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-ravaged that she had to steal a piece of fried chicken from my cousin's plate and gnaw off a chunk, just to have the strength to crawl to the buffet to fetch her own meat.

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

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

Clara Jane got a tricked-out tricycle.

My dad got a surrey with the fringe on top.

He busted into show tunes from "Oklahoma" right after I took this picture. Really.

I got more sock yarn, which is exactly what I needed.

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

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

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

Okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, who wants to go for a sweet surrey ride with Bubba?

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

February 18, 2007

Why I Love the Daytona 500

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

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

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

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

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

February 14, 2007

A Materialistically Great Valentine's Day in Photos

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

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

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

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

I also got these goodies:

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

Speaking of which, she got goodies today, too. I took her out for a snack and let her pick out two new books. Her daddy gave her this:

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

I got some goodies for the crocheting mofo:

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

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

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

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

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

But that wasn't it. This was:

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

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

February 13, 2007

Snow Day Memories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's what remains as of today:

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope that's her earliest memory.

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

February 12, 2007

Poppies! Will Make Her Sleep!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 07, 2007

The Malaise! It's Finally Here!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 05, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3) They're evil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 31, 2007

I Do Four Things These Days

1. I bitch about things like lack of dinner and back pain.
2. I obsess about house-related stuff.
3. I have magic teeth.
4. I knit.

That's pretty much the extent of my days of late. Which is fine. Well, I could do without the dinner issues and back pain.

Updates:

1. I had lovely Chinese food last night, at long last. Night before, we finally had the wine/cheese/fruit/salamifest. Unfortunately, wine + brain drugs wasn't a good idea. I think I'm the first person to have have a wine-induced panic attack. Of course, I'm also one of the few people who gets wired on Nyquil, so this shouldn't surprise me. My back, however, is fine and healthy.

2. Yesterday I packed seven huge boxes of stuff to move, four boxes of stuff to donate, and threw away four or five medium-sized garbage bags of trash while prepping the house for showing.

3. For the past two days, every single time I've stuck a toothbrush in my mouth, the phone has rung. If I had fillings, I'd think there was something electromagnetic going on. But seeing as how I've never had any metal in my mouth - no fillings, braces, etc. - I can only assume that my teeth have magic powers to make me popular.

4. Yes, I'm going to talk about knitting. You'll live. I promise. Unlike the poor guy who had the misfortune of sitting behind our knitting group last week who, while minding his own business, had a table thrown at him by someone in our group.

I'm still on the sock kick, despite a major roadbump last week. I got several inches into this sock when I realized I'd made a dumb mistake, probably because I was distracted by all the furniture flying around Starbucks that night. I tore and fixed, made another mistake, tore some more, and really fucked things up. So, being practical, I completely ripped out the whole sock, then went to the yarn shop and bought enough sock yarn to make two pairs, despite having failed yet again at sock-knitting.

Here's what I've got of the first sock. It's a gift for someone who reads this blog. Who knows - this could be your embryotic sock, you lucky devil!

Speaking of gifts, I can only give you a peak at the super-secret project I've been working on for months. It'll be awhile before it makes it to its permanent home. Until then, this is all I can show you:

I've got a bit of an unusual project going on, and I need all the advice I can get. My coffeehouse pal Heather scored a darling hand-knit baby sweater from a thrift store. How cute is this, what with the cable-knit hoot owls?

Problem is, the knitter did the neck way, way too small and Heather can't fit it over her daughter's head. And it's not even like her daughter's like Clara Jane was, with a melon that was literally off the growth chart. No, the neck won't fit over a normal-sized baby head. We're trying to find a way to snip the ribbed stitch of the neckline and expand it. Kat came up with some great ideas involving bias tape and elastic. Now, I just need the nerve to start snipping and biasing.

After the first sock debaucle, I decided to take a break from sock-knitting and finally do something with the pretty yarn Angela gave me for my birthday. If I learned one thing from the sock-knitting, it's that I rule the universe when it comes to dropping stitches, so what better than a project that relies on dropped stitches?

It's a scarf, and it makes me feel pretty in a smirky, dropped-stitch sort of way.

Posted by Robin at 12:05 PM | Comments (13)

January 29, 2007

Discombobulation

What a weird few days it's been. And yet, not really that weird at all.

Clara Jane's visiting my parents. She told them, "I love to visit Mimi and Grandpa ... but I also love to visit Mommy and Daddy."

We sent her to visit because 1)we were tired of listening to my parents beg, 2)we've got tons of house stuff to do before we start showing on Wednesday, and 3)my mom has a photographer friend who takes beautiful photos of my kid, and it's time for her three-year shots. (You can see six-week-old Clara Jane if you go to the "Maternity & Infants" gallery and click on the 15th thumbnail. She's also in the "Collections" section. The next-to-last thumbnail is a collage of her two-year photos.)

How productive have we been?

Friday After dropping the kiddo with my parents, but before making the drive home, I was striken. By what, I'm not sure. I felt similar to the way I felt six years ago when I had an ovarian cyst blow the hell up for no good reason. Well, not quite that bad, but I felt icky in a punched in the kidneys fashion.

I sent B. out for Chinese carry-out, as that was the only thing that sounded even a little appealing. Particularly, cashew chicken was the only food I could possibly consume that wouldn't cause my ovaries and kidneys to burst into flames.

He came home with hunan chicken. I'm still considering divorce in retaliation for this obvious attempt on my life.

Saturday We spent three hours in Prettytown, viewing houses with our real estate agent. We found two more winners, and learned that the agency's had quite a few requests to view our house. I have a good feeling about all of this.

After our appointment, we finally investigated Prettytown's wine and cheese shop. Oh, I can't move fast enough! It's two doors down from the coffeehouse. That's right - wine, cheese and coffee in the same plaza. If we don't find the perfect house, I just might live in a tent in their parking lot.

Before parenthood, our favorite dinner used to be several kinds of cheese and salami, good bread, olives, fruit, and a really great bottle of wine. I can't remember the last time we did that. It's not exactly toddler-friendly, although our toddler enjoys everything on that menu. Well, except the wine, but she digs sparkling grape juice. Anyway, we got three cheddars, bread, and a delightful, robust bottle of Meeker Mendocino County Zinfandel for dinner.

We got home, and B. went to work on the bathroom while I puttered around, made some jelly for my pal Stormy, and waited. And waited. And waited.

Long story short, it was 9:00, too late for me to drink wine without it reacting with the brain drugs. For the second night in a row, I scrounged the fridge for leftovers in a huff.

Sunday I can tell we're in house mode, because the idea of going to Home Depot or Lowe's doesn't fill me with anger and fear. I hate those places so much that I have adverse physical reactions every time I walk in the door. The only time I've enjoyed those places was when we were buying our current house. In fact, we were walking in the door of Home Quarters eight years ago this month when we got the call from our real estate agent, informing us that the offer we'd made on our house was accepted.

We went to Lowe's on Sunday, and I went so far as to pick paint colors for our new bedroom. Nevermind that I have no idea in which house this bedroom might be located, but damn if I don't know exactly what shade of green (Aloe Essence), white (Sea Salt), pink (Spring Romance) and purple (Dusty Plum) that room is going to be.

You know what's funny? Watching a long train of chained-together gas grills making a little road trip down the hill of the Lowe's parking lot. Granted, it wouldn't have been funny if someone had gotten injured. It also wouldn't have been funny if the grills had hit my car; no, that would have been cool, because we probably would have gotten a free grill. Note to Lowe's staff: when your store sits on top of a hill, lock the wheel on the ol' grill train.

But yes. We went to Lowe's, and I did not burst into flames.

Upon returning home we took a little nap while waiting for the cheese to come to room temperature. B. woke up before me and started painting the bathroom. I even joined him. But then I noticed the state of the kitchen, where everything from the bathroom had been dumped. It was past 7:00, again too late for wine for me.

Yes, I know there are so, so, so many people in the world who go without adequate food. You know I love America's Second Harvest and Operation Food Search and I think we should all give them lots and lots of money and help. But goddamn it, I was not happy to find myself dinnerless three nights in a row, especially with something as indulgent at imported cheese and California Zinfandel just sitting there! Waiting! Begging me to eat them!

At 8:30, I sent B. to our friendly neighborhood Indian vegetarian location for paneer tikka masala (because if I'm finally going to get a decent dinner, it's going to consist of my current favorite food), veggie korma, rice pudding, and samosas.

Today I'm not even going to talk about the return of the death backache from Thursday, because I've done nothing but bitch through this entire post. I popped some Alieve, looked at my disaster area of a house, and said fuck it. I'm going to the coffeehouse as planned, where I'm going to drink coffee, knit my sock, and gab with my newest pal, Heather.

Amazingly, after doing that, my back no longer hurts. My house may not be ready, but I feel better. That's worth something.

Oh, and in the meantime, Clara Jane's gone country.

Posted by Robin at 08:27 AM | Comments (8)

January 18, 2007

Let's Twist!

I hate beating dead horses. I really do. I hate writing and talking about the same topics over and over and over again. Alas, that's all I've got, so I'm looking for interesting twists.

Real estate: Yeah, you know I'm dying to buy a house in Pretty Town that's no longer on the market. And you know that my house recently went on the market. The Twist: for once I'm not just sitting around, looking for random signs that things will work out on their own. Actually, that's not quite right. I'm totally mired in signs once again.

You're aware of our tree situations. In case your not familiar, here's the brief version: this fall, our trees decided to do just that. Fall. Big, massive, old trees. When we start making headway on getting the tree mess under control, another tree mess interferes.

Yesterday, I saw some tree workers in our neighborhood. Not unusual, considering they've descended, carpetbagger-style, on St. Louis. For whatever reason, seeing the tree workers a block away from my house, I decided, "That's it. I'm done with this tree bullshit. We're paying someone to fix it."

Before I had a chance to mention this to B. yesterday afternoon, we were approached by a father-son team from our neighborhood, looking to earn some cash. Do we have any trees we need removed?

Oh, how I laughed. And then how I hired.

While B. was outside, working out the particulars of the tree removal, he talked to another neighbor, one of the many renters on our street. Renter and his "old lady" (his phrase, not ours) actually like our street and are interested in maybe buying our house.

Today, B. talked to our agent. Apparently, he's had inquiries coming in already, too. Now that the tree situation's corrrected, we can get the inside of the house in order and start showing.

I bought my St. Joe statue last week at the coffeehouse in what will hopefully be my new neighborhood in Pretty Town. I intended to buy it at the big Catholic shrine in Pretty Town, but buying it at the coffeehouse? Too perfect to pass up.

My diseased brain: Anxiety and panic attacks. Whee! The twist: Having panic attacks during the day, while never boring, is so passe'. Having them in the middle of the night? Not boring and totally new! For the past three nights, I have woken up in the midst of an attack. At least this morning it happened pretty late - 6 AM - and it happened in the middle of a dream. I rarely remember my dreams, so the two previous dead-asleep attacks didn't seem to be attached to anything. Being able to attach this morning's attack to a nightmare helped matters. Luckily, I had a doctor's appointment for today anyway. Drugs have been tweeked. Perhaps now, when I scream in the middle of the night, I won't wake myself up.

My stupid little dog Murphy: Still stupid. The twist: She's so stupid that she's forgotten why she was terrified of our neighbor's dog last week.

My parents' idiot dog Chiggar: Still a a little too dingoesque for comfort. The twist: He now does tricks. With the use of rolled-up magazines, my mother has taught him to retrive the newspaper so she doesn't have to go into the cold. Only problem is, he only fetches magazines. He likes Birds & Blooms, both for fetching and ripping to shreds.

Clara Jane: Still enjoys playing naked guitar. The twist:Like her mother, she's going through a phase of the Great Big Screams in the Night. It's real peaceful around here. I'm sure that when someone buys our house, they'll hear the night screams echoing through the attic for at least six months.

Music: Yep, still a music nerd. The twist: Let's pretend that I'm not going to mention that today, I was listening to my iPod on shuffle, and had this sequence: "The Late Greats" by Wilco, "Whiskey Bottle" by Uncle Tupelo, and "Chickamauga", also by Uncle Tupelo. Let's also pretend that I didn't stand up in the coffeehouse where I was partaking in a cappucino and scream, "It's a sign!".

Posted by Robin at 07:52 PM | Comments (6)

January 16, 2007

The Librarians are Out to Get Me

I'm inadvertantly following a theme with my posts this week: why the hell can't women just be nice to one another?

That said, I think the librarians at the local branch of my library hate my guts.

We've been going to this branch for nearly two years, and the librarians have always been nice to B. and me while they fawn over Clara Jane. Our neighborhood isn't exactly the most progressive in the St. Louis area, and I understand that B. and Clara Jane are one of the few father-daughter combos they see on a regular basis. That's reason for fawning, and I'm cool with that. I'm a bit of a red-headed stepchild. No bother. Just give me my books, I'll give you the ones I've completed. We'll exchange pleasantries and we'll be just fine.

A few months ago, B. went through a spell of checking out piles upon piles of books that didn't reflect well on me. He was looking for books to help him improve his husbandly communication skills, or so he says, which is what led him to check out books like the entire Divorce Busting series and How to Change Your Spouse and Save Your Marriage. I think I saw him reading a copy of "My Wife's a Total Bitch and I Need to Get Her Off My Goddamn Back NOW", concealed behind an issue of Popular Science during this spell.

I didn't make a big deal about this, despite the fact that I wasn't thrilled to see a book on how to change me floating around the house. It crossed my mind that since all the librarians know us, they're getting a a big pile of fodder regarding our personal life based on the books B. was reading. I gave the librarians credit for being professional and not judging us based on the materials we check out.

Oh, but how things have changed since B. went through his little communication self-help spell! Suddenly, librarians who used to talk to me ignore me, even when I say hello to them. They glare, but they don't speak. They speak to Clara Jane, but not to me.

Today, I went to the library by myself to drop off a book for B. - about dragons, not about divorcing my sorry ass - and pick up some reserved books for both of us. One of the librarians who used to be nice to me came to the counter, glared at me and barked, "Next?"

"Hi. B. and I both have some books to pick up," I said with as much chipperness as I could muster. That took some effort, because I'm currently in the midst of supposed-to-be-period week, which means I'm anxious and panicky, which means I didn't sleep much last night, which means B. stayed home with Clara Jane so I could go to the library, get my two books, and spend the afternoon reading them in the peace at the damn library and maybe calm the hell down instead of sitting on the couch, crying for no good reason all damn day.

"Are B. and Clara Jane with you?" she asked with 100% pure, deep-from-her-heart chipperness.

"No, I'm afraid not. She's got a bit of a bug and ..."

"Oh." Her chipperness was suddenly as gone as mine.

She went to the reserve stacks, slammed my books down on the counter, checked them out. "You have fines" was all she said before returning to the stacks, getting B.'s books, slamming them down on the counter, checking them out, and shoving them to me. She didn't even bother to tuck our check-out reciepts into the book, instead leaving them to flutter to the floor when she shoved the books.

Regardless, I thanked her. Not that it mattered, because she'd already stormed off.

I'm ashamed that I cried when I got to my car. I really don't care if people like me or not but shit. Would it kill people to be civil? I almost went back in while crying to say, "Do you have any idea how your shitty atttiude might affect people?" I didn't, though, because I've found that doing such things doesn't instill the guilt it should. It just makes people think you're nuts.

Like I said, I'm delicate today and probably blowing things way out of proportion. But if it wasn't for the fact that, over the past two months, every single librarian I've encountered has suddenly started treating me like I'm persona non grata, I wouldn't have been nearly as thrown by today's rudeness.

So, what to do next? I could call the management and complain. Or I could frequent another branch, as there are several near me. Just disappear and be done with it.

I could include a letter with the next books I return, explaining the shoddy treatment. Or I could grow some balls and present the letter directly to management.

I hear that librarians aren't fond of patrons vomiting mass quantities of candy corn in front of the circulation desk. I could probably arrange to do that and ruin a few peoples' shifts.

More likely, I'll keep frequenting this branch without a word, instead exacting my revenge via my checkouts. Here's a list of books I'm going to add to my reserve list tonight:

• Putting Impotence to Bed: What Every Woman and Man Needs to Know
• My Husband Betty: Love, Sex and Life with a Crossdresser
• Miss Zukas and the Library Murders
• Bad Boys, Bad Men: Confronting Antisocial Personality Disorder
• The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus

With apologies to all my librarian friends. I know you'd never act in such a manner. I also know I can count on you to give me more ideas for my reading list.

With some apologies to B., even though this is really all his fault.

Posted by Robin at 04:16 PM | Comments (13)

January 08, 2007

Listless, Listed, Listening, List-Faced

It's January 8th and my holiday design is still up. Please, somebody, punch me in the face.

Am I listless? Not really. In fact, I'm so giddy that my jaws hurt, as I've been grinding my teeth all day. Not necessarily in a bad way. Well, it was in a bad way this morning, when Clara Jane's musical "Blue's Clues" book became stuck, forcing me to listen to the BC theme song over and over and over. That will snap anyone's jaw.

No, most of my tooth-grinding has been of the positive, giddy kind. In about an hour, a real estate agent will be at our house to ... can I even type this without going into a full-blown psychotic episode? ... put our house on the market.

Did you feel that little shudder?

We're still on a constant rotation of "I'm the Man Who Loves You". Not by my choice, but by my child's. At this point I'm afraid to stop it.

I'm completely list-faced. It's like being shit-faced, but with real estate instead of booze.

Posted by Robin at 04:57 PM | Comments (8)

January 06, 2007

I Love Signs

You know, I hate it when people leave their holiday decorations up far past their intended season. I usually give people a week's grace period before I start getting irritated, which means I have exactly one day to change my blog masthead before I flog myself for being everything I hate.

But that's not what I'm here to write about. I'm here to write about our house-shopping trip to Prettytown.

If you're a long-time reader of my blog - or if you started reading yesterday - you're aware of several things: 1) my love of Wilco, 2) my strong desire to move to a town I refer to as Prettytown, and 3) my ability to base my entire life and every decision I make on any happenstance coincidence that might possibly be a sign.

I'm open, Universe! Tell me what to do and I'll do it!

This morning we packed the vehicle for a full morning of house-viewing. The first song to shuffle up? Wilco's I'm the Man Who Loves You. Sure, I took that as a sign, because damn near every time I go to Prettytown, hometown boy Jeff Tweedy will come onto my iPod in one form or another. Not surprising, since I do have a great deal of Wilco, Uncle Tupelo, Golden Smog, Loose Fur and his solo stuff on my iPod. If I was a fan of doing senseless math, I'd love to give you the odds on a Jeff Tweedy-related song shuffling up during any 45-minute drive.

This time, it was different. Clara Jane, in the past, has showed an affinity for several Wilco songs. She loves Candyfloss, among a few others. But today, something in her toddler brain snapped when "I'm the Man Who Loves You" ended. "I want to hear it again!" Okay!

She repeated that sentence after every single repeated play of that song. We listened to it for the entire 45-minute drive to Prettytown. While driving between houses we were viewing, she begged to listen to it, even though there really wasn't enough time. She listened to it for our entire ride home.

Then she woke up from her nap. What did she ask? "Can I listen to Wilco on your pomcuter?" Which we did. I managed to veer her away from that one song a few times, Like, five or six times. Otherwise, it was another straight hour of the same song, with Clara Jane eventually partaking in her own nude guitar solos. With dancing, of course.

I'm not sure, but I think we've listened to "I'm the Man Who Loves You" 497 times in the past 12 hours. This could mean several things: 1) Clara Jane's inherited my musical quirks, 2) Clara Jane's inherited my affinity for signs, superstitions, and luck-inducing quirks, or 3) Clara Jane's just plain quirky.

I turned off the music during her bathtime because Christ, as much as I love Wilco, even I need a break every now and then. In absence of that song, she sat in the tub and mimicked the opening guitar riff with her voice. I must say, she's got it down-pat.

All I can see is black and white and white and pink with blades of blue that lay between the words I think on a page I was meaning to send to you I couldn't tell if it'd bring my heart the way I wanted when I started writing this letter to you but if I could you know I would just hold your hand and you'd understand I'm the man who loves you.

I'm sorry, but sometimes when you've heard a song 497 times in a 12-hour period, you've got to sing the first verse and chorus to get the damn thing to go away already before she wakes up in 11 hours and it starts again!

As for the houses ...

The first one was delightful, but too much money for what it was. The second one was an absolute no, just like the fourth one.

But the third one? The one I've been talking about for months, that I thought we'd lost? This one?

In November, B. decided we needed to look at this house so we could get over it already. Either we'd find out it was a rat trap and we could get on with our lives, or we'd fall in love and it would light a much-needed fire under our asses.

The latter happened.

I didn't want to leave. It's perfect. Well, not perfect. Perfect for us. It's over twice the size of our current house. It's in good shape. It's beautiful and different and fun and it just feels like we're supposed to be there.

We're going to talk to our sellers agent this week. Our house is going on the market. With any luck, our days in the Redneck Jungle are numbered.

Just to be safe, I'm setting "I'm the Man Who Loves You" on repeat and I'm not turning it off until I'm sitting in the formal dining room in front of the mosaic-tile fireplace in nothing but my underwear, drinking a bottle of Stag Beer.

Posted by Robin at 09:02 PM | Comments (10)

January 02, 2007

My Kind of Year-End Wrap-Up

I hate doing year-end wrap-ups, but I guess I'll throw something together, if only to have an excuse to brag.

I didn't mention this after all the NaBloPoMo bru-haha in November, but I participated in Holidailies in December. Well, I somewhat mentioned it, as their tag is right there, if you glance to your right. Same premise as NaBloPoMo - post every day, although there's no dying involved if posting doesn't happen. Instead, they ask for 20 posts from Dec. 1 - Jan. 1. I eeked out 27. But that's not what I'm bragging about. The good folks at Holidailies has a super-secret panel of readers who select their favorite posts. On the list of 80ish favorite, three of my entries were selected: A Fairy Tale, Chocolate and Gravy, and The Hangover (which I feel rather silly linking to since, you know, it's right there if you look down a smidge.)

Holidailies super-secret readers panel, I don't know who you are, but there's a big box of homemade jelly coming your way soon. Promise.

Now that I've bragged, it's time to take myself down a peg. Remember about two months ago when I wrote about reaching my goal of finishing 25 books in 2006 and I reupped my goal to 30? I failed. I'm still in the process of finishing #29.

To my defense, books #26 and #27 were two of the longest, most involved books I read all year. I could have copped out and read fluff. But no. I like to set myself up for failure. I'm oddly skilled at it.

Book #26 also wound up being my favorite of the entire year, which came as a huge surprise. I originally added Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants to my reading list because I read so many good reviews of it. Honestly, I didn't think it sounded like something I would like. Life with a Depression-era traveling circus? Eh. But oh, what a life it was. Brutal, cruel, demeaning, hilarious, romantic, heart-breaking, life-affirming. I could have finished this book a little faster, but it was one of those that I prolonged because I didn't want to be without the characters.

Book #27 took forever, too, for the same reasons as #26. This one, I knew I would love because it took place in my world. Or, what would be my world had I not opted for family life. Bill Buford, in his early 40s, quit a good, stable job as an editor at "The New Yorker" to spend a year or two as Mario Batali's kitchen slave at the three-star Babbo, which led to a stint training under one of the world's best (and possibly scariest) butchers in Tuscany. Then Bill wrote a little book about it called Heat, which made me long to dig my chef's whites out of the closet and get back to work. Part memoir of his experience at Babbo and in Tuscany, part bio of Batali. Wonderfully written with depth, humor, and insight into what drives people to the kitchen life.

Book #28 also spoke to me in a big, deep way. Wade Rouse lived in St. Louis until recently, but his memoir America's Boy hit even closer to home. Rouse grew up in a tiny town in southern Missouri - not the greatest place in the world to be if you happen to be gay. Having grown up in rural Missouri with a dear, closested friend, oh, this one hit home. Even moreso, Rouse depicts the people of my childhood - good people from the Ozark who might not understand difference, but do their best to be loving just the same - with an accuracy that made my heart ache. His family is my family in so many ways. Even though the book's about Rouse's personal journey to accepting his sexuality and the tragic death of his older brother, it's also a lovely depiction of a place and time I know well.

And now we have book #29, Frank Portman's King Dork, recommended by the delightful supergenius, who I'm idolizing these days, what with the good book recommendations and the blog software assistance. Anyway, I'm about 60 pages from the end, and I hate commenting on books before I finish them in case they go to hell at the last minute. So far, though, I'm loving this anti-Catcher in the Rye take on Catcher in the Rye. The whole book has been a literary in-joke, and I'm dork enough to love that.

What did I gain by keeping track of all the books I completed in 2006? A lot more than I expected, it turns out. For one thing, I lost my ability to leave a bad book unfinished. If I invested the time to read the first 50 pages, I absolutely, positively had to finish the whole stinking, awful thing because dammit, if I'd invest that much time in it, the damn book was going to be on my list. I got stuck finishing two really shitty books that I would have otherwise ditched. On the plus side, this compulsion made me a lot more selective about reading materials. Like Water for Elephants - I probably wouldn't have read it before since circuses don't interest me. But since so many people were singing its praises, I looked past my limited interests in the name of good writing.

In the past I've tended to gobble up books and immediately forget them. "Oh, you should definitely read ___________________," I was always telling people. "What's it about?" they'd reply, and I'd stare at them like they'd just asked me to solve a calculus problem. Keeping track of my reading has made me a more reflective reader. I've looked back on my list a lot this year and invested more thought in what I'd read than I did in the days when I'd read and forget.

And of course, there's a sense of accomplishment. Until 2006, I honestly had no idea how many books I was reading in a year. I only knew that I was constantly reading. Because of its ever-presence, I didn't look at reading in terms of accomplishment. With knitting, I can tell you everything I've knit in any given period of time. I can tell you what mix CDs I made in any given year. I can tell you what I've sewn in a year, or what recipes I've developed. I can tell you what I've written in a year. But until 2006, I never could tell you how much I'd accomplished in terms of reading, and I've got to say, I'm pretty damn pleased with myself. By doing this, I've given reading the kind of high priority I place on my other hobbies. It's similar to the perspective I gained by doing NaBloPoMo and Holidailies. Sometimes, we do things so habitually that we fail to see what we're accomplishing, and that's a shame.

2007's goal - conquear the 30.

Posted by Robin at 04:37 PM | Comments (5)

January 01, 2007

The Hangover

Yes, I'm hung over today. It's not the kind of hangover generally associated with January 1st. I think I would prefer that form. All day yesterday I could feel the anxiety building. Around 10:00 PM, I decided to pop one of the super-mega pills I take when I feel the anxiety turning to panic.

I fucking hate these pills. Granted, I haven't felt so much as a twinge of nervousness today because I can't feel a goddamn thing except the layer of fog that's still around my brain nearly 24 hours later. That, and extreme thirst. Such is the price for controlling the chemicals in my brain.

Anyone who assumes that these medications make life normal, or are an easy way out, is wrong. There is nothing normal or easy about feeling like this. It's just better than the alternative.

My drugged state notwithstanding, bubbly was consumed last night.

Clara Jane woke up around shortly after I took my brain pill and announced, "I'm awake!" And she was. Wide awake. So I thought what the hell. I let her get up. A few weeks ago she'd sampled some sparkling cranberry juice at Trader Joe's and loved it, so I bought a bottle. It had been in the fridge ever since. Before the drugs completely obscured my cognitive abilities, I decided we should crack open the bottle and ring in the new year an hour early. I told her we were going to drink some bubbly and taught her how to clink glasses and say, "Cheers!"

Unfortunately, all I've heard today is, "I want to drink bubble-y." Why do I foresee this demand being made in public and a Child Protective Services involvement?

Speaking of surreal public moments with Clara ...

Yesterday afternoon, I left Clara Jane at home with B. to get a little peace and quiet, and perhaps some quilt backing. Hancock Fabrics has a huge annual New Year's sale and I have some restocking to do.

While sitting at the pattern book table, this is what I hear: "Clara, please leave that alone. Clara, stop that please. Clara, will you please come back here? Clara? Clara!"

Needless to say, this caught my attention. While my daughter's first name is Clara Jane, I do often shorten it to Clara, especially in public situations in which I'm trying to prevent Clara Jane from running amok.

I'm not used to hearing other people echoing my words like that. I looked up, not sure if I'd see a wayward toddler or a really rambunctious 90-year-old because let's face it - 90% of the Claras in the world are close to 90-years-old and the other 10% are toddlers with parents riding the Old Name Train.

This one was a toddler, about six months older than Clara Jane. Given name? Mary Clara, shortened to Clara in situations requiring fast communication. Which, let's be honest, is all situations when you're talking about a three-year-old.

To make matters even weirder, she looked like my Clara - huge eyes, round face, same haircut, dimples in the same spots on her cheeks, big grin ... except she was as olive-skinned as my Clara is fair, as brunette as mine is blonde, and as brown-eyed as mine is blue-eyed.

And it freaked my shit out. No wonder I had to go home and drug myself - if you wandered into The Dark Side and met the dark version of your own child, trust me, you'd need medication, too.

My Clara has always been ahead with her verbal skills. This Clara spoke like a six-year-old. At the fabric-cutting table, she had this conversation with an employee:

Dark Clara: Hey. What's that?
Employee: It's a cutting mat.
DC: Why do you need a cutting mat?
E: So I'll know how much fabric to give.
DC: Hey. Are you a grandma?
E: Yes.
DC: How many grandkids do you have?
E: Eight.
DC: What are all of their names?
E: rattles off eight names that may or may not have been real
DC: Hey! I didn't know your apron has three pockets in it!

I abandoned my 99-cent patterns and $1.98/yard flannel on the table and fled the store in an attempt to outrun my future. But I can't outrun it. I can only medicate myself against the onslaught of constant interrogation that surely awaits from my daughter in 2007.

Posted by Robin at 08:47 PM | Comments (3)

December 18, 2006

Christmassed Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Family and/or Friend:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 14, 2006

The Snake Brassaires

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 13, 2006

This is Your Blog on Drugs

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

I've blogged through two falling trees.

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

I've blogged through a massive ice storm.

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

I've blogged through new brain drugs.

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

Heh. I said "ass". Twice.

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

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

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

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

I forgot what else I was going to say.

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

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

December 10, 2006

The Campaign to Stop 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 07, 2006

How to Not Make a Girl Feel Pretty

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

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

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

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

December 06, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 20, 2006

Day Twenty - In Which I Beg for Clothes

When I was a kid I was a fashion adventurer, until some rather uncalled for taunting regarding a pair of homemade earrings I crafted from rubber fishing lures destroyed my fashion confidence. Although now that I think about it, the taunting wasn't uncalled for. In fact, that was probably some of the most called-for taunting in the history of schoolyard bullying. Because honestly, when you're crafting earrings out of rubber fishing lures, someone needs to stop you. Those bullies probably did me a huge favor, and I didn't realize that until just this very minute.

Anyway, since then I've pretty much stuck with classics. I'm a t-shirt and jeans girl. And by "t-shirt" I mean tasteful, solid-color, tailored t-shirts. Not t-shirts adorned with Looney Toons and Disney charcters. Seriously. Plus-size grown women, I have a question for you: Why? Why in the world would anyone, especially someone of a particular size, choose to plaster Eeyore or Tweety Bird over her triple-d's? Just because Walmart sells it doesn't mean you don't have buy it, Ladies.

But yes, basics with cute accessories. That's my usual uniform, although I've enjoyed the return of loose, flowing peasant-type shirts over the past two years, and I can promise you I'll cry when they go out of style. I'm quite content with my style, and I rarely worry about looking stupid. That's another one of those signs of maturity I've been spouting about recently: being confident that you look just fine and knowing full well that you wouldn't put anything on your body that would make you look like an idiot.

Not the case eleven years ago.

Back then I didn't have the money to dress the way I would have liked, and I was a bit of a spazz about what I should wear. I thought I should be doing something more than the basics, but I was terrified of another fishing lure incident.

One hot summer night, I found myself with a surprise, impromptu offer to go to dinner with a guy I considered to be way, way out of my chubby little league. For one thing, he was diminutive; I'm pretty sure I could have wrestled him into a headlock without much effort. I'm 5'3", but I could look him in the eye, and he was a skinny little wisp of a thing. Because it was the '90s, and all the boys were skinny little wisps. Skinny little wisps with black tribal armband tattoos, nose rings, and floppy, unwashed hair that hid their eyes. My word, it was a good time to be a young, single girl.

Upon receiving the 4:00 phone call for a 7:00 dinner, I promptly started freaking the hell out about clothing. This guy was cool, and I was pretty sure I was a dork. So I took my dorky self down to the only plus-size retailer in town where I dug through the clearance racks until I found something suitable for my broke fat ass - a navy blue t-shirt a size too small and a long, flowing dark blue skirt with tiny white flowers. I threw on a pair of $5 canvas Chinese Mary Janes from Pier 1 and off I went, confident that nothing about my ensemble would trigger memories of days spent on the doc with Granddad and a fishing line.

The night progressed, and my confidence grew. Perhaps I could pull off the tiny t-shirt/twirly skirt look. Maybe that's the piece that was missing from my syle all those years. I could be the stylish hippie girl! Yeah! From now on I only wear flouncy skirts, little shirts, and teeny-tiny little shoes and date only boys who are in bands.

Or so I thought. As the date was ending, the boy walked me up a flight of stairs to the top of the parking garage. I was talking and flirting, confidence through the roof, when it happened. My little canvas-clad left foot, the one that wasn't used to flouncy long skirts, stepped on the skirt's hem. Unfortunately, the message from my foot that read, "Dear Brain: I am standing on your skirt. Love, Left Foot" didn't reach my brain in nearly enough time. I continued trying to ascend the stairs, gradually tugging my skirt lower on my hips. In an attempt to save my ass from the harsh light of the moon, I tried to take the next step with my right foot while untangling my left foot.

Now, considering how long it took the first relatively short message to reach my brain, there was no way the next message - "Dear Brain: Mayday! Mayday! We are trying to coordinate an effort down here to prevent the entire body from going end-over-end down these stairs! Assistance! Assistance!" - was going to get to my brain in time. And so my right foot flung out from under my skirt at a speed generally reserved for kicking grand slams in kickball, my big toe contacting with the concrete step that had been all of three inches in front of it, all while my left foot continued tugging my skirt further and further south.

"I had a really good time tonight and I hope we can do it again soon," I told my date as my eyes crossed from the searing waves of pain radiating up my leg from my big toe. When I looked down I saw four Chinese canvas Mary Janes, two of them that looked like they had been worn for a shift on the killing floor.

Eventually my eyes uncrossed as numbness set in, and I realized that 1) I only have two feet, and 2) only one of my big toes was no longer in ownership of a toenail.

After the boy accompanied me and my hobbled, bloodied foot to the car, I never saw him again. Which just goes to show that no matter how cute the outfit, it doesn't do a damn bit of good if it's on a dork who's better suited in jeans and t-shirts, instead of trying to be someone she's not. Or maybe it just goes to show that the boy was an ass because my God, did he not notice the bloody footprints I was leaving behind? Because he sure as hell didn't say a damn thing about them.

Anyway, why am I telling you all of this? Because I'm trying to win free clothes from IGIGI via Crazy Hip Blogmamas, and I have no shame. Go see The Fashionistique. Oh, and here's a coupon:

Posted by Robin at 07:30 PM | Comments (7)

November 18, 2006

Day Eighteen - I Need My Face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unibrows aren't so bad. Really.

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

October 29, 2006

Timber

Long-time readers of this-here blog might recall that bad shit tends to happen in the days surrounding my birthday. Pets have died. My grandmother died. Car wrecks have occured. And illness! Oh, the illnesses! The long and short of it: I dread my birthday.

This year, I thought my bad birthday mojo cumulated with the turbulent flight to Cleveland, and the minor fender-bender prior to the Wilco concert last week.

Oh, but there was more!

Shortly after I posted my last blog entry on Friday, I was sitting at my desk, contemplating getting my ass up, getting dressed, and taking Clara Jane to my parents' hotel so B. and I could get on with the business of having a rare grown-up night out. As these thoughts crossed my mind, a wind blew. And as usual in this neighborhood, when the wind blew, the power went out.

"Power's not going to be coming back anytime soon!" B. yelled from the back of the house while I looked out the living room window. Last time the power randomly went out, the source was a lightening-struck transformer I could see from my living room window. So, of course the source of the latest power outage would come from the same direction, right?

This was the source of Friday's power outage:

That tree? It's not some sideways-growing tree. At 5:03 PM on Friday, it was a vertical, healthy tree in my backyard. At 5:04 PM on Friday, it became a horizontal, health-impaired tree laying on top of our fence and covering most of our next-door neighbors' backyard.

No lightening. No unusually high wind. No chainsaws. The tree just fell the fuck over.

Oh, there's probably a scientific reason why the tree just fell the fuck over. The tree, while healthy, was growing against a hill and had some exposed roots, which probably didn't give it as much support as it needed. Add two days and two nights of rain, which made our backyard feel like a giant sponge. There probably wasn't much holding the tree to the ground. One slightly stiff breeze from just the right direction, and down she goes.

The bad news, aside from the obvious: there were about a million various power/phone/cable lines torn out of the poles by the tree.

The good news: Mother Nature protects swingsets:

Well, except for slides. Mother Nature hates slides.

In all seriousness, luck was on our side. Well, as much as luck can be on anyone's side when she's got a giant tree lying on her fence and devouring her neighbors' yard. The damage was minimal to everything except the tree. The swingset took a fixable blow. A small bit of siding got knocked off the neighbors' house. It goes without saying that the fence has seen better days, but it's stable enough to keep the dogs contained.

In more lucky news, my parents were in town on Friday. Clara Jane was freaking out, so my mom and I took her to dinner while my dad and B. waited for the utility company at home. I'm also lucky that I'm friends with PKB, whose husband has power tools and enjoys using them. He was ready to come over at 7 AM this morning, chainsaw blaring. She made him hold off until 9 AM.

The fact that I have friends who view a felled tree as an excuse for a party? Stellar.

B., Mr. PKB, her eldest, and our neighbor worked on the tree while PKB and her youngest kept me company. I made chili and gumbo. We thought about hiring a band. Okay, not really. But it was pretty festive, all things considered.

Once Murphy stopped barking in terror at the exposed tree roots, the uprooting has opened up Scent Hound Nirvana for my dogs:

Chloe's decided to live underground where the moles smell so very, very good.

It's so funny how people react when something bad happens. Five minutes after the tree decided to have its little lay-down, I was on the phone with my mom, freaking the hell out. What's the last thing you want to hear when you're freaking the hell out? "You're lucky! It could have been so much worse!"

A tree just spontaneously collapsed in my yard and I'm lucky? I momentarily felt the need to debate that point. Ten minutes later, when B. uttered the words, "God hates us and doesn't want us to go on a date," I found myself repeating my mom, only with more profanities.

Yes, it could have been much, much worse. Could have been much, much better. I can say in my experience that life is infinitely better when all the trees perform their basic function of standing the fuck up. But I got to hang out with Familia PKB. I got to feel the love that comes from being stuck in a tight place. I got to see what tree guts look like. And my power came back Friday night just in time to see the St. Louis Cardinals win the World Series. I'm not a sports fan, but I like anything that puts my entire city in a happy mood. Hell, even the jackass who runs his dune buggies up and down the street offered to give us the parts to repair the fence. He had extras in his garage.

Let's recap:
1. Trees randomly up and falling down.
2. St. Louis Cardinals win the World Series.
3. Dunebuggy Jackass gives us stuff we need, instead of blasting his airhorn and Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" in the middle of the night.

If I was a pessimist, I'd say these are signs of the End Times. But I'm too lucky for that.

Posted by Robin at 04:48 PM | Comments (6)

October 18, 2006

Shit I Couldn't Make Up If I Tried

Really? There's no other possible title for this.

Do you remember the post I made on Labor Day weekend about the $40 B. and I found outside a restaurant? There was a gas station receipt between the two $20 bills that had a name, presumably the name of the person who lost the cash. We went back to the restaurant, had her paged, and did everything short of going to the hotel next door and knocking on doors in search of her. In a last-ditch effort to find this woman, I wrote a blog entry peppered with her name in hopes that she'd Google her name and find it.

And it only took six weeks for that to happen!

You read that correctly: Janice Andrukaitis Googled her name yesterday, found the entry I posted and sent me a message on MySpace. Well, actually, she was able to answer one question: she had eaten dinner at Cracker Barrel. She couldn't remember the answer to question #2 - where had she purchased gas that day, but that's fine because I couldn't remember, either. Apparently I didn't have much faith in my Google plan, as I didn't bother to write down where the gas receipt had come from.

Ain't the universe a funny, funny place?

At first I thought the message was spam, since her user name is different from her given name. But I kept reading, and by the time I got halfway through the message, I got a clue, skipped to the bottom and saw her signature. And then I completely lost my shit, partially stunned that 1) she found the post, and 2) that it only took six weeks. Despite being stunned, what was I yelling? "I knew it! I knew she'd find it!"

I can't even begin to describe what a kick I got out of this, especially since I've had a rather crappy week. I'm constantly amazed at the ways people come and go from each others' lives. I don't even have anything particularly profound or insightful to offer. I'm just amazed.

I'm also amazed that she doesn't want her money back. I think that's rather telling, don't you?

The night we found the money, B. and I speculated on this person. There was a Shriners convention in the area; maybe she was a part of that. Or someone just traveling along I-70 for the holiday weekend. Okay, so we weren't very creative with our speculating, what with being completely drunk on pumpkin spice lattes and the joys of found money. But we speculated. I speculated on how the loss of the cash might be affecting her, hoping that it didn't happen to be the last $40 she had to her name, hoping she got where she was going without the hassels caused by lost money.

She moved from North Carolina to Nebraska last year, and was making the trip to pick up the last of her stuff. Her traveling companion? An aging Norwegian Elkhound named Bear. She got her meal to-go and ate in her truck while Bear got some outside time. Obviously, all this transpired while B. and I lingered over dinner because I know I would have noticed a Norwegian Elkhound picnicking on barbeque outside the St. Charles Cracker Barrel. That's not a sight that's easily missed.

I like knowing the rest of this story, and Janice said that she's glad to know what happened to the money. You know how those things can make you nuts, trying to figure out what, exactly, you did with money. I'm still trying to figure out what happened to that full box of blank checks I lost in 1996. I have a feeling that whoever found them won't be plastering my name all over the internet. Which is fine. There wasn't any money in that account, anyway.

Posted by Robin at 09:56 PM | Comments (12)

October 17, 2006

Gloves Are Off

Okay. So I tried to make nice yesterday with all the Murphy's law-type crap that happened. I still stand by my knowledge that none of it was too bad, just minor annoyances.

But I've got to tell you, how many minor annoyances can a person deflect before something in her brain pops?

Here's a list of the shit that's put me in a foul mood during the first waking ninety minutes of my day:

Oversleeping and missing out on fun stuff.

Goddamn fruit flies.

My body's sudden revolt over anything containing garlic. Instead of yumming up the garlicky goodness, my innards and I now spend the fifteen hours following garlic consumption belching it back up.

I colored my hair last night. I look like Morticia Aadams. It didn't magically lighten up while I slept.

Fucking comment spam! I've lost track of how many comment spams I've deleted in the past few days. There was a big, steaming pile of them this morning.

My own inability to get WordPress up and running, so I can be rid of the fucking spammers, and my stubbornness, lazy nature that's prevented me from getting help in installing WordPress.

Oh, this is rich. This is just great. I'm having problems with the Gmail address I use for this blog and my Etsy shop because someone spoofed that email address.

The fact that there are enough people using the internet who are ignorant enough to make things like spamming and spoofing profitable for the parasites who have chosen spamming and spoofing as their lifes' work.

Stupid congestion.

Stupid dogs, who are too delicate to get their feet on the rain-soaked ground, opting instead to shit on my backyard sidewalk.

Sewer workers are banging on the street in front of my house. That's never a sign of anything good.

Dear Toaster: Five seconds against the coils does not toast make, you piece of shit. Why haven't I replaced you?

That's it. I'm going to bare-knuckle punch Murphy (of the law, not the sidewalk-shitting but my, that's tempting) in the face.

But there is some good stuff ...

The universe obviously knows that it's my birthday week and for once it's opting to do some good. It's Wilco Week!

Our cable system's On Demand service is showing I Am Trying to Break Your Heart for free all month.

The Wilco/Bright Eyes Austin City Limits is re-airing on the local PBS affiliate on my birthday.

Sunken Treasure DVD comes out a week from today, just in time for people who remember to buy me gifts two days after my birthday.

In today's paper, there are articles with every guy named Jay who was ever a band mate with Jeff Tweedy: Farrar and Bennett, who happens to be playing in St. Louis the night I'm seeing Wilco in Pennsylvania.

I refuse to believe that the universe is merely taunting me with all these little coincidences, no matter the other messages the universe keeps sending me.

Posted by Robin at 10:07 AM | Comments (6)

October 16, 2006

Let the Whining Commence ... or Bring it to an End

You know what can fix a crappy-ass, cold, rainy day? Several things:

A child who not only naps, but a child who announces, "I'm ready to get in my little bed," takes herself to her room, and sleeps like the comatose.

A couch and a quilt, with a dog who's too damn stupid to find her way out from under a quilt, which works in my favor because, while Murphy's no scholar, she certainly makes a good, environmentally-friendly heat source.

A little pot of pomegranate white tea.

"Laverne & Shirley" reruns, although it would have been better if one of them wasn't the episode where Ted Danson plays Laverne's near-fiance' firefighter who dies. I hate that episode as much now, if not more, than I did when I was eight.

But the airing of the wretched episode gave me an excuse to turn on some music and park my nose in this delious bit of dual-authored literariness.

I think it was no coincidence that, when I plopped my whiny ass onto the couch, remote in hand, looking to escape yet another in a long line of recent cruddy days, I channel-surfed to a documentary on one of the umpteen varieties of The Discovery Channel on how the loss of Western interest worsened the famine in Ethiopia. The universe has delightful ways to snap me out of my whining and refresh my memory that I don't have it bad. At all. Not even remotely bad. I have a dog-warmed couch, quilts, tea, books, quiet, and "Laverne & Shirley" reruns, which, even when it's the only sad episode or one of those ridiculous California episodes, sure are blessings.

I started writing this hours ago, before the couch-sitting, "Laverne & Shirley"-watching, tea-drinking, book-reading, dog-heating event. I started out listing all my whines of the day: being out in the rain with Clara Jane, the rain boot that fell off her foot while I had my arms loaded with stuff (although a very nice lady stopped to fetch the boot for me), exhausted from two nights of insomnia, both which ended with me sleeping on the couch, and a fierce earache just in time for my flight to Cleveland on Thursday. My impending birthday - I hate my birthday, as you know if you've been reading for any amount of time. The upcoming 15th anniversary of my grandma's death. Recent spousal tensions. Fruit flies. My lovely vintage pinkish-orange Pyrex pie plate, shattered on the kitchen floor.

I almost rear-ended a cop car in the Starbucks drive-thru this afternoon. Wrap your head around how many things are weird about that sentence. I acutally thought this thought: "I wonder if he'll let me take my latte to jail."

After our crazy trip to the grocery store, which thank God has a UPS store on its premise and saved me a trip, I did something I rarely do with Clara Jane: we had a crappy, greasy, unhealthy fast food lunch in the truck. On the rare occasions that she gets fast food, she gets the healthier versions. But today the only thing even remotely convenient was Sonic. So my kid ate tots and a corn dog for lunch. At least she had apple juice, as I refuse to budge on my no soda stance. Some days, our mental health takes precidence over our physical health and I'm pretty sure hauling around in the rain for healthy food would have shoved me over the edge today. Clara Jane and I had an emotionally volatile weekend and were building up to an emotionally volatile day. Sometimes, you just need a damn corn dog to diffuse the bomb.

She's napped for nearly three hours. I've drank a pot of tea, read a chapter, massaged my weary brain with my favorite show from my childhood, snuggled with dog who's as warm as she is stupid. We're dry, even though the rain persists. My ear hurts a little less, probably because I've relaxed my neck for the first time in days. I've got a great trip lurking on my calendar.

A week from now, I'll be 34 and a day.

It's 4:46, and I still don't know what I'm going to fix for dinner.

Somehow, I think it might all work out.

Posted by Robin at 02:34 PM | Comments (3)

October 04, 2006

Scared Straight, and Chiggar Turns Two

Today's dispatch from the toddler jungle is two-fold and I'll warn you - there is no segue. Continue at your own risk.

The first fold: Do any of you have teenagers who need a quick, sharp lesson in why they shouldn't be parents? They should have been in this house today. We're running our very own Scared Straight: The Parenthood Edition around here these days. To whit:

1. Clara Jane asked to sit on the potty, and proceeded to pee in said potty. All is right in the world.

2. An hour later, I removed Clara Jane from her perch at the kitchen table, only to be flooded in urine. We're talking pee everywhere. Puddles of pee. Rivulets of pee. Gushing tidal waves of pee. I carried her, arms outstretched, holding her dripping butt as far from me as I could in the traditional person-who-doesn't-know-what-the-hell-she's-doing-tries-to-carry-a-child-and-fears-
bodily-fluids pose favored by bumbling, uninvolved television and film dads. And do you blame me? Pee, everywhere! I don't know how I can convey to you just how much pee there was. A lot. Dripping all over my house. Dripping from my child's toes, even, because she'd taken it upon herself to do a little wading in Lake Lottapiddlehana before I snatched her from certain urine drowning.

3. Floors mopped. Child bathed and diapered. What? You thought I'd put her back in big girl underpants after that last display of fountainage? Please. Chair disinfected. I was on the verge of flopping down in exhaustion when I realized I'd neglected to remove the vast quantities of urine that were covering my person.

4. And that's when she crapped her world.

5. And then she didn't take a nap.

So, c'mon! Bring your young, sexually curious teens to my house! Let them live a day in my wetsuit and surely they will learn the consequences of their nefarious actions! Or maybe they could at least do a little babysitting while I fix myself a cocktail.

You know my dad's dog Chiggar*, right?

See? I told you there wasn't going to be a segue. I hope you didn't hurt yourself there.

Yesterday, Chiggar finally made it to age two without being killed by 1) angry villagers, 2) chainsaw mishap, or 3) being stomped to pulp by angry horses. In large dogs, age two is considered adulthood, so yesterday morning my mom informed Chiggar that it was time to start acting like an adult.

Chiggar's first task as an adult? He went outside and peed on Rhonda, their slightly geriatric, completely neurotic (do you blame her?) Labrador while she was peeing.

Oh. I guess I could have made a segue. I just now realized that both of my stories involved urine. Oh well.

Not that this has anything to do with his birthday, but earlier this week Chiggar went for a ride with my dad on their latest horse-drawn buggy.

Have I told you this about my dad? He goes to auctions, buys busted-up old buggies, fixes them, crashes them and inflicts bodily harm upon himself and his riding buddy Chiggar, repairs the buggies again, and sells them. His horse Bubba has been trained by a local Amish farmer to pull buggies.

Beautiful and dignified, don't you think? Now picture this: Dad is riding with Chiggar at his side. Bubba, who hates crossing the railroad tracks, comes upon the railroad sign painted on the road. He stops dead, because he's one of those special reading horses and he understands his road signs. And when he stops, Chiggar goes flying off the seat and out of the buggy.

I would have paid to have seen that.

Oh, and my parents have a new dog. Sort of. A golden retriever puppy, approximately three months old, has found its way to their house. This isn't unusual. My parents live on the edge of town in a part of the world where people are stupid enough to take unwanted pets to the country and leave them on the side of the road. As a kid I used this to my advantage. Free pets!

They're falling in love with this pup, which my mom, in a fit of wishful thinking has lovingly named "Gone". They don't need another dog. They have four horses - two of them under a year old, two dogs - and let's face it, Chiggar counts for four dogs all by himself, and Rhonda's easily two, what with the emotional disorders and all, and a cat. The cat's pretty cool. But they don't need this puppy, especially right now, since they're leaving town on Friday to come visit us.

But Gone fits in so well! Just today, while I was on the phone with my mom, Gone brought her a possum. A flat, dried-out, crusty possum whose only distinguishable feature was his little smooshed possum face, which he carried in his mouth with the rest tossed casually over his shoulder, thus proving he's got problems and should fit right on in Ma and Pa's Farm of Misfit Pains in the Ass.

*If you're new and haven't met Chiggar yet, you might thing me callous for thinking it's funny that he fell off the wagon. I suggest you acquaint yourself with him. Like the time he bit a chainsaw. Or maybe you'd enjoy the time he lept vertically into the air just to snatch food from my mouth. If that doesn't convince you of Chiggar's vileness, maybe you should read about the time he shit a shovel. And if that doesn't make you understand the vileness, well then, maybe Chiggar should come live with you for a few days, preferably when I'm visiting his house.

Posted by Robin at 06:33 PM | Comments (9)

October 03, 2006

Too Mean to Die. Jesus Don't Want 'Em

It's so, so boring to read about the proliferation of rudeness in modern society. I'm not going to let that stop me from writing about it, though.

I blame the weather. I always blame the weather for the poor behavior of others. Summer is giving Saint Louis one final middle-finger salute - at least, it better be final - with a blast of record-breaking 90-degree temps. Nobody's in a good mood, and rightfully so. However, I don't think that excuses these incidents that have occured in my presence in a 24-hour period:

• Yesterday morning, we were stuck at home, waiting for a windshield repair guy to asses a bit of storm-related vehicle damage. During a storm a week or two ago, a huge limb landed on my truck and knicked the windshield. We'd been told that the repair person wouldn't even come to the door. I was free to run about my home in my pajamas, sans bra, without worry or care.

  Au contrare.

  While Clara Jane was in the middle of a first-class hissy fit because I wasn't painting fast enough to suit her artistic temperament, the doorbell rang. I answered in a timely manner, only to find the windshield guy walking down the sidewalk to my truck, yacking on his damn Bluetooth earpiece, not even looking to see if anyone answered the bell.

  Basically, he rung my doorbell and immediately walked down the steps to the sidewalk to work on my truck.

  I didn't want to talk to you either, Jackass.

  Half an hour later, Bluetooth growth still spreading from his ear, he rang the bell again, shoved a clipboard in my face and muttered, "I need your autograph," without further explaination.

  Nice!
  

As for today ...

• I try to be really understanding towards elderly people. I have elderly grandparents and a great-aunt I adore, and I would gladly punch anyone in the face who might dare to so much as roll their eyes because my loved ones aren't as quick or savvy as us young pups. That said, being old isn't an excuse for being an ass.

  This morning Clara Jane and I went to Target, which has become a hassle and a half. In the past two weeks, Clara Jane's had three incidents where she's gotten spooked by Halloween decorations in stores, and now she doesn't want to go anywhere. Well, unless there are bribes involved. All morning she kept telling me, "I don't want to go to Target," until I caved and told her that if she stopped complaining she could have some snack-bar popcorn while we shopped.

  Why yes, I'm making her choose between agoraphobia and an eating disorder.

  When we arrived at the snackbar with our cart (bondage is the only way I can get her into the store without her trying to flee in the opposite direction), there were two older women at a table, one of them in a motorized cart, which she had parked in the area where the snackbar line forms. Not only that, she had her purse and drink sitting on the snackbar itself, and she glared at me with a stinkeye unlike any I've ever seen when I approached with my cart.

  Granted, I'm healthy and able-bodied, so it wasn't a big deal for me to do some creative navigation. But there were plenty of seats and table spaces available where she could have parked her cart that didn't interfere with the flow of traffic.

  But ... but ... oh, here's the real kicker! While Clara Jane and I waited for our popcorn, another elderly woman came into the snack bar in, you guessed it, a motorized cart, and Motorized Cart #1 gave her the stink-eye, too, forcing Motorized Cart #2 to do her own creative navigation.

  Sometimes, I think some people are alive simply because they're too damn mean to die and Jesus don't want 'em, which brings us to ...

• After Target and lunch, Clara Jane and I stopped by a convenience store to use the bathroom and grab an iced tea, since Hell has opened up and it's hot. Now, I'm a bit of a freak about how I park. I drive a full-size truck, and I know that if I'm crooked or too close to the line, I might keep others from being able to get in and out of their cars. I hate it when people do that to me, so I try not to do that to others. I made sure there was plenty of room on either side of my truck, which wasn't difficult as the parking lot was mostly empty. I opened the doors and started getting Clara Jane out of her car seat.

  As I unsnapped her seat belt, an old man - probably the brother of Motorized Cart #1 - in a big silver Cadillac-car, tried to whip into the parking space next to my driver's side. Nevermind that the spot on the passenger's side was free, as were several other spaces even closer to the store's entrance. Anyway, when he saw me and my opened door, he stopped, glared at me and ... and ... wait for it, it's that good ...

  He fucking waved his hand at me and mouthed the word, "Move!".

  I'll pause so you can digest that for a moment.

  So, what can I do? I'm about to pee my pants. My kid's loose in my truck. And this old fart can't drive two spaces down because, I don't know, the parking space next to mine is possibly the Fountain of Youth.

  I sat down in the backseat to hold Clara Jane, pulled the door shut, and let Ponce' de Leon have his goddamn space.

  Repeat after me: Too mean to die. Jesus don't want him.

• This one's quick, and happens a surprising number of times. While leaving the store, Clara Jane in one arm, iced tea in my hand, big purse/diaper bag over my shoulder, we approached the double-doors at the same time as two young, able-bodied empty-handed men. I paused. They looked at me.

  And then they went to the door further away from me and walked in, not even making an attempt to open the door for us. I mean, I know those doors can be really heavy and all, and it's such a hassle to take the extra 10 seconds to open a door and not rush through it like you're a goddamn Pamploma bull chasing after a herd of stupid tourists.

  Chivarly's not only dead, it's also dismembered and buried in a shallow grave down by the river. That's fine. I can take care of myself. I'm used to juggling my kid and my shit and I don't expect anyone to do it for me. Still, it's nice when people do.

  At lunch, just minutes before the two convenience store incidents, an older woman saw me approaching the exit with Clara Jane, who was in a tizz because I had the audacity to insist that she hold my hand. The woman held the door for us. When I thanked her she said, "It's hard, I know."

  Some days, it's much harder than others.

I don't have to tell you how frustrating all of this is. I can make myself crazy, wondering why in the hell people choose to act like this. It's not mine to figure out, that I do know.

But I also know that after those four incidents in 24 hours, I don't really feel the desire to be nice to anyone, and that's the problem. Rudeness begats rudeness. I just don't get why it's so damn hard for people to extend a little basic courtesy. Maybe because no one's extended any basic courtesy to them.

Posted by Robin at 03:10 PM | Comments (15)

September 25, 2006

Dreamy!

I had a weird dream Friday night.

Before I tell you about this dream, I had intended to preface it by saying that I hate it when people talk about their dreams in detail. If you can't tell me your dream in sixty seconds or write it in fewer than 200 words, I don't want to hear it. Believe me, I'm doing you a favor by not listening for several reasons: 1)If your can't tell your dream in sixty seconds or fewer than 200 words, there's a good chance I'm not going to understand it, and 2) If I don't understand it, I won't take any responsibility for my poor listening skills and will instead think you're a self-obsessed bore, and I don't want to think that about you.

Perfect examples of good ways to talk about your dreams have recently been exhibited by Kristina and her matching shit dreams, Jodi and her masturbating Uncle Joey dream, and Jen and her sexual terrorism dream. See? Perfect. Short, precise, and weird enough to merit retelling.

From previous experience I know that it's much more interesting if, for example, Kristina tells me, "I had another Jeff Tweedy sex dream last night," it's funny and titilating and odd and entertaining. Much moreso than if she were to say, "I was in a warehouse but it wasn't really a warehouse because it was really a club. And you were there, but you weren't you. You were really a pomeranian. And there was a big wizard standing on a hill controlling everything. He was wearing purple and looked like Dumbledore but he wasn't really Dumbledore ... blah blah blah blah for fifteen minutes of our lives that we'll never get back ... Jeff Tweedy and I made out in front of everyone, but the wizard wasn't controlling it and then all my teeth fell out. What's that about?" Because really, the only part of that that has any meaning or entertainment value is the part about making out with Jeff Tweedy. As for what it's about? It's your brain's way of telling you to spend some time outside of your head with the other humans.

For the record, Kristina always tells her dreams in the proper manner. And they're never about doing dirty, dirty things with Jeff Tweedy. Ever.

My dream from Friday night is neither short, precise, nor weird enough to merit retelling. In fact, now that two days have passed since I had the dream, I'm not even sure why I'm bringing it up because it's pretty stupid. But I've taunted you with it, so here it is:

I dreamt I went to Vegas to see a concert in a casino with some friends. For whatever reason I bailed from the show and wandered around the casino. It was named Starsville Casino, and it was based on the high concept of a 1950s ranch house. Slots in the living room, martinis in the den, casserole in the fine dining establishments, and Mom vaccuming the reading room, where I spent the evening with my nose in a book. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

The sad thing is, I spent a good chunk of my waking hours on Saturday convinced that this is a fantastic idea for a casino and Steve Wynn should send me a check and a contract. Now, I know better. And I apologize for telling you about it.

Anyway.

There's little to discuss, really. I've been watching as a horrific fight transpires between my neighbors. They're screaming loud enough that I can hear them from cattycorner across the street with the windows closed at the back of my house. That's loud. I can't imagine what their 2-year-old and 4-month-old are hearing. The glass in their storm door is broken. I don't know if that's the cause of the fight or a casuality of it. At one point the 2-year-old was in the middle of it.

I hate this neighborhood.

But this shit happens everywhere. B. and I have had some fights that, if we'd had them on the front porch for the neighbors to witness, they'd be feeling the way I am right now.

All I know is, that 2-year-old spends a great deal of time standing at the front door, looking like he wants to escape. He might actually be able to now that the glass is gone.

On a whim yesterday we visited the town where we're planning to move. We even went to an open house for a place that's all wrong for us. Nice, but not what we're looking for. It seems like the visit has gotten B. all excited about moving, but it's had the opposite effect on me. I don't know if it was the grayness in the air yesterday, or driving past the county jail where that woman who, allegedly, killed her friend, cut the fetus from her, and killed her other three kids is being held. As we drove past, a city worker was removing barricades from the street. "We must have just missed something," B. said.

"Yeah," I said. "The media circus."

For whatever reason, I'm feeling pessimistic about the move. I'm convinced we're going to have a hard time unloading our current house. Seeing my neighbors brawl on the front yard within minutes of reading about the glut of houses on the market doesn't fill me with hope. Nevermind that I'm not impressed by the houses and neighborhoods in our price bracket.

Mainly I think I'm bothered because this isn't the move I wanted to make. I wanted to make this move once B.'s masters degree from that really pricey local university is paid for, along with the year of unemployment that followed the pricey masters degree. I wanted to make this move in such a manner that we'd be able to buy the house where we'll stay forever. I wanted to be able to leave anything old and worn, like our disintegrating couch, behind and replace it with the furniture we'll keep forever. I'm ready to start my life with the house and furniture that'll eventually say, "Damn. You're just not ever going to let go of your thirties, are you?" The house that, when we're in our 70s, will look frozen in time.

Okay, so maybe that's not really what I want, but you get the picture. I hate that we're making this move filled with compromises, and I'm not convinced we're not going to trade one barrel of bad apples for another barrel of bad apples strapped to the back of the hassel and expense of moving.

I know, I'm dealing in abstracts. Dreams, what-ifs, ponderings. None of it does anyone any good. I need to stay rooted in the concrete.

Okay, so what do I know for sure? I know that The Cuz rocks, and she's installed WordPress for me. I'm fed the hell up with the recent influx of comment spam I've been receiving. I'm sure you, my kind readers, aren't interested in German porn featuring The Simpsons, and I'd rather not provide free advertising for such. Moveable Type's spam filtering sucks, so I'm making the switch. Give me a few days to tinker with WordPress, and hopefully I won't break anything, bringing you a lovely new version of this here blog.

Posted by Robin at 01:45 PM | Comments (10)

September 21, 2006

Not a Humiliating Dot to be Had

Nope. No dots. Whenever I make posts with dots it's because I've reached a point where I can't string together enough sentences to write focused, thoughtful paragraphs. Instead, you're going to get random, unfocused, thoughtless paragraphs, as I'm unable to summon the gumption to write the HTML code to make the dots. And because I don't want a repeat of yesterday. At least at first glance this will look like a completely coherant, paragraph-filled post.

Every September, there's always one day when I awaken with a sore ankle. Which ankle? It alternates. This year, it's the left. My ankles have lived difficult lives, what with nearly 34 years of taking the brunt for my feet, which opted to never develop arches. Nevermind all these years of hauling my fat ass around. It's a combination of those things, the changes in the weather, and the umpteen bazillion injuries I've inflicted upon my ankles in my lifetime. I'm surprised it's not my right ankle giving me trouble after the number I did on it last year. Instead, it's the left, probably because of the number I did on it in 1990.

I was home alone, chasing my dog through the house, when my foot struck the big ottoman in the living room, knocking me on my ass. I couldn't get up until my mom got home about thirty minutes (or hours, it was hard to tell at the time) later. There was a huge knot above my anklebone, which, after five hours (or days, it was hard to tell at the time) in the emergency room, we learned the knot was the result of my ankle tendons stretching and then snapping like the overextended elastic in the waistband of my yoga pants. "That's worse than breaking your ankle," the doctor said before leaving me to sit for a few more hours. Or weeks. Since then, my left ankle angers easily.

We're currently without water. Shortly after dinner, after Clara Jane had painted herself, as she does every night, B. went to the sink to dampen a washcloth to cleanse this:

So, we have this paint-covered child and a mountain of dinner dishes and *pssssst* no water. I was on the phone with my mom, who's vacationing in Colorado. B., who's normally good at keeping his shit together, completely loses his shit because of this lack of water. He went marching out the front door and down the block to see what the hell was going on.

He came storming back in, blind to the phone stuck to my ear and the paint-covered shrieking child who was ready to run through the house and rub her paint-smeared self on every available surface. "There's a leak and and and it's been there since Monday and and they're just now fixing it and they didn't bother to warn anyone and and and and they're interfering with my ability to care for my child!"

To which I said, "Dude. Get a goddamn baby wipe and calm the hell down."

I mean, good grief. We survived nearly a week without electricity during 100+ degree heat. I think we'll live a few hours without water. People around the world survive without potable water for a lot longer than that. Just ask Bono. Nevermind that after July's blackout, we went into survivalist mode. B.'s been doing his part by drinking two liters of soda a day, washing the bottles, filling them with water, and stashing them in the deep freezer. Water's the one thing we don't lack. The only real problem we faced was flushing the toilet, and I've already proven my ability to improvise in that department this week.

Michelle at Weaker Vessel, which has quickly become one of my favorite reads, wrote today about late adopters, specifically regarding Last.FM. Now, I like Last.FM, but it doesn't work very well for me, since most of the music played via my computer involves either Laurie Berkner or Dan Zanes. All Last.FM does is link me to mothers who are on the verge of chewing their speaker chords in two because they've heard Laurie's Got a Pig on Her Head! one too many times.

Instead, I've become a late adopter to Pandora. I've lost approximately 97 hours of my life to Pandora this week, and I'm cool with that. Today, I was listening to my Paul Westerberg station, and I got overly excited because they played Monte Montgomery. Not just because I like both artists, and not just because it's always good to hear the much-underheard Monte getting some airplay. Mainly, I got excited because I've met both artists. Add some Joan Baez, and we'd have a station titled "Musicians Robin Has Met".

I met Joan when I was working in an art gallery. She was in town for a show, and came into the shop while I was working. She was a dream.

I met Paul by waiting at his bus after a show in 1996. I got an autographe, chatted with him for a minute, and then stood by, mortified, as my roommate gushed at him like he was the Pope.

I met Monte when I was in Memphis for my 30th birthday. A bunch of my friends and I went to Memphis to celebrate the end of my 20s. My friend M. from Dallas is a huge Monte fan, and when we learned he was playing in Memphis that weekend, she decided to join us.

Even though she'd followed him all over Texas, she'd never met him. Prior to his show, we all went to a bar where one of his pals was playing. Mind you, this is the bar where my drunk-ass friends and me managed to drink every single bottle of Rolling Rock in the joint.

My meeting with Monte entailed me skipping my drunk ass to the back of the club when I spotted Monte watching the show, and telling him, "My friend M. loves you! She's followed you all over Texas! She's followed you to St. Louis! She followed you here! And (insert slight sob here) and and you'd better go over there and say hi to her!"

And he did. Afterwards, we went outside to partake in some drunk-dialing. Then Kristina accosted a guy who looked like The Edge, and we got in trouble for talking too much during a show, thus becoming Those People We Hate.

We were delightful that night. Just lovely.

And finally, since this has unofficially become Robin's Humiliation Week and the previous story didn't make me feel quite like throwing myself off the roof in shame (Don't worry - our house is short. I wouldn't get seriously injured, just humiliated.), I'll tell you this:

Remember that story I told you way back at the beginning of this post? The one about how I busted my ankle while chasing my dog? Well, it's not entirely true, although I've always told the story that way to the point where it feels true.

The truth is, I was dancing to the Cherry Pie and I did a header over the ottoman because I was so caught up in the rapture of my dancing. Oh, and because the gods of good taste rightfully saw fight to smite me in that moment. I don't hold it against them. I needed to be smote.

Shut up. The only reason you never permanently injured yourself while dancing to Warrant is because you were too busy listening to Richard fucking Marx. Don't lie about it. You know you were.

Tomorrow? Nothing but dignity. I promise.

Posted by Robin at 08:48 PM | Comments (6)

September 19, 2006

Things I Shouldn't Tell Anyone, Especially the Whole Internet

I think there's a body buried in my backyard.

One night last week, B. had a terrible time getting the Idiot Dogs into the house before bed. Seems they had found a hambone in the neighbor's yard. How do we know this? Because they kept slapping their thighs in an upward brushing motion and then beating on their chests. Oh, and because B. had to wrestle a slobbery hambone from Chloe's saggy maw once he got them in the house.

Today, in an attempt to beat my current illness to death with fresh air and sunshine, Clara Jane and I ventured into the backyard with the dogs. While she removed 2/3 of the sand from her sandbox and I read my book, the dogs frantically dug at the base of our peach tree. Before long, all three of them (the neighbor's dog is always in our yard, because I don't have nearly enough things to piss me off) had their own bones, which they took to their seperate corners to gnaw.

Now, I didn't get a good look at the bones, mostly because 1) I didn't feel like getting out of my chair, 2) I was engrossed in my book, and 3) I didn't want to deal with the emotional fallout if I discovered one of them gnawing on a human skull. I could barely handle it last June when I had to dispose of a maggoty dead bird in my yard. All I know is, there's a copious amount of bonage in my backyard, and not the good kind of bonage that might cause my neighbors to call the cops for simple public indecency charges. I'm talking about the kind of bonage that could lead the neighbors to call the cops on much more complex why-are-their-bones-in-your-yard charges.

They're not ours. I swear. Talk to the previous owners. They were creepy.

Believe it or not, the possible graveyard in my backyard isn't the thing I shouldn't be advertising on the internet. No, what I shouldn't tell you about is far more personal. And horrible. And you probably won't want to be my friend or finish your lunch after you read it.

You've been warned.

As I mentioned, I'm a tad under the weather. It's nothing serious, just one of those irritating bugs that strikes when the weather changes. I'm snuffly, a bit lethargic, and most of my internal system are just ever-so-slightly off-kilter. I'm functioning, just a bit more slowly and crankily than usual.

Clara Jane and I have barely left the house since last Thursday, save for the little outing on Saturday to see the hot air balloons and grab dinner. We're going a little stir-crazy, but most of the places we go to are populated with kids and I don't want to share my germs with them. And I don't feel like chasing someone's toddler ass around the park. So, out of desperation, Clara Jane and I went out to the boneyard to play this morning.

We stayed out for about half an hour, and all was well. Well, as well as things can be in close proximity to three dogs excavating mortal remains and feasting on them. But fine nonetheless. Towards the end of the playtime, I realized that the coffee and shredded wheat I'd consumed for breakfast weren't getting along with the bug that's invaded my system. I needed to get inside, and I needed to get inside pronto. No easy task with slightly compromised health, while carrying a 34-pound kid who doesn't want to go inside up a full flight of stairs with two dogs in a bone-eating frenzy at my feet. But we made it.

Not quite soon enough. I could have used three, maybe four extra nanoseconds.

I can't believe I'm going to tell you this. I'm mortified. Truly. But my mortification is a small price to pay if it gives you sickos a chuckle.

No, I did not soil myself. I was very nearly at my targeted location when things started happening. You know how, when someone says "Ready. Aim. Fire," there's usually a slight pause between the words "aim" and "fire"? Well, that pause was gone, and the world is a terrifying, uncivilized place without that pause.

But all was well! I made it in time! My dignity is saved! Humiliation, begone! I'm sure you'll pay me a visit soon enough, but not today, Sucka!

I finished taking care of business, did some inspecting to make sure that I did, indeed, have impeccable aim. All seemed well, so I proceeded as normal.

What's that in the trashcan?

Oh dear lord.

No.

Clara Jane, please tell me you had a dirty diaper and opted to empty it into the bathroom trashcan, right next to the toilet. Please?

The bad news: my aim isn't as impeccable as I first thought. I had, indeed, missed the toilet.

The good news: my aim is far more impeccable than I first thought because goddamn, I hit the trash can without even trying!

I totally understand if you want to break up with me right now. If I were friends with me, I'd be ending it right this minute. Just be gentle when you break it to me. Remember, I'm currently physically ill and couldn't help myself. Thank you.

Figures. Clara Jane's almost out of diapers, and I'm about ready to start wearing them.

Posted by Robin at 02:31 PM | Comments (17)

September 17, 2006

An Ass-Pox Among Us

Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that it appears I have fallen upon a most grave condition.

I have the ass-pox.

I have annoyingly sensitive skin. Damn near everything breaks me out. I can't sit bare-legged on grass, because I'll turn red and itchy. I can't sit with bare skin against the woven fabric on our couch because I'll turn red and itchy. Don't touch me! For God's sake, don't touch me or I'll probably turn red and itchy and will probably make you turn red and itchy, too!

These skin issues are a big contributor to my anti-outdoorsy feelings that I wrote about on Friday. No matter how much fun I'm having, I know it'll be marred by either sunburn or in this case, ass-pox.

Oddly enough, I'm impervious to poison ivy/oak/sumac. I have bigger problems with run-of-the-mill sod than I do with the plants that have been known to kill other people.

My biggest itch issues are with bugs. They adore me the way I adore braised pork tenderloin with a grainy mustard sauce. A bug looks at me, and I burst into red welps. Bug spray only helps a little. Natural bug repellants? Forget it. That just makes the bugs go crazy. "Stupid hippie!" they shreik in their little buzzy bug voices. "We love the way that eucalyptus oil smells on your sweet, sweet skin!" *chomp*

Friday was absolutely gorgeous, so I shuttled Clara Jane out to the backyard. She's inherited my delicate skin issues, so I'm not sure why I torture her with forced outside time. But she had fun. I spent most of the time in my big Adirondack chair with my book. I felt the prick of bug bites two, maybe three times. Not enough to raise the attention a swellophile like myself.

Fast forward to Saturday afternoon. I spent the day clawing at the welts on my ankles and toes, cursing myself for wearing flip-flops during Friday's outing, wondering if it would be feasable to empty 20 bottles of anti-itch hydrocortisone spray into a foot tub for a soak.

While taking a shower, my hip began to wail at me as the water hit it. If I'd had a tree handy, I gladly would have rubbed my skin against the bark until both were stripped bare. I looked at my hip and found what I can only describe as one of those dishes of cottage cheese topped with a maraschino cherry like the ones from your elementary school cafeteria. Only imagine a big vat of cottage cheese dotted with around 78 maraschino cherries.

It's not nearly as appetizing and delicious as it sounds.

And no, I didn't get these bites because I was pantless in my backyard on Friday. These are bites from scientifically-engineered bugs with the biting power of sharks encoded into their DNA because they can bite through both yoga pants and underpants.

In other news, last night we took Clara Jane to The Great Forest Park Balloon Race. I think they're taking a lot of liberties with the word "race" because even though it was rather gusty, those balloons are pretty damn slow. I think it's safe to say that Richard Petty wasn't pulling any ripcords.

I spent this morning sitting my diseased ass on the couch, knitting a baby blanket while watching "The Alternative" on VH1 Classic. It was only afterwards that I realized that a baby blanket knit while watching videos by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds and Echo & the Bunnymen will probably give the baby colic.

And ass-pox.

Posted by Robin at 02:27 PM | Comments (7)

September 07, 2006

Things that Make You Feel Good. Things that Make You Feel Bad

Clara Jane and I adore the book Things That Make You Feel Good. Things That Make You Feel Bad by the wonderful Todd Parr. Does your kid have Todd Parr's books? They should, because these books are fab.

Anyway, "Things That Make You Feel Good..." is a simple little book. The left-facing pages all feature things that make you feel good like mac & cheese, bubble baths and friends. The right-facing pages have things that make you feel bad, like worm stew, stinky feet and bullies.

Today, I feel the overwhelming need to write my own "Things That Make You Feel Good. Things That Make You Feel Bad."

Things That Make You Feel Good
Pumpkin spice lattes. Big ones. With whipped cream.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Being denied your big creamy pumpkiny spicy latte until you've been walking the earth for three fucking hours in severe caffiene deprivation.

Things That Make You Feel Good
The intense relief associated with finding a lost set of car and housekeys.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
The deflated self-esteem associated with realizing that, you idiot, you left them in the door again and they've been there all night. Again.

Things That Make You Feel Good
Clara Jane happily sprinting into her room at daycare and frolicking with her friends.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Pack-Muling the six heavy bags required to get you out of the house and to your respective locales while herding a two-year-old who has suddenly decided to walk the same speed as the average 97-year-old directly in front of you.

Things That Make You Feel Good
The burbling, Beavisesque laughter that can only occur while standing in the parking lot of a Methodist church and being told by a man with a perfectly straight face that his tool isn't long enough to get the job done. Hearing about his 11-inch long copper pipe was pretty funny, too.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Giving the man with the too-short tool $68 for jimmying your truck door open because you're an idiot and locked your keys in while juggling Clara Jane and her two metric tons of luggage.

Things That Make You Feel Good
Blowing off the book-writing while someone else takes care of the kiddo.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Blowing off the book-writing while someone else takes care of the kiddo.

Things That Make You Feel Good
Writing.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
Not knowing where to begin with the writing because my God, you've barely written since May and why the hell are you even bothering because the thought of finishing this book, whoring it out to agents and editors, going through the editing process, and trying to get people to buy it makes you feel nauseous. Maybe you'll just take those cake decorating classes you've been considering and get yourself back into the culinary game because you know, you kind of miss it.

Things That Make You Feel Good
Knowing that you'll never, ever leave your keys where they don't belong.

Things That Make You Feel Bad
The Frankenstein-style bolt that's holding your keys against the side of your head because honestly, leaving them in really wrong places twice in less than 24 horus? You dumbass. Heh heh ... his tool's too short.

Posted by Robin at 12:06 PM | Comments (7)

September 03, 2006

Janice Andrukaitis, You're Causing Ethical Delimmas

Friday evening, B., the dogs, and I set out for my hometown. Originally, we planned to grab dinner at the St. Louis Bread Company and eat in the car. But since the weather was nice enough to leave the dogs in the car, we decided to wait out some of the traffic and stop for a proper dinner.

Upon leaving the restaurant, I elbowed B., unable to speak, just pointed at the brand-new folded 20-dollar bill I spied before my toe. He lunged for it, unfolded it and discovered yet another 20-dollar bill. That's 40 bucks, wrapped in a receipt. The person who dropped the money, one Janice Andrukaitis, had purchased gas four hours earlier in a town about three and a half hours up the interstate from the spot where she stood when she dropped her cash. Of course she was nearby, because 1) the time on the gas reciept said so, and 2) dude, $40 laying on the ground in plain sight on a sidewalk outside a busy restaurant at 7 PM on the Friday of Labor Day weekend. Not like that item had been languishing, unnoticed, all day.

I instantly felt a little ill. What if this $40 was the last money Janice Andrukaitis had to her name. I've been in that boat and if I'd lost that money, I would have wanted to chop my own head off while I vomitted.

Ah, the wonders of modern technology! I have the person's name - Janice Andrukaitis - right in my very hand! I drug B. back into the restaurant.

"If the hostess says we can leave the money with her and she'll give it back to Janice Andrukaitis, I'm cramming it in my pocket and running out the door," he said. Good policy.

"Well, I guess you can leave the money here and we'll give it to her if she comes looking for it," the hostess said.

I insisted that she page Janice Andrukaitis, and the hostess found every excuse to not page her. She couldn't pronounce Andrukaitis. "Her last name's 'Andrukaitis'," B. said. "I think she's pretty used to people butchering her name." She's probably long gone. Maybe she wanted to return the money into the world.

Okay, the hostess didn't suggest that one, but it wouldn't have surprised me if she had. Finally, she consented to paging Janice Andrukaitis, but did it at such a low volume that B. and I could barely hear it, nevermind Janice Andrukaitis.

"Check the book!" I demanded, knowing good and well that every guest who'd eaten at the restaurant had to wait for a table.

"Oh, that page is probably long gone."

"No it's not. She couldn't have gotten here more than an hour ago."

At this point the hostess decided dealing with me wasn't worth a free $40 and she fetched the manager.

Four pages and a rifle through the hostess' guest book later, the manager informed me that it was my lucky day and I should probably spend my $40 on lottery tickets as he shooed us out the door. He found a carryout order for a Janice in the book, but no phone number and no guarantee that it was her.

So, we're back on the sidewalk, one part wanting to do a backflip because hey! Free money! The other part wallowing in, what? A weird form of money survivor's guilt? "We found the money here, and there's a hotel 20 feet away. She probably got carryout and was walking to her hotel room when she dropped her stuff," I said.

"I'm not going to the hotel and knocking on doors. We've done what we can," said my morally questionable husband.

I was thinking about all the things that lead to this money coming to us. Had B. not come home an hour and a half early from work, it wouldn't have happened. Had we eaten in the car, it wouldn't have happened. Had I not needed to buy a bottle of water for my dogs, we wouldn't have found it. By that token, maybe the dogs are the rightful owners of the $40.

I'm not giving $40 to my dogs. They'll just spend it on crank and hookers.

I think about things too much.

To celebrate our newfound fistful of someone else's hard-earned cash wealth, we went through the drive-thru of a brand-spanking-new Starbuck's that had just opened that day and will probably injure the two locally-owned coffeehouses that are a mile away. If we're going to be scoundrels, we're going all the way, Baby!

Lo and behold, what's on the menu? Pumpkin spice lattes! I wasn't expecting them for weeks! Maybe all is well and I'm just having a lucky day. But. But! Purchasing this surprise delicacy at the evil green behemouth with ill-gotten cash can't be good. There's going to be a large chicken bone in my pumpkin spice latte, and it's going to lodge in my throat and I'm going to die a slow, painful, surprisingly nutmeggy death!

But I didn't choke, and my latte was perfect. Not only that, but the cute barista professed his love to me.

Okay, a side story: There's a guy who works at the Starbucks I occasionally frequent, and I adore him. His espresso's always perfect, and he's always so sweet and friendly. I can feel like crap when I arrive, and I always walk away feeling a little more sparkly afterwards. He's a dead ringer, physically and personality-wise, for my friend Big Daddy B.

Well, we pulled up to the drive-thru to spend $8 of Janice Andrukaitis' hard-earned cash on frivilous non-fair trade certified coffee, and there's Big Daddy Barista. I asked if he wasn't at the other store anymore, to which he gasped, clutched his chest, stammered and yelled, "Oh my God! I love you! You recognize me! No, I'm just helping out here for a few days."

Who's world am I living in? Certainly not mine, because I don't find money, get good coffee and get lavished with love from a cute gay man in my world.

Anyway, this money. I know it's not much, but it certainly made our weekend more enjoyable. We had coffee. I bought some beautiful fabric to make myself a quilt. See? Found money is making me selfish. I probably should have spent the entire $40 on fabric for charity quilts. There's probably some sort of toxic dye in the fabric that's going to slowly poison our blood as B. and I slumber under it. The Guberburgers we ate on Saturday afternoon probably contained the milligrams of cholesterol that will eventually kill us.

I'm just not good at accepting the surprise goodies the universe throws my way. Oh, I've got anticipation for the bad shit the universe throws my way down to a science. But the good stuff? I find myself eaten up with guilt and paranoia. Nevermind that I've been worried about Janice Andrukaitis all weekend, and hoping that the $40 was just a drop in the bucket to her.

These things even out. I mean, I'm sure the amount of money I've carelessly dropped over the years adds up to well over $40. B. had a $150 videogame stolen from his hands last June, a mere three months after he bought it. Today a sippy cup of milk exploded in my purse, nearly ruining a handful of small electronics and some precious childhood photos. When I washed and dried my purse, I accidentally forgot about the two sticks of Japanese orange gum in a hidden pocket, leaving gum all over the drum of my mom's clothes dryer. These things are a way of life not just for me, but for everyone, so the good things do blindside me. Deep down, I know it all evens out. For every chunk of melted gum stuck in an otherwise clean bath towel, there's $40 of Janice Andrukaitis' money waiting for me. And for every $40 Janice Andrukaitis loses, maybe there's some guilt-ridden paranoid loon spreading her name all over the internet in hopes that she'll Google her name when she's bored at work one day.

And if she, Janice Andrukaitis, happens to do that, all she has to do is tell me where she got dinner on Friday, September 1st, and where she purchased gas earlier that day, and maybe we can both find a little balance.

Posted by Robin at 10:30 PM | Comments (7)

August 08, 2006

A Trip to the Past in Pictures. With Jelly.

Today, I'm going to ramble like I'm 90 years old and not all there anymore.

Have you paid a visit to my cousin, The Cuz today? If not, you're missing the opportunity to see a photo of me, age six, and The Cuz, age infant-teen, lounging in the way-back seat of our granny's red Dodge Aspen station wagon. Go see what summer looked like 28 years ago. I'm the big one with hair.

Did you see what I did this weekend, once B. got the air conditioner working? I made a dozen jars of homemade peach jam and nine jars of blackberry jam. If that's not incentive for you to make every effort to be in my good graces come holidaytime, I don't know what is.

Yes, after spending nearly 24 hours in sweltering mild discomfort, the first thing I did once the house temperature returned to the bearable range was fire up a kettle with gallons of boiling water with large pots of molten fruit on the next burner. Now, I know that my mom, her mom, her mom's mom, my dad's mom, my dad's mom's mom etc etc etc all did the canning thing without air conditioning, and produced a hell of a lot more than 21 half-pints of froufry jam. They also did it without the luxury of a dishwasher.

To be fair to my wimp-ass self, this is the first year I've canned with the luxury of a dishwasher. Obviously, I would have survived just fine on the farm.

I guess it was about six years ago when I got it in my head that I wanted to learn how to can. Easier said than done. Granted, I could have spent a weekend in my hometown and learned everything from my mom and granny. Not sure why I didn't go that route. It would have been easier than trekking to eight - eight! - stores in search of canning equipment. After the fifth store, I finally realized that I wasn't going to find mason jars at the mall. Okay, not really, but I would have been wise to have avoided the big box stores and headed straight for the tiny hardware store in my neighborhood first, though. Not only did they have everything I needed, but the 78-year-old store employee who waited on me gave me some lessons. Try getting that at Walmart.

Anyway, in the midst of my quest for canning equipment, I got myself in such a tiz about how this is a dying art, and who's going to keep it alive? All you lazy yuppies with your Smuckers store-bought crap-jam and your fancy green beans without even a trace of botulism bacteria? No! You're going to let it die!

I'll save you, Home Canning!

Once I got home and started actually canning, what with the washing and sterilizing of the jars and lids, and the boiling water, and the peeling of the tomoatoes and the chopping and the heat and the ladling and the third-degree boiling tomato sauce splatter burns on my arms and face and the hours of cleaning and holy shit, how did I manage to get pomegranate juice splatters all the way on the living room ceiling, I finally realized why canning is a dying art:

Because it's hard fucking work, Robin, you dumbass!

And yet, I continue to do it. I cuss the entire time. I slam things. I shake my fist at the tiny little part of my soul that retains a smidge of that Midwestern pioneer farm work ethic, because it's totally screwing things up for my lazy-ass, wimpy urban self. But I do it, because you know what? After it's all said and done, it's really rewarding. I get such a kick out of stacking all those jars and admiring their pretty, yummy contents. I don't even necessarily want to eat them. I just like to look at them, and know that they're mine, from all the women in my family before me.

My mom cans the basics - green beans, tomatoes, and whatever she's grown in her garden. Granny's still a jelly-making machine. That woman can make jelly out of anything. Apples, peaches, blackberries, elderberries, gooseberries, hot peppers, plums, and I can't remember what else.

Aside from putting away some tomatoes and peaches a few years ago out of some misguided sense of duty, I try to do things that are different. Like the cranberry chutney. I made ten jars, and I think that maybe one of them got eaten.

I developed my very own canned salsa recipe, which is damn near the best salsa you'll ever eat. Trust me on this. It's good. When I can salsa, we have to start rationing it around March or April when it looks like we might run out before tomato season.

One year I decided to make pomegranate jelly for Christmas gifts. We'd stopped in Chicago's Indian-Pakistani district on our way home from Michigan at Thanksgiving, where I found cases of pomegranates for some ridiculously low price that I couldn't pass up. Thing is, one can only eat so many pomegranates before they start to turn. You don't want to eat three pomegranates a day, every day. Trust me on this, too. Not that I did that, but it was fear that I might that drove me into jelly-making.

Are you familiar with the structure of pomegranates? Tons of itty bitty teeny tiny little seeds, surrounded by lucious little sacks of juicy delight.

To make pomegranate jelly, one must make pomegranate juice.

That entails removing all those itty bitty teeny tiny fucking little seeds and squeezing the ever-loving life out of them.

Two crates of pomegranates and 20-odd jars of jelly later, my kitchen looked like we'd been butchering beef, or possibly people. Red splatters on the ceiling! Red splatters on the stove! Red splatters on every single kitchen wall! Red rivers on the floor! Red on the dog! Red, red, red everywhere!

Which is the real reason why my kitchen is no longer pale yellow. It's now red, because if you can't scrub the last traces of murder-scene-like jellymaking from the walls, you might as well join 'em.

Posted by Robin at 09:46 PM | Comments (8)

August 05, 2006

Murphy's Laws

This has absolutely nothing to do with this Murphy:

Instead, it's about that rat bastard who metaphorically screws shit up. To whit:

If one wants to get a single print of, say, this photo to mail to this cousin during this 3-day walk, Murphy will guarantee that the following will occur:

The photo department clerk at Store #1 will have gone MIA. After ten minutes of waiting, Murphy will send someone from another department, who knows not of these "digital photos" of which one speaks. Doesn't matter, as Store #1's machines no longer contain software to read floppy discs, even though machines still have floppy disc drives. One can conclude that said floppy disc drives are used for MIA photo clerks to store their tasty quesadillas while they go on their adventures.

The photo clerk at Store #2 has spent far too much time sitting in her closet listening to The Smiths, and it has made her oh-so-very forlorn. As she operates the one-hour photo machine, she looks despondantly towards the potato chip aisle, wondering if you really think she'll pull through. The monitor of the digital photo computer is as black as her mood, and when one asks Ms. Morrissey for a hand, she sighs as if one has asked her to go out to the parking lot, pick up Murphy's SUV, and personally carry it over her head to a better parking space.

Not wanting to contribute to Ms. Morrissey's demise, one opts to visit Store #3 where, of course, the photo printer has no paper. Murphy's nowhere to be found to refill it, and no one else in the store knows how.

Now, at this point, one should just cut her loses and go for a nice cup of coffee, as it's too late for one to make it to the post office before the deadline to mail one's card to one's cousin. But one is stubborn to the point of psychosis, so one visits Store #4. There, one learns that, as one has drug one's sorry, sweaty carcass hither and yon only to be faced with the failings of both man and machine, one has been doing so with a flawed floppy disc, which doesn't contain the photo one wished to print.

Murphy, in cooperation with Ms. Morrissey, probably deleted the photo with the blackness of their souls.

Oh! But that's not all! Murphy had a big day, he did. Because when one finally staggers home, stinking of 95-degree heat and the bitter stench of failure, one finds one's husband fluttering about it a right tiz. It seems that one's air conditioning unit, at promptly 5:05 PM on Friday afternoon, opted to go tits-up in cardiac air conditioning unit death.

At this point, one once again displays one's inability to function more than 23 minutes in a crisis, and one promptly loses one's shit for what surely must be the 984th time this summer.

Okay, I'll stop with the third-person bullshit. It seemed like it might temper my incessant whining about suffering from mild discomfort and minor inconveniences. Suffice it to say, that was my Friday afternoon, and I was none too happy about it.

You'd think Murphy would stop there, but no. We did have a bit of luck in that one of our neighbors used to work as maintenance dude for an apartment complex. He took a gander at our croaking, gasping beast, diagnosed the problem, and told B. how to fix it. Of course, this was about two hours after the one place that sells the part he needed had closed for the day. We splayed ourselves out for a very sticky, very warm night.

Let me veer off-topic for one moment here. I refuse to bitch about the heat, because everyone is dealing with the heat. A lot of people are dealing with far worse situations than mine. However, it figures that the year my locale goes through bone-roastingly miserable heat, I would have done two things: 1) cut my hair into bangs that I can't pull off my face, thus creating a lovely sheet of permanently sweat-slicked fur on my forehead, and 2) gone on one drug that causes excessive sweating and another drug that bears a warning label that reads, "If you get hot, you might die." On the plus side, I'm enjoying lots of woozy headrushes, and people don't invade my personal space anymore.

Speaking of my drugs ... The one that makes me sweaty also makes me anxious, nervous, and gives me insomnia - conditions that I'm perfectly capable of attaining all by myself without chemical intervention. The heat-death drug counteracts these efffects. I take the hyper-pills in the morning, and the heat-death ones at bedtime.

Well, except for last night, when I was so exhausted from running in batshit circles all day while basting in my own juices that I accidentally took the up-all-night pill at bedtime.

I didn't realize my error right away. At first, bed felt so good. There was a bit of a breeze coming in, and the fan was doing its thing. Besides, I was so exhausted that I gladly would have slept on a hot engine block if it wouldn't mean certain death. It was only after lying in bed for a few minutes and thinking, "My God! I feel great! I think I'll go paint the kitchen! Or go fix the air conditioner all by myself!" that I realized the pill I had taken was white. Whitey wired, orangey passed outedey.

Clara Jane empathized by waking up very unhappy several times during the night.

Long, annoying story concluded: B. successfully repaired the air conditioner this afternoon, and the temperature in our house is finally lower than the temperature outside.

And since I've invoked her name so many times, here's a Murphy story for you. This Murphy:

Murphy has an injured tail. We don't know what's wrong with it, as she won't let us come near it. I was able to get a glance at it while she napped - no easy feat since she sleeps with her eyes open - and a portion of her tail has a great deal of hair removed and looks somewhat raw. Now, this missing hair is directly on one of her black spots, and I'm not convinced that she's got the brain power to know that you're not supposed to chew off your spots, Nimrod. Chloe the Basset keeps trying to investigate, but everytime she does, Murphy growls, which in Chloe's world means, "Play with me!". Chloe attempts to play while Murphy runs away, tail askew and fear-shedding.

Occasionally, she tries to outrun the tail. Murphy, if we could outrun pain, every single creature on this planet would be in prime marathon condition.

Today I broke the news to Murphy that, if she doesn't stop trying to eat her own tail, we'll have to send her to live with my grandparents, Viv and Chuck. You see, Viv and Chuck don't cotton to animals with fancy "tails". No sir. You won't find a single tailed beast in their company. Granted, their cat Bobbi showed up tail-free. But their other cat, Elmer, had to have his tail amputated.

Do you want to keep your tail, Murphy? Or do you want to move in with Viv and Chuck, surrendering your appendage at the door? If you prefer the former over the latter, I'd suggest you hold still and let me see what the hell you've done to yourself. Nimrod.

And that's been my weekend.

Posted by Robin at 10:09 PM | Comments (4)

August 01, 2006

Corporate Karma

Well, I got my come-uppance today for being a corporate shill yesterday.

I've had today's date marked on my calendar for several weeks. Why? It's Curious George day at Regal Cinemas Free Family Movie Festival*! Clara Jane loves Curious George. We tried to take her to see the movie on her birthday, but that plan was thwarted when another theater chain decided that the remake of The Pink Panther would make a better Crybaby Matinee than Curious George.

*I'm giving you the name of the theater company not because I want to promote them. God, no, and you'll see why in a minute. I do, however, want this entry to pop up anytime someone Googles Regal Cinemas Free Family Movie Festival. Prepare to see that name often.

So, on with today. It was nearly 100 degrees when we got to the theater around 9:45. Not exactly prime toddler-wrangling weather. But I'd been promising her for weeks that we'd go to the movies, eat popcorn, and watch Curious George. I'll be damned if a little death-causing heat wave is going to make me go back on a promise to my kid.

We walked into the theater without issue, or tickets. You see, the Regal Cinemas Free Family Film Festival doesn't require tickets. At the St. Louis Mills location, they don't bother to hand out tickets so that they, perhaps, might have an inkling of an idea how many people are crammed into their six movie theaters.

Do you see why this might be troublesome?

We stood in the long line at the concession stand, since I'd promised Clara Jane some popcorn. That kid would eat nothing but popcorn, if I'd let her. After waiting behind the other moms, many of them juggling many more kids than I was, I plopped down $8.25 for a small popcorn and a small soda. Highway robbery, yes, but we all know that's to be expected. I steered Clara Jane through the crowd, trying to keep her on track while I juggled our snacks and my purse. Got to the entrance to the wing where Curious George was playing on three screens, all set for our movie-watching extravaganza.

We were stopped by a guy in his early 20s in a white shirt, apparently a theater employee. "Unless you already have a seat, you can't come in. All three theaters are full."

It took a minute for this to register with me. Surely not. Full? Why are you telling me this now, after I've herded my kid through a massive crowd, made her wait in a long concession stand line, and then plunked down my money on overpriced junk food, all while getting her hopes up?

Once it sunk in, all I could do was look this kid in the eye and say, "What?" To which he repeated the information. And all I could do was look at him, look at Clara Jane, look back at him and say the only words capable of passing through my brain: "Do you have any idea how hard this is?"

He smirked and said, "Actually, I do."

No. If you did, you wouldn't be smirking.

In a fit of frustration, I threw the popcorn and soda into the trash and stormed off. Yes, not the most dignified response, but shit. Here we've gone through all this trouble, spent money, and now I'm left with the task of trying to explain to my 2.5 year-old that no, I was wrong and we're not going to be seeing Curious George after all.

If that kid really knew how hard that was, there would have been no smirk. There would have been at least an ounce of compassion.

I scooped up Clara Jane and stormed out of the theater, trying to find a way to make her understand that our plans had been thwarted. But there's no way to do that with a kid her age. All she knows is that I've told her we're going to do something great, and all of a sudden I'm going back on my word.

I caught my breath, cleared a smidge of the anger cloud from my brain, and realized I needed to go back inside and find a manager. Shit, my middle name is "I Need to Speak to a Manager". I've waited tables. I've worked retail. I've worked in hotels. I know what constitutes good customer service and what doesn't, and I've never had any qualms about speaking up when I think a company falls short in that area.

I once got a $300 restaurant bill wiped clean because of a lazy server. I know my ways around managers.

So, back inside we went, and I was sent to a manager. I explained as calmly as I could (which was surprisingly calm, considering I had a load of those someone-fucked-with-my-kid hormones coursing through my system) that I understand that a free screening of a fairly recent, popular movie on one of the hottest days of the year is going to fill up fast. My problem was with the fact that they waited until the last minute to inform the public that the theaters were full. They could have posted a sign on the door, preventing parents from bringing their kids into the lobby and getting their hopes up. Clara Jane's been to one movie at this theater. She knew where we were and why we were there as soon as we walked in. Further, my problem was with the fact that they didn't have employees at the concession stands pass along this info. Instead, haggered moms (and a few dads, but not many), weary from the heat and wrangling excited kids, were left to deal with the cattle-call conditions, paying exorbatant concessions stand prices, all for naught.

That's just unethical and wrong.

"Well, we still have seats available for Cheaper by the Dozen 2", the manager said.

What the hell is the deal with local movie theaters trying to get me to take my kid to mediocre Steve Martin movies instead of Curious Fucking George? Honestly. When Clara Jane's old enough for Steve Martin, she'll be introduced to a banjo-playing doofus in a white suit with an arrow through his head, just as God intended.

I pointed to Clara Jane and asked, "Does she look like someone who would appreciate that movie?" Translation: "Have you ever actually met a little kid in your entire life, Dumbass?"

To his credit, the manager did refund my concession money without me asking. I didn't go in for a refund; in fact, when I complain to a manager, it's never to get my money back. The money isn't the issue. It's the principle. Besides, how many of the moms behind me, who were hauling around more than a single disappointed kid, would have had the energy to protest? I'm sure a lot of moms just took their overpriced, unhealthy snacks with them as they left with their kids, simply because it's too hard to fight for what's right when you're beat down and exhausted.

The thing is, this movie stuff goes against so much I believe in. I'm not a fan of big Hollywood movies or the corporate megaplexes they've spawned. It's a culture that's all about profit and leaves little to creativity and art. In getting Clara Jane hyped about this movie for the past few weeks, that voice in the back of my head kept tsk-tsking me. Why am I doing this? She's too young. Kids movies are just 90-minute advertisements. Granted, her first movie was Wallace and Grommit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, which managed to sidestep a lot of the crap I don't like about movies. But still - why was I so intent on exposing her to something I dislike so much?

Desperation, partially. When it's been this hot for this long, any new activities that don't involve turning my kid into a human pot roast sounds good. Also, the desire to give Clara Jane a chance to discover something that she might love, even if I'm not crazy about it. The lure of a new experience. But mostly desperation. Please get me out of this house for a few hours with the built-in big-screen babysitter.

We took our refunded money to a nearby coffeehouse we love, and had more fun than we would have had at the movie. We sat in our comfy armchairs, shared a muffin. She had a milk while I had a hand-crafted latte that cost less than the watered-down soda at the theater. It was made by someone who took the time to ask Clara Jane's name and talk to her; someone who took the time to talk to me. Clara Jane pretended her straw was a saxaphone and played along with the piped-in jazz. She read books, and then snuggled with me. She told me how much fun she had at the coffeehouse. And she was right - sitting together at the coffeehouse, making up our own games, talking and connecting was a lot more fun than quietly sitting in a dark theater, watching glorified TV while the throng of kids fussed and screamed around us.

But I still had it in my head that I needed to follow through with my Curious George braincandy promise. That's what pissed me off more than anything - that I let a goddamn movie theater turn me into a liar in my kid's eyes. We stopped by Target on the way home, since they used to have DVDs of Curious George shorts. That's right, I said used to have. There wasn't one to be found.

I gave up. I set myself up to disappoint my child. That's the way it is and there's no way around it.

I made a quick pass through the kid's book aisle (single aisle, as opposed to the aisles and aisles of kids DVDs) on my guilt march out of the store, when Clara Jane suddenly lunged for the shelf. She grabbed a big, bright red book: A Treasury of Curious George. Eight Curious George stories in one beautiful book, filled with the original H.A. Rey artwork instead of the creepily-slick movie animation. She looked at me and announced, "I need this book, Mama."

I bought the book, which is probably what I should have done in the first place.

So, what have I learned from this experience?

1. When a corporation touts something as being kid/family-friendly, it's probably not.

2. I should always listen to that voice in my head that tsk-tsks. It's never wrong. Ever.

3. Clara Jane cares more about books than movies, and that makes me prouder than anything.

4. Never, ever, ever build up Clara Jane's hopes unless I'm 100% sure I can follow through.

5. Regal Cinemas Free Family Film Festival is neither free nor fun. If you've considered taking your kids to this, don't.

From now on we'll be sticking to all the great, free stuff for kids through the awesome public libraries in both St. Louis county and city (which is open to us county-dwellers, I recently learned). Free programs that promote literacy, presented by people who love kids and books. You just can't go wrong with that.

As a sidenote, about five minutes after I posted last night, I read an article on NPR about the proliferation of advertising to toddlers. Touche'. I get it. No more corporate whore. I promise.

Posted by Robin at 01:40 PM | Comments (6)

July 25, 2006

The Same, Only Completely Different

Our stint as refugees - albeit very pampered, well-fed, electricity-possessing, wussypants-wearing refugees - is over. Clara Jane, the stupid dogs, and I are finally home, safe and sound.

Something in my brain exploded today when I looked at my blog stats and noticed someone from the St. Louis offices of Ameren UE - the utility company that still hasn't restored power to the people across the street from me a week after it went out - was reading my blog. Dude! Don't you have something better to do? Seriously!

For that, I have a feeling I'll be without electricity again in the near future.

I was in my hometown for six days. This is the longest chunk of time I've spent there since winter break of my freshman year of college nearly fifteen years ago. Most of my visits there are for big family shindigs, which doesn't leave much time for exploring. This week, I explored, and boy, was it surreal.

The surreality actually began before our exodus last week. I spent Wendesday afternoon - before all hell broke lose - on the phone with Kara Joy. The last time I talked to KJ? About ten minutes after we graduated from high school, when she told me that she'd told off some twit who had the audacity to belittle my commencement address.

I always liked KJ.

We were good friends in late elementary school, but grew apart for reasons I can't remember, most likely involing puberty hormones, which fuck up everything. We were always on good terms, though. When she tracked me down on MySpace earlier this year, I was actually glad to hear from her. That surprised me, as I always thought my reaction to being tracked down on the internet by people from high school would be abject terror and fleeing not unlike what I did last Thursday night. In the past year I've had several people from my youth find me, and it's always made me happy. But then again, it's always been the cool people who've found me.

So, we've emailed here and there, but something happened that required telephone intervention: the horrifying, nausea-inducing arrival of invitations to our 15-year-high school reunion.

You know what feels really, really good? Hearing a voice that hasn't changed in 15 years, and hearing that voice squeal, "Oh my God! You sound exactly the same as you did then! That giggle! You still have that giggle!"

Yes, I still giggle the same way I did when I was 18, which is the same way I giggled when I was 11. Who knew that having such information verfified would make my day?

KJ and I have found ourselves in rather similar positions in life. We share a similar political bend which would probably get us run out of our hometown. Her son's 14 months younger than Clara Jane. We've got similar interests in art, music, literature (which reminds me, her sweetie is co-owner of Prosperos Books on beautiful 39th Street in Kansas City - visit them!), politics, society, and our mutual lack of desire of attending this reunion ... And I couldn't help but wonder, were we like this when we were teenagers?

We had a lot in common back in fifth grade, but that was stuff like unicorns and "America's Top 40 with Casey Kasem". I also recall a thoroughly intriguing book about garden gnomes at her house. Oh! And we sobbed through Terms of Endearment together. And there was that time when I accidentally shoved her leg through a window, but we won't talk about that.

Kara Joy was the first person I met with a monkey fixation.

After elementary school, it seemed like the only thing we had in common was the first letter of our last names, insuring seven years of lockers located near one another. Imagine my surprise during last week's conversation when she said that she was miserable in high school.

I never, ever would have thought we had that in common. She didn't seem miserable. Did I seem miserable? I always felt like I was wearing my misery on my sleeve. You know, like Morrissey.

Wouldn't it be a great world if 16-year-olds who were really good friends four years earlier could just say, "Hey, I'm miserable. Are you miserable, too? Wanna be miserable together and perhaps wind up less miserable?" while digging through their lockers for their misery-inducing algebra books? It would defeat the purpose of adolescence, which is all about learning to manage misery, but still.

Wednesday's conversation left me feeling down-right giddy. It's conversations like that which bring some peace to the weird upheaval of adolescence. Not only did we get over that misery, but we turned into really smart, interesting, fun, funny people. We're just the same as we were in 1983, only completely different.

So, going into my evacuation to the hometown, I was carrying the glow of a great conversation with someone from my past who now feels a lot more like someone from my present. And then I find myself with a little time to explore my hometown a bit. Know what? It's the same as it was when I left in 1991, only completely different.

The radio station I listened to while driving around has the slogan "We play everything!". It would be more accurate if that slogan was "We play everything, as long as it was released during the time you lived in this town, Robin!" Getting into the car, turning the key, and being bombarded with Def Leppard's "Photograph"? Shit. It's 1983 all over again. And look! That guy over there has the same hairdo he had in 1983!

I drove by all my old schools, and the houses where my friends lived. Houses where I slept over, played, hung out. Not a single one of those houses is inhabited by the parents of my old friends. Everyone has moved on. I only lived in my parents' current house for two years. If my friends were to drive past the house where they came to my sleepovers, they wouldn't see any trace of my family, either. The houses are all pretty much the same, only completely different.

I thought about getting in touch with some of my old friends while I was in town, but quickly remembered that there are none. Well, there's one. We email a few times a year, mostly swapping pictures of our kids. Even though we used to talk about everything, often while drinking and cussing, I just couldn't call him while I was in town. I don't think he's like that anymore and really, I'm not as much like that. I'm sure he's the same as always, only completely different.

And now I'm home. It's exactly the same as it was when I left, only much cleaner (because B. rocks), and with a huge pile of branches and leaves at our curb. I'm watching The New York Dolls on "The Henry Rollins Show", only it's really just two guys from the original Dolls, because all the others are dead. Same as always, only completely different.

But isn't everything?

Posted by Robin at 11:35 PM | Comments (13)

Brief, Just Like My Current Thought Process

Much to write, but little time or energy to do it. Our electricity was restored Saturday night. Clara Jane, the dogs, and I are still in my hometown. Returning home tomorrow.

In the meantime, spend some quality time with Chigger and Clara Jane.

If you want to see the video, it's here. I had to yank it because I'm on the verge of exceeding my bandwidth limit.

To make up for the inconvenience, here's Clara Jane the Aeroplane.

Posted by Robin at 02:40 PM | Comments (8)

July 21, 2006

When the Lights Go Out

Have you seen what happened in St. Louis Wednesday? It's being called the worst storm to hit St. Louis in over 30 years. And let me tell you, this sumbitch came out of fucking nowhere.

This is a case of why I should be very careful what I wish for. After dinner that night, I was bemoaning the heat and the boredom it brings. We've only been out of the house for brief outings this week. I'm sick of looking at the damn walls in this house. Blah blah blah. While I pissed and moaned, B. looked out the window and noted that it looked a smidge bit stormy. As I started typing the URL for weather.com, ZAP! Out goes the power.

I grew up on the fringe of Tornado Alley, and I take storms seriously. Not so much Wednesday. When the power blew, I stepped onto my front porch to see what was going on. It didn't look like a tornado. The air was gray, not green, and there was no swirl to the wind. Instead, it was blowing straight, and it was blowing at 80 fucking miles an hour. Think hurricane-force winds, only without any warning. People from nearly every house on my street were outside, watching, and we had a collective neighborhood-wide heart attack when a power transformer across the street blew the hell up.

We live at the top of a big hill on a somewhat narrow street. Since we're a neighborhood of old houses, no one has a garage and there's a lot of off-street parking. On Wednesday I learned that, in case of an emergency, the fire truck will patiently sit at the bottom of the hill, politely waiting for my neighbors to leisurely move their cars, lest they get damaged in the fire truck's rampage to, oh, I don't know, put out a fucking fire.

At that point, we decided to move to the basement, where I learned a little something about myself. I learned exactly how long I can last in a crisis situation: 23 minutes. After that, all bets are off and I should probably be restrained because I will be of no use to anyone.

The storm passed without any damage to our persons or property, save for the loss of electricity. But all was not well. Oh no. We're in the midst of a heat wave, with Thursday temperatures predicted to be well over 100 degrees and a heat index of 115 degrees. In a city with no electricity. It's shit like this that makes me think that Mother Nature is fed the fuck up with us. Storms won't knock you people down? Well, then! Let's see how you like this noise, Dumbasses!

I went into indecisive crisis mode. On the one hand, we must carry on! B. has an appointment he can't miss on Thursday morning! I've got an appointment! Clara Jane's got daycare! We! Must! Carry! On! But, but! No air conditioning! No fans! Food rotting in the fridge! Death! Destruction! Mayhem! We've gotta get out of this place! If it's the last thing we ever do!

Flashlight in hand, I started packing. If we didn't have power by 10 PM, I was going to pack up my kid and my dogs and head for my parents' house three hours away. But, no! Appointments! Can't miss them! But the heat!

At this point I politely asked to be put in restraints.

Thank God we're lazy slobs at my house, and clean laundry rarely gets put away in a timely manner. "Packing" actually meant "pushing the laundry baskets with our clean clothes into the general vicinity of the front door". I grabbed a grocery bag and threw in the necessities - cell phone charger, iPod charger, drugs, knitting, and $1 cash, since I never remember to keep cash in my wallet. Your debit card won't work during the apocolypse, Sweetie!

In the past week we've stocked up on groceries. We're talking over 10 pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breasts in the freezer. Oh, and the milk situation. Let me tell you about the milk situation ...

We get home dairy delivery, and have since the week Clara Jane was born. That's nearly two and a half years. Every Tuesday night, we stick a cooler on our front porch. Wednesday morning, in the wee hours, B. brings the cooler into the house, where magical elves have filled it with dairy goods overnight. Well, except for this week. Our delivery guy - the same delivery guy who has serviced our house for nearly two and a half years - forgot us. Forgot!

B. called the dairy to see what was up. They offered to deliver our goods Thursday, which wouldn't work. It's going to be the hottest day of the year and no one will be home. Our milk, it will rot! Friday's no good, either, because then we'll have to go buy milk in the meantime. Frankly, if I wanted to run to the store to buy nothing but milk, I wouldn't pay someone to bring me my milk. That's the whole point of having milk delivery.

After several teeth were pulled and a few hoops jumped through, our milk arrived Wednesday morning afternoon, just in time to rot in our electricity-free house.

So, the frantic packing continued. At 9:30, I was changing my clothes. I had been wearing the official uniform of fleeing for your life from Mother Nature: no shoes, no bra, baggy gym shorts, and a stained t-shirt. Call me non-conformist, but I thought I'd dress up our evacuation and go with shoes and support garments. Just as I was pulling my shirt over my head, the lights flickered on. Well! That means it'll be back shortly. All evacuation came to a halt, which was just as well. When word reached my hometown that we were coming, my parents' air conditioner up and died.

I think it goes without saying that I didn't sleep. At 12:30, tired of listening to my snoring dog, my snoring husband (who normally sleeps with an electric-powered device that prevents him from sounding like a bulldozer), and the sounds of my neighborhood drifting through our open windows: Molly Hatchet, police sirens, illegal fireworks and my next-door neighbor's voice because sweet Jesus not even a blackout can shut that woman up, I moved to living room. As I picked up my quilt, hallelujah! The lights came back! B. got up and we unpacked the three coolers of groceries. It also seemed that during our frantic packing, vandals broke in to fill our sink with dirty dishes and leave leftovers strewn about the kitchen and dining room, so we did some middle of the night cleaning before turning into bed, confident that the system works, the lights will stay lit forever, and all is right in the world. Praise Jesus! We've been saved from a night of suffering mild discomfort!

Thursday continued business as usual. Appointments were fulfilled, daycare provided. Shortly after Clara Jane and I returned home, she was whining that I wouldn't let her watch three hours of "Teletubbies", and I was whining that it was too hot to make dinner.

As punishment, God once again took away our electricity.

But it was just there! It'll come back! It came back last night! Instead of working ourselves into yet another meat-packing, laundry-flinging ball of collective panic, we opted to go out for dinner. Surely by the time we returned, the lights would be back.

We won't even talk about how crazy overrun all five open restaurants in town were. We got lucky and beat the crowd by 45 seconds. God loves us!

But he doesn't love us enough to give us electricity. We returned home to no power, and picked up the panic ball where we'd left it. The food went back in the coolers, the laundry baskets back in front of the door, and the duct tape in hand to put my shit back together again.

This time, fleeing to my hometown wasn't as simple. The good news was the air conditioner was once again working. The bad news: far-flung family members were converging on my parents' house for a big ol' fish fry. Oh! But that's not all!

A lot of people in my hometown - including my parents - are registered with the chamber of commerce to rent spare bedrooms in their homes. It's not as nice as a bed and breakfast, but not as squalid as a boarding house. The rooms are primarily rented during the state fair to vendors who come from around the country, work 14-hour days, and need a cheap place to bathe and sleep. My parents registered their house last year, but hadn't had any renters. I was a-ok with that, as I wasn't thrilled about the idea of carnies sleeping in my childhood bedroom and murdering my parents in their sleep. I swore that Clara Jane wouldn't be allowed to visit my parents at any time when strangers were afoot.

Thursday night, my parents had their very first boarder. And, HA!, the joke's on me, because not only is Clara Jane going to be there, but I'm going to be sleeping in the room next to the carney, and sharing a bathroom with her!

Okay, so she wasn't a carney. She was a very nice lady from Lima, Peru. She's lived in St. Louis - just a mile up the road from me, actually - for twenty years and teaches elementary school. She planned to take Amtrak from St. Louis to Sedalia, arriving towards the end of Hillbilly Fishfest 2006. The next morning, she would hit the Katy Trail and start biking her way back home.

I wanted to just take my shit, my kid, and my dogs, get in my truck, and drive the three hours myself without production so I could meet my carney demise. But we can't have that, can we? We can't do anything with the lights out unless it's a three-ring circus. It's called The Carney Effect. B. insisted on driving the first half with me, meeting my dad at a truck stop, transferring me, my kid, my dogs, and my shit back into the protective custody of my father, who would then drive us to my hometown while B. returned home. I thought this was a tad bit of overkill, but they talked me into it. And yeah, I'll admit, I'm glad to have had the help and backup. My plan would have worked, but it would have sucked.

We arrived at my parents' house a little after midnight, shortly after my mom returned from the train station with her non-carney boarder, the train delayed five hours due to the power outages. While waiting for the train, my mom had to inform a posse of young Amish kids that perhaps putting your head on the railroad tracks to listen for the oncoming train isn't the smartest idea.

And here we are. B.'s going to stay in St. Louis. At least, that was the plan an hour ago. It could change. Clara Jane and I were going to come spend a week with my parents soon anyway. So what if our vacation got moved up a few days. It's no biggie. While this has all been a big pain in the ass, it could have been much, much worse. Could have been better, but all told, I'm feeling pretty lucky.

I'm also feeling very, very, very tired.

Posted by Robin at 11:56 PM | Comments (13)

July 17, 2006

On Drum Circles and Spontaneity

I'm a spontaneous girl by nature. Losing the ability to just pick up and do stuff on a whim has been one of the hardest parental adjustments for me. We live on Clara Jane Time. Sure, we can be spontaneous, just as long as it doesn't happen during naptime, bedtime, bathtime, breakfast, lunch, dinner, or during the last half of "Sesame Street".

I've gotten used to this regimented existance, even decided that there are times when I like it. This weekend wasn't one of those times. I've still got the dregs of the recent anxiety/panic in my system, which makes it hard to just quietly go about my business at home. Between the parental responsibilities and the heat advisories, I was climbing the walls, just because I knew that our options for spontaneous fun were severely restricted.

Screw it. Screw bedtime. It's summer. Not that the season matters, since she's not in school, but you know what I mean. There's just something about going out late and missing bedtime in the summer.

We'd planned to go out for dinner on Saturday. What we didn't plan was a wild goose chase to the far reaches of the St. Louis area in search of instant roux. At the farmer's market that morning I scored a bunch of gorgeous fresh green peppers and onions, along with some andouille sausage from The Meat Lady. I never make gumbo in the summer, because who wants to stand over a stove, stirring the volatile blend of flaming-hot oil and flour for 30-45 minutes? B. offered to do it with my supervision. It's not that I don't trust his cooking skills; he's pretty handy in the kitchen. There's just something about the idea of B. making roux that screams "roux fireball zooming through my kitchen". Besides, I don't want him to get stuck with that hot, nasty job.

Some of my Louisiana friends have said good things about the instant roux, and I knew of a place about half an hour from here that sells it. I haven't seen it in any of my local stores. When I last saw it in a store I thought, "Wow! That's the instant roux I've heard so much about. And it's only $1.30 a can! I should buy some. I should buy a lot. Nah. It's summer. I never make gumbo in summer."

See? That's what happens when I ignore my spontaneous urges. I wind up instant rouxless, chasing across the state of Missouri on a sweltering Saturday night, long after my kid's bedtime.

You should have heard her whining while we shopped. You should have seen the Hail Mary I did when I found the mix.

It was after Clara Jane's bedtime when we left the store, but we came prepared. B. tucked her in with her quilt and gave her a binky. Shut up. She only uses them when she sleeps. We put on Dan Zanes Night Time! and made it all the way to the end of the block before spontaneity struck again. Ice cream! There's an ice cream shop!

We untucked Clara Jane and carried her into the shop in her bare feet. When she peered into the cooler she squealed, "I want some pink ice cream! Pink ice cream with sprinkles!"

Full of pink ice cream and sprinkles, we returned to the truck, retucked, rebinked and reZanesed. During the ride home, Clara Jane almost fell asleep, content and comfortable.

Late Sunday afternoon, B. was starting to think about making dinner, and I was pacing around in my usual state of agitation. Clara Jane had just woken up from her nap and started asking for ... something. B. and I were both flummoxed with her requests, and she quickly lost what little patience she has. Reduced to tears she finally articulated what she wanted: her blanket, her binky, and "Night Time!". We did a makeshift version, but it just wasn't the same. After a few minutes of trying to make it work she said, "Get my shoes and socks and go for a ride?"

Spontaneity detonated yet another bomb on us. Dinner got crammed into the fridge for another night, and we were out the door. And since we're being sponaneous, let's not stick to the places we normally go. Let's go to The Loop! Grab a bite to eat, walk around a bit, people-watch, sweat to death. Sounds like a fun night.

The noise hit us when we opened the truck doors. Drums. Loud, reverberating drums, echoing through the parking lot. We'd forgotten that Sunday nights are Drum Circle Night. People bring their drums, sit in a circle, and drum. For hours. There's no set list. One person sets a beat and the music evolves from there. Others jump into the circle and dance, if the spirit moves them. The dancers harbor no inhibitions, swaying and jumping, their movements throwing the sweat from their bodies.

At first Clara Jane was a bit taken aback by the noise and the throng of people, so we didn't stay long. We ate dinner, and when we walked out of the restaurant she cocked her head and said, "Hear that? That's drums. I wanna dance!"

We took our walk, eventually returning to the drum circle. It was almost dusk and most of the crowd had left. One drummer sat on a low concrete wall, visiting with some girls who danced a bit as he thumped. A few feet away, three other drummers sat in what remained of the circle. This time, Clara Jane inched towards the drummers, bouncing a little until she got comfortable. Then she let loose, stomping, twirling and waving her arms to the beat. One of the drummers offered her his drum, but she turned shy, too tired to be social.

Once again, we got home past her bedtime, but that's a small price to pay. I know she's young enough that it's unlikely she'll remember our two spontaneous summer nights when she's big. But we've set a precident, and that, she'll remember.

Posted by Robin at 08:41 PM | Comments (4)

July 12, 2006

Brain Misfiring Junk

Oh, what a week, what a week. What a snot-filled, insomnia-ridden week.

I've got nothing good to say. Nothing horrible, but nothing good. Clara Jane and I have been struck with summer colds. The snot, it flows and flows like a river, preventing sleep for both parties.

Don't come around here. We're cranky, and we probably have dried boogers on our faces.

I think B. is venting his frustrations with me in his sleep. Between the bed-hogging, kicking, and mouth-breathing, I've decided that I'd rather be married to our couch.

Did you hear the horrible news story out of St. Louis earlier this week? Five kids drown in the Meramec River. Four of them were siblings. This news has cast a pall over my entire week. It's hard to shake a tragedy like that. The local paper even said so, what with their "Stop the presses!" shocking headline today: "People Remain Haunted By Drownings".

Really?!

You don't say!

Are the people actually haunted by a horrific, unthinkable tragedy that happened less than 72 hours ago, or are they merely grief-stricken?

You know, I almost went into journalism. From the time I was in third grade, that's all I wanted to be when I grew up. I only applied to one college - the University of Missouri, home to one of the best journalism schools in the country. It took me all of six weeks to change my major. I couldn't stomach a career that would have me writing headlines like that. I opted to be an unpaid, out-of-work writer instead.

I'm a good decision-maker.

Anyway, between the drownings, the bombings in India, explosions all over the damn place, and foiled terrorism plots, I've felt a mix of quease stirred with impending doom all week. Add a cup of snot, a dash of insomnia, and a box of instant PMS mix, and I've got myself a great big ol' bad mood and misfiring brain. Don't even get me started on all the petty mistakes I've made in the past few days. We'll be here all day.

At least the local newspaper has moved away from these quease-inducing headlines to focus on the real news: horny sea lions. That story is listed fourth on the paper's news page. Important stuff, those sea lions.

Thanks to my lousy disposition and rapidly-decreasing IQ, I'm opting to do two memes in lieu of any real content. The first is long-winded and self-indulgent, the second is only for the sexy people music nerds.

Meme #1, nabbed from Dixie, who got it from the source, Mr. Fabulous. Kristina did it, too, and I like to mimic her.

Meme-ology Meme

GRUB-OLOGY

What is your salad dressing of choice? I usually make a simple balsamic vinaigrette for our salads, but I also make a lovely Roquefort and white wine vinaigrette that I could drink as a cocktail, I love it so.

What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
Not a fan of fast food. I do like Lion's Choice, which is a St. Louis-based chain of roast beef joints. Every now and then I require tots from Sonic.

What is your favorite sit down restaurant?
Oh, so many! Currently, I'd say Vivian's Vineyards, Iron Barley, and House of Wong.

On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
At least 20%, unless the service really sucked.

What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of it?
Currently, sesame bagels with cream cheese.

Name three foods you detest above all others.
This is a hard one, as there's not much I detest. Also, it should be noted that I love the foods Kristina and Dixie put in this category. As for mine, I'm not fond of nori, lamb stew or squid/octopus if I can tell by looking at it that it's squid/octopus.

What is your favorite dish to order in a Chinese restaurant?
Sesame chicken from House of Wong.

What are your pizza toppings of choice?
Depends on my mood. I do love a good Hawaiian - ham and pineapple.

What do you like to put on your toast?
Butter or peanut butter.

What is your favorite type of gum?
I'm not a big gum-chewer, but I bought some sour orange gum at a Japanese market when I was in Detroit, and I love that stuff.

TECH-OLOGY

Number of contacts in your cell phone?
20

Number of contacts in your email address book?
Damn. 111

What is the wallpaper on your computer?

What is your screensaver on your computer
I never use a screensaver.

Are there naked pictures saved on your computer?
Just cavorting kid pictures.

How many landline phones do you have in your home?
Three, and they're all about to crap out.

How many televisions are in your home?
Two, although I tend to forget about the second one.

What kitchen appliance do you use the least?
Kitchenaid mixer

What is the format of the radio station you listen to most?
NPR

How many sex toys do you own that require batteries?
None of your damn business.

BI-OLOGY

What do you consider to be your best physical attribute?
My smile.

Are you right handed or left handed?
Right

Have you had anything removed from your body?
Tonsils, adenoids, four wisdom teeth, a mole, and a small person.

Would you like to?
Probably not. I'm tired.

Do you prefer to read when you go to the bathroom?
Some days, it's the only chance I get to read.

Which of your five senses do you think is keenest?
Smell.

When was the last time you had a cavity?
I've never had one.

What is the heaviest item you lift regularly?
34 pounds of kid.

Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
Almost.

MISC-OLOGY

If it were possible, would you like to know the day you're going to die?
Good lord, no! See Kristina's answer.

If you could change your first name, what would you change it to?
Nah, I'm good.

How do you express your artistic side?
I write, knit, cook, occasionally sew, and fingerpaint with my kid.

What color do you think you look best in?
Red or dark pink.

How long do you think you could last in a medium security prison?
About an hour. I'm a wuss.

Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
I'm sure I have.

If we weren’t bound by society’s conventions, do you have a relative you would make a pass at?
Nope.

How often do you go to church?
Damn near never.

Have you ever saved someone’s life?
Not that I know of.

Has someone ever saved yours?
I don't think so. I've been in a few dire situations, but not that dire.

DARE-OLOGY

For this last section, if you would do it for less or more money, indicate how much.
Shit. I hate questions like this.

Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for $100,000?
Perhaps.

Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
Sure. I'd probably do it for less.

Would you have sex with a member of the same sex for $10,000?
Nope. I'm playing the marriage card here. The couch would be furious with me.

Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?
Only if I really, really, really needed the money.

Would you never blog again for $50,000?
Considering that blogging is my primary writing motivator, I'd have to say no.

Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000?
Only if I really, really, really needed the money.

Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
Sure.

Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
No way. I'm sure I couldn't do that.

Would you shave your head and get your entire body waxed for $5,000?
Maybe for $10,000.

Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000?
Easily.

Now, for meme #2, nabbed from DiatribeR. Class participation is required!

The rules:
Step 1: Get your playlist together, put it on random, and play.

Step 2: Write down the first line from the first 10 songs that play or close to it.

Step 3: Post and let everyone you know guess what song the lines come from.

Step 4: Cross out the songs (or similar) when someone guesses correctly.

1. I dragged my feet across the seat. "Disappear" by REM, guessed by Dixie.

2. The machine of a dream. "I'm in Love with My Car" by Queen, which brought Ellie out of lurking!

3. I read the news today, oh boy. "A Day in the Life" by the Beatles, guessed by DiatribeR.

4. Never forget who you are little star "Little Star" by Madonna, which, of course, Zoe knew.

5. I was crawling through a festival way out west. "Coma Girl" by Joe Strummer, guessed by DiatribeR.

6. Psychic spies from China try to steal your mind's elation. "Californication" by Red Hot Chili Peppers, guessed by Dixie.

7. I was watching with one eye on the other side "Hotel Yorba" by the White Stripes, a la Kristina.

8. The day since I met her I can't believe it's true "Letter to Memphis" by the Pixies, guessed by Holley, who, of course, would know something this obscure.

9. I attack with love, pure bug beauty "Company in My Back" by Wilco, a la Kristina.

10. We passed upon the stair "The Man Who Sold the World" by Nirvana (Yes, originally by David Bowie, but it was the Nirvana version that shuffled up.), guessed by Dixie.

It should be noted that, 1) I shuffled, and eliminated a lot of songs that no one would be able to get, and 2) I didn't purposefully rig it so Kristina would ace it. It just worked out that way.

Posted by Robin at 02:03 PM | Comments (16)

July 10, 2006

Shortened Expectations

I spent Saturday night at a Scrap Mania! event with Angie, her mom, and Tempe. It was a lot of fun with excellent company, and I finally finished a project I've been working on since March, but I wouldn't describe the evening as manic. Maybe it's just me, and the anti-manic drugs are finally kicking in. "Scrap Mild Excitement with Bouts of Extreme Silliness" would be a more appropriate name.

This was the second time I've met Tempe. We met for coffee with Angie a few months ago. I'm pretty sure I didn't stand up in Tempe's presence during that meeting.

Saturday night, we got so scrapping manic that we had to flee the store and run to the other side of the mall for espresso. While riding the escalator, Tempe said, "Your personea is much taller than you are."

"That's because I'm standing on the step below you," I said.

"No, that's not it. I noticed it when we were walking. You're really short. How tall are you, anyway?"

"I'm five-foot-three. Or so."

"No way. I'm five-foot-four and I can see the top of your head," she said as we walked off the escalator on equal ground. She swung around to stand back-to-back with me. "Angie! How much taller am I than her?"

Angie turned around and looked at us with a perfectly straight face. "A few inches, maybe?"

"See? Told ya! And I touched your butt!"

Yes, Tempe and I touched butts. In public. Manic, I tell you! Manic! Manic with access to many, many, many varieties of scissors!

"Okay, well, maybe I'm five-foot-two and three-quarters," I conceded.

The whole height thing cracked me up, because I have never felt short, even though I obviously am down-right Lilliputan in stature. Most of the time, I feel like I'm about 5'8" tall, which means I misjudge my movements and fall down a lot.

I was a freakishly tall kid. I hit the five-foot mark the summer before third grade. When school started, they had to get a taller desk for me from the middle school. My legs were so long that, if I sat with my feet flat on the floor, my knees would raise the desk off the floor. In the two years that followed, I grew three inches (although that measure is currently in dispute), then stopped. When fifth grade ended, I left for summer vacation, confident that I was, as always, the tallest kid in the class.

When I returned to school three months later, roughly half the kids had outgrown me. A few years later, the extra-tall mother of one of my friends expressed her disappointment that I had opted to not join her in the over-six-foot club.

Did I mention that I have my current insatiable coffee habit because my granny used to give me coffee and Archway cookies for breakfast when I'd spend the night with her, starting when I was about six years old? I blame her for preventing me from fulfilling my long-legged destiny. Good thing she didn't share her smokes with me, or I probably wouldn't have hit the five-feet mark, ever.

So, I've never felt short, even though I am. I forget I'm short, until someone reminds me. Or until I fall because my legs aren't long enough to reach where I thought they would reach.

I must say, I like having a tall personea. Truly, I am a giant, trapped in a squat body. Bigger than life, Baby!

Posted by Robin at 02:03 PM | Comments (8)

July 03, 2006

Wheel-Spinning

The good news: I have a rare day to myself. Clara Jane's still visiting my parents and B.'s one of tweleve people in the U.S. who has to work today. Yippee! I never get a day to myself with no obligations!

The bad news: I suck when I have unfettered time like this. For one thing, I tend to get stuck when it comes to finding the best way to spend the day. It's almost 10:30. I'm still in my pajamas. Hell, I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet, because I might want to spend my free time at a coffee house. But if I drink a coffee at home, that would ruin the coffee house plan.

Hello. I'm a poor decision-maker.

So, here I sit, in my pajamas, drinking a caffeine-free diet soda and eating M&Ms. Because, you know, if I eat a real breakfast it might ruin any potential real breakfast-eating plans I may conjure later. At this rate, I'll conjure those plans sometime after 2 PM.

You want to hear about my weekend, right?

Earlier, I alluded to my delightful Friday night. Really, it was a lovely night. Summer turned 30, and her sweet husband arranged a surprise party for her at Lorenzo's. Talk about your perfect parties. He managed to get a bunch of her relatives to drive the two hours to St. Louis for the party, along with some far-flung message board friends who drove much, much further than that to be there. I think B. and I were the only locals.

I'm not a fan of being surprised, and I tend to not surprise others for this reason. But Summer was surprised. Dumb-struck surprised, but happy. All night, she kept saying how she couldn't believe all these people did such a thing for her. And I kept thinking, "How could they not?"

Great conversation. Great food. Great laughs. Great night.

And gifts! Many of them meat-related. In case you don't know, her blog is called Not a Ham Sandwich, and she often professes her love of meat. There was a lovely crochetted/knitted/felted handmade ham sandwich, not made by me (although I wish it had been - it was truly a work of sandwich art). There were potted meat products. Personally, I arrived at the lovely, white-table cloth dining establishment with a big cooler of processed meat products under my arm. Well, under B.'s arm. I bought three pounds of The Best Sausage in the World at the farmer's market last week and gift-wrapped it in a cooler.

In the back of my mind, I kept thinking that maybe I was missing some obvious bit of irony, and perhaps Summer was actually a vegan who had cultivated this online meat-loving persona and only I didn't get the joke. Not the case, as I watched her eat some Italian sausage-studded gnocci at dinner.

After dinner a few of us went for coffee and people-watching at Coffee Cartel. I don't get to that part of town often, especially at night. Hell, I don't get anywhere at night anymore. B. and I had our first date at The Grind, a coffeehouse down the block from CC. Sadly, we learned that The Grind has closed. We hadn't been there since Clara Jane was about six weeks old, as it wasn't the most baby-friendly of coffee joints. It was open primarily during nocturnal hours, and just as smokey and loud as a bar. But they made lattes with chocolate milk, and the cafe su das that B. and I drank the day we met.

A moment of silence, please.

Okay, moving on. Coffee Cartel! It figures that within a week of getting my insomnia under control I would realize that this joint is open 24 hours. All those nights of lying on the couch, watching "Murphy Brown" reruns, and I could have been at Coffee Cartel, drinking decaf and people-watching.

Maybe I'll go there and write a bit today.

Anyway ... we all got our drinks, found a table on the sidewalk, and gabbed until nearly midnight. Midnight! I can't remember the last time I was out past midnight. And with smart, funny, interesting people to boot. Suffice it to say that Summer wasn't the only one surprised. I was, too, at how relaxing and enjoyable the night was. I'd do that every Friday night, if I could.

Saturday, we slept late. Slept late! We never get to sleep late! Eventually we rolled out the door for a late lunch and some bar trivia. Two games played, two games won by me. Seems that sleep and adult conversation restores those brain cells that toddlers eat to survive. We did a little shopping, had a little Mongolian barbeque for dinner, and did a little spin through the grocery store.

You have to understand, a leisurely trip to the grocery store without having to wrangle Clare Jane is the utmost in luxury in my world. I love nothing more.

Sunday, more late-sleeping, some Mexican food, and some knitting while B. attempted to ressurect my mom's two dead computers. At 9:30 PM we got a wild hair for frozen custard, which we were able to honor because hey! No sleeping kid!

And here I am today. I do miss Clara Jane, but I loved sleeping late. Again. I'm watching the clock tick away. B. gets home in five hours and my free day will be over. So, what are my options?

• Stay home and work.
• Stay home and watch all those hours of "Designing Women" that are saved on my Tivo.
• Go sit in a coffeehouse and work.
• Go sit in a coffeehouse and replay those episodes of "Designing Women" in my mind.
• Go shopping for stuff I don't need with money I don't really want to spend.
• Go for a drive with my iPod, using gas I don't really want to spend.
• Go back to bed.

I'm as bad as my stupid little dog Murphy who, we realized this weekend, is too stupid to play. All weekend Chloe, our 9-year-old Basset hound, has been trying her damnedest to get Murphy to play. She charges at Murphy, jumps at her, nudges her with her snout. And what does Murphy do? Murphy cries. Sometimes she growls. But then she cries some more. Once, she flung herself on her back, rolled a little, and then cried.

The dumbass doesn't know how to play.

I think I know the feeling, Murph. I think I know it well.

Posted by Robin at 10:20 AM | Comments (3)

June 23, 2006

Shit Mittens

Why yes, I am posting twice in one day!

Angie and her girls came to lunch today, which did much good to my battered, very sleepy soul. She tells it better than I can, so go read her account. There's pie, but don't expect me to share.

She was kind enough to omit one part of our afternoon. The girls were off in Clara Jane's room, stomping around in their rubber boots while Angie and I explored the world of pimped toddler rides. Just as we were gettiing to the good part, Clara Jane came in and said, "I need to wash my hands! Mama, I need to wash my hands!"

Oh no.

No.

She held her hands up while I frantically prayed, "Please let there be a plant in her room. Please let there be a plant, growing in a big pot of potting soil have magically appeared in her room. And please let that be said potting soil on my child's hands."

It wasn't.

Clara Jane was wearing what can only be described as a pair of shit mittens, obtained when she attempted to take care of her dirty diaper all by herself.

From now on, anytime I'm in need of an explative to describe something particularly horrid, I'll remember this moment and loudly, proudly exclaim, "Well, shit mittens!"

I could have used a new, creative explative earlier in the day. I made an attempt to call my doctor about the recent depression and anxiety problems. This conversation ensued:

Shit Mittens: Dr. C's office. Please hold.

Me: (I didn't say anything. While I may be mentally ill, I'm not that far-gone.)

SM: Yes?

Me: I'm a patient of Dr. C's and I'm having some substantial problems with depression, anxiety and insomnia. (Choking a little on tears.) I need to see her very soon. Like, this afternoon or Monday.

SM: Hold please.

Me: (sputtering and sobbing a little)

SM: She can see you on July 10th.

Me: Huh?

SM: Dr. C. can see you on July 10th.

Me: You've got to be kidding me!

SM: (Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just breathing.)

Me: (Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just sniveling.)

Crickets: Chirp. Chirp ... Chirp?

Over a minute passes.

Me: Well. Thanks so much for all your help.

Shit Mittens!

I wonder if this particular receptionist, if faced with a call from a patient who said, "Um, yeah? I just removed the tip of my thumb in a tragic bagel-slicing accident?" would respond with, "Dr. C. can see you in two weeks."

This isn't the first time I've had this kind of problem with my doctor's office. About four years ago, I noticed that a mole I've had my whole life was morphing and itching. What do they tell you to do when you notice a suddent change in a dark, raised mole? Why, get thee to a doctor, Dumbass!

I called my doctor and had a conversation similar to the one above with a different receptionist. At the time my dear friend PKB worked in human resources at the company where B. works. PKB is what we call "the big guns". She called my doctor's office, kicked around her name and title, conferenced called me in (where I had to work exceptionally hard to not giggle), threatened them with serious recourse, and got me an appointment for later that same day.

Not that it matters, but upon seeing the small mammal sprouting from my right shoulder, my doctor sent me to a dermatologist, who promptly began digging at my mole and the surrounding flesh with a garden spade. As for that receptionist, I never saw her again.

Alas, PKB no longer works for that company, and I didn't feel like battling some 19-year-old twit in scrubs who doesn't get that, when a long-time patient with a file full of depression and anxiety incidents calls and says, "Yo. I need medical intervention to get me off the dang roof," waiting two weeks might not be an option.

If I was a receptionist in that position, I would not want that person's health on my conscious. No way, no how.

For many people with mental illness, it takes a lot of work to get guts to reach out for help. Many people never reach that point, instead living lives of suffering and desperation. Or worse, ceasing to live at all. For a medical professional to 1) think depression or anxiety are frivilous enough to merit a two-week wait for an appointment, and 2) give that patient the silent treatment when the patient expresses that this isn't an option, well ... that's someone who made a poor career choice.

When B. got home from work at 2:00 and saw that I was gritting my teeth, exhausted, frustrated with yet another nap battle with Clara Jane, he placed himself in the PKB role and called the doctor's office to raise some holy hell. Once again, I found myself with an afternoon appointment.

I love my doctor. I really do. I love her nurses. I don't get why she can't seem to find a decent office staff. I immediately felt better after talking to her. She doesn't just throw drugs at patients and send them on their way. She treats the whole person and examines the root of the problems. In my case, she thinks there's something chemical amiss, possibly due to my birth control pills. She sent me on my way with an antidepressant prescription. But that's not enough. Antidepressants can make anxiety worse and they need to be coupled with other drugs to strike a balance.

Okay. So what if that drug happens to be an antipsychotic agent?

That's going to look fabulous in my medical records.

Shit mittens.

Posted by Robin at 07:36 PM | Comments (9)

June 22, 2006

Makeshift Vigils

First and foremost, I'm doing much better on the anxiety front. Seems that the problem is rooted in being exhausted. I've been paying attention, and there's a direct correlation between how well-rested I am and how calm I am. My current mission: rest. Because of that, there hasn't been much going on over the past few days.

Clara Jane couldn't be bothered to take a nap yesterday. By the time B. got home, I was so run-down that I fell asleep at my desk. Eventually I woke up, ate a buffalo-meat hot dog that magically appeared in my kitchen while I was out cold, and disappeared to the library, unwilling to face bedtime with The Non-Sleeping Wonder.

After the library I decided to take a drive. Specifically, I wanted to take a drive out to St. Charles and get a Nutty Cow latte. Decaf, of course, what with the sleep and exhaustion problems. Latte in hand, I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the side street. I noticed a conglomeration of people standing at the intersection of the side street and major street a block ahead. A protest? A parade? What in the world would prompt a gang to gather at dusk on a Wednesday night in the middle of the intersection in front of a gas station out in the 'burbs?

The traffic light turned red, and I found myself waiting in the middle of the group. The Beastie Boys' "No Sleep Til Brooklyn" shuffled up on my iPod, and, as I always do when the Beastie Boys come on, I turned it up as loud as it would go. I refrained from busting into the Cabbage Patch, for once in my life. Which is a good thing. Instead, I opted to gawk at the crowd. Most people seemed to be milling around, visiting, and doing their own gawking. On the main street, a young girl sat on the trunk of a bronze Chevy Cavalier, watching the crowd. Close to the curb, some people embraced. A young woman in yellow shorts and a bikini top wiped tears from her eyes. Through the crowd I could see a large, hand-lettered sign. There were enough people in the way that I couldn't read the whole thing, but I got the gist: someone had died at this location, and this was some sort of impromptu memorial service.

I wasn't sure what to do. What's the appropriate etiquette in such a situation? Do I need to pull over, like when a funeral procession passes? Do I get out and join the mill-abouts? Do I need to turn on my headlights? Yes, I did, if only because it was getting dark. I turned on my headlights. Is honking appropriate? Probably not. Better not risk it. In fact, to be extra-safe, I put the iPod on pause so that they wouldn't be disturbed by the mad beats.

Today, Clara Jane and I returned to the coffeehouse after daycare, as my usual coffeehouse was having air conditioner issues and was 114 degrees. Within ten minutes of eavesdropping, I learned what last night's meeting was about. Late Monday night, two 19-year-old boys were killed in a car accident at the intersection.

Now, I want to make something 100% clear: I'm not making fun of the people I saw on Wednesday night. Whatever gets a person through tragedy is wholely up to that person; it's not up to me to pass judgement on anyone's style of grieving. Especially in a situation like this, which was tragic and completely avoidable.

That having been said, I don't understand this style of mourning. This is probably my avoidant tendancies talking, but if someone I loved were to meet with a tragic end, the last place I'd want to grieve would be the place where it happened. In fact, I'd probably take painstaking steps to avoid that location for years to come. But that's me.

While it was obvious that there were some people there in search of comfort, the vast majority seemed to be gawkers. The gathering looked more like a block party than a wake. Maybe I don't have much faith in humanity, but I know my first instinct when coming upon the group was to get out and see what was going on. I didn't, but the urge certainly was there.

What point am I making? I have no idea. I'm tired, remember? I just thought it was a strange place to find myself, awkwardly watching the mourning and milling-around, waiting for the light to change so I could turn the music back up, and feeling incredibly guilty for doing so.

Yeah, I know, I've blogged about death twice in less than a week. Don't read anything into that. I'm fine, just commenting on what I've seen this week. Tomorrow, I'll shuffle and it'll all be fine.

Posted by Robin at 06:45 PM | Comments (4)

June 20, 2006

Crazy-Making

Remember a few weeks ago when I mentioned that Clara Jane wouldn't be able to go to a last-minute bug class at the butterfly house, and instead I was going to teach her to burn ants with a magnifying glass?

Yesterday she was able to go to the last session of the class. When the instructor whipped out the giagantic black beetles and car-sized live roaches for the kids to fondle, the first thing my child grabbed? A magnifying glass.

I swear, I haven't spent the last two weeks teaching Clara Jane to fry bugs. Really. She picked that up all on her own. I've been too busy teaching her how to fling maggotty birds over the fence with a shovel.

I feel like I should apologize, but I won't. Not for the bugs, but for the lack of blogging. I decided long ago that I will never, ever apologize for a lack of blogging. That's not how it works. I also decided awhile back that, for the most part, I'm not going to blog on the weekends. For one thing, I don't have nearly as many readers during the weekends. For another, that's family time. That said, if I don't blog on Monday, I start to feel like I'm letting people down. I'm not letting you down, though. You know that.

I've also been remiss in boobie scarf business. I finished knitting scarf #4 before I left for Detroit. It just needs to be blocked, and I've been too busy lazy to do it. I've also started on scarf #5, but have put it aside to work on a baby gift, which had also been neglected. And Suzy in Texas! I think we've got an email line crossed somewhere. Drop me a line at my other email address - robindawn (at) gmail.com - if you're still interested in doing you-know-what with you-know-what.

Are things back to normal after the depression and anxiety of the past few weeks? Not really. Thursday night, I felt great. Friday morning, not so much. Friday night through Sunday night, great. Sunday night? Horrible. Yesterday, pretty damn bad. Today? Decent. So far. This state of emotional flux isn't helping matters one bit at all.

But fun has been had. Friday, B. bailed out of work early and we went to Sweetie Pie's for a little soul food extravaganza. Way I see it, there's a difference between trying to aleiviate emotional distress by, say, eating a pint of ice cream and a bag of chips in one's jammies on the couch while watching reruns of The Golden Girls, and trying to aleiviate it by talking a loved one into ditching his responsibilities in favor of a 2-hour meal in which every dish, possibly even the banana pudding, is at least 7% lard. That's not depressing and self-destructive; that's a cultural experience.

And what a lovely experience it was. If there's anything better than a top-notch soul food cafeteria, I don't know what it is. Unless it's a top-notch soul food cafeteria with live entertainment. A jazz pianist and a rotating group of vocalists kept us entertained. Clara Jane, who was unquestionably the whitest person in the building, stood on her chair during a cover of B.B. King's "The Thrill is Gone", piece of cornbread clutched in her hand, dancing and swaying. During an extended piano solo, she let out a few loud whoops and yells. Totally inappropriate. I chastise myself for not teaching her that the appropriate action in such situations is to yell, "Praise Jesus! You play the blues, Mister!" It's definitely time to get this kid down to Memphis and get her some lessons in the blues.

At the urging of Allison, we spent Saturday morning at the new Tower Grove Farmer's Market. I've been remiss in hitting farmer's markets this summer, and I made up for it with a vengence on Saturday. I managed to do most of my grocery shopping for the week. And cheap! Good lord, that's some cheap, yummy, awesome fresh food.

While I shopped (and visited), B. and Clara Jane paid a visit to the wading pool. What's this? A free, big-kid-free pool, just for little kids? Sign us up! Lunch consisted of Clara Jane and me, sitting on a bench, plowing through half a quart of tiny fresh strawberries. Nothing to panic about there, no sir.

Sunday started off great. For Father's Day, B. wanted to take Clara Jane to the mall with the merry-go-round so they could go for a spin or three. I bought shoes. Then dinner at House of Wong, which was near-perfect, as it always is. Add some cake batter-flavored ice cream for dessert, and life's looking pretty darn good.

And yet, I panic.

Despite all the fun, the stress is always near the surface these days. By the time we got home Sunday night, it was building fast. By 11 PM, I decided I needed to get out of the house or I was going to snap. Within minutes of leaving the house, I felt fine. The only thing that left me feeling not-so-fine was the thought of returning home, which brought with it a racing heart and stomach butterflies.

Why don't I want to be home? It's not like it's a bad place. A little messy, yes, but it's also where B. and Clara Jane live. It's where my dogs and my cat are generally located. All my stuff's there. And there's the rub ... everything in my life is in my house. Everything for which I'm responsible. Responsibilities that I can't escape as long as I'm at home. Even when I'm asleep, the responsibilities are there. As long as I'm in that house, I can't turn off those responsibilities. I don't think I'm supposed to.

I returned home around 1 AM and didn't fall asleep until 5 AM. Two hours later, Clara Jane woke me up, excited about going to Bug Camp. I wanted to cancel, I really did. But she was so excited to go, and I wasn't excited about 1) being stuck at home, and 2) trying to come up with ways to entertain a 2-year-old when I'd only slept for two hours. So off we went, one of us intent on frying large bugs with a plastic magnifying glass, the other intent on mastering the fine art of sleeping with eyes wide open, a la Murphy, The Dog Too Stupid to Be Alive. She's much better at it than me.

I had intentions of napping while Clara Jane napped, sure that the morning of bug-frying fun coupled with frolicking in the 90-degree heat would knock her out for two, three hours. Instead, we spent the afternoon wrestling while she fought sleep. We spent the exact same amount of time battling for this nap as I had spent sleeping in the previous 28 hours.

This is why I panic. This shit is crazy-making.

Today, the panic and anxiety have been at bay. I think I'm too tired to feel anything that extreme. Besides, it's been a fucked-up kind of day. I called B. shortly after I woke up, as I do most mornings, and got the shitty news that he was robbed on the train this morning. He's fine, but some punkass kid took it upon himself to snatch the Nintendo DS out of B.'s hands. After B. chased the kid out of the train and down the street for several blocks to no avail, he complained to the transit's security guard, who was on the platform when B. pursued the kid. "We don't deal with stuff like that," he said.

Well. That makes me feel safe. I would think that an adult chasing a kid out of a Metrolink train during rush hour might be a security concern. Perhaps I'm an idiot.

While this ultimately isn't huge - B. didn't get hurt, nor did he lose his wallet or laptop - it's still a bit sickening. B. never buys anything for himself. Never. He bought the Nintendo for himself last March, the same day I bought my iPod. It was a really big deal for him, and he got a lot of pleasure from it. I was going to get him a few new games for Father's Day, but changed my mind at the last minute. Glad I did, because then it would be even more disappointing.

In more crazy-making news ... Clara Jane's been psycho today. In addition to the fucked up naptime yesterday, she got to bed an hour late, which makes for a long day.

We went to Trader Joe's, which apparently is the Hub of All Crazy-Making today.

Confidential to the sour-faced gal who stood in line behind us: When a child accidentally lets go of her balloon and it floats past you, there is absolutely no need to give the kid the stink-eye. Nor is there any need to stand there with your face two inches from the balloon's dangling string, glaring at the kid's mother when she retrives the balloon. Either lend a hand, or get your contorted puss out of the fucking way.

Oh! But that's not all! I saw the beginnings of what might be the most absurd altercation ever in the parking lot. An older man was helping an even older lady out of Car #1 and into her walker. They were in a handicapped space. Now, I missed a crucial part of the exchange. I don't know if Car #2 attempted to whip into the neighboring handicapped space, or if Car #2 simply blocked traffic, waiting for the people in Car #1 to move. Perhaps Car #2 waited and honked. Either way, the man from Car #1 stood in the parking lot, engaged in a screaming fit with no one regarding the lack of patience exhibited by the people in Car #2. "God forbid when they get old and feeble someday!"

While I do agree that most people in our society - myself included - could stand to be a lot more patient, what struck me as being absurd was that the people in Car #2? They were old and feeble! I saw them. There wasn't a non-gray hair in the car. Granted, none of them required walking assistance, unlike the woman from Car #1, who leaned against her walker, baking in the sun and not saying a word while her caregiver threw his hissy fit to no one. But they were definitely older, and walking slowly and awkwardly.

The people from Car #1 went into the store, and by the time I left, the inhabitants of Car #2 had parked next to Car #1 and entered the store. There was a tiny, sick little part of me that really wanted to go back inside and see if the confrontation continued. Maybe the caregiver, the youngest in the bunch, would grab the man from Car #2 by his Santa Claus beard while the old lady nailed him in the head with her oxygen tank. Trader Joe's will have to add a new bell code. One ring summons a manager, two summons more cashiers, three summons product assistance, and four indicates that a Geezer Fight has erupted in the cheese aisle.

See? It's crazy-making all around. Being in the house makes me crazy. Dealing with The Humans makes me crazy. I think from now on, I'm just going to sit in my truck in the driveway. It's safe out there.

Posted by Robin at 03:08 PM | Comments (11)

June 12, 2006

Funeral for a Bird

I'm going to be 100% honest here: I'm not doing so hot. Since the Detroit trip, my fuse has been extra-short. I haven't had much of a break since returning home. Clara Jane's been overwrought with a bad case of the terrible twos, briefly evidenced in last week's driveway meltdown post. I don't want to sit here and give a litany of Things My Kid Has Done to Drive Me Nuts, so suffice it to say it's been a myriad of everything an intelligent, energetic two-year-old can inflict.

I'm tired. When I get tired for extended periods of time, I get depressed. For an extra dash of irony, when I get depressed, I don't sleep. And when I don't sleep I get more tired, which makes me more depressed, which makes it even harder to sleep and, well, you can see how these things spiral out of control. It only takes a week or two before I find myself running on a handful of hours of sleep, unable to do anything right.

Last night I took a few hits of Rescue Remedy and one Tylenol PM, which normally knocks me on my ass. Not last night. It was 3:30 this morning when I finally passed out on the couch, bored to sleep by an episode of "Murphy Brown" on Nick at Nite. When B. got up two hours later, I still had the remote clutched in my hand. I think it's safe to assume it wasn't exactly a relaxed, restful snooze.

The toddler antics began as soon as we got up, starting with a hissy fit because I dared give her yogurt in a carton instead of in a teacup. An hour later, when I sat on the couch next to Clara Jane, she greeted me with, "Move, Mama. Moooooooooooooove!"

Fine. I retreated to the bedroom as I didn't have the energy to do anything else.

Eventually, Miss Congeniality joined me and suggested we go outside. Not a bad idea, I thought. The weather's just about perfect. Maybe a little sunshine-induced vitamin D and fresh air would do me some good. It would definitely be better for Clara Jane than hanging around the house with a mother who can barely get off the bed.

With the dogs in tow and a magazine in hand, we headed outside. Clara Jane grabbed her wheel barrow and started filling it with the unripe peaches that have already fallen from the tree. I drug one of our big Adirondack chairs into the shade, not looking directly at its faded wood because that would remind me of the big plans I had for painting the chairs and making snappy little cushions for them, covered in vintage oilcloth. I didn't want to think about yet another unfinished project on my list, one more thing that I can't summon the energy to complete, one more thing that will lead to me feeling like a failure who can't do a damn thing right.

With my unpainted, uncushioned chair parked in the shade, magazine in hand, child sufficiently occupied, I tried to turn my thoughts to brighter subjects. It's a beautiful day. I've got a bit of time to just hang out and relax. There's plenty to be thankful for.

Hey there Mr. Birdy. Mr. Dead Birdy, smashed flat and lying about a foot away from me.

Son of a fucking bitch.

How can I be expected to enjoy the article about the Yeah Yeah Yeahs with the shaded sun on my pastey flesh when there's a smashed-flat dead bird festered so close, feathers asunder, right there by the kiddie pool?

I'm not good with dead things. Not good at all. They freak my shit out. This particular dead thing rendered me unable to do anything but stand there and stare. I could make out the form of the bird's skull, picked clean, several tiny bones crushed. Remnants of his wings poked in all directions, feathers matted and oily. What the hell am I going to do with this?

I tried sitting in my chair and ignoring it, but that didn't work. I returned to standing over the bird and staring some more, willing it to not be there, willing my life to not be one dead bird obstacle after another in my path.

Clara Jane noticed how intently I was staring at the ground. Afraid that my attention might be occupied by something other than her, she came over and took up residence in my line of vision - standing directly on Dead Bird Ground Zero. "Clara Jane, I need you to move," I said.

"No." That's what she says to everything these days. "No!" In case I hadn't heard her the first time.

"I mean it. Move. Go play on your slide for a minute."

"No."

That's when I noticed the ground beneath Clara Jane's feet was alive, squirming with hoards of maggots that were feasting on the bird. I hadn't noticed them before despite my staring.

As I picked her up and marched her across the yard, screaming and protesting all the way, I thought, at least I put her in pants and her rubber frog boots instead of shorts and sandals. At least I did something right, even on the day when my actions led to my child standing on in a puddle of rotted flesh and vermin.

I grabbed a shovel and plunged it into the ground at the edge of the bird, digging deep. Trembling, I carried the spade, full of death and life, to the fence and tossed it over. Not in the neighbors' yard, even though you know that would have brightened my mood a bit. I returned to the depression in the ground, dug up the chunk of dirt where a few maggots remained, and flung the second shovelful over the fence.

I didn't bother sitting in the chair in the shade. Even though I really dislike being in direct sunlight, I opted for the chair in the sun, away from the scene of whatever foul play, probably hound-inflicted, befell that bird. While I hate squinting and sweating, I hate feeling like I'm covered in maggots even more.

Clara Jane forgot about the bird immediately, assuming she even had an inkling of what was going on in the first place. In her mind, I was probably having yet another inexplicable meltdown. She continued playing with the hard green peaches, sliding down the slide, running with the dogs while I read. Eventually she came up to me and said, "Mama, I need to carry." Translated, that means, "I don't feel like walking. Haul me, Pack Mule." When I picked her up she looked at me and said, "I give you a hug." She flung her arms around me and said, "Awwwwwwww. I give you a kiss."

"Thanks Kid. I needed that," I told her. I really did.

At least I've got a kid who, in a string of days where she's done nothing but yell and demand and scream and deny, knows when I could use a little bit of her affection.

At least I've got things better than that maggoty bird.

Two things that can make me feel a smidge better: 1)The photography of Caitlin Atkinson, who's done a series of photos depicting all the things she's done wrong. It's heartening, really. 2)Finding one of the episodes of "Laverne & Shirley" that involves a Schotz Brewery talent show. If there is better television than the "Laverne & Shirlety" Schotz talent show episodes, I've yet to find it.

Posted by Robin at 01:05 PM | Comments (9)

May 23, 2006

I never call. I never write. I never blog. Now with video!

It's been a busy few days. I'm certainly not lacking for blog fodder, but I have been lacking for time. I'm afraid it's the abbreviated version for you.

First and foremost, Clara Jane's delightful mood has continued into this week. I'm trying to enjoy it while anticipating the dropping of shoe #2, which I predict will occur five minutes into our flight to Detroit a week from today.

Saturday: Rummage sale! Oh, how I love rummage sales. I love the lightness of ridding myself of crap. I love the cash. And to be perfectly honest, I love the neighborhoodiness of it all. Regular readers, you know I'm generally not fond of my neighborhood. I'll also be the first to admit that often, I don't give my neighbors nearly enough credit. We've got some good people. Really. With every annual rummage sale, I like my neighbors a little more. This year was no exception.

Like I do every year, I spent a chunk of the sale getting reacquainted with Boy's mom. We have very little in common, aside from being moms and sharing similar addresses, but on the rare occasions we get to talk, we always have a good time. Always. Again, no exceptions this year.

We also learned that there's a family at the opposite end of our block with a little girl who's just a few months younger than Clara Jane. They've only lived there for two years. Yeah, I'm an observant one. Yeah, I bitch about people going into their houses and pretending to be unaware that others live around them. I'm the worst culprit.

I had met one member of that family. A few weeks ago I caught their son in my backyard with Boy, where they were enjoying a game that involved throwing and kicking balls at the side of my house, which in turn involved me putting the fear of God and hellfire into them.

On days like that, I really enjoy being the grown-up.

Long story short, we're invited to a barbeque at our new-old neighbors' house next weekend.

I had big post-sale plans. Oh, I just knew we could have our sale, put the remains away while Clara Jane snoozed, then drive 45 minutes to Belleville, Illinois, for Art in the Square. And while in Belleville, oh, we would dine with our friends Mary, Bob and Livia! And Jill! My old friend Jill, who I haven't seen in nearly a year! She would join us, along with her daughter who's 23 hours younger than Clara Jane! And her 5-week old daughter! I'm just crazy enough to think I can pull that off.

No, that's not crazy. That's stupid. We tried. We really did. I made it as far as showering, putting on a skirt, and a little mascara. Then I collapsed on the bed. B. would have collapsed, too, but all the muscles he strained while moving the sale items hither and yon prevented him from moving at all. We cancelled and stayed home.

But there's always Sunday. At the spur of the moment, we said to hell with naptime and headed east.

You know how I love the Uncle Tupelo song "New Madrid"? Here's a picture of my kid with the fountain immortalized in the song:

Makes me a little weepy every time I see it.

We did the art show in record time. Turns out, you can appreciate art while whizzing past after a toddler. I particularly appreciated the works of Michael Anderson, Jason Fricke, Daryl Thetford (if I had to pick, he was my favorite), Wheat Elder (particularly the painting at the start of her webpage), Gregory J. Lawler (the lavender fields made me weepy, too) and Keith Grace. Not surprising after last week's rusted metal cactus pilgrimages, Clara Jane enjoyed the sculpures the most.

Even though we were rushed and it wasn't optimal conditions, I'm glad we went to the art fair. I've got it in my head that I want to take Clara Jane to as many festivals and fairs as possible this summer. It's better than sitting around, doing nothing. So now I'm looking forward to so many fun things. The Greek festival! Rock n Roll Craft Show! Horseradish Festival, especially since her dinner on Friday consisted of half a cup of spicy cocktail sauce! 8th Annual World's Largest Catsup Bottle Summerfest! How can we even think about staying home in air-conditioned comfort when such fun abounds?

Not exactly art show-quality photos, but there are a few shots of my cute kid.

Monday, Sally made me scream in the middle of the produce aisle. When my cell phone rang while I was tossing a bag of shredded carrots into my cart, I didn't expect to see an international calling code on the caller id. So, to the people of my neighborhood Schnucks, I apologize for my outburst. Trust me, it was necessary.

We went to the library yesterday, which we do at least once a week. We rarely go to the branch closest to our house, though. Their storytime coincides with Clara Jane's daycare time. B. takes her there in the evenings fairly often, but we usually get our library on during storytime at other nearby branches. Yesterday, though, I had a book on hold at the neighborhood branch. And since no one had storytime scheduled, we went there to hang out.
I haven't been in that branch with her since last March. In fact, I've avoided going to the library with her except for storytime, because for awhile, taking her to the library wasn't a fun experience for either of us. It was an experience that involved a lot of running, chasing and prolific use of the word "no" by both involved parites.

How things have changed. My child? She owns our neighborhood branch of the library. She went straight to the childrens department, instructed me to sit on the couch, and went in search of a book. She returned with an appropriate text, climbed onto the couch, and instructed me to read, which I did. When we were finished, she returned the book to the cart of items to be shelved, returned with another book, and we repeated the process.

When it was time to leave, every librarian in the joint was gathered at the circulation desk to greet her. We're talking a posse of five librarians, neglecting their duties and waving at Clara Jane like she's the reincarnation of Jane Austin. Of course, the kid played it up, lingering behind the rat maze, rubbing her eyes and loudly announcing, "I'm sooooooooooooooooooo sad!" To which they all leapt over the counter, tripping over their i.d. lanyards, to console her while she slyly grinned over their shoulders. "Suckers! First you give me books for free, and now you're breaking your necks to make sure I'm not sad. Bwahahaha ... Soon, you will do all of my bidding. All of it!"

I know at least four library professionals who read this blog. I would advise all of you to avoid eye contact with Clara Jane, lest you, too, fall under her spell. No good can come of it, I promise. You don't want to be a part of Clara Jane's Library Mininon Posse.

Really. I don't know what her deal is with librarians. Like her obsession with Jess when they met last fall. We still don't dare utter the word "Jess" in this house because if we do, we're pretty sure Clara Jane will be on the phone summoning a cab to drive her to Oregon, pronto.

Coming up in the very near future: a trip to the lavender farm, the Greek festival, the trip to Detroit with a side trip to Frankenmuth - just look at the size of those beer mugs!, the Rock n Roll Craft Show, and a probably MLIS hostage situation.

Here's some video. It's Clara Jane, listening to Wilco's "Candyfloss" and eating a vanana frozen yogurt pop. With bedhead!

Posted by Robin at 02:26 PM | Comments (22)

May 17, 2006

Dial-a-Cranky

Ever have one of those weeks where little things keep going wrong, and even though you know that you're one of the luckiest girls alive and you should be thankful that your problems are so small, you can't help but bitch and moan a bunch?

Yeah, me too.

In an attempt to rid myself of the mid-week malaise, let's examine the petty bullshit that's chapping my hide and come up with happy, perky flipside crap. Yo yo you, it's an attitude of gratitude, Bitch!

What's pissing me off? My nose hurts. Fucking sinuses.

But the good news? At least I have a nose, which I have yet to cut off despite my face.

Who's irritating me today? My spouse, who called to chit-chat today at a moment when he should have known I would be slap-dang swamp-ass busy.

But there is redemption! One of the things that had me swamped when the phone rang? Oh, I was signing the little UPS clipboard for a big-ass box from Lush. Happy belated Mother's Day to me!

What am I sick to death of? Going through crap. In preparation for the annual rummage sale, I'm in clean-and-price mode, which is one of my least favorite modes to be in.

But you know what's cool? I don't live in a cluttered filthy nightmare! And I'm so looking forward to the handful of cash the sale will bring to finance my trip to Detroit Rock City to see Sal and her sis Kirsti in *gasp* less than two weeks! Oh, the sheer joy of that fact will keep me pricing through the night.

I get so sick of this kind of crap: One of my neighbors gave birth to a little girl about a month ago. She also has an 18-month-old and two school-age sons. A few days ago, B., Clara Jane and I were outside when Boy stopped by to chat. Ever the neighborhood gossip, he told us that he heard the new mom yelling and screaming. He and B. stood in our driveway and tsk-tsked about how bad it is to be so angry and upset with babies in the house. Dudes! Do you think she's doing that because it's fun? How about shutting the fuck up and offering her some damn help? After the post-partum hell that occured under this roof, I was aghast that B. could stand there, passing judgement, and teaching a 10-year-old to do the same.

However, have I offered her any help? No. I barely know her and I have no idea how to approach the situation without making her feel worse because I'm pretty sure she's feeling like absolute utter shit. Having been in the same shit-filled capsizing boat, I know that if a neighbor I barely knew stopped by and said, "Hey. I heard you screaming and throwing wooden blocks at your windows. You're having a hard time. Let me help," my fucked-up mind would have heard, "Yep, the whole neighborhood knows what a shitty mother you are. Here. Lemme rub it in a bit."

But this makes it a little better: I'm reading Inconsolable by Marrit Ingman, and you should, too. Especially if you've ever had a baby, are thinking about having a baby, or love someone who's had a baby. Seriously. Read this book. Now. Even if you have to do like I did and go through the interlibrary loan process. I'm thinking I should anonymously send a copy of it to my neighbor.

Since I recently joined the St. Louis Knits webring, I guess I'll bitch about something knitting-related:

What's pissing me off: I've added yet a third locally-owned yarn shop to my shit list. I went to this particular shop, where I've purchased a small fortune in knitting supplies over the past two years. The owner gladly took my name and number to call me when Big Girl Knits finally arrives so I can finally buy my copy. I drive past big bookstores nearly daily, but I opted to go out of my way to buy the book from a small, local yarn shop.

I then proceeded to pick out yarn for Boobie Scarf #5. My total came to $15 and ... here's where I get angry ... and the owner of the store refused to punch my customer loyalty card because the purchase wasn't close enough to $20. Now, I'm thinking about all the times I spent $30 in her store and got one punch. I thought about how I inconvenienced myself to give her my business, and how many times I've inconvenienced myself to give her my business, and frankly, I got pissed. So much so that I almost returned the yarn to the store.

Instead, I kept the yarn, mainly because I didn't want to inconvenience myself again. But it's the last yarn I'll be buying there. And she can keep her damn book, too. I'll get it elsewhere.

I was bitching to B. about this, and he made an astute observation. There are now three local yarn shops where I refuse to spend my money. The first one I won't frequent because, when I was there with an armload of yarn and 16 pounds of infant strapped to my chest, the owner opted to continue chit-chatting with a friend instead of ringing up my order, despite acknowledging my presence. The second, the owner ragged on me for being fat, and then referred to my kid, who I held the entire time I was shopping, as a "holy terror". Now, may refer to her as Devil Baby, but I earned that right when I labored her for 32 hours. What do these three yarn shops have in common? They've been around for a long time and are run by older women. There's a level of rudeness at all three that I've never seen at the newer shops. B. commented that it seems these old-skool knitters might resent us young knitting pups. I don't know. All I know is where I'll be shopping, and where I won't.

On the plus side: Boobie Scarf #4 is almost finished and should be ready to auction next week! Those of you who clamoured for orange, start counting your pennies. Also, I have fully-functioning hands that are capable of knitting. I could have lost my hands in a tragic wringer-washer accident, and then what would I do while I watch TV? Hmm? I wouldn't be able to knit, or change the channel. Rude knitting shops be damned! Me and my hands will carry on quite well without you.

Let's top this off with some 100% good stuff:

• Clara Jane's home after a few days with her grandparents! Let's not ruin this by talking about the meltdown she just had.
• Last night, since we were child-free, B. and I spent the evening eating mountains of 35-cent wings, drinking yummy new beer and playing round after round of trivia. I came in 6th out of 20-odd players in one round, third in another, and I kicked everyone's ass and came in first once. Boo-ya. Imagine how well I would have done without the beer.
• Saturday? Dinner with friends in Belleville.
• Have I mentioned Detroit today? I've mentioned Detroit.
• Let's nail the coffin shut on the last shred of my punk rock dignity: I'm so stoked about Taylor Hicks. So very, very stoked.

It's all good. Really.

Posted by Robin at 07:22 PM | Comments (12)

May 01, 2006

A Day Without Really Good Tacos

That title sounds crass,doesn't it? I should probably change it, because I don't mean for it to be crass.

Even though I complain about living in the Redneck Jungle, there's actually a great deal of diversity in my neighborhood. I don't talk about that because, well, the diversity is never the source of anything blogworthy. My Mexican neighbors aren't the ones who run dune buggies up and down the street, drunkeningly stand in the street and yell at dogs, or run illegal tattoo studios in their basements (that I know of). Nope, the worst stuff that happens in my neighborhood is generally perpetrated 100% by white folk like myself. The only complaint I can make regards the house catty-corner from us where several young Mexican men live. Sometimes, they can be a little loud when they work on their cars, a trait I chalk up entirely to their age and not their ethnicity.

My neighborhood is loaded with immigrant-owned businesses. A few years ago the city of St. Louis proper did something tax-related that I don't completely understand, but it led to a large portion of city-dwelling Hispanic population moving to my neck of the woods. As I took Clara Jane to daycare this morning, I paid close attention to the many Hispanic businesses - a video store, a women's boutique, a salon, a shop that specializes in soccer gear, the western clothing and boot store my dad wants to visit, and of course tons of great restaurants and grocery stores - and sure enough, every single one of them was closed, large hand-lettered signs on the door explaining why. Even though I don't know Spanish, I understood what those signs said. Good for them, I say.

But then I got to thinking. As we were getting into the car, I saw one of the residents of the houseful of young Latinos being dropped off by a construction company truck. I looked at the house, and it looks like it does every morning; most of the cars were gone. And it occured to me: while this Day Without Immigrants idea is a great one that stands to make a huge impact, I wonder if people might be shooting themselves in the foot. I think about the huge population of migrant workers in my hometown, and I wonder how many of them can afford to miss a day of work, or run the risk of losing their jobs by skipping today. I know we've got to see the greater good, and I disapprove of much of the proposed immigrant reform. But at the same time ... sometimes it's hard to focus on the big picture when so many people are just trying to get through day to day.

I think about the guys across the street, who I've never talked to in the two years we've been neighbors. There's maybe three or four of them living in a small, well-kept little house. One of them works in construction, which I know because of the truck that takes him to and from work. Another does restaurant work, which I know only because I've often seen him in his chef whites. They don't have much; they work, and they funnel a bit of money into recreational automotive stuff. Missing a day of pay would probably cause them some real hardship.

I also think about the closed stores lining the main street of my neighborhood, and I find myself with the overwhelming craving for tacos. Not just any tacos, either. There are several shops in my neighborhood that sell the real deal. Pork or beef, slow-cooked until it hangs in tender shreds infused with juice and spices, wrapped in a hand-made corn tortilla that's fried when you place the order, and dressed with nothing but small diced white onions and pungent chopped cilantro. On the side, two little cups of thin sauce, fiery red and bitter-hot green to be drizzled over the tacos, followed by a squeeze of fresh lime to balance the heat. They are nothing short of divine. Five bucks will get you a bagful of them; they're cheaper than Taco Bell. And Taco Bell doesn't give you the option of a bag of hot, just-fried pork rinds on the side and perfectly-ripe avocados for fifty cents apiece. Shame.

Procuring the tacos requires overcoming the language barrier and a little bit of intimidation. If you've always been in the majority, you should put yourself in the minority ever so often to see how hard it is. It was about four years ago when I got the nerve to venture into the most-ballyhooed of the taco joins in my neighborhood. I was the palest person in the place, and I didn't hear a word of English while I was there. I went to the counter, looked at a menu full of unfamiliar words and meekly uttered, "Dos tacos, por favor?" Meekly. Me. I've never done anything meekly, but that first trip was a humbling experience, one that most immigrants deal with every single day when they're new to this country. For me, it was a moment of being uncomfortable that was rewarded with what has become one of my favorite foods. For them, it's a way of life, only they're not always greeted with the patience and understanding that I was.

So today, with the a big portion of my neighborhood closed for business, I'm thinking about tacos, craving tacos, and feeling bad that I don't get them very often because it's a smidge bit uncomfortable. I'm thinking about what would be lacking in my life without the tacos and more importantly, the people making and selling them. Sure, you don't miss something you don't know. But that's the thing - if more people got to know the people who are walking out today, maybe these reform issues wouldn't be so huge. There would be a face, a name, evidence of work and pride put to these ideas that are vagueries to many of us.

I'm going to issue a challenge in light of today's walk-out and Cinco de Mayo later this week. Sometime this week, go into your local Hispanic grocery store. Explore the shelves. Buy some avocados, cilantro and fresh tortillas so you can make some guacamole. If you're lucky and the store has a lunch counter, tip-toe along the language barrier and get a bag of tacos, and know why a country without immigrants would be a sad, sorry place to live.

Posted by Robin at 09:50 AM | Comments (9)

April 10, 2006

Return of the Regulars

One of my first blog entries focused on a local diner that was our second home, and how things had changed. Good post, that one, especially compared to the other crap I wrote back then ... as opposed to the ever-enlightening crap I write now. Plus, that post kicked off my friendship with Angela, so it'll always have a special place in my heart. You know how I mentioned in my last post that I believe in all the "when God closes a door he opens a window" stuff? This is a good case in point: in bitching about losing my diner, I gained a good friend.

In other odd ways the universe works: Over the past few months I've either lost or given up some things. I've slammed some doors closed so hard that I blew out the glass in the windows. That's fine; I like the breeze. And what's riding on that breeze? Some of the things that were behind doors previously closed. What's my point? Sometimes a door can get slammed, but if you're supposed to have what's behind that door, it'll find a way in.

I haven't set foot in my diner since September, 2004. This was the place where I ate lunch damn near every day when I was pregnant. I'd walk in the door and yell, "The Fetus demands a double cheeseburger with pickles, onions, lettuce and mustard, and The Fetus wants it now," and not once did they ask me to leave for such atrocious behavior. Instead, they'd give me the demanded cheeseburger and lecture me on the level of my caffiene consumption. "You know, if you don't stop drinking that iced tea, that baby's gonna act just like you," my favorite server would tell me. The day I told him I was pregnant, he informed me that he would no longer give me more than one coffee refill, because too much coffee would be bad for The Fetus. Who knew that a middle-aged tattoo-covered gay man knew so much about pregnancy? Regardless, he was right, and it felt good to have him looking out for me and The Fetus.

This was the place where, when my post-partum mental hell of depression and anxiety was nearly unbearable, I could sit for hours at the counter. From the time Clara Jane was two weeks old until she two and a half months old, she took her daily morning nap while perched in her car seat on the diner's Formica counter. The sizzling on the grill and the hollers for orders didn't phase her. Everyone joked that, since I'd spent so much time there when I was pregnant, that the noise and smells probably soothed her. Lord knows they soothed me.

Leaving the diner when we did was the right thing to do. Things there were changing, and at that point I couldn't handle anymore changes. I needed to figure out a way to stand on my own feet with my kid during those long days while B. was at work. Nevermind that I couldn't afford to drop $10-15 a day, five days a week ($20 on the weekends when B. joined us) at the diner. So we stopped cold turkey, and we missed it terribly. Eventually the time came where we wanted to go back, but so many months had passed that the desire to go back wasn't as strong as the dread of answering the question we knew we'd be asked a million times: "Where the hell have you been?"

In the past six weeks, though, shit's been flying through one of those busted windows. I nearly got smacked with a chrome barstool with a turquoise vinyl seat while passing through my living room on a particularly gusty day.

Stupid metaphors aside, here's what happened. First, we got a call from our friend Jo, who we hadn't talked to since last summer. We met Jo at the diner, where she occasionally waited tables on the weekend. Her partner's daughter is sitll waiting tables there every weekday, and it's not unusual to find at least one member of their family at the diner at any given time. She's also a carpenter, and she and B. had a deal where he would work on her corral of failing computers and in exchange she would do whatever she could to prevent our house from falling down in a heap of wood and dog hair. It was good to reconnect with her, but I didn't see it as a sign from the heavens, or a warning to be careful while walking past my busted window ... which I should probably ask Jo about fixing.

Around this same time I made a new friend on MySpace. Allison (as opposed to my other friend Allison, because most of my friends have the same name as other friends and it confuses the hell out of everyone, especially B.) and I live fairly close to each other and were comparing our local haunts. Lo and behold, she frequents the diner. Hey, how did this giant hamburger spatula get in through the window?

But last week, last week was the kicker. On Monday I was at Trader Joe's and as I was pulling out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Ron and Barb. Diner people. They're a delightful older couple who lunched there nearly daily. She's a teeny little thing who was obsessed with my pregnancy and later, my kid. He looks like he comes down the chimney every Christmas Eve. Obviously, they're adorable, and I've missed them. However, I was glad I didn't run into them in the store, as I'd forgotten their names.

But on Friday ... Clara Jane and I were walking into Trader Joe's once again when a tiny little woman came running out the door. She didn't have any items with her, and my first thought was that one of the many elderly shoppers had decided to make a break for it with a back truss stuffed full of Three Buck Chuck.

"Where in the world have you been?" the woman bellowed, attaching her tiny hands to my arm. It was Barb, and she wanted some answers, so much so that she abandoned her shopping cart, purse and her really old mother in the snack food aisle so as to catch me. "You need to come back to the diner, and bring this pretty little girl with you!"

Let me tell you, nothing strikes terror in my heart quite like being jumped by a 5-foot tall, 90-pound septugenarian dripping in diamonds at the Trader Joe's. My family's return to the diner on Saturday morning was motivated solely by fear. Well, fear and the ever-present quest for really good bacon.

The owner's brother and sister-in-law, who have worked weekends at the diner since the time of the dinosaurs spotted us as we walked through the door. They waited until we were seated at the counter before swooping on us. "Hey! How've you been? Long time!" the brother said. "Two coffees?" He seemed confused that I needed a few minutes to look at the menu, as I used to have it memorized. He remembered my usual drink order. Shouldn't I remember my usual Saturday breakfast order?

While we waited for our food, the owner came out. He patted my back and shook B.'s hand. Fawned over Clara Jane, and asked how we'd been before giving us the gossip on all the employees, both the current batch and the ones from our era who've since moved on.

Not once was the abruptness of our departure noted. Not once were we lectured. If anything, we were treated like maybe we'd decided after our last visit to take a few weeks off. No big deal. Nothing's changed.

Everything's changed. Some of our favorite employees have left. The walls are red. Instead of the beautiful candid photos of the staff that used to grace the walls, there's now equally beautiful photos of people getting tattooed. While I love it, I'm having trouble imagining Ron and Barb eating their egg salad sandwiches under them. They're now a Pepsi place instead of a Coke place.

But their bacon's still the best stuff to ever come off a pig. And the coffee's still perfect. "I can't remember the last time I had a cup of coffee without sugar or cream," B. told me as he sipped his third cup. "It doesn't need it. It's perfect just as it is."

The biggest change, of course, was the little kid perched on her own stool between us. Clara Jane was a basket case all last week, a situation that reached an ugly, screaming apex late Friday night. She refused to go to sleep, opting instead for over three hours of blood-curdling screaming. I'd hoped to use Friday night to catch up on my woefully low sleep resources, but instead B. and I were up with her until well after midnight. It was after 2 AM by the time I had calmed down enough to get a fitful little bit of sleep. When we walked into the diner, the three of us were exhausted and agitated, wondering what the hell has become of our sweet little girl, concerned that no one is ever, ever gonna sleep again! But once she was perched on that stool, she grew calm. She watched the action behind the counter, where two new-to-us cooks slung thick slices of French toast, poured pancake batter, and yelled, "Order up!" while she mindfully fidgeted with a red crayon the owner's brother had given her. For the first time in days, she was calm and quiet. Relaxed, happy. B. and I both wondered if she remembered the sounds and smells and if she felt like she was someplace where she belonged.

Posted by Robin at 01:25 PM | Comments (3)

April 04, 2006

Why I'm Never Leaving the House Again

I made a decision today. From this point on, I'm never leaving my house again. Yes, I know, this is rather drastic, seeing as I've always been quite the gadabout. No more.

I'm feeling a little better, having gone to bed early last night. Still not nearly up to my usual manic standard, but I'm not sobbing because I'm exhausted, which is an improvement over my condition 24 hours ago. Even if I hadn't felt slightly improved, I intended to get Clara Jane out of the house, at least for a little bit. Best-case scenario: we would hit the new used-baby store in our neighborhood, followed by a quick run to the fabric store. At 10:30 we'd go to storytime at the library, then lunch at Moe's and lastly, a quick run to Trader Joe's.

Yeah, that's optimistic. We didn't get ready fast enough, so the fabric store was crossed off the list before we left the house. The used-baby store? Two things: 1) Large "open" signs that are visible from the street? They're cheap. Buy one. Potential customers don't like parking a block away, hauling a kid out of a car seat on a busy street, hauling kid to store, all for naught. In fact, they dislike it so much that they probably won't come back. 2) Your shop is only open from 11 AM - 3 PM? How do you make rent? I mean, I know the used-baby business is lucrative and all, but it's not that lucrative.

Have I mentioned what was happening with my bra during all of this hauling and such?

I'm in bad need of new bras. I'm down to one that's wearable, and I'm using that word in the loosest sense. This poor bra ... it's tired. It's tired and abused and so stretched beyond its limit that the strap in the back keeps trying to escape through the neckhole of my shirt. I think the reason I'm so damn tired all the time isn't because I've contracted the Black Death; it's because I spend roughly 6 hours a day in perpetual motion, trying to wrangle this renagade brassaire back onto my body. It's exhausting.

When you visualize the events in this post, don't forget that through everything, I'm constantly fiddling with my bra.

On to the library. Clara Jane's a veteran of storytime. Her last storytime experience? Two weeks ago, we piled into the county library headquarters with roughly 100 other toddlers to see a live appearance by Franklin.

Now, I implore you ... does this look like a kid who has any trouble with storytime?

That's Clara Jane on the right, shortly after she sprinted away from me shrieking, "Hey Frank-a-lin!", but before she insisted on exchanging high-fives with him. After chattering non-stop with her favorite turtle-suited person, she heaped herself on the floor with a pile of crayons - some blatantly pilfered from the gaggle of little boys next to us - to capture her Franklin experience on paper while it was fresh on her mind.

Clara Jane has no fear when it comes to costumed characters, to the degree that I'm a little concerned about her developing a fetish. But do you know what library fixture scares the fuck out of her? Crazy Old Library Lady, that's who.

Things started out just fine, as all library trips do. My kid adores the library. Or did. I'm not so sure she feels the same anymore, as her sanctuary of books has become a house of horrors. But I'm jumping ahead of myself.

Today's election day, and the library we visited today was a polling place for one of the 3,927 St. Louis-area municipalities that are electing mayors. At first I wasn't thrilled, because I was going to have to deal with pamphleting electioneers 26 feet away from the entrance, barraging me with propoganda. However, they were all quite nice and understanding when I explained that this wasn't our polling place and we had bigger fish to fry. Or read about frying.

The problem ceated by election day: the polling place was set up in the meeting room usually used for storytime. Not a problem. As Clara Jane shared an alphabet book with a little girl named Isabella, her mom told me that, when storytime's displaced, they have it in the teen area and it's great and fabulous and Miss Sandra hung the moon and stars. Wonderful.

Another little girl, accompanied by her grandmother, were sitting at a table in the teen room when we made our way to storytime. At the next table, another older woman, flipping the pages of her book with such agitation that I wondered if perhaps the characters were telling her horrible, awful things about her mother. Please don't let this be Miss Sandra, I thought. Because whatever this woman's reading, I don't think I want her reading it to my kid.

Clara Jane and the other little girl chattered, as two-year-olds do. They remained on our laps, giggling and talking. I fidgeted with my bra. Grandma smiled adoringly at the girls. Crazy Old Library Lady Who Best Not Be Miss Sandra flipped pages, turned to us and barked, "This is supposed to be a silent area. Get the kids out of here."

Both girls fell silent, inately aware that suddenly, their silence was required. Perhaps their lives depended on it.

I stopped tugging my strap so as to look at least a little reasonable. "Actually, storytime is starting in here in a few minutes."

"This isn't the storytime area! They don't hold storytime in here! This is a silent area and I came in here for peace and quiet! I need peace and quiet for what I'm doing! This is not the storytime room and you need to leave!"

I prepared to hand Clara Jane to the grandmother, whip off my bra, and use it to truss and bind the woman who was having such a screaming, flailing meltdown in her silent area that she was rapidly turning into a very loud, very slimy puddle on the floor. Just then, a plump woman with a soft salt-and-pepper pageboy entered the room, wheeling a cart filled with books, crayons, monkey puppets and an autoharp. "It's storytime!" she chirped in the general direction of the molten petrolium product that continued to shriek, "You're welcome to stay, if you'd like!"

The puddle yorped in the new woman's direction, absorbed her reading materials into her oil flow, and slithered out of her most-decidedly non-silent area.

I think she took a little of Clara Jane's spirit with her. This child - who's been social since the day she was born, who loves live music, and storytime and coloring, and being around other similarly-inclined kids - would not allow me to put her down. When I did, she sobbed as if I was going to leave her in The Bad Vibes Room to be raised by whatever crazy old person happened by next.

I spent the entire 45 minutes of storytime on my knees, Clara Jane adhered to my torso. If her feet got within three inches of the floor, she'd fire up the tears once again. Nothing assured her that everything was okay. Not the gentle melody of the autoharp and Miss Sandra's sweet voice. Not the giggles of the other kids. Not the stories about shoes and the finger puppets based on Eileen Christelow's Five Little Monkeys, who happen to be Clara Jane's favorite monkeys in the whole wide world. She would calm when she was pressed against me with both of my arms wrapped tight around her, but if my muscles fatigued and her feet came within the dreaded three inches of the floor, she'd cry, legs peddling like a frantic duck, kicking my thighs and stomach as her fingers dug into my shoulders, begging me to take her home.

It's really hard to fidget with a renegade brassaire in such a situation.

I don't expect everyone to adore my child, or to be charmed by her every chatter and shriek. Kids in public places can be irritating; I'm the first to admit that. But Jesus. What kind of person has a screaming hissy fit of such magnitude that it leaves a normally gregarious kid so terrified she can't unlatch from her mother?

I think that woman truly did need some peace and quiet, perhaps the kind provided by solitary confinement at one of the area's mental health facilities.

Maybe I should have given in to Clara Jane's pleas to leave, but what would that teach her? That it's okay to let a bully ruin something that is rightfully hers? I hate that the ire of one unhinged person has the possibility of changing how we go about our lives. My reaction - I quit. I'm sick to death of dealing with people and I just don't want to do it anymore. I'm exhausted and I don't need this. Most importantly, I don't want Clara Jane to deal with this. I want her to believe that people are good and have her best interests at heart for as long as possible. I don't want one crazy old bat at the library to steal that part of her innocence. I don't want the storytimes that she's loved so much to have any shadow of fear. But now, they might, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Clara Jane's going to learn about the meanness in this world, and I don't get to choose when or how.

I'm going to learn about the meanness in me. In the past, the sight of such a person - old and alone, miserable and angry - would have made something in my heart hurt. I would hurt for whatever horrible hurt had brought such misery into being. But today, I felt no sympathy, no "there but for the grace of God go I". All I felt was the overwhelming desire to strike this person so that she might hurt as much as she hurt my child.

Posted by Robin at 02:42 PM | Comments (10)

April 03, 2006

Thanks to all who've inquired regarding last night's storms. We're fine. Had a tornado warning, but no damage in our immediate area.

I'm still not feeling 100%, so I've been lying low, and might continue to do so for a bit. I'm to the point where I'm so damn fed up with feeling like crap that I'm really shaving stuff out of my life until I'm back to normal. Nevermind the fact that I can only blog about snot so much, since there's not much else going on.

In the past 72 hours, I've only spent six of them out of the house, which is unheard of in my world. Trust me, I'm as bored as I am boring right now.

Posted by Robin at 07:29 PM | Comments (2)

March 29, 2006

Honk if You're ...

When I was a kid I dreamt of having a car covered in bumper stickers. I wanted the world to know everything about me, based on the extensive decorations on my vehicle. I wasn't going to limit myself to the bumper. Oh no. There were so many stickers that expressed who I was as a human being that they would be plastered on every available fender and window. Obviously, I had this dream before I learned to drive and realized that 1) one has to be able to actually see out of the windows, and 2)while there may be plenty of available real estate on the sides, front, and top of the vehicle, no one can actually read what you put there, so what's the point.

I still like bumper stickers, although I'm over the idea of covering my car with them. I like getting little glimpses into the personalities of other drivers. Besides, without bumper stickers, how would I be able to decide if the person who just cut me off did so because s/he's rightfully preoccupied with solving the world's problems, or if s/he's just an asshole who hates humanity? I need bumper stickers in order to make the kinds of snap judgements that get me through a typical day on the streets.

I have a few stickers on my truck - two liberal-leaning leftovers from the 2004 election, and three small Nascar numbers. My reasons for these stickers are threefold:

1) I like to think that the combination of progressive politics and stock cars might give people pause for thought. "She's obviously one of them liberals, but ... but ... but she's an Earnhardt fan? Marge! Bring me some Goody's! I've got myself a brainache trying to reconcile this sit-e-ation! I think my world just imploded."

2)I know at least one person who uses my bumper stickers as a means of telling if I'm at a particular location. There are lots of green trucks out there, but how many have that boho-hillbilly sticker combo. Just one, my friends. Likewise, I do the same with my friends. Which reminds me ... to my friend who drives a green Mitsubishi Outlander with Big Lebowski and shamrock stickers on the back window - if you were driving south through the tunnel at 12:40 this afternoon, I was behind you. If not, I hope the cops find your stolen car.

3) I'm too lazy to remove them.

Last spring, someone took offense at my bumper stickers and called me a terrorist. Today, though, I had a much more pleasant communique-via-bumper-stickers.

Clara Jane and I were driving to lunch and I noticed we were coming up on a large truck covered with bumper stickers and those ribbon-shaped magnet thingies. I rolled my eyes because, if years of bumper-sticker-based snap judgements has taught me anything, it's that such vehicles are usually driven by people who not only don't share my views, but who keep a Sharpie and some blank paper handy while driving so that they can personally let me know that we don't share similar views. I was wrong this time. As I got closer, I found that the back of the truck was covered with a mix of pro-labor, pro-troops, pro-ITMFA paraphenalia. As I passed, I took a gander at the driver, who happened to be a rather handsome, older, beared gray-haired gentleman. I smiled to myself, happy to be sharing the road with such a like-minded thinker and supporter of the working class.

As I was driving, I glanced in the rear-view mirror and noticed that the gentleman had caught up to me and was, ahem, checking out my rear end. On my truck. Geez. I could tell he was admiring my stickers, and I sighed with the glow of comradere, wishing we could pull over and sing a verse of People Have the Power.

The next red light had two left-turn lanes. I took the right one and noticed that my new friend pulled up on my left. I was so caught up in the glow of our newfound love that it wasn't until the light turned green that I noticed he'd rolled down his passenger side window and was frantically trying to get my attention as I zipped away. So I slowed, rolled down my window, and waited for what I knew was coming ...

"Hey! Where'd you get that MOB sticker? I love it!" he shouted as we impeded traffic*. I shouted the URL to him, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure we didn't have a fleet of anti-union Fundamentalist truckers behind us, preparing to interrupt our little lovefest by plowing the fuck over us.

Here's where any conservatives who are reading are allowed to say, "Gee whiz, liberals sure can be dumb." That's okay. As we went our seperate ways, he flashed a mile-wide grin and a peace sign, and for a brief second, I felt less alone.

*In all seriousness, we were the only vehicles in the area. Had we been in even a tiny bit of traffic, I never would have carried on such a conversation. Unsafe. Duh.

Posted by Robin at 07:41 PM | Comments (17)

March 28, 2006

Idiots Vomiting in the '80s. In China.

This made my day. While reading the stats for my blog, I discovered that a Chinese search engine returns a photo of my dogs if one searches for the word "idiot".

By that token, I wonder if a search for "weird vomit" would return a photo of my cat. As you might recall, earlier this month my cat Romi performed the oddest vomiting acrobatics I've ever seen. She almost topped herself last night.

It all started around midnight-thirty last night. B. and I were reading in bed when Romi let out a few yowls to let us know that all's well, nothing to worry about, she captured the intruder that was sure to kill us all in our sleep. She came sauntering in with a little black beetly-crickety thing dangling out of her mouth. Never much in the way of manners, she proceded to eat the bug in front of us, not once offering to share.

After she finished eating her prey, Romi joined us in bed, nestling into B.'s pillow. In no time at all, I caught her licking her lips, panic creeping into her eyes. Yar she blows. Bug-chunks, that is.

We ran her off the bed and she vanished, only the siren song of her bug-hacking remained, echoing through the house. So here we are, quarter til one in the morning. B.'s looking for a cat and I'm looking for puke. Both were located. The bug remains are still unaccounted for.

Have I told you about my neighbor, '80s Lady?

Of course I have, but since it's been awhile, let me refresh your memory.

One early morning back in, oh, let's say 2001, I was driving out of my neighborhood, probably on my way to culinary school. I'm pretty sure that's the only place I've gone in the past seven years that required me to leave my house before 7:30 AM. Early enough for the neighborhood kiddies to be out, waiting for the schoolbus.

I sat at the stop sign by the nearest bus stop, teaming with elementary schoolers and their moms, when I saw her. I furrowed my brow as I gawked, thinking, "What's the date? Is it Halloween? Shit. It's Halloween. I forgot to buy candy. Okay. Gotta stop by Walgreens between classes and buy candy. Hmmm ... little bitty Snickers bars. I love Halloween. Wait. It's February. Why is that woman in costume?"

This woman was wearing one of those padded ski vests. You remember, they were actually coats, but the sleeves had zippers so that they could be removed. Frostbitten arms were all the rage in 1982. Under the vest peeked knee-length gym pants. Of the Spandex variety. In electric blue. Had I been driving past, and not offered the gawker's luxury of a stop sign, I might have thought that some mean kid had stripped her naked and covered her flesh with shiny blue duct tape. On her feet? White high-top Reeboks, the ones with the two Velcro straps around the ankles.

And her head ... oh, her head. The glory of her platinum-blonde tresses, cascaded in a flat-ironed sheet down her back. But how can a woman of such obvious athletic inclination manage such a mane? The solution is two-fold: First, cut the top and front of the mane into three-inch spikes. Second, sport an Olivia Newton-John - inspired headband across the forehead region.

In fact, looking at that photo, I think I've seen my neighbor - forever to be known as, obviously, '80s Lady - wearing that same outfit. Every time I've seen this woman, she's been wearing one relic or another. And I can't help but wonder several things:

1. Has she not looked at another human being in the past 20 years?

2. Why do her clothes look so new? I'm wearing a pair of jeans that are at least six months younger than my child, and they're sporting patches on the inner thighs and a safety pin-reinforced zipper. How is it that this woman has an entire wardrobe older than college graduates that looks brand-new, and I can't keep my jeans from falling off my lower body in desert-island-refugee-style rags after a mere 17 months of wear? It's not like I'm wearing them while digging ditches or getting physical.

Perhaps '80s Lady is simply an ultra-trendy menopausal woman and she's buying her clothes at the chic juniors boutiques, where the '80s are hip and cool again.

What's all this about? Well, I was forced to make a stop at my neighborhood Wal-Mart today. I'd rather dress like '80s Lady than go to Wal-Mart, and I'd rather dress like '80s Lady with a rat tail than go to the Wal-Mart in my neighborhood. On the plus side, I found a home Brazilian wax kit in the clearance aisle.

I also found something else at Wal-Mart. While I was standing before the display of anti-snot agents, I felt something bearing down on my heels with such a force that I jumped away, just in time to feel the breeze circulated by '80s Lady as she zoomed past me.

Turns out all that Spandex, the Reeboks and that aerodynamic 'do makes her really, really fast. I think she might have been attempting to reach 88 mph so that her flux capacitor would send her back in time to be among her own. But since I slowed her down, she settled for browsing the bunion remedies instead.

Posted by Robin at 07:20 PM | Comments (6)

March 25, 2006

In Which My Lovely Weekend Plans are Foiled by Snot

I'm so disappointed.

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

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

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

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

Snot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snot.

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

March 14, 2006

Emotional Housekeeping

Here was my horoscope for today:

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

Darn tootin'.

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

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

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

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

Maybe I'm just an asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 08, 2006

Happy International Women's Day!

Here's a lovely way to celebrate.

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

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

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

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

Anyway ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 07, 2006

Deep Thoughts and Bodily Fluids - A Little Something for Everyone

Which do you want first? Of course, the poop...

As of 6:24 PM today, Tuesday, March 7, in the year of our lord 2006, I hereby declare that no one in this house is allowed to perform any bodily functions until they learn how to do it right.

Last night, B. noticed that Clara Jane had a smidge of diaper rash, so he let her run around the house bare-assed for awhile. This is what we call Danger Baby. I think you probably know why, and I'm pretty sure you know where this is going.

"Oh my God! She's crapping on the floor!" B. yelled, jumping up and sprinting away from my desk, where Clara Jane was squatting, doing what I can only assume was her best imitation of a bear in the woods. He recovered, cleaned it up, and once again fell into shock as Clara Jane ran across the kitchen, a giant turd falling out of the hem of her shirt.

Once all the poop was removed, B. removed Clara Jane to the bath. Once out, she was standing on one of the dining room chairs, still naked. "What's all that water on the chair?" B. asked. "Did that drip off of her from the bath?"

Sure, Honey. You just keep telling yourself that while I disinfect this chair on which we sit while we consume food, for it is covered with urine.

Fast forward to bedtime. I was reading, while my cat, Romi the Motherfucking Lardass, attempted to settle her girth onto my girth, which is sort of like balancing a ping-pong ball on top of a basketball. As she settled, I noticed something. Under her tail. Oh God.

I shoved her towards B., flung a box of tissues at him and requested that he please remove the renegade dingleberry (which, size-wise, was really more of a dinglepear) from her ass.

Once the poop was out of our bed, we sat there, catching our breath, both silently pondering the horror of possibly rolling onto the renegade dinglepear in the night. Romi, in her shame, perched on the edge of B.'s nightstand, looking straight ahead, obviously trying to regain her nobility in light of having, essentially, crapped her pants in front of us. I watched her profile as she sat, unflinching, lost in the thoughts of her shame. She opened her mouth, I presumed to speak of her mortification and sorrow at the frightening end of the evening. And from her mouth, as she emitted a delicated hack, came rocketing ... what? A loogie? Projectile vomit? Jet-powered hairball? I'm not sure. All I know is I watched in what felt like slow-motion as this item came hurtling out of her gullet and across the room. Had the dogs been sleeping in their beds four feet away, they would have thought all their dreams had come true and cat vomit had started raining from the heavens.

I somehow managed to sleep, even with this animal, who had sprung leaks from both ends, slept near my pillow. Clara Jane woke me up before 7 AM. Although I wasn't thrilled with this situation, I took advantage of it. Got us dressed and out the door by 9 so we could go for coffee and chocolate milk, followed by a trip to Whole Foods. I needed probiotics, as my digestive system is still reeling from last week's flu. I won't be giving you details, because I prefer for the rest of the world to believe that I don't poop. However, I'm pretty sure Romi has posted all the details over on Live Journal.

I love Whole Foods, but I don't get there very often. Unless I go early in the morning, it's a madhouse and it makes me want to run over people in the parking lot, which doesn't quite work with Whole Foods' earth-friendly vibe. So we just don't go, unless it's a day like today, where the planets align with my ailing intestines and the child in my house who is suddenly operating on Rooster Central Time.

Two years ago, I was also going to Whole Foods for probiotics. Clara Jane was almost a month old and I was still sick. When I left the hospital, my doctor said my C-section incision looked like it wanted to get infected. She sent me home with a prescription for Keflex. Four days later, I awoke with my clothing saturated in liquid that had burst from the incision. It looked like the tail of my shirt and my underwear had been dunked four inches in a washtub.

In the weeks that followed, I was prescribed every antibiotic known to western medicine, or so it felt. Several times a day I sat on the toilet while B. alternated hot compresses and peroxide-soaked cloths on my incision, which continued to bleed and weep. I went to my doctor's office several times a week, always on the verge of being admitted to the infectious disease unit. The infection didn't budge.

Despite the infection, I was able to go out. As long as I took painkillers and wore elastic wasitbands, I could try to get on with my life, which now contained a tiny little girl and a weeping wound. That was good, I thought, because I had other health issues at hand. Whenever I was left at home with Clara Jane, I would panic. Paralyzing, life-controlling panic that left me huddled on the couch, sobbing, for hours on end. Every morning, Clara Jane and I would drive B. to the train station, then we'd go to the diner for a long breakfast. She'd sleep on the counter in her car seat while I ate my egg sandwich and drank cup after cup of coffee. Perched on a swiveling stool at the counter, my incision didn't hurt quite as much.

When we'd leave the diner, I'd have to find someplace else for us to pass a few hours, and Whole Foods was an appealing option. I'd put Clara Jane into her Baby Bjorn and we'd stroll through the store. If she was awake, she'd gaze at the colors and lights in the produce department. I'd take my time walking down the aisles, maybe buying something to drink or a snack. Lunch from the salad bar, if it was a particularly long visit, as a lot of them were. Sometimes I'd sit in the dining area with a notebook and write, if Clara Jane was willing to snooze on my chest.

When it came time to pay, I always tried to get the same cashier. I don't remember her name, but she was in her early 20s, chubby, ring through the divit between her lower lip and her chin, and hair color that varied between hot pink and burgundy from week-to-week. I could always count on her for a little small talk, and to fawn over Clara Jane. She always projected a bit of happiness, and helped ease my loneliness.

Eventually, it was a trip to Whole Foods that finally brought down the infection. My friend Jackie, a homeopathic therapist in Great Britain, suggested several formulas that tend to help surgical infections, along with an arnica ointment. Within a week, the infection was mostly gone, and I was downing probiotics, trying to get everything back in order.

As I walked through Whole Foods early this morning, I thought about those mornings two years ago, and the tiny baby who snoozed on my chest as I browsed. Today, she pointed at items in the produce department, yelling out the names of fruits and veggies. She demanded samples from the cheese and potato chip departments, and mooed at the cow artwork on the organic dairy products. While gazing into the meat case, I heard someone say, "Hey! It's you! I haven't seen you in ages! Oh my God, your baby's grown!" I looked up, and there was my cashier, this time with fading blue hair and a blood-smeared white coat, working behind the meat counter. "She's gorgeous!"

I thanked her, and we made idle chit-chat for a bit. I found myself wanting to tell her that I'm fine. I'm well. Missing some vital flora, perhaps, but otherwise, so good that an early-morning trip to the hippie store is now fun, not a lifeline.

Posted by Robin at 07:24 PM | Comments (13)

March 05, 2006

Frugal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 22, 2006

Sore Thumbs

I'm annoyed. Severely annoyed. This is my second attempt at posting today. The first attempt was going so well. It was good, and I'm sure you would have enjoyed it. However, someone left the door to my CPU open. The same someone who, when he built my computer last year, opted for the CPU tower with a snazzy door to prevent little fingers from, say, hitting the power button after I've dashed away from my computer without saving my draft. I think you can figure out what happened this morning without me going any further.

It's a sickening feeling, watching helplessly as the computer uses my hard work as a bedtime snack before going sleepy-bye. It's been over three hours and I'm still catching myself thinking, "But if I could just hit the magic button, my writing would reappear!" While I'm at it, I might as well see if the Mystical Lost Writing Recovery Gnomes are back from the mines with my work.

I'm thinking too much like a writer on this and seeing the metaphoricals. With just a push of a button with a tiny finger, my words can vanish, never to be finished and read. Dude. That's some heavy shit. It's relatively new, too. I'll bet writers 100 years ago didn't live with the gut-wrenching fear that all their hard work could be obliterated in a nanosecond. Sure, their work could be destroyed, but even if it, say, caught fire, at least there might be time to stomp out the flames and salvage something.

Two lessons learned today: 1) someone is never going to learn to close doors, and 2) the "save draft" function in Moveable Type is there for a reason.

Another lesson to be learned by someone: if you're too damn rushed to close the damn door on the computer - especially if you're so damn rushed that you leave the damn CD-ROM open for the cat to use as a springboard - then you're officially too damn rushed to be burning CDs at 5 a.m.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Right. This morning, before Clara Jane woke up (doing much better than yesterday, thanks), I opened Firefox with intensions of blogging about something. I don't even remember what, now. When I open Firefox, I have one of those snazzy customized Google homepages as my start-up. I live and die by the Google homepage. It's got feeds from my Gmail, my friends on Flickr,the local weather, enough news to make my head pop off my shoulders eight times a day, an IP address look-up tool (because I'm keeping my eye on you people, oh yes I am), my daily horoscope, and feeds from NPR Recommended Books, Simply Recipes, and wikiHow. I even get a quote of the day. Today's is: "There is no abstract art. You must always start with something. Afterward you can remove all traces of reality." - Pablo Picasso. Sort of fitting, since all traces of the reality of this mornings writing have been removed.

Point is, I'm a slave to my customized Google homepage. Let the world fall down around me! I'll still have a bazillion gigs of constantly-updated information whizzing past my head, oh yeah!

I do enjoy the links I get from wikiHow. Everyday, they toss three random how-to guides into the feed. From these, I have learned how to start my own 501c3 nonprofit organization, grow organic spring vegetables, and dress to conceal a large stomach. The trick, apparently, is to wrap ones head and neck in yards and yards and yards of flouncy orange tulle to draw attention upwards. But one of today's wikiHows gave me pause for concern: How to Tame a Free Spirit.

Now, as someone who often gets lumped into the "free spirit" category, I can't say that I want the general public to have access to this information:

Have you met someone who's fiercely independent, and yearn for their devotion? The key to taming a wild soul is to make him or her feel like they can be freer with you than with anybody else. Here's how to have that free spirit eating out of your hand, willingly and happily.

Surprisingly, the instructions that follow don't include the finer points of clubbing your girl over the head to make it easier to drag her back to the cave by the hank of her hair. Really, the instructions could be renamed "How to Function in a Relationship When You're too Insecure to Properly Deal with the Other Humans". Helpful tips like: don't expect your free-spirited partner to do backflips to meet your needs; don't be a suffocating dickhead; roll with the punches; don't impose rules; actually get to know the person; don't be such a tightass; give the benefit of the doubt; free free set them free, etc etc etc. The whole thing reads like it was written by a 16-year-old boy, which it probably was.

So I'm wondering, why are people threatened by free spirits? Is it because if one's spirit is free, one might have the balls to bail out of a lackluster relationship? Perhaps it has more to do with this fear so many people seem to have of honesty. Us free spirited-types, we have a tendancy to blurt out the damnedest things that might hit a little too close to the bone.

I've been watching a situation unfold over the past few days involving one of my favorite blogs. Word got around her small town about her blog, and she found herself with townfolk on her front porch, printed copies of her blog in hand, looking for explainations. Not that she really had anything to explain. Most of her posts pertained to things going on in her own life, which occasionally poked at her sleepy little town. We have that right, right?

I don't live in St. Louis proper. Because of some weird annexing laws, St. Louis is one of those metro areas that's com