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March 30, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The She's Crafty Edition

1. My back still hurts, but it's better. I think I might have misspoke yesterday when I said I was down in the back. I'm not actually sure what constitutes "down". This happens several times a year. I have a permanent knot of muscles in the middle of my back that grow progressively tighter and tighter during times of stress, or if I'm wearing a bra that doesn't fit correctly. I'm doing a little of both these days, so the knot has reached critical mass, thus throwing out the rest of my back. I'm pretty sure that if this knot ever completely unkinks, all of my limbs will fall off because this knot is obviously holding my entire world together. Massages help. So does Mineral Ice, even though it makes me scream like I'm being lit afire.

2. Remember how angelic Clara Jane looked last night? She spent the entirity of today making up for it. I've requested that Jeff Pudding come over with his dump truck to haul away toys.

3. We're grounded tomorrow. Our vehicle is spending the day in the shop. I hate being grounded. Even if I don't want to go anywhere, the idea that I can't makes me nuts.

4. In good news, today's Kristina's birthday! Go wish her a happy one. Why? Because she's the awesomest. So awesome that once, while we were rocking out hardcore to No Sleep Till Brooklyn, she suggested that we might have fun attending a Beastie Boys concert together, someday. She also suggested that such a concert might be enhanced by being viewed from the front row while wearing gorilla costumes.

Speaking of the Beastie Boys always makes me think of She's Crafty, which I tend to get stuck in my head while working on craft projects, even though that's totally not what the song's about, but right now it's making me think of crafty stuff.

I finished my Jaywalker socks a week ago:

Finished Jaywalker
It was appropriate to pose with Murphy, seeing how earlier in the evening, Murphy somehow managed to get the yarn attatched to the unfinished sock twisted around her body multiple times. She drug it around the house, trying to outrun it. Note how fearful she looks of the sock. Or of my foot, even though she's never once been kicked in all the years she's lived here. Dumb dog.

I'm making quick progress on my Tropicana sock in Colinette Jitterbug in Marble:

And speaking of other crafy gals, I met a bunch of them last week at the Chilicraft show. Since I love indie crafters, I'm going to give them all some free publicity. Go buy from them.

There's Allison, who makes awesome quilty-type housewares. But you know that. She organized the show, and she's my quilting pal.

And my pal Beqi. Have I told you how I met Beqi? She was at the coffeehouse, sewing and chasing her little son, and I knew she looked familiar. After staring at her for an hour, I finally realized why: I recognized the pinup girl tattoo on her arm. A few days earlier I'd been snooping around my friends' pages on MySpace. Allison is friends with Beqi. Beqi has a picture of her tattoo on her MySpace page. So I accosted her at the coffee bar and asked if she knew Allison. I admitted to recognizing her from MySpace and yet, she still hangs out with me, sometimes by choice. Amazing.

Anyway, Beqi makes fab clothes and accessories. Take a peek at the semi-sloshed photos on my Flickr badge from last weekend, and you'll notice the lovely Beqi-made necklace I'm wearing. Crafted from vintage pink rose beds. Actually, in one of the photos, I'm kind of wearing Beqi. She's not for sale, though.

I met Autumn from String Theory and her compadre Raquel. Autumn and Raquel both live near what I hope will soon be my new stomping grounds, which brings me no end of joy. Clara Jane will soon be sporting a snazzy t-shirt graced with one of Autumn's cool iron-on patches. It'll look great in reform school, at the rate that kid's going.

Speaking of that kid, she scored a sweet Pongo from Super Chick Studio, which I'm sure will get stolen by a far worse-behaved child at reform school. I've chosen to spare the Pongo from the Jeff Pudding Dump Truck Toy Hauling Service, just because I like it. In fact, I like it too much to send it to reform school with her. Let her take that damn Cabbage Patch Kid she's been hauling around all week.

Yes, tonight's entry is lame, just like my spinal muscles. Time to shuffle off to the couch to be as crafty as the combo of Alieve, chardonnay, and excessive amounts of brie will allow.

1. I Came as a Rat - Modest Mouse
2. Stupidly Happy - XTC
3. If You Wear that Velvet Dress - U2
4. Never Gonna Change - Drive-By Truckers
5. Lebanese Blonde - Thievery Corporation
6. Mint Car - The Cure
7. Ashes of American Flags - Wilco
8. Change of Heart - Tom Petty
9. Eisler on the Go - Billy Bragg and Wilco
10. High Water - Uncle Tupelo

Beatrice the iPod obviously loves Kristina and is aware of her birthday. Two Wilco, one U2, a Thievery Corp. song I got from one of her mixes, The Cure, and Uncle Tupelo. I don't care how much Beatrice loves you, Bitch. I'm not sending her to you. Happy birthday, anyway,

Posted by Robin at 09:21 PM | Comments (5)

March 29, 2007

The Pinnacle of Excellent Parenting

I'm down in my back today, and I have no idea how this happened. Perhaps the strenuous act of getting out of bed is what caused every muscle on my right ribcage to wedge between my rib bones. That's about the time the pain started - pain that's resistant to Alieve, but slightly responsive to Alieve and chardonnay. I took Clara Jane to daycare, hobbled around Target for a bit, and laid across the basket of my cart while the check-out clerk glared at me. I told her to get the fuck over it and get a stockperson to find me a truss.

Since Clara Jane was covered for the day, I came home, eased myself back into my pajamas, fired up the heating pad, and spent several hours lying on the couch, watching bad TV, knitting, and smelling the flesh on my back burn.

But soon, 2:30 arrived and I had to worm my way back into real clothes, get behind the wheel, and fetch the child. Then there was the time to fill before her father got home from work, in which I wanted to play with her. Really, I did. But I also did not wish to snap in two like a brittle old woman.

Pre-parenthood, I was one of those parents who swore my kid wouldn't watch TV. Ever. We were going to have a ceremony in which we burned our Tivo with the placenta in the woods. Okay, not really. That's the Alieve and chardonnay talking. But really, I was anti-TV.

That lasted about 11 months. I do limit how much she watches. Despite her demands, I'm not giving in to her desire for "Wonder Pets" 24/7. I already have that playing on loop in my brain; I don't need it playing on loop in my living room.

Here's some video I took last night, before I injured myself, of Clara Jane, watching the very age-appropriate Sesame Street.

Here's a photo I took of her tonight, while I was logging my 21st hour on the couch.

What can make this child so filled with joy?

Whatever could fill my child with such obvious joy and glee? Why, watching over and over and over and over the same 15-second ad for A Night at the Roxbury on TBS 2384 times in a row, thanks to the magic of digital video recording techonology - watching it long enough to master the Will Ferrell/Chris Kattan head-bob. Watching it long enough that I was able to maintain my prone position on the couch for a good 20 minutes longer than I would have, had we not had access to "What is Love".

Good parenting. Sticking to my values. That's what it's all about.

Posted by Robin at 09:15 PM | Comments (9)

March 28, 2007

The Hobos Return

Yes, I know I wrote nearly two weeks ago about taking the train to drop my kid off with my parents, and nary a word has been mentioned about her since. This was the longest she's stayed with them - ten days. Long enough that my dad asked my mom, "Do you think something's going on with them and they're not telling us?" Not possible, as I have to tell eveyrone everything about my life. I'm not sure what he had in mind, but it's fun to speculate:

Of course, none of the above happened. Well, B. did rake a bunch of mud in our backyard, but it was just barely orgistic. Some dog-humping occured at the same time, otherwise, it was very chaste mud work. Fact is, time just got away from us. We didn't make a return plan right off the bat, and the next thing we knew, it had been a week. Didn't help that I planned Saturday's much-needed alcohol and estrogen-fueled shindig. Plus, we got so much work done while she was gone. Like sleeping.

Seriously, B. finished several major house projects. I did a ton of packing, mostly involving Clara Jane's stuff, which I can't very well pack while she's home without psychologically scarring her for life. But we did miss her terribly. I wanted to jump a train on Sunday to fetch her, but it wasn't economically smart, so I went on Monday afternoon.

Now, B. and I are smart people. Most of the time. One of the things that's prevented me from making these trips to my hometown via the train is our single-car situation. Either B. would have to take off work to drop us at the train station in Kirkwood, or he'd have to spend hours transferring buses from his downtown office to the suburban station to pick up our truck after I leave.

Gee, here's a thought: what if B. buys a ticket from the downtown Amtrak station, located blocks from his office, rides to the Kirkwood station, where he will exit the train as I board? Just enough time for us to kiss goodbye in passing. Grand total for this jaunt? $3.30, and it adds 100 points to my Amtrak frequent hobo card.

It only took us three years to devise this plan. Brilliant!

(Yes, I could depart from the downtown station, but it's a pain in the ass to get to. And it's not pretty like the Kirkwood Depot, nor is it Kaldi's-adjacent like the Kirkwood depot. In other words, I'm the most yupped-up punk rock hobo in history.)

Monday afternoon, coffee and book in hand, I waited at the pretty depot for the train bearing my husband. He jumped off the train, walked me to the car that didn't contain the Girl Scout troop all hepped up from their visit to "Princesses on Ice", gave me a smooch, and sent me on my way for four hours of solo iPod/knitting time.

Not the case. The train, thanks to the Girl Scouts, was damn near full. "Make a friend!" the conductors say when the seats are rapidly filling. I like making friends! I decided an older woman would be my new friend, primarily because I happened to be by her seat when I realized everything else was full.

She, however, didn't wish to be friends. She avoided eye contact with me and scooched as close to the window as possible. When the time came for her to eat the cold Church's chicken legs she'd hauled onto the train, she turned with her back to me, like I might snatch a drumstick out of her maw.

She was not Train People, so I didn't feel the need to be Train People with her, either. I pulled out the iPod, cranked up the new Arcade Fire as loud as I could stand it (which means the chicken lady most certainly could hear it) while working on a new sock.

It's probably this attitude that led me to making a mistake in the sock that required me to unravel the entire three hours of knitting I did on the train. It's also probably responsible for the constant buzzing in my right ear.

Was Clara Jane glad to see me? Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. So glad, I can't even begin to describe it, other than the say that the talking didn't stop for next next 14 hours. She didn't want to go to sleep, and she let me cover her entire face with lipstick prints. The feeling was mutual

Tuesday morning, my dad took us to the fancy train station in my hometown:

Clara Jane & My Dad

And we set out across this great state. Again:

Watching Missouri fly by.

Clara Jane fought sleep the night before and woke up with huge dark circles under her eyes. I hadn't brought earplugs with me because the two reasons I wear earplugs at night - my snoring husband and my snoring basset hound - weren't with me. I hadn't planned on sleeping with the windows open. My parents live near the train tracks. Do you know how many trains pass through their town in the wee hours? Four. At least, that's how many I heard. Either that, or they were nightmare trains, warning of the day to come. When we boarded the train at 9:30 AM, we were both ready for a nap, but none were to be taken.

I was a bit concerned during the entire trip about the rather unkempt man in the seat catty-corner behind us who stared at me for roughly 2/3 of the trip. The other 1/3 was spent emitting a slurpy, wet hack while singing The TB Blues under his ragged breath.

Clara Jane was a bit obsessed with the large woman - and when I say "large woman" I always mean larger than me. This means any woman I describe as "large" is going to be in the "I can't believe I don't fit into Lane Bryant clothes anymore" to "Holy cow! The Discovery Health Channel just gave me my very own show!" category. Keep in mind I don't intend this in a derrogatory manner because there but for the grace of God waddles my fat ass.

Anyway, the large woman in the seat in front of us wore head-to-toe blue-backed leopard skin. Drapey blue blouse, covered in leopard spot with a matching skirt. Leopard-print purse. Leopard-print luggage. Leopard-print cell phone that played "Secret Lovers", just like that one cell phone commercial, at least eight times in the two hours we shared the train with her. Even her hair - jet-black mixed with streaks of orange - resembled a leopard.

The first time Clara Jane and I walked past this woman during one of our many trips to the snack car, Clara Jane looked at her and said, "Mom, this woman looks just like a leopard!"

Luckily, Leopard Lady took this as high praise. Leopard Lady was sweet to Clara Jane and let her feel the silky sleeve of her leopard-print shirt. She's good Train People, even if she did make me feel a little like we were on the Big Cat car of an old-fashioned circus train with Atlantic Starr.

Instead of going to the pretty Kirkwood station, we opted to go all the way to the downtown station, where B. would meet us with the truck. We'd drop him at work and take ourselves home. Or so we thought. That was before it took us an hour to get from Kirkwood to downtown St. Louis (Miles traveled in this time: 15. Obviously, we weren't on the bullet train. We weren't even on the musket train.) I was fighting sleep, and Clara Jane was fighting me. Hard. Why? Because I wouldn't let her accost the back of Leopard Lady's seat with her feet. "Leopard Lady's been so nice to you. You shouldn't kick her. Besides, leopards are predators and I'll bet you're tasty."

By the time we arrived at the downtown station, I handed my four bags over the chain-link fence to B. Then I handed him his daughter over the fence. Then I went back on the train and told them to take me to Chicago, pronto.

Well, I did everything but that last part. B. took the afternoon off work and I fell asleep roughly thirteen minutes after walking in the house, which included the time it took to empty 24 ounces of Amtrak coffee from my bladder. I've heard rumors that Clara Jane fell asleep shortly after me, and we were both out for three hours.

I had nightmares about tubercular leopards.

Posted by Robin at 08:51 AM | Comments (8)

March 25, 2007

I'll be Getting an Angry Letter From My Liver Soon

Actually, I think my liver has give up the polite art of letter-writing when I over-indulge in beverages alcoholic in nature. Instead, she's opted to spend the morning making me pay for my transgressions in copious amounts of bile.

I don't care. It was so worth it.

It's been forever since I've thrown anything resembling a party. About as close as I've gotten in the past year is inviting the occasional girlfriend over for lunch while our kids play. One of the things I love about the new house is it'll be great for entertaining. I figured my party-throwing days for this joint were over, to the point where I'd started packing my serving pieces for the move.

I have no idea why, just a few days ago, I thought, "Hey. I'm going to invite some girlfriends over on Saturday night. No kids. No man-children." Well, except B. He was our valet for the night. We did let him come up from the basement to graze, but he was pretty content to be banished from Estroville.

It was a small get-together, instead of employing my usual tactic of inviting every single human being I like. I even showed some restraint in inviting perfect strangers to my parties. Well, with the exception of two strangers, but two of my friends could vouch for them.

I also did something else different - I didn't use the party as an excuse to trot out my cooking skills. Potluck all the way.

You know, it's true what they say about Junior League women - they can't go anywhere without a tray of cucumber sandwiches. Laugh all you want, but there was only one wee sandwich left at the end of the night.

One thing I'll bet you didn't know about Junior League women: when they're at a party with a thrown-out back, they have no qualms about lying on the living room floor and drinking beer through a straw. Well, at least that's the case with the one Junior Leaguer I know. She drew the line at being humped by a Basset hound, though.

You know what's always entertaining at a gathering of mature, well-educated, responsible women? Pot stories.

"Someone once gave me a joint laced with a horse tranquilzer."

"My husband was so stoned he kept yelling, 'The squirrel stole my knife! You've gotta take me to Jack in the Box!'"

"The pot made me go deaf. He said, 'I thought that might have happened, since you've been staring at my tongue for fifteen minutes.'"

Don't smoke dope, Kids. Just make sure you know people who do so you can use their stories for your own entertainment purposes.

This is what I love about my friends: I've never been one to have one group of friends. I've always had a little sampling from all over the spectrum. Last night was no different. The Junior Leaguer with the punks with the artists with the mommies with the teachers with the knitters with the shy people with the boisterous people, and we all had something in common: we all really like to laugh at stories about people doing stupid shit while stoned, and bad roommates who "borrow" vibrators.

We also like wine. Some of us like it a lot. And food. Like hot wing dip on celery. And cherry cobbler. Or lots and lots and lots of brie. And cheddar. Chicken salad and cucumber sandwiches. Frozen Wolfgang Puck pizza and a cheesecake sampler. Pouffy little lemon squares. Cool-Whip Lite by the spoonful. We were well-fed as well as well-drunk.

And speaking of drunk, I think the spirit of joyous goodwill brought on by this gathering affected my entire neighborhood. When one of my friends was circling the block in search of a parking spot, who should offer his driveway other than that drunken ass who builds dunebuggies? Really! I just wish he'd had a dunebuggy in his driveway so I could have gotten a photo of my friend's Audi station wagon beside it.

I hope that spirit carried over into today. We got a call at 12:30 that someone wanted to view our house at 2. B. and I were both still in jammies. Two tubs of leftover beer, soda, white wine and melted ice sat in the hallway, and my liver was stomping around the bathroom in moral indignation, leaving a puddle of partially-metabolized Zinfandel in its wake. We cleaned the house and ourselves, hoping that the aroma of booze, brie, Swisher Sweets, precious girlfrienditude, and enraged entrails would entice these people to buy our house. You'd want to buy that house, wouldn't you?

Posted by Robin at 04:13 PM | Comments (13)

March 23, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The I Like People Edition

I tend to have misanthropic tendancies, but not today, Busters. No sir. For some reason, and I really have no idea why, today I am completely ate up with love of my fellow human beings.

I think I might have accidentally taken two Prozacs today.

The day didn't start out as such. In fact, I started by day by really, really disliking people. Specifically, I wasn't crazy about my own body, which required early-morning fasting bloodwork, which might be the cruelest medical act committed on healthy people.

You mean you want me to get up, shower, brush my teeth, dress, and come in to a lab so you can drain me of my blood, all without the benefit of coffee? Fuck you. Fuck you hard.

So I hauled my sorry, caffeineless carcass to LabCorp, which sounds like the kind of place that might possibly have a kidney-harvesting business operating from the back door. They were just about as friendly, too.

You know what I love? I love having a strange woman who has only glared at me in the 15 minutes of our acquaintance demand urine from me. I'll fully admit I've got a bad case of bashful bladder. Bullying doesn't make it any better.

No coffee + pee pop quiz + not nice nurse = no pee. I thought the staff might possible flog me until I provided the specimen they desired.

I was able to produce the three vials of blood Vampira and Nosferatta required, praying the whole time that I wouldn't pass out cold like I did last time I had to produce three vials of blood. Granted, I was pregnant then, and it was in the days when my doctor would allow bloodlettings in her office instead of shipping patients off to The Lair of the Dark Lord.

When I came to, I found I'd been carried to a comfy exam room to sleep it off. This time, I feared that if I lost consciousness, I'd wake up in a naked heap in the parking lot. And it was raining. And it's across the street from the library where we go to storytime, so of course I'd never be able to take Clara Jane to storytime again after having all my blood drained and being naked in the rain.

You know what I enjoy? Making the angry phone call to corporate headquarters while sitting in the comfort of my vehicle outside the offending business. That's one of the great advances mobile communication has afforded our society - the ability to chew some ass without getting punched in the face. The people at corporate were nice, especially since I wasn't being particularly articulate due to lack of blood, caffiene, food, and lingering pee fright. I think I said, "Nurses ... meeeeeeeeeean! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

Just look what they did to me!
Mean nurses did this to me.
Okay, that's really not too bad, especially by my standards. I'm a tough stick.

Regardless of my injuries, I really like people today. Here's why:

1. Don't Waste your Heart - Dixie Chicks
2. You're Stronger Than Me - Patsy Cline
3. Orange Crush - REM
4. Build Me Up Buttercup - The Foundations
5. Shoplifters of the World Unite - The Smiths
6. Get Him Back - Fiona Apple
7. Bridge Over Troubled Water - Johnny Cash
8. Bad Reputation - Freedy Johnston
9. Unemployable - Pearl Jam
10. Who's Gonna Fill Their Shoes - George Jones

Posted by Robin at 05:37 PM | Comments (5)

March 20, 2007

Welcome to the Neighborhood! Here's Your Fine

As many of you know, I don't live in St. Louis City proper. I live in St. Louis County, which is comprised of hundreds of wee little municipalities, all with their own government, police forces, and rules. It's a great way to combine all the downfalls of city life - traffic, noise, pollution, overcrowding, and crime - with all the downfalls of suburban/small-town life - busybodies, petty bureaucracy, and Barney Fife wandering the streets with his bullet in his pocket.

My municipality's population hovers around 4000. While we have plenty of big-city problems, like the illegal, unlicensed tattoo shop across the street, it seems that the insignificant small-town issues take precidence.

Yesterday afternoon I sat in my dining room with a super-secret craft project spread all over the table, when the phone rang. It was my real estate agent, once again proving that he's not exactly as competant as we had hoped. Seems that he had called and left a message yesterday morning that some people wanted to look at our house. Unfortunately, he didn't call our phone number - any of the four phone numbers he has for us. Instead, he called another client and left them a message. So, somewhere, another client was doing the House Prep Panic Dance while I sat on my happy crafting ass in total oblivion of the real estate agent and potential buyer outside my house.

At least they had the forsight to call my agent and tell him that I was home, instead of just busting open the lock box and coming right in, thus giving me a scare that there isn't enough Klonopin in the world to undo. My agent then called me and told me the situation. No problem! I went outside, told the showing agent and potential buyers that all was well. Ignore the clutter; I've been packing, and there's a big project cluttering the table. I'll be in the backyard with my dogs. Take your time. Buy my house. Please? Please please please please please please please?

Five minutes after I settled into my Adirondack chair in the yard, the agent hollered, "We're finished!". Now, my house is only 970 square feet plus basement, but there's no way people can view it in that short amount of time. Thanks for interrupting my day.

A few minutes later, B. arrived home from work. Since our neighbor, the plumber, was outside, B. came in just long enough to tell me he was going back outside to ask the plumber for some advice on fixing our leaky bathtub drain. That's where he also got the skinny on why the potential buyers made such a hasty exit.

Seems that, during their mere five minutes in our neighborhood, a member of our fine, illustrious police force opted to give them a parking ticket.

Um, yeah. Remember last week when the garbage truck couldn't get down our street because the dunebuggy builders had 4927 cars parked on the street? Oh, but these were strangers! They must be punished!

I would understand if they'd, say, perpendicular parked across my street. Or perhaps if they had a live crack whore for a hood ornament. But a ticket for a car parked slightly illegally for five minutes? It's a good thing Sgt. Fife's bullet was in his pocket, otherwise we'd all be dead for such a horrid offense.

Something tells me that these potential buyers won't be making us a sweet offer today. Just a hunch.

Posted by Robin at 09:22 AM | Comments (4)

March 19, 2007

Four Years

I tend to avoid political topics when I blog. Not because I lack an interest or passion for the stuff discussed in civics classes. It's because I spend so much of my time glued to reading news sources and wallowing the state of the world around in my head that I'd rather use my blog for personal means instead of political.

But we all know that the personal is political, so sometimes there's overlap.

Four years ago today, I was trying to get pregnant. Actively trying to get pregnant. Afterwards, while scrounging the kitchen for dinner, I turned on the TV just in time to see the beginning of the president's address, informing us of the "shock and awe" campaign.

Shocked? Yes. Awed? Not even a little. Shocked and disgusted, chagrined, saddened, embarrassed, and terrified's more like it.

I remember one thought so clearly from that night. I remember sitting on the couch, half-listening to the address and thinking, "What the hell are we thinking, trying to bring a child into this world right now?"

Obviously, those thoughts only momentarily deterred our efforts. Clara Jane was conceived two months later. I also don't talk about religion/spirituality on my blog for the same reasons I avoid political discussions, but I will say this. At Clara Jane's Methodist daycare, there's a framed print near the nursery that reads, "Babies are God's sign that the world will continue."

I was born in October, 1972, in the midst of the Vietnam War and the beginning of Watergate. Things were bad. And yet, here I am, along with a lot of other people who grew up, too little to understand Vietnam and Nixon, but marked by it. I firmly believe that I picked up enough of what was going on when I was a child for it to form me into the raging anti-war liberal I've always been.

Who knows? Maybe it'll be kids like Clara Jane, born into this current mess, who will have the motivation to fix things. It's not fair to burden the next generation, but maybe they'll have the tools and experiences to figure it out.

Why the political rambling? My old pal Kara posted this weekend about the One Million Blogs for Peace initiative. If you look to the right you'll see that I've signed up. If you have a blog and think that all combat troops should be brought home immediately, please sign up and spread the word.

Kara's also a product of that Vietnam/Watergate era; she's ten months younger than me. We grew up together with buried nuclear missile silos in our town. It wasn't unusual to hear the civil defense sirens blowing in warning because a warhead was being transported on the highway that runs through the busiest part of our hometown on the way to the nearby air force base. I'll bet she remembers being in the car with her mom as a child, pulling over to the side of Broadway to let the camoflagued armoured vehicles pass. I'll bet she's also been in our hometown as an adult and has looked up to see the underbelly of the B-2 bomber flying overhead. In fifth grade, our hometown even got a shout-out in the TV movie The Day After. We'd been wiped out by a Russian nuclear attack, an idea that scared me so badly that I slept in my parents' bedroom for a month. And I hadn't even watched the movie; just knowing that scene existed and was a possibility was enough to scare me to my core.

We live near the airport that houses the Missouri Air National Guard. Fighter jets fly over our house in formation test runs twice a day. As a matter of fact, I can hear their rumble right now. 10 AM and 3 PM every single day, a reminder of war. After the president's address four years ago, B. and I headed to the grocery store to find dinner and get away from the news. We saw those same jets taking off, circling St. Louis in protection because of what our country had done. This isn't the kind of world I want for my child. I don't want her to grow up with a fear that's more based in reality than my Cold War fears nearly 25 years ago.

Soon enough I'll be back to writing about my usual crap. But today, I wanted to do a little something to make it clear that I don't agree with what's going on. I don't want another life lost in this fruitless mess. I want it over. I want our troops to come home and receive proper health care, both for their physical and mental health. I want retribution for the people of Iraq who've had their infrastructure destroyed, and who've lost so many more people than we have in this mess. I want peace.

Posted by Robin at 09:27 AM | Comments (7)

March 18, 2007

Friday(ish) Shuffle - The Gone Hobo Edition

I love trains, I've decided.

Yes, there are problems with America's passenger train system, mainly because of a lack of funds to maintain equipment and a law that gives freight trains the right-of-way, causing much in the way of delays. Apparently, that's not the case in other countries. Sometimes cows die on the tracks and trains have to be stopped to remove them. But for a $15 ticket, what do you expect?

I've come to realize that, if I can help it, I prefer to not be that person who's always rushing, always on a schedule, always connected. Being on a train, I can turn off the phone and just stop. Stop while going. How great is that?

Friday, Clara Jane and I hopped a train for my hometown, which is 180 miles away and normally takes three hours of driving, if we don't stop, but how often does that happen? Last trip to the hometown involved a one-hour yarn shopping extravaganza, plus close to thirty minutes for refueling, dog-walking, and snack selection.

Do you know how much I paid for Clara Jane and I to take the train on a Friday afternoon that coincided with spring break? $29. I couldn't have driven out of the St. Louis metro area for that amount of money. I packed my lovely insulated picnic bag with our dinner, hauled a bag with Clara Jane's monkey blanket, a huge pile of books, a sketchpad, and a bag of washable markers, and we were set to go adventuring.

Almost there!
This was taken about halfway through the trip, and I can promise you we wouldn't have looked this content and relaxed halfway through the trip if the two of us had went by road.

This is the second time Clara Jane and I have made the trip to my hometown on the train. We made the same trip two years ago. About all I remember from the previous trip was tiny 13-month-old Clara Jane, completely exhausted, finally falling asleep on my chest with a blanket over her head for the last bit of the trip. Now that she's such a big girl, I figured there'd be no napping and definitely no snuggling. I'm not allowed to snuggle with her, she claims. So be it. We'd still have fun.

And we did. We read, drew pictures, made several trips to the cafe cafe to snack and people-watch. We looked at the beautiful Missouri River and its bluffs from the windows. We visited with fellow passengers. Train people are friendly like that. They've got time to stop and talk.

And let me tell you, we weren't the only mom n' kid unit. I was surprised at just how many moms were traveling with their kids, most of them doing the same thing we were - going to visit grandparents on the opposite side of the state. Keep that in mind, moms who are reading. We were all extolling the virtues of train travel with kids. If nothing else it gives you time to slow down and simple be with your kids. One mom, a farmwife from rural northwest Kansas, was returning from a week-long spring break trip to Chicago with her three teens. They were the happiest, most content teenagers I think I've ever seen. Sure, the whole family was exhausted, but it was so obvious how good the trip had been.

As we started into Hour Four of the trip, Clara Jane started asking for her naptime rituals - her blanket, a binky (shut up), her stuffed frog. And then to my shock, she asked me to hold her. I spent the last hour of the train ride with my little girl's head on my chest, peacefully snoozing in my arms. I know those days are numbered, so being able to have that nap on the train, with no interruptions and nothing else to do, was just about the best thing in the world, ever.

Saturday, my mom, Clara Jane and I went to Brick Front Grill, a recently-opened restaurant I've been wanting to try for two reasons: 1)I love Mediterranean food more than I love just about anything, and 2) it's co-owned by a childhood friend of mine. Despite years of not wanting anything to do with anyone from my days in the hometown, except family, the past two years have included many good encounters with childhood friends and some rekindled friendships. I think I'm officially over my gunshyness regarding people who knew me way back when.

Sure enough, my old friend was working at the counter when we got in line, and she recognized me right off the bat. That always amazes me, because I'm a lot bigger than I was in high school. Perhaps it was because my unwashed, windblown hair looked a lot like the perms I sported in the late '80s when she last saw me. I recognized her immediately, too, but I was looking for her. She looks exactly the same, only much more confident and pregnant.

After the lunch rush calmed, she came to our table to visit. We had a laugh over how funny it was that we both wound up in the food biz and commiserated on how hard it is to be in the kitchen while pregnant. It was good. Not just the company, but the food. One of the best gyros I've ever had, and hummus to die for. Good vegetarian options in the heart of cattle country! And gelato. Black licorice gelato. I'm so going back.

After a visit to my grandparents' house, where Clara Jane was stuffed full of marshmallows to undo all the good of the hummus she ate for lunch, we returned to my parents' house. I got Clara Jane down for a nap, spending a bit longer holding her after she fell asleep than was necessary, since I planned to leave before she woke up. She's had lots of visits to her grandparents' without me, but on Saturday she did something she's never done. When my departure was mentioned she looked at me and said, "I'm going home with you, Mommy." So far she's done just fine - out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. But that threw me for a loop, so I snuck in as much extra snuggle time as I could.

That's something parenthood has taught me that I didn't expect. I used to think that quality time with anyone required conversation and activity. What's "quality" about just being in the same room together? A lot, it turns out.

Anyway, once I put her down, I went outside for some horse time. Baby Cash is no longer a baby; he'll turn one on Thursday. During the train ride, Clara Jane informed me that she's going to make him a birthday cake, and I'm sorry I'll miss seeing that. Cash and I had our own little birthday party, though. I was petting him and letting him nuzzle me. When I stopped, he decided he wasn't finished, clamped the cuff of my jacket sleeve in his mouth, and put my hand back on his nose. Cute. Our cat does the same obnoxious trick.

What my cat doesn't do is this: she's never grabbed my breast pocket in her mouth and physically pulled my body back to her when I started backing away. Baby Cash is a smidge bit pushy, but I'm rather smitten nonetheless.

I didn't take any pictures of the horses yesterday, since I wanted to focus on playing with them. I took a ton of photos last time I was there. I did take dog pictures, though.

Chiggar & Rhonda

You're familiar with Chiggar the Dingo, if you've read for any length of time. You know exactly what he's thinking in this picture, too: "THE CHIG RULEZ!". I don't mention my parents' other dog much, mainly because she usually stays with my grandparents when we visit, as she's delicate and can't handle Chiggar and my dogs. Her name's Rhonda, and she's, as previously noted, delicate. Very delicate.

Rhonda originally came from a local Amish farm. When my parents got her at age two, she'd spent her entire life in a concrete-floor pen with other Labs. All of their incisors had been clipped to prevent the dogs from tearing each other to bits in fights. When Rhonda failed to produce puppies, they got rid of her.

She's skittish, timid, and easily startled, but never angry. Shortly before I got my camera from my bag yesterday, she was giving Clara Jane little kisses on her forehead.

When I arrived at the train station with my dad at 6:30, I can't say I was thrilled to see a crowd, waiting for the same trian. My hometown's pretty small and I fully expected to be the only pick-up. These folks - I have no idea where they came from or what they were doing, but they were going to St. Louis. And they were happy. I think some of them had gotten happy, St. Pat's style. They also had about half a dozen oxygen tanks for the eldest member of the group, which clanked and banged together and made me more than a little nervous.

The train was a double-decker, and we were all herded up the stairs. The conductor told us to all stay in the same car.

But ... but ... I don't wanna! I just want to sit on the train, rest my head against the cool window, knit my sock, listen to my iPod, and perhaps venture to the club car for a beverage.

You can imagine my relief when the conductor asked if there was anyone not a part of "the group". My hand shot up and I yelled, yes yelled, "Me!" Turns out the group was going all the way to St. Louis, while I was leaving at the Kirkwood station that services suburban St. Louis. Basically, the conductor informed me that the group was going to be sequestered in this car. Only he didn't say it like that. He just said that they were all staying together so that the conductor wouldn't have to open that particular car at every stop, so would I mind moving to another car?

As I grabbed my bags and ran down the aisle, the male-heavy group collectively groaned, "Aw! You're leaving us?"

"Hey. Not my fault. The conductor's kicking me out of your car. Have fun!" Because blaming Amtrak is, apparently, a part of the fun of riding the train. Oh, you get to bitch when the train has to stop to give another train the right-of-way, which can take up to half an hour. I used that time to listen to a very British pop mix on my iPod, made by my dear Sally. Nothing like listening to a little Lily Allen while looking at the landscape of my childhood:

Highway 50 near highway 5

I didn't hear much of the complaints during the 5-hour trip, as I stayed plugged into my music pretty much the whole time. The woman sitting a few rows ahead of me was fit to be tied, though. I could tell that even without hearing her. She ducked out for a smoke break during an extended stop at the Jefferson City station, and I'm pretty sure that had a lot more to do with her angst than the fact that her husband was waiting for her in Kirkwood.

Unfortunately, I had to listen to her as we waited to depart the train. "I'll never do this again. I'll drive," she complained. Not me, I said. "I liked having the extra time to be alone with my thoughts."

"Well, I don't like that," she snapped.

Coulda knocked me over with a Virginia Slim. This woman? She's not train people. She can just shuffle down the interstate next time while I lumber across the state in my lovely little Amtrak coccoon.

1. Runnin' - Heartless Bastards
2. Beautiful Sorta - Ryan Adams
3. Electrical Storm - U2
4. Comfortably Numb - Scissor Sisters
5. Red Red Apple - Fiona Apple
6. London Calling - The Clash
7. Blackbird - The Beatles
8. Bamboo (Interlude) - OutKast
9. The Man Who Couldn't Cry - Johnny Cash
10. Bliss - Tori Amos

Posted by Robin at 03:13 PM | Comments (8)

March 14, 2007

Just the Dots. The Cranky, Crabby Dots

I was delighted to learn that my post from Sunday was mentioned in Jenn Satterwhite's Tuesday post on BlogHer. Go read her piece; it's good stuff.

Even though she talks about some pretty heavy issues in the "bad day" realm, mine, of course, dealt with me bitching about petty things that don't mean much in the long run. I'm going to stick with that theme today, only with some dots.

Does this look a dog on death's door?

Granted, she does have a bit of a roadkill quality about her, but she always does when she's content.

A few hours later ... Clara Jane and Chloe were in the living room while I was getting dressed in my bedroom. My bottom half was covered, but I wore not a stitch from the waist up.

That's when I heard Chloe making a noise that I could only translate as meaning, "Oh dear God! I'm dying! I'm keeling rightnowthisverysecond!!!"

I did the logical thing. I went running through the dining room to the living room to see what was going on. Did I mention the six windows with open curtains? My little peepshow probably lowered our property value another $2000 dollars.

Chloe and Clara Jane sat next to each other on the floor, both looking embarrassed. Chloe's black fur covered Clara Jane's pale yellow shirt, and neither of them were talking, probably because they were both fine.

As I left the room, I turned to take one last look just in time to see my daughter attempt to hang a purse from my senior citizen dog's tail. Now, I know Bassets have a reputation for being rather furniture-like, but Jesus.

An hour later, Clara Jane confessed that Chloe had made that horrible noise because she had pulled Chloe's tail.

What the hell is it with my family and animal tails?

Posted by Robin at 09:57 PM | Comments (6)

March 13, 2007

Real Estate + One of My Parents' Pets = Hilarity and Possible Vomiting

There's much to wrap my head around today.

For starters, I'm so fed up with this house-selling business. Like you didn't know that. And like I'm not a big-ass pansy-pants for spending the bulk of the past six weeks complaining about it. This is why I'm sick of it:

Last night we got a call from our agent that someone wanted to look at our house between 10 AM - noon today. We hustled to get everything just so.

Before leaving for work, B. took our dogs to the groomer/boarder, who's the sweetest woman in the world and lets us drop off the dogs anytime we're showing the house. Even if it's at 6fuckingAM in the morning, like today. Did I mention the added bonus that she's going to be on an upcoming episode of Judge Mathis? You just don't get perks like that with most dog-groomers.

I woke up at that time and couldn't get back to sleep. Clara Jane woke up shortly after. We both had a rough night, which led to a rough morning with lots of little battles concerning the likes of breakfast, clothing, pull-out strategies for Iraq, and such. Despite being up at such an early hour, we were nearly late getting out the door.

We headed for PKB's house, and after sitting in traffic on one of the bridges Clara Jane received the sweetest note from PKB's 7-year-old son. You might remember him from the cabinet in our new house. He was rather distraught that he was going to miss our visit:

Dear Clara
I will play soccer and football with you.
From: Baylor

Couldn't you just keel from cuteness?

Anyway, all that hustle-bustle and for what? Once again no one bothered to look at the house.

I am so fucking sick of hauling my dogs and my kid all over creation so people can say they're going to look at my house, then not. Last time this happened, I interrupted Clara Jane's nap so that some people could drive by, give a passing glance, and move on.

Tonight B. placed a call to our selling (a term I'm using very, very losely right now) agent to see what the hell is going on with this shit. We haven't gotten any feedback from people who've looked at the house. Well, not officially. B. was talking to an employee at our neighborhood convenience store where he gets a cup of coffee every morning. She lives on our block, and her family viewed our house. She told B. that they absolutely loved it, but it didn't have enough bedrooms. That, I can understand. We've nixed houses for that reason.

According to the agent, the main feedback he's gotten is that people are turned off by the pile of brush at our curb.

Excuse me. My head just exploded. Again.

Okay. Let's look at several issues here:

1. Every house on the block has brush waiting on the curb. Ours isn't even the biggest curbside brush pile on our street. We've been waiting for it to be collected since December, just like a hell of a lot of other people in the greater St. Louis metro area.

2. Brush is temporary. One way or another, it'll be gone.

3. Really? You're going to base your decision on whether to simply walk in the door based entirely on a neatly-stacked pile of yard waste at the curb? People who are that stupid shouldn't be allowed to acquire mortgages.

Yeah, I understand "curb appeal", and that people are probably assuming mess (another term I'm using losely) in the yard = mess inside. I also know that one of the houses we considered had a yardful of storm debris. The inside was a mess because the owner was 4 months pregnant and on bedrest with two young daughters. I just don't get people who aren't willing to look past something as simple and obvious.

Ever watch the show Sell This House? There's always at least one moron during the open house who'll say, "I ain't buying this house 'cause that couch is uuuuuuuuuuugly." I think such comments should immediately disqualify a person from acquiring a mortgage.

Speaking of which, our next-door neighbors are also moving. We were talking to them on Sunday and she said, "The only people this neighborhood's fit for are blacks and Mexicans."

To which I said, "You're right. Maybe that would finally take care of this block's redneck hillbilly Cletus problem."

Well, I wish I'd said that. Fact is, on our block and the block behind us there are three Hispanic households, one Vietnamese household, and a single African-American woman. One of the Hispanic households is easily the nicest, best-kept house on the street. The other two are mostly young men. The only complaint I have about them is loud vehicles. But I consider that a young male problem, not a Hispanic problem. The Vietnamese family? Lovely. And while the African-American woman leaves her Christmas lights up way too long and wears the most frightening pants I've ever seen, she's a sweet lady who always waves, stops to chat, and fawns over the kid. Frankly, if we had more diverse families of this nature instead of ones like my next-door neighbors, we might not be so desperate to unload this crapshack.

Rumor has it that our block is just a few days away from finally getting the storm debris removed. We shall see what happens after that with this hellhole.

In other real estate news ...

My parents learned last night that their wonderful, sweet elderly neighbors have decided to move. This is rather sad news, as we're all really fond of them. They usually join our family for all the major holidays and birthdays, and they spend a lot of summer evenings hanging out with my parents in the yard. They're just moving to the other side of town, to a new luxury retirement condo. It'll be great for them.

For years my parents have wanted my grandparents to move to their neighborhood. They're only a 15-minute drive apart, but my grandparents' house is getting old and worn. Grandpa Chuck's 82 years old, and he still mows their huge yard. We're talking acres. I used to mow it when I was a kid and it was no easy task for a healthy, athletic 14-year-old. Also, they're house is techinically in the country, but it's not country anymore. In the past 15 years, a big soccer park was built across the road from them, which has increased traffic and brought a bunch of cookie cutter subdivisions.

Within an hour of learning that the neighbors are moving, my grandparents were checking out their house. It needs a lot of work, but there's a possibility my grandparents and parents might become neighbors.

Now, I know I've mentioned this before, but I can't remember where, so I'll repeat: my grandparents have two cats, Bobbi and Elmer 2. They both lack tails. Bobbi arrived tail-free. Elmer 2 lost his in a tussle, we think. Elmer 2 doesn't do a very good job of taking care of himself, so there's really no telling why his tail swelled up and started smelling weird. Amputation was required. At least, that's the cover story. Really, I think my grandparents just have a problem with tailed cats.

I guess word that they might be moving into the neighborhood traveled fast through my parents' domicile. This morning, my mom went onto their screened back porch. Chiggar, their damn, dirty, baby-eating dingo was sitting a step below Slim, their delightful, easy-going black cat. Now, Slim never gets upset, but this morning, he was furious. He rumbled and growled at Chiggar, who was thoroughly confused by this change in attitude. Eventually Slim took off for the yard.

That's when my mom noticed something on the floor of the porch. "Oh look. Slim must have brought me something," my mom told my great-aunt Helen, who was on the phone. She bent to get a better look. "I have no idea what this could be. It almost looks like ... It's his tail! I've gotta go find Slim!"

That's right, my friends. Slim had left two inches of black tail, attatched to what my mom described as six inches of spaghetti, lying on the back porch. I know, you want to do what I did: blame Chiggar. Unfortunately, we can't do that. It seems that Slim got his tail slammed in the screen door hard enough to completely severe the end.

He's fine. Really. No one attempted any drastic measures involving duct tape or a staple gun to reattatch the appendage.

Personally, I think he heard that Grandpa Chuck and Grandma Viv might be moving in, so he decided to get a jump on the tail-sacrificing.

Posted by Robin at 08:33 PM | Comments (8)

March 11, 2007

What Happens When I Have a Day to Myself

Something weird happens when one becomes a parent. Well, I guess I can't speak for all parents, but I know this is the case with me, and I know other parents have expressed this to me. Once you have kids, if you get the opportunity to, say, go grocery shopping without the whole famn damily in tow, it's a motherfucking party.

At one point on Saturday I had to make the announcement I really don't like to make. It goes something like, "That's it. I've had just about enough of you people." It occured in the Office Max parking lot, and I won't go into the details other than to say I was tired, my blood sugar was down around my ankles, and honestly? I'd had just about enough of those people who live in my house and insist on being in my truck with me when I go places on the weekends.

This morning didn't start out much better. I hate daylight savings times, plus I didn't sleep very well last night. As I staggered to my desk to test my blood sugar (which I have to do before I even have coffee, which is just mean and cruel. I feel like I'm bleeding for my coffee.), my cell phone started singing it's usual "If your happy and you know it turn the volume up and blow it out."

I know this: I wasn't happy. I was tired. I didn't want to talk on the phone or make myself bleed. I wanted, in this order, another two hours of sleep followed by a cup of coffee without bloodletting.

My mom's computer is dying. I surrendered the phone to B., who handed me my milky, Splenda-y coffee. I cried because I couldn't drink it yet.

Once everything calmed down B. said, "We still need groceries and stuff from Target, right?"

"Yep." We didn't make it there yesterday, what with me having had just about enough of those people.

"Would you like to run those errands alone today while I stay home with Clara Jane?"

Wooooo-hoooooooooo! Motherfucking partytime!

I went to Target and actually had time to try on clothes. I have this to say to Target:

Dear Target:

Thank you for finally, after all these years, realizing that not all fat women are 60-year-old school marms. Many of us are young(ish) and cute(ish) and would appreciate the trendy, low-priced options you provide for our skinny sisters. Trying on this fabulous dress made me feel like a woman. A w-o-m-a-n. I'll say it again. I'm a woman. Who really wishes she'd bought that dress. I'll come back for it, I promise. In the meantime I'm going to wear the hell out of the two darling shirts I purchased.

Thank you for finally not making me feel like I deserves styles that differ from those worn by my great-great Aunt Mamie.

Your boobylicious, bootylicious, bellylicious pal for life, Robin.

Just having time to go through Target without answering a barrage of questions ... to try on clothes, dig through the clearance to score formerly $9 lipstick for $2, and to walk past the Easter crap without being instructed to act like a bunny? Bliss. Bliss I took for granted pre-child.

I drank wine at Trader Joe's. Hallelujah! I also went to Hartford and got beans and a latte to go without having to drag someone out of the play area.

Best of all, I was able to stop at Knitorious to pick up some needles and fondle things.

Remember a few weeks ago (a month ago today, actually) when I went to Knitorious and accosted the wrong employee named Rachel? There was an employee named Rachel. I got excited, thinking it was this Rachel. It wasn't. But the other Rachel was a sweet gal, so everything was fine.

Today, I accosted the appropriate Rachel. She responded with squeals and hugs. Remember: I love attention. Squeals and hugs and declarations of love upon meeting me? Totally appropriate and appreciated.

Turns out Rachel's responsible for the fantastic hand-dyed and hand-painted yarns I'd been humping shortly before introducing myself. Not only did I leave with her gorgeous Knitorious colorway (the great red/pink/white), but Rachel was generous enough to give me two hanks of that gorgeous purple and brown you see on the left. Purple's my favorite color, and I love just about anything with chocolate brown these days. Big girl kneesocks for me!

The Rachel meeting, of course, was the highlight of my day. The fact that I got to have an adult conversation with her without toddler interruption? More bliss.

But do you know what's really blissful? When your iPod knows you're feeling good and it cooperates. I was cutting through one of the more exclusive, monied neighborhoods to avoid a bunch of nasty road construction. With my windows rolled down, this is what shuffled up:

Was there car dancing? Oh, there was car dancing, alright, because it's a motherfucking mom party!

I've really got to get out more often.

Posted by Robin at 10:02 PM | Comments (8)

March 09, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The Nature vs. Nurture: Gender Roles Edition

The timing's excellent, what with yesterday being International Women's Day. I celebrated by ... um, having a vagina. That's about all I did. Clara Jane, though, acted like a total girl.

Her daycare class is girl-heavy. I think there's eight girls and four boys, but I'm not sure. They're all moving so quickly when I see them that it makes them hard to count. That, and the fact that I tend to lead Clara Jane into the room, sign her in, briefly chat with her teachers, kiss her goodbye, and run run run for sweet, child-free freedom as fast as my chubby legs will carry me.

Anyway, we arrived yesterday at a rare point in time: Clara Jane was the last girl to arrive, but none of the boys were there yet. The girls were circled around a table, and I swear to God, they were all talking at the same time. The terms "magpies" and "hen party" immediately came to mind. I think Clara Jane started chattering before she was all the way in the room.

As she took her spot at the table, her little gal pal Lucy came running to her, arms outstretched, palms facing the floor, squealing, "Clara Jane! Clara Jane! Look at my pink fingernails!"

"Oh, your pink fingernails are sooooooooooo beautiful for you!" Clara Jane cooed, holding Lucy's hand to examine her smundged little manicure up close as two other girls started a shoving match over a toy.

The first boy arrived as I was fleeing the scene. I couldn't help it. I looked at the poor kid, who looked terrified, and said, "You're outnumbered. I'm so sorry."

The whole scene flat-out bewildered me. I've tried to be as gender-neutral as possible with Clara Jane. If she wants to be girly, fine. If she wants to be a tomboy, fine. If she, like most women, falls somewhere in the middle of the continuum, great. I just don't want to foist femininity onto her, at least not without having some masculine balance.

When I was pregnant, I even went through a "no pink" phase. Unfortunately, "no pink" translates to "boy's clothes" or "naked baby" because guess what. Non-pink girls clothes are hard to come by. So I erased that line and drew a new one: pink's fine, but nothing with princesses, Barbie, Bratz, slogans extolling the virtues of negative behavior and for God's sakes, no ruffles! I want my kid to be comfortable and able to play, so we haven't done much in the way of frilly dresses.

I'm not getting her ears pierced. Not until she's old enough to make the decision herself and understand what it involves regarding pain, possible infection, and post-piercing maintenance. I've got enough to do right now without having to turn earrings and clean them with alcohol ten times a damn day, so she's not getting them pierced until she's old enough to be responsible for her own ears. I also want her to be old enough that we can make it a rite of passge. If you want to pierce your daughters' ears, I have no problem with that. I just don't want to pierce my daughters' ears right now, mainly for the same reasons why I don't want to get her a kitten right now: I have enough work to do, and I want to save some things until she's old enough to appreciate the experience.

Anyway, despite this mostly gender-neutral environment, I'm constantly amazed to see the girly things that appeal to Clara Jane. She discovered nail polish before she turned two. I had given myself a rare manicure before I went to Vegas. While bidding adieu to Clara Jane, she noticed my blood-red nails (because if I'm going to do go to the trouble to paint my nails, I'm going to make sure everyone can tell). "Pretty. Pretty. Pretty." That's all the kid could say. You would have thought she was looking at a rare van Gogh.

Shortly after that, my mom started painting Clara Jane's toenails, which she loves more than anything in the whole world. To mark her third birthday and official passage into big girlhood, I relented on the fingernail painting, even letting her pick out a bottle of nail polish. I'm pleased that it's clear with purple and silver glitter, instead of my preferred whore red.

She took a liking to tutus while having her two-year portraits taken, a blow that was softened by the fact that she wore the tutu with her green frog rainboots.

But there's boy stuff, too. She told me the other day that she wants to be a rock star, which is still a bit of a boy's club. Unfortunately, when she plays her guitar, she usually tells me that she's a boy, which means I'm not exposing her to nearly enough Bikini Kill or Sleater Kinney. She's crazy about all sports and has to play baseball several times a day.

Oh! Let me tell you this. She got a little baseball glove with a cushy baseball from my aunt for her birthday. She loves it, of course. Someone at the party, though, said, "Oh, that'll be fun! Your daddy can teach you to play baseball now!"

Excuse me?

Ahem. Her father maintains a constant state of fear-based flop sweats for three days prior to his department's annual picnic/softball game. It's her mother who played softball for the better part of a decade. It was also her mother who once took a bat in the face, and on another occasion, caught a pop fly under her chin for the most spectacular out ever made by a nine-year-old. Let's leave the baseball lessons to Ma, shall we?

I think we've struck a good balance, all told. While she loves those tutus and nail polish, she really loves bugs and playing ball. A few days ago she handed me one of her neglected baby dolls and said, "Get rid of this. It goes in the trash." That concerns me a smidge. Not the lack of interest in dolls, but the idea of where babies should go.

Today, Beqi and her darling 19-month-old son came over for lunch and child free-for-all time. Beqi and I have had the discussion about how, pre-baby, we were both certain in our feminist minds that gender roles are dictated by society. Ha! Ha hahahahahahahahahaha! Naive! Certainly, society and the images and mores we see daily do have an effect, but in seeing tiny kids falling into these roles when they've had little exposure, one has to wonder how much really is encoded into our DNA. Especially when Beqi's son is doing his best Bam-Bam (just like nearly every 19-month-old boy I've encountered) while my daughter is doing this:

A scary image of Clara Jane's future

That's right. She's head-to-toe pink (at least her shirt has a girl drummer), singing at the top of her lungs (granted, she was singing Grover's "Fuzzy and Blue", not anything by the Pussycat Dolls), flinging her new pink feather boa about like she's being raised in a burlesque hall.

Not that there's necessarily anything wrong with that. I never would have guessed that feather boa-flinging and snakey dancing code might be encoded into the XX chromosome pair. Just like I never would have guessed a little 19-month-old boy could push a heavy chair with my 35-pound dancing girl back and forth, shuffling her up to the table and back.

1. Synchronicity II - The Police
2. I Can't Turn You Lose - Sam & Dave
3. Zip City - Drive-By Truckers
4. All I Can Do - Dolly Parton
5. If God Will Send His Angels - U2*
6. One of You - Bottle Rockets
7. I Can't Turn You Lose - Otis Redding
8. Company in My Back (live) - Wilco
9. 16 Days - Whiskeytown
10. Outro with Bees - Neko Case

*I was hoping for some U2 in the shuffle, but I was really hoping for something from my all-time favorite album, "The Joshua Tree", which was released 20 years ago today. When I heard this on VH1 Classic today, I had to pause and catch my breath. No joke. It knocked the wind out of me. I had one of those pure, blissful music geek moments when I realize that 20 years ago today, something that would be such an integral part of my life was sent into the world. I seriously considered making today's entry about the album, and the impact each song has had on me, but that's way too music geeky. I'll just say this: Where The Streets Have No Name will forever remind me of the moment when I was pregnant and my child became real to me. It's a story I've told on the blog before, so I won't repeat. Next time you hear that song, from that album that turned 20 today, you're truly listening to a piece of my heart and soul, which is draped in pink feathers and pretending to be a praying mantis.

Posted by Robin at 09:31 PM | Comments (7)

March 07, 2007

The Day I Decide to Let Tom Waits Dictate My Parenting Style

We're nearly three weeks into age three, and it's still the most bizarre experience. I swear, most of the time when I look at my daughter these days I think, "Who are you and what did you do with Clara Jane? Did you eat her?"

I have such a headache I can't even begin to articulate ... nothing. It's not like anything huge or massive is going on. Well, other than overnight my baby turned into a teenager.

Did I mention that my head hurts?

I did have some practice in dealing with people who act in the manner in which my child has been acting. I didn't realize it at the time, though. For many years one of my best friends was severely, often untreated, bipolar disorder. Who knew that would prepare me for parenthood? It's a lot alike, what with one minute heaping me with praise and love, and the next minute punching me in the gut.

Here's a brief overview of today. Not that it's been much different from any typical day around here since The Three-Year-Old devoured my sweet child.

Morning: Hey! Let's go to storytime at the library! Great! Everyone adores this idea. But wait ... let's pee on the potty twice before we go. Awesome! Then let's run around naked for two hours!

Well, she ran around naked. I, for once, was fully clothed - in real, presentable, going-out-in-public clothes, no less - and ready to go to storytime. She hauls out 3/4 of her entire toy collection and piles them on the table.

"Clara Jane, do you want to get dressed and go to storytime, or do you want to stay home and play with your toys?"

"I want to stay home with my toys."

Fine.

Thing is, I didn't want to stay home. I wanted to have a little smidge of time in public, where grown-ups might be. Preferrably grown-ups who can look at their children, shake their heads and say, "Holy shit, I'm tired. I love my kids but ... holy shit, I'm tired."

Afternoon: I talked her into going to the coffeehouse. There's something wrong with that; I'm the parent in this situation. I shouldn't have to talk anyone into anything. What I say, goes, right?

Of course not!

Now, I must cover another issue that has me so confused because I can't keep up with the constantly-changing rules. I never know the rules regarding singing. Sometimes, like at naptime, I am required to sing. Other times, like when we're driving to the coffeehouse and "Ol' 55" by Tom Waits comes on, and I do as I'm required by natural law and wail it at the top of my lungs, I'm told in no uncertain terms to shut the hell up!

Not that my child said, "Shut the hell up, Ma!", but I could tell by her tone when she requested repeatedly that I cease and dissist that she was thinking it.

Granted, I've set a bad example, I'm sure. When she sings all the lullabyes in her lullabye book, I'm all kinds of happy. You try listening to that little voice singing "Brahms' Lullabye" from the backseat and restrain yourself from wild, weepy praise.

On the other hand, singing "The phone ... the phone is ringing! The phone ... we'll be right there!" from The Wonder motherfucking Pets for 13 straight hours a day? No so much wild, weepy praise. Wild, wailing cries for mercy, yes. I can see why the child is confused regarding the singing rules.

Anyway, the coffeehouse. Two blocks from the coffeehouse, she says, "I don't want to go to the coffeehouse. I want to go to storytime." I explain that no, she made her choice when she opted for Naked Toy Crazymaking Time at home.

Apparently it's a bit soon for lessons this complex, judging from the whining, shrieking hysteria that ensued...

...which promptly ended the second we walked into the coffeehouse and ordered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Which brings me to yet another point. Are you confused yet? Well, you should try it from my perspective because my God, this is how I live every day of my life these days! The food issues. This kid used to be the best eater. At 18 months, the entire kitchen staff at a local Vietnamese buffet came to the dining room to get a gander of the bald-headed American pho-eating baby.

Her current diet:

Where was I? The coffeehouse, also known as Clara Jane's Pooping Place. She's doing really well with going to the potty when she has to pee. At least, she is this week. Next week is anyone's guess. As for pooping, she will only poop in two locations: at home, and at the coffeehouse. At least she's predictable.

Did I mention that I couldn't get her to leave the coffeehouse today? You know, the coffeehouse she adamently didn't want to visit? Yeah. We had the same battle regarding leaving as the one involving our arrival. Once again, I'm wondering who's the parent. Certainly it's not me because if I was the parent, there would be rules and they would be followed. Someone's dropped the ball big-time with this kid.

What's that? Oh, right. It's my c-section scar, burning like sweet death. It does that when I try to pretend that I am in no way involved with the pooping, whining, shreiking child who just gave your child the stink eye.

Was there a nap this afternoon? What the hell do you think?

Did she consume any dinner? It was chicken pot pie. Do you see that on her list of consumables? Of course not. If it was peanut butter nut yogurt French fry pie, the story would be different.

After the dinner battle, B. went to the bathroom to run bathwater. We were anxious to see if Clara Jane would melt when she came into contact with it. She slipped off to her room while I sat at my desk, resting my head against the screen of my monitor because frankly, it was the closest place to rest my head.

That's when the oh-my-God-I'm-injured-and-dying screams started from her room.

We met halfway in the living room, Clara Jane wailing and clutching at her eyes. Eyes ... how could she have injured her eyes?

Oh my God I left my blood sugar testing supplies in her toybox and she's gouged lancetes into both her eyes!!!

Wait ... I've never taken my blood sugar testing supplies to her room. At sometime during my freakout, she informed me that she'd bumped her mouth and that I'm a complete dumbass.

This tiny bump at the center of her upper lip, which produced about as much blood as I use in those blood sugar tests, required the entire family - dogs and cat included - to gather in the master bedroom while Clara Jane wailed, moaned, groaned, writhed, sobbed, gagged, choked, and screamed at me for attempting to comfort her.

"I'm ... so ... sad! Nothing ... makes ... me ... happy!" she would scream as she flung herself onto the mattress. Again and again.

After half an hour of this, I just stopped trying. I rolled onto my stomach, buried my face in my pillow, and just laid there. It was 7:30 PM, and I had reached my limit.

Minutes later, B. began listing all the things that make Clara Jane happy. Turns out, the mere mention of praying mantises is all it takes to bring her back from the brink.

She opted not to take a bath. Again, not sure who's making and enforcing the rules, but it sounded like a good idea to go with what she dictated.

A snack was made - peanut butter and jelly on whole-wheat bread, cut with a flower-shaped cookie cutter per her request - and my presence on the couch was required for a pre-bedtime viewing of Jack's Big Music Show. Not good for my headache, which had reached the point where I was trying to recall the symptoms of brain aneurysms, but the snuggle time was good for my battered spirit.

As soon as the show ended she looked at me with her peanut butter-smeared face and said, "I'm ready for my bath now."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

B. put her to bed. He's also been the one to go to her during the three times she's screamed for him in the past hour. I'm pretty sure there will be at least one more wake-up, sometime around 2:18 AM when my brain finally snaps and I find myself under her changing table, reenacting one of my other favorite Tom Waits songs.

Posted by Robin at 08:08 PM | Comments (12)

March 05, 2007

Yes, I Still Read Books

What with all the viruses, sock-knitting, house-buying, house-impaling, three-turning and such, you're probably wondering if I'm once again listing all the books I'm reading this year as I did last year. Or maybe you have important things to worry about. I don't know.

Yes, I'm still reading, despite everything else that's going on. Remember, I'd rather read than sleep. That's how I fall asleep most nights - with a book still clutched in my hand. I finally took a minute tonight to set up the 2007 list.

Yeah, it's pretty meager so far. In my defense the last book I read in 2006 (King Dork) ran into the first 10 or so days of 2007. I tend to fall asleep rather quickly these days.

After that I read Possible Side Effects, the latest from Augusten Burroughs. It's fun. Nothing much to seperate it from any collection of essays from any skilled humorist. It's worth the read, especially if you have to spend a few hours on a plane and need something to keep you amused.

Then it was on to Truck: A Love Story by Michael Perry. Again, a pleasant enough read. It's a memoir of a year in a tiny Wisconsin town, told by a writer/volunteer firefighter as he falls in love and restores his truck. Now, I know that with a title like Truck: A Love Story, there's going to be a lot of stuff about trucks. Too much stuff about trucks. Perhaps I'm not very bright for spending three weeks reading this book and constantly thinking, "Damn. There's a lot of detailed information about really old trucks in this book." Still, it was engaging enough to keep me going, although a bit slow at times. Like when there are huge 27-page passages about the transmissions of 1957 International trucks.

Okay, maybe those passages weren't actually 27 pages long, but sometimes it felt like it.

I needed some fiction, so next I went for The Memory of Running by Ron McLarty. This was recommended to me by Kathie, a reader of this-here blog who teaches high school English.

If Kathie ever recommends a book to you, listen to her. She knows her stuff. Loved this book. Really. Loser alcoholic named Smithy in Rhode Island loses his parents in a horrific auto accident, then learns his long-missing sister has been found dead in Los Angeles. Despite being nearly 300 pounds and addicted to beer and smokes, he takes off on his bike in a drunken haze one night that leads him to pedalling cross-country to claim his sister's body.

That would have been plenty for me. There's a subplot involing Smithy and his parents' paraplegic next-door neighbor that I could have done without.

While shopping at Target one day recently, I noticed The Elegant Gathering of White Snows by Kris Radish. It's about a bunch of women in rural Wisconsin who up and start walking.

Hey! It's in rural Wisconsin, like Truck! And it's about wandering off in search of ... something, like Memory of Running! This is a great idea! In 2007, I'll read nothing but books that are interconnected in cosmic ways like that!

This might possibly be the worst reading decision I've made in my entire life.

Seriously. I'm 150 or so pages into this thing. Today, Clara Jane yanked the bookmark out of it, and I honestly think the work required to find the proper page just isn't worth it, despite the fact that once I hit the 50-page mark, I pretty much refuse to quit a book, no matter how awful it is.

This is possibly going to be the exception to the rule.

Now, there was a time in my life when I really liked "chick lit". Back before it was called "chick lit". While I don't think it was particularly well-written, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood struck a chord with me. I also liked Bridget Jones' Diary, along with a lot of other books about women struggling to find their place in the world.

I wonder, though, if I'd like those books if I read them for the first time today, at this stage in my life.

I've always considered myself a feminist. Always. I remember arguing about the Equal Rights Amendment with my father when I was eight years old. In my mid-twenties or so, back in the late '90s when such books started appearing, I was delighted. Finally! Women writers are getting attention and making serious takes on what womanhood is like!

But then it turned into a genre. A big, money-making, cheesy genre. Publishing houses love genres; it's what keeps them in business, those paperbacks with cute (or sexy or scary, depending on your genre) covers that catch your attention more than the title or description. It gauls me that some really great books written by women, about women get lumped in with some real crap. But I'm not going to go on that tirade. There was an anonymous editorial published in Boston's Weekly Dig last August that hits a lot of the key points. I don't feel the need to reinvent that particular wheel. I just wish the author of the article had put her name on it.

Anyway, back to this abomination of a book I can't be bothered to finish reading. It's a great example of faux feminism. Eight women are so fed up with ... what? We're never really told ... that they just get up and start walking ... where? In a circle around the county, as far as I can tell because ... um, I haven't figured that out yet.

And yet, this little constitutional garners national media attention! Women! Out walking! Oh my Jesus God, alert Walter Cronkite! Wait, isn't he dead? No? Well, get that hot guy from CNN with the gray hair! We need to cover these walking women who are changing the world by walking!

How are they changing the world? Why, through the power of female friendship and that special bond all women inherantly share via the commonality of similar pelvic organs.

Bullshit.

I know the power of female friendship. I do. I have some amazing friends who've overcome incredible odds. I have friends who, like me, struggle with the crap our society foists on us about what it means to be a woman/wife/mother/daughter.

I've also had plenty of women friends who damn near sucked the life out of me. Women who couldn't or wouldn't do a damn thing for themselves if their lives depended on it. Women who often called themselves feminists, or sang the praises of the strength of women (while poking great fun at the weaknesses of men), who didn't have the guts to get up and walk, regardless of how many friends were standing behind them, screaming, "Stand up and walk! You can do it! Here, I'll hold your hand. I'll even pull you. Oh, what the fuck. Just get on my back and ride. I'll haul your weak, lazy, entitled ass around because that's what girlfriends are supposed to do. Women never turn their backs on their friends!"

I no longer believe that just having womanhood in common is enough. We're not all sisters and never will be. As I've gotten older, I've preferred to create friendships based on who I am as a person and who my friends are as people. I don't want to be friends with people who constantly needed to be hauled around by me. Not that I won't stand by a friend who's going through a rough time. That's different entirely. There's a difference between dealing with the crap life deals and playing the victim.

Anyway, as I'm reading the atrocity, I keep thinking that on the surface it's supposed to be a pro-woman, feminist story, but it's anything but. Well, I don't know. Maybe it is, but the writing's so vague and there are so many plot holes that it's impossible to tell. All I know is I've yet to find anything I can respect in any of the characters. Nothing. They're weak, most of them stuck on shit that happened to them years ago.

Guess what. We all have bad shit that happens when we're young. We have bad shit that happens when we're middle-aged. We have bad shit that happen when we're old. Such is life. Strong people deal with those things, learn from them, and don't let them ruin their lives. Sure, those ugly things will rear their nasty heads at times. The difference is whether you plow through it with all your might, or let it dictate the rest of your life.

A book about women who have the strength to wander around the county? That's not pro-woman at all. That's "Oh, look at the poor little women who've suffered so and have finally, after decades, gained the strength to deal with their shit and move on." That's pro-vicitm.

And yet, I wonder why I'm being harder on the women in An Elegant Gathering of White Snows than I was on Smithy in The Memory of Running. Is it because they're women, or because they have the misfortune of being trapped in a really badly-written book? I'm going with the badly-written option. Smithy was weak and had let a traumatic youth dictate and nearly destroy his life, only getting his shit together years later when he lost everyone. But at least his author did him the service of letting the readers in on why he was the way he was.

Yep, I think I'm gonna quit this bitch, maybe move on to Candy Girl - A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper by Diablo Cody. I have a feeling its message is going to be better for women than the dreck I've been reading.

Posted by Robin at 09:20 PM | Comments (14)

March 04, 2007

How the Weekend Really Went

Due to much screaming in the night on Friday from a fevered, ill child, the fabric-shopping didn't happen. I don't doubt that Clara Jane was sick. Believe me, a person who's well doesn't sweat that much. Or scream that much, for that matter. B. made a midnight run to Walgreens to buy a new thermometer. We're such good parents that we no longer had one.

According to the new $30 thermometer, Clara Jane's temperature was 96.3 degrees. That would have concerned me, except my temperature registered the same as hers and I felt fine. Despite that, I thought it best to cancel the fabricing and the thrifting to prevent our younger shopping partner from getting sick.

This meant that, while B. worked in the yard, I was in the house with Clara Jane, doing everything in my power to prevent her from destroying the house before the 12 - 2:00 lookers arrived.

The bad news: As evidenced by Clara Jane's declaration that mushrooms make her sick (they don't), she's discovered the power of illness. "I'm sick. I need _______________________ (orange juice, cookies, a set of monkey wrenches, my own wheels, world domination, whatever you're having) to make me feel better." That's what I've heard all weekend.

Does this child look sick to you?

I didn't think so. That was recorded on Saturday morning, when I could have been shopping with Beqi instead of frantically trying to protect the sanctity of my clean, tidy house.

(For the record, Clara Jane's become a YouTube junkie. This dance was inspired by watching the damn kitty cat video eight bazillion times.)

This time the people had the manners to actually come inside and look at the house. Whether they buy it or not, we don't know. They'd better, because we spent an hour at our new house today and let me tell you, I didn't want to leave. I took a lot of pictures. Like this one:
Chimney of our new house

My dear, darling, wonderful pal PKB joined us, along with her 7-year-old son, who Clara Jane believes was sent from the heavens above to be her personal entertainment center. Luckily, Lil' B. adores Clara Jane, and my oh-so-sick child spent the time playing football.

B., ever the pragmatist, noticed all the imperfections we missed last time we saw the house. Things like a leaky toilet, and ... I can't remember. I sort of tuned him out and thought about all the new things I noticed: the amber glass doorknobs throughout the house, the entryway light fixture that looks like boobies, the ceramic tile floor in the downstairs bathroom ...

PKB and I spent a great deal of our time leaning against walls and talking. Not just about the house, but about the stuff we always talk about, all while the kids ran through the house, laughing and playing.

It feels like home. Unlike our current house. B. finally got the last of the storm debris under control yesterday. Today, he went to the roof to clear off some branches. Seems that one of the branches, possibly flung down, dagger-style, by the hand of God Almighty, had broken several laws of physics and impaled our roof. For awhile it was looking like we were going to get eight years out of this house without making an insurance claim. Guess not.

Maybe tht's why those people didn't view our house on Friday. Perhaps from the street, they could see that our roof had a giant stake through it. "We would prefer to not live in a housecicle. Let's move on."

Before B. made this discover, I stood in the backyard at the new house with PKB, flung out my arms and said, "Look! No trees to fall down!" I never thought I'd consider that a selling point in a house but let me tell you, I've officially had enough of these sorry leafy-assed motherfuckers.

Oh, I'll plant trees at the next house. I'm going to plant those teeny-tiny little Japanese maples that will forever remain smaller than me. Perhaps I'll occasionally punch them in their teensy little tree necks.

Posted by Robin at 09:16 PM | Comments (6)

March 02, 2007

Friday Shuffle - The Dotty Edition

You knew this was bound to happen sooner or later. Dots and a shuffle. I'm just that uninspired.