with my hair's natural state, I don't own a curling or flat iron. If my hair was meant to be curly or striaght, it would be curly or straight without being forced into that state by me. Besides, I graduated from high school in 1991, which means I spent most mornings of my adolescence with a curling iron in hand, fashioning my hair into an elaborate Aqua-Net-induced pineapple that reached far, far into the clouds. It might have housed possums; I don't know, for my hair was so far from my scalp they could have lived three stories up from my head and I would have been completely unaware. Point is, I have a rarely-used blow dryer in my hair styling arsenal, and nothing else. Well, a brush. I do have a brush.

Did I ever tell you about the summer when I stopped brushing my hair and managed to grow one single dreadlock? That's a story for another time.

So anyway ... This morning Clara Jane was coloring at the dining room table while I stood before the bathroom mirror, blow dryer and brush in hand, working to flatten my arrow-y bangs. (Why do they call them "bangs" anyway? Because that's the sound it makes when the stylist hits the floor after you hit her for what she's done to your hair?)I dampened my bangs, brushed them flat, and blew them dry.

As soon as I turned off the dryer, I heard the screaming. Panicked, horrible, screaming. Clara Jane bellowing, "Mama! Come back! Come back! Come back!"

Fuck my hair. Just ... fuck it. Flat bangs aren't worth traumatizing my kid, who doesn't like noisy motors. The vacuum cleaner, lawn mowers, weed eaters - she's afraid of them all. We thought she had gotten over the blow dryer fear, but apparently not.

For the next hour, Clara Jane wouldn't let go of me. As in, if I put her on the floor, she clung to my shirt and cried that horrible, "Come back, Mama! Come back!"

This is what I used to do when I panicked. I couldn't stand being left alone. When I was four, when I was 32, it was the same. Please don't leave me to be afraid by myself. Please don't go away because, if I take my eyes off of you, there's a chance something awful witll happen and I'll never see you again.

We dealt with it. Plowed through it, even though it was horrible. I know I could have cancelled our entire day just to comfort her, letting her grip my shirt and cry while I rubbed her back. But what would that do? That would teach her that she doesn't have to deal with her fear because I'll do it for her. She'll never learn to deal with her fear and next thing you know she'll be 32 years old, begging someone to not leave her alone because she's scared. She'll be me at the worst point in my life.

On the other hand, she's two.

Ultimately, I think it worked. While she cried and screamed, I didn't go out of her sight and kept telling her that it was okay to be afraid. We would deal with it. The worst part had to be when I attempted to walk into the bathroom, home of the blow dryer. She grabbed the tail of my shirt, screaming, and tried to pull me out.

Let me just say that my kid? She may still be shorter than a yardstick, but she's one strong little beastie.

Eventually she calmed down and we seem to be relatively back to normal. Well, a slightly shaken version of normal. To see the part of myself that I hate the most in my child makes me wonder what kind of chance she stands if she's learned this trait from me, or if I imprinted it on her DNA, or passed it to her like poison through the umbilical cord. I learned to deal with it at age 32. How do I adapt those lessons to a 2-year-old?

This is parenting: learning from the worst parts of your life and passing on that knowledge so that your kids don't get to repeat your trials.

If this shuffle scares you, I promise I'll hold your hand and we'll listen to it together. And really, don't worry about the possums. They're not worth the panic.

1. Section 12 (Hold Me Now) - Polyphonic Spree
2. Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk - Rufus Wainwright
3. All the Way to Reno - REM
4. I Didn't Like You Anyway - The Donnas
5. Knock Me Down - Red Hot Chili Peppers
6. Less Than You Think - Wilco (a 15-minute panic attack set to feedback - how appropriate)
7. At Least That's What You Said - Wilco (live in St. Louis, 3-19-06)
8. His Eyes are a Blue Million Miles - Joan Osbourne
9. The Idea of Growing Old - The Features
10. Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen (which just happens to be my #1 all-time favorite song)

Posted by Robin at 03:33 PM | Comments (6)

May 25, 2006

Late-Mid-Week-Videoless Dots

I've got a playlist on my iPod that consists of the ten songs Clara Jane insists on hearing over and over and over. In thanking my lucky stars that I live in a world where the biggest worry I have regarding my child involves keeping my sanity after 45 minutes of listening to the same song, or the hissy fit that ensues when I turn it off, I present you with The Clara Jane Boogie:

1. City of Blinding Light - U2
2. Love Like a Truck - Bottle Rockets
3. Honky Tonk Hiccups - Neko Case
4. Woo Hoo - The 5.6.7.8's (This is the song from the Vonage TV ads. Yes, I purchased the song for her. Yes, I need to be beaten.)
5. Candyfloss - Wilco
6. Come Together - The Beatles
7. John Henry - Bruce Springsteen
8. Do You Want To - Franz Ferdinand
9. Mirror in the Bathroom - English Beat
10. War on War - Wilco

Posted by Robin at 05:13 PM | Comments (5)

May 23, 2006

I never call. I never write. I never blog. Now with video!

It's been a busy few days. I'm certainly not lacking for blog fodder, but I have been lacking for time. I'm afraid it's the abbreviated version for you.

First and foremost, Clara Jane's delightful mood has continued into this week. I'm trying to enjoy it while anticipating the dropping of shoe #2, which I predict will occur five minutes into our flight to Detroit a week from today.

Saturday: Rummage sale! Oh, how I love rummage sales. I love the lightness of ridding myself of crap. I love the cash. And to be perfectly honest, I love the neighborhoodiness of it all. Regular readers, you know I'm generally not fond of my neighborhood. I'll also be the first to admit that often, I don't give my neighbors nearly enough credit. We've got some good people. Really. With every annual rummage sale, I like my neighbors a little more. This year was no exception.

Like I do every year, I spent a chunk of the sale getting reacquainted with Boy's mom. We have very little in common, aside from being moms and sharing similar addresses, but on the rare occasions we get to talk, we always have a good time. Always. Again, no exceptions this year.

We also learned that there's a family at the opposite end of our block with a little girl who's just a few months younger than Clara Jane. They've only lived there for two years. Yeah, I'm an observant one. Yeah, I bitch about people going into their houses and pretending to be unaware that others live around them. I'm the worst culprit.

I had met one member of that family. A few weeks ago I caught their son in my backyard with Boy, where they were enjoying a game that involved throwing and kicking balls at the side of my house, which in turn involved me putting the fear of God and hellfire into them.

On days like that, I really enjoy being the grown-up.

Long story short, we're invited to a barbeque at our new-old neighbors' house next weekend.

I had big post-sale plans. Oh, I just knew we could have our sale, put the remains away while Clara Jane snoozed, then drive 45 minutes to Belleville, Illinois, for Art in the Square. And while in Belleville, oh, we would dine with our friends Mary, Bob and Livia! And Jill! My old friend Jill, who I haven't seen in nearly a year! She would join us, along with her daughter who's 23 hours younger than Clara Jane! And her 5-week old daughter! I'm just crazy enough to think I can pull that off.

No, that's not crazy. That's stupid. We tried. We really did. I made it as far as showering, putting on a skirt, and a little mascara. Then I collapsed on the bed. B. would have collapsed, too, but all the muscles he strained while moving the sale items hither and yon prevented him from moving at all. We cancelled and stayed home.

But there's always Sunday. At the spur of the moment, we said to hell with naptime and headed east.

You know how I love the Uncle Tupelo song "New Madrid"? Here's a picture of my kid with the fountain immortalized in the song:



Makes me a little weepy every time I see it.

We did the art show in record time. Turns out, you can appreciate art while whizzing past after a toddler. I particularly appreciated the works of Michael Anderson, Jason Fricke, Daryl Thetford (if I had to pick, he was my favorite), Wheat Elder (particularly the painting at the start of her webpage), Gregory J. Lawler (the lavender fields made me weepy, too) and Keith Grace. Not surprising after last week's rusted metal cactus pilgrimages, Clara Jane enjoyed the sculpures the most.

Even though we were rushed and it wasn't optimal conditions, I'm glad we went to the art fair. I've got it in my head that I want to take Clara Jane to as many festivals and fairs as possible this summer. It's better than sitting around, doing nothing. So now I'm looking forward to so many fun things. The Greek festival! Rock n Roll Craft Show! Horseradish Festival, especially since her dinner on Friday consisted of half a cup of spicy cocktail sauce! 8th Annual World's Largest Catsup Bottle Summerfest! How can we even think about staying home in air-conditioned comfort when such fun abounds?

Not exactly art show-quality photos, but there are a few shots of my cute kid.

Monday, Sally made me scream in the middle of the produce aisle. When my cell phone rang while I was tossing a bag of shredded carrots into my cart, I didn't expect to see an international calling code on the caller id. So, to the people of my neighborhood Schnucks, I apologize for my outburst. Trust me, it was necessary.

We went to the library yesterday, which we do at least once a week. We rarely go to the branch closest to our house, though. Their storytime coincides with Clara Jane's daycare time. B. takes her there in the evenings fairly often, but we usually get our library on during storytime at other nearby branches. Yesterday, though, I had a book on hold at the neighborhood branch. And since no one had storytime scheduled, we went there to hang out.
I haven't been in that branch with her since last March. In fact, I've avoided going to the library with her except for storytime, because for awhile, taking her to the library wasn't a fun experience for either of us. It was an experience that involved a lot of running, chasing and prolific use of the word "no" by both involved parites.

How things have changed. My child? She owns our neighborhood branch of the library. She went straight to the childrens department, instructed me to sit on the couch, and went in search of a book. She returned with an appropriate text, climbed onto the couch, and instructed me to read, which I did. When we were finished, she returned the book to the cart of items to be shelved, returned with another book, and we repeated the process.

When it was time to leave, every librarian in the joint was gathered at the circulation desk to greet her. We're talking a posse of five librarians, neglecting their duties and waving at Clara Jane like she's the reincarnation of Jane Austin. Of course, the kid played it up, lingering behind the rat maze, rubbing her eyes and loudly announcing, "I'm sooooooooooooooooooo sad!" To which they all leapt over the counter, tripping over their i.d. lanyards, to console her while she slyly grinned over their shoulders. "Suckers! First you give me books for free, and now you're breaking your necks to make sure I'm not sad. Bwahahaha ... Soon, you will do all of my bidding. All of it!"

I know at least four library professionals who read this blog. I would advise all of you to avoid eye contact with Clara Jane, lest you, too, fall under her spell. No good can come of it, I promise. You don't want to be a part of Clara Jane's Library Mininon Posse.

Really. I don't know what her deal is with librarians. Like her obsession with Jess when they met last fall. We still don't dare utter the word "Jess" in this house because if we do, we're pretty sure Clara Jane will be on the phone summoning a cab to drive her to Oregon, pronto.

Coming up in the very near future: a trip to the lavender farm, the Greek festival, the trip to Detroit with a side trip to Frankenmuth - just look at the size of those beer mugs!, the Rock n Roll Craft Show, and a probably MLIS hostage situation.

Here's some video. It's Clara Jane, listening to Wilco's "Candyfloss" and eating a vanana frozen yogurt pop. With bedhead!

Posted by Robin at 02:26 PM | Comments (22)

May 19, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Content for Once in My Life Edition

Ever have one of those days, when, after months of malaise, melancholy and upheaval, you wake up and suddenly, everything's right?

Yeah, me too.

I don't know what's up. Maybe it's a shift in the planets. Maybe it was the three-day baby break I had earlier this week. Maybe I'm finally adjusted to the changes I've made in my life over the past few months. Whatever it is, I like it.

My pal Zoe tagged me for a meme yesterday. Do you read Zoe? You should. She doesn't post often, but it's always interesting when she does. She's from Manchester. That's in England. Well, there's also one in New Hampshire, and one down the road from me in the western St. Louis 'burbs. But Zoe's from the one in England. Because she's from Manchester, I always imagine that she sounds like Daphne from "Fraiser". It's either that or Morrissey, and I know there's no way Zoe's that whiny.

So, a meme with a shuffle at the end.

I AM: so content right now. Like I said, everything seems to be right in my universe today. It all started yesterday when Clara Jane, who's far too busy to snuggle, curled up on my chest and took a nap. Everything in my universe got knocked right with that little snooze.

I WANT: to remain this mellow and content for as long as possible.

I WISH: I had my book proposal finished. I'm ready to get my life as a published author on the road.

I HATE: nothing. It takes too much energy.

I MISS: Big Daddy B. I blame last night's "Will and Grace" finale.

I FEAR: snakes. Keep that in mind for a story I'm going to tell in a minute.

I HEAR: a rerun of "Gilmore Girls".

I WONDER: if I'll sell my book.

I REGRET: absolutely nothing.

I AM NOT: crazy about rust like I was when I was little. It's true. I loved anything rusted-out, especially Wendy's dad's truck. I thought it was beautiful. While I no longer have my rust affinity, it seems I've passed it along to my child. During her recent stay in my hometown, Clara Jane fell head over heels for this:


It's a big rusty cactus located in front of a Mexican restaurant. She first spotted it during dinner on Sunday. Monday, she woke up sobbing from her nap and the only thing that brought it under control? The promise of visiting the cactus. My parents drove this child across town just so she could fondle her old rusty cactus. These are the same people who used to make me walk or ride my bike the mile to the library once I hit the ripe old age of 11.

Since she's returned home, I've been repeatedly told, "I had fun at the cactus. Mimi and Grandpa took me to the cactus. The cactus is beautiful. I like the cactus." I'm trying to not think that this cactus obsession is an indication that her teenage rebellion might involve roaming the desert southwest in a peyote-fueled daze. Don't drink the cactus water, Clara Jane!

I DANCE: with Clara Jane when her cactus isn't available.

I SING: a lot, and badly. Today it was repeated renditions of Bruce Springsteen's version of "Johny Henry". Polly drove that steel like a man, Lawd, Lawd.

I CRY: all the time. I'm a big baby. This week I cried:

I AM NOT ALWAYS: as anti-capitalist as I wish I could be. I do pretty well. I don't buy crap I don't need, and I never, ever feel like a product is going to make my life better. But I just can't shake my Target addiction. Case in point: remember a few minutes ago when I mentioned my issues with snakes? Well, here's how strong the lure of the red bullseye is. While walking across the parking lot at Target today I spotted a van that had to be something from a Simpsons episodes. No way did I really see this. A white van advertising a business called - I'm not making this up - "Snakes Alive!". Apparently they do snake-related educational programs. Their logo? "Have snakes, will travel!" And I'm thinking, "In order to get into Target, I have to walk past what could very well be a large delivery van full of snakes, which is worse than the worst snake-related nightmare I've ever had. How badly do I want to go to Target?"

Pretty badly, it turns out.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: boobies. Lots and lots of knitted boobies. I also make food, hopping bunnies, obscene gestures and Play-Doh sculptures.

I WRITE: much and well.

I CONFUSE: left and right, just like Zoe.

I NEED: nada. I'm good right now. But if someone offered to bring me a glass of sweet tea, I wouldn't send them away.

I SHOULD: do some cleaning. My desk is trashed.

I START: trouble.

I FINISH: what I started, mostly.

I TAG: no one, but you're all welcome to steal.

I shuffle: weekly...

1. Skyway - The Replacements
2. Smells Like Teen Spirit - Tori Amos
3. Pretty Good Looking for a Girl - White Stripes
4. Factory - The Vines
5. Stratford-on-Guy - Liz Phair
6. Jesus, Etc. - Wilco
7. Straight, No Chaser - Thelonious Monk
8. Skin - Madonna
9. 72 (This Highway's Mean) - Drive-By Truckers
10. I Can't Wait - White Stripes

You know what? Swap the Madonna song for something by U2, and this would be, without question, the most perfect-for-me shuffle in the history of shuffles. Did I mention that my life is charmed today? Because it is.

Posted by Robin at 03:46 PM | Comments (5)

May 17, 2006

Dial-a-Cranky

Ever have one of those weeks where little things keep going wrong, and even though you know that you're one of the luckiest girls alive and you should be thankful that your problems are so small, you can't help but bitch and moan a bunch?

Yeah, me too.

In an attempt to rid myself of the mid-week malaise, let's examine the petty bullshit that's chapping my hide and come up with happy, perky flipside crap. Yo yo you, it's an attitude of gratitude, Bitch!

What's pissing me off? My nose hurts. Fucking sinuses.

But the good news? At least I have a nose, which I have yet to cut off despite my face.

Who's irritating me today? My spouse, who called to chit-chat today at a moment when he should have known I would be slap-dang swamp-ass busy.

But there is redemption! One of the things that had me swamped when the phone rang? Oh, I was signing the little UPS clipboard for a big-ass box from Lush. Happy belated Mother's Day to me!

What am I sick to death of? Going through crap. In preparation for the annual rummage sale, I'm in clean-and-price mode, which is one of my least favorite modes to be in.

But you know what's cool? I don't live in a cluttered filthy nightmare! And I'm so looking forward to the handful of cash the sale will bring to finance my trip to Detroit Rock City to see Sal and her sis Kirsti in *gasp* less than two weeks! Oh, the sheer joy of that fact will keep me pricing through the night.

I get so sick of this kind of crap: One of my neighbors gave birth to a little girl about a month ago. She also has an 18-month-old and two school-age sons. A few days ago, B., Clara Jane and I were outside when Boy stopped by to chat. Ever the neighborhood gossip, he told us that he heard the new mom yelling and screaming. He and B. stood in our driveway and tsk-tsked about how bad it is to be so angry and upset with babies in the house. Dudes! Do you think she's doing that because it's fun? How about shutting the fuck up and offering her some damn help? After the post-partum hell that occured under this roof, I was aghast that B. could stand there, passing judgement, and teaching a 10-year-old to do the same.

However, have I offered her any help? No. I barely know her and I have no idea how to approach the situation without making her feel worse because I'm pretty sure she's feeling like absolute utter shit. Having been in the same shit-filled capsizing boat, I know that if a neighbor I barely knew stopped by and said, "Hey. I heard you screaming and throwing wooden blocks at your windows. You're having a hard time. Let me help," my fucked-up mind would have heard, "Yep, the whole neighborhood knows what a shitty mother you are. Here. Lemme rub it in a bit."

But this makes it a little better: I'm reading Inconsolable by Marrit Ingman, and you should, too. Especially if you've ever had a baby, are thinking about having a baby, or love someone who's had a baby. Seriously. Read this book. Now. Even if you have to do like I did and go through the interlibrary loan process. I'm thinking I should anonymously send a copy of it to my neighbor.

Since I recently joined the St. Louis Knits webring, I guess I'll bitch about something knitting-related:

What's pissing me off: I've added yet a third locally-owned yarn shop to my shit list. I went to this particular shop, where I've purchased a small fortune in knitting supplies over the past two years. The owner gladly took my name and number to call me when Big Girl Knits finally arrives so I can finally buy my copy. I drive past big bookstores nearly daily, but I opted to go out of my way to buy the book from a small, local yarn shop.

I then proceeded to pick out yarn for Boobie Scarf #5. My total came to $15 and ... here's where I get angry ... and the owner of the store refused to punch my customer loyalty card because the purchase wasn't close enough to $20. Now, I'm thinking about all the times I spent $30 in her store and got one punch. I thought about how I inconvenienced myself to give her my business, and how many times I've inconvenienced myself to give her my business, and frankly, I got pissed. So much so that I almost returned the yarn to the store.

Instead, I kept the yarn, mainly because I didn't want to inconvenience myself again. But it's the last yarn I'll be buying there. And she can keep her damn book, too. I'll get it elsewhere.

I was bitching to B. about this, and he made an astute observation. There are now three local yarn shops where I refuse to spend my money. The first one I won't frequent because, when I was there with an armload of yarn and 16 pounds of infant strapped to my chest, the owner opted to continue chit-chatting with a friend instead of ringing up my order, despite acknowledging my presence. The second, the owner ragged on me for being fat, and then referred to my kid, who I held the entire time I was shopping, as a "holy terror". Now, may refer to her as Devil Baby, but I earned that right when I labored her for 32 hours. What do these three yarn shops have in common? They've been around for a long time and are run by older women. There's a level of rudeness at all three that I've never seen at the newer shops. B. commented that it seems these old-skool knitters might resent us young knitting pups. I don't know. All I know is where I'll be shopping, and where I won't.

On the plus side: Boobie Scarf #4 is almost finished and should be ready to auction next week! Those of you who clamoured for orange, start counting your pennies. Also, I have fully-functioning hands that are capable of knitting. I could have lost my hands in a tragic wringer-washer accident, and then what would I do while I watch TV? Hmm? I wouldn't be able to knit, or change the channel. Rude knitting shops be damned! Me and my hands will carry on quite well without you.

Let's top this off with some 100% good stuff:

It's all good. Really.

Posted by Robin at 07:22 PM | Comments (12)

May 15, 2006

A Meaty, Meaty Mother's Day

Vegetarians, avert your eyes. I promise you, I ate about 20 cucumbers this weekend in addition to what I'm about to admit.

First off, horse news. Remember Henry, the Impulse Buy Horse? He was so wild that it took a few days for my dad to even touch him. Seems Henry was probably mistreated pretty badly at some point and is afraid of people. But not me! No, Henry loves me. I approached him while he was tied up, talking sweetly to him, and he quickly let me pet him. My dad told me to untie him and lead him around the yard, which Henry did without problem. As we walked past the horrifying tractor, he stopped, stuck his nose in the crook of my neck, and built up his courage by giving me a nuzzle. That's it! I am The Horse Whisperer!

Next, I took my skills to the problem child that is Cash. You know, sweet, sleepy baby Cash:



...who promptly wrapped his mouth around my right elbow and chomped with all his sweet little baby horsie might.

I wonder how often the real Horse Whisperer yells, "You goddamn little shit! You're not a horse! You're a cross between a llama and a fucking jackass,"? Often, I'm assuming.

To avenge the flesh of my arm, which is currently morphing from blue-black to yellow-green, we left Clara Jane with my parents and headed to Gauchos in Columbia, where B. and I were to partake in many cooked animals. This was our first foray into Brazillian cuisine, and I'll spare you every bad joke that amounts to getting a Brazilian for Mother's Day.

Now, there are two Brazilian restaurants in St. Louis, Yemanja Brazil and Cafe Brasil. We've talked for years - as in, since before I moved to St. Louis seven years ago - about checking them out, but never have. When deciding on where to go for Mother's Day dinner, I opted for Gauchos in Columbia because, "We can't get Brazilian food in St. Louis!" To which B. just gave me a withering look that worldless said, "There are two Brazilian restaurants in St. Louis, one that's been there longer than you, and a second that you drive past regularly, you dumb, dumb lady." No matter. The menu on the Gauchos website was intriguing.

We arrived for our reservation and were seated at a table overlooking a little lake. On Mother's Day! Best seat in the house! I must be The Toddler Whisperer, too! First up, caipirinha, the national cocktail of Brazil. It's a delish concoction of sugar, limes, and cachaça, which is Portugese for "diesel fuel". What's Mama getting for Mother's Day? Mama's getting drunk, that's what she's getting.

There was an episode of "The Simpsons" about a decade ago, when watching "The Simpsons" was still an enjoyable activity, where the family was at a Renaissance Fair. At one point in the episode, Homer bragged about having eaten six kinds of meat in one day. Since then, that has been B.'s goal - to eat as many forms of meat, preferrably on sticks, in one day as he can without his every major artery blowing out like a bald tire on the interstate. While yesterday was Mother's Day, it was B.'s dreams that came true, for he was able to consume four - four - forms of meat in one meal! He wanted to count the black beans as meat to bring his total to five, but I wouldn't have it.

The main section of the menu consisted of metal skewers of flame-grilled meats. B. ordered the pork loin. I got a combo of chicken and beef filet, both wrapped in bacon. We intended to share our skewers so we could get all the meaty variety our struggling, straining hearts desired.

I had noticed that each table had a big stone block with holes drilled into it. It reminded me of this candleholder I have - it's stone with slots for nine tea lights. These stones didn't have candles, and I thought it might have been just an oversight

This was no oversight, for the stone? They do not hold candles. Oh no. The stones? They hold swords. Big, four-foot-long two-sided swords! That are filled with our meat!

Our server, a tiny little blonde college girl who might tip the scales at a whopping 115 pounds on a bad day, arrived at our table with two large plates and our meat daggers. She plunged the swords into the stone, whipped out a knife as big as my arm, looked at me and said, "How much meat shall I cut off the sword for you?"

Why, a whole cow's worth, thank you!

She placed the end of the sword on my plate with the handle towering over her head. On tip-toe, she held the handle in one hand while cutting the carnage onto my plate, then repeated the process with B. Once our meat had been properly de-sworded, she placed the swords back in the stone and left us to eat. Or swordfight.

At this point I looked behind me. Since I was facing the lake, I hadn't noticed the other tables in the restaurant, all of which had towering sword bouquet centerpieces.

The food? Incredible. Every aspect of the meal - the meat, the black beans and rice, the fried polenta and plantains, the lentil salad, the potato-tuna salad - all of it, was culinary perfection. And yet, B. and I couldn't get past one factor: how wise is it to serve what might be the most potent cocktail in the world, and then give the people drinking it large swords? Especially at a bar and grill in a college town. How many Friday night frat boy swordfights do they have to bust up?

And what time do they happen? Because I'd really like to see that.

Posted by Robin at 10:03 AM | Comments (6)

May 13, 2006

The Damn-Near Sunday Shuffle: The Small-Town Apocolypse Edition

Lemme tell ya, my hometown is just completely ate up with that small-town spirit. It's almost enough to make the baby John Cougar Mellencamp cry.

We're in my hometown for the Mother's Day holiday and because I'm apparently not very bright, I ventured to the local Wal-Mart Supercenter this morning. Why Wal-Mart? Because as best as I can tell, it's the only business left in town. You would think, since I always - always start my period during these hometown visits that I would remember to pack provisions, which brings us back to that bit about me not being very bright.

Going to Wal-Mart in a town where Wal-Mart is the center of the universe? Sucks. Going there on a Saturday? Really sucks. Going there on the Saturday prior to Mother's Day? Oh, can you hear the sucking black hole that's about to devour us all?

I never actually made it into Wal-Mart. That's right - this city girl was done in by the parking lot antics. Here are just a few of the factors that led to me saying, "Screw it. I'm going to ship myself to the woods and freely bleed in solitary peace.":

But that's not the really upsetting hometown news. Today, my heart was broken when I learned that Wheel Inn is going to be done in by a highway expansion. Sweet Jesus, that can't be right. There is no order in the universe if Wheel Inn doesn't exist. Granted, I haven't eaten there in years, but it's not like they're hurting for customers. This is all in the name of "progress". Frankly, doing away with the one spot in the world where a person can order a a hamburger slathered in peanut butter without being accused of mental incompentance ... well, that ain't progress. At least, it's not progress in a world I wish to live in.

Getting rid of Wheel-Inn and Guberburgers? Shit. Next thing you know, Wally won't be cutting hair, kids won't be cruising the Strip on Friday nights, and someone will pass a law making child labor illegal at the Missouri State Fair. My hometown is changing, and I can't say I'm too happy. Not that the mayor is taking my calls on any of this, since I moved away a few months after I reached legal voting age.

So another foodie/archetectual/Americana icon bites the dust. What next? Who's manning the grills at the places that will be tomorrow's icons? Anyone? Or are we looking at a future with wide, wide highway lanes and an Applebee's every 3/4 of a mile on every major road?

The Guberburger is dead. Long live the Guberburger.

But the shuffle lives...

1. Disco Blackout - Controller Controller
2. Thank You - Tori Amos
3. Changes - David Bowie
4. You're Something Else - Jimmy Reed
5. Half as Much - Hank Williams
6. Fast Cars - U2
7. Buffalo Soldier - Bob Marley
8. Can't Hardly Wait - The Replacements
9. Love & Affection - Bob Marley
10. Jonas & Ezekial - Indigo Girls

I'm pretty sure Bob Marley's here twice because I spent the evening with my cousin, a white Rastafarian (or maybe he just likes weed) who has Marley's image covering his back in tattoo form. When his mother first saw it, after she recovered from her coronary, she asked, "Why in the hell do you have Jerry Garcia on your back?"

Maybe Bob just wants a Guberburger. Jerry probably does too, for that matter.


Posted by Robin at 11:14 PM | Comments (7)

May 08, 2006

Porch Theft

I found myself agast at reading this news story regarding some Dutch thieves making off with a sun porch.

I've been a victim of porch theft. It's no laughing matter, my friends.

The year was 1992. I was a young innocent, just entering my 20s, and living in Columbia, Missouri with my three best friends - S, H, and A. We rented a charming little bungalow on a quiet street ... no, that's not right. We lived in a falling-down shithole on Circus Avenue, a one-block freak show complete with a crack house and an illegal gambling den. But the house was a bungalow. It was no place for a houseful of young innocents like us. Luckily, in the falling-down shithole bungalow next door lived four strapping young men who were also students. Surely they would be our protectors.

No, not hardly. Oh, you may think it's the card sharks and crack whores who are dangerous, but you'd be mistaken, my friends. Sometimes, it's the young suburban men working on degrees in business administration who are the real menace.

It all started about a month after Halloween. I was pulling out of our driveway when I noticed something amiss. The devil Halloween decoration that hung from our porch was gone! And hanging from the front porch of the neighbor-boys! The nerve!

It took about a month before we got inspired bored enough to enact our retaliation. It was the middle of finals week. S. and I were studying, and had hit the proverbial wall. Burned out and in need of shaking things up a bit, we stepped onto our front porch, looked towards the neighbor's house, and inspiration did its thing.

In a mere ten minutes, my roomies and I cleared every liftable object that our neighbor-boys had so carelessly left unattended in our bad, bad neighborhood. Our haul included but wasn't limited to:


I'm pretty sure they knew we were the ones behind the theft because, while we were climbing on each other to unhook the swing from the porch's ceiling, one of the neighbors looked out the window at us. But just to be sure they knew it was us, we left a calling card. In the corner of our front yard nearest their house, we made a festive little arrangement with the hiking-boot-wearing scarecrow sitting on the swing beside Satan himself, his boots on the rug and his bike nearby in case he needed to quickly leave for some emergency evil-doing. We didn't really know how to work the cat dish into our design, and we were worried their kitty, Elizabeth Bishop, might get hungry, so we returned it. We didn't have anything against the cat.

The next morning, I stepped out of the backdoor and walked across our little backporch. It was a simple porch, just a wooden pallett raised three feet off the ground to meet the edge of the back door with a few steps. Like I said, the house was a shithole. From my perch on the porch, I could see our handywork from the previous night. The neighbors' house was still in the chilly early morning. I stood there and contemplated how they would react when they awoke to the cold, cold realization that revenge was exacted and it was ours, baby. Ours. I stepped down the steps to my car. A German final awaited.

When I returned home two hours later, something was amiss. I sat in my car, looking at my shithole abode through sleepy, squinted eyes, wondering what was wrong. What had changed in my brief absence?

Hey. Didn't we, like, used to have a porch? Or something?

Not anymore. Our porch, along with our masterpiece of stolen goods, had vanished while I conjugated German verbs. I was pretty sure the crack whores didn't take it.

I climbed into my house to find A. and H., still into their pajamas. They paced the kitchen, hands on their hips, necks ajut like a couple of angry little bantams. Suddenly, I understood the terms "hen party" and, moreso, "mad as an old porchless hen". "Can you believe what those assholes did?" "They stole our porch!" "They stole our motherfucking porch!" "Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!"

As my roommates continued to pace, occasionally stopping to scratch the floor for tasty bugs, I looked out our kitchen window to saw four faces smashed against the kitchen window directly across from me. Laughing expectant faces, for they knew that someone had returned home and discovered their handywork.

"Those goddamn sons of bitches are looking over here! I'm going after them!" I reached into the fridge, grabbed the rotten head of iceberg lettuce from the crisper, and stormed towards the door. "Hey motherfuckers!" I yelled as I swung open the door with my left hand and wound up to throw the mushy lettuce with my right.

"Um, Robin?"

I had just enough time to glance over my shoulder and say, "Yeah, I know. I'm gonna fall," as gravity did its thing. I plunged forward, landing on my hands and knees on the gravel four feet below, the fabric of my jeans ripping, the lettuce smooshed, all while the neighbors laughed. Oh, they laughed and laughed. You know they laughed. And I hope they enjoyed that good, hearty laugh at my bleeding expense, because it would be there last.

That night, they invited us over for drinks on their new porch. And by "drinks" I mean grape Kool-Aid mixed with Gilby's vodka, which we brought from home. I may be stupid enough to fall out of my own house, but I'm not stupid enough to drink anything concocted by the enemy. The night ended with H. and me smuggling their cordless phone - their only phone - reciever out of the house and tossing it into our mailbox. We kept it for a week, making daily calls (with our phone, as their phone's battery died quickly) to hear their new answering machine message: "Sorry we can't answer the phone, but we can't find it. We think the neighbors might have taken it."

In the months that followed, it was a never-ending guerrilla warfare. They stole our storm windows. We drew large phallic images in red lipstick on their windows. They put obscene bumper stickers on our cars. We locked one of them in our attic loft for an indetermanite amount of time. They chained us out of our house. We feminized their names and made sure every sorority on campus and them on their rush lists. Then we ensured that every "call now for a free video" infomercial video arrived at their house. Garden Weasel, Ronco Food Dehydrator, Hair Club for Men, etc etc etc, all ordered in quadruple, one for each of them.

See, this is why it's bad to steal porches, even in jest. It's also why my daughter will spend her entire college career in a porchless, womens-only dormitory, preferrably with a house mother who believes in corporal punishment.

Posted by Robin at 10:14 PM | Comments (7)

May 07, 2006

Chew On This

Clara Jane was born the day after Valentine's Day. You know, International Clearanced Candy Sale Day. That day, my granny purchased a Valentine's Day Double Bubble plastic bubblegum machine, shaped like a phone, and filled with pink, red and white gumballs. Now, usually Granny's pretty sharp, so I still don't understand why she was compelled to buy 50% off gumballs for a newborn. But she did, and since then, the gumball machine has sat on the changing table, still wrapped in its original cellophane.

I'm usually not overly sentimental about gifts. I try to always be gracious when someone gives something to me, but if it's not something that I need or like, into the rummage sale pile it goes. For some reason, I haven't been able to do that to the gumballs, up until recently. I've been doing my spring cleaning, and I've intended to stick a 10-cent pricetag on the gum and be done with it. I mean, it's not like it's the only gift Granny's ever given Clara Jane. There are the beautiful baby quilts she made from blocks my mom embroidered when she was young, the doll quilt, the fuzzy Snoopy blanket and pillow, and the hand-made tutu that she made from pink tulle left over from my parents' 1971 nuptuals. We're not going to miss this cheap plastic tub o' gum.

Problem is, Clara Jane recently fixated on this gadget. Friday morning, while I was talking on the non-gumball-dispensing phone to my mom, Clara Jane had every fiber of her being focused on removing the cellophane from the gumball phone. "I really should take that away from her," I told my mom, not moving from my chair. If I took away everything from Clara Jane that I should take away, I would spend my life doing nothing but taking things away from Clara Jane. "Oh, look. She pulled the cellophane off. Guess I'll have to price it at a nickel now."

In a grand moment of "Hey, Lazyass, you had that coming!", ten minutes later Clara Jane dropped the machine, its plastic top shattering into three jagged pieces, gumballs clank-clank-clanking against the hardwood living room floor. I swooped in, grabbing shards of plastic while using my house's sloping trajectory in my favor, kicking the gumballs so that they rolled under the couch. I made a mental note to pull the couch out during her naptime so that I could encourage the gumballs to keep on rollin' down the hill, through the dining room and, with any luck, straight out the back door.

Which means that, around 10:30 last night, B. pulled out the couch to sweep up the gumballs, along with enough animal fur to build a new cat, fused together with ABC gum.

My plan partially worked. Sort of. The gumballs did roll around our slanty, slopey house. Unfortunately, they didnt' roll out the door. Instead, they rolled directly into the gaping maws of my gum-starved idiot dogs.

Apparently, those years of licking their own asses have left my hounds feeling less-than-fresh, because let me tell you, they chewed that gum as if their lives depended on it.

*smack smack smack*

Dogs. Chewing gum.

*smack smack smack*

All the live-long night.

*smack smack smack*

Someone really should teach them to chew with their mouths closed.

B. and I would wrestle the slobbery chunks of chewed gum from their mouths, and they'd take off, in search of more! More gum!

I think Murphy might have blown a bubble.

They quickly learned to be covert about their gum-chewing. They'd hang their heads low, ears shielding their chewing jaws, but their chomping always gave them away.

*smack smack smack*

Thing is, they didn't seem to particularly enjoy the gum. From the looks on their faces, the gum confused and worried them. But they just couldn't stop with the smack-smack-smacking, their compulsion so strong, their breath so fresh!

God help us if they ever start smoking, because they will never, ever be able to quit and frankly, I'm not putting Nicoderm patches on my damn dogs.

Posted by Robin at 05:09 PM | Comments (4)

May 05, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Cinco de Disease Edition

As I mentioned on St. Pat's, I'm not a big fan of celebrating holidays that belong to specific ethnic or religious groups, because in many of these cases, "celebrating" means "flimsy excuse to get drunk". I don't need an excuse. It also means "flimsy excuse for corporate America to profit on days both politically important and/or sacred". Honestly, how many of us were aware of Cinco de Mayo (translation: the fifth day of May), say, 10 years ago? When did Corona and Taco Bell (Official Food to be Vomitted in a Parking Lot After Flimsily-Excused Drunk) start advertising Cinco de Mayo tie-ins?

If you, deep in your heart, feel the need to commemorate the 144th anniversary of 4000 Mexican soldiers defeating French and Mexican traitor armies in Puebla after 11 years of fighting, go for it. If you want to celebrate the existance of Corona and tequila, why not call it what it really is: Cinco de Cuervo (translation: five shots of tequila in an hour). Or, if you're a poor college student, Cinco de Guero (translation: boy, you're gonna puke your guts out for the next five days if you drink that shit.).

That said, Clara Jane and I had plans of enjoying a burrito and chicken taco for lunch with our pal Mary today, but it wasn't meant to be, as we are rocking Cinco de Enfermedad (translation: fifth disease). It has turned Clara Jane into el cubo del mocho con manchas rojas de cara (translation: snot bucket with red face splotches). I, too, have fallen victim to the snot and red face splotches, which make me want exfoliate with la lijadora del cinturón con el número cinco papel de lija (translation: belt sander with number five sandpaper). This shit itches profusely (Translation: I can't say it itches like a motherfucker anymore because Clara Jane repeats it.).

Luckily, Beatrice the iPod's immune:

1. It's a Free World Baby - REM
2. Mansion on the Hill - Bruce Springsteen
3. Buffalo Soldier - Bob Marley
4. Seven Nation Army - White Stripes
5. (Still) Terminally Ambivilant Over You - The Real Tuesday Weld
6. 9 to Cinco - Dolly Parton
7. Pompeii - Sleater-Kinney
8. Hotel - Tori Amos
9. Ways to be Wicked - Lone Justice
10. Get Free - The Vines

Posted by Robin at 12:43 PM | Comments (5)

May 03, 2006

Fighting Crime, One Dot at a Time

I love it when I don't have anything to blog about, because it means life's relatively even-killed. No big lows, no big highs. Bad for readers, good for me. Since I have nothing that merits deep explaination, here's some dots for you.

Posted by Robin at 05:52 PM | Comments (4)

May 01, 2006

A Day Without Really Good Tacos

That title sounds crass,doesn't it? I should probably change it, because I don't mean for it to be crass.

Even though I complain about living in the Redneck Jungle, there's actually a great deal of diversity in my neighborhood. I don't talk about that because, well, the diversity is never the source of anything blogworthy. My Mexican neighbors aren't the ones who run dune buggies up and down the street, drunkeningly stand in the street and yell at dogs, or run illegal tattoo studios in their basements (that I know of). Nope, the worst stuff that happens in my neighborhood is generally perpetrated 100% by white folk like myself. The only complaint I can make regards the house catty-corner from us where several young Mexican men live. Sometimes, they can be a little loud when they work on their cars, a trait I chalk up entirely to their age and not their ethnicity.

My neighborhood is loaded with immigrant-owned businesses. A few years ago the city of St. Louis proper did something tax-related that I don't completely understand, but it led to a large portion of city-dwelling Hispanic population moving to my neck of the woods. As I took Clara Jane to daycare this morning, I paid close attention to the many Hispanic businesses - a video store, a women's boutique, a salon, a shop that specializes in soccer gear, the western clothing and boot store my dad wants to visit, and of course tons of great restaurants and grocery stores - and sure enough, every single one of them was closed, large hand-lettered signs on the door explaining why. Even though I don't know Spanish, I understood what those signs said. Good for them, I say.

But then I got to thinking. As we were getting into the car, I saw one of the residents of the houseful of young Latinos being dropped off by a construction company truck. I looked at the house, and it looks like it does every morning; most of the cars were gone. And it occured to me: while this Day Without Immigrants idea is a great one that stands to make a huge impact, I wonder if people might be shooting themselves in the foot. I think about the huge population of migrant workers in my hometown, and I wonder how many of them can afford to miss a day of work, or run the risk of losing their jobs by skipping today. I know we've got to see the greater good, and I disapprove of much of the proposed immigrant reform. But at the same time ... sometimes it's hard to focus on the big picture when so many people are just trying to get through day to day.

I think about the guys across the street, who I've never talked to in the two years we've been neighbors. There's maybe three or four of them living in a small, well-kept little house. One of them works in construction, which I know because of the truck that takes him to and from work. Another does restaurant work, which I know only because I've often seen him in his chef whites. They don't have much; they work, and they funnel a bit of money into recreational automotive stuff. Missing a day of pay would probably cause them some real hardship.

I also think about the closed stores lining the main street of my neighborhood, and I find myself with the overwhelming craving for tacos. Not just any tacos, either. There are several shops in my neighborhood that sell the real deal. Pork or beef, slow-cooked until it hangs in tender shreds infused with juice and spices, wrapped in a hand-made corn tortilla that's fried when you place the order, and dressed with nothing but small diced white onions and pungent chopped cilantro. On the side, two little cups of thin sauce, fiery red and bitter-hot green to be drizzled over the tacos, followed by a squeeze of fresh lime to balance the heat. They are nothing short of divine. Five bucks will get you a bagful of them; they're cheaper than Taco Bell. And Taco Bell doesn't give you the option of a bag of hot, just-fried pork rinds on the side and perfectly-ripe avocados for fifty cents apiece. Shame.

Procuring the tacos requires overcoming the language barrier and a little bit of intimidation. If you've always been in the majority, you should put yourself in the minority ever so often to see how hard it is. It was about four years ago when I got the nerve to venture into the most-ballyhooed of the taco joins in my neighborhood. I was the palest person in the place, and I didn't hear a word of English while I was there. I went to the counter, looked at a menu full of unfamiliar words and meekly uttered, "Dos tacos, por favor?" Meekly. Me. I've never done anything meekly, but that first trip was a humbling experience, one that most immigrants deal with every single day when they're new to this country. For me, it was a moment of being uncomfortable that was rewarded with what has become one of my favorite foods. For them, it's a way of life, only they're not always greeted with the patience and understanding that I was.

So today, with the a big portion of my neighborhood closed for business, I'm thinking about tacos, craving tacos, and feeling bad that I don't get them very often because it's a smidge bit uncomfortable. I'm thinking about what would be lacking in my life without the tacos and more importantly, the people making and selling them. Sure, you don't miss something you don't know. But that's the thing - if more people got to know the people who are walking out today, maybe these reform issues wouldn't be so huge. There would be a face, a name, evidence of work and pride put to these ideas that are vagueries to many of us.

I'm going to issue a challenge in light of today's walk-out and Cinco de Mayo later this week. Sometime this week, go into your local Hispanic grocery store. Explore the shelves. Buy some avocados, cilantro and fresh tortillas so you can make some guacamole. If you're lucky and the store has a lunch counter, tip-toe along the language barrier and get a bag of tacos, and know why a country without immigrants would be a sad, sorry place to live.

Posted by Robin at 09:50 AM | Comments (9)