December 01, 2006

Friday Shuffle - The Screaming Trees Edition



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chloe has been doing her part to get the tree wreckage under control by doing some brush-clearing as only a Basset hound can do:
Clearing brush
By grabbing branches between her teeth and shaking as hard as she can until they break off. Then she eats them. Good dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 25, 2006

Day Twenty-Five - Bring Me My Cape Before We Crash

This has to be quick because 1) B.'s redoing my mom's network and things aren't going well, and 2) I've got one hour before the day ends.

Tonight we had a little gathering with my dad's side of the family. My eldest aunt is showing signs of age, illness, stress, and just the general consequences of leading a rough life. She and her husband live part-time in Branson, Missouri, and they're always begging family members to join them. Personally, I'd rather cross the gate into Hell instead of going into the Branson city limits.

My mom had warned me that my aunt is working in a clothing outlet store and keeps encouraging her to purchase a particular item for me. Tonight, though, I got the sales pitch first-hand.

"I know you like peacocks," she started. And I do. Somewhat. I like vintage peacock chenille bedspreads. That's about it. "We've got this cape with a peacock on it at the store, and I keep telling your mom to get it for you, since you like peacocks so much. There's this great big ol' gal who comes into the store a lot, and she wears hers all the time. You should get one. They're only 70 dollars."

I think she's on to something. From now on, I won't leave the house unless I'm wearing a cape, adorned with at least one colorful bird. Maybe more, as that's the great big ol' gal way.

Posted by Robin at 10:58 PM | Comments (8)

November 19, 2006

Day Ninteen - With Apologies to Robert Frost. I'm Sorry, Bob. Really

There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
The Mending Wall by Robert Frost

True dat, Bob. True dat.

I called my mom today to ask her to bring me a chainsaw tomorrow. I've officially had enough of the minor inconvenience of having a downed tree impeding my fence in performing its job of keeping creatures contained and restrained from my yard. I've informed B. that he will be taking a day off work this week to remove the tree.

Want to know what's brought me to this point, at long last, aside from my lack minor-inconvenience coping skills?

First, let me give you a roster of the dogs that are in my yard at any given time:

You know Chloe and Murphy, of course. They're my dogs.

There's Snoopy, a beagle/sheltie mix. A sheltle? Beatie? Anyway,
he's lived in the house to our east for nearly four years. At the time it seemed like a good idea to roll back a section of the fence seperating our yards so the dogs could have twice the romping space, and they could be pals. Because my dogs are spayed, Snoopy's owners opted to not neuter him. Or maybe that's because they're idiots.

And now, thanks to the tree, we have Pogo and Nora in our yard. Pogo is stupid. I think that's her official breed. Stupid. Nora's a miniature long-haired dachshund. A weinerdog, in miniature. Because the full-sized ones are just too much to handle. These dogs are also not spayed because 1) our dogs are obviously not going to knock them up, and 2) their owners are also idiots.

Today, I looked out the hall window, which overlooks Snoopy's yard. My dogs were inside, but Snoopy, Nora and Pogo were in his yard, lying in the sun. For some reason I was moved to go outside and deliver some affection to my perpetual yard guests. When I walked into the backyard, Pogo did her usual: she sprinted full speed ahead, fueled by pure terror, back to her yard, where she stood on the felled tree and barked at me. Stupid, I tell you. Stupid.

Snoopy and Nora remained in the same spot, curled up, looking in my direction. Cute. They're friends. Having been neighbors for four years, it's only been in the past few weeks that they've made each other's acquaintence. How cute. They're making up for lost time. I continued calling.

Finally, Snoopy stood and took a few tentative steps in my direction. Nora stood and stepped in perfect unison. Cute.

Wait.

There's a weinerdog hanging off that dog's weiner.

It seems that, while in the act of doing what unspayed and unneutered dogs do best, Nora and Snoppy had become entangled. They weren't too concerned about it; they were just hanging out. Or in, as it were. Snoopy seemed rather happy to have found a cozy place to store his weiner on a chilly day.

At first I didn't think it was possible. I mean, I could see Snoopy's balls, and Nora was considerably to the side of them. It looked like she had her butt stuck to his back leg. For a brief moment, it seemed more plausible that Snoopy's 9-year-old owner, Boy, had maybe tied their legs together. That, I can fix. Unfortunately, that wasn't what happened.

Nope. There was definitely a weiner stuck in a weinerdog. A rather large weiner, judging from how far away the weinerdog was from the usual location of the weiner. And I felt responsible, because I'm the one with the tree and the fence that's propegated this damn free love doggie commune. Nevermind that my pets are all spayed and it's not my responsibility to sterilize my neighbors' pets, which would have prevented this problem in the first place.

I came inside and told B. to call Nora's people. They didn't answer, even though they were home. Snoopy's people weren't home, either. So, Farmer B. headed outside to unporn the dog porn occuring in our neighbors' yard.

B. had some help. Chloe and Murphy went flying out the door in a manner that suggested they'd been eavesdropping and were just dying to see this "dog sex" we'd been discussing, seeing as they've never experienced it themselves.

For a moment, I thought Murphy was going to gnaw them apart with her fucked-up little overbite.

When B. approached the dogs, Nora went into submissive pose. Unfortunately, when a weiner dog rolls onto her back with the penis of a much taller dog stuck in her vagina, the weiner dog winds up standing on her head. I couldn't watch anymore. I went inside and did what any good farm wife would do in this situation: I Googled "how to seperate two dogs having sex". Which wasn't helpful. Not even a little.

A few minutes later B. came inside to tell me that the dogs had been succuessfully seperated and I could stop Googling and crying. Instead, I called my mom and requested the use of her chainsaw. At this point I wasn't seeing the humor in the situation. I was simply fed the hell up with having at least one tree-related weirdo fire to put out every single day of my damn life. So fed up that I couldn't find the words to describe the grossness that had transpired in the yard and all I could say was, "Snoopy had a wiener dog stuck on his wiener," to which she laughed so hard that only the dogs could hear her.

And no, I'm not going to use the chainsaw to seperate the dogs the next time it happens - and you know it'll happen again. B.'s taking a day off work to remove the last of the tree. We were hoping it wouldn't come to that. We were also hoping that we wouldn't have a dachshund and a sheltle (or beatie) stuck together at the genitals. God knows I never, ever hoped for the existance of sheltie/beagle/dachshund puppies (Shelbehunds? Dachstiles? Beahundties?). I certainly don't want to spend the rest of my life chasing them out of my yard. And that's why Robert Frost was right. Fences are the best neighbors in the world.

Posted by Robin at 04:01 PM | Comments (10)

November 18, 2006

Day Eighteen - I Need My Face

I think it's time for me to accept that some women are just meant to sport the Frida Kahlo look, and I am one of them.

Remember last year, when a waxing technician tried to turn me into Vanilla Ice? I should have taken the hint then and just stopped with the hair removal, already.

In light of family photos that are being taken next weekend, I hauled myself to a salon - not the one that gave me the funky white boy brow - this morning for a trim and a wax.

This is not what you want to hear in the moments before someone yanks hair out of your face: as I settled into the chair and the stylist-type person started smearing hot wax onto my brow, this is what I heard on the sound system:

Do ya do ya want my face, I need it!

And something deep within my gut screamed, "NO! You can't have my face! I won't let you rip it off with your hot wax, and your soft muslin strips! Run! I'm running as fast as I can away from you, Sadistic Waxy Lady!" But then I would be left with hardened wax on my face and no way to remove it. Surely that's worse than the wax lady wanting and needing my face for her very own. I ignored my gut and stayed put.

You don't want my face. Really. The upkeep is far too time-consuming. And there's this scar by the right eye that's been there for 31 years. You don't want that, Waxy Lady. Foxy Waxy Lady.

So I clinched and bore through the pain. More pain than usual. I screamed Kelly Clarkson's name twice instead of my usual once, partially from the pain, and partially because Foxy Waxy Lady sort of looked like her. That is, if Kelly Clarkson didn't win "American Idol" and decided to pursue a career in professional face-snatching.

Later tonight, B., Clara Jane and I went to dinner followed by a romp through the play area at the mall. Is there anything worse than a mall play area on a Saturday night? If given the option between sitting in a crowded mall play area on a busy Saturday night and spending a night in jail, I'm pretty sure I'd choose jail. The mall play area is loudest, most chaotic place this side of a Scottish soccer stadium on Free Beer and Crobar Night, and only slightly less dangerous. Within fifteen minutes, my forehead was throbbing, inside and out. I was pretty sure it was my frontal lobe, detatching from the main portion of my brain in protest. I closed my eyes - sweet, blessed darkness - and rubbed my forehead, sending fiery jolts of pain through my skin and into my eyes.

When I got home, I discovered good news and bad news.

Good news: my frontal lobe is still right where it belongs.

Bad news: my unsightly stray eyebrown hairs have been replaced with layers of dark purple, slightly greenish bruises above my brow and covering my eyelids.

Unibrows aren't so bad. Really.

Posted by Robin at 09:37 PM | Comments (11)

November 17, 2006

Day Seventeen - Friday Shuffle - The Sick of Posting Every Damn Day Edition

Is it just me, or have all the NaBloPoMo posters and commenters hit the wall? I know I sure have. I have things to write, things to comment, and blogs I'd like to read but my brain simply won't let me.

In light of my bloggity boredom, I'm going to give you three little tidbits and the shuffle.

Tidbit #1 - Thanks to the still-downed tree lying on my fence, I've started playing a new game everytime I open the back door. It's called "Which Neighborhood Dog is in My Yard Today?" This morning, I discovered the neighborhood weiner dog running amok in my yard. When the fence in your yard can't restrain a weiner dog, it's no longer sufficiently doing its job well enough to be called a fence.

Tidbit #2 - Lately I've found myself concerned about how Clara Jane interacts with other kids. During daycare dropoffs and pickups, I never see her playing with other kids. When I ask her who she played with she tells me that she played with toys. I'm not going to make a big deal of this; if she's a loner, she's a loner. There are worse things to be.

At lunch today, any notion that she might be a loner was vanished. She noticed another little girl sitting a few tables away from us and promptly stood up, waved, and yelled, "Hello, Little Girl! How are you doing? Are you having a snack? I have an apple. I love my apple. Do you love apples? I have yogurt. Do you love yogurt? Hey! Little Girl! HEY!"

Now I'm concerned about her being The Pushy Kid.

Tidbit #3 - I can't recreate what I was writing yesterday, but I can do two things: tell you how it vanished and tell you about the $6 candy bar. It vanished because the ctrl-shift-w function in Firefox, coupled with the space bar, closes the window, particularly if your chubby little fingers are a lot faster than they look like they should be.

Now, the $6 candy bar. For years I've been fascinated with Vosges Chocolate. They're a Chicago-based high-end chocolatier that basically throws weird shit into really expensive chocolate and sells it to food nerds like me who think, "Mmmmmmmm ... white chocolate with Kalamata olives. I could go for some of that. Let's get a second mortgage on the house and eat up!"

Our local Whole Foods started selling a small selection of Vosges awhile back, but I just couldn't allow myself to part with $6 for a 3.4 ounce weirdo candy bar. But yesterday, for some reason, I decided it was time to part with my $6 in exchange for weirdo chocolate.

Alas, the weirdo chocolate I really wanted - Barcelona, which is darker milk chocolate with grey sea salt and smoked almonds - wasn't available. Which is too bad because I have a serious smoked almond monkey on my back. At some point when I was little my parents put a can of Smokehouse Almonds in my Christmas stocking, and that was all she wrote. Best flavor in the world. Ever. That was another one of those signs of adulthood: the day I realized that I could eat Smokehouse Almonds every single day for the rest of my ever-almond-loving life if I wanted. I'm eating some right now, as a matter of fact. I like strong flavors. The only thing better than smoked almonds and sea salt would have to be smoked almonds and bleu cheese. I'm surprised Vosges hasn't jumped on that idea.

Anyway, I did have some misgivings about spending $6 on a candy bar in a flavor combination that might be horrible, despite my food adventurer tendancies. So, I went with the one I knew I'd mostly like enjoy - Creole, 70% cacao (really, really dark) with espresso, cocoa nibs, and chicory. I love chicory coffee. I love mochas. I'm going to love this bar.

You know what you get when you get a $6 candy bar? You get instructions on how to eat chocolate. Those cheapos at Hershey's and Nestle, they just leave their customers to their own devices. Let 'em remain ignorant to what chocoalte is supposed to look like and smell like! Let the philistines eat their dusty-surfaced chocolate that smells like bald tires! And let them *gasp* chew it with their teeth!

For $6, I know to let the chocolate melt in my mouth, instead of cramming the whole thing down my gullet before someone can snatch it away from me, the same way my Basset hound Chloe once did with a Nestle Crunch bar.

I resisted the urge to eat the candy in the car. If I'm going to spend $6 on what should be THe Chocolate Experience of My Life, I don't want to be distracted. I also don't want to be behind the wheel in case the experience is so rapturous as to leave my vehicle unmanned on the highway.

I sat at my desk, read the instructions and did as it said: I looked at the chocolate. I sniffed the chocolate. I snapped off a piece of the chocoalte. I performed acts on the chocoalte that are only legal in the state of Nevada and France. Then I put the chocolate on my tongue and pressed it to the roof of my mouth, just like the instructions said. And sure enough, just like the package said, it slowly started melting around thirty seconds later.

The verdict?

Eh.

Tasted great, of course. The cocoa nibs were rough and irritated my tongue and the roof of my mouth. There wasn't a single point in time where my spirit left my body during the whole experience. A little naked man didn't pop out of the packaging when I opened it, either, and for $6 you'd think they'd include a special little thrill of some sort. While tasty, it did not satisfy my mind and body, as the package promised. I still had a slight backache when I was finished eating the piece.

I just popped another piece in my mouth. Yeah, good. But slightly painful and not decidedly different than a handful of chocolate-covered espresso beans. I keep encountering little pieces of hard, pod-like material. Perhaps that's what a flavanoid looks like.

Next time, maybe I'll shuffle through the display and buy a a horseradish chocolate bar. At least then my expectations will be in check.

1. Iko Iko - Dixie Cups
2. Baby Mine - Bonnie Raitt
3. East Virginia Blues - June Carter Cash (a woman who had enough good sense to not buy $6 chocolate bars, I bet)
4. Only Lie Worth Telling - Paul Westerberg
5. Tell Me That it Isn't True - Bob Dylan
6. Don't Get Me Wrong - Pretenders
7. Still Fighting It - Ben Folds
8. Close Together - Jimmy Reed
9. Rose Garden - Lynn Anderson
10. Walking the Dog - Rufus Thomas

The shuffle is filled entirely of artists who would most likely throw beer bottles at the heads of bourgeois idiots who'd spend $6 on a candy bar, and rightfully so.

Posted by Robin at 04:06 PM | Comments (12)

November 14, 2006

Day Fourteen - Phhhhhhhhhhhhht

I'm so not down with posting today.

Only one thing of interest has happened this week, and while I could blog about it, I won't because it would be unfair for reasons I can't divulge.

Don't you hate it when bloggers get all cryptic and shit? I know I do.

Granted, I'll take boring over last week's emotional near-trainwreck and pukefest. It makes for dull writing, though. Yeah, I could go into the archives of my brain like I did yesterday, but I was just there and don't feel like going back just yet. Instead, I'm going to blatantly copy my pal Dixie and give you fourteen dots.

Posted by Robin at 06:28 PM | Comments (2)

March 25, 2006

In Which My Lovely Weekend Plans are Foiled by Snot

I'm so disappointed.

This weekend was going to be great. A friend of mine that I haven't seen in nearly four years is in town, and last night a gaggle of us headed to the Cowboy Mouth show. I'd been feeling a little off-kilter all day, but once inside the smokey, airless club it hit me. Snot. A massive, giant headful of snot, seeping into my ears and every other available pathway out of my head. It was like the snot all showed up for some huge Lollapalooza-like festival in my head, only to find out that Yanni was the headlining act, thus leading to a mass exodus and, well, I think that's enough of that similie.

I bailed out of the show, and what would have been a lovely night with my pals in a lovely hotel, because the snot wanted to go home, drink hot tea, and sleep. I tried to ignore it, but the snot rioted like a bunch of drunk frat boys fed up with paying $5/bottle for water.

I'm not sure where the snot-as-music-festival similies are coming from. I blame the snot. And the lack of oxygen to my brain caused by the snot. The handful of ibuprofen, multiple forms of Zicam, mentholated cough drops and mass amounts of sugared tea probably aren't doing my coherency skills any favors, either.

I've been sick all winter, and I'm fed the fuck up. I'm sick of having a headful of snot. I'm sick of wiping snot off my child. I'm sick of listening to B. hork snot. And I'm really sick of typing the word snot, so I'm just going to stop. Now.

Snot.

GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE MUCUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There. I feel better. Although in rereading that, I should be glad that I just have plain ol' head thatwordi'mnotsayingagain instead of asshole mucus. Right. Stopping now.

Cold drugs are fun, especially when mixed. I've got sort of a Zicam casserole roasting away in my system. And while I'm still stuffed up, I'm gradually becoming so loopy that I just don't give a shit anymore. Who needs breathing when you're packing such a sweet buzz?

Before the slime attack, my pals and I were hanging out at my place yesterday afternoon. One of them mentioned something that I agreed with whole-heartedly: She told us about a conversation she had with a co-worker about pet peeves. Co-worker said something to the extent of, "I'm bothered by people who have no ability to rally." Word. As my friend put it, "If you're out with me and at 10:30 you're whining about being tired and needing to go home, well, you better get over it because I'm not done having a good time and you're going with me."

Last night, I was unable to rally. Not even beer could save me. Not. Even. Beer.

So today, I'm preparing to rally. I've slept. Not as much as I would have liked, but more than I have in awhile. I've medicated. Extensively. I'm working on accepting the underwater-floating feeling in my ears, the pressure behind my eyes, the lack of alertness. People pay good money to feel like this, and I'm getting the luxury of feeling this way for free!!! And without all the potential damage to my DNA to boot. B. and Clara Jane are out, fetching me chicken soup from Pumpernickle's. Rally. I'm going to rally. I'm going to do this. There may not be another concert tonight, but there's still time to hang with my friends. Rally! Rally! Rally!

I was talking to another friend (Yes, all my friends are nameless, since none of the ones I'm talking about have blogs. Besides, I can't remember any of their names right now anyway.) earlier this week about getting old, and how we just can't go like we did when we were in our 20s. I had bronchitis for all of winter semester when I was a freshman in college. But damn if I let that stop me. Granted, with all the Robitussin I had in my system, it generally just took one alcoholic beverage to land me snoring on the floor. Sleep is good for you when you're sick. Even if it's sleep on a stinky frat house couch, which probably explains why I was so sick for so long.

At this point I figure, I feel like hell anyway. I can either feel like hell in my sweatpants on the couch, or I can feel like hell at a bar with my friends. I'm opting for the latter, as I've had plenty of the former in recent weeks. Don't worry - I'll have someone in the group write down what happens because even if I don't drink, I'm sure I won't remember.

Rally! Rally! Rally! Rally 'round the Zicam! Rally 'round the Robitussin! Rally 'round the big snoring heap on the floor!

Snot.

Posted by Robin at 11:48 AM | Comments (14)

March 14, 2006

Emotional Housekeeping

Here was my horoscope for today:

Your emotions are stretched as far as they can go and your thoughts are running helter-skelter all over the map. Still, you hold on to your enthusiasm, even if you haven't reached your destination. However, there is no payoff in being overly self-critical. Even if the possibilities are overwhelming, cautiously set another round of goals.

Darn tootin'.

Clara Jane's back home from her visit to Tornado Alley. I have never in my life been so happy to see her, except for that time, when I was in labor for 32 hours and she was whisked off to NICU for, oh, six hours, without me. While I was nervous on Sunday, the full force of it hit me once she was back. I've forced myself to stay busy tonight to spare her from being smothered by the sudden overprotectiveness that has come over me.

I'm still doing some emotional housekeeping, and I'm sure I will be for awhile. Today I caught myself getting worked up regarding some people I'm not fond of. Ridiculous! If I'm not fond of these people, and there isn't something binding me to them - bloodlines or a paycheck, for instance - then why the hell am I wasting my time on them? No more.

I got conked on the head with a big light bulb the other day: I make friends easily, but I suck at keeping them. At first the thought depressed me, but now, not so much. Maybe it's because my adult life has been in constant upheaval. Or not, because really, show me a 33-year-old who hasn't been in upheaval for roughly 15 years. There aren't many.

Maybe I'm not willing or able to make myself vulnerable enough to build the kind of bond that lasts. Or maybe I make friends with poeople who don't have that skill.

Maybe I'm just an asshole.

Whatever the reason, I catch myself getting annoyed with people and then with myself, but the annoyance goes away rather quickly. There's an upside to all of this that's making it a lot better: it's bringing me closer to B. and Clara Jane. Maybe I've spent all this time trying desperately to cultivate friendships so I can have emotional connections, support, and all that other chick lit crap, when really, I've already got it right under my roof.

I'm also realizing that I've got that connection and support - cheesy as this is going to sound - within myself. You're going to laugh when I tell you this, because it sounds so silly, but buying that damn iPod was one of the smartest things I've ever done.

I know I've mentioned before that, when I was a kid, I spent hours and hours sitting on our front porch swing with my Walkman and a huge stack of cassette tapes. I could sit on that swing, zoned, lost in my music, for days if they'd let me. If the weather was bad, I'd sit on the edge of my bed, unconsciously bouncing to the beat. I was always getting in trouble for wearing out mattresses and banging the porch swing into the side of the house. I couldn't help it; I'd get so lost in what I was listening to that I would be completely ignorant to what I was doing outside of my headphones.

B. and I spent last Saturday night in a hotel downtown. We sat on the cushy king-size bed and played hand after hand of 3-13 while we watched the lightening and rain from the 15th floor. Around 11 PM, B. went on a wild goose chase for a pizza (don't ask), leaving me in the room with my iPod for half an hour. I set it to shuffle, and the first song to play was the nine-plus-minute live version of Bruce Springsteen's Rosalita (Come Out Tonight). Oh, how the side of my parents' house suffered because of that song! I haven't heard it in years, but it was always one of my favorite Springsteen songs when I was heavily into my headphones.

By the time the second verse started I was bouncing on the bed, my cheeks hurting from the smile on my face while I gently bounced along. By the time I got to the line about papa saying he knows that I don't have any money, there were tears in my eyes. I felt like I'd come home.

So this is what it feels like to be me. I'd forgotten.

It felt great, returning to this piece of myself that had been gone for so long. I didn't realize I had lost it; I thought that piece of me lived on with my general music geekitude, but I was wrong. That's only a tiny part of it.

As great and whole as I felt in those moments, it was nothing compared to the horrible crash that happened later that night. I didn't expect the frailty that would come with it, not until I found myself in that big hotel bed at 3 AM, sobbing with such a force that my eyes remained swollen well into Monday. I'm still not sure what brought it on, whether it was for the lost innocence or the found innocence. It felt like grief, like I'd lost something, although I'm not sure what. I think maybe I was grieving because I'm once again changing and in upheaval. Even though I know I need to leave things and people behind and I know it's for the best, it's still hard to admit that things didn't work the way I'd hoped, that I failed, that people I loved failed, and that I'm once again entering unchartered territory.

Even though the terrain is new, Bruce will still be with me. But this time, so will B. and Clara Jane, and for the first time in my life, I'm sure I'll do just fine.

Posted by Robin at 10:53 PM | Comments (8)

March 08, 2006

Happy International Women's Day!

Here's a lovely way to celebrate.

Do you think that guy is ever going to get laid, ever ever again, for the rest of his life? Sadly, he probably will. *sigh*

Dude, I know you're young and all, but hear me out on this one: if you're so intent on not knocking someone up, you do have several birth control options you're free to exercise, all of which are cheaper than $500/month child support payments.

I'm just amazed by the stupidity I've witnessed in the news today, when you take that dork into consideration with the three church-burning morons.

Couple these incidents, along with some things I've been pondering over the past week and a half involving some people in my life, and I really wonder whatever happened to personal responsibility.

Anyway ...

Call me an old cynic, but unless the person you're screwing gives you proof that they are lacking either a uterus or testicles, it's wise to assume there's at least some chance a pregnancy might occur. I'm sure the friend of mine who was recently impregnated by her twice-vasectamied spouse might agree.

Hello. My name is Robin. In September, 2002, my uterus was trying to fall out. Not condusive to baby-making. By the way, have you met my daughter?

If his ex-girlfriend, did indeed "trick" him into fathering a child, shame on her for making it that much more difficult for women who are dealing with deadbeat-dad situations.

I'm just sick to death of people not learning how to be responsible, or being unwilling to be responsible for themselves and their actions.

Yeah, it's been that kind of day around here. Clara Jane and I didn't leave the house, and I've had entirely too much time to do laundry and ponder the human condition. I've come to the conclusion that some people could really use a trip through the spin cycle to knock some sense into them.

It's also, apparently, Be Nasty Day, according to my new favorite crafty site, The AntiCraft. Blargh.

You know I rarely do memes. Well, today I'm making an exception. I'm cranky, and I've got no real material, since nobody in my house has bothered to projectile vomit or shit on the floor today. Ingrates. So, I'm borrowing this from my friend Dixie, and I know she won't mind if I forget to return it.

Pick a musical group. Answer the questions with a song title from that group.

Since Dixie made a point of going beyond the usual suspects, I'm going to leave it to fate. I just brought up iTunes, and shuffled. Lo and behold, the first band to shuffle up? The Replacements. I couldn't have picked better myself. Except most of you probably won't get the connections, because we 'Mats fans? We're a small little cluster of music geeks. So be it. I know at least three readers who'll get it.

1. Are you male or female? I could say I'm Androngynous, but my boobs are too big for that. So let's just say I'm Another Girl, Another Planet.
2. Describe yourself: Left of the Dial
3. How do some people feel about you? Darlin' One. Hey, it said some people, not all people.
4. How do you feel about yourself? Achin' to Be
5. Describe current relationship with boyfriend/girlfriend: Can't Hardly Wait
6. Describe where you want to be: Happy Town
7. Describe how you live: I Will Dare
8. Describe how you love: One Wink at a Time
9. What would you ask for if you had just one wish? Beer for Breakfast
10. Share a few words of wisdom: Kids Don't Follow
11. Now say goodbye: Take Me Down to the Hospital

Posted by Robin at 08:35 PM | Comments (6)

March 05, 2006

Frugal

The outpouring of love and concern during my recent unfortunate absence is staggering, really. Much heartfelt gratitude to those of you who emailed or called to express concern. All three of you.

I did a lot of thinking over the past few days, because what else was I going to do between hours of coma-like sleep and innard-escape episodes? A girl can only stare at the weave of the fabric on her pillowcase for so long before before something goes traipsing across the fevered expanse of her brain. Really, this was a good time for me to get solidly nailed by the flu bug that's been floating through my system for weeks, because I had a lot of things in my head that needed organizing. Granted, I would have preferred to do the mental housekeeping without the 1:30 A.M. Screaming Devil-Pukes, but oh well.

The first one big thought thing is good. Really good. March 10th is a magic day. It's the day that B. and I will finally become financially solid. Not rich. Sweet lord, no. But some things have aligned, and suffice it to say that we're going to see several large debts shimmy into the sweet, sweet black. "Goodbye, Motherfuckers!" you'll hear us cackle, waving title deeds wildly in the air.

This has been a long, long time coming. We live pretty frugally, really, and I've come accustomed to the odd looks, even eye-rolling, that comes with it. I get asked all the time why I don't have an iPod or a laptop, or why, until recently, I used a five-year-old digital camera that used floppy disks for memory. Because new toys cost this thing called money, that's why. If we hate our neighborhood, why don't we just move? Becuase, like the toys, it requires that money thing once again. That's also why I patch my jeans, buy most of my daughter's clothes from Target clearance, only cut my hair two, maybe three times a year, own one six-year-old vehicle, cook most of our meals from scratch, utilize the hell out of our incredible local library system, and haul ass to get to the zoo early in the morning before they start charging admission for the good parts.

B. and I made some decisions about seven years ago that led to this way of life. They weren't bad decisions; they were smart decisions made because we'd learned from the bad decisions we made before we met each other:

1)When I moved to St. Louis, I didn't want to continue with my previous career. I was so incredibly lucky that B. was willing and able to support us while I went to culinary school (and paid for it in full), started my company (with no loans), wrote, had Clara Jane, quit my regular writing job, and closed my company. We would have been richer, financially, had I stayed in my career, but the rest of our lives wouldn't have been as happy. If that means living down the street from the dune buggies, so be it.

2)We opted to buy a house we could actually afford, instead of one that made us look good. If that means we have more used car lots than Starbucks drive-thrus in our neighborhood, so be it.

3)No matter how badly we wanted something, over the past five years if we couldn't pay in cash, we didn't get it. No new debt. In five years. Yeah, it would be nice to have a laptop of my own instead of occasionally borrowing B.'s work one, but guess what? It hasn't killed me. Didn't even injure me.

This is starting to sound like some Suze Orman financial lecture, and that's not what I want. I'm not qualified to write that, not by a long shot. I'm just trying to say that, after all these years of sacrificing instant gratification, we're about to reap the benefits. From this vantage point, I can honestly say that I'm glad we chose this particular path because, let me tell you, it feels good. What we have is ours. We paid for it. Our mamas and daddies didn't pay for it. The bank didn't pay for it. We did it. We earned it. We deserve it. That feels better than any cute $50 shirt purchased on a whim ever felt.

The funny thing is, in the past week B. and I have both had several attacks each where we've panicked about money. Thoughts of, oh God, what if we made a mistake? What if there's some big bill we forgot? My stupid cousin lost her house a few months ago because she's an idiot and forgot about her mortgage, even though they lived in that house for 15 years. Seriously. Forgot the fucking mortgage. We don't have any mortgages we're not aware of, do we? No? Are you sure? We're relishing this last little bit of paycheck-to-paycheck adrenaline before it - God willing - becomes a thing of the past, something we look back on as a part of our salad days dues-paying.

I was emailing a friend last night, and I wrote about paying a visit to my neighborhood Aldi's last week. I hadn't been there since last September. In fact, I'd forgotten about that incident, the little family in front of me who couldn't pay for their groceries. But it came rushing back to me in the store last week. As I looked around at my fellow shoppers, filling their carts with 25-cent cans of soup, this thought crossed my mind: "After this week, I never have to set foot in this store again."

And I stopped cold. I don't want to be that person. I don't ever want to think that, because my wallet's a little cushier, I can buy the priviledge of not seeing poverty. I don't ever want to forget what it feels like to watch a family putting back food for their child because they can't afford it. I don't want to forget what it feels like to give the grocery bags I brought from home to the elderly woman in line behind me so that she won't have to spend money on her own. I don't ever want to take my lucky, blessed situation for granted. To do so would be a disgrace to people whose situations aren't as good, and a disgrace to the work B. and I have done to get where we are.

It's funny how this - I hate to say sudden, because it's not sudden; it just feels sudden after years of gradual progress - financial solidity is changing the way I look at everything in my life, especially people. I'm suddenly seeing parallels in how people treat money and other people. When I was broke, I was always more than willing to fling money I didn't have around for friends and acquaintences, or on crap for myself that I really didn't need. It wasn't until this afternoon that I understood why - so I would at least look like I had money. Likewise, I threw my affection around. Dated guys I probably wouldn't have dated otherwise, stayed in sick friendships, and spent of myself until my soul was broke. But the more love I show, the more likely people will believe that I'm loved in return. The more likely I am to believe it myself.

Hello. I'm that friend that you call when you need a place to crash. Or need to rant. Or to be entertained and amused. Or need a recipe, a restaurant recommendation, tickets to a concert or a housesitter. I'm the one who'll lend you books, lend you time, lend you money for lunch. I'm the one you call in the middle of the night because you know she'll answer the phone, no matter how late it is, the one who will open her entire thorax for you, if it might make you feel better about yourself or give you a chuckle.

I'm that friend who fell off the face of the world and you didn't notice until you needed something.

My financial frugality served me well. Now it's time to start exercising some emotional frugality. Stop shoving 20s down the pants of disinterested strippers, and invest them in those who will give me a real return.

Posted by Robin at 08:30 PM | Comments (18)

January 13, 2006

Sequestered

If I play my cards right, I won't see another one of the humans - that being any member of the human race - for a good sixteen hours.

What I can see from my 19th floor windows: the Mississippi River, Eads Bridge and the stunning Gateway Arch, close enough that it looks like I could touch it. But I can't. I tried. Hurt my head real bad when it hit the plate glass window.

Jesus, I do love Priceline. Sweet lap of luxury for $40. I'm feeling better already. I also love (prepare to envy me, Summer) chorizo meatloaf from City Grocer and the eclectic channel at Paste Radio, which is keeping me company.

Except for one thing. I've got this weird thing about big structures. They wig me out. Heights don't bother me. If they did, we wouldn't have had that little head-bumping incident with the 19th floor window earlier, would we? I don't like being under big structures. Leaning against the side of the Gateway Arch freaks my shit out. I can't do it. I'm fine unless I look up and then - fuck, that's some big shit up there. Big shit that could fall on me.

I get that feeling every time I walk past the window. Which is kinda fun. It's a sweet little rush. But I just had a thought a few minutes ago: if that bad boy falls over in the night, the building I'm in will be crushed. It's Friday the 13th. There's a full moon (also visible from my room).

New rule: All hotel room windows will be avoided for the duration of my stay. I'll just return to my writing and pretend there's not a huge, looming national monument swaying in the breeze a few feet away.

Posted by Robin at 07:55 PM | Comments (3)

January 12, 2006

In Which I Put My Horrible, Wretched Mood to Good Use

Thanks to everyone who commented and emailed. I appreciate it, I do. Some of you made some incredibly good points. All the points about how people tend to clam up instead of saying something that might sound trite, stupid or just plain wrong? There's a lot of food for thought in that. I've never really had that problem, as I've always been more of an open-mouth-insert-foot-apologize-if-need-be kinda gal. I always just assume I'm going to say something that sounds trite, stupid or just plain wrong, but I do it anyway because sometimes, I accidentally and occasionally say something that's fresh, insightful and dead-on right. I figure the times I flub (many) are worth it on occasions when I get it right (rare). Anyway, my point is I need to be better at trying to understand the reasons why people might not do things the way I try to do them.

Most of the angst pertains to my "real" life. The blog-related ranting was mainly me thinking outloud, as it were. I need to occasionally remind myself how this medium works, and examine my expectations of it.

Now. I had a real Mary Motherfucking Sunshine moment today, and I'm sure you'll all ready to move past my existential bullshit and get back to the usual shit.

Thursday! Oh, how I love my Thursdays! Daycare! Coffeehouse! Writing! I finished the last chapter of the book today! Granted, I still have to finish editing most of the chapters between the first three (also finished) and the last one. But still, having the last chapter in place means I've got my point made. Now I just have to fill in the blanks, which is relatively easy.

The coffeehouse was slam-damn busy all day today. I was sitting near the counter, three tables from the front door. At one o'clock, when I'm often one of the few patrons left from the lunch rush, there was a line that bumped up to my table. Not that I mind. If I wanted to work in quiet solitude, I'd go to the library. I like a little hub-bub in the background while I'm writing.

Anyway, in the midst of this rush, two college-age guys walked in. One of them carried a large, flat piece of artwork, balanced on the flat of his hand like he was holding a pizza box. He yelled, "Pizza's here! Who ordered a pizza?" I smiled at the guy, assuming it was someone from one of the nearby art galleries delivering a painting or print. Probably hamming it up because just about everyone who regularly frequents this coffeehouse hams it up with the staff. Then I turned my attention back to my writing, keeping one ear slightly tuned in.

Turns out, it wasn't someone from a local gallery or representing a local artist. It was one of those fucking scam artist who sells fake prints where the artists get no royalties or control over the finished product. These shysters' story: they were representing a local design house who was clearing! Out! Their! Stock! At! Eighty! Percent! Off! Artists! Like! Thomas! Kincaide!

How do I know this? Because they stood at the front of the coffeehouse, yelling this information at the top of their lungs.

I kept my eyes glued to the page before me, gripping my pen. I'm not going to say anything. I'm not going to look up. I'm just going to tune this shit out and keep writing.

"Hey! How's it going?"

Fuck.

The faux pizza delivery dipshit was standing in front of me. "Lemme tell you about the deals we..."

I locked my eyes with him. "I'm not interested. Thanks," I said through gritted teeth, not looking away.

"Are ya busy? Because I'll just take a minute."

"Yes, I am busy." I motioned to my table, a four-seater completely covered with notebooks, pages of my rough draft, pages of my most recent edit, and the outline of my entire book. "I'm working, and I repeat, I'm not interested in what you're selling."

"You're working? Do you work here? Because we can set you up wi..."

I slammed my pen down and gripped the edge of the table, lest my hand slip and begin slapping the ever-loving fuck out of this idiot. I pulled every bit of anger and frustration I've felt this week and flung it at this weasly little motherfucker: "Listen. I'm busy. I'm working. I am not interested in your shit and I would highly recommend that you get the hell away from me." He stared. "NOW."

I have a sore throat, so sounding ferocious was super-easy! Whee!

He skeedaddled away, off to pester other tables while I sat, staring on the last page of my book, my train of thought completely lost, fighting the urge to get up, walk to the back of the coffeehouse, and go all kinds of violent on that little shit. He was a tiny little thing; I could have done some damage.

As he left, he thanked the barista. She was pleasant, told him his schtick was funny.

"Well, I'm glad someone appreciated it," he said, glaring my way. I didn't bother looking up.

Now, the truly funny part of all this. A few minutes after he left, the girl who was standing in line by my table approached me. "Excuse me," she said, motioning to my left hand. "Can I look at your ring? I noticed it ... um, a minute ago."

Ooookay.

That would be my wedding set, which is really beautiful although not exactly flashy. You want to see it, don't you? Of course you do.


I held out my left hand, ready to jerk it back, lest she be an infiltrater for the underground faux-art black market with ill intentions of snatching the ring off my finger and running away, retaliation for hurting her partner-in-crime's feelings.

But she didn't snatch. Didn't even touch my hand. She bent close and looked. "That's really beautiful," she said when she looked up.

"Thanks," I said. "I'm pretty fond of it."

"And the one who gave it to you?" She smiled.

"Oh, I'm very, very fond of him." I laughed.

Her latte came up, so she said goodbye, took her coffee, and left. My mind clear, I turned back to my work and picked up where I'd left off before being interrupted by the art ass.

I have no idea what brought on that interaction. Maybe she didn't hear my exchange with the art ass. I did make a point of keeping my voice down. Although I'm not sure how she could have missed it. I'm also not sure how she managed to get a look at my ring, since she was standing to my right and had her back to me most of the time. Or maybe she did hear it, could sense the tension and anger radiating from me and took it upon herself to distract me.

It was probably just one of those random things. I approach strangers all the time and ask stupid, weird questions. Like I said, I'm missing that part of my personality that makes me care about looking like an ass. Perhaps she's like that, too. Whatever the reason, that one little, seemingly insignificant bit of connection, made all the difference in the world. It diverted my attention away from something bad and nudged me into focusing on something else: my pretty ring, the sweet fella who gave it to me, and this girl with her latte-to-go who saw fit to approach a stranger - a rather unapproachable stranger - and let it be known that she'd notcied something unique.

And that's why it's good to speak up. By taking that small risk - I could have barked at her the way I barked at the art ass - she made a difference in the path of my day. So take those risks. Just don't try to sell me any fake Thomas Kincaide prints. Or authentic ones, for that matter.

Posted by Robin at 05:21 PM | Comments (13)

January 11, 2006

So Here's the Deal

I've got a couple of serious character flaws that are causing me some trouble. They are:

1) When anyone I know has a problem, I immediately start doing backflips to fix it, even if it means putting myself and other people in my life on the back burner. That business about being codependent? Funny, but it applies across the board in just about every relationship and friendship I've ever had. Hell, it even applies to people I don't know, as well as people I don't like.

and

2) When I have a problem, nothing anyone does to help is ever good enough. I hold people to way too high of a standard. Since I do backflips when others have problems, I assume that others will do the same for me and it rarely happens. As much as I'd like to say that other people are just inconsiderate and inept, there's one common element in all of these situations: me. So I can only conclude that the problem isn't others. It's me.

I honestly don't know. Maybe "Shit. That sucks. I'm sorry. Anyway ... about my day..." is an acceptable response when one is having a really, really shitty time. What the hell else do I want? Someone to solve my problems? While it would be nice, no. It's not possible and it defeats the purpose. The whole point of living this life is to learn how to solve our own problems, right? Right.

Shit, for all I know, maybe I'm actually just saying "Shit. That's sucks. I'm sorry. Anyway ... about my day..." when anyone comes to me with a problem. Maybe the backflips are just internal. Good intentions and such. I can tear myself apart about someone else's pain, but perhaps I'm not expressing that at all. Which is akin to worrying myself sick about paying my taxes and thinking that actually counts as paying them. I honestly don't know anymore. I think my perception is completely fucked.

At least it's better than no response, which often happens, too. At the risk of telling tales out of school, B. used to have a real problem with this. To his credit he's getting much, much better. At its worst, though ... there was one incident about four or five years ago. We were walking out of a restaurant, and I tripped. I was wearing a pair of mules with a two-inch heel, and my foot slipped off the shoe. I twisted my ankle and grabbed B.'s arm to keep from falling on my face. And he just kept walking. Since he couldn't fix the situation, he just kept right on going without saying a word, even though I was in pain.

I feel like I spend a lot of my life in that kind of situation: walking wounded while everyone walks away without a second glance because nothing they do is going to be good enough, anyway.

Again, I'm sure this is all because of me. Maybe I don't holler for help loudly enough. I know I'm not good at showing weakness. Hell, I feel like I could break out in hives at any moment, just by typing this and I'm not 100% convinced that I'll hit the "Publish" button at the end.

I don't use blogging for emotional support. I don't expect any of my readers to be there for me. I know that to everyone who reads this - with the exception of the handful of you who know me personally - I'm not a real person. I'm a personea who tosses out funny stories. And that's fine. That's the nature of the beast and I accept that.

But on really bad days - days when I talk about my daughter being sick and how I'm at my wit's end - it does gall me a bit when I get 1/3 as many comments as I do on the days when I post about a piece of shit truck sitting on my street. I know what most of you come here for, and it's not to give me a pat on the back when I need one. Again, that's fine. Hell, only about 4% of you ever say anything, and that's on the posts that get the most comments. Fine, again. But damn if it's not irritating at times. It inclines me to just keep up the "Mary Motherfucking Sunshine" stuff where I'm just funny and sarcastic and don't ever allow myself to slip outside the "Poppymom" personea. Although I'm obviously doing a piss-poor job of that right now.

At those times I have to ask myself why I'm blogging. What am I getting out of this? Well, I got the rough draft of my book. I get to write. That should be enough and by that token, I should probably just turn off the comments, disconnect Sitemeter and really do this just for myself, an idea I should probably apply to my entire life.

Posted by Robin at 01:48 PM | Comments (25)

January 10, 2006

Things That Need to Come to a Grinding Halt

- The use of the suffix "-palooza" to describe an extravagance of any sort. The straw that broke this particular camel's back: an episode of America's Test Kitchen that aired today, entitled Porkapalooza. We've officially reached the saturation point. Thank you.

-Adults partaking in baby talk in any of its myriad forms.

-January. I fucking hate January.

-B.'s belief that patented magic faeries come through the house and pick up his shit.

-Shit in general. When one has to cut one's fingernail because it has become filled with toddler shit, it's time to JUST STOP ALREADY.

-My urge to ever share a negative emotion or bad day with anyone, as I might as well be talking to myself when I do so. As of the end of this message, I will cease expressing any ugly feelings. From here on out, it's just Mary Motherfucking Sunshine, all day, everyday.

Beginning ... now.

Posted by Robin at 04:35 PM | Comments (11)