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July 31, 2006

Fulfilling a Boatload of Dog-Related Promises

Okay, so I promised Dixie some stories about my dad's dingo dog Chigger. Let's pretend that I purposefully saved them for today in honor of her seventh wedding anniversary, okay?

And since we're talking about dogs, I'll fulfill my other promise, the one I made to a PR firm in exchange for my mortal soul free kids books.

You remember Chigger, right?

Yeah, that Chigger. Like the parasite. Which is appropriate, since I spent about half of my waking hours during my visit with his mouth latched onto my arm. I love smelling like dog slobber.

Chigger decided that he just loves my Chloe.

Really, do you blame him?

During our entire visit to my hometown last week, Chigger followed Chloe around like a smitten schoolboy, occasionally throwing a hump on her to really prove his love.

Chigger had no love for Murphy.

Really, do you blame him?

Even though I'll be the first to admit that Murphy can be rather hard to love, I don't think it was necessary for Chigger to brutally attack her and try to eat her head every single time he laid eyes on her in the course of six fucking days, at one point prompting me to scream, "Jesus Christ! Could we have a cease fire in the War of the Assholes for just one fucking night? Please?"

Apparently not, because after I screamed, I tripped over them as they staggered into my path, Chigger's jaws firmly latched around Murphy's neck. Again.

What goes around comes around, though. The next night I got to watch as Chigger tried to shit out a shovel.

That's right. A shovel.

Granted, it was a plastic toy shovel, and it was actually chewed-up little bits of shovel, but still. It was shovel, and it came out of his ass. That counts for something, right?

This isn't anything new. Chigger's always had two food groups: things that are digestable, and things that aren't. Just minutes before the shovel reappeared, I yanked a little rubber dinosaur out of his gullet. It was one of those with the spiny backs, and you know that would hurt. One time Chigger taught us that, when one eats Handi-Wipes - the ones in the cylinder container that are pulled through a little X in the lid - they exit the body much the same way they exit the container. For a few days Chigger's ass-end looked like a Handi-Wipes dispenser. A dirty, filthy, disgusting Handi-Wipes dispenser.

This summer, he's been working on eating this orange plastic shovel. It's good to have goals, right? Not so much when the goal means pooping plastic. You'd think that with all of his experience in passing hard, chunky items through his intestinal tract that Chigger would be able to handle a few little gnawed pieces of plastic.

Not so.

As the plastic made its vain attempt to leave The Tract of the Dingo, Chigger wimpered, giving his three-inch-long safety-orange dingleberry (no, I didn't measure it)the stink-eye. When that didn't move things along, he tried to outrun it, but it stayed on his ass like, well, crap with chewed-up chunks of plastic in it. Then, he hid under my dad's lawnchair, hoping to elude the renegade poo. Laid there, looking forlorn as every winged bug in the neighborhood swarmed.

Eventually the plastic poo needed human intervention to be removed. Not by me, of course. Murphy and I were too busy laughing.

Now that I've completely disgusted all of you ...

Last week I was approached by a PR firm representing Bush's Baked Beans. They've published a kid's book about Duke, their spokesdog. He tells the tale his adoption. All proceeds from the book benefit the American Humane Society, an organization near and dear to my heart. It's a cute book that promotes the benefits of adopted dogs, a message that's sorely needed in this day of dogs-as-fashion-accessories.

Consider this: my Chloe and Murphy are adoptees.

Chigger came from a breeder.

I think that speaks volumes.

So, I've got an extra ten copies of Duke's book. The first ten people who post funny dog stories in my comments gets their very own copy.

Posted by Robin at 09:11 PM | Comments (7)

July 30, 2006

The Friday Shuffle - The Not Even Remotely Close to Friday Edition

Yeah, I know. It's Sunday.

I've been completely off-kilter since last week's storm/power outage/fleeing business. Remember - I can only last 23 minutes in an emergency before my brain explodes. Piecing my brain back together takes three times as long as the catastrophe that led to said brain-explosion, I hear. By that token, I should be back to normal sometime before Labor Day. Maybe.

I haven't slept well in a week and a half. I'm exhausted, which leads to anxiety, which leads to depression, which leads to doing the Friday shuffle on Sunday.

That's the news from here. I'm crazy and sad for no reason. I'm tired. I'm roasting in yet another round of temperatures that are hovering near the century mark. I'm plotting the demise of the next weather reporter who uses the term "century mark" because really, that's about the stupidest way to say, "It's going to be 100 degrees." I'm hot, exhausted, and sad for no reason. I don't need half-assed literary devices from a local talking head on top of everything else.

I've got a stack of kid's books on my kitchen table, sent to me by a PR firm to give away on my blog. I don't know why I offer to do stuff like this. I get hit up a lot by PR firms to get products for free if I'll write about them on my blog. Generally, I turn them down, unless 1) it's a product or cause I believe in, or 2) I think I can get some good blog-fodder out of it. In this case, it's for a cause I believe in. But it's tied to a corporation, and I have some serious issues with corporations publishing kid's books that tie in to other products. In other words, I don't like advertising to kids, but I really don't like it when it's disguised in books. Hey! They're books! They're good for kids! Oh, and kids, tell your mom to buy _______________, just like the main character of this book!

But on the flipside, it's a corporation who's had this book published to benefit a cause I really, truly believe in. The book promotes some attitudes that I think need to be promoted at an early age. It's an example of a corporation *gasp* acting in a responsible manner.

Anyway, I'm not in the mood to grapple with this ethical delimma. Remember - exhausted, tired, hot, brain in many fragments. Tomorrow, I promise, the moral wrestling will be over and I'll fulfill my PR promise. And hey! Free books for you people! And you don't even have to shuffle for it. That's my job:

1. Pop Country Really Sucks - Hank Williams iii
2. Surrender - U2
(These tracks remind me: Brenda, the U2 song you've got stuck in your head is "The Sweetest Thing". It was written and recorded for Bono's wife while they were working on "The Joshua Tree" and was the B-side of the 7-inch of "Where the Streets Have No Name". They released it years later, with a darling video of Bono and band professing apologies to Mrs. Bono.)
3. Starting to Hurt - Ryan Adams
4. Calistan - Frank Black
(Dammit. Does everything on the shuffle have to remind me of stuff I need to do/should want to do? Both of these artists are going to be in concert in the near future. I should want to go, but I just can't get excited about it. Proof that 1) I'm getting old, or 2) the brain-altering mood drugs aren't working properly.)
5. Ngiculela - Es Una Historia - I am Singing - Stevie Wonder
6. In Your Honor - Foo Fighters
7. 100% - Sonic Youth
8. One Tree Hill - U2
9. Tell it Like it Is - Aaron Neville
10. Spiders (Kidsmoke) - Wilco

All this U2 reminds me of the one happy-inducing thing in recent days: my pal Anne, who was my bunkmate and primary latte-bringer during last November's U2 in Vegas romp, gave birth to Ella Kate just a few short hours after posting about her insomnia on her blog. I'd like to think that the weekend of great music, friendship, late-night left-wing ranting and shots of Starbucks liquer might have had something to do with Ella's creation. Regardless, I'll always see that weekend as Anne's last pre-Ella time, and I love that I got to be a part of it. Congrats Anne, S., and N.! I love you and I'm thrilled about your new arrival.

Posted by Robin at 02:05 PM | Comments (4)

July 25, 2006

The Same, Only Completely Different

Our stint as refugees - albeit very pampered, well-fed, electricity-possessing, wussypants-wearing refugees - is over. Clara Jane, the stupid dogs, and I are finally home, safe and sound.

Something in my brain exploded today when I looked at my blog stats and noticed someone from the St. Louis offices of Ameren UE - the utility company that still hasn't restored power to the people across the street from me a week after it went out - was reading my blog. Dude! Don't you have something better to do? Seriously!

For that, I have a feeling I'll be without electricity again in the near future.

I was in my hometown for six days. This is the longest chunk of time I've spent there since winter break of my freshman year of college nearly fifteen years ago. Most of my visits there are for big family shindigs, which doesn't leave much time for exploring. This week, I explored, and boy, was it surreal.

The surreality actually began before our exodus last week. I spent Wendesday afternoon - before all hell broke lose - on the phone with Kara Joy. The last time I talked to KJ? About ten minutes after we graduated from high school, when she told me that she'd told off some twit who had the audacity to belittle my commencement address.

I always liked KJ.

We were good friends in late elementary school, but grew apart for reasons I can't remember, most likely involing puberty hormones, which fuck up everything. We were always on good terms, though. When she tracked me down on MySpace earlier this year, I was actually glad to hear from her. That surprised me, as I always thought my reaction to being tracked down on the internet by people from high school would be abject terror and fleeing not unlike what I did last Thursday night. In the past year I've had several people from my youth find me, and it's always made me happy. But then again, it's always been the cool people who've found me.

So, we've emailed here and there, but something happened that required telephone intervention: the horrifying, nausea-inducing arrival of invitations to our 15-year-high school reunion.

You know what feels really, really good? Hearing a voice that hasn't changed in 15 years, and hearing that voice squeal, "Oh my God! You sound exactly the same as you did then! That giggle! You still have that giggle!"

Yes, I still giggle the same way I did when I was 18, which is the same way I giggled when I was 11. Who knew that having such information verfified would make my day?

KJ and I have found ourselves in rather similar positions in life. We share a similar political bend which would probably get us run out of our hometown. Her son's 14 months younger than Clara Jane. We've got similar interests in art, music, literature (which reminds me, her sweetie is co-owner of Prosperos Books on beautiful 39th Street in Kansas City - visit them!), politics, society, and our mutual lack of desire of attending this reunion ... And I couldn't help but wonder, were we like this when we were teenagers?

We had a lot in common back in fifth grade, but that was stuff like unicorns and "America's Top 40 with Casey Kasem". I also recall a thoroughly intriguing book about garden gnomes at her house. Oh! And we sobbed through Terms of Endearment together. And there was that time when I accidentally shoved her leg through a window, but we won't talk about that.

Kara Joy was the first person I met with a monkey fixation.

After elementary school, it seemed like the only thing we had in common was the first letter of our last names, insuring seven years of lockers located near one another. Imagine my surprise during last week's conversation when she said that she was miserable in high school.

I never, ever would have thought we had that in common. She didn't seem miserable. Did I seem miserable? I always felt like I was wearing my misery on my sleeve. You know, like Morrissey.

Wouldn't it be a great world if 16-year-olds who were really good friends four years earlier could just say, "Hey, I'm miserable. Are you miserable, too? Wanna be miserable together and perhaps wind up less miserable?" while digging through their lockers for their misery-inducing algebra books? It would defeat the purpose of adolescence, which is all about learning to manage misery, but still.

Wednesday's conversation left me feeling down-right giddy. It's conversations like that which bring some peace to the weird upheaval of adolescence. Not only did we get over that misery, but we turned into really smart, interesting, fun, funny people. We're just the same as we were in 1983, only completely different.

So, going into my evacuation to the hometown, I was carrying the glow of a great conversation with someone from my past who now feels a lot more like someone from my present. And then I find myself with a little time to explore my hometown a bit. Know what? It's the same as it was when I left in 1991, only completely different.

The radio station I listened to while driving around has the slogan "We play everything!". It would be more accurate if that slogan was "We play everything, as long as it was released during the time you lived in this town, Robin!" Getting into the car, turning the key, and being bombarded with Def Leppard's "Photograph"? Shit. It's 1983 all over again. And look! That guy over there has the same hairdo he had in 1983!

I drove by all my old schools, and the houses where my friends lived. Houses where I slept over, played, hung out. Not a single one of those houses is inhabited by the parents of my old friends. Everyone has moved on. I only lived in my parents' current house for two years. If my friends were to drive past the house where they came to my sleepovers, they wouldn't see any trace of my family, either. The houses are all pretty much the same, only completely different.

I thought about getting in touch with some of my old friends while I was in town, but quickly remembered that there are none. Well, there's one. We email a few times a year, mostly swapping pictures of our kids. Even though we used to talk about everything, often while drinking and cussing, I just couldn't call him while I was in town. I don't think he's like that anymore and really, I'm not as much like that. I'm sure he's the same as always, only completely different.

And now I'm home. It's exactly the same as it was when I left, only much cleaner (because B. rocks), and with a huge pile of branches and leaves at our curb. I'm watching The New York Dolls on "The Henry Rollins Show", only it's really just two guys from the original Dolls, because all the others are dead. Same as always, only completely different.

But isn't everything?

Posted by Robin at 11:35 PM | Comments (13)

Brief, Just Like My Current Thought Process

Much to write, but little time or energy to do it. Our electricity was restored Saturday night. Clara Jane, the dogs, and I are still in my hometown. Returning home tomorrow.

In the meantime, spend some quality time with Chigger and Clara Jane.

If you want to see the video, it's here. I had to yank it because I'm on the verge of exceeding my bandwidth limit.

To make up for the inconvenience, here's Clara Jane the Aeroplane.

Posted by Robin at 02:40 PM | Comments (8)

July 21, 2006

When the Lights Go Out

Have you seen what happened in St. Louis Wednesday? It's being called the worst storm to hit St. Louis in over 30 years. And let me tell you, this sumbitch came out of fucking nowhere.

This is a case of why I should be very careful what I wish for. After dinner that night, I was bemoaning the heat and the boredom it brings. We've only been out of the house for brief outings this week. I'm sick of looking at the damn walls in this house. Blah blah blah. While I pissed and moaned, B. looked out the window and noted that it looked a smidge bit stormy. As I started typing the URL for weather.com, ZAP! Out goes the power.

I grew up on the fringe of Tornado Alley, and I take storms seriously. Not so much Wednesday. When the power blew, I stepped onto my front porch to see what was going on. It didn't look like a tornado. The air was gray, not green, and there was no swirl to the wind. Instead, it was blowing straight, and it was blowing at 80 fucking miles an hour. Think hurricane-force winds, only without any warning. People from nearly every house on my street were outside, watching, and we had a collective neighborhood-wide heart attack when a power transformer across the street blew the hell up.

We live at the top of a big hill on a somewhat narrow street. Since we're a neighborhood of old houses, no one has a garage and there's a lot of off-street parking. On Wednesday I learned that, in case of an emergency, the fire truck will patiently sit at the bottom of the hill, politely waiting for my neighbors to leisurely move their cars, lest they get damaged in the fire truck's rampage to, oh, I don't know, put out a fucking fire.

At that point, we decided to move to the basement, where I learned a little something about myself. I learned exactly how long I can last in a crisis situation: 23 minutes. After that, all bets are off and I should probably be restrained because I will be of no use to anyone.

The storm passed without any damage to our persons or property, save for the loss of electricity. But all was not well. Oh no. We're in the midst of a heat wave, with Thursday temperatures predicted to be well over 100 degrees and a heat index of 115 degrees. In a city with no electricity. It's shit like this that makes me think that Mother Nature is fed the fuck up with us. Storms won't knock you people down? Well, then! Let's see how you like this noise, Dumbasses!

I went into indecisive crisis mode. On the one hand, we must carry on! B. has an appointment he can't miss on Thursday morning! I've got an appointment! Clara Jane's got daycare! We! Must! Carry! On! But, but! No air conditioning! No fans! Food rotting in the fridge! Death! Destruction! Mayhem! We've gotta get out of this place! If it's the last thing we ever do!

Flashlight in hand, I started packing. If we didn't have power by 10 PM, I was going to pack up my kid and my dogs and head for my parents' house three hours away. But, no! Appointments! Can't miss them! But the heat!

At this point I politely asked to be put in restraints.

Thank God we're lazy slobs at my house, and clean laundry rarely gets put away in a timely manner. "Packing" actually meant "pushing the laundry baskets with our clean clothes into the general vicinity of the front door". I grabbed a grocery bag and threw in the necessities - cell phone charger, iPod charger, drugs, knitting, and $1 cash, since I never remember to keep cash in my wallet. Your debit card won't work during the apocolypse, Sweetie!

In the past week we've stocked up on groceries. We're talking over 10 pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breasts in the freezer. Oh, and the milk situation. Let me tell you about the milk situation ...

We get home dairy delivery, and have since the week Clara Jane was born. That's nearly two and a half years. Every Tuesday night, we stick a cooler on our front porch. Wednesday morning, in the wee hours, B. brings the cooler into the house, where magical elves have filled it with dairy goods overnight. Well, except for this week. Our delivery guy - the same delivery guy who has serviced our house for nearly two and a half years - forgot us. Forgot!

B. called the dairy to see what was up. They offered to deliver our goods Thursday, which wouldn't work. It's going to be the hottest day of the year and no one will be home. Our milk, it will rot! Friday's no good, either, because then we'll have to go buy milk in the meantime. Frankly, if I wanted to run to the store to buy nothing but milk, I wouldn't pay someone to bring me my milk. That's the whole point of having milk delivery.

After several teeth were pulled and a few hoops jumped through, our milk arrived Wednesday morning afternoon, just in time to rot in our electricity-free house.

So, the frantic packing continued. At 9:30, I was changing my clothes. I had been wearing the official uniform of fleeing for your life from Mother Nature: no shoes, no bra, baggy gym shorts, and a stained t-shirt. Call me non-conformist, but I thought I'd dress up our evacuation and go with shoes and support garments. Just as I was pulling my shirt over my head, the lights flickered on. Well! That means it'll be back shortly. All evacuation came to a halt, which was just as well. When word reached my hometown that we were coming, my parents' air conditioner up and died.

I think it goes without saying that I didn't sleep. At 12:30, tired of listening to my snoring dog, my snoring husband (who normally sleeps with an electric-powered device that prevents him from sounding like a bulldozer), and the sounds of my neighborhood drifting through our open windows: Molly Hatchet, police sirens, illegal fireworks and my next-door neighbor's voice because sweet Jesus not even a blackout can shut that woman up, I moved to living room. As I picked up my quilt, hallelujah! The lights came back! B. got up and we unpacked the three coolers of groceries. It also seemed that during our frantic packing, vandals broke in to fill our sink with dirty dishes and leave leftovers strewn about the kitchen and dining room, so we did some middle of the night cleaning before turning into bed, confident that the system works, the lights will stay lit forever, and all is right in the world. Praise Jesus! We've been saved from a night of suffering mild discomfort!

Thursday continued business as usual. Appointments were fulfilled, daycare provided. Shortly after Clara Jane and I returned home, she was whining that I wouldn't let her watch three hours of "Teletubbies", and I was whining that it was too hot to make dinner.

As punishment, God once again took away our electricity.

But it was just there! It'll come back! It came back last night! Instead of working ourselves into yet another meat-packing, laundry-flinging ball of collective panic, we opted to go out for dinner. Surely by the time we returned, the lights would be back.

We won't even talk about how crazy overrun all five open restaurants in town were. We got lucky and beat the crowd by 45 seconds. God loves us!

But he doesn't love us enough to give us electricity. We returned home to no power, and picked up the panic ball where we'd left it. The food went back in the coolers, the laundry baskets back in front of the door, and the duct tape in hand to put my shit back together again.

This time, fleeing to my hometown wasn't as simple. The good news was the air conditioner was once again working. The bad news: far-flung family members were converging on my parents' house for a big ol' fish fry. Oh! But that's not all!

A lot of people in my hometown - including my parents - are registered with the chamber of commerce to rent spare bedrooms in their homes. It's not as nice as a bed and breakfast, but not as squalid as a boarding house. The rooms are primarily rented during the state fair to vendors who come from around the country, work 14-hour days, and need a cheap place to bathe and sleep. My parents registered their house last year, but hadn't had any renters. I was a-ok with that, as I wasn't thrilled about the idea of carnies sleeping in my childhood bedroom and murdering my parents in their sleep. I swore that Clara Jane wouldn't be allowed to visit my parents at any time when strangers were afoot.

Thursday night, my parents had their very first boarder. And, HA!, the joke's on me, because not only is Clara Jane going to be there, but I'm going to be sleeping in the room next to the carney, and sharing a bathroom with her!

Okay, so she wasn't a carney. She was a very nice lady from Lima, Peru. She's lived in St. Louis - just a mile up the road from me, actually - for twenty years and teaches elementary school. She planned to take Amtrak from St. Louis to Sedalia, arriving towards the end of Hillbilly Fishfest 2006. The next morning, she would hit the Katy Trail and start biking her way back home.

I wanted to just take my shit, my kid, and my dogs, get in my truck, and drive the three hours myself without production so I could meet my carney demise. But we can't have that, can we? We can't do anything with the lights out unless it's a three-ring circus. It's called The Carney Effect. B. insisted on driving the first half with me, meeting my dad at a truck stop, transferring me, my kid, my dogs, and my shit back into the protective custody of my father, who would then drive us to my hometown while B. returned home. I thought this was a tad bit of overkill, but they talked me into it. And yeah, I'll admit, I'm glad to have had the help and backup. My plan would have worked, but it would have sucked.

We arrived at my parents' house a little after midnight, shortly after my mom returned from the train station with her non-carney boarder, the train delayed five hours due to the power outages. While waiting for the train, my mom had to inform a posse of young Amish kids that perhaps putting your head on the railroad tracks to listen for the oncoming train isn't the smartest idea.

And here we are. B.'s going to stay in St. Louis. At least, that was the plan an hour ago. It could change. Clara Jane and I were going to come spend a week with my parents soon anyway. So what if our vacation got moved up a few days. It's no biggie. While this has all been a big pain in the ass, it could have been much, much worse. Could have been better, but all told, I'm feeling pretty lucky.

I'm also feeling very, very, very tired.

Posted by Robin at 11:56 PM | Comments (13)

Friday Shuffle - The Blown to Hell Edition

Did you hear that St. Louis got blown to Hell Wednesday night? Nearly literally - huge storm and mass power outages before what was the hottest day of the year. For God's sake, please let it have been the hottest day of the year because if we have another day where the heat index rises above 114 degrees, I want someone to bludgeon me to take my mind off it.

We lost power Wednesday night. Then we got our power back around midnightish. We luxuriated in air conditioned comfort on Thursday, got far too hautey for our own good, and lost power again Thursday night. It's still not back. Clara Jane, the dogs, and I are at my parents' house. I was in the midst of blogging about it when the second power outage hit.

While I get my head back on straight, let's shuffle.

1. Ain't Ever Goin' Back - John Haitt (Yeah, that's kind of how I feel right now.)
2. You Look Like Rain - Morphine (With 80 mph straightline winds)
3. Louisiana Lowdown - Cowboy Mouth
4. Too Darn Hot - Ella Fitzgerald (No fuck! Really?)
5. This Mountain - Kasey Chambers
6. The Bewlay Boys - David Bowie
7. Time to Get Ill - Beastie Boys (Darn tootin'! Somebody break out the Brass Monkey.)
8. Bowtie - OutKast
9. Help! - the Beatles (Oh yeah.)
10. Phaser - Superdrag

That's a pretty fucking accurate shuffle. Only thing that would have made it even more appropriate would have been the appearance of Tom Petty's "Refugee".

Posted by Robin at 11:15 AM | Comments (6)

July 18, 2006

A Smidge of Summer Housekeeping

Since it's too damn hot to do anything else, I did a little updating on ye olde blogge this morning. I realized I hadn't updated my big, long list of blogs on the right sidebar in forever. For God's sake, I didn't even have links to Summer or Katya. How the hell did that happen?

So, if you need some new reading material, take a glance to the right.

Posted by Robin at 09:39 AM | Comments (10)

July 17, 2006

On Drum Circles and Spontaneity

I'm a spontaneous girl by nature. Losing the ability to just pick up and do stuff on a whim has been one of the hardest parental adjustments for me. We live on Clara Jane Time. Sure, we can be spontaneous, just as long as it doesn't happen during naptime, bedtime, bathtime, breakfast, lunch, dinner, or during the last half of "Sesame Street".

I've gotten used to this regimented existance, even decided that there are times when I like it. This weekend wasn't one of those times. I've still got the dregs of the recent anxiety/panic in my system, which makes it hard to just quietly go about my business at home. Between the parental responsibilities and the heat advisories, I was climbing the walls, just because I knew that our options for spontaneous fun were severely restricted.

Screw it. Screw bedtime. It's summer. Not that the season matters, since she's not in school, but you know what I mean. There's just something about going out late and missing bedtime in the summer.

We'd planned to go out for dinner on Saturday. What we didn't plan was a wild goose chase to the far reaches of the St. Louis area in search of instant roux. At the farmer's market that morning I scored a bunch of gorgeous fresh green peppers and onions, along with some andouille sausage from The Meat Lady. I never make gumbo in the summer, because who wants to stand over a stove, stirring the volatile blend of flaming-hot oil and flour for 30-45 minutes? B. offered to do it with my supervision. It's not that I don't trust his cooking skills; he's pretty handy in the kitchen. There's just something about the idea of B. making roux that screams "roux fireball zooming through my kitchen". Besides, I don't want him to get stuck with that hot, nasty job.

Some of my Louisiana friends have said good things about the instant roux, and I knew of a place about half an hour from here that sells it. I haven't seen it in any of my local stores. When I last saw it in a store I thought, "Wow! That's the instant roux I've heard so much about. And it's only $1.30 a can! I should buy some. I should buy a lot. Nah. It's summer. I never make gumbo in summer."

See? That's what happens when I ignore my spontaneous urges. I wind up instant rouxless, chasing across the state of Missouri on a sweltering Saturday night, long after my kid's bedtime.

You should have heard her whining while we shopped. You should have seen the Hail Mary I did when I found the mix.

It was after Clara Jane's bedtime when we left the store, but we came prepared. B. tucked her in with her quilt and gave her a binky. Shut up. She only uses them when she sleeps. We put on Dan Zanes Night Time! and made it all the way to the end of the block before spontaneity struck again. Ice cream! There's an ice cream shop!

We untucked Clara Jane and carried her into the shop in her bare feet. When she peered into the cooler she squealed, "I want some pink ice cream! Pink ice cream with sprinkles!"

Full of pink ice cream and sprinkles, we returned to the truck, retucked, rebinked and reZanesed. During the ride home, Clara Jane almost fell asleep, content and comfortable.

Late Sunday afternoon, B. was starting to think about making dinner, and I was pacing around in my usual state of agitation. Clara Jane had just woken up from her nap and started asking for ... something. B. and I were both flummoxed with her requests, and she quickly lost what little patience she has. Reduced to tears she finally articulated what she wanted: her blanket, her binky, and "Night Time!". We did a makeshift version, but it just wasn't the same. After a few minutes of trying to make it work she said, "Get my shoes and socks and go for a ride?"

Spontaneity detonated yet another bomb on us. Dinner got crammed into the fridge for another night, and we were out the door. And since we're being sponaneous, let's not stick to the places we normally go. Let's go to The Loop! Grab a bite to eat, walk around a bit, people-watch, sweat to death. Sounds like a fun night.

The noise hit us when we opened the truck doors. Drums. Loud, reverberating drums, echoing through the parking lot. We'd forgotten that Sunday nights are Drum Circle Night. People bring their drums, sit in a circle, and drum. For hours. There's no set list. One person sets a beat and the music evolves from there. Others jump into the circle and dance, if the spirit moves them. The dancers harbor no inhibitions, swaying and jumping, their movements throwing the sweat from their bodies.

At first Clara Jane was a bit taken aback by the noise and the throng of people, so we didn't stay long. We ate dinner, and when we walked out of the restaurant she cocked her head and said, "Hear that? That's drums. I wanna dance!"

We took our walk, eventually returning to the drum circle. It was almost dusk and most of the crowd had left. One drummer sat on a low concrete wall, visiting with some girls who danced a bit as he thumped. A few feet away, three other drummers sat in what remained of the circle. This time, Clara Jane inched towards the drummers, bouncing a little until she got comfortable. Then she let loose, stomping, twirling and waving her arms to the beat. One of the drummers offered her his drum, but she turned shy, too tired to be social.

Once again, we got home past her bedtime, but that's a small price to pay. I know she's young enough that it's unlikely she'll remember our two spontaneous summer nights when she's big. But we've set a precident, and that, she'll remember.

Posted by Robin at 08:41 PM | Comments (4)

July 16, 2006

I'll Explain Why Clara Jane's Dancing in a West African/Afro-Cuban Drum Circle Later

Video removed due to bandwidth issues, but you can see it here.

Posted by Robin at 10:45 PM | Comments (9)

July 14, 2006

The Friday Shuffle - The Emotionally Grounded Edition

Not that kind of emotionally grounded, where one is stable and content. I've been grounded because emotionally, I can't handle shit these days.

Three weeks ago I saw my doc and said, "Gimme the brain pills. Now." It's been up and down since then. For the past few days, it's been way, way down, which gives me even more reason to believe this is hormonal in nature. I was doing fine until the day I started my plecebo birth control pills. Gee, wonder what's causing the problem? Hormones? Surely not! Not in this woman who has a hormone imbalance and went crazy while pregnant, then crazier after the baby was born, and then really crazy when she stopped breastfeeding. Hormones? Nah.

As for the grounding, B. grounded me from reading the news yesterday because I just can't take it for the same reasons Marrit Ingman mentioned on her blog yesterday. Isreal and Lebanon! Iran! North Korea! The Sudan! Iraq! Iraq! Iraq! Mumbai! And California's on fire fire fire! Just typing that's enough to make my heart flat-out stop for a few seconds. Even my involuntary bodily functions are overwhelmed.

So, I'm not allowed to read CNN.com. Or the Post-Dispatch. Or NPR. Husband's orders. Of course, he didn't put any blocking software on my computer, so it's not like he's been able to stop my 27 visits to each of those sites today. Hezbollah!

Yesterday I had a panic attack because Chloe was panting at a time when I thought it wasn't appropriate for her to pant.

Six days until my follow-up appointment ... six days until my follow-up appointment ... six days until ... Baghdad!

In seemingly unrelated but pertinant other news, my mom was sans computer for quite awhile. She's now trying to catch up on all my blogging that she missed, because the 1-2 hours we spend on the phone every day just isn't enough. Today she brought up the subject of my musical weeping. Apparently, it's a family thing. She does it, and so does my grandma. "Yeah, I know," I told her. "We're the biggest bunch of crying sissies ever. We can't even laugh without crying."

I'd completely blocked this from my memory, but apparently the reason why I didn't have much of a church-going upbringing was because when they took me to church, I'd sob and sob during the hymns. At that young stage of my life, I had a tendancy to puke when I cried too hard, which isn't the best way to praise Jesus.

After my mom reminded me of this, she recommended listening to my copy of Alan Jackson's Precious Memories.

I've had a copy of this CD sitting on my desk for months, but I haven't listened to it or loaded it into my hard drive. Why? Do we have to talk about what Alan Jackson does to me? If you don't know, I'll send you the link. However, I think most of you know. He makes me sob like my best friend just ran off with B. and ran over my dogs while they were pulling out of the driveway. Which, now that I think about it, would be an excellent premise for an Alan Jackson song. But Alan Jackson singing stripped-down country gospel with his wife and daughters? Jesus, save me from drowning in my tears. I can't even look at the CD without getting teary, nor could I keep from crying while my mom told me about it.

Once I pulled my shit together, Clara Jane and I went to Trader Joe's, then made a side trip to the park. When I opened my door to get out of the truck, I was accosted by the strains of that heart-shredding motherfucker in a big cowboy hat's voice singing Remember When. A mean, mean man was playing wiffle ball with his two small sons, his boom box propped on the table, blasting Alan Jackson's Greatest Hits Vol. II in its entirity. Big Dig!

So, now I'm "That Fat Lady at the Park Who Pushed Her Kid on the Swing While Sobbing and Laughing Like a Rabid Hyena".

But oh! That's not it! No, there's more! After our playground sob-a-thon, I asked Clara Jane what she wanted for lunch. Mac & cheese. We could have gone home for that, but it's been weeks since Clara Jane and I have gone out for lunch. I kind of had my broken little heart set on it. Being the food snob that I am, I hate the fact that the mac & cheese on the kids menus at most restaurants is nothing but Easy Mac. I can buy an entire box of the good, all-natural Annie's Organic version of the chemical-laden crap for the same price as a single order of the chemical-laden crap in a restaurant. The kid wants mac & cheese. I want to eat out. The solution: Cracker Barrel. She can have some decent mac & cheese with a real-live veggie on the side, and I can drown my misery in a mountain of catfish, fried okra and sweet tea.

We were nearly there when I made a sickening realization: even at my emotional strongest, I can't get out of Cracker Barrel without getting at least a little misty-eyed. If the classic country music that I love doesn't get me, then I'll see something in the store that reminds me of my family, my childhood, where I come from and Jesus Christ, just typing that has made me cry! I'm not getting out of this lunch unscathed. Oh, no. There's no way.

And because the universe doesn't like to disappoint, when I opened the door to the restaurant, I was assaulted with Alan Jackson singing How Great Thou Art, a hymn that never fails to wrench my heathen, too-big-of-a-crybaby-to-go-to-church heart from my chest, wring it out like a sweat rag, and then throw it under the wheels of a truck. Which would be another great premise for an Alan Jackson song.

Next personea: "The Fat Lady at Cracker Barrel Who's Lying Under the John Deere Memorabilla Display, Shoving Cornbread Into Every Hole in Her Head".

I think God's trying to tell me something, and I've narrowed it down to two options: 1) I need to get right with God, or 2) I need to get my ass to Nashville and personally make Alan Jackson cut this shit out already.

In cast it's option #1, I'm going to say a little prayer, right here and now. Dear God: If you send me more and better brain pills, I won't hurt the asshole in the cowboy hat. Thanks. Oh, and please don't let him show up on the shuffle.

1. Ballad of a Teenage Queen - Johnny Cash
2. The Sound of Settling - Death Cab for Cutie
3. Late in the Evening - Paul Simon
4. Happy Birthday - Concrete Blonde
5. Less Than You Think - Wilco (A 15-minute musical panic attack. Thanks, Jeff Tweedy and God!)
6. Box Full of Letters - Wilco (Two Wilco songs in a row? God is real, people. This is proof.)
7. Stuck in a Rut - the Bottle Rockets (Two Wilco songs followed by the Brox? Jesus is sitting with me, and he's running the click wheel on my iPod.)
8. Single Girl, Married Girl - Shawn Colvin
9. I'll Be You - The Replacements (God bless Paul Westerberg!)
10. Reflections - Diana Ross & the Supremes

While I've never been able to listen to #5 all the way through, I appreciate the sentiment. Truly, a heaven-sent shuffle. The cowboy gets to live. Barbaro!

Posted by Robin at 03:08 PM | Comments (9)

July 13, 2006

I Need Some More Toys

If you are sickened or roll your eyes at tales of children making funny malapropisms, don't continue reading this entry. It's sickening. Truly.

When Clara Jane was a wee tot, I bought a Dan Zanes CD for her. Well, for me. The former lead singer of '80s alternative Boston band the Del Fuegos, doing kids music with the likes of Loudon Wainwright III and Debbie Harry? Sign me up, Mister!

It's only been recently that Clara Jane's decided she likes this CD. And she likes it with a vigor usually reserved for, say, Candy Day - a day where we eat nothing but candy! Not that we've ever done that, but you get what I'm saying.

One of her favorite songs is "Malti", which is sung in Spanish:

malti, malti ya es verano
¿por qué no levantamos temprano?
nunca repetimos hoy
lleno del sol y viento soy
nunca repetimos hoy
lleno del sol y viento soy

Translation:

Malti, Malti already is summer
so that we did not raise early?
we never repeated today
plenty of the sun and wind I am
we never repeated today
plenty of the sun and wind I am

Um, sure. Thanks, Google Translate!

Now, for the cute malapropism. Avert your eyes, if necessary.

Clara Jane sings along, which in and of itself is entertaining. It's pretty much gibberish as she tries to phoenetically match the lyrics, until she gets to the "lleno del sol y viento soy" line, which she translates as "I need some more toys! I need some more toys!"

Hey. It's not much worse than Google's translation, is it?

Posted by Robin at 04:31 PM | Comments (5)

July 12, 2006

Brain Misfiring Junk

Oh, what a week, what a week. What a snot-filled, insomnia-ridden week.

I've got nothing good to say. Nothing horrible, but nothing good. Clara Jane and I have been struck with summer colds. The snot, it flows and flows like a river, preventing sleep for both parties.

Don't come around here. We're cranky, and we probably have dried boogers on our faces.

I think B. is venting his frustrations with me in his sleep. Between the bed-hogging, kicking, and mouth-breathing, I've decided that I'd rather be married to our couch.

Did you hear the horrible news story out of St. Louis earlier this week? Five kids drown in the Meramec River. Four of them were siblings. This news has cast a pall over my entire week. It's hard to shake a tragedy like that. The local paper even said so, what with their "Stop the presses!" shocking headline today: "People Remain Haunted By Drownings".

Really?!

You don't say!

Are the people actually haunted by a horrific, unthinkable tragedy that happened less than 72 hours ago, or are they merely grief-stricken?

You know, I almost went into journalism. From the time I was in third grade, that's all I wanted to be when I grew up. I only applied to one college - the University of Missouri, home to one of the best journalism schools in the country. It took me all of six weeks to change my major. I couldn't stomach a career that would have me writing headlines like that. I opted to be an unpaid, out-of-work writer instead.

I'm a good decision-maker.

Anyway, between the drownings, the bombings in India, explosions all over the damn place, and foiled terrorism plots, I've felt a mix of quease stirred with impending doom all week. Add a cup of snot, a dash of insomnia, and a box of instant PMS mix, and I've got myself a great big ol' bad mood and misfiring brain. Don't even get me started on all the petty mistakes I've made in the past few days. We'll be here all day.

At least the local newspaper has moved away from these quease-inducing headlines to focus on the real news: horny sea lions. That story is listed fourth on the paper's news page. Important stuff, those sea lions.

Thanks to my lousy disposition and rapidly-decreasing IQ, I'm opting to do two memes in lieu of any real content. The first is long-winded and self-indulgent, the second is only for the sexy people music nerds.

Meme #1, nabbed from Dixie, who got it from the source, Mr. Fabulous. Kristina did it, too, and I like to mimic her.

Meme-ology Meme

GRUB-OLOGY

What is your salad dressing of choice? I usually make a simple balsamic vinaigrette for our salads, but I also make a lovely Roquefort and white wine vinaigrette that I could drink as a cocktail, I love it so.

What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
Not a fan of fast food. I do like Lion's Choice, which is a St. Louis-based chain of roast beef joints. Every now and then I require tots from Sonic.

What is your favorite sit down restaurant?
Oh, so many! Currently, I'd say Vivian's Vineyards, Iron Barley, and House of Wong.

On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
At least 20%, unless the service really sucked.

What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of it?
Currently, sesame bagels with cream cheese.

Name three foods you detest above all others.
This is a hard one, as there's not much I detest. Also, it should be noted that I love the foods Kristina and Dixie put in this category. As for mine, I'm not fond of nori, lamb stew or squid/octopus if I can tell by looking at it that it's squid/octopus.

What is your favorite dish to order in a Chinese restaurant?
Sesame chicken from House of Wong.

What are your pizza toppings of choice?
Depends on my mood. I do love a good Hawaiian - ham and pineapple.

What do you like to put on your toast?
Butter or peanut butter.

What is your favorite type of gum?
I'm not a big gum-chewer, but I bought some sour orange gum at a Japanese market when I was in Detroit, and I love that stuff.

TECH-OLOGY

Number of contacts in your cell phone?
20

Number of contacts in your email address book?
Damn. 111

What is the wallpaper on your computer?

What is your screensaver on your computer
I never use a screensaver.

Are there naked pictures saved on your computer?
Just cavorting kid pictures.

How many landline phones do you have in your home?
Three, and they're all about to crap out.

How many televisions are in your home?
Two, although I tend to forget about the second one.

What kitchen appliance do you use the least?
Kitchenaid mixer

What is the format of the radio station you listen to most?
NPR

How many sex toys do you own that require batteries?
None of your damn business.

BI-OLOGY

What do you consider to be your best physical attribute?
My smile.

Are you right handed or left handed?
Right

Have you had anything removed from your body?
Tonsils, adenoids, four wisdom teeth, a mole, and a small person.

Would you like to?
Probably not. I'm tired.

Do you prefer to read when you go to the bathroom?
Some days, it's the only chance I get to read.

Which of your five senses do you think is keenest?
Smell.

When was the last time you had a cavity?
I've never had one.

What is the heaviest item you lift regularly?
34 pounds of kid.

Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
Almost.

MISC-OLOGY

If it were possible, would you like to know the day you're going to die?
Good lord, no! See Kristina's answer.

If you could change your first name, what would you change it to?
Nah, I'm good.

How do you express your artistic side?
I write, knit, cook, occasionally sew, and fingerpaint with my kid.

What color do you think you look best in?
Red or dark pink.

How long do you think you could last in a medium security prison?
About an hour. I'm a wuss.

Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
I'm sure I have.

If we weren’t bound by society’s conventions, do you have a relative you would make a pass at?
Nope.

How often do you go to church?
Damn near never.

Have you ever saved someone’s life?
Not that I know of.

Has someone ever saved yours?
I don't think so. I've been in a few dire situations, but not that dire.

DARE-OLOGY

For this last section, if you would do it for less or more money, indicate how much.
Shit. I hate questions like this.

Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for $100,000?
Perhaps.

Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
Sure. I'd probably do it for less.

Would you have sex with a member of the same sex for $10,000?
Nope. I'm playing the marriage card here. The couch would be furious with me.

Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?
Only if I really, really, really needed the money.

Would you never blog again for $50,000?
Considering that blogging is my primary writing motivator, I'd have to say no.

Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000?
Only if I really, really, really needed the money.

Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
Sure.

Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
No way. I'm sure I couldn't do that.

Would you shave your head and get your entire body waxed for $5,000?
Maybe for $10,000.

Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000?
Easily.

Now, for meme #2, nabbed from DiatribeR. Class participation is required!

The rules:
Step 1: Get your playlist together, put it on random, and play.

Step 2: Write down the first line from the first 10 songs that play or close to it.

Step 3: Post and let everyone you know guess what song the lines come from.

Step 4: Cross out the songs (or similar) when someone guesses correctly.

1. I dragged my feet across the seat. "Disappear" by REM, guessed by Dixie.

2. The machine of a dream. "I'm in Love with My Car" by Queen, which brought Ellie out of lurking!

3. I read the news today, oh boy. "A Day in the Life" by the Beatles, guessed by DiatribeR.

4. Never forget who you are little star "Little Star" by Madonna, which, of course, Zoe knew.

5. I was crawling through a festival way out west. "Coma Girl" by Joe Strummer, guessed by DiatribeR.

6. Psychic spies from China try to steal your mind's elation. "Californication" by Red Hot Chili Peppers, guessed by Dixie.

7. I was watching with one eye on the other side "Hotel Yorba" by the White Stripes, a la Kristina.

8. The day since I met her I can't believe it's true "Letter to Memphis" by the Pixies, guessed by Holley, who, of course, would know something this obscure.

9. I attack with love, pure bug beauty "Company in My Back" by Wilco, a la Kristina.

10. We passed upon the stair "The Man Who Sold the World" by Nirvana (Yes, originally by David Bowie, but it was the Nirvana version that shuffled up.), guessed by Dixie.

It should be noted that, 1) I shuffled, and eliminated a lot of songs that no one would be able to get, and 2) I didn't purposefully rig it so Kristina would ace it. It just worked out that way.

Posted by Robin at 02:03 PM | Comments (16)

July 10, 2006

Shortened Expectations

I spent Saturday night at a Scrap Mania! event with Angie, her mom, and Tempe. It was a lot of fun with excellent company, and I finally finished a project I've been working on since March, but I wouldn't describe the evening as manic. Maybe it's just me, and the anti-manic drugs are finally kicking in. "Scrap Mild Excitement with Bouts of Extreme Silliness" would be a more appropriate name.

This was the second time I've met Tempe. We met for coffee with Angie a few months ago. I'm pretty sure I didn't stand up in Tempe's presence during that meeting.

Saturday night, we got so scrapping manic that we had to flee the store and run to the other side of the mall for espresso. While riding the escalator, Tempe said, "Your personea is much taller than you are."

"That's because I'm standing on the step below you," I said.

"No, that's not it. I noticed it when we were walking. You're really short. How tall are you, anyway?"

"I'm five-foot-three. Or so."

"No way. I'm five-foot-four and I can see the top of your head," she said as we walked off the escalator on equal ground. She swung around to stand back-to-back with me. "Angie! How much taller am I than her?"

Angie turned around and looked at us with a perfectly straight face. "A few inches, maybe?"

"See? Told ya! And I touched your butt!"

Yes, Tempe and I touched butts. In public. Manic, I tell you! Manic! Manic with access to many, many, many varieties of scissors!

"Okay, well, maybe I'm five-foot-two and three-quarters," I conceded.

The whole height thing cracked me up, because I have never felt short, even though I obviously am down-right Lilliputan in stature. Most of the time, I feel like I'm about 5'8" tall, which means I misjudge my movements and fall down a lot.

I was a freakishly tall kid. I hit the five-foot mark the summer before third grade. When school started, they had to get a taller desk for me from the middle school. My legs were so long that, if I sat with my feet flat on the floor, my knees would raise the desk off the floor. In the two years that followed, I grew three inches (although that measure is currently in dispute), then stopped. When fifth grade ended, I left for summer vacation, confident that I was, as always, the tallest kid in the class.

When I returned to school three months later, roughly half the kids had outgrown me. A few years later, the extra-tall mother of one of my friends expressed her disappointment that I had opted to not join her in the over-six-foot club.

Did I mention that I have my current insatiable coffee habit because my granny used to give me coffee and Archway cookies for breakfast when I'd spend the night with her, starting when I was about six years old? I blame her for preventing me from fulfilling my long-legged destiny. Good thing she didn't share her smokes with me, or I probably wouldn't have hit the five-feet mark, ever.

So, I've never felt short, even though I am. I forget I'm short, until someone reminds me. Or until I fall because my legs aren't long enough to reach where I thought they would reach.

I must say, I like having a tall personea. Truly, I am a giant, trapped in a squat body. Bigger than life, Baby!

Posted by Robin at 02:03 PM | Comments (8)

July 07, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Clara Jane's Got Stripper Shoes Editioin

Before I start, can someone please help my friend, Mary? Particularly, she needs assistance regarding Mongolian Buddhist funeral traditions and controlling angry Russians. Her request is in the comments of the previous post. I'm not much help, as the only Mongolian stuff I know regards barbeque and the bowl dance Grover occasionally performs on "Sesame Street".

Now, on with the show...

If you've been reading for any amount of time, you realize that I'm pretty laid-back as parents go. Everything in moderation, I say. I think outright forbidding stuff just makes them big and shiny and appealing. So Clara Jane watches a bit of TV. Yesterday, she had a few french fries with her lunch. She's free to track dirt into the house at will. That's just how we are around here.

There are only two things on my "absolutely, positively no" list: soda and Barbie/princessy crap. Well, beer, cigarettes, prostitutes (male, female, and all-of-the-above) and driving my truck without permission are on the list, too, but I would hope that you had assumed as much.

Now, if you choose to let your toddler have soda, that's your perogative. You know what's best for your kid. Since Clara Jane comes from two rotund parents, I don't think it's wise to introduce her to empty sugar calories or fake sweetners.

If you and/or your daughter (or son) dig Barbie/princessy crap, that's fine, too. Really, I try to keep all cross-marketed toys - the stuff with TV and movie tie-ins - to a bare minimum in general, because I'm inherantly lazy and don't feel like fighting the "I saw this on TV and will die without it!" battles.

My hang-up with Barbie/princessy crap is rooted in feminism, of course. I don't like the image created by these characters, who all look alike and have nearly identical "personalities". A few months ago I saw ads for some princessy crap DVD, marketed at girls not much older than Clara Jane. Every single storyline mentioned in the ad involved the princesses trying to land a man. There will be plenty of time for that once my daughter's age is in the double-digits. For the time being, I'd like to not introduce her to the concept of boy-craziness. Or the importance of being beautiful and demure. Or accessorizing. I want her to be a kid who doesn't have any thoughts about how girls are "supposed" to act. I want her to just, simply, be a kid. Not a girly-girl. Not a tomboy. Just, simply, herself, without lables. There will be plenty of time for that later.

I have a friend whose daughter is into the princessy crap. This friend had similar feelings to mine about it, and has warned me, "Oh, just try keeping it away. It's impossible. One day you're sticking to your principles, and the next, your house looks like Cinderella's castle because of crap other people give your kid. That's how you lose the battle."

In the past month, I've learned that my friend was dead-on correct.

Last weekend, Clara Jane attended a birthday party for my mom's best friend's three-year-old granddaughter. I've known this child's mom since we weren't much older than our kids. She's always been the stereotypical girly-girl - cheerleader, clothes horse, and the epitome of boy-crazy from about fourth grade. So it shouldn't have surprised me one bit when, after the party, my mom confessed that it was a Barbie-themed soiree.

The good news: Clara Jane showed no interest in the Barbie crap, opting instead to spend the party playing on the swings with two little boys while the other girls did girly things.

So, Barbie has crept into our world, despite the death grip I generally have on the door that leads into said world. About a month ago, a princess also managed to wrangle her way in.

Last time my parents visited, they brought a gift from my aunt. You know, my conservative Baptist aunt who believes drinking, smoking, listening to rock & roll, not supporting the president, or being French-Canadian are all grounds for eternal damnation. And yet, she has no qualms about little girls whoring it up. This woman's daughter used to put makeup on her little girls when they were Clara Jane's age because they were "too pale" otherwise. Those girls are now 12 and 15. Guess how they're doing. Go on. Guess. They've got some problems, those girls. The younger one has shown signs of having an eating disorder since she was 8. The older craves attention in a manner I've never seen the likes of before.

Anyway, my aunt purchased a little gift for Clara Jane. Oh boy ... it came from the Disney store! You can just bet I got busy on the thank-you note when I heard that.

Actually, I do try to be gracious with any gifts that are given to Clara Jane, even if it's stuff I don't want her to have. Smile, say thank you, ditch the gift into the Goodwill donation box at first opportunity. But this gift ... this gift tested my graciousness like no other.

My aunt got Clara Jane a pair of clear plastic, glitter-filled high-heeled play shoes emblazened with Cinderella's image.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold! It's Baby's First Stripper Shoes!

When the shoes arrived last month, I put them on top of a bookcase, out of Clara Jane's line of vision. I should have immediately taken them the the donation box in the basement, but remember, I'm lazy. She continued playing dress-up with her daddy's Birkenstocks, happy as ever without her high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes.

While she was visiting my parents this weekend, B. and I did a little furniture rearranging. The bookcase where the high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes had been tossed got cleared and moved. B. threw all the stuff from the bookcase into a pair of boxes that are sitting in the hallway until we finish the rearranging. When I was walking out the door to get Clara Jane on Wednesday, I noticed that the high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes were on top of one of the boxes. I made a mental note to move them before Clara Jane got home and, because I'm lazy, forgot.

You know where this is going, right? With her finely-tuned forbidden item radar, Clara Jane zeroed in on the high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes about three seconds after she walked in the door, promptly removed her sensible shoes that are good for running, hopping, skipping, and dancing, and put the high-heeled plastic princess stripper shoes on her feet. I then watched, mildly sick to my stomach, as she teetered around the house on those heels that were made for petite little toddler feet like hers. She wobbled and slid on the hardwood floors, worked to steady herself, and aborted her first attempt at running when she fell off the edge of the shoe and landed in a heap on the floor.

She loves these shoes. Love them. And while she's teetering in all her bone-breaking glory around the house, I'm barricading the doors and buying a shotgun. Anyone named Ariel, Barbie, or Jasmine will be shot on sight.

Please, oh please, let there be some Bikini Kill in the shuffle. Kathleen Hanna, we need you now more than ever!

1. Superstar - Sheryl Crow
2. I'll Sleep When I'm Dead - Warren Zevon
3. Tell Me More and Then Some - Nina Simone (who does a lovely job of obliterating the princess crap)
4. Been It - The Cardigans
5. Way Down - Tori Amos (That might work, too.)
6. I Fought the Law - The Clash
7. Here Today - Beach Boys
8. Afraid Not Scared - Ryan Adams
9. Say You Miss Me - Wilco
10. Jeremy - Pearl Jam

Ah, the shuffle didn't fail me. That combination of music should be enough to make any remaining princesses flee for the hills, where they will promptly twist their ankles in their plastic stripper shoes and get eaten by wolverines.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Well, except for the princesses.

Posted by Robin at 09:29 AM | Comments (9)

July 06, 2006

"I'm one can of Schlitz away from living in a trailer"

That's what I told B. last night. We were watching CMT's 20 Greatest Southern Rock Songs, and I was completely lathered because "Freebird" was number three, when obviously it should have been in the top slot. What the fuck? Yeah, "Sweet Home Alabama" has that guitar riff that defines the genre. And there's a complexity to its narrative that mirrors life in the contemporary south. But it's not iconic, like "Freebird". You don't hear "Sweet Home Alabama" played at funerals, for God's sake!

Don't even talk to me about the omission of Whipping Post. Just ... don't.

At which point I realized I was far too emotionally invested in the show and the order of the countdown and I announced, "I'm one can of Schlitz away from living in a trailer, aren't I?" And by "trailer" I don't mean one of those new mobile homes that looks and feels just like a house. No. I mean a trailer. A tornado-taunting heap of metal, narrow enough that that a tall man can stand in the middle and touch both walls, just like the one my Aunt Earlene and Uncle Nash lived in.

Yes, I have an Aunt Earlene and Uncle Nash. I also have a cousin named Huck and know someone whose given name is Cletus. Someone named Skeeter stood with my parents when they got married.

Let's not mention how I yelled, "Those are my people!" when Ozark Mountain Daredevils were featured on the show.

I don't know if I'm getting more in touch with my roots as I get old, or if I've lived in this neighborhood too long and have inhaled too much dune buggy-tainted air, or if it's because summer brings with it the lure of the hillbilly good life, what with the fishing and camping - stuff I have never particularly enjoyed. But it seems like nearly every summer, something happens and I catch myself turning hillbilly. And each year, I seem to saunter a little further down that dirt road.

That business last week about driving through the fancy-ass neighborhood in my truck, blasting "Redneck Woman"? I wasn't making that up, or even exaggerating for comedic effect. That's the Gods-honest truth. Something deep within the core of who I am as a human being thought, "Damn prissy-pants rich bastards. Let's see how they like this!"

I'm blaming the woman who lives two houses away from me. She moved in a few months ago, mostly unnoticed. But in recent weeks, I can't help but notice. You see, her house is down the hill from ours, and when I look out my hall window, I can see directly into her backyard. And do you know what I'm seeing?

A blue above-ground swimming pool with two black innertubes floating on the surface.

I'm jealous.

This jealousy concerns me. It concerns me greatly. For most of my adult life, I've looked at the shoddy, hastily-erected above-ground pools as being a sure sign of the owners' redneck pedigree. And really, if you can afford the pool, you should be able to afford proper floatation devices that don't have 10,000 highway miles on them.

But damn if it wouldn't feel good to park my ass in one of those 'tubes, crank up Eat a Peach, cold can of beer in my hand, and spend the day doing nothing but drinkin' and floatin'.

Being drug across a lake in one of those 'tubes wouldn't be bad, either. Well, not until the dragging is over and the full-body-bruise starts to form, that is.

While I'm looking in the mirror, watching my neck turn from pale pastey white to flaming hot poker red, my dad is undergoing his own cultural transformation. Today's his 57th birthday, and he's spending it the same way he spent his 56th birthday - by driving a vanload of Amish men to a horse sale in Iowa. They think it's evil to operate a horseless carriage, but they have few qualms about riding in them with some poor soul who doesn't mind being doomed to damnation behind the wheel.

My dad has been spending a lot of time among the Amish in recent years. There's a large Amish and Mennonite population near my hometown, and my dad utilizes their horse-related services. Last year's Iowa jaunt, I understood. He was newly retired and looking for something work-like to do. But this year ... there's no excuse.

I fear my dad is one day without shaving away from changing his name to Zebulon and shunning my mom because she uses an electric stove when she cans their home-grown green beans.

Do you know what all this means? Next July 6th, once Zebulon has shunned motor vehicles, I'll be driving him and the other Amish to Iowa to earn my Schlitz money. Probably in a custom van with the images of Ronnie Van Zandt and Duane Allman, playing guitars as angels in heaven airbrushed on the side. While wearing a one-size-fits-all tube top.

Posted by Robin at 08:33 AM | Comments (17)

July 03, 2006

Wheel-Spinning

The good news: I have a rare day to myself. Clara Jane's still visiting my parents and B.'s one of tweleve people in the U.S. who has to work today. Yippee! I never get a day to myself with no obligations!

The bad news: I suck when I have unfettered time like this. For one thing, I tend to get stuck when it comes to finding the best way to spend the day. It's almost 10:30. I'm still in my pajamas. Hell, I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet, because I might want to spend my free time at a coffee house. But if I drink a coffee at home, that would ruin the coffee house plan.

Hello. I'm a poor decision-maker.

So, here I sit, in my pajamas, drinking a caffeine-free diet soda and eating M&Ms. Because, you know, if I eat a real breakfast it might ruin any potential real breakfast-eating plans I may conjure later. At this rate, I'll conjure those plans sometime after 2 PM.

You want to hear about my weekend, right?

Earlier, I alluded to my delightful Friday night. Really, it was a lovely night. Summer turned 30, and her sweet husband arranged a surprise party for her at Lorenzo's. Talk about your perfect parties. He managed to get a bunch of her relatives to drive the two hours to St. Louis for the party, along with some far-flung message board friends who drove much, much further than that to be there. I think B. and I were the only locals.

I'm not a fan of being surprised, and I tend to not surprise others for this reason. But Summer was surprised. Dumb-struck surprised, but happy. All night, she kept saying how she couldn't believe all these people did such a thing for her. And I kept thinking, "How could they not?"

Great conversation. Great food. Great laughs. Great night.

And gifts! Many of them meat-related. In case you don't know, her blog is called Not a Ham Sandwich, and she often professes her love of meat. There was a lovely crochetted/knitted/felted handmade ham sandwich, not made by me (although I wish it had been - it was truly a work of sandwich art). There were potted meat products. Personally, I arrived at the lovely, white-table cloth dining establishment with a big cooler of processed meat products under my arm. Well, under B.'s arm. I bought three pounds of The Best Sausage in the World at the farmer's market last week and gift-wrapped it in a cooler.

In the back of my mind, I kept thinking that maybe I was missing some obvious bit of irony, and perhaps Summer was actually a vegan who had cultivated this online meat-loving persona and only I didn't get the joke. Not the case, as I watched her eat some Italian sausage-studded gnocci at dinner.

After dinner a few of us went for coffee and people-watching at Coffee Cartel. I don't get to that part of town often, especially at night. Hell, I don't get anywhere at night anymore. B. and I had our first date at The Grind, a coffeehouse down the block from CC. Sadly, we learned that The Grind has closed. We hadn't been there since Clara Jane was about six weeks old, as it wasn't the most baby-friendly of coffee joints. It was open primarily during nocturnal hours, and just as smokey and loud as a bar. But they made lattes with chocolate milk, and the cafe su das that B. and I drank the day we met.

A moment of silence, please.

Okay, moving on. Coffee Cartel! It figures that within a week of getting my insomnia under control I would realize that this joint is open 24 hours. All those nights of lying on the couch, watching "Murphy Brown" reruns, and I could have been at Coffee Cartel, drinking decaf and people-watching.

Maybe I'll go there and write a bit today.

Anyway ... we all got our drinks, found a table on the sidewalk, and gabbed until nearly midnight. Midnight! I can't remember the last time I was out past midnight. And with smart, funny, interesting people to boot. Suffice it to say that Summer wasn't the only one surprised. I was, too, at how relaxing and enjoyable the night was. I'd do that every Friday night, if I could.

Saturday, we slept late. Slept late! We never get to sleep late! Eventually we rolled out the door for a late lunch and some bar trivia. Two games played, two games won by me. Seems that sleep and adult conversation restores those brain cells that toddlers eat to survive. We did a little shopping, had a little Mongolian barbeque for dinner, and did a little spin through the grocery store.

You have to understand, a leisurely trip to the grocery store without having to wrangle Clare Jane is the utmost in luxury in my world. I love nothing more.

Sunday, more late-sleeping, some Mexican food, and some knitting while B. attempted to ressurect my mom's two dead computers. At 9:30 PM we got a wild hair for frozen custard, which we were able to honor because hey! No sleeping kid!

And here I am today. I do miss Clara Jane, but I loved sleeping late. Again. I'm watching the clock tick away. B. gets home in five hours and my free day will be over. So, what are my options?

• Stay home and work.
• Stay home and watch all those hours of "Designing Women" that are saved on my Tivo.
• Go sit in a coffeehouse and work.
• Go sit in a coffeehouse and replay those episodes of "Designing Women" in my mind.
• Go shopping for stuff I don't need with money I don't really want to spend.
• Go for a drive with my iPod, using gas I don't really want to spend.
• Go back to bed.

I'm as bad as my stupid little dog Murphy who, we realized this weekend, is too stupid to play. All weekend Chloe, our 9-year-old Basset hound, has been trying her damnedest to get Murphy to play. She charges at Murphy, jumps at her, nudges her with her snout. And what does Murphy do? Murphy cries. Sometimes she growls. But then she cries some more. Once, she flung herself on her back, rolled a little, and then cried.

The dumbass doesn't know how to play.

I think I know the feeling, Murph. I think I know it well.

Posted by Robin at 10:20 AM | Comments (3)

July 01, 2006

How to Party, Poppymom-Style

It's quarter after one on Saturday morning. I just got home from a fabulous night out*. What shall I do to maintain my hardcore self while I wait for the bedding to finish its spin through the wash?** Why, a meme, of course!

I'm so fucking out of control right now, it's not even funny. Katya and Kristina are also out of control, but what would you expect from a pair of librarians?

The Rules, as demanded by meme creator Bookhart:Put up to three answers to any question. But no more. One answer is OK, two answers is OK, three answers is OK. Four is not OK, and five is right out. Unless otherwise indicated, you can only choose songs, and be specific--putting "anything by Madonna" doesn't count.

*Meat was involved.
**No, the late-night bedding laundering didn't have anything to do with the wildness of our night. It was simply a poor laundry decision.

Song(s) That I Loathe to the Core of My Being:
1. That Toby Keith song about putting boots in asses ... I can't remember its name.
2. Sailing - Styx
3. Horse with No Name - America

Artist(s) That I Loathe to the Core of My Being:
Neil Diamond
That guy from Creed
Toby Keith

Rolling Stones Song(s) I Love:
Ruby Tuesday
Dead Flowers
Miss You

Beatles Song(s) I Love:
Come Together
Here Comes the Sun
A Day in the Life

Who Song(s) I Love:
Can't Explain
Baba O'Riely

Reggae Song(s) I Love:
Redemption Song
Get Up, Stand Up

Country Song(s) I Love:
Tennesse Mountain Home - Dolly Parton
Sunday Morning Coming Down - Johnny Cash
City of New Orleans - Willie Nelson

Movie Soundtrack(s) I Love:
Pulp Fiction

Musical soundtrack(s) I Love:
Cabaret
West Side Story
Rent

Cover Song(s) I Love:
Red Hot Chili peppers' cover of Ohio Players' "Love Rollercoaster"
Ben Folds Five's cover of The Buggles' "Video Killed the Radio Star"
Johnny Cash's version of "Personal Jesus"

Contemporary Top-40 Artist(s) I Secretly Love:
That word "secretly" makes this one tough. I've got a thing for the new American Idol, Taylor Hicks.

Song(s) That Bring Me to Tears:
Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen/Rufus Wainwright/k.d. lang/anonymous coffeehouse boys, as documented last week
Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen
Tender - Blur (listened to it/used it as a mantra when I was in labor)

Song(s) That Make Me Shake My Ass:
Rebel Girl - Bikini Kill
Give it Away - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Classical Composer(s) I Love:
Debussy

Rap/Hip-Hop Song(s) I Love:
No Sleep Til Brooklyn - Beastie Boys
Jesus Walks - Kanye West (Bet you weren't expecting that.)

70s Disco Song(s) I Love:
Shake Your Groove Thing - Peaches & Herb
Don't Leave Me This Way - Thelma Houston

70s Supergroup Song(s) I Love:
Define "supergroup". Umm ... "Freebird" - Lynyrd Skynyrd

Metal Song(s) I Love:
Welcome to the Jungle - Guns & Roses
Rock of Ages - Def Leppard
Highway to Hell - ACDC

New Wave Song(s) I Love:
Blue Monday - New Order
Atomic - Blondie
I Don't Like Mondays - Boomtown Rats

Soul/R&B Song(s) I Love:
Since You Been Gone (Sweet Sweet Baby) - Aretha Franklin
Take Me to the River - Al Green
Ain't No Mountain High Enough - Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell

Power Ballad(s) I Love:
The only ones I can think of are ones I hate. Not a favorite genre of mine ... Let's pretend I love "Home Sweet Home" by Motley Crue, okay?

Pre 1950s Song(s) I Love:
KoKo - Charlie Parker

Punk Song(s) I Love:
Know Your Rights - The Clash
Rise Above - Black Flag
Rockaway Beach - The Ramones

Singer/Songwriter Song(s) I Love:
Where You Lead - Carole King
Anticipation - Carly Simon
Loves Me Like a Rock - Paul Simon

MTV Video(s) I Love:
Sabotage - Beastie Boys
Fell in Love with a Girl - White Stripes
Beautiful Day - U2

Songs To Have Sex To:
Hmmm ... Whisper - Morphine

Guilty Pleasures:
Since You Been Gone - Kelly Clarkson
Yesterday I drove through Frontenac, the toniest part of St. Louis, with the windows of my truck rolled down, blasting Gretchen Wilson's "Redneck Woman".

Yes, I have "Redneck Woman" on my iPod.

Shut the hell up. Why aren't you in bed?

Posted by Robin at 01:18 AM | Comments (6)