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June 30, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Independence From Parenthood Edition

Life with Clara Jane has been good of late. She's been in good spirits and decent behavior all week. Aside from having to be removed, baby tantrum-style from the library on Tuesday, things are good. And, dare I say, I think she learned from that experience. Since then, every time the word "library" is mentioned, she informs me, "You don't run around in the library!" Darn tootin', Toots. Remember that. We've got enough library professionals in our circle of friends that we could both get lynched if you use the library as your personal jungle gym.

The best part about carrying her, baby tantrum-style, out of the library? The dirty looks I got from every single borderline hoodlum kid who was there. Hey kids! Maybe if your mamas had carried you out of the library, baby tantrum-style, a few times, you wouldn't be 15 years old, sitting at the library, plotting your next round of crimes and misdemeanors!

Okay, that was mean.

She's headed to my hometown later today, coming home sometime next Wednesday. As is often the case when she goes on these visits to Mimi and Grandpa's, she's been so fabulous and delightful all week that I've dreaded handing her over, even though I'm so looking forward to a little parenting break. And in true form, Clara Jane has spent this morning helping me eradicate those feelings. She knows just when to pull out Devil Baby and make the hand-off easier.

As much as we miss her when she's gone, B. and I act somewhat like borderline hoodlum kids when Clara Jane leaves town. We have enough non-child-friendly activities planned to get us through a full month. There will be a grown-up dinner in a restaurant that doesn't stock booster seats! And wings and trivia! No beer, though, damn brain pills. And movies! Maybe even a movie at the drive-in! And sleeping! Past 8 A.M.!

We are so hardcore. Here's hoping for some Pantera on the shuffle to celebrate our kid-free hardcore weekend.

1. Since I Lost My Baby - The Temptations

Yeah, that's exactly the song I want to hear right now. This is how iPods get flung across the room in disgust.

2. Polly - Nirvana
3. 1.36 - Coldplay

I'd like it noted that the only reason I have Coldplay on my iPod is because Kristina insists on putting them on her mix CDs. That's the only reason why I have The Smiths and MO on my iPod, too.

4. Please Go Home - Rolling Stones
5. Miracle Drug - U2

Freedom has a scent/Like the top of a newborn baby's head Stop it, Bono. Just ... fucking stop it. Not today.

6. Oh, Lonesome Me - Neil Young, who is cordially invited to go fuck off with Bono today.

7. Running to Stand Still - U2

Could be worse. Could be "Mothers of the Disappeared". Still, Bono? Go away if you're gonna act like this.

8. Gravity Fails - Bottle Rockets
9.Why Can't I Fall in Love - Ivan Neville
10. My Favorite Memory - Merle Haggard

Could be worse. Could be "Mama Tried".

Posted by Robin at 09:49 AM | Comments (6)

June 28, 2006

Boobies at Sunset

Oh, I've been dragging my feet on this. Do you know how long boobie scarf #4 has been mostly-finished? A month. For a month it's been sitting in my knitting bag, in need of blocking.

Now, it's not like blocking is hard. And it's not like I haven't blocked three of these scarves already. It just felt like more than I could handle in my current state. To prove how difficult blocking is, I timed myself while I did it today.

40 minutes. A whole 40 minutes, 25 of which was spent in search of my straight pins. I spent another five eating a granola bar. It's hard work, I tell ya!

Obviously, we'd all better hope and pray that I never get a debilitating illness. I'm far too much of a weakling to handle it.

Speaking of which, here's the deal with the boobie scarves. My Vanilla Ice-listening cousin rocks the mic like a vandal and will be doing The Breast Cancer 3-Day in six short weeks. She'll be walking 60 miles in three days. In August! To raise money for the The Susan G. Komen Foundation. She's got a $2750.00 fundraising goal, and she's almost there!

Let's get her there really, really soon. Place a bid on this-here boobie scarf! It's hand-knitted by me from a pattern by Jill Moreno. As soon as I'm finished with my foray into tit-knitting, I'm plunging head-first into one of Jill's sweater projects from her book Big Girl Knits.

Here's how it works:

The auction begins immediately (11 PM central standard time on Wednesday, June 28th) and will end at 5 PM tomorrow, Thursday, June 29th. 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 (robindawn at gmail dot com) with a shipping address. Boobies will be on the way post-haste.

If you'd like to see how the previous auctions worked, you can check them out here, here and here.

Here's the goods on the scarf: it's 4 inches wide by 49 inches long, knit from Dive Teseo in color #28222. The yarn's 55% wool and 45% microfiber, which makes it so, so, so soft. As for the colors, well, they reminded me of sunset. Particularly, a late 1970s sunset, like the ones often seen on velour upholstery. I had Escape (The Pina Colada Song) going through my head the whole time I was working on it.

Now, watch as the boobies begin their ride off into the sunset...

Posted by Robin at 10:29 PM | Comments (17)

June 27, 2006

A Collection of Lists

Since I'm still in psyche drug limbo, stringing sentences together is hard. So, some lists, of things that I've noticed recently.

Missouri in the News
I don't know if other states are like this, but it seems like my homestate can go months without anything of interest occuring and then boom! We're in damn near every headline. This is one of those weeks.

1. An Elks Club collapsed not far from my hometown.

2. Ol' Sparky's getting to take a break.

3. Mmmmmmmm ... hybrid meat product!

Signs That Clara Jane Might Have an Unhealthy Fixation With Feet

1. She's demanding a new pedicure.

2. She'd demanding that I get a new pedicure. "Mama! You need more red toenails!" Yeah, well, if you're gonna polish them for me, more power to you, Kid.

3. She might possibly die from the cut on her toe, and takes every opportunity to tell people - me, her father, the neighbors, strangers at the store, the dogs - "I have a cut on my toe. It's terrrrrrrrrrible." Oh, just wait until the gangrene sets in!

Things That Make Me Feel Old - The Music Edition

1. When PKB and I hit the thrift stores a few weeks ago, I found the mother lode of decent CDs. Finding decent CDs at thrift stores just doesn't happen. But this, this was a treasure trove! Until I realized that all these "hip" and "cool" CDs were all released before 1995, probably donated by someone my age who has decided that Grant Lee Buffalo is taking up way too much real estate in his house.

2. Watching the reunited Dinosaur Jr. on The Henry Rollins Show recently. Now, I recall DJ frontman J Mascis as looking like this in the early '90s when I was originally listening to them:

Now he looks like this:


Feel the pain, indeed.

3. Speaking of Mr. Rollins, when, exactly did he start looking like my grandpa? The gray work slacks, the salt-and-pepper crew cut, the leathery face. Seriously. It looks like Grandpa Chuck got ripped, tattooed and pissed off.

Yeah, I know, I need more medication.

Posted by Robin at 07:55 PM | Comments (26)

June 25, 2006

Why My Family Can't Go Out in Public Anymore

As much as I love music, I've got an embarrassing problem with it. I'm a big ol' crybaby, and nothing makes me weepy faster than music.

I bawled while watching Bruce Springsteen & the Seeger Sessions Band performing Pay Me My Money Down on Conan. Jimmy Fallon on spoons, even!

This afternoon, I got teary-eyed while thumbing through Annie Leibovitz's American Music.

My crybaby tendancies regarding country music are well-documented.

But last night ... last night I reached a new low in the musical bawl bag. I am no longer fit to go out in public if there's even a slight chance music will be played. At least, not until the new brain drugs take effect, hopefully sparing me and everyone I encounter from the burbling spring of emotions that bursts forth from every orifice of my face whenever two notes are played.

The first full day of the new anti-crazy drugs went fairly well, but the antianxiety stuff wore off somewhere around dinnertime. I was a bit of a basket case and didn't want to stay home. Clara Jane had taken a late nap, so we decided it would be okay to delay bedtime and go out for a bit.

We went to a coffeehouse, the one I was visiting the other night when I encountered the makeshift memorial service. In the past I've seen signs at this coffeehouse advertising live music on Saturdays, but I didn't see any such signs the other night. Surprise surprise, we walked in to find a cute little floppy-haired guy playing guitar with a pal on the bongos.

I wasn't happy about this. Live music, especially in such close quarters, tends to really get my bawl baggishness kicked into overdrive. Throw on the lighter fluid that is my current emotional state, and there's gonna be a crying inferno, Folks. Coffee in hand, Clara Jane and I settled into a table far from the music while B. went back to the truck to fetch a forgotten sippy cup. I don't even know what song they were playing. It wasn't sad. It's music. That's all it takes. When B. returned, I had my glasses lying on the table, face buried in my hands, weeping into a brown paper napkin.

The duo played played another song I didn't recognize, and I was able to compose myself a bit. My face slowed its leakage. But then the singer decided to be a real asshole.

"Next we're going to do Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah'. If you know Jeff's version, please don't get your hopes up with mine."

Do I know Jeff's version? Oh hallelujah, yes, I know Jeff's version, along with Leonard's version, Rufus' version (my favorite), and John's version.

This song? It's the atom bomb of the Make Robin Sob Like Someone Just Died genre. This song has the power to send me into a fit that could lead to health-threatening levels of dehydration, so plentiful are the tears and the snot and, yes, even the drool. This song is emotional desiccant. Do not eat.

"Oh please God, no. Not this song. No no no. Anything but this song," I muttered to B., sinking down in my chair.

Before the singer had finished talking, I was plotting my escape. Never has the fight-or-flight instinct been so strong. The door was right there, not four steps away from me. Hell, this was an emergency situation. I had enough adrenaline in my system that I'm sure I could have stood up, sprung straight into the air, lept over the table and Clara Jane, and been out the door before he'd strummed the first chord.

But the "rational" part of my brain intervened. You know, the part with my shame center. Not that it usually works worth a shit, but last night, as I prepared to take flight, it said, "Now wait just a second here. Do you really want to be 'that fat girl who inexplicably cried into her caramel macchiato, then stormed off at the mere mention of that song'? No, you want to be able to show your face here. And you don't want to be responsible for crushing that poor guitar boy's ego. Just sit your crying ass back down, put the damn napkin over your face, and deal."

Instead of being "the fat girl who inexplicably cried into her caramel macchiato, then stormed off at the mere mention of that song", I opted to be "the crying fat girl with the napkin on her face who keeps crying and crying and Jesus Christ, what the hell's the deal with all the crying? Shouldn't she be in a hospital? She should really consider laying off the espresso."

The boy did quite well with the song. Well, the parts I could hear over my sobbing sounded good.

A sidenote: if I ever invite you to attend a concert with me, you might want to put a lot of thought into how much public embarrassment you're willing to tolerate before you accept.

I should mention that this wasn't paricularly sad weeping. It wasn't. The music weeping's never really rooted in sadness. It's just ... music weeping. I could probably get emotionally touched and weepy at a Gwar concert. So please, don't feel bad for me and my weeping. I'm fine. Really.

Through all my weeping, Clara Jane was busting a move, standing on her chair, cookie in her hand, shaking her groove thing, which really, ain't easy to do to "Hallelujah". By the time the singer started on his version of Coldplay's Yellow, she was out of her chair, arms in the air, swaying from side-to-side. All she needed was a lighter in her hand. She grabbed B.'s finger, insisting that he twirl her around and around and around until she'd just about unscrewed his finger.

When they started on "Folsom Prison Blues", Clara Jane completely lost her mind. She ran to the other end of the coffeehouse, B. hot on her trail, planting herself behind the duo where everyone could see her. She then proceeded to fling her arms in the air, dress raised, stomping and shrieking to the music. The drummer played to her, egging her on. The other patrons laughed, adding more fuel to Clara Jane's Disco Inferno.

I, of course, sat there and cried.

With 2/3 of my family having completely disrupted this poor guy's otherwise decent set, we shuffled out the door, me with my tear-streaked face, B. with his gnarled dancing finger, Clara Jane exhausted from her performance, our work there, complete

Posted by Robin at 07:49 PM | Comments (15)

June 23, 2006

Shit Mittens

Why yes, I am posting twice in one day!

Angie and her girls came to lunch today, which did much good to my battered, very sleepy soul. She tells it better than I can, so go read her account. There's pie, but don't expect me to share.

She was kind enough to omit one part of our afternoon. The girls were off in Clara Jane's room, stomping around in their rubber boots while Angie and I explored the world of pimped toddler rides. Just as we were gettiing to the good part, Clara Jane came in and said, "I need to wash my hands! Mama, I need to wash my hands!"

Oh no.

No.

She held her hands up while I frantically prayed, "Please let there be a plant in her room. Please let there be a plant, growing in a big pot of potting soil have magically appeared in her room. And please let that be said potting soil on my child's hands."

It wasn't.

Clara Jane was wearing what can only be described as a pair of shit mittens, obtained when she attempted to take care of her dirty diaper all by herself.

From now on, anytime I'm in need of an explative to describe something particularly horrid, I'll remember this moment and loudly, proudly exclaim, "Well, shit mittens!"

I could have used a new, creative explative earlier in the day. I made an attempt to call my doctor about the recent depression and anxiety problems. This conversation ensued:

Shit Mittens: Dr. C's office. Please hold.

Me: (I didn't say anything. While I may be mentally ill, I'm not that far-gone.)

SM: Yes?

Me: I'm a patient of Dr. C's and I'm having some substantial problems with depression, anxiety and insomnia. (Choking a little on tears.) I need to see her very soon. Like, this afternoon or Monday.

SM: Hold please.

Me: (sputtering and sobbing a little)

SM: She can see you on July 10th.

Me: Huh?

SM: Dr. C. can see you on July 10th.

Me: You've got to be kidding me!

SM: (Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just breathing.)

Me: (Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just sniveling.)

Crickets: Chirp. Chirp ... Chirp?

Over a minute passes.

Me: Well. Thanks so much for all your help.

Shit Mittens!

I wonder if this particular receptionist, if faced with a call from a patient who said, "Um, yeah? I just removed the tip of my thumb in a tragic bagel-slicing accident?" would respond with, "Dr. C. can see you in two weeks."

This isn't the first time I've had this kind of problem with my doctor's office. About four years ago, I noticed that a mole I've had my whole life was morphing and itching. What do they tell you to do when you notice a suddent change in a dark, raised mole? Why, get thee to a doctor, Dumbass!

I called my doctor and had a conversation similar to the one above with a different receptionist. At the time my dear friend PKB worked in human resources at the company where B. works. PKB is what we call "the big guns". She called my doctor's office, kicked around her name and title, conferenced called me in (where I had to work exceptionally hard to not giggle), threatened them with serious recourse, and got me an appointment for later that same day.

Not that it matters, but upon seeing the small mammal sprouting from my right shoulder, my doctor sent me to a dermatologist, who promptly began digging at my mole and the surrounding flesh with a garden spade. As for that receptionist, I never saw her again.

Alas, PKB no longer works for that company, and I didn't feel like battling some 19-year-old twit in scrubs who doesn't get that, when a long-time patient with a file full of depression and anxiety incidents calls and says, "Yo. I need medical intervention to get me off the dang roof," waiting two weeks might not be an option.

If I was a receptionist in that position, I would not want that person's health on my conscious. No way, no how.

For many people with mental illness, it takes a lot of work to get guts to reach out for help. Many people never reach that point, instead living lives of suffering and desperation. Or worse, ceasing to live at all. For a medical professional to 1) think depression or anxiety are frivilous enough to merit a two-week wait for an appointment, and 2) give that patient the silent treatment when the patient expresses that this isn't an option, well ... that's someone who made a poor career choice.

When B. got home from work at 2:00 and saw that I was gritting my teeth, exhausted, frustrated with yet another nap battle with Clara Jane, he placed himself in the PKB role and called the doctor's office to raise some holy hell. Once again, I found myself with an afternoon appointment.

I love my doctor. I really do. I love her nurses. I don't get why she can't seem to find a decent office staff. I immediately felt better after talking to her. She doesn't just throw drugs at patients and send them on their way. She treats the whole person and examines the root of the problems. In my case, she thinks there's something chemical amiss, possibly due to my birth control pills. She sent me on my way with an antidepressant prescription. But that's not enough. Antidepressants can make anxiety worse and they need to be coupled with other drugs to strike a balance.

Okay. So what if that drug happens to be an antipsychotic agent?

That's going to look fabulous in my medical records.

Shit mittens.

Posted by Robin at 07:36 PM | Comments (9)

Friday Shuffle - In Which Nobody Dies Edition

I swear, no death-talk. No dead birds, no dead misunderstood aunts-in-law. No teenage car accidents.

Hm. I really don't have much to say. I guess we can try my other favorite topic: things contributing to the crazy-making:

I didn't sleep last night. Again. I'm so sick of this. Seems like every other night I can expect to be awake until at least 4:30 AM. No wonder I keep losing my shit every other day. Somehow, 2-3 hours of shuteye every other night doesn't quite cut it. Thankfully, B.'s off work early today, and I have intentions of passing out approximately three minutes after he walks in the door.

I just got screamed at because Clara Jane wished to cleanse her hands, but the cloth I gave her was, in her mind, insufficient. Bad mommy! Listen to some toddler drumming while you think about the travisty you have committed.

I'm sick sick sick sick of this. Last night I started re-reading one of my old therapy books, and shortly I'm going to call my MD and beg for drugs.

Can I be even a little bit positive? Oh, let's try:

Yesterday I found the U2 Show book for a mere $10 at Barnes & Noble. Last night, Clara Jane learned all about concerts, Bono, The Edge, and giant mirror-ball lemons:

In a flagrant display of my genetic code, Clara Jane devoured that book with a fervor most kids reserve for, say, Curious George.

I learned yesterday that a little $30 battery-operated sweeper that looks like a toy does a better job than my $400 vacuum cleaner. I'm not sure if this is irritating or good. All I know is I'm happy to have semi-clean floors for once.

I'm a lunching lady these days. Angie and her girls are coming over today. Monday, I'm getting together with an old friend and her daughters. Tuesday, lunch with yet another old friend, sans her daughter. Who knew that so many people enjoy befriending the crazy and morose?

Speaking of lunch, let's shuffle on to it, because serving my guests a bowl of soggy Cheerios while wearing my pajama shirt inside-out isn't exactly acceptable.

1. Nancy Wilson - Wave
2. Andrew Bird - Fake Palindromes
3. Grey De Lisle - Wrapped in My Sweet Savior's Arms
4. Fiona Apple - Get Him Back
5. Bruce Springsteen - My Hometown
6. Phoenix - If I Ever Feel Better
7. Weezer - Death and Destruction (The iPod didn't get the no-death memo.)
8. U2 - Always
9. Pearl Jam - Do the Evolution
10. Johnny Cash - Cisco Clifton's Filling Station

Posted by Robin at 08:56 AM | Comments (4)

June 22, 2006

Makeshift Vigils

First and foremost, I'm doing much better on the anxiety front. Seems that the problem is rooted in being exhausted. I've been paying attention, and there's a direct correlation between how well-rested I am and how calm I am. My current mission: rest. Because of that, there hasn't been much going on over the past few days.

Clara Jane couldn't be bothered to take a nap yesterday. By the time B. got home, I was so run-down that I fell asleep at my desk. Eventually I woke up, ate a buffalo-meat hot dog that magically appeared in my kitchen while I was out cold, and disappeared to the library, unwilling to face bedtime with The Non-Sleeping Wonder.

After the library I decided to take a drive. Specifically, I wanted to take a drive out to St. Charles and get a Nutty Cow latte. Decaf, of course, what with the sleep and exhaustion problems. Latte in hand, I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the side street. I noticed a conglomeration of people standing at the intersection of the side street and major street a block ahead. A protest? A parade? What in the world would prompt a gang to gather at dusk on a Wednesday night in the middle of the intersection in front of a gas station out in the 'burbs?

The traffic light turned red, and I found myself waiting in the middle of the group. The Beastie Boys' "No Sleep Til Brooklyn" shuffled up on my iPod, and, as I always do when the Beastie Boys come on, I turned it up as loud as it would go. I refrained from busting into the Cabbage Patch, for once in my life. Which is a good thing. Instead, I opted to gawk at the crowd. Most people seemed to be milling around, visiting, and doing their own gawking. On the main street, a young girl sat on the trunk of a bronze Chevy Cavalier, watching the crowd. Close to the curb, some people embraced. A young woman in yellow shorts and a bikini top wiped tears from her eyes. Through the crowd I could see a large, hand-lettered sign. There were enough people in the way that I couldn't read the whole thing, but I got the gist: someone had died at this location, and this was some sort of impromptu memorial service.

I wasn't sure what to do. What's the appropriate etiquette in such a situation? Do I need to pull over, like when a funeral procession passes? Do I get out and join the mill-abouts? Do I need to turn on my headlights? Yes, I did, if only because it was getting dark. I turned on my headlights. Is honking appropriate? Probably not. Better not risk it. In fact, to be extra-safe, I put the iPod on pause so that they wouldn't be disturbed by the mad beats.

Today, Clara Jane and I returned to the coffeehouse after daycare, as my usual coffeehouse was having air conditioner issues and was 114 degrees. Within ten minutes of eavesdropping, I learned what last night's meeting was about. Late Monday night, two 19-year-old boys were killed in a car accident at the intersection.

Now, I want to make something 100% clear: I'm not making fun of the people I saw on Wednesday night. Whatever gets a person through tragedy is wholely up to that person; it's not up to me to pass judgement on anyone's style of grieving. Especially in a situation like this, which was tragic and completely avoidable.

That having been said, I don't understand this style of mourning. This is probably my avoidant tendancies talking, but if someone I loved were to meet with a tragic end, the last place I'd want to grieve would be the place where it happened. In fact, I'd probably take painstaking steps to avoid that location for years to come. But that's me.

While it was obvious that there were some people there in search of comfort, the vast majority seemed to be gawkers. The gathering looked more like a block party than a wake. Maybe I don't have much faith in humanity, but I know my first instinct when coming upon the group was to get out and see what was going on. I didn't, but the urge certainly was there.

What point am I making? I have no idea. I'm tired, remember? I just thought it was a strange place to find myself, awkwardly watching the mourning and milling-around, waiting for the light to change so I could turn the music back up, and feeling incredibly guilty for doing so.

Yeah, I know, I've blogged about death twice in less than a week. Don't read anything into that. I'm fine, just commenting on what I've seen this week. Tomorrow, I'll shuffle and it'll all be fine.

Posted by Robin at 06:45 PM | Comments (4)

June 20, 2006

Crazy-Making

Remember a few weeks ago when I mentioned that Clara Jane wouldn't be able to go to a last-minute bug class at the butterfly house, and instead I was going to teach her to burn ants with a magnifying glass?

Yesterday she was able to go to the last session of the class. When the instructor whipped out the giagantic black beetles and car-sized live roaches for the kids to fondle, the first thing my child grabbed? A magnifying glass.

I swear, I haven't spent the last two weeks teaching Clara Jane to fry bugs. Really. She picked that up all on her own. I've been too busy teaching her how to fling maggotty birds over the fence with a shovel.

I feel like I should apologize, but I won't. Not for the bugs, but for the lack of blogging. I decided long ago that I will never, ever apologize for a lack of blogging. That's not how it works. I also decided awhile back that, for the most part, I'm not going to blog on the weekends. For one thing, I don't have nearly as many readers during the weekends. For another, that's family time. That said, if I don't blog on Monday, I start to feel like I'm letting people down. I'm not letting you down, though. You know that.

I've also been remiss in boobie scarf business. I finished knitting scarf #4 before I left for Detroit. It just needs to be blocked, and I've been too busy lazy to do it. I've also started on scarf #5, but have put it aside to work on a baby gift, which had also been neglected. And Suzy in Texas! I think we've got an email line crossed somewhere. Drop me a line at my other email address - robindawn (at) gmail.com - if you're still interested in doing you-know-what with you-know-what.

Are things back to normal after the depression and anxiety of the past few weeks? Not really. Thursday night, I felt great. Friday morning, not so much. Friday night through Sunday night, great. Sunday night? Horrible. Yesterday, pretty damn bad. Today? Decent. So far. This state of emotional flux isn't helping matters one bit at all.

But fun has been had. Friday, B. bailed out of work early and we went to Sweetie Pie's for a little soul food extravaganza. Way I see it, there's a difference between trying to aleiviate emotional distress by, say, eating a pint of ice cream and a bag of chips in one's jammies on the couch while watching reruns of The Golden Girls, and trying to aleiviate it by talking a loved one into ditching his responsibilities in favor of a 2-hour meal in which every dish, possibly even the banana pudding, is at least 7% lard. That's not depressing and self-destructive; that's a cultural experience.

And what a lovely experience it was. If there's anything better than a top-notch soul food cafeteria, I don't know what it is. Unless it's a top-notch soul food cafeteria with live entertainment. A jazz pianist and a rotating group of vocalists kept us entertained. Clara Jane, who was unquestionably the whitest person in the building, stood on her chair during a cover of B.B. King's "The Thrill is Gone", piece of cornbread clutched in her hand, dancing and swaying. During an extended piano solo, she let out a few loud whoops and yells. Totally inappropriate. I chastise myself for not teaching her that the appropriate action in such situations is to yell, "Praise Jesus! You play the blues, Mister!" It's definitely time to get this kid down to Memphis and get her some lessons in the blues.

At the urging of Allison, we spent Saturday morning at the new Tower Grove Farmer's Market. I've been remiss in hitting farmer's markets this summer, and I made up for it with a vengence on Saturday. I managed to do most of my grocery shopping for the week. And cheap! Good lord, that's some cheap, yummy, awesome fresh food.

While I shopped (and visited), B. and Clara Jane paid a visit to the wading pool. What's this? A free, big-kid-free pool, just for little kids? Sign us up! Lunch consisted of Clara Jane and me, sitting on a bench, plowing through half a quart of tiny fresh strawberries. Nothing to panic about there, no sir.

Sunday started off great. For Father's Day, B. wanted to take Clara Jane to the mall with the merry-go-round so they could go for a spin or three. I bought shoes. Then dinner at House of Wong, which was near-perfect, as it always is. Add some cake batter-flavored ice cream for dessert, and life's looking pretty darn good.

And yet, I panic.

Despite all the fun, the stress is always near the surface these days. By the time we got home Sunday night, it was building fast. By 11 PM, I decided I needed to get out of the house or I was going to snap. Within minutes of leaving the house, I felt fine. The only thing that left me feeling not-so-fine was the thought of returning home, which brought with it a racing heart and stomach butterflies.

Why don't I want to be home? It's not like it's a bad place. A little messy, yes, but it's also where B. and Clara Jane live. It's where my dogs and my cat are generally located. All my stuff's there. And there's the rub ... everything in my life is in my house. Everything for which I'm responsible. Responsibilities that I can't escape as long as I'm at home. Even when I'm asleep, the responsibilities are there. As long as I'm in that house, I can't turn off those responsibilities. I don't think I'm supposed to.

I returned home around 1 AM and didn't fall asleep until 5 AM. Two hours later, Clara Jane woke me up, excited about going to Bug Camp. I wanted to cancel, I really did. But she was so excited to go, and I wasn't excited about 1) being stuck at home, and 2) trying to come up with ways to entertain a 2-year-old when I'd only slept for two hours. So off we went, one of us intent on frying large bugs with a plastic magnifying glass, the other intent on mastering the fine art of sleeping with eyes wide open, a la Murphy, The Dog Too Stupid to Be Alive. She's much better at it than me.

I had intentions of napping while Clara Jane napped, sure that the morning of bug-frying fun coupled with frolicking in the 90-degree heat would knock her out for two, three hours. Instead, we spent the afternoon wrestling while she fought sleep. We spent the exact same amount of time battling for this nap as I had spent sleeping in the previous 28 hours.

This is why I panic. This shit is crazy-making.

Today, the panic and anxiety have been at bay. I think I'm too tired to feel anything that extreme. Besides, it's been a fucked-up kind of day. I called B. shortly after I woke up, as I do most mornings, and got the shitty news that he was robbed on the train this morning. He's fine, but some punkass kid took it upon himself to snatch the Nintendo DS out of B.'s hands. After B. chased the kid out of the train and down the street for several blocks to no avail, he complained to the transit's security guard, who was on the platform when B. pursued the kid. "We don't deal with stuff like that," he said.

Well. That makes me feel safe. I would think that an adult chasing a kid out of a Metrolink train during rush hour might be a security concern. Perhaps I'm an idiot.

While this ultimately isn't huge - B. didn't get hurt, nor did he lose his wallet or laptop - it's still a bit sickening. B. never buys anything for himself. Never. He bought the Nintendo for himself last March, the same day I bought my iPod. It was a really big deal for him, and he got a lot of pleasure from it. I was going to get him a few new games for Father's Day, but changed my mind at the last minute. Glad I did, because then it would be even more disappointing.

In more crazy-making news ... Clara Jane's been psycho today. In addition to the fucked up naptime yesterday, she got to bed an hour late, which makes for a long day.

We went to Trader Joe's, which apparently is the Hub of All Crazy-Making today.

Confidential to the sour-faced gal who stood in line behind us: When a child accidentally lets go of her balloon and it floats past you, there is absolutely no need to give the kid the stink-eye. Nor is there any need to stand there with your face two inches from the balloon's dangling string, glaring at the kid's mother when she retrives the balloon. Either lend a hand, or get your contorted puss out of the fucking way.

Oh! But that's not all! I saw the beginnings of what might be the most absurd altercation ever in the parking lot. An older man was helping an even older lady out of Car #1 and into her walker. They were in a handicapped space. Now, I missed a crucial part of the exchange. I don't know if Car #2 attempted to whip into the neighboring handicapped space, or if Car #2 simply blocked traffic, waiting for the people in Car #1 to move. Perhaps Car #2 waited and honked. Either way, the man from Car #1 stood in the parking lot, engaged in a screaming fit with no one regarding the lack of patience exhibited by the people in Car #2. "God forbid when they get old and feeble someday!"

While I do agree that most people in our society - myself included - could stand to be a lot more patient, what struck me as being absurd was that the people in Car #2? They were old and feeble! I saw them. There wasn't a non-gray hair in the car. Granted, none of them required walking assistance, unlike the woman from Car #1, who leaned against her walker, baking in the sun and not saying a word while her caregiver threw his hissy fit to no one. But they were definitely older, and walking slowly and awkwardly.

The people from Car #1 went into the store, and by the time I left, the inhabitants of Car #2 had parked next to Car #1 and entered the store. There was a tiny, sick little part of me that really wanted to go back inside and see if the confrontation continued. Maybe the caregiver, the youngest in the bunch, would grab the man from Car #2 by his Santa Claus beard while the old lady nailed him in the head with her oxygen tank. Trader Joe's will have to add a new bell code. One ring summons a manager, two summons more cashiers, three summons product assistance, and four indicates that a Geezer Fight has erupted in the cheese aisle.

See? It's crazy-making all around. Being in the house makes me crazy. Dealing with The Humans makes me crazy. I think from now on, I'm just going to sit in my truck in the driveway. It's safe out there.

Posted by Robin at 03:08 PM | Comments (11)

June 16, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Get This Shitty Week Over Already Edition

I don't know why I make lists of people who've done good things for me, or people I adore. As I make such lists, it's with the knowledge that I'm going to leave someone out. On Wednesday, I did just that. My good pal Stace is equipped with radar similar to Mary's. We can go weeks without talking, but if I send up even the slightest distress signal, she's the first to arrive. I think she even has a fireman's pole in her house, she's so fast. On Monday, despite working a full day then hauling across town for a night class, she tried to take me out for a drink and a break. Since I lacked the energy to tackle such big tasks as brushing my teeth, I wasn't able to join her.

For my oversight in mentioning Stace, I want to publically proclaim that I will be taking her for a drink or two at the recently-opened Bar Louie at her earliest convenience. It'll be much more fun than watching me sob into my margarita.

Things have been better. Clara Jane returned to daycare yesterday after a two-week hiatus. I'm not sure which one of us was happiest about this. She greeted her arrival at daycare in a manner that made me wonder if she'd heard rumors that they'd lined the walls with M&Ms in her absence. I've never seen her so gung-ho to be there, nor have I ever skipped out of the building, untethered, with such wild and happy abandon.

With all the stress of the past two weeks, I decided that no work would be done yesterday. Normally Clara Jane's in daycare so I can work on my growing pile of book-related projects. Not yesterday. I headed to the mall. Who knew I would miss the mall so much? I'm not much of a shopper, but I do miss the ability to do something as wasteful as wandering around the mall. It's not so much the act of shopping as the ability to do so that I miss. I had two destinations: Torrid, where I decimated several clearance racks, and Teavana, where I decimated a lovely pear white tea on the rocks.

Because I'm undisciplined, I then went to the library headquarters to do some research for one of the book projects. The only way to get me to work is for me to forbid it. But I also leisurely browsed the stacks for awhile. So leisurely, in fact, that I caught myself nodding off while standing up at one point.

But today ... things are worse again. I was awake before 7 AM, and Clara Jane followed shortly. We're both exhausted, whiny, and have had just about enough of each other even though it's not even 9 AM. It's going to be a long day.

This morning's email brought sad news. One of B.'s aunts died this week. Despite my issues with B.'s parents and brothers, I adore most of his aunts and uncles. Aunt A. was one of my favorites. She had a pretty wicked drinking problem that she resolved before I entered the family. By then the damage was done; she'd lost a portion of her liver and had severe bone damage from years of alcohol leeching her body's calcium. Her digestive system was so wrecked that for a time, she could only digest sweets. That Christmas I made homemade candy for everyone. When she opened her tin of homemade caramels, she tore into it right then and there, proclaiming them to be the best thing she'd eaten in ages.

Everyone elses perception of A. was colored by the years when she was drunk. There was a lot of resentment and just-under-the-surface anger, which I had a hard time grasping. I didn't know her drunk. Sober, she was great. Smart, kind, generous, funny, and one of the first people in the family to make me feel welcome. I'm sure the A. I knew was much different than the one B.'s family knew, and I felt closer to her than any of B.'s other relatives. She was a retired English professor, which gave us much to discuss. Often, I would catch my mother-in-law glaring at us when we'd be engrossed in a literary discussion. I don't know if it was because she didn't like A., or because she was jealous that A. and I enjoyed talking to each other.

We haven't visited B.'s family in Michigan since Thanksgiving, 2002. I can't even remember if we saw A. then. She lived three hours away from B.'s parents. The last time I clearly recall spending time with her was during a visit in August, 2001. We went to lunch with B.'s parents, A., Aunt B., and her husband. For the record, I adore Aunt B., too. B. has wonderful aunts.

Anyway, we were sitting in a diner and A. and I had jumped right into the book talk. I was enrolled to take some English classes, including a black lit. class. She was so excited for me, and we got into a discussion about Langston Hughes. She asked me to send her my papers and keep her updated on what we were reading and writing in my classes. It was obvious that she missed being in the classroom.

I intended to send her my papers, but, of course, didn't. At the end of the semester I thought I'd send her a big box with all my papers, so she wouldn't feel like I was looking for writing assistance. But I never got around to it.

When I read the news today, my first thought was that I wish I'd sent her those papers and been better about keeping in touch. But then I thought, I'm glad I didn't. Had I fostered more of a relationship with her, I'd be hurting so much today. And that's just about the most selfish thought that's ever crossed my mind.

The email from my mother-in-law set my teeth on edge. For one thing, she got the news yesterday afternoon. I think A. at least merited a phone call instead of an email sent the next day, almost an afterthought.

She sent the email to both B. and me, but used an email address that B. doesn't check very often. She's been told repeatedly that he tends to not check that address. So, my second order of the day, after reading the sad email, was to call B. and break the news to him. Doing his mom's dirty work.

But the worst of it, the real kicker, was the last paragraph: I wouldn't be too concerned about coming to the funeral if I were you. It would cost too much to travel that far and there really isn't anything you could do to help.

Well. It's good to know we're just that useful and needed.

"You know what she means," B. said when I complained. This is the way she operates - it could be that she's looking out for our best interests. Or it could be a not-so-thinly veiled insult. I think it's a little of both.

B.'s family operates differently from mine. Someone in my family dies, and every single person who ever met the deceased converges from all corners to mourn and eat fried chicken. With B.'s family, we didn't even attend his grandparents' funerals, assured by his mom that there was nothing we could do to help.

I'm not sure why this pisses me off as much as it does. I know it's probably just an artifact of her complete inability to communicate effectively.

Aunt B. was the one who found A. Apparently, she had been dead several days. There's something unspeakably tragic about living an entire life and nobody noticing when it ends.

It's almost as tragic as working to make positive changes in life, only to have those closest to you not recognize them because they're mired in who you used to be, instead of getting to know who you are now.

We're not distraught and grief-stricken. Sad, yes. I'm going to miss my ally during the future Michigan visits. I'm going to miss talking about books while everyone else talks about fishing. I'm going to miss getting the gossip about Jim Harrison. I'm going to miss A.

But I'm still going to shuffle.

1. Like Spinning Plates - Radiohead
2. My Favorite Mistake - Sheryl Crow
3. Gracie - Ben Folds (I've been thinking about this song all week. With all the stress, Clara Jane's been requesting my presence on the couch. We've done a lot of potatoeing together with her resting on my arm. Ben wrote the song for his daughter, and there's a verse in the song about his little girl sleeping on his arm while watching TV. That images destroys me.)
4. So Like a Rose - Garbage
5. Getting Better - The Beatles
6. Run for Your Life - Robert Randolph & the Family Band
7. Corner Soul - The Clash
8. Time - Tori Amos
9. After the Goldrush - Neil Young
10. Battle of Who Could Care Less - Ben Folds Five

Wow. Good shuffle for a shitty week.

Posted by Robin at 08:39 AM | Comments (6)

June 14, 2006

Depression Blindness

One of the worst parts of depression - all the parts are the worst, really, but play along with me here - is that it creates a kind of blindness that makes it impossible to see what's right in front of one's face. It's like looking at a flower and only noticing the one wilted petal and an angry bee who's giving you the evil eye(s). Depression shrouds the part of the brain that recognizes all the good.

On Monday, when things were at their worst, I caught myself thinking, "Nobody wants to be around me and I don't blame them one bit. I'm wretched. I'm awful. I'm a pain in the ass who can't do a goddamn thing right." I think I might have even said it outloud at one point.

That was the blindness talking because sweet lord, so many of my friends have reached out in the past few days.

There's Mary, who has this radar ... it's uncanny. She knows when I need a boost. It's either a superpower, or she's the one person who's figured out that when I'm not blogging, something might be amiss. She called on Monday with a lunch invitation.

And Allison, who's trying to get me to join her in making fun of art quilts and drinking iced mochas.

Angie always knows when I could use a Venti hazlenut latte delivered to my door.

Jill's wanting to get together, despite dealing with her own two-year-old and mysteriously ill infant.

Julie's trying to get me to pay her a visit in Nashville, and I'm damn near on the verge of hopping in my car and going. Now. Because it sounds like so much fun. Nevermind that she sent me what is, officially, The Nicest Email Ever Sent to Anyone.

And what about PKB, leaving work and coming to my rescue yesterday. PKB + used crap = a happier Robin. There is nothing, I mean nothing more fun than digging through the Goodwill with PKB. We have this magic when we're together of finding the funniest crap in the world. Yesterday's winner: a white porcelain piggy bank from the Restless Leg Syndrome Association. Which brings two questions to mind: 1) Is this really a condition that merits an entire association, and 2) Is it a good idea to give them breakables?

Honestly? How can you feel bad when you locate things like this:

It's really hard to be sad when you're busy running for your life before Satan Raggedy Ann & Andy can eat your brains.

Unfortunately, the photo doesn't accurately depict the 3-D quality of the red yarn hair. That hairdo illustrate's Ann's disdain for restrictive Eurocentric beauty norms. Good for her.

And all the sweet comments left of my recent blog entries ... each one punctures that shroud and lets in a little more light. And a little more corn, but that's okay. We like corn.

Even Chloe, the poor dog who's been the target of my anxious hand-wringing all week, has jumped on the Be Nice to Robin bandwagon. This morning when Clara Jane awoke, Chloe parked herself outside Clara Jane's door. When she heard me get up and go to the bathroom, she joined me. Just making sure that all's right in her world. Which makes me feel bad. If my stress has put the Most Mellow Dog Ever on guard, it must be bad. The fact that she doesn't have maggot breath, unlike that other dog, wins her extra bonus points.

B. rocks. That goes without saying.

The worst part about this week was the feeling that everything I'd worked to overcome seemed to be coming back with a vengence. But it didn't. It was stopped be my army and me. And corn. Lots and lots of corn.

Posted by Robin at 01:25 PM | Comments (8)

June 13, 2006

Questioning My Sanity

Today's better. At least, a little. I haven't cried today, nor have I screamed. Much.

Unfortunately, after I posted yesterday, things went from bad to worse to oh my lord I'm going to burn this house down and skip the country-levels of intense.

For one thing, do you know what's worse than having to fling a maggotty dead bird over the fence after your kid's stood in it? Why, having one of your super-stupid idiot dogs, the one who is, honestly, too stupid to be alive, puke giant greasy black puddles of maggotty dead bird all over ones house.

Apparently, there was a second bird in my yard, of which I was unaware. But while I was making dinner, Murphy made certain I was aware of said bird, and highly aware of what the bird and its parasitic pals was doing to her digestive tract.

Then Clara Jane fell in the bathtub, bumped her head and liked to have drowned. And Chloe's eating a hole through her thigh. And the phones were ringing, and dinner was getting cold, and once Clara Jane recovered from her fall she went right into what she currently does best - screaming at the top of her lungs regarding the horrible injustices she suffers at the hands of her captors.

There was an intense battle yesterday over custody of my cell phone. She refused to let go of it, opting instead to scream as loud and long as any human being ever has. I think she was trying to call Amnesty International.

And I'm almost back to where I was a year and a half ago, before all the therapy that made it possible for me to go days without feeling like I was having a heart attack. All day yesterday, I grappled with those old feelings of panic and anxiety. In the past, when the anxiety would strike, I would focus my attention on my aging cat, terrified that she was on the verge of death, instead of dealing with the actual source of my stress. Yesterday, I caught myself doing the same thing to Chloe, my Bassett hound.

Oddly enough, I wasn't one bit at all worried about Murphy, even though it looked like she had exploded in my living room last night.

All day, I felt myself slipping. Not figuratively, either. It was literal, like I was standing at the top of a hill and watching my mind roll further and further away from me, just out of my reach when I tried to catch it.

I tried to remember what it was I learned in therapy, how to reign it in, but I've forgotten everything. I'm sure I was given a guide book on how to navigate my way out of these situations, but I can't seem to find it in the clutter of my brain.

PKB called this morning. Being a mom of two boys, ages 16 and 7, she's my parenting guru. I don't think I'd even said hello when she launched into the "It's so hard. And it's constant. And if you don't get a break from it you'll lose your mind" speech. And she's write.

She's also pulling into my driveway right now to take me shopping.

All along I've had a hard time reconciling something about motherhood: physically, it's not much work. It's a lot of play, with the person I love best. How can it be exhausting? Or hard? That's insane. This isn't work. Sitting behind a desk for 10 hours a day with an asshole boss breathing down my neck, that's work.

So why is it I'm doing something that doesn't feel like work, and yet, I can't handle it? I can't keep from losing my shit on a regular basis?

Because PKB's right. It's constant. Even when Clara Jane's napping, that doesn't mean I'm off duty. There's a slim chance I'm doing something in the housewife realm while she naps. There's a much bigger chance that I'm tentatively, yet frantically, trying to eek out a little time for myself, all while keeping my ear cocked towards her room because I'm on her schedule, not mine.

Even if Clara Jane's in a good mood, it's constant. There's always a demand, a request, a change of rules or plans.

And fuck if that won't send one's brain lolling down the hill, just out of reach.

Posted by Robin at 01:44 PM | Comments (12)

June 12, 2006

Funeral for a Bird

I'm going to be 100% honest here: I'm not doing so hot. Since the Detroit trip, my fuse has been extra-short. I haven't had much of a break since returning home. Clara Jane's been overwrought with a bad case of the terrible twos, briefly evidenced in last week's driveway meltdown post. I don't want to sit here and give a litany of Things My Kid Has Done to Drive Me Nuts, so suffice it to say it's been a myriad of everything an intelligent, energetic two-year-old can inflict.

I'm tired. When I get tired for extended periods of time, I get depressed. For an extra dash of irony, when I get depressed, I don't sleep. And when I don't sleep I get more tired, which makes me more depressed, which makes it even harder to sleep and, well, you can see how these things spiral out of control. It only takes a week or two before I find myself running on a handful of hours of sleep, unable to do anything right.

Last night I took a few hits of Rescue Remedy and one Tylenol PM, which normally knocks me on my ass. Not last night. It was 3:30 this morning when I finally passed out on the couch, bored to sleep by an episode of "Murphy Brown" on Nick at Nite. When B. got up two hours later, I still had the remote clutched in my hand. I think it's safe to assume it wasn't exactly a relaxed, restful snooze.

The toddler antics began as soon as we got up, starting with a hissy fit because I dared give her yogurt in a carton instead of in a teacup. An hour later, when I sat on the couch next to Clara Jane, she greeted me with, "Move, Mama. Moooooooooooooove!"

Fine. I retreated to the bedroom as I didn't have the energy to do anything else.

Eventually, Miss Congeniality joined me and suggested we go outside. Not a bad idea, I thought. The weather's just about perfect. Maybe a little sunshine-induced vitamin D and fresh air would do me some good. It would definitely be better for Clara Jane than hanging around the house with a mother who can barely get off the bed.

With the dogs in tow and a magazine in hand, we headed outside. Clara Jane grabbed her wheel barrow and started filling it with the unripe peaches that have already fallen from the tree. I drug one of our big Adirondack chairs into the shade, not looking directly at its faded wood because that would remind me of the big plans I had for painting the chairs and making snappy little cushions for them, covered in vintage oilcloth. I didn't want to think about yet another unfinished project on my list, one more thing that I can't summon the energy to complete, one more thing that will lead to me feeling like a failure who can't do a damn thing right.

With my unpainted, uncushioned chair parked in the shade, magazine in hand, child sufficiently occupied, I tried to turn my thoughts to brighter subjects. It's a beautiful day. I've got a bit of time to just hang out and relax. There's plenty to be thankful for.

Hey there Mr. Birdy. Mr. Dead Birdy, smashed flat and lying about a foot away from me.

Son of a fucking bitch.

How can I be expected to enjoy the article about the Yeah Yeah Yeahs with the shaded sun on my pastey flesh when there's a smashed-flat dead bird festered so close, feathers asunder, right there by the kiddie pool?

I'm not good with dead things. Not good at all. They freak my shit out. This particular dead thing rendered me unable to do anything but stand there and stare. I could make out the form of the bird's skull, picked clean, several tiny bones crushed. Remnants of his wings poked in all directions, feathers matted and oily. What the hell am I going to do with this?

I tried sitting in my chair and ignoring it, but that didn't work. I returned to standing over the bird and staring some more, willing it to not be there, willing my life to not be one dead bird obstacle after another in my path.

Clara Jane noticed how intently I was staring at the ground. Afraid that my attention might be occupied by something other than her, she came over and took up residence in my line of vision - standing directly on Dead Bird Ground Zero. "Clara Jane, I need you to move," I said.

"No." That's what she says to everything these days. "No!" In case I hadn't heard her the first time.

"I mean it. Move. Go play on your slide for a minute."

"No."

That's when I noticed the ground beneath Clara Jane's feet was alive, squirming with hoards of maggots that were feasting on the bird. I hadn't noticed them before despite my staring.

As I picked her up and marched her across the yard, screaming and protesting all the way, I thought, at least I put her in pants and her rubber frog boots instead of shorts and sandals. At least I did something right, even on the day when my actions led to my child standing on in a puddle of rotted flesh and vermin.

I grabbed a shovel and plunged it into the ground at the edge of the bird, digging deep. Trembling, I carried the spade, full of death and life, to the fence and tossed it over. Not in the neighbors' yard, even though you know that would have brightened my mood a bit. I returned to the depression in the ground, dug up the chunk of dirt where a few maggots remained, and flung the second shovelful over the fence.

I didn't bother sitting in the chair in the shade. Even though I really dislike being in direct sunlight, I opted for the chair in the sun, away from the scene of whatever foul play, probably hound-inflicted, befell that bird. While I hate squinting and sweating, I hate feeling like I'm covered in maggots even more.

Clara Jane forgot about the bird immediately, assuming she even had an inkling of what was going on in the first place. In her mind, I was probably having yet another inexplicable meltdown. She continued playing with the hard green peaches, sliding down the slide, running with the dogs while I read. Eventually she came up to me and said, "Mama, I need to carry." Translated, that means, "I don't feel like walking. Haul me, Pack Mule." When I picked her up she looked at me and said, "I give you a hug." She flung her arms around me and said, "Awwwwwwww. I give you a kiss."

"Thanks Kid. I needed that," I told her. I really did.

At least I've got a kid who, in a string of days where she's done nothing but yell and demand and scream and deny, knows when I could use a little bit of her affection.

At least I've got things better than that maggoty bird.

Two things that can make me feel a smidge better: 1)The photography of Caitlin Atkinson, who's done a series of photos depicting all the things she's done wrong. It's heartening, really. 2)Finding one of the episodes of "Laverne & Shirley" that involves a Schotz Brewery talent show. If there is better television than the "Laverne & Shirlety" Schotz talent show episodes, I've yet to find it.

Posted by Robin at 01:05 PM | Comments (9)

June 09, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Summer Hater (on My Second Blogiversary )Edition

(Edited to note: I knew this was coming up, but didn't know the exact date. I just clicked on my archives and lo and behold, I made my first post two years ago today.)

Holy God, I hate summer.

It's gotten hot, fast, in St. Louis. I'm already sick of it. A few days ago I caught myself thinking with great love and wistfullness for that first crisp day in September. When I realized it's a good three months away, I cried.

I also hate talking about the weather. So let's talk about my sinuses. They hurt.

Know what else I hate? Talking about sinuses and allergies. If you live in the Midwest and it's summer, it's a given that your sinuses hurt. You're no different than anyone else. Quit whining about it. That's what I'm going to do.

Let's look at some good stuff, shall we?

Daycare begins again next week. I thought it was the week after. There has been much rejoicing in this house. Yeah, it sounds horrible to say I can't wait for my kid to be away from me one day a week. Trust me, the feeling's mutual. Clara Jane's been talking about school all week, asking when she gets to go back.

Not only am I glad to get a little break in 24/7 Toddlerama!, but I'm looking forward to getting busy with several pending writing projects that hold a great deal of promise. Cross those fingers for me, won't you?

I'm a little disappointed, though. During her daycare break, we were able to attend storytime at the library closest to our house. It's scheduled during her regular daycare time, which is unfortuante. We go to storytime at two other library branches, which have a pretty homogenous clientele. White, middle-class, reserved. Nobody says much to anyone. Not my neighborhood library. There were Hispanics. Bosnians. Blacks. Whites. I overheard at least three different languages in the hour we were there. And friendly! I've never had a storytime where I had conversations with that many moms. The Bosnian mom and I hit it off immediately. She was a writing teacher at a university before she immigrated. Now she does freelance Bosnian and Serbian-to-English translation. Who knew there were so many well-read, diverse, interesting people in my own backyard? Hallalujah, it's not all drunken hillbillies around here!

You know what else rocks? Lunch with a pal at a place where our kids are content to play while we talk. Even better? Add a dessert of chocolate-covered fresh raspberries. That only happens in June, People. Only in June.

I got a really cool invitation yesterday. Really, really cool. I can't give details, but suffice it to say that it's cool.

We're going swimming tomorrow. Clara Jane had her first foray into a public pool while we were in Frankenmuth. I didn't think she was that impressed with it, but she's been talking about it at length. Upon doing a little research, I learned that there's a new water park near us. I'm not a huge fan of swimming, but I have so many good pool-going memories from my childhood. I'm excited about starting some for my kid.

Skirts. I've decided that I only wear skirts. It's too hot for jeans. I don't do shorts. Crop pants usually reach my ankles, as my legs are short. Capris make me look like I suffer from a possible bone growth defect. As the temperatures started rising, I noticed that I kept dressing Clara Jane in skirts and dresses because they're cooler. So why not do the same for myself? Today I bought my fourth skirt in a month. I'm officially hooked. They hide the C-section damage, too.

Rummage sales. There are lots of rummage sales in the summer. Rummage sales I'll be attending tomorrow with one, maybe two friends. That's some good stuff right there.

Speaking of rummaging...

1. Wayfaring Stranger - Johnny Cash
2. For No One - The Beatles (Hey Dixie!)
3. You Don't Know Like I Know - Sam & Dave
4. Fairytale in the Supermarket - Raincoats
5. Turn a Square - The Shins
6. Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve (Hello Zoe!)
7. Pasties & a G-String (At the 2 o'Clock Club)- Tom Waits
8. Redemption - Johnny Cash
9. Moral Kiosk - REM
10. Farewell Ride - Beck

I love it when the shuffle 1) gives me two Johnny Cash songs, and 2) throws out songs that make me think of people I like.

Posted by Robin at 03:01 PM | Comments (8)

June 06, 2006

The Beatings Will Now Begin

I should know by now to not crow about having a good day before noon, as it's a sure-fire way to make the day go down the toilet.

Upon returning home from grocery shopping, Clara Jane opted to explore the gas tank on my truck instead of heading for the house. I was loaded, pack mule-style, with two weeks-worth of groceries as I told her, "Clara Jane? Stop it. That's yucky. Clara Jane? That's dangerous. Clara Jane? If you don't stop by the time I count to three...", trying every ploy that didn't require me to put down all those groceries, physically prying the gas cap from her hand before carrying her sure-to-be-tantruming ass into the house. Each parental direction was greeted with a hearty, "No!" as she continued turning herself into a human fire hazard.

When I tried to pull her away while holding the groceries, she dug in and went limp. The groceries teetered, and next thing I knew one of the bags broke. As I instinctively lunged for the one bag, the rest of them smashed to the ground. I caught the nail of my right-hand middle finger on ... I have no idea what I caught it on. A falling bag, probably. All I know is my groceries hit the driveway as my nail was ripped from my finger, tearing all the way across a mere 1/8 of an inch from the cuticle. I screamed, blood spurting from my finger as my strawberries rolled in every which direction, my peaches bleeding to death under the weight of a half-gallon jug of juice, and my kid still playing with the goddamn gas cap, not even acknowledging the chaos around her.

Moments like this, my kid has no idea how lucky she is that I'm not a spanker.

Eventually, I got my hard-headed child inside, fed, and down for a nap. I gathered the crushed remains of my groceries from every corner of the driveway, wanting to cry as I threw away the destroyed peaches, as I was really looking forward to that first peach of summer. I bandaged my finger and marvelled at how much use the middle finger on the dominate hand gets. And not just for communicating, either. I'm learning that an injured middle finger makes things like writing, typing, knitting, diaper-changing and bathing surprisingly difficult.

I collapsed on the couch and did something I rarely do during Clara Jane's naptime: I laid down and watched TV. Scrolling through our 3,849 channels, I landed on an old favorite I haven't seen in about a million years: Bill Cosby: Himself. It was just starting, so I hit the record button for future viewings. When I was 11 years old, I recorded the same movie on HBO and watched it until the tape disintegrated.

I consider those 11-year-old viewings of this movie as the true beginning of the development of my sense of humor. In fact, it wouldn't be a stretch to say that, between Himself and Saturday Night Live, the idea was planted in my head that perhaps I could write funny stuff and be funny when I grew up. Being funny became an objective and a goal in my life that has never gone away.

Back then, I loved the movie because the humor was so absurd. Like this bit about getting drunk:

Now you've got to go. So you come into the bathroom, close the door; now, don't forget: you owe this to yourself. You've worked hard all week. It's come to this: [Kneels beside the chair and pretends to lift the lid on the john, then starts moaning]"Ahh, Jesus... Oh, God... If You get me out of this, I'll never drink again as long as I live..." [groans again] Now you are ready to put your face in a place that was never built for your face.

It's funny because it's silly! No way would anyone do that!

Actually, it turns out, people really do do that! It wasn't funny because it was absurd, as I thought when I was 11. It was funny because it was true!

Of course, the bulk of Himself is the material about his family, which morphed into the basis of the not-nearly-as-funny Cosby Show a few years later. In the movie Cosby paints a picture of a family overrun with wild kids. Dad's just trying to lay low and not deal with the chaos around him, while Mom's always about two inches away from a violent mental breakdown. Of course that was absurd! I mean, I had seen my mom get mad, but I never saw her head split open with flames shooting out of her skull as Cosby describes his wife upon her discovery that he's fed the kids choclate cake for breakfast.

C'mon, you know you want to sing the chocolate cake song with me. I've been singing it for the past 24 hours. Dee dee boom dee dee boom ... Dad is great! Gives us the chocolate cake!

Absurd! Crazy! Absurd and crazy are funny!

I've always heard about people having a conniption but I've never seen one. You don't want to see 'em. My wife's face split. My wife's face split and the skin and hair split and came off of her face so that there was nothing except a skull. And orange lights came out of her hair and there was glitter all around. And fire shot from her eye sockets and began to burn my stomach and she said, "WHERE DID THEY GET CHOCOLATE CAKE FROM?"

Wait ... that's not absurd! That's the motherfucking goddamn truth! And I swear to God, when I was picking up bruised strawberries, covered with road grime in my driveway with my bloody finger-stump, I felt it. I felt the skin and hair seperating from my skull. I felt it, I'm telling you! I felt the flames. And two hours later, when I saw this scene in the movie, I laughed until I cried. Or maybe I cried first, and then laughed. Or maybe I had gone so stupid and crazy from parenthood that I did both at the same time. I don't know. I just know that I so clearly saw myself in something that, 22 years ago, I saw as being completely foreign and exaggerated.

By the time I got to the climactic scene, where the children are fooling around instead of going to bed, and his wife whips around with a yard stick, "like a samuri warrior and says, 'I have had! Enough of this!'" I was curled into the fetal position, trembling from the laughing and sobbing.

Not that I would ever take a yardstick to my kid, but damn. I get it now. I so get it. I get that until you're a parent, it's funny because it's so exaggerated. But once you become a parent, it's funny because it cuts right to the bone and touches a raw spot. You've got to laugh because it's the only sane option. In the driveway hours before, I would have loved nothing more than to turn into Samuri Mom, so intense was my anger, frustration, and exhaustion. But all I can do is laugh at the idiot who stood among the strawberries, screaming garbled nonsense because it wouldn't be right to stand in the driveway and scream obscenities with my kid, mesmerized by the gas cap, standing right there.

When you're a father you censor yourself. You get just as angry with a child but you don't want to say, "What the filth and foul and I'll filth and foul, filth and foul and, yeah, ya filth and foul face, and I'll filth and foul, foul, filth!" You don't want to say that to a child so you censor yourself and you sound like an idiot.

I'd like to know how my parents controlled the urge to chuck the remote control at my head the many times we watched that movie together when I was a kid.

Speaking of which, my parents will be arriving any minute now.

My parents never smiled... because I had brain damage. My wife and I don't smile because our children are LOADED with it. Oh, my parents smile now, whenever they come over to the house and see how much trouble I'm having. Oh, they have a ball! "Havin' a li'l trouble, huh, son?"

Oh, my mom laughed last night when I told her about our little driveway fiasco. And I can guarantee that when she talks to Clara Jane later today, she'll take the kid's side.

I tell my kids, "This is not the same person I grew up with. You are looking at an old woman who is trying to get into Heaven."

Posted by Robin at 01:10 PM | Comments (7)

June 05, 2006

Notes From a Lazy Summer Morning

Today feels different. The Detroit trip and worry about traveling with the tot have passed. We have no commitments or obligations. The day's going to be warm and lovely, perfect for a little post-grocery-shopping picnic. Remember the contentedness from a few weeks ago? It's back. Mellowness abounds. Life is good at Chez Poppymom.

Want to have morning coffee with me? I feel the need to share a blurry photo of my coffee mug:


I found this mug about five or six years ago when I was scrounging thrift and antique shops for mid-century basset hound paraphenalia. It was love at first sight with this mug. I paid an exorbatant amount of money for it. Don't regret it, though, because I truly love this mug.

For years it sat on top of our espresso machine, rarely used. I was afraid I'd break it. But last fall, I got B. a Senseo coffee maker for his birthday. I used the hound mug when we were in the machine experimental phase, where I discovered that it's the perfect size for a double cup of coffee with a splash of milk and a bit of sugar. I use the mug almost-daily now. On the days when it mistakeningly doesn't make it into the dishwasher and I have to use another mug, I get a little shaky.

Want to see how I'm going to be taking my tea?

This is the only souvenir I got for myself during last week's trip. We got carryout sushi from Noble Fish for lunch on Wednesday. It's a little sushi counter tucked into the back of a Japanese grocer. I came away with a set of kiddie chopsticks adorned with monkeys for Clara Jane, some sour orange gum, and my new tea mug. By next week I predict that drinking tea from any other mug will give me the shakes.

And yes, the mug lacks a handle, like most Asian tea mugs. You know why? Because they know something us impatient Americans don't: if the mug's so hot that you require a handle to hold it, that means the tea within is too hot to drink and you're going to burn your tongue, you dumbass. As one who has a perpetually burned tongue, I think this was a wise purchase for me to make.

B., Clara Jane and I went to the Rock & Roll Craft Show on Saturday, which was awesome. Clara Jane got a cool new doll:

The doll's a female Robin Hood with an anime-style face, clad in purple felt. Clara Jane thinks she's the bee's knees, and she's right. I wish the gal who made her had a website, because every little kid needs one of these awesome dolls.

I'd like to take a moment to profess my love for my pal PKB. You all know I adore her. She's having a rough day. Considering that she made dinner for my family last night - she never cooks, but you wouldn't know from the yumminess of last night - she shouldn't be allowed to have a rough day. C'mon and give her a hug! She might give you some kick-ass sangria in return.

There's one thing that's a little irritating today, other than the unfairness PKB is experiencing. It's minor, though. Clara Jane was on the wait list to take a toddler's bug class at the butterfly house. The class is at 10 AM today. I got a call at 9 AM, informing me that there was an opening available for her. That's all well and good, except we live 30 minutes away and had just rolled out of bed. No bug class for us. To vent our frustrations, maybe I'll teach my own bug class. It will involve a lesson on what happens when Mr. Ant meets Mr. Magnifying Glass, which is exactly why I should make every effort to let others teach my child.

Despite that, I'm feeling generous. My Flickr link is back on the sidebar.

I'm reading the worst book ever. It's also listed on the sidebar. I could list it here, but I don't feel like giving such a piece of crap any more free publicity than I already have. In the past, if I found myself disliking a book, I had no qualms about ditching it. But this year, I've opted to make an an Amazon Listmania! list detailing every book I complete. It's changed my mindset, and not in a good way. I find myself yelling (inside my head, of course), "I hate this book! But my God! That's precious reading time I've wasted and if I quit, I'll have nothing to show for it on my list!" I spent hours yesterday with my nose in this book not because I love nothing more than curling up with a good book on a lazy Sunday, but because the sooner I muddle through this shitheap, the sooner I get to check it off my list and move on to Marley & Me, a book that guarantees a different kind of moaning and wailing. My dad couldn't finish it because it made him miss his dog, Mindy. You know, the yellow Lab hybrid who once ate a ride-on lawnmower.

And on that note, take a gander at the gorgeous, dearly departed lawnmower-nosher as she prepares to eat my dog:

Posted by Robin at 09:15 AM | Comments (5)

June 03, 2006

Anarchy in the Motor City

So, why did I go to Detroit? I've had to explain this many times of late, which is understandable. Even though B.'s from Michigan, his hometown is eight hours away from Detroit. It's just a smidge closer to Detroit than it is to St. Louis. We don't have relatives in Detroit, save for a cousin in Ann Arbor.

If there's a book somewhere, where the almighty power of the universe has scrawled the outline of my life, there's a chapter titled "Make Her Go to Detroit As Many Times as Possible, but Not to Visit Relatives". This is proof positive that the universe has a grand sense of humor.

(That's only a mild jab, Detroit readers. I actually like your city. It's got a lot of the same problems as my city, so I can empathize.)

The first time I ever flew on a plane, I flew to Detroit when I was 17 years old. My mom wanted my first flight to be as a family. Since I was about to start my last year of high school, she realized that she'd better get on the stick if she was going to follow through with that plan. She scoured the air fare section of the newspaper and bought three tickets to the cheapest location - Detroit.

Since the words "Fly By the Seat of Thy Pants" are inscribed on our family crest, we made it work. In Detroit, we rented a car, picked a direction - east - and started driving. Each day we picked another direction and drove, just to see what we could see. And what we saw that week included Ontario, the Thousand Islands, Finger Lakes, Lake Champlain, and Niagara Falls. You know it's a vacation run by serendipity when you walk out of a Vermont antiques shop on July 4th and look up to see the Ben & Jerry's world headquarters about 15 feet in front of you, although you swear it wasn't there when you walked into the shop.

In that trip I saw very little of Detroit. Basically, I saw the airport, the car rental place, and whatever lies between the airport and the tunnel into Windsor, Ontario. I figured that would be the extent of my Detroit exposure.

How wrong was I. You see, I made friends with a British gal named Sally through an online community I used to be a part of. Sally's sister Kirsti moved to Detroit in 2003. Thus, when Sally visits her sis, she's techinically in the neighborhood, and I go to Detroit to see her.

I flew to Detroit when I was five months pregnant to see Sally when she was there for her sister's wedding. Seven months later, B., baby Clara Jane and I drove to D'town for Sally's baby shower.

How apropriate that Clara Jane's first trip on a plane be to Detroit. It was also the destination of her first big roadtrip when she was three months old. Whoever wrote my book seems to have provided some of the groundwork for Clara Jane's, too.

Sal and Oscar, her lovely little boy who's six months younger than Clara Jane, met us at the airport with a surprise-that-shouldn't-have-been-a-surprise: our mutual friend M. and her daughter R. flew in the night before from Dallas. M.'s well-known for her spur-of-the-moment traveling. Obviously, she's a graduate of the same School of Creative Vacation Planning that my mother attended.

R.'s a delight. She's in her early teens and is already an accomplished violinist. She's got shaggy blonde hair and a penchant for wearing vintage neckties with t-shirts. She adores the darker side of Harry Potter. For good reason, M. is one of the most adoring mothers I've ever met.

After I hugged M. and R. I blurted, "You brought your violin, right?" I didn't get to hear her play last October during their last impromptu visit, and I knew my fiddle-happy child would adore seeing the real thing. R. didn't disappoint. We returned to Kirsti's house and were treated to a concert that included everything from Vivaldi to Cotton-Eye Joe and everything in between.

Clara Jane was too mesmerized to lose her mind.

Ladies and gentlemen! It's the Incredible Unblinking Child!

In Detroit, there's not a huge desire to get out and see all the local sites. Someday I'd like to add the Motown Historical Museum to the long list of music pilgrimages I've made, but I'm sure there will be other opportunities, seeing as the universe demands my presence in Detroit every few years. Regardless, there's something about Detroit that makes it easy to just hang out with Sal without feeling like we're missing out. Which is exactly what we did on Tuesday - hung out at Kirsti's and caught up while the kids played.

This is what I love about my friendship with Sal. Having a friend who lives half a continent and and ocean away whittles friendship down to its essence. I have a person I love dearly, but I only get to see her every few years for a day or two at a time. I never know when - or if - I'll see her again. What's the best use of that precious time? The answer never involves big, elaborate plans with enough fun to make our skin melt off. It never involves doing backflips to please each other. It always involves simple time of just sitting and being together. Every visit with Sal reminds me that friendship and love aren't about what I can do to show people how much they mean to me. Being together is plenty. It's everything. And any friendship where either partner doesn't feel that way ain't a friendship, my friends.

While I couldn't wait for this trip to see Sal, I also couldn't wait to travel with Clara Jane again. We had our weekend in Illinois last fall, but that wasn't exactly a solo trip. This was, what with the two of us flying and all. We also had our first mom-daughter night in a nice hotel. And dear readers, when we talk about our trip to Detroit, and what was fun, do you know what's near the top of my daughter's list?

The room service picnic dinner in bed, in our jammies. She may have her father's blonde hair, blue eyes and face, but that room service picnic in bed love? That's all me, shining through.

After our long, exciting day that didn't include a nap, I snuggled with Clara Jane in the armchair, trying to find a way to lull her to sleep without her usual routine. It didn't take much, just a few minutes of snuggling and she was out. I let her sleep on my chest long enough to ensure she was sleeping deep enough to not be disturbed by the transition to bed. I talked to her about our day, and how good she had been. Despite the upheaval of the day and her tiredness, she'd barely made a negative noise of any sort. I told her how proud I am of her, and how this is just the beginning. As she gets older, there will be more trips, with B. and with just the two of us.

"We're going to do this when you're a big girl in school, and when you're a teenager and think you don't want to be around me. We'll do this when you're in college. We'll definitely do this when you're the one who's 33 years old and footing the bill." I smiled through tears as she snored.

When she awoke the next morning, sleeping sideways in our king-size bed with her head rammed into my ribcage, she opened her eyes and asked, "We're gonna have a picnic in bed breakfast, right?" Of course! We're going to eat $2 cartons of Yoplait with a 15% service charge, and we're going to eat them in our pillow fort, because that's what hotels are for, my child.

Wednesday, we were Frankenmuth-bound with two goals: feasting on an awesome family-style chicken dinner, and getting some water park time, all with two cranky, overtired toddlers in tow.

Within minutes of checking into our suite, the kids devised a game Clara Jane later told me was called "Elevator". It entailed The Crankmeisters shoving each other into the closet and slamming the door. There were more than a few occasions during this game when Sal and I discussed the merits of just leaving them in there.

By dinnertime, Clara Jane was over the edge and intent on taking the rest of us with her. Only the strolling accordian player could soothe her. The love of polka music? That's 100% from her father's side of the family.

Despite the lovely fried chicken, buttered noodles, corn, homemade bread with cherry-rhubarb jam, cranberry relish, bean salad, chicken soup, and stuffing placed before her, do you know what she ate for dinner?

The lemon from my iced tea.

To further complicate matters, just as she started showing interest in her dinner, a leiderhosen-clad waiter placed a mamouth tray filled with ice cream, cookies and cakes within Clara Jane's reach, thus ending any possible forays into nutritious dining.

There's a waiter in Frankenmuth who's still trying to untangle his leiderhosen from their noose-like grip around his neck.

But then we returned to the room and this transpired:

And the cuteness was so unbearable that I no longer wanted to lock my child in a closet and deny her delicious lemons.

Hundreds of miles away at this exact same moment, B. is overwhelmed by the urge to purchase a shotgun, although he has no idea why.

Both kids passed out by 7:30 PM. Kirsti shooed Sally and me from the room with orders to forget the kids and enjoy some time together. I invited my friend Mr. Raspberry Lemonade with Vodka along. We sat in the hotel's lobby for hours, doing that friend thing I mentioned earlier. It made up all the toddler-rendered chaos of the day.

Thursday, we headed home with a stop at a petting farm. Clara Jane and I had an evening flight to catch, and Kirsti had some local family obligations, but it all worked out.

Our flight was delayed, Clara Jane was agitated, and I was exhausted. But during the flight home, the beautiful little redhaired girl in front of us made friends with my kid. For the entire flight, they talked, shared their snacks, shared their toys, and compared pedicures. I thought about how quickly kids pick up together, how fast Clara Jane and Oscar latched onto each other. There's no pretense with kids, and they don't hide their emotions. From the little girl on the plane massaging Clara Jane's toes, to Clara Jane cornering Oscar in the closet and covering him with kisses, if they feel it, they express it.

When do we lose that? When do we become so scared of showing our true selves that we hide or smother instead of just going, "Hey you. I think you rock. Let's pretend this closet into an elevator and make a day of it," while planting a big ol' kiss.

About ten years ago I was getting to know my friend Sandy. We worked in different departments at the same university, and often wound up working on the same projects. One day we decided that we needed to hang out away from work. We went out for dinner and drinks, acting in the reserved way new friends do. In the middle of dinner she told me that she loved my lipstick and it looked great on me. "Was that weird to say? That's weird. I shouldn't have said that." We both laughed, because my God. Two decades earlier, both of us probably would have smooched a new friend whose lipstick we loved, had five-year-olds worn lipstick. But as innocence goes, so does the comfort in knowing that our affections will be returned, even with friends. We wind up shuttered, and then we wind up very, very lonely.

Since that night, Sandy and I have been great friends. We live in different towns and don't talk very often, but when we do it's always filled with that openness and love, which erases any expectations and obligations. It's just pure.

Spending time with Sal feels the same way.

The trip wasn't perfect. There were rental car snafus, money mistakes, cranky kids, a lack of sleep, an overabundance of heat and humidity, that damn dessert tray, and one perfect little bathroom sans door. But it was perfect. It was showing up in Detroit, picking a direction, and going. It was Sally, Oscar, Kirsti, M. and R. It's a girl playing Vivaldi, a pair of toddlers swapping slobbery binkies and sippies, dribbling sushi rice on the floor of the van, a box of mac & cheese and leftover chicken for lunch, an unplanned $100 ride in a Town Car, waking every two hours three nights in a row, two slippery kids splashing each other in the bathtub,little girls comparing toenails and eating pretzels on a plane. And it was perfect.

(In case you missed it yesterday, there are pictures aplenty.

Posted by Robin at 08:49 PM | Comments (3)

June 02, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Rocked Detroit City Edition

Did I mention I was going to Detroit?

I went to Detroit.

Great fun ensued, and I've been working all day on getting it all blogged. Well, working between spells of narcolepsy, as I'm t-i-r-e-d. Turns out, traveling with a two-year-old is hard. It's also fun, rewarding, and ultimately a good way of renewing one's faith in one's ability to parent.

Go say hi to Sally and Kirsti. You might have to wake them first, as they're probably as exhausted as I am from my visit.

While I get my bearings, you can take a gander at the photos. In the meantime I'm shuffling back to the couch...

1. Cracking Up - Jesus & Mary Chain
2. Little Honey - Kelly Willis
3. Ball & Biscuit - White Stripes
4. The Stars are Projectors - Modest Mouse
5. Milk - Kings of Leon
6. Friday I'm in Love - The Cure
7. I'm Not the One - The Cars
8. This Land is Your Land - Woody Guthrie
9. All Shook Up - Elvis
10. Witchy Woman - Eagles

Posted by Robin at 05:42 PM | Comments (0)