August 07, 2007

It's Here! The Fourth Annual Heat-Wave Lock-Down!

As I'm sure you might have gathered, I hate summer. I don't like temperatures to get above 75 degrees. I'm not a big fan of the sun. In a perfect world, I like overcast, a little chilly, and perhaps a little damp. In a perfect world, St. Louis would be either Seattle, Portland or London. But this isn't a perfect world, and once a year (at least) the heat gets so vile that I declare Heat-Wave Lock-Down Day.

That day was today. While I love snow days, I hate heat-wave lock-down days. Heat makes me nervous and uncomfortable. Snow days are filled with cozy things like long-simmering soup, making homemade cookies, and snuggling on the couch with hot beverages. Heat-wave lock-down days are filled with things like waiting for the air conditioner to freeze up, doing everything in my power to not turn on the stove, and having mild panic attacks any time someone else's sweaty, clammy skin touches mine.

Well, except for Clara Jane. I'm used to her crawling all over me. That didn't make it any better when, this afternoon, I blew a raspberry on her bare armpit and found myself with a mouthful of sweat.

There is not enough Klonopin in this house for me to survive more than one Heat-Wave Lock-Down with two bored dogs and a child with sweaty armpits, on which I put my mouth.

There is nothing to write about on Heat-Wave Lock-Down Day. Sweaty armpits are the height of excitement. We've watched far too much TV. We jumped on the spare bedroom bed for so long that it's likely to cause Immediate Lumbar Failure in the next person who attempts to sleep on it. I did knit a little while Clara Jane played with beads. Then I kept myself busy by picking hundreds of wee little seed beads out of berber carpet.

I could finish the new blog design, but it's hard to do that when my brain got bruised from jumping on the bed.

This is one of those lulls that always happens at the end of a season. It just seems more extreme to me in summer. There's lots of cool stuff to look forward to. Crafta Nostra and Strange Folk Festival. Wilco in my old college town with B. (who hasn't been to a show with me since he took me to see Springsteen for our anniversary five years ago), Kristina, and possibly someone I've known since I was, I don't know, Clara Jane's age.

The pink hair-dyeing is coming up in a few weeks. And I'm starting to plan a new tattoo. There's also a birthday trip to Memphis to see someone peachy coming in October.

I dislike living in anticipation. Today was fun, really. I had a day with no responsibilities in which to play with my kid. That's awesome. Even if her pits are sweaty.

Posted by Robin at 08:16 PM | Comments (5)

August 06, 2007

How Tired? So Tired.

It's got to be the heat. That, and not getting much sleep last night. Why? Because of the heat.

(I shouldn't complain. I'm a lucky, lucky person who has the luxury of air conditioning in order to remain at a temperature that makes being alive possible, all while contributing to global warming. I'm a part of the circle of life. A sweaty, sweaty part of the circle of life.)

Anyway, I'd hoped to unveil the new, improved blog layout tonight. Not happening. Too lazy/tired. I'm so lazy/tired that I'm using my old PC. I'm too tired/lazy even try to get my Macbook to connect to the fussy, crabby piece of shit wireless router. It's the third one our ISP has given us, and the third on that won't hold a connection. The Macbook connects just fine and dandy when we're out and about. At home? The router's a lot like me and just wants to take a little nap.

But I'm not whiny today. No! You know a good way to spend one of the hottest days of the year? Why, in my basement rumpus room with a bunch of friends and kids, eating spinach-bacon salad, real Greek feta, homemade cheese - that's right, I said homemade cheese - and homemade hummus with enough garlic to make the entire state of Illinois vampire-free until at least 2018.

I'm tired and dehydrated enough that this could very well turn into one of those, "Gosh, I have the best friends ever" posts, but I try to save those for when I've been drinking. But it's true. Lately I've been constantly amazed at the people who've landed in my life, usually by really weird coincidences.

I knew that parenthood would change my perspective on friendship. Hell, it changed my perspective before I was even pregnant. When we were trying to get pregnant I saw the need to remove several people from my life because I knew that, for various reasons, they wouldn't be good for me.

More of the same during Clara Jane's first two years. Lots of painful housecleaning. I know I did what I had to do, but that didn't make it any easier.

If anything, my patience for people I'm not legally required to take care of starting running low in early 2006, and the supply was totally depleted by the end of that year. I started accepting that I'm an adult, which meant my social circle was going to shrink. So be it.

Then a funny thing happened. I started meeting all these people. Some are moms. Some aren't, but somehow have this innate wiring that allows them to be empathetic to their friends with kids. We all seem to have gone through similar friendship house-cleanings in the past few years and have come to similar realizations: life's too short and our priorities too important to waste time on stupid, piddly shit. In the little time we have together, we're either going to tackle real problems in our lives (without trying to "fix" each other) or we're going to have some damn fun.

Today was a little of the former, and a lot of the latter. We chased each others' kids and corralled them as needed. There was none of that shitty and mean competitive mothering crap going on. Just a lot of kids playing, and a lot of gals laughing so hard they couldn't hear the doorbell over themselves.

And did I mention there was homemade cheese, too?

Gosh. I have the best friends ever!

Posted by Robin at 09:40 PM | Comments (4)

July 31, 2007

Salmonella Alert '07!

I'm midway through Salmonella Alert '07. So far, none has been spotted. It's pretty easy to spot salmonella, what with the projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea.

I'm fine. Really. Last night B. grilled some chicken breasts, corn on the cob, and wee little yellow potatoes, and it was all great. Well, until I got about three bites into my chicken and thought, "Mmmmm ... slick and chewy. Oh my God! Chicken shouldn't be slick and chewy!!!" and commenced spitting chewed food onto my plate and teaching my kid a new way to entertain herself at the dinner table. Sure enough, my chicken wasn't cooked through.

The other pieces of chicken were fine. Mine was the only raw one.

I have the disadvantage of knowledge in this category. In culinary school, they made damn sure that we knew every single thing there is to know about food-borne illnesses and how to prevent them. Generally, I can touch a piece of chicken or a steak and tell you to what degree it's been cooked, which makes me feel particularly stupid about devouring half of a raw piece of chicken.

I'm a bit on the paranoid/hypochondriac side as it is. Being on Salmonella Alert '07 doesn't help. Every time my stomach gurgled last night I was sure This Was It. And my stomach gurgled a lot. Turns out I was just hungry from not finishing my dinner.

It would be so much easier if they made early salmonella detection tests. If you see one line, you're negative. If you don't see any lines because you've befouled the stick, chances are you're positive.

Salmonella generally manifests within 48 hours of ingestion. I remember that from every class I took in culinary school. From my own personal experiences with the disease (two of them, none of them caused by my own food), I tend to develop it faster than that, and in a manner that completely prevents me from functioning as a human being. I become a vomit zombie, or vombie, if you will.

The first time, I was in college, and it hit quick and fast, delivered via a sandwich from Arby's. I was incapacitated enough that my mother had to be called to fetch me.

The second time was from St. Louis' favorite pizza chain (although I have no idea why because my God, they're gross), Imo's. I ordered an Italian sub (the same thing I had from Arby's that made me so ill five years earlier). B. ordered hot wings. I can pretty much guarantee that the genius in the kitchen put B.'s wings in the fryer/oven/delivery car engine block/wherever it is they cook their food, then proceeded to make my sandwich without washing the residual chicken skank from his hands. Not that I witnessed this; I'm just guessing and making unfair assumptions. All I know is I could barely move the next morning, as all of my energy reserves were required for expelling former food items from my body.

Unfortunately, we were supposed to make the 13-hour drive to Michigan to celebrate Christmas with B.'s family that day. He wanted to cancel, but I refused. It was our first Christmas as a married couple and I'd be damned if I was going to ruin it (or have his family think I was wussy enough to be sidelined by residual chicken skank) by staying home. So I puked my way to Michigan.

Also unfortunately, I'm rather fair-skinned, and I tend to rupture every blood vessel in my face when I vomit. By the time we got to Michigan, my face was mapped with every single broken vessel and capillary. A mass of squiggly purple, with bruises around my jaws and the corners of my mouth.

Such a pretty new wife. She's not contagious, is she? Do you have a life insurance policy on her, because I think she might be dying.

So you can understand why I'm a tad paranoid about last night's dinner mishap. Abusing my digestive system with a bottomless cup of coffee all day at Cooperella probably wasn't the smartest thing to do. I feel slightly ill, and I keep thinking, "Uh oh. This Is It," and then I remember the three gallons of coffee and I'm reassured that I don't have salmonella. I have liver failure.

Remind me to tell you about Thanksgiving Rabies Watch '99 and the encore, Thanksgiving Rabies Watch '00. I've discovered that we have a raccoon living in our trees, so maybe we'll do Thanksgiving Rabies Watch '07: The Eighth Anniversary Edition this year.

Posted by Robin at 08:08 PM | Comments (10)

July 29, 2007

The Boob and the Tube

I don't spend much time watching TV. I've got a handful of shows I like - "Scrubs", "My Name is Earl", and "New Adventures of Old Christine". I can easily get sucked into Discovery Channel (especially if there's a "Dirty Jobs" marathon involved), History Channel, and History International if I'm not careful. And while I generally mock reality TV, I get a wee bit obsessive over "American Idol" every year. Then there's the reality shows on A&E and Bravo. Somehow, being on these slightly more highbrow channels removes all reality show guilt. Still, sitting in front of the TV? I'm far too manic for that.

Something's happened to me in this new house, particularly on Sundays. Maybe the precident of severe laziness was set the day after the Boob-Ha-Ha auction, when everyone in the house slept until noon, ate hot wings for breakfast, and sat on our asses staring at either the TV or the various computer monitors.

Oh, so this is why people sit on their asses and do nothing. Because it's fun!

Last Sunday, my ass barely moved from the basement couch. I can't even remember what I watched. All I recall is that it was in marathon form, and on either Discovery or History Channel, so as to make me not a complete slack. I remember - it was nothing but serial killers, all day.

Did I mention that I at least knit or blog while watching hours of TV about serial killers? And sometimes I parent, if necessary. So I'm not being a complete blob. I'm a complete blob with very light yarn callouses on my fingers.

A&E sucker-punched me today. First, with Intervention. By God, I may be a fat, lazy slob glued to my couch and knitting but damn, at least I'm not that woman who goes to sleep with her jug o' Walmart brand mouthwash for easy buzz access when she comes to. Suddenly, I'm feeling pretty awesome about myself. Which is why reality TV's so popular, isn't it?

Even though "Intervention" makes me feel good about my own life, it's still pretty fucking depressing. I turned off A&E and watched a few History Channel shows about the Doomsday Clock. Then, to undo the panic, I took in some Gene Simmons' Family Jewels, which sounds dirty but would require far more energy than I'm willing to exert.

And now, how can I pass this up? It's The Two Coreys! Holy God, how can I possibly look away? It's like every one of my 14-year-old fantasies have come true! Well, not really, since my 14-year-old fantasies didn't involve one Corey being a fussbudget and the other being a jackass. All of this makes me feel even better about myself because 1) I'm not Corey Haim, and 2) I don't have to live with him.

Could someone please jab a sock knitting needle into my eye before "Confessions of a Matchmaker" comes on and completely melts my brain?

Posted by Robin at 08:57 PM | Comments (10)

July 25, 2007

Stuff I've Learned

I know, this is damn near the same as those lame-ass posts with dots I often make when I don't have anything terribly interesting happening in my life. Bear with me. Life is good and calm, and it's quiet enough that I can actually hear my brain when it wants to teach me stuff.

I've learned that it's a waste to spend $12 for a yoga class for my kid. Why? Because I wind up doing all the yoga, all while cajoling Clara Jane to c'mon, please be a downward-facing dog instead of standing there, interrupting the yoga teacher with the details of this morning's episode of "Curious George". The after-effects? All the sore muscles of yoga with none of the Zen benefits. Screw that. From now on, I pay $12/class to yoga teachers who don't invite pants-poopers into the classroom.

I've learned that what Clara Jane lacks in yoga ability, she makes up for in descriptive talents. For example: "Murphy throwed-ed up. She went [insert dog-vomit noises here]. It was orange and looked like a cupcake." I've also learned that there is something that can suppress my insatiable cupcake appetite.

Speaking of dog problems, did you know that Scott Wolf from "Party of Five" has a Maltese with fleas? I learned that yesterday. He sought advice from my pal Jen the Groomer. I don't know if the Maltese pukes orange cupcakes, though.

I've learned that, just because my dad complain on the length of our grass, that doesn't mean he's willing to go to the garage, get the mower, and cut it himself.

I learned that, when the local Punkymoms group has a playdate at the same time and location as a local affluent suburban moms group, it's the punkymoms and their children who are better behaved. I'm sure this doesn't surprise a lot of you. Our tattoos were better, too.

I've learned that I really miss Trader Joe's. I went there today for the first time since the move, and I honestly wanted one of everything.

I've learned that "The Grapes of Wrath" might possibly be my favorite book of all time and I was an idiot for letting it intimidate me for all these years. Ma Joad is my new hero. I've also learned that it's scary and sad how applicable the novel is to what's going on in our world these days.

I've learned that my husband can walk down the street while reading the new Harry Potter book. I just looked out the window and saw it with my own two eyes.

I've learned that no matter how much B. and Clara Jane claimed the need for a xylophone in this house, they were mistaken.

I've learned that I'm quite smart these days.

Posted by Robin at 04:09 PM | Comments (9)

July 19, 2007

How to Mess with My Head, If You Want

It's not hard to mess with my head. I mean, it's already pretty messed up to begin with, especially on days like today when I forget to take my brain pills.

You know I have a weird thing about dates, right? I have an astounding memory for dates (although I rarely know what the date is). Today, for instance, is the one-year anniversary of that big storm that knocked the fuck out of St. Louis last summer, a situation that I handled not well.

The fact that a cold front and storms rolled in today in a similar manner as they did one year ago this evening? That's not good for my head. Not at all.

Turning on my beloved History Channel this afternoon and seeing that today's Modern Marvels is about the Viet Cong tunnels, which was the subject of the book I was reading while exiled by the storm? That didn't do me much good, either. Not that it stopped me from watching it.

I was almost afraid to start dinner tonight, because we'd just finished eating dinner a year ago when the power went out, so if we eat dinner tonight then MY GOD, THE POWER'S GOING TO GO OUT FOR A WEEK!!!

I'm obviously not taking enough medication.

Posted by Robin at 05:32 PM | Comments (7)

July 18, 2007

I'm Blogging in Public

I really don't have anything to say, other than I'm blogging in public for the first time ever. I love you, Macbook, even though I had to break down a few days ago and buy a book with the word "dummies" in the title.

I'm actively starting the change to WordPress that I've been threatening since last fall. After using it for the Boob-Ha-Ha site, I'm hooked. Unfortunately, my host has other ideas. We're working through it and I'm hoping that within a week or so, this-here blog will have an all-new look. I'm fed the hell up with the current design.

I'm at CooperElla, sipping an iced hazelnut mocha, watching Clara Jane play, and pondering what to get for lunch. Medeterrainian salad with chicken? Roast Beast sandwich? I so hope this is the biggest delimma I face today. Yesterday's biggest delimma: chasing stupid little Murphy's ass around the neighborhood first thing in the morning. Again. This escape was all my fault, as I trusted her to walk the few feet to the gate, accompanied by me, without running down the block after imaginary bunnies. Stupid me.

I'm pretty sure my new neighbors refer to me as "that fat gal who never wears a bra and runs up the street screaming at her poor dog." Could be worse. I could be "that jackass with the Rebel flag in the front window".

Speaking of neighbors, through the magic of the internet I found out there's another Robin with a toddler who lives a few blocks from me. I think we're the same age and we have the same bathroom and the same taste in music. Amazing. I moved to a town where, apparently, I already lived. She's not fat and I bet she doesn't run braless down her street, screaming at her stupid dog. She lives on the nicer side of the street.

I just taught Clara Jane how to make an L7 with her thumbs and forefingers. I'm the best mom ever. Or, I will be once I teach her the words to "Pretend We're Dead".

Lunch delimma? Solved. Med. salad with chicken, and an admonishment from the kitchen about my penchant for ordering the same thing all the time. I don't care. I'm glad to be back to normal. Especially since "normal" now includes blogging-anywhere capabilities. Why I waited so long to join the 21st laptop-operated century, I'll never know. Oh, right. The money thing.

Speaking of techology I dont need, B. procured a Palm Treo for me last week. A nice surprise, but I'm not convinced I'm busy or important enough to merit that much electronics in one wee machine. He bought it from a friend for $65, and I'm pretty sure it was done wholely as a preventative measure to keep me from uttering the term "iPhone" one more time.

Oh my word. I just watched a father admonish his son, who's probably younger than Clara Jane, for playing with a pink tutu. Enforce those gender roles, Papa! Granted, he's an older dad. He probably would have had a stroke if he'd seen Clara Jane in her skirt, pretending to play baseball about an hour ago.

You know, one of these days I should just live-blog an afternoon at Hartford or Cooperella. Not today. Raquel just walked in, bearing beautiful sock yarn for me. There's knitting and visiting to be done. And another iced hazelnut mocha to drink, for sure.

Posted by Robin at 11:56 AM | Comments (8)

July 05, 2007

1 New House + 2 Blogs = Huh?

I honestly don't know which end's up, but in a good way.

Are we unpacked? Of course not. You don't want to hear about that, I know. I don't want to write about it. We're getting there and making good progress. I just want it done.

Murphy escaped yet again. This time, she used a depression of mud to her advantage and dug her way under the gate. I'm starting to think she might be more clever than we've given her credit. Next step: doggie straight jacket.

Oh, I have a Mac now. B. and I rarely go to the mall, but it seems like that's where we wind up every Fourth of July. I guess it makes sense, in my warped way, to celebrate America with an annual blatant foray into consumerism at its worst.

Did you know that one of the St. Louis malls has side-by-side Apple and Lush stores? It's like the marketing gurus said, "Hmmmmm ... Robin makes a whopping four figures a year. How can we best part her with all of them at once? I know!"

So we celebrated Independence Day by liberating me from Microsoft and desktop oppression. I now have a wee little MacBook who is just the lightest, sweetest little piece of electronics ever. I also have a wealth of bath bombs. I've been advised to not use my two puchases simultaneously.

The timing's right. I intended to buy this little machine as a housewarming gift to myself for a long time. Like, seven years. That's a long time spent waiting and hating on Bill Gates. Worth it, though.

Besides, I'm maintaining two blogs right now. For God's sake, please tell me you've been to Boob-Ha-Ha. Don't make me badger you into going again.

I had a lovely Boob-Ha-Ha opportunity land square in my lap today. While squatting lunching at CooperElla (It's not squatting if I provide lots of free advertising, right?), the editor of the home section of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch stopped by, hoping to find some crafty types to test drive some Martha Stewart-branded scrapbooking gadgets. Which we did, immediately turning them into things other than scrapbooking gadgets. Beqi and I took the opportunity to accost this poor woman with our current pet projects - Boob-Ha-Ha for me and Craftaostra for her. We shall see if we get the big local media shout-out.

In the meantime we got a cool local indie media shout-out from Cranky Yellow. Funny thing is, I hadn't heard about them until today. And when I got home, there they were on Boob-Ha-Ha! Sure, probably not a coincidence, but that's fine.

I'm just blown away by peoples' willingness to spread the word and donate. Oh my God! Now that the auction items are starting to arrive, both physically and via photos, I'm ... speechless. Honestly speechless. The only thing I can say that even comes close to expressing my amazement at the willingness and generosity people have shown in this fundraiser is this: from now on, when I catch myself doubting the goodness of humanity on the whole, and wondering if there's any good left in the world, I'm going to make myself look back on this experience. Even if that means holding onto the spreadsheet with all my donation info and reading it every few months. There are a lot of extremely giving people out there who, when you ask for one, will gladly give you six. Or maybe that's just the kind of people I know. Either way, I'm glad. And holy God, it's starting to hit me that I'm going to have to dye my hair pink in the near future, because at this point I think we're going to clear $1000 if each auction item only brings the minimum bid.

Oh boy.

Did I mention that in addition to all of this my parents and grandparents are going to be squatting staying at our house this weekend? You know that's always fun, and I'm sure the blog fodder will finally stretch beyond Murphy escape stories and Boob-Ha-Ha promos. Next up: House Full o' Hillbillies Stories!

Posted by Robin at 07:31 PM | Comments (6)

July 02, 2007

Things That are Funny. Things That are Not.

Funny: When two unrelated blog entry topics come up in the same search on my log. For example, today there was a search regarding long-haired wiener dogs that originated from Pekin, Illinois. Not only does this make me think of my former neighbor-dog who once got a long-haired wiener dog stuck on his wiener but also of the time Clara Jane explosively vomited all over the Pekin, Illinois Wal-Mart.

Not funny: The fact that I'm this close to painting the windows in Clara Jane's room black. Not because I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes and I have to turn my head until my darkness goes. I've been taking my medication and that's not a problem anymore. No, I'm going to have to paint her windows black because the two large ones in her room face east. In lieu of room-darkening blinds, B. opted to attach dirty bedsheets to the windows with potato chip bag clips to her windows. I guess the two weeks of filth and grime that accumulates in a 3-year-old's room, in addition to a week's wear on the sheets merits a good washing. Long story short, with nothing but mini-blinds to shield her eyes from the sun, I woke up at 6:30 AM to the sound of my dogs going totally apeshit crazy because Clara Jane was in her room, wide awake, and drumming.

On a normal morning, she wakes up, gathers a pile of books, and goes back to bed to quietly read. Why today had to be Drumming Day, I have no idea, and I don't find it funny.

Funny: The phrase Boob-Ha-Ha. You might learn what it means tomorrow.

Not funny: Well, pretty much everything's funny once you say the word "boob-ha-ha" a few times.

Posted by Robin at 06:36 PM | Comments (4)

June 25, 2007

Pee Shoes ... is Niiiiiice

For one of the first times since we moved, I left Clara Jane and B. home while I ran some errands by myself. Not that this was a big deal. It wasn't. I didn't get lost; you know how much time I spent in Prettytown before we moved. I know my way around. It was pleasant to have that solo time, even if it was just shopping, getting trapped in a bookstore in the pouring rain, and stopping for coffee.

But you also know that nothing in my world is that simple.

Sometimes wishes come true. When I decided to stop for coffee I was hoping my pal Raquel, she of the beautiful, newly-finished back tattoo that ended with a trip to the E.R., would be there. And as luck would have it, she was working behind the counter. Raquel makes a fantastic latte.

There were three other patrons in the coffeehouse, apparently regulars but this was my first encounter with them. The only way I can describe this trio sounds terrible. It really does. But there's no other way. What I walked into at the coffeehouse was a meeting of the Metro East Bosnian Borat Fan Club.

Two of the guys wore matching Borat t-shirts, possibly homemade, as I can't find the design on any of the umpteen bazillion websites selling Borat t-shirts. The third wore an obviously inaccurate "Made in Ireland" shirt and did a lot of muttering in my general direction while we were both at the counter.

After visiting with Raquel for awhile, Borat Shirt #1 waved in my direction and said, "Hey, Ma'am? Is Niiiiice."

And then he started doing the movie's dialogue from the beginning.

Before he could display his love of disco dancing I interjected, "You've seen 'Borat' a few times?"

He held up four fingers and continued his monologue.

I don't know how I feel about being hit on by three Bosnian Borat wannabes. Well, other than hysterical, because that's some funny shit right there. It's no secret that I attract unusual characters, but this gaggle might top the list. They're definitely up there with the homeless man who once told me, "I don't want no skinny girls. Gimme a gal like you!"

Anyway ...

When I got home, Clara Jane was napping. B. and I went about the usual business of trying to decrapify our new house.

As you might recall, I recently wore the same pair of shoes for well over a week because mine were in a hidden box, trapped in the garage. My shoes have since been recovered and all is well. Until today.

"Uh, Rob?" B. said. "I wasn't going to tell you this, but since your shoes are still in the sink I guess I should."

"What do you mean, my shoes are in the sink? Which shoes?"

"That pair you wear all the time. The black leather ones."

Seems that Clara Jane, the Potty Train Wiz-ard, was going commando, playing in the basement for a bit while I was gone. She yelled upstairs, "Daddy! I peed!" which you never want to hear. I mean, we just got the dogs to understand that this is their den and pissing on the floor is unnecessary.

The good news: there was nary a drop of child urine on the carpet.

The bad news, which you've probably already figured out: when Clara Jane peed, she happened to be straddling my shoes.

"It was just like those pictures you see of people drinking champagne out of shoes. Except it was a clunky shoe instead of a pump. And it was pee," B. explained.

For a moment, running off with the Bosnian Borat Cult didn't seem like such a bad idea. Pee in shoes? Not niiiiiiice.

Posted by Robin at 12:06 AM | Comments (9)

June 21, 2007

Bourgeoning Young Criminals Galore!

No, our new neighborhood hasn't gone the way of our old one. Everyone's still delightful. We've lived here for a week and I haven't once had the urge to call the cops. It's been nearly a decade since I've gone a week without wanting the cops. Progress!

Unfortunately, I'm starting to fear that we're the equivalent of the dune-buggying, dirt-biking, face-tattooing, verbally-abusing, Brandy-screwing folks we left in our old neighborhood. Two examples:

1. Remember the situation with our garage door being shut, possibly permanently trapping a great deal of our worldly belongings, including all but one pair of my shoes? Well, let's just say it's been fixed. Let's just say it's been fixed by a member of this family who went to a website - possibly www.burgeoning_young_criminals.org - and learned how to pick a lock with a Steelcase desk key, which he did right beside our Neighborhood Watch sign. And me without my camera.

2. Clara Jane set off a cherry bomb in a public toilet. At least, that's what I'm going to tell people, because it's less embarrassing than saying, "Yeah, my three-year-old is such a gold-medal-level shitter* that she demolished the toilet at a local yarn shop."

I'm just glad I made a sizable purchase before the kid went all shitorious.

(*Thanks to Rachel for the terminology. She's the one who had to deal with my kid's intestinal fallout, so for God's sake go buy a bunch of yarn from her. The gal deserves it for what she tolerates from me and my child.)

Posted by Robin at 08:10 PM | Comments (15)

May 23, 2007

Irritated

My dogs are irritated, and it's their own damn fault. They've been spitting out the Benadryl tablets we put in their food, and now the spring allergens have them scratching and chewing their bodies to bits.

Which reminds me, I need to find a new groomer near the new house. Our groomer, who charges $5/dog for the works and recently appeared before Judge Mathias in a real estate dispute, is one of the few folks I'll miss from our current neighborhood. Cheap grooming and blog fodder aside, she's nice to us, and super-nice to my dogs, which is no easy task, what with them spitting Benadryl hither and yon, and then spending the next three hours trying to chew off their legs and, in Murphy's case, vulva.

I'm especially irritated with some folks at Indiana University, specifically in the Communication Studies department, who have spent the past two days leaving comment spam on "mommy blogs" in an attempt to drum up research subjects. Please, if you see these comments, don't participate in their study. Don't let them set a precident of using bandwidth and web space that doesn't belong to them, without permission from the website owner, for their work. If you've been getting these comments on your blog, please contact their IT department.

I'm irritated with my town, but what else is new? I'm not as irritated as I expected to be, though. In the eight years we've lived in this house, I've had it in the back of my paranoid little mind that, when the previous owners had the house inspected, some palms must have been greased. There were conditions in this house that would never pass inspection.

Well, we're in the middle of a regular inspectionarama these days. Today was the buyer's insurance company and the municipal occupancy inspection. B. got the municipal inspection list on Monday, and the top of his head exploded in rage. So many things on this list that weren't fixed by the previous owners before we moved in. So obvious that yes, indeed, an inspector turned a blind eye to many offenses eight years ago, a few that we will be stuck fixing. B. could barely function last night for worrying about how badly this inspection would go. I just tried to not think about it.

Good news is, we won't have to rebuild the house from the ground up. The inspection went fairly well. There's a small list of things to do, most of them fairly asinine and petty, but all completable in our remaining 23 days in the crapshack. Still, it's a bit galling. These municipal inspections are a joke, and little more than a way for these wee St. Louis county municipalities to make money. $20 for today's inspection. $20 to have another inspection after the work's done.

Speaking of the move, this isn't exactly irritating, but it's bothering me. Clara Jane's been way off-kilter recently. There was last week's school-skipping incident, in addition to lots of general crankiness and defiance, which isn't like her. Last night was exceptionally rough; she was fighting sleep at 11 PM after a night of generalized mayhem-making. I went to her room to find out what as going on, to be met with Clara Jane's version of small talk.

I don't know what prompted me to ask, but while we were chatting I said, "Sugar, does it bother you that we've been putting all our stuff into boxes?", to which she erupted in sobs. "Stop putting our stuff in boxes!"

Ah, so that's the problem. The move's freaking her out. Who'da thunk it?

Since then, B. and I have been trying to explain the concept of "moving" to her. Another surprise: that's not the easiest thing to conceptualize in 3-year-old terms. B. took her to the basement this morning to see that all the boxes with our stuff are still in our possession. We've explained that a big truck will be involved. In Clara Jane's world, just about anything's tolerable if a big truck is involved. We've explained that yes, the dogs and cat will be at the new house.

Clara Jane and I spent the day at Cooperella while B. wrangled the inspectors. She was a bit more snuggly than usual. I think she's been a little starved for attention, what with all the moving chaos. I'm hoping that tomorrow's train trip and a few days with my parents will get her back on track, and not throw her even further asunder.

But the fact is, no matter how off-kilter Clara Jane is, or how itchy the dogs are, or how irritating Indiana Univeristy is being, or how asinine the occupancy codes in my town are, it's all buffered by the fact that the end's in sight. 23 days, and the worst of the move will be over and this will all be worth it. The dogs will be spitting Benadryl all over a new kitchen. I'll be fighting academic spam from the comfort of my front porch with my new MacBook. Clara Jane will have enough room in the new house to construct her very own panic room. And no one will give a fuck if an electrical socket is installed upside-down.

Posted by Robin at 04:46 PM | Comments (9)

May 22, 2007

O, How the Mighty Have Fallen

Some of you long-time readers might recall how, way back in the day, I used to operate my own little catering company while maintaining a regular column in the local foodie rag. I wasn't just a foodie - I was a professional foodie. If you were invited to my house to eat, you could guarantee that everything was made from scratch and would be pretty damn good. Well, with some exceptions. Like the time I accidentally served my in-laws fried chicken that was raw on the inside (most likely my subconscious doing its evil, dirty thing). Or the time I burned my foot while making lasagna(again, subconscious - it has everything to to with who I'm feeding and how I feel around them). So, let me rephrase: If you were invited to my house to eat and you didn't drive me absolutely, positively batshit, you were in for a fine dining experience, for sure.

Since listing the house for sale in January, I've barely set foot in the kitchen. We've been eating a lot of convenience food and take-out because we either didn't want to mess up the kitchen or take the time from house projects. Nevermind that most of the people who looked at our house did so at dinnertime, which means we spent a portion of of our equity on eating out. When I hosted a little shindig in March, I did what had previously been unthinkable for me: I made it potluck. The only food I did was a cheese tray. And some cream cheese topped with my homemade Thai pepper jelly with pea pods for dipping. And mango-chili chicken salad. But that was it. Everyone else had to bring their own damn food.

What's the point of being pals with a chef if her parties are potluck? Honestly.

Today, I went one step further. At least with the shindig I made my dishes from scratch. Well, except for the cheese. I don't make cheese, but you understand what I'm saying. Today, I did something utterly disgraceful in my world.

I had company over for lunch and a playdate, and every single food I served came out of my freezer. Everything but the salad, which was left over from Sunday night's dinner with last night's broccoli added to pad it out.

That's right. The former food service professional who used to make money by feeding people nothing but fresh, hand-made food, fed a friend and some children her trash.

Okay, granted, it wasn't exactly trashy trash. The kids had all-natural chicken nuggets. The adults had a frozen veggie pizza from Shakespeare's, which Angela and I both regard as a delicious, soul-soothing taste of nostalgia. And there was pie. Made-from-scratch cherry pie from Granny Viv. That's nothing to be ashamed of. Okay, inviting friends over to eat frozen food I don't want to move isn't exactly a proud thing, but it was fun.

I even burned two of my knuckles while removing all three frozen items from the 425-degree oven, which means I've completely lost my touch in the kitchen.

I don't see a lot of cooking occuring anytime soon. Tomorrow we have two inspections on the crapshack. Clara Jane and I will be fleeing, leaving the manly job of inspector-wrangling to B.

Thursday, perhaps Clara Jane will forget her fear of flies and will return for her very last day of daycare. If so, I'll spend the day fretting, waiting for the call that the sight of a gnat has sent her over the edge and I have to come get her. If she doesn't go, I'll be busy with teaching her how to live her best agoraphobic life. That evening, we're going hobo again, hitting the rails for my hometown. She needs to spend a few days with her grandparents while we finish house stuff, and B. needs me out of his hair while he does some heavy-duty repairs.

While I'm gone I'm sure he'll eat nothing but the Aldi's version of frozen fried chicken, burgers from Rally's, and nachos and Super Mega Tub Big Gulps from 7-11, at which point Chef Reed Miller, who taught me everything I know about cooking, will track me down and remove two of my fingers with my own chef's knife.

Posted by Robin at 04:25 PM | Comments (7)

May 16, 2007

Predictably Ill

I knew it was coming. During times of stress and overload, I can guarantee that I will come down with some nasty respiratory-related illness. Sure enough, the first bits of dry, hacking cough arrived on Sunday night. Monday, I was okay through the day, but promptly zonked out for three hours shortly before dinner. Had it not been for a father-child kerfluffle outside my bedroom door around 8:30, I probably would have slept through the night without dinner, which is saying a lot, because I really like dinner.

I hacked and coughed my way through Tuesday, so much so that B. came home at noon to take over child care duties. And to fetch food, because I had a fever that required feeding and lots of it. This fever, which hit the 102 mark at one point, wanted baked potatoes, chicken noodle soup, mac and cheese, bread, muffins, Little Debbie Nutty Bars, pure refined white flour straight from the flour bag, and potato chips. Since I'm normally not a carb craver, I'm guessing that my body was in panic mode and decided it needed to load up on energy sources before it was struck down by a coma.

I'm fine. Really. I stayed on the couch all day, and even managed to do enough knitting to mess up a sock. I snuggled under my quilt with Clara Jane, who gets terribly worried if I so much as cough. Sorry about the predisoposition for anxiety disorder, Toots.

I was sick enough that I didn't listen to the new Wilco album, which I purchased on iTunes first thing yesterday morning. My ears were hurting, so I opted to wait until I can enjoy it via my earbuds. I'm hoping to hit the perfect window of the time when my ears are back to normal, but I'm still emotionally wonky from being sick. I'd love nothing more than to have a few music-related crying spells. The one song from the album I've heard (which you can hear on my MySpace page) makes me sob. In a good way.

Illness be damned, house stuff keeps moving on. We have the inspection on the new house Saturday morning, just in time to head to Art on the Square. We decided awhile back that, once we live in Prettytown, we're going to buy one piece of art at Art on the Square every year. Although we'll be three weeks shy of moving in, we're still going to buy our first art as Prettytown residents, which makes this move seem very, very real. And good. I'm having a really hard time mustering any sentimentality about leaving. Leaving Clara Jane's room might be the hardest part for me, but even that seems odd, because it's definitely not the same room we had for her when we first brought her home.

While I would never poke fun at anyone's death, no matter how reprehensible I found that person to be in life, I had to laugh at Salon's interview with Tinky-Winky regarding the passing of Jerry Falwell. Don't read it if you're suffering from respiratory malaise, like myself, because it hurts. Badly.

Speaking of hurting badly, rumors are circulating that my beloved coffeehouse is changing hands. This saddens and concerns me to know end. So much so that all day, I've been fighting the urge to haul my still-diseased, unwashed carcass down there and demand what's going on. I'm not terribly surprised, just knowing what I know about how things have been over the past few months. But I'm concerned that the new owners won't roast the coffee so perfectly. Or that they won't share the original owners' adamancy about using only fair-trade beans. Or that they'll turn the play area into The Ayn Rand School for Tots. Or that the new owners are friends with Savior Dad, and they've purchased the coffeehouse for the sole purpose of ruining the lives of me and my motley crew of friends. There are so many things to worry about with this news. So many, indeed. Which means I'll be getting sick again.

Posted by Robin at 12:50 PM | Comments (3)

May 14, 2007

If I Can't Say Anything Nice ...

Well, these days, no matter what crap rains down, I can at least say that the move is on. One month from today, my friends, we close on both houses.

One month.

And no, I'm not having packing-related panic attacks. I've actually done things in a smart, organized manner. There's really not much packing left to do, as I've been packing here and there since January.

Last Thursday was our home inspection, and today was the appraisal. I've learned something about folks in the poking-around-your-house business: they're perpetually early. The inspectors were waiting outside when we arrived home 15 minutes before their appointment. Today, the appraiser arrived at 9:30 instead of 10, meaning he got to see me in my pajamaed, braless, morning breathed glory. Good thing I wasn't the one being appraised. I wouldn't have gone for much. Although in this neighborhood, pajamaed at 9:30 AM, braless, and morning breathed is better than a lot of the other options. Do I need to bring up '80s Lady, dune buggy old ladies, or the 360-degree cameltoe yet again?

Because spending money on a house isn't enough, we're also footing the bill for a new roof, per last week's inspection. Today I learned that we're also footing the bill for a new air conditioner in our truck. I guess it was feeling left out, what with all the cash we've been flinging at the house.

But that's all fine. We'll have a vehicle with air conditioning (which we won't be able to afford to drive) and a new roof (which we'll never live under). We're lucky to be able to throw random wads of cash hither and yon.

Tomorrow I'll be throwing some of my cash hither and yon in the direction of the new Wilco album, and you know that makes me happy. Take my a/c. Take my roof. Take my money. Just leave a copy of "Sky Blue Sky" on my iPod and I'll be just fine.

Sometime in the next day or two, I'll be slipping away so I can listen to the album in its entirity all by myself without distraction. That makes me almost as happy as moving. Too bad there are people still living in my new house, or I'd tresspass onto their front porch for my little listening party for one.

In fact, 15s are looking good. Tomorrow's the 15th, and the album's coming out. June 15th, we'll be moving. July 15th, I'm planning a big, blow-out of a boobie fundraiser for The Cuz and her 3-Day Walk for Breast Cancer. And not just because I so want her to raise $5000 and shave her head. That's only part of the reason.

But yes, 15s are good. I can talk about 15s all I want right now, and I'll always have something nice to say.

Posted by Robin at 04:52 PM | Comments (10)

May 07, 2007

Bit by Bit

I'm finding that after the insanity of the past week, I'm having to digest everything - all the great news and bad news - in tiny little bits. If there's one thing I've learned about myself, it's that I'm easily overwhelmed and I can't take on everything at once.

The only problem with this bit-by-bit method is I can't quite predict which bit is going to hit me at what point. Like yesterday, I went to Target by myself. One minute I'd find myself so giddy I was teary-eyed because I found the perfect tablecloth to match the walls in our new dining room. The next minute, when I'm not distracted by some pretty piece of merchandise, I would find myself teary because I was thinking about Paula. And then I made the mistake of going shopping for Mother's Day cards, which always makes me weepy.

In other words, I'm in a constant state of being on the verge of tears at any given moment, and for many, many reasons. But I'm dealing with it.

Toddler time helps. Sunday night we babysat the 21-month-old son of a friend. It's hard to be teary from sadness when there are two little ones, running amok, filled with giggles and squeals and snuggles.

I'm starting to allow myself to get excited about the move. The contract for the sale of our house is in our hands. Today, the buyers conducted their professional inspection. While the inspectors have to give us the results via our real estate agent, they assured us that things look good. This was the biggest hurdle between selling the house and closing. The news that the house really isn't a crapshack has lifted a weight.

The contract on the house we're buying became final today. As of June 14th, we're out of the Redneck Jungle and into our new house, in a new neighborhood and new town. I keep looking around whenever I'm driving around our current neighborhood, expecting to feel at least a little sentimentality, but all I feel is complete, absolute relief that we're finally on our way out.

The new house: It's a 1920s brick bungalow. Corner lot, huge covered front porch, beautiful brickwork, trees, picket fence, two-car garage in the back, big yard.

It's one story, even though we assumed we'd buy a two-story. Granted, it's got a wonderful finished basement, so essentially, it's two stories of living space. Considering that most of the apartments I lived in were basements, it only seems right for me to return to subterranean life.

The main floor - restored hardwood floors, gorgeous original woodwork, an arched front door with leaded glass window, fireplace with a beautiful mantel in the front living room. Down the hall, there are two bedrooms and a bathroom. Straight ahead, a big, orange dining room with a single leaded-pane French door leading to the kitchen, where there's a floor-to-ceiling built-in china cabinet.

Have I told you this? I honestly can't remember who I've told what.

The basement's family room is 13'x28' with a wet bar and exposed brick walls. There's a huge spare bedroom, which will also house my desk although I'll most likely finally be getting my laptop once we're moved. Next to the spare room, B.'s office, which is around the corner from a big utility room and a tiny bathroom.

That's right. A bathroom. We were in such a rush when we looked at the house last January that we completely missed the second bathroom.

And yes, as many of you suggested in the comments, it's a better fit than that house we were sure was meant for us. It's a bit smaller, which is fine. I mean, considering that last week we misplaced our cat for several days in our 970 square foot house, it's highly possible that, if we lived in that 2200 square foot house, we would misplace our kid. Overall, though, it just feels better. As much as I adored the other house, we also knew a lot of work would be involved to fix it up. In this one, once we fix a tiny bad spot in the fence, we should be able to move our stuff and simply start living. I can't begin to describe how wonderful that sounds.

This house doesn't feel like settling. The whole time we were looking at it on Thursday, I wasn't overwhelmed by its charms. I just wanted to sit in every room and snuggle in. I guess it's akin to the difference between infatuation and true, solid love.

I get to live on what's claimed to be America's longest Main Street. I can't even begin to think of how idyllic that seems.

So, it's all sinking in. I know all of this probably reads rather numbly, and it will for awhile because it's going to take awhile to process all that's happened in the past week. But I'm getting there.

Posted by Robin at 10:55 PM | Comments (14)

April 25, 2007

The Good n' Bad

Yeah, yesterday I said I'd blog about books. My brain isn't working that well, though, so you'll settle for more fragments.

This wasn't a happy sight to see first thing in the morning upon letting my dogs outside:

Alas for you, Donkey from "Shrek". I guess since Boy got busted trying set fire to Donkey yesterday, he had to settle for impalement.

But this was good:

No, I didn't knit them myself. Angela gave me the yarn for my birthday in 2005, when I first attempted (and repeatedly failed) at sock-knitting. A few months ago, in a fit of failrure, I tossed all my sock-knitting supplies into a box and shipped them to my pal Dixie in Germany. About ten minutes later, I learned to knit my own damn socks. Regardless, she's still wrangling my previous, obviously cursed, yarn into custom-fitted socks for me, and the first pair arrived today.

Yes, I know they don't quite match. That's not Dixie's fault; it's an anomily with the yarn, which makes me love them even more.

This wasn't good, though. Clara Jane threw a massive hissy fit at Barnes & Noble today. When I stepped towards her to pick her up, she went all boneless on me in a heap on the floor. I put my hands under her arms and just as I lifted, her bones miraculously returned, rocketing her from the floor directly into my chin. She took quite a blow to the noggin - her second in three days. I've got a bruised chin, sore jaw, and bite marks on my lower lip. Eating dinner tonight was fun. The wine burned, but was obviously necessary.

When I got home with my battered mandibular region and tired, cranky, possibly head-injured child, I had an email from Kristina with a link to a leak of the new White Stripes single. That makes all the pain go away. Except for the ringing in my ears, but I think that's my own fault.

Posted by Robin at 08:48 PM | Comments (9)

April 24, 2007

Today's Thoughts in Three Parts

Sometimes, my brain's too complex for mere dots.

Real Estate Crap
Four new reasons why I have to move as soon as possible:
1. It was about a year ago when our neighborhood 7-11 closed, prompting me to realize that this neighborhood is really going downshill and we need to move, pronto. Well, a new business is about to open in 7-11's old building. A liquor store.

2. The building that has been in progress a few blocks from our house for months? It's open. It's a no-name motel. Our neighborhood is near the airport, but not that near. In other words, this place will be a flophouse.

3. You know I like my neighbor across the street, despite her bad taste in pants and her penchant for leaving Christmas lights up until mid-March. Otherwise, she's nice. Really. But her new friendship with the creepy guy up the street bothers me. Now, I don't care about the nature of their relationship. I do care that they spend every single afternoon adding new fake animals, plastic plants, and whirlygigs to her front yard. This isn't helping my property value!

4. Remember Boy, my cute next-door neighbor? Well, he's not so cute now that he's hit the 'tween years. First, he chucked all of his stuffed animals into the backyard. For three weeks, I can't look outside without seeing dogs mauling a 1:12-scale stuffed version of the donkey from "Shrek". What's worse than that? Looking out my window this afternoon just in time to see Boy, blue Bic lighter in hand, preparing to burn his stuffed bunnies in effigy.

The house was viewed today. We'll see, as always. We also got feedback from the first people who viewed the house last week. Now, let me preface this by saying that the agent wasn't smart enough to figure out how to unlock our front door. I think she was disgruntled because of that and decided to take it out on us by calling our house "cluttered, dirty, dated, and highly unlikely to sell at this asking price."

I want to punch her in the face. She won't even see it coming because she's fucking blind. Our agent thinks this message is purely bullshit. Rather, he said that many people simply lack "imagination". He's nicer than I am.

I promised myself I wouldn't take it personally when people don't like our house. For the most part, I'm not. Another set of people looked at the house 15 minutes after the people who thought it was dirty and dated, and they loved it, except for the lack of garage. That, I don't take personally. But when I spend the whole week, nee, the past three months doing little more than cleaning and packing and trying to make this place presentable, you damn well better believe I take it personally when someone says shit like that.

Obviously, my psyche is going to take a beating until this house is gone.

Clara Jane
We've established that my kid's funny, right? If you need more proof, today, we were buying planters for the damn porch to make the house look, as Allison put it, "All welcoming and shit." While waiting in line, Clara Jane held one 6" pot to her ear, another to her mouth and yelled, "Hiddie-ho! Clara Jane speaking! Hello? HELLO?!" over and over and over.

This was funny, too, but hardly her fault. While the house was being shown we went out for a late lunch. She hadn't slept nearly enough last night, was eating far too late, and was ate up with the slappies, causing her to dance from the counter to our table and then to the drink bar. I think she was moving as much as possible so she wouldn't fall asleep standing up.

While I was filling my iced tea and Clara Jane was plie-ing and pirouetting, a woman jumped up from the opposite side of the restaurant and bounded to us in two or three strides. Tall, lithe, willowy and asking me, "Did she just come from a ballet class?"

"Um, no. She went to yoga class. Once."

The woman went on and on about how we need to get her into a dance class, pronto, because she shows real talent potential.

Real talent potential! Right there in the middle of Noodles & Co., hopping like a frog!

"I have three tutus," Clara Jane told the woman, apropos of nothing. I think the woman kind of wanted to kidnap her at that point.

All through lunch what did I hear? "Hey Mom? I'm a ballerina!" I didn't have the heart to tell her that she comes from the two longest family lines of poor grace and balance in the history of the world. Do I have to remind you about how I injured my ankle a few years back?

In other news, Clara Jane keeps blurring the gender roles, this time by stealing my jewels and accesorizing her rubber dinosaurs before sending them into loud, snarling dino-battle:

Books
I've written enough. Tomorrow, books. In the meantime, if you didn't do as I asked and visit all the bloggers I interviewed, at least go see The Cuz, making baby pteradactyl noises.

Posted by Robin at 04:52 PM | Comments (4)

April 23, 2007

A Mind-Wobbling Interview

You know I don't do memes, except on MySpace, where I'm a whore for anything involving questions that allow me to talk about myself. Dirty little secret, right there. But I do enjoy the interview memes that float around the blogosphere on occasion. Since I've been in such a foul mood of late, I need something to distract me from the crabby-ass writing I've done in the past few weeks. So, when I saw Dixie and Hilda participating in interviewing each other, I jumped aboard. Here's what Hilda had to say to me:

Let's see I don't *know* you too well, as I'm a relatively new reader of your blog. So I'll go generic.

Whoa. I'll bet we know each other better than you might realize. I occasionally particapte on a message board where you were once quite active. We were even partnered in a swap for our spouses (as opposed to a spousal swap, which is something entirely different) way, way, way back when.

1) Did you go to college? If so where and in what did you major?

I've spent seven years in college and have yet to optain a degree, thus making me the dumbest overeducated person in the world. I have a big problem that involves refusing to take "required" classes that have absolutely nothing to do with my course of study. From 1991 until 1995, I was a communication and English double-major at the University of Missouri - Columbia. For a year and a half, starting in January, 2000, I was in the culinary program at a local St. Louis college. I took the classes that interested me and went to work. While I was building my teensy little culinary empire, I took a year of English lit and writing classes because I'm nerdy enough to consider that fun, and also to keep my student loans deferred while I got my catering company up and running.

2) How is it that you're familiar with Cuban coffee (as opposed to espresso - they are so *not* the same thing!)?

Mainly because I'm a coffee nerd, but I'll get to that in question #4. I'm also a foodie, as I'm sure you can tell from my first answer. About ten years ago I checked out A Taste of Cuba: Recipes From the Cuban-American Community by Linette Creen from the library and, shamefully, never returned it. It's still on my cookbook shelf, and I still use it all the time. I'd checked it out because I was interested in Cuban-American culture, and wanted to learn more about Cuban cuisine, since there aren't many options for it in Missouri. Anyway, Cuban coffee was mentioned in the book, and I was fascinated.

When I moved to St. Louis, I found a few coffeehouses and a little Cuban grocer/deli that made real cafe Cubano, and I was hooked. Still am.

3) We know all about the beautiful Clara Jane - was she planned or a surprise? Do you want more kids?

Clara Jane was a planned surprise, of sorts. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome and had been told by many doctors that my chances of conceiving without fertility treatments were slim. In September, 2002, I was having such problems with the condition that my doctor went so far as to utter the H-word - hysterectomy. I was a month shy of 30 at the time and even though I hadn't given much thought to having kids, that kicked me into gear. I didn't have the overwhelming urge to have a kid, but being told that I can't do something is a sure-fire way to motivate me.

We started trying, somewhat half-heartedly, in January, 2003. My ob/gyn wanted to start me on Clomid immediately, but I wanted to hold off for a year on the off chance I could get pregnant without medical assistance.

Lo and behold, four months later, I was pregnant. Shocked the hell out of us. Needless to say, I'm glad we skipped the Clomid because otherwise, I'd be dealing with three-year-old octuplets right now.

As much as I adore Clara Jane and enjoy motherhood (most of the time), I'm not hepped up to have another. While my pregnancy was damn near perfect, I had a horrible delivery that ended in an emergency C-section, which led to a staph infection. I was sick for a long time. I also had some pretty severe problems with postpartem depression, anxiety, and panic attacks. I don't want to go through that again, nor do I want to put my loved ones through that again. Besides, I was an only child. It's a darn good deal in a lot of ways.

4) How did you meet your significant other? We want a story!

Oh, we're another one of those online couples! Back in 1998, I'd sworn off dating for six months. When I hit 25 I realized I'd grown tired of being a swingin' single gal about town.

Three months into this break, a friend and I were reading personals ads on Yahoo during our lunch break, making fun of them. Oh, these guys were rich. And I don't mean financially. We're talking comedy gold. But there was one ad that caught my attention, only because it didn't contain any sexual innuendo and the guy seemed smart. What made him seem smart? The fact that his email address was decaf_is_evil@yahoo.com.

I commented to my friend that his ad was cute, and she dared me to email him. I said no. She double-dared. I said no. She triple-dog dared me. I can't resist that, so I sent him an email that simply said, "I like your email address", just to fulfill my dare committment. I didn't expect him to email back, but he was bored at work that day, as was I, so we wound up exchanging a few mails.

I made it perfectly clear that I was on a dating break and he would get nowhere with me. He was fine with that, but made it clear that, should I change my mind, he was fine with that, too. And he kept his word, which impressed me.

On Memorial Day, about a month after that first email, I gave him a call and said, "I'm coming to St. Louis for the day. If you want to meet, great. If not, no biggie."

We met. Spent the day driving around the city and hanging out at his favorite coffeehouse, and have been together ever since, even though I swore for the first three months that we weren't dating and I wasn't his girlfriend.

5) Have you ever been to New Orleans? If so what was your favorite thing about it?

I have, but I don't really remember it. Not for the reason most people have fuzzy memories of New Orleans trips, but because I was a little younger than Clara Jane when I went. My parents took me all over the country when I was but a wee tot. I sort of remember playing on the white sand beaches in Mississippi during that trip, and I remember feeding peacocks in Jackson Square. Or was it the zoo?

My mom tells a horrible story about me and that day in Jackson Square (or zoo), which I probably shouldn't repeat but I will. Again, central Missouri isn't exactly the most diverse place in the world, especially in 1975. This was before I started preschool, so most of the people I encountered were in my family and looked just like me. Obviously, not the case in New Orleans where, upon seeing what was probably the first African-American person I'd ever laid eyes on, I loudly proclaimed, "Mama! Look at that chocolate man!"

I'm happy to announce that I didn't grow up to be a horrible racist who loudly and publically points out peoples' cultural differences. These days I have friends of all flavors.

Now it's someone else's turn to play if they wish: Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.” I will respond by asking you five questions in the comments here on this post so check back here. I get to pick the questions. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Posted by Robin at 07:50 AM | Comments (18)

April 16, 2007

A Very Perfect Day

That's what Clara Jane declared while I was pushing her on the swing. I didn't exactly agree with her, but when my kid thinks the day's perfect on a day like today, either I'm an excellent parent or an excellent liar.

It all started pretty good. Lovely weather. Renewed hopes of the house selling, despite last night's momentary neighbor-induced malaise. We went to the coffeehouse and spent lunchtime with Beqi, Heather and their kids. We had to leave a bit earlier than usual because the real estate agent's coming by, as is the kiddo who's going to help finish our yardwork. We had enough time left for a quick trip to the park, though. On the way, I gave B. a quick call, like I always do in the afternoon.

That when he dropped the bomb: the sellers of the house we love have opted to not renew our contingency contract. They're putting it back on the market. Sure, we can bid on it again, but we've just taken a huge step backwards.

Who the hell am I kidding? I'm not thinking "huge step backwards". I'm thinking "our house is gone".

Did I mention that, for the second time in a week, I forgot to take my Prozac before leaving the house? Not a good day to forget.

So while I pushed Clara Jane on the swings, I tried to not think about the house at all. Or how, even with the new real estate agent, I don't feel confident that we're going to sell anytime soon. How I have no faith in anyone in the housing industry right now. How I don't want to raise my kid in a neighborhood where the nearest park's brand-new playground equipment is already covered in graffiti, including messages inside the tunnels about who fucked whom in that tunnel, and when.

I put on my mama blinders, smiling and squealing with her, pretending everything's okay when it's not. When all I wanted to do was sit just inside the tunnel slide and have myself a good, self-pitying cry.

Then I came home and saw the news about Virginia Tech. Over 30 people. Dead.

It's about as far from a perfect day as it gets.

Clara Jane had a snack of toast with homemade peach jam and some milk. We read two stories and snuggled in the rocking chair until she fell asleep. Her day has continued to be perfect, innocent from all of this. I don't think she's innocent to the fact that this afternoon, her mother's hanging on by a rather thin thread. She snuggled longer than normal before her nap. Bargained less for more awake time. Smiled when I kept telling her over and over how much I love her.

She's napping. B. will be home in half an hour. The real estate agent is due here in 10 minutes, with our yard kid not long after. I'm not turning on the TV, because I can't handle it right now. I need to ground myself from the CNN and NPR websites. I need to pull my shit together, just for a few more hours, because 9 PM's not far away, when agents and yard boys will be gone, Clara Jane will be down for the night, and maybe I can finally do whatever the hell is necessary to undo a little of this unperfect day.

Posted by Robin at 03:52 PM | Comments (11)

April 12, 2007

A Day of Wine & Roses, with a Little Sugar, Freon and Real Estate on the Side

Some days are just flat-out surprisingly good.

1. I had my follow-up doctor's appointment this morning regarding the blood sugar weirdness of six weeks ago. I'm fixed. The extensive bloodwork concluded that not only is my blood sugar a-ok (as long as I don't go more than a few hours without eating, but really, we should all do that), but my cholesterol, thyroid, and hormones are all exactly where they need to be. That bullshit about all fat people being unhealthy? Fuck 'em. I'm one fit fat girl. And I'm through with gouging my fingers four times a day!

2. I get my truck tomorrow. The $800 air conditioner repair bill we thought we were facing wound up being a mere $300.

3. New real estate agent! We met with one-half of the team last night, and I'm officially excited again. Much, much more confident that these agents will actually, you know, try to sell our house via things like proven marketing techniques, instead of our previous agent's method: waiting for people to drive down our street and call him. Did I mention our street is one block long and it's rare for people who don't live on our street to drive down it, thus meaning that our house has primarily been marketed to the 20-odd people who already live here?

4. I wasn't using the allusion to "The Days of Wine and Roses" in a metaphorical way. Look what I got today:

I honestly didn't notice the half-drunk bottle of Three Buck Chuck Shiraz sitting on the counter when I plopped the vase there to take the photo. It's appropriate, though, because guess who gave me that lovely bouquet?

The wine guy at my local Trader Joe's.

No, it's not because I'm such a great wine customer. Believe me, I'd like to be a much better Trader Joe's wine customer, but I'd also like to maintain that clean bill of health. I didn't get those roses because I'm their highest profit-maker on cheap wine. You're surprised, I know.

Fact is, I'm not sure what the motivation was, and I'm working hard to not question it and just enjoy a surprising act of kindness.

I've only talked to the wine guy once, about three weeks ago when I was buying wine and beer for that shindig I hosted a few weeks ago. Granted, we talked at length. He was having a slow day. I was sans kid. And anyone who knows me knows that, if you get me started on wine, food, (or just about any topic, truth be told), I'll talk for hours and hours and hours until someone physically removes me from the scene. I'm a friendly gal. I like to talk to people. I really like to talk about food and wine, especially with people who work with them for a living.

There were a few moments when we were talking where I thought he might be flirting with me, but come on. Guys don't flirt with me. I'm a chubby 34-year-old mom who's usually wearing a ponytail or two, no makeup, a t-shirt, and black Mary Janes that indicate 1) my Amish belief system, 2) my refusal to leave the year 1994 in the past, or 3)orthopedic problems. (The correct answer is B).

I probably seemed like I was flirting because, like I said, I'm friendly. Friendly + female is often misconstrued as flirt. Whatever, I bought three bottles of wine and a 6-pack of beer that day. Hardly a big haul.

Today, I dropped Clara Jane at daycare and hit Trader Joe's for my weekly shopping in the time I had to kill before my doctor's appointment. Frozen naan, three jars of natural peanut butter for my dad, fresh pineapple, a jar of korma sauce, no booze. Pretty typical TJ's run for me.

What was atypical, though, was how the wine guy was rapidly working on a bouquet of pink roses at the service counter. Even more atypical was the manner in which he ran by my check-out lane, hollered, "I'm just in time!" as he deposited the flowers into one of my shopping bags, not even stopping his sprint.

The bagger, cashier and I all stood there, jaws dropped. It takes a lot to make me blush, but I could feel my face flaming all the way down my neck to my chest.

Oh shit. V-neck t-shirt. Chest glowing red. Boobs afire, possibly visible through gray shirt. Might die right now.

"He never bring me flowers anymore," the cashier finally mumbled.

I finished my transaction and went over to the service desk to thank the wine guy. I think I slobbered a little. I know the words didn't come out smoothly, and I think I might have had a small booger on the edge of my left nostril.

Did I mention that the wine guy's pretty damn cute? Did I mention that I'm married? And that he is, too?

See, that's the part I'm trying to not think about. I want to view this as a simple act of kindness, a kooky person doing something a bit out-there, just to give someone a pleasant jolt in the middle of a chilly, dull, day.

I spent a chunk of yesterday with Raquel and Beqi - have I mentioned that I'm only accepting new friends who have the letter Q in their names? Anyway, we spent a great deal of time ranting about stupid shit men have done in an effort to pick up women. Everything from revving their car engines to copping feels at clubs to asking the father of a gal's ex how she is in bed. Really abhorant stuff that happens all the time. At one point, when we were collectively calling for a large bowl filled with the testicles of these men, Clara Jane turned to us, let our a happy shriek, and shot us a big thumbs-up sign.

Obviously, she's being raised to be a strong woman who will break the face of anyone who messes with her.

And yet, less than 24 hours later, I find myself completely flummoxed by a surprise floral delivery that my cynical brain wants to say is likely motivated by the same things that motivate the crappy actions we were discussing yesterday. The difference is, this guy did something nice and beautiful, not something degrading and objectifying.

Now, I feel a little stupid for getting so giddy over flowers. I never got flowers from boys when I was in high school. The boyfriends I had over the years weren't always the most thoughtful of fellows, although the one I married is. That's why I need to take the man/woman thing out of the equation and just take this at face value: a clever person doing something spontaneous and kind to make another person feel good.

That's just good customer service, when you get right down to it. Damn good customer service. So good that I'm thinking I might switch from my Three Buck Chuck to the $20 bottles of Kenwood Zinfandel they sell.

Posted by Robin at 01:35 PM | Comments (14)

April 05, 2007

Allen Ginsberg Died Ten Years Ago Today

I have this weird thing about dates that involves my brain having amazing recall for them. This used to be my big parlor trick - give me a date, any date, and I'll tell you exactly what I was doing, what I wore, what I ate, and if anything historically important happened. It's a gift, really, that's sadly fallen a bit by the wayside. I don't think it's because of age; I think it has more to do with parenthood. When I got pregnant, but before I knew I was pregnant, I kept repeating stories to B. I'd tell him something in the morning, call him in the afternoon to tell him again, and then I'd meet him at the door and tell him the same story again.

This is proof that fetuses eat brains.

Anyway, I can tell you that Allen Ginsberg died ten years ago today. While I have always admired Ginsberg's work in an "I was an English major who digs American lit so therefore I sort of have to admire him" way. But the main reason I remember that today is the tenth anniversary of his death is because I heard it on the news about 15 minutes before I walked out my door and did this:

Yep, that's me, circa June, 1997. I was lucky enough to not only be cute and 24 years old, but to be dating a photographer. I think everyone has that one photo that they'll always look back to and say, "Yeah, I wasn't half-bad."

As for ten years ago today, I got that tattoo, the two bright orange poppies on my upper left arm. Funny thing is, I almost missed the ten-year anniversary, so corroded my brain has become since I became a parent. Had The Cuz not gotten her first ink earlier this week, the anniversary of my first (and, so far, only) ink might have been missed.

I remember that day so clearly. You know, once I got my memory jogged. I never used to have to jog my memory. That's probably the same as someone who was always skinny saying, "I didn't used to require jogging to keep my ass from becoming barn-sized."

Anyway, that day. My pal Big Daddy B spent the whole day with me. And I do mean the whole day. We went to rummage sales that morning, although I can't remember if that was the rummage sale spree that led to him buying a vinyl copy of the Xanadu soundtrack and a skanky stuffed Big Bird, which he purchased just to slip into the bed of his super-hung-over roommate and scare the ever-loving crap out of her. Not that any of this has anything to do with the tattoo, but that's how memory works.

We had Thai food for lunch, but it wasn't the trip to the Thai restaurant where the old Thai lady called Big Daddy a wimp for ordering his food mild while I went for flaming hot.

We waited all day because I absolutely had to have Spider at Dream Catcher do my tattoo. Spider didn't work on a schedule. You just showed up and waited. And waited. And waited while an entire sorority pledge class screamed through getting their belly buttons pierced in the next room. And waited some more until finally, the shop closed, but since we'd waited for hours, Spider did my tattoo.

They closed the shop and cranked up The Lost Highway soundtrack. Spider drew the poppies from the photo on a package of Burpee Oriental Poppy seeds I'd bought at Wal-Mart. After years of searching for the perfect poppies, that's what I found. Yes, I still have the unopened seed packet, despite having the image permanently etched into my flesh.

There was another person getting tattooed. He'd been under the needle all day. A young guy who was about to ship off in the Navy, joined by his father, a Navy vet. The guy was having an angel the size of his bicep put on his arm to protect him while he served.

Why did I get the poppies? I've always been drawn to them. We had a patch of them in our backyard when I was little, and I thought they were the most interesting flowers, the way their petals were thin as tissue paper and softer than silk. The way the unbloomed seed pods would bleed white milk when squeezed, and how the dead pods would spill tiny black seeds. The fuzz on the stems and leaves.

The only time I've ever had an opiate in my body was a morphine drip, post-c-section, which I grossly underutilized. When I told people my tattoo idea, a few of them said that people would think I was a smack junkie. That's a little extreme, don't you think? But as a person who's always had sleep and insomnia issues, I liked the idea of carrying a symbol of sleep and oblivion on my body for the rest of my life.

After the inking, we went back to Big Daddy's place to partake in our beverage of choice - a magnum of Beringer White Zinfandel, consumed while listening to the Xanadu soundtrack before closing down Contacts, the gay bar where Big Daddy's bartender friend served us Kamikazees in beer mugs. I don't remember feeling the alcohol at all. I just remember feeling nothing but adrenaline that started bouncing through my system the second the needle hit my skin, and didn't stop until I finally fell asleep around 4 AM.

I'm pretty sure my next tattooing won't go like that. My initial reaction to that is sadness, because it makes me feel old and miss "the good old days". But then I remember - holy crap! That behavior kills 34-year-olds, simply because 34-year-olds have gained the wisdom to know just how stupid having that much fun is. The knowledge alone is enough to kill us.

Yes, there's going to be another tattooing. I don't know when. I've been plotting it for years. Poppies around my ankle. It seems a little unoriginal, but ten years later, I still love my poppies. I love what they mean. Not once have I regretted getting them, although they're looking a bit beleagured and could use a touch-up:

I love how my grandma, who wasn't supposed to know about the tattoo, told me it was beautiful when she was making my wedding dress. I love how Clara Jane has gone from chewing on it with her toothless gums to asking me to show her my flowers. I love how, after we'd been together for awhile, B. told me he regularly forgot about my tattoo because he was so accustomed to it. I love that when I look at it, it still stops me and makes me smile.

The summer after I got the tattoo, I was making one of my frequent visits to Acorn Books. The owner, who always recognized me, spied my sundress-exposed arm and said, "Did Spider do that to you?" I said yes, he did. He complimented Spider's work and said that he often came into the bookstore to buy art books.

"You do know that when you're 90 and living in a nursing home, all the nurses are going to call you Poppy because of that thing, right? 'Poppy needs a new diaper! Poppy lost her dentures again! Poppy's causing a rucus in the lunchroom again!'"

For some reason, I liked that image. Thus a nickname was born.

Ah, the children of the '90s are getting old. All of us Clinton-voting, Nirvana-listening, flannel-wearing, Lollapalooza-going, tattoo-taboo-busting kids are grownups. We're old enough to be narrowed down to stereotypes based on the music and fashion of the times. I don't regret much, although I did a lot of stupid things. I really don't regret the ink that was put into my flesh ten years ago tonight. It's one of my favorite memories and a part of me. No matter how ugly I feel, I have something on me that I'll always think is beautiful. I have a souvenir of my youth that's become more than a novelty. It's a part of me.

Now, who wants a Kamikazee in a beer mug? No one? Good.

Posted by Robin at 03:47 PM | Comments (8)

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:

• I Don't Like Mondays - Boomtown Rats
• Passenger Side - Wilco
• Jose Cuervo - Shelly West
• Room 13 - Black Flag
• I Fought the Law - The Clash
• What a Man - Lydia Lyndell
• Respectable - Rolling Stones
• Atlantic City - Hank Williams III

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 01, 2007

March First Sucks

First and foremost, today's a sad anniversary for a dear friend of mine. Of course, I'm not going to give the details out of respect for my friend's privacy. Suffice it to say, she's on my mind and in my heart today. She's plowed through five years of grief. She's strong, tough, and has come so far, whether she knows it or not. I love her dearly and I hope today is a positive milestone for her.

That's my main reason for hating March 1st, because I know someone I love hurts today, just because of an unfair turn in her life. I also have silly, petty reasons of my own for not liking this day.

Last year on March 1st, after a delightful day at the zoo with Clara Jane and my parents, I proceeded to spend the next two days emptying my stomach of what seemed at the time to be a month's worth of consumables. It was one of the worst bouts with the flu I've ever experienced and it went on for days and days and days.

But I got this cute photo of my kid and my mom before my innards became outards. It's one of my all-time favorites:

As for today ...

It started normally enough. I was in bed, listening to NPR through my earplugs, working up the energy to get up when the radio went into that unmistakable "BWAAAAAAAAA BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAA BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for Franklin County..." That's southwest of St. Louis, and - you guessed it - the storm was moving northeast at a healthy clip.

Regardless, I woke up Clara Jane and we started our usual pre-Thursday daycare routine until the tornado sirens started blaring before either of us had eaten breakfast or gotten dressed. But not before I threw up. I have no idea why. I feel fine. Perhaps my stomach felt the need to honor the food that came before last year. Clara Jane's terrified of vomit and does everything in her power to stop it. In this case, her tactic was to scream and cry, "Excuse you! Excuse you!" while I hurled.

Shortly after the vomitting bruhaha, the tornado sirens sounded. I grabbed our clothes, a bag of smoked almonds, a sippy of milk and a can of Diet Coke with Lime for breakfast, and some dog-chewies to lure the dogs to the basement. Chloe the Basset had no problems with that, but Murphy, who we will now call Toto decided that tornadoes are less scary than the basement stairs.

The storm was a weak one, but I take all tornadoes seriously. We went through some doozies when I was growing up in west-central Missouri. Yeah, my idiot neighbors were standing in the street with their little kids and we were going for cover. That's how I operate. Besides, the storm's path was the exact path we take to daycare, predicted to hit at the same time we'd be on said path.

We go to the basement with the dog, who eats both chewies, gagging on the last one and hacking it all over the office floor. That's Puking Incident #2 for the day, if you're keeping score at home. Not that it matters, because B.'s office is by far the most cluttered nightmare room in the house. When we entered I had to jump over Chloe to pick up the spilled box of chalk from the floor, knowing full well that if given the chance Chloe would rather eat and throw up the chalk, which isn't quite as tidy as the chewies.

The storm passed, and while I haven't checked I don't think we lost anymore trees. I'll be satisfied if the piles of former trees in our backyard have remained somewhat piles. We proceeded to daycare at warp speed, because I'd scheduled a doc appointment within minutes of the normal daycare drop-off time. Amazingly, storm be damned, we arrived at all locales somewhat on time.

My doctor's appointment was supposed to be a brief follow-up regarding the changes to my brain drugs over recent months. No biggie. Except there's something odd afoot. I've been losing weight. I mean, a lot of weight considering I haven't done anything different. Enough weight to make all my jeans and bras too big. Then there's the issue with my dire need for a nap at promptly 4:30 every other afternoon. In all my life, there have been two constants: I don't lose weight unless I starve myself, and I don't sleep until it's absolutely necessary. Now, I'm melting and sleeping.

According to my doctor, there are several possibilities.

The good possibility: Perhaps the brain drugs have done such a good job that the rest of my body chemistry has evened out and I'm finally processing sugar and calories the way I'm supposed to. I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, which is rooted in blood sugar/insulin issues.

The bad possibility: I'm exhausted and losing weight because the PCOS bloog sugar/insulin problems have gotten worse and I've become diabetic.

Wow.

You know, I hate it when people heap praise on those who have lost weight. To my fat ears, it always sounds like, "Wow! You look so great since you lost the weight! You really looked like shit before." I'll admit, there's a sick little part of me that hopes someone notices my weight loss and gushes, so I can say, "Thanks! It's because my liver and pancreas don't work and I get to stab myself in the hand three times a day!"

Speaking of which, I get to start doing that. Stabbing myself in the fingers three times a day to track my blood sugar. Boy, I'm excited about that! This should make knitting extra-fun.

So I did what any rational person facing a possible life-changing illness would do. I went on a bender.

It seemed like a better idea than $30-worth of Oreos.

Honestly, I'm not too concerned. Concerned enough that I'll do the testing, for sure. I've got a follow-up in six weeks, along with a bunch of bloodwork. Generally, I can tell when something's wrong with my blood sugar, and it doesn't really feel "wrong". When my doc tested it today, it was excellent, especially considering the stressful morning I had. I'm feeling pretty positive about it all, and even if I do turn out to be diabetic, I'll deal. I've had my moment of screaming, "This is so unfair! I almost never eat white sugar! I don't drink soda. I almost never eat white flour. The only time I eat white rice is when I go to the Indian buffet. I put Splenda in my coffee. I snack on nuts, yogurt, cheese, non-fat cottage cheese and shit like that. What the hell am I going to do if I'm diabetic? Eat nothing but raw meat?" I'm over it.

But seriously - I threw out a box of cookies last night because they'd gone stale. And they weren't even real cookies; they were those whole-grain Kashi cookiesque things! How can I possibly be diabetic?

I guess we'll find out in six weeks.

Posted by Robin at 12:58 PM | Comments (6)

February 28, 2007

A Foul Mood to Entertain Us All

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

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

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

• It's a lovely 63 degrees outside. I would love nothing more than to lie on my couch and rot what remains of my brain with last night's recorded "American Idol". To fully enjoy this, I need for my stupid dogs to be outside. If the dogs are inside during "Idol", they howl along with the shitty singers and totally ruin the experience for me. The dogs refuse to go outside. If it was 20 degrees outside, they would pacing the floors, whining and making me nuts to go outside. Not today. You know, I like to toying around on MySpace because 1) I'm a loser at heart, and 2) I like filling out surveys and memes, but I'm ashamed to do them on my blog. Quite often the question "Have you ever been in a fight with your pet?" appears on such surveys. What a stupid question! However, if these fucking dogs do not remove themselves from my house soon, Fight Club might possibly commence. I don't want to be the person who punches a Basset hound in the neck. I really don't.
• Speaking of pets, someone from the great state of Alabama came to my blog today by doing a search for "free pron (sic on their part) made from home of people having sex with pets". Add this to the person in Alabama who recently told me I was inviting Satan to take my child and I have to wonder if Katya, Michelle and my blogless pal Deb are the only people in that state who aren't loons. I know they're not, and I've probably insulted any other fine Alabama readers of this blog who aren't loons. For that, I'm sorry. Perhpas the Satan-fearing lady and the pet-fucker should hook up.
• I'm so annoyed with myself that I'm irritated with my dogs because I want to watch "American Idol". Honestly. If that isn't a sign of undermedication, nothing is.
• I can't seem to stop destroying the sock I'm trying to knit.
• I am so completely, utterly fed up with what passes for "news". Looking at CNN.com right now, the top story is breaking news from the Bahamas regarding the burial of Anna Nicole Smith. There are also headlines about a laughing young woman robbing a bank (Britney?), Robert Blake appealing some case about the murder of his wife, a judge doing a cartwheel in the courtroom because someone stayed sober, and an abandoned tiger and monkey who have become friends. HOLY SHIT! SOMEONE NEEDS TO CALL CNN, BECAUSE THOSE IDIOTS HAVE FORGOTTEN THAT WE'RE IN A WAR! They also seem to have forgotten that Britney Spears is in rehab, because hello?! Not one single headline about that.

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

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

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

Oh my sweet Lord.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 26, 2007

Two Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 20, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actually, we just went to a meat-addled buffet, which is what we do in my hometown. But my mom was so sugar-rav