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September 30, 2006

The Stupidest Knitter & Basket-Hanger in All the Land

Even if you have no interest in knitting, read on. There's much humiliation afoot.

In the summer of 2005, I started working on my very first sweater. It was to be a lovely little zip-front hoodie for Clara Jane. When we last checked in with the sweater over a year ago, it was looking like this:

In times of duress, when I needed my medication adjusted and I was sure the Boobah was going to exercise on me in my sleep, the unfinished hoodie could be employed as a Congressionally-approved torture device:

Oh, and there were sleeves. Lots and lots of sleeves:

I spent a lot of years living by a power plant when I was in college, not to mention growing up in the shadow of a chemical plant that emitted toxins that caused annual evacuations of our neighborhood. If it was around June 20th, we knew to start packin'. It's entirely possible that Clara Jane might sprout that third arm, and I'm prepared to provide for her specialized clothing needs when that happens.

Actually, what really happened was, when I knit the second sleeve I screwed up the stripe pattern badly enough to require sleeve #3.

Fast forward 15 months. The sweater has spent this time in a clear plastic tub in my craft closet, mocking me. When I finished knitting and realized I would be required to seam this beast together, I became frightened, locked it in a box, and willed it to seam itself via the magic of time and Rubbermaid.

It didn't happen, so on Friday, I put on my protective headgear, removed the tub o' sweater, and spent a whopping 15 minutes seaming the right side, feeling mightily stupid for being afraid of that. Easy peasy.

Hmmm. I could have sworn I had two sleeves and a spare.

And then I remembered. About six weeks ago I was cleaning our junk room, home to many unfinished craft endeavors, and I came upon the mutant freak-stripe sleeve. "I won't be needing this! This is the bad sleeve! Off you go!" And into the trash it went.

Turns out, that was the good sleeve. Maybe. If it was the bad sleeve, that means I threw out the other good sleeve long ago.

Either way, Clara Jane's three-sleeved sweater is now a half-sweater, half-sweater-vest hybrid.

To distract attention away from my own stupidity, I'm going to tell you about something dumb B. did tonight. Sort of.

Many weeks ago, I bought a 3-tier hanging basket, because we're tired of having rotting piles of produce taking up valuable counter space. Being the engineer that he is, B. has been hard at work, drawing up diagrams and doing calculus and shit to find the best way to suspend this do-hickey from our kitchen ceiling. The final plan: drill holes in the ceiling, go to the attic, and somehow attach the the basket to the rafters of the house. Or something. I'm not an engineer, so I don't fully understand.

All I know is I spent a portion of my evening on the balls of my feet in the kitchen, bouncing up and down, pleasuing the two holes in my kitchen ceiling with a dismantled wire coat hanger while B. walked around the attic in search of my probing love hanger.

He never did find it.

I'm going to remember this next time he ridicules the previous owners of the house for doing this to our living room ceiling:

Okay, I was going to show you a photo I just took of our living room ceiling, which is dotted with rows and rows of neat little holes, ending in a plant hook that's been painted 26 times. We've always made fun of the previous owners for being too stupid to use, say, a stud finder, opting instead to use the trial-and-error method.

Who's laughing now, Punk?

I was also going to show you a photo of our household's reigning Queen of Stupid, Murphy, who doesn't know how to sleep on a pillow. Unfortunately, everyone who lives in this house has become too stupid to operate the camera.

Posted by Robin at 10:36 PM | Comments (4)

September 29, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The We Are the Champions of Nerdiness Edition

There's much to write about, but there hasn't been time to write it. So, early this Friday morning - before making my coffee, even - I've picked the shortest item of interest from the past few days to share with you.

What it amounts to, in brief, is that I'm a gigantic nerd who probably shouldn't be allowed to make major adult decisions.

While Clara Jane was in daycare yesterday, I returned to the town where we're planning to move - let' call it Pretty Town, shall we? - in an attempt to reenergize my gumption about this move. I had several other neighborhoods to explore. Also, I wanted to check out the coffeehouse we found on Sunday. That's right - a coffeehouse! One of the things on our teeny-tiny list of misgivings about moving to Pretty Town was the lack of professionally-prepared coffee beverages.

Yes, we're that petty.

My experience at the coffeehouse was thus: I purchased a perfectly-made latte made with fair trade, organic beans for about a dollar less than I usually pay. When the owner saw the real estate magazine clutched in my paw, she asked where I was from, was I planning to relocate, etc? When I told her the brief version - the version in which I don't use the phrase "goddamn dune buggies" more than four times - she squealed, "Oh, come over come over come over come over! You'll love it!"

Cynic that I am, she was probably excited because she could see the fine oily espresso bean residue that coats my skin and was seeing some major dollar signs. Whatever. There's good coffee for cheap in a lovely setting.

The house-hunting was much more encouraging than Sunday's venture. Basically, I drove up and down streets with a notebook, eyes peeled for "for sale" signs. Then I came home and looked up the houses for prices and details. There's a lot of nice stuff in our paltry price range.

An aside: if there's one single industry that should benefit from the internet, it should be the real estate business. Having the ability to show houses via photos and video without having to set up appointments and haul clients all over creation? That's awesome! So why is it there isn't a real estate web site in existance that features decent photos? I went to one yesterday that had eight photos of the house, and every single one of them was a thumbnail. Apparently it's a dollhouse. Oh! And my favorite! In one listing, the photo of the living room has the couch as the focal point. As in, "Here's a picture of the couch. It's not for sale". Another had part of a room obscured by the photographer's thumb. Probably hiding the pile of broken crack pipes on the floor. I've spent so much time looking at bad real estate photography recently that I've tinkered with the idea of starting a web ode to the subject. But I barely have time to maintain this web presence. If you want to steal my bad real estate photography web page idea, run with it. I promise I'll visit it at least three times a week.

But I digress.

One thing happened yesterday that left me so happy, so giddy, so ready to rush home and start packing. And it's without a doubt the stupidest thing in the world and illustrates that I'm not mature enough to make adult decisions because I'm probably using the wrong criteria.

While driving past a local restaurant, I almost crashed my truck when I read this on their marquee:

Happy birthday Bob Tweedy!

Who is Bob Tweedy, you ask? Why, he's the father of Pretty Town's favorite son, Jeff Tweedy, lead singer of my favorite band, Wilco, of course!

Judging from the size of that sign, I think Bob might be more popular than his son in their hometown. All of my friends who already live in Pretty Town just look at me and say, "Who?" when I mentioned Wilco, proof that my friends aren't nerds and a nerd like me should be grateful for their company, which I am.

But that sign made me so stupidly giddy, and I have no idea why. We are not moving to Pretty Town for a damn band! It's been well over a decade since anyone from the band has lived there. It's not like we're moving there so I can increase my chances of bumping into one of the members in the produce aisle at the grocery store. We're moving there for the lovely small-town atmosphere, beautiful houses, the good cost of living, the thriving locally-owned businesses, the abundant community spirit, the schools, the access to the commuter trains that will keep B.'s commute about the same as it is now.

But maybe those things, or at least some of them, played a part in leading Tweedy (the younger one, not the birthday boy) to writing songs that speak to me in a way few other songs have. Maybe that's why it's already starting to feel like home. Some untangible thing, this sense of place that has nothing to do with property values and curb appeal, that makes me know that this is the place where I want to be.

Which is exactly why teenage girls aren't allowed to buy houses. Any mortgage money stupidly loaned to them would get spent on hovels in close proximity to the teen idol du jour's boyhood home.

It doesn't help that, if I have my iPod on shuffle when I go to Pretty Town, it inevitably shuffles up Uncle Tupelo. It's a sign! It's a sign that I'm a terminal nerd!

1. Hanging on the Telephone - Blondie
2. Graveyard Shift - Uncle Tupelo (Hear that? I'm screaming. Totally screaming right now, this very minute.)
3. Blues for a Day - Dinah Washington
4. Oh! You Pretty Things - David Bowie
5. Chase the Devil - Eagles of Death Metal
6. Canary - Liz Phair
7. At My Most Beautiful - REM (Michael Stipe's dad was stationed at the Air Force base near Pretty Town. Michael went to high school in the next town over. This didn't factor into my relocate scheme at all.)
8. 12:51 - The Strokes
9. Shining Star - Dan Zanes
10. Skyway - Paul Westerberg (Hey! Let's move to Minneapolis instead!)

Posted by Robin at 08:28 AM | Comments (10)

September 26, 2006

More Dots? Yes! But No Periods

I still can't string together any coherant thoughts. I've come to the realization that I probably never will again.

• The switch to WordPress continues. I know, all looks calm here on the surface, but underneath, duck-paddling, my friends. Duck-paddling.
• That thing about not stringing thoughts together? I'm getting fed up with it. I used to have an amazing memory, but I got pregnant and Fetal Clara Jane ate that part of my brain about two weeks after conception.
• Case in point: I was recently writing an intro for myself, and I gave the wrong age. I wrote that I'm 34. I won't be 34 until the end of next month. I've hit the age where I no longer know how old I am unless I do the math.
• You know what's really good? Homemade spiced apple cider jelly. Easy, too. I've made a dozen 12-ounce jars of it this week. I'd link to a recipe, but it's not online and I'm too lazy to transcribe it from the book. Her version is unspiced. Adding cinammon, ginger and nutmeg was my idea. Putting a year and a half of culinary school to work, I am!
• That jelly is really, really, really good with white chocolate peanut butter. But what isn't?
• Well, I know one thing that's not improved by white chocolate peanut butter or spiced apple cider jelly. That's Wild & Mild Ranch Fritos, which are the most confusing food-type items I've ever eaten.
• Yeah, I'm a little food obsessed right now, and I'll tell you why. Be warned: it involves my lady-parts.

Two months ago my doc and I came to the conclusion that my anxiety and depression problems were symptoms of a severe case of premenstrual stress syndrome. From what I understand, PMS makes one an asshole, while PSS makes one a raving paranoid lunatic. I tend towards the latter. The solution? Why, the snazzy new birth control pill that stops periods dead!

Years ago, I remember thinking, "Wouldn't it be fab if medical science could create a pill that would just stop periods?" And now they have!

The first four weeks on this pill were grand. When the dreaded Week Four rolled around, the only crazy thing I did was decorate a maypole with a variety of brand new tampons that I would never, ever need because there is a magic period-ending pill and the world is fair and right!

Then the second Week Four rolled around, and two things arrived: first The Crazy showed up, followed by Crazy Aunt Flo.

I hate Aunt Flo. Not the physiological phenomenon of menstruation, but the euphemism "Aunt Flo". I never use it, but it seemed to fit here. I blame The Crazy.

This morning, while my lower body wrecked with cramps while I scrounged the house for tampons that might have missed the maypole festivities, I did a little additional reading on my "magic" pill:

From the Seasonale website: The one important difference between SEASONALE® and the traditional Pill is that SEASONALE® is an extended-regimen birth control pill. Instead of taking an active pill every day for 3 weeks, you take one every day for 3 months (84 days). Taking your pills for 84 days extends the time between your scheduled periods to 1 every 3 months — 4 per year. While taking SEASONALE®, your periods will be about the same as with a traditional birth control pill — they shouldn’t be any longer or heavier. However, during the first year, you are also more likely to have spotting and breakthrough bleeding (which varies from slight spotting to a flow much like a regular period) than with a traditional birth control pill. This is common and should decrease over time. During the first year, total bleeding days are similar to a traditional Pill.

Whoa whoa whoa ... back that truck up for a sec, Flo. How does this pill stop periods, and yet I can still expect to bleed for the same number of days as I did on other birth control pills? I'm not very good at math, but something here doesn't add up. In the meantime, my uterus doesn't know whether to slam on the breaks or put it in reverse, and I think it just crashed into my tailbone.

• Shall we talk about the one thing my uterus has gotten right in my lifetime? My child? She has taught herself to write the number ten, and to draw smiley-faces all by herself.
• Today, she uttered the words no mother ever wants to hear. She was listening to The goddamn Wiggles singing cowboy songs while she bounced on her spring horse. I think she got a little confused because she told me, "Mama, I just love to bounce on a cowboy!" Well, what red-blooded American girl doesn't?
• I forgot what I was going to say.

Posted by Robin at 02:46 PM | Comments (12)

September 25, 2006

Dreamy!

I had a weird dream Friday night.

Before I tell you about this dream, I had intended to preface it by saying that I hate it when people talk about their dreams in detail. If you can't tell me your dream in sixty seconds or write it in fewer than 200 words, I don't want to hear it. Believe me, I'm doing you a favor by not listening for several reasons: 1)If your can't tell your dream in sixty seconds or fewer than 200 words, there's a good chance I'm not going to understand it, and 2) If I don't understand it, I won't take any responsibility for my poor listening skills and will instead think you're a self-obsessed bore, and I don't want to think that about you.

Perfect examples of good ways to talk about your dreams have recently been exhibited by Kristina and her matching shit dreams, Jodi and her masturbating Uncle Joey dream, and Jen and her sexual terrorism dream. See? Perfect. Short, precise, and weird enough to merit retelling.

From previous experience I know that it's much more interesting if, for example, Kristina tells me, "I had another Jeff Tweedy sex dream last night," it's funny and titilating and odd and entertaining. Much moreso than if she were to say, "I was in a warehouse but it wasn't really a warehouse because it was really a club. And you were there, but you weren't you. You were really a pomeranian. And there was a big wizard standing on a hill controlling everything. He was wearing purple and looked like Dumbledore but he wasn't really Dumbledore ... blah blah blah blah for fifteen minutes of our lives that we'll never get back ... Jeff Tweedy and I made out in front of everyone, but the wizard wasn't controlling it and then all my teeth fell out. What's that about?" Because really, the only part of that that has any meaning or entertainment value is the part about making out with Jeff Tweedy. As for what it's about? It's your brain's way of telling you to spend some time outside of your head with the other humans.

For the record, Kristina always tells her dreams in the proper manner. And they're never about doing dirty, dirty things with Jeff Tweedy. Ever.

My dream from Friday night is neither short, precise, nor weird enough to merit retelling. In fact, now that two days have passed since I had the dream, I'm not even sure why I'm bringing it up because it's pretty stupid. But I've taunted you with it, so here it is:

I dreamt I went to Vegas to see a concert in a casino with some friends. For whatever reason I bailed from the show and wandered around the casino. It was named Starsville Casino, and it was based on the high concept of a 1950s ranch house. Slots in the living room, martinis in the den, casserole in the fine dining establishments, and Mom vaccuming the reading room, where I spent the evening with my nose in a book. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

The sad thing is, I spent a good chunk of my waking hours on Saturday convinced that this is a fantastic idea for a casino and Steve Wynn should send me a check and a contract. Now, I know better. And I apologize for telling you about it.

Anyway.

There's little to discuss, really. I've been watching as a horrific fight transpires between my neighbors. They're screaming loud enough that I can hear them from cattycorner across the street with the windows closed at the back of my house. That's loud. I can't imagine what their 2-year-old and 4-month-old are hearing. The glass in their storm door is broken. I don't know if that's the cause of the fight or a casuality of it. At one point the 2-year-old was in the middle of it.

I hate this neighborhood.

But this shit happens everywhere. B. and I have had some fights that, if we'd had them on the front porch for the neighbors to witness, they'd be feeling the way I am right now.

All I know is, that 2-year-old spends a great deal of time standing at the front door, looking like he wants to escape. He might actually be able to now that the glass is gone.

On a whim yesterday we visited the town where we're planning to move. We even went to an open house for a place that's all wrong for us. Nice, but not what we're looking for. It seems like the visit has gotten B. all excited about moving, but it's had the opposite effect on me. I don't know if it was the grayness in the air yesterday, or driving past the county jail where that woman who, allegedly, killed her friend, cut the fetus from her, and killed her other three kids is being held. As we drove past, a city worker was removing barricades from the street. "We must have just missed something," B. said.

"Yeah," I said. "The media circus."

For whatever reason, I'm feeling pessimistic about the move. I'm convinced we're going to have a hard time unloading our current house. Seeing my neighbors brawl on the front yard within minutes of reading about the glut of houses on the market doesn't fill me with hope. Nevermind that I'm not impressed by the houses and neighborhoods in our price bracket.

Mainly I think I'm bothered because this isn't the move I wanted to make. I wanted to make this move once B.'s masters degree from that really pricey local university is paid for, along with the year of unemployment that followed the pricey masters degree. I wanted to make this move in such a manner that we'd be able to buy the house where we'll stay forever. I wanted to be able to leave anything old and worn, like our disintegrating couch, behind and replace it with the furniture we'll keep forever. I'm ready to start my life with the house and furniture that'll eventually say, "Damn. You're just not ever going to let go of your thirties, are you?" The house that, when we're in our 70s, will look frozen in time.

Okay, so maybe that's not really what I want, but you get the picture. I hate that we're making this move filled with compromises, and I'm not convinced we're not going to trade one barrel of bad apples for another barrel of bad apples strapped to the back of the hassel and expense of moving.

I know, I'm dealing in abstracts. Dreams, what-ifs, ponderings. None of it does anyone any good. I need to stay rooted in the concrete.

Okay, so what do I know for sure? I know that The Cuz rocks, and she's installed WordPress for me. I'm fed the hell up with the recent influx of comment spam I've been receiving. I'm sure you, my kind readers, aren't interested in German porn featuring The Simpsons, and I'd rather not provide free advertising for such. Moveable Type's spam filtering sucks, so I'm making the switch. Give me a few days to tinker with WordPress, and hopefully I won't break anything, bringing you a lovely new version of this here blog.

Posted by Robin at 01:45 PM | Comments (10)

September 22, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Contents Under Pressure Edition

I love it when I have a string of being funny. Few things make me happier. The part I hate? When suddenly, I find myself with absolutely no funny. Like today.

When I said I was going to be dignified today, I didn't think that meant I'd be boring and borderline crabby.

No reason for all of this. Just ... blargh.

It's a shitty week to be a baby in St. Louis. Holy fuck, what is wrong with people taking babies around here?

If you're in the US and you pay any attention to the media, I'm sure you heard about Baby Abby, abducted from her mother a week ago when she was a mere seven days old, and how she was returned safely on Wednesday.

What you might not have heard yet is about the pregnant woman who was killed that same day, her 7-month-old fetus cut from her body and her three older children missing. The baby died.

Or the latest, a one-year-old boy and his mother abducted early this morning, probably by the child's father, with warnings issued that both are in grave danger.

All of this within 45 minutes of St. Louis. I can't wrap my head around it. Can't think of anything to say about it at all. I can't imagine what kind of anguish, anger, and crazy would lead a person to put children in danger.

My ankle's still sore, but at least I know Clara Jane's safely snoozing in her room. Because of that, I'm not going to bitch about my ankle, the three phones calls in a row right as I sat down to knit and watch a movie, or the fact that I didn't get my morning coffee until after 1 PM. Minor, minor, minor things, considering I spent the day playing in the backyard with Clara Jane, eating noodles and peas with her, and curled up in the big bed reading a Dilbert book to her. Not my choice. She requested it. "That dog loves to play on the pomcuter," she says. And thank God she's here to say it.

I had planned for us to make our bi-weekly Trader Joe's run, followed by lunch out, since I haven't taken her out to lunch at all this week. While trying to cajole her into letting me get her dressed, she told me, "I need you to carry me and lay my head on you." When I asked, "Do you want to stay home today?" she nodded against my neck. At first I was annoyed with her for throwing us off schedule, and then annoyed at myself for being annoyed. And then I saw the SARAA alert for that missing little boy, and I was more than glad to let the grocery shopping go another day in favor of staying home with my kiddo. Just because we can.

Okay, so I guess I do have reason for my shitty mood. I don't think I realized how much recent events have affected me until just now. Six missing kids in a week. One returned, one dead, one dead mother, one injured mother. All right here.

Storms are moving in. I'm shuffling around the house with the doors locked, sad and scared, but thankful for what I've got, hoping that I can keep it all safe and sound.

1. All for Swinging You Around - New Pornographers
2. Shelter Me - Buddy Miller
3. Midnight Jam - Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros
4. Lilli Schull - Uncle Tupelo
5. Me and a Gun - Tori Amos
6. When Doves Cry - Patti Smith
7. Rock n' Roll High School - The Ramones
8. Throw Back Your Head - Q and not U
9. You've Got a Friend - Dusty Springfield
10. Seconds - U2

Well, at least the shuffle's fairly appropriate. If that's not a list of life-saving artists, I don't know what is.

Posted by Robin at 02:06 PM | Comments (4)

September 21, 2006

Not a Humiliating Dot to be Had

Nope. No dots. Whenever I make posts with dots it's because I've reached a point where I can't string together enough sentences to write focused, thoughtful paragraphs. Instead, you're going to get random, unfocused, thoughtless paragraphs, as I'm unable to summon the gumption to write the HTML code to make the dots. And because I don't want a repeat of yesterday. At least at first glance this will look like a completely coherant, paragraph-filled post.

Every September, there's always one day when I awaken with a sore ankle. Which ankle? It alternates. This year, it's the left. My ankles have lived difficult lives, what with nearly 34 years of taking the brunt for my feet, which opted to never develop arches. Nevermind all these years of hauling my fat ass around. It's a combination of those things, the changes in the weather, and the umpteen bazillion injuries I've inflicted upon my ankles in my lifetime. I'm surprised it's not my right ankle giving me trouble after the number I did on it last year. Instead, it's the left, probably because of the number I did on it in 1990.

I was home alone, chasing my dog through the house, when my foot struck the big ottoman in the living room, knocking me on my ass. I couldn't get up until my mom got home about thirty minutes (or hours, it was hard to tell at the time) later. There was a huge knot above my anklebone, which, after five hours (or days, it was hard to tell at the time) in the emergency room, we learned the knot was the result of my ankle tendons stretching and then snapping like the overextended elastic in the waistband of my yoga pants. "That's worse than breaking your ankle," the doctor said before leaving me to sit for a few more hours. Or weeks. Since then, my left ankle angers easily.

We're currently without water. Shortly after dinner, after Clara Jane had painted herself, as she does every night, B. went to the sink to dampen a washcloth to cleanse this:

So, we have this paint-covered child and a mountain of dinner dishes and *pssssst* no water. I was on the phone with my mom, who's vacationing in Colorado. B., who's normally good at keeping his shit together, completely loses his shit because of this lack of water. He went marching out the front door and down the block to see what the hell was going on.

He came storming back in, blind to the phone stuck to my ear and the paint-covered shrieking child who was ready to run through the house and rub her paint-smeared self on every available surface. "There's a leak and and and it's been there since Monday and and they're just now fixing it and they didn't bother to warn anyone and and and and they're interfering with my ability to care for my child!"

To which I said, "Dude. Get a goddamn baby wipe and calm the hell down."

I mean, good grief. We survived nearly a week without electricity during 100+ degree heat. I think we'll live a few hours without water. People around the world survive without potable water for a lot longer than that. Just ask Bono. Nevermind that after July's blackout, we went into survivalist mode. B.'s been doing his part by drinking two liters of soda a day, washing the bottles, filling them with water, and stashing them in the deep freezer. Water's the one thing we don't lack. The only real problem we faced was flushing the toilet, and I've already proven my ability to improvise in that department this week.

Michelle at Weaker Vessel, which has quickly become one of my favorite reads, wrote today about late adopters, specifically regarding Last.FM. Now, I like Last.FM, but it doesn't work very well for me, since most of the music played via my computer involves either Laurie Berkner or Dan Zanes. All Last.FM does is link me to mothers who are on the verge of chewing their speaker chords in two because they've heard Laurie's Got a Pig on Her Head! one too many times.

Instead, I've become a late adopter to Pandora. I've lost approximately 97 hours of my life to Pandora this week, and I'm cool with that. Today, I was listening to my Paul Westerberg station, and I got overly excited because they played Monte Montgomery. Not just because I like both artists, and not just because it's always good to hear the much-underheard Monte getting some airplay. Mainly, I got excited because I've met both artists. Add some Joan Baez, and we'd have a station titled "Musicians Robin Has Met".

I met Joan when I was working in an art gallery. She was in town for a show, and came into the shop while I was working. She was a dream.

I met Paul by waiting at his bus after a show in 1996. I got an autographe, chatted with him for a minute, and then stood by, mortified, as my roommate gushed at him like he was the Pope.

I met Monte when I was in Memphis for my 30th birthday. A bunch of my friends and I went to Memphis to celebrate the end of my 20s. My friend M. from Dallas is a huge Monte fan, and when we learned he was playing in Memphis that weekend, she decided to join us.

Even though she'd followed him all over Texas, she'd never met him. Prior to his show, we all went to a bar where one of his pals was playing. Mind you, this is the bar where my drunk-ass friends and me managed to drink every single bottle of Rolling Rock in the joint.

My meeting with Monte entailed me skipping my drunk ass to the back of the club when I spotted Monte watching the show, and telling him, "My friend M. loves you! She's followed you all over Texas! She's followed you to St. Louis! She followed you here! And (insert slight sob here) and and you'd better go over there and say hi to her!"

And he did. Afterwards, we went outside to partake in some drunk-dialing. Then Kristina accosted a guy who looked like The Edge, and we got in trouble for talking too much during a show, thus becoming Those People We Hate.

We were delightful that night. Just lovely.

And finally, since this has unofficially become Robin's Humiliation Week and the previous story didn't make me feel quite like throwing myself off the roof in shame (Don't worry - our house is short. I wouldn't get seriously injured, just humiliated.), I'll tell you this:

Remember that story I told you way back at the beginning of this post? The one about how I busted my ankle while chasing my dog? Well, it's not entirely true, although I've always told the story that way to the point where it feels true.

The truth is, I was dancing to the Cherry Pie and I did a header over the ottoman because I was so caught up in the rapture of my dancing. Oh, and because the gods of good taste rightfully saw fight to smite me in that moment. I don't hold it against them. I needed to be smote.

Shut up. The only reason you never permanently injured yourself while dancing to Warrant is because you were too busy listening to Richard fucking Marx. Don't lie about it. You know you were.

Tomorrow? Nothing but dignity. I promise.

Posted by Robin at 08:48 PM | Comments (6)

September 20, 2006

Humiliation Dots

• Yet another reason to move: a Hosie Cow has moved in down the block. This is what's going to destroy my property value.
• In searching for the Hosie Cow photo, I found the most disturbing photo I have ever seen on the internet. Disturbing, yet safe for work. Not safe for you mental health, though.
• While shopping this morning, I overheard a woman loudly saying this into her cell phone: "I'm getting some feminine wash." Pause. "I said I'm getting feminine wash!" Pause. "It wash that makes you smell feminine!" Of course, "wash" was pronounced "warsh", as is the way in these parts.
• It amazes me that very smart people have invented amazing pieces of technology, like tiny little telephones whose signals glide through the air from tower to tower without wires, and they're cheap enough that just about anyone can own one. And this is how we use them. I wonder if this makes the inventors cry, and if it does, do they wipe their tears with fifty-dollar bills.
• Could be worse. That woman could have been having that phone conversation while sitting on the pot in a public bathroom. How many times have you been in a stall, minding your own business, not pooping in the trash can, when you hear, "Hello?" coming from the stall next to you? When you return the salutation, you realize that it wasn't aimed at you, because the person in the stall beside you is conducting phone calls while taking a crap in a public bathroom.
• If you have to conduct your social life during public bathroom potty breaks, you have a time management problem.

• As for those bones in my backyard that I mentioned yesterday, I don't actually think they belong to a human being. We have a pack of three scent hounds that run the yard everyday. Most likely they ganged up on some wild creature - we've got a lot of squirrels and bunnies, along with the occasional possum in our neighborhood - murdered it, and buried it to rot in time for a lovely harvest feast.
• When I was 15 my family moved into an old farmhouse. There was a dilapidated chicken coop with a pallet floor. When my dad was pulling up the pallets, he found an old, crumpled white dress buried in the dirt. My mom told me that it probably belonged to the original owner's young daughter, who disgraced the family by being a dirty whore. Since she'd never be able to wear white again, they must have buried the dress. I think she made that up to scare me into keeping my virginity.
• Speaking of chicken coops, B.'s officemate has a yardfull of chickens. He's selling fresh, free-range eggs from grain and grass-fed chickens, and this makes me terribly happy. While I'm not a big egg-eater, I love having naturally multicolored eggs in my fridge. So much so that I even made an omelet today and boy, was it good.
• I'm saving the green eggs to have with ham.
• I trimmed my bangs today and got carried away. And uneven. I'm sporting the hairdo favored by the developmentally disabled.
• I'm finally admitting defeat and mailing all my sock yarn to Dixie, who has promised to wrangle them into socks and send them back. How shameful is that?
• Dammit. I meant to send her all of my bamboo sock-knitting needles and forgot.
• Speaking of craftiness, have I told you the umpteen bazillion projects I'm trying to finish? There's a baby blanket, a Halloween costume, a quilt for a big-girl bed, my quilt, another pile of charity quilts, and apple-canning season is upon us. So why am I sitting here, telling you people all my mundane shit. I should be working.
• The Halloween costume might not be necessary, as all the Halloween stuff in the stores is scaring the crap out of Clara Jane. We had to leave the first store we went to today because she was so distraught over one of those stupid giant inflatable yard property-value-bringer-downers. At the second store, I tried to avoid the stupid giant inflatable crap, only to run into a life-sized talking skeleton. In her fear, Clara Jane grabbed the neck of my V-neck t-shirt and yanked it down past my boobs. And of course, we were right in front of another shopper when this happened. A male shopper. At least he had the good sense to look impressed.
• I'm having the most humiliating week ever! I might as well get naked, get into my bathtub, summon my dogs and the neighbor's dog, take a photo, and post it on the internet. When I do, I promise I'll call y'all while I'm peeing at the Wal-Mart to let you know.

Posted by Robin at 02:32 PM | Comments (11)

September 19, 2006

Things I Shouldn't Tell Anyone, Especially the Whole Internet

I think there's a body buried in my backyard.

One night last week, B. had a terrible time getting the Idiot Dogs into the house before bed. Seems they had found a hambone in the neighbor's yard. How do we know this? Because they kept slapping their thighs in an upward brushing motion and then beating on their chests. Oh, and because B. had to wrestle a slobbery hambone from Chloe's saggy maw once he got them in the house.

Today, in an attempt to beat my current illness to death with fresh air and sunshine, Clara Jane and I ventured into the backyard with the dogs. While she removed 2/3 of the sand from her sandbox and I read my book, the dogs frantically dug at the base of our peach tree. Before long, all three of them (the neighbor's dog is always in our yard, because I don't have nearly enough things to piss me off) had their own bones, which they took to their seperate corners to gnaw.

Now, I didn't get a good look at the bones, mostly because 1) I didn't feel like getting out of my chair, 2) I was engrossed in my book, and 3) I didn't want to deal with the emotional fallout if I discovered one of them gnawing on a human skull. I could barely handle it last June when I had to dispose of a maggoty dead bird in my yard. All I know is, there's a copious amount of bonage in my backyard, and not the good kind of bonage that might cause my neighbors to call the cops for simple public indecency charges. I'm talking about the kind of bonage that could lead the neighbors to call the cops on much more complex why-are-their-bones-in-your-yard charges.

They're not ours. I swear. Talk to the previous owners. They were creepy.

Believe it or not, the possible graveyard in my backyard isn't the thing I shouldn't be advertising on the internet. No, what I shouldn't tell you about is far more personal. And horrible. And you probably won't want to be my friend or finish your lunch after you read it.

You've been warned.

As I mentioned, I'm a tad under the weather. It's nothing serious, just one of those irritating bugs that strikes when the weather changes. I'm snuffly, a bit lethargic, and most of my internal system are just ever-so-slightly off-kilter. I'm functioning, just a bit more slowly and crankily than usual.

Clara Jane and I have barely left the house since last Thursday, save for the little outing on Saturday to see the hot air balloons and grab dinner. We're going a little stir-crazy, but most of the places we go to are populated with kids and I don't want to share my germs with them. And I don't feel like chasing someone's toddler ass around the park. So, out of desperation, Clara Jane and I went out to the boneyard to play this morning.

We stayed out for about half an hour, and all was well. Well, as well as things can be in close proximity to three dogs excavating mortal remains and feasting on them. But fine nonetheless. Towards the end of the playtime, I realized that the coffee and shredded wheat I'd consumed for breakfast weren't getting along with the bug that's invaded my system. I needed to get inside, and I needed to get inside pronto. No easy task with slightly compromised health, while carrying a 34-pound kid who doesn't want to go inside up a full flight of stairs with two dogs in a bone-eating frenzy at my feet. But we made it.

Not quite soon enough. I could have used three, maybe four extra nanoseconds.

I can't believe I'm going to tell you this. I'm mortified. Truly. But my mortification is a small price to pay if it gives you sickos a chuckle.

No, I did not soil myself. I was very nearly at my targeted location when things started happening. You know how, when someone says "Ready. Aim. Fire," there's usually a slight pause between the words "aim" and "fire"? Well, that pause was gone, and the world is a terrifying, uncivilized place without that pause.

But all was well! I made it in time! My dignity is saved! Humiliation, begone! I'm sure you'll pay me a visit soon enough, but not today, Sucka!

I finished taking care of business, did some inspecting to make sure that I did, indeed, have impeccable aim. All seemed well, so I proceeded as normal.

What's that in the trashcan?

Oh dear lord.

No.

Clara Jane, please tell me you had a dirty diaper and opted to empty it into the bathroom trashcan, right next to the toilet. Please?

The bad news: my aim isn't as impeccable as I first thought. I had, indeed, missed the toilet.

The good news: my aim is far more impeccable than I first thought because goddamn, I hit the trash can without even trying!

I totally understand if you want to break up with me right now. If I were friends with me, I'd be ending it right this minute. Just be gentle when you break it to me. Remember, I'm currently physically ill and couldn't help myself. Thank you.

Figures. Clara Jane's almost out of diapers, and I'm about ready to start wearing them.

Posted by Robin at 02:31 PM | Comments (17)

September 18, 2006

Three Tidbits & a Meme

1. If you visit me via the link at Fluid Pudding, don't forget to bookmark me before FP rides off into the sunset tomorrow. Or, better yet, subscribe to my RSS feed. It's simple. I use Bloglines to manage my feeds, and you should, too.

2. Hey all you local St. Louis people, especially my pals on the east side of the Big Muddy. There's much crafty fun afoot in your neck of the woods next weekend. My pal Allison has helped coordinate the first-ever Strange Folk Arts and Crafts Festival. It happens at O'Fallon (IL) Community Park on September 23 from 11 AM - 6 PM. Lots of talented artsy-craftsies will be selling their wares. There will be a bunch of hands-on art fun to be had and even a fashion show featuring local indie designers. I'm going. You should, too.

3. The ass-pox have moved on to sinus pox. Not that my sinuses have pox on them. I can't see them, of course. All I know is I feel icky and tired and you certainly don't want to be around me.

I did manage to whip up my quasi-homemade chicken noodle soup for lunch, despite my decreped state. It's easy. Dump a quart of chicken broth into a pot. Throw in a frozen chicken breast or two. Because I'm astute like that, when I make chicken breasts I always remove the tenderloins and put them in the freezer for just such occasions. Chop up some carrots, onions, celery, and garlic. Simmer it until the chicken falls apart. Cook some noodles or rice and add them at the last minute. Voila! Instant sinus pox remedy.

And speaking of food, my pal Dixie posted a snazzy little food meme last week. I normally don't meme but 1) I'm sick, and 2) I love talking about food, especially since it's been nearly a year since anyone paid me to do anything related to food. Now that food's not work, it's fun again.

How do you like your eggs?

I'm not a big fan of eggs, but every now and then I like them fried with runny yolks, but I've gotta have some buttery toast to mop up the yellow egg goo.

Don't even try to make me eat a boiled egg white unless you want to be injured.

How do you take your coffee/tea?

My morning coffee is two pods of Archer Farms Fair-Trade Certified Organic Tierra del Sol Coffee Pods brewed in my beloved Senseo How beloved? I just bought a second Senseo to keep at my mom's for the whopping 10 nights a year we spend at her house. Anyway, two pods makes 10 ounces of coffee, which I doctor with about 1/4 cup of 2% milk and a heaping teaspoon of Splenda.

Tea, it all depends on what kind of tea. Sometimes I add a little Splenda or honey. Sometimes not. Most of the time, if the tea's brewed right, it doesn't require anything.

Favorite breakfast foods:
My love of cereal is downright Seinfeldian. But every Sunday, B. makes breakfast. We get the most amazing homemade breakfast sausage at the farmer's market. Yesterday he got crazy and made a Dutch Baby with fried apples.

Peanut butter:
Yes, please. I love peanut butter more than just about anything in the world. Just make sure it's the all-natural stuff.

What kind of dressing on your salad?
I almost never buy bottled salad dressing. When I was in culinary school I learned that making dressing is just about the easiest thing in the world. Ruined me for commercially-made stuff. I usually just make a vinaigrette with two parts extra-virgin olive oil, one part balsamic vinegar, and a dash of sea salt and fresh-ground black pepper.

Coke or Pepsi?
Coke, but rarely.

You're feeling lazy. What do you make?
Pasta with some of the mountains of pesto in my freezer, fresh parmesan cheese, and a bagged salad.

You're feeling really lazy? What kind of pizza do you order?
Plain ol' pepperoni. I'm a traditionalist.

You feel like cooking. What do you make?
Lasagna. Enchiladas. Something fancy-schmancy and brand new.

Do any foods bring back good memories?
Of course! Thanksgiving's corn bread dressing reminds me of my departed granny. I can't crack open a jar of jelly without thinking of my granny who's still here. Tomato soup and grilled cheese tastes like childhood. B.'s hot wings taste like love.

Do any foods bring back bad memories?
If I vomited it at any point in the last five years, it's tainted. Currently I'm off the otherwise yummy pizza from Fortel's, the grilled cheese foccacia from Sweet Tomatoes and the pulled pork from Bandana's, as those were the last three meals I ate prior to last March's Pukefest Gut-o-Rama.

Do any foods remind you of someone?
See the question about food and memories.

Is there a food you refuse to eat?
No. I'll try anything once. Things I don't like, I'll still try periodically because taste buds do change.

When I taught kids cooking classes, I had a policy that unless your parent gave me a note specifying that you couldn't eat something because of religion or allergies, you had to take at least one bite. You could spit it out, but it had to cross your lips at least once. At the time I despised mushrooms. Which is weird - I hated mushrooms my entire life until I got pregnant. Now I like them. But in the early stages of my pregnancy, yuck. Anyway, during the first class I would give my lecture about trying everything. I would tell the kids how much I hated mushrooms, especially raw ones, and I would then proceed to eat a great big raw mushroom in front of them, not bothering to disguise the natural facial expressions of pure revolt.

Of course, when I attempted this trick while two months pregnant, the mushroom promptly came right back up, much to the delight of the class. Gross and humiliating, yes, but lemme tell you, those kids ate everything without a fuss after that.

What was your favorite food as a child?
My mom's homemade pizza. Fried shrimp. Fresh raw peas straight from the garden. Just about any kind of fish.

Is there a food you hated as a child but now love?
Mushrooms.

Is there a food you loved as a child but now hate?
I can't really think of anything beyond the dyed sugar candies that only kids like.

Favorite fruit and vegetable:
Damn near all of them.

Favorite junk food:
Salt & pepper potato chips.

Favorite between meal snack:
Cereal. Cheese.

Do you have any weird food habits?
Not really, aside from being obsessive about expiration dates.

You're on a diet. What food(s) do you fill up on?
Raw fruit and veggies. Whole-grain bread.

You're off your diet. Now what would you like?
A pan of baked pasta with marinara and tons of cheese.

How spicy do you order Indian/Thai?
Medium-hot to hot. I worked for an Indian family when I was in college, and they were surprised that I could handle heat as well as they did. They were from Bombay, which is where the really hot curries come from.

The Thai restaurant I frequented in college had a wall where you could write your name if you managed to clean your plate if you ordered a #10 on their heat scale. I only made it to a #9. The first time I went there with my pal Big Daddy B., he ordered a #2. I called him a wuss, which cracked up our ancient waitress. When she came back to the table and Big Daddy was on the verge of bursting into flames with his weenie-ass #2, she swatted him with a dish towel and said, "Oh, you wuss!"

The thing is with Thai and Indian, they are usually exercises in balance. It's not just heat for heat's sake. It's heat tempered with cooling agents, like dairy, cucumbers, limes. That's what I love about both cuisines. Heat for the sake of heat, without balance is just boring and mashocistic.

Can I get you a drink?
Water or iced tea, please.

May I get you a drink?
A beer sounds good.

Red wine or white?
Red.

We only have beer.
Yippee!

Favorite dessert:
Pie and ice cream.

The perfect nightcap?
Sleepytime tea.

Posted by Robin at 01:43 PM | Comments (6)

September 17, 2006

An Ass-Pox Among Us

Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that it appears I have fallen upon a most grave condition.

I have the ass-pox.

I have annoyingly sensitive skin. Damn near everything breaks me out. I can't sit bare-legged on grass, because I'll turn red and itchy. I can't sit with bare skin against the woven fabric on our couch because I'll turn red and itchy. Don't touch me! For God's sake, don't touch me or I'll probably turn red and itchy and will probably make you turn red and itchy, too!

These skin issues are a big contributor to my anti-outdoorsy feelings that I wrote about on Friday. No matter how much fun I'm having, I know it'll be marred by either sunburn or in this case, ass-pox.

Oddly enough, I'm impervious to poison ivy/oak/sumac. I have bigger problems with run-of-the-mill sod than I do with the plants that have been known to kill other people.

My biggest itch issues are with bugs. They adore me the way I adore braised pork tenderloin with a grainy mustard sauce. A bug looks at me, and I burst into red welps. Bug spray only helps a little. Natural bug repellants? Forget it. That just makes the bugs go crazy. "Stupid hippie!" they shreik in their little buzzy bug voices. "We love the way that eucalyptus oil smells on your sweet, sweet skin!" *chomp*

Friday was absolutely gorgeous, so I shuttled Clara Jane out to the backyard. She's inherited my delicate skin issues, so I'm not sure why I torture her with forced outside time. But she had fun. I spent most of the time in my big Adirondack chair with my book. I felt the prick of bug bites two, maybe three times. Not enough to raise the attention a swellophile like myself.

Fast forward to Saturday afternoon. I spent the day clawing at the welts on my ankles and toes, cursing myself for wearing flip-flops during Friday's outing, wondering if it would be feasable to empty 20 bottles of anti-itch hydrocortisone spray into a foot tub for a soak.

While taking a shower, my hip began to wail at me as the water hit it. If I'd had a tree handy, I gladly would have rubbed my skin against the bark until both were stripped bare. I looked at my hip and found what I can only describe as one of those dishes of cottage cheese topped with a maraschino cherry like the ones from your elementary school cafeteria. Only imagine a big vat of cottage cheese dotted with around 78 maraschino cherries.

It's not nearly as appetizing and delicious as it sounds.

And no, I didn't get these bites because I was pantless in my backyard on Friday. These are bites from scientifically-engineered bugs with the biting power of sharks encoded into their DNA because they can bite through both yoga pants and underpants.

In other news, last night we took Clara Jane to The Great Forest Park Balloon Race. I think they're taking a lot of liberties with the word "race" because even though it was rather gusty, those balloons are pretty damn slow. I think it's safe to say that Richard Petty wasn't pulling any ripcords.

I spent this morning sitting my diseased ass on the couch, knitting a baby blanket while watching "The Alternative" on VH1 Classic. It was only afterwards that I realized that a baby blanket knit while watching videos by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds and Echo & the Bunnymen will probably give the baby colic.

And ass-pox.

Posted by Robin at 02:27 PM | Comments (7)

September 15, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Wilderness Edition

I think it should be mentioned that I do consider myself an environmentalist. I go to some length to make sure that my family's footprint on this earth is a relatively small one. I'm not going to make a list of the earth-friendly things we do, but suffice it to say, I care about Mother Earth and all that hippie jazz.

That said, I'm not a big fan of the great outdoors. I admire the beauty of nature and recognize the restorative power of time spent communing with it. I'd just rather not be the one doing the communing. Particularly, don't take me camping. Don't ask me to join you on a camping trip. Just ... don't. Believe me, if I go camping with you, no one is going to have a good time.

When I was a kid, most of our family vacations were of the camping variety. Not in a tent, at least. God no. That's where my mom drew the line. There was no sleeping on the ground with the snakes. Instead, we were "sheltered" in a pop-up camper.

Those things sticking out like wings? Those are beds. If you think it's exciting when you have the falling dream at home, just wait until you have it in a suspended bed like that, hanging over a ravine in Colorado!

And I wonder why I have panic attacks.

I had a good, long talk with my friend Kim earlier this week. She's the one responsible for that awesome Vegas/U2 weekend last November. Anyway, we were talking about how it's harder to travel with kids now than it was when we were kids. It's hard for a kiddo to sit still in a car/booster seat for a 13-hour road trip. Hell, when we were kids, we made the same drive, bouncing around in the veryback back seat of a VW Beetle station wagon, and it was fun!

Kim and I both went on vacations while riding in the bed of pickup trucks with camper shells. I went all the way from Missouri to Florida like that when I was in second grade. It was great! Technically, I think that truck bed counts as my first apartment. I slept there, took my meals there, read there, listened to my music. Granted, it would have been nice to have had a bathroom and perhaps basic cable, but the price was right.

I've got to interject right here, because I want to tell you my all-time favorite camping story, but it doesn't fit anywhere else in my story so I'm going to drop it here. We were on a big family camping trip. My granny had this bouffant hairdo - how she got hair that big in the great outdoors, I have no idea. The Cuz was a wee one who was probably too young to be given a marshmallow on a sharp stick and instructions to stick the whole rig into the campfire, but what the hell did we know? When she pulled that black, flaming marshmallow from the fire, she went looking for someone to remove it for her and plop! The whole mass of flaming goo landed in Granny's 'do. I think Jesus' love was the only thing that protected my granny from the potentially lethal combination of fire and half a jar of Dippity Do.

At the time, sleeping in that camper or in the bed of the truck didn't seem like roughing it. It was fun. Don't expect me to do it again, though.

Well, there's one possible exception. A few weeks ago I caught a little bit of a show about people who restore teardrop trailers. These little campers are 5' x 10' and I want one.

For camping.

I am sick in the head.

"I think you'll have problems sleeping in that," B. said. And it's true. I'm a tad bit claustrophobic. And by "tad bit" I mean, dear God, don't get anywhere near my face when we're sleeping in our queen-size bed or I'll be forced to move to the couch.

So, fine. We have a truck. We'll just have to throw the couch into the bed of the truck when we go camping, just in case B., Clara Jane, or Chloe the Basset get within a foot of my face in our 5' x 10' living quarters.

Of course I'm taking Chloe the Basset. How could I deny her the joy of camping? She would love it! Murphy's not invited.

I have no idea why I find these little campers so appealing. I have a feeling simply because I'm drawn to their lovely retro stying and if that's the case I need to get over it and just buy another damn pink percolator.

But then it occured to me that I can set my sights higher than the teardrop. There are other snazzy old campers! And I wouldn't have to go camping in them! I could park one in my driveway, plug it in, and have my own little place away from my family, because frankly, having spent this entire day clawing my way through the mountains of abandoned laundry, toys, paints, floor tiles, garbage, dead batteries and general crap left around the house by my family, I could use a little time in the wilderness of my damn driveway!

Oh, who am I kidding? Bugs can get into any of those claptraps. Shuffle me up a suite for one at the Marriott, okay?

1. Heartbreak Hotel - Willie Nelson (That's funny. Didn't Willie live in an RV outside his estate when the IRS forclosed on it? Maybe he'd like to lend it to me.)
2. Hotel - Tori Amos
3. Sleeping with Ghosts - Placebo (I swear, I'm not making this shit up. My iPod needs a good night in a hotel, too.)
4. Don't Let Go - Weezer
5. Desire - U2
6. Keep Your Head Up - Eagles of Death Metal
7. Love is Alive - Joan Osbourne
8. Psycho Killer - Talking Heads
9. Landlocked Blues - Bright Eyes
10. No Cars Go - Arcade Fire (Which is probably what would happen if I hitch my wagon to it.)

Posted by Robin at 03:20 PM | Comments (8)

September 14, 2006

You'll Get Dots and You'll Like Them

• Yes, there is now an ad on this page. Shut up. You'll see the ad and you'll like it because I need shoes.
• Number of meals I ate with grown-up friends today: 2
• Number of children present at said meals: 0
• Do you hear me shrieking with well-fed, well-conversed glee? Because I am.
• Number of pumpkin spice lattes consumed today: 2
• Number of kidneys that are ready to claw their way out of my body and hit me in my face for drinking all that coffee: 2
• "Mommy, I'm a-gonna drive a big ol' red truck. And you're a-gonna ride in my beautiful red truck. Can I listen to the banjos?" So said the hillbilly that came from my loins.
• The fact that my child says "I'm a-gonna" concerns me. I've been paying attention to where she might have picked up such a thing.
• Yep, she got it from me. I'm a-gonna start paying better attention to talkin gud.

• I need to get excited about some new music but I'm at a loss. Recommend something to me. Something without banjos, please.
  
• Neighbors we don't know have started dropping by our house to get tech advice from my husband. Yet another reason to get the hell out of this neighborhood. Take your 28.8 modem and go home, Loser.
  
• I want to learn to play bunco and have all of my girlfriends come over and play. I have no idea why.
  
• So tonight, I had my iPod on shuffle, and it kept shuffling up crap. I switched over to a playlist I made a few months ago. About three songs in I thought, "Wow! This shuffle is amazing! It's like it was tailor-made for me! Oh, wait..."
  
• B. actually said this while watching an ad for the movie "Jackass Number Two": "I'm excited about the movie and all, but I really hope it doesn't feel forced." Because it would be bad for a Jackass movie to feel anything but 100% natural, Baby.
  
• Oddly, that's not the funniest thing that's been said about a Jackass movie in my home. Four years ago, when the first Jackass movie was released, my pal PKB's 13-year-old son looked at me with the most innocent eyes and said, "I don't understand why my mom won't let me go see it. It's just good, clean American fun." He went on to kick the asses of a bunch of grown-up drunk men at Jenga.
  
• I really need to lay off the espresso. And the quarts of sweet tea.

Posted by Robin at 09:36 PM | Comments (9)

September 13, 2006

How to Act Right in Public

In the past week I've seen lots of things that have put issues of the public behavior of children on my mind. I guess that's expected, as I have a child who's often in public.

I guess it started about a week ago. Someone on a message board I frequent asked if parents are too lenient these days with their kids. Of course, the resounding response was, "Hell yeah, they are!" Examples of kids running wild on airplanes, doing backflips in restaurants*, starting knife fights in church** were given.

(*This is a slight exaggeration.)
(**This is an outright fabrication on my part.)

Now, being mom to a two and a half-year-old, I took a bit of exception. Sure, there are a lot of parents who let their kids run wild. My biggest peeve is when I take Clara Jane to kid-geared places, like the Museum of Transporation and we encounter playgroups where the moms are standing around, gabbing, while their children have combined their powers of evil to steal a one-hundred-year-old locomotive.

These moms always have sweaters tied around their waists, even when it's 90 degrees outside. I think they're tied so tight that it prevents the blood from their asses from reaching their brains. But those examples aside, I think there are a lot of times when a parent might be trying and struggling with a difficult child, only to face the tsk-tsks of others. Far too many people seem to think that a loud, crying, screaming, excited, running child equals a lazy, lenient parent. Not true. I think more often than not, it's a parent who's at her wit's end, exhausted, frustrated, and at a loss because God forbid she discipline in public, because then she's a child abuser.

Parents just can't get a break sometimes.

That being said, a few days after that post, I caught myself being that mom. You know, the one who disciplines other peoples' kids in public.

We were making our usual Saturday outing to the Tower Grove Farmer's Market. I'd finished my shopping, and we were in the playground, having fun. Now, this is one of those cool parks that not only has two seperate play structures - one for kids under five, the other for bigger kids - but even has them in seperate playgrounds. The big hooligans should never come into contact with the sweet babes.

As it was getting late in the morning, my little family had the entire toddler area to ourselves. That is, until a pack of wild dingos a group of young people came trampling in. There were six of them. Or 23. It was hard to tell with all the pre-adolescent arms and legs flailing akimbo and the screaming and yelling and oh my God, don't these kids have parents, for God's sake? All 47 of them climbed onto the one-person merry-go-round and began spinning round and round and round and screaming and sweet Jesus can you imagine how much puke this is going to create we need to leave NOW.

Oh, I wanted to tell them to pipe down and go play in the big kid's playground. Even though they weren't bothering us. Even though they were just being kids. Even though they didn't seem to have any parents around, and one girl who couldn't have been more than 13 years old appeared to be in charge of the whole group. So, I bit my tongue.

That is, until the punches started flying. Once these 253 unsupervised brats started physically fighting, I put on my Mom Shoes (they're made by Easy Spirit***) and kicked some ass by annoucning, "Hey! You kids! Stop fighting right now!" even though I feel like I'm a nerdy 11-year-old narking on the big kids when I say shit like that.

(***Good lord, no, I don't own those shoes. I'm not that far-gone. Not yet.)

But apparently, I don't look or sound like a dorky 11-year-old, because those kids stopped dead, shut up, and stopped fighting.

I have the parental power supreme.

And then there's today. If you read regularly, you've probably figured out that Clara Jane and I don't spend a lot of time at home. We like to get out and go. I've had a lot of people inform me that we go more than is typical. We just don't like to be cooped up. When we're cooped up, it's far too easy to sit around in our jammies, doing nothing but watching TV all day. I don't want Clara Jane to grow up like that. So, the two of us go to the library. We go to museums. We take classes. We hang out at coffeehouses. We go out for lunch several times a week, just the two of us. Yes, it's fun. And yes, it's hard. Crazy hard.

I used to be friends with someone for many, many years. From second grade until about three years ago, we were friends. She suffered from severe, often mistreated or undertreated bipolar disorder. It was a horrible experience in a lot of ways. But let me tell you, being in public with someone in the midst of a manic breakdown is good preparation for being in public with an outspoken two and a half-year-old. And bonus - it's much easier to wrestle a two and a half-year-old to the ground.

My frustration currently is that every fun thing with daughter is marred by The Mania.

On Sunday we finally took her on her first proper outing to Ted Drewes Frozen Custard. She'd been twice before, but was too tiny to actually eat anything. I'd looked forward to this day for so long.

Doesn't that look awesome? A child, her first proper trip to a landmark, a cup full of frozen custard deliciousness, held on her father's lap. Does life get much better?

No, because in about thirty seconds, that child is going to dart into the heavily-trafficked parking lot, throwing herself to the pavement, completely deaf to the screams of her parents.

Yesterday, I had grand plans of us making apple cupcakes. What really happened? She threw a fit because I had the audacity to use my Kitchenaid mixer. First she climbed my body like a lemur, howling and screaming at the unfairness of it all, then she asked to go play with her toys as if nothing had happened. Not that it matters, since I underbaked the cupcakes. I ate one this afternoon anyway, and it had a mysterious crunchy substance on its top.

And today. I took her to the zoo. We're fortunate in that we live in a city that has one of the best zoos in the country, and it's free. There's not the huge pressure to go once a year and see everything because dammit, we're gonna get our money's worth. If we want to go for an hour or two and see one area, we can. And we do. But we haven't in a long time, not since the days when she was pretty content to stat put in her stroller.

Today's stroller-free freedom allowed her to interact with fake sea lions:

and a real hippo:

It allowed her to wander around and find the bookie to place our bets when the rhino rumble broke out:

For the record, if you happen across a rhino and she's giving you the stink eye like this:

do yourself a favor and get the hell away from her. Of course, that advice is probably good anytime you happen across a rhino. stink eye or no.

Being stroller-free also provide Clara Jane to walk up to an eldery zoo volunteer and explain that the elephant has "a great big trunk, two big white tusks, and makes a big poop."

It also allowed her the opportunity to go running through the makeshift cave, screaming her head off, where she was able to throw herself onto the concrete ground and throw a first-rate tantrum, all in the presence of tsk-tsking people who were apparently smart enough to leave their toddlers at home. I couldn't tell if they were tsk-tsking because I was a lazy, lenient parent whose child was running around like she needed some lithium, or because I was a child-abusing disciplinarian.

The whole experience, even though it had precious moments like Clara Jane telling me the mother elephant is beautiful, made me break out in what I can only assume is a bad case of rhino pox:

Posted by Robin at 03:15 PM | Comments (12)

September 12, 2006

Scenes From My Hometown

No, I'm not visiting my hometown; I'm safely ensconsed in my little suburban St. Louis world. But I had three things that made me think of my hometown yesterday:

#1 - I've been loving the photos from the Missouri State Fair posted on Flickr by St. Louisan Curioush. I haven't been to the fair in well over a decade, but it looks like it hasn't changed a bit.

#2 - My mom sent me The Scariest Email Ever yesterday. Apparently, the worst music festival in the history of the free world is coming to town! If you open that link without turning your speakers down first, may God have mercy on your souls and your hearing. Saliva! Drowning Pool! Some band fronted by a wrestler! This is some vile shit, people. Vile.

The summer before my second birthday, the Ozark Music Festival came to town. That's right, nearly 300,000 hippies converged on my little hometown to see Skynyrd, the Marshall Tucker Band, BTO, Jefferson Airplane, and, natch, Ozark Mountain Daredevils.

My dearly departed paternal grandpa, Don, was known to tell tales of seeing every single one of those hippies skinny-dipping in the creek that ran under highway 65 on the way to his farm.

While I was too young to remember this event, I wish I'd been able to see Grace Jones purchasing bottles of Robitussin at one of the proud-to-be-Sedalia-owned Bingaman Grocer stores in lieu of real drugs.

And you know what? I didn't know until just now, when I read the Wikipedia link, that Springsteen played the festival. Again, while I was too young to attend, I'd like to think that Springsteen's presence in my hometown during my tender age somehow turned me into the Springsteen nut I've been for most of my life. Maybe we skinny-dipped in the same creek at some point. I don't know, but knowing that he was there makes me far happier than it should.

Anyway, while the upcoming punkass angry metal-o-rama promises to only fill the town with 20,000 angry young white men and absolutely no talent, I've still warned my mom to not let my granny go to Wal-Mart that weekend. She's such a sweet lady and she doesn't need to see any of those people.

And no, I will most certainly not be attending that concert. Jesus, no.

#3 - You know you're gonna love this, because it involves The Cuz!

We don't come from the most touchy-feely of families, but damn if we don't come from funny people. In other words, don't expect a card covered with flowery shit when special occasions roll around. Expect an obscene bumper sticker stuck to your vehicle when you're not paying attention.

So, imagine my surprised when, through the powers of the internet, I learned that The Cuz had purchased an anniversary card for B. and me.

Aw, how pretty. A bird. And it's a bird that has something in its mouth, so it's unlike to peck my eyes. And peace. I love peace. It's one of my favorite things ever. Let's see what the inside of the card says.

And a happy Rosh Hashanah to you, too, my Baptist-raised kin! You do realize how badly this is going to confuse our Pentecostal granny come Christmastime, right?

But that's not all! There's a gift!

Mmmmmm ... anniverary tacos! Hometown anniversary tacos, even! Let's hurry on out and take advantage of this!

Oh, but wait! There's a catch!

Hmmmm ... I'm not familiar with Border Foods. Let's take a gander at their website.

Dammit! Looks like I have to go to Minnesota, Wisconsin, or Wyoming to get my damn anniversary/Rosh Hashanah taco. Best get in the car and get on it. Dinnertime's only three and a half hours away.

Best anniversary card ever! Because, although it's actually a card for a holiday I don't celebrate and includes a coupon for a free taco several states away, I can say in all honesty that I've never had an anniversary card that made me laugh so hard that Taco Bell Fire Sauce oozed from my ears until this one.

Brava, The Cuz. Brava.

Watch your ass come Shivaratri.

Posted by Robin at 01:50 PM | Comments (9)

September 11, 2006

The Luxury of Innocence

I've been thinking about this post for a week. Not surprisingly, I don't have anything unique. I don't have any truths about today that the rest of you don't already know.

I was getting ready for class that morning. To defer my big student loans while I was getting my cooking career underwy, I was taking a writing class and two literature classes at a community college. I'd just landed a job with a local foodie rag, which would eventually lead to a gig teaching culinary classes, which led to my catering business. But on that day, I'd yet to write my first article and I had no idea what I was going to do with the culinary education I'd spent the last year and a half gaining. All I knew was I was back where I'd started - English classes.

I was dawdling online instead of getting dressed. Tori Amos' website was previewing a song from her rather unimpressive cover album Strange Little Girls. That day's selection was "Happiness is a Warm Gun". I wasn't impressed. Within a few notes I knew that I preferred the cover that The Breeders. I didn't like how Tori sampled news stories about gun violence into the song. Too heavy-handed. She's dragging this shit out for ten minutes? Please. I don't need to be bashed over the head by how the song ties into modern violence. Duh.

As I listened, I hopped around the web, like I always do, alternating between my email, my web communities, and the news, like I always do. During a brief trip to Yahoo News, I noticed a headline about a plane hitting the World Trade Center. I figured it was a mishap, like one that had happened a few years earlier that barely registered a blip. I surfed away, eventually getting up to brush my teeth and get on with my day.

Between brushing my teeth and getting dressed, I realized I hadn't checked the weather in my morning surfing. Not wanting to get sucked back in, I headed to the TV instead of the computer to check the local news.

I remember the spot where I was standing in the living room. When we rearranged the furniture a few months later, I was secretly thrilled that I'd never be able to stand in that exact spot again.

The first plane had hit. Maybe the second had, too. I don't recall for sure. I don't recall much.

I remember being in the hallway by the bookcase when I heard that the Pentegon had been hit. I was looking for my phone to call my mom. All I remember of that conversation was saying, "This is bad. This is bad," over and over.

I got my head together enough to try to call my teacher, but got her voice mail. At a complete loss of what to do, I left for class.

I live just south of the airport, and my class was just north of the airport. The highway connecting the two runs under the flight path of all the jets coming from the east. I knew that all planes had been ordered down at that point, and I watched their bellies, one by one, as they came over me to land.

I had never in my life been as frightened as I was, watching those planes - so many of them - landing above me. Their silence over the next three days served as a constant reminder that the world had changed, right down to the background white noise of my home several thousand miles away from the attacks.

I walked into class a few minutes late. Everyone was taking a pop quiz.

A fucking quiz?

Don't you people know that our world is ending?

I took a seat by the door because figured I'd need to run out of the room to puke at some point during the class.

Turns out, no one else in the room knew what had happened. That was the last moment in my life in which I'd be in a room of Americans who had been afforded the luxury of innocence.

Despite my news/info junkie tendancies, I couldn't watch any of the news coverage. When I got home from school, I parked the TV on Nickelodeon and proceeded to watch nothing but "Spongebob Squarepants" for the better part of a week. Occasionally I'd flip to MTV or VH1, but they kept playing Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah set to images of NYC so I stopped.

I didn't cry.

I just wanted to sleep. But I have trouble sleeping when I'm stressed, so before bed every night, I downed a handful of Tylenol PM, which kept me hazy during most of my waking hours.

I didn't listen to music. I couldn't risk bringing any emotions to the surface because I knew that when they surfaced, they would drown me.

I cooked. I made every comfort food I could find. Cuban Arroz con Pollo. Southern baked chicken and dressing. Lasagna.

I don't know how many days passed before I cried. It happened while watching an episode of Behind the Music featuring Blind Melon. I never liked them. When Shannon Hoon's widow cried about the daughter he left behind when he died of a heroin overdose, I finally heaved sobs for every child who'd been orphaned that week.

A year later, I spent the day driving around St. Louis with my camera, taking photos. I snapped shots of the American flags everywhere, from the drive-thru window at Burger King to the antenneas of every car on a used car lot. I stood on the patio of a restaurant next to the runway and took photos of planes taking flight. I took beautiful photos of the sun shining through the Gateway Arch. A series of those photos in black and white hang on my dining room wall. They've been there for so long that I don't instantly think of why I took them every time I look at them.

There are two photos I took that day that, if I ever happen to lose my copies of them, I'll still be able to envision them in my mind's eye. I'll never forget them.

This is a gas station B. goes by twice a day, since it's near his train station. Five years ago today, the owner of the station placed the words "Act of war. Nuke now." on the board. A year later, this is what remained.

It's easy to declare war when you're too fucking lazy to maintain your message and someone else is doing your fighting.

This was taken on a bench beneath the Gateway Arch. I have no idea who this woman is. She sat there with her shopping bag clutched in her hands, head bowed, the entire time I was there while her husband and young son played nearby in the grass.

I wanted to sit on the bench next to her and cry. Instead, I kept my distance, only getting as close to her as my zoom lens allowed.

Today, I once again vowed that if the TV was turned on, it would be to kids shows. Clara Jane and I stayed in our jammies. We painted and played with Play-Doh and cookie cutters. We ate chicken noodle soup for lunch. We took a warm bubble bath to clean up all the paint, Play-Doh and chicken soup. We read from her big Curious George book and watched some "Sesame Street".

Elmo's World today was about firefighters.

I folded my arms over the back of the couch, laid my head down, and sobbed.

When I looked up, Clara Jane was watching me, looking concerned. I smiled and told her everything was okay.

It's not.

She asked for her slippers. I went to her room to fetch them, taking advantage of the privacy to release the pressure valve. I gave myself 30 seconds to sob as hard as I could into the back of one of her stuffed Basset hounds before pulling my shit together. I took her on my lap and we sat on the couch, watching Elmo while I put the pink slippers on her feet.

At naptime, she did something she's never done before. She said, "I want to sleep in the big bed" as she ran into my bedroom, the soles of those slippers slapping the new floor.

We crawled into bed, and I figured she was just playing the game she calls "Uppie Uppie" where she gets on our bed, pretends to sleep, and then bounces like a monkey.

Instead, we laid there and I asked, "Do you want to snuggle?"

Clara Jane's not much of a snuggler. She's got far better things to do. I understand this, as I'm not a snuggler either. But today, she looked at me and nodded.

So we snuggled under the down comforter, resting and quiet, save for several outbursts of tickling and giggling. Eventually I moved her to her bed. She needed to sleep and I needed to have some time away from her to get my emotions in order.

Today I've seen several mentions around the web of people saying they don't understand the sadness people are feeling today. 9/11 wasn't the biggest event in history and we need to just get over it.

I can only think that these ideas were presented by people who are young enough that they didn't get to experience the luxury of innocence for as long as I did. Five years is a long time to a 20-year-old. They've spent a quarter of their lives living like this. Maybe it seems more normal to them than it does to me.

I was almost 29 five years ago. I think people in my generation, the ones who experienced the attacks somewhat near the middle of their lives, are going to be the ones who have the hardest time letting this go. Or, rather, we have a unique perspective of having half of our lives "before" and half "after". I don't know if I feel sorry for the younger ones because less of their lives will be spent not entertaining the idea of people flying planes into buildings on purpose, or if I envy them for being able to normalize it and move on.

Now I understand a little more about what Vietnam and Kennedy's assassination meant to my parents' generation. And what Pearl Harbor meant to my grandparents' generation. The events they saw weren't the biggest events in history, that's true. But they were the biggest events in their history, and that matters. A lot.

I can't change that this is the world that my child lives in. I can protect her from it for a little while, but it's there, and she'll know. But I don't want her to know now. I don't want her to feel like she has to comfort me because of what I know and what I saw.

Not yet.

Posted by Robin at 02:04 PM | Comments (11)

September 09, 2006

A Saturday of Dots

That's right. It's the weekend, and yet, I'm posting. This almost never happens! I must have something incredibly important to broadcast to the world!

Well, I don't.

• Do you like quilt shows? Sure, we all do. And do you like to put on leather chaps and feel the rumbling of 100% American-made hog between your legs? Of course! Which is why you should envy Allison and me. We spent the afternoon walking the quaint cobblestone streets of lovely historic downtown St. Charles, Missouri, admiring displays of beautiful quilts both old and new, while the streets swarmed with Harleys.

  At one point, when a police car chirped its siren and made its way down the brick street, Allison said, "There must be a biker brawl." To which I replied, "Or a quilter rumble. Can you guess which one I'd pay to watch?" I like to think that one of the quilters guilds decided to get mean and nasty with a gang of Bikers for Babies.

• When you were a kid, did you ever get really, really hopped up on frozen lemonade and try to play "Ring Around the Rosie" in your underpants? Did it look anything like this?

• You know what annoys me? The gross overuse of phrases regarding spit-takes. Actually, the gross overuse of just about any phrase annoys me, but lately, things like "you made me spew coffee all over my keyboard!" irritate me. I don't hold anything against the people who say such things; I know I can fall into cliches just as easily as the next guy. See? I did it right there.

  But last night, oh, something really did make me laugh so hard I had to fight a valiant battle to contain the liquids within my mouth. While drinking a pumpkin spice latte - again - B. chose the exact moment after I took a giant swig to tell me this story, reenacted here.

  I fully admit that I find this far funnier than it really is. That happens a lot. Weird things strike me as funny, and I'll spend days busting up every time I thing about it or see even the slightest reference to it. I spent the entirity of my first semester of college howling with laughter every time I passed the big auditorium on campus where I saw Paula Poundstone do a routine about her cats vomiting rubber bands. Hell, I still laugh about that.

  Considering how completely irritating I am when I howl with laughter, it's probably advisable to tell me funny things when my mouth is full. Sure, I may choke to death, but think of all the people whose hearing would be spared.

Did you think I could go a whole week without showing you some crafty shit? When Clara Jane was born, my pal PKB gave her a darling little dress that looked like it was made from a chenille bedspread. The kiddo finally grew into it last spring, and since it had a bunny, she wore it for Easter:

I've saved a lot of Clara Jane's baby clothes to eventually turn into a quilt, but I couldn't bear to cut this dress. But what to do with an outgrown bunny dress? Let it hang in the closet and collect dust until Clara Jane's grown up and can throw it away when she sends me to that old folks home she saw on "Sixty Minutes" because I once posted a video of her singing "Ring Around the Rosie" in her plastic underpants? No! I'll just sew up all the openings on the dress, unbutton the back, stuff it with polyfil, button it, and call it a pillow!

Seams I'm onto something good.

Get it? "Seams"? Hehehehehe. Like "seems"? Yeah, well, what was Murphy chewing?

Chloe got groomed today. Or broomed, depending on how you look at it.

No, we still haven't finished installing our new flooring. Shut up. If you've got something smart to say about that, just shut your mouth, get your ass over here, and finish the job your damn self.

Last night, while I was choking to death on my latte, Clara Jane was playing with another little girl name Clara who had a sister named Chloe. That Chloe smelled a lot better than ours.

See why I don't post on the weekends? It never goes anyplace good.

Posted by Robin at 10:11 PM | Comments (4)

September 08, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The We've Gotta Get Outta This Place Edition

First, I know you've probably seen this, but I think it's snazzy. Plug in the states you've visited, and it gives you a map. Normally I wouldn't post something like this, but you've got to see my map:

create your own visited states map

It looks I started in Missouri and I'm gradually oozing out in all directions. Except for that little gap between Ohio and New York, which I'll be rectifying next month when I ooze my way to see Wilco in Latrobe with Exena. Maybe I'll start dripping my way through the mid-atlantic states next.

I have the unholy desire to sit here and make a list of when I visited each state, what part, and the reason for the visit, but I won't subject you to my list-making mental illness. Unless, you know, you want me to.

Instead, I'm going to talk about the real place I'm wanting to ooze out of. I've just about finally had it with the horrible neighborhood of mine. B. and I have been talking about moving for years, with the idea that we'll wait until we can afford to buy our dream home, the one we're going to stay in forever. We'd love to be able to move out of this house and ditch most of our furniture, starting a new life in a new house with new stuff.

Yeah, we're delusional.

What's suddenly brought this on? What, after years of dealing with the dune buggy-building Elton John fan, '80s Lady, Boy, the crazy crack-smoking moron in the house behind us who hears imaginary dogs in the night, and The 360-Degree Cameltoe, what has finally caused me to throw up my hands in disgust and say, "That's it! Sell it. Burn it. I don't care how you get rid of this house, just get rid of it and find me a new one!"?

A 7-11 that I never visit closed yesterday.

It's a few blocks up the road from us, and I can count on one hand the number of times I've been there, usually just to buy gas. Once, I stayed in the car while B. ran inside to get nachos. While he was inside, I went into a furious rage because next to me was a car, running, doors unlocked, with a teeny-tiny baby screaming in the backseat and no adult to be found. I decided to wait until B. returned, and if no one came to the car, I was calling the cops. But the supposed mother returned, nachos and smokes in hand, and was none too happy about me going ballistic on her ass.

So, it's the not the closing of the 7-11 in and of itself that has me upset, although B.'s a little worked up about it. Where is he going to score the three staples of his diet - nachos, coffee, and 87-ounce vats of fountain Diet Coke - from now on? He'll actually have to get in the car to get his food on. I think he wept a little when I broke the news to him.

My problem with the demise of the 7-11 has to do with our neighborhood on the whole. The big grocery store two blocks from my house closed almost a year ago. Empty storefronts are everywhere. If a neighborhood can't support businesses, pretty soon everything else slides downhill. And frankly, this neighborhood can't afford to slide much more.

When I drove past the papered windows and boarded-over sign yesterday, my heart did a two-point sink: 1)There goes the neighborhood. Again. 2)And we still can't afford to move. We're never going to be able to afford to move. We're going to be stuck in this house while the neighborhood goes straight to hell, and Clara Jane's going to be ruined by one of the worst school districts in the metro area, and there's not a damn thing we can do.

But wait! There is something we can do! We don't have to buy our dream house just yet. We can look into making a more lateral move. Go with two bedrooms and a little less square footage. We can do this! We can move! We can get out of our 7-11less existance and be free!

So now I'm thinking of all the reasons why I don't wanna move. Sure, I have more friends living in Illinois near the town we want to move to than I have on the Missouri side of the river. But I'll miss the friends who are nearby now. And Clara Jane's daycare! I don't even want to think about leaving them.

Maybe I can drive an hour one way once a week to take her to daycare. That's feasable, right?

Trader Joe's. There's no Trader Joe's in the St. Louis metro east. Do I want to go back to a Trader Joe'sless existance?

Am I really thinking about not moving because Trader Joe's would be more than five miles from my house? Honestly? It's not like I'd be forced to get there by stagecoach if we move. Excuse me. When we move.

But but but ... what if we unwittingly move into a neighborhood that's worse than ours? And then there's this issue of living in Illinois. I've lived in Missouri my entire life. Yeah, I know, it doesn't seem like a big deal. But let me tell you, my friend PKB, born and bred in Poplar Bluff, Missouri, has lived in Illinois a few miles from Missouri for nearly a decade, and she still talks about how she cried when she had to get her Illinois driver's license. It's not that there's anything wrong with Illinois. Certainly not. It's just that us Missouri girls are a proud lot, especially for people whose state is represented by a jackass.

Who knows? Maybe this move will happen. Maybe it won't. I'm not thrilled with either option. I'd just like to live in a nice neighborhood where the people behave themselves and my husband can destroy his arteries and colon with 7-11 nachos, coffee and tubs o' cola while he shuffles his way home.

1. Wander I Go - Patti Smith (See? Patti wants us to go. And we should all do exactly what Patti says.)
2. Down There By the Train - Johnny Cash (There are trains in the town where we want to move.)
3. I Met Him on a Sunday - The Shirelles
4. Neighborhood 3-Power Out - Arcade Fire (There's gotta be something prophetic to that one.)
5. That'll Be the Day - Linda Ronstadt
6. Dead City - Patti Smith (Dammit, Patti!)
7. In the Ghetto - Elvis (Dammit, Elvis! And her mama cries, indeed.)
8. Beachball - REM (whose lead singer attended high school in the town next to the one where we wish to move)
9. You Never Can Tell - Chuck Berry
10. New Year's Day - U2

If Wilco or Uncle Tupelo - bands borne of the town where we're looking to relocate - had shown up on the shuffle, I promise you, I'd be packing my bags to move right now. Patti may be a prophet, but I make all my important decisions based on Jeff Tweedy compositons.

Posted by Robin at 03:24 PM | Comments (9)

September 07, 2006

Things that Make You Feel Good. Things that Make You Feel Bad

Clara Jane and I adore the book Things That Make You Feel Good. Things That Make You Feel Bad by the wonderful Todd Parr. Does your kid have Todd Parr's books? They should, because these books are fab.

Anyway, "Things That Make You Feel Good..." is a simple little book. The left-facing pages all feature things that make you feel good like mac & cheese, bubble baths and friends. The right-facing pages have things that make you feel bad, like worm stew, stinky feet and bullies.

Today, I feel the overwhelming need to write my own "Things That Make You Feel Good. Things That Make You Feel Bad."

Things That Make You Feel Good
Pumpkin spice lattes. Big ones. With whipped cream.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Being denied your big creamy pumpkiny spicy latte until you've been walking the earth for three fucking hours in severe caffiene deprivation.

Things That Make You Feel Good
The intense relief associated with finding a lost set of car and housekeys.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
The deflated self-esteem associated with realizing that, you idiot, you left them in the door again and they've been there all night. Again.

Things That Make You Feel Good
Clara Jane happily sprinting into her room at daycare and frolicking with her friends.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Pack-Muling the six heavy bags required to get you out of the house and to your respective locales while herding a two-year-old who has suddenly decided to walk the same speed as the average 97-year-old directly in front of you.

Things That Make You Feel Good
The burbling, Beavisesque laughter that can only occur while standing in the parking lot of a Methodist church and being told by a man with a perfectly straight face that his tool isn't long enough to get the job done. Hearing about his 11-inch long copper pipe was pretty funny, too.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Giving the man with the too-short tool $68 for jimmying your truck door open because you're an idiot and locked your keys in while juggling Clara Jane and her two metric tons of luggage.

Things That Make You Feel Good
Blowing off the book-writing while someone else takes care of the kiddo.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Blowing off the book-writing while someone else takes care of the kiddo.

Things That Make You Feel Good
Writing.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Not knowing where to begin with the writing because my God, you've barely written since May and why the hell are you even bothering because the thought of finishing this book, whoring it out to agents and editors, going through the editing process, and trying to get people to buy it makes you feel nauseous. Maybe you'll just take those cake decorating classes you've been considering and get yourself back into the culinary game because you know, you kind of miss it.

Things That Make You Feel Good
Knowing that you'll never, ever leave your keys where they don't belong.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
The Frankenstein-style bolt that's holding your keys against the side of your head because honestly, leaving them in really wrong places twice in less than 24 horus? You dumbass. Heh heh ... his tool's too short.

Posted by Robin at 12:06 PM | Comments (7)

September 05, 2006

Marriage: A Seven Year Retrospective

Sept. 5, 1999: Got all dolled up, stood on my parents' front porch and got hitched.

Sept. 5, 2000: After spending a wonderful weekend in Memphis, I returned home to learn that a friend from an online message board had died the night before. She had cancer and was only 32 years old. She left a husband and a son. I can say so much more about this. So much. But instead, I'll let you read some of her own words, which her husband was kind enough to share on his blog a few days ago.

B. and I picniced on the hill in front of the art museum, but it didn't seem to matter much.

September 5th, 2001: I don't remember much about September 5th. I think we had another picnic - we're big on picnics in my family, seeing as our wedding was a picnic - follwed by drinks at our bar du jour at the time, which has since gone the way of the dodo. But I do remember September 8th, 2001. We had a big shindig back in my hometown, celebrating 117 years of marriage. You see, B. and I share an anniversary date with my parents and grandparents. That year was #55, #30, and #2.

In the front you'll find my mama, Granny Viv, my aunt, me and my closed eyes, and B. In the back there's my dark, swarthy father, Grandpa Chuck, my uncle, my cousin Travis and The Cuz.

My main memory of the day involves sitting outside with a childhood friend of mine, getting the dirt from our 10-year high school reunion. It happened the night before, and even though it was a mere mile from my parents' house, I couldn't be bothered to go.

Three days later, watching what looked like the end of the world, I kept thinking that I was so glad to have had my entire family together for one last good time, because surely there would be no more good times, ever.

September 5, 2002: Lo and behold, there were good times to be had. Specifically, good times had the weekend before September 5th. B. and I saw an amazing Springsteen show, followed by three nights in a knock-out suite at the top of the Renaissance. I'm forever spoiled because of this.

But on our actual anniversary, B.'s boss paged him at 8 PM and kept him on the phone until well after midnight for a problem that could have waited until the next morning. Thing is, the boss knew it was our anniversary, as B. had taken off early - with his boss' blessing - so we could have our annual picnic. This boss has a history of passive-agressive nonsense.

I left the house in a fury sometime around Hour Three of the phone call.

September 5, 2003: Ah, the pregnant anniversary. We took a drive along Route 66 and had dinner at a lovely little diner in St. Clair, Missouri, pop. 4500.

September 5, 2004: Because he knows what's good for him, B. whisked my post-partum depressioning ass away to a delightful bed and breakfast. I don't remember much after the in-room massage.

September 5, 2005: I don't even remember. So much awful shit was going on that I didn't even care because caring was wearing me out. But in retrospect, it made me rather astute. I hadn't read that blog entry in awhile. I think I should make a point of reading it at least once a month. Maybe during the full moon.

September 5, 2006: Clara Jane and I didn't leave the house. We ate peanut butter sandwiches with homemade peach jam for lunch. We read books and cuddled on the couch. She napped. I did laundry and dishes, sewed a little, sorted throught he cache of hand-me-down clothes that we brought home this weekend. I watched an episode of "Desperate Housewives". B. went to the sleep center to get his CPAP adjusted. We had black bean burgers for dinner as part of our current attempt to be vegetarians three days a week. They needed more Tabasco. Clara Jane played in the shower and the dogs licked spilled shredded cheese off the exposed subflooring in the dining room.

I think we've hit the point where the bad anniversaries and the good ones have balanced each other out. We've also reached the point where they're not novel anymore. B. didn't give me a card, and I'm not even bothered slightly by this.

Today simply marks time moving on, and that's enough. But since my friend who passed six years ago has been on my mind, I'm going to end with some of her words:

Life is remarkable. I really don’t think that it happens by chance. The thing is, there is a plan out there, you just don’t get privy to it. When you see the big picture, it’s really too late most of the time. What really has shocked me is how one sentence, one question, one desire or observation can alter your life. These life altering situations can happen and you don’t even realize what happened for years most of the time.

Appropriate, because during each of those anniversaries, I never thought I'd remember the things that I actually remember. There were gifts, cards, impressive dinners, and they're a blur. The things that stand out in retrospect are the things that seemed inconsequential at the time, or bothersome. Life, unlike a cute wedding on a front porch followed by a picnic for 120 in the back yard, doesn't go according to plan, but it always works out in the end.

Posted by Robin at 07:52 PM | Comments (12)

September 03, 2006

Janice Andrukaitis, You're Causing Ethical Delimmas

Friday evening, B., the dogs, and I set out for my hometown. Originally, we planned to grab dinner at the St. Louis Bread Company and eat in the car. But since the weather was nice enough to leave the dogs in the car, we decided to wait out some of the traffic and stop for a proper dinner.

Upon leaving the restaurant, I elbowed B., unable to speak, just pointed at the brand-new folded 20-dollar bill I spied before my toe. He lunged for it, unfolded it and discovered yet another 20-dollar bill. That's 40 bucks, wrapped in a receipt. The person who dropped the money, one Janice Andrukaitis, had purchased gas four hours earlier in a town about three and a half hours up the interstate from the spot where she stood when she dropped her cash. Of course she was nearby, because 1) the time on the gas reciept said so, and 2) dude, $40 laying on the ground in plain sight on a sidewalk outside a busy restaurant at 7 PM on the Friday of Labor Day weekend. Not like that item had been languishing, unnoticed, all day.

I instantly felt a little ill. What if this $40 was the last money Janice Andrukaitis had to her name. I've been in that boat and if I'd lost that money, I would have wanted to chop my own head off while I vomitted.

Ah, the wonders of modern technology! I have the person's name - Janice Andrukaitis - right in my very hand! I drug B. back into the restaurant.

"If the hostess says we can leave the money with her and she'll give it back to Janice Andrukaitis, I'm cramming it in my pocket and running out the door," he said. Good policy.

"Well, I guess you can leave the money here and we'll give it to her if she comes looking for it," the hostess said.

I insisted that she page Janice Andrukaitis, and the hostess found every excuse to not page her. She couldn't pronounce Andrukaitis. "Her last name's 'Andrukaitis'," B. said. "I think she's pretty used to people butchering her name." She's probably long gone. Maybe she wanted to return the money into the world.

Okay, the hostess didn't suggest that one, but it wouldn't have surprised me if she had. Finally, she consented to paging Janice Andrukaitis, but did it at such a low volume that B. and I could barely hear it, nevermind Janice Andrukaitis.

"Check the book!" I demanded, knowing good and well that every guest who'd eaten at the restaurant had to wait for a table.

"Oh, that page is probably long gone."

"No it's not. She couldn't have gotten here more than an hour ago."

At this point the hostess decided dealing with me wasn't worth a free $40 and she fetched the manager.

Four pages and a rifle through the hostess' guest book later, the manager informed me that it was my lucky day and I should probably spend my $40 on lottery tickets as he shooed us out the door. He found a carryout order for a Janice in the book, but no phone number and no guarantee that it was her.

So, we're back on the sidewalk, one part wanting to do a backflip because hey! Free money! The other part wallowing in, what? A weird form of money survivor's guilt? "We found the money here, and there's a hotel 20 feet away. She probably got carryout and was walking to her hotel room when she dropped her stuff," I said.

"I'm not going to the hotel and knocking on doors. We've done what we can," said my morally questionable husband.

I was thinking about all the things that lead to this money coming to us. Had B. not come home an hour and a half early from work, it wouldn't have happened. Had we eaten in the car, it wouldn't have happened. Had I not needed to buy a bottle of water for my dogs, we wouldn't have found it. By that token, maybe the dogs are the rightful owners of the $40.

I'm not giving $40 to my dogs. They'll just spend it on crank and hookers.

I think about things too much.

To celebrate our newfound fistful of someone else's hard-earned cash wealth, we went through the drive-thru of a brand-spanking-new Starbuck's that had just opened that day and will probably injure the two locally-owned coffeehouses that are a mile away. If we're going to be scoundrels, we're going all the way, Baby!

Lo and behold, what's on the menu? Pumpkin spice lattes! I wasn't expecting them for weeks! Maybe all is well and I'm just having a lucky day. But. But! Purchasing this surprise delicacy at the evil green behemouth with ill-gotten cash can't be good. There's going to be a large chicken bone in my pumpkin spice latte, and it's going to lodge in my throat and I'm going to die a slow, painful, surprisingly nutmeggy death!

But I didn't choke, and my latte was perfect. Not only that, but the cute barista professed his love to me.

Okay, a side story: There's a guy who works at the Starbucks I occasionally frequent, and I adore him. His espresso's always perfect, and he's always so sweet and friendly. I can feel like crap when I arrive, and I always walk away feeling a little more sparkly afterwards. He's a dead ringer, physically and personality-wise, for my friend Big Daddy B.

Well, we pulled up to the drive-thru to spend $8 of Janice Andrukaitis' hard-earned cash on frivilous non-fair trade certified coffee, and there's Big Daddy Barista. I asked if he wasn't at the other store anymore, to which he gasped, clutched his chest, stammered and yelled, "Oh my God! I love you! You recognize me! No, I'm just helping out here for a few days."

Who's world am I living in? Certainly not mine, because I don't find money, get good coffee and get lavished with love from a cute gay man in my world.

Anyway, this money. I know it's not much, but it certainly made our weekend more enjoyable. We had coffee. I bought some beautiful fabric to make myself a quilt. See? Found money is making me selfish. I probably should have spent the entire $40 on fabric for charity quilts. There's probably some sort of toxic dye in the fabric that's going to slowly poison our blood as B. and I slumber under it. The Guberburgers we ate on Saturday afternoon probably contained the milligrams of cholesterol that will eventually kill us.

I'm just not good at accepting the surprise goodies the universe throws my way. Oh, I've got anticipation for the bad shit the universe throws my way down to a science. But the good stuff? I find myself eaten up with guilt and paranoia. Nevermind that I've been worried about Janice Andrukaitis all weekend, and hoping that the $40 was just a drop in the bucket to her.

These things even out. I mean, I'm sure the amount of money I've carelessly dropped over the years adds up to well over $40. B. had a $150 videogame stolen from his hands last June, a mere three months after he bought it. Today a sippy cup of milk exploded in my purse, nearly ruining a handful of small electronics and some precious childhood photos. When I washed and dried my purse, I accidentally forgot about the two sticks of Japanese orange gum in a hidden pocket, leaving gum all over the drum of my mom's clothes dryer. These things are a way of life not just for me, but for everyone, so the good things do blindside me. Deep down, I know it all evens out. For every chunk of melted gum stuck in an otherwise clean bath towel, there's $40 of Janice Andrukaitis' money waiting for me. And for every $40 Janice Andrukaitis loses, maybe there's some guilt-ridden paranoid loon spreading her name all over the internet in hopes that she'll Google her name when she's bored at work one day.

And if she, Janice Andrukaitis, happens to do that, all she has to do is tell me where she got dinner on Friday, September 1st, and where she purchased gas earlier that day, and maybe we can both find a little balance.

Posted by Robin at 10:30 PM | Comments (7)

September 01, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The I Feel Oh-So-Pretty Edition

Remember last week when I pontificated on looks and shit? Well, I motivated myself to do a few things:

1. I colored my hair last night for the first time since last December. And I went with a color I don't think I've ever had before. It's dark. Like my soul.

2. I bought one of those snazzy new foundation/powder combos and pitched the terrible crap I purchased last November.

3. I bought new lipstick. Zoe was right - that Maybelline 16-hour lipstick is good stuff.

Wanna see the final product?

Prettied up, and surly as ever. I think I like it. But just for you, loyal readers, a smile:

I'm liking how the new haircolor and lip color bring out my eye color. I also like how my shaggy bangs hide my shaggy eyebrows. That makes life easier in so many ways.

In keeping with stereotypes, as soon as I got myself all pretty, my brain went out the door. I think the haircolor has seeped through my scalp, chemical burned the plates of my skull, and has been nibbling on my brain all day. I'm just tired, draggy, and having issues stringing more than thoughts together blah blah blah what was I saying?

Oh, right. I have pretty brown hair.

There's a road. It needs to be hit. I need to pack. With the current state of my tired little mind, there's a danger that I'll head to the hometown with nothing but my pigtails, my cute red lipstick and the clothes on my back. Must shuffle off to pack with the teensy bit of my mind that remains.

1. Porchlight - Neko Case & Her Boyfriends
2. Spiders (Kidsmoke) - Wilco
3. Give Him a Great Big Kiss - The Shangi-Las
4. Come Pick Me Up - Ryan Adams
5. Girls - Beastie Boys
6. Don't Buy the Realistic - Spoon
7. Rejoice - U2
8. Version City - The Clash
9. Blue Veins - The Raconteurs (Who prompted me to watch a great deal of the MTV Video Music Awards last night. It was almost worth enduring an acceptance speech by the Pussycat Dolls just to see Jack Black ask Jack White if he'd like to join a band with him.)
10. Losing My Religion - REM

Posted by Robin at 04:12 PM | Comments (16)