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February 28, 2007

A Foul Mood to Entertain Us All

There's a reason why I need to make sure I take my Prozac on time, every single day. I normally take it first thing in the morning, but since I forgot to pick up my refill last night, I didn't get my dose until after three this afternoon.

I'm so damn crabby right now that, if blended with some garlic, mayo and panko and lightly fried in butter, I'd be one fine and tasty crabcake. I'd probably be flaming mad about the grease burns and being suffocated in mayo and whatnot, but that's beside the point.

I completely blame my mood on my neglect on the drug front, because it makes no sense that these things are bothering me:

Okay, it makes total sense to be pissed off about one. News agencies won't show the coffins of soldiers returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, but this other shit passes for news? Please.

Oh, but let me tell you my real irritation today. I went to a new coffeehouse. Why? Why in the world would I do such a thing?

You know I've recently rekindled my adoration of Hartford Coffee (whose webpage has been having problems of late, otherwise I'd link). Fair trade, organic, perfect coffee. Yummy food. Local artists and music. Huge play area for the kiddos, which is generally populated with smart, funny, interesting parents. Great staff. It's my idea of nirvana. But I just had to go check out the new competing "kid's cafe" this morning, didn't I?

Oh my sweet Lord.

White. Everything's white. Or black. Except for the few plastic toys and the two wall-mounted plasma TVs. The two staff members I encountered were great. Friendly, and the sweet pink-haired girl who made my latte gave me the kind of apologetic smile that all but said, "I'm so sorry my chubby, dual-pigtailed, red lipsticked, wedge heeled Mary Jane wearing, knitting compadre. You are not going to be in your element in this joint. Just like me. Wanna go over to the boutique side of the shop, crawl under a $2000 crib, and we can hold each other while we cry?"

After about five minutes, I would have loved nothing more. I don't want to bad-mouth the other patrons. I really don't, because I hate all of this "mommy war" bullshit.

But is it really bullshit? Sometimes, I think not.

Clara Jane took off to the play area while I settled myself at a table, alone, with my latte and knitting. Now, whenever I do this at Hartford, I can guarantee that within five minutes, I'll be visiting with someone. Or at least have been acknowledged by someone other than staff. At the new place, all I encountered were dirty looks.

When I looked up to see a perfectly made-up mother making a tsk-tsk face at Clara Jane, then smoothing my child's rumbled bed-head, I knew it was time to go.

I'm not proud of this, but shortly after the hair-smoothing, Clara Jane came to me and told me she was hungry. I lied, told her the new coffeehouse didn't serve food, and made a hasty retreat to my beloved haunt, where I threw myself at the manager's feet and apologized for my transgression.

And then we hung out for two hours. Clara Jane filled up on hummus, carrots, and strawberry smoothie, then played. I spent the time doing what I do best: drinking coffee, eating hummus, screwing up the sock I'm knitting, and talking to six people I'd never met before. I now know them and their children by their names, and two of them have my name, email address, phone number and URL. Hello Karen and Christy, if you're reading.

I caught myself being bothered by the cliquishness of the moms at the new place. But then I go to Hartford, and it has its own cliquishness. The difference is, I'm a part of the clique. Of course, the other difference is, the "clique" basically consists of 90% of the people who frequent the joint. But I've done my fair share of making fun of the Yuppie types at the new coffeehouse with my like-minded Hartfordites.

Is this bad? I don't know. One of the things I love about Hartford is that I know that just about any time I'm there, I'm going to find like-minded people. At the new coffeehouse, not so like-minded. Good for them. They've found their place, and I have mine. Although those like-minded Hartford folks might shun me now that I've admitted I'd like to start a fight with my dogs so I can watch "American Idol". And then where will I go?

Posted by Robin at 03:49 PM | Comments (10)

February 26, 2007

Two Things

I had a big, long, depressing entry I intended to write today, but instead I spent the evening on the phone with Kristina, which was much better for me than writing about sad things. Maybe tomorrow.

But that's not amoung the two things I wanted to tell you.

1. That woman in Alabama who commented last week that she's going to pray that my kid doesn't inherit my ignorance, which is displayed by my occasional use of the term "devil baby"? Well, she's not praying nearly hard enough. Today at Hartford, I caught Clara Jane making her devil baby face. As I always do when she makes that face, I made it back at her and said, "Devil Baby!". To which my child replied. "No. You're not Devil Baby. You're Devil Mama." And don't you ever forget it, Kid.

2. I just can't seem to get enough Andrew Bird these days. Yes, I know he's been the darling of the indie set for a few years now, but I'm just hopping on board. Why? Because of his special guest appearence as Dr. Strings on Clara Jane's favorite show, Jack's Big Music Show. Yep, it's come to this. My main source of discovering all the hip new music that the kids are listening to is the Noggin Network. It's like preschool on television! And like MTV used to be when they played music!

Devil Mama hopes Gwar makes a special guest appearence and Jack, Mary and Mel's clubhouse soon.

Posted by Robin at 10:30 PM | Comments (9)

February 25, 2007

Sunday Dots

Posted by Robin at 09:38 PM | Comments (2)

February 23, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The Good Housewife Edition

I'm pleased to report that today has been a good day.

It's been awhile since we've had one of those. Seems like as soon as Clara Jane turned three, a cosmic switch was flipped and she went from being sweet, patient, and polite to being, well, Devil Toddler. I know, I know. It's because I cursed her with the name Devil Baby. We only use it when she makes this face, I swear. It's not like we address her as Devil Baby. Well, not unless she demands that we do so.

But considering the sudden change in my child's personality that started the very day she turned three (which, I don't have to remind you, is the root of 6, which is the basis of That Number Of Which We Shall Not Speak, Lest We Get Eaten By Cloven-Hooved Beasts), I'm starting to think that last weekend's helpful commenter who informed me that I was leading the devil to my child when I call her Devil Baby may be on to something.

Or maybe it's just because the kid had an exciting week filled with very little sleep and very a lot of cake and frosting. Add a nagging cold on top of it, along with a prolonged visit to her grandparents', and of course she's going to be a smidge on the beastly side.

But today's been good. I knew it was going to be good when I hadn't issued any time-outs within the first hour of being awake. That's an improvement over every single day she's been home since turning three. In fact, here we are at nearly 4 PM, totally time-out-free. The little angel's napping peacefully. Or quietly sacrificing goats. I'm not sure, and I don't really care because right now it's Mommy Time. What the kid does behind her closed door during Mommy Time is her business.

Right. Good parenting. I'm all about it.

I got a preview of the kind of behavior that's occuring at the Pudding house today when Clara Jane looked me in the eye and said, "I don't love you," and then laughed. We were having lunch at the time, and it was rather embarrassing to have my adhesioned C-section incision burst open all over the restaurant like it did, what with being told that the person I birthed for over 32 hours isn't much fond of me. While I gathered my entrails from the floor and tried to blot up the mess with brown paper napkins, Clara Jane proceeded to sing the praises of "my friend Dad", as she's started referring to B. That is, when she's not referring to him as "Our Father", like he's Jesus.

Motherhood = Martyrdom. I'm starting to understand that notion.

Shortly after being told that I'm not loved, the one who supposedly doesn't love me crawled from her chair onto my lap, and spent the next 30 minutes slowly grazing on her turkey and cheese sandwich and yogurt with her non-mama-lovin' head planted on my chest, letting me smooch her warm little blonde head as much as I wanted while I squeezed her tight.

How sickeningly darling was this display? No less than four patrons and two employees had to stop by our table and tell us how cute we were, all snuggled up and covered with yogurt and chicken noodle soup. It's hard to eat soup with 35 pounds of snuggly, non-mama-lovin' child on your lap and chest, just so you know. But she did eventually retract her statement about having no love for me.

Man, I needed that. I've been sick all week and have slacked off in every department of my life, except the sock-knitting and sleeping departments. Our house is on the market, and we're getting a bit desperate to sell and yet, I haven't had the gumption to keep it presentable. The dogs are tracking mountains of mud through the house several times a day, and all along I've just wanted to crumple into a heap in the basement and knit while everything domestic falls apart above my head. I've given into that urge twice so far. Basically, I've questioned my abilities in just about every aspect of my life.

But today. Clara Jane and I both had decent sleep last night. Our colds are better. We had time to just sit on the couch and read. We ate well (let's not mention the organic faux Oreo pile in front of me and the half-empty Cherry Coke Zero bottle next to it). I've done mountains of laundry, including one basket that I later realized was already clean. Now it's extra-clean!

We made a Trader Joe's run and bought stuff we needed, not just organic faux Oreos and reduced-fat cheese curls. Clara Jane visited the sample station and partook in lemon-ginger-echinacea juice and southwestern salmon on croustini. For a kid who's demanded a diet of nothing but cake, goldfish crackers, and chips for a week, that amazed me.

I even made the bed.

Where the action happens. The snoring action.
Yes, I succumbed to the lure of the $7.50 clearanced sock monkey flannel sheets at Target yesterday. How could I not? I know, because I'm 34 years old, that's why.

Let me redeem myself with that quilt at the foot of the bed. No, it's not one of mine. It was on the spare bed at my parents' house last weekend, and I threatened theft before I even knew the story behind it.

The quilt top was made by my great-grandma, who died in 1980. Granny Viv recently whipped it into a quicky quilt and gave it to my mom, telling her to do with it whatever she wanted.

"You wanna give it to me, right? Because I'm just going to steal it anyway," I told her. She told me to go ahead and take it.

If you look at the close-up of the quilt, you'll notice the chocolate brown corduroy, olive and cream twill, and bright turquoise trim (which is the same as the backing). I think one of the reasons I love it so much is because who knew that Great-Granny Velma could predict the styles Pottery Barn and Crate & Barrel would be selling for hundreds of dollars 27 years after her death.

My house is somewhat clean and updated. My child doesn't not love me. She's sleeping. I haven't heard any goat-sacrificing noises. For the first time since she turned three, we're not completely shuffled.

1. Cooling - Tori Amos
2. We Stand a Chance - Tom Petty
3. Then He Kissed Me - The Crystals
4. Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA - Devo
5. What Goes On - The Beatles
6. I Fought the Law - Bobby Fuller Four
7. Bullet the Blue Sky - U2
8. Dyslexic Heart - Paul Westerberg
9. Hot Boxin' - The Donnas
10. Way Down - Elvis

Posted by Robin at 03:38 PM | Comments (8)

February 21, 2007

Socks Make Me Feel Better

In the midst of the house-buying, birthday-partying, devil-worshipping frenzy of the past week, I've neglected to mention that I'm sick. Nothing serious, just the typical late-winter bug that's creating horrible monsters in my lungs that demand release. I'll spare you the details beyond that.

We left Clara Jane with my parents on Monday, because we're bad heathen parents, but also because we wanted to get some work done on the house in hopes that the recent upswing in the temperatures would lead to lots and lots of potential buyers parading through to view it.

Somehow, I don't think spending a day and a half, prone on the couch with my knitting added anything to the value of my home. In fact, I'm pretty sure I decreased its value with the oodles of germs I've sneezed all over the place.

But hey! I finished knitting that first pair of socks as a gift for one of my favorite blog-readers! I even tried them on my germ-addled feet.

First completed socks

The socks aren't as crooked as they look, but my feet are. On normal feet, I'm sure they'll look much less slanty.

First completed socks

The heels look pretty snazzy, I think. Let's not talk about how the right sock is a tad longer than the left. I think the sock receipiant might possibly have one leg about an inch longer than the other. And they won't be nearly so 1987ishy scrunched-up. That's just an artifact of my beefy calves.

If you look in the background, you'll noticed Chloe, my Basset hound, who doesn't give a flying fuck about knitting and who, at times, is openly hostile towards the hobby. She likes to sleep in my knitting spot and often gets removed when I want to knit.

Today, the weather was delightful, so I pitched the dogs outside. It's much more relaxing to knit without the hateful glare of a hound or two. I had to pick up Clara Jane in the afternoon, so I spent my morning commencing work on sock #2, the Jaywalker. Would you like to see my sick-day, kidless knitting set-up in lieu of real content?

Give me a break. I was too sick to attend the usual Tuesday night knitting frenzy I usually attend. I'm a lonely knitter this week and I'm going to demand a bit of your attention.

My sick day knitting set-up

This fulfills one of the goals I was supposed to complete during Clara Jane's absence; I was going to take photos of the house to send to my real estate agent. And while these photos showcase our original hardwood floors and the glorious amount of natural light in our living room, something tells me that the focus on my virus-crawling tootsies won't help me sell my house.

Posted by Robin at 08:01 PM | Comments (7)

February 20, 2007

Things We Did This Weekend, Aside From Doing the Happy House Dance

Did I mention that the sellers of The House We Love finally, after much back-and-forth, accepted our offer to buy their house? I did? Well, I might mention it again and again, as I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is going to be our house. Wow.

Anyway, we had an exciting, fun weekend beyond getting the fine house news, which arrived in the midst of the annual February birthday bash at my parents' house:

Birthday Girls

My great-aunt Helen turns 76 on February 22. Granny Viv turned 81 on February 13th, and Clara Jane turned 3 on February 15th, as you might have already realized. Aren't they darling?

Never in my life have I seen so much cake for so few people. We're a small family; the party consisted of less than 15 people but the cake menu consisted of a dozen chocolate cupcakes, a banana-peanut butter cake, the majority of the strawberry cake I made on Thursday, and a very special, surprise horsey cake:

Horsie cake

My poor diabetic uncle had to go home for an extra insulin shot and a nap. The rest of us, in our sugar frenzy, went out and slaughtered wild animals to eat with our bare hands because our blood sugar levels were so high that the blood in our veins was starting to crystalize.

Actually, we just went to a meat-addled buffet, which is what we do in my hometown. But my mom was so sugar-ravaged that she had to steal a piece of fried chicken from my cousin's plate and gnaw off a chunk, just to have the strength to crawl to the buffet to fetch her own meat.

On a side note, we had two buffet meals while in my hometown, and I had a moment that made me realize I've lived away from my hometown for a long time. While milling around the food troughs with the locals I kept thinking, "Damn. People here sure talk funny. And why does that Mennonite guy have a Bluetooth?"

Friday night, we drove through a fierce blowing snowstorm to get to my hometown. The snow drifts into small hills on the plains, and at 11 PM, when most people are sleeping and the snow's undisturbed, it's beautiful. But when it suddenly jumps to 55 degrees the next day, it turns to a pit of mud. Which is too bad. My dad's dingo, Chiggar, spent Friday night eating red plastic Valentine hearts covered with red glitter. I was hoping to awaken Saturday morning to glittery Chiggar turds dotting the beautiful white snow. Alas, he opted to deposit several loads of red glittery puke around the house instead.

Clara Jane got a tricked-out tricycle.

My dad got a surrey with the fringe on top.
Dad, Bubba and the surrey with the fringe on top
He busted into show tunes from "Oklahoma" right after I took this picture. Really.

I got more sock yarn, which is exactly what I needed.
Stash addition
The loveliness was procured at the delightful Hillcreek Yarn Shoppe in the equally lovely and delightful Columbia, Missouri. If you're in the area, or close enough to make a road trip, I highly recommend it. Great, great, wonderful yarn shop. Spinning and weaving, even.

Did I mention that we got a signed contract on The House We Love? Just making sure you hadn't forgotten.

I also got an interesting comment on my blog, which I deleted because I knew that the commenter would possibly get ripped to shreds. Apparently, a reader took offense to my "Devil Baby" comment. She asked what possessed me to call my child such a thing. The urge to say, "Why, the devil possessed me, of course!" was damn near overwhelming, and I'm proud of myself for refraining. She went on to say that children are a gift from God, that I was inviting the devil into her life, and that she'd pray for God to protect my child from my ignorance.

Okay.

I normally don't talk about religion or politics on my blog. There are plenty of places on the web who do a much better job of it than I do. But I do want to address this.

My God does not operate on superstition. My God is wise enough, benevolent enough, loving enough, and forgiving enough to know that the "Devil Baby" silliness isn't real evil. My God is too busy dealing with real evil in the lives of children to bother with silliness.

My God is more interested in getting his believers to pay attention and do something for the children of genocide in Darfur.

My God is more interested in getting his believers to pay attention and do something for the children who are orphaned or dying of extreme povery.

My God is more interested in getting his believers to pay attention and do something for the girls in Cambodia who are sold into the sex trade.

My God is more interested in getting his believers to pay attention and do something for the children in Iraq who have lost everything to this goddamn war.

My God is more interested in getting his believers to pay attention and do something for the children who are still suffering from the ravages of Hurricane Katrina.

My God is more interested in getting his believers to pay attention and do something about the American kids who don't get enough to eat.

My God is more interested in getting his believers to pay attention and do something for the children in Uganda who are stolen from their families and brainwashed into being warriors. In our country, we're mesmerized by a news story about two boys who were kidnapped. And rightfully so. But imagine living in a country where over 30,000 children have been abducted and put to work in a war. Want to talk about the devil at work in the lives of children? There it is, right there.

I know children are a gift from God. As a woman who was told that I wouldn't be able to get pregnant, probably not even with fertility drugs, but did, I know what a gift from God feels like. I also know what a gift of modern medical science, ancient medical science (acupuncture), prayer, hope, knowledge of my body and how it functions feel like. So, instead of getting worked up about a silly little blog and a child who is loved, treasured, wanted, pampered, disciplined, and cherished, perhaps that energy would be best spent on working to erradicate some of the very real evil at work on many of the children of the world.

Did I mention the house? I did? Did I mention it has a crescent moon and star in the masonry work on the chimney? You might want to pray for our mortal souls, living under that Pagan symbol on our fireplace.

Now, who wants to go for a sweet surrey ride with Bubba?
Bubba checks out his new ride

Posted by Robin at 12:51 PM | Comments (13)

February 18, 2007

Why I Love the Daytona 500

I've thought my two big life-changing events - getting engaged to B. and birthing Clara Jane - coincided with Valentine's Day. Well, sort of, since Clara Jane was born on February 15th. But now I've come to realize that the real connecting factor is the Daytona 500. The engagement wasn't just on V-Day, but also shortly before the running of The Great American Race. Clara Jane was born 20 minutes after Dale Earnhardt, Jr. won the 2004 race. During my pregnancy I told my mom that if she was born during the race, I was going to name her Daytona Dale Petty B_____, just because it's fun to watch my mom hyperventilate.

About halfway through today's race, we learned that the second offer we made on The House We Love is being accepted.*

Let's all got do donuts in the infield and spray each other with Stag Beer in Victory Lane!

*The agent doesn't have the signed contract in his hands yet, but it's all but a done deal. It's a contingency contract, so we won't take possession until we sell our house. There's still a teeny-tiny smidge of a slightest little chance that something won't work out, but for now, I'm calling it home. And I'm thanking every single one of you who prayed, sent us good house thoughts, and patiently listened to my house angst. I'm sure there's more to come.

Posted by Robin at 08:07 PM | Comments (16)

February 17, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The Briefly Updated, Somewhat Late with Dots Edition

1. Angels and Fuselage - Drive-by Truckers
2. Tomboy - Bettie Seveert
3. Is This It - The Strokes
4. My Darling - Wilco
5. Miss You - Rolling Stones
6. You Don't Seem to Miss Me - Patty Loveless and George Jones
7. I'll Sleep When I'm Dead - Warren Zevon
8. The Needle has Landed - Neko Case
9. Proud Mary - Tina Turner
10. Room 13 - Black Flag

One of these days I'll get ambitious like my librarian pals Kristina and Katya and link to the albums on the shuffle. Not today, as I'm already a little drunk.

Posted by Robin at 11:20 AM | Comments (6)

February 15, 2007

Devil Baby Turns Three

Today, my sweet baby is no longer a baby. She's a big three-year-old.

If today is an example of what three is like, I'm already longing for the terrible twos.

Devil Baby Turns Three!

Happy birthday, Devil Baby. I love you, even when you're chanting "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!!" at the top of your lungs while marching through the house, banging on an empty rice cracker box to the beat of your negations.

I'll also love you when you spontaneously turn into a scorpion and demonstrate your butt-stinger:
Demonstrating her scorpion stinger

But you'll always be my little baby devil.

Devil baby

Happy Birthday, Clara Jane

Posted by Robin at 06:14 PM | Comments (13)

February 14, 2007

A Materialistically Great Valentine's Day in Photos

I used to be one of those anti-Valentine's Day people. I'm still not a fan of materialistic aspect of the holiday - or any holiday, for that matter - although I don't dislike it enough to stop participating in it. Basically, I think it's cool to have a day of affection. Sure, we shouldn't need a day to express love and affection, but let's face it - some people have a hard time doing those things on a regular basis. Basically, I've gotten over myself and learned to just make Valentine's Day whatever I want it to be.

It doesn't hurt that two of the coolest things in my life happened on February 14th. In 1999, that was the day B. and I accidentally got engaged. In 2004, I spent the day in labor. How can I begrudge a day that made the two people I love most in the world permanent fixtures in my life?

This is what was waiting for me when I awoke this morning:

From B.

Cliche? Perhaps, except I love roses and chocolate-covered strawberries. Our wedding cake was covered in such berries. It's also much less cliched when you consider that my husband, who wakes up at 5 AM every morning to make it to work on time, gets up extra-early every year and hikes his butt down to the local flower stand to purchase this for me every year, all so I can sit in our cozy house, gazing at my flowers, and eating those berries for breakfast. They're divine with coffee.

I also got these goodies:
More gifts for me

I've come so close to buying that teacup set for myself every single time I've seen it, but hesitated. The drawing? Another Clara Jane original. That's her on the left, B. with his fuzzy face on the right, and I'm the ever-present, looming, giant head that rules the universe from the center. She brought it to me while I was in the bathroom this morning, told me it was a "valentime", and then said, "Oops! I forgot to draw your ponytail! I'll be right back!" She ran back to her desk and added the ponytail, which tells me I'm way overdue for a haircut and I need to quit being so damn lazy about my hair. It also tells me I have the most observant not-quite-three-year-old ever.

Speaking of which, she got goodies today, too. I took her out for a snack and let her pick out two new books. Her daddy gave her this:
Clara Jane & her V-Day gift from B.

That's right. I'm not the only yarn artist-type in this house. B. can crochet like a mofo granny. He's been crocheting for about four years longer than I've been knitting. He's been working on that blanket for her for ages, and she adores it.

I got some goodies for the crocheting mofo:
What I gave B.

What? Your granny doesn't listen to ACDC while she crochets baby blankets? Well then, she's obviously not a mofo granny like B. I hope this inspires him to create a Back in Black/You Shook Me All Night Long afghan.

B.'s employers gave us enough imported Italian chocolate to kill a St. Bernard:
Gifts from B.'s company

If you're going to work for a giant, multinational corporation, it might as well be one that's based in Switzerland and imports a variety of fine European chocolates.

But the coolest gift of all this year? When B. got home and all the gifts were open, he said, "I've got one more gift." I started to say something, but he beat me to the punch and said, "No, this one's free," and then he leaned in to kiss me.

Oh, come on. I may not be anti-V-Day anymore, but that's just fucking cheeseball, Mister.

But that wasn't it. This was:
The house we want

It's not ours yet, but B. got a message from our agent today that one of the major roadblocks that prevented the sellers from accepting our offer is no longer an issue. We're one huge step closer. And while this means that next Valentine's Day, B. will have to get up around 2 AM in order to get back to our old neighborhood to get my roses and chocolate-covered strawberries, I think it's worth it. Don't you?

Posted by Robin at 04:18 PM | Comments (12)

February 13, 2007

Snow Day Memories

This probably isn't the best day for me to be snowbound with Clara Jane. February 13th is a big memory day for me. Not bad memories, per se, but I've found that as I get older, I can make even the best memories melancholy based solely on the fact that I'm getting older.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that today is my Granny Viv's 81st birthday. I'm not even going to attempt to top the tribute I wrote last year when she turned 80. Besides, not much has changed in the past year. She's still active, healthy and sharp as nails. I can call her anytime I want and say, "Granny, I'm having a jelly emergency," and I know she'll bail my butt out. Over Christmas, when she learned that Allison and I were making quilts to donate to The Women's Safehouse, Granny not only pitched in by helping me bind two quilts that had me stumped, but then she spent several days digging through decades of fabric scraps in her attic for the cause. You know those huge plastic tote boxes? The ones that come up to knee-high? I have two of them, stuffed full with Granny's fabric, probably enough fabric to make a quilt for half the homeless women in St. Louis. That's how generous she is.

She is, without question, the coolest great-grandma (or Old Mimi, as Clara Jane calls her) ever.

I almost feel a little guilty for waiting so long to produce the first great-grandchild when I see how much joy she and Grandpa Chuck get from Clara Jane. Nevermind how much they give to my girl. She adores them

So, happy birthday Granny Viv/Old Mimi. We love you.

Granny Viv

Three years ago today, I was due with Clara Jane. I spent the day at home, parked on a yoga ball, leaning over the arm of my big red armchair, willing my face-up child to please turn over. She didn't. I watched To Kill a Mockingbird, which I craved throughout my pregnancy the same way I craved cheeseburgers with raw onions, lettuce, pickles and mustard.

On that day while perched on my ball, I called Granny to wish her a happy birthday and apologized for not showing any signs of being in labor. With my due date come and gone, I told Granny that I felt like maybe I was one of those loons who imagines being pregnant. Not the case, as I woke up in labor the next morning, and Clara Jane arrived 32 hours later.

Maybe when she's a little older, Clara Jane and I will make a point of watching the movie and eating cheeseburgers every February 13th after we call Granny to sing her "Happy Birthday" as off-key and loudly as possible, just like Granny's always done to everyone in our family.

After I wrote last night's blog entry, I realized that I'd missed the most obvious topic for yesterday. Clara Jane's birthday is February 15th. My earliest memory occured three days before my third birthday. It was late last night that I realized Clara Jane is now older than I was when my first memory was etched into my mind, and literally onto my face.

It was 1975, and child safety wasn't as much of a concern in those days as it is now, which might explain the popularity of Naugahyde furniture paired with sharp-corned coffee tables. I was climbing onto my mom's lap, slipped on the Naugahyde upholstery, and smacked my face into the sharp coffee table corner.

I remember falling. I remember my mom laying me on her bed and trying to stop the bleeding. I remember going to the doctor's office and being held down while he stitched my face. I remember being really, really proud of my black eye and stitches at the ensuing birthday parties.

Here's what remains as of today:

My scar

I've found myself being overly concerned with the formation of Clara Jane's earliest memory, because I know we're around the time that it'll happen. I hope it's not today, when I was anxious and panicky enough that at one point, she smiled and did what she always does if I'm not happy: she asked, "Can I take care of you?" before locking me in a huge hug, eventually asking, "Can you be happy now?"

My worst fear is that her earliest memory is going to revolve around something caused by my defective brain. I know that's unlikely, because kids at her age are so focused on themselves that us adults are generally in the background. Hell, until a few years ago, I thought my fall off the Naugahyde was solo; my mom had to remind me that I was climbing onto her lap.

I heard some Dr. Phil nonsense awhile back that your first memory dictates the rest of your life. In my case, I guess it makes sense that I'm an anxious, panicky person when my first memory involves taking a terrifying, painful fall, followed by terrifying, painful stitches damn near in my eyeball. Okay, so maybe calling that nonsense, only because it came from Dr. Phil's shiny, obnoxious head is wrong, because at least in my case, it makes sense. It also makes sense that I would want my child's earliest memory to be wonderful. Duh.

Today, she told me that she was going to draw a picture of us, together:

Clara Jane & Mama: A Portrait

That's Clara Jane on the left and me on the right. She told me that the line coming out of the back of my head is my ponytail. The big swirl on my forehead was preceded by her saying, "I need to give you more hair!" Apparently, she got her inspiration from my 1989 high school yearbook. The horizontal squiggle below that is my glasses.

I asked her what we're doing in the picture. She smiled and said, "We're just being happy."

I hope that's her earliest memory.

Posted by Robin at 02:52 PM | Comments (8)

February 12, 2007

Poppies! Will Make Her Sleep!

I've never been a good sleeper. Just couldn't get the hang of it. Or, rather, didn't care to get the hang of it. Sleep's always been a hassle, something that cuts into time in which I could be Doing Something Productive. I didn't sleep when I was a kid, and it galls my mother to no end that Clara Jane could win gold medals for her sleeping skills. Like right now? It's 5:48 PM. She's been napping since 3-ish. I know that in the next 12 minutes, she'll be awake. By 9 PM, she'll be asleep, and will most likely stay that way for 11-12 hours.

That parental curse that goes "I hope you have one that acts exactly like you?" It doesn't work. So there.

Anyway, I've always been a nightowl, which means that when I want to sleep at a normal time, I have problems doing so. Example: when I was in middle school, I'd stay up as late as possible on the weekends. By Sunday nights, I wouldn't be able to sleep because by bedtime, there was a good chance I'd only been awake for eight hours. Which was fine with me, because it was 1986, and Sunday nights meant 120 Minutes and The Young Ones - the only two methods of getting a proper punk education in mid-1980s small-town mid-Missouri. That was just as important as school. Moreso, in fact, as I think I gained more from that late-night TV viewing than I ever did from Mr. Pethtel's second-hour physical science class. Or maybe that's just because I was asleep by second hour, thanks to my underground TV viewing habits. Again, just as well, since Mr. Pethtel was a naturalist who didn't believe in deodorant, but did believe in running or biking to work everyday. He didn't seem to believe in showers, though. Sleeping through his class protected my eyes from the chemical burns produced by the worst body odor in the history of body odor.

What was I talking about? Right, sleep. Given my druthers, I would got to bed no earlier than 3 AM and sleep until 9 AM every single day of my life. I'm more productive at night, and the less the sun hits my skin, the happier I am. Six hours of sleep on that schedule, and I'm more rested than if I get nine hours of sleep on a "normal" schedule. Unfortunately, it's hard to function in civilized society on that schedule. Most nights I try to be asleep by midnight, although that usually doesn't happen. The alarm goes off at 7, but I generally don't get up until Clara Jane beckons. Truth be told, the only reason for this is so I can keep her on a schedule that jibes with what society says is good and right.

Did I mention that I'm anti-nap? While I might claim that I'd like a nap, I'm lying. That's time in which I could be Doing Something Productive. Historically, the only times I've been a napper where when I was pregnant and when I'm deathly ill.

But something has happened of late. I sleep. A lot. I think I'm making up for every hour of lost sleep I've accumulated over my life.

Yeah, I know. There are lots of people I know who have sleeping issues. Believe me, I empathize, having been in that sleepless boat. The past year has been exceptionally rough in that regard for me. For most of last summer, the only way I could sleep was on the couch with the TV set to TV Land which would 1) drown out every noise in the house, and 2) bore me into submissive sleep with the likes of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" and "Three's Company". It was risky, though. In the event of all-nighter "Night Court" or "Newsradio" marathons, there would be no sleep for me. Much laughter, but no sleep.

So don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining about the sudden abundance of sleep. Well, not much. But here's how things are going these days:

7 AM - NPR wakes me up. I roll over and go back to sleep until my bladder wakes me up at 8:30, unless Clara Jane beckons earlier.

4:30 PM - I collapse into a heap wherever I stand, regardless of how many gallons of coffee I've consumed, and go to sleep. Go immediately to sleep. Do not pass the bedroom door. Do not Do Something Productive.

6:30 - 7:00 PM - Come to, often with a child jumping on my head.

10 PM - Must ... fight ... pull ... of ... bed .... Must ... remain ... on ... couch ... with .... knitting ... (or at computer or at sewing machine)... Being ... Productive.

11 PM - Give in to the pull. Insert earplugs, which is a new-ish thing. I started wearing earplugs to bed a few months ago. Let's call it my little Christmas gift to my brain. Turns out, much of my lifelong sleep trouble stems from having hyper-sensitive hearing. I've tried to dull it for the better part of three decades with really loud music to no avail. So I've opted for my back-up option - earplugs, which very nearly drown out the droaning to B.'s CPAP machine, the floor-rattling Basset hound snores, Murphy's screaming night terrors, and the dune buggies zooming up and down our duneless street at all hours.

11:05 PM - Pass out with face in book.

That's right. I've become a napper and a night-sleeper. I'm not sure what to think of this. It's probably due to the tinkering with my brain pills that's occured in recent months. They don't make me drowsy or groggy, which is good. They just routinely knock me on my ass at perfectly scheduled time. Seriously. If Amtrak and the airlines want to run on time, just give them bigger doses of Prozac and Clonopin. Like clockwork, my friends.

I find this somewhat ironic, since a desire to sleep is one of the hallmark symptoms of clinical depression. I never had that symptom; I would always get the opposite - insomnia. Increase my antidepressants, and suddenly I'd love nothing more than taking to my bed for a week or two at a time.

Or maybe my sleepfullness is an artifact of getting older. B.'s always claimed that the human body's warranty expires the day you turn 30. I'm four years past warranty, so perhaps my special sleep-not-needing function has broken.

Or maybe I'm just not caring so much about Doing Something Productive, which could also be an artifact of both the brain drugs and my advancing maternal age.

Regardless, I just woke up from a nap and I can't wait for a socially acceptable time in which I can return to bed. Sleep! Who knew how awesome it is?

Posted by Robin at 05:46 PM | Comments (4)

February 10, 2007

Shit Mittens & Table Socks

It scared me a little bit when my Shit Mittens post from last June was mentioned not once, but twice in the comments this week. Why? Because as I mentioned in yesterday's post, the Pudding girls came over for lunch and playing. This is the first time Angela has allowed her girls back into my home since the day my child, both hands covered with her own fecal matter, was playing with her eldest. I'm sure the poop attire had nothing to do with this lack of time at our house. Really. But would you blame them if it was? I sure wouldn't.

Yesterday's lunch couldn't have been more lovely. The girls had a delightful time. No one cried. No one crapped her world and thought it would be a good idea to have the whole world in her hands. But I did have this terrifying moment, courtesy of three-year-old MC Pudding:

MC(walking into the dining room): Clara Jane made a big mess!
Me (silently praying): What kind of mess, MC?
MC: She stuck her hands in and pulled everything out!
Me: What did she pull out?
My brain (which only I can hear): It's poop! Clara Jane's pulled poop out of everyone's pants! And it's all over her room. Look! MC has some on her hand! Yeah, I know she just ate an Oreo, but how do you know that's Oreo chocolateyness and not your child's poop? Huh? Dammit, Christine and Kim! This is all your fault for mentioning Shit Mittens in the comments! Ban their IP addresses right this very minute!!!
Me: What did she pull out?
MC: Toys.
Me: From the toy box?
MC: Yeah. They're aaaaaaaaaaaaall over her room.

I've have never been so happy to hear of a room in my house being trashed with toys in my entire three years of motherhood.

Christine and Kim, my brain would like to offer you an apology.

Speaking of gross things for appendages...

Ta da!

That's right. I finished knitting my first sock. There it is, on my unwashed foot, which is on my dining room table. We are nothing but class here at Chez Poppy.

Are you checking out my backside? Well, you should, because that's one fine-ass heel turn right there.

Keep in mind that this sock (and its eventual mate, which I started this morning) are a gift for one of my readers. Who knows? It could be you. And there it is, parked on my sweaty foot that hadn't been bathed in well over 12 hours, on my legs that haven't been shaved in a long, long time. Happy birthday! I love you! Have a bunch of my DNA and some hand-knit socks as a token of my fondness.

Speaking of sock-knitting ...

On Thursday, while Clara Jane was at daycare, I finally got myself down to Knitorious' lovely new home. One of my favorite things in the world happened while I was there. I overheard the owner talking to an employee named Rachel, to which I called, "S T L Rachel Knits dot Com?" Because yes, I've reached the point of geekdom where I refer to people by their URLs. No, she was a different Rachel, and I babbled something about Rachel and I both having blogs, and hoping I'd run into her at the store, since she works there.

"What's your blog?" Rachel #2 asked, and I told her. To which she, who had been soft-spoken and quiet to that point, squealed, "OH MY GOD! That story about your neighbors' dogs having sex in your yard was so funny!" Which, of course, led to me telling the story of the dachshund/sheltie/beagle unholy union to everyone at Knitorious. I would like to think this is why they allowed me to paw through a box of yarn that was delivered while I was there, thus making me the first knitter in St. Louis to own a skein of Jitterbug sock yarn. In Marble, for those of you keeping score, although I very nearly bought Jay instead. Fire was in the running, too. Oh, let's be honest: if they'd offered me a hank of each color in exchange for taking off my clothes and running around the block, I probably would have obliged.

Several times of late, I've gotten emails from readers to the tune of "I think I saw you at Hartford/Trader Joe's/Spanky's/parked outside Jeff Tweedy's parents' house, but I was afraid I'd bother you/embarassed to admit I read your blog/concerned you'd think I'm a stalker if I did."

Please. If you see me in public, by all means say hello! It makes my day. Truly. As much as I love making a fool of myself on the internet, I live to make a fool of myself in public. Please don't deny me these opportunities. Without constant attention, I wither and die. You don't want to be responsible for that, now, do you?

I will promise you, however, that if you come up to me at a restaurant, I'll do my best to keep my feet off the table and Clara Jane's hands out of her pants.

Posted by Robin at 11:54 AM | Comments (7)

February 09, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The Girly Show Edition

I'm sure by now most of you have read about the yesterday's tragic passing of a very important woman. That's right, I'm talking about the death of Harriett Woods.

That's not what you thought I was going to say, is it? I'll bet most of you don't know who Harriett Woods was. If you live outside the state of Missouri, that's okay. If you live in Missouri and don't know who she is, well, we might need to have a little talk.

Ms. Woods was 79 when she passed from leukemia last night not far from my home. But how she died isn't the story; from what I've read she had a comfortable passing in her home, as she wished, with her loved ones near. We should all be so lucky to go in such peace with so little fanfare.

The story is, Ms. Woods served as Missouri Lieutenant Governor from 1984 - 1989. She was the first woman ever elected to a state office in Missouri's history. The other trails she blazed: first woman editor of her college newspaper, Missouri’s first woman on the state Transportation Commission, first woman to serve as a major-party nominee for the U.S. Senate. She also served as president of the National Women's Political Caucus. She was a journalist at a time when women weren't in the news business (the St. Louis Post-Dispatch had no female reporters when they turn Woods down for a job in the late 1940s). Through this, she was also a wife and mother to three sons born in a span of four years.

She supported anti-drunk driving laws, nursing home regulations, abortion rights, and the Equal Rights Amendment.

Ms. Woods had an impact on my life.

I remember her Senate run in 1982. I turned 10 two weeks before the election. While I don't remember the issues at hand, I do remember this: Ms. Woods was the first woman I had ever seen running for office. And yes, I actually paid attention to politics at that age. One of my mom's favorite stories from my childhood involves six-year-old Robin, sitting on a curb, arguing politics (I was liberal back then, even) with a little old lady during the opening parade for the Missouri State Fair. I remember watching Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford debate in the 1976 election. I was three, and I liked Carter. But I digress.

At nine, I was already interested in politics, already establishing my liberalism and feminism, and I wanted Ms. Woods to win that Senate race in a big, big way. Because she was a girl. And if she could do it, the rest of us girls could, too. While I've never aspired to run for office, I think that by her example, Ms. Woods taught me that women could be a part of the political realm, and that it's our duty to talk about the issues, stand up for our issues (or sit down on the curb to debate our issues). These are the reasons why I spent my high school years on the debate team, obsessed with news and politics. These are the things that contributed to the parts of my personality that I'm most proud of. Would I be the way I am without her example? Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that when I saw the news of her passing, an ache developed in my heart and I felt the need to say thank you.

Ms. Woods, thank you. Thank you for showing a little girl what a woman can do.

As for the other death that's completely obscuring all the other news ...

If I hear one more person express shock or surprise at the death of Anna Nicole Smith, I think I might roll my eyes so hard that they'll be stuck backwards in my head for the rest of my days. Honestly. What's surprising about her death? Let's face it, she wasn't a shining example of healthful living (nor am I). Drug speculation aside, just the effects of years of yo-yo dieting and questionable diet drugs can take a massive toll. Add grief, constant public scrutiny, a full agenda of lawsuits, and God knows what else, and of course one's odds of keeling over prematurely are going to be through the roof.

Not that it isn't tragic, particularly for her infant daughter. Anna Nicole, from what I can see, led a life of desperation filled with the parasites who feed on it. That, too, is a tragedy. She was exploited, and she allowed it. But you know what? If I was 18-years-old with a kid to feed and I'd had nothing in my life - money or love - I can't say that I wouldn't have done the same things she did.

Or she could have found another way. This afternoon, I've been compelled to listen to Dolly Parton. You know how much I love Dolly, don't you? With a passion that goes back to when I was around Clara Jane's age. She's brilliant, beautiful, and she's lived her life on her terms in a time and place where her times weren't the norm. She pulled herself out of desperate poverty to make a life and name for herself while keeping her dignity and values intact.

Of course, Dolly also has talent that isn't limited to the contents of her Maidenform.

I guess I'm just a little sad today that we live in a world where we feed on the lurid details of a tragic, wasted life instead of celebrating people - especially women - who've done amazing things.

I spent my day with amazing women. Specifically, girls of the Pudding variety. Watching Meredith, Clara Jane, and Harper marching through my house, happy and laughing, so comfortable with themselves while Angie and I sat at the dinner table over lunch and conversation does give me hope that perhaps Harriett and Dolly's legacies will soon be the norm.

Before we shuffle, do me a favor and spend a little time with Dolly.

1. Bring the Family - John Hiatt
2. Vertigo - U2
3. That's Not Me - Beach Boys
4. Savior - Red Hot Chili Peppers
5. Pepito - Calexico
6. Fingertips, Pt. 2 - Stevie Wonder
7. Idiot's Revenge - Bottle Rockets
8. Bowling Green - Neko Case
9. Galileo - Indigo Girls
10. Things Aren't Funny Anymore - Merle Haggard

Posted by Robin at 02:55 PM | Comments (6)

February 07, 2007

The Malaise! It's Finally Here!

Every January, The Malaise hits. It's not depression, it's just ... blah. My patience run short, everything's a hassle, nothing's fun. Granted, nothing is a serious crisis, but nothing's particularly great, either.

I thought I'd bypassed The Malaise this year. Turns out, it was lurking to strike a week late. Fucking bastard.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm feeling snitty. I'm having one of those blogging phases that always coincides with The Malaise in which I become convinced that the only people coming to my blog are spammers and people doing searches like "church's fried chicken tapes" (what?), "boy pea nose" (as a side dish with the Church's fried chicken?) and "puking bitch" (from Germany, no less).

I can't complain, mainly because I've sucked at keeping up with reading my favorite blogs of late, and I've sucked even more at leaving comments. Why should I expect others to do something I'm not even willing/able to do right now? Besides, Whimsical Woman publically professed her love for me over at Will Write for Chocolate, which my beleagured ego needed.

It's just been a rough week. It would be a rough week regardless, as it's the week I'm supposed to be having my period, were it not for the pleathora of medications I consume to stop the beast from charging. You see, periods make me crazy. Literally. Drugs help a bunch, but it's akin to holding your hand on top of a jack-in-the-box while still turning the crank. While the crazy clown might not be jumping out to eat your face, it's still in there somewhere, knocking around, wanting out, and just waiting for your hand to twitch so it can pop-goes-the-weasel on the delicate arteries in your neck.

In other words, I'm always a little more prone to anxiety during Week Four, which is this week.

I don't even want to go into the house shit. Still negotiating. You're sick of hearing about this, I know, so I'll leave it at that. I'm sick of talking about it.

Remember how Clara Jane was puking in the middle of the night? She was fine on Monday, aside from not having much appetite. No big deal, right? Who wants to eat after a night of vomiting and screaming?

Tuesday morning, she woke up just fine, asking for a popsicle for breakfast. "Popsicle" in our house really means "organic yogurt poured into popsicle molds to keep the child's ice cream back-monkey appeased in a healthful manner". So I gave her a popsicle (very typical breakfast around here) and a sippy of milk. While the popsicle melted, she guzzled the milk, asked for more, and slammed another 1/3 of a cup, never touching the food as she went about her business.

Twenty minutes later, I was on the phone with my mom while Clara Jane went about her business when she suddenly stopped, grabbed her mouth, and howled. I effectively hung up on my mom and grabbed my child, thinking the vomiting was about to commence. Instead, she told me, "I feel bad. I'm so sorry," several times before collapsing on my chest, glassy-eyed, mouth-breathing, not moving. I'm not sure why this occured to me, but when I laid her on my bed while I threw on clothes to rush her to the doctor, I gave her some diluted apple juice.

Five minutes later, she sat up, reading Alexander and the Wind-Up Mouse to me as if nothing had happened.

I don't think I've ever been that frightened in my life.

According to the doc, she has a mild stomach bug, which wasn't the problem. The lack of eating followed by the milk chug-a-lug, however, caused her blood sugar to plummet, which explains why she perked up after a few sips of juice. Feed her lots of protein, especially dairy protein - you know, like that yogurt pop we left melting on the couch for the dogs to eat - and she'll be fine. By the time we left, she was begging for turkey and cheese on wheat with squeeze yogurt and an apple at St. Louis Bread Company for lunch. Which she gobbled.

I can't complain. I'm so lucky that I have an amazingly healthy child. This is the third time in her nearly three years that she's required medical treatment beyond the regular check-ups. Which is good, considering her mother lasts no more than 23 minutes in any crisis situation.

If having a healthy kid isn't reason enough to not be malaised, the mail we had waiting when we got home from our impromptu outing should prove that we're too lucky to complain, even when we're not quite so lucky.

First, there was an envelope addressed to Clara Jane from my friend Stacey, who I haven't seen in ages. Specifically, it was from her six-year-old, Claire, who I don't think has seen Clara Jane since her Pekin, Illinois, Pukefest of October, 2005. Apparently, out of nowhere, Claire asked Stacey how to spell Clara Jane's name, then presented her with this piece of artwork with instructions to mail it, post-haste:

Fan mail

It's a picture of them, a sweet message of love, and some cash, which Claire said is "in case Clara Jane could use some money". We're going to give it to the bastards who are too cheap to sell their house to us. But I digress. How can one be malaised when something that sweet, loving, and gosh-durn cute shows up in the mail?

Oh, but that wasn't the only thing in the mail! Remember that sex toy party I attended last month? And how my iPod, Beatrice, was a filthy whore and demonstrated (not work-safe link!) the iBuzz. Obviously, I blogged about it, and if you read through the comments on that original post, you'll see an interesting one from a fellow named Richard.

Richard, as it happens, works for (also not work-safe) LoveHoney, the company that created the iBuzz. Being the wiseacre that I am, I sent him a cheeky email, asking what I was getting in return for all the free advertising for their product on my blog.

It arrived yesterday, which is really perverse when you consider where I had spent my day, and other parcel sharing a mailbox with my special, free delivery from the UK. I think it also officially makes me a whore.

I'll just say that LoveHoney makes it absolutely impossible to be malaised.

I'll also say that "London Calling" has always been in my top five albums. It's moved up to the top two.

And that's all I'm going to say, because now I have to wait for the call that my mother just keeled over with a heart attack from reading that. Which, of course, will bring back the malaise.

Posted by Robin at 09:57 PM | Comments (13)

February 05, 2007

In Which I Force Myself to Have a Good, Gracious Attitude

There are good things afoot. For example, I knitted a heel today for the very first time:

A leg, a heel, but alas, no foot.

Now, I just need to wrap my poor little brain around how to do the rest of the foot, which I'm sure is going to make me cry before it's all said and done.

We're getting lots of stuff done on the house. Last night, B. caulked the bathtub, and it's lovely. Granted, it wasn't so lovely at midnight when Clara Jane commenced profuse vomiting. Three human beings in this house, all of them with puke on their persons, and not a single shower to be had because the caulk must cure.

Clara Jane's fine. It was just an ugly snot-gagging incident. We all bathed this morning. I resisted the urge to scrub my entire body with Borax because let me tell you, the scent of milk-filled toddler vomit on skin does not improve with six hours of sleep under flannel sheets and a down comforter.

What better to do with a kid who spent the night puking than go out in the six-degree snowy day for coffee? I'm a great mom. She's not contagious, I swear, and trust me, she was better off in the elements than she was cooped up in this house with her mother bouncing around like a spider monkey. Waiting for real estate news will do that to you. There's a lot to be said about going to the coffeehouse, turning the kiddo loose, and talking with the moms who are becoming familiar. It's worth frostbite.

Oh, real estate news. I'm sure that's why you're reading, right?

The sellers rejected our offer for two very silly reasons. We're not sure why this happened, but we have several theories:

1) They're complete idiots who don't know a good offer when it smacks them across the face, which is what I'd really like to do right now.

2) They're stalling in hopes that we'll wait until their contract with their agent expires and they won't have to pay commission.

3) They're evil.

4) They can taste our desperate love for their house and they love to lap it up like the hellhounds they are.

5) They've found my blog and are denying us the house because I just called them hellhounds and mentioned inflicting bodily harm on them.

6) They don't really want to sell. They simply enjoy fucking people up.

Never fear. We're renegotiating, which emphasizes my fourth point. I don't care. At this point, just give me the damn house on your crazy terms. We can take it. Just don't be suprised if, the second the ink's on the contract at closing, I punch you in your faces.

That last paragraph probably doesn't increase my chances, either. In fact, I hear St. Joe weeping, and I think he's going to hit me with a hammer while I sleep tonight.

It's been a long 24 hours. It'll get better, I know. I'm lucky that I have a lovely, stable home already. The new one is cake. I'm lucky it was only snot that led to us all being covered in vomit last night, especially since someone I know lost their nine-week-old to SIDS last week. I'm lucky that I have a place where I can go with my child where I know I can flop on the couch, drink coffee, and always find someone's ear to bend. I'm lucky to have the luxury of time and money that allows me to do silly things like knit socks, when I can buy five pairs, already assembled, for the price of making a pair.

I promise, if this house works out, I will punch no one in the face, neck, or head at closing. No matter what hot coals they make us walk to get there.

Posted by Robin at 08:35 PM | Comments (5)

February 04, 2007

Real Estate! No, really!

It's taken over my life. I'm sorry.

By this time tomorrow, we'll know if the house - what has become our dream house - will be ours.

Our house has been shown once a day, every day, since it went on the market Thursday morning. It's a weird sense of limbo, always waiting for the phone call, telling us we've got an hour to get our crap together. We're getting better at it. If nothing else, this experience has taught us a lot about clean house maintenance. Instead of cleaning once a month when the clutter gets so bad I start having panic attacks, we're trying this new thing. It's called "straightening up every night". It's a wonderful technique. I highly recommend it.

We had to be out by 11 this morning for today's showing. I spent yesterday afternoon making a Mardi Gras tutu for Clara Jane to wear to the Mardi Gras Children's Art Fair. The plan: we'd drop off the dogs, grab lunch, and head down to the festivities.

The reality: Clara Jane ate tacos in her tutu at our favorite Mexican joint. We picked up the dogs and some ice cream, and went home at the first possible moment, where I promptly zonked out for two hours.

I'm tired of not being home, and that's saying a lot, because I never want to be home. I love to be out. When even I'm wanting to be a homebody, it's severe. I'm not complaining, though. Not even a little. I'm thrilled that our agent is so motivated and is working so hard for us. It's worth being vagabonds, although I'm sure my dogs would disagree.

At least the tutu didn't go to waste. We simply told her that she's a part of the Grande Shaque de Crappe Cleanup Krewe and put her to work:
Mardi Gras Clean-Up Krewe

Later, dancing was involved. Lesson learned: no more Hurricanes for the baby.

When we're not fleeing the house so people can look at it, we're doing one of two things: 1) making it more presentable, and 2) setting boobie traps to make sure the house is being shown and we're not running around like fugitives for nothing.

Our house is in pretty good shape, crapshack jokes aside. It could be better, but I think that being completely fed up with the house and neighborhood for two years blinded us to the perks of our house. Yesterday, our buyer's agent, who's been in this business nearly as long as I've been alive, raved about our beautiful hardwood floors. He asked if they were new. No, they're the originals, which we never refinished after ripping out the carpet.

When B. and I look at the hardwood floors, we don't see how pretty they are. We see the rows and rows and rows of staples and screws placed in the floors by the previous owner, who surely suffered through the days before viable treatments for obsessive-compulsive disorders became readily available and didn't involved taking a few volts to the noggin.

Last night I took a little tour through the house and photographed some of the things we might consider changing to improve our chances of a speedy sale.

This won't help sell my house
Remove the dinner plate from the cookbook shelves in the hallway, far from where the plates are stored.

Things That Won't Help My House Sell
Remove reminders of Tequilafest '07.

Things That Won't Help My House Sell
One toddler's mural masterpiece, which extends the length of the long hallway wall, is a potential buyer's red nightmare.

This won't help sell my house
Truth in advertising is the ethical way to go. Despite the presence of a toilet and Pottypalooza in our single bathroom, this doesn't give us the right to claim more than one bath.

This won't help sell my house
A wine recommendation, written on an advertisement for a popular prescription antidepressant and prominently stuck to the breadbox tells potential buyers that the current owners are drunk, crazy, and will almost certainly forget they've moved. You'll find them curled up in the backyard, sleeping under the clothes dryer vent sooner or later.

Posted by Robin at 08:07 PM | Comments (3)

February 02, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The Shuffling My Ass Across St. Louis at Rush Hour for Real Estate Edition

You really thought I was kidding about my life being about nothing but real estate, all the time? Well, I wasn't. The world revolves around it. I hope you like stories about me doing stupid shit in an attempt to sell my crapshack humble, yet cozy abode, because it seems like there's a new one every damn day.

This morning we had a playdate with The Pudding Family, which was followed by making the acquaintance of yet another interesting, like-minded mom who happens to have a really cool clothing company all her very own. Our kids played while we talked for many hours and through many cups of coffee. I had six - two Ethiopian Herrars, two decaf Penachis, and two High Octanes, which completely negate the goodness of drinking decaf.

Sitting around, drinking large mugs of coffee while engaging in andrenaline-inducing interesting conversation with an adult? It's sort of like what I imagine a crack binge feels like.

Somewhere around Hour Five of the binge, the barista came up to me with the telephone and said, "Robin? There's a call for you."

There's a problem when 1) you start getting your calls at the crackcoffehouse, 2) the barista knows your name and doesn't flinch at giving you the phone, and 3) your husband knows where to call when he's unable to reach you at home and on your cell, which was in my purse and therefore dead to me.

Seems that B. and our real estate agent had been trying to reach me because someone who had sworn to put a contract on a house today, was going to look at our house in twenty minutes.

The coffeehouse is twenty minutes from my house, but not during the beginnings of Friday rush hour.

"Baby, we're gonna sell this house or die in a fiery 20-car pile-up on highway 40 trying!" I yelled, lead-footing my way down Kingshighway.

"I'm not a baby. I'm a big girl. I sit on the potty," Clara Jane replied.

Whatever, Baby. We've gotta get home and sell you potty.

We made it before the agent and potential buyers arrived, just long enough to throw the dogs outside, toss last night's pajamas into the laundry basket, make the bed, and flee the scene. All the while Clara Jane stood in the living room, still bundled in her winter coat, asking, "Hey Mommy? Why'd we leave my milk in the truck?"

"Same reason why I left my purse, coat, knitting, iPod, and possibly one of my shoes in the truck, Baby. When you're decrappifying a house with eight minutes to spare, you can't waste time hauling more shit into the house. You're lucky I bothered to take you out of your car seat and bring you inside, Toots."

Okay, I didn't really say that, but I sort of thought it. It's the coffee talking. I'm not a bad mom. She's not a crack baby. I barely touched coffee when I was pregnant.

Whether our super-speedy trip across the city was worth our while or not, I don't know. It took less than half an hour for the people to look at the house, so I doubt it was worthwhile. And I really hate to admit it, what with my long history of panic and anxiety, but I kind of liked the rush. Or maybe that's just the coffee talking.

Tomorrow, there's another showing at 10 AM. We'll be shuffling out of here at a much more leisurely pace than we have for the past two showings.

1. Canary - Liz Phair
2. Silver Naked Ladies - Paul Westerberg
3. 21st Century - Red Hot Chili Peppers
4. General Joy - Tori Amos
5. Stop Breaking Down - White Stripes
6. In a Future Age - Wilco
7. Mixed Up - Jimmy Reed
8. Last Call - OutKast
9. John Wayne Gacy, Jr. - Sufjan Stevens
10. Just One Look - Doris Troy

Posted by Robin at 07:53 PM | Comments (7)

February 01, 2007

The Serendipity House

Remember how, yesterday, I said that I talk about four things? Scratch that. We're down to one thing. Real estate. All day, all night, all the time.

Let's recap the Saga of the House We Love in Prettytown:

October: I found a house for sale in the neighborhood I like. Despite house being slightly out of our price range, I fall head over heels solely because the chimney has a crescent moon and star in the masonry.

November: Seller drops price of house by $14,000, putting it directly into our price range. B. makes appointment to view house, even though our house is nowhere near market-ready. "Either we'll love the house and it'll motivate us to sell, or we'll hate it and can stop obsessing," was his logic. No matter. Someone put a contract on the house two days before our appointment. We stop obsessing.

One Thursday in January: Okay, so maybe I didn't completely stop obsessing. I drove by the house and the "for sale" sign was back. B. and I discussed how we really need to get our house listed.

I spent that night at a hotel. My goof, I intended to book for the following night, but screwed up.

Or did I? Desk clerk at the hotel is a real estate agent, the son of the owner of a very well-established local agency. By the end of the night I had comparative reports for my neighborhood slid under my door, and appointments to view four houses the following Saturday, including that house we love.

That Saturday: We view four house and have to be forceably removed from that one we love. We really love it.

Two days later: We start paperwork to get our house listed.

The day after that: I went to the house's website to get property tax info for our mortgage guy. House is no longer listed. Let the self-medicating commence!

In the three weeks that have followed, we've thrown ourselves into getting our house ready to sell, keeping our options open. We keep looking at other houses in Prettytown and have found two we love. Not as much as the first house, but we love them enough to consider purchasing them when our house sells.

Three days ago: We buried St. Joe in the front yard and I keep telling Joe that I believe in him. I do. I'm believing as hard as I can over here.

Last night we got a call from our agent. The owners of that house we really love have decided to not rent it, as they'd originally said when they took it off the market. But they don't want to relist. They don't know what the hell they want to do, so they told their former agent to call our agent, as well as the people who had the contract fall through in December.

About an hour ago, we officially made an offer on that house we really, really love.

Oh, but that's not all! Today's the first day our house is officially on the market and available for strangers to tramp through it while I'm not home to control what they touch. Like I said, we've been hard at work, but there was stuff still to be done. Like, a good, thorough cleaning. No biggie. The housing market sucks right now, so it's not like someone's going to look at our house the first day it's available.

This morning I took Clara Jane to daycare, then stopped by my coffeehouse of choice. I'd just settled into a comfy chair with a gigantic cappucino and my knitting. The guys sitting next to me struck up a conversation regarding sock-knitting. One of them asked, "So, uh, are you going to knit two, or just the one?" I refrained from saying, "No, just one. I knit for amputees." As my reward, my cell phone rang.

Now, it's 10:00. My house has officially been on the market for an hour. And here's my agent on the phone, telling me that another agent's going to bring people over to see the house at 1:30.

I think I threw my half-knitted sock at those guys in my rush to take my coffee to the counter, transfer it to a go-cup, and get my ass home. Suddenly, all the work we've been doing to the house was woefully inadequate. I made a mental list as I rushed home of everything I needed to do in three and a half hours:

1. Shovel snow off front steps.
2. Finishing painting bathroom woodwork.
3. Build second bathroom.
4. Replace nasty shower curtain.
5. Sweep every room.
6. Find a place to store my hounds.
7. Wash dishes.
8. Scrub toilet.
9. Remove large fallen branches from roof.
10. Clean gutters.
11. Remove old carpet from sunroom and replace with new carpet that's been in basement for six months.
12. Organize the equivilent of a blown-the-hell-up Toys R Us.
13. Remove all poop from boxes, cans, and secret corners where animals sometimes do dirty, dirty things.
14. Grow grass.
15. Clean up the two melted frozen yogurt pops I accidentally left on the counter this morning.
16. Make a Prozac smoothie for extra sustainance.
17. Remove all bourbon from the house. Best place to store bourbon: down my gullet.

I managed to complete most of the items on my list. Well, the important ones, anyway.

The dogs made a trip to the dog groomer. We love our dog groomer. Really. This woman is a saint to all dogs, and possibly rats and chirpy little birds that make me nervous. Whatever. She loves my dogs and took them in today at no charge, just to hang out. She insists that we do this whenever our house is shown, and we don't even have to call her first.

Of course, there was a slight problem when Murphy walked in and found herself nose-to-crate-to-nose with a St. Bernard. I mean, that's like fifty weiner dogs all in one! She got over it. Or maybe she didn't. It's Murphy, and you never can tell with her.

Anyway, Clara Jane and I are home, and I have no idea if they actually showed the house. The agent didn't sign in, but I'm pretty sure I saw new footprints in the snow. Also, I'm pretty sure I left the basement door open. When we got home, it was closed and my cat was having a breakdown because she was trapped! In the basement! With her food and water! And litterbox! And several of her favorite beds! Unfortunately, she's not telling what transpired in my absence.

After cleaning the house, I had two hours before picking up Clara Jane. I figured I had two options: 1) drink heavily, or 2) go to Wild Oats for a salad and 10-minute chair massage. I went with #2, because I'm obviously a health nut.

Let's hope this house sells fast. I don't do well in stressful situations. Many more days like today, and I'll spend our entire down payment on hooch and public rub-downs by hippies.

Posted by Robin at 03:51 PM | Comments (8)