Posted by Robin at 09:45 PM | Comments (12)

December 20, 2006

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Clara Jane. She lived in a village called St. Louis, where the villagers ate their ravioli fried in boiling oil, the lights often went dark, and the baseball team was pretty good.

Actually, Clara Jane didn't live in St. Louis city proper, but in the outlying feudal land known as St. Louis County, a land of many municiaplities and rulers, and many, many speed traps. While she often drove past the beautiful buildings of downtown and marveled at the magical silver rainbow next to the deep, muddy waters, her mother was neglectful of taking the child into downtown, despite the promise she made to herself to not become one of those suburban mothers who never ventures east of I-170.

So, one cold and rainy day, Clara Jane's mother bundled them into their coats and set the coach in the direction of the St. Louis City Library's downtown branch to see the Once Upon a Time... fairytale exhibit, despite the fact that Clara Jane's mother has some serious problems with the gender issues presented in those classic tales, and would just as soon run one of those jousting stick thingies through her very core as encourage her daughter to be a princess.

While the other little girls dressed up as princesses and their mothers asked them, "Where are your princes? What are their names?", Clara Jane busied herself cleaning the Cinderella exhibit, while her mother vomited from princess overload in the cauldron.

Her mother's malady was miraculously healed when a little boy in a princess dress handed Clara Jane a broom and said, "Here. You can be the witch," and Clara Jane smiled and replied, "Great! Hey Mom! I'm a witch!"

The little witchy-poo finished her scullery chores and proceeded to her cobbler duties:

and then she joined Beauty and the Beast's dining table, where each child was required to leave a saliva sample on every single piece of plastic food:

Here's hoping that the little witch-girl can whip up a potion of cat hair and old candy bar wrappers to ward off the infestation of plastic fruit mites.

As the day wore on and Clara Jane grew more witchy, her mother wrestled her into her coat and coaxed her out the door, where an evil spell turned Clara Jane's legs to gooey red aspic, a spell only remedied by the threat of a royal time-out.

Once the spell was broken and the two stepped out of the building and onto the grand staircase overlooking the city, Clara Jane declared, "I love this city!"

And they all lived happily ever after. Well, except for when that aspic-leg spell took effect in the middle of the doorway at City Grocers, Mother's arms loaded with curried turkey salad and sesame broccoli, the spell only broken by the threat of the world's longest time-out ever if some little princess-poo didn't pick it up and move it on now.

It was only after everyone napped for three hours that they able to live happily ever after.

The end.

Posted by Robin at 10:19 PM | Comments (4)

December 19, 2006

Good Mother Points

Here's something I bet you didn't know about me: I get horrifically, violently motion sick. I may not throw up every single time, but I can promise you that unless I'm in the driver's seat, I'm not feeling so hot.

When I was younger, the motion sickness was limited to vehicle rides. I could do just about any ride at any amusement park without incident, as long as it was fast. But as I've aged, it's gotten worse. Seriously. I can't even spin in my desk chair without getting a little taste of my last meal.

Not that this surprises me. The motion sickness is hereditary, and my dad's even worse than me. My mom didn't learn of this affliction until she was eight months pregnant with me, wedged into a Volkswagen Beetle with her parents and my dad, driving down a hilly, curvy Ozark road when he bellowed, "Let me out!" and proceeded to puke up the equivilent of a Volkswagen Beetle on the side of the road.

There's a restaurant off the backroads in the Ozark foothills that we sometimes frequent when we visit my parents. Do you know how we know we're getting close to it? My dad has to pull over and vomit on the side of the road within a mile of arriving. When Dad pukes, we know Mennonite fried chicken's just around the bend!

I guess I should be grateful that, although I inherited the motion sickness, I didn't inherit my father's ability to vomit so loudly that it registers on the Richter Scale. So loud is his vomiting that once, when I was a teenager, the noise woke me up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night from the opposite side of the house. It's such an all-encompassing, rumbling, cross between a downshifting 18-wheeler and a hippopotamus either in the throes of death or passion (or maybe both) noise that once, my mom and I huddled in my room and laughed at my dad's puke noises, just because they're so completely absurd.

But this isn't about me being a bad daughter. It's about me being a good mother.

Nothing makes me sicker faster than merry-go-rounds. Having missed the motion sick gene, Clara Jane loves them more than chocolate-covered candy canes dipped in crushed potato chips. So, merry-go-round rides are B.'s domain. I can't even watch them ride without getting sick.

Today, because I am an idiot, I took Clara Jane to the mall. Not to shop, mind you. I wanted to take her to that park, but it's a bit too cold, so I opted to take her to an indoor play area at the same mall where her father takes her to ride the pukey-go-round. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that the wing we entered ended right at ... that's right ... the merry-go-round.

And she was so excited and happy. So thrilled, and she'd been so good. I couldn't say no.

Did I mentioned that as we entered the mall, I chugged about 1/4 of my large eggnog latte?

B. always lets her have three rides, so I slid my $5 bill - a brand new one, so I couldn't even use the incorrect change excuse, not that she'd understand it - into the token machine, took a moment to recall what my therapist advised for motion sick situations, checked my gag reflexed and got on.

Clara Jane picked her horse, and I braced one arm around her, resting my other arm with my purse dangling from my elbow on a neighboring 10-point buck. I centered my feet, fixed my eyes on the top of Clara Jane's head after I spotted all the nearby trash cans, and took slow, deep, slow breaths as the horrible ride began.

I expected the turning, of course. What I didn't expect was the left half of my body moving up with Clara Jane, while the right half of my body jerked down, my purse hung on the buck's footrest.

And there I stood for three full rides. Round and round. One side up. Other side down. Eggnog latte at the top of my throat, ready for takeoff.

I can't even say more about it. Just recalling the wretched experience makes my stomach turn.

One of these days, when Clara Jane hates me, thinks I'm embarrassing, and takes great delight in laughing at the noises I make when I vomit, I'm going to remind her of this day.

Posted by Robin at 10:55 PM | Comments (6)

December 18, 2006

Christmassed Out

It's official. I'm ready for this week to be over so we can have the Christmas fun and get on with our lives.

This year I swore I was going to be simple. I started buying Clara Jane's gifts in the summer, picking up items on clearance so that there wouldn't be a mad scramble at the last minute. I'm proud to say I stuck to that promise to myself.

That hasn't stopped the stupid, self-imposed holiday crises, though. Today's hissy fit: gift wrapping. Once again, I reigned myself in this year. In the past I've been positively psychotic about having beautiful, unique gift wrap where everything matches and, perfectly, matches the rest of the Christmas decor.

I'm not kidding. It's sick, but I enjoy it. Well, I enjoy it until I run out of that super-unique, special paper with one gift to go, and the paper's sold out and holy God, it's another Christmas where I lay under the tree, wringing the tree skirt in my hand, fallen pine needles stuck in the tracks of my tears.

This year, I vowed to use all the remnants of the tasteful, matched gift wrap that's been taking up space in my basement, instead of killing more trees by buying new rolls of paper. On this front, I'm doing great. I simply avert my eyes when I walk past the displays of pretty, pretty paper that should rightfully be mine.

And yet today I made myself nuts about gift bags. Most of the gifts I'm giving to my extended family are best suited for bags and ... oh, it's just stupid. Stupid! I hate paying the price for gift bags, but I hate ugly even more.

I'm not sure why I'm fretting about this, considering that most of the gifts given by my family are wrapped in cereal and cracker boxes my granny saves throughout the year.

I also said I wasn't going to send cards, as I have a tendancy to wrap my entire sense of self-worth around the number of cards I receive. Am I not supposed to do that? No? Then what's the point of holiday cards, if not a big, tangible pile of how many people like me?

Not anymore. I decided that last year would be the final year for sending cards. They suck up a lot of time, energy, environmental resources, and in my case, crucial bits of my self-esteem. I decided I'd graciously accept the cards I receive this year, and not feel obligated to send a card in return.

So why is it I placed a rush order on cards featuring my child's face this morning? Because I'm weak, that's why.

I didn't get many. Only 20. And I'm only sending them to people I honestly adore who've already sent to me, and people we never see or talk to otherwise. I've never understood that. "I never make an effort to talk to you or see you, but here's a picture of my kid! Merry Christmas!" And yet I do it anyway. I guess I can be proud of the fact that there's only one such card of that nature in my stack to mail.

I don't do the annual holiday letter, despite my writerly tendancies. I'm not going to go into my issues with the annual holiday letter, because I know there are probably plenty of letter-writers out there, and I'm cool with that. I must say, though, I almost changed my stance after reading the annual holiday letter from a friend who shall remain anonymous. I don't want to violate her privacy. Let's just say this friend has had a particularly rough year and decided to take it out on her holiday letter. She only shared it with a few close friends who get her gallows humor. Suffice it to say it was one of the funniest things I've read in a long time, and I really fought the urge to do a similar letter for my Christmas cards today.

But as I said earlier, I'm weak, so here's my annual Christmas letter for you, my lovely readers:

Dear Family and/or Friend:

Wow! 2006 sure did fly by, didn't it? It's been an eventful year for us and we can't wait to share it with you right now.

We started the year with a bang. On January 22nd, I accomplished my biggest feat of the year when I built a meatloaf shaped like a house. I know, I said that my major goal in 2006 involved finishing the edit on my book manuscript and working to get it published. Turns out, that's a lot harder than making a meatloaf that looks like a house, which is why I used the notebook containing my manuscript as a footrest in my truck for much of the year.

In Februrary, our little darling Clara Jane turned two. And no, she's still not potty trained. Yes, I know that when a child is able to say, "I don't like to wear big girl underpants or Pull-Ups because they feel wet," there's really no excuse for the child to not be potty trained. Much like book-publishing, potty training is hard.

You know what else is hard? Emotions. That's why I ended a shitload of friendships this year. I grew tired of dealing with the emotions of people who didn't give a crap about mine. Or maybe I'm just a selfish bitch who can't get along with anyone. Who knows? Either way, hope you enjoy this letter because with my track record, there's a good chance we won't be friends next year! Ha ha ha!

Emotions are really, really hard. I started having panic attacks again a year and a half after undergoing therapy that has a 90% success rate for panic disorder. Turns out I'm in the 10% failure bracket! On the plus side, I'm saving lots of money on holiday alcohol, instead getting my buzz from an assortment of anxiety drugs. Praise Jesus for good health insurance!

Anyway, where was I? March? About the only thing I remember about March was a great Wilco show, which couldn't be foiled by in-laws or adolescent histrionics.

In April my idiot dog Murphy ate a bee, kicking off the temprate season in our backyard with a buzz! Other warm-weather backyard events included pulling my kid out of a maggotty dead bird which the bee-eating nard later puked all over my living room. We closed the backyard season with an IBS-style incident that led to me shitting in my bathroom trashcan by mistake, my second best accomplishment of the year.

But we weren't the only ones having fun in the backyard. Oh no! Our trees were having such a party they couldn't even stand up! The first one fell over just for the fuck of it in October, while the second one had some help from that big-ass ice storm in December.

St. Louis was a great place to be in 2006. The Cardinals won the World Series! That seems like a fair trade for half the city being without power for the better part of two weeks from two seperate storms, right? St. Louis: good for sports fans, bad for electricity fans. We have our priorities! What's the problem with a crumbling electrical grid when there are baseball games to be won in a brand-new stadium?

We tried to camp out in right field when we were without power in July, but security threw us out.

Anyway, where the hell was I? Right, April. Or May. I forget. By early summer everything was just one fucking anxiety fog after another and frankly, I don't remember most of it, nor do I want to. If you remember it, please don't tell me about it, unless it pertains to our trip to Detroit or my trip to Ohio and Pennsylvania. Those parts were pretty good and I'd like to learn more about them, since my memory is shot to hell.

It goes without saying that Clara Jane was perfect in 2006. Except for the lack of potty training. And the temper tantrums. And her new hobby - hitting me. And that time she explosively threw up in the kitchen, then slipped in it and fell on her ass. Boy, we were both covered in puke that day! And that time when Angela and her kids were here for lunch, and Clara Jane presented me with a giant shit mitten. Kids do the darnedest things!

Overall, it was a good year. No one died, no matter how badly they wanted to. None of the trees landed on our house. Despite my anxiety problems, the anti-psychosis drugs kept me relatively on track, although they didn't make me a good friend. Perhaps they'll up my dosage again, and you'll receive our 2007 update. That is, if I haven't been lobotomized by then.

Happy holidays! Please enjoy this photo of Clara Jane. Look how much she's grown!

Posted by Robin at 02:36 PM | Comments (15)

December 16, 2006

Christmas in My Neighborhood

I'm so disappointed.

Tonight, we loaded into the family vehicle and drove the sidestreets, trying to find my all-time favorite holiday light display - the "merry KISSmas house. Why did we drive the sidestreets? Because last year, when we discovered the merry KISSmas house, I was so giddy with thoughts of sitting on Gene Simmons' lap and telling him what I want for KISSmas that I didn't note the actual location of the house. I just know that it's over by the butcher shop, which is convenient because after their ritual animal sacrifices, they can have the carcass professionally cut into tasty tenderloins and chops. Or a nice crown roast for KISSmas dinner, if you wish.

Tonight was the second Saturday night in a row we've driven the neighborhood, looking for the house where we can celebrate Jesus' birth by worshipping Satan. Alas, it's not to be. We found the merry KISSmas house, but there is no KISSmas. Just a goddamn wreath.

So, this is what you have to settle for as the Christmas Display of the Year in my neighborhood:

At first glance it looks like nothing more than a plastic nativity scene, available at any discount store for under $30. But what's that shiny object above Baby Jesus' head? Is that the star that led the three wisemen to Bethleham? The reflection of the sun off the archangel Michael's halo?

No. It's a "Protected by Brinks Home Security" sign.

Yeah, I know. You can't read the sign. You'll just have to take my word for it. When dealing with Brinks Home Security and Jesus, I'm not exactly keen on doing a drawn-out, high-quality photo shoot. Can you imagine the possible ramifications that could come from any misunderstandings in this situation? Going down in a hail of bullets and eternal damnation. You're lucky I even bothered to slow the truck down when I shot the picture out the window with my zoom lens.

And yet, for all the times I make fun of the people in my neighborhood, every now and then something cool happens here. Today, B. and Clara Jane had gone to the library and to pick up the dogs at the groomers. Around the time I was expecting them to come home, a fire truck roared down my street, lights and sirens blazing. Keep in my mind street is one block long. If there's a firetruck roaring down my street, it means one of two things: 1)there's a one in ten chance my house is on fire, or 2) someone I know is splattered at the blind turn at the bottom of the hill. Since I didn't smell smoke, I went with option #2. And since I'm still adjusting to the increased brain medications, I figured the splatterees were B., Clara Jane, and my dogs.

I grabbed the phone and bolted out the door while I dialed. And what should my panicking eyes should appear, but a fire department SUV and ... well, not eight tiny reindeer, but instead a flatbed trailer carrying a red sleigh with Mr. and Mrs. Claus.

"Get my baby home NOW. Santa just drove down the damn side street!"

And lo, Christmas miracle of miracles, B., Clara Jane and the dogs got home before the Claus' made it to our street. We had time to hustle the kiddo to the corner so she could see their grand entrance.

She was a bit stunned by it all, especially when her father picked her up and flung her over the edge of the sleigh onto Santa's lap. If she'd gotten upset, I would have snatched her away in a heartbeat. I'm not a fan of the forced meet and greets with Santa when the poor kid is absolutely terrified. Luckily, that didn't happen. She just looked ... dazed. I don't think she blinked the entire time, just blindly accepted her little teddy bear and candy cane before oozing off Santa's lap.

The second they were out of sight, she commenced talking about Santa and Mrs. Claus, and how she talked to them, and it was a special holiday meeting of the Algonquin Round Table, where they swapped witty quips over candy canes and absinthe.

That was ten hours ago, and she hasn't stopped. In fact, I think she's in her bed, talking about her enlightened conversation with Santa and Mrs. Claus while she sleeps.

Either that or she's singing "God Gave Rock and Roll to You" in her sleep. Again.

Posted by Robin at 09:53 PM | Comments (7)

December 15, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Stupidest Question Ever Edition

I was feeling pretty darn good about myself this morning, what with my new bra, new jeans, and such. So good, in fact, that I decide to forgo my usual uniform - jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt, mascara, lip balm, and Mary Janes or driving mocs. Instead, I opted for my cute black smocked babydoll shirt and threw on my favorite red lipstick.

I love what having new bras and jeans does to me. It's not so much that my self-worth rides on how I look, but how much of my energy is freed when I'm not fussing with ill-fitting clothes that are falling apart. Don't get me started on this, but I do thing there's some truth to the notion that women have been held back for years because they're too distracted by all the silly stuff we do to make ourselves pretty. I believe this because I know how I feel when I'm not fighting with my clothes. I'm in a better mood. More content. Easier to deal with. I'm definitely more productive when I don't have to stop every five minutes to put a boob back in its cup. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a bit of validation when I find something comfortable and cute.

So Clara Jane and I ventured to Target, and I'm sure I was walking a bit taller. Not so much because I was feeling sassy, but because my new bra prevents my tits from resting on the handlebar of the cart. As we always do, we went to the snackbar for popcorn. It's one of my few junk food concessions - when we go to Target, Clara Jane gets a small bag of popcorn. She gets a special treat, and I get to shop relatively tantrum-free.

When the snack bar associate returned to the cash register with the popcorn, she looked me up and down and began to open her mouth. And for some reason, I knew something awful was going to come out. Like vomit, or a really stupid comment.

"Are you pregnant?"

Frankly, I would have preferred vomit.

I always figured that, when someone asked me this question - and it was always "when", because I knew it would happen sooner or later - I'd reply with, "No, Bitch. Are you?" Unfortunately, I was so taken aback that all I could do was laugh and say no.

At least she had the good sense to be embarrassed and apologize. She quickly changed the topic to Clara Jane. She apologized again as we left.

I didn't get my nose too bent out of shape. After all, I was the one who left the house in an empire-waisted shirt, and I do have a gut. But still. How is it that any woman in the world did not receive the well-circulated message that, unless you can see an infant dangling out of a woman's vagina, DON'T ASK IF SHE'S PREGNANT! If you have to ask, you don't really need to know. And if you do ask, you need to be punched in the neck.

The real kicker is, the whole time I was pregnant with Clara Jane, not one single stranger ever asked if I was pregnant. I never had to deal with strangers fondling my belly. Unfortunately, it seems I can look forward to my saggy, fetus-free gut getting felt up in my near future. Oh, I can't wait!

I'm going to take off my shoes, dig out my old maternity pants, and shuffle around the house. Then maybe I'll scream at the dogs, beg B. to make a Taco Bell run, and cry because the ceilings are too low in the living room. If people think I look pregnant, I'm going to take full advantage of the situation and act like it.

1. Black Math - White Stripes (a favorite when I was pregnant - even my iPod thinks I'm knocked up.)
2. Wasted Reprise - Pearl Jam
3. Further on Up the Road - Bruce Springsteen
4. Parakeet - REM
5. Live and Let Die - Guns n' Roses
6. Hallelujah Here She Comes - U2
7. Raven Dove - Dolly Parton (Of course Dolly's here, what with all the tit talk.)
8. Train - Uncle Tupelo
9. Extraordinary Girl - Green Day (thank you, Billie Joe)
10. Inside Job - Pearl Jam

Posted by Robin at 03:30 PM | Comments (9)

December 14, 2006

The Snake Brassaires

This will not, I repeat, will not be a post about being fat, hating being fat, how unfair the world is to fat people, etc etc etc. I'm fat. I'm cool with it. Such is life.

That said, the one thing I truly hate about being above the norm, shall we say, is sometimes it makes clothes purchasing more difficult. Granted, if finding a pair of comfortable jeans under $50 is my biggest problem (and this week, it pretty much is), my life's pretty damn charmed. My one major complaint is that plus size options are so limited, us fat girls are pretty much stuck with sweatshop-produced, overpriced, shoddy mall crap.

Earlier this week I nabbed four shirts for B. at the thrift store for $12. That's an impossibility in my world. Again, minor problem, but it annoys me.

Shopping for bras is the worst. It got better, there for a bit, when I discovered the well-established local bra mecca. But something's happened to them this year. I've had two really bad experiences there and I'm hesitant to go back.

Experience #1: Young, teensy-tiny salesperson looks at me with utter contempt from the moment I walk in the door. She only brings me bras that are suitable to be used as body armour, despite being told that although I live in a rather shady neighborhood, I don't yet require Kevlar to make it from my truck to the front door in a hail of bullets. She informs me that those are the only bras that come in my size. I say she can fit her brain into an A-cup. I leave the store with two bras that don't even remotely fit. I'm pretty sure she was hoping a wire would break free and stab me through my fatty, fatty heart.

Experience #2: A few weeks later, I called the store to complain to the manager. Turns out my previous fitter was the manager's niece who was relieved of her boob-fondling duties shortly after trying to kill me with Kevlar. The manager invited me to come back and she'd personally fit me.

I left the store with two bras - same make, model, and size. One of them about two inches longer than the other. Yes, I should have returned them, but by this point I was sick to death of paying strange women to fondle my breasts. For the past six months, I've toughed it out with my too-big bra and my too-little bra.

The week of Thanksgiving, tragedy struck. The wire in the too-big bra snapped, leaving me with the too-small bra. Doesn't that sound like a fun thing to wear during Thanksgiving festivities? It wasn't. I lost count of the number of times my wayward tits popped out, threatening to take out the whole luncheon spread.

Still not wanting to return to the bra store, I decided to take a chance and purchase two bras from a major plus-size retailer. Slight problem: they don't carry anything bigger than a DDD in their stores. While my actual measurements fall within the range of the bras they carry in their store, they're a bunch of fucking liars. The numbers on their bras are nowhere near the numbers on the tape measures. I took a chance and bought the bras online.

Now, I understand that the store can't carry every single bra in every single size. They've got to stock what sells the most, which means some very dusty 48H's taking up a lot of real estate. The problem is, the bigger the boobs, the harder they are to fit. Ordering 20 bras and turning my house into a fitting room isn't an option, regardless of what my husband tries to tell me.

I ordered two bras. One definitely didn't fit. One sort of, maybe, kind of fit. I returned the definiely not-fitting bra and ordered another option. By the time that bra arrived, I decided the sort of, maybe, kind of fitting bra was actually a device created for the sole purpose of thrusting my boobs up to my throat, where their bulk would cut off my oxygen while the baby boa constrictor housed inside the underwire proceeded to crush my ribcage in preparation for a meal of Delicious Fat Girl.

I moved on to bra #3, which housed an even stronger, hungrier serpant. Fearing for my life, and the lives of my loved ones - live a few weeks with these tits and shitty bras and try to not go completely homicidal - I returned to the bra shop. But instead of going to my previous location, I went to the new locale, near Pretty Town.

And as I was whisked to the fitting room, the angels sang as a tiny young woman fondled my breasts, flopped them into a bra, and hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! It fit! The first one! It fit like it was made for me! No snakes! Cheaper than the ones I had ordered!

I cried a little, and then I stared at my slamming rack for a few minutes. I also let another salesperson stick her hand up the front of my shirt in the middle of the store. She said she was adjusting something, but I think she was just making a run for second base. Considering how happy I was to finally have happy boobies, I probably would have let her go to third if she'd asked. But not on the sales floor; I only do that in the dressing rooms.

Anyway ... since I was in the neighborhood of a mall, and even though I hate malls and I really, really, really hate malls this time of year, I wanted my damn money back from the snake brassaires. I didn't want to make another trip out, and besides, I'm in dire need of jeans.

Seriously. You don't even want to know what's been covering my ass. It's worse than the bra situation. The zippers on every pair of jeans I own have been held up with safety pins for - I am so ashamed to admit this - over a year. They've been patched repeatedly. It's not that I'm a pauper. I just hate shopping for jeans even more than I hate shopping for bras. Perhaps if I had a salesperson who would come into the dressing room and properly place my ass in the seat of my pants, the same way the bra saleperson places my boob in my bra cup, I'd feel differently.

Glory glory! They had some cute jeans I'd looked at recently, and they'd marked them down 50%! The idea of paying $50 for a pair of jeans made me queasy, just on principle. Skinny girls can buy plain, basic jeans for a hell of a lot less than that. My ass may be big, but I know a little about sewing, and I'm pretty sure my ass doesn't required $25 in extra fabric to be covered. I know, it's not about the fabric. It's about what the market will bear. There are fewer choices for plus size gals, so retailers can charge a higher price. It sucks, but it's cheaper than gastric bypass surgery. And it won't kill you.

Anyway, I found two pairs of jeans I loved. Better yet, I had a coupon for $15 off any $50 purchase. My jeans were both at least $25, so cool!

But while I was trying on my jeans, I overheard a conversation in the next dressing room. No, no one was rounding second and headed to third. It was between a hesitant customer and a pushy salesclerk.

"But my breast is popping out of the cup," the customer said. "It doesn't fit."

"Oh, it's supposed to do that! The band fits you perfectly. And you know how bras stretch. Wear it a few times, and the cups will stretch to fit you!"

"I really need a black bra. This bright turquoise one will show through my dress."

"Oh, just throw on a cami! It'll be fine."

It was all I could do to not kick the wall and yell, "Yo! You're not getting paid on commission, you snake! You're being a big, underwiry snake, Salesperson!"

"Maybe I should just go to that new bra shop. I've heard they're good."

"Oh, no. I had a friend go there, and she said they're really, really expensive. The cheapest bra was $80!"

To which I looked down at my brand-new $27 bra from said bra shop.

After I finished with my jeans, I slunk around the store, waiting for a moment to talk to the woman from the dressing room or her teenage daughter without the salesperson in earshot. Eventually, I caught up to the daughter and whispered, "Don't let your mom buy the bras here. I heard the saleperson talking her into a bra that didn't fit. Go to the bra shop. They're cheaper and they won't screw you over."

She, of course, looked at me like I might whip off my perfectly-fitting bra, wrap it around her neck, and drag her off to The Coven of the Bra Shop for ritual sacrifice.

Later, I was paying for my jeans at one cash register and the mom/daughter boob duo were at the next one. Mom was wearing her new bra, and her nipples hung down to her elbows. Saggy, turquoise nipples. And ... and !!! They were opening a store credit card to purchase all of their ill-fitting bras! Why don't you just throw yourself down the snake's gullet? You're making it suck for the rest of us!

Meanwhile, my jeans were priced as such that my total came to $49.50, rendering my $15 coupon obsolete. I had tried on three pairs of jeans. One pair didn't fit and I returned them to the salesperson. "Would you like to get that third pair of jeans so you can use your coupon?" Why yes. I would love to spend an extra $20 on a pair of jeans that don't fit so I can "save" $15.

I'm so fucking punk rock, I threw my coupon away and paid the damn $49.50.

My tits are covered. My ass is covered. I stuck it to the man. Sort of. I tried to save some boobies. And I gave money to two gals for the priviledge of letting them get to second base with me. Please God, let these bras and jeans last another two years before I have to go through this all over again.

Posted by Robin at 09:28 PM | Comments (14)

December 13, 2006

This is Your Blog on Drugs

Over the past 46 days, I have blogged on all but one of them.

I've blogged through two falling trees.

I've blogged through two crazy-inducing pseudo-periods.

I've blogged through a massive ice storm.

I've blogged through my child spewing vomit in my kitchen, then watched in horror as she slipped and fell in it.

I've blogged through new brain drugs.

And it's because of all this blogging that my brain has begun its slow, inevitable descent, causing me to title yesterday's entry "Assilmination" instead of "Assimilation".

Heh. I said "ass". Twice.

I'd like to blame the blogging, but I'm pretty sure tonight's wonkiness is an artifact of my malfunctioning brain chemicals going to war with the recent influx of brain drugs. It's like bombs over Baghdad inside my skull tonight.

Yes, I'm still on my Outkast kick. "Hey Ya" shuffled up on my iPod yesterday, and I'm pretty sure that was God's way of telling me that everything's going to be okay.

I'm fine, really. Just working out the kinks. My doc described this particular medication as being able to "give my brain a massage". Considering my entire body shuts down about 45 minutes into a massage and doesn't return for three days, I think I'm in trouble.

If I hadn't recently taken a double-dose of a medication with that big sleepy-eye warning label, I'd be out right now with my camera, in hopes that the merry KISSmas house might be decorated and I might capture a better photo of it. Because oh, I have holiday photos from my neighborhood right now, but they won't be complete without the KISSmas house.

I forgot what else I was going to say.

Drugs are ... not so bad, it turns out.

Posted by Robin at 09:25 PM | Comments (1)

December 12, 2006

Assilimation

My neighborhood has two predominent populations: people of Hispanic origin, and rednecks.

My neighborhood also has one of the best thrift stores in the St. Louis area, and it's a great place to see these two neighborhood factions comingling. It's also a great place to find cheap designer purses of questionable origins, amongst other things.

Last weekend, my mom and I paid a visit to the thrift store, and I found the most fabulous 1950s blonde veneer dresser, chest of drawers, and nightstand for $25. Twenty-five dollars! I should have thrown my body across its vintagey retro goodness and refused to move until someone hauled my furniture and me to the truck, but no. I just had to be a tightass. "Tuesday's 25% off everything day. I'll wait and get it then," I told my mom. Because, you know, that $6.25 is going to make/break me.

Went back today, and my lovely furniture - furniture I'd already found locations for in my house - was no longer there.

But this isn't about me, my cheap ways, and furniture I really didn't need in the first place. This is about the culture clash I witnessed while standing in line to pay. Although my furniture was gone, the winter coat my mom was too cheap to pay $15 for was still there, and I got to stand in line to pay for it.

The cashier was Hispanic. The customer in front of me was not. When the cashier finished the transaction, the customer took her bag of purchases, smiled at the cashier, and said, "Hasta la vista, Baby!"

Tomorrow, perhaps I'll post a picture of the nativity scene up the block from my house. You know, the one with the Brinks Home Security sign positioned over Baby Jesus' head.

Posted by Robin at 11:01 PM | Comments (6)

December 11, 2006

Goody Bag From Hell

I'm feeling much better today, even though by all means, I shouldn't.

I barely slept last night. When my brain misfires, it likes to stay up all night, sometimes in spite of the artificial chemicals I pump into my body to convince it otherwise. The good part of all this: I was showered, dressed, and out the door around 8:15 AM, which is unheard of for me. I grabbed a nutritionally sensible bagel and a huge cup of coffee for breakfast and started knocking errands off my massive list. Then I spent the afternoon working on Christmas gifts. So engrossed in my work that I forgot to eat lunch, get anything to drink, or pee.

Through all of it, I was still anxious and edgy. I didn't want to be home by myself, so I stayed busy until time for B. to come home. The edginess continued for the first hour we were home, but then 6:00 hit and ... normal. Just like that. For an hour and 45 minutes, I've felt fine. I've tried to conjure up the panic by trying to recreate the thoughts that set off the attacks, but it's not happening.

I did a little math today. Remember a few months back, when my doc diagnosed me with premenstrual dysphoric disorder? Made perfect sense, and I'm surprised it took us so damn long to realize - duh - my anxiety and depression tend to appear shortly before my period. So she put me on one of the birth control pills that stop periods. Lo and behold, this current spell, along with last month's spell occured during the week I would be having my period, were it not for the magic period-stopping pills.

Pass me a fork. I'm going to remove my uterus myself.

Anyway, that's not what I want to write about today. I just felt the need to give you good folks an update after all your empathizing and such, which I appreciated.

I was thinking about this before I read any blogs today, so I had a chuckle when Tracey at Maternally Challenged wrote about the mommy wars. Specifically, the unspoken competition to be The Best Mom in the Class, a title that's won, it seems, via cupcakes. The Washington Post even had something to say about this very topic today.

My woes aren't about cupcakes. Cupcakes, I can handle.

Clara Jane's daycare holiday party is Thursday, and because I'm an idiot loaded up on mind-altering drugs, I signed up to bring "non-food treats". Why did I sign up for non-food treats? I have no fucking clue, considering that the "food treats" column was right there!!! next to the "non-food treats" column. For God's sake, I was a food writer! A culinary teacher! A caterer! I know food treats. I guess I felt the need for a challenge. I don't have nearly enough things in my life to make me feel inadequate, after all.

I hate to say this, but I was appalled at the non-food treats in Clara Jane's gift bag last Christmas. Cheap, dollar-store crap, none of it age-appropriate. Let's have a choking hazard Christmas! Now, I don't want to be that mom, the one who complains about the damn goody bags. But seriously. These goodies were a notch above a bag of glass. I swore, when I signed that sheet, promising to bring non-food treats, that I would take it a step up, go beyond the cracked plastic ornament from Dollar Tree.

This quest was top of the list this early morning. I had in mind what I wanted: quaint little gifts bags loaded with stickers, holiday pencils, perhaps little books, something crafty, and maybe a tasteful ornament for eight children, preferrably under $15.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find holiday stickers, pencils, little books, crafty crap, and ornaments? We're talking grail proportions, People.

I wandered around the large, boxy mega-store, wishing I was having dead toenails removed instead of wandering around a large, boxy mega-store two weeks before Christmas, and I found diddly shit for the little munchkins. Add the anxiety and sleep-deprivation to the mix, and I found myself constantly asking myself, "Would I kill a parent who gave Clara Jane a _____________ in a goody bag?" Because I knew that if I didn't ask myself, the kiddos were likely to wind up with goody bags filled with thus:

• nail polish
• metal ornament hooks
• poinsettas
• empty individual cupcake tins
• martini glasses
• votive candles
• paint chip samples
• live goldfish (little ones, because the big ones would be ridiculous)
• gum

Three stores later, here's what we have:

• 8-ounce plastic tumblers with Santa on them (8)
• Christmas pencils (12)
• big jingle bell ornaments (9)
• little spongy, Christmasy paint stamps (12)
• stickers (8 sheets)
• blue penguin-print goody bags (15)

Good, no? Until I called B. and he informed me that there are 12 kids in her class, not 8.

I might as well give the children shattered glass bulb ornaments. Well, I might as well give shattered glass bulb ornaments to eight kids in her class at let the other four feel like little forgotten - albeit unbloodied - losers.

The whole time I was on my two-hour, three-store nutfest, I kept asking myself, why? What's the point of this? There's no rule that I have to sign every single sign-up sheet presented to me. There are plenty of other moms in the class and the kids always have way more than enough. Last year, I signed up for fruit. Bought a small crate of Clementines and called it good. The kids were happy. I was happy. Everyone was happy.

There's a set of twins in Clara Jane's class. They were born to much older parents; it took me about a year to realize that the man I thought was their grandfather is actually their father. I overhear their mother all the time, talking about the umpteen activities the family's in. And yet, for the Halloween party, she presented overflowing, Martha Stewarty gift bags that didn't contain metal hooks or live fish. Totally over-the-top, and I hate to admit the momentary pang of inadequacy I felt for taking nothing more than the big bag of candy I'd signed up to bring.

Is that why I partook in the two-hour, three-store nutfest? To make myself feel better because the twins' mother raised some imaginary bar and I fell short? To make myself feel better for judging the twins' mother for the pains she took to assemble those astounding goody bags?

They're goody bags for two-year-olds, for crap's sake!

My goody bag days are done. From now on it's a box of Clementines, maybe some cherry muffins on her birthday like last year, if she wants them. I'd rather use my energy to do something directly with my daughter from now on.

Posted by Robin at 07:38 PM | Comments (8)

December 10, 2006

The Campaign to Stop 2007

Today I realized that I really don't want 2007 to arrive.

I was listening to my iPod, and one of my favorite songs from 1997 shuffled up - "Shame on You" by the Indigo Girls. I was about 30 seconds into the song when a panic attack hit me. And when I say "panic attack", I don't mean that I got mildly freaked out. Any time I reference a panic attack, I'm talking about the real deal: panic disorder.

I can't believe 1997 was ten years ago. If that was ten years ago, that means my Basset hound Chloe will be turning 10 soon. My mom will turn 60 at the end of the year. Yeah, I know. She just turned 59 today so it's a bit early to worry about her turning 60. She really didn't need to hear me sobbing about her impending 60th birthday in 364 days this evening, but she did.

I suppose it hit me hard today just how fast time is flying. I don't have anything new or enlightening to say about it. It flies. I think I started my mid-life crisis today when I realized that it's likely I'm at the point in my life where I'm going to start burying the people and animals I love.

I know, I know. That time of life can occur at any time. I'm just lucky that I have healthy grandparents in their 80s, healthy parents in their 50s (especially considering that my dad had some pretty serious-looking stuff going on about a year ago), a healthy child, healthy aunts and uncles, healthy pets.

I stood in the shower tonight, feeling the beginning loopiness of the Klonopin buzz, and something occured to me: perhaps the anxiety that's with me constantly stems from the fact that my life is really, really good. I don't know how to accept that. I wonder if I deserve it. So I live in fear of it all being ripped away, and I spend vast amounts of time and energy looking for cracks in the foundation.

Two years ago this very week, I was gripped by panic that had grown out of control. In the months before, I would focus my anxiety on my aging cat, Whiney. I was constantly convinced she was dying. She wasn't, until she was.

Yes, it was terrifying when she rubbed her mouth on my hand, leaving a trail of blood. The days that followed, waiting to see what might go wrong next while she acted perfectly normal, were agonizing. A few days later, when she stopped eating and B. made the trip to the vet with her? Horrible. But I survived. B. did the dirty work while my mom stayed with me at home. My friends cried on the phone with me. My grandmother and dad called. I was held up by everyone in my life who loves me, and I made it through this relatively small loss no worse for wear. Basically, it was a really shitty week with some lingering jabs of pain that have since given way to the pleasant memories, for the most part.

That said, I'm not convinced that my current state isn't fueled slightly by the anniversary of Whiney's death. The main problem I'm having today is looking at my nine-year-old dog and knowing that before long - could be a week, could be five years - I'll be doing the same thing with her that I did with Whiney. And I don't want to.

Tonight, I want to freeze time. I want everything to stay as it is right now, minus the uncertainty and fear. Minus my brain's misfirings. Minus the loopy-inducing drugs and weeping on the therapist's couch. I just want to enjoy the abundance that's in my life right now, at this very second. I have no idea how to do that.

Posted by Robin at 09:37 PM | Comments (9)

December 09, 2006

About My Mother, Who is Nearly 60

My mom turns 59 on Sunday, and she's in town with my father to celebrate.

My mother talks to me on the phone daily. Sometimes several times a day. That's just the kind of mother-daughter relationship we have. In honor of her birthday, what follows is a transcription (as best as I can remember) of a call we shared earlier this week.

Mom (hissing softly): Hello?

Me: What's wrong? Why are you talking like that?

Mom (still hissing): There are Jehovah's Witnesses in the dining room and I'm hiding in the bedroom.

Me: Are they alone?

Mom (you guessed it - hissing): Of course not. They're with your father.

Me: Why are you hissing?

Mom (aghast at the stupidity of my question which she expresses through, that's right, hissing): Because I don't want them to know I'm here.

(I think she might have inserted a "Duh" at the end of the sentence, but I'm not 100% sure.)

Me: Who in the hell let in the Jehovah's Witnesses?

Mom (hissing while simultaneously yelling - a vocal feat she mastered when I was a child misbehaving in public) Your father!

(I think there might have been another "Duh" in there, but again, not sure.)

Me: Well, you know how suseptable Dad is to pursuation. I'll bet they're in the living room, taking down all your Christmas decorations.

Mom (abandoning her hiss momentarily): THEY BETTER NOT BE!

Me: Yeah, they are. I think you should go stop them. They're disemboweling all of your animated Santas that singing "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree". I can hear them.

Mom: I can't. I'm just wearing my nightgown. That's why I didn't answer the door. I was sitting at the computer, in my nightgown, when they knocked. I ran away. I think it's the barbeque man. Remember Big Jim who used to deliver barbeque? Dad saw him the other day, and he mentioned that he converted. I'm pretty sure that's him in the dining room.

Me: So, Christmas is cancelled because Dad's being converted by Big Jim the Jehovah's Witness Barbeque Man while you hide in the bedroom? "Yep, we were gonna have a big Christmas celebration, but your grandfather had to go let the Jehovah's Witnesses convert him on December 6th while Mimi hid in the bedroom in her nightie and let it happen. No Christmas for you, Clara Jane."

Mom: Shut up.

Happy birthday, Mom. Way to save Christmas.

Posted by Robin at 09:59 PM | Comments (5)

December 08, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Math-Doing Edition

I've never been good at math. As an adult I've done well with kitchen math, obviously. I made a small career out of taking recipes for four servings and making them feed 50. I'm also getting pretty good at sewing/knitting/crafty math. I understand how gauge works.

Here's some more math I've figured out recently.

A lovely gift from the lovely Summer + Ray LaMontagne in concert = luscious awesomeness.

Ray LaMontagne + the Bee Gees/Michael Bolton song I referenced a few days ago = bliss. I knew there had to be someone out there who could do such a well-written song justice, and Ray's the man. Ray's the man in a lot of ways.

Ray + me = true love forever.

(Okay, so maybe I'm not as good at math as I thought.)

(2)Thirtysomethings + (1) pretty, trendy bar filled with twentysomethings = instant age-ification. My boobs were three inches lower and I had developed liver spots by the time we left. But it was fun.

One Absolut Mandarin tonic + one glass of Renwood Zinfandel + (5)sleepless nights = sweet, sweet blissful snoozing, unless the freezing factor is present. Thus:

One Absolut Mandarin tonic + one glass of Renwood Zinfandel + (5) sleepless nights + hypothermia = yet another sleep-deprived night, coupled with being awake enough to feel the dreaded end of the buzz.

One overtired, tantrumy toddler + one sleep-starved mother = one blissful afternoon in which A + B = 3.5 hours of napping.

And that's how the past 24 hours add up. In case you're not as good at math as me, let me give you the English major's edition:

Summer bought tickets for us to see Ray for my birthday. Excellent seats, in a most perfect location for panty-flinging. A delightful show featuring one of the most mesmerizing, unique voices I've ever heard. Even the crowd was delightful and seated, save for Interpretive Dance Girl, who was spotted a few rows below us to the right, partaking in moves I haven't seen since attending my granny's Pentecostal church as a child. A few drinks were consumed. Time was spent talking (and I'm having my usual next-day remorse because I'm pretty sure I talked Summer's ear off) and watching people who couldn't possibly be old enough to venture into an adult drinking establishment.

I also learned a new way of dealing with the ongoing Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays controversy. While leaving the club, I overheard a woman wishing a man a merry christmas. He flung his arms high into the air, raised his voice and replied, "Shut! The fuck! Up!", pumping his arms to punctuate each word. I'm going to do the same thing when issued holiday greetings from now on.

I came home, positive I'd sleep the sweet, lovely sleep of the mildly buzzed and exhausted, only to lay awake until the wee morning hours when it finally dawned on me that perhaps if I'd stop shivering, maybe I'd fall asleep.

Sweatpants + 11 degree temperatures = finally passing out around 3 AM. And then Clara Jane and I slept all day until we shuffled awake for our new nocturnal lifestyle.

1. Fillmore Jive - Pavement
2. Blue Suede Shoes - Elvis
3. Do You Feel Loved - U2
4. Pride and Joy - Stevie Ray Vaughn
5. Hit the Plane Down - Pavement
6. Northern Lad - Tori Amos
7. Move it on Over - Hank Williams
8. High Plains Drifter - Beastie Boys
9. Golden Heart - Kirsty MacColl
10. Perfect Circle - REM

1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9+10 = rocking out hardcore.

And speaking of which, if you want a taste of Ray live, listen to NPR's live broadcast of his Washington DC show this Monday. I highly recommend it. If you miss it, they usually have concerts available in their fabulous archive page.

Posted by Robin at 10:00 PM | Comments (6)

December 07, 2006

How to Not Make a Girl Feel Pretty

1. When said girl orders two bras, ship them in a box large enough to house a Tivo unit and DVD player.

2. "Hold on. I need a bigger speculum."

To maximize these effects, arranged for both events to occur within hours of each other.

Posted by Robin at 04:22 PM | Comments (7)

December 06, 2006

How to Tell That Your City's in a World of Hurt

Random random random. Everything's random this week. I don't want to do two days in a row of posts with dots, but there are so many little interesting tidbits going on today.

I could make an entire post of nothing but cool things Clara Jane has done today. I don't know if it's all the candy canes she's been eating, or if she's hit some sort of developmental springboard, but she's been so full of interesting things of late. Just today:

• Counted to 29 all by herself. How did she figure that out? The third time she did it, I picked up and did 30-39 for her. An hour later, she counted to 38 by herself, officially making her almost as good at math as her mother.
  
• "Is this song about rainbows?" she asked while listening to Candy Band's version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". I bought this CD when she was a baby and I felt guilty about making her listen to The Clash and The Stooges. She's just discovered it in the past week and she loves it the way I love, well, The Clash and The Stooges. Anyway, I told her yes, the song is about rainbows. She listened for another verse and told me, "This song makes me so happy." And I died inside from preciousness.
  
• While watching me scrub the toilet, she kept pointing out what areas needed improvement. When I finished and flushed the toilet she threw her arms up in the air and yelled, "Hooray! You did it! I'm so proud of you!" This is why people have kids. Who is else going to cheer for you when you scrub the toilet?
  
• While grocery shopping, she was looking at my list, which was written on a piece of paper from a Napoleon Dynamite notepad. She pointed to it and said, "What's this? I said, "It's a liger, bred for its skills in magic. It's pretty much my favorite animal." She looked at me with complete, all-encompassing disdain. Later, in the meat department, I asked her if the chickens have large talons, and she hit me across my face with a box of Cheerios.
  

In more bragging, this time about myself, Writing Aspirations asked folks to review the blogs from NaBloPoMo. Chirky reviewed all the blogs that begin with the letter P, and I was one of her favorites. How cool is that? Very.

But I have things to discuss beyond shameful boasting. St. Louis is in bad shape these days, as you may well know. As of ninty minutes ago, there were still 83,000 residents without power nearly a week after the big ice storm. As you might recall, this isn't much different than what happened in July, when huge numbers of people were without power after a thunderstorm. How nuts is it here? People are shooting each other over warm cans of Stag and priests are being robbed for their bling. That's just par of the course in the country's most dangerous city, right? Perhaps this is why we're America's most dangerous city: live without power for a week when it's 100 degrees, then go without for a week when it's 25 degrees, and I'll bet you'll go to extremes for a can of Stag, too.

When this latest round of electrical madness started last week, I heard about crews from other states coming to our aid, since our own utility company is pretty fucking useless. Except the workers. They're great. It's the business side that sucks.

Anyway, crews were coming in from Louisiana and Mississippi, even. "You know we're up shit creek when the utility companies on the Gulf Coast look our way and say, 'Damn. Our stuff can wait while we come up to Missouri and bail your sorry asses out. Again.'" It was a tongue-in-cheek jab at our utility company's inability to withstand anything sharper than a 20 MPH stiff breeze, not a jab at the good folks on the Gulf Coast. They've been through so much in the past year and a half, and still have so far to go, and yet they're sending workers to us.

There were three utility trucks on my street when Clara Jane and I got home this afternoon, all with Louisiana license plates and a New Orleans address painted on the doors, and my smart-ass remark suddenly turned into gratitude so strong I couldn't do anything but sit in my truck, shaking my head in disbelief.

I've got a crock-pot of Italian beef and barley soup cooking today, and at that point all I could do was wish that it was my sausage and chicken gumbo so I could give it to these guys, who hauled up here in the butt-ass cold after everything they've been through.

I pulled myself together and carried Clara Jane down the block to the nearest truck. "Excuse me," I yelled to the first worker I saw. "Did I read that right? Are you from Louisiana?"

"Yep," he barely looked at me since he was busy working his freezing ass off.

I just stood there on the sidewalk, trying to stay out of his way, yammering about how I was amazed that they were here, after all they've been through.

"Well, we're from northern Louisiana," he said. But I kept yammering my thanks. He probably thought I was too stupid to 1) stay out of the way of men doing dangerous work, 2) form coherant sentences, and 3) understand that Louisiana is a fairly large land mass and not all of it was gobbled by Katrina. At least I refrained from saying, "Northern Louisiana? I know someone in Shreveport! Do you know Janey?"

They spent the afternoon trimming trees and clearing fallen branches from the powerlines, the ones that probably caused the momentary power outage in my neighborhood last night. The power outage that filled me with so much anger and fear. Not this shit again. We pay how much a month to a utility company who does so little in maintenance that we've had four major outages in three years, outages that could have been less severe had they maintained the equipment properly, instead of eliminating jobs to improve profit margins?

Oh, I can't even get into that. Not here. Not now. I'm so fed the hell up with everything electricity-related. I just want to know how much of this latest mess can be attributed to shoddy service and, if it's a considerable amount, which rail we're supposed to use when we run the current company out of town.

Anyway, this isn't about ranting. It's about how incredible it is when people who've been through so much - and even though they're from northern Louisiana they still went through it. Katrina and Rita were huge drains on the entire state, not just the places that took direct hits. I hope they're getting paid well to be up here in the cold, away from home, helping the people in a city that they have absolutely no obligation to help.

Since I didn't have gumbo, I almost took them a few jars of homemade jam, but thought better of it. There's nothing worse than a thank-you gift that forces you to stop what you're doing so you can accept it, find a way to store it so that it doesn't break and leave you driving back to Louisiana in a dirty utility truck that's filled with rotting jam and the bugs that love it. The urge to give back is so strong, and I've been at odds with it all day. I wonder if it's the same urge that led those guys from Louisiana up here.

Posted by Robin at 03:28 PM | Comments (9)

December 05, 2006

Warming Dots

At last, the ice is giving way. Not that it's warm. And not that it's like like we've suffered through months and months of permafrost. It's just been nice to have a day that hasn't revolved around the weather situation.

Really, I probably should have stayed home today, since I didn't get any sleep last night. I had a rough night on Sunday and was completely overtired all day Monday. But I stayed up too late, and I didn't have a book to read before bed, having finally finished Heat by Bill Buford. Excellent read, by the way, especially for food nerds like me. Not having my nightly book time threw me all out of whack. I couldn't fall asleep because I had the overwhelming feeling that I had forgotten something. But there's no rest for the weary, so today's catch-up day, both on ye olde blog and in my "real" life.

• I finished Fetching on Saturday.

  

  

• We also finished our salt dough ornaments and trimmed the tree:

  

  One wee problem with salt dough ornaments - really stupid dogs think it's a tree filled with delicious dog biscuits. The bottom of our tree is empty, and the hounds are dehydrating quite nicely. We're thinking about using their newly-tanned hides to make Christmas stockings.

• Speaking of stupid dogs, they found something dead and delicious buried under the snow. Every time they went outside, B. would have to physically remove them from the scene of the crime. Finally on Sunday night, he got fed up and went out to remove the sweet, sweet carcass. There was nothing there. Nada. No sign that anything had ever been in this spot that they can't remove their noses from. I think they've adopted my dad's idiot dog's habit of eating dirt.
• Clara Jane's been busy with her freelance choreography work. Watch for the finally three little butt-bounces at the end.
• "I'm going to dream about Christmas," she tells us before naps and bedtime, which might explain why she woke up screaming at 3:30 this morning.
• Despite our sleep deprivation, Clara Jane and I headed to Prettytown today for some Christmas shopping in their lovely downtown. Holy smokes, People, they pipe Christmas music into the streets in Prettytown! Santa, please bring me a house in Prettytown and some sucker aspiring arborist to purchase my current abode.
• My computer fan is making a sound not dissimilar from a cat horking a hairball. Which reminds me, I can't remember if I've seen Romi since the last time B. had my computer case open.
• Watching Al Gore on Oprah today makes me wish we had a smart president.

Posted by Robin at 04:42 PM | Comments (7)

December 04, 2006

Toxic Milkshake

I've been wanting to write about music for the past few days, but every time I sit down to do it, I clam up. What I want to write is pure nerd-rambling. Trying to organize my thoughts bores even me.

How nerdy is this? I've been taking notes while listening to my iPod. That's completely uncalled for.

My delimma - I really don't want to write this post because it's silly and boring, even to me, but I can't get it out of my head. So, I'm going to compromise. I'm going to just expound a bit on the notes, instead of trying to tie it all together into something that seems profound as I'm writing it, but is really just goofy.

I've listened to "Hey Ya" by Outkast approximately 387 times since Friday. Three years after the song's release, it's becoming obvious just how amazing and unique it really is.

I'm a firm believer that music needs to be able to stand the test of time before it can be decided what's good and what isn't. Think of all the truly horrible songs that enjoyed a high degree of popularity at one time or another. If this wasn't the case, VH1 never would have compiled a list of the worst songs of all time several years ago, would they? Granted, this is the same network that allows Flavor Flav into America's living rooms, but still. You know I've got fairly decent taste in music, but there's 20 songs on that list I've owned at one point or another. And no, I'm not going to tell you which ones. Suffice it to say that I haven't listened to any of them on purpose in a long time. But at one point in time, I deemed them good enough to reside in my home until it became clear that they were just lousy bums hiding behind catchy hooks.

Three years ago, when everyone was hooked on "Hey Ya", I remember wondering if it was as good as we all thought, or if we'd look back in a few years and equate it with "I Wanna Sex U Up". Considering I don't think I've ever had a one single instance where "Hey Ya" has come on and I've thought, "Again? God. Change it!", I think it's safe to say the song is in the clear.

Winter of 2003/2004 was a weird time for me, musically. I was in the last trimester of my pregnancy, and seriously wondered how my new baby would affect my music geekdom. At the same time, I wasn't sleeping much. Not only was I massive and being constantly kicked, but I had acid reflux attacks at promptly 4 AM every single night for three months. I'd get up and since I was too dog-tired to read, I'd lay on the couch and watch TV. The pickings are pretty slim at 4 AM, so I usually parked it on TV Land or whichever video music channel actually happened to be playing music videos.

Every night, I could count on seeing the same videos at least twice before nodding off: Outkast's Hey Ya, The Darkness' I Believe in a Thing Called Love, Toxic by Britney Spears and Milkshake by Kelis.

Let me tell you, when you're sleep-deprived, hormonal, and it's the middle of the night and your esophogus has burst into flames, any one of those videos will feel like a fever dream. All four of them, repeated, will convince you that that baby has eaten your brain. And yet, I craved all four of those songs the same way I craved double cheeseburgers with pickles, onions, lettuce and mustard at the time. There was some comfort in knowing that I'd see and hear the exact same thing every single night, and it would take me out of feeling miserable and scared.

It wasn't even that I liked the songs. Well, I liked "Hey Ya". I knew that. The Darkness video always made me laugh, since it fits my sense of humor. Britney was good for some eye-rolling and righteous indignation. "Milkshake" just seemed appropriately ironic, considering the mammary horrofest that was occuring under my pajama top at the time. Each song provided me with something I needed at the time. The one big thing they all provided was distraction, which is woefully underrated sometimes.

They all also had at least one unforgettable hook: the screeching four beats repeated throughout "Toxic", the staticky, equally screeching beat in "Milkshake" followed by that earwig of a chorus, the falsetto chorus of "I Believe in a Thing Called Love", and damn near every single line and beat in "Hey Ya".

With the exception of "Hey Ya", I've heard little of any of these songs since Clara Jane was born. In the past few days, though, I've sought them out. I still can't get enough of "Hey Ya". "Toxic" and "I Believe in a Thing Called Love"? Eh. I'm over it. As for "Milkshake", I went so far as to purchase it from iTunes on Saturday night.

I want my 99 cents back.

I can tolerate a bad song. I can tolerate a sexist song if it has other redeeming factors. Like "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC. The lyrics make the feminist in want to put on some testicle-kicking boots, but the first minute of that song? Pure rock and roll perfection. That lick, that beat, Brian Johnson's growl, "Knocking me out with those American thighs" ... that's their truth, and it's powerful enough to make damn near anyone stop what they're doing and listen. Even if it is stupid and sexist, it's powerful and listenable.

What I can't tolerate is a boring song. As much of an indie nerd as I can be at times, I've found it nearly impossible to embrace bands like Belle & Sebastian, Yo La Tengo, and such because I find them so damn dull. Likewise, there's some silly pop I really enjoy - songs like "Hollaback Girl" (which makes absolutely no sense at all and I'll give you a quarter if you can explain it to me) - just because they sound different, primal, and catchy. I'm a whore for a good hook.

"Milkshake" might possibly be the most stupefyingly, coma-inducing, drool-drippingly boring song in the history of the world. Having listened to it in its entirity once since purchasing it, I can honestly say that the entire three minutes and eleven seconds would have been better had it been nothing but the song's reprehensible hook - My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard/and they're like, 'It's better than yours'/damn right, it's better than yours/I can teach you but I'll have to charge - repeated ad nauseum.

That's the thing. If you look at that list of 50 bad songs, they definitely suck. All of them. But there's not a boring one in the bunch. Even the list's Michael Bolton offering, which has every excuse to be just as narcolepsy-inducing as everything else he's ever done, is interesting because of it's oog factor. Michael Bolton wants to touch me, where? Oh my God! No! I can spend hours laughing about that, which gives a really awful, unlistenable song a bit of validation. Because let me tell you, there is nothing funnier than a really, really horrible song. If it's got a great hook, even better, because then it's suited for the best thing ever in the history of the world: bad dancing to shitty music, which completely explains the success of "Achy Breaky Heart".

Speaking of Michael Bolton, when I was in college one of my roommates snagged a huge Michael Bolton promotional poster from the trash at a record store. We hung it in our living room and when we were stressed, we would take it out on the poster via artwork. I can't remember everything we drew on that poster, I only remember my favorite thing: the large family of baby spiders, marching across Michael's vast, prairie-like forehead. We also enjoyed changing the lyrics to his remake of the Bee Gees' You Don't Know What It's Like to be about different venereal diseases. "You don't know what it's like/to love somebody/with The Clap". But I digress.

I guess the point I'm making is that boring music makes absolutely no contribution to the word, while there's plenty of horrible music that makes the world a better place simply by being interesting. And if you've made it this far, I have rewards for you:

Hey Ya, holidayfied.

The worst remake of one of the greatest songs in rock history, as well as one of the most abhorant music videos ever made. But interesting because 1) stellar guitar work by one of the greats, and 2) trainwreck!

The second worst video ever made. But again, interesting because of it's hooks (of course it's hooky - it's even in the band's name, for God's sake!), and the fact that the lady with the ass is being pursude by a cowboy-pirate.

Posted by Robin at 03:01 PM | Comments (7)

December 03, 2006

What Every Mother Wants to Hear

Upon awakening Saturday morning Clara Jane said, "I had a dream last night. I dreamt I was playing guitar."

Just as long as it wasn't for some crappy emo band, more power to you, Kiddo.

Posted by Robin at 05:15 PM | Comments (7)

December 01, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Screaming Trees Edition

Last night a giant blue penis descended upon the midwest to fuck St. Louis hard.

Last July when the weather last had its way with my city, we were among the half a million people without power for several days. I'm thrilled to report that we're not among the half a million people without power this time around.

Around 1 AM last night, when I was wide awake, keeping vigil over our temporary power lines' shaky grasp on our house (the utility company still hasn't installed permanent lines to replace the ones downed by a tree last month, despite repeated calls), this shit cracked me up, probably because my brain had snapped from the combination of exhaustion, worry, and the constant crackling of frozen branches. This is from a severe weather safety guide created by a local TV station regarding what to do if ones fridge is without power for more than two hours:

Pack milk, other dairy products, meat, fish, eggs, gravy, and spoilable leftovers into a cooler surrounded by ice.

I was taking it very seriously until I got to the gravy. Then I just flat-out gave up, rolled out of my chair, and writhed on the floor as the hysterical crazy-person laughter took over. When bad storms are predicted, everyone rushes to the grocery store for milk, bread, and gravy, so don't go thinking you'll just buy some after disaster strikes. There is no gravy after the storm, Missy, so you best take care of what you've got.

A few years ago St. Louis was making regular appearances on the list of America's fattest cities. Proably because of the priority we put on gravy.

It's been a long, tiring few days. But don't worry, for my gravy is safe and sound in its electric-powered refrigerator, although I have a spare vat packed in ice in the basement, just to be safe.

Later in the safety guide, there's a section about what to do with chiffon and cream-based pies in case of an extended power outage.

Want to see what's causing this level of delirium? It's not an abundance of ruined chiffon pie. It's this:

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "It's been a month already since that tree fell. Felled trees are a minor inconvenience. Why haven't you taken care of it yet? Are you completely unable to handle anything life hands you? Maybe you should talk to your therapist about this because really, it's unhealthy to not take randomly falling trees in stride as one of life's little follies. This happens to everyone. Here. Give me the phone and I'll call your therapist for you."

Oh, you're wrong. This isn't the tree that randomly collapsed for no good reason in my backyard last month. Not at all.

This is a totally different tree that collapsed in my yard at 4:00 this morning!

That's right. In a matter of 35 days we've had not one, but two very large trees go against the primary tree law (Rule #1 - Remain standing) and fall the fuck over.

I'm fine. Really. B., on the other hand, is going to have to quit the computer programming job he enjoys in order to enroll in Lumberjack School.

Wanna see our shed?

I guess we'll be storing our lawnmower in the scary room, on top of the second-ass toilet, from now on.

Our neighbors also lost a tree. Remember how Tree #1 spared their swingset? Not so much the case this time around.

Dear Trees: Why do you hate us so? What have we done to you? We love trees. Really. My family and I take extraordinary efforts to save the trees. We're tree huggers, not tree fighters. I think you have us confused with the people across the street. They hate trees. They stomp baby saplings with steel-toed boots. Go bother them and spare us. Thank you.

Chloe has been doing her part to get the tree wreckage under control by doing some brush-clearing as only a Basset hound can do:

By grabbing branches between her teeth and shaking as hard as she can until they break off. Then she eats them. Good dog.

Really. I'm fine. Our house is unscathed, and the shed should be fine. From what we could see, the Adirondack chairs, kids picnic table, and tricycle buried under the wreckage are all intact. Had the tree fallen the opposite direction, it would have taken out all the power, cable, and phone lines. Again. We're really lucky to be in a warm house with working lights and furnace while so many people here are without. Again. We're lucky that our kiddo got cold by playing outside, not by simply sitting in her house:

However, it would be nice if she didn't have the sentence, "Another tree fell down in our yard" in her vocabulary.

I don't think there's any Screaming Trees on my iPod, which is too bad. They'd be a welcome addition to today's shuffle. Because I hear the trees screaming. I have a feeling I'm going to hear the trees screaming in my nightmares for a long, long time. Long after we've moved away from The Treehouse and into our concrete bunker on a concrete street.

1. Movies of Myself - Rufus Wainwright
2. Gunshy - Liz Phair
3. On the Road Again - Willie Nelson
4. Time on My Hands - Kate & Anna McGarrigle
5. Goodnight Sweetheart - Rufus Wainwright
6. Just to Satisfy You - Waylon Jennings
7. Good Times - INXS
8. Bad/Rolling Stones Medley - U2
9. Bring the Family - John Hiatt
10. Gun - Uncle Tupelo

Two Rufuses and a tune by his mom and his aunt? Had the shuffle also had anyting by his sis and pa, I would be in the yard, offering my iPod as a sacrifice to the trees.

Just so you know, it's okay if you laugh at all of this. You don't have to apologize if you find any of this funny. I want you to find it funny. Because if we can't life at crazy shit, what can we laugh at?

Posted by Robin at 03:01 PM | Comments (12)